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


#batman#dc#dc comics#tim drake#bruce wayne#batfam#batfamily#dick grayson#dc fanart

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

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anybody wanna read some modern au wuk lamat/bakool ja ja snippet
BURNING AWAY THE PAST MILES RUSSELL x ADRIENNE SCAVO
Miles is hardly in the room when Adrienne already stands up, straight as an arrow. Thereās a wilderness behind her eyes, something akin to an animal trapped in a cage. Sheās 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 sheās been sitting in. She tucks her knife away.
āDid you get it?ā
He nods, closing the door after him. Theyāre 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 Adrienneās expectant look, he reaches to the back of his pants and from under his jacket retrieves a bottle thatād 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.
āLetās go.ā
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 kilometerās 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.
āI need your belt. Mineās trash.ā
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 heās once again reminded by how little sanctity is in him. Higher power holds no place in his world, and thus heās left with whatās on earth. Loss, sadness, uncertainty, the cruelty of man. And her.
āYou have to do it.ā 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. āI canāt do it without messing up the whole foot.ā
He lets his eyes scan her. Sheās 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.
āYouāre sure about this?ā
She nods, the way she doesnāt bite back somehow drilling in deeper than any of her words ever could. āHas to be done,ā 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.
āDonāt stop.ā
He lifts his eyes to her, immediately meeting her gaze -- sheās dead-set. This is a conversation theyāve had before. āDonāt stop even if I tell you toā and ādonāt stop until itās doneā were familiar to them both, from the dozens of hours spent stitching each other together; and thatās the ending she doesnāt need to elaborate now either. Miles nods, and turns around so heās 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 theyāve brought with them, her ankle over the opening.
He can hear the clatter of his beltās 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.Ā
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 heās causing her. He needs to remind himself itās what she wants; itās 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 couldāve happened. It needed to be done for them to make it out alive, and in a way, this was exactly the same. Maybe theyāre even now.Ā
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, sheās holding on to him, her nails digging into his middle in search of even some steadiness. Sheās trembling, but remains just as quiet throughout; only a few desperate, muffled sounds leaving her lips.
Itās the aftermath thatās worse. Miles fills the bucket again and again, pouring water on top of the open wound thatās 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 itās 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 Milesā skin as he fights against the fatigue. Adrienneās forehead is glistening, the belt no longer between her teeth but the indents of it still clear on the corners of her mouth, and thereās nothing heād like more than to ease the pain sheās in.
āWe need to get back. Itās getting dark.ā
She nods, but the distant look in her eyes gives way to the very real repercussions of what theyāve done. Itās the known price for a life of even little ease, but it doesnāt make it easier to handle. Sheāll 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 sheās 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 thereās 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.
āSit. I can do this,ā he says, his voice low.
Sheās 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 sheās thinking, sheās 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 whateverās 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 itās 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 doesnāt feel that heavy of a weight to handle. Miles focuses on keeping his pace slow and steady, making sure every step is calculated and wonāt lead them to topple over. Sheās 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.
āThank you.ā
Why do we keep coming back to this? Or maybe we're not anymore. Maybe it's only me.
k.
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 wasnāt 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 wasnāt 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 didnāt 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
ā½ ā½ ā½ ā½ ā½ ā½Ā ā½
When she asked Tony what would happen when she left for the Asgardian liaison duty and she needed him; a suit was decidedly notĀ 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, āDammit Tony, Iām a poli-sci major not an engineer.ā
That made him laugh, and he dumbed the science down just a bit for her, āEssentially, Shortcake, theyāre wifi-paired suits that allow one wearer to feel what the other wearer feels via external stimuli.ā
āSo, let me see if I get this⦠If you hug yourself, then I will feel like youāre hugging me as long as Iām also wearing a suit, and itās calibrated properly? Or will I feel like Iām hugging you?ā It was an important distinction, sheād thought.
āWell, itās programed for both, Darce. You just have to set it up for each session, based on what youāre interested in.ā 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. āAdditionally, you know I didnāt spend a full month on this for justĀ Internet Hugs. Optional casings for inanimate objects can be used to simulate intercourse.ā
āJesus Tony, you really put a lot of thought into this,ā though honestly that wasnāt a surprise to Darcy anymore. Ā In the last couple years sheād gotten used to Tonyās ability to fully immerse himself in a project, thinking of nearly every possible angle. He was a genius afterall. Her genius.
āI put a lot of thought into it for you, Pint Size,ā his eyes slid from hers to her lips, and back up. She was going to miss his kisses while she was gone.
āOkay, all thought processes aside. Have you tested it out for its full intendedĀ purpose, or just for business handshakes?ā 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 itās damn job. āI think we should test drive this invention of yours.ā
Nearly an hour later, a soft āwoahā was all Darcy could manage as her breath finally began to regulate; Tonyās slow caress of his own arm made the hair under her own suit raise in response, and she sighed contentedly.
āThat was something else, Tin-Man.ā Darcy peeled the suit from her flushed skin, and folded it up to place on the lab table next to her. āI just have one question for you.ā
āShoot, babe,ā her loverās eyes were still dark from his own release, as he eyed her.
āHowās this supposed to work in Asgard? Thereās no wifiā¦ā

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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 heās 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 doesnāt know it. that even though makotoās 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 couldnāt care less that anybody could be listening, whispered into the crook of haruās shoulder while they were tangled together in makotoās bed... he still feels like maybe all that hasnāt been enough, that words just arenāt enough, that maybe haru has heard him saying it every time but hasnāt been able to grasp makotoās full meaning.
so this time, even though it would be the perfect opportunity to, he doesnāt say it. instead, he leans in, slowly, and when he sees that haruās eyes have drifted closed, he presses his mouth to haruās.
and this.
haruās kisses are just the way he is. soft, slow, gentle, the smooth glide of his lips against makotoās 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 makotoās, 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 haruās face up with gentle fingers around his chin, and as haruās 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 heās in love with his best friend.
and of course haru knows.
and flying away. | drabble
ā¬Ā āŖ
He moves.Ā
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.Ā
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 whatās left over -- flurries of kicked up powder, grooves clawed into the ice, whispers of blades on a carving board echoing into silence.Ā