#Please heed the warnings

[honeyedmiller]

Angel

joel miller x f!reader drabble

warnings: this drabble has dark themes!! this is purely smut and it contains a knife kink and daddy kink. please heed these warnings! if you do not wish to consume this content, please do NOT read under the cut. smut contains unprotected piv, dirty talk, empty threat of using the knife!!!!! dark joel (? just in case) this relationship between joel and reader is consensual and joel was asked by reader to do this with reader. 18+, minors do not interact.

wc: 641

Joel was astonished when you’d first told him.

He was unsure. Hesitant. And oddly enough, the thought of you enjoying doing that with him turned him on, blinding him with a carnal desire that he knew was still deep inside of him.

He’d sworn up and down to himself that you’d softened him up, made him a better man after he’d met you one night at the Tipsy Bison. One smile from you—a smile that could end fucking wars—and it was over for him. You had him wrapped around your finger from that moment on.

So, when he’d asked you if there was anything in bed you wanted to give a try, something you two had never done before—he was completely taken aback at the proposal you offered: him holding a knife up to your throat as he fucked you relentlessly from behind.

And that’s how you two ended up here, with his switchblade pressed to your throat as your knees dug painfully into the mattress, him pistoning into you from behind.

Joel got a million dollar view of your ass and your arched back, his other hand engulfing your wrists as he pressed them against your tailbone. It was no use for you to struggle, even if your pleas were getting louder.

You and Joel had a safe word, and he’d yet to hear you say it, so he kept going.

“Daddy, please—”

“Wan’ me to fuckin’ press this blade into your throat baby? Hush up now n’ take what daddy gives ya.”

Your cunt gushes at his words, his empty threat sending you into a spiral of arousal. You couldn’t even think straight at this point, and Joel knew it. He also knew him being a little mean to you turned you on even more.

“Look at ya, getting fucked dumb on my cock. Can feel you fuckin’ squeezin’ me. Fuck, baby—god damnit. Gonna cum if you don’ stop squeezin’ me like that.”

You were numbly incoherent at this point, nothing but a strangled whine bubbling from your throat as your eyes rolled into the back of your skull. The blade was dangerously close to digging into your skin, but a sick, twisted fucking part of you loved the thrill of it.

Joel’s thrusts were becoming sloppy and you knew he was close. He took the blade away from your throat and gripped your hips, flipping you around so his broad body covered yours.

He was pulsing inside of you and the wild desire in your eyes nearly sent him over the edge. A calloused hand dragged up your body and groped your breast, tweaking your nipple between his forefinger and thumb before he trailed his hand up to your jaw to open it. He pressed the blade of his knife onto your tongue as he fucked into you at such a rapid pace, you fucking swore the bed would break.

“Such a good girl. My angel. So fuckin’ pretty n’ good for daddy, baby. Come with me.”

And he didn’t have to say it twice. His wish was your command, and you cried out as you pulsed around him, gushing all over the base of his cock. He grunted as he collapsed and dropped his head onto your shoulder, pulling out just in time before he came all over your stomach.

You swiped a finger over his hot spend, plopping your finger into your mouth as you looked into his eyes and sucked. You moaned at the salty taste, eyes closing in pure ecstasy.

“Christ, baby. Y’don’t know what you do t’me.” He flops down onto his side and tosses his switchblade onto his nightstand, pulling you into him.

You couldn’t help but giggle as you traced patterns onto his warm chest, the feeling of his erratic heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“I have a pretty good idea.”

[antimonyandthyme]

carcar the last of us au snippet

warnings: past character death, descriptions of the infected, descriptions of use of weapons and violence

What Carlos wants to say, in a way fashioned entirely after his father: That grave is about as deep as it needs to be. No one has the luxury to mourn. Stop fucking around and move on or die standing still.

What he actually says: “Do you need help?”

“No,” Oscar says, curt. “I should be the one to lay him to rest.”

“Okay,” Carlos says.

Maybe it’ll help Oscar, and Carlos shouldn’t begrudge him that. Help him avoid the scenario in which every infected thereafter shared facial characteristics with Charles. Max. A pretty mouth, a strong jaw. It’s his fault, after all. Carlos should have taken the time to bury all of that under the dirt. But all he could do was run.

There’s an almost relaxing rhythmic sound to the ground being hacked up, and a different kind of tanginess to the smell of fresh earth that lets him forget about blood for a moment.

He could be kind, sit at the foot of the grave and listen to Oscar talk about Logan. Why he thought coming back to where they grew up was a good idea. All these good ideas crumbling to dust, at every town they've witnessed that has eaten itself from the inside out.

Carlos closes his eyes. He doesn’t quite know what to do with another faceless loss, can’t add another number to his collection.

And anyway, Oscar's seen his fair share. He’s too good with the shovel for this to be his first.

Carlos clears his throat, when Oscar's finally done placing some leafy branch at the head of the grave. Flowers. On a grave. That’s some doe-eyed rose-tinted bullshit. There’s a strangled bird, caged somewhere to the left of Carlos’ chest. He doesn’t allow that bird any food or warmth or hope, for fear of softness. Can’t be soft if you want to survive.  

“We should move,” he says.

“We?” Oscar reels his head up. The loss carving its way down his cheeks haven’t fully dried, but he looks hopeful, almost like a lost dog. With how Carlos acts, he probably hadn't expected an offer like this. It should've been cut and dry. Getting you to your city, in exchange for a car battery.

“It’s a simple question,” Carlos says. “Are you coming?”

If he wasn’t already fucked all ways to Sunday, making his way along this forsaken earth with two rounds of ammunition and less than a quart tank of gas left, he’s definitely fucked now, adding a bleeding heart to their journey. But Carlos imagines Charles’ face if he were to leave a kid behind and—damn him for that. For being a ghost and still demanding good of him.

“Yes,” Oscar says.

Arguments and energy spent on arguments should be saved for the important things. Carlos throws what’s left of their shit into the back of the trunk, and wordlessly, gets into the driver’s seat.

--

“I’m just saying.” Oscar’s insistent. He’s spent the first half an hour of the journey staring vacantly out the window, but apparently, country music’s where he draws the line. “If for some reason this car caught on fire—”

“Don’t you even dare,” Carlos says. The thought of losing the Sienna makes him want to shrivel up and die. With luck, they managed to jack a vehicle with a working CD player. Tunes are a necessity in what is essentially a never-ending road trip. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“If it did,” Oscar says, “and I only had time to save one album—”

“Zach Bryan,” Carlos says.

“No,” Oscar says flatly.

“Dios mio. I should have left you back there.”

“You nearly did,” Oscar points out, but it doesn’t sound accusing. At Carlos’ furtive glance, he shrugs. “No hard feelings. I know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah?” Carlos doesn’t like the sound of that, gets his back all up. Ten and two on the wheel, lest he reaches for Oscar’s shirt to shake him until his teeth rattle. “What am I doing?”

“Self-defense,” Oscar says.

“I really should have left you.”

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” Seemingly chastised, Oscar digs his teeth into his lower lip. Charles used to do that too, before he acquired the ability to unhinge his jaw and take larger bites. “You look out for your own, right?”

Carlos wonders if Oscar can see his trauma for what it is. The way Carlos has been tuned toward Oscar in the passenger seat, as if an infected would crash through the windscreen at any second. The way he’d swerve right, driver’s seat to the road, without a second thought, if it meant his neck would be exposed instead of Oscar’s.

He’s got nothing to offer but his own body.

“I’m doing such a great job of it.”

“Mate,” Oscar says warily. If he could hedgehog his way any further into the car’s upholstery, he would be so far back he’d be invisible by now. Zach croons in the staticky background, There ain’t no world in which I am good for you. Ain’t no world, now or ever. “I wasn’t saying you weren’t.”

“No, really,” Carlos says, a little hysterically, “I’m doing such a great job—”

--

There were things in the world that should not have applied to Charles. Spend upwards of two months to four years with him and you’d start to imagine that his fingernails never got dirty, or that his smile never got ugly, or that his face never got bloodied.

But he turned like everyone else.

His skin bleached itself until every single vein was visible, and his eyes lost all recognition. He could still speak, for the first bit. Said their names in what was almost a parody. Cahlos. Cahhhlos.

“We have to,” Max couldn’t finish his sentence, though he kept trying. “We have to—”

Charles lunged for them like a rabid animal. They cringed, but the tire chains wound around Charles hold fast, and he shrunk back. Before lunging again, and again. If Carlos were a better man, he’d put Charles out of his misery. Too bad he was a big fucking coward.

“Don’t,” Carlos hissed, absolutely feral, when Max squared his shoulders and took a step forward. “Don’t touch him.”

Max’s chest rose and fall in rapid succession. His eyes were glassy and hollow. Max, who Carlos had never seen shed a tear once, who they all joked would survive them all. He looked a gentle tap away from breaking. “This isn’t about our stupid feelings, it’s about what Charles would have wanted.”

“Fuck you,” Carlos said, to nobody in particular. To maybe himself. Charles was his responsibility when they went on the raid for food, and Charles was still his responsibility now. Till the end. He’d shown Carlos the bite on his calf, almost guiltily, and remained docile and quiet when Carlos wrapped him in chains, while Carlos breathed through what was most definitely a panic attack.

Easy, Carlos. You’ve got to care of Max now. Easy, come on, breathe Carlos. It doesn’t hurt much, not now anyway. Just. Do me a favour. Make it quick, alright?

Cahhhhlos.

“I’ll take care of it,” Carlos said, because all of this was his fault. In the chaos at the grocery store, he got separated from Charles for a harrowing two and half minutes. That was all it took. “Just. Just give me a moment. Just give me a second, alright?”

Charles snarled, snapping his teeth against the metal biting into his skin. This couldn’t be how Carlos remembered him.

“I’ll do it in the morning,”Carlos promised. I’ll do it after sunrise, so he gets to see it one last time.

In the morning, this is what he found:

Charles, chest cavity open, lying still like he was peacefully asleep.

And Max, bleeding out from a bite wound in his forearm, the gun used to lay Charles to rest tucked at his feet. His skin was paper white, but his eyes were still bright.

“I fucked up,” Max said. It was the way he said it. Completely accepting and calm. It made Carlos drop to his knees and hack out the nothing he had left in his stomach. Bile burned his throat raw. “I thought I could do it, so you wouldn’t have to. Sorry.”

Carlos trembled, pushed his forehead into the ground. The entire world was bearing down on him like a magnifying glass on an ant. He didn’t want to look up. If he didn’t look up, then this didn’t have to be real.

“Carlos,” Max said, more gently than Carlos had ever heard him. By some magnetic, supernatural force, it lifted Carlos’ head from the dirt. Max had enough in him to kick the gun over to Carlos, and life in him yet for the corner of his mouth to twitch up. “You can do it.”

Carlos shook his head mutely.

The expression on Max’s face morphed into something unfamiliar. Pleading. It would carry itself into Carlos’ nightmares and every single infected running after him after. “You can. Just don’t fuck it up this time.”

--

“I’m,” Oscar says. He sounds heartbroken for people he doesn’t even know. “I’m sorry about your friends.”

“You didn’t know,” Carlos says. He never should have said anything. Maybe it’s the kid, snapping, I should be the one to do it. Mirrors are a relic of the past, but Carlos looks at Oscar and sees the same jagged stubbornness lining all his edges. “I’m sorry about Logan.”

They pass the rest of the drive in silence.

[butterymangowrites]

masterlist

updated 08/10/24

miya atsumu

permanent fix

miya osamu

right at home

sakusa kiyoomi

a few pushes

kageyama tobio

distribution system

kibutsuji muzan

little singing bird

eren yeager

strange progression

dabi / todoroki touya

dad thief

bakugou katsuki

ten years in the making

[elnavegador]

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon)

Relationships: Alastor/Vox (Hazbin Hotel)

Characters: Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)

Additional tags: Vox is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Non-Consensual Touching, Rape/Non-con Elements, Hypnotism, Victim Blaming, Gaslighting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Unreliable Narrator.

Summary:

The first and only time Vox hypnotizes Alastor they’re eight years into this almost-something, into this dancing-around-it.

The opportunity presents itself when Alastor pops in his department, a hurricane of energy and movement, giddy about some deal he made, about this other-overlord Vox stopped paying attention to, the moment Alastor reached out to trace a finger over his screen, demanding attention when he turned to look for the nice whiskey he knows Alastor likes.

So, Vox says:

“You want me.”

[knifeforkspooncup]

Hm, well I didn't want to make another post about this Neil stuff but I really can't help myself after seeing a trend today. Please note under the cut I will be discussing triggering topics and exercise due caution.

Understandably people are combing through the available information. I've seen multiple posts breaking down the podcast etc and digging up information on the sources. I see no problem with looking into the information with an open mind, do what you gotta do to sleep at night or whatever.

But something to bear in mind as you do your research is this:

The perfect victim does not exist.

And I'm watching a lot of you analyze the available information and brush it off as false or "iffy" because it doesn't fit the mythical narrative of a perfect victim of SA.

There are so many reasons why someone may appear to consent to something, or even openly consent to something, and still be experiencing SA.

The power dynamics in both these allegations are red flags at the very least. The age gaps, the situations reported, Neil's status as a celebrity and an employer in some instances, and a more experienced person overall than either of the victims, coupled with "BDSM" elements (air quotes because actual BDSM culture is a very consent oriented culture.) It's so easy for things to spiral into coercion and manipulation and ultimately non-consensual acts if the more advantaged party isn't very careful, very knowledgeable about consent, and ruthlessly responsible.

Even if the answer was yes on paper, or even in the moment, true, actual, moral consent is contextual and fluid and requires a lot of work when there's a large power imbalance.

So internet sleuth away, dig up more information, all that jazz. Ultimately you looking into the allegations has no bearings on any legal proceedings.

But don't think for a second that just because the allegations don't fit a narrative of perfect victimhood, that someone wasn't experiencing SA.

And if you're clinging to the hope you can soothe your way out of feeling guilty for liking Neil's work by solving the mystery of these allegations and looking for all the reasons they can't be true, I really urge you to go read my other post about decoupling fandom from celebrity worship (ie: fandom is morally neutral.)

Just remember that as you pick this information apart, the things you say about it are being heard by people in your fandom who may not have been "the perfect victim" themselves (ahem me, for instance.)

[runraerun]

Read below the cut or on AO3 <-

Part 1 is here <-

(*Please heed the updated warnings before reading. Billy is not the nicest guy in this chapter. But remember: Angst with a happy ending. We’ll get there!)

Chapter Summary:

It becomes a thing.

Eddie can barely believe it.

He doesn’t know which Gods he accidentally sacrificed what to, but hooking up with Billy fucking Hargrove becomes a regular thing.

He’d track Eddie down—at his house, maybe at their spot in the woods, or sometimes even at a party—and drag Eddie off to some secluded area to have his way with him. They’d smoke together first, sometimes Billy would drink too if he brought his flask, and then they’d mess around to chase the high.

Eddie can’t remember ever being this happy.

Added Warnings:

• BIG content warning for violence, bordering on DV between romantic partners here. Billy is not nice in his fic (at least right now he isn’t), but I don’t plan on going any darker than this.)

• Deeply delusional thinking.

• Parental death mention.

• and of course, it’s rated E for smut reasons.

If you can handle all of that; enjoy!

—

It becomes a thing.

Eddie can barely believe it.

He doesn’t know which Gods he accidentally sacrificed what to, but hooking up with Billy fucking Hargrove becomes a regular thing.

He’d track Eddie down—at his house, sometimes at their spot in the woods, or even at a party—and drag Eddie off to some secluded area to have his way with him. They’d smoke together first, sometimes Billy would drink too if he brought his flask, and then they’d mess around to chase the high.

Sometimes Billy would pay Eddie, but he doesn’t make a habit of it. They have an understanding though; something that doesn’t need labeling or overthinking. It’s the kinda shit that’s beyond words.

And it isn’t like Eddie’s getting ripped off or anything. Hell no. Eddie’s getting some top level experiences with Billy, sex-wise. He’s pretty sure, anyway. He’s not exactly an expert, but Billy sure as shit seems to be. So if Eddie’s gotta sacrifice a few grams here and there to get some one on one time with the face-melter himself—yeah, Eddie’s gonna take it. He’s gonna sink his gay little claws into that hunk of man meat and hold on for dear life, praying he’ll make it out the other side in one, unbroken, lightly tenderized piece. Hell yeah, he’ll take that trade any day of the week.

Like right now. He could be making cold hard cash upstairs, but Billy had gotten to him first—and that shit takes precedence. They both showed up to this lame house party with a bunch of recently graduated dick-wads, all celebrating their shiny new acceptance letters and even shinier futures by buying fistfuls of pills from Eddie and washing ’em down with cheap beer.

But not Billy. Not Eddie either. No, when fall rolls around, they’re not going anywhere.

Eddie, ‘cause he’s gotta repeat the fucking twelfth grade again, and Billy because he’s almost as broke as Eddie is. Billy’s smart but he’s not full-ride on a scholarship smart.

The world moves, but they remain.

Eddie’s hips move too. Rutting up against the hard rubber sole of Billy’s boot, the ever increasing pressure of it sends shockwaves of pleasure directly to his denim-trapped dick.

Billy’s standing over him, sucking back on one of the joints Eddie’s rolled especially for him while Eddie’s on his knees, with a death grip on Billy’s shin. Eyes locked onto those baby blues, trying his fucking hardest to keep from making any noise. An almost impossible task when Billy’s gone ahead and made a fist in the back of Eddie’s hair, pulling it right where it feels good.

They’re in some kind of a cellar. The walls are lined with cans and jars and shit, with bare concrete for a floor. It’s cold. And of course his jeans have holes right at the knees, so second by second, he can feel the stone slowly leech the heat away from his body. But Eddie doesn’t care. Billy and him make do with whatever spot they carve out for themselves. Eddie’s not some chick that’ll demand a nice hotel room or candles or whatever—nah, he takes Billy where he’s at. That’s why Billy likes him. That’s why he keeps coming back.

It’s not always like this—sometimes they’re in the back of Billy’s car, or in the staff washroom at the Hawkin’s Pool, where Billy works. Sometimes Billy will even sneak into Eddie’s bedroom through his window, not say a word, and crawl into his bed. Those nights are Eddie’s favorite. Billy’s already drunk, usually, so he lets himself relax. They kiss each other until their mouths go dry or until one of them falls asleep. He’s gone before the sun is up, but Eddie gets to wake up to sheets that smell like Billy’s spicy, expensive smelling cologne. It’s gross, but he doesn’t change his sheets for weeks after.

The pull-switch from the single, flickering bulb above them is resting against Billy’s shoulder, wriggling around like a snake that’s in the midst of getting charmed. It’s the same silver as his dangling earring, along with the rings on Billy’s thick fingers. Silver suits him. Which makes sense, seeing as his skin already looks golden.

Fucking gorgeous. Like a movie star.

“You gonna cum sometime tonight, Munson?” Billy mutters around his cigarette, briefly pulling his hand from the door knob to pluck the joint from his lips. He flicks the ash off the end, exhaling in a great cloud of white smoke, before putting it back between his lips and re-securing the door, “I got shit to do.”

He sounds bored. Uninterested. But Eddie can see from the hard outline in his pants that he’s anything but. Billy likes to play this game. Like to act like he’s not enjoying himself when he very clearly is. Sometimes he lets it slip—let’s Eddie see. The walls go back up pretty rapidly after that, though. So quick it makes Eddie’s head spin sometimes.

But Eddie likes what he sees when it does happen. It feels forbidden. Something sacred—something none of the girls that Billy fucks gets to see. Because Eddie’s special.

“H-harder,” he sputters, feeling hot and cold all at once, like he’s got a fever, “just a little—yeah, yeah, that’s—Jesus, yeah, that’s perfect, Billy.”

A smirk tugs at the corners of Billy’s mouth as Eddie writhes up against the bottom of his boot. Billy leans forward a little more, putting his weight down on Eddie, pushing past the line, until Eddie can’t take it. He cries out. Whimpers, really. It isn’t that loud, but it’s enough for Billy to pull his hand free from Eddie’s hair and give him a quick, opened palmed smack against the cheek.

“Shut up,” he growls.

The sharp, sudden sting of it is always enough to re-center Eddie. To get him back in line. Billy never hits him hard enough to leave a mark, (though sometimes Eddie wishes he would) no, what Billy gives him is love taps. Reminders.

The hand that just slapped him is now over his mouth, strong fingers digging into the corners of his jaw to ensure his silence.

Eddie knows that Billy could seriously hurt him, but he doesn’t. All he ever does is make Eddie feel good. So fucking good…

The threads of pain and pleasure within him are plucked simultaneously, both reaching the same frequency in tandem. Eddie lets its harmony vibrate in his chest. He usually feels so goddamn hollow, but the sounds don’t echo tonight. Because when Billy’s holding him like this, Eddie is full. No more empty spaces. His cup overfloweth.

Tears form along the rim of his eyes from the pain, blurring his vision. He tries to keep his eyes open for as long as he can, but eventually he blinks, sending the tears streaking down his cheeks, onto Billy’s fingers.

Billy’s breathing goes a little ragged, and the hand holding the door securely shut is suddenly on his crotch, palming himself roughly.

Fuck, that’s hot.

So hot that Eddie’s eyes roll back in his head and he’s shooting a hot fucking load in his pants, hips stuttering up against Billy’s crushing weight. He’s panting through his nose, savouring the bond between him and Billy. Feels it strengthen with each pounding beat of his heart.

His head goes swimming, basking in a sea of freshly released feel-good chemicals his brain’s cooked up especially for him. Billy lets his hand slip from his face, but he leaves behind what feels like a brand in his wake. Eddie’s a marked man, even if he’s the only one who can see it.

His mom used to talk to him about things called soul-ties before she died. How you anchor parts of yourself to every person you make love to. So be careful who you choose, baby boy, she warned.

Eddie doesn’t think his mom would like Billy very much. Not at first, anyway. Not until Eddie explained to her what the things he did actually meant. How he made Eddie feel. How Billy Hargrove was hard and gruff on the outside, but that Eddie had peered through the veil—had spotted the secret soft side that Billy keeps so heavily guarded. He would explain to his mom how day by day, Eddie can feel the cracks widening. Like a dandelion pushing its way through concrete, until it reaches sunlight. Because what other option does it have? It’s that or shrivel up and die in the dark.

Eddie reaches up to touch between Billy’s legs, only to get his hand shoved away.

“Don’t,” Billy says firmly. He stubs out the roach out on top of one of the jars of pickled beets.

“Why not?” Eddie asks, eyes darting towards the door. They’re still alone. The basement was dark and downright creepy. Eddie doubts anyone from the party will be coming anywhere near the cellar door.

Billy doesn’t answer him. Just readjusts himself in an attempt to hide it. It’s still noticeable as fuck. “You had some good shit tonight, Munson.”

“Thanks,” Eddie murmurs, still a little light headed. He flinches when Billy sticks a hand in front of his face, blinking at it stupidly until he realizes it’s an offer to help him up. He takes it.

“Might come by your place this weekend. Get some more,” Billy licks his lips between his words. Not trying to be seductive, just… twitchy. Amped up. Probably from getting blue balled. “You gonna be around?”

Eddie nods, “Yeah, I’ll be home. My uncle’s working nights so… I’ll leave the porch light on for you?”

Billy ducks his head when he too nods, focusing his attention on his pants again. He probably wouldn’t have such a hard time hiding his stiffy if his jeans weren’t so goddamn tight.

…But then Billy’s jeans wouldn’t be so goddamn tight, and that’s a reality Eddie has absolutely zero interest existing in.

“Let me suck you off,” Eddie murmurs, keeping his voice low, barely above a whisper. Doesn’t wanna spook Billy. For someone that’s mostly made of hard muscle, he sure is a timid thing. Eddie didn’t know someone could be both fight and flight at the exact same time. “I want to,” Eddie adds with a tilt of his head, trying to catch Billy’s eye.

Billy gives a laugh that stays at the back of his throat. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

“So let me,” Eddie smiles as he takes a half step forward, not bothering to try and hide his eagerness.

The thought looks like it’s rolling around Billy’s head. Considering the proposition. Blue eyes meet brown. Eddie’s heart flutters.

“Maybe next time.”

Next time.

The hollow feeling in his chest comes back, and Eddie feels the smile slip from his face. His chin starts doing something weird too.

It’s always next time.

Never—

“Don’t pout,” Billy groans, like Eddie’s being annoying for spiralling down a tunnel of self-loathing. He slots a hand against the side of Eddie’s face, using a thumb to trace the ridges of his mouth, “your lips don’t look half as pretty when you do that.”

Eddie leans into the pout, just to push back against Billy. It just makes Billy chuckle, so of course fireworks start shooting off in Eddie’s head. Making Billy laugh was a rare feat. Not just anyone can do it. But Eddie’s special.

Billy grins, a flash of canines. “C’mon man, I thought we were having fun.”

Eddie sucks in a quick breath, frustration boiling over, “I just… I just don’t get why you won’t ever let me return the favour—it doesn’t gross me out or anything. I like it! And, just so you know, I don’t care if you’re like, small or anything, I won’t judge, I just—“

In an instant, that hard-won smile on Billy’s face twists into something ugly. Furious.

The air shifts, and Eddie’s back is slammed against the many shelves along the wall. A jar of pickled something goes careening off the ledge and shatters next to their sneakers. It stinks like vinegar. Makes his eyes water.

Billy’s got a hand around Eddie’s throat, the one that was just cradling his face, now holding him in place. The pressure quickly builds in his temples, and he wheezes in an attempt to pull a panicked breath in. His spent dick twitches in his jeans, which—fuck, of course Eddie gets off on this. Jesus Christ he really is one broken son of a bitch.

“I’m not,” Billy leans in, speaking between clenched teeth, agonizingly slow, “small.”

Some suicidal part of Eddie’s impulse-control-deficient brain opens his mouth to mutter something about a gentleman protesting too much, but thankfully he can’t seem to make anything more than a few wet sounding choked noises.

A beat passes where nothing happens except the corners of Eddie’s vision start to go a little wonky. Darkness creeps in, framing Billy, making his blue eyes seem sort of electric. Eddie digs his nails into the meat of Billy's forearm, waiting for him to snap out of it.

He does. Like a rubber band, time snaps back into motion. Catches up with his Cali boy.

Billy yanks his hand off of Eddie’s neck like it had been burning him and he’d only just realized. He opens his mouth, his eyes gone wide and wild, but nothing comes out. Instead, he just gets this look on his face after he knows he went too far. A look that shaves nearly a full decade off of him, making Billy look eight rather than eighteen.

“It’s okay,” Eddie croaks out, getting ahead of Billy before he spirals, “m’not hurt, see? It’s okay.”

It’s only half true, and Billy can tell, because the next second Eddie has a coughing fit. Like his throat’s trying to reset itself. When he’s finally caught his breath and wiped the spit from his mouth with his shirt sleeve, Billy’s still staring over at him through the eyes of a scared little kid.

“I’m fine,” Eddie insists, but Billy just… looks at him. His hands clenched up into fists by his hips. Frozen.

It’s only when Eddie risks reaching for him that he seems to remember how to move. He backs away a step, blinking rapidly, like he’s trying to reorient himself.

“Wait… wait here for twenty minutes after I go,” he begins, words shakey at first before he seems to remember that he’s Billy fucking Hargrove, and that Eddie’s just… well, Eddie’s just lucky to be here. “Then leave through the basement door, got it?”

The cellar gets colder with each passing second, and Eddie’s sure it’ll drop another few degrees when Billy leaves, taking his body heat and golden skin with him. Eddie pulls his arms around himself, tucking his hands in his pits to try and keep ‘em warm.

“Got it,” he mutters from his sore throat, his hollow chest. He worries his bottom lip.

Billy usually goes. He doesn’t make a habit of hanging around after he’s made it clear he’s finished. Not one for long goodbyes, his Billy.

But he doesn’t go. He hovers. Sways a little, like he’s trying to gather momentum to make his move. Eddie wonders if he’s thinking of ways to try and fix something that doesn’t need fixing in the first place. Because Eddie isn’t fragile; you can’t break something if it’s already broken.

“I really am okay,” Eddie reiterates quietly, with a shrug of a shoulder, “don’t worry about me, man. I’m tougher than I look.”

Resilient, his mom called him. Like a stubborn little weed, she teased. It’ll serve you well when I’m gone.

Eddie hated it when she had talked like that, but now that she really was gone and those words are all he’s got left of her, he runs them through in his head, over and over, re-committing them to memory like prayers to saints.

Eddie feels the air shift around him as Billy takes a step back into Eddie’s personal space. He reaches forward to fix something that’s apparently gone askew with Eddie’s hair, then his hands move down to Eddie’s collar, straightening it up. Like he’s tidying up a mess before he leaves.

Then, like he just can’t help himself, Billy leans forward and captures Eddie’s mouth with his. Some nights Billy’s kisses are soft and gentle. Tonight they’re hungry, and eager. They’re the kind of kisses that make you go weak at the knees and stiff at the nipples.

Billy opens his mouth, and Eddie follows suit. Their tongues glide against one another’s, tasting, drinking from each other's mouths. The scratch of Billy’s stubble is nearly enough to get him hard again.

But just as quickly as it starts, it’s over. In one fluid motion, Billy pulls away, swings the cellar door open and disappears through into the darkness, getting gobbled by the darkness.

Eddie reaches up and touches his lips as they slowly pulls into a smile, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest.

Forgiving, his mom had also called him. Another compliment.

Maybe a little too forgiving, she added, and he remembers how her big brown eyes that he’d stolen from her went all soft and watery. Eddie knows how much she hated crying, but near the end she seemed to do so damn much of it. Impending death will do that to a person, he supposes.

I’m sorry I won’t be there to protect you, bug. You’ll have to learn to protect yourself, her voice echoes in his head.

No, Eddie’s mom wouldn’t have liked Billy.

But, unfortunately, Eddie loves Billy. More than he knows he should. More than what’s healthy. He feels anchored to Billy.

Soul-tied.

He smokes a cigarette while he waits the twenty, then leaves via the basement door, just like Billy told him to. No one’s the wiser.

He should feel like shit. Guilty, maybe. Or dirty, at the very least.

But all Eddie can think about is this weekend, about the next time he gets to see Billy. All he can think about is next time.

Next time.

As he gets in his van, puts her in reverse, but when checks his rear view, he goes rigid. Brown eyes that look so much like his mom’s stare back at him.

There’s a shock of bright red where there would normally be white stained across his left eye. A burst blood vessel. That must’ve been what Billy got so spooked over.

He blinks, but the red doesn’t clear up no matter how many times he does it. They just go watery, and eventually he has to look away.

He hated seeing her cry.

…Sorry, mom.

—

Permanent Tag List: (dm me if you'd like to be added or removed-OR if you'd only like to be tagged for specific ships. ie, ONLY Steddie or ONLY Harringrove, ONLY Mungrove, etc.)

@stervrucht @dame-zoom-a-lot @lawrencebshoggoth @morallyundefined @thepossummoldypasta @wheneverfeasible @sanctumdemunson @chaotic-waffle @bookworm0690 @lifelessstar

[jtl-fics]

WIP Wednesday

So here is a brief bit of Future!Andrew in my Math Nerd AU. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO ANY OF THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. Andrew's in a dark place.

Trigger Warnings: Depression / Grief, Planning Suicide, suicidal thoughts, and suicide

Andrew holds the urn in his arms and regrets.

Neil had died alone in that hospital room. Died alone because Andrew had never had the courage to get down on one knee and propose properly. Died alone and in pain because Andrew had never gotten the POAs he’d considered multiple times for both of them, but he hadn’t because it felt like admitting too much. Died alone, in pain, and…

Andrew could only ever tell Neil that he hated him.

Andrew knows that Neil knew he didn’t hate him. Neil had understood that Andrew would never live with someone he actually hated. Neil had understood that Andrew wouldn’t have adopted pets with someone he hated. Neil had understood that Andrew wouldn’t let someone he hated touch him the way that Neil had been allowed to touch him.

Andrew doesn’t know if Neil understood that Andrew loved him.

Andrew isn’t even sure if he had fully understood until it was too late and Neil had died alone, in pain, and unsure of Andrew’s love because Andrew had never said it.

He looks down at the urn and the list of ‘options’ Neil had given him and knows that Neil had not understood that Andrew could not and would not continue to live their future alone.

His friends and family had seem to accept that this was only the first funeral.

Neil’s will was short and sweet. He had left everything to Andrew Joseph Minyard and Andrew spent the month after Neil’s funeral sorting out his own arrangements.

He left large amounts to both of his Nieces and felt faintly bad that he was never going to see them grow up but he had almost puked when Lilly had asked him where Uncle Neil was.

He couldn’t answer her.

He’s going to where Uncle Neil is.

He’ll claw his way to wherever Neil had gone in the great beyond and he’ll tell him this time. Even an eternity in hellfire being tortured next to Neil was better than a single moment without Neil.

He gives Kevin their cats.

Kevin takes Duchess and Lady (King’s daughters) and he looks at Andrew with watery eyes, “He wouldn’t want-“

“I want Neil.” Andrew had said and Kevin’s jaw clenches so hard that Andrew wonders if he cracks a tooth.

Kevin takes a large number of their pictures. More than even Matt, Aaron or Nicky had taken. Andrew watches as Kevin puts them up among the three pictures of pride of the Day household. The large framed photos of Kevin, Jean, Jeremy, Neil, and Andrew through their years winning Olympic Gold for America.

Neil’s smile is so beautiful in each photo that Andrew leaves early.

He wants Neil.

He can’t sleep right without Neil.

He had never once held Neil and slept but they’d shared a bed for years and years. Andrew can’t sleep without that precious weight on the other side of the bed. Neil’s scent is fading from the linens and Andrew struggles to find one of Neil’s shirts that still smells like him.

Renee tries the hardest to change his mind.

Her beliefs are strong as ever but when she had showed up in person to talk to him and had seen how he looked she must have realized that there was nothing she could say to convince him.

She holds him tight and she prays for him.

Then she lets him go.

Neil had been surprisingly thorough in his instructions for his funeral.

Andrew knows that Neil had often planned it out as a way to manage the stress of the whole situation with the Moriyamas. Neil had lived a decade with the threat of his own demise should he fail to give Ichirou the profits the man desired. It had been better after Neil’s accident and subsequent year spent in PT and as Ichirou’s accountant.

Ichirou had released Neil from his deal after the man had gotten his first ever tax return and had even promised to release Jean and Kevin if Neil agreed to become his full-time accountant after he retired from Exy.

Neil had agreed.

The years afterwards had been bliss and Neil had retired when his old injury made it too painful to play. Andrew had been mystified that he would have a longer professional career than Neil but Andrew had come to tolerate Exy and the money he was paid to stand in the goal and do something he was naturally good at was too good to turn away from.

He and Neil had lived comfortably, had traveled, were going to see Australia in two months to enjoy the off season.

But now Neil was gone.

Andrew laid down in the bed he had shared with Neil. He had one of Neil’s favorite shirts under his cheek and held Neil’s urn in his arms.

Neil had been very clear that he wanted to be cremated and that he wanted his ashes to be with Andrew.

Neil had left him numerous ideas on what Andrew could do with them. He could imagine Neil smiling as he found out about some of them. He wonders if Neil had smiled over his top suggestion which was a link to a website that would forge weapons, knives, out of ashes.

Andrew has not used Neil’s body.

The thought of turning any part of Neil into the the weapon that had hurt him so many times was agonizing.

Still, he knows that Neil likely put it down as an option because Neil would never believe that Andrew would actually keep Neil’s ashes close if he couldn’t be useful to Andrew in some practical way.

Neil never would have imagined that his urn was a relic that Andrew would cherish and hold onto. The ashes inside were the only thing that made it possible for him to keep going as he set all of his affairs in order.

Neil was so stupid and Andrew missed him like he would miss both of his lungs.

The drugs were kicking in.

Ichirou had reached out and expressed his sincere condolences. The man who had killed the Moriyama accountant would pay dearly but Andrew had hardly cared. A drunken man’s death would not bring Neil back to him.

Ichirou had offered him something else.

“For a nominal fee and as an act of my respect for Neil’s efforts for my family I can get you what you seek.” Ichirou had said cryptically but Andrew had understood.

He paid Ichirou and Ichirou had delivered Andrew what he needed to go and see Neil.

He wouldn’t cut himself. Neil had been so proud when he’d reached 10 years without a relapse.

The world is growing darker. Neil’s scent growing fainter no matter how he presses his face into the shirt.

He holds on to Neil’s urn.

He’ll see him soon.

***

Andrew wakes up.

He’s going to fucking murder Ichirou Moriyama.

For that insane ‘nominal fee’ Andrew should not be waking up.

His head aches and his mouth is like sandpaper, “Andrew, are you okay?” A voice that is familiar but wrong comes from his side and when Andrew cracks his eye open (blurry, is that blood) he sees Aaron, except it can’t be Aaron because he looks like he’s 20 again.

What the fuck.

[javiercigsrete]

Web of lies

Spinning webs part one

spider-man!javier x f!reader.

dividers by @ saradika-graphics

main masterlist | spinning webs masterlist

summary: lies are easy, until there's a whole web of them to keep. 3.7k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, pov swapping, out of character javier but also in character spider-man, inaccurate timeline, mentions of drug cartels, mentions of dead bodies but no real descriptions, fighting, typical spider-man stuff, small explicit thoughts but not very detailed, no use of y/n, not proof read because i cannot bring myself to do it so if there's any mistakes i'll fix them later, if i missed something lmk i'm bad at warnings grhggfjg

a/n: okay omg it's finally here!!! the first part of my spider-man au fic omg i can't believe it's taken this long, i was gonna post it for my birthday i'm like a few hours off but oh well. idk what more to say other than i really hope y'all enjoy it because it took my blood, sweat, and tears to make this.

He’s so fucking late, more so than usual, and it’s all because of that stupid car chase on the otherside of town. How he’s going to get himself out of being scolded this time he isn’t sure, he’s honestly amazed he managed to keep this job for as long as he has, granted it’s no doing of his own, that was all you.

You’ve always been so willing to cover for him, even without knowing the full context, not that you’ve ever asked or expected him to tell you. Javier has a feeling it has something to do with the rumors spread about him.

It’s stupid really, the rumors, he can’t deny them per say because they’re true. He never saw it as a big deal on how he got information, after all it was just two people working to get by, so what if it so happened to be in the bedroom? The information was almost always accurate.

He just wishes — hopes — you didn’t believe them and the image they paint him, when there’s other things he’d much rather you know about, like how exhausting it is to swing halfway across town and try not to be even more late.

You swear you’re going to strangle him when he shows up, if he ever shows up. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep stalling for him with this case, you’ve told at least three people you were still investigating, one of them being the Captain.

You’re not entirely sure why you still cover for him aside from the obvious that he’s good at his job, or perhaps you enjoy working with him more than you’d like to admit. When he’d been first transferred over from Colombia you were skeptical at first, having heard about his involvement in the terrorist group Los pepes, but when he’d arrived everyone was congratulating him and calling him a hero.

Except you. You suppose that’s why you got along surprisingly quickly, neither of you held him on some pedestal like the others did, and he never took credit for Escobar. Oftentimes you’d ask him why he still did it after everything, why he still came to work with people who viewed him as a hero and some who thought he should be locked away for what he did.

“I made mistakes, I want to make them right by stopping Cali,” he’d confessed one night, you both had stayed late to finish up some paper work you’d fallen behind on, it was just the two of you then. Alone together in the silence, two glasses of whiskey and more cigarettes being burned then any actual work getting done, but it had given you a chance to get to know him better and brought you closer as partners and friends.

You’re pulled from your thoughts by a familiar gravelly voice, when you turn you spot those signature aviators, his shirt tucked away in his pants with the top two buttons undone. He looks like he’s run a marathon, sweat covering his skin, his chest heaving under his shirt, when he’s close enough you finally speak up. “You’re late Peña,” you say, more bite to your tone then you mean for.

“I know I know, I missed my alarm and then traffic was crazy,” he huffs out, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “What do we have?” Javier adds, placing his hands on his hips as he examines the scene. There was police tape everywhere, evidence markers layed out throughout the area. He could hear the comoten from the reporters behind them, doing his best to keep his full attention on you.

“Probably late teens early twenties, he was carrying drugs on him. Found traces of it on his fingers,” you begin to explain, watching as Javier mulls over what you’ve said, you can see the moment he comes to the same assumption you had.

“Think the Cali was involved somehow?” When he looks at you your lips are pressed together in a thin line with a look that tells him everything he needs to know.

You stand to the side as Javier does his own investigation, watching the way he circles some of the evidence, crouching to get a better look at certain things. As irritating as it is covering for him he’s always been good at his job, when you two were first sent into the field you weren’t sure if it was a good idea but after watching him in the field you’d found some understanding.

Your attention is pulled away from Javier by the sound of the police waiving off the crowd as they prepare to clean the crime scene, you tap Javier’s shoulder to gain his attention watching as he turns on his heel looking up at you from the ground. “C’mon, we should get going,” you jut your thumb over your shoulder to the police and forensics team preparing to move the body. Javier nods standing from the ground with a slight grunt.

“Hey, can I ride with you?” You stare at him for a moment, confusion falling across your face. You consider saying no, surly he’d come with his own car? But the longer you look at him the more you notice how exhausted he is, you simply nod your head leading him to your car.

You hadn’t said a word to Javier the whole car ride, and not even after getting back to the office. You sit across from him, stewing for another hour before you finally say something. “Do you take your job seriously?” You blurt out, breaking the stagnant silence.

Javier’s head whips up so fast you swear he gave himself whiplash. “What?” The hand holding his cigarette falling down against his desk, it was just the two of you, another late night. He was used to the conversations between you when you both stayed late like this, but something about your tone felt serious, not the same casual or playful tone he’d grown to enjoy while working with you. “Of course I do, why would you ask that?”

You sigh, shifting your gaze up to him. “You’re always late Javi, leaving me to cover for you and then showing up with some lame excuse,” you’ve never truly had an issue with covering for him but now you’re starting to wonder what kind of trouble the two of you could get into over it. You glance at the time letting out a tired sigh, “if you really are serious then stop being late. I can’t cover for you forever,” you let out exasperatedly, standing from your desk.

Javier runs the palm of his hand along his nose, watching as you leave the building. He knows you’re right, where you’re coming from, and god does he wish he could just tell you why but he can’t. So for now all he can do is stay here and finish the work.

His eyes are burning, no amount of rubbing them will help relieve any of the pain. He should be used to staying up this late at this point but it was like all the lack of sleep he’s had in the last week has finally hit him, practically falling asleep at his desk while he pours over all the information and evidence from this morning. He wants it to make sense, needs it to, it’s not uncommon for cartels to kill one of their own but something about it felt off, like something was missing.

He had questions, why would they have left the drugs there? Why leave the body there? He knew the cali cartel, he liked to think he knew them pretty well. Well enough to know they wouldn’t have left a body out in the open like that, would’ve made sure there was no way anything could be traced back to them.

Javier looks through the photos for the umpteenth time tonight, hoping his tired eyes will spot anything that he hasn’t already seen. “Fuck,” he mutters, desperately blinking the sleep from his eyes trying to refocus them, that’s when he spots it, a small puncture mark small almost vein like marks branching off from it. 

He brings the image closer to his face, and just the same as before the mark is there, he’s not sure how he missed it the first time he’d looked at the body let alone how the police missed it. But then again it took him nearly three hours to notice it, he quickly makes a note of it so he’ll remember it in the morning, placing it in his back pocket as he cleans up the papers before closing up for the night.

You think you’re starting to hallucinate when you see Javier sitting at his desk, a lit cigarette between his lips, you slowly approach your desk, your eyes still on Javier like if you looked away he’d be gone. “You’re early,” you mutter, slightly in disbelief that he’s actually here.

His attention shifts up to you, pulling the cigarette from his mouth, smoke falling from his mouth as he answers. “Got up to my alarm this time,” a grin spreading along his face as you look at him annoyed.

“Hilarious,” is all you manage to say as you sit down.

You spend most of the morning in silence, going over all the evidence from yesterday hoping to find anything that you don’t already know. None of it made sense, not fully, the Cali have been silent for the most part, staying off the radar as well as a drug cartel can. So why suddenly put yourself back on it?

The sound of a file hitting the desk startles you, looking up to find Javier reaching for the file that's been left. His deft hands opening the brightly colored envelope, curiosity fills you as he pulls the papers from it. “What’s that?” You ask before you have a chance to stop yourself. Javier’s eyes skim the paper before drifting up to you.

“Autopsy. Had it run this morning,” he states simply, stubbing out the cigarette before rounding the desks. He places the paper in front of you while he stands behind you. “Here,” he points to a line, your eyes follow the point your brows furrow as you read over the words cause of death—

“Poison?” You gasp out, shock filling your tone as you turn to look at him. When your eyes meet his, he doesn't look nearly as surprised as you, like he’d known before the autopsy came back, only having it run to confirm his suspicions. Your brows pull together once more, a creese forming between them, how would he have known already? “How long have you known?” You inquire skeptically.

Javier’s eyes break from yours as he reaches back over to his desk for the photos of the body. “Since last night.” His tone holds an edge to it, a seriousness you’ve only seen a handful of times, you suppose it makes sense now, why he’d been here so early. Just like the autopsy he places the photo before you and points to a spot, “see that?” He asks, leaning over your shoulder more so that his face is right next to yours, you feel heat rising up the back of your neck at his proximity. He’s so close you can smell the cigarette smoke mixed with his cologne and a hint of mint from the gum he’s got in his mouth.

You wonder briefly what it would be like to taste him, hints of nicotine and mint and something more, something so distinctly Javier mixing with your own as you both explored each others mouths, heavy breathes mingling together in the air as his hands wandered the expanse of your body while your own crumpled and ruffled his shirt and hair. You quickly shake those thoughts away, scolding yourself silently, he was your best friend and partner you needed to focus.

Your eyes fall back to the photo, searching for something you now know should be there. You spot it fairly quickly, a small wound on the victims neck, dark veins spreading from it like a spider web. “They poisoned him? But why shoot him too?” Nothing about this made sense, everything just kept getting more confusing.

When you look at Jabier he’s standing up right, his arms crossed along his chest as he stares absentmindedly at the floor. There’s something he’s not telling you about this case, something that could change the entirety of it if he would just say something.

“What aren’t you—” you’re cut off by the sound of his phone, he pulls it from his pocket, the light of the screen illuminating his face. His expression shifts into something unreadable, his shoulders falling before rising again.

He pockets his phone again, his eyes never fully meeting your own as he speaks. “I gotta go,” he’s already collected his things and is up the steps and out the door before you fully process what he’s said.

Your eyes stare at the door, replaying the conversation over and over, there was certainly something he wasn’t telling you and you were going to find out.

Everything about this place was sketchy, far too sketchy for the Cali. Sure it was the perfect place to set up your drug production but from what he scouted out it had been abandoned for awhile, so why here? What were they doing here?

He sits perched atop a street lamp across the street, he’d gone for one far enough he wouldn’t be detected but he was too far away he couldn’t see through the window properly if at all. He’d have to get closer.

The inside is dark, windows painted over keeping any light out and any prying eyes out as well, every other entry way was sealed shut either recently or years ago, all except the front door that opened immediately for him. “Let’s hope no one's home,” Javier muttered to himself, pushing the door further open.

The building was dimly lit inside, shadows filling up the majority of the space, only a few crates left abandoned scattered around. He cautiously makes his way to the lone source of light sitting on a desk, the closer he gets the more he could see. Papers scattered across the surface, parts of technology both broken and unfinished unceremoniously thrown atop the desk, he reaches out to the papers shifting some of them.

A few of them listed off times and places, others about scorpions, but the most interesting of them all was the one that held information on each of the leaders of the Cali. Everything about them was listed on it, from deceased family members to how many wives and children they had. Someone was after them and from the looks of it they knew them well.

The further Javier looked the more he learned, that’s when he spotted it, a document of sorts. “Mutation? Scorpion DNA?” His eyes ran over every word written, they’d been experimenting with more than just drugs apparently, but why?

A buzzing, a pressure in his head like an incessant drum banging against his skull as if in a warning, he’s quick, jumping out of the way as a metallic tail comes down destroying the table and papers. “Woah, watch where you’re swinging that,” he taunts, receiving no response back from the other. It was covered head to toe in green metal, the majority of it was laced with technology, it resembled that of a scorpion when the tail came back up it was shaped like a stinger, not a scratch on it. It was like armor, the outside reinforced like a scorpion's own.

The other lunges again, swinging its tail once more at Javier causing him to jump back and up onto one of the railings. “Not much of a talker I see,” the scorpion grunts as it swings its tail again up at him, a strange substance that causes Javier to react quickly, throwing out an arm as he shoots a web at the venom laced tail that knocks it away from him.

“Can I call you scorpion? Or is that too on the nose?” He taunts again trying to get a rise out of the other in hopes of getting answers from them.

They growl, an irritated sound that had all but crawled its way out of their throat. “Can you shut the fuck up?!” They shout, using their tail to lift a crate and throw it at him.

Javier flipped, swinging off the rail and using his other arm to web the crate and throw it back at the scorpion, who used the armor of their tail and arms to block it leaving the crate to shatter. “Ah, so you can talk.”

The two go back and forth like that, throwing crate after crate at one another while Javier tried desperately to avoid the venom coated tail, occasionally throwing in a quip or two. If he had to take a guess he would be this was the same thing that killed his victim.

“I take it you’re the one who did all this?” He gestures vaguely to the now destroyed desk and shredded papers, “why are you after the Cali Cartel?”

“They must pay for what they’ve done!” They bark, their tone cold hatred dripping from every word they utter.

“And they will, but what you’re doing is causing innocent lives!” He says, but the scorpion never replies, just charged at Javier, sending swing after swing until one finally lands, slicing through the fabric of Javier's suit.

He stumbles slightly, his vision unfocusing and refocusing as he grips at his bicep where blood and venom mix like a thread tangling together, his body makes a thud as he hits the ground. How could he let himself be so stupid as to let them get close?

“Stay out of my way, Spider-man.” The scorpion spits out as they look down at him before disappearing as Javier’s vision fades into black.

You pull into the parking space next to Javier’s jeep, so he was home. When you make it inside the sole elevator was already being used so you climb the few stairs up to his apartment, running everything from what you were going to say to him to all the suspicious actions up until now with every step you take.

You don’t even look at the numbers on the doors as you make your way through the hallway, having been too his apartment plenty of times during late nights working.

When you finally make it to his door you’re met with his door wide open, you instinctively reach behind you where your gun sat, your nerves set ablaze as you carefully make your way into the apartment. Everything is dark, the only light being the moon shining through the windows.

You take tentative steps, your eyes alert for anything out of the ordinary. “Javier?” You call out, your voice shaking slightly at the possibility of finding someone else, or worse.

There’s a crash, movement coming from the bedroom that catches your attention, your first thought is that he has someone over and forgot to close the door and that you should turn around and leave. But you know him better then that he wouldn’t have forgotten.

You step closer to the door slowly pushing it open, gun in hand as you prepare yourself. “Javi are you… Holy shi–” 

His head is pounding, his body aching with bruises that are sure to be there by morning. His arm aches, throbs, as his eyes blink open, he is still in the abandoned building, the sight of the railings greeting him when his vision clears. He groans, pushing himself up as every bone in his body screamed for him to stay down.

That’s when he hears it, a small weak gasp, his head snaps to the sound, a body, your body. He jumps up moving faster than his body can handle, the room spins, his vision fading as he stumbles towards you. He falls to his knees next to you, his vision focusing once more giving him a clearer look at your face.

“Cariño?” Javier asks quietly, his voice trembling, hie eyes search your body hurriedly for anything when he spots it, a wound with dark veins spreading from it. A lump forms in his throat, reaching out with shaky hands. “No… no, no, no,” he whispers, carefully picking up your arm to get a better look.

Fear drums through him, how did you get here? Why were you here? You look over at him, your eyes meeting as you softly whisper his name, he never responds, his gaze fixed on your eyes, your eyes weren’t that color. He stumbles to his feet watching as your body fades away, something wasn’t right. The buzzing, he looks down at his arm where he’d been cut by the scorpion, was the venom causing hallucinations?

It didn’t matter right now, he needed to get home and find a way to extract the venom. His vision is still slightly distorted as he makes his way out of the building, stumbling and falling through his attempts at swinging. At least twice now he’d seen you on the roof of a building either injured or dead, and everytime he’s had to shake the image reminding himself it wasn’t real.

His vision warps just as he prepares to swing to another building, he falls, his body hitting a fire escape, a groan escapes him closing his eyes to try and push through the pain. When his eyes open again he’s greeted to the sight of you, dead, your eyes clouded over as you as you tend to him, Javier shuffles backwards frantically. “This isn’t real, this is not real!” He repeats desperately as he finds his footing once more.

He barrels through his apartment door staggering his way towards his bedroom, he knocks over a few things as he searches for something, anything. He’s panting, breathing hard through the fabric of his mask, he claws at it tugging frantically at it in attempts to get it off, falling against his dresser causing a few things to clatter to the floor.

He hears it then, his name, he turns to the door spotting you standing there gun in hand as you call out to him.

“Javi are you… Holy shit.”

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dead Boy Detectives Victor AU: Amnesia Sequel Chapter 2! (aka: Monty and Charles are Going Through It)

So, this one, once again, is brutal. Please heed the tags on the author's note because Monty, Charles, and Edwin are not coping well. They are coping badly and have never been good at communicating in the first place so add a dash of amnesia, Thomas King handing over a recording, and a metric shitton of misunderstandings/assumptions and things get brutal.

To be a Victor's child is to inherit a legacy of violence, but more importantly, it is to inherit a legacy of loneliness. Of a life trapped, caged, stuck in a basement under the hand of the very person who was supposed to care for you but only ever shoved you under their boot.

It is about reaching for kindness and finding none save what you scrape up for yourself. It is about love, and the place where love meets pain, and the place where pain becomes love because that's all you know. It is about punishing yourself, even after your parents are gone, because someone has to do it, right?

But most importantly, it is about reaching the place where you finally understand that you have to step out of the basement in order to see the stars.

It's a terrifying idea. The basement, the cane, the belt, is all you've known. How could you ever let it go?

So you find yourself switching a basement for an underground District, an Arena for a Capitol for a marriage that collapses around your shaking fingers. You collect reminders: a ring, iron, like your mother's cane; a set of rocks, hard, like your father's wedding rock.

You will have to Remake them into something your own.

Or you're not going to survive.

@deadboy-edwin @anything-thats-rock-and-roll @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @magpiemarten

@hartigays @tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@tiredghostby @sethlost @catboy-cabin

[statustemporary]

a work of art

SUMMARY: The swipes are precise. Hundreds litter her canvas with red streaks standing out against their pale background. Some are superficial while others gouge unsalvageable marks. Drips are unavoidable, Emma concedes, but the origin of these are the source of irritation.

Her job is not done. She has to work with these flaws to craft something he will be proud of. He is the experienced one, after all.

//

Emma and Killian are low-key serial killers but if you ask them, they're artists in love.

RATING: Mature

WORD COUNT: 1,686 words

TAGS: Modern AU, Serial Killers AU, Graphic Descriptions, Blood & Gore, Implied/Referenced Torture, Anti-Neal Cassidy, no magic, Dark Emma, Dark Killian, Toxic Relationship

AO3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: got this idea from a whumptober prompt that was like "did i do good?" with a mentor/trainee and i misread the rest of the prompt and ended up turning it into a torture trainee wanting to please their mentor. and here we are. lol started out with dark ones but turned them into just serial killers.

this was a way for me to get into the head of someone twisted/evil. promise i'm mentally sane and emotionally okay, this was a writing exercise of sorts. pls dont worry hahaha

Please heed the warnings.

***

“I always have to clean up your messes,” she mutters to herself angrily, eyes glaring down at the red liquid on the floor. The deep color shines vibrantly in the candlelight as it pools together and grows larger as the seconds tick by. She snarls at the sound of labored breathing from the center of the room and slowly trails her eyes up to examine her work.

The swipes are precise. Hundreds litter her canvas with red streaks standing out against their pale background. Some are superficial while others gouge unsalvageable marks. Drips are unavoidable, Emma concedes, but the origin of these are the source of irritation.

Her job is not done. She has to work with these flaws to craft something he will be proud of. He is the experienced one, after all.

Anger fuels her as she moves, her arm sweeping this direction and that. The movements are practiced and learned though she’s used different tools in the past. For the first time, he lets her take the lead and she cannot disappoint him. Especially after all the work he went through to procure such a magnificent canvas. A gift for her.

Weak protests fight to reach her ears but her focus drowns them out, thriving on each new mark she adds, each swipe and each gut-wrenching twist expressing the hurt and the anger she’s held onto for so many years.

When she steps back, it is with a grin.

Neal’s body rests sprawled across a stone table in the center of the room. His lays bare but it goes unnoticed as he shows more blood than skin. His labored breathing is replaced by silence, brown eyes turning an empty black.

Blood drips down to the small puddle at her feet. It grows larger with each tick of the hall clock and she frowns as it pools around her new heeled boot.

Of fucking course. Neal can never let her have anything.

The room smells rancid, blood and sweat permeating the air. Darkness blankets the room like it does her soul, only scarcely lit by a few candles hanging on the walls. Moonlight struggles to shine through the cracks in the concrete to no avail. Emma prefers the darkness now. She thrives in it.

Wailing echoes fill the quiet.

The metal of her dagger is warm in her grip and she shakes her head at the blood that covers the blade. At least that’ll be easier to clean than her leather boot.

She sets to work washing her tools, leaving the rest of the room as it is. She wants him to see how long she kept Neal alive to suffer. How he was aware of every single way she tarnished his body until the very end. The way his nails scratched at the stone so hard until they fell off revealing bloody nailbeds. That even in death, his eyes remained open from his terror.

He still got off easy, in her opinion.

There’s a noise, the muffled sound of a door closing and Emma’s head pops up in delight.

Killian grins wide when he sees her emerge from the basement, sleeves rolled to her elbows and hair pulled back in tight bun. They come together in a messy kiss that’s more tongues and teeth than lips.

She loves the way he loves her with abandon. Every time their mouths meet, he practically devours her and she gives as good as she gets. Fingers wrap around the hair at the base of his neck and she pulls while his hook traces lightly on her skin enough to draw blood but not do any serious harm. It sends chills down her spine every time.

His hands are greedy and he makes an attempt to lift her shirt but she steps out of his arms instead.

“Swan?” he asks, voice gruff and hair mused. He glares at her even if there’s no heat to it and Emma smiles back, nearly giggles.

“I want you to show you something.”

Her hand reaches towards him and he leaves her hanging for a moment. They both love the push and pull of their relationship. To tetter on the edge of a decision builds anticipation. Rejection is just a split-second away but so is acceptance. Not knowing which one will be chosen sends their hearts racing. It’s an effect of their upbringing, she knows. She did take a psychology class in community college after all.

It only makes sense, really. His abusive childhood with a drunk father and a brother dead too young and her untethered young life moving from foster home to foster home without any roots or support. Pain has been something out of their control for so long. Something always inflicted onto them unwillingly. But meeting each other in the back of their Psych 101 class all those years ago gave them a mutual understanding.

Pain can be something they command.

Killian had fallen first. They both tried, for the first year or two, to be better than what they came from. They wanted to have the picturesque life so many promised was to come but they struggled. Depression and temptation waited around every corner and they felt themselves falling into a pit they couldn’t climb out of.

And then Graham kissed her.

Killian and she had been on a break at the time. He was spiraling and Emma was trying to stay on track. Their tempers rose and, for the first time in her life, she walked out on someone else. Graham had been kind, sweet, and unassuming. He worked as a campus security guard and was helping her find her shitty car when he kissed her. Killian had been leaving his class and had a full view of the moment it happened. Emma pushing Graham away only did so much to soothe the anger in his soul.

Then Graham showed up dead a week later in the woods by campus, bruises on his head, marks around his throat, and his chest clawed open with no heart taking up its specified space.

She’d been mad when she realized what Killian did. She threatened to go to the police, even. And then she saw the crazed look in Killian’s eyes, the way he pleaded for her to understand.

“Emma,” he begged. “He crossed a line. You don’t understand. You’re mine. He thought he could have what’s mine.”

Through his tears, she saw the love, the possession. It warmed her to her toes. The unwanted foster kid – wanted by him. She swore she fell in love even more that day.

Emma would lay in bed with him at night and asked how he did it. She requested details, wanted to know every step he took. He would hold her close, his fingers leaving permanent marks on her hips, and she floated as he shared exactly what he did to ensure she stayed his.

It was another two years before he struck again, her by his side this time. Arthur was full of himself, an asshole to anyone who didn’t make more money than him, and dead set on evicting the entirety of their apartment building so he could sell the property to a developer. No one shed any tears at the announcement of his death.

Nearly ten years had gone by and yet this is the most exciting one for Emma. Neal was her white whale, so they say. He’d taken advantage of her sixteen years of life when he’d been nearing thirty and split the moment she found out she was pregnant. Took all her cash and the food she bought the day beforehand for their motel stay. She was left alone as she let go of the child she so desperately wanted to have. Even after he left her, she was still cleaning up his messes.

But now she stands in the kitchen she shares with Killian and raises her eyebrows as she bites her lip in wait. Will he take it or ignore it? Her heart races. Her breath hitches just a moment before he takes her offered hand and she contemplates bypassing her art project to ride him in the kitchen instead.

Bringing him to the basement, she waits in the doorway as Killian steps over the threshold. His eyes scan the room in a slow, calculating fashion. Leaning over Neal’s body, he hums as he takes in her work. Fingers trace her cuts, one dipping into the gaping hole in his side. There’s little left of his genitalia, the ferocious way it was obliterated earning a cocked eyebrow from Killian before he looks over to her with a grin. She blushes at the pride in his eyes.

The squelch from stepping in blood draws his attention to the floor. He dips his hand in the liquid and lifts his fingers to his face. The puddle grew from when she was in there a few minutes ago and Killian takes a good moment to examine it.

“Did I do good?” she asks, hands in her back pockets. Eagerness is undeniable in her voice.

Killian stands suddenly and marches towards her. He grips her hips – the cold metal of his hook sending a chill down her spine as Neal’s blood from his fingers smear across her skin – and pulls her in for a filthy kiss. Their bodies are flush but it’s not enough and the way his tongue strokes against her own has her frantically clawing at his pants.

Wailing echoes in the silence again and they pull apart only slightly dismayed.

The crying brings a spark to Killian’s eyes and Emma is torn between where each of their thoughts are going, both outcomes bound to bring her pleasure.

Killian presses another firm kiss to her lips before he tilts his head towards the other end of the basement where their special project waits for their return. His own white whale he somehow conquered and takes pride in making submit to him.

She knows the question before he asks so she merely grins wide at him as he speaks.

“Shall we go skin a crocodile?”

[mandylynn4]

For those of you who have read Whispers in the past, just know that I appreciate your patience with me....I do have the ending mapped out for it and I will finish it.

Today, I made a better trailer for it, as the first one was pretty old. ;)

TRIGGER WARNINGS below for those who haven't read yet.

[antimonyandthyme]

1k, prosenna

warnings: references to character death, grief/mourning

There were hands smoothing down the wrinkles in the sheets by his legs.

“Go away,” he said. “You are dead.”

Ayrton rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he said, and went back to adjusting the blanket.

Ludicrous. Ghost Ayrton was trying to tuck him in. Alain was losing his mind.

“So even in death, you seek to drive me mad.”

Ayrton pulled back, like that stung. Actually stung, physically. Which made no sense. Alain was talking to a shade his mind had cobbled up, in rejection of the reality. Some people had no business lying still. So, his imagination made them move.

“I’m trying to make you comfortable.”

“I am quite comfortable, thank you.”

“Then why can’t you sleep?” Ayrton said softly.

Alain stared down at his hands, tangled in the sheets by his waist. He had lost faith in the veins running along his body to carry blood. If he looked in the mirror, he knew what he’d find. Haunted eyes, and a tiredness that stuck to flesh like wet film. Why couldn’t he sleep?

“Because you left,” Alain said. “Without so much as a goodbye.”

Ayrton’s face seemed whiter than before, if that were even possible. Even now, when nothing between them mattered any more—even now, they hurt each other.

“I am trying,” Ayrton said, “to right this wrong, can you understand that?”

“Then let me sleep,” Alain said.

It was close to eleven when Alain awoke. His alarm had been switched off. He did not remember doing that. There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Ayrton had not left.

“Now, to the shops,” Ayrton announced, sounding so much like it was the tallest order of the day. “Get dressed, Alain.”

“No,” Alain said. He had not left the house in—weeks. Since Imola.

Ayrton pursed his lips and squinted. It was all so familiar. He used to make that expression right before they argued. Alain could close his eyes and conjure it up, every frown line etched in its precise position. He supposed he was getting exceedingly good at recreating Ayrton from memory.

“Get dressed,” Ayrton said menacingly, “or I will dress you.”

Alain barked out a laugh. It grated against his ears like metal on metal, a crash on the track. He hadn’t heard himself in what seemed like eons. Fine, fine. He could humour Ayrton, if only because he had made him laugh.

Ayrton watched with satisfaction as Alain drew clean clothes on. It didn’t seem strange that Ayrton watched him while he changed, with something in his eyes Alain couldn’t quite place. Or rather, something Alain couldn’t bear to place, now that the something was no longer within reach.

They went to the market.

“Why can't they see you?”

Ayrton scoffed. “Why would I choose to appear to them?”

Alain shook his head. “Why would you choose to appear to me?”

Ayrton looked at him as if Alain were deliberately being obtuse. Which was just typical. And comforting enough for the crack in his heart to tear open and bleed freely.

The shopkeepers must certainly think him mad. He was holding up produce for Ayrton to inspect. He was holding them up to thin air.

“Pah,” Ayrton said. “You call those oranges?”

Alain inspected the offending fruit. “What would you call them?”

“Those are yellows at best. This is what you’ve been eating? No wonder you’ve grown so thin.”

The weather was crisp, and Alain’s lips cracked when he smiled. He poked his tongue out to get at the blood, and let himself be bullied into purchasing grapefruit instead.

There was a light drizzle when they were finally done. Alain kept his walking pace while Ayrton seethed behind him. By the grace of the universe, Alain had been spared an apparition that could touch. If Alain could imagine the feel of Ayrton against him, then. Well. He wouldn’t survive this.

“Walk faster,” Ayrton demanded. Every time he tried to push at Alain, his hands went clean through. “You are getting soaked.”

“I don’t mind,” Alain said. The chill of the air was refreshing, actually.

“I do,” Ayrton said. “Come on, your house is just around the corner.”

But Alain would not listen. He stood under the clouds as the sky opened up and mourned for Senna.

“Come in from the rain,” Ayrton pleaded with him.

Alain stayed, like a madman who would not be swayed. The immovable object to Ayrton’s now very stoppable force. The paper bag holding his groceries tore, and the grapefruit thudded to the ground, coming to rest in puddles. He was allowed to relish in the anguish he was inflicting upon Ayrton. In return for the sorrow that now bound his every waking moment.

“What would you have me do?” Ayrton was shouting now. The rain adhered to his cheeks like tears. “For you to come inside, Alain, what would you have me do?”

“Come back,” Alain said to the storm.

The rain kept falling. Alain did not know for how long. Could have been seconds. Or years. Alain was looking his grief right in the face. He was dimly aware that he was shivering wildly, that his teeth were chattering.

“I will never forgive you,” Ayrton said, his final attempt at moving Alain. “If you allowed this to break you, I will never forgive you. You will never see peace, Alain, for I will never leave you.”

“What if,” he said, sounding for all the world like a child, lost and pathetic, “I wanted that?”

“You are a fool,” Ayrton said harshly. His hands hovered a mere millimeter above Alain’s cheeks. He looked so much like he wanted to stroke Alain. It looked like pain, that he couldn’t. “Come in from the rain, Prost, and live.”

Alain looked up. The sky was clearing. The earth continued to spin, as she always did. Alain crouched down, and picked up his fallen fruit. He took his time. Dragged it out. Allowed himself the taste of longing. When he turned to go home, Ayrton was no longer there.

[alagaesia-headcanons]

Relationship(s): Murtagh/Orrin

Summary: Yearning makes him careless, but five lonely, numbing years since returning war-torn to his throne have made caution lose its luster. Not everything he risks losing matters to him the way it once did, and exhaustion has worn away his strength to deny his heart what it yearns for. So Orrin escapes to find comfort in the touch of a stranger.

-What should be a stranger.

Word Count: 10,427

Warnings: Mentions of su*cidal thoughts, Implied nsfw content

A/N: HEAR ME OUT ON THIS ONE give it a chance, I swear there's a method to my madness! This ship is pure gold and I'll prove it. This premise for their first meeting has been in my head for years and years and it felt so good to finally polish it write it out.

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Winter Wonderland Masterlist (2)

'A Walk Together Through Snow Covered Streets' 'Silent Hugs' With Eyes to See and Ears to Hear - Chapter Nineteen. Clint Barton x Matt Murdock. Getting pinned on a stakeout is dangerous. Luckily, Matt has a new skill that will come in handy. 'Stuck Together' On The Tide - Chapter Four. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. Winter gets in an altercation for his ‘laziness’, and his Captain comes to his defence. CW: Implied risk of violence. 'Kissing the Other's Scars' With Eyes to See and Ears to Hear - Chapter 23. Clint Barton x Matt Murdock. Matt is caught in the shower, and Clint decides to punish him. CW: Kinky sex, sexual ‘punishment’. 'Watching the Clouds' On The Tide - Chapter One. Bucky Barnes, but make it ‘Environmental Activist AU’. And also queer. Always queer. Trans!Bucky gets a job fighting for the innocents of the ocean – and seems to be of particular irritation and interest to his new Captain. 'Got to Do What You Got to Do to Survive' Hail Hydra - Chapter Five. The torture turns violent, and Bucky struggles to cope. CW: Stab wound, shock collar, humiliation, forced nudity. 'Shielding Someone With Their Body' On The Tide - Chapter Four. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. Winter gets in an altercation for his ‘laziness’, and his Captain comes to his defence. CW: Implied risk of violence. 'Found Family' On The Tide - Chapter Six. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. Things are tense after the accidental kiss, and Lieutenant Tyne learns more about his newest recruit. CW: Mentions of homophobia and criminalisation of homosexuality, vague references to theoretical SA. "Don't Lie - Not to Me." On The Tide - Chapter Two. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. Winter's true nature is revealed, the Captain finds him a hinderance and an optimistic bastard, but the sailor’s rough exterior is stripped  away a little. CW: Vomiting (seasickness), surgery mentions, historical physical trauma mentions. 'Dancing in the Snow' Silver & Gold - Chapter Three. Natasha Romanoff (ish) x Male OC. A lazy morning and some local exploration with the CrazyGirl. CW: Smut. 'Feeling Weak From Blood Loss' Hail Hydra - Chapter 9. Things begin to reach their climax, and an announcement reaches the Soviet compound. CW: Forced to kill; death of PoWs; mentions of torture, neglect and abuse; gun violence. 'Goodnight Kisses' Silver & Gold - Chapter Four. Natasha Romanoff (ish) x Original Male Character. Silver and Gold prepare for Christmas, and get lost in the magic of the season. CW: More smut. 'Freezing Temperatures' Silver & Gold - Chapter Three. Natasha Romanoff (ish) x Male OC. A lazy morning and some local exploration with the CrazyGirl. CW: Smut. 'Pressing Foreheads Together' Silver & Gold - Chapter Five. Natasha Romanoff (ish) x Original Male Character. Silver and Gold go ice-skating, and a storm blows out their power. Even obstacles can be fun when you face them together. CW: Implied Smut, Self-image issues.

'Tattooing Over a Scar' Hail Hydra - Chapter Fourteen. Bucky finds out what it is to be a part of Zola’s experiment, and is marked as Hydra’s property. CW: Death of an unknown character, corpses, non-con body modification, sexual assault. 'Feeling Guilty Because Their Partner Got Hurt' With Eyes to See and Ears to Hear - Chapter Twenty-One. Clint Barton x Matt Murdock. The boys go for some feel-good fun... Don't let the blind guy pilot a sled. CW: Accidental injury, guilt.

'Peppering Kisses All Over Their Face' Silver & Gold - Chapter Six. Natasha Romanoff (ish) x Original Male Character. Lia gives Yoshi one hell of a birthday surprise. CW: all the smut, as always. Photography/videography. Emotions and things. The typical fluffiness. 'Continuously Running Up Against the Other' On The Tide - Chapter Two. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. Winter's true nature is revealed, the Captain finds him a hinderance and an optimistic bastard, but the sailor’s rough exterior is stripped  away a little. CW: Vomiting (seasickness), surgery mentions, historical physical trauma mentions

'Blizzard' Hail Hydra - Chapter Eleven. Bucky gets to his new home, and is treated with surprising tenderness- until he isn't. CW: Violence, slavery, implied risk to life. 'Can't Open Their Eyes' Hail Hydra - Chapter Ten. Things begin to reach their climax, and an announcement reaches the Soviet compound. CW: Forced to kill; death of PoWs; mentions of torture, neglect and abuse; gun violence. 'Breakfast in Bed' With Eyes to See and Ears to Hear - Chapter Twenty-Two. Clint Barton x Matt Murdock. Clint ends up snotty and wheezy after his time face-down in the snow, so Matt takes care of him. CW: Illness (non-vomiting), reference to previous injury.

'Everything Comes With a Price' Hail Hydra - Chapter Twelve. Bucky settles into his prolonged captivity until his creator is ready to return to him, and finds out exactly what it means to obey without question. CW: Restraint, forced obedience, physical punishment, sexual slavery/non-con, self-induced vomiting, disassociation following trauma. 'Not Their First Love, But Surely The Last' (Alternate) With Eyes to See and Ears to Hear - Chapter 24. Clint Barton x Matt Murdock. It's the finale! 'Their Fingers Brush Together' (Alternate) On The Tide - Chapter One. Bucky Barnes x Male OC. Bucky Barnes, but make it ‘Environmental Activist AU’. And also queer. Always queer. Trans!Bucky gets a job fighting for the innocents of the ocean – and seems to be of particular irritation and interest to his new Captain.

'Lost in the Woods During a Storm' (Alternate) Silver & Gold - Chapter Eight. Natasha Romanoff (ish) x Original Male Character. Everyone's favourite couple go exploring - but not everything goes as smoothly as they'd like. CW: Exposure, hypothermia, accidental injury.

@seasonaldelightsbingo

[ad-nai]

a lore dump for val, his mortal life & death only. cws for religious trauma, homophobia, child ab*se, cs@, drugs, murder, underage s*x trafficking. all of that. DEAD DOVE. DO NOT EAT. seriously, this is BAD.

he was born into a large new mexican family in the late 1930s as vivian emmanuel torres, his family was devout roman catholic & deeply conservative. in spite of this, both his parents were known to abuse both alcohol & prescription pain killers. unsurprisingly, vivian was born prematurely & required more than a month in the ICU. this caused both parents to resent him ( as they could scarcely afford another child that wasn't medically needy ) & he quickly became the family scapegoat.

he was frequently ignored, denied food, taken out of school, blamed for the family's misfortune, beaten & screamed at. as he got older, he took any reason he could to not go home, generally spending his days on the street with other teens or their parents. he took odd jobs, mowing lawns & cleaning gutters, whatever he could, to buy himself food & clothes. like his parents before him, much of this went to booze & cigarettes instead. he took pleasure wherever he could find it.

being somewhat ... effeminate in manner, his father began to suspect he was homosexual & while the two were working outside, the older man threatened to kill the 15 year old if he brought that kind of humiliation on their family.

vivian left that night & was picked up a man he did ... favors for. having no one else to call, he stayed with him & was forced into sex work. years later, in his twenties, he poisoned the him ( along with several other clients ) by mixing drain cleaner & other things into the alcohol he served them & took over his estate as his "adopted son" ( wholly forged ), under the name valentino. only to continue to perpetuate the cycle until he himself was taken off guard & stabbed to death by 'his girls' in the the 1970s at 41.

[fallout-4-reactions]

My Commander Shepard. I know her surname is spelled wrong everywhere. My docs won’t have it. Please heed the warning and tags. Under a “keep reading” due to long post.

“…Rudimentary creatures of flesh and bone—,” The cold glare of Sovereign’s voice invaded, unexpectedly, awakening Shepherd with a start.

Sovereign still disregarded her as if he found her very presence to be an insult, as if she was still there, right in front of it.

The last remnants of its echo whispered to her fear as she tried to remember where she was.

“…touch my mind.”

As her breathing eased, her muggy brow frowned, her mind confused.

She was dead. She shouldn’t be anywhere. A shiver ran down her spine as she froze, waiting… waiting, wait—

Then she heard it—a shaken but unmistakable beat of her heart. As it broke through her eyes widened and when she finally felt it, she could have just sobbed. It couldn’t be…

Thump, thump, thump. How could she have forgotten that she was alive again? Fuck, again? She shouldn’t be saying that.

But against all odds, the legend known as Commander Shepherd did indeed die—and that meant the end—until it wasn’t. Learning the hard way that the laws of death could now be broken, as if its importance meant nothing.

Well, a matter of fact, it does.

For it gives peace to tired, tortured souls, just like hers.

It is one of the few things that all species in this galaxy actually share, a universal and unspoken rule—that life is hard, but there’s always an end. No one needed a translator to understand peace.

And whether that is seen by some as a curse, or maybe a little bit of kindness, death comes for us all.

“…No one’s getting out alive.” She muttered bitterly to the room. And she had made peace with that a long time ago.

The promise of its permanence, however, was now in question. Because a once dead woman was now alive, listening to her own mind repeat a warning she thought she’d forgotten.

But despite the shitty cards life had dealt her, she wouldn’t. Not when there were people she cared about.

Careful not to make a sound, she steadied herself to make the long journey from her bed to the bathroom. Well, it wasn’t that long. But she couldn’t quite believe it just yet—and her doubt made it hard to move.

And then she heard it again, in a new kind of silence. Her now steady heartbeat. It almost scared her.

Fuck. She really was alive.

Breathing out slowly, Raven had to remind herself of this as she reluctantly approached her reflection in the mirror.

The bathroom's dim light just bright enough to reveal it was indeed her staring back. And while most of the galaxy saw the perfect image of a hero, she saw herself for what she truly was… a mere human.

A human who had outlived her mistakes. A human who was not supposed to exist anymore. For she had died two years ago… and that’s where her story should have ended. Whether she was needed or not.

Dying wasn't so unexpected, given her role in life. The unexpected part was having to face those flaws again, through no choice of her own.

It just all seemed pretty fucked up to her.

And yet that was almost overpowered by the memory of Virmire and its warnings. Where she learned of Sovereign—of the reapers.

The consequences of that day could still be felt.

To the Reapers, she was apparently nothing. And yet, according to Cerberus, she was the answer to everything.

The truth was Shepherd didn’t know what to believe. All she could hope for was that she found the strength to fight the reality that monster had promised. She just couldn’t lose herself getting there. So as much as she knew she couldn’t—or rather shouldn’t—abide by terrorists, she knew they didn’t matter in comparison to such a future.

Because for all its flaws, her home was worth saving.

Her, on the other hand, she wasn’t so sure about.

Then Shepherd noticed it. The scar that ruled the left side of her temple. It continued down her neck and eventually ended at the base of her spine.

Remembering the lead of the Lazarus Project’s words, they had built her completely as she once was.

She flinched. Of all the scars to keep, why keep just this one?

Its only purpose was to seemingly forever remind her of her origins—and why she had to leave it all behind. Shepard reached up, hesitant at first, but eventually laced a single finger over it.

Then it clicked. This scar… it defined her. It was her journey. From beginning to end.

Well, shit.

Her eyes fell—a mirror does not lie. Here she was. And the reapers were coming.

She looked back up to see her reflection slowly reveal her realisation as the dread settled in.

After all, who else could claim they had played death's game, lost, and brought their way back out anyway?

No one. Because that's not how things worked. Death was supposed to be permanent! Despite this, she was here, proven wrong, and all she could feel was resentment. For death had done little to heal her insecurities it would seem, and nor had Cerberus. Because here she was, billions of credits later and still broken. This much was evident as she contemplated what she hated more: finding herself here, or knowing she was back at square one.

She couldn't help but stare at the emptiness the mirror offered her, distracting the issue, both Shepard's sneering at how pointless her problem was.

Nothing changed as the walls that she'd helped her mind build over the years repelled her command with ease. Raven’s expression eventually fell, showing her despair as her cold gaze searched her features one last time. Realising in her haste to protect others, she had forgotten about herself. And shame eventually showed itself the victor. She forced herself to look away. Frustration pulling at her edges. How could she be this daunting woman of pure courage again if she couldn't even look at her own reflection anymore? Let alone convince a sceptical galaxy the reapers' threat was real.

After all, they were the reason she was back, and ever since, Raven had been suffering from a rare phobia called Eisoptrophobia. Its cause—and even knowledge of it—wasn't known to her; it was almost as mysterious as the organisation that had brought her back. And like with them, Shepard had no answers. And yet everyone—minus the odd few—expected her to.

Eisoptrophobia is an irrational fear of mirrors and what they hold. And in this case, as in all others, this one held her. Just her. A reminder of how alone she truly was; a reminder that meant she was indeed alive again.

Or maybe she just hated the reflection that stared back. It was broken and scarred and not some perfect, enduring soldier who could weather any storm. She was as fucked up by her mistakes as any other and here was the proof staring right back at her. Even rebuilding her entirely had not been enough for her to escape that painful truth.

Oh, how she wished a certain someone was here. Pulling her away when she couldn't find the strength to do it herself.

That was her downfall. Until she found the courage to let someone in, she could never truly walk away.

Her body was rigid; an uneasy feeling sweeping over it, tingling her toes. Foresight would have been a beautiful thing! It could have made her look away while she still had the chance and yet, her mind was a million miles away and completely unreachable.

Raven clenched her fingers into her palms, her long nails digging into the damp skin. In the tension, she felt one of her eyebrows obviously twitch. Unexpectedly, her reflections’ did not. Her eyes hardened with suspicion but her reflection never glared back. It remained as motionless and as cold as before. Almost as if death had claimed her once again. This softened her features as she waited to see, but when nothing changed and time marched on, she eventually rubbed her weary eyes, fed up. She looked again and blinked, and this time, the "other her" matched the action without hesitation. A sense of disappointment returned almost immediately, nevertheless she retreated back, somewhat satisfied. Transfixed by the newly found urge to look away and get on with her day….

The sudden and ear-shattering slam of her reflection's hand against the glass made her recoil back in absolute terror. The "other her" held no such emotion. But Raven could have sworn she saw shame as she fell backwards, hitting the cold tiled floor with an effective and lung shattering thud, stopping her from screaming out. In the silence of her shock, she could hear her heart pounding deep within her chest and it frightened her more than Saren’s delusions ever had.

Truthfully, it wasn’t real, “the other her” being a simple hallucination of her trauma. Fragments of tortured memories that still plagued her. Some recent, like the visions from the beacons; others less so, dating back all the way to her fathers’ death, years ago.

She still missed him as if a day hadn’t gone by, and to Shepard, that felt more real than her sudden presence; more realistic than her return from the dead because of some warnings about mythological AI bent on harvesting all life in the galaxy.

Eventually, Shepard's body tried to get her lungs out of their lost rhythm, rapidly allowing the filtered air to return. Out of breath and reluctant to make a sound, Raven simply laid motionless on the floor for some time. The only sounds that remained was that of the artificial light above her and the occasional dripping of the tap. Neither in that moment did anything to comfort her however. She didn't feel safe.

It's just you, she tried telling herself.

The arid silence was broken in two by the sudden metallic voice of EDI.

"Shepherd!” A long pause. “Are you hurt?" Before Raven could respond, EDI somewhat assumed the answer—unfortunately—it was the right one. "Should I inform Dr Chakwas you'll be—".

“—I'm fine!” Raven snapped, finally cutting the AI off. The AI’s concern shouldn't have sounded so real, surely not with all her restrictions. As a former Spectre at the time, she should have been questioning that, and yet, Shepard couldn't find the energy, intervening, a little too desperate not to have to talk about this with anyone. Not yet.

"Tell no one.” The AI’s commander ordered, “—please leave me be." It was hard not to inwardly cringe at her own lack of confidence then.

"Yes, Commander... Logging you out.".

Shepard frowned.

It soon didn't matter as the silence reclaimed the room, and Shepard was once again alone. But not entirely as EDI had reminded her. This allowed Shepard to face her greatest fear. She slowly reached up and gripped onto the basin, pulling herself off the floor and stalled herself. However, she wasn't ready to look in the mirror. Her jaw clenched and her pupils shook as she tried to focus on the rhythmic dripping of the tap instead. Her knuckles turned white from the pressure as she tried her hardest to remain as she was.

Finally closing her eyes, she braced herself, snapping her head up. But her courage was short-lived as her anxiety panicked her heart and seized up her once fearless mind. The echoes of her frantic breathing soon became too loud in the enclosed space.

She was trapped, in more ways than one. And all she could do was step back in shock; her shaking hands imitating how they once held onto the sink.

Raven suddenly wanted EDI's concern again. A fake, emotionless AI was better than crippling silence! So why didn't she just call out to her?

Turns out, she couldn't, not when she was the one asking.

Despite just having a shower, she wanted another. Cold sweat lined her brow and covered most of her back, dampening her clothes.

Here she was facing her worst enemy since awakening: and it turned out to be herself. It would seem her rebuilding had only been a reset button, of sorts. Shepard wasn't blind to the approaching conflict, and could see the cracks starting to show already.

Despite this, there was no escape from her daunting duty, none that she could see. A commander could be both fearless in the face of overwhelming odds and yet, still be smart enough to know when to fear… and knowing there was something out there; an almost invulnerable foe she could never defeat alone in a galaxy that made her stand alone, honestly terrified her. She knew it was because she was the only one alive who had seen the visions but it didn’t change the reality; she was only one human.

But that was only one side of the coin. There was a reason the Illusive Man had brought her back after all. She was, despite her flaws, one hell of a soldier, an incredibly skilled vanguard who inspired hope where there truly should be none.

And there were people that believed in her.

And she believed in them. Even if her anxieties made it hard for her to tell them, those odd few were the ones she couldn't find it in herself to let down.

Shepherd couldn't bear to lose them. Not without one hell of a fight.

The galaxy owed them more than they'd ever give them.

That, however, wasn't enough to stop her from questioning her resolve as the fear of losing more cracked deep. As a result, her reflection showed her a hidden truth.

Silent tears on a horrified face.

They spoke a million words. Words her mind would never allow her to voice to another.

What if I'm not enough?

When will we run out of time?

What if I'm wrong?!

What now? What now? What now?!

Her mind wouldn't shut up and she almost prayed for the peace of death to take her again.

The Reapers would never allow such a thing, she theorised, even if it could possibly lead to their defeat.

To her, the risk, no matter how small, was still a risk. That came with being a soldier. But these things didn’t think like organics—like her. When they comprehended organics they didn’t see risk, they simply saw their victory. For they were the “order” to the chaos of organic evolution; and Sovereign's words were a haunting shadow over any hope Shepherd may have once promised.

It all meant nothing, as Shepherd’s threats barely touched that monster's mind. An organics primal and evolutionary urge to fight for one's existence was not even a consideration to its warning. Its existence was simply beyond any comprehension of understanding. It did not matter how much she or anyone else questioned it—mercy was irrelevant—for there would be none. They would impose and force order. The cycle could not be broken.

Vigil, on Ilos, had eventually told her of Sovereign’s purpose: a vanguard who had laid in wait for centuries to send a signal to the thousands of its kind; who simply lay in wait to bring forth the extinction of the next cycle. And as outlandish as it had all sounded, Shepard had believed it just long enough to think—what if?

However… in the end, that thing’s threats had run hollow. For Sovereign did eventually fall. It was devastating… yet not impossible. Unity that day had been enough… against one.

To most, it was over.

No, it couldn’t have been over, Shepherd had tried to argue.

These things were apparently sentient machines of utter destruction, forged for that purpose alone. If Sovereign and Vigil were to be believed, they had earned their overconfidence, born from centuries upon centuries of apparent victories.

And if that sinister thing hadn't turned out to be a liar with an ego of all things and the Reapers truly were masterminds of extinction—cruel and utterly smart; calculated without remorse—surely they knew one would never be enough.

Nevertheless, the Hero of the Citadel had led the combined Citadel and Alliance fleet to victory. (Along with the countless brave souls who saved not only the Destiny Ascension, but also the Council. She would have killed me if I didn’t add that part.) But it was her call. So, why hadn't the reapers intervened with her reconstruction then? She had shuddered at a guess. They wanted her alive. This was no gamble or risk either. This was a fucked up game created out of spite!

Probably for defeating their vanguard—subtle proof that there was more—and if so, this was her only warning. A warning they wanted her to heed. To not interfere further and for that, as a consequence she had to suffer through it; she had to be alive.

That’s why.

Where the galaxy now stood, her death would have been the answer to the reapers’ victory and yet, none of that mattered to them. It didn't matter that they had already won when she died.

They wanted everyone to know that their coming was unstoppable and she was the only one left who could tell them.

She was their pawn in an already rigged game. Although it didn’t really matter. The galaxy's disbelief might just be enough to ensure that promised, catastrophic end.

A part of her couldn’t fully blame the Council. Denial felt safe. And they had many to keep “safe.” Utter panic would do nothing. Riots would give no answers, and if she turned out to be delusional of all things… It wasn’t worth thinking about.

But after all she went through, they were still too frightened to see the truth, even secretly.

That there was a puppet master behind those long strings of corruption and cruelty. That Saren was not the mastermind behind it all. Even if it was over and she was crazy, from Sovereign’s brutal description, only a “Reaper” could be behind this! What Saren had turned into... The former legend of a Spectre had become so scared when it finally clicked—it was like he was being eaten alive by his own mistakes—that she actually fought for him. And yet, it was too late. And the only escape for him was a terrible truth.

It wasn’t going to be ok.

He had to die. They just simply came to the same conclusion at different moments. And as much as she’d wanted to save even him—from Sovereign—she knew his mercy had been his suicide. A final decision that was his, and his alone. An end he had to fight for with everything he had and despite everything, she couldn’t even begin to imagine what that took. Never before had her enemy thanked her for their death.

Because it wasn’t about going back on everything—nothing could make it right—it was about him finding himself long enough to do the right thing. His killing blow still echoed in her mind late at night sometimes. But she had long learned that was pointless.

So she simply showed it through her report to the council— a personal note at the end, in honour of who she’d fought for:

—“…as good intentions go, Saren’s were long gone, but, honestly, so was he. And while I truly do believe whatever Saren was doing started in service to his people, in the end, that never truly matters.

I knew little about him, but my intuition tells me that the Saren you once knew—the honourable Spectre that was a legend to his people—was long forgotten.

However, that wasn’t him under the chambers. It was Sovereign.

There was nothing left to save and I doubt it would have been a kindness to. And as the Turian councillor would know, his people would not have forgiven his betrayal. And I believe, despite everything, neither would he. But he did right in the end… and that shouldn’t easily be forgotten.”.

A heavy sigh escaped her; so heavy she thought it threatened to pull her soul out with it. The task ahead of her… The undertaking almost seemed as impossible as her warnings.

The first step was getting enough of the galaxy to believe her in the first place, let alone "unite them." There was so much hatred and resentment to contend with first, and that was if there were no other problems after the fact. Even this far in, very few had heeded her warnings; fewer still were vocal about it. Would the "united" galaxy she managed to get even be enough?

She felt herself becoming overwhelmed as her mind raced to find answers. Answers she could not possibly have. As a result, it felt as if her heart was pounding the life out of her; she could hear it exploding in her ears as it turned her body into a shaking mess of adrenaline that was soon gasping for air.

Shepard went into autopilot, at least trying to calm herself through her panic attack. Shutting her eyes yet again she reached for her father's last words deep in her mind. She hesitated as she hated relying on such an old tactic. But she was at a loss. She didn't know what else she could do.

"Be good…" Her mind halted; frowning as she tried to remember her fathers voice. It had been a long time since she last heard it.

It troubled her still, and she would forever doubt herself. The cure?

She wasn’t even sure there was one. After all, rebuilding her entirely hadn't done it. But she knew better than to ask for such reassurance; that he'd ever reply. She couldn’t even remember if death had given her that chance.

Shit—maybe it had. She couldn’t remember.

The trauma of his death was fragmented this far into her life, but the memory of her father desperately trying to save her did indeed come flooding back to the forefront of her mind.

It would always be bittersweet. She couldn’t remember her hero without the rest, after all. Becoming lost to her own mind was the easy part—this wouldn’t be the first time.

Raven still remembered how he had to gasp for air after every word.

Pushing down the burning lump that had formed in her throat—she stopped the threat of more tears.

The wound on the side of his neck was fatal. His once tight grip weakened as he began to accept the inevitable, letting his body rest. No help was coming.

He had made it look so easy. He simply let go so he could reassure his daughter.

Because that was enough for him. So, it was already decided. He would die to keep her here. She would make a life for herself. And if dying was the cost—he’d happily pay the fee.

It was a sacrifice he made without hesitation. A decision she had no say in and could not accept until much later.

It… it was never the same.

Nothing was.

And she envied him.

And while the Alliance helped her find her feet, Anderson was the one that helped her feel a redemption of sorts after Elysium. But it still hadn't been enough. So she stayed with the Alliance—and eventually found a new home amongst the stars as she served upon the Normandy SR1.

The events of Elysium were supposed to be her last stand—her redemption. A way to finally let go of her anger and find peace in it.

She hadn’t planned on making it out alive. And yet, she held them off until help arrived, making sure everyone got out—including herself—and it was more than she could have hoped for.

This time, she had a say. And back then, the not-yet Commander kept her word. She made sure Elysium held—despite hours of brutal fighting, alone.

The Alliance declared her a hero and later that night Anderson had told her that her father would have been proud of his sacrifice that day, and every moment since.

And before her own death, she would find herself staring at the stars, wondering if Anderson was right and if her father truly was watching over her. She would find the biggest, brightest star and smile. It would twinkle in her eyes—almost feeling like a smile returned.

Since coming back, that too, no longer brought her any comfort.

For the stars had simply watched as she had died alone. It was a stupid thought but it crushed her nevertheless. The stars had seemed so lifeless as she drifted amongst them—gasping for breath—and they still did, every day since.

The commander flinched as her death made her recall how her father had done the same. He had tried to comfort her; he had fought so hard.

No amount of comfort had stopped her chest from heaving with fear as he began to choke. All she could do was sob into his chest, hoping, if anything, that she would be enough to save him.

"...You'll always be, my little Raven." He’d rasped, his grip no longer trying to keep himself alive. Choosing to wrap his arms protectively around her instead. That little girl had wished she could have done more. And yet all she did was close her eyes so tight, pleading over and over,

“Please don’t go…” He couldn’t leave her. What would she do without him?

His chest eventually stilled as his suffering stopped. Her pleas had echoed for hours after, refusing to let go.

An older Raven closed her eyes again, breathing easier, letting her father's words ease her mind, and in turn, her body began to slowly follow.

It was difficult to find solace in such a tainted memory. And yet, it gave Raven the courage to look away. Unfortunately, despite all of her achievements, she didn't feel proud. Regardless of the fact, she refused to change. At this point in her career, she couldn't falter and let the galaxy see that she wasn't even close to perfect, as some thought she was.

Distracting herself away from the mirror, she lifted her shaking fingers and forced them to find a purpose. From memory alone, she pulled her long white hair into a high top bun, covering her scar. Tedious as it was, she pushed herself through it every day.

When she was finished, black eyeshadow lightly adorned her eyes and long eyelashes, bringing out her high cheekbones and attractive blue gaze.

The Commander hit her hand across her eyes, stopping the threat of more tears. Her cheeks were already sore, and they stung as she wiped the evidence of her crying away.

It did matter, but deep down, she'd had enough.

This is just profound and simplistic professionalism, she told herself, reassuring her lifelong lie. She was an expert at pretending, if for a little while. But Shepard was experienced enough to know she couldn't avoid it forever.

She faced herself again, going against her better judgement, finding some courage in the sudden calmness surrounding her. She gazed at her reflection—and she almost looked sombre—yet deep down, she was still afraid;.

“I love you,” echoed as she couldn’t stop herself from remembering her father’s final words. They were once so quiet and loving that she almost hadn’t heard them. And the moment she realised what he said was a moment too late.

And she would never hear those words again. Hearing them now from herself, she didn’t quite believe them. Somehow she never imagined he would ever leave her.

And yet, he did. And as a consequence, there were things that were left unsaid. Like a reply she wished he got to hear.

She wouldn’t pretend that she should say it, but at least it distracted her enough to leave her fear behind so she could walk away.