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duvetsandpillows · 4 months

Text

Yours (Extended)

Sebastian Vettel x Reader

Words: 6.2K

Warnings: Strong language, toxic/addict parent, anxiety, angst, fluff

A/N: I've finally finished it. This was my favourite piece I ever wrote and I felt like it deserved more than I originally gave it. Please let me know what you think!

1991

"(Y/N) Come on!" Sebastian yelled as he pulled me towards the karts, my legs going as fast as they could. He passed me a bright yellow helmet and his dad helped me fasten the strap.

We climbed into the karts and I followed Sebastian around until I got the hang over it and then it became a race. I managed to overtake him a couple of times but he was far better than me already. We kept going until the karts ran out of petrol and Seb's dad said we couldn't fill them up and go again. We took off our helmets and he gave me a massive hug.

"You were so quick!"

"You were faster! You could be like Senna!" I said, his face lighting up as I spoke.

When we got home we sat on the sofa and watched old recordings of races that his dad had until we fell asleep.

1993

"Get the fucking door!" I got off my bed and ran down the stairs, realising mum had been shouting at me. Dad must've gone out. Lucky. I opened the door and Seb was stood at the door with his dopey grin, holding something behind his back.

"Mum I'm going to Seb's!" I shouted before closing the door behind me. I wrapped my arms around him as tight as I could.

"You're back! How was Italy? How was the race! I saw it on tv!" I babbled as I pulled away. He pulled a long floppy bunny teddy from behind his back.

"I got this for you!" I chuckled as my body felt with warmth. I took the bunny from him and gave it a hug.

"I shall call him Sir Floppy." I beamed. Seb told me all about his holiday as we walked back to his house. His mum called me crazy for having no shoes on, I just didn't want Seb to see my mum. She'd been acting different recently.

They said I could stay there the night if I wanted, Seb's mum went to the phone to call my mum and ask but I jumped up and rushed over to her.

"It's okay I can do it," I said quickly, picking up the phone and dialled my house.

"Hello?"

"Hi Mum, c-can I stay at Seb's tonight please?"

"Yeah whatever, stay there forever for all I care," she slurred. I went to open my mouth but she hung up. I put the phone down and sat back at the table.

"She said it's okay," I said quietly, picking up Sir Floppy and staring at him, wanting that warm feeling to come back.

Seb and I laid in bed that night after his mum tucked us in, despite Sebastian's protests, I liked it. I don't think my mum ever tucked me in before. I cuddled Sir Floppy and stared at the ceiling.

"Can I ask you something?" I rolled onto my side to see Seb facing me.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"Are you okay? You seemed very sad earlier... when you were on the phone." I stared at him, an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, it made me feel sick. He reached out and held my hand, a small frown on his face.

"I don't-" I paused, the feeling in my stomach reaching my throat. "I don't think my mum likes me." The words spilled out, making it real in my mind. A gentle squeeze to my hand tore me from the feeling in my throat.

"Then she's crazy, cause you're the best. My mum says it all the time, and I think you're amazing too." He shuffled over and hugged me and Sir Floppy, the warm feeling coming back, my body beginning to relax.

I woke up that morning to Seb fast asleep but his hand still in mine.

1995

I ran out onto the street, leaving the door wide open and my feet shoeless. I got to the end of the street and pounded my fist on the door until it opened and Sebastian's smile faded to a soft frown.

"They said no didn't they?" his voice barely audible. I nodded, finally noticing the tears streaming down my face. He took my hand and pulled me inside and upstairs to his room, shouting to his mum that I would be staying the night. We sat on the floor in silence for a while, apart from the occasional sniffle that would escape, our fingers entwined still. The sick feeling was in my stomach again, I had been getting used to it.

"Mum said 'A lady has no place in a mans world. The lady supports, the man drives.' It's so unfair, why is it a mans world? And I'm far from a lady! Dad just said we couldn't afford it."

"It shouldn't be like this, I wish you were coming with me." A heavy pain sat in my heart at the realization. "I'm barely gonna see you anymore now," I whispered.

"I'm gonna make sure I see you every school holiday and every time I'm home. And I'll make sure you can come to races when you can! I promise that I will send you lots of letters too." I gave a wobbly smile and I threw my arms around his neck and sobbed into his t-shirt.

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

To (Y/N)

Mum just told me you're coming to the next race! I can't wait to see you! I hope this letter arrives in time, otherwise this is gonna be pointless when you read it. I also overheard mum and dad talking last night, I'm sorry your mum left. I'll make sure you have the best weekend and forget all about it for a little bit. Keep your head up and see you next week!

From your Sebastian

P.S Please bring me some brownies from the bakery, I haven't had them in so long!

1996

To Seb

I hope you're having fun and winning every race! I really miss you and I feel really lonely at the moment. Mums stopped coming to see me and dad is really mad, he's screaming the house down right now. Your cd helps me drown it out, thank you for buying it for me, it's my absolute favourite. Do you know when you're next coming home? We could have a sleepover and go to the cinema and see the new Matilda film! Tell your mum and dad that I love them and that I miss them as well. Sometimes I wish they could be my parents.

Hopefully I hear from you soon!

From your (Y/N)

To (Y/N)

I'm sorry your mum is being rubbish, you deserve better. Mum says hopefully we should be able to come visit next month and you can stay with us for the whole time if you like? And I would love to go to the cinema, I'll make sure to re-read Matilda before I come back. I really miss you too, everyone I race with is nice but it's not the same as hanging out with you. I've found some more cd's for you and I really think that you'll like them. Mum and dad say they love you more and they miss you so so much. I'll try and call you later in the week, we've been getting home so late I've been having dinner then going straight to bed.

From your Sebastian

1997

To Sebastian

Is it true you aren't coming back this summer at all? I thought we were going to go camping? We've been planning this for months! You know I've been saving up for a tent for us. You haven't called in two weeks, what did I do? Do you hate me? I miss you, everything sucks here. Please just write back or call.

From your (Y/N)

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

"(Y/N)! Phone!" Dad called from the bottom of the stairs. I jumped off my bed and bolted down the stairs as if my life depended on it, snatching the phone off my dad and pulling it into the coat closet and closing the door, making sure not to get the cord stuck in the door.

"Sebastian?" I said out of breath as I sat down on the floor.

"I just got your letter I don't hate you I promise!" he practically shouted down the phone.

"Where have you been Seb? Why can't you come camping? You just disappeared!"

"I'm really sorry, I've been super busy lately and I haven't had the time to write and mum lost her mobile and nowhere round here sells them. Dad gave this guy at the pub a tenner so I could call you off of his phone." I let out a small chuckle, I think I missed his mum just as much as I missed him. "Mum said we don't have the time to be able to fit the trip in now but she promised next time we come home we will. I'm trying to convince her to bring you here for a couple weeks."

"I hope so, I really miss you."

"I miss you too, I've got to give this guy his phone back now he's getting shouty. I'm writing you a letter now I just needed you to know I didn't hate you! See you soon!"

"Bye Seb."

1999

The home time bell rang and I packed my books into my bag before trudging my way out of the classroom. I walked behind Mathilda and the trio of sheep that are practically clones of herself. They were all giggling away about the sleepover they were having tonight, the one that she made sure to tell me I was definitely not invited to, not that I was expecting an invitation, but I knew she was telling me to hurt me. I wasn't hurt I guess, I mean it would be nice to be invited to a sleepover for once but I'd rather stay at home alone than be ridiculed all night by the wicked bitch of the west.

I kept my head down as I walked out the gates, hoping Mathilda wouldn't notice me so I could walk home in peace but a tap on my shoulder caused me to let out a large sigh, really for her barrage of insults. I turned around and all of a sudden I thought I was dreaming.

"Oh my god!" I screamed before jumping into Sebastian's arms, being twirled around like something out of the movies. A chorus of giggles made my body go cold and the beautiful reunion felt ruined. Seb put me down and I looked over to see Mathilda and the others laughing and pointing at me. That horrible feeling returning to my stomach.

"Hey Seb, we're having a sleepover tonight, wouldn't you rather hang out with us rather than that loser." I did everything I could to make sure no tears filled my eyes, not wanting to give them any satisfaction.

"Nah, I'd rather not spend my night with a raging bitch and her spineless groupies," he retorted before grabbing my hand and pulling us away. I almost couldn't look away at the shock on their faces, I stuck my middle finger up at them and we both erupted into a fit of laughter.

"Thanks mum," Seb and I said in unison as his mum served us our dinner. I'd accidentally called her that once a couple years back, I tried to apologise but she just gripped me in a bear hug and told her that I could call her that if I felt comfortable. She was more than a mum than mine was, I hadn't seen mine in years.

Seb and I caught up as we ate, it was more him telling me everything he had been up to, I didn't really have much to fill him in on. My life had become so mundane I didn't want to tell him that my life basically revolved around school and watching F1 on the weekends.

After dinner we were allowed to set up the tv cart in Seb's room and we used some brooms and poles we found around the house to create a canopy of sorts with a sheet over the bed. Seb let me choose the film so I picked The Addams Family.

"You're not a loser by the way," I glanced away from the tv, I couldn't tell if Seb was being genuine or just pitied me. I shrugged my shoulders and brought my attention back to the film. "I mean it (Y/N), she's just saying it because she's jealous." I rolled my eyes and let out an involuntary laugh.

"Jealous of what? My broken home? The fact that I have one friend and I only see him once every few months?"

"She's jealous because you're ten times prettier than her and looks are all that matters to her."

"Don't be stupid, I'm not-"

"Yes you are. Of course you are, you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen! You're practically a princess!"

"You're just saying that cause you're my friend."

"I'm telling you cause I mean it, and others think it too. I overheard some guys talking about you while I was waiting for you to come out of class." I could feel my cheeks starting to heat up. He thinks I'm pretty? I didn't really know what to say so I just shrugged my shoulders again. Seb chuckled and took my hand in his. "You're too modest, if you actually looked at yourself in the mirror for once, you'd see it too."

2002

Sebastian Vettel is online

Seb: Hey princess! How was last day of school?

Me: Another year down, one more and I can be done with school forever!

Seb: I thought you were going to college?

Me: I don't think I can, dad's working so hard he'll end up dying of exhaustion sooner or later. I'm gonna get a job so I can help.

Seb: I'm sure mum and dad would be happy to give you guys some money if it means you can stay in school

Me: That's kind but there's no way I'm taking money from you guys, you need it more if you wanna be an F1 driver.

Seb: I'm sure we could do both

Me: Honestly it's fine, I can't wait to get away from school. How's you anyway?

Seb: I'm not giving in about it but it's a discussion for another time. Guess who went on their first date today!

Seb: Hey, you still there?

Me: How was it?

Seb: It was good, went to the cinema and to this place called Nando's. You'd love it, they do the best chicken wings there.

Seb: Oh I also got my first kiss!

Me: That's great. Dad needs my help, talk soon.

(Y/N) is offline

2003

(Y/N) is online

Seb: How was prom? You're back earlier than I would have thought?

Me: It was okay. How's everything with you?

Seb: Molly and I broke up but I think it was for the best. Why was it just okay? What happened to you and Michael having your fairy tale night?

Me: Not much of a fairy tale when all he wanted was to try and sleep with me.

Seb: What a dick. I'm sorry.

Me: Is what it is, if he wasn't such a demanding creep I might have.

Seb: Are you okay? Did he hurt you or try to force himself on you?!

Me: Kind of but a heel to the balls put a stop to it pretty quickly. I'm fine though, I should've seen it coming but he left with Mathilda so I'm sure he will have a good night if he can get it up.

Seb: I'm proud of you, my warrior princess. Are you sure you're okay though?

Me: I'm fine, I stole a bottle of dads whiskey, my own personal after party

Seb: Go grab the phone from the landing

Me: Why?

Seb: I may not be there but I'm not letting you party on your own.

2004

I stood with Sebastian's parents as he crossed the line, everybody was cheering and clapping, none as loud as me though. He had absolutely dominated the season and had won the Formula BMW Championship. I watched and cheered as he stepped onto the top of the podium and held his trophy high.

I helped his team start packing up while I waited for Sebastian to get back, we were going to a cool hilltop we found to have a couple of sneaky drinks to celebrate his season. After about hour or so I asked his mum where he was and she suggested I go have a look around for him.

I walked around for a little bit, weaving in and out of people until I spotted his messy blonde hair in the distance. I started to speed up so I could finally congratulate him but I came to a grinding halt when I saw the brunette pushed up against him, their lips pressed together and her hands tangled in his hair.

I bolted back the car, the sick feeling that I was oh so acquainted with returning to my stomach. A few tears escaped my eyes as I sat on the grass behind the car. I wiped them away with my sleeve and took a deep breath, not really wanting to have a breakdown over a boy in the middle of a car park. Although it wasn't the first time I'd had a breakdown about this boy, and I unfortunately knew it wouldn't be last.

"(Y/N)?" I took another deep breath and put on my best smile as I stood up and brushed myself off, forcing the lump in my throat down.

"Congratulations Schnell." He smiled and pulled me into a hug. I gave him a pat on the back before pulling away and standing back a couple steps.

"So what next for you?" I asked crossing my arms across my chest.

"Formula Three and try to impress people to move up."

"You don't need to try, you're naturally amazing, soon enough big people will start to take notice." He chuckled and shook his head, his bright blue eyes lighting up.

"Sebastian?" We turned around to see the brunette girl standing there, twirling her stupid curly hair around her stupid finger.

"Shit yeah, we've got to go. Julie and I were going to go celebrate," The giddy grin on his face made the feeling in my stomach worse, I thought I was going to throw up any moment. "but mum and dad will take you home, okay?" I nodded, knowing if I opened my mouth again I wouldn't be able to hold back the tears, or worse. He waved to me as they walked away, Julie glancing back at me with a smug grin. As soon as they were out of sight I turned around and leant against the car as I began to sob.

"Is he ready yet? I thought you two were going to that hill?" his mother called out as she walked over to the car. I turned to her, wiping my tears around quickly, she immediately wrapped her arms around me and held me close as I began to cry again.

"Boys are idiots. He's thinking with the wrong muscle and he will realise soon enough."

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

To: (Y/N)@gmail.com From: [email protected]

Hey princess, you wanna hang out today? You've been silent recently... Thought we could go to that hilltop and have those sneaky drinks? I haven't seen you since the race and I have to leave again soon.

Your Seb

To: (Y/N)@gmail.com From: [email protected]

(Y/N)? You all good? No one is answering the phone and you haven't been online in days. Please talk to me.

Your Seb

To: [email protected] From: (Y/N)@gmail.com

I'm fine. Can't hang out. Why don't you take Julie?

(Y/N)

2005

I tried calling Seb's phone multiple times, my chest feeling tighter every time it went to voicemail. I sighed deciding to leave a message, trying my best not to cry.

"H-Hey Seb," my voice immediately cracking. Great. "I- um, Mum's downstairs in the living room, turned up outta nowhere. Demanding I spend time with her, be a part of her life and get to know her boyfriend Konrad." Tears now streaming down my cheeks, feeling like I was seven again. "I just don't know... fuck, I'm sorry. Hope you're okay." I hung up immediately and threw my phone onto my desk. He could be in any country. Why call him? So stupid.

Dad's voiced echoed though the house as he shouted at mum, it was almost as if the walls were shaking. I put Seb's cd on and turned it up loud, sitting on my bed with Sir Floppy in my arms, trying to stop the walls from collapsing around me. Every breath I took stung, getting stuck in my chest. At some point I made it onto my side, each breath hurting more and more. I don't know how long I laid there, it was if I was paralysed, in my own painful hell.

I could feel someone gripping my shoulder, gently shaking me. The music got quieter and the top half of my body was lifted and rested against someone's chest.

"Just breathe princess, I've got you. In and out okay, just copy me." The sound of his voice immediately brought the smallest bit of warmth to my body, it didn't feel real. I thought I was so far gone I was imagining things to try and soothe myself. I tried to focus on the breathing, in and out. In and out.

"There you go, you're doing so well."

I took a while but I finally felt like I could function, I slowly sat up and turned around to see him sitting there. Real.

"How are you here?" My voice barely audible.

"I'd just gotten back, I was in the taxi and didn't hear my phone, I heard you voicemail and came straight here."

"I'm sorry, I should've never-"

"What called me? Why not? It's what I'm here for, okay? I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner." He pulled me closed and we sat next to each other, our backs against my headboard. "Want me to stay the night? We can make a bed fort and watch Matilda?"

2006

To: (Y/N)@gmail.com From: [email protected]

I hope you're okay. Has your internet and phone been shut off again? I've told you I can help you out with it, I really don't mind. Mum said you've been round there lots, she never stops talking about you.

Did you get to watch second practice? I set the fastest time! ...and I may have gotten a fine for speeding in the pit lane. I set a record for it though! Quickest penalty into an F1 career, pretty impressive if you ask me ;)

I hope you can come out and see a race soon, you'd love it! I really miss you, I don't actually remember the last time I saw you. When I get back I promise we will go do something together, go karting or camping. Or both!

Can't wait to hear from you.

From your Sebastian

P.S If you see Julie tell her to write me, she broke her phone last week

To: [email protected] From: (Y/N)@gmail.com

Dear dickface

No my internet and phone are just fine. I’m too busy working my arse off to pay my rent and bills and I don’t want your fucking pity money.

Glad at least one of us is thriving though. Soon enough you’ll be so famous you’ll forget I ever existed and you and Julie can go run off into the sunset. And we both know you’ll bail out of our plans as soon as Julie gives you all her attention again.

Fuck you. Fuck Julie. Fuck off!

From ‘your’ (Y/N)

Dear Troublemaker

No my internet and phone are just fine, some of us don't get the chance of earning above minimum wage. I did see! You're becoming the next Schumacher. You're lucky you're a decent driver or they'd never let you in an F1 car again.

Let me know when you're home and I'll see if I can get the time off work.

I'll tell Julie if I see her.

From (Y/N)

To: (Y/N)@gmail.com From: [email protected]

Decent? What happened to naturally amazing?

I'm back in three weeks so tell your boss now! Please let me help you out a little, just so you can stop working so much that you can answer my emails. I know you're gonna say no so we will talk about that when I'm back.

Thank you, she's been really quiet recently and I don't know why. Do you think I should be worried?

From your Seb

2007

Sebastian Vettel is online

Me: Guess who decided to send me a fucking wedding invitation

Seb: I don't know? Mathilda?

Me: God no, although that does sound like something she'd do just to uninvite me the the day before. My mum...

Seb: Seriously? Who the fuck would want to marry her? That Konrad guy?

Seb: Sorry that was rude

Me: Don't be, that woman's a raging cunt, and that's an understatement. She's marrying a guy called Darren... God knows what happened to Konrad. I think she only sent it to try and upset dad.

Seb: You gonna go?

Me: Fuck no

Me: Actually maybe I'll turn up in a wedding dress

Me: Maybe not, then I'll be as mental as her

Seb: I don't think that's possible

Seb: I miss you.

Seb: You there? Or did you internet cut off again?

Me: I miss you too, when are you next home?

Seb: Two weeks, movie night when I'm back?

Me: If we have time, I'm sure Julie will want to see you.

Seb: If I can get hold of her.

Me: Things still a bit off?

Seb: Speak of the angel, she's calling. I'll message you later.

Sebastian Vettel is offline.

2008

I sat on the floor of my kitchen, staring at the cracks in the paint on the wall as the dial tone droned through my ear.

"Hey!" Seb said cheerfully

"Hey, just wanted to say good luck! First race of the season, gonna break some more records?" He chuckled, I could practically hear his smile.

"I'm gonna try. You better be cheering me on, everyone knows you have the loudest cheer in Germany."

"I always do."

"I've got to go, Julie and I are getting breakfast quick before we have to go to the track. I call you later though." I sighed and said a quick goodbye before hanging up, wanting to throw my phone across the room but I knew I couldn't afford to replace it.

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

To: [email protected] From: (Y/N)@gmail.com

Dear Sebastian

Congratulations Schnell! Another record, youngest pole sitter and race winner. You're unstoppable.

Sorry I couldn't see you when you came back to visit. Dad's really sick at the moment and it's not looking good. I tried calling mum but she doesn't care. I wish I'd seen you, I was just scared he would go if I left him. We were cheering you on though. Seeing you win really cheered him up.

Good luck next weekend Baby Schumi ;)

From your (Y/N)

P.S Your mum says to call her more! And if you get the chance call me too.

Sebastian's POV

He's gone.

I reread the text ten times before my brain could even begin to process everything. I pressed the small green button and listened to the dial tone, beginning to doubt she was going to pick up.

"Hi." Her voice was a broken whisper.

"I'm so sorry princess. Are you okay?" I rolled my eyes knowing that was the dumbest question I could've asked.

"I don't know. I'm all on my own now."

"You have me. Is there anything I can do?"

"Keep breaking records." I let out a small chuckle and a watery chuckle escaped her throat.

"After the last race next weekend I will come straight back and help you with everything. I'll get Julie to drop by a care package for you to get by until then."

"You don't have to do that I'm okay. But thank you Seb... for calling."

"I'm always here for you."

2010

Your POV

A loud knock at my door woke me up with a jump. I looked over at my clock to see it was just gone six. I grabbed the Red Bull hoodie Seb sent me and threw it over my head and I plodded over to the door, opening it to be greeted with sad, broken, blue eyes.

"Seb? What's-" He grabbed my arm and pulled me into a tight hug. We stood there for a moment before I brought him inside, closed the door and lead him into the living room. I sat on the sofa and he laid down, resting his head in my lap. I ran my fingers through his knotty hair, gently untangling it.

"Julie and I broke up. She's been seeing this other guy for the past year, I'm not around enough so it was easy for her." I looked down at him, my brain creating a million different thoughts. Deep down there was a part of me that was happy, and I knew how wrong that was.

"I'm sorry Seb, she didn't deserve you. You deserve the someone who is always there, supports you, cheers you on while you dominate the track. You deserve the world and you'll be okay. It just takes time that's all." Sebastian looked up at me and give me his best attempt at a smile.

"Come with me to the next race, Please."

"Of course."

2011

It was nice having Sebastian around for the summer break. The first week he spent at home seeing his parents, I was there over there often but that wasn't unusual, it had always been my second home.

Sebastian insisted we went away for a week and we ended up going to Bali. It was absolutely beautiful and I'd never been somewhere so peaceful. For once I felt relaxed and happy.

We had spent the day swimming in the ocean and lounging on the beach. I laid on my towel soaking in sunrays as Seb climbed out of the ocean after cooling off as best he could.

"Do you remember when we first went karting?" he asked lying down next to me, brushing the sand off his feet.

"Of course, you could barely keep me behind you." He rolled his eyes and laughed.

"Sure, if you say so..."

"Why do you ask?" He looked over at me, his beautiful blue eyes locking with mine and his fingers slipping between mine.

"You've always been there for me, supported me and my dream more than anyone else. You've supported every decision I've made, even the stupid ones. I should've realised what has been right in front of me this whole time and I'm sorry it took me this long."

"Seb-" He took my cheeks in his hands and pressed his lips to mine, my hands resting on my cheek and in his hair. As we pulled apart he rested his forehead against mine. His smile so big you'd have thought he'd just won another world championship.

"Me and you, yeah?" I smiled and kissed him again.

"Me and you."

2012

"You should just move in." I turned around from the stove and stared at him. "What? You should," he said with the same dopey grin he's worn since a child.

"You want me to move in?"

"Well why not? There's no sense in this place being empty when I'm away and you're not with me, plus it means you can stop paying rent to your dick of a landlord." He moved closer and gently pulled my arm, bringing me into his arms. "Move in with me princess," he whispered in my ear before pressing a kiss to my neck.

"Okay," I whispered back, pressing my lips against his. I could feel him smiling against my lips. He lifted me up, my legs wrapping around his waist. He began to carry me out the kitchen and I gripped onto the doorframe.

"Seb dinner-" His lips against mine cut me off and I let go of the doorframe.

"I'll order a takeaway."

2013

I walked into the kitchen and turned the kettle on while Seb set out suitcases down. Brazil had been filled with excitement and chaos but now we were just exhausted and I was excited to get Sebastian to myself for a little while now that the season was over.

I brought in our mugs of tea into the living room, Sebastian slumped on the sofa, flashing me his mischievous smile. I placed the mugs down and he pulled me into his arms.

"How did I get so lucky?" he asked pressing kisses to my neck. I smiled and pried him away from my neck and kissed his lips.

"If you're lucky, I won the lottery." He chuckled and took my hands in his. "I've got a kind, thoughtful, funny, extremely talented boyfriend," A small blush began to appear across his face. Fuck he looks so hot. Stay on track. "Who is going to be an amazing father."

His face dropped in shock and his hands instinctively went to my stomach. I smiled and nodded, his face immediately beaming with joy and began peppering my face with kisses.

"What do you think it'll be? Actually it doesn't matter. Do you think they'll want to kart? What colour should the nursery be?" I chuckled as he kept excitably babbling any question that came to mind.

2017

I rolled over, the usual warmth absent from the bed. I glanced over at the baby monitor to see the crib was empty. I climbed out of the sheets and put on my dressing down and slippers. As I walked downstairs the sound of giggles and faint pangs grew louder. I leant against the doorframe of the living room to and watched as Seb held our baby girl while trying to catch the twins running around with pans on their heads and waving wooden spoons at each other. I chuckled and Seb turned his head and his dopey smile.

"Good morning my princess," He walked over to me and wrapped an arm around me. I pressed a kiss to his lips before pressing one to our daughters head.

"You're in a chirpy mood this morning." He smiled and pressed another kiss to my lips.

"So I was thinking, have some pancakes, get showered and dressed and then... go to the beach?" The twins began hitting each others pans with their wooden spoons while chanting 'beach'.

"It sounds like that's the plan."

Once we chose our spot on the beach, the twins began to build an army of sandcastle's around us while the three of us sat under the beach umbrella, keeping the little one out of the sun.

"You know sometimes I wish we got more moments like this. I feel like I'm missing out on so much." I looked over at him, he was looking down at our daughter while she grabbed onto his finger.

"Once she gets a bit older we can all come with you a bit more often. But you know I'm with you whatever you want to do." I entwined my fingers with his and pressed a kiss to the top of his hand.

"I love you so much, I really don't deserve you."

"You deserve the world."

2020

The door slammed shut and a bundle of feet stampeded down the stairs. I popped my head out of the kitchen to see an exhausted Seb sat on the floor with the kids squeezing him with hugs and our puppy tried to lick his face.

"Why don't you guys go get your pj's on and we will be up in a minute, okay?" A chorus of complaints erupt, causing the dog to howl along.

"Listen to your mother," Sebastian said sternly, standing up. The room went silent and they plodded up the stairs. Seb pulled me into his chest and held me tight. I wrapped my arms around his waist and we stood like that for a couple of minutes, enjoying each others embrace.

"I got fed up and I snapped," he mumbled into my hair.

"People don't blame you, they're on your side. Why should you stay quiet when they're not. They're talking and treating you like a piece of shit. You aren't staying there next year so fuck them. Don't doubt yourself my love," I pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "You deserve the world Sebastian, I tell you that all the time. You've finally started realising it for yourself."

I pressed another kiss to his lips before leading his upstairs to the children's rooms. We read them all a story and tucked them in before they begged for one more story.

We curled up on the sofa with a bottle of wine and stuck a movie on. Seb rested one arm around my waist, his fingers tracing circles on my hip.

"I'm so glad I have you," I turned my head and smiled giving him a kiss. "Y'know I had a huge crush on you when we were kids. I used to get so excited when your letters would arrive or when one of us would visit."

"Are you serious? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Why didn't you?" he asked raising his eyebrows causing my cheeks to heat up. He chuckled and pulled me into his lap. "I was always away racing and everyone would always tell me that you were the prettiest girl in school and they were right. Every time I came back you got more beautiful. You wouldn't have wanted to date someone that was barely around when you could've had any guy you want and he could be there whenever you needed."

"Your mum was right, you are a complete idiot." His smile morphed into true confusion. "You were all I wanted. You have been ever since I was six! You were the kindest, funniest guy and you were always there for me, even when I would ignore your messages because I was jealous. You treated me like a princess and to be honest you ruined my expectations of men." I said giggling.

"Well I'm glad I got my head out of my arse." he chuckled and pressed his lips against mine.

"It took you long enough." He rolled his eyes and kissed me again.

"You know you said you always wanted four kids..." I raised my eyebrows and blushed at the dopey grin he flashed before picking me up and carrying me upstairs.

We didn't what the future held at all but we had each other and we knew we'd be okay.

Buy me a coffee if you'd like :)

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #formula 1 one shot #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel one shot #sebastian vettel imagine #sebastian vettel fanfic #sebastian vettel #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula one fanfic #angst #fluff

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gabrielagresteofficial · 1 year

Text

spilled perfume samples all over my god damn self . and now i am france’s number one sentient petrol bomb

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celenawrites · 10 months

Text

The House of the Rising Sun - I

Summary -

Running to the enemy territory, asking for help was foolish.

It was even more foolish of you to think that their help will not cost you anything.

Note -

This is a first draft with minimum/no edits.

Updates will be slow due to a multitude of reasons.

No Y/N.

Reader is female, for the most part.

Chapter Summary -

You make a deal.

word count - 4.8 k

warnings - slow-ish build up, violent descriptions, threats, sexism, cursing, etc.

AO3 version

God, you were stupid.

You had been told so your entire life - by your parents for believing you will be the master of your own fate, writing your life the way you want it to be; by your peers for wishing something different because they couldn’t comprehend why you wanted to run away from such a lavish, fulfilling life; and by your ‘beloved’ for even thinking that you’d be anything more than a fever dream rendition of ‘50s Stepford wife that he would occasionally bring out to galas and parties in tight dresses that showed off your bosom a bit too much, hoping to curry favors with like-minded bastards who leered at you with heady eyes and hands itching to cop a feel of you.

You feel the shame that comes with making the wrong choice - you can feel your ears burn and your eyes sting with tears, can feel your tongue turn to lead and your mouth dry up as if it’s filled with cotton. You inhale deeply, and you feel your throat bob painfully as you greedily gulp in any amount of air you can get in the clammy warehouse.

It’s either this or getting locked in a cage forever.

You didn’t even think of making a getaway the moment those men decided to bind your hands tightly and covered your head with a sack, cutting off your connection from the outside world entirely as they abducted you, hoping to get high praise from their boss for such a pretty catch. You feel your spine creep up with goosebumps as their disgusting hands touch you and manhandle you, forcing you to lie down in what you assume to be the trunk of the car. The sack over your head does a good job at hindering your sight, making it impossible to note the car or its license plate.

You stay stuck, occasionally moving and bumping around in the claustrophobic space and you can only pray to God that you make it out of this ordeal alive.

For what feels like hours, you let your body sway with the movement of the vehicle and feel the extra tyres dig into your ribs at every bump or pothole, helpless to do anything at all. Eventually, the car comes to a stop and you are grateful that the constant moving and the smell of petrol didn’t make you spill your guts out in the back of the car, the sack over your head promising nothing but a pitiful death by choking on your own vomit.

The trunk is opened and you are pulled upright, and all you are thankful for is that you are out of that closed box of a space and you can finally breathe. You feel disgust at the sweat that coats you, but sigh out in relief as the soft breeze caresses your skin as it cools your body. You do not resist as you are forced to walk, hearing nothing but a few uncomprehensive murmur behind you as your ears buzz and your mind screams at you to RUN RUN RUN RUN RU-

You shove that line of thought somewhere back in your mind, somewhere unreachable because you know, you fucking know that if you even slightly move in a way that seems threatening, these guys will not hesitate to empty their guns into your body.

They just need an excuse for it anyway.

You have decided to not give them that.

You feel the creaky metal doors slam shut behind you, the noise reverberating in your ears; your lack of sight heightening your other senses, making you undergo a sensory nightmare of sorts as you try your best to survive in the unknown territory.

You come to a stop, and feel someone guide you with their hand over the small of your back - the touch nauseating you, flashes of unpleasant memories making you shiver in fear and rage, and it is almost enough for you to strangle the guy; if not for your bound hands and the threat of death imminent in the air.

One of the goons takes it upon himself to grab your arm, hard enough to dig it into your skin - a promise full of bruises and malice. Then he guides you roughly a few steps forward, before pushing you down on a chair. He unties your hand, and you barely get a second of soothing your reddened wrists before he’s tying you to the arms of the wooden chair with ropes that dig into you. He does the same with your legs, and it’s not long until your body is bound to the chair you’re sitting on. The ropes are thick, and you resignedly accept your defeat when it’s due - knowing that you clearly don’t have the strength to break out of your binds. You can only hope that these people at least have the decency to hear you out before they discard your body down the river.

You feel the gun press against your temple, the gunny sack over your head doing nothing to cushion the pressure on your head. You can only hope that the safety is on, or the guy with the gun is not too trigger happy. You don’t want to paint your brains out on the grimy floor anyway.

It’s just a precautionary measure, you console yourself.

You won’t get shot. Not yet.

You are disoriented by your surroundings when your sack is pulled over your head, exposing you to the people around you. The few white lights dangling over you blind you, and the ropes are already chafing against your sweaty skin, and the white bodycon dress sticks to you, already dirtied by the grime and the dust you have encountered along the way.

I must be a sight for sore eyes, you think sarcastically, blinking away the pain to take in the men standing before you.

You have heard of them. Of course, you have. You do not stay a part of your family without knowing about the infamous 141. The elite of the elite in the dark, dirty business your family partakes in. People rarely see them, some even wish on shooting stars to get a meeting of a lifetime with the members of 141 - some of the finest, richest men in England’s mafia. Almost all of the sea routes belong to them, allowing them to easily smuggle in arms, drugs and more into the Queen’s dear country. Allies of 141 benefit from their profits, and are even offered protection. Relation to 141 meant only one thing for people - pure, absolute power over everything.

Your father had once hoped to be a part of this organization. He had endlessly tried to impress them, wishing nothing more than a lick of the power they held in their scarred, steady hands - all of the lies, deceit and illusions failing him, as he ultimately couldn’t carve a place for himself in the group. This failure of his made him jaded, angry at the world and the rest of your family for this unfair transgression committed against him. Finally, he planned to use you as a pawn to expand his power, forging an alliance in marriage with an ally that has always served as a thorn in the side to the chagrin of 141.

Enemy of my enemy…

You partly blame them for your sorry state, half-heartedly wishing that they would’ve entertained your mercurial father for just a little longer so you could elope with your friends and leave the country, never to return. However, the thought of that madman having the power to influence all of England always left a bad taste in your mouth.

The men in front of you are the most powerful men in all of England. Possibly one of the most powerful men in the continent of Europe even. The four men are dressed to the nines, a stark contrast to the filthy warehouse you’re stuck in, and you cannot help but look up at them with aching eyes, staring at them in awe and reverence.

The man with the skull mask draws your attention first, leaning against a table you missed to take note of earlier. He’s dressed in all black - a black coat over a white shirt that hugs his wide shoulders tightly, and you cannot miss the brown holster against his hip, his hands in the pockets of his black pants. You cannot deny that you’re intrigued about him and all that he hides behind that mask of his. His eyes, looking like two brown dots from where you sit, size you up - highly alert and ready to swiftly get rid of you, if it comes down to it.

Your eyes shift a little to the right and you find yourself staring at a majestic man. He’s dressed in a three-piece, along with a well-groomed beard, and his dark hair is combed back, not a strand out of place. He’s old enough to be your daddy, but by God, he looks like someone who could ruin you. The men behind you bow down in reverence and you can only assume that he’s the ringleader of this circus show - a dangerous circus show where you’re most likely to lose your life.

The man standing to his right seems to look closer to your age - dark, tall, slim with a pretty face and full lips. His curly hair seems to have a mind of its own, letting a coil or two loose on his face, which he quickly tucks behind his ears swiftly. What draws you in the most are his eyes - dark and mischievous, carrying a brightness in them that you can only recall in childhood photos and you almost feel envious as your own has dulled down over the years.

And the man beside you speaks, “You alright?” and your concentration shifts to him. Your eyes widen a bit, surprised to not notice him before - with his accent and mohawk and kind eyes that crinkle a bit when he looks at you, his visage directly blessed by a Hellenistic deity whose name you have long forgotten.

You drop your gaze to look at your lap, embarrassment creeping up on you like invasive ivies - you probably look out of place, with your white dress and the way you gaped at them probably gave them something to laugh about after they’re done getting rid of your body today. You do not reply just yet, your hammering heart making it hard to focus on them and the barrage of questions.

You have been ill-prepared.

You ran away on a whim, with nothing but the bare necessities packed up. You had not expected to make it this far, straight in the heart of your mortal enemies’ lair. You had focused so much on leaving without a trace, that you had forgotten to cook up a half-baked story that could satiate the natural curiosity of the 141.

They have been something out of a fairytale for you, a fable used to scare people into subservience. And yet, these godly men stand before you, grace your unworthy eyes to admire their visage until you’re ultimately slaughtered like a lamb for wandering too deep into their territory.

You wait and in turn make the men around you wait for an answer - something, anything really; and with each second passing by, you cannot help but give into the panic that’s taking control of your frail body. Your lungs burn, and no matter how deeply you breathe, you just cannot seem to soothe the ache within you.

Maybe I’m having a heart attack, you think earnestly. If I die right this instant, I will not have to deal with my family. Or my betrothed. Or with 141.

However, fate has often been cruel to you.

The man with the mohawk notices your shortened breath, instantly alarmed at your worsening state.

“Oi, Ghost. Pass me the bottle”, he asks, and through bleary eyes you notice him catch a flying plastic bottle in his hands. With gentle fingers, he grabs your chin and tilts your head up until your eyes meet his. His fingers rub gentle circles into your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He gently urges you, “Open ya mouth for me, hen. Drink up”.

Suddenly parched and unable to handle the multiple eyes on you, you silently comply as you tilt your head back and open your mouth. He gently presses the bottle to your lips, allowing you to take slow, sure sips from it. Some of it trickles down, wetting the neck of your dress but you can hardly care as you gently lean back as his fingers slowly play with your hair, sending pleasant tingles down your spine - almost enough to make you whimper in relief.

After a while, when he deems it enough, he retracts the bottle from you and caps it, putting it down near the foot of the chair. You compose yourself, silently berating yourself for letting these men see you at such a low point - so weak and vulnerable.

But no more of that.

The small reprieve offered by the man standing nearby gave you enough time to compose yourself - enough time to cook up a story that will save you from showing all your cards on the table. You can only hope that by the time you’re finished with this ordeal and have gathered enough resources, you can finally make your getaway far away from here.

God knows you’d kill for a vacation right about now.

Your eyes meet his again, and he smiles down on you kindly, deciding this is a good time as any to finally introduce himself to you.

“I’m Soap. Lassie, dae ye hev any idea aboot where ye’re?”

Weird name, but you nod your head nonetheless. You don’t know where exactly you have landed up, but you do know that you’re in their territory, with no allies to support you or protect you.

The very thought of it terrifies you.

“So, ye dae ken who 141 is?”, he asks again, and you nod your head in confirmation as you finally recognize his accent as somewhere from up north in Scotland.

“Why are you here then?” a deep voice with a Manchester accent asks you, and your eyes flutter across the room until they land on the masked man again. The distance along with his mask makes it near impossible to gauge what he’s thinking, how he’s looking at you - but you can wager a solid guess.

He’s probably looking at you with distrust, like you’re a skittering deer caught in headlights - about to run off to god knows where if given the chance. He’s thinking about how shady you are, how you need to be vetted before they even entertain you and your potential sob story or how he itches to shoot you in the head with the gun he has kept in his holster.

Frankly enough, you don’t give two fucks about his thoughts.

“You’re 141, and I have valuable information. Information that can help you gain access to parts of England you constantly fight over with other gangs”, you speak up, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear you. You are surprised that your voice doesn’t crack, your eyes don’t shy away from the heated look the skeleton-wearing man throws your way.

The leader straightens up, asking you what you have been dying to hear ever since you stepped foot in London.

Finally.

“And what do you want from us for that?”

“Protection.”

It isn’t long till you are untied from the chair by Soap, finally rubbing your raw hands - cringing at how your wrists ache and your feet are no better, but you leave them be. You thank him for untying you, finally ‘free’ to walk on your own as you are escorted by him and by his masked companion to a black Mercedes-Benz 200. Soap is kind enough to open the door for you, letting you sit at the back of the car. He closes the door and goes around the vehicle, finally taking his seat as the driver. You look out the window, wondering where the other man would sit - beside Soap or beside you.

Your query is answered when you hear the car door opposite to you slam shut, watching him warily as the hulk of a man climbs inside and adjusts himself, sitting carefully to not bump his head onto the roof of the Benz. The car hums to life as Soap finally inserts the key into the ignition, dabbling with the manual shaft and finally driving - enroute to a new, unknown destination.

The skull-face (a nickname your brain supplied you with) looks at you pointedly, and you finally look back at him after what felt like a millennia of him burning holes into your skull.

“What?” you snide, clearly with no energy or tact to be bashful around the man who is totally capable of breaking your bones with his bare hand.

He nods, and it draws your attention to the little blindfold he’s held in his hands.

You groan out, not ready to return to the shadows just yet.

“Not again”, you almost whine out, turning around so your back faces him and you wait for his deft hands to cover your world with darkness again.

“Gotta have to, love”, you hear Soap say as his steady hands steer the wheel around and work the manual shift to change gears, “Protocol says so. It’s just for newcomers, ain’t it, Ghost?”.

The man behind you grumbles but refuses to grace his partner with a response.

So he’s called Ghost.

You grumble slightly before crossing your arms like a petulant child, but not before making a sarcastic quip.

“If you’re going to get kinky with that blindfold on me, at least take me out to dinner first”.

You let out a sigh as you feel the dark piece of cloth tighten around your eyes, and you can hear Soap guffaw out loud.

“That’s a good one, lassie!”, he laughs, and you feel the car turn slightly as he drives on the road, feeling a few bumps along the way.

Ghost scoffs a little at your little snide - it’s lighthearted and breathy, and it seems like you may have just won the lottery by winning his approval.

It’s small but it’s a start.

“And if you’re worried about dinner”, Ghost speaks, and you jump slightly at the sudden sound he makes.

“If you survive the night, you might be able to get some after all”.

After what seems like a drive of thirty minutes, the car finally comes to a stop and you’re glad for that.

The silence had been comfortable, it gave you time to think and process all that has happened so far. But you’re also eager to get the blindfold off your face and finally see where these men have ‘escorted’ you to.

Feeling your anxiety, Ghost graciously takes off the piece of cloth over your eyes, and you blink dumbly, trying to get your bearings about you. He gets out of the car, before walking around it and opening your door for you.

What a gentleman.

You climb out of the vehicle, finally looking at what was in front of you.

Despite being a mafia heiress and witnessing luxury of all levels, you look at the mansion in front of you with a reverence unmatched - unable to believe that this is where one of 141 possibly lives here, or operates from.

The grandeur of this place is indescribable. The mansion is Victorian, and is surrounded by acres of grassland, laid with concrete routes that you’re currently walking on. There is a fountain across the main door of the mansion, and in the center of the water pool stands Aphrodite, her marble figure adding a touch of classicism to it. She looks serene, despite her residence being among the tumultuous water of a fountain. There are roses growing around the marble piece, surrounding the deity with color - almost as if these flowers have been planted as an offering to her.

It is a lovely sight. You wish you could look at her forever.

And yet you move onwards, leaving behind the goddess of love behind you, sneaking a final glance at her as the wooden door closes behind you.

There’s an ache that settles in the middle of your chest as you follow the two men inside, mourning your past and yet awaiting the future ahead of you.

The study room is majestic.

Walls are covered with shelves filled with thick books. You can recognize some of the classics kept there, mainly Russian literature that talked of death and human suffering. There is a red loveseat to your left, with a small coffee table with a glass top. And to your right, you can find a small cabinet, locked and untouched, as it collects dust in the large room.

You see the leader of 141, Jonathan M. Price, sitting in his leather chair, reading a file laid out on the oak table. He looks like he belongs here - regal and untouchable. And you almost feel out of place in your dirtied dress, and you’re certain that the sack over your head has messed up your hair now.

The fact that he looks attractive as fuck, sitting and reading with his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his strong arms, does not help you. At all.

You wait until he finally looks up and notices you standing between his men. He gives them a look, and they both leave you. You feel Soap gently pat your shoulder as he closes the door behind him, following his companion out.

“So, why should I not throw you out for the police to find you?”

That’s the first thing he says to you, his eyes scrutinizing you as he gets up from his seat, walking until he’s at most half a dozen steps away from you. One of his hands picked up the glass of scotch on the table, sipping it with narrowed eyes.

You gulp a little at the unspoken threat - at the hidden promise of delivering your body in pieces at the threshold of your childhood home, at the implication that if the next words that come out of your mouth doesn’t satisfy him, you won’t walk out of this room alive.

“I know how to help you. I promise. The information I have is valuable”, you speak, feeling your chest swell with pride when you don’t stutter your words, when you don’t cower in fear in front of the dangerous mafia leader, when you don’t get on your knees and beg him to spare you.

“And the price is what, protection? Do you think I’m daft?” he raises his voice, and now you cannot help but flinch a little.

“Take a gamble, sir. It won’t hurt to try someone new for change”, you bargain with him, hoping that he’ll take the bait. You’d both win if he did.

There’s silence in the air, and you take this as permission to present your case before your metaphorical judge, hoping to persuade him from not condemning you to death and striking his gavel down.

“Just once. Give me a chance this one time. I won’t let you down, sir”, you almost beg, and you see his eyes waver - just a little bit, and that is enough for you to keep going.

“I’ll tell you something that’ll help you out, and if I’m right, you give me a fair chance. Keep me here, safe and protected. And if I fool you….”, you feel your stomach drop as you finish:

“You are allowed to do whatever you wish with me”.

You wait now.

He doesn’t speak for a few moments, and your agitation doesn’t help your restlessness. Your leg bounces in its place as you look at Mr. Price, unsure of what is going on inside that dangerous, beautiful brain of his. And when you finally open your mouth to say something, anything really - he beats you to it.

“What’s your name, girl?”

Your brain struggles with the sudden interest in what you’re called, and you wait a beat too long to answer him with an alias(“Marie”, you call yourself and all Price does is look at you like he doesn’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth). That makes you look suspicious. Fuck.

But you have been suspicious all up to now, you might as well keep up for now.

Moreover, they’d get off your back when you prove yourself right.

Or you’d buy yourself just enough time to run away again.

You’ve been getting better at that now.

After you tell him all that you can, making sure to keep the more sensitive information under wraps for now - for everyone’s sake really, you look at him as Price nods, gently rubbing his forehead and now he looks almost forlorn, the stress of running an illegal empire taking a toll on his body and soul. He looks older now, frailer somehow - and in this moment, you almost feel sorry for him.

“Fine, I’ll entertain you for now”, he breathes out, and you almost find yourself crying from joy.

You almost contemplate getting on your knees and bowing down to him to show your gratitude, but you do no such thing. Instead, you offer him a small smile and you don’t fail to notice how he drinks it all up like heady ambrosia.

But his next words force you to stay on your guard:

“But if you do anything suspicious, make sure I don’t notice. ‘Cuz I’m not as forgiving as I look”.

Price quickly dismisses you, now tired and in no mood to entertain his new guest, as he calls upon one of the men from the warehouse to show you ‘your room’.

Kyle(That’s the name of the young, pretty man) silently escorts you to a room on the third floor of the house, and despite following your escort with sharp eyes as you take a note of everything that interests you or stands out, you still find it hard to memorize the layout of this place.

He stands before a teak wood bifold door, and he opens the door for you to walk inside. Before he leaves you to your devices, he kindly informs you, “Dinner will be at 8. It won’t be hard to find the dining hall”.

And then he’s gone.

He has been apprehensive about your provisional arrangements; you had seen the look he sent to his leader when Price asked him to show you the room you’d be staying in.

You know he doesn’t like it any more than you do, but you’re touched at the hospitality he’s extending towards you - a temporary white flag for the unstable truce you have established between yourself and 141.

You take in the room with a white bed and white sheets, with sparse decoration and a cleanliness you can never find in someone’s room.

So this is a guest room.

You find your bag to be there, and you wonder if Price or Kyle asked someone to leave your belongings here. The bag looks untouched for the most part, and the tightness in your chest lightens a bit at that.

You think about taking a bath and changing into the spare clothes you packed in the duffel bag in a hurry. You think about going out and exploring the place, thinking of all the secrets you can soak up into your being.

But you’re so tired.

The clock hanging on the wall tells you it’s a little past 6, and you have some time before dinner will be served. You think of your bruised body, and your sore wrists and the headache that’s blooming across your temples, about how hard it is to keep your eyes open and look around you.

You look at the soft bed, and think how it won’t be too bad to rest for just a little.

In the bed, under the soft covers, you think of everyone you left behind. Your power-hungry father, who is probably going off the walls, swearing to kill you with his own hands when he sees you next. Your ignorant little brother, who’s been sent to America to study business at Harvard. Your betrothed who has quite possibly become the butt of the joke overnight.

You are scared of how he’s feeling, about what he must be planning for you, should you ever make the mistake of returning back to him.

(You’d rather the 141 kill you and dump your body under the bridge, brutalized and scarred beyond recognition.)

And your poor mother, who will now deal with the repercussions of your actions.

For her, you cry.

fin.

NOTE -

*Reader doesn't use her real name, she uses an alias but it will be temporary and rare. (probably)

Also it was tougher for me to describe the places and furniture more than writing the overall plot, etc.

And I'm posting this late at night, so any errors are the responsibility of future Cel.

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withoutyouimsaskia · 9 months

Text

Low (Sandman One-Shot)

GIF: Originally posted by @sigurism

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender neutral reader

Summary: One-shot. Reader self-insert. Angst/comfort. Morpheus attempts to bring comfort to a dreamer who is managing depression, while in his cat form.

Warnings: Angst, talk of depression

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: Hey Sandfam, can you believe it has been a whole year since series 1 hit our screens? To celebrate, I am sharing a one-shot that features our beloved Dream as Meowpheus. Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think. Would love to know if you're doing anything to commemorate today. All my love, Saskia <3

Sandman Masterlist

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

If a person were allowed to view what was presently being thought inside your mind and felt within your heart, they would likely notice that your body was being a direct conduit for both.

You were often cited by others as someone who wore their heart on the sleeve. When you had first heard the phrase directed towards you, it had conjured a pleasant connotation. Showing your emotions could not really be a bad thing, could it? Humans loved love, and they loved honesty. However, honesty about less-than-positive feelings; you have come to learn that it doesn't produce the same reaction.

All endearment fades.

Infants, children, adolescents can feel as they wish. Adults must be in control.

Unhappiness is something to be fixed, avoided, quashed; an emotion to be ashamed of, this is what you have been conditioned to believe. And unfortunately, the manner in which a vast majority of people behave in response to your low moods does little to aid in changing your mindset.

"Cheer up, it might never happen", they would say, the flippant words a paralysing gut punch that leaves you wanting to scream: It already did.

You then feel obligated to double down on your efforts to flatten the emotional peaks and troughs. A dangerous pursuit, for repressing sadness in lieu of its acknowledgement allows for it to stack up and up so much that you that run the risk of it spilling forth in unfavourable, non-triggering settings.

You are a human shaped pressure cooker. Doomed to spiral at the petrol station.

There was a time when sleep brought you a refuge. Regardless of how bad your day had been, how leaden your steps, you could always find enough fervour to propel yourself into carrying out your bedtime routine and then contentedly fall asleep.

For in dreams, the act of masking your feelings from observers could be dropped; you were alone in body and mind within the neutrality of your bedroom. Sure, you had nightmares at times but you derived so much pleasure from their dream counterparts that it did not matter in the long term.

You were happy in your dreamscapes to simply be.

Until you suddenly weren't.

A new low was discovered in waking and it has transformed into one you cannot escape from, even in dreams. Each night has become a repetition. You slip into sleep and plummet to the same subconscious rock bottom.

The place where you go, the earth is cold and damp under your prone body. You lay on your side, one arm cradling your head, the other wrapped around your middle.

An ominous drone takes up residence within your mind, a constant reminder of your thoughts and feelings.

Here you remain.

Trapped in the doldrums. Languishing away. Asleep but not seeking fantasies.

Even your usual nightmares are not drawn to you for there is nothing to entice them in. What could you need of a nightmare right now? There was nothing that could be taught.

Morpheus, Dream of the Endless senses the shift. You are a blip in a sea of dreamers. As if your subconscious mind has become a daub of dark matter against a backdrop of glowing galaxies; you exist but your light is extinguished.

There is so much anguish and the King of Dreams and Nightmares feels it all too keenly, as if it were his own.

It grows in strength with each passing day and night, taking your will to carry on. The handiwork of Despair of the Endless is all too apparent, intricate and bold in its ensnarement until you are a focal point of suffering.

Unsurprisingly, this is not the first time that Morpheus has felt the sorrow of a dreamer. Having existed for millennia, he has been witness to every variety. Kinds brought on by grief, shame, fear, longing, loathing to name but a few. There is something additional afoot with you though.

The desolate clearing you have been coming to, the fact that it is the same location every night, unchanging and devoid of hope. It is unusual, and hard to witness.

Despair has you in a chokehold.

What pains Morpheus even further is that he cannot remove his sibling's influence here. He can, however, offer you a reprieve.

He will bring you a dream.

A few moments are spent wandering through your prior dreamscapes, through the aid of the book emblazoned with your name, looking for things that have brought you solace in the past. Morpheus sees a few are inspired by memories.

He knows he must do this in a delicate manner and settles on a reserved option. One that would hopefully not startle you too much. Approaching you in a humanoid form is not feasible. It was other humans that had contributed to your current state, judging by your recent nightmares.

Morpheus enters the frame upon four legs, approaching you on soundless feet. Each step is measured, the pads of each wide paw flattening imperceptibly into the cold, loose ground.

He creeps closer and takes a minute to watch you. Your eyelids are closed, forehead pinched with a frown, mouth set in a grimace.

Morpheus stands beside you and nudges his nose against the hand you are gripping your torso with. Three sensations stand out to you. The soft press of the contact. The warm breath of an exhalation. The delicate tickle of whiskers.

The latter is a something you recognise immediately; it was unlike anything else in the universe.

You open your eyes, unsurprised by the image that greets you.

Next to you stands a cat. At least you think it is a cat.

They are much larger than any feline you have ever laid eyes on, made even more immense by their black fur; wild and mussed but not in a way that suggested they were uncared for, rather that it had been blown about by an unrelenting wind.

"Hello." You push yourself to a cross-legged seated position. "Are you lost?"

The innocent little question is loaded with such pathos that Morpheus has to blink back the hot prick of tears behind his eyes. Here you were, your hope, your life force literally ebbing away and you were worried about him.

He instinctually edges a bit closer to you before you speak again, this time in a whisper.

“I’m afraid I might not be much help. I’m lost too."

You extend your arm, offering the flat of your palm to the cat as a proper introduction, one that he reciprocates by bumping his cheek firmly against your skin.

"I guess we can be lost together."

Your sad smile is utterly devastating as you scratch behind one of his almost wolfish ears. He is unbelievably soft and you reach for the same spot again.

Morpheus puts his front paws on your left knee so you don't have to stretch as far and lets you continue to touch his head.

He is aware of the science of petting a cat with its lowering of blood pressure and alleviation of stress and anxiety, and with every second, he feels a lessening of your most acute pain, like the top layers are being skimmed away.

You feel better physically too, less tightness in your muscles and more awareness in your senses. You begin to notice things like the scent of the air and the ambient temperature. It is damp and mild but nothing you can’t handle, and it is a nice thought to have.

"You're very handsome," You comment, carefully and meticulously running your fingers through the dark fur, starting at his head and ending at the very tip of his bushy tail.

Morpheus, though he was calm before, is instantly and completely disarmed by these long-form strokes and is powerless to stop the deep, rumbling purrs that emanate from within his chest.

You smile widely at your companion’s reaction.

"Would you like to sit on me?" You pat your thigh as an invitation.

Morpheus hesitates, wondering if he would be crossing a boundary of familiarity. You don’t know that he is the anthropomorphic personification of dreams and nightmares. To you, he is a cat and according to your dreams, an animal that makes you feel safe and calm.

And right now, you were making him feel the same. This was not in any way a part of his plan when he had shown himself to you but who was he to deny what was clearly happening here?

He climbs up.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” You say encouragingly, delighted by the fact that this beautiful cat has chosen to trust you.

Morpheus takes a moment to settle and then snuggles into the crook of your arm. His warmth and weight are comforting sensations. You resume your gentle stroking, and he resumes his satisfied purring.

He gazes up at you with his striking blue eyes. Stormy in their intensity, oceanic in their colour. They are eyes that seem to hold the depth of a juxtaposed universe within them; wise yet weary. Hopeful yet haunted.

You have never seen anything like them in cats or humans alike.

The more you look, the more the cat's face seems to say: "Feel what you need to. Everything will be okay." How you determine this, you do not know yet you go with it, you are asleep after all.

Overcome with emotion, you screw your eyes shut and bend down to bring your face close to Morpheus' own. You cuddle him and the tears begin to fall.

"Thank you," You say in a hoarse whisper.

A little piece of hope glistens within you. You can do this. You don't have to hide your feelings. You shouldn't.

Morpheus feels his heart bursting at this wavering of your despair.

He decides there and then that he will do this for you every night until you feel strong enough to leave this barren plane.

No words needed. Just a human and a cat. Helping each other feel less alone.

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disproportionatelysculpting · 9 months

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When the sun spilled light on sky and clouds like petrol on water.

#it looked so magical that day 😭#of 29 july 2023 #photozzz

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 4 months

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A Safe Place: Part 2

Summary: Jake has one happy place. His pride and joy and comfort. When things go south, this is what he turns to.

Marc has started to rely on Jake to be his solid force. The unshakable rock that keeps them all stable.

Steven knows better. They are all delicately balanced on a thin wire.

What happens when one of them takes a spill?

Pairings: LaylaxMarc, LaylaxJake, LaylaxSteven

Universe: MCU

Warnings: Dissociation, Depression, DID, Habits of self destruction, discussion of mild self harm, mild talk of child abuse, depictions of eating disorders (in relation to depression), PTSD, Heavy drinking

Word Count: 3856

Previous Chapter HERE

Part: Two - Marc shoulders the blame.

Next Chapter HERE.

------

Marc hated that he had to function.

The idea of having a body only did him well when it came to having control. Control over what he did, where he went, and how he handled things. The physical impact of pain and, if he was feeling generous towards himself, pleasure reminded him that a body was a real thing.

Tending to the body? He could do without that.

Marc often forgot to do things. Crucial things that you would think would be needed for survival.

He could never honestly say when the last time he ate was. How did it taste? He wasn’t sure. Eating was a mechanical function that he did without any joy. He hated texture and flavor didn’t matter. He’d just as soon eat plain buttered bread every day for every meal for the rest of his life for all it mattered to him. The very act of sitting down to put food in his mouth and chew felt like a chore.

When was the last time he slept? Well… He was fairly certain that he had woken up at some point. To wake up meant that he had to have been in some form of unconsciousness.

How long had he been asleep? He had no idea. A few minutes? A few days? A year or two? He had no concept of time at the best of days.

What about showering? He had brushed his hair back and gotten dressed in his favorite outfit, that just so happened to look nice. He was pretty sure he didn’t smell so he must have done something hygienic at some point. His teeth slick and he didn’t have mothball mouth. He felt he was doing well for himself.

His head was pounding. When was the last time he had a drink? That was a trick question. He was drinking right now. A nice bottle of Jack sat on the counter and looked well tapped into.

He staggered to the kitchen and finished the liquid in his glass. It was hard to stop. He didn’t want to stop. He used to be able to finish a whole bottle in one go, but the healing power of the suit was no longer with him and he had the body to think about.

The body.

Always thinking about the body.

What hurt? Why did it hurt? Was it something he did? Something he failed to do? Would the others be angry at him for it?

He turned to the counter and stared down at the bottle. Why was it out? Had he taken it out?

He could remember waking up at some point (that whole consciousness thing again) and staring into the darkness and feeling it creep in on him. Creeping like a casket. Like being buried alive. Like drowning.

So the logical thing to do was to get up and…. Right. The bottle.

He poured another glass and held it up to the light. It was a terrible color. Like petrol.

Smelled no better, either. Cheap and hot and strong.

Marc finished it then looked at the bottle again. “M’nah supposed to….Be here.” He muttered to the world. A phrase thrown at him over and over again in his life. “S’pposed to be dead.”

Ah yes, this part. The part where he knew he should stop but the numbness he desperately wanted was slipping away. He could feel the darkness crowding him again.

Usually by now someone stopped him. Steven might wake up and put them in the shower before heaving them back off to bed with a side of aspirin. Jake might just pull the body away by force, shutting Marc down so hard that Marc would fall into that delightful place where he didn’t have a body and didn’t have to worry about tending to it.

He looked around as if expecting to see one of them lurking behind the shadows. He didn’t want to feel regret for his actions. He didn’t want to apologize to Steven later. He certainly didn’t want to have to deal with the way it was going to start backfiring on him and then…

The light caught the bottle and he could see it dangling from someone’s grasp. Swinging slowly as it clinked off the walls with each step. Tink…tsscchh. Tink….tsscchh… Marc… Marc open the door.

He flinched hard and pulled away from the memory. He stumbled backwards and fell over a chair, crashing to the ground.

There was rustling from the otherside of the flat and Marc stared up at the ceiling as he tried to get a hold of himself.

Tink… Tink… Tink… He could hear the way fingernails tapped at the neck of the bottle now. Impatiently circling the same thought over and over again. You… You did this. It’s your fault.

He heard the sound of feet walking towards him and two different instincts kicked in at war with one another. The urge to curl up into a tiny ball and the urge to flee. Both would have the same result. Always the same result. It didn’t matter.

A shadow fell over him, the form lurking up out of the dark to block out the light of the window.

Marc frantically kicked the fallen chair out of his way and scrambled across the floor. He was trying to yell something but his mouth wasn’t working right. It came out small and frightened and not at all as menacing as he had hoped.

The light clicked on and Marc knew he was in trouble. She wanted to see her target. She wanted to see the belt dig into his flesh. To see it cut him and tear him away bit by bit by bit until…

“MARC!”

He lay on the floor on his back, gasping and staring up at the ceiling, his arms shielding his head and body the best they could as they trembled and quivered.

A slow swallow and he looked around at the familiar furniture. Slowly he dropped a hand to the rug under him and let his fingers thread through the fabric there.

His other hand, still protecting his face slowly settled to rest on his chest, feeling the way his own heart fluttered inside him.

“Marc…” The figure stood off to the side, small and looking at him with large eyes. Her hair was a mess of curls and frizz and her nightshirt was hanging off one shoulder. She looked tired. “Are you with me?”

He closed his eyes and felt his whole body suddenly flinch hard as he fought off the lingering sensation of what he knew had been coming. The memory was still there but at least he couldn’t hear the screaming.

He shook his head and slowly put his hands over his face.

“Marc, honey…” She moved and sat on the floor. She knew better than to get too close. He needed room in these moments. She would wait for him to come to her. “Come on… Look at me. Take a deep breath and tell me where you are.”

Marc shook his head again for a moment as his body flinched again. It hurt. He could feel his own poor choices building up and the body he didn’t even want was suddenly rebelling. “Hmn…” He tried to speak and he winced as his overly dry lips cracked sharply. “Fuck… I’m… Not… Not there.”

“Okay. Good.” She moved just a little closer. “Where are you right now?”

He groaned and slammed his fist into the floor under him. Pain jolted him and he let out a hard gasp. “On the floor.”

It wasn’t the answer she was looking for but at least it was solid.

He slowly looked over at her, taking in the shape of her crossed legs, her hunched spine, her open hands that were now on the floor near him, waiting.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. He didn’t want her to see into him.

“Are you alright? Take a breath and talk to me.” She inched just a little closer now.

He took a slow breath and felt like throwing up. His hand clutched at his stomach and he slowly rolled to his side and curled up. “Am I dead?”

“Not this time.” She reached out and her fingers ever so gently touched his arm. When he didn’t pull away she let the hand slide down to his and gently tangle with his until he squeezed and latched on.

“I feel like I should be dead.” He looked up at her this time and watched the way her eyes slowly moved over him. There was worry and sadness there. Pain that he hated and it made him hate himself more for putting it there.

Slowly he shifted and moved to lay his head in her lap and she gently stroked her fingers through his hair.

“You aren’t dead. You might wish you were tomorrow, though… Did you really drink half that bottle?” She sighed and he tried to think back.

“Useless. Aren’t I?” He felt his eyes sting and he buried his face into her lap to hide the tears that might slide out on their own. “I’m sorry… Tell Steven I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trash us.”

“He knows…” She brushed the curls away from the back of his neck and he shuddered as he fought back the urge to punch the floor again. He wanted to feel awake. He wanted to feel something. If he had to have the body, he wanted it to be solid.

As if she knew what he was thinking, she moved her free hand down and caught his, bringing it up to kiss his knuckles gently. “Come to bed, okay?”

Marc shook his head but was already moving to sit up. “I let them take his car…”

“No you didn’t.” She kissed his cheek gently. “You had nothing to do with it. It was just a bad luck of the draw.”

Marc looked away. “Useless… Can’t even hunt it down… Can’t find them. Can’t make them never hurt anyone again… Fucking Useless.”

He staggered to his feet in one motion and stumbled over to the bed before he collapsed into it, curling up.

He could hear Layla sigh before she got to her feet. There was the soft sound of her walking to the bed then he felt the blankets slide under him as she adjusted things and tucked him in. “You are far from useless, Marc… Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He let the darkness claim him as he sank down into the bed and earth and grave he had dug for himself long ago. His last thought as he slipped into sleep was I’m sorry ‘bout your car. Sorry ‘bout the body…

–

Steven jolted awake with such speed and urgency that it took him a second to try to figure out why.

It didn’t take long. His stomach churned again and he rolled out of the bed. His steps were wide and stumbling as he bolted for the toilet. He had just enough time to fall to his knees before he was evacuating the contents of his stomach into the loo. Unfortunately for him, it was mostly empty. He heaved again and felt the body fold in on itself as it tried to expel his very soul.

Trembling, he gave a mournful cry and rested his forehead on his arms as he stared down at the floor. Everything worth noting hurt and everything not worth noting didn’t feel so great either.

He mumbled to himself until he sensed Layla standing behind him.

“Good morning, Steven… Are you okay?” She kneeled behind him and gently stroked his back.

Steven let out another whimper as his body heaved and he wretched into the toilet. “I’m dying.” He shuddered. “I’m going to pray now. When I die make sure to tell everyone I at least got that part right…”

She made a sound and patted his back. “You aren’t dying. You and Marc are so dramatic…”

Steven looked up at Layla, his eyes swimming pools of anguish and his face pale and pasty. “What happened? I leave him alone for… a few hours… And he decides he needs to drink a liquor store?”

Layla moved to gather some things and held out a glass of water and aspirin. “I’m not sure. I woke up in the middle of the night to him already trashed and having flashbacks.” She frowned. “Not the usual ones.”

Steven took the water and forced himself to sip it and swallow the pills, though the last thing he wanted to do was put anything else in his body.

“Where did he even get the alcohol from? I thought we tossed it all after the last bender he went on?” Steven slowly got up and moved to wash his face off with cold water. He felt grimy and like he was somehow a walking bruise.

“I think he’s hidden a few ‘emergency’ bottles.” Layla sighed and got up, moving to fidget just behind him as he cleaned up.

Steven glanced at her reflection in the mirror, not wanting to meet his own. He didn’t want to know how terrible he must look at the moment. “He and I are going to bloody well have a little chat about this. You can be sure of that. If he wants to drink, he can be the one to wake up face down in the toilet.”

Layla smiled and hid it quickly behind her hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Marc suffer like this before. He gets headaches, but he doesn’t throw up.”

“Good for him. I don’t drink like he does!” Steven splashed more water in his face. When was the last time he could remember getting drunk?

“Purim.” Steven groaned and made a face.

“What’s that?” Layla held out a soft towel for him.

“The last time I got drunk. Me, not the others.” He flushed and took the towel thankfully. “I’m not sure when it was. I want to say two or three years ago… But time is a little…”

“Wishy washy.” Layla nodded. Steven had tried to explain how time behaved in his memories to her before. She didn’t fully understand, but she knew that all their memories were a mess of bad information and even worse memories.

“Right.” Steven buried his face in the towel for a moment, hoping that it might solve his headache. “Purim is the holiday where you get utterly smashed. You know… ‘Drink till you can’t tell your friends from your enemies’. At least that’s the common explanation.”

“You strike me as an emotional drunk.” Layla eyed him. Marc was absolutely an angry drunk… But more at himself than anything else. She tried not to think about the number of times she’d had to help clean him up after a bad night of drinking. Jake she had yet to see drunk. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Steven dropped the towel in the sink then staggered back to the bed and collapsed face first into it with a groan. “I drank the whole bottle of wine. I don’t remember much past me thinking it was a great idea to go outside and sing at the top of my lungs.”

You fell down the stairs and I spent the rest of the night wrestling control from you while you sang some love ballard and cried.

Marc’s gruff voice spoke up, sounding grumpy and unamused.

“Oh. The peanut gallery returns.” Steven rolled over. “Marc’s awake. I am more than happy to let him deal with this.”

Steven stared at the ceiling and waited but Marc made no move to step in. “Marc… I think I’m going to puke again. Take the body.”

How is it I don’t have that problem? It’s the same body. It knows how to handle things just fine when I drive.

Steven looked over at Layla with large pleading eyes. She shrugged. “I guess I’ll just go throw out the hangover breakfast I made. Steven certainly isn’t going to be holding that down.”

“Marc.” Steven warned as he felt his stomach trying to reject the meager water offering.

“FINE!” Marc stepped in and felt his headache start to pound, but at least his stomach was settling down.

Thanks, mate. We’ll talk about this later, yeah?

Marc grunted and climbed back to his feet. He knew it wasn’t fair to force Steven to deal with the aftermath of his own mistakes. Steven had been forced to deal with enough of those.

“Dirty trick.” Marc gave Layla a look. “There had better be steak. Or at least four eggs.”

Layla went to him and gently took his hand, pulling him over to the table where she sat him down. A plate of eggs, toast, and potatoes sat waiting next to a strong cup of coffee.

Marc stared at the plate for a moment while Layla sat across from him at the table. He sighed and loaded up a slice of toast as a quick vehicle to get the food into him and took a large bite.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Layla sipped her own mug slowly.

A glance out the window showed that it was later in the day than it felt like and she had most likely been up for hours and already eaten. He looked at her and took note of how tired she looked.

Guilt stabbed at him. “Did you sleep?”

“Not really.” She shrugged it off but he could easily imagine her staying awake after she had found her husband on the floor. Perhaps she was too worried about him to go back to sleep. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she worried that he would get back up and finish the bottle. Or find another one.

“Sorry.” Marc took another bite and averted his gaze.

“Have you heard from Jake?” She ventured forward, not acknowledging his attempts to apologize.

Marc frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “No. I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Layla sighed and sat back. “No. I thought I saw him for a moment last night before bed. One of you was looking out the window for a very long time. He’s usually heading out at about that time.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Marc gulped down the coffee, ignoring the way it burned on the way down.

“Marc…” She started then bit her lower lip and hesitated. He could tell she was not happy with him and wanted to talk but any false start could lead to an argument.

Marc pushed his plate away and stared down at the table, his hands worrying in his lap slightly. “I fucked up. Okay? I felt bad about the car and Jake was upset. If we hadn’t all been fighting all day, he would have gone out to his car earlier. Maybe it would have still been there and it would have been out when the jack-ass that stole it got there. I started a fight and now we don’t have a car. Story of my life, alright?”

“Are you kidding me?” Layla gave him a sharp look. “You’re going to try to blame yourself for the car getting stolen? I seem to recall that we were all fighting! And that has nothing to do with what happened!”

Marc gave a grunt of disagreement then got up, running a hand over his face as if he might be able to push his own emotions away with just a swipe of the hand. “I should be doing something to get it back. I should be out there. I know people. I have connections. I know the local chop-shops. I’m supposed to be protecting us and all I do is fuck up and let us suffer.”

“What are you going to do? Walk in and start a fight? As Marc Spector? No healing abilities? In the middle of London. In the middle of the day?” She watched him pace from the table. “What would you do if you found the car? Drive it away? No trouble at all?”

Marc looked out the window. He knew exactly what he’d do if he found the car. He knew what he wanted to do now. How many heads he’d crack open just to get the info he needed to find the guy that took it.

His fists balled up tightly and he winced as he felt the faint pain in his hand from the night before. Looking at his hand, he could make out the faint outline of a key that had pressed in too tightly.

The world started to swim just a bit. His pounding headache kept a solid beat with his heart that was suddenly up in his throat. His stomach hurt and he could still feel the strain on his throat from the retching earlier. Maybe if he drank enough he could throw up his heart too… What was it Steven said earlier when he’d been fading in and out?

“I’m praying…” Marc whispered as he stared at the key marks on his hand.

“Marc…” A hand on his arm made him jump. She waited for him to settle back in and look at her before she continued. “Talk to me… Please.”

Marc swallowed, then nodded and slowly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a protective hug as if she were the one that needed the comfort.

It hit him then and he closed his eyes, hugging her tightly as he imagined that protective hold on someone else. Someone else that was in pain because he had let them down.

“I let him get hurt… He does so much for us… For me… All I do is cause him trouble and yell at him and now it’s my fault…” Marc buried his face in her hair.

She stroked his back and pulled him close, leaning into him as much as he let her. “It isn’t your fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault but the greedy thief, okay? No one’s mad at you. No one’s blaming you. Jake will come out when he’s ready. He doesn’t hate you, Marc.”

“I’m sorry…” Marc mumbled into her hair. “I’m sorry I’m such an ass.”

“Don’t apologize, I married you for your ass.” She pulled back to smile up at him to show she was joking.

His lips twitched upwards just enough to let her know that he appreciated it. “My best feature?”

“You know what your best feature is.” She smirked.

He nodded for a moment then grinned. “Steven?”

That made her snort as she stifled a laugh then shoved him back. “Come on. Finish eating so that Steven doesn’t have to deal with things later.”

Marc sat back down and continued to eat for Steven’s sake. It was his apology for making Steven put up with his mistakes. He had to keep the body going. Just like when they were children… He had to keep it going for Steven. At least one of them had to be happy. One of them had to be safe in their own skin…

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight fic #Marc Spector #Jake Lockley #Steven Grant #Layla El Faouly #The system is Jewish #Steven is a light weight

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lemonys-snickers · 1 year

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Fanfic idea where poe traps ranpo in a book where he can't get out of, planning to finally win over ranpo. But knowing that he couldn't live without him, poe lights the book on fire and then (dramatically) Let's it fall o the ground where he spilled petrol or sum burnable shit and burns with ranpo. (Also dramatically)

#this consists of me knowing almost nothing about poes ability #idk if he can trap ppl there forever #also idk what happens if the book is destroyed #ranpoe #ranpo edogawa #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #edgar allen poe #edgar allen poe bsd

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groovygladiatorsheep · 1 year

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|| UNDER THE SEA!UTMV ||[CENTAUR!TALE VARIANT ] || PART 2 of : Nightmare Reign

[ blog and ask blog is @under-the-sea-utmv ]

• Killer :

• Specie : Black Moray Eel

• Additional Info :

- his tears are petrol ! They stuck to his skull while he was stuck in an oil spill…

-made his gloves himself !!

- cursed soul…

• Cross :

• Specie : Black Volitan LionFish

• Additional info :

- Part of Nightmare Reign.

- Has a ghost fish following him around named X !

- extremely aggressive and territorial. More than before…

• Ccino :

• Specie : Sea Bunny ( Joruna Paruva )

• Additional Info :

- Part of Nightmare Reign.

- soft boy !

- can only heals wounds or disease that has been created through poison <3

- used as Nightmare’s endless source of negativity.

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enbysiriusblack · 1 year

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wolfstar is skin and bone, dark jokes that you can't help but laugh at, cigarette stains on every surface, knitted jumpers fraying at the cuffs, record players scratching as they reach the end but you don't quite have the energy to get up and stop it, liquor spilling on the floor, shaky hands clasped in anothers, the night sky lit up and glowing, sharp edges with a softness that makes it all worth it, browns, and silvers, and gold, and black, the lingering smell of weed, old books, petrol, chocolate, and coconut oil, drunken and stoned rash decisions ending with tattoos and piercings and stolen kisses, arms and legs kicking and pushing fighting for the blanket in the middle of the night, myths and fables told and sung, the moon and stars echoing and clutching one another, screaming and crying for something that can't come to pass, something to good to be true, tragedy and romance, soulmates and fate, life's intertwined but broken and burning to the bitter end.

#sorry <3 #but god do i love them sm #say what ship to do this for next. im indecisive #anyway WOLFSTAR <333 MY FUCKING LOSER LOVERS #*lightly smacks their heads* they can fit so much trauma in there #also technically its still remus' birthday for another 5 minutes so HAPPY BDAY AGAIN TO HIM <3 #my favourite?? second favourite?? (dorcas <3) marauder <333 #remus lupin #sirius black #marauders era #marauders #wolfstar

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saviorofdandysuits · 3 months

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Catch You When You Fall

Photo by Jonathan Meyer on Unsplash

Rated: G - WC: 2569 - CW: Injury, burns, angst (oh, hello Crowley) -

Crowley slid into the Bentley’s spot across the street from A’s bookshop and cut the engine. Cold spring rain hammered the roof and heavy, sharp drops teased the sound of rain on a canopy.

Or a wing.

A cream-clad figure bustled about inside the shop, dusting shelves and volumes with an ancient feathery floof. The Bentley’s windows fogged as Crowley watched the figure work from one end of the shop to the other, a pleased little smile turning up round, soft cheeks.

After a while, the angel moved closer to the window, a steaming mug in one hand and a thick, worn tome hugged close with the other. Then, settled at the big cluttered desk, all but the very top of the angel’s head disappeared, bobbing gently to the strains of some music from the old record player.

If it weren’t for the dark locks peeking out beneath the brim of Muriel’s hat, Crowley could almost convince himself the flash of platinum was really A.

A shop door to his right opened and Nina waved to him, her voice muffled and garbled by the rain. Ducking his head, Crowley pushed his sunglasses up closer to his face and gunned the engine to life. Crowley’s low growl matched the Bentley’s. He was a block past the traffic signal before he looked up again, Nina’s shrinking figure framed in the rear view mirror.

Crowley didn’t return to Whickber Street until the last lingering leaves hung wet and heavy with frosty rain. The sun had already set, long shadows on the street barely held back by the thin streetlamps. As he’d planned—hoped, schemed, if he were to be honest about it—most shops had already closed, Nina’s and Maggie’s in particular. Windows and doors shuttered, the block was quiet, empty. Dead.

All but A’s shop, at least. A. Fell & Co’s stood on the corner like a beacon. Bright, golden light spilled out beneath the half-drawn window shades, a soft lilt of strings permeated the muted streets.

Crowley parked the Bentley around the other corner from the shop. Even with the shades mostly down, Crowley could still make out Muriel’s shoes as they passed close to windows. Their pace quickened into little skips as they passed what must’ve been near black squares from their perspective.

He stayed longer this time, waiting for Muriel to turn off the downstairs lamps and head up to one of the tiny rooms upstairs. He was interrupted again, though, this time by both Nina and Maggie slipping out from the pub, fingers intertwined. Maggie caught his eye as she held the door for Nina. She’d just opened her mouth and begun to step toward the car when Crowley shook his head and took off, driving north down the south-only street.

Crowley didn’t slow until he’d gotten out past the lights and noise and smell of London. He’d run out of petrol twice, miracling his way back up from the forlorn ‘E’ on the gauge each time. Eventually, the freezing rain eased, wipers squeaking against the dry windshield. Sucking his teeth, he yanked on the stick to stop them and lowered the windows.

The scent of sod and pine filled his lungs and after a few more miles, he reached the literal end of the road. Again, he cut the engine and lifted his glasses to stare out into the sky. The clouds had disappeared with the rain but even with the horizons cleared and miles from the nearest city, Crowley’s eyes could just barely make out the brightest of his stars and even those dimmed the longer he gazed up, seeking out his old favorites.

It didn’t stop him from trying.

One star, though, grew… brighter. And larger. Stupid, dumb hope bubbled in his chest and his hand shook as he pushed open the door and stood, watching a falling… something draw closer, washing out the rest of the sky in a bright white light. Nearer and nearer it came and Crowley began to pick out the edges of whatever bit of rock had jarred loose from the heavens and gotten caught in their little planet’s gravity.

It was irregularly shaped, not a solid, roundish mass like one would expect from a proper meteorite. Instead, it was oblong and jutted out at sharp angles, almost…

Almost like limbs.

The flaming object veered away from him just as it approached the treeline, smashing down into the woods ahead. Boughs snapped and crackled with the impact and smoke rose up from the forest a few hundred yards away. Crowley chased the light, half-running, half-miracled between the trees.

Bright white faded to yellow, then orange, and finally a faded red as Crowley crashed through the branches. Prickly leaves tugged at his hair and his jacket, snatching up glasses and his scarf. He left them behind and stumbled at the edge of a deep pit, surrounding tree trunks blackened with bits of fire licking at the underbrush.

The ground was too sodden to fully catch so the impact left a near-perfect black circle in the woods, tall evergreens standing guard a respectful fifty feet back from the point of impact. At the center of the circle lay a lump, smoke and ash picked up by the cold breeze and swirling around it.

He stared for an impossibly long time, steam and smoke pouring up front the ground. Surely whatever had once been at the center was nothing more than a cinder.

But then the lump moved.

Crowley didn’t think. He just ran. He raced down the slope, skidding and tripping over the charred remains of felled trees. He stopped at the center and reached for the crumpled form at the center of the crater. “Aziraphale?” he asked. The catch in his voice had nothing to do with the burns the figure’s ember-hot body left on his fingertips.

The figure didn’t rise, but its eyes cracked open, revealing a pale, clear blue the color of the summer sky. Its burnt lips flaked, moving ineffectually around a raspy breath, a hissed, “Cro—” breaking through.

“Don’t try to speak, Angel.” Tears finally spilled down his cheeks. They evaporated before they could slide past his jaw. “I’ve got you,” he promised, tucking both arms beneath the hot ash settling around Angel’s body. Probably all that was left of his gleaming vestments.

A whimpered in his arms, wings hanging limp and burnt skin crackling beneath his touch. I know, I know,” he whispered, pouring as much healing as he dared. Up close, Crowley now saw it was far more than the burns. Angel’s formerly soft frame was now gaunt , belly sunken and his face a study in sharp lines and angles. Bony elbows and knees were the widest part of his limbs and he clung limply to Crowley’s jacket. Angel needed far more than Crowley could manage out in the middle of the woods.

No point left to subterfuge, Crowley miracled them both back to the Bentley and settled Angel into the backseat. He looked so small. Angel didn't move, either, when Crowley covered him with his jacket, just curled in around himself, mangled fingers gripping the broken in leather.

Crowley didn't know how. Not yet, at least, but he was going to murder those bastards. Angel needed healing first. And there was one place they still might be safe from Heaven's wrath.

He climbed into the front seat as the Bentley started herself. “Hold on, Angel,” Crowley growled and slammed his foot on the accelerator. “I’m taking you home.”

There was no time as Crowley raced down the streets, the Bentley’s speedometer stuck at the edge of the dial. The front tires stuttered against a speed bump and Angel groaned from the backseat, pained. Good. Pain was good. Pain meant he wasn’t dead.

The sky was still inky black by the time he’d gotten back to London, peeling around the corner and stopping right in front of Angel’s bookshop. Angel held tight to his chest, he kicked in the door, absently repairing the lock as they passed over the threshold. Miracles fell from him as he carried Angel inside, the shades dropping down completely to seal them in, lamps flickering to life to light their path upstairs.

“Muriel?” he finally thought to call at the top of the landing, realizing late that they might be frightened by their entry. But the soft little angel was already awake, eyes wide and fixed on Angel’s form.

“Is that the Archangel Azir—”

“Not anymore,” he muttered and moved to Angel’s bed. Muriel shuffled to the other side and peeled back a corner of the soft cream-colored bedding. Bits of scorched feathers and flesh dusted the sheets as he laid his Angel down. He was still breathing.

Crowley knelt next to the bed, hands hovering over the broken form before him. He could save his wings, though they were likely to stay black, like his. Crowley had been strong when he’d fallen—was pushed— from Heaven. They all had been. That was the point.

Angel, though… His fingers brushed over the sharp bones of Angel’s clavicle as he pulled the sheet up to his chin. Angel had not been. “I—” His voice cracked. “He—” Muriel scuttled around the bed and patted his shoulder. “We,” he croaked. “We need your help.” When he looked up, they met his eyes, gaze steadier than he’d expected. “Get Gabriel.”

“He’s with—” Muriel twitched but didn’t pull away at Crowley’s glare.

“Get them both.”

The curtains glowed with the first light of dawn when a small fly and a sharp intake of breath at the door announced Beelzebub and Gabriel’s arrival.

“For Heaven’s sake,” Beelzebub choked. The floorboards creaked behind him and, after a moment, the couple moved to the other side of Angel’s bed. “What happened?”

“He would’ve been cast into hellfire,” Gabriel said when Crowley glared at him. Even Gabrielle’s quiet voice boomed in the tiny room. “But this… this isn’t what—”

“You mean Heaven got it wrong?” he snapped, on his feet. It was only for a moment, though. Unconscious, Angel’s pull drew him close and he knelt, straightening the covers he’d mussed. Had enough of him rubbed off on the angel to protect him from Hellfire?

His hand grazed charred skin and feathers. Protect? Barely managed to keep him alive, perhaps. Not much protection in that. Crowley’s shoulder felt cold and he cast his gaze around the room. The soft little angel was not to be seen. “Where’s Muriel gone?”

“Downstairs making tea.” Beelzebub winced when the crisp edge of Angel’s good wing twitched under the blanket, the scars from their own fall pulsing.

“‘’Ziraphale’d be proud,” he mumbled. He’d nearly gotten Angel’s right hand healed enough to hold, but he was losing steam fast and would need to rest before he dropped on top of him and undid all of his work. He stared at Gabriel again. “Aziraphale protected you, sheltered you from Heaven when you just landed ass-backwards in his lap.”

“You both did.” Muriel set down a tray and poured four cups. After only a moment’s hesitation, they poured a fifth. “For when he wakes up,” they said with a little smile to Crowley.

“I didn’t protect him,” Crowley muttered, shaking his head at an offered cup.

They crouched next to him and frowned into her cup. “But you did. You lied for him—lied to me about Gabriel’s presence in the shop, and you used a miracle to hide him.”

Crowley finished sealing the burnt, cracked skin on Angel’s right hand and stroked the back of it. His ordinarily plump, soft hand was nothing more than crepe skin stretched over bone and sinew. They’d held hands for that miracle. “We did it together.”

Gabriel and Beelzebub were holding hands, hiding it, poorly, behind the edge of the bed. Crowley stared. Angel had buzzed with excitement when the two of them found each other. Again, he supposed. He cradled Angel’s hand in his. “Together. You lot. Together maybe you can—” His throat closed up before his hopeful words could slip through. The last time he’d had hope, the universe had not responded kindly.

Nodding, Gabriel held Beelzebub’s close to his chest and rested his fingertips on Angel’s shoulder.

“It’s worth a try.” Muriel nodded and, slowly, took Beelzebub’s hand. They offered her other to Crowley. “I… I found his books with stories in it—”

Crowley yanked his hand back. “You mean his diaries?”

“Well…” Muriel at least had the decency to look shamed, their smile falling as they fiddled with the buttons on their collar. “I didn’t realize what they were at the time. I thought they were just books. But an awful lot of them were all about you and…” They blushed and looked away.

“I would love for you to help me…”

“ Smitten , I believe…”

“You can tell me all about it while we dance …”

Crowley traced the bas relief of tendons and veins that now made up Angel’s hand. Muriel seemed to have seen something they shouldn’t’ve. Did Angel maybe have a fourth reason to call him?

Left hand closed gently around Angel’s, Crowley grasped Muriel’s. Blinding white light exploded around the motley crew of ethereal creatures at the contact. Demon grasping angel, holding whatever in the Hell or Heaven or skies above the rest of them were, all centered around the latest—and perhaps the last— fallen angel.

Angel’s hand tightened around his, fingers growing plumper and stronger beneath his grip. “It’s working,” he grunted, the flow of energy coursing through him in the way he hadn’t felt since he was building the stars. The light traveled up Angel’s arm and over his body, shining through the blankets heaped on top of him.

After hours or minutes, the brilliance faded just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving violet bright spots in Crowley’s vision, ears ringing.

And Angel saying his name.

“Crowley? Crowley, can you hear me?” His voice was soft and weak and drenched with concern.

“Mm-mhm… Angel… I…” He blinked away the fuzziness and focused on Angel’s face. He was still far too thin to be healthy, deep heavy shadows ringing his eyes and tugging at his mouth and jaw. But there was a hint of a smile and the tiniest brush of color in his cheeks. “Aziraphale, yes.” He cleared his throat but Angel’s eyes wouldn’t leave him. “I hear you.”

Beelzebub made a little coughing sound and stood, pulling Gabriel up with them. “We’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Muriel watched them move toward the door and only then released Crowley’s hand.

Angel took it and pressed Crowley’s hand flat against his chest. “I’m not an angel anymore, am I?” he murmured, low voice rumbling through Crowley’s palm. He tucked his wings on either side of the bed, feathers mostly sealed and laying flat. But raven black. “You’ll need to give me a new nickname, if…” He pulled back, lifting his hand off of Crowley’s as though he expected him to leave.

“You’re still my Angel,” Crowley said, avoiding his eyes.

“Really?” Angel’s voice lilted up, thin but with a taste of its usual sweetness. “But I haven’t done the dance yet.”

“I’m a demon, Angel.” Crowley wouldn’t let go of his hand. “Not a monster . I’ll let you heal first.”

Angel sighed or maybe tried to laugh, and he squeezed Crowley’s fingers. “You… you saved me. Healed me.” He reached up then and traced the red scars on either side of Crowley’s eyes. “It’s what I should’ve done for you when…”

Crowley shrugged. “Knew you would have, had you could.” Muriel’s laughter flittered up the stairs and they both looked toward the door they other three had left cracked open. “There’ll be consequences for this.”

“I think they know that,” Angel nodded, eyes back on Crowley. He smiled, small and weak. But beautiful. “And we’ll all face them together.”

“Right you are, Angel,” Crowley murmured, curling closer to the bed, closer to his Angel. “Right you are.”

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