#take care of your flesh vessel so you don't burn out before this is over | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

reasonsforhope · 2 months

Text

Self-Care in Times of Atrocities

This is something I've been struggling with myself, and it's also something I have a general chip on my shoulder about (in terms of the corporatization of self-care, ugh), so here have a post

It can feel impossible or even cruel, to "practice self-care" in the face of the world right now - and in particular, in the face of the ongoing genocide in Gaza.

So, I think it's really important to say that self-care does not mean that you are always emotionally balanced at all, that you are never overcome with rage and grief at the horror of ongoing atrocities.

To never be overcome by rage or horror or grief or any other negative emotions would be to shut ourselves off from a huge part of the human experience, in a situation where our connection to our common humanity is, I would argue, more important than ever.

Some days you will feel completely laid low by that rage and horror and grief. Sometimes for a few hours, sometimes for days or more.

That's not only normal, it is a completely rational response to what Israel is inflicting on Palestinians right now. I think it's a completely rational response to any genocide.

In some ways it's also a healthy response. Bottling up or choking off your emotions isn't good for you. Refusing to ever sit with pain isn't good for you. Refusing yourself grief and mourning and catharsis isn't good for you. We know all of this.

Self-care, in times of atrocity, doesn't mean always keeping yourself on some kind of even keel. In a lot of ways I think it means letting yourself cry, letting yourself channel all of your storming emotions into a force that can help, rather than just eat you up inside.

And self-care isn't the kind of corporate, hypercapitalist "buy yourself out of your feelings" bs that we're quite literally sold, either.

Self-care is, very often, not about indulging or pampering yourself (not that there's anything wrong with indulging or pampering yourself).

A lot of the time it just means...taking care of your physical form, as best you can, even when you least want to, so you don't pile more on top of everything else.

A lot of the times it means making yourself eat something, even just some crackers, even though you feel sick from horror.

Or groaning and forcing yourself to drink a glass of water, because you can, you have access to drinkable water, and you can honor that for the privilege it is by avoiding a terrible dehydration headache.

Or making yourself take a shower, even though it's the last thing you feel like doing, because you have an important meeting tomorrow.

Or locking your phone in a drawer for a while, because staying up all night doomscrolling won't do anything but drain you further.

And if you're ever feeling too guilty to do any of that, remember: you cannot pour from an empty vessel. Meeting your own basic needs as best you can is one really, really important way to make sure you have the energy to help.

#me #not news #self-care #free palestine #palestine #israel #genocide #cw genocide #cw war #now I need to take my own damn advice and eat something #bodies are so rude #we need to be ready to be in this for the long haul #I PRAY that we won't have to be #but this has been going on for months and it could keep going on months longer with horrifying ease #take care of your flesh vessel so you don't burn out before this is over #because there are a lot of things that can help people in Palestine #but doomscrolling and not eating and the like aren't among them #grief

290 notes · View notes

brutal-nemesis · 6 months

Text

Goretober X: Don't Be Vein

This one very short I've been super busy the past week and also I'm very tired last actual gore piece for @coyotehusk goretober tho so yee haw go me

←Previous - Castys Masterlist - Goretober Masterlist - Next→

Ingredients: body horror of the surreal variety, gore, fun with delicate lil blood vessels, emeto mention

Castys had absolutely zero idea what Kuro was doing. Not that he usually did, but he could at least guess most of the time. Now, she was just rooting around inside his arm, digging deep into the muscle as he bit down hard on the gag in his mouth and tried not to wiggle too much.

“There it is!” Castys could feel Kuro’s smile as she looked down at the gaping wound she’d been probing around in. “I finally found one of your larger blood vessels. I want to see if it’ll do the same thing your intestines do.” Castys raised an eyebrow. They probably would, but he wasn’t exactly eager to find out. Unfortunately, he was about to.

Kuro was gentle as she freed the vein from inside of his muscle, most likely trying not to break it and make him bleed to death before she was ready. It was a lot smaller than Castys expected, just sort of pink and stringy, like a…worm. Too soon. He had to think about something other than worms. His leg started hurting anyway, as if this leg could even remember pain that it never fucking felt in the first place since the one that did got chopped off. But his scars on his torso and face ached sometimes, too, and those were from so long ago that he doubted any of them had never been replaced.

After a long time of careful cutting and pulling, a small number of his blood vessels were totally free of his muscle, laid out limply on his exposed bone. Castys’s view of them wasn’t great, but he was very much okay with that. Oh, and now he was going to get to die, so hopefully things wouldn’t be fucked up when he came back.

Things were fucked up.

He looked down at his arm almost immediately after coming back to life, and the sight was…surreal, to say the least. The thin vessels laid on top of the skin of his inner forearm, sort of fused to it at the bottom, their ends leading back down into his flesh. They pulsated weirdly as his blood flowed through them, and the sight wasn’t something Castys wanted to get used to.

“That was fun! I haven’t done delicate work like that in a while. Do you mind if I do that to your other limbs?” Kuro asked as she removed the gag, excitement in her voice.

“I do in fact mind, but I don’t think you care, so why are you asking?”

Kuro shrugged. “So you can feel like you have a little bit of control for a moment.”

“It’s not helping.”

“Aw, too bad,” she said as she tied the gag over his mouth again.

Back to disregarding his opinion, Kuro started on his other arm, and once that was done she moved on to his legs. The whole process took hours, intense pain and cold and dripping blood, and he was hardly aware of anything else by the time she was done. Once again, she made him look, and once again, it wasn’t something he wanted to see, all of the pink squiggles running up and down his arms and legs, pulsing along to his heartbeat. It sort of made him feel sick for some reason, so he did his best not to puke into the gag.

He didn’t know how much more of this he could take, and that scared him.

Castys Cult: @as-a-matter-of-whump @blackrosesandwhump @fanmanga1357-blog @thehopelessopus @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @hearse-song @muddy-swamp-bitch @whumpasaurus101 @yet-another-heathen @galaxywhump @starnight-whump @his-unspoken-words @misspelledwitch @suspicious-whumping-egg @pumpkin-spice-whump @painsandconfusion @i-can-even-burn-salad @befuddled-calico-whump @whumpinggrounds @whump-queen @whumpedydump

#i wrote something #castys #kuro #gore #immortal whumpee #body horror #hard to come up with an idea for this one so sorry its not much #but i am looking forward to a break with no more deadlines #my dog has been asleep on my lap for the past hour send help my legs are in pain #might have to commit the cardinal sin of making her move :(#okay bye im eepy

9 notes · View notes

inklore · 2 years

Note

I feel like “you don’t have to be gentle, I won’t break” would fit Bruce after coming home from a rough mission and needing to blow off some steam

you bring the pleasure, i’ll bring the pain.

pairing: bruce wayne x (f)reader

word count: 1.2k

warnings: unprotected sex, choking, slight dom/sub dynamics (mentions of sub!bruce), rough sex, more feelings than smut i think lmao, pov switches (between bruce and reader), mentions of creampie, biting (and leaving other marks), no spoilers. 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI.

etc: i still have yet to master bruce’s dirty talk, i’m mostly over thinking it but lmao, at least we get a little taste of it in here. i swear ima write a full blown smut scene that’s less feelings and more sex asap!

i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you swallow, the hand around your throat making the simple autonomy act harder than usual due to the pressure of his dirty palm–soot marks littering your skin. “I won’t break.” The smirk that spreads across your lips being the silky beg that wraps around the gift that was this little act of both unattained desire and want the both of you had come to terms with. That the two of you had fallen into.

It didn’t always play out like this though. Some nights he would come home and you wouldn’t know he had until the early hours of the morning, finding him hunched over his workspace, the deep circles under his eyes dark and brooding that if you didn’t know him well enough you’d would assume he forgot to wipe off the rest of his eye mask–but no, the look of exhaustion and lack of sleep was something that greeted you most mornings to the point it was no longer something you batted an eye over. Or something you got on his case about. The two of you having grown into a routine of don’t ask, don't tell when it came to what exactly he got up to when he left the tower at night.

But some nights he would seek you out. Would find himself in your shared bed barely before dawn, before the sun could rise and shine down on all the justice he had done for the city. Before anyone else in the manor had been awake. Before he could fully strip himself of his suit, his breath still heavy, his scowl still bringing his brow down as if his mask had permanently stretched his skin there. There was never any sign of exhaustion, just pure desire and carnal urge. A frustrated ache from the want to release everything he saw, endured, that night.

And you were always the itch to that ache. The antidote, the body, the vessel to take out all of his frustrations, to let that steam flow into something other than anger and into something tangible something he could grip, devour, sink his teeth in.

So it’s no surprise that he had you pressed against his desk right now, the smudgings from his eye makeup covering your throat, nostrils flared, his suit discarded along with your clothes. The cool air of his infamous cave making your nipples pebble. Your heart hammering inside of your chest at the deadly look of want in his eyes, of need. Your mind flashing back to nights when he actually begged you to fuck him. His ability to switch from being absolutely dominant to just needing you to take care of him giving you the best whiplash.

He doesn’t say anything when he uses the grip on your throat to roughly move you so you're bent over his desk, the back of your neck aching as his grip switches to the flesh back there to push your face down, the stacks of papers and tools spread across his work space digging into your cheek.

There’s no warning other than feeling the head of his cock press against your entrance before he's thrusting inside of you.

The deep groan he lets out, how it resonates from deep within his chest, makes your cunt spasm around his length. And just like that, that white hot heat that he’s felt all night, that burning in his knuckles, that ache in his shoulders that only seems to grow worse, more and more, each night; dissipates. Disappears once he feels your wet cunt, once he starts thrusting. His grip moving down to your hips, your skin indented from how deep his fingers are digging into you. And he has half a mind to care, half a worry that he’s going to mar you up, leave his mark on you the same he does on the city; bruised, branded. And it will bring him that same sick satisfaction when he sees it the next day. See’s all of the markings he’s littered across your body because you begged him to. Told him to not be gentle. To use you, to let that beast that only comes out at night that weighs him down to be released onto you, in the most sinful way.

A way that makes his cock ache to the point it’s all he can think of when he’s out at night. That you’re at home waiting for him to fuck, to use, to love him even after; after he’s left the traces of his teeth in your skin, after he’s marked you inside and out, your cunt swollen and raw from how hard he’s fucked you, your hole dripping from his release–a sight he never grows tired of.

Some nights he needs a little more, some nights he needs that carnal ache is melted into something soft and needy that leaves him on his knees begging for you to take it away. Your body above him as you ride him, your tits bouncing in his hands, your sweet moans so soft and filthy as you describe how good he feels inside of you. Bruce letting you take the reins, treat him like the poor prince of Gotham he is; shy, withdrawn, hurt, tormented–you being the only one who can see him like this, can paint all of those attributes in a beautiful crimson color of love and lust. You feeding every ache and desire in him to the point the pleasure becomes torture.

It had taken a journey for the two of you to get to this, to having him fucking you relentlessly and without remorse. To him begging you to let him cum inside of you, all dominance turned away.

But he’s grateful to have you, he doesn’t think he’s ever told you, spoke those words out loud, doesn't think he knows how; this act being the only way he could relay the message across, his mouth all over your body, his teeth imprinted on your skin, his occasional begs.

You were the only one he wanted to come home bruised and bloody to.

With the way you’re moaning right now, your octave growing louder and louder the harder he fucks you, the harder his fingers dig into your flesh, the scrape of his teeth on your shoulder. The filthy words spewing from your mouth, “don’t stop, fuck, Bruce, use me, I’m yours.” Makes an almost animalistic noise reverberate through him.

Your moans and whimpers of pleasure and pain being his favorite symphony that sung to that dark part of him, that part that wanted to keep you locked away in his manor for years to shield you from the darkness the city of Gotham shared with him. He didn't deserve your loving of him and your devotion to take the brute frustrations of his darkness; and doing so with a smile on your face.

A smile he can hear in your moan when he wraps his palm around your throat and bends you back to meet his lips at your cheek, “beg for my cum.” His voice deep, demanding. His fingers moving around your hip to press them against your swollen clit, “beg and I’ll let you cum first.” The slow circles and the quick snap of his hips making your legs shake, your fingers gripping the edge of the desk–a hot flame burning through you to the point of insanity.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x you #battinson x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne smut #battinson smut #battinson x you #battinson x y/n #bruce wayne one shot #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne fanfiction #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne #battinson #**#2k celebration !

2K notes · View notes

bel9ved · 3 years

Text

Signless ==> Die.

The blackness had lifted slowly.

You did not know where you were except that you were moving. Smoothly, less like a troll was carrying you and more like you were on wheels. You are standing, your wrists chained above you in cold metal shackles. One of your arms stings in four long stripes where the cool night air hits it. It is eerily quiet, except for the rough sound of wheels on cobblestones. Is someone crying?

Your head is pounding but you are quickly becoming more aware. Your eyes flutter open, and behind the row of subjugglator enforcers you see a crowd. Bigger than any you have ever spoken to, all silent, watching eyes. There is a line of subjugs behind the crowd as well, keeping them penned in. Keeping them scared.

You twist in your chains, trying to look around. To find an escape route, to find... Your breath catches.

Your family is behind you. On another cart, being wheeled by clowns, each of them only just breaching consciousness. All chained to a pole like you are, though they are together. You are all alone.

You twist again, panic starting to set in and you go utterly still with terror when your eyes finally focus on what awaits you. There he is. The Grand Motherfucking Highblood. His grinning skull burns itself into your vision like a brand. Suddenly, he is all you can see, your eyes dilating to pinpricks with the adrenaline. No. No no no no no.

The march continues. By the time you reach him he fills your vision in all his glory. Your pusher is in your ears again but you hear your lusus begin to scream for you as your family comes to a halt some distance behind you.

Someone grabs your arms, holds you tight as they uncuff the cold metal and begin to drag you toward an anvil and a brazier you hadn't noticed until now. A blueblood stands nearby, waiting, his back straight and his head bowed in the presence of his betters.

Finally, your instincts kick in and you begin to fight. You yell and thrash and when they dig their claws into you, you wrench your arm away with all your strength. You barely feel the chunk of flesh that tears beyond your need to escape. It's useless, though. You are one, tiny little mutantblood and there are at least four clowns flanking you. Before long, they have you as immobile as you were in the chains.

As you are dragged forward by the arms, the blueblood dutifully pulls a white hot strip of metal from the brazier. It is placed on the anvil, and you swear you can almost hear the metal whine. You can see the waves of heat coming off of it, the glow against the dark steel beneath.

And then you see nothing as white hot pain takes over your vision. They've lowered your wrist to the cuff and the blueblood is hammering it into a perfect circle molded to your flesh, the agony wrapping around you until it is all consuming. You are screaming louder than you ever have before, struggling like the prey you are to these trolls. Tears are pouring from your eyes. You can no longer hear your family calling out behind you.

Your vision is only just starting to return when the second band is brought from the flames and placed down. You desperately try to get your wrist away from them, but their grip is unyielding and the second cuff is molded just as easily into place. This time, when you scream, it is raw and ragged, your voice already breaking for the audience the Grand has brought to witness your execution.

You are sobbing, shaking as they weld the chains in place. The smell of searing muscle makes you gag.

There is a long, sturdy chain that they take up and drag you forward with. You are in agony as you are wrenched up onto the platform where the stone flogging pole stands. Your wrists go up above your head and you scream again with the new white hot pain that crashes into your system. They drape the chain over the top of the pole, and one of the ones who was holding you swiftly drives a nail into one of the gaps in the links. There is no chance of escape, now.

A few moments pass as the Grand walks leisurely up to you. His smooth voice begins, but you don't understand what he's saying beyond the pounding in your head and the sizzling sound of your wrists in the cuffs. He is reaching for you, and in your shock you do the only thing you can.

You bite.

Fucker isn't even wearing armor. Your fangs, as small as they are, sink into his forearm and you dig in as far as you can. You feel him growl more than you hear it. He tugs his arm. Your teeth tighten and you growl at him, as threatening a warning as you can produce with your breath so shallow.

You see his eyes narrow, but you don't see the knife coming until it pierces into your chest. You've been stabbed before, but never with the force behind it that he has. It's a spike of pain driving into your ribs and you gasp, another sob breaking from your throat. In that moment he easily wrenches his arm from your grip and examines the wound.

You snarl at him. You don't know what else to do.

"if you was so thirsty, you shoulda just asked. you thirsty, mutant?"

"I could say the same of you."

"animal. don't know why anyone listened to you."

His insults help you find your voice. It's hoarse, ragged from your screams, but it's there. He backhands you across the face for your insolence and the throbbing pain in your head becomes much more sharp. You can feel fresh blood trickling through your hair and onto your forehead. You take a shuddering breath, and your head rises again.

"You are vile." You spit at him as you turn your eyes back to the skull on his face.

"i'd say tell it to someone who cares, but."

Your expression breaks. You snarl at him, but your attention has already been taken up entirely by the view your family, staring back in utter horror at what they are doing to you.

As the clown unfurls his scroll and begins reading your charges and crimes, you break down into sobs that wrack your feverish frame. You make eye contact with all of them, each one in turn. You see your mother's cold fury, your love's blazing anger, the worry and terror on your friend's face.

Your head falls as you keep crying.

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

"with all them tears, i think you are gonna get thirsty."

You hadn't noticed he was done reading. You look up at him, barely able to make out his paint with the tears in your eyes, but you don't have enough time to react before he is pressing a jar to your cracked lips and pouring the contents inside.

It's blood. Oh fuck, it's blood. Cold metallic slime trying to ooze its way into your throat. Thick, cloying with its taste. You try to spit it out, coughing and gagging and twisting in your restraints against the sudden searing pain in your wrists as you move.

"what, bronze not to your taste? aight, here this oughtta be better."

A second jar replaces the first as you are struggling to catch your breath, and this time you swallow almost half of it before you can realize what's happening. You are retching. You must have been out a while, because your stomach is empty and nothing comes up, but it hurts where the blade had been in your chest and it tugs at your restraints again and the choking devolves once more into a cry of pain and then into shaking sobs.

"damn he thinks he's too good for all of us, don't he?"

You hear some of the clowns laugh. You hear your Survivor snarl at him. You shake your head as much as you can, but that only gets laughter as well. You're the funniest joke on Alternia right now.

It takes him a moment to come toward you again. The jars he holds now are empty, the knife he had already tipped with crimson stain is in his hand. He doesn't make a fuss. Doesn't flourish or show off. The knife simply dips into your upraised arm, and it hardly even hurts. Not compared to the fire on your wrists or the burning in your lungs. He slices neatly, just above the armpit. You know there is a vein there that will spill your color as fast as it will flow.

He holds the vessel up to catch the precious pigment. Presses it into your skin. When the first is full and the bleeding has slowed a bit, he moves around a few steps and slices your other arm open as wide as the first. To say you are lightheaded is an understatement. The world swims slowly as you feel your consciousness begin to fade. The pain in your wrists isn't as sharp now. Everything feels duller. It would almost be pleasant, except for the feeling of your life slowly being drained into his paint pots.

Finally, he steps away. You don't hear what he says now. Everything is fuzzy and too cold. The world is moving in slow motion and your eyes are full of tears. Your family are crying. You would know those sounds anywhere. Your lusus's heavy sobbing, Psiionic's ragged pleading. Your mate's screeching, angry heaves. In your daze, you try to move your arm to reach for them. To tell them that everything will be okay.

The white hot sear of the metal brings you back into sharp focus. You cry out again, with nowhere near the strength of before. Your head is swimming, but you can see Grand walking away, cleaning his knife, as an archeradicator you don't recognize steps forward and draws his bow, the arrow already nocked and pointed at your chest.

The thudding sound of a bowstring hits your ears milliseconds before you feel the sting of the gash in your side. The arrow catches you across the ribs, missing its strike but opening a wide crimson wound. Blood spills, in a way one might almost call symbolic, and begins to soak into your ruined leggings. You hiss in pain, but the new slash brings another moment of clarity.

You see the man freeze, his ears pinning back with sudden fear. You see the Grand turn around, cold fury on his face. Before the archeradicator can even try to explain himself, you hear the sickening crunch of his neck and he drops lifeless to the ground. You stare at him, his face twisted into a rictus of shock and horror.

...He had been trying to kill you, but... He had been following orders. He had barely missed, and still the Grand treats this life, this troll, like nothing. Even one of his own is not safe from him. He wastes the most precious thing on this planet, and you cannot hear anything over the slow, drumming pulse of rage in your ears. Every bone in your body turns to fury. Every drop of blood that is still in your veins pulses red hot. Your face morphs from pain to white hot anger, and baring your bloody teeth you snarl.

He gestures to another. One you recognize as the Executor Darkleer. One that, in another life, you might have called a friend. He draws his bow with perfect posture. Aims it at your chest again but suddenly you don't care. You have eyes only for the Grand.

Your fury bubbles out of you in a screech that breaks the silence like a gun. It explodes at the Highblood like a whip from the hell that is your anger at a world unfair.

"FUCK YOU."

You don't hear the bowstring this time, or see the arrow coming.

The pain is immense. The arrow hits you dead in the side, drives into you hard enough that the tip pierces through your back. You cough up blood from the sudden impact, the fury leaving your face all at once to be replaced with terror as you realize, finally, that you are about to die. You can't breathe, your head is swimming with pain and blood loss. You struggle to focus, to look at the man who has calmly, and coldly, murdered you.

His face is impassive, but yours is pleading as you try to meet the eyes behind the goggles and find nothing but the void in return.

You barely have time to drag your eyes away from him, to find your family once more before everything.

Goes.

....Black.

#The Signless's Execution #long post #headcanons #tw for:#blood #mild gore #death #casteism shit #forcefeeding blood #ask me to tag anything else!#ooc eyes only #my art #I FORGOT THE HECKIN ART I DID FOR IT #ANYWAY ITS FIXED NOW

6 notes · View notes

dorotheajanegilmore · 5 years

Text

Devil’s Daughter [Dean Winchester]

Catch up: 1

CHAPTER TWO

I came too in a warehouse, tied to hard metal chair with wet ropes that were burning my skin.

"Well look who finally decided to join us." Came a male British voice. The man stepped out of the darkness, walking towards me with a bottle of water. He was wearing a black suit and had a smirk tugging at his lips, looking at me with a cruel smile.

"What do you want from me?" I breathed out, my flesh sizzling under the rope.

"My name's Crowley and I need your help devil spawn. I want your father's ass back in a cage and you and your little powers are the only thing that can help me."

"Excuse me?" I lifted my head, looking up at him in bewilderment. "My father? Cage? Powers?"

"Yes?" Crowley narrowed his eyes at me and looked me up and down. "There's something wrong with you..."

"Gee, thanks."

Crowley bit back a smirk and shook his head. "No. You're more...human, than I expected. Do you know who you are?"

I shook my head and he sighed. I shrugged and told him, "It's like my head's been wiped. I had a flash back earlier but it was just of my friend calling my name."

Crowley stepped closer to em, it was a slow menacing step that had adrenaline cursing through my veins. He reached into his deep pockets and pulled out a knife. He flipped it in his fingers so the blade was pointing towards me.

"Whatcha got there friend?" I mumbled, starring at the metal blade that he was about to pierce me with.

Crowley chuckled and lifted the rope from my arm. He sliced the ropes and let them hit the floor before holding out a hand to me.

I skeptically took it and he pulled me from my seat. He threaded my arm through his and helped me walk out of the warehouse.

The sun had disappeared and was now replaced with a starry night sky, a beautiful dot to dot of sparkles.

We turned a corner and there in front of us was a shiny black car. It was a vintage beauty, gleaming under the moonlight. As we got closer the two front doors opened and two tall men stepped out.

I recognised the first guy from earlier and sent him an uneasy smile. He looked relieved to see me, he gave me an uncertain smile. "Hey Dean." I nodded and he nodded back, not saying anything.

"Elle, we're gonna go somewhere and I'm going to explain everything to you. I may be evil but I'm certainly fair." Crowley told me in a raspy voice as he placed a hand on the small of my back and guided me to the car, Dean opened the back door and I got in.

I slid across the smooth leather until I met the other door. I strapped in and tried not to cry, feeling my emotions rushing the surface. I truly had no idea who I was, where I was going or what I was about to face.

We were thirty minutes into the drive when the guy in the passenger side spoke up. "So, Elle is it?"

"I think so." I answered truthfully. He gave me a sympathetic smile and nodded.

"Well, I'm Sam. I'm Dean's brother. He told me about those guys and I'm so sorry."

The memory of Clay and Davey entered my mind and I looked at Crowley with wide eyes. "Were those your guys?" I snapped, feeling fear creep up once again.

Crowley gave me a sad smile and raised his hands. "I needed to get you somehow. But hey, as far as I was concerned you were this mega evil devil child that would kill me."

I narrowed my eyes at him and shook my head. "So what did you just hire these guys to ambush and drug me or were the beatings your plan too?"

"Just a simple drug and drag, they had to fight you. You were a feisty one." Crowley sighed and pulled out his phone. He brought up the name clay and pressed call.

"Hello imbecile how are ya? Yeah it's Crowley. Listen, so the girl you kidnapped for me...yeah, brown eyes...that's the one...all right, calm down...yeah she is...say that again and I'll rip your throat out! Disgusting!"

A shiver ran up my spine and I felt disgust at whatever that horrible man was saying about me. It's a good thing I'm not some powerful being, I'd tear his head off.

"Yes, well turns out she's not the girl. Mhm...no no, I won't punish you, not for this. Simple mistake really." Crowley continued and rolled his eyes at me, he raised a hand opening and closing his fingers to his palm, mocking him as Clay yapped in his ear.

"Righto. Well I was just calling to let you know that she's not happy with your treatment, and neither am I. You see you took the torture a bit too far and now I have to deal with a skittish vessel and that's not gonna do me any favours. I'd watch your back if I were you."

Crowley hung up the phone and gave me a big smile. "Don't worry, darling. As soon as we get your powers back he's all yours."

"I thought you said you had the wrong girl?" Dean cut in from the front seat, clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were turning white.

"Well I had to say that didn't I. Nobody can know about this. As soon as word gets out that Lucifer has another child, especially a more powerful one, hunters from all over will start to track'er down."

I shook my head and tried to block out all of his nonsense. As soon as we get to wherever they're taking me and I figure out who I am, I'm outta here.

———

I followed them into a run down building that looked derelict. Sam referred to it as "the bunker" and told me how they were legacies of The Men Of Letters, a phrase that meant nothing to me. But I nodded politely and followed him inside.

Something about Sam put me at ease, made me feel safe. Dean had an uneasy vibe about it, sure he might have saved my life with turning his shirt into a tourniquet but right now, he seems like he hates me.

Walking through the front doors I noticed two people stand up and approach us. I hide myself behind Sam's large frame and he held a hand out for me to grab. Worried that Clay and Davey had returned I grabbed his hand and squeezed tight, praying that they wouldn't hurt me.

"You can stop praying, we won't hurt you." One of the Guys said, sounding much different than Clay or Davey. I peaked around Sam and saw a guy in a camel coloured trench coat and a younger guy in a plain white t-shirt and jeans.

“How did. I didn't.. what?"

The man shrugged not knowing what to tell me.

I shook my head, I must be going crazy. I cleared my throat and followed Sam, Dean and Crowley into the parlour. They offered me a seat on the couch and I took it, feeling exhausted and the burning on my thigh increase.

I hissed as my thigh hit the leather and Sam looked at Dean in concern. Dean disappeared around the corner and reappeared seconds later with a medical kit.

Dean sat beside me and gestured to my leg with his large hands. "Can I?" He asked and I nodded. He brought my leg up to rest in his lap and began untying the blood soaked flannel.

The two men stood behind the couch opposite us as Crowley sat down, scrolling through his phone without a care in the world.

The flannel came off and I looked away, not wanting to see the hole in my leg. I heard a gasp and turned to see Dean looking bewildered at my leg.

"What?" I asked before looking down. My pale thigh had a thick layer of blood but there was nothing fresh.

Dean took a cloth and began to dab at the wound, looking at me for a reaction. But it didn't hurt. He did it harder and all of the blood was wiped up, ravelling a scar-free thigh.

"Was there definitely a wound?" The friendly guy in a trench coat asked.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I plugged it with my shirt."

"I felt it burning a few seconds ago." I told him and he nodded.

Feeling self conscious I lifted my leg from Dean's lap and twisted so I had both legs on the floor and was able to rest my elbows on my knees. I hide my face in my hands and tried not to cry.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and then heard Dean awkwardly clear his throat. "Hey, Elle. It's okay. We're gonna help you ok, well figure this out."

I let out a tired laugh and shook my head in my hands. "I have no idea who I am, where I am or what you people are gonna do to me. I'm willingly sitting on a strangers couch with wounds that healed in a matter of hours. With a guy who can read my thoughts, a guy that was beaten with me but is apparently fine now, his brother and the guy who sent those freaks after me."

"Hey, we can help you." Dean confirmed. I sighed and pulled myself up to look at him, I raised a brow and he took a deep breath. "I promise. And I don't break promises."

"No offence but that doesn't mean much to me."

"I wouldn't expect it to." Dean nodded with a chuckled. "But give me a chance."

Tags:

@lilulo-12

#dean winchester #dean winchester x ofc #dean winchester fanfiction #sam winchester #dean winchester x reader #crowley #castiel #jack kline #lucifer #devil #devil’s daughter #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn #supernatural fic #dean winchester fic #series #imagine

40 notes · View notes