saki

summary; Your boyfriend Anderson, an aspiring idol, wants to spend his free time with you, but you refuse to meet up. Naturally, he decides to come to your dorm to find out the reason why.

warnings; fluff, broken arm, a kiss, petnames, worried, thoughtful lover

pairings; trainee boyfriend!anderson x trainee fem!reader

wc; 1159

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

I glanced at my phone ringing on the nightstand and let out a whimpering sound. Putting down the book I was holding in my left hand, I reached for the phone with that same hand.

Although I was happy to see who was calling, deep down I felt sad because I was about to lie. I pressed the green button with my thumb and held the phone to my ear.

"Hey beautiful, how are you?" I smiled as Anderson began speaking in her bubbly voice. "I'm good, Andy; how are you?" After chatting about random things for a while, she asked the crucial question.

"Practice is over and they let us go, so my day is completely free. Guess who I want to spend my day with?" Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the headboard with a smile on my face. Just as I was about to speak, she chimed in again with that same enthusiastic tone.

"MY GIRLFRIEND, OF COURSE!" I burst into involuntary laughter; I loved it when she was like this.

Pouting my lips, I stretched out fully on the bed before answering. "I'm not free today, sweetie—I'm sorry," I said, my voice sounding a bit tearful.

"Oh, why? I thought you were at the company, but I went there and the girls said you hadn't come in today. Did something happen? Are you okay?" I had strictly told the girls not to mention my broken arm to Anderson.

"I had the day off today, baby; I stayed at the dorm." She made a thoughtful sound before speaking again. "Why are the girls at the company?" Andy was always a curious person, and that curiosity doubled when it came to me.

Rolling my eyes while still smiling, I answered her question: "It was their recording day; mine is next week, Andy." I wrinkled my nose when I heard the grin in the voice on the other end.

"In that case, I'm coming over to the dorm. I absolutely have to see you today—not only have I missed you a lot, but next month we'll be in the studio full-time for the final preparations on the debut album." I took a deep breath and thought about what kind of excuse I could come up with.

"Not today; we have to head to the show's taping once the girls arrive." Anderson let out an exasperated sigh and fell silent; after listening to the sounds of him walking for a moment, he spoke again with the same enthusiastic tone he’d used earlier.

"I don't care. I'm coming over to the dorm; we've got time before the girls get there. Is there anything you want, babe?"

"Andy, no, honey, not today..." Before I could finish, he said, "Okay, I'm grabbing your favorite meal and rushing right over. Love you, see you soon, mwah." He hung up on me; I pulled the phone away from my ear, stared at the screen for a moment, locked it, and rested my arm against my head.

I hadn't told him my arm was practically broken because I didn't want him to worry. If I told him, he’d start fussing over me even more than my mom did, and he’d likely neglect his own schedule. That was something I honestly didn't want at all.

I lay in bed, wondering what I’d do when he arrived. Carefully minding my arm, I got up, placed the book I’d left on the bed onto the nightstand, straightened the covers, and walked out of my dorm room toward the living area.

I sprawled out on the L-shaped sofa, turned on the TV, and started watching something. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang; I jumped, accidentally banging my head against the back of the sofa a couple of times.

I turned off the TV, stood up, and walked quickly to the door. Opening it just a crack, I kept my broken arm hidden behind the doorframe and looked at my boyfriend, who was grinning and holding up bags of chicken.

As soon as I saw him, a smile spread across my face; I leaned my head against the door and gazed at him. "You never listen to me, do you?" Ignoring my remark, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. "There *are* times I listen, you know—don't go being unfair to me now."

I stayed by the doorway, watching him; he looked at me blankly and waved his hand. "So... aren't you going to let me in?" I pouted slightly and opened the door just wide enough for him to enter, while I remained hidden behind it.

He stepped inside, looking at me—now tucked away behind the door—with a puzzled expression. As he began pulling the door toward himself with his free hand, I held onto it with my good hand, wearing an innocent smile.

"Let go of the door, YN." I shook my head, adding a playful flutter of my eyelashes to my smile. "No—stop looking at me like that and come out from behind the door, sweetheart." Naturally, I refused to let go and kept looking at him with the same expression.

He sighed, placed the bag of food onto the nearby shoe cabinet, and pulled the door toward himself with both hands. As his mouth dropped open in surprise, I pulled my good hand away, and he closed the door.

Upon seeing my broken arm, he instinctively started to reach for it but stopped himself, his gaze shifting back and forth between me and my arm. He rested one hand over his mouth, while the back of his other hand supported the elbow of the arm covering his mouth.

"Are you kidding me?" I huffed and rolled my eyes. "I mean, it’s not like I did it on purpose."

"We haven't seen each other for just two days—when and how did you manage to break your arm?" I pressed my lips together and looked down at my arm.

"I basically face-planted on the ground..." She uncrossed her arms, cupped my cheeks in her hands, kissed my forehead, and then wrapped her arms around me for a hug. Before fully embracing me, she took a step back with her legs and torso, resting only her forehead against mine.

"You could have told me." I wrapped my uninjured arm around her waist and rested my head on her chest. "I didn't want you to worry; you get anxious so easily." She pulled away, rolled her eyes, and—using one hand to nudge the bag I was holding and the other to push gently on my shoulder—steered me along.

"Alright, come on, let's get you something to eat."

I looked up at my tall girlfriend walking behind me and blew her a kiss. "Will you make ramen, too?" She laughed, leaned down to kiss my cheek, and nodded.

Wrinkling my nose, I let her push me down onto the sofa I had just stood up from. "You sit tight; I'll make us some ramen and be right back." As she headed toward the kitchen, I got up from the sofa and followed her like a duckling trailing its mother. When she turned around and saw me coming, she threw her head back and started to laugh.

When we entered the kitchen, he held me by the waist and lifted me onto the counter; then, he filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. After taking the ramen out of the drawer and placing it on the counter, he stepped in between my legs. Resting his elbows on the counter and placing his hands on my hips, he fixed his gaze on me.

"So, tell me—how did you break it?" I stuck out my tongue and ruffled his blonde hair with my uninjured hand. "My foot slipped during practice, and I fell onto it." He sighed and gently pressed his lips against my bandaged arm.

"You need to be careful, sweetheart; why aren't you more cautious? You shouldn't wear those shoes again—the ones you were wearing when you slipped. Had the floor just been mopped, or..." Realizing he wasn't going to stop talking, I silenced him by pressing my lips against his.

I pulled back slightly, placed my hand under his chin, and caressed his cheek with my thumb. "Okay, I'll be careful from now on. There's no need for you to worry or overthink all this, Andy." He straightened up until our faces were level and brushed the hair back from my face.

"Do you want me to tie your hair up?" I nodded quickly and held out the arm where I wore my hair tie. He took the black elastic band from my wrist, stood up fully, and swept my hair back. Carefully gathering it into a bun, he secured it with the tie. Since he was leaning close to my face while doing this, I took great pleasure in studying his features. After tying up my hair, I gave his lips another quick peck and pulled away.

"I love you." As his smile widened, he quickly pressed his lips against mine and echoed, "I love you too, sweetheart."

When we heard the sound of the water boiling, we both turned our heads toward the stove. Andy opened the ramen packets on the counter, emptied them into the pot, and began stirring with chopsticks he’d taken from the drawer.

While adding the ramen seasoning and waiting for it to cook, he told me about what they had done at practice that day. Once the ramen was ready, he dished it into bowls and walked toward the living room. I slowly hopped off the counter and followed him.

After placing the bowls on the coffee table, he took the chicken out of the bag, unwrapped it, and set it on the table. He helped me sit down, then took a seat beside me; holding his chopsticks, he brought a piece of spicy chicken toward my mouth, cupping his other hand underneath to catch any drips.

"Open up." Laughing, I opened my mouth; he popped the chicken in, and I began to chew with delight. I closed my eyes and hummed in appreciation.

He wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of my mouth with his thumb, then brought his finger to his lips and sucked it clean. When I shyly turned my head away, he held my chin and gently turned my face back toward his.

"Eat your food first; you can be shy later." I nudged his arm with my elbow, chewed the chicken thoroughly, and swallowed. "Just feed me and stop making me blush! You eat, too." Using the same chopsticks, he scooped up some ramen and shoveled it into his own mouth.

When he tried to speak with food in his mouth, I lightly tapped his lips before he could even open them. "I told you not to talk while you have food in your mouth, Andy." He nodded quickly, gave my cheek a playful pinch, wrapped a bit of ramen around his chopsticks, and held it out to my lips.

After we finished eating, he stayed with me until the girls arrived and Anderson's manager called to scold him. While he finished up and I tidied the kitchen, we stayed together and talked about our future plans. In this way, we managed to make the most of a long day before our next meeting a month later.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

i know exactly how you feel (and I’m sure so many others do too), so please know you’re not alone. I’m sending you so much love and I truly wish you nothing but the absolute best🤍

Fragile Strength

pairing: Will Smith x female reader

description: You try (and fail) to hide your relapse into disordered eating from Will.

TW: Eating disorder, body dysmorphia, angst, crying, medical concerns, established relationship.

masterlist

━━━━ ϐecause i’m still in love with you , b.c. x reader

a/n : omg i just saw bby ku-lia talk about sub space this was meant to be i have to write this RIGHT NOW

it was intense, and you couldn’t lie, chan was being kinda mean. as to be expected, you did ask him to degrade you after all, but now that your orgasm had come and gone, you were starting to worry if what he had been hissing in your ear were true. as chan rolled off of you, trying to catch his own breath, your mind started to whirl. your breath was sucked out from your body and you felt you couldn’t catch a proper breath as your mind started to convince yourself that chan was telling the truth when he had called you a slut and a cock whore.

you had never felt like this before, never had such a deep seeded feeling of sadness effect you this deeply before and you didn’t know how to react. your chest started to rapidly rise and fall as you desperately tried to catch your breath, tears trickling down your cheeks as you did your best to hide your shuddering breaths as to not alarm chan next to you.

but, of course, he noticed. as he rolled on his side to face you, chans face immediately dropped seeing your wet face, “baby? what’s wrong honey? you ok, did i go too hard?”

you couldn’t form words, just gasping for air as your bottom lip pathetically trembled. you wanted his comfort, wanted him to touch and hold you but as chan gently laid his hand on your cheek, you whimpered at the feeling. your body was so sensitive from just moments before when he was pounding into you. this had never happened to you before with sex, you knew that this was your first time having rougher sex, but didn’t think it would’ve effected you this much.

chan immediately pulled his hand back, studying your face before sitting up off the bed, “are you hurt baby?”

words still wouldn’t come to you so you just slightly shook your head. once chan realized that you weren’t in any immediate danger, he gave you a slight nod, his hand hovering over your skin before jumping off the bed and running to the kitchen to get you something to drink. your mind was still running wild, wondering if you had blown the whole relationship by being so weird after sex, this was probably a huge turn off for chan, he probably thought you were so strange.

when chan comes back in the room, he finds you now curled in on yourself, hugging your knees to your chest.

“sweetie? can you sit up for me? i got you some water, you need to drink.” his voice is calming and soothing and for a split second it makes all your dark thoughts slip away. but you don’t want to be any weirder in front of chan, so you force yourself to sit up and shuffle a bit closer to the edge of the bed, taking the glass from your boyfriend with shaky hands.

you bring it up to your lips and do your best to not let it dribble down your chin as you hold back sobs long enough to gulp down some water. he smiles softly, his shoulders relaxing seeing you do as he asked.

“feeling better?”

you just shrug, because you really don’t know how you’re feeling, everything still feels fuzzy like your mind is stuck in a fog and you don’t know if you’ve reached euphoria or if you’re utterly depressed.

chan nods, he knows what’s happening, this isn’t his first rodeo, “is it ok if i touch you? are you still sensitive?”

your voice comes out quiet and shaky, your throat still raw from getting throat fucked just mere minutes ago, “i don’t know…i think i feel a bit better?”

he nods again, slowly reaching out his arm to wrap it around your shoulder, studying your face intensely to see any signs of discomfort, but when he saw none, he continued. chan eventually wrapped you up in his arms, carefully pulling you into his chest, still pausing at every slight movement to check that you were ok. your body was still trembling slightly, the waves and physical shock from before still coursing through your veins, but you felt your brain slowing down, giving you the slightest peace of mind.

your boyfriend seemed to have been reading your mind as he quietly whispers, “you know i didn’t mean any of that, right? you’re not a slut or a dirty girl, you’re my perfect little angel,” one of his hands came up to cradle the side of your head, “you’re the light of my life honey, i was just saying it for the moment, i promise i don’t think less of you.”

you melted against his skin, your heart rate slowing as you focused on his words and the rising and falling of his chest. you didn’t respond to what he was saying, you didn’t need to, chan knew how you were feeling and what you were thinking. he just kept whispering sweet nothings into your ear, his thumb caressing your cheek as he gently rocked you back and forth.

⤿ TRACK 2 — WHEN I COME AROUND

♬.ᐟ GIRLS & BOYS | z. yufan & n. riki & k. ohyul ▸ prev » m. list » next no time to search the world around, ‘cause you know where i’ll be found when i come around

adventures in situationship central, clueless post-teenage boys, and thinly veiled mutual pining

white trans women co opting Japanese culture because they subconsciously associate Asian people with femininity.

CB98.||connor bedard.

fluff.

connor hurting his jaw.

It had officially been a few hours since Connor got hit, leaving the arena clutching his jaw. Now, lying in the sterile, quiet atmosphere of the hospital bed after surgery, the doctors had finally come to the conclusion that it was indeed broken and had performed the necessary repairs.

I walked into the room, the weight of the day finally settling in my shoulders, having just signed the discharge papers. I looked at him—still deep in a medicated sleep, an ice pack carefully wrapped around his swollen jaw. In the corner of the room, his discarded hockey gear sat in a heap, looking jarringly out of place in such a clinical setting.

Quietly, I went over and began putting everything back into his hockey bag—the same one I had rushed to retrieve from the arena while he was still under. I had already made a trip out to the car to drop it off, returning moments ago with a bag of comfortable clothes for him to wear home.

“Hello, are you here for Connor?” the nurse asked as I walked back toward the bedside.

I nodded, offering a small, tired smile. “Yes, I’m his girlfriend.”

“Okay, wonderful,” she said, handing me a slip of paper. “Here is a prescription you’ll need to pick up for his pain. Make sure to keep his jaw iced for at least two weeks, or longer depending on how he feels. I’ve also gone ahead and booked him an appointment for a follow-up checkup next week to see how everything is healing.”

She smiled warmly and stepped out, just as Connor’s eyes began to flutter open.

“Hi, baby,” I whispered, walking over to the bedside. I reached out to gently clear his eyes, which were heavy from the deep, drug-induced sleep. His body was still clearly fighting off the effects of the anesthesia, his movements sluggish and weak. He tried to speak, but the movement caused him to wince sharply. He pointed a trembling finger toward his jaw, and I immediately reached out to scratch his head soothingly.

“It’s okay, I know, love,” I said softly, leaning down to kiss the cheek that wasn't hidden beneath the ice pack. He shook his head, his mouth hanging slightly open, and I saw his lip tremble. “No, don’t cry—that might hurt,” I added, kissing his forehead to comfort him. He lifted a weak hand, pointing vaguely at his lips.

“Are you thirsty?” I asked. He shook his head no. I leaned in and placed a light, careful kiss on his lips, and he nodded, looking content. He then pointed to his bruised cheek, the one covered in ice.

“I can’t kiss you there, baby, it’s too sore,” I said with a sympathetic sigh, setting his clothes down on the edge of the bed.

“Let’s get you changed so we can get you home to your own bed,” I murmured, kissing his hand. He nodded slowly. Helping him sit up was a delicate process; I carefully maneuvered the hospital gown off his shoulders, switching him into his sweatpants. I paused, considering how to handle the shirt, and decided against a tight tee. Instead, I opted for his soft zip-up sweater, putting it on him and zipping it all the way up to keep him warm and shielded.

Once we finally made it home, the familiar comfort of our room seemed to help him settle. I helped him get situated, propping up the pillows just right so he could stay elevated. After helping him shrug the sweater off, I sat on the edge of the mattress and held his cup of protein shake in my hands.

I guided the straw to his lips, watching him take slow, cautious sips while he leaned into my side for comfort. As I sat there holding him, the silence of the house magnified the anxiety in my chest. I couldn't help but look at the ice pack and then back at his pale face, my mind racing as I wondered exactly how the next few months of his recovery were going to play out.

i feel like i’ve been gone so long.

THE GHOST IN YOU.

Sam Winchester is a biter.

When he's kissing at your neck, he's leaving as many bites behind as possible. He'll drag his teeth over your pulse again and again, nipping at your sensitive skin for so long, getting hard just from that.

When he's inside you, it's only worse. He spreads his bites down your shoulders, over your chest, all while thrusting deep inside you.

When he's close, desperately close, he'll bite down on the place where your neck and shoulder meet, hard.

He'll have your crying out, holding onto him for dear life as you clench down around him, pulling his release from him.

And when you bite? Dear. God.

If you bite him hard, leaving teeth marks all over his biceps, he's hard every time he sees them, cumming without you paying any attention to his cock when you give them to him, your tongue soothing over the marks as his panting slows.

And if you ever bite him hard enough to break the skin, if he looks up and sees his blood on your lips, he's either a beautiful, whimpering mess underneath you, or his throwing you down on your back and railing you until you both physically can't take any more.

Bellamy Blake x reader inspired by the song whatever it takes by imagine dragons. I don’t care what the plot is. I just NEED it to be like soul crushingly sad like so so so so sad. I need my chest to physically hurt. I need to suffer, ugly crying into my pillow. Please.

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 whatever it takes.

pair: bellamy blake x fem!reader

warnings: angst angst angst!! / established relationship / reader is implied feminine / slow death / illness / possible inconsistencies

authors: i think this submission was sent to me like a year ago im SO sorry it took me so long... guys i'm gonna take a break from writing for avatar for a bit because im SOOOOO bored of it. maybe not avatar *entirely* but im considering taking a break from my neteyam series and maybe writing more for ao'nung and tsireya because theyre my favies. anyways i've been getting back into the 100 recently so u can all thank lola for this fic for sending me all the clurphy and bellarke edits!! also sorry for any inconsistencies i rlly need to rewatch the 100 its been prob like 2 years....

wc: 3.8k

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꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

The first sign was the tremor.

It was so faint you almost missed it. You were both on a supply run, scouting the dense forest at the edge of the new territory. The sun was warm, filtering through the thick canopy in shifting patterns on the forest floor. Bellamy was ahead of you, hacking through thick vines with a machete, his back slick with sweat under the thin fabric of his shirt. He stopped, turning to hold out a canteen of water.

"Here," he said, his voice a little breathless. "Drink up. We're not stopping until we hit the ridge."

You reached for the canteen, your fingers brushing against his. That's when you saw it. A slight, almost imperceptible shiver in his hand, a vibration that traveled up his arm before he tucked it into his pocket with a casualness that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You okay?" you asked, your gaze fixed on his now-hidden hand.

He forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just tired. Didn't sleep well. Miller's snoring could wake the dead."

You wanted to press him, to ask what was really wrong, but a shout from Jasper cut you off. He'd found an old, rusted-out pickup truck half-swallowed by gnarled tree roots, its windows shattered, its frame a skeleton of a forgotten world. The discovery shifted the group's focus, a small victory in the vast wilderness, and the moment was forgotten. But the image of that slight, betraying tremor lodged itself in your mind like a splinter, tiny but sharp.

The second sign was the cough.

It started about a week later. A dry, hacking sound that ripped through his chest in the dead of night, violent enough to shake the thin frame of your shared cot. You'd lie awake in the darkness, listening to him try to muffle it in his pillow, his body tensing beside you with each painful spasm. You'd place a cool hand on his back, feeling the muscles knot and release under your touch.

"Bellamy?" you'd whisper into the thick, heavy air.

"Go back to sleep," he'd rasp back, his voice strained and thin. "It's just the dust. I'm fine."

But it wasn't just the dust, and you both knew it. You were living on a radiated planet, breathing air that was still a question mark. The Grounders had survived, but their bodies were different. Hardened by generations of exposure. Yours were still soft, still vulnerable, still carrying the genetic blueprint of a life lived in a metal cage in the sky.

The third sign was the fever.

You discovered it by accident one evening, a week after the cough started. He'd been quiet all day, his usual restless energy replaced by a heavy stillness. You found him sitting by the central fire, staring into the flames as if they held the answers to the universe. You sat next to him, your shoulder brushing his, and reached out to brush the dark, damp hair back from his forehead. It was a simple, intimate gesture you'd done a thousand times.

His skin burned under your touch, far too hot.

"You're burning up," you said, your voice tight with a fear you could no longer contain.

He flinched away from your hand, pulling back like he'd been struck. "It's nothing," he insisted, his voice rough. "Just a cold. I'm fine."

But he wasn't fine. And deep down, in a place he was desperately trying to ignore, he knew it too. You saw it in the flicker of panic in his eyes before he masked it with irritation.

That night, you went to Clarke. Your heart pounded a frantic, painful rhythm against your ribs as you pushed open the flap of the medical tent. She was there, her back to you, organizing meager supplies by the light of a flickering lantern. The air inside smelled of antiseptic and dried herbs.

"Something's wrong with Bellamy," you said, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "He's really sick."

Clarke turned, her expression immediately serious, her doctor's mask sliding into place. "What are his symptoms?"

You listed them, your voice trembling as you spoke—the persistent tremors in his hands, the deep, wracking cough, the fever that seemed to be getting worse. As you spoke, you watched her face, saw the clinical detachment descend over her features. She listened patiently, her eyes focused, her movements precise.

"I need to see him," she said finally, her voice leaving no room for argument.

The examination was quiet and tense. Bellamy sat on the edge of a crude cot, his shirt off, his skin slick with a cold sweat while Clarke moved around him with methodical efficiency. She ran her hands over the swollen glands in his neck and under his arms, listened to his breathing with a makeshift stethoscope fashioned from old tubing and a horn from a Grounder's mask. You stood by the flap of the tent, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, a knot of dread tightening in your stomach until you could barely breathe.

When she was done, she turned to you, her eyes holding a compassion that was more terrifying than any anger.

"Can I talk to you outside?" she asked, her voice soft.

The world tilted on its axis. The air outside the tent felt thin and cold against your skin. The moon was a sliver in the inky black sky, and the sounds of the camp—the crackling of fires, the distant murmur of voices—seemed a world away.

"It's radiation sickness," Clarke said, her voice low and steady, each word a hammer blow to your soul. "The kind we can't fight. The kind that... it gets in the bones. It's systemic."

"No," you whispered, the word a denial, a prayer. "No, that's not possible. We're all fine. The radiation levels are safe. You said so yourself."

"Some people have a... a predisposition," she explained gently, her hand resting on your arm in a gesture of comfort. "A sensitivity. A genetic marker that makes them more susceptible. The landing must have triggered it. The exposure, even the minimal amount we got... it was enough to start the chain reaction."

"Can you fix it?" you asked, your voice barely audible, a child's desperate plea. "There has to be something. A treatment. A cure. Something the Grounders use."

Clarke's silence was your answer. It stretched on, heavy and suffocating. She looked at you with an expression of profound sadness, of helplessness, and that was what broke you.

"There's nothing," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. The progression is... it's usually quick. A few weeks. Maybe a month if he's strong. If he rests."

A month. The words echoed in the sudden, roaring silence of your mind. A month. You had a month left with the person you loved more than life itself. The man who had held your hand through the terror of re-entry, who had promised you a future on this green, beautiful, deadly Earth.

The next day, Bellamy became a man possessed. The fever, the cough, the tremors—they didn't disappear, but they were pushed aside, buried under a mountain of sheer will. He was on his feet before the sun was up, his movements driven by a frantic, desperate energy that was both inspiring and terrifying to witness.

"We're not giving up," he declared to you and Clarke that morning, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity that had nothing to do with his illness. "There has to be something out there. A plant. A natural spring. The Grounders have survived here for a century. They know things we don't. We just have to find it."

And so the search began.

It was an all-consuming obsession that took over the entire camp. Bellamy, with Clarke and a small team of volunteers, mapped out expeditions into uncharted territory. He poured over every piece of salvageable text from the Ark, searching for any mention of medicinal plants, any folklore about healing waters, any scientific theory about radiation neutralization. He neglected his duties as a leader, alienated Miller with his single-minded focus, and snapped at anyone who suggested he should be resting.

"Resting is giving up!" he'd roar at them, his face flushed with fever and fury. "I'm not giving up. Not now. Not ever."

You watched him waste away, his energy burning bright and fast like a dying star. His face grew gaunt, his cheekbones sharp angles under fever-flushed skin. The coughing fits became more violent, leaving him doubled over, gasping for air, his body wracked with tremors that he could no longer hide. But he never stopped. He pushed himself harder, further, driven by the promise he'd made to you, to himself. Whatever it takes.

The camp started to whisper. They saw his decline, his erratic behavior. They saw you, always at his side, forcing water down his throat, trying to coax him into eating broth, your face a mask of desperate hope that was beginning to crack.

One evening, after he'd collapsed from exhaustion during a council meeting, you found him sitting by the fire, staring into the flames as if they held the secrets of the universe. You sat beside him, not speaking, just offering your presence, your unwavering support.

"I'm scaring them, aren't I?" he asked, his voice a rough whisper, his eyes still fixed on the fire.

"They're worried," you corrected gently. "We all are."

"I'm trying," he said, turning to look at you, and the raw agony in his eyes broke your heart all over again.

"I swear to you, I am trying every goddamn thing I can think of."

"I know," you whispered, your hand finding his. It was clammy, trembling slightly even at rest. "I know you are."

The breaking point came three weeks into his desperate search. He led an expedition deep into a territory Lincoln had explicitly warned them was dangerous, a place known as "The Dead Zone." They were looking for a specific plant, a rare night-blooming moonpetal mentioned in an old botany text as a potential radiation purifier. The text was ancient, a relic from before the bombs, but it was the only lead he had.

They came back two days later, empty-handed and broken. Bellamy was carried back to camp on a makeshift stretcher, his body wracked with violent tremors, his breathing shallow and ragged. You ran to him as they carried him to the medical tent, your heart seizing in your chest.

He was delirious, his words a jumbled mess of commands and pleas. He grabbed your hand as you leaned over him, his grip surprisingly strong for a man so close to the edge.

"Shhh," you soothed, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. "It's okay. You're safe now. You're home."

But he wasn't safe. He was dying. And you finally had to accept it.

The final week was a descent into hell. Bellamy was confined to the medical tent, his body betraying him in every way imaginable. The fever raged, a fire that no amount of cool water could quench. He was skeletal, the sharp planes of his face a stark reminder of the vibrant man he had been just weeks before.

The coughing fits were relentless, violent convulsions that left him weak and gasping, each one a fresh torture. You never left his side, sleeping in fits and starts in a chair beside his cot, your hand never leaving his.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, his ramblings a painful mix of reality and fever dreams.

Sometimes he thought he was back on the Ark, shouting at Octavia to get back under the floor.

Other times he was leading a charge against an invisible enemy, his voice hoarse with commands. And sometimes, in the rare, lucid moments, he was just Bellamy, your Bellamy, and the pain of those moments was almost unbearable.

"You have to eat something," you pleaded, holding a spoon to his lips. It was just broth, but even that was a struggle.

He turned his head away, his eyes closed. "Can't."

"Please, Bellamy. For me."

A tear escaped from the corner of his eye, tracing a path through the grime on his temple. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm trying to be strong. I'm trying.."

"You are strong," you choked out, your own tears flowing freely now. "You're the strongest person I've ever known."

The end came on a Tuesday. It was quiet, unremarkable. The sun was shining, the birds were singing. It was a beautiful day, and you hated it. Hated the world for continuing to turn when yours was ending.

He woke up just after dawn. His eyes were clear, focused. The fever seemed to have broken, and for a heart-stopping moment, a wave of insane, desperate hope washed over you. Maybe Clarke was wrong. Maybe he was beating it.

"Hey," he said, his voice surprisingly strong.

"Hey," you replied, your hand tightening on his. "How are you feeling?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at you, really looked at you, his eyes tracing every feature of your face as if he was trying to memorize it.

"I love you," he said, his voice steady, sure. "I want you to know that. I've always loved you. From the moment I first saw you."

You shook your head slowly, tears beginning to brim. You knew what he was doing. "Don't," you begged, your voice breaking. "Don't talk like that. You're going to be okay. You have to be."

He shook his head slowly, a faint, sad smile on his lips. "No," he said softly. "I'm not."

And that's when you broke. That's when the last shred of your composure shattered into a million pieces.

"No," you sobbed, collapsing onto his chest, your body shaking with the force of your grief. "Please, Bellamy, please don't leave me. You can't leave me."

You were babbling, a torrent of desperate, nonsensical pleas, your words muffled by the thin fabric of his shirt. You felt his hand, weak and trembling, come to rest on your head, stroking your hair in a slow, rhythmic motion.

"Look at me," he whispered.

You shook your head, refusing to lift your head, refusing to see the finality in his eyes.

"Look at me," he said again, his voice a little stronger.

You slowly lifted your head, your vision blurred by tears. His face was pale, but his eyes were clear, full of a love so profound it took your breath away.

"You have to be strong," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "For me. For them. You have to live."

"I can't," you cried. "I don't want to."

"You can," he insisted, his gaze unwavering. "You're the strongest person I know."

And then he started to cough. It was a deep, wet, rattling sound that seemed to come from the very depths of his being. You watched in horror as a small trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth, a bright, shocking red against his pale skin.

It was happening. It was really happening.

"Bellamy," you whispered, your voice trembling with a terror so profound it was almost paralyzing.

His eyes found yours again, and in them, you saw it. The acceptance. The peace. He was ready.

"I love you," he said, his voice a thin, fragile thread. "Whatever it takes..."

His eyes fluttered closed. His chest stilled. The last breath left his lips in a soft, final sigh.

And then there was silence.

A terrible, suffocating silence that pressed down on you, crushing you, stealing the air from your lungs. You stared at his face, at the man you loved, at the empty shell of the person who had been your entire world.

"No," you whispered, the sound lost in the vast, overwhelming emptiness of the room. "No, no, no, no, no."

You shook his shoulders, your movements frantic, desperate. "Bellamy, wake up. Wake up! You can't do this to me. You can't leave me. Please, God, please. Wake up."

But he didn't wake up. He was gone.

A raw, guttural scream tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony, a sound that held all the pain, all the grief, all the rage of a world without him in it. It was a sound that ripped through the quiet of the camp, a sound that would haunt the dreams of everyone who heard it for the rest of their lives.

You collapsed onto his chest, your body wracked with sobs so violent they felt like seizures. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shirt, refusing to let go, as if you could hold him here, as if your love alone could bring him back. But it was no use. He was gone. And you were alone.

Truly, completely, utterly alone.

And the pain of that realization was a physical thing, a gaping, bleeding wound in your soul that would never, ever heal.

The tent flap was thrown back with a violent rustle. Clarke stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide with a horror that mirrored your own. Behind her, Miller's silhouette was a rigid block of pain. They had heard your scream. Everyone had heard your scream.

"No," Clarke whispered, taking a step inside, her medical training forgotten, her friend's mask crumbling. "No..."

You didn't look at them. You couldn't. Your world had shrunk to the cold, still body beneath you. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling his scent one last time, a scent that was already fading, already being replaced by the sterile smell of death.

"He's just sleeping," you babbled, your words muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "He's just tired. He fought so hard. He just needs to rest. We just need to let him rest. He'll wake up. He always wakes up."

Hands were on you then, gentle but firm. "Hey," Miller's voice was rough, thick with unshed tears. "Come on. Let's... let's give him some peace."

"Get off me!" you shrieked, your head snapping up, your eyes wild with a feral, manic fury. You lashed out, your nails raking down his arm, making him recoil. "Don't touch him! Don't you dare touch him! He's not dead! He's not!"

You turned back to Bellamy, your hands frantically patting his cheeks, your touch desperate. "Bellamy? Bellamy, wake up." You weep, balling his shirt into your fist.

"They're trying to take you away. You have to wake up and tell them to go. You have to tell them you're okay. Please, baby. Please. Just open your fucking eyes!"

His eyes remained closed, his face a peaceful, terrible mask. The silence from him was the loudest sound you had ever heard.

"We have to get her out of here," Clarke said, her voice cracking.

More people were crowding into the small space now, drawn by the commotion. You saw their faces through a blur of tears—Monty, his mouth agape in shock; Raven, her hand covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

"This is my fault.." Your voice is barely above a whisper, head shaking as you wipe your nose. "I should have tried harder! I should have found something to save him!"

"You did everything," Clarke soothed, trying to get closer, to wrap her arms around you. "He knew you did."

"I didn't!" you wailed, thrashing in her grip. "I let him die! I just watched him die!"

Then, a figure pushed through the crowd, her movements sharp and frantic. Octavia. She took in the scene—Bell's still form, your hysterical grief, the crowded tent—and a sound like a wounded animal escaped her lips. She stumbled forward, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes fixed on her brother's face.

"No," she choked out, the word a desperate, broken prayer. "Bell. No."

She collapsed to her knees on the other side of the cot, her body folding in on itself. Her sobs were different from yours, quieter, but somehow deeper, a well of pain so vast it seemed to have no bottom. She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers barely brushing his arm before snatching back, as if the coldness of his skin had burned her.

Seeing her, seeing her grief, broke something in you all over again. It made it real. It made it final.

"He can't be gone," you whispered to her, your voice suddenly calm, a terrifyingly calm. "He promised. He promised he wouldn't leave us."

Octavia just shook her head, her body shaking with the force of her tears, unable to speak.

That's when Jasper stepped forward. His face was a mess of tears and snot, his usual goofy charm completely erased by a profound, soul-crushing sadness. He didn't hesitate. He moved behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you back with a strength you didn't know he possessed.

"NO!" you screamed, your body going rigid, fighting him with every ounce of strength you had left. "No! Let me go! I have to stay with him! I can't leave him! He'll be scared! He'll be alone!"

"He's not alone," Jasper's voice was a ragged whisper in your ear, his own tears falling into your hair. "He's not alone anymore. But you have to let him go. You have to let him go, or this will kill you too."

"I don't care!" you shrieked, kicking and struggling, your nails clawing at his arms.

He held on, his grip like iron, pulling you backward, inch by agonizing inch, away from the cot, away from Bellamy. Your fingers scrabbled at the edge of the cot, trying to hold on, trying to anchor yourself to him.

"I love you!" you screamed, your voice breaking, the words torn from the very depths of your soul.

Jasper finally managed to pull you through the flap of the tent, into the blinding light of the day. The sun was shining. The world was beautiful. And it was the most disgusting, obscene thing you had ever seen. You collapsed in his arms, a dead weight, your body finally giving out, the fight draining away, leaving only a hollow, screaming emptiness.

You were pulled away, carried to your own empty tent, your sobs the only sound you could hear. They left you there, a broken, shattered thing on the floor of a space that was suddenly too big, too quiet, too empty. You were alone. Truly, completely, utterly alone. And the pain of that realization was a physical thing, a gaping, bleeding wound in your soul that would never, ever heal.

JAMES

fever

architecturally pleasing

blonde hair

back to you

where'd you get that

not yours

cornered

just this once

lieutenant

ride

national anthem

never let go

after hours

intoxicating

fight dirty

close isn't close enough

my girl

in need of you

late night conversations for the platonically doomed

forks in the road

midnight fiction

JUHOON

moon lovers

too much?

4me4me

love is

a suitable arrangement

not like him at all

pretty when you cry

clingy

fate

the man who can't be moved

apocalypse

MARTIN

boyfriend!martin

daydreams of you

his wish was you

accidentally, lovingly

bf!martin taking care of you when you're sick

kiss me more

do i have what it takes?

six foot three, zero dignity

bro's the type to

yappatron

SEONGHYEON

just one day

stay with me

keonho knows best

looking the wrong way

love alphabet

little things

bf!seonghyeon

just because

what lovers do

you didn't have to wait for me

midnight snack

first drink

kissing boys is not something i do often

okay, me time now!

telepathy love

so in love with you

wherever you are

ms. independent and mr. act of service

the petty silent treatment

let's go shopping

ambivalence

seventeen candles

brace yourself

bro's the type to

me & u

erm... awkward

hollywood action

KEONHO

opposites attract

green eyed monster

come get your man!

champagne borrowed & someone blue

i'm not cute anymore

blanket pile

chapstick trend

happy birthday, spidey

sleepyhead

summer fever

tutoring w know-it-all keonho

golden retriever x black cat

unblock!

barbie and ken

recommended for you (and me)

told ya so

focus on me

fade into you

OT5

BF headcanons

you got sick?

blah blah blah.. proper name...

ur my bf??

⤿ TRACK 1 — SEMI-CHARMED LIFE

♬.ᐟ GIRLS & BOYS | z. yufan & n. riki & k. ohyul ▸ prev » m. list » next keep on smilin’ what we go through, one stop to the rhythm that divides you all content is purely fictional !

groupchat of yearning and bromance, the art of downbad-ery, and the joys of living with other people

or;    you dedicate yourself to the study of dean's back

⊱ warnings / tags: gn!reader, pre-established relationship, back kisses, vulnerable dean, tooth-rotting intimacy, fluff, faint allusions to smut

‿̩͙‿ ༺

Dean’s astray.

He can’t get a hold of himself. He’s sure of it, because it should be easy to roll sideways and let you fall onto the mattress, and when you gawk, to flash you a smile and say he can’t have you crushing one of his best assets. He’ll get an unimpressed look, but you’ll move to sit beside him and pick up the conversation in a preferably more normal way. 

But what’s left of his will seems to be limp, dissolving away with the rest of his body. 

You’re talking. One of your theories for the case. The only remaining tether he has to the real world, which is taking him his darndest to parse through and conjure up answers to so you’ll keep going. If you stop, his senses will take over, and they’re already clamoring for him to just let go and feel this. He frowns into the pillow as another soft quake races down the pathway of his spine, trailing after careful fingers until your palm is just inches from his waistband. The chill of your skin brings down the burn of the sun to a gentler warmth. You say something about secondary locations that slips right past him.

He’s gone loony. You’re just theorizing, and he’s dying, hyperconscious of the sound of your breathing, the way your weight is pressing on top of his ass, your thighs caging him in. Your hands; mixing in with his warmth, switching between flat presses and featherlight traces – ever so gentle. 

"--y’s and a good old stake, shouldn’t be too hard for us," is the only bit he hears when your voice comes back, and his eyes fly open in alarm. 

“Huh? Uh– yeah,” he clears his throat. Totally listening. He shouldn’t have taken off his shirt. “‘Course it won’t. We’ve ganked worse bastards.”

"Well, yeah. But these things can be a little sly."

“Mmh,” he grunts. “Nothin’ we can’t handle.”

He’s back to merging with his pillow, but he can sense the smile on your face. You’ve sat back up to simply rest your palms against the dips of his waist, eyes mapping out each plane, bruise, scar, and freckle into some little constellation of its own. 

It’s pretty, and sort of a representative picture of Dean. Not the first time you’re graced with the sight, but not like this – hands poring over his every mark of skin, which you’ve always longed to do but deemed a long shot. Not that he’s shy – this is Dean, but you knew it was simply a sort of territory he tended to leave uncharted, and you were the last thing from a pushover. Not with him, and not when it took so much to even get here. 

He seems to be letting you have it right now, though. 

You’d draw it; if you could ask as such without pushing your luck. You’re still half-expecting Dean to clamber out of your grip any second, so while he’s not actively wrestling for an out, you could commit this to memory. 

You’re being awfully quiet. 

Dean has half the mind to turn over and figure out why the hell that is, but that position would make you slip off of him just as he’s starting to warm up to his newfound fate, and he doesn’t think he can manage a redo. 

He lets out a muffled grumble of your name, and you hum, thumb tapping against him.

“Keep talkin’.”

You blink, having at some point surmised his acceptance as exhaustion. Guess you’ll have to scratch that. 

“Oh,” you murmur, suppressing a smile. “Okay. Um..” 

You look back down and pause over a particularly jagged line near his left shoulder blade – a knife wound from a ghoul attack you helped patch up. That was the very first time he’d given in to your aid. Your lips twitch, gently pressing it. 

"You remember this?" 

"Yeah," he said, angling his face sideways. "Got that in Nebraska. Stung like a bitch.”

You can’t help but sneer as you trace the scar. “Sam had to give up his new flannel,” you remind him – just because you know Sam still gives him shit for it – and it pulls a frown out of him. “And you still bled onto the carseats. Funny that you seemed pretty convinced you could’ve stitched it yourself.”

Dean scoffs, no matter that it had taken him a full hour just to get the needle through. Still. How many people can say the same? 

“Because I could. I think I know what I can and can’t do, sweetheart, and that was on–”

“Apparently not.”

His eyes shoot open, and he cranes his neck enough to be met with your smug smile. He returns it with a sardonic one. “Hilarious,” he mutters before plopping back down – not his fault, your free hand started stroking his hip. “I could’ve. Only reason I let you do it was ‘cause you and Sammy wouldn’t stop pestering me ‘bout it.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” 

Dean’s rebuttals die at the tip of his tongue when you press a kiss over the old wound – immediately stiffening under you – and you freeze, hands flying to your sides in an instant. “Shit– uh.” Great. Good going, idiot. Of all the times you’ve been able to hold back,  this is the one you can’t manage?

“Sorry, I wasn’t–”

“Do that again.”

You must be hearing things. 

The surprise is palpable as your gaze snaps down to him, and Dean swallows. 

“What?”       

“....Do that again,” he says the words quietly. A mumble against cotton, looking almost bashful. 

You remember then that this is much tougher for him than you. It should’ve scared him off. You’ve got a dozen reasons why. None of which supported the plausibility that he’d be willing to try. But here you are. 

Your mouth snaps shut into a smile. Dean’s fingers twitch, about to ask why you’ve gone so silent again when he feels a peck on the same scar from earlier. 

He feels you shift your weight before pressing another tentative kiss to its left.

“Is that okay?” 

“..Yeah.”

Only then do you continue. His eyes flutter shut as you pepper more upon his shoulders. Across, along, then moving down. You don’t skip a thing: old burns, scratches, cuts. Every freckle, mole, and sunspot.

At some point, Dean lets himself go. 

It’s difficult not to. Not when you’re taking your sweet sweet time, particularly with the scars. When a whine isn’t jumping to his throat, he makes sure to get a breath in on the intervals you place before every kiss – at times with a run of your thumb – as if recalling the memories associated with it, and wondering at the ones you hadn’t been there for. 

This doesn’t mean it was easy. 

He’s spent the past hour doing the opposite, after all, afraid of what it would do if he gave in – because this is a tenderness he’s longed for all his life, rushing over him on a random Thursday afternoon with no warning. 

“Jesus,” he breathes out, gripping the sheets beneath him when you find your way back to his spine – languid, lingering kisses along where it curved. You had to crawl down – chest now propped on the back of his thighs, so the hand resting on his loin becomes his new tether. This time, he feels your smile when it curls up against him. 

He doesn’t get why you’re like that with him. Gentle, in your quieter moments together. Eager, even with the most mundane, tedious shit he could possibly think of. Stakeouts, beer runs, waiting for Sam, sitting on the sink when he shits. His friggin back. 

Well. You do like him. That’s why he’s here. That’s why you’re here, but sometimes he doesn’t get that part either. Because you seem to almost savor Dean. And he’s still learning how to take without knocking anything over. 

His last spot a little further below, except this one wasn’t exactly battle-bourne. He feels you kiss where he’s pretty sure your teeth bared into him a couple nights ago. 

You pat it with a contented hum, sounding way too pleased with yourself. “Still holding up.”

“‘m still gonna get you back for that.”

A snort. “And I’m still waiting,” you say, moving back up to lay atop his slack figure and rest your cheek close to his shoulder. Which part he’s groaning about, you’re not sure. Both of you seem too content to care. 

“Do you really still think you could’ve sutured yourself that day?”

“What, the Nebraska thing?” he huffs, pulling at the bedsheets. “Yeah. I told ya, I was halfway through m’first stitch when y’an Sam came barreling in.”

You smirk. “You were flailing around like a highschooler with gum on his back.”

“At least gum’d be easier to get off my back.”

“And yet you didn’t when you had the exact, literal chance.”

The headboard receives his unimpressed glower. 

You know something’s wrong when he doesn’t jab back, but then Dean moves. You’re tossed to the mattress with a yelp, smugness wiped clean off your face, mirrored instead on the face of a towering Dean. 

He raises a brow as you catch your breath. “Looks like you spoke too soon, huh?”

“Not really. That was a reactive decision, kind of a little late for it to pr–”

Because you’ll drag this into a debate for your own cruel fun, Dean stops you with a kiss. You melt into it all the same, even if your grin refuses to cease – thankfully, it spurs him on. 

“You’re a fucking pain,” he says into your mouth, pulling away only to press a kiss to your temple. “You know that?”

“I revel in that fact, actually.”

Your grin only widens when he scoffs. 

One of these days, he’ll muck up the nerve to tell you to at least warn a man before you do things like that, or say that he doesn’t revel in that fact. 

For now, he’ll let his face slip into the crook of your neck and let your hands lull him to sleep. 

dex needs constant reassurance during sex. he could be pounding into you, making you see stars with his cock, and he would still be asking you if he's doing okay.

"am i- is this okay? baby, tell me m'good-- please" he's whining muffled words into the crook of your neck as his tip slams against your g-spot repeatedly, enough to have you clawing at his back, leaving angry red marks on his skin.

he's focused solely on your pleasure, he gets off when you get off. so when you're too fucked-out to reply to him, he's panicking. he doesn't understand that he's making you feel so good to the point where you can't form a coherent sentence.

"is it not good? oh god- do y'not like it?" he tends to spiral, so you have to talk in order to keep him going. "i-it's good, dex-- fuck!-- feels s'good" your fingers card through his hair, tugging at the blonde strands, which earns you a choked whimper.

"y-yeah?" he moans out whorishly, his breath hot against your neck. he's desperately trying to keep his pace from faltering. "tell me- can you tell me y'love me? p-please?" he snakes his hand down between both of your sweaty bodies and rubs tight circles on your clit, causing you cry out and arch into him further as pleasure shoots through your limbs. "love you!" you mewl, the only thing you can say when he's making you feel like this.

your orgasm crashes over you with his name lingering on your tongue, your pussy clenching and fluttering around him obscenely. he finishes directly after you, he was only holding off because he always makes sure you cum first. he doesn't want to be selfish, after all.

he collapses on top of you, practically panting. his cock is still sitting inside of you, his warm release settling. he'd probably never admit it, but your words of praise are his favorite part of sex.