Marcus knows his role on his team: heâs 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 wasnât 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 Jakeâs chest, and he shivered against Marcusâs side. Marcus held him up, though, despite the pain lancing through him with each step â and despite the pain in his own ribs.
Jake had been beaten. Jake had been tortured. And Marcus had done nothing but watch.
He couldnât 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 â so, so much easier â to focus on Jake, to focus on the sound of the kidâs breathing. To monitor it for the sounds of a collapsing lung. To watch the kidâs complexion to see if he was getting paler â 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 wasnât sure why. Could be the gunshot wound in his calf. Could be⊠the other thing. He definitely wasnât going to be exploring around in his body to figure it out. Wouldnât be much farther.
Much farther to what?
He wasnât sure. He wouldnât make it much farther. Maybe thatâs 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 Marcusâs 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.
âMarcus,â came Jakeâs voice. âMarcus, youâre okay.â
A voice answered, sobbing and frantic. âJake, Jake.â
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 wasnât cold; he wasnât anything at all. Jake knelt on the carpet beside him. Jake was crying, too. Marcus shook his head.
âD-donât know whatâs, happening, Jake, fuckâŠâ He couldnât 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. âM-MarcusâŠâ He was on all fours, too, his hand right beside Marcusâs.
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.
âI wonât.â Another sob. A broken, horrible sob. âI wonât, Marcus.â
Marcus sank down, narrowly missed the puddle of bile. âF-fuck,â he gasped. âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry, IâŠâ His hand darted out. The idea of Jakeâs hands on him was pure horror, but⊠he had nearly just lost him. He had nearly just lost Jake â his Jake. His fingers wrapped tightly around Jakeâs wrist. The touch between them burned, but he felt he would die without it. âIâm sorry,â he sobbed. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry.â
âMarcusâŠâ There was a hiss, as Marcusâs grip tightened around the broken skin on Jakeâs wrist. He couldnât make himself let go. His hand was a vice, locked around Jakeâs 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 theyâd 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 Jakeâs wrist held tight in his palm, felt the blood thrumming beneath Jakeâs skin â alive and warm. Every iota of his focus locked onto his hand, and on the feeling of Jakeâs wrist gripped in it.
Jake laid down on the carpet beside him, drawing his knees into his chest, crying softly as Marcusâs 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 â 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?
The prompt for this was "Character A feels ashamed of ugly emotions; Character B accepts them" and this follows directly after "What makes you happy"
Hitoshi can't stop thinking about his talk with Katsuki. For obvious reasons of course, because fucking hell, he has a boyfriend now and isn't that equal parts exciting and terrifying, but also because it dragged up all the ugly feelings he has regarding Eri and their living situation.
Which is good, don't get him wrong. Aizawa and Yamada are amazing guardians and the house is clean and warm and most importantly safe and Hitoshi never had to want for anything there.
And yet he still hates Eri for taking away Aizawa's and Yamada's attention from him.
Hitoshi is aware that it's stupid and unfair and not even true in the first place because they are just as attentive towards him as they were before; they ask him questions, they are involved in his life, they take note of what goes on with him and yetâ
He can't help but to hate her anyway.
It's selfish and childish and horrible and probably tells a lot about him as a person but Hitoshi can't help it.
It feels as if he had a family for a grand total of thirty days and now he has to share thatâagainâlike he so often had to share things before.
And his talk with Katsuki makes him think that maybe he just needs to say it, even just once. The talk with Katsuki didn't necessarily make him feel better because that fear still hangs over him but at least he knows where Katsuki stands now and that he wants this just as much as Hitoshi does.
Which isâif nothing elseâat least reassuring.
And if Hitoshi is honest, there's this lingering, nagging thought that maybe Aizawa and Yamada took Eri in because they didn't want to care for him, for just him and it's eating him up.
Hearing that this fear is the truth might just break him but at least then he'll know and that simply has to be better than this stupid, useless hate inside of him.
If he hears he's right, then at least he'll have a reason to hate her.
So with his mind made up and with Katsuki's lingering warmth still clinging to his side, he enters the living-room, determined to get this talk over with.
Aizawa and Yamada are on the couch, the TV running in the background, though neither of them are really watching. Yamada is smiling at something on his phone and Aizawa has his eyes closed so clearly it's not as if Hitoshi is interrupting something important and so he simply plops himself down on the coffee table in front of the couch, instantly snatching their attention.
"What's going on, kiddo?" Yamada asks, immediately pocketing his phone and Aizawa blearily blinks his eyes open.
"I have to talk to you," Hitoshi says, suddenly shaky and afraid but he powers through because he needs this out there.
And should they give him away because of this then so be it, even though the thought makes him sick to his stomach.
"About what?" Aizawa wants to know and sits up, clearly already more awake than a few seconds ago.
"Eri."
"What about Eri?" Yamada frowns and Hitoshi would like to accuse him of being more alert now that it's about her but his face barely changed and he's just as concentrated on Hitoshi as he was before.
"I hate her," he says without preamble, because it's true and because it makes him feel like shit and it's more than apparent that he's nothing more than a bad personâa villain, reallyâand it's time Aizawa and Yamada know the truth, too.
There's a beat of silence before they nod as if that makes perfect sense and then Aizawa asks "Why do you hate her?"
Hitoshi stares incredulously at him before he scoffs.
"Can't I just hate her for no reason?"
"No, kiddo, you can't," Yamada gives back. "You can dislike someone for no reason, or even for petty reasons, but hating someone? That's personal and that's deep and it only happens for a reason. And we'd like to know."
"Why? It's not going to change anything," Hitoshi hisses out, wringing his hands in his lap and he wonders how they can still bear to look him in the eyes after he admitted to hating the sweetest child the world has ever seen.
"It's not," Aizawa agrees, "but we're not trying to change your mind. Right now, we're just trying to understand where your hate comes from."
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters! You matter to us and we want to understand you!" Yamada seems earnest in his wish to understand how Hitoshi became such a horrible, vile person and seeing how the admittance did nothing for him yet, maybe he does have to explain to make them see that he's nothing more than dirt.
"I got thirty days here before you brought her home," he says and while the confusion is very obvious on Yamada's face, Aizawa clicks his tongue in understanding.
"Before you had to share again," he infers and Hitoshi nods, because yeah.
Before he had to share again. Before he had to share something that was meant to be his alone and yet here they are.
"We asked you if you're alright with us taking her in," Yamada says, almost accusingly and Hitoshi scoffs.
"Yeah, right. And who ever cared about what I want? I could have said I don't want her here and then you would have kicked me out."
"We wouldn't have," Aizawa tells him, sure and steady and yeah, maybe Hitoshi knows that now, or at least hopes that he's telling the truth but back then?
No chance in hell.
"Did you take her in so you wouldnât have to deal with me anymore? So you could divert your attention to someone else?" he bluntly asks, that thought eating away at his mind night after night and to their credit, their shock seems genuine.
"Of course not, kiddo, we never once thought that! Have we made you feel like that? As if we don't pay enough attention to you?"
And that's the loaded question, isn't it? Because the truthful answer is no, they didn't. They care just as much for Hitoshi now as they did before and he gets the same amount of attention from them. One of them always has time for him if he wants something and they are invested in his life like no one else ever has been before.
And still he hates Eri.
"No. No, you don't make me feel like that," he admits and now even Aizawa frowns at him.
"Then what is the problem?"
"The problem is that I had this all for my own and now I have to share it and I hate her for it!" He doesn't know how else to explain it, how to put into word the all-consuming ugly feeling inside of his chest whenever he thinks too long about her, looks at her for too long and maybe it's better that he can't.
Maybe he doesn't need to make himself more unlikeable than he already is.
"Ooookay?" Yamada is clearly unsure how to proceed here, if his helpless look at Aizawa is anything to go by.
"You have never, not once, given any indication of that. You're a good brother to her and a good son andâ"
"Don't call me that," Hitoshi interrupts Aizawa. "I don't want to be a brother, I never have! For once in my goddamn life I wanted something for myself!"
He almost chokes on all those ugly feelings crawling up his throat but he has to tell them the truth, he has to let them know what kind of horrible person he is because otherwise he'll always wonder and fear and hope that maybe he'll get accepted anyway, even though he doesn't deserve it.
"Oh, baby," Yamada cries out and reaches out to pull Hitoshi into his arms.
He didn't think he would cry, was prepared to bite any and all tears back but now it all comes bursting out and they slide burning hot down his cheeks.
"Your feelings are valid, kid," Aizawa reassuringly tells him as he cards his fingers through Hitoshi's hair. "You're allowed to feel that way."
"But they make me a bad person," Hitoshi cries out because they do, they make him something horrible, hateful, something jealous and greedy and he hates himself for that most of all.
"They don't, kiddo, they truly don't," Yamada rambles, stroking up and down his back. "Because not once, not ever have you acted on them. You're sweet to Eri, you're good to her and not once have you shown any sign of hating her. That makes you a good person, because your feelings don't define who you are or what you are but what you do with them does. And you decided to not show her that hate."
"Hitoshi, it's okay if you don't want to be her brother and it's okay if you wanted to be an only child and have us all to yourself, that is valid. It's valid for everyone but especially for someone with your history and background."
It only makes Hitoshi cry harder because how dare they be so goddamn understanding and despite his tears and wails they don't berate him even once. They simply hold him as if that is a normal thing to do after someone admits to hating a literal child and yet they do.
"I'm sorry," Hitoshi gets out once his sobs have died down. "Please, don't give me back."
Because for all that he hates that he has to share this family now, he thinks he would hate it more if they sent him away.
"We're not giving you back, Hitoshi, that's not going to happen," comes Aizawa's immediate response. "You're our son and there is no going back on that."
He says it with utmost surety as if not even Hitoshi's confession could change that and it only brings out new tears, though this time they slide silently down Hitoshi's face.
"And you don't have to be sorry," Yamada mutters. "It's okay that you feel that way. We're just grateful that you told us."
"How can you be grateful for that?" Hitoshi chokes out and Yamada presses a kiss to his head.
"Because it means you trust us enough to be honest with us and you're comfortable enough to talk about things that matter to you."
"But I shouldn't hate her."
"Maybe," Aizawa gives back. "Maybe you shouldn't and maybe you should have been allowed to have something for yourself and maybe we should have talked about this more but we're here and the situation is as it is now. There's no changing that. So it's okay for you to hate her, and it's okay for us to feel regret over not talking this over extensively enough with you and it's okay for her to be happy here. Those are all valid things."
"You don't think I'm a horrible person for hating her?" Hitoshi quietly asks and Yamada sighs.
"Kiddo, I already said it: you're not a horrible person because never, not once, have you let her feel that hate. You're not mean to her. You're not bullying her. You haven't hurt her in any way and that makes you a good person."
"And now that we know, maybe we can do a few things to make it easier for you. We can't change our situation anymore, because we are her legal guardians, but Mandalay has asked repeatedly if Eri can stay the weekend, and maybe that is something we should do more often."
"You can't kick her out!"
"Oh, sweetheart, see? You're so good," Yamada whispers as he presses a kiss to his forehead.
"We're not kicking her out. It would be good for Eri to be around a woman and a kid her age and it would be her decision, too. And it's not permanent; it's not even for an entire week, at least not during the school year. But it would allow her to stretch her wings and it would allow you to have more time with us."
"Or do you think you'll hate her more when she comes back?"
It sounds like a genuine question, not as if they are baiting him for an answer and Hitoshi shrugs awkwardly.
"I don't know," he admits because he has no idea if that is going to make it worse or not and Aizawa pats his head for it.
"Then we'll figure it out. Thank you for telling us, kid."
"How can you justâaccept all of this?" Hitoshi blurts out because how are they so unbothered by everything he said but he's only crushed in a hug again.
"Because those are your feelings and we're just happy you shared them with us."
It should sound like a bullshit answer but it's so earnest it brings tears to his eyes yet again and he buries his face in Yamada's shoulder.
"I'm seeing Katsuki," he mumbles into the fabric, because he thinks that's also something he should share and if they are in the process of dragging out all these feelings then that's definitely something that should be out there, too.
It earns him a bonk to the head and when he picks his face out of Yamada's shoulder to glare at Aizawa for it, he's met with a gentle smile.
"A loud blonde, really? Now, that is something we have to talk about."
"Tell us everything," Yamada excitedly gets out and despite the tear tracks on his face, Hitoshi blushes.
Well, maybe it's okay to be honest about his feelings. At least with the right people.
"Old as I am, I know nothing. Why people in this world hate what is not them. Why they fear all they donât 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?"
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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 Spidermanâyour Spiderman.Â
At least, you liked to think he was yours.Â
Knowing my luck, the prickâs 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 itâno, you loved it. Fucking with the man whoâd always get to fuck you back came to be a part of life you relished.Â
But now you were alone. Left by yourself to deal with lumbering lizards and giggling goblins while wondering how the fuck youâd ended up as a hero when you were anything but. Even the police couldnât believe the switch, which caused some problems, and led to less-sexy chases that ended with you getting away no problem.Â
I wish I had problems. Just one problem, though: Spiderman.Â
You tossed aside your shiny leathers and collapsed into your bed. Heâd 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 neckâor maybe his handsome faceâwell, youâd never seen his face, but you had your guesses.Â
Your chest twinged the slightest bit, somewhere between where your greed and feelings intertwined.
Ugh. You missed him.Â
â
âWho's that?â 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.Â
Miguel frowned. âNo one.â But he didn't tuck your image nor the article away.Â
âHuh, looks like Black Cat. A 2099 Black Cat? Never thought I'd see the day.â Peter hummed and bounced a sleepy Mayday in his arms. âHe up to no good?âÂ
âHe's up to good,â Miguel bit out. âThat's the problem. He doesn't do good.âÂ
âHe's sort of an anti-hero these days,â Lyla cut in, blinking into existence on Peter's shoulder like the devil she was. âAll thanks to Spiderman's influenceââÂ
âLyla,â Miguel warned (begged?).Â
â--aaand their sweet, cute budding romance,â she finished with a dreamy sigh. âDoesn't it just melt your heart?âÂ
â
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.Â
âSo strong,â you cooed, âbut not strong enough to resist, hm?â You sighed and worked him through the fabric with one hand. âShouldnât you be stopping the big bad from manhandling you like this, Spidey?â
âHardly consider you the big bad,â he scoffed back. Spiderman tilted his head back with a choked groan whent hose diamond-tipped clawed gloves dug into his thighs. âMierda, youââ
âOh?â You grinned, so cheshire, so in-theme with your persona. âYou can stop me any time, no?âÂ
He couldâve. But he didnât.Â
â
âA daughter,â you murmured. The flickering imagesâmemories, maybe?âwere 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 smileâ
Spidey's smile. That was beyond obvious. The mountainous shoulders, the tawny skin, those handsâ they belonged to him. Your beast. Your nemesis and lover, the man you hadnât seen for far too longâ
âBecause you've been off taking care of a kid?â Your fingers, gentle, feather-light, ghosted across that foreign memory. âWhy wouldnât you tell me?â Whoâs your baby mama?
The lab lights stilted and jittered. You snapped from your trance and made for the window youâd come in through, not bothering to see what was happening with your system jammersâyou knew Lyla, she knew you, and that made the whole breaking-into-Spidermanâs-base thing more tricky and risky. Your jammer wasnât 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 youâd need a handful of minutes to see your spider, anyway.
But he wasnât there. Maybe he was off with his little girl.Â
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.Â
The broad, tiny silhouette standing in that abandoned window gave you much more to think about.Â
--
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