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elfwoodfae · 3 years

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Writing’s On The Wall

Quantum Of Solace (Chapter-4)

Warnings: Masturbation.

Author’s note: I loved this chapter, I enjoyed writing it, let me know what you think. Also I made the moodboard from editing pics to putting it together, if you want to use it or share it just tag me!

Quantum Of Solace.

The light of the screen illuminates your face, the room around you is dark, cold, giving the feeling of being locked up in a nightmare. A single tear rolls down your face as Christina’s words echos through your mind, is as if he was a completely different man. Your fingers move to the rewind button once again, playing the scene once more; the screen shows Harrison, looking at the camera, sitting in his chair before he abruptly gets up, walking to a board, talking about how he managed to keep a diary, symbols you had never seen are written on the board, he seems euphoric, as if this breakthrough was his salvation.

Ripping the drive your had found a few minutes earlier off the computer, when you were rummaging through his things, you walk over to the kitchen, looking for the phone as thunder roars over the skylight, lighting illuminating the room. Your finger begging to dial, hands shaking and your breathing becomes erratic as panic settles on you. She had been right, something was definitely very wrong with this man, he was pretending to be paraplegic.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” His voice echos through the house, making you turn your head around, eyes going wide as you see him sitting in front of you, you hadn’t even heard him coming in.

“You are faking it!” Comes your accusation, your eyes are glossy and your hands shaky.

“I’m calling the police, you…” you point at him with your phone.

“You are not going to get away with this, you are lying to everyone, I knew there was something off with you.” You finish, finger about to dial when movement catches the corner of your eye.

Gripping the armrest of his chair he gets up, taking his glasses off and throwing them on the chair, the darkness around you both only briefly interrupted by lightning falling from the sky, illuminating his silhouette briefly.

“I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this.” He half whispers tilting his head slightly to the side, looking almost pained to having to do whatever he will do next, before taking a step towards you, the realization of how tall he is hits you, leaving you breathless as you take a step back, your hand quickly opening a drawer and taking a knife in your hand, lifting it in his direction.

“Stay right there!” Your voice tries to sound confident, strong, but the shakiness and fear in it gives away how you really feel. He knows you are terrified, he knows he has the upper hand, he has you cornered at his mercy.

“How ironic, being threatened with a knife.” He smirks, moving closer in your direction, he can see the way your hand shakes, making the grip unsteady.

“Back off, I’m calling the police,” your finger is about to graze the dial button when a storm hits you, suddenly the phone is long gone and Harrison is behind you, his body pressed firmly to your back as he pushes you against the counter, his much bigger hand covering the hand holding the knife as he squeezes yours, erupting a scream off your lips at the pain he is inflicting trying to get you to drop the knife.

Throwing all the strength you have into your back you try to push him off of you, failing miserably, his body barely giving into your attempt, panic is settling fast over you, your mind racing for a way out and suddenly the only idea you can come up with is to try and somehow kick him in the balls. But the moment your feet start to move is as if he had seen it in slow motion, he managed to let go of your other hand before grabbing your feet, pulling you and throwing you off balance, turning you around, facing him as his hand grips your face.

“You were so close of making it out of here, but you had to go and meddle into things.” He half growls, a flicker of red illuminating his face briefly, his hand moves back, starting to vibrate in the hair as he purses his lips, his eyes turning a bright shade of red.

Realization dawns on you, he is one of them, one of those meta-humans going about, he is angry, you have angered him and now he most likely will kill you. Tears prickle your eyes and your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Let me go!” You try, struggling with him, trying to break free but his hold on your face only tightens.

His hand slaps down on the counter behind you, rattling everything on it as a wiring noise fills your ears. His face moves closer to yours, the proximity of his body making you push yourself backwards into the kitchen island, making it dig painfully against your spine.

“Your chance to go is long gone,” he whispers.

“You are now stuck here, with me, and had you been more careful we could had both gone our ways and I would be free of your impertinence.” He angrily states, half whispering, half yelling on your face.

“Listen here, and listen carefully,” he squeezed your jaw harder, trying to make his point across.

“You will stay here until I have reached my goal, and you better behave because trust me,” he half chucked, watching the way your lips purse and your pulse quickens in fear.

“I can make you wish I had kill you, and don’t think for a moment I won’t know if you try anything. Don’t think you can outsmart me.” He says, before letting go of your face and moving out of your space, not before grabbing the phone out of your reach.

His eyes follow your form, seeing you run down the hall, tripping on your own feet as you try to go faster inside your room. Once he hears the door close, a sigh leaves his mouth, his hands running through his hair, frustration radiating off of him. This was a less than ideal situation, now he is stuck with you, stuck with your insufferable presence. The only gain he has on this is the ability to finally walk in his house, without having to hide, but the sole thought of having to share his space with you for longer than anticipated is enough to put him in a bad mood again.

The rest of the night Eobard threads through the house, his mind is in overdrive, thinking of any possible scenario, any possibilities where he would need to get rid of you. Your door remains locked through the night, and sometime after midnight he decides to retire to his own room, he needs to shower, to relax and take in as much calmness as he can given the circumstances. He sleeps on edge, constantly waking up, ready to speed if you as so much try anything, but you don’t, and he doesn’t see you leave your room when he leaves the next day. What he does see is you trying to leave, only to realize the door is locked, he sees you trying to connect with someone through the computer; he speeds to the house, catching you, scaring you as a red torment consumes you, he thanks Gideon for being able to see everything that goes on in the house through the cameras back at the lab, and he makes it clear he in not a patient man despite what it may look like on the outside, warning you for the last time.

The next couple of days pass by in haze, he sees you, wandering around the house once he is gone, you barely talk, barely eat, but he sees you looking into any possible way to leave. His pride hurts at the fact that he is aware he is not an insufferable man, he doesn’t want you with him, but he needs to ensure his plan. Perhaps a truce is in order but he won’t take the first step, too aware of how stubborn he can be. Thankfully back at the labs no one has brought you up anymore, everyone believing you are staying extra time for work, he doesn’t want to say you have left, he knows what the stakes are, keeping the lie simple is easier than over complicating it.

Walking through the door, late in the afternoon, he gets up from the chair, stretching his back, the front of his shirt riding up a little. He sets a pace, making his way to the kitchen only to stop mid way through. There on the middle of the room he notices you, looking at him, eyes cautious, a glass of wine in your hand. He raises his eyebrow as he looks at you and back at the glass.

“If you want to torture me here I may as well make the best of it.” You say, the glass almost overflowing, the comment making him snort.

“Trust me, keeping you here and torturing you are the last things on my mind.” He adds, continuing his stance to the decanter and grabbing a drink for himself.

“Then why won’t you let me go!” You insist, tire of trying to leave this place.

“Because I have worked too hard and too much for this, and you won’t ruin me, you won’t ruin it, have you not meddle into things you would be on your way by now.” He is getting mad, agitating himself.

Your lips purse as you whip around, successfully bumping your shoulder against his as you walk past him, putting extra effort into pushing him.

“Such a brat.” You hear him say, making you turn around and fist your hands at you side before huffing and stomping your feet in frustration.

“You are only adding to my point.” He teases you, pointing at you with his glass.

“Tess would be so disappointed in you!” You try to jab at his heart but his response only confuses you more.

“I wish I could say I care, but sadly I never knew her.” The sarcasm drips from his words, he notices how confusion takes over your features.

“My name is Eobard, Eobard Thawne. I’m not Harrison Wells, I’m not who you think I am.” He says, hand on his hips as he leans on the counter.

“What? How, how can you be someone you…” you trail off, your mind feels like a labyrinth of thoughts and questions.

“All you need to know is that I’m not Harrison Wells, but everyone needs to believe I am.” He says, pointing around you to an imaginary audience before taking the whole decanter and making his way to his own room.

The door shuts behind him, he releases a breath as he closes his eyes. This is becoming harder than he imagined, every interaction you share is fill with sarcasm or hate, he rejoices on teasing you, but he wishes he could simply void his mind of any thoughts regarding you. Sighting he makes his way to the bathroom, removing his jacket halfway through the room, followed by his long sleeve shirt as he passes in front of the floor length mirror, reflecting his body, his broad shoulders accompanied by ripped arms that seem to go on for miles; he stops, removing his pants, the curve of his ass is prominent and the muscles of his abdomen taunt, adorned by a trail of hair going all the way down his belly button, passing by the middle of a v line, reflecting a river one may desire to swim in.

Once in the bathroom he closes the door, scratching his neck, turning on the water on the all glass shower before going in. He removes the last piece of clothing before going under the stream of water. The hotness of it immediately reddens his skin, stealing a sight out of his mouth, the glass begins to fog around him and the memory of your body behind the glass door comes back to his mind. He wets his hair, hoping it will clear him of you but once his eyes close the only image behind them is the curve of your breast. The shape of your body, the color of your skin and that god forsaken hand running up your leg, running higher and higher and he feels his breath catching just imagining where it was heading to.

He feels uncomfortable, turning the water colder doesn’t seem to alleviate his problem and honestly he hates cold water. Regulating it once more he decides to approach this the only way he can, giving into a comfort he rarely indulges into. Taking a deep breath his hand moves to grasp himself, giving it a soft stroke, testing the waters before leaning his hand against the opposite wall for support. He moves his hand faster, the muscles on his abdomen contracting with every stroke of his hand, the veins on his neck beginning to show and his balls tightening, he feels his release close and he indulges in the memory of your perfume, what it would feel like to run his nose over the curve of your neck, down your shoulder, what it would feel like if it was his hand running against your leg, caressing your skin and moving higher to reach that place he so desperately feels the need to be in. With a sudden gasp his orgasm hits him, a grunt escaping him as his semen hits the floor, his hand still working to get him off completely. Once he is spent he can finally relax, letting out a breath as he throws his head back, allowing the water to run down his face and neck, washing away the anger he suddenly feels at not being able to control his own body, he hates you and he hates the reaction you bring out of him.

He looks at the clock, is sometime after 8:30 pm, his stomach rumbles and he considers if ordering Big Belly Burger is the best option. He runs the risk of someone seeing you but at the same time he hates the hassle it would create for him to go out on the wheelchair again to get the food himself. He decides on the later, grabbing the arm of the chair and speeding himself and the chair to get the food, only to be back in less than 10 minutes with bags in hand. He hates you but he can’t starve you, he is not that cruel. Walking to your room and knocking on the door, feeling himself growing annoyed when you take more than two seconds to open.

“What do you want?” Comes your response, the lack of manners you posses making a scowl appear on his face.

“You could be more grateful, I could let you starve you insufferable woman.” He says, annoyed already and regretting his decision of bringing you food.

“You are an insufferable man and I despise you, what kind of name is even Eobard, didn’t your parents love you?” That accusation jabs at his heart, opening a wound long forgotten and he hates how fucking spot on you have hit him.

Slamming the food down onto the floor with more force than necessary he speeds away, refusing to be there when you open the door, refusing to allow you to see how much it had affected him the pain the memory of his childhood brings him. Damn you and damn his kindness, you don’t deserve any of it.

You hear the bag slamming down, the quiet noise the air makes around you, he is gone, suddenly your words come back to you, he didn’t give you any sarcastic response, he didn’t even try to, maybe his childhood was a touchy subject you had inadvertently touched. Swinging your legs off the bed you run to the door, opening it faster than you intended to, only to find the bag of food in your step.

“Harrison” you call out before remembering that that’s not his name. Cursing lowly when silence greets you, guilt filling you as you realize that he was trying to be kind and you threw his efforts at his face.

“Hey come on, I didn’t mean it like that.” You try again, but there’s no response, he is gone.

Closing the door back you move to the bed, sitting down and opening the bag, he even added fries for you, and the gesture softens you a little and only adds to the guilt. He didn’t ask for you to be here the same way you didn’t ask to be here. He is having to put up with someone coming and slamming everything around for him. Even after all the unanswered questions you have it still comes as a shock that you don’t really know this man, he is a complete stranger who you are sure hates this more than you. Oblivious to you, in the other end of his house, his food lays untouched, his hands tangled in his hair. He has lost his appetite and the need to create chaos fills him, the only way he knows how to cope, how to adapt. Adjusting the ring on his finger he moves away from the bed, pulling his suit with a flick of his hand before phasing through it. A nightmare in yellow speeding out of the house, ready to destroy, ready to hurt the same way he has been hurt over and over again. He wants to destroy, he wants to hurt and he hates that the only thing it took for a storm to unleash was you.

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littlefreya · 4 years

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The Way to Hell - Part 9

MANY Thanks to @raspberrydreamclouds who designed this cover as a gift! ☝

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Ethan Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man alive. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped, unaware of the trained assassin who is sent to bring him down.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Lacey)

Word count: 8.3k

Warnings: Dark themes, smut, fluff and angst. Unprotected sex, hints of stalking, violence, swearing, sexual mentions, slight gore, choking, death.

A/N: Okay, this chapter is long, it was hard to write, you guys may never speak to me again after this. So I’ll just post it now, and turn off my phone and hide beneath the blanket with excessive anxiety. Thanks @agniavateira for editing my work and being my muse.💖

As always, comments and feedback are more than welcome 💖💕

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Title: Lacey

~*~

Have you paid the ferryman?

~*~

The cool light of fluorescent doesn’t do the honeyed gold of her hair justice.

Doe eyes meet him, a striking green. Pure, like freshly-cut grass on a spring morning. The navy-coloured suit she wears counters the sunny shade of her slightly curly hair. She sports mid-length tassels, cut neatly just above her shoulders. She looks like she had it done this morning by the looks of it .

“Hartmann, Lacey.”

Sitting at his desk with a pen pressed to his lips, the CIA agent observes her while ignoring the small hand in front of him. A tall, fit man in his late 20’s, face clean-shaven, hair like pure chocolate, combed neatly to the side but for a large rogue curl that falls on his brow. He collects it between his fingers and attempts to tuck it back in place.

“I don’t do partners, sweetcheeks.” he retorts after a short glance and turns away from the young agent, returning to his computer to browse a file he was just reading before she interrupted him.

An amused sigh passes through her plump lips as she shakes her head with sheer disbelief. “Do you have it any more cliche than that?”

“I might, depending how long you are going to loom over there, princess.” August shoots back and slightly adjusts the tie around his shirt collar, not bothering to face the young woman again. It’s obvious what this is: a muzzler, or rather a babysitter in the form of a really good-looking girl.

He fights the temptation to take another gander at the way her hair frames the apples of her rosy cheeks.

“But since you’re already here, how about you fulfil your purpose in life and get me a cup of coffee? Double espresso, no sugar.”

August shoots her a look, observing her immediate reaction. Lacey’s green eyes widen, her mouth slightly opens. She rubs her knuckle between the soft pads of her fingers while thinking of what could be a suitable response to his disrespectful request.

I guess Erica didn’t bother prepping her.

Sloane, the heartless lioness. She leered at him with that sour look on her face since the day he stepped into the building. He swears the woman must have slices of lemons hidden in her panties. There is not even a drop of respect in those dark eyes whenever he sits in her office. Nor does she harbour any trust in his performance on the field.

It all just worsened thanks to Ukraine.

The explosion in the old Soviet power plant killed dozens of innocent lives at the cost of one. Though that man was responsible for the death of thousands, if not more.

If you want to tear down a building, you better use a fucking hammer.

That cunt should thank him and promote him.

“Nothing but daddy’s boy.” That’s what she sees in him. He might as well be another dead CIA agent like his father, then. Erased from memory, his great achievements discredited. At least he doesn’t have a family to throw to the dogs so they can rip them to shreds.

Oh Sloane, if only you knew half of the shit that goes beneath that stuck-up nose of yours.

Releasing another deep sigh, Lacey slumps to the seat in front of him, crossing her long legs together and leaning back in her chair while grabbing the folder on her desk. Her lips clamp together tightly, trying to hide the saltiness on her face. Long lashes curtain her eyes which pretend to read through the file. August rolls his eyes with annoyance, trying to ignore her existence and continue working his way through a case he’s been reading before she interrupted him.

Yet every now and then his storm-touched eyes peer at the naive-looking woman, observing her and trying to determine how long will she last.

~*~

Is this hell?

~*~

That dusting of freckles on her nose and the fresh shimmer in her eyes give out much softness, yet she is anything but weak. Lacey Hartmann is a shield-maiden of some sort. For 2 months she withstood August’s “boot camp,” meaning she appeared unaffected by his cold demeanour.

At times there is even a hint of a smile hiding beneath that peach shade lipstick when August challenges her with an obscene dark joke. A hint of amusement tints the green of her irises, but she never dares to admit it.

Too coy, almost chaste, yet iron-willed.

August finds her behaviour borderline masochistic as he continues to prize her with nothing but arctic affection. Even so, she always listens when he speaks, her eyes open with pure intent, a fertile green field in her glance.

Something spikes at the marrow of his bones, intrigue or so. Trivial thoughts find themselves latching into the tunnels of his complicated mind. His CIA brain begins to note her morning routine. A glacial stare registers the vanilla latte she drinks almost religiously every morning at 9, with two teaspoons of sugar. Lacey has a sweet tooth, it seems. She never misses dessert at the cantine and he once caught her bending the rules and sneaking candies back from their previous mission at eastern Europe.

He also noticed how when she is nervous, she twirls a finger in her hair with agitation and chews her plump lips.

Blue is another point of interest. The colour seems to be dominant in her attire and accessories for some cryptic reason, though. not obsessively. She wears black or grey but then ties a silk scarf the shade of the sky around her delicate throat. When she is having a bad hair day, it’s the red pencil suit that draws attention to her body instead. The combination is horrifying when she sits in front of him holding her favourite mug which is glittery cerulean.

He begins to wonder about her life outside of the headquarters. Her file rested in his apartment for weeks yet only recently he found himself bored enough to peek inside and read about her personal life. No husband is listed under her marital state, yet he wonders if a woman as attractive as Lacey has a man waiting for her at home. Someone kind, he imagines, and pitiful. She looks like a woman lacking a strong man in her life.

“Are you going to finish that?”

August’s brows furrow as she cuts into his adventurous trails of thought. His glassy eyes pierce at her as she sits in front of him at the cantine, sharing a lunch table. He hardly speaks during lunch anyway, and only listens to her musings with the usual sulk on his face.

Lacey appears slightly frightened when she sees his menacing expression, yet her fright melts into a soft blush and a coy grin, in an attempt to pacify him. He nudges the plate with a slice of chocolate cake in her direction.

“No, go ahead.” he watches as she digs her fork into it with excitement, her eyes shutting with near orgasmic pleasure as the chocolate melts on her tongue.

His mind continues to wander, offering him possible imaginary visions of her personal life while she mumbles something in the background about the cake being outrageous.

Her home address would be in that file too.

It’s nothing but idle curiosity, after all.

~*~

You don’t believe in hell.

~*~

It’s been over 6 months of enduring her by his side. August imagined she’d run off crying to Sloane 2 days after being forced into this partnership, but she keeps a vow of secrecy, even when he bends a guideline or two during missions or violates nearly every HR policy. At first, she would warn him about his behaviour, but now she just calls it “The Walker Way”.

It almost feels like he has a partner in crime.

They arrived in Sicily a night ago, their mission is to locate and capture a millionaire-turned-terrorist and bring him in for questioning. It’s a high profile target, which means the CIA spared no expense providing them with the finest hotel suites and fancy attire to attend a gallery opening. An informant suggested the suspect might be doing his bidding at the same mansion.

Lacey meets August at the hotel’s main parking lot, wearing a cornflower blue mermaid-cut gown. Threads of silver adorn the outlines of her cleavage and little pieces of sparkling glitter draw his attention to her bust. He doesn’t attempt to hide the way his eyes fixate on her breasts. Beaming at the pale pink fat of her bosom before his gaze finally wanders to meet her face, giving her his regular cocky stance.

Is she wearing a bra underneath?

“You look handsome,” Lacey compliments, swallowing a complaint about the obvious way he objectified her. “We look as if we’ve matched colours.” The royal blue three-piece suit brings out the ocean in his eyes and she allows herself to dwell in the calm water as she glances back, offering him a smile.

Stoic, he ignores her praises, studying her face quietly. The shade on her lips is not the usual one; it’s darker, making her look more vamping. He doesn’t like it, her natural appearance is sweet and supple, and this colour clashes with her complexion and the concept of her in his mind.

The unnerving silence between them greatly challenges her. The need to crack the autumn evening air with some sort of dialogue pans in her chest.

“Are you…” Lacey begins speaking when her eyes squint at the region of his mouth. “...growing a moustache?” Bold fingers reach up, ghosting over his upper lip where a few days’ stubble seems to grow longer than the rest on his jaw. August cocks his eyebrow as the tips of her fingers almost touch his mouth. She notices his disapproval and pulls her hand away apologetically.

“For the mission, I thought it might make me look older.”

An amused smile cracks on her face, her cheeks rounding up to perfect blushing circles. “The real Mrs. Walker would be mortified.”

August scoffs, rolling his eyes at the notion before turning away to watch the cars that pass by. His hand rests on his chest, straightening the vest underneath his suit and stretches the muscles of his back. A timid-blowing zephyr caresses his face; his Adam apple rises and drops dryly in his throat.

“Is there a…”

“Oh c’mon, Hartmann! You know the answer to the question, don’t act stupid and play small talk with me, it’s not your style.”

Lacey’s lips press shut together, her green eyes dropping to the floor. She knows the only Mrs. Walker is his mother, and Madeleine has been gone for a couple of years now. Everything is in his file, allowing her to learn about the “mundane life” August Walker leads, or at least the ones he allows her to see through her CIA spectacles.

It was an obligation to do the same with her. His old man once told him to learn who he’s dealing with before opening his “goddamn mouth.” That’s all there is to it, and his curiosity if he has to admit it.

Lacey Hartmann lives alone with her cat, Sir Podrick, on Hampshire St 457 on flat number 45. A magazine two-room apartment, picture-perfect, tidy to the point of OCD. She has an older sister but they rarely see each other. On her free weekends, she loves to watch romantic comedies while drinking hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows.

He often wonders if her sweet tooth is compensating for something missing in her life. Yet there is never a man in her apartment.

Sometimes she dances in front of the window, especially after a hard day at the office. He can’t tell which music is playing in her headphones, but the way she moves her body makes him believe it’s something upbeat and cheerful.

The images of her bedroom window vanish as a slightly irritating thought peaks in his mind at her comment. Mrs. Walker. A hiss of violent air shoots from his nostrils.

Relationships were not something he cared to pursue. Life had other offerings.

Besides, the women he liked were too tender and he was too rough. So, his conquests never lasted more than a night.

Agitated, he pulls his sleeve to look at his Rolex, muttering something obscene under his breath which makes Lacey shift uncomfortably on her feet. The driver should have arrived by now. Every car that parks at the pebbled road bears disappointment, dropping off more honeymooners and rich, older married couples.

A soft smile breaks on Lacey’s painted lips while she stares at August who’s facing the driveway with his fists clenched at the sides of his body.

“Well, since we’re stuck here waiting for a ride, you better entertain me.” Lacey speaks with grace, not a hint of nervousness or fright in her voice. She learnt how to deal with August and his tantrums by now.

August remains silent, his sight never breaking from the driveway and the alley of palm trees that pave the path.

“Or I guess we can stare at the big full moon,” she says to herself, lifting her eyes to the clear sky.

August stares back at the golden-haired woman, her long lashes fluttering gently as she counts the stars in her mind. A naive glint sparks her eyes as she’s captivated by her own fascination. The pale blue of the moon reflects on her milky skin, making her look like a siren in her beautiful dress.

“Yeah, it’s lovely,” he says in his deep voice.

*~*

And even if it existed, hell wouldn’t have you.

*~*

The expo is held at a royal mansion of some sort. A large Sicilian palace that is owned by an ageing millionaire. Golden floral embellishments spread across the azure velvet walls, shimmering at the lights of the crystal chandeliers which dangle in the halls.

Various ancient trinkets are placed in glass cubes. Crudely-made bows and arrows that were carved from cheap wood by a half-brain neanderthal are offered for the price of 200,000,000 Euros.

Ridiculous.

Keen on finding their target, both August and Lacey decide to split up upon their arrival, planning their strategy ahead by protocol. August is the striking image of professionalism tonight, stretching his gaze around the large hallway. He has been this way for the last several missions, working by the book, making sure to perform as clean as possible, whatever that means in CIA terms.

He even managed to win a word of praise from Sloane, who still can’t stand the very sight of his face. But at least she ceased from eating his head at the conclusion of every mission.

And Lacey seems to appreciate it, too.

The brooding man spends the night pretending to be enthralled by the exhibition and its boring guests who continually attempt to strike pointless conversations with him. As part of his task, he only speaks with those who seem to be an asset and brushes others away by answering in fluent Italian, pretending to not understand a word in English while smiling at them politely.

Blending in, the young agent stands by one of the bars, leaning onto the marble counter and enjoying some type of strawberries-in-cream dessert which was offered to him by a tall, abnormally attractive waitress who’s been walking around with a silver tray.

Lacey would love this fruit-pudding thingy, he muses as his fingers brush through the mid-length stubble above his lip. His eyes carefully scan the room for any group of men in their late 30s for a clue or a sign.

The sound of a woman’s laughter chips away his attention like a siren’s call.

So that’s how she sounds like when she laughs.

Grabbing a glass of champagne, he steps forward on the black carpeted floor, following the cheerful voice as it rolls delightfully in his ears. Storm clouds gather in his eyes. The siren is behaving unprofessionally to the point of being offensive. A tall glass of half-empty Lambrusco hangs between her slender fingers while her head falls back; her hand rests on her chest, trying to contain her laughter.

She is the centre of attention to a group of famished men.

August frowns with disapproval. She’s supposed to act drunk, not get buzzed. Standing at the large pathway, he watches how she smiles widely, mouth gaping, small dimples peeking at the corner of her lips. The honey of her hair makes her stand out in a room of dark beauties, the shade of her dress an anchor for any travelling eyes.

He takes an irritated sip from his champagne, swallowing the sparkly liquid, trying to ignore the bells of laughter which begin to sound like an insult, meant to provoke him. His piercing eyes search for the target in the room, focusing on the task on hand and being the professional his father urged him to be.

Yet as if magnetized, his glare returns to her.

For a moment there he nearly forgets that she is a CIA agent. The men around her flirt nearly barbarically, their mouths salivating with predatory hunger. Is she too pure to understand their intentions? The vultures are waiting to tear her limb by limb. Possibly hoping she will be drunk enough to be dragged by one of them.

The storm inside him rages. Thoughts of her being tainted by one of these hideous men enter his mind and poison bubbles in his throat, drowning him in anger.

He puts his champagne flute on the tray of one of the hostesses who passes by. He fixes his tie over his neck and swallows hard. His strides are confident and charismatic as he marches into their circle abruptly, reaching an arm over to Lacey.

“Sweetheart, here you are. Come see this piece, you’re going to love it.” hee speaks with contained anger, his baritone loud and clear, roaring through his puffed chest and squared shoulders.

Lacey turns to smile at him as he latches his fingers around her forearm, rescuing her by pulling her away from the predators with as much elegance he can muster at his current aggravated mood.

“Are you fucking drunk, Hartmann? What’s wrong with you?! We have a dangerous man to catch.” He whispers angry and low in her ear, carrying her toward an open terrace where they can discuss and re-strategize the mission.

The cool breeze caresses their faces, tenderly running through their hair as they approach the open air. The young woman continues to giggle as August’s fingers tickle beneath her armpit while he takes her to stand next to the large renaissance modules that hide them from the guests of the event. He lets go of her forearm, looking down at her with a scowl.

“Relax, I was trying to make it look convincing with these decadent, empty idiots.” she attempts to pacify him, looking up into his eyes, her head reaching just beneath his square chin.

“Isn’t it ridiculous?”

“What is?”

“The way they sell these artefacts on such a high price when it was created by a primitive creature who ate his own fleas,” she mocks with a mischievous smile. “This is the end of human culture, this capitalistic point of view.”

A cold shiver crawls at August’s spine as he hears her speaking of his ideals. He had never seen her this way before.

So opinionated, so bold.

Has she been reading my mind?

They have never been this physically close, he can smell the lupines on her skin and the Lambrusco on her breath. Lacey’s amused grin begins to relax somewhat, her eyes now staring at something with stark fascination.

“You have a brown spot in one of your eyes.”

August brow furrows even deeper, dark lines forming between his thick eyebrows as the woman ogles him in a bizarre way. His blood thickens as the pleasant wind brushes at his face.

“Sectoral heterochromia, I was born with it.”

“It’s beautiful,” she answers with an enchanted glare, batting her lashes and moving further to study the shape of his flaw. Her feet arch to the tip of her toes, reaching higher to his face. August remains still, watching as if within a haze when her lips crash onto his.

Chills spiral through his nerves, his eyes wide open as her soft lips press into his in a long, chaste kiss. There is a small hum in her voice, painted lashes look like black curved trails as her eyes shut with an enchantment. For a second he can feel her body press into his, her breasts grinding at his broad chest. She slowly detaches from him, opening her eyes and falling flat on her feet.

Alarm spills onto her face, her hand covering her mouth with guilt as panic surges. August stares back without a sign of emotion on his arctic face.

“I’m so sorry!” She calls out in utter embarrassment, moving away from him by a step.

His breath grows rigid, his mind a war. In an instant, he pulls her wrist away from her face and claims her into his grasp, kissing her earnestly, even violently. Lacey’s moans melt into his mouth, her body crashing into his, writhing as her lips gape, accepting his insidious tongue.

She tastes like sugar.

August slams her against the wall, growling as her hands roam down his body and messing his outfit. A fervent stir tingles at his groin and the way she squeezes the muscles of his behind and tries to shove her hands under his trousers does nothing to relax his racing heart. Depraved, his hand pushes between her legs, trying to cup her heat through the tight dress, yet it cages her legs too tightly.

“I want you out of this fucking dress.” August growls, breaking the passionate kiss to breath hot and heavy in her ear.

“Then take me back to the hotel.” she retorts breathlessly, grinding her pelvis into the growing hardness in his groin.

“We can’t, the mission.”

Lacey emits a frustrated huff, sounding as if she’s meaning to beg as her body constantly pushes into his in a snakelike dance. “Forget about him, he’s not here, we’ll do it the Walker way.”

There is nothing in this world strong enough to convince him otherwise as those big doe eyes peer at him with admiration and a sense of need he never received from any woman before. It wasn’t like the women who begged him to fuck them as he tormented and delayed their release.

For the first time in his life, he felt purely wanted.

~*~

The ride back to the hotel is the most dreadful experience he had to endure in his life. Both Lacey and he sit at each side of the car, avoiding eye contact whilst their organs throb with aching need. She keeps her fingers laced together while the driver listens to some old Italian love song and sings along the tunes on the radio. August attempts to avoid drowning into his thoughts but the idea of having her tonight makes the blood pool hot in his loins.

They hardly make it into her room. Exploiting every moment left in solitude to make out like horny teenagers. Whenever a hotel staff member or a guest passes by, they break away from one another in the most obvious manner.

As they finally arrive at the suite, August kicks the door shut with his foot and preys at her, his talons reaching for her face, his thumb wiping off whatever remains of her lipstick before kissing her again.

“I don’t like this, it isn’t you.” he states in between invigorated kisses while Lacey battles to take off his clothes, pushing the blazer off his shoulders and then working the buttons of his vest and shirt with lust guiding her fingers. She ignores his remark, answering with another breathless kiss instead while moving to fumble with his belt.

Their feet kick at one another as August leads them toward the king-size bed, fondling the curves of her body through the terrible prison that is her dress. His long legs nearly lose their balance as she successfully unzips his trousers and finds him fully erect and pulsating in her small hand.

Logic turns to steam at the manipulation of her hands. His gasps resonate through the length of his throat, giving in to the whispers of his heart. How long yearned for her, wanting to keep her in the birdcage of his vision.

Lacey, so bold yet so sweet.

With the swiftness of his hands, he turns her around, tugging at the zipper of her dress while dotting her collarbone with possessive nibbles. Her naked figure unveils to him as a flower opens to the sunlight of spring.

Left in nothing but her baby-blue lace underwear, she steps out of her dress and moves to face the large naked man, pacing back as he sneaks toward her like a direwolf. The look on her face is admirable. Drenched of fear and desire at once, feeding his natural dominance.

“August…” she whispers his name. Her lips quiver at the sight of his broad form, appreciating every sinew, every muscle. August reaches to hold his cock as the blood stirs into it with rage, wanting to be inside this angel, to taint her and mark every piece of skin.

“I don’t have a condom.” he warns, licking his lips as she slides her underwear down her long, creamy legs. Her mound is completely waxed, just the way he wants it. Pure.

“I’m clean and protected.”

Inviting him into her mysteries, Lacey offers him a devoted stare and reaches her delicate hand toward him. No clarity is left in his mind; desire clouds every rational thought, every self-preservation instinct. He ignores her hand and lunges at her like a predator.

They fall into a sea of silken sheets together, August covering her body with his, giving no care of how his weight crushes her. His hands hold her wrists pinned to the mattress as he pushes her smooth thighs apart with his knees.

Lacey’s moans are mesmerizing as he sinks himself into her wonders. Singing her pleasure at him like a true siren. An overwhelmed groan breaks from his own lips as the wetness of her flesh encloses around his cock, sucking him from within with an embrace of lust. Soft and delicate, she writhes against his crude, rugged body and he thrusts inside her with teetering grunts, taking her with sheer, primal dominance.

She feels different, like no other woman he ever had before. Completely submissive to his darkest desires. Her body opens to him, like a precious, heavenly nymph and he takes what he wants. Deeper and deeper, drowning into her womb, never wanting to stop, invigorated by the way her hands clutch at his body with the same desperation that is in his chest.

For three days, they never leave the suite. Lost in a carnal euphoria that makes both of them forget the existence of the outer world.

~*~

Oh, hell indeed exists, it’s on the earth you walked your entire life.

~*~

The delicious aroma of crispy, caramelized bacon and fluffy pancakes tickles his senses to wake up. Salty and sweet, the scent draws him to sit upon the bed that’s slightly too small for his wide frame. A drowsy smirk crawls onto his face. This scent is his second favourite thing to wake up to.

Locating his cobalt trunks on the floor, he hauls himself out of her bed, pulls them on and tries to tame the messy bundle of curls on his head while he walks to find her in the kitchen. The bacon sizzles on the pan as Lacey stands next to the stove in his buttoned-up shirt. She is flipping an impossible quantity of pancakes and frying strips of bacon in another pan.

Her rounded ass peeks at him with every shift her body makes.

August sneaks behind her with the skill of a CIA agent, looming closer and wrapping his arms around her torso, his chin resting on the top of her head, while his hungry eyes feast on the pancakes and amber bacon.

Lacey flinches in his grip, he can feel her heart jump for a moment before she relaxes into his embrace, lips melting into a wide smirk as August rocks her from side to side.

“Morning,” she hums delightfully. “Go sit, there is freshly brewed coffee waiting for you.”

August drops a kiss on the top of her head, a low growl of serenity climbing up his throat. “You’re a dream, princess.”

And you’re all mine.

With a wisp of unwillingness, he detaches from her and walks to the table, where Lacey’s favourite mug of coffee awaits him with steam rising from within. His eyes are a calm sea sparkling at the sunrise as he looks at her with admiration.

Everything about her tips him across the edges of sanity; the way she smiles at his horrible dark jokes, the way she listens to everything he says with devotion and appeal, the way she speaks about her ideals and sees him like no person ever did before.

Lacey turns her head and sneaks a small glance at him, giving a smile and a wink before returning to the stove.

It took 5 months to admit to himself that he likes this, that he enjoyed being here, with her and her stupid cat, or in every distant location in the world. It didn’t matter if they were in Afghanistan or Paris, as long as he got to listen to her breathing in her slumber. That night in Sicily wasn’t just mindless sex. It was a union of two souls. They spent the night talking and while he was reluctant to open up-as he still is-he was stunned to find out just how much this woman shared similar points of views.

Though she never says it specifically, Lacey wants to watch the world burn.

He hasn't even told her about his idea, not yet. It’s probably too soon anyway as he only started formulating his intention a couple of months ago. A part of him still fears how she may react if she finds out he’s been selling CIA secrets and dealing weapons right beneath Sloane’s nose.

“I hope you’re hungry,”

Lacey calls out as she places two large plates of pancakes and bacon on the table and walks quickly to get the maple syrup from the counter. Sir Podrick jumps on the table as she puts the syrup next to the plates. Aggravated, August shoos the cat away and reaches to grab the woman's forearm, forcing her into his lap possessively.

“You know I am, princess.” he murmurs as he kisses her shoulder and then her lips, before grabbing a piece of pancake and some bacon with his fork and nibbling it deliciously. Lacey remains on his lap, grabbing a stripe of bacon from his plate and chewing on it with a pleasant moan before directing her gaze to August.

“How long do you think we can keep this a secret?” she asks, slight concern appearing on her face. August swallows the remaining pancake in his mouth and sips some coffee to clear his throat. His fingers thread through the gold of her hair, combing the large waves repeatedly.

“I don’t want them to take you away from me.”

His voice is nearly that of a child.

The agency’s protocol won’t allow partners to be in a relationship due to an incredible conflict of interest. “Sloane would lose her shit if she’d find out this entire time we’ve been doing this.” He chuckles dryly and shoves another piece of pancake into his mouth while still looking at Lacey. The first morning rays shine through the wide-open window, basking her face with a shimmering summer glow.

“We can run away,” she teases. “Buy a yacht, tell Erica to go fuck herself and sail the sea.”

August smirks, his hand descending to the small of her back as images of embarking to the great unknown with her fill his chest with euphoric bliss.

A daydream, perhaps in the future, after mankind is free.

“I think she’s beginning to warm up to me though.”

“Well, she did start calling you The Hammer after the last mission.” Lacey answers and grabs the mug from August’s side, stealing a mischievous sip. “If only they knew it has a different meaning to some of us.”

August crooks his eyebrow up at Lacey and wipes his moustache clean. His hands reach to tickle the sides of her belly, causing her to let go of the mug before he snatches it back. Her giggles make his heart feel at ease, something he’ll never dare to tell or show her.

Asserting his dominance by only giving as much.

“Why did you join the agency in the first place? You never told me.” she wraps her arms around his shoulders, the green of her eyes appearing yellow at the ray of sunlight that beams on her face.

His gaze falls upon the table, staring at the remnants of the pancakes while licking his teeth. Thoughts of his past begin to echo in the chasm of his mind.

The day his mom fell to her knees and let out a banshee-like howl of agony at the empty ceiling as two agents came into their house.

He was 13, and from that moment on, he was all alone in a cold, ravenous world.

“I wanted to die for the government, just like my father.” he spits out, thinking of how his life turned over one autumn morning. A tall, lanky boy who couldn’t even comfort his mother as she tore off tufts of her hair.

August didn’t even cry, not since then.

The curious look on Lacey’s face fades into sadness, compassion welling on her now golden-green irises. “You never told me how he died.”

A muscle twitches in his cheek, his eyebrows knitting together as anger begins to slightly boil his blood. “Like all heroes, forgotten. I don’t know how, it was during a mission in Moscow. Nothing in his files but a mention on an accident, no details other than that.”

“Is that why you have such small faith in the government?” Lacey asks innocently, referring to their pillow-talk. The ones they have while she presses her soft cheek to his chest and draws invisible circles onto his chest.

The lump in his throat dries as he remembers the weeks that followed after his father was gone. They were thrown to the dogs to be gnawed at. No compensation, no financial support, and no one to comfort young August.

His mother couldn’t even look at him anymore. Those blue soulful eyes, the cleft of his chin, and even the shape of his nose were inherited from his father.

The most pain August has ever endured was when someone he loved was unable to look at him anymore.

Madeleine was a loyal housewife from the midwest who never took a real job. Arthur provided for them. While he wasn’t the warmest father, he kept his family close, taking them with him on his trips, unless they were too dangerous.

By the time August was seven, he’s already been to all continents.

After his father’s death, both the money and his mother withered away. Having no experience in anything but waiting tables, Madeleine couldn't support her own child and perhaps she didn’t want to. The boy was a painful memory of what she lost.

The last he remembers of her, she dragged him with her to church and went on her knees as August sat on the bench. She prayed and cried out to God until her knees bled and her eyes rimmed red from the tears she wept.

But God never answered.

That week, social services arrived at their door. He never saw her since that day and needless to say, no one wanted a hostile 13-year-old boy.

August turns his face to stare at Lacey, examining her round, freckled face and her plump, pink lips. They make her look like a renaissance painting of an angel. At times, he’s afraid that his rage will tarnish her, swallow the light of her spirit. Yet he can never hold back, fucking her so roughly, she hurts for days. His instincts drive him to spill all his fury into her cavities. To offer all the spite and hurt that poisoned his soul, as if it will cleanse him.

And for a few seconds, he is sanctified. Coming inside her makes him feel complete in every sense of the word.

The soft purring of Lacey’s cat grounds him to reality. The chubby ginger cat rubs around his leg affectionately, his yellow diamond eyes staring at August.

“Let’s not talk about it, anymore,” he replies in a somewhat final tone.

Lacey nods at him, giving him a look full of understanding. Her fingers reach behind his ear, stroking the soft chocolate curls and tucking them back. “Okay, Aug. But we really need to talk about that!”

Her fingers move to point at his thick moustache, her eyes narrowing with disdain.

August strokes his moustache with his thumb and index finger and lets them slide down the stubble of his square chin. “You don’t like it?”

Lacey shakes her head with protest, trying her best to appear irritated. “No.”

Princess is so cute when she pretends to be angry.

August offers her a smug smirk in return, grabbing the last remaining piece of bacon from his plate and sliding it whole into his mouth. “Too bad, it stays.” he answers with his mouth full, grease smearing on the corners of his lips. “It makes me look dangerous and you love it.”

“No, you look like pornstar.”

“I’d fuck you like one.” he answers with a dark glint in his eyes. In a sudden movement, he places both hands on Lacey’s waist and stands up with her in his grip. The woman squeals with surprise as he flings her over his shoulder with little to no effort and stings her ass with a sharp slap.

“Do you want it here, sweetheart, or in the bedroom?” he asks and bites the fat of her behind. Lacey cries out in pain, her legs kicking the air.

He loves to hear her laugh, just as much as he loves to hear her scream.

*~*

If hell is on earth, then what does it make you?

*~*

Like a creature dwelling in the darkness, he sits in the bleak hours of the night, fingers stroking the keys as if he’s a composer, conducting his symphony of destruction. The flesh of his lips chafe at the lack of sleep and insufficient fluids, yet he gives no care.

This will be his legacy, his gift to the world, his gift to her.

The pale teal light of the screen flickers lightly on his weary corneas. It’s nothing but pixels, black on white, five blocks of paragraphs for now, but the raw power in words proceeds beyond any other weapon known to mankind. So pure, so cataclysmic.

Just like an atomic reaction.

She will see through his eyes soon. The potential, the greater good. All her words of breaking the system, about dreaming of a better world. A sweet, naive girl with a mind fed with agenda. It was as if they were threaded into one another’s life, destined to be.

The paving of a new world has already begun. They call themselves the apostles, a group of no more than 12 people, men and women of science and power. Their identities are unknown among one another. It matters very little, the seeds have been sown into the earth. Small acts of terror, biological and chemical incidents around selected locations around the globe, just enough to test the waters.

Greatness from small beginnings.

It will take time, yet he is patient, and his little angel of destruction will be by his side once the time is right. All mankind will be reunited in peace after the earth will shudder beneath their feet.

~*~

Does it make you a monster?

~*~

Something sharp prods his mind to wake up. A nightmare, whispering toxic words in the darkness. He hears a vague ruffle in the webbed darkness of the night and he blindly reaches his palm to stroke her and finds himself abandoned. There is a knot in his gut and a storm brewing in his mind. Carefully and silently, he reaches for the loaded gun in his nightstand and slips out of bed.

Pale blue and humming, a soft light invites him to follow to the office next to his bedroom. His heart drums heavily in his chest, his face falling as his vision becomes clear. Bright pink winks through the molten mixture of shadow and light. She hovers over his open computer, spreading files and paper plans over the surface of his desk, all the while holding her digital camera, violating his secrets.

Whatever is in his chest shrieks and bleeds with misery.

“Would be more efficient if you’d switch the light on.”

The woman jumps as she hears his voice and a heavy flood of bright light showers her crimes as August flicks the switch on. She straightens up, as stiff as a frozen tree. Unable to face him right away, her face remains hidden from him. August can see the spasm of her legs beneath her nightdress.

“What are you doing?” August asks, his voice low and menacing, eyes travelling from the Nikon camera that hangs from her hand to his secret scribbles as they lay on his desk, right next to his open manifest.

“Look at me.” he demands, stern and composed as he can.

Lacey turns slowly to peer at him, her lips aquiver, eyes shining with guilt. The only sound from her is the shudder of her breath that rushes through her heaving chest.

The hurt must have blinded his thoughts. He doesn’t remember aiming his gun at her head, it’s only when he sees the woman’s surrendering gesture does he register his actions.

Taking a deep breath, he lowers his gun and places it carefully on the floor. His hands splay in the air, disarmed, offering a truce as he stretches to stand straight.

“Was I…” he swallows the dryness in his throat and licks his lips.

It would take a real fool to be so blind to see what was in front of him the whole time.

“I was your mission?”

Lacey remains quiet, her eyes refusing to meet his. Tears glide down the apples of her rosy cheeks.

“Tell me the truth Lacey, please. I just want to understand.” The threat in his voice turns soft, becoming nearly a plea as he takes one step forward, watching the woman flinch and step back, her behind colliding with the desk.

The woman weeping in front of him is a trained CIA agent, yet the despair in her eyes shows no signs of panning struggle. The only way out of this room is through him, a man who is nearly twice her size and knows her every move.

“Erica suspected you’re the one who is leaking secrets, so she sent me…”

That’s why she inquired so much, wanted to hear his thoughts, to sleep at his home despite his reluctance. He agreed for the first time tonight, unaware of her insidious intentions.

Did you really think you deserve this?

August scoffs, his heart clenching painfully in his battered lungs.

He was wrong. There is something more painful than having someone you love never look back at you.

“Did she tell you to sleep with me?”

Lacey’s gaze drops to the floor in silence; her answer is nothing but a pathetic sniffle as she pinches her nose.

Bile rises in his throat as he sees shame on her face, so obvious, so obscene. Her purity was false.

There was nothing sweet or innocent about her, she was nothing but a whore.

“Answer me!!!” he rumbles, more beast than man.

Lacey jumps and sobs with panic, nodding her head at him with her confession. “Ye..Yes… any means possible.”

Running his palm through his face and groaning with frustration, the young CIA agent exhales hoarsely. He takes another small step towards her, gradually closing the distance between them, watching his shadow loom on her porcelain skin.

Lacey’s eyes widen with panic. Her ankles kick back the wooden legs of the desk, her hands scattering August’s belongings. White sheets of paper fly down to the floor, ink smudged by tears.

“Stay away,” she warns.

“Does she know? Did you tell her or anyone else at the agency?” he ignores her pathetic threats, taking another step closer. Her floral scent fills his nostrils, nearly triggering his instinct to claim her lips. His gaze softens with an ocean of mercy as she shakes in front of him so violently, breaking into tears of grief.

Delicate fingers cup her jaw, sliding across the slick moistness of her tears as he tilts her chin up. “Please, tell me the truth.”

Lacey lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyes puffy and red, her plump lips swollen. She wipes her nose with the back of her palm. “I had nothing to report, until now.”

His grasp tightens around her chin, forcing her head back to look at the text flickering on the monitor. “All this talk about a better world, I thought this is what you wanted.”

She snaps her head back to glare at him, eyes narrowing with disgust and anxiety. “You thought I’d like this?! This is sick!”

August’s nostrils flare yet he gives a gentle nod of understanding and hushes her sudden surge of stress. His hand caresses her round, damp face. The thick pads of his thumbs wipe the salty tears away from her skin and his body presses into hers.

Even a tremoring mess, she is still so soft and warm.

“Did you ever love me?”

His lips are merely an inch from her temples as he whispers. His large hand slides down her cheek, stroking down her jaw and descending further below her chin.

Unable to muster another lie, she remains silent, aware of the fact that the sand in the hourglass has all but diminished, along with her chances of survival.

Words are unnecessary. The truth speaks loudly in her eyes, the poisonous infidelity was always there all along. Struck by her angelic beauty he was too blind to see, leeching onto false heaven, a childish fantasy of love that never existed.

Small spots of blood begin to form in her wide-open eyes as his long fingers lock around her thin neck, squeezing with intensifying force. Tighter, harder. His name remains caged in her throat as she fights for the air she thinks she deserves.

“No, you didn’t.” August whispers, his vision beginning to blur. “You never did.”

Strangled yips of pain wheeze through her mouth. Struggling frantically while August hardly even bats an eyelid, staring at her with no emotion on his face. Desperate arms reach out to both heaven and hell, her body squirms and her eyes plead for August to let go.

Begging for her life.

Something breaks inside her throat. Her last breath follows, a short gasp, frozen in her body for eternity as both her heart and her eyes become still.

August glances at her pale skin, her gaping lips stained violet, her bloodied eyes glassy, returning his broken reflection.

Sorrowful tears roll down the lines of his face as his heart pumps with pain black as tar. A loud gasp of agony rips from him, shuddering across his entire existence as the very base of his soul chars in his chest. Broken, he falls to his knees with Lacey cradled in his arms, his hand stroking her dull hair and her blue cheeks while husky cries of anguish come through his throat.

All emotions end. An empty abyss claims the spot where his soul once laid. The only thing left to him now is pure, undistilled hatred.

~*~

I am the one who reigns in hell.

~*~

Black cold liquid seeps into weary lungs. Skeletal hands caress his face unkindly, the thin bones, so hard and frozen as they travel down his grey cheeks. No grace is given to him, no redemption. This was nothing but a dream of a life.

As tar oozes from his throat, her voice continues to call for him.

His last memories are of Erica, sitting on her throne of lies, swallowing his accusations while peering at him through her dark eyes. Face filled with guilt, oh, she didn't have a clue. Everyone believed Lacey Hartmann was the double agent this entire time. Angelic eyes hiding dark secrets. He planted the evidence in her house, in her computer, sparing his manifest of course. Just enough to tarnish her name forever.

A painful wheeze splits his throat. Iron tinged his tongue.

The promotion was won right after the body was cremated. A fine medal given for having his life put at risk.

Glory and fame won over the woman you loved.

I never loved her. She was a lying whore, she betrayed me.

But you did love me, August.

Blood spills through his mouth as he coughs. His blue eyes shoot open, peering at a great hole in the ceiling and the dust that floats calmly in the chill air of night. The pain sears his shoulder, throbbing furiously to remind him there is still blood running through his veins. He grunts as he clutches at the gaping wound, trying to hold onto the blood that still remains in his wretched heart.

Run and hide, little Ingvild

I am no one but Lucifer himself.

I will have my vengeance.

__________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible franchise or August Walker

#August Walker #Henry Cavill #The Way to Hell #August Walker Fanfiction #Mission Impossible Fallout #Henry cavill Fanfiction #August Walker x OFC #henry cavill x ofc #Mission Impossible Fanfiction

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shirlleycoyle · 3 years

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My Life as a Meme: ‘I Can’t Believe You’ve Done This’ Revisited

In November 2007, an entirely contextless video of me being punched in the face went viral. You might have seen it. It still does the rounds every couple of months, often when something notably bad happens that warrants a response of disbelief. In these strange times, it’s managed to remain endlessly prescient.

For the uninitiated, the video in question is an 11-second clip in which, aged 16, I appear wearing a dressing gown cord around my head, a chain necklace, some children’s sunglasses and a black T-shirt. I sit down and address the camera, ostensibly about to tell the viewer what I was thinking. I am immediately interrupted by my friend Tim, who appears stage left and lamps me. Rather than react in pain or anger, I err more towards disappointment and dismay, bewildered that something like this could happen. “Ah fuck. I can’t believe you’ve done this,” I said. End scene.

It’s been nearly 14 years since I uploaded the original video and to this day it still prompts questions. Who was the guy who got punched? Why did he get punched? Who punched him? What was he thinking? Why did he react that way? Why did he leave YouTube?

In recent years I’ve come to appreciate and even enjoy its bizarre status as an enduring piece of internet history, but my relationship with the clip in the decade that followed its inexorable rise hasn’t always been easy. To understand why, it’s useful to remember that the internet in 2007 was, for better or worse, a very different place.

Having spent the best part of my school years filming stupid skits with mates instead of studying, there was something semi-appealing about the prospect of being able to put videos online to share with friends. It began in mid-2003, when myself and a group of friends would have been in our early teens. Inspired by the likes of Jackass and Bam Margera’s CKY movies, our impressionable young selves set about ignoring all relevant safety warnings, hurling ourselves out of trees, riding scooters into curbs, and racing tyres down hills on skateboards.

At the age of 14 or so, I had envisaged cutting the footage into a chaotic feature-length video of “stunts.” I’d probably have soundtracked it with music from the Tony Hawk games, alongside countless other homemade skate videos people made circa 2003 that probably featured a mix of Ace of Spades or Guerilla Radio. I still have a box full of VHS-C tapes kicking around somewhere, which can only be viewed on one of those absolutely insane VHS adapters. Having not watched any of it in well over a decade, I can safely say that the content contained within those tapes is unequivocally shit.

All of a sudden you're everywhere and it's out of your control. You either try to fight it and get destroyed, or embrace it and try to cash in.

Looking back, the whole endeavour was entirely aimless, but aside from coming away with mild head injuries from time to time it was an innocuous way to spend my childhood. At the very least it also means I have a bizarre, tangible record of my youth that I’ll be able to laugh at one day when I’m old and wizened.

By summer 2004, we had started filming on Mini-DV, which opened up a whole new world of editing possibilities. Plugging a video camera into a computer and capturing footage directly to editing software is pretty much a given for today’s generation of content creators, but back in the early 2000s, this was revolutionary.

We’d eventually gravitate away from ‘stunts’ towards more structured skits and sketches. Nothing was ever scripted per se, but we’d usually start out with a rough idea of something and see how it played out.

There was an ambitiously misguided 'silent horror' short, soundtracked by Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells, in which someone chopped off ‘my cock’ (a banana) with a garden shear. We considered this to be the absolute pinnacle of comedy.

There was an ill-advised 'Ballers' skit in which we ventured out in sports gear to make a mock training video taking the piss out of a guy at school who fancied himself as a bit of a gangster; this painfully middle-class white kid who listened to rap metal and liked basketball. He obviously never saw it and there's no question that we looked like idiots filming it at the local park. It’s probably quite offensive in hindsight.

The author at the Bristol Climate Change Protests in September 2019. Image: Shanya Buultjens

There was a James Bond 'spoof' that involved misquoting portions of dialogue from that scene in GoldenEye where Q gives Bond an exploding pen. It was funny to about three people. One of them was my mum.

One time a mate of mine fell out of a tree when he tried to swing from a branch. He landed on his back and ended up coughing up blood. He didn’t go to the hospital even though he probably should have. He’s now a doctor and a father.

Mercifully, none of this stuff ever made it online, but I did sell a couple of DVDs to people at school who rightly/probably/hopefully never watched them. In an ideal world, I'd own the only copies. I'm also fully aware that writing about this now only makes it more likely that one of the four people that still have a copy will dig theirs out. Please do not do that.

In 2005 and 2006, YouTube was very much in its infancy. This was the time when clips were limited to about 100mb and you could only upload about 30 seconds worth of footage at a time, which basically made it perfect for bursts of frenetic, inane content. As the platform grew, it became a dumping ground for skits and footage that we’d accumulated over the preceding years. Much of it went completely unnoticed until late 2007, at which point things started to get a bit weird.

The truth is that, nearly a decade and a half later, I’m still processing it.

The clip that people have come to know started out as an aimless skit filmed in Summer 2006. We hadn’t planned anything, least of all me being punched. In the footage building up to the event, I pushed Tim off the chair, he fell and hit his head on a filing cabinet off-camera. Rather than react to Tim, I sat down and proceeded to ad lib something that I’d venture to guess would have been considerably less funny than the act of violence that followed. Unprompted, Tim upsided me and I reacted with an inexplicable, completely incredulous response, which has followed me online ever since.

The footage sat on a tape until July 2007 when I decided to upload a brief segment under an ambiguous title. Fast forward to November and the video had somehow blown up, had its comments section relentlessly spammed, been ripped countless times and had offensive Wiki pages written about it. I also received a few direct messages which could at best have been described as ‘worrying’ and at worst ‘threatening,’ which was nice.

To this day, I’m none the wiser as to how it blew up in the way it did. I originally uploaded the video under the title ‘ ___________’ but the video somehow found its way onto 4chan where it spread like wildfire. The earliest mirrored link I could find was from January 2008, by which time it had been re-uploaded by multiple accounts, the most prominent of which had already clocked up almost double the number of views compared to my original upload.

At the time, going viral wasn't really comparable to any other experience and it certainly wasn't something I could discuss in solidarity with my friends. All of a sudden you're everywhere and it's out of your control. You either try to fight it and get destroyed, or embrace it and try to cash in. After yanking down several other videos on my YouTube channel, I opted for the latter.

When the video blew up, I got a call from a friend who informed me that the video had made the front page of Break.com. I peripherally knew what that meant: they offered a buyout scheme for videos that made the front page, which meant that I could make some money from it.

As it transpired, this wasn’t such a great idea. After signing a release form with some pretty appalling terms, over the following months I had several unnerving interactions with researchers for various TV shows looking to license the clip. Each offered far more favourable terms than those of Break. One of them harassed a bunch of my mates on Facebook. I think he even offered to pay one of them for my contact details.

By that point, it was all too apparent that I had completely fucked it. Break had the rights and I couldn't do anything with it even if I wanted to. At just 18 years old, I had sold out. In the short term, I used the money to buy a TV, which was great, but I soon started to get the creeping feeling that this was a decision that would come to haunt me. At that point, it was easier to disassociate myself from the clip, abandon YouTube, and move on with my life.

And yet, for the best part of 14 years the questions have kept coming: no, it wasn’t staged or scripted, it wasn’t a set-up, I didn’t know it was coming and, yes, it hurt. It was also very funny, which is presumably why I felt the need to upload it in isolation in the first place. Incidentally, Tim and I are still friends and contrary to some of the absolutely insane comments people leave on YouTube I can confirm that neither of us are in prison, the punch wasn’t a reaction to some sort of disagreement and he’s a lovely bloke.

To be clear, the lack of context wasn’t a deliberate choice to add intrigue either. I’d never even considered the possibility that anyone outside my circle of friends would see it. To me it was just another daft clip that a few mates would find funny.

Around the time I’d started to make peace with the issues around ownership, in 2018 it came to my attention that Break had shut down and its owner Defy Media had gone bust. The site was subsequently purchased by Yeah1 Network, but to this day I have no clarity whatsoever on my legal rights to the video. Any attempts to receive guidance have either turned up dead ends, or led to suggestions that I speak to IP lawyers, whom I have neither the means nor the time to deal with. Incidentally, if anyone has any insights in that area, I’d love to hear them.

Having said this, there’s something quite empowering in taking something embarrassing and admitting to it before someone else can point it out to you—a bit like taking ownership of an amusing surname. I’ll leave it to you to figure out what gags can be made from the name ‘Weedon,’ but I learned quite early on that if you make the jokes yourself and beat others to it, no one can fucking touch you. It’s much easier nowadays to hold my hands up and admit that I shouldn’t have sold the rights, make a joke of it and move on. At the very least, it makes for a good anecdote at parties.

As I suspect is probably the case for old content creators, if you can even call us that, the real story about I Can’t Believe You’ve Done This isn’t in how it’s aged and endured, or even how it’s impacted my life. For me, it’s tied up in issues of rights, ownership, and monetisation. As mercenary as it might be, I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t regret missing out on a slice of the pie when it came to YouTubers being able to monetise their content sooner. On the one hand, that's probably a very cynical view for something that was created by a bunch of teenagers who were fooling around making videos for fun in the noughties, but on the other, that's just the world we live in now.

Perhaps the strangest thing about my experience with it nowadays is the way people engage with it on a day-to-day basis. The comments vary from young people discovering its origins for the first time, surprised to discover that it is in fact a 14 year old video and not a recent creation filmed for Vine or TikTok. At the other end of the spectrum are those who are incredulous that someone with a video that has 9.2 million views and an account that’s amassed over 15,000 followers without really trying would step away from the platform and not want to make content.

The truth is that, nearly a decade and a half later, I’m still processing it. I love seeing how it’s been re-interpreted in modern mediums and that positive association has made it easier to accept. Charles Cornell turned it into a sad song. It got sampled in a KIll The Noise track. I had a nice interaction with The Sidemen about it. Will Smith even featured it in an insane Instagram post during the pandemic. I DM’d him to say thanks and he obviously didn’t reply.

To that end, a small group of us have recently started work on a film project exploring the nature of the meme, how it grew, its impact on my life and my relationship with the internet at large. In doing so, the hope is that, while answering some of the burning questions that other people still seem to have, I’ll ultimately be able to make peace with the whole thing.

@Twotafkap

My Life as a Meme: ‘I Can’t Believe You’ve Done This’ Revisited syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

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guesswho-mp3 · 4 years

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—•—Sunset—•—

Au: superman!johnny Pairing: superman!johnny x loislane!reader | Warning: angst, loneliness, you get thrown off a building, poorly paced and poorly written fluff | Rating: E for Everyone | Word Count: 2k

Listen to Exo’s Universe album while reading for max effect.

Johnny I hope that one day you find more friends that adore you, and that you’re happier than you’ve ever been before.

John’s reflection stared back at him, hair slicked back and button-up on, a far cry from the white t-shirt and flannel he usually wore. His flight to Metropolis was set to leave in three hours, but since the nearest airport was over an hour away away from the farm he’d have to leave early to get there on time. Of course he could’ve flown the distance in three minutes but he didn’t want to miss the truck ride with his parents. “John, let’s get a move on,” his mom called. He put his new glasses on to finish the transformation into yet another facade of himself in order to hide his true identity.

It got overwhelming to be so many things at once. Different personas he had to keep in check from melding together so that the others wouldn’t be put in danger. He was Yun - Seo, the last son of Krypton sent careening to Earth when both his planet, and his people exploded. He was John Lang, the farmer boy bound for bigger and better things in Metropolis. And he was Superman, the man of steel that worked to help others, and maybe even save the world every so often. What did all of these personas have in common though? They were all very very lonely.

His origins as an alien refugee meant he was different. He was other. Once he learned of his powers he actively avoided interaction with other kids, worried he would do something to hurt them, even when he was the gentlest little boy anyone could ever meet. Now that he was venturing into Metropolis the only people he was leaving behind were his parents and his dog.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting shadows and spirits over the little farmhouse and whisps of corn. He hated it when the sun set, and not just because the ball of fire was where his powers originated from, but because it was just another reminder that deep down he was on his own, not even the sun sticking around for company. Maybe he’d find someone in Metropolis. For now he couldn’t dwell on that dream though, he was starting a new job in a new city, away from the small town he was used to.

“Kibum Paek,” a hand stuck out from behind a newspaper ,” your new boss here at the Daily Planet. Let’s get down to business, this way.” He abruptly stood up from his desk and led him through the maze of cubicles, stopping at one where a few people were gathered. Paek rapped his finger on the divider to get their attention, and that’s when he met you. ”Everyone, this is John Lang, our newest reporter joining the team. Let's all do our best to welcome him and show him the ropes.”

You stood up first, introducing yourself before shaking his hand, your palm warm in his. “Welcome to The Planet,“ you beamed and he was instantly put at ease, but still feeling a little shy. He gave you a polite close-lipped smile, briefly meeting your eyes as he clutched the strap of his saddle bag and was ushered to his desk that was right across the aisle from yours.

“So John, where are you from,” you asked later that day in the break room, popping in to make a fresh brew, staying to chat while you added cream and sugar.

From that point on, catching up over coffee was a tradition, you always appearing at his desk with a steaming mug at the end of work, made just the way he liked it. Over a period of months the conversations drifted from more facile, like shared complaints about Paek’s “don’t apologize just be better mantra” to more personal and intimate topics. The things that made you both laugh, upbringing and childhoods, you obviously sharing more about the latter than him. But he appreciated the effort you made to befriend him, even if he didn’t always return the sentiment. In his mind it was for a good, if not a lonesome reason.

“Uh, Smallville, Kansas,” he told you.

Your eyes widened in surprise and you laughed. “Well, you’re a long way from home.”

He chuckled and pushed up his glasses. You had no idea.

Months had passed and John could safely say he had been hit with a dilemma. He enjoyed your company, he truly did, often reliving your encounters in his mind when he went back to his cold, quiet apartment. But he also knew that you would eventually find out about his “side job” as a hero, there being only so many excuses he could make as to why he would come back from a bathroom break with soot stains in his hair. That knowledge though, ran the risk of you being in danger, something he absolutely wanted to avoid. But it's hard to steer someone when they’re headed straight into a moving train at the speed of light. Much to his dismay you were headed straight towards conflict with none other than the biggest thorn in John’s side.

The greedy sociopathic megalomaniac (your words, not his) that was Kyungsoo Kim was planning something BIG, and you were intent on breaking the story. He always admired your tenacity, however he worried for your safety, even if it was technically required of the job to be put in sticky situations for the sake of the report.

Kim was notorious for shutting down news outlets and investigators that were digging too much into his business. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t listen in on your interviews you conducted with your sources. Sometimes becoming so engrossed in what you were saying halfway across the city he would zone out while staring at his computer screen for minutes on end. He received a few nasty glares from Paek as a result, but it was worth it if it meant he knew you were safe.

It all came to a head though when you discovered Kim was planning on creating a gene splicing therapy marketed towards the public. An anonymous tip sent to you revealed that Kim planned on using the DNA editing software to give regular human beings superpowers, thereby morphing them into metahumans. With the corrupt types the business magnate attracted, there was the possibility that things would go awry for the citizens of Metropolis, possibly even the whole world if criminals were given the powers of Gods. The powers of Superman.

While you were keeping tabs on Kyungsoo Kim, he was most certainly doing the same for you. He knew you were poking around where you shouldn't have been. After numerous attempts at trying to buy your silence and intimidate you, finally Kim finally decided that if he couldn’t gag you, he’d just throttle you instead.

One day you left work early to get a testimonial, promising to be back in time for coffee. Hours passed, it was nearing nine o’clock and he had already warmed your coffee with his heat vision ten times. No call, no text, no update. He got desperate though when he realized he couldn’t hear your heartbeat. The comforting little thunk that he always heard in the back of his mind noticeably absent. It was then that he heard it. Your strangled shouts of distress coming from the other end of the city.

Thank heavens he was in an alley, headed towards your apartment, the speed at which he ripped off his clothes to reveal his suit must’ve been a new record before he sprung into the air. The force broke the sound barrier, causing a ripple effect that rattled the surrounding buildings.

And there you were, falling from the top of KimCorp. Tower. Everything slowed for him as he pushed his body to go faster, your figure drifting mid air, fear palpable on your face. He caught you with ease, your panicked shouts diffusing in a little gasp at feeling the pressure of him against you when seconds before you were free falling. He didn’t bother to deal with Kim, more focused on getting you somewhere safe. He deposited you on top of the Daily Planet building, raising himself up some ten feet, the dimming light of the evening obscuring his face from view.

“Are you alright ma’am,” he asked, putting on his “professional” voice. Your hair was wind whipped, pupils dilated from the adrenaline rush, and your heart was thudding faster than a horse.

“John, you can come down. I know it’s you.” Smart as a whip, as always.

Following the earlier debacle you both decided to unwind. You explained to him that the meeting was a trap, having arrived at the location you were chloroformed and thrown into the back of a van before waking up to Kim's bald head staring at you before promptly being thrown off the building. He unfolded his entire backstory to you, the ups and downs, discovering his genetic line, the people he’s saved. All of this was said over coffee and a bag of chips after John flew down to a little bodega, Superman get-up and all to retrieve snacks and drinks from a very shocked cashier.

“So you’re one of the last Kryptonians alive and your parents adopted you after you crash landed here,“ you recounted to which he nodded,” you discovered a ship in the Arctic that contained your people’s history and the suit where you learned of your origins. You came here to lead a lowbrow-ear to the ground kind of life and you have a cousin named Tiffany, a.k.a Superwoman who lives in National City?”

“Bingo.”

“Wow.”

“Yep,’ he popped his lips, sipping on his coffee. It was silent for a moment, both of you breathing in the moment. A slight chill flowed through the air and you shivered, John immediately taking notice and wrapping his cape around you.

“How’d you know it was me,” he asked, swirling the contents of his little paper cup.

“Johnny I may not have x-ray vision but I could recognize my best friend anywhere,” you replied with a laugh, pulling him closer to you and laying your head on his shoulder. At that moment he felt like he was weightless, suspended in the clouds as warm rays of sunlight bathed his form. He felt like he could fly a few laps around the globe without getting tired; or lift the whole planet he was that…that... happy. He was happy. He finally could say he had a best friend.

“Johnny?” He questioned, unable to hide his joy.

“Yeah, a nickname.”

“I’ve never had anybody call me Johnny before.”

“Wait, you’re telling me no one ever gave you a nickname, your parents? Friends?” He shook his head no, the movement causing your hair to tickle his chin.

“I like it though,” he admitted, closing his eyes, floating in serenity.

And he did. He liked it alot. This was the first time in a long time Johnny had felt comfortable opening up to someone about himself. Being vulnerable without the fear of doing harm and being harmed. He realized that he could use his alter ego as a source of protection. To be your light, be your hero. But call it silly— ludicrous even, that the man of steel, impervious to bullets, crack a mountain with a single punch, invincible Superman felt safe and at peace wrapped up from the cold with a simple human.

“I’ve never had one before,” he said offhandedly.

“Mm,” you hummed in question, peering up at him.

“A friend,” he clarified,” I’ve never had a friend.”

Your arm tightened around him on instinct at his heart wrenching confession. You were pretty sure you were crushing him against you but he made no sign of discomfort. Probably the alien genes. You knew Johnny was shy and took a while to open up, but the sacrifices he made in his personal life to try to appear normal finally dawned on you. A bittersweet smile appeared on your face as you peered at the horizon, hoping Johnny would never have to be pulled from the safe haven you two were in. “Well, you’ve got one now. And I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

The sun was just setting, blushing pigments of pink and orange kissing their eyes as they sat with each other. He nuzzled into you further, and you took his hand, your palm warm in his. Maybe sunsets weren’t so bad afterall.

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lokimostly · 7 years

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Sólo Para Amarte (Part 2)

Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: Peter Parker and Y/N have been best friends for three years. When local trouble erupts and begins disrupting normal life- along with their close friendship -the secrets they both harbor come to light.

Word Count: 2,376

Warnings: Spider-Man: Homecoming spoilers, injury

A/N: sorry this took forever!! I had to figure out the entirety of the plot for the series before I could continue. This chapter basically gives us a starting point, but things will really heat up after this. Love you guys! <3

Edit: I fixed all of the errors/typos/italics that were present when I posted on mobile. Enjoy!

Series Discontinued.

Part One

“History is not my favorite,” you grumbled, tapping at the keys aggressively. You shifted on the bottom bunk of Peter’s bed, your laptop resting precariously on your criss-crossed knees. Peter stopped looking out the window to lean down from the top bunk, half his body suspended in mid-air as he looked at you, upside down. The messy waves of his hair tickled your nose as he leaned over even further to get a look at the screen, the muscles in his arms flexed to keep him from falling.

You pulled back slightly so you wouldn't knock heads, watching his eyes flicker over the lines. Realizing you were staring, you quickly cleared your throat, biting your lip again so you wouldn't laugh as his hair tickled your nose. It smelled nice.

“So, you- you're, um, you're stuck?” He said finally, the habitual half-stammer in his voice making you smile slightly before nodding.

He reached a hand down to take the laptop and you gasped, pulling it away. “Hey! This is my baby!”

Peter laughed, making another attempt to grab the computer, which you dodged easily.

“I-I'll be careful,” he promised with exaggerated solemnity, crossing his arms and stroking his chin with one finger. You raised your eyebrow.

“Is that supposed to make you look intelligent or something? It's not working.”

Peter scoffed and uncrossed his arms, gesturing widely. “C’mon, just lemme see.”

“No, just tell me what to write,” you responded with equal stubbornness, holding the laptop between your knees and chest. He narrowed his eyes at you, and you stuck out your tongue in response.

Peter laughed, taking it as a challenge. “Oh, you asked for it.” He flipped down and you laughed, jumping up to make a break for the door. You got halfway across the small space before two strong arms lifted you up by the waist. You gave a shriek as he dropped you on the bed and landed over you, laughing as he made half-effort grabs for it.

“Nooo,” you wailed, twisting onto your side. “You can’t have it!”

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, pouncing on you and tickling your sides. You shrieked, wriggling as you tried to escape, but he had you trapped in between his legs. Finally one of your knees flew up and landed a hit to his chest. Peter gasped and fell back, one arm going to his ribs, laughing breathlessly. “Seriously?”

You laughed, out of breath as you rubbed your sore sides. “You deserved it.”

You saw his brown eyes crinkle as he chuckled. Suddenly you noticed the way he was resting over you, one leg between yours, a thin sheen of sweat on his visible skin as his chest heaved. Peter took his hand off his ribs and rested it on your knee without thinking, his eyes catching yours and giving you a confused look. “What?”

The bedroom door opened as May stuck her head in. Her eyes met yours and she raised her eyebrows, quickly looking over the two of you, her eyebrows falling in an expression of sarcasm.

“So, uh, how’s studying?”

You slid up quickly, embarrassed as you tucked your knees to your chest, trying to get the image of Peter leaning over you out of your head. Peter’s mouth opened and he looked back at you, color rising to his cheeks. “Oh-” he stood up quickly, hitting his head on the top bunk. Your eyes widened as he laughed embarrassedly, one hand on his head as he stepped out more carefully onto the floor. “Sorry, May,” he offered, trying his best to look apologetic.

“Actually…” you interjected before May could speak, “It’s… it’s late. I should probably go home.” You smiled quickly, relieved when Peter’s aunt simply nodded.

“Sounds like a good idea. It’ll be dark in about an hour, so you-” she pointed a long finger at her nephew “-will hurry home.”

The conversation between them continued, but you were only half listening as you slid your laptop into your bag, zipping it as the door closed. Peter watched as you straightened, your hair mussed from the play-fight, while you looked around for your jacket. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and walked over to the closet, grabbing a hoodie and a large, grey sweater of his own

. “You can borrow mine,” he offered, walking over to you and holding it out. You exhaled softly, watching his eyes as you took it. “Are you just saying that because you know it’s my favorite?”

He chuckled, and a wave of relief came over you. The two of you were still okay.

“Uh, as long- as long as you bring it back, I don’t care what you borrow. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

You laughed and shook your head, taking the sweater and giving him a soft punch to the shoulder before sliding it over your head. “Gracias. Let’s go.”

You slid your key into the lock of the glass door, twisting it until you heard the click.

“Think you can steal me a sandwich?” Peter joked, and you looked at him incredulously, scoffing.

“You’re funny.”

“Well, I-I mean, I try,” he admitted, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. You watched as his eyes flickered around the street, distracted, and you wondered what he was looking for.

“I’ll finish the project tonight, okay?” You asked, trying to draw him out of his thoughts. He nodded absently, tongue between his teeth before he turned to you and smiled. “And you’ll text me, right?”

“I always do,” you responded, tapping his nose. He laughed, grabbing your hand to pull you into a quick hug. The smell of him was welcome and familiar; fresh and clean, with a vague, spiced pine to it.

Peter pulled away too soon for your liking and gave you a smile as he put his hands in his pockets. “Don’t let your dad drive you crazy.”

You laughed. “Hey, now, I’ve got nothing but love for my padre.” Impulsively, you grabbed his sleeve to look at him pointedly before he could step away. “Stay safe?”

“I always do,” he mimicked, invoking a quiet laugh as you opened the shop door. You stepped inside, the familiar smell of the deli-grocery greeting you. When you looked out the wide windows, he was gone.

You closed the door gently and locked it, your free hand around the bells to keep them from jingling. Turning to the inside of the shop, you walked behind the counter and rummaged in the drawers for a candy bar. If you were going to finish this project, you’d need some energy to keep you up.

Murph leapt onto the counter silently, making you jump in surprise before sighing and reaching over to pick her up. The light had already faded in the windows - it felt like evening only a minute ago. Now it might as well have been half-past eleven.

You ran your fingers through Murph’s long fur, finding a Hershey’s in the drawer with your other hand. Pulling it out and closing the drawer gently, your eyes glanced up at the ceiling, conscious of your family sleeping above you. The drawer clicked shut and you moved to head up when there was a noise from the stairs.

Delmar stepped down the stairs, one hand against the frame, and studied you quietly. You shifted Murph slightly in your arms, waiting for him to speak.

“So you’re home,” he said finally. His voice was tired, but you wouldn’t have known if you’d only looked at him.

“He didn’t offer to let you stay?”

“I wanted to come home. I’m tired,” you clarified quietly, walking over and giving him a kiss on the cheek. He grunted and squeezed your shoulder in return, before leaving you at the base of the stairs and walking behind the counter, rummaging through the drawers himself. Like father, like daughter, you caught yourself thinking, and a smile quirked your lips.

“Hija, do you think he’s handsome?”

Your train of thought came to a screeching thought and you felt your face flush slightly. The image of Peter leaning over you flashed through your head and you inhaled quickly.

“Only a little,” you admitted. It occurred to you that it may have been your biggest understatement to date.

He nodded, looking up at you with deep eyes, and your faint smile dropped. Your fingers stopped running through Murph’s fur. Suddenly your father seemed much older.

“Be careful, pequeña. Please,” he pleaded. You nodded quickly. “I won’t get hurt, papá,” you responded softly. “I promise.”

A sudden rumble shook the floor of the shop and you stumbled, the cat leaping from your arms as you turned, bewildered, to stare at the bank across the street. Your father’s mouth was quicker than your own, speaking your thoughts out loud. “What the hell?”

You moved slowly towards the window, your eyes growing wider as you began to realize what you were seeing. It was the spider-man from youtube, and he was … actually stopping a bank robbery. Your mouth opened as you watched him, vaguely aware of your father’s voice behind the counter.

“...Spider-Man is fighting ...the Avengers… in a bank on 21st street?”

Suddenly a huge laser erupted through the wall of the bank and you shrieked, stumbling away from the window and falling against one of the food stands.

Across the street, Peter watched in horror as the alien laser ripped through the deli, the windows shattering, concrete collapsing like clay into heaps, igniting a wall of flame.

He swung over, abandoning the robbers without thinking, leaping into the demolished building. Smoke was rising, clouding his vision as he stood in the middle of the debris, searching frantically.

“Mr. Delmar?! Is anyone in here?!”

A coughed response came from the register and Peter leapt over it, waving away the smoke in front of his face and reaching for Delmar’s hand. He hauled him up, sliding off the counter to support him on his shoulders. Murph passed between Peter’s legs and he reached down quickly, picking up the cat and putting her in Delmar’s arms. “Let’s go! C’mon!”

Peter hauled the man out of the rubble, guilt ripping at his heart as Delmar coughed and spluttered. This is my fault. He leaned Delmar up against the pole outside, making sure he could stand before stepping away and taking a second to look at the bank. The robbers were gone. He put a hand on his head, heart hammering anxiously. This was not going how he’d planned...

“My daughter…”

His speeding heart came to a complete stop. No. No-

“She’s… she’s in there,” Delmar managed, coughing again.

Without a word, Peter ran inside, his pulse kicking up again as he tried to make out your familiar figure. The flames were climbing steadily. Smoke crowded against the ceiling, pouring out of the broken walls. He dropped to his knees beneath the smoke, looking for you, his breath coming out ragged and heavy with panic through the mask. Please. Please, please–

A hand under the rubble. Peter shoved a piece of rubble out of the way and began digging you out of the pile. He swore under his breath as he tried to control his shaking hands, praying to whoever was listening, asking for you to be okay.

Peter lifted a fallen wire stand up, uncovering the arm protected your face. You were motionless. Ignoring the growing heat against his back, he reached down and pulled you out from under the dust, curled over you, hands on your cheeks.

“Hey, are you awake?! Wake up!!”

Seconds felt like hours. Time seemed to freeze inside the burning deli, the pouring smoke slowing like summer clouds, leaping fires turning to lazy candle flames. The hands stood still, paralyzing Peter’s heart for an infinite moment, until he pressed his forehead to yours. And you stirred.

Peter let out a shaking gasp. Relieved tears dampened the inside of his mask as he lifted you up quickly, each drowsy movement from you sending him soaring. You'd be okay.

You could feel the world coming back into focus— slowly, and then all at once. The screaming pain from your head, legs, and myriad injuries drew an immediate gasp of pain from your lips. “Oh my god-”

“Don’t-don't move,” Peter interrupted quickly. He looked up, coming back to reality in an instant. You had to get out of here.

You blinked repeatedly, your eyes slowly coming back into focus. You felt like you'd been hit by a semi. You blinked again, a frown crossing your face as the stranger lifted you up like you weighed nothing. Either their skin was a deep, scarlet red, or you were very concussed.

Your senses seemed to come back one-by-one; the ringing in your ears stopped gradually as you began to detect the acrid smells of burning hair, smoke, and… Peter? No. This wasn't Peter, it was just the smell of his jacket on your shoulders. Then who…?

Your eyes slowly trailed up the patterns against the skin of the person carrying you out of the ruined deli. Only- oh. It was a suit. Your bleary vision found his face and the breath left your lungs.

“You-- you’re-” your breath shuddered and you coughed. “You’re the spider-man.”

The spider-man nodded, making you frown again. “But… the bank…” your brain was moving too slowly. There were too many questions.

Before you knew what was going on, you were being set down on the pavement, leaned against your father. Delmar’s and Peter’s- no, you correct yourself, spider-man’s- voices were dissolving into the sound of sirens. You watched as he turned, and your hand found his wrist before you knew what you wanted to say. “Wait!”

He turned, the eyes on his mask somehow expressing surprise as he waited for your reply. You could feel his pulse through his suit. Was it that fast all the time?

“Thank you,” you said stupidly, watching him nod. He withdrew his hand, nodding again. Staring at you– probably because you couldn't pull your eyes off him, either.

Then you heard his voice again: “A-anytime. I —I gotta go.” And he was gone.

#Peter Parker x reader #tom holland x reader #Peter Parker x you #Peter Parker fanfic #spider man homecoming

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complexmagrparchive · 7 years

Photo

EVIL IS WHATEVER DISTRACTS

NAME › Natalie Eunseo Howard/ Natalie Kim D.O.B. › 08 17 1991 (25) OCCUPATION › Freelance Photographer/ Receptionist INSTA › @dysofbngwld

content warning: alcoholism

PORTFOLIO

( Basically her style is based on JDZ Chung’s work so in no way am I claiming credit for any of the work but that’s who the actual photographer of these pieces are.)

Portrait A, for Dazed Korea

Portrait B, for Complex

Portrait C, for personal portfolio

Landscape A, for personal portfolio

Portrait D, for unreleased photobook

Portrait E and Portrait F, for Complex

Portrait G and Portrait H, for Nylon Korea

DETAILS

born to an american soldier and a young korean woman in busan.

father leaves the family, is never heard from again.

mother remarries, gives birth to siblings. natalie gets lost in the mix.

gets into art high school in seoul for drawing, stands out little among peers.

drinks for the first time as a teenager, likes it more than she should.

takes photography up as a hobby, posts to blog and slowly gains notoriety.

gets into hongik, continues to not stand out among peers, drinks more.

begins freelancing as a photographer, drops out of college.

spends too much time drinking/partying and not enough time working. sets foundation to ruin her own life.

comes to the realization that she’s probably ruining her life with destructive behavior.

A guy tells her about a condensed version of the twelve step plan, for new year’s she tells herself she’ll give it a try.

Step one; admitting that one cannot control one’s alcoholism, addiction or compulsion.

“Hi, my name is Natalie and I’m an alcoholic.”

The group greets her back as a collective, and it’s only when she looks around the room desperately searching for kind eyes to connect with that she realizes she’s the only person under thirty in the room.

Alcoholism, she notes, is not an issue faced by the average 25 year old.

“I like drinking because it makes me feel invincible, and I don’t get that when I’m sober.”

There’s the distinct throb of her own heartbeat that drowns out any noise. The group claps and Natalie takes her seat but her heart echoes too loudly in her ears and she can’t begin to focus on the next person speaking or anything that happens during the intermission.

She only knows two things for sure: she’d kill for a drink right now, and she’s never coming back to this circle of fucking losers.

Step two; recognizing a higher power that can give strength.

JESUS LOVES YOU!

It’s a gaudy sort of flier, with the words written in bubbly rainbow and a teenage girl all but shoves it in her hands as she tries to make her way past the ensuing crowd of forceful christian teens trying to spread the good word in some shit-stain sidewalk in Hongdae.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life” The rest of the flier reads, and it’s enough to make her laugh.

For God so loved Jesus he sacrificed him for the sake of the ungrateful humans who turned their backs on his majesty.

For God so loved Natalie he had her father abandon her physically, and her mother emotionally.

For God so loved Natalie he gave her younger half-siblings more wonderful than she could ever be and a group of friends with more talent than she could ever hope for

For God so loved Natalie he made her a jealous, insecure woman who self-destructs the moment anything remotely good begins to happen.

God doesn’t make mistakes, and the bible says he loves her as much as he benevolently loves anyone else. But Natalie’s ready and willing to call bullshit.

The flier crumples up in tight pale fists and she chucks it into the street, praying a puddle destroys it before God’s love has a chance to ruin someone else’s day.

Step three; examining past errors with the help of a sponsor (experienced member).

“Do you think I’m a fuck up?”

Phone cradled between her shoulder and her face she swears she can hear the hesitation in his breath as he sighs loudly into her ear.

“This is really what you want to talk to me about at 3 a.m.? Shouldn’t you be editing photos right now, not indulging in an existential crisis?”

His voice is still rough and raspy, and Natalie is sure that before she called he was nearing his REM cycle and dreaming about something wholly more pleasant than spending the wee hours of the morning talking to a girl with a lack of boundaries or consideration for others.

“I’m editing the photos right now. But I started thinking about it and I got curious.”

He sighs again, more softly.

“Natalie go to sleep. The photos can wait, you’re ahead of the deadline this time. Hang up your phone, put the wine bottle away, turn off your laptop, and go to sleep. Don’t worry about stupid shit this late at night, you’ll only stress yourself out.”

“I’m not drinking.”

“Really? Well good for you. Now go the fuck to sleep.”

It’s her turn to sigh.

He’s too damned nice and she hates him for it. Maybe that’s why they could never work out romantically, maybe that’s why they barely work out platonically. He’s beating around the bush avoiding the ugly truth that they’re both very much aware of.

“I’ll hang up after you answer my question.”

The line goes dead for a moment, and it’s only the steady subtle sound of his breath that makes her realize he’s still there

“I don’t think you’re a fuck up— ”

“ —Bullshit.”

“Shut up and let me finish for once. I don’t think you’re a fuck up. Do I think you’re a person who fucks up a lot? Yeah, anyone with eyes can see that. But do I think you’re a fuck up? No. You’re just some girl who’s kind of selfish and likes to make herself suffer and cut herself off from people who care about her. You’re also a girl who doesn’t respect my sleep schedule, but no I don’t think you’re a fuck up. Now will you let me go to sleep.”

The total honesty of it shocks her. Granted, it’s what she asked for (what she craves), but the reality of it catches her off guard.

“Okay.”

Her voice is small and timid and suddenly she can’t seem to be bothered about the pictures staring back at her from her computer screen anymore.

“You’re not a fuck up, you’re just a person who needs some work. Don’t get yourself so down, just go to bed and don’t forget to send me those pictures sometime tomorrow. Good night.”

The line goes dead before Natalie can muster a reply.

Step four; making amends for these errors.

After a decade, her mother’s house is more or less the same.

The same family portrait of three handsome children paired with two proud parents and an awkward gawky girl standing alongside adorns the living room wall. The same cream colored couch with hard, uninviting immaculately clean cushions. The same god forsaken coffee table whose corners only serve to gouge and bruise Natalie’s skin.

She’s been gone from Busan for ten years, and yet nothing’s changed; her mother’s kept a time capsule all of these years.

“What’s this?”

The satoori that her mother spits out so incredulously sounds all too familiar and all too foreign in the same breath. They talk every now and again on the phone, but the power of her mother’s accent gets lost in the distance. In person it’s powerful and a glaring reminder of how far from a Seoul-girl Natalie really is.

“It’s money, Mom. I got a second job because I wanted to pay you and your husband back.”

The envelope sits on that damned contraption of a coffee table untouched, but Natalie can’t miss the way her mother’s eyebrow perks up in disinterest and the way her lips purse. It’s an expected gift, unwarranted as it is. Her mother spent fifteen long years raising her and another ten sending monetary support to encourage reckless habits. It’s the least Natalie can do even if her mother isn’t interested.

“I’m making japchae for dinner. Your father and your brothers will be home soon, why don’t you stay for dinner. It’d be nice to have a full family dinner for once.”

In the reflection of the coffee table, she can see that fucking family portrait she’s spent years forgetting existed. Her mother sits on a chair and smiles brightly, with a cherubic looking baby sitting on her lap. Her mother’s husband stands behind the chair, one hand resting on the wicker, the other resting on his young son’s shoulder. Another boy stands to the side with the same twinkle in his eyes as the older boy and the beautiful baby. Then, off to the side, stands Natalie in all of her awkward gawky teenaged glory. Her features don’t match up with the children who mirror each other so well. Her forehead is too wide, her ears stick out too much, a face too exotic to fit perfectly amongst a family so proudly and obviously Korean.

She’d like to rip that potrait off the wall and smash it into the ugly table her mother adores so much.

“Can’t stay. I gotta catch a train back to Seoul today, I’ve got work later tonight.”

If she doesn’t look, she’s sure she’ll be able to avoid the guilt that undoubtedly will attack her if she meets her mother’s gaze.

“Okay then. Call me when you get to Seoul and let me know you got there okay.”

She’s out the door before her mother can dare say anything more.

The guilt finds her in the end anyways.

Step five; learning to live a new life with a new code of behavior

Knees caked in dirt and gloves now soiled, she can almost understand the appeal old women find in maintaining a lovely little garden. Her roses are starting to bloom well, and the lavender look nice in it’s lonely little corner. It’s a patrician hobby; for those with enough money to afford the time to spend tending to pretty little flowers and enjoying the simple pleasures of life.

The sun bears down too hot on pale shoulders, and Natalie can’t help but sigh at the way her knees ache when she pushes herself up as she assess her work. It’s nice, but not nearly enough. If she works hard, by mid August the rooftop might look like the secret garden she’s got in her mind.

Her phone starts to ring the second she pulls her clammy hands out from their lycra and leather prison. Temptation has impeccable timing.

“Natty! Where are you, baby girl? I miss your crazy ass!” the voice on the other end clings to every syllable and there’s a familiar itch in the back of Natalie’s throat suddenly.

“Right now I’m on my rooftop putting away gardening tools.”

Laughter on the other end rings somewhere in between bemused and condescending in Natalie’s ear and she tries not to notice the way her fingers clench into a fist as her nails dig into the rough material of her gloves.

“What the fuck. Did you magically turn into an eighty year old while I was gone?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Okay well Miss Howl’s Moving Castle, come turn into a beautiful young girl again and come to my birthday party tonight. I know you couldn’t possibly forget.”

Her teeth clench tightly, and critical eyes begin to assess the garden again. The lavender looks to far off and lonely in the corner, she thinks she ought to plant some celosia nearby.

“I don’t know. I’m kind of busy.”

“Oh boo, I’ll be so sad if you don’t come. Don’t ruin my birthday Natty, I won’t forgive you if you do. It’s at that one club in Itaewon, our favorite one.”

“I’ll uh think about it.”

“Good.”

The line goes dead before she has a chance to give another half assed denial. Slipping her gloves back on she makes her way over to the corner of lavender. Another couple of hours in the garden won’t kill her, and neither will one night in Itaewon.

She’ll make one last great hurrah about it.

#cx:accepted #kiko mizuhara

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