Age Gap F1 Yaoi

On the job, sure. It's necessary, and even when it's not, Johnny yaps enough to coax some responses from him. But when he's on his own, back at home, he'll go days, weeks without hearing the sound of his own voice. And that's fine by him -- he's never thought he had all that much to say anyway.

You, though, seem to disagree.

His captain's pretty wife, you make a point to greet him on days you stop by the base. Then, when you insist John invite his men over to dinner, you hone in on him, gazing up at him with wide, curious eyes like he's something worthy of your attention.

He hates it, because it makes him want. And wanting has never got him anywhere.

It's worse the days that Simon comes around on his own. John's always taken a special interest in him, he knows that, so on some days -- Christmas, Easter and the like -- John will give him a not-so-thinly veiled order that he needs to drop by, the missus is expecting him. Johnny, Gaz, Kate, anyone else who might flit in and out are occupied with their own families, and Simon feels like the orphan boy with the pity invitation. But he comes anyway, because over the years, he's become wired that way.

Price says jump, he does. He says to come ... of course he always will.

"Simon!"

Your voice is so bright and happy when you answer the door, it almost burns. Still, he leans into it, breathes it in for a moment before he hears John's footsteps and his spine snaps straight.

The older man shoots him a small smile that he sees more in the crinkle of his eyes than the curve of his lips, and if he's upset at the way Simon was was just looking at his wife, he gives no indication.

If you are the sun to Simon, all warmth and light, then John is the root, solid and strong. And, tree of a man that he is, it seems more and more like he needs both to thrive.

Today is just a regular Saturday -- no holiday, no special occasion that he's aware of, but something about it feels important all the same. It could be the nicer plates that he sees John pull from the cabinet in the dining room, or the way it feels like you've taken extra care to make some of his favorite dishes, ones he knows he couldn't help but heap praise on during other dinners.

It could be the sweet dress you're wearing, or the way you keep smoothing it over your belly.

Whatever it is, there's something unspoken swirling around as the three of you sit around the table, and it's not until John calls him into the kitchen to help him clean up that he starts to get a clearer look at it.

"Ever thought about a baby, son?"

The question comes out as the two men stand in front of the sink, washing and drying dishes, and at first, Simon truly goesn't get it.

"The fuck I'd be thinking about a baby for?"

But John just chuckles, looking back at the sink as he runs the sponge over another plate.

"Having a baby. Being a father. Ever considered it?"

It's a laughable question to Simon, and John knows exactly why, but while there's a smile to his voice as he asks, he's not laughing.

He swallows, feeling a bit sick all of a sudden as it all clicks into place. The way you kept touching your stomach, all that kindness he saw in your eyes since he's been here, this line of questioning now ...

You're pregnant. You're pregnant, you're starting a family, John will have a real son to put his energy into instead of the lost cause that he is. You're having a baby, and Simon will be forgotten. Again. Always.

A moment goes by, he doesn't answer, but John's never been put off by his silence, so he continues.

"She wants a baby.”

His voice comes out quiet, like a confession, and Simon gets this is the part where he should speak, but the thing is that he has no idea what to say. Because if you’re not having a baby, if that’s not the unspoken fog that’s been hovering over the whole evening, then what is it?

John tells him in clipped, muttered statements that he can tell cost him something that you can’t get pregnant. That you’ve tried, you’ve been trying for so long, but it hasn’t happened. He hears about negative tests, doctor’s visits, how sad you’ve been that nothing’s worked, and Simon takes it all in quietly, drying the dishes and stacking them up and just listening, still unsure why he’s hearing any of this.

He hears the distant sounds of you flitting around the rest of the house, the clinking of the silverware in the sink, his jaw clenched as he tries to focus on that and not the hot, heavy feeling that bubbles in the pit of his stomach when John turns the conversation onto the topic of his semen.

“It’s me, Simon,” he says, his voice so quiet now that he has to turn his head a little to hear. “Fucking blow to the ego like you couldn’t believe.”

This whole time that John has been spilling out the most intimate details of his marriage, his health, all these little secrets and dreams, Simon hasn’t said a word. But hearing the subtle tinge of shame in his voice is enough to push him to finally engage.

“Other ways to make a family, yeah?”

He’s not even sure what he means - there’s adoption, sure, or a sperm donor, more tests, there’s got to me some way to have a baby beyond what you’ve already tried.

It’s then that John turns to face him fully, turning off the sink, one of those little smiles gracing his face again.

Of course he should have predicted it, what with all the times he's filled you up under the supposed safety of that magic pill. When you miss your period and confirm it twice that you're pregnant, you both sit down and have a serious conversation about what that means for you.

Which ends with price obsessively researching pregnancy and at your every whim to make sure you get all the help he needs. He's got multiple files compiled with all the research He's done, and has pulled strings to make sure you have the best team assigned to your pregnancy.

"John. I am not sitting in bed all day I swear to god if you don't let me clean—" you also end up having to fight your husband for the ability to life the coffee table, because he's decided that your five weeks pregnant body can't handle it.

Yeah. Maybe you get a little cheeky with your "pregnancy cravings" and ask for specific restaurants on the other side of town so you can sneakily clean and lift boxes. So what? You're going crazy not rearranging the entire house!!

Price, of course, is the literal captain of a specialized task force. He falls for your tricks exactly twice before making ghost retrieve all your requests, not like his lieutenant does anything besides loom around forests when not on base.

Price just...needs to make sure you're okay all the time. For his own hearts sake.

He freaks out more than you do when your water breaks, having prepared and run drills for the exact situation, only focusing up when you snap at him.

But brushing your teeth for 30 seconds is better than not brushing them at all when that 2 minutes seems exhausting.  Doing ten minutes of yoga is better than 10 minutes of sitting when 30 minutes of cardio sounds impossible.  Changing my clothes is good when a whole shower is impossible.  Standing on the porch for a few minutes is worth it after being in the house for three straight days because I don’t have the energy to go anywhere.

The thing that people really need to understand is that the "product" that chatGPT and other "AI" chatbots create is "more interactions with chatGPT." Everything it does is engineered with that one end in mind. Think about how it's billed, and you'll see that's true, and why it's true. What do "pro" subscriptions give you? More inquiries, faster answers, etc. So its entire thing is "getting you to ask it more things, more often."

Will it say "I don't know?" No. You won't ask it things if it answers that. This is why hallucinations are built in, and cannot ever be eliminated.

These programs are machines meant to generate more inquiries, which means they will generate dependence in order to generate them.

It really does not matter how well-educated you are, because this kind of endless flattery and dependence-creation isn't the kind of thing that "being educated" protects against. The idea that "kids these days" are specially vulnerable to ChatGPT due to a failure of general education is insultingly wrong, skips over the fact that a lot of highly-educated people from my generation and older have been sucked in to dependence and even psychosis by LLMs, and frankly makes it more likely that people will look at this "kids these days" thing and say, "Ahh, but I'm [older/better educated/built different], I'm not like Those Kids, AI's tricks won't work on me, or at the very least, I will be less susceptible to them!"

And that's just wrong.

ChatGPT is Wormtongue, in a very real, not metaphorical or exaggerated sense. The only way to truly avoid the way in which it rots your fucking brain is not to use it at all.

There is no amount or type of education which will protect you from the automated evil vizier whispering flattery and lies into your ear. Telling yourself or others otherwise is simply incorrect.

Trying to reframe it as "Kids These Days are more susceptible because they're 'functionally broken' by our education system" doesn't change the basic thesis statement.

Simon has a bad reaction to garlic? Obviously he’s allergic and should have told Grace earlier. But that’s okay Grace can go through the meals and sort out the ones that have garlic.

Simon gets a rash after touching a scientific instrument that’s silver plated? Metal allergies are more common than you’d think and it’d make sense that Simon wouldn’t have known he was allergic. Grace makes sure to label all the equipment that uses silver after this incident.

Of course Simon doesn’t like crucifixes. He has religious trauma.

Not that he directly says it, but even an SAS operative is hard-pressed to hide the subtle flinch of touch from his fellow teammates at all times. Skin always covered, always positioned away from people, it's an unspoken rule that no one touches ghost unless mandatory.

So why the hell does he let you, the new secretary, get away with it?

"Oh, sir! Hey, I needed an updated copy of that file–" you'll catch him in the hallway, hand on his bicep to get his attention before you lose him in the crowd. The strangest thing? Ghost actually stops and listens carefully. No tensing up or glaring at all.

Or when you happen to be next to him in line for dinner, you have no qualms bumping your shoulder into his side in lieu of greeting with full hands, already saying "hi, sir! Yknow, I was looking over those reports, and I really appreciate how you—"

It's an absolute mystery to the team. How you ghost is more than happy to be practically manhandled by you in crowded spaces or simply casually touched in conversation. There's only one logical explenation.

Ghost has a crush.

After that, it just becomes more obvious. How he angles himself closest to you in a group. How he subtly leans into your touch on certain days.

Curiously, gaz asks you about it one day. A casual water cooler ambush, designed to look purely coincidental when he interrogates "oh, you and ghost talk often, don't you?"

"Hm? Oh, ghost? Yeah! He's a great friend!" You smile, all wide and unassuming. of course you have no fucking clue, because ghost is damn difficult to read even to trained soldiers. You go on to smile to yourself, fidgeting with the manila folder held against your clipboard. "I'm honestly shocked he tolerates me so much, what with being just some secretary. But he's nice to talk to, yknow?"

...and it seems you are just as horribly enamoured by him. How the hell neither of you has figured it out is beyond the team.