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majinbangus · 2 months ago

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happy birthday little simon

"You're inviting me to the lad's birthday?"

At this point in time, he kind of expects to get a knock on his door more times in a week than he ever did during the entire duration he's lived in this flat. Most weekdays- when you leave for work and drop off your lad at school- the boy likes to make a quick stop to say good morning. It's become somewhat of a routine. Sometimes it's a sleepy greeting, but little Simon is a cheerful child who has taken an odd liking to him, and vice versa.

"If you can make it."

Then there's you. The sunny child's mother. An easy presence to be in. Refreshing like the ocean breeze during a calm day. Something addictive he can't get enough of.

"When is it?"

This is new. You switched up the routine by coming a second time at midday after he returned from the gym, freshly showered. You faired better when he opened the door compared to that one time. Granted, he was fully dressed, but it was a little disappointing; however, you did have a reason for visiting.

He could tell by the tension surrounding your eyes. Focused like you were on a mission. He supposes you technically are on one. Inviting Simon to your boy's birthday.

"Saturday."

He furrows his brows. "This Saturday?"

"Yes."

"That's tomorrow."

"I know it's a bit last minute, but..." You sigh, running a frustrated hand over your face, frowning at the ground. "No one RSVP'd."

"No one?" Simon nearly growls, offended on the lad's behalf. "What about his friends? The little fuckers don't want to come?

You purse your lips, crossing your arms. "We sent out invites to all his classmates, but ever since we moved, Simon's been having trouble making friends."

"He has trouble?"

"It's not his fault!" You snap before grimacing, lowering your voice, "Sorry, it's just... Simon tries to make friends, but kids are mean, you know? They're young, but they already have their established friend groups and exclude him because he's new."

New. Different. Any reason along those lines. It doesn't matter to kids. Or it does, and that's why they're unjustly cruel to their peers. He understands. Simon grew up with many of his schoolmates avoiding him for being 'weird', not knowing his home life. Tommy had 'friends' but they weren't exactly a good crowd.

"So you want me to come?" Simon asks, and he's met with a tired expression he's never seen on you before—not even when you were sick and weak and needed to be looked after. You look as if you hold the weight of the world on your shoulders, about to collapse.

"He tries not to let it get him down, but if no one shows up..." You bite your lip, a flash of pain in your eyes at the thought of your son hurting. "Please? He likes you, and even if you're the only one who shows up, it'll mean a lot to him."

Simon looks at you. Really looks at you and takes in the desperation in your eyes. You look as if you'd do anything to convince him to come. Even fight him. Tie him up. Anything to drag him to your son's party. You'd probably do it, mother bear that you are.

But you don't need to do that. You won't ever have to fight another battle. Not if he can help it. Simon will fight your battles for you from now on.

"I'll come."

You have his devotion. You and your boy.

"Really?" You brighten up, the hopeless look in your eyes washing away.

He nods. "I'll bring a mate with some brats around your lad's age. They're friendly. They'll like him."

"Will they? Are you sure your friend will be okay with it?"

"They will, and the bastard owes me one, anyway."

No, he doesn't, but Johnny will pull through. Him and his seemingly endless amount of nieces and nephews, although he'll only need to bring a few.

A wide smile breaks out on your face, bright like the sun, and oh- that's where your boy got his grin. Without warning, you leap into his arms, forceful enough to make him grunt. You hug him, burying your face into his shoulder with Simon's hands hovering at your waist, fingers twitching.

It's rare to catch him off guard. So many new sensations fill his senses. Your warmth, surrounding him like a blanket; your scent, sweet and calming with a freshness to it that makes him want to bury his face into your neck and inhale. Or maybe he would bite into your soft skin to see if you taste as pleasant as you smell. If he wasn't so controlled, he probably would sate his curiosity right now.

You stiffen, your body tensing as if you're aware of what you've done, and move to back away, but Simon stops you, resting his hands on your hips. You gently melt your body against his again.

"Thank you, Simon," You softly murmur into his shoulder. It's a quiet sound, but he hears it and lets his arms wrap you in a full hug. You melt against his body, sighing. He doesn't think he's ever felt so warm before. "And just so you know... it means a lot to me, too, that you're coming."

Simon: > Johnny

Johnny: > Yeah, lt?

Simon: > You busy tomorrow?

Johnny: > Yes? > I have a date with that bonnie piano teacher I told you about > ... why

Simon: > Cancel it > Have something I need you to do

Johnny: > Work related?

Simon: > No

Johnny: > Then why can't you do it?

Simon: > I'm already on it > Cancel your date

Johnny: > Then why do you need me? > I'm not gonna cancel my date you dobber

"Cannae believe ye made us come all the way to fuckin' Manchester. Do y'know how many fuckin' hours ye made us drive, Ghost? The wee ones didnae like gettin' up so arse fuckin' early, either-"

"Shut up, Johnny. You owed me one."

"I didnae?!"

A giggle from Soap's bonnie piano teacher. "You're accent thickens when you're upset, John."

"Today was supposed to be our date!"

"It's not so bad. I still get to spend time with you."

"... Guess not, but I'll take you out proper tomorrow, promise."

"See, Johnny? Everyone wins."

"Awa’ an bile yer heid, Ghost."

Despite all his complaining, Johnny is a good guest and keeps the children entertained, playing the part of the fun uncle by letting the kids wrestle or play tag with him, not minding the grass stains as they roughhouse in the park. Currently, he's playing an informal football game with them—six vs. one. He's mostly blocking the ball from entering the goal, but it's still fun for all of them.

Little Simon is extra happy with his new friends. He's been smiling nonstop since they all introduced themselves, grin extra proud when he revealed his name.

("Like Uncle Simon's?"

"Yeah, he says it's a fine name!")

You also haven't stopped smiling ever since they arrived. Not quite as big as your boy's grin, but it still hasn't left. You and Soap's date get along swimmingly, too. He can already tell you'll be good friends with the teacher.

"Not gonna join them?"

Simon looks to see you standing next to him under the tree, watching the children as Soap 'misses' a shot from one of his nephews.

"Where's your friend?" He asks instead.

"Went looking for a bathroom." You gesture vaguely in the direction Soap's date disappeared off to. "So, not gonna play?"

He shakes his head. "Johnny's got it."

"Oh?" The suspiciously innocuous tone makes his eyes narrow. "Is it because he's the better footballer between you two?"

Simon slowly turns towards you, glaring with no real heat, but it still doesn't stop your panicked giggle when he takes a half step in your direction, making you back up against the tree. He gets closer and leans into your space, nearly brushing his front against yours. You audibly gulp, and Simon places a palm on the tree, hand right next to your head. He gets close to your face, watching your eyes widen then dart down to look at somewhere on the bottom half of his face before meeting his eyes again. You bite your lip.

"Repeat that for me, sweetheart." Simon growls softly, and you give a sharp, little inhale.

"U-um. I'd rather... not." Your voice comes out breathy, and you place a hand on his chest as if to stabilize yourself.

"I wasn't asking." He doesn't give you a chance to breathe, leaning in closer, and your fingers dig a little into his pec, making his muscles flex under your touch. "I'll say again: repeat that for me."

With nowhere to run, pinned to a tree, you tremble against his body, breathing heavily and barely able to meet his eyes, licking your lips. It takes you a moment to build up the nerve to speak with Simon surrounding your senses.

"I um... I um-"

"Simon, Uncle Johnny said to come play with us!"

Instantly, he backs away from you and turns around to see your boy running over. Behind him, he hears you exhale a quiet, little, "Fuck..."

Fuck, indeed.

He turns his attention to the lad once he comes to a stop in front of him. "Is that what he said?"

"Uh-huh! He said we're giving him trouble, and it'll make it more fair so he's not the only one guarding."

Simon looks over to where Johnny stands with the football held casually to the side between his arm and waist. The man smirks knowingly, glancing between you and Simon before giving a cheeky wave. He glares back. "I'll show him trouble."

"What did you say, Simon?"

He looks back at your boy. "Nothing. I'll come play."

The lad's eyes brighten with a celebratory cheer, grabbing his wrist and leading the way to the field. Simon looks back to see you better composed, if a little disheveled, but smiling nonetheless at the two like they're the only ones who matter.

After cake and presents, the children return to playing football with the new football that Soap gave as a present for little Simon, along with your boy wearing a jersey from the Scot's favorite team. A petty move from Soap, in Simon's opinion, but he'll let him have this one. He'll get your boy cheering for Man United soon enough.

The adults hang back in their own pairs. Soap and his date finally getting a moment to themselves, nibbling on cake and talking about whatever it is they talk about at the picnic table, and you and Simon are back under the tree, keeping a respectable distance between each other.

"Kid seems happy," Simon idly notes, watching your boy laugh and play with the younger MacTavish's. "You did good."

"Me?" You glance at him. "You were the one to bring a tiny tribe to Simon's birthday. Look at him. That smile is because of you."

"That smile is because you're a good mum," Simon states in a way that leaves no room for questions. "You were the one who made today happen. You gave your lad the birthday he deserved. He'll remember this."

Like how Simon remembers his mum doing her best to give him and Tommy the birthdays they deserved, no matter how small the celebration was.

You're looking at him as if you can't quite believe he's real, a cute, astonished look adorning your face. He's tempted to make a comment about it until you give a quiet, amazed laugh, reaching for his hand to give it a grateful squeeze. You don't pull away, and he doesn't let go.

"Even so, Simon had a great seventh birthday, and a lot of it is because of you. You did more than you had to- more than his father ever did! Bastard didn't even send a happy birthday text, son of a bitch." You exhale a heavy, calming breath. "But never mind that... What I'm trying to say is thank you. You didn't have to do what you did, and ever since we met, you've been really good to him."

You shoot him a teasing look. "What's your secret? Have a hidden family out there or something?"

A darker part of Simon is tempted to laugh. You're kind of right, in a messed up way, but he doesn't hold it against you. He hums, contemplating. "I had a nephew."

"Had?" The information takes another second to process. "Oh! I mean..."

"Don't have to say anything." Simon stares out to where the kids are playing. He imagines another boy running among them. Both younger and older than the children out in the field. Taken too young with no opportunity to grow. To live. He squeezes your hand. "He reminds me of him. Joseph. Would have been a couple years older than your lad by now, but I think they would have gotten along."

"Think so?" You send him a soft smile, stepping closer to hug his arm. "Tell me more about him?"

Simon looks at you, the warmth of your body pressed against him, and it suddenly feels like there's no one else in the world. There's just you and him under this tree, with your boy's laughter ringing like bells in the air, and that's when it hits.

Settle down... He's finally starting to get it, Tommy.

soap's piano teacher is something i want to write out, but idk if i'll get to it

#been hating it but gonna post it to get it out of the drafts #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #141 sweet treat <3

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illycanary · 8 months ago

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Katara's Story Is A Tragedy and It's Not An Accident

I was a teenaged girl when Avatar: The Last Airbender aired on Nickelodeon—the group that the show’s creators unintentionally hit while they were aiming for the younger, maler demographic. Nevermind that we’re the reason the show’s popularity caught fire and has endured for two decades; we weren’t the audience Mike and Bryan wanted. And by golly, were they going to make sure we knew it. They’ve been making sure we know it with every snide comment and addendum they’ve made to the story for the last twenty years.

For many of us girls who were raised in the nineties and aughts, Katara was a breath of fresh air—a rare opportunity in a media market saturated with boys having grand adventures to see a young woman having her own adventure and expressing the same fears and frustrations we were often made to feel.

We were told that we could be anything we wanted to be. That we were strong and smart and brimming with potential. That we were just as capable as the boys. That we were our brothers’ equals. But we were also told to wash dishes and fold laundry and tidy around the house while our brothers played outside. We were ignored when our male classmates picked teams for kickball and told to go play with the girls on the swings—the same girls we were taught to deride if we wanted to be taken seriously. We were lectured for the same immaturity that was expected of boys our age and older, and we were told to do better while also being told, “Boys will be boys.” Despite all the platitudes about equality and power, we saw our mothers straining under the weight of carrying both full-time careers and unequally divided family responsibilities. We sensed that we were being groomed for the same future.

And we saw ourselves in Katara.

Katara begins as a parentified teenaged girl: forced to take on responsibility for the daily care of people around her—including male figures who are capable of looking after themselves but are allowed to be immature enough to foist such labor onto her. She does thankless work for people who take her contributions for granted. She’s belittled by people who love her, but don’t understand her. She’s isolated from the world and denied opportunities to improve her talents. She's told what emotions she's allowed to feel and when to feel them. In essence, she was living our real-world fear: being trapped in someone else’s narrow, stultifying definition of femininity and motherhood.

Then we watched Katara go through an incredible journey of self-determination and empowerment. Katara goes from being a powerless, fearful victim to being a protector, healer, advocate, and liberator to others who can’t do those things for themselves (a much truer and more fulfilling definition of nurturing and motherhood). It’s necessary in Katara’s growth cycle that she does this for others first because that is the realm she knows. She is given increasingly significant opportunities to speak up and fight on behalf of others, and that allows her to build those advocacy muscles gradually. But she still holds back her own emotional pain because everyone that she attempts to express such things to proves they either don't want to deal with it or they only want to manipulate her feelings for their own purposes.

Katara continues to do much of the work we think of as traditionally maternal on behalf of her friends and family over the course of the story, but we do see that scale gradually shift. Sokka takes on more responsibility for managing the group’s supplies, and everyone helps around camp, but Katara continues to be the manager of everyone else’s emotions while simultaneously punching down her own. The scales finally seem to tip when Zuko joins the group. With Zuko, we see someone working alongside Katara doing the same tasks she is doing around camp for the first time. Zuko is also the only person who never expects anything of her and whose emotions she never has to manage because he’s actually more emotionally stable and mature than she is by that point. And then, Katara’s arc culminates in her finally getting the chance to fully seize her power, rewrite the story of the traumatic event that cast her into the role of parentified child, be her own protector, and freely express everything she’s kept locked away for the sake of letting everyone else feel comfortable around her. Then she fights alongside an equal partner she knows she can trust and depend on through the story's climax. And for the first time since her mother’s death, the girl who gives and gives and gives while getting nothing back watches someone sacrifice everything for her. But this time, she’s able to change the ending because her power is fully realized. The cycle was officially broken.

Katara’s character arc was catharsis at every step. If Katara could break the mold and recreate the ideas of womanhood and motherhood in her own image, so could we. We could be powerful. We could care for ourselves AND others when they need us—instead of caring for everyone all the time at our own expense. We could have balanced partnerships with give and take going both ways (“Tui and La, push and pull”), rather than the, “I give, they take,” model we were conditioned to expect. We could fight for and determine our own destiny—after all, wasn’t destiny a core theme of the story?

Yes. Destiny was the theme. But the lesson was that Katara didn’t get to determine hers.

After Katara achieves her victory and completes her arc, the narrative steps in and smacks her back down to where she started. For reasons that are never explained or justified, Katara rewards the hero by giving into his romantic advances even though he has invalidated her emotions, violated her boundaries, lashed out at her for slights against him she never committed, idealized a false idol of her then browbeat her when she deviated from his narrative, and forced her to carry his emotions and put herself in danger when he willingly fails to control himself—even though he never apologizes, never learns his lesson, and never shows any inclination to do better.

And do better he does not.

The more we dared to voice our own opinions on a character that was clearly meant to represent us, the more Mike and Bryan punished Katara for it.

Throughout the comics, Katara makes herself smaller and smaller and forfeits all rights to personal actualization and satisfaction in her relationship. She punches her feelings down when her partner neglects her and cries alone as he shows more affection and concern for literally every other girl’s feelings than hers. She becomes cowed by his outbursts and threats of violence. Instead of rising with the moon or resting in the warmth of the sun, she learns to stay in his shadow. She gives up her silly childish dreams of rebuilding her own dying culture’s traditions and advocating for other oppressed groups so that she can fulfill his wishes to rebuild his culture instead—by being his babymaker. Katara gave up everything she cared about and everything she fought to become for the whims of a man-child who never saw her as a person, only a possession.

Then, in her old age, we get to watch the fallout of his neglect—both toward her and her children who did not meet his expectations. By that point, the girl who would never turn her back on anyone who needed her was too far gone to even advocate for her own children in her own home. And even after he’s gone, Katara never dares to define herself again. She remains, for the next twenty-plus years of her life, nothing more than her husband's grieving widow. She was never recognized for her accomplishments, the battles she won, or the people she liberated. Even her own children and grandchildren have all but forgotten her. She ends her story exactly where it began: trapped in someone else’s narrow, stultifying definition of femininity and motherhood.

The story’s theme was destiny, remember? But this story’s target audience was little boys. Zuko gets to determine his own destiny as long as he works hard and earns it. Aang gets his destiny no matter what he does or doesn’t do to earn it. And Katara cannot change the destiny she was assigned by gender at birth, no matter how hard she fights for it or how many times over she earns it.

Katara is Winston Smith, and the year is 1984. It doesn’t matter how hard you fight or what you accomplish, little girl. Big Brother is too big, too strong, and too powerful. You will never escape. You will never be free. Your victories are meaningless. So stay in your place, do what you’re told, and cry quietly so your tears don’t bother people who matter.

I will never get over it. Because I am Katara. And so are my friends, sisters, daughters, and nieces. But I am not content to live in Bryke's world.

I will never turn my back on people who need me. Including me.

#ATLA #Avatar the Last Airbender #Katara #Anti Bryke #Zutara #but not really #just pro-Katara #Anti Kataang

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theorist-fox · 3 months ago

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Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

Summary: Simon has to lie low and go dark for an undefined period of time. While trudging along the unbearably long, dark alley that's his life, he finds the light at the end of tunnel, and it's shaped like you. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun.

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his.

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin.

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him). His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required, or needed. Wanted.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this.

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday.

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking.

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream.

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere.

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight.

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole.

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #jealous simon riley #ghost x reader

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juniperskye · 3 months ago

Text

I choose you.

Sneak peek: After a one-night stand, you find yourself pregnant. You choose to take some time off to get your life in order (aka ready for a baby), when Hotch stops by to make sure you’re okay. You confide in him and after a late night of talking, and months of mutual pining, Hotch offers to help you raise the baby. With this newfound dynamic, how will Hotch handle you working in the field? How will your lives change?

Aaron Hotchner x (Fem) Reader

Fluff/Angst

Word count: 7599 (OMFG sorry)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited I've been working on this for so long...I did my best- please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!! My blog is 18+, minors DNI, implied age gap (kinda?), secret relationship, mention of period and menstrual cycle, mention of doctors and hospitals, mention of typical pregnancy related care, secret pregnancy, mention of pregnancy, Hotch being a little smothering lol, mentions of canon typical violence, some language, team members meddling, mention of Jack, no mention of Hailey (she just doesn’t exist in this – Hotch has always been a single dad), no use of y/n. I think that’s all, let me know if I missed any!

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

“Hey, you’re looking a little green there sugar.” Morgan said, gently nudging your elbow.

“Yeah girl, keep it to your side!” Emily laughed, pushing your file further onto your desk.

“Alright, if I was contagious, don’t you think you’d all be sick by now? It has to be from something I ate…I guess it’s time to clean out the fridge.” Shaking your head you got back to work.

“You know the most common causes of nausea and vomiting are infections (like the stomach flu), food poisoning, motion sickness, pregnancy, and migraines. We can rule out the stomach flu given that none of us have gotten sick, and motion sickness since we haven’t travelled in a few days. I’d say food poisoning seems most likely, and it should pass soon given that it typically lasts anywhere from 12-48 hours.” Spencer rattled off.

“Thanks Spence.” You smiled.

Your mind began spiraling, this little bout of vomiting had been going on for far longer than 48 hours. Was it possible something at home was contaminated and you’d had “never-ending” food poisoning? You thought about the other conditions Spencer had mentioned, no to the stomach flu, no to motion sickness, probably not food poisoning. You had migraines, but definitely weren’t currently suffering from a spell…so that left. Nope. No way.

Could it be possible? When was your last period? Shit. You pulled out your phone and opened the Flo app and your last charted period was…EIGHT WEEKS AGO. What the fuck? How had you missed that? After pondering for a few minutes, you realized that around that time, the team had a particularly tough case where children were being kidnapped from malls in Alabama. The case had a happy ending, but it had taken seven days for you to catch the guy. You had chalked up the missed cycle to stress – it happened sometimes.

After excusing yourself, you made your way to the bathroom. While in the bathroom, you made two calls, one to your primary care physician, and then one to the OBGYN that they referred you to. Thankfully (pure luck truly) they had an opening tomorrow morning.

You quickly made your way to Hotch’s office to see if he would allow you to come in late tomorrow. He was usually understanding about these things since you guys really have to take any doctor’s appointments you can get with your ridiculous schedule.

You knocked on the door frame softly, taking note of his nod, granting permission to enter. You walked cautiously to his desk, trying to work out the phrasing of this request in your head.

“I can hear the gears turning in your head, what’s going on?” Hotch questioned.

“Sorry Hotch, I uh, I just have a quick question for you.” You began. “You see, I haven’t been feeling great the last few days, so I called my doctor, and they can squeeze me in tomorrow first thing. Would it be possible for me to come in late so I can make that appointment?”

“Is that all? Of course, just come in when you can.” He finally met your gaze, offering a subtle smile.

**8 weeks pregnant**

You sat, bare legs causing the sterile paper beneath you to crinkle, the noise seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room. You had left a urine sample when you first arrived at the office, and they had just taken a blood sample. The nurse had asked you a million questions and you had to fill out nearly 20 different forms.

“Alright, so the urine test came back as positive for pregnancy.” The doctor informed you.

“Wow, um okay. So, what are the next steps?”

“Well, we are going to send your blood in to check your HCG levels amongst other things, that will give us a pretty good estimate as to how far along you are. We will give you a call when those results come in. I am going to send you home with some literature on what foods, medication, drinks, over all activities to avoid as well as some recommendations for prenatal vitamins and a prescription for some anti-nausea medication. There is also a card in there with the triage number in case of an emergency. So, what questions do you have for me?” The doctor concluded.

“I uh, when will I need to come back in? Also, I am a field agent with the FBI, I guess I’ll probably need a doctor’s note as proof of pregnancy, and then one later down the line I suppose, excusing me from duty.” You inquired.

“Once we get your HCG levels and can get a better idea of how far along you are, we will give you that call and then we will schedule your next appointment. Based on your last cycle, we will probably have you come back pretty soon for a transvaginal ultrasound and then your following appointment would be around your 12-week mark. As for work, I can get you that document now and then yes, as your pregnancy progresses we will discuss changes that will have to be made at work. Did you need a note for today?” She answered.

“Okay, that sounds good. And yeah, a note for today would be great. Thank you.”

Thoughts were racing through your head, the things you’d have to buy, getting your apartment prepared, telling the father (what was his name again…Michael? Brady? You’d have to figure that one out), telling your boss and the team, the changes to your body? Oh god, what have you gotten yourself into?

The second you stepped off the elevator your stomach twisted, and you darted to the bathroom. After emptying the contents of your stomach, you rinsed your mouth out and made your leave. What you weren’t expecting was Hotch on the other side of the door.

“Oh, sorry Hotch.”

“No need to apologize, I just wanted to see that you were alright. JJ let me know she saw you running in here.” He explained.

“I-I’m not feeling too great honestly. Do you think, maybe, I could head home for the day?” you queried.

“I think that is a good idea, you should get some rest. You know, you have a bunch of time off saved up – I’m not telling you to use it, but if you wanted to, it’s there. Do you need a ride home?” He asked.

“No, I think I’m okay. And I also think I am going to take you up on that suggestion. Do you think I could take like the next four days?”

“Absolutely, I’ll submit your time. You head home and get some rest. I’ll let Garcia know, that way she won’t call you if a case comes in.” He said.

“Thanks Hotch.”

“You’re welcome. Do me a favor, let me know when you get home safe.” He requested.

**9 weeks pregnant**

The next four days passed by in a blur, you had read through all the information the OBGYN sent you home with, you’d gone and picked up your medications from the pharmacy, cleaned your house, went grocery shopping, and you gotten your results back from the doctor. You had gotten the call yesterday that your HCG levels had placed you between 8 and 9 weeks pregnant and you had scheduled your ultrasound for the following Wednesday. You’d have to tell Hotch everything when you’re back at work tomorrow.

You also made a very awkward phone call to Jensen (damn, you were wayyy off) and he had been very pleased when you informed him that you didn’t want anything from him, he agreed that it would probably be best that way. You didn’t need to be tied to some one-off forever anyway, this was for the best. You just hoped your child wouldn’t resent you for not having a present father.

A knock at your door shook you from your thoughts. You checked your phone, 7:32 p.m. and a notification from Uber Eats that your tacos had been delivered! You paused your movie and shuffled to the door, checking the peephole once, then twice to confirm the identity of this visitor. You made quick work of unlocking and opening the door.

“Aaron? What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how you were feeling. I also ran into your delivery guy.” He explained.

“Come in, I ordered enough for two if you’re hungry?” You posed.

“I wouldn’t want to impose.” He shook his head.

“Not at all, come on in.”

You quickly realized that you were in sweats, a t-shirt, and slippers. You looked to Aaron taking note of his jeans and t-shirt. Casual looks good on him; you’d always thought so. You offered him a drink and invited him over to the couch, making yourselves comfortable and digging in. To the others, this may seem odd, a late-night taco date with your boss and your couch, but this was your normal.

You and Aaron had quickly realized your similarities when you first joined the team. You both had a stone exterior with a warm and fuzzy interior, you were closed off, but loyal and caring. These are the similarities that made your fast friendship so easy. The two of you hung out often, you had regular dinners together, went to movies or had movie nights, you went to the park with him and Jack, and sometimes…you even slept over. You didn’t share a bed or anything – except once when you first moved to your current apartment – your guest room hadn’t been set up yet. He was easily the person you were closest to, which is why it was terrifying to love him. You couldn’t lose him. So, you bottled up your feelings and enjoyed these moments with him.

“So, you’re feeling better then?”

You opened your mouth to reply when you felt it. That tightening lurch in your stomach. You brought your hand to cover your mouth and jumped up, desperate to get to your bathroom. You had barely made it before you were expelling your dinner into the porcelain bowl. You heaved until there was nothing left. It was only then that you felt the warmth of his hands brushing your hair back and rubbing circles over your spine. You slowly sat up and rested back against the bathtub, Aaron leaned against the counter.

“I guess it’s a good time to mention we have a mandated weekend off. I figured you were feeling better if you had ordered tacos.” Aaron teased.

“I was feeling better. And thank God. I could use the extra two days to get my shit together.” You laughed.

“What did the doctor say?” He questioned.

“Well, she uh…” You started.

“I shouldn’t have asked that, I’m sorry.” He apologized.

“No, Aaron it’s okay. I just – I found out that I’m pregnant.” You blurted.

“Oh, that’s – wow congrats. I didn’t realize you’d started seeing someone.” He muttered.

“Thanks, and I’m not. It was just some guy I met while we were in Alabama.” You grumbled.

With Aaron’s assistance, you made your way back to the couch, not before quickly brushing your teeth. After he saw that you were settled, he went to the kitchen and grabbed your anti-nausea pills, some crackers and a ginger ale for you.

The two of you sat and talked for hours, you told him about your doctor’s appointment and the phone call with Jensen. You expressed your excitement and nervousness, both of which he met with reassurance. Aaron was quick to tell you he thought you’d make a great mother and that he, along with the rest of the BAU, would be there for you every step of the way.

The night continued on with the two of you curled up on the couch watching movies, Aaron refilling your ginger ale as needed throughout the evening. Your position had shifted slightly the longer you sat there, you had laid down, your head resting on a pillow against Aaron’s thigh, his hand delicately running through your hair. You turned your head to look up at him, the movement drawing his gaze to you.

“Can I tell you something?” You asked.

“Anything.” He whispered.

“I’m scared to do this alone. I don’t want the kid to grow up and hate me because they don’t have a dad. Plus, I always thought when I had kids, I’d be settled…ya know?” You spoke softly.

“You’re not alone in this.” He replied.

“I know Aaron, that’s not what I meant.” you sighed.

“I could do it.”

“What?” You sat up abruptly, turning to look him in the eyes.

“I could raise the baby with you, I mean if you want. I just, I always wanted a big family, and Jack has asked about having a sibling on more than one occasion, plus we’re close already…” He rambled.

“You would do that for me?” You gasped.

“Of course I would, I’d do anything for you.” He smiled softly.

“So how would this work?” You questioned.

“It’s late, why don’t we head to bed, and we can talk logistics in the morning.” He said, patting your knee.

“Okay.” You smiled.

You woke up the next morning and had to remind yourself that last night was real, Aaron had in fact offered to raise your baby with you. You got out of bed and padded your way to the kitchen. Upon entering you were met with the sight of Aaron in his sweats and a T-shirt, gliding around your kitchen, making breakfast. This felt so domestic, and you couldn’t help the pain in your chest at the fact that this isn’t.

“Good morning!” You greeted.

“Good morning! How did you sleep?” He replied.

“I slept well thanks. You?”

“Pretty good actually. So, how are you feeling about my offer?” He queried.

“I’d like to take you up on it, as long as it’s still on the table. But I think we need to lay out some ground rules, or at least figure out how we would do this.” You explained.

“We’re doing this then! And I agree, we need to sort out all the details.” Aaron suggested.

Aaron and you talked about it a lot over the next few hours and had come to an agreement on nearly all subjects. Aaron would attend doctor’s appointments with you, the child would be raised by you and Aaron and for all intents and purposes, Aaron would be known as dad, when the kid is old enough, you agreed that honesty is crucial, and you’d explain that Aaron isn’t their biological dad. You had agreed on bringing the child up in a loving home and allowing your child to find their own way in religion and politics, neither of you fond of pushing either of those things on a kid. You had also agreed on the importance of education, family time, immunizations, etc.. There were a few things though, that you still weren’t sure of.

“So, Aaron, I guess I am just curious on how we would address a few things. Like with the team or anyone that asks – you’re the father? Or do we tell them there was a sperm donor? Are we honest about the situation? And what about us? Everyone is going to think we’re together. Also, the living situation, you mentioned you want to be around to help but going back and forth from my place to yours, it’s not fair to us or to Jack, what do we do?” You rattled on.

“Okay, slow down. I think with the team and family, we can tell them the truth…to anyone else, I’m the father. If that’s okay with you? For the living situation, I ugh well I was thinking, maybe we find a house? I know how crazy that sounds, but I would be closer to you to help out and Jack could be close to his sibling, at least for a while. It wouldn’t have to be permanent.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “As for us, I don’t want to complicate things sweetheart. I can’t say I’ve never thought about us…maybe we just take it day by day.” Aaron was trying to gauge your reaction.

“That all sounds perfect. We will take it day by day, see where this journey takes us.” You say, reaching to hold Aaron’s hand.

Aaron brings your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss to the back of it. You can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks. His admission of thinking of the two of you as more than friends, lingers in your mind. You wondered how long he’d been thinking like that but figured you could ask him another time. The bubble you were currently in was far too precious to burst.

“So, should we start house hunting?”

Aaron chucked at your excitement and nodded happily.

**15 weeks pregnant**

The two of you agreed to wait to tell the team, at least until you had settled into your roles as co-parents. You also wanted to wait until you had progressed further in your pregnancy before you shared the news with not only the team, but also Jack. You had expressed to Aaron that you were worried Jack wouldn’t take the news well and he had assured you that Jack would be thrilled with the prospect of having a sibling. Aaron had also informed you that Jack had asked if you could be his new mom once your friendship had grown.

Things had been going well, it had been almost two months since you guys had agreed to do this together and you couldn’t be happier. Aaron had gone to your appointments with you, and that’s where you were currently headed. You had your 15-week appointment today, you’d also be doing some tests to ensure the baby is healthy.

“Alright, did you guys want to find out the baby’s sex today?”

You looked over at Aaron, and he met you with a subtle nod of confirmation. You had discussed this on the way over today.

“Yes we would!”

“You are having a girl, congratulations!” The doctor smiled and made her leave.

Aaron was quick to lean down and embrace you. You were shedding tears of joy, beaming with excitement. He pressed a chaste kiss to your temple and pulled away.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, I scheduled a showing with our realtor. I think you’re really going to like this one!” Aaron gushed.

Aaron drove you over to the most adorable home, judging from the curb appeal, you were thinking his assumption was correct. He helped you out of the vehicle and led you into the home, your realtor was waiting for you just inside the foyer.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hotchner, welcome! Please take your time to look around, I will be in the kitchen if you need anything. Aaron, I am going to make a few calls and see what we’re looking at for this one.” Bradley informed.

The two of you agreed to act as a married couple when looking into homes, Aaron had suggested that newlyweds with a baby on the way might be more appealing to a seller. Though things between you definitely felt more like that was becoming your truth as opposed to this fantasy you’d act out when in the presence of Bradley.

Looking around, Aaron led you around the house, showing you each of the rooms on the first floor, then the second. You ended up in the master bedroom, making your way out on the balcony that overlooks the backyard.

“So, I was thinking, the two rooms downstairs, one would be my office, and the other could be a sort of den or library. Up here, Jack could have that first room, the second could be a nursery, and then the other two well they’d be ours, or one could be a guest room.” Aaron offered.

“If we made one a guest room, that would mean that we…we’d share this room? Aaron Hotchner are you suggesting that we share a room?” You teased.

“Maybe I am.” He declared.

You had been playing this game of cat and mouse for the last three weeks. It had started after you had kissed. It happened in the heat of the moment, the two of you were fighting over him subtly benching you from work, you had explained you were fine to which he admitted how important you were to him and that he couldn’t afford to lose you. Upon this revelation, you’d shared a passionate kiss. An action that you hadn’t discussed or repeated since then.

“Well, I think that could work.” You nudged him gently. “This house is perfect honey.”

“Should we go talk to Bradley?” He posed.

“I think so.”

**17 weeks pregnant**

“Can you come to my office please?” Aaron asked.

Naturally this caught the attention of the team. You could tell they were growing suspicious of you and Aaron. They used to make jokes about you guys dating all the time with how close you were, but now, taking time off together to go to doctor’s appointments and hushed conversations in his office. You were sure the team thought you two were together. And now, you guessed they weren’t exactly wrong.

“They are totally dating.” Emily insisted.

“No doubt about it. Last week they left early together on Thursday. I guess Hotch called Rossi and told him they wouldn’t be back, and Rossi said he could hear them giggling. He used those exact words.” Morgan explained.

“Hotch, giggling? No way!” JJ chimed in.

“When do you think they’ll finally come clean?” Emily wondered.

“Whenever they are ready, and none of you are going to push the issue.” Rossi declared.

The others grumbled in defeat as they returned to their tasks. Meanwhile, Aaron was informing you that Bradley had left him a voicemail, asking that the two of you return the call when you could.

“Hey Aaron, thanks for getting back to me. Listen I have good news, your offer went through. You guys got the house! I’ll email over some paperwork, and we will talk next steps soon.” Bradley rushed.

“Thank you Bradley, we appreciate it.” Aaron replied before hanging up the phone.

You shared a look before a cheerful squeal escaped your lips. You jumped into Aaron’s arms, hugging him tightly. He was quick to return it, rocking you back and forth gently.

“We got the house! I can’t believe it!”

“We did sweetheart! Do you want to come for dinner tonight, we can talk to Jack?” Aaron offered.

“That sounds great.”

You made your way back to your desk and caught the tail end of your team’s conversation. They had clearly been speculating about the nature of your relationship with Aaron, and after that little display in his office, you couldn’t blame them. You’d have to bring that up tonight, maybe it was time to come clean.

You were currently cooking dinner while Aaron helped Jack with his homework at the dining table. If this is the life you had to look forward to, you’d be a happy girl. You never felt more at home than when in the presence of the Hotchner boys. You finished up dinner and sent the boys to wash up while you set the table, they returned swiftly and the three of you began eating.

“Jack, bud, we have something we want to talk to you about.” Aaron began. “It’s pretty important and I’d really like you to let me tell you everything before you respond okay?”

“Okay.” Jack nodded, mouth full.

“You know how I’m having a baby right?” You gave him a moment to nod in reply.

“Well, that baby is going to be your little sister.” Aaron explained. “We are going to have this baby, and we’re all going to live together, in a new house. You’ll still go to the same school, but we will live in a house, all together instead of in the apartment.” Aaron concluded.

Jack’s eyes grew wide at the mass of information he’d just received. He glanced from you to Aaron and back to you once more. His mouth fell open, and he took a deep breath before speaking.

“So, does that mean you’re going to be my mom finally? Are you guys getting married? What does the house look like? Will I have to share a room with the baby? And where did the baby come from?” Jack rattled off.

“Oh, well sweetie this doesn’t necessarily mean…”

“Bud, go put your dish in the sink and change into your pjs. When you come back we will answer all of your questions.” Aaron instructed.

Jack shrugged and went first to the kitchen, then shuffled down the hall to change. Aaron knew it would take him a little bit, and he’d likely get distracted before returning, which meant he could talk to you about the first two of Jack’s questions.

“Sweetheart, if I am going to be the father of this baby, would you maybe consider being a mother to Jack? I know it is a lot, but with us living together and raising the baby together, it might make sense for me to formally adopt the baby and you to adopt Jack. That way we really could be a family. If anything happened to me, I would at least know that he’d have someone. He loves you so much and I love you, it just feels right, him wanting to call you mom.” Aaron blurted.

“Y – you love me?” You gasped.

Aaron blushed, having realized his slip up. “I do.”

“I love you too Aaron. And I would love for Jack to consider me his mom, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about us all being a real family like that. As for the adoption, that sounds perfect, I’d have to call Jensen and judging how our first conversation went, it should be a non-issue.” You noted.

“We would just have to get the papers drawn up for you to adopt Jack, his mother signed away her rights when she left us.” Aaron stated.

You looked at him with a saddened expression. The thought of leaving Aaron and Jack breaks your heart, you can’t imagine how she did it so effortlessly. Aaron could see the hurt behind your gaze, and he brought his hand up to caress your cheek, drawing a heat with it.

“Can we go back to a few minutes ago when we both said “I love you” for the first time” Aaron chuckled.

You let out a giggle and nodded, leaning in to meet him halfway for a passionate kiss. The two of you have kissed before, but never like this. Kissing someone who you love and that loves you in return, well that is pure bliss.

“Eww!” Jack shrieks, covering his eyes.

The two of you share a laugh and pull away. Aaron begins clearing the table while you go to get Jack.

“Eww? Eww? Come here buddy! Let me give you a big smooch!” You laughed reaching for Jack.

His laughs rang through the apartment as you jokingly chased him around the living room. When you finally caught up to him, you wrapped your arms around him a pressed a dramatically loud kiss to his cheek. Jack feigned disgust and wiped his cheek off as Aaron entered the room, joining the two of you on the couch with a big smile on his face.

“Alright buddy, I want to answer some of your questions okay?”

“Okay dad.”

“So, let’s start with the house, you are going to have your own room. The house is big with a yard that we can practice soccer in and a pool for us to swim! You will get to see the house soon; we are going to move in just a few weeks.” Aaron explained.

“As for me bud, if you want to call me mom you absolutely can. We aren’t getting married just yet, but we are a family sweetie.” You gently ruffle his hair.

“Okay mom, but you didn’t answer my last question! Where do babies come from?”

Your heart soared at the name, but both you and Aaron choked at his question.

“Uh, we will talk about that when you’re a little older. Go get ready for bed.”

**26 weeks pregnant**

You were nearing week 26 of your pregnancy and you knew, beyond a doubt, that the entire team knew you were pregnant, you hadn’t really been hiding it other than some loose-fitting tops. None of them said anything, but they were all doing everything in their power to make sure you were comfortable, safe, and feeling well in the office and even more so in the field.

On your last case, the whole team worked to keep you stuck in the local precinct as to avoid any potential harm. You knew they were just being protective, but your doctor said you were fine to continue field work for at least a few more weeks. You wanted to work while you still could, and you decided to talk to Aaron about finally coming clean to the team.

“Hey, can I talk to you really quick?” You asked, entering his office.

“Am I talking to you as your boss or as your significant other?” He questions.

“Both I guess? Aaron, I think we need to tell the team. They already know I’m pregnant, that I am sure of. But they are acting like I am made of glass, and I would really like to keep working while I still can.” You declared.

“Sweetheart I can’t say I am particularly upset about everyone being extra cautious for you. I want you safe, and they do too. But if you’re ready to tell them, then let’s tell them.” He admitted.

Aaron called the team to the round table so the two of you could come clean about everything. In the last 18 weeks, your lives had drastically changed for the better, and they’d only continue to do so, so it was only right that you have your BAU family involved and around for the joy to come.

“I called you all in here because we have some news we’d like to share with you all.” Aaron said, placing his hand on your shoulder.

You smiled up at him before continuing. “I am pregnant, as you all already seem to know…but that’s not all.” You and Aaron told the team about your relationship, the pregnancy and how it came to be, Aaron stepping in and being the father, the new house and how you moved in together, you told them everything.

The team met you with shocked expressions, before they bombarded you with congratulations, embraces, and some questions. They asked about Jack and his reaction, they asked about the baby’s biological father, and they asked if an engagement was coming soon.

You had explained that the adoption process had already begun for Aaron and the baby, that Jensen was more than willing to waive his parental rights. You’d also told them how Jack started calling you mom and you were planning to ask him if you could adopt him officially in a few weeks and Aaron said an engagement would occur soon enough as long as you’d have him.

To close out your family meeting, you’d politely asked everyone to remember that you were pregnant, not incompetent, and you would appreciate it if they would let you work like normal (mostly) for the last few weeks you’d be able to. They agreed with some apprehension as long as you’d be careful and let the others lead.

**33 weeks pregnant**

The team had travelled to Colorado for a case, you knew that this would be one of the last times you’d get to travel with the team, so you were going to give this case your all.

For the last month, Aaron had definitely broken his promise and was keeping you on a tight leash. You knew he was only protecting you, but you wanted to do your job. You were damn good at it, and you weren’t going to let anyone tell you otherwise.

“Alright, you are going to stay here and work on the geographical profile with Reid, and I am, going to the latest crime scene with Morgan.” Aaron stated.

“I’d like to go with Morgan actually. I think that my skills would be better suited that way.” You disputed, sending a glare Aaron’s way.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea…” Aaron started.

“Hotch. Let me do my job.”

“Okay go. Be careful, please.” Aaron pleaded.

Morgan drove you to the latest crime scene and you both looked around observing all of the evidence markers and trying to gather as much information as you could. The two of you were bouncing ideas off of one another when glass breaking sounded downstairs.

Morgan brought a finger to his lips signaling to be silent. You both raised your weapons and made your way to the landing. Morgan leaned around the corner to see if he could catch a glimpse of the intruder from the top of the stairs. When it came up empty, he motioned that he was going downstairs, silently telling you he’d let you know when it was safe to follow.

You didn’t move until Morgan signaled for you to do so. When he did, you carefully made your way downstairs. He went left and you went right, making your way through the first level of the home you noticed a broken lamp next to an open window in the living room. Before you had a chance to react, a man grabbed you from behind, his arm wrapping around your throat and his gun pressed to your temple.

“Call out to your partner.” He hissed, pressing the gun further into your skin.

“Morgan, in the living room!” You called.

“Did you find someth-” Morgan trailed off, seeing the unsub holding you. “Woah, okay. We don’t want any trouble okay. You can let her go. We can get you whatever you want man.” Morgan offered.

“DON’T TRY TO PLAY GAMES WITH ME!” The unsub bellowed.

“We’re not – trying to play games with you. We just want everyone to leave here unharmed.” You tried to console the unsub.

“NO! LOOK AT HIM! HE’S GONNA TRY AND SHOOT ME THE SECOND I LET YOU GO! I’M NOT FUCKING STUPID!” The unsub cried.

You could tell he was devolving; he was young, intimidated and sick of being pushed around by men in positions of power. Most notably, his father.

“You’re right. He probably will try and shoot. He’s cocky like that. Always walking around like he’s a gift from God himself. Barking orders at his subordinates and making passes at any female employee. It makes me sick.” You played into his delusions.

“He treats you like that?” The unsub wavered.

“He does. And I can’t stand it! I am sick of being treated like I’m less than. Like I’m not good enough to be here! I deserve more, you deserve more. We are strong and capable, and we should be treated as such.” You continued to work this unsub while Morgan slowly moved into position.

“You’re right! If you can see that, why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he see that I am enough!” The unsub sobbed, his hands dropping to his sides.

Morgan swooped in and handcuffed him after gently grabbing his gun from his hand. The unsub sobbed quietly, realizing the error of his ways. You moved to sit in a nearby chair and Morgan pulled out his phone to call for backup.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asked, rushing to your side. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you coming with Morgan.”

“Aaron, honey, I’m okay!” You reassured him.

“Hotch, your girl single handedly talked the guy off the ledge. She’s the reason we’re all safe.” Morgan explained.

Aaron looked at you once again. Taking in every part of your body to ensure you had no injuries. He gently takes your chin between his index finger and thumb to glance at your right temple, making a note of the slight bruise that’s developing there.

“I want you to get checked out before we go home.” Aaron informed.

“Okay.” You said, knowing arguing wouldn’t get you anywhere.

After spending far too long at the hospital, you were headed back to the hotel with a clean bill of health for both you and your baby girl. Aaron’s hands hadn’t left you since he’d rushed to your side at the crime scene. They were either holding your own, pressed to the small of your back, or resting on your leg. You knew he was just trying to ground himself in the fact that you were safe.

That night you and Aaron shared a conversation about you going on desk duty for the next few weeks, before your maternity leave started. He was a bit shocked that you didn’t fight him on it…not even a little bit.

**39 weeks pregnant**

You had been on maternity leave for all of five days and you were already out of your mind. The only thing you were grateful for was the fact that you got to spend so much time with Jack.

Your adoption of him had been finalized two weeks ago and everything was done regarding Aaron adopting the baby. Now, you were just awaiting the arrival of your daughter. You were more than ready for her to be here and out of your body, and while the pregnancy hadn’t been particularly difficult, you were exhausted and bloated and just ready to be done.

You were in the kitchen making lunch for Jack and you while he played in the living room. He’d requested a grilled cheese sandwich with some tomato soup. You had just flipped the sandwich when a contraction hit. The pain washed over you, radiating down your spine and through your pelvis. You took a deep breath and check the time, they were about fifteen minutes apart right now, the contractions kept you up all night and had been consistent all day.

“Okay bud, lunch is served!” You set his food down in front of him on the coffee table.

“Thanks mom!” He smiled, taking a big bite of grilled cheese.

“You’re welco-” a sharp hiss escaped your mouth.

Checking the clock again you realize it’s only been about five minutes since the last one. You take a few deep breaths and look around for your phone, it might be time to text Aaron.

“Mom, are you okay?” Jack asked.

“Yeah bub I’m okay. I think your sister is getting ready to come.” You explained.

“Really? I can’t wait to meet her!” Jack cheered, resting one of his hands on your swollen belly.

“I can’t wait either. Jack, could you uh – could you go grab my phone hon?” You requested.

“Okay!” He wandered over to the kitchen to grab your phone.

You felt another contraction coming on and realized that they were coming one after another in shorter bursts of times. You needed to get to the hospital.

Jack returned from the kitchen with your phone and handed it to you. You were quick to dial Aaron’s number. It rang three times before he picked up.

“Hey sweetheart. Is everything okay?” He questioned.

“Yeah honey, it – it’s time. She’s coming.”

“Now? How far apart are your contractions? Did your water break? Are you in pain? Should I call an ambulance to come and take you to the hospital?” Aaron rattled off question after question.

“Aaron, baby, contractions are three minutes apart now, my water hasn’t broken, I’m not in too much pain, and please don’t call an ambulance. I will drive myself and Jack to the hospital. Meet us there.”

“I will sweetheart. The go bag is on the floor of the closet, on the right side. And the car seat has already been installed. I am leaving right now.” Aaron promised.

“Okay! See you soon.”

**36 weeks pregnant**

“Mrs. Hotchner, can we go swimming?” Henry asked.

“Of course, bud, you boys go get your swim trunks on and I will get Nora changed. Okay?” You looked at the three boys for confirmation.

After they all shouted okay, they ran to Jack’s room and the bathroom to change, you walked with Nora upstairs to help her change into her swimsuit.

“Alright bug, pink or green?” You asked her.

“No. Blue momma, blue!” Nora demanded.

“Okay bug, blue suit.” You agreed.

You got Nora changed and brought her into your room, before you changed into your own bathing suit in the on-suite bathroom. When you exited, you grabbed Nora and then made sure the boys were all ready and that they had put on sunscreen. The five of you made your way outside, the boys were quick to jump straight into the pool, and you made sure to put on Nora’s swimming vest.

Aaron stepped away from the grill and wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed a sweet kiss on your shoulder before leaning down and kissing Nora’s head. He went back to the grill and got it cleaned and ready for the burgers you were making tonight.

“JJ texted and said her and Will were on their way. She said to thank you again for picking the boys up from school.” Aaron let you know.

“She doesn’t need to thank me.” You scoffed. “The boys all go to the same school and with me on maternity leave, I have nothing better to do.” You laughed.

“I’m excited to see the team, it’s been so long since we’ve all been together.” Aaron sighed, slipping into the pool with you.

“I know honey. We’ve all just been so busy…that’s why it’s taken this long for us to do this reveal” You hugged him. “Do you regret taking the promotion?”

“Not for even a second. It has allowed me more time with you and the kids. I got to see almost all of Nora’s milestones, and I am so excited for this little one to join us here soon.” Aaron said caressing your belly once more.

“I can’t wait either.” You smiled.

One by one the team began filing in through the back gate. Derek and Savanah had come in with Hank. JJ and Will had come in and were quick to greet their sons. Emily, Spencer and Penelope arrived all at once saying their hellos and quickly getting into the pool. And Rossi arrived last, he set the cake and wine in the kitchen and made himself comfortable in the lounge chairs on the deck.

Time passed in slow motion, you made conversation with those around you and ate dinner (Aaron and Derek standing over the grill drinking beer…they were arguing over how long to cook the burgers). Everyone got out of the pool and as the adults sat on the lounge chairs, the kids ran around in the yard, playing soccer.

“Are you guys ready?” Dave asked

After you and Aaron nodded, Dave went to grab the cake. You called everyone over to the table and let them know that you chose to reveal the gender this way because you didn’t want some big flashy party, but rather to be surrounded by loved ones.

“So, there’s one other announcement I’d like to make before we do the gender reveal.” You began. “I will not be returning to the BAU after the birth.”

A chorus of “what do you mean” and “why” and “that’s not funny” rang out around you. This was something that you’d been at war with yourself over for the entirety of this pregnancy. Aaron taking the promotion to a director position, it had shockingly allowed him more time with your family, and it provided a safety that his previous position had hindered. It was a culmination of those facts that led you to your decision.

“What does this mean though? What are you going to do?” Spencer was the one to ask.

“I’m going to teach.” You smiled. “I was offered a position, within the FBI, to teach. You guys will still get to see me, and we will still host everyone, but the hours are better, and they’ll allow me more time at home.”

The team exchanged solemn expressions, but ultimately wished you well. They let you know that they’d miss you and the team wouldn’t be the same without you, but they understood.

“Okay! Sorry. Onto a much happier topic – the gender reveal of our baby!” You exclaimed.

Aaron and you each took a wine glass and held them upside down over opposite edges of the cake. The team counted down 3…2…1…and you and Aaron plunged the glasses into the cake. You each brought the glasses up and held them out in front of you, confusion etched on the faces of those standing before you.

“OH MY GOD! It’s twins! It’s twins isn’t it!” Penelope shouted with glee.

In front of you, enclosed in the wine glass were layers of chocolate cake intermixed with blue frosting. And in front of Aaron was a glass housing chocolate cake with pink frosting. The two of you shared a look, one that held nothing but love and adoration for one another and the beautiful life you’ve built with one another. You loved each other more than anything and your growing family was proof of that, Jack and Nora had been thrilled that they’d be getting both a little brother and sister, and in just a few short weeks, they’d make their debut.

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inkspiredwriting · 4 months ago

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Double Trouble: Five vs. Five

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

The Umbrella Academy mansion was unusually quiet, save for the soft hum of activity coming from the living room. Five Hargreeves, his wife Y/N, and his brother Luther were sitting on the couch, enjoying a rare moment of peace.

"Are you sure you don't want to join us for dinner?" Y/N asked, looking at Five with a warm smile.

"I'll pass," Five said, sipping his coffee. "You know how I feel about sitting through long meals."

Y/N rolled her eyes affectionately. "You're impossible."

Just then, a bright flash of light filled the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of temporal displacement. When the light faded, an older version of Five stood in the middle of the room, looking slightly disoriented.

"Well, this is unexpected," Old Five said, straightening his tie. "Hello, Luther. Hello, Y/N." His gaze lingered on Y/N, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "Wait a minute—you're married to him?" He pointed at his younger self.

"Yes, we are," Y/N said, exchanging a puzzled glance with Young Five. "Who are you?"

"I'm Five," Old Five said with a smirk. "But from a different timeline."

Luther stood up, towering over both versions of Five. "So, what brings you here, old man?"

Old Five ignored the question, his attention still fixed on Y/N. "I must say, I never imagined I'd end up with someone like you, Y/N. You have excellent taste." He stepped closer to her, his smirk widening. "Tell me, what do you see in my younger self?"

Young Five narrowed his eyes, standing up to face his older counterpart. "Watch it, old man. She's my wife."

Old Five chuckled, clearly enjoying the tension. "Relax, kid. I'm just curious. Besides, it looks like I've still got it." He winked at Y/N, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"Don't call me 'kid,'" Young Five snapped, his fists clenching at his sides. "And stop flirting with my wife."

Luther, sensing a potential fight, stepped between the two Fives. "Alright, let's all calm down. We don't need a Hargreeves showdown right now."

Old Five laughed, but there was a hint of irritation in his eyes. "Fine, fine. I'll back off. But it's interesting to see how things turned out in this timeline."

Y/N, trying to ease the tension, placed a hand on Young Five's arm. "It's okay, Five. He's just being... well, you."

Young Five took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Yeah, well, I don't like it."

Old Five raised an eyebrow. "Jealous, are we? That's new."

Luther rolled his eyes. "Enough, both of you. Why are you here, Old Five?"

Old Five shrugged. "Curiosity, mostly. Wanted to see how things turned out for me in this timeline. And I must say, I'm impressed." He glanced at Y/N again, his expression softening slightly. "You got lucky, kid."

Young Five scowled. "Don't call me 'kid.' And yes, I did get lucky. Now, if you don't have any pressing business here, I'd appreciate it if you left."

Old Five chuckled. "Alright, alright. I'll go. But just remember, don't take what you have for granted."

With another bright flash of light, Old Five disappeared, leaving Young Five, Y/N, and Luther standing in the living room.

"Well, that was awkward," Luther said, scratching his head.

Y/N turned to Young Five, wrapping her arms around him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Five said, though his jaw was still clenched. "I just didn't expect to meet my older self today. And I certainly didn't expect him to hit on you."

Y/N laughed softly. "Well, I only have eyes for you, Five. No matter what timeline you're from."

Five's expression softened, and he kissed her forehead. "I know. And I love you for it."

Luther, trying to lighten the mood, clapped Five on the back. "Hey, at least now you know you'll age well."

Five rolled his eyes but couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, I guess so."

As they settled back on the couch, the tension slowly faded, leaving behind a strange sense of camaraderie. They had faced yet another bizarre situation, and once again, they had come out stronger together.

#five hargreeves imagines #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #number five imagine #number five x reader #the umbrella academy #number five #number five one shot

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picturejasper20 · 2 months ago

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Gravity Falls is a coming of age series at is core about growing up but also mainly about how we grow up.

This is represented through the Pines twins protagonist duo: Dipper and Mabel. These two characters have what could be consider almost opposite approaches when it comes to realizing that they are getting older and their problems and world are changing as well.

For Dipper, we constanly see him trying to rush to adulthood. He usually tries to hide things that could be considered childish or foolish to enjoy such as it is the case of disco girl or going trick and treat with his own sister. ( "Dipper vs. Manliness" and "Summerween"). He often tries to pretend to be older and lie about his age to get the approval of older teenagers, like trying to go to teen parties. ("The Inconveniencing"-"Summerween").

Dipper thinks that he is as mature as a young adult, and in some ways he is, but in other ways this line of thinking makes do very foolish, reckless and even dangerous things- the opposite of being immature. This mainly shows when it comes to his crush on Wendy, someone who is clearly older than him and out of his league. A good part of his arc in Season 1 is about how he tries to impress Wendy without still fully understanding that he is still a kid and he is too young for her.

From what has been touched on the ¨Book of Bill¨, this behaviour may come from Dipper seeing an ugly argument from his parents that he wasn't supposed to listen to and this left a clear impact on him to the point he often has nightmares about it at night. Maybe he came to the conclusion that he has to ¨mature¨ and be more independent since he know there is something bad going on between his parents. However, it takes him time to understand that he can't become an adult overnight and is something is going to take him some years before doing so.

On the other side of the spectrum we have Mabel. In contrast to her brother Dipper, Mabel mostly has her mind occupied with things that have to do more of her age: Reading magazines and books, boy bands, playing with animals like it is the case with Waddles, ect. She isn't in a rush to be a grown up and chooses to live more in the present.

That's not to say that she doesn't have her own moments of insecurities like feeling she isn't as intelligent as Dipper ("Little Dipper") or trying to pretend to be an adult ("Boss Mabel"). Still, she doesn't seem she has this same necessity to hang out with the older teenagers or hide her interests as much as Dipper does. She is has less issus with acting silly or ¨childish¨ in front of others.

Mabel's main problem would be she wants to avoid growing up or remain in this more childhood state. While it doesn't get the same exploration as Dipper- at least not more until later in the show- Mabel is afraid of growing up and the problems that can come with it. In "Summerween" is where we see parts of this idea of wishing to be a child longer, explaining to Dipper that that was the main reason she wanted for the two of them to go treat and trick together.

What really hits Mabel is when she gets this really bad impression of what is like to be a teenager in "Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future". She gets very scared of growing up and what could happen to her. She wants things to remain the same and for the summer to last longer. This desire- along with other factors that made her feel like her world was crashing down around her- she got tricked by Bill possessing Blendin and telling her that he was going to ¨grant¨ her wish in exchange of Stanford's interdimensional rift device.

This makes her being trapped in fantasy world where she ¨never has to grow up¨. Everything is cute and smiles, bad things don't happen and she doesn't have to worry about any serious changes... But she realizes that this world is fake and that at some point she has to grow up and that things can't always stay the same.

Part of me wonders, that in spite of not having seen that terrible argument that Dipper did, Mabel is aware that something is going on with her parents and tries her best to ignore it. I think she may be scared things changing in her family after the summer ends- maybe more fights or one of her parents leaving- this gives some hindsight to some of her issues in the show.

By the end of the show and Dipper and Mabel's character arcs we have two important lessons about growing up: One is that things are constanly changing and growing older is inevitable but we don't have to rush it and maturity comes with time and learning about new things in live. It is important to live in the present while also realizing that there are going to be changes from time to time, from good to bad, but that doesn't mean it will be the end of the world if it happens. That is just part of life.

#gravity falls #dipper pines #mabel pines #book of bill

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drenched-in-sunlight · 2 months ago

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i don’t think it’s talked about enough that the reason there’s a Godwyn ending where he becomes a Lord (not a God) is because symbolically, he was mirroring Godfrey in more than just name.

Godwyn’s alive body sprouting fish tail and scales isn’t just a random design choice, it’s a reference to Confucius' The Book of Rites, where it’s stated that the subjugation of the Four Divine Beasts will grant the person who tamed them different kind of control:

- Dragon -> control over animals with scales (specifically, FISH. See?)

- Qilin (Lion) -> control over beasts (think of how the Hornsent coveting the power of the Crucibles via the lion dance ritual. The “lion” in lion dance is Qilin in the native language of Asian countries that celebrate that tradition. And it’s why Godfrey’s symbol is a lion, why lion imagery plays such important role in Elden Ring world)

- Phoenix -> control over birds

- Turtle -> control over the heart of men (this might be a reach but Miquella’s connection to the Carian family and thus, the Turtle Pope could be a nice parallel to this)

in Godfrey’s cut dialogues, he said “Dearest Marika is precisely what I must take back” and “Dear Marika, do not fear. I am returned.”, and even without all that, The Talisman of Lord’s Bestowal stated that Godfrey accepted his duty without any sign of wavering, even taking Serosh upon his back so he could conduct himself as a Lord worthy of her. Bro, he loves that girl, he passed Messmer’s vibe check with flying colors.

For Godwyn to be a fruit of such a loving union, i do think Godfrey instilled in him a sense of duty to protect his Mother, and there’s his own love and devotion to her as well. Leyndell Knights all use Dragon Cult incantations and buffs - the kind of power that is only available to them because Godwyn befriended Fortissax (which is why i said that move has an ulterior motive to it).

All of that brings me to this main point I’m trying to make: does Godwyn really that devoid of agency?

I see it’s a popular interpretation in the fandom that oh Godwyn was just a symbol, he had no voice, we never knew what he wanted, etc etc… Do we really not know though?

Sorry for slapping another fandom on this, but this is really relevant to my understanding of Elden Ring as a story, even with the base written by a Western author, was developed by a Japanese team of storytellers and designers:

The concept of soul - body and body snatching etc etc exists a lot in Asian media, and there’s always a general consensus that the body remembers even as the soul perishes. What is Godwyn’s body is doing? The game specifically states that his body is alive. He only perishes in soul.

He was infesting the Erdtree’s roots, spreading Death around like free real estate. If he wanted to let go of life, of his Mother, his body should have just let go on its own. But no, he was tenaciously clinging to the Erdtree, to Marika.

Even Fortissax remembrance stated that despite its best effort, it could not fight back the Death within its friend. If Godwyn really, truly wanted to embrace a true death, would his body just let Fortissax fight alone in an uphill battle like that?

Then there is the DLC revealed that Godwyn’s personal knights were in LoS to find and guard his cadaver surrogate, specifically for the Age of the Duskborn. Their helm stated that their loyalty to him is unbroken. So will they just go and do something that their Master would not want?

These Knights are literally an elite circle that was bestowed the most precious of jewels in Godfrey’s time (the +3 medallions), they aren’t merely good, they are the very best. They are Godwyn’s inner circle the same way the Fire Knights are said to be the ones who know Messmer best.

Even if you think Fia and Those Who Lived in Death were just taking advantage of Godwyn’s death… her endgame goal technically did not even succeed. She wanted to be Mother to TWLiD, but the ending very much shows that the Mending Rune was returned to Marika’s womb. It’s her who would birth Godwyn a second life, so the True Mother™ to TWLiD… would actually be Marika 💀

Like, am i the only one who saw this as some real crazy 4D chess Uno reverse move from Godwyn? Oh these ppl wanted to get rid of him then took advantage of his body? Fine, he would take that challenge and run a mile with it. If Age of Duskborn came, it meant Ranni didn’t succeed, Fia didn’t actually get to be Mother of TWLiD, Death - the very thing that Marika tried to seal, would now be something within her control, because Godwyn is its Lord now. Exactly like how the Dragons’ power became something wielded in Marika’s favor in the end. Thanks to him.

In the Duskborn ending, bro, the God would still be Marika. It’s the only possible new Age involving a demigod that doesn’t get rid of her. Even if it utilize heretical powers to get there.

And the crazier thing? This is not the first time Fromsoft did this, btw.

#godwyn the golden in my head don’t worry i got you #er brainrot #golden doomed mother and son #this is why that prince of death comic is the way it is btw #the dlc confirming “golden child” can turn out to be the most unhinged scary demigod out there truly changed my brain chemistry I’m afraid

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belovedivies · 21 days ago

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Author🙏,

May you show some benevolence to us peasants and give us some crumbs about our albino, Alipede✨

terminal ft. alipede

a/n: i adore yandere alipede with every fiber of my being. cw: yandere content, spoiler for johan’s past, mention of bullying, possessive and obsessive behaviors, manipulation, violent tendencies, implied parentification on reader's part, trashy adults made trashy decisions, injury, codependency (oops). wc: 2.67k ao3 link! m.list

This far into the countryside, you stopped caring what day it was. Every sunrise had the same rooster crowing behind the mountains and every nightfall sounded the same container trucker honking on a distant highway just as you were about to doze off. The same off-brand chips in every local dinner, the same celebrity whose life people tended to gossip about.

You wanted to say again, with conviction, that you weren’t miserable. There was no better fate to be bestowed upon. Maybe in another universe where your dad hadn’t left and your mom cared a bit more, you might have had the chance to act your age. Picked up a new hobby or two. Learned a sport. Went to summer camps. Fell in love.

Then again, maybe the caregiver role you took on during this three-month break was inevitable. The boarding school your mom worked at was so low on staff that you had to practically live there to play the part of a nanny. Keeping tabs on the kids. Making sure they take their study seriously. Breaking off fights in the hallway. On days when the tension was heavy and the lump in your throat had been too uncomfortable to ignore, you only knew how to smile and suck it up. Sending them away with a pat on the back.

The reminder persisted: they would always have you to count on, and you only had yourself.

Away from the crowds but never in the corner, Alipede was a strange one. Obedient to his own torment yet glimmering under the unfeeling façade was a rare defiance. He never fought back, never complained. You wondered if he had simply given up. If he had just taken everything with a grant of salt like you did once upon a time. Still, you admired Alipede. And nothing ever stopped you to try and do your best by the poor boy: slipped in extra bread, chastised his bullies, cleaned the dirt on his desk.

You stared at him like a hawk from the other side of the room. Many times a day, he might have stared back.

—

One noon, Alipede tripped over a tree root outside and scraped his knees. It was midday when the sun was at its highest, and specifically a day so boiling hot that the heat had felt like it was raking red sharp nails down your sweat-soaked back; your toes sticking together in a pair of too-large sandals.

The grass and dirt sizzled their complaints underneath your palms, but they didn’t for Alipede. Against the limewood, he rested his back with a peculiar look of detachment.

He hadn’t cried.

But you fussed over his wounds anyway with wet wipes and a few clumsy attempts at band-aids. Halfway through the heinous process with the tissue already stained with dirt and blood, you realized you might be risking an infection.

“S-Should I get a teacher? A nurse?” You choked out hopelessly before realizing the only semi-responsible teenager around here were you. “W-We should get you inside first!”

Your shoulders continued to shake the more you forced the words out. The boy’s eyes were dead set on your panicked face, but ultimately no answer came.

You gulped and put on your best caring tone. “D-Does it still hurt?”

Alipede blinked. No answer. A thousand years passed. Silence. Your lips wobbled with anxiety in your guts and an apology behind your lips. He had it so much harder than you.

Still, when the albino extended an arm out to reach something behind you… no, on you. Under you? You flinched. A marshmallow-soft sensation settled on your lap and your gaze instinctively followed where his hand went. A rabbit, fur as pale as snow and eyes as red as ruby, had unknowingly hopped out of its coop and was now curling up on your legs.

His rabbit.

It might as well have made you drown in guilt before, but that feeling was so far away now it barely registered in your mind. Alipede reached out to pet the creature. It nuzzled into his hand and emitted a purring sound, the vibration tingling your skin. You watched the interaction with relief.

A good distance away from the common building, everything measured up to a perfect amount of tranquility. There were no cheery nursery rhymes on repeat, no cagey and overly dramatic action movies playing from one classroom to another. You smiled and scratched the rabbit’s head with your forefinger, earning a soft snore from the little guy.

“You left the cage open.”

It took three blinks to realize that Alipede was talking to you.

He hadn’t tilted his head up yet, still caressing his beloved pet. Beneath the shades of linden, Alipede seemed so soft and kind—looking every bit the pretty boy he was told to be. Maybe it hadn’t been a compliment at all, and you knew how much the albino detested being labeled as just another darling face. But even then, without spring in his steps and a guide cane in his hand, Alipede had always had this air of helplessness floating in and around him, teetering between the fading line of despair and a sense of willpower just vague enough to keep him going.

Your heart was already in your throat when he continued to say something.

Was it your name?

The beginning and the ending seemed to match, but there was no guarantee what had slipped out in between. The sun hid behind a heap of cotton candy clouds, yet your palm remained clammy, uncomfortably hot. Maybe it was the guilt. Maybe it was the knowledge that you had too wronged the poor boy. That you had fed and played and cared for what was his when he wasn’t around.

A tap on your shoulder. This time, you gathered the courage to finally meet his eyes as the albino leaned in and muttered again.

So it really was your name.

And your forehead was touching his. So was your nose. Alipede was so close you two were basically breathing the same air, the apples of your cheeks up against one another. And you hadn’t minded the unusually intimate distance, too busy taking in the red in his irises and the flutter of his pale lashes. Only when the rabbit squirmed on your lap again, trying to make some room did you realize that you still owed him an apology. You pulled back and ducked your head sheepishly.

“I’m sorry…”

For touching the rabbit without his permission. For the wounds on his knees. For complaining too much when he hadn’t.

Your gaze was trained on your lap, waiting. Thomas once whined to you about the scratches on his hand, calling the albino a freak because he had overreacted. You wondered if Alipede would bite you too. His pet did the first time you approached it, leaving a red welt on your arm and a scar on your pinkie. The thought of an angry boy sinking his teeth deep into your skin sounded so silly that it almost made you laugh. Maybe you wouldn’t even blame him then.

He hadn’t said anything either, but when the albino unexpectedly took your hands in his and laced your fingers together, you hadn’t flinched. Alipede was smiling at you.

“It’s fine,” then came a gentle squeeze. There in those cemeteries of red, you spotted a glint of delight, “I’m not mad.”

“Oh.” You opened your mouth, then closed it. “Thanks...”

Alipede raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just…” You mumbled. “I thought you would be mad at me for…”

A lock of white hair fell over his shoulder as Alipede tilted his head. He looked so cute; you wanted to squish his cheeks together.

“If it’s you, I won’t.”

The comment might have made you feel better if it wasn’t for the dry delivery. Even then, you trusted the boy enough to mellow out with a squeeze back. Did you forget something? Your gaze darted back to his scraped knees and felt your heart jump; you still had to take him inside for a checkup.

“You’re still hurting! W-We should head back in—“ The second you had tried to move away, he gripped and pulled you back in with a strength you didn’t know was possible. Shouldn’t be possible. Eyes wide as full moons, you could only stare as Alipede cupped your cheeks.

“I’m fine.”

“But-“

“I’m not hurting.”

The albino lowered his voice, pleading.

“Can we stay here a little longer, please?”

You nod wordlessly.

It was only Alipede, after all.

You trusted him just as much as he did you. He didn’t need to talk and beg and cry his way into your free time; you gave it to him willingly anyway.

The albino’s thumbs ghosted over your cheekbones. You wondered if he had felt your silent agreement at all, if he could hear the heart beating inside your chest, the blood flowing in your veins, and the air pumping into your lungs. He might have heard a lot of things you couldn’t.

The rabbit squirmed once more, nuzzling its fluffy head against your thigh. Alipede’s hands finally left your face to continue petting his comfort animal, but his eyes didn’t.

“He likes you,” Alipede said with conviction, and a smile smudged around the corners of his lips like a gallery of oil paintings forgotten in the rain.

“Oh.” You gaped at him; it always got so unbearably awkward the first time. “Um… what’s his name by the way?”

The boy must have had one ready before you even asked, sonnets of adoration bubbling in his throat and vibrant stars dancing behind his eyelids. And you had waited too—all bated breath, all whispering humbleness. Uncertainty swirled your guts like a desert oasis.

But when Alipede opened his mouth to speak, it was your name that had slipped out.

And again. And again. And again.

He said yours the same way people would when they cheered for sport: loud, excited, hopeful. You blinked. You heard him the first time, you just didn’t know what he meant by any of it. A “Huh?”, small and confused, left your lips. Then the cords clicked and the dots connected themselves.

“Oh, oh.” You dropped your face into your hands with a choked groan; the heat on your cheeks rivaling the scorching sun. Through the crack of your fingertips, Alipede’s smile remained constant.

He had named his rabbit after you.

—

The hallway got dustier and narrower the further you went down.

Once lunchtime rolled around, it was a maze of spilled drinks and childish destruction—foods and toys and everything imaginable going back and forth in the air until all of them hit the floor in a mass of ruination. One noon, you sighed and tugged on Alipede’s arm, leading him into the teacher’s lounge.

The place was empty. Well, no teacher here had ever bothered to stick with the kids until their second meal of the day, anyway. Once an incoherent excuse was out, they slipped into their cars and drove off into the distance. You never saw them again.

Your mom was around for breakfast sometimes, downing her portion wearily. She reeked of cheap booze. Of nightclubs and bad decisions. Once in third grade, you flushed her Seropin down the toilet by accident, thinking they were expired candy. Even then, your mom had come home wordlessly the next day with bloodshot eyes and bruised lips, and you hadn’t gone near her medical cabinet since.

Alipede leaned against the wall, a hand clasped over his nose obediently as you cleared out cigar stubs and crushed beer cans on the floor. Turning on the AC and opening a few windows seemed to help with the stuffy air inside. You guided the albino to sit at the table in the middle of the room, on chairs that creaked and felt too adult-like with foam for cushions. There was no one else around, but Alipede clung to your waist with a pout and pulled your seats closer than they already were. You giggled; you loved his clinginess, just as much as he loved you.

“We have—” Still joyful, you paused for effect and peered down the two trays on the table. “—Japanese food today! Curry over rice and miso soup. Have you heard of them before, Ali?”

Alipede, nose buried in your hair and mind probably somewhere up in the cloud, only blinked. His grip tightened around your waist when he asked, “No. What are they like?”

“Hmm…” You pursed your lips, “the curry has a thick and smooth texture that feels like velvet against your tongue. It also contains a blend of spices like cumin and coriander. Remember that, Ali? You said you couldn’t stand the pungent smell!” Your shoulders shook slightly as you laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s sweet and pretty mildly spiced. We have carrots and potatoes too! You said you loved them—“

On and on, you went about the dishes with gusto. He kept his eyes on you the whole time.

You used to wonder what Alipede’s world was like. A pitch black. A collision of sound waves and echoes. An overdose of nothingness. Long ago, you read a story about a father who sacrificed his son for the prosperity of their land. The boy grew up beautifully still, slaying demons and taking back the body parts that had been rightfully his since birth. A touching tale about defying fate and pushing forward in the face of adversity.

Still, Hyakkimaru was a fictional character, and Alipede was not.

You couldn’t begin to fathom the battle he had to go through every day, struggling to just be seen as a normal person, one with a life just as valuable as others.

But he hadn’t complained.

He hadn’t cried to you about the bullying either. Months ago before you came, the albino huddled inside a coop behind the school, holding onto his pet bolt-tight. He didn’t need to cry; his fading bruises and healing wounds already did the job for him.

Alipede’s lips curled up against the shell of your ear, dragging you further into the wool of a couch nearby. “You’re right, it’s just mildly spiced,” he whispered, low and content like a purring cat, between the messy tangles of your limbs, “could use a bit more sweetness, though.”

—

“I wanna get out of here,” you sighed almost dreamily by a pond in the garden, legs tucked under your knees in your favorite sundress, “maybe visit Japan one day. Or Korean. Anywhere is nice.”

You raised a hand to point at something. Maybe a bird passing by. Maybe a red hot orb flowing on the horizon, half-submerged by the Earth. What it was, it was promptly abandoned the moment Alipede grabbed onto your wrist and twined your fingers together.

“You’re not thinking of leaving me, are you?” Alipede’s pupils dilated in the setting sun, the white of his hair and your dress bleeding into one oversaturated canvas. “You told me you wouldn’t.”

“Of course not!” The answer came just as quickly, hurt and amusement wrapped up in the form of a pout written across your face. Even then, he hadn’t returned an apology. You had felt silly for even bothering to wait for one, but that was okay.

It was only Alipede, after all.

Instead, you squeezed his hand back, lacing your pinkie together in the naive gesture of a promise.

“I’ll be your eyes, Ali. For as long as I live.”

You swore through mirthful smiles and hushed voices. Here, tucked away from the common building and terrible adults, the world narrowed down to just you and him. And Alipede—your sweet, adorable, and lovely Alipede—whose head was on your lap and whose heart was forever yours, only stared back unblinkingly.

Then he giggled, pulling you forward. Against all senses, you held on, and the two of you toppled into the grass. Nighttime prickled at your skin like a bug as you laughed along with him, and the summer dragged on, neverending.

#killer peter #killer peter manhwa #manhwa x reader #killer peter x reader #manhwa #reader insert #x reader #yandere killer peter x reader #yandere killer peter #yandere alipede #yandere x reader #alipede x reader #x female y/n #x female reader #fem reader #killer pietro

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alavestineneas · 7 months ago

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i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest

pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader summary: Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, daddy and sister issues, bald men chapter 1 - chapter 2 word count: 6,5K

author's note: hi beautiful people! this chapter may be classified as a prologue (yes, I am aware of its size, sorry, lol), but it is still integral to the story. we love evil people, especially evil bald people, in this house, so have fun and don't forget to wash your hands before reading! also, if you see things that are not canon, just know that me and the books are two parallel lines and we do not cross. feel free to point out grammar mistakes, though - english is not my first. love you!

Kaitain, 10176 AG

The violent streaks of light fight with the heavy cloth of drapes to find their way into the small, stifling chambers. The time was slowly crawling towards noon in the heavy summer heat, and the woman lying on the heavily decorated sheets was battling to get a breath in. Whether because of the annoying star, or the poisoning waiting, the patterns of sweat stained her tired face with esculent ornaments. Her lips, formed into a thin line, gleamed with small spots of dried crimson.

''Where is the messenger?'' The woman's voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes glued to the dancing light filtering through the window. ''The girl is strong; I can't hold her for much longer.''

The black figure on the chair in the corner slightly shifted at words. She was veiled, despite the heat—like a black hole, she seemed to suck the little air left. ''Forbearance,'' her raspy voice cuts through the room. ''The child makes you impatient. Control yourself.''

''I've waited, and waited long enough,'' the woman snapped, her frustration evident in her trembling hands. ''A few more minutes and all that is left of her will be a corpse.''

''Be quiet, Echidna. The child will live. If not, she was never meant to be part of our world in the first place.''

The woman clenched her jaw in a wave of pain and nodded. The girl ought to see the light of this planet today. Deep in her thoughts, she almost missed the rushed steps behind the door.

One of the Emperor's guards burst into the room, his eyes almost frantic. ''Lady Anirul has graced the Imperium with a daughter.''

Echidna smiled in relief, but her expression quickly changed as a beast-like cry pierced the air. The child was coming, with little care for the damage it caused to her aching womb. She tore the tissue down to the individual cells, gnawing her way with fists and elbows, moving the bones aside with brute force. Soon, her own cries were answered by much louder ones, as the head of the girl showed itself, covered in a thick layer of almost black blood. Just for a moment, the woman wished it would not steal another breath from the room, but she sharply composed herself. With a final push, the child left her body forever, leaving it a raw wound.

The small creature shrieked when the black figure approached, and slender, wrinkled arms took it from the warmth of rufous-red liquid. Echidna watched as the figure carried the girl away, resting her hurting body against the soaked pillows. She fulfilled her duty; she granted Bene Gesserit the daughter they wanted. She is bleeding under a beautiful sun; she is holding the ghost of her child in her arms—the real one was never hers anyway. Echidna knows the Emperor will not come. From now on, it is just her and her never-passing pain. Thus, Kaitain, home to the Corrino dynasty, was warmed by the light of a new sun—Princess Irulan, an heiress to the Imperium—and chilled by the shadow of her sister, born a few minutes later.

The calmness of the gardens was disturbed only by the soft strokes of brushes against a thick canvas. YN sighed, her eyes still fixed on the tree nearby, its young branches swaying with the wind. Her body ached from stillness, the tension in her neck from holding her head slightly bowed spreading down to her small back. They posed for a portrait of what seemed like an eternity to a child, and was almost it to an adult who dared to inquire; the painter, while satisfied with the draft, looked at the group of young girls almost in fear—no normal child of that age would be unmoving for three hours. And yet, they were.

YN felt one of her sisters shift even through the thick fabric of her silver dress. Small Chalice turned, her cheeks red from the heat or tiredness, her lips forming a pout—the child was tired, sleepingly rubbing her eyes. YN thought for a moment, debating if the punishment would be worth it, or if her sisters could wait just a little bit more until the man with colours would end the session for today. She noticed how Irulan's face was starting to droop, her eyes fluttering closed and opening just a second later. Their youngest, Wensicia, was already asleep in Irulan's arms; her golden hair spread across her and YN's laps as a beautiful cover, shining under the faint sun.

''I am tired, Master Chen. We should end the painting for today,'' YN finally spoke; her voice was almost a whisper. She did not know whether it was not to awaken her sister or out of fear of the Emperor's anger; it did not matter. The man nodded and left, taking his canvases with him, leaving only a few drafts behind. Then, the sisters were left alone in the garden.

''Thank you,'' Irulan said softly, placing her head on YN's shoulder.

YN only nodded. Her eyes found the paper not so far away, her gaze studying the strokes of the pencil with interest. Wensicia, a beautiful girl of two, was smiling brightly, holding an olive branch in her chubby hands, her small feet peeking under the hem of her white dress. Small Chalice was at the opposite end of her, her curly hair surrounding her head like a halo as she leaned forward, holding a small dove inside her palms. Then, sitting at the bench, surrounded by lush greenery and bushes, they. Irulan and the Other.

YN was placed just a step away from her older sister, her head turned away from the gaze of the viewer. The delicate folds of her silver dress carefully cascaded down, creating an air of mist around them. Her hands were empty; she did not know if the artist hadn't decided with each object to grace her with, or left them hollow intently. She looked like a shadow—a ghost, maybe; her eyes were escaping the viewer as if hiding a secret.

Irulan was different. She was a sun-kissed creature, her head facing straight ahead. Her eyes, as if inviting for a challenge, were made from duty, steel. With a burning star on her regal forehead, crowning the streaks of golden hair, Irulan was water and air, dulcet and ever-bending; her figure held the place and her pose was distinct and commanding.

YN looked at the girl beside her, who was now quiet nearby. Irualn was wise, the wisest of the sisters; her eyes were all-seeing, her heart all-knowing. She was created in the shape of a mother since they could walk, and the small ones bathed in her light, drinking her till the last drop —like flowers following the warm embrace of the sun. The only one who could not enjoy the love was her, the Other. The other sister, the other half. For they have been too close in age, too similar to let each other pretend the burden was not a heavy one to bear.

When Irulan was natural in her all-caring shape, YN had to claw her way to the only role left—the father. An unbent tree, a silent soldier—she was not born to fit as one, but wishing for a different order of things was almost blasphemy. That's how it always was with them—out of two, one was the protector, the other - the protected. "Husband," Irulan humorously called her often. She smiled, and, for a moment, the wave of resentment in YN's soul calmed. She never called her wife in return: Irulan was too whole to be one, too proud to be moulded into. She stood alone, on a higher pedestal than all of them, closest to the Emperor, whom the Other was to call father, and closest to the Truth. No, Irulan was God.

God does not know how to love someone who is not his servant, because there is no one who would refuse to serve him; it is the only way. God guides, despite all one's protests. God gives, and God takes. God demands; Irulan demands—silent obedience without a need to explain or answer. That, she takes from their father. So, the Other takes a blade into her hand without compassion for her dead wishes and learns to wield it in God's name. She is the one little ones turn to when the world is too wicked for their fragile souls when the creatures under their beds lose all of their human form and turn violent. She takes their sins and bears the punishments, for they are not deserving of such cruelty. YN thinks not of her own guilt—what difference would one scourage make to one who counts in centuries? And when the sun shone, and God smiled, the Other almost forgot of the bruises she carried.

The first time he saw her, it was not supposed to happen at all. Feyd-Rautha just closed the door to Maester's chambers with such force that it shook against lean walls; the grumble echoed in the long corridors of Giedi Prime's fortness. The ache in his body was muted, but still present; the torn flesh inside his heart howled and clawed, slicing the ribcage in half. He would've screamed, or perhaps beat his hands bloody against the concrete until the dull pain turned into something as sharp as his knife's blade. Maybe he would've drowned himself in a small water bowl by his nightstand and done anything to escape the shame and humiliation that consumed him from within. But instead, Feyd-Rautha stood still, his jaw clenched tight and his breathing shallow. One day, it will pass. One day, he will see the world choke on its own spit.

That's when he noticed a small, shadow-like figure at the end of the hallway staring at him. A girl, not older than him, was in a dress so foreign to him that it hurt his eyes. The daughter of the Emperor, he guessed. One of many—only then would the golden stitching on her sleeve would make sense.

''What are you doing here?'' he barked, caring little for the common courtesy. Of course, she was a guest almost as prized as her father, but she was in his territory and dared to look at him for long enough without averting her eyes. Long enough to notice the bruising on his pale skin and a swelness surrounding his lips. Long enough to hear him cry.

''I was walking with my mother, but then I turned into the wrong hall,'' she shrugged. ''Will you be kind enough to show me the way out? Or should I find it myself?"

Feyd-Rautha ignored her question. What a weird creature she was—with cascades of hair and eyes that seemed to see too much. ''It is dangerous to walk these halls without guard, Princess.'' It is dangerous to be here, alone with him and the weapon strapped to his hip, but he did not add it.

''There is no use of guards if the one who wishes to kill you is their master.'' The girl took a step forward, pointing to the weapon at his side. "I am not afraid."

Feyd-Rautha laughed. It came out more as howling than human sounds, the abrupt nature of it ringing with high notes, tip-toeing down to hysterical; it sounded creaky, like his throat was not made for such sounds; yet here he was, laughing. ''Come,'' he gestured to her, his hand moving quickly, like ordering a slave around. ''I will show you why you should be.''

So, they walked. Inside the grandiose chambers and small rooms, filled with ancient artefacts or the newest technology Harkonnens came up with; inside the green lavish garden inside the dim castle and the training grounds, Feyd-Rautha showed every place that was built to display the greatness of his house and bestone fear inside both guests and people inhibiting it. He wanted to see the horror in the girl's eyes, to make her eyes water and her frame flee. Instead, he listened to her steady breathing just a step behind him, her curious questioning satisfying another need he did not know his heart possessed: reverence.

He was the youngest member of the ruling line, the smallest stone in the castle of power his uncle had built. His title meant nothing within these walls; he was too small in comparison to the Baron and his authority. Feyd-Rautha was feared, despite only being nine; he was the shadow in the corner that grew longer as the sun set, the whispered name that sent shivers down spines. But here, in the hallway he led the girl into, he turned out to be something else.

''Stunning,'' the girl whispered beside him.

Weapons. The walls, from the floor to the high ceilings, were covered in ritual and fighting blades. The pride of house Harkonnen, the tree of their dynasty, black, silver, golden, and steel knives, swords, and daggers gleamed in the dim light. Feyd-Rautha smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. "Welcome to our burial ground."

They stopped near every one, his voice briefly covering the story of each blade and his owner; barons that came before him; fighters and rules that defined their legacy. Some still have blood on them—the highest honour; some look almost virgin. The small signs underneath them tell the names of people who wielded these weapons, their stories forever immortalised in the cold metal. ''Each Harkonnen ruler is crafted a blade of his own, the one he is to honour in battle.''

The girl nodded, her fingers tracing the shape of the last blade carefully. Her palms danced around the sharp edge, taking in the ancient symbols she had no chance of knowing. ''Will you have to kill Baron Vladimir in order to have one, like he did with his father before?''

Feyd-Rautha paused. Of course, he has thought about it before. The idea he repeated like a mantra in his head for all of his short life, the belief that spread burning flames down his spine. The words left his mouth for the first time but felt almost natural against his cracked lips. ''I dream of the day I have the chance to.''

The pair of foreign eyes that stared back at him held a glint of intrigue that quickly changed with a flash of acknowledgement. Feyd-Rautha held the gaze; not a single thing about it was hard. Still, he was the first to turn away; the burning sensation of being seen made him want to tear his flesh apart. ''Let me escort you to your rooms, Princess. The walls grow colder as the evening approaches.''

The weather on the planet leaves too few guards out of their breath, Irulan notes. The striking sun burns through the rounded windows of man-built walls, the frankly depressing landscape of huge boxes constructed with little intent for anything else but utilitarianism. She must not fear, while those lands will also be under her power with time, but the dreadful atmosphere of the lonely planet makes her skin break out in hives.

She believes the people here are more terrifying. White, hairless creatures with eyes as dark as the sun above them speak with just nods and courseys, paying little to no attention to the world around them, save for the concrete floors. ''Tell them to set themselves on fire, and they will,'' Irulan recalls Baron Vladimir telling her father over the banquet. She believed it to be a simple boast at first, but now, after a few days in the strange world, the words make greater sense.

Perhaps, the harsh weather made people here hardened. Perhaps, such cruelty is necessary for survival. What terrorised her more was her sister—the one who now silently reads nearby, her long dress carelessly spread on the floor. Irulan would never allow her dress to wrinkle before the concluding dinner, but she is not Irulan. Despite them being demisisters, they shared fewer similarities than one could guess. Two lambs, as many in court would call them—the white and black ones. They knew one another better than anything else; where one went, the other followed. Where Irulan failed, her sister succeeded. What was allowed for her sister, was fobility towards Irulan. No one was embedded in their small circle; no one could get close enough to understand the bond they shared—together, they were whole.

Yet as they grew older, the bond seemed to thin. The path to the mind of her sister was more often closed to her now, her thoughts veiled by the silence rooted deep into her veins. Irulan knows they are just growing up, trying to find their path in the unknown. But she is scared; what would be of her without her sister? What use would the river have without fish to fill it?

''I shall go,'' her sister says, closing the book. ''The dinner starts soon, and I wanted to return the book before it.''

''Is it the one Na-Baron recommended?'' Irulan voices. Truth be told, she would never touch anything that Baron or his family possessed, even more recommended, but her sister seemed to enjoy the ancient text.

''It is. Rather interesting are the traditions of these people. Did you know their slaves have no tongues?''

Irulan feels sick to her stomach; the thought of having slaves brings the small bits of her recent meal to her very present tongue. ''Can I come with you?'' she asks, instead of answering. Irulan does not want to leave the faint safety of her rooms, but even more, she does not want to be left alone. She feels vulnerable—she is not of power here, despite being the embodiment of it in all of the other corners of the Imperium.

''You know I walk without guards.''

Irulan knows. While she is not able as much as bathe without the presence of someone with fighting knowledge, the rules do not seem to apply to her younger sister; she can move freely, as she wishes. Was it because she carried a thin blade with her and knew how to use it, or because of the lack of care from their father? Irulan was not sure. What she was sure of, was that no woman of twelve should leave her sister alone in the halls of Harkonnens' fort.

''It is just to the reading room and back, is it not?''

''Yes,'' her sister nods. ''I'll take you,'' it means.

So, they walk. Fortunately, the guards usually waiting outside are nowhere to be found, and they manage to slip away unnoticed. Irulan holds the hand of her sister tightly, with each noise from the outside digging her nails deeper into her soft palm. Her sister says nothing; she steps calmly into the labyrinth of corridors, navigating them without much evident trouble. Soon, they find themselves in front of a huge black door, incarnated with words Irulan hold no knowledge of.

Inside, the chamber is massive; it forms a beautiful, round circle with ceilings so high that the air in it is always chilly. Rows of books and manuscripts fill the shelves out of oxidant, contrasting starkly with the white wall. The black circle table of cold stone is filled with replicas and ancient artefacts, each emitting a soft glow.

Who knew the small, desert planet held such treasures inside? Irulan forgets about her sister entirely—the texts call to her, golden lettering shining under the light. Irulan follows the names on the covers: legends, myths, histories, and art overviews. Some even contained gardening and soil research; Baron likely held those for a good laugh.

Irulan travels deeper and deeper until the voice of her sister addressing the only library keeper almost disappears, consumed by tall bookcases. The section she finds herself in is solely dedicated to martial arts; where, if not here, would the hundreds of books on such a topic be stored? Some of them are used; the spines are slightly older; others look brand new.

Irulan is brought to her senses only when she notices a black figure moving in the corner of her vision. She puts the book back and Listens. Just like the Sisters taught her, her inner ear picks up the faint voice of her sister, and the moving of two sandaled feet—the slave handling the books. She feels something else, too. A presence familiar enough to recognise but not enough to name.

''We have to go,'' she says, grabbing her sister by the shoulder and pressing. ''We will be late,'' she explains to the slave. Not that it would question the whims of the princess.

''Why?'' her sister turns to her, confused. ''I was looking at some other books. Weren't you also?''

''Please,'' Irulan whispers. ''We spent enough time here as it is.''

Just as her sister was about to answer, the atmosphere shifted. The air, sitting in its calmness, heavied. The silent before slave turned on its feet, its eyes burning holes in Irulan's body. It lurches towards them, opening its obsidian mouth to show the blackened void inside—indeed, it possesses no tongue.

Irulan freezes. The void seems to suck her in, the sharp mouth growing wider as its owner approaches her body. The fear paralyses her, planting her otherwise quick feet deep into the ground. Now, her training as Bene Gesserit should awaken—she should oppose, or at the very least dodge, the attack. But the black mouth continues to draw her in, clouding her thoughts with terror.

The body beside her shifts; her sister is quick. With one strong thrust, she pushes Irulan aside. '' Hide ,'' the voice within her head commands, and Irulan has no force to object to the technique. She crawls under the heavy stone, frantically looking for something—anything—to protect herself with.

Despite the long skirts, her sister moves like Adam's wine; she bends and turns, and strikes the man far taller than her, but he seems determined on the idea of killing her. Her sister grunts under the heavy hits; one sits in her abdomen, and another lands on her knees. The slave's nails leave a trace on her skin, rough enough to pierce the young dermis.

Eventually, her sister grows tired; the slave pushes her to the ground, pressing his slender body on top and closing its white, almost translucent hands on her throat. Irulan clasps the found sharp cutting instrument to her chest, desperately trying to calm the wave of fear forming there. ''I must not fear. Fear is a mind killer,'' she whispers again and again.

She watches as her sister's hand slips under her clothes and emerges an illicit, slender blade—it shines under the light just as lettering did on the books a minute ago. To Irulan, it feels like a year's hundred. ''No!'' she wants to shout as her sister raises the steel and preys it into the eye of the slave, but the words are unable to leave her throat. Like a waterfall, crimson covers her sister's face, staining her light grey dress in hot circles.

The slave falls on his back, his hands leaving their place on her sister's neck.

''Enough, please! Sister, stop!'' Irulan cries, crawling out of her hiding spot but daring not to get closer.

Her sister doesn't hear; she lurches towards the man in a slick puddle and takes his life quickly, cutting his throat in one swift motion. The blood from his arteria leaves the body in pulsations; they spatter everywhere, some drops going as far as touching the shelves.

The silence settles in the chamber once again; only the sound of weakly flowing blood disturbs the stillness. Her sister does not shed a tear; she meticulously cleans the blade with the slave's white cloth and slips it back into the folds of her gown.

''What have you done?'' Irulan whispers. Her hands tremble; the sight before her crawls into the deepest corners of her mind and tears everything there down. How can one kill so easily? How can one be so cold and calculating, as if it were nothing more than a daily chore? How could that one be her sister, the one she shared a life with?

''I protected.'' Her sister's voice is hoarse, but firm. There is no remorse in her tone, only weariness. ''What have you done?'' She turns to face her. Her hair, carefully braided by servants for dinner, is undone; the wet strands of it grip her face like a vice, framing the unseeing eyes.

Like that, she looks like a woman mad. Irulan backs into the safety of the doors, feeling her fear turn into something much greater. ''Do not come near me,'' she commands. Just as the heavy doors close behind her, she sets off running.

YN waits until the footsteps of her sister are no longer heard, and only then does she come out of the reading room. She pays the body on the ground little attention; no one would bet an eye on the death of a useless creature like that. It did not intend to kill; rather, someone made it do it. Who, in their right mind, would try to harm the heir of the Emperor? How would they know that Irulan would follow her there?

Irulan. The one who watched as the Other almost gave her life for hers, the one who had the nerve to be repulsed by the blood on her hands—the blood she spilt protecting her. What do you do when you are not allowed to be angry at God? Why does God shame one for the will she herself inflicted on one to bestone? YN would ask the sun, but it hid behind the walls of the fort. She would ask, but no one would answer.

So, she does what she is meant to do—finds her way into the large dining hall, where everyone, of course, is starting to gather. The Emperor would be dissatisfied to find her not there on time; she has no time to fix her appearance. In light of the slight possibility of shaming their House with her muddled hairstyle or suffering yet another punishment for being even late, she chooses the first option.

The guards let her in without saying a word. YNr watches as the shield slides open, revealing a full hall. Rows and rows of tables, filled with foods one would imagine never would have made their way to the Giedi Prime, and laughter not so usual for a harsh realm.

''Princess...'' the servant starts, announcing her arrival, but she shushes him with a slight wave of her palm. She does not notice the crimson liquid staining it.

The Other makes her way to her seat calmly, careless of the way people around her stumble and twist their faces in shock. The only eyes that watch her without fear at the Emperor's table are those of Lady Echidna. Her face betrays no emotion at all—hidden by her veiled black cloth, it only slightly moves when the YN passes her seat.

She holds the angry gaze of the Emperor calmly. He will demand an answer, of course if Irulan has not whispered the truth into his aged ears already. Her sister probably would do no such thing; in that, she would admit to disobeying the orders bestowed upon her. YN is puzzled at the attention directed towards her humble figure—the first thing a Bene Gessarite in training learns is not to be repulsed by the anatomy of her body. Why be grossed out by the liquid coursing through her veins—the liquid she carries all her life? Why be scared of death, when it is always at your doorstep? In the sway of her thoughts, the Other also seems not to perceive the pair of icy blue eyes glued to her figure as she finds her seat and takes her place.

"The boy follows you around like a dog." The mother's tone stands not in judgment but rather simply states the truth.

Lady Echidna is not veiled now; her heavy hair is still tightly braided out of her face. Just a small black ribbon highlights her status as one of the Emperor's senior concubines, a position most would bear with honour. To her, it was yet another stain on her earthly body—the body she could not call her to possess. The black sun of Giedi Prime is finally long behind them; nothing but a few light orbs floating around illuminate the chamber, yet her intense gaze seems to pierce right through the girl that sits across her.

"I know, mother. His steps are heavy; his thoughts are even heavier; they follow me much more often."

The woman's fingers stop working on an intricate needlework for a moment, before continuing as it was. "You are to call me Sister, girl," she speaks, her voice low.

YN drags her teeth across her tongue, feeling the anger flow through the veins in her body. She wishes to be far away from this small chamber, to run and never face the woman's eyes again. "The girl has a name, Sister. Or do you fear to voice it?"

Lady Echidna places the cloth on the table beside her gracefully, as if paying no attention to the words spoken. But YN can sense can feel the resentment that burns inside her mother's stomach, spreading its molecules to her throat. "A name holds meaning; for a person to have a name, one must first be of character and substance. You are none."

YN bit the soft flesh inside her mouth; it tasted bitter. It was better if her mother shouted, if she hit her if she did anything to prove YN is still here in her eyes, that she was not just a void the woman spoke her riddles into. Maybe then the pain inside her would have a meaning, would have a reason better than just childish hurt. "Did I not have a beating heart when I left your womb, Sister? Did you not hear it loud and clear? What kind of proof is needed more of me?"

"My daughter died that day, screaming. You took her place. So do not bother me with your foolish talks anymore, for we both know they just waste the air we breathe. Am I heard?"

She was. The tears dried on YN's face before having the chance to spill, and she turned to her studies. Once more, a feeling of ever-lasting cold surrounded her shoulders. The never-leaving vision in her mind appeared once again—her mother's quick steps as she walked away in another corridor of Giedi Prime's fort, her head straight ahead as YN pleaded not to leave her alone, her legs glued to the command spoken. It was a blessing that the boy found her earlier than his uncle.

Time has passed since the first time YN's eyes saw the black sun of the foreign planet so far from hers. The Other trained, restlessly, in the tongues of ancient warriors and the most prominent whisperers, slowly earning the right to bear Knowledge in her crown-empty head. She had much yet to learn, but the prospect did not frighten her; with every passing day, she felt power building in her hands and soul. Patience, the greatest virtue of all. She was alone now, without her half of a sister; alone, in her solitude, the heavy bearings seemed not as heavy—she had no one to enlighten about her battles. Still, God was on her mind; YN felt her presence near, her watchful eyes guiding her. Like the tight, dampened cloth on her bruised knuckles, her sister was stuck to her open wound of a soul.

Irulan has grown. Her complexion changed; she no longer looked like a bright-faced girl who left her sister alone in Harkonnen's library; the plump cheeks were gone, and so was fear. At the Other stared a sole statue of power she bloomed into. Silver collars, light blue waves of fabric—the cut is, as always, straight. The Other eyed her up and down, taking in each detail of the painting-like sight. Irulan did the same—a slight disgust at the Other's simple tunic and pants, creased from the sparring. Irulan did not need to be broken in order to be a Sister in the Bene Gesserit; they wanted her Corrino first, and a servant second. The Other, however, held no such value—a child carried not by the lawful wife, a second, a spare. So, there would be no bone in her body left untouched by the lessons, no string in her soul unharmed by the knowledge. They crushed her cartilage in grey sand and forced her to swallow the bitter truths of their ways. Yet, God remains undisturbed—stoic. Eternal.

''Will you not eat again?'' Irulan musses, putting another piece of dish in her mouth.

The Other would take it as a cruel joke from anyone else, but not from God. She shakes her head instead. ''I am forbidden.''

Irulan hums. It was not the first time YN would be disciplined this way; the cycle of punishment and forgiveness was all too familiar to her. The room is silent; there is no one but the two of them. She could offer to eat, and no one would know she did, but Irulan won't offer. The Other does not expect her to; pity is not something a sister can possess.

''How are your lessons going? A fresh knowledge, perhaps?''

YN nods. If she opens her mouth now, her voice will betray her. She could cry all she wanted in the presence of a sister, but it is not appropriate for a thirteen-year-old to behave this way in front of God. The Other is reminded of that with an absence of bruises on Irulan's skin; her hands were never cut by the sharp blades, and her mouth was never starved. ''Why was I summoned from training?'' She asked, directing her eyes to the figure in front of her.

''I am here as a messenger from the Emperor.''

YN's eyes narrowed. ''And what does our dear Emperor desire to tell me now?'' She wishes not to hear anything he has to say; the Other is perfectly content here, amongst her Sisters. Here, she is of cost.

''Recently, Baron Vladimir turned to our House for guidance. He and na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen felt misled by the House Artreidis, and their promise of a bride that did not come. Our father has graciously offered to negotiate the conflict and pay the needed price for the Baron's cooperation.''

''Of course, he did. With all of our might, we are still afraid of the savages that made Arrakis their home. With what advice, may I ask, did the Emperor provide the Baron?''

Irulan's lips turn into a straight line, with the small wrinkle on her forehead appearing. Something that she carried with her through childhood. Something that still reminded of home. ''With the proposal of a woman of our House to na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.''

''A gift? Irulan, I am so sorry.''

Sure, the bridge between them was long forgotten, growing with tall grass and wildflowers, but the weight of their shared history still lingered in the air. Irulan was still her sister, no matter how many times the Other tried to tell herself otherwise. And no woman sane would consider giving her sister to the inhumane brutes that were Harkonnens—the people even Bene Gessarit wished to observe from afar; the people so ruthless mothers told stories about them to their small offspring in an attempt to instil fear and obedience.

Irulan does not answer. She hides her gaze, her eyes following the wooden panels of the quarters.

''What is it, sister? Speak .''

''The offer Emperor found the most fitting would be of your hand, not mine.''

The Other exhales. As if a heavy stone were put on her chest, she fights to bring much-needed oxygen to her bloodstream. She almost feels the erythrocytes scatter from her face into her neck, hidden by the cloth, and gather there in an attempt to regrow their might. Her throat twists and closes, its muscles compressing until not even an ounce of air can get in. All of her organs, from heart to stomach, made their presence known; one by one, they tensed and burned, forcing the otherwise relaxed hands to grip them.

It was supposed to be Irulan. The first one to marry is the oldest sister; the title high enough to satisfy the ambitious Harkonnes would be hers, no less. Yet, here she stands, not even looking at the one taking her place as she sentences her to an ultimate death. No matter how much power the Corrino name held, on Giedi Prime, she would consider herself fortunate enough if she were to meet her end quickly.

''Why, Irulan? Have I not been a loyal servant to you all those years? Have I not followed every order without question? ''

Irulan is unmoved in her position. ''We can not risk the Harkonnen blood getting on the throne, you know it.''

''You mean we can not risk you? We are not eight anymore, dear Irulan; you can speak truthfully now. Do you really think the Emperor will treasure you more if you say nothing now? We are no sons, Irulan; we are sisters, you and I. Please, spare me this fate.''

''Yes,'' the girl lifts her eyes, taking a step closer. ''We are no sons; you knew that one day we would marry for the peace of the Imperium. Why do you shout now?''

''Married, yes, but not murdered for the sake of the fucking old man who could not hold his promise. They are monsters, Irulan, spilling innocent blood for the fun of it. I beg of you, sister, show me the mercy I know you are capable of.''

''You are worried about blood? What could one more splash of blood mean to you? You have been no sister for a long time; I order you, as an heir of the Emperor and as the messenger of his will here, to comply. Do not make it harder than it has to be.''

The Other smiled—she would not grant the pleasure of tears. ''Very well, then. Someone needs to go first. I'll go; I'll be first, at least here. Tell the Emperor that I will comply with any of his wishes, whether it be to throw me to the sharks or to feed me to the sandworms. As a confirmation of my undying loyalty, you may show him this:''

She slaps her. She slaps her not like a warrior, not like the trained assassin she was raised to be; she slaps her like a sister, bitterly, harshly. For the first time in her short life, YN raises a hand on something she deems holy—the God's shocked face brings a sense of satisfaction to the Other's veins, even if the same blood courses through them. She turns on her heels and walks away, leaving the forsaken room behind. Leaving God behind.

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star-anise · 1 year ago

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The thing about "parents' rights" and "protect the children [from hearing that other ways of life than ours are possible and okay]" is that it is literally, in the purest sense of the word, patriarchy.

The word literally means "rule by the fathers". We're generally used to hearing it describe how adult women can be dominated by adult men. However, that's not where patriarchy ends; feminists have been less eager to address how within that system, women can exercise power and domination of their own through the traditional gender roles of motherhood. Their maternal rights to power and dominance may have traditionally been lesser than paternal ones, but they were never less than their minor children's. Even single-mother or female-only families can be, in this sense, patriarchal.

Patriarchal families are a complex system that grants parents complete legal and practical control over nearly every aspect of their children's lives. The patriarchal family controls where the child lives, who takes care of them, what rules they have to follow, how they are educated, who they associate with, what healthcare they receive, what religion they practice, and whether they can work or control any money they earn or that is given to or for them.

Normally discussions of patriarchy are a lot more abstract. But right now it's very concrete and real: we are fighting to limit the family's control over children on issues where we can observe that families sometimes tend to make decisions that are bad for the children's welfare or that disrespect their human rights.

Whether a minor child can get an abortion. Whether they can receive gender-affirming care. Whether it's okay to lie or coerce your child to ensure they follow your religion. Whether they deserve to be educated about factual histories or scientific theories that are necessary to understanding the world around them. Whether they deserve to learn accurate, age-appropriate information about consent, setting boundaries, how their bodies and the bodies of other people work, what a normal range of gender and sexual identities look like, what healthy or unhealthy relationships look like, and what sex is, how it works, what its positives and negatives are, and how they might navigate the world, whether or not they ever want to have it.

Hell, on some levels we're still arguing about whether it's okay to hit your kids, or whether children have the right, similar to the rights adults have, not to be assaulted or abused.

Because there are a LOT of people who say: No. Parents should have 100% control over any or all of those issues. If the parent says no, the child is not allowed to do or have any of those things, and nobody else should be allowed to interfere and provide them to the child without their parents' consent.

Pointing this out often results in parents saying, "Oh, so you want just ANYONE to be able to go up and talk sex with kids? You want kids to be able to decide to jump off cliffs with nobody stopping them???" As though parents are the single protective force in the universe, the only thing standing between their child and the ravages of absolute chaos.

On the contrary: most of the time the argument is for children to receive care and guidance from adults who are monitored to ensure they treat children in safe and appropriate ways, who have spent many years studying the best and most rigorously tested of our collective understanding of how to prepare children for happy, healthy lives.

And we are arguing against people who believe that the only important qualification needed to refuse children that kind of care is to be ranked above them in their family hierarchy.

In conclusion...

Fuck the patriarchy. Children have human rights too.

#child abuse tw #child neglect tw #staranise original #patriarchy #children's rights

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peggyao3 · 4 months ago

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Night Crawler - Pt. 2

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x f!reader / can be read as OC

SUMMARY: Feyd's companion is forced to witness an unfair spectacle and utilizes the means he gave to her to sway the situation.

WORD COUNT: 2,341

TAGS: 18+, smut, graphic descriptions of violence, lactation kink 🍼‼️, pseudo pregnancy, breastfeeding (no baby involved only a big sexy egg man), public breastfeeding, public sex ❗, subby Feyd, she/her reader, AFAB reader, ambiguous relationship status, non-consenting drug use, dark undertones, stockholm syndrome-ish, dubious consent, vaginal sex

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Part 1, Part 2 ↓, Part 3

The human head lands wetly on the stairs and rolls down with a thud thud thud until it comes to rest by the knees of the next supplicant, a middle aged man with thin lips whose muscles are so tense, a vein coils visibly around the curve of his bald head.

“Next!” Feyd-Rautha inspects the blade of his kukri; the edge has lost some of its sharpness in the past hour after splintering spine after spine. Servants scurry by quickly and grab the corpse by the armpits to drag it to the pile where a dozen already lie.

Meanwhile, Feyd’s companion hovers invisibly behind the na-Baron’s chair, observing this unjust spectacle of slaughter. This audience with the na-Baron is a farce. These people walked in the court room thinking they have a fair chance, but the entire function is a killing game. The only who live are those who will die anyway, no matter if their request is granted or not.

“Lord na-Baron.” The thin-lipped man kneels and his badly tailored suit wrinkles around his back. “I am here to humbly request… P-Paid leave from the factory. O-Only for two months, na-Baron.”

“Hmm.” Feyd pretends to ponder and a wave of cautious laughter rolls through the spectators, noblemen and women who draw amusement from the na-Baron’s cruel judgment of the poorer folk. “And what kind of factory would that be, civilian?”

“Bhergshimar Corps, Lord na-Baron. We p-produce supplements for medical products”

“So what do you do there? Stir up some ointments? Is that too hard of a job for you?” More laughter swells in the stands of spectators who are lined up against the walls of the elongated court chamber, framing a corridor of hubris around the waiting line of supplicants.

Feyd’s companion regards the scene with growing unease and sickness in her chest that has nothing to do with her condition. She holds her slightly distended stomach which is a product of the amniotic fluids that gather in her womb despite carrying nothing in there. Another side effect of the drug the Harkonnen Suk Doctor injects her frequently upon Feyd-Rautha’s wish. The faux condition serves no purpose besides his pleasure.

The quivering man elaborates: “C-Certainly not, Lord na-Baron! I would never ask if it weren’t necessary and I haven’t taken a single holiday for the past twenty years, except for your Holy Birthday, of course. I’m a diligent worker. But now my wife has fallen ill and I-” The man struggles for words.

“How touching,” the na-Baron sneers and tightens his grip around the kukri handle. His companion quietly shakes her head. Feyd-Rautha is a megalomaniac child, playfully cruel. Empathy could never find a grip on his black, slippery heart. An evil soul beyond redemption.

A trickle of warm blood from the corpse pile at the top runs steadily down the stairs and suddenly touches her bare foot. Disgusted, she pulls her toes away, ankle-length skirts swishing. Bile rises in her throat and she cannot suppress the retching sound as she presses a hand further up on her stomach. Feyd turns in his throne-like chair and regards her scrutinizingly, a tilt to his pale head.

“Are you unwell, my darling?”

A rustle rolls through the crowd and every gaze is set on her, one hundred and fifty pairs of coal-black eyes in white-skinned alien skulls. She takes a deep, shaky breath that lifts her plump bosom. Feyd’s gaze dips to her cleavage and a dreamy filter settles over his eyes for but a moment.

“Actually, I am.” She tries to lower her voice to a whisper, but the silence renders the court room into something of an echo chamber.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-” She must tread carefully. He brings her to these court hearings to teach her something about politics and she knows he enjoys the horror in her eyes. Her dread will be no sufficient reason to make him stop. For a second, she meets the pleading gaze of the thin-lipped man. Sweat glistens on his forehead and his fingers are twisted into his palms. She makes the decision then, and it is surprisingly easy. “It has to do with my condition, my Lord.”

Feyd’s ears perk up and he scans her all over. “Would you like to sit?” The crowd whispers and stirs.

“I would… appreciate it.

“Come here then.” Feyd-Rautha reaches out his hand and she feels the callouses on his palms when she takes it, letting him guide her around the chair and between his legs which he spreads so she can sit on his thigh and lean her side against his chest. “Don’t be shy,” he whispers quietly in her ear and a shiver rolls down her spine. “Get used to the view.”

She settles in his lap, controlling the cringe that creeps up her skeleton when Feyd’s arm slides around her waist and he rubs over her slightly distended belly.

“Now back to you, pathetic civilian.” The na-Baron sneers with midnight teeth. He has shifted the blade to his non-dominant hand, as the dominant one is splayed over her stomach. The poor man’s face pales with dread and he glances at the woman like she is his only hope. His fear hangs over them both like a suffocating veil and she takes a shaky breath.

“Actually, Feyd…?” She whispers quietly to the na-Baron whose gaze sways back to her, a wary edge to his jaws and eyes which can look so pretty in the right light. “I’m so uncomfortable.” She glances down at her own breasts. She doesn’t ask him often. Most of the time it is he who takes, he who crawls over her body and nips at her from ankles to chest until his lips latch around her nipple, no matter if she wants it.

Naturally, his plump lips part at her suggestion and his lashes cast long shadows down his pale cheeks as they lower.

“Now?” He presses his lips back together, briefly glancing towards the spectators. Distinctly, she feels his cock hardening against her thigh.

“Yes. Now.” It is not a request and she confidently unlaces the front of her dress to reveal her left breast. A many-voiced gasp runs through the crowd, but who are they to say a word? Or laugh or leave? This is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the beloved na-Baron of Giedi Prime. If he wishes to drink from a woman’s breast, he will, and his reputation will not be harmed.

By some miracle, Feyd obeys without further question. In front of many eyes, he bows down to her chest and gives into the sweet temptation of humiliation. Hotly, the shame sinks into his pelvis and he subtly bucks against her thigh, moaning quietly when he latches onto her nipple and the first droplets of colostrum spill on his tongue.

Everyone feels the power shift, when the na-Baron’s head bows to reach her breast.

The woman glances over the crowd, noble spectators and lower class supplicants who all see her bare chest. It takes grace to disgrace oneself so fully. She breathes deeply, wincing just slightly because of how greedily Feyd-Rautha suckles. His taller, muscular frame twitches and he reminds her of a prehistoric reptile whose maws are latched onto a carcass. She gives him a minute.

“Don't neglect court, they're waiting for you.” She feigns nervousness and pinches his chin, taking the calculated risk to try and urge him away from her breast. Feyd, as expected, snarls in response and pinches her nipple with his teeth, probably by accident. A slight tremor possesses his jaws as he drinks.

She gives a watery, apologetic smile at the gathered people, and curls her hand around Feyd’s head, scraping her fingers softly over his smooth scalp. Another minute goes by and she knows a certain sleepiness will soon settle in his bones. Cooing softly, she caresses his scalp until her left breast is as good as empty. Carefully, she detaches his mouth from her teat before they reach the stage when she is really empty, which usually sparks anger in Feyd-Rautha until he moves on to the other breast.

With only a little effort, she pries his face away from her chest and smiles at his dreamy black eyes. His features look entirely soft, jaws relaxed. His lashes serm a little damp, which happens from time to time. She’s never commented on it. Feyd-Rautha slowly swivels his head back towards the crowd. A trickle of milk runs down his chin.

“You…” He points at the waiting supplicant. “What was it?”

“T-Two months of paid leave, my Lord.” The man bows deep.

“Only two months? Fine then. Next."

“Thank you, my Lord, oh thank you. Thank you!”

A guard grabs him by the arm and shoves him aside, where the exit gate is. “The na-Baron said next.”

Perplexed, the man stumbles into freedom and still wordlessly mouths ‘thank you’, eyes locked with the woman in Feyd-Rautha’s lap. Yes, we understand each other, she thinks and sees the man off with an earnest smile.

While she still has milk in her right breast, three more people make it out the exit gate, most of them dismissed with a lazy wave of the hand. She can tell he has lost interest in the supplicants, his little killing game no longer fun. He has even discarded the blood-stained kukri on the side of the seat, so he can grope at his companion better. She can also tell he’s growing needy, the hard ridge of his cock humping against her thigh quicker and more urgently.

Oh well, she thinks as Feyd sifts through her skirts and tugs down his trousers. The crowd may not see how his cock head breaches her and sinks into her pink center that is unprepared save for the slick which always gathers when he drinks from her, but they can very clearly tell from the way he lifts her and her features scrunch up with pain.

It could be much worse. These people could be dead. Briefly he releases her nipple and cups her breast so any spilled droplets land in his palm.

“Next!” Feyd barks, then softly rumbles in her ear. “Ride me, woman.”

How? She is awkwardly seated diagonally in his lap, facing the crowd, barely a way to use her knees or feet for leverage. Still, she tries to please him, more grinding than riding him, but he seems satisfied nonetheless while he continues suckling on her teat. Her cunt is able to relax around Feyd’s obscene girth and more wetness trickles down past her folds and gathers on his trousers.

A knot of arousal somehow grows in her belly and it could either be the compound of artificial hormones or the power she knows she holds over him from inside her gilded prison. Her right breast is empty and Feyd’s hips buck up in frustration, cock slamming against her cervix. She hisses loudly and the sound reverberates from the chamber walls.

“I’ll have more in the evening, you greedy-, ahh!” Black teeth bite her sore nipple and draw a bead of blood. “You just drank all that and dare bite me?!” She hisses quietly, but a few guards in the vicinity can hear her certainly. A grey blush breaks out on Feyd’s cheeks and ears upon being chided. Oh, he should cut her up for that, his kukri lies right there.

But the milk is heavy in his tummy and he is too lazy to move. So, he just nips at her throat, just above the bejeweled metal collar. His bite is softer there, almost apologetic.

Since there is no more milk, she attempts to pull her dress up, but the na-Baron sloppily covers her breast with his hand instead, absentmindedly kneading and pinching the sensitive nubs while his hips thrust upwards with quick rhythm. With his feet planted on the floor, he has the momentum she is missing.

“Don’t cum until we’ve made it through this line.” She gestures at the waiting supplicants who all try to wall up their hopefulness behind a stoic facade, staring at their shuffling feet.

“Why?”

“Because I’m angry at you.”

“Why?!”

“You bit me and it hurt.”

Feyd lets out a rabid snarl and kisses her shoulder, black eyes peering around her neck at the waiting men and women. There are about two dozen left and his hands are wrapped around his Lady, kneading her hip and her breasts. He can make it through two dozen. How long might that take? Five minutes if they speak quickly?

The Lady smiles quietly to herself as supplicant after supplicant leaves through the exit gate and the blade remains untouched, Feyd’s hands busy on her body. She too has a hard time keeping her composure, walls squeezing Feyd-Rautha’s cock until he can barely control the pitch of his voice.

The last supplicant states his humble request and Feyd lets out an unintelligible sound, teeth sinking into her shoulder. His cock throbs palpably against her walls and his hips squirm, a stifled moan in his throat as he holds back.

The supplicant pleadingly looks at the Lady. “What was that?” He asks.

“The na-Baron said yes, your request is granted.” She speaks in Feyd-Rautha’s name and in the same moment the na-Baron climaxes, drooling all over her shoulder as his cock releases inky semen that luckily has no effect on her altered body.

By the time the last supplicant has staggered out of the audience chamber, happy and alive, the Lady has almost gotten used to the view.

Panting, Feyd mouths against her neck and shoulder, pushing a hand under her dress to catch some of the leaking cum and smear it over her bundle of nerves. Her skirts are partially ridden up. A few noblemen and women might just see her bare cunt and how it still hugs the na-Baron’s cock but for some reason she is not ashamed. It only takes a minute until she comes undone, her reward, because victories don’t have to feel dirty if you accept them with grace

#feyd #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd x oc #feyd rautha x oc #dune fanfiction #feyd fanfiction #feyd imagine #feyd rautha imagine #dune part two #dune part 2 #house harkonnen #austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #peggysuave fanfics

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petrichormeraki · 2 years ago

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i love how much it focuses on Ellie being born post society. Joel lived until his adult life before the collapse of the world, but Ellie was born after it all went down. Of course she wouldn't know what a car does. Of course she'd be in awe that they went in the SKY, REGULARLY, for traveling around. That's probably never going to happen again, at the very least definitely not in her lifetime. This show keeps reminding us of what we take for granted in this age and it's such good world building

#the last of us #im obsessed with this show it is so so so good #meraki post

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soxcietyy · 11 months ago

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Racer Yuuta pt2

Yuuta x fem reader

Part 3

Continuation of part 1, I’m horrible at descriptions so… also please read authors note down below!

˚₊‧꒰𓆩 ♱ 𓆪꒱ ‧₊˚ forbidden love, brat taming, 5 year age gap, 18 + content, gagging.

Gojo ended up picking you up and taking you home. You couldn’t help but feeling so happy from tonight. You bopped your head to the music Gojo played in his car as you relived thoes memories in your head. If your uncle wasn’t here you would be screaming and kicking your feet. You Guys ended up exchanging contact information but you felt to nervous to text him first. What do you even say? You wernt trying to sound childish and just set hey. Maybe he was the type of man that like woman who played hard to get. Though that wouldn’t make sense since you were the one to confess to him.

"What had you all giddy?" Gojo asks as he noticed your absurd behavior.

You callado your hands together and look at him "I’m just so happy you took me out uncle Gojo, do you think I can come with you to the race?!" You say looking at him with your big glossy eyes.

Gojo let a loud hum as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Trying to think if he should let you go or not. Yuuta didn’t say anything bad about you tonight so maybe he would agree. But Geto would get back from his trip in the morning. Then again he’s leaving to America the day of the race so the odds were perfect for you.

"I’ll agree if you don’t embarrass me tomorrow at dinner. I’m having a few of the guys competing coming over and the last thing I need is you telling them my business."

All three of you lived together in this house because well they didn’t find the need in having their own place. Gojo would feel too lonely and nobody would be able to take care of you back when you were younger while Geto had trips. So it was a win win situation if they lived in one place.

"But won’t dad get mad if you bring people from drag racing home?" You tilt your head.

He let out another long hum. "I doubt it, he knows most of them. Plus it will remind him of the good old times. We were so young and wild, you probably wouldn’t be able to recognize your pop’s. I’m just not sure if you’re going to be allowed out your room but in case you are granted permission you better shut your mouth." He says as he drives down your neighborhood.

You roll your eyes knowing that you would have to convince your dad.

The next day you woke up to see you dad was home. You gave him a hug and helped him bring his things inside. You usually never woke up this early but you had eavesdropping to do. You had no idea who was coming but you hoped it was Yuuta. Like why wouldn’t he come? He’s Gojos pupil after all!

You help prepare breakfast and serve it to you dad and uncle as they spoke. Nothing could beat pancakes and bacon on a lazy Sunday. The second you heard Gojo say "hey Suguru" you knew it was going to be about a favor or idea. You quickly threw your portion of breakfast on a plate and ran to the table. Sitting down you pretend to not care about their conversation like usual.

Gojo told him about his dinner plans and your dad said that it was fine with him. Though he wanted to know who was coming over. He wasn’t going to let Gojo bring just any stranger inside.

"Yuji, Todo, Shoko, Nanami and Yuta." He said

Hearing his name made you choke on your orange juice making them both quirk a brow at you. You had no idea why you were so surprised by it since you called it not too long ago. You coughed as you waved them off telling them to ignore you.

You could see your dad’s face as he was thinking deeply. "Sweetheart are you nervous about having so many guys over? That’s okay you can stay in your room and hang out with Shoko." Your dad said looking concerned.

"No! That’s not it at all, I just couldn’t believe uncle Gojo has that many friends!" You say trying to somewhat change the topic.

Gojo let out a dry laugh. Not being able to believe you at all. He didn’t try to interrogate you about it though. Soon dinner time arrived and you had finished cooking the curry. When Gojo or your dad had small dinners like this you’d get paid to make the food. Them being rich meant heavy paychecks in your pocket. How else are you supposed to afford to keeping up with the trends. Setting your apron aside you heard the door bell ring.

You quickly run to your room to get ready for the night. You brushed your hair, did your makeup, and put on a silky light purple dress on. Everything and to be perfect tonight, you had to be perfect. Was this color good or did it make you look like a kid? You soon began to mess with the paint of your manicure. You stood at your door for who knows how long anxious to see what’s in the other side. Yuuta had yet to text you making you feel like you like this was one sided. Then again you hadn’t texted him either but that’s because you didn’t know what to say. What are you supposed to say to a guy like him? You didn’t want to seem annoying or desperate. It’s almost as if he heard your thoughts because a text soon came in.

Yuuta: I wonder what you’re doing in that little room of yours that is making you take so long. Trying to look cute for me?

You could feel your heart pounding heavily against your chest. Opening the door you walk down the stairs to see everyone is here. The first one to notice you is Yuuta who’s looking at you as if you were prey. You feel a sudden shiver knowing he has eyes on you. Those were the same dark eyes that had you melting last night. You approach the table where everyone is talking to introduce yourself but you knew there was no need.

"Ah my dear y/n, everyone this is my daughter y/n who just graduated high school not too long ago." You dad said making everyone look at you. The last part was unnecessary but either way you give them a small wave as you excuse yourself into the kitchen to start serving food. Pulling plates out the cabinet you place them out and start serving them one by one. Putting a spoon of white rice on one side and the curry in the other. When you got to the table you couldn’t help but look away from him. He made you feel so nervous that the butterflies in your stomach were about to burst out. The way he looked at you was so intimidating that it made your legs weak. Oh how you hated how this boy had a huge chokehold on you.

"They put my Angel to work I see," you hear someone say as they grab your waist. You jolt at the sudden surprise and turn to see that it was Yuuta. Today he wore a black shirt with some casual grey slacks. You give him a nod as you go back to serving food. Hands shakily holding the plate. You see as his hand comes into view and holds the plate still for you. All of a sudden you’ve become mute. Not being able to say anything but blush. His other hands snakes around your waist as they trail all the way down to your thighs. You bite your lip trying to hold on any possible squeak that may come out of you. It’s not that you hated it, more like it was driving you crazy. How his cold hand slowly moved up. Teasing you by gripping the fat of your inner thigh. His large hands then proceeded to go back up. Going under your dress just to stop when he found something interesting.

"Where have your panties gone? Did they get lost on your way here? I can also see that you have no bra on from how perky you nipples are looking through the dress" Hes says as he slids a finger in between your folds. You muffled a moan as his finger slid deeper into your wet slit. He makes you put the plate down slowly since he noticed your body quivering too much. He wouldn’t want you dropping a plate and making a mess.

"Gone all shy on me angel? You were so bratty and demanding yesterday. Or could you be trying to be on your best behavior tonight?" He asks as he brings his coated finger up to his mouth and taste your slik. This was not what you thought would happen tonight. You took him for a shy guy who was scared to do anything but here he was toying and tasting you. "You look so fucking perfect like this, my cute obedient angel letting me do anything to her."

"What’s all this chattering about?" You both freeze at the sudden question. Yuuta is the first one to turn his head around to see it was your dad standing in the kitchen entrance. Thank god Yuuta was huge and covered your body up so easily because you were mentally a mess right now.

"Ah I just came to help your daughter out with the food. Felt bad knowing that we were just sitting while she worked." Yuuta said as he grabbed the plate you set down and turned his body fully with another one he found next to him. Geto gave him an approving smile as Yuuta began to walk out the kitchen. He stopped half way in his tracks to look at you.

"By the way y/n, it tasted amazing."

Your face suddenly became beat red knowing what he was referring too. When he left you handed two plates to your dad. He couldn’t possibly think he was leaving the kitchen without being a helping hand. He gives you a tired smile and takes the plates to the table.

When you’re done you bring your plate to the table. Then you noticed the only available seat was in between Yuuta and your dad. You nervously sat down in between them and started eating. The dinner went by fast and easy. Everyone complimented your cooking skills and asked for the recipe. Gojo shut them up real quick saying that he would never allow his niece to give out such valuable information. You and Shoko spoke about how annoying these two grown adults were and there random things as you had Yuta on your left caressing your thigh. Shoko eventually pulled out a cigarette and started smoking making your dad roll his eyes.

"Shoko can you let me have a few drags?" Yuta pirks up when he sees her light it. She shrugs and hands it to him. You didn’t know he smoked at all though you didn’t know much about him period. You watch as he leaves the dinning table and walks to the back porch outside.

"I thought he stopped smoking," Itadori says

"He must be craving something, back then when he was a rookie he would smoke when he wanted something. If he wanted Icecream but couldn’t find an open shop he would simply smoke. Though that was years ago. Whatever he’s craving must be driving him crazy." Gojo laughed.

You could feel the heat began to pool down there. Your gaze turned to look at him to find him blowing out smoke while looking at you from afar. There was no way that he could be craving you?!

The dinner soon came to an end and everyone was leaving. They were bidding there goodbyes outside but Yuuta had stayed back for a bit to be with you,

"I’m guessing you’re going to the race tomorrow?" Yuta asks as he looks at you.

"That’s the plan, I guess I’ll be seeing you then." You say as you give him a hug. He gives into it and hugs you tighter. Placing two soft kisses on your forehead. Your heart sunk in pain as he waved goodbye and left.

The next day you sent your dad off to the airport. Gojo had stayed home trying to do some mechanics on his car before the race. He would do this every time he had a race, spending all day until everything seemed perfect for him. You grew tired of waiting on your uncle so you went into the garage.

"Can you make Yuuta pick me up? I’m so bored and you take forever to fix the car. I at least want to eat before going to the race." You say as you watched him roll up and down from under his car as he picked out tools.

"Can’t really make him do anything, maybe if he calls then I’ll let you go."

He says brushing your questions off because what were the odds of that actually happening. You eventually ended up leaving not satisfied with the answer but he didn’t really care. After working on his car a bit more he eventually finished changing the oil. But before he could get to something else, his phone started ringing. Shuffling around he somehow got the phone next to his ear and answered.

"The one and only," he answered

"Hey Gojo can you let y/n go out with me for the day?"

"Common man are you really giving in to her that easily? You’re not helping her spoiled brat allegations you know." Gojo said as he rolled out from under the car to sit up. When he did he was met with you sitting down on a random stool in the garage. He glared at you for somehow being able to pull strings.

"Sorry Gojo but I did promise her to take her out to eat before the race. I just forgot because iv been so busy on my car." Yuuta said

"Yea, no I get it. Fine you guys go have fun. Please keep your eyes on her. God someone really needs to say no to that girl." He mumbled the last part. You wave Goodbye to Gojo as you leave the house as soon as he got here. You immediately recognize his car and hop inside. He smiled at you sweetly as you put your seatbelt on. He liked the way you dressed, always having a skirt or a dress on to give him easy access in the future. Today you wore a tight red skirt with a black top and a leathered cropped jacket. You looked like an adorable doll that was dressed up. Maybe one day you'll let him dress you up.

on your way to eat you guys talk and talk about anything and everything. Trying to get to know each other better.

You were such a sweet, kind, funny and very adorable person If he had to describe you. That didn’t go for your other side. He could tell you have a big attitude from how you spoke. Though it wasn’t something he couldn’t handle. With the small amount of time you’ve guys spent together he was sure he had you dominated. Like right now he sent you to fetch some napkins and condiments. It’s the little things that matter. As much as he had you under control that didn’t mean that you weren’t going to try him.

Both of you sat together in a booth. Yuta was trying to enjoy his burger but you weren’t quite letting him. You had taken your heel off and rubbed your foot on his crotch. Trying to get a reaction from him that he refused to give.

"Can you let me enjoy my meal?" Yuuta asks as he takes a bite.

"Yuu I want to do it, you’re not actually going to ignore my pleading right?" You smile innocently as you press harder in his member.

He let out a sigh knowing you weren’t going to stop till he gave in. He took another bite of his food and simply ignored your attempts. As much as he loved the thought of doing it with you he knew it wasn’t the time.

"You’re not ready for it." Yuuta said as he stole a fry from your box.

He could have swore he saw your eye twitch at his response. By the time you guys got done eating it was time to head to the race. It was already getting dark and Yuta had to get there early to make sure the event was going smoothly. On your way to his car you kept telling him how you were fully capable of taking him and that he was doing too much. Again he ignored your comments and walked to your side of the car to open it.

When he did you sat on the concrete floor refusing to get in until he said yes. He clenched his jaw as he closed his eyes for a brief moment. He knew Damn well you were not throwing a fit at this moment. Before he could fully let himself calm down he heard someone call out his name. He opened his eyes and saw a guy approaching him. He didn’t look familiar though. The boy eventually made it to Yuuta but stood on the other side of the car.

"Hey man, so glad I caught up to you before you left." He panted as he tried to catch his breath.

"What’s up?" Yuuta asks.

"I need relationship advice, Not trying to sound weird or anything but I saw you and your girl in the restaurant. I saw how you spoke to her and maintained your ground not giving in to her and well I need help with that."

Yuuta did not have time for such conversation and didn’t really enjoy the fact that he was listening to your conversation. Before he could let him down and tell him he was busy he felt something weird. His eyes slowly averted to the ground to find you unzipping his pants. He whispered how much of and idiot you were right now. Fine, if you wanted this so be it.

"You just got to say no to the things you don’t like or want. Obviously you have to take into consideration on what they’re asking or saying. Though I assume you’re saying no to them because you know what’s good for them." Yuuta said as he felt you wrap your wet lips around his member. Going only half way down his shaft.

He couldn’t believe you were doing all of this when you clearly lacked practice and skills. If you were going to do something at least do it right. Though he had to admit it was cute that you were trying so hard to please him. You probably thought he was feeling so good right now. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case.

"Usually they would then try to prove to you that they were capable of doing it. That’s when you let them do it but watch them fail at it. You watch them suffer until you feel like stepping in and actually do something." He said as he leaned onto the car making you hit your head on it. He leaned in so much that he shoved himself all the way in your mouth making you gag.

Luckily the restaurant had music playing loudly outside so the guy couldn’t hear how badly you were gagging.

"With my girl I would personally let her make a fool of herself until she’s learns her lesson." he said smiling at the other guy.

you began tapping his leg begging him for air but he refused. He pulled his hips back and forward ramming into your drooling mouth. You tried to push him off of you but he was so heavy and you were starting to get weak from the lack of air. Still he thrusted deep into your throat. Your vision began to turn white as your jaw slacked.

"Thanks for the advice man, good luck on your race!" The guy said as he left. Yuuta thanked him as he pulled himself out of your mouth causing you to gasp for air. You collapsed onto his feet as you tried to compose yourself.

Yuuta crouched down grabbing you by the arms to help you up.

"At least be good at it next time you decide to go against my word and do what you want." He said helping you get in your seat. You sat there dazed as he reached into his glove box and pulled out some napkins. He folded them and proceeded to wipe your mouth clean. He didn’t want to take you to the race looking like a mess. Grabbing your purse he digs in it and pulls out a lipgloss. He might as well touch up your makeup right now since you’re not capable of doing it yourself.

AN: I couldn’t not fit everything I wanted in this chapter so the race will take place in chapter 3. Sorry for the inconvenience 😞

Tagged people who wanted a part two though I couldn’t really tags most people.

Tags: @officialholyagua @sukunaswifee

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