#* writing

[dicktective]

don't let me hit the ground - 11k - one shot archiveofourown.org/works/75488186

[xomnus]

anybody wanna read some modern au wuk lamat/bakool ja ja snippet

[zmassani]

BURNING AWAY THE PAST MILES RUSSELL x ADRIENNE SCAVO

Miles is hardly in the room when Adrienne already stands up, straight as an arrow. There’s a wilderness behind her eyes, something akin to an animal trapped in a cage. She’s more anxious than she lets on, the evidence of it piled on the floor in the form of whittled wood right next to the chair she’s been sitting in. She tucks her knife away.

“Did you get it?”

He nods, closing the door after him. They’re holed up in an old hunting cabin, deep in the middle of the woods. The nearby QZ had questionable security at best, and with his old uniform on, Miles had managed to infiltrate the walls two times now. First time was for generic supplies, but the second had a specific purpose. At Adrienne’s expectant look, he reaches to the back of his pants and from under his jacket retrieves a bottle that’d become the topic of many conversations over the past few weeks. An industrial grade chemical, sure to corrode dirt (and everything else) on its way.

She holds out a hand and he hands it to her, the bottle dirty and its label barely legible, but whatever is left in the bottle still just as potent. Adrienne turns the bottle in her hand, brows furrowed, before she moves to push it into her backpack.

“Let’s go.”

The trek is quiet, the plan (months in the making) the only occupant of the silence between them. They already scouted ahead a few days before, right after arriving at the cabin, to make sure the surrounding areas were clear. A kilometer’s distance from the cabin the dense woods made way to a clearing, and in the middle of it, a small pond. The waters were dark and leaves covered its surface, but most importantly, there were no signs of diseased bodies in the water. That was good enough.

Adrienne finds the most suitable spot by the pond and settles down with her backpack, starting to unravel its insides around her. Miles kicks away the biggest branches and then spreads the trashed piece of tarp they carry with them to be able to sit on the ground wherever they go. He puts down the vat and bucket they brought with them, and then leaves to go around the pond to secure the area once more. All he finds is the decomposed body of what once had been a person, but no signs of infected anywhere. He comes back to find Adrienne standing next to the tarp, turning her belt in her hands before starting to loop it back to her waist.

“I need your belt. Mine’s trash.”

Without further prompting Miles undoes his belt and pulls it out, handing it over to her expectant hand. He watches as Adrienne braces herself, breathes in deep before she finally finds her spot on top of the tarp and settles down on it. He watches as she pulls open the laces of her right boot and pulls off her sock. She rolls the leg of her pants up as high as it will go, securing it right underneath her knee.

Watching her is like watching a sacred ritual unfold, and he’s once again reminded by how little sanctity is in him. Higher power holds no place in his world, and thus he’s left with what’s on earth. Loss, sadness, uncertainty, the cruelty of man. And her.

“You have to do it.” Pulled out of his thoughts, Miles lifts his eyes up to her, his brows knitting into a line. She must sense he needs more elaboration, as she continues without missing more than a beat or two. “I can’t do it without messing up the whole foot.”

He lets his eyes scan her. She’s holding his belt in one hand and the bottle in the other, her hair tied back into the all-too-familiar ponytail to keep it out of the way. He draws in a breath.

“You’re sure about this?”

She nods, the way she doesn’t bite back somehow drilling in deeper than any of her words ever could. “Has to be done,” she says under her breath, clearly more to herself than to him, and as Miles settles down at her feet, he can hear her breathe in deep. He takes the bottle from her.

“Don’t stop.”

He lifts his eyes to her, immediately meeting her gaze -- she’s dead-set. This is a conversation they’ve had before. “Don’t stop even if I tell you to” and “don’t stop until it’s done” were familiar to them both, from the dozens of hours spent stitching each other together; and that’s the ending she doesn’t need to elaborate now either. Miles nods, and turns around so he’s sitting in between her legs, his back turned to her. With the vat placed between his thighs, he takes a hold of her right foot and brings it up to hold it firmly on top of the vat they’ve brought with them, her ankle over the opening.

He can hear the clatter of his belt’s buckle as Adrienne lifts the leather to bite it between her teeth. Miles breathes in, holds her foot in one hand and starts pouring the liquid onto the bitemark. He keeps his eyes on her leg, watching as the skin starts to react to the liquid. 

Behind him, he imagines how her face distorts, teeth digging into the leather of his belt. She breathes in sporadic bursts, all of her fighting against pulling her leg out of his grasp; anything to ease the pain he’s causing her. He needs to remind himself it’s what she wants; it’s what she insisted on for months before they came to this. They have an understanding. He still carries a scar on his face from the time they last had an understanding like this, albeit wordless then. He knows she still blames herself for what she did, even though they both know it was the least of what could’ve happened. It needed to be done for them to make it out alive, and in a way, this was exactly the same. Maybe they’re even now. 

The first wail that escapes her lips is shattering, and it makes his skin crawl. Every inch of him wants to put the bottle away and stop the process right there, but he fights against it, just grips her leg tighter and pours until the little left on the bottle has grazed her ankle and poured into the vat underneath it. He can feel Adrienne press her forehead against his back, and just as he sees the scarred flesh of her ankle start to turn, she’s holding on to him, her nails digging into his middle in search of even some steadiness. She’s trembling, but remains just as quiet throughout; only a few desperate, muffled sounds leaving her lips.

It’s the aftermath that’s worse. Miles fills the bucket again and again, pouring water on top of the open wound that’s formed to where the scar of the bitemark used to be. Her skin is raw, fraying at the edges, every bit of it turning an angry red. Her body is desperately trying to fix what was broken, and so far all it’s doing is causing more pain. He rinses the wound until the bright of the day falls into a gloomy afternoon, brief droplets of rain grazing Miles’ skin as he fights against the fatigue. Adrienne’s forehead is glistening, the belt no longer between her teeth but the indents of it still clear on the corners of her mouth, and there’s nothing he’d like more than to ease the pain she’s in.

“We need to get back. It’s getting dark.”

She nods, but the distant look in her eyes gives way to the very real repercussions of what they’ve done. It’s the known price for a life of even little ease, but it doesn’t make it easier to handle. She’ll need to recover, and only time will tell what the wound replacing the bite mark will be like. As she tries to stand up, she falters, and in a flash she’s lurching forward, leaning against her knees with her face hidden from him as she twists her body to get it off the tarp. She throws up, her body desperately heaving even when there’s nothing in her stomach to get rid of.

Miles goes further away from the pond to pour out the liquid in the vat, the chemical seeping deep into the soil as he turns and comes back to Adrienne. He rinses the vat and then watches as she stands up, barely able to keep herself straight. He helps her sit down again.

“Sit. I can do this,” he says, his voice low.

She’s too worn out to argue, and instead pulls her left leg tightly against her body in an effort to keep herself warm and steady. It is his ritual now. He gathers every evidence of the two of them and neatly tucks it all into the safety of their backpacks, gently pulling the tarp from underneath her to be able to pack it away, too. She sits still, and from the corner of his eye Miles can see her watching the undisturbed surface of the pond, focusing on the silent peacefulness of it. Whatever she’s thinking, she’s not letting him know.

Just as the darkness starts to fall, Miles tenderly helps Adrienne up and pulls her to his back. He has both of their backpacks strapped so that they hang on his front, both the bucket and the vat securely tied to their straps. He loops his arms under her thighs and secures her by leaning forward for a moment to help her settle. She hangs on to him with whatever’s left of her strength, her head resting on his shoulder as he starts to make his way back to the cabin. Her fingers grip the front of his shirt, the pads of them stroking the skin right above his collarbone.

The woods around them seem endless, and it’s the sort of endlessness Miles could get used to. He knows their journey is far from over, but for now; here; they have respite. In the middle of the forest they have calm, and even the looming QZ nearby doesn’t feel that heavy of a weight to handle. Miles focuses on keeping his pace slow and steady, making sure every step is calculated and won’t lead them to topple over. She’s silent for the majority of the way, the only sound she makes the breaths that warm his neck and make his skin shiver.

When she finally speaks, her voice is hoarse, and her fingers are still caressing the spot above his collarbone, the touch unexpectedly soothing. He wonders if she knows how little she has to do to help him keep calm.

“Thank you.”

[margraey]

Why do we keep coming back to this? Or maybe we're not anymore. Maybe it's only me.

k.

[chibiuseless]

Darcy/Tony = If they invented a way to actually have sex over the internet you and I could use that glorious technology for internet hugs. (You know, when I wasn’t using it for sex.)

Pairing: Darcy/Tony

Word Count: ~550

Prompt: #47 If they invented a way to actually have sex over the internet you and I could use that glorious technology for internet hugs. (You know, when I wasn’t using it for sex).

Warning: Implied smut, language?

A/N: Darcy/Tony is not a ship I would ever have written without a prompt. However, I didn’t want to not answer this, or not give it a go. My sincere apologies if this is utter trash because of that. I did my best. <3

✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽ ✽

When she asked Tony what would happen when she left for the Asgardian liaison duty and she needed him; a suit was decidedly not the answer Darcy expected from her brilliant partner. Several snarky Stark one-liners about the Bifrost, or Mjolner? Of course. A couple rejoinders about her not leaving at all? Par for the Stark Tower course. Hell, she even imagined a half-joke about phone sex.

But not this.

Not these two almost weightless suits. He tried to explain them to her, but after only a few minutes her eyes glazed over and she mumbled, “Dammit Tony, I’m a poli-sci major not an engineer.”

That made him laugh, and he dumbed the science down just a bit for her, “Essentially, Shortcake, they’re wifi-paired suits that allow one wearer to feel what the other wearer feels via external stimuli.”

“So, let me see if I get this… If you hug yourself, then I will feel like you’re hugging me as long as I’m also wearing a suit, and it’s calibrated properly? Or will I feel like I’m hugging you?” It was an important distinction, she’d thought.

“Well, it’s programed for both, Darce. You just have to set it up for each session, based on what you’re interested in.” He demonstrated for her, sliding a semi-transparent glove over her hand, then his own, and showed her how if he clenched his hand she could either feel as if she were clenching her own hand, or as if someone was holding hers instead. “Additionally, you know I didn’t spend a full month on this for just Internet Hugs. Optional casings for inanimate objects can be used to simulate intercourse.”

“Jesus Tony, you really put a lot of thought into this,” though honestly that wasn’t a surprise to Darcy anymore.  In the last couple years she’d gotten used to Tony’s ability to fully immerse himself in a project, thinking of nearly every possible angle. He was a genius afterall. Her genius.

“I put a lot of thought into it for you, Pint Size,” his eyes slid from hers to her lips, and back up. She was going to miss his kisses while she was gone.

“Okay, all thought processes aside. Have you tested it out for its full intended purpose, or just for business handshakes?” Darcy raised one eyebrow in concern. She had no intention of leaving for Asgard with a suit that would hypothetically let her get freaky with her lover. It had better do it’s damn job. “I think we should test drive this invention of yours.”

Nearly an hour later, a soft ‘woah’ was all Darcy could manage as her breath finally began to regulate; Tony’s slow caress of his own arm made the hair under her own suit raise in response, and she sighed contentedly.

“That was something else, Tin-Man.” Darcy peeled the suit from her flushed skin, and folded it up to place on the lab table next to her. “I just have one question for you.”

“Shoot, babe,” her lover’s eyes were still dark from his own release, as he eyed her.

“How’s this supposed to work in Asgard? There’s no wifi…”

[touchmybana]

the smell of the sea surrounds them, and the sky is slowly losing its light. haru, in his simple school uniform and with his bag slung over one shoulder, looks like he’s come alive from a painting, all soft oranges on one side and deep, dusky blues on the other. his hair is a little long now, and it falls a bit into his eyes, but his steady gaze is still as obvious and captivating as it always is, as he looks at makoto.

makoto is in love with him.

he still feels like maybe haru doesn’t know it. that even though makoto’s said it so many times, in passing while they talked about something completely unrelated, shouted across the water from one end of the pool to the other because sometimes he couldn’t care less that anybody could be listening, whispered into the crook of haru’s shoulder while they were tangled together in makoto’s bed... he still feels like maybe all that hasn’t been enough, that words just aren’t enough, that maybe haru has heard him saying it every time but hasn’t been able to grasp makoto’s full meaning.

so this time, even though it would be the perfect opportunity to, he doesn’t say it. instead, he leans in, slowly, and when he sees that haru’s eyes have drifted closed, he presses his mouth to haru’s.

and this.

haru’s kisses are just the way he is. soft, slow, gentle, the smooth glide of his lips against makoto’s reminiscent of the way he glides through the water. and makoto will never get enough of this, ever. even if he spends his whole life with haru and kisses him every day (which is exactly his plan), it would never get old. in fact, it always feels so new. it always feels like the first time.

haru pulls away first, but not completely. his mouth gently brushes against the corner of makoto’s, and then he leaves it there, and they both stand still against each other, breathing. neither of them have made a move to hold the other, but this closeness is perfect as it is.

after a few quiet moments, makoto lifts his hand and tilts haru’s face up with gentle fingers around his chin, and as haru’s eyes turn to his, calm and deep as the water when it swallows makoto in, makoto knows, again, as clearly and completely as ever, that he’s in love with his best friend.

and of course haru knows.

[svoevolye-blog]

and flying away. | drabble

♬ ♪

He moves. 

The world is this: steel on ice, superficial gouges scored out, kicked up shavings that scatter in the wake of every sweep. These map the path of the destruction, and it is meandering and aimless -- but still gouged with a purpose that rings like the echoing cries of war. A jump, a deep turn, a center of gravity that falls like stone and pits into the glittering surface until it cracks and new marks are made. 

But each step is tangential. Neither blade will retread the same marks, and even those passes are once and gone. Something gives ( between metal and ice, it will always be ice ) and then something else is gone. It might seem that skating is action but in the end, the only thing that remains is what’s left over -- flurries of kicked up powder, grooves clawed into the ice, whispers of blades on a carving board echoing into silence. 

Once he moves, he is gone from the space he had occupied. The only proof of existence, however momentary, is the empty space scratched out of the rink’s once smooth surface. 

Yuri does not look backwards once. 

His arms are moving time with his legs, reaching, pulling back, moving up, counterbalancing his weight when he leaves the ice for a second, a second, a second, to come back down and sink in a spin that slices curling, twisting, mangled layers of slush from the surface. And then he moves, cutting through whatever has not been touched by the sharpened steel of his blades. 

A turn, an arcing turn, a turn that has him bending backwards -- phantom limbs extend from his own, younger and shorter but also longer. They reach back, fingertips nearly reaching his knees. His own barely clear the indented curve of his waist. He pulls himself, chin shoved back until his neck aches for the angle, muscles of his arms snapping against the reins of flesh. 

Something shifts and in one fell swoop alarm bells ring as he pitches back and the clean, taut, breaking, fraying line shatters. He’s down, then he’s up. His teeth clench, agony tight; his legs are steady. He is steady. His blades have always been another appendage. He controls them. 

He slashes into a jump --- four rotations, one hand flung up over his head -- he reaches impossibly higher, he crashes through whatever ceiling has always pressed down on him from on high, he claws through the broken pieces until he is flying -- 

When he lands, the length of his leg smashing entirely against the scored and scratched glass of the ice, it is farther than he has ever come off of a jump. Fire lances up the length of his jaw, strangles him, hooks talons into his face as he lunges forward in the same breath, digging the pick of his skate’s toe into the ice and sliding his weight onto the other until he’s plunging back into the choreography, squeezing tight as possible into moves that he knows, he knows, he knows how to control -- 

( the afterimage of Viktor this morning burns against the backs of his eyes whenever he blinks. when did Yuri ever need to look down to meet his gaze? his hands are burned raw from the friction of holding onto time that passes too quickly, too quickly to capture -- ) 

The last fall is quick and clumsy, an aborted step, a roll onto his palms until he’s sitting, breathing. Heaving. Part of him wants to look at his hands. The rest of him wants to give into the tremors that wrack down the length of his body until he shakes it away. Until he finds the him that he was. The him that he knows. 

He, himself, and no one else.