#it's the love of a father kicking in and throwing himself in front of his son before he even thinks about it. WAILS

[suntails]

sacrifice

[gloomwitchwrites]

They have too much fun being a scary dad when their daughter brings her boyfriend home to meet the parents

In general, I hate when men do this, especially if they mean it. That patriarchal stuff really irritates me. But for this, it's a prank. They're doing it to embarrass their child (and I'm in support of that).

Due to the nature of the ask, I'm slightly aging up Price and Ghost, and significantly aging up Soap and Gaz. They're all fathers and have been for a while. Their age reflects this.

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Dad!Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: dad!141, pranks, shenanigans, protective behavior, terrorizing the daughter’s boyfriend

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

"Don’t answer the door, John."

He winks and reaches behind him, turning the knob, and swinging it wide, startling the young man on the other side.

"I'm here to pick up—"

"Come in," commands John. The authority in his voice makes you wince. "Have a seat."

The boy visibly swallows, looking to you for help.

"I'll grab her.”

John reaches for you. Arm tucked behind your back, John drags you against him, lips pressed to your ear. "Let me terrorize the lad for a minute."

"John."

"Just a minute."

John releases you and turns to the teenage boy on the sofa. You ascend the stairs, heading for your daughter’s room. You count to twenty before pushing open the door.

"He's here."

She squeals and presents herself. "Look good?"

"Gorgeous."

She beams as she rushes past you and down the stairs. You make it to the top in time to hear her chastise her father.

"We're only talking," John says casually.

You descend just as your daughter and her distraught-looking boyfriend leave.

"What did you say to him?" you ask with arms crossed.

"We just chatted,” shrugs John.

"John," you scold, but he ignores you, heading into the kitchen. "John!" 

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Who was—”

You come to a halt in the living room archway. Kyle sits casually in the lounge chair, a soft smirk on his face. Across from him is a young teenage boy no older than sixteen. The boy is clutching a lovely bouquet of flowers.

This is your daughter’s date. And Kyle has him cornered like a kicked animal.

You turn your admonishing gaze on Kyle, eyebrows rising toward your hairline as you throw a silent accusation.

Kyle only shrugs, and then winks like it’s a game.

You introduce yourself and the boy relaxes a bit.

Standing, Kyle saunters over to you, his hand resting low on your back. “And what time did we discuss about bringing her home?”

“Nine, sir. On the dot.”

“Good lad.”

“Did you let our daughter know her date is here?” you ask, keeping your tone even.

“I will now,” replies Kyle cooly, never taking his eyes off the date.

He starts to walk away but your grab hold of him, sliding back to his side, lowering your voice.

“Were you polite?”

“Always, love.”

“Kyle,” you scold, knowing he wasn’t.

His lips twitch as he hides a smile. “I was a little mean.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

"Don't."

"I won't."

"You promised."

"Said I wouldn't."

His reassurance isn't promising, and that mischievous grin on his face isn't helping things.

"John MacTavish," you whisper-scold as the doorbell rings and he rushes to the door.

You follow him, but you’re seconds too late. John opens the door and grabs the front of the boy’s shirt, yanking him inside before the young man can get a word in.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

Already, you hear your daughter’s hurried steps. She’s going to lose it if she sees her father picking on her boyfriend.

The boy’s face blanches, all the color leeching away as he gazes on this muscled monstrosity before him. Johnny is puffing himself up, appearing much large than he actually is.

“Why are you loitering on my doorstep?”

“Excuse me, sir. I—”

“You what?”

“John,” you warn.

“I’m picking up your daughter, sir.”

“Oh, aye. Why is that?”

The boy swallows, his gaze darting to you for help. Your mouth opens, ready to end this when you hear your daughter’s sharp inhalation.

“Dad!”

Johnny immediately softens, draping his arm over the boy’s shoulders like he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

“Boyfriend’s here, love. Be home by ten.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon said he wouldn't be home. You knew that was a lie the moment your daughter mentioned bringing her boyfriend home.

He didn’t change—or make any attempt to appear less…intimidating. Simon wears all black tactical gear with his signature balaclava.

And is that? —No. Blood?

You stare Simon down, eyes widening in silent plea. Your daughter looks on, hands fidgeting nervously.

Don't, you mouth.

While Simon appears intimidating, he’s smiling under that balaclava. The boyfriend appears scrawny compared to Simon.

"Mr. Riley," he says, holding out his hand.

Simon doesn't even glance at the offered palm. He only stares the boy down.

"Where are the two of you off to?"

"The movies."

"What movie?"

He answers.

Simon grunts. "What time will you be home?"

"Around ten." Simon's gaze narrows and the boy swallows. "Ten sharp, sir."

"Good."

Simon clasps the boy's shoulder and herds the two of them toward the door.

"Have fun," you say as brightly as you can.

As they walk to the car, you pinch Simon's side. "Uncalled for."

Simon elbows you. "We have a few hours to ourselves."

"Simon," you warn, but he’s shutting the door, hips swaying slightly.

"I've got some energy to burn." 

taglist:

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[emeritusemeritus]

Breed like Gnomes [Fred Weasley]

Title: Breed like Gnomes.

Pairing: PregnantWife!Reader x Fred Weasley

Timeline: Set after Canon (Fred lives!)

Summary: At Ginny and Harry’s wedding, you find yourself facing Aunt Muriel’s unpleasantness, so Fred decides to have some fun.

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, babies, sexual references.

Word count: 1.2k

June 4th 2003, a joyful and long awaited day for all in attendance. The marriage of Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley. It was a family affair, both in blood and bond, the entire venue packed with loved ones sharing in the happiness of the newlyweds.

Being Ginny's long standing friend and now sister-in-law, you were naturally made a bridesmaid along with six others who proudly stood by Ginny's side as she said her vows. It was beautiful, joyous and utterly heartwarming to see them unite and be declared husband in wife in front of the many people attending. The couple had initially wanted a much smaller affair than what had transpired but in the end, they were too deeply cared for by so many and the numbers were ever increasing, only made worse by Molly's excitement and welcoming nature.

It had been a truly magical day; getting to support your new sister in law, to see your daughter throw wild flowers down the aisle and most of all getting to check out your husband in his tux as he sat beaming beside his twin brother in the front row, holding back a tear at seeing his little sister suddenly looking so grown up.

"You alright sweetheart?" Fred asks worriedly as you lower yourself gently into your assigned seat inside the bustling marquee. It was getting late now, the party stretching into the night as people danced merrily around you.

You were exhausted from the day, the early morning, the usual nuptial stresses and from the shoes that were growing increasingly uncomfortable around your slightly swollen ankles.

You simply smiled warmly at Fred with a little nod, leaning into his touch when he placed his arm behind you on your chair, his fingers fidgeting with the strands of hair that had fallen down your back.

You both turned your heads in the direction of delighted squeals and watched as your children danced around, chasing each other and their many cousins with beaming smiles on their faces. Their nice outfits were quite frankly ditched at this point and they'd eaten more cake than you cared to admit throughout the day but as you looked at the three happy faces on the dance floor, you couldn't care less. Their uncle George took turns spinning and twirling them and you couldn't help but watch in devotion at seeing your oldest dancing with your brother in law, no doubt standing on his feet as he glided her around whilst the twins ran in circles around the dancing pair.

You let out a little surprise gasp when you felt a sharp kick to your side, just underneath your rib.

"I thought you were asleep," you say quietly with a loving smile as your hand drifts down to your blooming bump, gently rubbing over the spot where you'd felt a little prod.

"Letting you know he's there?" Fred asks with a smirk, noticing your movements. He moved closer and places his large hand over yours, wanting to feel for himself the little kicks that had you smiling at your bump.

"He?" You question sarcastically, with a slight raise of your eyebrow.

"Fathers intuition," Fred smirks with a slight shrug, "never been wrong yet."

"You didn't know there were two last time," you countered teasingly, nodding your head towards the two litttle boys causing havoc on the dance floor. He lets out a boyish chuckle and for a moment you both catch each other's eyes, both twinkling in delight and bound with love. You'd been married for nearly five years, together for much longer but it still took your breath away how much you loved this man, and how much he loved you in return.

"Good heavens!"

The nice moment passed as soon as the loud, screechy voice sounded out on the next table, forcing you apart. You jumped slightly at the unexpected noise before realising that Fred's great aunt Muriel had taken up a seat at the table beside yours and as usual her presence was unwanted. Her voice went through you, like nails on a chalkboard. The high tone and the derogatory, unpleasant undertone to her words, accompanied by the constant hateful look on her face were enough to cement a negative association in your mind. Both you and Fred deflated a little at her presence, with Fred letting out an audible sigh that you felt in your soul. Even your baby let out a sharp kick as if to announce their own displeasure at the sound of her voice.

"Yes aunt Muriel?" Fred says in the most monotone voice he can muster, not even attempting to hide the dismay in his voice, or his face.

"Godric," she mumbles under her breath, casting her eyes between the two of you, focusing her beady eyes on your bump, and where your children were currently hanging off George like monkeys in a tree. "You breed like gnomes!"

You hope your face doesn't show the depth of your exasperation at her words but you doubted your ability to keep a straight face. Fred, of course, finds it hilarious and can't keep the smile off of his face. You can feel his shoulders moving up and down with silent laughter but he manages to contain it and simply clears his throat to hide the laughter.

"Have either of you considered simply reading of an evening? Instead of what I assume are your usual activities?" She says with a bitter tone, face downturned into her usual grimace.

Fred snorts at her words and though you feel slightly offended by her accusation, just as you always did by her comments, you can't help but chuckle yourself at the strangeness of the situation. Was she really commenting on your sex life?

"Onto your fourth already! And only 25! You’re worse than your mother, all of you breed like Gnomes."

"You see I've never been one for reading, but I tried," Fred replies coyly. From his tone of voice you can tell that he's teasing, about to prod the bear. "But it only gave me more ideas. What was is called sweetheart? Some muggle book... Kama sutra! Eroticism for begginers. Let me tell you, it's changed my life! Couldn't put it down... or her," he says, nodding his head towards you with a wicked smile on his face as his hand snakes around to cradle your bump once again.

You can't hide your smile this time as Muriel lets out a disgusted squark and turns away with a deeper grimace than before. You turn your head and snuggle into Fred's shoulder to hide your laughter whilst he openly chuckles to himself, head thrown back slightly in glee.

"You're terrible," you mutter with a smirk, pulling yourself away from the soft fabric of his shirt where it stretches over his muscled shoulders. His smile is wide and wicked as he takes in your words, hearing nothing but compliments.

"Hilarious is a better word," he quips, eyes shining in delight.

"Incorrigible."

"Completely irreformable," he agrees without a single care. "But I think you like me like this."

You look up from under your lashes at him, matching the look in his sparkling eyes and can't help but agree.

Taglist part 1 ♡

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[lumieveeeldee]

Keith isn’t doing anything special when it hit him. He’s seated next to Krolia, peeling some strange alien fruit when his insides catch fire.

It starts in his fingers and travels up his arms, boiling his blood in his veins and freezing him over all at the same time. A presence in his head, one so familiar, a scarlet feline yowling in pain, in mourning.

Krolia is in front of him. Her mouth is moving but Keith can’t hear her, he’s deafened by the ringing in his ears and the pained caterwauling of Red throbbing behind his eyes, and his vision blurs—

Keith pitches forward, and the world goes dark.

~

He’s underwater, and he’s not alone. There’s someone else just up ahead. Their lips are blue and their face is slack. Their eyes are closed, and Keith can tell they’re not just sleeping. They are someone Keith knows, someone he loves.

Bubbles erupt from Keith’s mouth as he kicks his feet desperately, hands outstretched, reaching for the body suspended in front of him.

As soon as his fingers graze their wrist, they dissolve, and the world he finds himself submerged in shakes with a grief-stricken roar.

~

Keith shoots up with a strangled gasp, nearly slamming his head into Krolia’s. He’s back in the cave, he realizes, on the space whale, the Paladins light years away.

Red’s guilt and grief form a steady pulse in his head, and the realization crashes into him with all the force of a plummeting meteor.

He scrambles to his feet, ignoring Krolia’s worried exclamation of his name. The blood rushes to his head and threatens to throw him off balance, but Keith sprints out of the cave anyways, eyes burning.

Ever since his father’s death, Keith has rarely cried. He cried the first night in foster care, and he cried when Shiro was declared dead on the Kerberos mission.

That was it. He hadn’t even cried the second time Shiro went missing, because he knew he’d find him again.

Now, though, the tears burn grooves down his face as he runs through the foliage, not stopping until he trips at the edge of the riverbed where they get their water.

A sob rips its way out of his throat as he pinches himself, certain this must be a dream, because Lance wasn’t—Lance couldn’t be—

But the mournful wails of Red in his mind forced him to see the truth.

Lance was gone. Lance was gone, Lance was gone, Lance was gone.

~

He’s too exhausted and devastated to acknowledge Krolia when she approaches.

He’s on his side at the riverbed when she finds him, having long cried himself out. His eyes burn and his throat stings and none of it compares to the gaping wound that has been torn into his heart.

She doesn’t try to talk to him, just hooks her arms under his knees and shoulders and hoists him up.

Where there should be embarrassment and anger, there is only cold, endless nothing. She presses his head to her shoulder, and Keith barely registers that it’s happening.

She’s humming something as she walks, a tune that’s painfully familiar, but the memory is too far away for him to grasp.

His mother is cradling him. He hasn’t allowed himself to think of her as anything more than Krolia until this point, but he’s too hurt to further deny himself the comfort of his mother.

He thinks he knows why Lance missed his own mom so dearly, now, as he falls into a fitful sleep.

~

Red mourns for days, and Keith feels like a hollow shell that only has room for grief.

His days are filled with repeated movements and silence. He doesn’t talk. He wouldn’t know what to say if he did.

His dreams are filled with crooked smirks and freckles skin, and the image of hands gripping Red’s controls as electricity shoots from the dashboard into Red’s pilot, stopping his heart.

Keith can’t tell where his own anguish ends and Red’s begins. He can hardly tell that time is passing at all, each aching moment just an echo of Lance.

There’s an emptiness in Red’s presence, and Keith can feel it in himself.

Lance is gone.

Krolia doesn’t push him about it, and if Keith were anything more than an empty husk, he’d be grateful.

It isn’t until the eighth day of being stuck in his sorry state that Red’s mournful cries turn hopeful.

Keith freezes, and Krolia tenses beside him, hands hovering around him like she’s scared he might topple again. Keith holds his breath, feels the way the empty presence of Red suddenly becomes full again.

The energy is familiar, playful like the morning tide and comforting like the feeling of warm water sinking into aching muscles after a long day.

The energy is Lance.

Lance is alive.

Keith collapses backwards into Krolia with the force of his joy and shock, a tearful laugh slipping past his lips.

“Lance is alive.” Speaking the words into existence makes it feel all the more real, and Keith sags with relief, the wound in his chest stitching itself closed.

“Lance is alive.”

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Hiii! Can you do one with emperor caracalla and what he would be like as a father?? I’m in a drought of carcalla fics 😭

Emperor Caracalla as a father

Caracalla x wife!reader

warning : fluff, hurt/comfort, mention of family problems, a bit emotional, kissing

info : Anon I love you thanks for the request, Caracalla is just such a ray of sunshine he's only better as a father ;) I hope you enjoy reading and sorry for not having a cover, but today was exausting.

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything has always been ours, never his. He may have been the younger one, the one with the problems, the madness and the insufficient seriousness for politics, but that didn't mean everything had to be ours, did it?

No, it didn't have to be because where Geta was in charge of politics and dealing with the Senate, it was Caracalla whose position was used to provide an heir, a marriage to a princess only the best for the human gods. A marriage that didn't bother him a bit, he loved his wife with all his heart, from the moment he saw the golden dress, the jewelry but above all her loving nature was what had won him over.

His sun was at its greatest and the happiness of the imperial family was only surpassed when the priestess announced his wife's pregnancy...a pregnancy that would soon make him a father.

°Caracalla as a father from the moment he heard that his beloved was pregnant from him he cried, not breaking out of his madness for the first time and apologizing to her, ,,I-I...I'm responsible...as much as I'm happy...what if our child goes into madness?" a question he asked her kneeling, his head resting on her lap and his hands clutching her tunic. The moments in the here and now were hard enough and his condition touched her, her hand stroked his head and gently made him look at her, ,,Even if the gods are not merciful, Caracalla it is our child, our little one it would not change anything” she assured him and pressed a gentle kiss on his head.

°The months leading up to the moment of birth were up and down for all three of them, Caracalla getting more and more nervous, seeming to switch back and forth between delusion and his mind. His wife helped him as best she could, praying to the gods that it would not destroy him, and a Geta who took care of both of them. But from the construction of the nursery, the preparation for their birth and the cuddles, it was a time of harmony and love. Every day Caracalla put an ear to her belly laughing whenever he thought he heard something and helping his wife as much as he could, even Dundus seemed calmer and not too demanding of his owner as if they all knew what was at stake.

°The further her pregnancy progressed, the more excited he became, talking to her and his child as if it could already hear him, ,,Of course it heard us! It's a little monkey as often as it moves,” he said, kneeling in front of his wife, who was mostly still sitting or lying down because of her belly, not to mention the pain and discomfort. Whenever he saw the moving and kicking he let his hand wander over it with hers, ,,Just as excited as his father,” she said softly and gave Caracalla another reassuring kiss, giving her everything she needed, almost as excited as the child itself seemed to be...until the moment of birth.

°The late night was filled with screams, in the empress's room the midwives helping her as much as they could and outside a crying Caracalla whose worries were growing, ,,What if she dies brother? A child without a mother? It's my fault, my madness? The midwives will die if she dies” he mumbled to himself, pacing up and down, waving a sword only to throw it away, his brother's words barely calming him down. He looked as exhausted as his beloved when the door opened and he interrupted the woman, ,,Is my sun alive?” he asked ignoring his child and running to the bed, his hand seeking hers and only calming down when he saw her exhausted smile, ,,Yes...I'm alive and so is our little monkey” she said and the midwife gave her the little boy wrapped in a cloth. A little boy with his blue eyes and her hair, a little baby who smiled a smile that infected his father.

°From that moment on, he was smitten with his son, little Solis ortus, who everyone called Solis, from the Latin for sunrise. The little one was born with the sunrise and came from his mother the sun itself, he was the joy of his parents a little baby who almost always seemed too happy, ,,He is so loving...and not full of madness” Caracalla said and wiped away a few tears when he saw the now small child crawling on the floor and playing with a few small figures, ,,Yes he is perfect just like his father” his wife said and once again held his hand.

°The years passed quickly and even though the madness in him did not diminish, erupting again and again and more often, this did not even happen in front of his son, ,,Father is fine Solis don't worry” he pressed out and retreated to his chamber, where he could go about his business surrounded by swords and blood without hurting his wife or son or Geta. In the hours he was gone Geta took care of his nephew in the little free time she had to give the Empress some rest, ,,It seems there are often two to take care of,” she said, giving Geta a grateful look as she turned from her son to her husband.

°The hours with Caracalla were hours of grief and love, she held him through the madness, took the sword away from him and if he cut her, shouted at her or even hit her, she didn't hold it against him. ,,It hurts, but having you back with me again for sanity, with Solis, is more important,” she reassured him as they sat together leaning against the bed, his head against her chest, mumbling words to himself and he kissed her body apologetically and she held him. Before both parents slowly reappeared and took care of the little prince who was their pride and joy.

°Apart from the madness, Caracalla was a good father, the skills he didn't have in politics like his brother or the talent for music and writing like his wife, he made up for with fighting and wit, with understanding and love for animals. For every hour that the ever-aging Solis spent with his uncle in the senate, with his mother on the harp, he spent twice as much with his father in the arena studying and training the animals. Dundus belonged to Caracalla but Solis, at not quite ten years old, had a mature lion, the beast of a ruler, powerfull as a sun and yet always playful at heart. Solis would become the best of his parents and whenever Caracalla noticed that the madness was not in his son, he was genuinely happy and gave his wife a kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@potatoesenpaii , @cottoncandiescupcakes , @k-yurieee , @somepallings , @userchai , @ohburrryoureabsolutelyridiculous

[fireinmoonshot]

drabble dump 1 | joaquín torres x reader

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Reader Summary: Three small drabbles inspired by your headcanons (and one of mine): Joaquín giving you flowers, crying during movies and following his fans online. Warnings: I don't think there are any. Word Count: 691 A/N: I'm feeling super tired tonight so I didn't have the energy to focus on a larger fic, so I decided to write a couple of smaller drabbles inspired by some of the headcanons you guys left on that post I made the other day as well as one of my own. I will probably end up doing a few posts like this since they're quite fun. They're really just smaller drabbles that don't necessarily need to be longer 1k+ fics, so I hope you guys find them fun!

Giving you flowers.

The first time Joaquin ever met you, he brought you flowers. He had no idea what your favourite type of flowers were or if you even liked flowers. But he wanted to make a good impression on you on your first date and flowers had seemed the way to go.

He’d been raised well by his parents. His mother had always taught him to be a gentleman and he’d grown up hearing stories from his father all about how he won over his mother with flowers and gifts and many, many dates. 

Joaquin intended to do the same thing to you. He liked you from the very moment he met you, and so he made a deal with himself – every date, he would bring you a bouquet of flowers that was different from the last. He wouldn’t repeat anything and he would get more and more creative with each bouquet. 

Because if Joaquin was going to win you over like his father won over his mother, he was going to put in as much effort as it took. He was certain that you were the one.

~~

Reading comments about himself online.

Joaquin laughed, looking down at his phone screen. He was silent for a moment and then he laughed again. You looked at him, sitting in bed beside him. Your book was open in front of you but you couldn’t help but want to know what was so funny.

“What are you looking at?” You asked.

He looked over at you and then shuffled a little closer towards you in bed, angling his phone screen to you so you could look at it. “I’m just reading comments about Falcon,” he explained. “Look at this one – the old Falcon has nothing on the new guy. Did you see the way he kicked that guy right out of the air in one shot? That’s about me!” 

You looked at your boyfriend for a moment and then laughed. “How many of these fan accounts do you follow, baby? Wait – is that an edit of you? Where did they even get that footage? I didn’t think you posted anything on social media.”

Joaquin’s cheeks flushed. “I don’t… but I do have a fan account… for myself… and sometimes I post videos on there and call them ‘never before seen content’ and the fans really love them. As long as they don’t put two and two together and realise I’m the one posting them…” 

~~

Sobbing while he watches a movie.

Ever since you met Joaquin you knew that deep down, the man was a softie at heart. If you cried, odds were he was going to start crying as well. If you were happy, he was happy too. Your emotions always rubbed off on him. But there was one thing about him that you never expected: the fact that he cries like a baby in movies that aren’t even that sad.

“Baby,” you glanced over at him, furrowing your eyebrows. “Are you crying?”

He sniffed, wiping his cheeks. “No.”

You leant a little closer to him and smiled to yourself as he attempted to hide his face from you. But you were too quick – you could see the tears falling down his cheeks. 

“Baby.”

Joaquin looked at you, his sad puppy dog eyes almost making you throw your arms around him and pull him into a hug to make him feel better. The man always did a good job at throwing you off with puppy dog eyes, but it was worse when they were full of tears.

“I thought it was going to be a happy ending,” he muttered. “But they didn’t even get to have a proper life together in the end because of what happened to her! It’s so sad.”

Tears continued falling down his cheeks and you couldn’t help but shuffle a little closer to him to wrap an arm around his back as he sobbed into his hands. You rubbed his back gently, resting your head against his shoulder. 

“It’s just a movie, baby. It’s okay. It’s not real.”

Joaquin let out another sob. “But it felt so real”

[one-beer-is-not-enough]

I'm finally posting my first bully OC! I'm planning to draw his siblings and parents too. Huge lore dump and quotes after the outfits. Also would love interactions, asks or anything :DD

The preps' pet freak

Started working as their cleaner and errand boy because his father refused to give him any money. Nobody believed his family was rich at first

Was homeschooled poorly and regularly abused by his father after his mother's passing, so he's socially stunted. Super blunt and rude

"I could buy your house if I wanted to" <- $0.2 in his wallet

A simp for Derby. Exhibits kicked-puppy levels of pathetic

They accepted him into the clique because Derby said so <- hated Marcel's guts at first but slowly got attached. Host and parasite type of relationship except they're both the parasite lol

Silly character sheet!! The outfits and lore under the cut:

You will quickly notice that my style is even more inconsistent than my upload frequency :)

Anyway, some bits of lore:

Beefing with Bif (haha), who routinely annihilates him during boxing matches. Marcel throws rocks at him after

He's great at cards and gambling in general. Dreams of owning a casino when he's older. Unfortunately, his father will force him down the lawyer or surgeon career path to help in his line of work

His sister Sofia is a jock and cheerleader. She's a monster at dodgeball. They have a fierce sibling-rivalry, but they team up to protect their younger brother Rafael

Marcel likes drawing, but sucks big time at it + is delusional about his skill

Obsessed with old gangster movies, huge Robert de Niro fanboy. Verbal tics: 'wise-guy' and 'marone'. Only knows a bit of broken Italian, because his grandparents immigrated to the US before his father was born

One time Damon was harassing Tad by the fountain. Marcel, because of pent-up stress, crash-tackled Damon into the water and proceeded to pummel his face 'til he busted the jock's nose. It's been on sight with their clique ever since. Sofia essentially maintains the peace when he's on their turf

Commiserates with Tad about family to the point they become close friends

Wanted to join the greasers at first, but got called a poser. Has a bad grade in shop class because he's constantly paranoid about getting jumped

Hates the nerds because some of them stalked and leered over Sofia. Also because they remind him of how weak he used to feel

The bullies kept folding him in his first couple of weeks before he had the revelation that he's on equal grounds with other students and can actually defend himself unlike back home

Befriended the local homeless guys. Broke into a liquor store once for the drunk Santa in exchange for a few bucks

He's on pretty good terms with the townies since they're his alcohol and cigarette suppliers. Most of them can't stand his prep status, though

Their father owns a hotel chain but the siblings are sure it's a front for money laundering. It became obvious when feds would show up at their doorstep with warrants, and shady men came around the house to drop off envelopes full of cash. Any last doubts were erased when Marcel tried to steal from a store once, but got caught by an officer on patrol. He let Marcel off with a mild warning and asked him to say 'hello' to Mr. D'Argento

Sneaks into the library at night to play Mafia I. Got stuck on the car race mission for weeks

Got arrested a few times but his father has the whole police department and school faculty bribed, so he gets away 'without consequences' (He always gets paid a 'visit' after being released)

Blasts Sinatra and Dean Martin albums at night, annoying absolutely everyone

Some in-game quotes:

"Do that again and see what happens, wise-guy."

"Will the alarms go off if I smoke in class?"

(Quoting de Niro) "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me?"

"I hope Derby likes these flowers… Whatever they are."

(Losing) "Ugh... Fighting is all you Neanderthals know anyway!"

"I think Bif put itching powder in my gloves again…"

"Maron', now I have to wash all my clothes, you stupid idiot!"

"Oh man, I should play cards with the bullies again. Robbed 'em blind last month."

"Gord and Pinky dragged me to Aquaberry the other day. They made me carry their bags. Again."

"Derby bought me this watch. He's wonderful, isn't he?... Huh? What was that?... Yeah, it better be 'nothing'!"

"Hal threw a wrench at my head in shop class today!"

(Requesting errand) "Listen, I can't actually pay you for this-- Hey, where are you going?"

(Starting fight with greaser) "I can smell that cheap hairspray a mile away."

(Starting a fight with jock) "You want your nose broken too?"

(Starting fight with nerd) "Ever heard of deodorant, Einstein?"

"Sniffle Please don't send me back home... Sobbing"

"You'll never make anyone proud, you pathetic loser!"

If anyone stuck around to this point, thank you for taking the time to read through :D I have a lot more to post about this creature, like relationship charts, theme song, in-game portrait etc (I swear I'm normal) And again, would be super excited for interactions and even art with you guys' ocs!!!

[frudoo]

bakers wake up and get to the shop soooo early to prep for the day, right? so 3 am 4 am, simon (or whoever) is chill he’s on his routine, unlocking the door of the bakery when all of a sudden, he and drunk clubgoer? insomniac? kicked out? !reader meet each other- if she’s in a bad situation, simon fights off some guys first, or catches her from stumbling onto the pavement, but either way, they’re the only people out on the streets at this hour, and he invites her in to have a cup of tea while he mixes his dough and the sun rises?

been in my head for forever

This isn't quite what you asked for, but I hope you enjoy anyway <3

Warnings: Mentions of body image issues. Mentions of drinking alcohol, stalking. Brief implications of past abuse and crimes. One (1) act of violence.

It’s been exactly three days, right down to the minute, since Simon saw you last. After leaving the nursing home, you dropped him back off at his house and told him you’d be in touch. Then you were gone. He knows you’re a busy woman, that you probably haven’t even gotten around to editing his pictures yet. Still, here he is, waiting by his phone like a pioneer woman longingly gazing out the window for her lover. 

     He hears a ping and smiles excitedly only to find that it’s Johnny texting him for the millionth time. Simon resists the urge to throw his phone against the wall to watch it shatter, instead making his way into the kitchen to make himself dinner. He rummages through the fridge and pulls out some eggs, leftover ham from a couple of nights ago, a block of swiss cheese, and some asparagus. There’s some pie dough in the back of the fridge that he needs to use before it goes bad, so he grabs that too. 

     He chops up the ham and asparagus, shreds the cheese and whisks a handful of eggs in a bowl, surrounded by dead silence. Cooking is a nice distraction, relaxing and comforting. It reminds him of being younger, helping his mum stir the ingredients in her green, floral-patterned mixing bowl while she nursed his baby brother. He cherished those quiet moments home alone with the two people that loved him most, when his bastard father was out drinking or sleeping with other women. Beth is the one he learned most of his skills from—her chocolate cake recipe is the very one he uses for his business. Her handwriting will forever be engraved into his brain.

     Simon sighs as he assembles the quiche and puts it in the oven. He’s long since shed tears over his lost family, but he thinks about them every single day. It’s nice to think that Beth and Tommy are watching over him from some place way up in the sky, that they see the softer parts of him, the good in him. But his father knocks from down below, mocking, reminding Simon of his career, what heinous war crimes he’s committed and how he’s covered it up. No better than me, son, he jeers, ya take afta ya pops. He’s worked with his therapist on how to drown out that nasty voice. It works most of the time.

     Before he knows it, Simon is finally in bed. The dishes are washed, the oven is off, and he is warm, full, and happy—all the makings of a good night’s sleep. That’s exactly what he gets.

     Until that peace is disrupted by the sound of his doorbell being rung frantically. 

     He wakes with a start, rubbing the sleep from his hazy eyes. Four o’clock in the morning and already the world is trying to take back the tranquility he had for just a few hours. He turns on his bedside lamp, not bothering to put a shirt on, just slipping on a pair of sweatpants and padding to the front door. He looks through the peephole and his heart sinks. He flings the door open.

     “S-Simon, I’m so- so sorry to show up like this, but I-I was out with my friends and- and- fuck, I’m so sorry, I’ll just-”

     “Shh, lovie, breathe f’me,” Simon furrows his brow, resting his hands on your biceps gently. “Tell me wha’s goin’ on.”

     You sniffle and wipe away the tears running down your cheeks, smearing your mascara. 

     “We w-went to the bar, and there was a guy there who kept trying to- to- Simon, he’s following me, I-I can’t- please,” you sob, eyes wide and terrified.

     His grip on you tightens as he pulls you inside, instantly on alert. Rapidly approaching his front door is some guy with a scowl on his face and his eyes locked on your back. Simon coaxes you behind him as the guy stomps up to his doorstep.

     “Oi, mate, tha’s my bird ya go’ in there. We go’ into a figh’ and she ran off from me.”

     “Simon, I don’t- I don’t know him,” you slur timidly. “He’s b-been following me for miles.” 

     “Ge’ off o’my property ‘fore I break ya bloody jaw,” Simon growls, crossing his arms over his broad, scarred chest. 

     “Who the fuck d’ya think ya are, ya big prick? Gimme the broad an’ I’ll-”

     You barely have time to blink before there’s a loud crack and a pained yell from the smaller man. Simon’s shoulders heave as he grabs the guy by his shirt collar, leaning in close to mutter in his ear. 

     “Y’ever come ‘round ‘ere again, I’ll use ya guts as tinsel on ya mum’s Christmas tree. Go’ tha’?” 

     The man holds his dislocated jaw in shock before scurrying away with tears in his eyes like a scared little puppy. You let out a sigh of relief, still shaking even as Simon locks the door and turns to face you. He freezes when you wrap your arms around his neck but ultimately surrenders to the hug, strong arms snug around your waist. 

     “Thank you so much, I-I don’t- I can go home, now, I don’t wanna bother you any more than I already have,” you pull back apologetically, suddenly aware of exactly how early you’ve woken the poor man up. 

     “No’ a bother, lovie, I promise,” he murmurs. “Don’ wan’ ya goin’ ou’ all by y’self again. Y’can stay w’me.” 

     “I couldn’t-”

     “Ya will,” he interrupts, cupping your face in his big, warm hands. “Y’still stumblin’ ‘round, love. Tha’ alcohol needs t’wear off ‘fore I le’ ya go anywhere.”

     You pout, and Simon tuts, guiding you over to the couch and softly pushing you down onto the cushion. He takes off your heels and sets them beneath the coffee table, making sure you’re plenty comfortable. You snuggle up with the blanket he drapes over you and a content grin tugs at his lips. 

     “Ya ‘ungry?” He questions.

     He nods when you do, heading into the kitchen to warm up a slice of the quiche he made last night. He leans back against the counter and flinches at the cold, a dark flush heating his pale skin as he remembers he’s in nothing but a pair of damn sweatpants. He feels far too exposed, and insecurity creeps its way into his brain. Before he can decide to run to his bedroom and throw on a shirt, the microwave beeps, so he grabs a fork and brings you the food.

     “Made this las’ nigh’. Should keep y’full, maybe preven’ a hangover,” he explains softly, setting the hot plate on the coffee table. 

     “Thank you, Simon,” you grin up at him gratefully.

     “Since I’m up, m’gonna ge’ started on an order, alrigh’? Lemme know if ya need anythin’. Don’ hesitate t’ask.”

     Simon told a little white lie—there is no order he needs to complete. He just doesn’t want you to feel worse than you already do. He makes his way into the kitchen once more with a yawn, gathering all of the ingredients he needs to make chocolate cake. He’s been craving it since last night, and besides, it’ll help him feel closer to his mom and Tommy. Some of his best—untainted—memories revolve around that cake, shared around the table after supper. 

     You tread into the kitchen after a few minutes, empty plate in hand. Simon smiles, and you return the gesture, walking towards the sink. 

     “Lovie, y’don’ hafta wash-”

     “Sure I do,” you cut him off, running the hot water. “The quiche was really good. Thanks again for… well. All of this.”

     “Y’can always come over. Whenever ya wan’. I mean it.”

     You move to stand next to him, drying off your hands on one of his dishtowels. He’s mixing the batter by hand despite having a stand mixer, but you don’t question it. You observe silently, not wanting to distract him from his work. Simon looks up at you through his long blond lashes, stepping aside and gesturing for you to take over the whisking.

     “O-oh, I shouldn’t,” you laugh nervously.

     “Ya should,” he insists. “Ya won’ ruin it, sweet’eart. It’s pretty ‘ard t’fuck up. ‘Sides, I need t’butter some pans.”

     Cautiously, you take the whisk from him, slowly dragging it through the thin batter. The task isn’t as daunting as you led yourself to believe. You repeat the figure eight motion a few more times as Simon preps his bakeware.

     “Wanna pour it in?” He asks, sliding one of the metal pans over to you.

     “No. I- uh, well I’m kinda… still seeing double. Just a little,” you giggle, and he chuckles in response.

     “No’ a problem.”

     It’s smooth and practiced, the way he works. Such a simple act, but he makes it look like an art form. He doesn’t have to measure how much batter he pours into each pan, he just knows. Simon slides them into the oven, then turns to look at you. He sighs when he sees that you’re already eyeing his dirty dishes.

     “I can wash-”

     “No’ gonna ‘appen. Tha’s wha’ the dishwasher’s fo’, love,” he raises an eyebrow, making a show out of loading up the machine and drying off his hands once the chore is complete. “C’mon, then. Y’need some sleep.”

     You yawn before you can protest, much to his amusement. Rolling your eyes playfully, you follow behind him as he leads you to his bedroom. He pulls out a shirt and a pair of shorts from his drawer and hands them to you. 

     “More comfortable than tha’ dress, m’sure,” he hums, turning on his heel to give you some privacy. “I’ll be up fron’ if ya need me.”

     “S-Simon,” you chew on your bottom lip nervously. “Will you… will you stay with me? I don’t wanna kick you out of your own bed.”

     His heart skips a beat, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

     “Gotta ge’ the cakes outta the oven, firs’. Ge’ changed an’ I’ll come back in, yeah?”

     Simon gently shuts the door and trods back to the kitchen. You do as he says and change quickly, bashfully peeking out the door once you’re in his clothes. After a good few minutes he returns, still smelling of the chocolate cake. He hesitates before stepping back inside, grinning softly to himself as he watches you climb beneath his covers. He sits at the edge of the bed while you get comfortable.

     “Are you gonna lay down?” You ask through yet another yawn, lifting up the sheets and blinking up at him.

     “I-I, uh… yeah. Sure, lovie,” he sucks in a deep breath, then slides into bed right beside you.

     You hum contentedly and rub your eyes with the backs of your hands. You turn on your side to face him, carefully reaching out to brush a crumb of cake from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. 

     “Taste test?”

     “Ya caugh’ me,” he huffs in amusement, breath hitching in his throat as you lean in closer.

     “Thanks for saving me, Si,” you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

     As your head rests on his pillow and you drift off to sleep, there’s only one thought in Simon’s head.

     He could get used to this.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬

Satoru Gojo

[Chapter 21] The Right Decision

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Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!Reader

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

The rest of your trip runs smoothly. Thankfully, Satoru didn’t try to pull another stunt that made you want to gouge his eyes out. Ren is over the moon by going to the beach daily, going to new places to explore, trying new delicious food, and what matters the most, spending time with his mother and father. Sadly, his vacation can’t last forever.

Ren is gloomy the day before you’re supposed to leave, begging you and his father to stay a little longer. Satoru wants to say yes, and he would in a heartbeat if he didn’t have to work. As much as it pains him, he can’t give up everything to be a father. The next best solution is wait for Ren to leave you alone for a minute just to ask, 

“How about I extend your vacation for another week? I’ll leave, and Sayo probably won’t stay either. Just you and Ren.” And it’s tempting. You really want to say yes, but you also want to go back and resolve other issues. Plus, Ren is getting accustomed to getting whatever he wants, and you’re worried that he might become more like his father which is something that you definitely don’t want.

“We can come back some other time. It’s about time I go home.” You answer, and he nods in response. And as selfish as it sounds, Satoru is happy that you declined because he hates the idea of spending a week without seeing his son. It’s crazy to think that he lived a whole life before Ren, and the moment the little boy came into his life, Ren became everything to Satoru.

“Alright… Guess we have to make the most out of today so Ren cheers up.” Satoru says, glancing at his baby boy who’s plopped down on the couch, lamenting himself because he has to leave soon. Unluckily for everyone, it’s a rainy day outside. 

“There’s really not much we can do.” You tell him, and Satoru sighs. He wishes there was something he could do to make the sun come out, but no amount of money can control that. Satoru ponders, wondering what he can do to cheer his son up.

“I got it.” His eyes light up, and he runs upstairs. You furrow your brows in confusion before walking over to sit beside Ren. Your hand runs up and down his back, attempting to soothe him.

“I don’t wanna go home. I like it here.” He kicks his feet into the couch, and you make sure to keep your distance. Ren doesn’t want to go home, he likes it here. He’s with both of you the entire day, and you’re giving him all of your attention, how can he not like it? He knows the moment you go back, things will go back to normal. He’s gotten used to this, he doesn’t want to go back to normal.

“We have to, Ren. Your granny and grammy miss you, and I have to get back to my job.” You tell him, hoping that mentioning his grandmothers will make him reconsider. He loves them with all his heart, but truthfully, he prefers spending the entire day with you.

“I want to stay!” He yells, and a sigh escapes your lips as you pinch the bridge of your nose. He needs to let it out, you know he’s upset. But he shouldn’t be using his voice like that. 

“We’re not coming back if you keep throwing a tantrum.” You warn him before standing up and going to your bedroom. You don’t want to yell at him, so removing yourself from the situation is the best thing to do. Ren is still going to throw his tantrum, and you can only talk about the situation after. 

“I’m here!” You hear Satoru yell from the living room. You’re going to leave him to handle it, not making an effort to get up from bed. Until Satoru calls out your name, and you groan before getting up and walking over to the living room. You smile, seeing how Ren’s demeanor has changed, kneeling down on the floor in front of the coffee table, waiting for his father to open up the box that he brought down. “I remembered I had a board game here.”

“Is this the home you used to come to as a kid?” You ask, wondering why he has the board game with him. Satoru nods in response, sitting down beside the coffee table to open the old box.

 He used to play this game with his dad after getting home from the beach. It’s a game that’s more fun when played with more than two people, but Satoru didn’t really have that option. Regardless, he still had fun with his dad. Growing up, the only time that Satoru actually spent with his parents was the little vacations that they had yearly. He has very fond memories of this place, and of the board game that he opens.

“I haven’t played this in years, I have to read the rules again.” Satoru can’t help but laugh as he takes out every piece. He remembers every time being so excited to tell you about the game, begging his father to take the game back home or buy a new one for his house so he could play with you, but both of them always forgot. Luckily, he gets to play with you for the first time, and with your son as well.

“Take all the time you need.” You answer. Your eyes fall on your son, noting his somewhat puffy eyes. You ask him, “Are you better, Ren?”

“I am.” He nods. Pulling out the game completely changed his attitude. You can’t get too mad at him, he just got into this world. He’s just figuring things out, slowly learning that he can’t get everything even if his father wants to give him the world. 

Like father, like son. Both are sore losers. After losing to you, both have pouty faces and you swear Ren is on the verge of tears. Ren doesn’t nap anymore, but you decide that after all his crying, you’ll put him to bed. You cuddle with him until Ren falls asleep, and once you’re sure he’s dreaming, you get up from bed and leave your bedroom. 

Satoru’s in the living room, going through his phone. You don’t want to be alone with him so you hope that going to the kitchen and getting yourself a glass of water will give him the hint. He can go to his bedroom and scroll through his phone there. However, when he hears you, he says, “Come join me!”

You sigh, but you still walk over to the couch and take a seat on the other end. You pull out your phone, while he turns his off. It’s completely silent for a minute before he clears his throat and asks, “Are you still talking to Suguru?”

“Does it concern you?” You quickly reply. It’s not his business, especially when he doesn’t tell you what’s going on with him and Sayo.

“I want to know if he’s the possible stepfather to my son.” Satoru answers, and you furrow your eyebrows. You put your phone down and look at him before tilting your head to the side.

“What about you and Sayo? She’s the stepmother to my son and you have yet to tell me a thing about your relationship with her.” You respond, and he purses his lips together. You’re right, you’re absolutely right, but this isn’t about him. “I have no idea about your arrangement with her either… The one that she mentioned.”

“We don’t have an arrangement.” Satoru scratches the back of his neck, clearly nervous about the question. He’s not with her out of love, he’s made that clear. Yet… Why is he denying it?

“The same way Suguru and I have nothing going on.” You answer, hoping that’ll make him speak. Although you aren’t lying, you feel as if you have nothing going on with Suguru right now. You’re avoiding his calls and texts, you definitely don’t have a future together after this. “Look, Satoru. I just want the truth, an explanation to everything. Maybe some closure.” 

The man takes a deep breath, and you know that he’s about to tell you the truth. You can read him like a book. Satoru bites down his lip before confessing, “I didn’t marry her out of love but out of convenience.”

That’s certainly a start, although you aren’t too shocked. Maybe you are a bit surprised since you assumed they fell out of love instead of straight up thinking it was arranged. He takes another deep breath before he says,

“When my father died, my mom knew that I wouldn’t be trusted with his spot… Since I was considered too immature. Also for other business purposes, merging the company that Sayo’s family owns with our own.” He begins, and you feel a pain that you haven’t felt in years. A sudden pain that consumes your body in a matter of seconds, and it only gets worse with his words. “There was another promising candidate that would’ve handled the job while I finished my studies, and my mom was scared that we would lose control. I’ve never been too well liked by them.”

You look down at the couch, feeling your eyes getting glossy as he speaks. You thought you were over this, you really were. He continues speaking, “Getting married to Sayo was my mom’s great solution… Getting married to a woman with status would show how mature I was, ready to take the spot.”

“And… I agreed. We would get married and stay like that until I had my job. I could show that I was great at what I was entrusted to do, and then I would get a divorce.” He explains, and you exhale. Your nails dig into the fabric of your pants, trying your best not to cry… This is why he did it. Money. Money was more important to him than your relationship.

He changed his number and completely blocked you out of his life. He treated you like he always did when you weren’t convenient to him. With contempt and superiority. As he speaks, you realize that you will never manage to be together without some kind of issue.

“I– I’m sorry.” He says, as his hand goes to your hand, but you jerk it out. It’s no surprise that he didn’t want to tell you, he’s right for not telling you. You almost would’ve preferred to hear that he left you because of love for someone else. 

You try not to let a single tear slip even though your heart breaks again. You would’ve left anything and everything behind for him, yet he didn’t even think twice before leaving you. And Satoru feels speechless as you’re on the verge of tears. He tells you, “It was a dumb decision, and given the option again, I would leave everything behind for you and for Ren.”

You stand up from the couch. You suddenly feel suffocated in the room. He wouldn’t choose you if he had the option, he’s only do it for Ren, and that realization makes it hard for you to breathe. But you’re glad he did it. It wasn’t his first time, just this time you realized you would never be his first option.

“No, you made the right decision.” You try to smile at him, attempting to hide the fact that tears are streaming down your cheeks. “Thank you for picking right.”

[boybandbaby]

Our Team (Aaron Hotchner x Pregnant!Reader)

word count: 1448

warnings/tags: pregnant reader, fun day at the park, as always if I missed anything please lmk

note: very lightly edited

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hotch had been taking more time off lately, wanting to make things easier for you now that you’re in your third trimester. You were very pregnant and not up for too much lately but you couldn’t pass up a day with Jack and Aaron. Today he promised to take Jack to the park to kick his new soccer ball around.

Jack had walked you to the car, a hand in yours as he opened the door and handed you the seat belt. He then closed the door gently behind you as you struggle to secure the seatbelt into the lock.

You watch through the windshield as he runs back into the house to help Aaron get the items for the day. They both come out, hands and arms filled with a lawn chair, blanket, cooler of food and drinks, and a soccer ball.

Aaron and Jack load up the trunk of the car before Aaron is hoisting Jack into the back seat. When he finally gets in the car, he immediately grabs the seat belt from your hand with his right one and clicks it in to place. His left hand continues clutching your now empty hand. He places a quick kiss to your knuckles.

“How are you feeling? Are you still up to go today?” He asks, brows furrowed.

“Mhm.” You nod, head thrown against the head rest and eyes closed.

“Let me know if you’re not feeling good, okay?”

“Okay. I love you.” Your voice is sleepy and full of exhaustion.

“I love you.” He smiles before starting the car and pulling out of the driveway. “You ready, Jack?” He meets the little boys eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes! Let’s go!” He cheers.

Jack is bouncing with energy as he hops down from the backseat with his ball in his hands. He’s already running to the open field of grass. Aaron has to remind him to not go too far. He’s opening your door and unbuckling your seat belt, sneaking in a kiss as he leans over you.

“I’ll set up your chair and then come and get you, honey.”

“No, no. I want to come with you.” You whine.

“Okay, stubborn.” He teases, holding his hands out for you to use as leverage. “I need to get to the trunk. Wait here for me.”

Aaron quickly makes his way back to you. He hands you the blanket and carries the chair in one hand and the pulls the cooler along with the other.

Your hands find his hips as you trail behind him, waddling and groaning with each step.

Jack is keeping himself busy by tossing the ball into the air and catching it. Aaron is setting up your chair on top of the blanket. He holds both of your hands as you sit in the chair with a grunt. He kneels in front of you, hands on your knees.

“This spot is okay right?” He inquires. He’s found you a spot under a tree with a good amount of shade and even a small breeze.

“Can you get me a water before you leave?”

“Of course.” He leans over to the cooler and pulls out an ice cold water bottle. “Just call out for me.”

“Go have fun, our boy is waiting.” You smile, lazily. He nods, standing with a crack in his knees. He leans down to kiss your forehead.

He jogs over to Jack who’s been so patiently waiting. You admire Aaron in his t-shirt and track pants. He looks so laid back, carefree, and just overall handsome. He’s such a good husband and an even better father.

“Y/n, look at this!” Jack squeals as he kicks the ball to Aaron as hard as he can.

You lift your head from the chair to watch the two of them. Jack has Aaron running around in circles and retrieving poorly kicked balls. You can see the sweat spots pooling through Aaron’s shirt as he huffs heavily.

“Do it again!” You cheer. “Make dad work.”

“Hey!” Aaron throws his hands out. “Don’t team up on me, it’s not fair.”

“I’m a kid and y/n is carrying the baby. It is fair.”

“He has a point, babe.” You shrug.

“I’m going to hug you and get you all sweaty, just you wait.” He points at you.

“Looking forward to it.” You smirk, earning a laugh from Hotch.

It’s not long before Hotch is burnt out and hungry as he sits between your legs. You lean forward as best as you can with a belly in the way. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, not minding his damp shirt or neck. You even lean your chin onto his head, feeling the soft strands against your jawline. Aaron stays like this until his breathing has evened out.

“Jack, come take a break.” He shouts, not unkindly.

“Okay, dad.” He runs straight to you and cuddles into your side. “I beat dad so bad.”

“You did!” You laugh, brushing his hair from his forehead. “You’re not as sweaty as him.”

“It’s because I’m young and I have more energy.”

Aaron laughs around his mouthful of chips. “Thanks for that bud. You want a pb&j or turkey?”

“Can I just have fruit for now?” He lays out like a starfish on the blanket. He replicates a snow angel, shoes knocking against Hotch’s legs as he kicks his feet.

“What do you think?” Hotch twists to see your face. You surprise him with a kiss to his forehead. It’s sweet from the fruit and salty from the sweat but it’s welcome.

“Fruit and maybe a bite or two of a sandwich.” You rip your sandwich in half and pass it to Jack.

He takes a bite, “One, two.” Another bite. “All done.”

You laugh and grab the rest of the sandwich from him, holding it to Aaron’s lips. He lets you feed him and cling to him. He loves days like this when he can allow himself to not worry about his work duties and when he can give you and Jack his full attention and all his love.

He’s so excited that you’re bringing in a fourth Hotchner very soon. He knows it’s not going to be easy for either of you with his job but it doesn’t make it any less exciting. Jack is super excited too, providing different names and even clearing space in his room so they can share.

This is your first birth so of course you’re scared and nervous about everything and anything but you have the best partner. You know he’s going to be with you every step of the way and he’s already done such a wonderful job with Jack, you have no doubt he’ll be just as wonderful with the new baby.

You try to keep all the worries out of your mind as you sit with your boys. Aaron already knows what you need before you need it. His hands pull off your shoes, wrapping your legs around his torso as he allows you both to lean back. His fingers knead softly into the heels and arches of your feet.

“Thank you for this. I’ll massage your legs later.” You mumble.

“No need, honey. I’m happy to do this.” He squeezes your ankle. “You know what you can do?”

“What’s that?” You bring your hand to the back of his head and softly squeeze his neck.

“You could feed me some chips. My hands are a bit occupied.” He smiles sweetly up at you.

“Jack, can you hand me the bag of chips?” You plead. “Gotta feed dad so he can refuel and kick your butt.”

“Hey! You’re supposed to be on my side.” He pouts before running the bag of chips over to you.

You take the bag and place it in your lap, then cover Aaron’s ears. “I am. I just have to make him think I’m helping him. I’ll feed him so much he’ll be too tired to try and win this time.”

“That’s a good plan.” He agrees before offering his hand for a high five. You lightly slap his hand.

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be back to play.” Hotch pushes the ball with his foot towards Jack who runs off.

“You’re lucky you’re pregnant and cute or-“

“Or what? You’ll try to kick my butt in soccer. That’s not even a fair fight, you’re a better runner than me.”

“Well, you’ve got a kicker on your team.” He smiles, turning to face you, placing his hand on your stomach.

“Our team.” You cup his cheeks and lean forward to kiss him.

“Our team.” He nods, resting his forehead on yours.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

[carto0ncritter]

Abusive fictional fathers - Robotnik vs. Stolas

I won't be talking about Coconuts here since he's not on screen that much, but know that I feel sorry for the stuff he's been through, poor guy

Robotnik ⮕ Scratch & Grounder

Like... he literally only created these two to use and abuse them and that's crystal clear

When I say Robotnik is an abusive pos, this is what I mean (and this is just some of the physical abuse, don't even get me started on the emotional):

...Okay, that last picture was the last straw. Robotnik's thrist for power has officially outweighted Scratch and Grounder's "value." He felt 0 remorse for throwing them into the lava. Keep in mind, he THOUGHT HE HAD KILLED THEM and DIDN'T CARE AT ALL. Thankfully they were fine. And no the fact that they're robots doesn't make it any less wrong

If you're willing to sacrifice your children for a powerful artefact, then I'm (NOT) sorry to say this, but you're a heartless pos and deserve to be held accountable for your actions. If I were in Scratch and Grounder's shoes, I would have ran the hell away right then and there and found home elsewhere

However, unlike with Stolas and Octavia, at least the narrative doesn't try to convince us that Robotnik loves his sons. Because if he did, he would have tried to change his behavior. Or better, he wouldn't have abused them IN THE FIRST PLACE! AT ALL! No matter what he had gone through! I'm not denying that his mom was a pos to him just like he's a pos to scratch and grounder, but i refuse to see this as an excuse. he should have tried his best to break the cycle of abuse

*sigh* Now I've gotta talk about that stupid bird man... let's just get this over with.

Stolas ⮕ Octavia

Stolas is shown to have been there for Via in her childhood. although we never see them bond over anything, connect emotionally with each other or spend quality time together, we've only got this one nightmare scene. this was the only time stolas was shown to care about octavia

He did his best to calm her down and make her feel safe, then proceeded to break his promise for a booty call. For a childhood "friend" that his father bought for him 25 years ago.

And you're telling me how Stolas didn't realize that bringing Blitzø along in Loo Loo Land is uh... a bad idea that will make his daughter feel even worse?

I HATE the excuse that Stolas was "just clueless." Because anyone with the tiniest bit of common sense would come to the same conclusion: flirting with your booty call in front of your daughter who is a minor and going through emotional hell that happened because you cheated on her mother makes you a horrible and selfish father.

Even worse is that Stolas doesn't learn his lesson and once again neglects Octavia. Stolas is too busy hating his ex wife and gushing over his abuse victim that he can't even be bothered to look for his daughter himself, and instead Loona has to be the one to go find her. And then she literally tells Via how her dad's trying his best and how she should cut him some slack. No. No she shouldn't. Octavia was right to think that Stolas hates Stella more than he loves her because that's what his actions show.

He can hug her all he wants and promise to do better but he has done nothing to even TRY to be better for this poor girl.

Not to mention that Loona is a hypocrite. Blitzø has always been doing his best to be a good dad to her, and she thanks him for saving her life by being a complete bitch. It's been five. Fucking. Years. Of unconditional love and support from Blitzø's side. And what does he get in return? A kick in the balls. Blitzø also got beat up by her and hit with the "if I'm so terrible why don't you replace me" after he rightfully called her out and you're trying to tell me Blitzø was the one in the wrong and how this isn't abusive huh ok then whatever ya say

I won't talk about the upcoming episode much. I honestly just don't have the strength anymore. But to make it as short as possible, Stolas is gonna be treated like an uwu poor sad gay boi and once again choose Blitzø, the guy he r*ped, over his own child.

If you check out the leaked story boards for s2 ep12, you'll see how disgusting it is that Via is spitting nothing but facts and yet she'll be demonized by the writers, Stolas lovers and Stolitz shippers. Just...

Please stop lying, dude. Just stop. You shattered her entire life and neglected her for a guy you abused and never got to know on a level that's deeper than sex. No wonder Via thinks he doesn’t love her anymore. The line above gives me the same vibe as THIS line also they made Stolas not only ACT like a guy who victimizes himself but LOOK that way too

STOP LYING. JUST SHUT UP.

I hate this self-pitying hypocrite sm.

And yeah, I get it: he was put in an arranged marriage (this was clearly a retcon, but whatever floats viv's boat) despite being gay and was sheltered and never had friends, but those are explanations for his behavior, not excuses.

Oh and, to anyone who thinks otherwise: Emotional neglect is a form of abuse.

Closing Thoughts

One important thing that I noticed with both Scratch and Grounder and Octavia, is how none of them feel at home with their fathers. A reliable way to know whether you've failed as a parent or not is to see how your behavior affects your kid(s). How does your behavior make them feel?

Let's see here... *checks notes*

Octavia says how Stolas ruined their family, not Stella and in ep12 she's finally gonna call him out on his bullshit thank god. but unfortunately the toxic gay ship will once again be a priority because it's gay

Scratch and Grounder are terrified of Robotnik's wrath, he constantly makes them feel useless and unwanted, but at the same time, they have no problem betraying him both of them always come back to him, just like how Blitzø doesn't leave his abuser because he wants to feel "loved" and "needed" for once even though Stolas treats him like shit

So yeah, if you made your kid(s) feel this way, you've officially failed as a father.

[noirsdoll]

-> till death do us part

He never loved you, especially now. You’ve changed, something about you has eroded. You disgust him, James thinks, just as much as you awaken a deep-seated perversion within him.

pairing: james sunderland x daughter!reader

words: 6.0k

tags: father/daughter incest, rape, somnophilia, referenced bulimia, snuff, attempted suicide, mentioned self-harm, pills, choking, creampies, smut, reader is james's and mary's kid, set years after sh2, james is a shit dad

note: hi.. i started writing this in october. this is extremely self indulgent cuz i need to write dadcest of all my faves.. there are a lot of heavy themes in this so please read the tags and yeah. enjoy!! james is peak wet dog here 😋

read it on ao3

Killing yourself is inherently a selfish thing. 

When you choose to do it, you’re only thinking of yourself. You’re not thinking about the responsibilities you’re abandoning, or the people it’ll affect, nevermind the gory mess you’re leaving behind. 

It’s even worse when you fail. 

Because it makes you look like a sick loser who was too lazy to deal with life. You’re not ill, just confused, and you’re too young to know what the world holds for you. You didn’t even give life a chance. 

You’d argue that two decades is more than enough time to get a taste for life, and that all this has taught you is that you’re shit at planning. But at this stage, nobody trusts a word you say, blaming your suicide-addled brain. Everyone walks on eggshells when they talk to you, plucking each word carefully, like picking the wrong dialogue option will make you slit your wrists in front of them. 

You’re not sure why your plan failed. Maybe a survival instinct decided to kick in, maybe the world decided you’re not ready to go, maybe you’re just a fucking coward. You couldn’t even kill yourself properly, sending half your family into cardiac arrest with the possibility of your death rather than the actual thing. 

And now they all have to look at you. One by one, they file into your hospital room. Close family, friends, extended family, assholes you’ve never even heard of, they come in and take a look at you. You feel like a zoo animal, a reassurance for them that at least they aren’t you, at least they’ll never do something so miserable as this. The pity makes bile rise in your throat, you’re used to throwing up. 

Then they’re all gone, then it’s just him. Why do you have to look at him? You shouldn’t have to, you should avert your eyes like he’s something divine. His disappointment carves into you and rips you to pieces better than you could ever do yourself. Not a word is spoken, a myriad of expressions form on his face before he even considers speaking. What is there to say? You tried to leave him, when all he ever had was you. 

There is this feeling that festers in you. The dreaded hiss that you are an abnormality - that you are the antithesis to every causation in your life. You shouldn’t have this, you shouldn’t be this, yet here you are, getting fed food through a tube. All those days of starving yourself have caught up with you.

James sits by your bedside, creating a dip in the thin mattress. He turns to you with worn eyes, heavy like he can’t bring himself to look at you. You don’t need to guess why. 

“It’s not your fault,” you say, because it’s yours, because you’re a piece of shit for doing this. You should’ve taken up alcoholism instead of cutting. Drinking yourself half to death is commonplace in this family. 

James shakes his head, staring at the hospital tile. “No, sweetheart, this is my fault. I should’ve been there for you, I should’ve—,” he cuts himself off, wringing the sleeve of his jacket between his fingers. 

You rub your eyes, the foggy atmosphere outside is doing nothing to help you. Your apathy is dismantled by the sight of your father trying not to cry. You reach out, the pulse oximeter cold on his skin as you grab his hand. 

“I didn’t want to tell you, I didn’t want you to worry.” This was supposed to be your own burden, but now you’ve made it his problem, now he has to suffer alongside you. 

He shakes his head again, swallowing the lump in his throat. He hangs his head, hair covers his teary eyes. “God, no, you shouldn’t have to hide this. Was I— did you not feel comfortable telling me?”

You squeeze his hand tighter, a reassurance that your words can’t quite give. Your other hand shakily moves the hair out of his eyes. He leans into your touch like an old dog who’s been kicked one too many times, like he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get it again. 

You should’ve done it right the first time. That selfish thought crosses your mind, killing yourself purely so you don’t have to see the way he breaks down, the deep exhale that does nothing to stop his tears. You might just be the shittiest fucking person on the planet. You should cry now, the situation is calling for it - you want to, but you can’t. 

“I don’t know,” you purse your lips, averting your gaze to the felt blankets. The truth is, you do know, you’ve known for a while. Putting the words into place is the hard part, the one the therapist does for you, but you’ve had enough pitiful looks to last you a lifetime.

The silence stretches, nothing but the ringing of the fluorescent lights to fill your ears. “Do you want some time alone? I know that was a lot, with everyone coming in… I can give you a moment, if you’d like.”

“No, don’t go,” you frown. “Stay here, please.”

And so he stays, and he doesn’t say much. He doesn’t let go of your hand either, squeezing so tight you’re worried you’ll lose circulation. You’re exhausted, everyone pretending to care is catching up to you. So you fall asleep like this, both a failure and a miracle.

Getting discharged is a new nightmare.

You have to eat a special diet to get all your nutrients back, and half of that is pills. So, so, so many pills. You feel like a lab experiment more than a person. James has to supervise you an hour after eating to make sure you don’t puke any of it up. 

You’re depressed, not bulimic, there’s a difference. All this just ends up being dehumanizing for you. You had one chance and fucked it up, now look where that’s gotten you.

At least you and your dad are talking more. Before this, it was always so stagnant between you two. Even if he’s been your only parent your whole life, it was like he didn’t know how to act around you, lingering pauses and sidelong glances. Now he actually spends time with you, you see him smile, just the same as it looked in all your baby photos when Mom was around.

You don’t know how to feel, or how you should be feeling - maybe the pills are messing with you, but you’re starting to think your dad is kind of cute. All his soft edges are in spite of something more malicious, but he curls into you in a way no one has, thick eyelashes looking at you like you’re actually important. Sometimes you want to pick him apart, see how the gears of his brain fit together. 

Maybe it’s because you have nothing else to latch onto. All your friends have sent their mandatory ‘I’m here if you want to talk!’ paragraphs that have about the rigidity of pillow fluff. Your dad’s the only one who’s been here for you. You’ve started to look forward to that post-dinner supervision. 

Usually, you’ll watch TV together, but today you decided he should wait it out in your room. James doesn’t object, he’s allergic to saying no to you. You both lay on your bed, you choose to stare up at the ceiling. 

The pills make you feel sick and weak, like each limb is weighed down to your bed. You wonder if they’re purposefully trying to make you this frail so that you can’t grab a knife and cut yourself to pieces. You let out a throaty cough, and James’s head shoots to look at you, something in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

“Are you okay?” He asks, tentative.

You nod, clearing your throat. “Yeah, I just think that the pills are making me feel funny.”

“Do you want me to call the doctor?” He offers. “Maybe you can take a break from them.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you shake your head, sitting up against the headboard. Your body feels warm, flashes of heat run through you and turn your brain to mush.

His eyes scan your face. “Alright.” 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. 

“For what?”

You frown. “I shouldn’t have done it.” You’re apologizing, not because it was a mistake, but because you wasted his time. 

“Sweetheart, don’t apologize for that. You can’t control it.”

“I should. I should be able to.” You squeeze your hands together, biting down on your lip, trying to fight your tears.

“You’re getting better, aren’t you? You are,” James says, in a tone that sends a shiver of something through you. 

You swallow and nod. “Yeah… I am.”

“Good. That’s good.” He glances at his watch. “It’s been an hour. I’m gonna head to bed.” He kisses your forehead. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight.”

You remind him of Mary. In all the wrong ways. 

This shouldn’t be happening, not again. James washes his hands in his bathroom sink, something has sunken into his skin that he’s unable to remove. 

He’s waist-deep in debt from your hospital bill, but that’s nothing compared to the cold dread sitting low in his stomach. You’re sick, a mental ailment that is steadily corroding you, ruining that beautiful picture he’s framed in his mind. 

What happened last time can’t happen again. It was a long process to rectify things. 

James has never liked change, but it was necessary. He had to cleanse himself of what had happened, he had to be a better person for you. Sweeping the broken glass of his relationship with Mary under the rug, James had to become what you needed. Neutrality instead of apathy, comfort and love instead of buoyancy. 

You look so much like Mary now that it’s driving him insane. And now you’re sick just like her. He can’t escape it. His life is a revolving door of fuckery and hopelessness. At least he’s not like you. He didn't try to choose the easy way out. 

James clenches his fists, fighting the surge of emotion that courses through him. You were supposed to be normal. That was your one job. You were supposed to be normal and complacent and not a fucking freak. You had to ruin it all for him. Every sacrifice he put in place for you, all those sleepless nights and early mornings, just for you to make a fool out of him. What do you want from him? Was none of it enough for you?

James digs his knuckles into his eyes, sighing. It’s not your fault. He’s just angry. At himself, mostly. That he couldn’t be what you needed, that you hid all this from him. Your depression, your bulimia. 

Anxiety is high, he’s worried you might do something rash if he leaves you alone for more than five minutes. The pills are diluting you, you’re turning into a shell of yourself, the same way Mary did. It was the tipping point for him, she was so weak she couldn’t even scream for help when he killed her. 

James won’t do it again, he promised himself. Even for you. Even though you tried to do it yourself. What would he have done if you succeeded? He’s not sure, it seems so impossible. You’re the light of his life, or at least you should be. Your attempt has managed to garner an ember of feeling for you, negative or positive is hard to tell. 

In the beginning, he only entertained you because it was Mary’s last wish. James never loved you like a father should, he didn’t know how. It felt wrong, considering how she died. You live as a reminder of her, of her disease, of her degradation. 

He grimaces at the thought of you. That inkling of emotion culminates as disgust. You’re sick. You’re not going to get better, purely because he knows you don’t want to. You’re a freak who enjoys your sickness. 

You’ll drink up every last drop of his care and affection, just to abandon him to a deathbed. 

Not again. Never again.

You feel like a ghost in your own home. 

You drift through the halls in one of your father’s worn hand-me-downs, trying and failing to find your appetite. Dinner is long over, you’re eating out of boredom, something you haven’t done in forever. This should be a cause for celebration, it just makes you feel worse. 

You find your dad in the dimly lit kitchen, drinking whiskey straight out of the bottle. No need for a glass, you’re a few months shy of drinking age. The cold moonlight silhouettes his features. 

He’s drinking because of you, isn’t he? You wouldn’t expect any less, you remain nothing more than a problem, a charity case for those around you. James is receiving the brunt of it. 

He squints at you in the darkness, setting down the bottle with a clink. “Mary?”

You swallow, standing there like a statue. He didn’t mean that, did he? He must be drunk. Just as you open your mouth to speak, he steps closer. 

“Just like her,” he mumbles, “you look just like her.” James runs his thumb along your cheek, the most tender touch you’ve ever felt. Warmth blossoms under your skin. 

You can’t find it in you to speak now, the urge fizzles out. You remain frozen, looking up at him as his eyes brim with affection. Affection you’ve never received, affection you’ve only ever seen in old family photos when you were too young to remember the sight. 

James looks at you a little longer, the light deflating, the exhaustion weaving back into his expression. “Oh,” he breathes, “sorry, sweetheart.” He looks away, clearing his throat. 

This is a hurt you don’t have words for. You were shown something you never should have seen, a love that wasn’t meant for you. Not from him, at least. Strangely, you find yourself craving it, at odds with the apathy you default to. 

His hand hasn’t left you, you memorize the delicacy of his touch before you step away. You thought things were getting better, but of course, they aren’t. You stifle a cough, grabbing an apple off the counter. Wordlessly, you turn and dart back upstairs. 

You’re lucky you’ve been unable to cry with all the medications you’re on. You shouldn’t feel upset. You’ve known this all your life. James will always love Mary more than you, when she died a piece of him was lost forever.

Ever since you started getting sicker after your discharge, James has drifted away from you, ripping you off his skin like a half-healed scab. You know he’s trying to be nice about it, you know you remind him of Mom, but you can still see it, and it still hurts. You just want him to care, for someone to actually care when you’re at your lowest. All you truly want is to die.

You toss your apple in the trash.

Hours later, you’re still unable to sleep. Sleeping medication seems to be the only thing the doctor left out on your prescription, the only thing you actually needed. You sneak out of your bedroom once more. Maybe stretching your legs will do you some good.

You find yourself at the door to his room. He’s already asleep, the room is pitch black. You barely know the layout, since you’ve only been here a handful of times - to look at baby pictures in the short moments you get before James takes the book away, hiding it somewhere new.

Walking into the room, you’re careful not to make a sound. You’re not sure what your plan is. You let your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. James is lying there, keeping to his side on a bed big enough for two. You could squeeze right in, sleep right beside him, he wouldn’t know until morning.

As carefully as you can manage, you slip into the empty space. James stirs, giving you a mini heart attack, but nothing happens. You’re laying beside him, free to observe his minute wrinkles and relaxed expression as best you can in the darkness. 

Your eyes stray to his hands, rough and worn, yet so soft on you, the softest thing you’ve ever felt. Without thinking, you reach for his hand, gently splaying his fingers in your hold. You bring his fingers up to your face, feeling his touch once more. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t wake up, you take it as a sign.

You slide his fingers from your cheek to your lips, imagining how his thumb would skate across the seam of them, how, hushed and tender, he’d ask to kiss you. Purely because he loved you, because someone on this god-awful planet actually cares, and it’s him.

Your tongue, warm and wet, urges his fingers into your mouth. You can taste him now, the salt of his skin. The way it drags against your tongue pools warmth in your underwear. You stare at his sleeping face, imagining the way he’d feel you out, the way he’d swear under his breath as you teased him. No gag reflex, you’ve thrown up so many times it doesn’t even function.

With trembling hands, you bring his spit-soaked fingers down, your body shaking with nerves. A small smile pulls at your lips, from joy or embarrassment you’re not sure. Either way, you’re easing his fingers under the band of your underwear, the warmth of his skin right against your drooling pussy. Holy fuck.

Maybe that’s why you failed when you tried to die. Because you were supposed to experience this, the feeling of his hands against you, the heat of his touch. It’s hard to puppet his hand at this angle and make sure he doesn’t wake up, but you have to. You think you need to, or else what was the point of this agony?

You can’t take your eyes off of him as you press his fingers into your soaked cunt, he slides in with a quiet wet sound. You bite down on your lip so hard you break the skin. His palm brushes your clit and you whimper out into the silence, not even the hum of a fan to save you.

Your hand loops around his wrist for balance as you shift your hips against him. You reach up with your free hand and graze your fingers against his light stubble and the divot of his brows, your touch featherlight. It feels good, you’ve never felt like this, never had urges like this. 

You know this isn’t normal, but nothing you’ve ever done in your life has ever been close to normal. A constant fuck up, a waste of space, of potential. You’ve heard it all, but never from him. His passiveness is a comfort for you, the only one you’ve ever received.

You fight the tears in your eyes. James is a shit dad, at least he’s making it up to you now. Your stomach pulls tight, you squeeze around the thickness of his fingers, his palm grinding messily against your clit. 

It’s at that that he starts to stir. James blinks away the haze of sleep and comes face to face with you, your soft gasps and glassy eyes, rutting against his hand. Your face pales with fear, but you can’t bring yourself to stop, your nails digging into the muscle of his forearm as a wordless plea to let you keep going.

“Sweetheart, honey, what are you doing?” James murmurs, voice half-slurred from sleep, you squeeze around him at the sound.

You rest your cheek on his bicep, tits flush against his arm. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” It feels so good, pleasure threaded through your eyelids, tugging them to half-mast. You are nothing if not your father’s daughter, every bit as pathetic and wanton as him. 

James tries to pull his hand back, it curls into you and you whine, thighs locked around his hand. “What are you—? Stop—”

“No, please - need it,” you slur, pleading with him, tears brimming in your eyes, because you’ll never have something like this from anyone other than him.

And so he lets you. He does you a favour because it’s the only thing he can do. With a look of disgust and the occasional grimace when you squeeze around him, he lets you use him to get off. He barely moves his fingers, but any slight tremor has you keening. It’s so filthy, so fitting - it’s what you deserve.

You trail your free hand along his cheek, sweeping the loose hair away from his face. James used to look at you like you with indifference, you miss those days before you revealed your sickness to him in its entirety. Your corrosion, your dependence. You’re not fragile, or at least you’re not supposed to be - you’re supposed to be dead.

Now, you do nothing but disgust him. You know that, still you choose to ignore it. You cum with a sigh, it washes over you like a mist. Once the adrenaline of your high fades, the stark embarrassment you feel digs a pit in your chest. A milky ring of white circles the base of his fingers, his memory of you.

James frowns at the sight, he doesn’t meet your eyes. “Get some rest, okay?”

When Mary died, James felt free.

As he stood there, the faint memory of her warmth on his lips, crumpled pillow in hand, he felt unlike he ever had. James no longer had to suppress his perversions. The thought was as comforting as it was terrifying - there was nothing to hide behind, no ring to cull his wandering gaze or filthy thoughts.

He had always had them, from the beginning. She ruined it for him. Mary coughed from a sore throat, she bruised from her frailness, not what James inflicted on her. What he wished he could, what Mary never deserved.

Mary wouldn’t have understood it. James didn’t understand it either, at first. Maybe his life was so mundane that obtrusive kinks were the only way his brain could stay functioning. None of it would’ve worked with Mary, she would’ve thought that he hated her, that James’s fetishes were a manifestation of his loathing her.

James never hated Mary. In fact, he loved her. James loved the Mary underneath her sickness, the one he saw in short glimpses, that strung him along those three years until she was finally lost to the passage of time. Her bitterness and her paranoia consumed her, it distorted her mind and her compassion. She died three years before he killed her.

You died the second he took you to the emergency room.

James realizes that as he stands over your bed. You’re curled in on yourself, you sleep with your brows furrowed. He reaches out to smooth the divot, but catches his fingers in his gaze. The tips are still pruned from when you used him.

What had gotten into you? How long have you thought about him like that? The medication has poisoned you, it poisoned everything about you.

He never loved you, especially now. You’ve changed, something about you has eroded. You disgust him, James thinks, just as much as you awaken a deep-seated perversion within him.

And yet, this situation reminds him too strongly of Mary, in all the ways it shouldn’t. You’re her ghost in every way, you’re his chance to right his wrongs. That makes him wonder, something sick winds in his gut. Do you bruise just as well as her? How well can you fight back?

James stops himself, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. No, he wants you to be awake for this.

James withers into himself after that night.

It’s difficult for you not to notice - the only stimuli you receive now is your father’s lethargic footsteps, the small groans and huffs of breath that he lets out into the quiet. You both play hide and seek in this decrepit house of yours, it’s been unwelcoming since you were a kid. The feeling of rot clings to the walls and permeates your heart and mind. Maybe that’s why you are the way you are.

You blame the medication. You hate the medication. Taking them implies you want to get better, that you care enough about your well-being that you’ll try to fix your sickness. You like it, your pain is a safety. Love is a fleeting thing. Pain stays. Pain scars.

Bile coats your mouth, the remnants of your breakfast have already been purged. You see your father in the living room and your stomach drops. It’s easier to pretend like that night never happened, since even the memory of his touch makes you feel all warm in a way you don't deserve.

He sees you, it had to happen at some point. The walls feel like they’re closing in, you lock eyes with James and suddenly your heart’s beating too fast, your eyes sting and your breath comes short. You try to inhale but nothing goes in, you’re suffocating on air and shame. 

God, he stares through you more than he looks at you, like you’re already the ghost you wish you were. You should’ve killed yourself properly the first time.

Your panic attack, however, is not lost on him. James cradles you on the couch, rubbing your back and helping you through your choked breaths. “Breathe for me, honey. Breathe,” he says, so uncharacteristically sweet that it jars you even more. “You’re okay, I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?” you manage to choke out.

He shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”

You were expecting him to crucify you, you would receive your bloody punishment in scorn. You know you do nothing but revolt him, but he’d never hurt you, he’s incapable of that. 

“What happened isn’t your fault, okay?“ He speaks slowly, tentatively, like he’s feeling the words out as he says them. “You’re just sick. Very, very, sick.”

You nod, trying to come to terms with this, trying to wrap your head around why he’s so okay with this. Honestly, you’re just happy to brush everything under the rug. At least there’ll be one person at your funeral. 

He tips your head up to look at him, his eyes so achingly soft, trembling like he’s watching you die right in front of him. Slowly, he brings your lips to his.

If your pulse was even slowing down, it starts right back up, thumping against your sallow chest. You try to shove him off, but he’s too strong and your limbs are numb. You begin to hyperventilate - this can’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening. What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with you? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

James’s hands move over you, what’s left of you is more like it. Your once plump flesh has all but rotted away - you’re emaciated, sickly. He shouldn’t look at you, much less touch you. His blunt nails graze your tender ribs and you wince.

“Dad—“ The name feels foreign as it leaves your lips, yet your plea falls on deaf ears. His hands are all the way up underneath your worn shirt, the calluses of his hands catch on all your soft parts. 

Soft to the touch, frail like a sheet of ice, so entangled in his grip it’s hard to tell where you start and he ends, because he doesn’t stop. You’re unsure when all the lines between you became so blurred, maybe it was you who smeared them all that night with that ring of your cum on his unwilling fingers. 

James leaves open-mouthed kisses on the hollow of your throat, his hair obscures his eyes from your vision. He’s methodical, this is a process with an end goal, yet you’re unsure what the final destination is. 

He’s not rough, but he’s uncaring - James squeezes your breast too hard and you whine out into the quiet, the pain thrums against your skin for a moment longer than it should. Every touch is an imprint, a marking on you. 

Tears bead along your waterline as he tugs down the waistband of his pants, baring himself to you in partial entirety. The parts you thought mattered the most, when all you really wanted was to be close to him. 

“James,” you start, unsure of what to say. Your lips are dry just like your mouth, the skin cracks as you speak. That’s what you should call him when you two are like this. Are you his equal? One foot in the grave, your skin falling off the bone, is this what it took?

He grits his teeth and doesn’t look at you, his brows furrowed, thinking. James’s eyes trail down, lower and lower, and he winces, like he can’t believe himself. “Just let me do this,” is all he says, abrupt and unforthcoming, but he’s never been honest with you. 

Your clothes land on the floor at the foot of the couch, you want to hide, curl up in on yourself. You never imagined yourself getting this far with anyone, you were perfectly content to die that way, clearly. He parts your thighs, baring your sickness to him. The cuts on your skin frame your drooling cunt— it’s picturesque. James sucks in a breath, but if he wants to say something, he doesn’t. 

You’re wet, you can’t help it, but not wet enough to take him the way he wants to have you. The folds of your pussy curl in as he breaches you, you let out a pained whimper and back away, crowded against the arm of the couch. 

You’re like a cornered animal— the only thing you can do is fight. You try to kick at his stomach, James grabs your ankles and wrenches them apart. He’s scary, he feels terrifying even though you’ve never known him to be, even when you thought he was incapable. 

You’re crying suddenly, so at odds with the version of the man in front of you, nothing like the beautiful picture you’ve framed in your mind. You miss the old him, the ignorance and passivity and the way he barely looked at you. You want it all back, anything but this. He pushes into you in a way that is far from loving, dragging against you like a knife on concrete.

Despite everything, you can’t help but realize what he has become, a perverted likeness of the parts of you that you’ve tried to hide. Because while your body shakes with fear, you can’t help but admit that the idea of this has festered inside you for so long, finally arriving in this corroded rendition that sours everything you loved about him.

You love James. God, it welled up in you in such an unfamiliar feeling that you didn’t recognize it until now. You believed you were incapable of anything other than insecurity and self-pity, but here you are, so hopelessly in love with the man who wouldn’t care if you lived or died. Tendrils of pain snake out from your center with each reluctant movement of his hips. No different from a blade on your skin, it hurts all the same. He is your punishment.

You’re already as close as can be, bodies joined and yet this is the farthest you’ve ever felt from him. He wipes the tears off your face with his sleeve and you wonder for a short second if he’ll kiss it better. James will, eventually, you know he will. Every moment of his passivity was brushed off with an internal promise that he would be better, that he would finally love you the way you love him. 

Instead, he rubs your clit like it’ll make up for every time he let you down, for every scraped knee he didn’t kiss better. You squirm, the pain fades like you hoped it would, and yet you feel so utterly trapped, caged in and forced to come to terms with the cold fact he never loved you. 

Attempting to kill yourself was you running away from that truth, because it was scary, because it made you realize that he was a failure at the one thing he was supposed to do. Emotionally absent and yet physically here, he stuffs you full and loves you the only way he knows how. James hides his teary eyes as best he can, ducking his head as he continues. 

You don’t moan, you don’t think you can, though your cunt’s making all the noise for you, a wet sloppy slide that is part blood and part slick. You can’t even tell if he likes it. You hope he does, that you have worth to him even if it’s just as a glove for his dick. The shaky jut of his hips, the quiet creak of the cushions, the hum of the TV, the cloudy afternoon through the windows. Everything is so quiet. 

James looks at you then, this hollow stare. Fear rises in your gut, wrapping around your stomach and squeezing. This is something new, something you’ve never seen. The cool jade of his eyes looks so empty, he stares like he’s memorizing you. His cheeks are all tear-soaked and a frown slowly forms. 

His hips still. He reaches for you with both hands, you think he’s going to cup your face, maybe kiss you to distract you from what he’s doing. But his grip curls around your throat, coils like rope and he squeezes. 

You gasp out, but no air goes back in. His thumbs dig into the column of your throat, blunt nails pressing hard enough to break the skin. Dread sinks its icy tendrils into you, you raise your hands to grab at his, but he is a man and you've eaten nothing but pills for the past week. 

James doesn’t look away, neither do you, and now you understand. Startling clarity douses your body and you realize his end goal.

He wants you dead. And you cannot stop him. 

Regardless, the self-preservation you thought you lost kicks back into high gear. You try to squirm to save the speck of life you have left, but to no avail. You can’t run because there is nowhere to go. You have nothing but him, and he has nothing but you. 

All you can hear is your blood pumping, tiny wheezes of breath. Black starts to creep into your vision and you think that this is really it. His thumbs dig deeper and deeper into your flesh, you hear the ugly squelch of blood along with everything else.

“Dad…” You croak out, succumbing to the ache behind your eyelids, succumbing to your fate.

He stares down at you. What’s left of you, that is.

With shaky arms, he lifts his hands away from your bruised flesh. Two purple claws around your neck. Blood and skin is caked under his nails, a gory mess. Against his better thoughts, he raises his fingers to his mouth, tasting you the way you wanted to be tasted. Iron on his tongue.

James doesn’t think he’s breathed once in the last five minutes. He’s incapable of anything but staring at your crumpled body, at the way you just accepted it, because you trusted that he always knew what was best for you.

James eases his hips back, pulling out of you in a cum-stricken mess. He’s fucked up, he knows that. All those years he spent raising you, caring for you, and loving you are all gone - whisked away like the light in your eyes. You withered away just like Mary.

James lets out a shaky breath. He is the overlap. He is the correlation, the causation, he is the curse that befalled both you and Mary. The realization stirs anger in his gut. But there is no tinder to spark the flame and it fizzles right back out. There is no you to get mad at now. 

It’s his fault. All of it is. 

And you’ll never be able to forgive him for it.

[miiyas]

Hello! Can you do an angst to comfort fic with Sakusa x yn or atsumu x yn. Thank you! Sorry if there really isn't a plot, I can't think of one.

WANT TO (want you)

atsumu thinks he can’t face your parents ever again. you try to convince him otherwise.

slight angst to fluff, wc: 1.2k, pre-ts, gn reader, not proof read

petty arguments with atsumu are frequent. from which sushi place was the best to which side of the bed he would take when cuddling you before your parents kick him out. it’s all stupid, atsumu knows, but it’s what builds you two up, he likes to think. so, when the topic of him meeting your parents come up, atsumu is a little too quick to refuse which makes you a little irritated. simple conversation turns into a dull argument, and dull argument turns into the stubborn atsumu miya you know.

“that was months ago, ‘tsumu. i keep telling you, they’re not gonna kick you out again !”

“hell yes they’re gon’ kick me out ! i looked like a brainless idiot when i first met yer ma ‘n pa !” you had to pause for a moment and silently agree to your boyfriends words. he did make a fool of himself the first time he met your father, breaking one of your mothers favorite pair of collectible shot glasses, ones with little designs of vacation spots the family would go to. she loved to collect them, and your pretty little boyfriend broke a pair.

you roll your eyes, sighing for which seemed like the hundredth time this whole evening. you shift your weight to one leg and cross your arms, upset and tired of this whole dilemma and it showed clearly on your face.

the kitchen lights in the miya household was the only thing illuminating the space, shining down to cast a soft glow on both you and your boyfriends face. the soft chirping of cicadas filled the momentary quiet and tense atmosphere.

in atsumus eyes, there’s a pretty pout on your lips, one that he itches to kiss off, but his pride is on the line and holds him back. he can’t show up to your house in front of your parents without anything to distract the memory of such an embarrassing moment, he believes. no amount of volleyball medals, boxed fruits, and gifts could fix this.

then, your voice cuts through his rapid thoughts, making him blink at you a few times.

“fine,” you wave off, throwing your hands down to your sides as if in defeat. “have it your way then.” with that, you make your way towards the genkan and quickly slip on your shoes. atsumu remains still in the kitchen, the hairs on the back of his neck rising slightly as he hears the doors close and signal your departure.

“… shit.”

from the list of a few things you hated about your boyfriend, one was about how stupidly stubborn he was. how he always argued that he was right when in reality (and factually), you were the right one. atsumu likes to say that you wouldn’t get this out of anyone else, that he was the only one with this special personality and ability.

so it came to you as a surprise when he showed up in front of your house half past midnight with a small bouquet of your favorite flowers (which you swear you only mentioned a few months ago) in his big, calloused hands.

embarrassment and a hint of guilt— that’s what his face looked like. dark hazel eyes avoiding your gaze as he darts them to the side, thick brows pinched together slightly. one hand slips into the pocket of his sweats as he shuffles his footing slightly, the other pushing the bouquet gently towards you.

“‘tsumu, it’s like, twelve thirty—”

“ma said ‘ta get you flowers.” he mumbles, gaze now fixated on the flowers. he’s not exactly looking at you, but in his peripheral vision, he sees you slowly lift your arms to take the flowers into gentle hands, your fingers brush against his knuckles softly as you do so. atsumu drops his hand as you take it, stuffing it in his pocket and fidgeting slightly.

the rustle of the plastic around the stem of the flower makes him lift his head. there’s a soft, gentle look in your eyes, something that he holds dear and god, if you two weren’t in high school right now, he’d buy a pretty ring and marry you on the spot.

there’s a few moments of silence in the air, the light illuminating your door front flickering once.

“… you didn’t have to.”

“i wanted to.”

“your ma wanted you to.” you correct him and he simply nods and agrees, shaking his stiff head. there’s another wave of silence, cicadas chirping quietly in the distance as you lift your head to meet your boyfriends gaze. he looked like he was glowing, blonde hair shining softly as the lamp light reflects against him. atsumu takes a shaky breath and wets his lips, tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he prepares to speak again. atsumus voice is a little dry. low and gentle, contrast to his usual snarky and loud behavior.

“… i want to.”

you blink in confusion. want to what ? it was odd enough for him to show up in the middle of them night, but it was odder for him to just say ‘i want to.’ before you could ask him, he speaks again, finishing his sentence.

“i want to meet your parents again.”

this time, atsumus voice is clearer, his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly and the movement in is pockets displayed that he was nervous, reminding you of when he first confessed in that empty classroom a year back. you blink a few times, a soft smile grazing your lips as you let out a dry chuckle.

“thought you didn’t want to.” atsumu irks at your statement, grumbling under his breath as to how he ‘changed his mind’ and how ‘he can change his mind whenever he wants.’ your dry chuckle turns into one of slight amusement, taking a step closer towards him. the bouquet whines in your hand, begging for more attention but you only cup your boyfriends pretty face, climbing up on your tip toes to place a feathery kiss on his chin. you can feel his body stiffen at your angel touch, frustrated brows relaxing as he watches your face come in contact with his.

“i’ll do everything,” he whispers, taking his hands out of his sweats and places his left in your hair while the other cups your face, thumb brushing against your cheeks. “i’ll make reservations for the best restaurant here. i’ll woo yer ma first then go on my knees and beg to yer pa to gimme a second chance.”

heat pricks up in your cheeks as you let of a soft laughter, a lips tugging up into a smile that caressed your face. you shook your head, pretty starlit eyes starring at atsumus.

“it’s okay, ‘tsumu. a small lunch or something would be just fine, trust me.”

this time, atsumu shakes his head, the hand on your cheek trailing down to the hand that cupped his face. he takes your hands into his and intertwines them together.

“lemme do it. i promise you won’t regret anything.” you can feel your legs turn into weak jelly as you hear his words, a goofy, lovesick smile on both your faces. just as you were going to respond to his sweet, smooth words, a voice from inside breaks the intimate moment.

“what’s going on out here ..?”

oh dear, seems like the meeting is going to have to happen sooner than expected ..!!

[corroded-hellfire]

Okay this is random but I work at a daycare and this little boy who’s about two years old looks exactly like his dad and their eyes are just so blue and distinctive but he has his mom’s hair and I was just wondering if you could write something like that with Eddie x reader, I just think it would be so cute to see their little mini me ! I love your work so sos much no pressure if you don’t want to of course:) 

Eddie as a father? If only I had some experience writing that 😜 I hope you enjoy your and Eddie’s little mini me!

Words: 900

“Can you believe it?”

“No. I mean, it’s been two years and no.”

Max and Dustin sit on the floor of your living room, watching your son rummage through the toy box on the other side of the deep brown coffee table until he finds something suitable to play with his babysitters.

Bret settles on his Fisher Price Rescue Hero action figures and tries to collect as many of them in his tiny arms as he can. A few curly strands of hair fall into his eyes which he shakes out of the way as well as he can manage in this position. Satisfied with the haul he’s gathered, he lugs himself out of the toy box and toddles back over to his favorite aunt and uncle. At least that’s what Max and Dustin tell themselves. 

“He’s like their clone,” Max speaks softly as Bret sits down and spreads the toys around his small body to get a better look. “Dad’s hair curls. Mom’s hair color.”

“Dad’s eye color, Mom’s skin tone. Jesus, I’d swear Eddie grew him in a lab if he knew the first thing about science.”

“Technically, Bret is here because of biology,” Max teases as the two-year-old in question hands the redhead a construction worker action figure.

“The one aspect of science Eddie’s willing to experiment with time and time again,” Dustin says. 

“Hmm?” the little boy asks Max, having heard her say his name.

“Huh?” Max asks, looking down at the youngest Munson. “Oh. Um, what game are we playing?”

“We playin’ heroes!” Bret announces, having the firefighting action figure he’s holding fly in an arc over his head. 

“Are they superheroes?” Dustin asks. He lays flat on his stomach to be more on an equal level with the toddler. Action figures of every occupation are spread out in front of him on the plush navy blue carpet. 

“Not all,” Bret says with a shrug, which is the spitting image of one of your usual quirks. 

“Which one do you want to be?” Max asks. 

Bret’s eyes scan the variety of toys laid out around him, his small tongue peeking out from between his lips as he thinks about it. Max can’t help but chuckle at the familiar image in front of her, just on a smaller scale. 

“I don’t know!” Bret pouts, his lower lip jutting out. He slumps down on the carpet, his head coming to rest on his Uncle Dusty’s shoulder. 

“Aw, come on, Mini Munson.” Dustin rolls onto his back and lifts Bret over his head. The two-year-old giggles wildly and starts to kick his feet as if he’s trying to swim away. The laughter is so loud and piercing that none of the three hear the front door opening.

“Careful,” Eddie says as he walks into the room, you trailing just behind him. “He had a few waffles for breakfast, and I don’t want to see them come back up over Uncle Dusty’s face.”

Bret giggles—slightly evilly—as if this would be hilarious.

You set your purse down and slip your shoes off, throwing Max a smile.

“How was the troublemaker?”

“The usual amount of trouble,” she tells you.

“So, nowhere near as much as his father. Got it.” 

Your husband walks towards Dustin, ready to scoop your son up out of his grip, but the little boy squeals and dodges his hands.

“Hey,” Eddie pouts, which only makes Bret giggle. “Bret Michael Munson. Are you trying to escape your old man?”

“Yeah!” he replies cheerfully, making Dustin laugh. 

Eddie softly kicks his best friend’s shoulder with his socked foot. 

Across the room, Max accepts the glass of water you hand her.

“How was your afternoon date?” she asks.

“It was fun. The weather’s really nice and I beat Eddie by three points because he couldn’t hit his ball through the little windmill,” you say with a giggle.

“You’re definitely going to have to be the one to teach Bret to play mini golf,” Max says. 

The two of you look over to your son, where he seems to be the object of a game of keep away between Eddie and Dustin. Bret giggles wildly, his face scrunching up in a way that makes the tip of his nose wiggle.

“It’s so crazy how much he looks like you when he scrunches his face like that,” Max says, shaking her head in amazement. 

Bret must’ve caught his aunt’s words because he looks over at the two of you, a tiny furrow between his brows.

“But Mommy’s a girl!” he protests. 

You blow him a kiss and he’s quickly sucked back into whatever game he’s playing with the guys. 

Once Bret is tuckered out from the roughhousing, he plops down on Dustin’s chest and Eddie makes his way over to you. He catches wind of your and Max’s conversation of how your son looks just like the two of you. When Max slips away to grab her things, Eddie places his hands on your hips from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. 

“Wanna make another one and see if they look more like you or me?”

Just the thought sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“You’re on, Munson. Meet me in our room. Nap time.”

“Bret’s or mine?”

A snort of laughter bursts out of you, causing Eddie to smile and only hold onto you tighter. 

[devoutekuna]

Nighttime routine

Includes- Toji, Sukuna, Nanami, Gojo, Geto

Sukuna-

He hates nighttime routines when you were already asleep, having to put his little brat to bed, especially after a long day of her messing about outside. Throwing her a towel as he poured the bucket of water onto her head, watching all the dirt come off her and flush down the drain, scrubbing against her scalp as she played with the duck on front of her, paying no mind to hoe rough he was being. As soon as she was out the bathroom he was already trying to fit her in some clothes.

"Your doing it wrong daddy" throwing off the shirt which was already back to front. He didn't understand why shirts were necessary to her, they clearly weren't to him, he found them restrictive and a waste of material, he'd walk around naked if he could. Fast asleep in his arms as they sat outside, staring at the moon and stars, you in the room behind them. The way she was bundled up in blankets as she slept in the palm of his hand, snoring gently away.

Nanami-

Nanami loves nighttime routine, always opting to take over the shift so that you could rest, the first thing he did was giving them a bath, making sure that the water was the perfect temperature and filled with their favourite bath toys. Hair pulled back as he already knew how messy it would get. "Look dad!" Throwing the poor toy into the water, soaking him from head to toe, a grin still plastered on his face as he tried to ignore the mess.He despises putting his daughter to bed, she was always a hassle when it came to her bed. Always crawling out or finding some excuse to not to sleep, may it be she's not tired or you didn't read her a story despite it being the 2nd one he read.

"The end" closing the book as he cradled his offspring in his arms, her little head resting along his rising and falling chest, hand holding some of his fingers. Feeling peaceful with her father around.

Toji-

He hates nighttime, he is always eating his dinner when his son gets put to bed, hearing the fuss he created as he messed up your stress. Allowing you to get some well deserved rest. "Get in the bath" shaking his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "NO!" He hated bath time with anyone other than his mother, no wonder he never helped you when it came to the bedtime routine. Soon after forcing him to take a bath, he was pouting and crying, trying to justify how much he wanted his mother. Scared he'd wake you up, he stuffed his favourite toy into his hands and tucked him into bed, if the crying didn't stop he'd sometimes have to sit beside his bed and draw circles with his finger in the palm of his hand till he fell asleep.

Geto-

He's used to all her activities, throwing tantrums before bed, tiring herself out before he looked her into bed, that was his go to. "Not fair!" Stomping her tiny feet on the ground, it didn't cause much noise as she wasn't that big. "I don't wanna sleep!" Crying and pleading for a chance to play some more games. Sat on the floor behind her as he laid on the wall, arms crossed over and he just nodded to everything he said, he didn't care, she would still be going to bed it was as simple as that. Soon after her one sided argument ended she was tucked in bed, surrounded by her favourite toys as she laid peacefully there.

Gojo-

He doesn't know anything about kids, having been a spoiled kid and raised by nannies his whole life, he didn't find the need to learn about kids. That was till he had to put one to bed, his little 2 year old. He was as mischievous as him, running around knocking stuff down for his own amusement. "Got ya!" He had just been in a chasing match with his son, running around the house naked as he didn't want to get in the bathtub. Dunking the boy into the water, making sure he couldn't escape since it was so hard to get him in there. "Get off" kicking and screaming as he felt himself touch the water. Water splashing everywhere, soaking his blindfold and hair, but you did have to admit that he did look pretty good with his wet hair and transparent blindfold.

"I hate baths! I'm a big boy so I take showers" folding his arms as he tried to lean back into the water, too busy to release that they were in water.

[inoluvrr]

⟶ suguru and his pregnant!wife

⟶ masterlist can be found here. my first request!! im not planning on having kids so apologies if it's inaccurate T_T

cw:: fem!reader, fluffy crack, i've never written for suguru before .. just a short drabble, not proofread, menace!reader

For all the horror stories you'd heard about pregnancy, you felt yours was going pretty smoothly.

Your skin was glowy, your hips had rounded nicely, and your cravings had been mostly mundane.

Until now, that is.

you: babe we are out of hot sauce [11:03AM]

suguru 💓: Already? I swear it hasn't even been a week [11:05AM]

you: come on [11:05AM]

you: ik ur not busy 😐 [11:05AM]

you: just swing by and drop some home [11:06AM]

suguru 💓: What for?? [11:07AM]

you: ice cream with hot sauce :3 [11:07AM]

suguru 💓 is typing…

You stare at the screen, chewing your lip and drumming your fingers along your pregnant belly.

suguru 💓: No. [11:09AM]

you: WHAT [11:09AM]

You throw your phone down on the couch with a groan, dragging your hands down your face.

“Do you hear that?” you murmur, addressing the human inside you. “Your father hates us both.”

Your baby kicks your bladder in response.

You spend the rest of the morning moping around the house. Your husband doesn't love you, your unborn child has violent tendencies already, etcetera. And when Suguru pushes open the front door, he finds you sprawled over the living floor, tears brimming in your eyes. He has to bite back a snigger.

“Hey, beautiful,” he smiles, crouching next to you. “What are we doing down here, huh?”

You sniffle, blinking up at him with a pout. “You got hot sauce?”

Chuckling, he pulls a bottle of Tabasco from his pocket and taps it against your nose. “Is this okay?” He grins as your face lights up.

“Yes!” You sit up, planting a firm kiss on his lips, before standing and taking the bottle from him. You waddle into the kitchen, your husband following behind.

Humming a cheerful tune, you retrieve your gallon tub of ice cream from the freezer. Suguru had bought it only four days ago and it's already half empty. Oops.

Two scoops of ice cream, and a healthy drizzling of Sriracha.

“You want some?” you ask, batting your eyelashes up at your husband.

“Not at all,” he smiles, rubbing your shoulder. You shrug, and start eating. Your face lights up, and you sigh in satisfaction.

“Good?” he asks, taking the spoon from you and hand-feeding you the concoction himself. “Sounds like you're having an orgasm.”

“Sho good,” you say around the spoon. “Thanks for the hot sauce.”

He hums, his lip curling as he sees the ice cream melting into the hot sauce. Disgusting, he thinks. Despite himself, he can't help but lean forward and press his lips to yours, trying his best not to taste the concoction on your tongue.

You shove your tongue against his anyway, licking into his mouth and cackling as he pulls away in disgust.

“I love you, baby,” you grin, taking back the spoon.

Suguru mimes retching, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you, too.”

tags:: @candy-s72