#“ill kill you!” “do i know you?!” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whorelaud · 8 hours ago

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omfg i was literally on the edge of my seat throughout the whole thing hello i remember reading some of this ch before i started the series and i eas so curious so im glad im finally catching uo 🙏

“Okay, shit, great.” You clapped your hands together decisively. “I’ll have all of it. All the chips, both kinds of cookies. Do you have anything else? Pretzels? Popcorn? Random condiments? I’m not picky.”

I LOVE HER

“You good, princess?” Cleo’s voice cut through your thoughts.

fuck rafe inref cleo so bad

You didn't know if it was the way he said it, the tone he used, or just your hormones fucking you up, but suddenly there were tears in your eye sockets. You blinked rapidly, tilting your head back slightly and praying that the tears stayed put.

ILL CRY IM TEARING UP TOODTAWP

“Joking?” He laughed, the sound making them flinch. “That what you call it? Spreading some bullshit rumor because it’s all your pathetic little lives have to offer?”

defending her ohhuhhhfuuh hes fucjing sick

“Say that shit again,” Rafe taunted him, something almost amused twisting at the edge of his mouth, daring him to keep talking. “I’d love to hear you repeat yourself.”

stood up and applauded

“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharp, dismissive.

NO ONE SOEAK TO ME

“You talk about her again and I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me?”

im actually going crazy theyre so dear to me

“I can’t believe you did that. You threatened to kill him, Rafe. Over what, a stupid rumor?”

keeping my mouth shut 🤐

“Mr. Cameron, this is Dr. Harris from the hospital,” the voice on the other end said. “We’ve been trying to reach Miss Thornton about the blood work results from her visit three days ago. Unfortunately, there’s been an issue with our system and a few patient’s data has been deleted, except for the emergency contact information.”

i fucj ing

omg

idkodid didjfjf WHSTST HES GONAN FIBD OHT

Can we meet up? Tannyhill in 30. I think I know what’s wrong.

WHATATTTTT

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SEVEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy, abortion, alcohol, drug consumption.

MASTERLIST

You never spent much time on The Cut, unless you were being dragged by duty, mostly charity events for the local populations, fundraisers for their schools usually.

You always showed up in something tasteful but subtly expensive—pearls, understated Louboutin heels, and a blazer that whispered wealth without screaming it.

Your mother taught you that.

Now, you sat in Poguelandia, doing god knows what.

The name alone sounded like some bad beach-themed party game. But you kept the snark to yourself—mostly. Sarah swore to you this was her new "thing," her big redemption arc, and who were you to judge? It wasn’t where you pictured spending any afternoon, yet there you were.

Pregnant. On The Cut. Drinking—well, holding—a very flat ginger ale out of a plastic cup.

You smoothed your dress for the hundredth time, light linen in a neutral tone that looked effortless but cost more than most people’s rent, while pretending not to notice Pope and Cleo staring like you were a rare bird that had wandered into the wrong habitat.

Were they always this... intense? Did people on this side of the island not know how to look away when someone made eye contact? Your mother’s voice echoed in your head. They’re not staring at you, dear; they’re staring at themselves in relation to you.

Whatever that meant.

To their credit, they weren’t mean about it. Just... curious, as if you’d wandered in from a wildlife documentary called Kooks in the Wild.

You moved your weight around in your seat, hyper-aware of every grain of sand sticking to your hérmes sandals. Every time you shifted, you felt the grains grinding between the straps and your skin.

Should’ve worn the espadrilles, you thought ruefully, but even then, this wasn’t the world’s most glamorous venue. Sarah had begged you to stop by, though, and you owed her. It was also good for you to leave the house instead of being cupped up inside all alone.

“Okay, seriously, what’s with the staring? Do I have something on my face? Is my makeup smudged? Be honest.”

Cleo snorted. “No, you’re fine, princess. We’re just surprised to see you.”

You were still holding your sad little plastic cup. “Just thought I’d participate in—whatever this is.” You gestured vaguely at the mismatched chairs and string lights that looked like they’d been stolen from someone’s backyard wedding. “Community service?”

It was supposed to come off as witty. You weren’t sure it did.

Pope choked on his drink—sweet tea? soda?—and Cleo chuckled outright. “You’re funny,” she said, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if she meant it.

“Thanks?” It came out like a question, and you wanted to die just a little bit inside.

Pope grinned, leaning forward with a chip in his hand. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who hangs out in The Cut, that’s all.”

You blinked, feigning shock. “You don’t think I spend my weekends in—what is this, a glorified surf shack? I’m crushed.”

Cleo laughed again, which—fine—made you feel a little better.

“Nah, it’s just... you’re different up close. Not like, scary kook different. Just human. Y’know?”

“Great. That’s exactly what I was going for today.”

Pope gestured to the bar. “You want a snack? Chips? Cookies? We have...three options.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing like a hawk zeroing in on prey.

Food. Your stomach growled loudly, as if it had been cued by a stage director. “What kind of cookies?”

He blinked, not expecting you to care. “Uh... chocolate chip? Maybe oatmeal raisin?”

“And the chips?” You pressed, leaning forward now.

“Salt and vinegar,” Cleo piped up, eyeing you curiously. “Barbecue too, I think. Why?”

Cleo stared at you, her mouth slightly open. “Everything?”

“Yes, everything. Is that a problem?”

She blinked, her eyes darting to Pope like he had an explanation. He shrugged helplessly.

“Woman” she muttered under her breath. “Did you not eat for a week, or...?”

The salt and vinegar chips were divine, borderline transcendent, as you shoved another handful into your mouth. The truth was, you weren’t just hungry—you were still terrified. Every bite, every easy conversation with other people that weren’t Sarah, was a game of jenga to you. One wrong move, one offhand comment, and your secret could be out in the open.

Six more days until this would all be... over. Until the secret growing inside you—the one you’d barely admitted to yourself most mornings—would be gone.

The past three days had been the best you’d felt in ages, cravings and all, thanks to Sarah. She’d slept over, stayed up late talking with you, making you laugh, distracting you from the endless pit what-ifs and why-mes.

It was the longest you’d gone without crying in three months. The longest you’d lived without feeling like you could suffocate at any given moment. With her help, it had been easier to forget—to pretend that things were still okay.

But Sarah wasn’t there, she’d left earlier with John B, something about helping him with a tour.

“You good, princess?” Cleo’s voice cut through your thoughts.

You blinked at her, realizing you’d been crushing the chip bag in your hands like a stress ball. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to fight that bag of chips,” Pope said, grinning.

You forced a laugh, leaning back and tossing the bag onto the table. “No fighting. Just... intense snacking."

You reached for the chocolate chip cookies he had offered earlier, focusing on the sweetness, the comfort of food that tasted good for once. Sweet, crumbly, safe. If only the rest of you life felt like that.

Pope and Cleo knew something was up, they all did, probably.

Sarah had been glued to your side, and it wasn’t exactly subtle.

Her sudden move to “stay over” at your place had obviously raised eyebrows, especially since you two hadn’t had a proper conversation in months before all this. And there was the beach clean-up, Kie and JJ had been there when you felt ill, and while you’d been too disoriented to keep up with the cover story once Rafe drove you away, Sarah had stepped in later to handle it.

Heat exhaustion. Overworked. Totally fine.

Still, to your relief, neither Pope nor Cleo seemed inclined to pry, perhaps it was pity, or maybe they were just decent enough to let you keep the little shred of privacy you had left. Either way, you were grateful.

“So,” Pope said, leaning back on his elbows and flashing you an easy grin, “How are you finding our place? I mean, other than our fine selection of snacks.”

You swallowed a bite of cookie, forcing a smile. “It’s...charming. Rustic. A real je ne sais quoi vibe.” You waved your hand vaguely, trying to mimic the way your mother used to describe terrible restaurants we’d never go back to.

Cleo snorted. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“It’s cute,” You offered, looking around, “I can tell you guys put your heart into it.”

Pope smirked, lifting a brow. "That's nice of you to say."

You gave a small shrug, feigning nonchalance, but you meant it.

For all the mismatched chairs and questionable decoration, there was something undeniably warm about the place. You weren't used to that—spaces filled with love instead of decorators and florists, it wasn’t bad. Just different.

“I mean it,” you said, brushing crumbs from your lap. “It’s very authentic. ‘Pogue Chic’ or something.”

Cleo laughed, loud and genuine, her grin lighting up her face. “Pogue Chic?"

Pope chimed in, “Hey, don’t knock it. We’re trendsetters. Ahead of its time.”

You smiled, but your mind was already falling back to the sand clinging to your dress and the ginger ale that tasted like disappointment. You’d never say it out loud, but you admired them, that ability to make joy out of scraps. It was something you didn’t quite know how to do. Not yet, anyway.

Cleo leaned forward, her elbows resting on the makeshift table. “So, are we going to see you around more? Or is this just a one-time royal visit?”

You hesitated, twirling the rim of your cup between your fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe. If Sarah keeps dragging me here, I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

These kids, all of them, sitting here like they hadn’t spent their lives scraping by, like they hadn’t been hurt or abandoned or let down a hundred times over by people they loved and trusted. Yet somehow, they were still full of hope, full of life.

You envied that.

You wished you could bottle it, whatever it was that kept them laughing and fighting and welcoming someone like you—a result of privilege and mistakes and heartbreak—into their home. It was humbling in a way that made your chest hurt.

“Does that mean I can choose to order better snacks next time? Maybe some sparkling water? Flat ginger ale is a crime against humanity.”

Cleo snorted, still not fooled by your deflection, but she let it slide.

“Good luck with that, princess. Our snack budget’s about three bucks and whatever we can steal from Kie’s pantry.”

Pope chuckled, tossing a chip in his mouth. “And you’re welcome to contribute if you’re so concerned about the menu.”

It surprised you, how easy it was to talk to them.

On paper, you had nothing in common. They were younger, grew up in a completely different world, and you were used to the polished conversations of country club luncheons and charity galas.

Here, things were different.

They didn’t seem to care if you stumbled over your words, if your jokes were awkward or if you occasionally sounded like a walking trust fund catalog. They didn’t care about your last name, your family’s money, or any other things that had weighed you down for years.

That was disarming.

You’d spent your entire life around people who mirrored your upbringing—kids who summered in the Hamptons or Barbados, adults who measured their worth in stock portfolios and vacation homes. Now, you were here, in this cobbled-together haven with salt-stained cushions, sitting with people who’d grown up struggling for things you took for granted.

You thought it would feel more awkward or forced, but it didn’t.

It was easy.

Pope sat on the counter, gesturing with a half-eaten chip. “Serious question. How do you even survive on Figure Eight? Do they hand you iced lattes and designer handbags when you’re born, or do you have to work your way up to that?”

You raised a brow, smirking. “Oh, absolutely. The moment you’re born, they issue you a monogrammed diaper bag and a gold-plated pacifier. It’s very exclusive.”

Cleo nearly choked on her drink. “See, this is why we can’t take you seriously.”

Your phone buzzed on the table, lighting up with your cousins name, interrupting the fun. You sighed, rolling your eyes before picking it up. “Yes, Top?”

Topper’s slightly whiny tone spilled into your ear. “Can you believe Mom’s threatening to rent out the beach house for the summer? Actual strangers, staying there. What’s next? Turning it into a hostel?”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned, resting your chin in your hand. “Truly, a devastating blow for humanity.”

Pope fake-coughed, mumbling “white rich privilege problems,” while Cleo mouthed, “Hostel!” and shook her head, laughing silently.

“I know. Anyway, I’m coming over later.”

“Where’s your invitation?”

You heard him scoffing, “I’m family, I don’t need one.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Top, you can’t just announce you’re coming over. I might have plans.”

“Yeah, and I’m your family, so those plans now include me,” Topper said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Besides, I’ll bring food.”

Across from you, Pope was already gagging dramatically, holding his stomach as if the mere sound of Topper’s voice made him physically ill.

“I don’t know if—”

“See you at noon,” he interrupted. “Later!”

The call ended before you could even argue, and you set your phone down with a resigned sigh.

“Looks like I’m hosting a one-man Topper pity party,” you said, crossing your arms and slumping back in your chair.

Pope clutched his chest. “Will you survive?”

You only left once the sun dipped lower into the horizon, you gathered your things promising Sarah you’d drive safely and talk to her tomorrow.

Cleo, Pope and John B were mid-argument about the best way to fix something in the shack. You felt lighter than you had in weeks.

With a few more quips exchanged and goodbyes said, you walked back to your car. That night, the ache in your chest wasn’t completly unbearable. You weren’t okay, but you weren’t drowning, either.

You’d been terrified of this afternoon all day, worried you’d stick out like a sore thumb or say the wrong thing.

But the Pogues hadn’t cared about your awkwardness, your polished self, or even the giant invisible cloud you carried everywhere these days. They let you just be.

The drive home was quiet, but this time you even hummed along to a song on the radio, which was strange because you couldn’t remember the last time you cared about music or even turning on that thing. When you pulled into the driveway and stepped into your house, it didn’t feel as cold and empty as it did last week.

You set your bag down on the entryway table and kick off your sandals, the floors cool beneath your feet. Heading to the kitchen, you decided to see if there was anything decent for tonight’s impromptu early dinner with Topper. The fridge greeted you with a sad bag of lettuce, half a bottle of sparkling water, and a single container of leftover pasta you weren’t sure was still edible.

“Great,” you muttered, closing the door and moving to the pantry.

The situation there wasn’t much better. Sarah’s latest health-kick contributions—a bag of chia seeds and some organic trail mix—laughed at you from the top shelf. You frowned, pushing them aside to reveal a dusty box of crackers and a jar of Nutella.

“Guess we’re going shopping tomorrow,” you murmured, grabbing the crackers and Nutella to snack on now.

You placed them on the counter and glanced around. The sink held a few dishes from earlier —a couple of coffee mugs, a bowl, a plate.

You sighed, rolling up your sleeves, might as well get this out of the way.

Normally, you’d have had someone else to take care of this—stocking the pantry, cleaning the dishes, even deciding on the menu for your lunches. But lately, you’d been scaling back. You hadn’t let anyone go, of course. You could never do that; the staff had been with your family for years, and many of them felt more like extended family than employees. Still, you’d quietly rearranged their schedules, giving them more time off.

They didn’t question it—probably thought it was some new phase, another eccentricity of a bored, privileged young woman.

Truth was, you liked doing these things.

Focusing on something small, tangible, gave your brain a break from drilling itself into a million dark corners. Folding laundry, washing dishes, even the routine of chopping vegetables—it kept your hands busy and your thoughts manageable enough. It wasn’t that you’d suddenly become a domestic goddess or anything. Most of the time, you’d forget to pick up groceries or burn whatever you tried to cook.

It wasn’t about being good at it. It was about doing something.

You looked around the kitchen, noting the little imperfections you wouldn’t have noticed before. A small water stain on the counter from where your glass had sat too long, the scuff marks on the cabinets where your chair scraped when you leaned back. They weren’t problems to be fixed—they were just signs of life.

And right now at that very moment, life felt…okay.

The house didn’t seem as cold or empty when you were doing things for yourself, even if it was mundane work. You finish up wiping down the counters, glance at the time—definitely cutting it close—and head toward the dining room to tidy up a bit.

Topper was not the type to notice if the place is spotless, but you always liked things to look... presentable, yourself included.

You heard the doorbell ring in the distance, he was early as usual, probably checking his watch just to make sure he wasn't a second late.

"Of course he’s early," you muttered to yourself, a little smirk pulling at your lips.

You walked towards the front door, ready to greet him, but when you opened it, your eyes immediately locked onto the large takeout bag in his hand. It smelled... amazing.

Topper grinned at you, an exaggerated flourish as he held up the bag.

“Guess what I brought?”

“You brought... Korean chicken wings? Really?”

“Hell yeah, I did!” He stepped inside, completely ignoring any formalities and heading straight toward the kitchen, “They just opened.”

He placed the bag on the counter with the confidence of a man who knew he’s just won “Best Dinner Host” without even trying. You peeked inside, the crispy wings drenched in a glossy, sweet-spicy sauce that looked downright delicious.

Topper laughed and took a seat, pulling out the wings, not even bothering with plates. “You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes but sat next to him, picking up a wing, the heat of it still making your fingers tingle. The crispy exterior cracked open with a satisfying crunch as you bit into it. It was everything you'd hoped for—tangy, spicy, perfectly cooked. You nearly moaned in pleasure, not even caring that your cousin was watching you with that cocky grin on his face.

“You look like you’ve seen the light,” He teased, leaning back in his chair as he grabbed a wing of his own.

“I mean,” you said, savoring another bite, “this might make up for you barging in uninvited.”

“Barging?” He clutched his chest dramatically, mock offense radiating from every inch of him. “I'm saving you from a night of sad dinners, and this is the thanks I get?”

You gave him a pointed look, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward despite yourself.

“Fine. Thank you, Topper. You’re the hero of the day. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he said, grinning as he reached for another wing. “What’s new? Still slumming it with my ex and the Pogues?”

“First of all,” you said, wiping your fingers on a napkin, “slumming it implies I’m suffering, which I’m not. And second, Sarah’s not a pogue. She’s pogue-adjacent.”

“Pogue-adjacent?” He snorted. “You’ve been spending too much time over there.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” you shot back. “You basically live at Kildare Brewing these days. That’s like, one pogue away from full assimilation.”

He opened his mouth to argue but then stopped, realizing you had a point. “Okay, fair. But only because they have good beer."

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should even bring it up, but curiosity got the better of you. You hadn’t heard about her in a while, and you knew by experience, that was never a good thing.

“So... Ruthie,” you started, watching him over the rim of your glass as you took a sip.

Topper paused mid-chew, looking up at you like he wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation. “What about her?”

“I mean, you two are still together, aren’t you?”

He wiped his hands on a napkin. “We’re… not talking right now.”

You tried not to look pleased, but a rush of vindication bloomed in your chest. You'd grown to hate her, plain and simple. Her recent proximity to your cousin had always baffled you. He wasn’t perfect, but surely, he could do better.

“I’m surprised.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, reaching for another wing. But then he stopped, like whatever he was thinking was messing with his head.

“What happened?” You asked, trying to sound more curious, concerned, than nosy.

You weren’t sure if he’d tell you, but the look on his face made it clear something big had gone down.

He hesitated, debating whether to answer. Finally, he sighed. “She... started a rumor about you.”

Your head jerked back in surprise. “About me?”

“Yeah,” he grimaced like he’d swallowed something sour. “She said you passed out at the beach cleanup and decided to spread some bullshit about you doing drugs.”

You just stared at him. “She what?”

You weren’t sure why you were so surprised.

You knew what she was capable better than anyone, especially when she was bored out of her mind.

“I didn’t believe it,” he added quickly, his tone defensive, as if that made it better. “I told her to shut the fuck up about it, but you know how she is. She thought it was funny.”

“Funny?” Your voice was sharp now, “She thought it was funny to spread lies about me? About drugs? What the fuck?”

“Yeah, it’s so messed up. That’s why I’m not talking to her. I told her if she couldn’t act like a fucking decent human being, we were done.”

You blinked, stunned.

You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the fact that Ruthie had stooped so low or that Topper had finally stood up to her. You shook your head, biting back another nasty comment about how awful she was. You’d been saying it for months, and he hadn’t listened.

No point in beating a dead horse now.

“It’s about time you saw what she’s really like. She’s really bad fuckin’ news, Top. Always has been.”

He gave a low grunt, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter. “Yeah. Took me long enough, huh?”

You didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow and sipped your water.

“She’s always been weird about Sarah,” Topper muttered, almost to himself. “Even when we were together, she’d find these ways to dig at her. Like that one time at Midsummers—”

“—When she ‘accidentally’ spilled her drink on Sarah’s dress,” you finished, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I remember. She’s always had this thing about trying to one-up her. Honestly, it’s so pathetic. But you never listen to me, so.”

“Okay, ouch.” He threw a crumpled napkin at you, which you easily dodged. “I listen to you sometimes.”

“Do you, though?” You gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, I do!” Topper protested, though the whine in his voice made him sound more like the teenager he used to be, back when he’d follow you around during family holidays like a puppy. “Just… selectively.”

“Selective listening isn’t listening, dumbass. You’re just proving my point.”

He narrowed his eyes at you but didn’t answer, reaching for another wing instead. He took a bite, chewing dramatically, as if the exaggerated crunch would somehow end the conversation.

“Look, I’ve been saying for months that Ruthie’s bad news. Since she showed up at last year’s Christmas party wearing a dress identical to Sarah’s, just in a different color. You thought that was a coincidence?”

Topper groaned, dropping the wing. “Okay, fine, you’re right. Are you happy now? Can you stop rubbing it in?”

You grinned, propping your chin on your hand.

“Oh, I could. But what kind of older cousin would I be if I didn’t remind you how often you’re wrong?”

“You’re not that much older than me.”

You shrugged. “Old enough to know better than to date someone that awful.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius. I get it.” He looked over at you again, his gaze softer, this time, “But seriously, you’ve been off lately. If there’s something going on, you can tell me, y’know? We’re family, even if I don’t listen to you half the time,” he added with a small smile, though his eyes were searching, hoping you’d let him in.

It would be so easy to tell him the truth—that you were pregnant, scheduled for an abortion in six days, and drowning in uncertainty and dread.

But he was still Rafe’s best friend, and the risk of this ever reaching him was too high. Instead, you forced a lightness into your voice.

“Nothing I can’t handle. And right now, I desperately need the bathroom.”

He looked at you skeptically, not fooled for a second.

“You’re really okay?” he pressed, his voice dropping to a level that told you he wasn’t going to let this go easily, "I texted and called before, you didn't answer. Thought you were resting from the scare."

You’d been having such a calm, easy time with Sarah, you almost forgot about everything else. The thought of picking up the phone, letting all that anxiety and worry back in, just wasn’t appealing—so you’d ignored his calls, but not on purpose. You were doing him a favor.

You plastered on a smile and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as you passed. “I promise, I’m fine. Just felt a little light-headed and needed some peace."

His eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced. “That’s all?”

You forced a giggle, hoping it would sound more genuine than it felt. “Yes, Dr. Thornton. Just needed to eat more or drink water or whatever the fuck it is you’re always telling me to do.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, crossing his arms, watching you closely. “Because you’ve never just fainted before.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything. Besides, don’t you think I’d tell you if something serious was wrong?”

It took everything to maintain eye contact, your stomach twisting at the lie. He was family, and you wanted to trust him, to let him help you. But you couldn’t. He hadn’t even told you about Rafe and Sofia until you found out by yourself.

Topper tilted his head, considering you, then sighed and gave a reluctant nod. “Alright, fine.”

“Okay, if you’re done being weird,” You pushed back from the counter, grabbing your glass. “I gotta pee,” you announced casually, as if this was the most normal interjection in the world. The wings were good, but running away was tempting. And also, the pregnancy had made your bladder a ticking time bomb, and you really didn’t want to risk any accidents. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You offered him one last smile, hoping it was convincing enough. He whined some sarcastic comment about your water consumption as you hurried away, but you barely heard him.

All you thought about was the blessed relief that awaited on the other side of that door.

You didn’t usually spend this much time with Top nowadays—your own tendency to avoid “close” family drama—but tonight had been oddly… nice.

Even if you wanted to wrap your hands around his neck half the time. Even if you hated lying to him. If he’d just pushed a little harder, maybe you would’ve folded, let it all spill right there in the kitchen.

Every time you thought you’d come to a decision, another doubt would take over you, leaving you back at square one. You knew what you wanted, so why was this so hard?

Topper had looked at you with such genuine concern back there. The “if you need me, I’m here” sentiment was the same one you’d grown up with, the kind of care only a cousin, practically a sibling, could have.

This was hard.

When you came back into the kitchen after taking your sweet time in the bathroom you immediately noticed something was off.

Topper was by the counter, staring at the half-eaten pile of wings by the table like they’d personally offended him. He looked paler, too—almost like he’d seen a ghost.

“Uh…” You stopped mid-step, furrowing your brow. “What’s with the stupid face? Did the wings betray you or something?”

He jolted slightly, as if he hadn’t even heard you come in. “What? No. No, the wings are fine. Great. Amazing, even.”

“Okay…” You gave him a skeptical look, setting your glass down and crossing your arms.

Topper laughed, but it was this oddly nervous, stilted sound. He glanced at his phone, tapping the screen for no real reason, then shoved it into his pocket.

“You know what, though? I totally forgot—I have something planned. Like, super important. In about… ten minutes.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You forgot you had plans? Sounds fake, but okay.”

“So unlike me!” He got up from his chair with such sudden energy that it made you take a step back. “Anyway, I should really get going. Don’t want to be late. Uh, thanks for… hanging out. And for, uh, letting me use your wings as a form of therapy. Yeah. Later!”

And with that, he was sprinting for the door.

“Topper!” you called after him, confused and mildly annoyed. “What the hell is going on? You’re acting fuckin’ weird!”

“Nope, not weird! Just busy!” he shot back over his shoulder, not even looking at you as he opened the door.

You didn’t have time to yell at him before he disappeared out the door, the sound of his Jeep starting up echoing from the driveway a moment later. You stood there bewildered, staring at the now-empty doorway.

Something was definitely up. He was many things—dramatic, stubborn, occasionally insufferable—but shifty wasn’t usually one of them.

You went back to the kitchen, glancing at the counter, ready to brush off his weird exit as just another of his dramatics, when your eyes landed on a random envelope— the one you’d been using to scribble down everything lately.

Extra small grocery lists, reminders, and, unfortunately, the number for the abortion clinic.

Rafe’s fingers curled loosely around the tumbler of bourbon, eyes set on nothing in particular. The lunch rush was winding down, country club regulars filing out.

He’d been there for over an hour—first, the meeting, listening to those finance guys ramble on about numbers, projections, all that bullshit he usually liked to hear.

He’d faked his interest well enough, but his mind had been miles away. Mostly thinking about you. And the company, of course, because that was his priority right now. Or, it should be.

The whole thing with you, three days ago, it was a slow-mind-burning headache he couldn’t ignore, even if he wanted to. And he had wanted to, tried to, in fact.

He took another slow sip, hardly tasting the bourbon. Across the room, Sofia was working between tables, balancing trays and forcing her best country club smile.

All he saw when he looked at her was you, it only made him force down another swallow, running his thumb over the rim of the glass, mind somewhere between the company projections and the mess he’d made of things with you.

It was ridiculous that you were still in his head. He should be thinking about that deal, about locking down his place in the Cameron empire.

Rafe pushed the glass aside, signaling for the check when something caught his ear—a conversation from a nearby table.

“Yeah, she actually passed out the other day. Pathetic.” The voice was loud, sneering.

A dude’s voice followed, fake sympathy dripping from his tone. “I heard she was a fuckin’ mess after the whole breakup.”

“Oh, totally.” A different girl laughed, high-pitched and cruel. “She’s probably on something. Can you blame her? I’d be desperate too if he dumped me.”

It didn’t take a fucking genius to know who they were talking about. Small town and all, of course, things got around, mostly turning into half-truths and petty rumors.

He stopped all his movements, jaw clenching. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table, the only thing keeping him from breaking something, preferably bones.

They were talking about you.

About some made-up version of you, the fact that these spoiled, airheaded brats thought they could shit talk about you like that, rip you apart for fun just because you weren’t there to defend yourself made him sick.

He pushed his chair back and stood, crossing the room with long strides. He didn’t care about the eyes following him as he walked up to their table, the laughter stopping the moment they looked up and saw the look on his face.

“What did you just say?”

The girl who’d been laughing, a petite brunette with too much makeup and a self-satisfied smirk, blinked up at him, her smile faltering.

“Oh, Rafe! We didn’t see you there. We were just…joking around,” she stammered, trying to backpedal.

“Joking?” He laughed, the sound making them flinch. “That what you call it? Spreading some bullshit rumor because it’s all your pathetic little lives have to offer?”

The brunette’s face went red. “I mean, we all heard about it. I’m just saying what everyone’s already thinking—”

His fists clenched and his patience, already thin, snapped the second he heard the guy—one of those trust fund preps with an overdone tan and a too-tight polo—chime in.

“Oh, come on, dude,” the guy smirked, leaning back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not like she’s worth all that trouble, is she?”

His entire body went rigid, and before he registered it, he was leaning down, letting them feel the weight of his glare.

“Say that shit again,” Rafe taunted him, something almost amused twisting at the edge of his mouth, daring him to keep talking. “I’d love to hear you repeat yourself.”

“Relax, man—”

He didn’t even let him finish, eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a near whisper, more dangerous than shouting ever could be.

“You think it’s funny? Talking about someone who’s not even here to defend herself?”

The guy’s face paled, and Rafe swore he was seconds away from landing a punch, from wiping that smug grin off his face. Just as he prepared his fist, ready to make good on his threat, he felt a hand on his arm, a small, insistent tug.

“Rafe,” a soft voice hissed. Sofia. He barely glanced at her, shrugging off her grip.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharp, dismissive.

He kept his eyes on the guy, who looked more uncomfortable by the second, squirming in his seat.

Sofia’s hand still hovering near his arm, cautious now. “Rafe, come on, this isn’t worth it. You’re better than this.”

She looked scared. Scared of him, scared of the situation. He wasn’t better than this.

He’d never been, and he’d been good enough at lying and pretending for her even to think that.

You would’ve known better.

Fuck, you wouldn’t have wasted time talking.

You would’ve yanked him back by his collar, shoved yourself between him and the guy, shot him that warning glare, daring him to keep pushing you so you’d have to drag him out by force. You always knew when he’d get like this, that edge in his voice, that look in his eye that told you he was seconds away from snapping. You knew better than anyone how to pull him back when he hit that switch.

But you’d never bothered with gentle.

Sofia’s eyes darted around the room, clearly embarrassed, maybe even afraid of drawing attention. He knew this wasn’t fair to her, that she hadn’t signed up for this part of him—the anger, the unpredictability. It wasn’t in his nature to stay silent, to ignore things and walk away.

He could almost see it—feel it, like a familiar bruise under his skin. You’d shove him hard enough that he’d stumble back, half-pissed and half-shocked. You’d get in his face, not even close to scared, cutting through his spiral. “What the hell is wrong with you, Rafe? You wanna end up in jail over some loser? Grow up.”

If you’d been here, you wouldn’t have given him a choice. You’d have grabbed his arm and dragged him away, kept a grip on him until he’d snapped out of whatever dark place he’d dropped into. You’d push him until he finally let go, forced him to come down from that blinding fury and face the mess he’d just caused. It was the only way he’d ever been able to listen—when you pushed him to wake up, forced him to look at himself and see just how reckless, just how stupid he was about to be.

But Sofia? She had no idea.

She thought saying “you’re better than this” was going to do anything, that with a light touch and some empty words, he’d suddenly be calm, reasonable, soft.

But he’d never been that way, never with you, never with anyone.

She hadn’t done anything wrong; she’d just seen the version of him he’d wanted her to see. The version he’d put together, patched up and polished, all so he could convince himself he was something he wasn’t.

With her, it was easy to pretend. He could smooth his sharp edges, show her just enough of himself to keep her interested without letting her close enough to see the mess underneath.

He’d let her believe he was the kind of guy who could just calm down, let things slide. The kind of guy who’d listen. He’d wanted her to believe he was controlled, calm. Sofia’s softness had appealed to him, but now, it only highlighted the differences between them.

With you, he’d never had the luxury of pretending.

You’d seen through him from the start, never let him get away with putting on some act.

You hadn’t let him pretend to be better than he was, hadn’t let him off easy when he’d tried to brush things off or shut down. You knew every side of him, even the ones he’d rather ignore. You’d always known exactly who he was, who he wasn’t, and you’d never been afraid to remind him.

He didn’t want to let it go, didn’t want to give the guy an inch of leeway to think he’d won this. Rafe sighed and released his grip, his hand falling from the table as he finally stepped back. Sofia relaxed, giving him a relieved smile, but it only made him feel emptier.

“You talk about her again and I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me?”

The guy sputtered, looking down, embarrassed and shaken. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like an apology, but Rafe didn’t care enough to hear it.

Sofia’s hand was still on his tail when he left, and as soon as he walked out of earshot of the table, she followed him, crossing her arms. Her eyes narrowed with an expression he’d never seen from her —disbelief.

“What was that?”

Everything.

Rafe didn’t speak. He was staring past her, back at the group, mind far from the confrontation and miles away with thoughts of you. She seemed to notice, her lips pressing together.

“I can’t believe you did that. You threatened to kill him, Rafe. Over what, a stupid rumor?”

A stupid rumor? She was making him feel like he was out of control, irrational—even though he couldn’t explain why this mattered so much.

“You wouldn’t get it. It’s not your problem.”

She flinched a little, her face falling, but to her credit, she didn’t look away. “You’re right. I don’t get it. Tell me.”

He wanted to believe that it could work with Sofia.

Nice girl, pretty too. She laughed at his jokes, and she didn’t call him out on his bullshit, because she didn’t even know that side of him existed. On paper, she was perfect. But she wasn't you.

He looked back at her, her worried eyes scanning his face.

It was frustrating—seeing the fear, feeling her judgment when she didn’t even know what she was judging.

To her, this was just some meaningless outburst, something he could turn on and off at will. This wasn’t her fault. He knew that. He hated how this wasn’t something he couldn't put into words, not in any way that would make sense to her.

“Forget it, alright?” his tone was harsher than he meant.

Sofia shook her head, clearly not willing to let it drop this time.

“Why would you get so worked up over something like this?"

To her, that’s all this was—just noise, harmless, inconsequential.

She looked up at him expectantly, her brows furrowed in confusion, waiting for some reasonable answer.

And it pissed him off, how she kept waiting, expecting him to offer some calm, measured response when he didn’t even understand it himself.

Sofia’s eyes softened, but it only irritated him further.

“She’s nice,” Her words drifted out casually like she didn’t know she’d just cracked him open. “She defended me, last week, when I was serving brunch.”

He couldn’t stop the self-loathing.

You had always been that way—ready to defend anyone, even when you were the one hurting. Rafe winced, hating himself for it, hating that you could still be so good even after everything. He swallowed hard, keeping his expression blank.

“Did she?” he muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

“Yeah,” Sofia replied, watching his reaction with mild curiosity. “Guess I wouldn’t have expected that.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched, that familiar hurt in his chest.

His mind was already conjuring all the times you’d jumped in, backed people up, and called out anyone who crossed a line. Even when it came to people you barely knew.

It made him feel like the worst person in the world, knowing that you’d been there for Sofia of all people, that you’d shown her that same loyalty. It made him hate himself even more.

His phone buzzed, saving him from the inevitable conversation, his hand brushed the side of his face as he glanced down at the unknown number flashing across the screen. He didn’t hesitate, before swiping the answer button.

“Hello?”

Rafe’s stomach dropped.

He was still your emergency contact, not by choice probably. The hospital was calling about your blood work.

Was something wrong?

His blood ran cold. “Is she okay? Did something happen?” The urgency in his tone made Sofia’s eyes widen again, her confusion growing.

“We’re concerned about a possible infection. We need to run more tests to rule it out, but the symptoms suggest it could be more complicated. We must check thoroughly to be sure.”

“An infection?”

“Yes, but it could be nothing serious. We just need her to come in as soon as possible for a follow-up,” Dr. Harris explained.

There was a pause as if he expected Rafe to say something reassuring or offer to pass on the message.

Sofia’s brows knitted together as she watched him. “Rafe?”

“I’ll tell her,” he said, the words cracked in his throat. The doctor thanked him and hung up.

He stared at the phone waiting for it to ring again with more news, a reassurance that this wasn’t as serious as it sounded.

You probably hadn’t changed your emergency contact because it slipped your mind.

He couldn’t stand the idea that something could be wrong, and he was not the one you called when you needed someone. All he’d ever done was mess things up between you.

“What’s going on?”

How the fuck was he going to tell you when you'd blocked him everywhere?

He couldn’t call, couldn’t text, couldn’t even show up unannounced without risking the usual argument that would end with you screaming at him to get out, or worse, you looking at him with that unforgiving stare.

He knew you’d locked every door, bolted every window to keep him out, and he deserved it.

“It’s nothing,” he said, the lie slipping out automatically. He could feel her studying him, waiting for another explanation he also didn’t have the patience to give.

Maybe Topper could help.

The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d given your cousin the mission of checking in on you, playing the careful messenger while Rafe kept his distance. That was supposed to be him.

But the reality was you hated him now, hated him enough that Topper was a safer option and yet, the private information still landed on his lap. As if he still had the right to be in your orbit, let alone the person trusted with this kind of news.

It felt wrong.

He knew you were going to hate him even more for still having access to your private details. It wasn’t really his fault—the hospital called him. He should have hung up the moment the hospital mentioned your name, told them they had the wrong guy. But he didn’t. He listened.

“If you need to go—” she started, trailing off when he didn’t answer. Her voice softened, tentative. “It’s about her, isn’t it?”

Rafe’s jaw ticked, and he looked away, out at the horizon where the sun was setting. “Yeah,” he muttered, not bothering to lie this time.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He typed something out, then deleted it, then typed again.

Finally, he just went with the simplest thing he could think of and hit send.

Can we meet up? Tannyhill in 30. I think I know what’s wrong.

He half-expected some lame excuse or joke from Topper. Instead, the text he got made the deep lines across his forehead make an appearance.

Shit, you do???

Did the fucker already know?

Did he suspect? Or was this just the kind of baited question someone asked when they thought they were the last to know something big?

He frowned, gripping the phone tighter.

If Topper did know, why hadn’t he said anything?

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#𐙚 arwa recs ¡

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youreverydayfangirl · 2 days ago

Text

THIS IS WHY WE CANT HAVE NICE THINGS

pairing: max verstappen x singer reader

summary: the one in the wake of reputation, people begin to forget and a new story is written

warning: ill come back to it (i didn't but theirs nothing just vague mentions of past mental health issues and online hate)

a/n: only one more part :(

face claim: sabrina carpenter

f1 masterlist

main masterilst

series masterlist

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The atmosphere of the set was buzzing with energy, y/n sitting in the directors set as she watched the chaos in front of her unfold. Her makeup artist was adding the final bits of eyeshadow to her smokey eye as y/n rewatched some old takes of a scene. Max watched, slightly awkwardly, from the side, a soft smile on his face, his reflection expressing awe.

From the corner of her eye Y/n could see him staring at her and turned to face him with a playful smirk, "How do I look?"

"Like your about to break the internet." Max said, a little smirk on his face though his eyes shone with pride.

She rolled her eyes, laughing. "You say that every time."

"Because it’s true every time," Max shot back, his grin widening.

As she went to get up Max kissed her shoulder quickly before letting her get to work. She laughed slightly at the simple display of affection before whispering in his ear, "You're my good luck charm, Verstappen." He watched as she ran off, intensely aware of the box that sat heavily in his pocket.

"Just don't forget me when you're topping the charts Schatje."

Before the cameras started rolling Y/n made eye contact with Max from the set, mouthing an I love you.

(this was set before they got engaged just an fyi)

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yourusername GETAWAY CAR MV IS OUT NOW <3

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Y/n felt very secure, hidden away in her trailer which was only illuminated by the soft glow of fairly lights strung along the edges of her mirror. She lay on the couch going through her storyboard, Max on top of her, weight heavy. His head rested on her chest as his hand absentmindedly played with the hem of her top, occasionally pressing kissing against her stomach.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your cameo, Mr. Superstar?” she teased, glancing down at him with a playful smirk.

Max grinned up at her, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous sparkle. “I am ready. My job is just to stand there and look good, right?”

“Pretty much,” Y/n quipped, running her fingers gently through his hair. “And don’t forget to smolder. That’s very important.”

Max chuckled, closing his eyes as he leaned into her touch. “I’ll smolder for you and only you, liefde.”

The door to the trailer creaked open, and y/ns assistant peeked in. “Y/n, five minutes to set.”

“Got it,” she replied, her fingers pausing briefly in Max’s hair. The PA disappeared, leaving them in their little bubble of quiet.

“You’re gonna kill it,” Max murmured, his voice soft but sure. He sat up, leaning forward to cup her face with both hands. “Every time I see you work, I fall for you all over again.”

Y/n’s cheeks flushed, and she let out a small laugh. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he replied, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. “Now go show everyone why you’re the star.”

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y/nsprivate someweirdo took over my trailer and started hogging everything

y/nsfuturehusband HEY THATS NOT NICE!!!

-> y/nsprivate KIDDING AND I LOVE AND THANK YOU AND I LOVE YOU

-> y/nsfuturehusband CALL ME RN PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

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The soft hum of the TV filled the quiet apartment, but Y/n wasn’t really watching. She sat curled up on the couch, knees drawn to her chest, her fingers absentmindedly tugging at the loose threads of her hoodie. Her eyes were fixed on nothing in particular as her mind raced with negative thoughts and memories she wished she could forget.

Max walked in from the kitchen, holding two mugs of tea. His smile faded the second he noticed her expression. Setting the mugs down on the coffee table, he knelt in front of her, his hands gently covering hers to still their nervous movements.

“Liefde,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern, “what’s going on?”

She shook her head, biting her lip as tears welled up in her eyes. “I don’t even know how to explain it,” she whispered.

Max’s heart ached at the sight of her like this. He slid onto the couch beside her, wrapping his arms around her tightly, as if he could shield her from the ghosts of her past. “You don’t have to explain it,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me be here for you.”

Y/n let out a shaky breath as she buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt. “I hate feeling like this,” she admitted, her voice muffled. “Like I’m broken or something.”

“You’re not broken,” Max said firmly, pulling back just enough to tilt her chin up so she’d look at him. His blue eyes were filled with unwavering determination. “You’re strong, Y/n. Stronger than you know. What you’ve been through doesn’t define you. You’ve come so far, and I’m so proud of you for that.”

A small sob escaped her, and Max wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “And when it feels too heavy,” he continued softly, “lean on me. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself. We’re a team, remember?”

She nodded, her grip on him tightening. “Thank you, Max. For always being here.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple, resting his cheek against her hair. “Always, liefde. You’re stuck with me.” He whispered softly, playing with the ring on her finger.

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yourusername MRS & MR VERSTAPPEN - 24/11/25.

maxverstappen1 couldn't be happier to call you my wife

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a/n

MERRY CHRISTMAS I HOPE YOU ALL GOT SPOILT

ALSO PRAYING FOR MY SWIFTIES IN MOURNING THIS IS FOR YOU

Hey everyone, I just wanted to pop on her and say thank you for all of the support you guys have given me since I first posted this fic. As a writer it is something that's very difficult and vulnerable to put your work out their and for this series to receive as much positive attention as it has gotten is nothing short of remarkable. Sorry for how long its taken for me to get this part out but i've just been struggling with the motivation to write it more or less cause I haven't wanted this series to end but it needs to one way or another. This part marks the official end of the series although I still will write and publish thank you aimee at some point as a bonus chapter since it doesn't really fit into the main post category. I will also at some point post the insta and other snippets that I came up with that just couldn't fit into the main story line of this series. Its sad that this is over but their will be many more things to come. As a bonus note part of the reason why I haven't been super active is i've been working on my book (wrote 10K+ words last week) which i'm super excited about. Also (again IK) the first part of my charles series should be up tomorrow so check that one out if you want :). I've kind of made the decision that this series and the charles series (with a short lando series in the future) exist in the same universe so i can keep max and y/ns story existing in that one aswell (purely because i can't let this series go). The first part of the charles series will be up tomorrow so check that one out if you want. I love you all so much and will miss this series so much :(.

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#f1 fluff #f1 series #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 #max verstappen #f1 masterlist #max verstappen fic #max verstappen angst #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fluff #reputation series #repuation

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godmadeaterribleerror · 23 hours ago

Text

Chapter 6 - Everything I Do

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), light fluff, mutual pining, light angst, love confession, smut (handjob, fingering, p in v sex), Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: The Mark reaches a breaking point. Usual Warnings, little angst, lotta smut.

Author's Note: I am of the firm belief Rowena would’ve said cunt religiously if the CW wasn’t full of a bunch of pussies.

Chapter title from Video Games by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 8.7k

Read on A03!

Chapter 5

Dean can breathe. Not easily, but he can. He can feel the weight of something airy and thin wrapped around him, stuck to his skin and far too heavy. There’s a hand on his brow, and it’s not the right one. Dean’s not sure what the right one would even be, but he knows it’s not this one. This one feels a little wrinkled, and the nails are too long, and it doesn’t satiate the betterlust. It’s just there, pressed to his skin like it’s looking for something and not all too pleased with what it finds.

The longer it’s there, the more the betterlust pounds and stabs and scrapes at him. Rots his guts and carves open his skull and rips through his chest. It’s searching for something that’s not there, and Dean’s head is too clouded with pain and ache and sickness to figure out where he should even be looking. Not in the hand. Not in the thing around him like a shroud–hot and clinging to him like a plague—but maybe somewhere close. Because wherever Dean is—he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have enough of a brain to guess right now—it’s unfamiliar, but feels right. He’s lying on something soft, and it smells good, and when his fingers flex, they’re tracing over an impression left on the area next to him. An indent left on the space by something that could curve and press into Dean exactly like he wants. Craves. Needs.

The betterlust starts to flare and bellow, almost drowning out the low voices around him, and Dean knows he might die if he doesn’t find what fits into that impression and take it.

“How long has he been like this?”

“I’m not sure, a few hours?”

“Well can you try to be sure, Samuel?”

“I got here the same time you did, how am I supposed to be sure-“

“Ask our resident Dean Expert, the poor girl has been stuck with him all week-“

“No, I’m not going to make her do more. And, uh,” there’s a long sigh, and Dean still isn’t really sure what’s going on, or who these people are, or why they’re talking about him. “I don’t think it’s safe for her right now. To be around him. He said he didn’t want her-“

“He obviously lied, you idiotic boy-“

“He didn’t want her to know, Rowena. And it’s not my place to tell her-“

“She’s a big girl, she’ll survive a little bit of emotions.”

“He’d, he’d fucking kill me-“

“And he will kill himself if he does not accept what he needs! It’s quite honestly a miracle he was a stubborn enough arse to resist the Mark’s demands this long.”

Dean’s really fucking confused. There are two voices, one that sounds a little like his and one that very much doesn’t, and they’re both talking about him like he’s important. He doesn’t feel important. He mostly just feels tired, and bad, and sick. Sweaty and hungry and desperate for something he can’t name, but they say he needs to name or he’ll die, and he doesn’t even really know what names are right now-

“If I tell her, this becomes her responsibility-“

“Well, Dearie, I wasn’t aware you were stupid and blind-“

“Hey-“

“You cannot look me in the eyes and say that she would not welcome the responsibility, boy. She is so pathetically obsessed with him it makes me feel ill.”

Dean felt his mouth try to frown—he can’t figure out how to move, so it more of a twisted grimace—as he racked his mush of a brain to figure out who they could possibly be referring to. He couldn’t remember names, but he could remember presences. Remember that the voice like his was good, and he was supposed to protect it. The voice that wasn’t like his was bad, and kind of a bitch, but helpful when they ran out of options. There wasn’t a third voice, but there was a smell that he really liked. Loved. Craved. Needed-

That was the imprint. And it wasn’t here right now, but the betterlust and already spiraling around it and constricting his lungs as he tried to find it. He needed it, and it didn’t need him, and he was going to die-

“I know,” the familiar voice sighed. “Believe me, I know, but I can’t ask that of her-“

“She’ll shred your sorry arse apart if you don’t-“

“And Dean will put a bullet through my brain if I do!”

“He will die before he gets the chance. Have I not made it clear that, unless Dean receives the help our lovely, pretty, lovesick-“

Then the voice that wasn’t like Dean’s said a name, and the betterlust exploded inside him. He knew that name. He’d die and kill and cut himself to pieces for that name. He wanted it. He couldn’t have it. He needed it, more than he needs air or water or food or music. The betterlust demanded it, and was shredding apart his insides because he refused to take it, but was also lending him the strength to find it. To find Her. Dean needed to fucking find Her, or nothing would ever be good again-

His eyes fly open, and for a long movement everything is only a blinding blur of color. There’s noise around him—both voices shouting words that sound like they’re for him but he can’t understand—and Dean’s brain kicks into a vigilant, borderline feral function as he hauls himself up, something pushes him back down, and the betterlust grew feral.

“Rowena, grab the other arm-“

“I am not meant for brute labor, Samuel-“

“Are you fucking kidding me-“

Dean roars Her name clawing and grabbing at the air to try and go, try to get to Her, because he was going to fucking die, and the betterlust told him She could fix this, make this better, make Dean better-

“Oh for- Fine.”

The voice not like Dean’s says something he can’t understand, his whole body tightens. Like a weight has been dropped on his chest, and ropes have been wrapped around his limbs, forcing him to collapse back onto the bed with a noise that might have been a whine.

“Dean.” Rowena appears in his vision, her face drawn in annoyance. “Blink twice if you understand me.”

Dean scowls, but blinked twice.

“Good. Are you going to try and kill us again?”

Dean glowers at Rowena, keeping his eyes wide open in a gesture of no, and she sighs.

“Good boy. I’ll let you up, but if you ever try and grab my hair again, I’ll make you regret having hands, aye?”

The tension vanishes from Dean’s body, and he sits up slowly, pinch the bridge of his nose to try and curb the pounding ache behind his eyes, taking deep, mechanical breathes to get some fucking control over his body. Over the betterlust. Over himself.

“Dean, are you feeling okay?“

Sam looks worried. He’s frowning and scanning over Dean with concern, like there will be wound on his skin they can patch up to fix this.

But only one thing can fix this. And Dean still isn’t strong enough to not know where She is, not when all he can remember is dragging himself to Her room, and hearing her voice, and seeing her pretty face before it all went dark.

Dean mutters Her name, his voice low and gruff, and Sam and Rowena freeze. “Where is she.”

“She’s eating.” Sam mutters, bracing his hands on his hips. “I told her to get some rest. You freaked her out, dude, she-“ Sam shakes his head, giving Dean a look he doesn’t understand, and doesn’t have the energy to try and decipher. “She was really shaken, when we got back. She needs-“

“She needs you.” Rowena interrupts Sam, and he shoots her a venomous glare. “You’re too much of a meat-headed dolt to see it, but that darling girl looked as if she’d been devastated over you.”

“Rowena.” Sam hisses. “We agreed-“

“You agreed. I made no promises-“

Dean raises his hands—they both need to shut up, or his skin will fly off his body—and their argument stutters off.

“How bad is it.” He looks to Rowena, the moment alone an act of labor. “And don’t try to lie or sugarcoat it. How long I got.”

Rowena sighs. “If you insist on keeping your head up your own arse, a day. Maybe two.”

“But we’re going to try to reverse it.” Sam jumps in, his voice desperate. “And Rowena gave you something to keep you going-“

“But, as I told your brother,” Rowena’s words are harsh, and Dean appreciates it. This really isn’t the fucking time for dancing around anything. “It is a very temporary solution, and the reversal will take time you no longer have. There is an obvious fix to your little problem-“

Dean lets out a dry chuckled. “My problem? Last I checked, Rowena, you were the one who fucked this up-“

“I did not fuck anything up, you petulant man child-“

“Rowena-“

“No!” Rowena cuts off Sam with sharp words, holding Dean’s glare. “I did my job, Dean Winchester, but you are too much of an arrogant, brooding little cunt to do yours.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Watch it, bitch-“

“I did not have to help you,” Rowena hisses. “But that poor, desperate, lovesick woman begged me to. You know exactly what you need, and you are too cruel and stupid to do it.”

Dean’s hands curl into fists on the sheets. “I said fucking watch it-“

“She’s right.” Sam mutters, and Dean’s gaze whips to him, his mouth falling open at Sam’s pitying, exhausted expression.

“I’m sorry, I must be going insane, because there’s no fucking way you just sided with Rowena-“

“I didn’t side with her.” Sam snaps, running a hand over his face as he shakes his head. “I’m just trying to get you to think for five seconds. I’m trying not to lose my brother because he can’t see what’s right in front of him-“

Dean scoffs. “There’s nothing in front of me, Sam. Rowena botched the spell, and now I can’t do anything but-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, a stab of pain twisting over his ribs, and Sam throws his hands in the air.

“For crying out loud, Dean, you’re dying because of this self-righteous, sacrificial bullshit you always pull! Rowena didn’t botch the spell, you’re just refusing to give the Mark what it wants, and until you do-“

“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Dean roars, slamming a hand down on the mattress. “Fuck, Sam, I’m not going to force myself onto her just because-“

“Because you think she’ll say no?” Sam rolls his eyes. “Dude, you can’t be stupid enough to really believe that-“

Dean scowls. They don’t fucking get it. Sam and Rowena don’t know Her like Dean does. They don’t understand that She would say yes, but she wouldn’t really want it, and Dean would stain and mark Her in a way that they’d never come back from. She’d never smile at him the same, and he’d have to die alone in the dirt when she finally got the memo that he wasn’t worth helping. When She left him, her soul more tainted than when she’d found him. When his poison sunk into Her skin, and she would still be so pretty and amazing, but ruined and marred from Dean’s touch. From how weak and pathetic and toxic he was.

He couldn’t do that. He’d rather fucking die.

“Just drop it, Sammy.” Dean mutters, his gaze falling to that imprint of Her on the bed. Her bed. Dean was finally in Her bed, and he didn’t even get to enjoy it. “It’s not happening. And you’re not going to convince me, so either fix this, or let me die without goddamn yelling at me.”

There’s a moment of wired silence, Rowena silent in the corner of the room as Sam and Dean glare at each other, and Sam shakes his head like he can’t believe Dean’s nerve. Like Dean isn’t saving the only good thing they both have. Protecting the only person that’s stayed with them, that they both love, even if Dean’s love is made of undying, animalistic, grime and dirt covered devotion, and Sam’s is purer, softer affection that could never cut and scar Her like Dean’s.

“She was crying.” Sam finally says, his tone colder than Dean’s heard it in a long time. “When we got back, she was sobbing, Dean. Have you ever seen her cry? Ever?”

He hasn’t. Dean has seen Her grit her teeth and bite back sounds of agony from injuries, seen Her scream and flail when they’ve lost people, and seen Her so angry it scared him a little, but he’s never seen Her cry. She didn’t cry. Her eyes got glossy, and her voice grew tight and choked, but she didn’t cry. Sam has to be lying, and he doesn’t look or sound like he is, but he has to be. She doesn’t cry, so why the hell would that be the truth? But why would Sam lie, and why has She stayed this long, and fuck, everything hurts and Dean’s too damn tired to figure out what the hell Sam is trying to tell him but the betterlust is scratching at his heart to know-

“Sam,” Dean swallows, watching his brother carefully. “I-“

There’s a knock at the door, and everything in Dean flies to the sound. It’s Her. Before Sam’s hand is even on the doorknob, Dean somehow knows it’s Her. Here. Maybe for him, maybe not, but the betterlust doesn’t seem to care because it’s Her-

She looks horrible. Still so fucking pretty, but horrible. There’s a slump to Her posture as she stands in the door—hair tangled and shirt wrinkled—and Her gorgeous face is slightly puffed. Her lips pouting. Her eyes lined with red.

Like She’s been crying.

Sam says Her name in question, and when She speaks her voice is hoarse.

“Look, I know you to told me to rest, but-“ Her mouth falls open as her eyes land on Dean, and Her sharp inhale feels like it shoots adrenaline right into his blood.

He tries to offer Her a winning, I’d be happy to see me too smile, but it doesn’t feel right on his face. It feels too vulnerable, where it’s always been like a shield. It feels like it’s a lie, or trick, or act of cruelty when Dean’s rarely met a woman who doesn’t flush and giggle under that attention. It’s supposed to make him feel good from their happy, hopeful eyes. It’s supposed to make them feel good from Dean’s well-crafted, carefully wielded charm.

But right now he still just feels like shit. Bottom of the gutter, horrible, flea-ridden and matted shit. A fucking piece of shit that might have made Her cry, and isn’t even smart enough to know why.

He tries again, making the smile wider, adding his most casual drawl. “Hey, Sweetheart-“

She makes a strangled sound—loud and pained, making the betterlust start to snap at Dean’s brittle spine—and all but runs to the bed, almost falling to Dean’s side as Her hands begin to grab at his face and run over his skin. Angling him for Her to examine with frantic eyes and words, igniting little paths of insatiable fire wherever She touches.

“Are you okay?!” She turns his head to the side, her fingers tracing his jaw and cheek like boils or scars might have just appeared. “Your fever is gone,” the back of Her hand presses to his brow, flipping to touch it with Her palm. “But shit, you’re covered in sweat-“ Her glare whips around to Sam, Her grip still tight on Dean’s face. He doesn’t really mind. The betterlust is still trying to climb out of his throat, but he can fight it—for Her—and this can be enough. It’s all he’ll get before he’s gone anyway. Her touch, and loud almost furious shout at Sam. “Why didn’t you change the sheets like I told you to-“

“He was dead weight,” Sam says Her name, his voice a hell of a lot kinder than when he’d been talking to Dean. “And you also told us to make sure he got some rest. Rowena said the fever broke, and he’s lucid again-“

“But this is gross Sam, and you could’ve moved him if you tried-“

“Moved him where? He started freaking whimpering when we took away your comforter-“

Dean scowls. “Can you guys stop talkin’ about me like I’m not right fucking here-“

Her gaze turns back to Dean, the odd, aggressively mind-numbing panic and care returning to her eyes as she begins to examine him once more.

“You seem better, but you’re redder than you should be, and, shit, was that scar always there-“

Her finger’s trial over Dean’s chin, dangerously close to his mouth, and he has to bite down a groan as he says Her name. “That’s been there at least a decade-“

“What about this one-“

“Three years, you were there when I got it-“

“Fuck, you’re right.” She shakes her head, Her eyes suddenly boaring into Dean’s and settling warmth in his gut. “Well, are you feeling okay? Does anything hurt, or feel sick, or feel numb-“

“Sweetheart.” He catches Her hand, and she falls silent with wide eyes. “I’m-“

“And,” She moves his gaze onto Her’s, and fuck She’s always so pretty. Even when She’s pissed at him. Especially when She’s pissed at him. “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, Winchester, I’ll stab you-“

He chuckles, and it’s dry and low, but maybe the realest sound he’s made since he woke up. “I don’t doubt that, Sweetheart.” He drawls, and she lets his guide Her hands away from his face. “But I promise, I’m feelin’ better.”

She nods slowly, and Dean pretends he can’t see Sam’s eye roll in the background.

“Oh. Okay.” She turns at Sam and Rowena, her voice slightly unsteady and weak. “Have you, um, have you both been in here? The whole time I was eating?”

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” She swallows, and Dean notices Her body go slightly rigid. Sam must notice too, because he tilts his head and frowns at her.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just…” She trails off, staring at her nails as her voice drop to a mumble. “There’s a lot of people in here. Makes me nervous.”

“Shit, sorry.” Sam says Her name, his voice apologetic. “Didn’t know that. We can go, if you want.”

There’s a long moment where She’s just staring at Sam, Her mouth slightly open, and her body curled in on itself like she’d been punched. Sam repeats Her name, his voice cautious, and when She snaps out of it, her voice is still soft and anxious.

“That would be good.” She whispers. “Thank you.”

Sam nods. “No problem. Me and Rowena,” he shoots the witch a glare, and she rolls her eyes. “Are gonna go try to fix this. Text me if you need anything, either of you.”

She hums an acknowledgment, Her attention never leaving Dean as Sam and Rowena close the door, and Dean’s whole existence begins to curve into only the feeling of Her as her fingers trace over the back of his hand.

After a long moment of silence—only the sound of Dean’s heart in his ears and the shifting of blankets under their bodies—she swallows, her voice barely a breath. “They can’t fix it, can they.”

He blinks at Her. “They’re gonna get it-“

“Don’t lie to me, Dean.” She gives him a soft smile that makes her look like she’s already grieving, and something in him lights up and withers away in the same second. “Please.”

He swallows. He is really tired of lying to Her. And he can say something closer to the truth and still hold his ground. He’s not quite that weak. Not yet.

“It’ll be close.” He grunts. “But I’ve survived worse. I just gotta pull through-“

“You don’t, though.” She whispers. “Rowena said you just have to-“

“Rowena can eat me.” Dean mutters, glaring at the door. “I’m not doin’ whatever the hell the Mark tells me to, that was the fucking point of this.”

“The point was to help you, Dean.” She sounds so freaking sad, and it’s pulling Dean apart. His will and mind all being reduced to Her. Too good and pretty to be sad. And it’s just Dean. She shouldn’t be this sad over only Dean.

“Sweetheart-“

“I don’t,” She swallows, speaking over Dean with quiet, soft words. “I don’t know why you’re being such an ass, Dean. Why can’t you just do what the betterlust wants? Isn’t it what you want-“

“It is.” Dean has to push the words through his teeth, because She so close and it’s not close enough and everything fucking hurts. “But I can’t have it, so we’re dead in the water. But Sammy and Rowena-“

“Dean.”

He can’t look Her in the eyes. Her voice is so gentle and nervous, and he’s not strong enough to look Her in the eyes and see all that worry and pity in them. He can barely even grunt an acknowledgment for her to continue.

“What do you want?”

“I’m not gonna-“

“Is it me?” She whispers, and Dean’s eyes shoot to Her’s. He can’t breathe. He can’t do anything but stare at Her and try not to die as he realizes this is it. This is how he loses Her. Forever. This is the last time he gets to look at Her and bask in her beauty and kindness, the last time he gets to drown in the smell of cherries and feel a little more alive under Her touch.

But She doesn’t look afraid, or disgusted. She just looks urgent. Desperate. As confused and hopelessly hopeful as Dean feels.

And he can’t speak, or think, or do anything but stare at Her as she speaks again.

“Dean, do you,” She takes a shaking breath, and Dean needs to touch Her. “Do you love me?”

——————

He’s not saying anything. Dean’s looking at you like you’ve shot him right through his heart, ripped it out, and taken a bite. Gaping like he’s trying to ask you for it back but can’t find the breath to, blinking like he’s trying to test if you’re really there. He reaches a hand up to run over his own face, reaches out to touch you—trace broad, calloused fingers over your cheekbones and jaw, over your chin like he’s wiping something you can’t see away—and jerks back suddenly, like you’d hurt him. Burned him. Branded him.

He’s branded you. You’re never going to forget his voice in your head, sounding like he’s overdosed on something awful, and doesn’t think he’ll come back down. Like he’s trying to cleanse himself of something by whispering words that will either haunt you past the grave or feed you for the rest of your life. Your heart will never forget the way it stopped for only a second before kicking into a pace that was all too fast when Dean’s eyes closed, and your hands will always remember the cold fever of his skin.

“Dean.” You have to make your voice strong. Steady, like you’re demanding something from him and not praying to him. “Please-“

“Why-“ His voice is hoarse, almost strangled, and it makes your every muscle feel a little weaker. “Why would you ask that.”

“I’m, I can’t tell you, just please answer me-“

“Did Sam tell you-“

“Sam?” You frown, shaking your head slightly. “No, I just, this has nothing to do with Sam-“

“Then why the hell are you-“

“What would Sam have told me?”

Dean falls silent, opening and closing his mouth as he goes red, his eyes looking almost feral. He looks like a cornered animal, something starved and needy, unsure if it should bite the hand reaching for it or grab it and never let go.

You want to hold him and never let go. You want him to grab your hand, and hold it, and never think to drop it again. You want to hear him say those words again, and have his voice be certain. You want to touch him, no matter if he’s like this or breaking or furious or—in those rare, priceless moments—happy. And you need to know. Dean’s never owed you anything, and he never will, but if there’s only one thing that he can offer you in universe, it would be really nice if it was this. If Dean ever gives you anything, please, dear God, let it be this.

“Dean,” you whisper, moving your hand to his knee and holding his almost fearful, rabid gaze. “Please answer me. Tell me what Sam-“

“He,” Dean swallows, voice gruff. “He wasn’t supposed to say anything. He fucking swore he’d never-“

“He didn’t.” You repeat, unsure if he’s even understanding the words out of your mouth. “All I’ve talked to Sam about is the spell. But why-“

“Rowena.” He mutters, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “Rowena must’ve open her bitch mouth-“

“I haven’t really talked to Rowena at all-“

“Must’ve been some fucking spell-“

“Dean!” You scream, your nails digging into his leg like you can hold him with you forever. “It was you! You told me you loved me! You had a fever and you told me you loved me, you said my name, and I just,” Your voice cracks, desperation starting to break through your blood, out of your mouth in spit. “I need to know, please, you need to tell me if you meant it-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Please.” You refuse to look him in the eyes. The moment you look in Dean’s deep, pretty eyes you’ll know what he’s thinking, and you’ll lose him forever. Everything in you is screaming to know, but you’re still not able to just look into Dean’s eyes. “Dean, please tell me.”

“Why.”

For a second you’re not sure if you heard him right. The question startles you enough to make you look up, and the moment you see him something snaps inside of you. He looks wounded. Nervous. Almost as afraid of you—of your words, and what they might be capable of doing to him if you use them wrong—as you are of him.

“Why would you need to know.” He rasps, staring at his own hands. Flexing in his lap, seemingly against his will. “You’re not- It’s not somethin’ you’re-“ He looks up to you, his eyes almost pleading. “Why would you give a shit about-“

“About you?”

Dean’s throat bobs, his nod short, and you summon more bravery than you’ve ever been capable of before. Enough to reach out, over the space between your bodies that so small—but still feels like miles—and place your hand on his cheek. Keeping his gaze on yours.

“I always care about you. I-” You take a shaking breath, the last words falling off your tongue. “I love you.”

Dean’s hand shoots up to cover yours. To hold you against him, with a grip that tells you he might be trying to sear his skin into yours.

“You-“ His voice is so soft. His hand over yours is like iron, but everything else about him seems to be dreamlike. Hazy and uncertain, both of you watching each other like you’re sure the other will vanish if you look away. “You love me?”

“Yeah,” you try to smile at him, and it’s not charismatic. It’s pleading and tragic and so fucking delicate. “I do. I mean, I have. For a while.”

“How-“

“Four years.“

He blinks at you. “No, I, I meant-“ He swallows, shaking his head. “I meant how. How did that happen.”

It’s your turn to frown at him. “How did that happen?”

“You shouldn’t love me.” He mutters, his hand over yours flexing. Like he’s trying to pull it away but doesn’t know how. “It’ll get you hurt.”

You raise your brows slightly, running your thumb over his cheek. “Are you going to hurt me?”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “That’s not what I-“

“Are you?”

“Of course not, I’d never-“

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why-“

“It does.” You whisper, folding your legs under you to rise on your knees, dropping your brow to his. Holding his gaze the whole time. “It matters to me, Dean.“

He makes a choked sound, but doesn’t move away. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” You whisper. “And it would be really cool if you loved me.”

Dean’s only staring at you, his eyes flicking between your own, slightly blurred gaze that can still see him so well, and your lips.

“And it happened,” you push on, your voice growing a little weak when he still doesn’t respond. “Because it’s really easy to love you, Dean Winchester. You’re a good man.” You offer him a smile, and his own mouth falls open just a little. “And even if you don’t love me, I wouldn’t have you any other-“

Something in Dean’s eyes flickers, and he moves before you’re sure what’s happening. Yanking you into his lap with his hand—fingers now tangled in yours—catching you with an arm around your waist, and kissing you.

Kissing you. Dean’s kissing you.

Your body sparks into action—even as your brain becomes fogged with a hazy, Dean-shaped lust—and you fist a hand into his shirt, pulling him as close as the world will allow. He’s holding you so carefully, leaning down in a slight dip, and there could be a storm raging around you instead of the soft, romantic rain this feels like it belongs to, but you wouldn’t know. Because this is a kiss people wage wars over.

It’s louder than music in your ears and electric in your blood, but sparks isn’t a strong enough word. It’s like lightning. Shooting through your spine and lighting up every nerve in your body to Dean. Soft lips molding perfectly into yours, warm and calloused hands skillfully mapping over your skin, a groan down your throat that you can feel settle in your lower gut and start a wildfire. You’ve been hungry and you’ve never dared to eat, but Dean is here now and you’ll either be starved for the rest of your life or never want for anything again.

When Dean tries to pull away, you just follow him. Chase after his lips with yours, trying to get just a little more before this all comes tumbling down. Before the thought can even dare to cross Dean’s mind—that he’s not good for you, and he should go—because this is all you’ve ever wanted and you’ll be damned if you don’t cling to it for as long as he’ll allow. You’ll fall all the way down, until your body is only supported by Dean below you, and you’ll forsake oxygen until your body demands it. Maybe a little while after, too.

And Dean doesn’t seem to care to let you go. Every time he tries to pull back it’s a jerked movement, and every time you collide again he grows more and more feral. His groans turn into deep, animalistic growls, and his touch on your skin becomes rough. Not painful, never painful, but urgent. Uncontrolled. Pulling at your skin like he’s trying to meld it into his, kissing you with bruising force, bucking up into you with his hard cock brushing your inner thighs.

You grind down onto him once—when he hits closer to where you’re beginning to ache for him, and your own need grows stronger than you’re desire to let Dean control this—and he bites you. Dean catches your lip between his teeth, sucks in into his mouth, and grins like he’s won a prize when you whine a plea of his name.

“Holy shit,” he mutters your name, pressing his brow to yours as you both catch your breath, grabbing your waist to stop the next roll of your hips. “I’m not- I can’t do this to you-“

“You’re not doing anything to me,” you whisper. “I love you. I want this.”

Dean catches your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles and staring at the movement, his voice so low you almost don’t hear it. “Say you’re lying.”

You blink at him, and shake your head. “No.”

His eyes flash, shooting back to yours as he grunts your name. “You need to say you’re lyin’ right now, or I’ll-“

“You’ll what?” You lower your face back down, until you’re sharing Dean’s every breath. “Fuck me? Actually say you want me?”

His throat bobs, voice rough with lust. “You, I can’t fucking control it, sweetheart, if you’re fuckin’ with me you need to take it back now-“

“Dean.” You grab his face between your hand, forcing his darkened gaze back to yours. “Answer my fucking question.”

He shakes his head weakly. “You don’t-“

“I love you.” You hiss. You need to make sure he feels it, in the slightly spit on his face, that still tastes a little like him because it’s pushed through lips that are swollen from Dean, and Dean alone. You glide a hand down his chest, the kiss apparently fueling something bold inside you that hadn’t been there before. Your fingers trace down, over his abdomen—hardened from work but still soft in all the best places—and Dean takes in a sharp breath, his hands on your hips tightening enough to leave a mark, and you lean back. Just enough to open space between your bodies, just enough for you to palm him through his sweatpants.

He’s huge, and twitching under your careful, light fingers, and God, you need him inside of you in any fucking way—between your hands or filling your mouth or buried deep into your cunt—but Dean’s still just staring at you. His chest heaving, eyes so dark and wanting you might cum just from his attention, and nostrils flaring as you move your hand up, resting right over the hem of his pants.

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, the rush of confidence barreling down as you wait for him to do anything. “And you need to tell me now that you don’t love me, or-“ you take a long breath, dragging up the last bit of your nerve. “You need to say you love me, and do something about it.”

Something shatters in Dean’s gaze for the last time, and whatever war he’s been waging with himself reaches a brutal end as he surges back up, kissing you with all spit and bloody need. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever dared to have on his tongue, and he might be trying to chew off a bit of you to keep.

He won’t need to. He has you. He’s had you for a while, and when he leans back to watch you with glazed, hungry eyes, his words seal some deep, fragile part of you to him forever.

“I love you,” Dean grunts your name, scanning over your face like he’s afraid the words will yank you from his hands. They won’t. “I need you. I gotta have you, but I’m- I’m not in control of it right now-“

“I can take it.” You push your hand into Dean’s sweats, taking his cock in your hand. He groans, eyelids fluttering, and when you run your thumb over the head of him—pressing into the weeping slit and squeezing just so lightly—he hisses your name like a prayer. “Please, Dean. I want it. Please.”

You pull down his pants with your free hand, taking his boxers with them, and start to slowly pump your hand up and down his impressive length. There will be bruising marks of Dean’s hands of your hips for a while, but you’ll survive. It’s worth it, to watch him unravel below you, to see Dean’s pretty eyes grow glazed with lust for you, feel his dick throb and hips jerk under your touch, hear his low growls and grunts as his jaw clenches and he doesn’t pull you away.

“God,” he moans your name, and you start to squirm above him, desperate for a bit of your own relief. “I wanna- Wanna taste you. Fuck you. Ruin you-“

“So do it,” you slip your other hand down—trusting Dean’s hold to keep you upright—and squeeze his balls. “You say you love me, Dean, but you haven’t proved it-“

The words do exactly what you’d wanted them to. Dean yanks your hand from around him, crashes his lips into yours with a fervor that might have been dangerous if it didn’t taste and sound and feel like Dean, and lets go.

His every movement is rough and uncontrolled, because his tether over every bit of will that had seemed to keep him restrained is gone, and in its wake is only the Mark. All its lust and fury and hunger, primal and focused on you. On taking what it wants.

And you’d give it to him, even if it left a few marks on your skin and bruising on your heart, but you realize that the Mark doesn’t seem to just want to use you. If it did, Dean wouldn’t be sucking on your neck and moaning at the taste of your skin, all while tracing big, warms hands around your body to palm your breasts. He wouldn’t allow you to grind onto him, or whimper his name, or scratch at his skin as he pulls you apart with barely anything at all. When he flips your over without any effort—only a low grunt and flex of his muscles—you feel like the most priceless bag of flour in the word. Perfect to be tossed around like that forever, but worth more to him—more the Mark—than just another body.

And you can’t see him anymore, but you don’t need to. You hear the sounds of him shuffling behind you, the muffled noise of his shirt being tossed onto the floor, and then his voice. Low and feral and saying your name in a way that makes your knees weak.

“Up.” He grunts, and you whine when he angles your hips up and pulls down your shorts, you already wet cunt being hit by the cold air. “So fuckin’ pretty, gonna ruin you, baby. You’re never gonna even think about a cock that’s not mine again-“

You nod a little stupidly, wiggling your ass back into him and moaning when his still-clothed erection presses right into you. “Fuck, Dean, please-“

He spanks your pussy—just once the stinging pleasure shooing up your spine—and you bury your face in the sheets to stifles your desperate moan.

“Need ya’ to listen.” He mutters. “You’re gonna have to talk to me, baby, lemme know what feels good, what you’re likin’, what you need more of-“

“You,” you gasp, and Dean chuckles, running a taunting finger between your folds. “God, I need you, Dean, need you so bad-“

“You need me?” He pushes the finger into your cunt, his body moving to covers yours as he whispers in your ear. “Need me to fuck this tight little pussy until you scream? Goddamn prove you how much I’ve wanted you, how much I’ve always wanted you-“

“Yes.” You nod frantically, grinding your ass up into him. “Show me, please show me-“

Dean moves your head to the side, capturing your lips in a long, slow kiss, and hums in satisfaction when he crooks that finger right up against that deep, sensitive spot inside of you, and your hands start to claw at the sheets.

Then he’s gone. Without warning Dean draws back, yanks his finger out without warning, spanks your pussy again—chuckling at the high, needy sound that escapes your lips—and presses one hand to your lower back to still your writhing as he shuffles behind you

“Tell me whatcha want, baby.” He mutters, moving his hand to rub up and down your thigh. “And I’ll get it for ‘ya. But you have,“ He slaps your pussy one last time for emphasis, and you can only moan. “To say what you-“

“Your cock.” You whisper, spreading your legs wider for his to see. To look at your wet pussy—need dripping down to your knee—and take whatever the Mark is asking of him. “Want your cock Dean. Want you to fuck me, no holding back, please-“

He slams into you without warning. Burying himself at the hilt in one brutal movement, groaning above you as you go limp under him, trying only to twist and touch him, only to push back and somehow get him deeper. You feel so full, so fucking high on the stretch of Dean inside you, but it’s not enough-

“God, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good.” Dean starts to massage your ass, with one hand, the other holding you up in the air for him to use. “Better than I dreamed, feel like heaven, gonna fuck you so good like you deserve-“

“Dean, fuck-” you clench around him, the praise feeding right into your cockdrunk daze of Dean, and he groans.

“Don’t do that,” he grunts your name, and it sounds like an order. “I ain’t gonna last if you-“ He moans as you squeeze around his massive cock again, and pulls all the way out before slamming back into you with a growl.

Your mouth falls open, a sound like a mewl escaping your mouth, and Dean starts to fuck you. Really, properly fuck you into the mattress, with low groans and an unforgiving pace, bumping your cervix and snaking a hand around your stomach to pull you up to his chest, rubbing your clit until you’re wrecked and seeing stars, thrusting up into you like a jackhammer and keeping you so blissfully pleasured and warm.

“So fuckin’ good,” he growls your name in your ear, and you squeak. “Takin’ this cock so fuckin’ well, all warm and tight, made for me. You were fuckin’ made for me-“

Dean’s thumb and fore finger roll your clit in a tight circle, and you cum with a scream. Light and color lining your vision, the far-off sound of Dean’s filthy praise making your orgasm ride out and out and out until you’re sure you’ve reached something like heaven. Your vision is still blurred when the satisfaction has washed fully through you, and you realize Dean’s stopped moving.

His hand tangles in your hair, angling your face back for him to see, and fuck he’s so handsome. Breathing heavy in your ear, lips puffed from sucking and kiss your skin, eyes glazed but still focused on you.

You must look like an idiot. Your expression is slack and needy, your eyes glazed a lips parted, but Dean looks at you like you’re a diamond and his cock twitches inside you as your eyes meet.

“Shit, baby,” he mutters. “You gotta say somethin’-“

“That-“ You let out another moan, your pussy still fluttering around him. “Good.”

He chuckles, kiss the very corner of your mouth with a smirk. “You got full words, Sweetheart?”

You swallow, the full feeling of Dean—throbbing inside you, still rock hard, pushing against that heavenly spot but with just too little pressure to send you over once more—crashing into you, and you say the only thing you can think of.

“Keep going?”

He stares at you for a second, then shakes his head. “No, I- I’ll be fine, I can take care of myself-“

“Want you to use me.” You’re practically whining, and you’d be more embarrassed if the words didn’t make Dean jerk up into you. “Please-“

He groans your name, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. “I’m not- you’re-“

“I said don’t hold back.” You whisper, rolling your hips against him and feeling pride glow in your chest at his moan. “Fuck me, Dean. I’m yours.”

And there it is again. You say the exact right thing, the thing you knew would work, and Dean gives in. He shoves you down, flips you onto your back—pulling out for only a second as he adjusts you under him—and starts to fuck you like an animal. Rutting into you at a near inhuman speed, hitting your cervix with every thrust, every word a low growl that coils release tighter and tighter in your lower gut.

“So fuckin’ greedy,” he grunts, slamming a little rougher. “Wantin’ more, begging me to fuck you, so fucking pretty comin’ apart on my cock, tell me how good it feels, baby-“

“Good,” you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders as the bed creaks around you, your whole body overwhelmed with pleasure. “Feel so full, Dean, feels so good, you’re so fucking big-“

He groans, and you start to babble. You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, because every word feels like it’s spilling from your mouth. But every inch of your brain trapped in Dean’s skin slapping against yours, his muscles flexing around you, the low and primal sounds rumbling out of his chest as his movements grow sloppy and his cock starts to throb inside of you, and you couldn’t think about anything else if you tried.

“You feel so good, Dean, please don’t stop, want you to cum, I-“ You gasp as he starts to kill up your neck, your hands shooting into his hair. “Fuck, Dean, please, so good, God, I love you-“

His mouth slams into yours, and your orgasm rushes through you like a tidal wave. Longer and powerful, leaving you so fucked out you can only whine under Dean’s body, toes curling and eyes rolling back in your head as your pussy flutters around him.

Dean pulls out, keeping one hand gently on your knee as he pumps himself with an almost blurring fist, and cums over your abdomen and thighs. It’s hot and sticky, and part of you wishes you’d had enough of a brain to ask him to let you taste it, but you’re so completely spent that when Dean collapses over you—a heavy, comfortable weight you’re more than happy to be trapped beneath—your brain wipes every other thought but Dean away, and you decide to just stay here. Where Dean’s face in buried in your neck, and your sore from all of it but there will never be a better pain to experience.

“I-“ Dean breaks the silence, words muffled in your skin. “I feel better.”

“Oh.” You huff a soft laugh. “Good.”

“What, uh, what should we tell Sammy?”

You tug on his hair, just enough to move his gaze back to yours. “That we had sex?”

“No,” Dean groans your name, a smile pulling at his lips. “About the Mark. But we should tell him that-“

You make a mock, dramatic gasp. “Dean Winchester, are you going to brag about sex to your brother-“

“It’s sex with you, Sweetheart.” He winks, rolling you both over and caging you comfortably against his chest. “And Sammy’ll be thrilled to hear it, he’s been on my ass for years-“

“Years?” You squeak. “How many years?”

He shrugs. “I dunno, all of them?”

“All of them?! What do you mean all of them-“

“I mean since I met you.” Dean starts to rub soothing circles on your back, his mouth curling in smug amusement. “Deep breathes, baby, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You flush, still not really use to the baby thing. Or Dean’s hands on your skin, every touch lingering like an imprint that will never even try to fade. “Shut up-“

He shakes his head. “Nah. You love it.” A boyish, wide smile splits over his face. “You love me.”

You might die. You might explode into a million, tiny pieces of confetti and shimmering glass, because Dean looks so happy. There are no ghosts in his beautiful eyes, no loathing or dread stained over his perfect face. He’s happy, here, with you, and you’re not cruel enough to stop yourself from crawling up his chest and pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.

“I do love you,” you mumble against him, straddling his torso as you push yourself up flat palms. “But I’m still gonna tell you to shut up.”

He chuckles, the sound rolling and humming right into your blood. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dean reaches up to tuck a little hair behind your ears, and freezes, his eyes trained on his forearm. On the Mark.

“We, uh,” he clears his throat, watching you carefully. “We do need to figure out what we’re gonna do about this.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “We do. But I, I think-“

You cut yourself off, taking his hand in yours and running light fingers over the Mark in thought. Dean stares up at you with a slight awe in his gaze that makes you feel almost important, and your words fall to a soft breath.

“If you want.” You whisper. “We can turn it back-“

“No.” He shakes his head, sounding almost panicked. “I’m not goin’ back to that shit, not now-“

“Dean.” Your fingers still on his arm. “Was it me? That the Mark wanted?”

He swallows, but nods, and you sigh.

“We’re going to have separate sometimes. And we can figure out the bloodlust-“

“We should have to figure it out though, you don’t gotta put up with that-“

“I know.” You smile at him, and it’s not hard. Smiling at Dean is never hard. “But I will.”

“Do you-“ He stares at you, tangling his fingers in yours. “Do you not want me to keep the betterlust? You can tell me, I don’t want you to feel like you have to, for me-“

“God, no.” You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “I’m just, I’m worried about what might happen when the betterlust decides I’m not enough. Or when this, um, when you-“

Dean says your name, slow and firm, and you swallow. “This is it for me. It’s you, and the Mark knows that. You’re gonna be more than enough, hell, you’re more than I deserve-“

“That’s not true.” You mumble. “You deserve the world.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand. “It’s adorable that you really believe that, baby, but-“

You scowl at him. “It’s the truth, Dean. You’re a good man, I meant what I said-“

“I know you did.” His charming, cowboy grins falters slightly. Not falling, but twisting into one you’ve never seen before. Still roguish, still well designed and stealing your breath, but with a slight crack that allows you to see deeper. To see the lonely part of him, that really thinks you don’t belong here with him. That’s trying to drag you into him, because he’s certain you’ll start running if he doesn’t. “But this,” he nods to the Mark. “Is still gonna be a problem. I’m still gonna be a problem-“

“You’re not a problem-“

He says your name, the word careful and tender and holy from his lips. It’s the best way you’ve ever heard it. The only way you want to hear it again. “Do you want me to keep the betterlust.”

You purse your lips, and nod.

“Words, baby-“

“Yes.” You whisper. “But I need you to promise me that if it stops working-“

“It won’t.” He shrugs, his voice flat, as if he’s speaking in fact. “And we’re gonna keep looking for a way to get this son of a bitch off. But we’re doin’ it together.” He pauses, scanning over your open features. “If that’s what you-“

You lean down, silencing him with a long, easy kiss. It’s not desperate anymore, but careful. Like you’re making art, or starting to spin a web that could unravel with a single tug, but neither of you will let it. You’ll never let this—whatever this becomes—fall apart. You’ll put your whole life into keeping Dean, fighting for him and helping him and reminding him that he’s not really a burden. Letting him remind you that he really does want you, and he’s never going to allow you to doubt that again.

“Together.” You speak against his lips, letting your content breath fall into his mouth. “I’d like to stay together.”

He nods, mouth curving into a grin. “Alright then. Together.”

End Note: Thank you so so much for reading!!! I've had a lot of fun with this one, and I'm so happy y'all have as well! I hope to see some of you soon for the next one, and if not, thank you. no matter what!!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @brtodd @panicking-outside-the-disco @megara0224

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @spacecowgirl126 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @lovewolfspirit

@lordofthunderthr @nightxcreature @underground-secrets @amberlthomas @kamisobsessed

@tcedenslash

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amozon28 · 21 hours ago

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#YES YES YES#like i already LOVED this part the fact he used it and was angry enough to do so while knowing exactly what it feels like was already so#good. reading a discussion about it by one of the writers makes it even better#one thing i love about callum as a hero is that the 'if i kill them/do this to them then ill be the same as them!' doesnt apply to him#if its warranted in the moment and done to protect those he loves most/himself. then hell fuckin do it. even when it comes to dark magic#hell do everything he can to avoid it but still will if needed#and also sometimes he does stuff cuz hes just so pissed off and done. good for him. i love heros who have a genuinely good amazing heart#and morally good and love to be goofy but also arent afraid to get dirty and mean if its needed in a fight#or if theyre insanely defensive of those they hold most near and dear. which is 100% callum#i know i may be saying stuff wrong about him. im not a creator for the show. but i have been watching it since 2019 and the only fictional#character in any media who i adore more than him at this point is rayla. so.#also its late. and adhd brain go brrrr. so. excuse the rambling#((also i have to say idk if yall do it intentionally but i SWEAR that lad has adhd he has SO MANY symptoms. its like looking in a damn#mirrors sometimes cuz like 'haha i do that.' had an itch in the back of my brain as to why something stuck out about him for years that#felt like 🤝 then i realized in the last like year or 2 that he has a lot of adhd s/s. especially in arc2. and like recognizes like and all#that. i dont care if its confirmed its just stuck out to me for a while and multiple others in the fandom with it agree. so. idk. dont mind#me im just rambling))#anyway cool scene i LOVED this moment. especially how when claudia tried to electrocute him and he deflected it then looked at her for a#second like 'oh REALLY?' and then immediately did this spell. knowing full well the agony is causes. and hearing the screams of agony from#rayla too. the love of his life. with that driving him up the wall to become feral#yeah. was shocked by this but it also slaps so severely. thank you for your service

Honestly one of the coolest moments in the season was the Claudia vs Callum mage fight. It was quick and instense and showed how far Callum has come, how he matched Claudia spell for spell, and that he wasnt afraid to be ruthless, using the same freezing water/blood spell used to torture him and rayla back in s5

#wolfwarrior142 ur tags are amazing #callum #tdp commentary #mine

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lxdreyar · 3 days ago

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Hi guys! I did it in the fall, for Halloween, but I've only translated it now! I hope you enjoy this zombie virus universe comic! Sorry for the bad English, I used a translator.

Laxus Dreyar. He is nicknamed "Thunder" because of his loud voice and unexpected appearances out of nowhere. Ivan Dreyar, Laxus' father, decided to do research on this very virus. But not in order to create an antidote, but in order to find out how the virus can be manipulated for its own purposes, subjugating (already former) people. Young Laxus, not fully understanding what is happening and why his Grandfather banished his father from the town, follows him to find out everything and help his father, believing that he was driven away unfairly (he does not know the reason and cannot believe that his father could do something so terrible). Ivan was not so friendly towards his son, believing that he would interfere with him in every possible way, as he saw in him exactly the same thoughts and views on life as Makarov. While they were walking to Ivan's temporary base (which he created while still under Makarov's command), he finally decides that his son will be an obstacle to him, after a couple of phrases that Laxus said "casually." Therefore, in the same way, "casually", as if by chance (so that his conscience would not torment him) pushes him down from the roof of one of the garages along which they were walking. The guy lands extremely unsuccessfully, from that moment Laxus has no right eye. Ivan watches as his son slowly dies and his conscience begins to really torment him. He begins to grieve even more when he sees one of the infected fall to his knees in front of his son and bite his hand. Ivan goes downstairs, realizing the mistake he made. He kills the infected and decides to stay with Laxus until he dies. He heals his eye as best he can, spending some reserves of alcohol and bandages on it, and can only wait for when he will have to kill his own son a second time. But what a surprise for him when Laxus wakes up fully conscious after a while, he feels bad because of the loss of his eye and he is disoriented, but he is alive, can talk and, in principle, no symptoms appear on him. Ivan dramatically redoes the story of Laxus' fall, saying that it really was an accident and pulls him towards that very "base" - the "Raven's Tail" There he tries in every possible way to explore Laxus and the only thing he understands is that His bitten hand has become darker, almost completely black, the veins have swollen and become brighter and obvious purple color.

But it didn't go above the forearm. It was in this area that the weakness and problems in using the right (previously leading) appeared. hands, because of what he will have to retrain and become left-handed. At this base, Laxus eventually meets a newly arrived guy, Freed Justin. Despite his abominable socialization, he manages to make friends with the guy (although, rather on the contrary, Freed manages to make friends with him) and from that moment on they spend all their time together. After a while, Laxus finds out that Freed has some other deadly disease and he has very little left. It breaks his heart and he angrily shuts himself off from everyone (including Freed) A couple of days later, Ivan calls Freed for one of the studies, telling him that it could help with his illness. This study becomes lethal for the green-haired man.

Laxus was an observer of this study, greatly worried about his friend, so when everything went wrong and Fried began to literally change before his eyes, losing his mind and screaming in pain, he began to panic greatly. When Laxus saw that Freed's pulse had stopped, his heart broke for the second time. Realizing that he was left without the person who had become his first and true friend, he slowly began to lose his mind. He saw hallucinations in the form of Freed, dreams, sleep paralysis, and so on and so forth. He could hear his voice and it seemed so real..

#freed justine #laxus dreyar #fairy tail #fraxus

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monogamia · 3 days ago

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im so embarassed of sending asks but I LOVED YOUR LAST POST. Idk what to say, but could you do character analysis? If you only write as x reader it could be relationship hc or analisys of how they act w reader JUST DO YOUR MAGIC 💗💗💗💗

੭⠀ A deeper look into the relationship.

⋆⠀AUTHOR’S NOTES: I’m not sure if this is exactly what you wanted or which character you had in mind, but here it is! If it’s not quite what you had in mind, feel free to send another ask. By the way, to the people who sent requests,thank you! I’ll be posting soon, I just need a little time to write 🫶🏻

⋆⠀FEATURING: Frederick Kreiburg 'Composer'.

⋆⠀WARNING: This post contain spoilers of Ashes of Memory and Frederick’s backstory.

The room was silent. Frederick stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of moonlight. He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “I never planned on letting anyone get this close.” His fingers tapped idly against the windowsill, a subtle betrayal of his nerves. “But now… I can’t imagine leaving without you.” He finally turned, his eyes meeting yours. “Tell me you’ll come with me. That this—whatever this is—wasn’t a mistake.”

⋆⠀Frederick grew up carrying more burdens than he could handle. His father’s rejection, combined with his disorder, instilled in him a constant need to distance himself from others to feel “safe.” The disappointment of realizing he didn’t inherit the natural talent that ran in his family’s veins didn’t help either, and his paranoia only worsened over time.

⋆⠀His perception of the people around him is always the same—neutral, if he even cares enough about them to give them any space in his mind. So, when you were introduced, Frederick was polite and brief, treating you just like anyone else who had entered the manor.

⋆⠀His thoughts about you only began to change after you confronted Orpheus for overstepping into matters that were none of his business. At first, Frederick assumed you were just a people pleaser trying to lower his guard. However, later that same day, he overheard you chatting with Alice and Melly once again, telling them about how you were against being so impolite and disrespectful.

⋆⠀The closeness between you two didn’t happen overnight, but small gestures and actions here and there gradually allowed you both to feel at ease in each other’s presence. He listened to you, engaged in normal conversations, and stopped giving short replies just to end the discussion. He even waited for you to arrive at the table before starting to eat. For others, it was surprising to see Frederick interacting without being defensive, though they simply assumed it was a budding friendship.

⋆⠀In the beginning, that’s all it was. Frederick wasn’t exactly thrilled about having someone he could call a friend, but he wasn’t upset about it either. When he realized his feelings were changing, though, he tried to deny them to himself. Yet, seeing how futile that was, he was left with only one option: acceptance.

⋆⠀Being in a relationship with him can be complicated. Even if he trusts you, he’s unlikely to let you know much about his past—unless it directly affects your relationship. The thought of you abandoning him is something he cannot bear, and he is willing to do anything to prevent that, from killing to opening up about some past traumas.

⋆⠀Frederick’s paranoia is no secret. He feels not only jealousy but also a deep-seated anger toward anyone who dares to take your attention away from him. He firmly believes that people have ill intentions when they approach you and wants you to believe that as well. And if you dismiss it? Oh, God, either he’ll manipulate you with tears, or he’ll accuse you of betraying him.

⋆⠀If you ever get upset with him, he’ll send romantic letters, dedicate songs to you, and do things straight out of a romance novel. Part of these actions can be a sincere apology; the rest, although, can also be just an attempt to make you forget whatever mistake he made.

⋆⠀Above all, once you agree to be his partner, Frederick will include you in his plans for life after leaving the manor. Even if he doesn’t fully explain what those plans entail, one thing is certain—leaving you behind is not an option for him.

#identity five #idv x reader #idv x you #identity v x reader #idv fanfic #idv imagines #idv headcanons #idv composer #Frederick Kreiburg x you

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makeitmingi · 3 hours ago

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In Sickness And In Health

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comfort

Pairing: Seonghwa x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Doctor!Reader, Boyfriend!Seonghwa

Summary: Seonghwa has always been known to be the mother of the group, the one that takes care of everyone. But what happens when he falls ill? Luckily, his girlfriend is a doctor and will nurse him back to the health, just like he would for everyone else.

Word count: 4.7K

Story warning(s): Mentions of needle used for medical purposes, medications, being sick.

"Seonghwa?" You called out softly when you entered your shared house, closing the door behind you, but was replied with silence. You dropped your duffel bag onto the counter to take out the IV drip kit, fluid bag and medication.

Earlier at work...

"Hey, Hongjoong. Sorry I missed your call. What's up?" You called your boyfriend's best friend once the patient queue was freed up and you had a small break.

"Sorry to bother you, (y/n). I know you're working... Hwa's probably gonna kill me for telling you this but he's sick."

"Hwa's sick...? What do you mean?" Your eyes widened.

"Yeah, he knows you're on night shift and you know him, he never likes to have people take care of him... But he sounded quite bad over the phone and he didn't even let us to over to check on him..."

"Mhmm, I know exactly what you're talking about. Thanks for letting me know, Hongjoong. I'll go take care of him." You said.

"Let me know if you need anything."

"Thanks, I'll update you." You hummed and hung up with the captain before returning back to work.

So that's why, before you left work, you grabbed an IV drip set and all the necessary medications from the pharmacy that you may need to nurse Seonghwa back to health. Being a doctor has it's perks in that sense. And you were so worried about Seonghwa's condition that you ended up leaving your shift early.

"Seonghwa?" You poked your head into your shared room and was surprised the find the bed empty. You frowned, where did your sick boyfriend disappear to?

"Did he go out...?" You walked to your office and it was empty too. Then you checked the guest room.

"Oh, there you are." You sighed in relief.

On the bed of the guest room, there was a shivering lump under the blankets. You approached quietly and pulled back the covers, not wanting to surprise him too much.

"Seonghwa..." Your heart broke seeing Seonghwa so sick. He was shivering so much, lips quivering and cold sweat on his forehead.

"(y/n)?!" Seonghwa opened his eyes and was shocked to see you standing there.

"W-What are you doing home early? Did something happen?" He blinked, as if he was worried you were a hallucination caused by his fever. You could tell he was worrying about you.

"Hwa, stop worrying about me right now. I came home because I heard you were sick!" You frowned. Seonghwa cursed Hongjoong's name under his breath, knowing that only his best friend would rat him out to you like that.

"Come, let's get you back to bed. Why are you sleeping in the guest room?" You asked, pulling the blanket away to help him.

"Because I didn't want to spread my germs on our shared bed and I've been cold sweating. I'm so gross. You can't afford to get sick, love." Seonghwa quivered.

"Ah, Seonghwa... You know I don't care about that. We're getting you back to our bed. Come on." You helped him up.

"You should wear a mask." He tried to cough away from you.

"Park Seonghwa. Let me take care of you, okay? Stop worrying, please." You begged. He looked so sick and he was still fretting over you, it caused an ache in your chest.

"Okay, okay." He noticed your desperate tone and slipped under the covers of your shared bed, letting you tuck him in.

"Here." You put the thermometer in his mouth then went out to get the IV supplies from the counter.

"Luckily Nurse Jung let me borrow one of the portable IV stands to take home." You chuckled as you wheeled the IV stand in and fixed the height beside Seonghwa. Then you removed the thermometer from his mouth and checked. Seonghwa's fever was so high if you didn't have the IV, you would have taken him to the hospital.

"Oh, Hwa." You softened, feeling guilt bubble in your chest. But for now, you pushed it down. Seonghwa needed your focus and attention right now.

"Let me wash my hands first." You went to wash your hands and prepared the IV port to put into Seonghwa's arm.

"It's alright, baby. Slowly." Seonghwa said when he noticed your hands shaking slightly as you wiped his skin with an alcohol swab.

"Take a deep breath." You instructed and inserted the needle with precision. Seonghwa's face scrunched at the pinch, which made you feel worse.

"Sorry. It's over." You pouted.

"It's okay, love. Not your fault." He gave you a small smile. You grabbed a syringe to add the ampoule medications into the IV bag.

"Alright, there we go. It'll help with symptoms and your fever should subside quickly." You told him as you adjusted the dial flow once the drip was hooked up to the bag.

"Can you hand me another pillow?" He requested. You nodded and placed a bolster under his IV arm so it'll be comfortable.

"I'll be right back." You went to get rid of all the trash in the area and wash your hands. While you were outside, you prepared a cloth and a bucket of cool water so you could wipe him down. And you put some juice into a tumbler for him.

"I missed you." Seonghwa smiled as he watched you put the tumbler of juice and bucket on his nightstand. You started with wiping his face, feeling how warm his face was.

"Your hands are cold." He chuckled, placing his free hand over yours on his cheek.

"They're not. You're just warm." You smiled softly as you gently wiped his neck too. Then you rinsed the cloth and wiped his arms.

"Hwa, careful." You hissed when he lifted his IV arm, trying to make it easier for you to wipe his entire arm. He pouted at you and placed his arm back down.

"I need to wipe your legs too." You told him.

"But it'll be cold." He whined, quickly gripping the blanket since he knew you were going to yank it away.

"Just for a bit, Hwa. Come on, be good~" You cooed at him, which made him frown. He liked to coo at you like you were a baby and of course, you will take the opportunity to do the same to him now.

"Fine." He sulked and let you pull the blanket away. His first instinct was to him to curl his legs up. You raised his pajama pant to wipe his leg, rinsing the cloth before moving onto the next. But when you were done, you didn't let Seonghwa cover himself entirely, only covering his legs from his hips.

"But I'm cold, baby." He said, shivering.

"I know, Hwa. I'm sorry but if you bundle up like this, you'll warm your body up too much. The air conditioning will help with the fever." You kissed his forehead.

"I'm going to shower. You try to get some sleep first." You told him. He nodded, eyes already half closed.

'Hey, Hongjoong. Thank god you text me, his condition was terrible... But I put him on a drip, he should be fine. - (y/n)'

'That's good to hear. Hwa's lucky to have a doctor girlfriend or else I would have to drag his butt to the hospital and that'll be a whole nother thing. - Hongjoong'

'He's a horrible patient. But I'll keep you updated. - (y/n)'

With that, you went to take a quick shower to wash off the smell of antiseptic and germs from the hospital.

"Soup... Soup... Soup..." Since Seonghwa fell asleep, you decided to start a soup going, digging through the fridge for ingredients.

While the soup was boiling on the stove, you quietly moved the air purifier from the living room, into the bedroom. You also refilled his waterbottle with cold water. Then you went to change the sheets in the guest bedroom.

"Myers' cocktail with Peramivir administered at 3:08pm. Temperature taken 39.2 degrees." You wrote down the information on your phone, just in case.

"That's done." You turned the stove off for the soup and went to check on Seonghwa.

To avoid waking him up, you used your forehead thermometer instead of the one that needs to be in the mouth.

"38.3..." You whispered. Covering your mouth to yawn, you went to retrieve the bucket and filled it up with fresh water, along with the cloth from before.

Were you tired? Of course, you worked the graveyard shift at the hospital last night. But your priority now was Seonghwa.

"Mmm..." Seonghwa let out a soft whine in his sleep.

"Sorry, Hwa. I'll be quick." You whispered, rinsing and wringing the towel before gently wiping his face and neck. Then doing the same to wipe his arms.

"Baby?" He croaked out, slowly opening his eyes to see you standing over him to wipe down his arm.

"I'm sorry to disturb your sleep, I just wanted to try and bring your fever down faster. I've made soup for you when you feel like it. You can go back to sleep after this." You whispered with a soft smile. He nodded his head, a small smile coming onto his face as he watched you take care of him.

Seonghwa always liked taking care of people, whether it's his family, his members and of course, he LOVED taking care of his precious girlfriend. He always put others' needs before his own.

Until now, he is still the best person that takes care of Hongjoong when he's busy being the captain of the team.

"Actually, I'm a little hungry." Seonghwa admitted.

"Oh, okay! It's good that you have an appetite. I'll finish here and get you some food." You threw the cloth into the bucket and brought it out. Then you got some soup for him.

"Here." You placed the tray on the foldable table on the bed. Then you helped him sit up.

"No rice?" He gave you a sad face.

"You know you can't eat rice when you have a fever, Hwa. When your fever subsides, I'll make you rice porridge." You told him, going to open the window to let some fresh air come in.

"Sit with me, baby." He said. You hummed, pulling a chair to sit at his bed side to watch him eat.

Seeing Seonghwa eat so slowly, you figured his throat must be hurting him. It hurt to see your boyfriend like this. You were out the whole night, taking care of others when you couldn't even care for your loved on who was suffering alone at home.

"This is delicious, baby. Tha- Why are you crying?!" Seonghwa panicked when he turned his head to see tears streaming down your face. You didn't even realise that you were crying.

"I'm sorry." You looked down, shaking your head as you wiped your tears with the sleeve of your hoodie.

"My precious baby. There's nothing for you to be sorry for." He reached out to hold your hand since he couldn't reach your face.

"B-Because... What kind of doctor am I? I treat people for a living and I didn't even know you were sick! Hongjoong had to tell me and I find you in that condition. You always take care of me and I can't even-"

"Okay, okay. Breathe, my love. Breathe." Seonghwa calmed you down, moving his tray away to make some space for you.

"Come here, love." He patted his lap and you moved to sit with him, being extra careful of his drip.

"Ouh, my precious baby. My love." You hugged each other for the first time that day, Seonghwa coddling you and cooing at you like you were his baby.

"No, stop! I'm supposed to be taking care of you! Not you comforting me." You wailed, wiping your tears. Seonghwa kissed your temple, rubbing your back. Honestly, this was what Seonghwa wanted to feel better too. He missed you and just wanted to have you as close to him as possible.

"I've been waiting to hold you since you came back but I didn't want to get you sick. And I'm so gross and sweaty." Seonghwa chuckled.

"You won't... Even if you did, I don't care." You mumbled.

"No, you need to rest." It took everything in you to separate yourself from Seonghwa's embrace and placed the tray in front of him so he could continue eating.

"You take very good care of me. You're a great doctor and a great girlfriend, your patients are lucky to have you. I'm lucky to have you."

"You always take such good care of me and I couldn't even do the same." You slumped.

"Don't say that. We take good care of each other. You've just finished a night shift and yet, you've been running around to take care of me." He held your hand in his, rubbing the back with his thumb.

"Eat while I get you your medication, okay?" You stood up and went out of the room.

"Your drip is done so you can take these." You handed him a small dish with the medication on it. Before he ate the medication, you disconnected the drip from the needle port in his arm. Then you carefully removed the needle, placing a band aid over.

"Thanks, baby." Seonghwa smiled and ate the medication, chasing it with gulps of water. You gave a small smile in return and cleared up the area before washing your hands.

"Luckily I didn't throw away your sharps bin." He called out to you as you were throwing the used needle away.

"It's not even half full, I just keep it around for cases like this." You replied.

"Baby, I'm being a good patient and resting. You should also be a good baby and rest. Come on, I know you haven't taken a break since you came back and you worked graveyard." Seonghwa said.

"I will... Later..." You replied, taking the empty juice tumbler and placing it in the kitchen.

"Baby..." Seonghwa frowned in disapproval.

"I'm fine, Hwa. I promise." You squeezed his hand, taking the thermometer and taking his temperature. Finally, his temperature was now a low grade fever.

"Thank goodness I don't have to take you to the hospital now. But I'll continue to monitor your temperature." You informed, taking your phone to note down the temperature and medication log. Seonghwa curiously leaned closer to you to try and take a peek at what you were writing down.

"Wow, I'm like your patient. Just that I have you to myself and I don't need to share you with other patients." He grinned.

"You are my patient. Even though it's usually the nurse that does the charts, not me. And you never have to share me, you know I'll alwyas prioritise you and your health." You scoffed.

"I know. I just like hearing you say it." He grinned.

"Hmm, on second thought, I think the fever has made you even more delusional." You chuckled, placing your hand on his forehead.

"That's impossible. I have the best doctor in the world taking care of me." He grasped your hand to kiss the back of it. You smiled and pressed your cheek against his.

"Now come to bed." He whispered.

"I will. Just let me clean up the kitchen. You should sleep more." You replied. He hummed obediently and let you tuck him in.

"Come back soon." He smiled. You closed the window and quietly left the room to let him sleep. Although, you didn't just clean the kitchen. You knew Seonghwa was particular about cleanliness so you did his daily cleaning routine for him, knowing he couldn't do it today.

"Lint roller, vacuum, wet tissue mop then lint roller." You tried to remember his cleaning sequence and took the necessary equipment you needed to clean.

However, you didn't want to wake him so you didn't use the vacuum, instead you used the broom to sweep the floor.

"Ah, finally done." You fell back onto the couch with the lint roller in your hand.

"Baby...?" Seonghwa came out, wrapped in his blanket. He woke up to find his bedside empty and when he felt how cold the sheets were, he knew you didn't come to bed like you said he would.

"(y/n)-" Seonghwa paused when he saw you asleep on the couch, still gripping the lint roller in your hand.

"Sweet girl." He cooed and put his blanket aside before gently easing the lint roller out of your hand and putting it aside.

Looking around, Seonghwa knew that you must have done his usual daily cleaning routine for him. He smiled softly, brushing your hair away from your face, you knew him so well.

"Rest well, my love." He kissed your head and placed the blanket over your body instead.

Seonghwa went to the room and took his temperature, writing down the reading and timing on a post it, knowing that you would want to log it in later. He was still running a low grade fever and felt aches in his body but he felt 10 times better than he did this morning, all thanks to you.

"Hongjoong ah." Seonghwa made the phone call in the room, not wanting to disturb you.

"Okay, listen Seonghwa. Before you come at me all mad, you were so sick and didn't want any of us to help you. That's why I told (y/n), okay? So it's your fault."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You so owe me." Seonghwa rolled his eyes, even though he knew Hongjoong couldn't see him.

"You have a doctor girlfriend to give you first class care. I don't owe you anything. But I'm guessing you're feeling better already?"

"I do, thanks to her. She's resting now, poor thing worked the whole night and came back to take care of me. She didn't even have time to sit down and catch a breather." Seonghwa sighed.

"You both take care of people before you take care of yourselves. See? That's why you're made for each other."

"Right..." Seonghwa scoffed.

"Anyway, do you two need anything from us? The others should be done with their schedule and I just left the studio. I can pick up whatever you need."

"You shouldn't be around the house for too long or you might get sick too. But if you could drop dinner off for us, it'll be a great help. I don't really want (y/n) to do anymore cooking or for her to be eating ramyeon." Seonghwa knew you too well.

"Sure. Send me what you want and I'll go pick it up, drop it off at yours."

"Thanks, Hongjoong ah." Seonghwa said and hung up. He texted over the food for Hongjoong to buy, knowing your likes and dislikes.

As much as Seonghwa wanted to snuggle with you, he had to hold himself back. Firstly, he didn't want to wake you. Secondly, he was still worried about getting you sick.

"Ah..." He winced and dramatically held his arm back as he stood before you.

"Once you recover, you can get all the cuddles from her." He took a deep breath and returned to the room.

And of course, he found his nintendo switch in the charger, you must have put it there, knowing he would be bored and want to play when he wakes up.

When you woke up, you sat up in shock. You didn't even know when you fell asleep. But the curtains to the living room were drawn and there was a blanket placed over you.

"Yeah, she's still sleeping... I want her to get as much rest as she can get since she worked graveyard... Thanks, Hongjoong ah. I'll see you." You heard hushed whispers from the bedroom and assumed it was Seonghwa speaking to Hongjoong over the phone, maybe updating him on Seonghwa's current condition.

"Oh, baby! You're awake." Seonghwa was heading back into the living room and spotted you standing there, half asleep and confused.

"Was that Hongjoong?" You asked.

"Mhmm, he picked up some dinner for us. I didn't want you cooking and I shouldn't be cooking for you when I'm sick." He said, placing the empty cups on the counter.

"Ah, I'm fine to cook, Seonghwa. And besides, there's still some leftover chicken soup for you." You yawned, shuffling to him.

"I know. But I also know you'll give all the leftover soup to me and make ramyeon for yourself." He stated.

"I..." Your cheeks heated up as he exposed you. Seonghwa chuckled, watching you stand there, still half asleep and a little lost, with the blanket wrapped around your body like a child.

"You should be resting... Let me do all the dishes..." You said to him.

"I feel better already, baby. I took my temperature down and even took the medications." He said, showing you the post it note with all the temperature readings, the medications he took and the timings of when he took them.

"Let me feel. Come here." You reached up to feel his cheeks and forehead in your hands.

"Your fever is gone. Let's hope it stays that way. But still, you're not fully recovered." You frowned slightly. You were relieved that his fever was finally gone.

"After this." He kissed your knuckles.

"Let me put this back." You bundled up the blanket and folded it properly, returning it to the bedroom.

"Gosh, I didn't even know when I fell asleep." You rubbed your cheeks and let out another yawn.

"Poor baby. You were probably so tired and running on adrenaline to take care of me. Once the food is delivered, we should eat and go back to bed." Seonghwa frowned sadly.

"Yeah, we should." You smiled softly.

"I bought some immunity juice thingy in the fridge. You should drink that. It's good for you." You pointed.

"It looks horrible. Tumeric, black pepper, orange, ginger, carrot, apple, cucumber... I think just reading this is making me feel more sick than I already am." Seonghwa took the bottle out, cringing at the colour and ingredients listed on it. You took the bottle from him and poured him a glass.

"It's good for you." You re-emphasised and held it out to him. Seonghwa sighed in defeat and grabbed the glass to drink it. He gulped the whole thing down, shuddering when he finished.

"Now, you. You're always around sick people, you should be drinking it too to build immunity." Seonghwa refilled the glass.

"But..." Your face fell.

"Be good, baby." Seonghwa shot you a pointed look, repeating your own words back to you.

"I take you being able to boss me around as a sign that you're feeling better." You raised an eyebrow with him but still drank the immunity juice. Seonghwa was right, the taste was vile.

"See? Horrible, right?" Seonghwa chuckled and engulfed you in a bear hug, rubbing your back while you nodded glumly.

"There, there." He comforted. Seonghwa's hugs felt like home, you nuzzled your cheek against his chest and closed your eyes. It doesn't matter how long you are away from him, you always miss his hugs and his warm embrace.

"My love, are you falling asleep on me?" He chuckled.

"Shhhhh..." You hushed him. Seonghwa sighed in defeat and stroked the back of your head. He guided you to the couch so he could tuck you under his arm.

"Don't sleep, Hongjoong's coming to delivery dinner soon. After that, you can sleep." He said.

"If you don't want me to sleep, stop being so comfy and cozy." You grumbled. Seonghwa laughed at your nonsense.

"Wait! You should be the one resting! Not me!" You shot up suddenly, making Seonghwa jump in shock. He didn't have time to protest as you pulled him up from the couch and brought him back to the room.

"There. Stay here until I get the food from Hongjoong." You pulled the blanket over his legs.

"My love-"

"Shh, rest." You placed the Nintendo switch console in his hands and exited the room to prepare his next round of medications, as well as fill up his water bottle for him.

"Hongjoong ah! Thanks again for doing this... No, he's not sleeping, you can see him if you want... That's right, you need to remain healthy as the last Matz standing... Don't make yourself sick taking care of the kids and not of yourself." Seonghwa heard you talking to Hongjoong, it was nice to hear you so comfortable with him.

The love of his life and his best friend.

"Mmm, I will. Take care and let me know if you need anything!" You bid Hongjoong goodbye and brought the food bags in.

"Stay there, Hwa! I'll plate everything up." You said just as Seonghwa was about to stand up from bed. You knew him too well to know what he would do.

"Do you have a camera in here?!" Seonghwa yelled back.

"What are you talking about?" You chuckled as you entered the room with a tray of food for him. You placed the tray on the bed for him.

"Where's your dinner? And don't tell me you will eat after me. I won't eat unless you eat with me." Just like you knew Seonghwa, he knew you very well too.

"Fine, I'll go get my food." Your shoulders slumped and you went to get your bowl of noodle soup.

A nice silence fell over the both of you as you ate, the both of you were rather quiet eaters. Just that usually, you and Seonghwa would put food on each other's spoons but with Seonghwa being sick, you both didn't want to risk cross-contamination.

"I'll go take a shower. I really want to get out of these clothes." Seonghwa said with an uncomfortable frown once dinner was done. You nodded and let him shower while you cleaned up.

"Don't go under the hot water for too long, Hwa! It might trigger your fever again." You knocked on the door.

"Yes, Dr (y/l/n)." He replied. You laid on your side of the bed, checking your phone for messages.

"I'm back." Seonghwa wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you flushed against his body. He was still slightly warm but the medication seemed to really help.

"Still feel ill?" You ran your hands through his hair.

"No, I'm a lot better but the body ache is still there." He smiled softly, grabbing your hand and kissing your fingertips.

"I've set an alarm for you to take your meds, so don't swear at me for waking you up later, okay?" You joked, knowing that Seonghwa would NEVER ever swear at you.

"You don't have to wake up, baby. I can wake up on my own to take the medication, just put it on my table." Seonghwa said.

"It's fine. I want to, it will make me feel better knowing your temperature and reaction to the medication." You insisted. He knew there was no persuading you otherwise so Seonghwa just nodded and pulled you to him. You both didn't care about getting you sick anymore, you just wanted to be as humanly near him as possible.

"Thank you for taking care of me, baby." He kissed your forehead.

"What's there to thank for? You're always taking care of me and making sure I'm at my best." You looked up at him.

"Yeah, but I like to take care of you. It's not a chore at all, it makes me feel useful knowing I can help you. And with your job, you always take care of patients. It's nice to be taken care sometimes."

"Seonghwa, you're always useful, no matter what. I've never saw you as useless." You said.

"I know... It's just a personal feeling." He shrugged.

"I could say the same for you. You're always taking care of the other members and especially Hongjoong. So you can take a break and let me take care of you." You giggled.

"We'll always be here to take care of each other. You know like they say... In sickness and in health." He stroked your cheek.

"Exactly." You smiled softly and closed your eyes to join him in dreamland.

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