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fatkish · 3 months ago

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Hello! I was wondering if you could write a one-shot or headcannons for a yandere Kokushibo x fem reader? The reader is not affiliated with the Demon Slayer corps. She's just a civilian who grows and sells flowers and happens to catch Kokushibo's eye(s). When Kokushibo first abducts her, she is terrified, but she slowly starts to ease up around him. Also, if you could make this NSFW, I would forever be in your debt 🙏🙏

Yandere Kokushibo x Fem Reader HCs

NSFW

You were just a random civilian that lived in a small village. You lived in a small house nearly outside the village where you grew flowers and herbs to sell

You mostly lived off the land, foraging and hunting for food and game, you knew how to fish and hunt boar with a bow and arrow

You may have been poor, but you lived a happy life in your village

Some of the herbs you grew were medicinal and people would either trade for or buy them from you

One day Kokushibo was passing through in his search for the blue spider lily and heard of you from passing townsfolk

He went to check you out to see if you knew anything about the blue spider lily and surprisingly you had heard of it

Kokushibo eavesdropped on your conversation to yourself as you were foraging late one night, and that’s how he learned that you supposedly knew about the blue spider lily

He followed you and kept an eye on you as you returned to your small house

As time went by, Kokushibo kept spying on you, he told himself it was because he believed you would show him where to find the blue spider lily

As he watched you, he slowly developed feelings for you and decided that you weren’t safe here, so he abducted you in your sleep and brought you to his home

When you woke up you were initially frightened upon seeing the six eyed ‘man’, he told you he didn’t intend to hurt you and that you would be living with him from now on

In the beginning, you were nervous and scared of him to which, he was very understanding of and didn’t hold it against you

At first, it was hard to adjust to living with him, you had thought about escaping and were creating plans to escape when you saw him training one night

You saw how fast he was and what he was capable of and decided that running away wasn’t an option

It took some time but eventually you grew accustomed to living with him. Occasionally you would get angry and spend the day outside or lock yourself in your room

Kokushibo was actually very understanding and would leave you alone to cool down when you got angry. He never raises his hand to you and he is extremely patient with you when you would get like this

Kokushibo is actually very attentive and caters to your needs. If you’re hungry, he’ll hunt for you and bring you back a boar or deer

If you want to fish, then you must do it when he’s nearby, he says it’s in case you fall into the water

Kokushibo generously allowed you to make a garden just like the one from your old home. He even brought you things to plant from your old home

Having a garden gives you something to do and it helps Kokushibo make sure you’re eating well

If you had refused to eat, Kokushibo would have force fed you like you were a toddler, not letting you leave the table until you’ve eaten a sufficient amount

He would swaddle you in a blanket in his arms like a baby and force you to eat if absolutely necessary

If you get cold at night, Kokushibo has no issues with letting you snuggle up to him. He’ll wrap an arm around you and hold you close against him

If you lay your head in his lap, he’ll comb his fingers through your hair and gently scratch your scalp

After a year of living with Kokushibo you both grew closer. You came to understand his feelings for you and you accepted them

Kokushibo would eventually begin to properly court you, bringing you little gifts like hairpins, flowers, a few kimonos, etc

He eventually gave you a beautiful comb that was decorated with hydrangeas as a proposal

You grew to love him and you agreed to be his wife

After a few months of being his wife, he brought up the idea of sex and asked you when you might want to engage in such acts

He assured you that he would never force you into anything that you didn’t want to do

A few weeks after he first brought up the topic, you decided that you were interested and wanted to explore sex with him

You confessed that you were a virgin and had never done anything like this before, Kokushibo just smiled softly and reassured you that he would take care of you

That night, you both disrobed and laid together. Kokushibo let his hands explore your body, trailing his hands over your chest and sides

He leaned over and kissed you before moving down to kiss your neck as his hands played with your breast

You moaned when he kissed and sucked on a certain spot on your neck whilst he pinched your nipples

He slipped a hand down between your legs and began to play with your clit, swirling it around with his thumb and pinching it

His fingers rubbed at your enterance before one of them slid inside

He slowly began to scissor you and thrust his fingers in and out of you

You cried out as he began to suck on your nipples as his other hand groped and palmed at your breast

He then slowly kissed a trail down your body before sitting up and pulling out his fingers

He aligned himself with your entrance and slowly began to push in and sheath himself

Once he was fully sheathed inside you, he gave you plenty of time to adjust before starting a slow rhythm of thrusting

Every time he pulled out, his cock scraped against your walls deliciously

As he began to speed up, you gripped onto the sheets

He leaned over you and began to kiss you as he thrusted his hips in and out, pummeling your poor pussy

When your body tightened and clenched down on Kokushibo, he took a sharp breath in before slamming his hips into you, growling softly as he hit your g-spot

You screamed as he aimed for that spot relentlessly, hitting it every time with all his might

When you came on him he growled and bit your neck as he rode out his own orgasm, rolling his hips forward inside you as he came

When he pulled out, he helped you clean up before snuggling you and running his fingers through your hair telling you how much he loves you

#demon slayer kokushibo #kokushibo x reader #kny kokushibo #michikatsu x reader #kokushibo smut

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woso-dreamzzz · 1 year ago

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Colic

Pernille Harder x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: You develop colic

Magda returns to England after six weeks.

She would have stretched it longer but there were Champion's League fixtures starting up again and she needed to be there to keep the Chelsea girls in check.

So, after six weeks, it's just you and Pernille.

For the most part, you're a calm baby. You don't do much. You cry, you eat, you sleep. Sometimes, if you're feeling particularly active, you try to pull Pernille's fingers into your mouth and suck on them.

You're practically an angel baby...Though you're quite firmly attached to your Momma.

She can't set you down for a nap until you're fully asleep otherwise you'll cry and whine until you can see her again. She can't let other people hold you without being nearby otherwise you panic. There's not a moment that goes by where you don't want to be attached to her.

You're almost equally attached to Magda but it's still a pretty easy transition for you to lean fully into Pernille being your remaining caregiver.

It also means though, that with Magda returning to England, Pernille also returns to training. She's not ready to join the team just yet, not so soon after your birth so she's just gone back to light training.

For the first day back, she had wanted to be well rested but you seemed to have caught a case of colic so were crying for hours on end all night.

You're still whiney and tearful, rhythmically sucking on your dummy (one of the only things that Pernille can use to get you to stop sobbing) when she pulls up at the training centre.

The staff members suitably coo at you before Pernille escapes into the gym. It's mostly empty apart from the trainer that's working with her as the other girls are out training on the pitch.

Thankfully for Pernille, you've slipped off to sleep as she begins her workout.

She's completely exhausted, bags under her eyes and movements sluggish as she uses the machines.

"Rough night?" The trainer asks.

She gives him a tight smile. "She got colic. She wouldn't stop crying until four in the morning." She spares a glance over at you. "We're lucky that she's tired too otherwise we wouldn't even be able to do half of this."

The trainer laughs, clapping Pernille on the back. "My wife and I had our son a few years back. Colic doesn't last forever."

"It feels like it does."

They share a laugh just as the other girls fill into the room.

"Pernille!" Pajor cheers," You're back!"

Pernille drops her weights. "I'm back."

More girls flood in and move to crowd around where you're napping. It's the first time for a lot of them that they've seen you in person. Of course, everyone had known you were born and had seen the picture on the group chat but never in person.

"She's beautiful," Popp compliments as she crouches down to look at you," She's so, so beautiful. Like an angel."

"When she isn't crying, she is," Pernille replies.

The crowd swells for a moment as she moves through and picks you up, swaddling you up tightly in your oversized baby blanket. Everyone coos and looks like they're moments away from snatching you from her arms.

"Alright," She says eventually," Are your hands clean? You can all have a quick hold before we go."

A line forms quickly, girls pushing each other to try to edge forward.

"Just quick holds," Pernille says," She's been very tearful lately. I don't want her to wake up in someone else's arms and start crying."

Thankfully, you stay asleep all through your holds and all through the car ride. It's at home where everything falls apart.

You spit out your dummy and screech and whine and sob even when you're safe in Pernille's arms.

You scream so much that your little cheeks turn an alarming shade of red and Pernille paces the length of her apartment to try to soothe you to no avail.

She tries feeding you, setting you down for a nap, changing you but nothing works.

"Please," She says softly, feeling exhausted and utterly broken and thinking about just how unfair it is that Magda's away in England while she's hanging on by a thread with a colicky baby that just won't stop crying," Please stop. Please, please, please."

But you don't stop. You reject your dummy. You reject a feed. You reject all comfort and you scream and cry until you're red in the face and gagging over your own tears.

Pernille starts crying too. From frustration. From exhaustion. From genuine despair over the fact that you haven't stopped crying for hours.

She thinks about calling Magda after nearly two and a half hours but there's nothing Magda can do to help but offer kind words and encouragement and, if that had happened, Pernille's ninety percent sure she would have snapped viciously at her partner without explanation.

So, it's just you (you who's screaming and crying and nearly throwing up) and Pernille (who's crying and pacing and trying to soothe you to no avail).

"Please," Pernille sobs as you continue to scream, your lips taking on a slightly blue tinge from the lack of oxygen you're getting," Oh, please, princesse."

She does another lap of the apartment. She checks to see if you need to be changed. She tries to feed you. She tries to get you to nap.

"Okay, okay, we're going to try this, alright?"

Pernille wipes her own tears away as she starts to run the bath, stripping both herself and you down and sliding into the water. You lay on her chest as she slowly pours lukewarm water over your back as her other hand gently rubs at your head.

You didn't have much hair (and her doctor had assured her that a lot of your wispy baby hair would fall out soon) but it was enough that Pernille could brush against it as you lay on her.

Your face is still scrunched up, a little crinkle between your brows, but you've stopped crying. You coo as more water runs down your back and you finally look up at Pernille, your eyes no longer glassy or tearful.

Curiously, you reach up and poke at her mouth with you little fingers.

Pernille smiles down at you, playfully biting at them before she readjusts.

Your lips are back to a normal colour again and your red cheeks are fading.

She sighs in relief.

"Why are you crying so much, huh?" She teases," Do you miss your Morsa? Is that what it is? I miss her too but we've got each other to look after now, alright? We're gonna be okay, princesse. It's all going to be okay."

#woso x reader #hardersson x reader #pernille harder x reader #pernille harder #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso #The Big Adventures Universe

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peaches2217 · 2 months ago

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“Alright, I think we’re done here. Are you ready, love?”

Perfect timing. Mario shook out the blanket compressed between his hands with a dramatic flourish. After feeding it a steady supply of heat for a good five minutes straight, the entire room felt a few degrees warmer as its fabric cascaded to the ground. “One fluffy blankie, floofed up and toasted to perfection!”

Bath Night was, by now, an easy routine: one of them washed and dried, the other swaddled and dressed, simple and efficient and predictable. That didn’t stop Peach from giggling at Mario’s theatrics as if bearing witness to them for the first time, and that certainly didn’t stop Mario’s heart from somersaulting at such a beautiful sound.

And even that didn’t compare to what his heart did as Peach passed a towel one last time over the squirming, fussy infant before her, clicking her tongue and “I know, I know, I know”ing with a gentle smile on her lips.

He’d been assured the honeymoon phase of new parenthood would quickly fade away, slough from his shoulders at some point between the bi-hourly feedings and the 2AM crying spells. But he felt the same way watching his wife coo and kiss their freshly-bathed little girl as he’d felt seeing that little girl in her mother’s arms for the first time; wrapping the blanket he’d prepared around his daughter and holding her close felt every bit as magical as it felt the night she was born.

Two months in, and still he was waiting. He was beginning to think he’d be waiting forever.

That little girl — Cocoa Emilia Marionetti-Toadstool, Crown Princess of the Mushroom Kingdom, the very embodiment of all that was good and light and right with the world — protested noisily as Mario swaddled her, a task complicated by her tiny but persistent flailing.

“Oh, si gela, si gela! Lo so!” He maneuvered around her movements with only minimal struggle, bobbing and weaving in place in his efforts to keep her still. “Did Mamma not get the water warm enough? Oh, mio poverino ghiacciolo!”

“Mamma ensured the water was at perfect temperature, thank you,” Peach huffed as she wiped down the bathing cradle; she sounded decently affronted, but the reflection Mario caught in the vanity mirror was aglow in playfulness. “It’s not my fault standing water gets cold faster in the winter.”

“And you just let it get cold?” Mario inquired, summoning all the mock-accusation he could into his voice. “Didn’t even try bending the laws of physics for our perfect little princess?”

“We can’t all be sentient hot water bottles!” Peach harrumphed and turned her nose up, a perfect caricature of regal distaste, and Mario bit back a laugh so the noise wouldn’t startle little Cocoa. She was only now beginning to relax. They had already subjected her to enough for one night.

The art of soothing a moody baby was an art that Mario was made specifically for, he’d thought more than once. His body was stout enough to shield his daughter, strong enough to fight for her, yet soft and still enough to rock her to sleep. His heart beat loud and steady within his chest, a rhythmic pulse she sought out and relaxed into each time he held her close. “Lo senti?” he sometimes whispered to her during restless nights. “Questo cuore batte per te.”

Point in case, he cradled her to his sternum once she was secure within her blanket, and despite her fussing and fitfulness, she decided just as quickly that she wasn’t so upset after all. The plush pink fabric enveloping her retained heat well enough, but Mario wasn’t one to take chances; his hands tingled as he called forth his Firebrand, and little Cocoa sighed beneath the additional warmth, nuzzling in closer to her father.

Being a “sentient hot water bottle” always had its perks, but he was more grateful for those powers now than ever.

��Actually,” Peach said a few minutes later, “that’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

Mario hummed to assure her he was listening. The art of soothing came naturally to him, but the art of diapering did not, attentive and nimble-fingered though he was, so he double- and triple-checked the fastenings from all angles as she continued.

“How do you suppose her powers will manifest? Will she be able to summon fire as well, or will her abilities be limited to the ones I possess?”

Content with his handiwork, Mario began the simpler task of buttoning Cocoa into a onesie — footed for extra warmth and pastel pink like ninety percent of her wardrobe — and, as Peach’s words processed in his brain, he wondered.

Bleary sapphire eyes blinked up at him. Poor little Cocoa must have been exhausted. Since her last nap, she’d had a meal, a burping, a bowel movement, a bath, and now a change of clothes. That was a full day’s work for a newborn, and it hadn’t even been two hours. “It’s that Brooklyn work ethic,” Luigi once suggested. “Always putting in overtime. Mamma would’ve been so proud.”

Mario had yet to consider his daughter learning to heal, and to bless, and to levitate, and to summon fire and control it; there was plenty enough happening in the present. He scooped her and her blanket from the changing table once she was dressed and kissed her gently. Yes, for now, she had to focus on growing up big and strong. Then they could worry about magic.

The oddity of Peach’s question struck him as he transferred their child into her arms.

“Hey, hold up — tesoro, you’re making some pretty bold claims there!”

“Hm?” Peach’s eyes flicked to the rocking chair a few steps away, and Mario quickly made himself useful before bothering to elaborate, patting the cushions to ensure maximum comfort and holding the back of the chair steady for her.

“Well, why would she only have your abilities?” he asked as she lowered herself into the seat. “And how do you even know if she’ll have either of ours? It’s pretty much fifty-fifty on all sides, yeah?”

Peach muttered her thanks as she adjusted herself and her baby, and Mario carefully released the chair, taking a small step back so she had room to rock.

“It might be up to chance in the end, yes,” she continued as she settled into a gentle pace, back and forth and back again. “That said, the magic within me has passed through generations by birth. Predecessors who couldn’t wield wish power have always been exceptions to the rule.”

Mario Aaaaaahed in understanding. “And my Firebrand is first-generation, just like my mamma and papa, yeah?”

Peach turned her head, nodding as well as she could over her shoulder. “And given that it’s not innate, who’s to say whether it can be passed down?”

The beginning of an agreement died on Mario’s tongue. Not innate. He wasn’t born with it, no, but he certainly hadn’t gained it by way of study and incantations.

“Well, I’d say it’s pretty ‘innate.’ I mean…” He looked down at his right hand, rotating it in the soft lights of the nursery, examining the dark hair and skin lines and veins; with a single thought of Fire, so quick and routine that his brain barely registered it as a word, familiar heat flowed into that hand, and with a deliberate flick of his wrist, it was engulfed in a puff of flame.

He observed the flame for a moment before shaking out his hand to extinguish it. No burn marks, no singed hair, no reddening or blisters. Just skin that was hot to the touch. “Don’t need a fancy spell or a magic wand to do that,” he bragged, trusting she at least felt his flame if she hadn’t seen it.

Her expression was hidden from him, but he could see her cheeks drawing upward in a smile, and that was every bit as satisfying. “Still, it was given to you. Does it reside within your body, or is it entwined with your genetic makeup? Is it something that can be passed down?”

Mario thought on this in silence, resting his hand on the chair’s back and idly following along with Peach’s movements. The powers he and his brother gained in the Oho Oasis weren’t well-documented at all, but they were divine in origin (though he was still uncertain of the extent of that divinity). He’d never questioned how it worked on a biological level. It just was. But the more he thought on it, the more likely he considered that power to be part of him, woven into his very DNA just as Peach’s magic was tied to her soul.

And if it wasn’t, well… that didn’t mean Cocoa couldn’t receive that power as well. Possibility and probability were two separate factors.

He stood on his toes to better peer over his wife’s shoulder. It was strange to think about. At that very moment, this tiny, fragile, precious life they had created could be storing magic the likes of which most would never experience, much less use. Maybe it existed for now as a whisper that would strengthen with time. Maybe it already flowed through her blood at full force, waiting only for its wielder to develop the fine motor skills necessary to summon it.

Just how powerful was that magic? How deeply did it run, and what sorts of powers would it grant her? How would they teach her to control it? What sorts of repercussions would come about as a result?

Mario knew only one thing for certain: right now, Cocoa didn’t care. She was fast asleep, her head tucked against the crease of Peach’s elbow, a trickle of drool at the corner of her mouth. Tiny hands that might one day fight or mend presently clenched at Peach’s nightgown, kneading lazily at the chiffon.

Yes, what good was ruminating on the future when the present was already so sweet?

Letting go of the chair and placing his hands on Peach’s shoulders, he called his Firebrand forth once more. No flames this time, no showy display of supernatural ability; just heat, the perfect temperature for tense, tired muscles. Peach sighed and leaned back into that heat, another quiet thanks on her lips.

“Kinda scary to think about.” Mario chuckled, massaging her shoulders and earning another pleased sigh. “I mean, a little Mini Me running around is scary enough, but a Mini Me that can float through the air and set things on fire before she even learns to tie her shoes?”

Peach’s laughter joined with his, soft and weary and sincere. “Then… let’s think about it later. How’s that sound?”

“Hm. Yeah.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and he couldn’t resist lingering there, his fingers loosening Peach’s muscles and his temple resting against hers, watching the snoozing infant all cozy in her arms. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

#forgive me orz #super mario bros #smb #mareach #mario x peach #peaches' fancy fics #daddy marioposting

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zvdvdlvr · 7 months ago

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Just A Little Late

🩻 - Synopsis. The day comes when Aaron realizes he has to talk to you. Is he able to repair your relationship or does he get the rejection he knows he deserves?

🩻 - Warnings. Angst. Fluff? Possible ooc!Aaron. Mild description of blood and a fire.

🩻 - Author’s note. Thank you all so much for the love of this mini series! I have an epilogue in store if you’d like :)

A couple hours after you got home, your phone buzzed. Looking down, you saw ‘Big Boss 😠’ on the lockscreen and glared down at the glowing box. With a trembling hand, you unlocked your phone and read the message.

From Big Boss 😠: It’s Hotch. What are you doing tonight?

To Big Boss 😠: Why do you care?

You bit your lip after sending. Were you being too harsh? You felt your heart sting. You hated being mean to Aaron, the man who had previously fought tooth and nail to be by yours (and your team’s) side. But after he chose not to visit you or even communicate with you during your stay at the hospital… it’s safe to say you felt betrayed on another level.

From Big Boss 😠: Because you are apart of my team.

You scoffed. “Really? Are you fucking serious, Hotch?”

To Big Boss 😠: Didn’t seem like that when you apparently didn’t have a word to say to me when I was in the hospital. Or at the restaurant.

With tears in your eyes, you threw you phone at the wall as hard as you could. The sound of the screen shattering and broken glass falling to the floor was exactly how you felt.

—

Spencer and Derek were the ones that went to find you. You were two (full!) hours late to work. Every minute you didn’t show had Aaron’s heart rate picking up. But he knew he couldn’t go to find you. So he sent Spencer and Derek, telling himself he couldn’t keep hiding from you forever.

Spencer unlocked your door as Derek swept the front and back yard. A precaution, but Spencer was worried nonetheless. Because you were never late!

“Y/n?” Spencer asked, his hand finding the gun strapped to his hip. “Are you alright?”

He heard a loud sigh and guessed it was you over the sound of the T.V.

Derek nodded at Reid and they both toed cautiously toward you, completely unaware of how you’d react to them being in your home. Uninvited.

“Mama? You alright?” Derek asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Spencer looked around. You phone and a bunch of glass laid in a pile near the wall. You had clealry thrown it from a distance- from the couch? Had you even gotten up?

“Will you lay with me?” You tiny voice asked. You were completely swaddled in a blanket leaving only your eyes and nose peeping out.

“I-“ Derek started, clearly taken aback by your actions.

“Of course we will. Move over, you. Derek, call Hotch and tell him we might be a little late.”

Derek watched Spencer sit down on your couch with wide eyes and an open mouth. “I- yeah. Alright. I’ll be back in a second,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. He stepped outside and shut the door as he dialed.

“Hotchner?”

Derek rubbed his head with his hand. “We’re at y/n’s. She’s-“ Derek sighed. “She looks horrible, man. She looks like she cried all night and didn’t get up at all during the night. Her house is clean, but she did a number on her phone. What’s goin’ on with our girl?”

Hotch felt his heart squeeze in his chest and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. You cried all night, your phone was lying in pieces, and you even had Derek worried. Aaron had to fix this. “I don’t know, Derek.” Liar, Hotch thought. “Stay with her. Get her up and moving, I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay. I don’t know what you did, Hotch- and don’t lie to me because we’ve all seen it- but you need to get your shit together.”

Aaron felt a singular teardrop run down his face and land on the stained wood of his desk. The dial tone blared loudly in his ear and Hotch felt like the biggest asshole on Earth.

Derek went back into your house and locked the door. “What are we watching, nerds?” The man patted your blanket-covered legs and sat down.

As Spencer explained the show as briefly as Specer could, both men acted like the didn’t see the tears fall out of your eyes and your body shuddering every time you inhaled. Spencer let you play with his hands to keep from picking at your lips until they bled.

Eventually, Derek convinced you to go get cleaned up and dressed. When you came back out, Derek persuaded you into letting him braid your hair (props of having sisters) as Spencer picked something to watch.

You had just started laughing when you heard someone know on the door. Derek tutted poshly and refused to let you move until he finished the braid.

“Better hurry up,” Spencer commented uselessly from your couch, munching on popcorn you didn’t even know you had.

You scoffed. “Good idea, Reid.”

“Off to the races, you,” Derek joked, pushing your head forward when the braid was completed.

“You both suck. Never letting you in my house again-“ you muttered, opening the door. Words fell right off your tongue.

Outside your door, Hotch held out a concerningly large boquet of your favorite flavors. Your mouth fell open and you felt like slamming the door. Just as you started pushinf the door shut, however, Derek swung open the door.

“Y/n, please listen to what he has to say. I think you need to hear it.”

You looked accusingly at Derek, eyes flickering between the two men in front of you. “No. No! Because why would I listen to a man who wasn’t there! You didn’t show up! You. Weren’t. There. Get out of my house. Get off my property. I quit. My documents will be at your desk tomorrow. Leave. Get out!” You yelled, pushing Derek out of your house (no small feat, my God) and yelling at Aaron.

Spencer swiftly avoided your glare and flailing arms, leaving Derek and Hotch to fend for themselves.

“Y/n, please. Just five minutes. Listen to me- five minutes!” Aaron pleaded. His voice cracked and he faltered against you.

You had moved from Derek to Aaron, trying as hard as you could to push them out the door and onto the grass. “No! Please just leave me alone. I can’t- you made your point when you couldn’t even look at me after I came back to work!” You yelled, not noticing the tears sparking in the back of your eyes.

Derek was glad almost every other adult was at work- the screaming match you and Hotch were holding wasn’t pretty.

Aaron let you push him out the door, but held onto the porch railing. “You were the one distancing yourself from me-“

You froze for a moment, looking at him with so much hurt in your eyes, Spencer assumed you had just gotten your spinal cord severed. “Bullshit! You’re lying to me and you know it, Hotchner. You- you left me there. Dropped me off at the hospital and left! ‘Oh, yeah! Her face is so torn up now, she’s so scarred and fucked up, I can’t be seen with her!’ Is that what you were thinking when you left me there? Huh?!”

“Medic! I need a medic!”

Hotch tore away from the firefighter’s grip, bounding over the lawn to where our were choking on smoke. “Y/n!”

You tore at the ground with your bloodied fingers, slowly going limp.

Aaron didn’t feel the heat of the fire as he slid one arm just under your neck and another arm under your knees. “Please, y/n,” he whispered, navigating through the burning building , blood dripping from your wounds into the threads of Aaron’s clothes.

He held onto your hand as you were pulled into the ambulance on a gurney. Ash and soot streaked his face, but he hadn’t looked away from you. Despite the deep knife wound that twisted and warped your face, despite the burns on your body, and despite your faint breathing, Aaron held on to you. Crying and pleading and hoping.

When Rossi had finally tore his hands from yours, he watched dazedly as you were rushed into an OR. For hours he must have stood there, watching the floor. Waiting.

Waiting.

“I- I love you, y/n! I couldn’t watch you die in some sterile room where I can’t help you! So I left. I left and couldn’t bring myself to see you because this,” he said, gently running a finger from te top of the scar down to where it ended at your collarbone, “this tells me that I failed. I failed you, y/n m/n l/n, and I know nothing I say will excuse that, but the fact that I failed to protect you…” Aaron looked away. “I couldn’t- I couldn’t stand the fact that I failed to protect ome of the only people I care about.”

Your hand came up to hover where Aaron’s was, still resting on the edge of your collarbone. “I needed you,” you whimpered, voice shaking. Your lip quivered as the man who said loved you stepped closer. “I needed you and you weren’t there. You left.”

Aaron nodded vigorously, his own tears falling down his face at your words. You were so close to him, letting his hand trace you carefully even though a part of you still hated him for not being there. Aaron hated him too. “I know. I know, y/n and I’m sorry. But- but I’m here now. I won’t leave unless you tell me.”

You leaned forward and latched your arms around Aaron’s waist and fell, crying into Aaron’s expensive shirt. “I hate you, Aaron,” you wailed, vice-like grip on his jacket tugging him even closer to you.

Aaron closed his eyes and let you fall into him. “I know you do, y/n. I know.” One of his hands rested on the back of your neck and the other kept baby hairs off of your face. “I know,” he whispered, crying silently.

Spencer and Derek both nodded, knowing your relationship (and horribly harbored feelings) wasn’t hopeless after all.

🏷️: @zaddyhotch @mxrgodsstuff @bunnylov-3-r

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

Note

Hi again!! I requested enemies to lovers with james potter but realised you had a fic about it so if I can request something else can you do James Potter with a really feminine reader? Like she is so soft and gives of coquette vibes yk? Btw sorry to annoy💕💕

sorry i don't know the specifics of the coquette aesthetic so i just went with like hyperfem pink stuff inspired by a tiktok i saved forever ago of a guy fast asleep in his gf's pink bed <3

James looks out of place on your bed, still in his rugby jersey with dirt and sweat smeared over his face. He's plopped down right in the middle of your pretty pink bedspread, and your arsenal of equally rosy pillows are soft to the touch as you come back from the bathroom with a set of baby wipes in your hand. You use them most often to clean your hands after meals at restaurants, but today you put one flat against your palm and scrub away the grime on James's skin.

"Darling," He whines, squirming in his seat atop your princess-like bed, "It's fine, 's just a little dirt."

"I don't want it on my pillows," You insist, wiping the towel around his face and starting on a grass stain that colors his arm green, "If you're not gonna shower, I'm gonna wipe you down."

"I'm too tired to shower," He grumbles, letting you smear the stains off of his skin. You nod, craning your neck up to kiss at his freshly-washed face.

"I know." You hum sweetly, and after making sure his cleats aren't still on his feet, you gently push against his shoulders, letting him slump exhaustedly down onto your mountain of pillows. They're all pink and suddenly he's enveloped in a sea of the color while you gather the stained wipes into your fist and head towards the bathroom trash can. He checks his phone once before setting it on your nightstand, seeing that it's only 30 minutes to noon. His practice had earned him a well-deserved nap, and he's hoping to spend most of the afternoon swaddled in your pink blankets.

"Nap?" You ask, though he's already pulling you towards the bed and taking hold of your hips to lower you down on top of him. You giggle at his eagerness, and his joints ache slightly as he moves, but your added weight does nothing to aggravate his sore muscles.

"C'mere," He grumbles, as if you're not already on top of him. You're the perfect pink thing to complete the collection, clad in the color from head to toe as you settle your head against his chest. There's a pink barrette in your hair and he cranes his neck up to kiss at it, his lips pressing sweetly to your head.

"G'night, pinkie pie," He lands a teasing pinch against your hip, using the nickname he'd oh-so-cleverly devised for you after seeing the cartoon character on a children's birthday banner, "Love you."

"Love you too," You grin against his neck, lifting your head lazily to kiss at his lips. He thanks whatever deity crafted him for tinging them pink, because you certainly love to kiss them, and James couldn't ask for more.

#james potter x reader #james potter imagine #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #james potter one shot #james potter one-shot #james potter headcanon #james potter headcanons #james potter hc #james potter hcs #james potter fanfiction #james potter fanfic #james potter fic #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter dialogue #james potter fluff #james potter x reader fanfiction

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f1loverleclerc · 3 months ago

Text

** Double the Love**

Summary: Roman Reigns and his wife Shyla finally welcome their newborn twins.

Pairing: Roman Reigns x Shyla

Warning: Fluffy.

Word count: 772

****

The sun had barely begun to rise, casting a soft golden glow through the windows of the cozy nursery. Roman Reigns stood by the cribs, his heart swelling with joy at the sight of his newborn twins. Shyla, his partner in crime and the love of his life, was still resting comfortably in their bedroom, a well-deserved slumber following a long night of labor.

He gazed down at the two little bundles swaddled snugly in their blankets. One twin, a girl with a tuft of dark hair that mirrored her father’s, grinned in her sleep, while her brother, with a slightly lighter shade, let out a soft coo. Roman couldn’t help but smile; they were perfect.

As if sensing his gaze, Shyla stirred and stretched, her sleepy eyes blinking open to meet his. A warm smile spread across her face when she realized the time. “Good morning, superstar,” she teased, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Good morning, mama,” he replied, stepping closer to the bed. He kissed her forehead gently before looking back at their children. “Can you believe we made those two?”

Shyla chuckled softly, her heart brimming with love. “We sure did. Look at them—they’re incredible.”

He scooped her hand in his, and together, they approached the cribs. Roman leaned down to give each baby a soft kiss, his heart racing with an overwhelming sense of responsibility and love. “They’re so tiny. Do you think they know how much we love them already?” he asked, glancing at Shyla.

“Of course they do,” she said, her voice tender as she reached down to caress their cheeks. “They can feel it. Just like I felt it when you were holding me during labor.”

“Yeah, about that,” he said, his tone turning playful. “You should’ve seen me—like a deer in headlights! I was trying so hard not to panic!”

Shyla laughed, remembering the moment when Roman had clutched her hand, whispering words of encouragement, even as his own nerves showed through. “You did great, babe. You were my rock.”

“And now I’m a dad of twins!” He puffed out his chest with mock bravado, causing Shyla to giggle. “What’s next? Superhero capes?”

“Only if you wear one, too,” she quipped, her eyes sparkling.

Roman laughed, imagining the two of them in matching capes, dashing around the house chasing after their little ones. The thought brought him immense joy, knowing that their family was growing, and each day would bring new adventures.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Shyla suggested, “How about we take some pictures? I want to capture this moment forever.”

With a nod, Roman pulled out his phone, setting it up for a quick selfie. They crowded around the cribs, beaming with pride as he snapped the photo. Their smiles were radiant, each glance shared between them filled with the promise of a beautiful future.

“Perfect!” Shyla declared. “Now we just need to figure out names.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, excitement flickering in his eyes. “I like the sound of ‘Rocky’ and ‘Raina.’”

“Very on-brand,” she teased. “But how about we try something unique? Something that tells our story?”

After tossing around ideas, they finally settled on Maeve and Milo. Each name felt right, resonating with the love they shared.

“Welcome to the world, Maeve and Milo,” Roman whispered, his voice filled with emotion. “You’ve got the best parents waiting for you.”

As the day unfolded, they found themselves enveloped in a whirlwind of joy and laughter. Family and friends visited, bringing gifts and sharing stories, and each moment only seemed to strengthen their bond.

Later, as night fell and silence wrapped around their home, Roman and Shyla took turns rocking the twins to sleep. The soft sounds of the nursery echoed through their hearts as they exchanged sleepy smiles.

“Can you believe we did it?” Roman whispered as he settled into the rocking chair beside Shyla.

“Every day with you is a blessing,” she murmured, leaning against him. “And now we have doubled the joy.”

With contentment settling in their hearts, Roman rested his head against hers, reflecting on how their lives had changed. Together, they drifted into the peaceful rhythm of parenthood, knowing that no matter what challenges lay ahead, their love would guide them through it all.

In that small nursery, amid the gentle breaths of their sleeping twins, Roman realized there was nothing more magical than this—double the love, double the laughter, and a lifetime of memories waiting to be made.

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knightjpg · 1 month ago

Text

landslide | chapter 2

tags: ghost/reader, finding each other again after years have gone by, reader has a toxic boyfriend

prev | next

Ghost's hands are stained black with soil. Dirt caked under his nails. He breathes in the debris until it's part of him, burrowed into the pit of his lungs, his eyes, his stomach. He's not alone—

(the corpse clings onto him on bad days)

—a terrible comfort.

His fingertips scrabble against wood. Darkness presses against him from all sides. The promise of lithification looms—unstoppable force, immovable object. Rock forever chained to its place in the natural order of things. It'd be so easy to give up, to accept he's always been nothing but a stain against the dirt—

“You set me straight, yeah?”

Simon grits his teeth. The jawbone comes loose in violent, painful tugs—forearm skin burns against the rough grain cage trapping him underground. Decaying flesh squelches between his fingers, muscle and sinew snapping, bending, come on—

A way out. Teeth dig into his flesh when he grips it hard and fights—

(c'mon, his dad's voice goads. show me you're a man, boy)

—the desire to give in. He'll make his own way through. Dogteeth biting so deep he can't be dislodged, holding on even when he's the one bleeding. Never knew when to let go and he refuses to learn, because Ghost—

Simon—

Ghost—

still has something to do. To get back to.

When he bursts through the surface the low evening light is blinding. The sun sets over deserted sloping plains, catching a dark figure in its glare—

A photo camera clicks and flashes.

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers her Nikon. No, not hers—borrowed.

Simon looks. He and—

The clock on his nightstand reads three in the A.M. Ghost is exhausted.

Enough.

He gets up, throws on a shirt, and opens his closet. Shoved deep in the back is a box—

(a coffin)

—with the remnants of another life. Tommy's lighter. Simon's first knife. Collectible football cards, scuffed at the edges. And—

Sun-faded photographs with dates scribbled on the backs in slanted cursive.

Ghost rarely looks at them. Makes his head hurt, his chest constrict so tight he can't breathe. He won't ever toss them; can bear the pain just enough to know that they exist, here, safe under lock and key.

He takes the stack of photos and lets it rip him open.

Tommy and Beth's wedding. Tommy dressed in handsome black, perpetual stupid grin on his face. Beth, beautiful and smiling, stomach showing the first signs of swelling if you know to look for it.

Joseph, newborn, swaddled in blankets. A young Simon without tattoos holds him, looking stiff and unsure and utterly reverent.

Ghost swallows. Skips ahead—birthdays, mum's funeral, Christmas—

There.

Tommy is smiling at the camera. He's wearing a chunky knit pullover, holding up a glass (“A toast!”). Beth is half-turned away, just reaching out to a little Joseph covered in sauce. Simon is there, too, just cut off on the right—so who took the photo?

You two look sweet together.

Ghost flips through the next few photographs slowly, and then his heart stops. Breath slows. Pupils dilate, fixated;

“He's so little, isn't he?”

You sit down next to Simon on the sofa, smiling at Joseph.

“Yeah,” Simon says, shifting to make room for you. Joseph looks up at you with his big round eyes—then swats Simon on his chin again.

You smother your laugh behind your hand. “Oh, sweetie, no. Your mumma said no hitting. Here—do you want your stuffie?”

Joseph garbles when you hold it up to him and latches onto his little plush rabbit immediately.

Click—flash.

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers the Nikon.

Fuzzy edges sharpen, filling in the corroded pathways. Bokeh, reversed—the photo in Ghost's hands is grainy and dim, but the memory breaking through the surface is clear.

Ghost quickly—greedily—flips through more photos, finds a pattern; a red thread. With a reference you're suddenly everywhere. Maid of honour, flowers in your hair. A party, can't remember what for, but you're dancing, smiling, wearing a short dress. Ghost's eyes linger on your legs a moment longer before shuffling to the next print.

Joseph's first birthday—you baked the cake yourself, Ghost suddenly thinks. A missing memory clicking in place, tethered by context clues.

...He would've turned twelve in a few months. Just started secondary school, life full of possibility. Pathways that were never traversed. These snapshots of happiness are just that; are a blip on the radar, there and gone again.

Ghost grits through the pain and continues until he reaches the last snapshot in the stack.

It's another wedding photo; of him, this time. Or rather, of the back of his head. Best man. He's holding a glass, and so are you. Your face is tilted up to him, open and sweet. Smiling.

“Okay, I know what people say about the maid of honour and the best man, and I just wanted to tell you that you have my blessing.”

Simon's brows rise on his forehead. The reception is in full swing; there's drinks and cake and finger food. People are dancing to a playlist blasting from speakers in the corners—Simon burned the CD himself per Tommy's request.

Beth has joined him on the sides to watch their guests get shitfaced on cheap liqueur. Tommy is getting her a more comfortable pair of shoes because “these heels are killing me, Simon.”

“Where's this comin’ from?”

“From me,” Beth answers pointedly. “I'm tired of the shitty boyfriends.” She looks up at Simon and tilts her head, mouth curling up into a coy smile. “Also, I think you're a bit taken by her.”

Simon chokes on his champagne. He looks away while he coughs and pounds his chest, hoping the heat crawling up his neck doesn't show on his face.

“Baseless accusations,” he manages through a wheeze. Beth laughs.

“Sure, honey. Whatever you say. Just make sure to dance with her at least, alright?”

Ghost doesn't remember ever asking you for that dance. He remembers talking to you, making you laugh, and feeling like that should be enough.

He regretted it all the way home.

A heavy weight trickles down on him, from the crown of his head to the pit of his stomach. Wishes. Regrets. Could-have-beens in another lifetime. With a sudden snarl he shoves the photos back in the box, locks it, and throws it back into his closet.

The closet door closes with a smack.

This is why he never looks in here. There's nothing waiting for him but pain and disappointment, distractions from the here and now. What use is there in thinking about Beth's pretty friend? You don't even know he's alive. Have forgotten about him entirely by now, are probably married with kids—

Another wave of nausea.

Ghost just barely makes it to the bathroom to retch into the sink.

----------

“How was work?”

You transfer pasta onto dinner plates and garnish with a sprinkle of chives. You serve Dave first, then turn back to the kitchen to get water and candles.

“Great,” Dave says around a mouthful of pasta. He's dug in immediately. You try to feel like it's a compliment to your cooking. He works hard. He's hungry. You like cooking for people, so that sinking little feeling in your chest must be from something else.

“Our department's been doing really well. Making top sales for half a year now, so they did this raffle thing,” Dave continues, pausing to take a glass from your hands and down a few big gulps of water, “and guess what?”

You open your mouth to ask “What?”, but Dave answers before you can.

“I won!”

You sit down, trying to muster enthusiasm. “That's great, baby. What was the raffle?”

Dave leans forward. “One round trip to Bora-Bora, paid in full.”

“Oh my gosh,” you say, and your smile doesn't feel so forced anymore. “That's amazing, congrats! That's such good timing.”

Dave's vacation is coming up, and these things are usually plus-one. Right? Maybe that's what you've been needing. Some time away from it all, just the two of you spending time in sun and saltwater someplace beautiful and warm.

“Sure is,” Dave says with a self-satisfied smile. His plate is half-empty; you're just taking your first bite.

When he doesn't elaborate any further you hedge carefully, “So... Is it a solo trip? Or...”

Dave furrows his brow apologetically. “Oh, babe. Yeah, it's a plus one, but it's for people from the company only. I'm sorry.”

“Oh.” You bite the inside of your cheek and try not to look too disappointed. Guess that's on you for getting excited without knowing all the details. “So then who are you going with?”

“Allison from Marketing.”

Allison from who—?

You pause mid-chew, looking at Dave with wide startled eyes. When he quirks an eyebrow you quickly swallow. “Do I—do I know this person?”

“’Course you do, babe, c'mon. I've told you about her—she's like a work wife. Sales and Marketing are pretty much joint at the hip. When we go out for drinks it's always both teams together.”

Your stomach curdles at work wife. “I don't remember ever hearing her name.”

“Yeah you do, don't be silly. I talk about work friends all the time.”

When he was out for drinks on your anniversary is that who he was with? Work friends? Allison from freaking Marketing?

“Were you going to ask me if I was okay with that?”

“What? Allison going on the trip?” Dave sounds incredulous. You're being crazy. You're being unreasonable. “Why, don't you trust me?” You're being demanding. Trust issues. Crazy bitch.

“I do,” you say out of habit. “I do, but that's still—I would want you to ask me.”

Dave sighs. Your stomach tenses. The pasta feels tacky in your mouth.

“If it makes you happy, sure. You okay with me going on a trip with Allison?”

Would you cancel if I said no?

You can't bring yourself to say the words, but you also can't bring yourself to say of course, baby, you two have fun.

“...Are you sure there's really no way I could go with you instead of—”

Dave makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat, pushing his empty plate away from him. “Come on, don't be difficult. I already told you, it's work only.”

“Right. Okay.”

“So that's a yes, yeah? I don't want you to call me crying about this later.”

“Yeah,” you say, looking down at your hands. “Yeah.”

When Dave makes attempts to draw you into the bedroom after dinner you claim a headache. Tired. Long day. Looking forward to turning in early.

Dave shrugs. “Sure, okay. Actually—mind if I just go home early then? There's a match I was wanting to see, could still make it in time...”

You should feel disappointed. Offended, maybe, that if sex isn't on the table Dave's no longer interested in your company.

But all you feel is relief. You don't want to be around Dave right now; you feel your skin crawl and your stomach turn when you think about him sitting under palm trees next to some stranger. Your body feels like one big strain, trying to walk and talk and smile like normal.

Dave gives you a wet cheek kiss before heading out the door and leaves you with a sink full of dirty dishes and a pensive mood.

Kettlebell breaks you out of it with a chirp. He's come out of his hiding spot, winding through your legs with a purr. Mim hides no matter who is visiting, but after Dave tried to pick Kettlebell up like a sack of flour on his first time here neither of your cats show themselves when you have him over.

“Cats,” Dave sniffed derisively. “Guess it's true. They're all little assholes, eh?” He'd laughed and given you a playful nudge you did not return.

You bend down and scritch Kettlebell behind the ears. “Hi little angel baby. You're such a good boy, aren't you? Hmm? Does this little kitty want a treat?”

Kettlebell's meows skyrocket to opera volume at the word treat. Mim materialises next to him, making high-pitched little cries that make you fuss and coo and plant kisses on his little forehead before giving them both their promised snack.

You find that now that Dave's gone you weren't even lying; you are tired. The last thing you're in the mood for now is sex you pretend is better than it really feels.

You rub your temple and eye the dishes.

Tomorrow. You'll do it tomorrow—tonight you're allowed to be upset and re-watch Pride & Prejudice for the nth time to drown out Dave's mouth shaping the words “work wife.”

“I hate men. I hate them all,” you cry. Your nose burns from blowing it so much; the skin chafed raw to match your heart.

Beth rubs your back, nodding. “They're bastards, the lot of them.”

“You're not allowed to say that,” you sniffle. “Tommy is so—he's so sweet.” Your eyes well with new tears, and you bury your face in your hands again. “Why can't I meet a Tommy? Why am I so dumb and so bloody naïve—”

“Okay, hold on—if I'm not allowed to say all men are shite you're not allowed to say mean things about yourself.” Beth hands you a new tissue, brows furrowed. “You know this isn't your fault, right?

“I just feel so stupid.” You dab the tissue against your eyes. Every time it feels like you can't cry any more a new wave comes on, and you wish it'd stop. Your eyes feel swollen and puffy already, and you know you're going to look terrible in the morning. “Like I should have seen it coming. Should I have seen this coming?”

You look up at Beth anxiously, lip trembling. When she opens her mouth you interrupt her. “Don't answer that. I don't want the answer to be yes.”

“Aw, honey.” Beth pulls in for a side-hug, and you rest your head on her shoulder. She smells like the oatmeal cookies she made this morning. “Don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, he was a real cunt and he called you names, but no one would fault you for not immediately jumping to “he's going to cheat on me with your co-worker”.”

You sigh. A stray tear trickles down your nose. “I just feel like it's my fault. There's always something, and I'm never satisfied, and you remember Cameron?” Beth nods yes. You continue, “When we broke up he said I wanted a fairytale, and t-that—” A sob breaks through, and you hiccup. “That I should—I should start living in reality.”

Beth purses her lips like she's just bitten into a lemon. “Cameron also cheated on you with his cousin, so I think we're going to have to disregard his general judgment.”

You give a begrudging shrug. Maybe, but what he said cut deep. It fed into the worry that the flaw was not in the eye of the beholder but the beholder herself, and that you're still just a silly little girl dreaming of starlight romance.

It's quiet for a while. Rain ticks against the window panes outside.

“I guess...” you start. Falter. Begin again. “I guess I wish I didn't want it so much. I want to be—to be the cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval, or love, or... I don't know.”

“You are a cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval.”

A sad little smile ghosts over your lips. “No I'm not. Because I always—I always want it. I want to find love. You know? And that makes me feel stupid.”

Beth says gently, “Honey. You're not a bad person for wanting to be loved.”

Your eyes peel open slowly. Netflix asks you are you still watching? on the screen. You blink, noting a warm weight on your feet; Kettlebell has made a little nest in the blankets. When you crane your neck you see the faint silhouette of Mim perched on the back of the sofa, dozing.

What time is it...?

You pat the cushions for your phone and groan. Six in the morning. Oh, your back is going to hurt. You really should know better than to fall asleep on the sofa by now...

When you sink back into the cushions Kettlebell yawns and stretches, then hops onto your chest to press a wet insistent nose against your cheek. Breakfast time.

“Okay, okay...”

Might as well get up and shower.

As you disentangle yourself from Kettlebell and fuzzy blankets bits and pieces of your dream come back to you. A memory distorted in sleep, but derived from lived reality nonetheless.

The edges of it are hazy, but you know it was Beth. What'd she say...? It was something nice, to cheer you up after things ended badly with an ex-boyfriend.

Again.

Your shoulders sag. Maybe you don't want to be loved. If you did, you'd be happy now—because Dave loves you, and isn't that what you were always looking for?

Someone you can be comfortable with, who knows you, who says I love you without you having to ask for it every time?

You pull back the shower curtain and set the water to scorching.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader

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shitsndgiggs · 4 months ago

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Can you maybe make a fic where reader is in labour giving birth to kenans baby and then they have a cute family moment together?

DELIVERY DAY DRAMA - KENAN YILDIZ

In which Kenan Jr. is born!

Kenan Yildiz x fem! reader

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿

The bright lights of the delivery room felt harsh against my eyes, and the constant pain seemed like an unending wave crashing over me.

I clutched Kenan's hand, squeezing it as another contraction ripped through me.

His face was a mix of worry and unwavering support, his other hand gently brushing the hair off my sweaty forehead.

"Breathe, baby, just breathe," he whispered, his voice soothing and steady.

I glared at him, feeling a surge of frustration. "You try breathing through this pain, Kenan!" I snapped, my words laced with irritation and desperation.

Kenan didn’t flinch. He just nodded, his eyes filled with understanding. "I know, love. You're doing amazing. Just a little longer."

The hours dragged on, each contraction feeling like an eternity. I threw every cliché in the book at him, from "This is all your fault!" to "I swear I'm never letting you touch me again!" Kenan took it all without a word, his focus solely on me and our baby.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the doctor announced that it was time to push. With every ounce of strength I had left, I bore down, gripping Kenan's hand so tightly I wondered if I might break it.

"You're almost there, sweetheart," he encouraged, his voice filled with awe. "I can see the head. You're so strong."

One final push, and I felt a release, followed by the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard – our baby's first cry.

Tears streamed down my face as the doctor placed our son on my chest. Kenan's eyes were also wet with tears, his smile brighter than I'd ever seen it.

"He's perfect," I whispered, running a finger gently over our son's tiny face.

Kenan leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead and then to our baby's head. "You both are."

For a few moments, it was just us, soaking in the miracle of our new family. The nurses eventually took our son to clean him up, and I slumped back against the pillows, exhausted but elated.

Kenan sat beside me, still holding my hand. "So, do you want to talk about all the hurtful things you said to me the past seven hours?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

I looked at him, a mix of disbelief and amusement on my face. "Get over it."

He feigned a look of deep offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "I have feelings, and you have hurt them."

I laughed, the sound light and carefree after the intense experience of giving birth. "I think you'll survive."

He grinned, leaning in to kiss me softly. "You're probably right. But you owe me."

I rolled my eyes, playfully shoving his shoulder. "I don’t owe you shit.”

The nurse brought our son back to us, swaddled in a soft blue blanket. Kenan took him in his arms, his expression one of pure love and pride.

"He's so tiny," Kenan murmured, gazing down at our baby boy. "But so perfect."

I smiled, watching them together. "He really is."

Kenan looked up at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "His name is Kenan Jr."

I reached over and lightly slapped his arm. "Absolutely not."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Okay, okay. Maybe not. But we'll find the perfect name."

We settled back, our son cradled between us, and just admired him, taking in every tiny feature.

The room was filled with a quiet, peaceful joy that I knew I would remember forever.

"Whatever his name is, he's our little miracle," I whispered.

Kenan kissed me again, his lips lingering on mine. "And you're my miracle. Thank you for giving me this gift."

I smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude. "Thank you for being here. I couldn’t have done it without you."

Together, we looked down at our son, our hearts full. This was the start of a new chapter, and I couldn't wait to see what the future held for our little family.

#football imagine #football x reader #turkiye #kenan yildiz x reader #kenan yildiz

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toms-cherry-trees · 4 months ago

Text

Ash & Shadows || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: The night is long and dreary. Does the future hold hope, or is there just pain left?

Word count: 4.9k

Tags: Implications of major character death, grief, angst, Tommy being and asshole and then regretting it, set after s6e6 so I had to work around that hot mess. It has some Gothic and ghostly themes

Author’s note: A CALENDAR YEAR I PROCRASTINATED THIS but I HAD to finish it so, enjoy?

The tears have long dried in your cheeks, but their saltiness lingers in your tongue. Your throat feels parched, but you cannot find it in yourself to cross the few steps that separate you from the cup of stale tea in your nightstand, nor any of the dozen abandoned beverages that litter the master bedroom. There’s whiskey with water on the mantelpiece, sitting next to some plain water, and remnants of milk with honey and cinnamon, in which you suspect Frances mixed some drops of laudanum, for you felt strangely calm after drinking it, but not enough to find sleep. The bed is a mess, proof of your restlessness, the sheets and blankets hastily pulled from the corners and wrapped tightly around you like a protective cocoon, in hopes that the comforting swaddle will keep you whole for one more night. But they do little to placate the unforgiving cold spreading through your insides, a chill sprouting from within your very soul.

The ash and soot linger on your hands, caked under your ruined nails and smeared across your raw skin. Your clothes have not been changed in days, and they smell of burnt wood and petrol, mixed with something unspeakable and revolting. The stench is rooted in your nostrils, so pervasive you taste it in your mouth, in your throat, in the depths of your lungs. It spreads through your veins and seeps into your bones, consuming your spirit in waves of black and death. You are overcome by the vile venom, and even the mere evocation of it makes you choke and heave violently. A foulness you will never be able to forget, perennially engraved in the deepest corners of your memory, alongside other grim chapters of your past. But unlike others, this has changed your life, your self, the very course of your existence. You cannot fathom how the world continues to spin and the sun to rise in the horizon after such ground shattering devastation has occurred.

Your husband is dead, that much you know. He is dead and you are still alive and in your heart, that goes against the laws of nature. You are not meant to exist without the other. You had swore to grow old together, how could he leave you thirty years before his time? How could he leave when your children had not even learned to tie their shoes themselves yet? He had not yet commissioned the treehouse he promised them, how could he abandon them halfway through?

You should have known something was amiss. You knew your husband, better than anyone could. You had a way to read his thoughts and forestall his actions that not even his late aunt could comprehend. Only you could dissipate the fog from his troubled mind and unravel the rigmarole which composed the very foundations of his existence. He had once said, late at night, with his arm around your waist while he believed you fast asleep, that he felt like a man standing alone under a wicked thunderstorm, and you were the only one brave enough to face the tempest and come to him with an umbrella, even at the risk of your own life. But he would forever take the umbrella from your hands. Your life before his, every single time.

How could you not foresee this?

Ever since the failed assassination on Mosley, Tommy had slowly but steadily gone down a steep slope, one not even you could rescue him from. Life had never shown him mercy; every time he reached the pinnacle, a new mountain blocked his way, mightier and deadlier than the last. He had surmounted them all, not without penalty, leaving blood bathed bullets and bodies in his wake. But at last, Tommy had found his Everest. The summit taunted him, unreachable; the death of his aunt clobbered him like an avalanche, and the man he became after that didn’t hold the slightest resemblance to the man you fell in love with. You were sure that if you sat the present day Tommy before the one he used to be in 1919, they would not recognise each other.

He tried to keep you shielded from his meetings with the fascists, the rallies, the gossip and scandal. Only he knew the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the garden while you sat before the fireplace reading stories with your children. And only he knew about the stacks of bills being passed from hand to hand, sealing deals and pacts that promised to change the course of history. Tommy only wanted you to worry about your charities, your horses and your pretty dresses, and leave the rest of the world upon his steady shoulders.

In his mind, oblivious meant safe. For you, it felt like a lack of trust in your person. And that soon morphed into bitter resentment, never shown openly but perpetually simmering just beneath the surface, ready to erupt. Lying had always come easy to him, but it became harder when his lies were unmasked in the morning paper. How could he pledge innocence when his face showed up on the front page next to the leader of the British Union of Fascists? How could he deny his guilt, with Diana Mitford right at his tail?

How could he pretend leaving you in the dark was for the greater good?

Everything came to a breaking point when he suddenly summoned you to his study to inform you he would be departing for Canada the following day, with no clear return date and refusing to elaborate on what called him so suddenly to cross the Atlantic. The more you pressed for answers, the more he manoeuvred around them with carefully premeditated replies of vague content, half finished sentences and loose words, so unlike him that the lies unravelled on their own before your eyes. His total carelessness over the situation and the dismissal of your worries became the drop that tipped the glass. Months of carefully concealed rancour came bursting to the surface like an erupting volcano.

You called him every name in the book, reminding him of the things you had endured for his sake over the long course of your relationship, while he could not even allow you the decency of forewarning you of such a trip or offer an acceptable explanation for such haste in departure, the acrimony in your heart even making you ask if he had special company for the journey. His impassive silence only irked you further, and you told him he could get a one way ticket to hell for all you cared, before slamming the door to his office so violently you heard a painting fall and shatter on the ground.

The day after, you rounded the kids in the foyer for the mandatory goodbyes. He hugged them all long and tight, a rarity in itself for a man who had become so cold and withdrawn he barely spared them a glance in the mornings over his newspaper. And then he kneeled before Charlie and placed a brand new gold pocket watch in the boy’s little hands. Your husband said men wore pocket watches and he would be the man of the house now. The boy only stared back, perplexed, and nodded once silently before pocketing the precious object with utmost care.

You remained irate, arms crossed over your chest, fingers drumming on your arm impatiently. It was hard to tell you apart from an enraged bull staring at a red cloth. A part of you felt like a petulant child, but after so many years of marriage and everything you had silently withstood for him, you could no longer hide the hurt and disappointment, feelings far too familiar that you had grown accustomed to conceal. You only allowed him a brief goodbye, turning your face away when he tried to kiss your lips, presenting your cheek instead. He didn’t protest, his lips lingering on your skin longer than they had done in years, his gloved hand cradling the back of your neck and playing with your hair. His free arm circled your waist and pulled you close, face moving to rest in the crook of your neck as he inhaled deeply, as if committing the scent of your body to memory.

A strange sense of foreboding filled you, but you forced it out of your mind.

If you had known what the future held ahead, you would have jumped into his arms, engraving in your memory every detail of himself; the feeling of his hands on your waist, the timbre of his voice. Traced every nook and cranny of his face with your fingertips, over and over until you could forever recall it. You would have kissed those lips until they bled, and with the same ferocity, you would have screamed and clawed and made the windows rattle and the ground shake, demanding an explanation. Demanding to know why.

The days passed, and the worry began to gnaw at your chest. The hotel address he gave you didn’t exist, nor did the phone number which he scribbled down hastily seconds before crossing the threshold, only after you demanded to have a way to contact him should an emergency arise with the kids. The kids. Not you. Over his shoulder, as if an afterthought, he said he would call. After the first week of silence you had a landline installed outside your bedroom, and you would stare incessantly at the apparatus, willing it to ring. One time you heard the faint ringing in the study from the entrance door, and you rushed to it with such haste you vaulted over a sofa and snapped your high heel off. But it only turned out to be Ada, checking in on you. Ever since that day, everyone seemed to grow suspiciously closer to you. Calls and visits and days out. Ada inviting you to London and looking after the kids to give you a day off. Curly and Charlie coming often to help the kids tame their new ponies. Arthur would come too, far too often to be normal, and he would sit across from you in the living room, nursing a whiskey in his hand and poorly attempting small talk, always looking ready to be sick and evading your gaze.

Their pitiful stares didn’t go unnoticed, nor did some carefully chosen words, such as how your kids would always be looked after and provided for in the family, how they would always be there for you and would support whatever you chose to do with your life. Praising your strength, offering their support, always looking away or changing the subject when you asked if your husband had called them. The thinly veiled edge of desperation in your voice seemed to stir something within them, and redoubled their efforts in consoling you for something you didn’t yet know.

The truth laid bare before your very eyes, just an inch out of reach, concealed just enough to keep you in the dark with confusing glimpses of the life ahead.

But the passive games and the uncertainty came to an abrupt halt one bright sunny morning, the skies blue and clear like Tommy’s eyes and a gentle breeze fanning over the gardens. You told the nannies to prepare the kids for a picnic in the meadow, and helped Frances set up a plentiful food basket. But just before you could set foot out, a car stopped in the driveway. The frantic knocking on the door and the slurred screaming had you fearfully peeking out through the draperies, your finger readied on the trigger of a gun, only to see Arthur slumped against one of the columns of the entrance, calling out your name. Before he could say another word, you knew he had relapsed back into the opium, acquired from who knows where. Even from afar, he reeked of alcohol and smoke, face bloated and eyes bloodshot and swollen. He staggered forward, nearly toppling over you before falling to his knees, his face distorted in anguish. You tried to pull him up, to coax some sort of explanation out of him, anything to placate the worry crawling up your chest.

A million possible scenarios played in your head, yet not even ten lives could have prepared you for the simple words that escaped his mouth.

“Tommy is dead”

From that point on, memories become elusive. Only fleeting moments remain. You recall your own hands, hands meant to nurture, caress and comfort; hands that wiped tears, stroked hairs and tickled bellies, your kind and gentle hands gripping Arthur’s coat lapels and pulling on him with such force he came back to his feet, startled. You remember shaking him violently, teeth gritted and vision blurred with hot tears, your mascara running down your cheeks. Your lips parted to scream, but you cannot recall what words came out of your mouth. Arthur tried to pry your hands open and take some distance, but then you slapped him across the face. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was a punch. Or maybe a detail that never happened, later added by your wrecked mind. Because you hoped that if you screamed and punched and tore the world to pieces you would awaken from that nightmare.

You saw the smoke long before the car reached the side road. The perfume of the blooming flowers could not mask the wafting aroma of charred wood, petrol and burnt fabrics, with something else you could not quite pinpoint, but smelled vile and pernicious. A cheerful meadow stretched out before you, bright green dotted with white and yellow spreading as far as the eye reached across gentle hills. And amidst all, a scorched patch of land, and a pile of still smouldering debris, wisps of acrid poison swirling in the docile spring breeze.

You leapt towards the vardo’s remains, but Arthur restrained you, slender but firm arms circled tight around your waist as he attempted to comfort you; as if there could be any comfort for you in that moment and place. You fought him with tooth and nail, scratching and biting and kicking like a frenzied beast, cursing his name, his bloodline and his entire existence. All he did back was shush you, a hand pressed to your abdomen, his arm around your chest as your knees gave and you collapsed into him, agonising wails wracking your to your core.

You cried out for Tommy, but only death called back.

In time, the smoke cleared and the pyre cooled, allowing you a clear view of the massacre before your very eyes. Like the leftovers of a bonfire, wood so thoroughly charred it disintegrated on the hand, mixed with scalding pieces of metal and leftover rags that once were curtains and bedding. You fell to your knees, frantic fingers digging at the ash and earth bare handed, soot and dust clinging to your sweat doused skin, getting in your eyes, your nose, your mouth. Your fingers ached and your skin reddened and blistered in the heat, but you felt nothing, nothing but the overcoming grief coiling around your heart, constricting your throat and freezing the blood in your veins. Your tears sizzled as they fell on the ground. You dug and dug, panicked sobs reverberating in the emptiness of the meadow, your pain a sharp contrast with the chirping of the blackbirds on the branches.

You could find but only a few scarce belongings that survived the conflagration. A couple of gold sleeve garters. His pocket watch, the mechanism somehow still working. The frames of his reading glasses, the crystals having been lost to the heat. No matter how deep you dug, his wedding ring was nowhere to be found. And everything else had turned to ash and dust.

Ashes of the vardo.

Ashes of your memories together.

Ashes of the man.

The love of your life swept away by the wind.

You no longer know if it’s day or night. The heavy drapes are closed, and only a few dying embers remain in the hearth. The room is cold, more than usual, robbed from the warmth of fire and the warmth of love. Time passess differently when grief has its clutches around you. Every second is too slow, yet every day moves by too fast. Three days have swept by, maybe four, plus the month of faked departure in which he roamed the fields while you believed him across the pond. His scent is fading from the pillows, from his clothes, from your memory. You sprayed some of his cologne on your wrists but it's not the same because it is not on his skin. It is not mixed with leather, ink and gunpowder. It is not him.

You already fear you are forgetting the right colour of Tommy’s eyes, the various hues mixing in your mind but none seems quite right. Are they the colour of the sky on a bright summer day? The tranquil sea surrounding the ship that took you to your honeymoon on the continent? Do they match the aquamarines from the demi parure he gifted you on your birthday, just because he said their colour suited your skin?

No. No do. Did. Because his eyes are no more. His bright eyes, his rare smiles, his handsome face, his protective hands and everything in between are no more. They are just ash and dust, a pile abandoned in the middle of an open field being swept by the wind and rain.

Floorboards creak on the hallway, but it could be the scurrying maids as much as the wandering spirits that populate your home, souls rooted in the land due to unfinished businesses from their past lives, acting as owner and keepers of a place where you are but a temporary guest. A door slams shut somewhere in the house, and the windows creak and rattle under the assault of the brewing tempest. The room grows icier, if possible, your breath rising in puffs of white. Your fingers feel stiff, achingly clutching onto an old pocket watch. Even the rings in your hands have turned to ice.

You curl tighter into yourself, if possible, your palms pressed to your face to warm your freezing nose and lips. Sleep threatens to take you, but you fight it with all your might, for the only place worse than life right now, is inside your head. The nightmares have chased you ever since that day, each one more horrifying than the last. But the body beats the mind, and your eyelids, heavy as lead, fall shut, your consciousness slipping away in waves.

You cannot be sure how long you slept, or if you did at all, when something startles you into attention. You sit up abruptly, heart beating frenziedly in your chest. The room is pitch dark, and for a moment you are disoriented, unsure of where you are. It takes long seconds for you to notice there’s a body next to yours, and a heavy, warm hand is pressed against your back to support you.

When you turn your head, the scream falls from your lips involuntarily, and you are positive your heart stops briefly. He looks so well, so perfectly well and common, so alive. Your hands are on his face, on his neck, running down his chest and arms as your mind struggles to come to terms with the image in front of your eyes.

“Tommy?”

Shrouded in black, his hair damp and tousled, and perfectly unharmed. As if he were just returning from a session in Parliament. His hand slides up your body, from your back to your shoulder, then your neck and up to cup your face, thumb brushing against your tear streaked cheek. You lean instinctively against his touch; the warmth from his palm spreads through your skin like a soothing balm. It feels safe; it feels like home, like the place where you belong.

His free arms circles your waist and pulls you into him, your head tucked between his chin and shoulder and your body pulled onto his lap. Both of your arms wrap tightly around his middle, fearing that if you let go, he would disappear like smoke, forever this time.

“Tommy? Tommy, what happened? Where have you been?” Tears brim again in your eyes, and the coil tightens around your throat “I…I don’t understand. Arthur said that you were…that you were” The word, that word, cannot make it past the knot. The word you so dreaded to accept. “I saw the ashes in the meadow”

He says nothing, nothing besides a hum of acknowledgement at your words. His thumb brushes back and forth against your cheekbone, the other hand tracing lines up and down the length of your spine, causing your belly to flutter. You are confused, terribly so, your thoughts reeling with the need for answers. But Tommy, as usual, offers none, and you don’t really want to spoil the moment, not when your heart is finally at peace after the terrible weeks you’ve endured.

The embrace goes on forever, none of you making effort to move or speak. Every now and then you feel his lips brush against your forehead, or his nose bury in your hair and inhale deeply, drowning himself in your scent. The storm howls outside, windows rattling with the strength of the wind, the glasses mercilessly pelted by ferocious raindrops. By now, the children would usually be awake and crowding your bed, seeking safety under your blankets. But peacefulness reigns their slumber that night, and you are grateful for it. You desperately need this moment alone with your husband.

His head tilts suddenly, just enough to place a gentle kiss against your temple, then his lips brush against the shell of your ear

“I am sorry” His voice is raspy and worn, as if it has not been used in quite some time “For everything. For keeping you in the dark, for not trusting your strength. For everything I put you through” His embrace around you tightens into an almost painful grip, as if he wishes to fuse his body into yours “You are fierce. And strong. The strongest woman I know. You can overcome anything, nothing could tear you down”

For some reason, those words do not sit right with you. They feel ominous, almost like a forever goodbye. You try to crane your neck to get a better look at his face, to read his expression, but he resists, hidden in the curve of your neck. Your heartbeat quickens in panic.

“I am only strong when I have you by my side. I need you, Tommy. These past days have ruined me. I cannot tread upon an earth you do not exist in.” Your fingers dig on the fabric of his coat, and for the first time you notice his clothes are dampened and smell faintly of wet soil and smoke.

Tommy chuckles, the familiar sound reverberating inside your ribs. He shifts again and his lips are against your forehead, continuing to refuse you a clear glimpse of his face.

“You were strong when I met you. You were strong when I tried to push you away for your own safety. And I know you will continue to be. For the family, for our children. They need you. You are their whole world”

Again those words, those threats of a future in which he had no place. The tears come back with renewed strength, blurring your vision and choking the words in your mouth, but you manage to force them. You cannot leave anything unsaid, not if he’s planning to abandon you once more.

“They need their father too” You protest “Please, Tommy. You can’t walk away again. Not when you are back in my arms” Your grip tightened to accentuate your words “I lost you once, I cannot do this again. Please don’t make me do this again Tommy. If you leave, you might as well kill me now, and spare me such misery”

“I can’t stay” The words cut like blades through your heart and lungs, and for a moment, you can’t remember how to breathe “I’ve got to go, but I promise you, I will always be with you. I’ll never leave your side, whether you can see me or not. I will always be your husband, in this life and the next” You cannot be sure, but he seems to be holding back sobs as well “So many things went wrong. So many mistakes that cannot be fixed. What’s done cannot be undone” Those words do not seem directed to you, but rather thoughts spoken out loud, an airing of frustrations he’s kept bottled up.

You pull away from him, so fiercely not even his strength can keep you still. Your hands cup his cheeks and pull him down until his forehead is against yours. You can barely discern his features in the darkness of the bedroom, so you use your fingers to gently trace the slope of his nose, the sharpness of the jaw, the softness of his lips. His breath fans over your face; he smells all over of nature, of dirt, of open fields and pine woods.

“There is nothing that cannot be undone. Do you hear me? Nothing. Nothing that we can’t work out together” You can barely contain your desperation “You are Thomas Shelby. You can pull down the moon if you desire; you could bend the King to your will. How can you not fix whatever troubles you?”

His hands envelop yours, fingers gently prying yours away; but instead of dropping them, he cradles them gently, bringing them up to his lips to press tender kisses against your knuckles. His lips linger against your wedding ring until the metal warms.

“Not everything is fixable, my love. There are things not even I can undo. Some mistakes are permanent. I tried, tried my whole life, but I am not God, not yet” He pulls you into his chest again, and pulls the blankets around you “But you don’t need to worry about that now. The hour is late and the sun will soon be up. You need to rest, my sweet dove. Sleep and dream; I will be with you”

You wanted to protest, to pull away, to not let him finish things like that. But you suddenly felt terribly exhausted, as if the last days had dropped on top of you with the weight of boulders, and his arms were so comforting. He gently rocked you both back and forth, a hand on the back of your head and the other on your back. The last thing you remember is Tommy murmuring sweet words of love in your ear. You cannot remember them exactly, but you fell asleep with a smile on your lips.

The next morning you awake tucked in bed, buried between pillows and blankets and wearing a clean nightgown. You sigh contently and stretch your arm to the side, towards Tommy’s side, but find it to be cold and empty, feeling something powdery between your fingers.

Your eyes shoot open, sitting so abruptly you see spots dancing in your vision. The room is bathed in sunlight, all the curtains drawn back. Outside there’s a perfect spring morning, and you hear the dogs barking and the gardeners going about their duties. Once your eyes adjust to the brightness, you discover that the powdery thing on the mattress appears to be ash, or dirt, you are not quite sure. The sheets are stained with it, and when you stand from the bed, you find a trail of residue all the way to the door. Upon inspection, you notice some of it has been left on the door handle, as if someone grabbed it with dirty hands.

The door nearly slams on your face as Frances pushes it open, carrying a breakfast tray. You both jump with a startle, but she manages to keep her wits enough to not drop the tray at your feet

“That was quite a scare you gave me there, Mrs. Shelby. But it’s wonderful to see you at last out of bed” Frances says, as she leaves the tray on a small table with two chairs “The nanny has taken the children to the stables, so you have a quiet morning ahead of you”

You reach out to pick your robe, your thoughts still filled with the encounter of the previous night. You want to ask Frances, but choose not to, not wishing to be taken as a madwoman. What would she say if you told her your dead husband had slept in your bed the previous night? So you play ignorance, and sit before the table, your stomach rumbling at the sight of buttered toast

“That’s good, but don’t let them out for too long. It ought to be quite muddy and damp outside from the storm, and I don’t want them getting sick”

Your fingers are curled around the steaming teacup when she speaks again.

“Storm? There was no storm, Mrs. Shelby. I was up quite late and the skies were clear, although it was a moonless night, so everything was quite dark”

The teacup stops midair, and a cold shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps covering your flesh. You had heard the wind, the rain, felt the rattling of the windowpanes and the water running down the pipes. Then, you notice a glint on your ring finger. A glint that was not there the night before.

You now wear two wedding bands. One the perfect size, one a few too big. And outside your window, the blackbirds begin to sing.

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby one shot #marsie writes #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine

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cosmiic-world · 2 years ago

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through thick and thin - leon kennedy

angst to fluff, hurt/comfort. remember to take care of yourselves <3

cw: mention of depressive episodes, self deprecation, self-neglect, overthinking.

your body shook on the bed as you cried, your sobs muffled by the blankets you swaddled yourself with. you were going though a depressive episode again but this time it was ten times worse than normal.

usually, leon would comfort you and help you through them but lucky you, he was on a mission where he left for days on end. you didn't know when he would be back and it made your heart yearn and squeeze until it felt like you couldn't breathe.

you clutched your chest, hot tears running fast down your cheeks. it felt like nothing would help at this point. you wanted to call your boyfriend but you knew it would be futile. you didn't know what to do. none of your friends knew how to help and even if they did, it would only make you feel worse. these episodes happened so often lately that they would only get tired of having to take care of you when leon was away.

once your crying finally settled down to sniffles and hiccups, you got up and trudged towards the kitchen, wanting a glass of water for your now dry mouth. once you got a glass of water, you made your way back to your room, the sadness you were feeling exhausted you. you placed the glass down on your nightstand and walked over to your dresser where you grabbed your favorite cologne of leon's and sprayed it over his pillow, the smell of it immediately bringing tears to your eyes.

as you laid in your bed, you didn't bother to charge your phone as you began to fall asleep, hugging leon's pillow tightly and burying your face in the fabric, imagining it was leon's chest. you began to cry again wishing to feel his warmth or even hear his heartbeat or voice again.

you were slowly drifting to sleep before hearing a ding from your phone. you wanted to grab it to check but you didn't have the energy to grab it, finally going to sleep.

the next day, you woke up startled as you felt a hand running through your hair. you quickly looked over to see your boyfriend looking at you with worry in his eyes. "leon?" you said, your breath hitching and your hands shaking as you reached out to touch him. surely it was an illusion you induced through desperation.

"it's me baby, i'm here." he said with a small sorrowful smile, gently grabbing your hand and putting it on his cheek. he closed his eyes as he leaned into your touch.

"leon!" you cried out as you jumped up from the bed to hug him, immediately crying again as you felt his heartbeat thump against your chest. your fingers ran through his hair as your tears fell onto his shoulder.

he hugged you tightly, tears springing to his eyes as well as he listened to your sobs. "i'm sorry baby. i'm sorry i couldn't have gotten to you sooner." he said, his voice now coarse. "i missed you so much.. i'm so sorry."

you couldn't help but sob into his shirt, your hands clutching him tightly as if you were to let him go, he would disappear forever.

he pulled away from you to look at you, gently cupping your face in his hands and caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. "have you eaten anything?" he asked.

you shook your head, sniffling as you wept into his hands. you looked into those blue eyes you loved so much, your heart breaking as you saw the worry and sadness in them.

"how long has this episode lasted so far?" he said. his voice and touch were gentle as if you were a porcelain doll just about to break.

"a week."

"oh darling. c'mon. i'll make you something to eat." he said, trying his best not to cry in front of you. "ready? up." he said as he picked you up.

you wrapped your legs around his waist and buried your face in the crook of his neck. "i missed you so much leon.. i'm sorry you have to come home to me like this." you said as he set you down onto the counter.

"hey, don't say that." he said, slightly stern. he looked into your eyes, smiling softly. "i love you, okay? nothing can ever change that. i love you and i will always be here for you. just as you are for me. you helped me when i needed you, so let me help you now."

you simply nodded, your lip quivering. "okay.." you whispered out, leaning into leon's touch as he held your face and kissed you so gently.

"i love you. don't ever forget that." he said.

#leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy angst #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #re4 leon #resident evil 4 #re4 #resident evil leon #resident evil #resident evil angst #resident evil fluff #leon kennedy angst to fluff

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sp4ceboo · 1 year ago

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Cuddling Headcanons: Bang Chan x Reader

A/N: Idk if any real writing will make its way here but have this for now

• Cuddling with Chan is always the best experience

• Chan is the type to refuse to say he's too hot if you're cuddling him, because you look so comfy

• Chan is the best cuddler too, he always knows when you want them and how long you want for them (he always gets this weird Mama Chan sense when you get pins and needles so need to switch positions too)

• Cuddling with Chan normally tends to be while he's working late at night

• Usually, he'll be sitting at his laptop, headphones in, so he won't hear you approaching, swaddled in a blanket burrito with your tired little face peeking out

• You don't announce your presence; instead you hitch up your blankets and plop yourself onto his lap, throwing your blankets over his shoulders too and nuzzling your face into that space where his shoulder and neck meet

• He'll chuckle as you press a few kisses to his skin, one large hand resting on your back and rubbing up and down to soothe you

• You'll stay like that for a long time, happy to remain there forever - you, dozing with your hands linked behind his head, him with one arm around your waist and the other playing with your hair

• Sometimes he'll hum, trying to find a specific tune for the song he's writing, and it's a sure fire way to get you to sleep

• If you actually fall asleep there, he'll kiss your forehead and, depending on the time, will carry you back to bed

• That's often how you wake up the next morning: Chan beside you in bed, his laptop shut on the desk, your last memory being your eyes drifting closed, ears blessed with the gentle tones of his voice

• Normally you cuddle like this when he's been really busy; it calms him down a lot (and also you) or when it's late at night and you think he needs to sleep, or you miss him cuddling you in bed

• Occasionally you do this because of nightmares - he's always able to tell when you've had one, and he'll pause his work to talk through it with you if you want, or just hold you if not

• Sometimes, if he has a day off the next day, you'll both wake up naturally to the golden light streaming through your shitty curtains

• Still tired, both of you will roll over until you meet the other, and he'll cradle you in your arms as you talk together about everything and nothing, his voice still raspy and blurred with sleep

• Those are always your favourite mornings

• Especially if he decides to shower with you after, which often leads on to making breakfast together too

• He's just so soft in the mornings: he'll always shower your face in little kisses and tell you he loves you, and he'll always make sure you're well rested - if you're not, he'll tuck you right back in bed if you have nothing on that morning, to the point where you have to fight him to get back out

• Another time you'll cuddle is on date night, under a heap of blankets with the soft lights of the TV washing over your faces

• You'll just burrow into his embrace as you munch through all the snacks you bought, and he'll chuckle, the deep sound right next to your ear as you mold yourself to his chest and cling on to him

• Sometimes, if he stands up to go and get more snacks, because yes, you get through a lot of those on date night, you'll wrap your legs around his waist and he'll carry you to the kitchen with him like his own little koala

• Both of you will just lie there, basking in each other's presence, in the soft, blanket filled world of your own making, confiding in each other in whispers: it may be as profound as the meaning of life or as idiotic as him asking you if you'd leave him for Flynn Rider (you had to think very hard about that one)

• The two of you will also cuddle quite a lot in front of the boys

• It's partly a possessive move from Chan, because as much as he trusts you, he also likes the way you blush when the boys all groan and pretend to throw up, and he loves the little bit of sass that comes out when Changbin gets a little bit too dramatic about your cuddling ('AAAAH! MY EYES!')

• You secretly enjoy it, because of the closeness it brings you; you won't do anything too weird or too disgusting, but the way Chan will casually enclose you in his arms when he brings you to the monthly movie night with the boys makes your heart glow

• If he's drunk, Chan will also get very, very cuddly

• He'll just snuggle up to you, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around you tightly, rocking you and generally acting like a cat who found the perfect patch of sun

• Drunk Chan also tends to pull out the puppy eyes and he'll occasionally unironically do aegyo when he's especially inebriated, which often ends with you squishing his cheeks then telling him to stop when he lays it on too thick - that leads to more cuddles because he goes 'you don't like my aegyo??' *massive puppy eyes*

• Your favourite Chan cuddles, however, are when he actually finishes work kind of early and comes to bed when you're still awake

• You'll shuffle over so he can spoon you (or you him) in the dark, holding you close to his chest and pressing kisses on your shoulder

• You're always lulled to sleep by his soft breathing and his comforting scent - it's why you wear his shirts to sleep, especially when he's on tour

• All in all, cuddling with Chan is always perfect

#bang chan #skz #stray kids #bang chan x reader #bang chan cuddles #cuddling #headcanons #stray kids bang chan #channie #chan #fluff #bang chan fluff

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lunarfleur · 1 year ago

Text

I’d Give You The Moon ~ Earth 42! Miles Morales

Summary:You and Miles were one of those childhood couples, the ones that started from some silly crush. You were both only 14, holding hands and hugging and sitting with each other at lunch. You started high school together. You were cute with him. Until you weren’t. It didn’t end badly. It just ended.

Tagging: @juneberrie @sluggmuffin @hiyaitssans @enchanting-violet @milesmolasses @luvjunie @n1cole-ghost @kombuuuu @urfavnegronerd

Warnings: Angst with comfort! Happy ending!

This is x gender neutral reader!

He still had pictures of you and him up on his wall. Maybe that was the problem.

His mother told him he should to them down. It would make it hurt less, she said. He knew she was right, obviously. You two were just some stupid kids with crushes, right? No matter what he did, Miles couldn’t bring himself to think such a thing.

You and Miles were one of those childhood couples, the ones that started from some silly crush. You were both only 13 or 14, holding hands and hugging and sitting with each other at lunch. You started high school together. You were cute with him. Until you weren’t. It didn’t end badly. It just ended.

It didn’t occur to him how such a silly breakup would affect him until it did. He turned over every night to see the faint images of you and him on his wall. He always forgot they were there until they shoved some ghost of a memory back into his head. The breakup didn’t hurt like he thought it would. He didn’t cry like he thought he would. Now, he was just lonely.

Miles was now 15, going on 16, and was in a slump. He knew it was a problem when he found himself listening to the Grease soundtrack on repeat. He resented him mother for buying him that record. He knew it wouldn’t last forever. He just thought it’d last a little longer. He still had your number. He still had the drawings of you. It was too much for him to let go of.

——————————————————————————

You still had his hoodies, and every note he’d ever given you. Maybe that was the problem.

Every night was another empty dream. You’d swaddle yourself in blankets, imagining it was his arm around you. There was a distant memory of his voice, the way he’d talk to you. Occasionally, you found yourself mistaking someone else’s touches for his.

You were the one who called it off. You were getting older, and it made you scared of the future. You worried constantly about what would become of your relationship. It swallowed you whole. It ate you alive.

But now you felt nothing but guilt. You were guilty for being so foolish. You were guilty for not communicating. You were guilty for walking away. You left him behind.

You were now 15, going on 16, and every day was another agony. You would watch and rewatch the Rush Hour movies and wonder if maybe he was doing the same. They were always his favorite. You’ve made some pretty big mistakes. He was at the top of your list.

——————————————————————————

Miles walked down the hallway at Visions Academy. The hallway stretched long, with lines of dorm rooms on each side. It was quiet and the floors were shiny.

He stopped suddenly, looking ahead. You shook the handle on your dorm room’s door harshly, groaning about the key. Then, you stopped, too.

You looked different. Older. You didn’t exactly seem happier, though. Miles was ashamed of the warm feeling that thought gave him.

Miles looked different, too. Older. Taller. Just like his mother and father, the perfect mix. He looked lonely. It made you sad.

“Hey,” he whispered. It was rough, and forced. You bit the inside of your cheek. He walked right past you before you could say anything.

All you could think about was the way that same voice used to speak to you. He’d laugh with you, sometimes at you. He didn’t look at you the same way he used to.

——————————————————————————

Miles dreamt of you that night.

He was sitting in his bedroom, the one at home. You stood across from him. The house smelled like his mom’s cooking. You were wearing his hoodie, the one he never got back. You were looking at him like you still loved him.

A part of him told him that you did. You missed him, wanted him back. Ganke told him not too long ago about you, the way you rejected any affection that came to you. Miles hoped that meant you hadn’t moved on.

You didn’t. You wouldn’t. You refused to. Maybe it was childish, but a part of you said that he was the one for you. You two were meant to go the distance. Right?

——————————————————————————

“Have you thought about calling them?” Ganke asked Miles.

Miles sat on the edge of his roommates bed while he played video games.

“Nah,” Miles whispered. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Don’t you still have their number?”

Ganke was right. Nothing was actually stopping him from calling you.

“Yeah, but…I don’t know.” Miles scoffed and shook his head.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they still had feelings for you.” Ganke spun around in his chair, looking at his best friend.

“You think they’d pick up?”

——————————————————————————

Even though you weren’t allowed to, you sat on the roof of your school. The sun had set already, so it was dark. The stars were shining. The moon was bright.

“I’d give you the moon, if I could,” Miles had said to you one night. That was the night he kissed your head and held your hand. Three weeks and two days before you dumped him. Three weeks and two days before you left.

Miles stared at your figure. Of course you’d be up there on a full moon. Of course you’d be up there when he wanted to be. Of course.

“Sure you can.” That’s what Ganke had said. Like it was easy.

“Can I sit?” He asked.

You whipped your head around quicker than ever. It gave you whiplash. Miles was looking down at you. His braids fell down his shoulders like they always did.

“Yeah.” Your voice came out as a meek whisper. You couldn’t hear it over the pounding of your heart. Butterflies danced in your stomach like you were 13 again.

He sat next to you, and the distance he put between your bodies made you sick. You couldn’t help but look at him. It was like magnets, guiding your eyes to stare at him.

“How you been?”

How were you supposed to answer that? Say you were good? Or tell him the truth? Say you missed him?

“Good.” That was a lie.

“Good.” He nodded his head. If you were good, though he doubted it, he was happy.

There was a tense silence that followed. Too many questions hung in the air. Why’d you break up with me? Would you take me back?

I miss you.

“Hey.”

It brought a chuckle out of you. Too many times you two would talk at the same time.

‘Jinx! Jinx times two!’

“Why’d you dump me?” His voice was quiet, and gentle. He’d never talk to you any differently.

You shrugged, sighing. He waited. He always did.

“I was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Commitment.”

Miles nodded. He understood.

‘Our family doesn’t run from things, mijo.’

“Is it dumb to ask if you still love me?”

You shook your head. It wasn’t dumb. It never was. He never was.

“No. Never.”

“Do you? Still love me?” All you could do was nod.

Your heart fluttered at the way he lit up. He fought a grin. Miles nodded slowly, his gaze turning back towards the sky.

“I couldn’t help it,” you finally chuckled. He looked at you, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Help..?”

“Loving you.” Miles smiled at you.

“I couldn’t help it either. Even though I shouldn’t.”

There it was. That stinging pain that shot through your ribcage. The never ending reminder of the way you broke his heart.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

There was not a single bit of resentment in his eyes. He could never be mad at you. Not really.

“Miles?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you…what would you do if I told you I missed you? That I want to go back?”

Miles chuckled, scooting closer towards you.

“I’d say the same thing.”

And in that moment, underneath the cold sky, it was as if nothing had changed. It was you and him. Him and you.

Miles chuckled quietly. Chuckles turned into giggles.

“I’d give you the moon if I could.” He whispered, his face leaning closer.

“You already have.”

#earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales #earth 42 miles morales x you #earth 42 miles x you #earth 42 miles fluff #earth 42 miles angst #earth 42 miles morales x reader #miles morales #x gender neutral reader

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