#reads these things like the morning paper

[lostinlovingrevery]

Domestic bliss with Logan 😵‍💫😵‍💫

Hubby

Logan Howlett X Reader

Married life suits him

A/N: Thought of this ask today while I was working on a build project and came up with this!!! Enjoy <3 I want to be married to this man- also any Logan could be imagined, but Origins certainly has hubby vibes doesn't he? :)

Warnings: Married life, a lil short thing about mutants, suggestive ending ;), Logan nesting like crazy

"They're just people, mutants are just people with special abilities. I don't hold that against them! They deserve a normal life as everyone does-"

The talk show host rambled on and on. The usual spiel over mutants and their place in the world. Men in suits talking about the rights of people again; as if they were God and had any choice in what a man did and didn't deserve.

Logan wasn't really listening to it though. Background noise that he tuned out for the most part. He just liked having the old radio playing, kept him from drifting too far into his mind.

Occasionally it would start to static, losing it's connection and he'd reach over and bang on it- mess with the antenna. You've offered a hundred times to buy him a brand new radio, but he's insisted that this was perfectly fine. Why waste the money?

The smell of cigars and cut lumber filled the space- his workshop. Inside what was actually a barn at one point, but no animals to keep in it yet. You want goats and chickens- he plans to surprise you with a few baby chicks around late spring- once he gets a chicken coop built.

He puffed on his cigar a few times, before blowing smoke up into the air, while he examined the drafts he's been working on all morning. Dusty and smudged from multiple times he's had to erase and redraw lines he's messed up. He ashed the cigar on a glass tray, sticking it back between his teeth as he creased his brows in focus- reading his notes, observing his sketches- picking at details he forgot or needs to change.

He's building you a reading room. You don't know that yet. A nice cozy room, with lots of windows for sunlight, and walls with built-in shelves for all your books and knick-knacks you could never find space for. Putting it on the east side of the house- so you can watch the sunrise, your favorite time of day.

Least he could do, after spending the last few weeks building the dining room and driving you crazy with all the dust and bare walls and tools scattered over the floor- alongside some other messes.

He picked up the sound of your footsteps crunching against the gravel outside. Lifting his pencil, he added a few more notes to his drafts as he waited for you to try to sneak up on him- as you always do. Trying- and failing to surprise him, a little game you had with him for years.

You were being awfully quiet. Though the sound of your heartbeat always gives you away. He was always listening to it, a sound that brings deep comfort to him- no matter how far you were.

Once he discerned how close you were, he removed the cigar from his lips, setting it onto the tray and turning to look at you with a quirked brow.

You immediately froze at his stare, a plate full of food in your hand. Your shoulders became hunched and you pout.

"You can't pretend at least once to be surprised by me?"

"Even if you know better?" He asks.

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer and proudly presenting the plate of food that you've been cooking all afternoon for him.

"Lunch."

"Mm." He observes the plate, taking it from your hands and setting it atop his drafts- concealing it from your eyes. His hand went around your waist and pulled you close. "Looks good." He hums, eyes trailing up and down your figure- and you knew he wasn't talking about the chicken salad you made.

You giggled, leaning forward to peck his cheek, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"Working hard?"

"Me? Nah. "

"Mm." You smiled, before glancing over at the papers, not paying any particular mind to them. "Don't be out here too long, okay? I miss you."

"Promise." He looks up, and gives you a sweet smile, and leans forward to give you a peck on the lips.

You began to walk away, but he caught your hand and pulled you back to him, pulling you into his lap with ease, eliciting giggles from you as your arms wrapped around his neck. "What was that?"

"Take a look." He reached over to the workbench and moved his lunch out of the way, giving you a proper view of that smudgy construction drafts. You leaned forward, his hands holding you securely in his lap while you examined the drawings and notes.

"Is this..."

"Yeah."

You looked at him, a knowing smile on your face. "I thought you said you were done building for a bit- especially after the incidents with the dining room."

He dropped the circular saw while it was running. Created a big gash in your new flooring- he hasn't fix that yet. Then he accidentally knocked over a can of paint that spread out and leaked into the carpet in the other room- replacing the carpet is on his list. Accidentally broke a window, just have cardboard taped over the panel for now.

He was handy, but he was not agile.

"This is different." He says. "It's for you."

You looked at him in surprise. "Lo, you don't have to-"

"I know. I want to. You deserve it, love."

You bit your lip as you felt heat blooming in your cheeks.

This man always finds a way to make you flustered.

Looking back at the plans again, your fingers fiddled with the collar of his flannel. "Well... If it's going to be outside for the most part, I guess I can't complain."

"I'm sure you'll find something." He teased.

You gasp, hitting his chest playfully, but he caught your hand and pulled you closer so he could kiss you. You both start laughing, mirth escaping you as you kiss.

His hands pulled you closer into his lap, and your pecking kisses melted into something messy and deep. His hand that rested on your thigh traced up your body, down your arm, and over your hand that was pressed to his chest, where he felt the ring he's given you not long ago, resting where it rightfully belonged; his own ring brushing over it.

"Mm." You hum as you parted from him with a soft smooch. "Why don't you take a break from this, spend some time with me?"

"Sounds perfect." He hums, his arms scooped you up from his lap as he hopped down from the chair, carrying you out of the barn, to your country home that you share with Logan.

The radio host droned on in the now empty barn.

"These....people, mutants, they have feelings! They- They hurt, they go through a lot of pain. They love too! They have family, friends, people they care about. So what if they can do special tricks that some of us can't?" The host carried on, "They have a right to live their lives, and to live it happily."

[alohajix]

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚

Description: in the quiet town of Holmes Chapel, Amara—a gentle, nurturing kindergarten teacher—lives a life built on routine, safety, and quiet strength. She’s not looking for love, especially not after the scars left behind by someone she’d rather forget. But when Harry Styles walks into her classroom carrying his three-year-old daughter and a heart still grieving the loss of the woman he loved, everything changes. Neither of them is ready. Neither of them is looking. But sometimes, the people who change your life don’t knock first. They just… show up.

Warnings: this mini-series includes grief, past emotional abuse/manipulation, trauma recovery, single parenthood, and emotional vulnerability. Later chapters will contain explicit smut (clearly labeled).

Words count: ~ 90K.

First part is here! Tell me what do you think in the comments💕

*****

PART ONE – Tiny Brave Things (Words: 15K)

AMARA

The kettle clicked off just as the sun began its slow rise behind the garden hedge, spilling pale gold through the kitchen window and casting a honeyed glow across the tile floor. I stood barefoot by the sink, hands wrapped around a mug that still steamed gently against my palms, and let the morning settle around me. The quiet was soft and familiar—no cars, no voices, just the faint hum of the fridge and the birds calling to each other through the hedgerow.

This was my favorite part of the day. Before the noise, before the paint-stained fingers and paper towel crises, before someone cried because someone else used the purple crayon first. Just the stillness of home. My own breath, steady and slow. The ceramic weight of the cup in my hands. The ache in my shoulders I hadn’t realized was there until the heat began to ease it.

I took a sip and leaned against the counter, watching the steam curl and vanish. My skin was still warm from the shower. I hadn’t bothered with the hairdryer—just towel-dried my hair and twisted it into a low bun. A few strands clung to my temples, already loosening in the morning humidity. I didn’t mind.

I glanced at the clock above the oven: 6:41 a.m. Early. Earlier than I needed to be up, but I’d stopped fighting it. My body knew what it needed. I gave up on sleeping in years ago—around the same time I realized I felt safest when I had a little extra time. A little extra quiet. A little extra space between me and whatever the day might bring. Some people woke up to alarms. I woke up to the weight in my chest shifting ever so slightly.

I finished my tea, rinsed the cup, and padded barefoot across the warm kitchen floor to my small dining table—the one I’d rescued from a vintage shop three years ago and painted myself on a rainy weekend. Pale blue, a little chipped at the corners now. I liked it better that way. I pulled out the chair closest to the window, sat down, and reached for my to-do list. Just seeing it calmed me. It was half crossed-out already, scrawled in neat loops across lined paper, right down to things like “pick up more lavender spray” and “replace dying peace lily in reading corner.” I didn’t mind the repetition. Some people found it exhausting. I found it grounding. The structure. The rhythm. The knowledge that every morning, twenty-three little faces would walk through my classroom door, dragging backpacks and half-zipped coats and stories about their cat’s birthday party or a new rainbow shirt.

And today—there’d be one more. Olive Styles. Age three. I hadn’t met her yet. Her father had registered her yesterday, just before the office closed, so I’d only heard the name in passing from Mrs. Keller, the school secretary.

“Sweet-sounding little thing,” she’d said. “He filled everything out perfectly. Very polite. Very…” She’d paused then, lowering her voice even though it was just the two of us. “Put-together.”

I’d smiled, distracted by a stack of coloring books I needed to sort, and hadn’t thought much more of it. At the time. But now, sitting alone in my kitchen with the day stretching ahead of me, I realized I was… curious. Which was ridiculous. Parents came and went. I met them at drop-off, at parent nights, at emergency “your child has a tooth in their pocket again” calls. I didn’t wonder about them. And yet—

I shook it off.

I stood, slipped into my flats, pulled my cardigan from its hook near the door, and took one last glance around the room—everything tidy, everything still. Then I stepped outside.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Holmes Chapel was still half-asleep as I walked into town. The air was cool against my skin, and the streets shimmered faintly with dew. I took the long route, weaving past hedgerows and low stone walls, nodding to the dog walkers I saw every morning. The same faces. The same smiles.

That was the thing about this town—you couldn’t hide in it. Not really. People knew each other. Knew who’d married whom. Who’d left, who’d come back. And in my case, who’d once dated Logan Clark, and who now politely avoided the subject.

I passed Mrs. Whitmore’s house just as she stepped out in her robe and slippers, watering can in hand.

“Morning, love,” she called, not looking up.

“Morning. They’re looking lovely,” I said, nodding at her roses.

“They always bloom early when the weather’s soft,” she replied, and I smiled.

I turned down the high street, already waking up with the scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakery and the soft jingle of the florist unlocking her front door. The bell above the café rang as someone stepped out with a paper bag and a steaming cup. I walked past it all, my pace steady, familiar.

Ten minutes later, I pushed through the iron gate in front of the school and stepped into the quiet hallways of a place that had become more home than anything else. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as I made my way to my classroom. The moment I unlocked the door, I was hit with the faint scent of lavender spray and children’s markers. I breathed it in like oxygen.

This space—bright, safe, colorful—was where everything felt steady. The paper butterflies we’d made last week still hung from the ceiling, their wings swaying in the faint breeze from the open window. The reading corner cushions were fluffed. The whiteboard still had the words “You Are So Loved” written in big, bubbly letters.

I set down my bag, slipped off my cardigan, and turned on the fairy lights above the bookshelf. Then I got to work. Puzzles out. Name tags in place. Crayons sorted. Paint trays prepped. I moved with the rhythm of someone who’d done this a hundred times and still cared enough to make it feel new. I was adjusting a stack of books when I heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Well, well. Look who beat me in.”

I turned to see Mya, leaning against the doorframe, holding two takeaway cups and smiling like she knew something I didn’t.

“Miracles happen,” I said, walking over to take one of the cups. “No more running in at 7:59 like I’ve just escaped a burning building.”

“I don’t know, I kind of liked that look on you,” she said, stepping into the room. “A little wild-eyed. Kept the parents on their toes.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest.”

She sank into the beanbag in the corner and took a sip of her drink, eyes following me as I rearranged the art supply shelf.

“So,” she said casually. “Today’s the day, yeah?”

I glanced over. “The new student?”

“Olive Styles,” she said, as if she were testing the name out loud.

I nodded. “Starts today.”

Mya grinned. “That’s such a cute kid name. Sounds like someone who wears tiny boots and carries a leaf collection in her pocket.”

“I hope so.”

She gave me a look. “And the dad?”

I blinked. “What about him?”

Mya raised her eyebrows. “You tell me. The name Styles isn’t exactly forgettable.”

I shrugged, turning to face the shelf again. “Mrs. Keller said he filled out everything properly. Sounded polite.”

“That’s code for hot,” she said, sipping her coffee with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s code for ‘I didn’t ask.’”

“Sure. Sure it is.”

I tossed a crayon box at her gently. “Some of us are focused on the children, thank you.”

She laughed, catching it. “You’re such a mum already, it’s scary.”

“Maybe someday.” The words slipped out before I could catch them. I didn’t mean to sound wistful, but there was a silence after that. A breath.

Mya watched me for a beat too long. “You’d be a brilliant mum, you know.”

I smiled, quiet. “Thanks.”

She stood and handed me the empty cup. “Alright, I’ve got to go prep for my own little chaos tornado. But text me if anything interesting happens.”

“Define interesting.”

She grinned. “Tall, dark, and devastating.” And with that, she left.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

HARRY

Olive was already in bed with me when the alarm went off. I didn’t even hear the first buzz. Just felt her small hand tug at my T-shirt, the way she always did in the early hours. Her knees were curled into my side, bunny tucked between us, thumb grazing her bottom lip like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to suck it or not. She never cried out when she came into my room—just showed up, quiet, steady, like her body remembered something her mouth hadn’t quite learned how to say.

I blinked up at the ceiling, still hazy with sleep, then down at her soft curls resting against my chest. It was early. Still grey outside. Still the kind of hush that made you feel like the world hadn’t quite started yet. I liked that part. The stillness. The space between night and day. The part where no one needed anything from me yet. Except for her. I brushed a hand gently down her back, the fabric of her sleep shirt warm from sleep.

“Morning, bug,” I whispered. She didn’t answer, just snuggled closer. Today was her first day. The first day of something new. And it felt… big. Bigger than it should’ve.

It wasn’t just preschool. It was the first time I’d let someone else carry her weight for a few hours. The first time she’d sit in a room full of strangers and look around for a face that wasn’t mine.

I pressed a kiss to her hair. “Think we can be brave today?”

Her breath shuddered out across my chest. Just a tiny sound. She didn’t answer. I didn’t push. We stayed like that for a few more minutes, until the light outside turned a little less grey and a little more gold. Then I sat up slowly, pulling her into my lap.

“Toast and jam?” I asked. She nodded, eyes still heavy. “Milk in the bunny mug?”

She gave me a sleepy thumbs up. I carried her to the kitchen, setting her gently on one of the bar stools. She leaned against the counter with her head in her hands, bunny tucked under one arm, curls wild and matted in the back. I started the toast and turned on the kettle, letting the familiar motions quiet the nerves buzzing under my skin.

The house was still. Not empty—but quieter than it used to be. There were still traces of Becca everywhere. In the way the mugs didn’t match. In the pink apron hanging behind the pantry door. In the stack of kids’ books on the shelf near the fireplace. I hadn’t moved any of it. Couldn’t. Some days, it helped. Some days, it made me want to take a hammer to the walls.

Olive stayed quiet while I made breakfast. I knew she was nervous—could feel it in the way she picked at the hem of her sleeve, in the way she stared at her bunny like it might have answers she didn’t. I set her food down and leaned against the counter across from her.

“You remember we’re going to school today, right?” She nodded, eyes on her plate. “And remember, I’m not leaving until you’re ready.”

Her lips pressed together, like she was thinking hard. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know,” I said gently. “You don’t have to. I’ll be right outside for a little while. And then I’ll come pick you up after lunch, just like we said.”

She took a tiny bite of toast. “Will there be books?”

“Lots.”

“Glue?”

“Probably.”

She looked up. “The funny-smelling kind?”

I smiled. “The exact one.”

Her shoulders dropped slightly. “Okay.”

I walked over, crouching beside her stool so I was eye-level. “You’re gonna be okay, bug. Just try your best. That’s all.”

She leaned into me, small arms around my neck. “Will Miss be nice?”

I hoped so. “Yeah. I think she will.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

We were quiet on the drive. I kept the music soft—something acoustic and familiar—and glanced at her in the rearview mirror every few seconds. She was staring out the window, bunny still in her lap, curls pulled into two low pigtails that I’d clumsily tied myself. Becca used to braid them. Made them look easy. Olive never flinched when Becca did her hair. Now, she only let me do it if I promised to be gentle. And I always tried.

We pulled into the small car park beside the school, and I turned off the engine. Olive looked up at the building. Then back at me. Her bottom lip wobbled. Just once. I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for her.

“You ready to be brave?” She shook her head. “That’s okay,” I said, lifting her carefully from the seat. “You can do it scared, too.”

I carried her toward the building, her arms looped tightly around my neck, bunny squished between us. The school was quiet from the outside, sunlight glinting off the windows, the iron gate just barely ajar. When we reached the door, I paused. She was breathing fast, her forehead pressed to my collarbone.

“Bug,” I whispered, “you’re safe.”

She didn’t let go. But she didn’t pull away either. I adjusted her in my arms, took a deep breath, and opened the door. And there she was.

She turned from the bookshelf when we walked in, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The room glowed behind her—fairy lights strung above the shelves, sunlight pooling on the rug, soft music playing from a speaker I couldn’t see. It smelled like lavender and Play-Doh and something warm I couldn’t name.

She looked up at us and smiled. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t practiced. It was soft. Real. Welcoming in a way I hadn’t expected.

“Hi,” she said, walking toward us. “You’re right on time.”

Her voice was gentle—like she was speaking to both of us at once. Not just Olive. Olive peeked at her from beneath my chin.

“I’m Miss Amara,” she said softly. “But you can call me Miss, if that feels easier.”

Olive didn’t answer, but she didn’t hide, either.

“She’s a bit shy,” I said, my voice lower now, unsure why. “And this is all new.”

“I understand,” Amara said. “She can take all the time she needs.”

I nodded, heart tugging as Olive pressed her face into my neck.

“She brought her favorite book,” I added, reaching into her little backpack and pulling out The Koala Who Could. “And her blanket’s in there, too. Just in case.”

She took the book gently from my hands, her eyes scanning the cover like she recognized it.

“Thank you,” she said. “This helps a lot.”

“She likes the part with the tree,” I said, then caught myself. “Sorry. I know you probably don’t need all that.”

“No,” she smiled. “It’s lovely. I like knowing what matters to her.” She knelt down a little, meeting Olive’s eye line. “I heard you’re very good at puzzles,” she said softly. “I saved a special one for you, if you want to see it.”

Olive didn’t move at first. Then, slowly—so slowly—she turned to look at me.

I nodded, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Want to try?”

She hesitated. Then let her arms fall away from my neck. I crouched down and set her gently on the floor, her bunny still tight in her hands.

“You can bring that,” Amara said. “We like bunnies here.”

Olive blinked at her. Just once. Then followed her toward a little round table covered in puzzle pieces. I stayed by the door, heart full of something I couldn’t name. Amara turned back, eyes meeting mine.

“She’ll be alright,” she said. I believed her.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

AMARA

Olive didn’t say much. But she didn’t cry either. And honestly? That was more than enough.

She sat at the little round table near the windows, gently pressing puzzle pieces into place like it was a task someone had assigned her and she was determined to get it right. I stayed near her for the first ten minutes. I didn’t hover—just tidied nearby, made soft commentary, occasionally pointed out a missing tail or paw. She didn’t respond with words, but every once in a while, she’d glance at me. Just to check I was still there.

Eventually, I drifted across the room to welcome the others. Kids tumbled in—some running, some sleepy, one in tears because her snack box had the wrong sticker on it. The usual chaos. The beautiful, joyful, sticky kind. And all the while, Olive watched. She didn’t join in. But she didn’t shrink away either. She sat with her bunny tucked between her knees and her shoulders squared like she was bracing for something.

About an hour in, I was helping two boys at the paint table when I felt her beside me. Quiet as anything. She held up a small piece of paper. It was her drawing. A tree. A tiny grey shape in the middle. A koala.

I crouched to her level and smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

She pointed to the koala. “Kevin.”

“From your book?” She nodded once. “He looks very brave in your drawing.” She didn’t say anything. But she smiled.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

At snack time, I let her sit beside me. Some of the kids liked crowding together in little clusters on the rug, but Olive stayed close. Not clinging—just nearby. Her bunny sat in her lap while she quietly munched on crackers and watched the others giggle about apples shaped like hearts.

One of the boys—Elliot—came over and plopped down beside her without warning. Olive stiffened.

“That’s mine,” he said, pointing at one of the puzzle blocks she’d brought over earlier.

I turned toward him gently. “She’s using the extra pieces from the bin, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

He frowned. “But I used the yellow one yesterday.”

“She didn’t take it,” I said softly. Olive stayed frozen. I crouched, placing a hand gently on her back. “It’s okay.” She looked at me—those big, searching eyes—and I swear, the tension in her shoulders melted just a little at my touch. I looked to Elliot. “How about you show Olive how you built your tower yesterday? Maybe you can do it together?”

He grumbled, but after a minute, he nodded and scooted closer. Olive glanced at me again, then sat up straighter. She placed the yellow block in front of him. And when he smiled at her, she whispered, “Okay.” It was barely audible. But it was there. And something in me shifted.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The day flowed in soft, colorful waves. We did handprint art with washable paint. I read a story about a dragon who only ate marshmallows. Olive sat closest to the rug’s edge but turned her head toward me with each page. She never interrupted like the others did. Just listened, wide-eyed, taking it all in. She let another little girl braid one of her pigtails. She handed someone a red crayon without being asked. She laughed—once—when someone sneezed glitter by accident.

And for a few precious hours, I didn’t think about Logan. Until I heard my name at the door.

“Amara?” I looked up to see Mrs. Keller peeking in, holding a clipboard. “Phone message for you, love. Not urgent. Just… something to have.”

I stood, brushing paint from my hands, and met her at the door. She handed me the pink slip.

LOGAN, it read in thick, rushed letters.

Called to ask what time you finish today. Said he might stop by.

The breath caught in my throat before I could hide it.

Mrs. Keller’s eyes softened. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” I lied. Because what else was I supposed to say?

I tucked the note into the pocket of my cardigan and turned back to the classroom. Olive was watching me. Not with fear. Not with confusion. Just… watching. Like she knew what it looked like when someone got a call that changed the air around them.

I forced a smile. “Time to clean up, sweet pea. Want to help me with the paint lids?” She nodded. Didn’t let go of her bunny. But walked with me anyway.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The clock on the classroom wall ticked closer to one. The sunlight had shifted across the room now, casting warm stripes on the floor where a few kids were finishing their snack. Most had gone home for the day—early pickups and half schedules. Olive was the last still waiting. But she didn’t seem worried.

She sat beside me at the low round table, her bunny perched carefully on the edge, as we sorted puzzle pieces back into their box. She was focused. Calm. And every once in a while, she’d glance at the door. Not anxiously—just waiting. It was only her first day, and somehow, she was already part of this place.

I felt a quiet kind of pride settle in my chest.

When the knock finally came, she didn’t flinch. Just turned her head and smiled before I even stood up. I walked to the door and opened it.

He was there. Harry Styles. His curls were slightly messier than this morning, like he’d run a hand through them too many times. He wore a grey jumper and jeans, his coat unzipped, his shoulders a little more relaxed than they’d been before. But his eyes? Still soft. Still searching.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter than necessary. “She alright?”

“She’s better than alright,” I said, smiling as I stepped aside. “She’s been brilliant.”

He looked over my shoulder and saw her—tiny, bunny in hand, puzzle box now clutched to her chest. His shoulders dropped a little more. And for a second, something passed between us. Not a moment. Not yet. But a pause. Like he saw me now. Not just as her teacher. As something more.

Olive slid off the chair and padded over in her little pink trainers, curls bouncing softly.

“Daddy,” she said, not with desperation—just warmth.

He crouched and held out his arms, scooping her into a hug. “Hey, bug. You did it.”

She pulled back just enough to show him the puzzle box. “We found the fox.”

“You did?” he said, eyes wide like she’d just announced she’d climbed a mountain.

She nodded, then looked at me. “Miss helped.”

I smiled. “She did most of it herself.”

Harry stood, Olive still perched on one arm. He turned to me with something in his expression that wasn’t just gratitude.

“You’re very good with her,” he said.

“I try to be good with all of them,” I replied gently. “But she made it easy.”

He exhaled through his nose. “She doesn’t usually let go like that. Not since…” He trailed off, glancing down at her. I knew what he was going to say. He didn’t need to finish it.

“I’m glad she felt safe here,” I said.

He looked back at me, and for a second, the noise in the hallway faded. Everything stilled.

“ If she wants to come back tomorrow.” I smiled. “She’ll have her spot waiting.”

He nodded. “Same time?”

“Same time.”

We stood there for a second longer than we needed to. Then Olive tugged gently at his collar. “Can we get the bread with the holes?”

“The bagels?” he asked, already smiling. “Course we can.”

He glanced at me one last time. “Thanks again, Miss Amara.”

I liked the way he said it. Like it mattered. “You’re welcome,” I said. And I meant it.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The classroom emptied slowly. I lingered, like I always did. Wiping down the tables. Tidying the reading corner. Restoring the classroom to the gentle stillness it always held before the day began again.

The sunlight had faded to a softer gold now, stretching long across the floors. I turned off the fairy lights and packed my things with the kind of slow rhythm that comes after a full, good day. I didn’t feel tired. Not the heavy kind. I felt full. Full of little moments. Olive’s soft voice. Her quiet nod. The way Harry had looked at her—and at me—like something new had settled between the three of us and none of us quite had the words for it yet.

I stepped out into the early evening air and started toward the square. I hadn’t planned to stop at the market, but my fridge at home was bare, and the day had left me craving something warm. Something soft. Maybe bread. Or jam. Or chocolate.

The cobblestone paths were glowing under the fading sun as I walked into the village center. The hanging baskets of spring flowers swayed gently in the breeze. A woman walked past with her daughter, holding hands and humming the same tune Olive had been singing under her breath at cleanup time.

The bell above the market door jingled as I stepped inside. It smelled like oranges and pinewood. I made my way to the produce aisle and reached for a basket of strawberries, still thinking about the way Olive had said Miss helped like it meant something deeper.

“Afternoon, Miss Amara.” I turned.

Mr. Beckett stood behind me in his usual green jumper, arms tucked behind his back like he always had something to say.

“Hi, Mr. Beckett,” I said, smiling.

He gave a knowing look. “Heard you’ve got a new one in class.”

I nodded. “Olive Styles.”

He tilted his head. “That’d be Harry’s girl, wouldn’t it? Up by the hill cottages?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Sweet thing, that one. Saw them last week at the bakery. Didn’t say much, but the little girl had her eyes on the pain au chocolat like it held all the answers to the universe.”

I laughed softly. “Sounds like her.”

He leaned on his cane, his voice gentler now. “People talk, you know. Small town and all. Shame what happened to his girl.”

My throat tightened. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know her well,” he went on. “But she had a light to her. That kind of quiet kindness you don’t always see anymore.”

“She must’ve been special,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re one of the good ones, Amara. Always were. That little girl’s lucky to have you.”

“Thank you,” I said, the words catching slightly on their way out.

He smiled, tipped his cap, and moved toward the back of the shop. I stood still for a second, basket in my hand, surrounded by fruit and light and the soft hum of old music playing overhead.

I didn’t know what I was feeling. But it was something. Something warm. Something real.

I grabbed a loaf of bread, a jar of raspberry jam, and—without thinking—a bar of chocolate I didn’t need but wanted anyway.

When I stepped back outside, the sun had slipped behind the rooftops, and the sky was washed in pale pink and lavender. And even though the air had cooled, something lingered in my chest. Not warmth. Not yet. But the sense that maybe—just maybe—something had shifted. And when it did… I’d be ready.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

HARRY

Olive fell asleep before I finished the dishes. She was curled sideways on the couch in her unicorn pajamas, one hand tucked under her cheek and the other still wrapped around her bunny’s floppy ear. I didn’t move her right away. I just stood in the doorway, watching her chest rise and fall in that slow, even rhythm that only came when she was truly safe.

The house was dim now, lit only by the lamp in the corner and the glow of the kitchen light. There was music playing low on the speaker—something soft with strings—but I couldn’t hear it clearly over the noise in my head.

I’d done it. We’d done it. Day one.

She’d gone to school, let go of my hand, sat at a table beside strangers, and smiled at her teacher. She’d come home with purple marker smudged on her fingertips and told me about Kevin the koala like it was the most important story in the world.

And she’d said she wanted to go back. That part broke me a little. In a good way. I sat on the floor beside the couch, letting my hand rest gently on her foot. Just enough to feel her warmth. I thought about Becca. About how proud she would’ve been. How she’d probably cry and then pretend not to. How she’d make cupcakes for the whole class after week one and write me a to-do list I didn’t ask for.

I closed my eyes and let the ache come and go like it always did. Then I opened them again. And saw Olive’s sketchbook on the coffee table. I flipped it open slowly, expecting crayon scribbles. But there it was. A tree. A koala. And below it, written in crooked three-year-old letters, a name.

Miss.

And just like that, Amara’s face filled my mind again—her quiet voice, her steady gaze, the way she’d crouched beside Olive like she’d known exactly what to say and exactly when to say nothing at all. I didn’t know why she stayed with me like that. But she did. And something about it felt a little like the beginning of something I wasn’t sure I deserved.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

AMARA

I sat on the couch in my comfiest socks with a cup of tea cooling beside me and my feet tucked beneath a throw I’d had since university.

The house was quiet. Lavender-scented. Dim except for the reading lamp behind me. I should’ve been grading. Or planning. Or sleeping. But my thoughts kept circling back to her. To Olive. To the way she’d looked up at me after storytime with a crayon in one hand and her bunny tucked under the other.

And—maybe more than that—to him. To the softness in his voice when he said her name. To the look in his eyes when she reached for my hand. To the quiet that settled between us like something shared.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mya.

MYA: Sooo… how was the dad?

I smiled, shaking my head and picked up the phone—only to see another notification above hers. One I didn’t open.

LOGAN: Still pretending I don’t exist? You know I can always find you.

I locked the screen. Pushed the chill back down. Then opened Mya’s message instead.

AMARA: Polite. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who remembers which page in the koala book his daughter loves most.

MYA: Oh no. You like him.

AMARA: I don’t know him.

MYA: Yet.

I put the phone down and leaned my head back against the cushion. The warmth from the tea drifted into the air, sweet and steady. And somewhere beneath the comfort of the night and the quiet hum of my house, I felt it again. That shift. That pull. That soft, slow opening. Something new. Something gentle. Something I didn’t have a name for yet.

But maybe— Maybe when I’m ready, I’ll let it in.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Happy Saturday, my friend! Your new header looks so nice btw. Love all our boys featured. 💜💜

Ok, you ready for Random Question time?? 😘 I recently did an HC on "Man Flu" (how would Dean, Beau, SB/Ben, and Priestly act when you try to take care of them?). How do you think the boys would take care of the reader when she's sick? **Could be Russell instead of Priestly this time.~

Happy Sunday! I meant to respond to this yesterday but I was on a roll writing a few other things so figured I'd save this for a nice Sunday morning activity. Aw, thank you! I changed it up a little (thank you for the header dimensions btw) and added everyone I write for. I might still tweak it some more but I'm pleased with it for now!

Oooooh good question! Once again, these turned into mini-imagines on me but oh well!

How They Take Care Of You When You're Sick

Dean Winchester

If Dean had a business card it'd read, Hunter. Badass. Professional Worrier. The second he hears a sniffle followed by a clearing throat, he knows what's coming. You'd protest that it's nothing, just a scratchy throat but oh, he knows better. He'd nursed Sam through a childhood of colds to know the difference.

He calls up another hunter to take your hunt to your annoyance but by the evening you're feeling run down. Dean sends you to take a hot shower, your head throbbing the whole time. The hot steam helps a little bit and he's laid out a pair of warm fuzzy pajamas for you change into. You sniffle and carry the box of tissues he left on the counter with you to the bedroom where Dean's propped up extra pillows and gotten out the green flannel blanket you used the nights the bunker got too cold.

"Hungry?" he asks a moment later, carrying a tray in his arms. You shake your head and crawl under the covers, keeping your tissues on the other side of the bed. He hums, setting it down on your bedside table which has been cleared free of books, your chapstick, extra hair ties and phone charger.

He looks like a walking pharmacy, smirking as he watches you watch him pour two green pills into a tiny plastic cup. You don't question it when he hands them to you, letting you take them before handing you a paper cup filled with cool water. You frowned when he stuck a thermometer in your ear, Dean pouting for a split second before jotting it down on a notepad.

"Little fever. Probably going to go up before it comes down. We'll keep an eye on it." You sighed, already regretting every time you took for granted the ability to breathe through a clear nose. "We'll try soup and crackers tomorrow."

"Yes mom," you mumbled, slumping down, Dean chuckling and fixing your blankets. "I'm really okay."

"Beautiful as always, sweetheart," he said, kissing the top of your head when you groaned. "Now get some sleep for me."

"I'm not even tired. S'just a stuffy nose." Dean rolled his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed for a few minutes as he watched your eyelids flutter closed, breathing slow and become rhythmic.

"Sleep easy, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

When you sneezed three times in succession in the bathroom that morning, Beau shot you a look in the mirror. You just smiled, Beau returning to combing his hair. It was probably just allergies you told yourself. Montana had a lot of plant life that was active in the spring after all.

But when you got home from work, your body was achy, you felt hot and cold at the same time, and you barely changed out of your work clothes into some sweats and Beau's shirt before passing out on the couch.

You woke up when the windows were dark, Beau frowning down at you.

"Hi," you screeched out, wincing at the sound. "How was-"

"I mean this in the nicest way possible, honey, but I've seen corpses that have better color than you." You sat up with a pout, narrowing your eyes.

"That wasn't very nice," you coughed, putting a hand to you chest, doubling over when you hacked.

"You're still a very cute corpse," he joked, rubbing your back. "We're going to the hospital."

"Arlen, n-n-nooo-" You wracked your body, a wet phlegmy sound escaping as you swore you spit up something onto your pants. You glanced up, Beau giving you a bitch face. "Urgent care instead?"

"Hospital. I have to abuse my power as sheriff somehow," he said.

"Beau, I'm fine," you said, his eyebrow raising as you could literally feel the layer of sweat cover your body. You spotted the thermometer on the coffee table behind him, looking back up. "I'm fine."

"I'll make sure to put that on your gravestone," he said, scooping you up bridal style, grabbing your slip on boots by the front door.

"Beau," you groaned, coughing into his chest, body trembling. "It's the flu. I'm fine."

"I'll make sure to include how stubborn she was on there too," he'd say. Thirty minutes later, he'd sit beside your bed, peeling the sweaty hair that was stuck to your face away behind your ear. "How you feeling?"

"....Maybe I was dehydrated...and had a high fever," you mumbled, Beau smiling. "How'd you know?"

"Because I have to tie you down to the bed when you're sick to get you to rest. Literally. The fact you were practically comatose told me you were not doing well, Ms. Fine."

"I'm right as rain," He hummed, helping you sit up when you coughed. "Okay, maybe I'm a little off."

"Baby steps," he said to himself with a smile. "Baby steps."

Soldier Boy

Soldier Boy was not the most...emotionally available man to put it gently. He tried, he really did, but there were certain facts of life you'd come to expect. The man couldn't do a load of laundry to save his life. He got annoyed whenever you asked him to do something that wasn't on his side of the chore chart. If you went out of town, your chores sat idle and well, you knew the first time you got sick, it'd be more of the same.

But on that particular morning, he was giving you a strange look before you could even pour yourself a cup of coffee. You didn't feel great but you could handle a cold.

"Morning."

"Lay down." You tilted your head, Soldier Boy across the kitchen and ripping the mug from your hands. "Go lay down!"

"What are-" You were whisked off your feet, Ben moving way too fast through the house before he set you down like a feather on the mattress. "Ben, honey. I'm not in the mood right-"

"Something's wrong with your breathing," he said, pushing you to lay back. He narrowed his eyes, pressing a finger against your chest. "Your pulse is off too."

"Ben," you said, reaching for his hand as he pulled out his phone. "I have a cold. An itty bitty cold. Don't freak out. I'll take it easy but you got to let me out of bed. I've got work."

He looked at you like you'd grown another head, his head shaking. "Ben-"

"No," he snapped. You sat back against the headboard, his hand clenching. "Your body is not right. Tell me what to do to fix this."

"Ben," you said gently. "Time is the only way it goes away. I'll feel bad for a week and then I'll be better. Okay?"

"My mother used to tell me to rest," he said, almost as if he hadn't heard you. He went to the bathroom, returning with a wet washcloth. He yanked on your leg so you were laying more, quickly pressing the washcloth to your forehead. "What else, what else..."

"Ben," you laughed with a tired smile. You grabbed his wrist, smiling up at him. "You want to take care of me?"

"You are not getting out of this bed until your breathing is normal again." You smirked, Ben pouting. "I don't see how this is funny."

"You're right. You can take care of me if that's what you really want."

By the end of the week, Ben had driven you nuts in the best possible way. He hovered constantly, practically setting up a guard station at the bedroom door. He bought a twelve pack of lotion tissues and about 15 bottles of cold medication you told him to return but the man didn't understand you weren't meant to drink the whole damn thing at once. He'd taken to vacuuming and dusting and scrubbing everything down at least twice a day to "suck the germs out of the air" as if that'd suddenly make you no longer ill.

"Benjamin," you said as he changed your sheets for the eighth time that week. You smiled from the chair in the corner of the bedroom, Ben popping his head up.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you said, resting your head against your shoulder. "You make a pretty good nurse."

"Pft, I'm not a nurse. When you're better, don't expect me to pull this crap all the time." You hid your smirk, Ben's eyes glancing down like he did when he was hiding his emotions. You could work on that next.

"Whatever you say, baby."

Russell Shaw

"Oh, no." You wiped your nose, frowning to yourself. A cold. Great. You didn't get sick often but god, you knew how miserable of a person you turned into when you were. At least it was Friday.

By the time work was over, you were ready to veg out in bed with your laptop and a cup of soup.

You stilled when you entered your apartment, an assortment of medicine, tissues, soups, fuzzy socks and a teddy bear sat on your kitchen island. You looked around, grabbing the pepper spray in your purse as you walked around, searching for a sign of your thoughtful intruder.

"Gonna use that-"

You screamed, Russell laughing as he caught your wrist before it could whip around and spray him in the face. "Russell. You scared me."

"Really? Had no clue," he laughed, taking the pepper spray away, giving you a quick hug. "How you feeling?"

"How'd you know I'm sick?" He pointed behind himself to the camera on your front table. "I thought you were in Guatemala. No cell service."

"I was. Doesn't mean I don't check in on you. You have a habit of getting kidnapped-"

"Once, Shaw. Once!" you said holding up a finger. He grinned, taking your bag off your shoulder. "And that was your brother's fault."

"The crew wrapped up the issue quick so I could get back home. Told them you were on your death bed."

"How much did they tease you about being smitten?" you asked, Russell looking past you with a smirk. "Don't do dumb things just to get home faster. It's just a little cold."

"Okay boss but I'm here now and I come bearing gifts. Tell me what you need from me. You want me to coddle you or get the hell out?"

"I'm going to change. Some chicken noodle soup maybe?" He hummed. Fifteen minutes later, you were sat at the kitchen table wearing one of his Rolling Stones hoodies, Russell setting a bowl down in front of you. "Thanks, hun."

"No problem. I'll be back in a few." You'd finished your soup and made your way to the couch by the time he returned, freshly showered. His damp hair was slicked back, lifting your legs on the couch and resting them in his lap "Want to watch something or sleep?"

He'd wait a beat, turning his neck to smile at your sleeping form. "Sleep it is."

_______________

These were so fun and just the break I needed! Please let me know if you guys think these are accurate! 🥰

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

March Fic Recs

Hey there!

This is all I’ve read this month, listed in chronological order, I’ve done my best but damn, I’m so far behind in my tbr, as usual.

Read warnings and tags and if something is not for you just skip it, it’s simple and it can be done just by scrolling.

I reblog a lot of kinky +18 stuff because I like it, there’s Dead dove as well as Dub-con/Non-con here. Something might be triggering for you. I’m not responsible for what you choose to read, only you are. If you’re a minor, just stay away.

If you engage with any of these fic, please make sure to give authors love and appreciation by reblog and comments, it will take you probably two minutes but it means a lot to them. And always be kind, thoughtful and respectful while doing it, thanks.

❋ Make them kiss - @aurorawritestoescape / Drabble Javier Peña x f!reader

❋ Movie Nights - @aurorawritestoescape Joel Miller x f!reader

a movie night ends with a bang.

❋ Tied - @guiltyasdave Dave York x Marcus Pike

❋ Marrying Javi - @milla-frenchy / Drabble

❋ Keep on loving you - @baronessvonglitter Frankie Morales x f!reader

Hooking up with Frankie at a house party.

❋ The best part of waking up - @baronessvonglitter Any Pedro character X f!reader

sleepy morning sex with your favorite Pedro character (literally, imagine any character you want to, he's a blank slate!)

❋ I can’t hear it now - @joelmillerisapunk Marcus Acacius x f!reader

A love that was never meant to be. A choice that was never truly yours to make. Acacius was never yours to keep, yet in the dark of night, beneath the weight of duty and desire, he was yours still. For stolen moments, for whispered names, for aching hands tracing the lines of something fleeting, something doomed.

❋ Good kitty - @sizzlingcloudmentality Dave York x f!reader

Dave wants a cat but ends up with you. his favorite thing to do? letting the kitty drink fresh cream.

❋ Keep Driving - @thundermartini Dave York x f!reader

An unexpected stop in the middle of nowhere for an investigation on a Halloween Festival leads to the scariest encounter of your life.

❋ Perfect - @aurorawritestoescape Joel Miller x f!reader

Joel comforts you and helps you to overcome your insecurities, pampering you with praise and love.

❋ The wolf you feed (chapter 6) - Masterlist - @arcanefox207 Joel Miller x f!reader

Set in a fictional New England town, you fall for your handsome, intense and outdoorsy neighbor while renting out your parent's vacant summer home during a brutal winter.

❋ Paper rings - @guiltyasdave Modern Oberyn Martell X f!reader

after two months with oberyn, you're not sure if his feelings are as strong as yours.

❋ One of the girls - @gothcsz Marcus Acacius x F!Reader x 3 F!Nameless OCs

General Acacius has three women that he keeps solely for his indulgent pleasure and control, you want to become the fourth.

❋ First sight - @gothcsz Frankie Morales x f!reader

Two strangers discover they’ve been swapping movies through a communal space, each leaving a note in return until curiosity forces a meeting.

❋ Dirty thoughts - @greenwitchfromthewoods Clint (freaky tales) x f!reader

you watched a guy in a bar and your imagination went crazy

❋ The Prophecy - A Joel Miller Story - Mini series Masterlist - @schnarfer Joel Miller x f!reader

Joel Miller is the loss of your life

❋ Run - @almostempty Marcus Acacius x f!reader

general acacius hunts you in the woods for ‘training’ then fucks you, duh

❋ Strawberry Swirl - @baronessvonglitter Joel Miller x f!reader

Joel fucks you on a Ferris wheel. That is the fic.

❋ Out of control - @strang3lov3 Joel Miller x f!reader

making that old man swallow his own load

❋ Due - @cas-readsandwrites Unnamed Pedro character x f!reader

You're dancing with a handsome young man - and you shouldn't be. But is it really what it looks like?

❋ Clint eats it from the back - @almostempty Clint (Freaky Tales) x f!reader

clint comes home to find you half-naked and half-asleep and eats it from the back and then gives you that dick (as he should)

❋ Feasting - @sizzlingcloudmentality / Drabble Dave York x f!reader

❋ Sweet Surrender - @joelmillerisapunk Clint (Freaky Tales) x f!reader

your sleazy boss convinces you to fuck in the break room to a shitty porn tape he rented

❋ Dirty work - @mssalo Joel Miller x f!reader

You just bought a new house that needed a lot of work. Luckily, your grumpy old neighbor was more than happy to fix everything—not because he was generous, but because it gave him an excuse to be close. To look. To stare. And you? Love the attention.

❋ Playgirl - @milla-frenchy Javier Peña x f!reader

Attracted to your father's best friend since his return from Colombia, you finally get what you want

❋ Repenting - @sizzlingcloudmentality Dave York x f!reader

Dave and you, two utterly scarred people, meet for stress relieving sex only. But damn, it’s hard. 

❋ Over the moon - @clubsoft Reed Richards X f!reader

reed richards has caught feelings for his student , making their casual , sexual relationship all the more difficult for himself .

❋ 2D - @clubsoft Joel Miller x POC! F! OC

joel miller , hearthrob turned silver fox , is ready to take a break from his life of fame && decides a penthouse in new york is the place to go , all to find himself bored until he stumbles into the building's charming bar ... && the cute performer is surely a plus .

❋ Let me show you - @pedroscurls Joel Miller x f!reader

joel comes home and shows you (and mainly himself) that age is nothing but a number.

❋ Knuckles deep in the backseat - @cxrsed-angel Joel Miller x fem!reader

Joel convinced you to learn how to drive and offers to teach you, but ends up in the back seat with you.

❋ Flex - @gothcsz Your favorite Pedro boy x f!reader

Hooking up with the guy you picked up at a party.

❋ Hands to myself - @gothcsz Javier Peña x f!reader

You get to know the handsome stranger sitting next to you on your overnight flight to Mexico.

❋ The interruption - @toxicanonymity Javi x Steve x you drabble.

❋ First fruit since winter - @cuppajoel Modern!Acacius x reader

You come out of the shower and apply lotion. Marcus wants to help.

❋ Got your money - @magpiepills Clint x f!reader

you’re a hooker who owes her pimp money and his right hand man, Clint comes to collect.

❋ Stolen Lunch - @aurorawritestoescape Dave York x f!reader

Dave steals your lunch

❋ See the road you’re on - Elks series chapter 1 - @whocaresstillthelouvre Joel Miller x f!reader

The man you've had a crush on since he showed up to Jackson just so happens to be your favorite student's caretaker... and he just saw you do a brutal face plant in front of his home.

❋ Blush / entry n.1 - @clubsoft Javier Peña x f!oc

Javi entangles a ribbon

❋ Just a ride -@baronessvonglitter DBF!Dave York x f!reader

When a date goes bad you call your dad's best friend Dave to come to the rescue.

❋ Don’t make me ask again - @arcanefox207

DBF!Joel Miller x female reader

Teasing your dad’s friend has its consequences.

❋ Yellow - @probablyreadinsmut

Joel Miller x NeurodivergentF!Reader

Joel taking care of you after a hard day.

❋ Hungry Man Chapter 1 - @slimybeth69 / Masterlist

dark&sneaky!Joel, unhinged&crazy!reader

❋ Rotten Luck - @milla-frenchy

Javier Peña x fem!reader

forced to work for Escobar's men as a driver until the day you escape, a DEA agent finds you in the countryside, at the home of friends you've been hiding. You yearn to start over and get a visa, but things aren't so easy, especially when feelings complicate the situation

[lov3rachan]

[I am NOT…] Round One

Summary: Things aren’t always what they seem

Pairing: Lee Know x reader, Bang Chan x reader (separately)

Genre: humour, gender neutral (you/your)

Warning: accuse of harassment (very lighthearted and brief mention) [LK], Seungmin cameo [BC]

Word count: 392 words [LK], 396 words [BC]

Series: I am NOT…

Requested by: no one

Written: 12.03.2025, 21.03.2025 (edited) [LK], 12.03.2025 , 15.03.2025, 21.03.2025 (edited) [BC]

Thanks to: @lovetaroandtaemin for beta reading!

Taglist: @skzdreamer13 , @blueohs

Network: @supernovanetwork

Lee “Know” Minho

Minho looked great with a leather jacket.

He knew that, and he took full advantage of it.

Whenever he wanted to look particularly nice, usually for no reason at all but to see you flustered, he put one on, sometimes even wearing sunglasses to complete his ‘bad boy’ look.

He also knew that he looked scary, hence why he usually tried to keep a smile on his face.

However, as he was getting his ass kicked in a sudoku battle on his phone, his expression got fiercer and fiercer the more he fell behind.

Frustrated, he hastily put his phone away the moment you came out of the building and he gave your ass a light slap, making you yelp a small: “Minho!”.

Quickly, a shop assistant, who had witnessed the scene, came out and put herself between the two of you: “Miss, are you alright? Should I call the police? Is this man harassing you? Please do not be scared to let me know!”.

Minho was astonished at the accusations.

Did he look that much like a bad guy?

As you chuckled and explained the situation to the panicked shop assistant, Lee Know started to ponder his decision to dress up like a bit of a gangster.

When you two walked away, hand in hand, he was still deep in thought.

“Don’t mind her, baby,” you reassured him. “You look good”.

Comforted by your words, he looked at you with a smirk, his mischievous glint back in his eyes: “Just good?”.

“Very sexy. Now stop fishing for compliments” you told him with a laugh, glad to have him back to normal.

Now with a baby voice and an overly exaggerated pout, he gave you a light slap on the shoulder: “Ah, isn’t Minho-ssi just the most beautiful of all? Do you not love me?”.

And just like that, he was back to his normal self.

Who cared about what random people thought?

He loved you, you loved him, and you both knew that.

That was all that mattered.

Though he might go a little lighter on the ‘dark’ vibes, as he didn’t want to risk a police call next time.

Not that there would be a next time.

If he hadn’t worn his sunglasses, the shop assistant would have noticed the loving stare he got whenever he laid eyes on you.

Bang Christopher Chan

Chan hadn’t slept one bit, which surprised no one, in two days, so he was basically a zombie, as he waddled his way back and forth from his studio.

The bags under his eyes were basically gym bags, and he looked paler than usual, probably due to the fact that he had barely seen the sun.

However, he had offered to accompany you to the doctor early in the morning, to spend some time with you, so he dragged himself out of his studio to drive you.

Chan was glad he could get a chance to see you again, especially since, between his schedule and his workaholic tendencies, planning dates was always difficult.

As you arrived, after a few minutes of nagging from you because of his… lacking self-care, to put it kindly, you were both surprised to see Seungmin there, who was waiting to get some medicine for Changbin’s allergy.

Apparently, he had lost rock paper scissors with Hyunjin and Felix and was thus designated as the group’s errand runner for the day.

After a quick exchange of greetings, with the boy dissing Chan’s deteriorated looks, the doctor finally called you.

Chan was about to come with you when the doctor patted his back with a smile and said, “So nice to see fathers like you bringing their children to the doctor even when they’re adults. It’s a great way to share time with them, trust me.”

The producer’s smile fell as he shyly murmured a small “I’m the boyfriend”, his face as red as his hair used to be.

He was truly going to sleep a bit more next time he went out with you.

As he entered the small corridor, which felt like a walk of shame for both him and the doctor, he could hear Seungmin’s full blown laughter filling the waiting room.

He truly was never going to live that down.

Even you, the love of his life, couldn’t contain your giggles as you entered the doctor’s office.

Within minutes, his phone was blown up by notifications from the members, since Seungmin had promptly shared the news the moment he stopped laughing.

‘Old man’ jokes and memes were sent one after the other and Chan simply sighed.

He was giving up.

His only relief was that he hadn’t been mistaken for your grandfather.

He chose to take that as a win.

[jooeoppiee]

AFTER LAST NIGHT

silk sonic

After their defeat in the NEL Germany's Bastard Munchen decide to venture out the city and relieve some stress in the nightclubs. The young athletes sat at the VIP section of a very popular club, drinking the night away. Laughter and chatter all around, women shooting their shot with them sadly rejected. The club was a 'no cell phone' club so despite the attention they had gathered, they were not photographed *whew*....

You and a group of friends walk into the club and sat at the bar getting drinks and chatting away, it was meaningless conversations enveloped in the loud music and crazy LED lights. The scent of perfume and cologne with a mixture of cigarette and alcohol lingered in the air. SICK. You were sick of it, the people you were with bored you, yes y'all are friends but not that close. It was a friendship built on benefits for each other. As a fashion major you needed models so there you were having drinks with your future potential models.

as you were drinking with them you suddenly felt a tap on your shoulder, you turned around. A man with curly, fluffy brown locs that transitioned to a medium magenta colour stared at you with his big, kind brown eyes, a wide smile on his face. "Hey, I came from that table over there and my friend asked me to give you this" he says as he passes a paper and points at the VIP section where a blonde with blue highlights flashes you a confident, flirtatious smirk. You look down the note and read "I've been watching you for a while, can I get your number?" You look up at the brown-haired guy and smile as you get up from your seat. "Give me ten reasons why I should give your friend my number" you say. Ness struggles to come up with reasons then it clicks, and he says something. "What? let's talk outside, the music is too loud.

You take his hand and walk outside. "Ah, finally some fresh air". He looks confused but gathers his thoughts "I was sayin-" "hold that thought, let's take a walkaround the city" "O-ok"

You take a stroll around the city, stopping for ice cream and sharing experience about the time so far spent in Japan "so what brings you here?" you say "I had something to do here in Japan" "ok ok, a business man?" "nope" "hmm....i won't prey too much" the night continues with laughing at meaningless things. You aren't sure if this guy was fun to be around or was it the alcohol slowly nulling your senses.

Next morning, Ness wakes in a hotel room without his clothes on and photographs of him shirtless under the moonlight at the sea with a night note "Wild night, y/n".

WHAT HAPPENED????

this is my first post.I know there are a lot of grammatical errors but it's okay.......right?

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!! 20 LIKES FOR PART TWO............what happened that night, where's y/n

[studiogrimm810]

Speak of the Devil > The Truman Show Parallel // part 9

pairings: (established) sam winchester x gn!reader, destiel is there :D

summary: you are taken by lucifer for over a week and sam damn near looses his head. when you are finally rescued, the trauma of what was inflicted on you has left it's mark and it's up to sam and dean to keep you put together. lucifer is finally gone but your fear isn't

warnings: ptsd, paranoia, pretty tame given previous parts

word count: 5,377

A/N: please check out my end note, thank you all for reading <3

read other parts here

———————

Sweetly sour strawberries and the richly biting aroma of freshly brewed espresso swirl around you like Remy trying new combinations from ‘Ratatouille’. The chilly idle air left over from the hotel AC unit nibbles at your exposed skin comfortably as you pick up yet another berry to stain your lips. You couldn’t remember the last time you stayed at a place of lodging that actually fed you fresh complimentary fruit.

“I can’t get over this place,” you mumble past the bursted blackberry that waters your mouth from the confident taste.

“Just shows you how used to lower class we are,” Sam jokes lightly, bringing over two small cups of coffee with a thick and smooth layer of crema.

“That’s our karma for stolen credit cards, but Nespresso, Sam? This is luxury we don’t deserve,” you chuckled and emphasized with a delighted moan as you took a sip, washing away the inky berry.

“Still not good enough for you,” he admires, plopping a few blueberries in his mouth.

“You’re so cheesy,” you scoff a light chuckle, licking the small line of crema stuck to your upper lip. Sam watches drunkenly.

This week. This room. This state. Your paradise.

The sun warms the horizon as it pokes fully out from the distant mountains. Sam opened the blinds wide and proud first thing this morning and you weren’t grumpy enough to complain- it was quite odd too, given your lack of sleep last night thanks to the dizzy-gazed giant gawking at you.

The sun washes over him like honey. It highlights the caramel in his hair and shimmers his hazel eyes- bringing out the green. It illuminates his skin like he’s a shimmering piece of gold.

Although the coffee is delectable, it comes in disappointing portions and you’re quickly finished with your cup. You set the empty paper cup on the breakfast cart and grab a piece of bacon as you rise to your feet and snatch Sam’s flannel. You stick the bacon in your mouth like a cigar and slip the cloth over your skin, making your way to the window framing a picture perfect landscape.

Sam follows, wearing soon-to-be discarded sweats, and places his hands on your hips. He brushes away some stray hair or cloth to kiss your neck.

“Why’d you have to go and put that on, hm?” He asks, stealing the tip of your earlobe. Shivers tickle your skin and you lean back into his touch.

You stay silent because you have no real reasoning to offer.

His hands roam down your sides, lifting the lengthy cloth of the flannel and pressing you into him. His sweatpants are really a waste of cloth- especially if he isn’t wearing boxers- and even on a completely unbothered sex drive you would feel him flush to your body. But holy fuck, with the thoughts running rampant in his mind accompanied by the memories of last night- images of you- he’s completely prepared to bury right back into you.

You meet his need, running a hand up through his hair and he brings up his own palm to lock your jaw in his hold and forcefully invite your lips to his- your back still pressed into his chest. His free hand folds around the hem of his pants and he starts to pull them down, freeing himself and letting him slide right between you. As you gasp from the twitch of his cock, he slips his tongue along your teeth and lets out a low moan that you feel reverberates on your back.

Montana… you truly will never be forgotten.

———

Comfortable inky black- it’s reminiscent of a certain berry that haunts your taste buds and not of a distant inky hall- subconscious correlation is on your side today. That’s the first wave of relieving victory that washes over you.

The comforting and lonely black wraps around you like welcome arms.

Lonely.

Your chest buzzes with exciting honey-warmth at the idea. How deviously selfish of you to think you’re truly alone. You’re never alone because of him.

Him

Right? Him. He’s here… right?

Your bones feel hollow like a birds and your blood flows under your skin unnoticeably. Your back doesn’t itch with perception and you float in this obsidian black like it's a sensory deprivation tank. You feel nothing but light- like a feather.

You could stay here forever.

The peace brought on by absence of angelic presence buzzing through your veins like adrenaline is addictive and consuming. You could die happy. Your heart feels slow, like simply beating is difficult as if doused in molasses.

But it’s welcoming.

Sweet honey and molasses- the taste is dissolved by the tang of berry dropping like acid and the warmth of espresso melting it like silky chocolate. You swallow, the ghost of flavor washing away as your muscles work. You start to settle like dust, resting over plush cloth puffed up with feathers and stuffing. It feels like you’re placed in a marshmallow.

Rough, calloused hands have been holding your hand for longer than you can register. A thumb caressing the back of your hand. The same hands that have held your neck and cradled your hips as their owner took you right there against the glass- against the Montana scenery.

Sam.

Your memory runs like rewinding a VHS. You see the glowing entity, shimmering voided tile, crystal doorknobs, crackling lightning, the cage, Sam.

Your emotions catch you up next, though, as the tape winds back through. The dread followed by the anger and then curiosity and fear- finalized by relief that makes you feel weightless again.

You’re reminded that you’re alone. Maybe not physically, but mentally. Your skull rattles with only your thoughts.

A deep breath snakes through your nostrils and fills your lungs, starting you fully awake like a switch. Your eyes are sore with sleep and mouth dry, now void of flavors you’re starting to miss.

Sam stumbles your name past his lips, landing in your ear like a desperate plea. He shuffles closer, if even possible, and he’s the first thing that focuses in your vision. His eyes are rimmed with red and puffy skin and his hair falls past its tucked space behind his ears. He’s glowing like gold as he smiles down at you.

“Sam.?” His name rubs past your parched vocal chords and he reaches for a nearby bottle of water, screwing off the cap.

“Here, love, drink,” he helps you sit up and brings the open bottle to your lips. He’s careful and doesn’t let any water drip down your chin.

The water revives your mouth quickly, and as Sam takes away the bottle, you just watch him. He looks exhausted and his hair is a mess but his hopeful eyes light up his face like a beacon.

“How’re you feeling? You’ve been asleep for a while but Rowena said you were just drained. She said Lucifer is gone, is he?” He rambles and you’re a little overwhelmed but you level with him with a soft chuckle.

“I’m good, it’s just me,” you sighed a breath of relief and Sam’s lips twitched in another quick smile. “How long have I been out?” You ask.

“About,” he checks his phone on the side table, “33 hours.” Your eyes widened, “Rowena said it's to be expected, you went through a lot.” His eyes soften and his hold on your hand returns- he massages lightly.

“How did I end up in our room?” You look around, surveying the familiar walls.

“Those cots in the clinic have nothing on the duvet you got us,” he runs his free hand along the fabric. “Couldn’t stand seeing you in there anyways. Needed you here.”

The air is light with free-thinking, and Sam looks like he has a gush of words to spill but he holds them back.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, running his free hand through your hair.

“Mm-hmm,” you nod, closing your eyes in the simple pleasures he rains you with.

“C’mon, let's get you out of bed,” he said, pulling some blankets off of you and helping you to your feet. Sam does everything for you. He gets you a fresh set of clothes, he brushes your hair and smoothes it back, and he makes the bed back up.

You feel a little on auto-pilot. You can’t help but think of how fast everything happened. I mean less than a week ago you were still missing and at the complete mercy of the Devil. The memories flash across your mind and make you cringe.

Sam looks up from his hunched position as he tucks the sheets under the mattress to find that you've wandered to the bathroom and are staring at yourself in the mirror. Your gaze is a little hazy and he knows exactly what's happening but he can’t help the paranoia that creeps up his spine like the tickling touch of Lucifer.

He finishes his task, while keeping a closer eye on you, and slowly approaches you when he’s done. He doesn’t tip toe or brace his hands, he simply walks in as if his aim was to brush his teeth. He stops behind you, gently resting his hands on your hips. You startle at his touch but he doesn't seem to react. He reaches up to brush away some cloth or hair and places a warm kiss on your cheek.

Silence clears the air and you two just enjoy this moment. You can feel his eyes on you through the mirror but it’s comforting and secure unlike what you’ve grown exhausted of when Lucifer was present.

Sam looks over your features as you rest back into him with your eyes closed. Soft, plush skin calls for his lips or hands but he remains in place, keeping his steady grip on your frame.

“You ready?” He murmurs against your shoulder in between kisses. You hum simply, trying to just enjoy the emptiness behind your eyes. You turn to face him, resting your arms on his shoulders and hugging him close.

“So warm,” you mumble past squished lips that you can’t be bothered to move correctly. Sam chuckles softly, running his hands up your back and one continues up to cradle the back of your neck.

“Let’s get you some food, my love,” he remains locked around you for a moment but pulls away once your grip loosens enough to signal that you’re ready. He takes your hand and leads you through the halls.

Everything is so much brighter and airy now, almost like it's in slow motion. You take the time to watch the tile in the hall as you pass- tracing the grout with your eyes and watching the reflected light run along the tile like the moon in a car ride.

Muffled voices carry from the kitchen- tense and agitated. You can tell the sound of discussion ruffles Sam as his pace slows and a heavy exhale cracks open his lips. He glances down at you and a small, reassuring smile lifts his lips against his will.

As you two round the corner into the kitchen, the voices hiss into silence and both Dean and Cas whip their eyes to look over at you as you enter, Dean watches you closely as if he’s expecting you to slam him against the wall telekinetically. Cas simply looks beyond relieved.

“Some iced tea?” Sam asks, looking at you with a warm gaze.

But now they’re all looking.

So many eyes perceive you that you can’t check them all for a red glint. Too many empty corners in the room and unoccupied space in your skull. Paranoia rips the words out of your throat as your mouth goes dry at the thought of- what kind of storm will this serene calm invoke?

“Hey,” Sam repeats, stepping in front of you so that you’re basked in his shadowing guard that deflects unwanted eyes. “Want some tea?” He repeats, watching you closely.

You force a nod to bob your head. Sam waits for a moment to read you- trying to catch any subtle tells that you need out now- but he sees no give so he leads you to a stool so he can go get your favorite glass that is decorated with simple stamps of your second favorite fruit.

…“Oh look at this one!” You gleam, picking up a thin drinking glass with hand painted fruits freckled over the surface.

“That’s a pretty one too,” Sam agrees with an amused chuckle, gently taking the offered cup from your outstretched palm. “Is this the one you want?” He asks.

“Yes! They’re my favorite. Maybe there’s a matching plate?” You turn around to skim through the shelves of mugs on the opposite wall.

A small shop in the town you were staying in in Montana attracted your attention from the Town Square’s Farmers Market. That, and the want to seek shelter as rain dampened the market and made any tent too humid to enjoy. It was meant to be a casual peruse of local farmers and their products- maybe even some independent craft vendors too- so you slipped on a simple outfit that held no pockets for your wallet or phone. Sam was kind enough to offer to carry your personal items, but he used the opportunity to ‘forget’ about your wallet so he could purchase the products you wanted. Like this delicate glass that you’d decided you couldn’t leave without…

Your fingers feel the slightly raised paint of the fruit on the glass and it’s soothing. An idle sensory task that gives you something to focus on.

Sam works around the kitchen, putting together a plate of assorted snacks. It’s eerily familiar as he grabs containers of fruit from the fridge- espresso hints across your tongue like a breath of LaCroix.

“S’he gone?” Dean’s gruff voice cuts through like unfinished paint on a glass that isn’t yours.

“Dean.” Sam glares, grabbing a box of crackers from the cupboard.

“I gotta know,” a chair skids back as he stands quickly and the scrape makes you flinch.

“If the answer was ‘no’, you would have known by now,” Sam’s voice is tight, his patience worn thin. He can’t allow anyone or anything to get in the way of your recovery. He has to step up. He has to make you okay again.

The room is void of speech but sound is rumbled by the crinkle of the box of crackers and their wrapper.

Dean calls your name and Sam looks at you but you try to act normal and just look back at Dean with an expectant expression for him to continue.

“You feelin’ okay?” He asks, his eyes looking over your body like he does to Sam when he’s worried but forced to bite his tongue. Like he’s avoiding your gaze to feel the impact of your trauma less. It doesn't work for him, it never does.

You nod simply.

It’s quiet.

It’s tense.

A plate slides across the counter and the sound prickles your skin but you don’t noticeably react.

You pick at the assortment. You’re hungry as hell but you can only get your body to do so much under the observant gaze of your family.

It’s just your family, you have to remind yourself

You can still feel the boiling pot of unspoken words.

Sam takes the stool next to you and he steals a few bites off your plate. You like his commitment to being casual.

Dean can’t stay still.

“I gotta ask.”

“Dean-,” Sam warns, fed up with Dean’s ‘have-to’s.

“No, Sam. We need to be prepared when Satan come bangin’ at our door lookin’ for them! We need to know if they know where this damn ‘entrance’ is or whatever,” Dean interrupts, looking back at you. “So do you?”

…“How does this even happen?” You scoff, pacing the small area like a lion in a cage. “I thought this was a good hotel,” you let your fear come out in bursts of agitated anger.

“There’s a storm and the power just surged, just give it a minute to start back up. We’re okay,” Sam assures, his own anxiety awoken not from the claustrophobic elevator frozen between floors but rather the strikes of lightning that rattled the hotel with echoes of thunder.

“God, I hate this,” you stop, running both hands over your face and through your hair.

“I know, just give it a moment,” he repeats, reaching out to rest a hand on your shoulder. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you in for a hug. As soon as he does, the motors whirl and the elevator jerks as it resumes it coarse and swiftly gets you both to your desired floor.

You’re welcoming of Sam’s embrace anytime and even stingy with letting go, but not now. The second the elevator dings, you squeeze past the metal doors and stumble onto a solid floor that you swear you can still feel the unstable ground through.

“Jesus,” you sigh heavily, chuckling embarrassingly at your reaction. “Sorry, I just- god. I really did not want to fall in that damn thing,” your nervous laughter rattles out some heavier breaths.

“I got that,” Sam scoffs sarcastically with a lighthearted smirk. “Feel better?”

“Very much so,” you start to calm and breathe normally and Sam leads you both through the halls and to your room with his palm on your lower back.

He pulls the keycard from his pocket and goes to use it on the door but the building shudders with another crack of violent storm and Sam drops the card as he tenses and his eyes glaze.

Your brows furrow at the unexpected response, and your just idled engine of anxiety starts right back up with concern and not claustrophobic fear.

“Sam?” Your subtle call makes him flinch and he hisses more in muscle reaction and not audibly.

Another crack makes his eyes screw closed and he takes a small step back, dropping the paper bag with your fragile glass. You hear the shatter through the wrapped layers but don’t give it a second thought.

You take a simple step closer but braced hands stop you. You freeze, allowing him a moment to collect himself.

“S-sorry, just-,” his voice is unsteady and thick with haze.

“Take your time,” you assure, reaching down for the keycard and unlocking the door, opening it wide. “Wanna go inside? It’s safer,” he gusts past you like wind and you’re a little shocked at his speed but you keep up.

You’re too focused on him to retrieve the shattered glass contained in tissue and it’s soon discarded by a hotel worker…

Sam’s stomach churns with a gut punch of paranoia. He knew to expect Lucifer coming back in a physical sense, he’s not stupid. Sam also knew that important information being left with you would soon be common knowledge of any and every creature roaming the earth.

But god, he could clock Dean a pretty shiner for speaking like that in front of you so soon.

Sam pushes to his feet, being cautious of the scraping of his stool, and faces Dean fully.

“We can talk about this some other time, man. Now is not it,” Sam heaves, fists clenched.

“It’s simple yes or no,” Dean defends, and you know what he’s doing- he’s scared and deflecting. Maybe if you can offer him some peace in a single worded answer then you should.

“Yes,” your voice is weak and unsure, not like the hunter they’re used to. Sam’s head drops just a bit, as if relinquishing his puffed up defense and Dean looks past Sam and at you.

“You know where the entrance is?” Dean’s voice is tight. The answer didn’t ease his fear.

“Yes,” you repeat, still a simple croak. “I know how to access it and how to lock it. I know everything there is to know about it,” you look down at your colorful plate, lively with nutritious, cold fruits. You find it insulting in this moment.

The room stills like just about frozen water and it even sends a shiver up your spine.

“We aren’t discussing this right now,” Sam says to Dean as he opens his mouth to ask another question.

“I think they can speak for themselves,” Dean scoffs. You can’t- not right now at least.

“What Sam said,” you grab the plate with a shaky hand and your cup with the other, rushing out of the kitchen and down to your room. The closer you get to the door, the more panicked you feel- like being chased- but you keep your grip on the glass tight, not wanting to go back for a cup with your third favorite fruit on it.

…The mini fridge in the hotel room hosts half a dozen water bottles, some single-use spirits, and left overs from housekeeping from the past few days. The tray of fruit from this morning sits in the middle shelf. You pull it out as well as a water bottle.

Sam is sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed, bouncing his leg with his latched hands in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees. He almost looks like he’s praying.

You set the fruit and bottle on the rolling tray and bring it by him, kneeling in front of him, letting your hands rest on his once assuring he won't flinch away again.

“I’ve got a snack and some cold water?” You offer. You have no idea what he’s experiencing but you do know that cold snacks help you with panic attacks.

Perhaps your mind will change its stance on the comfort of cold one day.

Sam sighs, dipping his head further if that's even possible, and moves his mouth as he tries to find the right words.

Just as you think he’s about to speak, another crack of angry weather lights up the room and shakes through the space like a mini earthquake. He curls up into himself and a small whimper breaks your heart.

You don’t know what to do or how to help, so you hover pathetically, waiting for an opportunity to step in and help out.

“We’re okay,” you blurt, settling a little closer. “It’s just a bad storm and that’s it. It is scary and loud but we’re okay. This is still the same room we’ve learned so much about each other in,” you attempt to reach up and brush away some hair. He stiffens at the touch but doesn’t flinch away. You continue. “This room is not ruined by whatever memories you’re reliving. This is still our space and our time. You and me,” your palm settles against his cheek and he leans into the touch.

“You and me,” he echos, eyes still screwed closed.

“That’s all that’s here.”…

“I’m sorry about Dean,” Sam sighs, sitting next to you on the bed.

“I know he’s just scared. I expected him to be brash, I just still wasn’t ready for it,” you look down at your intertwined fingers.

“You shouldn’t have to make yourself ready to be around him.” Sam shakes his head, watching you idly trace his fingers.

“Agreed,” you sigh, resting your head on Sam’s shoulder and glancing over at the fresh fruit and iced tea that sits on your nightstand. “I am scared though.”

Sam’s heart cinches and his lids fall closed to absorb the hit. “Of him?” He asks.

“Mh-mm,” you nod on his shoulder, “of him finding us, he won’t stop until he finds me and gets that info,” your throat constricts with a suppressed sob and your eyes sting. “He’s gone but he still haunts this bunker. He’s ruined my sense of security. He’s even managed to weasel himself in Dean’s paranoia.”

“Dean will always be the first to overthink and panic in the form of misplaced anger,” Sam nudges you softly, hoping to lighten the tension just a bit.

“I’ve only been consciously rid of him for an hour but he’s still everywhere,” the words are whispered in fear of being heard.

Sam knows this feeling all too well. He knows the stain Lucifer leaves in his wake, he’s been expecting it when you woke up. It didn’t make the reality of it any easier though.

When Sam struggled with his hallucinations, at least he didn’t have the bunker to be ruined for him. He remembers how long it took him to comfortably drive the Impala again, he couldn’t imagine dealing with his ghost in his own home like this.

“I knew he wouldn’t just vanish from our lives but I didn’t want to waste any mental energy planning for how it would be once he was gone, yaknow?” You ask, hoping you’re making sense. You’re so mentally spent that you can’t take the time to draft your words before speaking them.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Sam speaks thickly. “I know it feels unsafe, but he’s gone and the warding on the bunker is still activated. He’s not getting back inside of this building, I can promise you that,” Sam hopes the facts will help settle your anxiety. “This is still our room and our home. This place won’t be ruined by him forever. Right now, it’s just you and me,” Sam says, repeating the words that you have often told him when he’s struggling with his PTSD.

“Just you and me,” you whisper, looking up at him while still resting on his shoulder. He smiles back with shimmering hazel green eyes.

…The hotel bed is a mess of blankets and piled pillows. Sam lays comfortably, watching the movie he selected- The Truman Show. It’s one of his favorites, only if you knew the subconscious reason why.

You’re sitting up somewhat, resting against the bedframe and Sam is using your lap as a pillow. You play idly with his hair, running your fingers through his locks that you’re admittedly jealous of. He didn’t open up much earlier but what he did say is that thunderstorms remind him of his time in hell- his centuries. You felt nauseous at the empty interpretation, not knowing was always scarier than knowing. Living it was beyond worse.

You listened and you didn’t speak much while he had stuttered out the words. You had never seen him as small as he was as he explained himself. Even with how well you had claimed to know him before making things official, it was still jarring to see him like he was today.

After that incident, the rest of the night was calm and he forced himself to stay awake to finish the movie so he could watch Truman walk out a free man and no longer be a caged zoo animal for people's voyeurism. Only then did Sam curl into your torso like a body pillow and let his eyes close for an attempted night's rest.

He flinched a lot in his sleep and murmured a few times, he even started shivering at one point, but once you resumed a soft brush through his hair he would settle back to sleeping like a rock.

You had a hard time sleeping that night, though, so you watched whatever was on. It was a little hard to avoid the many good channels you’re not used to getting anyways.

That week in Montana accomplished more than a spoiled ‘honey-moon’-esque trip of mindblowing sex and bougie restaurants, it opened both of your hearts to deeper levels of each other you didn’t know really existed.

Sam got to see the short fuse you had in early mornings and the way you would fall mute after an overly social day out and about town. And you got to allow Sam a safe space that let him come down from internalized fragile masculinity that his father instilled in him as well as Dean’s exhibit of such shows as a reminder of.

Even in a week of pure bliss, you both had challenging moments that showed who you both really are on a vulnerable level and you still checked out of the hotel more bonded than either of you could have hoped for…

“I’m sorry,” Dean rubs a hand over his face as he and Cas occupy a pair of seats in the library with a crystal bottle of whiskey that he and his beloved often share. Dean sighs your name with aching emphasis of his guilt and continues, “really, I didn’t mean to freak you out. There was definitely a better approach to asking you that. Besides, I shoulda’ trusted you and Sammy,” he looks up at you sheepishly but his face is still a stone mask as he tries to hide his admission of guilt.

“You should have,” you agree unbiased, trying to keep harsh tones out of your voice. “But you were just worried and I can understand that. I’m scared too,” you admit, taking a seat at one of the middle tables. Sam sets a grounding hand on your shoulder and you reach up to hold it. “I’m just so damn tired of him controlling the last month of my life,” you know it’s been less than that in their preception, but they can deal with confusion in your story if they need to, “that I want to at least pretend like he doesn’t exist for today.”

“I can understand that,” he nods, probably thinking back to what it felt like for him to experience life after Hell.

You catch Cas’ warm smile as if he’s watching his child make friends on a playground. His eyes hold so much accomplished empathy for him as an angel and emotion melts his face. You can’t help but smile back at him- a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes like his does but that still provides wondrous relief for him.

“What would you like to do?” Cas asks, hoping to supply you whatever it is you need.

“Movie night?” You suggest with a questioning shrug, looking between Dean and Cas. Dean nods, finishing his glass of whiskey with a refreshed hiss.

“You’re pick. Cas, let’s order a pizza,” Dean stands, putting the request into motion and downing the rest of Cas’ whiskey as well after it’s offered to him. The couple leaves the room with mild discussion of food choices for the movie.

“I’m thinkin’ Truman Show,” you say, leaning back to look up at Sam and he scoffs a smile back down at you.

“Yeah?” Sam says, coming down to kiss your forehead gingerly.

“Mh-mm,” you hum, closing your eyes and basking in his kiss. “I get it now.”

“It’s always been a comfort watch for me and I never knew why until watching it after Cas took on my hallucinations,” his tone is grim but accepting. He always knew.

It was quiet for a few moments and you had to ask. “What if he’s out looking now, what if he’s sending everything he can right now?” You nibble on your lip, dropping your head down to watch as your fingers trace the pattern in your pants.

“Then we’ll handle it, but like you said, Lucifer doesn't exist tonight, okay? The warding will hold and Rowena is out now deterring Lucifer’s trail,” you feel a little guilty that you haven’t thought to ask about her whereabouts yet. But it’s the first hopeful thing you find blind faith in, at least for a few hours. You’re safe now, you’re free from Lucifer's manipulation here in the bunker. It’s your safe haven, and that’s all you need right now.

The cozy nest formed in the movie room with pillows and blankets is warm and inviting and you take your usual spot to the far right, away from the door, and set up the movie as Sam retrieves your snacks from your room and Cas teleports to quickly and stealthily pick up the pizza. He insisted on ordering from a pizza place in Detroit so as to not be spotted around the area.

Tonight is simply a movie night, and you’re thankfully able to shut off your brain as Sam hands you your replacement glass of your second favorite fruit from the week of paradise that you will forever hold dear to your heart.

———————

end note: good lord i cannot believe this series is finally over. this SO didn't start out to be this long, i fr only meant to do like maybe 3 parts T.T,, buuut i'm so glad it continued to an end!! special thanks to @blossomingorchids for being sooo supportive and hype for this series- you fr helped me finish this w how excited and passionate you are about it :] also special thanks to @internallysalad for being the first person ever to ask to be on a taglist of mine, you made me feel so accomplished when you commented hehe :] thank you all for your support, i hope you enjoyed ^.^

p.s. if any of you have requests for this specific series, i will be taking them!! like if you want to see a oneshot of reader when they were possessed and got the info in the first place or want more fluffly (or smutty) montana time (hehe) or even more hurt/comfort w reader or sam's trauma, i will gladly oblige!! love this series too much to just give it up tbh :,) may even rewrite it one day to fully round out this work,, but that's for another time!!

thank you all a million times over muah muah <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

>tags: @internallysalad @blossomingorchids @bobbdylan @areswasneverhere @mostlymarvelgirl

[abbottfanstuff]

A Love Rewritten (8/10)

"A Quiet Progression  "

@babytakeittothehead @schemmentigfs @olderwomenenthusiast @ankhsta @upsidedowndanvers @schemmentisimpasours

How we feeling so far?

The days after the fair passed in a blur, each one feeling slightly more connected than the last. There was a quiet shift between you and Melissa—something unspoken but clearly there. It wasn’t just the texts that came more often or the late-night conversations that stretched a little longer. It was the small moments—the ones that felt like nothing on the surface but carried weight beneath them.

Monday, she sat next to you at lunch, closer than usual, her knee brushing yours under the table. It could have been accidental, but neither of you moved away. Tuesday, she passed you in the hallway, her hand grazing your arm as she squeezed by—just a touch, just a second, but enough to send a flicker of warmth through you.

By Wednesday, you started to notice how often she found ways to be near you. Leaning over to glance at your computer screen, the faint scent of her perfume lingering as she stood just a little too close. A hand on your lower back as she moved past you in a crowded room. A shared look across the lounge, held for just a beat too long before one of you looked away.

Thursday, she laughed at something you said, really laughed, her head tilting back, her eyes crinkling at the corners. It wasn’t a big moment, but the way her hand absentmindedly rested on your arm as the laughter faded, it was enough to make your stomach flip.

By Friday, the shift felt undeniable. After a long day, as you stood near the copier, Melissa reached past you to grab her papers. Her fingers ghosted over yours, and for the first time all week, you swore she hesitated. When she pulled back, she met your gaze, something unreadable in her expression.

So when Saturday morning rolled around and you found yourself walking into the coffee shop to meet her, it felt inevitable. Like this was exactly where the week had been leading.

You had agreed to meet at the local coffee shop again—just the two of you, no distractions, no work to discuss, just… time. And this time, there was no nervousness. Only an easy familiarity that had already taken root.

When you walked through the door, you spotted her right away—sitting in the corner by the window, a book open in front of her but clearly not reading it. Her gaze was fixed on the street outside, but when she noticed you approaching, her lips curved into a soft smile. It was that same smile from the fair, the one that lingered in your mind. The one that made your chest feel lighter.

"Hey, good morning," she greeted, her voice still carrying that comforting warmth.

"Good morning," you replied, your smile naturally mirroring hers. "How’s the book going?"

She shrugged, closing it with a soft thud. "Not as good as I hoped. But I like the quiet here. It’s... peaceful." She tilted her head, looking at you with a faint curiosity in her eyes.

You hesitated for just a moment before answering, your usual responses now feeling a little too rehearsed. "The past couple of weeks have felt a little different, you know? Not sure why, but I think I’m starting to figure it out."

She smiled again, leaning in just a little closer. "I get that. Sometimes it’s the little things that make the difference."

Melissa pushed your cup of coffee toward you before sliding her plate to the center of the table. "Try this," she said, nodding toward the half-eaten pastry. "I swear it’s the best thing on the menu."

You raised an eyebrow. "So good you couldn’t wait for me to get here before digging in?"

She smirked, tearing off another piece and popping it into her mouth. "Listen, you took your time getting here. A woman’s gotta eat."

You rolled your eyes but reached for the pastry anyway, taking a bite. She was right—it was good. Annoyingly good. You tried to hide your appreciation, but Melissa caught it immediately.

"See?" she said smugly, crossing her arms. "Told you."

"Alright, fine," you admitted, setting your coffee down. "I’ll give you this one. But only because I don’t have the energy to argue before finishing my caffeine."

She chuckled, shaking her head before taking another sip of her own coffee. The easy flow of conversation continued, dipping into old memories, inside jokes, and the absurd things that had happened at school that week. At some point, you had Melissa laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth with a napkin.

"You’re an idiot," she muttered, still laughing as she wiped at her eyes.

"But I make you laugh," you pointed out.

She exhaled through her nose, a reluctant smile still playing on her lips. "Unfortunately."

You were just about to fire back with another joke when your phone buzzed loudly against the table. Glancing at the screen, you saw your mom’s name flashing. The playful mood shifted instantly.

"Hold on, it’s my mom," you murmured, swiping to answer. "Hey, everything okay?"

Her voice came through quickly, slightly rushed.

Your stomach twisted, all amusement gone in an instant. "Wait—how bad is it? Is he crying? Is he okay?"

"He was at first, but he’s calmed down a bit. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on."

You were already reaching for your bag. "I’m coming now. Which urgent care?"

Melissa’s brow furrowed as she watched you, clearly picking up on your tension.

You were already moving, heart racing. "I’ll be there soon."

As you hung up, Melissa leaned forward. "What’s going on?"

"Liam fell—my mom’s taking him to urgent care."

Melissa didn’t hesitate. "I’ll drive."

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes left no room for argument.  

"Let’s go," she said simply, already standing and pulling her jacket on.

And just like that, the morning shifted—what had started as something light and warm now charged with something deeper, something unspoken but undeniably there.

+++++++++++

The drive to urgent care felt longer than it actually was, your knee bouncing anxiously the entire time. Melissa didn’t say much, but every so often, her fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel, a quiet reassurance that she was there.

When you arrived, you rushed inside, spotting your mom near the front desk with Liam sitting beside her, his little legs swinging off the chair. His knee was bandaged, and though his face still scrunched from the ordeal, he was happily munching on a lollipop."Hey, bud," you breathed, crouching down in front of him. "You okay?"

He nodded, showing off the colorful wrapper of his treat. "They gave me this."

Your mom smiled, shaking her head. "He’s fine. Just a bad scrape. The doctor cleaned it up, put some antibiotics on it, and said he’ll be good as new in a couple of days."

Relief flooded through you, and you exhaled, pressing a quick kiss to Liam’s forehead. "You scared me, you know that?"

Liam just grinned before his gaze shifted behind you. "Miss Melissa!"

Melissa, who had been hanging back to let you check on him, stepped forward with a small smirk. "Hey, tough guy. Heard you took a tumble."

Liam puffed out his chest. "Didn’t even cry that much."

Melissa crouched beside you, looking at him seriously. "Yeah? Well, that makes you braver than most people I know."

Liam giggled, the tension completely gone now.

Your mom touched your arm lightly. "If you’re heading home, I have some errands to run, so I’ll let you take him."

You nodded, standing up. "Yeah, we’ll take him."

Melissa didn’t even need to be asked. "I’ll drive."

Liam happily trotted beside Melissa to the car, already chatting away about his battle wound. She opened the back door for him, making sure he was buckled in before climbing into the driver’s seat.

The drive home was quieter, calmer. Liam’s excitement wore off as the adrenaline faded. By the time you pulled into the driveway, he was blinking sleepily.

"I’ll carry him," Melissa said before you could even attempt it.

You watched as she effortlessly scooped him up, his little arms wrapping loosely around her neck as he rested his head on her shoulder. Your heart squeezed at the sight.

Inside, Melissa set him down on the couch, helping you prop up his leg with a pillow before brushing some hair from his forehead.

"He should be good," she murmured. "Just keep the bandage clean."

You sighed, exhausted but grateful. "Thank you. For everything."

Melissa’s lips quirked. "You don’t have to thank me."

Still, you reached for her hand, giving it a light squeeze. "I mean it."

She hesitated for only a second before squeezing back. "Alright. But you owe me breakfast next time."

A soft laugh escaped you. "Deal."

She lingered for a moment before finally stepping back, giving you one last look. "Get some rest, alright? I’ll see you on Monday."

And just like that, she was gone, leaving behind a warmth that stayed long after she walked out the door.

+++++++

The next few days felt like a quiet progression. You both fell into a rhythm, slipping between work and small interactions that seemed to build a foundation you hadn’t fully realized was forming. You exchanged a few texts, nothing too deep, just the occasional check-in or small joke about the chaos of the week. But each message felt like it carried more weight than it should have. It was like a bridge between you two, an invitation to lean a little closer.

By the end of the week, you both found yourselves at a staff gathering at the bar. The familiar faces of your coworkers were scattered around, and though the place was busy, you couldn’t help but focus on the fact that Melissa was only a few feet away. She was laughing with Ava, a drink in her hand, but every now and then, her eyes would flicker to you. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but enough for you to catch. Your heart skipped a beat each time.

It wasn’t long before the music shifted, and the mood in the bar lightened. People started to move toward the dance floor, but you stayed by the bar, nursing your drink, content to watch the others. Just as you were about to turn your attention back to your drink, Melissa appeared beside you.

“You should dance,” she said, her voice carrying just over the music. “Come on, I dare you.”

The challenge in her eyes was enough to pull you in. With a shrug, you set your drink down and took her hand. It felt natural, but also like a step forward. You hadn’t danced together in a while, not since things had shifted between you both.

The music faded into the background as you both found a spot near the edge of the floor, swaying to the beat. It was nothing fancy—just two people in a crowd—but the way Melissa held your gaze was different. It was like she was seeing you in a new light, the space between you shrinking more and more with each passing second. There was something in the air, something unspoken but real.

You could feel the warmth of her hand on your back, the gentle pressure of her fingers telling you she wasn’t just there for the dance. She was there for something else, something quieter, more personal.

Later that night, as the bar began to empty and the crowd thinned, you and Melissa stepped outside into the cool night air. The quiet between you was comfortable, the kind that felt familiar yet new, like two people who were finally beginning to find their way back to each other.

She looked over at you, her expression soft, the weight of the night settling between you both. “I’m glad we did this,” she said quietly.

You smiled, nodding. “Me too.”

Without thinking, you reached out, gently taking her hand in yours. The simple act felt so right, so natural, that it took both of you by surprise.

Melissa’s breath caught for just a second, and instead of responding right away, she just looked at you—really looked at you. Her green eyes flickered over your face, searching, as if trying to make sure this was real. That you were real. That this was something she could allow herself to have.

Your heart pounded in your chest as the moment stretched between you. It would be so easy to close the distance, but you waited, giving her time, giving her space to decide.

And then, slowly, she leaned in.

When your lips finally met, it was like everything clicked into place. No more hesitation, no more second-guessing. Just the two of you, finally acknowledging what had been there all along.

The kiss deepened, soft and gentle at first, but growing more intense with each passing moment. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t forced. It was the culmination of everything that had been building between you two—years of connection, of lost time, of unspoken feelings finally spilling out.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. Melissa’s fingers lingered on your wrist, her thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin—like she wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.

“That was long overdue,” she said, her voice shaky with emotion.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in your chest easing. “Yeah, I think it was.”

She kissed you again, a quick, soft press of her lips against yours, before pulling back and looking at you with a mix of warmth and uncertainty. Her thumb still brushed over your knuckles, grounding you in the moment, as if she wanted to memorize the feeling.

“So, what now?” she asked, the vulnerability in her voice making your heart ache.

You took a deep breath, running a hand through your hair. “We don’t need to rush anything. But I want this. I want you.”

Melissa’s eyes softened, and a slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a quiet certainty between you now, something that had been missing for so long. This wasn’t a fluke or a passing moment—it was real, and it was going somewhere.

The quiet between you both wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was something lingering beneath the surface—something unfinished. Melissa still hadn’t let go of your hand, her thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles like she was grounding herself in the moment.

She exhaled, her breath visible in the cool night air, before finally breaking the silence.

“Come over for dinner tomorrow.”

You blinked at her, taken aback by the sudden invitation. “Tomorrow?”

She nodded, shifting her weight between her feet. “Yeah. I’ll cook. Nothin’ fancy.” She hesitated, looking down at where your hands were still joined. “Just… I think we should talk. About this. About us.”

Something about the way she said it made your stomach tighten—not in fear, but in anticipation. Melissa wasn’t the type to invite someone in easily, not like this.

“I’d love to,” you said, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

She gave you a small, almost hesitant smile before finally pulling away. “Good.”

++++++++

The next night, you found yourself standing in front of Melissa’s door, your heart pounding harder than you cared to admit. This wasn’t just dinner; it was a conversation that had been waiting to happen for far too long.

When she finally opened the door, her expression softened, though there was something uncertain in her eyes.

“Hey,” she greeted, stepping aside to let you in.

“Hey,” you echoed, toeing off your shoes as you stepped inside. The smell of something warm and familiar wrapped around you, pulling you back to another time—before things had fallen apart.

“Lasagna?” you guessed, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Melissa smirked, closing the door behind you. “Figured I’d play it safe.”

Safe. You swallowed, nodding as you followed her into the kitchen.

Dinner was already plated, and the bottle of wine on the table was cracked open, two glasses filled but untouched. You both sat down, and for a while, things felt normal. You talked about work, about how wild the week had been, but you both knew why you were really there.

It wasn’t until Melissa let out a quiet sigh, pushing her food around her plate, that the air shifted.

“I don’t know how to do this again,” she admitted, her voice steady but hesitant.

You set your fork down, your throat tightening. “You mean us?”

She nodded, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “Yeah. I want to,” Her eyes flickered up to meet yours, raw and honest. “But I don’t want to get this wrong again.”

Your chest ached. “Melissa…”

She shook her head, taking a breath. “I just… I don’t know if I can do it again. I don’t know if I can survive losing you twice. I don’t know if I can survive losing myself again.”

Her words hit you hard, knocking the air from your lungs.

You reached across the table, covering her hand with yours. “I understand.”

She let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “And then there’s Liam.”

You stiffened slightly, but not from fear—just from how much his name carried in this conversation.

“He’s my whole world, Melissa,” you said softly. 

Melissa’s jaw tensed. “That’s the thing, though. If we try this again and it doesn’t work, it’s not just me and you who have to deal with the fallout. And I—” She stopped, gripping your hand a little tighter.

Her voice was almost a whisper, thick with emotion. “I’m scared, okay? I’m scared that if we try again and it doesn’t work out... I’ll be the one who hurts him. I’m scared that I’ll be the one who leaves him with that kind of hurt in his heart. And I can’t do that.”

You squeezed her hand, your chest tight with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t fully express. “It’s not about perfection. It’s about trying, about being there. And if we take this slow, if we’re careful, I really believe we can make it work. For him. For us.”

Melissa’s gaze shifted back to you, her face softening, though there was still that hesitance in her eyes. “And if we don’t? What if it falls apart again? What if we hurt each other... and him?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears. Finally, you spoke, your voice steady despite the weight of it all. “We won’t. We’re not rushing this.”

You reached forward and grabbed her hand. “Melissa, I know there’s more to it than just Liam. Tell me.”

Melissa’s jaw tightened as she pulled her hand away, her fingers trembling slightly. “I don’t know if I can let myself get close to you, only for you to leave,” she said quietly, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and frustration. 

You felt the weight of her words hit you, and something tightened in your chest. “Melissa, I—”

She cut you off with a soft, but firm shake of her head. “I know you didn’t mean to. But it happened. We got close, and then... you left. You went away, and we were just... done. And I had to pick up the pieces. What if it’s just going to happen again? What if... what if I’m just setting myself up to be heartbroken all over again?”

Her voice broke on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the raw emotion behind her usually guarded demeanor. The hurt that still lingered there, buried beneath the surface, was impossible to ignore.

“I can’t,” she whispered, almost to herself, her eyes darkened with the weight of her past pain. “I can’t keep opening myself up to the possibility of you walking away again. My heart can’t take it, not again. It would shatter me all over again, and I don’t know if I can handle it.”

You took a deep breath, your throat tightening with the weight of her words. “I’m not going anywhere, Melissa. I’m not planning to walk away. I don’t want to hurt you. I know I promised you this before, but I love you. I know what life is without you, and I don’t want to continue without you.”

But Melissa wasn’t done. “I want to believe you. I don’t know if I can believe that this time will be different.” Her gaze lifted, meeting yours with a look of raw vulnerability.”

You took her hands in yours, gently holding them between you, feeling the warmth of her palms against yours. “I won’t. Give me a second chance, Melissa. And I’m not going to mess this up. We can take it slow. We won’t rush this. I know I messed up before, and I’m not asking you to forget that. But I need you to believe me when I say... I’m not going anywhere.”

Melissa’s eyes softened, but the skepticism was still there. She was afraid, and it was hard to blame her. “I don’t know if I can take the risk again,” she admitted quietly, her voice shaky.

“I know it’s hard to trust that things will be different. But I’m asking for a chance, Melissa. Not just with us, but with Liam too. I promise you, I’m not going to break your heart again. Not if I can help it.”

There was a long silence, and you could see the wheels turning in her head, trying to process everything. Finally, she took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly in yours.

Melissa exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. She nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay, we try. But we go slow. I need to go slow.”

“I’m okay with that,” you said, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. This wasn’t a promise that everything would be perfect, but it was a start. A real start.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you held them back. “I’m scared too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But what scares me more is walking away when we both know this isn’t over.”

Melissa inhaled sharply, her gaze locking onto yours like she was searching for something—reassurance, certainty, maybe even hope.

You lifted your other hand, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “We don’t have to have all the answers tonight. But I know one thing—I still love you. And I think… I think maybe that’s enough to try.”

Melissa exhaled shakily, nodding once, just enough for you to see. You took a deep breath, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I know we need to take it slow,” you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But... is it okay if I kiss you?”

There was a pause, a beat of silence where the world seemed to hold its breath. Melissa’s gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a moment, it felt like everything in the room faded away except for the two of you.

She didn’t say anything at first, but her eyes softened, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Slowly, she nodded.

You leaned in slowly, your lips brushing hers in a soft, tender kiss. It wasn’t about rushing or fixing everything all at once—it was about showing that, despite all the fear and uncertainty, there was still something real between you. Your hand moved up gently, cupping her cheek and feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your fingertips. You gave her every chance to pull back if she needed to, but she didn’t.

You pulled away for just a moment, your forehead resting against hers as you both tried to catch your breath. Melissa’s hands found their way to your arms, holding on as if she needed the reassurance of your presence.

“I’m not going anywhere, Melissa,” you whispered, your lips brushing against her skin. “Not again. I promise.”

The words felt like a vow—simple, but something you both needed to hear.

Melissa closed her eyes, pressing her face into your shoulder, her body trembling just slightly. “I want to believe you,” she murmured, the rawness in her voice making your heart ache. “But I’m still so scared.”

You held her tighter, brushing your lips against the top of her head. “I know. But we’ll take it slow. I’ll be here. We’ll figure it out.”

And for that moment, the world felt right again. Not perfect, but real. And that was enough.

[any59]

listen within thirty seconds of the train leaving the station, we derailed it and then continued to drive it down the side of a ravine and into a ditch while you tried to throw buckets of water into the coal engine to put out the fire and at the very least slow the train down. You can be mad. We were genuinely so unproductive

Today's Cthulhu Awakens session:

Everyone needs a vacation.

They are heading to Georgia (the US state). It is peach season.

They check in at a hotel. Some time passes, and they meet Alice, who works for a family that lives on nearby Cumberland Island.

The estate is called Dungeness. I can't decide how to say it and end up saying it like "Dungeon-ess"

They hop on a ferry and are introduced to Patch, who makes small talk, telling them that the fishing used to be great but has declined in recent years.

They head through marshland and fog and dock at the estate. It is an old house but has clearly been maintained.

They meet Margaret Gasper, their hostess, and the staff at the manor: Michael, Alice, and Edmund.

They head inside, they look at a picture of Margaret's great x 4 grandfather, who fought for the Union (they gather this is kind of a "fuck you" to certain folks around here) and are offered refreshments. Mairéad has multiple drinks and fails her constitution roll. She is now fatigued (penalty to all checks). The book specifies a consequence that I don't like, so instead I rule that she suffers a -2 penalty.

I give Mairéad a choice 1) explore with the others and make a check every two hours to reduce her condition or 2) sleep it off for four hours (note: it is 10:30 AM, dinner is at 6:30)

She chooses to sleep (for the moment)

Dahlia explores the kitchen. She successfully intimidates one of the cooks there to let her snoop.

Sarah decides to explore the library.

Correction: Sarah decides to have sex with her wife in the library.

I get so annoyed my players worry that I am actually mad at them. I am not. I am disappointed.

I tell Sarah's player she may not have any chicken tendies or choccy milk and that she is a bad girl. Kinksters know this is the worst thing I could have possibly said. Disclaimer: I am not serious. Once again, I was not mad, just, shenanigans.

Sarah decides to do some actual research and rolls badly.

I consult secret DM things and Sarah notices Margaret in the library. Margaret leaves and Sarah notices a hidden nook. There are books on a theory that many humans today are descended from "monsters", she makes an alienation test and passes.

They encounter Winston the Maine Coon. He is a white cat. They pet him. "You pet the kitty--not like that." They also find a strange bust ("not like that").

She heads back out into the library proper and I allow for another perception test. She finds handwritten books about a certain Marsh family and determines that whoever wrote these is related to them. There is enough evidence here to get the FBI involved in an investigation of Dungeness.

(Side note: previously I remarked that Margaret has a Boston accent)

Someone's coming! Sarah is unsuccessful at concealing the books. Brooke (her wife) carefully ushers her out of the room. The staff member watches her the whole time.

Meanwhile, Mairéad investigates the trophy room. There is a gun cabinet.

Mairéad wants a gun.

She decides to throw something at the gun and picks up a (fake) skull. Failure. The skull bounces off the glass.

One of the staff rushes in and demands to know what's going on. Sarah runs in. Mairéad's player (unsure if serious) debates using a grenade to solve this problem. Sarah is attempting to diffuse the situation and usher Mairéad out (persuasion check: fail, opposed strength check: Sarah wins)

They are both kicked out of the house. Mairéad tries to go back inside through a window and is immediately caught again. Sarah waits for Brooke. Brooke does not appear.

Meanwhile, Dahlia decides to head upstairs. I inform her player that this will involve a challenge test (a series of checks with consequences for failure).

We call it for the night. I need to consult the book anyways as I can't remember doing a challenge test with this system.

Once again, I must stress that I was not mad at my players, just a little frustrated with their shenanigans. It's okay, they're on vacation.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

Thr thing abt me is that I want to know exactly how psychiatric medications work. I don't want the simplified version. Dont give me the "I'm talking to the public" answers. I want the specific mechanisms and how exactly it causes its side effects.

[joannerowling]

Since @same-shit-different-century is probably in the middle of her OotP re-read by now, i'm suddenly remembering my favourite Hermione quote of all times

Kinkshaming queen

[maoam]

now ss stans saying sakura wanted to die with sasuke in five kage arc bc of her confession in ch 693💀💀💀 and everyone of course will believe in that delusions….

Kishi said Sakura gave up on Sasuke so I don't know what they're talking about. But as I said, they rely on their headcanons because they have nothing else.

And who is "everyone"? Other delusional SS stans?

[fatal-fun]

My Ingredients:

A stroll in nature,

A sprinkle of fantasy,

A chat with my friends,

And a hug with family.

These are my ingredients,

For my creative flow.

I mix them up inside my brain,

And let inspiration grow.

A calming quiet,

A cloaking dark,

A gentle breeze,

Thats my favorite part.

Its in the silence and the calm,

After a full day of color.

It fills me like a healing balm,

And sets my thoughts a flutter.

I go and stumble till i find,

A freshly planted seed.

Then from there,

It’s just like magic.

Out comes pouring all the words,

Imbued with subtle feelings.

The only way that i can share,

The unique patterns of my breathing.

[lunasilvis]

I feel insane since I already do a (close to) fulltimer, but I'm gearing up the hours of work I put in my UX portfolio. Alarm set at 6 now every morning + work weekends until October 1st.

I really really want to finish all my work before the deepening of fall. This I plegded to myself. But writing out the research sections in particular (whilst ensuring it also looks "creative" and original, and isn't presented as just static, dry information) is incredibly time-consuming.

Yeah I succeed in keeping my head cool, but at times I feel all that is between my future life/realizing of dreams and now, is this darn portfolio and it feels challenging not to lose my shit over that and eat my desk whole lol

Again: patience, Michelle. It truly is a hell of a virtue

[kvistwig]

TRICK ME. TRICK ME RIGHT NOW.

AAAA I JUST WOKE UP FUACK--

HANDS YOU THIS THING

[lovetogether]

Sorry friends who know exactly when we wake up because we like all of your posts .