#DEAD I'M ON THE FLOOR DEAD AS WE SPEAK | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pencil-n-pen · 1 month ago

Text

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

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Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

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benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

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kxsagi · 13 days ago

Note

hiii! how r you? i like your writings so much<3 can you do this one where the reader is the pilot/captain of the plane the bllk boys are flying on?

“𝟏𝟎-𝟒, 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭”

a/n: i'm good and i hope you are too! thank you so much!!!

ngl this request idea reminded me of that one caleb tik tok edit audio where he’s like “10-4, captain caleb out” with take my breath away playing (hence the titel)

ft. itoshi rin, isagi yoichi, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, hyoma chigiri, kaiser michael, bachira meguru, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei

itoshi rin

he’s dead silent the entire boarding process. headphones in. hoodie up. classic.

until he hears the pilot’s voice over the intercom and thinks: that sounds familiar…

then you say your name and he just… freezes mid-scroll. no music. no breathing. no way.

stares at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.

you’re flying this plane? oh gosh. he’s proud of you, of course, you’re amazing, he just didn’t mentally prepare for this.

texts you: “we're not gonna die right” “i trust you but also i’m scared” “i love you btw”

won’t admit he was nervous until like a week later.

makes you a bento the day after to “thank you for keeping his ass alive.”

isagi yoichi

literally gasps when he hears your voice on the speaker.

beaming like a proud dad. keeps telling the flight attendants “that’s my girlfriend!!” like a loser.

opens flight radar just to stare at the little plane icon and pretend he understands what’s going on.

tries to peek into the cockpit before takeoff. gets caught. blushes.

will not shut up about how ✨cool✨ and ✨smart✨ you are.

“babe, you flew the plane! like? the actual PLANE???”

asks you a million questions afterward like you’re a celebrity.

makes it his phone wallpaper: you in your pilot uniform, looking all hot and composed.

mikage reo

his reaction is immediate and dramatic: “no. way.”

claps like he’s in the front row of a runway show.

“i knew you were talented but babe this is HOT.”

keeps bragging to everyone nearby. “i invested in this airline. emotionally, too.”

calls his family during boarding just to say, “guess who’s flying my plane? MY GIRLFRIEND.”

asks if he can get cockpit selfies with you after the flight.

will try to buy the whole airline just to rename it after you.

nagi seishiro

half asleep when you announce your name over the intercom.

slowly opens one eye. stares at the speaker. groans. “so loud...”

texts you: “you’re the pilot? that’s kinda sick” “wake me up if we crash”

immediately falls back asleep.

wakes up halfway through the flight, checks the sky outside the window and shrugs. “guess she’s good at this too.”

kisses your cheek after landing and says, “good game.”

gets weirdly obsessed with flight simulators after this.

hyoma chigiri

jaw hits the floor. you’re the pilot?

he’s in awe the whole time, even while trying to stay calm and collected.

heart flutters when you say “this is your captain speaking.”

he clutches his seat during turbulence but tells himself, “no, she’s got this. she’s amazing. she’s got this.”

definitely brings you flowers the next time he sees you.

insists on taking cute post-landing photos with you and says, “i want to show our future kids how badass their mom is.”

kaiser michael

smirking immediately.

“ah, so i am in good hands.”

texts you: “i think i’m in love with my captain” “take me to the mile high club”

acts chill but is actually so turned on by how powerful and composed you sound.

gets way too into the captain/flight attendant roleplay ideas afterward.

flirts with the flight attendant just to make you jealous, until you purposely hit turbulence for one second and he shuts up.

bachira meguru

screams. “THAT’S MY BABY!”

literally runs down the aisle (the flight attendant has to stop him).

flirty text: “can i press buttons in the cockpit? pretty please?”

asks if he can wear your hat.

draws you in a superhero cape later with the caption “CAPTAIN CUTIE” in all caps.

you catch him narrating the flight to his seatmate like it’s a magical journey: “and now my beautiful girlfriend is taking us over the clouds…”

itoshi sae

he does not react externally. at all. like he hears your voice and just blinks slowly.

the most emotion he shows is a very subtle smirk and maybe a nose exhale.

he already knew you were a pilot but didn’t expect to be on your flight.

checks the flight info and texts you: “you better not crash. i have a commercial to film tomorrow.” then a second text: “jk” “don’t get distracted thinking about me.”

wears a sleeping mask the whole time.

but after landing, he purposely waits at the gate for you just to say in that dry, quiet voice: “smooth landing. you looked hot up there.”

gives you a lil side hug like he’s not absolutely obsessed with you.

shidou ryusei

deadass gets turned on the moment you say “this is your captain speaking.”

full-on puts his hands over his mouth like he just saw a hot celebrity walk by.

“no fucking way. MY GIRLFRIEND? THE PILOT? OH, I’M GONNA DIE SEXY.”

immediately presses the call button and tries to bribe a flight attendant to let him in the cockpit.

texts you: “hey baby wanna join me in the air tonight 🤭” “you can land on me later”

gets way too excited during turbulence. “IS SHE TESTING ME?”

when the plane lands smoothly he claps obnoxiously and yells “THAT’S MY GIRL!!” from row 12A.

calls you “captain mommy” for the next week and you have to threaten to ground him.

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noheadcanons-juststories · 1 month ago

Text

Vampire!141 x fledgling!reader, who was found abandoned and starved. meeting 141

“Who called you?” you demand to know.

“Amos,” the man with the chops answers.

Boss called them?

“Are you from the Night Council?” you dread.

“Not at all. Amos is an old friend of ours, back from service,” he explains. His voice was soft yet weathered, like an easy thunderstorm on the countryside. “He informed us that one of his employees was possibly attacked. Asked us to come help.”

So these men were not from the Night Council as you feared. But you were still weary to open the door.

“I didn't ask for help,” you retort with a raggedy cough. “Whoever you are, just�� just tell him that I won't be coming in anymore.”

“Listen, lass,” a new man spoke up, very much Scottish with a very nice mohawk, “Amos called us in fer a favor. But once he explained the situation, we let him keep it. He's worried, and ye need someone to take care o’ ye. So we're here to help you.”

“Please…” you beg. “I don't wanna be treated like some charity case. So unless you're gonna kill me, just leave me alone.” You were tired, in pain. You could barely stand anymore.

The tall man in the skull-plated mask approaches your window, looking you dead in the eyes. “You really wanna die, fledgling?” a rougher voice asks. “‘Cause I can arrange that.”

“Simon,” Chops quietly reprimands.

“No, Cap, we need to get this outta the way,” ‘Simon’ persists. “‘Cause m'not gonna come all the way here for a fledgie too weak to live.”

“Bit harsh, dontcha’ think, Lt.?” Scot frowns.

Simon ignores him. “The reason we're here is because our friend is worried about his employee,” he tells you. “He fuckin’ cares about you. Now, we can be civil, and you let us in. Or we can cut to the end, and I put you out of your misery, quick and painless. So what's it gonna be?”

As he speaks, you slowly slide down to the floor. Pulling your blankets tighter around you. Truthfully, neither option sounds appealing. You don't know these men. Childhood lessons on stranger danger and accepting help from strange men never prepared you for the undead. But on the other hand, did you really want to go out a pathetic, dehydrated corpse? There's only two outcomes with two different paths leading to either. Die or find a clan. The Night Council does not guarantee anything except your immediate end. Meanwhile, Amos got a clan on speed dial for you.

John sits down by your window. “Listen, love…” he speaks softly. “We're here because Amos refused to call the Night Council on ya. And I don't blame him. They're diligent, but they're still pretty ruthless. Especially towards those abandoned. He called us because he knew we were the better choice.”

You lean against the wall. “You could've refused…” you whisper.

“Could’ve,” John shrugs. “But didn't want to.”

“Why not?”

There were a few reasons…

“‘Cause I’d hate for a fledgling to die without bein’ given a chance,” he responds.

…One of them being that he was once in the same boat as you when he was first turned, albeit through uglier circumstances…

“Regardless of how you got here, you need someone to show you the ropes.”

…He was looking to sire another vampire after Kyle, despite his own reservations about immortality. Amos just happened to call while he was brewing in his thoughts, surprised that the old faun still had his number…

“And it'd be a shame to lose a sweet soul like you.”

…And Amos had only good things to say about you, practically gushing as if you were his own kid. Kind yet firm with a bit of confidence, you were.

You let out a sigh, frowning as you reconsider your options. Your expression worsens when you remember that you only have two. “What's your name?” you ask the vampire.

“John Price.”

“What do you do, Mr. Price?”

“I hunt vampires.”

You giggle after letting the thought simmer for a bit. “You hunt vamps?”

“Only the bad ones,” he smiles.

“Do I… I don't fit that criteria, do I?” you question.

John shakes his head. “No. Not at all.”

“...Mr. Price?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I'm scared,” you admit.

“I know,” is all he says. “That's why we're here.”

Kyle joins John's side beneath your window. Then Johnny, who doesn't want to be left out, and lastly, Simon, who doesn't want to be left behind at all. The men sit underneath the glow of the Half Moon. Small chirps in the grass and distant hooting in the trees bring a peaceful ambiance to the evening. Coupled with the bipolar winds of Spring gently weaving through the grassy fields.

“Whaddya wanna do, lass?” Johnny asks you.

“I don't know,” you say, trying not to cry for the umpteenth time.

“Well then,” Simon speaks up again, “whaddya not wanna do?”

“...Not hurt anyone… and not die.

John nods once. “Alright… that's a good place to start… Think you can unlock the door for us?”

It's silent for a bit, but you don't go to the door. Instead, you unlock the window and crack it open just a tad. The four men look back to see you stick your hand out, pale and spindly, which Kyle takes into both of his.

“We're right here for you, fledgie,” he comforts you, gently squeezing. “And we're not leaving you behind.”

And for that moment, you believe him.

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Masterlist

Role Call!: @boy-pussyyy

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mediumgayitalian · 16 days ago

Text

"Don't cry."

"...I'm not."

"Omigods. Will. Don't cry."

"I'm not!"

But there are welled up tears making his eyes looking huge, and even as he bites it his lip still trembles. In seconds there is the slightest of sniffles.

Nico groans, slumping against the handle of the grocery cart. A WASPy mother glares at him in passing. He glares back and sics an errant soul onto her monstrosity of a hairdo for good measure.

"Will," he groans, metal bar digging into his forehead, "Will, it's a lemon."

"I know," Will sniffles, bravely. "Just -- leave it. Let's go."

Nico moves his arm, just enough to watch his too-tall over-empathetic dumbass best friend try and fail to pull himself together in the, and Nico cannot emphasize this enough, very public grocery store in the suburbs of Long Island, where people stare.

And, like.

The staring is not too unusual.

Will is in cutoff shorts and flip-flops. It's early March. Climate change is not that bad yet. The two of them are wearing neon camp t-shirts -- Nico's good, goth t-shirts have been stolen from him to be 'washed' -- and are both, Nico must emphasize again, fifteen years of age, with a grocery cart each full to the actual brim with Pop Tarts, Twizzlers, medical supplies, socks, and silly string. Will is approximately nineteen feet tall. They make a scene. That is a fair evaluation.

But rare is the day where Nico cannot quell the stares by reflecting hellfire into his eyes. Mortals usually flee in terror or at least walk away traumatized. Today they aren't even looking.

"Will," he says, as gently as he can manage. Will looks over, after a minute, and his bright eyes look so glassy and miserable that whoa, hey, Nico can manage a whole lot gentler than he thought he could, can't he. He reaches up and pats a palm against Will's wet cheek, swiping a thumb under his eyes. "Do you. Want." He glances over at the lone, half-dried up lemon on the floor by the produce baskets. "Would you like to take the lemon home with us.

"Yes," says Will quietly. Nico's hand falls away and Will wipes his face, crouching down to scoop it up. He hesitates before putting it in the cart, cradling it against his chest. "It's just." He looks at Nico through his eyelashes. Nico tries to smile encouragingly. Based on the immediate tears and sobbing of a child directly behind Will's shoulders, he is unsuccessful. "If we don't take it, no one will, you know."

"Yes," agrees Nico slowly. "Due to the fact that it is garbage."

Will snatches his hand back like Nico had smacked it, glaring hard. Nico is really starting to consider those bipolar pamphlets Kayla left pointedly on the Apollo table. Yeesh.

"It's not -- garbage! Just because -- just because something isn't as good as everything else doesn't mean it's garbage!"

...Or not.

Ah.

"Ah," says Nico. He clears his throat. "Ah."

Some cultures attribute tact and gentleness to his father -- Death accepts all, and in facts invites all, to reside with Him. He will take your hand and guide you to whence you have never travelled, where you have no kin. He will speak to you in your shock of your life and your triumphs. He, when you have no one, is your compassionate, voluble friend.

Hazel inherited all that, unfortunately. Nico got the dead-eyed stare and fruitiness.

"Uh," he tries, anyway, "if you were a rotten lemon, I would take you home."

Will looks at him skeptically. "You would?"

"Y -- uh, yes. I would make." He wracks his brain. "I would use you to clean surfaces."

"...Oh."

"Yes. Like -- chopping boards, and the like." He makes a karate chop motion with his hand. He immediately takes the hand and shoves it into the untraveled depths of his pocket, which is a challenge due to the fact that it took him forty minutes to paint his jeans on this morning, and vows to cut its quisling digits off as quickly as possible. Why is he alive.

He is grateful at least that his friend is about as stupid as he is.

"That would be a good use for me if I was a rotting lemon," Will agrees. He looks down at the rotting lemon cradled in his hands. "Maybe we will use you to clean."

"Yes," Nico says, gentle coaxing. "Now let's put the lemon in the cart, okay? We're almost done. We just need the nineteen quarts of ice cream Cecil paid me ninety dollars not to disclose to Chiron. Let's go."

"'Kay."

Garbage lemon safely laid among a braid of licorice packages, dead centre in the cart, they move on. The stares follow them, but Will at least does not seem to mind -- used to it, veteran camper that he is -- and slides his arm through Nico's crooked elbow. Nico takes that as the opportunity it is to steer him away from the cake that a nefarious teenager has pushed to the floor, lest that set him off next. They have only minutes until they make it to the cash register, where Nico will pay for whatever Will is watching him scan, and are home free.

"Hey, Nico."

Nico hums, eyeing the self-checkout line. "Yeah?"

"Would we still be friends if I was a worm?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

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mcflymemes · 4 months ago

Text

A HANDFUL OF MISCELLANEOUS PROMPTS * assorted dialogue most likely taken from taskmaster, adjust as necessary

i was so shit at that.

i don't know what the hell is going on.

you know i'm strong, so if i break this, that's on you.

i'm under a lot of stress.

are you going to explain yourself?

this isn't fair.

there's a peep hole.

what am i gonna do with that?

i wish that was a joke.

was it that bad?

have you tried it?

it could take a few months.

there's something inside this.

i'm good at this! i'm very good.

can you argue with me though?

you look fabulous.

do you chase people?

we'll come back to that later.

was that wrong?

i would have done it... if you'd done your fucking job.

say it. we're all adults here.

whisper it to me.

that's enough!

god, i almost believed you.

look at me!

listen, i don't care about that.

we are lovers.

where's the cheese grater?

live your truth. if you like it, you like it.

i don't feel good saying this.

would you like some dessert?

i didn't say it was going to be funny.

this is amazing.

the least i could do was rob him.

they're all pieces of shit.

i make this look good.

how do you make cereal? do you add the milk first, or add the cereal first?

how dare you.

this has been a weird week for me.

i dressed as spongebob to go to a party.

i find it religiously insensitive.

let's never speak of it again.

are you married?

maybe you and i could hang out sometime.

i didn't realize you had a degree.

can i play a saxophone? no.

there's a dignity in total failure.

you look happy.

i am happy any day that i'm with you.

i just feel like we've got so much in common.

what life choices brought you here?

we're creatures of habit, aren't we?

would you like some champagne?

so... i've set it on fire.

when i don't smile, people think i'm dead.

he needs to smile more.

that's my favorite bee gees song.

i'm in quite a lot of pain.

am i missing something?

here we are!

what's your favorite swear word?

not today, satan.

you're doing so well today!

this is where the magic doesn't happen.

smells nice in here!

nice to know i'll never find love.

i don't know if you can tell, but i feel quite lonely.

shall we hold hands?

neither of you noticed this woman lying on the floor?

it's in your pocket!

don't know what's going on... but then to be honest, i've not had a clue what's going on for most of this.

i don't mean to be rude.

do you feel any sense of shame?

#rp meme #mcflymemes #rp prompt #rp memes #roleplay memes #rp starters #roleplay prompt #ask meme #ask memes #roleplay meme #roleplay inbox prompts #rp inbox meme #inbox prompt #inbox meme #sentence starter prompt #sentence starter #sentence starters

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 1 month ago

Text

THE MIND OF A WEIRD BLACK GIRL

CHAPTER 1: "I'M JUST A GIRL!!!"

Platonic yandere!batfamily x Neglected weird black!reader

SYNOPSIS: You're not childish, are you?

CHAPTER 2

3:00 am. I should be dead asleep right now, completely unconscious, but tonight I couldn't help myself. I mean, who passes up an update on their favorite Tumblr fanfic? This fic has got me stuck at my desk for days on end. I keep telling myself that this is the last one and that I'm done, but then out of the blue, an ask pops up from the floodgates, and I'm back on my grind; no Kevin Gates. The blue rays of my computer screen glow against my dark skin. I can feel my eyes getting red and heavy. Another swig of Monster will keep me alive. One sip, and I feel my body tingle. That definitely wasn't good. I can hear my mom's words ringing in my head: "I saw a story on Facebook about a girl who drank so many energy drinks her heart stopped." She really needs to get off Facebook, and I really need to invest in some water. *Ping* OOOH, Leon Kennedy smut? Don't mind if I do! I laugh evilly to myself, clicking the fic with the pretty pink dividers.

*BEEP BEEP* "AHHH!!" I fall out of my gaming chair, my face hitting the cold floor. I rub my eyes that were under my glasses. I turn my head to see the screen of my alarm clock. FUCK! I'm late! I grab my school uniform and race to the bathroom. That's weird. I'm the first one here. It doesn't matter; take what you can and do what you need. I take a quick shower, put on deodorant and perfume, and stare at all my imperfections. My eye bags are getting bigger; that’s what happens when I watch 24 episodes of One Piece nonstop. Taking off my bonnet, I pray my hair cooperates with me now. I flat iron it until my arms go numb. I smell something burning. You know what? Just thug it out. Great, I look respectable. Grabbing my jacket, I run down the stairs. We really need an escalator.

Running into the dining room, I see everyone at the dinner table, no one in a hurry or rush. "Young master, would you like to join us?" The British accent of the old butler made me calm down, only for a millisecond. "Sorry, Al, but I'm late!" I grab a waffle off the table. "What in hell's name are you talking about?" the little devil speaks up. "Damian," his name makes my skin crawl. Ever since he got here, he's been on my back like white on rice. "None of your business, pipesqueak!" I glare at him. Still, my father's icy blue eyes shine on me like an interrogation light. I straighten myself. "Sorry to burst your bubble, [Name], but it's Saturday." I try to hold in an involuntary groan. Every time Tim speaks, it’s like he’s trying to correct me on something. I get it, you're smart; get a life. "I knew that," I huff, the fastest lie in history. "Then why were you running like a chicken that lost its head, and why are you all dressed for school?" Jason says sarcastically, sipping his coffee. His mug has a middle finger on the bottom; it seemed like it was pointing at me. Asshole.

"Well, I was just... whatever." Grabbing a piece of French toast, I go to sit down, but Steph's hand reaches out to cover the seat. "Sorry, [Name], this is Cass's spot." Oh, what is this, middle school? I walk to the other side of the dining table, but both Tim and Damian cover the seat. "This is for Dick." Oh, this is middle school. My blood is beginning to boil. "Great, I guess all the seats are taken. Thanks, team." I snatch a plate of pancakes off the table, walking up to my room. "Thank Allah! I can't stand it when she sits with us. She won't stop rambling about Power Rangers. She's so childish." I hear laughs coming from downstairs. Well, isn’t that just great? So much for a family breakfast. I eat in my bed. I’d rather doom scroll through Tumblr than talk to those losers—those really cool, strong, popular losers. I stare up at the Batman merch in my room. They’re all in order from Batman all the way down to Duke, the last member of the family. I used to find it weird having merch, shirts, and posters of them. I mean, they’re my "family." It’s just odd, you know? But I idolize them; even Damian—fighting crime, saving lives—all that crap. They're cool, but who knew cool people could be so cruel and mean? But let's be real; the family tree should've ended at Duke. I have no powers, no cool ninja training. I'm not smart or athletic. I sweat at the idea of running a mile. I get good grades, but I’m not Tim Drake-smart. I’m not even a Cass-level fighter. Hell, I don’t fight, period. The bottom line is, I’m "normal," as normal as a high school girl who likes video games, comics, anime, and cartoons can be. Other kids wouldn’t call you "normal," but in my family, I’m a saint compared to them.

But that's enough of that. I'm going downstairs to put my food away. Everyone’s gone, just Alfred in the kitchen cleaning up. "Hey, Al, where's everyone?" I say, putting my dish in the sink, then picking up a sponge, ready to help the old man out. "Oh, family outing." Family outing? "To where?" "To see a play, I believe, or a show. Maybe I saw tickets?" A show? "Don't you think it's too early for that stuff?" I reply, my hands getting wet with soap foam. "It's a long play; they had to get there early." Oh really, huh? "Was there a ticket for me?" "I'm afraid not." Oh, just great. Dad can buy tickets for his clan of kids, but not for his singular daughter? Fucking fantastic. My hands stop scrubbing the plate. "Oh cool." I didn't want to sound disappointed, but let's be real—I was. They always do things without me, and whenever I'm invited to things, it's out of pity—like a little kid your mom forces you to play with because she met the other mom, and now you guys have to be friends and hang out by pure association, even if you don't want to. I can see it whenever they're around—going to the theater with Steph, Cass, and Babs to watch some superhero movie, I shout out facts like crazy: "You know Spider-Man isn't allowed to drink any alcohol!" during the Into the Spider-Verse movie premiere. I could feel them rolling their eyes at me. Fake fans. Next time, they didn't invite me at all. Maybe I talk too much, or I’m too childish. I tried to invite Tim to play a fighting game with me. "The MHA fighting game? What are you, twelve? You're so childish, [Name]." He's acting like MHA is a bad anime. I went to their library with Jason once and picked up Percy Jackson. "Look, Jay, they have the whole series!" I looked down and saw him holding The Giver. Oh well, these are completely different books. "Can you try not to read something so childish? Grow up, [Name]." Oh yeah, only middle schoolers read Percy Jackson—it's not like he's a staple of my childhood or that I grew up with Vivra character designs of him, not at all. But it seems like a recurring theme: "You're childish, so, [Name]." "Grow up, [Name]." Maybe that's why I wasn’t invited. I'm immature and childish. Hell, even Damian’s more mature than me, and he's like 14. But I'm not childish; I'm just passionate and energetic, and I like things. I like a lot of things. Is it wrong to enjoy stuff to the fullest? I could never be nonchalant. If I can't show how I feel, then who am I?

"Young master?" "Sorry, Al, just deep in thought." I sighed. He patted my back gently. "You could spend time with me." "You don't mind?" "Not at all." At least there's someone who loves my passion. "You don't mind?" He shakes his head gently, so I spend Saturday with Alfred. It was mostly cleaning and listening to R&B. I never knew he liked Janet Jackson, but who doesn't like Janet Jackson? She's Janet Jackson! We were lip-syncing to Ginuwine: "So Anxious!" The house was clean; time to watch trashy TV—Dance Moms. It's our main show. "No! Why are they dancing like that? Horrible choreography!" I laugh. "You couldn't do better!"

"I have to run some errands; would you like to come?"

"Nah, I'll chill here, thanks, Al."

He pulled me into a strong hug despite his frame and then pulled me off the couch. "Get me something pretty, please!" I screamed out.

"Yes, young master!"

I giggled. If it doesn't burn my stomach in seconds, I don't want it. Flipping through the TV channels like crazy until I hit the news, I saw them all together without me in fancy clothes and coats, smiling at the camera. This was more than a play or a show; this was some kind of event, and they didn't think to bring me or tell me. They didn't think of doing anything to inform me, and the way they were smiling and talking, it was like they planned this all week, all month even. And no one even told me—they didn't invite me; they left me here.

"Dick, where's your little sister tonight?" said a reporter.

"Which one?!" Duke chimed in with a big smile.

"No, I mean [Name]," the reporter said, putting the microphone in his face.

"You know how she is. [Name] is just too childish sometimes."

Dick ran a hand through his hair, laughing. His blue eyes gleamed at the camera. Childish?

"Yeah, she can't go to events like this; she'd lose it," Steph barked out, making Tim chuckle.

"Yes, she's a handful; she wouldn't know how to act around these cameras."

Really, Dad, really? They're all laughing and making fun of me. The same words come up: "Childish," "Grow up," "Handful." I'm not that bad, am I? The final nail in the coffin: "She's so immature." From Damian? Immature? I'm not immature; I like comic books and collect figures and plushies and trading cards. I make cosplays and write fanfiction. That doesn't make me childish; I'm just passionate, that's all. I have passion. I care for the things I like, so what if they were made for little kids and boys to play on the playground? It doesn't mean I can't like it, doesn't mean I can't enjoy it, doesn't mean I can't handle a few cameras or a few mics.

Hot tears run down my face. "I-I I'm not childish! I can handle it! I can be a Wayne! I can grow up! I can!" Who am I trying to convince—me or the damn TV screen? I feel my body shaking. I rip the plug of the TV out of the wall, throwing it to the ground. I run upstairs to my room, seeing the Batman and Robin merch staring at me. "Childish? I'll show you childish!" I wipe the figures off my shelf; they hit the floor, smashing apart. The heads fell off and the wings of Red Robin's suit broke. I smashed the Lego Batmobile piece, scattering it everywhere. I ripped the posters off my wall. "Who's the handful now, huh, Bruce?" I stomped on the poster and snatched a Batman plushie off my nightstand. I took a mechanical pencil and stabbed it; the stuffing pooled out like blood. "I'm not a handful!" I threw it against the wall near Damian's action figures and Dick's.

"I'm not a handful!" I yelled as loud as I possibly could, my voice breaking. I flopped down onto the floor, my legs shaking. I could hardly breathe, staring at the mess all around me. I sniffled and wiped my face gently. I picked up the Batman plushie and pulled it close to my chest. "Sorry, Daddy."

@milkbean69

@mal-flores

@kultofkorii

@hebaoffside

@ichbswa

@simpingpandas

@sh0dor1

@pix-stuff

@viilan

@smutty-littleslut

@ilovemyhusbandnanami

@thecloudsaremyhome

@meganhaxaxa200

@goodsoup19

@onceinamillionposter

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harrysfolklore · 3 months ago

Note

yes do the lewis fic pleaseee

short and sweet bc i promised anon i would do ittt i hope you like it

You're fidgeting with your rings - his rings, actually, that you stole months ago - when Lewis notices your knee bouncing for the hundredth time. The arena feels too warm despite your backless Valentino.

"You're going to drill a hole through the floor, love," he murmurs, leaning close enough that his lips brush your ear. His hand finds yours, warm and steady.

"Easy for you to be calm," you whisper back. "You've won eight world championships."

"Seven," he corrects automatically, making you roll your eyes.

"The eighth was robbed and we all know it." It's an old argument, one that makes him smile every time. "Besides, this is different. This is-"

"This is you about to win Song of the Year," he finishes, so confident it makes your heart ache.

You turn to face him properly, taking in how unfairly good he looks in his suit. "How are you so sure?"

"Because," he says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, "I was there when you wrote it at 3 AM on my kitchen floor. When you called me crying because the bridge wasn't right."

"You're biased," you argue, but you're smiling now. "You have to say that. It's in the boyfriend contract."

"Ah yes, the famous 'support your controversially young girlfriend' clause," he teases, and you can't help but laugh. It's become a running joke between you, how the media can't seem to get over your age gap.

"Speaking of which, did you see that headline yesterday? 'Grammy Nominee Spotted Looking Cozy with Elder Statesman of F1'?"

Lewis groans. "Elder statesman? I'm forty, not dead."

"Ancient," you declare solemnly. "Practically fossilized."

He's about to retort when Taylor Swift takes the stage, and suddenly you can't breathe again. Lewis must feel you tense because his hand tightens around yours.

"Hey," he says softly. "Whatever happens, you've already won. Seven nominations in your first year? That's unheard of."

"I just want-" you start, but then Taylor's speaking.

"Music tells our stories," she's saying. "And sometimes, a song comes along that captures something so real, so raw, that it changes how we see love itself..."

You feel Lewis shift beside you, and when you glance over, he's already watching you with that look - the one he gave you the first time you played him this song, the one that makes you feel invincible.

"And the Grammy goes to..." Taylor's smiling now, like she knows something. "'Birds of a feather!"

The world stops. Starts. Explodes.

Lewis is up first, pulling you into his arms before you can even process what's happening. "That's my girl," he whispers fiercely against your hair. "I told you, didn't I? I told you."

You're crying already, you can feel it, but you don't care. His hands cup your face and he's beaming at you with more pride than you've ever seen - more than after any pole position or race win.

"Go get your Grammy, superstar," he says, and then he's gently pushing you toward the aisle.

The walk to the stage feels infinite. You're aware of everything - the weight of your dress, the cameras following you, the deafening applause. But mostly, you're aware of Lewis in the front row, standing and clapping like he's watching the love of his life win Song of the Year at the Grammys (which, you suppose, he is).

"Oh god," you start, gripping the golden gramophone like a lifeline. "I wrote this song about falling in love. About meeting someone who changes everything when you least expect it."

You find his eyes in the crowd, and suddenly it's just the two of you.

"I should probably thank Formula 1 for canceling that race in Singapore, or I never would've been in that hotel bar, jetlagged and grumpy, when this absolutely ridiculous man in the most expensive hoodie I'd ever seen asked if he could buy me a drink."

The audience laughs, and Lewis is shaking his head, grinning that grin that still makes your knees weak.

"To Lewis - thank you for being the most unexpected plot twist of my life. For showing me that timing is everything, even when Twitter thinks our timing is inappropriate." More laughter. "For listening to every demo at 3 AM, for believing in me when I was just another girl with a piano and a dream..."

You're fully crying now, but so is he, so it's okay.

"For never once making me feel too young or too inexperienced, for teaching me that love doesn't follow anyone's timeline but its own. And yes, I know this speech is probably going viral for all the wrong reasons, but you taught me that sometimes the best stories are the ones nobody sees coming. I love you."

The camera cuts to Lewis, who's not even trying to hide his tears. But neither of you seem to care at the moment.

Later, after winning four out of your seven nominations, you're in the back of the car heading home. Your head's on his shoulder, Grammy in your lap, when he speaks.

"You know what this means, right?"

"Hmm?"

"Now I have to win the championship this year. Can't have you showing me up with all these trophies."

You laugh, snuggling closer. "Better get practicing then, old man."

"Menace," he mutters fondly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

634 notes · View notes

curseofaphrodite · 10 months ago

Text

prisons & prophets

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!prophet!reader

Oracles were only admired if they were royalty. For a merchant's daughter like you, prophetic claims came with marks of a heretic and "burn at the stake" threats.

You coughed up dust when you were pushed onto the stone floor. There was silence around you, one that seemed more curious than haughty.

You carefully looked up to see Queen Rhaenyra, who looked as if you were a dead lion that just fell from the sky.

"What is the meaning of this?" There was fury and familiarity behind those words, and you groaned as you registered Jacaerys Velaryon in the room. He had his eyes trained on the guards and was intentionally ignoring yours.

Great.

"She's a witch!" The first guard yelled, sounding like he had a personal vendetta against you. It might had something to do with how you kicked his balls earlier to try to be freed from him, but you weren't sure.

Daemon Targaryen laughed. The sound made you look around the room properly. Daemon and Rhaenys were seated opposite each other, both looking more intimidating than the other. There were at least five guards around the room. But perhaps the most intimidating of them all was Rhaenyra herself, who looked fierce and gentle all at once. She gave off a godlike aura, which had you half tongue-tied. Jace stood a few paces in front of her.

"A witch?" She asked, almost exhausted. "How is she a witch?"

"She's from Driftmark—" a second guard said, sounding more civil than the last.

"That explains it," Darmon interrupted, smirking at Rhaenys. The latter rolled her eyes.

"Daughter of a merchant who migrated from Westeros three years ago. Her stepmother wrote to us saying there is a witch in her family, and presented us with enough information that we had no choice but to act."

"I'm not a witch," you sneered. The first guard kicked you down to the floor.

"Silence!" He yelled; and you felt rage and humiliation rising tenfold.

When you could look up again, everyone was staring at Jace. He had his sword out, pointed directly at the chin of the guard. Everyone was appalled. Everyone except Daemon, who looked proud.

"You will not treat a lady with disrespect in Queen's court ever again, or you'll be dismissed," he said plainly.

The guard seemed to calm down considerably. "Yes, my prince."

The prince in question did not look satisfied, but he put away his sword. It went without saying that he still hasn't spared a glance towards you.

"What's this information that convinced you she was a witch?" Rhaenyra asked, skeptical.

As the third guard brought your scrolls forward, you knew you were doomed.

"My stepmother just wanted to ask the palace for money in my exchange!" You cried out. "I'm not a witch!"

No one seemed to have heard your protests. The guard gave the scrolls to Rhaenyra, who took some and gave the rest to her husband. Daemon opened them, his interest evident.

"These are just drawings," Rhaenyra turned the paper upside down, as if they'd make more sense that way. Jace looked as if he wanted to spare a glance, but he hesitated and stood his ground.

"They're her predictions," the first guard answered, almost hissing. "It speaks of many things... including Lucerys Velaryon's death." Rhaenyra paled at the words. You knew the wound about her son was still fresh, and you instantly felt sorry for her. "If she had a hand in his death—"

"I didn't."

"Then it was a concern to not chain her," he finished, triumphant. "Should I bring her to the dungeons, Your Highness?"

Rhaenyra thought for a while before answering. "This seems like not enough proof to force upon a conviction on someone. These scrolls could mean anything—"

"Apologies, Your Grace, this needs immediate attention." Maester Gerardys burst through the doors with a message in his hands. He ignored you, the guards, the scrolls — as if none of it was remotely comparable to what he was going to say.

"Jaehaeyrs Targaryen is dead."

Silence filled the room once again. You felt like you were invading a moment you shouldn't be in. But if Maester saw you, he didn't think you enough of importance so he went on.

"Decapitated... They think you ordered them to do it! That's the news spreading through the streets anyway."

"Me?" Rhaenyra looked surprised at the implication.

"Two," Daemon spoke up, his face buried in the scrolls. Your scrolls. Everyone stared at him.

"What?"

"There are two sketches of funeral pyres. Both look small enough to be children's." Daemon met your eyes. "One has the Velaryon crest, and one has the Targaryen crest."

You closed your eyes, sighing.

Even though the dungeon was dark and uncomfortable, you fell asleep the moment dusk arrived.

You weren't even surprised when you dreamt of him; A vegetable stall, and a boy.

A teen with dark hair and brown eyes, seemingly dressed down from the rest of the royals. Even then, his fabric was finer than anything you've ever seen. If disguise was what he was going for, he hadn't done it right.

"Would you like some apples?" you asked on behalf of your father, who was sleeping in for the day. Who could blame him? You were tired in the scorching heat, and it hadn't even been three hours since you started.

"Uhm, yes please. How much for them?"

You named your price and he frowned.

"Am I supposed to bargain?" He asked, blinking.

This earned a laugh. "Don't your servants usually do the shopping?"

There was a pause and he paled under your daring gaze. "How did you-"

"You're wearing a Targaryen ring."

"Who's to say it's not a stolen relic? Or fake?"

"If it was stolen, you wouldn't parade it around in daylight."

"I would if it meant pretty girls mistaking me for the Prince."

"—and if it's fake," you continued, ignoring his comment. Men flirting was as common as fruits rotting. It often had nothing to do with who they were talking with, and more about getting abed. "The guards confiscate any fake things made in the name of the Crown."

"Fine, you caught me," he sighed, taking the ring off and dropping it inside his clothes. "There. I'm off Prince duty now."

"Jacaerys!" A guard with long, dark hair and a matching beard seemed relieved at the sight of the Prince. The latter groaned. You were curious about why he wasn't addressed with formalities. You hadn't guessed there would be friendships between the royals and those who served them. "What have I told you about running off?"

"I thought my younger brother could use a one-on-one with you. I've already mastered my swordsmanship."

"Hardly!" The guard scoffed, then noticed you. "Forgive us miss, we've a long way off the castle so you'll excuse us now."

You were reeling from how polite they both sounded. You nodded curtly. The guard might as well have dragged the Prince by his arms.

"I'll come for the apples another time!" Jacerys yelled behind his shoulders.

And he did.

Again and again.

He soon confided in you that the guard gave him and his brother private lessons in an abandoned ground outside the town, and that it was the reason for his frequent visits. The guard soon warmed up to you too, and he was positively in love with the grapes you sold. He told you his name was Ser Harwin Strong. Jace said others called him Breakbones. You didn't know why because the man had the gentlest eyes.

Then one day, both of them just stopped coming.

No explanation, nothing. It was like they never existed.

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

"Wake up, the Queen wants to see you." The keepsman said, nudging your shoulders. You scrambled to your feet, eyes blinded by the fire lamps lit all around.

Before you could so much as adjust your hair, Rhaenyra briskly walked in. She nodded her head and the guards left the room, closing the wooden door behind them.

"Good wishes, Your Grace." You wanted to look down to the floor, but you couldn't keep your eyes off her. She was wearing black robes with red stones that carved into an intricate design, which looked suspiciously like a dragon tail. She sat down on the makeshift bed, her fingers intertwined.

"You can be honest with me."

You blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I wouldn't hang you or — burn you in a stake," she said firmly. "You can tell me the truth, any and all of it."

"You believe in magic?" you were bewildered.

"In a kingdom ruled by dragons, magic isn't far off the table."

"I'm not a witch," you said, almost stumbling over your words. She raised her eyebrows. "I'm not — I don't know what I am. Someone... something is talking through me. It does the sketches, not me. I'm a spectator to whatever I'm drawing."

Rhaenyra looked like she wanted to interrupt when you started sounding more panicked. But you paid her no heed.

"I say it's nonsense all the time. True, I predicted the storm two summers ago but how was I to know a vision of a tree in the middle of the ocean had any impact on what went above it? Isn't that just pure idiotic?"

"Y/N—"

"A vision once told me I would get married to a red boar, for fuck's sake!"

"Red boar?"

"Another time I saw a goose looking in a mirror and then killing itself. Don't know what that means either, do I?!"

The Queen reached for your hand, bringing you back from the evergrowing spiral inside your head. You realized you were gasping for air.

"You don't have to have all the answers," she said consolingly. "It wasn't fair of me to ask that much."

You nodded, calming down. "Thank you."

She stood up. "I'll make sure you're given dinner after your next visitor."

"Next?"

"How do you know him, I wonder?" she met your eyes questioningly. "My son?"

"I don't," you replied, just as fast. She didn't look one bit convinced but nodded anyway. Then she left without another word.

Jacaerys came in right as she left. He was wearing a different set of robes, but the vest looked the same. His hair had gotten even messier, which you didn't think was possible. Suddenly, you were aware of what you wore. All you had was your white nightgown, which you were still wearing when you had been forced out of bed.

"I want you to be one of the council advisors," he stated, all business-like.

"Uhm, what?"

"You're a prophet," he sat down where Rhaenyra did, though he looked more uncomfortable about it. "You're an asset."

You snorted. It was very much like a royal family to say something like that. "I'd disagree, Your Grace."

"You don't have to do the titles." Then he noted how you looked mad. He sighed. "I'm sor-"

"I'm sorry about your brother," you interjected, and sadness filled his face. But he ignored your comment and looked at his hands instead. He still had the Targaryen ring, along with a few other new ones. You frowned at one of them in particular, but he spoke before you look longer at it.

"Ser Harwin Strong was my father."

So much about the sentence had you in surprise, but only one mattered above all others.

"Was?"

"He died two days after the last time I visited you," he nodded. "Which is also why I never came again. Foul play was suspected in his death, but never confirmed. They found a new guard for me, one who trained me inside the palace walls."

"I'm sorry." You didn't know what else to say.

"I missed you everyday, if that counts."

You smiled. "It does."

"And that skill of yours? Seeing future? Do not push it down." His voice was firm. "Control it. No matter what you think, it's a power. And whoever gave you that power wouldn't have given it to you if they thought you couldn't handle it."

Now you really didn't know what to say.

"I'll have you transferred to a room. A nice one with a view out to the sea." He promised, standing up. "That is, if you agree to my offer to be an advisor."

"And my stepmother?"

"She's banished from the castle, of course. Not a coin given, even though what she gave us is invaluable. She just didn't know it."

"Oh, please." You laughed.

"I hope I'll see you soon, Y/N," Jace said wholeheartedly, noting how his visit was coming to an end. As he stepped out of the dungeon, you were still thinking about his words.

And also his ring, specifically the one that had a tusked animal carved on it, entirely out of pure ruby.

In other words, a red boar.

THE END

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some notes

Ser Harwin dies wayyy earlier but I tweaked the timeline to be aligned here.

the goose killing its reflection prophecy was reference to Halaena's drawings.

which speaks about Erryk and Arwyn's deaths. Goose is their crest.

I'm not sure if I should continue this story 'cause it holds up good on its own as a oneshot! But if you'd like, you can drop ideas for the continuance of this fic or other new jace fics @ my asks!

ty for reading and here's my coffee page if you want to support me :)

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jace x reader #fluff #hotd #astoria writes #female reader #jacerys velaryon x reader

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zombiigrll · 7 months ago

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IMMUNE? ⋆｡°✩ carl grimes x immune!reader .ᐟ WORD COUNT .ᐟ ⭑ 2.1K ꩜ .ᐟ WARNINGS ⭑ hurt to comfort?, use of y/n, blood, zombie apocalypse stuff ofc, post-terminus era, references/slight spoilers to twd 5x2 ?? petname (angel - which also did we all collectively agree that carl would call his s/o angel? i see everyone use it i have before too its so cute .ᐟ SUMMARY .ᐟ ⭑ you get bit, but nothing happens. ꩜ .ᐟ A/N .ᐟ ⭑ hey guys... its been a minute... (45 days COUGH COUGH) i am so sorry i have been SO BUSY and i didnt even realize i had this fic almost completely finished in my drafts so i decided why not finally finish it!! (which is also why the ending might be a bit weak because i also have no written anything for 45 days LMAO) my favorite thing about the whole science behind zombisim is all the theories of if you could or couldn't become immune so i wanted to write a little fic because i love... zombie science.. nerd alert!!! ☝️🤓 <- me but also whats a carl grimes/zombie fanfic writer without writing at least one immunity fic!! hope u guys enjoy!!

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everyone knew you were clumsy. you'd always have to be with someone, no matter what. that's how much people worried about you.

there had been plenty of times where you had been close to getting bit, and if you were alone, you would've been bit.

but now, you and your group were back on the road after the prison had fell. you all met up at a terrible place called terminus, and almost died if carol wouldn't have shown up. it was dangerous, and terrifying. but you had carl on your side, as always. he was the person who had saved you so many times. he was like your personal bodyguard.

you guys had eventually ended up at a church with a priest named gabriel. you felt uneasy being there. gabriel seemed, well, unstable. rick saw it too, telling carl to keep his guard up.

but after a while, everyone was inside the church, laughing and having fun.

you spot bob walking outside, which catches your attention instantly. no one else really seemed to notice, so you turned over to carl.

"i'm gonna go outside."

"do you want me to go with?" he asks, immediately sitting up.

"no, it's fine. i think i saw bob go out there. i wanna go check on him." you smile at him, standing up and walking over to where you saw bob go.

but when you stepped out, he was nowhere to be found.

"bob?" you called out, walking forward a bit more as you looked around for him. "where'd you go?"

you walked a bit further, leaning your arm on a tree as you looked past further into the distance, searching for any sight of bob.

but, to your luck, you were snuck up on. you heard a growl to your side, where your arm was leaning, and then a pain shot through your forearm.

you let out a loud shriek as you fumbled for your knife, stabbing the walker who was still attached to your arm in the head. you kicked him off, breathing heavily.

you could feel your heart pounding out of your chest.

you glanced down at the walker who was now laying dead on the ground, gripping tightly on your knife as you processed what had just happened. you lifted up your pained, bleeding arm.

"no... no, oh, my god." you dropped your knife and began wiping away the blood that was profusely leaking out of your fresh bite wound. "shit..."

you stared at your arm for a moment, attempting to catch your breath while watching your own blood drip onto the floor beneath you.

the doors to the church busted open, snapping you out of your daze. carl, rick, and michonne stood at the door, staring at you.

carl stepped a bit closer. "what happened? are you okay-" he stopped as he spotted your arm. his face fell flat and his eyes widened.

"it snuck up on me.." you quietly and breathlessly responded, tears falling from your agonized face. "i was looking for bob."

rick runs up to you as he realizes you had been bit. he grabs your arm, his face a bit panicked as he starts speaking. "we have to cut it off."

"no!" you tugged your arm away from his grip, holding your arm from him. "we don't have the stuff for that!"

"stop yelling." rick sternly ordered, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder. "let's go inside. i'm sure gabriel has the stuff for it."

you anxiously nodded, stepping toward the church with carl by your side.

"i'll get gabriel." michonne said, walking towards his office. "find somewhere for her to sit."

you take a seat in one of the rows, still holding your arm tightly.

"what the hell happened?" glenn asks, quickly walking over to the three of you with maggie by his side.

"she got bit." rick runs a hand through his hair. you look to your side and spot carl, just staring blankly, his expression the same as when he first saw your bite just moments before. he was speechless, and afraid.

you held your arm tighter as the pain increased, blood seeping through in between your fingers as you clenched your jaw. your breathing was progressively getting more and more ragged and uneven the more you panicked.

"i don't want you to cut my arm off.." you protested, your voice high pitched and wobbly. you closed your eyes tightly, a few tears falling from your eyes.

"we have to." rick shook his head. "otherwise you'll become one of them."

"i don't care." you sobbed, gripping tighter and tighter onto your arm. "i can't do it. i probably wouldn't survive either way, we don't have proper stuff for it." you could tell it was difficult for them to understand what you were saying through your sobs. "i just want to wait it out."

rick eyes widen, along with everyone else who were crowded around you.

carl finally steps closer, grabbing your other hand tightly. you could spot tears falling from his eyes. "please, y/n. i'll be with you, it'll be okay. please i.. i can't lose you."

you looked up at him through your lashes, pressing your lips together. "i can't, carl. i can't."

...

they had moved you to one of the rooms in the church that had something you could lay on. they tied your wrist to a pole and stood in the room with you.

you could barely keep track of what was happening. you genuinely felt fine, besides the side effects from losing blood.

"can you wrap my arm up..?" you requested. the tickling feeling of your blood dripping down your arm becoming too much, and you also wanted to test if that was what was making you feel sick.

being immune wasn't even a thought in your head yet. but you were just creeped out about not having any of the same side effects that anybody else had when they'd gotten bit. you were sweating, but you weren't feverish, that's just how the weather always was.

"yes, of course." glenn grabbed a thing of gauze out of his bag, going up to you and carefully but tightly wrapping it around the bite. he also grabbed a nearby rag to wipe the access blood that had been dripping off of your arm.

"...thanks." you sighed, looking away from everyone.

they were all just staring, waiting for something to happen. but nothing was. the awkward silence and suspense was killing you. you saw the sun starting to come up through the window, which means it had been quite a few hours since you had gotten bit.

you've seen people last a day, maybe the tiniest bit over a day, but you noticed that they always had obvious symptoms by now. and you still didn't.

you blew a raspberry, looking around the room. ".. i don't feel anything."

"what?" carl squinted in confusion, his voice still a bit brittle from crying. "like, you're numb?"

"no, like.. i don't feel any symptoms of turning." you laughed at how idiotic your sentence probably sounded to everyone.

"so, you're saying you're immune?" carls voice changed from being upset to just pure confusion.

"i don't know." you shrugged, tapping your foot on the hardwood floors. "i seriously don't know what's going on. the only time i felt sick was when it first happened and i saw my blood dripping. i feel fine right now, a little lightheaded, but i think thats from the bloodloss."

"look, theres no such thing as being 'immune.'" rick shook his head at your statement. "it might just be.. taking a while to settle in."

"dad, can you have a little faith?" carl turned to rick, glaring slightly at him before turning back at you. "i believe you."

everyone else seemed really skeptical about what was happening, exchanging confused looks with one another.

"we'll keep her in here for a little while, alright? if she still doesn't feel anything by tonight, then we'll untie her." rick sighed, looking down at you. you had been with everyone since the start, being there when carl reunited with rick and everything, so you could sense everyones panic when they first saw you get bit. and now, you could sense their pure confusion. people in our group have gotten bit before, but they'd show signs almost immediately.

"i can stay with her if you guys want to leave." carl said, sitting down right next to you. "i'll let you know if anything happens."

everyone agreed and left the room.

you laughed to yourself, looking over at the door.

"are you okay?" carl asks, looking at you anxiously.

"i'm fine." you turned your head over to look at him. "this is just so fucking weird. and we don't even know where bob went. i'm so confused right now. nothing is making sense." you let out another light laugh, shaking your head in honestly disbelief.

"maybe you're the chosen one." carl laughs, smiling at you. "i really hope you're being honest. i.. i don't think i can handle losing you."

you look at him with a lopsided smile, happy to hear how much he cared. "i wouldn't lie to you about this. i genuinely don't feel sick at all. i mean, i feel gross, but not in a 'i'm dying' way. more in a 'i just got my arm bitten into' way." you tried to make light of the situation, despite being terrified. carls expression stayed a bit worried. "..sorry, not funny. i don't want to lose you either carl. you're the best thing to ever happen to me, you know?"

his concern turned into a smile at your words. he leaned forward and hugged you tightly. all you could do was put your hand on his back, due to your other hand being tied up still.

"i love you." he mumbles into your shoulder.

you laugh, leaning your head on top of his. "i love you too."

...

a while passed, yet you still felt perfectly fine. your arm felt odd though, of course. you had been bitten into after all.

carl stayed by your side, telling you stories and just conversing with you to keep your mind and his off of the whole situation while everyone was out searching for bob.

you moved your arm up to your tied up one, itching at your tight bandages. “i want these off…” you dramatically complained.

“we should probably check on your arm anyways. even if you feel fine, there could still be something messed up with your arm.” carl says as he rotates his body towards your arm, carefully untying your arm looking at you for permission.

you nod, and he proceeds to take the bandage off. the teeth marks had dark bruises and dried blood around them, and your veins were darker and more apparent around the bite. it looked unreal.

you quickly looked away from the wound, shuddering. “holy shit.” you closed your eyes tightly.

you could hear carl stumble over his words as he tried to figure out what to say. “i… it… is it supposed to- um.. look like that?” he let out a nervous laugh, moving his hand to comfort yours.

you returned the nervous laugh, looking back at the bite momentarily. "i don't- i don't think so?"

your body was violently shaking, unsure what to do or what was going on. would you still need to cut your arm off? or would it still be fine, despite looking like that? you knew that you'd have to hide your arm for.. well, ever, if you decided not to cut your arm off. it could cause so many different issues if people outside of your group found out.

carl proceeded to grab anything he could find to clean your wound, as well as new bandages. you two sat in silence as he carefully cleaned your arm, the only sound being your light winces of pain as he applied the antibacterial ointment he luckily found.

he wrapped your arm back up and planted a quick, soft kiss onto your bandaged wound, looking back up at your flustered face with a smile afterward.

your face was hot, and you quickly averted your eyes away from his out of embarrassment.

he put his hand on your cheek and kissed your forehead, then pulled you into a hug right after. "i'm so glad you're okay."

you were shocked, but let out a flustered giggle before returning the hug. "thank you.." your smile kept growing and growing. then, the words "i love you." finally left your mouth.

he broke the hug and looked at you shocked, but then his big smile came back. "i love you, too, angel."

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#🌙 — maxines fics #carl grimes #carl grimes x y/n #carl grimes x reader #the walking dead #the walking dead x y/n #the walking dead x reader #twd #twd x reader #carl grimes angst #carl grimes oneshot #carl grimes fanfiction #carl grimes imagine

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jjanuaryrain · 21 days ago

Text

Another DPxDC drabble, this time Sam going to Bruce Wayne for help

Who knows, maybe I'll add this to the dead on main fic I'm working on. We'll see. Anyway, more under the cut.

Words: 3237

The air was cold and clammy, laden with heavy gray clouds and drizzling sheets of rain when Sam Manson stepped out onto the driveway. The rain pattered a steady rhythm on her black umbrella and she folded her long batwing sleeve over her arm to shut the car door behind her. The sleek black airport taxi idled quietly behind her as she turned to take in the familiar mansion looming before her.

The wrought iron gate arcing above her head was slick with rain, but a singular call button and speaker sat sheltered out of the rain. Sam approached and reached to press the button with a single black-tipped finger. The speaker hummed to life a moment later.

“Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth speaking. How may I help you?” The voice was smooth and poshly British, and Sam took a breath of the cool October air.

“Samantha Manson to see Bruce Wayne,” she murmured into the cold metal. It felt wrong to speak at any higher of a level.

There was a moment’s pause and Sam smoothed her hand over the black lace of her dress. She could do this.

“Were we expecting you this evening, Ms. Manson?” The voice replied after a moment.

Sam pursed her lips together and raised her chin. She put on her best impression of her mother. “No, you were not. However, I believe this to be a matter urgent enough to warrant such a visit.”

“I see,” Pennyworth said. And then, “Why don’t you come in out of the rain? I will contact Master Bruce once you’re safely indoors.”

Sam let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“Please, call me Alfred.”

Then the speaker clicked off and Sam took a step back so the gates could slowly swing open on their motorized hinges. She waved off her driver and watched them reverse down the long driveway, then turned back to the building that loomed above her. She took a breath.

She could do this.

⋆₊✧₊⋆

The foyer of Wayne Manor looked much the same as Sam remembered from the few galas she’d attended within its walls – vaulted ceilings, sweeping staircases, and two wings diverging off to the left and right. To Sam’s knowledge, neither she nor any of the other gala guests had ever ventured beyond the ground floor before. She wondered if that would change tonight.

Alfred Pennyworth took her umbrella at the door and she made sure to lightly wipe her boots on the mat inside the door. She felt the inherent urge to remove them before stepping further into the house, but none of the Waynes seemed to be from a similar culture, so she dismissed the feeling.

Alfred showed Sam the way to the drawing room to the right and gestured at one of the many cushy couches. “Have a seat if you wish, Ms. Manson,” he said politely. “Master Bruce is finishing up a call in his study and will be out to greet you shortly. In the meantime, may I offer you some tea?”

Sam took a seat and nodded, folding her hands in her lap. “Earl Grey if you have it, please.” Alfred nodded and stepped through a side door that Sam hadn’t even noticed. And then she was alone.

She took a deep breath and clasped her hands tightly together. She was here now, and there was no going back. If she intended to go through with her plan, she couldn’t back down now. The entire endeavor was a long shot, but it was the only option she had left.

The only option Danny had left.

Alfred returned after a few minutes with a tray laden with fine china and two steaming cups of tea. There were also tea sandwiches and scones, and Sam took one comprised of cucumber and cream cheese along with her tea. She thanked the butler again, and he backed out of the room with a bow. She almost felt like she was back in Japan.

A clock on the far side of the room ticked away the time. One minute, then two, then three. After seven movements of the minute hand, footsteps sounded from the foyer. Sam placed her teacup down and folded her hands once again in her lap as Bruce Wayne approached.

“Samantha,” he said warmly as he swept into the room. He was dressed in a crisp navy suit with the top few buttons undone. His shoes were a clean but well worn pair of loafers. “Or Sam, rather. Is that right?” Sam nodded. Mr. Wayne crossed to and settled into a chair opposite Sam, seizing the second cup of tea from the tray on the low table between them. He grinned at her over the lip of it. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It’s not often that people make the journey to Gotham, and certainly not all by their lonesome.”

Sam gave the man a small smile. She wanted to slap the joviality off his face.

“I’m afraid I’m here for business,” she said instead. “Not pleasure.”

Mr. Wayne’s eyebrows raised and he set his teacup down.

“Is that so?” He asked. He leaned back in his seat and regarded her with keen eyes, sweeping them clinically over her person before returning his gaze to her face. “What business do you wish to discuss, then? I don’t recall having any dealings with your parents in recent memory.”

“That’s correct,” Sam said as evenly as she could. She got the distinct impression Mr. Wayne was humoring her. She squared her shoulders. “I should clarify that I’m not here on my parents’ behalf. I’m here for my own interests.” He raised his eyebrows higher. “Or, I should say, the interests of the world.”

There was a pause. Wayne sat up a little straighter.

“The interests of… the world?” He repeated.

Sam nodded. “It is my understanding that you are one of the main financial backers for the Justice League. Is that correct, Mr. Wayne?”

“It is,” Mr. Wayne confirmed, eyebrows drawing together.

“And the Batman?” Sam pushed.

“Well…” Wayne laughed slightly at that and waved a vague hand in the air. “If he were to exist, then sure. But he’s scarcely more than a ghost.”

“He was on national television with Wonder Woman last week, sir,” Sam deadpanned.

Mr. Wayne chuckled and spread his hands like what can you do? Sam did not return his smile. She was quickly becoming sick of seeing his stupidly bright teeth and she hadn’t been in his presence for 10 minutes. She ground her teeth.

When Sam didn’t respond, Mr. Wayne dropped his hands and studied her face. Then he sat up straighter in his chair and met Sam’s gaze seriously.

“What’s this about then, Sam?” He asked. Sam tried not to prickle too obviously at the use of her name. “What business on behalf of the world have you traveled all this way to present to me?”

Sam took a slow breath through her nose. She unclasped her hands, blood rushing back into them at the release of pressure. She’d brought the folder, but the idea of actually handing it over had her stomach clenching. Amity Park and its inhabitants were her best kept secret, the one she and her friends didn’t dare to speak of outside of its borders. And more than that…

“Have you ever heard of the Ghost Investigation Ward, Mr. Wayne?”

The words just sort of fell out of her mouth, but it worked well enough as a start. It was clearly not what Wayne had expected her to say, at least. The man across from her blinked a few times before his face settled into a confused frown.

“I can’t say that I have. And, please, call me Bruce.” Sam nodded once. She’d expected that Bruce wouldn’t know of the GIW, of course, had even hoped so. But it still stung to be reminded how alone she and her friends had been in dealing with this for all these years.

Sam took a steeling breath. She could do this.

Sam reached into the depths of her sleeve and withdrew the folder. She set it carefully on the table between the two of them, to the right of the tea tray. Bruce tracked the motion before returning his quizzical gaze to her. Sam’s heart rabbitted in her chest, but she forced herself into calm. She breathed in and out once, then spoke.

“This file contains all of the information I have on an agency funded solely by the US government that has been carrying out unlawful experimentation on nonhuman entities for nearly half a decade.”

Silence. Wayne stared. Sam pushed on.

“Their work is in direct contradiction with the Meta Protection Acts, yet they have full authorization from and the full support of the federal government. They–”

“That is quite the accusation,” Bruce interrupted with a frown. Sam couldn’t help the glare she shot his way.

“It’s not an accusation,” she said forcefully. Perhaps a bit too forcefully, because Wayne leaned back slightly in his chair. She took a long breath and searched for that internal place of calm. This was for Danny. She didn’t have the freedom or luxury of letting her emotions control her right now.

She tried again.

“It’s not an accusation, Bruce,” she repeated more calmly. “It’s the truth. This file,” she tapped the closed brown cover and Mr. Wayne’s eyes followed the movement, “should have everything required to substantiate my claims and more. It contains copies of the contracts signed between the ward and the Homeland Security, as well as receipts for funds provided by the government in order to create their so-called ‘experimental facilities.’”

She couldn’t help the way her lips curled into a sneer as she spoke, but Wayne wasn’t looking at her. His eyes had locked onto the Homeland Security crest stamped across the file in front of him. Good.

“The file also contains records of the ward’s stated goals, recent movements, and the results of all of their experiments, up until about a month and a half ago. Once reviewed, I’m sure you’ll find that everything about this agency, from its methods to the very purpose of its creation, is at odds with everything the Justice League stands for.”

And you, I hope, she added silently. Please don’t stand for it, either.

Wayne was flitting between looking at the file and Sam, questions swimming in his eyes. Before he could interrupt again, Sam flipped open the folder to its first page. Bruce sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the file and leaned forward to inspect it.

Sam watched his eyes rove over the photos Tucker had managed to pull from the GIW’s database before they’d moved it offline: the torn and broken bodies of countless ghosts, the remains of beings that had been ripped apart for no reason beyond human hate and curiosity. Wayne’s eyes were wide as he took it all in, and his skin had paled to an ashy grey. Good.

“This is the business I traveled all this way to discuss with you,” Sam told him grimly. His eyes flicked to hers momentarily before they were drawn inexorably back to the carnage laid out before him. He pulled the file closer, mouth pressed into a thin line. “This is why I ventured to Gotham all by my lonesome and showed up on your step with no warning. These are the interests of the world I come to represent.”

Sam let him take in the horror before him, to soak in the ghastly knowledge that Sam had been living with for over a year now, for a long minute. When he took a breath and began to pull back, she snapped the folder closed and returned it to her sleeve. Bruce looked up when she did so, and she could’ve laughed at the look on his face if the situation weren’t what it was. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Sam,” Bruce said gravely, sinking back into his chair with a shake of his head. “This is–” he started, but Sam held her hand up. She wasn’t finished yet.

Bruce complied, leaning back in his chair and covering his mouth with a hand. Sam folded hers back into her lap.

“I am under no illusions that you extended me the favor of this unplanned meeting for any reason other than my family’s name,” Sam told him. Bruce didn’t even try to object. “So I am going to ask that you keep your opinion of me and my name in mind when I ask you for this next favor.”

Sam met his gaze, willing him to understand how much she needed this. How much Danny needed this. This was their last resort.

After a long, tense moment, Wayne nodded. “I’ll listen,” he said softly. “Whatever you need, I’ll hear you out.”

Sam’s throat tightened at the words, and she nodded stiffly. She was almost done. She could get through this.

“If you mean that,” she started, but her voice broke. She swallowed it away. “If you mean that, then what I need from you, Mr. Wayne, is a meeting with the Batman.”

The silence after the words left her mouth felt suffocating. Bruce just looked at her. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she held his gaze defiantly, chin raised. She wouldn’t let him say no. He couldn’t say no.

“The Batman?” Wayne asked after a moment. She nodded again, through the lump in her throat. Bruce frowned, steepling his fingers in front of his face. Then, “Why the Batman?”

Sam blinked. “Sorry?” She asked.

“Well, why not any of the other members of the Justice League? Surely this is something that could be investigated by any one of them.”

“I…” Sam didn’t have a response prepared for that. She squeezed her hands together. “I guess… he’s the one I trust the most to get justice.”

Wayne nodded slowly, considering her through calm eyes. “Is that what you want?” He asked. “Justice?”

Sam hesitated. There were a lot of things she wanted. Justice was one. Revenge, another. Danny to be safe more than anything, really.

But when she thought of herself, of Tucker and the people of Amity Park, of the ghosts who had simply left the Zone at the wrong time…

“Yes,” Sam whispered. Her throat burned. “I want justice.” It felt like a ridiculous thing to say, to hope for. There were so many ridiculous things she hoped for these days.

“I want to see the GIW demolished,” she continued despite herself. She clasped her hands hard, feeling the muscles shift and the bones grind. A tear threatened to slip down her cheek. “I want to see the agents pay for what they’ve d-done. I want to look every single o-one of them in the fa-face and know that they understand what they’ve d-done. The lives they’ve ruined.”

A sob bubbled up and Sam tried to push it away but it was no use. Now that she’d started, there was no stopping it, no stemming the waves of emotion.

“I want them to understand it and to be f-forced to live with it,” she said through gritted teeth. Tears slipped freely down her cheeks. “I want what they did to destr- destroy them like it’s destroyed u-us. And I want- I want anyone, anyone at all, to acknowledge that they- they left us there! They- they left us there! In that fucking town to rot! To deal with it by ourselves and we can’t- I can’t- I can’t-” Sam covered her mouth with one half numb hand, but the sobbed words came anyway. “I can’t save him!”

Just saying the words out loud had Sam doubling over on the couch, sobs wracking through her body. It felt so good to finally say it, to finally admit it to herself, that she couldn’t reel herself in.

“Oh god,” she cried into her knees. “I can’t- can’t- I couldn’t save him! He’s- and I can’t do anything!” She pressed her skull into the bone of her knees, panting into her skirt as sobs wracked uncontrollably through her body.

A weight dipped onto the couch beside her, and suddenly Sam was tilting over slightly into a strong, warm body. Mr. Wayne didn’t say anything as he held her. He didn’t offer the empty assurances she had come to expect from adults, didn’t try to convince her it was okay, or that she didn’t need to be so upset. He just pulled Sam gently onto his lap and let her cry and cry and cry.

Sam didn’t know how long she laid there, hiccupping and sniffling into Mr. Wayne’s cotton suit. It was just until the burning, aching guilt began to abate, and she was finally able to quell the tears.

Once she’d stopped crying, the two of them sat in silence for a few minutes. Mr. Wayne’s arm was a reassuring weight across her shoulder and back. Sam listened to the clock tick away across the room and tried to breathe in time with the second hand. Seven seconds in, eleven seconds out – just like Jazz had taught them.

Tears returned to her eyes at the memory, but she just let them fall where they may. She didn’t have enough energy to do much else.

“Why don’t you stay the night in one of our guest rooms, Sam,” Mr. Wayne suggested quietly. He rubbed a gentle hand up and down her arm. “Most of my children are away from home at the moment, so you’ll have the floor to yourself. It’ll just be my youngest, Damian, on the floor below you. Alfred can make it up for you now, if you’d like?”

Sam sniffed and pushed herself into a sitting position. Her face felt tight and dry despite the waterworks, and she resisted the urge to wipe at it. She relished the idea of being able to wash away her ruined makeup and sleep the day off in a real bed, rather than at the hotel as she’d planned.

“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “That sounds very nice, thank you.” She saw Mr. Wayne smile at her from the corner of her eye before he stood and called for Alfred. The two of them had a quiet conversation that she ignored in favor of gathering herself further, and then the butler vanished once again. Sam looked up at Bruce.

“You… You believe me, right?” She asked tentatively. She felt childish saying it, but she had to know this hadn’t been a waste. She had to know there was still hope. “You’ll think about what I said?”

Bruce Wayne gave her a soft smile, much realer than the ones she’d received when she’d first arrived. He returned to his spot on the couch and took her hand, looking her in the eye.

“If there is any truth to what you’ve told me,” he started and Sam couldn’t help the face she made. “Of which I have no doubt,” Bruce added quickly, with another slightly ironic smile. Then his face grew more serious, and he gently squeezed her hand between both of his. “Then I will do everything in my power to see the GIW stopped and shut down, permanently. You will get your justice, Sam. I guarantee it.”

And, just for that moment, Sam actually believed him.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #sam manson #bruce wayne #dpxdc #dc x dp #fanfic #fanfiction #idk what im doing with this #inspiration just came #and now here we are #dunno who the target audience is for this lol #me ig #alfred pennyworth #batman

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muqingslover · 2 months ago

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hiii, can you please share more goofy habits caleb has while sharing a bed with u 💝

[ By popular demand i'm here to share extra thoughts on Caleb's sleeping habits! Kinda of a part two to this, in case you missed! ]

Oh boy there's so much to unpack here. We all know Caleb has experienced a loooot of bad things and has not worked through them in an actual healthy way at all. He is also a master at hiding it from you, but you can get a glimpse of how damaged he truly is during bedtime.

First of all, you will rarely, if ever, catch him sleeping on an actual bed. Or sleeping at all to be honest. What Caleb does is take power naps whenever he can on his couch at the office or when he's at your place waiting for you to. The one to (partially) blame for this is his chronic insomnia. I like to believe Caleb has always been a very light sleeper and it's only gotten worse throughout the years— The sound of a door opening is enough for him to be wide wake in a matter of seconds. Trust issues anyone?

When he wakes up, if alone, his go-to activity is working out. He'll do push-ups or leave the house for a loooong late night jog, anything that will tire his body out since he's wired up. Then, he takes a freezing cold shower to reboot his system and either starts to work early or sits down to solve some calculus problems to prevent his mind from thinking about anything else since it's 98% of the time never anything good.

To add to that, the main reason as to why his insomnia is so bad is the fact he has nightmares on an almost daily basis. They're often about you in some way and he wakes up panicking about where you are, how you are, if you're with someone else, why you aren't here with him instead and if you plan on leaving him. That's why it's so crucial for Caleb that you stay somewhere he can see you whenever he needs to. Otherwise, his anxiety will gnaw at him until he just shows up unprompted on your front door in the middle of the night.

On the topic of nightmares, next thing on the list is a more...sensitive one: His reactions to nightmares that involves the abuse Caleb himself went through. I say sensitive because this man is a trained soldier and he wakes up in very high alert which, sometimes, means he might hurt you by pure reflex similar to retired war veterans.

The first time you woke up with his hands tightly wrapped around your neck you seriously thought you were a goner. The sound of your voice calling his name was fortunately enough to make him snap out of the haze he was trapped in, believing he was under the threat of the ghosts of his past and had to defend himself before it was him the one who would end up dead. You have always been his anchor, it was not a surprise that you were the only one able to pull him back even in a moment like this.

Regardless if he had been in control or not, Caleb would blame himself until his last day on this world. He wouldn't sleep (Key word being sleep because he will stay in bed with you, he just won't *sleep*) on the same bed as you anymore after this and instead spends his nights on a mattress on the floor next to you. The sight of your bruised neck and the tears in your eyes because of his hands, because of him, only serve as fuel for his nightmares. He doesn't even want to imagine what would've happened if you hadn't been able to speak loudly enough to wake him up.

"Caleb is a big spoon!!" people yell at me and I agree! However! If you want this man to have some peaceful sleep then the only way to achieve that is to have him laying on your chest where he can both listen to your steady heartbeat and feel your warmth as he holds you. Run your fingers through his hair and promise him you'll be right there when he wakes up to soothe his anxieties as much as possible and he might just sleep throughout the entire night.

Moving on to more sweet thoughts so we don't end on a bitter note— He has serious beef with the plushies you own, specifically the ones you hug to sleep. I mean, he's right here? Hello??? Why would you want to hug that fat ass bear of yours. If your plushie goes missing one day through suspicious means don't be sad because you can just cuddle him! He promises he'll behave this time!

Another silly thing is Caleb cannot keep his hands to himself when the two of you are sharing a bed. Literally. His hands have a will of their own and they must be touching you at all times in some way. That also means he will bother you by torturing tickling you non-stop until you're on the verge of tears. He loves the sound of your joyful laughter and how red your face gets while you try to escape the evil tickle monster so I'm afraid there's no way to get him to actually stop.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #caleb love and deepspace #lads caleb #caleb x reader #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #caleb lnds #caleb angst #kinda #caleb fluff #also kinda #hahaha

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hitomisuzuya · 7 days ago

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fatui!scaramouche x fem!reader. no smut. scara on the warpath. also soft scara. some descriptions of blood, gore, and death.

i don't have much confidence, so i am going to humbly leave this here. i haven't written something like this before.

scaramouche could taste the fear seeing his squad returning to him. he'd seen them frightened before, but this was different. a different level of fear from them he had never felt before.

there was something off as he took a head count. almost immediately, he saw what was off. you didn't return with them.

what the actual fuck? it was simple recon mission.

"where. is. she?" his biting tone in his words sends a whole new shiver of fear up his squad's spines. it took a moment before someone was brave enough to speak up. and he has a feeling he isn't going to like what he was about to hear.

"look, sir, everything happened so fast," someone finally spoke up, "there was an ambush waiting for us. we were heavily out numbered, and-"

"talk faster," he spat, crossing his arms. he has little patience for overly long explanations and excuses today.

"they were going to take us all hostage. she exchanged herself for our safety. we begged her not to, but," the words came tumbling out of the frightened underling.

scaramouche grit his teeth. "i give you imbeciles one simple recon mission to gather intel. that's all you had to do. i expressly told you to always make sure she is safe," he immediately starts to walk past them, not even giving them the time of day in sparing even a glare at them.

he is furious.

you are his precious treasure. the one flicker of light in this dark, dark world. you are his, and now the world had the audacity to try and take you away from him.

all because you are too fucking nice for your own good.

"sir, let us at least come with you. we owe it to her, and we know the area already-" the same brave underling tried to help the situation, visibly shaking.

"no," scaramouche spat, looking over his shoulder. "and i swear, if anything has happened to her, i will delete you all. do you understand me?" and with that, he set off. with a deadly purpose.

as for you, you are hanging in there. but barely. you are lying in a crumbled heap on the floor of a wooden cell in the kairagi camp. pain weighs heavy on your body, so much so that hurt to even breathe. it didn't matter how much they hurt you, you refused to say one word. about anything.

nothing about the fatui. nothing about where your camp is. and certainly nothing about scaramouche. and you'd more than paid the price for your willing decision.

you felt scaramouche coming before he'd even arrived. the air charged with so much electricity that it made the hair on your arms stand upright. however, you fell unconscious a few moments later.

"you fools have something that belongs to me," scaramouche says in a low, dangerous tone.

"what? that little tart?" the leader of the kairagi said bravely, although his knees couldn't help but shake a little. it felt like the end of the world was walking right towards him. "she's a tough one, i'll admit. i'm sure you can understand that we deployed some rather harsh methods to get information from her. but she never said one word."

the rage inside scaramouche only over boiled further. "how dare you flap your filthy tongue like that. i'll be taking back what's mine now," if they all could've dropped dead right then, they would've, "you won't live long enough to see me leave with her. nobody takes what's mine. nobody."

he moved so fast no one saw him move before it was over. scaramouche wrapped his hand around the head of the leader, and promptly smashed his head into the wall. he died instantly, bits of brain matter and skull flew everywhere from the impact.

"next?" he said, dropping the body in a careless heap to the ground. "you'll all die screaming, i promise."

the final echoing screams that he promised was what roused you. it even took effort to open your eyes hearing the cell door quietly creak open. "sc-scara..you came.." you began weakly, "i knew you would," you let out a soft cry of pain as you try to sit up. "you aren't hurt, are you?"

"don't move," scaramouche commands, his tone far gentler now. kneeling down next to you, his anger boils over again seeing the state you are in. you look exhausted, and he can see the pain you are in your eyes. you have multiple cuts and bruises all over you. and your breathing is very labored.

your utter trust and faith he would come for you makes something warm flare in his chest. how could he have let this happen?

"look at you. they really hurt you, didn't they? i'm going to pick you up now. bear with me," he said, gently picking you up bridal style in his arms. he felt your body tremble as you wrap your arms around his neck.

"i didn't say anything," you rest your head on his chest, "i didn't even scream," you weakly nuzzle your head into his chest. "are you proud of me, scara?"

"sh, don't talk. just rest," you really are something else. you are hurt, broken, and bleeding a lot. and the only thing you are concerned about was him. putting a hand on your head, he cards his fingers soothingly through your hair before he making sure his hand was covering your field of vision. "and don't you dare look either."

blood and bits of flesh squelch under his sandals. various body parts lay scattered everywhere around him. no one was left alive. scaramouche slaughtered every single one of them, and to him, it still was a punishment too light for hurting you. he didn't want you to have to see all that.

"i'm glad you okay," you murmur, closing your heavy eyes as scaramouche obscured you vision. "i wanted to protect you. more than anything," it took everything you had to cling to him.

"why did you do that? the rest of the squad's lives are poultry compared to yours," for the first time in many, many centuries, scaramouche had been scared. scared he was going to lose everything. again. "don't you ever do something so..so stupid ever again, am i understood? that is an order."

you didn't answer him. you'd fallen asleep in his arms, and he is quite frankly relieved you had. that way, you wouldn't feel any of the pain you are in on the way back.

for a long while, chirps of crickets in the night accompanied his steps. if a long span of minutes went by, scaramouche would suddenly stop and put his hand on your chest, holding his breath until he felt your steady heartbeat.

"yes," his voice is barely above a whisper as he starts walking again, holding his entire world so carefully in his arms, "i am proud of you."

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin angst #genshin fluff #scaramouche #soft scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you #fem!reader #scaramouche imagines

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nanenna · 6 months ago

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Jeez Louise This is a Mess

Sleepy King (Nenna edition) Master Post

Apologies in advance, I'm not very familiar with John Constantine, trying to do anything from his perspective is definitely an unwise decision. I have chosen it anyway. He's almost definitely OOC.

---

John watched the Fentons and the mayor just saunter through the brand new hole in the mayor’s wall like this was just a normal Friday for them. Considering how weird the town was as a whole, it probably was. And he meant that by the old meaning of the word and as literal as one could possibly interpret it. He’d never been anywhere where the veil was so thin over such a large area, with æther so thick in the air of course it was affecting the locals. Probably had something to do with whoever or whatever had cloaked the whole town.

John turned to Tall Dark and Broody, “So, what happened to all the bugs and trackers you put on them originally?”

Batsy frowned, “Danny’s are still in the Fenton residence, expected since he clearly changed his clothes. His parents’ trackers and bugs all went offline not long after arriving home, the ones I placed inside the residence are malfunctioning.”

“And that’s not the least bit suspicious?” John asked.

“It’s incredibly suspicious,” Batsy said with a completely straight face before turning and also walking right out the brand new hole. “I suggest you actually use the comm I gave you earlier, they’re explaining the situation to Masters.”

Unfortunately Mr. Gargles Gravel for Breakfast had a point, John sighed and did put in the comm, though he knew it would be spotty with the use of magic to follow the group. Batsy and Wonder Woman could follow however they liked, John did not have the energy for that.

The comms were staticky, cutting in and out even without John’s abuse of the thin veil to quick step around town. Not surprising, the amount of pure death magic radiating off the two dead-alive people in that tank would be enough to mess with most electronics even if the veil weren’t practically non-existent.

“Somehow this place feels cozy,” Boston commented as he followed John.

“You would think so.”

The conversation on the comm was getting worse, the bugs were clearly slowly giving up the ghost. John only caught a few words here and there, and those were only because they were Ghost Speak, something that shouldn’t be possible for flesh and blood mouths to speak. It’s just bits and pieces, names and titles mostly, but if he’s understanding this right…

“Huh, that may change the situation a bit.”

“What are you going on about?” Boston asked.

“It sounds like Pariah isn’t the Ghost King anymore. But Batsy’s bugs are losing the war against æther, so when we get there you’re gonna need to go spy on them.”

“Will that work?”

“Try to keep out of sight, but even if you get caught the worst they’ll do is kick you out. Undead solidarity.”

Boston grumbled, but when John met back up with Batsy and Wonder Woman staring through a window right to where the group was talking, Boston did as he was asked and slipped right through the wall and inside. John cast a quick spell to spy through Boston.

Boston floated slowly into the room, seemingly becoming braver as the Fentons looked right past him without reacting. Unfortunately, he got a little too close to the one person in the room that could definitely see him. The kid jumped out of his seat in surprise.

“Don't sneak up on me like that!” The kid whined as he picked himself up off the floor. Then he froze, eyes glaring at Boston. “How did you sneak up on me? You didn't activate my ghost sense at all.”

“Oh, you can see me? And ghost sense?”

“You don't know who I am?”

“Uh… Daniel Fenton?”

“Well yes, but ghosts don't usually call me that.”

“Then what do they call you?”

“How about you tell me your name first?”

“I’m Deadman.”

The kid burst into laughter. “Are you for real?”

“Danny, is it Youngblood?” The sister asked.

“Huh?” The kid looked to his older sister, then back to Boston. He gestured, “You can't see him?”

The Fentons all shook their heads.

The creepy mayor came back into the room holding a cardboard box, knocking a thin layer of dust from the top. “Here it is!” He looked up and frowned. “Who are you, and why are you in my home?”

“I’m Deadman and I’m uh… lost?”

“He didn't set off my ghost sense,” the kid added. He turned back to Boston, “Are you even a ghost?”

Batman, who’d spent the last few minutes getting into the perfect position while he waited for the most dramatic moment chose then to crash through the window. John started cursing as he rushed to climb in after the loon, already prepping a spell. The moment he had a clear line of sight he shot off the revelation spell at the kid.

It did… well not much.

Really about all it did was give the kid a couple extra accessories. He expected them, but he also expected it to somehow reveal the kid’s undead status too. Make him look all glowy and ghostly like he had when he’d first arrived last night, because John was pretty sure the kid hadn’t been kidnapped after all. Or at least not how they originally assumed, he was pretty sure some spirits considered an unwilling summons a kidnapping.

Still, there the crown was. Just floating over the kid’s head, toxic green æther flames around it like a death energy aurora. And like any teenager the kid seemed completely oblivious, having to be told the crown was even there. Once he got a hand on it though he said something odd, “Okay, crown retrieved.”

John just tucked his hands in his pockets, waiting to see what they were doing. Why did they think they needed to find the crown?

“We may have a problem,” The creepy mayor said as he pulled an identical crown from his cardboard box.

“What.” The kid looked back and forth between the crown in his hand and the one in the creeper’s. “Why are there two?”

And, well, John agreed. Why the fuck were there two? He already started muttering an identification spell as the kid turned to him.

“What did you do?!”

“I didn't do anything,” John protested, “that was purely an identification spell, it can't duplicate things!”

“Well clearly you did something wrong,” The kid’s mom said while glaring at the him.

Of course things got dicey after that, the kid and the creepy mayor got into a fight over the second crown, things turned into a right mess, and John was quite content to let them squabble among themselves. He moved to go stand next to Batsy and Wonder Woman, Boston with him, waiting to see how this went.

Of course the tussle then turned into fighting over the ring on the kid’s finger, still blaming John for just revealing the crown and ring the kid had apparently had this whole time.

“Alright, that’s enough. Shut up!” John may have put a bit of intent into that, and it worked beautifully. The whole group stopped and stared at him, finally shutting up. The parents managed to get between the kid and the creeper, each one still with one of the crowns.

The crowns he now knew were both, somehow, legitimate.

John pointed at the kid, “Just call the crown, it’ll listen.”

The kid gave him a disbelieving look. “Oh sure, I’ll just,” he hunched forward a little bit, clapped his hands, and whistled like he was calling a dog, “here Crowny, Crowny, Crowny.”

For a brief moment nothing happened, then the creeper mayor jerked forward as the crown yanked itself from his hand. It went to go join the other crown floating over the kid’s head, one of them grew wider so the other could nestle inside it, both spinning in place but in opposite directions.

Everyone was staring at the display.

“What uh… what are they doing?” The kid asked nervously.

“They… like each other?” The sister asked skeptically.

“Great, wonderful, fabulous, just what I need in my life.” The kid sighed and turned to glare at John. “What. Did. You. DO?!”

“I didn’t do shit,” John replied, much to the parents’ combined horror. “Looks like somehow they’re both legit, my best guess is one of them isn’t from this timeline.”

“Oh,” the sister said, grabbing everyone’s attention. “The Nasty Burger explosion happened after the fight with the king, right?”

“The what?” the kid’s parents asked.

“Oh,” the kid responded, “I’m starting to see why the council of eyeballs hates my guts.”

And wasn’t that a concerning sentence. John desperately needed a drink, thankfully he had a flask on him and chose that moment to take a swig. “Alright, so there should be a second ring too, no point leaving that on Dark’s finger in case he gets out again.”

“Vlad did it,” the kid said while pointing at the creeper.

“Excuse me!” Creeper actually put a hand to his neck, like some fainting Victorian lady.

“Vlad tried to steal the ring and crown, so he let Dark out of the sarcophagus and I had to go clean up his mess, like always.” The kid glared at the creeper, it was starting to paint a really concerning picture.

“I’m sure Vladdie was just trying to keep these powerful artifacts safe,” the kid’s dad said loudly and happily. Yeah, there was the concerning picture again.

“I’d believe it if all he took was the ring, but the crown was safely sealed away with Pariah and he let the guy out to steal it.”

“Just call the ring,” John said gruffly.

“Here Ragey, Ragey, Ragey.” The kid whistled and clapped his hands again. The ring showing up on the kid’s other hand was expected, the glowing green hell hound that came sprinting through the wall and practically tackled the kid wasn’t. “Cujo! Hi! Who’s a good puppy?!”

Keeriest, John needed a stiffer drink.

#nenna writes #sleepy king #dpxdc #danny phantom #fanfic #fanfiction #dc comics #dc stands for disregard canon #justice league

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moody-alcoholic · 2 months ago

Text

This Is Going To Hurt

Part 3 - Useful Hostage

Summary: Poly141 x reader, established relationship, medic reader, kidnapped reader, mini fic.

CW: Dead dove don’t eat, use of weapons, death, torture, blood, assault.

AN: My birthday is on Wednesday so I'm taking a break from writing to do birthday things.

Previous parts - masterlist- next AO3

Enjoy <3

You actually get a break from the torture. Which means you get some sleep. Maybe it’s a thank you, but more likely they’re going to let you get your strength back up before it continues. The room you’re being held in is small, there’s only the door, no windows or vents.

In fact you haven’t seen the sun since you were taken. You have no idea what time of day it is, how long it has been. There’s no point in trying to keep track, they purposely avoid a schedule, come for you at what seems like random times to take you to the bathroom or for more torture.

You’re woken mid sleep and dragged back into the wetroom. That’s what you’ve started calling it, you always leave the place wet and shivering. It’s getting harder and harder to fight against your instincts and keep quiet, not panic. The safe space in your mind is getting harder and harder to imagine, it’s almost like the mental barriers you try to put up are being pulled down one by one.

“No one is coming for you.” The stranger says, you turn your head to look at him while you gasp for air.

“You’ll die here. Alone.” You can’t help but scoff. You always knew this would happen, now they’re switching up their tactics. Maybe they’ll try and flip you, try and promise you a new life. It’s not going to work, it will never work.

He doesn’t try the new tactic for long before switching back to the questioning. At one point you think you pass out because the next thing you know your straps have been undone and you’re rolled on your side heaving onto the floor.

Angry voices ring in your head before you’re hauled back to your room. Everything hurts, your stomach and your lungs. The wound on your arm- you’re pretty sure is infected at this point. You can barely keep yourself up as you're thrown back into the room and the door is slammed closed. Like you have the energy to do anything right now. You pull yourself up into the corner of the room.

Laying down just makes your stomach turn. You wish it would end. For the first time you feel your resolve slip.

He’s right, they’re not coming for you. You’ve always known that, you just didn’t want to admit it, somewhere deep down you hoped they would come for you. You feel tears come even though you’re too exhausted to cry.

You just hope they’re safe wherever they are.

___

“We’re in.” Soap says in Price’s ear.

“Keep it tight, we need at least one of them alive.” Price says. This is their only chance to get intel, without having to resort to other methods. Price and Gaz move to the front door of the small house. There’s at least 5 people in here, all hostile.

Price pushes through the door first hearing Gaz following behind him, Ghost and Soap will be making their way around the ground floor so Price makes a b-line for the stairs. He looks around quickly, making sure Gaz is following him as they make it up the steps.

They take it one room at a time. There are 2 people both sleeping. They take them out silently, hands over their mouths, their throats slit. Price takes the first one, Gaz gets the second one.

There’s no third floor which means the last 3 are on the ground floor.

“Ghost, sitrep.”

“Ground floor’s clear. 2 down, one in custody.” He responds.

“We’re clear here too.” Price responds and nods at Gaz to make it back down the stairs. When they make it into the living room, Ghost and Soap already have him tied to the chair.

“He speaks English.” Ghost says his eyes meeting Price. They’ve done a good job, they were quick, they have what they need.

“Yeah, beggin’ for his life when we got him.” Soap says. Price sighs walking round the chair to stand in front of the man. He shouts something in Arabic. Price’s patience is wearing thin already. He has to keep cool, keep it together.

It’s like there’s a timer in his head though, ticking down each second, minute, hour. The longer they take, the more chance you’ll be killed. The thought makes his stomach sink, he swallows the lump in his throat and lets the adrenaline calm his mind.

“You took a hostage. Female, British, medic, we want to know where she is.” Price says. The man's eyes flick to him, there’s blood on his forehead.

“I don’t know anything about a medic.” He says. It’s a lie, Price knows that. He nods at Ghost who throws his fist into the man's face. As Ghost straightens back up, Price watches the man spit blood.

“The hostage. Where is she?” Price asks.

“Fucking American pigs!” He snaps spitting at Price’s feet. Price crosses his arms looking over at Ghost, who pulls a knife off his vest.

“The hostage!” Price snaps. The man just laughs and Price lets out a sigh. Ghost walks over and plunges the knife into his thigh. He screams thrashing against the chair, shouting in Arabic. Price goes over bending down in front of his face.

“Tell us where she is.” He orders through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know.” He says between breaths. Price doesn’t believe him, he has to know something. Suddenly there’s a beeping Price shoots up watching as everyone raises their weapons towards the origin of the noise.

Soap is the closest and he moves over to the table. “It’s a laptop.” He calls lowering his weapon.

“Bring it over.” Price says and he comes over placing it down on the coffee table. When they open it, it shows a page with a video. In the middle a chair, the backdrop is all al qatala flags, Price sees the red ‘live’ watermark flashing in the corner of the video.

“What the hell?” Gaz asks. Price reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

This can’t be good.

The door to your cell opens, jolting you from sleep. It’s Sayyid, he has a bottle of water. You don’t even want it.

“How are you feeling?” He asks putting the bottle down on the floor. You scoff as you move yourself back into the corner. Your body is stiff and sore, you wonder how long you were asleep for.

“Fuck you. You don’t care.” You say.

“I came to ask for your help.” He says, you look up at him confused. You can’t believe what you’re hearing. You laugh, maybe you’re dead and this is hell.

“There was a missile strike, injured are being brought here.” Sayyid says.

“Oh my God you’re not joking.” You say. He looks somber as he shakes his head. You get up to your feet taking a step towards him.

“I’m not helping patch up terrorists.” You say with anger in your voice. How dare he ask you to help the very people keeping you here.

“Innocent people are hurt too. Civilians with no affiliation. You took an oath when you became a medic. Do no harm.” He says. Fuck him, how dare he throw that in your face.

“Fuck you!” You spit your fist crashes into his face. “I spent the last few days being tortured and you want to lecture me about not wanting to help terrorists.”

The door to the room opens, someone steps in but Sayyid shouts at them holding his hand up. You watch as he rubs his cheek. You wish you had the energy to throw a proper punch, you wish you broke his nose.

“Your allies are the ones firing the bombs at us!” He snaps. You shake your head, you don’t have to help them. No one would blame you.

You look back up at Sayyid. You would blame yourself though, you will blame yourself. Do no harm, who dares wins, none of it fucking matters at the end of the day.

You joined to help people, to make a difference. You've treated the enemy before and if you get out here you will again. You won’t treat them, the people holding you here, just the innocent people caught in the crossfire.

“Why are civs coming here and not going to a hospital?” You ask. He looks up at you sad. “Shit, they hit the hospital.”

Fucking Americans. Why did they fire on a hospital? Maybe it was a stray?

“They’re diverting critical cases elsewhere but we have to pick up the rest.”

“I can’t believe this. I’m your prisoner. Why do you even trust me?” You say throwing your arms up.

“I don’t but what are you going to do? Run? You wouldn’t make it to the door.” He says. “We need- I need help. You might as well be useful.”

“Okay. I need to see what you’re working with though.” You say crossing your arms. He nods and moves to the side so the man standing behind him can grab you.

His grip is strong, his fingers digging into your skin as he drags you down corridors and staircases. You catch your first glimpse of the outside world. It’s dark out, you don’t get to look for long before you’re dragged away. You’re moving deeper and deeper into the building and down more stairs. You’re pretty sure you’re on the ground floor, or a basement by now.

You’re about to go through some double doors that you assume lead deeper into a basement. This place is huge, way bigger than you thought it was. Suddenly there’s an eruption of shouting. You’re stopped and you turn behind you to see 3 men walking towards you. They sound angry, they have weapons in their hands.

Sayyid walks past you talking to them. He gets shoved out the way and two of them grab you. You resist this time.

“What the hell!” You snap. You look back at Sayyid who looks confused as you’re dragged back to the stairs.

“What’s going on?” You ask as you’re pulled up them. Something's wrong, somethings changed. They shout at you in Arabic as they continue to drag you down the corridors. You’re bought into a room and it makes your stomach sink.

There are more terrorists, all holding weapons. One of the walls is covered by al qatala flags, there’s a chair and a camera, lights and a microphone. The whole place looks like a shitty movie studio. You’re dragged over to the chair and they force you down. You have to squint and the lights are bright in your eyes.

The two men stand directly behind you. One them presses the barrel of his weapon against the base of your skull. You feel sick, your body freezes up. You look over and you can see yourself on a laptop screen, this is live. They’re doing a livestream? Why?

There’s no way this ends well, you wonder if 141 are watching. You hope not.

One of the men comes up to you and hands you a piece of paper. You look down at it then back up at him.

“Read.” He says. You swallow looking back down quickly.

“I can’t read.” You say. You’re not going to give them what they want that easily. He hits you with the butt off his weapon, it stings forcing your head to the side. His hand then grips round your neck forcing your head up to see him.

“Read!” He spits before letting your head go. You clear your throat and look back down at the piece of paper in your hands.

“In response to the recent missile attacks by the Americans on civilian targets including a local hospital.” You pause for a second looking over at the laptop. The barrel of the weapon is pressed harder into your head.

“We have no other choice but to-” Your eyes snap up at the man standing next to the laptop. This can’t be real, this is not how things work.

You’re worth something to them, you're a hostage. You look back down at the words on the paper. Apparently not.

“Execute the hostage.” You finish. This is it, this is how you die. You feel fear rise in you, there’s no way you can get out of this you’re dead anyway. The paper is ripped out of your hands. You look back over at the laptop. Now you really hope they’re not watching.

The man by the laptop moves to the front of the camera and says something in Arabic. You look down at the floor, you're not sure what you're feeling. Sadness, fear, confusion.

You're about to die.

You won’t cry, you won’t give them the satisfaction. When he’s done talking he comes over and presses a pistol to your temple.

You look into the camera, you wish you could see them one more time, the people in the room start chanting when they’re done the man moves to stand in front of you. The barrel moving to your forehead. You look at him, right in his eyes.

See you in hell fucker, you let yourself smile. He doesn’t deserve to break you, even now. You let out a breath and think of them all, John and Simon, Kyle and Johnny. You never stopped loving them.

There’s a loud bang of a door being thrown open. Someone shouting in arabic. The gun barrel is pulled from your forehead. The man moves and you look over to see Sayyid rush in. There are more angry voices, people shouting. You wish you knew what they were saying.

The same man turns back around to you, you see confusion in his eyes.

“Is it true, you are part of 141?” Your stomach sinks. How did they know? You didn’t tell them. His fist crashes into your face.

“Answer!” He demands. You’re not going to say anything. He pulls out a knife pressing it up against your throat.

You swallow and it digs into your skin. “Where are they?” He spits. You keep as still as you can, your heart is pounding in your chest. you hold your breath.

“I don’t know.” You say through gritted teeth. You feel the blade slice into your skin. It makes your eyes water. Sayyid says something again. The knife is dragged away from your neck. Your hand goes up to it and you feel blood pool between your fingers, the wound is not deep, just enough to bleed.

You look up at Sayyid who smiles at you. What the hell? What the fuck just happened? You watch the livestream get turned off. There’s another shout, another order, the barrel of the weapon is moved off the back of your head. You feel a sharp pain as something hits you over your head and everything goes black.

No one moves. No one says a word.

Price can feel eyes digging into the back of his head, looking at the same screen they just saw you on.

“She’ll be dead already.” The terrorist chuckles.

“John?” Price hears Laswells voice in his ear.

“Send traffic.” He replies, trying his best to keep a level voice.

“I traced it to a relay but that was as far as I got. Chances are you’ll be able to pick up the signal from there. I’ll send you the details.” She says. Price doesn’t reply, ending the call.

He reaches down, unclipping his pistol. He’s not even thinking as he clicks the safety off and shoots the terrorist in the head.

“Laswell has a lead. Let's move.” he says putting his weapon back in his holster and walking to the exit.

Now they have even less time.

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