Lona :)

Pieces i've absolutely adored

･ﾟ✧ Wizarding World

･ﾟ✧Marvel ･ﾟ✧The 141 ･ﾟ✧Grishaverse ･ﾟ✧Pedro Pascal ･ﾟ✧ATJ

07 Slytherin seeker shirt on

Super milk conditioner in my hair

AO3 open

simon was always scared his daughter would be an afterthought. after all, that’s what he was in his family. tommy was the good one, with the house and the wife. simon was just the… other one. too quiet, too tall, too big for school.

a little slow with reading, miss abbot always told his mother about a test for autism, but she never got around to doing it .

he’d always been an afterthought in his own family, and he was so scared his daughter, the light of his life, might be an afterthought. after the army, after ops, after you. he was scared in his heart maybe you would think of her as an afterthought.

he comes back from his op, weary and exhausted, into the small flat in manchester. it’s a two bedroom and you’ve converted one of them to a playroom for your daughter. he finds you in the room, the two of you fast asleep on the playmat.

his two girls are aleeping soundly. the toddler in her favourite summerdress , and you curled up around her, your hair splayed out behind you. you’re wearing his sleep shorts, and your hand is curled around your daughter, like you were playing with her and the two of you fell asleep.

“love?” he asks, voice rough, and then you sleepily blink, before your mouth quirks into a small smile.

“ah, si-“ you yawn, “hey, violet wanted her dada for so much of this week.”

he just blushes, not used to being wanted -

“si?” your voice falters, and then you touch him on the arm, “si, baby, violets teacher came to talk to me today at montessori.”

“mmm?”

Summary: Despite his brooding asshole persona, Mattheo hates fighting with you. Content: Comfort, angst, love, established relationship, highkey a lot of it is fighting... but they make up :) Warnings: Unrealistic idea Mattheo can get to your dorm, verbal fighting, both reader and mattheo saying cruel things, swearing Note: Inspired by 'Family Line' by Conan Gray. He genuinely is this song- every lyric istg. Reader can be in any house W/c: 2524

.・゜゜・❁・゜゜・．

How could you hurt a little kid? / I can't forget, I can't forgive you / 'Cause now I'm scared that everyone I love will leave me

im so sick & my bf came over to take care of me<33

i’ll update this later, i’m so sleepy & i just wanted to get this out<33 & for my girl @puddlesoffrogs get well soon💗

You've been on the couch all day.

You know because the light has changed — what came through the curtains this morning thin and pale, and now it's the thick amber of late afternoon, going orange at the edges, and you haven't moved. Your whole body aches in that deep, bone-level way that makes even the idea of sitting up feel like too much to ask of yourself.

You hear his key in the door and you don't move. You just close your eyes and listen to the familiar sounds of him coming home — his bag, his keys, his footsteps — and then the footsteps stop.

"Baby."

His voice is soft. You open your eyes and he's crouching down in front of the couch, still in his jacket, looking at you with that expression he saves just for you, the one that has nothing performed about it at all.

"Hi," you say. Your voice comes out rough.

"Hi." He reaches out and touches your face, palm against your cheek, and his hand is cool from outside and it feels so good against your skin that your eyes water a little. "How long have you been like this?"

"Since this morning."

"You should've called me."

"You were at work."

"I don't care." He brushes your hair back from your face slowly, just looking at you. "I would've come home. You know that."

You nod. Your throat feels thick, not just from being sick.

"Are you in pain?" he asks.

"Everything hurts," you admit quietly. "My whole body."

Something moves through his expression. He stands up, shrugging his jacket off, and sits on the edge of the couch beside you. "Okay," he says, gently. "Let's get you feeling better."

He makes you soup first, appearing back from the kitchen with a bowl and a glass of water and some medicine, sitting beside you while you eat, his hand rubbing slow careful circles on your back the whole time. Not talking much. Just there. Present in the way he always is when it matters, this quiet steadiness that you didn't know you needed until you had it.

When you finish he takes the bowl, sets it aside, and looks at you.

"Do you want a bath?" he asks. "It might help with the aching."

You think about it. Think about how much your body hurts, how the idea of hot water sounds like the best thing in the world, and then think about how heavy your limbs feel and how even the walk to the bathroom seems like too much right now.

"I don't think I can," you say honestly.

"You don't have to do anything," he says. "I'll do it. Okay? I'll take care of it."

You look at him for a moment.

"Okay," you say softly.

He runs the bath while you sit on the edge of it, wrapped in your blanket, listening to the water fill. He adds something that smells like eucalyptus, and the steam rises and fills the bathroom with it, warm and clean, and already you feel your chest loosen a little just breathing it in.

He kneels in front of you when it's ready.

"I've got you," he says quietly. "Just lean on me."

He helps you in slowly, carefully, one hand holding yours and one at your back, making sure you're steady, and when you finally sink into the water you feel your whole body exhale at once. The heat wraps around you, and the aching — not gone, but softer, pushed back a little, and you tip your head back and just breathe.

Theo sits on the edge of the tub beside you. He doesn't rush. He just lets you have it for a few minutes, the quiet and the heat and the steam, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder so you know he's there.

Then he says, "Can I wash your hair?"

You look up at him. He's looking back at you, patient, waiting.

"Yeah," you say. "Please."

He reaches for your shampoo. You watch him look at the bottle for a second, reading the back of it with that quiet thoroughness he brings to everything, making sure he's doing it right, and something about that small thing makes your chest ache in the sweetest way.

"Close your eyes," he says.

You close your eyes.

His hands are gentle. That's the thing that gets you — how careful he is, working the shampoo through your hair slowly, fingers moving against your scalp in a way that makes every single muscle in your body go loose. You feel him make sure he reaches everywhere, thorough and unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else he'd rather be doing.

"That feels so good," you murmur.

"Yeah?" His voice is soft.

"Mm." You can barely keep your eyes closed properly, you're so relaxed. "You're really good at that."

He doesn't say anything, but you feel the way his hands go a little gentler, like your saying it did something to him.

He rinses your hair slowly, one hand shielding your face from the water, tilting your head back with the kind of care you'd give something precious. Then conditioner, the same way — working it through, patient, giving it time to sit before he rinses that too.

When he's done he just rests his hands on your shoulders for a moment, and you open your eyes, and he's looking at you with an expression so open and so soft that you have to look away for a second because it's almost too much.

"Better?" he asks.

"So much better," you say. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me."

"Theo—"

"You don't have to thank me for this," he says, quietly but clearly, like it's important to him that you understand it. "Ever. Okay?"

You look at him. "Okay," you say softly.

He helps you out, wraps you in the big towel that's been warming up in the dryer, and steers you gently back to the bedroom. He finds your softest pajamas without having to ask, lays them out while you dry off, and then sits on the edge of the bed while you change, close enough to help if you need it but not hovering.

When you climb into bed he pulls the covers up over you, tucking them around you the way you like, and then he goes around to his side and gets in beside you.

You roll toward him immediately.

He opens his arm without a word and you tuck yourself into his side, your head on his chest, and his arm comes around you and holds you close. His other hand finds your hair and starts moving through it slowly, the same way he did in the bath, and you feel your whole body sink.

"You're so warm," you say quietly.

"Good." His voice rumbles under your ear. "Sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"You're exhausted."

"That's different from tired."

His hand keeps moving through your hair. Slow. Easy.

"Theo," you say.

"Mm."

"I really love you."

His chest rises and falls slowly under your cheek. His arm tightens around you, just slightly, the way it does when something gets to him that he doesn't have words for yet.

"I love you too," he says, quiet and sure. "So much."

You close your eyes.

Outside the window the last of the amber light fades to blue, and the apartment is warm and still around you, and his hand doesn't stop moving through your hair, and you are safe and held and taken care of, completely, by the person who would have left work the second you called.

You'll remember to call next time.

You fall asleep thinking about it.

Reblog’s & comments are appreciated <3

I think about mean!Simon not wanting you to leave his place after staying at his place for too so long.

He’s very good at playing house with you, from cooking dinner and you washing dishes, hours spent in his arms and laughing at his corny jokes, trying your best to kick him out the bathroom while you go to the bathroom or do your hair. Your little conversations to yourself as he passes the room you might be in, finding you blasting music and going through photos. Whisky brown eyes glued to your thighs in his shirt that you’re wearing. The man likes the fact that he can come home to you, let you talk his head off or vice versa. Slugger, his dog, is more than happy to have two parents rather than one.

So when it’s time for you to go home— why is that even a thought that crossed you mind?

Simons mid bite of his sandwich when his ears catch the ‘thud’ of one of your duffle bags full of clothes is dropinh to the door.

His eyebrows are knitted together when he sees you coming down the stairs with another duffle, “Tho’ y’were jokin about leavin kitty.”

You bite back a smile, cheeks growing warm, “I can’t stay here forever Si, I gotta wash my clothes!”

“‘Ve got a washer ‘nd dryer.”

“I can’t wear the same clothes for ever! My closet is calling me.”

“Shops callin us then, yeah? Can get ya new clothes.”

You giggle through a groan, “Simon!” 

The rugged man is already pulling you by the waist and into his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He can’t say it, won’t say the words ‘don’t go’ or ‘I’ll miss you’ formally. But it bleeds through everything so blatantly, you can’t help but let out a chuckle. Rubbing his broad and scared back. Your fingers glide through his blonde locks of hair, scratching his scalp. “Why’re you bein cute, huh? so big ‘n bein cute.“

It’s got his heart pounding so loud, he lets out an incoherent grumble, as to quiet his own heart. Such a baffling yet peculiar feeling that the man has only groan more and more fond of with each passing day with you. Before you can even realize it, you’re being thrown over Simons shoulder that makes you yelp out. Slapping at his back to put you down, which he does, on the couch, not hesitating to lay atop of you and inhale your scent.

“You’re bein a fucking brat Simon, come on!” You giggle, it’s exactly how you ended up staying another week. Simon lifting you off your feet and taking back to bed because, ‘it’s too late to drive at night’ when it was only 6pm, and then in the morning, ‘it’s rainin too much’ when it was only drizzling.

Today’s no different, now, sandwiched between his chest and and the couch, head resting on his bicep. Letting him wrap his strong arms around you, so easily leaning into the soft touch of his calloused fingers at the back of your nape, your eyes closing.

“Is this how you usually treat the other girls around you?” You tease ever so lightly, not even expecting an answer.

He gruffly answers, distinct, “Why would I want anyone else ‘ere but you?”

you cut the carrot for tonight’s dinner mindlessly. your eyes anywhere but the cutting board. simon‘s on the couch, sipping on a beer, watching some tv channel he‘s not really interested in.

his eyes flicker to your absent form, the knife now only a few inches away from your fingers as you‘re cutting.

"y/n."

"hm?"

"yer off today."

"oh, i‘m just… tired."

he knew you were avoiding actually speaking up about what was really going on in your brain.

he mutes the tv, sets his beer down onto the coffee table and walks towards you. the big but somewhat gentle hands of his take the knife out of your hand and continue chopping for you.

"now tell meh. what‘s goin‘ on in tha‘ brain of yers?"

"nothing big… it‘s just… a little pathetic. don‘t wanna really talk about it."

"i don‘t judge, sugar."

after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, you speak up.

"it‘s just… my friends were all planning to go out with all of their respective boyfriends, and i‘m just… i dunno, i just shut down… it‘s not like i wouldn‘t wanna come, but… i‘m just a third wheel everywhere."

by the time you finished your sentence you haven‘t even noticed he finishes chopping and now stands next to you.

"it just makes one wonder if they‘re not good enough, you know… i mean, i can‘t be that ugly, right? or am i? i mean… ugh… like… why has no guy ever looked at me in that way? am i too fat, am i too-"

"y/n. look at me for a sec."

obviously, you follow a deep voice‘s order.

"you‘re… the most… the… most beautiful girl i ever got the privilege to live with. and if other guys don‘t see what you… like… have, then that‘s on them, no? so… um… if… eh… if you want me to i can… come along?"

"you‘d… come along? with me?"

"yeah, why not?"

"but you‘re not my-"

"not yet."

he slowly moves in, giving you time to pull away, but you give the nonverbal answer he‘s been hoping for. as your lips meet, he thinks of the first time you met. nobody had responded to his "searching for a roomie" notice. well, nobody except you. you were so different to him and yet so similar. from the first second after you‘d signed the contract until now, he‘d always had a feeling there was more.

maybe there were signs.

like him suddenly telling you the rent halved for some reason he allegedly didn‘t understand either - in reality, it stayed the same.

or like everyone saying that the owners that lived there before simon always complained about the shower’s temperature being uncontrollable, it happened to you one time, but after you told simon and he just seemed to shrug it off, it never happened again.

or like when the noisy downstairs neighbors who kept you from sleeping one night because they were blasting hardstyle on hellish volunes suddenly quieted down after you groaned once in your room and made a voice memo to a friend, but you never texted simon. the downstairs neighbors only listened to muskc with headphones on after that.

but as realisation came to you that all of that was his doing, you realized he‘d done it all for you, all to keep you with him, all to keep you in his flat.

and he‘s succeeded.

—————

𑁥𑁨 ׅ 𝓐 𝓠𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐄 𝓦𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝓨𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝓗𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 do not 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭. 🗝️ head back to 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 ?

you're sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. "kids are occupied," he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.

"si, i have to get this done," you protest weakly, but you're already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. "and they won't stay distracted for long."

"exactly why we should be quick about it." his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he's already hard, and your resolve wavers. "been thinking about you all morning, luv. watching you bend over sortin’ laundry..."

"you're terrible," you breathe, but you're already turning in his arms. seven years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. "we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something."

"can work with that." he's already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up his sweatshirt that you wore around the house. "fuck, no panties? you trying t’kill me?"

"it's wash day, baby," you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "everything's in the dirty hamper." but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.

"fuckin' convenient," he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there's no time for slow and sweet; not with three kids in the house. "always ready for me, aren't you, swee'eart?"

you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. "simon," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "fuck—w-we have to be quiet."

"then you'd better keep that pretty mouth o’yours shut," he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. "can't have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy."

the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and smirks against your neck. "like that, do you? knowing i'm fuckin’ you while our babies play down the hall?"

before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. "mommy! mommy, open!" your five-year-old's voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. "need you!"

simon doesn't stop, if anything going harder. "mummy's busy, swee'eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. "go play with yer sister."

"but mommy!" another bang. "daisy took my doll!"

you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.

"mummy's folding clothes," he lies smoothly. "she'll be out in a minute, go tell daisy t'share."

"don't want to!" your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. "want mommy now!"

"ella." simon's voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. "go play. we'll be out soon."

there's a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she's gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.

"such a good girl," he praises, but you're not sure if he means you or ella. "keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet y’wanted to scream, didn't you?"

"simon, fuck, please," you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. "i'm gonna-"

"i know, luv. she's fuckin’ squeezin’ me." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. "c'mon then. cum all over my cock before another one starts bangin’ on the door."

as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. "mama?"

"bloody hell," simon curses, speeding up. "better hurry up, mrs. riley."

the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you cum all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.

"mama!" your toddler's voice is getting closer.

"shit," simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "y’good?"

"just peachy," you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together.

"though i'm going to need to shower before i finish this laundry."

© deansbeer

Line cook!Simon who's been sweet on you lately, always making sure to get your tables tickets out as fast as possible, and managing to sneak you a snack during your shifts.

He always brushes it off, shrugging about it when you ask, 'was tryin' somethin' new ou', luv, tell me f'its good, yeah?', knowing he would never let you eat anything less than delicious. Regardless, hes always eagerly watching for your approval, wanting to see that stupid smile on your face as you gush about his work.

Waitress!Reader whos saved plenty of money on meals, because even with your employee discount, appetisers and sides cost a fair bit of money when it adds up over the week. Not that it mattered anymore, Simon was always using his cooks discount to get you main meals, 'no' gonna le' 'is luvie, go hungry, will 'e?'

Head chef!Price who cocks a brow every time SImon does it, but never pries. Game is game, after all.

Simon who always makes sure to give you a lift home, even when you finish earlier than him, using his break to do so. He also manages to learn that your crappy studio flat is in the bad part of town...

Line cook!Simon who is quick to suggest you moving in with him. He lives close to your uni, you'd save money on rent, and be able to travel to work together most days.

You're quick to agree, it sounding like a dream to not worry about rent or transport and to live with your friend who's been so sweet to you!

Now he just has to figure out how to ask you out and address your lack of self preservation, because really luv, youd only known him a few months...

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