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aphrodijin · 2 years

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swing life away | min yoongi

pairing: min yoongi x fem!reader

synopsis: it's your first anniversary as a married couple but not only did you forget today's special occasion, you also didn't prepare a self-made gift for your husband -- except for the bundle of joy in your womb.

rating: 18+

word count: 5.2k

tags/content warning: married au, pregnancy, slight angst, miscommunication, mentions of infidelity (no one's cheating), mentions of food and being vegan (no one's vegan), usage of babe/baby as endearment, semi-public sex, SMUT in the forms of oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (don't do this unless you want kids or std), slight spanking, yoongi being a carpenter/loving husband/dumpling/etc.

this fic is inspired by the song "swing life away" by rise against and yoongi's woodcarving vlog :] enjoy!

Min Yoongi was many things.

He’s a skilled carpenter with his own woodshop business by day, and a rising songwriter/record producer by night. He’s a confident all-star basketball player back in his high school days and can still shoot perfectly whenever he plays with some of your shared friends in the backyard these days. He’s a great cook too, always indulging your cravings.

Min Yoongi was many things but most importantly, he’s your husband.

And a very observant one.

It’s been more than a month when he first noticed it. He wasn’t exactly sure what was “it,” but he knew it wasn’t good. He could tell there was something bothering in your mind one night you went home from work and claimed it’s nothing instead of ranting to him like the usual. Just a bad day at work.

A week after that was when you started to stay long hours at work, looking more pale and exhausted when you get home. It baffled Yoongi why you would spend more hours there if it’s stressing you and you’ve never actually worked overtime, but he knew he’s not one to talk about spending more time at work when he has two jobs and does one of those said jobs at home, so he shut his mouth. He didn’t say anything.

Not when you changed your perfume from an intoxicating fruity scent to a soft floral one. Not when he saw a receipt of you having your car interior cleaned and also changed the smell of it. Not when you didn’t want to have sex anymore, always pushing his hands away when they start to wander down there.

A lot of new small things bothered him, especially the last one but what made him almost lose it was when you had mistaken his dish, the one you claimed to be your favorite, for a different one.

x◇x◇x

“Do you like it?”

You nodded, despite still blowing the steam off of your spoon. When you finally tasted it though, he could tell on the look on your face that there’s something missing on his dish. “What is it? Did I not put enough fish sauce or tomato sauce?”

“You put fish sauce in this?” You asked, smiling adorably at your husband and reached across the table to hold his hand in assurance. “It tastes fine, babe, but there’s no need for fish sauce in this. You could’ve added more liver spread and cheese though. You know I love a lot of cheese in this.”

Yoongi closed his eyes for a moment to breathe. He understood the cheese part, you always add cheese to a lot of dishes that doesn’t even need cheese. “Y/N, I didn’t put liver spread because that dish doesn’t require liver spread. It needed fish sauce.”

“What are you talking about? Caldereta is all about the tender beef, tomato sauce, liver spread, and cheese!”

“That's afritada, Y/N. You’re favorite dish back home is afritada.”

Yoongi blinked and composed himself, trying not to look so wounded. He’s so damn sure you’re favorite was afritada, you’ve talked about it a lot. Hell, he’d already cooked it a couple of times before. He had the recipe that he searched online bookmarked on his browser, and he even went to the lengths of jotting them down on his journal just in case the link is taken down.

“Afritada… you mean this is chicken?” You scooped for some meat parts from the reddish soup dish, and there it was, your recent enemy: chicken. “I can’t eat chicken right now, Yoongi, I'm sorry.” You sat straight up, covering your mouth and nose with your hand.

“Of course, it’s chicken. It’s always been chicken, Y/N. It’s a chicken dish, that’s why you love it so much. Or loved, apparently, judging by your actions tonight.”

“I'm sorry,” your voice came out muffled as your hand was still covering your mouth.

“When did you start hating chicken?” he asked as he stood up to take your plate away and check the pantry to prepare something else for you.

“Um, my coworker, Seokhoon, he’s practicing to be a vegan lately so we thought we’d support him by also not eating meat…”

Yoongi’s ears perked up, hearing how your answer sounded uncertain and more like a question, so he pressed more, looking over his shoulder at you. “You were more than ready and excited to eat beef and cheese earlier but you wouldn’t eat chicken right now?”

You stared dumbfoundingly at him before shrugging. “I’m trying with small things like egg and chicken.”

“I made you an omelet for breakfast earlier.” He pointed out, holding your gaze.

“I… just started… to try being vegan earlier at lunch. And also meat are becoming pricey these days, our salary might not be enough. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to cut back on our expenses. What would you rather give up—chicken or beef?”

Of course, Yoongi would rather eat tofu and bean sprouts for the rest of his life if it meant you get to eat properly and satisfy your cravings. But he didn’t bother to reply that as he cooked you a different dish that night. Fuck Seokhoon for influencing you to be vegan. Fuck the government for the rising prices and not handling the economy better.

x◇x◇x

Ever since that dinner night, Yoongi began to question your marriage. He wanted to talk to you because he didn’t know what to make of your actions anymore, but everytime you two were in the room together, he could you tell you were uncomfortable and couldn’t wait to get out of the situation. Besides, he’s afraid to ask because he knows he’s not prepared for any possible answers you'll give him.

You cheated? Yoongi knew it’s impossible. It had to be because he wouldn’t know what to do with that with that revelation. That would honestly break him.

You lost your job and was just actually driving around town to look for a new one and pass the time? It sounded stupid but not impossible. He would be disappointed and wish that you had told him sooner to prepare and possibly take on a third job.

You’re pregnant? He supposed this is a realistic scenario. You two had talked about this sincerely before getting married, of course, both wanting two kids. He just feels like it’s still early for babies and you two haven’t done all your goals as a married couple before becoming parents.

So he told himself to wait, that you would open up to him when you’re finally ready to unburden your problems. He’s a patient man after all.

But his patience seemed to be running thin today on the morning of your anniversary when he rolled over to your side as he woke up to cuddle you closer and hopefully start the day buried inside you.

He knew you’re awake, even with your eyes closed. You've been waking up earlier than him lately, one of your many changing habits. He took your hand that was hugging your stomach and pressed a soft kiss on your fingers, on your palm, on your wrist, trailing them across your arm up to your shoulder.

“Y/N,” he whispered your name, wishing for you to open your eyes when he nipped at your jaw. He called your name once again as his lips were ghosting over yours. Your eyelashes fluttered open just enough to look at him and when he finally saw your eyes, he leaned down to kiss you deeply.

You freed your hand from his to curl your fingers up into his long hair, urging him closer while the other slid up beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his body that you’ve been missing for weeks now. You pulled your knees up as Yoongi settled himself in between your legs, grinding his hard cock against your core.

But just as his own hand started to drift down on your hips, you slowed down, giving his lips one last kiss before pressing your forehead to his. You both stayed there without any movements at all, just gasping for air and holding each other’s skin and flesh tightly every now and then.

When it sounded like you were about to apologize, he pressed a kiss on your forehead and whispered, “Happy anniversary, baby,” before bolting right out of the bed, before you could even say it back to him.

x◇x◇x

Despite your husband having his own woodshop and fulfilling his dreams in the music industry, you didn’t let go of your job when you and Yoongi got married.

You were on your way back to your desk from your third visit to the bathroom that morning when you saw the delivery man on the front door of the store carrying a gigantic bouquet of flowers he almost disappeared behind it.

“Min Y/N?” he asked, looking around the store.

Jia turned to the direction of the bathroom and pointed at you when she saw you. You stayed your feet at your place. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move. The flowers looked beautiful—a bouquet of pale and dark red carnations, along with sunflowers, wrapped meticulously in craft paper and tied with a golden ribbon—but there’s a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach that’s making it hard for you to appreciate this.

“This is for you!” The delivery man presented the bouquet to you with a proud smile. When you didn’t move, he gingerly took your arms to place the flowers in them and then took off.

A minute must have passed by yet none of you and your colleagues moved or talked. It wasn’t until a client came in and needed assistance. Jia wrapped her arm around you and walked you back to your desk. As you sat down, you caught sight of the red card sticking out of the flowers. HAPPY 1ST ANNIVERSARY, BABY.

Reading Yoongi's handwritten note, you recognized that bad feeling again that you knew all too well lately. Shame and guilt. You had to close your eyes and practice your breathing exercises before those bad feelings in your stomach turn into a pile of chunky vomit across the floor.

Jia, oblivious to your anxiety, swooned over the flowers. “Happy anniversary, Y/N!”

It’s the second greeting you’ve received today and you couldn’t help but wince when you remember how you froze when Yoongi greeted you.

You didn’t know how this special event slipped up your mind when staring at your calendar was all you’ve been doing lately. You were aware that your own anniversary was near and you even had a lot of ideas for DIY gifts to give to your husband.

You tried to make it up to Yoongi by going after him and showering together to have some hot shower sex even though the thought of sex was making you nervous lately. Yoongi turned down the offer though, saying you’re both gonna be late for work, which was a very pathetic excuse considering he’s his own boss and your own work doesn’t start in a couple of hours. So you showered together in silence.

Just as you’re about to calm down, you’re eyes widened in panic because not only you forgot your own anniversary day, of course you also forgot to actually make a gift despite tons of ideas in your journal and Pinterest board.

“Jia, I didn’t get him a gift!” It wasn’t even noon yet, and you’re already close to breaking down for the third time today.

“Well, the department store is just around the corner. I can come with you at lunch to buy something last minute.”

You shook your head and explained to her that buying some expensive stuff isn’t enough. Knowing your husband, he already made you a gift days ago. You’re not sure if it’s something from his woodshop or if he composed you a song, all you know is Yoongi probably made you a gift with love. No amount of money could compare to that.

“Well, there’s always sex?” At the sight of your face crumpling once again, Jia took back her suggestion. “Or not! Honestly, Y/N, this is why I’m all single and alone in life so I don’t have to give people gifts and you’re making me stress about your own anniversary gift.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“And really, you’re worrying about gifts when…” she paused to look down at your belly. “Have you told him yet?”

You shook your head.

“Well, there’s your anniversary gift, congratulations!”

“This is a stupid gift." Despite your harsh words, you wrapped arm protectively around your middle.

“Why? You said you want to give him something you made, well you made that. He even helped, too!”

You couldn’t possibly just announce you’re pregnant on your anniversary day? Right? Sure, it’s convenient and practical – two celebrations in one night!

But that’s not the actual thing that’s been bothering you. You’ve been hiding your condition to your husband for weeks now, when you should have told him that he’s a gonna be a dad the moment you saw the plus sign on a stick. But you didn’t because you’re scared and if you’re gonna be honest, also selfish. Selfish to have Yoongi the Husband™️ all to yourself just for a couple more days before he turns into Yoongi, your husband and the father of your unborn fetus. And then that selfishness turns into guilt for not telling him, for distancing yourself.

A part of you wished he’ll figure it out on his own, that’ll save you a speech.

x◇x◇x

Even before you started to spent late hours at work, Yoongi always comes home an hour or so before you. It usually gives him enough time to prepare for dinner.

However today, he asked his friend Seokjin to prepare a romantic dinner for you two as he would busy himself installing the porch swing he made as his anniversary gift for you.

With his long hair tied in a half bun, a few strands tucked behind his ears and locked into place with pins, and a safety googles on his face, Yoongi began by drilling two holes up into the ceiling joists where he would screw the hooks. When he’s done and swept away the dust, he took the chains that’s wrapped in rope for extra support and aesthetic purposes and attached them to swing before hoisting them up to the hooks.

Despite wanting his gift to be all handmade, Yoongi had no choice but to buy a small foam mattress and throw pillows to decorate the swing. He placed them all nicely and removed his googles before sitting down and testing the swing if it runs smoothly.

Swinging for a couple of minutes gave Yoongi enough time to relax from the stress of his jobs, from setting this swing up, from all his fears and worries.

It gave him enough peace from all the doubts and questions inside his head. He hoped that this would give you the same. He hoped that you seeing this swing – the one you dreamed for so long, the one that he promised you because how could he ever say no – will help you remember that the fact that you two get to celebrate this day was because of your love for each other and the trust you’ve built all these years even before marrying.

Yoongi had set up the swing in the right side of the house, facing a line of tall trees that secludes this house from the main road, and close enough to the backyard for some peace and privacy that if anyone walks or drives in to your lot, they wouldn’t see you right away as the beams would hinder their sight. But anyone who’s sitting here would see just fine if there’s someone coming in.

Just like Yoongi saw your car rolled in right away to park next to his pickup truck. He stood up and waved his arm to call your attention, excited to show you his gift. When you didn’t see him, he jogged up to the front and flashed a smile when you jumped up in surprise at the sight of him.

“What are you doing outside?”

“I have to show you something, come on!” He went to cover your eyes for surprise and guided you to the back.

You were expecting some surprise in the backyard, probably a dinner he cooked but your assumptions came into a halt as Yoongi stopped only after taking a few steps. When he removed his hands and told you to open your eyes, a cozy porch swing greeted your sight.

“That’s…” you trailed off, walking closer and wrapping your hand around the chain-rope. From the bulky design of the chain and rope to the uneven height of the wooden slabs of the back support, Yoongi made you the exact wooden swing that you drunkenly drew a long time ago when you two just started dating.

“Happy anniversary, Y/N.” You heard Yoongi say behind you, and you wish he had said it the way he greeted you this morning – with such coldness and hurt. You felt like you didn’t deserve this with the way you’ve been treating him this past month.

Not wanting to hurt him any longer and bring back normalcy in your relationship, you turned to look at him, your eyes teary and said, “I… I'm sorry, babe.”

“Why? What is it?”

“I…” You cleared your throat and wondered which should you say first: you didn’t get him any gift, or you’re pregnant. You figured you should go with the bad news first before softening the mood with the good news, you’re just not sure which is which. “I didn’t get you any gift. I actually forgot it’s our anniversary today, I’m sorry.”

Yoongi fell silent before chuckling nervously. Sure, forgetting your own anniversary was bad, but that’s little compared to what Yoongi was imagining these past few days. “That’s alright, I thought it was something serious.”

“Why? What did you think I was going to say?” you prodded before you drop your next bomb.

“I don’t know what I thought, honestly. Things haven’t been quite well with us lately, Y/N.” He shrugged, scratching his nape. “I thought of pregnancy. There’s one where you don’t actually have a job anymore and just didn’t want to say it. I also thought you’re cheating with fucking Seokhoon—”

“Seok-Seokhoon? Why the hell would you think that? I couldn’t stand that guy.”

“I don’t know Y/N, you tell me, you’re the one who suddenly didn’t want to eat chicken because fucking Seokhoon is trying to be vegan.”

You thought about the lamb chops Seokhoon devoured at lunch today. You also remembered the night Yoongi was referring to, when you almost spilled your guts literally and figuratively at the smell of the chicken.

“Seokhoon isn’t vegan. But one of your hunches is true.” You walked towards him, taking his hand in yours and placing it on your stomach. “I’m pregnant.”

Yoongi froze for a minute, staring at your eyes down to your stomach that he’s touching. His gummy smile slowly broke into his face, giggling as he asked to confirm, “Pregnant? With babies?”

You nodded, matching his smile. “Yeah, pregnant, but hopefully just a singular baby. Or fetus, I’m not sure, I haven’t been to a clinic yet. I was putting it off because I want you to be there at the first checkup since I left you in the dark when I took the test. I'm really sorry about that, Yoongi, I just didn’t know how to say it. I was scared and nervous myself about this baby and I kn—”

Yoongi cut off your ramblings by kissing you. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I thought you were cheating when you were feeling this way all on your own. I should’ve asked you.”

You shook you head. “I'm sorry I let you think that, too. But there’s no way I would’ve betray you for Seokhoon or anyone else, really. I love you so much, Yoongi.”

You stood in your toes to kiss him again, muttering again and again how much you love him and how sorry you were. His hands stayed firmly on each side of you, and you didn’t pushed him away this time. You looped your arms around his neck and tugged him closer.

This one kiss – after all those weeks of just pecking and short kisses, after the frustrating mess that happened earlier morning – was so hungry and powerful and mind-numbing. You wouldn’t even wanna stop if a lightning strike near you two. You missed him so much, you would’ve take him right here, right now.

But Yoongi pulled away, breathing ruggedly as he said, “You haven’t tried it yet.”

“Tried the what yet?”

“The swing, don’t you wanna take a ride on it?”

Despite his innocent question referring to the swing, your eyes mischievously glinted and an idea popped into your mind. You took his hand and gestured for him to sit down. Trying to calm yourself down, you kissed your husband first before prying his legs open and kneeling down between them, instead of sitting beside him.

“What are you doing?” he smirked, enjoying the sight in front of him.

“I was thinking I could ride you on it instead, but first…”

With a coy smile, you unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down along with his underwear, freeing his hard cock. Licking your lips in anticipation, you wrapped your hand around him, thumb circling at the precum beading on his crown.

Yoongi hissed at sensation, bucking his hips up. “Fuck, baby, don’t tease me. It’s been a month.” His hands ran through your hair to keep them out of the way and prompted for you to start.

“Happy anniversary,” you greeted him before placing sloppy, wet mouth kisses on the head of his dick and moving them down while your hand was steadily stroking the base and the other was gently squeezing and rolling his balls.

When you made sure to coat every inch of his cock with your saliva, you kissed his crown one more time before taking him in your mouth, trying to fit whatever you can while your hand covered the rest.

“Ahh, that feels so good, babe. I’ve really missed you,” he rasped.

You moaned around him as you felt yourself getting wet even just at the sound of his voice and at the feeling of his heavy cock sliding in and out of your mouth. One of his hands weaved into your hair once again to carefully guide you at the pace he wanted. He bit his lip in concentration as he tried to restrain himself from just snapping his hips up to fuck your face but failing a couple of times, making you choke and teary-eyed.

Yoongi couldn’t help but groan at the sight of you, mouth wide open full of his cock, eyes in tears staring up at him. His other hand cupped your jaw, his thumb caressing your cheek.

“You’re doing so good, baby, taking my cock so well.”

His moans were getting louder and he started to lose control of his hips, a sign that Yoongi’s close to his orgasm. You released his cock to tease him a little bit, swirling your tongue over again at the sensitive spot of his crown as you pumped his length, making him all whiny as he repeated your name again and again like a mantra along with few curse words, before sucking him whole again with the intention of swallowing his hot cum. Which Yoongi delivered, a lot. And loudly.

You pulled yourself off of his cock, still semi-hard, and opened your mouth to show him that you’ve swallowed every drop of his cum. Still breathing heavily, Yoongi smiled proudly at you. “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me, Y/N baby. Come here.”

“Not to doubt you, but are you sure this won’t give out on us?” You asked, looking up at the ceiling where the swing is hanging.

“Of course not, at least three people can sit here. We’ll be fine, even when we finally have our kid sitting down here with us,” he replied, helping you get up at your feet.

You stared down at him, grinning at the thought of your kid playing at this very porch swing their daddy made in the future. But first, it’s gonna mommy and daddy’s turn on the swing for a while.

Because of the disastrous shower session earlier, you tried to make it up to your husband by wearing his favorite black lace lingerie underneath one of your red dress that gave out the equal vibe of classy and slutty to entice him on. You also figured, might as well wear them while you still can.

You unbuttoned the dress open from the top, revealing the lacy bra, causing Yoongi to raise his eyebrows.

“You wore lingerie to work?”

“Yeah, it turned out to be quite itchy and uncomfortable to wear for a long time actually,” you pouted. “Help me out of it, please.”

Yoongi leaned forward, one of his hands held you firmly by your waist while the other slipped beneath your dress, running his fingertips along the edge of your underwear before pulling them aside to sink a finger inside your cunt and moving it in a ‘come hither' motion. He added another finger while his thumb drew circles on your clit to send you over the edge.

You gasped, your hands paused from unclasping your bra to balance yourself on your husband’s shoulders as he stretched you out, spreading your slick all over your slit. When your juices had dripped down on his wrist, Yoongi took that as a cue that you’re wet enough and hooked his hands around your underwear to remove them before pulling you into his lap.

He gathered the skirt of your dress, bunching them up to your waist. You bit your lower lip as your pussy was pressing against his cock, feeling hard and thick against your wet core. Feeling impatient as Yoongi kissed your neck, you tried to move your hips, chasing that pleasure the friction gave you, in which you earned a gentle slap in the ass from him.

“Take this off,” he said, toying with the strap of your bra.

You nodded like a good girl, unclasping them from behind and took the straps of your shoulders. Yoongi pulled down your dress, revealing your tits. He stared at them for a second, both of his hands cupping each breast gently, thumbs grazing your soft skin and hardened nipple. You were about to make a joke when he leaned down to start licking and sucking one of your tits, while he massaged the other one.

While he was busy, you attempted to get yourself off by rocking your hips against him again, whether on his cock or his thigh, you didn’t care. A cry left your lips when he slapped your ass once again, a bit harder this time, before proceeding to grab your ass in his hands and dig his fingers in to help you move. You whimpered every time your sensitive clit rubbed pass his tip, making him almost poked your entrance.

Yoongi switched his attention on your other tit, but never faltering his movement to make you come on his cock. He could feel you’re close, your folds fluttering against his cock, your hips jerking more uncontrollably, your juices running down on his skin to the foam cushion he newly bought, making a mental note to buy a new one.

“Y—Yoongi…” you moaned, eyes scrunched close and head thrown back. “Oh, I'm gonna—oh fuck Yoongi—”

He looked up from your chest to stare at the fucked out expression on your face as you come, his hands on your hips controlling your move to help you ride out your orgasm. When he felt that you’re almost done coming down from your high, Yoongi lifted you up to line his tip against your entrance and helped you sink down on his cock. You moaned loudly at the feeling of your cunt being stretched out so deliciously after a month without an intercourse.

None of you spoke for a while, but you were thankful that Yoongi didn’t fuck you right away and instead let you adjust to the size as he sucked and nibbled every inch of your skin.

“If I’m pregnant right now, does that mean we don’t need a condom for a while? Or you can still get me pregnant while I’m pregnant?”

“It can happen, but it’s rare.” Yoongi saw your concerned expression, so he asked, “Do you want me to wear one?”

You smiled and shook your head immediately. “No. I want to feel you.” With that being said, you hooked your arms across his shoulders and started to bounce on his cock, grinding your clit on his pelvis everytime you come down.

Despite the frustrations and longing that Yoongi had built up for a month, he managed to calmly hold back and sit there as you ride him. At the back of his mind, he was also hesitant to pound his dick in and out of you without a care because he’s afraid he might hurt the baby. So he let you control the pace while his hands wander over your body, palming your tits and smacking your ass.

“Ahh Yoongi… please, fuck me.” You couldn’t keep your upper body straight anymore as your walls began on clenching around his dick, so you leaned your head on his shoulder. “I can’t—I feel so close again…”

“I know, baby, I got you now. You did great,” Yoongi whispered tenderly, placing a kiss on your head. He gripped your thighs in place, thrusting his hips upward into you and picked up the pace to bring you to your second orgasm.

You cried out in pleasure as Yoongi kept hitting that sweet spot inside you, your body beginning to tremble in his arms. You could feel him getting close too by the way his thrusts were being quick and sloppy so you curled your hand around the curly strands on his nape, your lips leaving wet kisses on his neck as you tried to give him hickeys.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, holy shit baby…”

You were lucky you live in a remote place and didn’t have any neighbors for miles as they would’ve surely heard Yoongi's loud groans and your high-pitched moans as you came together. Yoongi had thrust one more time inside you, bringing your hips down as he flushed your bodies together and filled your cunt with his thick cum.

None of you wanted to move at that moment, just catching up on your breaths and occasionally rocking your hips into each other for a potential round two when your stomach had a sudden craving — dumplings.

And dumplings reminded you of — “Oh my, god, we’re gonna have a baby dumpling in a few months.”

“I’m not a dumpling,” he groaned, burying his face on the crook of your neck as you laugh.

Min Yoongi was many things—a carpenter, a songwriter and producer, a basketball player, a dumpling (despite his denial), your loving husband, and in a few months, a proud father.

Hello! Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it and please, reblogs and feedbacks are always welcome and appreciated :)

If you want to support me and help with my dental care funds, please consider tipping me at ko-fi.com/aphrodijin or commission me to write you a fic. I could really use some help.

Thank you so much once again, have a great day! x

©️ 2022 aphrodijin

3K notes · View notes

thoughtfullyrainynightmare · 11 months

Note

Heyyooo Laura... I hope you're doing great. Saw your request is open again and i hope you don't mind me asking for another request again.kinda thinking about some scenarios for Fue,Nozel and Julius with pregnant reader and how would they handle it.Reader is having a weird cravings in the middle of the night like some (ice cream with pickles,chicken with chocolate dip or anything i leave it up to you) and after they get it reader will force them to eat with her. Some fluff fluff fluffsssss.. ❤❤❤

Hiya! Yes, they've been open for a while now, uni is just keeping me from getting to them ^^' But I was in the mood for some pregnancy fluff

Pairings: Fuegoleon x f!reader, Nozel x f!reader, Julius x f!reader Genre: fluff Fanfic type: Oneshots Total length: ~1.2k Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, pregnancy cravings

Fuegoleon

"Honey..." you asked through the darkness of the room, while placing your hand onto your husband's chest. There was a faint grunting sound from your side as the bed shifted under you. "Yes... dear," Fue spoke with a heavy, drowsy tone as his eyes fluttered open. "I... think the baby wants some ice cream and crisps," you admitted, having concluded to yourself that your cravings were due to the child you were carrying, since you didn't have such cravings before. But, it was to be expected. "M..hm.." he hummed while sitting up. "Then... we have no choice but to get you some ice cream and crisps," he smiled while manifesting his fire arm, and taking your hand with his left one. "Will you eat with me?" You asked, making him pause for a moment. "Both?" He asked, with the slightest of hints of disbelief, along with the tone of his that just wanted to make sure that he understood correctly. "Yes. Eat with me," you asked, looking at him with wide eyes. There was a brief pause that lingered in the air, after which he breathed out a reply: "Yes dear." The food was eventually delivered to your shared bedroom, and you sat by one of the tables, happily eating your ice cream, onto which you crumbled salty crisps. While Fue, he sat there, looking at you with an adoring smile on his face. "Feeling better?" He asked, the syllables fluttering through the air to you. "Mhm," you nodded. "Why aren't you eating yours?" You had to ask while placing the spoon into your mouth, and keeping it there, as you looked at him, expectantly. "I... wish to make sure that you have enough," he replied, giving you another smile. "Oh come now, there's enough for both," you replied while taking a spoonful of the contents of your bowl, and offering it to him. His eye shifted between the spoon, and you, for a moment, after which he sighed, and opened his mouth, letting you feed him the spoonful. And then another, after having taken a bite yourself. In all honesty, he couldn't have claimed to have enjoyed the dish for the taste, but he did enjoy the content smile on your face. He enjoyed your happiness. And, besides, it could have been worse. You could have had a very different craving.

Nozel

"My bird...?" You asked, while placing your hand onto your husbands arm and shaking him awake. There was a deep breath sounding through the dark room, along with a groggy sound that told you him waking up from a deep sleep. "Yes... love? What is it? Is everything alright?" The fact that he asked, worried, worried so very much for your well being, especially now that you were with child, made a tender, soft smile appear on your face. He really did care. He really was a good man, deep down. "I have a craving," you told him, rather factually, making him sigh before sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "What do you want?" He asked while making his way to the closet to grab his robe. "Salted caramel ice cream and toast," you told him, making him glance at you from over his shoulder. But he didn't say anything. Just looked at you as seconds ticked in the air. One at a time. "Alright," he said with a slow, tired tone, before making his way out of the door to ask for such a ... dish. And eventually, after he had already returned, the dish, too was delivered into the room. Just as you had imagined it. So, you sat down on a chair, and broke off a piece of toast before spreading a chunk of salted caramel ice cream onto it, and popped it into your mouth, with a pleased smile. All the while Nozel looked at you, sitting across the table from you. "How is it?" He asked, meaning nothing more with the question. "Try it," you told him, handing a piece of a bread with ice cream to him. He paused for a moment, looking at you from behind his dishevelled hair, loose locks flowing down the side of his face. "No thank you," he tried, but you still kept the piece of toast there. "No, no, you need to know what I'm eating, right?" He wasn't sure about the logic in that statement. But there was also no point in getting into a discussion about it this late at night. So, instead he just sighed, and took a hold of the bread. You looked at him, hold the bread, waiting for him to place it into his mouth. And he, looked back at you before his eyelids fell in a slow blink, after which he placed the piece into his mouth and ate it. He breathed out, in a slight defeat, having accepted the fact that you'd give him more pieces. Which... would be alright. This was something that came with pregnancy. And he wanted to be there for you, living this through with you. After all, you were the best thing to have happened to him.

Julius

"Juu-juu?" You cooed through the darkness, snuggling to his side. There was an individual sound of a snore that sounded through the room, before he jolted ever so slightly in place. "Yes, dove?" The nickname, which he had given you, because of the mere act of cooing out the nickname for him, made the corners of your lips tug up. "I'm ... a bit hungry," you admitted, but the slight hesitance in your tone told him that it wasn't hunger per se, but more a craving. You had had the strangest of cravings lately, but he embraced all of them with intrigue and anticipation, because this was a journey, your pregnancy, and he wanted to be there for all of it. "What would you like?" He asked, rolling around on the bed to face you, while running his fingers up and down your arm. "Chocolate and avocadoes," you replied with a serious face, and a tone to match. And usually, when you told him your craving, he just smiled, but this time there was a passing shadow of surprise on his face, before he chuckled, and gave a kiss onto your forehead. "Give me a second," he said, before appearing seated on your side of the bed with two bowls in hand; in one of which there was chocolate, and avocados in the second one. You sat up, and took a piece from both bowls, placing them together into your mouth, munching them away with a content smile. And he... he watched you, with a wide smile on his face; half-lidded eyes and radiating nothing but love and affection. "Can I try?" He asked, making you pause, before furiously nodding and offering the pieces of avocado and chocolate in your hands to him. He opened his mouth, so that you might pop them in, and begun chewing. "It's good, right?" You asked while popping more into your mouth. And he... he didn't have the heart to tell you that he found the combination horrid, but he wouldn't show it. Instead, he happily sat there, letting you enjoy the night... treat. Because your happiness was his happiness.

#black clover fanfiction #black clover oneshots #fuegoleon x reader #nozel x reader #julius x reader #fuegoleon vermillion x reader #nozel silva x reader #julius novachrono x reader

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yeyinde · 2 years

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Hiii I LOVED your fic with soap I’ve read it like 5 times since I found it yesterday, your writing is absolutely STUNNING and the characterization for Soap was spot on. If you have any free time I would love a Ghost fic like Soap’s— domestic, fluff, SMUT, and a little angst. I feel like Ghost would be a tender, giving lover if given the chance to be truly comfortable with someone. Anyway, if not, I just wanted to say your writing is some of the best I’ve ever read and it inspired me to pick up my own pen and start writing again :)

hi! @madiganjay and thank you so much!! 🖤😭 that's so sweet and i'm sooo sorry this took so long! i have no excuses just Ghost + Domestic Fluff had me oscillating between several different ways this could go. to me, the idea of domesticity with Ghost is permanence and presence. something tangible that confirms his existence, that ties him to you.

i tried my best at domestic Ghost, so i don't know if this is quite what you had in mind, but i hope you enjoy it!! this is nearly 8k of Ghost Doing His Best™️

⇾ warnings: gendered reader, female!reader, gendered anatomy; unfettered filth (as per usual); slightly possessive!Ghost, jealous!Ghost; unsafe sex

"Brought curry." It's not much of a greeting—no hello, how are you? How was your day?—just: "didn't have lamb, so I got chicken."

On the television in front of him, a game between Everton and Manchester United plays. Streaks of red and blue dart across the sprawling field of green. Takeout is spread out on your coffee table—curry for him, butter chicken for you; he got you salted Lassi, too. The white drink sits on the table beside the styrofoam containers, dripping condensation down the clear plastic cup. The colours catch in the clear polymer. Neon smears in milky white.

Its—

Salt pools between your teeth; your lips sting. "You—," your voice breaks over the word; a tendril of embarrassment curls inside of your guts, admixing the alcohol you'd just finished drinking with Gaz. You flush, clear your throat. "I wasn't expecting you."

It's a stupid thing to say, in retrospect. You never expect him, and you suppose that's the point. Ghost—Simon Riley—comes and goes like an undomesticated alley cat wandering around until he lets himself inside your flat for however long he plans on staying.

There is no routine in this. No set schedule; nothing was ever painted in concrete, just shades of sporadic abstracts. He comes, he goes. Ephemeral visits only a handful of times a year.

It's the fourth—year, that is.

The weight of it sat in your stomach for weeks. Knots spool together until a clump forms in the pit. Heavy and noxious; it leaked poison into your bloodstream that carried the illness of want in a particularly nasty shade of green.

Four years since Price had dragged you—an office worker on loan from HQ—to a sparse room in a country you'd never been to before, and you set your eyes on the interrogator known, then, only as Ghost.

(Terrorism never sleeps, Price always says.

Whenever he's around, neither do you.)

The walls were painted in rust. The stench of wet pennies and sweat filled the air. None of that mattered, though, when you looked up, and caught liquid sin gazing at you from wide, red-rimmed eyes.

(Maybe, he doesn't sleep, either.)

You fed him information through an earpiece as you scoured and decoded the rudimentary messages in the text the enemy sent to each other, and tried to remain professional when his voice growled his affirmative in shades of smoke and violence in your ear.

Hours later, exhausted and craving something to keep you from wishing the world was constructed by the hand of solipsism, you leaned against the window, desperately trying to pretend you were the same person you were yesterday.

Lidded eyes swept across the vast expanse in front of you—barren lands, badlands: wartorn and deadly, and littered with carrion. You tried to stop your hands from shaking by curling them into fists, but all it did was puncture your palm, and fill your nails with sticky blood.

It didn't work— nothing did.

You sunk your teeth into your knuckles to stop the quiver in your joints.

War is much different in person than it is on a blue screen. Numbers—friends, foes, coordinates, codes—are much easier to stomach when they're all in binary. A marker on your desktop goes down, disappears from the black map in front of you, and you pick up your earpiece, calling it into evac, and click on another to follow, to relay commands in code.

One life is gone, enemy or friend, and you sip your expensive coffee (£5.6 but the logo is cute, and beans are robust) while staring at the pictures dotting the navy blue fabric of the pre-owned cubicle. Docile. Mundane. You glance at the clock, and wait for the hour to pass until you can leave, and spend the rest of the evening watching shows.

You think once, perhaps thrice, about the men in green who will never get the chance to come home again, but it's smothered when your coworker leans over the metal divider, asking if you want anything from Greggs.

A game of chess with real people.

(You slept rather soundly before this. Now, binary numbers make you tremble.)

The worn wood behind you creaks.

Price, you think, forcing a smile that doesn't fit. Neither do the fatigues. The stench of rot in your nose. The gun they shoved into your hands.

"I'd kill for a coffee, sir."

When you turn, you're met with the endless yawning of night condensed in circles framed by pale flaxen. A storm in the middle of a wheat field. Stalks of yellow smatter across midnight blue.

Ghost.

There is a moment of nothing where he simply tips his chin, baleen lines bunching together, and stares at you. It's unnerving. Eerie. He feels entirely out of place in this world, and yet—

You can't imagine him anywhere else.

His stare is heavy. He blinks his eyes shut. You breathe again. They slide open. The air is siphoned from your lungs.

A chasm sits in his gaze. You find the heft isn't entirely unpleasant.

Then, he shifts. Shadows flexing in the limited light. A car driving down the street, headlight burning the tenebrose until it dances, scattering across your room. He moves like liquid in the dark.

"Coffee won't help," is all he says. Impassive. Pragmatic. But his eyes—

Your throat is acrid. Sand gathers in wet clumps against your larynx. You swallow, and taste Yorkshire Gold. Pennies.

"Any suggestions about what might, then?"

It takes him two steps to get to the window to your four. His size is—

Immeasurable.

He's a man, you think, and yet—

It's not so much the sheer bulk of him, the height, but rather the way he carries himself. There is a presence about him that makes him feel bigger, more dangerous. He knows his heft and uses it to his advantage. He takes up space until you feel smothered by his proximity, but—

You don't think anyone else has ever felt more distant.

A moor. Wide, endlessly deep, but uncrossable. Untraversable. Mouldering signs are pitched in the recesses of his eyes when they slide to you, liquid black pooling in the corner, and they all say: stay away.

(Written in red. In blood.)

"A few," he offers. His gaze drifts back to the grime-streaked window. "Nothing legal."

"Oh," you mutter, blinking. You can't tell if it's a joke or not.

"Get some tea. It'll calm your nerves."

"I'm not—," you start but his eyes drop to your hands, clenched by your sides, and shaking. Beads of crimson gather in the cup, pooling in your lifeline. Guilty, then.

He leaves you by the window, and you watch his broad back retreat through the arched doorway. A layer of sand fluttered under his boots. No prints.

(Is he even real? Or did the endless dunes of decay conjure him up in grains of sand, and rot?)

You find the stash of tea (Price muttering something behind you about Gaz drinking all the bloody English Breakfast), and in the loose, dried leaves of brown, black, and fawn, you find yourself thinking of him.

Four years later: he's still on your mind.

"I was out with—"

"Garrick."

"Gaz," you say instinctively. Only Laswell gets away with calling him Kyle. Everything else just sounds wrong. "We went to some club in Essex. I would have come home sooner if I'd known—"

You stop. Teeth sinking into your tongue. Stupid. Stupid. You think of the man in the club with hands that were cold as ice. The irritation you felt toward Gaz when he pulled you away, and shoved you into a taxi. His knuckles knocked on the hood. Don't drive away until you see their door shut, yeah? He slips folded bills into the man's hand through the crack in the window. Message me when you get home.

You sent the text when your key cut through the hole. Home. Thanks.

His reply was instant: worry about you sometimes. Get some sleep.

"Um…thank you for the food. I'm actually starving," you huff, words tumbling out in an effort to stem your accidental faux pas. "We didn't eat before we headed out. I only had a few drinks, but—"

More than a few. Your feet wobble.

"—Thanks." You wince, adding: "again. It's—it's good to see you—"

Stupid. Stupid.

He says nothing, but his stare hasn't wavered since you opened the door. An indecipherable Rorschach. Unknowable. Unreachable.

Four years, and you still have no idea what this is.

Three months in the desert drinking tea with a behemoth who had an absurd sense of humour, and then—

Home. Goodbye. Price waving you off: a two-finger salute diving off his forehead. Ghost stood on the tarmac of some private, military-owned base. A sleek, black Jeep a few paces away to take you wherever you wanted to go.

Home, you supposed. You look around and it feels wrong. Stuck in limbo, purgatory. A strange microcosm where the people are the same—the man in the Jeep has a thick Northern accent; his words are rounded, and robust—but the place is different.

Know anything to calm the nerves now that we're home, sir?

His head tips. A few. None of them are good for you.

The tea was pretty good advice.

He'd said nothing. Nothing, nothing—

The man poked his head out the window. "Coming?"

You offered a shaky smile. See you around, Simon—

You'd slapped your palm against your mouth, eyes darting around the barren void in the middle of needn't know and somewhere in England, and he—

He shuddered. Eyes a polynya. A rumble broke the silence. Low, and—

You turned, hand curling over the handle of the car. You'd gotten it open an inch before his hand slammed on the frame beside the window, the door snapping shut. The force of it rocked the Jeep.

They're riding with me.

And—

Now: he sits in your home with takeout from the Indian place you like, one you mentioned in passing a year ago. The place with the best raita and spicy chicken biryani.

The one with a shell-shocked teenager manning the front with a single cook in the back. The register is barely used. They yell your order through a small window to the kitchen, and the cook brings it out himself when he's finished. It always feels a little bit illegal when he hands you the bag, but you're almost certain this man is secretly a Micheline star chef when he isn't condensing samsara into his tandoori.

Silent, a little tipsy, you toe your shoes off, trying not to make any more of a fool of yourself tonight. You stumble a little, head thick with those stupid sex on the beaches Gaz bought for you, and slowly make your way to the couch.

He hasn't looked away. Not once.

It's stifling. His presence nearly smothers you.

It usually isn't this— strange.

The handful of times he'd come around, it was always the same routine, the same dance. He'd be there, bathed in black and searching the alcoves of your flat, and then—on you. Your back against the wall, the hello snuffed out by the bulk of his body pressing into yours, his hands on your thighs, fingers tugging at the hem of your clothing. You'd tumble somewhere: the wall or the floor or the couch more often than not.

(It took him a year to fuck you on your bed.)

The next morning, he'd be gone. Rising before the sun—if he even slept at all—and off somewhere until late at night. He'd stay a few nights, but those were rare. Usually, it was once.

One night of brutal fucking where he had on you nearly every surface in your flat, taking, and taking until the sky broke crimson, and your eyes misted over from fatigue. He'd drop you in your bed, and when you woke up, sore and dazed and aching all over—

The bed is cold. Empty.

His presence is erased. The only thing that confirms it wasn't a dream is the burn between your legs, the quiver in your knees, and the bruises along your hips and thighs in the perfect impression of his large hands.

I wasn't expecting you, you'd once said.

His eyes are glued to you. Liquid midnight framed in white. Want me to leave, pet?

They dance with humour, hidden in the shadows of his intense stare, when you trip over yourself in your haste to say no. No, no, please—stay.

Sometimes, you like to pretend those obsidian edges softened a little at the ache in your voice. The palpable urgency bleeds through. That they regard you with a touch more warmth than before.

"Alright," he says, and nothing more. Alright.

It's enough. More than enough, really. It's a miracle a man like Simon would even offer that much considering his life, and who he is. It's more than you'd ever ask for.

And yet—

(In the darkness of your room, you crumble.)

—you want more.

More. More—

The butter chicken is warm, and slightly cooled. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. How long had he waited for you? Why did he wait for you?

You bite the soft, buttered naan to keep yourself from asking those silly questions.

This whole thing—if it even is a thing—is purely physical. Release. Something to stem the surreal feeling of being back on land where guns aren't being aimed at your head, and artillery fire doesn't clog the atmosphere. The stench of death is replaced by the cold, wet streets of London. The screams of the dying are just honking cars from impatient drivers; the chatter of civilians.

It's something to quench the inescapable sense of ennui when you leave the building after playing with the lives of the men on the field, and hear mothers chatting in the train about the mundanity of life.

Anything to calm the nerves. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And yet: he's sitting on your couch with his mask rolled up to his nose, eating chicken curry while passively watching football on your small television. Your hands brush when you both reach for more naan or roti. Gaze meeting over the Biryani.

It's different. New. This hasn't ever happened before in the four years since the conception of whatever this is. It's—

Jarring. Bewildering.

You expect, at some point, for him to stand up, and leave. That intimacy of eating dinner together while he murmurs low about what certain calls, or plays mean to you will break something inside of him, and scare him away. It's soft. Domestic.

Ghost is untouchable. Unseen.

But your eyes find the orange sauce smeared on the corner of his mouth. The ashen stubble on his chin, and jaw. The flash of teeth when he brings the dripping piece of curry to his mouth. His jaw working as he chews. The swallow. A flash of red when he tries, and fails, to catch every bit of curry from his lips.

It's bliss, you find. These small moments when he feels so distinctly human clot in your chest, and you worry that one day the mass will grow to be so big, you will crumble under the weight of it all.

(Maybe, it's the sex on the beach, the too-sweet rumchata, but the thought makes your stomach burn with anticipation. You want this man to ruin you with the mundane.)

"Finished your dinner?" He asks, eyes sliding to you.

The meagre food sits like a lump of coal. Your appetite dissolves as your slurried mind struggles to both remain as composed as possible so as not to spook him, and keep all the ugly things you want to say behind the seal of your lips.

It should just be sex. Fucking. No strings attached. Nothing—

You wonder if it's your life, drenched in a proxy of ordinary, that lures him in. You're not a civilian, but compared to him, you're only a short step above. Is it just—happenstance? Does he come to you because there are no other options for a man who died years ago?

Are you—

Convenient.

Something to pass the time. Something that makes him feel human again.

An evanescent dalliance within the boundaries of having no past, and no future. He isn't jeopardising himself by sneaking into your flat at night to satiate the hunger inside; the need to feel something other than the weight of a gun in his hands, and smell the blood, the smoke, the napalm in the air.

You work in the same circle.

He, when he's allowed to exist, on the field; and you, sitting behind a computer screen while you oversee the deaths of others in a sequence of numbers.

Your hands are too delicate to carry the weight of a gun, to aim and pull the trigger, but he can still feel the same sin when your fingers touch his flesh.

Not drenched in blood, but stained.

You're not innocent; he isn't sullying a civilian with his rough hands that reek of gunpowder.

You exist in that murky limbo he can fall in. Safety lingers in the cartilage of your joints; familiar, and attainable: you know the rules and what he does. You will never look him in the eye and ask why.

But—you're still dangerous. Covetous.

More, you think. You want more.

"I—," you taste malt on your tongue. You didn't drink any, but the taste reminds you of—

Hands on your waist. Warm breath in your ear. Come home with me.

Gaz, suddenly there, eyes blazing. Step off, mate.

Everton scores: blurs of blue dart across the green, but none of it sticks in the gummy lining of your head. It feels like you're somewhere else. Your body is sitting on the couch; you feel the soft, worn cushion below. The food is heavy on your belly. Eyes grainy from the alcohol you'd drank.

But you're not here.

You're adrift in grey matter. Head tilted toward the pink, undulating dome above. Afloat in stagnant molasses.

"I kissed someone tonight," you murmur. On the screen, a man throws his hands up, words at the bottom blur together.

The couch creaks when he moves. You can feel his stare on your temple, on you, but you don't meet it. Coward.

The geyser in the brackish pond rumbles. It tastes of sabotage.

"I probably would have gone home with them, too, if it wasn't for Gaz."

The roar of the television is the only sound you hear, but it feels distant. Warbled. There is a pounding in your head that starts at the base of your skull. The beat almost sounds like a warning.

Your hands tighten around the wet plastic cup of the cool salted Lassi. The crinkle it makes drowns out the noise of the cushion shifting under his weight.

"I guess it's a good thing I came home when I did—"

"Yeah, it is."

You can't place his tone. Arctic ice. Polar. A Chinook, perhaps. It bites into you, churning the chicken and alcohol in your stomach.

At least, in the end there would be no questions. No late nights gazing up at the ceiling, or leaning over the sink, peering at yourself in the mirror to make sense of why he picked you. It would just be—

An empty bed. Dinner for one. A single toothbrush in the holder.

(I bought you a toothbrush. You can leave it in the—

No need. I got my own.)

You huff. "Says you—"

"I'd have ripped him limb from limb for touchin' you."

His eyes are darker than you'd ever seen them. Black holes. Pooled ink.

For all your aplomb, your demure under the ire in those alcoves. The ones that leak—impossible—the same covetous spool in your chest.

"Simon—"

"Where'd he touch you?"

It's a command.

He reaches out; his palm is blistering when it rests on your bare thigh.

"Here?"

"Why—?" You shiver. "Why would you tear him—"

Sometimes, you forget how massive he is, but he seems quite eager to remind you when his hand falls on the cushion behind your head, closing that meagre distance between the two of you with his body. He's a shadow looming over you. A gaping chasm that yawns before you. Dangerous and dark. The warning signs are written in blood.

Stay away, they say, but he pushes himself closer to you.

"I don't share."

"What—what is there to share?"

His eyes flutter. Hard, unyielding obsidian. In the gaps, sit a near cosmic distance. An unreachable planet on the fringes of the solar system.

Ashen brows draw together. A cornered animal will lash out, and—

"Thought it was obvious."

You swallow and taste the sea. "It isn't."

An impasse, then, when he freezes. When his hand burrowing between your thighs halts on your flesh. An uncrossable no man's land. A valley where those who venture seldom return.

The chossy below your feet wobbles.

He says nothing. You don't expect him to, but you can't say it hurts any less.

You knew what you were getting into. What this was.

Still:

"Maybe we should stop this."

"That what you want?"

"It's pretty obvious it isn't, and that's the problem. I'm not going to ask for more than you'll give, but—;" a deep breath, a shudder. His thumb brushes your skin, a soft roll of his rough finger, and your heart thrums. Sings. The catch in your voice is thick, palpable. "How can you expect me not to want more?"

"What do you want? Want me to show my face? That it?" His hand raises to the edge of the mask, and something sours inside of you. "If you want to see so—"

Your hand on his wrist stops him from tugging it down. "I don't." Firm, decisive. "I don't want that, Simon. I just want you. And if—;" your eyes flicker to the containers, the half-eaten food on the coffee table. A dinner usually for one. "If you keep doing this—dinner, and—and—"

"I thought you liked butter chicken."

Your chest expands with your exasperated huff. Humour, at a time like this. And yet— "I do. I just meant—"

"I know, pet. I know."

"If you keep this up, I'll want more." You turn to him, hand dropping from his wrist. "I'm greedy. How can I not be when you tell me stupid jokes and bring me curry?"

"I knew you'd like them."

"Simon—"

Avoidance, then.

His hand inches down, sliding up your thigh. The loose shorts you'd worn fall to the side, and he slips through until his fingers meet the gusset of your panties.

"You're wet," he husks, leaning down. His forehead pressed to your temple. He smells of turmeric and ash. "That all for me, pet?"

Your thighs spread, giving him more room. His fingers brush along the seam of your clothed cunt. Your chin dips. Charcoal. Midnight black. His lashes are long. The missing coal around his eyes makes them look darker.

"Always."

His knuckle presses against your clit, chest brushing over your shoulder. "Better be."

Lashes flutter when you mewl, arching your back to get more of his touch. Needy, eager. You gasp when his finger crooks inside of your panties, bare skin on your cunt. You’re feverish; burning up from his touch alone. An ache knots in your belly; a spooling coil winding when his knuckle grazes your flesh. His breath is heavy in your ear.

"C'mon," he murmurs, the tip of his finger drags down the length of your slit. "Haven't had this pussy in months, pet. Need to feel you."

His words made something inside of you snap.

It's frantic: desperation claws at your chest carrying the urge to sink your teeth in his skin until it punctures with your mark, one that brands his body. The thought alone makes your belly quiver. An ache. A need. An itch. He's there, always: his hands are firm on your waist when you slide into his lap, hips pressing against your core as your fingers tug the buttons of his trousers off.

Your thighs burn from the stretch of his bulk. The sheer absurdity of how massive he is, and how comparatively small you feel with your knees split apart, is never more apparent than now, when you're barely able to touch the cushion below.

"Need you," you pant against the skin above the mask. Stubble crests over his cheek, and chaps your lips. "Need you so bad, Simon—"

"Fuck, pet," he breathes, ragged and harsh. His hands are brands on your flesh, pulling you closer, and closer, and yet—at the same time—keeping you at bay. "Would you have been this desperate for him?"

No. Not at all. You haven't been driven to the brink for a man since Simon. No one has ever burrowed deep under your skin until you were itching at the dermis so hard, it broke. It ripped. And the bloodied tatters that remained still weren't enough to quench the burn.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

His snarl is muffled behind the mask, but you feel the bite of it when his hands clench around your hips, jerking you forward until your cunt is nestled on his hard bulge.

"Gonna fuck you, now."

The words are ground down to the marrow; stripped and pulverised into dust when they slip through. Broken bones, fragmented ash—he blows the smoke of them into your face until you're reeling from the way they shred your throat and lungs when you breathe them in.

There is no finesse in the way you tug your panties off, letting them dangle around your ankle. Or the way he shoves his boxers down enough to free his cock.

It's quick. Dirty.

Simon has been rough in the past—often leaving you feeling like the victor of a well-fought war—but that always came after what felt like hours of foreplay. His face buried in your cunt. His fingers slowly stretching you for his cock.

This—

This feels desperate. It feels unhinged and raw. All his meticulous self-control catches fire in front of you until your skin blisters with the heat of it.

His fingers slip under the mask for a moment, and when he carefully pulls them free, they're covered in spittle.

No lube, no prep—

His thick fingers are on your cunt, slick and wet from his saliva, and they sink inside of you. One right to the last knuckle. Another joins. The stretch makes your toes curl. Makes you drop your head to his shoulder as he works in the third. The lewd sounds of your pussy being hurriedly fucked open by his fingers, palm digging into your clit, makes you burn.

It's not enough, but you look down and feel desire bloom at the sight of him—his cock is leaking prespend all over your mound, jerking against your belly with each quick thrust of his fingers within you. He pulls his hand away, and smears the wetness across his cock before gripping the base.

Your eyes are fixed on the pearlescent beads on the fat head, gathering in a thick, milky pool before rolling down the side. It gathers at the clinch of hi thumb and forefinger. Your mouth waters at the sight.

"Lemme suck your cock after," you slur; it comes out as barely more than a whimper. "Need to taste you—"

His cock jerks in his hold, spitting more prespend down the length of him.

"Fuckin' hell, pretty thing," he rasps, dragging your hips closer until your cunt is pressed taut against him. The drag of his flared head between your folds makes you keen low in your throat. "You won't even get a chance, pet. If you think I'm pulling out of this tight pussy at all tonight, you're wrong."

It's not a warning, but it's all he gives before his hand grips himself tight, the other clasped around your waist. His urgency bleeds through when his hips lift off the bed.

It's always an arduous undertaking whenever he sits you in his lap, and slowly feeds the entirety of his thick cock into your quivering body. Sometimes, nearly driven delirious from the intense pleasure-pain that pools in your core, you whisper into his ear that he's going to ruin you, break you down the centre.

You'll snap me in half, you whimper.

His response is to force more of himself into your body until you gag on the words in your throat, choke on your spit.

"I want to," he hisses; water doused on flaming coal. The grit of his voice is saturated in sin, and the sound makes your eyes roll. "Wanna break you open until nothin' fits inside this pretty cunt but me."

"You'd ruin me for everyone else, Simon? That's not fair—"

Your words make him groan, make him grasp your hips, fingers digging into the swell of your ass. He pulls you down onto him until he's swallowed whole. The air is punched from your lungs. You feel the throb of him in your esophagus. Broken, then, by this man. This untouchable, unattainable being.

"Fuck—," little hiccups spill from your throat. Your head is a slurry of want want want want and too much too full too big. You can't take him. You needed more foreplay. To be stretched around three fingers until you could fit him soundly.

This—

This feels a little bit like a punishment.

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps into your neck. "Wouldn't know what to do with this little cunt if he had it."

"And you do?"

His answer is to plant his feet on the ground and drive the length of him into you. A battering ram to your core. There is a white-hot pleasure burning through your core. It leaks into your marrow until you're heavy with the weight of it.

He helps you along. Hands gripped tight to your hips, he lifts you up off of his cock, and lowers you down with a fervour that leaves you quaking.

It's not so much as riding him, but being battered by a hurricane. All you can do is cling to him—arms wrapped tight around his neck, thighs shaking as you struggle to keep up with his brutal pace. Your forehead falls, rests against his shoulder, and you moan brokenly into the seam between your bodies.

It feels a little bit like possession. The flavour of a claim, ownership lingers in the air; it's heavy on your tongue, in your chest. But he's not the type of man to do that, is he? Distance. Separation.

Something like that is far too intimate for a man who shouldn't exist.

Even so—

Each blunt grind of his cock inside of you has milky pleasure blooming inside of you. His hard grip is tight enough to bruise, and when he digs his fingers into your flesh, you wonder if it's intentional. If he wants you stained and broken by the time he's finished.

No condom, either. It's rare that you go without one, despite being on birth control. He'd only ever lost it enough to forgo the contraceptive when he was injured, when his hand would press to his side each time he moved. The mask covered it up, but you saw the red in his eyes when he shifted.

You took advantage of his weakened state—lemme take care of you, Simon—and finally (finally) got a taste of his cock. His hips rutted into your mouth, and the noises that spilled out of him were obscene. You swallowed every drop while he heaved on the couch, forearm thrown across his forehead, eyes wide and red and looking at you in a way that made your toes curl. It was—

Magma. Melted rock. Soft, molten, and—

He passed out after. You cleaned up while he slept. It was the first time you'd ever seen him slumber, but despite the itch to look, to see, you kept your distance. A throw was tossed on him gently, a bottle of water left on the coffee table. You grabbed a book from the shelf, curled up on the chaise near the window, and watched the lour gloom of London under a deluge.

(London, you find, is always prettier when it storms.)

He woke up hours later to the smell of lamb soup.

His voice was a husk: a charred log. He pulled you down on the couch with him, back pressed to his front, and he'd taken you then. His arm draped over your collarbones, forearm tucked under your chin; his other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you open for him as he rutted inside of you. Delirious, perhaps, from the pain. From the uncomfortable, dangerous, vulnerability he showed you. It didn't feel distant when he pulled you into him, eyes murky bogs in the middle of a barren forest. It felt—

Stripped. Raw and naked and somehow virginal despite the heavy pants of pleasure in your ear, muffled by the mask that had not moved at all since his head dropped on the armrest behind, and he woke up to a porcelain bowl of cawl on the table.

The bare grind of his cock inside of you should negate the purity in the act but somehow, somehow, it feels more innocent than anything else you'd experienced before.

He came inside of you, a wrecked groan reverberating in your ear as he squeezed you tight to his body, and made you take every drop.

No words were exchanged. You ate cawl on the couch and tried to pretend you didn't see the hungry look in his eyes when you caught his gaze on the pearlescent smear staining your thighs.

(Each time after that, he wore a condom.)

Until now.

You can feel him pulsing in your throat. It feels more intimate—hurried and rushed as it: your thighs spread over his, his cock buried deep inside you, chest pressed against yours. There is nowhere for you to turn, to hide, except to burrow your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the ozone scent of him. Gunpowder. Pyrolysis. Sulphur. Smoke. It sits heavy in your lungs.

"F—fuck, Simon," you mewl, fingers clawing at the fabric of his sweater. You need something to hold on to, to keep you grounded amid the battering of his hips.

"Yeah, pet," he breathes, his hands gripping you tighter as he ruts into you. His cock grinds against something inside of you that has you seeing white. "You like that don't you? Like my cock inside of you. You're desperate for it, aren't you?"

There is no room for words in your esophagus when you can feel the blunt press of his head bludgeoning into your sternum. All you can do is work yourself against the brutal onslaught of him driving his hips, his cock, into you from below. There is no stability for you to find purchase, and give back just as much as you take, but Simon doesn't seem to want that. Not right now.

He fucks into you, barely able to pull the full length of him out of your drenched pussy, and seems find pleasure in grinding against your core in deep, short strokes that leave you chasing Ursa Major in the Magellanic cloud that spools in your head.

Each thrust leaves you trembling, legs quaking as he knocks against a place inside that makes your back arch; making liquid euphoria brim in your veins.

Fucking Simon with an abundance of prep rides that perfect equilibrium of pleasure and pain. This—

This feels like it might wreck you. Your cunt is stretched wide around the base of him, pulled taut as he digs his heels into your worn, stained carpet and drives himself into you like he's trying to split you in half, and take refuge in your womb.

The sounds that spill out, filling the room, make you feel like you're floating. From the seal of your sopping pussy and the lewd squelch of him sliding against your walls; the deep, ruined moans that drip from your mouth; the deep, hoarse groans he makes that has your belly quivering—it has your fingers digging into his shoulders, clenched around tense muscles.

"Fuckin' hell—," his head tips back when your knee slips, bringing your pelvis closer to his groin. "This cunt was made for me, wasn't it? All mine—"

Stubble grazes your nose when you press your lips to the silver of skin exposed on his jugular. Teeth catch on the coarse hair, skin drawn between them. Capillaries burst under your tongue, flooding his flesh a bright red, then a deep purple. The perfect impression of your teeth—

"Fuck—!" He snarls, hands pulling you closer to him as he jerks within you.

Simon knocks the thoughts from your head when he spears his cock inside of you. It's rough, raw. The pain that blooms in your core when he chevies into the seal of your womb as you see a supernova behind your eyelids. The explosion of energy. Each synapse inside of your head buzzes with the force of it.

"C'mon, pretty thing," he husks; the roar of the ocean upwelling on the land. You taste salt on your tongue when you pant, moaning his name into his sweat-slicked neck. He tastes of iodine. "I want you to cum on my cock, pet. I need to feel your cunt squeeze me tight—"

It pulls on the thread keeping the deluge from spilling over. The seams split; the levee cracks. It wells inside of your core, each plunge pushing you further and further to the edge of that roaring precipice. Standing on the ledge of a cliff, eyes pointed down at the black water that slams against the granite, frothing and angry. It sprays mist from the vitriolic sea. Arsenic white. It crests over you. His grunt in your ear. His hands tighten until you feel bruises bloom under the tips of his fingers. The chossy cracks. The rocks tumble. Your feet slip—

It's familiar, this. Everything about him makes you feel like you're falling, and this—this—is no different. A leap. A drop. Your feet hit the water first.

It happens all at once; crashing over you like a rogue wave. Swallowed whole. Sucked under.

Knees scrape the murky sediment below. You babble in his neck about how good his cock feels inside of you; hiccuping stupidly at the absurd stretch of him, how big he is, and—shyly, tentatively—how much you missed this, missing feeling him inside of you, tasting him on your tongue.

It punches a snarl from his throat; ripped and raw on the barbed wire lining his jugular. It drips blood when he bites into it, fingers cutting into your skin to stem the ache in his voice from leaking out.

(Things are only real when whispered out loud.)

He pulses inside of you, head tilts back as he groans with his release.

These soft moments nearly ruin you: when his hands clench around your waist, paroxysms of pleasure hard enough to bruise; his chest expanding with his deep breaths, brushing yours with each inhale; the heat spuming inside of you. The noises he makes. The way his brow pinches together when he cums.

Your eyes fall on the column of his neck, tracing a bead of sweat slipping down from the humid mask, over the bluish mark you left on his skin, to where it pools in the indent of his collarbone. His throat bobs. You watch it all.

He's never more real than in these moments, you find.

You think of object permanence, and sink your teeth into the raw ring around his neck.

Simon shudders under you. "Fuckin' hell, pet—;" is a gravel-rucked rasp from his chest. He swallows again. "You tryin' to go for the jugular next?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. His arms tighten around you, locking you to his chest. You throb around the softening length of him, pulsing like a heartbeat. Brassbound bliss is thick around your neck; heavy iron pulling you down.

The cosmos spits you out, and gravity drags you home until you're centred; surrounded by the scent of sweat, sex, and the cloying tang of Simon—warm milk, wet nickles, and clove. Your nose brushes the hem of his mask, and you catch the frenetic headiness of Ghost. Warzone. Gunpowder. Ichor. Your tongue flicks out, catches the sulphur on his skin.

You feel his feet shift, his thigh flex.

Hold on tight, pet. It's the only warning you get before his hands curl under your knees, locking you to his chest, and he stands.

The power in his muscles is dizzying, intoxicating. He hefts you into his arms with an ease that makes your head swim. All the liquid inside shifts as he moves. A vertiginous wave washes over you.

You feel so small in his arms. So fragile, breakable. He holds you tight to his chest, hands ironclad on your thighs, and huffs when you giggle in his ear about how strong he is. How big and tough, and powerful Ghost is.

"Ghost ain't the one still buried deep inside of you, pet." He mutters into your temple, words slurred, hushed. They're almost drowned out by the cheers spilling from the speakers, and you wonder if he even meant for you to hear them.

You duck your head, nuzzling your nose into his throat. "M'tired. Take me to bed, Simon."

"Gladly."

It's a short walk from your living room to your bedroom, and he knocks the door open with the flat of his foot. He takes a moment before stepping through the threshold, eyes darting around your bedroom briefly. Hyper-vigilant. Always. This never changes even if he's in your flat or walking into the communal kitchen a whole sea away.

It takes him two steps to reach your bed. He doesn't bother with the lights.

He lays you on the cold bed, hovering over you with eyes like Orion. You think you find Betelgeuse in the far reaches of those unfathomable depths.

"You're pretty," you slur, stupidly, dizzily. You're not drunk—not really —but you're intoxicated by this, by him. His scent in your nose, his taste on your tongue, his weight pushing you down into the soft sheets—his cock inside of you still, twitching when you speak. It makes you giggle—robust and bubbly—and babble about the stars in his eyes, and heaven in his touch. "Your eyes are so—"

He huffs, those pretty eyes rolling at you. "Haven't even seen me without the mask, pet—"

"Don't care."

"No? What if I was ugly?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Scarred up?"

You shrug.

Another huff, deeper this time. His head drops, forehead pressing against your temple. You can feel the vibration through your bones when he rests his chest on yours, and murmurs your name low. Ashes and embers. Smoke is thick in your nose.

"You're clingy when you're drunk."

"Says the one who hasn't let go of me since I sat on your cock—"

His hips grind against yours, and the cheeky tone dies off in a whimper.

"That's what I thought."

"No fair," you pant, arching your back under him. Your legs tighten around his waist. "You can't just abuse me with your dick to shut me up. You know it's my weakness."

"If it works…"

"You're a terrible man."

"Never said I wasn't, and anyone who says otherwise is lying."

Your hands slide up his shoulders, and you feel something sour twist inside of you when he tenses as you glide over his bare skin. Your nails graze his scalp, fingers threading through his moussed locks. He shudders at your touch.

"Guess I'm a liar, then," you fit your cheek against his, murmuring in his ear. Quiet, low. The ghost of a whisper.

His voice is tight when he speaks. Airy, light. It's as soft as you'd ever heard him. "Guess so, pet."

His arms tighten around you, holding you just a little bit closer. It's almost cruel how he holds you close to his chest like this. Like you're something to be protected, to be shielded.

(Humans are greedy things by nature.

How can he expect you not to want when he gives you moments like these to cling to?)

He doesn't stay long. Two nights watching football on your couch, drinking tea, and feigning obliviousness to the crack in the foundation that lingers between you. The intimacy is startlingly easy to fall into; he sleeps (really sleeps; his eyes closed, soft snores spilling out from behind the mask), relaxes around you in a way that makes you distinctly aware, now, of how tense he was before.

(And yet—he still came.)

There is no confession to be had over cawl or the roast dinner you make before he leaves, leftovers tucked inside his backpack when he isn't looking, left there for whatever endeavour he was going on next. You can't imagine they have many homemade meals.

You don't even really know what he wants from this, what he expects, except that it's happening. He's here, and that—

That's enough.

You're greedy, always will be, but there's a dissonance inside of your chest, balmed by the tinge of green in those obsidian depths when you spoke of going home with another man. The acrid taste of his ire feels more poignant than any words could offer.

A man of action.

(And action comes often in his life.)

He calls you—for the first time in four years, somewhere overseas—and the sound of his voice in your ear has you grinning stupidly in the solitude of your bedroom.

"Did I wake you?"

"Wasn't sleeping."

It's quiet. Through the static, you can almost make out the chitter of insects native to whichever place they called him to. You think about filling in the gap, but there is a breath. A shift. Then: "me, too. Wondered what you were up to."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Pet—"

"Thinking of you."

Silence again. His breath is white noise on the line. "I'll be—;" he pauses, inhaling once more: "—back soon. No promises."

"No, never," you smile. "Bring me a souvenir."

"All I have are heads, pet."

"How romantic."

"Never been much of one."

"I guess I could redecorate. Macabre-chic. "

He huffs. You wonder if it's a chuckle. "Would start to smell, wouldn't it?"

"Not much worse than you after a mission, surely."

"You—"

"Kinda miss it, though."

He says nothing. You catch the grainy inhale. The forceful exhale.

"Not much to miss."

"There's lots."

"There ain't."

"If you say so. Still do, though." You let it sit for a moment; a tender glimmer of raw vulnerability—the flavour he runs from. It brims. Your mother taught you that it was best to let things simmer. "It's been raining like crazy in London. Kinda reminds me of Wales."

"What do you call a sheep tied to a fence in Wales?"

"Do I want to know?"

"A leisure centre."

You nip your chuckle at the root, feigning exasperation instead. "You can do better than that."

"What do you call a soldier that survived mustard gas and pepper spray?"

"What?"

"A seasoned veteran."

Your huff trails off into silence. It's palpable, thick, but it isn't uncomfortable. It reminds you of the softness of night when you're supposed to be quiet. When you tiptoe around with a gingerness to avoid a raucous. Anything over a certain decibel is off-limits. It's not a rule. It isn't written down. But you follow it, anyway.

In that gloam when the sun sets over the horizon, and night settles like a blanket, you whisper:

Make sure those heads come home safe.

The sheets rustle. Something in the distance shatters.

He sucks in a breath. "I should go, pet."

It's as much of a promise as he'll ever make.

In the sticky gossamer of sleep, you feel something brush over your temple. A soft smear of warmth; transient and fleeting. The fluttering wings of a magpie.

It leaves before you can sink into its weight.

When you wake the next morning, the room smells of rust and gunpowder.

(No heads, but you find a whittled sheep on the pillow beside you.)

You open the cupboard above the vanity, reach for your toothbrush, and—

Oh.

A slow, soft smile crests over your lips, cheeks flushing under the jaundiced light.

Inside the solitary holder, another brush has taken residence beside yours. You stare at the two brushes in the rusting cup, heart thudding in your chest.

#simon riley x you #simon riley fanfic #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #this is about as domestic as i can make ghost #simon riley cod #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty

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babydollmarauders · 1 year

Note

Jack and mom finding out they are pregnant or gender reveal?

i was so tired when i wrote this and i have not proofread it, so i hope it’s okay

it hadn’t even occurred to me that i could be pregnant. chalking the sickness and fatigue up to the stress of wedding planning, the cravings and tenderness in my breast being attributed with getting my period soon.

when i was complaining about everything to Jack, he only asked if i should go to an urgent care or if my period was this week. which in turn, got me thinking; i’ve been using an upcoming period as an excuse for two weeks without even realizing that i’ve yet to actually get my monthly cycle.

“Jack! you coming?” Quinn’s voice drifts up the stairs of the lake house, quickly followed by the sound of scolding from Ellen about his yelling.

“alright, i gotta go.” Jack stands from our bed, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “i love you.”

he jogs out of the room, rushing to catch up with his dad and brothers for their golf day.

quickly pulling out my phone, i tap into my period tracking app, a lump forming in my throat at the words displayed.

period 6 days late

eyeing the keys to Jack’s range rover that sit on the dresser, i sigh, standing and retrieving them. i step down the stairs a lot quieter than Jack had just moments before.

“hey hun! i’m meeting some friends at that one mom and pop’s pizza place. i can never remember the name, the one like forty-five minutes out? do you wanna come?” Ellen calls to me as i enter the living room. despite the mix of emotions battling for dominance in my body, i smile, shaking my head.

“no. i’m okay, thank you!” i tell her. “i’m actually about to drive over to the drug store real quick, do you need anything?”

“no, i’m okay! thank you, hun! you sure you don’t wanna come? i feel bad leaving you here all by yourself!” she tells me and i just shake my head again, assuring her that i’m okay by myself. Ellen shrugs and we bid each other a goodbye before i take off out the door.

the drive to CVS is quick, the trip in even quicker because i don’t think twice about which kind of test to buy, i just grab one of almost every option.

by the time i make it back to the lake house, Ellen has already left, leaving me with the house to myself.

i take a deep breath, steeling my nerves as i go grab a bottle of water. chugging the water, i eat a quick snack and pace around the empty downstairs until i feel the need to pee.

making the trek upstairs to the bathroom, i pause in the doorway.

should i be doing this without Jack?

should i be telling him before i take a test?

before i can chicken out, another wave of light nausea hits me and i decide that i can’t wait any longer. Jack is right, if these come back negative then i should probably go to urgent care, just in case something is seriously wrong. and that’s better done sooner rather than later, right?

my hands shake, making it hard to take the tests, but i get it done, setting each one on the counter. with a timer set on my phone, i sit on the cold bathroom floor, my thoughts racing at the possibility of being pregnant.

it’s not like Jack and i have never talked about having kids. we have. plenty of times. we just never imagined it this soon. we’re not even married yet, our wedding is in two weeks. Jack has talked about hoping to have kids alongside Quinn or Luke, but neither of them are even in relationships, let alone having kids soon. will he be upset about that?

or could this be an exciting thing? the idea of having a mini me or Jack running around our apartment. Jack teaching them how to skate, how to play hockey. imagining the apartment full of children’s toys and play hockey sets. dressing them in a jersey and taking them to see Jack play. a child calling me “mama”.

i’m torn out of my thoughts by the sound of my timer, quickly clicking the stop button. i stare up towards the counter, not yet ready to read the results, but somehow already knowing what they’ll say.

i stand up slowly, dragging out the process in order to provide myself with extra time. taking one last deep inhale, i count to three before looking at the tests.

positive.

two lines.

a plus sign.

pregnant.

tears well in my eyes at the results. i’m overjoyed, but i can’t help the nagging feeling in the back of my mind. my heart telling me i’m excited to have a baby, a product of Jack and i, while my brain overthinks, wondering what Jack will think, if he’ll be upset.

grabbing the tests, i go back to our bedroom, sticking them in my bedside table drawer before laying down on the bed. tears well in my eyes as my mind pings from one thought to another. happy and then scared.

i’ve probably laid there for an hour before i find myself falling asleep.

“hey, baby.” i’m stirred from my sleep by the sound of Jack’s voice. “you been in here the whole day?”

my eyes flutter open, coming face to face with my fiancé, who squats down beside the bed. i sleepily shake my head at his question.

“no? what’d you do then, pretty girl?” he wonders, switching to sit on the edge of the bed while running his hand over my hair. he leans down to press a kiss to my forehead, and it’s only now that i realize he’s freshly showered and changed out of his golfing clothes.

i can hear the voice of Trevor outside our room, yell-telling a story to lord knows who.

“i found out what’s wrong with me.” i barely even second guess telling him. i thought long and hard about it before i fell asleep and it’s better to tell him now rather than in a few weeks.

“oh yeah?” Jack asks. “was i right? was it your period?”

i’m silent for a beat, just trying to think about how to phrase my next few words.

“um, i guess you could say that?” i tell him “or rather something to do with it.”

“that’s good.” “i’m pregnant.”

we both speak at the same time and i watch as recognition slowly spreads across his face. his hand drops from my hair, making me nervous.

“w-what?” he gives a few slow blinks, trying to process the information i just threw at him.

sitting up in the bed, i reach over and open the bedside drawer, clutching the tests in my hands and holding them out to Jack.

he stares at them for a few moments before taking them into his own hand. he rifles through each test, reading the results.

“can you please say something?” i whisper, tears pricking the back of my eyes. the anxiety is eating at me, nervous of what he thinks.

“we’re gonna have a baby?” his voice is quiet as he looks up at me, his eyes soft. i just nod in response, unable to speak without a sob coming out.

he drops the tests on the bed, cupping my face and crashing his lips on mine. soft and sweet, full of love and affection. he pulls away, laying his forehead on mine.

“we’re having a baby.” he whispers, more to himself than me.

“is that okay?” i question.

“that’s more than okay.” he tells me, pulling back to really look me in the eyes.

“i know you’ve talked before about wanting to have kids around the same time as your brothers, and i’m sorry that-”

“fuck that. we’re having a baby! a little you and me.” he wears an excited smile, placing another chaste kiss to my lips.

“yeah, we’re having a baby.”

#el!hughes au #ask faithlynn ✨#jack hughes x reader

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beanzwrites · 11 months

Note

Hi! I just love your works, they are so good! Do you think you could do Winchester sister who really likes Boba but she doesn’t get it often due to their lifestyle, then one day either Sam or Dean suprised her with one? Thought it would be so cute!

Boba, How I've Missed You!

A/n: Hello, thank you so much for the request! I'm really sorry it took a bit to get to it; life got quite busy. I hope you enjoy this though! Also, thank you so much! That means a lot and I'm glad you like my writings! <3 Fun fact, I've never had Boba before, but would love to try it at some point! | ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── |

Being a Winchester was definitely no easy feat. Constantly moving from place to place, there was no guarantee that you could indulge as much as other people would. Though (Y/N) was the youngest out of the Winchester family, she knew what kind of responsibility that her family name carried.

The good thing about being with her brothers though, is that they both have a sweet tooth just like her. She enjoys it when they are able to take a breather and stop by a coffee shop or bakery to feed their cravings.

(Y/n) recently found that she loves Boba and will take any chance to order it. Her brothers find her giddy nature over a sweet beverage endearing, and though they make the excuse that they need a cup of coffee, they love to make their little sister happy.

Those memories are some of the bests (Y/n) has; however, they don't come around often. Her family has been quick on their feet the last few months, and with the stress that carries over her brothers as of late, it's hard to say when those memories will come to reality again. (Y/n) knows what is more important and keeps to herself as her brothers' work.

However, there was one night where her brothers were in a more chipper mood. They were talkative over their TV dinner, joking around and bringing up past experiences.

---

"Really, Dean? You just had to bring up THAT moment..." Sam snorts, his brows furrowing in a pout.

"It was hilarious, Sammy! Of course, I'll bring it up. You had coffee all over you," Dean laughs before taking a big bite of a chicken tender.

"Man, I miss going to coffee shops. I haven't had Boba in so long," (Y/n) giggles, "It's been a hot minute."

The sudden silence between her brothers causes her to stiffen. They're both staring at her with unreadable expressions, frowns etched on their lips. (Y/n)'s heart skips before she shakes her head frantically.

"I didn't mean anything by that, I'm sorry! I know we've been busy..."

"That's okay, Squirt. I miss those moments too," Deam says, leaning back. "We gotta get back to it at some point."

"Man... How long has been now?" Sam asks to no one in particular, "It has been a while, hasn't it?"

---

That next morning, (Y/n) woke up to the motel room being empty. The sun was already peeking through the curtains as (Y/n) lazily ventures to it, looking out to see that the Impala was gone. A sigh escapes (Y/n), but she couldn't help but to bite her cheek. Her brothers would usually tell her if they were going somewhere, and though uneasiness tried creeping into her thoughts, she busied herself by getting ready for the day.

As the girl climbed out of the shower a few minutes later, she heard the front door open with her brothers' voices carrying soon after. She takes her time dressing before a knock is heard.

"Hey Little Bit, you almost ready?" Dean's voice resonates on the other side of the bathroom door.

"Yeah, hold on!" (Y/n) answers before opening the door. "What's up?"

"Sammy and I got you something," Dean smiles.

Sam walks over to his siblings, his own lips forming into a big smile, before gesturing to something in his hand.

"Boba!" (Y/n) cheers, grabbing it and taking a sip, "Ah! How I've missed you! Thank you, guys!"

"No problem, sweetheart. We know how much you love it," Sam says.

" Come on, you two! Stop with the chit-chat! I'm ready to dig into that Pumpkin Roll!

#fanfiction #supernatural x reader #dean winchester x sister reader #sam winchester x sister reader #supernatural x sister! reader #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #platonic reader #wholsome #sister reader #Winchester x sister reader

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sammyjs-ponies · 2 months

Note

Have you heard of the new show Wild Manes? What's your opinion about it?

I have been watching it!

I find it very pleasant and I enjoy it. In fact, the show feels like it would fit perfectly alongside shows from the 2003-2008 era, like Strawberry Shortcake, Care Bears, Horseland, and of course G3 MLP.

And I for one, love that. It's nostalgic even though it's brand new, and I've been wishing so hard to see shows appear that make that happen. It's like that feeling we all wish we could have again of watching our favorite childhood shows for the first time.

I've been sitting with the popcorn watching the mixed reactions from Bronies. The consensus is that G5 is a total flop and we're all craving something better to fill the void. I've seen about 75% of videos hyping it up "Will this be the NEW MLP???" and the rest calling it "Bootleg Ripoff" and at worst just hating on it for all the same reasons they blasted G3.

Wild Manes is a comfort show. Not something action-packed and profound with deep lore like G4 was, and it shouldn't be compared as such. These other shows I mentioned above have an audience of an entirely different set of people that Bronies often refuse to accept exist.

We do also love profound shows like G4, but the kinds of people who exclusively like G4-type shows have a hard time accepting different genres if they're not exactly the same... and tend to shame the people who have different tastes as if everything else is objectively "bad".

Imagine a person who refuses to eat anything but chicken tenders getting on a high horse and insulting a foodie for enjoying more foods than just chicken tenders.

As for my review of the show so far:

They're doing VERY well with storytelling for being limited to a 5-minute runtime, and if they ever get the chance to do more, I think they have great potential to have amazing stories. The "You're probably wondering how we ended up here" gimmick at the beginning of each episode, which is jarring to some people, would be way more enjoyable with a full 20-minute episode. In fact, it's VERY refreshing to see a cartoon doing something different for once.

As I said, I love how the show makes me feel. The art style is great. The background art is great. There's no villains or monsters or world-ending scenarios at stake, which is again, refreshing.

(Another thing Bronies tend to not realize is some people just don't want to watch characters fighting 24-7. High-stakes episodes are enjoyable once in a while, but how can it be special if that's how things just are all the time? I don't know about anyone else, but big battles to save the world are a lot more meaningful to me when we've spent some time living happily in that world to sympathize and understand why it's worth defending.)

And sometimes, I just want to watch cute characters have fun and live life, where the worst of the problems is a minor disagreement with your friend that gets worked out in the end. A world I can wish I lived in.

My only biggest complaint so far is that I wish the hair moved. You'd think with such a focus on hair, they'd have some real physics in the animation.

But again, they're just starting out. Surely things will improve if it takes off.

#Wild Manes #My Little Pony #MLP #Not Art #Ask #Long Post

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k-marzolf · 11 months

Text

Kindred Spirits

(Strangers to lovers, coffee shop au?, mentions of sexual abuse (both Billy and Reader), mentions of physical abuse, themes of obsession, Reader has asthma, fluff/angst, fem!reader)

1.84k words.

A one shot I’ve been working on off and on. I like how it turned out.

You’d dropped out of high school on a cold day in winter, running away until the cold air burned your lungs, making your asthma flare up, and as you looked for a bus, dragging what little belongings you had behind you, you wheezed. You were sixteen, a couple years away from adulthood. You just had to evade social services in that amount of time.

You ended up coughing and hacking in your seat, lungs protesting, but making eye contact with no one. The heat on the bus settled your lungs, and when you arrived in New York after many days' travel, you found a job willing to pay you under the table as a minor.

You never looked back, working at a bakery now in New York City, getting by just barely, and no medical insurance. But you didn’t complain. It was better than the beatings, you thought looking at your scarred hands. “Please, grandad. I’ll behave.” You remembered begging after he’d tried to touch you.

You were twenty six, and with nothing to say for your life. You’d never been to college, and had no great achievements. But you were happy, and that was what mattered.

A man at least several years older than you, liked to come in and order a danish, and a coffee, straight black. He wore tailored suits, and had slicked back dark hair, shaved on the sides. He had a beard, and you itched to touch it, to feel it between your thighs. “You look like you’ve got the wiles of the Devil.” You’d blurted after staring at him a few seconds, struck by his handsomeness, before apologizing profusely.

He’d chuckled, and it went down your spine like velvet sliding over a dagger. His voice was deep, but soft. “If only you knew, bunny.”

“Bunny?” You asked, tilting your head.

He pointed to the bunny pin on your shirt, and you laughed quietly. You’d bought the pin as a splurge. It had been a few dollars.

“You’re not from New York.” He said, and you wondered how he knew. “Your accent.” He clarified.

“I’m just a farm girl from the Midwest. Nothin’ interesting.” You said dully.

He looked at your hands, before taking a sip of his coffee. “I doubt that, bunny.”

You’d found yourself daydreaming about the man in the tailored suit after his words. As though you were interesting to him, a dull girl who spent her life milking cows and chasing chickens. You wondered what his kiss would taste like. Probably bitter like the coffee he drank. What his touch would feel like. It was those moments you realized just how lonely you were, desperate for attention and companionship.

“Hi, Billy.” You said cheerfully as he came in one day.

“Hi, bunny.” He said, amused by your eagerness.

“Coffee, black, right. And a cherry danish?” You asked.

“Mhm.” He hummed, hand in his pocket.

You got his coffee ready, and slipped a cookie in his bag with his danish. You didn’t want anything in return, only his attention.

Your heart raced as you gave it to him. He smiled as though he knew. “Have a good day, bunny.” He thought you were sweet, gentle, tender. All the things he craved.

Your cheeks burned.

“You’re my favorite patron.” You confessed one day, handing him his coffee, admiring his pink cheeks from the cold.

His lips had turned up, as he silently took his coffee, dark eyes almost black, sparkling.

He pulled something out of his pocket, pushing it towards you. It was a little toy bunny, and your heart stuttered. It was white, with pink feet, and a pink nose. “You’re my favorite baker, bunny.” He teased you, before taking his coffee and walking away.

He had that thick New York accent which drew you in, being from the Midwest yourself. He had a darkness in his eyes that made you shiver with a thrill at catching his attention, his dark pits turning to you. Choosing you.

He noticed your scarred hands, looking like he wanted to comment. Unbeknownst to you, he admired them knowing most scars were a sign you’d survived, you’d fought. He’d been angry when he read the police report on you when he looked into you. Your hands cut up with a broken vodka bottle. All because you didn’t want grandfather's advances.

Like Billy had fought advances at eleven years old. He could still remember the pain exploding in his shoulder. The helplessness. The rage.

But you were just a poor farm girl from the Midwest, on the run from an abusive grandfather, you thought. And Billy was a status above you. What would you have in common, you thought dully. Your heart squeezed, you’d never wanted something more than you wanted him, you thought playing with the bunny he’d given you in your pocket. All because he’d given you his attention.

You continued giving him an oatmeal raisin cookie on the house, discreetly. Your way of showing affection. But not so discreet, you soon realized.

After a few weeks of this, he hummed, taking the cookie and pocketing it, “You always give free cookies out to patrons, bunny?” He asked, lips forming a wry grin.

You felt your cheeks heat up, “I’m sorry, sir.”

He smiled, “For your favorite patron, huh?” He kept every cookie. No one had ever given him something so freely. Even as a boy, adults scorned him. He’d been a nuisance to them. He’d been invisible.

And even now, women only loved him for his beauty and wealth, you were just kind, expecting nothing in return.

It was a cold day in winter, and instead of running from something, you were running headlong into something. Only you didn’t know exactly how much he’d watched you. Fantasized about coming home to you, kissing you. How pretty you’d look in the morning waking up next to him.

He’d have someone to come home to. Proof he wasn’t just some asshole who thought he could have the good things in life.

He could have something good, like Frank had Maria and the kids.

He’d never had such domestic thoughts before, but goddamn he liked you, wanted to make you his.

And that he always intended to make you his all along. His sweet little rabbit. And he would understand poverty and being unwanted better than anyone else. Understand being touched without consent, and fighting for autonomy, with the scars as proof.

You were kindred spirits, of that he was certain.

Tags: @idaofinfinity @e-dubbc11 @rosaleenablack @firexfate @aoi-targaryen

#billy russo #billy russo x reader

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vinnywinnii · 5 months

Text

Viktor x reader (fluff)

(scenario: Viktor and reader make dinner after a long day and they cuddle and watch a movie)

Viktor has been known to overwork himself, so when he came home later than usual; it was expected. The sound of the door unlocking made you jump off the couch and run over to the door, opening it for him quickly and giving him a hug. He gives a surprised look, but soon his face softens and he strokes your hair at the door.

"mm.. someone missed me." He chuckles, kissing your head while you bury your face into his chest.

You nod, closing your eyes as you hug him. "How was work? You stayed late again." You mutter softly, yawning.

"hm, you seem tired. Why didn't you go to sleep sooner?" He asks, his hand finding your chin and tilting it up so he can see your beautiful face. "My day was good, I'm sorry I wasn't here to give you the affection you crave."

"i wanted to wait for you, plus I can't sleep alone." You say in a playfully whiney tone, chuckling slightly. You look over at the couch and you look back up at him, soon running over to the couch and waving him over. "I got stuff for youu" you smile excitedly.

He looks intrigued, but very happy to see you had a better day. You seem so nice, and he's glad you're his partner. "Yes, yes.. I'm coming." He says, laughing a little. He walks over to the couch to see a movie picked out on the T.V screen and popcorn.

"you wanna watch a movie, yes? This late at night?" He chuckles, smiling down at you and holding your hand. "Mm.. you seem sleepy, Love. You sure?" He mentions.

You whine a bit, seeming really excited to watch the movie with him. "Pleaaaseeee..?" You whine, giving a mocking desperate tone.

"hm, fine. But you need a lot of rest tomorrow, it's already basically morning." *I holds your hands in his and I steps back to get a good view of you. ".. and you're looking very cute today." He compliments, giving you another kiss on your head.

"I'm gonna make you some dinner, I know you didn't make anything for yourself besides popcorn." He chuckles, the sound of his walking cane hitting the floor echoing a little.

He glances around after pausing, smiling a bit. "Did you clean the house today? It looks really good, sweetie." He says, smiling at you from the kitchen. You look up at him and follow behind him as he walks to the kitchen.

"really? I noticed it was messy and I wanted you to come home to a clean house." You say excitedly as you stand next to him and observe his face. He looks down at you and holds your hand.

"i appreciate it, I really do. Now, I'm gonna make you dinner so either stand here and watch or sit down. I'm making your favorite." He says in a soft tone, his face looking caring. "I don't want you to work anymore today, alright sweetie?" He says sternly as he kisses your cheek.

You nod, giving him a quick hug and standing next to him to watch. He starts getting the food out to cook and he preheats the oven to make some chicken tenders.

He pours you a glass of milk and hands you it, looking down at you. "Drink up, love. If you don't want milk; we have juice, water, soda, whatever you please." He says softly.

"thank you, hun." You say, taking a sip of the milk. You help him out with dinner for a bit before you start getting a bit too tired to stand correctly, wobbling a bit.

"okay, love. I'm gonna need you to sit on the couch for me. You seem really tired, I can finish dinner alone. It's no problem." You look bummed out, but you comply. He likes when you guys make dinner together, but he doesn't want you fatigued.

"Vikttorrrrr." You call from the living room, sounding a bit whiney.

"Yeessss?" He chuckles, calling back to you while finishing up dinner.

"..." You don't respond right away, which confuses him. "I miss you." You say from the living room, peaking over the couch and looking a little warm and tired.

He laughs loudly and he plates your food and brings it to you. "Really now? I'm right here." He chuckles as he sits down with his food and handing you your plate.

"c'mon, let's eat and cuddle. You can pick the movie." He says, pulling you closer and wrapping his arm around your shoulder. You yawn and you pick a movie, starting it after a little.

Soon, he feels your body grow limp. He only notices when he looks down and sees your eyes closed and your breathing steady. He smiles down at you and kisses your forehead. "Aw, you passed out and we're only 30 minutes into the movie. Cute." he mutters quietly, not wanting to wake you. He then whispers something quietly into your ear while you're unconscious; "I love you, sweetie."

He strokes your hair, watching the movie for a while before soon falling asleep alongside you on the couch.

#arcane fluff #fluff #viktor arcane #arcane #viktor x reader #fanfic #arcane fanfic #viktor

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ordinaryschmuck · 3 months

Text

Good things that happened today:

I dreamt about an old Minecraft lets play I watched when I was...fifteen? It got to the part where one of them was riding a horse that was on a minecart and I remember it being so funny that I actually woke up laughing. I went right back to sleep (Because why wake up an hour earlier than I should?), but it was a new, weird experience to wake up laughing. And I mean that in a good way. It was like I was reliving that experience of watching that let's play for the first time and having the same exact laughter and joy as before. It was...nice.

It was NOT as hot today as it has been the past week. It made going outside a lot more pleasant than usual, even if the sweat was still pouring a bit whenever I went outside. At least I wasn't dying like I have been on previous days and it even felt nice enough to take the walk to Arby's for some good chicken tenders, fries, and a lemonade. Not a healthy lunch, but I'm worth it. I didn't even need to chug down dozens of bottles of water at once, so...that's score one for the planet. I guess.

One of the annoying coworkers that drives me crazy was NOT annoying today. It's almost as if he's learning that he's at the workplace and not on the playground. Either that or he just becomes less annoying when paired up with his partner in crime.

My mom surprised me by picking me up instead of letting me walk home from work today. I even took advantage of that by buying a carton of Ben and Jerry's "Peanut Butter over the Top" ice cream. I was craving it, but didn't think it was smart to buy when I had to walk home in the warm weather, but my mom saved me from that one and I got to have some great ice cream from it.

Wrote up a review for the Marvel's new Ultimate Universe, which I scheduled to pop up around 10 AM tomorrow. Had a lot of thoughts that left me no time to continue my "Why I Love The Owl House" review, but it'll probably be worth it. Might even share my thoughts on the universe every six months as things keep on keeping on with these new versions of classic Marvel characters.

Speaking of, I'm really starting to get interested in Ultimate Black Panther as it seems like things are starting to get intense for T'Challa and for Wakanda. Can't wait to see what happens next month.

#good things

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shamefulwitch · 2 years

Text

Imagine drabble

You're at a club after your hero shift, it's dark out, roughly 10pm outside. The whole club is just radiating music from others chatting away, dancing, clinking drinks. Your watch partner - who you happened to be very much friends with benefits - was even in that club. You wanted to relax. Enjoy your time.. but somehow he was on your mind. Tokoyami Fumikage. He was all you can think about. That handsome man with that shitty bird head.. his shitty little friend too. God, that shadow really annoyed the shit out of you sometimes - but hey.. two is better than just one -. Now, now, it wasn't time to dwell on him.. despite the fact you hadn't seen him lingering in the corner of the club. He's been watching you. You two had this friends with benefits thing for a long, long time.. you just.. never had the guts to say anything else. You were waiting on him, little did you know he was waiting on your.

Luckily before you decided to go clubbing, you had went home, showered and styled your hair. You had some delicious curves that bird would love to indulge in. Right. Infront. Of. Everyone. He was the jealous type. The type that craves you. He wants everyone to know you're his despite you two never agreeing on becoming official.

Curves for days, a body con like dress that had slits from the ankles all the way to your love handles - maybe you were a bit scandalous.. no panties either. Why? It'd ruin the look! Your heels clicked as they headed towards the bar, "Ahh! Isn't it Y/N!" The older bar tender chuckled and suddenly a pink haired alien slid right next to you, "Hiya, Y/N! Coming here too?" She giggled with excitement, Mina was rather happy to see you. Jirou was around, so was Momo. You knew some of the other heros were around too but you paid no mind, a smile to your lips,

"Of, Mina.. shitty week involves a fun night out," You stated, looking to the bar tender to order just a 'few shots' (more like seven) before slinking from Minas side to the dance floor. You're buzzed.. you're feeling good! The music played, bounced off the walls of the vibrating building. Eventually enough.. you're sandwiched, but by who? Certainly not by that hot topic chicken you wanted but by red spiked haired man and a blonde. Of course they'd be here, "You look lonely," Chuckled Kirishima, his muscular body pressing against your spine, calloused fingers slinking just below your ribs, "I agree with shitty hair here," The caramel smelling blonde snickered, his own hands just below Kirishimas, his own muscular front pressing slightly against you, breasts oh so delicately pushed up against his chest.

Your cheeks were flushed, the alcohol flushing through your veins, the way their bodies pushed against you, oh you could just have one fantastic night with these two, smooshed up against those muscular bodies, your eyes closed, "You think I'm that lonely?" You laughed, shaking your head, "You must be dreaming," You teased, moving against both men until the beat changed.

You were pushed against them for a while until they split for a drink however you never left.. but you did feel cold until someone else pushed against your back, a familiar smell engulfed you, "You told me you were heading home, Y/N" your name came off as a warning. A grumble. That man was sizzling, boiling with anger, jealousy- how dare you let any other man touch you like that! Why couldn't you be his! The way your hips moved, the grinding - he had enough and waited his chance.

A smirk came to your lips as you pressed your back into him, you're such a brat. Your ass pressing up so tightly against an semi-erect bulge, you couldn't help it, especially when fingers dug into where the slit in your dress ended, "Oh, Tokoyami~" you purred out, your head falling on his right shoulder, his lips to your left ear and even your left hand came up to cup the side of his beak, "Technically I did, to change.. and then I came here," You cooed, "Remember, my pretty bird, you're not in charge, no where close~"

Oh his blood was rushing. You knew it just by how that bulge grew right against your cheeks and those slender fingers tightened into your hips, "Y/N, you know better," Tokoyami warned in such a deep delicious tone - it had you throbbing.

"Do I? Do I really, my pretty bird?" You snickered and his beak dropped to your neck, inhaling the sweet scent that came from you, "Watching you.. with other men.. You know how bad I just want to claim you.. right here - in front of everyone.. all these heros.. watch as I mark what's mine.."

You broke him.. finally, "Oh but my little poet, you have yet to claim me~" You protested.. somewhat. A lame protest anyway. You were testing him.

"All those nights I fucked you underneath me, all those nights where I had you covered in markings, that didn't say anything?" He growled, his beak couldn't help but pry open, taking a chunk of your skin to bite down. He knew you got off to this pain, you're such a pain slut when it comes to him, "Maybe.. maybe I forgot," A laugh left you, your ass grinding gently as the music sped up, "Oh but my pretty one.. I do dare to remind you once we're back home, maybe those marks will be more noticable. Everyone. Will. Know. You're. Mine."

Witchy note;

Should I make another clubbing one with Shinso? 👀

#boku no hero academia tokoyami #tokoyami fumigake #fumikage tokoyami #tokoyami imagine #tokoyamifumikage #mha x reader smut #mha x reader #bnha tokoyami #fumikage tokoyami x reader #mha imagines

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corruptmango · 7 months

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My college campus has 2 dining halls. The first one is massive with pizza and chicken tenders every night, along with other rotating options. The second dining hall is small, only 3 food stations with mostly healthy rotating options. I signed up to have 1 meal swipe a day.

Whenever I’m craving food from dining hall 1, I force myself to go to dining hall 2 and swipe in. Even if I hate the food, that’s all I get for the day. I can crave and want the pizza from hall 1 all I want but there’s nothing I can do since I already used my day swipe. I tend to eat much smaller portions and feel super accomplished that I didn’t binge.

This is my design (I’ve been watching a lot of Hannibal)

#tw ana diary #ed without the sheeran #tw disordered eating #ed bullshit #ed not sheeren #@n0r3xia #tw ana trigger

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beautifully-traumatized · 4 months

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Days 3-5 recap (sorry I’ve been offline)

Sorry I’ve been offline I ha e a bad habit of not checking social media on the weekends since I do it as part of my regular job I try not to look it at or on my off time.

But this weekend was ok kinda had a lot of highs and lows. Friday I got my period which always makes me feel super sick with is bad for feeling sick yay for overall not eating in general so I only had one meal (2 chicken tenders and a small blizzard from Dairy Queen) I went over my normal diet but I had been having such intense craving I couldn’t ignore them anymore.

I fasted the rest of the day. On Saturday I had an iced coffee around noon and then some chicken and cottage cheese for dinner (still felt super sick from period pains)

Today I had 4 sausage links for breakfast along with my usual protein coffee and some potato chips around 2 pm. Overall this weekend I haven’t lost any weight I’ve stayed the same which is kinda disappointing but I guess taking into consideration my period and just overall feeling sick it was ok.

I didnt really track my food on my calorie app so here’s some pretty bracelets I made over the weekend instead

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kensington-queen · 1 year

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Tsugaru’s Baby’s Cravings

Fandom: Her Love in the Force - One-Shot

Pairing: Tsugaru/MC (named Emi here but it’s only mentioned once)

Rating: Fluffy T +

AO3 Link: here

Tsugaru comes into the bullpen with a bag from the convenience store, his usual smile on his face when he spots her sitting at the desk in front of Momo’s. Her own lunch is rice and fried chicken with some vegetables that were left over from their shared dinner, which he had graciously let her take.

He disappears into the kitchenette, reappearing with his lunch a couple of minutes later. He sits in the chair beside her, intent on eating with her.

“Wanna try, Little Hare,” Tsugaru asks, showing her one of those quick meal ramen cups. The flavor is matcha, which is not too out there for him. But then he takes out his faithful Tabasco sauce, pouring a liberal amount on top of the hot noodles. She instantly wrinkles her nose.

“Ew, no thank you,” she politely declines like he knew she would. He grins at her, shrugging, content with shoving his noodles into his mouth. He looks so cute, she thinks absent-mindedly as she takes a bite of her own lunch, watching him.

Something smells good, she notes a minute later, getting a whiff of something appetizing. What is it? She sniffs discreetly. Something spicey. Paired with something that had an underlying scent that blended subtly in. Wait a minute. No. Surely not? She leans in toward Tsugaru, taking another sniff.

His lunch!

It smells… delicious. Why?

“Changed your mind?” he asks, aiming his chopsticks playfully at her mouth. The noodles come too close to grazing her lips, so she sits away.

“Just trying to figure out what about that combo is appetizing,” she innocently replies, hoping he won’t catch on. He’s too smart sometimes, too good at reading people, and especially good at reading her. Nothing can be hidden from his eyes when it comes to her.

“Who wouldn’t find this good? Here, have a dessert,” he shoves a wasabi-flavored KitKat into her mouth instead, catching her off guard. Her nose automatically wrinkles in reaction, anticipating a slaughter on her taste buds but she finds herself eagerly eating it and swallowing.

“You like it?” He asks, his eyes sparkling as they dance mischievously waiting for her reaction. Oh god, she didn’t hate it. Why isn’t she hating it? Why does she want a second helping?

“It’s not the worse thing you’ve shoved into my mouth,” she grumbles carelessly, forgetting where they are for a moment. Tsugaru’s eyes widen briefly before a very specific look falls onto his handsome features as his eyes turn the slightest bit sultry. Across from them Momo, too close to pretend he didn’t hear her comment, chokes on his coffee.

“Little Hare, how brazenly dirty of you” Tsugaru whispers wickedly, a huge grin appearing on his face as she catches on to what she just said. Her cheeks redden.

“You know what I mean, Tsugaru! Snacks! Your snacks!”

“I have been referred to as a snack before, so this isn’t the first time,” Tsugaru says, enjoying her spluttering and embarrassment a little too much. She glares at him. “I’m glad you think my snacks are tasty, Little Hare. You’ll get more treats, I promise.”

Then he winks at her, the bastard.

“Takaomi,” she hisses, low enough so only he can hear. Uh-oh.

“I’m just kidding, Emi, just kidding! Momo help!” He wheels away fast, getting out of her range. She’s dangerous when mad.

Later on, once things settle back down with Team Tsugaru, she finds herself struggling to concentrate on a report. She makes a mental checklist as she stares at the report. Fatigue. Aches. Breast tenderness. Finding Tsugaru’s weird food appealing. Her eyes flicker to her mini calendar on her desk, scrutinizing the dates.

When was she last on her period?

She doesn’t bother with a store-bought test, instead calling up the nearest OBGYN clinic to the office on her break while alone on the roof. She gets the next available appointment for after work the following day.

She decides to not alert Tsugaru about this in case it’s a false alarm when she gets home, making her way up to his place. He cooks her pasta with homemade sauce, giving her the normal version first before dumping seven spices and mint of all things into his own portion. She hates the way it smells appealing. Who puts mint into pasta sauce, to begin with, never mind with seven spices?

She deduces she must be pregnant because only a baby that she is carrying that is half Tsugaru could possibly cause her to temporarily lose her sanity and find herself wanting a taste of his strange food combinations. She’s going to have to fight the insane food cravings she realizes when he offers her eel soda and she accepts, drinking it like she would Sprite or Coca-Cola.

Otherwise, she’s going to be the only one with normal tastebuds in the house.

The doctor confirms her suspicions the next day after work.

She’s 11 weeks along and she gets a huge scolding about the dangers of her chosen field of work from the doctor who’s alarmed she didn’t notice her period being late because it’s normal given the stressful demands of her job. She’s told explicitly she needs to be very careful going forward now that she’s aware.

It’s lucky that Tsugaru has been out in the field with Momo when she left for her booked appointment time, otherwise, it would have been incredibly difficult to find an excuse to leave the office without admitting the truth to him. She makes it to their apartment before he does, the small scan tucked carefully away in her planner until she steps inside, where she moves it to her pocket.

She’s excited. Really excited. The idea of having his child sets her heart soaring. She’s nervous too, and concerned about how he might react. The trauma of his past is going to emerge with this pregnancy, she’s sure of it. He might go into a dark place with worry once she’s around the same time as his mother had been when she was killed, and she needs to be prepared for that.

But she knows Tsugaru and his desire for a family.

They’re dating with the intention of marriage, and have been since the start when he proposed before asking her out officially. They’re a little over two years of being together, and lately, the conversation around potentially making Noa part of their family legally has been happening with Shirogane.

The confirmation of this pregnancy further confirms her desire to make Noa theirs permanently. It’s a big change in dynamics though, one she needs to talk over with Tsugaru. She darts around the kitchen, cooking a simple stir-fry to go with rice, her nerves dancing as she plays the waiting game for his arrival home.

“I’m homeeee,” his voice calls out from the doorway; her heart beats a bit faster, and even though it’s far too early to feel a kick, she swears she can feel a tickle in her tummy from the baby she’s carrying. Their baby.

The plan is to tell him after dinner.

But when he steps into the kitchen with a big smile on his face, hugging her close, the plan goes out the window.

“Takaomi,” she murmurs into his chest as she relaxes under his tight embrace. Dinner is ready to be served, she should move away to serve, but when she does his eyes catch hers and she finds herself biting her lip before the words spill out. “I’m pregnant.”

He stares at her, arms further tightening around her. Has he forgotten how to breathe? She waits patiently, letting her own arms loop up around his neck. She steps up on her tip-toes and presses her forehead against his, closing her eyes as she hears him exhale slowly. When she lands back on her feet a moment later, he’s smiling. A genuine smile, though his eyes are wide and watery from both worry and joy.

“Really?” He asks, just to be sure. She takes out the scan from her pocket and gently hands it to him. He touches it, then touches her stomach. “How, how far along?”

“11 weeks,” she tells him, hoping he won’t think about the dangerous missions she’s been on recently. “I have a pretty good idea of when…”

His eyes darkened, remembering immediately what she was referring to.

An early Sunday morning.

Sunlight filtering in through the windows.

A quiet, sleepy warmth shared between them.

A moment where they gave to each other honestly without reserve.

She presses a hand over his, which is placed on top of her stomach. “I want this with you,” she says, looking at him. Reassuring him. She can sense the underlying anxiety that’s fighting with the excitement and happiness in his eyes.

“I want this too,” he replies, flipping his hand so he’s threading their fingers tightly together. “I want Noa to be a big brother.”

“Me too,” she smiles as the scent of the stir-fry overcooking catches her nose. “Dinner!”

She dashes to turn off the stovetop, sighing at the blackened stir-fry mess in the pan. He comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle with his head resting on top of her own.

“Let’s get take out. Any cravings yet?”

“Actually,” she spins to face him again. “I actually really liked the wasabi KitKat earlier. I’ve been infected with your weird tastes thanks to this baby!”

The widest grin expands across his face, pure delight radiating off of him as he laughs out loud.

“There was never any doubt this baby was mine,” he says, teasing, “but this just confirms it. I’ll buy out the shelf if you want more wasabi KitKats.”

“I don’t want them, the baby does!” She protests, pouting. A small, soft kiss makes it disappear a second later. “Are you happy?”

“I’m thrilled,” he says, the sincerity in his voice clear as a bell. “You’re banned from missions. Desk duty until maternity leave,” he adds a second later. “You’re my Little Hare carrying my baby bunny after all. Say,” he lifts an eyebrow playfully. “If it’s a girl what about the name Usagi?”

“I’m not naming my daughter after Sailor Moon,” she replies, though she’s sure he could probably charm her into agreeing when he gives her that particular smile of his that's on his face. “Besides it could be a boy.”

“I think it's a girl,” Tsugaru confidently says. “Usagi, your daddy can’t wait to meet you!” He takes her by the hand, tugging her to the sofa in the living room. “Usagi are you hungry for daddy’s favorite food?”

“No, she’s not! We want pizza. With pepperoni and cheese! With a bit of onion.”

“I’ll order the works,” Tsugaru promises, phone in hand. “Anything for my special girls.”

“We could be having a boy,” she reminds him, though she feels like he’s probably going to be right. He always is.

There’s a lot still they need to talk about and decide; telling Shirogane, moving into a new place, getting married and adopting Noa, and eventually telling the office about the pregnancy. There’s the part of his heart that’s afraid too, which will need extra love and reassurance as the pregnancy proceeds.

But as they sit close together, she relaxes as his head rests next to her stomach, still flat, as he talks to the baby, cooing “Usagiiiii!” Her hands' thread through his hair, happy.

#her love in the force #hlitf #takaomi tsugaru #tsugaru #hlitf fanfic #voltage fanfic #love 365 #tsugaru fanfic #one shot

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