#its like punching concrete with your fist

[westywallowing]

exploring creative careers?? who knew could be kind of fun??

[mistydeyes]

opposite of a meet cute

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summary: Not everyone can have a cute story about how they met and that's clear when you tell the story of how you met your significant other. From punches to car accidents, your way of meeting your future husband was definitely unique.

pairing: 141 x gn!reader

warnings: swearing, mild injury/violence, bodily fluids? (its someone throwing up a drink and i think you can guess who)

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price - during a bar fight

As Price walked down the Saturday night street, he kept to himself and casually peered into the busy bars and pubs. He was on his way back from his favorite cigar shop and was comforted by the brisk weather and the cacophonies of conversations. He was almost to his townhome when he passed a loud pub. His pleasant walk was interrupted by two men fighting loudly. He could hear the sounds of swearing and the sickening impact of punches being thrown. He thought of crossing the street but it was clear that this wasn’t going to end anytime soon. He watched as people just observed the fight and no one was intervening as the street was filled with the sound of fists contacting and groans. He wondered where the fuck the bouncers were and why no one had called the police yet.

"Don't be a hero, John, don't be a fucking hero," he kept saying in his mind as he watched the chaos unfold. His hands balled into fists on the warm inside of his jacket and everything was screaming at him to just continue walking. He could have just crossed the street and let someone else handle the situation. But of course, he couldn’t let these two drunk assholes continue and he went in to break up the fight. In the mayhem, a few punches were thrown his way and Price decided to deliver some defensive moves of his own. However, his punch made contact with someone other than the two drunkards. Around the same time, you were headed back to your flat after a late-night snack run and came upon the fight. You moved through the gathering crowd of cameras and jeers until you came upon the scene. Price would later make fun of your lack of self-preservation but in that moment, you decided to be a good person and tried to end the drunken punches and swears. That's how you ended with a hard punch to your nose. You swear you could see stars as you tried to stand up straight. Staggering backward, you fell onto the concrete as Price rushed over. You could feel blood drip down your lip as he helped you get back up. His eyes were filled with worry as he tried to assess the damage. Thankfully, the bouncer finally came out and put an end to the stupid brawl.

“You broken?” he asked as you sat on the bench outside the loud pub. If he hadn’t gotten you ice and piles of tissues after the punch, you would’ve thought it was a threat. Your nose was pooling blood for a few moments and the air smelled of sickly iron. “I’ll be alright, the bouncer said it wasn’t broken,” you replied as you continued to hold the ice to your throbbing nose. You chatted for a while as the pain dulled and he even offered you a cigarette. You declined as your entire face was still throbbing mildly but enjoyed that his cigar took away the smell of blood rather quickly. "That was stupid, you know?" he said to you after a long drag, "you shouldn't have intervened." You laughed and winced a little at the pain. "I'm stupid? You were the one throwing punches," you joked and you both shared a laugh.

Eventually, you felt well enough to head home and John even booked you an Uber so you wouldn’t have to walk the late-night streets back to your flat. You didn't mind the free ride and happily accepted. As you sat in silence waiting for your ride, you thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask him something. “Not to be blunt, but I’d like to see you under better circumstances,” you said and you cringed at your stuffed-up voice. He laughed and you felt a little embarrassed at your offer. “Not many people would say that after a punch,” he began as he looked at you under the glow of the pub’s sign, “but I’d like that.” You exchanged details before he led you to your Uber, making sure you were safely on the way home.

soap - in a pub

"C’mon Y/N let’s just stay for another drink,” your friend begged. This was the third pub you had been to that night and were already feeling drunk from the countless number of beers and shots. Your friend from uni was in town and she thought you were 18 again. “Alright alright one more,” you agreed and flagged down the bartender for another round of beers and a shot. "My turn to pick," you smiled and your friend flipped you off. "Two pickleback shots please plus the beers," you asked and the bartender went off to make the concoction. "You are the devil," she said as he returned and you jokingly cheered her shot glass of whiskey. You winced as you washed down the brown liquor with a shot of pickle juice. Your friend was fully gagging after. “Jesus I don’t know how you do those,” your friend joked and she hurriedly chugged her beer. “Practice,” you winked and cheered her glass. You talked about some menial topic when you were interrupted by a group of men coming in. You could tell the minute they stepped in, they were army men on leave based on their broad figures that maneuvered through the crowded pub. What was more obvious was that this probably wasn’t their first stop. You smiled slightly as you saw them laugh loudly and clumsily walk up to the counter. They found four seats next to you and you rose your glass in a toast as they ordered.

“Sorry to interrupt, but what’s a good shot here?” one of the men tapped your shoulder. You turned from your friend and smiled at his politeness. “Pickleback,” you answered and in the corner of your eye, you could see your friend shaking her head in refusal. “Four pickleback shots,” the man called to the bartender and she nodded in response. “Thanks for the recommendation, name’s Johnny by the way,” he said and stuck out his hand. You shook it gingerly and replied with a “Welcome home soldier.” “How’d you know?” he asked as the bartender delivered their drinks. “I’m real familiar with your military types,” you joked, “enjoy the shot.” With that, he turned to his comrades and they took the shot of whiskey. Two out of the four men took it effortlessly but the other two, including the mohawked one, winced. “No no no you got to take the pickle juice after,” you laughed and you pushed the glass over to Johnny. He grabbed it, some whiskey still in his mouth, and tried to swallow it.

You laughed at his disgusted face but moments later you were coated with liquor and pickle juice. Now it was his friends’ turn to start laughing. “I-I am so sorry,” he stammered as he grabbed some napkins and tried to help sop up the mess. One of his friends returned with a pile of wet paper towels. “Sorry about him, we’ll cover your tab,” the man smiled as you dabbed your shirt. “It’s really okay that shot is definitely something else,” you joked as Johnny kept trying to help. You were heading home anyways and had had much worse spit up on you, so your spirits were uncharacteristically cheery. You were about to head out when Johnny stopped you gently. “I know this was an awful first impression, but can I take ya out to a proper drink?” he asked and you could tell he was bracing for rejection. “Sure,” you smiled as your friend stood waiting. You exchanged numbers and before you left, you made sure to leave him with a sarcastic comment. “As long as no more pickle shots,” you winked and you left him embarrassed as his mates laughed hysterically.

gaz - through a car accident

Kyle prided himself on being a good driver. Naturally, his job meant he had to be ready to steal a getaway vehicle or be able to shoot and drive at the same time. It was hard not to have the same mentality when he was on leave. He drove defensively but sometimes the traffic in London made him want to drive on the shoulder and bypass the long lanes of cars. “Let’s go!” he yelled as the stop-and-go traffic was ruining his day of groceries and errands. The constant honks started to give him a headache. As he slammed on the brakes again, he couldn’t help but let out a frustrated sigh. You were in the same boat. You had just gotten out of your 9-5 and just wanted to relax at home with a book and a glass of wine. You turned up the volume on your stereo higher as the music drowned out the annoyed energy from the cars around you. You tapped your fingers on the wheel as the lights changed from red to green and the cars began to move at a snail's pace. You slowly built up speed and followed the car in front of you.

You were a little over the 48 km speed limit before the vehicle in front slammed on its brakes. You wish you had better reflexes as you rammed your car into their bumper. You held your face as the impact of the airbags left you dizzy and disoriented. You exited the car in your shaken state. Kyle was pissed at first at the driver who wasn't paying attention and the biker who entered the crosswalk. However, when he saw you holding your head, his anger turned into worry. “Are you alright?” a man called to you as you walked up to his car. “I’m so sorry,” you began to say as you looked at his dented bumper and your crushed front. “It’s my fault, some fucking biker entered the crosswalk,” he began to say as he held your chin to look at your injuries. You noticed your nose was bleeding slightly and he grabbed a tissue out of his pocket for you. “I already called the authorities, they’ll be here soon,” he replied and you both sat on the curb.

You exchanged contacts and insurance before the police finally arrived. It took a while as they had to maneuver through the afternoon traffic so it allowed you to chat with the other driver. You learned he was from the area and was actually on leave. “What a shitty way to spend it,” you joked as you watched the cars direct around the wrecked vehicles. “I’m sorry about your car,” he apologized as he started at the wreckage. “It’s alright, glad you didn’t kill that biker,” you replied and he laughed in response. You swear you wish all of your car accidents were like this. The other driver, Kyle, insisted on having them assess you for a concussion first before they went into any details. You laughed at his worry as you were more concerned about your damaged vehicle. By the time it was over, you sadly watched as your car was towed away. You stood on the sidewalk as you tried to figure out what to do next. “You find a ride?” Kyle asked as he prepared to enter his vehicle. “Yeah my friend was in the area so he’s on his way,” you smiled and he nodded. “I’ll be sure to reach out,” he replied before waving off and signaling back into the traffic.

Eventually, your friend showed up and immediately asked for all the details. You were sure to fill him in, throwing in that you were happy the other driver was as kind and as handsome as Kyle. Your friend laughed when you finished. “Don’t tell me you fancy the man who got you into an accident,” he said through a string of laughter. “Maybe I do,” you said as your fiddled with your phone, Kyle’s contact smiling back at you.

ghost - the grocery store

Ghost rarely went to the grocers. He could count the number of times he went on his two hands. Being part of the 141 meant constant last-minute deployments so he learned over the years to stock up on canned food and pasta. Spoiled milk was not a pleasant thing to return home to. As he pushed the trolley down the aisles, he grabbed some of his non-perishable favorites. You too were making your way down the aisle, grabbing some essentials for the week and mentally checking off items in your mind. You pulled your trolley over to the side as you scanned for some boxes of spaghetti. Unfortunately, the boxes in question were positioned on the highest shelf. You made a pitiful attempt to grab it until you realized it wasn’t possible without a ladder. You looked around the aisle until you found a tall man who could definitely get the job done.

You walked over as he was looking for his own boxes of penne. “Hi sorry to ask but can you-” you began to ask as he looked up. “Just tell me how many you want,” he replied and walked over down the aisle. “Observant,” you said under your breath and pointed out the ones you wanted. He grabbed them with ease and handed them to you. “Thanks again,” you smiled before holding the two boxes in hand and looking at some quinoa for a new recipe you wanted to try. As Simon pushed the trolley past another aisle, he couldn’t deny he was glad you asked him to help. He had been slightly distracted by your valiant attempt and may have spent a few extra minutes in the aisle to see if you needed help.

However, he returned to his routine and another aisle. He was scanning for a can of soup when he saw a familiar face walk away with his trolley. "Hey that's mine," he replied in a voice louder than he had intended, you turned around and jumped a little. "No it's mine," you began to say but before you could finish, he joined in front of you. 'I'm certain this is mine, I pushed it from the other aisle," he corrected and you rolled your eyes. "Well look at what's inside and tell me if you still think that way," you said and gestured to the items. Simon could feel his ears get red as he saw bottles of sweet wine and the brand of pasta he had gotten for you. You stood there arms crossed as he came to the realization. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath and looked back at you. "I think you might have grabbed it before, I have your trolley over here," you replied and motioned over to his. "I'm sorry," he said quickly and you swear that's the fastest you've ever seen anyone walk away.

Simon hurriedly finished up his groceries and realized he probably was forgetting some items. He didn't care as he shoved items onto the conveyer belt. His ears were still flush from the embarrassing altercation. As he was adding more items, another customer came into the queue behind him. “Sorry about the mix-up,” you said and he turned to look at you. You were awkwardly adding your items as he stared for a minute. “Um, it was my mistake, don’t worry about it,” he replied and you swear he looked embarrassed. You took a moment to reply before an old woman behind you spoke up. “Are you going to get his number or am I going to have to find another register?” she joked and you turned back to the man blushing. “I’m Y/N,” you began, “and I guess this is me asking for your number.” You laughed nervously as your face heated up and the grocers suddenly felt warmer than before. “Simon,” he answered quietly, “and sure.” You grabbed your phone out of your purse and traded contacts. As you walked out with your bags, you saw Simon load his car and give you a small wave. You wondered if he would like to join you for dinner sometime this week.

[love-bitesx]

May I request a hobie x fem reader

Reader is also a spider person and dating hobie. she gets in a fight with other spider people that been talking about hobie behind his back, And he just comfort her and help with her injuries.

: ̗̀➛ HONOUR. hobie brown x fem!reader

summary: after hearing fellow spider-people talking rudely about hobie, y/n defends him, taking a couples punches in the process. words: 1.6k warnings: fem reader, she/her pronouns used, mentions of blood & injury, miguels pissy like always, general mentions of fighting/violence

thank you sm for the request!! i hope i did it justice. im getting through all the asks, so pls be patient! ily all sm

"he's just a bit freaky, you know."

shoulders tensing, you eavesdropped on a pair of haphazard spider-people, their snark voices carrying through the reverberant room. you were sitting by the 'go-home machine' – aptly named – waiting for miguel to arrive and dish out orders, listening to them tattle about hobie brown.

"literally," a second voice tagged themselves in, jumping on the wagon of comments, "just turns up, acts like a prick and somehow everyone puts up with him."

chest burning, you tried to grasp your composure, gripping onto it with white knuckles – similar treatment given to the metallic desk you sat on.

first hand, you saw how hard hobie worked – having been dating him for a while now. though he lived to deny it, saying he was only in the spider society to look after you, gwen and pavitr - you constantly experienced his passion for keeping you all safe. even if its unconventional, he deserved his place here more than anyone.

"don't know what miguel was thinking bringing him here," the first spider snarled, a hint of a smirk lacing his tone, "he's useless."

stomach twisting, you physically bit down on your tongue - miguel would kill you in broad daylight if you started a fight in the headquarters (ironic, you thought, but you didn't want to bite the hand that fed you).

"freakshow, honestly," the other muttered, followed by a cold-hearted guffaw that made your blood spurt past the boiling point, "he doesn't even belong here."

as though someone had physically flipped your restraint, severing your ties, you turned to the duo, taking them by surprise when you shot a web in their direction, sticking the second man's mouth shut.

"what the hell?" the free one spun to you, stance ready.

you kept your posture strong, enraged eyes trained on him, "don’t be such a prick,” you spat through a clenched jaw. wrist aching at the urge to web him to the wall, your fingers itched.

he scoffed, stepping up to you, “i don’t think it’s any of your business, sweetheart.”

in your peripheral, your eyes caught the sight of the second spider clawing at the webs smothering his face, and you shot again – his hands now clasped together against his chest like a prayer.

a second audacious scoff sounded from the man in front of you, and a threatening tingle vibrated each and every bone of your spine – your spidey-senses alive with caution. it quickly became apparent why, when a fist flew towards the side of your head – an aggressive muttering of “oi, what do you think you’re doing?” accompanying it.

an inch before it connected, you ducked your head, crouching to the floor and kicking at the man’s knees. he buckled, falling to the ground and your fist collided with his jaw. your rage clouded your vision, adrenaline pumping through your veins like a poison. knuckles aching, pulled back, you webbed him to the concrete.

“y/n?” margo called from behind you, and you turned to see her. eyes wide like saucers, she looked at you with confusion.

“they start—” you couldn’t even finish your sentence when a powerful blow hit the side of your cheek, knocking you to the side, hip smashing into the corner of a desk.

shielding yourself with your arms, you caught vision of your attacker; the first man you webbed had freed himself, pouncing to you in defence. yelling something ending in “bitch”, he swung again, crashing into your ribs and you groaned in pain, connecting your web to a beam just behind him, pulling yourself away from his towering stance. with your new advantage, though winded, you raised your wrist to web him once more, when the huge, mechanical doors swung open.

“what the hell is going on in here?” miguel’s booming voice thundered across each vibrating wall, and you both froze, your arm gripped around your aching ribcage.

accompanying him was a cluster of spider-people, excluding your boyfriend. they took a second to adjust to the darkness of the room, before they halted at the scene in front of him.

“she went crazy, miguel!” the man on the floor shouted in defence, and your chest was heaving so heavily, you were at a loss for words.

“y/n, what happened?” gwen’s tone was soft, you could feel them approaching, your adrenaline draining through your body – taking any comprehensible inhibition with it.

“he swung at me!” you barked back, and the feeling of everyone’s eyes on you made your chest swell in anger, “don’t spin this on me when they’re the ones who started it.”

“we didn’t do anything!” unwebbing themselves from the floor, you stared at them, your eyes alive with rage, “she just came at us for no reason. she’s crazy, man.”

“i’m not—”

“enough! all of you!” miguel’s voice was heavy with anger, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t send a shot of fear to pierce your chest, breaking through the bone.

“i don’t care what happened,” he spat, looking at you like you were dirt on his shoe, “you two,” he pointed at your attackers, “get out.”

without a word of complaint, they filtered out behind your petrifying boss, and his enraged eyes fell on you.

"you," he paused, stepping until his lofty stature towered you, "you're one of our best, and you're picking stupid fights?"

"you don't understand, they–" you tried, grasping desperately at your side.

"i don't care what happened," he repeated his earlier quip, "it's not happening again, got it?"

reluctantly, you nodded, and he could practically see the flames in your iris, it burnt you to give over.

"go home, y/n."

"miguel–" gwen tried to intervene, but miguel wasn't paying attention.

"go home."

sitting on your bathroom counter, you struggled with the first-aid kit, hands trembling in pain as you attempted to patch up the skin that sat split open on your cheekbone. frustrated, you slammed the bandages and compact mirror down on the hard surface, chest burning with annoyance.

spine fuzzing, you felt the empty space change in your apartment, the tingling of static air putting you on edge.

"darlin'? you in 'ere?" hobie's rich voice carried through the walls, and you sighed in relief.

"hobie?" the bathroom door creaked open and he was standing there, dark eyes taking in your wounded appearance.

"fucking 'ell," he muttered, booted feet taking him to you, calloused hands gentle against your cheeks.

"you should see the other guy," a half-hearted smile played at your lips and you were melting into him, your anger subsiding, "well, guys."

"i heard," his expression didn't change, but his eyes scanned your open wound, "gwen wanted me to tell you she thinks you're badass."

a chuckle resonated in your throat, and you immediately regretted it as the vibration shot a bullet of pain through your bruised ribs. that's what hobie's mood shifted, his brows furrowed in worry and lifting your chin to him.

"what 'appened, pretty?" he reached for the first-aid kit, pushing your legs open to step between them – he tended to your wound softly, "can you tell me?"

hesitation brung you to a halt and you bit your lip. you had fought over him, defending him when he couldn't, but part of you wasn't sure how he would react. he saw this, sensing the tension in your chest, and longed to catch a glimpse inside your mind.

"look, i can't 'ave my girl get done up and not tell me what 'appened," a flash of his teeth as he smiled, and you reflected this, a tired grin on your lips.

"it was just," you sighed, wincing as he pressed a cloth to your cut, "they were being so rude."

"about you, darlin'? good on ya, defending yourself," he muttered affirmingly, dabbing the blood away.

"about you."

he stopped then. your eyes darted across his face for any signs of a reaction, nerves building in your throat. seconds of silence followed, and the air between you both almost dissipated as the tension grew. hobie squashed it, though.

pulling your face to his, he kissed you. lips warm with passion and respect, they melted together. hand falling to your waist, you were flush against him, the heat of his body overwhelming any of the pain pulsing in your skin. relief washed over you instantly. stress from the day just withering away at the power of his adoration.

breaking the kiss, hobie rested his forehead against yours, both chests heaving in tandem.

"you didn't 'ave to do that, darlin'," he muttered, and his brain was so conflicted. whilst his heart raced at the thought of you putting yourself in harms way to defend him, he felt guilty at how much pain it put you in to do so.

"you know i'd do anything for you, hobie." and his heart settled at that statement, nuzzling itself in the all-encompassing feeling of love overcoming him.

not feeling the need to do anything else, he kissed you again, this time with such a force you leaned back under the weight of him, shoulders pressed into the mirror. he was gripping your thighs, as to not tamper with the swelling bruise on your hip, and you succumbed to your boyfriend, lost in his touch, pouting when he pulled away.

"miguel's well pissed at you, by the way," he chuckled, cheeks flushed, massaging the skin of your thigh.

"i'm surprised it didn't happen earlier," you giggled, not excited to return to hq and see him again when needed.

placing a trail of kisses from your forehead to your lips, hobie's eyes softened.

"so proud of you, pretty."

[8siangemini]

Listen my guy I got something I want to request like it's angst like ANGST ANGST bro like ite miles 45 fighting spider women or man reader and miles won and killed us and when he took of the mask it was us! HIS GIRLFRIEND OR BOYFRIEND! Like and can you recreate the scene when Peter got killed by king pin? But it's us and miles

Don't have to do this request and if you do can you make it angst with no happy ending or fluff? Unless it's at the beginning or he's remembering happy moments with us

🧑🏼‍🦲👹

I Am So Sorry Mi Ángel (Earth 42 Miles x Spiderwoman!Reader)

Summary: Up on top :)

WARNINGS: Gore and angst, mentions of death and killing

Author’s Note: I would love to do this!! Sorry it took so long I just figured out how to get my inbox 🥲 Anyways I didn’t know how much I liked and how good I was writing angst even though I don’t read it often 😭 also after writing this I was thinking about write a part 2 if anyone wants one 🤫

You’re on your last leg, your last breath. You layed underneath the ruble of the colapsed collider with your back against a broken piece of concrete. A pain spread through your body from your ribs, your ankles were very likely to be sprained or even broken, your back was scratched and sore, you wre in pain. It was hard to breath even though you were trying to relax. But you knew you couldn’t, you needed to run from the Prowler.

You heard footsteps from the rubble and you snap your head up, which caused a painful cramp to spasm your head. There he was, the Prowler, right in front of you with his claw open, walking up to you like a predator. You flip your body over meekly onto your stomach and tried to crawl away pathetically. Fear spread through your body, there was nothing you could do you were going to be killed, a meer teenager.

You feel a strong hand on the back of your neck and you eyes widened in fear. Your limp body is lifted up and turned around to face the mask you feared the most. His non-clawed hand holding you up by your throat, your airway being blocked. You begin to cough and your vision goes blurry as it goes in and out. Your hands try and pry the hand off but the grip only got stronger.

His claw wide open, slashes at your gut, an immediate feeling of warm blood began to run down your legs. You couldn’t yell, you couldn’t scream, you couldn’t do anything. This was the end of the line for you, you won’t be able to see your parents, you won’t be able to keep the city safe, you won’t be able to be here for your Miles.

The claw balls up into a fist and punches you in the gut. Your mouth falls open, pain staticing throughout your whole body, everything began to feel cold, there was no more warmth in your body.

The only thought you could conjure was Miles. You were not going to see Miles anymore, this morning at school was the last time you were going to see Miles. You won’t be able to have the feeling of love from him no more. Then a different pain went through your body when a single reminder went through your head, you were going to give Miles the bracelet you made for him tomorrow, for your one year anniversary. The bracelet which beads were made from the roses he gave you last month for Valentine’s Day.

“M-miles…” The last thought and last word you said before fate took you.

The Prowler looked at you with wide eyes. Your blood dripped down his claw as he withdrew it from your stomach. Your body fell limp in his hand and he carefully placed your down on the concrete. He took his hand off of your neck and looked down at your lifeless body. He then realized, by the maturity of your body you were only a teenager, no older than him.

His heart raced at the realization that he had taken a teenager’s life. Just as he was about to get up he thought about it, people are going to know who Spider-Woman is. He wanted to know, he needed to know who he killed and not just Spider-Woman.

He liftd his finger underneath the hem of your mask and his heart dropped. Just from the lips and nose he knew who it was. He had kissed those lips just a few hours ago, he had kissed that nose when you fell asleep on his chest. He fully yanked your mask off and his fear and regret fell over him. His mask retracted and now it was just you and him, face to face. His own love in front of him, lifeless, due to him. The claw retracted from his hand from a loud thud and he quickly pulled your shoulders up and held you against his chest.

The tears finally fell, his lips quivered, and a loud cry of distress came from his lungs. He buried his nose into your neck which was bruised from his hand.

“Mi c-corazon…” He cried out as he pulled you away and looked at your face.

Your body limp in his hand as one of his hands held your back and the other up to your cheek. Your eyes were lifeless, cloudy, and your mouth was agape with small drips of blood from your lips. He hated this cite of you, he wanted to protect you from the world. He would have burned down the world for you, he wanted to in this very moment if that he meant he could have you back. He was a monster.

“No, no, no, no, mi corazon please.” Miles cried out helpless remarks as he eagerly moved his hand around your body.

First from your face, to your neck hoping that he could find a pulse, none. Then to your chest, no heartbeat. Then to your wrist, no pulse. He looked at your eyes as his eyes filled with tears, they use to be so full of love and happiness. He imaged your smile that caused your eyes to close, but your face was nothing like that. No happiness, no smile, just lifeless.

He looked up as his tears fell down his cheeks. He held to your body, knowing this would be the last time he could ever touch you again.

“You,” He said talking to God. “you gotta be playing games with me. First my pops now her.” He pleaded. “Why her?”

He cried into your hair as he closed your eyes with his fingers. He held your face as he pressed a kiss onto your forehead. Your skin was cold which made him cry more. His lips went down to your’s, hoping he could feel a sign of life from them. There was none, there was no press back from you as he kissed your lips, they were cold. Miles drew away only a couple inches away from your lips as his lips quivered in front of you.

“I am so sorry mi ángel.”

——

He walked around your empty cold room as he heard his mom talking to your parents just in the living room.

“I am so sorry for your lost.” He heard his mom say.

He looked around the room full of posters with clothes pouring out of your closet. It felt like the skin of you, the room looked like you but had none of the happiness it use to give him every time he came into it to find you on your bed. It felt cold and empty, lifeless. Today would have been your guys’ one year anniversary, the thought of it weighted on his heart. He walked over to your desk to see what your last art projects were to try and salvage any part of you so he could possibly keep you in his life.

There were multiple drawings and sketches of him that you drew to practice anatomy on your pinboard above your desk. There were many pictures pinned as well with you two. He looked down and he saw a small gift bag on your desk. He opened the tag which read, To: Mi Vida From: Tu Corazón. His heart picked up.

He hesitantly pulled out the tissue paper and saw a small bracelet a long with a card. He pulled out the card and took the letter out of the envelope.

‘Happy One Year Mi Vida!!!

365 days later and you still deal with me. I made your gift (like always) out of the roses you gave me for Valentine’s Day :). I love you so much Miles and I can’t wait for more years to come <3.

-Love, Tu Corazón’

A pain came to Miles’ heart, knowing that there will be no more years to come with you and him together. He reaches inside of the bag and pulls out an elastic beaded bracelet with dark red beads. He immediately put it on his wrist and reached I side of his jacket pocket. He pulled out your torn up, bloody mask from last night. It was one of the last things he had of you left. He held it to his forehead, imagining that your face is still underneath the mask to comfort him. But it wasn’t.

He had destroyed you with his own hands, he could not forgive himself for that. He had killed the one person that saw him in the way he didn’t, an actual human being and not a monster. But now after what he did he could only think of himself as a monster.

“I am so sorry, mi corazón.” He said through silent cries as he kept your mask close to his face.

[clockwayswrites]

A Broken Sort of Normal, Part 16

WC: 756 , Masterpost CW: We loop to the start and that entails The attacks start in northern Africa. It jumps from Algeria to Egypt, across the sea to Saudi Arabia to Turkey and into Europe. By the time it hits Metropolis, resources are already stretched thin. Danny is calling in every contact, every possible help, while he follows the worst of it himself, constantly organizing the next area of triage.

As he’s attempting to wrap the tourniquet around Barry’s leg, blood slicked hands failing him, it hits Danny like one of Superman’s punches.

They are going to lose.

Barry reaches out and grips a weak hand around Danny’s wrist. “Kid?”

It’s still a stupid nickname, but through all these years Barry still used it. Through the years of dinners and disasters and Danny being welcomed into Barry’s family at Wally’s side.

And now all these wonderful, heroic, brave people that Danny had come to be friends with are going to die. The monologue happening in the middle of the street made that much clear. No hero would be spared; any chance of a future uprising would be snuffed out this very day.

Because they are going to lose.

Danny smiles softly at Barry and pries his hand away.

“Kid, whatever you’re thinking—” Barry could have no idea what Danny is thinking. No one can.

No one can, because no one knows what Danny can do.

He leaves his bag by Barry. Most of the supplies have been used up, but maybe there is still something in it that will help people.

He just wants to help people.

The monologue cuts off as Danny approaches, feet sliding on the loose concrete around the edge of the crater that the imposing figure stands in. He manages not to fall, though, and strides past Superman with his head held high. He will not cower in front of death. He faced death once before and even though this time means becoming nothing, he will not cower as he faces it again.

He has to look up to meet the being’s eyes. There’s only cruelty there. The mouth twists in a cold smirk. “Has it come to this? That they send their healer to face me?”

“No.” Danny could hear Barry shouting his name. “They didn’t send me, I came by myself.”

The laugh raises the hair on the back of Danny’s neck, but he doesn't move away.

“Pathetic! You presume yourself to be the last line of defense? You, a mere medic? You are no hero and yet you dare to stand before me? Do you not think that I could break you with a single fist?”

Danny smiles softly, and raises his hand. The man doesn’t even move, so utterly sure that Danny poses him no threat. Danny rests his hand on the man’s chest. He has to reach up to do so.

The smirk turns into a sneer. “Or do you intend to appeal to some ideal of compassion? To try and change my heart? To ask me to spare your heroes?”

Superman is screaming at him now as he struggles to stand. Danny hears him fall again.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the man who would try to rule them all with nothing but death in his wake.

“No,” Danny says, tilting his head just slightly. His eyes scan over the hardened face again. “No, I don’t think I can do that. You’ve made a mockery of death for so long that your heart is hardened. It’s a good thing I don’t need it soft.”

Intangibility is as comfortingly familiar as it is horrifying to feel again. Danny shudders as it washes over him. His hand sinks, sickeningly, through armor and skin and bone to wrap around that hardened, beating heart.

It thuds once in his grip.

Danny yanks his hand back.

Danny pulls that heart from its chest.

The man gasps— the sound a pale imitation of a breath— and then he falls.

Like he was nothing.

Less than nothing.

A man that will only be remembered with hatred.

The massive heart slips from Danny’s limp fingers. It hits the ground with a wet squelch.

Danny wavers, eyes turning up to the sky where hundreds of clones are falling like horrifying intimidations of shooting stars. A soft smile spreads over his face.

He had done it.

Will people remember him?

It isn’t why he did it.

He just wants to help people.

Wanted to.

Was someone calling his name?

There had only been one chance. It was all he needed.

They would be safe now.

Everyone would be safe.

Humanity, Barry, Iris, the Titans…

Wally…

“Danny!”

---

AN: And here we are, back in present tense (thank you @mokulule for correcting all my slips back to past tense my migrained brain didn't catch.

I would say Danny used his one moment well, wouldn't you?

But this isn't quite the end. Now that we're back in the present... I think it's about time we saw somethings from Wally's POV, don't you?

I no longer tag, you can subscribe to the masterpost instead!

[b33zlebubz]

RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER SIX - run, hide, fight

TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC)

PREV CHAPTER || MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace you still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

Arriving at this new base brings many changes.  Some good, others frustrating.  The best of which being a new phone, wiped clean of anything that could track you, and a new room.

It's a bit bigger, this time.  The bed is less of a cot and more like something you would be given at the residencies you used to find yourself in and out of; and it's quite the relief for your sore back.  There’s enough space to wander and even a desk with a window, overlooking more concrete buildings and bleak snow.  This time, though, you don't let yourself rot between your sheets.  After you get about ten hours of sleep, you get up, get dressed, and become acquainted with the new base.

It's different.  Much, much bigger.  Soldiers of all kinds dart around from several different countries you can't quite pinpoint, and you feel very out of place in hoodies and jeans while everyone else seems to be in some important uniform.  You see Soap in the hallway and briefly come across Laswell just as she arrives to meet Price, but other than that you don't see any of the others often.  They seem content to leave you to your own devices—let you linger with them in the dining hall, squished between Price and Gaz as the others talk.  Occasionally they’d leave the base, leaving you continuously more restless and bored as the days pass and nothing new happens.

This leads you to where you stand now, aimlessly wandering down the barren hallways of the base, late at night.  You had intended to go find something to snack on if the D-fac was still open, but instead you find your curiosity leading you down a dark, liminal hallway you haven’t yet familiarized yourself with.  A few people eye you as you pass, others turning to get a second glance—but you barely pay them any mind.

Eventually, you find yourself in some kind of training room.

It's empty; save for mirrors across the walls and a cushioned floor that sinks below your shoes.  There's a worn punching bag pressed off in the corner and someone's gym bag laying abandoned next to it.  The lights are off, though, and you find yourself staring back at your reflection in the mirror.  The bruises on your eye are beginning to yellow.

Fists clench and unclench; a buzzing, restless energy in your veins.

You glance around and listen back down the hallway, waiting to be seen and reprimanded for being somewhere without clearance.  Footsteps don’t echo down the hall, or talking, or anything of the sort…so, you approach the bag tentatively.

You push it, first, and your brow furrows as you realize it's heavier than you thought.  The recoil nearly sends you flat on your ass and you stumble back a few steps, surprised.  Your hands ball into fists and you land an experimental punch to the object, and you feel the impact down your arm and into your elbow.  A curse leaves your mouth as you shake the ache out of your fist, and the sound echoes slightly in the silent room.

How did they do it?  How did that kid punch you hard enough to leave a bruise, but walk away uninjured?  Was it muscle?  The element of surprise?  What did he have over you that you didn’t?

“Fix your thumb.”

You jump and whip around to face the door.  Ghost is there.

He’s leaning against the side of the doorway, tattooed arms crossed over his chest.  There is a towel over his shoulder and in the light you can see the dark marks of sweat staining the black t-shirt he wears.  You think it's safe to assume he's at least a little bit psychotic, because he's exercising this late at night and still wearing the balaclava.  This time, however, it's hiked up over his nose—revealing where faint scars jut through the blond stubble on his chin.  His expression is neutral, if maybe a little bit annoyed that you’re in the room he was previously using.

His eyes narrow at you and your shoulders straighten. Your fists lower slightly with surprise and initial panic, but it fades a little as you process the command he gives you.

"What?”  You breathe, trying to keep your voice level.

“Fix your thumb,” he says again, cocking his head slightly and gesturing towards you with a gloved hand.  You notice, with slight amusement, that his gloves have a skeletal pattern on them.  “You punch like that, you’ll break it.  Keep it over your other fingers and try again.”

You give him a strange look, confused.  You had expected him to shoo you out, maybe snap at you a little—not give you advice on how to fix yourself. Nevertheless, you do as he says.  You situate your thumbs over your other fingers and punch the bag again.  This time, it doesn’t ache as bad.  You throw a few more punches, and still the punching bag barely moves.

“You’re barely bloody hitting it, kid.”

“Trying,” you huff between hits, frustrated.  “Not exactly buff like you guys.”

“You don’t need to be strong; you just need to be smart.”

You launch your fist again with a grunt, but suddenly he’s got a hand on your arm, stopping you.  Your face whips around to snap at him and he stares back at you with a look of calm resolve.  His eyes are dark behind the smudge of sweat and eye black, and you can almost picture how his face looks, this close.  His hold on your arm tightens and you grimace, flashes of a facial scar and a southern accent cutting through your mind.

“I’m not meant for this,”  you argue. 

“Maybe not,”  he hums in response.  “But you’re not helpless.  Where’s the kid who put up a fight last week?  Who took a chunk out of Soap’s arm?”

“That kid was panicking.”

“That kid was angry,” he presses, nearly interrupting.  “And tired of being pushed around, yeah?”

You’re biting your cheek so hard it hurts, but his words strike a chord within you.  You tilt your head in a nod of agreement, and your fists clench again.  You swallow thickly.

“So tell me how you did it the first time.”

You close your eyes tight, digging deep into your memory of last week.  You barely remember doing it—biting Soap’s arm and kicking free, distracting him long enough to stumble down the steps.  You remember the coppery taste of blood in your mouth, the split second where you nearly gagged from it, how you still taste it in your nightmares and wake up retching from the memory.

“I bit him,” you strain.  “Then I kicked him.”

“Where?”

“In the dick.”

“Always a good option,” Ghost shifts his stance behind you.  “What else could you have done?”

You wrack your thoughts, and it's then you notice his head is above yours, his neck exposed.  You jut your elbow into it and he shifts to stop it.  You gasp, surprised by the sudden movement, and the dog tags around your neck swing in front of your face.  

“Good,” he grunts.  “If it were anyone else that hit would’ve landed.”

You let out a breath.  Your heart slows its incessant thumping as you roll your shoulders and right yourself again, rubbing the sore spot on your collar where he had you restrained.  "Even on Soap?"

"On an off day, maybe."  He responds with a nod, before turning to saunter over to his gym bag.  "Soap's strong---but he's smarter.  To win a fight against him you'd have to catch him off guard."

You scoff, "You're making it sound like he actually plans to fight me."

"Just…hypothetically.  Doesn't have to be Soap.  Him and Graves are a lot alike."

"So I've heard," you mumble, rubbing your sore neck as Ghost throws the gym bag over his shoulder.  He turns to face you one last time with one last word of advice.

"Keep your head on and you'll be fine if anything comes up," he says.  "Run first, hide second, fight as a last resort."

You run a thumb across your red knuckles in thought, your brow furrowed as Ghost gathers his things and leaves without another word.

Run first, hide second, fight third.

His words repeat in your head as you leave the gym to go back to bed, and they continue to echo in your brain throughout the rest of the week.

The strange routine continues.  You find yourself walking to the training room often, finding him there, and letting off some steam for a few hours before returning to bed.  He doesn't ask why you keep coming, and you don't ask why he keeps agreeing to spar with you; you just appear and jump into it.  Sometimes you talk, sometimes you don't, but it isn't really anything substance other than his clipped version of small talk and fighting advice.

You're up in time to meet the others for breakfast in the mornings, so other than a raised eyebrow from Price at the bruises on your knuckles, he doesn't question it.

"Maybe I punch the walls in my sleep," you say with a shrug whenever Soap is the first one to point it out, earning a chuckle from Gaz who sits to your right.  You glance up at Ghost to see his eyes crinkle a little, but he doesn't usually regard you much at the table on a good day, anyway.

"Definitely wouldn't be the weirdest thing," Gaz juts a fork in Soap's direction.  "Pretty sure this bloke's a sleep-wanker."

Soap smacks Gaz's arm and the British soldier chuckles.

“Nah,” Ghost pipes in. “But I did catch 'em sleeping with an AR-15 underneath his pillow like he was gonna kill the fuckin' tooth fairy.” 

Soap begins to defend himself, his mouth full of cold military food. "I was piss drunk.  And it was right after Macarov.  Gimme a break."

"You're piss drunk now, Sergeant."  Price comments.

"M’not drunk.  Hungover."

Gaz leans over slightly to explain, holding a hand to his face as if it was a secret; "he tried out-drinking Ghost last night."

"Really?"  You smile a little over a glass of orange juice.  "And how'd that go over?"

"Bloody hilarious," Ghost interjects, earning a smack to the shoulder from Soap.

You were seeing more and more of what they were like outside the battlefield, now—slowly grasping a hold on their personalities.  They were quite the group whenever they weren’t actively terrifying and you figure, despite how they didn’t seem to agree with your presence at the start, they were starting to warm up to you.

Maybe that was Price's intention, inviting you to meals with the others when you started leaving your room more.

"'Should take the kid, next time," Gaz suggests suddenly, causing your head to perk up again at the same time Soap's does.  "Get 'em off base for a bit."

Price sighs, shaking his head.  "I don't know, Gaz…"

"I'm seventeen," you argue.  "That's technically almost an adult, here."

"Still not old enough to drink."

"Alright, then I won't drink."  You shrug.  "Or start any wars.  Promise."

You think, maybe, they all can read each other's thoughts from the amount of time they spend together—because Price's eyes sweep from Soap, to Ghost, then back to you and Gaz as he takes account of everyone's opinions on the matter.

Then, he lets out a breath, shaking his head.

"Fuckin' hell," he chuckles.  "Alright.  Don't see why not…next time we're out, we'll take you with."

You crack a grateful smile, happy to have something to look forward to after all this chaos is over.  It's short-lived, though, because Soap scoffs—lifting himself from his crossed arms to lean back in the seat.

"Price," he speculates.  "Aren’t they supposed t'be hidin'?”

Something thuds under the table, and by the heated look Soap and Ghost immediately shoot each other, you think it's safe to say Ghost kicked him.  Before you can open your mouth to retort, however, Price beats you to it.

"They've done a damn good enough job of hiding so far, Sergeant."

"They're a kid.  What could they possibly know about anything?"

Your brow furrows.  This time, though, you find your voice.

"The hell did I ever do to you?"  You ask, fists tightening under the table.  "I didn't ask to be here."

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly go to bootcamp so that I could babysit some orphan, either."

"MacTavish," Price's tone is thick with the closest thing to anger you've heard from him so far.  "Come off it."

The table is silent.  Ghost sits up straighter in his seat and Gaz clears his throat awkwardly.  You narrow your eyes at Soap, your heart rate beginning to pick up in your chest.  

"Do you have a problem with my dad or something?" You press.  "Because I'm not him."

"Aye, you’re not him, and that’s exactly the fuckin’ problem,”  he retorts quickly, jutting his finger into the wood of the table.  “You’re just his deadbeat, spoiled kid who he left behind after he brough a whole fuckin’ mission.”

Your chair launches backwards when you stand forcefully to your seat, rage running hot in your veins.  Soap seems a little surprised at your sudden outburst—eyebrows raised as he watches you stand.  

“You don’t fucking talk about him,” you all but snarl, hands on the table.  “This isn’t about him.  You didn’t know him, and you don’t know me.”

"Tell 'em, kid," Ghost murmurs, unfazed by your temper.

"Ghost, you're not helping."

"Good."

"You’re right.  We don’t know you.  Which is why we shouldn’t give you special treatment just because you’re some bigwig’s kid,"  Soap stands as well, looming over you.  You hold his gaze as he talks.  "You were bound to get roped into this shit sooner or later, and y'knew that.  S'not the time for you to play the scared-little-kid card.”

“I am not fucking scared.”

“Then why did you run?  Bite me?  Why won’t you hand over the fucking codes?”

Your heart beats wildly in your chest.  Your mouth opens, but you don’t have an answer.  You never had the answers—and you don't have a response.  Instead, you scowl and avert your gaze.

“That’s right.  You’re just some fucking charity case,”  He points a finger into your chest.  "Just the fucking delinquent mutt the C.I.A. dragged in that’s better off back in the system that made you this way.”

Something boils over, then.  Two weeks of fear and uncertainty melting into something like molten lava.  It's wicked and hot and sharp as it floods your chest and moves your muscles before you even have a chance to think clearly.  Before you realize it—your knuckles collide with the side of Soap's cheek with a pain that burns so good it's invigorating.

The table erupts in shouts and curses, and Price grabs your arm.  You try to wretch free, but it's no use, and you're dragged around the corner and out of earshot.  When you finally pull your arm away, he grabs it again, pulling you close so he can whisper.

“The fuck has gotten into you?”  

“Did you not hear any of that?”  You retort.  “You aren’t gonna fucking back me up?!”

“You make it a little hard to when you’re knocking my sergeant’s teeth out, mate.”

You grit your teeth.  “It was long fucking overdue, and you know that.”

Price sighs.  Aggravated, he squeezes the bridge of his nose between his fingers, shaking his head.  “This was a bad idea…”

“Then let me help!”  You grab his sleeve as he pulls away, desperate.  Now that the words have started, you found it hard to stop them.  “He’s right.  I’m a fucking burden.  I don’t know shit about anything.  Not the fucking codes, not how to fight, how to make bombs or shoot a gun—I’m terrified and I’m useless and I’m fucking tired of it!”

“No.”  Price breathes, meeting your gaze again.  “I made a promise I’d keep you safe.  Keep you out of this.”

“To who?  My dead dad you never met?”  You laugh bitterly through the tears that prick your eyes.  “I have nothing, Price.  I haven’t for years.  And now you guys show up and give me an opportunity to make something of myself and you think I’m just going to be okay with hiding?”

He scowls.  Seeming conflicted, or just trying not to lose his patience and yell at you, he turns away.  You turn to hold his gaze, preventing it.

"Look, you've done a lot for me and I appreciate it.  I do.  But this is the only thing I'm gonna ask of you."

You squeeze the sleeve of his fatigues.

“Let me avenge my dad, Price,”  you’re begging now, looking up at him.  “Please.”

You hold his stare for a while.  Blue eyes soften, just slightly, as he considers your words.  Considers you.  You think, maybe, he might actually look unsure of himself and his next words as he stares at you, and his mouth opens as if he’s about to say something.

Then, the room is engulfed in a red light.  

You yelp at the alarms that sound—latching onto his arm.  John’s head whips around, confused, to the light above the door that flashes red across the room.  You hear footsteps and yelling before Gaz appears in the doorway, eyes wide and out of breath.

“Captain,” he pants.  “We gotta move.  Graves found us.”

@brokenpieces-72 @warenai @karurururu @pertinentpostmortem @kaoyamamegami @hayleybarnesx @nostalgialeech @scuftryo @0alk0msan @synthe4u @stunkbiggu @bebobeboben

[publicenemy212]

Filthy (Lute x fem!sub!reader)

Warnings: smut, dubcon, descriptions of violence, fingering, gagging, choking, knifeplay, degradation, sadomasochism dynamics

crossposted from AO3 under public_enemy_212. requests open for any hellaverse wlw pairings or f!reader

word count: 1280

NSFW under the cut

“You disgust me.”

The angel’s voice hissed, mere inches away from my ear. I groaned in response, my lips sticky and wet with my own blood. Her gloved hand grasped my hair with enough force to make me feel like my scalp was ripping off. Perhaps, at that point, that was the only thing keeping my eyes open. Without warning, she threw my face towards the pebbled alleyway ground.

My skull cracked on impact. The world faded to nothing, but only for a moment. Curse my new body and its resilience.

Sharp pain exploded in my chest as the exorcist sent a flying kick directly at my chest. I whimpered in agony and helplessness.

“Aww, does that hurt?” she purred mockingly. “The little sinner’s regretting her choices now?”

With effort, I painstakingly lifted my head off the filth-stained dirt to face the angel. All I could see was a blur of white and gray against the dark red background of Pentagram City. Extermination Day was almost over. I just had to survive until then.

I opened my mouth to speak and immediately fell into a coughing fit. Fresh blood splattered out, painting the concrete crimson. Hacking and spluttering for another minute, I forced out my words.

“Y-yes, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please—”

I heaved again. Fuck. The angel clicked her tongue impatiently as she stood with arms crossed, watching me vomit up more internal bleeding.

So much pain. So much pain. Hurts. Everything hurts.

I fell over onto my side again, groaning and panting for air.

“Are you done?”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, you’re wasting your time with me…” I rasp weakly. 

If pleading for my life wouldn’t work, I might as well try sucking up to her ego.

I prayed to God, Satan, whoever would listen; if only the exterminator would just move on to find other victims and leave me alone.

To my dismay, she only began to laugh.

Despair washed over my broken body. Was there no end to this torture?

“Wasting my time? No, no. I’ve already killed my fair share of your filthy kind. Now, it’s my turn to have a bit more fun by making you suffer slowly before I eventually kill you too.”

A sob bubbled out of my bloodied throat. I crumbled to the ground once more.

“Lute. Remember this name. It’s the last thing you’ll hear before you die.”

Something flipped inside me as all the pain and terror suddenly turned into indignancy and rage. Gritting my teeth, I summoned all my willpower to drag myself up. Glaring, I snarled, “You call yourself an angel? After making thousands of souls suffer and die a second death, as if dying once wasn’t enough?”

“It’s what you sinners deserve.” Lute brandished her sword, as if challenging me to take another step forward.

I was walking into a certain death, that I was sure of. But she was going to kill me regardless; why not try to fight back?

Claws out, I lunged forward unsteadily. In response, the angel flew forward at an inhuman speed and chokeslammed me directly into a wall. I scrabbled helplessly at her grip.

Lute roared with sadistic laughter.

Leaning closer, she whispered, “Can’t speak? Devil got your tongue?”

Fighting my survival instincts, I let go of her fingers around my neck…

…and sent my fist flying towards her face.

The blow landed squarely, shattering the glass of the exorcist mask.

“FUCK!” Lute screamed in shock. The surprise loosened her grip, allowing me to breathe only slightly more easily for a second. She ripped off the broken helmet with one hand and tossed it aside, using the same hand to punch me in the jaw.

I grinned at her distress. So it was possible to get under these exorcist angels’ skin. I decided, for my own cynical entertainment, to take it a step further.

“There is no way you don’t get off to this,” I croaked.

Lute growled in frustration. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

Her eyes flicked to the entryway of the dingy alley. No one was watching. The only sounds were the occasional distant screaming and the sound of my pained moaning and wheezing.

Her golden eyes slid back to the demon under her control, narrowing as she gritted her teeth.

She leaned in and kissed me with a fervor reminiscent of a starved animal. Her hand slackened again, her body pressing against mine. My blood smeared on her soldier’s uniform, mixing with the various splatters of her other, unluckier victims from earlier in the day. When we finally broke, gasping for air, Lute let go of my neck and stepped back. She drew her saber once more and pressed it against my bruised throat.

I whimpered and pressed my legs together, desperate to relieve the growing need between my thighs.

Lute was absolutely taken aback and scowled in disgust at my reaction.

“ Filthy. ”

Yet, against her own venom-laced words, her other hand slid down my body. 

“ Worthless .”

Two fingers pressed against my cunt.

My eyes screwed shut. I didn’t even know what I was feeling anymore. Pain from my injuries mixed with lust and pleasure at the angel’s ghosting touch. Oh, agony. Pure, sweet agony.

“...Are you serious? Does beat within an inch of your life turn you on that much?”

With that, she shoved her fingers into my mouth. I gagged at the sudden intrusion while she continued to finger-fuck my mouth with no breaks, generously coating her hand with my saliva and blood. Once she was satisfied, she drew her hand out and slapped me so hard my eyeballs shook in my skull. I moaned loudly and Lute immediately smacked her palm back over my mouth.

“Shut the fuck up before somebody finds us.” She hissed dangerously.

Once she was sure no other angels were coming, she sighed and returned her attention to me. Lute ripped off a chunk of my tattered clothes and shoved it in my mouth as a makeshift gag. 

Her hand then returned to my pants, sliding beneath the fabric and between my slick folds. She wasted no time in dipping right into my hole, using three fingers immediately without giving me any time to adjust. I yelped in pain, but the gag muffled any words I had. Lute grinned and leaned directly next to my ear.

“What’s the problem? It hurts? This is your punishment for going against Heaven, so you better fucking take it.”

Drool and tears collected at my chin, mixing together before dripping to the ground. My body threatened to lose consciousness with each brutal thrust. My head fell forward and landed on Lute’s armored shoulder as I continued to babble incoherently, the exorcist pushing me for orgasm after orgasm with no mercy. Only after I finally passed out from the sheer exhaustion of hours of getting fucked up and being straight up fucked did she pull out and toss my limp body aside.

Much to my disappointment, I woke up again to Lute kicking me repeatedly.

“Hey. Get up.”

Her boot pushed my head face-up to check if I was conscious. I stared at her, bleary-eyed. “You’re still alive? Huh. That works for me. I want you to watch me kill you.”

A flash of light. Warm liquid started gushing out of my chest. I looked down slowly to see the divine metal sunken halfway through my chest. Lute then yanked her blade out effortlessly and walked away without a word, leaving me to bleed out in a pool of my blood and cum.

The siren signaling the end of this year’s Extermination Day was the last thing I heard before eternal darkness swallowed me whole.

[sunflowersteves]

hello lovely!! can i request some protective!miguel who saves his love from a villain?

jo!!! my love!!! of course u can 😌 i made it so miguel loves r so much he gives up canon events HELLO I-

pairing || miguel x f!reader

warnings || injury, blood, violence, angry miguel, protective miguel, we're also pretending his venom heals, this is so much more angsty than i thought

Blood.

The thick, dripping red liquid started to stain the concrete floors of the abandoned building. Miguel smelt the coppery substance before his eyes landed on the ground, then following the source and he could feel every single muscle on his body tense.

Your abdomen.

Miguel wasn't sure when it happened. You weren't sure when it happened.

One minute you were swung to safety by Miguel as he fought Carnage, and the next your body was pushed up against the wall as an iron rod pierced your lower abdomen.

Your eyes widened in shock before your hands immediately attached to the metal. Your breath hitched as pain radiated through your body—the adrenaline that coursed through your veins didn't seem to be helping all that much.

"Miguel." You whispered. It was so quiet—too quiet. Your vision started to become hazy as the blood continued to seep into your pretty black-laced dress.

Today was a special day. It was June 28th—the day that you met Miguel.

You had been stuck in the Upper West side of the city when someone attacked your work building. You had been late that day as your alarm clock had failed to do its job that morning.

You had rushed to put on clothes and ran down to the subway lines. You knew you were fucked if you were late today. However, a giant lizard had put a stop to your plans as it scaled the skyscraper.

You just stood in shock from across the street as you clutched your bag and put a hand over your mouth.

Then, you heard a deep voice from behind. "You need to get out of here."

You could only smile fondly at the memory. Today, Miguel had surprised you into bringing you flowers after work. He was gonna take you to a special spot—his favorite restaurant.

You cried out in pain as the building rumbled from the force of Miguel's attack onto the enemy. You looked down and whimpered—the loss of blood seemingly piling around you more.

"Miguel." You whispered, hoping that you could stay awake.

~

Miguel wasn't sure exactly what had happened. All he could see was your blood. All he could smell was your blood.

It made him feel red. It made him see red.

"Voy a matarte. Te lo prometo." It was deep. A growl vibrated at the base of his throat and the whole sentence sounded like a groan. He promised.

He promised that Carnage would not see another day.

His claws swiped and dug into carnage's black goo flesh. Carnage just laughed before staring at the pure crimson of Miguel's eyes. Something clicked inside of him—something dark and brewing as the sight of your blood was played over and over in his head.

Carnage groaned in pain as Miguel continued to dig and claw his way through. Eventually he managed to slice through Kletus' skin on his abdomen, all while carnage screamed in pain of the host.

He swiped again, and again. Again and again. Rage bubbled to the surface at the picture of your eyes closed. Sadness enveloped his heart as the future attempted to flash before his eyes of a funeral dedicated to you.

Is this a canon event?

"Miguel, I-" Your sentence was cut off by a cough. Miguel's head whipped over to you and his heart palpitated by fatigued look on your face.

He wasn't sure how he had heard you. He doesn't have spider hearing like the rest of the spider-people or have spidey senses. Honestly, he didn't care.

His fist stopped mid air—paused between punches and claws. He looked at the man before him. Blood seeped through the blackened goo of Carnage. Bits of flesh clung to Miguel's suit. If he wasn't preoccupied by you, he would have realized that Miguel almost killed him.

His moved fast, desperately darting to you and pressing a hand against your cheek. "I'm here, querida. I'm here. Don't—don't fall asleep, okay? I'm right here."

He pleaded. He begged.

You gasped out a breath as Miguel's shoulders sagged in relief. You're awake. You're alive.

"Miguel. It hurts." You whimpered. Another drop of blood dripped from your wound.

"I know, baby. I know. I've got you."

In his head, though, he was panicking. The metal rod had completely gone through your back and was lodged into the wall behind you. You were stuck.

Tears pricked his eyes as his breath started to rapidly build. You were going to die. You were going to die. It all seemed to repeat over and over in his head.

He can't lose you. He can't lose another family again. Not again.

His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at your fading figure. His hands settled themselves onto your hips and he gently pulled you closer to him to get the rod out of your body.

Your screams echoed into the abandoned building. The rod sliced through each muscle and tissue of your abdomen as he continued to pull. "I know, please. Lo siento, lo siento—"

He rested his forehead onto yours for comfort. You screamed his name again as he seemed to pull harder. "Miguel! Please, please, please—"

"I know, cariño. P-Please—just—" Your body fell limp into his arms as he successfully pulled the rod out.

your eyes were snapped shut as the pain became too much. Your breathing was haggard and Miguel knew he didn't have much time left.

He had no time left.

He gently moved the strap of your dress. His fingers brushed against your soft skin and his mind reeled from the idea of never hearing your laughter again. Is this a canon event? He asks once more.

In a panic from his thoughts, his teeth sunk into your flesh and he let his venom flow through your veins. He let the venom heal the broken parts of your skin. He bunched up the side of your dress so he could watch as the wound started to slowly heal itself.

He looked down to see that your breathing had evened in your slumber. He made a promise to himself as he carried you back home. You would be protected. You would be unharmed. You would be safe.

Miguel will make damn sure of that for the rest of his waking life. Nothing and no one will ever do harm to you. Ever.

He tucked you neatly into bed and pressed a kiss to your hair line. "I'm never letting you go."

He held in his breath. He felt tears start to prick his water line again. "Te amo." He whispered into the dark. He felt his chest blossom with guilt, relief, and happiness all at once.

One day, he might say that to your face and watch as your eyes lighted with joy. For now, he was going to show you his earth-shattering love through bandage changes and cuddles.

Fuck the canon and fuck Carnage.

[quest-for-pluto]

Sparkles

Aonung x Human!Female!Reader

Chapter Index Next →

Summary: You work as maintenance at base 36, a testing facility used for unethical experiments on captured local Na’vi. One day when the base’s power supply melts down and explodes, you’re caught in the flaming crossfire. In a split second decision, you also decide to free the panicking Na’vi in his glass cell.

Aged up!Aonung to 21 and reader is 20

Chapter 1: think fast

Mission report: Base 36 quarantined due to overheated power supply explosion. Evacuated and searching for survivors.

•

“No no no no,” you cried, banging on the locked door. “I can’t die like this!”

Blaring alarms wailed loudly in the empty halls, the heavy smoke in the air muting the red flashing lights. You coughed into a closed fist, feeling the uncomfortable heat raging against your back.

The center of base 36 was locked down, after the power supply had exploded and started a massive, fast traveling fire that ate up everything in its path. They had immediately closed off the affected area, assuming everyone to be dead. And everyone was dead.

Except you.

“Fuck, fuck,” you swore, speed-entering every password you could think of on the keypad keeping the door sealed shut.

Incorrect password. Incorrect password. Incorrect password.

“For fuck’s sake!” You screamed, punching the titanium with all of your strength. It didn’t even budge, but now your knuckle was bloody and bruised. Well great.

Shoving your hands into your hair, you pulled frantically at the roots. “Okay think y/n, think.”

The fire hadn’t reached you yet, but it was close. You knew that it was coming from the hall on the right, but the center of base 36 was a circular design, so pretty soon the fire would be coming from both directions. If you went left, you had a chance of being stranded in the middle of the hallway, but if you didn’t—well, you would be stranded either way.

“Shit,” you dragged a frustrated hand down your face, before turning left and sprinting as fast as you could.

The walls blurred past you as you ran, your breath and heartbeat echoing heavily in your ears. The air was thick with smoke and heat, making your abused lungs ache.

You turned a corner and suddenly shrieked, skidding ungracefully to a stop only a few inches away from a jagged metal pole. The path that you needed to follow had caved in, blocked by a wall of heavy cement and metal debris. It was impossible to cross without somehow impaling or crushing yourself.

Brrrrrrk, the base shook, a deep rumbling noise that made you grab onto the wall for support as your eyes widened.

A cloud of dust suddenly showered over you, making you slowly look up in fear.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you whimpered as you watched the ceiling start to crack above you.

Cursing profusely under your breath, you jumped into a random room to your left—grunting as your abused ribs hit the ground—and just barely missing the avalanche of dust and debris that buried that floor where you stood only a second ago. Coughing, you waved away the dust as it slowly settled around you.

To your horror, the entrance was now blocked with debris too, effectively trapping you inside. Well, you thought with a sinking resignation. No turning back now.

The room you had found yourself in was very large, about the size of an aircraft hangar. It was all dark, except for the flashing red warning lights that were also present around the rest of the base. High, overarching ceilings hung above you, supported by thick metal beams. The floors were a cold, porous grey concrete. You didn’t usually have clearance to be here, so the layout was foreign to you.

“Hello?” You called out hesitantly as you picked yourself off the ground, eyes scanning hopefully for any signs of life, but to no avail. Everything was quiet and abandoned.

The further you walked into the room, the more bizarre it got. Large glass encasements lined the walls, much too large to be cells. Not when the ceilings of these things were at least fifteen feet tall.

Or maybe, it was meant to hold something much larger than a human.

You gulped, warily continuing forward. You were a maintenance worker and carrier, so you didn’t really know what they got up to in the testing facilities. You just transported the samples that the lab technicians gave you and made sure that the equipment was clean and functional.

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

The sudden, loud banging noises made you gasp, taking a few startled steps back. Glancing in the direction of the sounds, you noticed that they seemed to be coming from one of the glass encasements a little further into the room—the only one still lit up.

You gulped, leaning your back against the wall and clutching at your chest. To investigate for exits, you would need to cross the room, and to cross the room, you would need to pass in front of that thing making those disturbing noises.

In the near distance, a deafening popping noise reverberated in the hall, vibrating against the walls and rattling your teeth. Shit, the fire was too close now, you needed to act fast. The thumping noises on the glass got more insistent, frantically picking up tempo and increasing in force.

“Ha…” you exhaled, gathering what little remained of your nerve. “Okay Y/n, this is happening.”

Without a second glance behind you, you ran as fast as you could, keeping your eyes trained in front of you.

Don’t look, you chided yourself. Don’t look. Don’t look you idiot.

THA-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

You looked, eyes shifting disobediently to your left and then…up. And higher. And they kept climbing until your neck was practically craned at a ninety degree angle, eyes wide and mouth gaping at an almost ten-foot-tall, blue humanoid figure.

“Oh, shit!” You shrieked, stumbling backwards and just nearly managing to catch yourself before you fell on your ass. “What the fuck is that?!”

The creature was male, as far as you could tell, with intricate black tattoo markings climbing up his biceps, neck and face. His hands—four fingered, you noticed in disturbance—were pressed against the glass walls of his enclosure, pointy canines protruding viciously from behind his lips as he hissed soundlessly at you.

Oh. Oh. You knew what he was. You’d heard too many horror stories from your coworkers not to recognize his monstrous features.

He was a local. A Na’vi. Apparently they were savage barbarians, mercilessly killing humans for pleasure and keeping their bones as decorations and trophies. They were no different from animals. Every single nerve in your body was screaming at you to get the hell away from it.

You gritted your teeth and sprinted past his cell, much to his visible anger and indignation. No way in hell were you going to let that thing out. You weren’t planning to die any earlier than you had to, thank you very much.

Thump.

That one was softer, sounding almost defeated. It made you pause, not able to stop yourself from glancing back over your shoulder curiously.

It—he had his head resting against the glass, fist slowly sliding down the surface. His other hand clutched reverently at what looked like a shark tooth pendant around his neck, lips moving quickly as if he was muttering desperate prayers under his breath.

Oh, no. No no no. Was that a shred of guilt you were feeling, Y/n? Banish the thought.

But…the more you looked at him, the less he seemed like a mindless barbarian who would enjoy ripping you limb from limb until you were just a bloody stump with a head, and the more he looked like—well, someone who was scared shitless of dying. Like you.

Another loud bang shook the base, gnawing at your conscience uncomfortably. The place where his eyebrows should have been furrowed, a painfully resigned expression contorting his face.

Shit. You were going to do something very, very stupid, weren’t you?

“You better not kill me, you stupid blue yeti,” you grumbled under your breath, running back towards his cell.

His head lifted when he saw you approaching, large blue eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Yeah, yeah,” you grimaced. “I’m back, don’t get too excited.”

Now you just had to figure out how to work technology you’d never seen in your life.

Frantically you scanned the complex control panel on the wall, your heart dropping as you stared helplessly at all of the different colorful buttons and switches. Of course it couldn’t be simple.

“Oh come on,” you moaned in despair, pulling at the roots of your hair. “Have you people never heard of labels before?!”

You felt his eyes boring into you as you nervously started pushing, turning and flipping random controls. So far, you’d managed to brighten the lights in his cell, play some music (—move your body like a hologram—), and activate a large gust of air that blasted him right in the face, messing up his hair. That earned you a stink eye.

“Oh, shut up, I’m trying!” You hissed anxiously at him, even though you were pretty sure that the glass was sound resistant so he couldn’t actually hear you, much less understand you.

All of a sudden, the metal frames of the entrance to the room started creaking loudly, grating on your eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. You looked on in horror as they began to cave in from the sheer intensity of the heat. The fire had finally caught up.

The Na’vi’s hands pressed insistently against the glass, staring down at you wide-eyed with a look that you knew meant hurry the fuck up, stupid human.

At this point you were just full on slapping and elbowing anything you could reach. “Come on!” You pleaded frantically as a wave of heat made a sheen of sweat break out over your skin. “This is really cutting it close, Y/n!”

To your overwhelming relief, the sweet sound of gears whirling and clasps unhinging blessed your ears as you watched the glass door to his cell unseal with a loud whoosh and swing open. And damn, were you unprepared for how incredibly tall he was.

It literally felt like you were standing next to a museum exhibit.

You didn’t really have time to think about it though, because the fire was now starting to eat its way inside the lengthy room.

“Oh, shit,” you swore, hearing him spit something of the same tone in a foreign language you didn’t understand.

Your eyes frantically scanned the back end of the room. Most of it was just cement wall, work stations and different types of weird machinery. Behind one of the stations though, there was a bulkhead door about two feet shorter than your giant blue companion, with a wheel to seal it shut.

“There!” You exclaimed, pointing at it as you made a beeline for the handle. Grabbing onto the wheel, you pulled it counterclockwise with all of your strength. But no matter how hard you pulled, it just wouldn’t budge.

“Arghhhh!” You screamed in frustration, digging your feet into the ground as your knuckles turned white from how tightly you gripped onto the handle.

Suddenly, a large hand gripped your shoulder, shoving you harshly away. “Rikx mìso!” He hissed at you, grabbing onto the wheel himself and pulling.

The rusty wheel creaked loudly as it began to turn from the sheer amount of brute force exerted on it.

“Any time now,” you tittered nervously as the heat on your back started to become painfully hot. You could now see the intense waves of heat in the air, distorting your vision like an unfocused camera lens.

The Na’vi huffed, turning it even harder, and soon enough the lock unclamped with a few clicks, leaving the watertight door to swing wide open. Both of you lunged inside, with him slamming and resealing the door behind you just as a station exploded violently nearby, the flames chasing at your heels.

“Oh my god!” You shrieked, stumbling back and falling into a cold wall. The bulkhead door had led into what looked like a decently sized storage room. Rebreathers hung on the walls, as well as protective gear that you knew the excursion division used. You didn’t really get to analyze much more than that though, because to your absolute horror, the door creaked ominously in front of you, warping from the intense heat that it was not meant to withstand.

“Shit!” Your eyes widened as you staggered away, almost tripping over your feet in your haste. You needed to get out of here now.

You ran to the sealed exit door, pushing on it in frustration. “No,” you cried when it refused to open, tears welling up in your eyes. “No, not now! Please.”

Your heart sunk further when you noticed the keypad next to the door, identical to the one you were trying to unlock earlier. You were right back to where you started.

Taking a few steps back, you stared numbly at the floor. This was it, then? This was how you were going to die.

The Na’vi ran up beside you, pounding desperately on the exit door, but you knew it wouldn’t budge. It was locked, sealed shut and made of titanium alloy like all of the other doors you’d discovered lining the edges of the base ever since it had been quarantined. The only way to open it was with the code. A code that you didn’t have clearance for.

“It’s not going to work,” you told him, staring at the concrete blankly. “Even if you fired a bullet at that thing, it wouldn’t even dent.”

He didn’t seem to listen to you, still pounding furiously at the reinforced metal. When that didn’t work, he let out a deep, guttural yell, turning to you with anger in his eyes.

Storming up to you, he grabbed the collar of your shirt, lifting you up to his eye level and sneering in your face. Your breath stuttered in fear as you stared into his deep, sea blue irises. They were much more vivid up close, mixed with swirling flecks of green and gold.

They pierced into your soul, burning with rage and fear but most of all, they burned with an unwavering defiance. In that moment, you understood perfectly what he was trying to tell you.

“Okay,” you found yourself nodding slowly. “We can try.”

He set you down, and you both got to work, scouring the room for anything that would possibly help you escape. The only light source in the room was the setting sun through two tiny polycarbonate glass windows to your left and right, and a measly flickering pot light above you.

You patted desperately at the walls, wrenching ration packs off of shelves, and ripping open closet doors. So far you'd found food, hunting knives, folded clothes, some rifles, camo backpacks, rebreather masks, a water filtering kit and a pair of boots. Nothing that would help you bust down the door though.

It looked like your companion wasn't having much luck either, although he seemed much more wary of the items he found, almost like he was confused and nervous to even touch them.

Creaaaaaak.

The door groaned behind you, parts of the metal starting to dent inward and blister. Shit shit shit. There was no more time, it was going to blow.

You stumbled over to the Na'vi, tugging on his leg until he looked down at you. "There's no time," you said, eyes wide with urgency. "We need to hide."

He glanced back at the sealed exit, before looking back down at you. He huffed, following you to one of the more secluded corners. Hastily, you began building a wall out of everything both of you could find in the room. It probably wouldn't do much, but it was the best protection you could afford. He seemed to get the message too, gathering three times as much as you could hope to hold in your limited human arms, and dumping it onto your makeshift barricade.

You grabbed a rebreather mask off the wall just in case, when suddenly you froze.

PULL TO ENGAGE EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN.

The words were now exposed, written in bold, red letters above a red metal handle. Well you'd be damned.

"Get back!" You yelled, pulling the lever down hard. It groaned, snapping into place.

Three things happened at once. The bulkhead door, which was already warped beyond repair and in the process of peeling, exploded open, exposing both of you to the most swelteringly unbearable heat you'd ever experienced. You screamed as blisters raised all along the length of your forearm, which you had raised to shield your eyes. Distantly through the pain, you could hear him crying out too.

Then, with a bang, three sets of diagonal doors emerged, sealing the entrance shut, but not before a final explosion knocked you clean off your feet. You cracked your head against a wall, and everything went dark.

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

Rikx mìso! = Move!/Move away!

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Taglist: @aonungsmate

[wh3nturtlesfly]

“You know, we’ve been fighting for nearly a year now and I still don’t know your name.” Hero panted as they dodged yet another blow.

Villain’s gaze flickered up from where they had focused their attack, fist still outstretched. “That’s really what you’re worried about right now?” They thrust forward again, this time catching Hero’s side with their boot. The air was knocked from their enemy who fell back against the wall.

“Is there a problem with being friendly?”

“There’s nothing friendly about us trying to kill each other.”

“I wouldn’t say kill-” Hero steadied themself just in time to dodge the weapon aimed towards their face. “More like…a passionate bout of combat between two powerful foes.”

“Your words, not mine.” Villain pulled back for another punch to which the Hero easily spun away from. They cursed under their breath, all while Hero couldn’t help but grin.

“So- your name?”

An exasperated sigh left the Villain, annoyance seeping from their form. However, as they leapt to the side something new emerged in their expression. Something sly.

Without warning, they dropped to the ground and swept their leg across the concrete. Hero didn’t have a chance to react as their feet were swept from under them. A wheeze was forced from their lungs as they collided hard with the ground, though the moment they tried to right themselves they found a blade at their throat.

It was Villain’s turn to grin now. “Tell you what,” they drawled, dragging their weapon ever so slightly across Hero’s throat. “I’ll tell you my name, if…”

“If?”

“If you can capture me.” They smiled devilishly before returning the blade to its sheath.

“Deal.” Hero didn’t even give it a second thought. They caught a flicker of a smirk on Villain’s lips before they stood.

Then they ran, disappearing into the shadows.

With a chuckle, Hero got to their feet, already counting the seconds. A five minute head start would only be fair, but after that-

This would be fun.

[undercoverpena]

hands

simon ghost riley x reader (f!) word count: 1.7k summary: no one look at you, never mind hurts you—not on his watch. warning: smut. blood. touch o’ violence. helen isn’t readers name. an: to the anon who wanted ghost to throws hands for helen, I hope you love it (written on phone, forgive thy)

simon ghost riley masterlist

+++

They need Tarver alive.

It’s the mission. The focus. The goal.

Ghost hasn’t been sweating balls, chasing whispers to not get something more concrete from this bastard.

It’s why he keeps reminding himself to breathe as he stares through the mirrored glass.

Tarver cannot die. Yet.

He’s sure his fingers are white from how tight he’s balled his fist watching you treat him. Despising that those delicate, kind hands are stitching wounds Ghost’s fists has caused.

Even if it’s your job.

Something Ghost is very much aware of it, but hates all the same.

Your job shouldn’t be to stitch up enemies and ensure blood remains in their bodies. Your talent and skill should be saved for them, their team… him.

But he knows it’s the job.

Knows that tomorrow it’ll be the same. He’ll rip the world apart and you’ll sew it back together again. Two opposites which work far better together than apart.

He’s already lived through being apart. He hates that more than this—and by this, he means watching you through the thin glass as you stitch a man half-tied to a chair.

It was darker, more difficult, tinged with loneliness that comradery couldn’t fix when he didn’t have you.

Now, he wouldn’t let you go. Not when he’d grown used to the moments alone in your office. Not when he has felt your thighs slick with sweat, watching you roll your hips over him, hearing you whisper his name over, and over, and over.

Because he’s lived through what being apart feels like. It’s darker. More difficult. Tinged with loneliness the comradely doesn’t fix.

But, this is fucking difficult.

He knows you can handle yourself. He’s seen it first-hand. You might be good with a scalpel, but you’re mean with a knife too.

It doesn’t stop him from being annoyed that Tarver says nothing as his fists connected with his face. Reveals nothing to him. To Price.

As soon as you’re alone with him, he has been nothing but vocal. Not about what they need. Just how little he thinks of you. What he’d do to you if he wasn’t tied down like a dog.

Unflexing his fingers, he bites the hiss back from his cracked knuckles. The blood likely dried, healing against the gloves—reopening as he moves them.

He has no problem causing pain. It’s what he’s been made into, a weapon, a fucking good one at that.

Because he is methodical. The mission goes above all else, always coming first. He doesn’t think about what this will do to him later on, not when he lands the first punch, the second or the third. It’s detached, but direct.

For this, each had to land to injure, but not kill. Knowing the mission, knowing the importance of the man still being able to talk. He just didn’t do it with much ease. He didn’t think he needed both lungs, both eyes and all of the bones in his body together. He hadn’t considered the fact Price would send you in.

So, he’s watching.

Half-wishing you’d say something back to Tarver as he insults you, as he belittles you. Instead, you take it, alternating from leaning up to stitch him to standing.

Your words are direct, and clear. Does it hurt here? Breathe in for me.

He almost turns his head. Almost.

If he had done it, he wouldn’t have seen Tarver wait for you to rummage in your bag. Wouldn’t have wound his head back and connected it with your skull.

Ghost wouldn’t have been at the door in time, kicking it almost off its hinges as Tarver swings his arm, your scalpel in his hand, only nicking you—nothing worse.

But, that fucking bastard still made you fucking bleed.

His pulse thunders, fist clenching Tarver’s bloodied shirt—hearing the clatter, but still letting his fist connect with bone.

It’s like a mist comes down.

It blinds him. Burns him. He can’t see through it, think through it. His arm reeled back, one time after the next, his mind fracturing, his handle on the mission sliding.

“Ghost.”

It’s sharp, the way you say his name. Still tainted with sweetness, a warning.

It makes his fist halt. Pausing mid-air. It hovers, head tilting, eyes shifting, slowly turning till he lands on you.

You with your jaw tight, head tilted, a pleading look spreading over your features. But, it's the blood from your split lip, the nick on your cheek, and the bump he can already see which stops him.

The lump growing on the same forehead he’d kissed this morning. The same cheek he’d touched before he left your office to deal with this sonofabitch.

It should have been the look.

Cause the look fucking stings. It twists something inside of him.

It’s then Tarver decides to spit, blood spraying across the floor. A call-out, a reminder of his presence—as if the two of you had forgotten about him.

So he drops him. Purposefully.

His gloved fingers releasing him, letting him land with a thud and a hiss. He sees you flinch when he does, eyes dropping to the floor. He doesn’t move, waiting for you to give him a sign, anything.

Because he’s not sure whether to cross the room and shield you or kill the man who insulted you. The same one who caught you by surprise when you were tending to him—who reeled his head back and connected it with yours before carnage all but ensued.

Blinking, he flexed his fingers, the cracked skin raw under his gloves. It’s rubbing, chafing. Guaranteed to be far worse than the simple bruises he’d had yesterday.

And you say nothing. Not a word.

Slowly, you remove the blue glove from your hand before letting your delicate fingers brush over your lip. The wince, the hiss—it’s like nails down a chalkboard to him.

It makes him want to tear, rip and scorch the earth. Most of all, he wants to rip the man spluttering on the floor—tear him limb from limb.

Because you’re silent. Too silent.

Your lips are tight as you walk over to the open the bag, your hand disappearing inside before you’re holding a pot. The noise of the lid snapping from the container fills the space, almost silencing the coughs and splutters, the shakes of the tablets inside almost dousing the thundering sounds of his pulse in his ears as he watches you throw two pills at the man still breathing on the floor.

No instruction. No words.

A silent threat in your eyes as you stand over him before grabbing your bag and leaving.

The door squeaks and groans as you do, the metal meeting metal before he’s alone with him.

Alone with him—the man who dares breathe the same air as you.

The one who made you fucking bleed.

“I’m not surpris’d. ‘Course she’s your whor—“

His boot comes down on his jaw before he finishes the sentence, thankful for a bit of fucking silence again.

They need him alive, after all. It’s the only reason he still has a pulse.

++++++++++++++

He doesn’t follow.

Not immediately. He waits. Gets chewed out by Price. Removes his blood-soaked gloves. Washing the skin as easy as he can. Ticking off the list until he finds himself leaning against the doorframe.

The one to your small office.

The one which barely fits a desk in, and yet somehow has fit you and him both inside of it. Albeit then, you weren’t pissed at him. You willingly wrapped your arms around his neck, let him put your spine against the door, let his hips connect with yours as he drove his cock into your cunt.

Fuck, you made the prettiest noises that day. Mouth so close to his hairline, breath along his ear.

He suspects he won’t have that pleasure today.

Won’t get to taste you. Won’t get to hear the pretty noises you make.

Not from the way you cast a glance his way. Cold. And still very fucking silent.

Normally, it would be the sweetest sound. But when it’s shrouded in bitterness, and anger, it’s torture.

“We need to talk.”

You shift some files. “No we don’t. I’m busy.”

“I’m hurt.”

He doesn’t tell you that you’re fucking beautiful enough.

Even if he thinks it. All the time.

When you’ve just woken up and at the end of the day; he thinks it when you’re off duty and when you’re covered in someone else’s blood. When you’re stressed, when you’re sad; when you’re happy, when you’re laughing.

Now, when you’re mad… you’re something else.

He’d drown in you. He’d let your eyes suffocate him.

Hell. He wants your eyes to be the last fucking thing he ever sees. That and your smile.

“Oh. You are? I can’t imagine how you’ve gotten yourself hurt...”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, thankful he’s hidden behind his mask. Stepping inside your office, closing the door—thankful the beds behind him are all empty.

No chance of gossip. Murmurs.

The door shuts with ease, even if he’s almost pressed against you to do so. You tossing him a bandage and some tape, before crossing your arms—trying to keep your distance, even in a room no bigger than 6 by bloody 9.

Insolent, difficult, fucking bitch.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m not apologising.”

You scoff. “Ghost, you wouldn’t know how to articulate an apology if your life fucking depended on it.”

Ghost.

Not Simon.

Ghost.

Cold. Direct.

Sighing, you turn on your chair, twisting your body until you’re fully facing him. “Still, I don’t need one. You’ve just made my job harder, is all. Now I have more to stitch back together the next time Price orders me in there.”

“You’re not going back in there.”

Your brow arches, chin raising. “Oh. Funny. I don’t remember asking you.”

“Helen.”

You stand, quickly. Almost pouncing. “That. Earlier. Is my fucking job. I don’t tell you how to shoot someone.” Your finger poking him—all bony finger against his vest. “That’s not my fucking name, and you know it. You said it enough last night, didn’t you?”

“Why’re you shouting—“

“—because you infuriate me!” you snap, poking him again, nostrils flared. “You… fucking… nobhead.”

You poke again.

And then you ball your fist, and it hits him.

Soft. Clearly not aiming to injure him, but needing to do something all the same.

It does so again. And again—

But he grasps it. Stopping it. Stopping you. Your wrist easily fitting in his grip, your eyes molten fucking lava as they connect with his.

Silence.

A different kind, though.

And he realises you’re not mad. You’re furious. It knotting and bubbling inside of you—needing a release.

And you can’t hit Tarver. Only able to do so in self-defence. You don’t want him to hit him, because you know he won’t stop.

Suddenly, he knows how he can apologise—and it isn’t with words.

No. It’s something he can do well. Because he knows you. Every fucking inch of you.

He rips his mask off, pulling you close by your wrist as he plunges his tongue into your mouth. The groan vibrating through him, thankfully married with the feeling of your nails in his scalp.

The sound of the back of your thighs connecting with your desk, the perfect ruiner of silence.

[marlboroenjoyer]

cat got your tongue

the way miguel o'hara sunk his claws into my heart and i can't shake him. he makes me REDACTED and REDACTED like... anyway- this is a part 1; its just kind of 'world building', im working on the shameless smut that will be uploaded later today most likely. i didnt beta read cause i dont believe in that shit im sorry. WILL LINK SECOND PART HERE

summary - miguel doesnt understand how to properly convey the emotion commonly known as "concern". he instead criticizes you until youve had enough and finally rendered this explosive man silent.

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

there are few instances in which a sentence dies on miguel o’hara’s tongue; his vocal cords ricocheting against each other like live wires. his voice kicking up white hot sparks of thought, that sizzled against the unfortunate soul caught in “conversation” with him.

now, one of those instances had dropped itself right into miguel’s lap. he was reprimanding you for putting yourself into harm's way again. you two were dealing with a particularly difficult anomaly, with jess and gwen on the sidelines making sure to grab any pedestrians in danger. a strike of electricity surged through your spine, making you look over your shoulder to find miguel pinned down. a large slab of the building you all were in had landed on top of miguel's right arm, pinning him down to the concrete floor beneath him. the anomaly was charging him, ready to seemingly rip his head clean off his shoulders by the way he was positioned. 

your body was sent into overdrive, sprinting forward, you attached two webs from each of your wrists to the ground in front of you. the webs slingshotting yourself forward towards this monster; your foot landing square on the side of its head, successfully shifting its attention towards you. you heard miguel shout out in the distance behind you as you lead this thing away from the others; for you or the others you couldn’t recognize. 

everything was going according to your half haphazardly calculated plan, until you slipped up, fucked up your web placement and your focus just shattered. you were smacked down to the cement far beneath you due to a hunk of debris being slung your way. you dodged to main concern but you lost all footing you had and began to plummet. a shrill shriek ripped itself from your vocal cords as you fell, desperately reaching outwards with your wrists pointed towards the sky; praying that one of your webs would connect to something stable and allow you to swing away. 

your left shoulder slammed against a ledge that was jutting out from the wall, you tumbled some more until a buzzing neon red tendril enveloped your torso and caught hold of you. all the air you had desperately been gulping down to calm yourself was sucker punched out of your body, your whole being snapping in the opposite direction of which you were falling. you were borderline lifeless as the web quickly pulled you up to safety and your other two teammates took over the fight. two strong arms held you to a rock hard chest, albeit heaving sporadically, sucking down oxygen in gulps. your head was supported against a strong shoulder, a tender hand grazing your more than dislocated shoulder. you grunted in pain from moving it and you heard a whispered apology above you.

hands kept grabbing onto the painful joint, shushing your groans of pain and ignoring your weak hand; you could hear a voice telling you that it needed to be popped back into place. you didn’t really know what he was talking about. everything was spinning and you were in so much pain. tears were slipping down your cheeks; but you didn’t even notice until gentle thumbs soothed them away. just as quickly though, those same gentle hands were distorted into iron fists; they latched onto your injured shoulder and twisted the joint back into the socket with a stomach turning pop and CRACK. you let out a yell that died into a low growl of agony. it was only a moment or two later when you felt a sharp pain in the meat of your trapezius muscle; and the relief of numbness spread through your whole body. you realized you had lost movement in all of your limbs but you were too out of it to care. you passed out only a few minutes later. 

after a few painful weeks in the medical wind of the spider-society hq, your accelerated healing made it a fairly easy process; you found yourself in this little argument with miguel. he called you into his office, via lyla, claiming he needed to speak with you about the latest mission. you hadn’t seen miguel since the mission; which pissed you off to a cartain degree. you always made sure to check up on him when he got injured more than usual on missions. 

it was downhill from the moment you stepped foot into that dark intimidating office. the only light that ever shone in that space was the dim orange light from his many screens. he was in your face the second the door closed behind you; immediately going on about how impulsive you are and how you jeopardized the mission. and it went on like this for about five minutes. every word that flung out of his mouth, every humiliating criticism of your actions, tore away at your resolve. you liked to think you had gotten used to miguel’s hot headed, hair trigger temper. this “conversation”, however, was very quickly making that sentiment false. eventually, you had to retaliate against the onslaught of ridicule.

“have you ever thought for a second, in that thick ass skull of yours, to thank me for saving your fucking life?! after everything i had to endure for your ass, to make sure you were okay.” your sudden interruption of miguel's unforgiving words, struck him into silence. you pinched your nose bridge, trying to get a hold of yourself, it was a habit you had picked up from him. miguel opened his mouth to argue back, despite something in the back of his mind screaming at him to shut up. stop fucking talking, you’re going to regret where this goes. thankfully before he could get his sentence out, you once again silenced him.

“the first things you speak to me after the mission are criticisms. that’s what you brought me to your office for.” you run your hands over your face, exasperated by the scenario playing out before you right now. you’ve never found yourself speaking to miguel like this before. “you have your head so far up your own ass you can’t comprehend that this is cruel. either fucking appreciate my help or don’t bother me; cause clearly speaking about the gorey details doesn’t effect you but it certainly exhausts me. i’m not gonna entertain this shit.” your voice was wavering as you rambled on. all of your pent up frustration with this man finally spilling over and out into the universe.

“you didn’t even visit me.” it was barely above a whisper, but it rang in miguel’s ears louder than anything he’s ever heard. you didn’t wait for him to respond when you left the room, the doors swung open for you automatically. with a swift exit of speed walking with assistance from your webs, miguel was left alone in his office.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

We Tried The World CH6.

THE MASTERLIST LAS VEGAS, NEVADA.  1870 MILES FROM HOME. 

Steve stood in the middle of the motel room for approximately six and a half minutes before he swore hotly, pushed the heels of his palms to his eyes and left. 

The desert air was sticky and thick, even in the early morning. The sun was barely rising but there was a hazy lavender glow on the horizon that made the streets easier to see. The mountains were indigo in the distance, inky and foreboding, but Steve couldn’t see you. 

The sidewalks were empty, the world still asleep and Steve felt a rush of panic claw at his chest because he couldn’t fucking see you and even though the town was small, the roads felt too vast, too long, ready to take you far, far away from him. 

So the boy picked up his pace, shoes thudding on the sidewalk as he looked down each street for you. Regret filled his mouth like poison, bitter and sour and he wanted to say sorry, he wanted to say sorry the minute he’d said it but then you hit back with a punch just as powerful and he’d hated the way his breath left his lungs. 

He knew you hadn’t meant it. Steve hoped you hadn’t meant it. 

He found you a couple of blocks over, bag at your feet and leaning against the concrete wall of the bus station. Whatever had a chokehold around Steve’s heart, released at the sight of you and a calm washed over the boy. Relief, exhaustion, the beginnings of a hangover that felt worse because of the memory of you yelling at each other. 

You didn’t acknowledge his approach, his steps slow and guarded, like he’d spook you, like you’d disappear. But you didn’t run either. So Steve stood in front of you, felt his heart ache and crack at the sight of your tear streaked cheeks, eyes wet and tired looking. You sniffed, swiped a hand over your face and tried not to crumple under his gaze. 

He held out a hand, a white flag, a lifeline. 

Neither of you knew, but you were both holding your breaths. 

You took it, warm, rough palm in your smaller, colder one and you hiccuped wetly when Steve held on tight. You did what you didn’t want to do, chest stuttering and fresh tears spilling through your lashes and it only worsened when Steve made a quiet sound. 

“Babe,” he murmured. You shook your head, desperate not to fall apart. You didn’t deserve Steve’s comfort, not after the things you’d been mean enough to say. “Babe.”

Steve tugged at your hand, sighing in relief when you eventually gave in and tumbled into him, your bag trapped between his feet and yours but he held onto you tight, his chin on the crown of your head, your free hand fisting his shirt. 

You stayed like that until the bus came and went, stopping with its doors open, the driver bored and uninterested as you both swayed together, still holding on to the other. You didn’t notice it roll away, the hiss of the suspension, the drone of the engine. 

You kept your face tucked to Steve’s chest, tears soaking his shirt and you were still sniffling, scared to pull away and face him because he looked as distraught as you felt as he turned the corner and spotted you. 

It hurt to admit you were close to leaving him. But, as the boy stroked over your hair, his hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you to him, you wondered if you would’ve been able to, if the opportunity came. 

You didn’t think you could’ve.

Steve pulled back, much to your dismay, and you couldn’t help the sad noise that ripped from your throat. But he didn’t go far, both hands cupping your reddened cheeks and he used his thumbs to wipe away the tears tracks that stained them. One caught your lip, tugging at the bottom like a kiss and you ached as you thought, ‘I don’t deserve this I don’t deserve this I don’t deserve this.’

Your features crumpled again, a sure sign that fresh tears were on the way and maybe it was guilt, maybe it was regret but the late hour, lack of sleep and the bottles of cheap beer didn’t help. 

You hurt with emotion, the noise in your head and the pain in your chest only easing slightly from the boys touch and you wondered if you could make it go away by moving closer, by pushing your lips to his and holding on and never, ever letting go— 

“Steve,” you gasped out, fighting back tears as you tried to explain. “I’m so sor-”

A hand to your face, warm and large and cupping your chin, a thumb squishing at the soft of your cheek to cut off your words and Steve smiled. It was the softest, quietest smile you’d seen, gentle in every kind of way. It made your heart flutter, it made your head spin and suddenly, there was a lot less noise than before. 

“D’you wanna know a secret?” He said. 

Later, is what he meant, we can do that later. 

So you nodded, hiccuped, leaned into his touch and pushed a hand to the skin under his shirt, fingertips grazing across the space just above his jeans. 

“I missed you the minute you left,” he told you quietly, swallowing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing with his admission. “The second you walked out. Even when I was angry.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek and your lip trembled at his words. Steve caught it with his thumb, wiped it away before you could taste salt and god, you shouldn’t feel like this over this boy. It had only been two weeks, this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. 

But then he was tilting your head up, coaxing you to look at him as the sky behind turned a dusty pink, lavender and peach and brighter than before. The world softened for you both, like it was trying to make all of this a little easier. 

So you looked at the boy through wet lashes, his sharp features a little blurry but you were still holding onto him and Steve’s thumb was drawing soothing circles onto the apple of your cheek. 

“Your turn,” he whispered and he looked scared, he looked worried, like you were about to break his heart. 

You didn’t know if you could bring yourself to commit such a crime. 

“I was never gonna leave you,” you mumbled and your voice felt thick, sticky with emotion. “I maybe would’ve tried but I wouldn’t have been able to get on the bus.”

You saw the relief in his eyes at your words, felt it in the air, how everything around you and between you both turned gentle. Steve nodded, pressed his nose to your temple, just at your hairline and you felt his lips there too, a kiss that wasn’t a kiss. His arm wound around your shoulder to pull you closer, your own at his waist and the sun blinked at you both from between the canyons. 

“C’mon, let’s go.”

The boy carried your bag back to the motel, his other hand tangled in yours as the town lit up. The sky was orange, a new day, a fresh start, the promise of a different state ahead of you both. Sleep tugged at you, made Steve yawn, his cheeks pink from beer and tiredness, the feeling of you close to him again. 

It was almost like it had never happened, but then you walked back into the room and the air still felt a little stale, a little too cold despite the way the sun was warming the world back up again. But Steve closed the curtains, turned the room soft around its edges and he took your hand to lead you to the bed. Gentle hands pushed at your shoulders, encouraged you to sit and you didn’t realise you were crying again until Steve knelt down, slipping off your shoes, one at a time. 

You sniffed, hiccuped, tried to hold it in but Steve looked up at you with kind eyes, his hand still wrapped around one ankle. His thumb rubbed over the bone there and you wanted to tell him to stop. 

“I don’t deserve this,” you whispered, watery. You chewed at your lip, the skin already raw from it. “I was awful to you.”

Steve didn’t say anything, just stood and coaxed you up with him, his hands on the button of your shorts and he stopped, gazed at you from under his lashes and when you didn’t say anything, he popped it, movements slow. 

There wasn’t anything overly sexual about it, despite the way he unzipped the denim, pushed at the waistband on your hips until the material slid down your legs. He didn’t look, he didn’t stare, he just swallowed hard and kept his eyes on yours. 

Something in the air fizzed. 

“I wasn’t exactly a peach either,” he told you and his voice was lower now, rougher. You were toe to toe, your cheeks wet, Steve’s pink. “We say stupid things when we’re scared.”

Scared. You hadn’t admitted to that yet. To him or yourself. 

“S’okay to feel that way,” Steve continued and he paused to pull off his shirt, hands roughly dragging it over his head but the collar. “I get scared too.”

You could feel your heart, a rattle under your ribs, a bone shaking thumpthumpthump and you ached to put your hand over the boy’s, to see if his rhythm matched your own. 

“But I’m not gonna leave you,” Steve implored, his voice steady, soft. He nudged you backwards, pulled back the sheets and nodded his head to the bed.

You clambered in, sheets soft and foreign smelling, a new detergent, nothing like the last motel, or the one your aunt used. But the pillows were soft and when Steve lay down beside you, all you could smell was him and it made everything easier. 

Familiar. 

You were nose to nose and his words made your lip tremble, like it was too much to hear, like it was all you’d ever wanted to hear. You sniffed, nodded, pulled your hands up between you both and clung to his neck, an anchor. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered and guilt made your voice crack. “For all of it, for everything I said.” You swallowed, throat thick and sore from crying. “I don’t think you’re a— Steve, I think you’re the bravest person I know.”

Steve smiled and shook his head, nose nudging against yours, his hands wrapping around your wrists, overwhelmingly big as he held your own hands to his neck. His thumb rubbed circles on the soft skin of your wrist, a touch that made your heart ache. 

“I don’t know about that,” he huffed out, but the smile was still there. “I’m sorry too, I shouldn’t have said those things. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have called you jealous either. That was fuckin’ stupid of me.”

You grimaced, head falling to push your nose to his shoulder, hiding your face, your embarrassment. “I was,” you told him mournfully, shame colouring your words. “But that doesn’t excuse how I acted, or what I said. I was just—”

“Scared?” Steve supplied helpfully. He pushed his nose into your hair, dropped his hands to your waist and pushed them under your shirt, bare skin on bare skin and you shivered with it. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, pulling back, watching the boy through your lashes. You could count his freckles from how close you were, even the new ones. “Scared.”

“M’not gonna leave you behind,” he whispered and something in his voice cracked, a new emotion that made his eyes soft, all brown sugar, liquid honey. “I don’t think I could. If you come home - if you come back to Hawkins w’me - it can be different, we can have this—”

It hurt to think about, about going backwards, about going back to something that held so much uncertainty. Not necessarily bad memories, but no good ones either. You thought about your room at your aunts, outgrown and the paint faded, no motivation to do anything about it because it never really felt like yours in the first place. 

Instead of answering, you surged forward, closing the last few centimetres between you and Steve, lips catching his as he gasped, swallowing the sound that turned into a sigh. 

You initiated but Steve set the pace, one you were happy to follow, a soft, slow slant over each other’s mouths, the only sound in the room your breathing, the shuffle of the sheets as you moved closer together. One hand cupped your cheek, thumb pushed to your bottom lip, a silent ask to let him in.

And when you parted your lips more, let his tongue slide over your own, the hand on your waist squeezed and Steve was groaning, rolling you both until you were on your back and he was kneeling over you, glassy eyed and flushed. You were panting when he finally pulled away, his gaze roaming over each of your features and you wondered if he was commuting them to memory like you were doing with his.  

Long, straight nose. Soft, pink lips, almost unfairly pretty. Brown eyes, thick lashes, kissing at the corners. Freckles dotted on skin warmed by the sun. Strong jaw, wild hair, pinched brows from trying to regain his composure. 

“We should—” Steve’s voice was a rough rasp and it made you squeeze your thighs together. “Fuck, we should get some sleep. Before check-out.”

Before we get carried away. 

You nodded, swallowing hard as Steve fell to the side of you, his breathing still ragged and there was just enough light in the room for you to see the hard outline of his cock, straining against the material of his jeans. You looked away, body electric, as he shoved the denim down his legs and when he settled back beside you, he kept a respectable distance. 

“Vegas next, yeah?”

You nodded, head pushed back into the pillow as you both stared at the ceiling, willing the hot throb between your legs to ebb. 

“Yup,” you answered, popping the p. “Vegas next.”

Steve blew out a breath, a little shaky, still too affected by the way you melted underneath him, the way your back had arched into his touch as he dragged a hand up your bare side. You’d moaned his name, a sigh of it, and he was still reeling. 

“We’re almost there, huh?” He whispered. “California.”

The word plucked at your heart like a guitar, a thrumming in your chest that didn’t stop vibrating. It set you on edge; anxiety, excitement, the feeling of losing something you hadn’t quite gained. 

But then beneath the sheets, Steve’s hand found your own, curling around it until your fingers tangled with his and he gave a small squeeze, one that said over and over ‘I’m not leaving I’m not leaving I’m not leaving.’

So you let out a breath, cringed at the way it shuddered with emotion and you nodded again. 

“California.”

—————

Steve drove you both south after a late breakfast, a stack of pancakes shared over a sticky diner table, two cups of coffee each and a six pack of Gatorade on the floor of the back seats. 

You’d bought a new pair of sunglasses at the supermarket before you left, similar to Steve’s, smaller and without the designer label. He’d grinned at you as you slid them on, covering tired eyes but smiling nonetheless. You could still feel his kiss as you woke back up hours later, your back to Steve’s bare chest, his face pressed into your hair, arms around your waist. 

You felt his warmth for the rest of the day, as hot as the Utah sun and it followed you both out of Moab, past the sign that signalled a new state, Nevada welcoming you with flat, red orange desert, mountains in the distance and a never ending road. 

It felt wrong not to go to the Grand Canyon and despite the extra two hour drive, Steve agreed and it went back to how it was. Windows down, music loud, hair whipping at your cheeks and Steve sang to the radio, grinned wide  when you laughed. Except now there was something else in the air that hadn’t left since that morning, a feeling, a buzz, a pop, a fizz that made your chest burn and your stomach tumble. 

‘Cause Steve looked at you like he wanted to push you into the back seat and press you down on the leather, hands wandering, not caring where they touched. You stared back at him like you were asking for that very thing, a wanting look in your eyes that made him grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Every now and then, you’d both reach for the buttons and dials of the radio, fingertips brushing and you swore there was enough electricity between you to take out a whole town. 

It felt different now, it felt powerful. It felt familiar and exciting and it felt like this is what was always supposed to happen. Like this was inevitable, cosmic, some sort of plan from something or someone higher up. You looked at Steve and you remembered your history book from school, the chapter on Greek mythos, and how the gods punished humans by splitting them into two, left to search the world for their other half for eternity. 

You felt like you were cheating destiny by travelling a thousand miles and finding your half at home, bringing him with you, taking on the world as a whole. But maybe, for once, you were allowed to get lucky like that.

So you pulled into a dusty car park, orange and red as far as the eye could see. You walked through trails surrounded by bush and greenery, cacti and dried out roots of trees that didn’t grow anymore. Steve took your hand, led you along paths and then both of you stood on the edge of the world, staring at the canyons and valleys, the cracks in between where a river rushed and it was the smallest and the biggest you’d ever felt. 

The rocks turned all colours there, in the shadows of the afternoon sun. Red and orange and brown, but blue too, dark navy and violet shades that seeped into the green stained water and you were breathless with it. Glassy eyed and laughing because Steve was grinning, a little wild, a little buzzed and then he was pulling you into his chest, your back to his front and his arms wound around you. 

Your joined hands lay against your heart and Steve could feel it beating, hammering under your bones like a hummingbird ready to take flight. He pressed his lips to your hair, let his eyes close for just a second, wanting to remember this forever - this feeling, this sense of absolute fucking peace. 

You took photos, cheeks squished together as Steve held the camera out, both of you laughing, eyes crinkled, lashes kissing as you tried to fit in the frame. Steve sat quietly as you drew, a smile on his face as lines appeared on your page, canyons and clouds on the space next to his own face. He wondered if it could stay like this, if it could be like this in Indiana. If he could go back to Hawkins with you and find somewhere there that you could both call home.

Was that crazy? Was that any more insane than what you’d both already done? ‘Cause Steve had kissed a girl under the fireworks with a lip that had still been bleeding and then asked her to run away with him. And fucking hell, she’d said yes.

You’d said yes. 

Wasn’t that insane? Wasn’t that a little bit of fucking magic? Wasn’t that supposed to tell you both something? Like some sort of sign, some sort of soulmate kinda shit?

He kissed you before you got back into the car, the sun setting as the day turned into evening, the light nothing but gold. It made you both peach and pink, the ground blue with shadows, the car warm from sitting in the sun all day. Steve opened the door for you, looked at you like you were something from a goddamn fairytale. 

You leaned in when he did, lips meeting over the top of the door frame, smiles kissed away by the other. It was slow and soft and sweet, like a new first kiss, like the promise of something that you couldn’t really verbalise yet. 

But Steve was so sure it felt like, ‘I don’t wanna leave you either.’

—————

Blue skies, red rock, hazy air across the tarmac that played with your vision and it seemed like a dream the way a city rose up from the desert. 

Signs as big as the buildings towered over you both as Steve drove along busy boulevards, flashing lights, busy streets, more people in one place than you’d seen in all the towns you’d stayed in since you’d left Hawkins. 

It was a shock to the system, the colours, the dry heat, the noise of it all. Las Vegas was something bigger than you and Steve had experienced and suddenly, the BMW felt too small for the city. 

It took a while to find somewhere with a vacant room and Steve was pink in the cheeks when he looked at you for instruction, the receptionist bored as she waited. 

“One? One… room?” Steve asked, clearing his throat nervously. There was more reason than ever now for you both to share, but the idea of one bed after the kiss you shared in Moab seemed astronomical. 

You warmed all over under his gaze, the receptionist sighing as both stared at each other. 

“Um, yeah- yeah, sure,” you nodded, “one bed? Two? I don’t mind, it’s totally up to you…” you trailed off, suddenly feeling like you were completely inexperienced when it came to boys, to having a crush. 

You both looked back at the receptionist who looked entirely bored, eyebrows raised as if you were hoping she’d made the decision for you. She sighed again, heavy and already done with your shit, fishing a key off of a hook to hand to you. 

“Room two-oh-four,” she grunted. “There’s a machine with rubbers in it at the end of the hall. Knock yourselves out.”

Steve and you didn’t look at each other as you walked to the room, both of you staring at the weirdly patterned carpet as you passed the aforementioned machine at the end of the hallway. In fact, you both practically ran past it, Steve’s hand a little shaky as he unlocked the door and let you stumble inside first. 

The room only had one bed. 

And that was fine. You’d done this before. You’d shared less space, legs tangled, faces too close, in the back of Steve’s car. But now it felt different, you could sense it in the air; that thick, sticky tension that felt heavier than the heat. 

You stood on opposite sides of the bed, bags on the mattress, eyes on each other and there was nothing but the tickticktick of a clock. 

Evening had set in, the sky a dark lavender but the lights outside the motel window made everything feel so much brighter, so much more alive. Steve was gazing at you and you wondered how easy it would be to push yourself into his arms, how easy it would be to press him down onto the bed with your legs on either side of his hips. 

But then a car on the street outside squealed and laid on its horn and the moment was broken. You cleared your throat, Steve scratched at the back of his neck and the heat was suddenly too much. 

“Wanna get out of here?” You asked Steve and he grinned, nodding, looking a little relieved. 

“Yeah, yes. Uh, c’mon, I know what we can do.”

—————

You laughed as you let Steve drag you into a casino, the front of it too big to seem real, lights and neon and the smell of smoke and money. 

The city was as busy at night as it was in the day, maybe even more chaotic. Steve held onto you, hands tangled, keeping you close in the crowds and leading you through the masses to the cashier desk where you both laughed as you fumbled with some crushed twenty dollar bills. 

It wasn’t much, just enough for you both to have some fun, taking turns at the slot machines, lit up by the flashing lights and the glitter of it all. And when Steve sat on the stool to pull at the lever, you leant against his knee, perched on his lap with his free arm curled around you and he huffed out his laughter onto the back of your neck, whispering against your cheek. 

It felt like a dream, too big, too bright, too magic to be real. But Steve’s touch was a solid warmth and it kept you grounded in reality, even if reality was almost two thousand miles from the place you were supposed to call home. 

You ended up at a roulette table, not really knowing what to do but Steve asked you red or black and he slid a couple of chips onto red at your answer, caging you between his chest and the table edge, his chin on your shoulder as a smartly dressed man spun a wheel. 

The little ball whizzed round and round and the excitement in your stomach grew as it slowed, revealing how it sat on a red wedge and the table clapped and murmured as people pulled back their winnings. 

It wasn’t much, what you and Steve had won, your bet being pretty small to begin with but it made you both grin and you wiggled against Steve’s chest, looked back at him and said “again?”

He laughed into your hair, placed a couple of chips on the black rectangle and said, “if it lands on black, you’re buying me dinner.”

You snorted, beaming, because his voice was all flirt, one hand pressing over the curve of your stomach to push you back into him, the line of your bodies pressed together. The curve of your ass was settled into his hips and you fought the urge to squirm against him, to see how easy it would be to work him up. 

“How does a McDonald’s sound?” 

Steve grinned and shrugged, dropped a kiss to your bare shoulder, skimming over the strap of your sundress. “Sure, I’m a cheap date.”

You warmed at the word ‘date’, as if the entire two weeks you’d spent together, shared a bed together, hadn’t softened the idea of Steve actually wanting to spend time with you. 

You hide your smile, ducked your chin despite the way Steve saw it anyway and you crowed when the ball landed on red. You spun in his arms, looked up at him smug. 

“Does that mean you’ve gotta buy me dinner instead?”

Steve shook his head, still smiling - he wasn’t sure he’d stopped smiling - and spun you back around. His lips were on your cheek, your temple. 

“That wasn’t the deal, babe.”

Babe. It was nice. You liked that. 

You wondered what else you could make him call you. 

So you took a turn, chips in hand as you pushed them back to red again and told Steve that if it landed, he’d let you drive when it was time to leave town. It landed on your chosen colour and you listened as Steve groaned, making easy jokes about how you drove like you were trying out for the next Grand Prix. 

Steve’s turn next, a bet on black, a win that earned him a kiss from you, a fawning from the older couple that had sat next to you both. 

‘How sweet,’ they’d said. ‘Young loves dream,’ they’d cooed. 

It went like that for a while, gaining chips and losing a few, until there were two left for you to make your bets with. You played them both together, your chip on black, the boy’s on red and your stomach was turning over as Steve coaxed you to face him. 

“What’s your bet, pretty girl?” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, looking down at you with affection and heat and so much familiarity that it ached in all the best ways. 

You sighed, shaky, fingertips pushed to the lines of muscle under his shirt, tracing a path from his ribs to his navel. You felt him tense, heard his breath hitch and release. 

“If I win, I get to take you back to the room, like, immediately.” You whispered. You almost missed the way Steve swore, a curse on a quiet breath and it was the only indication that the boy was about to lose his shit. 

His control was fading fast.

He swallowed hard, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob with it, trying not to think about how you wanted to drag your lips over that same spot. Steve nodded, a hand squeezing at the small of your waist, fingers pressing into soft skin. 

“Yeah,” his voice wavered. He licked his lips, gazed down at you with dark eyes. “Yeah, okay.” 

“What about you?” You asked. “What’s your bet?”

It felt a lot like lying in the dark at night, that overwhelming sense of vulnerability as you first asked each other to tell a secret. But as Steve looked down at you, eyes earnest, smile soft, skin warm from the sun, the adventures, the long drives with the windows down, the music loud, the afternoons spent in lakes, coffee in parks you didn’t know the names of, kisses between mountains and valleys… well fuck, Steve felt like you were everything he ever needed and suddenly sharing secrets wasn’t as scary as it used to be. 

“If I win,” he held his breath, thought over what he wanted to say, once, twice and then let it out. A sigh of breath and a secret that followed. “If I win, you come back with me.”

“Steve—” you whispered. 

“You don’t have to go back to your aunts,” he rushed out. “We could get somewhere that’s ours, get jobs, save up, get a shitty apartment and fill it with photos of the places we’ve been and the places we wanna go.”

You were staring, wide eyed, lips parted. 

“Fuck, you could even come live me with for a bit, until we could afford something,” Steve shook his head, looking like he’d just woken up. He looked dazed, like you felt. “Sounds crazy, right? I know it does, it’s just—”

The croupier closed the bets, spun the wheel and dropped the ball. 

“—you feel like home now. And it sound real fuckin’ selfish but I wanna see my friends again, I wanna go back. I wanna work out a real plan. A future for myself and I know it’s not been that long but… but I see you in mine.” Steve licked his lips, nervous, eyes achingly gentle. “In my future.”

You could hear the noise of the casino around you, the music, the chatter, the yells and applause. The buzz of winning slot machines, the clink of chips pushed together. 

But you could only see Steve. 

The wheel was slowing, almost at a stop, the little ball setting on its winning mark. 

“Steve,” you started, eyes watering slightly, his words an overwhelming softness in your chest. Your heart hammered and you saw how the boy was watching you, waiting, breath held. “I—”

The wheel stopped. 

“Red takes the win!” Called out the croupier and it felt like the world stopped for a second. 

Steve stared, eyes worried and you let out the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in your chest until your body burned. You met his gaze and you smiled. 

—————

You were already kissing as you reached the motel room door. 

Hot, desperate kisses that made your knees buckle, your body held up by the way Steve pushed you against the wood, back pressed to the lock, the handle, his tongue licking into your mouth with a need that was almost overwhelming. 

It would’ve been too much if you hadn’t felt the same, tongue pushing over Steve’s, hands tugging at his hair as he used one hand to grab at your dress, fisting the material against the small of your back as he held you to him. The other hand was fumbling with the key, eyes squeezed shut as he tried his best to kiss you and open the door at the same time. 

It was dizzying, the need. The want. You’d never felt so desperate, too warm to be wearing clothes, too greedy to take your hands off of the boy to help him. 

So you compromised, dragged your lips to his jaw instead, nothing hotly along the strong line of it, stubble rough against your lips as your hands snuck up the sides of his shirt and your nails scraped down his ribs. You felt him shiver, heard him groan and the sound did something to you that you couldn’t explain. 

“Steve,” you whispered and you heard how desperate you sounded. 

“I know, I know,” Steve hushed but there was a whine in his voice that betrayed how he was trying to keep himself together. “Gimme a second, sweetheart.”

But he didn’t let you go, didn’t move away, just swore quietly as he dipped back down to press his lips back to yours for another taste. And then, click. 

The door swung open and you both stumbled inside, legs tangled, your back bowing with the force that Steve kissed you with, hands wrapped around your waist as the door shut with a slam. The room was dark, barely lit with the Vegas strip lights that managed to sneak in through the curtains, the bed bathed in blue and yellow and red. 

You bumped into the desk chair, tripped over a stray sneaker and the only sound was yours and Steve’s breathing, heavy and gasping, a moan when you grabbed at each other on the edge of too rough, a promise of what was to come. 

You both toed off your shoes as you walked across the carpet, laughing softly into each other's mouths as you grabbed at Steve’s shirt, dragging it over his head. His hair was wild, eyes hooded, lips glossy from your attention, cheeks all flushed. He looked too pretty to be real, all blue shadows and scarlet tinted skin in the light and you were back on him instantly, as if it had been too long since you’d last kissed. 

Your toes barely brushed the floor as Steve pulled you tight up against him, a brazen hand cupping roughly at your ass as the other tangled in your hair, mouths slanting over each other in a way that made you feel dizzy. 

The backs of your knees hit the bed and as you fell, you took Steve with you, hands tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him down too. He wedged a knee between your legs, kisses never breaking, never faltering, a hand squeezing at your hip as he held himself over you. 

His kisses slowed as you both settled onto the sheets, lazy and languid, twinkling lights from a show outside peeking through the gap in the drapes. They scattered themselves over your faces, tiny stars that Steve kissed, a constellation across your cheeks. 

“I wanna—,” Steve sounded wrecked, voice shot, eyes dark as he looked down at you, trying to find the words. “Can I touch you? Wanna make you feel good.”

You nodded, making the same strangled sound, noses nudging and the smile on Steve’s face was like the whole of summer. Everything about the boy was warm, soft, absolutely fucking intoxicating. 

Steve was sunscreen and swimming pools, reflections on a lake, the colour of a mountain when the sunset on it, wildflowers and a whole fucking forest. 

He was yours. 

He hadn’t said it, not really, and you hadn’t asked. But he kissed you like he was, he held you like he was. 

You both sat up so he could peel your dress from you, slow and cautious, as if he was waiting for you to tell him to stop. But the flowery material hit the floor and Steve let out a rush of breath as you sat on your knees before him, chest bare, underwear cotton and a pretty lilac colour. 

He kissed you sweet, reassuring, because your chest was heaving and anticipation made your stomach tumble, your fingers tingle. But Steve eased you back into the pillows, hair mussed, lips already swollen from all his attention and he pulled away only to nudge at your jaw with his nose. You tilted your head up, let him kiss a line down your throat, a hand soft at your waist as the other held his weight up off of you. 

“Okay?” He whispered, fingers squeezing at your hips and you nodded, bringing a knee up to bend at his side, closing him into the space between your thighs. “Tell me what you like, please? Show me how to make you feel good, yeah?”

It was the sweetest and dirtiest thing someone had ever said to you and it should’ve made your body burn. It did but you ached to have Steve touch you, to teach him what you liked, like the boy planned to memorise it for the future. 

His hand found yours on the bed sheets, twisted your fingers with his and then he was dragging both across your tummy, a warm touch, rough and soft all at once. Your fingers grazing the band of your underwear was a familiar touch, Steve’s however, was not. It made you jump and he paused but you made a soft noise and pushed your lips to his, desperate. 

“Don’t stop,” you mumbled against his mouth. 

So he didn’t. The boy pushed your joined hands past the cotton, ten fingers slipping over you. You gasped and Steve groaned, low and rough. His eyes found yours and you nodded, answering a question he hadn’t asked out loud. 

“Show me,” Steve said, quiet and god, his voice sounded wrecked. He kissed your cheek, your jaw. “I wanna know what you like.”

You wanted to tell him that you liked him. That anything Steve wanted to do to you, anyway he wanted to touch you, would feel like a live wire running through you. But he was looking at you so sincerely, with dark and hooded eyes, earnest in a way that you’d become so used to. But his hands were inside your underwear, the thick tips of his fingers brushing against your cunt, waiting for instruction. 

It was easy to talk in the dim light, the rest of the sounds of the motel and the street below muffled and muted. You could hear Steve’s quick breaths, warm huffs of air across your cheek and throat, the ends of his hair brushing your skin when he shifted, looking down every now and then to watch the way your hands moved together. 

“I always start slow,” you whispered, eyes on his, feeling braver than you’d ever felt. “Like this.”

You pressed your fingers to your clit, Steve’s following, caught between. It was barely there touch, soft, lazy circles that made your stomach tighten, your skin burn. It had never felt this good before, never. 

But you’d never had Steve Harrington hovering over you, one hand smoothing the hair away from your forehead, the other cupping your cunt as he stared down at you, dark eyed and slack jawed. 

“Yeah?” He whispered. You saw him swallow hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. You could hear a pin drop in the room. “Feel good?”

You gasped and nodded, hips lifting slightly as Steve followed your lead, his fingertips overtaking yours, a slight press to your clit, copying the gentle circles you’d drawn over yourself. His forehead dropped to yours, both of your breaths hitching as he kept up his movements, never straying from that slow pace. 

Your free hand fisted his shirt, holding him to you, scared that if you let go, you’d float away. Your lashes fluttered, your lips parted and you moaned, quiet and shy. 

“What next?” Steve asked, breath ragged and he was still watching, eyes lowered and gazing through his lashes as your underwear shifted and moved over his knuckles. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, sweet and quick. 

“I like—” you were cut off when Steve dragged his finger down a tad, gathering the slick there and you would’ve been embarrassed by the wet sounds his fingers made if you weren’t already so far gone. “Fuck, fuck, I like to tease myself. Build it up a bit.”

You caught his fingers again, made them follow yours as you dragged them up and down your slit, a feather light touch before you circled them around your entrance, a little more pressure before you dragged them back up and started again. 

Steve swore and you don’t think he meant to, but his hips canted into your side, the hard outline of his cock straining against his jeans. He didn’t need your instructions, you knew that, Steve knew that. But there was something about the pacing of it all, the way you were talking to him, the way he obeyed, that was driving you both absolutely fucking mad. 

Anticipation filled the room, thick tension that made everything seem heavy and you knew that whatever way this ended, whatever happened next, it was going to be worth it. 

Steve copied you, did as you said, dragged his much thicker, much longer fingers through your folds, catching your clit before sliding down, a push of pressure against your entrance but never slipping in, not filling you up, not yet. 

It was dizzying and you were gasping, lip bitten raw as he pressed kisses to wherever he could reach. 

“You feel so good,” he mumbled desperately and his voice was shot, rough and frantic. “You feel so fucking good, baby, you’re so wet, it’s so fucking hot.”

“Steve,” you were wild. Hips lifting as he moved, trying to make him slide his fingers inside of you despite telling him you liked to take it slow. You’d never been spoken to like that before, dirty, pretty words melting like hot sugar over your skin and it was turning you into a greedy, greedy thing. “Fuckfuckfuck, oh my god, please.”

You were sure you could come just like this, just by the slip and slide of his finger running back and forth over your cunt, rubbing your clit in soft circles every now and then, two thick fingers spreading your folds a little dirty. But you wanted more. 

“What?” He whispered, words hot against your cheek as your hands wound into his hair, leaving his alone to touch you as you pleased. You tugged at him, catching him in an open mouthed kiss as you panted into each other. “Tell me, I’ll give you it, fucking Christ, I’ll do anything—”

“Your fingers,” you gasped out and god, you sounded almost tearful, desperate with it, eyes squeezed shut, nose pressed to Steve’s as you held him tight. “Want your fingers, inside, inside me, please.”

“Yeahyeahyeah, okay, shit,” Steve was babbling, nodding against you, eyes wide and he slipped his fingers from you just for a second, hushing you softly when you whined. His thumb pulled at the lace edge of your underwear, dragging it down over your hipbone and he paused, gazing down at you. “Can I take these off?”

You took the opportunity to grab Steve’s shirt as you nodded, realising that you’d let this man do absolutely anything he wanted to you. Steve helped and raised his arms, letting you drag off his top as your hands flew to his jeans, pulling impatiently at the button and the zipper. It was enough to make him moan out, pushing his lips to yours for a kiss, feverish and messy. He slid your underwear off with one hand, curled an arm around your waist and pushed you back into the pillows in one smooth movement. 

You didn’t even see where the cotton landed. You didn’t care. 

Steve was warm and solid against you, a smattering of hair at the top of his chest that you’d seen many times before but now you got to put your hands on him, palms running over his biceps, curling around his shoulders. 

His fingers found your clit again, easily, too easily, you thought and your breath hitched as you held back a moan. Steve groaned, dragging his digits back through the wetness there and he kissed you soft, nipped at your jaw and circled around your entrance. He dipped one finger in, a slow push that felt thick and tight, his finger much bigger than your own. 

You groaned, eyes clenched shut as you held onto him, ass lifting from the bed to chase his touch. You were panting, trying to hold yourself together as Steve kissed down your neck and chest, licked a flat line over a stiff nipple and rutted himself into your leg. 

“Wanna hear you,” he groaned into your skin, “you’re holding back, I wanna hear those pretty noises.”

You clenched around him and he swore, lifting his head to look back down at you, dragging his finger out slowly only to push two back in. 

You couldn’t even help it, you cried out, a breathy, high keen that made your cheeks warm. Steve was staring at you in awe, eyes on yours before he tore them away only to stare down the line of your body, to watch his fingers disappear inside of you again and again and again. 

“Shit,” he rasped, “there you go, that’s it.” He pumped his wrist a little faster, curled his fingers into you and dragged them out as he thumbed at your clit. “You gonna come for me? Are you close?”

It was barely even dirty talk anymore, Steve’s voice was desperate, brows furrowed as he watched you climb higher and higher from his touch. He was earnest about it, eager to make you feel good, not realising that everything he was doing to you was so much better than anything you’d ever felt before. 

“Uhuh,” you moaned, skin slick with the desert heat, with the way Steve was pressed into you, bare skin sliding against his and you yanked at his hair, took note of how it made him huff against you. “Really close, Steve, s’good, fuck, it’s so good.” 

“Yeah?” Steve murmured, leaning over you, pressing his lips to yours for a kiss, all teeth and tongue as you whined into it. “Tell me, hmm? Pretty girl, fuck, you’re so pretty, Christ. Tell me, tell me it feels good.”

You hadn’t touched him, but Steve felt wrecked, pupils blown, lips parted and barely teasing yours, brushing in the last of the kiss as he moaned into you with every clench of your cunt around his fingers. He loved the way you felt, soft and warm and wet and tight, couldn’t get over how you sounded, so needy, just for him. He wanted more of it, wanted to hear you talk, the cutest little babbles and gasps, eyes teary as you looked up at him, hair wild on the pillow. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered and it almost sounded like he was talking to himself. 

Your heart stuttered and your tummy flipped over, hips lifting again on their own accord to chase the push of his fingers because you were so close, so quick. 

“Feels so good, so good, Steve, you feel fucking— fu-uck—” you trailed off in a moan as the boy sped up his movements and you arched against him, head thrown back. “Oh my god, I’m gonna— I’mgonnacome.”

“Please,” Steve asked, Steve begged, pushing his face to the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking a bruise there, pressing his thumb down onto your clit a little harder. “Fuckin’ hell, baby, yeah, come for me please.”

You did, a blinding white light bursting behind your eyelids. You gripped Steve hard, a hand around his neck, the other wound in his hair as you cried out, body pulsing, stomach clenching as you tensed, legs quivering. 

You only heard the sounds of the city as you came back down, real life sneaking back in as your orgasm eventually faded away, leaving you buzzing, a static in your ears that made you feel fuzzy, floaty. 

Steve petted at you, lips mouthing at your cheek, your jaw, soothing you as his hands swept across your tummy, your sides, your thighs. 

“Hey,” he whispered, smiling wide, nose nudging yours. You blew out a shaky breath, hiccuping out a little laugh that Steve copied. “You good?”

You grinned, pushing your face to Steve’s chest, humming in agreement, a contented noise that made the boy a little proud. 

“Can I touch you?” You whispered, pressing tiny kisses along Steve’s collarbone, nipping at the base of his throat. Your hands pushed at the waist of his jeans, fingers slipping past the band of his boxers. “I really wanna touch you.”

Steve swore, eyes closing as he let his lips part, like your words were too much, like he couldn’t handle what was happening. He groaned and nodded but left you confused when his hands gripped your wrists, gently pulling you away from his hard cock. 

You almost pouted. 

“If you touch me, I’m not gonna last,” Steve gasped out, “like, at all, shit, m’sorry. And— and I really wanna fuck you.”

You whimpered, suddenly just as desperate as you felt walking back from the casino, Steve’s hand in yours, both of you knowing what was going to happen.  

“Yeah, yeah,” you replied, moving up and over the boy, with more confidence than you’d usually have when you were completely naked. “Fuck, I want that.”

So Steve got rid of his jeans, his underwear, socks going with them as everything ended up on the floor. He grabbed at you as you fell into him, hands catching your waist as you both fell back into the tangle of sheets. 

Steve kissed you like he was falling in love with you and you kissed the boy back with the same franticness, sloven and deep, tongues and teeth and lips, shaky breaths and a desperation you’d never felt before. 

How could you have ever thought about leaving him? About letting him leave you? How could you have watched him get back into the car in California, let him leave you there and drive away without you?

“D’you have a condom?” you faltered, pulling away from the boy to gasp out a breath and ask. 

You really didn’t want to give the receptionist the satisfaction of waking down the hallway in Steve’s shirt, hauling ass to the condom and cigarette machine. 

“Uh, uh yeah, shit,” Steve nodded, panting. He was all messy hair and glossy lips, flushed cheeks and scratched up shoulders. God, you’d really been grabbing at him. “Hold on, lemme get my wallet.”

He was out of the bed and back in it with you quicker than you could comprehend, his wallet thrown on the floor and a foil packet between his teeth. He slid it on with shaky hands and you were thankful to realise that the boy was as nervous as you. 

Good nervous, you’d realised. The kind that made your stomach turn and flip, your skin warm and everything buzzed with anticipation. Steve gazed at you, like you were the only good thing left in the world, like the sight of you amongst the sheets trumped all the canyons and lakes and mountains and forests you had both seen. 

Steve gulped, looked at you, looked at the bed and smiled, soft and easy. 

“Do you want me to— d’you wanna—?”

He was cut off by you moving into him, pushing him back into the pillows and swinging a leg over his hips all in one move. You were shaking, settling down on Steve’s lap, his cock hard against his stomach between you both. You ducked down to kiss him, to stave away some of the awkwardness, and soon you were both clinging to each other again. 

Steve wrapped his arms around your waist, tugging you into him until his cock was pressed against your cunt, making you both groaned into each other’s mouths. You moved, hips rolling against Steve’s, chasing some of the friction you desperately wanted. And then:

“Steve, can I? I need— fuck, please, I want you inside me.”

The boy, hissed out a breath, broke away from you to let his head fall back into the pillows and he looked up at you from hooded eyes. He pressed his palms to the tops of your thighs, thumbs pushed to the line of them, running over the crease there. 

“Jesus Christ, say that again, huh?”

You huffed out a laugh and Steve smiled, already looking fucked out and stupidly pretty. He was bold as he stared up at you, letting go with one hand only to wrap it around himself and tug. You bit your lip, let your own hand cover his as you leaned and kissed his cheek, the corner of his mouth. 

“Steve,” you whispered against his skin, eyes fluttering closed, voice breathy. “Please. Want you inside me.”

He made a noise of desperation, one you’d remember forever as he pushed his mouth to yours, kissing you dirty. You were quick to lift off of his lap, both your hands guiding the head of his cock through your folds, slick coating him. 

You pulled away from his mouth to rest your forehead against Steve’s, both your eyes and his wide and dark, watching each other as you sank down. Steve swore, low and loud, voice all rough and his hand squeezed at your waist as you took him inch by inch. 

It took him everything he had not to break your gaze and throw his head back, blissed out. Instead he huffed out a breath, pressed sweet kisses to your cheeks and shoulders as you took all of him, murmuring pretty words to you as he bottomed out inside you. 

“Aw, fuck,” he moaned, babbling, “so good, took me so well, baby, Christ, you’re amazing, you feel amazing, Jesus.”

You were already clenching around him, feeling impossibly full ‘cause fucking hell, the boy was big. Thick and long and filling you up, twitching inside of you every time you gasped or moaned. 

“God, Steve,” you whined, leaning in to press your chest to his, hands in his hair as you rolled your hips experimentally. Both of you cried out, hands squeezing each other for support. “So good, you feel good, ohmygod.”

Lights flashed and flickered outside, flooding in through the drapes, painting you both in purple and red, green and blue, every time they changed. The sheets were a rumpled, pooled around your waist, over Steve’s lap and everything smelled like Steve and summer and sex. 

“Can I move?” You asked quietly, fighting the whimper that was stuck in your throat. 

Steve nodded, jaw slack, hands guiding your hips up and off of him, just enough that you both moaned at the hot drag of him inside of your cunt. You swore, breathed out his name and pushed yourself back down, crying out at how he slipped a little deeper than before. You tightened, fluttering around him as he twitched and you swore his eyes rolled back as he gripped your waist. 

“M’not gonna last long,” Steve told you apologetically, each word hissed out on a strangled breath, as if it was taking him everything he had to stop himself from falling apart. “Sorry, m’sorry, you feel too fucking good and you looked so fucking pretty when you came all over my fingers and—”

“Steve, Steve,” you gasped out, rocking your hips just to make him stop talking. He cried out, dick throbbing and he stared up at you, totally gone. “S’okay, it’s okay, want you to come, want you to feel good, wanna make you feel good too.”

You didn’t care about coming again, not really, not when the boy already made you fall apart so easily, not when you had already planned to do this again in the shower, tomorrow morning, in the early light of dawn. In the back of the car, over the hood of it, in whatever Walmart changing room you could drag him into on the way to Cali. 

You wanted him to lose it, you wanted to watch him fall apart, like your life fucking depended on it. So you took his chin in your hand, tilted it up for you to lean down into and kissed him sweetly. The movement made his cock brush tight up against your walls and he shined into the kiss, chasing your lips when you pulled away, only to brave your palms on his chest. 

He swore, grabbed a handful of your ass and squeezed, the other mapping out the ridges and dips in your side, the swell of your hip, the curve of your tummy. And then you moved, rocking back and forth before lifting yourself up and down on his cock, over and over and over again until you were both gasping. Steve made the prettiest sounds when he lost control, your name tumbling from his lips in every variation, a reverent whisper, like a prayer, like a curse, like something unholy. A sigh, a dirty groan, a whimper. 

“I can’t,” Steve stammered, head thrown back, pretty neck all taut, pulse thrumming. “Jesus Christ, m’gettin’ close, baby, fuck, keep doing that.”

You did as you were told, lifting yourself up and down before dragging your cunt against his pelvis, his cock buried deep enough inside you that the base of him caught your clit, and your breath hitched at the feel. You were close too. 

So you kept going, fucking yourself down onto Steve, a slow, hard grind on his lap and you brought your hand between your legs, three fingers rubbing flat over yourself. You whined, moved a little faster, eyes turning glassy. 

“Steve…”

Your cry caught the boy’s attention, his head lifting from the pillow where he’d lay with his eyes shut tight, jaw slack and panting, trying to hold out a little longer for you. But his gaze settled on the way your fingers rolled over your clit and lost it, swearing low, hands grabbing at your 

waist, both of you hot and slick, and then his hips were chanting up, feet planted on the mattress as he bent his knees and fucked up into you. 

Your name was a messy babble falling from Steve’s lips, his gaze stuck on yours and you were falling falling falling. 

“Steve, m’gonna come again.”

His hips pushed up into yours quicker, eyes flitting from your own to where you were touching yourself and he bit down on his lip so hard the skin looked close to breaking. “Oh, fu-uck! Yeah, baby? Close?”

You nodded, whining, falling forward as Steve caught you, a hand on the small of your back, the other curving around your jaw as he held you above him. He brought you to his lips, mouth brushing over your own as you both gasped and cried out at every push of his cock. “Gonna come? For me?”

You nodded, noses bumping, breath harsh and ragged. “Yeah, just for you. Gonna come for you, Steve.”

That’s all it took. Both of you crashing seconds apart, gripping onto the other like your life depended on it, like that was it, that was forever. ‘Cause how the fuck were you supposed to walk away from that? That feeling? This boy?

You tried to catch your breath, hiccupped and gasped out a laugh when you realised you couldn’t and you didn't know you were crying until Steve smoothed a thumb under your lash line, staring up at you like you were made of magic.

Like you were home. 

[rookthorne]

No Way Out | ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ

Pairing; TFAWS!Bucky Barnes x F!Agent!Reader Word Count; 1.1k Warnings; hurt/no comfort, major character death, swearing, petnames A/N; ...I'm sorry. I listened to Last Glimmer while writing this and made it even more angsty than I planned.

WHUMPTOBER MASTERLIST

Fate was cruel. Life, even more so. The pain was excruciating, well past and beyond endurance. It was just a shame there was little comfort you could give from the other side of Death’s veil.

Sam had said that this mission was a simple recon - infiltrate the base, gather all the information you possibly could, and get out. 

Foolishly, you believed him, and let your guard down. You were with Bucky, you were safe, nothing could get to you, and nothing would hurt you.  

The sound of Bucky punching through locks on doors and cabinets to rifle through the contents within was jarring, but you kept focus. You were rooting through their computer system and making copies of everything when the alarm blared and rattled your bones. The pitch was shrill, and it grated against your eardrums worse than a bag of yowling cats. 

“Move!” Bucky ordered and you complied without a second thought. The device with the copies came free from its slot with no resistance, and the two of you tore down the hallway where red lights bounced off the walls and burned against your retinas. There was a suspicious looking mist gathering over the concrete floor in waves, and the sight made your stomach turn. What kind of chemical was laced amongst that smoke?

You could hear Sam yelling over the comms to “fucking move!” when Redwing came into view. “Follow him!” Sam shouted and you grabbed hold of Bucky’s hand - be damned if the two of you became separated in this chaos. 

The piercing cry of the alarm didn’t fade as you ran through the mazes of corridors - running from a threat neither of you could see. Terror wove it’s way through every fibre of your body and your heart froze over with ice when a long corridor came into sight. 

The exit. 

It was right there. 

Why was it so easy?

“C’mon!” Bucky shouted and pulled you along, his pace brutal and unforgiving on your quickly tiring muscles. “We’re almost there!”

He didn’t see it in haste to move - the slight gap in the wall that was widening with every stride the two of you took towards the exit. “Bucky! Look out!” You cried, but it was too late. 

An earth shattering boom echoed through the walls and you screamed when you stumbled. It was like your body had given up on the idea of escape all together, and it didn’t want to fight. 

Bucky’s hand slipped from yours and you looked up, eyes wide with fear only to see where he should have been standing, there was a steel wall. An unbreachable span of metal that separated you from escape and Bucky was on the other side. “NO!”

“I’m alright!” You yelled, suppressing the urge to cough against the tightening in your throat. It was like being choked by an unseen hand. 

What the fuck was in that smoke?

The dull pounding of Bucky’s fist against the metal could be heard over the screeching alarm and you got to your feet sluggishly, all fight drained from your body. 

“Can you see anything?” Bucky cried, his fist still slamming against the metal in an effort to blow it to hell. “I can’t-” A sudden yell of frustration broke off his rant and you leant unsteadily against the door. “I can’t fucking get through!”

The smoke was rising in a tidal wave the longer that door sealed away the exit and you couldn’t help but let fear win out against your training. 

It was sealed tight, and there was no release mechanism this side of the damned door. There was a rising tide of an unknown gas circling your feet and burning your lungs. Going back the way you came was not an option, your body was giving in to whatever the gas was and it felt like a tremendous effort to even remain on your feet. 

There was no way out. 

Bucky could not save you this time. 

This was it. 

The realisation turned your whole body to ice. Your heart beat a tattoo against your ribs, fighting valiantly against the restraint of bone. 

“Please!” You heard Bucky yell and you slumped, your knees hitting the floor with a dull thud that he no doubt could hear. “Answer me!”

“I’m here, Buck,” your voice sounded nothing like you. It was resigned, weak, defeated. A coughing fit wracked your already seizing lungs.

“What’s happening?” Sam demanded over the comms and Bucky cut in before you could even open your mouth to answer through gasps for air.

“She’s stuck! There’s some sort of gas coming from the door and I can’t get the damn thing open!”

The alarm ceased and all you could hear was Bucky and Sam arguing over the comms and the sound of your shallow breathing. It was cruel, going out this way. Weak and unable to fight back.

A second set of footsteps on the other side of the door told you Sam had arrived, the hum of his wings and whirring of Redwing a comfort to you - Bucky wasn’t alone now. 

“Boys,” you tried around another coughing fit and they fell silent. Your lungs were constricting and it was hard to breathe. “Go, before you-”

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky interrupted loudly before you could finish. “Don’t you fucking dare do that.”

“Sam,” you started before another violent cough wracked your lungs. “I need you to take care of him, he needs you.”

A beat of silence followed your request and then Sam spoke. “You got it, sweetheart.”

Bucky screamed with rage and pounded against the door again - you could hear Sam trying to talk to him and pull him back but it was futile. An enraged super soldier was no easy feat to convince. 

“No, Sam!” A thud against the door shook your back and you closed your eyes against the sudden onset of sleepiness. “I can’t leave her- no! Get the fuck off me!”

“Bucky, my love,” you managed quietly and it fell silent. The scuff of two pairs of feet still with apprehension. “I need you to go, I need you to be okay.”

The smoke was rising further up the walls and up your slumped figure, time was running out. 

“Can you do that for me, Bucky?”

A loud sob echoed through the door and it tore your heart in half. 

You didn’t want to leave him. 

“I can’t lose you, too, please,” Bucky begged and you allowed a tear to slip past your waterline, the weight of it on your cheek grounding you. 

“I love you, Bucky,” you promised, your voice as firm as you could manage against the tide of black in your vision. The beating of your heart had slowed and you felt like you could float. “I always have, and I always will.”

The current of darkness swept you away before you could hear Bucky scream from the pain of losing you. 

Graphics & Header made by yours truly.

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[mania-sama]

rule #8 - otherside

Rule #8 - Otherside - Fish in a Birdcage

Bungou Stray Dogs Pairings - Akutagawa Ryuunosuke & Nakahara Chuuya Additional Characters - Dazai Osamu, Nakajima Atsushi, Yosano Akiko, Wilhelm Grimm (Original Character) Tags - hurt/comfort, whump, mouth sewn shut, asphyxiation, choking, blood, angst with a happy ending, temporary character death, mild gore Summary - Akutagawa Ryuunosuke and Nakahara Chuuya, two of Port Mafia's strongest ability users, are captured during a failed mission to eliminate a foreign European mafia group trying to take root in Yokohama, Japan. While in captivity, Akutagawa's lungs are irritated from the strong scent of an air-based ability. He can't stop coughing, so the enemy organization comes to the most obvious conclusion on how to solve the problem: They sew his mouth shut. Word Count - 3,704 Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own Whumptober 2023 - Day 8: Mouth Stitched Shut See my full Whumptober 2023 Challenge on Tumblr or Ao3

Akutagawa has never experienced torture outside of the Port Mafia. He only knows the force of Dazai’s fist, the sharp points of his boots, and the edge of the Boss’ scalpel. Ruthlessness is not inheritable; it is beaten into you until your morals shatter into inscrutable shards. No matter how hard you try, they will never fit back together to create anything less than a monster. Even his time as an urchin on the streets cannot compare to the brutality of the mafia.

But for him, his torture was not for information, money, or other valuables. It was training.

He’s never been captured before, never caught and taken away after a failed mission. Thanks to his ability, it’s hard for anyone to keep a hold of him for very long. His ability is made to protect himself; it stops tranquilizing bullets, knives, and knock-out punches. Rashomon can cut through metal and rope alike, releasing any capturing devices thrown at him. There are only two things it cannot do: heal and continue to work even under the effects of a nullifying ability. Akutagawa learned this when he had his first training session with Dazai, and he has been loathe to forget it.

It explains, in any case, how he ended up here, with his wrists chained to the ceiling and his body hanging limply underneath. He and Chuuya were the only ability users sent out on the failed mission to dismantle the European mafia trying to sprout roots in Yokohama. Failed. With someone like Chuuya in the fray, a mission should never fail. At the very least, it shouldn’t end in his or Akutagawa’s capture.

He looks at Chuuya who is tied by several thick bands and a rope around a metal support beam of the damp, poorly-lit room they’re in. Akutagawa remembers with clarity the moment the executive said with a sharp edge in his tone: “I can’t activate my ability.”

It was whiplash after that. Rashomon failed to answer his call, and in a moment’s notice, he felt a pinprick hit a pulsing vein in his neck. A tranquilizing shot, he realizes now, and an advanced version of Dazai’s nullifying ability that permeates the air rather than by touch. He can smell its sewage odor, — a scent that they hadn’t picked up on considering the mafia’s trail led them to a sewer — and it continues to push down Upon the Tainted Sorrow and Rashomon.

It also has the adverse effect of agitating his lungs. He hasn’t had more than an estimated ten-minute break in between coughing fits, and being suspended from his wrists meant that his shoulders were aching from the effort to not pop out of place. Chuuya regards him every now and then with a slightly worried gaze during his more intense attacks, but he says nothing. There is simply nothing to add; there is no escape plan, no way to get out of this empty, concrete room until someone or something comes by.

They don’t have to wait very long. At the front of the room, the large metal door unlocks and opens to reveal a tall, brown-haired man with a respirator mask covering the bottom half of his face. An ability user, then. The only reason to wear a ventilating mask now is he has an ability that can be nullified. His clothes consist of a long, trailing black coat with a velvet-red interior lining. His black pants appear steam-pressed, his polished dress shoes click against the concrete floor, and the visible part of his shirt is deep-blue satin that pulls together the overall look of “filthy rich.”

He strides forward and narrowly side-steps Chuuya’s legs in his path to Akutagawa. In his hands is a ball of white yarn and a thin needle.

No part of his clothes is torn, Akutagawa thinks, confused. They are both uninjured and don’t need any sutures, albeit yarn is a pathetic substitute for stitches. Unless they are being knitted a new torture device, he doesn’t have a single clue what the yarn is for. He coughs in an impressive fit and, being unable to cover it up with his arm or hand, blood splatters on the man, himself, and the pool of lung fluids on the ground between them.

The ability user’s gleaming amber eyes are at the same height as Akutagawa’s are from where he’s suspended. If his feet were on the floor, however, the man would be much taller than him. “Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. Ability: Rashomon. Dog of the Port Mafia.” His voice is slightly distorted and muffled from the mask, but the bite of disgust is still noticeable in his tone. “What ails you?”

Akutagawa does not respond. The man narrows his eyes, patience slowly draining from them. “It will be wise for you to answer. You are bleeding all over our ground and making loud noises prematurely. We want to do everything in our power to prevent that from happening—” He raises the ball of yarn to block their eye contact “— without having to use this.”

It suddenly becomes very clear what the yarn will be used for. Even he cannot repress the shock on his face as he looks to Chuuya for permission to speak. The executive stares back at him with his pupils drawn into slits and does not give him an affirmative answer either way. He’s leaving the decision up to Akutagawa. Luckily, it isn’t a hard choice.

He doesn’t talk about his lung disease to people. Not because he’s ashamed of it, since there is nothing to be ashamed of, but because they can use it against him. If they know, and he manages to anger them or their organization, they will set traps specifically designed to enflame his lungs and incapacitate him. He learned this in his second training session with Dazai.

“I have an incurable lung disease,” he croaks, his throat torn and hurt from his constant coughing. “This nullifying ability is agitating them.”

The man exhales deeply through the mask. “That is rather unfortunate. I will still have to close your mouth, then. Try not to cough during this procedure. It will be quite painful.” Despite the rest of his butler-esc outfit, he does not wear gloves. His hands are cold and calloused on Akutagawa’s face when he drives a thumb harshly into his submental and the other fingers press down on his nose. It holds his mouth closed painfully together, and even the attempt to jerk his useless to dislodge his hold. “Do not move. This needle is sharp, and I have been permitted to poke your eyes if need be. There will be minimal blood.”

It occurs to Akutagawa, then, that his hands are tied above his head and his abs have weakened enough to the point where he can’t quite kick out properly, either. He is completely at this man’s mercy. A needle in his eye will hurt infinitely worse than stitching his lips closed, and the damage will be permanent in comparison to the yarn that can be removed.

He stills, and from his peripheral he sees Chuuya’s lips press together a fraction tighter before speaking. “Who the hell even are you?”

“Nakahara Chuuya. Ability: Upon the Tainted Sorrow. Executive of the Port Mafia,” the man says. “I am Wilhelm Grimm.”

Wilhelm leans in close and pokes the needle through the corner of his upper lip. It doesn’t hurt as much as Akutagawa thought it would — the painful part is the yarn slipping through the hole, and the needle scraping at his gums. He’s bleeding more than he was before already, making him wonder how much the “we want to do everything in our power to prevent that from happening” is really worth. Perhaps this isn’t premature, but before was. Akutagawa doesn’t know, and he supposes it doesn’t matter.

“What do you want with us, huh, Grimm? If it's got anything to do with torture, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it will not work,” Chuuya comments. “We are Port Mafia. We will die with our secrets.”

Wilhelm shakes his head, though his hand remains entirely steady as tugs the needle through his bottom lip. The yarn yanks his lips together in a manner so painful Akutagawa finds it hard not to flinch back. “I desire nothing from you,” he replies monotonously. Chuuya scoffs.

“Obviously not you as an individual, dumbass.” As much as Akutagawa looks up to Chuuya, he can’t help but feel ire spike through his veins. The yarn passes through his lips and tugs at the bottom once more. Wilhelm holds the needle that can effectively cut Akutagawa’s throat and stab out his eyes. Anger is not the emotion they need to be evoking. “I mean your organization. What do they want?”

“You’re bait for the Armed Detective Agency,” he answers just the same as before, like hiding the truth is not necessary for him. His complete honesty is concerning. “Once they come to rescue you, we will eliminate them, and our wolves will eat your bodies. They are quite hungry; they have not been fed in a while, and it's been weeks since they last had live prey.”

The Armed Detective Agency has no stakes in this battle. Clearing out an encroaching mafia is specifically the Port Mafia’s arrangement; the ADA is not meant to be involved in any capacity. It’s rather foolish of this European mafia to believe that they would come crawling to save two criminals.

Chuuya scoffs, clearly coming to the same conclusion Akutagawa had. “The Port Mafia is the one you should be afraid of. They will come in, guns blazing, and take down all of you idiots before a day has passed.”

Wilheim offers the next bout of information as he has before. “The Black Lizard of the Port Mafia was reduced to half its original size an hour ago. The rest made a tactical retreat back to their headquarters. The Armed Detective Agency will raid this base in approximately three hours.”

The only sounds in that room for a full minute are the filtering of the respirator mask and the yarn pulling Akutagawa’s lips together. Akutagawa doesn’t know what to make of that information. There had been little to no knowledge of the European mafia, to begin with, other than that they had considerably strong ability users in their ranks if they were able to keep strong anonymity in Europe and still control major imports and exports of illegal goods. Not only that, they were able to make it to Japan entirely unnoticed by the government and the Special Division for Unusual Powers.

Akutagawa has the overwhelming need to cough, but he manages to bite it down. The hand bearing down on his jaw and nose remains as strong as ever.

“How can you be so sure?” Chuuya says, only slightly weaker than he had been before. His expression is schooled into one of unconcerned disinterest.

“Dazai Osamu. Ability: No Longer Human. Member of the Armed Detective Agency,” he says. Akutagawa feels his heart stop in his chest, and he lurches back as the needle scrapes his bottom gum deeply. It pulls the yarn and the needle hits both his tongue and his bottom lip, nearly poking an extra hole. His mouth screams, and he can’t prevent the groan from the back of his throat. He swallows down the blood overfilling his mouth in an attempt to keep the blood from spilling out over Wilhelm’s hand and to calm his agitated lungs. “He will be the one to learn of your whereabouts and bring the Armed Detective Agency to us.”

He barely registers the pain this time. The yarn is only halfway through, and his lips are a red mess he can acutely feel but not comprehend. Chuuya’s voice floats in his ear as a distant melody. “You can’t be serious. He’s the Port Mafia’s youngest executive. He’ll never fall for that trap.”

“He’ll know it's a trap, but he will come anyway. Your lives are on the line.” The yarn progresses past halfway, and the pain returns to Akutagawa all at once. His body quivers as he holds back another coughing, swallowing the blood building up his throat. He can’t keep this up forever.

He has the sudden, terrible feeling he is going to die. The thought was, at one point, not so unsettling. But a death like this is certainly not Dazai-approved; he is a captive used as bait, eaten alive by dogs, or much sooner, choked on his own blood. Then he considers it — it’s yarn. If he opens his mouth, it’ll tear through his lips. It’ll hurt like all Hell, but it would be nothing compared to the cargo ship explosion, where he was unconscious for days until he could be slowly healed via an ability.

Chuuya does not argue with him. He is so stupid as to say Dazai will not come for them when the Port Mafia is incapable. It’s exactly what he will do, and he will do it excellently. Everything that man has done is nothing short of calculated perfection. The wolves will never reach them, no matter what this man thinks.

Even if they did manage to catch the most powerful ability user in Yokohama in ten minutes flat. The nullifying ability agitates his throat and he clears his throat in an attempt to keep the cough down. Wilhelm does not spare him a glance, completely focused on the work in front of him.

“What’s your ability?” Chuuya asks after a beat of silence. Akutagawa knows what he’s doing: gaining as much information as possible to give to their allies or use against the organization later. To exploit any weaknesses they may have. “And who is behind this air ability?”

“My ability is Rumplestiltskin. I can strengthen textile to that of the strongest and densest metal,” he explains, now a third of the way through Akutagawa’s mouth. It’s getting difficult to breathe, and anxiety travels up his arms and down his legs. “The ability in effect now is Little Snow White. Ability user: Jacob Grimm, my brother.”

Wilhelm doesn’t give up rank this time, Akutagawa notes dully. He’s really struggling to breathe now, his lungs aching and diaphragm restricting painfully. He won’t have much time to rip them out if he wants to stay awake or even live.

Three hours was Wilhelm’s prediction. Akutagawa wouldn’t make it one.

Silence stretches between them as Chuuya has no more questions left to ask. There are no threats to make or promises to follow through on. They have to wait for the Armed Detective Agency to come save their asses.

Wilhelm ties the end of the yarn together, and Akutagawa’s blood is already seeping out of his lips. There’s too much in his mouth, and he can’t swallow it all down. Wilhelm sighs, the air pushing out heavily from his respirator mask. “It will do. You will cough no longer.”

Then the yarn pulls his lips together with a clench, and Akutagawa knows he won’t be able to rip his lips open. They are too tight – his jaw does not move when he tries, and he does. His skin stretches and pulls and it's the most nauseating pain of his entire life. Nothing compared to that when blood spills from his lips and down his throat.

It clogs, and Akutagawa knows he will die.

Wilhelm leaves and the moment the door closes, Chuuya thrashes against his bonds. “Akutagawa? You need to hold it in. Dazai will not take three hours. You know him as well I do; he will have predicted that they will do this.”

Even if he wanted to Akutagawa cannot speak. His chest burns, and he convulses with the need to cough.

But he can’t. His blood comes up his lungs and chokes him. It comes out of his nose, which is the only place oxygen can get in. Blood blocks his airways and he can’t cough any of it out , so it’s greedily taking in all of the oxygen that would be going to his heart. His heart races in utter panic, and he thinks a heart attack might kill him faster.

He makes gurgling noises that resemble a demented sort of zombie. “Akutagawa! Come on! You have to stay alive!”

His vision is already fading and blurry with tears. He tries to respond, he really does, but the yarn holds as hard as solid diamond. It hurts. It's unbelievably painful as the only blood that leaves his throat is from the slow drizzle of his stitched lips. “Don’t you dare die! I can’t lose another friend!”

Akutagawa does not breathe.

There is so little blood and oxygen going to his head that he does not think in the last second of consciousness. His head hangs, and the last thing he hears is the panicked scream of his name and the distant popping sound of firearms.

—

It takes Akutagawa three minutes to die of asphyxiation. It takes ten minutes for his brain to cease activity. 

In this period, two things happen:

One: Three hours before intended, the Armed Detective Agency arrives at the base location. Dazai Osamu greets a high-ranking European mafioso at the door.

Two: Akutagawa breathes.

He tries to gasp but his skin tears and pulls against the yarn, and he nearly passes out again. If it weren’t for the fact that his wrists were freed from the hanging chains, making him collapse on top of his lung fluid on the ground, he would have blacked out. Arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him into a standing position. He meets the weretiger’s concerned multicolored eyes.

“We won’t let you die,” Atsushi promises, one hand lightly grazing the yarn keeping his mouth sewn closed. “I don’t know if the tiger can cut through this. You’ll have to wait for Dazai.” His fingertips come away with Akutagawa’s blood dripping off of them.

Akutagawa doesn’t spare him a nod, instead doubling over as he tries to cough. His mouth fills once more and he painstakingly swallows it back down his throat. “I can revive you as many times as you need,” Yosano informs from where she releases Chuuya from his bonds, “but I can’t heal your disease.”

They are the only Agency members down there with them. From the faint sounds he can pick up, it sounds like the fight is still continuing up the stairs. He begins to move in the direction of the door, but both Chuuya and Atsushi pounce on him in a flash.

“No. You are in no condition to be fighting,” Chuuya snarls at him, though the anger in his tone isn’t directed at Akutagawa. The weretiger holds his arm tight enough to leave a bruise. Now that the Little Snow White ability has dissipated, he considers letting Rashomon slice off those hands. “Being in the fray is just going to make you die again faster, and we don’t know if that Grimm brother is out of the picture or not. He could still reactivate his ability, making you dead for good.”

The executive doesn’t stay along to argue further on the topic, leaving Akutagawa alone with the two Armed Detective Agency members. When he feels another fit coming on, he summons Rashomon in a vain attempt to cut off the yarn, but it holds fast to his lips. Hard as solid diamond.

He sends a snapping jaw Atsushi’s way, just to hear him yell indignantly: “Can you stop that? We just saved your life! You should be grateful!”

Akutagawa doesn’t miss the fleeting smile on Yosano’s face.

Since the ability is no longer agitating his lungs, Akutagawa doesn’t worry about dying again. The last urge he felt was small and insignificant, and he doesn’t feel one again until the door swings open. Two men walk through, and Dazai narrowly avoids the kick Chuuya deals to his stomach. Akutagawa’s heart stops in his chest when he makes eye contact with his former mentor.

He sees Atsushi reposition himself to be at Akutagawa’s side. A slight node of irritation passes through him, but he lets it go by in favor of behaving for Dazai. The man stops in front of him, reaches out with a blank expression, and taps his pointer finger on the yarn. It softens into near mush from the amount of blood that it has soaked up, and Atsushi wastes no time in using the tiger to slice the yarn open.

Akutagawa takes one breath and keels over, his body wracking with coughs he hadn’t been feeling before. All of the blood he swallowed comes back up, and he thinks his body is making up for when he died earlier, unable to expel the blood then, either. It's the worst attack he’s had in years.

A hand rubs circles on his back. He thinks it’s Atsushi since he’s right there and would be just the type of person to extend a kind gesture to the very person who’s supposed to be his enemy. But when he lifts his head, he sees that Atsushi has joined Yosano, and Chuuya stands alone.

That means Dazai is comforting him. 

When he finally gets rid of the last bit of pent-up liquid in his lungs, he turns to face his former mentor. He expects to see a look of displeasure. He does not anticipate the twitching of his lips that tries to hide the downward set of his frown or the furrowed eyebrows that display his concern. Dazai pulls Akutagawa into his chest and rests his chin on top of the mafioso’s head.

He doesn’t say anything, but the steady beat of his heart and the tight hold he has on Akutagawa speak loud enough. Akutagawa does not return the hug, but he does bury his face as deep as he can into his former mentor’s coat. His blood joins the other stains on Dazai’s clothes from the fight. He bites back the sting of his eyes and breathes as slowly as he possibly can.

It’s okay, Akutagawa thinks. I’m okay.

He’s alive, and Dazai holds him with more affection than Akutagawa has known his whole life. I’m okay.

[actress4him]

June of Doom 2023

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Taglist: @painful-pooch

Day 9 - “I should have listened to you.” | Sprain | Defiance | Smoke 

Contains: lady whump with male whumper, captivity, restraints, beating, stress position, mild blood, implied starvation, head trauma, hair pulling, death mention, broken ribs, dislocation mention, brief dog and master imagery

.

.

There isn’t much to see in the basement. Lainey inspects every concrete block, every crack in the foundation, every plank on the steps, every lock on the door, and finds absolutely nothing useful. It still feels better than just sitting around, though. Not that she’s blaming Isa for sitting, she can’t even help it with that chain around her neck. That thing makes Lainey want to punch something every time she thinks of it. But she also has a feeling Isa wouldn’t be helping her look even if she could get up and move. 

It doesn’t take long for the man to return. She’s just come back down the stairs from checking out the door when the locks start to slide open, so she spins around and plants her feet, glaring up at their captor, trying to ignore the way her heart is suddenly threatening to break through her ribcage. 

He’s not much to look at, either. Just an unattractive, scraggly bearded man, like someone you might see loitering outside a gas station and walk quickly past on your way inside. For good reason, apparently. 

“Have you come to let me go?” she demands as he starts down the stairs. “To let us both go?”

He scowls back at her. “I see you haven’t yet learned your lesson about keeping your mouth shut.”

“You think I’m going to listen to you? Some low-life who gets his kicks from kidnapping and chaining up young women?” He’s getting closer, and part of her wants to back away, but her pride and anger won’t let her. “I bet you’ve never had a girlfriend before, have you? Probably never had any friends at all. Is this the only way you can get anyone to hang around you? Locking them in your basement?”

She sees the swinging fist coming, but can’t get out of its path. It smashes into her face with a force that sends her over backwards, head cracking against the wall as she hits the ground. Her vision cuts out, then comes back swirling and spinning. There’s something bitter and metallic pouring over her lips. It takes far too long for her to realize that it’s blood. 

As she sits there, stunned and in pain, the man advances. He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her up off the floor, dragging her toward the center of the room. Her feet stumble clumsily after him. 

“I told you to shut up. You’ll figure out I mean what I say sooner or later.”

He throws her down, and she just barely keeps her head from smacking concrete again. Her arm isn’t so lucky, unable to move from its restrained position and getting crushed between her body and the floor. 

For an instant, she sees Isa, sitting directly in front of the assault. She has her head turned to the side, staring off at some unknown point, face blank. 

Then a boot is buried in her stomach. Lainey doubles over, coughing and gasping for air that seems to have vanished. The man doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath, though. He keeps kicking, pounding the toe of his boot into her ribs and back and legs over and over and over again. She curls up as best she can, trying instinctively to protect her organs, but all she can do otherwise is lie there and groan and sob.

It seems to last forever. Part of her thinks she actually might die right then and there. But then the kicks stop. He reaches down and grabs her by her bound wrist, pulling her backwards across the floor. She moans again as her shoulders bear the brunt of the pressure and as every sore part of her is jostled. 

He drops her again, and a chain rattles behind her. A moment later her wrists are being pulled upward once more, but this time the chain sounds accompany it, and this time it doesn’t stop. They keep being dragged up toward the ceiling until she’s forced to move, scrambling with leaden limbs to get her feet underneath her and stand. The chain seems to be hooked to the ziptie around her wrists. She can’t straighten her back or lift her head, shoulders wrenched as far backwards as they’ll go and wrists stuck up high. 

And that’s how he leaves her. He doesn’t say another word, just walks off, footsteps echoing through the nearly empty room. She cranes her head to the side to see him pick something up off the stairs before disappearing up them.

She’s never been in this much pain in her life. Before now, the worst pain she could remember was a broken arm from her highschool softball days, but between her throbbing head, her burning shoulders, and the fiery pain that shoots through her ribs every time she breathes, this is way worse. 

“That was my food.”

She tries to look over at Isa but can’t get her head to lift that high. “Wh-...what?”

Isa’s voice grows a little louder, a bit higher pitched. “He was coming down to bring me food and water, and probably unchain me, and you screwed it all up disrespecting him like I warned you not to.”

Lainey scoffs, hardly believing her ears. “Do you…do you realize…you sound like a dog right now? Waiting for your…master to feed and water and unchain you?” She winces at the increased pain in her ribs that talking creates, trying to shift her position. “And…I’m the one who just got…beaten up so…pardon me if I’m not overly concerned about your food.”

“And whose fault is that?” It comes out practically a growl, the most emotion she’s heard out of her so far. “I told you not to make him mad. I told you it would get you hurt. I’ve been here for five years, remember? I’ve tried it all before. I’ve figured out how to survive. But if you don’t want to listen to me, fine. Refuse to save yourself any pain. Learn everything the hard way, like I did. Just…can you at least leave me out of it?” Her voice wavers at the end, going quiet again. “I haven’t eaten in days, because he was gone to get you. And the two bottles of water he left me ran out hours ago.”

Isa sounds like she’s about to cry, and Lainey finds her own throat tightening in sympathy. She hadn’t meant to rob Isa of her first food in days. She wants to help her, not cause her more trouble. But she’s being an idiot, isn’t she? The woman’s right, she’s managed to survive for five years, and it’s stupid for Lainey not to listen to her advice, no matter how much it makes her skin crawl to think of sucking up to that man. 

“I’m sorry.” She tries again to look at her, and manages to catch at least a glimpse of her face. “I should have…I should have listened to you. You’re right, it’s…my own fault that I got hurt. And I didn’t think about…you suffering from it.” She pauses, breathing through the pain and thinking about her response. “I can’t…promise that I’ll do exactly what you want. I’m not good…at holding my tongue. But, uh…I’ll try.”

There’s silence for a long time. It’s a struggle for Lainey not to find some way to fill it, despite her painful position. 

“I don’t want you to have to go through everything I have,” Isa murmurs finally. “And I’m…honestly terrified that you’re gonna make things even worse. Keeping on his good side is so tentative. I just want to keep things as…easy as possible. For both of us.”

“Yeah,” Lainey breathes. “I, um…I get it.” She considers her next words carefully before deciding to take the leap and say them. “Hey, do you…still have the water bottles?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you roll one over to me?”

“They’re empty.”

“I know, just…just do it if you can.” She can hear movement and the slight crackle of thin plastic. A few seconds later an empty bottle rolls to a stop several inches from her foot. “Hey, nice shot. Lemme just…” Very carefully, grimacing with each movement, she steps on the heel of first one sneaker, then the other, removing them and kicking them behind her. Then she strategically uses her toes to pull off one sock, too. Isa mutters warnings about dislocating her shoulders here and there, but Lainey is determined to make this work.

Stretching out the bare foot, she drags the water bottle closer. “It’s still got drops of water left in it, so if I focus, I can…” She lays her foot across the bottle and closes her eyes. This is much easier to do with her hands, but the foot will have to do in a pinch like this. It takes almost a full minute of concentration, but eventually the droplets start to grow, dripping down into the bottle. The process gets faster as it goes, until there’s water swirling all through the bottle, filling it.

“There we go.” Satisfied with her work, Lainey takes careful aim and shoves the bottle back in Isa’s direction. “I can’t make you food, but…I can at least do that.”

“Water magic.” The plastic crinkles in Isa’s hand again.

“Yep. I’m…not very skilled at it, but…expanding water that’s already there…isn’t so hard.”

There’s no answer for a moment, but it sounds like Isa is taking a drink. “Thank you,” she says softly when she’s done.

“Yeah,” Lainey replies, equally as soft. “No problem.”