Marcus knows his role on his team: he’s the one who carries the gun, makes the hard calls - and takes the hits. He has no time or patience for anyone or anything else. But when Jake - a brand-new recruit Marcus has been tasked with training - messes up on his first mission and gets them both captured, nothing could prepare Marcus for the way his world quickly spirals out of control.
AO3
Masterlist
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Sacrifice | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Defiant to the End | Accidentally hurt by friend | Backhand slap | Corporal punishment | Chapter 12 | Secret revealed | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Ambush | Take me instead | Tortured for information | Bound and gagged | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25
Levy: (historical) the act of enlisting someone for military service
Contents: living weapon, military whump, on the run, aftermath of torture, dissociation, self-loathing, aftermath of noncon, panic attack, touch aversion, touch aversed Marcus, vomiting, secretly touch starved Marcus
~
Marcus wasn’t sure where they were. Jake seemed to be leading them just as much as he was, and at this point, he was just following his feet. Every breath wheezed in and out of Jake’s chest, and he shivered against Marcus’s side. Marcus held him up, though, despite the pain lancing through him with each step – and despite the pain in his own ribs.
Jake had been beaten. Jake had been tortured. And Marcus had done nothing but watch.
He couldn’t bear to think about the thing that had happened to him. It trembled on the edge of his awareness, swooped closer every time he relaxed the iron control he had over his thoughts. It was easier – so, so much easier – to focus on Jake, to focus on the sound of the kid’s breathing. To monitor it for the sounds of a collapsing lung. To watch the kid’s complexion to see if he was getting paler – the sign of internal bleeding.
Not that it would matter if the kid was bleeding to death. If Alex had busted an internal organ, Marcus was going to have to just watch Jake die.
Marcus was limping, and he wasn’t sure why. Could be the gunshot wound in his calf. Could be… the other thing. He definitely wasn’t going to be exploring around in his body to figure it out. Wouldn’t be much farther.
Much farther to what?
He wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t make it much farther. Maybe that’s what he meant, when he thought that.
A building rose up in front of them, and Jake guided them up the steps. The kid was definitely the one calling the shots now, even as Marcus helped him up the stairs. Marcus pulled the door open, and they both made their way inside. The hallway was dark, and from the smell Marcus could tell there were other people living there.
Probably not legally, either. That was a good sign.
They shuffled down the hallway, trying doors as they went. The first four on each side were locked. The fifth door on the right was open. The knob turned under Marcus’s hand. He pushed the door open. He could scarcely feel relief when the living room on the other side was empty.
He should clear the rest of the apartment. He should… he should clear it.
He fell to his knees instead.
“Marcus,” came Jake’s voice. “Marcus, you’re okay.”
A voice answered, sobbing and frantic. “Jake, Jake.”
“Marcus… we’re okay… w-we’re both… okay.”
Marcus saw his hands pressed into the filthy carpet in front of him. He felt his body, shaking so hard his teeth knocked together. He wasn’t cold; he wasn’t anything at all. Jake knelt on the carpet beside him. Jake was crying, too. Marcus shook his head.
“D-don’t know what’s, happening, Jake, fuck…” He couldn’t stop shaking. It was like he was on a transport with a shitty transmission. The entire world quaked beneath him. A horrible noise pervaded the apartment.
Jake sobbed weakly. “M-Marcus…” He was on all fours, too, his hand right beside Marcus’s.
The thought of Jake reaching out, of Jake touching Marcus with that hand, punched through him. He leaned forward and retched onto the carpet. Only bile came up.
“I won’t.” Another sob. A broken, horrible sob. “I won’t, Marcus.”
Marcus sank down, narrowly missed the puddle of bile. “F-fuck,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I…” His hand darted out. The idea of Jake’s hands on him was pure horror, but… he had nearly just lost him. He had nearly just lost Jake – his Jake. His fingers wrapped tightly around Jake’s wrist. The touch between them burned, but he felt he would die without it. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Marcus…” There was a hiss, as Marcus’s grip tightened around the broken skin on Jake’s wrist. He couldn’t make himself let go. His hand was a vice, locked around Jake’s wrist like a cuff.
Like a zip tie.
He could still feel the blood and cum on him, dried now, stretching on his skin, tugging the tiny hairs on the backs of his legs. He could feel the soreness deep inside, where they’d torn something. He could feel his ribs creak with every breath as he sobbed out each exhale, dragged in each inhale.
Above it all, though, above everything, he felt Jake’s wrist held tight in his palm, felt the blood thrumming beneath Jake’s skin – alive and warm. Every iota of his focus locked onto his hand, and on the feeling of Jake’s wrist gripped in it.
Jake laid down on the carpet beside him, drawing his knees into his chest, crying softly as Marcus’s broken sobbing drowned him out. That was all Marcus could focus on. That was all Marcus would allow himself to feel:
Jake, beside him. Jake, breathing. Jake, alive.
Continued here
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You know one thing I hate? When people try to cure you of your self-loathing by telling you that it's really excessive self-love.
That while you think you're loathing yourself, you're really being self-centered and self-indulgent.
Even if it's true, I hate it.
My dad used to do it sometimes. When I would put myself down, he would say "You're feeling sorry for yourself." In other words, I was going "Oh, poor me, I'm bad," when it should have been "I accept that I messed up and now I'm going to work to change my behavior."
I suppose he was right. But it made me want to hate myself even more, because I was supposedly indulging myself with pity when I deserved no pity.
Or a recent accusation I read in a Tumblr post: that self-loathing is really egoism and self-importance. That the reason why you expect yourself to be perfect and berate yourself for making the slightest mistakes is that you think you're ultra-special and you think the world revolves around you – the only cure is to accept that you're not special, you're not important, you're just another imperfect person.
Again, that kind of talk heaps more guilt onto a person with a chronic guilt complex.
Now, maybe for some people it works. Maybe it's just what they need to hear. But it's not good for all of us!
So those little flashbacks Vaggie had, you know, when she's thinking about how much heaven sucks and she remembers being caught comforting another exorcist who'd been getting shit...
This brief scene is followed by a flashback to an angel getting her wings cut off - like many others I assumed it was the unidentified exorcist, but I've seen several people pointing out that due to the shading on the hair (darker grey along the bottom edge) it must have been Vaggie, meaning she was just flashing back to her own attack.
Just another reason for her to hate angels, right? Why else would she think about it in that moment?
Well let's think about hair shading, shall we, and how that unidentified exorcist has darker bangs.
You know who else has darker bangs?
But Hawk, you say, Lute was obviously the one bullying the other angel in the first place!
I'm sure that's what we're supposed to think, but was she?
With the helmet on, who's to say for sure that's Lute?
And wouldn't it make a lot more sense for Vaggie to think first about herself being close to Lute, comforting her, and then to think about the moment Lute turned on her? Completely proved that all traces of her former friend (or more) were gone?
"Old as I am, I know nothing. Why people in this world hate what is not them. Why they fear all they don’t know. Why they hate themselves most of all. For being weak. For being old. For being everything altogether that is not God-like. Which of us can be that? Monsters all, are we not?"
How did your housemates convince you the canadians of all people hate you? I'm imagining you ticking off Tatiana Maslany and them mistakenly assuming she's half the population of the country
Oh no nothing like that
although if I ticked off Tatiana Maslany I feel like, as a lesbian (...supporter), I'd have to leave society forever to live in The Forest
basically a Housemate Thing happened that put me back into the "everyone hates me and I'm actually the worst" mindset I work very hard to fight back most of the time, and at the same time a lot of Canadians are boycotting American products, cancelling trips here, etc. for the very understandable reason that the fucking Cheeto fascist a bunch of assholes elected here (yes, I voted; yes, for Harris) keeps threatening their country with insane tariffs for even more insane reasons
which, you know. IS A HUGE THREAT TO THEIR ECONOMY SINCE WE ARE MASSIVE TRADE PARTNERS. can't really let that go without a response,, and I 100% get it. to paraphrase the immortal words of John Mulaney, I also do not want us to be doing what we're doing!
anyway it makes total sense and it's all at a macro level. it would be hard to miss that many, many Americans do not approve of what's going on right now, and I'm sure Canadians know that. it's a macro-level action in response to macro-level actions. it's not about any individual American citizen
it's just that. my personal mental illness setback at the moment has me like "honestly, yeah, I as an individual deserve any hardship that comes to me, personally, as a result of this and I'm sure all Canadians hate me, specifically. or would if they knew me. because I'm The Worst. part of why I'm The Worst is that I'm an American besides being an absolute monster with a heinous personality. this is all true facts. :)"
all of that is deep nonsense and I firmly know it, in my logical brain. unfortunately logical brain is only intermittently driving the bus right now
itssss sooooo. foreman being like. I very intentionally and purposefully don't want to be like house. because that could be my default state. and house is like. I'm like this. intentionally on purpose.
Nemesis (The Man I Miss) | Miguel O'hara x M!BlackCat!Reader (TEASER)
CW: jealousy, violence, brutality, self-loathing, implied depression, possessive relationship
#NSFW, Top!Miguel, Bottom!Reader, hurt/comfort, anti-hero reader, complicated relationships, lonely reader, crook turned hero, reader is a tired guy, mutual pining
- Note: Posting some WIPs I've had laying around for a while while I try to finish up the next HOUND update! Needed a bit of a break from it since it's pretty long, but I hope some teasers make up for the wait. Tysm for reading!
Taking care of Nueva York was exhausting. You were far too used to being the problem rather than the problem-solver. That job reserved itself for the one and only Spiderman–your Spiderman.
At least, you liked to think he was yours.
Knowing my luck, the prick’s run off with his shocking wife or something. The thought plagued your mind too often. And it was true: Spiderman disappeared. He no longer served Nueva York and kept it safe, he no longer caught you with your hand in the cookie jar, he no longer gave chase throughout the city before pinning you down on some rooftop and taking his prize by force. And you liked it–no, you loved it. Fucking with the man who’d always get to fuck you back came to be a part of life you relished.
But now you were alone. Left by yourself to deal with lumbering lizards and giggling goblins while wondering how the fuck you’d ended up as a hero when you were anything but. Even the police couldn’t believe the switch, which caused some problems, and led to less-sexy chases that ended with you getting away no problem.
I wish I had problems. Just one problem, though: Spiderman.
You tossed aside your shiny leathers and collapsed into your bed. He’d never been there, no, but you fantasized about it. You thought about his impossibly wide back and the ripple of taut muscle greeting you in the morning, or maybe his built chest and strong neck–or maybe his handsome face–well, you’d never seen his face, but you had your guesses.
Your chest twinged the slightest bit, somewhere between where your greed and feelings intertwined.
Ugh. You missed him.
–
“Who's that?” Peter remarked as he walked up on Miguel. The lab was dark and dreary, spilling with shades of orange and amber where the blues couldn't reach. And Miguel, the source of the cold, stood in front of the firelight, gazing upon your image in the newscycle.
Miguel frowned. “No one.” But he didn't tuck your image nor the article away.
“Huh, looks like Black Cat. A 2099 Black Cat? Never thought I'd see the day.” Peter hummed and bounced a sleepy Mayday in his arms. “He up to no good?”
“He's up to good,” Miguel bit out. “That's the problem. He doesn't do good.”
“He's sort of an anti-hero these days,” Lyla cut in, blinking into existence on Peter's shoulder like the devil she was. “All thanks to Spiderman's influence–”
“Lyla,” Miguel warned (begged?).
“--aaand their sweet, cute budding romance,” she finished with a dreamy sigh. “Doesn't it just melt your heart?”
–
You pinned him against the wall and let your hands trace through the hard lines of his muscles on your way down to your ultimate prize. Spiderman shuddered and stayed still, much to your surprise, letting you feel him, letting you acknowledge the hardness bulging under your criminal touch. Because he dreamt of this too. Dreamt of you touching him, of you falling down to your knees, your eyes never leaving his masked face even when you pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to stretched fabric holding back his filled cock.
“So strong,” you cooed, “but not strong enough to resist, hm?” You sighed and worked him through the fabric with one hand. “Shouldn’t you be stopping the big bad from manhandling you like this, Spidey?”
“Hardly consider you the big bad,” he scoffed back. Spiderman tilted his head back with a choked groan whent hose diamond-tipped clawed gloves dug into his thighs. “Mierda, you–”
“Oh?” You grinned, so cheshire, so in-theme with your persona. “You can stop me any time, no?”
He could’ve. But he didn’t.
–
“A daughter,” you murmured. The flickering images–memories, maybe?–were there, waiting quietly for you, preserved and kept precious in shades of amber. But the scene was so alive; you could feel the stretch of the sun against your gloved touch, you basked in the crisp Spring air of that soccer game, you drowned in the warmth of that father's smile–
Spidey's smile. That was beyond obvious. The mountainous shoulders, the tawny skin, those hands– they belonged to him. Your beast. Your nemesis and lover, the man you hadn’t seen for far too long–
“Because you've been off taking care of a kid?” Your fingers, gentle, feather-light, ghosted across that foreign memory. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Who’s your baby mama?
The lab lights stilted and jittered. You snapped from your trance and made for the window you’d come in through, not bothering to see what was happening with your system jammers–you knew Lyla, she knew you, and that made the whole breaking-into-Spiderman’s-base thing more tricky and risky. Your jammer wasn’t fool-proof. It was quite easy to override, actually, but the interference was the difficult thing to detect in the first place. You only thought you’d need a handful of minutes to see your spider, anyway.
But he wasn’t there. Maybe he was off with his little girl.
Something cacophonous and nerve-wracking churned to the sound of warping electricity behind you as you dove from the window and slid down the side of the skyscraper, claws shrieking against metal and glass alike until you could launch off and latch onto a passing hover car. The periphery of your mind swore it saw flashes of orange and yellow, more violent and heavy than the screens you stared at in that dower room, and maybe you might have heard a familiar voice too.
The broad, tiny silhouette standing in that abandoned window gave you much more to think about.
--
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After the breakup
the room feels like it’s taking sides
every quiet surface reflects me back
a little harsher than before
I replay conversations like evidence
cross-examining my tone
my pauses
the moments I didn’t were tests
I always lose the case
Love leaves
and somehow takes my kindness with it
replaces it with a voice
that sounds like mine
but only knows how to accuse
I blame my laugh for being too loud
my needs for being too much
my silence for being not enough
I edit myself in hindsight
until I’m unrecognizable
Friends say it wasn’t all my fault
I nod
but the mirror disagrees
What hurts the most isn’t missing you
it’s how quickly I turn on myself
how easy it is to believe
that if you left
there must be something wrong with me
I don’t hate who I was with you
I just don’t know yet
how to forgive who I am without you
