You woke up with graves not at your side, hearing something in the kitchen you head downstairs to find him trying your breast milk. "Graves?" You grumble, rubbing your still tired eyes, shuffling inside the kitchen slowly.
He jumps, "oh youre awake sweetheart..." he leans against the counter trying appear nonchalant.
"Yeah...? I heard noise in the kitchen..." you yawn, catching glimpse of something. "is that... my breastmilk?" You ask, tilting your head trying to get a better look, narrrowing your eyes.
Graves pushes the small pouch of milk behind him, "no..." he hums, shifting his weight in a way that tild you he was hiding something. when he can tell youre not buying it he puts on the charm. "Well, at least I can say youre as sweet as you look." He smirks, while you stand there mildly annoyed at his curiosity.
thinking about ghost, who retires and settles into a small town, who fixates on the local pastor's daughter- you... (alt link: ao3)
18+ MDNI !!!
CW: fem!reader, religious!reader, implied inexperienced!reader, sex in a church, blasphemy, guilt, religious guilt, heavy religious imagery and references, implied ghoap, mentions of character death (soap), kind of delusional!ghost, 1.6k word count
Ghost– no, he’s not Ghost anymore, is he?
Simon doesn’t consider himself a religious man. It’d be hard to after everything he’s been through– everything he’s done.
Why would he believe in a God that’d surely send him to hell– one that already has? He doesn’t care to learn about all the different ways he’s failed his supposed creator, to hear about how he’ll burn when he’s done here.
Yet, for you, he finds himself sitting in a now-empty pew anyway. He should have declined when you invited him to attend your father’s sermon.
He can’t fathom why you aren’t scared of him– everyone else in this miserable town is. He’s heard the whispers and felt their eyes on his back.
The first thing he’d noticed about you was the cross necklace around your neck– Johnny wore one just like it.
The second thing he noticed was your smile. You’re so kind, so caring, that it makes him sick to his stomach every time you give him that soft grin. Everyone else can stare at him in hatred and fear as long as you keep looking at him that way– like he’s got a soul worth saving.
You’d asked him to attend weeks ago after catching him during a particularly rough episode. He hated calling them that, hated acknowledging them at all, but after the tunnel– after Johnny’s death– they never seem to stop. At least, they didn’t until he met you.
He didn’t say a word the entire time, just stared at the floor and tried to remind himself that the dried red stains were only paint. It’d taken him an hour to fully calm down, but you just sat there with him in the apartment complex’s staircase the entire time.
You’d walked with him to his apartment after, following him inside when he offered you a cuppa. “You’re real trusting following me in here, love. Could be a wrong 'un” He’d lightly scolded you as you both sat at his cheap wooden table.
“You’re not, though,” You said it so surely, as if it were a simple fact. “You’re Mr. Riley, right? My father was telling me about you, saying he’d seen you moving in. What brought you here?”
He ignored the way his cock twitched at how you chose to address him. “Don’t call me that, Simon’ll do. Retired recently, military, just needed a fresh start.”
“Thank you for your service.” Your words were sweet like honey and just as sticky as the blood he’s spilt. He had to remind himself that you can’t see the dried red that stains his hands– not like he does.
He’d simply nodded in response, more than happy to let you fill the silence. He treated it like a mission brief– and in a way it was.
He’d quickly realized just how sheltered you are– how pure. You gave him information about yourself without a second thought: your name, where you work, your closest friends' names, what you got your degree in, and the fact that you live across from him.
It all made sense when you revealed your father is a pastor at the local church. “You should come out sometime, Simon.”
He rolled his eyes out of instinct. “You gonna pray for me, love?”
You nodded and placed your hand over his. Your thumb brushed against his palm– just like Johnny used to do. “If you’ll let me,” you said earnestly.
“Why?”
When you smiled at him, he’d felt something he hadn’t in months– not since he lost the only man he’d ever loved. "Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. Ephesians 4:32." You didn’t stutter or stumble over your words; they left your mouth like second nature.
The service itself wasn’t anything special; in fact, he’d hardly paid attention to your father’s ramblings, he’d been too busy staring at you. He’d wanted to sit next to you, but he’d barely made it on time, and the rows had filled up fast.
Everyone else had cleared out by now, heading outside for the fellowship, leaving the two of you alone. You’re sitting on the pew with one of your hands resting gently on his shoulder. Simon’s kneeling against the carpet in front of you and trying not to think about the fact that his face is level with your tits.
“It’s okay to be nervous your first time.” He knows you don’t think about the double-meaning in your words, but it doesn’t stop his jeans from feeling tight against his dick.
Your eyes flutter shut. “Heavenly Father, I humbly come to you today to ask for your help and guidance. Not for myself, but for Simon Riley,” His head falls into your lap before he can stop himself. He has to swallow a moan when you start to gently caress his cheek.
Your dress has ridden up, and his face is pressed against your bare thigh– your hot skin burns him as if it were a crucifix. “Simon carries a heavy burden, lord; he needs to be lifted up.” Your voice comes out quieter– shaky.
He’s never believed in guardian angels– always joked if they were real, his must be shit at their job– but as you pray for him, he swears he can see your halo.
He doesn’t mean to, but his gaze trails to your clothed cunt– the wet patch feels like a sign from above. He looks up at you as you continue to mumble, studying your face.
It’s all too coincidental; there are too many similarities. Staring at how wet you are, he realizes the truth: Johnny must have sent you to him. His face gets closer and closer to your crotch. His nose is so close he can smell your slick before you speak up.
“Simon...” You glance around despite knowing the room is empty.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t even look at you, just keeps staring at the growing dampness against your underwear. “Tell me to stop, and I will, love.”
“I- I want it but, it’s a sin,” you try to argue.
He tugs your underwear down to your ankles, and you gasp as the cold air hits your cunt. “Guess you’ll have to pray for both of us then.” He buries his face in your pussy as his tongue laps at you.
He’s eating you out the same way a sinner shows up to confessional. Desperate and pleading to something greater than himself– something better.
He pleasures you like he’s trying to atone– to repent. It’s as if he’s convinced that if he fucks you good enough, makes you cum right, it’ll be enough to make up for all the bad he’s done.
Your head’s thrown back, and your eyes are glazed over. You always thought sinning was supposed to burn, yet as you get closer and closer to the brimstone, you find yourself basking in the warmth.
You whine when his mouth pulls away from you. “Thought you were ‘sposed to be prayin', Angel,” he teases.
You’re on the edge, and it’s hard to think. You need something, but you don’t know what. All you know is Simon’s the only one who can give it to you right now.
So, you do as he commands. “Grant Simon, hnng-” your words turn into a moan as his tongue pushes back into your cunt. “Grant Simon the, the, strength he– mmm– needs, Lord.”
He presses a soft kiss to your thigh before he shoves a finger into your dripping hole. Your hips buck up involuntarily as you continue. “May he find hope in-” you whimper when his thumb starts to roughly circle your clit. “Hope in your love, Amen!” you hurriedly shout out, thighs shaking as a second finger pushes into you.
You don’t register that he’s pulled you into a kiss until you feel his mouth against yours. His fingers pump in and out of your soaked cunt as his lips trail down to your neck.
“Soul already feels lighter,” he mumbles against your skin. “So perfect, my guardian angel, sent here just for me, yeah?” His thumb circles your clit, and you feel your stomach tighten.
“Simon, gonna cum-” you warn.
You’ve spent your whole life hearing about Heaven. You always found it hard to picture, but as you clench down around his fingers, you finally have an idea of what eternal paradise must feel like.
You glance down at him. Your thighs shake, and you pant desperately trying to catch your breath.
He pulls his fingers out of you, and eyes lock onto yours as he licks your cum off them. “Tastes fuckin’ holy.”
He pulls your underwear back up your legs, and you flinch at the sticky feeling. His hand grips yours as he helps you stand up, hugging you tight against his chest.
“You’re mine now, y’know that right, angel? My gift, straight from above.” His words come out as a vow– like he’s devoting himself to you.
You nod into his chest, and his hands roam your body, smoothing down your dress. “All yours, Simon,” you whisper.
“I’ve got a lot of sins t’ make amends for, Angel. You’ll help me, won’t you? Make me pure, keep prayin’ for me?”
You think back to a sermon your father gave when you were younger– about Adam, Eve, and a fruit– a warning against temptations.
Now that you've met Simon Riley, you truly understand why she took that first bite. “Of course, I will.”
His lips roughly crash into yours. You don't realize you’ve pressed your teeth against his lip until a metallic taste fills your mouth.
If you close your eyes, you can almost taste the juice of the apple against your tongue.
(he doesn’t actually do it chat there’s gonna be a part 2) but still tw
——
and he couldn’t tell a soul.
he had no friends off duty, he spent his leave eating basic, nutritional food listening to the hum of the radiator while drinking some nice scotch and brandy. he smoked out his kitchen window, leg kicked up onto the counter. he didn’t have the nervous desperate itching kind of addiction, he wasn’t addicted at all. simon always had amazing control over every aspect of his life. it was one of the things that made him a great soldier.
but as he sucked in on the cigarette he felt the chance of cancer growing. a way out where he didn’t have to make any hard decisions. lots of people smoked, no one had to know why he did it.
and of course he couldn’t tell any of his teammates (friends? he wasn’t sure). you can’t be suicidal and do the kind of work he did. what if he decided he was done with life in the middle of battle? killed himself and put the rest of his task force in mortal danger?
he knew this would never happen. he couldn’t imagine letting down the 141 (yes. friends. at least in his eyes) with his own selfishness. he wasn’t a danger to himself on base, surrounded by semi automatics, or in the heat of battle with that calm high settling over him. it was when he was stuck at home, not having spoken in days, cleaning his personal hand gun slowly at the dining room table. it was when he looked up and saw that that dining table was only set for one.
price got them leave for christmas and new years.
the night before their goodbyes they went to their favorite pub by the base. johnny got sloshed, his arm hanging around ghosts shoulders as he excitedly explained his plans for their break, and the gifts he got for his ma and step pa. price sipped a dark whiskey with a twinkle in his eyes. it was a twinkle that said “i have a bird at home, and i might never say it out loud.” gaz was at the bar, grabbing drinks and slipping his number to a woman looking up at him with calm, interested eyes. she had to be at least 10 years older than him. and simon was numb.
he stared at the cheap christmas lights strung around the room with indifference, let them blur as the drunk haze sat heavier. tonight he was going to shave and shower, treat himself to a slice of cake from the mess and go to bed. tomorrow he’ll drive home and watch tv. a show his mother used to play. and then he was going to kill himself.
with that decision should come a sort of relief, right? a slow smile should be spreading on his face.
A/N: Sorry for being M.I.A a girl just forgot. But i did get a new iPad so i can write better ffs on here! I’m a chapter behind on posting im so sorry yall. Also I didn’t make a new collage cuz it time consuming sometimes. This one might be the one for now on.
The first thing Simon noticed when he woke wasn’t the stiffness in his neck or the muted light creeping in through Amara’s curtains.
It was her.
Her head still rested against his shoulder, locs spilling across his chest, one of her hands curled loosely against his arm like it had always belonged there. For a moment, he stayed completely still, his breath caught in his throat as if moving might shatter the fragile calm wrapped around them.
He wasn’t used to this —waking up next to someone, not in a bed but on a damn couch, not with regrets clawing at him but with something softer he couldn’t quite name. His body was trained for alertness, for rising at the slightest shift. But now? He found himself memorizing the way her glasses sat slightly askew on the table beside them, the faint curve of her mouth as she breathed, the rise and fall of her chest against her side.
Amara stirred, a low hum slipping from her throat as she blinked awake. Her hazel eyes, still heavy with sleep, flicked up to meet his. For a second confusion crossed her face then realization, then the smallest, most vulnerable smile.
“Guess we passed out,” she mumbled. Her voice was scratchy from the sleep she had.
Simon huffed out something like a laugh, though it came quieter, almost embarrassed. “Yeah. Not exactly my most graceful moment.”
Her gaze lingered on him, soft and searching. “Could’ve been worse. You don’t snore.”
That dragged a real laugh out of him. He shifted just slightly, his arm brushing against hers. The closeness felt dangerous, in the way it made him want to stay there longer than he should.
Amara eventually pulled back, stretching with a sleepy grin as she got to her feet. “I’m making coffee. Do you want some?”
He nodded, sitting up slower than usual, watching her move toward the kitchen. The tube top from last night was gone, replaced with an oversized t-shirt that brushed against her thighs. Somehow, that was worse — it made her look too comfortable, like she belonged in this space, like he could belong here too if he wasn’t careful.
Simon rubbed the back of his neck, fighting down the thought. He wasn’t supposed to want this. But the smell of coffee filling the apartment, the sight of her humming softly under her breath while she poured — God, it felt dangerously close to something he used to dream about having, something he told himself he could never deserve.
When she set his mug down on the table and slid onto the couch beside him again, their knees brushed. Neither of them moved away.
“This is weird, huh?” Amara teased softly, sipping her coffee.
Simon glanced at her, lips tugging into something like a smile. “Yeah. But not bad.”
Amara sipped from her mug, the steam curling lazily into the air between them. Her locs framed her face in a way that made her look softer, younger somehow, and Simon caught himself staring longer than he should have.
She tilted her head when she noticed. “What?”
He shook his head quickly, glancing down into the swirl of his own coffee. “Nothin.”
But she didn’t buy it — he could tell by the way her lips curved, her gaze steady on him. She always had that look, like she could peel him open without even trying.
The silence stretched, comfortable in a way that unsettled him. And maybe it was the hangover haze of the coffee in his hands, or maybe it was just her but the words slipped out before he could them.
“Forgot what this feels like.”
Amara blinked. “What what feel like?”
He froze, too late to pull his words back. His throat worked as he set his mug down, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. “Just this. Wakin’ up next to someone. Not havin’ to be on all the time. Feels…” he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a humorless chuckle. “Feels dangerous.”
Her expression softened, the teasing gone now. She tucked one leg beneath her, leaning slightly towards him. “Dangerous how?”
Simon dragged a hand down his face, groaning low like he regretted saying anything at all. But she was still watching him, patient, quiet, and waiting.
Finally, he muttered, “Like I’ll want more.”
The honesty hung there. He hadn’t meant to give her that piece of him, but now it was out in the open, pulsing between them like a live wire.
Amara didn’t rush to fill the silence. She just let it sit there, heavy but not suffocating. And somehow, that was worse because it meant she understood.
Simon shifted uncomfortably on the couch, trying and failing to find his usual armor of sarcasm. But it was gone, stripped away the moment he looked at her again.
And God help him, he didn’t even want it back.
Amara’s fingers tightened around her mug as she studied him. The silence stretched just long enough that he wondered if she’d let it pass, let him drown in the rawness of what he’d said.
But then softly, almost hesitant she spoke.
“You think you’re the only one scared of wanting more?”
Simon’s gaze snapped to hers. She wasn’t smiling now. Her hazel eyes were steady, sharp in the morning light behind her glasses, but underneath was something else vulnerable.
“I pretend like I’ve got it figured out,” she admitted, her voice low. “Like I’m just…breezing through life, doing my thing, smoking to take the edge off. But truth is, I get tired of feeling like everyone only wants that version of me that’s easy to handle.”
She paused, setting her mug down carefully on the table, her hands suddenly restless in her lap. “So when I let someone close, it scares me too. ‘Cause I don’t know if they’ll stick around once they see the messy parts.”
Simon’s chest tightened. The honesty in her voice echoed his own more than he wanted to admit.
Instead, Amara gave him a faint, almost teasing smile, like she was trying to cut through the heaviness even as she held it. “So yeah… if you’re feeling dangerous, guess that makes two of us.”
The words landed between them, not quite a promise, not quite a warning—just truth.
And in that moment, he realized he wasn’t the only one carrying ghosts — and maybe that was why he couldn’t look away from her.
(small drabble based on this candle I found in my kitchen)
John Price who absolutely hates candles.
Besides the fact he only ever lit them at the funerals of his lost men; the sweet scent mixed with the phantom smells of blood, sweat, debris and gunpowder (he experiences almost constantly during his time off) sends his nervous system into an overstimulated shutdown and he despises it more than anything. His calmest environment was odorless -with no candles, perfume, or even the scent of cooking- making sure to always keep his home spotless with the windows open wide 24/7- thanking his past self for buying a home in the middle of the countryside.
Unfortunately for him, you, his gorgeous and indulgent wife, who just adores candles, manages to pick one up everywhere she goes and he would hate to ruin your fun. Marriage was all about compromise, after all; and you quickly agreed that all candles were only to be lit in the confinements of your office, where the door would be shut and Price could retreat to the other side of the house.
The only problem was... he missed you. There are certain things John just cant do without.
During the days he finds himself drifting closer and closer to your aromatic haven, willing himself to open the door for the slightest glimpse of you. There were times he held his breath or inhaled in small amounts to ward off that uneasy feeling, but he found that only worked for two minutes before he had to go back out the room in search for, his words, "untampered air". Nevertheless, you and John both worked in sync and the worries of 'Sage and Citrus' or 'Cinnamon and Pumpkin Spice' were null.
In all the years of being married to you Prices visceral distaste for candles had yet to let up, which is why you- being the loving and attentive partner you are- gifted him his very own basket of candles for his birthday- the first of his retirement.
To say he was confused would be an understatement, until he read:
'Scentless Odour Elliminating Candle'
"Isn't that the opposite of what a candle should do?"
And maybe he was right. But his apprehension didn't stop him from lighting it, first placing it in the downstairs bathroom just in case and then coming back 20 minutes later to find...nothing?
The bathroom smelt of nothing.
Air.
Plain, 'untampered', air.
The hallway was next. And then the Living room. And then the Kitchen and your bedroom and conservatory, until slowly but surely, every room and crevice smelt like absolutely nothing at all. And he revelled in it.
When you saw Price hunched over his work bench for hours a month later you thought nothing of it. The man was used to constantly being on his feet and being out of the field left him craving any type of mental or physical stimulation.
It was only when you saw an unlabelled jar of wax did you start to question your husband's new found project which he revealed:
An odour removing candle- aimed at soldiers who suffered the same as him.
And just as he would for you, you supported him all the way. It took almost two years of testing and admin complications but eventually, his first scent 'open window' was developed and packaged with the name 'PRICE'S CANDLES' front and centre.
The two of you worked tirelessly to provide and sell your collections- first at local farmers markets, then online, and finally internationally-expanding your brand to fulfill the wishes of pet owners with stinky dogs, chefs who didn't want their home to smell of garlic, and smokers trying to get rid of the tobacco trail.
You worked for everyone and the brands success was evidence of their appreciation. Price, the grinch of all things scented, became a household name in the fragrance world, only releasing his first powerfully scented candle a few decades later in honour of you, his late wife, who loved candles more than anything.
Ghost is the type of person to wait for you to tie your shoes.
Not because the rest of the team is neglectful, but Simon just lives life a little slower than the others.
When you fall back to kneel down and fix the untied laces, everyone else is still chattering excitedly about the time off and end up getting a bit ahead. But when you look up from your shoe, Simon is right there, body tilted toward you and waiting.
“Ready?”
Kyle is the guy who will bring the conversation back to your point after you’ve been interrupted.
Some bar fight breaks out and everyone gets drawn away from the conversation, and you don’t expect to be able to continue where you left off until,
“What were you saying, love?”
Price will make physical space for you. Hanging out with some of the buffest guys the UK has to offer sometimes means they get a little pushy. Especially at the pub with alcohol in their system. So, John will shove his broad shoulders around to broaden the circle for you, making sure you don’t get pushed out.
“There ya are, sweetheart.”
Soap will make sure you are explicitly invited to plans. When everyone is talking about going out after work and you’re just kind of…also at the table, you might be inclined to think you’re just an eavesdropper of the conversation. That is, until Soap turns to you with his excited eyes.
“Yer comin’, aren’t ya? We want ya there!”
It’s these little habits that you don’t think they even realize they do. The ones that heal that bit of your soul from when you were a kid and felt invisible. You never thought you would find a home in a place like this, but they keep making space for you.
After getting my ass kicked for the last MONTH at work, I emerge from the ashes like a reborn creature.
Anyways, yall ever think about how each of the 141 would pine after a crush?
I do.
I, personally, headcanon that Price pines after a partner with a great poker face. During the working day, you wouldn’t be able to clock the fact that he’s planning the wedding and the house layout in his head.
But, over time, the professional facade wears down like ocean waves on stone. It goes from regular professionalism (if they’re both in the military) to letting rules slip juuuuuust a little bit. What’s Kate going to do? Fire him?
If they’re a civilian, good luck ever doing anything on your own, because he’ll find every possible way to help them in your day to day life. Need groceries carried up the stairs? He’s up 6 steps with bags in both hands before they can even protest. Leaky sink? He’s already pulling out tools. Need a walk home from your work place at night? He’s already grabbing his coat to go get them.
He gives such nurturer and caregiver energy that it’s the only way he knows how to show a potential partner that he’s a capable man.
It’s a 50/50 toss-up whether he’ll shoot his shot or bury it in a box and stow it away. If the rest of 141 finds out the captain’s got a crush? The earth might as well just swallow him whole because 3 grown men are suddenly the Pink Ladies from Grease begging him to tell them more.
Soap, however, is the complete opposite. Being the expressive bloke that he is, he cannot keep a poker face to save his life (in most situations). So when he sees his crush enter a room, everyone in a ten foot radius can tell what he’s thinking.
I like to think Soap also drops everything that he’s doing to go and help/assist his crush. He’s just not as graceful about it. It’s resulted in many engineers and loading bay crew barring him from assisting with plane load up due to the amount of times he’s dropped crates because his yearning got the better of him.
He also c r a n k s the charm to maximum power just to get a rise out of them. Unlike Price, Soap’s yearning over time goes from Obvious to Disgustingly Obvious. It even has the likes of Nikolai and Kate practically begging Soap to shoot his shot. Depending if you’re a civilian or not, it’s a 75/25 chance of Soap following through with his yearning or stowing it in a mental box. 141 and Co. know more about Soap’s crush before even meeting.
(All of these men, to me, have the insecurity that they’re war torn, damaged goods, and they don’t feel like they deserve good things. I’ll die on this hill.)
Gaz? He’ll deny it, but he imprinted on Price and absorbed that old man’s mannerisms. Gaz is the next in line for being the most normal about his yearning. He can be a mean motherfucker on the field, but with someone he cares about? Boy👏🏻friend👏🏻Material👏🏻
But by looking at him, one would think he’s just being a good friend, a good teammate, etc. Someone with a sharp eye (Ghost) would have to notice how he’s maintaining eye contact with them for more than normal, or he’s going to them for advice on different subject matters.
Out of the four men, I like to think Gaz and Ghost are the ones that will maintain the same facade over time with their yearning. Every particle in their body is just vibrating at a frequency that only dogs can hear in their want to kiss and love on their potential partner, but they have a tight grip on their leash.
I think the facade cracks for Gaz after something near-fatal happens to him that gives him a wake up call. I like to think it’s an 80/20 in whether he’d shoot his shot or stow the feelings away.
Ghost… “Mate, stop starin’. Prolonged, unblinkin’ eye contact from the corner of the mess hall does the OPPOSITE of what y’want it to.”
I’ve seen a few headcanons from a few different creators where Ghost doesn’t know what to do with a soft life. He’s not this big dark dom, but a man who’s only ever known violence and anger. Being approached with love and reverence towards him gets him skittish. I LOVE that headcanon, personally. He’s afraid of commitment and it takes him A WHILE before he can get comfortable with a partner.
So his yearning comes through as anger. Not at the person he’s yearning for, but at himself. Because the feelings he has are much bigger than what he’s used to and he thinks that he doesn’t deserve the person he wants. So, he reserves himself to just watching them.
Simon likes to think he’s being sneaky in his attempts at yearning, but one can only be so sneaky at yearning when you’re a 6’2”+ unit of a soldier. Gaz and Soap keep their observations about their lieutenant to themselves, but John “Father Figure” Price would be the first to pull Simon into his office to figure out what exactly has him in such a mood.
I like to think that Simon yearns after people through actions. What looks like tightening up the straps on a tac vest to some is his own version of a promise ring.
Opposite of Gaz, I think Simon would be a 20/80 chance of him ever going after his feelings. If the feelings are mutual between him and whomever he’s pining after, the other person would have to make the first move. OR, the 141 find you and nearly beg you to talk to him.
Hi! I keep seeing price or ghost with their son's and they have a relationship like this! Lol
Obviously, they'd never say the "n-word" so just ignore that part lool. But i thought this was so funny, I cant help but imagine they have some mischievous twins 😭😂
A/n: i saw a clip of Johnny and simon telling dad jokes and thought it was funny hehe
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Simon's little girl, only 16 walked into the kitchen, eyes glued to her phone as she smiled to some video playing on it, her curls bounced as she walked by him, not paying him any mind.
"Talia." He smirked, already planning some cheesy joke in his mind. She gave the familiar sigh of a teen annoyed that their parent would bother them while doom scrolling on their social media, "what, dad?" She popped her earbud from her ear, lazily turning around to face him.
"Why do teen girls only walk in groups of 3, 5, and 7?" He asked, sipping from his cup.
"Omg dad..." his daughter scoffed, clicking her tongue, "why?" She grabs a snack from the cabinet, his oversized hoodie swallowing her whole. Simon had been looking for that hoodie for weeks now, not knowing his daughter had stolen it from under his nose.
"that my hoodie?" He asked narrowing his eyes. His daughter did the same avoiding the question.
"No, dad i stole it from the store." She rolled her eyes dramatically, "... are you gonna tell me your joke or what?" She scoffed at her old man. She would never admit it out loud but she loved when he told his silly jokes to her, it was a nice break from his quiet intimidating demeanor. Simon smiled softly relieved that his kid still wanted to hear his jokes after all these years.
He deadpans a smirk playing on his lips, "because they literally cant even." He looks at her, as she scrunched her face rolling her eyes at him. Despite trying to look and sound annoyed by his joke, she couldn't help a small smile growing on her lips.
"Omg dad, really?!" She questions, "that is sooo cornyyy!" She drags her words out.
She walked away, likely going off into her room, despite her voice being muffled behind her door now, he hears her say, "i literally cant even with him right now." As a soft laugh escaped her mouth.
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Hi, im trying to get back into writing, so things may be a bit rough around the edges until I get my grove back :D
