#I need to pin him to the wall with pins and duct tape and just stare at him and study him for hours and taking notes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hamilton-here · 4 days ago

Note

Hiii! Could you please make one with angst? But with a happy ending lol 😂 Lewis and reader are friends, she confesses to him, he rejects her and hurts her by making her see that "he would never be with her" (like dating other girls and such) but because he hasn't realized that deep down he also has feelings for her until he does. And he tries to win her back , hoping it's not too late. Please and thank you very much.

𝒯𝑜𝑜 𝐿𝒶𝓉𝑒, 𝑜𝓇 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I’m slowly getting these requests out, I’m trying my best. I hope you enjoy and are doing well. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis rejects your love, until he realises too late he feels the same and fights to win you back.

Warnings: angst

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’ve known Lewis for almost seven years now.

It started in the least likely of places backstage at a chaos drenched university charity fashion show. The corridor was a cluttered artery pulsing with frantic energy, half lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs and thick with the scent of hairspray, fabric glue and the adrenaline of young creatives desperate for their cue. It was narrow, lined with garment racks wobbling under the weight of sequinned gowns and clunky boots and half finished dreams stitched together with caffeine and ambition.

You were in your element as an half production assistant, half miracle worker, juggling a clipboard that had lost most of its pages to frantic hands, holding safety pins between your teeth, your ponytail crooked from the constant tug of motion. Your tote bag weighed down one shoulder, filled with lip balm, duct tape, portable phone chargers and a water bottle that had begun to sweat through the canvas. Chaos clung to you like glitter and somehow, you moved through it with practiced grace.

And then it happened. A thud against the plaster wall beside you. You turned, startled but unphased only to meet eyes with someone who looked like he had walked straight out of a high resolution billboard and directly into the wrong hallway.

Leather jacket. Dark jeans. That unmistakable halo of world weariness beneath carefully styled hair. He looked out of place not just geographically, like someone who had taken a wrong turn but like he had wandered into someone else’s life and wasn’t sure if he should knock or just walk in. And you knew the face. Everyone did.

Lewis Hamilton. The five-time world champion at the time. The man whose name was synonymous with speed, precision, and glossy magazine spreads. You remembered seeing him once on the cover of a sports editorial where they described his racing line as “poetry at 300 km/h.” But here, in that moment, his poetry looked a little crumpled.

The other volunteers froze mid-movement. One girl dropped a makeup brush. Another boy whispered “Oh my god” as if it were a hymn.

But you? You tilted your head and raised a brow. “You do know you’re standing directly under a sign that says ‘Green Room,’ right?”

He followed your gaze upward and when his eyes met the sign, he laughed something raw and unfiltered, like a note escaping a song that wasn’t rehearsed. It was a laugh that caught in his throat and spilled out too loud, surprising even himself.

“Well,” he managed between chuckles, “that’s mildly humiliating.” You smirked and handed him your water bottle without ceremony. “Maybe next time, stick to racetracks. The signage is less ironic.”

That was the start.

He followed you on Instagram that night. Sent a DM a few days later, simple and self deprecating - “Thanks for not treating me like Bigfoot.”

You replied - “Don’t flatter yourself. I treat all hallway stumblers equally.”

What followed wasn’t fireworks but more so quieter and slower. A gentle uncurling of two souls that didn’t need a catalyst, only time.

There were late night texts when the world outside blurred and all that remained were thoughts too heavy to carry alone. He sent voice notes at 3 a.m. of soft musings about insomnia and the pressure to always perform. Sometimes he’d talk about how the media made him feel like a puppet strung together with headlines and expectations.

You responded with voice notes of your own. Mundane, meandering, beautiful in their simplicity. You told him about your philosophy essay, your burnt toast, your opinion on whether cats secretly rule the world. Once, he said, “I love how you narrate even the boring parts. It’s like I’m sitting beside you, watching it happen.”

Slowly, you stitched yourselves into each other’s days.

He told you about the weight behind his wins how every trophy seemed to come with a thousand invisible bruises. The relentless politics within the team. The loneliness behind the roar of the crowd. You, in turn opened up about your own chaos. The heartbreak that had hollowed you out. The dread of deadlines. The ache of feeling like you’d never do anything that actually mattered.

Somehow, in the exchange, the loneliness didn’t disappear but it felt acknowledged. And that made it bearable.

He remembered everything. Your favourite mug which was the chipped one with stars on it. That you cried during thunderstorms, not out of fear, but because they made the world feel dramatically alive. That you hated coriander with the passion of a thousand poets. That you always lost the left earring, not the right.

When you messaged him that life was too loud, he showed up unannounced with pastries dusted in powdered sugar and a playlist titled “Inhale/Exhale.” You teased him for being dramatic and he shrugged like it was the most reasonable answer in the world. “You ground me. Let me be useful.”

You were there for the highest highs of the glittering red carpet events where he glowed under flashbulbs and you stood quietly to the side, clapping softly, half hidden and proud.

And the lowest lows. The injury that took him off the circuit for weeks. The loss of his beloved dog Coco.

He called you sobbing that night, grief stricken and unsure. You said nothing for the longest time, letting him cry into the silence, the sound of his broken heart fill the spaces between your breaths. He finally whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Another time, after a week that left you threadbare with anxiety, he texted you two words: “Come outside.” And so you did.

He was parked across the street in a sleek black car that hummed like it had secrets. Inside, there was takeout and a blanket bundled in the backseat. He didn’t speak when you climbed in. Just pressed play on an old playlist and drove aimlessly as the stars blinked awake outside the windows. “This is the quiet you needed,” he murmured.

There were holidays that felt like borrowed pages from someone else’s diary.

Morocco - where the air smelled like orange blossoms and his bartering in markets was part theatrical performance, part genuine delight. You laughed so hard, your ribs ached.

Santorini - sunburned and stubborn, you grimaced as he gently applied aloe vera, scolding you the entire time. “For someone so brilliant,” he muttered, “you’re alarmingly bad at sunscreen.”

Iceland - fireplace crackling, the snow whispering outside. He curled beside you, legs tangled under a fleece throw, voice quiet and unsure. “I think this is the happiest I’ve been in months.”

And always the inside jokes. A shared glance that said everything. A nickname no one else understood. A secret language encoded in touch and tone, one that turned chaotic airports and crowded events into quiet fortresses of familiarity.

Photographers caught glimpses of a hand resting gently on your shoulder, your laughter tilted toward him, matching sneakers that told a story only you two knew. Comment sections overflowed with speculation.

You brushed it off, casually. “Just friends,” you’d quip in interviews, lips curved in a smile that danced on the edge of ambiguity.

“Best friends,” he once corrected during a Q&A, his gaze flickering toward you for just a second longer than it needed to. “She keeps me sane.”

But slowly, quietly, something shifted.

Not in a sudden swell of confession. Not in declarations beneath fireworks. But in the way your hand lingered on his shoulder a beat too long. In the way he watched you when you spoke, like each word rearranged something inside him. Or the sigh he let out when you laughed.

And in the silence, even that started to feel like love.

You don’t know when the crush started. You’ve retraced the timeline more times than you’d admit not because you think you’ll find an answer but because part of you wants to believe there is one. A clean moment. A sharp memory. Something you can hold up and say "Here. This is where it happened."

But love, or whatever this is, never introduced itself with fanfare. It crept in the way fog rises over water slow, deliberate and disguised as something ordinary.

Maybe it was the nights he stayed on the phone until you drifted off, his voice softening with each sentence, words unraveling into warm nonsense. Just syllables to fill the space between your breath and sleep, so the silence wouldn’t tip you into the places where fear waited. You never asked him to stay, not really. He just did. Even when he had early meetings, even when his own thoughts were tangled.

Or maybe it was the way his texts always arrived at precisely the moment when your insides clenched with loneliness. Not five minutes before. Not ten after. Right then. When the air around you was too still, too silent, and everything felt like it had slipped one inch further from your grasp. You never told him how perfectly timed he was. You just smiled at the screen and breathed again.

It could’ve been the small things like the way he waited to order food until you arrived, regardless of how ravenous he was. His menu untouched, glass of water half empty, eyes lazily scanning the entrance like he wasn’t looking for you but everything else was meaningless noise until you walked in. And when you did? The way his expression softened not lit up like the sun, but gentled like dusk.

That kind of attention is its own form of gravity.

And maybe you noticed how often he did that, waited. He waited for you to speak first when your words were slow to arrive. Waited for you to laugh when the joke was yours to finish. Waited for you to decide what movie, what drink, what path to take. He built a rhythm around you, subtle and unquestioning, like his choices bent toward your comfort.

Still, none of those moments came with certainty. There was no siren call. No line drawn in the sand. The shift was quiet. Uneventful. You never even heard it arrive only felt it once it had soaked into your bones.

One moment you were his closest friend.

The one who could tell from a single sigh whether he’d had a good day or a devastating one. The person who knew the way he curled into himself when he was overwhelmed, the pattern his foot tapped when he was fighting nerves, the exact phrasing he used when something truly mattered. You knew which days needed silence and which needed the comfort of your voice. You were the one he texted, the one he called, the one he trusted.

And then something changed.

You started watching him differently.

Not with wide eyes or flushed cheeks that would have been simple, almost sweet. This was harder. It was the kind of looking that cracked quietly. You noticed the details that never used to ache. The way he tilted his head when he smiled at someone else. How he leaned in when a woman spoke with confidence. How his gaze lingered just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You waited for your name to show up on his screen and pretended it didn’t hurt when someone else’s did.

You tried not to care. Honestly. You told yourself it was just friendship. That jealousy was an overreaction. You even laughed about it with your friend once and, called it "annoying little feelings," like they were hiccups in your heart.

But it wasn’t funny when he praised another woman’s dress. Or when he reposted someone else’s selfie with heart emojis. Or when he turned toward the laughter that wasn’t yours.

And God, you knew him. You knew him like poetry. Not just the words but the rhythm, the pauses, the places he’d repeat himself. You knew his light and his shadow. And the tragedy was by knowing him, you fell in love with every stanza. But he didn’t love you back. Not like that.

And that truth was not loud or dramatic but antagonising slow and cruel.

You were still the one he turned to after gruelling races. The one who caught him between exhaustion and adrenaline. The one who stayed on the line when he couldn’t talk, when he just needed presence. You listened to the fragments he couldn’t share with the world the fears he buried, the confusion, the bone deep weariness that sometimes clung even after victory.

You read his speeches before they made headlines. You edited out the self doubt hidden in parentheses. You made playlists for the long flights, ones that told stories through lyrics because you knew he needed comfort that didn’t sound like advice.

You taught him how to fold dumplings one rainy afternoon. The kind of day where nothing was pressing, nothing demanded urgency just steam, laughter and flour smudged on his forehead. He called it the best day he’d had in months. He said it like it was a revelation. You didn’t know how to reply.

Still, you weren’t the choice.

You watched women step into his orbit like they were born to be seen radiant, unbothered by the idea of being watched. They wore designer dresses like armour. They posed, smiled, kissed and posted. Their beauty was sharp, striking, effortless. And you? You hovered behind the camera. Never quite centre. Never quite framed.

“I don’t date friends,” he said once a throwaway line spoken between bites of slightly burnt toast, his eyes locked on his phone, scrolling through something he didn’t share with you. You laughed. You had to. “Well, lucky me. Barely tolerable at best.”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. His thumb brushed yours when you reached for the butter knife. You felt that touch days later. Like an echo in your skin.

That night you couldn’t sleep. The sentence looped like static through your head, stealing the air from your lungs. I don’t date friends.

You stared at your ceiling, counting seconds, blinking back tears you refused to name. You wondered if he would ever turn to you with different eyes not as the trusted constant, but as someone he couldn’t stop thinking about.

You wondered if he knew how long you’d been standing in the doorway.

How long you’d been holding the weight of love with hands that had never once asked him to carry any of it.

And still...you stayed. Not because you were weak. But because leaving felt like cutting off the very heartbeat of your days. He was everywhere now, stitched into the margins of your life. And even if it never became more, you stayed because those moments however fleeting, were the most honest parts of your world.

Until that night, it was all manageable.

The longing was something you’d learned to carry in silence, like a melody you hummed alone in your room. You were familiar with it by the ache that curled in your chest when he smiled at someone else, the slight hitch in your breath when he leaned against you just a little too long, the way your hands tingled every time his fingers brushed yours. You had learned, over time, to mask the tremors with laughter, to stuff down the hope with practicality. You didn’t let yourself name it. Naming things gave them power.

But that night in Monaco something cracked.

There was no storm outside. No cinematic crescendo. Just the rhythm of two people sitting shoulder to shoulder on a hotel carpet at midnight, a mess of pizza boxes between them, wine breathing in half filled glasses and the lull of shared comfort that came with knowing someone too well.

His feet were bare. His hair flattened from sleep, sticking in soft tufts. He wore your favourite hoodie the oversized one you’d always steal during chilly evenings its sleeves pushed up just enough to show his wrists, delicate and bruised from leaning on the edge of the tub earlier as he washed the day off.

He was scrolling through TikTok, nose crinkled in delight at a clip of a dog dressed like a dinosaur. His laughter clear and careless bubbled in your chest like champagne. You were watching him again, the way you always did when he wasn’t looking. The line of his jaw, the unguarded softness of his profile, how he curled slightly inward when he was truly relaxed.

And the feeling surged. Not gently, not like it had before. This time, it punched through you violently. A need, raw and irrepressible. A truth that had festered and bloomed and could no longer be contained.

“I need to tell you something,” you said. Your voice was hoarse. Quiet. You weren’t even sure he heard you until he turned, half laugh still lingering on his lips, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He expected something small. Another secret in your constellation of shared confessions. A childhood story. A half-remembered dream.

“What’s up?” he said, still smiling, still waiting for the familiar.

But your heart was thudding so loudly now you could feel it in your throat, in your ears, in the spaces between your ribs. You swore he could hear it. You were drowning in it.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

And then everything fell silent.

Not the dramatic kind you see in movies, with orchestral tension and gasps - no, this silence was worse. This was complete stillness. The kind that feels like time itself has stopped breathing. That slips under the skin and makes every cell wait.

His laugh faded in stages. First his eyes dimmed, then his lips stilled, then his hand the one holding the phone slowly dropped onto his knee like gravity had decided to intervene. You watched it happen. Watched the joy drain. Watched the moment change from light to shadow.

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor. Like the weight of what you’d said had become too much to look at directly. And then, finally, barely above a whisper “Love…” He said it like a warning. Like a quiet plea against something neither of you could take back.

“Don’t.” Your breath snagged in your chest. The air tasted sour. Your voice came out shaking, a bare thread. “Don’t what?”

His eyes lifted. But they didn’t meet yours fully. Just brushed past, like the truth in your gaze was too bright. “Don’t ruin this,” he said. And that, those words were the ones that shattered you. Because they weren’t said with cruelty. They weren’t sharp, or angry, or dismissive. They were spoken with fear. With hesitation. With finality.

They sounded like goodbye.

“So you don’t feel the same?” you asked, teeth clenched against the tremble.

He met your gaze then fully, finally and what you saw wasn’t love. It was pity. Small. Devastating. Glistening like tears that hadn’t fallen yet.

“I love you,” he said, and each syllable cut. “Of course I do. You’re my home.”

“But not like that,” you replied. The words burned as they left you. Like ash on your tongue.

He winced, like they hurt him too. “I never meant for you to feel this way.”

“And that doesn’t make it hurt less.”

He reached out, instinctively. His fingers twitched they always did, even when he didn’t know what to do with them. But halfway, he stopped. Paused. Let his hand fall into his lap. Trembling. Useless.

“I don’t know who I am without you,” he murmured, voice cracking. “You’re my best friend.” You nodded, swallowing hard, trying to stay upright in a moment that felt like drowning. “Then why do I feel invisible right now?”

He didn’t have an answer.

And that silence…that silence screamed louder than anything he could’ve said.

You stood slowly. Every movement felt like it required permission. Your hands shook. Your knees barely held. The room had grown impossibly small with the ceiling pressing downward, walls inching in. You were suffocating in a space you’d once called safe. The pizza was still warm. The wine still breathable. His hoodie still smelled like cinnamon and sea spray.

But it was all meaningless now. Props in a scene that had ended.

You walked out. He didn’t call your name. He didn’t follow. And that was the part that splintered your soul into pieces you weren’t sure would ever fit together again.

Because somewhere deep down in the parts you didn’t show, in the places where hope still whispered you had always believed he would. Believed that one day, love would wake up in him like a tide, sudden and unstoppable. You believed that when it mattered, when the moment finally came he’d choose you. But he didn’t. He stayed behind. Silent. Still.

You sat in the taxi, fingers clenched against your thighs, staring out at the ocean with your vision blurred not from tears, you told yourself. Just wind. Just movement. Just exhaustion. The driver asked your destination. You answered automatically, voice hollow.

Behind you, a room still held the echo of laughter. Of long nights and inside jokes. Of everything that had felt so real until it wasn’t. And in its centre sat the boy you loved.

Not reaching. Not following. Just silent.

The days after weren’t dramatic.

There were no slammed doors. No shattered mugs on the kitchen tile. No tear streaked faces standing in rain just for the metaphor. There were no crying fits that made your chest seize and hiccup none of that cinematic release.

Instead, there was quiet.

A quiet that felt like a blanket laid over everything. Thick. Suffocating. Damp with meaning. It settled over your shoulders and in the folds of your routine made the air feel heavier, made time crawl. You would walk into rooms and forget why you’d entered. You’d make tea and let it go cold beside you, untouched. You’d open your messages and then shut the phone off again, heart thudding for no good reason.

This was heartbreak without spectacle, a type of grief masquerading as stillness.

You didn’t cry not in the way people expected. Not the way you’d done after past breakups, when tears came with guttural sound and trembling fingers. No, this pain was quieter. Meaner. It came in waves so gentle you almost didn’t notice you were sinking.

Mornings were the worst. You’d wake up and, for three cruel seconds, everything was fine. The sunlight hit the wall the same way. The air tasted of the usual. Your limbs stretched like they always did, no tremor, no ache.

Then memory arrived. And it didn’t crash - it crept. Slipped into your mind like a whisper: he doesn’t love you back. Your stomach would turn. Your lungs would stutter. And you’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how you were supposed to be a person today.

You stopped answering his calls. Not because you wanted to punish him, God it was never about punishment. You wanted to preserve what was left of yourself. Because hearing his voice felt like standing barefoot on broken glass. He kept calling, kept leaving voicemails that sounded too soft, too sweet. That tilt in his voice reserved only for you the one he’d use when asking if you’d eaten, or if you’d slept well, or if you wanted to come over just to sit.

But you couldn’t do it anymore. You couldn’t sit in that hollow place where he loved you like a friend and you loved him like oxygen. You let his calls ring. Let his messages sit unopened. Let the distance bloom like bruises.

You muted his stories. His posts. Didn’t unfollow that felt too loud, too final, like slamming a door you weren’t ready to close. But you removed him from your daily view. Hid him from the places where he had existed like background music. Because each photo felt like a betrayal. Like you were witnessing a new version of him one that had already started forgetting you.

He was still beautiful. Still radiant and magnetic and soft around the edges where your fingers used to trace.

But now he was laughing with other people. Holding champagne flutes. Draped in designer jackets beside women who didn’t know the way he hummed when anxious. Who didn’t know the lullabies he used to whisper to calm your racing heart.

You buried yourself in work. Built a fortress out of calendars, bullet points, spreadsheets. You breathed in productivity like oxygen like it might fill the places in your chest he had hollowed out. You told yourself if you stayed busy, the pain would forget to arrive. You threw yourself into meetings, into errands, into long commutes with loud music blasting in your ears just to drown out the thoughts.

Coworkers asked if you were okay. You smiled. Said, “I’m just tired.” They nodded. Didn’t press. No one wanted the truth. No one was prepared to hear: “He didn’t choose me.” “I told him I loved him, and he didn’t want me.” “I feel like I’m living in my own shadow.” So you stayed quiet.

You tried yoga. Journaling. Deleting every playlist you’d ever made for him. You threw away the hoodie he left in your car after winter drinks two years ago. You burned a candle that smelled like the cologne he used to wear hoping maybe the scent would leave your system if you forced it to vanish.

You deleted your camera roll. Unfavourited his number. Scrubbed the evidence of him from your digital life.

But Lewis was everywhere. Not just the person who broke your heart, he was an icon. A headline. A story the world wanted to keep reading. And you? You couldn’t escape the plot.

You’d open your phone and there he was smiling under golden light, next to a woman who glowed like she was forged from sunlight. Her hand on his shoulder. Her laugh in his ear. Her world colliding with his like you once dreamed yours might. Yacht parties. Fashion weeks. A Monaco gala with someone whose name sounded like silk.

“Lewis Hamilton Spotted With…” Every notification felt like a slap. Every caption like acid poured on a wound still fresh. Because he was smiling. Laughing. Thriving.

And you were unraveling in silence.

You watched women orbit him like planets whole and dazzling and unbothered. You watched him become someone you didn’t recognise. Someone who posed for cameras with eyes that didn’t search for you in the crowd anymore. Someone who had learned to live without your voice guiding him through dark days.

And somehow, that was the worst part. Not that he moved on. But that he didn’t even need to look back.

You weren’t the pause in his step. You weren’t the person he remembered while sipping wine alone. You had been everything and now you were nothing.

And the world indifferent and cruel kept posting about him. Kept praising him and showing you how easy it was for him to shine without you.

You’d close your phone and cry silently, the kind of crying that didn’t stain your cheeks but dulled your soul. Or curled up beneath heavy blankets and counted the stars on your ceiling, wondering how you became a ghost in your own life.

You stopped wearing the perfume he liked. Stopped ordering his favourite sushi. Stopped humming the song that played during that rainy night when he danced with you in the kitchen.

And you waited for the ache to end. But it didn’t. Because forgetting him wasn’t the challenge. Accepting that he had already forgotten you that was the knife in your ribs.

So when your best friend said, “Let’s go out,” you didn’t hesitate.

You were crumbling, slowly, subtly and the invitation felt like a rope thrown into deep water. You didn’t expect it to save you. But you needed to reach for something. Something that wasn’t his name on your screen or his voice in your memory. It didn’t taste like unanswered questions or smell like the sweater you still hadn’t thrown away.

You weren’t sleeping well. You weren’t eating much, either. You’d reread the same text thread twice a day without knowing why. You’d catch yourself writing messages you never sent. Your heart was growing quieter but heavier. Like a stone tied to silence.

You knew going out wouldn’t fix anything not the hollow chest, not the ache in your throat, not the way every silence still felt shaped like him. But you didn’t go because you believed in healing. You went because you needed proof. Proof that you could still be wanted. That you could still be looked at with something like interest and not heartbreak. That even if he didn’t choose you, maybe someone else would.

You stood in front of your closet and stared at the dress.

The black one. The one that had hung untouched for months like it was waiting for a version of you who didn’t flinch when someone said his name. It was sleek, unforgiving, cut close to the body hugging hips you hadn’t dared to show and dipping low enough in the back to make you feel almost brave. You hadn’t worn it because it felt like armour. And you hadn’t felt strong enough to carry the weight of pretending.

It whispered to you. That dress. Like it remembered what you used to be before the ache. Before the wine-soaked nights of wondering. You held it in your hands and felt your ribs ache.

But tonight, you put it on.

Pulled your hair into a smooth high ponytail, glossy and sharp, like a blade down your spine. You lined your eyes with something bolder than usual, smoked just enough to suggest mystery without collapse. The mascara layered heavier than necessary. The blush sat high on your cheekbones like a challenge. And the lipstick red. Not soft berry, not shy pink. But red like rebellion. Red like warpaint. Red like you were daring the world to see you and dare to forget. The heels clicked against the floor like punctuation. Sharp, unapologetic. You grabbed your clutch and locked the door behind you like you were walking away from a version of yourself that begged.

In the mirror, you whispered, “Just for tonight, don’t bleed.” It was shaky. Hollow. But it was the closest you’d come to a vow since Monaco.

The bar was packed.

Neon signs blurred into violet and gold against the windows. Music pulsed beneath everything, a heartbeat you could borrow when yours felt inconsistent. The air smelled like spiced rum and anticipation. Laughter spilled from one corner, and a group of strangers danced like they weren’t carrying anything heavy.

You walked in behind your friend, one heel before the other, chin high, shoulders back - the practiced performance of someone who had never had their ribs cracked open for love.

You made it ten minutes before someone noticed. He was tall. Smiling. Clean-cut. His shirt was a little too tight across the chest, his cologne a little too eager but his gaze? His gaze was kind. Curious. Safe. He had the look of someone who wouldn’t dig too deep but would hold the surface carefully. He leaned toward you at the bar with practiced charm, offering a drink in one hand and some breezy pickup line in the other, the kind you’d normally dismiss with a raised brow and a polite smile. But tonight, you didn’t say no.

You nodded. You smiled. You let his gaze wash over your frame like paint over canvas. You laughed not a real laugh, but a well placed one, angled just enough to suggest openness. You rested your hand on his forearm, fingers light, nails tapping absently. Tilted your head. Let your bare shoulder catch the light.

You weren’t there to flirt. You were there to feel something that didn’t feel like drowning.

And halfway through pretending, you felt it the shift. That electricity in your spine.

That chill that slides down your back when the air changes. You turned. And there across the room, standing amid the blur of strangers and the hum of synthetic bass was him.

Lewis. Dressed in black. Collar sharp against his throat. A single chain glinting just beneath the neckline. His glass forgotten in one hand. The other dropped loose by his side, as if it had just failed him.

His shoulders squared. But stiff. His eyes locked on yours.

And his expression? Shattered. It wasn't rage, jealousy or recognition. Like he was seeing you for the very first time, and the sight burned. Like something inside him had cracked violently and without permission.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. The people around him faded into static. He looked at you like memory.

You could feel your pulse behind your ears. In your throat. In your knees.And in that moment, you leaned closer to the stranger beside you intentionally.

Let your hand glide up his arm, nails brushing skin. Let your lips part in something that looked like desire but was really a shield. You angled your body in such a way that your silhouette curved in full view, the hem of your dress skimming thigh, your shoulder rolling back like you were relaxed. Like you were radiant. You fake laughed at something meaningless. Swirled your drink in its glass like it was a spell.

And you locked eyes with Lewis. Held his stare. Let him see it all the dress, the makeup, the smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Let him see you as someone that didn’t need his silence. That didn’t need his love anymore.You were fire and frost and fury.

You were saying without words - You lost me. And now you get to watch me go.

And when you finally turned away, hiding the tremble in your fingers, forcing a sip of the watered-down cocktail you glanced back.

He was gone. Shattering you all over again.

Because even then seeing you with someone else, glowing like grief hadn’t lived inside your chest for months he still didn’t fight. Still didn’t say “wait.” Still didn’t ask if you were okay. You turned back to the stranger, nodded at his question, let him believe he had your attention. But your thoughts were loud. Violent. Drenched in ache.

You weren’t sure if you wanted Lewis to come back…or if you wanted to forget you ever knew him.

Because both options felt like knives. And you were tired of bleeding quietly.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis’s POV:

He had told himself he was doing the right thing.

It had been rehearsed in the back of his mind for weeks, layered with rationalisation, wrapped in logic so tightly he almost believed it. Safe. Clean. Practical. The kind of reasoning that made sense in theory. But none of it accounted for the hollow ache that crept in afterward. None of it prepared him for the silence.

When you said, I think I’m in love with you, the words didn’t just echo they detonated. They landed like a rock to his chest, splitting something brittle wide open. He remembered the way your voice trembled, how your fingers curled at your sides, how you hadn’t looked away when you said it. You were vulnerable in a way he’d never seen you before, and instead of reaching for you, he built a wall.

He’d told you it wasn’t like that. That you were too important. That he couldn’t risk destroying the one thing in his life that felt real. And when you looked at him eyes full of quiet disbelief, of waiting for him to take it back he said, “Don’t.” Just one word. A single syllable meant to protect you, but it shattered you instead.

And he hated himself for that. Still does.

He told everyone else it wasn’t the right time. That he didn’t want to ruin the friendship. That love complicates things, and some relationships were better preserved untouched. He told you he couldn’t give you what you deserved. That he wasn’t good at love. That he didn’t want you to waste your heart on someone who’d only disappoint you.

He said all those things like armour. But they weren’t shields. They were exits. And he took one. The truth the one he couldn’t say then and can barely admit now was simple and devastating: he was terrified.

Because you weren’t some passing thing. You weren’t someone he’d forget in three months. You weren’t another girl who liked the way he smiled on magazine covers. You were you. The one who knew his tea order down to the extra honey. The one who noticed the small silence he fell into after talking to his dad. The one who always texted good luck five minutes before a race, even when the whole world already assumed he’d win.

You were the person who saw him before the lights. Before the trophies. Before the curated grin.

And the thought of touching that of risking the softness between you made his chest seize. If he hurt you, if he let you close and then wrecked it, there would be no undoing it. No way back to the version of life where your voice filled the cracks of his nights and your presence made everything feel possible.

So he made what felt like the responsible choice. He let you go. And he called it noble, even when it tore him apart.

He leaned into the noise again. Into the parties. The appearances. The photos taken beneath glowing chandeliers next to people whose names he barely remembered. The camera flashes welcomed him like an old habit. The handshakes were automatic. The charm, muscle memory.

But none of it felt good.

He stood next to women whose laughter felt engineered. Whose compliments tasted like champagne and clung like perfume. He smiled. He nodded. He kissed cheeks and exchanged numbers. But none of them knew he still hummed when anxious. None of them knew how he blinked too quickly when overwhelmed. None of them noticed when his gaze drifted toward the exit at every event hoping. Waiting.For you.

Food didn’t taste the same. Music felt background instead of immersive. Even driving the place where his thoughts used to run free felt heavy. The silence wasn’t tranquil anymore. It was suffocating. He stopped listening to your favourite playlists because they made his throat tighten. He stopped opening voice notes because they reminded him of all the ones you used to send. He started playing podcasts he didn’t care about just to keep his mind busy. Just to fill space.

He picked up his phone dozens of times. Half written messages. Voice notes that ended before they began. Memes you’d find hilarious the kind he used to send at 3 a.m. just to make you laugh the next morning. But now he didn’t know if you’d even respond.

And then there was that unread message. The one that hadn’t changed in days.

The read receipt lingered like a bruise.

He stared at it. Over and over. Wondering if he’d lost you for good.

He told himself you were healing. That maybe you were better off this way. That he had given you space and time and dignity. That his silence was a favour.

But slowly, the cracks began to show.

And then came the moment.

He was in London, surrounded by friends, laughter, shallow conversation. The rooftop bar was one you used to love. Fairy lights strung above wood paneling. Rosemary-scented cocktails. Jazz playing low and warm in the background. You’d once called the playlist “accidentally perfect” and made him promise to dance if they ever played Nina Simone.

He sat across from a woman he barely knew her laugh too practiced, her stories too polished. She spoke about Ibiza and yachts and men who built careers out of wine importing. He nodded. He smiled. He performed. Until he looked up. And everything dropped.

You were there.

Not across the world. Not buried in silence. But right there radiant in a way that made his breath forget its rhythm.

Your hair was tucked behind one ear. You wore that soft wrap dress you always paired with boots. You were laughing and it hit him like a slap. He hadn’t heard that sound in weeks. That laugh had always been his favourite song, the one he kept on repeat during sleepless nights.

He swore the world stopped. And then he saw him. The guy beside you. Confident. Relaxed. Just close enough to make Lewis’s stomach turn. And worse you weren’t turning away. You were leaning in.

He froze. Everything inside him short circuited.

Someone else was making you laugh like that. Someone else was being let in. Someone else was witnessing the version of you that used to be his.

All the lies he’d told himself. All the cowardice disguised as protection. All the guilt dressed as grace. You weren’t waiting for him anymore. And he was the one who made that true.

That night, the bed felt foreign. His hands shook. The room pulsed with every memory. And when he whispered your name into the dark, no answer came.

It was only then alone, blanketed in remorse, staring at the place you used to lie beside him that he finally said it aloud. I’m in love with her.And I let her go not don’t know if she’ll ever let me back in.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

He shows up at your flat two days later.

No text. No warning. No heads-up through mutual friends or nervous check-ins. Just the quiet, deliberate thud of knuckles against your door slow and hesitant, like someone trying not to disturb a haunted house. You freeze mid-step in the hallway, fresh from the shower, wrapped in a robe that clings damply to your skin, towel twisted loosely around your wet hair, dripping dark circles onto your shoulders.

Your phone is still in your hand. Heart pounding. Breath thinned.

You already know who it is.

You feel it before you see it. Like a shift in gravity. Like the air recalibrating itself around one specific person.

And somehow, knowing doesn’t make it easier.

You press your palm flat to the wall, just for steadiness, just for a moment longer of pretending that silence is safety. Then you go to the door, fingers still damp against the cold metal of the handle, your chest tight and your pulse hammering like betrayal.

You open it. He’s there. Lewis.

Hood up. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Jaw taut with the weight of things unsaid. His face looks softer somehow, but not gentle fractured. His lips are dry, a faint bruise near his temple, his shoulders slumped as though he hasn’t slept since Monaco. The vulnerability is jarring. There’s no PR gloss, no effortless charm, no camera-ready smile. Just a man who looks like he left part of himself behind and finally came to find it.

“You can’t just show up like this,” you say, voice low and sharper than you intended. It’s not anger, exactly. But it’s not not anger either. It’s the kind of sting that comes when old wounds are pressed too suddenly.

“I know.” His voice is hoarse, catching. “I just I didn’t know what else to do.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, not for warmth but for protection. The robe doesn’t help. Nothing could. “Didn’t we already do this?” you ask. It comes out tired. Burnt at the edges.

He drags a hand down his face, the rasp of palm against stubble too loud in the silence. “I was wrong.” You blink. You don’t trust it. “About what?”

He looks at you then. And for once, he doesn’t hide. His eyes shimmer slightly, bloodshot, rimmed with regret so deep it’s almost physical. “About everything,” he says. “About how I feel. About what I thought I could live without. About what I thought was safe.”

You let out a laugh, brittle and slicing. It tastes like irony. “Took you long enough.” He takes a half step closer, then stops. As if the floor itself has become fragile between you. “I saw you,” he says. “At the bar. With him.” You lean against the doorframe, letting your weight carry the indifference you’re trying to conjure. “So?”

“I hated it.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl at his sides. “I hated seeing you with someone else. I hated how beautiful you looked and that someone else got to be the reason. I hated that I wasn’t beside you. That I hadn’t earned the right anymore.”

He steps forward again. More desperate now. “I’ve been in love with you for longer than I even knew. Since the night we got stuck in Portugal and shared a blanket in that overpriced hotel room. Since the day you made boxed pancakes and poured syrup over them like it would fix everything. Since you laughed at my worst jokes and said my silence made you feel safe.”

You shake your head. Slowly. The ache in your chest is sharp, pointed.

“Scared of what?” you ask.

He swallows hard. The words nearly get stuck on the way out. “Of ruining it. Of being selfish. Of hurting you. Of choosing love and then not being enough for it.” You don’t respond immediately. Because everything feels heavy again. Every word, every breath. You’re not sure if it’s love or just history pulling you toward him. You’re not sure if heartbreak always deserves a second chance.

“You did lose me,” you whisper.

And Lewis he closes his eyes like you’ve sliced something in him open. “I know,” he says. His voice drops, nearly a whisper. “I watched you spiral and I kept pretending I didn’t notice. I kept telling myself silence was protection. That if I didn’t speak, I couldn’t ruin anything. But I did. I ruined everything. And it was my silence that made you feel invisible. I thought I was preserving the friendship. But I was just a coward.”

You shift slightly, robe damp against your skin, fingers curled into your side. “Safer for who?” you say. It lands like a challenge.

He doesn’t answer. He just stands there. Hands trembling. Breath caught. Looking at you like maybe, just maybe, forgiveness is possible. “I’ll never forgive myself,” he says. “But if there’s even one corner of your heart that still remembers what we were what we could be I swear I will spend every minute trying. I’ll rebuild. I’ll stay. I’ll do the work. I’ll become

You take a slow breath.Then quieter than you mean to “Say it again.”

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself, as if every word he’s about to speak carries the weight of all the silences between you. His hands lift, slow and trembling and find their way to your face cautious, reverent. Not the touch of someone claiming you, but someone asking, again, gently, to be let in. His thumbs skim your cheekbones, familiar yet hesitant, like he’s memorizing the contours all over again. His fingertips settle against your jawline, soft and lingering, a kind of prayer made tangible.

“I love you,” he says. It’s not loud. It’s not cinematic. It’s broken in places, but true in all the ways that matter. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it in like sunlight cracking through a storm. “I love you,” he says again. Stronger this time, as though he’s building something brick by brick with every syllable something sturdy enough to hold you both.

“I love you in ways I didn’t know how to explain,” he continues, voice cracking at the edges. “I love you more than I was ever brave enough to admit. And I don’t want to live another day pretending I don’t. I can’t.”

Your lips part, unsteady. Your chest is full not with breath, but with ache, with the weight of all the waiting, with the hope you tried so hard to starve out of yourself. You lean in first.

Your kiss isn’t fireworks. It isn’t loud or breathless or rushed. It’s slow. Full. The kind of kiss that lives in the marrow of your bones that says I forgive, I remember, I still want. His lips mold to yours like he’s catching up for every second he didn’t. His hand slides back into your hair, towel damp beneath his palm. The robe falls slightly from your shoulder, but neither of you move to fix it.

Because in this moment this precise, aching, beautiful now everything else stops mattering.

You kiss like two people who broke apart and are daring to try again. But in this situation you’re kissing him back not as the girl who waited in silence. Not as the woman who begged to be seen. But as someone finally chosen.

The weeks that follow are stitched together by patience and small, sacred gestures.

There are moments when your hands hesitate before reaching for him. Moments when he enters a room and you brace for the weight of the past to settle back in. Moments when you think this is too much, I’m too fractured, he’ll leave again. But Lewis doesn’t leave.

He notices everything.

The way your voice wavers when you ask if he’s going to the next press event. How you linger in doorways like you’re waiting for the goodbye. How sometimes, when he holds your hand, you grip tighter than necessary not because you're scared of losing him, but because you still don’t trust the universe to let you keep anything.

He shows up with soft apologies layered in action - almond croissants from the bakery you adore, even on days when his schedule is suffocating. Sticky notes taped to your fridge, your steering wheel, the back of your phone: You make everything brighter. You’re the best part of my day. Still choosing you. Every playlist sent with the subject line: Earned, not given.

He doesn’t ask for all of you. Just the pieces you’re willing to give back. Some nights he texts: Sleep well, even if you hate me a little today. You don’t reply. Not at first. Eventually, you send: I didn’t hate you. Then: I missed you too.

He’s different now.

He’s quieter when he’s near you, not withdrawn, just cautious. Tender in the way that people are when they realise they’re walking through a space where damage was once done. He still makes jokes during movie nights. He still teases you about your coffee order. He still steals your fries and insists he didn’t but there’s something softer in the way he moves, like he’s making sure you know this time, he’s not taking you for granted.

One night, when you’re curled up together, the lights low and your legs tangled like you never knew how to untangle in the first place, you whisper, “I almost forgot how it felt to be enough for you.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just brushes your hair off your cheek, thumb lingering against the corner of your mouth, and replies in the softest voice you’ve ever heard, “You were always more than enough. I was just too scared to deserve it.”

You say nothing. Just burying your face into his chest, and he holds you like he’s keeping the pieces from falling again.

The healing isn’t linear. It never promised to be. Some mornings feel like the honeymoon phase they never got to have like something golden blooming across your skin. He’ll wake you with a soft kiss on the shoulder, tracing lazy shapes on your back while the kettle sings in the kitchen. His arms wrap around you like you’re gravity itself, drawing him into something anchored, something safe. You’ll laugh at inside jokes that only exist in the sacred language between the two of you, and in those still lit moments, it feels as if the world never cracked at all.

Other days are harder, shaped by memory and bruised silence. You’ll wake with ghosts clawing at your ribs not because you want to feel them, but because some pain lives in the muscle. You’ll hear his voice falter when he says something too close to what broke you. He’ll forget something small: an anniversary of an argument, the shape of a scar you’re not ready to joke about, the tone you use when you’re afraid. Your heart will flinch before you can stop it. And when someone mentions Monaco casually in passing, like it’s just another place you’ll leave the room so fast you don’t realise your hands are shaking until he catches one.

But he always follows. Not forcefully. Not with demands or questions. Just steady. He sits beside you in silence, his hand resting close to yours, never pressing. He waits not for forgiveness, but for trust to return on its own terms. And every time he whispers, “I’m still here,” you believe him a little more.

He reaches for your hand absentmindedly in traffic. Rubs soft circles on your knuckle during flights. Leaves a note in your suitcase every time you travel alone: Don’t forget how loved you are. And you never do.

One night, after a long day, you’re curled together under a tangle of blankets. Your cheek rests on his chest while he tells you a story you’ve heard so many times it’s practically a lullaby. You smile because you know how it ends. And just before sleep pulls you under, you whisper, “I almost forgot how safe this could feel.” He doesn’t respond right away. He brushes his lips gently across your temple, like a benediction, and murmurs, “You’re the only thing I’ve ever felt sure about.”

It’s not dramatic. It’s not extravagant. There are no fireworks. But there’s warmth. Quiet confidence. A devotion that doesn’t need grand gestures, just a coat left on your chair, a cup of tea brewed the way you like, a hand reaching for yours at 3 a.m. because I’m still here.

Because love didn’t return loudly. It crept in slowly. Stubborn. True.

Then again it was never supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to be earned but then again that’s how it is in a soft, fierce and unshakable way.

In the end, it’s always. Forever unfolding, just in time yours.

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infin1ty-garden · 2 years ago

Text

STILL ALIVE

ೃ⁀➷ summary: headcanons of the f1 drivers as the scream killer, ghostface ೃ⁀➷ charcters: CS55, LN4, OP81, LS2, CL16, MV1 & DR3 ೃ⁀➷ warnings: mention of murder, drugs and drinking ೃ⁀➷ word count: 1k ೃ⁀➷ author note: suppose to be a halloween special but couldn't finish it in time

masterlist.

CARLOS AND LANDO

They are kind of the Billy and Stu being ghostface for fun mostly and fame Lando was already popular but in school that couldn't compare to real fame and the fastest way to do so, be a serial killer And who better to be a accomplice then his best friend, Carlos The first victim was easy Lando found out his charm still worked even on the phone while Carlos did the killing Carlos never felt better, the thrill of kill will be something he wouldn't be able to live without That's where you come in having arrived home to find your boyfriend covered in blood

"Baby, it's not what it looks like," you were horrified understandably. You tried running but Lando stopped you from leaving. "Sweety don't leave. It's gonna be okay," you were suddenly out like a light. Only to wake up tied to a chair and duct tape covering your mouth.

You started thrashing around in order to free yourself but to no avail. "Don't worry we won't hurt you," Lando said as he slowly caressed your face. Your head jerked violently away from him. "He isn't lying. We will never harm you. I know your scared and confused."

They kept to their promise to you but the killings didn't stop But your relationship changed with Carlos. It took time to trust him again and Lando as well They treated you like a queen, it was all so confusing. They were murderers. They had killed people What will you do turn them in or be a accomplice by association?

OSCAR AND LOGAN

Oscar had been using the ghostface identity for a while now what he didn't expect was a showdown with the real ghostfaces Once Logan finally managed to take off the mask only for his friend's eye to be staring back at him Since that moment the three of you teamed up, worked together, killed together It has brought you closer and added a new partner to your and Logan's relationship Logan for a while has had some form of feelings for Oscar, only now realising that those weren't just friendship but love Oscar fit right in with the both of you like this was meant to happen

Oscar and Logan had gone out for a kill. Their victim this time, your ex. The guy decided to pop back into your life, thought he could embarrass you or coax the boys in leaving you. Whatever his plan was...

They couldn't let that slide. His blood was the one on their knives. Every stab brought a smile to their faces. Only stopping when he wasn't breathing. Logan was a bit shaken up despite everything he still wasn't used to it.

Once they'd come home the first thing Logan did was look for you. Oscar and you spent the rest of your night comforting Logan. Playing with his hair and cuddling. It was a nice finish to the day.

CHARLES LECLERC

Charles had been obsessed with you for a while but now he didn't have to hide his affection with the ghostface identity he could act anyway he wanted It would be an understatement if say ghostface bringing you roses wasn't weird Wasn't ghostface a vicious killer murdering a bunch of people on campus He would leave you different gifts every time but never appearing himself, untill...

"What's your favourite scary movie?" You rolled your eyes. "Pierre, this is so unoriginal on halloween really?" The only answer on the other side is breathing. "This isn't fucking Pierre," you walked around the apartment locking the doors just incase.

"Okay then who are you," you said, taking a knife. "There's no need for that," ghostface suddenly appeared slowly making his way towards you. "I'm not going to hurt you," you swung the knife. "Sure," then in a second the knife was flying out of your hands and you were pinned to the wall.

"I mean it, I didn't spend weeks planning the perfect gifts for you to treat me like this."

"I don't care, take them back," he held your face so you were looking at him. The mask was removed and you saw the face of your best friend staring at you. "Charles! WHAT THE FUCK! You scared the shit out of me," he moved away from you.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to scare you so badly," you gently cradled his face. "You dumb idiot."

DANIEL AND MAX

Both of the drivers have had a crush on you and what better way to get rid off the competition then murdering them You would come crying to them about one of your friends dying. They would be all comforting, despite they're the reason for your distress Your reaction would not deter them from their actions, in fact encourage them You would become closer and more dependent on them. It made them feel like they're on cloud nine. All this attention from you like a drug they can't get enough of You were with them almost all the time

You were at a halloween party one of your friends was having. Max and Daniel stuck to you like two guard dogs. Anybody who they didn't recognize or got too close, they would stand in front of you like a wall. Daniel was dressed up as a shirtless cowboy and Max as ghostface.

You had gotten really drunk and Daniel had lost track of you. You were looking to get even more drunk but someone grabbed your waist grinding their boner into you. Without a word he started taking you to a room, one you didn't recognize.

Everything was a blur. The guy was on you and started kissing you. The same dude was suddenly thrown on the ground. Daniel was in front of you in an instant. "Hey, did he do anything to you," he asked, looking over every part of you. Max was dealing with the dude.

By dealing, killing. You stared in shock. No matter how drunk. It was still murder. Max started stabbing him and didn't stop until he was choking on his own blood. "Max?" Daniel quickly turned your face away from the scene as you hugged him. "I just wanna go home."

It took you a while to trust Max again but you did cuz you had no one else

Thanks for reading!

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bilightningwhumper · 4 months ago

Text

Duct Tape- Rex (Boy)

For Issue No 38 of @whumpers-monthly

A Hero's Promise Masterlist

CW/TW: blood, fictional racism, dehumanization, implied transphobia, implied fade-to-black noncon ending

[Some context: Boy (later to be named Rex) is a rescued to-be-reformed villain, but not all the heroes are happy about that]

Boy

“Grab it!”

Boy didn’t have time to react as his arm was yanked had before he was thrown into a nearby supply closet. They let him go, but not before pushing him into the shelves on the back wall. He winced, gripping the shelves to stay upright, his ribs screaming. The door shut with a firm snap behind three masked men. Two stood over him while the third locked the door.

“Wha- ugh!”

Stars danced in his eyes as he fell to the floor, his jaw throbbing.

“Shut up, fae scum.”

He couldn’t tell which of the men were talking. Probably the one who punched him.

“Make sure it doesn’t have any weapons on it.”

Kicking out, Boy tried to stand again, only to be pinned to the floor by a boot on his back, grinding into his spine. Still, he struggled despite it.

These were supposed to be the good guys. Harper told him that. So what was going on? There was no way they didn’t know he wasn’t allowed weapons. So why would he have one? Why attack him? Had he done something wrong leaving the assessment?

“Help! Somebody, hel- guh-”

Another boot swung into his line of vision, hitting him square in the nose. He could taste iron. Hopefully it wasn’t broken.

“I told you to shut up, bastard. Where’s the… here.”

The sound of thick tape being unwound and ripped was his only warning before duct tape was forced over his mouth as his head was held in place.

He couldn’t breathe. Pain radiated through his limbs. It only got worse as they wrenched his arms up behind his back. More duct tape was wrapped tight around his wrists. They rolled him over, making it harder to breathe through his blood-clogged nose. Those groping hands made their way up his sides to- fuck. Fuck!

“Somethin’ on his chest, boss.”

The assumed leader of the crew’s eyes glittered through the slit in his mask. “Well, well, looks like the fairy is hiding something. Tear its shirt off and let’s see what we find.”

Boy’s eyes widened as he kicked out again, trying to get free even as spots danced in his eyes. “Mmm, mmm!”

It was no use.

They hauled up by his arms, the leader left to rip his flimsy shirt down the middle. All of them froze as they took in the binder around his chest.

He glared at them, trying to hold onto some kind of dignity. Even if his vision was going in and out of focus, he just needed to hang on. Just until someone… No, those were the good guys. Someone would save him… Right?

His resolve quickly crumbed as the leader spoke, a smile clear in his smug voice. “Well, boys, looks like we have a special treat on our hands.”

Everything went dark after that.

I haven't made a masterlist yet, so let me know if you want to be on a taglist for A Hero's Promise before (or after) I do. [now made the masterlist, but you're still welcome to ask to be on the taglist!]

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khande11 · 5 months ago

Text

Millie Winchester- Season 1

Phantom Traveler- 4

The four hunters headed to the back of the plane, towards Amanda.

"She's not gonna believe this." Sam muttered.

"Twelve minutes, dude." Dean shrugged, not seeing any other option.

"Oh, hi. Flight's not too bumpy for you, I hope." Amanda greeted.

"Actually, that's kind of what we need to talk to you about." Dean smiled nervously, while Sam closed the curtain.

"Um, okay. What can I do for you?"

"All right, this is gonna sound nuts, but we just don't have time for the whole 'the truth is out there' speech right now."

"All right, look, we know you were on flight 2485." Millie cut in, making Amanda's smile disappear.

"Who are you guys?"

"Now, we've spoken to some of the other survivors. We know something brought down that plane and it wasn't mechanical failure."

"We need your help because we need to stop it from happening again. Here. Now." Dean pleaded.

"I'm sorry. I'm very busy. I have to go back-" She tried to move past Dean, but he quickly stopped her.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a second. I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? But listen to me, uh... The pilot in 2485, Chuck Lambert. He's dead."

"Wait. What? What, Chuck is dead?"

"He died in a plane crash. Now, that's two plane crashes in two months. That doesn't strike you as strange?"

"Look, there was something wrong with 2485." Sam said. "Now maybe you sensed it, maybe you didn't. But there's something wrong with this flight, too."

"Amanda, you have to believe us." Dean begged.

"On... on 2485, there was this man. He... had these eyes."

"Yes." Millie nodded. "That's exactly what we're talking about."

"I don't understand, what are you asking me to do?"

"Okay. The co-pilot- we need you to bring him back here." Dean told her.

"Why? What does he have to do with anything?"

"Don't have time to explain. We just need to talk to him. Okay?"

"How am I supposed to go in the cockpit and get the co-pilot-"

"Do whatever it takes." Mateo said. "Tell him there's something broken back here, whatever will get him out of that cockpit."

"Do you know that I could lose my job if you-"

"Okay, well you're gonna lose a lot more if you don't help us out." Dean interrupted. Amanda hesitated, before finally agreeing.

They watched Amanda go to the cockpit and say something to the co-pilot as he followed her to the back. Millie pulled out the holy water from her jacket, while Dean handed John's journal to Sam.

"Yeah, what's the problem?" The co-pilot asked, just as Dean punched him in the face, knocking him down. Dean pinned him to the ground, while Mateo put duct tape over his mouth.

"Wait. What are you doing? You said you were just gonna talk to him."

"We are gonna talk to him." Dean said, as Millie splashed the holy water onto the co-pilot's skin which sizzled.

"Oh, my God. What's wrong with him?"

"Look. We need you calm. We need you outside the curtain." Sam insisted, while Amanda stuttered. "Don't let anybody in, okay? Can you do that? Can you do that? Amanda?"

"Okay. Okay." Amanda agreed, leaving the hunters to it. The demon struggled against Dean, so Mateo punched him while Millie splashed him with the holy water again.

"Hurry up, Sam. I don't know how much longer I can hold him."

"Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino-" Sam began, but the demon managed to break free, knocking the holy water out of Millie's hands. He pushed Dean off of him, knocked Mateo out, and pushed Sam into the wall. Millie pinned the demon down again and Dean, who quickly rushed back to his feet, helped her while Sam continued the ritual.

The demon managed to throw off the older siblings again, ripped off the duct tape from his mouth and grabbed Sam by his collar.

"I know what happened to your girlfriend!" The co-pilot growled in a demonic voice. "She must have died screaming! Even now, she's burning!"

Millie splashed the holy water onto the demon, stopping it's taunts as it screamed in pain, so Dean could pin it down again.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, snapping Sam out of his shock so he could start reading again.

When Sam finished reciting the spell, he and Millie helped Dean pin the demon down as it writhed in agony. The journal, that Sam had thrown aside to help Dean, was kicked down the aisle. They watched as black smoke poured out of the co-pilot's mouth and made its way into the vent.

"Where'd it go?" Sam asked.

"It's in the plane." Millie said. "Hurry up. We got to finish it."

"What about Mateo?" Sam asked.

"He's safer here right now." Dean replied, as they rushed to the front of the plane.

The plane suddenly dipped violently, sending everyone into a panic. Dean gripped onto the door, Millie held onto Amanda to stop her from flying into the side of the plane, and Sam fell to the floor as he grabbed the journal. Sam was able to finish the ritual and an electrical charge ran through the plane as it finally settled.

Everyone began to check on one another. Millie let go of the relieved Amanda, just as Dean came out from behind the curtain. The three looked at one another in relief. Mateo came out from behind Dean, rubbing at his head. He looked at Millie and smiled at her as she did the same back.

****************

Paramedics and all sorts of agents were checking all the passengers and staff once they made it to the airport. The co-pilot had no recollection of the incident and Amanda was covering for the hunters. When she spotted them across the way, she mouthed a 'thank you' to them, earning a nod in return.

"Let's get out of here." Dean said, as they headed for the exit. He looked at Sam. "You okay?"

"Dean, it knew about Jessica."

"Sam, these thing, they, they read minds. They lie. All right? That's all it was." Millie assured him.

"Yeah."

"Come on." Dean said.

****************

The next day they were bidding goodbye to a grateful Jerry.

"Nobody knows what you guys did, but I do. A lot of people could have been killed." Jerry shook all of their hands. "Your dad's gonna be real proud."

"We'll see you around, Jerry." Sam smiled.

"You know, Jerry." Dean called out, before he left.

"Yeah."

"I meant to ask you, how did you get my cell phone number, anyway? I've only had it for like six months."

"Your dad gave it to me." Jerry told them, shocking the siblings.

"What?"

"When did you talk to him?" Millie asked.

"I mean, I didn't exactly talk to him, but I called his number. His voice message said to give you a call. Thanks again, guys." Jerry said, leaving the Winchesters to look at each other with a mix of shock, confusion and annoyance. Millie cleared her throat and looked at Mateo.

"Can we give you a ride?" She offered, to which Matty smiled appreciatively.

"Nah, I'm good. I've called a cab- heading back up to my place. But, uh, good luck with your dad." Mateo said, shaking Sam's hand, then bringing Dean into a bro hug. He then turned to Millie, leant forward and lightly kissed her cheek, which suddenly got very red. He winked at her and waved the siblings goodbye, heading away from the Impala.

She looked at her brothers who were smirking and raising their eyebrows teasingly at her.

"Shut up." She scoffed, hopping into the back seat of the car.

****************

The siblings drove away from the airport, but parked in a pull-out. Dean was trying to ring John's phone while the three sat on the trunk.

"This doesn't make any sense, man. I've called Dad's number like fifty times." Sam complained. "It's been out of service."

Dean held up the cell phone to his siblings as a voice message started to play.

"This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean, 785-555-0179, or daughter, Millie, 785- 205-4668. They can help."

Sam angrily got into the car, while Dean and Millie, who exchanged a quick glance, followed. The three Winchesters drove off as they continued to search for their dad.

#supernatural #fanfic #millie winchester #dean winchester #sam winchester #oc #winchester sister

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franklyshipping · 11 months ago

Note

You absolutely give off a vibe that if you were to ever quit writing tickle fics of the egos that you would send it off with a grand finale where EVERYONE gets tickled. Probably by a big viney monster.

I can see the plot being something like Marvin's magic mishaps and one of Henrik's experiements (or an experiment on Marvin's magic) going "horribly wrong" and how each character has their own little perspective of the chaos. And knowing you, you'd add small details the reference someone else's perspective (aka hearing a "manly shriek" followed by the perspective of said shriek). Each perspective of each character and what they were doing before the mishap, like Magnum tying up his boat before being scooped up by a creature similar to Gazooks from Raggedy Ann and Andy. Or Dark doing paperwork, his mind numbing as he reads over the numbers as Wilford bugs him to get up and stretch. Dark finally snaps after a playful poke and pins Wilford to the wall with a growly growl "You're about to stretch in a minute" followed by both also being grabbed by the monster.

The jims were doing brotherly twin activities with Eric, roughhousing with him. Both Jims get him pinned and are just about to get him. Eric closes his eyes, too flustered to watch but nothing happens. Surely it's an anticipation trick, but he falls for it. He peeks an eye open and reporter jim is no longer straddling his thighs. Camera jim ran off to rescue his brother and gets captured. Eric attempts to run off to get help and of course, gets captured as well.

Googles were probably in the middle of maintenance. Bing was doing a sick trick where he's doing a handstand on top of a ramp. Anti and Jamie were planning their next prank and it goes "horribly wrong" in the sense that it was rudely interrupted by the monster (they probably duct taped Chase to the wall and were just about to get him out. Poor chase doesn't even need to be scooped up!)

Robbie was being a little assistant for Shawn and in an attempt to show affection, he paints one of Robbie's cheeks to make him giggle. He goes back to work and finds something is brushing against his cheek. In a comedic turn of events Shawn thinks it's Robbie trying to get him back, only to discover it was in fact a paint brush like tendril/vine. Hijinks ensue.

Yancy was on facetime with Murderslaughter who is NOT helping the situation at all, telling the beast to aim for his ribs and teasing him about going soft if he couldn't handle one monster when he was used to 20 or.more hands grabbing him at a time. The beast proceeds to grow more appendages to get Yancy.

Jackie and Silver were probably practice sparring with each other for training as Host, Yandere, and Dr. Iplier watch. Jackie 80 percent of the time is able to pin Silver down, but Host keeps resetting their positions either way, getting a kick out of Jackie's determination and playful annoyance. Dr. Iplier is watching their vitals, superhero stamina is such an interesting thing, especially since this sparring has been going on for hours and only starting to get a little tired. Yandere is there to cheer on and shout out fighting manuevers, planning to have both heroes tuckered out before attacking themselves. They then just barely hear Host's narration murmurs, something about a monster about to interrupt their sparring. Couple of seconds later and bam, all 5 of them are captured and just their luck, the two superheroes are also captured and too weak to pry off the appendages

Illinois is the only one who almost got away. Almost. His overwhelming luck allowed him to not get captured. Until he ran into Actor who thought it'd be funny to throw him into the chaos. Actor was just about to walk away when Ben got captured. Some would say Actor would have just left him, but he was fulled by jealousy because no one messes with his butler but him!

Unus and Annus were in the middle of a séance for fun to see what would happen. They think they caused the monster to appear.

And that's all the ones I could think of. Obviously I would never ask you for such a big feat. But you defo give off the vibe that if you ever quit writing fanfics, you'd give one hell of a last hurrah!

YOU DAMN FUCKIN BET I WOULD HOLY SHIT THIS IDEA IS SO COOL - I'm not at the point of stopping outright yet as I still have prompts to fulfil, but you have correctly identified My Vibe for a finale 😆💜

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sophsicle · 2 years ago

Text

tw blood and violence

[let me preface this by saying it makes no sense, i just wanted james and sirius to commit murder]

"Oh fuck."

"Are you okay?"

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck."

"James? Hey, hey look at me? Look at me? Are you okay?"

A hysterical laugh bubbles from his mouth. "Sirius."

Sirius only nods, hands cradling James's face, hot and sticky and smelling of iron. "I know, I know," he pushes some of the hair off of James's forehead. "I'm gonna take care of it, I promise. But first I need to know that you're okay? He didn't - he didn't hurt you did he?" his voice strains on those last words.

There's only the smallest pause. And then, choked; "I'm okay."

A shaky smile makes its way across Sirius's face. "Good," pulling James forward and kissing the top of his head. "That's good." He lets go of him, standing up and turning towards the body on the floor, blood pooling around the back of its caved-in skull.

"He deserved it," Sirius says, and there's no doubt in his voice. His hands stained red - James wishes that was a metaphor. He feels cold all of a sudden, trembling. And like he's going to be sick. He's definitely going to be sick. Fuck.

He turns to the side, vomiting all over the hard concrete floor, heaving and shaking and covered in a feverish sweat. He squeezes his eyes shut, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"James?"

He needs to get it together. He thinks it's the adrenaline. The shock. It's making him feel wired and jumpy and out of control. "I k-killed him."

"No," Sirius's voice is so stern that James can't help but look up. "I killed him, you understand?"

"Sirius-"

"James, this is important okay? This is very important," James is held in his eyes, caressed by them, put back together. "If anyone asks-"

"You think they're going to ask?" his voice breaks. "Oh fuck, oh fuck they are, aren't they? We can't hide this. We can't. They're going to know. They're going to find out. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh-"

"James," Sirius doesn't crouch down again, just comes over and places a hand on James's head, in his hair, tilts it up to look at him. Sirius Black is an altar to be prayed at. A god to be feared. A boy with very, very sharp teeth. "I told you I was going to take care of it and I will. But if anyone ever comes looking. If anyone asks. It was me, okay?"

James sees flashes. Thrashing limbs. An aching in his side where he'd been repeatedly beaten. A heavy body on top of him. Fingers around his throat. And then Sirius. Sirius had come. Just as his vision was starting to twitch and flicker and snuff out. Sirius had come for him.

Sirius always came.

"I killed him," Sirius repeats, and staring into his eyes, James knows Sirius wishes that was true. Wishes he could've protected James like he'd meant to.

Sirius runs his hand through James's hair for a few seconds, calming him down, before he pulls away and James resists the urge to grab his wrist and hold him still. Sirius circles the man on the floor, eyes cold, empty.

He finds a carpet in one of the other rooms and James helps him lift the body onto it, rolling it up, sealing it shut with duct tape. The blood on the floor is thick, like molasses, and dark. James tries to trick his mind into thinking it's something else. Anything else. But it doesn't work.

The moments are jumbled up in his head. Like they all happened at once. Sirius getting the man off of him. Slamming him into the wall, slamming his fist into his face. James choking and gagging on the floor, trying to catch his breath.

He's not sure what happened.

His vision had still been pins and needles.

He wasn't following the fight. All he knows is he heard Sirius make a noise. Desperate. Animal. His brain kind of switched off then. At the idea that Sirius was in pain. It all felt out of his control after that.

Sirius comes to stand beside him. "We'll douse it in bleach. Fill it with rocks. And then let the river take him, alright?"

James nods numbly, still staring at the blood.

He'd gotten the man off of Sirius. Gotten them back on the floor. This time with the body below him, thrashing and yelling. Curses turned to pleas as James took him by the hair and slammed his head into the concrete floor. Again. Again. Again.

Sirius had tried to stop him. He knows that.

But he couldn't.

Not with Sirius's voice in his head. Making that noise.

His best friend is now on his hands and knees scrubbing up the blood he spilt.

"Shit, sorry, let me-" James grabs a rag, getting down with him, the water turning the blood pink. Soaking the knees of their jeans.

They clean in silence for a moment before Sirius starts to...there's no other word for it...giggle. James abruptly stops scrubbing. Staring at him.

"Is this..." he starts slowly, "are you in shock?"

Sirius shakes his head and then stops. "Maybe," the word bubbles out of his mouth. "I just, I keep thinking," he looks up at James, eyes bright. "Always knew I was gonna be hiding a dead body with you one day."

It isn't funny.

Isn't even a joke.

And yet. Somehow. James finds himself laughing too.

#idk #i just felt like it #i saw it in my brain and now it is here #don't ask me questions #prongsfoot #ish #i guess #sirius x james #sirius black #james potter #soph rambles

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h4nn4hra · 3 years ago

Text

Incorrect quotes

P4?

Again family stuff with mainly Will, Gilan, Halt and Crowley

----------------------------------------------------------

Will: I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble usually

finds me first.

---

Halt: Damn, the power went out.

Will: Don't worry, I got this.

Will: *shakes rapidly and starts to light up*

Halt: What-?

Will: I swallowed a glow stick!

Halt, on the verge of tears: WHY WOULD YOU-

---

Halt: Gilan...

Gilan: I can tell by the tone of your voice that you are disappointed. Alas, must further disappoint you by affirming how little I give a f***.

---

Crowley: Who's in charge here?

Will, shrugging: Usually whoever yells the loudest.

---

Will: What would Halt think?

Gilan: Ok, that's an interesting thought, but hear me out: what if... we ran an experiment where we spent the rest of our lives finding out what happened if we never told him?

---

Halt : Yes, I'm adopting Will and you cowards can't tell me no!

---

Halt: I'm telling you, my team is competent.

Crowley, rushing in: Halt! Gilan tried to make pasta in the coffee pot and now it's broken!

---

Will: I will send my army to attack!

Will: *releases a dumpster of puppies*

---

Will: So I can either do something dumb that could very well get me injured or I can listen to Halt and not do the thing,

Will: Well there's a clear right answer here.

Will: *proceeds to throw five packs of mentos into a barrel full of diet coke*

---

Halt: GET BACK HERE!

Will: LET ME RUN FROM THE CONSEQUENCES OF MY ACTIONS!

---

Crowley: Are you a painting?

Halt: What-?

Crowley: Because I want to pin you to a wall.

Gilan: OH GOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY YOU WANTED TO HANG THEM OR SOMETHING-

---

Crowley: Sometimes I drink milk straight from the container.

Will: The cow??

Crowley: What?

Gilan: Will, WHY?

---

Crowley: Silence is golden.

Halt: Duct tape is silver.

---

Will: When do you usually go to sleep?

Halt: Whenever I collapse is entirely up to the gods.

---

Halt: What's the most efficient way to burn calories?

Gilan: Exercise more!

Will: Set yourself on fire.

Crowley: There are two kinds of people.

---

Halt, looking through their clothes: has anyone seen my top?

Gilan: Crowley's in the kitchen

Halt:

Halt: Not what I meant

Gilan: Oh, Duncan's in the study

Halt: I was talking about my clothes

---

Crowley: I'm so tired of this life. I want to be a roomba. I want knives taped to me. And I want to be set loose.

---

Halt: We need to distract these guys.

Crowley: Leave it to me.

Crowley: Centaurs have six limbs and are therefore insects. Discuss.

Gilan & Will: *immediately begin arguing*

---

Halt: What the f*** is wrong with you??

Crowley: What? No good morning?

Halt: Good morning, what the f*** is wrong with you??

---

Will: Help! I’m drowning!

Gilan: Calm down. We’re only in six feet of water!

Will: NOT ALL OF US ARE TALL!

---

Crowley: I'm tired.

Halt: You slept for three hours last night! Why are you surprised?!

Crowley: I'm not surprised. I just wanted to complain about it.

---

Crowley: I'm tired.

Halt: You slept for three hours last night! Why are you surprised?!

Crowley: I'm not surprised. I just wanted to complain about it.

---

Gilan: Yum, thanks!

Kidnapper: *puts more tape over their mouth* I said stop eating it.

---

Gilan: You’ve got to learn to love yourself.

Will: But don't you hate yourself.

Gilan: Yeah, but this is about you. Stay focused.

---

Will: I have to say, I'm a little embarra**ed for you.

Gilan: This is a sports-related injury. It makes me look cool!

Will: Tripping over a basketball on your way to the bathroom is not cool!

---

Crowley: Wait a minute, how did this happen? We're smarter than this!

Will: Apparently, we're not.

---

Will: Why am I the bad guy?

Gilan: I don't know, why am I the pretty one? We all have our thing.

---

Will, texting Halt: *sends a voice message*

Halt, texting back: I’m a little busy, is it urgent?

Will: No, don’t worry, just listen later.

*later*

Halt: *presses play*

Will's voice message: THERE’S A FIRE-

---

Halt: Could you guys at least try to see this from my perspective?

Gilan: *crouches down*

Crowley: *kneels down*

Horace: *sits on the floor*

Halt:

Halt: I hate all of you.

---

Gilan: What do you call a dictionary on drugs?

Will: If you say "addict-ionary" I swear I will shoot you.

Gilan: I was actually going to say "high definition", but your answer's much better.

Will: ...

---

Gilan: Do you want some tea?

Halt: What are the options?

Gilan: Yes or no.

---

Will: I wanna sleep for 40 hours.

Halt: You know that's called a coma, right?

Will:

Will: That sounds so refreshing, I could totally go for a light coma right now.

#halt o'carrick #gilan davidson #will treaty #crowley meratyn #horace altman #king duncan #cralt #craltan #ranger apprentice #ra #ranger's apprentice

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klitzcore · 3 years ago

Note

How would Edward Nashton react to catching reader wearing his riddler outfit and doing an impersonation of him infront of a mirror :)

Character: Edward Nashton

Prompt: Edward catching you impersonating him in the mirror!

"The vile stench of murder runs rampant through the streets of Gotham! Murders, lies! Social hierarchies made to shun those out who really need the help!"

Edward had just come back to his apartment from running to the corner store, and that's the first thing he heard.

He feels his heart race, what were you doing?

You had met Edward last year when you started going to the cafe on the corner. You had been kicked from your old apartment, so you had to start renting on this side of Gotham. and since you met Edward, the two of you had been inseparable.

You met him when he was probably in the worst time of his life. You'd known him for months before his possible personal kill-a-thon. He was about to go and kill the mayor, but you caught him when he was exiting his apartment.

He looked horrified when he saw you, and tried to run the other direction. You pinned him in the corner and demanded an explanation, so you drug him to his apartment. There, you were drug into something you promptly couldn't understand.

There were photos and newspapers pinned to his walls, and contraptions you could never understand. He hated the way you looked him at that day, terror reigning in your eyes. He explained his motives and plans, trying to bargain with him. And all Edward recieved was a "You really need help, Edward."

With a lot of convincing, he got a therapist that he saw 3 times a week. Since you caught him, you wouldn't let him go back to his apartment for around a month until he could face it. He lived with you for a month, you'd monitor him always and made sure his therapy would go good.

It was hard for him to go back to his apartment, but you stood with him the entire time. And for the next two days after that, you two cleaned it. You both scrubbed it clean. Got rid of all the papers on the walls, his ledgers that he now hated, his equipment and contraptions, etc. You had gotten rid of all of it for him.

But he didn't get rid of his costume, there was just too much of an attachment to it.

And as Edward peeked around the corner, he understood what was happening. You stood infront of the full body mirror, adorning the olive green outfit. Your hair peeked out from the straps of the mask.

You held a roll of duct tape in your hands. Your finger curls under one of the edges, then you pull it open. The sound of the tape stretches through the room.

"What are you doing?" Edward asks, now stepping into the room. He leans on the doorframe, looking you up and down.

You freeze, then you drop the tape that was in your hands. You turn around in a slow fashion.

"Um.. I just.. okay, let me- okay. It looks cool, and I wanted to get to see something.. maybe understand the intention better?" You said. It was meant like a statement, but came out as a question instead.

Edward feels a smile curl onto his face.

"You're wearing it wrong." He draws closer to you.

"Come here, if you're gonna impersonate me, at least make the outfit fit together correct." He smiles.

#klitzcore #paul dano #danonation #edward nashton x reader #edward nashton #the batman 2022 #the riddler #the riddler paul dano #paul dano riddler

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diamond-coral · 4 years ago

Text

Bargaining Chip

Hello! This is my first time posting on Tumblr ever:) I pulled this one-shot from a fic I posted on AO3 a few months ago but the plot is irrelavent and I changed it from first person to second as well as some details so it can be read as a stand alone. There’s some plot from the actual story but you really don’t need to know it at all.

There might be a few errors, especially because I changed the entire point of view and converted it to present tense from past tense so sorry:)

Loki manages to get his hands on you and exchanges you and your body for his ticket to independence from the Avengers. Bucky gets to go first.

Dark!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Characters included: Loki, and a little bit of Tony, Steve, and Thor

WARNINGS: 18+ ONLY!!! SMUT (NON-CON TOUCHING, FORCED ORAL SEX (m receiving), KNIFE THREATS, DARK! AVENGERS, BUCKY’S AN ASSHOLE IN THIS, DEGRADATION, BASICALLY FORCED PROSTITUTION) READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

You awake in the passenger seat of your own car with only foggy memories of you and your partner before everything had gone dark. Your mission from the CIA...breaking and entering the motherfucking Avenger’s facility and managing to escape...you were so close. If it weren’t for him. In your haze, you look to see who could possibly have the audacity to be driving your car, and there sits Loki, the God of Mischief, who you had only scene on the news, driving one hand and inspecting something in his other.

“Good evening my lady. Sleep well?” he mocks without taking his eyes off the item in his hand which upon further inspection from you looks to be... a red leash?

What the hell?

“I do hope you like your outfit,” he continues. “I think I assembled quite the get up for you.”

Looking down, you let out a muffled scream that was cut off by a strip of duct tape. Your hands are bound in your lap, but that isn’t what horrifies you. It’s what’s underneath them. You take into account your bare legs, fully on display, with a black dress leaving little to the imagination. The top half is just as horrifying with it’s plunging neckline. Your legs end with a pair of strappy gold heels that ensures any chances of running away to be futile while your upper arms are adorned in golden bracelets accented with emeralds. Whether the emeralds were real or fake, you could care less. You have bigger problems to worry about.

“What the fuck?!”

Is what you try to say, but the gag only makes it come out as a mangled ball of muffled murmurs. Though the chuckle Loki lets out implies he understands your enraged speaking attempt.

“You, my dear, are going to be a bargaining chip. I heard about your little escapade at the Avenger’s facility last night. Impressive, I must say, but my brother and his little hero posse had been looking for you relentlessly after that. They are practically obsessed with catching the women that managed to break into their high security building.”

Loki takes a sharp turn into a parking garage, narrowly missing the wall. You squeal as your precious car runs over the curb.

“I forgot how much I hate mortal transportation devices. But Stark had to build this tower in the middle of New York to feed his ever-growing ego and now I’m the one that has to rely on a car to get me there,” he grumbles while pulling into a parking space. He takes a deep breath once the car is parked. “Now, I’m going to remove that gag out of your mouth, and if you scream, I will peel your skin off of your body in the slowest, most painful way imaginable. Understood?”

You nod frantically and he rips the tape off, extracting a whimper from your now stinging mouth. You open your mouth for him to take the wad of cloth out that was under the duct tape. As he extracts it, you snap your mouth shut in an attempt to bite him, but he’s quick to evade and grabs your jaw harshly.

“What did I say before?” he seethes.

“You said not to scream. I didn’t scream. Now let go of my face.”

Loki roughly throughs your face to the side, letting go, and looks around the surroundings of the car, probably checking for any unwanted onlookers.

“Out of the car. Now,” he orders and you hastily oblige using your bound hands to open the door.

As you shut the door, you catch a glimpse of your own reflection and grimace. You look like a hooker. Aside from the skimpy outfit, your hair was pinned up and intertwined with gold strands. Your makeup is done as well. Sultry eye shadow and dark red lipstick.

“I didn’t know the God of Mischief was a makeup guru,” you jab.

He ignores you and harshly pushes you forward. “Walk.”

“Where’s my partner?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Loki replies. “She has other uses than the one I currently need you for.”

“And what use am I needed for?”

“I already told you. By the gods, you mortals are stupid. You are to be a bargaining chip, (Y/N).”

Your blood runs cold. “How do you know my name?” you ask.

“I know everything about you. Including your peculiar abilities.”

You stop dead in your tracks.

“Now, don’t worry,” he adds. “As amusing to me as it would be, I have no interest in enlightening the Avengers to your secret identity. As far as they will know, I am simply giving them the criminal that broke into their compound.”

“And what’s in it for you?” you ask as he guidesyou into an elevator.

After pushing a button, he goes to fix his dark green tie. “Clever girl now aren’t you?”

“Answer the question.”

“How about-no?” he muses and a soft ding resonates through the elevator.

The doors opened and, for a moment, you forget the predicament your in. Inside was the most beautiful penthouse you had ever seen. The opposite wall was made entirely out of glass allowing a view of the New York City night skyline. Everything little piece of furniture each looks as expensive as your car, but your focus becomes drawn to the minibar. The Avengers were all sitting there, laughing, and most were obviously drunk.

“Here James, try some of this,” Thor booms.

Bucky makes a face. “Why would I drink something from another planet meant for Gods?”

“Jeez Buck it’s the only thing that can get you and I drunk,” Steve slurs and claps Bucky on the shoulder. “It’s your birthday. Live it up a little.”

Bucky hesitates before grabbing the flask Thor offers him and throwing his head back, downing the flask in one go.

Loki seems to have enough of the party scene as he clears his throat to interrupt them.

“Gentlemen-”

Before Loki uttered another word all the Avengers clambered from their seats to grab their weapons, but their intoxicated state just makes it a comical sight. Captain America falls over in an attempt to reach for his shield below the table. Tony Stark’s iron man mask smacks him over the head as he fails to turn in time to catch it on his face. Sam Wilson chokes on his drink and falls backwards off his barstool in shock.

“I come bearing no ill tidings.” Loki spread his arms.

“Then why bother coming at all?” Thor growls, shifting his hammer to his right hand.

“I’ve come to make an offer.”

With that, Loki snatches your wrist and throws you towards him and the other men. You stumbled in you stilettos and let out a yelp as you land on the floor looking up at the 5 present Avengers: Thor, the Winter Soldier, Captain America, Iron Man, and the Falcon. They all look down on you with perplexed looks etched onto their faces.

“You guys have been so caught up and stressed about finding your security breaches that I was generous enough to do some finding myself,” Loki explains.

“And how do we know you didn’t just pluck some prostitute off the street?” Caps eyes rake up and down your body.

Loki scoffs. “Always the skeptic captain. Does this answer your question?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flash-drive.

Tony snatches it from his hands. “Jarvis, what’s on this drive?” he asks, holding the drive up to a scanner in the glasses he’s wearing.

“It appears to be the files you have been collecting the 2 vigilantes you have been tracking and-.”

“Okay thanks J!” Tony interrupts quickly before Jarvis could spill any more information. He proceeds to storm up to your cowering and kneeling form that hadn’t dared move and harshly grabs your jaw.

Jesus, what was with these men and your poor, bruised jaw?

“Why would you possibly need this information?” he asks calmly, but his eyes are feral. He studies you and his brows furrow. Did he manage to piece it all together that you were the alleged vigilante they had been hunting? He lets go of your jaw and throws you back on the floor. “What business do you have looking for them?”

Looking for them? You let out a sigh of relief.

“None of your business,” you spit.

“Anyways,” Loki continues, and the drive suddenly disintegrated in Tony’s hand while reappearing in Loki’s. “I will happily hand over this seemingly important information along with the girl for you to do with her as you please, but…” He pauses. “Only if you stop tracking my current whereabouts.”

“And why would we do that, Loki? You’re dangerous,” Steve notes.

“I was dangerous,” Loki interjects. “I have been a good boy haven’t I? I would like to lead a normal life without you imbeciles tailing my every move. If I slip, Thor here will know within the second if I’m involved with anyone wrong doings, won’t you brother dear?”

Thor grunts at that statement.

“Besides, Stark’s satellite can track any magical energy if I use it. Which I won’t.”

“Fine. Now hand over the drive,” Tony snaps and holds his hand out.

After Loki drops the small gadget into Tony’s hand, he hauls you up and spins you around to face him.

His voice is quiet and low. “Be glad I didn’t tell them about my plans for you friend. It would be a shame if they found out about her abilities...and yours.”

He spins you back around to face the 5 men whose eyes were now raking up and down your body. “Easy on the eyes isn’t she?” Loki mentions, hands falling on your waist making you squirm. “You know, I almost considered keeping her for myself. Her exotic beauty is that of a pleasure maiden on Asgard.” Your struggles are invigorated at his implications. “Enjoy your whore.” And with that, he gives you one final shove before vanishing.

It’s silent for half a minute before one of the men speak up.

“Alright who wants to take her for a spin?” Tony asks, clapping his hands together. “I vote the birthday boy gets first dibs. Huh, Buckaroo?”

You blanch at the idea. Were they really going to go through with what Loki wanted? What happened to the valiant heroes you saw on your screen?

“Wait Tony, you can’t be seriously considering Loki’s suggestion?” Sam Wilson sounds surprised.

Tony shrugs. “Why not, Birdie? It’s either this or high security prison and I don’t think she wants to rot in a cell.”

“She is standing right here and would rather rot in hell than do what Loki had in mind,” you hiss.

“Well it’s a good thing we weren’t asking for her opinion,” Tony says.

“Tony’s right, Sam,” Steve adds slowly. “We bust our asses out there. We deserve something nice.”

“Day after day we save this pathetic world, and no thanks are given. Just everyone saying what we did wrong. We should’ve left the world to fend for itself after they tried shoving those ridiculous accords down our throats,” Thor murmurs

Sam raises both of his hands up in defense. “Fine. Do what you want with her. I’m gonna head out.” And with that he leaves. Your heart sinks, watching the only glimmer of hope, your knight in shining armor, walk out the door. Your self-pity party is cut short by an arm snaking around your waist.

Bucky Barnes, trained assassin, mass murderer, and now current Avenger, puts his face in the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, sending shivers down your spine while you stand frozen like a deer in headlights. “What do you say, doll? Wanna finish what we started the other night?” His hand on your waist slowly drifts down to your ass.

You stomp your heel down on his foot eliciting a groan of pain. “Last time I checked, you were in the dirt, and I was driving away that night after a successful robbery. There’s nothing to finish.”

He moves quickly as he rips your hair out of what’s securing it up, using the opportunity to tangle his hand into the roots and drag you away to a separate room. He wrenches open and throws you in, leaving you to stumble and trip. A searing pain on your forehead signaled that you hit your head.

“How about we use that snarky mouth of yours for something better hmm?” His voice is ice cold with malice as he grips your hair and yanks you up.

You cry out in pain, tears pooling in your eyes.

“Not so tough now, are you?” he sneers down at you. Hearing the sound of a belt unbuckling and pants unzipping, you shut your eyes.

A tear escapes, cascading down your face, but his thumb gently wipes it away.

“Open your eyes, doll,” he coos.

You shake your head and screw them shut even tighter.

“I said...OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES!” he roars and your eyes fly open only to see his member sticking out of his slacks right in front of your face. He’s almost fully hard as precum dribbles out of the tip. “Good girl,” he praises. “Now, since you can’t seem to keep your snarky mouth shut, let’s put it to better use. How bout that?”

You don’t move, and he sighed as you look down to the floor. You hear some shuffling, a small click, and suddenly something cold and sharp is pressing under your chin, tilting your gaze to his steel blue eyes.

“Let’s try this again.” He pushes the knife harder, digging it a little deeper, but not enough to draw blood. A knife. This dirty bastard has a knife. “Suck. My. Cock.”

Pushing all your pride aside, you direct your gaze to the task in front of you. Bucky lets out an approving hum and the knife is removed from your throat. You swallow before opening your mouth and dragging your tongue from his base to the tip before wrapping your lips around him and sucking lightly.

Bucky was no slacker down there, you had to give him that. You ease your mouth down his shaft and his head tilts back.

“Oh fuck that’s it,” he moans. “Take my dick down your throat.” He grunts. His metal hand fists your hair to push your head down, sliding a few more inches into your throat. “Oh-that’s a good whore,” he breathes.

A gag is torn from you and you slap your hands against his thighs to imply you couldn’t take much more. Bucky’s only response is another grunt as he jams the rest of his length down your throat leaving your only intake of oxygen to come from your nose which was now mashed right above the base of his thick cock. As quickly as he pushed you down before, he pulls you back off by your hair, letting you go to wretch, gasping for air and freedom. A strand of saliva still connects from his tip to my lips.

“I’m not done with you yet.” He snags your hair again. “Open wide, slut.”

You do just that and he begins to fuck your throat at his own pace, sliding his entire length down every time. Tears brim at your eyes, not just from the lack of oxygen, but the humiliation of the moment as well. The time passes much too slowly for your liking, minutes dragging on for eternity, before he begins to reach his climax.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” His cock twitches in your mouth.He holds your head with both hands as he releases straight into your mouth, warm thick strands of his release coating the back of your throat. He pulls out with a pop and smirks down at you. “Good little sluts swallow” he orders.

You glare up at him, making a show of not doing anything.

“Well?” he demands and raises a dark brow.

You spit his own climax onto his expensive shoes.

“Why you-!” He raises his hand, getting ready to send a smack to your face.

“Barnes!” A female voice comes from the doorway as the door flies open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

There stood none other than the Black Widow.

#dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky x reader #non-con #bucky x female reader #dark!fic #loki x reader #avengers #idk how to tag this #fanfic #am i doing this tag thing right?#no i'm not #smut #dark!mcu #marvel #dark bucky x reader #dark!marvel

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l4verq · 4 years ago

Text

boats🎣 | b.b

bucky barnes x reader

in which you’re supposed to be helping repair sam’s old boat but your boyfriend keeps distracting you :(

tags : 18+ minors pls DNI , bucky’s a horn dog and so is reader, sam doesn’t know bucky has his hand right on reader’s 🐱 and reader is TRYING to keep it that way lol, no plot, just a little porn 😼

fic : one shot

stern - the back part of a ship |

gangway - a flat board or metal structure that can be put in place between a ship and land to let people get off or on the ship |

cabin - a private room on a ship for a passenger or one of the people working on the ship |

masterlist

you know he’s not doing it intentionally.

the slight grunts as his vibranium arm effortlessly rips off rusty, rotting pieces of wood hastily hammered over cracks and gaps.

you’re scratching off stringy residue of duct tape slapped on holes in the stern, standing a few feet away from him, taking in the view.

not the one overlooking the wide stretch of blue water.

but the one where your boyfriend’s wiping the sheen of sweat off his face with his shirt and it’s not just any shirt, it’s the light grey one that’s one size too small but fits so right on his sculpted body.

he lets it drop, panting as his eyes trail over to you and smirks.

ok, so maybe he does know what he’s doing.

you go back to vigorously scraping off the grimy, faded string- how does duct tape turn to these stubborn, ugly strings that just refuses to come off?

and to top it all off, sam’s parents - god rest their souls - used the tapes in places you’re having to bend over, stretch your arms down as much as you can and hopefully are actually scraping the residue off.

“i got it.”

you jump a little, startled by his voice.

that sweet, sweet voice that brings you to your knees [literally] everytime.

he’s right behind you - you’ll never get used to his super soldier thing where he can sneak up on literally anyone - his crotch pressed right onto your ass as he bends down as well, arm sneaking down yours.

oh, he definitely knows what he’s doing.

his hand grabs the handle of the metal scraper in your hand, taking it from you.

the boat sways a little, just a little.

shouldn’t make him thrust right on your denim shorts clad ass, making miss kitty down there all flustered.

bucky’s a lot of things and being an insatiably annoying tease is just one of them.

he gets back up, vibranium around your waist pulling you up too, “sarah said she needs help with the pipes.”

you could use some help with piping too, you think.

“oh, okay.” you say breezily before getting out of his way.

getting out of his way as in sliding your ass across his crotch, a small groan leaving his mouth right into your ear.

he’s played this game with you way too many times and always won.

it was time for a new victor.

and so the rest of the day is just relentless teasing, lingering touches, strokes and a lot of “oh silly me, i dropped something. let me just pick it up.” and slowly raising your ass up his legs, feeling his jeans constrict just as you lift it away.

at one point, he’d pressed you against the wall, pinned your wrists above your head, i know what you’re doing.

cue innocent batting of your eyes, with a what?

you were the clear winner, until now.

until now when you’re in the cockpit, on your tippy toes, straining to hold up the glass pane.

“i don’t know how to break it to you that you’re not tall.” sam yells from the other side of the glass, voice all muffled.

you roll your eyes, practically unsticking your sweaty front from the majestic helm that’s been poking your belly for five minutes now. to say your tank top is just drenched in sweat is not an exaggeration.

totally not the hot girl summer aesthetic you were hoping for this year.

“need a hand?” bucky pokes his head in from the door, eyebrow quirked.

how does he get to look that good all sweaty and grubby?

“yeah, sam’s screaming at me cause i’m short.” you pull your lip, turning to face him.

he chuckles, lowering his head at the doorway and enters the cabin which suddenly looks even smaller because of his towering presence.

“i’ll lift you up, c’mon.” he extends his arms, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips, a playful glint in his eyes.

you turn around warily as he hops around the heap of boxes, screws, wrenches, crocks cluttered around the floor and he’s right behind you, hands tinkering around your waist.

but he slides his right palm right between your legs, other hand on your.... fuck, does it matter?

the only thing on your mind right now is him hiking you up, palm basically cupping your denim clad pussy.

you shakily hold up the glass while sam begins applying window sealant from the other side, completely oblivious to your boyfriend groping you.

his cool, metal arm rests under your thigh, a stark contrast to the burning ache between your legs.

“such a tight spot here.” he comments, palm squeezing slightly and it takes everything in you to stifle a moan.

he was crammed up against the helm, legs bumping into empty jars and canisters. you can only hope sam thought he meant that.

and it’s just torture, the next three minutes perched under his palm, desperate for some friction, to just rub it out all the while maintaining a poker face right at sam in front of you.

not helping that he’s having a casual conversation with sam, knowing full well that you’re absolutely just falling apart under his touch right now.

and the waves, the stupid waves that rock the boat so now bucky has to ‘adjust’ you, bouncing you up on his palm, squeezing your thigh with his other hand.

“sam!” a distant voice calls out.

you silently thank the lord for answering to your prayer.

“i’m working!” sam yells back, eyebrows furrowed, applying a line of translucent paste on the lower frame.

“SAM!”

sam huffs, screwing the cap on the tube of sealant back on, “i’ll be back. you can let go now.”

your sore arms cry out in pain as you retract them back, shaky legs because of a certain blue eyed 106 year old whose hand is shoved between them.

“i got you.”

bucky easily bounces you around, gripping your waist, your legs wrapping around his torso.

“you good?”

his right hand rests on your lower back to support you, eyes raking over your arms.

bucky’s a lot of things and being a caring, doting absolute annoyance of a boyfriend might just be the best one.

you just wait for the familiar creak and slight tilt of the boat confirming sam’s waddled across the gangway before crashing your lips into bucky’s, nearly tipping him over.

it’s almost animalistic, his lips part, letting your tongue slip in and delve in his taste that’s just so.. bucky.

it’s sweet, minty, tangy and you’d figure out the rest if only you both didn’t have to pull away, gasping for air.

“you’re so annoying.” you breathe out, panting right into his mouth.

jars tip over like dominoes as he backs you to the wall, shielded from the many windows but if someone so much as just craned their neck a little to look in, they’d have a front row seat to your snog fest.

“you know what these shorts do to me.”

his vibranium arm snakes around your waist, locking in, making that mechanical sound that’s just so sexy to you for some reason.

the evening sun is a little more merciful than the blistering beams of the morning but crammed up in that tiny area, sweaty bodies clinging to each other, you might just have a heatstroke.

if you didn’t pass out from the throbbing down there first.

“i need you to keep that pretty mouth shut, can you do that for me?” he cooes, forehead resting on yours, fingers reaching down to rub back and forth between your shorts.

you nod feverishly, unable to form words, hands grasping at the wall behind, his biceps, his back, everywhere, the long awaited friction sending sparks up your body.

“can’t let nobody hear us, now can we?” his lips trail to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin, a dull pain overpowered by pleasure coursing through out.

your hand tugs at his hair, soliciting a low moan from him.

“teasing me with your ass all out in these shorts,” he drawls, “such a bad girl.”

you’re hyperaware of the wide open cabin door and how someone could just walk right in, those two kids are always running around ever- fuck, the kids.

god, you’d never be able to face sam’s family ever again.

but it’s somehow the least of your worries when he lifts his fingers to his mouth, sucking on them with soft groans.

and he shoves them in the front of your shorts, “so tight,” he growls, hand barely fitting in.

you gasp as his finger finally make contact, run up and down your sopping slits.

“hmm, always so wet for me.” he groans, sloppy kisses down your neck, along your collarbone.

you whimper as he teases two fingers at the entrance, making you jolt when his thumb starts circling your swollen nub, the bundle of nerves coming undone.

his name’s a strangled, wanton noise deep from your chest but he gets the message.

that you need him to put a baby in you... y’know something along the lines of that.

but like aforementioned, he’s a tease.

so his fingers slowly push in, only the tips greeted by your walls.

“just as tight as i remember.”

back arching when he finally slips them all the way in, palm slightly tapping against your clit and you’re certain you see stars.

and he does the thing where his fingers hook, curl, twist, your legs squirming, his name falling out of your mouth like a chant.

your legs buckle, his fingers moving at an ungodly pace and the only thing holding you up right now is his iron grip round your waist as you shakily find your footing on the floor.

“fuck, you’re clenching so hard, baby.” he rasps, your head lulling into his neck, legs jerking against your own control.

you’re almost there. the familiar tightening of the twisted spring in your lower abdomen, toes curling against the rough surface of your slippers, almost..

creak.

a/n : 🤔🤨😳💤🏃🏻‍♀️💨 dk how i feel about this one bestie💭

#bucky #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #tfatws #sebastian stan #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #sam wilson #mcu #marvel #bucky fic #bucky imagine #the winter soldier

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

Note

"I don't fucking need you. I don't fucking need anyone."

(ideally said to reinforce an angry, apathetic façade)

CW: Panicked whumpee, trauma response, discussion of stabbing/murder, defiant/angry whumpee, referenced prostitution/dubcon, brief internal dehumanization reference

Jake Gets Stabbed: First Second Third Fourth

Also includes @nonsensicalwhump’s prompt ‘don’t fucking touch me’

There was an old backpack already in the closet when he moved into this place. It was worn around the edges, with safety pins all along the top because the zipper had long since broken, an olive green that might have been brighter, once upon a time. The bottom’s duct-taped in layers to hold it together. There are more safety pins holding seams together along the side, another strip of tape where there’s smeared permanent marker, too destroyed for Jameson to even read it.

The backpack looks like Jameson feels, wrecked and ruined and trying valiantly to stay together at the seams, only to come apart anyway.

He stuffs a package of goldfish crackers into the backpack on top of the three pairs of boxers and two shirts and one pair of pants he’s already put inside. Then he adds the bit of beef jerky he keeps up on the top shelf in the closet, where he has to climb onto a box to even reach it.

His heart hammers in his chest, and when Allyn’s fingertips brush along his shoulder blades through his shirt he jerks away from them, shoving some granola bars in, too. “Don’t fucking touch me!” He snaps, but all he wants is to collapse back into their arms, let them tell him it’ll be okay again, and believe it.

But he can’t believe it.

Their rainshower voice is a lie, the taste of ozone and the relieved wash of cool water is a lie, it’s all a fucking lie and it always fucking was.

“Jameson, no one is asking you to leave,” They say, voice low and soothing, their hands out but not quite touching him now. He glances over his shoulder at those long, long fingers, graceful elegant hands made for gesturing at the parties they tell him about. Fingers entirely unlike his own, the pinky that won’t quite close all the way anymore, the scars layered over them from every time they were hit until they bled, until he begged for more.

“No one has to,” Jameson says, staring down at the empty space in the top of the backpack. Does he own so little? Does he even own any of this? He can’t take the carvings in the closet wall, and that’s most of what he even wants to take. His proof to himself that he was a person, however briefly, before he goes back out to lose it all over again. “I killed m-my fucking-... the person who believed I c-c-ould be better, I killed him-”

“He’s not dead,” They say softly, and their hair hangs over their face. It’s all mussed and frizzy, and he thinks they look even prettier and more handsome somehow, like they’ve rolled out of bed, even though he knows it’s because they’re worried, too worried to pull it back, too worried to care. “I, I heard them call a doctor. Someone’s going to sew it up and he’ll b-be-”

“He’ll bleed to fucking death because of me,” Jameson says, and the weight of it hits him now. He sits down on his bed but it’s more like he falls into it. It’s not his bed anymore, anyway. It’ll be some other rescue’s, someone more deserving than he’s ever been of regaining humanity.

Some other rescue will arrive and lay down here across from Allyn and maybe watch the moonlight move over their face while they look outside and think that no one in the world has ever been as lovely in silvery light as them, and Jameson will be out on the street fucking for cash or food or for ten minutes of safety from himself.

Unless he kills them.

He might.

He might do that, if he-... if he sees Robert in their faces, or Brute, or if he gets lost in himself again he could keep killing people and then he’s not any different, and it wasn’t just to escape and it wasn’t worth it, and from the second he walked away from Nanda’s house he was just going to turn into a killer, wasn’t he? And now he is one.

Now he’s-

Jameson leans over himself, pressing his forehead to his knees, feeling all the scars along his back stretch uncomfortably as he moves. He takes in slow, even breaths, fighting the despair that overwhelms him, buries, drowns him in what he’s done.

He’s just a hand, reaching out, but he’d thought he was reaching out for help. Instead he was holding a knife.

“I won’t let them kick you out,” Allyn says softly, but insistently, dropping to a crouch in front of him. Their hands still hover, wanting so badly to touch him, respecting that he doesn’t want them to. He can feel the warmth of them even so. Their hands are so close. “I promise. I’ll, I’ll convince them somehow to let you stay. We can figure this out, Jameson, you don’t have to be all by yourself.”

“It’s fine, I d-did it before, I can do it again. It’s fine.” Jameson talks into the fabric of his jeans, lets it muffle the emotion and flatten his words. His shoulders shake with a sob he catches before it ever leaves his throat.

“Jameson, you know we don’t do well alone, you need-”

“I don’t fucking need anyone!” His head jerks up, meeting their gray eyes with his own dark brown. He can feel air move against his skin and realizes with some dull surprise he’s crying again. “I don’t-... I don’t fucking need a keeper, I don’t need... I don’t n-need anybody, I don’t need y-y... I don’t-”

He can’t tell that lie.

“Please don’t leave,” Allyn says, and their hands come to rest gently on either side of his face now, cool dry palms against his flushed damp skin. “Jameson. Please don’t leave me.”

“I tried to kill the first person to help me,” Jameson whispers. “The first person who didn’t ask for anything back. I tried to kill him.”

Allyn shakes their head. “You tried to kill R-... Robert, whoever that was. You tried to kill someone who hurt you. You didn’t know. If you leave, I-I’ll go with you, I can... I can go with you.”

“No you can’t. You don’t know how t-to handle shit out there, Allyn, it’d-...” He looks over their faces, the tears in their eyes, tears he caused, it’s his fault they want to cry. It’s his fault everyone in this house wants to cry, now, it’s his fault they bleed in every possible way. It’s his fault, for thinking he was ever more than just another rabid dog.

“I’ll go anyway,” Allyn says, fiercely. Their voice pours on his tongue, it’s the taste of a raging rush of river, a flood in the middle of the night, washing out the dry earth. “I’ll go with you anyway, we’ll figure it out, Jameson, you and I. I won’t lose anyone else-... I won’t lose you.”

Jameson hitches in a breath that burns all the way down to his lungs, and his own hands rise, slowly, to rest over theirs. “But... it could happen again, Allyn. What if-... what if it happens again?”

“What if it does? So what? It’ll just be us, we can just run, we can do it.” Allyn just looks at him, with those tears starting to well up and run down their cheeks like the water he tastes when they speak.

He licks at his lips, forcing the words out with every ounce of strength he has left. “What if... what if n-next time it’s you?”

Allyn opens their mouth to respond only for there to be a soft rap at the doorframe, both of them turning to look.

Jake’s boyfriend, the one who used to be like them, stands there. His wide blue eyes are nearly red from crying, and his face is as flushed as Jameson’s. To Jameson, his eyes seem cold and glittering, shattered glass.

His voice tastes like pears when he speaks, and Jameson shudders wondering if there’s a needle slipped into the soft skin of the fruit.

“Jameson?”

The two of them don’t move, except that Jameson curls his scarred, rough fingers over Allyn’s smooth hands and holds on as they drift down. He only looks at Kauri and says, his hoarse voice still thick with his own dread and guilt and fear, “Yeah?”

Kauri rakes a hand back through half-controlled black curls and takes a breath. “He’s all sewn up, and there’s some... someone Nat knows downstairs now, with Dr. Masood. They think-... I don’t know. Probably not going to, uh, to d-die.”

Jameson nods, his grip tightening on Allyn’s fingers, but the other rescue doesn’t pull away or flinch, only holds right back, just as tightly. “That’s-... good. Kauri, I, I didn’t know-”

“Yeah, I get it.” Kauri’s voice sharpens, and Jameson closes his eyes. Pear and razor blades, blood on his tongue, not like Nanda. This blood doesn’t taste like pleasure but guilt and regret. “I know-... I get it. Chris more... more or less explained it to me. But we need to talk.”

Allyn squares their shoulders, jaw settling. “It’s not his fault. You can’t blame him, he didn’t know-”

“I need to talk,” Kauri says with effort, “to Jameson.” His eyes go to the backpack packed on the bed, not yet closed up, the symbol of Jameson’s intent to run. Something changes in his expression, but Jameson can’t read it. “I need to talk to Jameson alone.”

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @newandfiguringitout @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whumpiary @endless-whump @burtlederp

#whump #recovering whumpee #defiant whumpee #angry whumpee #scared whumpee #running away #ptsd tw #jameson bb #allyn bb #erase to control #multiple whumpees #trauma response #guilt #freed whumpee #rescued whumpee #referenced stabbing #referenced murder #referenced pet whump

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blackberry-bloody · 4 years ago

Text

so I haven't done much original whump in quite a while, but I really felt the need to fill my own prompt (even though technically this turned into waaaaaaay more than I intended, and the tail whump is kind of an after though in this it seems.), and I really wanted to introduce my boi Dayzel officially. So Here's two birds with one stone.

@darkwarfy, @icyheart-and-friends, @seagullsausage

Contains: creepy whumper, retrained whumpee, non human/demon whumpee, angel/non-human whumper, implied prior whump, torture, choking, broken bones, loss of limbs (not graphic/ not described), humiliation (if you squint, so just in case), stress position, snarky whumpee that doesn't know how to shut up, whumpee reaching their breaking point

Dayzel's breathing came wheezy and strained from where he was unhappily seated. The ropes pinning his wrists to each if the chair's arms were starting to cut bloody red lines from his tugging, and his vision was just a little hazy from the repeated blunt force injuries to his head. Still… He looked up at the man glowering over him, a smug grin plastered quite firmly from ear to ear. He was Dayzel Infernos, and he was not about to be bested by some punk angel trying to get all high and mighty on his ass. "Look, chicken wing-" a resounding slap echoed in the room as his head snapped to the side. He clenched his jaw and slowly turned his head back to glare at the very narrowed purple eyes that had gotten much closer. "Oh wow, don't like nicknames huh? I'll keep it noted." His voice was practically dripping with a toxic mixture of venom and sarcasm as he chuckled in the man's face and spit a globule of blood at him.

The look of disgust on his face made his smirk that much more smug as he leaned forward as much as he could with his wings tied to the back of the chair. Just needing enough to close the gap. He was not impressed. "Hey bird brain, I don't know what you, or your buddies that dragged me here are thinking you're doing, but whatever it is… It's pretty fucking pathetic." His tail twitched from it's position around his leg, swaying from side to side like a snake judging the creature before it. "You're not the first person to try and "teach the evil demon a lesson", hell you're not even the first angel. I've had humans do worse than you. All you've done is smack me around a bit and glare at me." A slightly manic giggle escaped, but soon turned into a coughing fit as he had to pull back to catch his breath and relieve tension on his wings. Once he opened his eyes again, he noticed the angel's expression had changed from one of anger and disgust, to something more unreadable…

Dayzel paid the change no mind however, and continued with his taunting."I've been here many times before and not a single person… Human, angel, or otherwise has yet to make me break. None of you have any creativity. You're all so dull."

"Is that so?" The man before him finally spoke. His voice was deep and commanding, but also incredibly soft. But in the otherwise quiet room… It was practically booming.

Dayzel's eyes snapped up once more and processed the moment, his grin faltering for only a split second, and only due to the surprise. "Ah, so he can speak. Wonderful. I was starting to get tired of my own voice. Oh wait, no, that's impossible." He laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls and making them echo. However, he was abruptly cut off as a hand shot out and grabbed one of his horns. It didn't hurt, but it was just jarring enough to make him wince. He let out a low growl and tried to tug it out of the angel's grip. Only for the man to laugh in return, and guide Dayzel's head into an uncomfortable position looking straight up at the ceiling. "For the record. Yes. It is so. And of all the times I've been caught, this doesn't even make the top ten." He bit out. He tried to jerk his head again to make eye contact… But his head was held firmly in place.

"I see. Then perhaps it's time I showed you some of my… Creativity… Hm?" Delicate and utterly cold fingers found their way to Dayzel's fully exposed neck, and ever so gently wrapped around the skin… Before the grip became crushing hard, cutting off his airflow entirely.

Dayzel gasped and, although he tried his best to hide it… He did start to panic… As he tugged on the ropes trying to reach up and claw his hands off him. Or even shift his head so he could bite him. But neither were really options, so he was just left to slowly choke on nothingness until his vision went black.

~~~ Eventually, and ever so slowly, Dayzel could feel himself being pulled from the black void of unconsciousness. The first thing he noticed was that he was no longer seated in an uncomfortable chair, but instead was laying face down on an uncomfortable floor. The second thing he discovered was that he was indeed still restrained, despite the new position… His arms twitched behind him to try and push himself up, but was only met with stiff and sticky resistance of boring duct tape around his wrists. He had yet to open his eyes, but he still rolled them behind his eyelids. “I thought you were going to show me creative, not cliche, pigeon,” he growled out, despite the somewhat still smug tone in his voice. “Oh, don’t worry your fake red haired head, I’m getting to it. Try not to pass out before I can, ok?” The same voice as before spoke somewhere directly above him. Monotone, flat, and utterly condescending.

Dayzel’s eyes finally snapped open and he tilted his head to try and see where the angel was, “What the fuck is that-?!” He was abruptly cut off as a boot was placed securely at the base of where his wings met and weight was steadily applied. “Oh” was the only thing he could wheeze out as he struggled to take in air with his rib cage being crushed. He attempted to seem nonchalant as he felt the angel shift his weight behind him… But that was quickly thrown out the wind as he felt soft hands carefully take hold of his tail, lifting it up to get a better look. Immediately Dayzel started thrashing under him, letting out curses and threats that could put a trucker to shame.

"Oh hush, no need to get so worked up yet." Was the only reply given. Well, the only verbal reply… The twist and added pressure on the tender muscle between his wings were his other reply all it's own. The motion itself was enough to stun Dayzel beneath him, reeling from the pain. The angel, of course, took advantage of this moment and swiftly tied a cord around the man's tail before releasing him. "See? Now, up you come."

Delicate hands corded through Dayzel's blood matted hair and yanked, startling Dayzel from his daze, guiding him to be standing upright.

Dayzel gasped and heaved for breath as he stood up, wobbling ever so slightly as he did so. Although, he'd deny it with the same vigor and venom as he would anything else that might bruise his ego. His eyes were ablaze with fury. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you?! As soon as I can, I promise I'm going to pluck you like a chicken!"

The angel's expression remained neutral as his hand made its way up to wipe the spit off his face. "Yes… I'm quite certain you'd like to. But do please remember you brought this upon yourself sweetheart." There was no warmth, nor malice for that matter as he reached up and patted Dayzel's cheek. "Don't worry, though, I'm almost ready to leave you alone."

"Don't you dare touch me like that!" Was all he could manage to growl as he snapped his face to the side and bit down hard on the man's hand. However, instead of pulling away, or even acknowledging the red lifeblood dripping down his hand… The angel simply tsked and gave Dayzel a look of… What he could only describe as disappointment… Which was enough to startle Dayzel enough to let go.

The angel's uninjured hand shot out so fast he actually flinched as his horn was once again grabbed and his head tilted back. The angel carefully and slowly maneuvered behind him once again, and as he was still held in place, Dayzel had no idea what he was doing. "Such a shame. Your wings are actually quite beautiful you know? I was hoping to merely pin them for this… But seeing as how you want to resort to such. Brutality. I shall return the favor in kind. They should make a nice mantle piece."

Dayzel felt his stomach drop. All tough guy act and threats thrown away as fear took over his face. Actual, genuine, raw fear… "Wait, please don't-!" But he didn't even get the finish as the angel gripped tightly at the base of his wing and twisted and wrenched until the limb fell to the floor. And before he could so much as gather his thoughts… He immediately started on Dayzel's other wing, doing the exact same. That too fell with a soft thud to the floor. Dayzel never cried… And that much held up… No, through his screams, instead he was sobbing. And once his horn was released from it's crushing grip, he too fell to the floor in a heap of himself.

"See? Now we're getting somewhere. Lesson one. Fighting only ends in pain." The shifting of the voice told Dayzel that the man was once again in front of him. He didn't respond. "If you don't acknowledge me, I'll cut off your horns next."

"Fuck you." Dayzel lifted his head ever so slightly to get a look at him… Splattered with his blood across his white uniform…

The man crouched down to be closer in view. "Ah, out of threats I see. That's good. That's progress. There may be hope for you yet." He reached down and delicately pet the tufts of Dayzel's hair and the fuzz of the back of his neck. And Dayzel hated himself for being grateful for the gentle touch as opposed to pain. He merely clenched his jaw. "Unfortunately for you, lesson number two is that hope is meaningless." His hand withdraws and he stands back up to his full height, before fishing around in his pocket for something. Once found, he pulls out a tiny two button remote, one up arrow and one down arrow. He presses the up arrow.

Confused, Dayzel looked up as he heard some sort of mechanical noise, like a motor. And that's when he noticed the cord going up, that was attached to his tail… Which was seemingly being lifted by said motor.

Again, panic rushed through him as he scrambled to stand up and tried to reach the cord just below the tip of his tail… But he was still far too dazed and in pain to grab hold and undo the knot, let alone with his hands tied. He watched as the angel started walking towards the door out of the room, meanwhile his feet finally couldn't touch the ground and he lurched forward with a hiss of pain. The motor stopped, leaving the wingless demon dangling from the cord and the tip of his tail. When he looked back… The angel was gone, leaving him to his own misery. "FUCK YOU!!!" He screamed again, this time raw and full of hate, so loud that it left him once again panting for air.

~~~

It started as a sharp pain, every muscle and joint screaming at him to get down. To ease the pressure. To stop what was happening. And it lasted like that for the first little while as he struggled against the tape and spun in the air. He even tried being upside down and climbing backwards up his own tail to reach the cord. It didn't work of course, but he was desperate enough to try.

Eventually, he figured he'd try staying as still as possible to reduce the sudden jerks on his tail. But then he got lightheaded, or his legs fell asleep and he inevitably had to shift again, sparking the pain once more…

However, after a while… The pain became duller, and more muted. Still very much there and ever persistent. But his tail was slowly losing its ability to hold him up.

Finally he lost the ability to move his tail at all. It had gone a tingling sort of numb and lifeless…

He slumped, folded in half, and without the strength to hold himself facing parallel to the ground. He didn't know how long it had been, nor did he know how much longer it would be… But for the first time, he felt completely helpless.

#jay jabbers #my writing #whump #villain whumpee #nonhuman whumpee #demon whumpee #Dayzel oc #nonhuman whumper #angel whumper

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fiveisnumber1 · 5 years ago

Text

Timeless - Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 3850

Warnings: Mild Violence

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

_________________________

Pt 8 - Birthday Cash (part 1)

Sunlight shined through your curtains as the sounds of the city outside you started to wake you. Slowly you sat up and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. When your eyes came into focus you took a look at the calendar you hung beside your bed. The date of it read October 1st, 2002. Today was your birthday. Shooting up from your bed you ran down the stairs of your home into the living room. Standing there were your two parents.

"Happy birthday!" Your parents exclaim

You looked around the room to see balloons and decorations everywhere. Every year, your parents went all out for your birthday. To both of them, your existence was a miracle and they wanted to show how grateful they were to have you. Even when you were small and they knew you wouldn't remember what they had done for your birthday they still went all out. You were their little princess and all they wanted to do was make your day the best it could be. As you looked around the room you saw decorations from wall to wall. There were streamers and balloons as far as the eye could see. You made your way over to your parents who both gave you a big hug.

"Alright sweetie you sit tight right here and your father and I will be right back!"

Taking a seat on your living room couch you sit and wait for your parents. When they come back into the room you see your mom carrying a cake and your father carrying a box. Your mom places the cake on the living room table and takes a seat to your left side while your dad sits to your right. The two of them sing happy birthday to you and when you have your wish in mind you blow the candles out in one go.

"What did you wish for?" Your dad asks you

"Honey, you know wishes don't come true if you talk about them." Your mom says

"Oh fine, I won't pry." your dad responds "Anyway I've got one of many gifts for you right here. Do you want to open it?"

"Of course!" You reply excitedly

Your dad places the box in your lap and you gently undo the ribbon tied around it. Opening the box you remove the tissue paper and see the gift inside.

"No way! It's exactly what I wanted!" You exclaim

Inside the box was a replica of the diary for The Princess Diaries. The movie came out a little over a year ago and since then you were obsessed. You wanted the diary from that movie specifically because you loved how it needed a locket that fit it perfectly to open it up.

"Well, you had been talking about the journal ever since you saw the movie. It took a while but we had it custom made for you. It's practically an exact replica except we had it so yours could fit more pages." Your mom explains

"Do you like it?" Your dad asks

"I LOVE IT!" You reply "But where is the locket?"

"Lift up the diary." You mom says

When you lifted the book up you saw not one but two lockets.

"Why are there two?" You ask

"Well, we wanted to make sure that if you lost the first one you could have a second one handy." Your dad responds

"Keep the second one in a safe place." Your mom says

"I will!" You reply

You knew exactly where you were going to keep the second locket but for now, you spent some time with your family eating cake for breakfast and taking in all the time that your parents had spent to make your day special. When the three of you finished your cake your dad states,

"Your mom and I have one more surprise for you but we need to go to the bank to get it. Go get ready so we can head out."

Excitedly you run upstairs and get ready. When you finish you eagerly wait for your parents downstairs. Once all of you have everything you need to go, you head out the door and off to the Capital West Bank.

__________________________

Today was October 1st, 2002 but in the Hargreeves household, this day was just like any other. Reginald Hargreeves cared little for birthdays or the acknowledgment that his children were another year older. Like for past birthdays, he merely congratulated them on not passing yet and went on with his day. Unlike Reginald, Grace was much more sympathetic and caring towards the kids and tried to make sure that they all felt special on their birthday. When the children came down from their rooms for breakfast she made sure that each one of them got their favorite thing to eat. She also wished each individual child Happy Birthday as she handed them their plates. This was the routine that occurred every October 1st since they could remember, but this year it would be a little different because the kids knew that later today they would get to celebrate with you. While they kept quiet when their father was at the table, the minute he left the chattering of excitement amongst the six siblings was unstoppable. Each one of them presented their ideas for what they wanted to do for a fun birthday. Diego suggested,

"We should play pin the tail on the donkey but instead it's balloons and we have to pop them with knives!"

"Diego, you would win that one automatically." Allison comments

"And? I want to be a winner on my birthday." He replies with a wide grin

"Well, I want to have a dance party for our birthday!" Allison says

"Oooh, I can get on board with that." Klaus comments

"I want to duet playing happy birthday with (Y/N)." Vanya comments

"And I think it would be fun if we just sit around and talk," Ben says

"Maybe if we're lucky she'll bring over presents and we'll actually get stuff this year!" Luther adds

"What do you want to do for our birthday, Five?" Vanya asks turning the attention to him

"I bet he wants to kiss (Y/N)." Diego interjects making kissy faces at Five "Mwah mwah mwah oh (Y/N) I love you so much!"

"Shut up." Five says looking away from his siblings, heat rising to his face

"You're not denying it." Luther teases

Luther and Diego start to tease their brother more and Klaus starts to sing,

"Five and (Y/N) sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G! Fi-"

"Ugh! Leave me alone!" Five says grabbing his breakfast and getting up from the table

Five then flashes away to his room. His siblings were so annoying no matter what day it was. Ever since he had accidentally told them about a month ago that he loved you, they relentlessly teased him about it. Well, Diego, Luther, and Klaus did with Allison chiming in here and there. Ben and Vanya were more so supportive and stayed out of his business, which he appreciated. Nevertheless, it was difficult to deal with their incessant teasing. Yes, he loved you and yes, he's thought about kissing you but he couldn't find the courage to go through with it. You were his best friend, his only friend and he didn't want to lose you because he felt a certain way and you didn't. It was a risk he just wasn't willing to take because he couldn't be sure how you felt for him. Five sat down on his bed and angrily munched on his birthday breakfast hoping that soon enough something would happen to make the day more exciting.

__________________________

When you and your family arrived at the Capital West Bank you took a look around. It was very nice looking with high ceilings and a balcony upstairs that worked its way around the main room. Your father approached the counter and you followed. You ignored the conversation your father and the clerk were having and continued to look around. You saw many different people in the bank, some standing around, some going and then some coming in. As you watched a group of men walk in the door you grew suspicious. In your gut, you felt something shifty about them. Cautiously you watched them out of your peripheral to see what they were up to but to not be obvious about it. A bank teller then steps out from behind the counter and walks you over to a set of stairs directing you and your family up them. Bringing you to a back room the teller uses a key to unlock the door. In the room, you see wall to wall safes. Each one looking just as heavily secured as the next. Your father takes a step towards one of them and entered a passcode. When the safe opens in there is an exact replica of Princess Mia's tiara. Your father gently grabs it from the safe and places it on your head.

"A perfect princess tiara for our perfect birthday princess." Your mom comments

As you relish in the sweet moment with your parents you all hear some commotion from downstairs. Your family and the teller head out of the room and watch from the upstairs balcony as chaos breaks loose downstairs. You can hear the screams of other people in the main lobby as the men who you had a bad feeling about pull out some guns and start threatening people. The banker pulls you and your family back into the back room. Quickly your dad takes the tiara off your head and puts it back in the safe before closing it swiftly. The banker that brought you upstairs calls 911 and details the situation going on, but before he can finish talking to the 911 operator a couple of members of the who were in charge of this robbery shoot him. The criminals, uncaring of what they had just done to an innocent life proceeded to make their way over to you and your parents. Your parents get in front of you to put space between you and the criminals but it is useless because they end up forcing you three down on the ground and put duct tape around your wrists. As you're on the ground you give your mother a pleading look but she shakes her head no. You knew that you could use your powers to get you and your family out of this but your mom didn't want you to in fear of people taking you to do experiments. You let out a sigh as the robbers sit the three of you up. One of them sends the others outside to guard the room before turning to your father to interrogate him.

"Now tell me where this tiara is." The criminal commands

This is not how you expected your birthday to go.

__________________________

For the Hargreeves kids, their birthday was going the same as always, which is to say not much excitement was going on. They all separated and started to do their own things but their activities were interrupted when Reginald yelled,

"Children come down to the parlor immediately!"

All the children made their way down to the parlor as quickly as they could. Standing in an orderly line from 1 to 7 the children look to their father to hear what he has to say.

"You have been training to use your powers for years and now you have been presented the opportunity to go and demonstrate them to the world. The Capital West Bank is under siege by a group of robbers and the patrons inside have been taken as hostages. There has been a standoff with police for about two and a half hours at this point and I intend for you children to finish it. Get out of your pajamas and get in your uniforms, we leave in 10 minutes sharp."

The children run off to their rooms and rush to get ready for their first-ever mission. This was not quite the excitement they were looking for but nonetheless, it was better than nothing. Within 10 minutes' time, all the children were ready to go. Quickly, they made it to the bank. The six children with powers devised a plan to get inside while Vanya stayed with Mr. Hargreeves looking at the scene from afar. All the kids minus Luther make their way into the bank through side entrances trying to not get caught. As nonchalantly as possible Allison walked towards the main part of the bank. As she did so she saw one of the criminals talking on a walkie talkie.

"Hey get them behind the counter," He said to some other robbers using his gun to gesture "Now you've put me in a position where I gotta do something I don't wanna do. SHIT!"

She approaches the man and stands their innocently.

"Hey get back with the others!" The man commands to Allison

"I heard a rumor... Allison replies

"What? What did you say?" The man asks

Allison then leans in towards the man and repeats herself. Putting a hand up to her mouth she says,

"I heard a rumor that you shot your friend in the foot."

Under the command of Allison's power, the man turns to his accomplice and aims the gun at him.

"Hey dude, what the hell?" the other man asks

The man under Allison's power then shoots his friend in the foot before shooting again. The other man falls to the ground and accidentally shoots off rounds from his automatic weapon. The hostages of the bank scream in fear. A crash then comes from the ceiling as a bunch of glass rains down into the bank. Along with the glass is Luther who jumps down into the bank, grabs one of the criminals banging his head against the counter before throwing him out of one of the high windows. Within seconds Diego runs in brandishing his weapons of choice,

"Guns are for sissies, real men throw knives!" He exclaims throwing his knives and redirecting them towards one of the gunmen

The knives manage to hit the gunman in the shoulder and his heart. After the one gunman got hit by Diego's knives, the man standing next to Allison came out of his trance and ran away from her towards the counter. As the kids and robbers continue to fight chaos continues to ensue throughout the whole building.

__________________________

You and your parents had been in the backroom upstairs for what felt like hours at this point. The man who stood before you kept yelling at your father to tell him where the safe that had your tiara was. Somehow your dad had avoided the question thus far but the criminal was becoming inpatient. The robber was about to speak again when the sound of gunshots rang out from downstairs.

"We're gonna have to move this along. If you're not going to tell me straight up then I'm just going to have to force it out of you!" The robber yells

The robber then grabs you and holds the gun in his hand against your head.

"You should let go of me before something happens." You comment calmly

"Aw, what are you gonna do? Cry?" The man mocks

"You asked for it." You reply

In one swift motion, you phase backward through the man and kick him towards a desk that was in the room. As he falls over it you grab the letter opener and stab the man in the back with it hitting his heart. Undoing your parents' bindings you tell them,

"Stay here."

"But-" Your mom interjects

"STAY HERE" you command them

Within a second's time, you had phased through the door and into the middle of the upstairs hallway. Making yourself visible you use your powers to manifest the tiara in your hand and hold it up.

"Hey!" you yell grabbing the attention of the armed robbers "Looking for this?"

The angry men start to chase you but you turn invisible.

"Where'd she go?" One of them asks

One of the men walks down the hall to see if he can find you. Once the men are on two opposite side of the hall you reappear and taunt,

"If you want this crown you'll have to kill me for it."

The two men turn their guns on you and start to rapidly fire but you use your powers to make them go through you harmlessly and the two men end up killing each other. After you confirm they were incapacitated you hear a voice yell,

"Get back you freaks!"

Looking down from the balcony you see a man standing on top of the bank counter surrounded by Allison, Diego, and Klaus in their academy uniforms. You wonder when they got here but continue watching. the man points his gun at each of them he demands,

"Hey be careful up there buddy," Klaus comments

"Yeah, wouldn't want you to get hurt" Allison chimes

"Get back now!" The criminal demands

Five flashes behind the man so he is sitting criss-cross on the counter.

"Or what?" He asks with a cocky smile

The man turns his attention and gun to Five and starts shooting but Five had flashed away before any bullets could hit him. Flashing behind the man once more he crosses his arms, a serious look on his face. The man on the counter turns to him and starts clicking a stapler at him. Five looks down at the stapler before sarcastically commenting,

"That's one badass stapler."

Immediately after though Five forcefully pushes the man's hand. The stapler hits hard causing a gash in his head and the man to fall off the counter. Your jaw drops and your heart starts to race a little.

"Damn," you whisper to yourself

Something about him kicking that guys ass was really attractive to you. Forgetting that you were in the middle of fighting one of the robbers grabs you and takes the tiara out of your hand. You phase out of his arms and say,

"Either the crown goes down on the group or you go up in the air."

"You're not getting this back." The man states

"Alright, don't say I didn't warn you."

And with that you make it so this man's molecules are extremely light and hang him upside down in the air over the lobby of the bank. Freaking out he throws the tiara over the balcony and it lands by your feet. Not part of your plan but you are satisfied nonetheless. You continue to leave the man hanging as you watch your friends downstairs. Outside the vault five of the six children stand in a semi-circle around Ben.

"Do I really have to do this?" Ben asks

"C'mon Ben there are more of them in the vault," Luther says

"I didn't sign up for this," Ben says in a resigned tone

Ben enters the vault and begins to take out the men in their one by one. From across the room the man you were holding yells,

"Put me down!"

The five children left outside the vault switch their attention and see a man dangling upside down in the air. Looking slightly above him they can see you standing on the balcony above.

"I said put me down you crazy bitch!"

"You got it." You reply with a smirk before making the man's molecules extremely dense

The man rapidly falls down towards the floor of the lobby and impales himself on a flagpole. Five looks up at you an admiring smile on his face and awe in his eyes (even if they were hidden behind a mask). He had never seen someone so beautifully kebob a man.

"Wow." Five said to himself

The hostages in the bank start to run out of the building screaming. You transport yourself downstairs to the middle of the lobby and watch the bloodbath occur behind the translucent glass of the vault. When it stops you see Ben slowly step out from behind the door and he can be heard saying,

"Can we go home now?"

You see the children walk around the counter to make their way over to you. Even behind their masks, you could see the excitement in their faces especially that of Five. The children approach you but as they do you can see one of the men still alive get up and quickly make their way over to your group. Raising their gun up, they point it in their direction. He could've aimed at any one of you but he pointed his gun at Five. Quickly reacting you yell,

"Five watch out!"

You then transport your molecules so that you are between Five and the gunman. The gunman pulls his trigger but you push his arm up so that the shot hits the ceiling. You wrap your hand around his neck and look him in the eyes. Adrenaline rushing through your veins all you could think about was how this man almost killed the boy you loved. You were about to say something when,

*BANG*

Your entire top part of your body was covered in red. The body of the man falls backward and you see that all that was left was the shoulders down. You blink a couple of times coming to the realization of what you just did. Slowly turning to the group of kids Diego exclaims,

"HOLY SHIT (Y/N), YOU BLEW HIS HEAD OFF! THAT'S SO COOL.”

"Uh, thanks." you comment before gesturing to yourself and adding "Hey Ben, looks like we're twins now.”

You see a smile appear on the face of the boy who didn't want to be here in the first place. He didn't say anything but it brought him comfort to know you were in the same boat as him. You watch as Five opens his mouth to say something but before he can you hear someone screaming your name from above you. Turning around you see your parents. You wave to them from the lobby floor.

"Hi, mom! Hi dad!" You say as if nothing was wrong

You and the Hargreeves kids all watch as your parents rush down the stairs to get to you. When your mom gets to you she crouches down looking all over you for injuries.

"Oh my god (Y/N) are you okay? You're all covered in blood!" She cries

"Don't worry mom, it's not my blood!" You say with a positive attitude

Your mom wails in distress at the sight of her baby covered in someone else's blood.

"Honey, I don't think that was the right answer." You dad comments putting a hand on your mom's shoulder

"Oh uh, well then it is-" You start to say

"No don't finish that sentence, that's not it either." Your dad adds

Your dad helps your distressed mom off the floor and places a hand on your back escorting you all to the door. As the three of you walk he says,

"You know what. We're gonna go home and you're gonna get all that blood off you and then your mom and I are going to lay down for the rest of the day while you do whatever makes you happy for your birthday.”

The six children watch as you make your way out the door with your parents but before you exit you turn to smile at them knowing that you would see them later. As soon as you leave the kids rush out to the front steps so that the public can acknowledge them for the first time. This was the most exciting birthday they had had so far but they all knew it would only get better once you came over to celebrate later.

Tag list: @xplrreylo @joebob15274 @insatiable-ivy @fruitsaladtree @angelpeachamber @academy-umbrella @lizziel1410 @ir3neeee @faith-quake @aliens-with-colas @eddiomyspaghettio @lady-celeste25 @im-dead-and-hurting @nerdypinupcrystal @cherry-ki-d @anapocalypseinmymind

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loveinterestcastiel · 4 years ago

Text

sursum corda

Part one of a new canon divergent series, “A Sacrament to Be Taken Kneeling”

Summary: the opening dialogue to the eucharistic prayer, or anaphora, translated to english means “lift up your hearts”, and is the beginning of a devout worshipper’s holy communion with god

Canon divergent from 6x22, this one is rated M for religious blasphemy, power dynamics, and mature subject matter (later installments will be rated E for violence, sexual content, and graphic depictions of blood). Honestly this is just a fucked up exploration of the catholicnatural that could have been if the spn writers hadn’t been cowards and had instead really leaned into the whole Godstiel thing, and his dynamic with Dean. I’m going to hell for this and you know what? That’s just fine with me.

It can be read here or in AO3! Enjoy <3

Castiel was brighter than the sun, and he was beautiful. He was the most terrifying thing Dean had ever seen, because somewhere in there, he could still see Cas, the old Cas. He let Crowley go. Dean was going to kill that demon, but- later. Later, when they got out of here and got Sammy put back together.

Then Castiel blew Raphael up with nothing more than a snap of his fingers, and their most formidable adversary, after all these months, was suddenly just a bloody smear on the wall. The last Apocalyptic threat, gone, just like that, leaving Dean and Bobby alone with a Cas-gone-nuclear.

They were so, so fucked.

Cas looked over to Dean, his face softening incrementally but still distinctly smug.

"So you see," he said, turning away from Dean and moving as if to inspect his explosive handiwork, "I saved you."

Dean Winchester is saved.

“You sure did, Cas,” Dean said faintly, drifting further into Cas’s orbit as if somehow compelled. Castiel didn’t acknowledge him, keeping his back turned, his spine ramrod straight. Damage control. Holy fucking shit, damage control right now. “Thank you.”

“You doubted me. Fought against me.” He slowly turned to face Dean, a mockery of their first meeting in that rundown barn years ago, tilting his head the same way, his blue eyes the same limitless color and just as mesmerizing, but somehow about a million times more unsettling. “But I was right all along.”

Dean’s stomach swooped. “Okay, Cas, you were. We’re sorry,” he added quickly, his breath shallow and shaky. “Now let’s just defuse you, okay?” he suggested, the words cumbersome and heavy in his mouth.

Cas narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly before relaxing again. “What do you mean?” he asked icily.

Dean forged on desperately. “You’re full of nuke. It’s not safe, so before the eclipse ends, let’s get them souls back to where they belong.” Oh, he felt like he was going to be sick. Please, Cas, please just listen to me…

“Oh, no, they belong with me,” Cas countered, his tone almost patronizing, like he was speaking to a child.

“No, Cas,” Dean interrupted before his brain or his fear could catch up to him. “It’s- it’s scrambling your brain.”

“No, I’m not finished yet,” he said firmly, with the ghost of a cold smile tugging on his features. “Raphael had many followers, and I must-” Cas paused, choosing his words, “punish them all severely,” he finished deliberately.

Bobby’s eyes darted over to Dean. He was visibly horrified.

Okay. One last effort. Okay.

Dean shoved down his fear and tried again. “Listen to me.” He stepped closer to Cas, swallowing hard as his voice fought to stick in his throat and looking steadily into his eyes. “Listen- I know there’s a lot of bad water under the bridge. But we were family, once,” he pleaded. “I’d have died for you. I almost did a few times.” Castiel’s face remained impassive but Dean continued. “So if that means anything to you- please,” he begged, abandoning his pride. “I’ve lost Lisa, I’ve lost Ben, and now I’ve lost Sam. Don’t make me lose you too.”

Castiel wrenched his eyes away from Dean’s and cast his gaze down to the floor between them. Was he considering it?

“You don’t need this kind of juice anymore, Cas,” he tried to reason. “Get rid of it before it kills us all.”

A beat.

“You’re just saying that because I won,” Cas mused, raising his gaze back up to look at Dean again, pinning him there like a specimen under a microscope. “Because you’re afraid . You’re not my family, Dean,” he said, closing the remaining distance between them until he stood less than an arm’s reach away, positively radiating power, the air vibrating with it. “You’re just… human.”

His eyes lingered on Dean’s face, tracing his freckles, his eyelashes. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t seem to find it. Castiel’s face hardened into stone, his next words iron. “I have no family.”

The words rang in Dean’s ears, banging about his brain and battering it into despair. It felt like a small death, his heart pulling on his ribs as he floundered for a new angle to pursue.

And then Sam was there, behind Castiel, and he just stabbed him with an angel blade, and Cas was swaying just a bit with the blade still stuck in his back as Sam gasped for air behind him, clearly distressed and stumbling backwards.

Dean froze, horrified.

What the FUCK were you thinking, Sam?

But- oh. Oh god.

Cas wasn’t dead. It didn’t work. His brain buzzed blankly with a static-y sensation of bewilderment as Cas reached around himself and pulled out the blade- shiny, clean, utterly free of blood- with an alarming squelching noise.

"I'm glad you made it, Sam," Cas said in a distressingly level voice, placing the newly-extricated angel blade on the table in front of him before turning to glance at Sam. “But the angel blade won’t work, because I’m not an angel anymore,” he said, matter-of-fact as could be, as if he hadn’t just dropped yet another massive bomb on their lives. Sam looked to Bobby, his eyes wide, and Bobby shrugged back minutely, similarly floored.

Look at me, Cas, leave Sammy alone, you’ve done enough-

As if he heard Dean’s thoughts- fuck, was he praying?- Castiel turned back to Dean and met his eyes. “I’m your new God,” he said, with an air of authority and immense self-satisfaction permeating his words. “A better one. So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you.”

Bobby’s eyes widened in the periphery of Dean’s vision as time seemed to swirl and slow down to a crawl- clearly, he hadn’t expected this either.

Sammy was strung out and swaying on his feet behind Cas, his eyes darting and rolling over the room as he rode out the hellish things that tormented him in his head, seemingly incapable of reacting to the gravity of the situation as what Cas had done put him out of his mind with fear.

In the span of a heartbeat, Dean made his choice. He had no choice.

He fell to his knees.

The crack of bone on hard tile was near agony. His gun clattered uselessly to the ground beside him as he shifted his gaze to land somewhere around the hem of Castiel’s coat. He couldn’t look at his face. Couldn’t meet his eyes. It was almost impossible to believe the terrifying figure before him was once his closest friend, and had saved him from Heaven and Hell alike before he had turned into whatever this was.

His throat was dry. He forced himself to swallow, drawing his tongue over his bottom lip as he tried to find the right words.

Bobby started to kneel, too. Survival instincts, probably. He’d have never gotten this old without them, anyway.

“My lord,” he began hesitantly.

The new God waved his hand dismissively at the title. “Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Dean corrected himself. Great start, you fuck up. “Cas, I swore my obedience to Heaven, once. To God, and his angels. To you,” his voice cracked as he risked a glance at the former angel. His eyes were like fire. Glowing. Unreal.

Bobby interrupted: “Dean, no-”

But Castiel snapped up a hand, palm out, and Bobby’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. “You will be silent,” Castiel ordered, his eyes never leaving Dean. He looked intrigued by Dean’s sudden compliance and admission. “I’d like to hear what you have to say, Dean. What can you possibly say to justify your lack of faith in me up until now? I could have cast you back into the pit, and Sam, too, had I not done this, all of it, for you.”

“I know you did, Cas,” Dean said. “Thank you. I- thank you. You were right, about everything, and I should have listened to you. I was wrong. I should have trusted you.” The words tasted like poison in his mouth. A part of him meant it. A part of him was just desperate enough to say anything. The rest of him wanted to see the cold monster in front of him dead. But how could he turn back now, without sentencing them all to death? If he played his cards right, he might even be able to save Castiel. Surely if he could get him to let go of those souls, he’d start to see reason, would be Cas again. But he was getting ahead of himself. Gotta think a little more short-term, right now. Band-aids and duct tape, not trauma surgery.

“I was blind,” Dean said, “and proud. I took you for granted, and I can do better. Be better. For- for you.”

He had never felt so weak. Groveling to his dad was different. He was his dad’s son, sure, but there was no love there. It was all survival, clinical, even his rage and his fists when Dean didn’t do enough to earn his mercy were detached. Duty and discipline and disappointment. This was different. It was hot with near-tears, messy and filled with grief for a man who wasn’t even dead. He wasn’t lying earlier when he told Cas he was like a brother to him. It was the closest comparison he had for what the angel was to his heart. He had never needed anyone like he needed Castiel- because he wasn’t Sammy, or Bobby, or Lisa, or Ben, or Cassie, or any other category of need. He was just Cas. And Dean wanted him in his life. Or he used to, anyway.

“I don’t know what I can do to make it right between us, Cas,” he said, his throat tightening slightly. “But I want to,” Dean offered, looking down in shame. “I want to be-” he choked out.

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel asked, taking another step forward, the very picture of authority and control. One more step and Dean could reach out and touch him. The air was electric, heady with power as it positively radiated from his body.

He lifted his head to meet Castiel’s eyes in a pose of supplication, his knees aching, his eyes burning with tears as the situation started to overwhelm him. “I want to be forgiven,” he gasped out. “Cas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive us.”

“And Sam’s betrayal?” Castiel inquired, casting new fear into Dean’s heart. “He stabbed me in the back. And he has not knelt as you have. Why should I offer him mercy?” he mused.

“Look at him, Cas,” Dean said quietly. Sam was hunched over on the floor in the corner, holding his head in his hands, rocking slightly into the wall and pushing off of it again in a strange repetitive motion. “He can’t follow any of this. I don’t think he even knows where we are. It’s been getting worse as time passes. He was slightly more coherent an hour ago, but-” Dean shook his head. “I think he was just trying to protect me. I don’t think he even knew who you were, just- saw a threat and tried to take it out.”

Cas made a noncommittal little noise, glancing over to where Sam had retreated.

“Cas,” Dean said, drawing his attention back to himself. “He didn’t know what he was doing. Can you try to forgive him that?” he pleaded as the first tear escaped and ran down his cheek.

“And in return?”

“Anything,” Dean swore. “Just- Cas, please. I’ll do anything. I will, I swear it. Just please help Sammy.”

“It won’t be as easy as you think,” Castiel warned. “I want your trust, Dean. I want the bond we once had, and your submission to my better judgement, untainted by your... fear.” His voice turned hungry, reminiscent of when they worked that killer Cupid case last year and it turned out to be Famine. To be on the receiving end of desire of that magnitude was by turns exhilarating and horrifying. “I want your love.”

“Cas,” Dean said faintly, unable to tear his eyes away from his friend’s face even as Bobby attempted to fight his holy gag order from his place next to him. “I… I’ll try. For you,” he added, trying to add a note or resolve to his voice as his thoughts roared in fear and grappled with the idea, stuck on the precipice of this terrible new unknown he had run up against. But he truly had no choice. Sink or swim.

“I swear, Cas,” he said, raising his hand to his heart, “I’ll try.”

Castiel’s eyes softened. They stopped glowing.

Suddenly, for a moment, he looked just like himself. More than that, he looked heartbreakingly human.

He moved suddenly, sending Dean’s heart sprinting again for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

But he didn’t hurt him. He didn’t hurt Sam, or smite Bobby, or engage in any sort of holy wrath. He just kneeled, in front of Dean, and clasped his clammy hands briefly in his own warm, dry ones before shifting them both to his right hand and raising his right palm to Dean’s cheek, his eyes darting over his features with an air of disbelieving gratitude. It was so...

Castiel had lovely hands, Dean noticed. Strong, soft, and broad, with a gentle grip and long, agile fingers. So different from Dean’s own hands, already scarred from the last few years of wear and tear since his resurrection. Of course, he’d noticed before. Noticed that sort of thing about Castiel, how he used his hands to fight, to pray, to eat and to comfort, how they looked drenched in blood and how they looked at rest. How they looked striking a blow to his own face, and how they looked when he healed him. They were one of a million things Dean knew about him better than he knew himself.

“Oh, Dean,” he said softly, “That’s all I ask of you. Just try. Lift up your heart to me, and I will give you everything.”

Dean inhaled sharply, his chest tight as he leaned into the touch. "It's yours," he breathed out, "It's all yours, Cas."

Castiel smiled, and the world fell away.

Tagging in some people who I think might be interested, just dm me to be added or removed: @castieljew @dependsupon @autisticandroids @sunforgrace @heller-jensen @lateral-org @cactuscas @adhdeancas @icaruscastiel @holmesemrys @evermorecastiel @yana125 @faithcastiel @good-things-do-happen-dean @i-sing-for-me @whatevr-4evr @sonder-stars @jeanne-de-valois

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