ben grimm x reader, she gets pregnant by him before the space mission and realizes it when he‘s up there. She‘s all excited to tell him when he‘s back and then Sue (her best friend) gets up to her and is like „he changed when we were up there“ or smt and she‘s scared for his health but KNOWS she will love him forever no matter how little of him came back to earth. She‘s taken aback a little when she sees him but she knows its him and she loves him more than anything…
Ben is so scared she won’t love him anymore but gets proven wrong immediately because she engulfes him in the warmest hug possible! she then tells him the news and he just starts crying because he‘s so scared he wont be able to take care of her but she keeps on reassuring him that its all gonna be fine!!
when their babygirl dorothy (let me give my reader my dream babyname okay!!!!) is born he falls deeply in love with this tiny little human and reader cant help but cry when she sees her tiny little girl look even tinier in her husbands arms!!!
reader can be read as jewish but doesn’t have to be, but as soon as I write their wedding (I do want them to marry when he‘s the thing) she will be jewish because thats my only way of having a beautiful jewish wedding with a man (I‘m a lesbian)
Title: Homemade
Fandom: The Pitt
Warning: N/A
AO3 Link
Word Count: 426
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When Emery comes home from work, she doesn't expect to smell apples and cinnamon. "Baby, what are you doing?" Em ask walking into the kitchen to see you standing over the stove.
You turn setting a hand on your belly. "making fresh apple sauce." You smile.
"New craving?" She asks walking over. Em kisses your cheek and sets her hand over your's.
"Little bit. I'm mainly craving latkes but I need apple sauce and all our friends finished it while they were here." You wince as the baby kicks.
"Fucking Robby," Em mutters as she mixes the pot.
"Oh he hasn't had a home cooked meal in months." You say looking at the apples. "Maybe a few minutes in the food processor will help smooth it out." You muse going to grab it.
Em watches you. It was the last Hanukkah with just the two of you. The little one growing inside you would be joining the world around April. So you planned a big party with friends and coworkers.
Em hadn't fought with you because, well you were the one carrying a baby.
"You okay, Em?" You ask tilting your head.
"Yea, just tired."
"Well go sleep." You smile. "I'll join you once I'm done."
You peck her lips before going back to the sauce. Em sighs before heading for the master bedroom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Your right this does taste better home made." Em dips her latke into the apple sauce before taking another bit.
"Told you." You gloat finishing off another latke. "So ready to talk?"
She sighs and wipes her hands off. "I'm just…Do you hate having to be the one pregnant?"
You blink at her, "Why would I?"
Em shrugs, "You just seem quieter recently."
You smile softly and move closer to her. Em wraps her arm around your waist. "Growing another human in my body is exhausting. When I'm not craving food or sex," Em fights off a smirk. "I'm exhausted. I'm quiet because my mind is occupied with dozens of things that make me even more exhausted."
"So, not mad?"
You tilt her to face you before pressing your lips to hers. Em deepens the kiss, tightening her hold on your waist.
You pull away slightly, "How can I be mad when I'm having a baby with my dream woman?" You smile seeing the red fill in Emery's cheeks.
"Well now your just flattering me."
"I thought you waking to find me riding your—" Em cuts you off by kissing you again. The taste of apples and potatoes flooding your senses.
i feel like rafe would be so out of his element during a passover seder but in the funniest, softest way — especially if it’s like early in their relationship and he’s still in that “desperate to impress her family” mode.
he shows up to seder in some ill-fitting collared shirt rose made him wear, lowkey sweating bullets because he googled “passover rules” in the car. absolutely terrified of messing something up. asking way too many whispered questions like:
“wait...babe, can i eat this yet or no?”
“why is there salt water? that’s part of it?”
“deadass gotta drink four glasses of wine? okay that’s actually kinda fire.”
he’d be so visibly confused but so locked in — like really trying to follow along during the reading even though he’s zoning out every 2 seconds. probably butchers the hebrew but does it so seriously no one even makes fun of him.
but also imagine how soft he’d get seeing his girl in her element — doing the prayers, translating for him, explaining little traditions. he’d lean over all low and gruff like “you look real pretty doin’ all this, y’know that?”
and don’t even get me started on him being way too competitive during the afikomen hunt with the little cousins like it’s march madness. offering them bribes like “split it with me if i find it first.”
also rafe trying to wrap his head around matzah like:
“this is just...crunchy bread?”
“no offense but y’all need butter or somethin’ on this.”
but eating like eight pieces anyway because your mom keeps refilling his plate.
Peter Pan x Autistic!Jewish!Reader (Well… Technically, Writer) Head Canons Part Eight- Held Hostage Under The Guise of Protection (NSFW)
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen
[CW: Bathing in a cove together (not completely naked), vomiting, hickies, dirty talking, goes without saying but massive age gap between the reader and Peter. TW: Body insecurities, Peter being possessive, panic attacks, self harm, serious Stockholm syndrome, discussions about suicide, discussions about the September 11th attacks (this is relevant for the reader’s backstory), discussions about the Second Intifada (relevant to the reader’s best friend’s backstory). I may or may not have put in some Polin and Byler parallels in here. 😉 DISCLAIMER: I did not lose any relatives or friends in the 9/11/01 attacks. But I have lost a second cousin to terrorism. Point is, I do not intend to offend anyone who has been personally affected by the tragedy. Any reference to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Also, Bold indicates flashbacks; Bold Italic indicates dialogue in flashbacks]
When you wake up, you feel a cold, wet cloth on your forehead. You notice that you are on a cot… that doesn’t belong to you. And then, you see the familiar ceiling of Peter’s tent above you. But you do not feel safe here. Before you can say anything about it, Peter himself appears in front of you. Upon seeing you, he freezes. But he smiles with relief. What could he possibly be relieved about? “Oh, good,” he says softly, “You’re awake. I thought that would never happen.”
You moan in pain when you try to sit up.
But Peter sits down on his cot next to you, gently hushes you and takes the cloth off your forehead. “It’s alright, my love,” he says softly as he starts to dab your face with it. “You’ve been running a fever for a while, but I’ve been treating it.” Off your pout, he quips, “I’ve done a good job taking care of you since your second day in Neverland, haven’t I? I know the very first day was difficult- my fault, obviously- but after that… I think I improved. Don’t you?”
“You did this to me,” you say, your voice weak.
Immediately, he shakes his head. “Y/N, I promise you that I didn’t use magic to do anything other than put you to sleep. The fever came all on its own.” And that’s the truth. Peter was sure you’d wake up normally after the spell wore off. But when you didn’t, it scared him. In all honesty, he thought you were going to die.
“You stole my life from me. I was with my people-“
“Darling, you heard the pipe. You’re a Lost Girl. You weren’t happy back home.”
“But my family was there-“
“And what did they do for you, hm?”
That question makes you pause.
Peter softens now. “Did they do anything to help you, love?”, he asks with deep concern.
“I can’t think, Peter. I don’t feel good,” you moan.
He sighs and puts the cold cloth aside. Then he moves your hair away from your face as he gently replies, “Just try.”
You’re very tired and sick… but you can remember how frustrated and tired your parents got after having to take care of you during the worst of your depression. You know it’s probably too harsh… but your resentment towards them has grown tenfold since the moment you started to receive the intense affection from Peter. “No,” you tell him flatly.
Tears appear in Peter’s eyes. With every new tragic fact he learns about you, he finds himself further regretting the torture he put you through when you first met. “They did nothing for you? Nothing?”, he asks as he tries to hold his tears back.
“Nothing that counted.”
He looks down at his feet with a deeply disappointed expression. “So, I was wrong,” he says softly, “Your family doesn’t love you.”
You shrug. Obviously, your family does love you… but you’ve felt very neglected by them. So you kind of agree with Peter here.
Your boyfriend looks back up at you, leans down and kisses your forehead gently before he says, “Well it’s a good thing I love you. More than anyone ever will. And more than anyone ever can.”
You suddenly feel like you’re going to throw up… and not because of what you just heard- shockingly, you actually agree with Peter said. No. You’re ready to barf for real.
Peter acts quickly, conjuring a bucket and gently helping you sit up. “It’s alright, dear girl,” he soothingly tells you as he gives you the bucket, “do it in here.”
As soon as your mouth is aligned with the inside of the bucket, out comes your vomit.
Peter rubs your back and holds your hair out of the way, ensuring that you’re comforted and clean. “Easy,” he coos softly.
You throw up about three more times before you collapse back onto the pillow in a fit of sobs.
And all the while, he soothes you with gentle and loving words that he’s certain you’ve never heard before. Not from your parents… or even from anyone. And that simply breaks his heart. He holds your hand in his own, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “Alright, princess,” Peter says as soon as your sobbing fades into silent crying. “Just relax now. I’ll take good care of you, just as I have been.”
You glance towards the tent’s exit as you try to consider your next move.
But Peter’s expression hardens when he clocks your glance. He towers over you and firmly pins your shoulders down with his hands, though his grip doesn’t hurt. “If you’re thinking of escaping… forget it,” he growls. “Once you’re back on your feet, you’re not leaving my sight.”
You tremble and whimper, but quickly swallow the scream threatening to come from your throat. What comes out instead is, thankfully, not vomit. “I’d rather go back in the cage.”
“Never gonna happen,” he quickly replies. “You know, I never should’ve put you in there. That was a mistake.” With each sentence that comes next, Peter softens more. His voice turns from harsh back to the kind, gentle, loving one that he uses exclusively for you. “I should’ve brought you here instead. Lay you down on this very cot. And you’d be warm, and you’d feel welcome.” He removes his left hand from your right shoulder and gently runs his knuckles down your cheek. “It wouldn’t fix anything that I’d done to you when you first arrived in Neverland but… at least you’d see that I truly care for you. And that I love you so, so much.”
You shut your eyes and shake your head. It’s too much, too frightening for you. All at once, the fear you felt on that very first day returns with a vengeance. But no matter how hard you try… you can’t stop yourself from crying. Even though it’s not Peter’s intention (as far as you know), what he’s doing to you still feels like torture. What’s worse is that he knows you so, so well now… and he could use that to hold you over.
But truly… he just wants to keep you safe. More than that, he wants you to feel loved by him. However, right now… he can see that you feel neither of those things. And that’s his fault. “Oh, no. Please don’t cry, love,” he begs as he quickly pulls you up and into his arms.
You can’t even fight him, you’re so sick. Maybe you don’t want to fight him at all? I’m so tired, you think to yourself.
As your sobs grow stronger, Peter tightens his grip on you. “I’m so sorry. I promise I’m not trying to frighten you.” When you don’t stop crying, he rubs your back and cradles your head beneath his chin, soothingly hushing you. Eventually, your cries do cease… but Peter is certain that the fear is lingering on. He pulls back and cups your cheeks in his hands as he tells you, “You are safe, and you’ll always be safe here. I know you don’t feel that way right now, Y/N, but in time you will.”
You sniffle and shut your eyes, feeling your world falling apart for the umpteenth time since you got to this island.
Peter shakes his head and kisses your cheek softly before saying, “Look at me, sweet girl.” When you open your eyes, he gently takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he asks, “Before that conversation at Skull Rock, did you feel safe with me?”
“Mostly,” you reply with a whimper.
He smiles. “Good,” he says as he lets go of your chin. He clears his throat before he conjures up an empty bowl and hands it to you. “You should really get some fluids in your body now,” he tells you softly. “How about some soup, hm?”
You shake your head. “I don’t like soup.”
Peter sighs and moves your hair over your shoulder to play with it. “Y/N, I need you to get better,” he replies sadly. “I know you think I don’t care about you… but I won’t let you stay ill.”
“Then make me better with magic.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not using magic on you anymore. It’s wrong,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “You’re just now realizing that?”
Peter ignores this and continues with, “I need to take care of you the right way. Magic is just an easy fix. And besides… maybe this’ll help you trust me more.”
You shake your head again. “I can’t trust you ever again.” You avert his gaze as you add, “You’re so old… and so evil.”
While that’s true- being old and evil, that is- it still hurts to hear… especially from you. Regardless, he attempts to reassure you. “Oh, princess. Of course you can trust me again. I know I’m old… and evil… but I do truly care for you and love you.” After Peter kisses your cheek, he sighs and says, “You really need soup. So… tell me what you’d want to have in the soup, and I’ll make it for you.”
“I’m not eating anything that you give me,” you force out.
He simply shrugs and replies, “Then I’ll force feed it to you. And I highly doubt you want that.” Those words make your face fall… which immediately tells Peter that what he said was way too harsh. Either that, or you’ve given up on fighting to escape. As happy as the prospect makes him… he’d rather not break you to get that. And then… you start to shed tears in silence. “Y/N, my sweet girl, I just want to take good care of you. That’s all,” he tells you softly.
You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s nothing you could say now. You feel so, so broken now. Perhaps it’s all your fault?
He sighs and holds your cheek, trying his hardest not to cry because seeing you like this is just too much to bear. “Please just tell me what you’d like in your soup?”, he begs softly.
You sniffle and respond with one word: “Chicken.”
Peter smiles and kisses your forehead. “Alright then,” he whispers softly. He lifts up the empty bowl and says, “You know what to do.”
And you do. Closing your eyes, you picture a bowl of chicken soup, with no vegetables of course. Just the chicken and the broth.
After a few moments, the smell of chicken invades your nostrils. It gets stronger and at a certain point, you swear you feel heat coming from the source of the smell. Sure enough, when you open your eyes… you see Peter holding the spoon up to your mouth with broth in it. He sees your hesitation and gently encourages you with, “Go on.”
Slowly, you take the spoon and start eating the soup. “Thank you,” you tell him softly when he gives you the bowl.
Peter simply nods and smiles. He watches you eat your soup quietly, wanting to make sure that you don’t stop. Not unless you absolutely can’t eat any more.
You feel a lot of pressure right now. But you eat as much as you can to appease him. It certainly doesn’t help that he’s keeping his eyes on you with a soft expression. You’re certain that his mood will change the moment you do something wrong. That anxiety causes you to lose your appetite.
This doesn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend, of course. “Y/N, is everything alright?”, he asks gently.
You can’t answer, your eyes darting around the tent as you start to rock back and forth. This is all so overwhelming, you can’t think.
Peter jumps to conclusions, his eyes hardening as he warns, “Don’t start plotting an escape.”
You drop the bowl of soup and start to hyperventilate… and then cry out in pain because the soup is very hot.
Any anger or frustration that he feels instantly disappears when he sees what just happened. Just as you start to sob, Peter quickly cleans the mess and tends to your burn. “It’s alright, my love,” he whispers.
“I’m having a panic attack,” you tell him, your voice cracking as you struggle to get your breathing under control.
He kisses the top of your head softly and replies, “I know.” But his face becomes stern once more. “Are you plotting an escape right now?”
You look him in the eye as best as you can and shake your head. And that’s the truth. You have no idea how you’d escape without being killed in the process. And anyway… you really do have Stockholm syndrome.
Peter takes your word for it, though there’s still a part of him that has doubts. But he believes you regardless. “Good,” he says softly. His gaze softens now, eyes showing nothing but concern for you. “What brought on this panic attack?”, he asks.
You wrap your arms around yourself, still rocking back and forth. “I’m scared.”
“Of what?”, he asks as he puts his arm around your shoulder and pulls you closer to him.
“Making you angry.”
He sighs and rubs your arm. “Well, don’t worry. I’m not angry with you at all. But I am very worried about you,” he says before he kisses the top of your head. “I assume you don’t want any more soup right now, yeah?”
You nod immediately. In doing so, you catch a whiff of your body odor… and you get nauseous immediately. You’re grateful when Peter quickly grabs what appears to be a fresh bucket and hands it to you. Thank g-d, because you’d probably puke twice in addition to the body odor induced barfing. But luckily, it’s just the one time. As soon as you’re done, you look at him. “I stink,” you say simply, wanting to justify your puking.
But Peter doesn’t need you to explain why you threw up. “I know,” he replies with a slight chuckle. But he quickly clears his throat. “I know,” he repeats himself with a more serious tone. He starts to gently play with your hair now, trying to soothe you and himself.
“You didn’t wash me when I was asleep?”, you ask, not realizing how childlike your tone is now.
But Peter does notice. Though he doesn’t say anything about it, he unintentionally responds in a fatherly voice. “That would’ve been a terrible violation of your body. And as I told you when we first met… that’ll never happen here.” That’s what makes him realize that he’s speaking to you as though you’re his daughter. It makes him sick.
“I thought everything on this island was your business, including me?”
“Yes. But I would never undress you without your consent. Nothing justifies that,” he replies softly, his voice no longer sounding very fatherly. Now, he’s using the tone that’s reserved for you and only you. And suddenly… this voice triggers something deep inside of Peter. Slowly, gently… he puts his arms around you and pulls you towards him. His grip is tight but not enough to hurt you. Still, it’s very protective. “I’ll never do that to you, Y/N. Ever.” He kisses the top of your head softly before he adds, “You have my word.”
You find yourself clinging onto him, suddenly finding yourself feeling so, so safe with him again. “Well, I wanna wash up and get out of this dress. I’m really uncomfortable,” you murmur against his chest.
Peter nods and pulls back to look at you. “Alright then,” he says as he cups your cheeks. “Put your arms around me.”
You furrow your brows in confusion. “What?”
“Come on,” he urges you gently.
Hesitantly, you do as he says. He starts to lift you up, which alarms you immediately. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing?”
“Picking you up,” he answers in a nonchalant manner.
“I can walk on my own.”
Peter stops you before you wiggle out his arms. “No. You can’t,” he says urgently. “You’re too weak-“
“Let me try!”
He shrugs and releases you from his arms. “Okay.”
You stand up on wobbly legs. The world starts to spin… and then you stumble and fall to your knees.
Peter stands, picks you up and takes you into his arms bridal style. He sighs and says, “Like I said, you’re too weak.”
Hearing this from him makes you break down in tears. It certainly doesn’t help that you’re also suffering from a headache and fever.
Immediately, he can tell that you’ve completely misunderstood his statement. And he can’t blame you. “Y/N, I don’t mean that you’re generally weak. I just mean right now, you’re ill and you need to take it easy,” he explains softly. “You’re actually quite strong. And you’re so brave, and so very clever, and so stubborn.”
You feel guilt washing over you now. Hearing him say all these sweet things is only reminding you of how much you still love him.
“Now then,” he says with the same soft tone, “let’s get you washed up, shall we?”
You nod quietly, your head resting on his chest as he takes you out of his tent. The sound of his heart beating is soothing as always… but you desperately wish it wasn’t.
You’re brought out of your thoughts when you see that the camp is empty, save for about five or six Lost Boys. Before you can ask him about it, Peter informs you that he sent them out hunting. “We were running low on food.”
For a while, neither of you speak. You’re too uncomfortable; he’s just relishing in these delightful moments where he’s able to hold you in his arms while walking through the jungle. For decades, Peter used to roam Neverland all by himself (not counting the time he spent with the Time Lord, Scarn and Rutherford), and he couldn’t share all its beauty with anyone. But now, he’s got you, and he’s ever so glad he can share the island’s marvels with the girl he holds so dear.
You don’t feel like sightseeing. You just want the pain to end. I’m so tired, I want to die, you can’t help thinking. There’s something seriously wrong with me.
Peter frowns when he looks down and sees the look on your face. “Love, what’s wrong?”, he asks, his eyes soft and filled with worry. “You’re making that sad face again.”
You sniffle and look up at him, then let it slip. “I lied to you.”
The look on his face shifts to anger. “You do have an escape plan?”, he questions, doing his best to avoid yelling. Thank goodness, he’s successful.
“No! For fucks sake, I’m not going to escape!”
He huffs. “You can never be too careful.”
You groan in slight pain before you clarify, “I lied at Skull Rock.”
Any rage or fury that was on Peter’s face disappears… and turns into anticipation. “About what?”, he asks, trying to mask his eagerness.
You avert his eyes as you confess, “I do still love you, despite it all.”
His eyes immediately light up, and he has the biggest grin on his face. The vindication he feels is… it’s indescribable. “I knew it,” he states in the smuggest voice he can muster… because all he really wants to do is jump with joy and laugh. She still loves me! She still loves me, even though she knows the truth now!
“Don’t let that go to your head.”
The grin shifts into a smirk now… but the love and adoration in his eyes is impossible to hide. “Too late,” he replies smoothly. But when he sees that you’re still crying… any joy he felt quickly fades. “Why does that make you sad, Y/N?”
You can’t believe he’s actually asking you such a thing! “Because you’re awful. I’m a hostage here-“
“You’re not a hostage-“
“Yes, I am! I have fucking Stockholm Syndrome. And even though I really wanna go home… there’s a big part of me that wants to stay with you,” you sob. “I need you, Peter.”
The words “I need you” hit Peter like a rock. This past week (or so he thinks) has been very rough for him. He’s held it together for as long as he could… but hearing those words from you… it triggers a flood. He doesn’t full on sob… but he can’t be bothered to hold back his tears. Eventually, he catches his breath and tells you, “I need you too.”
Those words linger in your mind… but what you say next… it’s shocking for both of you. “I wanna have sex with you.”
Peter does a double take when he hears that. “What?”
“Umm… I want you to take my virginity,” you reply as delicately as you can.
It takes him a moment to think of a response. But when he does… it definitely doesn’t come out correctly. He shakes his head and says, “No. No, no, no.”
You’re pretty certain your eyes are puppy dog like right now. “Why not? I thought you said that any activity with me would be very appealing. And I got too excited after you gave me those two hickies-“
“Not while you’re ill,” Peter clarifies, hoping this will help you understand.
And it does. “You’re making an exception to the… “no adult activities in Neverland ” rule… for me?”
He nods and kisses your forehead. “Yes, I am making an exception to the rule for you,” he says softly. “And I promise I’ll make it as good as I can. Not sure how long I’ll last but… we’ll see.”
“I don’t care as long as it’s with you.”
Peter’s cheeks turn pink when he hears these words. “Oh, sweet, sweet Lost Girl,” he chuckles, “making me blush.”
You feel pretty proud of yourself for that. But that pride quickly fades into worry when you see him grimacing in pain. “Peter, are you okay?”, you ask softly.
He stops walking, having reached the cove he took you to on your third day here. Placing you on the ground carefully, he sighs and confesses, “Erm… I haven’t been taking very good care of myself in the time you’ve been asleep.”
Your eyes widen, your concern for him growing. “What?”
He rubs his eyes and sits next to you. “I haven’t gotten much sleep, if any. I can barely eat. And probably worst of all… I stink too.” He doesn’t expect anything from you, which is why he’s so shocked when you throw your arms around him tightly. Reflexively, he puts his arm around your shoulder and kisses the top of your head softly. “In my defense… I was so afraid you would die. Or worse: that if I left your side, you’d wake up without me there. You’d be alone… and you’d probably think I abandoned you.”
You sniff him, and you don’t smell anything wrong with him. He also looks perfectly healthy.
Almost as though he read your mind, Peter informs you, “I’m using magic to hide… all my agony. The only person who can see and smell it is me.” He sniffles and wipes away his tears. “Sorry,” he whimpers.
You look up at him and cup his cheek. “Peter, I’m right here. I’m awake now,” you say. “You can’t torture yourself like that. You’ve been taking care of me all this time, but when’s the last time you took care of yourself?”
The answer is easy for him. “After I laid you down on my cot.”
“Speaking of, where is my cot?”
He looks down at the ground in slight shame as he says, “I got rid of it. I didn’t see the need for it anymore. I just don’t want you sleeping on your own, because I thought you would be so lonely. Even with me right across from you.”
You sigh and kiss his cheek. “You’re right. I just wish you’d asked me first,” you reply.
He shrugs. “In my defense, I was in a rather emotional and heated state. But that’s in the past now.”
You nod and let go of him. “We should wash up now. And I don’t mind if you get undressed in front of me. Since I’ll be seeing everything anyway.”
“Alright then,” he replies. “Let’s not spoil anything for each other, keep it modest,” he tells you, referring to the private parts of the two of you.
“Yeah,” you say. As you watch Peter stand up and start to take his belt off, an idea crosses your mind. It’s one concerning your plans to lose your virginity to him. One you hope he’ll like. “Peter?”, you ask with a shy voice.
He looks up at you with a soft smile as he removes his cuffs. “Yes?”
You gather your courage and then ask, “Can we make a deal?”
He starts to remove his tunic now. “Sure,” he answers with that soft, sweet voice, “Though it depends on what it is.”
“If we’re both better by tomorrow, can we do it?”
“Do what?”, he asks as he finally finishes undressing his torso.
You inhale sharply when you see his naked chest, but you quickly clear your throat to cover up how turned you are now. “Have sex,” you tell him, your voice semi-stable. G-ddammit, he’s so fucking hot.
Peter laughs softly and kneels down in front of you before he responds, “Of course we can.” Then, a caveat: “But, if that’s not the case, my love, we’ll have to put it off until the day after.”
You look down at your feet and pout sadly. “Okay.”
He gently lifts your chin and kisses your forehead. “Don’t worry, Y/N. I promise, you will have your first time. And it will be with me. And if at any point you no longer want that, you tell me. Okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. I doubt I’ll stop wanting that but… yeah.”
He shrugs as he says, “You never know.” And as he pets your hair, he drifts towards your face and seductively whispers, “In any case… I’m very much looking forward to making you feel good. I am going to give you the time of your life.”
You shut your eyes and bite your bottom lip to stifle a moan. You’re unsuccessful.
He smirks and chuckles. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Thinking about all the wonderful things I’ll be doing to you?”
You nod, and you try really hard not to moan again. But it escapes your throat regardless.
“Good,” Peter intimates, “I want you to think about what it’ll feel like when I’m between those lovely legs of yours. Touching you… tasting you… moving inside you… coming inside you.”
The thought of his mouth on you down there is what makes you give up on suppressing your moans. “Oh… yes,” you can’t help uttering, hoping that it actually happens. It’s something you’ve hoped for ever since you learned about it.
“Oh, have you been looking forward to one of these things in particular?”, he purrs softly.
“Mmhmm.”
“Tell me,” he requests with the same purr.
You whimper as you answer with, “Being tasted.”
He chuckles and kisses you. “Oh, you know about that, do you?”
“Yes. I’ve wanted it ever since I found out about it.”
His tongue enters your mouth now, and when he tastes you… he finds himself getting hard. “Oh. And when did you find out you wanted to be kissed on your cunt, my love?”
Your own tongue enters his mouth, and you’re obsessed with the taste. No wonder everyone likes making out! “When I was sixteen,” you reply.
Peter chuckles. “Well then, I’ll have to do that before I take you with my cock, won’t I?” He doesn’t allow you to reply. He just moves your hair aside to look at your neck… and then he grazes your pulse point with his lips as he says, “Such a shame your marks are gone.”
“Oh, Peter,” you can’t help but moan, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him closer to you. “Fuck.”
“I don’t want you to get too excited, darling. Have to save that for tomorrow, assuming we’re both well enough by then-“
“Please, Peter, just give me the fucking hickey,” you whimper, suddenly realizing how wet you are now.
He smirks and puts his hands on your hips, steadying you a bit. “What was that, love?”, he asks, his voice sounding a bit like a purr. “Do you mind repeating that first part for me?”
You know exactly what he’s talking about, and to your surprise… you oblige. “Please, Peter,” you beg, trying really hard not to plead with him for more. You know he’ll remind you of the deal.
He hums with satisfaction and starts to kiss your neck. “I guarantee you’ll be saying that to me quite a lot soon,” he tells you right before he sucks at your sensitive skin.
You gasp at the sensation and do all you can to not grind against him. You’re incredibly grateful for his hands holding your hips for this exact reason.
Peter chuckles against your neck, relishing in how desperate your moans sound. It merely spurs him on… though he definitely feels guilty for all this teasing, especially when both of you aren’t feeling great physically. But if it distracts from the discomfort you’re both feeling… so be it.
“Oh. Oh, g-d,” you whimper-moan in pleasure. “Peter, I can’t take this anymore. I need you to touch me,” you whine. “I wanna come so bad.”
That’s when Peter pulls away and cups your face, his lips swollen and his breathing heavy after all that time giving you a new hickey. “Sorry, princess. But we’ve got to honor our deal,” he intimates. “Silver lining here though. Now I know how you sound when you’re desperate for me to make you feel good.”
You’re too busy trying to recover from your hazy state to respond. All you can say is, “Peter, I’m so wet.”
And he says, “Oh, I’m sure.” He has the biggest smile on his face, so proud of himself for reducing you to a mess of moans. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand… and then promptly gets a whiff of his body odor. Disgusted, he pulls his hand back. “Aw, shit!”
“What’s wrong?”, you ask, unable to stop yourself from touching the spot Peter gave you the new love bite. It sends shivers down your spine.
“I forgot about the stench.” He shudders and starts to hurriedly pull his boots off. “Fuck.”
You immediately pull your knees up to your chest and hide your face in your arms, desperately trying not to cry. “I’m sorry,” you whimper.
Peter’s just about to take his pants off when he hears you. When he looks up at you, he realizes that you’re saying that because you think it’s your fault. Which, obviously, isn’t the case. Regardless, he walks over to you and kneels down again. “There’s no need to apologize, princess,” he tells you as he pets your hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You look up at him with your puppy dog eyes and pout. “But I feel really bad, Peter-“
He immediately shakes his head and cuts you off. “You don’t need to. I’m filthy too, remember?”
You nod with tears in your eyes. “I just feel like everything is my fault… and I just can’t fix it,” you say, your voice cracking.
He cups your cheeks and presses his forehead against yours. “Oh, my poor, sweet Lost Girl, there’s nothing you need to fix. Right now, all you need to do is take off your clothes so you can get cleaned up.” Before he speaks again, he kisses you softly. “Do you think you can do that?”, he asks.
You nod after a few minutes and hug him. “I love you,” you croak.
“I love you too,” he whispers. “Now let’s get out of these clothes and wash up, yeah?”
You silently nod and release him from your arms. You don’t wait for him to finish getting his pants off. You just strip down to your underwear and bra (one you conjured up with the power of belief).
Peter has also finished stripping off his clothes. All that remains is his… underwear? Boxers? Briefs? Britches? Whatever they are, they’re concealing his dick. Really, really concealing it. You literally can’t even see the outline of it. But you’re grateful that it’s not visible.
“My eyes are up here, love.”
The sound of Peter’s voice snaps you out of your daze. He’s completely right. You’ve been staring at his groin this whole time. Immediately, you lift your head and look at him with deep shame as you reflexively say, “Sorry.”
He shakes his head and bends down to put his arm under your knees. His other arm goes behind your back as he replies, “Y/N, I promise you, I will let you know if you do something that warrants an apology. Right now though, you don’t need to apologize for anything.”
“But I looked-“
He shakes his head and gently says, “Shut up.” He lifts you up and then pecks your lips. “I love you.” Another peck. “Shut up.”
You do as you’re told and lay your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes because your head really hurts and you just feel really, really hot. Not the good kind of hot.
Peter sighs and carries you into the water, a small frown on his face because he can practically hear all the self deprecating thoughts in your head. Even after spending so much time with you… all the pain you feel never fails to break his heart.
As soon as you feel the cold water on your skin, you moan in relief.
When he hears that sound, he smiles softly and then asks, “That feel good?”
You open your eyes and look up at him. “Mmhmm.”
“Very good,” he replies in his “you” voice. He puts you down in the water… only to pull you towards him again. “Do you mind if I put you in my lap?”
You shake your head. “No. It’s fine,” you answer softly.
Peter kisses the top of your head softly before he sits on the ground of the cove, then gently places you in his lap.
You’re about to start washing your hair when he grabs your wrist and takes it away from your hair. “What are you doing?”, you ask apprehensively.
He takes your locks off of your shoulder and scoops some water into his hand to wet them. “Washing your hair for you.”
You scoff. “I can do that myself just fine.”
He shakes his head. “No. You can’t.”
“Yes, I can!”, you insist.
“No! You can’t!”
You flinch at the rising volume in his voice.
Peter sighs and lowers his voice a little before asking, “Your hair pulling, it’s compulsive, yes?”
You nod quietly.
“Then you’re guaranteed to pull it,” he states sternly.
You shake your head. “No, I’m not,” you argue softly, now too frightened of angering him.
Although Peter isn’t angry, his voice still sounds as such. “Yes! You are!” And even if he is scaring you right now, he needs to get his point across. “You’ve proven that time and time again. So until you can prove to me that you won’t, you are not to touch your hair for more than five seconds- No. Better yet, one second. But even then.” He sees that you’re stimming now, so he puts his arms around your waist to try and soothe you. But his tone stays the same. “So no, you won’t be washing your hair. Or brushing it, or styling it. I’ll do all of that for you. Is that clear?”
You nod as you struggle to stay calm and hold back tears.
“Good girl,” he whispers as he removes his arms from around your waist, then nudges your chin up. “Lean back,” he commands softly.
You do as you’re told. You feel so frightened now. So overwhelmed. So… ashamed. You made him upset again. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do anything right?!
But he’s not the least bit angry. He’s just really, really scared of losing you. As he begins to wash your hair, he kisses your cheek. “I love you,” he whispers in your ear. Because he really, truly does. And he doesn’t want you to think otherwise.
You don’t say it back. You can’t say anything. You’re just… so shell shocked by what you’ve been told. Your autonomy is being taken away little by little… and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
“It’s not forever, Y/N. It’s just until you can prove to me that you won’t hurt yourself,” you hear Peter reassure you. “And you can still wash your body. I trust you don’t need help with that.”
But that’s the thing: you can still hurt yourself… and that’s exactly what you do now. And you’ve hurt yourself this way before. So you’re pretty used to the pain. Your nails are pretty short from being bitten, and they’re sharp… which means they can damage your skin if you scratch hard enough.
As subtly as you can, you cut horizontal lines across the skin on your right arm. You’ve never been able to draw blood- you’d have to use a knife for that- but you can damn well try. After all… you’ve been a very bad girl lately. You deserve to be punished, and putting yourself through this kind of pain is better than having your freedom taken away from you by the boy you love.
Said boy has just finished washing your hair when he hears you sniffling. “Y/N, what are you doing?”, he asks with concern.
“Nothing.”
“No. No, you are doing something,” he says, his voice sounding very, very serious. He puts his hand on your shoulder to try and get a better look. “Let me see.”
“No,” you tell him as you tug your shoulder out of his grasp.
“Let me see.”
“No,” you repeat with a whimper as you cut faster now.
This only makes him more worried. “Show me. Show me what you’re doing.”
“It’s- It’s nothing, Peter. I promise-“
Peter hates to raise his voice with you. Especially when you’re already so, so afraid and very clearly on the verge of a panic attack. But he’s run out of patience… and your safety is at risk. “SHOW ME WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”, he shouts.
He’s right in your ear, which makes you feel extra scared. And it hurts your ears a bit as well because it’s so, so loud. You flinch for both of these reasons. However, you do stop with the cutting and reveal your arm to him. But you’re so frightened, you’re trembling and it takes you a minute to lift your arm up to show him.
As soon as he sees the red marks on your arm, his eyes widen in horror. And then his expression softens as he gently orders you, “Turn around. Face me now.”
You shake your head and shut your eyes. Tears stream down your cheeks now, your trembling getting worse every second.
But Peter asks once more. “Darling, please, turn around and look at me?” His voice is soft and filled with only kindness… but so, so much sadness as well. Shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s sad, since he’s just caught his girlfriend hurting herself… again. Only this time, it’s via a method he didn’t realize she used.
You’re so, so scared of being yelled at again, so you force yourself to shift your body towards him. You open your eyes and expect to see Peter’s angry expression.
But instead… you see the opposite. He’s frowning and has tears in his eyes. Peter sighs as he gently grabs your arm and inspects the scratches. “Why have you done this?”, he asks softly, still looking down at the red lines on your skin.
You’re sobbing now, so frightened to tell him anything. One wrong word and you’re dead. Why say anything if it’ll just make things worse?
He looks up at your face now, cupping your cheeks and kissing your forehead softly. “Oh, you poor sweet angel. I didn’t realize you were hurting this badly,” he says, wiping away your tears. “Now why would you do this to yourself, hmm?”
“Because I made you angry again… and I can’t seem to do anything right. I’m a mistake,” you cry.
He shakes his head and says, “My dear girl, you are not a mistake. And I am far from angry at you. Like I said before we left camp, I’m just… so worried about you.”
“So you’re taking away my autonomy because you’re worried about me?!”
The accusation shocks him to his core, and he’s quiet for a moment before he shakes his head and softly cries, “No.” He says it again, then adds, “You still have freedom, Y/N. Like I’ve told you so many times, you’re not a prisoner here. You’re under my protection. I’d rather let the hourglass run out than lose you.”
“I-“
Peter’s got tears streaming down his cheeks now. He’s really, really crying. “Please,” he begs, “You need to hear this. It’s important.”
You sigh and let him say his piece.
“Do you know how lonely I was before you came here? I know I said I was doing fine on my own… but the truth is, all I’ve been doing lately is business related to getting Henry’s heart. I’ve been so stressed and so frightened… I’ve forgotten how to be a boy.”
You don’t realize it but your hand is heading towards your hair.
But Peter takes it in his and holds it while he continues speaking. “When you came to Neverland, I thought you were going to be just like every other unwelcome visitor I’d send away, or kill… or lock up until they were of use to me.” He kisses your hand before he goes on to say, “But then you started to pull your hair, and you were so quiet… and so frightened. And when you started crying… that’s when you broke my heart. The more I learned about all the pain you have- the pain you put yourself through- the more I wanted to protect you. And comfort you. And then I saw how beautiful you really are… and how lonely you feel.” He sighs and kisses your cheek. “You were so, so lonely… far more than I was. And I think that’s when the, er… rapid love kicked in.”
You have no idea where he’s going with this… but you keep listening anyway.
“Y/N, do you remember when I told you I was going to make you a Lost Girl?”
You nod.
“I said something before that. Do you remember what it was?”
You shake your head.
Peter strokes your cheek and then tells you, “I said that I would’ve probably fallen in love with you even without that rapid love.” He smiles weakly as he sighs, “And guess what?”
You shake your head again, not wanting to believe him… because you’re so unlovable. Hell, he probably just agreed to have sex with you because he pities you. “No,” you whimper softly. “No.”
But his next words say otherwise. “Yes,” he replies as he puts his head on your shoulder and pulls you into a hug. “I have. And I love you so, so much.” He presses a soft kiss on your new hickey before he whispers, “So much.” He tightens his grip on you now. “Please, please don’t leave me. I can’t lose you. Not after all the time we’ve spent together.”
The pain comes rushing back now, and all these emotions are not helping. “Peter, my head hurts,” you cry quietly.
He pulls back now, deciding that you’ve been out of bed for too long. “Alright. Let’s get dressed and head back.”
You rub your forehead and add, “I feel hot.”
“Oh, sweet girl.” He waves his hand, cleaning you both up instantly. It’s only after that that he scoops you into his arms and carries you out of the water to the spot where your clothes are.
When you’re set down on the ground, you close your eyes and picture one of the presents you got for your birthday this year. When you open your eyes, you see the Disney pajama set in front of you and you smile. Immediately, you pull them on. Before you pull on the top, you change into a more comfortable bra so you can sleep better but still keep your breasts hidden from Peter.
Speaking of whom, he’s just finished putting his pants and boots back on (magically washed, of course) when he sees what you’re wearing. “Oh, those look comfy,” he comments with his “you” voice.
“Aren’t they cute?”, you ask through your pain.
He smiles as he answers, “Why, yes, they are.”
“They were a gift from Sarah’s parents,” you tell him with a sad smile.
While he puts his cuffs back on, Peter tilts his head and looks at you with a puzzled expression as he asks, “Who’s Sarah?”
You sigh and then respond with as much composure as you can, “My best friend who… jumped.”
The realization hits him harder than a punch to the gut… and he wishes he’d understood sooner! “Oh,” he sighs with sorrow. “You two must have been so close then.”
You nod, watching him put the rest of his clothes back on as you explain, “Well, the reason we were best friends was because our moms met at Mommy & Me.”
While Peter is carrying you back to the camp, you go on to tell him about how Sarah’s family became incredibly close with your own; how the stars aligned when your parents realized that Sarah’s parents went to the same synagogue as you; how you both made every effort to attend the same schools, and especially the same classes; how you two would act out the entire Peter Pan story in full costume (you’d be Peter, Sarah would be Wendy).
“You could almost call that foreshadowing,” Peter quips when you tell him about that last bit. “You played your own future boyfriend.”
You giggle before you agree. “I guess so.”
He allows you to continue telling him about your bond with Sarah. By the time you’ve gotten back to the camp, you’ve just finished talking about your b’nai mitzvot… and now you’re about to tell him about the hardships you both faced (in your case, still facing). As he lays you on the cot, you divulge how Sarah comforted you after losing your uncle on September 11th… which you need to explain to Peter since he doesn’t know about it.
“Uncle Issac worked in the South Tower of the World Trade Center. He was on the 70th floor, so… he had enough time to say goodbye to his wife- my Aunt Leslie- and my mom- his sister,” you tell him. “When my family and Sarah’s visited New York that summer to see my cousins… we surprised Uncle Issac at work. That office is gone now,” you say, still trying to process this even after four years. “He jumped out of the tower. It was either that, or burn to death.”
But now… you’re at the point you’ve dreaded talking about: the lead up to Sarah’s suicide.
“There’s a lot of bullies at our school. Mean girls, yes… but a ton of… horrendous boys as well.”
Peter freezes when he hears this. Oh no, he thinks to himself. Please don’t tell me she was physically harmed by them? Please, gods!
You continue, “They made life our lives hell. But it was a lot worse for Sarah.” Everything comes rushing back as you recount it all. “Her mother is from Israel, so… she faced way more antisemitism than me.”
The look of rage in his eyes says everything you need to know… and you’re glad he’s feeling rage.
“There’s this boy, Evan, who’s pretty notorious for not facing the consequences of his actions. And it’s all because his mom donates a ton of money to the school, and his dad is on the school board. The first time the principal tried to expel Evan, his bitch of a mother- as my mom and I like to call her- threatened to sue the school district and pull all future donations. The worst punishment he’s ever gotten was in house suspension for a month. And that was only one time.”
Peter continues to listen to this, an idea forming in his head… and it’s one he’s not going to tell you about. But it’ll be very beneficial for you in the long run.
“Anyway, he’s been in our lives since middle school. He’s made my life and the rest of Sarah’s life hell that entire time,” you say with a venomous tone. “When the Second Intifada broke out, Evan covered her entire locker with red paint and scrawled the words “baby killer” on it with his finger.”
“And what did he do to you?”, he asks with a slight growl.
You sigh and reply, “Not much… until the Twin Towers were attacked and destroyed.”
He furrows his brows in confusion.
“There’s this conspiracy theory that the Jews were behind the attacks.”
“You weren’t though-“
“I know… but there are people who think that we were.” You can’t help trembling at the memories of him taunting you. “Evan kept following me around school- he followed me to my house sometimes- and he’d always ask one question. Why did I kill him?”
“Your Uncle Issac?”
You nod.
“This… fucker!” Peter groans. “Y/N, I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with-“
“It gets worse.” You take a deep breath. “About a month and a half ago, Sarah and I were at our homecoming party, which was at the Troubadour. Whenever we were at an event for school- or on a field trip- we’d always go to the bathroom together. It’s a thing girls do for safety.”
He nods, indicating that he understands. But his fury is growing as he hears more.
“Except… that night, the one time we didn’t go with each other to the bathroom… something bad happened to her.”
I’ll be fine, Sarah had said. It’s just changing a tampon. It takes, like, five seconds.
“She was on her period, and she needed to take care of herself. She said she’d be okay by herself, and that she’d be quick.”
You waited, and waited… and waited. But you felt a growing sense of dread within you… and something in your gut was telling you that there was something wrong. You tried to ignore it… but eventually, after half an hour, you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Usually, whenever I feel particularly anxious, I try to ignore it.”
Peter can already tell where this is headed… and he doesn’t like it. It’s only affirming that he needs to put his plan into action.
“I waited thirty minutes… and then I couldn’t wait anymore.”
Sarah?, you called softly as you opened the door to the girls’ bathroom.
“When I went in… I saw… her tampon on the floor… and her underwear.”
He’s shaking with rage now.
I’m in here, Sarah answered from the handicapped stall.
You could hear the sniffles from her… which only added to your anxiety.
“I opened up the door to the stall… and she was on the floor… and her clothes-“ You shut your eyes and put your hands over them.
“He didn’t,” he says with gritted teeth.
You sob and reply, “He did.”
It was rape. The evidence was right in front of you but you couldn’t believe it. There was cum on Sarah’s thighs, leaking from her vagina… along with blood. Not just uterine lining… but actual blood. Her dress was ruined by all of that liquid, but what was even worse was that it was torn.
What happened?, you asked as you got on your knees beside your best friend.
Evan came in, Sarah explained through tears, and he didn’t leave. Not until he finished. He kept telling me that I deserved it. He was too strong, Y/N. I couldn’t stop it.
“It was my fault-“
Peter pulls you into his arms and hugs you like your life depends on it. “No. No, my love. The only one at fault is Evan.”
You had a panic attack that night… and Sarah didn’t blame you for having one. All she did was lie to her parents, calling them on the phone by the front desk. Something happened and I need to stay at Y/N’s house tonight. I’ll be home in the morning, she said.
“I stayed with her with her while she showered in my bathroom. I helped her clean up. She was on birth control for her period, so we weren’t too worried about pregnancy. I remember Sarah telling me that Evan said he was clean.”
This confuses Peter. “Clean?”
“It means you don’t have any sexually transmitted diseases or infections,” you explain.
He already knows what’s coming next. “That’s why Sarah jumped?”, he asks in the least angry voice he possibly can.
“Yes. It was two weeks after the assault.” You pull back and tell him, “Evan came up to me when I was in the front office at school waiting for my parents… and he told me that he was glad Sarah was dead. “One less oven dodger in the world”, he said.”
Peter desperately wants to murder that boy now.
But you’re not finished yet. “I was all alone. My grades fell… I stopped talking to most of my other friends. I couldn’t talk to my parents because I was so scared they’d ask me questions about the suicide.”
He softens, tucking some hair behind your ear. “My poor girl,” he murmurs.
“The day before my birthday- a Friday- I was at school. I forgot my textbook for French class, so I went to my locker to get it.” You put your head on your boyfriend’s chest, so desperate for comfort. “After I closed my locker, I turned around and saw Evan right in front of me.”
Again, Peter can already tell where this is going.
“I tried to run… but he pinned me against the lockers and caged me between his legs. He had this terrifying smile on his face… and then he said, “Happy almost birthday, cunt. It better be the last one. Cuz if I see you here on Monday, I’m gonna fuck you in the ass until you bleed to death, right here in front of everybody. And don’t go crying to your parents. Don’t go crying to anyone. Cuz they’ll never believe you. Just like they never would’ve believed your genocidal friend.” That was the last thing he said to me before he walked away.”
Peter’s arms tighten as his protectiveness grows. “Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath.
“I didn’t have a plan, Peter. I still don’t.” You hug him back. “I celebrated my birthday like I’d never celebrated it before… but then I remembered that it had to be my last one. I didn’t know what to do.” You sigh heavily. “And then I realized that the answer was right in front of me. Uncle Isaac jumped… Sarah jumped… so I jumped too.”
He smiles and pulls back to cup your cheeks. “Except you didn’t die. You came here instead.” He kisses your forehead softly. “And it’s a good thing you’re here now… cos you’re safe… and I’ll make sure that no one ever, ever hurts you.”
You kiss his lips and tell him, “I love you, Peter.”
“I love you too, Y/N,” he whispers before he takes your hands and kisses them too. “You need to sleep if you want to… lose it to me tomorrow night,” he tells you seductively, slowly trailing his hand down to your cunt. Cupping it, he smirks and then says, “I’ll kissing this first… per your request.”
You hold back a moan… but then another moan escapes you, only it’s from the sickness.
He takes his hand away. “But only if you’re well enough,” he says as he gently pushes you down, placing a fresh cold cloth on your forehead. “I hope your dreams are filled with joy… and that I’m in them.”
“I’m definitely having a wet dream tonight,” you flirt as you start feeling drowsy.
Peter shakes his head and lays next to you, removing the cloaking spell that covered his agony. “No, love,” he replies, “I mean, I hope all your dreams about me make you feel safe.”
You turn your head to look at him… and then you see the dark circles underneath his eyes. “Peter-“
He shakes his head and hushes you softly, putting his arm around you and placing your head on his chest. “I’ll be alright. I promise. Let’s just sleep now… yeah?”, he asks, his voice getting quieter with each word.
You nod, closing your eyes and yawning.
Peter relaxes after you become limp. “Good girl,” he says softly. He waits for his own subconscious to overtake him… but as he waits, he continues to develop his plan.
That boy will never know peace again, he thinks with his signature cruel smirk before sleep finally comes to him. Peter Pan never fails.
[Hi. Took a while… but I hope this was worth the wait. Also, apologies for the lack of gifs this time. Just a heads up that this story will be extended for plot reasons]
Summary: You and Din prep for your annual Rosh Hashanah party. Cooking stress and Din's gentle reassurance ensues.
words: 937
warnings/tags: all my work is mature, 18+ ONLY. domestic fluff, jewish!reader, din knows his way around a kitchen and more, reassurance, soft!din djarin has my heart
a/n: some terms to know before reading:
Rosh Hashanah: the New Year in Judaism, first of the ten High Holy Days. celebrated with prayer (if observant/religious), introspection, and eating customary foods with loved ones.
tzimmes (TSIM-mes): traditional Ashkenazi Jewish dish/stew of root veggies (often carrots), sweet in flavor and typically served for Rosh Hashanah and Passover. veggies are cut into circles to resemble coins, symbolizing the hope for a prosperous new year. in Yiddish, tzimmes roughly translates to "to make a big fuss over something.
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You jumped at the sound of your oven’s shrill timer going off, nearly slicing your finger off while cutting one of the many apples in front of you. The kitchen floor creaked behind you and you knew it was your ever-observant partner, Din coming to take out the honeycake that had just finished baking. Without a word, he tapped off the alarm and the oven squeaked open, a rush of heat gracing your back as he took the honey cake out. You finally turned to watch him bump the oven closed with his knee and quietly giggled as he set the cake down on a cooling rack, wearing the snarky oven mitts his Aunt Peli had gotten you for Hanukkah last year.
He turned to look at you, sweat dotting his furrowed brow as he took off the mitts. “What?”
“Nothing.” You shook your head and returned to your task. “Those oven mitts look cute on you, that’s all. It’s nice to see you work around the house for once.”
You bit your lip to hide your teasing smile and pretended not to notice or care when Din’s familiar warmth settled behind you and his arms caged you in. He had you trapped between him and the counter, but you had no desire to flee. The scent of his cologne overpowered the cake and you let his calloused hands gently stop yours. The half-cut apple and discarded knife scolded your weakness from their places on the cutting board, but you could never resist Din’s touch.
“You say that as if I’m the one who forgets to clean up after baking or crafting,” he murmured.
“I never ask you to clean up my messes,” you retort, “you’re just too attentive.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
The tiny hurt in his voice made you turn around and shake your head. “Definitely not, especially when we host.” You looked into his chestnut eyes and nearly drowned in them; a quick kiss on the tip of his nose saves you from their depths. “You’ve been a great help today, my love.”
He smiled at you and kissed your cheek. “I know how much this means to you.” His eyes left yours and looked down at the counter. “I don’t want to distract you from your work, though. Looks like you still have a lot left to do.”
“Well, how about you take over the charcuterie board and I make the cake glaze and start the tzimmes?”
Din nodded and gently shifted you out of the way, picking up the knife to continue where you’d stopped. Your partner was nothing if not devoted and dutiful, and you made a mental note to reward him after the party. Until then, the flirting and teasing would have to be put on hold–it was officially crunch time to get ready for your annual Rosh Hashanah party.
You shifted the expertly-arranged charcuterie board a smidge and hummed. Changing the angle too much risked the jar of honey falling to the floor, but leaving it as is allowed it to encroach on the space reserved for the small savory plates. Arranging your table always raised your blood pressure and made you sweat.
“Stop fussing, it looks fine,” Din chastised from his spot on the couch.
“This brie just looks odd. And I didn’t make enough glaze for the cake, and I don’t know if this challah is going to be enough, and what if nobody likes the couscous?”
You felt Din’s warm hands settle on your waist and spin you around to face him. He held your cramped hands in his, thumbs lightly massaging your palms. You couldn't help noticing how nicely he’d cleaned up after spending the afternoon rushing around the house with last-minute cleaning tasks, his warm brown curls neatly defined and cologne reapplied. He shook you out of your lovestruck trance and gently kissed your cheek.
“Everyone is going to love everything, just like they did last year and the year before that.”
“But what if they–”
Din cut you off with a gentle kiss, his hands drifting up and squeezing your biceps. The way he calmed your nervous system never ceased to amaze you. Din had a knack for grounding people, and he exercised this talent every time you both hosted something, whether it was an intimate gathering or a large party. When his lips left yours you melted forward into his chest and his arms wrapped around you, holding you close, pressing you into him so you could hear his smooth heartbeat.
“It’s going to be fine, darling. Bo said she’ll be here in fifteen, but we already planned for that, remember?” His voice rumbled against your skin and he chuckled when you nodded. “We finished everything early. Go, make yourself look nice.”
Your head snapped up. “What?! Do I look bad?”
His eyes crinkled from a soft smile and he shook his head. You pouted and his gentle hands cupped your cheeks, then drifted down to settle on your waist. “You always look stunning, honey, but I figured you’d want to freshen up like I did.”
You huffed and tried to twist away from him, but your feigned stubbornness was no match for his strong arms. He kept you trapped in a tight hug, pressing kisses into your cheek until your empty protests turned into breathless laughs accompanied by his devious chuckles. Din let go after you’d both stopped laughing, cheeks aching and hearts full. You hoped that this Rosh Hashanah would be one of many more spent fretting over food and basking in the warmth of the season together.
a/n: I wrote an in-universe Rosh Hashanah fic with din/reader a couple years ago..give it a read here or on ao3 if you'd like. I love weaving my jewishness into my art!
flufftober 2025 list | masterlist | join the taglist
a/n: i looked up what jewish weddings typically look like so i am basing it off of something online i hope it is correct
requested by @resplendentlady
As far as preferences go, Erik and you kept the wedding small. He didn’t have many people he wanted to share the day with, he really just wanted you. You invited the people closest to you and kept it at that. All you really needed was him and you. So the wedding started as it would, walking to and standing beneath the chuppah, did your circles, exchanged rings, shared the blessings, and once these important steps of your faith, Erik lifted his foot and stomped on the glass, the opening for your small crowd to yell…
“Mazel tov!” There was applause while you and Erik smiled proudly and exited for yichud, which he’d been looking forward to since company had arrived. So, when alone, you sat together and kissed for the first time as a married couple.
“Was it everything you hoped for?” Erik asked, holding your hand and taking in these new memories, ones that were more important than anything else in this world. Happy ones full of love and promise.
How does the Ren family like to spend Shabbat nights?
Oh I think this is such a sweet ask!! Please accept these sleepover edition headcanons! :)
After college, Kylo and his brothers didn't spend very much time together. Kylo opened up the motorcycle shop, Matt got an engineering job, and Ben had taken a roadtrip to California in an attempt to make it big, that landed him right back home. So for a while, the triplets were either too busy or too tired to get together often, until Kylo meets you.
You don't tell him at first that you've invited Mattie and Ben over to your shared apartment, when Shabbat arrives at the end of the week as it always does. They simply show up with a salad (Matt's task) and a dessert (Ben's task), and take their shoes off at the door.
And suddenly, the triplets remember how much they love one another's company. Sure they have a group chat and Kylo calls Mattie at least once a day, but to physically be near his brothers fills a spot in Kylo's heart that he hadn't realized was empty.
So every week since then, if the triplets didn't see one another, they know they can count on Friday night dinners with you. First in your apartment that you share, and then in the big house Kylo buys you when he marries you.
Traditions are born and kept up through the years, things that they had done when they were kids, now old enough to know the significance of it.
Traditions like the blessings of the challah and wine, the lighting of the Shabbat candles and the songs sung in a language they had almost forgotten.
Ultimately, Shabbat is a time to be with family, a sacred evening where stories and jokes are shared, memories are reminisced on, plans are made for the future. You do all of these things with Kylo and his brothers, glad to have brought them together after a few wayward years apart.
Some nights, they argue over everything, over nothing. They say things that are hurtful either out of anger or frustration, or they accidentally offend in a joke taken the wrong way. Sometimes they leave in a huff of anger and a shouting match -- but they always make up.
Some nights, the boys stay so late that they simply sleepover, sharing the guest-room's bed. It certainly saves time going to synagogue on Saturday mornings, and you like hearing the symphony of snores -- Kylo isn't the only one in the family with a deviated septum, it would seem.
Some nights are more involved than others, but as the years go by, and energetic children come into the equation, you always make sure to at the very least have a family dinner with the ones you and Kylo love (and always leave enough challah for french toast breakfasts the next morning!)
Phillip Altman x Jewish! GN reader (AFAB if you squint)
Words: 5.9k
A/N: Shana Tova to everyone who celebrates! I hope this new year brings you light and love. For those who don’t celebrate, I still hope you enjoy this!
CW/Tags : Mentions of food and alcohol, implications of sex, oral sex (GN receiving), penetrative sex, reader doesn’t practice but is Jewish, mentions of children/babies, Annie and Paul finally have a baby
Read on AO3!
“A joke is what it is,” you begin, the corners of your mouth turning upwards at the sentiment. “Rosh Hashanah translates to ‘Head of the Year’, so, for a laugh, people place fish heads on the table. Sometimes the brave eat it, eyeballs and all.” Judd shutters at the thought of an eyeball exploding between his teeth, quietly declining the offer before pulling out a chair for Penny and then himself. Phillip’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls out a chair for you, pulling you close to his side first. You fit almost perfectly; it would be perfect if he wasn’t so damn tall.
“If you were a fish, I’d eat your eyeballs,” he claims, “eat both of ‘em. Chew them real nice.” The reflex of your hand coming to whack him is abruptly intercepted by his hand encasing your wrist. You’ve smacked him enough already today, he determines, bringing your hand up to his lips to lay a lingering kiss upon your pulse. “Don’t pretend that you wouldn’t eat my eyeballs too.”
“So, why are we doing this exactly?”
Some stray breadcrumbs that linger in your hand are already slotted between your fingers, irritating your skin like the most delicious sand. The urge to drop the bread and dip your hand in the water pushes you closer to the pond. Leeds Pond was the closest and the easiest drive, so here you stand, the cool September wind brushing against your skin with a handful of crumbs.
“To cast away our sins for the new year,” you explain, feeling the friction of the crumbs almost becoming unbearable. “With the beginning of the year, it’s best to start off with a clean slate. With Tashlich, they wash away and you can start anew untainted,” you explain. You keep holding onto the piece of too-stale bread, as much as you wish for it to be taken by the water. You want him here beside you, joining you in the annual ritual you perform. The earth crunches below his feet, the first thing to come into view is his own cupped hand filled with the same bread you brought along. The same amount deposited into yours looks so minuscule in his hand, yet with his size, everything looks tiny.
“What if I want to remain tainted? What if I don’t give a shit about what God thinks?” he pesters as he always does. A huff expels through your nostrils as you try to control your laughter, shaking your head at his petulance.
“You really want God to remember Paul catching us in your car? It’s enough that Paul has to remember that,” you sigh, your brows pinching forward. It is a miracle, truly, how you two were able to squeeze into the back seat like that. Judd never returned the Porsche, remembering him cautiously driving it down the street in case Phillip had a fit. Better Judd than some asshole, he chuckled at the scene, simple as that. For now, the Prius is enough. Maybe not a babe magnet, but who would he need to attract when he had you?
“He enjoyed it, trust me, he’s not getting any action since that kid came along, and it’s not like he hasn’t seen much worse shit from me before.” He’s the one who laughs now, the smack of your unoccupied hand against his sturdy bicep sending him further into hysterics. Catching a glimpse of his pointy teeth, you give in, your shoulders shaking in time in your shared laughter.
“You’re such an ass. Come on,” you lead him further towards the water, Phillip following at your side. You halt about five feet away from the water, peering over at him from beneath your lashes. With the morning sun casting a golden glow upon his skin and the sight of his windswept hair, he looks almost ethereal. Perhaps he doesn’t need his sins washed away after all. Perhaps this is God’s way of saying he is forgiven for every whacky thing he has ever done. It’s not like it matters. This is simply a tradition in your eyes. “You ready?”
“Yup,” he nods, accentuating the p with the pop of his tongue. You shoot him a simple countdown from three. At the sound of one, you swing your arm back, letting the bread fly into the pond. The crumbs remain, continuing to irritate the skin between your fingers. The old bread soaks up the muddy water, breathing some kind of life into it once more before it disintegrates for the fish to consume. Even if it’s just tradition, you can’t explain the weight that seems to melt off of your being. A new beginning, a chance to restart. You don’t say the prayer that goes with the ritual; you don’t know it if you’re being honest with yourself. Still, being in the moment, sharing it with him, the prayer isn’t needed.
Phillip’s piece looks smaller than you remember placing in his palm previously. Your brows furrow, gaze following him once more to see him pressing the remaining piece past his lips and gnawing on the too-hard dough.
“You’re not supposed to eat it!” you shriek, your hands reaching out for him again in hopes he somehow stops his ministrations. Instead, he keeps chewing, arms reaching out to grab you by the waist and pulling you into his front. He swallows obviously, lips smacking together before releasing an exuberant sigh of satisfaction, noting how yummy it was. You roll your eyes, fingertips skirting against his arms as your hands come to join his own. “Ugh, you’re the worst.” With a hunch to his spine, he bends over just enough to brush his lips against your cheek, his facial hair prickling at your skin.
“Mmm, but you love me anyway,” he grumbles before his lips meet your skin again. You wish to act fast, to lie and rip yourself away from his grasp spewing how you don’t love him. He’s a menace, and childish, and will do anything to get a rise out of you. Yet it would kill you at this moment to leave his embrace, his arms encasing you so perfectly. The breeze subsides against your frame with your human shield wrapped around you. Your body relaxes the more he holds you, knees going lax as your head comes to rest against his chest.
“I shouldn’t, but I do,” you sigh, eyes slinking shut as his lips continue their gentle attack upon your skin. Goosebumps push their way up, the warmth from his embrace easing the urge to shiver. With the proper angle of your head, you respond with a kiss upon his jaw in return. Your nose nuzzles into the edge of his goatee. “I really do.” You have no idea how this happened, how you ended up in his arms like this, giving him your whole heart. You couldn’t stand him growing up, the too-tall and lanky immature boy he was, always pestering you and your every move whenever he had the chance. He’d push every button you had and then find more you didn’t know existed, just to push those as well. As you both grew, so did your intolerance of him. It didn’t matter how handsome he became, how he filled out all of his shirts and grew facial hair that would look creepy on any other man that you would come across.
Well, maybe that wasn’t the case. You know how this happened, as does he. The lock of eyes across the room at a party your friend took you to, the existential dread settling in your belly as he made his way across the room, drink in hand, to talk you up. Your brain screamed at you to run, to do anything to get out of his way. Instead, you stayed firmly planted in place. For once in your life, you didn’t want to knock him straight in the jaw. The first few days, you blamed the alcohol, but when you woke in the same bed night after night for a week straight, you only had yourself to blame. Awestruck by Phillip, you quickly became enamored, as much as you tried to avoid him afterward. Still, he found a way, always showing up where you least expected him. Something about him, as much as you wished to smack him upside the head, captivated you unlike anything else. His winning smile, contagious laugh, the feel of his hands. The jokes started to become less intolerable. You liked them even. Two years later, here you stay, locked in his arms, his familiar scent the only one to calm you.
“It’s a good thing I love you too, then,” he presses a final kiss into your skin before pulling away. “Come on, let’s go fuck in the car.” Now you tear away, exasperated with your jaw on the floor. His laughter booms through the sounds of nature and although you go to smack him again, calling him disgusting, you walk back to the car arm-in-arm with your heart about to burst.
Even though you speed down the road, you’re late. Thank Phillip for that, you grumble at the door as you return Hillary’s welcoming embrace, the Shana Tova still fresh upon her tongue despite not being Jewish at all. He wasn’t kidding with his offer, practically begging you with pursed lips and puppy dog eyes and his hands right where you needed them, that you couldn’t refuse. There were times you had to stop, as close as you were to your precipice because your leg was screaming at you, the muscles cramping up from being stuffed in the backseat of a car that could barely fit two. His hands massaged the muscles each time, trying to alleviate the pain as you rushed to bring each other to ecstasy on top of him. Still attentive, even in your thoroughs of passion. You don’t remember hearing that from others back in high school. Your hair is still mused, clothes still hanging off awkwardly as you feel Hillary’s shoulders shake against you in laughter.
“Feel free to tell me later,” Hillary pats your hair down, removing herself from you to be engulfed by her youngest and largest child. She yelps when he lifts her feet off the ground, flopping her around like a rag doll. His laughter can fill any space, exuberant and boisterous. It doesn’t end once he puts her down, the older woman having to pat herself down to get her clothes back into place as well. “Hope he didn’t do that with you before.”
“Mooooom,” Phillip whines, pushing past to go see who would be the schmuck to arrive later than him. The main room is booming with life, and it seems Phillip and you were the schmucks after all. The children chase each other around the room, shouting as they decide who is ‘it’ in their game of tag. The rumble of the china cabinets gives way beneath their little feet, so many of them now. The only one not in the feat of play is the youngest addition bouncing on Annie’s lap. They grow bigger every time you see them, their cheeks more cherubic with each bottle they suckle from and each spoonful of mashed whatever they eat. Today it seems to be peas and carrots, the empty glass jar discarded on the table in front of them. Cole runs into your leg, muttering an apology as you try to weave your way through the madness. Only at the Altman’s, it seems.
“Ugh, you smell like sex,” Wendy groans as you hug one another. He’s told you all about her, what she did for him growing up. To say you’re thankful is an understatement. If she hadn’t cared for him, time would only tell how much more of a mess he would have been. How much more would he have gotten under your skin? But would that have made you fall for him even harder? You pull her in further, practically squeezing the air out of her lungs with how tightly you hold her.
“What? Don’t like the smell of knowing your brother gets laid?” you jest, getting a laugh in return.
“Glad it’s just you,” she speaks through her chuckles. Unraveling yourself from her arms, your hands remain placed on each other, another moment of many that you two have shared in silence. It’s hard to explain these moments, but they ground you both. You share a smile, a silent thank you for giving Phillip the chance to grow, whether it be now or then.
“Are you doing okay?” you ask. Wendy’s lips purse, surveying the room before giving you a nod.
“As good as I can be,” she responds, her thumbs making soft circles upon your arms. You study the room as well, trying to take in all of the commotions. Paul is in the corner, glass in hand, having discussions with Judd. With the feeling of your eyes on them, both men pause and look over, shooting you closed-mouth smiles that you return. Annie is no longer in her spot, off to the bathroom probably as Phillip has taken her place bouncing the baby on his knee, cooing at them. Penny is weaving through the room with a covered tray in her hands, the aroma of whitefish permeating the path she walks. She calls your name, shooting you a smile with a hello before disappearing into the dining room.
“Barry?”
“Italy,” Wendy is quick to answer, although her tone is anything but okay. From the few times you’ve met him, Barry has never been the most pleasant person. He’s always been distant, a phone attached to his face. You wonder if he’s lost the feeling in his arm from how often he keeps his phone propped up to press against his cheek. You breathe a sigh through your nose, not wishing to push further where you may not be wanted. Your grip on her tightens, giving her arms a gentle squeeze.
Phillip watches from the couch, eyes tearing away for a few moments to blow raspberries into the baby’s chubby cheeks. The little one giggles, pressing Phillip on further to have his lips vibrate against their super soft skin. He’s never been the one to think of kids. Hell, in many people’s eyes, he still was a kid in some way. But with one in his arms, how he soars for you, and how you look upon his sister with such love in your eyes, he knows he can see a future with you. He swore off his playboy ways, it had been the first thing he promised when he asked you to be his exclusively. For the first time, the urge wasn’t there. There was no itch for new exploration with another, no pull for falling back into old habits. He wanted to be better, truly. At first, he told himself it was solely for you, but he knew it was for himself too. It took time for him to notice how he wished to better himself, but with you helping him along the way, it was quite easy to fall into new and improved ways of living. Your touch was all he needed to sate him, your voice the only one he needed to hear when he woke in the morning and fell asleep at night. It was you, only you. None of this mumbo-jumbo rush for love and marriage like last time. This was real, and he would wait as long as he needed to until you were ready, but he knew. It’s you. You’re it for him.
“I’m here if you need me, okay? If you just wanna get away and steal a bottle of booze and talk, you know where to find me,” you affirm Wendy gently, not bringing attention to the glint that appears in Wendy’s irises. She nods again, muttering a ‘thanks’ before exiting to help her mother and Linda in the kitchen. You bounce back over to Phillip, bending over to plant a fat one upon the top of his head. Looking up, his gaze meets yours, pointy canines peaking out beneath pink lips.
“Had a good talk?” he asks, continuing to bounce the baby on his knee. The tiny human grumbles and squeals, enjoying the gentle rocking of their uncle Phillip. You nod, hand reaching out to brush through his hair. You untangle a few knots you put there in the first place an hour earlier, his lips pressing against your palm during a brief pause.
“Yeah. Are you stealing babies now? Thought it was just my underwear.” You follow in his footsteps with him being unable to keep his hands off of you, taking the opportunity to continue the soft attack on his hair. He leans into your touch as you preen him, eyes threatening to shut at the feeling of your fingers on him.
“Ha ha. Very funny, babe,” he drawls, sarcasm laced with his tongue. “I’ll have you know I only borrowed this baby. I may have stolen two thousand dollars from Paul and Judd, but babies are where I cross the line.” You scoff, feigning offense as you sink into the couch next to him. With a cock of his brow, a quiet invitation, he places the baby upon your lap. You wonder how long Annie has been away as you place your hands on the baby’s hips to keep them steady. You don’t mind, though. Taking care of babies may be the most tiring thing in the world, as much as people enjoy parenthood. Annie deserves a break. With that thought, you bring them closer to your chest, letting their back rest against your front.
“Hey there, Bubba,” you coo, the baby cooing back, “Uncle Philly isn’t giving you too much of a hard time, is he? I know how annoying he could be.” Beside you, Phillip huffs, a tuft of hair blowing from his eyes with the power of the air expelled. You giggle, leaning forward to land the softest of kisses upon the baby’s temple.
You can’t lie to yourself when you say you haven’t thought of this. Of course, you have. You swore to yourself you didn’t need the hassle nor the expenses. The Altmans had enough kids for a million lifetimes and none of them had to go home with you. But these are the things you dream of when you’re not in control, the images of waking groggy at the sound of crying, only for Phillip to wake up beside you, mumbling that he’s got it. You both pad out of bed to calm the wailing child, together, like you do everything. With a sleepy smile, you watch him rock them until their fussiness subsides, hand coming to rest upon his back and rub in soothing circles.
You’re a great dad, your dream self muses. He smiles, dazed as he remains half asleep.
You’re pretty great too, dream Phillip responds, slowly placing the baby back in their crib to keep them from stirring. You blink away the memory with the baby still in your lap, sighing once your laughter ceases. No one has ever made you laugh so much. You never wish to stop laughing. The baby laughs as well and with that, you know. He’s it for you.
“What the fuck is that?” Phillip blurts out at the fish head placed on the perfectly set table. There’s enough food to feed a village five times the size of those starting to gather at the table. In the middle of the table lay the head from the whitefish being served, mouth agape and eyeballs still intact.
“Watch your mouth, there are kids here!” Judd hisses, glancing back and forth at all of the food, “but seriously, what is that?”
“A joke is what it is,” you begin, the corners of your mouth turning upwards at the sentiment. “Rosh Hashanah translates to ‘Head of the Year’, so, for a laugh, people place fish heads on the table. Sometimes the brave eat it, eyeballs and all.” Judd shutters at the thought of an eyeball exploding between his teeth, quietly declining the offer before pulling out a chair for Penny and then himself. Phillip’s arm snakes around your waist as he pulls out a chair for you, pulling you close to his side first. You fit almost perfectly; it would be perfect if he wasn’t so damn tall.
“If you were a fish, I’d eat your eyeballs,” he claims, “eat both of ‘em. Chew them real nice.” The reflex of your hand coming to whack him is abruptly intercepted by his hand encasing your wrist. You’ve smacked him enough already today, he determines, bringing your hand up to his lips to lay a lingering kiss upon your pulse. “Don’t pretend that you wouldn’t eat my eyeballs too.”
“I wouldn’t,” you hiss, shivering at his lips remaining on your skin. The family pays no attention, thankfully, all taking their seats and settling in. Even if they were watching, it wouldn’t deter him. He lays his cheek in your hand, nuzzling into your palm like a kitten.
“You’ve had other balls of mine in your mouth. Why would this be any different?” That seems to catch the attention of Paul, the sound of him choking on his wine.
“Jesus, Phillip. Not in front of the kids!” he chastises once he catches his breath. The youngest brother chuckles, vibrations from his mouth sending shivers up your spine. Ugh! Not now, anytime or anywhere but getting ready to sit down for Rosh Hashanah dinner. Your eyes drill into his, giving a silent warning of what he’s doing to you despite the bullshit coming from his mouth. He offers you a wink and another kiss. He waits for you to sit before taking his seat beside you, instantly joining your hands together underneath the table. You intertwine your fingers with him, the warmth from his skin soothing the slight irritation in between your fingers from Tashlich. His thumb maps out invisible shapes on the back of your hand, you giving him a gentle squeeze in response.
Hillary taps at her glass with a fork to hush the commotion, clearing her throat before continuing:
“Does anyone know the prayer?” The room is silent, eyes casting glances towards one another in hopes someone else would know. How would they know if they rarely practiced? Hillary wasn’t Jewish and Mort was an atheist, you were told. Still, tradition runs strong as it does with you. Even then, tradition and all, you’re stumped. You know the stories, the general gist, but the last time you went to synagogue you fell asleep as the songs droned on in a language you will never understand. From the corner of your eye, Wendy shakes her head. Linda purses her lips, just happy to be here besides Hillary. Paul continues to sip on his wine, Annie eyeing the food that cools more by the second. Judd quietly asks Penny, her wild hair shaking along with her head. You shrug when eyes land upon you. You know about fish heads but not about the prayer. Typical. “Alright. Let’s eat then!”
The meal is lively, the plethora of deliciousness overwhelming you quite early on. Still, you take on the hard feat of trying everything you can. Stories you have never heard before having the family's cheeks burning and looking away, begging whoever shares not to say anymore fills the space as you indulge in all of the food sprawled out on the table. Your insides hurt from laughing so hard, honey still lingering on your lips from the dipped apples you all shared. Your tongue craves the citrus that the whitefish holds in its tender flesh where your brain screams for more tzemmies, the sweetness the sweet potato brings being like the warmest of hugs upon your palette. Phillip’s hand never leaves yours, fingers toying with each other under the table as you chow down.
You manage to reach over with your opposite hand and pinch him when he mentions how the round challah “looks familiar”.
“Ow! What? It’s true!” he tries to reason, knowing he would try to ease the pain if his other hand wasn’t locked in yours.
“It’s supposed to symbolize the circle of life, not an ass, you idiot,” you grumble, attempting to hide your laughter. You swear he does this on purpose to spur you on. It used to work all those years ago. But that was when you weren’t holding hands under the table and dreaming of families. Still, he tries. He enjoys it when you snap. You ride him that much harder when you snap, your hands rougher on him than usual, the word “brat” on your tongue making his entire body quiver. He pushes down those thoughts the moment they arise, his composure collected as he shrugs and reaches for his piece
“I’m just saying it’s familiar! You were the one that said it looked like an ass,” his words are muffled halfway through as he shoves the too-large piece in his mouth, the extra bits puffing his cheek out like a hamster storing food in their pouches as he chews. Later on, you shoot him a glance when he asks whether or not he should spit or swallow the pomegranate seeds that are passed around the table, winking at you and mouthing an I know what you’d do. Your face burns at that and you squeeze his hand a bit too tight. Oh, he’s asking for it now.
Although you’re stuffed, dessert makes your mouth water. Your wide eyes wander the span of the table, taking in everything you wish to devour. The apple honey cake calls to you, the apple glaze dripping down the sponge-like the sweetest of raindrops. Although your stomach pains you, you wish to lick the plate clean. The roasted and caramelized dates are to die for and they are the first thing you reach for, the soft flesh giving way beneath your teeth and practically melting on your tongue. You fight back a groan at the flavor, feeling his eyes surveying you at such a reaction. You turn to take in his raised brows, his teeth worrying into his bottom lip to hide the hint of a grin.
“Good, huh?” he nudges, leaning forward to steal the flavor from your lips in a chaste kiss. Involuntarily, you quietly groan against him, the taste of the honey cake upon his lips mingling with the dates. You nod as he pulls away, eyes drooping as the food finally catches up to you. You can never help yourself with food like this. Too much of it puts you right to sleep, but time and time again you make the same mistakes of stuffing your face with it. “You wanna go lay down?” After a moment of contemplation, you nod again, slowly pushing your seat back to rise from it. Phillip rises beside you, your hands still joined after all this time as he dismisses the both of you and leads you to his childhood bedroom.
It’s still odd after all of the times you’ve seen his room. Each time it strikes you for someone like Phillip, how normal his room looked. Nothing changed from before he moved out, light blue walls were scattered with posters of baseball players you could only name because their names are printed on the glossy paper. His little league trophies span his windows, something you would have certainly laughed at if you had a relationship like this back in high school. He leads you to his double bed, somehow too small for the both of you. Still, you make it work. Finally, your hands unravel, palm somewhat sweaty. You don’t mind, really. A simple brush of your hand against your clothes and it’s wiped away. You kick off your shoes, letting them land wherever they do naturally, and climb into bed. Although it is his room, the sheets no longer smell like him like you expect them to, the lingering of laundry detergent given months to air out meeting your nose. Phillip slides in beside you once his shoes are kicked off, scooping you into his embrace underneath the covers.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” you murmur, although your face nuzzling into his gives way to something entirely different. His hand comes to rest along your back, thumb running along your spine.
“Well, that’s just too bad that I want to,” he responds, his chin coming to rest upon the top of your head. “Why would I wanna go back down there when I could lay here with you?” With anyone else, it would already be too hot. Phillip is a furnace and you feel the beginning of perspiration prickling upon the soles of your feet. But with him, it is the perfect shared heat, your own private sauna to soothe your body.
“I won’t be much fun if I’m asleep,” you begin to slur, eyes fluttering shut as his hand travels downwards to rub your lower back. Phillip hums, the vibration of his ribcage against your cheek.
“Then it’ll be fun waking you up with my face between your legs,” he purrs, your limp hand coming to flop against his chest in a mock smack. “Ow, that hurt real bad. Think you left a bruise.” You huff through your nose, settling further into him as the food coma begins to consume you fully. “Sleep, baby,” he whispers. You do.
He stays there for a long time holding you, his ministrations continuing even as your breathing steadies. He’s going to have to wake you up soon for the candle lighting, but as long as the sun remains crested over the horizon, you can rest. He focuses on his breathing, watching your top half rise and fall with the movement of his chest. With a bloated belly and a light amount of drool leaking into the fabric of his shirt, you still are the most stunning thing he has ever laid his eyes on. He lived to pester you in high school, striving every day to watch you storm off so he could study the way your feet stomped across the floor. He lived to see your face scrunch up as you cursed him to the high heavens. No one got a rile out of you more than he did. It was his mission in life to bug you if that was the only way he could be around you. Now you lay in his arms, trusting him as you sleep. He smiles at the realization.
“Hopefully by next Rosh Hashanah, you have something on your finger. But we’ll take it as slow as we need to. I only said ‘hopefully’ because if you reject me, I may as well die,” he speaks softly as if not to wake you. “None of this shit made sense before you. I don’t know how to explain it. I just -- I love you. I’ll tell you that every day until you get sick of me. Hopefully, that never happens.” Your lips smack in your sleep, wiggling a little to get more comfortable. “But you’re stuck with me. I’m yours.”
As the sun begins to set, he keeps to his word. You jolt awake with the feeling of his mouth on you. How he was able to remove your clothing while you slept is a wonder all in itself, but such a thought doesn’t matter when your fingers are gripped tight in his hair, pulling him further onto you as you work your hips against his mouth. You whimper for him not to stop, to keep going. Just like that, Phillip. He chuckles against you, the vibration of his mouth blinding you with ecstasy as you explode against his tongue. When he steers home, his hips pressing deliciously into yours as he stretches you, you do all you can to stay quiet. The family is still downstairs and in a few moments, you will need to join them. Your teeth sink into your lip hard enough to draw blood, the indentation of a bruise starting on the underside. You encase him in you, your arms and legs wrapping around him for dear life as he groans and pants in your ear. The bed creaks louder than you would like, your skin burning at the thought of the comments you will get once you return downstairs. The thought is torn from you when you hear him whine about how fucking good you feel, both of you climbing towards your orgasms. It hits you first, your teeth sinking into his shoulder to muffle your screams as you squeeze around him, your body begging him to stay inside you forever as his orgasm blinds him with white-hot light. He, too, cries into your skin, peppering kisses along his path as his hands soothe you. Your forehead rests against his once his lips leave your skin, panting into each other’s open mouths as you gain some sense of semblance back. Your lips meet his in swift pecks, your legs dropping from his hips and splaying out beneath him.
“We should go down. The sun’s about to set,” you utter against his lips. Phillip groans, throwing his weight onto you and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His lips latch onto your skin, sucking a mark into the flesh that is certain to leave a bruise.
“Can’t we just stay here with me inside of you?” he grumbles against your neck. Your hand moves upwards to brush the knots out of his hair, running them against his scalp.
“At home, Philly,” you reason with a kiss to the top of his head. “Once we get home, you can stay inside me for as long as you’d like.” Groaning again, Phillip lays kiss upon kiss upon you. “Come on. We gotta get dressed.”
Your back rests alongside Phillip’s rumpled front as the family gathers in the main room. They have given Cole the responsibility of lighting the candles, his mother guiding his hand to prevent any injuries. The flame flickers as it transfers from candle to candle, the starter candle being blown out by a gargantuan puff of air from the little boy’s cheeks. Your hands rest along his arms as you take in the sight, the only light in the room being from the illuminated candles.
“Do you remember the prayer for this?” Hillary’s voice breaks the stream of focus from across the room. Again, you’re at a loss. If only you went to Hebrew school when it was offered to you. You shake your head although not many can see it, Phillip’s arms encasing you further into him.
“No. I know you’re supposed to cover your eyes while you say the prayer, though. Maybe we should make one up; just talk or something,” you suggest. His lips find their way to the top of your head, his kisses feather-light against your scalp.
“I got this, Mom,” Wendy volunteers, taking a few moments before beginning. Your hands leave his frame to rest over your eyes, encasing the world around you in total darkness. You focus on your breathing, feeling how your body moves against his. Wendy speaks of what comes with a new year, second chances, thirds, fourths, millions of chances. She speaks of how newness is refreshing and much needed. She speaks of how with newness, it is still important to hold onto the good of the old, the thankfulness and loved shared that has been surrounded by everyone in the last year. She thanks whatever power above for the happy moments of the last year, begs for forgiveness for the bad, and for the chance to start anew. Phillip’s eyes close on his own, his hands not leaving your frame. His fingertips trace shapes into your hips as he takes in his sister’s words, the kisses upon your head, although slowing, never ceasing. Explaining his gratitude is difficult, showcasing his love is not.
“I’m thankful for you,” he whispers for only you to ear, lips ghosting against your temple now. “I love you.” You exhale slowly through your nose, the apples of your cheeks beginning to ache from the smile you wear as you slink further into his form. One hand leaves your eye, making sure to keep it squeezed shut as you reach for him. Unraveling one hand from your body, you bring his hand up to your lips. His palm is attacked with the gentlest of kisses, over and over and over with a silent response to his daily confessions.
I’m thankful for you too, your lips spell out, I love you too.
“Oh, and I’m stealing some of the dates to bring home.”
