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thetarotyapper · 2 months ago

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you & your future partner/spouse's personality

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I II III

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(how to pick a card? observe the given images and choose the one which you feel the most drawn to. select the image based on the number provided below and scroll down to read about the pile you have chosen. remember, this is a general reading, so take what resonates! ps.- if you feel drawn to more than one card/image/pile, feel free to read the others too!! if the chosen pile doesn't relate to you, feel free to choose another. the choice is yours<3)

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⊹₊⋆ pile I

⭑ your personality ⭑

pile 1, your energy is so fresh and so pure. you're someone who is always inspired and you're not afraid to get what you want. you're someone who is smart and finds solutions rather quickly. you like to take inspired action and you stand your ground. you're someone who believes in equal rights (and i'm also getting the energy here that you might be very masculine - regardless of your gender). you do not only stand up for yourself, you also stand up for others. you're a protector. you're strong headed and you might be very firm with regard to your opinions, and that's because you know you are right. and you are always right. you're mature and emotionally strong, literally no one can break you. you love teamwork and i see that you might like to socialize or you have a good number of trustworthy friends. people might come to you for advice and i see you guiding them. you're wise and filled with wisdom. you love structure and balance. you might like the colour red, and there's strong fire sign energy coming through. you're someone who thinks before they act. you're also someone who takes accountability for your actions and you value honesty.

⭑ your future partner/spouse personality ⭑

things have not been easy for your person. they've lived life the tough way and i see them carrying a lot of trauma and burden. they have the ability to leave their past behind, but for some reason i see that they're scared of the future as it is unknown. so, they're somewhat comfortable with their traumatic past because it is something they already know and are accustomed to. does that make sense? they're trying to let go of their past but it's them who is still holding on to it. i see that they're here for the long-term. it can be in areas of work, finances, family or romance. they're someone who is always thinking about expanding their name and gaining recognition. i feel like their parents might have neglected them when they were a child or their parents never listened to any of their interests, so they try to seek that validation from others. they're very social and they might like to party a lot. again, it's to gain validation because they lacked it when they were a kid. women might be easily attracted to them is what i'm seeing here. maybe they're very charismatic. they're enjoying or trying to enjoy the flow of life but i do see that their main concern is financial loss. they might also have some physical health issues. maybe they get tired or sick often because of overworking or it could be a genetic factor. something to do with the way they walk. they might have been through an accident. they also might have low self-confidence because of this or they're just insecure in general. but however, they're working their way through life and they're trying to enjoy the smallest moments.

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✦ . ⁺ pile II

⭑ your personality ⭑

before i could even shuffle the cards i got a feeling that you're someone who is very social or you might capture a lot of people's attention. you might be the “life of the party” in the friend group. people might feel drawn to your sunshine energy and the way you're always so bubbly. you're someone who is filled with strength and courage and you're also someone who is confident. you know yourself better than anyone and you don't let anyone tell you otherwise. you go gurllll!!!💅 you're literally a natural born leader and things literally flow to you. i see you achieving things without needing to put in too much hard work. you're someone who has good vision - either for the future or it might also be your eyes. you might have pretty eyes or your vision is really good. this also could mean that you can see through people and you know when someone is lying. you might be an earth sign, or have an earth sign in your placements. you have endless opportunities lying ahead of you, all you need to do is look in front of you. i see you're very protected by your angels. i'm getting a leo sign here. you're someone who radiates confidence and you're also independent. you know what you want and you go for it. very determined, very strong, very wild. however i do see that you've not been very lucky when it comes to love. you feel like you might not find anyone in this lifetime and you also might have this tendency to forgive and romanticise relationships that aren't even worth your time. you might be hooked on a past lover. you might also be someone who has unrealistic expectations when it comes to relationships and you might also tend to get jealous very easily.

⭑ your future partner/spouse personality ⭑

your person is very nurturing and hopeful. they might be someone who believes in spirituality and might be into astrology or astrophysics. or they might even have a thing for space. maybe they like to study stars or things related to space. you get what i mean? they're someone who is very diplomatic and believes in balance. they're always ready to try new things and are always on the go. they might be someone who likes to plan spontaneous trips or just likes going out regularly (but not in a “partying” sense. more like going out in nature). i see that they're someone who likes to explore new possibilities and they're not afraid to dive into the unknown. a complete contrast from pile 1’s person. water sign energy coming through. they might tend to get disappointed easily but that's because they like to do things without thinking twice. they're also someone who is very forgiving. they might have been facing financial struggles but i see them overcoming this obstacle.

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٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ pile III

⭑ your personality ⭑

i see that you might have gone through some major transformation. you might've been a victim of stagnation and you might've felt like your efforts were going unnoticed and you knew that YOU were the one who had to change. and you did exactly that! you've changed your ways and you've been more active and you participate more in activities. i see you being inspired and also inspiring many. people feel comfortable around you and they might open up to you easily. you're very caring and giving. you love everyone and i don't see a single hint of hate in your heart. your heart is open for everyone. i also see that you're dictating your life in this routine or you might have expectations you would want to meet at a given time and i see you nearing your goal. you're someone who struggled in the past and now i see that you have made a map for yourself or a route for yourself and you're never going to leave this routine behind as you're seeing good results. you're also someone who knows how to regulate their emotions and not let their emotions take over them. you have a good way of getting away from the tension and you always seem composed. a romantic connection might also be coming your way!!

⭑ your future partner/spouse personality ⭑

okay so pile 3, your person seems like someone who might be young or might be a little emotionally immature. they're always acting before they think and even though a part of them knows that it's a bad idea, they still go ahead. they might be a victim of extreme peer pressure or they might have this longing to fit in. but regardless of this small flaw, i do see that they're someone who is very fulfilled and satisfied with their life. they're someone who is very grounded and humble and i see that they attract a lot of opportunities. i also see that they might have a shopping addiction and this might make sense when i mentioned that they always act before they think. they seem like someone who likes to go out a lot and loves to make new connections. they might be someone who is attractive or they're just confident and they might turn some heads towards them. they actually like the attention, i'm not gonna lie. they're like teenagers. that's literally the energy im getting here. they might also have a bird as their pet or might like pets in general. they know that things will go well for them and i also see that they're someone who becomes very focused when they want something. they're someone who likes to fight for what they want rather than getting things easily. i'm also getting the energy here that they might be from a well-off background and things come easily to them but they're someone who does not like to take the easy way out. they work hard for what they want. they're also someone who is straightforward and is not afraid to speak their mind. blue might be their favourite colour.

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hi loves!! i hope this reading finds you in good health and i hope you are doing well. take care of yourself and i will see you in my next reading. thank you for being here<3

(note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not predict the future in a fixed way. this is a general reading so take what resonates!)

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drgnflyteabox · 2 months ago

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red ochre [5]

series masterlist previous || part five -> kermes || part six -> madder

> summary: big nun, little nun > tags/warnings: guilt, religious / moral turmoil, stockholm syndrome, child abuse (past), scars, simon returns, corruption (past), misogyny (past), whipping (past), blood, suffering (past mostly), power imbalance, freeze response (past), guilt, dissociation, dom/sub dynamics, we're learning consent (kinda? eeh), violent imagery, dubcon/noncon, vaginal fingering, choking, throat grab

When Johnny asks how it felt to go from there – the convent, you think he means – to here, you can only describe it as dunking your hands into ice water.

Shocking, painful, and prickling all over.

He only says hm, and moves on. His face is pensive. You don’t tell him that sometimes, you wake up and aren’t in the water anymore.

Even in prayer, you hadn’t thought as much as you had since you’d been taken. Hadn’t worried as much. Teachings from adults since youth had told you that everybody was inherently sinful, even children.

So why is the community around you so happy without God? They have their own, you know this, but the multitude of them and their roles in divine hierarchy aren’t necessarily about absolute power.

There are woman-Gods, Gods without designations, Gods for the earth and the children and unions between people. You find it hard to continue calling them heretics, devils, when they’re really just people. Different, yes, strange and incomprehensible, but people nonetheless.

Heathens, you try to think. Heathens, devils. They took you

You wonder when the last time you thought of yourself as just a person was, when you weren’t a thing set within a rigid mold, beaten down in more ways than one.

On the eve of Simon's return you catch Johnny doing something secretive. He's hunched over the table, the tip of his tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration. The soft sound of scraping, of wood gently knocking is all you can hear over the fire.

“What's that?” you ask, when your curiosity gets the best of you.

Johnny turns, one eye squinted, the every picture of concentration. He holds up a carved figure – a woman, it looks like. Ah, it’s you. Though hard to tell, the woman wears a veil and sits on a chair, hunched.

Your veil. You’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. It used to be a weight, heavy and pressing, a shackle. Now you miss the safety of not feeling so exposed all the time.

Somewhere in the journey here it had been lost, or maybe thrown overboard. Your habit, too, replaced for the woolen Viking-style dresses bought and bartered for by Simon and Johnny. Even you have to admit you enjoy the colours more, even if the conformity of the convent felt safe.

“How long were you watching me?” you breathe, eyes wide and still staring.

“Not long, lamb,” he smiles disarmingly. “Ah just remember ye, sittin’ pretty.”

“Working on the tapestry,” you correct him, though it doesn’t really matter.

He looks back down to his little figure, pensive.

“Ah guess so,” he says jovially.

“It was my punishment,” you add. This probably matters even less, but the clash of worlds has thrown you off balance. You feel unbearably present, unbearably lucid.

I was a nun, you think. Am I still a nun?

“Punishment?” he frowns. “Ah thought they struck ye?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I had to work extra hard.”

“Like a bairn?”

“A what?”

“A child, lamb,” he smiles again.

You look into the fire, thinking. Punishment applied to everyone, not just children, no? Even Simon and Johnny had punished you. But who had given them the right? Had you, with your secret want? Your secret lustful sin?

“You punished me,” you settle on.

“Aye, we did,” he nods. “Ye needed it.”

“Then why do you… ah, disparage the church for doing the same?”

He turns to you.

“Ah think ye got it all wrong,” he says simply. “We don’t give it to ye to make ye hurt. Aren’t ye better after? Righted?”

Righted. That’s a word worth its weight in gold. As is the truth of his words, but you stay quiet and look into the fire instead of responding.

You take up Johnny’s offer to spend time with Kari. Johnny walks you there, holds your hand in the cold and blows hot air on them as you wait together outside their door.

When Gaz opens it, he hoots and hollers as if the frigid air outside has no effect on him, as if his inner warmth and naturally excitable disposition is no match for the cold.

You have to admire that. At least a little.

“Hi there,” Gaz says to you, a greeting softer than the one he gave Johnny.

“Hello,” you try to subtly peek inside, “it’s… nice to see you.”

He doesn’t take offence to your awkward, stilted attempt at politeness. Maybe he knows you’re not quite comfortable here, to put it lightly, and only claps your shoulder gently to pull you in.

“Have fun!” Johnny shouts, already leaving, “and give me my wife back in one piece!”

That makes you sheepish, but you try to ignore your feelings in favour of moving towards Kari and the little baby, Tyra.

“Hello again,” she greets, smiling. The baby stares at you, babbles ceasing as if she’s seeing you for the first time. Her little head swings towards her mother, hiding despite her clear curiosity.

“You’ve met me before,” you say softly, trying valiantly not to frighten her as you take a seat opposite to Kari.

“She’s feeling shy lately,” Kari looks down and tuts, swiping a thumb over Tyra’s chubby cheek, “needs her mama.”

Weaving here is not much different than weaving at the convent. Once you get the basics down, you’re threading dyed wool into cloth astride Kari.

Some spirit of confidence grips you.

“Will you tell me anything about Simon and Johnny?”

“About-” she lifts her head, “Simon and Johnny? Don’t they speak to you?”

“They - do,” you rush to assure her, though your voice maintains a weary unsureness.

Luckily for you, she gives you a small but comforting smile over the wool.

“You’re looking for an outside opinion? That’s okay, lovely girl, I just might not know as much about them as my husband does,” she gestures with her chin towards Gaz, who walks towards you both.

“What d’you need to know?” he asks casually, sidling up to Kari affectionately, “think they’ll be able to answer better than me.”

“I only really know… what I’ve seen. I haven’t…” your mouth twists as you trail off, frustration germinating as you struggle. Right, you can commit sins of the flesh but you can’t ask a question to sate curiosity — one which might be the difference between surviving and not surviving.

Knowledge is important, after all. Powerful. You think of Eve, who doomed humanity for it, naked as the day she was born and as clueless as Adam yet ate the apple anyway.

“I know they’re… warriors,” you pause, “since they’re all scarred, but—“

“Well, not necessarily—” Kari starts, until Gaz puts a palm on her thigh and gives her a look you can’t discern.

“That’s not something we should share,” Gaz says tightly, but kindly.

“How else..?” you frown.

Tyra stirs, and Kari gives Gaz another look.

“Simon’s father used to be chief,” she lifts the babe back into her lap, patting, cooing, “it’s not a nice story, but if you need it to understand them better then I don’t mind telling it.”

“I want to know about them,” you insist, trying to push past the sense of danger, the sense that you’ll be hurt or killed for toeing out of line.

Testing the elasticity of safety here perhaps isn’t wise, but testing it might be what you need to settle. Knowing where the boundaries are, what’s expected, where they come from… you wonder if you’ll doom everybody, like Eve.

“Believe it or don’t, but we’ve only just rekindled the hunts, the raids. How it should be,” she starts.

Gaz sighs, leaning back where he’s sitting. You assume his hesitance is out of loyalty for his comrades, but you choose tentatively to ignore him in favour of his wife.

“We had a lazy, drunken leader,” Kari continues, “Simon’s father inherited the title through lineage, not through prowess as is… more natural to us.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine. In the church, such things were often gained with corruption: any wealthy lords’ son could rise high in the ranks, if he had the money and means.

The convent had somewhat of a similar issue, though the women were ‘married’ into the church and the power rested in the hands of their families.

Such was the world.

Not always, but you’d heard of it often enough. One of the abbots of the monastery in the closest town had been the son of an affluent donator, and thus received power of authority over the other monks.

“To make a long story short, and more respectful to Simon—” Gaz looks at her then “—his father was needlessly cruel both to his own children, his wife, and to those he was responsible for.”

“So, those scars…?”

“Some are from fighting, of course. But usually, no one’s getting close enough to those two to land that kind of damage. I’m sure you can fill in the rest.”

Gaz butts in here, “or, you can ask him yourself.”

“How did that woman, I forgot her name, come to be chief?” you frown in thought.

Gaz takes over again, his hand dragging up from the small of his wife's back and squeezing her nape. It’s as much of a warning as you’ve seen, though it’s quiet and Kari looks sheepish, not afraid, “Kate challenged him.”

“A challenge?” you frown, “such as?”

“A fight to the death.”

“Oh,” your lips close, and thin, and your eyebrows fly up. “I didn’t realize… I mean, violence is…”

They don’t do you the courtesy of filling in for you, so you go silent and the air settles.

Johnny picks you up later, when you’ve helped Kari with a big portion of her weaving. You love the threads, the dyeing process. It’s meditative.

“Good ?” Johnny nudges your side, slipping a hand to just above your waist, fingers tickling the side of your breast.

“Yes,” and it’s honest.

He walks you home, hand in hand, and cannot stop talking about Simon's return.

“Ah’ve never been without him this long,” he rambles over the fire, stirring a potato soup, “think yer gonnae be witness to something dirty. Sorry, lamb.”

Only he’s grinning, and he’s not sorry, and you can see the front of his pants begin to tent.

Johnny later offers you that very same sin, tilting his hips towards you and swinging his cock obscenely, cheekily. You do not take him up on it despite the smolder that begins between your legs – you simply turn, and try to sleep through the sounds of his self-abuse.

Simon returns without much fanfare, slipping into the house with a seemingly practiced silence. He moves like a ghost.

Johnny doesn't wake yet, sleeping like an affectionate log behind you.

His gaze meets yours, as impassive as always, framed in a halo of white winter light. He looks handsome this way, though it also has the effect of making his scars look deeper – crevasses on his face for shadows to lay in.

You watch as he strips his winter garments, slipping then beside you, evening out the weight on the bed.

“How did it go?” you whisper. If he's surprised that you spoke he doesn't show it, staring up at the ceiling, muscles decompressing. Sighing like a big dog.

In lieu of speaking, he lifts something into your focus. Oh, it's a tooth, sharp and white. A predator's tooth.

“The rest tomorrow,” he says quietly.

You can tell he's tired. His face looks weary. How far do they travel for these hunts? You assume quite far, as it’s enough to tire even a seasoned warrior.

So, rather than speaking, asking him from which creature he took this tooth, you tentatively reach your hand up to press your fingers against his thick scars.

Simon freezes, as do you. Then, as he relaxes, you trace the grooves on his face with your fingers tightly. Very lightly.

A delicate moment is born then. Johnny's deep, sleepy breathing behind you, Simon's acquiescence – it's a tranquil thing. As thin as lace, as sweet as a crisp apple.

After some time, when you've traced his face twice over and his eyes are half-lidded, you speak softly.

“Why me?”

“You're beautiful,” he says simply, sighing again, “we wanted to.”

It becomes harder, again, to hold the belief of them as devils. That they smelled the sin on you and picked you that way.

“Don't you think it's cruel?”

“No,” finally, he turns to you.

“It was,” you assert recklessly. Fear twists in your gut, poisonous.

“You were scared.”

“Yes.”

“Are you still scared?”

“I feel like you can see right through me. That scares me.”

“Not at first.”

“Then when?”

His hand finds the dip of your waist. Squeezes.

“On the boat, when you pushed up against me like a wet kitten. Even scared, you needed it.”

“You were cruel to me then, too.”

“I’m a cruel man.”

There's a stray thought that wiggles to life in the back of your head that suggests sympathy for him despite his statement. That you can begin seeing the path of his life and understand how he came to be.

You think of punishment again; about parents and children, husband's and wives, about Simon and his father. That wasn't punishment, if you're understanding it the way Kari implied.

A memory strikes you, unbidden and unwelcome.

Salt blows in the air, metallic and thick in your nose. Not sea salt, not the wind you love so much, but from blood spraying.

The man brought his son to the convent, citing his bad behaviour as ungodly. Sister Margret was pleading with him, hands clasped in desperate prayer and voice high, reedy, as she begged him to just stop hitting him – please, just stop hitting him!

The boy cowered. Not a child, but a boy nonetheless. Young enough to make an impression, round-cheeked, on the cusp of manhood. Stained with blood.

He lifted the rope, again and again and again, even as Margret leapt for his arm and tried to stop him, pulling, shouting.

You were stock still, frozen, not even a tremble in your body. Your eyes had widened when he first struck the boy and you’d been stuck since.

Simon takes your hand, peels it away from your dress, pulling you bodily towards him and out of the memory.

With your cheek pressed close to his bare shoulder, you murmur, “did you take me to hurt me?”

“No,” he says, sounding for once like he isn’t hiding anything.

“Did you hit me to really hurt me?”

“No,” he repeats, then, “I hit you because you needed it, because you liked it.”

“I’ve seen…” you don’t continue.

“I know.”

“We’ve both been hurt,” your voice is a whisper.

“Mm,” Simon confirms.

You think of the boy. Of his father. Of his terrified, deer-like eyes, blood splattered on his back and on the ground and soaked into the rope – about how four townsmen had to pull his father away for fear of killing the boy.

How you felt when you hit yourself, when the abbess hit you, how different they were to when Simon took his palm to your ass.

Shame. That had been in the boy's eyes that day. He had hid his face in his arms, cowering not only from fear but from being seen.

You’d felt that same shame each time you’d been punished, intensifying, twisting together until you’d learned to turn the same pain inwards.

“Are you afraid of being seen?” you murmur to Simon.

“No.”

You don’t have to say the silent part; that you’re the afraid one. That Simon correctly interpreting your need for a different kind of control, one that let you lose yourself, felt like you’d been flayed for all to see.

Simon moves his hand lower, cupping the soft curve of your behind, staring at you, testing the waters. You know that if you said no, he might anyways, but you stay quiet as his fingers lift the hem of your dress.

The fabric slides over your skin, a whisper in the air, tickling you. He rubs his rough, hairy knuckles against your thigh close to where it meets your leg.

He pauses there, breathing slowly, before he slides a finger up your slit and through the thatch of hair above it.

“If I made a request,” you murmured, “would you grant it?”

“Make it, and I’ll tell you.”

He slips a finger to rub your hole, just outside, teasing, while his thumb finds your clit.

“I don’t want you to take me until we’re man and wife… men and wife.”

Simon hums, rubs gently, makes your hips undulate.

“Do you think you’re in a place to be making requests like that, love?”

“I haven’t asked for anything else.”

He raises a brow, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle when you’re wet enough.

“Haven’t you?”

Your breathing deepens, hands coming down to hold his thick wrist, pulling almost subconsciously. Even now, you can’t totally let go, leaning away from him and the pleasure.

But he understands, leaning over you, using his other hand to pin you to the mattress by your throat. It’s not the nicest hold, but the burning of your lungs heightens the pulsing in your cunt.

“Think you just made a few requests right now,” he grunts, using your leg to rub his hard, clothed cock.

There’s a stirring beside you. Johnny groans as he wakes up, then laughs sleepily.

“Ah woke up just in time,” his voice is rough with sleep.

Simon hums, mmm, in that deep rumble of his. He slips another finger inside you, crooking them, making you gasp raggedly. Your hands still clutch his wrist, weaker now, but it’s half resistance half comfort.

“Mm, good girl,” Johnny murmurs. He curls into your side, cock growing against your hip, wrapping a leg around you while his hand climbs beneath your pulled up dress and palms your tit.

God, you could die just like this: fighting for breath, touched all over, held down and made free. The hate you had for them feels irrelevant, the fear, the brutal way in which they stole you.

You can’t even think about if Simon will disregard your request – your last frontier against them, the treasure between your legs for a husband only.

Simon’s knuckle deep in it, but still, you can’t let go of that final tether. Not yet, not without any other internal pillars to hold you up.

Everything else has been wiped away. Drawings in the sand on a beach swept by foamy white waves.

Johnny leans in and bites your shoulder, gnawing, hips moving against you. You can’t arch like you want to, but you try.

Wet, sinful sounds grow as you gush around Simon’s fingers, as they use you to get off.

When you peak, white spots dance in your vision, mouth open in a silent scream choked away by Simon's heavy palm.

It’s like flying.

In the afternoon, when you’ve all slept, Simon leaves to speak with John and you prepare lunch with Johnny.

More fish, more potatoes. It’s growing on you.

When Simon returns, he has in his arms a rolled up fur. Though unprocessed and still wet underneath, it’s beautiful, pale, spotted.

He takes a heavy seat in front of you, laying the skin over his knees, taking your hand in his and bringing it to the fur.

Soft. Dense. Your fingers move through the pelt.

“For you,” Simon says.

You look up at him, heart dancing.

His gifts. The apple, the orgasms, this– you don’t know what to make of it. Yes, it’s a kindness, but he’s a cruel man. He’d said so himself, and you’d felt the brunt of it.

Leaning into that cruelty has given you a strange power, a strange solidity. You’d so begun to familiarize yourself with his harshness that you’d forgotten this complexity.

You pinch the fur, feeling it between your fingers, breathing slowly. Your neck ached, but it wasn’t a bad ache; it felt like a phantom hand.

“For me?”

Johnny slides three bowls on the table, grinning.

“Yer first wedding gift,” he says jovially.

“Oh, I see,” you murmur, but it isn’t a disappointed oh.

Simon leaves later again, full of soup, to process the rest of the hunt’s boon with John. He takes the pelt with him, a snowcat pelt you’ve learned.

Yet, he’d returned with not much more than scratches on him from travel. Tired, yes, but a few hours of sleep and splattering his spend on your belly had fixed that earlier.

You’d bathed, since, though the feeling was hard to shake.

Johnny putters about again, returning to his carving of the little mini you. A peek into the past, one you no longer embodied.

“Can I see when you’re done?” you ask, slipping your favourite wool dress on. The red, well worn one. Soft, comforting.

“Course,” he mumbles, concentrating. Then, his head shoots up.

“Ye want one o’ Simon ‘n’ I, lamb? Carry us around?” Only it sounds like aroond.

You nod, walking on socked feet to where he’s carving.

“Yes.”

#drgnfly writes #sorry this is a bit late ahaaa #im almost late to class to post this oopsie #im also not super happy with it but hey #its posted ig #ghoap x reader #goap x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #cod x reader

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loveraging · 6 months ago

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𝐌𝐲 𝐂𝐮𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐞𝐚

𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳 𝘙𝘦𝘪𝘥 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

Summary: you always drink tea in the evenings. Spencer always watches you, admiring from a distance until he finds the courage to admit what he knows to be true. For now, though, he's content in the serenity you bring, in the shape of teacups and late-night reading. Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, tea with milk (don't knock it..!), reference to a vaguely depressing book. W/C: 1.2K A/N: first fic, massively exciting! Even more nerve-wracking! Time to stop lurking though, and share a bit of my own work. :)

━━━━━━━━━･❪ 🥀 ❫ ･━━━━━━━━━

Spencer glances over the edge of his book, down the aisle of the jet, seeing you all the way in the back. You’re leaning against the wall beside the kitchenette, your arms crossed in front of your chest as you wait for the hot water, in which you’ve just put your teabag, to turn the right brown colour. He knows this dance, he’s watched it countless times. You always stare at the teacup with a crease on your forehead, watching the water like a hawk until it’s the right colour, after which you pull out the teabag. You let it rest against the edge of the cup, just above the hot water, letting it leak out most of its contents. Then you add a splash of milk, which is also done with meticulous focus. Morgan had once said you seemed like a scientist when you made your tea. Your reply had been simple: “Tea is to the body as music is to the soul, darling.”

At the end of the day, such as right now, it’s always Earl Grey, and you let the teabag steep for a while, allowing the tea to become so strong it’s nearly bitter. The milk balances it out, according to you. Spencer has never felt brave enough to try that particular brew, even though you always offer it. In the morning, however, as he now knows so well, it’s always chamomile. It soothes you, apparently, and helps you start your day. He remembers ranting on and on about the medicinal benefits chamomile has the first time he watched you make it in the kitchenette in the BAU, and you had listened to all of it, only to, by the end of his long rant, simply say: “Why d’you think I drink it?”

You’ve finally finished your brew, leisurely making your way over to where he is and sitting down in the chair beside him, the one by the window. That’s your spot, he knows now. His spot is beside wherever you sit, but he’d never admit to that out loud. You offer your cup to him, to which he shakes his head with a small smile, and you shrug as you bring it to your own lips—it’s what the two of you always do. You always offer, and he always declines. It’s a nice little ritual. The other part of that ritual is that you finish your tea in complete silence, and over the months, he’s learned to keep quiet during that. You’ve never outright told him to shut up, but you don’t really reply to him when he talks. You hum and nod, but it’s not a real conversation. Eventually, he learned that it was because, to you, that cup of Earl Grey at the end of the day was a moment of tranquillity—complete serenity, your whole body in restful repose. A moment to let the day wash away and to gather your thoughts. Now, he enjoys it with you, whenever he can.

When you’ve finished your cup, you put it down on the table, which is Spencer’s sign to shuffle in his seat until he’s in the perfect position for you to rest your head on his shoulder—it took him a while to perfect that one, but he’s got it down pat now. His elbow is on the armrest so that his shoulder is at a slope, and his legs are crossed so he doesn’t unconsciously bounce them up and down and accidentally disturb you.

Normally, when you rest your head on his shoulder, you cross your arms in front of your chest before closing your eyes. This time, however, you do something different. Slowly, your hand moves behind his elbow until your forearm is hooked around it as if you’re about to walk arm-in-arm. It stays like that for a moment as you ask, “What are you reading today, then?”, which is the question you always ask. It’s another part of this ritual: you ask what he’s reading, which is his sign to explain the book, to which you always tell him to read a bit to you, and as he does, you fall asleep.

“East of Eden, by John Steinbeck,” he says, and you nod despite your head resting against his shoulder. He’s about to explain the plot of the book when you suddenly move your hand and start drawing small circles on his skin, languidly brushing your fingers on the inside of his forearm. He, quite phenomenally, instantly loses all train of thought and can only stare at the way your hand caresses his arm where his sleeves are rolled up.

“What’s it about?” You ask, quietly, which only adds to the intimacy of the situation.

“You’re making it a bit difficult to focus,” he murmurs and your hand pauses. He immediately regrets ever saying anything.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No. No, definitely not,” he says, before clearing his throat as he tries his best to summarise the book through the haze in his mind, while your hand resumes its dance. “It’s—it’s about this dangerous rivalry between two generations of brothers, similar to Abel and Cain from the bible. It’s mostly about the endless contest between good and evil.”

“Cheery,” you mumble, making him laugh softly. “Read it to me, would you, sweetheart?”

As if he’d ever say no. “The cemetery was deserted and the dark crooning of the wind bowed the heavy cypress trees…”

Your fingers keep drawing circles, slowly but decisively, as he reads from the admittedly depressing chapter. As the minutes drag on and Spencer realises he can’t remember a single thing he’s just read to you, your hand draws lower and lower, until your fingers are tracing the lines in his palm. He keeps glancing over as if he can barely believe what he’s seeing. And then, like the grand finale to a beautifully slow buildup, you push your fingers between his until your hands are fully intertwined.

He knows he stutters over a few words, he knows his breathing audibly hitched, but you don’t comment on any of it. You simply keep your hand where it is and wait for him to react: for him to reject or accept it. He accepts it wholeheartedly, he’s more excited about this than anything that’s ever happened to him, and the only way he knows how to tell you is to squeeze your hand as decisively as he can.

You squeeze back, and he continues softly reading to you.

Fifteen minutes later, he knows you’re fast asleep. Your grip in his hand has gone a bit slack and your breathing is rhythmic and even. He’s not reading anymore, now just staring at your intertwined hands and marvelling at the fact that this is happening. Finally, finally, he’s getting somewhere with this. All that patience, all that waiting for you, that admiration that he had from the sidelines, it has finally cultivated in this. He only hopes that it will continue to grow.

And if Emily tries to slyly take a picture and Morgan nudges JJ with a sly look, Spencer pretends not to notice any of it. He’s too busy staring at you anyway.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid fic #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader

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megapteraurelia · 13 days ago

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two-way street — part 1.

summary | how is suna rintarou ever going to get over you? or: having a hard time not thinking of begging you on his knees to give him a second chance. warnings | a little bit of angst? a little bit of…spice; pathetic!suna and fem!reader; mentions of weed and alcohol; second chances word count | 1286. a/n | trying to find a balance between nonchalant and very chalant suna rintarou. part two in the works!! please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´- part two to be found: here.

“ya jus’ missed her,” atsumu’s tipsy voice was barely louder than the music, its bass thrumming through the thin walls. it smelt like sweat, like alcohol, like overpriced perfumes and desperation.

suna rintarou’s grip around the cheap red plastic cup tightened, filled to the brim with alcohol of the same cheap kind, and he considered leaving, even though he had just arrived.

atsumu knew him long enough to recognise the tell-tale sign of suna losing interest: the disinterested sigh, the pointed turn of his shoes towards the door.

immediately, he jumped up from his spot on the couch, hand already slinging itself around suna’s arm to pull him deeper into the midst of the party, “hell nah, yer not gon’ leave so early. ya jus’ arrived, too.”

“can’t be arsed,” suna mumbled, but didn’t move away from his friend.

well, if you could truly call their mutually beneficial relationship a friendship: suna provided atsumu with weed, atsumu provided suna with money and…well, nothing more.

it used to be girls he linked suna up with — until the taste of you refused to leave his mouth, until your sounds kept reverberating in his head, until his mind’s eye couldn’t stop conjuring up the image of you writhing under him, nails digging deep into his skin as he rutted into you like a virgin getting his fix for the first time.

now, atsumu sent hook ups his way and they moaned all wrong, the inside of their thighs grating him in ways it never used to, their mouth chasing his but fuck, he didn’t want to kiss them. not when the last kiss he’d had was stolen from your lips, tasting of salt and hate, need and the faded flavour of the ramen you had eaten just before.

“stop bein’ so borin’, fuck’s sake,” he rolled his eyes at suna’s reply, clinking his half-drunk cup with the full one in his hands, and it splashed over the rim, coating rintarou’s fingers with the slightly sticky beer, piss-coloured and cloudy, “who cares if she’s fucked off? jus’ give her some time and she’ll come back to ya.”

some time.

how much time had to pass to qualify as some time?

were the ten weeks spent apart enough? were the countless glances he shot you when seeing you on campus with your friends hint enough? the interceptions he planned to catch you to talk? the one last kiss he had begged you for behind the dormitories, knees scraped from digging into gravel, hands desperately fisting your skirt, fingers hooked into your waistband before you left him sitting in dust?

what the fuck did it mean to give you time?

“dude,” suna’s eyes narrowed, refusing atsumu’s tug on his arm and he stood still, a sweaty elbow of a random girl’s catching his waist sharply, pointy, “watch your mouth.”

atsumu laughed, his breath as drunk as the glazed look in his eyes, “aw, come on, man. it’s not like there ain’t any other fish in the pond. loosen up a little, will ya?”

suna thought it was hard not to loosen his knuckles into the fake blonde’s face, but he just mumbled, “whatever,” drank his rancid beer in two long gulps and headed out.

sunarin was jealous.

there you were, talking to some random fuck-knows-who, twirling your hair around your pointer delicately, tugging it as you blinked up at the guy.

hot, ugly dislike unfurled in his stomach, and the blunt end of his pencil dug into his skin when he fisted his hands. he detested seeing the sly look your friends sent his way, knowing that you were flirting with somebody else right in front of him, and he hated much more how it bothered him that you didn’t dignify him with a single glance.

yet the way your teeth found your lower lip and the alluring look you sent that other guy with half-lidded eyes had his cock straining against the confines of his pants, hard and angry, begging for release.

and he had no right.

fuck, he hadn’t a single right but he found himself next to you anyway, one arm of his draped over your shoulders. his other hand was stuffed in his pocket, the space too tight after his body betrayed him by sending his blood elsewhere, too used to responding to the sultriness of yours automatically after having bathed in it for nights on end.

it didn’t escape him how your body melted against his instinctively, how the curve of your hips fit perfectly pressed up against his groin, the way your shoulder bumped his chest. your head, if you had titled it back, would’ve molded against the crook of his neck beautifully.

but in tune with you as suna was, the second you stiffened had a zap of feelings shoot through his ribcage in hurt and through his lower stomach in excitement.

he didn’t get it.

he really didn’t, but he still leveled an unimpressed look at the guy as he tilted his head slightly to direct his words toward you, “really, babe? that’s the best you can do?”

your shoulder muscles underneath his arm tensed up, and he wanted to sink his teeth in them, fuck you until you couldn’t remember what the guy in front of you looked like anymore, keep you in his bed and for him only.

“sure better than that ugly blonde clinging to you last week,” condescension dripped from your voice, “or do you think you’re so much better?”

you twisted out of his half-embrace, the front side of his body leaving him cool and missing your touch, and his eyes wandered from the irrelevant idiot in the back to the glint in your eyes, the wrinkle of your nose, your mouth pulled into a disgusted grimace and fuck, you were the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

“no,” suna swallowed and he had half a mind to beg you to come back, but the whispers of your friends cut through the air sharply, aimed right between his ribs at the black hole in his chest, “i don’t think. i know.”

for a second, you looked like you might have wanted to kiss him.

maybe he was imagining shit, god knows it wouldn’t have been the first time, but for a second, suna rintarou could swear that the bobbing of your throat meant you remembered, too.

that the movement of your shoes on the ground meant that you were curling up your toes at the memory of when he had his face buried between your legs, head hidden beneath the material of your skirt as his tongue lapped at you, nose buried in your folds, rubbing the little sensitive nub.

of when he had driven you to orgasm over and over again, dragging you through the overstimulation of him suckling your cunt even after you begged for a reprieve, until you were forced to cry out that after him, there could be no other.

his cock was throbbing, and he knew you knew. just as you knew that he knew that your panties were damp, clinging to you like a second skin.

your name was on his tongue, ready to fall from his lips to say something, to say anything, to say nothing but you cut him off, looking down at his pants and the bulge that he didn’t care to hide.

a sneer graced your face, “enjoy fucking your hand, loser.”

he could have come right then and there with you sending that degrading look down your nose at him, the whirl of your hair when you turned to walk away and your retreating back; his pulse strong and yearning.

“fuck,” he mumbled, one hand rubbing his face before going back to his dorm room to do exactly what you suggested.

taglist | @takes1

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woso-dreamzzz · 7 months ago

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Injured (Alba's Version) II

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Something is missing

There is something missing, Alexia thinks that evening.

She isn't sure what it is but she knows there's something. Something should be at home but isn't.

It can't be Olga because she knows Olga is in Madrid with a client and won't be home for another week. Alexia misses her for sure, calling every night to make sure she's okay and ordering little gifts for Olga to find when she finally comes home again.

It's not Jaume because he's already in bed, fast asleep after a long training session after school. He's been doing well in school, solidly in the middle of the pack with all of his tests and exams. He's balancing everything very well.

The thought of her son fills her with pride. He's doing so well with his training too, leaps and bounds ahead of those in his age range and only seems to be getting better and better.

Alexia can already see, in her mind's eye, him debuting for Barcelona as a teenager. He's got the talent for it and the drive.

Playing for Barcelona is his dream, to be clad in the colours of the first team and play in a sold out Camp Nou just like Alexia did all those years ago.

She walks around her house, checking doors and windows are locked to try and work out what she's missing.

She checks the mantelpiece, in case a picture has fallen down but there's nothing.

All of Jaume's school photos are hanging up in pride of place for everyone to see. Nothing has fallen off. Nothing has appeared out of nowhere.

The only thing there is a layer of dust that should probably get cleaned up tomorrow when she has time.

But Alexia's not quite sure what she's missing as she heads back up the stairs.

Jaume's bedroom door is slightly open and she can see him snoozing happily through the crack like normal. Your bedroom door is closed.

That's normal too.

Your door is always closed. You always hide yourself away in your room, hidden from everyone else for most of the hours of the day.

Alexia sighs, shaking her head.

She's not quite sure what to do with you.

You finish school this year...

No, that's not right.

You finish school next year?

Maybe the year after that?

Alexia's not quite sure but either way you need to talk to her about your future, about what you want to do with your life.

Ballet is a nice hobby to have but Alexia doesn't know if you're talented enough to make it a job. Nothing has come home for you in a while and there's been no invitations to recitals and performances. To be honest, Alexia doesn't quite know if she's still paying for lessons for you because you never tell her about them.

It hardly matters though because soon enough you'll need an actual job and Alexia needs to know if you'll go straight out into the work force or if you're going to be going to university.

She isn't quite sure what you'd study but your self sufficient enough to know by this point.

Alexia can't remember the last time you've asked her for something but that hardly matters either. You've been independent for a while now. You know how to sort yourself out.

Alexia would just like to know in advance so she can plan her own stuff out like if you're going to need company when touring a university or if you're happy to do it by yourself.

She yawns, finally tearing herself away from your closed door.

It's very late and Jaume's got early morning practice that she's got to drive him to.

He could get himself there all on his own if he really wanted to. He's been very smug about his new bus pass, allowing him to meet up with his friends without Alexia shepherding him everywhere.

But, still, the mornings before football practice are something special between Alexia and Jaume.

Just the two of them in the car together.

They talk about everything and nothing.

It's the perfect time to catch up with her son, Alexia thinks. He's a very busy boy when school and friends and football is taken into account.

He does so much and has so little time so the car journey is always the best time to talk to him and find out what's been going on in his life.

It's a time that Alexia looks forward to every week but it's very early in the morning that they have to leave though so she really should be getting to bed.

Whatever conversation you and she should have can be delayed a little longer.

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso

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supernotnatural2005 · 16 days ago

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Lebanon

Paring: Dean x Reader

Summary: A wish gone wrong right brings back a familiar face. However, you all soon discover it's not as simple as it seems when what you’ve all accomplished, and your family, hangs in the balance.

Word Count: 7.4k (yikes 😬)

Warnings/tags: Major spoilers!! S14 Ep 13 especially, angst, fluff, canon (semi) divergence, episode rewrite (kinda).

AN: Okay so this was a lovely request from an anon which you can read here. The summary of it was John interacting with his grandson, fathered by either Sam or Dean. Ofc I went with Dean on this one. Personally I struggled finding a way to fit this in and be faithful to the boy's journey. The only thing that felt right to me was what I have written. I hope that is okay anon? ❤️

Main Masterlist

You sit at the library table with Bobby, your three-year-old son, surrounded by scattered crayons and sheets of paper filled with colourful scribbles. His tiny fingers clutch a crayon tightly as he drags it across the page, his little tongue peeking out in deep concentration. His brows furrow—just like Dean’s do when he’s focused—and the sight tugs at something deep inside you.

“Good job, baby,” you murmur, smoothing a hand over his soft, sandy hair.

Even now, three years later, you still found yourself in awe of him. Of the fact that he was yours. That despite everything—despite the life you’d lived, the battles you’d fought, the countless times you weren’t sure you’d even see another day—you had him.

You never thought you’d even be able to have a kid after all the knocks your body had taken over the years. But then Bobby happened—an accident, sure, but never a mistake. Not once. And Dean… Dean had loved him from the second he knew he existed. He loved him with everything in him.

A lot had happened since you first met Dean. You’d bumped into him and Sam on a case years ago, all of you unknowingly hunting the same thing. Sparks flew instantly—partly from attraction, but mostly from the sheer force of your clashing egos. Neither of you were the type to back down. He was cocky, you were stubborn, and together, you were like gasoline to his flame.

But somewhere between the banter and the bickering, a friendship formed. The three of you started meeting up more, sharing research, trading expertise. And then, one night, that tension between you and Dean finally broke.

After that… Well, life never stopped moving.

Losing Bobby Singer. Dean being dragged to Purgatory. Losing him for a year. Getting him back. Then the angels fell. Metatron. Almost losing Sam. Sam being possessed by Gadreel. Losing Kevin. Losing Charlie. The Mark of Cain. Losing Dean again—only to get him back as a demon. Getting rid of the Mark, but unleashing something worse—God’s sister, the Darkness. Oh and God was Chuck? Then Mary came back. Then Lucifer and he had a son, Jack—a Nephilim who, against all odds, had become family. And then there was the discovery of other earths, alternate realities bleeding into their own, which had led you here.

To Michael.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, you’d fell pregnant and raised a, now, three-year-old.

Bobby had been the one good, untouchable thing in all of it.

But since Michael… Everything was different, because of your son.

Dean had been in turmoil. He hid it well most days, but you saw it—in the clench of his jaw, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shake off a weight he couldn’t see.

Michael was still there, buried deep, locked away—for now. And that terrified him. Not just for himself, but for you. For Bobby. Because no matter how strong his will was, no matter how hard he fought to keep control, there was always that lingering fear…

What if the lock didn’t hold?

So you did what you always did. You held everything together. For him. For Bobby. For all of you.

Because no matter how much the world took from you, you still had each other.

And maybe—just maybe—you were still holding out for another miracle.

The heavy bunker doors creaked open, and Bobby’s head snapped up. His green eyes went wide with excitement, his crayon slipping from his grasp.

“Daddy!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the library.

You barely manage to help him down from his chair before he bolts, little legs pumping as fast as they can across the cold bunker floor. His tousled hair bounces with each hurried step, arms swinging as he races toward the only person in the world who could make him forget everything else.

Dean barely has time to brace himself before Bobby collides with him, tiny hands grabbing at his flannel. A tired but genuine laugh escapes Dean as he scoops him up with ease, holding him close. The exhaustion lining his face softens, replaced by something warm and unshakable.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Bobby’s head. “You miss me?”

Bobby nods enthusiastically, burying his face into Dean’s shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

The sight pulls at something deep in your chest—Dean, looking worn from whatever they’d just faced, but still lighting up the second he has his son in his arms. His perfect little double. The same green eyes, the same cluster of freckles dusting his little nose.

Sam steps forward, offering you a tired smile before ruffling Bobby’s hair. “Hey, little man.”

Bobby grins, immediately stretching his arms toward his uncle. Sam chuckles, taking him with ease, and Bobby squeals as he’s lifted high, giggling when Sam playfully swings him in the air. Your son has them both wrapped around his tiny fingers, and they don’t even try to hide it.

But your gaze flickers back to Dean, and you immediately notice the weight in his stance. The way he rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to shake something off but can’t. The way his smile, as bright as it is for Bobby, doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What happened?” you ask softly, stepping closer.

Dean and Sam exchange a look—silent, heavy, something unspoken passing between them. And then, after a beat, Dean finally meets your gaze.

“A Baozhu?” you echo, brows knitting together as you absorb everything Dean and Sam just told you. The day they’d had sounded like something straight out of a horror novel.

It started with them tracking down an old friend—well, former hunter—who had been murdered. His death led them to an antique shop owner who had a whole damn room full of occult objects. Dean had rattled off some of the inventory like a bad joke—dragon’s breath in a perfume bottle, a skull supposedly belonging to Sarah Good from the Salem witch trials.

And then, just when things couldn’t get crazier, a couple of idiot teenagers stole Baby, along with all the cursed artefacts they had loaded into the trunk. Dean’s jaw still ticked when he mentioned it, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing—because, yeah, it was serious, but the way he got so damn worked up about his car was just so him.

That would’ve been enough of a headache, but then came the kicker. One of the stolen objects contained a spirit. And not just any spirit—the ghost of John Wayne Gacy.

“Seriously?” you’d blurted when Sam told you. “Like, the John Wayne Gacy?”

“Yup,” Dean had muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Evil clown and all.”

Sam still looked a little queasy at the memory, and you knew why—his fear of clowns was legendary. But thankfully, the boys had handled it, no one got hurt, and the worst that came out of it was a couple of traumatised teenagers who now knew the truth about what lurked in the dark.

But out of everything, the most important discovery was the pearl.

Sam sits at the table now, flipping through an old lore book, his eyes scanning the pages. “It’s supposed to grant the user their heart’s greatest desire,” he explains. “Like a wish.”

You inhale sharply, the weight of those words pressing into your chest. “A wish? Like, an actual wish?”

Sam nods. “That’s what the lore says.”

Your mind starts racing. If it works… if Dean uses it…

You glance at him, and you can tell he’s already there, thinking the same thing. Michael. The archangel still locked inside his head, slowly eating away at him.

It hasn’t been easy. Not for him. Not for any of you. The sleepless nights, the migraines that leave him clutching his skull, the way his hands sometimes shake when he thinks no one’s looking. The moments where he just stares, zoning out, fighting a battle no one else can see. You’ve watched him struggle, pushing himself beyond his limits, trying to hold it together when you know he feels like he’s falling apart.

“Dean…” you murmur, reaching across the table, lacing your fingers through his. “You're sure?” You ask softly and his grip tightens, warm and solid. He exhales, steadying himself, his voice quiet but firm.

“Yeah,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “If this thing works—Michael’s gone. For good.”

All Dean had to do was hold the pearl and concentrate—wish Michael away for good. Simple.

But the moment he did, the bunker’s lights flickered violently, plunging the room into an eerie, stuttering darkness. Then, without warning, a deep, unnatural red glow pulsed around you, filling the air with a static charge that made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

Your breath hitched as you clutched Bobby tighter against your chest. His little fingers fisted into your shirt, his small body trembling.

“Dean?” you called, alarmed, but his sharp, commanding voice cut through the chaos.

“Take Bobby to our room. Now.”

The authority in his tone left no room for argument. Your heart pounded, panic clawing at your ribs, but keeping Bobby safe was all that mattered.

You turned and bolted down the hall, his small arms locked around your neck as you ran. Behind you, the sounds of grunting and scuffling echoed—something was happening, something bad.

“Mommy?” Bobby’s voice was small, uncertain, his wide green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. His bottom lip trembled, and the sight of it nearly broke you.

You placed him gently into his cot, cupping his soft cheeks between your palms, forcing yourself to smile. “Mommy’s just gonna make sure Daddy and Uncle Sammy are okay, alright?” You kept your voice steady, though your pulse pounded erratically.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the bunker fell silent. The flickering lights steadied. The air no longer buzzed with electricity.

You swallowed hard.

“You’ll be my brave boy and stay here, yeah?”

Bobby hesitated, then gave you a small nod despite his fear. You kissed his forehead firmly, lingering just a second longer than usual, then forced yourself to pull away. You slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind you, willing your hands to stop shaking.

As you rounded the corner, your steps slowed, your breath catching in your throat.

Dean and Sam stood frozen in place, their expressions a mix of shock and something almost… reverent. But it wasn’t fear in their eyes. It was disbelief.

A man stood before them, his stance rigid, a gun poised tight in his grasp, not aiming, but gripped tight. He wasn’t Michael— you’d met that bastard before he possessed your boyfriend. No, this was someone else entirely.

“You boys better tell me what the hell is going on.” The stranger demanded, his voice deep, weary.

Your grip on your gun tightened as you raised it, the chamber clicking into place, shattering the heavy silence.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You demanded, voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

All six pairs of eyes flickered to you at the sound of your voice, and the moment the strangers gaze met yours, a chill ran down your spine. You knew that face.

It took another heartbeat before the realisation struck like a freight train.

You’d seen him before. In the small collection of worn photographs Dean kept tucked away—memories of a childhood long gone.

John Winchester.

After leaving Dean, Sam, and John to catch up, you had gone to check on Bobby. He was still curled up in his cot, clutching the stuffed moose Sam had gotten him for Christmas last year. You’d learned quickly that it was his comfort toy, and seeing him holding onto it so tightly made your heart clench.

His green eyes found you instantly, and he climbed to the edge, making grabby hands. His bottom lip jutted out, a clear sign of distress.

You scooped him into your arms without hesitation, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Hey, sweetheart.” Your voice was soft as you ran a soothing hand over his back. Truthfully, you needed the comfort just as much as he did. John was back. Just when you thought life couldn’t get any crazier…

“Where’s Daddy?” Bobby mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“He’s with Uncle Sammy and—” You hesitated. How exactly do you explain to a three-year-old that his grandfather—who’d been dead for over a decade in your timeline—was alive and plucked from another?

Bobby frowned. “I wanna see Daddy.”

His voice wobbled, and that was all it took for your hesitation to crumble. You weren’t sure if barging in with a toddler was the best timing, but Bobby didn’t understand that. Right now, he just wanted his dad.

“Alright.” You kissed his forehead. “Let’s go see him.”

He clung to you as you carried him down the hall, his little fingers curling into your shirt. As you neared the kitchen, low murmurs drifted through the doorway—John’s voice, rough and gravelly, eerily similar to your boyfriends.

“So, you’ve, um… been busy,” John said, amusement laced with something softer.

Before Dean could respond, Bobby stirred in your arms. The second he spotted his father, his whole face lit up.

“Daddy?”

The room fell silent.

Dean turned at the sound of his son’s voice, surprise flickering across his face before his eyes found yours. You mouthed a quick I’m sorry before setting Bobby down.

John’s gaze never left the toddler as he toddled toward Dean, arms reaching up without hesitation. Dean scooped him up with practiced ease, a small, uncertain smile tugging at his lips as Bobby buried his face in his neck.

John let out a slow breath, eyes flicking between you, Dean, and the boy in his son’s arms. His voice was quiet as he added.

“Really busy.”

There was no teasing in his tone. Just awe.

Dean swallowed, bracing himself. He wasn’t sure how John would take this—learning he was a grandfather, seeing a piece of Dean’s life he’d never expected to, but John’s eyes glistened with something unreadable, his throat working around words he couldn’t seem to find. Finally, his gaze softened.

“What’s his name?”

Dean hesitated for just a second before answering, shifting Bobby slightly. “Robert John Winchester.”

John inhaled sharply. His lips parted, but no words came. His gaze flickered between Dean and Bobby, something glassy and overwhelmed in his expression. Then, after a beat, he cleared his throat and reached out, hesitating.

His voice was quieter than before, rough but vulnerable.

“Can I?”

Dean held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

Carefully, he passed Bobby over. John took him like he was made of glass—almost reverently—his arms wrapping securely around his grandson. Bobby, unaware of the weight of the moment, gripped onto John’s shirt with tiny fingers, tilting his head curiously.

John let out a shaky breath, one hand settling on Bobby’s back, the other gently cupping the small boy’s head. A tearful huff escaped him as he whispered, “Hey, little man.”

Bobby blinked up at him, studying his face with quiet curiosity. Then, slowly, his tiny hand reached out, cupping John’s cheek. John froze for a moment, his breath hitching as Bobby assessed him with those big green eyes—the same shade Dean’s had been at that age.

Then, Bobby giggled at the prickle of John’s beard, the sound breaking the heavy air in the room. A small, watery smile pulled at John’s lips as he let out a quiet chuckle, his hold on Bobby tightening just slightly.

You, Dean, and Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

But after a moment, Bobby shifted, his little arms reaching back toward you. Instinctively, you stepped forward, and John, though reluctant, carefully handed him over.

His eyes lingered on you, then flickered to Dean and Bobby—his grandson, his son, this family he had never gotten the chance to know.

His voice was rough with emotion as he admitted, “I just… I just wish I’d been here to see it all.”

Dean’s throat tightened. He knew John wasn’t just talking about Bobby—he was talking about everything. The years they’d spent fighting, losing, surviving. The pain, the victories, all the impossible things that had led them here.

Dean met his father’s eyes, his voice steady when he said, “Dad, none of this would have happened without you.”

John looked at him then, really looked at him, his eyes flicking to you, to the boy in your arms, before landing back on Dean with a soft, knowing smile.

Then, as if needing to ground himself in something familiar, John let out a breathy chuckle. “Well, I went out taking out Yellow Eyes. I mean, that was the point, right? Get the thing that killed Mom.”

The shift was instant. You felt it in the way Dean’s grip on your hand tightened, in the way Sam tensed across the table. The air in the room seemed to still.

He didn’t know.

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, the same realisation hitting them both at once.

And then, before anyone could figure out how to tell him, the bunker door creaked open.

“Boys? Y/N?” Mary called out and John’s face twisted in recognition and something deeper.

John turned as she approached, pausing in the doorway, eyes wide, breath catching the second she saw him.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stared. The kind of stare that cut through time, through decades, through life and death itself.

Then John stood and surged forward.

She barely had time to whisper his name before he was there, pulling her into his arms, kissing her like he’d never let her go.

It was raw, desperate, a reunion, decades in the making.

You felt Dean exhale beside you, his grip on your hand loosening as he watched his parents cling to each other like the world had stopped moving.

You met Sam’s gaze, then tipped your head toward the hall. A silent suggestion. He gave a small nod.

You turned back to Dean, giving him the same look, and he sighed before nudging his head toward the hallway.

Giving them this moment was the least you could do.

You followed Sam and Dean out of the kitchen, Bobby tucked securely in your arms. Dean let out a breathless chuckle, running a hand through his hair, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and exhilaration.

“It’s Dad,” he murmured, like saying it out loud might make it feel real. His eyes flickered between you and Sam, wide with wonder. “This is amazing. I’m—I’m freaking out.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, his own voice tinged with the same stunned disbelief. You met his gaze, both of you thinking the same thing.

Sam turned back to Dean, grounding him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “But Dean—Dean, listen.” His tone was steady, cautious. “How did this happen?”

Dean blinked, still reeling. “I—I don’t know,” he admitted, stumbling over the words. He was overwhelmed, barely holding onto the moment, and as much as you loved seeing him like this, you couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your gut. When did anything this good happen without consequences?

“You said the pearl gives you what your heart desires, right?” He continued, looking to Sam for confirmation, who nodded pensively, “so my heart desired—“ He shook his head, trying to articulate it clearly, “I’ve wanted this. Man, I've wanted this since I was four years old.”

Your hold on Bobby tightened, the weight of Dean’s words settling deep in your chest. His gaze lingered on you, desperate and vulnerable, like you were the only one who could truly grasp what this meant to him.

And you did.

Dean had carried this ache his whole life, a longing so deep it had shaped the man he became. How many nights had he wished for just one more moment? One more chance to have his dad back—to have his family whole again?

“Okay, I know,” Sam began, voice softer now, careful. “And I—I love this too, Dean, really I do…” He sighed, not in frustration but in that way that said he knew better. “But messing with time… You know how this ends. Things change—”

“Yeah, great—we got our family back together. I’ll take that change,” Dean interrupted, voice sharp with defensiveness. You could see the way his shoulders tensed, how his jaw clenched like he was bracing for a fight. And damn it, you wanted so badly to agree with him. To ignore the reality Sam was trying to lay out.

“That’s not what I mean—”

“Stop. Just stop, okay?” Dean cut in, his voice tighter now, more upset. He looked between you and Sam, his expression pleading. You knew he wasn’t delusional—just desperate. Desperate to hold onto something that never should’ve been taken from him in the first place.

“Look, can—can we just have one family dinner?” Dean’s voice cracked slightly as he exhaled, his walls barely holding up against the weight of this moment. “Just one. Us—All of us together. That’s all I want. Can you just give me that?”

Before either of you could respond, Dean turned on his heel, walking off, his frustration radiating from every step. He didn’t want to hear the truth. Not now.

And your heart broke for him.

Because even knowing what Sam was saying was right… What was so wrong with just one dinner?

Sam sighed, exasperated, his expression torn. He turned to you, searching for some kind of understanding, and you squeezed his hand gently.

“This means everything to him, Sam,” you murmured, your voice quiet but certain. “Just one dinner can’t hurt, right?” You weren’t just pleading for Dean—you were pleading for both of them. Because you knew how much this meant to Sam, too. Even if he didn’t want to admit it. Even if it hurt to be the one pointing out the reality of it all.

Sam let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Yeah… maybe.” He gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, before squeezing your hand back. Then, with a sigh, he kissed Bobby’s head and walked off, leaving you standing there, staring after them—standing in the wake of something you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

You found Dean in your shared room, shrugging on his jacket like he was heading out. He barely looked up at first, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

“Hey,” you said quietly, not sure if he still needed space or if he was ready to talk.

Dean hesitated for a second, then glanced your way, his expression softening just a little.

Bobby had started dozing off on the way to the room, his small head resting against your shoulder, warm and heavy with sleep. You carefully lowered him into his cot, tucking the blanket around him. He barely stirred, his little chest rising and falling steadily, completely lost to the world.

A quiet sigh left you as you straightened, only to startle when you felt Dean’s hands slide around your waist from behind. He pulled you in against him, resting his chin on your shoulder as he looked down at Bobby. You felt the deep inhale he took, like he was trying to memorise this moment—like he was afraid to blink and lose it.

When he finally turned you in his arms, his hands found your hips, his forehead pressing to yours in that familiar way that made the world go quiet. You let out a slow breath, your fingers instinctively sliding up his arms before wrapping around his back, holding onto him just as tightly as he was holding onto you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion.

You shook your head, but he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his hands tightening on you like he needed you to hear this.

“I really did wish for Michael to be gone,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “But I guess… this just won over that.” His lips pressed together like he still couldn’t believe it, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“My whole family—together again. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And after Bobby was born…” His voice broke just slightly, and he let out a shaky breath, eyes flickering to his sleeping son with something deeper, something that made your heart ache. “God, I wanted it even more.”

You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, bringing him back to you. His stubble scratched against your palm as he leaned into your touch, his lashes fluttering shut for a moment like he was grounding himself in it.

“Dean,” you whispered, aching for him.

He opened his eyes again, searching yours, something pleading in them. “I know the risks,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “But just for tonight… I just wanna pretend.” His fingers traced soft, absentminded circles against your lower back, his forehead still pressed to yours. “Pretend this is how it’s supposed to be.”

Your throat tightened, your chest aching with how much you understood. How could you not? You knew what it meant to him. Knew what it was like to want something so badly it hurt.

So instead of answering, you kissed him.

Soft, slow, tender.

Dean melted into it immediately, his hands gripping you tighter, like he was afraid you might slip away. His lips were warm, familiar, desperate in a way that made you feel like you were the only thing holding him together. You let yourself sink into it, let yourself pour every bit of understanding, every ounce of love into that kiss.

When you finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, his forehead dropping against yours once more. His hands lingered at your waist, his thumbs brushing gently over your sides.

“I was just gonna grab a list of ingredients from Mom,” he murmured after a beat, his lips ghosting over yours. “She wants to make dinner.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, your fingers carding through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Then I guess you better go make sure she has everything.”

He smiled against you, but there was something fragile in it, something that made you brush your lips against his one last time before stepping back, your arms slipping from around him reluctantly.

Dean lingered a moment, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, before finally heading for the door.

For tonight, you’d let him have this.

For tonight, you’d pretend too.

After Dean left, you turned to one of your most reliable coping mechanisms—cleaning. If your hands were busy, your mind had less room to spiral.

You started small, straightening the blankets on the bed, smoothing out every wrinkle with practiced hands. You fluffed the pillows next, then folded Dean’s shirt—the one he’d tossed carelessly over the chair earlier. The fabric was warm from the heat of him, smelling like him, like home. You exhaled, a quiet ache settling in your chest.

Then there were Bobby’s tiny socks on the floor. You picked them up, rolling them together, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the weight pressing down on you. It was funny, really. You were standing in the middle of another damn apocalypse, juggling the chaos of archangels and time travel, but here you were, folding laundry like it could anchor you.

But no matter how much you focused on the small, mundane tasks in front of you, the worry still crept in. About what came next. Not just with John but Michael, too.

A sudden knock at the door shattered your thoughts. You flinched slightly, blinking as you turned.

And then you saw him.

John Winchester stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was the same man from the stories—the ones whispered among hunters, the ones Bobby had grumbled about over a glass of whiskey. And yet, he wasn’t.

You knew enough about him to form an opinion. Maybe more than an opinion. You resented him for what he put his boys through, for the way he shaped them into men who never got to just be. And yet... you understood grief. Knew how it could twist a person into something unrecognisable. You had lost Dean before—more than once—and each time, the world blurred at the edges, reality tilting until you weren’t sure how to stand up straight again.

John was staring at you now, his expression unreadable. But something in his eyes—something raw—made your breath hitch.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” His voice was rough, quieter than you expected. He raised a hand, almost apologetic.

You shook your head, straightening. “No, it’s fine.” You set a folded pair of Dean’s jeans on the bed and turned to give him your full attention.

His gaze lingered on the crib. You followed his line of sight, your lips twitching at the edges. You supposed it must be surreal—coming from a time when his sons were much younger, still in the thick of his mission, only to find himself here, where Dean was not just a man, not just a hunter, but a father.

John exhaled, shaking his head slightly. Then, with a small, almost hesitant smile, he looked at you. “You know, I owe you a thank you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For taking care of my boys.” His voice was steady, but you could hear the weight behind it. “For giving Dean something real.”

Your throat tightened.

John glanced at the crib again before meeting your gaze. “I know I should’ve been—could’ve been—a better father to ‘em.” His jaw clenched, his voice thick with something heavy. “But seeing Dean with Bobby... It’s proof of how much better he turned out than I ever could’ve hoped.”

He took a slow step forward, stopping just short of the crib. He didn’t reach for it, didn’t intrude, just stood there, watching his grandson sleep. His fingers curled into his palms at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to be here.

The hardened hunter was gone. In his place was a man who carried the weight of too many regrets.

“You weren’t always a good father,” you admitted, voice even but not unkind. “You did things that left scars. On both of them.”

John nodded, accepting it without argument. He didn’t try to justify himself. Didn’t try to fight you on it.

“But they’re still here,” you continued. “Despite everything, they’re still standing.” You huffed a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “And knowing them, they’d probably say they’re proud to be your sons.”

John’s throat bobbed, his gaze flickering with something close to pain.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.” A beat of silence. “I’m proud to be their father, too.”

For the first time since you met him, you saw it. Not the soldier, not the myth—but the man.

And before either of you could say anything more, the bunker door creaked open.

The boys were back.

“A temporal paradox.”

John repeated the words slowly, almost like he was testing them out, rolling them around in his mind. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, like he couldn’t quite believe it. But that glimmer of amusement was fleeting. The weight of the situation pressed down, the reality of what it all meant sinking in fast.

During Dean and Sam’s trip into town, they were faced with all the reasons why you should never mess with time. It wasn’t just that things were different—it was that if they didn’t undo what Dean had unintentionally wished, they could lose a hell of a lot more.

“That’s what Sam’s calling it.” Dean shook his head, huffing out a small breath. “Egghead.”

John chuckled softly, a flicker of something warm in his expression. But then, as quickly as it came, the smile faded. The truth settled in. He’d suspected as much.

“Basically, uh,” Dean started, exhaling through his nose, like the words were heavier than he expected. “If you don’t go back, Sam never gets into the life, and Mom, she, uh…” He trailed off for a second, his throat tightening.

John’s expression shifted—something sad, something knowing.

“Well, without everything that we did, with God, the Darkness… she never comes back.”

Dean cast his gaze downward, the words pressing into his chest like a tone of bricks. He’d already told you, and you’d left him to have this moment with his father while you tended to a restless Bobby. But saying it now, out loud, made it all feel so much more real.

“And, uh—” His voice wavered, betraying him. John caught it immediately, and his face softened in a way that Dean wasn’t used to.

“What?”

Dean swallowed hard. “I never meet Y/N,” he admitted, voice raw. “And, uh… Bobby is never born.”

John let out a slow breath, nodding in understanding. “Sam thinks they’ll just fade away,” Dean added, his voice barely above a whisper, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

John then looked at him—really looked at him. His mind already made up. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

“Okay.”

Dean blinked, caught a little off guard. “Okay?”

John nodded again, firmer this time. “I mean, me versus your Mom? Your family?” He scoffed slightly, shaking his head. “That’s—That’s not even a choice.”

Dean looked away, but nodded in agreement. Despite how impossible of a choice this was, his heart and soul had already picked you and his son.

John studied him for a long moment, his sharp gaze flickering with understanding before he tilted his head slightly. “Does she know?”

Dean exhaled. “Sam’s telling her now.”

Before anything else could be said, the quiet moment was broken by the sound of tiny, excited babbling from the hall. Bobby.

Dean and John both instinctively turned toward the sound, and despite the weight of everything hanging over them, a small smile pulled at their lips.

“I think that’s your cue,” John chuckled, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

Dean let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah.”

With that, Dean turned, already set on making a beeline for you—until John’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Dean.”

Dean hesitated, glancing back.

“I, uh…” John exhaled slowly. “I never meant for this.”

Dean shook his head immediately. “Dad, we pulled you here.”

“No, son.” John’s voice was steady, unshakable. “My fight. It was supposed to end with me, with Yellow Eyes. But now you—” He trailed off, eyes scanning Dean’s face like he was taking him in for the first time. Like he was seeing just how much his son had lived through, how much he had lost, how much he had become, and Dean held his breath.

“You’re a grown man,” John said, voice quieter now, but no less firm. A small, almost wistful smile touched his lips. “And I am incredibly proud of you.”

Dean swallowed hard.

For years—his whole damn life, really—he had chased those words, hunted them down in every action, every sacrifice, every order he had followed without question. He’d needed them more than he ever wanted to admit.

And now, hearing them…

He didn’t know what the hell to do with them.

John let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I guess I always hoped, eventually, you’d get yourself a normal life. A peaceful one.” His lips twitched in something between amusement and regret. “But you did get a family. And boy, what a wonderful one you got.”

Dean’s chest ached. Not in the painful way it usually did, but in something lighter, something warmer, and he nodded, voice thick. “I really do.”

John placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. His eyes were glassy, his expression proud, happy, even.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before they both let out small chuckles, both clearly not used to this kind of open emotion between them.

John cleared his throat, smiling. “Alright. What’s next?”

Dean patted his dad’s shoulder, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“We eat.”

The library was quiet—too quiet. The usual warmth of the bunker felt dimmed, weighed down by the unspoken grief hanging thick in the air. The large wooden table was set with plates of home-cooked food, a rare sight among the usual takeout containers and beer bottles. Dishes of mashed potatoes, roast chicken, green beans, and cornbread were carefully laid out, though none of it seemed as comforting as it should have been.

At the head of the table, Bobby sat in his high chair, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak surrounding him. He kicked his little feet, happily munching on soft baby carrots, babbling to himself between bites. The sound was a bright contrast to the silence of the adults, their appetites dulled by the weight of what was to come.

Mary sat beside John, her hands resting in her lap, her gaze downcast. Her expression was unreadable—except to those who knew her well. The tight set of her jaw, the slight furrow of her brow, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve—it was grief, raw and quiet. She was trying to hold herself together, but you could see the cracks forming. Your heart ached for her, for all of them.

Dean sat beside you, his posture tense, his grip on his fork loose. Sam sat next to him, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darting between his parents. No one knew what to say.

And then, John cleared his throat.

“Near as I can tell, we have two choices,” he announced, his voice steady but thick with meaning. He looked around the table, making sure each of you heard him. “All right, we can think about what’s coming, or we can be grateful for this time that we have together.”

A smile ghosted his lips as he reached for Mary’s hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The tenderness in his touch, the way she squeezed back with slightly trembling fingers—it was enough to make your throat tighten.

“Now me,” John went on, his voice quieter, but firm, “I choose grateful.”

He lifted Mary’s hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her skin. The small, simple act of love shattered something inside you, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You discreetly wiped it away, exhaling a shaky breath—until you felt Dean’s hand slip into yours under the table.

His grip was firm, grounding, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining—not just with unshed tears, but with love, with quiet adoration. His lips quirked into a barely-there smile, as if to say I’ve got you. And you squeezed his hand back, a silent I know.

John cleared his throat, straightening in his seat. “So, to whatever brought us together,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “We owe you one. Amen.”

You swallowed hard and echoed softly, “Amen.”

John’s gaze landed on you, warm and grateful, before Dean murmured his own amen, followed by Mary and Sam.

And then, as if on cue, Bobby lifted his sippy cup with both hands, grinning as he let out his own version of an, Amen, but without the A. The moment of it—so innocent, so sweet—broke the tension, and laughter rippled through the room, soft but genuine.

Dean chuckled, kissing his son's head, lingering a little before lifting his own beer bottle, and with a glance around the table, everyone followed suit, toasting together.

The warmth lingered long after the laughter had settled, weaving through the quiet moments that followed. Plates clinked softly as forks scraped up the last bites of dinner, the heavy weight of earlier conversations giving way to something lighter—something cherished.

Bobby remained in John’s lap for the rest of dinner, small hands grabbing at whatever was within reach. He giggled happily, his little voice rising and falling as he gestured animatedly, as if telling the most important story in the world. John listened intently, nodding along, his expression soft in a way rarely seen. Mary reached over, brushing Bobby’s soft, blonde hairs from his forehead, her smile tender, her eyes brimming with emotion as she watched her husband and grandson together.

Across the table, you and Dean sat close, his arm draped around you, his thumb moving in slow, absentminded strokes against your shoulder. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he exhaled deeply, soaking it all in. When Bobby let out a bright burst of laughter—pure, unfiltered joy—your heart clenched.

Dean must have felt it too because he pressed a lingering kiss to the side of your head, his lips warm against your temple. When you turned to meet his gaze, his eyes were already on you—shining, full of something deep and unspoken. He didn’t need to say anything. It was all there.

The moment stretched, the low hum of conversation, the occasional bursts of laughter, the soft clatter of dishes—it all melted together into something perfect. Sam leaned back in his chair, watching with quiet amusement as Bobby shoved a piece of bread into John's mouth, earning a chuckle from the older man. Mary shook her head fondly, her fingers tracing small circles on John's forearm.

It was a picture of something rare.

A family—whole, just for now.

The air felt impossibly heavy, thick with unspoken words and the weight of what was about to happen. The time they had borrowed was running out.

John turned to Mary, his eyes soft, glassy with unshed tears. He reached for her, brushing a strand of golden hair behind her ear before cradling her face in his rough hands. "My girl," he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

A choked sound left Mary's throat as she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. They kissed—slow, lingering, as if they could hold back time just a little longer. Your heart clenched as you clutched Bobby closer, rocking him slightly as if to soothe both him and yourself.

When John turned to you, his expression was unreadable for a moment, but then, with a tremble in his voice, he asked, "May I?" He gestured toward Bobby, and your throat tightened as you nodded, tears spilling over. Carefully, you passed your son to him, watching as John pulled Bobby close, pressing his lips to the little boy’s hair.

"I'm so grateful I got to meet you, buddy," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Bobby blinked up at him, small hands reaching out to cup John's scruffy cheeks. The gesture made everyone smile through their tears, the sheer innocence of it grounding them all in the moment. John closed his eyes, pressing another lingering kiss to the top of Bobby's head before exhaling shakily.

When he looked back at you, his expression was serious, but not heavy. There was something lighter in his gaze now, something settled. "You watch out for these boys, yeah?"

You swallowed past the lump in your throat and nodded. "Always."

John lingered, giving Bobby one last kiss before handing him back to you. As you stepped away, Dean's hands found yours, holding tight, grounding you as you passed.

Then, John turned to his sons.

"I'm so proud of you boys," he said, voice breaking, eyes shining as he looked between them. The words hung in the air, sinking in deep, and neither Sam nor Dean could stop the tears from spilling over as they stepped into their father’s embrace. He held them tight, arms wrapped fiercely around them, as if trying to memorise the feeling, as if trying to make up for lost time in a single moment.

You couldn't hold back your own tears as Bobby nuzzled into you, his small arms wrapping around your neck. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he sensed your sadness, and in his own little way, he was comforting you.

John stepped back, his fingers intertwining with Mary’s as he took one last look at his family. His gaze swept over all of you—his boys, his grandson, you—before he nodded, a final acceptance settling in his features.

"Okay," he murmured, squeezing Mary’s hand. "Okay. I'm ready."

Sam hesitated for only a moment before he laid the pearl on the table and then the sharp crack of breaking glass echoed through the quiet space.

Everyone watched in wonder and sadness as John Winchester faded into nothingness.

A heavy silence followed, the air still trembling with his absence. But as the initial grief settled, something else remained—a sense of peace, fragile but real.

And yeah, maybe this wasn’t how things were meant to be. Dean’s wish had rewritten fate. But if it gave them this—a chance to say what had been left unsaid, to mend wounds that had ached for too long—then maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

AN: Okay so this one was a long boi 😅. But I would love to know everyone's thoughts? Did you think this fit well for the request? Also I know John Winchester is a bit of a sensitive topic, not everyone likes him and it's understandable, but I feel I catered more to his human side a little here. Plus this episode was pretty heartbreaking. Anywho I hope you guys enjoyed and thank you anon for the request! 💕

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

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@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x you #Sam Winchester #john winchester #jensen ackles #spnfamily #spn #spn fanfic #anon request #gifs not mine

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gilverrwrites · 9 months ago

Note

If that ask was too long and elaborate, I have another one!

What about a fic with Batman, where the reader finds out she’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to tell Bruce since he already has mature/ teenager kids and she doesn’t know if he wants to raise one from the infant stage to adulthood.

She kinda overthinks about it and distance herself from Bruce. He notice it and when she would confess, to her surprise, Bruce would get super exited!

What I don't understand

AN: I'm back baby! At least partly, my hand is still on and off achy so I won't we posting as activiely as I have previously. I've done so much research on pregnancy that all my adds are now of pregancy tests, fertilitie test, baby stuff, I'm worried my bf might start to suspect that I'm pregnant which would be akward Bruce Wayne/F!Reader, 3.9K words CW: Husband/Wife dynamic, pregnancy, feet (none sexual), mentions of vomit, body dysmorphia, lying/sneaking around, prenatal anxiety/depression, martial problems, swearing. Fluffy ending tho!

Pregnancy brain is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Or maybe that's insanity, who knows? You ponder the thought as you fidget with the flimsy cardboard packaging of the pregnancy test you're awaiting the results of as if you don't know the answer. You'd already taken countless tests, trialling different brands in the hopes of a different outcome but every single one of them had confirmed your situation with variations on lines and plus signs. They'd never offered you a negative, and yet you keep trying.

There was no denying it, and pretty soon there would be no hiding. You were fast approaching the end of your first trimester at 9 weeks but had only found out about a month ago. The task of informing Bruce while there was still time to act seems to grow bigger and scarier with each passing day. Not to mention; it's becoming increasingly obvious that he already suspected something is wrong.

3 weeks ago:

The cold tile against your aching feet felt like ecstasy. You couldn’t help but close your eyes and lean against the wall, relishing in every second of release as you awaited Jason’s return.

You’d spend hours hiding your pain, precariously balancing in a pair of heels as you kept up appearances during a charity event being held at the manor. Bruce was currently being cornered by a visiting dignitary, and as bad as you felt leaving him alone, it might have been your only chance. You’d slipped away to an off-limits hallway, grasping Jason who had drawn the short straw for event appearances along the way. Once out of view to your guests you’d begged him to retrieve a pair of pumps from your bedroom, the petty prospect of keeping it secret from, and thus getting a one-up on his adoptive father being the primary motivator. That, and he owed you, a lot, for defusing many situations in which he and your husband had butted heads.

The weight of your discarded shoes hung heavily from your fingers, you hadn’t realised how weighty they were. A shame, because they were so pretty. They were a gift from Bruce, strappy and bedazzled, the perfect colour to match your dress. Another pair for your ever-expanding collection, he’d always favoured gifting you shoes and purses, and you certainly didn’t mind, at least not until your ankles had begun swelling at the mere notion of being used for their primary function.

“Are you okay? You seem off.” Jason’s voice returning to the hall made you jump out of your stupor, and he watched with concern as you tucked your heels behind a curtain and slipped into the flats he’d brought you.

“Fine, fine.” You smile, patting his arm with a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t wear those in properly and now I’m paying the price.”

“Right.” He still seemed dubious and was about to say something else when a door creeks open, redirecting both of your attention.

Bruce stood in the doorway, stern, arms crossed. He glares at the both of you, he and Jason have a very similar glare. His eyes focus in on you, identifying you as the main culprit, his gaze roves across your form, lingering on your feet for an uncomfortably long time before speaking.

“If I have to suffer through this, so do the two of you.” He points behind him. “In.”

Jason’s face is obscured as he takes the lead, but Bruce must not like his expression because his frown seems to deepen.

You followed close behind, careful not to step on the hem of your dress now that you lack the additional six inches the heels had offered but your integration back into the crowd is halted. Bruce traced his hand along your back, cupping the curve of your waist and directing you to a lesser populated spot amongst the outskirts of your visitants.

The stony look on his face was gone, replaced with a polite smile for the crowd and softer eyes for you.

“What happened to your shoes?” His voice was low, in-perceivable to anyone but yourself.

“My feet were sore is all.” It’s not a lie.

“Too sore for dancing?” He asks, voice as slick as silk and you don’t want to agree but yes, they are too sore dancing. Not to mention you’d gotten nauseous from standing up too quickly only hours earlier but damn if you didn’t want to dance with your husband. Want to feel his chest against yours, his hands on your curves, admire the smile on his face. There are few things you enjoy more than any form of intimacy with Bruce.

“Maybe later.” You sighed, “I think I need to sit down for a while.”

2 weeks ago:

‘Breast changes are another very early sign of pregnancy. Your hormone levels rapidly change after the egg is fertilized. Because of these changes, your breasts may become swollen, sore, or tingly.’

You groaned aloud, rereading the entry on WebMD once more. You hadn’t expected your breasts to change so early on, incorrectly assuming any swelling or pain would be a result of breast milk, but you were wrong.

Believing you had the house to yourself, you figure now was as good a time as any to read up on more early pregnancy symptoms, to correct any other misconception you might have. You were midway through reading about progesterone and how it causes constipation when your laptop pinged.

A notification popped up in the corner of the screen, a DM from UserDC27, Bruce’s bat-server codename. You click to open the message and audibly gasp when a screenshot of your browsing history greets you, framed in red with its own ‘suspicious activity’ notification in the corner.

‘Pregnancy trimesters in weeks’ ‘Swollen breasts pregnant’ ‘Early pregnancy symptoms’

Amongst all the suspicious browsing habits of this family, of course yours had flagged up! Fucking ridiculous!

UserDC27: ? UserRI01: For a friend UserRI01: dw UserRI01: Love you x UserDC27: [is typing…] UserRI01: has signed out.

1 weeks ago:

“Good morning.” A familiar voice greeted you, strong hands slink around your body, brushing against your back and hips before settling on your stomach. What should have been a sweet moment frightened you, disturbing you from your train of thought and causing you to almost spill your morning decaf coffee.

“Woah there.” Bruce laughed, the warmth and proximity of him soothing you quickly. He effortlessly took the mug from your hands and settled it on the kitchen island so he could pull you closer without spillage.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, turning your head to rest it against his chest. The strength of his cologne is always so much stronger in the mornings, the scent of the man you love, of citrus and woodsiness does wonders to comfort your frantic brain no matter the time or place. “Just lost in thought.”

After a second you realise your mistake, you’ve allowed him an opening to ask what you’re thinking about and that exact moment certainly did not feel like the right time, what with Damian in the next room. You should be alone, completely alone.

He surprises you however, always one for keeping everyone on their toes, by spinning you around to face him and telling you, “I don’t think that’s it.”

“What do you think it is?” You tried to keep your voice airy, relaxed, unsuspicious but even you can hear the guilt in your tone.

“I think you’re tired.” He watches you with a playful glint in his eye, but the next words out of his mouth are accusatory no matter how light his tone is. “Where are you sneaking off to in the mornings, oh wife of mine?”

“W-what?” You heard him fine, you were stalling while you calculated a response. You had been sneaking off in the mornings and the fact that he’s asking so playfully, as opposed to interrogating which he is not unknown to do even with you, means he knows more than he’s letting on.

Bruce isn’t exactly an early riser, often too tired from long nights of crime fighting and case filing, but he is a light sleeper. Always on alert. He’d already caught you in a bought of morning sickness once. Roused by the unpleasant noises you’d been making. You’d lied about it, citing an upset tummy from something you’d eaten. You weren’t sure which was worse, the vomiting, the sombre expression he’d given you as he approached to rub your back throughout, or the look of horror on Alfred’s face when Bruce had brought up your supposed food poisoning later that day.

Ever since you’d purposely been rising early and sneaking off to dispel any nausea in one of the many guest bedrooms.

“Nowhere, I’m just becoming more of a morning person I guess.”

He eyed you sceptically, and you thought you might crack under the pressure. His hands reach up to cup your face, preventing you from turning away. His touch is so gentle, so soft for a man of his stature. “You can tell me anything, you know that?”

“Of course.”

As if you couldn’t feel worse he adds; “I miss waking up to you beside me.”

“Oh Brucie-“

You’re already on your tip toes, ready to concede, to apologise, to shower your sullen husband with kisses when you’re saved by the signal. Literally, a call from Duke 'The Signal' Thomas, with a reminder of your apprehension; an active situation that needed Batman’s participation.

Your relationship, and now marriage to Bruce had always hinged on an unspoken understanding that Gotham comes first. Even with Tim taking over most of his responsibilities at Wayne Tech, Bruce simply does not have enough time to raise a baby. You can't expect him to take turns with the nighttime feeds, with the frequent nappy changes, with the constant attention an infant will need.

You’ve no doubt Alfred would delight in assisting you, he's been dropping hints about wanting a baby Brucie since the engagement, and you love him very much but if you’re to raise a baby, you want to do it with your husband, not his butler.

That’s presuming your husband even wants a child. Another child. He already has enough children to populate a small village. Children with lives of their own. Children who in some way or another have followed in his vigilante footsteps. You think of the stress and trauma each of them has faced, and how it has affected them and their father. You think of Steph and her tremulous relationships with Bruce and Arthur. Of Jason’s deaths, plural. Of Dicks ineptitude to form meaningful relationships with anyone outside of the lifestyle. Of all the childhoods so many, but especially Cass and Damian missed out on. Could you be responsible for putting another child through any of that?

Furthermore, if your child wanted to live this life, could you really stop them? Nobody stopped Tim. Nobody stopped Barbara, when Jim had tried it only caused the rift between them to grow bigger.

Could Bruce stop your unborn child? Would he want to?

Speak of the Oracle. The chime of your phone draws you out of your spiral of perinatal anxieties. It’s Barbara, informing the girls-only group chat that she’s running late for lunch. Crap. You’d completely forgotten that you’d promised the girls lunch and shopping. Barbara had some tech on hold, Steph wanted to try the new caramel cookie waffles at Goodilicious, and Cass needed new boots whether she knew it or not.

Hurriedly, you shove the used test into a previously disused makeup bag that is now full of other used tests. It's starting to smell, but you don't have time to figure out how to stealthily throw it out, so you hide it at the back of a cupboard behind a basket of sanitary products before rushing out the door.

Later

Catching up with the girls had been fun, it had really helped you forget about your predicament and just relax for a while, but it had also taken a lot out of you, keeping you out well past dinner. Your body just was not functioning as well as it used to, for obvious reasons.

Upon returning to the mansion you’d made it to the ground floor lounge, feet too sore to even consider the stairs, and collapsed on the closest couch, exerting just enough energy to pry your shoes and sock off of your swollen feet prior to falling asleep. Just a quick nap you tell yourself, to regain some energy, you’ll be right as rain in time for Damian’s bedtime. He’s old enough now to put himself to bed, especially given that he often patrols with his father until the early hours of the morning, but tonight is his night off and you’d always make the effort to wish him sweet dreams when you can.

You’re awoken by the feel of calloused fingers pressing into the arches of your feet. You hadn’t heard him enter, but Bruce is sitting on the arm of the couch, in nothing but sweatpants and slippers. Between his bare chest and cowl hair, he is a welcome sight, bruised chest and freshly cut lip and all.

“What happened to you?” You ask, voice husky from your impromptu nap. You manage to draw your eyes away from Bruce long enough to check the time on an antique wall clock, it’s 4 AM. You’d far exceeded a nap. “Where’s Damian?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Damian is asleep. When you didn’t wish him a goodnight he came to look for you, that’s how I knew you were here.” He asserts. He looks at you with a furrowed brow and pinched lips, working his thumb into the arch of your feet with just enough pressure to make you mewl in relief. “Are you punishing me for something?”

The question hits you like a ton of bricks, it’s not without merit. You hadn’t intended to spend the night on the couch, but you can understand how it must look to him, especially in tangent with the ways in which you had intentionally been avoiding him; sneaking out in the mornings, not allowing him to see your naked body for fear that he’ll notice your swollen breasts, and growing belly. You hadn’t had sex in at least three weeks.

All at once you are overcome with remorse. You’d been so consumed with the pregnancy and how best to approach the subject with Bruce that you hadn’t stopped to think how your actions would weigh on him. He’s so strong, your anchor, an unchanging presence for the whole family. He locks himself and his emotions behind the big bad bat or billionaire Brucie so well that sometimes he forgets he has them. Sometimes you forget. Even now, clearly hurting and concerned for his marriage, he’s rubbing your feet.

“No of course not Bruce, I’m sorry…” your mind starts to form the end of your apology ‘I was just so tired’ or ‘it’s been a long day’ and they wouldn’t be lies but they’re not the right thing to say. You can’t keep postponing for the ‘right moment’ that will never come, can’t keep chickening out. He needs to know the truth. “I’m- I’m pregnant.”

You’re not sure how you’d expected him to respond really. You’d feared anger, hoped for joy but instead, he continues to stare at you, his brows raising in a way that implied he needed more information. He swaps your left foot for your right as he awaits your resumption. When you don’t speak he nods and states; “I know.”

“You know?” As though possessed your tired body launches into an upright seated position. “How could you know?”

Bruce smiles in response, an amused, tight-lipped ‘Are you kidding?’ smile.

“Well, to name a few things;” he counts off each observation on his fingers. “You’ve stopped wearing heels because your ankles are constantly swollen, your breasts are also noticeably swollen even under your clothes, you now only drink decaf, you seemingly have ‘food poisoning’ every morning and at no other time of day, a massive increase in urination, and my personal favourite, the bag full of positive pregnancy tests behind a crate-full of menstrual products that haven’t been used in almost three months.”

He’s trying to hide it, but he’s smug about his own detective skills. His mouth might be straight but there’s a fire in his eyes that has you drawing your legs away from him with a huff, abruptly ending the massage you had been enjoying. “How long have you known?”

“I’d had my suspicions for about 6 weeks, but I wasn’t certain until I found your stash last week.” Typical of Bruce to have figured out you were pregnant before you’d known yourself. “What I don’t understand, is why you didn’t tell me. Why you’ve been lying.”

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have kept this from you. I was going to but…” You trail off, straightening your thoughts as best you can and finding your composure, preparing to begin monologuing about your concerns. “I didn’t know how you’d feel about it, what with you know, already having so many kids. Everyone but Damian has flown the nest, Dick and Babs are married! They’re all so grown up, do you really want to start again? And then…”

Conscious of your rambling you cut yourself off, looking to Bruce for reassurance that you’re not talking too much, that he’s not offended by your worries. He consoles you by coming closer, sitting on the cushion beside you and easily coaxing your legs over his. His firm hands are gentle as they grasp your knee.

“And what?” He questions.

“I wasn’t sure how I feel, I wanted to figure that out before talking to you.”

“What do you think you feel about it?”

“I think I want to have your baby Bruce, our baby.” So caught up in your thoughts, you hadn’t noticed your husband’s hands creeping higher and higher up your body until a hand settles on your stomach, his thumb stroking you through the fabric of your shirt. You’d been so self-conscious of its growth but as you look at it now, under Bruce’s sturdy fingers, you realise it isn’t much bigger than it had been pre-pregnancy. How tedious your problems seemed when voiced and put into perspective, except maybe one. “I’m just not sure about how… well I guess I never thought about raising a child within your lifestyle.”

“I understand.” He nods, confirming his statement. He’s done well to keep his face soft but neutral throughout, a staple of his Batman facade but also a careful way not to let his own emotions interfere with yours.

“What do you think?” He looks down at your abdomen as he considers his words. You follow his gaze, watching as his fingers lift your top, exposing your skin to him. Without warning he lowers himself to pepper your belly with gentle kisses, the ticklish motion causes you to giggle and writhe beneath him.

When he looks up at you again he’s smiling, the motion causing the scab on his lip to split and bleed. Without thought you pull yourself closer to him, using his broad shoulders as leverage. Once close enough you dab at the minor wound with your thumb soaking up the fluid as best you can and examining the cut to ensure no further damage.

Bruce watches you intently the whole time, cupping your face in his hand when you appear satisfied. The adoration in his eyes makes you feel sheepish even after everything you’ve been through together.

“I think,” his voice is low, sincere. “I couldn’t be happier to be growing our family together. I think this child, like all our children, will be lucky to have you as a mother, whatever life they choose to lead.”

The amount of pent-up tension in your body had not been apparent to you until now. Until your body noticeably lightens in response to his words. The relief of no longer sneaking around, no more fretting over how he might react has you wishing you’d done this a long time ago.

“Bruce?” You sag into his chest, breathing him in. His arms unconsciously wrap around you in response, pulling you in for a tighter embrace. “We’re having a baby.”

“We’re are having a baby.” He confirms, pressing more, tender kisses to your neck, the curve of a smile apparent as his lips press to your exposed skin. "I've been waiting for this moment since the day we me. But, I think it’s time we got to bed, it’s late.”

Swift and practiced, Bruce lifts you from the couch, cradling you in the bridal position. You stretch to check the clock, 4:34 AM.

“Technically it’s early.” You jest, expecting him to punish your cheek by jolting you in the air or throwing you over his shoulder as he normally does, but instead, he chides you with an amused glare, clearly too concerned about the baby for play fighting.

“Neither of us has been to bed, it’s late.” His grip tightens on your body as he makes his way up the stairs, one steady step at a time. “And I expect my wife to be in our bed when I wake up.”

“Hmmm.” Your morning sickness has eased in the last few days, you’d only persisted in sneaking out to be safe, but he doesn’t need to know that just yet. “I’ll try, but I might be in our bathroom.”

“I can cope with that. At least then I can care for you. And we can throw out your hoard.” You don’t fuss over the likelihood of him having to rush off to save the day or for an urgent board meeting, you just throw your head back, laughing at yourself for trying to hide anything from Bruce.

When you reach the bedroom he lays you in the bed and climbs over your form. He’s in full caretaker mode, a manner you could get used to. He carefully removes your clothes, offers to redress you in your sleepwear and to bring you your lotions, or anything you should need from the bathroom.

Dawn is breaking behind your blackout curtains by the time you’re both settled in bed, entangled in each other’s arms. Sleep has nearly taken you again when Bruce whispers; “I do have one other thought.”

“Oh?" You peer at him curiously over your shoulder. "Yes dear?”

“I think you should be the one to tell Damian.”

His request hangs heavy in the air as you consider the implication. “Tell Damian that he will no longer be your only blood child?”

The room remains silent, he doesn’t expand because you know what he’s getting at. Damian probably won’t mind, because he’ll still be the oldest, the first in line and you’re certain he’ll be a wonderful older brother, he’s great with animals, so why not babies? Right?

“… That's not fair.”

“Think of it as penance for lying to me all month.” There’s an air of humour in his voice as he pulls you closer still, squeezing himself into your back and planting sleepy kisses against your neck. “Besides, he’ll probably take it better from you. I think he likes you more.”

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne/reader #bruce wayne x reader #batman #batman/reader #batman x reader #dc #reader insert #gilverrwrites #f reader

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hrrtshape · 2 months ago

Text

foods i ate in my better cr that now haunt my waking hours.

i have returned from the other side. the gilded penthouse doors have shut, the streets of new york have blurred into the mirage of memory, and yet......i am afflicted. by longing. by hunger. by the ghosts of meals past. my taste buds have been irreversibly colonised by another reality’s superior gastronomy, and now, in this lesser plane, i am left to rot, salivating over what i once had. let’s discuss.

　　　　　　　　　　　 ⊹　︶︶　 ୨୧　︶︶　 ⊹

　[ i , ] that one bagel that was a religious experience : i’m talking about the perfect bagel. a bagel so transcendent, it made me believe in fate. it had the perfect chew, the kind that fights back just a little before yielding to divine softness. a smear of scallion cream cheese, the exact right saltiness, balancing that toasty, malty warmth of the bread. try finding that exact bite in this reality....impossible. i am forever chasing the ghost of that bagel.

　[ ii , ] the $24 salad that ruined all other salads for me : new york, in any reality, is an absolute menace for making you pay obscene amounts of money for food that, logically, should be cheap. and yet, this overpriced, greens-based epiphany had no right being so good. it had the perfect ratio of crunch to creaminess, crisp little gem lettuce, buttery avocado (in this reality i for some reason...liked avocados??? came as a surprise!), these impossibly thin radish slices that made me feel like i was eating couture. the dressing..... i don’t even know what was in it. it tasted like wealth, people. it tasted like i had stocks in something lucrative. now every salad i eat in this reality may as well taste like sorrow.

　[ iii , ] the pasta that might have been a love letter : there was this tiny restaurant, candle-lit, the kind of place that only seats like 10 people at a time, where i ate the most immaculate cacio e pepe of my life. it was poetry in pasta form. each strand coated in a glossy, peppery, pecorino-laced sauce that clung to it with the devotion of a lover. the pasta itself was handmade. you could taste the craftsmanship. it made me want to sit down with the chef and ask what great tragedy in their life had led them to perfect this dish with such aching precision. because surely, no one cooks like that unless they’ve known longing.

　[ iv , ] the coffee that altered my brain chemistry : i had a latte so good, i saw colours. it wasn’t just coffee. it was a sensory event. the milk was frothed to the exact texture of a daydream, the espresso was rich but not bitter, caramel-like but not sweet. it was served in a heavy, warm ceramic cup, the kind that makes you want to wrap both hands around it and tell someone your deepest secrets. it made me feel like a person who writes letters on expensive stationery. it made me feel like my skin was clear, like i had purpose. now....i drink coffee and feel nothing.

　[ v , ] the slice of pizza that was more than pizza : new york pizza is a spiritual entity. the slice i had wasn’t just food. it was a promise. the crust had that perfect crisp-but-chewy balance, the cheese melted in strands of longing, the sauce tangy and bright in a way that could cure seasonal depression. i folded it, i took a bite, and for a moment, i understood the meaning of life. even with lily moaning next to me about how good it was. in this reality, i put frozen pizza in the oven and am met only with disappointment.

　　　　　　　　　 ‧　　 ₊　　˚　　 ⋅

i could go on..... i should go on. but the pain is too great. these meals have marked me forever, and now i am left to mourn them, to wander this reality’s restaurants like a forlorn ghost searching for something i will never find. if anyone needs me, i’ll be in the kitchen, staring at a sad, lesser bagel, wondering what could have been.

　until my next shift. 　　emma........

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p0orbaby · 5 months ago

Text

She’ll Know Me Crazy, Soothe Me Daily

summary: you go into labour (leah’s version)

warnings: mentions of pregnancy and labour, who’d have guessed

a/n: i got a request for this and dropped everything at work to write it so if i get fired it’s your fault !

word count: 1.8k

It’s three a.m., and you’re lying in bed in that half-dream, half-wake state, thinking about nothing and everything at once—plans, names, logistics, the strange feeling in your back, how Leah’s snoring sounds almost like a broken radiator. You’d drifted off earlier with the usual suspects on your mind—last-minute nursery tweaks, what it’d be like to actually meet this new person, how you’re supposed to keep them alive once they’re here.

Then suddenly you’re very awake. And aware. The kind of aware that has you blinking up at the ceiling, trying to gauge if you’re imagining this, if maybe it’s all just part of the anxious last-few-weeks-of-pregnancy weirdness. But no, no. It’s real. The sensation you’d ignored all night is now gripping you in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

Your waters have broken.

You’re in labour.

In the midst of grappling with this sudden, primal realisation that your body is not only capable of this but actively doing it, your first instinct is to look to Leah. After all, this is the same Leah who can keep her head in the midst of a stadium of screaming fans, who’s always told you, right up until yesterday, that she’s “got this, babe.” The same Leah who’s been planning this night in her head like a military operation—bags packed, snacks labelled, an entire eight-page birth plan on the kitchen counter with sections highlighted in three colours. She’s got this.

You roll over and give her a shake. “Leah,” you hiss, breath short and tight, like you’re hoping the urgency will slip through the layers of her sleep.

She doesn’t stir. Instead, she mumbles something incoherent and continues snoring, entirely oblivious to the fact that you are, in real time, about to bring a whole new human into the world.

“Leah,” you say, louder now, and with a sharper jab to her shoulder. “Leah, wake up. My waters just broke”

This gets her. She bolts upright, eyes bleary and unfocused, looking around with all the awareness of someone woken up by a fire alarm. She has one sock on and her hair is falling out of her bun in every direction, sticking to her forehead in curls that make her look, for lack of a better description, entirely unhinged. What?” she blurts, looking at you like you’ve just told her the moon’s fallen out of orbit.

“I said, my waters just broke. I’m in labour”

She stares at you blankly, and then at the clock. “Now? Like…now, now?”

“Yes, now, Leah. That’s how it works”

“Oh… oh my god. Okay. Right.” She throws herself out of bed, hands flailing a bit in what could generously be called an attempt to find her balance, looking every bit like she’s just woken up in the middle of a burning building. She blinks, rubs her face, and then stares around the room with all the sharp focus of someone who’s lost all concept of time, place, and purpose.

She begins moving around the room, grabbing objects seemingly at random—a pair of your slippers, a half-empty water bottle, the book she’s been reading that she still hasn’t finished because every time she gets to a chapter break she’s distracted by some tangent or half-thought that spirals out of control. You watch as she picks up her phone, only to immediately drop it in a panic.

You try not to laugh. You fail, slightly, but she’s too distracted to notice.

“Hospital bag,” you remind her. “By the door”

“Right, yes. The hospital bag.” She says it with the blankness of someone who’s just been reminded of the existence of the universe itself. She nods emphatically, almost comically, and rushes out of the room, one sock on, one sock off, muttering, “Hospital bag. Yes. By the door. Got it”

For a few blissful seconds, she’s out of the room, and you can breathe, collecting yourself in the strange solitude. You can’t help but feel a strange, surreal amusement in the whole thing—after months of birthing classes, of Leah listening intently to the instructor, nodding along like she was studying for the final exam, of stacks of books and bookmarked articles and quiet reassurances that she’d be ready…she’s now charging through the house like a headless chicken, her panic almost louder than the quiet early-morning calm.

She’s back in less than a minute, looking absolutely horrified. “It’s… it’s not there”

“What do you mean, it’s not there?”

“I mean it’s not—by the door. I don’t see it. Did we…did we put it somewhere else?” She’s visibly panicking now, eyes wide and darting around as if the bag might materialise if she looks in enough absurdly irrelevant places, like the windowsill or behind the potted plant.

“It’s by the door,” you repeat, managing to keep your tone steady and encouraging, despite the fact that you’re, oh right, currently in labour.

“Right,” she says again, nodding in a way that looks almost mechanical. “Right, yes. By the door. Of course”

She’s off, scrambling out of the room with one sock half-off, muttering the word “bag” to herself like it’s some kind of holy incantation. The momentary peace of her absence gives you a moment to focus on your breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling in slow, measured counts, trying to recall the absurd number of hours you spent watching labour tutorials and wondering if any of that information will come back to you now, in the thick of it.

Moments later, she returns, this time clutching the bag triumphantly in one hand. Her face is a strange mix of pride and exasperation, like she’s just conquered Everest but is deeply unimpressed with the mountain.

“Got it,” she announces, as if the sheer act of retrieving it from the entryway deserves some sort of medal. She sets the bag down on the bed with an air of absolute finality, as though the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders.

You smile at her, keeping your voice calm. “Alright, love. Let’s get dressed and head out”

“Dressed,” she echoes, her face going blank again as if the concept of clothes is suddenly beyond her comprehension.

“Yes, Leah. Clothes. You might want to put some on”

For a long moment, she stares at the wardrobe as though it’s some kind of cryptic puzzle. Then, with an almost bewildered shake of her head, she pulls it open and begins pulling out clothes at random—a pair of jeans, a jumper she only wears when it’s freezing, and, inexplicably, a thick wool scarf.

“Leah, it’s June”

She freezes mid-scarf-wrap, blinks, and slowly unwinds it. “Right, yeah. June. Good. Warm.” She tosses the scarf aside, looking faintly sheepish.

“Hang on… should I call someone? I feel like we should call someone. Do we… call 999? Or is that just for emergencies?”

“Leah,” you manage between breaths, “this is an emergency. It’s literally… labour. It’s happening right now”

“Right! Emergency.” She nods rapidly, like a bobblehead on overdrive, and jabs at her phone screen with so much intensity that it nearly flies out of her hand. She stops mid-dial, eyes wide with panic. “Wait. No, no…maybe we just drive there? Or do they… do they send someone?”

You look at her, trying not to let your exasperation show through the mounting pain. “Leah, we’re just going to drive. We’ve been through this.”

“Right. Yes. Driving. Of course. I knew that.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to physically dislodge the panic, muttering, “I’m just—okay. Drive. Right. Okay.” She finally lets go of her phone and starts making her way toward the door, muttering things like, “Got it. We’ve got this,” in a way that sounds more like she’s trying to reassure herself than you.

But then she stops. Turns. Looks back at you, blinking in realisation. “Are you…are you alright?”

“I’m in labour,” you say with a thin smile, “so no. Not really. But let’s keep going”

“Right, yeah. That makes sense.” She nods like you’ve just imparted some deep wisdom, like the words in labour contain ancient knowledge previously unknown to her.

By now, another contraction has hit, and you’re clutching the edge of the bed, breathing through it with every bit of focus you can muster. Leah watches, horrified, looking like she might faint just from witnessing the sheer audacity of labour itself.

“Should I… is there something I can… I don’t know, can I do something?” She’s hovering now, looking at you helplessly like she’s waiting for you to hand her a to-do list.

You grit your teeth, squeezing out a reply. “Just… breathe. With me. Okay? In… and out”

She takes a shaky breath, her hand rising and falling in time with yours as if synchronising her breathing might somehow keep you both tethered to reality. For a moment, it’s almost peaceful, the two of you breathing in unison, a strange little pocket of calm amid the chaos.

And then, just as quickly, the panic is back.

“Wait. Snacks. We’re going to need snacks”

“Snacks?” you manage, halfway between a groan and a laugh.

“Yes. For energy. They said snacks are crucial.” She’s already halfway to the kitchen before you can protest, practically flinging open cupboards and rummaging through drawers with the frantic energy of someone who’s just realised they’re on an episode of MasterChef and has thirty seconds left on the clock. She emerges with an armful of items that make absolutely no sense together—a banana, a bag of crisps, two protein bars, and, inexplicably, a tin of chickpeas.

You stare at the tin in her hands. “Leah, we’re not bringing chickpeas”

“They’re protein,” she says, with a ridiculous level of conviction.

You watch, trying desperately not to laugh as she rummages through drawers, muttering about water bottles and phone chargers and—god help you both—“emergency blankets.” She’s wearing one shoe, and her sock has somehow ended up on her hand, and she’s pacing so frenetically that she nearly trips over her own feet at least twice.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you manage to corral her towards the door, where she stops suddenly, wide-eyed and visibly distressed.

“Wait!” she exclaims, her hand shooting out to grip your arm in sheer, abject horror. “The… the speaker for the birthing playlist!”

You stare at her blankly for a moment before realising that, yes, she’s referring to the hours-long playlist she’d meticulously curated in the months leading up to this moment—a mix of calming piano tracks, soothing instrumentals, and, inexplicably, a handful of 80s power ballads that she swore would “keep the energy up.”

“We… we don’t have time for the speaker, Leah”

She looks at you like you’ve just suggested abandoning a child. “But you… we planned it. I spent hours on Spotify—”

“We don’t need the speaker,” you tell her, trying to keep your voice gentle but firm. You’re at the door, shoes on, bag in hand, and if she doesn’t start moving soon, you’re fairly certain you’ll be having this baby right here in the hallway.

She stares at you, visibly torn, before finally nodding, reluctantly. “Right. No speaker. We can…we’ll improvise”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “We’ll improvise”

And finally—finally—she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and steps out the door, hand in yours, still muttering under her breath about the playlist, about snacks, about breathing techniques and birthing balls and god knows what else.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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tigerpearlsworld · 2 months ago

Text

Pick a card

( How to move forward? )

Before you choose a pile, take a moment to breathe deeply and connect with your intuition. This is a general pick-a-card reading, where the universe's infinite energies align with your path to bring you the guidance you need. Know that you can only choose one pile. The message you receive is not just for you to resonate with, but for you to realize in time as the truth unfolds in your journey. To truly receive your message, you must follow your heart’s instinct, not your expectations. Look beyond the surface and see what your soul is trying to reveal to you.

How to Choose Your Card: Breathe in deeply. Breathe out slowly. Light a candle or incense, and clear your mind. Meditate on the beating of your heart, allowing your thoughts to flow naturally. Let go of doubts, and trust what your heart is guiding you towards. Close your eyes, visualize a light forming in your heart, and feel its pull. When you open your eyes, choose the image that your heart calls to the most.

For some of you maybe number, colour, or image will help.

A Final Message for You: Your heart is your guide, not your mind. Surrender to the wisdom that lies within you.

And for those who are seeking answers about love, fate, and destiny, I send my prayers to the stars to bless you with clarity, strength, and the energy to embrace your path.

May you receive what you are meant to know.

( Choose the pile: )

Pile 1:

Pile 2:

Pile 3:

Pile 4:

The reading starts. . .

Pile 1:

Words: tears, rage, resentment, sorrow, loud, betrayal, identity, name.

Element: Water

Animal: Fox and Fish

Vibes: A storm brewing inside ready to burst

Key to move forward: Acknowledge and process emotions

Cards: ( king of wands in reverse, three of wands, two of pentacles, the magician, four of cups, knight of pentacles)

What's blocking you?

You might be feeling like you're stuck in an endless loop, unsure of how to proceed....there seems to be a conflict between your desires and your ability to take action.

You may have a strong passion but are unable to channel it effectively. Either you are doubting your abilities, or external circumstances are making you feel powerless. You may be feeling dissatisfied with your options...rejecting what’s in front of you while longing for something else. There is also this lack of direction, confidence, or vision. I also see for some there is this mismatch or difficulty in balancing your priorities in life. Like perhaps you are overwhelmed with responsibilities, struggling to manage work, relationships, or personal goals. You may feel like you're juggling too many things without real progress.

How to move forward ?

I see that your current struggles are actually paving the way for you for something big....Allow the chaos to guide you towards clarity. And like stop resisting change-your true growth lies in embracing the discomfort and pushing forward.

I also see you just need to believe in yourself more. Instead of waiting for the perfect moment, use your current skills and start making things happen. Because I see opportunities are there but you just don't want to see them because you wanted something else. Try to make work of what you have right now so you can get what you actually wanted. Yk. Also if you’re feeling stagnant, consider learning something new, networking with people outside your usual circles, or exploring different opportunities. Your future is bigger than your present reality - you just have to start moving towards it. And like You don’t have to figure everything out at once. Just start with small actions that build towards your larger goal.

Messages from the animal which came for you

(I have a special delivery for you as I sense this both animal coming means you have the talent and the traits of both this animal in some way or shape)

::Fox & Fish::

The fox is cunning the fish is lost.

The fox is earthly the fish is not.

The fox moves smart it finds its way,

The fish just drifts caught in the sway.

The fox stays sharp it sees the game,

The fish feels deep yet lacks a name.

The fox adapts, it bends, it weaves,

The fish must choose where it believes.

The fox seeks paths not just the tide,

The fish must swim not run and hide.

So take the wisdom, take the flow,

Be like the fox—yet let waters go.

So, Instead of drifting aimlessly you must make intentional choices. Instead of overthinking and being overly cunning you must trust the journey. Moving forward requires balancing both the fish and the fox inside you. Knowing when to act cunning and when to act with intuition not abandoning one for another.

As the fish says: don't just drift swim with intention

And the fox says: stay connected to those who support you-don’t isolate yourself.

Final words for you:

Right now you are in this important transitional phase in life. It might feel chaotic....but this discomfort is necessary for your growth. Instead of letting fear, indecision, or dissatisfaction hold you back...trust in your ability to rebuild. Start small plan strategically, and embrace the transformation that is already happening within you. You have the power to create the life you want-it’s time to take the first step.

A song for you (this one's my fav btw)

Pile 2:

Words: boundless, innocence, light, unlimited, persistence

Element: Ether

Animal: Octopus and Phoenix

Vibes: Cycle of renewal

Key to move forward: Forgive yourself and others

Cards: ( Three of cups, six of swords, ten of wands, the hermit, five of cups, six of swords )

What's blocking you?

you’re carrying a heavy emotional or mental burden that is making it difficult to move forward. you will face many setbacks which may feel like failures but are actually opportunities to begin again tbh...

Responsibilities may be overwhelming you making it feel more difficult to see a clear path forward. I also see you're in deep worries, overthinking, or even have sleepless nights. My question to you is are you holding onto guilt, regret, or anxieties about the future? *it's okay to feel anxious about the future but dont punish yourself for it*

*It's okay*

I see lingering sadness and disappointment clouding your aura you might be dwelling on some past disappointments, heartbreaks, or missed opportunities. I feel that you are focusing way too much on what went wrong rather than what can still be built. I see you are also withdrawing from people or avoiding seeking help. You might feel like you have to go through this alone but that is not the case.

*it may feel like you're stuck in a situation and that it's the end and there is no escape that this it. But i see you'll get another chance. Trust me... I see a light returning in your life. You need to give yourself a chance. Forgive yourself. And try again. I know it's difficult but I also know you have the strength to move pass it. Don't lose faith. *

How to move forward?

You need to understand one thing and that is setbacks are not failures but opportunities to try again with more wisdom. Instead of seeing closed doors, look for the new paths opening up. Yk. You have ability to recover and move pass this obstacles but only if you allow it. You need to allow yourself to let go of old disappointments and shift your mindset. You need to move on from painful situations.*i know it's difficult but I know you can do it* Whether it’s past relationships, old failures, or toxic patterns now is the time to leave behind what no longer serves you. Release it!!! Release the wounds, the emotional weight!!!! Release the mental weight!!!! Release!!!!

[ YOU CANNOT DO EVERYTHING ALONE! DROP WHAT ISN'T YOURS TO CARRY!!!!!! ]

You don’t have to go through this alone.

Joy, laughter, and companionship will help break the cycle of sadness and isolation. Even if it’s just opening up to one person, reach out.

Messages from the animal which came for you

(Hope my special delivery message coming from both your animals cheer you up and make you see your light which finally helps you move forward)

:::Octopus & Phoenix:::

The Octopus clings and it stretches thin,

Lost in the weight of where it’s been.

It reaches far and holds too tight,

Dimming its own for another’s light.

The Phoenix rises its flames ignite,

Burning the past and embracing flight.

You are not chains and nor scars,

As you are the fire that births the stars.

Release the weight let go, be free,

To rise from the ash to be who you're meant to be.

»»————>»»————>»»————>

*( ╥﹏╥ ) that last line didn't rhyme but you get the gist*

So... Your animals ask you "Have you been too emotionally invested in other people’s problems? Do you take on too much responsibility for others?" To regain balance, learn to say no and create space for yourself. Allow yourself to prioritize your own well-being.

Also burn away the past and step into your true power as its time. You are not defined by your mistakes, your heartbreaks, or your struggles. This is the time to consciously release what has been keeping you stuck. It may take effort, but once you commit to healing, you will lighter, braver, free and more strong and most importantly more you.

As the octopus says: don't give too much to others at the cost of your own well being.

And the Phoenix says: Release the past, step into transformation and embrace your true power.

Final words for you:

You have been through emotional exhaustion, disappointments, and self-doubt, but now is the time to rise. Stop carrying the past.....stop isolating yourself, and start reconnecting with your inner fire.

You are stronger than you realize, and the future is waiting for you to step into your power.

A song which came for you

Pile 3:

Words: Solitary, analytical, secretive, truth, healing, sharp, visions, rebellious, detach

Element: Air

Animal: Tarantula and Moth

Vibes: Acknowledge your hidden wounds

Key to move forward: Acceptance

Cards: ( seven of swords, judgement, ten of swords, ace of wands, eight of cups and death )

What's blocking you?

you are in a phase of healing and deep self-examination i see you may be facing difficult realizations about your past, your choices, or your relationships.

I see that someone may have hurt you deeply, or you might have been involved in a situation where trust was broken. If this was a relationship, you may have been lied to, used, or manipulated. If this is about career or life choices, you might feel like you've been misled or that your own self-doubt kept you from making the right decisions. I see you're running away from facing the truth which I feel like deep inside you already know...if that makes sense? you don't want to face it. I also see the fear of the unknown, fear of opening your wounds, fear of letting anyone in again....You like to feel sure, confident you know life is full of unpredictability but you don't like that....that part where you aren't in control. you want to be sure of yourself.

I also see there is a resistance on your part ....Are you resisting walking away from something (or someone) that no longer serves you? You might be avoiding a hard truth either about yourself or someone else.....Are you refusing to see something that is obvious? Are you repeating the same mistakes? Are you drawn to things that burn you, even though you know better? These are the questions which keep popping in my head for you. You may feel like you’ve hit rock bottom but this is actually a turning point and like If something is draining you...whether it’s a relationship, a job, or a mindset - it’s time to let it go.

How to move forward?

Whatever has ended in your life....whether it's a relationship, a job, an old version of yourself - accept that it had to ended for your highest good. The old version of you can't carry on for long....the old version of you.....the one that tolerated deception, settled for less, or lived in fear it's is dying. Instead of clinging to what no longer serves you, embrace the change. Let the past burn away so something new can take its place. I also see you have been hesitating, but you already know what must be done. you need to listen more to your Intuition and avoid self-sabotage. You need to move on from situations that no longer serve your soul. Whether it’s emotional baggage, toxic relationships, or an outdated mindset, it’s time to let go.

Don't jump from one situation to another just because you don't want to feel or see the truth inside you.... You keep jumping from one thing to another without committing. You try to act tough...not wanting to see the truth that you're in pain. The pain still controls you and deep inside you know it's the truth.that is why for some of you....you may like to serve, be there for others, help, fix others....its like a unconscious thing you do where fixing others make you feel like you're doing something for yourself. But are you? You can't fix people. You have a love and a heart too...which has so much love to give but you need to first tend and take care of your own hurt before you try to fix/tend others. A question comes for you asking have you been distracted by illusions instead of focusing on real growth? If you want to break free from this....choose one path and commit to it fully. Whether it’s career, healing, or self-discovery, see it through to completion.

I see a new something will start in your life soon.... You need to act quick. Whether it’s a new passion, a new vision, or a new way of living, act on it NOW!

Messages from the animal which came for you

The tarantula says: Slowdown, reflect and follow your true purpose.... You know your TRUTH... Stay true to your path.

The moth says: STOP!!!!! Stop jumping impulsively into new things just because they seem easier or more exciting.

Basically this combination for you is a easy way of basically stop chasing distraction and stay true to your path. What it means is moving forward requires committing to a path, avoiding unnecessary distractions, and not letting indecision or overthinking lead to inaction.*i literally felt like a mom scolding a child during this reading lol but ayyyy.... That's how it's coming. Don't shoot the messenger I'm just saying what I'm seeing*

Final words for you:

You are being pushed to evolve whether you like it or not but you will be pushed until you acknowledge....and that's on period* This is your moment of truth. Let go of the past pain, the deception, and the illusions don't be delulu and face the hard decision you have been avoiding.

*for some I see maybe it's a death of someone close to you which you haven't processed yet you need to feel and not bottle it inside.... Let go of them tears.....Feel what you must feel*

Stop chasing temporary distractions and focus on what truly matters.

Lastly, You already know what must be done and now my question to you is.....will you take the step forward?

A song which for you

Pile 4:

Words: Speed, energy, instinct, selfish, vitality, healing, action, rejuvenation

Element: Earth

Animal: Buffalo and Golden Egg

Vibes: Taking the step

Key to move forward: Shift on perspective

Cards: ( The world, The moon, The chariot, Six of wands, Ten of pentacles, Six of swords )

What's blocking you ?

I clearly see you're in a verge of Major breakthrough.... a major transition is happening moving from one phase of life to another, but doubts, fears, or unfinished emotional business is kinda making you slow.

I see there may be some sort of subconscious fear or emotional confusion keeping you from fully embracing the next step. There is desire in you for success which is good but I see it kinda effecting in a way where you are trying too hard to control the outcome instead of trusting the process. I even see for you that the success you're running for is within reach too.....but you might be too focused on external validation- which makes me ponder like are you moving forward for yourself, or to prove something to others?

You are heading towards something better which is great but are you emotionally prepared to leave the past behind? because I clearly see and I am seeing it very much that there is or may be some unresolved lessons that need to be integrated before moving forward.

*Tbh usually i get reading where the cards forces to leave the past behind for people but in this case ig it's different ...which I find hilarious.personally.(⁠⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠⁠)*

Random ik but I also see...hmmm.... It's random but anyway I see.... some long-term stability is at stake now idk what it is you'll know better but whether financially, emotionally, or in relationships I'm being asked to ask you this that "Are you hesitating because you’re afraid of losing security?"

How to move forward?

"TRUST YOUR PATH" Ikr.... In the entire reading from the start this was literally getting repeated over and over and over and over..... Istg... It was buzzing in my ear.

Listen you came here to know how to move forward right?

So it's this simple.... You do not need to have all the answers right now. Yep. You don't. But... trust that you are on the right path, even if the road ahead is unclear even if it doesnt match the big picture right now which you had in your head for a while but for now just move with faith, not fear okayyyy?? Because I see you need clarity on big time! And I see you'll get your clarity when you begin to forward.

I also see you guys are the kind of people who just rush forward without thinking what is ahead of you and that you may seek external validation alot...even if not consciously you guys do it subconsciously and that's on PERIOD!!!! Don't lie to me....i can clearly see that through and through. But listen here I don't judge but I feel what you need is not the external validation but the intenal truth....and I see your deepest truth is already within you, but you must create space to hear it. Engage in meditation, solitude, or introspection. Instead of seeking answers externally, listen..LISTEN to what your inner self is telling you.

Also practice with writing down what you are ready to leave behind, then consciously let it go. This will create space for your new chapter to begin. Because i see success for you. BIG TIME SUCCESS!!!! but make sure you are moving towards what truly fulfills you, not what looks good to others. Also focus on long-term stability whether in career, love, or personal goals rather than short-term recognition.

Messages from the animal which came for you

As you got both the Buffalo and golden egg contrasting energy yet not Yk? But this animals basically will help you understand your energies better and how you could use it.

(Special delivery poem from the animals for you)

::::Buffalo & Golden egg::::

The Buffalo walks strong and wise,

Through storm and dust ...beneath vast skies.

It trusts the path it does not fear,

Each step is steady, bold, sincere.

The Golden Egg so still, so bright,

Holds whispers deep a heart’s true light.

No rush, no chase, just space to be,

To hear the sound of destiny.

One moves ahead, one waits within,

A dance of earth, a song of wind.

To move ahead...embrace them both,

The strength to walk & the soul to growth.

▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▥▧▧▧▧▧▥▥▧▥▧▥▧

So your animals say that you need the company of both of them to move forward you can't rely and depend on one abandoning the other. To move forward you will need to integrate both energies....If you focus only on pushing forward (Buffalo) you will lose touch with your inner truth. And If you focus only on introspection (Golden Egg), you might struggle to take action. So you need to create a balance you understand?

Final words for you:

You are on the edge of something amazing. The only thing left to do is trust yourself, release the past, and step forward with faith.

No song came for you when channeling...I'm sorry :((

#Spotify #pick a card #tarot #pick a pile #tarotcommunity #tarot cards

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sarahscribbles · 1 year ago

Note

So I've been battling with this little idea for a few days but other projects keep me from writing it…

Loki takes y/n shopping and they end up in a lingerie store where y/n teases him by trying on some spicy sets. Of course Loki doesn’t like to be provoked like that and takes her in the changing room💚

Sorry it took me so long to get to this, my love! I hope it's what you had in mind!

𝐋��𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟑.𝟐𝐤

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: 𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭!𝐃𝐨𝐦 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐦 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It’s well into the afternoon by the time you leave the fifth store that day still empty handed. The shopping trip has, so far, been entirely unsuccessful, and you know that Loki’s patience is hanging on by a very thin thread. He’ll never say it, of course, but you noticed the silent roll of his jaw when you emerged from the last changing room and announced that none of the dresses you’d tried on were The One.

He hadn’t believed you when you had told him over and over that finding the perfect outfit for Natasha’s birthday would be a marathon and not a sprint. Likely, he thought you’d emerge victorious from the first store and he could whisk you back to bed to celebrate, but you can feel the tetchiness and exasperation beginning to roll off him as you continue hand in hand down the street.

Your fiancè is an angel, he really is, because no one - not even Wanda - has lasted this long on a shopping trip without voicing their irritation. Given how long you’ve both been traipsing around Manhattan, you have no doubt that Loki’s tolerance is balancing precariously on a knife edge.

He hasn’t voiced a single complaint, though, something you take as just another confirmation that you’re choosing to spend your life with the right person.

“You’re being so brave,” you say with an exaggerated air of solemnity.

You turn to him with an expression that mirrors your tone and he responds with an elegant snort of laughter that makes you grin.

Loki’s hand squeezes yours and he runs the pad of his thumb over your knuckles. “Little menace,” he teases lightly. “Remind me to take you at your word next time, lest I have to suffer like this again.”

You know he’s teasing because the man would move mountains if he so much as thought you’d want him to, but you still nudge him with your hip as you walk.

“I promise that the next store will be the last! I feel like this one will be The One!” you assure him, already beginning to think of a hundred different ways you can make today up to him. Loki will never expect you to, of course, but how could you possibly turn down the chance of spending several hours in bed with him?

“My darling, you do realise you’ve said that each time we’ve stopped in the last hour?” Loki replies, but the affection colouring his words is impossible to miss.

“Yes, but I have a really good feeling about the next place! Trust me!” you tell him, tugging him down the next street Wanda recommended that morning.

It takes less than a minute to locate the boutique amongst the crowds of people. Typical of Wanda, it’s bright and loud and stands out like a beacon amidst the more neutral tones of the surrounding shops. You’re halfway towards the door, though, when something else catches your eye only a few doors down - a racy pink sign with an elegant script that you’re sure you’ve seen on bags scattered around Nat’s room.

A new idea begins to blossom and take shape in your mind.

With a casualness that would make the Black Widow proud you stroll past the boutique until you reach the lingerie store. It’s only when you’re standing right outside the doors that you peek up at Loki. He silently offers you a raised eyebrow and the subtle beginnings of a smirk.

“I’m going to need something to wear under the dress,” you say in explanation.

Loki’s hand leaves yours so he can gently pinch your ass through your jeans. “I believe you raise a very valid point.”

oOo

It’s over half an hour before you finally make it to the changing rooms. Unsurprisingly, Loki has found a new lease of life as you wander around picking out various items of lingerie, and each time you attempt to steer him towards the changing rooms, he finds something new and more risque than before.

Your previous mission of finding an outfit is long forgotten.

“Honestly, you’d think you’d never seen me in lingerie before!” you tease him as he follows you into the bright pink changing rooms.

“You’ll forgive me for never ceasing to be enthralled by how exquisite you are, darling,” he responds smoothly, locking one arm around your waist to pull you back against his chest and planting a kiss to your neck.

“Yeah, yeah, Casanova. I’ve already agreed to marry you. You don’t have to try and seduce me,” you reply.

“That is my life long intention,” he says quietly in your ear.

You fight the excited shiver that threatens to wrack your spine, instead turning to give him an affectionate roll of your eyes as you step into the changing room. “Just behave while I try these on.”

Loki looks back at you with an expression of feigned outrage. “How can you make those ridiculous requests of me?”

You catch his wink as you close the door and begin to sift through the seemingly endless fabric gathered in your arms. The first set you try on is pink and floaty and makes you feel like a cloud of candy floss, but when you open the changing room door, Loki’s eyes darken as though you’ve stepped out wrapped in leather.

“How innocent you look, darling,” he purrs, but you watch that trademark smirk curl across his face. “Although you and I both know that’s not the case. Remind me where that little mouth was last night?”

You playfully flip him off. “This is definitely going in the “no” pile. I feel like I should call you Daddy.”

Loki visibly cringes. “Please do not ever use that word in reference to me.”

“You got it,” you say and step back into the room.

The next set you selected while Loki was otherwise occupied. You have no intention of buying it, but it was impossible to pass up the opportunity to tease him. The bodice is plain but brilliant red in colour, and dips low enough to give you an amazing cleavage.

Yet, somehow, you don’t think that will be enough to redeem it.

Loki’s eyes shoot up the second you pull the door open, but his face quickly drops into a scowl when he sees you half naked in his brother’s colours.

“No,” he says immediately, though you notice his eyes roaming appreciatively over you.

“No? Really? I wasn’t planning on trying anymore after this. It fits perfectly, and I think it looks good!” you say brightly, fighting not to laugh as his eyes narrow.

“I am not above putting you over my knee in public, dove,” Loki warns you.

Warmth spreads shamelessly through your lower stomach until you feel that familiar, pleasant tingle between your thighs. You’re almost certain he wouldn’t, but you are dealing with the God of Mischief. It’s the lingering doubt that makes you sashay back into the changing room with Loki’s quiet laughter at your back.

With the door securely closed you begin to pick through the swathes of material still spread over the marble bench, but it doesn’t take long to decide what you’re trying on next. It’s another that you sneakily draped over your arm while Loki was elsewhere in the store - a feat you’re quite proud of given how he seems to notice everything.

This set is made of delicate black lace - Loki’s kryptonite - and has tiny gold beading woven tastefully into the bodice. The sweetheart neckline gives you an enviable cleavage and when you catch sight of yourself in the floor length mirror against the opposite wall, you can’t help but make an appreciative face at your own reflection.

You look good.

After a few circles in front of the mirror - and a brief moment of wishing you could pair the set with the matching stockings - you finally open the changing room door.

Loki is slower to turn his gaze to you this time, but when he does, it’s impossible to miss the pure lust that alights in his eyes. They run over you slowly from head to toe, like a starving man presented with his first meal. He swallows silently, wets his lips, and in two steps is standing right before you.

“Enough,” he says huskily, placing a large hand on your shoulder to push you back into the small room with him in tow.

The door clicks closed behind him, but his eyes never once leave yours. They’re dancing with raw desire, even though he’s seen you like this a million times before.

“It isn’t fair to tease, dove,” Loki says, reaching out to grab your chin.

You fix him with a look of feigned innocence. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do, you little minx,” he replies quietly. His other hand is suddenly on your other shoulder and he’s spinning you around until you’re staring at your reflection in the mirror. “Look at your reflection and tell me you aren’t testing the resolve of a god,” Loki murmurs lowly in your ear.

Ignoring the first flames of arousal that are beginning to lick through your core, you meet his eyes in the mirror. “I was just trying on lingerie. I’m completely innocent.”

Loki’s hand snakes around your throat from behind, applying just the right amount of pressure. “The God of Lies, darling.”

Even with his hand around your neck you smirk at him. “I think you’re losing your touch on that part.”

“Brat,” Loki growls in your ear.

Easily, he walks you forward until your knees hit the wide ottoman sitting just in front of the mirror. His arm curls around your waist before you can crumple, carefully guiding you into a kneeling position atop the soft velvet and slotting himself between your spread calves like a missing puzzle piece.

“Be a good girl and admit that you were being a tease,” he speaks quietly against your temple. There’s humour in his voice, but it’s mixing with a dangerous note that you’d recognise anywhere.

Loki’s hand is still locked possessively around your neck, making it near impossible to lean into the teasing brush of his lips against your skin. He knows this and continues to ghost them over your flushed cheek, refusing to reward you with the full, thrilling feel of them.

“Never!” you say through a laugh, and you’re rewarded with the quiet sound of Loki’s right by your ear.

“As you wish, dove,” he says, each word dripping with warning.

His free hand creeps slowly along the lace bodice, fingering the intricacies of the lace and the miniscule golden beads until it reaches the matching tiny black thong. With ease, he rips the fabric from your hips and tosses it carelessly to the side in one shocking - but equally arousing - movement.

“Hey! I haven’t paid for this, you know!” you cry out, attempting to appraise the damage but his hand holds your head firmly in place.

“That’s not my problem,” Loki replies, sinking his teeth into your earlobe and gently pulling on the flesh.

You groan and plant your hands back on his thighs, digging your nails through his jeans for an added kick. “I’ll make it your prob - o..oh!” you begin to mutter, but Loki’s fingers on your clit steal the words from your lungs. “Mm…fuck…,” you moan, letting your head dip back on his shoulder.

“Ah, ah.” Loki quickly chastises you, using the hand still wrapped around your neck to guide your head forward. “Eyes on the mirror, dove. Eyes on me.”

With another strangled moan as he skillfully circles your clit, you obediently keep your eyes trained on him. His face is pressed snugly against your cheek, and finally - finally - you feel the blessed press of his lips against your flushed skin. He leaves a wet trail of kisses all the way to your ear, then you feel the wet heat of his tongue trace a line along the sweet spot behind your ear.

The only thing keeping you upright is the hand still gripping your throat, but even it can’t suppress the shiver that wracks violently through you.

Loki’s fingers continue to rapidly propel you towards release, skillfully playing your body in a way only he can. Mixed with the filth that he’s whispering in your ear, you feel your climax begin to crest like a wave in your cunt, and when Loki decides to suck on your earlobe, you know you’re gone.

“Loki…m’gonna cum. ‘M…gonna…..urghh!!” you cry out in utter frustration when he pulls his hand away from your dripping cunt.

“I don’t think so, darling,” he purrs smoothly, running the tip of his nose along your cheek. “Not until you admit you were being a brat.”

The scent of him - the scent of your home - wraps around you like a favourite blanket. It’s patchouli and clove and that ever evasive “something sweet” that drags you under like a buoy beneath the surf. You want to surrender, to lose yourself in this man as he loses himself in you in return, but, unsurprisingly, your stubbornness prevails.

“Nope!” you say, trying to shake your head as best you can while he still holds it in place.

Loki releases an exaggerated sigh and dips his fingers back between your thighs. “Very well.”

Again and again he brings you right to the edge of a blinding release, each time letting your orgasm dangle enticingly before you and snatching it from your grasp when you still refuse to humour him. You whine and plead and beg, but he’s in a particularly sadistic mood this afternoon and refuses to grant you the climax you’re craving.

By the fifth time, you’re whimpering and wriggling in his grasp. Each of your stolen orgasms are burning through your blood and you’re desperate for what promises to be a cataclysmic release, so when his fingers return once more to tease your aching cunt, you crave.

“Alright! Ok, I yield! I was being a brat, you were right! I was being a brat and teasing you! Please let me cum now! Please!” you beg, not caring that you’re in a very public changing room in the middle of Manhattan.

Loki presses his lips to your cheek. “Now, was that really so hard?” he taunts, and brings his fingers to your mouth. “Open.”

Obediently, you clean your arousal off him and squirm with excitement when you hear him unbuckle his belt and free himself from his jeans. He moves closer still and his cock is achingly hard as he slides it along your slick cunt. You’re all but keening for him, about to burst with how wildly you crave him, but he repeats the motion again and again, laughing quietly as he does.

“Loki, please!” you whine, pressing your ass back against him in a flimsy attempt to encourage him forward.

It’s fruitless, you know; Loki does everything at his own pace.

The hand still wrapped around your throat glides upwards to your jaw, locking your head completely in place. “Your eyes are not to leave this mirror,” Loki murmurs with quiet authority. “I want you to see what this perfect little body does to me. I want you to watch your god come apart. Understood?”

You’re so madly aroused by this man that you can only manage a whimper, but when he lightly smacks your ass, you quickly find your voice.

“Yes, Loki!”

“Good girl. My good, good girl,” he praises you as his cock slips inside you inch by glorious inch.

You’ve had this man more times than you can count, yet you still groan in absolute bliss when he fills you with his cock. He’s ruined you for anyone else.

Loki’s face hovers near yours in the mirror and you delightfully watch in contort in pleasure with each thrust into your warm, welcoming cunt. His eyes slip closed in tandem with a broken stream of expletives spilling from his lips, words that you mirror when his fingers find your clit once again.

Your instant cry of pleasure makes him groan shamelessly in your ear and reward you with a particularly rough thrust of his hips. “Exquisite, darling. You are exquisite,” he rasps in your ear. “Look at what you do to me, you divine creature.”

And you do watch.

You watch as he throws his head back on his shoulders, half lost to the pleasure your mortal body is bringing him; you watch his carefully styled hair become more disheveled with each thrust, falling haphazardly around his face in a rainfall of ink black; you watch the deep furrow of his brow and the parting of his lips as his own release builds like a storm within him.

Watching him is better than any aphrodisiac. It’s addictively erotic - even more so at knowing it’s you that ignited so much desire in him that he had to take you here and now. His name is already etched across your heart, but you want to drown in this man until he’s all your lungs know.

Watching his ascent to orgasm has only stirred your own to life between your thighs. You’re right at the edge, and this time you know he’ll finally grant you that glittering release.

“Gonna cum. Loki…gonna cum…m’ gonna��,'' you slur out while his cock continues to brush against you at just the right angle and his fingers on your clit have you close to seeing stars.

“Cum for me, beautiful girl,” he says roughly, but with a gentle squeeze of your throat.

You topple over easily, groaning his name as your orgasm rips violently through you. Your nails dig deeper into his denim clad thighs for purchase and, seconds later, Loki freefalls right along with you. He catches your eye in the mirror as his own orgasm drags him under, repeating your name like an ancient prayer of salvation.

The sight of him lost to pleasure only magnifies your own until you’re almost sure you’ll pass out from the sheer force of your climax. You don’t break Loki’s gaze for a second, not until the very last aftershocks are rippling through you and you feel boneless in his grip.

Loki’s hand loosens from your throat in the wake of his own come down. Both arms wrap securely around your waist while his forehead falls to rest in the crook of your neck, his lips instantly latching on to your sensitive skin. You’re still spent and panting, and his cock is still buried inside you, but you gladly bask in the soft feel of his lips pressing along your shoulder.

“So…d’you think I should buy this one?” you say lightly after a brief moment of silence.

His answering laughter gently tickles your neck. “Darling, if you don’t, I will have no choice but to do this again and again until you see sense.”

“That’s…that’s not really persuading me,” you reply, taking one of his hands in yours and bringing it to your lips.

In response, you feel his teeth graze over your skin. “Hmm, how about this? If you buy this, we will return to the Compound immediately and I will lock our doors for the next few days.”

You make a show of considering his words. “It’s a start, I guess.”

Loki chuckles and nuzzles his face against your neck. “My darling, you have no idea what plans I have for you.”

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