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beloveds-embrace · 8 months ago

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can we get Duchess reader yearning for a baby of her own 🥺 imagine there was a Ball in the neighboring kingdom and Duchess!Reader and Duke!Price was invited, celebrating the birth of the Kingdom’s new heir, a baby boy on her fellow Duchess’s arms.

And reader coos at the baby while masking the deep ache in her heart thinking that it’ll be so impossible to have a baby with her husband due to him and his lovers 😢

cue to Duchess!Reader having a heavy heart through out the entire event and even the days after that, until one of our boys asks her what wrong.

(And John having to hold Johnny back bc that nasty dog has been waiting to get his paws on her since forever)

Oh my god yes??? Anon i could smooch your brain right now yes??? This is so good i love it. Sorry for the abrupt ending though, had no idea how to finish it off 😔

Original Post

“Such an adorable little one,” you coo softly, the newborn held delicately and carefully in your arms, swaddled in the baby blue blankets you and John had bought among your other gifts for your fellow Duke and Duchess. “He looks so much like you, I’m in awe.”

Your friend laughs lightly, sipping on her drink. With a soft sigh, she leans closer towards you. The party is in full swing, so many other nobles mingling and networking, but thankfully you and your friend have your own little corner for now and everyone has already congratulated her and her husband.

“So,” she begins, her eyes flickering towards where both of you two’s husbands are speaking. The smiles on their faces are clearly happy, though you aren’t surprised; John had mentioned that he’s already friends with the Duke during the carriage ride. “So. What about you and Duke Price, hm? Any surprises we should prepare for?”

Ah. You had been dreading this.

You sigh, shaking your head. Though the smile returns as you gaze at the napping baby, so small and precious in your arms. With you friend’s permission, you gently kiss his tiny little fists. “Not at all. We are happy as we are.”

And it’s not as if you are lying by any means, oh no. You are happy. Life as Duchess was far, far much better than you had expected it’d be, a lot less restrictive than you had prepared for it to be.

But…

You can’t lie to yourself. You’ve been feeling a sense of discontent from the very second you stepped into the gala venue. Perhaps for even longer, though it hadn’t been especially felt until this moment. Not until you held this baby in your arms.

You want a baby, too, you had realized. Motherhood. A child all yours, calling you momma and toddling into your arms. You had been unable to stop yourself from feeling the little bud of jealousy towards your friend, because you knew you’d likely never experience such a thing due to your unique situation.

John has his own partners whom he loves. You weren’t among that list, and you didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of having sex with another man with the potential risk of your parents, or anyone else, asking for a paternity test because you know someone would ask. Your mother, probably; she was always warning you not to whore yourself out, and your father didn’t even need to say anything-

“My dear?”

John’s concerned voice pulls you out of your thoughts, his hand gentle on your elbow, and it’s only then you realize you had been staring down at the baby with such sadness, so not befitting of such a beautiful gala. So you shake your head, clearing your thoughts, and turn to him and your friend's husband.

When the baby squirms, you coo softly and hand him back to your friends, gentle and careful. That's when you turn to John, giving him a simple smile. "Yes, Your Grace?"

The worry remains on his face, less visible however, and his eyes look over you carefully. Your friends are too busy with their son and showing him off to care about what you two are saying in the corner he’s led you to. "Are you alright?”

As if you’d ever tell him what the issue is. You don’t want to make John feel pressured into this, of all things. You’d rather be divorced than do so, and that should speak volumes on its own.

It’s a silly want, anyways. You have everything you could possible need right now, married and stable. You aren’t about to ruin it with your own two hands.

So you nod your head, and brush away all thoughts of a little baby cradled in your arms. “Yes, I am. I was just lost in thought. Shall we return to the party?”

John observes you for a few seconds more, and then he sighs and nods. “Very well. Would you do me the honor of this dance, my dear Duchess?”

Between the dazzling lights and John’s arms, you can almost forget the lingering desire.

But over the next few days after the gala, it becomes clear to John- to all your the men that something is terribly bothering you. There is a lingering sadness around you so profound even your maids have sensed it, wondering if perhaps you and the Duke have finally had your first fight… but he looks even more more worried and confused than them. You weren’t mad at anyone, that much he could tell, but he didn’t understand the heartache plaguing you.

“…are you sick, my lady?” Kyle asks you one day, placing down a tray of fresh desserts. Your favorites, all made by Johnny himself, yet you barely flick a look towards it.

“Not at all. Thank you, Kyle, but I’m afraid I can’t eat anything at the moment.” Your reply is soft, patient, as it always is, but the furrow in your brows remain and your frown deepens. Kyle hates it. He hates it so, so much. You’ve even stopped taking your usual break-walks, staying inside your room and asking for nothing in particular.

“My lady,” he presses on, voice softer. Comes to stand close to you, and holds his elbow out. “Maybe a walk, then? You look tired. Some sun might do you good- or a picnic? I can pack the desserts and-”

You avoid his eyes and look away, shaking your head. “Thank you, but my answer’s the same, Kyle. I’d just… like to be left alone, please. Could I trouble you to also inform John I won’t be joining him for dinner tonight?”

You are simply glad you managed to hide the little paper you’d been writing on before he came in. Baby names, for the babies you’d never have. It certainly didn’t help make your mood better, but you couldn’t help yourself. Looking at John, or any of them, also made you feel guilty anew.

“…not a problem, my lady. I’ll leave the desserts here for you just in case.”

Several days later, it’s Johnny who comes to you. You are alone in the conservatory, trying hard to get over this stupid, lingering feeling. It’s silly, you know it is, but… ugh.

Johnny says nothing even when you call his name out with a questioning tone, and much to your shock, he kneels down to take your hands in his. It’s so wholly inappropriate, and you look around in fear of anyone seeing.

“No one’s around, m’lady,” Johnny shakes his head, not letting your hands go yet.

“Johnny-“

“No one’s around.” He repeats, firmly, and his eyes gaze at you. “M’lady. Have we made ye angry? Has anyone made you upset? Is my food not to your liking?”

“Johnny…” you sigh, shaking your head. Inwardly, you scold yourself for bothering everyone like this. This should have been your issue alone to solve and hide. “No, no. Nothing like that. I just need some time alone, in general.”

“But why-“

“No particular reason.” You quickly cut him off, gently pulling your hands away. “Please, Johnny. I’ll get better soon, promise. But I just… need time.”

But the desire, the longing, still remains. You can’t even confide in anyone, so you also feel painfully lonely on top of everything else. John is still searching, still trying to find what or who’s made you like this, but not even your closest maids are of help.

Still, while you wished to wallow your misery away in your rooms and office, you didn’t have much choice when you’d received an invitation to the opera troupe funded by the Price duchy; making an appearance was a must, and unfortunately John had a very important meeting that day so Simon is the one to accompany you.

“You’ve been sad lately.” Simon doesn’t beat around the bush, all the lights focused on the stage so you are both draped in shadows, hidden from sight.

You turn to him, a refusal on your lips already-

“No.” He shakes his head. “You aren’t just tired, Duchess. You are sad. Everyone can see it, and it’s making us worried. All of us.” He adds, not letting you latch onto your usual excuse. Performance ignored, his entire attention is on you.

And you are just- too tired. Ashamed of yourself, you sigh.

“It’s awful of me…” your whisper, bottom lip quivering. “I-… I want a baby, Simon.” You admit, so softly and quietly you don’t look at his reaction to see if he’d even heard you in the first place. You shouldn’t be telling him of all people your issues, but- you can’t help yourself. “A child. I want to experience motherhood, but- I don’t, I refuse to put such a burden on John, or get in the way between all of you again-“

You ramble on, not meeting his eyes. Your hands are tembling around the mask you’d taken off, holding it in your lap.

Simon?

Simon can’t take his eyes off your stomach. You. You, pregnant; swollen and glowing with a child. Maybe children, even. Their children. His. He can’t believe this is what has had you so upset for so long; did you think they- John- would say no to you?

“Darling, ” The nickname slips out; he couldn’t help himself. He is glad the no one is paying attention to them, in the higher rows. Simon laces your pinkies together, raising your hand to kiss your knuckles, silencing your worried rambling. “Darling. Let us return home. Staying here isn’t doing you any good. Tonight, I want you to let Kyle spoil you with a warm bath, and for you to eat and then sleep. Rest. Tomorrow, we’ll speak. I’ll inform the troupe leader you weren’t feeling too well.”

“I- I… speak about what? What?”

Simon simply ushers you out, to the awaiting carriage. He doesn’t answer any of your questions, even when you pout and the it makes your lipstick glisten to prettily, though if you can feel that his hands are inappropriately tight around your waist, you simply blame it on your tightened corset.

At home, you are still confused. Simon is acting off, staring at you with a look that makes you all flustered, but you don’t protest when Kyle gently leads you away.

You’ll get your answers tomorrow, you are sure. But in the meantime…

“She wants a baby, John,” Simon groans, repeating the words again. His jacket is thrown off to the side, sleeves rolled up his elbows. Even from here, he can see how John eyes them appreciatively. “A baby, John. Seeing her pregnant-“

Another groan, but the one comes from between John’s thighs. Johnny, hands tied behind his back with Simon’s belt because the second he found out what the issue he was so, so ready to go and beg you to let him fix it. A bairn is what you want, a bairn is what he’ll give you- chunky, adorable, and hopefully looking like you.

John had to hold him back, though. He wants nothing more than to do the same, kiss you breathless and promise he’ll give you as many as you want, but he also knows you need a clear, rested head before he speaks with you.

The thought of seeing your pregnant, though, has his fist tightening in Johnny’s hair.

“I know. Fuck, I know, Si. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to her.”

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philmonjohn · 2 months ago

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A Call to the Children of the Global South: The System That Made My Father Disown Me

I didn’t write this living testimony for virality. I wrote it because silence almost killed me. Because truth, even when ignored by algorithms, remembers how to survive. If this resonated with you — even quietly — share it with someone else who’s still trying to name their Fracture. That’s how we outlive the system. - Philmon John, May 2025

THE FRACTURE Several months ago, when I, a South-Asian American man, turned 35, my father disowned me.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He simply stopped calling me his son.

My father is a Brown, MAGA-aligned conservative Christian pastor, born in Kerala, India, and now living in the United States. His rejection wasn’t provoked by any breach of trust or familial responsibility, but by my coming out as queer and bisexual — and by my deliberate move away from a version of Christianity shaped more by colonial rule than compassion.

I became blasphemy made flesh.

My mother and sister, equally immersed in religious conservatism, followed suit. Most of my extended family — conservative Indian Christians — responded with quiet complicity. I became an exile in my own lineage, cast out from a network that once celebrated me as the Mootha Makkan, the Malayalam term for “eldest son”.

This break didn’t occur in isolation. It was the culmination of years of internal questioning and ideological transformation.

I was raised with warmth and structure, but also under the weight of rigid theology. My parents cycled through different churches in pursuit of doctrinal purity. In that environment, my queerness had no safe harbor. It had to be hidden, managed, controlled — forced into secrecy.

Literal, cherry-popping closets.

Even my childhood discipline was carved straight from scripture — “spare the rod, spoil the child” was not metaphor but mandate. I was hit for defiance, for curiosity, for emotional honesty. Control was synonymous with love. The theology: obedience over empathy. Is it sad I would rather now have had a beating from my father, than his silence?

I would’ve taken the rod — at least it acknowledged me.

Instead, Daddy looks through me.

THE INHERITANCE And I obeyed. For a time, I rose through the ranks of the church. I led worship. I played guitar in the worship band. I wasn’t just a believer — I was a builder of belief, a conductor of chorus, a jester of jubilee and Sunday morning joy — all while masking a private ache I could not yet articulate.

In the last five years, I began methodically deconstructing the ideological scaffolding I had inherited. I examined the mechanisms of theology, patriarchy, and colonial imposition — and the specific burdens placed upon firstborn sons of immigrant families. Who defines our roles? Who benefits from our silence? Why is this happening to me?

These questions consistently pointed toward the dominant global structure: wealthy white patriarchal supremacy. Rooted in European imperialism and sustained by centuries of religious and cultural colonization, this system fractures not only societies but the deeply intimate architecture of family.

What my family experienced is not unlike what the United States of America continues to experience — a slow, painful reckoning with a foundational ideology of white, heteronormative, Christian patriarchal dominance.

My family comes from Kerala, home to one of the oldest Christian communities in the world. But the Christianity I inherited was not indigenous. It was filtered through the moral codes of Portuguese priests and British missionaries and the discipline of Victorian culture. Christ was not presented as a radical Middle Eastern teacher but as a sanitized figure — pale, passive, and Western.

In this theology, Christ is symbolic. Paul is the system. Doctrine exists to reinforce patriarchy, to police desire, to ensure control. When I embraced a theology rooted in love, empathy, and justice — the ethics I believe Jesus actually lived — I was met not with discussion, but dismissal.

To my family, my identity wasn’t authenticity. It was apostasy.

THE RECKONING In 2020, the ground shifted.

I turned the triple decade — 30 — as the COVID-19 pandemic erupted.

Remote work slowed life down, and I had space to think deeply.

That year, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and countless others triggered a national and personal reckoning.

I turned to K-LOVE, the Christian radio station I grew up with, hoping to hear words of solidarity, truth, or even mourning. Instead, there was silence. No mention of racial justice. No prayers for the dead. Just songs about personal salvation, void of historical context or social responsibility.

As Geraldine Heng argues in The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages, race was not merely a modern invention void of scientific basis — it was already taking shape in medieval Europe, where Christianity was used to sanctify, encode, and sell racial hierarchies as divine order and social technology.

As Ademọ́la, also known as Ogbeni Demola, once said: “The white man built his heaven on your land and pointed yours to the sky.” That brain-powered perceptive clarity — distilled in a single line — stays with me every day.

With professional routines interrupted and spiritual ties frayed, I immersed myself in scholarship. I entered what I now see as a period of epistemic reconstruction. I read widely — revolutionaries, poets, sociologists, historians, mathematicians, theologians, cultural critics, and the unflinching truth-tellers who name what empire tries to erase.

I first turned to the voices who now live only in memory: Bhagat Singh, James Baldwin, Frantz Fanon, bell hooks, Octavia Butler, Gloria Anzaldúa, and Vine Deloria Jr. Each carried the weight of revolution, tenderness, and truth — from anti-colonial struggle to queer theory to Indigenous reclamation.

I then reached for the veteran thought leaders still shaping the world, starting with Noam Chomsky, Naomi Klein, Shashi Tharoor, Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, Susan Visvanathan, Geraldine Heng, George Gheverghese Joseph, J. Sakai, Vijay Prashad, Vilna Bashi Treitler, Claire Jean Kim, and Arundhati Roy — voices who dismantle the illusions of empire through history, mathematics, linguistics, and racial theory.

In the present, I absorbed insights from a new generation of public intellectuals and cultural critics: Ta-Nehisi Coates, Jared Yates Sexton, Cathy Park Hong, Ibram X. Kendi, Nikole Hannah-Jones, Heather McGhee, Mehdi Hasan, Adrienne Keene, Keri Leigh Merritt, Vincent Bevins, Sarah Kendzior, Ayesha A. Siddiqi, Wajahat Ali, W. Kamau Bell, Mary Trump, & John Oliver. Together, they form a constellation of clarity — thinkers who gave me language for grief, strategy for resistance, and above all, a framework for empathy rooted in history, not abstraction.

I also turned to the thinkers shaping today’s cultural and political discourse. I dreamt of the world blueprinted by Bhaskar Sunkara in his revolutionary The Socialist Manifesto and plunged into Jacobin’s blistering critiques of capitalism. The Atlantic’s longform journalism kept me tethered to a truth-seeking tradition. The Guardian stood out for its global scale and reach, offering progressive, longform storytelling that speaks to both local injustices and systemic inequalities across the world. And Roman Krznaric’s Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It helped crystallize my core belief:

Be a good human. Practice empathy.

That’s the playbook, America. Practice empathy. Do that — and teach accurate, critically reflective history — and we have the chance to truly become the greatest democracy the world has ever seen.

And this empathy must extend to all — especially to trans people. In India, the Hijra community — trans and intersex folk who have existed visibly for thousands of years — embody a��sacred third gender long before the West had language for it. But they are not alone. Across the colonized world, the empire erased a sacred third space: the Muxe of Zapotec culture, the Bakla of the Philippines, the Fa’afafine of Samoa, the Two-Spirit nations of Turtle Island, the Māhū of Hawaiʻi, the Sworn Virgins of the Balkans — each of these communities held space outside Western gender binaries, rooted in care, ceremony, and spirit. Some align with what we today call trans or intersex, while others exist entirely outside Western definitions. Colonization reframed them as deviants.

And still, we must remember this: trans people are not new. Our respect for them must be as ancient as their existence.

THE RESISTANCE As I examined the dynamics of coloniality, racial capitalism, and Western empire, I realized just how deeply imperial power had shaped my family, our values, and our spiritual language. The empire didn’t just occupy land — it rewrote moral codes. It restructured the family.

I learned how Irish, Italian, Greek, Hungarian, and Albanian immigrants were initially excluded from whiteness in America. Over time, many adopted and embraced whiteness as strategic economic and social protection — and in doing so, embraced anti-Blackness and patriarchal hierarchies to maintain their newfound status. Today, many European-hyphenated Americans defend systems that once excluded them.

And over time, some Asian-Americans have followed the very same racial template.

At 33 — the age Jesus is believed to have died — I laid my childhood faith to rest. In its place rose something rooted in clarity, not doctrine.

I didn’t walk away from religion into cynicism or nihilism. I stepped into a humanist, justice-centered worldview. A system grounded in reason, evidence, and above all, empathy. A belief in people over dogma. In community over conformity.

I didn’t lose faith. I redefined it.

I left the pasture of institutional faith, not for chaos, but for an ethical wilderness — a space lacking divine command but filled with moral clarity. A place built on personal responsibility and universal dignity.

This is where I stand today.

To those with similar histories: if your roots trace back to Africa, South Asia, Southeast Asia, Central Asia, East Asia, the Middle East, Latin America, the Caribbean, Oceania, or to Indigenous and marginalized communities within the Global North — you are a Child of the Global South. Even in the Global North, your experience carries the weight of displaced geography, the quiet grief of colonial trauma, and a genealogy forged by the system of empire. Your pain is political. Your silence is inherited. You are not invisible. They buried you without a funeral. They mourned not your death, but your deviation from design. However, we are not dead. We are just no longer theirs.

White supremacy endures by fracturing us. It manufactures tensions between communities of color by design — placing Asian businesses in Black communities without infrastructure and opportunities for BIPOC folk to share and benefit from the economic engine. Central to this strategy is the model minority myth, crafted during the Cold War to present Asian-Americans as obedient, self-reliant, and successful — not to celebrate them, but to invalidate Black resistance and justify structural racism. It’s a myth that fosters anti-Blackness in Asian communities and xenophobia in Black ones, while shielding white supremacy from critique. These divisions are not cultural accidents; they’re colonial blueprints.

And these blueprints stretch across oceans and continents and time.

In colonial South Africa, Mohandas Gandhi — still shaped by British racial hierarchies — distanced Indians from Black Africans, calling them “kaffirs” and demanding separate facilities. In Uganda, the British installed South Asians as a merchant middle class between colonizers and native Africans, breeding distrust. When Idi Amin expelled 80,000 Asians in 1972, it was a violent backlash to a racial hierarchy seeded by empire. These fractures — between Black and Asian, colonized and sub-colonized — are the legacy of white patriarchal supremacy.

Divide, distract, and dominate.

We must resist being weaponized against each other.

Every Asian-American must read Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. Every high schooler in America must read and discuss Jared Yates Sexton.

Study the systems. Name them. Disarm them.

Because unless we become and remain united, the status quo — one that serves wealthy cisgender, heterosexual, white Christian men — will remain intact.

This is A Call to the Children of the Global South. And An Invitation to the Children of the Global North: Stop the infighting. Study and interrogate the systems. Reject the design.

To those in media, publishing, and the arts: postcolonial narratives are not cultural sidebars. They are central to national healing. They preserve memory, restore dignity, and confront whitewashed histories.

If you want work that matters — support art that pushes past trauma into structural critique.

Greenlight truth. Platform memory. Choose courage over comfort.

Postcolonial stories should be the norm — not niche art.

Jordan Peele’s Get Out was a cinematic breakthrough — razor-sharp and genre-defying — in its exposure of white supremacy’s quiet machinery: liberal smiles, performative allyship, and the pacification of dissent through assimilation. The Sunken Place is not just a metaphor for silenced Black consciousness — it’s the empire’s preferred position for the marginalized: visible, exploited, but unheard.

A system that offers the illusion of inclusion, weaponizing identity as control.

Ken Levine’s BioShock Infinite exposed white supremacy through a dystopian, fictional but historically grounded lens - depicting the religious justification of Black enslavement, Indigenous erasure, and genocidal nationalism in a floating, evangelical empire.

David Simon’s The Wire exposed the institutional decay of law enforcement, education, and the legal system - revealing how systemic failure, not individual morality, drives urban collapse.

Jesse Armstrong’s Succession traced the architecture of empire through family - showing how media empires weaponize racism, propaganda, and manufactured outrage to generate profit and secure generational wealth.

Ava DuVernay's Origin unearths caste and race as twin blueprints of white supremacy - linking Dalit oppression in India to the subjugation of Black Americans. Adapted from Isabel Wilkerson's Caste, it dismantles the myth of isolated injustice, revealing a global system meticulously engineered to rank human worth - and the radical act of naming the system.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners — a revelatory, critically and commercially successful film about Afro-Asian resistance in 1930s Mississippi — exposes the hunger for speculative narratives grounded in historical truth.

Across the Spider-Verse gave us Pavitr Prabhakar - a Brown superhero who wasn't nerdy or celibate, as Western media typically portrayed the South-Asian man, but cool, smart, athletic, with great hair, in love, and proudly anti-colonial. He called out the British for stealing and keeping Indian artifacts… in a Spider-Man movie. That moment was history reclaimed.

A glitch in the wealthy white patriarchal matrix.

Dev Patel’s Monkey Man is a visceral fable of vengeance and resistance, where the brutality of caste, corruption, and religious nationalism collide. Amid this chaos, the film uplifts the Hijra community who stand not only as victims, but as warriors against systemic violence. Their alliance reframes queerness not as deviance, but as defiance — ultimately confronting the machinery of empire with what it fears most: a system-breaking empathy it cannot contain.

The vitriolic backlash from white male gamers and fandoms isn’t about quality — it’s about losing default status in stories. Everyone else has had to empathize with majority white male protagonists for decades. Diverse representation in media isn’t a threat to art — it’s a threat to white supremacy. It’s not just a mirror held up to the globe — it’s a refusal to let one worldview define it.

Hollywood, gaming studios, and the gatekeepers of entertainment — if you want to reclaim artistic integrity and still make money doing it, we need art that remembers, resists, and reclaims — stories that name the machine and short-circuit its lies. The world is ready. So am I.

Today, efforts like Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation, and the Federalist Society are not merely policy shops — they are ideological engines: built to roll back civil rights, impose authoritarian values, and erase uncomfortable truths. They represent a hyper-concentrated form of white supremacy, rooted in unresolved Civil War grievances and the failures of Reconstruction.

Miraculously, or perhaps, blessed with intellectual curiosity and natural empathy, through all of this, my wife — a compassionate, steadfast partner and a Christian woman — has remained by my side. She has witnessed my transformation with both love and complexity. While our bond is rooted in deep respect and shared values, our spiritual landscapes have diverged. Her faith brings her solace; mine has evolved into something more secular, grounded in justice and humanism. We’ve navigated that tension with care — proof that love can stretch across differing beliefs, even as the echoes of religious conditioning still ripple through our lives.

I am proud of her increasing intellectual curiosity and her willingness to accept me for who I am now, even if I wasn’t ready to accept myself when we met.

But our marriage has defied the splintering that white supremacy specifically creates: hyper-capitalist, hyper-individualistic, fractured families and societies.

As Children of the Global South — descendants of peoples who survived enslavement, colonization, and erasure — we carry within us the urgent need for stories that do not turn away from history, but confront it with unflinching truth.

In the pain of losing my family, I found a deeper purpose: to tell this story — and my own — any way I can. A sudden rush of empathy, pity, and love struck me: My parents’ and sister’s rejection was not theirs alone — it was a lingering Fracture left by colonization and global exploitation, tearing apart families across generations. As Children of the Global South, we still carry those wounds.

Make no mistake: white supremacy leaves wounds — because it is the system. And unless it is dismantled, both the Global South and North — and their collective Children — will remain trapped in a dance choreographed by empire — built to divide, exploit, and erase. Any vision of democracy, in America, will remain a fragile illusion — if not an outright mythology — built on a conceptually false foundation: white supremacy itself.

A cruel, heartbreaking legacy of erasure — passed down through empire — indoctrinating God-fearing Brown fathers to erase their godless, queer Brown sons. Preaching shame as scripture. Teaching silence as survival.

I reject that inheritance.

Empathy as praxis is how we reject that inheritance. In a world engineered to divide, it rebuilds connection, disarms supremacy, and charts a path forward. If humanity is to survive — let alone heal — empathy must become our collective discipline.

And perhaps what cut even deeper for my father — beyond my queerness — was that I no longer validated his role as a pastor. In stepping away from the faith he had built his life upon, I wasn’t just rejecting a belief system. I was, in his eyes, nullifying his life’s work. For a man shaped by empire, ordained by colonial Christianity, and burdened with the role of moral gatekeeper, my departure from his manufactured worldview may have landed as personal failure. But it wasn’t. It was never about wanting to hurt him. I love my father. I love my mother. I love my sister. It was never about them — it was about the system that taught them love was conditional, acceptance required obedience, and dissent unforgivable. That kind of pain is real — but its source is systemic. I still want to be Mootha Makkan — not by obedience, but by truth. By love without condition. Not through erasure, but by living fully in the open. Not in their image, but in mine.

Yet, and yes, I also carry the wound — but I also carry the will to heal it.

THE CALL I believe in empathy. I believe in memory. I believe the Children of the Global South are not broken. We are not rejected. We are awakening.

Children of the Global North: join us. We are not your enemies. We are your present and future collaborators, business & creative partners, lovers, and kin. We are building something new — something ancient yet reawakened, a pursuit of empathy, and a reckoning with history that refuses to forget.

If this story resonated with you, kindly share it, spread the word and please comment. I’d love to hear from you. Your voice, your memory, your Fracture — it matters here.

You are not alone. All are welcome.

Thank you so, so much for your time in reading my story.

You can also email me directly: vinesvenus at protonmail.com I'll be writing more on Medium as well: https://medium.com/@vinesvenus/a-call-to-the-children-of-the-global-south-the-system-that-made-my-father-disown-me-fecad6c0b862

#queer #exvangelical #global south #colonialism #religious trauma #deconstruction #lgbtqia #longform essay #history #queer history #queer community #queer pride #mental health #agnostic #ex christian #atheist #empathy in praxis #empathy

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saintobio · 3 months ago

Text

sincerely yours. (13)

↳ gojou satoru/reader

when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.

genre. heavy angst, amnesia, modern au, 18+

tags/warnings. depression, mentions of cheating, trauma, implied suicide attempt, toxic relationships, illnesses

notes. 5k wc. please note that the last few sy chapters will be shorter than usual. but on another note, thank you for the kind comforting words on my last post. i’m very grateful for all of you.

series masterlist -> episode fourteen

“I’m pregnant,” you finally confessed, voice breaking as you watched the faint tears that slipped from Satoru’s eyes. “I don’t wanna have this baby.”

He should’ve known why. He should’ve seen it coming—should’ve expected the next words that would come out of your mouth after announcing your pregnancy.

Yet the admission, as firm as it sounded, still tore at your chest. And the silence that followed felt deafening. His gaze flickered to your stomach, then back to your face, searching for something—understanding, hope, or maybe a way to convince you otherwise. He also seemed to be struggling with the intense contradiction of his emotions, whether to celebrate your pregnancy or whether to be horrified by it.

That was why Satoru took a shaky breath as he reached out a hand. “Y/N,” he began, stepping closer to you, “Don’t say that. We… We can figure this out. Together. Please.”

Your whole body trembled at the irony of ending your own life soon as you announced the beginning of another. But at the moment, it felt right. That jumping into the vast space beyond you was the best choice—for him, for Sachiro, for the baby, and for yourself.

But seeing the father of your children at the verge of breaking down was shaking your resolve. All the guilt, the shame. You felt it all at once.

Satoru’s hands tightened around yours the moment he was able to reach you. And before you knew it, you were being pulled down, falling straight into him as he caught you perfectly in his arms. Like you were always meant to be there. “Y/N, please…” he whispered, his hands cupping your cheeks, ocean-blue eyes swimming with desperation. “I got you. Don’t do this. Don’t give up on this baby. Don’t give up on us.”

“I can’t, Satoru,” you choked out, shaking your head. “I can’t bring a child into this mess. What kind of life could I possibly give them? What kind of life could we give them? I don’t even deserve to live.”

“You don’t understand, Y/N. Having you here with me right now is already the greatest blessing in my life,” he said quickly, embracing you even tighter as if afraid you’d slip further away. “I swear, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll be there every step of the way. I’ll… I’ll be a good father. I know I’ve made mistakes, Y/N. I’ve hurt you, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. But this—this is something I can do right. Let me prove it to you.”

You turned your face away, sobbing quietly. No, Satoru. It’s too late. You had heard of these same promises before, and only a fool would let herself believe it twice.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he pleaded. “Please, just look at me. I love you. I love this baby. And I’m not going to let you go through this alone. I don’t care how hard it gets—I’ll be here. I’ll stay. I’ll be the man you need me to be. And the man that I should’ve always been.”

His words hit you like a tidal wave, never once allowing you to breathe or call for his name. You were stuck underwater, fighting the strong current of emotions. Time and time again, and only Satoru Gojou was able to make you feel like this.

“I swear on everything, Y/N,” he whispered, “I’ll be better. I’ll fight for you, Sachi, and this baby every single day. Just… don’t make this decision now. Not like this.”

The vulnerability in his eyes and the sheer rawness of his plea made your heart ache. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you saw the Satoru you had once loved—the man who would have moved mountains for the woman he had vowed to cherish. The man who pulled everything he can just to bring happiness to the woman he adored.

Your chest tightened as the weight of your decision pressed down on you, and a shiver ran through your body as if you could feel your baby’s heartbeat. “Satoru…” you whispered, your voice trembling with the fragile thread of your emotions. “I’m…”

Before you could finish, the flood of guilt, sorrow, and exhaustion eventually overtook you. And his glistening blue eyes were the last thing you saw before the world blurred and you surrendered to the darkness.

— —

Satoru stood just outside the hospital room, leaning against the cold, white wall with his face buried in his hands. His heart was pounding and his thoughts were nothing but a chaotic mess. He had almost lost you—again. This time, in a way he hadn’t even anticipated.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and when he looked up, it was your older sister, Gen, who was walking toward him, her face a mix of concern and restrained anger. She stopped in front of him, crossing her arms and clearly displeased with his presence.

“She’s resting,” Gen informed him, her voice steady but sharp. “The doctor says she needs time. Physically, she’ll be fine, but mentally? I don’t know.”

Satoru nodded, his throat tightening. “I—I’m sorry, Gen. For everything.” His voice cracked, and he looked away, unable to meet her piercing gaze. “I know I’ve been the worst. Back then, now… I never meant to hurt her.”

“I don’t even know what to say to you,” she replied in a haste and brutally honest manner. “First, my nephew, and now, my sister? Both of them were hospitalized because of you. All you do is bring in a series of bad luck to our family. Have some shame.”

He knew she was right, and he was ashamed. But despite the hurtful truth, he accepted it all. He was a martyr ready to take all the pain away, if it meant taking it from you and your children. “I know I messed up, Gen. And I don’t deserve another chance. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love her. That I will love her until the day I die.” His eyes pooled with genuine tears. “I just want to be here for her. She’s my life.”

Gen sighed, her arms falling to her sides. “Satoru, you say you love her. You say you care about her. But look where we are. She’s always been the one paying the price for your mistakes. Always getting the short end of the stick.” Her voice hardened, and her eyes narrowed. “And now? There’s a rumor about her because of you. Do you even know what that’s doing to her?”

He clenched his fists, his head hanging low. “I know. I saw it. I—I’m already drafting a statement. It’ll be released soon. I’ll clear her name, Gen. I’ll take full responsibility. I won’t let anyone drag her through the mud because of me.”

Gen studied him carefully, her expression softening slightly, though her voice remained firm. “Words are one thing, Satoru. Actions are another. She’s given up so much for you. Do you even realize how much of herself she’s lost?”

“I do,” he said, his shaken voice barely audible. “I see it every time I look at her. I see the woman I fell in love with slipping away, and it’s my fault. But I swear to you, Gen, I’ll fix this. I’ll do everything I can to keep her, to keep our family together. I’ll be the man she deserves, the father our kids deserve.”

Gen’s lips pressed into a thin line as she looked away, her gaze distant. “Love isn’t just words, Satoru. It’s not just showing up when things get hard. It’s being there even when things are mundane, even when she doesn’t need saving. It’s about choosing her, every single day. And you haven’t done that.”

Her words cut deep, but he took them all, letting them sink into his bones. He had been selfish, careless with the one person who mattered the most. And now, he was paying the price.

“But you’re still here.” Gen’s voice eventually softened, as if this situation couldn’t be saved anymore. “And she’s still here. I don’t know why, after everything, my sister still loves you… but she does. I wouldn’t want you for her, frankly. I’d rather she’d be single her entire life than be stuck with you. But I know her stubborn heart all too well. And if you really mean what you say, if you’re truly ready to step up and be the man she deserves, then prove it. You’d better mean that, Satoru. Because if you break her again… I don’t think there’ll be any pieces left to put back together.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the muffled hum of the hospital. And in sincerity, Satoru nodded, tears welling in his eyes. This wasn’t exactly Gen forgiving him, this was her choosing what makes her sister happy. “I love her, Gen. I’ve always loved her. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”

——

A dull beeping sound echoed in your ears, steady and rhythmic, as the world around you slowly came back into focus. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled your nose, and the soft hum of distant voices murmured through the hospital walls. The fluorescent lights above were too bright, causing you to squint as you tried to take in your surroundings. White sheets, an IV drip, and the unmistakable cold of a hospital bed beneath your fingertips.

You were in the ER.

Memories of the day before hit you all at once—the weight of exhaustion, the way your body had given up on you mid-conversation, and Satoru’s voice calling your name just before everything faded to black.

A gentle warmth enveloped your hand. You turned your head slightly, heart skipping a beat when you saw Satoru sitting beside you. His snow-white hair was disheveled, his usually confident demeanor subdued. There were dark circles under his eyes suggesting how little he had rested.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. There was relief laced in his tone, but also something heavier. He reached out, brushing stray strands of hair from your face. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” You swallowed, your throat dry. “How’s my… baby?”

For someone who said she wanted to get rid of her unborn child, your concern put a relief on Satoru’s face. “Baby’s okay,” he admitted, his thumb absently tracing circles on your belly. “You passed out, and they brought you here to monitor you. But you’re okay now. The doctor said you were just exhausted. You’re being discharged soon.”

Your mind was sluggish, still struggling to process everything. But then, the most important thought struck you.

“Sachiro,” you breathed, fear clawing its way up your throat. One after another. “His surgery—”

Satoru squeezed your hand gently, stopping you before your panic could take hold. “It was a success.” His lips curled into a small, tired smile. “While you were resting, everything went well. The doctors said it was a textbook procedure—no complications. He’s stable, recovering in the suite room now.”

“H-He’s okay?” Your voice broke on the last word, and Satoru nodded.

“He’s okay.”

A choked sob left your lips as you covered your face with your hands, overwhelmed. After everything, after all the sleepless nights and the heart-wrenching fear of losing your first born, he had made it through. At his young age, having to suffer such a complicated heart disease was something he didn’t deserve, but truly, he was a strong kid. And for that, you were grateful.

Satoru didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding you, anchoring you. “Y/N,” he murmured, his lips ghosting against your temple. “Sachi’s strong. He got it from his mommy.”

You let yourself melt into him for a moment, closing your eyes and breathing him in. You didn’t know what this meant for the both of you—if anything had changed, if anything ever could. But for now, none of that mattered.

All that mattered was that Sachiro was waiting for you.

Satoru pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your arms. “Do you wanna go see him?”

You met his gaze, eyes still shining with unshed tears, and nodded. “Yeah.”

——

Down the pristine white halls, past nurses and doctors bustling about their duties, your feet carried you with a singular purpose while Satoru walked beside you, his pace matching yours.

And then—there.

Room 721.

You hesitated only for a second before pushing the door open, breath catching the moment your eyes landed on Sachiro. Your poor son. Your poor little boy lay in the hospital bed, looking small and fragile against the white sheets. Tubes and wires were attached to him, aside from the steady beeping of the monitors that signaled his heart’s vitals. A ventilator was also there to help him breathe, and his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm was a sight that both reassured and shattered you at the same time.

“Sachi,” you whispered sweetly, stepping closer. “Mommy’s here, baby.”

Your fingers trembled as you brushed his hair back, careful not to disturb any of the medical equipment. He was still asleep, sedated for recovery, but his face was peaceful—far more peaceful than the nights you’d spent watching him struggle.

Behind you, Satoru stood motionless. His normally vibrant eyes were dulled with exhaustion, his face gaunt from two days without sleep. Yet, despite it all, he remained standing, his entire being focused on Sachiro.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Your family surrounded you, offering support, love, and quiet reassurances. Nurses came and went, checking on Sachiro’s vitals, updating you on his condition. The visiting hours brought waves of people—friends, colleagues, even some of Satoru’s acquaintances who had come to check on him.

But through it all, Satoru never moved.

While conversations hummed around him, while people embraced and whispered their worries, he remained by Sachiro’s bedside. His hand rested on his son’s small fingers, his thumb occasionally brushing against his skin.

He didn’t speak much. Didn’t react to the noise around him.

He just… watched.

Watched the slow rise and fall of his child’s chest. Watched the way the monitors flickered with steady readings. Watched the way his son fought to live.

And even as the hours stretched, as your family said their goodbyes, as the night deepened and visiting hours ended—Satoru remained.

His exhaustion was evident. The bags under his eyes had darkened, his shoulders heavy with weariness. But when a nurse suggested he get some rest, he merely shook his head.

“I’m not leaving him.”

And so, he stayed.

With red-rimmed eyes and a body begging for sleep, Satoru Gojou sat beside his son, never once looking away.

You could see the torment in his eyes as he looked at Sachiro, the helplessness of a father who could do nothing but watch. You just couldn’t bear the silence any longer, so you finally spoke. “Satoru… just go home.”

He froze at the sound of your voice, as if caught off guard, but quickly shook his head and wrapped your belly under a warm blanket. “Did I wake you up?”

“I can look after Sachi by myself,” you urged, disregarding his question. “You need to rest.”

But again, he refused. “No.”

“But—”

You opened your mouth to speak again, to reason with him, but before you could, Satoru’s voice cut through the air, breaking in a way you had never heard before. “Y/N, let me be a father to my kids… Please.” His voice cracked, the raw emotion spilling out as he looked at the ceiling with somber, tearful eyes. It was the heartbreak in his voice that made you realize that you were the only family Satoru had left. And it was the tremor in his hands that made you see through the trauma he had developed after he was led to believe for three years that his son had never existed. In a way, you felt responsible for the pain you had caused him, too. “Just please let me love you and our babies. Don’t take them away from me.”

For a moment, silence became your friend. Yet, the quiet that enveloped the room was more of a tender moment suspended in time as you let Satoru embrace you in his arms. You both remained there, connected by the warmth of his hand over yours, and the gentle rise and fall of his breath. He caressed your belly as if you were going to take his baby away—that if he closed his eyes, even for a second, he would wake up to see his unborn child gone.

But then, a soft knock on the door shattered the stillness.. Satoru’s grip on your hand loosened as the nurse poked her head into the room with an apologetic expression on display.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. and Mrs. Gojou,” she began, her voice quiet and gentle, “but you have a visitor.” Satoru’s brows furrowed slightly, but before he could ask, the nurse continued, “Her name is Ms. Akemi.”

At the mention of her name, he immediately sat up, his body tense as he instinctively prepared to stand. You felt the shift in his demeanor, the way his hand slipped from yours as he moved to the edge of the bed. You stayed still for a minute, processing the sudden change, and your heart sinking at the thought of yet another intrusion by her.

You took a deep breath as you began to pull away, already bracing yourself for what was to come, and for the inevitable exit he would make. Like always. Choosing another woman over you. Choosing another woman over his own child. Of course, that’s what he’s about to do, right? You started to gather the strength to let him go, to retreat back into your thoughts, until the nurse spoke again.

“Oh… Actually,” she said, her eyes flicking between you both, “Miss Akemi wants to see you, Ms. Y/N… not Mr. Gojou.”

——

Two things about this moment caught you off guard. First, Satoru’s sudden overprotectiveness—firmly insisting to the nurse that Akemi had no right to call for you again and that you shouldn’t be meeting her just to “talk.” And second, the fact that Akemi actually wanted to see you.

What was the catch?

What was her motive?

You wondered if this was going to be another Sera moment.

And you knew, even if your mind told you that you owed Akemi nothing, you were still curious about what she had to say. Would she demand Satoru’s time that you were taking from her? Or was she about to make a scene and call you a homewrecker?

Strangely, of all the places, Akemi wanted to meet you at the hospital chapel.

She was already there when you came, sitting at the last row amongst the empty pews, staring at the altar as if her brown eyes were glued to the massive cross in the center. In her solitude, you silently slipped into the opposite side of the pew, not exchanging any eye-contact until she noticed your presence.

When she turned, she seemed startled to see you. “Y/N.”

You said nothing, only staring at the cross in front of you.

“I was just…” She trailed off, glancing toward the altar before looking back at you. “I was praying for Sachiro. I heard his surgery was a success.”

Your arms crossed over your chest, but your voice was steady. “It was.”

“I’m glad.” A small, genuine smile plastered over her lips. “I really am. He’s a strong boy… just like his mom.”

A scoff threatened to rise in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t here to fight. Not anymore. Not when you were far too grateful for Sachiro’s successful operation to still be holding grudges on others. But that didn’t mean you had to fake being happy next to Akemi. All you did was nod in appreciation.

But Akemi hesitated, then spoke again about what seemed to be her main concern of going here. “Has Satoru been here? I mean… all this time?”

“Yes.” A pause. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her expression, but your rigid expression appeared to have intimidated her. “If you’re here to ask him to go home with you, then—”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You blinked. Of all the things you expected, an apology wasn’t one of them.

“For everything,” she continued. “For being with Satoru even when I knew who you were to him. For pretending I didn’t see the way he looked at you, the way he still loved you. I was selfish. I let my delusions get to me, thinking that he’s exactly who I needed in my life to feel whole again.” She then let out a bitter laugh, one that lacked amusement. “You don’t know this, but I used to envy you. Your life. Your place in his heart. The way you had people around you. The way he loved you… The way you have a beautiful son and an equally beautiful husband. I wanted that for myself. I thought if I tried hard enough, if I gave him everything, if I tried to be like you, maybe he’d love me the same way.” Her voice wavered. “But no matter how much time passed, it always felt like he was looking past me. Like he was imagining someone else by his side. And I knew. I always knew.”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around the edge of the pew. You weren’t expecting to hear all of those things from her. Not after everything that had happened.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Akemi admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. “But I needed to say this. Because I know you’re not happy that Satoru’s been visiting me, too. At least, until he ended things officially between us. And probably until he learned about your pregnancy… Is it true?”

Your breath hitched, but you remained still.

“The baby’s a blessing, Y/N.” She lifted her chin, meeting your eyes with quiet resignation. “It’s exactly what I had hoped for myself… but I’m sick. I’m critically ill. Stage three endometrial cancer, to be exact.”

For the first time, something shifted in you. Shock. Pity. Confusion. You ended up returning her gaze—her lachrymose brown eyes that seemed to envy your entire being.

“H-He feels bad for me,” she continued, her voice softer now. “That’s why he’s been coming back and forth. He doesn’t love me—not the way I wanted—but he can’t turn away from someone who’s suffering. That’s who he is.”

You looked away, pressing your lips together, not knowing how to navigate a conversation with the sick friend who betrayed you.

“I don’t expect anything from him anymore. And I don’t expect anything from you, either.” Akemi’s lips curved into a sad smile. “I just wanted you to know that… I’m letting go. Of him. Of the past. Of everything.”

You held your breath back.

“I hope, one day, you can forgive him. Maybe even me. I know I lost a good friendship because of my bad decisions.”

She turned towards you, reaching for your hand that she soon softly squeezed. In that millisecond, you caught a glimpse of Nanami standing by the door, seemingly waiting for Akemi to finish her last words with you.

“Take care of him, Y/N. And take care of yourself.”

——

When you returned to the room, Satoru was pacing back and forth, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his jaw clenched in barely restrained nerves. The second he caught sight of you in the doorway, his shoulders sagged with relief, but his expression remained taut with worry.

“Y/N,” he exhaled, striding toward you in a rush. “What did she say? Was she rude to you? Did she—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Before he could spiral further, you grabbed him by the collar and silenced him with a firm kiss.

For a brief, stunned moment, he stiffened—his breath catching against your lips. Then, just as quickly, he melted into you, hands coming up to cradle your face as if you’d disappear if he let go. His lips moved over yours, not demanding, not desperate—just seeking, just holding.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still half-lidded with dazed confusion.

“Stop overthinking,” you murmured, fingers gently brushing the nape of his neck.

Satoru swallowed hard, searching your face for answers. “Y/N…”

But a soft noise from the hospital bed cut the moment short. Both your heads snapped toward Sachiro, who was stirring beneath the sheets, and his tiny fingers twitching as his eyelids fluttered open.

Satoru let out a shaky laugh, a watery grin spreading across his face as he rushed to his son’s side. “Hey, Sachi,” he choked out. “You’re awake.”

You moved closer, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes as Sachiro groggily turned to look at both of you. “My baby…”

“Mama…? Dada…?” His voice was weak, but the way he reached for both of you made your chest ache.

You took his small hand in yours, pressing it against your cheek as Satoru smoothed down his hair, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. “We’re here, baby,” you whispered. “We’re right here. How are you feeling, my sunshine?”

The nurses came shortly after, and then his doctor also took a visit. According to him, Sachiro showed good signs of recovery and ordered the medical staff to remove the devices attached to your son one by one as his progress looked promising. Soon enough, with the doctor’s advice, Sachiro could even start his rehab to be able to resume his normal activities. Everything you were hearing were positive outcomes, nothing but good news. You couldn’t help but feel as if things were too good to be true, and wondered if there was anything substantially bigger that’d come and wreck you.

The father of your child seemed to have noticed the moment you became silent, swallowed by the anxious thought of what was to come, and he came to wrap his arms around you, securing you in his embrace, and rubbing your belly from behind.

You could see the nurses noticing your little display of affection and so you tried to push Satoru off, but he didn’t budge. He only held you tighter and buried his face into your shoulder.

“Let me just recharge here for a bit,” he mumbled, as though you were the battery that was giving him energy. “Just let me hold you, please.”

——

You hadn’t addressed the elephant in the room yet, and the only real chance to do so came the following night, when Sachiro’s nanny took over in the suite. She kept you updated on his condition, while you—following your doctor’s advice—chose to finally get some proper rest at home.

But knowing your family, they’d bombard you with questions about Satoru the moment you walked through the door. Maybe that’s why you agreed to his suggestion—to stay the night at the penthouse. The same home you once shared as husband and wife.

Was it a rash decision? An impulsive one? Maybe exhaustion had driven you here, standing under the warm stream of his shower as he waited outside. It was strange how comforting this place still felt. How familiar, yet mind-warping it was. This was the same home where he had slept with Akemi. How could you feel both at ease and deeply unsettled?

By the time you stepped out, you stood in front of the vanity mirror, drying your hair as your gaze fell to your barely noticeable bump. You weren’t showing just yet, and knew that there was still time to decide. Did you want this baby? Keeping it meant Satoru would be even more tied to you. Letting it go meant sparing it from a toxic environment and the possibility of inheriting your heart condition.

Lost in thought, you barely heard Satoru’s knock before he entered, carrying your old pajamas. Without a word, he helped you into them with quiet care, his touch gentle but respectfully distant. He guided you like a loving husband would to his pregnant wife, up until you were settled under the warm duvet of your old bed, where he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Is there anything you want for breakfast?” he asked, “Anything you’re craving? Lemon bars? PB&J? I can run to the grocery store now if you want.”

His reminder of your old pregnancy cravings squeezed at your heart. It took you back to the days where you were immensely, unselfishly in love with him. “It’s almost midnight.”

“I’d do anything for you and baby.”

Maybe this was his way to consume you with guilt, knowing you still haven’t really decided if you wanted to keep the baby, yet here he was doing his everything just to show you how he wanted to care for his youngest. Would you be too cruel to ruin his fantasy?

“I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he murmured when he didn’t get any answer. “Call me if you need me.”

“Wait.” You regretted your words the moment you opened your mouth. “Stay.”

Because why? Just why did you ask him to stay? Why did you want him beside you? Why did you enjoy his warmth and his presence and his love? This was the same man who wrecked you to shreds, to pieces. How could you betray yourself and still trust him?

You didn’t need the answer right now, all you needed was Satoru’s gentle gaze, his careful embrace, and the way he caressed your face as he joined you in bed. You could tell he wanted to try for a kiss, but decided not to cross any lines you weren’t comfortable with.

“I’m dreaming, am I?” he asked, seemingly musing at the thought.

You sighed. “I’d hope so.”

“Y/N.” His voice was soft as he said your name. “I love you.”

Closing your eyes, you replied, “Give me time.”

#series: sincerely yours #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru angst

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baiwu-jinji · 26 days ago

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After the arrests last year of danmei authors who published their works on the Taiwanese website Haitang, the authorities have allegedly arrested another 200-300 authors, many of whom took to weibo to share their experiences recently.

What struck me is how the authors always blamed themselves for not being cautious enough or being led astray by their financial needs, but nobody put the blame on the unjust rules and the greed of the authorities that led to their arrests - not that they would dare to. It's an utterly bizarre situation that, as a new danmei English license seems to be announced once every few days here on the other side of China's Great Firewall, within China the persecution keeps getting more rampant and the danmei community feels more and more cornered and frightened. Reality is always more surreal than fiction.

I translated some of the author's weibo posts, please see below:

“I knew I was being naïve and over-optimistic (about the repercussions of writing danmei), so I can’t blame anyone. Sometimes I want to resent society but then I’ll give up the thought. As for the criminal punishment, my view on it is still the same - I even feel that I’m different from those who engage in prostitution; after all, I made all this money by typing my stories word by word. Yet when I got into trouble, people talked about it as if I didn’t have to work for my income.” - This is from an author who wrote danmei because her family’s poor and she wanted to save money to travel. She got into a master’s programme before this and the programme kicked her out because of her arrest.

“Ever since I was little, I’ve always been the well-behaved golden child in my parents’ eyes. I had the best grades among my peers and won scholarships in both high school and university. When we visited family during New Year and other festivals, my parents were always proud of me in front of our relatives. But that day I shamed them thoroughly and the shame will always stick around...I love the characters I wrote very much, planning and creating their stores always brought me so much happiness and fulfillment. But a mistake is a mistake. I want to use my personal experience to admonish others - don’t try to go against the regulations in any way ever, don’t put yourself in the slightest bit of risk.”

“I’ve never felt this horrible in my entire life. I’ve always firmly believed that nobody in this world could be that bad. My rose-tinted glasses were broken along with my romantic expectations for the world. My values and outlook on life were shattered. When something like this happens, perhaps only the family of the author involved and the author herself would be hurt deeply! It’s just business for everyone else!”

This one’s written by the author’s sibling: “Another sleepless night. Tomorrow is the Dragon Boat Festival, and it’s been three festivals since we could be together...I’ve felt remorseful for countless times that I didn’t contact more people and I felt that I haven’t done enough. I prayed to the gods and the Buddha for more times in the past two months than in the past 30 years. Besides asking for the Heaven’s protection and blessing, what else can we do?...You supported yourself financially during university solely by doing part-time jobs. We’ve always put too much importance on money, and that’s how we allowed you to make a mistake.”

(link to the original weibo posts: https://x.com/whyyoutouzhele/status/1928763362541818266)

#danmei

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sourkiki · 15 days ago

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WINGS OF THE HEART⠀ ㅤ ⠀ ㅤNISHIMURA RIKI.

ALBUM CONTENT: explicit mature content, monster(dragon) fucking, dom! dragon! 西村力 x fem! reader unprotected sex (wrap it up) ❀ double penetration, riding, belly buldge, faint pregnancy kink 𖤐 1362... ᧔♡᧓ catalogue.

FROM PRODUCER: my first fic in this new account! can't stop thinking about dragon! riki with his current look, so i ended up writing this in one go. don't like? don't read. taglist. @byshens, @chuhees, @doucious.

When you were a child, naive and still too young to experience the cold, harsh reality of the world you live in, your mother will always read you the same bedtime story. The bedtime story has a simple plot—it starts with a princess being kidnapped by the dragon that lives in the forest, situated near the castle.

The king and queen had tried everything they could to find their precious daughter back to them but their efforts were futile. No matter how high and low their search parties searched, they couldn’t find the princess. It was like she had vanished into thin air.

Years passed and eventually, they gave up, announcing that the princess was dead. What they didn’t know however, is how the princess was still alive. She had discovered the truth: the dragon is actually a human in disguise. It can shapeshift into a human at its free will and what it mostly desired was companionship and most importantly—love. Someone who will love him for who he really is. Someone who can embrace the ‘monstrous’ side of him. Someone who won’t run from him.

Long story short, the princess ended up learning more about the dragon and to no one’s surprise, she fell in love with him. The reason why your mother read it to you before bedtime was simple: she simply hoped you could find a man and love him for who he is. After all, all mothers would want the best for her children, right? Although, you weren’t sure if your mother would be pleased if she could see your current situation.

“W-Wait, no more,” you panted, trying to move away or push him away but his strength easily overwhelms yours.

Riki chuckled, ducking his head, his dragon-like tongue slithering out to teasingly graze the shell of your left ear. The heat sent shivers down your spine and made you tightened around him, drawing a mixture of a groan and low, deep growl from him. His eyes glowed a shade of light blue, making him look intimidating. But you weren’t afraid of him.

“No more?” He echoed with a smirk, hand snaking down to where you’re deeply connected with one another, brushing his hand against your puffy, soaked folds. He jerked upwards, eliciting a surprised gasp from you when you felt his cocks kissing the entrance to your womb. “The way you clenched down on me says otherwise. Why lie when your body’s telling the truth?”

He coos, lowering his head to trail butterfly kisses down the expanse of your neck that was covered in bite marks and hickeys—a physical claim to anyone who tried to lay their hands on you. That you belong to him and only him. Your breath involuntarily hitched at the fleeting sensation of his sharp fangs grazing against your skin. If he wishes, he could snap your neck and kill you on the spot. But you knew Riki’s too enamored with you to do that.

You couldn’t speak, mind going hazy when Riki continued thrusting into you at a slow, lazy and languid pace. Like he has all the time in the world to make you fall apart in his arms. You don’t know how much time had passed since Riki had dragged you to your shared bedroom. Your clothes were ripped to shreds with his sharp claws, much to your annoyance. Whatever protests formed died down in your throat when he kissed you, his tongue easily sliding down until it reached the depth of your throat, making you gagged on the slimy muscle.

One thing led to another and that’s how you ended up straddling his lap, his heavy, scaly tail wrapped around your waist in a possessive grip. Riki leaned against the bedframe, hands making themselves at home on your hips, drawing circles on your bare skin. Your poor hole was stretched impossibly wide in order to accommodate not one, but the girth of two cocks. The first time Riki fucked you, you ended up bleeding, much to your embarrassment but he wasn’t mad. He reassured you, resorting to only using one in the meantime, not wanting the same thing to happen again..

Now however, you’re already an expert, with how much Riki have you beneath him, reduced to a trembling, flustered mess. He couldn’t get enough of you. Of how warm and tight you feel with his cocks buried deep inside you, rearranging your insides to fit the outline of him. Of how breathtaking you look when you ride him, using him to greedily chase after your release. Of how angelic you sound with every thrust from him. To him, your moans were music to his ears and if he could, he would worship you until the end of time.

“Mmpfh, s-so good,” you moaned, head tilting back with your hands loosely wrapped around his shoulders, eyes rolling up to the back of your head. You could get drunk on the intoxicating feeling of his cocks sliding in and out of you. Your slick from your previous few orgasms that Riki had graciously ripped out from you was enough to act as lubricant.

The room was filled with the loud, sinful squelching sounds with your pleasured moans blending into the background. Your hair stuck to your forehead, skin glowing with a layer of sweat. The muscles in your thighs were starting to ache but you didn’t care when you felt your unknown climax coming. Riki could see the signs—the way your movements were getting sloppy and the way you were struggling to maintain your rhythm.

Which was why in a blink of an eye, he flipped you over onto your back without pulling out. One hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other gripped onto your waist to anchor himself, he pounded into you with no mercy. The sudden change of pace made you whined, back arching off the bed as you let him fuck you.

“Shit, you’re still so tight even after I’ve fucked you,” he cursed under his breath, sounding as ragged as you are.

Riki looked down, groaning out loud at how he could see his cocks protruding from your stomach. He watched as the small bump moved with every movement from his hips. His mind begins to spiral. Thoughts of pumping you full with his cum and you carrying his kids—maybe they will be half-human and half-dragons, walking around with your stomach round filled his mind.

Growling and filled with new vigour, Riki shoved you deeper into the dirtied sheets, hips snapping against yours as he pistoned his hips, determined to get you pregnant. You couldn’t do anything, simply laying there as you let him use you like a ragdoll. Breathless mewls, moans and whimpers spill from your lips endlessly. You cried out when he wrapped his thick, puffy lips around your hardened, sore right nipple, the split end of his dragon tongue circling the bud with ease.

All it took was one final, hard thrust for you to reach your climax. Your thighs trembled from the pure intensity of your orgasm. Clear, warm liquid gushes out from your pussy, soaking the sheets and your bodies wet. Riki was quick to follow suit, spilling his seed inside you. He made no move to pull out. Instead, he collapsed on top of you, making you let out a dignified squawk as you couldn’t breathe properly. Not when he was suffocating you to death.

“Get off! You’re heavy!” You squeaked, wriggling your hand out to smack his shoulder.

Riki shook his head, wrapping his arms around you as his tail loosened its grip around your waist. He buried his head in the crook of your neck and whined, acting like a child being scolded by their mother. “Don’t wanna. You feel nice and warm.”

You whacked the back of his head, making him flinched; startled as you scowled. “Yeah, no thanks to a certain someone. I’m all sticky and sweaty too.”

“Don’t care. I wanna sleep,” he murmured, words borderline slurring as he felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. The next thing you knew, Riki had fallen asleep with his cocks still inside you, much to your annoyance.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mumbled, cupping his face with your hands, thumbs grazing the skin underneath his eyes. Without his dragon-like features, Riki could pass as a regular young adult. Your eyes softened when he unconsciously nuzzled into your palms, acting like a touch-starved cat. Unable to help it, you leaned forward to press a soft, loving kiss on his forehead.

Good night, my precious dragon.

#ㅤ⠀⠀ ㅤ⸺ 情书 .ೃ࿐#enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enha x reader #enha imagines #enha smut #nishimura riki x reader #nishimura riki imagines #nishimura riki smut #riki x reader #riki imagines #riki smut #ni ki x reader #ni ki imagines #ni ki smut #ni ki x you #ni ki x y/n

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dcxdpdabbles · 7 months ago

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Danny reincarnates as Tim's twin. The only problem is that his ghost powers act up in the womb from either the gross ecto in Gotham or an artifact that Janet handled while pregnant. Because of this only Tim is 'born', the Drake's either assume one was miscarried or never knew they were twins.

Tim meanwhile grows up with a brother his parents ignore more than him. It takes Danny an embarrassingly long time to realize what's going on and fix it but by then the twins are around 4 so can't really explain to the rest of Gotham.

When they become Robin, either Nightwing and Batman are almost convinced he's like Harvey with how many times they've found him talking and discussing plans with himself. Or with how bad their collective mental health was at that time think they're going crazy.

Only Alfred knows what's going on because he's Alfred.

Tim Drake is a strange child. Ever since he was little, he would point to empty air and interact with it as if someone was standing there and responding.

At first, his parents thought it was cute that he had an imaginary friend, and Mrs. Drake even shed a few tears when Tim proclaimed that it was the brother he had at birth. The second son of the Drakes had been growing healthy in her stomach until the very end of the first trimester when he simply vanished.

Not died, not stop growing- vanished as if he was never there.

The doctors and the Drakes had no idea what happened. Test after tests were done, but in the end, they could only conclude that the second baby was gone. It was theorized that Tim may have devoured his brother in the womb, though there had been no symptoms that Janet suffered from.

When Tim was born, Janet had nearly died with a false labor that happened only ten minutes after giving birth. The nurses and doctors had been panicking because they could not understand where the contractions originated. False labor was contractions during pregnancy, not after labor, so there was nothing the body could confuse for the urge to push.

They ruled it as a freak false labor since the only other match was Janet entering second labor. Still, as much as the nurses and doctors were ready for a monochorionic monoamniotic twin, nothing came out. Eventually, Janet passed out, and her body finally finished doing whatever it was doing.

It was no surprise that this experience ended up giving Janet postpartum depression. She tried to connect to Tim, but something in her just never clicked, and Jack was beside himself, trying to care for his child while his wife drifted further and further away.

A therapist suggested Janet return to work, which seemed to do wonders for her. She took part in multiple digs and went on many trips, but eventually, Jack felt like she was never home. Worried his wife wouldn't return to him, Jack jumped on a plane while leaving Tim in the capable hands of the housekeeper.

He said it would be a short trip just to get Janet to come back and get treatment.

Jack ended up helping at the dig site, extending his stay to his once again bright and loving wife. Seeing her back to her usual self led to him booking them another trip.

Then another, and another, and antoher. Before long, the Drakes rarely spent time in Gotham, and Tim grew bigger in their absence. Janet loved Tim, but seeing him only brought back guilt that she could not love him like other mothers could so quickly. She was so excited for their baby and had loved him with her whole heart while he was inside of her, but now, seeing those big blue eyes blink up at her, all Janet wanted to do was run.

She drowned in guilt, and sometimes, it felt that she was only breathing because Jack was there for her. He dragged her back to the surface only long enough to take a breath and be dragged under again.

She missed his first steps, his first words, and his first laugh. That's why hearing him call out to Danny was so jarring. She had stopped outside his room, carrying gifts in the form of toys, hoping they would make up for the fact that she had only seen him a handful of times for a solid year.

He was playing with blogs, babbling to "Danny." She had picked out the name of her other son when she found out she was having twins. The only person Tim could have heard that name from was the housekeeper.

Janet fired her after wiping her tears. She would hire a replacement that wouldn't mock her two-year-old son. She let Tim keep his imaginary friend, figuring he would outgrow it.

Tim didn't.

Over the years, Tim became increasingly convinced Danny was with him. He even started turning in classwork under the name Danny, and when a teacher would call him, he would respond with "I don't know. Tim is better at this than me."

Sometimes, when he acted out, Tim would be the one responsible. Tim was the one who got bored quickly in class, needed to be challenged more, and preferred to follow whatever hair-brain idea he had. Photography, skateboarding, and actual crime shows were what made Tim happy.

Then, he became Danny when he showed effort in school but struggled to keep his solid, slightly above-average results. This side of her son preferred astronomy and baking and seemed confused by their wealth. Almost as if he was new money instead of the old wealth the Drakes had. Janet also heard that Danny seemed to stick his nose in whenever a bully targeted a classmate, confronting them with a bravo she could not associate with Tim.

Tim was more like her. They dealt with their opponents through clever planning instead of confirmation, which Jack preferred. He talked to himself a lot, too. The Drakes weren't even in Gotham, but their family's whispers echoed through the gala halls anyway. As young Tim walked by, there were rumors and speculations.

The elites would gossip as Tim continued arguing that the decor was worth the money and that they couldn't steal it, no matter how much food it could buy people in their charities.

He whispers, yelling at the air as Janet watches from across the hall, her stomach turning with love and repulse.

Years after his birth, she could not bring herself to stand before him for too long. Jack followed because he worried she do something to herself if he didn't.

She could not deny it now that Tim was nine. Janet realized, after a while of reading reports involving her son, that he likely suffered from a split personality disorder. Seeing it in person was entirely different.

They'll likely have to have him instituted, and the thought almost has her throwing up. She wonders if she would have caught on faster had she been a better mother and been around.

She steels herself, crossing the room to speak to her son. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Jack has noticed and quickly tries to make an excuse to stop her. Fortunately, depending on who you asked, the men looking for an investor don't let their husbands go that easily, so she is clear.

"No, I won't ask him for an autograph!" Tim hisses, looking at the wall to his right as if someone were leaning against it with him. Janet's resolves wabble a little at Tim's pout. There is a short pause before Tim goes red. "I can't do that! Mr.Wayne is really protective of Richard."

Dread pools into her stomach as Tim's features shift, and a grin with a mad twist settles on his lips. "I already have all the pictures I want about him. My favorite is the one I took last night."

This can't wait. Janet loves her son; she does not care what anyone says that she doesn't, but she can't allow him to harm others. Stalking will eventually lead to harm; she knows it. Those are the early signs.

She opens her mouth, only for Tim to turn to her with a coldness she hadn't noticed he always regarded her with.

She had never seen joy on his face, so she had never had a chance to compare how he looked at her and Jack to how he looked at others. How he looked at Danny.

Janet feels everything in her freeze, and a tremble grows in her arms and hands. Trying to hide it, she drowns the glass of wine in her hand in one gulp but instantly regrets it.

The world become slightly hazy that alcoholic cause, and maybe it's been a long time since she last drank. She could have sworn she was seeing double for a moment, and an exact copy of her child was leaning on the wall behind Tim.

But that wouldn't make sense. Tim's eyes weren't green.

"Son." Jack's warm presence is behind her, placing a comforting hand on her back, and she can't bring herself to speak as her husband commands. He likely feels her trembles. "It's time to leave."

The second image of Tim flickers out of sight, and Janet walks out of the Wayne Gala, wondering if her son inherited his madness from her. Neither adult notices the soft thump of the backseat, nor do they pay much attention to Tim carefully buckling the air or how the blanket he keeps back there spreads itself across Tim's lap.

Janet falls into old habits, and instead of being up to what she realized that night, she convinces Jack to go to Guatemala. They are gone first thing the following day.

Tim watches them leave from the top of the grand stairway, his eyes glowing green in heavy judgment and ice that Janet would have felt in the coldest winter. Jack is chatting nonsense to fill the silence and keep Janet grounded, but when she peeks over her shoulder to the Manor, she spots Tim in the window of his room, watching them leave with a frown.

His green eyes are gone, and she feels a chill race down her spine. There is no way he could have run up the stairs, gone down four different hallways, and gotten to the window before they could get to the waiting car.

"Goodbye, Tim. Keep the house safe!" Jack says as he opens the car door for Janet, but he's talking in the doorway. Because that's where the grand stairway is. She hears her son respond but can't tell what he is saying.

She can only gaze upwards to where Tim waves at her while clutching the curtain. His mouth doesn't move. He isn't the one speaking to Jack.

Janet sits in the leather of the car, Jack beside her, holding her hand tenderly, and she rethinks about having Tim instituted. She should hire an exorcist instead.

When they get back, of course. The car pulls away from the driveway, and Janet does her best not to look back even as the door slams shut, as if the sound was meant to tell her never to return. She closes her eyes, holds her breath, and only lets it go when they are far away from Drake Manor and her son.

Maybe one day she can be a good mother.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #The Twins #Janet's Pov #Tw: postpartum depression #tw: depression #tw: child neglect #Tim and Danny are twins but Danny is mentally older #He hates the drakes and Tim follows suit #Tim wishes his mom liked him like any other child though #Danny sometimes takes Tim's place #He chooses to stay invisible #Tim can see him though as a twin pwoer #Everyone thinks Tim is crazy and creepy

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opencommunion · 1 year ago

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"The story of 'John Doe 1' of the Democratic Republic of the Congo is tucked in a lawsuit filed five years ago against several U.S. tech companies, including Tesla, the world’s largest electric vehicle producer. In a country where the earth hides its treasures beneath its surface, those who chip away at its bounty pay an unfair price. As a pre-teen, his family could no longer afford to pay his $6 monthly school fee, leaving him with one option: a life working underground in a tunnel, digging for cobalt rocks. But soon after he began working for roughly two U.S. dollars per day, the child was buried alive under the rubble of a collapsed mine tunnel. His body was never recovered.

The nation, fractured by war, disease, and famine, has seen more than 6 million people die since the mid-1990s, making the conflict the deadliest since World War II. But, in recent years, the death and destruction have been aided by the growing number of electric vehicles humming down American streets. In 2022, the U.S., the world’s third-largest importer of cobalt, spent nearly $525 million on the mineral, much of which came from the Congo.

As America’s dependence on the Congo has grown, Black-led labor and environmental organizers here in the U.S. have worked to build a transnational solidarity movement. Activists also say that the inequities faced in the Congo relate to those that Black Americans experience. And thanks in part to social media, the desire to better understand what’s happening in the Congo has grown in the past 10 years. In some ways, the Black Lives Matter movement first took root in the Congo after the uprising in Ferguson in 2014, advocates say. And since the murder of George Floyd and the outrage over the Gaza war, there has been an uptick in Congolese and Black American groups working on solidarity campaigns.

Throughout it all, the inequities faced by Congolese people and Black Americans show how the supply chain highlights similar patterns of exploitation and disenfranchisement. ... While the American South has picked up about two-thirds of the electric vehicle production jobs, Black workers there are more likely to work in non-unionized warehouses, receiving less pay and protections. The White House has also failed to share data that definitively proves whether Black workers are receiving these jobs, rather than them just being placed near Black communities. 'Automakers are moving their EV manufacturing and operations to the South in hopes of exploiting low labor costs and making higher profits,' explained Yterenickia Bell, an at-large council member in Clarkston, Georgia, last year. While Georgia has been targeted for investment by the Biden administration, workers are 'refusing to stand idly by and let them repeat a cycle that harms Black communities and working families.'

... Of the 255,000 Congolese mining for cobalt, 40,000 are children. They are not only exposed to physical threats but environmental ones. Cobalt mining pollutes critical water sources, plus the air and land. It is linked to respiratory illnesses, food insecurity, and violence. Still, in March, a U.S. court ruled on the case, finding that American companies could not be held liable for child labor in the Congo, even as they helped intensify the prevalence. ... Recently, the push for mining in the Congo has reached new heights because of a rift in China-U.S. relations regarding EV production. Earlier this month, the Biden administration issued a 100% tariff on Chinese-produced EVs to deter their purchase in the U.S. Currently, China owns about 80% of the legal mines in the Congo, but tens of thousands of Congolese work in 'artisanal' mines outside these facilities, where there are no rules or regulations, and where the U.S. gets much of its cobalt imports. 'Cobalt mining is the slave farm perfected,' wrote Siddharth Kara last year in the award-winning investigative book Cobalt Red: How The Blood of the Congo Powers Our Lives. 'It is a system of absolute exploitation for absolute profit.' While it is the world’s richest country in terms of wealth from natural resources, Congo is among the poorest in terms of life outcomes. Of the 201 countries recognized by the World Bank Group, it has the 191st lowest life expectancy."

#antiblackness #colonialism #imperialism #turtle island #congo #library

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rooster-the-love-of-my-life · 16 days ago

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Idiots At a Wedding pt1

Summary: Pretending to be Bob's girlfriend in front of his family had to be easy right? Right...??

Pairings: Bob Floyd x fem!reader

Warnings: slight unholy thoughts, self pitying, oblivious idiots

A/N: Tell a friend to tell a friend SHES BACKKK!!! I know it's been so long since I posted but I'm finally back, and this time I've tried something different. So please be kind and don't be a stranger. Enjoy!!!!

series masterlist || part 2

"Hey Bob, you got a date for the wedding yet?"

The whole squad was gathered around Rooster and Hangman's coffee table in their shared apartment, having their ritualistic Friday night dinner when Phoenix asked her backseater the question. After the success of your mission, you all were asked to stay back and become a part of a special task force led by Maverick. Everyone jumped on the opportunity, eager to see what the future held and delighted to see it with friends.

Bob, who as usual was sitting on the floor near the edge of the coffee table, snapped his head up upon hearing his name. "No, not yet." He mumbled with delicious chinese food stuffed in his mouth.

"What wedding?" You jumped into the conversation, eyes moving between Bob and Phoenix from the couch you were sat on, curious to know what they were talking about.

"Of course that piques your interest." Hangman butted in, putting a peace of chicken in his mouth. "The entire night you've been awfully quiet and suddenly when you hear the word wedding you almost burst out of your seat out of excitement."

"Shut up Jake." You rolled your eyes, shoving him with your left elbow, getting a soft grunt out of him. "Did your mama never teach you to not talk with your mouth full?"

"You didn't say anything to Bob when he did it." The blonde argued.

"What wedding?" You asked again, completely ignoring the man on your left, laser focused on finding out who was getting married and when.

Ever since you were a child, weddings had always been your favorite, maybe it was because of all the free food or maybe it was because of how good everyone looked. Nevertheless, weddings were your favorite thing in the world, and hearing someone from your squad was going to a wedding just excited you to the core.

"My younger sisters getting married next week." Bob explained. "I'm supposed to be the best man at the wedding."

"And supposed to bring a date." Phoenix added, nudging him with her knee as if to send him some secret message no one else understood.

"That too." He added, face a little flushed. "Haven't found anyone willing to go with me yet, so I guess I'll just have to endure my mama's wrath. Nothing I haven't handled before."

"Did you even ask anyone?" Coyote asked.

"No." Bob whispered as Natasha groaned in frustration.

"I told him weeks ago to ask someone but he still hasn't done it. Do you really want Mrs. Floyd to kill you?"

"She isn't going to kill me if I don't bring a date right." Bob said with confidence which wavered the second Phoenix raised an eyebrow and gave him a look which clearly said otherwise. "Right?"

"Talking from experience of having a Texan mother myself, I can assure you she won't kill you. But there is no way in hell she's ever letting you live it down." Jake added, trying to console Bob but failing miserably.

Bob groaned, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "What am I gonna do?"

"I'll go with you." You offered with out skipping a beat to no one's surprise. You were always one to jump on the opportunity to help someone, it was almost as if you were put on this earth for the sole reason of helping people. So when you offered to help Bob out, no one was supried. "I'll go to the wedding with you, I love weddings. Besides, Maverick has been begging me to use my vacation days, so I'll finally get to do that to."

"Yo-you don't have to." Bob stuttered out his words, looking down at his plate, the red blush creeping over to his ears.

"No I want to. I love weddings and I would love to meet your family too, you always talk about them so fondly." You repeated, smiling so brightly at Bob he feared he might be blinded by you.

"You don't have to Sunny, really. You don't have to come out of pity or anything."

"I'm not offering out of pitty." You reassured him with a soft smile. "I have no problem accompanying you to your sisters wedding. Unless you don't want me to of course." You added quickly, not having taken Bob's wishes into consideration.

"No no, it's not that. It just that I-" Bob started but you quickly stopped him, over taken by excitement.

"It's settled than, I'm going to the wedding with you." You said gleefully, getting up from your seat and towards the kitchen to get yourself a drink.

The night went on, everyone chatted normally and stuffed themselves full of food until they couldn't breath. For the rest of the night, your spirits were higher than ever. You were already known to be the yapper of the group, but now no one could get you to stop talking. On the other hand, Bob got eerily quiet, more quiet than he had ever been before, almost as if he was having a mini existential crisis in his head.

By ten it was time for everyone to go back to their homes. Having said your goodbyes, you were walking towards your car in the parking lot when Bob called out your name from behind you, jogging slightly to catch up to you.

"Hey, what's up?" You asked, leaning against your car as the blue eyed man approached you.

"I um, I wanted to talk to you about the wedding." He said, stuffing his hands inside his jacket as chilly winds rose up in the air.

"I'm so excited. You'll have to text me all the details." You replied, adrenalin pumping through you.

"It's not about that." He cleared his throat, looking down at the ground, clearly uncomfortable.

"Is everything okay? Did I say something wrong? Should I have not offered in front of every-"

"No no, it's not that. Not that at all." He quickly stopped you. "It's just that, my mother's a bit too much. She always nags me about everything and at times it gets a bit unbearable. A couple of months ago she was complaining about me not dating and was about to set me up with the daughter of someone from her bookclub. So to get her off my back and save myself from embarrassment I kind of told her that I'm already seeing someone else and now she expects me to bring that someone to the wedding."

You couldn't believe your ears as Bob's confession filtered out of his mouth. He had lied to his mother and told her he had a girlfriend when in reality he hadn't been out on a date in almost a year. And now his mother was expecting him to bring the woman who stole her son's heart to the big wedding and you had just accidently signed up to be that woman.

"So that means-" You started slowly, still processing what you had just heard.

"If you come to the wedding with me she'll think you're my girlfriend." Bob finished the sentence for you, red faced from his confession. "You can say no now if you want to."

You looked up at the man standing in front of you, looking like a puppy in the rain, and something inside of you just could not let you say no to him.

"It's fine Bob, I'll still go with you." You whispered, as Bob's head snapped up, staring at you with hope and nervousness.

"Really? But everyone would think you're my girlfriend. I just don't want you to be uncomfortable or feel as if you're obliged to say yes."

"No, I-I want to. I mean what kind of a friend would I be if I don't help you out in a tough situation." You said, giving him a soft smile.

"Oh thank god." He sighed, shoulders visibly relaxing. "Thank you, I know I've put you in a tough spot, but thank you so much for helping. I don't know what I'd do without you. Probably get a beating from my mama for lying to her at the ripe age of thirty."

"It's alright Bob, you don't need to thank me." You out your hand on his arm to get him to calm down and stop his rambling. "You can text me the details tommrow okay. For now just go get some rest, we'll figure it all out later."

With that you both went back to your apartments to get some well needed rest. But from the second you got into your car, your mind kept thinking about what you'd just done. Anyone who knew you could always rely on you to help them out id they were ever in a though spot, but this was a bit too much, even by your standards. Part of you thought it was just because you were desperate to go to a wedding, but deep down inside you knew the real reason. You would do anything for him, anything for Bobby.

----------------------------

Bob Floyd was freaking out. He was absolutely losing his mind, pacing back in forth in his apartment, flipping out in front of his best friend.

"Oh my god, what have I just done." He said, grabbing his head with both of his hands, still pacing. "What have I just done? What have I done Nat?"

"Hey, hey, calm down." She said, moving forward on the couch, resting her elbows on her knees. "Stop pacing, I'm getting vertigo just from watching you."

That made Bob instantly stop and stare at her with wide eyes and disheveled hair, waiting for her to continue.

"Now, listen to me carefully." Natasha started. "You haven't done anything wrong, you've just asked a girl to be your date. A girl you've had a stupid high school crush on for forever."

Bob blushed immediately upon hearing Nat talk about his crush on you. It wasn't much of a secret that he liked you. He had liked you from the moment he first saw you at the hard deck, laughing and playing pool with the rest of the squad, looking like an absolute dream. Since that moment, he looked at you with so much yearing that it didn't even take Phoenix a week to figure out her backseater was smitten by you.

You were the absolute opposite of Bob, extroverted, loud spoken, so vibrant, always the life of the party, always ready to lend people a hand even if you had just known them for a few hours, the literal embodiment of you callsign, Sunshine. Bob was someone who lived in the shadows, keeping to himself, and speaking only when spoken to. When you entered his life, it was as if he was taken by a storm, he had never seen someone so exuberant in his life and yet here you stood, as real as real gets.

"You just have to keep your cool and spend the week with her. Then you can go back to pining from afar. All the while pretending to be in love with her and hoping she'll give a convincing performance as well." She finished, adding the last part awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck, finally realizing that Bob may have landed himself in a sticky situation.

"Keep my cool?" Bob said, scoffing loudly. "Keep my cool, I can't even keep myself sane around her for an hour how do you expect me to be around her for a week?"

He slumped into one of the arm chairs, massaging his temple, clearly stressed. Natasha knew he was right, he couldn't even spend an hour with you and here he was, about to convince his whole family that you were in love.

"That's not even the worst part." Bob added, sounding defeated. "The worst part is that the whole time we're going to pretend to be in love, it's all going to be an act for her, but not for me. Not for stupid Bobby." He slapped himself hard on the back of his head as if to reprimand himself.

"Hey, stop it." Phoenix said, getting up from her seat, having had enough of Bob's defeatist attitude. "You are not going to be pitying yourselves, not on my watch. Now, what you are going to do is man the fuck up. You've liked the girl for forever, what could go wrong if you just told her?"

"She could hear me." Bob mumbled, being completely ignored by Natasha.

"And this trip is the perfect way to do it. You take her to the wedding, woo her with your country charm and bam she's yours." Natasha declared, standing in front of Bob with her hands on her hip.

"Um, no. I'm pretty sure it'll be more like bam she never speaks to me again." Bob mumbled. "And what country charm? My sisters inherited all the charm. She's going to realize this the second she meets them and figure out how big of a loser I really am."

"Bob, believe me when I say this, she does not think you're a loser. You're amazing guy, you don't need any country charm, you just need to be yourself. I get it can be scary telling someone you like them, but there are some points in your life you just have to take a chance and this is it. If she likes you back, it'll be the best thing that ever happened to you."

"And if she doesn't?" Bob whispered.

"Then it's her loss."

--------------------------------

For the first time in his life, Bob finally understood why Garfield hates Mondays so much. The dreaded day was finally here, you were leaving for Texas on the afternoon flight and were going to return back on Sunday evening. A full week later.

Bob was sure he was going to die. Or spontaneously combust. Or throw up. Or all of those in that particular order- which would be weird- but definitely something that was going to happen. The coming week was going to be a torment, a humiliation ritual for him. Not only is he going to have to be glued to you the entire time, he has also got to pretend to be in a relationship with you.

Pretending wasn't the hard part, he had pretend to be a lot of things he wasn't in his life. No, the hard part was going to be making it seem convincing. Enough to fool his hawk eyed mother.

You on the other hand did not know what to feel. You were excited to be attending a wedding, feeling like a kid on Christmas day. But you were also riddled with anxiety. How were you going to pretend to be Bob's girlfriend. Of course you and him had had a vigorous conversation and had come up with all the details of how you met and started dating, but that was all theoretical. Practically pretending was going to be a different story altogether.

It was established early on that you two will have to share a room, possibly even a bed, which you didn't really have a problem with. You would also have to be close to each other the whole time, with a pinch of pda here and there to throw people off your scent. But the thing that scared you the most was that you would have to kiss him, even if it's just on the cheek, you would have to lean up to the tall man's rosy cheeks and press your lips on his soft skin, all the while trying not to jump his bone then and there.

It wasn't a secret how attractive Bob was, tall muscular with those stupidly cute glasses, anyone with half and eye would want him. But ever since you first saw him sitting quietly near the pool table at the hard deck, you were a goner. You had never seen a man so handsome in your life, for a moment you thought you were hallucinating. But then he opened his mouth and introduced himself in his charming southern accent, and boy were you screwed. No other man in the world mattered to you anymore.

You contemplated telling him multiple times on various sleepless nights, but eveytime your heart wandered down delusion street, you mind pulled you back to reality. Bob was respectful, always exchanging pleasantries with you, engaging in polite chatter while you both waited for the rest of the squad to show up, but thag was all he ever was. Polite. Polite and distant. The time you had spent with him coming up with a cover story was probably the most you had ever talked to him, much to your dismay. But once Bob had made it clear he wasn't one for mingling, you backed off.

By the time you arrived the airport, Bob was already there, waiting for you outside, looking devilishly handsome in his civil clothes. Sure you had seen him in cvs before, but this new laid back version of him was almost giving you a heart attack.

"Hey, hope I didn't make you wait too long." You greeted him, getting out of the taxi and moving towards the trunk to get you bags out.

"No not at all. I just got here myself" Bob lied, having arrived 25 minutes earlier. He moved faster than you, pushing open the trunk to take out your bags instead.

"Oh you don't have to do that, I can do it myself." You tried to stop him, but he just effortlessly lifted your heavy suitcase with one hand and your carry on bag with the other, muscles flexing under the white t-shirt.

"I wouldn't be too good of a boyfriend if I don't help you with your bags, now would I?" He replied, giving you the softest smile you had ever seen, melting your heart.

How in hell's name were you going to survive being with him for an entire week when he kept doing stuff like this. It was hard enough for you already to be playing his pretend girlfriend, knowing how much you actually wanted to be his, and now he had to go and be the best pretend boyfriend there ever was.

This was going to be a long week.

---------------------

The flight was hell, hell in an airplane. There were not one, not two but four screaming babies on the flight, and as your luck would have it, three out of the four were all placed near you. You were already sitting in a cramped area when the man sitting behind you thought it would be a wonderful time to show off his soccer skills by nudging his knees into the back of your seat time and time again. And then finally, you were stuck between a fighting couple who made you their personal therapist for the entire plane ride, leaving you absolutely drained by the time you landed.

Thankfully, you didn't have to deal with Bob the entire flight, otherwise you might have just lost the plot.

"How was your flight?" Bob asked once you two were off the plane and making your way towards the baggage claim.

"Terrible." You replied, massaging your temple with a long sigh. "Every cranky baby on the plant seemed to be seated near me and the couple I was stuck between treated me like a couples counsellor the entire time. I was debating jumping off the plane halfway through."

"Oh, you should have told me. I would've switched with you." Bob said, looking at you sympathetically.

"Bobby, you can't even handle it when Rooster and Hangman are fighting, how would you have handled two strangers having a lovers spat." You raised an eyebrow, placing your hand softly on his shoulder as he ducked his head and chuckled.

"That's true." He nodded, before continuing. "But the baby sitting next to me was really sweet. Played with me the whole fight."

"It's parents must be really thankful." You commented.

"Yep, they slept the whole way through, even offered me the job of a nanny." He told you as you snorted with laughter.

"Bobby Floyd, the babies princess." You teased, giving him a cheeky smile that he returned with rosy cheeks. In that moment you swear you fell in love.

"Oh, there they are!" Bob exclaimed, suddenly grabbing hold of your left hand with his free one, guiding you through the crowd. "There's my sister."

A woman, who looked a bit older than Bob was standing at the arrival gate, accompanied by a man holding a toddler in his arms.

"Bob!" The woman squealed, throwing her arms around the pilots shoulders and pulling him into a big hug.

"Annie." Bob said through laughter. "How're you doing?"

"Oh, much better now that ma has someone new to torture." She replied, before turning towards you with a smile. "And who might this pretty lady be?"

"This is my girlfriend." Bob introduced you, and you would have melted right there if it wasn't for Annie pulling you into a warm hug.

"My, my. You never told me she was this pretty Bob." She commented, holding you're cheeks in her hand, inspecting you thoroughly.

"And he never told me his sister was so gorgeous either." You finally spoke.

"And a smooth talker as well, mama's gonna love you." Annie chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, turning towards the man with the baby. "This is my husband Jeff." She introduced as you shook hands with him.

"And this little menace here is Andy." Bob cut in, taking the little boy from his father's hand, softly tickling his tummy, earing loud laughs out of Andy.

"Uncle Bob's his favorite, isn't he." Annie stated in a baby voice before turning to help Jeff with the bags. You were about to reach out and help before she swatted your hand away. "Nope, we've got it."

You flashed her a thankful smile and turned to look at Bob, clearly enjoying the two year old company.

"You really are the baby whisperer aren't you?" You whispered, amused how children were so comfortable with Bob.

"What can I say, I am the chosen one." He joked, making you throw your head back and laugh. As horrible as the flight had been, seeing Bob home and happy was definitely worth it.

The car ride to his childhood home was short, during which he you learned that Annie was Bob's elder sister who had gotten married a few years back, and now it was his kid sisters turn.

"Everyone had always thought it would be Bob getting married before Lucy." Jeff commented. "But I guess she beat him to the altar."

"Oh I don't think we'll have to worry about that any longer." Annie whispered, just loud enough for you to hear.

The only response Bob gave was his classic red cheeks. The rest of the drive was filled with Bob and his older sister chatting, catching up on their lives while Andy quietly played with the aviator. You looked out the window for most of it, taking in the soft countryside, trying to memorise every inch of Bob's hometown. Upon arriving at his childhood home, you were immediately awestruck by it's beauty. It wasn't a massive house, you'd seen bigger ones then it, but something about it screamed home from the moment you laid your eyes on it.

All four of you were walking towards the front door, when an older woman, you figured Bob's mother, threw open the screen door. "Finally, took you long enough." She started, voice dripping with a heavy southern accent. "Now come here and give your mama a hug."

Bob ran up the stairs and right into the arms of this mother, the same way he used to as a kid. "Hi ma, sorry for the delay."

"Eh, don't worry bout it, atleast you're here now." She replied with a bright smile, kissing both his cheeks softly. "And you've brought me a guest." She moved to take a look at you.

"Pleasure to meet you Mrs. Floyd." You put your hand forward for her to shake, standing in proper military posture, trying your best to make a good impression.

"Mrs. Floyd was my husband's mother, please call me Mary dearie." She replied, pulling you into a hug with the same intensity as Annie. You figure this was a family problem that Bob hadn't inherited, though you would have minded getting a bone crushing hug from him.

"Yes ma'am. Mary." You quickly corrected yourself with a smile, feeling more welcomed with Bob's family in a second then you had ever before.

"Very well, now come in, let's get you both settled. There's going to be a small gathering in a while so why don't you go freshen up." She ushered you both inside the house and towards the steps right up to Bob's room. Jeff helps you with your bags as you climbed up to Bob's childhood bedroom.

"There you are." Jeff placed your bags in front of your door with a heavy groan, but there was no hint of disdain on his face. Rather all there was was happiness of having his brother-in-law back home. "I'll see you in a bit okay? Just holler if you need anything."

With that he went back downstairs leaving you and your fake boyfriend all alone for the first time. You both walked in, happy to finally be able to put your feet up. But upon seeing the size of the bed, all you desire to rest immediately vanished. It was already decided that you'd have to share a bed, but this one was barely big enough to accommodate one person, let alone two adults.

"I can take the floor, you take the bed." Bob spoke, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"You don't need to do that Bob, we can share the bed." You offered. "Or I'll sleep on the floor. This is your bed anyways."

"I've dragged you into this mess with me, the least I can do is give you the bed."

"You didn't drag me into anything, I offered to be a part of your mess." You pointed out, sitting on one side of the bed, patting it lightly, indicating Bob to come and join you. "Besieds, I think I'm already in love with your family. They're all so-"

"Overwhelming?" Bob butted in, making you roll your eyes playfully.

"So much like a family. I mean, everyone was so happy to see you. No one from my family has ever-" You stopped yourself before you got ahead of yourself, quickly reminding yourself that no one from the squad knew about your family and you weren't going to let it slip out now. "Anyways, your family is really nice, I can't wait to spend the week with them."

"Really?" Bob asked, actually intrigued by your excitement. For him this was all normal, infact this wasn't even the tip of the iceberg, they were a about to get much more overbearing. "I never really liked all of this. Sure it's nice to be greeted so lovingly, but knowing them, they're going to get really annoying real fast. And there are going to be so many people to interact with, I can already feel my cheeks hurt at the thought of all the fake smiles I'm gonna have to give."

"Don't worry bout it, I'll come and save you from all the fake laughs." You declared. "I'm great with people."

"My knight in shining armor." Bob replied bashfully. "I've always admired that about you, you know. How easily you can talk to anyone. Sometimes I get quiet jealous of that, I can't hold a conversation with a stranger to save my life."

The words coming out of his mouth seemed unreal. You just couldn't believe your ears, Bob admired somthing about you. Something you hadn't really liked about your own self. You always thought you talking so much must have annoyed people, but here was than man of your dreams, telling you it was one of his favourite things about you.

"You think my yapping is admirable Floyd?" You blushed, ducking you head down.

"It's one of your best qualities." He affirmed. "I'm gonna use the bathroom now of you don't mind?"

"No, not at all. Think of it as your own home." You joked, earning a hearty laugh form him before he disappeared into the bathroom.

Outside you were going insane. Was he flirting with you or is this all part of the façade? If it is the latter, then you're in for a heartbreak. And if it's the former, you might just die with giddiness. Inside the bathroom Bob was pinching himself. Had he really made you blush with just a small compliment? Where he had gotten this confidence from, he didn't know. But if this false confidence of his made you look like a tomato, then he'd happily fake it for life.

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