#and i love men that could literally throw me around like a ragdoll

[peachywontyell]

i need more könig x plus size reader please for the love of god </3

[dimepdf]

★  𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇-𝐀, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇-𝐀, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄. + 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

masterlist. / taglist. / tip jar. synopsis. no matter how many times you try to convince yourself that Miguel is the bane of your existence, the way you react during training proves otherwise.

─── ☆ notes. i need fics of miguel being an absolute dick, like a petty bitch just for the hell of it i need more attitude yk? Like if that man isn't calling me a slut it ain't canon! | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

─── ☆ length. 4.3k (33 min read).

─── ☆ genre and warnings. +18 nsfw under the cut. minors dni | no spoilers | smut, enemies to lovers, maybe mutual pining, fighting and violence, semi public sex, gym sex, mentions of abuse, size difference, pain kink, strength kink, degradation kink, manhandling, power play(?), begging, rough sex, cervix kissing, choking, fangs, biting, marking, cunnilingus, eye contact, hair pulling, creampie, open ended, not an taiyo fic without a few typos.

IF YOU ASKED any of the other Spider-men what they loved so much about being Spider-Man, their answers would all be the same, ranging from "the suit" to "the enhanced abilities." It was a no-brainer that being a superhero came with a few awesome perks.

Which was why your answer was just a bit confusing, "the combat." You would always smile, despite the many eyebrows raises and looks that convinced you you had to be some type of overcover masochist, especially since you would never really go into true detail about why.

Your reasoning behind putting on the mask was similar to all the others: another traumatized kid being thrown into a whole new reality that you never would have dreamed of being possible.

Sadly, you had been raised with the loss of most of your loved ones, and your family was in shambles from the abuse you would go through from them. It was the reason why it was difficult for you to grow up and make many friends, let alone navigate your abilities on your own accord, which was why it was a whole different ball game when you first joined the spider society.

When you first met Miguel O'Hara, you thought he was an overly intimidating man with an even more scary personality. Your aesthetics and morals would clash in the first few run-ins you would have with him.

In all honesty, you first thought him to be a massive dick who surprisingly needed more therapy than you did. From his bored expression to his unnerving glare, it was clear upon the first introduction that you two just would not get along.

Which was why the universe made him the only spider person willing and with enough free time to train you. It came as a surprise to you both, who are usually butting heads. Miguel was adamant about not wanting to waste his time training some little girl who didn't even know how to throw a punch.

With much shit-talking on your part and a lot of teasing claims of him being afraid that you were going to kick your ass, training had quite literally started in full swing.

It was probably a bad move on your part to push the buttons of the guy who was teaching you how to fight. Miguel was clear with his fight-style techniques. He was nimble with his limbs and swift on his feet. It was hard for anyone to get a hit on him, especially since he wasn't the type to hold back his punches. 

His teaching style was the same: your sessions included throwing you around as if you were some ragdoll and picking you up as if you weighed nothing, just to slam you into the ground with full bruising force.

There would be some very rare occasions when you would manage to get the upper hand on him. Miguel was about a foot taller than you, not to mention how pathetically compressed you looked standing next to him. You learned that the only way you could manage to get the upper hand was by using your size difference to your advantage.

All the sessions you won were hosted by you managing to tangle yourself from his claws and climb his towering figure into a headlock, praying that you had enough strength in your legs to make him tap out.

"How is she not dead yet?" Miles would mutter, looking concerned, as he stood from the sidelines of the training room, watching one of your sessions, as the blonde by his side didn't even wince at the sound of Miguel untangling you from the headlock you had him in.

His arms moved faster than you could process as he managed to loosen your hold enough to slam the air from your lungs as you fell back facing against the mat so hard that even Miles was convinced he could feel the blow in the lower spine.

"I mean, at this point, I'm kind of convinced she’s turned into his personal punching bag." Miles strains to watch Miguel not even wipe a sweat as he sprung back on his feet. He stretched out his full body, towering over you, curled flat against the mat, trying to collect your breathing as well as your broken ego.

Gwen nodded in agreement. "I don't even know how someone could hit someone so...squishy? She’s just so cute." She muttered, watching with her arms crossed. 

"This punching bag needs to learn that in the real world, people aren't going to go as easy on her just because she’s cute." Miguel, despite glaring at the two bystanders, leaned down and yanked you back onto your stumbling feet. 

Your fingers combed through the matted curls now drenched in sweat away from your forehead, using your water break as the perfect excuse to help cover up the reaction to the sudden compliment that came from his lips and the way he had made you feel.

"And her being my personal punching bag is completely at her fault, if you want to learn how to fight, you have to learn how to take a few punches." You couldn't help but roll your eyes and wave your hand out in annoyance at another one of Miguel O’Hara’s famous lectures.

"I’m not a punching bag, did you not see the hold I had on him early?" You huffed, almost choking on your water, trying to protest. Gwen humored your claim, the blonde reaching out and rubbing your shoulder out of support as you continued with your defense. "Any tighter, and I would have easily snapped his neck."

Of course, Miguel only smirked as you continued grasping at straws at the point of trying to prove to your friends your improvement, his eyes flitting back and forth at the exchange, expressionless at the sight of you managing to still joke around as if you weren't about to pass out from fatigue at any second.

"And was that before or after the part where I kicked your ass, little girl?" He shot out, chipping away at the final lock that held back your annoyance, you hadn't even had time to process the insult before he bumped his shoulder into you on his way out of the training room.

His rude exit enticed a round of reactions from Miles and Gwen trying their awkward best to comfort the boiling pot of anger they saw written all over your face, rolling your eyes, you pushed past the two, not without grumbling a string of insults in Miguel’s name to the washrooms.

You blessed the spider lords for somehow having the ability to shower under running water, let alone the unexplainable strange amount of amenities that the spider society dimensions had. 

Like a web shooter's wonderland, you quickly shed the sweating clothes you trained in and stepped foot into the cold cubicle shower booth, letting the water run for a bit until enough steam fogged clouded stepping under the stream. Even with the hot water splashing pressure against your aching muscles, no amount of water could manage to wash away the annoying feeling in your legs. 

It was enough of a jab at your pride to even find Miguel attractive in the first place, and here your body was betraying you once more, begging, throbbing desperately for his every touch in its every form, and having the nerve to grow more intense during your training.

The feeling had yet to fully disappear the next day, even with your session starting off with you fueled from yesterday's comments. You tried pushing the feeling as you were just ready to have Miguel mutter another word insult with the ass kick you were ready to give him. It was the only possible explanation for why you were so jittery about getting to training on time.

"It took you long enough." Was the first thing you heard Miguel announce throughout the empty room.

He wasn’t wearing his suit—neither of you did while training—instead, he was wearing dark gray sweatpants paired with some random dark red graphic shirt that fit him a bit too snuggly to leave room for imagination around his arms.

"Almost thought you were gonna skip out."

You were aware enough to spot this quick observation of your outfit as well. Keeping it casual and opting for better mobility, you shimmied yourself into plain Nike shorts that stopped higher up than you had expected them to on your thighs with a loose tank top that peeked out the straps of your sports bra.

Nothing about your clothes screamed attention grabbing—at least that's what you thought before you caught Miguel’s red-tinted stare on the way your shorts hugged your thighs.

He glanced away, muttering something in Spanish you couldn't quite translate the moment your fingers fidgeted with the bottom hems of the shorts, tugging them slightly more down while deciding to break the tense silence that had managed to sneak up on you. "So what are we doing today?"

"Huh, I’ve been thinking." He answered, followed by the clearing of his throat, "We try something a little different." You could never get used to the roughness of his voice or the way he spoke with so much arrogance that it reminded just about everyone that he thought he was better than just about everyone.

Even now that you stepped towards the middle of the mat, standing rigidly just a few paces away from him, you could tell from that stupid, cocky expression as he stood looking down at you that there was no possible way that he would ever see you as a real threat. "I want you to try to hit me." 

Your brows creased together in confusion. 

"What?" was all you asked, which seemed to be the wrong question to ask as Miguel stretched out a sigh from his mouth, his hands coming close to his to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

"I said hit me." He speaks more slowly, making sure to mockingly over pronounce every symbol in every word as if you were a child. "Preferably soon and as hard as you can." A grimace finds itself twisting on your lips before you can even process your bubbling annoyance. Your body moved on autopilot because of your keen senses, jumping over the swing of his left leg with ease.

You couldn't say that swift grace stuck with your attempt at a counterattack. Bending your knee just enough to reach out and kick, you were only met with the bottom of your foot stomping flat against the floor mat and Miguel dodging your kick, standing just a few paces away. "Too predictable," he scolded in that annoyingly deep voice you hated oh so much and totally did not turn on you at all. You sprung yourself up by the heels of your feet and charged at him with full determination to land at least one punch on his stupidly chiseled, handsome face.

It had been your second mistake, giving him too much time to brace himself. Already regretting your emotionally impulsive start, resulting in the punch you swung being easily deflected by Miguel.

His hand wrapped entirely around your wrist, bending your arm almost out of your socket and kicking the back of your knee to the mat with his heel. You feel down to a kneel with a hissing pain in your arm threatening to get worse at any wrong twist.

"Lose that fucking attitude, or you’ll get sloppy." As if your body could radiate any more anger, you knew he was just trying to push your buttons, trying to throw you off your game with smack talk that was not working on you or anything.

"Again," he prompted, letting your arm go and stepping back, egging on another attack from you.

"Give me a damn minute." No matter how much you wanted to snap back at him with something snarky, you knew it would only prove his point entirely—not only that but also the fact that he was mentally hitting you in all the places that he knew counted the most to throw you off your game. 

Biting back the insult you already had threatened to slip from your tongue instead of making a point by rolling your eyes as you stumbled back to your feet. Rolling your sore shoulder back as your eyes scan over his stance, trying to find the best opening for a better attack, you steady your breath and cloud your mind in thought. "You aren't going to get anywhere but dead standing around like that, you know."

So much for wanting to consider your options. Miguel took the first swing at you and was on the verge of kicking you on your ass if it weren't for your shoddy dodge.

"Didn't you just say I had to be less fucking predictable?" You snarled, lifting your foot with most of your weight pointed in the direction of his jaw. Surprisingly, the kick landed just not in the place you wanted it to; instead, Miguel’s arm blocked the blow, much to your annoyance.

"I also said—" All he was doing was using dodging moves on you, swiping your other foot from under you as he held the other one that you kicked up in his arm, resulting in you landing once again flat on your ass. "to lose that fucking attitude."

You had not gone down without a fight, twisting and kicking, trying to wrestle your limbs free by any means. Miguel had almost embarrassingly quickly ceased your squirming, his palm cuffing your arms and pressing hard against your chest as his other hand pressed tightly into your thighs, folding your legs in place under his hips.

The position was interesting, to say the least, but you still had some fight in you, wiggling against his grip with any strength you had left to break free. It was a useless battle, but the man had his grip around you tight as well as an overpowering size difference that blanketed your entire figure like one big rock.

And that's how you caught yourself in another web of misfortune. Your nerves are surging at the feeling of something—him brushing against your calf. Maybe it was all the adrenaline pumping through your veins or the fact that you were practically being manhandled so easily that did another thing to your body, or maybe it was just pure horny instability that your brain couldn't even process the lewd whine that tugged from your throat after the fact that it had happened.

Watching in pure horror as Miguel loomed on top of you, his mouth slightly agape as his chest heaved and his brows pulled together, the embarrassment from his confused, almost offended looking expression hit you fast. Here your body was betraying you once more, this time going absolutely haywire and melting like a stupid pile of putty at the fact that you were being body pressed against some mat with some guy's hard junk pressed into your leg.

You couldn't bear to even look him in the eye anymore, your head tilting to the side, pressing your cheek into the mat, and squeezing your eyes closed, not suddenly envying the spidermen with teleportation powers. "Fucking Christ, can you get off now?"

A beat of silence hovered between the small distance between you two, neither moving nor talking. It was starting to become unbearable how tightly Miguel had folded your legs against him, in the sense that you could already feel his body heat radiating. The close proximity did not help with how unbearably your heart was beating against your chest. "How do you manage after all of that to still have that shameless fucking attitude?"

You stilled at how his voice had managed to cut through your own thick cloud of betraying thoughts as well as the ringing in your eardrums. "Shameless? As if you don't have your dick pressed against me right now."

"By the sounds of it, you don't seem that bothered at all." Miguel taunted, You thought you were bound to die of embarrassment.

Yeah, this is how you went out—by dying from the sheer effect of your own extremely horny though—not some overpowered supervillain with a vendetta against you but Miguel O'Hara and his dick print.

You could already hear the new taunts that he would use against you, "Not even in your fucking dreams." being the only comeback that you could muster, your limbs tingling with slight pins and needles, threatening to go stiff under his unbound grasp. 

"Oh, like you wouldn't love to," he sneered, shifting the weight from his hips flat against your thighs. "Probably thinking about me taking off these tight fucking shorts and having my way with you?" Your body reacted first to the accusation, cursing under your breath as you felt your second heartbeat flutter in between your legs.

His lingering stare hadn't helped one bit, and you watched from the sidelines as his eyes raked over your body with interest.

"I bet this was your plan the entire fucking time, huh?" He asked, leaning in as the distance dwindled until you could feel the brush of his breath against your face. "Put on some sweet naive act in front of everyone, knowing that you're getting yourself off on me throwing you around, touching yourself like some bitch in heat."

You hadn't bothered covering the whine that parted from your lips at the feeling of his erection slowly rutting against your thigh, the cocky smirk on his lips wanting you to melt away against the mat.

Miguel practically growled at the pathetic sounds that parted from your lips, tugging your legs apart to rut his hips down against your core. You shivered at the intrusion of his bulge pressed against your eagerness, the foreign feeling of him grinding against you left your thoughts in a dizzy fog.

"What? Can’t fucking speak now," he said as if he were dangling your most prized possession in front of your face, his fingers creeping into dangerous territory, making it a point for his fingertips to drag down your lower torso only to halt right above the elastic waistband of your shorts. "Go on, use your words."

"...fuck you."

The small amount of distance made the space between you two fall tensely thick, and the words spoken from your lips were different from the feelings that made your heart thud against your ribs. You weren't stupid, you knew Miguel could sense it, he could sense just about everything about your body from how close he kneeled on top of you.

Maybe that was why he had closed the distance so quickly after, letting the tight grip around your wrists give way to his hand finding a new objective, wrapping his fingers around your neck, not bothering to be gentle as he guided your lips towards his. The kiss was as rough as you had dreamed it to be. Eager for each other's kiss, you couldn't even process the noise that vibrated sharply from your throat before Miguel could pull away first, leaving you panting for more of his touch.

"First time I've ever seen you so quiet," his deep taunts were starting to grow unbearable, shifting your hips at the brush of his fangs against the jugular of your neck with every word, "who knew all you needed was some dick?" The harsh kisses he left trailing down to your collarbone made you feel like a hot, needy mess of putty. If it weren't for the tight grasp he had on your body, you were convinced that you would feel like you'd melt into some type of puddle. The growing frustration had only started to build up more as Miguel let go of your thighs, his hand trailing between your legs ruthlessly as the bud of his fingers rubbed against your clothed pussy. 

As for why you shifted your hips up and let him impatiently tug and yank at the bow knotted around the waist of your shorts, breaking away from the red splotching light bruises already forming against your brown skin and wiggling you out of your shorts, Miguel thought it was quite the image, his eyes were fixated on the drooling sight of you under him, so vulnerable with your thighs hugging to your chest, spread open, revealing yourself in your pants.

All sanity was thrown out the window the moment he tugged you closer by your knees, your lower half lifted in his arms just enough for him to sit face to face with your cunt. His eyes darkened, his pupils blown as his tongue lapped over his lips, leaving you feeling restless. It was a slow and almost painful battle of trying to reach down and shove his face closer or buck your hips as his fingers sheathed and explored themselves against the fabric of your underwear.

As if Miguel could read your mind, his fingers hooked the fabric under the bend of his finger, followed by a quick tearing sound. "I’ll get you new ones," the comfort emitting a whine from your throat as you couldn't even scowl at him for ruining your underwear because you were too busy admiring the work his fingers were doing. Without warning, Miguel leans in closer, the warmth of his mouth almost sending you into a frenzy as his fingers spread open your lips, his lips sucking at your clitoral area, prompting you to let out a very lewd moan.

"Too loud," Miguel mumbled against your pussy, too busy webbed up in your own pleasure to even notice how every embarrassedly sloppy wet noise had seemed to perfectly echo throughout the empty room. You couldn't even explain the number of emotions that were flowing through you, from shame from being tongue fucked and fingered against the floor about the one man you hated so much to bashfulness from holding eye contact with him as he lay between your legs and ate your pussy like he was starving for you.

"I can't help it," you whined, shivering at the string of spit that contacted Miguel as he lifted his head in an idea. It took a second to process Miguel picking you up and turning you on your stomach, his hands guiding your hips up and stripping your torn panties down your legs to stuff them in your mouth.

Without a word, Miguel grabbed your ass with another hand, guiding your lower back into an arch as the other made small indents from his nail bearing into your cheeks as he spread them apart.

Before you could even feel embarrassed at the new position, he shoved his face between them, your moan being muffled by your makeshift cloth gag that worked a bit too well in lowering your whines as Miguel’s mouth sought his tongue out for your pussy once more.

"You're close I can smell it," you almost missed Miguel's groan over your building ecstasy, "just let it go, baby, let me take care of you. That's what you want, right?" His voice is drastically different from his usual rough, rude tone, softened to something of a coo that has managed to unknot your pleasure with his tongue. Your body tensed against his mouth for a moment as he had the nerve to suck his fingers clean. No grace period was given before he could lift you once more with a grunt, laying you flat on your back.

Slotting himself back between his legs, Miguel chuckled at the dazed look on your face. "It's alright, baby, I can take it from here." taking the balled up drool covered panties from your mouth and instead replaced them with his lips. The sensual change of pace wasn't enough to stop the shiver that rid your nerves of the feeling of his bare cock rutting against your slit, using his thumb to spread your lips apart to sink his tip inside of you with a low hiss against your mouth.

A gasp left yours as his girthy length intruded deeper inside of you, the burying stretch of his dick having your nails roughly grasping at the nape neck of his hair tugging a handful as his pace hadn't bothered to even get familiar already. Miguel’s hips weren't letting out as he fucked you almost animalistic against the floor. You were convinced he was trying to fuck you into the mat, to be one with the floor, which would perfectly explain the rough pace that left you breathless with each piston of his hips. 

The graphically lewd sounds of your weak groans were nothing compared to the pornographic sound of your skin meeting his, your brain empty with nothing but greed, wanting to take everything and more of what Miguel was giving you. His fingers reach to unwrap your fingers tangled in his hair to intertwine them in his. "That's it, mama, that's it," he whispers against the shell of your ear, earning a whimpering reply from you, almost close to spilling the tears clouding your waterline.

Your mind couldn't process anything other than how good Miguel’s dick felt being shoved inside of you, his cock dragging against your tight, flustering walls with each shaky breath brushed against your ear. Your cunt seemed to react to Miguel’s lashes tickling against your neck as his eyes screwed tightly shut, muttering a string of compliments in his mother tongue.

You weren't lucky enough to be more stable, surprised that your throat hasn't gone horse with how ruined your vocal cords sounded in the pace of his pistoning hips. Only going up an octave higher as one of Miguel’s hands reaches down to pay attention to your clit, he doesn't stop even when your limbs start to tremble from your climax. 

With one last hard thrust, he finally stills, your name being the only thing you could make out through his mumbling as his unfamiliar warm sensation welcomed itself inside of you. 

Groaning right in your ear, he cums inside of you with his entire dead weight pressed against you, caging you against the floor. "Alright," Miguel sighs, settling on top of you once more with his arms holding himself just a few inches away from your face. "Again."

🔖 @adonis-is-dead-lmaoo @thesebitcheslovesosadotcom @inumakiiz @iheartlinds @creamyarishi @marzipaanz

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[crash-cinematic-universe]

love and death are one in the same

pairing: peter maximoff/fem!reader

summary/request/prompt:  For you whump prompts,,, mayhaps a caretaker who is in love with an unreciprocal whumpee and sacrifice themselves for whumpee's guaranteed safety? (bonus if the whumper lied and harms whumpee anyway) - @lilix-love​ (thank you!!!)

warnings: death, throwing up mention, peter jerks off but it’s not like. detailed or anything. sad :(

notes: boy oh boy do I love me some reciprocated love. I changed up the prompt a bit. I hope that’s ok!!

taglist: @lokiqueenofasgard​, @creator-appreciator​

            Peter Maximoff was no stranger to rejection; girls rejected him countless times for countless reasons to the point where he was used to it. Contrary to popular belief, being 'let down gently' is much worse than any cold, hard, insulting reject. When girls would brush Peter off and insult him to his face or gag when he confessed his feelings to them, it was almost comforting. It shows Peter that those girls weren't meant for him because they were cruel and lacked compassion. When the girls in question let him down slowly it hurts more than anything else, because Peter sees just how loving and gentle they are-- he wishes their caring eyes and sympathetic tone would melt into a hostile sneer and cold slurs.

            This kind of rejection, though, it was worse than any insults or kind eyes could ever be. Why? Because he hadn't said a word. He hadn't confessed, but still, he knew. He could see it in your eyes, or rather, he couldn’t see it in your eyes. He could sit beside you and stare into your endless eyes and he wouldn’t find what he was looking for because it just wasn’t there. Peter could wish on every star in the galaxy and he could pray to every god ever thought of and he’d still come up dry. That hurt more than anything; having to face the fact that you just didn’t love him was almost impossible. It didn’t help that you were his best friend.

            When you found Peter lying on his bed sobbing uncontrollably, you consoled him. You held him. You were there for him, and you were caring and kind and understanding and that just made it worse. He almost spilled his guts right there-- the words hung on the tip of his tongue and somehow he caught them on his lips. He clamped his mouth down and hoped the taste of them would dissolve. You ran your fingers through his hair and let him cry into your shirt and he prayed silently that you were being so kind and comforting because you loved him. 

            Time passed, and Peter went from hoping that you would start loving him to hoping that he would stop loving you. He hated the butterflies that fluttered in his stomach around you. He despised the way his heart would skip and stutter whenever you rested your head on his shoulder. He mentally slapped himself whenever he misread a glance or a smile or a compliment. He simultaneously dreaded and loved the days you were together because it just hurt so bad but filled him with an irreplaceable sense of euphoria. 

            The only place that Peter could be completely himself was when he was alone in his room, the lights dim as he shut his eyes and imagined the feeling of your hands in his hair and the sweetness of your kiss and the pure bliss that would come from Peter’s head between your thighs. Those moments are bittersweet, because he knows that his right hand can never replicate your actual touch but there’s no other way he can get relief. He feels immense guilt afterwards every single time. He feels dirty and creepy and he convinces himself that he’d betrayed your trust in a way that could never be healed. 

            One night, the two of you got drunk-- really, really drunk. Neither of you were thinking straight and somehow you caught Peter’s lips on yours. The adrenaline sobered you up and you pulled away immediately, apologizing profusely as you almost begged him to forgive you. You made it abundantly clear that alcohol had numbed your senses and that it was your honest mistake. You pleaded for his forgiveness without knowing that you just gave Peter a taste of heaven. However, Peter isn’t a horrible disgusting person, so he forgave you and assured you that he wasn’t angry. He held onto the soft caress of your lips on his like a lifeline. Even when Peter was throwing up his guts outside the bar you were in, he still thought it was worth it. 

            When strange men showed up in Peter’s bedroom, he didn’t think much of it at first. It wasn’t until they told him they actually needed him that he cared. They wanted Peter to be a hero, and if you were gonna love anyone, it was gonna be a hero. So, Peter worked with them to release some rando from prison and when he came back home to you he reveled in your admiration. He loved being amazing for once in his life. And then Peter saved an entire mansion filled with people and he went from amazing to totally heroic. Unfortunately for Peter, while he was saving a bunch of strangers the one person he loved was stolen away from him. By some sick twist of fate, an ancient Egyptian god had discovered his one weakness and used it against him. Some motherfucker named Apocalypse decided he might as well steal away his father and the love of his life for shits and giggles. He saw how powerful Peter was and realized if he wanted world domination, he needed Quicksilver. Peter didn’t want to be a hero if it meant you got hurt because of it. 

            In a whirlwind of destruction and pain, Peter landed in the middle of an explosive battle looking up at the most powerful mutant he had ever seen in his entire life. Said mutant was standing beside his father, who held your limp body in his arms. Peter couldn’t tell if you were unconscious or dead, either way, it was bad. Apocalypse presented him with an easy choice: only one person had to die, either you or Erik. In that moment, Peter stood in the dirt. He wasn’t Quicksilver, he wasn’t an X-Man, he wasn’t a hero; he was just Peter Django Maximoff, your nerdy best friend who was totally and completely in love with you. And you didn’t love him.

            “Take me!” Peter cried. “Please! Let them go and take me instead!” Apocalypse smirked before extending his hand, pulling Peter to his feet like he was nothing more than a ragdoll. The Egyptian mutant woke you up with a jolt, and Erik held you firmly. Peter’s entire body ached, his brain vibrated in his skull as he knelt at Apocalypse’s feet, his lungs extending and his bones rattling until Peter was consumed in agony. Tears filled his eyes as he screamed in pain, his teammates seemingly too preoccupied to notice that he was quite literally being ripped apart. Then, it all stopped. Peter couldn’t move, but he wasn’t in pain anymore. He physically could not turn away from your sobbing body, his eyes locked in yours. It was only then that a spike was driven through your chest, blood pouring from your mouth and abdomen as the light drained from your eyes. He screamed, and searched your endless eyes for any sign of life, any glimpse of hope. It was almost as if he was searching for hours but he didn’t find what he was looking for because it just wasn’t there. Apocalypse’s voice echoed through his head, the gravely tone cutting through his body.

            “Now you’ll be able to say you loved her until the day you died.” Peter’s neck snapped with a gut-wrenching crack, and Peter Django Maximoff, the hero, the lover, the friend, was taken by the unrelenting clutches of death. 

[simmonsofshield]

Broken, Mended Chapter 4

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Sam Wilson x Reader (platonic)

Summary: After breaking off an engagement, Y/N may have possibly hit rock bottom. But she doesn’t have time to think about it because she gets deployed to Iraq. Leaving their daughter with her friend, Sam Wilson, she’s gone for a year. She doesn’t like talking about her ex-fiance and is unsure if she’ll ever be able to love again. What happens a certain Captain is his literal doppelganger?

Words: 1300+

Warnings: Lots of swears in this one, sorry. Feelings of anger, betrayal. Drama. But also feels.

A/N: Normalize 👏 Platonic 👏 M/F 👏 Love 👏  (in case you can’t tell by this point, Y/N and Sam are very close. If you’re a Grey’s fan, I picture it very much like Mer and Alex. Two people who could never picture themselves in a relationship but would die for each other.) (omg i’m booboo the fool. another great example would be nat and clint?) This is for @ussgallifreyfics​ 550 follower writing challenge! Takes place during Civil War.

tag list is open

Y/N doesn’t know how long she’s out, but when she wakes up she can tell she’s in a completely different place. She’s not laying on the ground, but whatever she’s on is not comfortable in the least. As she stirs awake, she can also tell she no longer has her wings on, nor any of her pistols. Freaking out, she sits up quickly, groaning as her head still hurts. Still disoriented, she doesn’t see the person jog past her, but she hears them. “Your girl’s awake too, Sam.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, “Not my girl, Cap.” 

When she hears his voice, she lets out a deep exhale and slowly leans herself against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. Now a little more with her bearings, she can tell she’s simply laying on a piece of plywood over a couple wooden pallets. She doesn’t open her eyes but can tell Sam’s next to her now. She sarcastically smiles, eyes still closed, “Were you just going to keep this from me Sam? Didn’t think I was going to find out?”

He sighs, “Not this way at least. I’d rather it be in DC. What are you doing here anyways? I thought you were only supposed to be in Vienna.”

Y/N finally opens her eyes and looks at him, “You’re not deflecting away from this Sam. You never told me why you retired and now you're basically back in action and you weren’t going to tell me? How long Sam?”

He looks down in defeat, “Two years.”

“What?! T-two years? Sam, what the hell? So you were already doing stuff while I was gone? What the hell did you do with Ro?”

He smiles as best he can and waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, she was fine. Pepper’s great.”

“Pepper? As in Stark? You just casually left my child with not only a CEO of a company, who I’m sure is busy in her own right, but a stranger without consulting me first? Oh my god.” She puts her head in her hands and just sits like that for while. When a hand touches her arm, she so badly wants to pull it away but can’t for some reason. She blames the whole being knocked out thing and just exhaustion - physical and mental - at this point. 

“Y/N?” 

Finally bringing her head up, she looks up to see she now has an audience. James and Steve, who she has pieced together is also Captain America by Sam calling him ‘Cap.’ Her vision is cloudy - she hadn’t even realized she was crying. Wiping the tears away and clearing up her vision, she’s pretty sure she almost has a heart attack. She backs herself into the wall as much as she can, which isn’t very much since she was already sitting up against it. In front of her is Ransom. That’s why he was so familiar back in the holding location. Her breath quickens and she looks over at Sam, confusion and a sliver of fear in his eyes. 

“Y/N?”

“Holy shit.” She stands up and goes to the end of her ‘bed,’ where her wings and weapons are located. She throws on the wings and fumbles with the guns as she runs out of the warehouse. She can hear all three of them following her, but she doesn’t stop, until she gets to the end of the wharf. She collapses, dropping her guns, and just sits there on her hands and knees, crying. When she hears only a single set of footsteps walk towards her, she knows it’s Sam.

He crouches down, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Y/N are you okay? What was that?”

“What was that?” she basically yells back, anger still seething. She brings her voice down before continuing, “Sam, didn’t you realize that Steve, Captain America, fuck...looks almost exactly like Ransom? What the hell?” 

He looks over at Steve and back down at his friend, “Well now that you mention it...”

“Sam, this is no time to make jokes. I’m pretty sure what I’m experiencing here is a panic attack, or something, I don’t know. Fuck!” She hits her fist on the concrete. “What is happening? This is a sick, twisted game of fate the universe is playing that I didn’t ask for.”

She resituates herself so she’s sitting on her butt beside Sam. Taking a few breaths to calm down, she continues, “I guess now is as good a time as ever.” she wipes her face, trying to give herself a little bit of dignity back. “I trust you but I have to say this for my own sanity. You can not tell this to anyone. Especially your bff Cap over there.” she points over to Steve.

Sam nods, “Of course.”

“Okay,” she takes one last breath before starting, “the reason I broke off the engagement was because Ransom killed Harlan, his grandfather.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah. And he tried to peg it on Marta, Harlan’s nurse. It was a whole thing. So I left him and fled Boston for you.”

“Oh my god, Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

All she does is nod in response, unable to speak at the moment. The exhaustion is really hitting her now.

“Riley died.”

She turns to him, “What?” He’s not looking at her, just straight out at the water. 

“Why I retired. I went on a mission with Riley in Afghanistan. RPGs were flying everywhere, but we infiltrated the target’s hideout. He got hit by one and I couldn’t save him. There was nothing I could do.”

She scoots a little closer and puts her arm around him, “I’m sorry. I remember you two were close.” He nods and also puts an arm around her. She leans her head on his shoulder and they sit like that for a couple minutes, in comfortable silence.

Someone clears their throat. “Sam.” They both look over to see the other two men closer to them now. She makes a split second of eye contact with Steve before immediately looking away and over at James. He seems to be James at the moment, not the Winter Soldier. He can’t seem to look at her, probably out of regret of what he’s done in just the past couple hours.

“You good?” Sam looks at Y/N as he begins to get up.

“Yeah.”

He stands up completely and puts his hand out to help her up. She takes it and stands as well, a little wobbly at first but she steadies herself and watches as Steve takes him aside and chats. Probably about James and what to do with him now that they’re basically running from the law.

Y/N takes the moment to bring her hand to her ear, hoping the com still works despite her being tossed like a ragdoll. “Carter, Fury. Anyone on coms?”

A female voice responds, “Yeah. What happened? We lost track of you.”

“Long story. I got thrown into a wall. Probably compromised the tracker somehow. I’m surprised the earpiece even works. Where are you?”

“Still where we were holding Barnes. Trying to find him.”

“Okay. I’ll make my way back to you and try to help.”

“We’ll be waiting.” 

Finally putting the guns in her holsters, Y/N extends her wings and readies herself to take off. Before she can, a hand on her arm stops her. “You sure you’re good enough to fly? You seem pretty wiped and a lot just happened.”

The wings retract and she turns to Sam, “Yeah, but I’m meeting back up with Sharon. Can’t exactly get there in a timely manner on foot.”

He turns to Steve who shrugs and nods. He faces her again, “We can take you.”

She raises an eyebrow, “How? You’re just going to, what, casually steal a car?”

“Actually yeah.”

“You’re unbelievable. You do know you’re all already wanted for helping a literal assassin?” she shakes her head, not waiting for a response, “but I guess I don’t have another choice. Just get me close and you guys can go on your merry way evading the law.”

All Sam does is laugh.

tags:

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[imaginemycroftholmes]

“Hi honey,” you greet your husband meekly from the sidewalk as he steps out of one of his many unmarked cars.

His face was a stark in contrast with Sherlock’s barely concealed mirth at the ridiculousness of it all as the sirens and cops cars had you surrounded.

Stepping onto the pavement looking more displeased than he had when your mother made off-handed comments on his “dime-store” Japanese during the first dinner pointedly keeps his eyes on you.

It cuts you to the core washing you with a fresh new wave of shame and embarrassment for what you did  just twenty minutes prior.

Those poor men and women didn’t know what they were going up against.

It had been one of those rare days when both Molly and John were both engrossed with work that Sherlock had decided on his own to stick around with you. Didn’t happen too often thanks to finally getting somewhere tangible with Molly and Rosie starting Pre-school but since it didn’t happen often you hardly minded.

Together the pair of you traipsed around London where Sherlock preformed his tricks and you the captive babysitter audience would sound off appreciatively.  Everything had been fine until after Sherlock introduced you to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that made the best pot stickers in London.

You didn’t have to be Sherlock to notice they were following you.

Three men and two women.

Confident by stride and organized.

Definitely a unit.

Possibly armed. 

It all spelled trouble with a capital ‘T’ and knowing that you were out with your trouble magnet brother-in-law in a part of town you weren’t familiar with didn’t help ease your conscious.

Out maneuvering should be the first thing to do but realistically you couldn’t keep up with Sherlock’s strides and Mycroft would be sore if you got his brother captured, you could call for help but who could be counted on a street like this?

As far as Mycroft’s security detail goes they still have a five minute delay.

If you can’t do defense go for offense. Yeah, it went against your sensei's teachings but considering that it could be at the cost of not only yours but Sherlock’s life you decided that this was an exception and let all hell break lose.

“When were you going to tell me?” Mycroft deadpans pointedly ignoring how Sherlock tries to rile him up further about the inadequacy of his security detail.

Having issues looking Mycroft in the eye you try to keep your vision to his mouth. Lying to your partner, even by omission is hardly a good way to celebrate your third year but at least coming clean would clear your conscious.

“When it became relevant?” you offer lamely.

“You nearly snapped the necks of five of my personnel, people that I have had in my security detail since day one today ______,” Mycroft snaps, “so why wouldn’t you tell me that you are an expert in the martial arts and could possibly kill a man with your bare hands?’

Heat stinging your face and the shame that you just about killed innocent people did nothing to still your shame but unfortunately it did not help you judgement either.

“Well what was I supposed to do,” you fired back, “just wake up one morning and say ‘Hey honey, I forgot to mention that I’m quite literally classified as a lethal weapon because my parents had no problems making me into a walking stereotype? That I can kill a man with a single jump? Or throw a man more than half my size like a ragdoll? Huh?”

“Anything would have been more acceptable than waiting until after you attack my security detail meant for you and Sherlock to get mauled by you,” Mycroft argues looking just as red, “Seriously, how did you even manage to break Harrison’s nose like that? She’ll need at least three surgeries to correct it!”

“That was a special class with my sensei and I’m not allowed to talk about that and how was I supposed to know they were part of your security detail?”

“Who else would be following you?” Mycroft demands.

“I don’t know? Bad guys? People that Sherlock pissed off? People you’ve pissed off? Stalkers?”

You both look like you’re going to have a blown out row in the middle of the ambulances and cop cars when Sherlock steps in-between.

“As much as I love to see you two fighting this is going on too long for my liking,” Sherlock confesses. Pointing at Mycroft first Sherlock summarizes, “First off _____ is right there was no reason she had to believe that they worked for you and keeping that little tidbit from you wasn’t necessarily a bad thing but however-”

Sherlock points to you and continues, “You should have let Mycroft know that you can take care of yourself and should have stopped pummeling Peterson after he started to blurt out that he worked for him.”

“He could have been lying,” you defended.

“He was also at our wedding dearest. Didn’t you at least recognize him,” Mycroft questions only to see you redden even further in answer.

Smoothing over his hair in a frustrated manner Mycroft concedes, “I guess we have a lot to talk about on the ride home don’t we _____?”

“Yeah,” you add nervously and the prospect of it all. “Coming Sherlock?” you call to Sherlock hoping that he’ll act like a buffer only to find the brat had snuck off to a cop car.

“Dear God no,” Sherlock shouts, “I’ll just have Gavin drive me home.”

“I’M NOT A TAXI SERRVICE SHERLOCK AND ITS GREG!”

Settling into the backseat of the car Mycroft holds your hand as gently as he had when he first proposed. “______ I love you but we can’t have so many secrets between us,” Mycroft insists, ”So please tell me there’s no more surprises.”

“....”

“I’m sorry, you said what?”

“I said I also know how to gut a man with a paper knife and how to make acid bombs out of house hold products.”

Indeed it was going to be a long ride home.

@snapesnapeseverussnapedumbledore,