summary: in which the Justice League notice that Batman is infatuated with Bruce Wayne’s wife, and need to help him get over her (impossible)
pairing: husband!bruce wayne/batman x wife!reader
warnings: none? maybe mentions of slight violence. fluff.
a/n: inspired by this fic by @ilianasbruce
dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune
MASTERLIST part two!
it started when batman and superman were at the watchtower together.
they were doing their own work silently, at opposite ends of the table.
superman was pretending that he wasn’t secretly writing an article for the daily planet that was due within the week (that he had completely forgotten about), and batman was pretending that he wasn’t secretly texting his wife under the table.
bruce: how is the opera, my love? i’m sorry i couldn’t be there, the league has demands.
a lie. he just had a headache earlier and felt like jumping out of a window at the thought of having to put on a smile for the folk and sit through an opera. he did feel guilty about you being on your own, though.
you: it’s alright. i actually know some people here, and they aren’t all bad, bruce.
bruce: you say that now, but wait until they each give you a rundown on each car in their garage.
you: like how you give me a rundown on each gadget you come up with in the batcave?
bruce: that’s different.
you: of course it is. i actually like listening to you.
the familiar ‘ping!’ of one of batman’s gadgets interrupted the silence.
superman looked up, eager to be doing something other than whatever paper in front of him that he wasn’t even focusing on.
“what is that?” his words came out immediately, and before batman could answer, he was speaking again. “robbery? alien invasion?”
“Poison Ivy in Gotham.” Batman is already standing, beginning his exit of the watchtower. Superman follows him.
“Can I come? Please?”
Batman turns, looking at him. “What?”
“It’s boring in here!” Superman gestures around. “And if I’m on my own it’ll be even more boring. C’mon, Batman, I can help you.”
Batman considers it for a moment before sighing. “Fine. But we’re going in the Batmobile.”
“But I can-“
“You are not flying me there, Superman.”
A few minutes later, they’re in the opera hall. Ivy seems to have taken over the stage, giving a speech on ways for the average person to decrease their carbon footprint.
Batman can see a few different people caught between her weeds. Long, thick plants have people in their grip. He scans the room quickly for you, breathing a silent sigh of relief when he sees that you are not captured, but instead just huddled in the corner with a group of others.
Superman doesn’t notice the way that Batman isn’t looking at Ivy, and begins his attack. Batman quickly follows. After a swift battle (turns out having Superman as an ally cuts down on battle time), Ivy is restrained and authorities arrive. The two start on recovering civilians before they both encounter you.
You’re comforting one of the women that was tangled in the weeds. You’re sitting beside her, nodding as she talked. You recognise the familiar pair of boots coming from the side of you. Your head lifts up slightly as you catch sight of the two men.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Wayne?” Superman speaks first, the familiar concern he has for everyone clear in his voice and expression. He recognises you from articles, and he’s heard enough from Cat Grant at the Daily Planet to know you’re married to Bruce Wayne.
“Yes, I’m fine,” you answer with a small smile. Your eyes move to Batman. “Thank you.”
Superman gives Batman a side glance as he hears Batmans heart skip a beat when you smile at him. He tries to not to make his suspicion obvious. However, he turns a little when he hears that Batmans heartbeat is now quicker than it had been five minutes ago.
However, nothing on Batmans mostly covered face gave away any feelings. He just nodded and said a quick: “Stay safe, ma’am.”
And Superman didn’t bring it up again. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. A heart skip doesn’t always mean feelings of infatuation, right?
The second time is with Flash and Green Lantern.
Batman is a stark contrast to the pair. Barry and Hal are close friends, and joke around when put together. Bruce will sigh, and tell them to be quiet, and then Barry tries to be serious, but Hal will mutter a sarcastic comment that makes him start laughing again and the cycle repeats.
So Batman is already tense from working with the two.
They’re investigating a case together, and encounter you somehow. (sorry that’s so vague i literally cannot think of a specific scenario here to save my life)
Flash asks you a few questions if you’ve seen or heard anything suspicious, and you shake your head and answer. Barry notices Batmans shoulders softening a little beside him.
It isn’t hugely noticeable, but Barry senses it. Batmans shoulders loose some of their tension as he talks to you, this civilian. And when Hal opens his mouth to make an implying comment, he tenses right back up again.
Barry’s eyes narrow. It isn’t often that the Bat actually feels emotions, so when he does, his friends take an interest.
On the way back, Barry nudges Hal.
“Hey, you notice the way Bats was acting around that woman earlier?” He whispers so the third man in front of them doesn’t hear.
“You mean that really hot one? Who wouldn’t act like that around her? Did you see her, Bar?”
Barry gives him a look, “yeah, but this is Batman. Brooding, stays-in-the-shadows, feels-nothing-but-rage-24/7, Batman.”
Hal ponders before shrugging. “I don’t know, maybe Spooky’s changed. Never underestimate the power of a beautiful woman, Barry.”
Barry thinks. “She looked kinda familiar, didn’t she? I can’t think of where I’ve seen her before.”
And when they see that the familiar face they were talking to was Bruce Wayne’s wife, they give each other an alarmed look before looking at Batman from across the room.
The third time was with Oliver goddamn Queen.
A charity gala. Bruce couldn’t go because he had intel that Scarecrow was planning on infiltrating the building while everyone was distracted, something about wanting to ‘test out a new gas’, and he had to be on watch as Batman for the evening.
You, however, decided to go. You had a nice dress and were getting close to some of the women there your age. It was nice to not be a total stranger in the room anymore.
So, as you filtered around the room, you met Oliver Queen. He sometimes teases Bruce on purpose by asking for a dance with you at other galas, but without Bruce he was simply a friend to enjoy a chat with.
When Scarecrow did burst in, you actually had been dancing with Oliver. A friendly turn around the room like the others were doing. By the time Batman had taken him down, and everyone emerged from the corners or hidden rooms, Oliver checked to see if you were okay. Lord knows Bruce would probably blame him if anything happened to you.
You were fine, thank God. Oliver’s sentence was interrupted by the Bat himself.
“Was anybody harmed?” the gruff voice asked, his gaze trying not to linger on you for too long.
“I don’t think so,” you replied. Oliver looked at Batman with a certain questioning that nobody seemed to notice.
“Good.” Batman was silent for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps you all should start making your ways home. Scarecrow might return, or someone worse.”
You don’t miss a beat. “It’s a good thing we have someone like you to protect us, Batman.”
“Only a fool wouldn’t protect you, ma’am.”
Oliver blinked. Is Batman . . . flirting? With a married woman? Also, was that sentence a sneaky diss on him?
and Oliver could’ve sworn on his entire fortune that Batman’s lips were almost in a grin during his next sentence.
“Your husband is probably waiting on you, Mrs. Wayne.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows at your response. You laughed a little under your breath before speaking, “probably. I wouldn’t want to keep him up.”
Oliver looks between you and Batman. Perhaps he’s imagining things. You turn to him as if you’ve just remembered that he’s still there.
“Oliver, you have a safe way home, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll call my driver.”
He doesn’t bring it up the next time he sees Batman as Green Arrow. Batman doesn’t speak of it either. But his eyes narrow a little at the Bats whenever Bruce Wayne or his wife is mentioned.
Eventually, it comes up in conversation when Batman isn’t there.
They’re in the common room, and Diana is flipping through the newspaper. She’s on a page that features a picture of you at the latest event with a description of your outfit beside it. Beside her, Hal recognises you.
“Hey, Flash,” he begins, stabbing the page with his finger. “Isn’t that who we were talking to a couple days earlier?”
Barry is behind the couch in a second, nodding. “Yeah, we asked her a couple questions with Batman.” He looks up a takes a quick glance to see if anyone’s expression changes. “He seemed . . . different around her.”
Clark closes the book in his hand with a loud snap, looking at the three on the couch.
“You’ve noticed too?”
Hal laughs, “that Bats has the hots for a married woman? Yeah.”
Diana frowns a little. “That is unlike Batman. He’s known for his self-restraint. It doesn’t seem likely he would harbour a liking for someone else’s wife, especially Bruce Wayne’s. Doesn’t Wayne sponsor him or something?”
Oliver joins in. “Wonder Woman, you haven’t seen him with her. I mean, it was only a few seconds but he was a totally different person.”
“How so?” Diana asked curiously.
“He . . . relaxed a little.”
She raised her eyebrows. Barry cut in.
“Wonder, you need to see it to understand it. It’s like no one else even enters his mind when he’s looking at her. I think everything else sorta faded away, you know?”
“Like in those rom-coms I’ve been shown?” She suggests.
“Yeah!”
Clark thinks for a moment, wondering what to do to help his obviously hopeless friend. How do you break the news to an emotionally constipated Bat that he has to squash his feelings before anything terrible happens?
So, they organise an intervention. A very unorganised organised intervention.
Your name gets mentioned during a briefing. About how you could be potential target for a kidnapping due to your status.
Hal’s mouth works quicker than his mind.
“What about Bruce Wayne?”
“What about Bruce Wayne?” Batman asks in his low voice, his back still turned to the team.
“Just saying, he’s probably a potential target too, right?” Green Lantern points out. “He’s her husband, after all.”
Batman turns. They all seem to be looking for his reaction.
“Right, I was just getting to that.” He says stiffly. “So I think until Joker is tracked down again, a pair of eyes should be on them. Since Gotham is my city, I can-“
“Ohhhh, hold on,” Flash says, leaning forward. “Central City has been very quiet lately, so I’m free too.”
Wonder Woman joins in. “I’m interested too. I think the more people, the quicker we could get this done.”
Batman blinks. “Why the sudden interest in Gotham from you two?”
They both shrug, mumbling incoherent words that overlap each other. Something about “new environments” and “change of pace”.
Green Arrow smirks. “I wouldn’t mind accompanying. (Name) and her husband should get all the protection they can get.”
Batman isn’t showing it, but he’s confused. Less members have volunteered themselves for prison breaks. Why are three other members wanting to go to Gotham for an unconfirmed threat? And why do they keep looking at him like that?
“Yes,” Superman clears his throat. “Mrs (Name) is a kind woman who shouldn’t be in danger. And Bruce Wayne is similar in nature. He is valuable to Gotham City.”
Batman prepared his disliking-Bruce-Wayne act with practised ease. “Bruce Wayne is a spoiled idiot.”
“Of course you think that.” Green Lantern mutters with a smug smirk. Flash nudges him.
“What do you mean?” Batman asks, and Hal practically explodes.
“We know you’re attracted to (Name) Wayne!” He says, making Barry cover his eyes with his hands. Not how the conversation was supposed to go.
“Excuse me?” Batman is -frankly- appalled. Hal grimaces, instantly reminded of who exactly he’s talking to.
“You’re, uh . . .” he splutters before quickly mumbling, “you’re in love with (name).” He gains some of his confidence, and straightens up again, “and you were about to let Bruce Wayne get kidnapped, so you could swoop in and seduce her!” He tops it all off with hand gestures of the supposed ‘swooping’.
Batmans gaze sweeps the table. Nobody meets his eye except Diana, who just seems to be staring at him for his response. A few of them have to stop themselves from laughing at the idea of Batman ‘seducing’ someone.
“And what exactly gave you that idea?”
Barry is filled with a newfound confidence. “Oh, c’mon Bats, a blind man would see how you act around her!” He smirked a little. “You went a little . . . soft.”
Green Arrow snorts. “Sometimes I think you’re only protecting Gotham because she’s in it.”
Batman thinks. Has he been that transparent? He’s always careful about his expressions and body reactions. Maybe he is getting soft. He obviously didn’t take enough care.
A fleeting image passes his mind, where he declares his love for you to the team. How could he not show you off? He would love to tell them that you were with him.
But, of course, he doesn’t do that. He just blinks.
“I am not in love with (name), that’s ridiculous.” He scoffs. “Number one, I don’t fall in love with anyone. Number two, she’s married, so I think that means she’s out of the dating pool.”
Not one face looking back at him looks convinced.
However, a cold stare and a swift change of topic ensured that nobody tries to start the conversation again.
They do, however, take a bigger interest in Gotham nowadays. Whenever a mission includes you somehow, there’s always one of them volunteering to go. They all think that distance will make sure Batman goes back to his cold and steely ways of not having a crush on anyone’s wife.
Bruce crawls under the covers with a small groan, shuffling next to you. His arms go around your warm body as he rests his face near yours. He’s desperate to soak up your warmth after being out in the cold all night.
“Long night?” you ask, your voice still quiet from sleep.
“Long day,” he responds, tucking himself into you. You keep your arms around him. “The League accused Batman of being attracted to Bruce Wayne’s wife today.”
It takes you a moment to realise what he’s talking about. You breathe out a laugh. “Is Batman not in love with me?”
Bruce grins against your skin. “He might be.” He murmurs. “Just a little, though.”
You raise your eyebrows, turning to look at Bruce. “Does Batman know I’m married? And that I’m very loyal to my husband?”
“Oh, yes,” he responded, and sits up a little. he pressed his forehead to yours. “and Batman knows that there’s nobody else on this earth that loves you more than I do.”
You smile, your fingers in his hair now. he leans closer to press his lips to yours, an action that you return. Bruce keeps himself against you for a long time. He likes falling asleep with you in his arms. He likes feeling like the protector.
It’s why he needs to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. It’s why he needs to know where you are each night. It’s why he needs to know you’re safe. And if your safety comes along with each League member giving him looks because they think he’s harbouring a crush for another man’s wife, then so be it.
(っ. -｡) sleeping in with husband toji & baby gumi! ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁
the cold weather had your family under a sleepy spell.
it had become so hard to get out of your comfy, fluffy and warm bed in the mornings lately.
especially when your human heater of a husband always had you tucked in between his arms, his giant leg thrown over your hips, nose pressed against your hair, breathing you in.
your own personal weighted blanket.
the alarm blared on your nightstand. you blearily opened your heavy eyes, unable to move under toji’s heavy weight.
“toji,” your sleepy mumble is barely audible, but your husband’s sharp instincts catch it anyway.
“mm,” toji’s chest rumbles, resounding his deep hum. the sound warms you up, making you scoot closer into him.
“we need to get up,” you continue, struggling to stay awake and formulate thoughts.
toji’s hand starts moving, pressing a button on your phone to silence the alarm. it then reaches the back of your head, caressing gently.
you sigh contentedly, breathing in your husband’s scent that feels like home.
how were you supposed to get out of bed?
you felt yourself drifting off again, against your better judgement.
your husband’s hand caressing your hair also started slowing down as you both fell back asleep together.
and then the alarm went off again, barely ten minutes later.
your eyes felt heavier as you tried to open them, sleep trying to hold onto you as tight as your husband was. you forced your mind to stay awake, knowing you needed to get up and get megumi soon.
you tugged at toji’s massive biceps, firmer this time.
he groaned before nuzzling his head into your neck, “five minutes, doll.”
you turned your face sideways, pressing a gentle kiss on his temple, saying, “get off me.” it came out as a gerroffme.
toji squeezed you in response.
you patted his cheek, the contact making a soft noise.
“get up, please,” you tried again, “need to get gumi.”
at that, your husband reluctantly retracted himself, allowing you to get up. but as soon as you got out of bed, a shiver traveled down at your spine from the pressure on your bladder. holy.
you turned to head to the bathroom but at that moment, the baby monitor started echoing megumi’s cries.
“toji,” you whined, squeezing your thighs together in urgency, “get gumi please.”
toji blinked his eyes open, slowly processing your words. before he was fully awake, you had already dashed to the bathroom.
he would’ve just gone back to sleep if not for his son's fussy crying. with a heavy sigh, toji threw the blanket off of him and got up.
it took him a few seconds too long to get out of his warm bed, but he pushed himself off anyways, heading to the nursery.
with every step he took, his mind became clearer and his eyes less heavy. but there was still one thought in his mind.
get back in bed with wife.
so, with a newfound determination, toji threw open the nursery door, beelining towards his baby.
"let's get you ready for bed, brat," toji mumbled, picking up your habit of talking to the baby as if he could understand you. "y'r mom would beat my ass if i left you alone and made her fall back asleep. but we're sleeping in today, got it?"
megumi, confused but content with the attention, just cooed, putting his fist in his mouth.
toji pulled megumi's hand out, striding towards the changing table and laying him down on it. he quickly put megumi into new diapers, cleaning as he went, all while making small talk with the baby.
"you sleep ok?"
"da!"
"mm, me too. y'r hungry, right?"
"uwaa?"
"'course you are." a beat of silence. a sleepy sigh. "i miss your mama."
"mama!"
toji's lip quirked at his son's giggle as soon as he heard the word mama. that boy had him wrapped around his finger, as much as he hated to admit.
finally done, and also hearing you flush in another room, toji picked megumi up and laid him across his shoulder.
he left the nursery, walking back to your shared bathroom just as you were exiting.
"good morning," you cooed at megumi who immediately leaned towards you, wiggling in toji's arm. you dutifully took him into yours, cradling him how he liked being held.
"mama," megumi babbled, tugging at your shirt.
"aww, you're hungry?" you cooed again, automatic baby voice slipping past your throat.
"nurse him in bed," toji's hands grasped your shoulders, turning you back around towards your bedroom.
"why?" you didn't protest, letting your husband steer you back in bed.
"we're sleeping in," he announced, arranging a barrage of pillows at your side so you could sit and nurse comfortably. he helped you settle in, pulling up the blankets so you were warm and cozy.
"we're literally awake," you laugh under your breath, letting your husband do his thing as you started nursing megumi.
"not for long," toji said, slipping in beside you, scooting so he could throw his arm across your lap and burrow his face in the side of your hip.
even megumi's tiny eyes started fluttering close as he fed, fists balling on his chest as he began drifting away mid-meal.
you let out a yawn, finger gently rubbing your baby's small, cherubic face. toji squeezed your hip.
soon, megumi was fully asleep.
no longer able to fight the sleepy bug, you pulled your camisole back up, laying megumi down between you and toji.
toji scooted to accommodate the baby as you lowered yourself on the bed, pulling up the covers.
your husband, once again, threw his leg over your hip, pulling you closer.
megumi was almost smushed between you two, his back to his dad while he held onto your shirt in his sleep.
toji extended his arm and you adjusted your head on it.
at long last, the three of you enjoyed a cozy, warm and sleepy saturday morning, huddled close together.
signed up for a uni course and the class is from 7am every saturday 😊 if im posted up like a vengeful spirit roaming tumblr, you know why.
megumi's clingy phase | masterlist | megumi has a nightmare
self explanatory - dennis whitaker x f!reader (blurb)
summary: dennis thought robby knew he was married...guess not!
pairings: dennis whitaker x reader
cw/tags: fluff, robby is oblivious to the lives of everyone around him, i had to write this to make me feel better after tonight's episode lmao. implied but not explicit afab!reader, mom!reader, wife!reader. NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER or your daughters. implied shotgun wedding between you and dennis! au where whitaker has a wife who makes enough money to support him through med school so he's not drowning in student loans! also he is not helping out you know who at the farm in this, that plot line does not exist thanks :) not proofread!!!
word count: 340(ish)
!!!!!!!contains mild spoilers for season 2 episode 9 under the cut READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!
"Hey, you wanna' do me a favour?" Robby asks.
Dennis raises his eyebrows, sitting back. "Yeah?"
"You wanna' house-sit for me while I'm gone?"
Dennis scoffs a little, not sure if he's being serious.
"You'd actually be helping me out, and you could save some money on rent," Robby continues, missing the way Dennis glances down at his left hand.
"Are you being serious?" He questions.
"No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies," Robby adds. "I was gonna' ask Abbot but he does nude yoga at sunrise, and I don't think some of my elderly neighbours would survive that."
Dennis laughs at that, now fully believing that Robby must be messing with him.
"Yeah, that's gonna' be a bit of a problem," He says. "I don't think my wife would be very happy if I was gone for three months, especially if I couldn't bring our daughter with me."
Robby freezes, blinks a few times, then leans closer to him across the table. Dennis watches him process that information, wondering if he should be offended that his boss never noticed his wedding ring.
"You're married?" He finally asks. "With a baby?"
"Uh, yeah," Dennis says, raising his hand up, showing the gold band. "Two kids, actually."
"Since when?"
He shrugs. "Since forever, really. Grew up together in a small farm town, you know, got married when we were eighteen."
"How old are you now?"
"...twenty-eight."
"You've been married for a decade," Robby repeats. "And you have two kids?"
"Yep," Dennis says.
"How old?"
"Our first just turned nine, the youngest is eight months," He answers, already reaching for his phone. "You wanna' see a picture?"
Robby nods, and Dennis flips the screen around, showing him his lock screen. It's you holding your younger daughter, while the older one beams at the two of you. Dennis says your names as he points to each of you, unable to stop himself from grinning as he does.
"Wow, beautiful family," Robby says. "You never told me you were married."
"Yeah, uh, figured the ring was self explanatory."
⤿ JASON TODD was immediately obsessed with you, the second you started talking his ear off on that first date. And now, your daughter is just as talkative, and he's not complaining.
!! fluff. wife!reader. talkative!reader. girl dad!jason todd. this was so fun. i have so much girl dad jason todd idk if its too much to upload it all today LMAO. pls dont comment on the baby dialoge bc it was important for that ONE moment. ENJOY.
The apartment was never quiet anymore.
Not in the hollow, echoing way it used to be when Jason lived alone and the only sound was the refrigerator humming at three in the morning. Now it breathed. It hummed. It existed in layers of noise that felt alive. Soft rattles of toys against hardwood. The gentle rustle of a baby monitor. And, most consistently, the steady, animated rhythm of your voice.
Jason had learned the different cadences of it.
There was your distracted voice, the one you used when you were half-reading something on your phone while stirring pasta. There was your annoyed voice, quick and sharp and muttering under your breath about people who didn’t use turn signals. There was your sleepy voice, soft and syrupy in the early hours.
And then there was your baby voice.
He heard it from the hallway before he even stepped into the living room.
It was bright and theatrical and impossibly expressive, rising and falling like you were performing on a stage for a sold-out crowd of one very small, very drooly audience member.
Jason leaned his shoulder against the wall for a moment before rounding the corner, letting himself watch.
You were on the floor again, sprawled on your stomach across the rug with your hair falling around your face. Your daughter sat propped up in front of you, surrounded by plush animals and soft blocks, her tiny socks already half-kicked off.
“And another thing,” you were saying, holding up a stuffed rabbit like it was making a legal statement, “if Mr. Bunny expects to live in this house, he needs to contribute to the emotional well-being of the family. We cannot have freeloaders.”
Your daughter stared at you with enormous eyes.
Jason bit back a smile.
You continued without taking a breath. “Because in this economy? Absolutely not. We are a one-income baby. You need to start pulling your weight. Do you hear me? Pull. Your. Weight.”
The rabbit flopped dramatically as you emphasized each word, causing your daughter to squeal.
You gasped, delighted. “Oh! Oh, so you agree? You think Mr. Bunny should get a job? That’s very progressive of you, peanut.”
Jason finally stepped fully into the room, boots heavy against the floor. You didn’t even glance up.
“And while we’re on the subject,” you kept going, rolling onto your side so you were face-to-face with her, “we need to talk about your sleep schedule, little miss. I was under the impression we had an agreement. A signed contract, very official.. it was notarized by the teddy bear.”
Your daughter let out a string of babbles, hands smacking together with ferocious enthusiasm.
You sat up straighter, nodding as if she’d made a compelling counterpoint. “I see. I see. So you’re saying the 3 a.m. wake-up was necessary for character development. That’s a god argument.”
Jason dragged a hand down his face, fighting laughter while you were still going.
“And then,” you gasped, picking up a block and waving it around like a visual aid, “you threw the pacifier! Which, frankly, felt personal. I offered it to you out of love, out of kindness. And what did you do? You launched it.”
Your daughter shrieked, thrilled by the intensity of your delivery. And you couldn't help the smile that came to your lips at the sight of her excitement.
Jason stepped closer, towering over both of you, and finally you glanced up when the light was suddenly blocked.
“Oh, hey Jay,” you said casually, as if you hadn’t just been giving a forty-five minute lecture to a six-month-old. “We’re in a big big business conference right now.”
“I can tell,” he muttered, his eyes filled with amusement while flicking between you and your daughter.
He crouched down beside you, one knee on the rug, arms resting loosely over it.. meanwhile, you barely slowed down.
“Babe, tell her,” you insisted, pointing at him. “Tell her we do not negotiate with pacifier-throwers.”
Jason looked at his daughter, who blinked up at him like she had no idea what you were talking about.. because she didn't.
“She’s innocent,” he shook his head and shrugged, a cheeky and boyish grin pressed into his cheeks wen his eyes landed on you.
Your jaw dropped. “You are enabling this behavior! Unbelievable!”
He reached out and scooped your daughter up in one smooth motion, settling her against his chest. She immediately grabbed onto the collar of his shirt and began enthusiastically babbling at his chin.
“Ba! Da! Mamamama!”
Jason stilled, his hands sturdy on her small, squishy body while his eyebrows shot up.
You gasped, hands flying to your mouth. “Oh my God. Did you hear that? That was clearly mama.”
“Sounded like ‘da’ to me,” he replied calmly, glancing at you sideways while biting back a smirk. He knew that would get on your nerves, so he couldn't help himself.
Your daughter let out another stream of nonsense syllables, louder now, as if mimicking the way she hears you talk.
And that was when it happened, you started talking again. Fast. Animated. Overlapping her sounds.
“Okay but listen, peanut, pronunciation matters, because if you’re going to credit someone for nine months of back pain and literally creating organs, I just think-...”
“Ba Bababa!”
“...-that we need to enunciate and be very very clear-..”
“DaDADA!”
Jason sat there in the middle of the living room, holding a giggling baby who was now yelling directly into his face, while you spoke in rapid-fire bursts beside him, words tumbling into each other without pause.
You were gesturing, the baby was flailing... both of you were making noise at the same time.
He looked from you to her, then you to her.
Two girls. Two constant, unstoppable sources of sound.
And somehow, instead of feeling overwhelmed, he felt… surrounded. In life, warmth, just something that was loud and real.
Your daughter smacked a hand against his jaw, babbling triumphantly.
You poked his arm. “You’re outnumbered, y'know.”
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I noticed.”
You leaned your head briefly against his shoulder, still talking, still narrating your daughter’s imaginary defense strategy while she contributed her own very passionate, very incomprehensible argument.
Jason just sat there and let it wash over him. The noise. Your voice. Her voice... it filled every quiet space he used to carry inside him.
While he absolutely loved coming home from a rough day to be with you both.. and listen to you both.. truthfully, mornings were his favorite.
Not the early ones when he slipped out of bed before sunrise, waking you and having to leave after kissing you once, twice, and a third time before whispering a promise that he'd be back.
He loved the slow and lazy ones. The ones where the light crept through the blinds in thin golden lines and no one had anywhere urgent to be.
He was half-asleep when you stirred beside him, sheets rustling softly.
“You awake?” you whispered.
“Mm,” he grunted, not opening his eyes.
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re gettin’.”
You laughed quietly, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his jaw, then his lips.. and while he followed the feeling of your kiss, you pulled back and slipped out of bed.
He heard the soft shuffle of your steps down the hall, the faint creak of the nursery door, and then the gentle murmur of your voice.
“Oh good morning, my favorite human. Yes, oh, I know, I missed you too. It’s been at least seven hours, which is basically a lifetime.”
A small, sleepy babble responded causing Jason to crack one eye open. His one arm slung over his forehead, his shirt discarded off by his nightstand and the sun warming his bare arm.
You reappeared a moment later with your daughter tucked against your chest, her hair sticking up in dark, soft tufts from sleep.
You climbed back into bed carefully and set her between you both. Immediately, you settled on your side, facing her and your husband, watching the both of them in a sleepy lovey-dovey way.
All the while, your daughter blinked at the ceiling fan like it was the most fascinating invention in the world.
“Family meeting,” you announced softly, settling against the pillows with a lazy laugh.
Jason rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. Your daughter turned her head toward him slowly, recognition dawning, and then she smiled. It was wide, gummy, and radiating love.
Jason felt his chest tighten, as his worn hands came up to gently brush against her cheek, as if ensuring she was still there.
“Well,” you said, already starting, “today’s agenda includes breakfast negotiations, potential park attendance, and a discussion about why socks are apparently optional in this household.”
Your daughter kicked her bare feet in response.
“See?” you continued immediately. “This is what I’m talking about. There’s no consistency.”
“Baby doesn’t care about socks,” Jason murmured.
“Hmmm... you know, once she doesn't have these cute little feet, she better. .”
Your daughter let out a delighted babble and smacked her hand against your cheek.
You gasped dramatically. “Assault at a board meeting.”
Jason laughed, low and warm, reaching out to gently grab her tiny hand before she could do it again. "Be nice to your ma."
And then you started really talking.
About the dream you had. About the grocery list. About how you thought maybe you should try that new coffee place down the street because the reviews were suspiciously enthusiastic. About how your daughter’s hair was starting to curl at the ends and how that was unfair because you had spent years trying to get your own to cooperate.
You didn’t pause. You talked to the baby. You talked to him. You talked to both of them at once.
“And then,” you continued, brushing a finger over your daughter’s round cheek, “when you’re older, we’re going to tell you how your dad pretended he didn’t want pink onesies but then he folded them like they were sacred.”
“I did not-..”
“You did. It was cute.” You smiled and winked, your hand coming around from your daughter's back to poke his chest
Your daughter began babbling again, long strings of syllables that rose and fell like she was telling her own story.
You immediately turned to her, nodding seriously. “You’re right. He did cry at the first ultrasound.”
Jason froze. “You promised you wouldn’t tell people that.”
“She’s not people yet,” you teased gently, "And, to be honest, that was the hottest thing I had ever seen. I like when you're emotional."
“BA BA DA!”
You gasped softly. “Oh my goodness, she’s backing me up.”
Jason dropped back onto the pillow with a groan, staring at the ceiling as both of you continued.
You talking, her babbling. The words blending together in a warm, chaotic melody.
He turned his head to look at you.
Your hair was messy, your eyes were bright. You were smiling down at your daughter like she’d just solved world hunger with that string of nonsense syllables.
And he felt it again.
That overwhelming, steady sense of being exactly where he was meant to be.
Your daughter rolled onto her side, pressing her tiny body against his chest while still making soft, insistent sounds.
You leaned across her to kiss his cheek.
“Good morning, handsome,” you murmured in a playful tone.
He wrapped one arm around both of you, pulling you closer, letting the noise continue without trying to quiet it.
Two talkative girls.
One very large, very soft man in the middle of it.
Jason closed his eyes, listening to you both.
And for the first time in his life, the sound of constant noise felt like peace.
author's note: This has been in my drafts for one and a half years man. Never say never 💀 And thank you so much for 10k, lovelies! 🤍 xx
The ad is three lines long.
You agonise over it for a week—drafting and redrafting on the back of a grocery receipt at the kitchen table while your husband is on deployment, crossing out words and rewriting them until the paper is soft and furred at the edges from erasing.
Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.
SEEKING CONNECTION
You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.
The ad you eventually submit reads:
Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you — I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.
You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.
Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.
You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.
Adore the way he smells—stale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.
And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.
You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.
Not because the love ran out, because he did.
John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longer—three weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes ‘I don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I know’.
And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.
Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.
Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.
That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.
You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.
You just want someone to see you again.
John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.
He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.
John reads it, and then again.
Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.
Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.
Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love with—the way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".
Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.
Discretion essential.
John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.
And he doesn't confront you.
Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulder—a habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.
Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.
The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.
I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, O’Malley’s on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. — J
Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.
You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistake—a stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.
But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick ‘Be back soon, love’ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.
You read the letter once more.
I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.
Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide you’re going.
Friday night. O’Malley’s.
You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the door—a habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.
You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried again—not the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.
You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.
When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.
You should, but you can’t, and you did say you’re married.
Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.
Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.
John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.
He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.
He spots you and your stomach plummets.
Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.
When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.
He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.
Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.
"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.
"John—"
"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."
You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.
"John, I can explain—"
"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"
Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.
"John."
"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expression—beneath the calm and the performance—that you can't quite read.
It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.
You take his hand, shake it weakly.
His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.
"So. Tell me about yourself."
You stare at him owlishly.
"I—I don't—" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we just—"
"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"
The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.
He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.
"I'm—" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'm—" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."
"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"
"Year four."
"Year four. That's—what, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."
The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.
"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fear—defiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"
"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.
"What branch?"
"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."
"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.
John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.
"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."
Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.
"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."
The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.
Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.
The second drink loosens something.
Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.
And John—your husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during films—is talking back.
He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.
John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.
He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.
"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.
"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."
"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughing—really laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creased—and for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.
You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.
Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.
His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.
"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yours—"
He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.
"—you probably should've taken this off first."
The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.
"John—"
"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadable—not angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."
Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going to—I would never have—"
"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."
The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.
"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn't—I was just—"
"Don't."
You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.
Guilt.
"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should've—" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and you—"
He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.
"—you shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."
The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.
"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.
"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."
You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.
"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.
John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."
You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.
It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.
Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took this—a dating ad and a Friday night charade—to put that look on your face.
You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.
You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.
You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.
The bathroom shrinks to nothing.
He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.
"John, what are you—"
He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.
His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.
You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.
"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.
"John—"
"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."
His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.
"John, we can't—We're in a pub—!"
"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fully—just leaves them there, tangled between your heels.
"Anyone could—"
"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"
You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.
"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."
His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.
"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."
He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.
"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."
He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.
"John—" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.
He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.
More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.
"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.
Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.
This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.
He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.
"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyes—which had screwed shut at some point—fly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.
The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.
"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."
You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.
He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.
"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know ‘m fucking my wife?"
You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.
"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."
A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.
The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.
"Christ—fuck—" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deep—so deep—and holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.
He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.
"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."
You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.
He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.
He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.
"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."
You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.
"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"
"John."
"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.
"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"
Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.
"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."
He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.
"That's my girl," he replies softly.
He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.
The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.
John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.
Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.
When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.
John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.
Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.
"I will do better."
No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.
You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.
"I know," you whisper against his mouth.
And when you get inside, John turns the porch light on.
you know how women's libido gets higher as they age? yeah- that.
Bruce knew he was getting old. He was slowly taking less patrols, letting the kids carry the heavy load. Understanding that he needed more time to recover from injuries. But nothing could have prepared him for this. For needing extra help in the bedroom.
He knew that women's libido became higher with age and he'd always been able to match your needs if not go above and beyond for them. But lately, he'd been having a hard time getting it up. Which didn't make sense because he loved you, he loved your body, he loved everything about you.
Sure, you were getting older too but your body was a map of everything it had seen and endured and he found it fucking sexy.
So it took him a while to accept that it may not be you or him. It was just... age.
However, he was determined to keep it from you. So you wouldn't see him in a lesser light. But the spontaneity of the relationship started fading quickly when he no longer wanted to be pulled into broom closets during parties or copier rooms whenever you visited the office. And all that started to make you feel insecure. That maybe Bruce just wasn't interested in you like that.
And the moment Bruce realized what was happening, he came clean immediately.
"It's not you, sweetheart." He sighed, thumbs rubbing circles at your thighs. "It's me."
You rolled your eyes and pulled back from his touch, not believing him.
"I-" He swallowed. "I've been having difficulty getting hard."
You frowned. "I can change how I dress maybe? Or I could-"
Bruce laughed and shook his head. "Not like that. You're beautiful. I love you." He paused, smile fading. "It's just age and biology. I started taking Viagra but it takes half an hour to work. More if I've just eaten." He explained. "That's why I need to... schedule our moments more."
"Oh..." You nodded. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He let out a harsh laugh. "Darling. We've been married for quite a while now. I think you know I'm not good with communication."
You rolled your eyes but hummed in acknowledgement. You looked at him carefully then asked. "So ... How long have you been taking it?"
"Since August." He avoided your gaze.
"August?!" You gasped. "That's why you didn't want a quickie at the gala in-" He sighed and nodded. "So... uh.. when do you usually take it?" Bruce shrugged, trying to come off as nonchalant. It didn't work. "Honey..."
"Depends. I usually try to anticipate when you'd like to have sex. Or I take one before coming to bed." He explained. You stared at him for a bit and he looked down, ashamed. "I didn't want to disappoint you."
"You... Tell me you didn't think that I'd get upset or leave for this, would you?" You blinked in shock.
He shrugged and didn't look up. "I'm not unaware of what years of being Batman has done to my body."
"Bruce..." You touched his cheek and made him look at you.
"Darling-" He held your wrist but didn't push you away. "You're beautiful and vibrant and I know what the years have done to me-" His voice lowered. "You're everything and I- I need a pill and a 30-minute head start."
You smiled and climbed into his lap. Instinctively, his hands settled on your hips. "Isn't preplanning your whole thing?" He rolled his eyes but smirked. "Besides, who says that I will always need your dick for fun? Hm? We can do plenty of other things while the pills work their magic, you know."
"Oh, really? Like what?" He felt lighter now.
"You could eat me out- Finger me- We could make out like teenagers until our underwears are a wet mess." You giggled and counted.
"So... If I took a pill right now-" He hummed, pulling your closer until your tits were pressed against his hard chest.
"Then I would let you tongue-fuck me, pull as many orgasms as you can from me before you fuck me properly." You cooed at him. "Sound good?"
Retired re!9 husband Leon s. Kennedy x wife fem!reader
Content: MDNI smut, breeding kink, nipple play, cunnilingus, retired re!9 Leon, fem reader, fingering, overstimulation, manhandling, p in v, dirty talk, unprotected sex (please practice protection wrap the willy), teasing, fingering, biting, CONSENT IS SEXY, slight mention of mirror sex
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ
Summary: your husband finds what you've been blogging all along and decided to make your realities come true ❤︎
WC: 2.4k
Sounds of typing echoed through the warm hues of the bedroom shared with Leon. The door softly creaked with steam rushing into the bedroom as Leon came out, droplets of water still in his hair. Leon Kennedy's eyes land on you, who is sitting down already dressed in your pajamas with a concentrated stare on your laptop– its light illuminating across your face, focusing on the softness of your features.
Leon’s qualification as a former government agent was proven as he quietly made his way to your shoulder to peek at what you could be typing with such focus in your eyes, biting your lips, and rubbing your thighs against each other. He sucked in his breath as he read the screen: “She cried from the overstimulation of his fingers…”. He knew his wife held secrets but he never assumed it would be this kinky.
“You know for better accuracy you could’ve just asked me” as you heard Leon’s smug voice echo throughout the room. Pulled back into the real world, feeling a strong but warm presence reading what you were typing all along.
You felt heat rush up into your face as your brain failed to catch up with the situation you were put into. You couldn’t lie to him and your mouth remained agape. Leon closed your laptop and set it aside on the nightstand as you still processed what just happened. He swiftly turned his attention back to you, grabbing you by the waist and lifting you, and throwing you across his shoulder like you were a sack of potatoes, gently laying you onto the pillow.
“This okay?” he asked as he played with your hair. You nodded obediently while he put his thumb on your lips forcing you to part your mouth a bit. “I asked for a yes or no response princess,” he said with a bit more firmness and a smirk plastered onto his face.
“Yes…” you replied shyly, averting your gaze.
“Good girl,” he praised into your ear with a voice smooth like silk. “Do you think you can tell me how she was being fucked or…?” he whispered with a huskiness in your ear, painfully stretched out the or in his sentence. He kissed your lips with such deep obsession, his tongue longing for the taste of you before going down onto your neck sucking on it lightly, earning a soft moan from your lips. “I’m waiting for a response, baby,” he said impatiently…almost a demand.
Your face was still heated by the reminder that you got caught, and shyly told him “he stripped her clothes off of her and kissed all over her body…”
“Mhm” as he stripped your pajamas off of you leaving only your panties on. He slowly kissed the entire shape of your collarbone and made his way to your breasts lightly, cupping the left tit and massassing them while sucking hungrily at the right one. Removing his mouth from your breast, he looked at you with dazed glassy eyes asking, “What else baby?” encouraging you to tell him more.
Already sensitive to his touches you whimpered and tried to think back on what you were writing previously. He teasingly took a nipple into his mouth and gently bit on it. “It…it was uhm…fuck. He played with her tits and pinched them” as you were squirming around from the stimulation of the heat from his tongue and the playful sharpness of his front teeth.
“Like this?” he teased you as he pinched your nipple. Nodding as you tugged on his hair lightly to push him closer to your chest. He took this as an encouragement to suck on your nipple more. He switched between sucking and pinching on each of your tits.
Leon made his way to kiss all over your stomach and hips. “You know if you told me sooner I could’ve given you inspiration for your little writing blogs…” as he said between kisses. Kissing your hip bones he made his way lower to your lace panty lining.
Noticing the dark patch on your panties Leon used two of his fingers to play with your clit through your panties. “This wet already princess? What else did you type using that smart brain of yours?”
Moaning from the stimulation you tried to concentrate. “Fuck…he slid her underwear to the side…mmph…and he used his tongue!” you said as your free hand grasped desperatley at the bedsheets as your trembling voice could find no remorse in his fingers–you were already wet and he hasnt even fucked you yet.
Leon slid your panties to the side, using his two rough fingers to play with your folds and felt how wet your pussy already was. Using his broad biceps he spread your thighs further apart as he licked the folds of your cunt, adding repetitive pressure with his tongue and making his way to your clit and sucking on it making sure his teeth stayed hidden. You could see each vein and his broad back as his tongue began to leave long stripes all over your pussy leaving no area untouched. Whimpering and moaning you started to try and wiggle out of his grip.
“Did any part of that little writing tell you that she could run away from me?” He grunted as he tightened his grip on your thighs. You were sure you were going to wake up with bruises on your thighs from how firm he was holding you.
“No…” you whined as he forced you to stay still.
“Good girl” as he brought himself closer. Leon wanted to remain in between your thighs forever, suffocating himself with the scent and the taste of your pussy. You could feel the sensitivity as he sucked on those bundle of nerves. Leon brought two of his fingers and entered you. You could feel the stretch of the thickness of his fingers as he was bringing a climax out of you.
The pressure in your stomach was about to snap and you tried to close your legs to escape the pleasure but it only egged Leon to spread your thighs further apart. “This is mine. You wanted to write your little fantasy and I’m making it come true” he said huskily as he explored more of your insides with his fingers.
You came with a cry as he quickened his pace clenching around his fingers. Leon took his fingers out and sucked on it savoring the flavor. “Hold on honey, let me clean up your mess”, he murmured as he licked your pussy clean.
You whimpered from the overstimulation of his tongue as you were still recovering from the afterwaves of the recent orgasm.
Leon held your face forcing your mouth to open and he messily kissed you, this time with feverish hunger. Upon the intrusion of his tongue you could taste yourself, making you go dizzy at that observation. Desperate whimpers and whines kept escaping your mouth, echoing throughout the room as the two of you continued to make out.
Leon parted from the kiss and held you by the waist. He lifted you up and sat you on top of his pelvic area. Your pussy grazed near his hardened member and Leon pumped his dick a few times. “You ready?” he asked.
Nodding, you lifted your hips and felt the intrusion of his cock entering your pussy. The stretch was pleasurable and despite you two having sex multiple times the stretch was always still there. He groaned at the feeling of your pussy’s warmth enclosing his dick. It felt so tight around him and he could never forget the feeling. He put his head on your shoulder to prevent himself from cumming too soon.
You sank a few more inches on his dick adjusting to the feeling. Rocking your hips to get adjusted to the feeling he moaned from the simulation. He could feel the wetness from your pussy leaking on his cock and he took that as a sign to thrust his entire dick inside of you.
You let out a silent scream at the sudden fullness of his dick. “Fuck!” you yelped as his hands caressed all over your body, feeling your tits and your hips. Gripping your hips he started to thrust into you roughly and you bounced back matching his thrusts too.
The way his dick was that one spot turned your brain into fuzziness and it became extremely pleasurable. You were a whimpering mess as he kept hitting that one spot. “Mmmph…fuck its too much!” you whined in between words.
“Your dirty little mind writing these stories…How many have you written with that nasty brain of yours?” He whispered in your ear as he kept fucking up into you. He gripped your hips harder and you were sure there were going to be bruises left on your hips the next morning.
You felt the pleasure building up in your stomach and Leon could feel it too the way you became more sensitive to his thrusts. “Leon..! Wait I’m about to…” you whined and it only encouraged Leon to keep fucking up into you. Messed up by his cock, you make eye contact with yourself at the body mirror across from the bed.
“Do you like how you look, baby?” Leon said smugly in your ear with a deep and husky voice. Your lips swollen and bitten, your hair sticking to your sweaty face, and most of all your face that's been messed up with bliss–the sight only brought you closer to your next climax. Speeding up his pace, Leon bit down on your neck as he let out a guttural moan, releasing his seed all in your womb. You came with a cry as you swore you saw stars.
Sighing, you relaxed your body against his, while his erection remained inside you–chests rising and falling into a rhythm with each other. You slightly shifted your body to take a glance at Leon. He looked absolutely delicious the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the way he was out of breath, and the way he stared at you with those playful glazed eyes. You let out a tired airy giggle as he held out his hand caressing the side of your face and wiping the sweat of your forehead with his equally sweaty hand.
“Another round?” he asked with no shame. You eagerly nodded with excitement expressed in your face. “How bad?” Leon asked with a smirk, removing you from his cock as you tried to stop him.
“Please…” you begged, caressing his face as you made eye contact with him. You touched his chest with your nails gently grazing him. He turned your body around to face him. You leaned forward whispering “I’m so hungry” in his ear as you desperately kissed his neck and ear. Begging him with your body and in a hungry attempt you ended up biting down on his ear, earning a flinch and a moan from him.
Snaked your arm around his neck, you tried fucking yourself back onto his erect dick. Chuckling, Leon complied by kissing all over your neck making his way down your collarbone, leaving marks all over.
“You must want it real bad huh…” he murmured against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.
“Mhm…so bad” you begged and whined trying to get yourself back on the erection once more.
“That’s my wife.” he said, grabbing your hips and thrusting you hard onto his cock. You moaned at the suddenness of his cock entering inside. Leon held your hips as he fucked up into you chasing that same high you both felt before. Messy rhythms becoming one, you kiss his lips sloppily as he melts into your kiss. Tongues crashing against one another, saliva running loose, and silent moans filled the room. Parting your lips from his, you hear him let out a whiny groan as you make your way down his neck leaving sloppy hickeys with saliva trails. In an act of defiance, you bite his shoulder causing it to leave a red bite mark, you look up and helplessly gaze into his teary eyes.
In response to that, Leon groaned and pulled you by the hair “Are you being naughty?” he asked huskily, his warm breath could be felt against hers.
“No…” you replied with a hint of mischievousness in your eyes.
“Really?” He questioned as he roughly thrusted up into you. You gasped at how sudden he fucked up into you. “Seemed like it” he whispered into your ear in between thrusts. You rested on his shoulder, exhausted from the pounding, and in a daze began to suck on the bite mark, wrapping your arms around his neck.
Already overstimulated from the previous orgasm and how hard he was thrusting inside of you, you felt yourself come in and out of consciousness as your body began to tire. You could feel more of his seed leaking out of your pussy the harder he pounded into you. His thrusts started to become more quick and desperate searching for that high. And for the second time during that night you came again. He soon followed after with a grunt and released his cum inside of you. You hissed from the sensitivity as Leon lifted you up, removing himself from you as you felt his cum leak outside of your thighs.
Laying back on the crevice of his shoulder you both took a few moments relishing in the afterglow of the sex of each other. You rest your head on his shoulder for a little moment and then look up into his eyes. The two of you making eye contact appreciating each others’ presence. Leon gently tucked a stray hair behind your ear and used his fingers to comb through your hair. You gently smiled at the gesture and sighed contently.
Releasing all pent up energy, you put your body weight against him and slowly begin to drift away until you feel his arms picking you up and gently placing you on the bed. Leon went to the bathroom and you could hear the sound of water running. As you relished in the aftersex haze Leon came out with a warm wet towel. “Hey honey, I have to clean you okay?” he said in a soft tone. You nodded, giving him the go ahead. He gently cleaned up in between your thighs as you sighed softly.
“Thank you, baby” you said, appreciating the gentleness Leon would always show you after sex.
“Of course” he replied, giving you a gentle kiss on the side of your head. Giggling at the gesture you smiled in appreciation. Moments like these reminded you of why you fell in love with him.
Plugging in your laptop, Leon turned off the soft citrus light and pulled you into his arms, spooning you as he pulled the thick comforting blanket both–The two of you into a peaceful slumber.
Summary -> When you wake up, your husband is nowhere to be found. Turns out, Steve is making pancakes for his girls and you can't help but admire the view.
Pairings: Steve Harrington x Wife!Reader
Warnings: Dad!Steve, fluff, baby fever, smut, dirty talk, hand job, getting freaky in the kitchen, desperate!Steve, reader is THIRSTY, POST SEASON 5
Wordcount: 3.6k
Steve wasn't in bed.
That was the first thing that registered in your sleep-fogged brain when you woke up. Normally, the man was a huge teddy bear and would be clinging to you like a limpit, refusing to let go.
You groaned, blindly reaching out for your husband in the dark room. The side next to you was empty, the sheets were rumpled, and the blanket was gingerly tucked around you like a lovers embrace. It was still warm, so you knew he had left recently.
Minuets later, you were in your dressing gown, leaving the bedroom to find wherever he had wandered off to.
First you checked Dia's room.
It was a habit. Your baby- well, she was already four and growing fast, but she would always be your baby- was face down in her bed. Small tufts of thick, brown hair were sticking up at odd angles and the covers were tangled around her feet.
She had a tendency to move in her sleep.
Dia had her father's hair. It was something both your children shared with Steve to the point you were convinced there was something magical about his glorious locks; the way it framed your children's faces perfectly, the way it made Dia look like a little cherub instead of the menace she was growing up to be.
The four year old in question was snoring softly. Her short little breaths could be heard in the early morning quiet and it was a miracle she was still asleep.
There was still no sign of Steve. Sometimes, he could be found squashed in with either one of your children. Stevie was with his girls more often than not and was the most loving man you had ever met.
You crept silently into the depths of the small room and made sure the drapes were shut tight, not letting any sunlight in, before making your way over to her bed. Leaning down, you placed a soft kiss to the top of her head, inhaling that comforting baby smell.
The faint scent of the ridiculously expensive shampoo Steve had bought was buried deep in her hair. It was the only shampoo he used on the kids. The excuse he used every time was always: 'only the best for my girls'.
The memory made you feel all fuzzy and warm inside. It reminded you that you had yet to find him and should probably keep looking.
You stood back up and walked to the door, glancing once over your shoulder just to check if Dia was still sleeping. Seeing that she was, you stepped into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you.
Next was Jane's room.
Jane was nine and tall for her age. She too had Steve's case of a bedhead, and even in the dark, her tresses could be seen splayed across her pillow.
Steve had named your first child.
It was one of the only things he refused to meet you halfway on, not that you didn't like the name. You loved the it and knew what emotional depth it held for Steve. It was an honour to be able to name your child after El and a way to keep that girl embedded in your lives forever.
Jane was an early riser and had given both you and Steve a run for your money when she was younger. Still, Steve had been up with her from the moment her eyes opened with no complaints. He would quietly lead her out of the bedroom and into the living room, granting you a few more hours of rest. He was truly the best man you could ever ask for.
Her room was littered with toys- evidence of her tea party held last night with you and 'Prince' Steve, who had 'courageously' saved you from the evil dragon (cough, cough Dia). Steve had played his part adorably and remained passive even when the 'Great Bad Dia' had yanked his hair a little too hard.
No wonder both girls were still unconscious. Steve always had a hard time saying no and they had stayed up way past their bedtime playing make belief.
You slowly peeled back the covers, careful not to wake up your darling daughter. But, no luck. Stevie wasn't tucked up with this one either.
Gently, with the most care and skill you can muster this early, you pulled the blanket back over Jane. You smoothened her crazy locks back down out of her face and smiled at the beauty you and Steve made.
Then, as you did with Dia, you crept back out, careful not to trip on any items left on the carpet, and closed the door on your way out.
It had now hit you that you still couldn't find Steve.
Though, you had no worry and made your way downstairs where the smell of pancake batter hit you full force.
You snuck through the house until you were leaning comfortably in the doorway to the kitchen.
Steve, as you suspected, was by the counter, his back to you, and seemed to be cooking. He was illuminated by the morning light. It brought attention to his strong back muscles and biceps.
Steve hadn't noticed you yet and was fully focused on preparing the meal in front of him. He was stirring (what you could only assume was more batter) with the seriousness of a navy seal and kept murmuring to himself, adding some more flour into the mixture.
The kitchen was a battlefield: the first batch of pancakes already sat tucked away on the side, faint traces of flower covered every other surface, clumps and blobs of pancake batter were stuck to the counter in different shapes and sizes, and spoons and various other ingredients littered the counter tops like they were planning an invasion on your home.
Steve was humming some song he heard on the radio while holding the mixing bowl under his arm and swaying to the imaginary beat. He was oblivious to the world around him, and from here, you could tell that his hair was dusted with flour- Steve always was a messy cook.
He was wearing the frilly pink and white apron Dustin had brought him as a gag gift for his latest birthday. Ever since then, Steve wore it non-ironically, claiming 'it was a gift', so it must be worn. Seeing Steve being all house-husband did things to you that you weren't proud of.
He had just begun pouring the next round of batter into a pan. You remember a time when he wasn't allowed near the stove when you made breakfast because of the mess he made. How times have changed. Having a baby really does make a person adjust accordingly.
You observed him for a while longer, watching the way his sleep pants rode low on his hips, the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt due to the heat, and the fact that his ass was looking amazing. The strings of the apron were tied in a lop-sided bow at the small of his back, pulling the fabric tight across his waist.
You could faintly see the gold font at the front as it curled around the side of the fabric. You couldn't read it all, but you knew what it said: 'Kiss The Cook'. It made you laugh the first time you saw it, and you secretly think he likes to wear it for the free kisses it gets him.
Suddenly, all your thoughts about getting him back into bed to cuddle before your 'terrors' awake left swiftly out the window. Instead, you would much rather the two of you do something a little more up close and personal. Still, you tried to refrain yourself and remain the 'responsible adult' you were.
At that moment, Steve leaned down to pick up a dropped spoon, and all your will power evapourated. His pants slipped even lower, and you could practically see the way his muscles move under the fabric.
Aw, well. You never had much restraint when it came to Steve anyway.
You pushed off from the doorway and mutely headed towards him, letting your hips sway as you went.
Every time he reached over for the spatula or flipped a pancake, the muscles in his back and arms would flex under his soft skin making your mouth water.
The sight was enough to make you pause for a second, fully appreciating the man you married. The apron strings pull tight every time he leans forward to check the griddle, outlining the perfect dip of his waist, the swell of his ass, the long line of his thighs.
You’ve been watching from behind for three solid minutes. Thighs already slick. You've grown impatient now.
You make the final stretch, hugging him from behind as he's mid-pour. He jumped, then froze for a moment, his eyes flickered down. He realized it is indeed you and let himself relax again, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead and going back to the task at hand.
You pouted slightly at his obliviousness to your growing need. So, you tried again: leaning forward until your front is flush against his back, and you could rest your chin on his shoulder. You drew your arms around properly so that they could rest on his hips while your hands overlaped, tugging at his waist.
Steve looked down.
"G'morning, sweetheart. How'd you sleep?"
You sighed. Steve is a gentleman now, after all.
"I slept alright. But, you weren't there when I woke up..." you drew out the sentence until it was almost a whine.
He chuckled quietly, the sound reverberating in your chest. "Aw, I'm sorry, baby. I wanted to get up early to make the kids breakfast."
"You could have woke me up," you sighed, "I wouldn't mind."
That got a smirk out of Steve. "Oh, yeah, you wouldn't mind? Where was this attitude when I woke you up an hour early on game day to get a good parking space?"
He had you there. You pressed closer, nosing along the line of his neck placing sleepy kisses there as he dragged his eyes back to the frying pan.
"That was different..." You said slowly. "But I want to be with you now."
Steve finally seemed to get the hint after you began sucking the side of his neck. You switched between sweet kisses and soft sucks hoping to gain his attention.
He went quiet for a beat. It was clear he was trying to hold himself together, but he couldn't help but tilt his head to the side to give you better access. Steve shuddered when you bit softly at the sensitive spot under his jaw. You've had years to find all his sweet spots and today, you intended to use that knowledge.
You slid your hands under the apron next, feeling the warm expanse of his chest and stomach. The skin there prickled the moment you touched it, and Steve shivered pleasantly. He sucked in a deep breath but remained focused, flipping a pancake and placing it on the large plate on the side.
The lack of a reaction made you increase your advances. Your palms flattened over the slight pudge of his stomach that he still gets shy about when you stare too long. You smirked into his neck, an early warning that things were about to be a lot harder to ignore.
Your nails suddenly dragged downwards slightly. Over the cut of his hips. Into the waistband of his pants.
He breathed in sharply, his shoulders tensed so much that they almost went up to his ears. His whole body went rigid, and you could practically feel his heartbeat lurching out his chest.
"Baby..." He said, his voice rough and low. It's edged with that stubborn 'I'm really trying to stay responsible' tone he's been clinging to all morning. "The girls could be up any second. The pancakes. I– I gotta focus, sweet thing."
You hummed against the nape of his neck, retracting one hand only to slide it up his back, giving his ass a firm squeeze on the way. He squeeked, tensing again, practically vibrating with dwindling self-control. It doesn't get much easier for him because your hand slid up into his hair, tugging it firmly to move his head so that you could place an open-mouthed kiss directly over his pulse.
"I am focused." You murmured. "Very focused."
You watched as Steve still tried to stay calm. He'd already pouring another pancake, but now his arms were shaking with the effort not to grab you.
Seeing this, you took the opportunity to slip your other hand lower. It wrapped around his already hardened cock. It was already thick and weeping at the tip. You could feel it throbbing against your palm with barely controlled need.
Steve choked on a moan, his head dropped forward without conscious thought until his hair hung heavily in front of his eyes.
"Fuck– Sweetheart, don't–"
You ignored his plea, stroking again. It was a slow, firm motion that left your thumb circling the wet head. He bucked, a helpless little jerk that forced his hips to press back into you. The bowl he was holding was instantly put down on the side. The bang echoed with a deep finality.
Circling again, you chuckled as he braced both hands on the counter as if he was actually being fucked. His hands gripped the edge of the marble tightly, and his knuckles turned white with strain.
The smell of burning pancakes filled the air, and it snapped him out of his haze just long enough to grab the pan and flip it. The pan shook with the tremors from his hand, and he managed to slide the ready, if slightly crispy, pancake onto the plate.
"Baby, sweetie, love of my life, please. The pancakes– nghh- they're gonna burn–" He whined, still pushing his hips forward with every stroke, unable to deny you this pleasure.
"I'll have the burnt ones," you said cheerfully, continuing your movements.
You kissed his neck again. It's an open, wet kiss, your tongue tracing the indent your teeth made earlier. His neck sunk further, instinctively giving you more throat to bite on. So you did bite. And it was strong enough to make him let out a beautiful, quiet sob of pure pleasure as his hips threw a particularly strong thrust forward.
Given his response, you sucked a mean bruise info the soft flesh of his jaw.
His knees buckled– just a fraction, just enough to show his surrender.
You ground against his ass in a slow, deliberate roll. You felt him twitch. Felt the way he braced, his forearms locked, his shoulders rigid, like he was about to be fucked raw right here.
He groaned softly.
"Care–careful. M'gonna..." He trailed off into a quiet moan. "M'gonna burn the pancakes. Don't let me burn the fucking pancakes."
You laughed against his neck. It made his pulse jump. You couldn't help but find it endearing how even after all this, he still was trying to ensure his girls got their breakfast.
"Then pay attention, Stevie."
Then you sped up your motions. Just a little. Just enough that you could twist your hand on every upstroke.
Steve was fully rocking up into your hand now, letting out whimpering moans and gasps and trying to push back harder for more friction. You drew your tongue up his throat to bite the soft spot behind his ear and squeezed his weeping tip at the same time.
Your husband let out an honest to God pornographic moan so loud that he clamped one trembling hand over his mouth in hopes of silencing it. Too late.
He whimpered as you kept going.
"What– w'bout the girls... Baby, what if they come down?" He said, full of fresh clarity.
"They're fast asleep, honey." You replied. "But, you're right."
Steve breathed a sob of relief that only turned into another strangled moan as you picked up the pace until it was impossibly fast. He could feel your hardened nipples flush against his sweaty back. The speed was so deliciously unbearable that he seriously considered flipping the two of you. He held against it, though, knowing this morning it's you who wanted to be doing the heavy lifting.
You pressed your lips against his ear and repeat again, "You are so right, honey. So smart, baby. But, that just means you're gonna have to come a lot quicker. Can you do that for me? Can you come, Stevie?"
Your hand clenched the whole time as you dragged the it from top to bottom. He gritted his teeth and nodded frantically. Little moans escaped him, and his quiet gasps filled the air.
Your other hand that had previously been tugging and pulling at his hair (scratching his scalp until he was trembling) joined your right hand on his thick cock. You used both hands, making his eyes roll back into his head. He shuddered viciously and you reached back, giving his tight, drawn up balls some attention too. You squeezed and rolled them until the pleasure was unbearable.
He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and one of his large hands clamped down on your forearm for frantic support.
You felt his whole cock pulse with oncoming release and a warm gushing liquid poured out of his tip. It soaked your hand and the front of his sleep pants. Steve let out a drawn-out groan, leaning back into you as his shoulders sagged and his knees buckled with the force of his orgasm.
Both of you stayed like that for a moment. Breathing heavily and sharing sloppy, little kisses until he was able to stand up straight without support.
You licked your hand clean, keeping eye contact. He groaned, dragging his hands down his face, muttering a quiet but love-filled, "You're going to be the death of me, y'know?"
"I know," you said back, wiping your palm on the side of his pants, making him scoff in a over the top tone.
"What? You gotta change anyway." You shrugged, giving him a cheeky grin and leaning on your tiptoes to kiss him again.
Steve smiled fondly, pulling you back in for a proper 'Steve Harrington morning kiss'. The two of you sighed into each others mouths. You eventually broke apart. You washed your hands and went to the stove to finish off what little batter was left. He left to go clean himself up.
He took off his apron with exaggerated care (sighing that it would be scarred for life) and placing it on its designated hook. Then, he quickly fixed his hair to the best of his abilities and snuck off out the other door to head to the bathroom to have a shower.
You had half the mind to join him as you watched him leave the room. However, that thought was pushed out of your mind as Dia and Jane sleepily came downstairs, just missing Steve's escape.
They yawned loudly, Dia sneezing in the process and Jane scratching her head. Together, they made their way into the kitchen, both seeing you by the stove and trailing after you like lost ducklings.
Dia hugged your leg tightly, whinging a quiet "Mama," while Jane gave you a quick squeeze and tried to look over your shoulder to see what you were doing.
"Pancakes for breakfast?" You offered, tilting the pan so they could both see what was cooking.
Both their faces lit up like it was Christmas morning.
"Yes!" They both cheered as if the question had an obvious answer. Which, to be fair, it did.
"Thank you, mom!" Jane said excitedly.
Dia nuzzled into your leg, her little, chubby fingers squeezing your dressing gown tightly.
"Yes! T'ank you, mama!" She giggled, rubbing her face into the soft fluff.
Your heart melted at the sight of both of them.
"Aw, no problem, my babies."
You then lowered your voice like you were telling a secret, "But, make sure to thank Daddy when he comes in, yeah? It was his idea, I'm just helping."
"Otay!" Dia squealed happily, running off to try crawl up into her seat at the table.
You followed Dia and picked her up, holding her against your hip to place another kiss to her head and sat her down in her chair. When you turned back to the stove, you realized Jane already had a hand in the pancake mix and was licking the rest off her fingers.
"Jane Harrington!" You gasped with exaggerated offence.
She jumped at the noise, turning around and hiding her hands behind her back, flashing you one of her cutest smiles paired with the puppy dog eyes she definitely got from her father.
"Yes?" She said innocently, sliding away from the counter and towards you.
"Nu uh. That isn't going to work on me, young lady. I love ya, but that just cost you first dibs."
She gasped, her face dropping. "No fair!"
You gave her a pat on the back as you went to turn off the stove.
"Well, I don't make the rules." You shrugged, "Maybe, if you set the table and sit extra quietly, I might be able to bend it slightly. Okay? If your dad comes back and sees your good behaviour, maybe, and I mean maybe, he might let you have the first pancake."
You said all that knowing damn well Steve would fold the minuet he saw Jane's face. You just wanted to tease.
"Okay, mom!" Jane nodded, running to grab the spreads and toppings for the pancakes and then bringing them back to the table.
You sighed happily, leaning against the counter and letting the warm morning sun come in through the window and warm your back. Today would be a good day.
Authors note: I really love the idea of girl-dad Steve, and he will definitely be making a return. And yes, I had to have them name a child Jane after the end of the show. Steve will always hold El in his heart as one of his nuggets. <3
