newsockfeeling (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
newsockfeeling) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2015-04-22 07:29 am
newsockfeeling) wrote in bakerstreet2015-04-22 07:29 am
The Superhero's Significant Other Meme
You're just an average Joe (or Joanna, as the case may be). You live a normal, unassuming life and go on with your day-to-day business. There is, however, one thing about you that is a little unusual - beside your sparkling personality.
You're dating a superhero.
So, what's in this week's issue? Are you childhood friends come together? Do you actually know your love is that caped crusader? If you do, is it a thorn in your side that you will always come second to the cause? Of course, there's always going to be that annoying time where they try to "protect" you by breaking up with you. Oh joy. Well, at least, how's your sex life? Surely those super powers can make for some interesting bedroom trysts. Maybe after one of them, you can tell your beau that you're a superhero, too.
...but what if your significant other isn't the hero? What if they're the villain?
- Comment with your character, preferences, their position (superhero, significant other, either, etc), and comfort level (ie, no smut).
- Reply to others.
Konoka Konoe | Mahou Sensei Negima | OTA
clara oswald ~ doctor who ~ ota
no subject
Desmond Miles | Assassin's Creed
no subject
do you need to be rescued from things that go bump in the night?]no subject
He needs saving from lots of things, not necessarily the night bumpers]no subject
don't you worry about those Templars either, okay? SHE'S GOT THIS.I'm very much imagining they had a moment like "okay, so I guess we both have our secrets". she can handle the assassin business if you can handle her drinking blood.any particular scene you have in mind? I'm flexible.]
no subject
Alternatively, something involving someone silly enough to kidnap him to get at her. (I'm not canon familiar enough to know if that's a thing.)]
no subject
she leaves you alone for a minute, Desmond, and then you go get captured by some Templars and have to save the worldI'm also thinking that perhaps she might've manipulated his memories of her fangs and blood drinking if she thought that, that was something he would've freaked out about the closer they got. she can have him remember all of it during their conversation like "you know about me but I kinda.........made you not know because I didn't want you to panic over me." if you're cool with that.there are lots of scary people out there that would want her and she's died 3 times because of it. D: not the best of times for poor Elena.]
Wanda Maximoff | MCU
no subject
no subject
no subject
If you want to do something, I've got Pietro up on a few memes]
no subject
That would be cool. I'm just kind of cautiously prodding at Wanda, trying to get my head around her.]
no subject
Totally. It's all good. I'm still voicetesting Pietro as well. Wanda's awesome, I'm sure you'll get her down.]
Kamala Khan | Ms Marvel
Orihime Inoue | Bleach | F/M
Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow | MCU
Daidouji Tomoyo \\ CLAMP \\ OTA
no subject
no subject
no subject
Today was pretty much a simple day in terms of heroics, though she couldn't help but grimace at the fact her costume got ruined slightly.
"Oh... I guess I got a little too rough there tonight." Sakura uttered, looking it over. She shook her head before looking at Tomoyo. "You didn't get hurt, did you?"
oh goodness I'm SO sorry this is so late, I didn't get a notif for this ;;;;;
"I'm perfectly fine." It was just like Sakura to worry about Tomoyo first, when Sakura herself was always in far more danger. "You worked so hard, though. Are you tired? Hungry?"
It's okay! DW's always like that!
"A little of both, actually." Sakura replied, beaming. "Tonight was actually quite rough, I could use the rest. I just hope I'm not imposing on you with wanting something to eat!"
She knew she wasn't, but there was always that worry.
no subject
Preparation was key, after all -- Tomoyo never knew when the occasion would arise to offer her help in any number of ways, whether it be food or companionship or distraction or a new outfit... and speaking of clothing, actually,
"By all means, I'll find you something more comfortable to change into as well."
no subject
"Thank you, Tomoyo! I'll try not to keep you too long, then." she replied. Almost playfully, she slipped her hands out of the gloves her costume hand, leaving Tomoyo to hold them as she stepped aside. The costumes were always a combination of cutesy and practical (at times), thus getting out of them was easy.
Stepping away, she started to change out of the costume, letting Tomoyo get the change of clothes.
Nagisa Misumi | Futari Wa Precure | OTA
steve rogers • mcu
I apologize for the wall of text/backstory. Hope this is okay.
For 70 some odd years those words haunted Bex. Awake, sleeping, it didn't matter. All it took was the world being a little too quiet and she could hear his voice -- breaking with static as the Valkyrie descended into the ice.
For 70 years she wore a ring around her neck, never once thinking she would get the chance to move it to its proper place. Steve was gone. Despite all his searching, Howard couldn't find him or the wreck.
For 70 years, Bex tried to make a life for herself. To move on without the two people who meant the most to her. Her brother. And the love of her life. For she had been in love with Steve Rogers since she was 14 years old. Shame it had taken them so long to figure it out. She had joined SHIELD along with the other former Commandos; allowed Howard to inject her with the 'Infinity Formula'. For decades, she fought to finish the work they had started in WW2. To insure that organizations like HYDRA never again gain footing in this world (ironic, looking back on everything).
But then the call came. Steve had been found. It didn't...it seemed too good to be true. And yet, there he was.
They hadn't had much time together before the battle of New York. But they had had some. Enough to answer all the whys and the hows and the do you stills that plagued their minds. Enough to get everything out of the way so that once the battle was over, the world was safe...they could begin their life again.
Step one was getting married. A small ceremony. Just close friends (which they still had a surprising amount of).
Step two was moving to DC. Getting a small apartment in Georgetown and transferring both of them to teams down there. Of course, they probably should have built time in there for a honeymoon. Because no sooner had they gotten down there then she was called out of a mission. And when she returned, he was gone. It made the whole unpacking thing rather difficult.
But hey. Here they were. Both on leave. Both home. And now faced with a living room full of boxes that had been sitting there for six months. It seemed an impossible task.]
Well, Cap. Got a battle strategy for this?
Carol Danvers | Marvel | F/M
peggy carter | mcu
claire temple | daredevil
Cisco Ramon | The Flash
Yitzhak ★ Hedwig and the Angry Inch | ota
Bucky Barnes | MCU | OTA
no subject
no subject
no subject
Wanda Maximoff | MCU - Marvel
Morgan Coulson | MCU OC | intended for someone, but OTA
intended for meeee?? (sorry not sorry)
He knew how to walk on two legs.
After the wreck, Jackson Stark only knows two things: falling in love with Morgan Coulson was the best thing he's ever done in his life and he's not going to let whoever it was that put his mother in a coma get away with it. He can't.
With his father at the hospital where he’s been since Jackson and Pepper were admitted, the Malibu house is quieter than Jackson ever remembers it being. The lab is darker and more lonely than he ever expected it to be. There’s an abandoned cane propped against a half-constructed robot in the corner, and there’s a metal brace tangled with a group of other hardware supplies.
Jackson ignores them both as he turns in the rolling chair and uses two “feet” – one flesh and bone and one metal and wiring – to push him from one set of monitors to the other. It’s a prototype, his leg. Built from work he’d done his senior year in college with a professor in neurology and biology, making functioning neuro-paired prosthetics for animals who’d lost a limb, and data he’d taken from Uncle Steve’s weird friend Bucky about his arm. There were still improvements to be made—it wasn’t as seamless as his missing limb, still had to be fucking oiled, are you kidding him, and ached at the joint where he’d attached it with the help of Uncle Bruce and that same professor. But he wasn’t in a fucking wheelchair anymore, and he didn’t have to use the brace, and he could walk. It was, all in all, an improvement. Morgan, god, Morgan, supported him through the entire process. Held his hand. Puts up with cold metal against her warm skin while they sleep, helps massage him when it aches, gets her gorgeous hands covered in oil when he asks for her help and half the time before he even thinks to. Like he said, it’s one of his core truths.
Which brings him to step two of the things he knows these days. The wreck that took his leg and half-killed his mom wasn’t an accident. If he’d been a little less fantastic at driving there wouldn’t even have been bodies to find, not with the two black SUVs that showed up out of no where and chased them for miles before finally succeeding in running tem off the road. His tiny sports car didn’t have a chance. But it wasn’t a fucking accident and he’s not going to let them get away with it, whoever they were. He won’t.
The stats for his father’s first suit are still here. Most of them in New York at the tower are under lock and key and protected from inquiring minds (his), but the Malibu system is controlled by biometrics which aren’t that hard for the son of Tony Stark to hack, and once he’d gotten past JARVIS telling him this was a bad idea (it wasn’t), there they were. Specs for making Iron Man. For becoming a super hero. Jackson doesn’t want to be a super hero, not really. Jackson is, all things considered, a pretty selfish man who has no real stake in saving the world (just ask anyone), but Jackson is also a loyal man and someone has hurt his mother and this is the best way to find out who they are and hurt them back.
He gets to work.
Forty-eight hours later (he can’t call them days, really, because that might imply that he’s slept at some point – and maybe he did, head pillowed on a work table—but mostly he’s just survived on coffee provided by DUM-E and sheer willpower) and he’s got the start of something. It’s metal plates, it’s halfway to a suit and he’s got it hanging from two of his father’s taller robots while he tries to figure out how he’s going to work the whole metal leg into it, except his head has gone kind of fuzzy from the over-stimulation of caffeine and the lack of sleep and he knows the solution is right fucking here but he can’t quite see it, and he’s so lost in the middle of the problem that he doesn’t notice the soft, victorious noise as someone convinces JARVIS to disable the lock on the workshop door, or the sound of footsteps headed his way.
“Come on you fucking piece of shit,” He growls, rubbing at the joint between hip and metal—god, he should have taken his pain meds hours (36 of them, probably) ago—trying to push up from the chair he’s sitting in to engage in a staring contest with his half-finished creation. He gets halfway up before his muscles lock and protest and he has to sit back down with a groan. Fuck. “I’m not stopping until I have you figured out, you know that right?” He’s not entirely sure if he’s talking to the suit or his leg, but they can both take the talking to. “So you might as well just stop making this difficult.”
You know it is, dork face
Growing up around the Avengers, Morgan learned certain facts about them. Bruce Banner was so mild-mannered it was almost funny (like those jokes about Canadians and their politeness, you know? Only worse), Steve Rogers was self-sacrificing to a fault, Clint Barton always had a joke and a smile ready (even if his heart was breaking), Thor was loud, but brighter than anyone in the media gave him credit for (sometimes, Morgan thought he might be the most intelligent of them all), Natasha Romanoff could solve any problem you put in front of her (especially if you didn't mind a little bloodshed to get the job done), and Tony Stark had the self-confidence of a small planet.
In the drab hospital room, he looked like he had been stripped of everything that made him Tony Stark. He wasn't the genius who built the Iron Man suit out of scraps in a cave. He wasn't the superhero who had saved the world more times than anyone could count. He wasn't the brilliant inventor who had revolutionized clean, sustainable energy. He was just a father, waiting to hear if his son and the woman he loved had made it off the operating table alive and intact. It's the first time Morgan ever saw him look scared. The memory still haunts her.
She spent hours curled up on the edge of that sofa wearing a pair of jeans, and one of Jackson's old band t-shirts. Clint sat next to her, arm wrapped around her shoulders for a couple of hours until her dad showed up and took over. They kept telling her to get some sleep, but she just sat there, picking at the laces of her mismatched converse, one red and one blue. (Not a fashion statement -- Morgan never made any of those -- but the product of getting dressed in the middle of the night, panic tearing at her chest.)
Jackson made it off the table alive. But not intact. Not quite.
As it turns out, waking up in the middle of the night to learn that her boyfriend and his mom have been in a car crash and might not make it, is the easy part. The hard part is everything that comes after. It's her boyfriend flinching every time she touches him. It's waking up in the middle of the night because the person next to her fell off the bed trying to go to the bathroom alone, because he didn't want to wake her up. It's watching the boy she loves trying to smile through the excruciating pain and failing miserably. It's leaving college, classes and her very comfortable apartment because it's not remotely handicap accessible (great vaulted ceilings and gorgeous arched windows, but no elevators) and moving into Clint's apartment in the Tower for recovery. It's flying down to Atlanta every weekend to watch Jackson Stark sit by his mother's bedside for hours, guilt twisting up his features. It's standing helplessly by as Jackson makes the living room into a makeshift workshop and fills it with drawings of mechanical limbs and clutters it with circuit boards and wires and metal plates. It's sitting next to Jackson, his hand tight in hers, as he scowls at the (very expensive) therapist the hospital recommended and she insisted on.
But, it's not loving him. Her love for him will never be the hard part. It's not shifting the damn wires when he needs to recalibrate his leg because the knee joint locks up. It's not gently massaging his hips and the small of his back when the ache gets too bad. It's not working the tension from his flesh and blood calf with her thumbs and her hands. No. The hard part is the way he won't look at her when she touches the space where his leg used to attach. The way her brash, gorgeous and self-confident-to-a-fault boyfriend suddenly feels less. That's what kills her.
The therapist suggests the move out to Malibu. A change of environment will do them both good, she says. And Morgan should know when Jackson readily agrees that there is something more to it than a yearning to be in the sun. But of course, she doesn't put the pieces together until she comes back after a two day (supposed to be four day) trip to New York to tie up some lose ends to find the house empty, and Jackson locked in the workshop. Honestly, she could kill him.
(Before she leaves, he promises her that he'll be good. That he can do a couple of days without her. The new leg is working fine, and the fridge is loaded. Don't worry, babe. It's not like he's an invalid or anything. He shoots a bright grin at her and it's almost like before the accident again.)
The walls of the workshop are all glass. It's so very easy to see Jackson hunched over his work-table and working away with that single-minded determination that follows each of his mechanical projects. She's seen him get this way with the model cars he collects and modifies. Though, he usually finishes them in a matter of hours. The log that JARVIS keeps shows that Jackson entered the workshop two hours after she left for the airport (likely how long it took him to hack the system to allow him access) and hasn't come out since.
To her credit, she tries knocking first. She also tries the intercom, but apparently Tony disabled that one a long time ago. Turns out though that JARVIS has a soft spot for the women looking out for the Stark boys. It only takes her ten minutes to coax the system into opening the door for her. It opens with a soft rush and compressed air and the first thing that hits Morgan is the smell. Oil and metal coupled with old coffee and the stench of sweat. Lovely.
It's not surprising that he doesn't notice her. She's held entire monologues at him when he's been building things that he hasn't heard a single word of, and sneakers against poured concrete are way quieter than her voice. His words make her roll her eyes, but then worry jabs through her chest when he aborts his attempt at standing up. Jesus. He has not been taking care of himself.
Morgan steps up behind him. She wraps her arms around his chest and leans her chin against his shoulder. Her cheek presses against his and she considers the half-finished suits hanging in front of them. It's still a mess of exposed wires and half-soldered metal plates, but it's kind of obvious what it's meant to become. See. This. This is the hard part. Coming back to discover that her boyfriend who is still re-learning how to walk is planning on becoming a superhero. "Talking to inanimate objects now?" She twists her head and presses a kiss against the corner of his jaw. "They say that's the first sign of insanity."
thank you, my heart is broken in a thousand pieces
He woke up from the wreck into a world that isn’t familiar. A world that doesn’t make sense. His mom is the best person he’s ever known. Not just the best family member, not just the best because she gave birth to him, but the best fucking person. She donates to charity, she curates art, she’s kind to a default (even as she doesn’t take any shit), she’s tough and strong and sweet and caring and she knows people and remembers the janitor’s name and the fact that he has two kids in school, and somehow she was able to be the CEO of the world’s largest company all while being there for him and seeing his soccer games when he was five and helping him out of the tabloids when he was fifteen. She isn’t the superhero. There is no reason she should have been at the other end of a targeted hit.
He woke up from the wreck into a world where he’s gone from being one of the most attractive young men in the United States to missing a leg and having enough scar tissue to write his own book about the subject. From being independent and strong-willed to being unable to use the bathroom without assistance. And Morgan, god Morgan--like he said, loving her, earning her love has been the highlight of his life and he’s entirely aware of how much he doesn’t deserve her.
She tries to touch him, tries to prove it doesn’t matter to her, that she finds him just as attractive like this. She settles a steady hand against his hip, tries to slide it down to his hip and he always, always shies away. She says it doesn’t matter, but it’s such a desperately glaring thing how can it not? She says it doesn’t change anything, but everything is different and she’s Morgan Coulson, it’s entirely possible she deserves something quite a bit more than a twenty-two year old one-legged famous son of Iron Man.
Hearing she’d dropped out of her summer semester (‘books that weigh more than I do, Jackson’ he remembers her enthusing, thrilled beyond belief, ‘I might make love to my statistics book while you’re gone’) hurt more than waking up damaged. Hearing she’d let someone else take the lease on her apartment (not the one they’d shared when he was at school with her, but one she’d picked out all on her own that was her to the core) broke his heart more than losing his leg. But she’d never complained, never looked at him like he was a burden and he nearly broke under the weight of making sure she didn’t regret the choice of being with him.
Except, well, even with her positive influence, he’s still Jackson Stark, isn’t he? He still tried to go to the bathroom without her and ended up on the floor, tried to go to the kitchen for a fucking drink of water and ended up winded and panting in so much pain it sent white spots dancing behind his eyes, tried to attach the prosthetic on his own the first time, sending them both to the hospital and if he could never see the look on her face when she saw the blood ever again—well, he’d die a happy man.
And he’s still Jackson Stark when it comes to promises, it seems. He didn’t mean to break the promise that he’d take care of himself in her absence, because he really had intended to do it properly; he always does. His plan was to come down here, find the plans for the suit, look through them, stop, eat, take medication and then return. He’d even set alarms in his phone. He just—then threw his phone against the wall when it became a distraction, forgetting why it was meant to be distracting him. He just didn’t notice how hungry he was, how much his leg ached because he’s working. He’s close. He’s almost there.
“Shit!” The word startles out of him as her arms wrap around him from behind (she wasn’t supposed to be here for two more days, he wasn’t going to be this much of a mess when she returned, he had a plan), but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t want to pull away, because even through all of it being in her arms is as close to feeling like himself that he’s been since he found himself staring at cheap ceiling tiles and the worried face of a nurse. Her skin is soft and he can’t help but rub his cheek – covered in two day stubble, a bit unwashed—against hers to enjoy it for a moment before turning a bit into that kiss before he catches her lips for another.
“You’re home early,” he murmurs against her lips, because yeah he can get behind not talking about the elephant in the room for a second. “And you already decided I was crazy years ago. It’s how you resisted my charms for as long as you did.” He courted her for years before he finally confessed anything. It was impressive. “Did you miss the sun too much?” Did you miss him? Are you just here to check in? Are you telling him New York is calling you back? He can’t help but wonder.
From somewhere behind him his phone beeps a plaintive cry from where it’s fallen against the chrome of a cabinet (it’s time for something) and he lets out a snort. “I should have made that thing less indestructible. Impossible to make it stop working by throwing it at the wall.” He’s not exactly staying on topic, he hasn’t slept in a while, and he’s trying (not very successfully) to avoid the fact that there is a pretty inescapable conversation to be had hanging right behind him. “How’s Clint?” Distract her with step-dad talk, that always works.
You're welcome!
It's surprisingly easy to get used to the lack of a leg. After a lifetime of knowing him, jumping and running around two-legged, it only takes her about a month to stop expecting a second leg every time she looks at him. The first time she sees him without the leg is in the hospital bed. He hasn't woken yet, and his skin is so pale. There are tubes and wires all running from machines around his bedside and converging on his body. The white blanket across his body dips and slopes oddly, lies flat where a leg should be, and Morgan's heart stops. She's not there when he wakes up, that's Tony's privilege and duty. He's the one who tells Jackson about the operation, and about his mother who might never wake up again. (Morgan stands inside a tiny restroom that smells worse of disinfectant than the rest of the hospital, her face buried against Clint's chest and she cries and she cries until she can't cry anymore.)
The thing she has a harder time getting used to is a life without sex. Oh, Jackson is oh so happy to eat her out or hold her vibrator for her until she's very, very satisfied. But whenever she tries to touch him, he shies away, which kills her. He's so much more than the damn leg he doesn't have anymore. She didn't fall in love with his right leg for fuck's sake. But, genius or not, he doesn't seem able to understand that.
The day she comes home and finds him bleeding in the kitchen -- he hobbled there from the living room, if the bloodstains are anything to go on -- she goes pale and drops the takeout she got for them on the floor. (While they're at the hospital, JARVIS sends someone up to clean away the spilled lo mein and the bloodstains from the floor.)
She doesn't say a word about it until they come home from the hospital. Just holds herself upright, quiet and stoic through the whole thing, until they get back to the Tower. She texts Clint and her dad that they are home, that Jackson is okay -- no one tells Tony, he has enough to deal with down in Atlanta -- and then she goes to sit down heavily on the sofa. She can hear the wheels of his wheelchair squeaking against the bare floorboards (they had to tear out all the carpets before they moved in, for the wheelchair, you know, but that was okay, Morgan preferred hardwood floors anyway, and could never understand Tony Stark's love affair with wall-to-wall carpeting), but she doesn't look at him. She stares down at her cellphone, clutched so tightly in her hands it's leaving white and purple lines on her fingers. That's when the tears come. Not quiet or polite. But loud, startling and bone-deep. Between sobs she tells him in no uncertain terms that he can never, ever do that to her again. Ever.
Two weeks later, his new leg is fitted and finished and it seemed almost silly that she'd broken down over a little blood.
Morgan listens patiently as Jackson speaks, but she doesn't offer him any answers. When he asks about Clint, she puts a finger against his mouth and gives him the look that she learned from his mom. The one that clearly says you're in so much trouble right now. She shakes her head. "You," she informs him as she brushes a kiss against his temple, "taste like the bottom of a coffee pot at a twenty-four hour diner." She doesn't bother asking when he last ate or slept; she won't like the answer.
The cellphone keeps beeping from over by the cabinet. With a sigh, Morgan unwinds her arms from around him, and follows the insistent beeping. She can understand why he threw it at the wall. "I managed to rearrange my schedule so I could do everything in two days instead of four. Professor Palmer was very gracious and agreed to meet for coffee between classes." As soon as she snapped on her seatbelt in the fancy little private jet, the supple yellow leather smooth beneath her fingers, Morgan felt a kind of pressure against her chest, a deep unease. It grew worse the further away from him she got. So. She made some calls, sent some emails, and managed to cut the time away from him in half. Professor Palmer was the last hold-out.
"Everyone says hello," she adds, as she bends down and fishes the phone up from where it's fallen to the floor. She turns it over in her fingers. Not a scratch. Even the screen is intact. There's an outline of a blue bell ringing on the screen, beneath it are the words EAT SOMETHING! She swipes it away and the workshop returns to the quiet hush of the air-conditioning. She puts the cellphone on the corner of the workbench. There are water bottles in a little fridge with a glass door beneath one of the workbenches, she snags one of those and holds it out to him. She digs a pill-bottle (she keeps extras) out of her purse, shakes one out in her palm and holds that out to him too. Don't think she didn't notice the groan of pain earlier. "You're an asshole, you know."
no subject
Oh yeah, he’s in a world of trouble. He’s pretty sure he should start apologizing now. Maybe with flowers. She likes flowers. Or tickets to a convention. Or maybe he could fly her friends in. Or maybe he could grovel, sometimes she likes it when he grovels.
“I don’t taste that bad,” He says morosely, because okay maybe he does, it’s sort of gross now that he thinks about it because despite the whole not eating for two days thing and despite the whole not really having much to drink for two days thing, he also hasn’t applied a toothbrush or a gum or a mint to his mouth in about the same amount of time. Coffee is, apparently, a pretty poor substitute.
“Professor Palmer is never gracious,” He protests, because he had a statistics class with that woman and he’s pretty sure that she’s never had a gracious thought in her life. No, Professor Palmer spends her time thinking about how murder kittens and torture co-eds. She seemed to take Jackson’s success at her notoriously hard class without much studying as a personal insult and they haven’t gotten along much since then. “You totally bribed her with lesbian sex, didn’t you?” Okay, ouch no, that’s an image he really doesn’t want in his head, he’s really sorry he ever said it. He takes it back, forgive him.
The phone stops beeping and he lets out a pleased sigh—some of the tension slipping out of his shoulders. Apparently there’s something in a repeated beeping that makes him nervous these days (it’s the monitors from the hospital, he thinks, they’d go off and it meant his nursing staff was going to come in and he’d be in significant pain pretty soon) and he’s going to have to change his alarms. Dammit. He keeps finding these little gems, and he hates it. As if taking his leg wasn’t enough, he has to have all these hidden emotional bits of baggage—he supposes that’s what the damn shrink is for, but hey—
--he takes the water with a sheepish smile (yeah, he’s so busted) and twists off the cap, plucking the pill from her hand and swallowing it with an easy swig. He set alarms for those too, and he really wishes they worked instantly because now that he’s been broken out of his zombie mode his leg is killing him.
“Mom’s stable,” he says, in response to the everyone-says-hi, and in avoidance of the asshole bit, if just for a second. “Nothing new, but they’re going to try something at the end of the week that might—I don’t know. Help figure out what’s keeping her from waking up.”
See, this is why he’s an asshole, Morgan, because he’s a month and a half out from the hospital (nearly two and a half from the wreck) and his mom is still there, healthy as she can be with a few broken bones and bruises come and gone, but she’s not waking up and no one really knows why. It’s slowly killing his dad too, and he’s not going to end up an orphan thank you very much and he’s going to get some damn payback from whoever did this to them. The people that made him break his girlfriend’s heart, that took his leg—they can’t get away with it.
He sighs and takes another swig of the water, rolling it between his hands absently before he looks up at her, expression more pleading than he means it to be. “I know I am,” The words are soft, an honest admittance of guilt, “But I—It wasn’t an accident, Morgs. I know the therapist keeps telling me it was, and that I can’t carry guilt and that I maybe made up the—the SUVs because of the trauma and the need to find a villain in all of this, but—it wasn’t an accident and she’s still there and you’re not taking your statistics class and I don’t have a fucking leg and I can’t just pretend it’s all going to be okay knowing they’re out there. I can’t.” Jackson abandons the water to rub at his good leg, trying to work out the painful kink in the muscle where it’s been forced to pick up some of the slack as he learns to trust the prosthetic.
“I didn’t mean to let you down.”
Natsumi Hikari - Kamen Rider Decade - Open to Anyone
Right - Ressha Sentai ToQger - OTA
Kairi | Kingdom Hearts II | M/F
matt murdock | daredevil
ugly gross laughter well this will be a hot mess
But he sure as hell isn't dating a superhero.
Those sorts of things are in comic books, where you page through, sunken into the couch, and see the inked up man on the page save the day. Everyone lauds him. Everyone praises him. They write about him in newspapers and hold him high, above everyone else. Sometimes he comes from another planet. Sometimes he's suffered many a great loss and learns from vengeance that his path is of a more noble one instead of a purely selfish route. Sometimes, he's just born into it, born knowing he wants to save this small mote of dust in the vastness of this galaxy.
Connor always hated comic books. He guesses that's why he's just dating a guy who toes the line between the two. That murky sort of gray fog you get lost in and sometimes, when you're holding your bundles of morality like sticks in the woods, you drop them one by one along the way. You come back with nothing for kindling. You lose it all.
He's tired. Not of Matt, but of coming in second to a bright and burning city that is consuming itself slowly, steadily, surely. Matt is willing to throw as many life savers as it takes to save everyone. To save the tall buildings that crumble at their foundations. He thinks it's kind of beautiful, really. The dedication. But at the same time he comes in second and he hates it. He's tried not to. Really. It's in his nature, however, to loathe what takes the space before him when he ought to be there. You see, Connor's always been competitive, after all.
Tonight he's working with the old kit again, suturing up a wound on the floor with Matt laying stretched out on the couch with some dirty sheets that have seen better days. They're stained with old blood and Connor tries to get the stains out with his fingers and cold water each and every time, but they always leave themselves tattooed into the fabric. Always making a mess, he tells him, but there's that stupid smile and every time it makes Connor want to fucking punch him in the face.
He'd feel bad for punching a blind guy, but Matt can a) take a punch and b) probably fucking taste his fist before it makes it within three inches of his face. Or is it hear? Feel?
Fuck.
He's gotten used to the sound of the suturing, the flesh slowly pulling together under his gloved hands that are a little slick with blood. ]
Stop moving or I'll stitch it crooked and it'll look ugly-- [ Uglier. But Connor's never cared about the scars. All the same, he's got a finicky image to reproduce to cover up the fact that his breathing is coming down a little too hard. I don't want this city to take you away from me. It doesn't need you like I do. ]
LMAOASDJHF YES IT WILL BE.
Matt is no superhero (he's never thought of it that way), but he's not stupid -- he knows what Connor really thinks, how every night thins out his patience just a little more, and how Connor works so hard to hold his tongue despite the worry, the anger, and the frustration. Matt wishes a blanket apology can make this all go away, can smooth over what's happening with them -- but that, too, is a fairytale that belongs only in comic books.
This is what's happening now, the way he places Connor second to his beloved city as he risks his life night after night to save it from itself, to rescue the ones who couldn't help themselves. He doesn't think on the nobility of it -- he only acts, and does what he can to help make it better. He's not sure if it's working, but he has to try, anyway, and his relationship with Connor is suffering for it.
Matt is guilty for that, that he has to ask so much of the younger man, to ask him to give more than what a normal person can, and he's not sure if there's anything that he can do to make it better. He smells the blood, his own blood, and wonders if Connor's sick with it, the many ways he had to worry about him, to wonder if he was coming home that night, and if he was, just how bad things would be.
He reaches for him anyway, because he's a contrary son of a bitch, calloused fingers brushing over Connor's lips briefly, hen his cheek -- the man is worked up, anxious, and no matter how much he tries to hide his breathing, it's loud as bells in Matt's ears. ]
Connor. [ He says quietly. There are some things they learn not to talk about, there are some where they do. He's not sure which one this belongs to. ] What's wrong?
no subject
[ Connor feels the pad of his thumb against his lip, like it might be an apology, a proverbial stroke between the eyes of a beast, because hell if Connor doesn't feel beastly at this moment. Prickling underneath his skin and wishing he weren't. He's cutting, he's tying, he putting the needle and thread away to dress the wound just like Matt taught him, just like the internet told him when he'd looked up a few articles on do-it-yourself stitches and all that junk. ]
Take it easy tomorrow. And the day after because I'm not stitching that up again. Any more and your nipple's gonna go crooked.
[ Fingertips on his cheek, the side of his face, and he's left struck speechless, before he can sink his teeth into the fingers on his lips. The touch is tender on his cheekbone, just beneath his eye.
He knows he cares. That's something he doesn't have to think twice about.
Connor wonders, however, what it'd be like to be a city. Bright and burning, a beacon, everyone wants to flock to you and walk your streets and leave some mark upon you. They build you up just as soon as they decide to tear you down again. Becoming bigger, more beautiful with age, rising and falling.
Oh wait.
There's a tug of his lips at the realization.
I am a city, but a very small one, with a population of two--you and me. ]
no subject
[ Matt cracks, in a bid to lighten the tension. Also for no other reason than because it's Matt and he sometimes does things like these. Connor is curiously cold and warm at the same time, like he's trying to stay angry but steadily failing.
He cares about him, there's no question about it. Matt might do some terrible things in the name of his city, but right here, right now, there's nothing else but the both of them, the noise of the city outside reduced to background static. He hears the rise and fall of his breath, senses the way his muscles relax almost inexplicably, and he has to wonder at what he's thinking of.
The pain is a distant ache, and Matt only draws Connor closer, a hand gently curling over his throat before he kisses him briefly on the mouth. He's grateful for so many things. ] Thank you.
no subject
[ He's joking. Really.
Matt has a litany of scars all over his body. He traces them at night with his thumb, some raised, some deep, some white, some dark. He slides fingers over them and kisses them. Sometimes softly and sometimes hard and open-mouthed, like he wants to eat them up. It all depends on how he's feeling. This shithole's put as much of a stake in claim on Matt with it's criminals as Connor has with his mouth and hands. He feels like he can't keep up sometimes, not with the scars.
A hand on his neck, mouth pressing to his for the briefest moment.
Connor wants to duck in and say wait. ]
Sure.
[ He ducks in. ]
I want another. You owe me another.
no subject
[ If anyone can be drunk on another person, this is it. Connor is beautiful, intoxicating, and Matt knows he's drowning in him when he kisses him, meets that mouth and gives him what he wants. Two, three, four, five. Another. Another. He can kiss this plush, warm mouth forever, and he grasps him, tastes him and has him for himself.
Matt is greedy, and he won't wait even if Connor asks him to (maybe), and he wants to consume all of him. He knows all the times when Connor has to be patient, when he has to shelve his own needs because of the city; he knows how much Connor hates it, and he's grateful for all of it. Matt has to be fair to him, and he so often isn't. He so often asks just that little bit more of what Connor can comfortably give.
But they're still here, two souls in a city of their own, and his free hand moves to trail through Connor's hair, cradling the back of his head as the kisses intensify, desire and need coloring every press of his tongue against his. ]
no subject
He opens his mouth and pulls himself up a bit, fingers finding the curve of Matt's jaw, the longer bits of hair that signal Matt needing a trim.
Matt kisses him once and he thinks about the crooked stitches he'd done on his thigh the first time it came to this.
Twice and he thinks about when Matt held him close that one time, fucked him . Called him warm, tight. Hit that spot inside of him that made him arch--an animal in the jaws of a trap.
A third. A fourth. A fifth.
Connor's brow draws, his mouth soft and giving as he clings fast. Don't leave me. Don't you ever leave me. he's pushing into his mouth, domineering and hungry and eager to impress himself upon him. Don't forget this city, but don't forget me too. I need you too. He bites, hard, on the lush of his lower lip. I could hurt you. Just like this fucking city does every night.
Do you want that? ]
no subject
He hisses softly, aching -- the pain does things to him, and Connor is both his punishment and his pleasure. He takes everything spiteful that his lover sends his way, accepts it and takes it on because some twisted part of him likes it, enjoys the way he hurts him.
He wants it, of course he wants it, when he tastes blood in his mouth and he bears the brunt of Connor's sudden aggression. Give him pain, give him something he can hold on to when he goes out there again. As much as he enjoys fucking Connor, sliding deep inside where he's so tight, so warm; he takes pleasure in it when it's the other way around, when Connor seeks to hurt and please him all at the very same time.
Matt makes a soft, quiet noise, pressing closer. He can't promise him he won't leave, but he won't forget, and he will keep coming back as long as Connor wants him. ]
Connor -- [ The name comes out hushed, quiet like a prayer. ]
no subject
[ Connor brings it up first and foremost. The fresh stitches, the gauze he still needs to tape over it. He has to give him a shoulder, lay him down in bed on fresh sheets that he'll leave little bloody marks on in the morning. Connor won't care. He just wants to sleep in the crook of his arm. Wants to kiss him until the shape of his mouth is tattooed on every part of his body--his elbows, his knees, his stomach, his cock, his throat, his goddamn mouth. ]
But god I want to fuck the shit out of you.
[ He breathes it out, too fast, too soft, a whisper against his lips. ]
But you've gone and hurt yourself. Guess you'll just get a bedtime story instead, Murdock.
no subject
He leans forward then, leans against him, ignoring the pain that sparks against him before his hand curves at his cock, right between his thighs. He wants to be marked, to be reminded and pulled back from the twists and turns of his city; he belongs to Connor Walsh, too, and it is so often relegated to the back of his mind that he needs the reminder.
He needs him. ] Tell me a bedtime story, then fuck the shit out of me.
[ He's not letting him go, not then his thumb is stroking up and down the length of him through his trousers, quietly appreciative despite himself, adrenaline pooling into desire and lust. ]
no subject
He wets his lips a little, presses into that hand softly and lets his own trail down, tracing the line of him through his sweatpants now, the curve of him leading between his legs where he can squeeze.
A little pleasant. A little painful. He squeezes just enough to stay on that edge, to tell him You are mine without having to breathe a word about it. ]
Once upon a time, [ Connor starts, his voice low and dark. ] There was a man who thought he could take on the world. Just him. No one else.
[ A squeeze, almost loving-- ]
He did it night in--
[ A stroke-- ]
Night out--
[ A stroke--He squeezes, presses, kneads upward a little with motions that are befitting of Matt's more delicate parts but maintain a sense of roughness about it, like at the end of the day, Connor will use him, milk him dry, make him come trembling over his stomach, his hands, over and over again. ]
Karen Page | Daredevil | Female for Male