love2liz

[love2liz]

Oh why do I not have this man in bed with me right now!?!!? 😩 😫

Drabble: Butcher takes care of sick reader

Warnings: cussing, fluff

Word count: 1.2k

A/n: I’ve been under the weather lately, and I want a soft, cutesie Butcher to take care of me. That’s all :p

The apartment door creaked open, causing your eyes to flutter open as your consciousness tethered to the waking world. You blinked a few times to dislodge the disorientation of your nap, a hefty yawn splitting your lips. The door clicked closed soon after, and the sound of heavy boots thudding across the room told you all you needed to know about the identity of your visitor—not that it was a difficult guessing game; nobody other than your boyfriend ever came around to see you.

Riddled with lethargy, you couldn’t bring yourself to face Billy, a migraine weighing so heavily on your senses that you felt you’d throw up with the slightest of movements.

“‘ello, Love,” Billy chirped, the rustle of a plastic bag following shortly after. “Got yer some o’ tha’ shite chinese nosh y’love so much. Now, I know what yer thinkin’—eat first, then give good ol’ Billy one hell o’ a thank ya fuck later. Offer graciously accepted. Yer a lovely, charitable dame, Love—yer just keep on givin’.”

You smiled weakly at the sound of his voice. You’d seen him last two days ago, but within that short time, you’d already come to miss him dearly. Sickness tended to come on strong with you, always rendering you vulnerable and bedridden for the first few days, and it was sure hell to endure. This sickness in particular had come on a day ago with a bang, and honestly, you’d been struggling to cope with it. You hadn’t told Billy about it, though, knowing that he likely had bigger things to tend to with The Boys. However, you couldn’t say that you weren’t thankful for his visit.

There was something about his presence alone that boosted your body’s morale and seemed to help you bounce back quicker—it had to be some sort of mental placebo effect. No matter the reason, you were thankful to have him here with you now.

“Sadly, your English breadstick is going to have to take a rain check on that,” you told him feebly. Your stomach seized up with a series of cramps, causing you to curl into yourself with a groan as you rode out the duration of the pain.

“All right there, Love?” Billy asked as he approached you, large hand outstretched to caress along the expanse of your back. The contact sent shivers up your hot spine. “Feelin’ a tad bit under the weather, are we?” He remarked, alluding to the dampened material of the shirt that clung messily to your underlying skin.

You hummed in confirmation, brows creased and eyes falling closed as you braved the nausea that seemed to arise in conjunction with your stomach cramps. “Not a tad bit—I’m in full-fledged suffering,” you grunted.

“Have yer eaten at all today?” He asked, the hand on your back snaking up to the nape of your neck. His palm hovered over the area, his thumb rubbing comforting circles along the feverish goosebumps of your skin.

“Haven’t had an appetite,” you pushed out. The warmth of his hand against your neck was a relaxation your body subconsciously craved, and it seemed to make the cramps let up an inch.

“Have yer a sip o’ water, at least,” Billy suggested. “Just a second, and I’ll fetch yer some.”

“Thank you, Billy,” you said softly, turning your head with caution to offer him an appreciative smile. You seized the opportunity to drink in his beautiful face, staring as if to burn his image into the memory of your retinas.

“Yeah, I gotcha,” he said with wink, hand neglecting your neck as he turned toward the kitchen. You turned and allowed your head to collapse against your pillow once more, eyes closing to bask in the peace of darkness. “Yer got any ginger?” He called back to you.

“Check the fridge,” you said, then added, “why?”

“I got a killer recipe tha’ll hand nausea’s arse back to ‘er,” he said. The fridge door clanked open, followed by a satisfied grunt from Billy. “There we are,” he said.

“Just don’t poison me,” you said. “I’m suffering enough.”

“Oi, have yer some faith in me,” Billy scolded gently. “S’me mum’s recipe. Woman ne’er once went wrong with ‘er whimsy kitchen faffing. I’ll make yer tha’ shite-tasting cup o’ ginger char, and soon after, you’ll be stuffin’ yer gob with all tha’ bloody chinese.”

The atmosphere simmered into comfortable silence as Billy tended to your mystery tea, the occasional clatter of utensils keeping you from drifting into another sleep. It wasn’t long before he was back at your aid, a gentle thud occurring atop the bedside table beyond your back, followed by the more shrill clink of a glass. You glanced over your shoulder and glimpsed the mug of ginger tea, as well as a cold, sweaty glass of water beside it.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

Billy cocked his chin at you. “Shimmy up,” he ordered.

“I could do that, but if you get whatever nasty thing I’ve got, I don’t wanna hear a single world about it,” you said.

“Don’t yer worry, Love, I’ll have me a good weepin’ of the eyes, then a good wank or two, and I’ll be right as rain after.” He leaned onto the bed, prompting you to shift yourself forward to make space for his broad frame. He manoeuvred about the mattress a few times as he moulded his body to the contours of yours, forming the large, comforting spoon you’d been craving in his absence. “Blimey, have yer got all o’ bleedin’ hell shoved up yer ass? Yer burnin’ up,” he remarked.

“Tell me about it,” you scoffed weakly.

Billy’s one arm slipped between the mattress and the nook of your neck, while the other curled around your waist to hold you against him. His lips pressed against your hair, hovering there for a few seconds before he withdrew to place his chin atop your head. You melted into his hold and his scent, a content breath easing from your nostrils.

“I’ve missed you,” you told him.

“Afraid I know the feelin’ all too well, Love,” he murmured against you, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated against the crown of your head. “Shoulda called to check in with yer sooner.”

You gave a disapproving noise. “You don’t have to worry about me every second of the day. I love you, but I’ll survive a day or two without you from time to time.” You probably wouldn’t, if you were honest with yourself. You’d barely been hanging on as of recently.

“Bloody liar, y’are,” he poked, his hand on your waist shifting to stroke along the sensitive skin of your stomach. “I know you’ve been craving me touch these last two days. Yer absolutely can’t live without it—and don’t yer get the ‘alf the mind to deny it, else I’ll give yer a punctual reminder.” His hand trailed down your stomach and toward your panties, where his fingers teased at the rim suggestively.

You sucked air at his motions, lower lip taken into a playful bite. “You sure as hell do make it tempting to play stupid,” you said, turning to glance at him through a grin.

Billy’s lips spread in a smirk before he leaned forward to impose a rough kiss on your lips. You savoured the taste of his lips, and the ever present underlying trace of cigar smoke, which you’d come to tolerate only because of the constant exposure via his frequent company. Once he pulled away, he moved to hover over your ear.

“Tell yer what—you get better f’me, Love, and I promise I’ll give tha’ stomach o’ yers a real rearrangement to fuss ‘bout, yeah? Sound like a solid plan?”

“Deal.”

Thank you for reading! All likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated. ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

Tags: @babyfri3dric3 @scrmqwn

Comment/message me to be added to/removed from the tag list for any future Billy Butcher works!

Other works: The Boys Masterlist

[love2liz]

Omg 🫠🥹 the thought of this happening is freaking precious. Somebody hug me please I'm in tears 🤧

Spelling bee

masterlist :)

Summary: Sam likes to mindlessly trace words onto your skin and you like to try and figure out what he's spelling. Today's little spelling bee is something neither of you have said out loud.

Pairings: established Sam Winchester x fem!reader

Tags: love confession, fluff

Warnings: none. just a lot of fluff. though as always 18+ mdni

801 words

A/N: my first drabble! hope you like it <3

It was a typical evening. If anything a boring one, because the preceding day had not been a working one. There were no active cases. So, instead of Sam being tucked in the library and yourself being extremely helpful (although Sam liked to describe you as distracting) with research, you sat curled up on the couch in his arms. Sam traced patterns on your arm. Most of the time they were intelligible, just a mindless movement. Sometimes though, Sam traced words onto your arm, letter by letter.

You think those were mostly mindless too, because his eyes never moved from the TV and he would usually spell out the words the characters were saying that caught his attention. When you noticed he was tracing letters, you always made a game out of trying to decipher the words. You kept track of the letters and tried to spell out whatever word was caught in his mind.

Today, he had started with the words Harvard and salon. You had forced him to put on one of your favourites, Legally Blonde. Sam had gone back to mindlessly tracing, but you caught him starting to draw an I and you knew he was starting up again. You follow the letters.

L

O

V? or maybe a K, you couldn’t tell. It was harder than it seems.

E

Y

O- oh wait-

U

Iloveyou? I love you?

Oh. He didn’t just trace ‘I love you’… did he?

That was not part of the dialogue at this point in the movie, you couldn't excuse it that way. It must’ve been a K instead of a V, you reason. 'I loke you' doesn’t make any sense, though. Maybe you got one of the other letters wrong? You thought it was pretty clear, but you must've missed a letter somewhere.

You look over to Sam, and you’re not surprised to find his eyes trained on the TV, although it was more of a thousand yard stare than being invested in the film itself. He had a soft smile on his face, the one that made you melt because you weren’t sure how much love and kindness had been stuffed into one human being. It was how he smiled down at you when after you pulled away from a kiss, or after you had cracked a particularly hard hunt, or after you made him his favourite meals. Was he thinking about you? Is that why he had traced those words?

You’d never said it to each other before, but you were sure you’d felt that way about Sam for a while, you just weren’t sure if he felt the same. Dating someone and actually loving someone were two different things, and it’s not like either of you were particularly great at expressing yourselves. You couldn’t fathom that Sam loved you back. You always forced yourself to stay quiet when the words tried to jump out of your mouth.

But maybe he did? Your heart drums in your ears at the thought. If Sam loved you, you were certain you’d never need anything else out of the world. It was the only thing you’d ever actually wished for. That the man you loved, loved you back.

You’d had a lot of wine tonight, and so you broke the silence without even giving it too much thought.

“I love you too, Sam.”

He looked over at you, seemingly jolted out of his thoughts. “What was that, baby?”

“Oh-” your face heats up, realizing how stupid it was to make the inference and run with it. “I just said, never mind, not important.”

“What was it? I want to know now.” Sam tilts his head, and there’s that dumb smile again.

“N-nothing, I-” The smile doesn’t leave as you stammer under his gaze. It brainwashes you into repeating your original thought. “I love you.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You love me? Really?” The tone was hopeful or disbelieving, you could never really tell with him at first, but you double down anyway because the bottom half of his face stays the same.

“I love you, Sam.”

Sam’s smile breaks into a toothy, wide grin. You loved that smile of his too.

“I love you too, baby. I've been waiting to say that forever."

"Me too. I was nervous," you admit. It occurred to you that Sam didn't even realize he had told you first, communicated via touch, and that was the sweetest thing he'd ever done. How could Sam be so sweet without even trying, without even realizing it? "But, I love you more than anything, Sam."

He nods, squeezing your arm where the patterns had been traced and pulling you further against his side. Sam plants a gentle kiss on the top of your head. "To the moon and back, my love."

tyty for reading !

pics are not mine, can be found here

dividers by @/strangergraphics

tags: the lovely @studiogrimm810

[love2liz]

The easiest way to describe what you go through as someone with a chronic illness lmfao

fuck it we ball (malnourished, heavy eve bags, dehydrated, and on the verge of insanity)

[love2liz]

Me too @staff, me too 😫

SPN reunion on The Boys got us all like XD

[love2liz]

Ugh @themareverine stop doing this to me 😭😭

This was so beautiful I'm sobbing

The writing is gorgeous and I'm so proud of you!!

🤍❤️🩷From Mare, With Love🩷❤️🤍

I’m sorry if I should have waited for the 14th to send this 😂😬 I was wondering if you could write “The Wolverine” movie version of Logan trying to repair a fractured relationship with Reader when Valentine’s Day comes around…

Thank you 🥰

— every part of you

2013!Wolverine x mutant!wife!reader

warnings: established relationship, reader has the same mutation as Logan, perceived cheating.

a/n: sid, my love! hopefully this is close to what you're looking for? I haven't written this Logan before, what a treat! I'm also playing with a new writing style, so let me know what you think!

☆ ── 💌FROM MARE WITH LOVE

“You fuckin’ liar!” 

Often Logan has thought there’s not much in this life left that can rip open his meatshirt, but he's never been above being wrong.

This is one of those moments, just some of the words. 

Venom behind her tone first lashes white hot, ripping all the way to core parts of him that have been sheltered for uncountable years—only to hit cold, against his ribs.

A cold that alarms him to his bones, almost. He’d never seen her eyes, so fiercely blue, track so dark and lethal. If she’d been able to kill him with her stare alone, he’d be buried six feet under and rotting in graveclothes. 

Very few words actually had the ability to matter to him, in all his years, and he reacts swiftly—sidesteps the something that she manages to fling his direction.

It hits the wall in a muffled thump somewhere behind him, but he actually couldn’t care less about it—he watches her rip through the small cooking space, wrangling into a jacket. Her feet swiftly carry her out the door before he can round the center counter, his own coat over his arm. 

“Mare, just calm the hell down and listen to me —” 

“Why? So you can lie to my fuckin’ face?”

Her words lilt with rage, and Logan has to pull up a little shorter than he’s ever had to as she whirls about face, finger within an inch of his nose.

Her eyes narrow into lethal slits, dark and cold, as the apple of her cheeks light up with scandalous red.

“I saw. Every last pathetic, sick inch of you with her.” Her hands shove him back at the shoulders with a strength he forgot she possessed, her face twisting in the effort to contain the emotion hemorrhaging between her words, “We split off for what, a day, and you're in the arms of a different girl? Shit. Tell me, Logan, are you that desperate?” Her scoff is blade thin, “Could’ve fooled me.”

Sharp eyes drift low, to the cradle of his pelvis, then pierce him again like a knife.

“Oh, wait — duh. You did fool me. Asshole.” 

His frown deepens, managing an exasperated growl. He goes to step forward, reaching for her wrist, but she backs up with raised hands of surrender. Almost as if she’s relinquishing the argument.

 “We’ve known her for, like, a day, Logan. If you’re lucky,” Stepping back off the stone path, her boots scuff against the pavement. “And not to mention she’s like the granddaughter of your friend—shit. Shit.”

Eyes rolling upward, she shakes her head, “Y’know what? That’s fine. Great. Have a nice life, Logan, you and what’s-her-face—enjoy Japan.” 

Gesturing to the bay of open water, she turns on the ball of her foot, waving him off, “Figures—fuckin’ figures, come halfway around the world to help you say goodbye, and—” 

He does the unthinkable thing and rushes her from behind, hand grabbing at her hip to bring her about face with a passing, strong hand. The rough rasp of his voice cuts low, his lip curling when she tries to spin away.

Fingers curled into the material of her jacket tighten, however, closing the distance between the two of them. 

Anger passes visibly across her features, and Logan can scent the burst of blood from between her knuckles as familiar claws pop free of her flesh. Her lips part to insult, he's sure, but her expression blanches when he meets her blow—blocks it with a swat of his hand.

Expertly spins her around on her feet, forces her back against his chest in a hold strong enough to break most men — but she isn’t most men. 

She’s like him, in every way. Down to the mutation, to the genes. 

Designed and stitched together, intertwined with fate. 

Mariko had been a mistake, a mistake that he hadn’t anticipated. She’d kissed him with the desperation of a child, looking for connection in the shared human experience.

He hadn’t been thinking, honestly—only fate would send her right through the door, stumbling over this moment.

The look on her face he’ll never forget, passing anger. The star-crossed rage of a thousand broken pieces, the fear. 

Pain flickers inside him, sends his skin itching with unmitigated upset. The hope he’d felt bleed from her a thousand times, suddenly gone. He’d been unable to breathe as she’d hurled insults at him. Unable to answer, to think past the little tremble of fight in every one of her words holding back tears, betrayal fresh and hot. 

Any other woman would have done the same, and Logan believes it — but it wasn’t him. It could never be. He loved her, would die a thousand deaths to be within breathing distance.

God should scoff at him, strike him for letting her get this far into her doubts. 

A kiss from a stranger could not undo a decade together. He’ll make her understand that, if it kills him.

She isn’t a stupid woman, never. Smarter than him, smarter than most. 

“Yield, honey,” it’s more of a scoff than anything, he adds pressure to his hand fighting her arm, “it ain’t gonna happen.” Hand at her hip, he nods to the claws that catch the sun—they may as well be daggers stained with the blood from where she's buried knives in his chest.

“Put ‘em away, princess. Won’t ask again.” 

“Don’t you dare call me that after you’ve given her that name, Logan,” her words are slow, broken.

And she does yield, slowly. Like a dream, almost. Sapped of strength, bludgeoned of courage. He can scent the tears brimming beneath her fan of lashes.

“You’re hurting me.”

Her head turns to consider him over her shoulder, and he releases. 

It's too close. Tension in his jaw sets off muscle, and she steps away from him. Reaching for her hip, she doesn’t put much effort into twisting away, it’s slow motion. Hollywood, even. Calculated. Deliberate.

He never thought she'd be capable of pulling away from him so smoothly, so expert.

“Do you love her?” Her eyes cast low, to the ground—more tears sparkle in the high sun. He's fairly sure he can't breathe, but, oxygen pumps in his blood like a pistoning freight train.

“Do you love her? Already?” 

It’s preposterous. 

Wild. Absurd. Her stupidest moment. His frown deepens—he’ll never give a damn about Mariko, not like he does her. His sun, to which his life revolves. His Adonis, forever Icharus in the shadow of her.

The very heart beating behind his ribs aches at the thought of worshipping anyone else. Anyone else rising to take her place?

He’d divide mountains. 

Visible confusion passes over his face he knows, and he is more aggressive about his hand connecting with her hip. He manages to ease closer; she pulls back. A delicate dance of advance, retreat.

Until she’s backed into the shade of a low-hanging tree branch, hidden from the sun. Canopy of blue-gray sky. 

The flutter of her lashes tells him she hopes he can’t see the stain of tears, of pain. He could never not see her — a thousand years could pass between them and he’d always find her, again. Any lifetime. Any realm.

Logan thinks he’d pass through time for her, relive every horror if it meant having her again.

She is the first, every time. The sweetest. His only. Everything with her is the first, and it’s shut up within him like a shaking the world would never know. He can barely breathe, thinking about it.

Craves it like its sweet whiskey, the air that gives him life. 

“Not possible,” he gruffs, braving a step closer. She’d sink into the bark of the tree if she could. His knuckles graze the wet of her cheeks, his eyes snag the way she tries to angle from his touch but can’t.

“Don’t you know I can’t love anyone but you?” It’s true. He’d never love again like he does at this very moment, time standing still. Waiting to be born.

“She’s just a girl, playin’ games. And what I feel for you isn’t a game—and I told her that much.”  He shakes his head, his scoff low in his chest, “Can’t say I ain’t proud of you being bein’ jealous, though.” 

She makes a rough sound, her eyes shifting up to his. “I have a right to be jealous.” It’s a weak defense, her low lip curling inward, tenderly. Like a child. 

His fingers tuck under her chin, forcing her attention. “You do, and I want you to be.” 

“You shouldn’t temp fate.” 

“And you shouldn’t be jealous, but here we are.” He grunts, “You sorry for acting like an ass?” 

Stone cold, she shifts a little uncomfortably beneath his hard stare. “I’m not sorry for wanting you all to myself,” her tone is firm, but the gallop in her pulse betrays every edge to her tone. It’s a greenlight, the jump of adrenaline that licks at her skin, her held breath as he moves in, closer still.

“Next time I won’t be so forgiving.” 

“Won’t be a next time,” the way her breath hitches when he leans close will never cease to rip him open, “only person I wanna kiss is right here, if she’ll have me.” He knows she will, she always will. He’d waited lifetimes. Passed through fires and centuries to be here, right now.

“You still want me?” 

Pretty sure he’d continue to do so, until God decided he’d breathed enough. 

“I’ll always want you, Logan,” taking his chin between her fingers, her eyes rivet onto his with the weight of ancient worlds hanging between them. “Every part of me is for you. Just remember that the next time you up and decide you’re gonna let girls kiss you outta nowhere.” 

She’s absolutely meant for him, every part.

Every breath, every heartbeat. Fits against him like God’s design. He couldn’t let her go, not even for wild horses. Not even for fate, or God, or love and money. 

And she’s right here with him, mouth slanted against his. 

Every part of her, for every part of him. 

💌 tagging:

@sidkneeeee

@thevoicefromanotherworld

@misscrissfemmefatale

@eternallyfrustratedwriter

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@laaadygisbooornex3

@itsafullmoon

@kmc1989

@steviebbboi

@matronmothercrone

[love2liz]

[love2liz]

seeing old man!logan being happy and smiling fuels something primal in me 😭😭😭

[love2liz]

No because no one will ever have enough power over me to convince me Steter is not a perfect ship just because "ew age gap much wtf?" 1- Stiles is played by a 26 y o actor the whole time my guy he never looked like some twinky teen I always saw him as older bc old tv played that way idkwtty 2- You're gonna look at me, and tell me Stiles did/does/will always have the power in that relationship? Oh yeah sure, Peter is the wolf, but Stiles?? Stiles would have that bitch on his knees in a second and 3- Peter canonically adores Stiles. The one person he has never: Lied to, harmed, traded for Peter's gain. Stiles is the only person Peter has ever relied upon and trusted and I STG Stiles is literally the Hale's anchor. The entire remaining Hale Pack depends on Stiles to survive mentally. 4- Stiles never once doubted Peter could kill him, but he also very quickly figured out that Peter wouldn't unless there was a very good reason which is: Stiles shot first. Stiles would have to not only be the aggressor, but be the one in the wrong. And despite all the bad Stiles ha guilt for, Peter never once saw him as wrong.

[love2liz]

I 10,000% Agree with this ^^^^^^

BURNT SUGAR

─── dean winchester x werewolf! reader

summary! when your attempt to bake dean a birthday cake goes up in smoke—literally—you both decide there are better ways to celebrate.

word count! 1.1k

dean’s birthday wasn’t supposed to be anything special, but you were determined to make it memorable. sure, he wasn’t big on birthdays, and yes, you knew you weren’t exactly martha stewart in the kitchen, but this was dean winchester. the man deserved something more than a cold beer and a half-assed burger. so, you decided to bake him a cake. how hard could it be, really?

turns out, pretty damn hard.

the first issue was the recipe. you’d spent twenty minutes scrolling through your phone, trying to find one that looked “easy.” everything had terms like “sift” and “whisk until peaks form,” and you were already lost. but eventually, you settled on a simple chocolate cake with buttercream frosting. or at least, it sounded simple.

the second issue was the ingredients. you were halfway through mixing the batter when you realized you didn’t have enough eggs. so, naturally, you improvised—a little extra milk here, a splash of beer there (dean liked beer, so that had to be a good idea, right?). by the time the batter was ready, it looked… questionable, but you figured the magic would happen in the oven.

then came the oven.

you set the temperature, popped the pan in, and went to work on the frosting. but as you were trying to figure out how to make powdered sugar out of regular sugar (spoiler: you couldn’t), the smell of something burning filled the bunker. panicking, you threw open the oven door, only to be greeted by a cloud of smoke. the cake had bubbled over the sides of the pan, forming a charred, sticky mess at the bottom of the oven.

“crap, crap, crap!” you muttered, waving a towel in front of the smoke detector to keep it from going off. flour was somehow in your hair, sugar coated your clothes, and the counters looked like a bomb had gone off in a bakery. the frosting you’d managed to make was a lumpy disaster, and you were pretty sure you’d ruined one of dean’s favorite pans.

and that was exactly when dean came home.

“what the hell is going on in here?” he asked, his voice cutting through the haze of smoke and your rising panic. he stood in the doorway, his green eyes wide as he took in the scene: the flour-covered counters, the smoldering oven, and you, standing in the middle of the chaos with a guilty look on your face.

you looked up at him with wide eyes, flour streaked across your cheek and even in your hair. a small pout tugged at your lips as you gestured to the mess around you. “i was trying to bake you a cake,” you admitted, sounding like you were moments away from accepting your fate as the world’s worst baker.

for a moment, dean just stared. then, his lips twitched, and a laugh bubbled out of him. it started as a chuckle, but soon he was full-on laughing, his hands on his hips as he shook his head.

“pup, you know you can’t cook,” he said, walking over to you and brushing a bit of flour out of your hair.

“baking is different,” you argued, crossing your arms over your chest. “it’s science.”

“baby,” he said, smirking as he leaned in closer, “you don’t bake. you get baked.”

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “okay, fine. but i thought maybe i could make it work for your birthday.”

dean shook his head, still chuckling as he surveyed the damage. “alright, let’s turn on the vents before we suffocate in here. then we’ll figure out food that doesn’t involve you burning the place down.”

it didn’t take long for the two of you to decide that the cake was a lost cause. dean turned on the air vents to clear out the smoke while you scurried off to your room for a joint you’d stashed for “emergencies.” within an hour, the ruined cake was forgotten, and the two of you were sprawled out on the kitchen floor, a cloud of smoke hanging lazily between you.

takeout containers surrounded you—pizza, fries, burgers and a massive milkshake that dean insisted you had to share. everything felt lighter, funnier, as the haze settled over you. dean couldn’t stop laughing when you tried to explain how the flour ended up on the ceiling. you couldn’t stop laughing when dean kept calling it your “artistic vision.”

“i’m just saying,” you said, giggling as you gestured to the mess around you, “this is what happens when you leave me unsupervised.”

“it’s the thought that counts,” he said, his voice softening as he looked at you, his eyes warm with affection. “but next time, maybe just stick with beer and pie.”

you rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade. “noted.”

for a while, the two of you just sat there, eating and laughing and sharing lazy kisses between bites. it wasn’t a fancy birthday celebration, but it felt right. it felt like you and dean—messy and imperfect.

at some point, you got up, mumbling something about “be right back” before disappearing behind him. when you returned, you had something hidden behind your back. dean raised an eyebrow, curious as you sat back down beside him and revealed your “masterpiece”: one of those pre-packaged cupcakes with a candle stuck in the top.

“the gas station didn’t have pie,” you explained with a sheepish smile.

for a moment, he just stared at you, and you wondered if maybe you’d gone too far. but then his face softened, his eyes full of so much love it made your chest ache. his green eyes were bright, his lips curved in a tender smile as he leaned forward and blew out the candle. taking the twinkie from your hand he set it aside before cupping your face in his hands

“you’re something else, you know that?” he said softly, his voice rough with emotion.

“is that a good thing?” you asked, your voice just as soft.

“hell yeah, it is,” he murmured. pressing his lips to yours he kissed you slow and deep, pouring every bit of his love into it. when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks.

“thanks, scoob,” he whispered, the nickname making you laugh despite the lump in your throat.

“happy birthday, dean,” you replied, your arms wrapping around his neck as you held him close. the kitchen was a disaster, the cake was a failure, but none of that mattered. because in that moment, sitting on the floor in the middle of the chaos, everything felt perfect.

breezy's notes: it is my pookie's birthday! ugh i love this man and just needed him to have even a moment of happiness. also, i am such a scooby doo girl (i had scooby doo wallpaper in my room til i was like 8), so him using the nickname scoob just felt right.

tags ⋆·˚ ༘ *🔭: @floralscented @deansbeer @aileenunfiltered @jasvtsc @honeyryewhiskey @florchids @bluemerakis @tortureddarkstar @figthoughts @ultravi0lence14 @dulcescorderitas @misatxox @foolinthera1n @deansenvy @hoffmansgirl @eepwtf @lawboysammyy @jjmbbg @tinas111 @soldiersgirl

[love2liz]

🐺

stiles STILINSKI 💜

part 10