#and let's stress the and in this sentence

[beloveds-embrace]

I am absolutely Eating your angsty dukedom 141, I'm just scarfing it down ayejjrnf

But! Suggestion for the drabble of reader slowly fading into the bg without König there;

Hereditary illness exacerbated by stress.

It's mostly fallen into the cracks of reader's family history after her ancestor married into nobility- not a lot to be dangerously stressed about when you're waited on hand and foot by servants, after all.

But then once reader stops making any attempt to leave her room, servants have to start bringing her her meals, and they start noticing that she seems to be getting increasingly thinner despite the meals being at least half eaten. She seems more exhausted, her hands shaky and trembling, embroidery or painting projects left tossed in the corner of her bedroom after she couldn't hold onto the needle or brush, let alone do any precision work.

Gossip spreads through the servants of the Duchess being ill (though none seem particularly caring of this fact) until it starts to reach the boys' ears

Thank you!! I hope you enjoy this!!

The first sign that something was wrong- truly wrong- came when one of the younger maids hesitated outside John’s office. Her apron was wrinkled, and she kept wringing the cloth in her hands until the edges frayed. Kyle, always perceptive, was the one to notice her first.

“What is it?” His sharp eyes pinned her in place.

The maid flinched but didn’t run. Instead, she stepped forward, voice trembling. “I-It’s the Duchess, sir.”

That was all it took for the entire room to still.

John had been in the middle of correspondence, quill poised mid-sentence, but he set it down without finishing the word. Simon’s ever-present stoicism cracked, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

“What about her?” John’s voice, though even, had an undercurrent of tension.

The maid looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “She’s… ill, sir. She’s not been leaving her room-”

“We know that.” John interrupted, his voice a low growl.

“No- no, sir, I mean really ill. She’s not eating much anymore, but- she’s thinner, sir. Much thinner than before. And her hands shake something awful when she tries to hold a spoon or cup. I saw it myself when I brought her tea this morning… it’s- it’s been going on for a while now, we’ve all noticed but I just couldn’t- couldn’t stand back anymore, I’m so sorry.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone into a pond. And the silence that followed was thick, pressing, suffocating.

John was the first to move, striding out of the room with the others close behind him. The maid was left in their wake, her words repeating themselves in her head as though she’d spoken some terrible thing into existence.

They found you where you always were now- alone in the dim bedroom, wrapped in blankets but still somehow shivering. The curtains had been drawn tight, the hearth left to burn low, and the air was stale with disuse.

You didn’t even stir when the door opened.

John froze at the sight of you, the sharp tang of guilt clawing up his throat. He could see it immediately- the way your cheeks had hollowed, the slight tremor in your fingers as you clutched the edges of the blanket. The soft silk of your gown hung loose at your shoulders, as though it no longer fit the same way it used to. An old one- one you’d worn at the beginning if your marriage, still hopeful for companionship from a husband who didn’t care for you.

Kyle was the first to break from his stupor, stepping forward and kneeling at your bedside. “… Duchess?” His voice was softer than John had ever heard it, but it still seemed too loud in the suffocating quiet.

You stirred then, eyes fluttering open just enough to see him.

“Kyle?”

The hoarseness in your voice struck something in him- hurt him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“I’m here, darling,” he murmured. He reached out, gently brushing his knuckles against your cheek, and frowned at how warm your skin felt. “What’s happened to you?”

You tried to sit up, but your body betrayed you, trembling with the effort until Kyle and Johnny had to steady you with firm hands.

“I’m fine.” You said. The words were paper-thin, weak and unsteady.

“You’re not fine.” John cut in, his voice harder than he meant it to be. You flinched, and it made his heart squeeze painfully.

Simon said nothing, but he hovered near the foot of the bed, his sharp gaze flicking over you as if committing every detail to memory. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, but what was there to do or say? He felt like he might break you should he even brush his fingers across your skin.

“It’s nothing.” you murmured, turning your head away.

“Nothing?” John repeated, dangerously low. He stepped closer, dropping to his knees at your bedside, one hand finding yours. “You think this is nothing?”

Your fingers twitched in his grasp, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

“I know…” Your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut. “I know you don’t care. Why- why are you here now?”

It felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

“Don’t care?” John echoed, tinged with disbelief.

“None of you came,” you whispered. “Not once. I thought… I thought maybe it was easier for you that way. You- is this not what you wanted?”

Simon made a sound then- low and guttural- and moved to kneel on your other side, opposite Kyle. He reached for your other hand, lifting it carefully to his lips. His breath was warm against your skin, but you didn’t react.

“I’ll get the doctor.” Johnny said abruptly, spinning on his heel and leaving before anyone could stop him.

Kyle stayed close, his hand never leaving your shoulder, while Simon stroked your knuckles in slow, deliberate motions. But it was John who finally spoke.

“We should have come sooner,” he admitted, voice heavy with regret. “I should have come sooner. Duchess- I’m so sorry.”

You blinked, your lashes damp with unshed tears. “Why didn’t you?”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

He looked at you then, taking in every fragile, exhausted detail- the way your breath came too shallowly, the slight tremor in your fingers, the sheen of sweat on your skin despite the chill in the room.

“Because I was a fool,” he said softly. “Because I let myself think you were fine without us.”

You didn’t answer, but the way your fingers curled just slightly around his told him enough.

When Johnny returned with the doctor, the room erupted into motion. You were carefully propped up, fed broth spoonful by spoonful, your pulse checked, and your temperature taken. The doctor’s diagnosis was both alarming and infuriating- stress-induced illness, made worse by malnutrition and exhaustion. It wasn’t until he began asking about your family history that the pieces truly started to click.

“You’ve been predisposed to this,” he explained, while they watched in silent, setting horror. “It’s genetic, though dormant in most cases. But stress- particularly prolonged stress- can trigger it. I’d wager it’s been simmering for weeks, if not months.”

Months.

Kyle and Johnny exchanged glances, and Simon looked like he was ready to tear someone apart. Mabe himself.

John didn’t move from your side.

“What does she need?” he demanded.

“Rest. Food. Care. But most importantly…” The doctor’s gaze swept across all of them. Rumors flew with the wind, and he was still not old enough to lose his hearing. “No more stress.”

John nodded firmly, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll have everything you need.” He promised.

But his words held no particular weight to you.

[wchswift]

ଓ The apple pie life

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: you and Dean are tasked with going undercover as a married couple in a suburban neighborhood to investigate a string of mysterious disappearances linked to a local HOA. Content: fluff, one kiss, angst (kinda), idiots oblivious to their own feelings, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, demons, spells, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 4k a/n: I've been keeping this in my drafts for a while now and while life happens and I work on my dofp!logan one shot, I decided to post this :) I hope you enjoy it

mdni 𖤐 18+

“Yeah, no. This ain’t happening.” Dean Winchester stood at the edge of a freshly mowed lawn, surveying the neighborhood like it was a Hellmouth in disguise. Which, for all they knew, it very well could be. Rows of cookie-cutter houses lined the street, each painted in calming shades of beige, sage, or blue. Even the mailboxes were identical. Dean glared at one as if it had personally offended him.

Sam sighed, arms crossed, watching his brother’s tantrum. “Dean, it’s a neighborhood. Not a death sentence.”

“You’re asking me to pretend to be Mr. Suburbia. Me. You know I don’t do...” Dean gestured vaguely at a garden gnome. “This.”

Standing between the two of them, you held a faux wedding photo that Sam had printed for the cover story. “We’re married. You’re a mechanic. I work from home. We moved here for the good schools. Sound familiar?” you said with a smirk, holding the picture up.

Dean snatched the frame and scowled at the image. “I look like a hostage,” he muttered.

“You always look like that,” you shot back. “Now come on, let’s get unpacked. Our ‘friendly neighborhood welcome committee’ is stopping by in an hour.”

Dean groaned, but there was no backing out. Sam had been adamant: five people had disappeared from this very block in the past six months. The only connection? All were new to the neighborhood, and all had been avid participants in the HOA’s activities.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, hoisting a box from the Impala. “But I’m not calling you ‘honey.”

Dean’s idea of "unpacking" consisted of dumping boxes onto the floor and shoving furniture into place like he was playing Tetris with his life. You trailed behind him, trying to make the house look halfway livable. It wasn't easy; the entire setup resembled a sitcom scenario, complete with ruffled curtains and throw pillows that Sam insisted would help you blend in.

Dean picked up one of the pillows, squinting at the stitched slogan: Home Sweet Home. “This thing screams demon bait,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.

“Maybe if you acted like a halfway decent husband, it wouldn’t,” you quipped, earning a low chuckle from Sam.

“Yeah, hilarious,” Dean shot back, hauling a box of what appeared to be mismatched kitchen supplies onto the counter. “This is my nightmare, by the way. Thought you should know.”

“It’s not exactly a dream for me either, sweetie,” you replied, stressing the endearment with a sugary grin. Dean’s eye roll could’ve powered the whole neighborhood.

The doorbell chimed just as you finished arranging a vase of fake flowers in the living room. Dean peered through the peephole like he expected to see a mob of demons. Instead, a group of impeccably dressed neighbors smiled back at him.

“Kill me now,” Dean muttered, opening the door.

A blonde woman with a Stepford-wife grin and a clipboard stepped forward. “Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Lana, the HOA president. And these are Sheila and Rick, your next-door neighbors!”

Dean gave his best approximation of a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Uh, hey. I’m Dean. This is my—uh—wife.”

You plastered on your most winning smile and shook hands all around. “So nice to meet you all!”

Lana’s eyes swept over the living room, clearly appraising your decor. “You’ve done such a lovely job already! Oh, and Dean, we’ll have our weekly HOA meeting at the clubhouse tomorrow night. We expect all new residents to attend. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth, likely to come up with an excuse, but you elbowed him. “We’d love to,” you said quickly.

“Wonderful!” Lana chirped. “I’ll leave you with the neighborhood handbook. Everything you need to know is right here.” She handed over a spiral-bound monstrosity of rules and regulations before bustling off with her entourage.

Dean stared at the handbook like it might explode. “Fifty bucks says they’re part of a cult.”

That night, Sam joined you both in the kitchen, where you poured over the HOA handbook. Sam had come by under the guise of helping you move in but was really playing the role of a nosy family friend who conveniently lived a few towns over.

“Okay,” Sam said, flipping through pages. “This is weird. Every house here has to have a specific type of lawn ornament? And look at this—rules about curfew, holiday decorations, even what kind of car you can park in your driveway.”

“Classic control freaks,” Dean muttered, popping open a beer.

“Or something worse,” Sam countered, pointing to a line about mandatory attendance at neighborhood socials. “People start disappearing, and the HOA gets more power over the remaining residents. It seems like they're under some spell… perhaps they made a pact? Maybe with a demon.”

Dean groaned. “Great. So it’s not just bad casseroles we have to survive.”

“We need to hit that meeting tomorrow,” you said. “Whatever’s going on, that’s where we’ll find the first clue.”

The next evening, you and Dean made your way to the HOA meeting at the neighborhood clubhouse, blending in among the perfectly groomed crowd. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a suburban magazine spread: crisp polos, floral blouses, and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Dean leaned closer to you, muttering, “Tell me this doesn’t feel like a Stepford reboot.”

You elbowed him lightly, smiling for the neighbors. “Try to look like you’re not plotting their demise, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, adjusting his flannel like it was armor. “Let’s just hope these people don’t sacrifice newcomers to their God of Lawn Care.”

Inside the clubhouse, Lana, the HOA president, stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand. She welcomed everyone with her signature cheerfulness, but you couldn’t miss the way her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on the newcomers—you and Dean.

“Now, let’s get started!” she chirped. “First order of business: Mr. Peterson’s garden gnomes. We’ve had complaints they’re too whimsical.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at you, mouthing, too whimsical? You struggled not to laugh.

The meeting droned on, a mix of petty complaints and rigid enforcement of bizarre rules, until Lana’s tone shifted.

“And finally,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “a reminder that all residents are expected to attend next week’s neighborhood barbecue. Remember, harmony is our greatest strength. We’re all part of something... bigger here.”

Her words sent a ripple of unease through the room. Most of the neighbors nodded dutifully, but a few glanced nervously at each other. You caught Dean’s gaze, and his expression was sharp, all traces of humor gone.

Later that night, back at the house, you pored over what you’d observed with Sam and Dean.

“It’s not just the rules,” you said, pacing the living room. “It’s the way they act. Like they’re afraid of stepping out of line.”

“And what’s with Lana’s ‘bigger picture’ speech?” Dean added, tossing the HOA handbook onto the coffee table. “She’s definitely hiding something.”

Sam tapped at his laptop. “I did some digging. Lana moved into this neighborhood ten years ago, right before the HOA’s rules got so strict. Before that? No disappearances, no creepy cult vibes.”

Dean frowned. “So she’s the ringleader?”

“More like the summoner,” Sam replied, turning the screen to show an old news clipping. It detailed Lana’s involvement in occult studies years ago. “If she’s behind this, it’s not merely a pact. It’s using the HOA to enforce perfection, as it literally sustains the spell that keeps it anchored here.”

“So, the HOA handbook’s not just a pain in the ass,” you said, glancing at Dean. “It’s the demon’s playbook.”

The next morning, Dean decided to “blend in” by taking his role as a suburban husband to absurd levels.

You came downstairs to find him in an apron, flipping pancakes with an exaggerated flourish. “Morning, sweetheart!” he called, his grin annoyingly smug.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still half-asleep.

“Being the perfect husband,” he said, loading a plate with a stack of slightly burnt pancakes. “You should try it sometime, darling.”

The sarcasm in his tone made you roll your eyes, but you couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “If this is your idea of perfection, the demon’s going to smite us before lunch.”

Dean’s antics didn’t stop at pancakes. Later that day, he decided to tackle the front yard—shirtless, of course, because “that’s what husbands do, right?”

You stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as he wrestled with the garden hose like it owed him money. His flannel was tossed onto a nearby fence, leaving his t-shirt in a crumpled heap in the corner. The summer sun glinted off his shoulders, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, you couldn’t help but stare.

“You know,” you called out, fighting a smirk, “the neighbors are going to think you’re some kind of exhibitionist.”

Dean glanced up, his grin wolfish. “Or they’ll think you’re married to the best damn landscaper on the block.”

“You missed a spot.” You pointed at a section of the lawn.

He mock-groaned, holding a hand to his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Man slaves away, and this is the thanks he gets? No wonder I’m burned out on marriage.”

“Burned out implies you ever tried,” you shot back, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean’s expression shifted, just for a moment—a flash of something vulnerable, quickly buried under his usual bravado. “Yeah, well... guess I never found the right reason to try.”

The air between you grew heavier, the teasing edge dulled by an undercurrent you didn’t quite know how to address. He broke eye contact first, turning back to the yard. “Don’t just stand there, princess. Grab a rake or something.”

The barbecue was the kind of event you’d have laughed at if you weren’t actively part of it. Neatly arranged folding tables with checkered cloths stretched across the neighborhood park, and neighbors mingled with drinks in hand, every one of them smiling just a little too wide.

Dean leaned against the grill, flipping burgers with the same intensity he used while sharpening knives. “This is a trap. You know that, right?” he muttered, glancing around.

“Obviously,” you replied, sipping a too-sweet lemonade. “But we’re undercover, remember? Try to act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Dean’s grin was laced with sarcasm. “Oh yeah, I’m having a blast. Love talking about lawn fertilizer and HOA-approved fence heights.”

Just then, Lana appeared beside the two of you, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm. “Dean, those burgers smell amazing! And you—” She turned to you with that polished grin. “You’re just glowing, aren’t you? Married life suits you two so well.”

Dean, never one to miss an opportunity, slung an arm around your shoulders. “Well, Lana, we’re just one big, happy couple.” He punctuated the sentence with a quick kiss to your temple, the smug look on his face daring you to react.

You forced a tight smile. “Couldn’t be happier.”

Lana beamed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wonderful to hear. It’s so important to maintain harmony in the neighborhood.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “After all, everything falls apart if even one house doesn’t meet expectations.”

Dean’s arm stiffened against your shoulder, his instincts flaring. “Is that right?”

Lana nodded, her expression unreadable. “Absolutely. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy the barbecue!”

Once Lana was out of earshot, you and Dean regrouped with Sam near the dessert table.

“She’s hiding something,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

“Definitely,” Dean agreed, setting his plate down. “And what’s with the whole ‘harmony’ thing? She sounded like a cult leader.”

Sam nodded, keeping his voice low. “She is. It is indeed a deal, an exchange. The more the neighborhood conforms to the rules, the stronger it gets. People who can’t meet the standards? They’re the ones who disappear.”

You frowned. “So the HOA rules aren’t just annoying—they’re literally fuel for this thing.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Well, good news. We’ve got the perfect distraction right here.” He gestured at himself and you with a smirk.

“Perfect distraction?” you repeated.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’re new, we’re not exactly HOA material, and if anyone’s gonna tick off a demon about their precious rules, it’s us.”

Sam sighed. “Just be careful. If the demon gets wind of what you’re doing, it won’t wait for you to break a rule—it’ll come for you directly.”

The first crack in the HOA’s perfectly polished façade came two days after Dean decided to rebel in his own loud, stubborn way. The offending incident? A single garden gnome—brightly painted and flipping the bird—set proudly on your front lawn.

You crossed your arms, staring at the gnome as Dean lounged against the doorframe. “Really?”

Dean grinned, proud as a kid showing off a bad report card. “What? It’s art.”

“It’s bait,” you corrected, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He smirked, arms crossed. “Lana won’t know what hit her.”

Sure enough, Lana arrived within the hour, clipboard in hand and fury barely masked beneath her painted smile. “Dean, we need to discuss your lawn decorations,” she said through gritted teeth.

Dean stepped outside, wearing the smuggest expression you’d ever seen. “What’s the problem, Lana? Don’t you like art?”

She blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity, before recovering. “This neighborhood thrives on harmony. Your—choice of ornament—disrupts that balance.”

Dean leaned casually against the porch railing. “Huh. Didn’t see anything in the handbook about freedom of expression being against the rules.”

You watched from the window, biting back a laugh as Lana sputtered, her usual control slipping. She left with a curt, “This isn’t over.”

After Lana stormed off, you expected Dean to be all bravado and quips, but instead, he started fixing the fence. It was such a rare sight that you almost did a double take.

“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the porch post.

“Making sure the place doesn’t fall apart,” Dean replied, hammering a nail into place. “If we’re staying here long enough to take down a demon, might as well make it look good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were so handy, Mr. Winchester.”

He smirked, not looking up. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m full of surprises.”

That night, you found Dean in the kitchen, you noticed Dean seemed... different. Focused. Almost like he belonged here. He stirred a pot of chili with a level of precision that rivaled his aim with a gun.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you remarked, leaning against the counter.

Dean shrugged. “I used to cook for Sammy when we were kids. Guess some habits stick.”

The soft admission caught you off guard. For all his bravado, moments like these reminded you of the man underneath—the one who took care of everyone else, even when he didn’t have to.

“This is weird,” you muttered, setting the table.

Dean looked over at you. “What is?”

“You. Doing all this domestic stuff. It’s like you’re... enjoying it.”

Dean shrugged, placing the bowls of chili on the table. “I don’t hate it. Beats getting shot at every day.”

“Guess you’re not half-bad at this husband thing after all,” you teased.

Dean smirked, his usual cockiness back in place. “Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.”

Later, the two of you sat on the couch, flipping through channels. Sam had gone back to his motel, leaving you and Dean with a rare bit of downtime.

The sound of the TV faded into the background as Dean spoke up. “You ever think about it? A normal life, I mean.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Sometimes. Why?”

He leaned back, one hand draped along the back of the couch, his expression unusually serious. “I don’t know. It’s just... this case, all this fake domestic stuff... It’s kinda nice. Not worrying about what’s lurking around the corner every second.”

“You’ve never thought about it before?” you asked gently.

Dean gave a short laugh, his gaze distant. “Nah. Figured it wasn’t in the cards. Even when I was a kid, normal wasn’t exactly in the Winchester playbook.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected.

“Maybe it’s not about the cards you’re dealt,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s about finding your own kind of normal.”

He turned to look at you, his green eyes searching yours. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, but he broke the gaze first, his usual smirk returning. “Well, my kind of normal definitely involves better TV shows than this crap.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Fair enough.”

The tender moment passed quickly as the two of you turned back to the case.

The next morning, Sam returned with a crucial discovery. “Lana made a deal with a demon ten years ago. She wanted the perfect neighborhood, and the demon delivered. But the cost? Anyone who doesn’t fit her version of perfection gets sacrificed to keep the deal going.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “So she’s trading lives for lawn perfection? Well, that’s messed up.”

Sam nodded. “It thrives off the conformity she enforces. The more people play by the rules, the stronger the demon gets. The ones who disappear? They’re used as sacrifices to maintain the spell.”

Dean stood abruptly. “Great. So we take down the demon, and her whole Stepford act goes up in flames.” He looked at you. “But first, we gotta piss her off enough to make a move.”

After talkng with Sam, you and Dean turned the dial on your undercover roles.

You started your day loudly arguing in the driveway about “trivial” things—how Dean never folded the laundry right, how you “always” bought the wrong coffee creamer.

Dean played it up like a pro, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Fine! Next time, you go grocery shopping!”

“Oh, because you’re so busy, huh?” you shot back, struggling not to laugh.

So you two just keeped violating the rules. Determined to push Lana past her breaking point, Dean added strung mismatched Christmas lights across the front porch, even though it was July.

“Dean,” you said, standing in the driveway with crossed arms, “I’m pretty sure even the demon is rolling its eyes at this point.”

Dean grinned as he plugged in the lights, which flickered in a garish rainbow. “Oh, come on, admit it. This is the most fun we’ve had on a case in months.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re married to me,” he shot back, winking. “You know,” Dean said, leaning in close as you adjusted the strand of blinking lights, “we make a pretty good team when we’re breaking all the rules.”

You smirked. “Better than your pancake-making team, that’s for sure.”

He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “Touché.”

Lanas’s car pulled up just as Dean propped his flamingo lawn ornament next to the mailbox. Her expression was a masterclass in repressed rage as she stepped out, clipboard in hand.

“Dean!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to make the neighbors glance over from their gardening.

He sauntered up to her, feigning innocence. “Morning, Lana. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Her smile was brittle, her grip on the clipboard tightening. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s escalating antics had done the trick. By the time night fell, Lana’s perfectly polished demeanor had cracked. She called an emergency HOA meeting, under the pretense of “addressing a disturbance in harmony.”

“You ready for this?” Dean asked as the three of you crouched outside the clubhouse, peeking through a window.

“I’ve been ready since the gnome,” you replied, flashing him a quick grin.

Sam whispered, “Looks like she’s prepping for a ritual. We need to stop her before she completes it.”

Dean nodded. “Sam, you cut off the ritual. We’ll handle Lana.”

“We?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” you shot back, but the teasing tone didn’t quite mask the warmth in your words.

The two of you burst through the clubhouse door just as Lana lit the final candle on an ornate altar covered in sigils. The neighbors, all eerily quiet, stood in a semicircle around her, their expressions blank and glassy-eyed.

“Lana!” Dean called out, his voice cutting through the room. “You forgot to put this on the HOA agenda.”

She turned, her face twisting into something feral. “You don’t understand,” she hissed. “This neighborhood is perfect because of me. Because of what I’ve done!”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, your definition of perfect kinda sucks.”

Lana snarled, grabbing a knife from the altar and lunging at him. You moved instinctively, stepping in to block her path. Together, you and Dean fought her off, moving in perfect sync.

She was fast, unnaturally so, but you matched her step for step, Dean covering your back with practiced ease. At one point, she swung the knife in a wide arc, and Dean caught her wrist, twisting it just enough for you to knock the blade free.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at you.

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m fine. You?”

“Peachy,” he replied, his grin full of adrenaline-fueled bravado.

Behind you, Sam chanted Latin, his voice steady as he worked to dismantle the ritual. The sigils on the altar began to glow, flickering as the power binding the neighborhood started to unravel.

Realizing she was losing, Lana screamed, “You’ll ruin everything! Without this deal, this place will fall apart!”

Dean shrugged, stepping closer. “Good. Then maybe it’ll feel a little more human.” With a final swing, he knocked her unconscious, the force of it sending her crumpling to the floor.

Sam finished the ritual just as the sigils burned out entirely, plunging the room into silence. The neighbors blinked, their blank expressions fading as they seemed to wake from a dream.

“It’s over,” Dean said, his voice low.

Outside the clubhouse, you leaned against the Impala, catching your breath. The air felt lighter now, the oppressive weight of the neighborhood’s perfection finally lifted.

Dean stood a few feet away, looking at you with an unreadable expression. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” you teased, but the smile you gave him was gentle.

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Before you could think, he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions he’d been holding back—relief, affection, gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Took me long enough, huh?”

You laughed softly, your hand resting against his chest. “Yeah. But worth the wait.”

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

The next morning, as the three of you packed up to leave, Dean was back to his usual self—mostly.

Dean hesitated, glancing at the house. “Gotta admit,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “this whole domestic thing... wasn’t the worst.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you hated it.” Dean smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, turns out I don’t suck at it. Could even get used to it, maybe.”

“You know,” he said, leaning against the Impala as you loaded the last bag into the trunk, “this whole married thing has its perks.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Yeah. Hot meals, shared insurance benefits, someone to remind me when I forget my wallet.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He shook his head, but there was a warmth in his gaze as he looked at you. “Maybe in another life.”

You didn’t answer, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. Dean opened the driver’s side door, his usual cocky grin back in place. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.” You climbed in, Dean kissing you on the head before closing the door.

As the Impala roared to life and the too-perfect neighborhood disappeared in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t help but think about Dean’s earlier words. Maybe this undercover mission had been more than just a case.

Maybe, in some small way, it had given both of you a glimpse of what could be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[jeongin-lvr]

ׅ⠀⠀ ֺ⠀⠀ ࣭⠀⠀⠀⟡ sloppy, c. yeonjun

꒰ 🗯️ ꒱ 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍，𝗂 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖻 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝗈𝗌𝗌！𝗃𝗃𝗎𝗇，𝖽𝗈𝗆！𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗇，𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗒𝗇𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗌，𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗂－𝗉𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖾𝗑，𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀，𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀，𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾！𝗃𝗃𝗎𝗇，𝗌𝗂𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄，𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒．UNEDITED.

[ 𝟣．𝟦𝗄 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 ] ★ [ 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 ] ★ [ 𝗆．𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ]

THE WAY YOUR BOSS treats you is so inappropriate. Your coworkers always tell you, anyway. But you don’t see the harm in what he does at all! Whenever he leaves lingering touches on your arm it’s innocent, and those stare-downs he throws your way are just that! There’s definitely not a hint of anything more behind those moments the both of you share. Mr. Choi is a very nice man who treats you very nicely, especially for a boss. Who are you to complain?

In hallways when you pass by each other he sends you warm smiles and maybe if he’s feeling extra kind, a wink. But when you’re called to his office to offer some help with paperwork or to have a quick chat, your coworkers start to think it’s not as simple as that. Especially after the umpteenth time today! It’s ridiculous at this point how many times you’d been phoned into his office, behind secluded walls, tinted glass door. Leaving everything to the imagination of your colleagues. Can you blame them for being curious? You didn’t care much for their speculations; that being said, you didn’t pay much attention to them anyway.

You didn’t intend on explaining yourself to them nor did you intend on telling them the truth behind those subtle glances and fleeting touches. In the public eye, it just seemed a bit weird, however, being closed doors it was soooo much more complex.

But… they are right about one thing! There’s definitely more to all of it. Getting called to the big, bad bosses office at random hours throughout the day, leaving work at the same time in the same damn car as Mr. Choi, the oddly close relationship. There really wasn’t much effort put into hiding it; stupidly, you denied all the very true rumors and speculation. What else were you to do?

They didn’t need to know any details of all the times you’d spent laid out on your filthy bosses desk, clad in nothing but your glasses and torn panties. Or those times you’d sit prettily under his desk on your calves, stuffing your mouth with his thick length, just trying to help him de stress because he’s such a good boss! He works to hard, you always tell him that. Mr. Choi is sweet with you too, calling you princess, darling, doll… all the sweet pet names under the sun because he can. He dotes on you, and treats you so well. That’s not to say he isn’t filthy with you when it comes to sex— he’ll take you like a drug; cussing and degrading you all while calling you the most beautiful woman in the same sentence. It’s a perfect balance of both, always making your toes curl. Whatever he says goes and your reward is all the benefits of being his star employee. Rides to and from work, extra pay, good dick— what’s not to love?

You’re not even sure how long this has been going on; who’s keeping track anymore? But you’d have to guess not too long after you landed the job… it happened a little too naturally.

One call into his office, a sly glance as he looked you over. Like he had been studying you. Slithering and curling over your body with a daunting gaze of power and intensity. It was hard not to buckle and fold. Mr. Choi just had this natural energy of dominance, so it’s no surprise the way he acts in bed (mostly on top of his work desk). He’s yucky in the best way.

“Sir, s—“ You’re cut off by a sudden thrust upward, your head jolting backward and hitting his firm shoulder with a soft thud. You moan, working yourself out of the fog that slowly diluted your mind.

Mr. Choi leaned back behind you, his chest pressing into your back as he let out a raspy chuckle, amused by the soft sounds of glee that fell past your lips. “What, doll?” His hands slipped up your waist, ignoring the stinging hand prints on your thighs and hips, groping your freed tits with his big, cold hands. The shocking steel of his rings hitting your perked nipples and forcing a gasp out of your throat. The cold jewelry felt stunning, momentarily leaving you frozen.

You recalled all of your coworkers asking you where you disappear to… all their quizzical stares and perplexed questions. You knew they knew. It bugged you that they knew. It didn’t before but for some reason their stares changed. More shameless with their knowledge. Like they were judging you for being so, well, obvious.

New red hickeys decorating your neck every time you left Mr. Choi’s office. Your excuses piled up like tickets. You’re sure there’s not a single excuse you haven’t used yet.

“Speak, darling, tell me what’s on your mind,” Mr, Choi grasped your tit hard, tugging at your nipple as he thrusted upward yet again, resulting in your entire body jolting in shock at the pleasure. Your glasses crooked and fogging now, your cliche red lipstick smeared and decorated over his lips and jaw. It was like a cliche porno. You could almost laugh if it weren’t for the thick inches filling and emptying you over and over. One of your bosses wandering hands slipped off of your tit and gripped your chin, squishing your lips into a stupid pout as he uncomfortably tilted your head backward, giving you a lovely glimpse at his sweaty, stoic face. His eyebrows scrunched and his full lips pulled into a parted O. He looked at you expectantly, still awaiting your response.

“Sir, m’ worried,” You paused, chasing your breath desperately, “S-someone will hear—“

He scoffed in your face, making you feel small and pathetic. Your eyes fluttering as he continued to pump himself up into you. The sounds of your leaky, full pussy sucking his deliciously thick dick was nasty and made your mind spin endlessly. Your eyes almost crossing as you fought for your consciousness.

“Who fuckin’ cares, doll?” Mr. Choi gripped your face harder, “Let them hear.”

“B-but—“

Your boss groaned, sloppily leaning in for your lips, kissing you as if he just wanted you to shut up (he did). You reciprocated instantly, melting into him in every single way. Your knees ached from how you sat propped over him, your eyes burned with a wave of intensely pleasured tears, every inch of your body was sore.

“M’ your boss, baby, you don’t gotta worry about nothing…” He spoke into your mouth, his movements jerky now, everything so sloppy and dirty. You felt arousal pool down your legs, probably staining his seat a deeper shade. The way he spoke was so reassuring, or maybe you’re just too fucked out to argue. Your body spoke for you, pussy clenching hard around him, moving back down on his pretty dick.

Mr. Choi chuckled as he pulled out of your kiss. Despite how messy the moment was, he somehow looked relatively put together in his neatly pressed suit, his somehow still sexy even though you’d run your fingers through the hair and ruined the product more times than you could count. Your eyes were unfocused but you could very clearly still make out the decoration of bright red lipstick all over your flushed skin. His white button down just a tad disheveled and his tie loosened.

You whisper now, “You’re the boss…”

“Yeah, and you’re m’ fucking you,” Yeonjun laughed almost in disbelief, “So that means you d-don’t have to worry your pretty lil head.”

You nodded dumbly, engulfed in the pleasure now, “Yes, sir.”

“Yeah, that’s right, beautiful,” He wrapped his hands around your waist, upping his pace while panting into your ear, “Let em all hear how good I fuck my pretty girl…” He growled now, his hands tight as he pulled you up and down his dick, ignoring your whimpers of how overstimulating it was. Mr. Choi watched your ass bounce on his thick length, the slight divot and arch in your back capturing his attention. You naked and laid out for him so nicely while he sat dressed apart from his cock had to be the best part. It was you at his mercy. Completely and totally for his pleasure.

Your moans became higher, quicker, deep from within your tummy as he filled you. You felt that hot and heavy ball of your orgasm fill your lower stomach, swelling and swelling as his leaky tip hit your g-spot over and over again. One hit after the other leaving your eyes fluttering as you allowed yourself to get overwhelmed. Your red hot nails digging into his wrist, panting his name and endless pleas.

“Yeah? Do I fuck ya real good, darling? Mm, tell me how good it feels. Be as loud as you want, ah, let everyone hear ya.”

Your bosses potty mouth only send vibrations to your core, every movement he made was overwhelming your senses in a way you couldn’t explain. You couldn’t even begin to speak without being interrupted by your own moans. Mr. Choi grabbed your waist, swiftly standing in one fluid, hurried motion. He quickly laid you backward onto his desk, not minding anything in the way, letting pens and paper fall to the floor in a mess.

The new angle was providing you with sensations you’d never felt before. Your eyes were crossing, vision blurry. His movements only increased, quicker, needier. Everything he gave you was perfection, hitting and grinding and rubbing against every part of you so nicely. You whisper his name, begging for something, anything. Silent ‘sirs’ falling past your lips, only making his lips curl.

“Yes, sir, fuck me s-so good!” Any thoughts you had about anyone hearing was forgotten now. Pleasure controlled you; mouth running in babbling moans as your nails began to dig into the fabric of his shirt.

Mr. Choi curled his fingers around your jaw, tilting your head upward to get access to your sensitive neck, covering your skin in spit and sloppy kisses.

Your glasses, foggy and lopsided, began to fall backward until they lay crooked on your forehead, only making your boss smile. He was amused by your disheveled state, clearly. Enraptured by how simple it was to get you off.

He kissed your neck, then your collarbone, anywhere your skin gave him access. He mumbled against your skin, “My pretty little slut, can’t get enough of th-this pussy… mm, so good to your boss.” He nibbled on the flesh of your breast, sucking a deep, dark circle into your skin just to listen to how you whimpered.

“S-sir, I’m g’na— fuck!” Your eyes rolled and your mouth widened before you could even manage to get the words out.

“Go ahead,” He coerced with a smirk, his full lips pressing into your skin as he thrusted into you deeper. He watched you unravel with hungry eyes, surely not ready to give up the sight of you falling apart. He didn’t even blink, his eyes burned, but he didn’t care. He needed to see you cum on his cock. He wanted it so badly. “Squeezing me so tight— fuck, baby, good girl…” He managed to rip himself away from your skin, grinning so widely as he peered down at where your bodies met. A gorgeous ring of white around his dick as he pumped into you, your back arching and face scrunched.

Your hand pressed into his chest, tugging at his tie desperately to try and get him to slow down. Only it seemed to do the opposite. He sped up his pace with a grin, maniacally thrusting into you.

“Oh, but m’ not done, sweetheart,” He gripped your wrist as you whined, “My turn now, okay? Let me handle it…”

[fairqves]

꒰ NEVER A BURDEN ! ۟ ׅ ͡ ୨ৎ

(🐰) ──𝓟ARK JISUNG﹙ 지성 ﹚ ꒰ 𝓰. oneshot ៸ fluff ៸ friends to ?? ୨୧ㅤㅤ WARNiNGS : not proofread ៸ fight ៸ petnames ៸ mean girls ❞ bsf! 𝒿isung x 𝑓! reader ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ꒰ WC : 1.5K ꒱ SYPNOSiS 𐙚 in which you, a bubbly chatterbox, and your quiet, shy and reserved crush face a misunderstanding that forces both your feelings to the surface, leading to you avoid jisung like the plague .ᐟ HEAVILY INSPIRED BY WIFTY ── LiBRARY

THE CLASSROOM WAS ALIVE WITH ITS TYPICAL CHAOS AS PER USUAL.

the rustling of papers, the whispers of conversations exchanged between friends, and the occasional snickers of laughter.

you thrived in moments like this, pushing through the crowded rows of desks with a beaming smile and a seemingly endless stream of stories to tell.

and, of course, there was park jisung.

quiet, reserved, and hunched over his studying notes, jisung sat at his usual seat by the window, his expression looking more tired and stressed than usual.

you didn’t know what had exactly drawn you to him initially—maybe it was his quiet presence, the calm that had always seemed to follow him wherever he went. ── 𝖱𝖤𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤𝖫𝖮𝖶!

or maybe it was the way he always listened, even when you talked a mile a minute about the most random things.

you weren’t oblivious to what people said about you and jisung—the whispers that followed you down the hallways, the teasing smiles from classmates when they saw you together.

everyone thought you were too much for him, like a bright flame paired with an unmovable stone. but you didn’t care.

at least, you didn’t think you did.

today was no different—at least, it hadn’t started that way. you perched on the edge of jisung’s desk, chattering away as he scribbled in his notebook.

he didn’t say much, just an occasional hum of acknowledgment or a slight nod of his head. but to you, that was enough.

“ji, get this,” you began, leaning closer to him as your hands slapped the table dramatically. “i was walking home yesterday, and this dog—this huge scary dog—came out of nowhere and—”

“y/n,” jisung interrupted, his voice sharp and dismissive.

you froze mid-sentence, blinking at him in surprise.

he sighed, not looking up from his notes. “can you please do me a favour and shut up for a second?”

the silence hung thick in the air.

you blinked again, the smile fading from your face as the classroom noise around you suddenly felt deafening.

“oh,” you mumbled, quickly stepping back from his desk. “okay.”

you turned around before he could say anything else, slipping back into your seat and pulling out your notebook in front of you.

your heart felt heavy, the sting of his words settling deep inside your chest.

behind you, the whispers started almost immediately.

“oh my god.. did you hear that?”

“i mean, he’s not wrong. she’s so loud.”

“doesn’t she know he doesn’t even like her?”

“she’s been following him around for months. it’s so obvious.”

you bit your lip, keeping your head down as their words echoed in your ears. normally, you’d brush it off, but today—today it felt like they were right about you all along.

the rest of the day passed in a blur—you avoided jisung as much as possible, slipping out of the classroom as soon as the bell rang and keeping a notable distance whenever you passed him in the hall.

by the time the final bell rang, signaling the end of the day, you were exhausted—emotionally and physically.

you stood by your locker, pretending to reorganize your books as you watched jisung leave the classroom.

normally, you’d catch up with him and walk to the bus stop together, but today, you let him walk ahead.

at the bus stop, your absence didn’t go unnoticed.

“where’s y/n?” jaemin asked, leaning lazily against the bench. jisung shrugged, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he slightly smiled picturing you running after him just to sit on the bus with him. “i don’t know.”

“you don’t know?” chenle repeated, his tone confused. “you always know. did she get in trouble or something?”

jisung shook his head, though his jaw tightened slightly as he remembered what he said to you a few hours ago. “no..why?”

renjun raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “because she’s not here. and the last time i checked, she would rather die than miss a bus ride with you.”

jisung didn’t respond. instead, he stared at the concrete, his hands fidgeting slightly as the bus pulled up.

he didn’t know how to explain the sudden ache in his chest, the uncomfortable emptiness that came with your absence.

when he boarded the bus and saw you sitting in a seat near the front—alone, it hit him all over again.

you didn’t even glance his way as he walked past, sliding into a seat a few rows behind you.

normally, you’d save the seat beside you for him, grinning and waving him over like he was the most important person in the world.

but today, there was only silence.

the bus ride was quiet, other than the occasional whispers of other passengers. jisung spent the entire time staring at the back of your head, his thoughts racing.

he wanted to say something, to apologize, but he quite literally didn’t know how—the words were stuck in his throat.

when the bus finally reached your stop, you got up without looking back, walking silently toward the door.

jisung followed, trailing a few steps behind as you both began the familiar walk home. normally, you’d fill the air with stories and your laughter, your voice the soundtrack to his otherwise quiet life.

but now, there was only the sound of your footsteps, each one heavier than the last.

finally, jisung couldn’t take it anymore.

“y/n,” he said softly, his voice barely audible over the crunch of gravel beneath your feet.

you stopped walking but didn’t turn around. “what?” his heart sank at the coldness in your tone. “are you… mad at me?”

you laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “mad? no, jisung. i’m not mad.” you turned to face him, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of your glassy, tear-filled eyes. “i’m hurt.”

the guilt hit him like a slap.

“you told me to shut up,” you continued, your voice trembling. “do you know how much that hurt? and do you know what people say about me? they say you don’t even like me. that i’m just some annoying girl who follows you around. and today, it felt like they were right. like i really am just a burden to you.”

“no,” jisung said immediately, his voice firm and filled with held-back emotion. “that’s not true, y/n. none of that is true.”

“then why did you say it?” you asked, tears rolling down your cheeks now. “why did you tell me to shut up if you don’t think i’m annoying?”

“i was stressed,” he admitted, his shoulders slumping. “i’ve been studying so much, and i wasn’t thinking. i was stupid, and i took it out on you. but y/n…” he stepped closer, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out to touch your shoulder.

“i promise you—you’re not a burden. you’re never a burden. you’re the best part of my day.”

your breath hitched, your heart fluttering at his words.

“i mean it,” he said, his voice filled with vulnerability. “i don’t care what anyone else says. i care about you. you make everything better, even when i’m too stupid to see it.”

before you could respond, jisung pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest.

his embrace was hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him, but when you didn’t pull away, he held you tighter.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice muffled against your hair. “i’m so, so sorry. please don’t avoid me anymore.”

you let out a shaky breath, your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt as you buried your face in his chest. “i just thought…” you trailed off, your voice quiet.

“you don’t have to think anything,” he mumbled, pulling back just enough to look at you. his hands cupped your face, his thumbs gently wiping away your tears.

“just know that i’m here, and i care about you. okay?” you nodded, your cheeks heating under his soft gaze.

the walk home felt different this time. jisung held your hand the entire way, his grip warm and reassuring.

you felt shy now, hyper-aware of every little movement, and every little glance. the air between you was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—it was gentle and comforting.

when you reached your door, you turned to thank him, but before you could say anything, jisung hesitated.

the tip of his ears were a bright red, and before you could process what was happening, he gently spun you around and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead.

your eyes widened, your heart skipping a beat as you stared at him. his cheeks were undeniably pink now, and he stepped back, avoiding your gaze.

“i—i’ll see you tomorrow,” he mumbled, quickly turning and walking away in the direction of his house.

you stood there for a moment, stunned, before a small grin tugged at the corner of your lips.

maybe jisung wasn’t great with emotions—his words and actions, but in that moment, he’d said everything you needed to hear.

© FAIRQVES 2025 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

NOTE. ohmgee guys i pulled jaemin in my dreamscape album !!! anyways jisung is so zhang lurang coded u cannot convince me otherwise. also jaemin is so duan jiaxu coded too… my brain is braining rn 😇

୨୧ TAGLIST OPEN ‹𝟹 @mioons @nshmuras @suneng @pnghoon @shawnyle @laylasbunbunny @privareum @briefsaladfun @cyjzzl @sol3chu @txtlyn @d-dilemma @deezbin @iluvnikism @rikibwn @wonsprincess @niawonn @pockyyasii @kiss4noo @nineooooo @loves0ft @ancnymcnzjy @dazzlingjaeyun : COMMENT OR SEND AN ASK TBA.

[thoughtfulfiction]

The Plague

Author’s note: This is another request that was sitting in my inbox for a year. Posting another new Justin fic after this but still working on rewrites so if you’d like me to work on an old fic to repost let me know!

On Friday, you woke up with a headache that felt like it came out of nowhere. Everything was foggy, like you were in a daze, and you couldn’t figure out why. The day before was relatively normal and nothing happened that would warrant this sudden bout of persistent and annoying pain. You hadn’t yelled or gotten too riled up the night before when the Chargers beat the Broncos in primetime. To be fair, Justin had made you sign a contract—yes, literally—with a pen, back when you were 16 weeks pregnant, before the season started. The contract, which was both ridiculous and endearing, essentially vowed you’d take it easy and not stress yourself out on game days. You couldn’t recall the exact wording, but you remembered something about calm, no exertion, and ease. Honestly, remembering things in general hasn't been your strong suit lately, pregnancy brain making it's appearance more frequently than you liked to admit. At 27 weeks pregnant though, you’d kept your end of the bargain—remaining cool and collected throughout the chaos of the game. So, this headache? Was just untimely and inconvenient.

Saturday morning, you woke up with a stuffy nose. Not ideal, especially after yesterday’s headache. You knew something was coming on, so you quickly decided that when the sniffles hit, you’d retreat to the guest room to spare Justin from catching whatever you had. The team was in the midst of defying all odds, on the road to a very successful season and solid playoff hopes in the first year of their rebuild and the last thing they needed was their starting quarterback coming down with a mysterious illness when they needed him most. You packed a bag with your essentials—clothes, toiletries, your phone charger, and laptop—anything to make you more comfortable while you isolated. As you made your way to the basement, you couldn’t help but be grateful for the full kitchen and fridge down there, greatly eliminating the trips upstairs you'd have to make and keeping Justin from constantly breathing your germ filled air.

The house felt so much quieter without him home, and as you cleaned feverishly, scrubbing surfaces and disinfecting everything in sight, you could feel your body protesting. But you couldn’t stop.

You woke up to your phone vibrating on the bed beside you, your hand weakly reaching for it. You didn’t even remember falling asleep.

“Hello?” Your voice was hoarse and rasping, worse than you thought it would be. Whatever bug was taking over your body was moving fast.

“Where are you?” Justin’s voice came through immediately, frantic. “I’ve been home for twenty minutes, calling your name like a crazy person. Thought something happened to you, I was ready to send out a search party.” He let out a breath, but there was no humor in it. Only worry, the kind that gnawed at him until he couldn’t focus on anything else.

You blinked, forcing yourself to stay awake, aware of how much energy it was taking just to stay alert. “I’m downstairs. Didn’t want you to catch whatever I’ve got, so I moved everything down here. Believe me, you don’t want this.”

Justin didn’t hesitate. “Gimme a second. I’m coming down.” His voice was firm, but the urgency behind it was undeniable.

Less than 15 minutes later, the door creaked open, and Justin poked his head in, his eyes immediately scanning the room before landing on you. His face was a mixture of concern and something else—fear, maybe.

“Babe…” His voice softened, and his eyes darted over your flushed face. “…You look—”

The look you gave him could melt diamonds. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Justin held up both hands in surrender, but his gaze lingered on you a moment too long, worry still clear in his eyes. He stepped fully into the room and reached out to touch your forehead, his palm warm against your clammy skin. “You’re burning up,” he murmured, the concern in his tone deepening.

“I changed the sheets on our bed. I tried to clean up a little bit too so you should be good in case I'm contagious,” you sniffle, forcing a weak smile, Justin frowning at you when the smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

He waves you off, standing next to you but maintaining a respectful distance. "You didn’t have to do that. Cleaning up is my job, remember?" His eyes scan your face, his concern obvious. "What hurts? Head? Throat? How’s your stomach?"

You hesitate when he reaches for your belly, having discovered that the baby readily responds to the sound of his voice. And he hasn't felt her kick since the morning and you want nothing more than to allow him to continue to bond with her, but you know it's not a good idea right now. "Justin, I'm sick. You can't touch me."

"I'm not touching you," he says, his tone almost comically serious. "I'm touching our baby."

You raise an eyebrow, your exhaustion making the sarcasm come out sharper than usual. "Our baby, who is currently living inside my body."

Justin sighs, retracting his hand as slowly as you've ever seen him move, although every inch he backs away causes him physical pain. "Fine, I'll try to keep my hands to myself. But you never answered my question."

You blink at him, confused. "What question?"

"What’s hurting?" he asks again, his voice softer now.

You sigh, the weight of the day pressing down on you. "Oh…everything? My head was hurting yesterday, but I didn’t think much of it. Then my nose got so stuffed up I couldn’t breathe, and now… I just hurt all over."

The man’s brow furrows deeply, concern etched into every line of his face. You can almost see the wheels turning in his mind as he processes everything. "Okay, here’s the plan: you rest. I’ll call the doctor and figure out what we need to do to get you feeling better. Deal?"

You nod, a yawn overtaking you before you can respond. Your body sinks deeper into the pillows, already surrendering to sleep.

Justin lingers for a moment, watching you with a mixture of worry and tenderness before quietly turning off the light. His footsteps retreat up the stairs, and you’re barely awake enough to register the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Dr. Shaw's number is dialed by the time he reaches the top step.

"Yeah she's running a fever, started with a headache and it's progressed since. She's clammy and achy everywhere and she's got a stuffy nose."

The doctor takes minute to take everything in, running though your symptoms in her head. "I won't know for sure until she comes in on Monday but it sounds like some kind of viral infection or the flu. Just make sure she's staying hydrated and getting lots of rest and I'll see you all first thing Monday morning."

He thanked the doctor and ended the call, dialing your mom's number as soon as he was done. Justin let her know the situation and that he needed her chicken noodle soup recipe, taking detailed notes along the way, hanging onto every word she said. When that was complete, he looked around the house and in the fridge before making a quick grocery list to figure out what you needed. The "quick" grocery trip ended up taking a couple hours because one stop turned into three. He looked at every pack of cough drops at CVS to check the ingredients list after googling "best cough drops for pregnant women" so that took some time. And then at Target he debated which fuzzy socks to get for about 20 minutes. As soon as he thought he was done he came up with something else that you might need and had to drive over to the next store to find it. After his latest stop he took a look in his trunk to examine the inventory, checking everything off the list before heading home.

The quarterback realized he may have gone overboard when he set all the bags on the counter but it was too late. And hopefully most of the stuff would come in handy until you were back to 100%. Justin could hear the shower running as he began to stock the downstairs kitchen with the new items. He bought fresh lemons, from Whole Foods no less, breaking a personal oath, for you to have in your tea. Whole Foods was usually way too pricey for him but since he found out the two of you were expecting, sparing no expense for you and the baby had become second nature. So he bought a bag of organic lemons for $6. The old Justin would’ve laughed at him—and probably teased him for buying a new electric kettle just so you wouldn’t have to wait for water to boil.

Yeah, he'd definitely gone overboard.

He shook his head at himself with a sigh, placing the cold compresses in the freezer. The cough drops, tissue boxes and the new humidifier were all lined up neatly in your new room for easy access. He even moved one of the side tables out from the living room and placed it by the door so he could have a hand sanitizer station in attempt to keep the germs at bay. Satisfied with his work, he headed back upstairs to gathering the soup ingredients and jumped right in. This was his style of cooking. Give him a recipe to follow and he can execute it to perfection. The aroma filled the kitchen, and as he ladled the soup into a bowl and prepped crackers and peanut butter as a backup, pride swelled in his chest.

You knew he was downstairs as soon as you stepped out of the shower. It dawned on you pretty early on that everywhere Justin went he brought this calming, grounding energy with him. Even though you didn't feel the best, it brought you peace. Once you were dressed you stepped out of the bathroom and looked around at your newly elevated sleeping arrangements. You gave your belly a soothing pat, making small circles along your front where you were feeling her move. "Your dad is the best angel, I can't wait for you to meet him." Smiling to yourself, you grabbed the pair of fuzzy socks he laid out for you on the bed and put them on, already starting to feel better.

Justin heard the bedroom door open before he saw you. “Are you hungry, babe?” he called out, carefully arranging the tray. “I made soup.”

You rounded the corner, moving slower than usual, but the sight of in front of you brought a sense of relief. “Thank you for all this,” you said softly. “I don’t deserve you.”

Justin froze mid-step, the emotion in your watery eyes hitting him like a punch to the chest. He wanted nothing more than to scoop you into his arms, but for now, he kept his distance. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said, voice low but steady. “It’s my job to take care of you. Both of you.”

A small smile tugged at your lips as you glanced at the room, noting all the little touches he’d added. “Alright, let’s get you eating. How’s your energy? You still look wiped.”

You tried to brush it off, but he wasn’t buying it. “Go lay down,” he said, nudging the tray closer. “I’ll bring this in to you.”

“Fine,” you relented, heading for the closet. You returned moments later with a box of masks and gloves, setting them down on the counter. “But you’re wearing these if you’re gonna be around me. No arguments, Justin. We can’t risk you getting sick too.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, knowing better than to push when you were in this state. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a small smile.

Satisfied, you made your way back to the bed, the simple task draining what little energy you had left. Justin watched you go, already slipping on the gloves, his heart full despite his worry.

Turning on the main light was too intense for your headache, so you settled for the soft glow of the TV when Justin walked in, balancing a tray with more items than you could have imagined. He gently set it down on the side table, his movements careful but deliberate.

"I brought several options," he pointed at each item as he listed them. "You've got tea, your water bottle and some Gatorades—Dr. Shaw said the electrolytes will help you get some of your energy back so I brought you a couple. There's some lemon and honey for your tea and if you need more I can bring the whole kettle in here and plug it in. Oh, and—” he looked around the room, considering the space, “maybe I should grab another table? So you don’t run out of room. I could also bring some extra water just in case…”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, breaking through your headache. “I think I’m good for now, Justin. You’ve already managed to bring half the kitchen in here.” You rested your hands on your lower belly and added, “If I need anything, I’ll text you.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking between you and the tray as if he hadn’t done enough. “Promise? If you need anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate.”

The tension in his voice made you smile. Gesturing to the spot on the bed beside you, you said, “Come here.”

He perched carefully on the edge of the bed, holding out a gloved hand as you guided it to your belly. A strong, steady kick greeted him, and his breath hitched audibly. His eyes, crinkling above the mask, told you everything his covered face couldn’t: he was overwhelmed with joy. Tears glistened in his eyes, and you could practically feel his heart swelling with love.

You placed your hand over his, offering quiet reassurance. “She’s okay. And you’re doing great.”

For a moment, he simply sat there, soaking it in. Then, his shoulders relaxed slightly, his gaze meeting yours with a renewed determination.

“I promise you’ll be the first to know if I need anything,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He nodded, his gloved hand still resting where the baby had kicked. “Good. Because I’ll be right here.”

While you were in a cycle of falling asleep, waking up to blow your nose, shifting uncomfortably in bed and soothing your throat with cough drops before eventually falling asleep again, Justin was eating dinner, his laptop open watching film on the Patriots. They were playing the Bills the next day which would be a good game to watch but he wanted to get a head start and breakdown how their defense is set up and figure out ways to exploit their weaknesses. Checking his phone periodically, he couldn't hear anything coming from the room so he allowed himself to focus for two hours, going through New England's previous games and jotting down a few notes. His mind began to wander after he was done because the team was leaving for the East Coast on Thursday. If you were still sick by then who was going to stay with you? He wrote himself a reminder in his phone to tackle that problem later in the week. Around 9pm Justin decided to turn in, checking on you one more time, turning his ringer on before heading across the hall in the closest room to yours to get some much needed rest.

The sound was faint, but eerily familiar. He flew out of bed, his body moving way faster than his mind could process, trying to get to you. Justin's steps faltered at the bathroom door, his breath catching as he took in the sight of you hunched over the toilet without a second thought about being too close.

He knelt beside you, one hand gently holding your hair, the other rubbing slow, steady circles on your back. “It’s okay,” he murmured, though his heart was racing. “I’m here.”

By the time you were done, his mask and gloves were a distant memory. He helped you stand, his grip firm but gentle as he guided you to the sink. “Here's this to rinse your mouth if you need to,” he said handing you the cup full of the only mouthwash that didn't make you feel nauseous, his voice low and soothing. He stayed close as you brushed your teeth and gargled, his hand never leaving your back.

Once you were back in bed, he stepped out briefly to wash his hands, grabbing a water bottle on his way back. “Do you think we need to head to the ER?” he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.

His worried voice breaks through the silence but you shake your head, basically becoming one with the comforter. "I actually feel a lot better now believe it or not, probably a mix of the congestion and everything else already going on in my body but now? I'm serious I actually do feel better. Just tired."

Justin sighs, his body finally relaxing as he's looking at you. He can tell that you're less uncomfortable and there's less tension in your features, which brings him a flicker of relief. "Here I thought the morning sickness days were behind us," he teased, his tone much lighter now.

“That was not morning sickness, that was war. I was literally fighting for my life," you quipped, a faint smile playing on your lips. "This? This is much more manageable. And temporary." You yawn, your body finally finding the ideal sleeping position you'd been searching for since you woke up feeling like you were underwater. In the most unexpected way, getting sick in the middle of the night felt like a reset and hopefully you were turning a corner. For the first time since the day began, you melted into the bed, looking so peaceful it almost hurt to watch.

Justin lingered, his hand brushing the doorframe as he debated staying longer. Leaving you alone felt wrong, but he knew you needed rest...and so did he. Still, as he crossed the hall to his room, he couldn’t shake the image of your calm, serene face. It was the only thing that made the distance bearable.

When he woke up the next morning without any signs of illness he was both surprised and relieved to still be healthy. And he kind of wanted to use this as an excuse to reduce some of the physical distance. Not wanting to push it, he texted you and asked if you wanted breakfast and you let him know you were in the mood for something light. He brought you a banana and a few pieces of buttered toast. “Promise me you’ll drink more water today,” he said, setting the tray down.

Throughout the day he went back and forth between morning games, continuing his New England film and periodically walking by to check in...every hour like clockwork. During your third bathroom break of the day you heard him walk by and asked him to come in.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s fine, I wasn't sleeping," you laugh a little, feeling more like yourself, "I knew you were coming by soon. The Bills-Patriots game is starting soon isn't it?"

"Yeah..." a smile forms on his face as he inches closer to the bed. "What if I watched it in here? You’re feeling better, right? I’ll keep my distance, I swear. We can, I don’t know… make a pillow wall or something?"

"Oh please, as if a pillow wall could stop you. Get over here." You haven't even finished your sentence and he's already making himself comfortable under the blankets.

His large hand found it's way to your bump, feeling her kick like she realized her dad is back where he belongs. “Hi, sweet girl,” he murmured, leaning down. “I missed you too. Soon as we get your mom feeling better, we’ll get back to normal, okay?”

"I think she's a fan of that plan," you laugh at her kicking and moving around like she agrees.

"Hey," he mock-scolded, "we're having a private conversation here. Do you mind?"

You laugh even harder as he peppers soft kisses to your rounded stomach. "I didn't realize how much this yesterday."

“Me too,” Justin admitted softly. “You scared me yesterday, you know? You looked so…”

“Like death?”

“Not funny.” He deadpanned, but his playful smirk gave him away. “I’m just glad you’re better.”

Before you could respond, Justin’s phone rang. Coach Day. He stared at it for a beat too long, visibly torn.

"It's okay, you should go. I'm not going anywhere."

Justin steps out of the room, the weight of real life staring at hitting him in the chest. This was just the beginning of having to balance being a dad and having a job that was not only demanding but a job that was his dream. He loved playing football and lived for it. The competition, the camaraderie with his teammates and the chance to win a Super Bowl is what every football player dreams of. And here he was struggling to pick up his phone because of what he was leaving behind. It had taken so long to commit to someone, to find that person to compromise for, and with you there was no debate. He was without a doubt a devoted husband who could compartmentalize like the best of them, at home he balanced work and your relationship. It had taken a lot of practice and some difficult conversations but now with a baby in the picture he wasn't sure about how to navigate this new territory. This unbelievable hold that his child already had on him was hard for him to put into words and the two of you hadn't even named her yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to compromise this much when she was born, not wanting to miss a moment of her growth and the thought of that made him feel like a failure already. Coach Day's words barely registered throughout the call as Justin went over all these scenarios in his mind. They'd just have to rehash this discussion during their meeting in the morning.

When he returned after the call, Justin’s face was a storm of emotions. "How are we gonna do this?"

"Babe? What do you mean? How are we gonna do what?" You sat up, extremely confused as to what could've happened on that call.

"How... how am I supposed to do this?" Justin ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room. "I mean, I’m gone half the time—meetings, film, travel—and then what? You’re here sick, or she’s sick, and I’m thousands of miles away—"

“Justin.” You grabbed his hand, pulling him to sit beside you. “Breathe. It’s okay. Look, I know what I signed up for. And you're going to be the most amazing dad in the world. She's already in love with you and doesn't even know what you look like, she's gonna love you even more. Honey don't worry about any of that okay? You literally dropped everything yesterday to nurse me back to health I think you can handle a few diaper changes. You might as well have a PhD in caring for people, it's like you're meant to be a dad. And everything else with work we will figure it out, we always do."

"You're right." His lips quirk up. "We make a pretty good team don't we?"

"The best. That's why we're adding another player soon."

Justin smiles, feeling less overwhelmed. "We should probably find a name for our new player at some point."

"I know...do you have any that you're feeling?"

He pulls out his phone with the baby name list that you've compiled the last few months. "What about Georgia?"

"Cute but I'm not really feeling it," you scroll, "Willow?"

Justin shakes his head, "Willow Herbert sounds kind of weird. And if we want to give her a nickname what are we supposed to call her? Will? That just doesn't sound right."

"Okay fair. Wait...I like this one," you point at the name in the middle of the screen.

Justin nods, finding the name interesting. "Remington. Remi. That's not bad. I kind of like it too. What does she think?" You grab his hand to place it along your rib cage, the baby had been relatively quiet the last few minutes but had decided to make herself known as soon as her parents started to go through names. "Remi, huh?" Justin’s grin widened as he felt the kick. His eyes softened, and he gently pressed his hand against your rib cage. "She approves. I mean, that was practically a yes, right?"

[rispwr]

⋆˙⟡ step by step #5 ❤︎ m.list

note : this is not a love triangle i promise

contents : jk wearing a black button up, kinda the start of the drama, oc stubborn and indenial again, bad words, he calls her a naughty girl, no sex for now, oc finally softening up to him

wc : 1k?

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

I closed my phone, a satisfied smile creeping onto my face as I adjusted the weight of the shopping bags in my hands. five on each side, the perfect haul. What can I say? Shopping is a woman's way to relieve stress!

 Well, at least it's my way.

Slipping my phone into my pocket, I walked out of the mall and waited on the curb for Jungkook.

And then I saw him.

A sleek Toyota Corolla pulled up in front of me, and Jungkook stepped out in a fitted black button-up, dark trousers, and a sweater casually draped over his neck. The shirt was just tight enough on his arms to show off his big biceps, flexing slightly as he adjusted the sweater hanging around his shoulders.

He looked effortlessly put together.... Did he really go to work like this? No wonder his students were practically an Aria Montgomery wanna-be trying hard to get his attention.

The thought of Jungkook and his students made me irk in a way I didn't want to admit. It planted a seed of irritation deep in my chest, one that could easily fester into me being mad at him for no reason all week.

But even so, it was irrelevant. Illegal, even. Jungkook was mine, 

well, not mine- but still! 

Mine enough that the thought of anyone else made my blood simmer.

do i love him? why am i even feeling like this?

Before I could spiral further into that ridiculous thought, he walked toward me, his expression calm but with that little crease in his brow that said he was mildly annoyed.

Without a word, he took the shopping bags from my hands, carrying them effortlessly to the trunk before returning to me. His hand rested on my arm as he helped me into the passenger seat.

He sighed audibly as he closed the door, rounding the car to get in the driver's side. I could already sense the lecture coming.

----

Once we were settled in the car, he glanced at me briefly before speaking. "Okay, now who's the idiot that brought you to the mall and then left you all by yourself?"

I bit my lip, avoiding his gaze. "Are you gonna be mad...?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Depends, Y/N."

Y/N? The sudden shift to my full name made me wince slightly.

"Ugh, fine," I groaned. "It was Jimin. He came shopping with me to bond because we haven't seen each other for a week."

Jungkook hummed in acknowledgment, his grip tightening slightly on the steering wheel. "Did you have fun?"

"Of course! I got new sets—" I stopped mid-sentence, my eyes widening as I slapped a hand over my mouth.

But it was too late.

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Jungkook's lips. "New sets, huh? Are you gonna do a haul?"

I narrowed my eyes at him, my cheeks flushing. "Maybe, if you're lucky."

Before he could say something else teasing, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Fishing it out, I glanced at the screen and frowned slightly before answering.

"Oh yes? Hello?"

"Hi, hello!" a smooth voice greeted on the other end. "This is Min Yoongi, your new boss. A co-worker gave me your number, and I wanted to ask if you could send me the files later?"

My heart dropped.

"Hello? Are you there?" Yoongi asked again, his voice tinged with confusion.

"Oh- uhm, yes, of course, I'm still here, boss," I stammered, my throat suddenly dry. "I'll, uh, send it to you via email later."

As I finished speaking, the traffic light ahead turned red, and the car slowed to a stop. Jungkook glanced at me, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he picked up on my nervous tone.

"Alright then," Yoongi continued, his tone light. "I'll let you go. And hopefully, your ankle gets better soon."

There was a pause, a silence that felt loaded before he ended the call.

I lowered the phone from my ear, sliding it back into my pocket, my fingers fidgeting.

"Who was that?" Jungkook asked, his tone casual but with a slight edge that only someone who knew him well could detect.

"Oh- uh, it's just my boss," I said quickly, avoiding his gaze.

His brow twitched slightly, but he didn't press further.

As the car rolled forward again, Jungkook couldn't shake the unease bubbling in his chest. He could tell by the way you'd tensed up during the call, the slight shake in your voice, that there was more to it than just a work-related request.

And when you brushed it off with a quick "just my boss," something about it didn't sit right with him.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was overthinking. But Jungkook had learned over the years to trust his gut, and right now, it was telling him there was a lot more to this "boss" than you were letting on.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, his mind racing. He wasn't going to pry, not yet, anyway. He'd wait until you were ready to tell him.

But deep down, a bitter thought lingered: what if this was someone who could pull you away from him? Again.

------

We got back to my apartment, and Jungkook carried all the shopping bags inside like they weighed nothing. Meanwhile, I hobbled behind him, carefully maneuvering on my crutches.

As soon as he set the bags down by the door, I let out a squeal. "Haul time, baby!!" I cheered, making my way toward the couch as slowly and dramatically as possible.

But before I could settle myself down, Jungkook was already there. Dropping the shopping bags, he came over to help me, his strong hands steadying me as I eased onto the couch.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked, his tone shifting from playful to serious.

blah blah, proper name, backstory stuff

His words caught me off guard for a moment. It was so... him. Always making sure I was okay before anything else.

I looked up at him, his black button-up slightly unbuttoned at the top, and my mind drifted—again. It wasn’t my fault that the shirt clung just right to his biceps, and now, with him leaning down toward me, it only made things worse.

The way he carried himself always left me reeling. Jungkook had that mix of soft care and hard control, and the two were colliding right now in the most dangerous way.

As if to punish me for staring too long, Jungkook’s fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. He undid them slowly, exposing the toned lines of his chest as he stood in front of me.

My core clenched at the sight, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure.

His dark eyes flickered to mine, his lips curling into a teasing smirk. "Eyes up here, lady," he said, reaching down to tilt my chin upward with two fingers.

The position we were in right now… My knees were practically brushing against his legs, his body towering over mine. If I wanted to, I could lean forward, pull him closer, and suck him off right here, right now.

"I-I… no," I stammered, completely forgetting what he’d even asked me.

Jungkook’s smirk deepened as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, tilting his head slightly. He leaned down, closing the already too-small gap between us. His voice dropped lower, more gravelly, sending a shiver through my spine.

"You… naughty girl," he murmured.

I felt my breath hitch as he leaned in further, his lips brushing against mine. My eyes fluttered shut instinctively, my lips parting in anticipation of the kiss that was sure to leave me melting into the couch.

But he stopped.

The distance between our faces was so close it was maddening, but instead of the deep, passionate kiss I was expecting, he pressed the softest, quickest peck to my lips.

When I opened my eyes, I was met with his smug grin. "I’ll go feed you first," he said, pulling back and straightening up. "You wait here."

And just like that, he walked away, leaving me hot, bothered, and completely embarrassed.

I scoffed, crossing my arms as I glared at his retreating figure. The sight of him heading to the kitchen with his shirt still slightly unbuttoned only made it worse.

"Jeon Jungkook," I muttered under my breath, my eyes narrowing in frustration.

I couldn’t tell if I wanted to strangle him or pull him back into the room and demand he finish what he started. Probably both but i can't anyway cause i can't walk. 

[wisteria-lodge]

Male Crying in the Harry Potter Books

(this is a clean-up of an earlier post, incorporating some of the excellent feedback & additions I got.)

Men do 32% of the crying in the Harry Potter books, even though they represent 66% of the characters (pretty much as expected).* However, I’m interested in why the crying happens, and what it says about the characters. Because for the ladies, crying is pretty neutral - they all cry, and for all sorts of reasons (tired, frustrated, stressed, emotionally overwrought...) Bellatrix, Augusta Longbottom, Ginny, Tonks… all cry. Hermione cries thirty separate times over the course of the books. There is a point where where the narrative framing judges them for crying too much (Cho) but mostly it's a non-issue.

Male crying though, is something that gets mocked (by Slytherins.) Pansy calls Neville a “fat little cry baby,” and after Rita’s article (falsely) says that Harry was crying, Draco comes in with “Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in Transfiguration?” There’s also “D’you think [Hagrid]’ll cry when they cut off his hippogriff’s - ” right before Hermione slaps Draco. So making fun of people for crying is bad right? 

Let’s get into it. 

1 : Crying because of a death

The most acceptable reason for male crying. Mostly it happens *right* at the moment of death, or possibly at the funeral/next to the grave. Severus cries over Lily's letter (the ripped one which Harry later finds) which is certainly grave-adjacent.

In Book 3, Harry cries while talking to Lupin about hearing his parents dying (although the narrative voice DOES let us know that he’s kind of embarrassed about this.)

“Harry suddenly realized that there were tears on his face mingling with the sweat. He bent his face as low as possible, wiping them off on his robes, pretending to do up his shoelace, so that Lupin wouldn’t see.” 

This attempt to hide hide tears shows up a few more times. Sirius *also* cries when talking about Lily and James' deaths... or does he?

[Harry] was pointing at Black, who shook his head slowly; the sunken eyes were suddenly overbright. "Harry...I as good as killed them," he croaked. "I persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret-Keeper instead of me. ... I'm to blame, I know it. ... The night they died, I'd arranged to check on Peter, make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his hiding place, he'd gone. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. It didn't feel right. I was scared. I set out for your parents' house straight away. And when I saw their house, destroyed, and their bodies...I realized what Peter must've done...what I'd done. ..." His voice broke. He turned away. "Enough of this," said Lupin, and there was a steely note in his voice Harry had never heard before.

@strawberrybasilsorbet analyzes this passage extremely well:

"Suddenly overbright" is a particularly memorable descriptor for me. What an unusual way to describe having tears in one's eyes! It verges on euphemistic. "His voice broke" is much more direct, but still relies on implication instead of mentioning tears outright — which, considering that the intended audience is young readers, could be seen as subtle. Like Harry in the example above, Sirius clearly considers crying something to be ashamed of: he turns away to hide his tears. And in this moment, the sentences also become short. Halting, stilted. The narrative voice evokes Sirius's feelings here instead of describing his actions in detail. It isn't until later in the scene, when Sirius and Lupin begin to take action, that we get a straightforward description: "[Sirius] approached Lupin and the struggling rat, and his wet eyes suddenly seemed to be burning in his face." But even here, it is an understated observation. We don't get a description of actual crying, or even holding back tears."

Sirius also cries in Book 4, while listening to Harry describe seeing the shades of his parents come out of Voldemort's wand.

At this point, Harry found he could not continue. He looked around at Sirius and saw that he had his face in his hands.

@strawberrybasilsorbet continues,

"[this] example is more ambiguous — Sirius might be crying, he might be trying not to cry, or he might just be overwhelmed — but either way, the scene reflects a similar approach to strong emotion. Sirius covers his face to hide his sorrow; the narrator makes a short, declarative observation that leaves a lot between the lines. These scenes suggest that masculine tears are most respected by the narrative when they are (1) in response to grief, (2) irrepressible, despite the character's attempts to obscure or prevent them. Sirius and Harry are the two characters who represent this most clearly, although Lupin's sudden steeliness in the PoA scene implies that he shares this perspective. (This is also reflected in Lupin's decision to switch from talk to action: he cuts the conversation abruptly when Sirius begins to cry, demanding that Ron hand over Scabbers immediately. He is likely trying to spare his friend the ordeal of further emotional vulnerability). The narrator's voice seems to share this instinct, giving Sirius the dignity of subtlety when describing his emotions. This contrasts strongly with characters like Peter, whose tears are described in vivid and humiliating detail. What I think is especially revealing is how...discreet?...the narrator's voice becomes when Sirius is the character who is crying.

There is this slight *fan dance* quality present, where we see Sirius before he starts crying, and then again after he has already cried. But really don't see him actually crying.

Harry also has an interesting, sort of delayed reaction to Dumbledore's death:

Dumbledore had weakened himself by drinking that terrible potion for nothing. Harry crumpled the parchment in his hand, and his eyes burned with tears as behind him. Fang began to howl. He clutched the cold locket in his hand so tightly that it hurt, but he could not prevent hot tears spilling from his eyes

There’s a lot going on in this moment: Harry is tired, frustrated, disappointed, overwhelmed. But we still get that note that tears are something that ought to be hidden, and that even though Harry is trying to stop them, these happen to be irrepressible.

Crying because of a death: Full Breakdown

Amos Diggory: 1 (Cedric’s death) 

Arthur Weasley: 1 (Fred’s death)

Harry Potter: 4 (Hedwig, Lily, James, Dumbledore)

Rubeus Hagrid: 4 (Dumbledore, Buckbeak, Aragog, Harry) 

Sirius Black: 2 (Lily, James)

Severus Snape: 1 (Lily)

Argus Filtch: 1 (thinks Mrs. Norris is dead) 

Xenophillius Lovegood: 1 (thinks Luna is dead) 

Fillius Flitwick: (thinks Ginny is dead) 

Ron Weasley: 1 (Dumbledore’s funeral) 

Elphias Doge: 1 (Dumbledore’s funeral

2: Crying because of pain

You’d think this one would also be acceptable. But… not really? Dudley cries when Vernon hits him (but Harry doesn’t.) Peter Pettigrew cries when he cuts off his own hand, Saw style, but it gets framed as blubbering weakness.

Our last guy crying in pain is Book 1 Neville, after he breaks his wrist during flying lessons. He also “sniffs,” while walking into the Forbidden Forest for detention, which *might* count as crying? But really, Neville cries surprisingly little. We get a lot of “looked as though he might cry” and “on the verge of tears”... but that's not actually crying. And I think that’s because… early-books Neville, yes we’re supposed to see him as a little pathetic. But definitely not as pathetic as Dudley or Pettigrew. @blorger writes:

The characters who cry for pain are crying because they're just Not Man Enough (and that's wormtail's biggest failure as a character, isn't it?). Neville, to me, is the perfect encapsulation of JKR's attitude towards crying: he is constantly on the verge of crying, especially in the first books, because we're meant to feel a sort of benign pity for him, his weakness makes him amiable, yes, but there's still strength in his character (he can stop himself from crying! see, he's brave!). Neville does Suffering well, and nothing shows one's character to jkr more than how they handle suffering.

Crying in pain: Full Breakdown

Dudley Dursley: 1 (hit by Uncle Vernon)

Neville Longbottom: 1 (broken wrist)

Peter Pettigrew: (hand cut off)

Bonus almost crying: 

Dudley Dursley: Fake crying

Neville Longbottom: “looked as though he might cry” “on the verge of tears.” 

Professor Quirrell: “looked as though he was about to cry”

3: “Childlike” crying

Sometimes the people who cry are literally little boys. No one is going to judge infant Harry for crying when Voldemort is in the house, or little Severus for crying when his parents are fighting. Interestingly, when Myrtle is talking about Draco crying in her bathroom, Harry assumes she’s talking about someone much younger: 

“There’s been a boy in here crying?” said Harry curiously. “A young boy?” 

But of course, when an adult is crying in a childlike way, it immediately becomes… pathetic. Again we have Pettigrew, who “burst into tears. It was horrible to watch: He looked like an oversized, balding baby, cowering on the floor.” In the Horcrux cave, crying Dumbledore is described “like a child dying of thirst.” Which is also meant to be pathetic, but in more of a ‘Harry has to be the adult now’ sort of way. Also, the potion seems to have made Dumbledore mentally regress back to his youth, so it’s *closer* to a literal “child crying” moment. 

(I considered putting Dumbledore drinking the potion in the ‘pain’ section, but at least in the book I think it’s clear he’s mostly in emotional rather than physical pain.)

Where this gets messy is with the house-elves. House-elves are not children, but they are presented as childlike. They are small and in-your-face, direct even though their problem-solving tends to be very convoluted/not especially logical. I like the present-tense, no pronouns way they speak, but I can’t deny it is kind of baby-talk adjacent. And… house elves are *really* emotional. Dobby, Kreacher (and Winky) cry a LOT. If I had to guess, I would say JKR likes treating house-elves as childlike so it’s more of a surprise when it turns out that one of them was behind everything. But considering that they are slaves, it is gross - considering that one of the main real-world justifications for slavery was ‘slaves are childlike, and therefore unable to take care of themselves.'

There’s also Hagrid. With seventeen separate instances of crying, Hagrid easily cries more than any other guy in the Harry Potter books. And… well… he’s also presented as oddly childlike. He seems much more like Harry and Ron’s contemporary than a peer of the other professors - which is weird, since  if he went to school with Voldemort fifty years ago, he’s in his sixties now. But still, he’s helpless in the face of criticism, he’s comically out of his depth whenever he deals with the Ministry, he’s constantly letting things slip or drastically misjudging danger levels. The first three books all use “Hagrid gets in trouble, the gang has to bail him out” as a plot point, and in Book 4 his sideplot with Madame Maxime gets treated like a schoolboy’s first crush, with all these jokes about him wearing suits that don’t quite fit, and trying and failing to style his hair.

Childlike crying: Full breakdown

Rubeus Hagrid: 13

Dobby: 7

Kreacher: 3

Peter Pettigrew: 1

Harry Potter: 1 (infant)

Severus Snape: 1 “while a small dark-haired boy cried in a corner.”  “it was unnerving to think that the crying little boy who had watched his parents shouting ” 

Albus Dumbledore: 1 "like a child dying of thirst"

4. Crying because of strong emotion

The difference here is... does the character try to suppress the crying, or not? If they do try to suppress it, then it stays respectable, almost on a level with grief-crying. If not well... that means that the character crying is meant to read as a little pathetic, a little femme or (lets face it)... both.

Take this example of Ron crying after he destroys the locket horcrux:

Ron was breathing heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue; they were also wet. Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up the broken Horcrux. (...) “After you left,” he said in a low voice, grateful for the fact that Ron’s face was hidden, “[Hermione] cried for a week. Probably longer, only she didn’t want me to see..."

Hermione is allowed more tears because she is a girl, but there does come a point where she has to hide them or else run the risk of being perceived as crying too much by the narrative (like Cho.) In terms of the boys - again, we've got a moment like Sirius and Remus have, where Ron is (correctly) hiding his tears and Harry is (correctly) doing a 'I'm going to protect you from further vulnerability by kind of changing the subject / pretending that I didn't see you cry.' Also, similarly to the Sirius example, the description of Ron's crying is subtle, almost euphemistic ("wet eyes.") We are not using the word cry, or tears, or anything like that.

Look at this next excerpt, of Percy's reunion with his family, and especially at how the crying of all three characters is handled:

Mrs. Weasley burst into tears. She ran forward, pushed Fred aside, and pulled Percy into a strangling hug, while he patted her on the back, his eyes on his father. “I’m sorry, Dad,” Percy said. Mr. Weasley blinked rather rapidly, then he too hurried to hug his son. “What made you see sense, Perce?” inquired George. “It’s been coming on for a while,” said Percy, mopping his eyes under his glasses with a corner of his traveling cloak.

Molly is crying buckets, no problem. Arthur gets almost-crying or euphemistic crying. And Percy is explicitly crying, not trying to hide it, and even gets the slightly comedic imagery of trying to wipe your eyes without taking off your glasses.

And well, JKR respects Percy less than she respects Arthur. As @arkadijxpancakes puts it, "When it comes to Percy, I'm still surprised how subdued his crying in that scene is. Because, yeah, Rowling does respect him less. She also has a tendency to write him in a pretty feminine manner. It's still a stark contrast to his mother, however." Even though we catch him in a serious moment, he's still slightly ridiculous Percy.

So from this, we can see that this male heightened emotionality is meant to look a bit comedic - like when Oliver Wood cries when Gryffindor wins the Quidditch cup "to highlight that his weird priorities are funny and slightly ridiculous," ( @blorger.) We also don't see Hogwarts-age Severus actually cry, but considering his nickname is “Snivellus” (ie “crybaby,” since “sniveling” is a synonym for crying) I'm assuming he does. Just the word "Snivellus" is clearly supposed to funny and a little pathetic.

Slughorn has an interesting instance of crying at Aragog's funeral, not out of grief for Aragog, but out of a maudlin sense of togetherness, nostalgia, and camaraderie. It *is* supposed to be funny that he's crying over a giant spider he just met. Like Percy, Slughorn is also a bit femme-coded: a flashy dresser with lilac pajamas, who loves his treats and fancy dinner parties, and is well-connected without being ambitious the way Lucius is. He also is aligned with pureblood-supremacy, but hyper avoidant of violence and confrontation... just like Draco.

Draco of course gets a BIG crying scene in Book 6. We hear about him crying once from Myrtle, and then see it first hand: 

Malfoy was crying — actually crying — tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin.

The narrative voice takes a second to let us know that he was ACTUALLY CRYING, just to hammer in that this is something unexpected and not-normal. I think I want also to attribute Draco’s tendency to cry - and cry because he’s overwhelmed, scared, lonely - to the character’s slight femme coding. And the fact that JKR clearly sees him as a bit pathetic.

The most surprising person to land in this particular category is Dumbledore. I was surprised he cries as much as he does, at such unusual times, and with none of the "manliness" of a crying Harry, Ron, Sirius, or Arthur. He cries when he sees Snape’s doe patronus - because of love or just because he’s emotionally overwhelmed. He cries all through the Horcrux cave, primarily because of guilt. He cries twice during the King’s Cross Station vision-quest, once because of his complicated feelings about Harry while he asks for forgiveness, and once over … Grindlewald.

“They say he showed remorse in later years, alone in his cell at Nurmengard. I hope that it is true. I would like to think he did feel the horror and shame of what he had done. Perhaps that lie to Voldemort was his attempt to make amends . . . to prevent Voldemort from taking the Hallow . . .”  “. . . or maybe from breaking into your tomb?” suggested Harry, and Dumbledore dabbed his eyes.

I think Dumbledore gets all these tears because he is actually, deliberately queer coded. JKR announced that Dumbledore was gay just a few months after Book 7 was published, and I think she had that character interpretation in her head as early as Book 6. My proof of that is Dumbledore's increased emotionality - and also this interesting passage from Book 6: 

This younger Albus Dumbledore’s long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing. “Nice suit, sir,” said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled.

Now, okay. Wizards out and about in the muggle world often wear unusual colors like purple and emerald green. However. That adjective flamboyantly is only used one other time in the entire series, to describe Fudge’s hand gestures. Here, it is used to describe clothes, a purple velvet suit which is honestly more than a little bit Oscar Wilde. And “flamboyantly gay” … those are two words often heard together. 

Also, correct me if I’m wrong, but I am pretty sure this is the only opinion about clothing Harry ever expresses aloud. @niche-pastiche hit the nail right on the head with the observation that "Nice suit, sir" is SO the response of a young adhd boy in the early 2000s trying not to say "thats gay." 

And so that's my say. In JKR's head, crying isn't "manly," so if you are crying, it's because you're a woman, you're a child, you're funny/pathetic, or you're ambiguously femme-coded. A noble single man tear is allowed at times of intense grief, but otherwise you have to turn your head away.

Crying because of strong emotion: Full breakdown 

Draco Malfoy: 2

Severus Snape: 1

Albus Dumbledore: 4

Horace Slughorn: 1

Arthur Weasley: 1

Percy Weasley: 1

Ron Weasley: 1

*My list of 208 Harry Potter characters comes from TV Tropes, which had the most complete breakdown. I am excluding characters from Cursed Child and the Fantastic Beasts Films. Also, please tell me if there are any instances of crying that I missed.

[mooomuzan]

hyper-specific chuuya bf headcanons

“…the quiet understanding that, even in chaos, they are each other’s home.”

oo.1 :: during a sudden rainstorm, chuuya insists you dance with him in the middle of the empty street. he spins you around dramatically, ignoring how soaked you both get. he even lifts you off the ground in a final, cinematic twirl, laughing at your breathless smile.

oo.2 :: chuuya pretends to hate it when you ask to braid his hair, rolling his eyes and muttering something about how it’s “a waste of time.” but the second you start, he’s completely still, leaning back just enough for you to reach comfortably. he’ll grumble under his breath—“don’t make it look stupid”—but the soft way he closes his eyes gives him away. he secretly loves the feeling of your fingers in his hair, and though he’ll never admit it, he refuses to take the braid out until he absolutely has to.

oo.3 :: if a fight gets particularly heated, chuuya has this infuriating habit of silencing you with a kiss mid-sentence. he’s not doing it to dismiss your feelings—he just can’t stand the thought of you being upset with him for too long. “i hate seeing you mad at me,” he’ll say, his forehead resting against yours, voice quiet and sincere.

oo.4 :: one night, you convince chuuya to graffiti a wall with you. at first, he acts too dignified for it but eventually gets into it, creating surprisingly artistic designs. by the end, he’s smeared in paint, laughing, and calling it a masterpiece.

oo.5 :: chuuya challenges you to a cooking duel, complete with dramatic commentary and music playing in the background. he pretends to be a judge for your dish, acting overly critical, but it’s just to cover up how much he loves your cooking.

oo.6 :: sometimes, after a particularly stressful day, chuuya will wordlessly walk up to you, throw his arms around your waist, and bury his face in your shoulder. he doesn’t say much, just breathes you in like you’re the calm in his storm. if you run your fingers through his hair, he’ll let out the softest sigh, “just needed to hold you right now.”

oo.7 :: when you’re walking side by side, chuuya has an oddly romantic habit of grabbing your wrist. he’ll lift it up and press a small kiss to the inside, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. when you ask him why, he’ll shrug and smirk. “your pulse is there,” he’ll say, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

oo.8 :: he sets up a city-wide treasure hunt for your anniversary, complete with clues written in elegant script. each clue leads to places that are significant to your relationship—like the first place you met, or where you shared your first kiss. he acts all serious as you solve each riddle, but when you finally find the “treasure”—a simple, heartfelt note from him—he admits he just wanted to see your smile as you pieced everything together.

[quintessenceofdust88]

It was really hard to choose so I'm asking for both of my favourites 🙏 please

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊 (this one i really want to see a full fic cause it's so intriguing)

🍼🍼🍼🍼

Hi my love! Ofc you can have bothhh, no need to choose in this house hehe!

Let's start with 20-ish sentences of Tsunami goodness, continuing from here (all previous snippets here). I hope you like it! ♥

--

���🌊🌊🌊🌊

It’s indeed a little girl, she can’t be older than six; her light yellow summer dress is wet and covered in grime and leaves, and so is her hair which is styled in two well done pigtails; her arms are wrapped around a bright unicorn plushie. She’s looking down at him, her deep blue eyes filled with fear, a few tears running down her red cheeks. It breaks Buck’s heart. 

“Hey!” Buck says; he doesn’t see any injuries, but he won’t move her until he’s sure. “I’m gonna help you, ok? Are you hurt?”

“N-no…” She tells him with a sniffle. “But Uncle Sal is, and the water took him, and I didn’t see him anymore! And…. And I wanted to go after him, but Daddy always says I should wait for rescue if bad things happen!...”

She’s starting to cry again, and Buck  thanks the universe for whoever is the sensible parent of this child, because even if she isn’t hurt now, she would be if she had tried to get down on her own. 

“Okay, kiddo, first of all let’s get you down here safely. Then you can tell me about your uncle Sal, alright? What’s your name?” He asks her. 

“Genevieve Kinard” She recites dutifully. “But you can call me Vivie”

Buck has the faintest impression there's something familiar about that name, but he shakes it off, not having time to think about it right now. He nods at her with what he hopes is a kind smile even though exhaustion is starting to creep its way into him once again. He’s losing precious time in his search for Chris, but he can’t just abandon a little child; he knows that, if someone found Chris in the middle of all of this, he’d want them to keep him safe.

“Okay, Vivie. I'm Evan, but you can call me Buck” He tells her, and then raises his arms toward her. “Alright, Vivie, you’re gonna have to be super brave, because I'm gonna ask you to jump, and then I'll catch you. Do you think you can do that?”

It wouldn't be unreasonable for her to be scared; the situation is stressful, and the top of a pick-up must feel quite high for a little girl. But she nods without hesitation, scooching closer to the edge of the pick-up and looking down at him. 

“Kinda like playing toss?” She asks, and Buck can only assume that’s a game someone plays with her, and he hopes to God it’s similar to what he’s planning to do.

(Blobs under the cut)

And here are 16-ish sentences of Little Blobs, ch. 5, for you, continuation from here;

-🍼

“Hey, sweetie, are you ready?” Tommy asks, and Buck glares at him with the force of a thousand suns for daring to ask the question so inconsiderately. 

“Oh, that’s so easy for you to say, you have clothes that fit you!” Buck exclaims, crossing his arms, he realizes he’s being irrational, but he doesn’t care. 

Tommy, to his credit, manages not to laugh, though he still looks slightly amused by Buck’s outburst. He also doesn’t look offended, which tells Buck just how good of a husband he has.

He’s still upset and pouty when Tommy approaches him, placing a small kiss to the side of his head, and then kneeling down and pressing another one to his swollen bump, a small smile on his face.

“Hey, blobs, you’re getting too big for Daddy’s clothes in there? You’re growing so fast!” He tells them, his voice enthusiastic, but Buck notices his gaze is slightly saddened, and bites his lips, deciding now is not the moment to address it.

He’s been noticing a few moments where Tommy gets that sad, far away look in his eyes, ever since they came back from Indiana. Buck can only imagine how bad it must have felt for Tommy, seeing his father like that, and he wonders if that’s what’s still rattling him. He can’t relate that much; his relationship with his own father, while certainly not perfect, was never this antagonistic. Maybe Tommy just needs some time to brush it off.  Thinking about his father reminds Buck of the fact he still hasn’t told his parents about the babies, and he has to do it before it’s awkward. It’s not that he hasn’t meant to, but they haven’t had a video call in a long time, and they still weren’t telling people back then. He’s been meaning to schedule a new one for weeks, but things have been hectic. Maybe he’ll text them tomorrow and get it over with.

[wickjump]

im gonna start posting fanfic recs btw whenever i find good ones. both here and my (awfully barren) 18+ account. because there are so many good fics out there with so few hits and fewer kudos and sometimes no comments period and it SUCKS because i REALLY LIKE THEM A LOT.. and i hope that by linking them here and yelling at everyone to COMMENT DAMMIT they might actually do it

seriously though any comment means a lot. most people who read a fic don’t even give a kudos. even if the fic wasn’t top tier, if you didn’t dislike it, hand over some kudos!! and if you liked it, comment!!!! even if the comment is one singular heart emoji it will be appreciated. if the comment just says “great fic!” the author will be happy. your comment doesn’t have to be this long winded gushing or analysis.

so many authors quit writing or lose motivation because the comments are few and far in between or just sometimes nonexistent. trust me when i say authors don’t care about how long or cool or smart sounding your comment is i promise!!!

i hope that mmmaybe recommending fics and telling people to comment might help fics i really like get more support maybe. and i, points at you reading this, hope that you will listen!!!at least a little….at least sum kudos….

[puppet-purgatory]

was looking at the watcher store again and noticed this puppet university has a latin motto on it, "disce aut pereant". this means, of course, Learn Or Perish. my university latin classes Did prepare me for this day :)

[littleplantfreak]

gn lovlies I’m gonna go dream about Umemiya getting bit in zombie apocalypse au

[cr0ws-cha0t1c-c0llect10n]

i feel like i need to do like one of those disclaimers that this intense crying session is NOT regarding politics, it is the wretched Pains yet again

[unholyglitch404]

I feel like, at this point, I already need to take a break from US politics. Like, I'm just sitting here, getting more and more stressed the more I hear of it, and for what? I can't do shit. I can't fucking vote. I can't add any input, because what politician actually cares about trans minors, beyond using us as fucking ammunition for their power-hungry bullshit? I can't even fucking leave! I'm just stuck in a so-called "democracy" that's actively falling apart at the seams!

[whentherewerebicycles]

ok I napped three times, walked twice, read a lot, called my mom, and wrote a couple thank you notes. not bad! hands are bothering me a lot but taking a break from reading will help. heading to dinner with liz & family now then I’ll swing by the grocery store on the way home. meals this week:

sweet corn pasta

roasted veggie bowl with tahini sauce

linguine with roasted broccoli & ricotta

[tiffanylamps]

did i mean to take a break from tumblr for this long? nope. am i "back"? we'll find out together