needle in the concrete

Fragile (Stark!Reader x Steve Rogers) 1

Summary: You come home after being assaulted, only to see Steve awake and takes care of you.

Warning(s): Mentions of rape / sexual assault, swearing, flashbacks of rape (in italics), heavy HEAVY angst

Requests are OPEN

Part 1 | 2

A/N: Hi guys! this is my first ever fic on this account! And who doesn’t love crying to some good ol’ angst at 2am? However im really sorry for how dark this is and I know it can be really triggering for some, but sometimes I feel as if I can really bring out my writing skill by writing dark themes? Idk, sorry! I’m willing to write literally anything from smut, fluff or anything dark.. so I’d really appreciate it if you sent requests because I am AWFUL at coming up with imagine ideas! Italics = flashback or whatnot!


The rain down poured onto your heavy shoulders, soaking your messed clothing. Your arms were traced in trembling goosebumps from the previous fear you had experienced as you tugged on your jacket to cover the bruises that traced your neck and arms, possibly other parts of your skin too.

Even though you were in fact a Stark and being in your mid 20′s, you had what seemed to be a normal life. You grew up in a regular school, attended college and you even had your own friends. That’s what your plans were for the night, going to attend a high school reunion after oh so many years and reunite with old friends and classmates but it turns out them plans had shattered due to a cruel man with a passion for forcing lust upon others.

“Keep quiet, girly..” The middle aged drunk grunted, pinning your fragile wrists into the puddles of rain that rippled below.

Quivering sobs slipped from your lips, feeling your dignity being ripped away by each thrust which was forced by the unknown male. Everything felt numb. Tears pooled down your bruised cheek from the violent punch that was given to you after your attempt of defending yourself from the disgusting creature that was now panting above you in lust and need. One of the hands slipped from your wrists and covered your mouth and nose in a violent manner, gripping your vulnerable skin and stopping your breathing as a warning to keep quiet.

You flinched at the nightmare of a memory that haunted you quickly, the events already taking a toll upon your mindset from a few minutes ago. You pulled up your damp jeans and shakily pulled yourself up from the alleyway concrete ground.

Reality was hitting you like little needles piercing past your pride.

You, (Y/N) Stark had just been raped in a dark alleyway, something you’d have to carry with you for the rest of your time on earth.

You picked up your scattered insides from your leather handbag, picking up soaked dollars and your now broken phone from water damage. Your fingertips flinching and twitching towards your objects as you slowly began to collect your stuff together and your mindset.

“Oh shit, you feel so fucking tight.. Yeah, you fucking love it, don’t you? Pretty little slut..” 

He nibbled at the lobe of your ear, now having both hands on your hips- digging his filthy nails into your skin and creating red scratches due to the harsh pressure.

You were too weak and terrified to move an inch, let alone fight back. It seemed as if the only way out of this was to not struggle and let it be over with as quick as it could. You bit down on your lip- making it swell as blood welled up against your teeth in order to not let this sick bastard hear one of your sweet sounds out of this sickening act.

“No matter how much you deny that you don’t like it, you seem to be receiving pleasure- aren’t you? My dick is fucking coated in your steaming juice..”

His vile words only stung and created mental scars for you to let linger in your brain- causing more tears to mix in with the rain which poured on your face. Yet you didn’t retort back a witty comment like you usually would, you just wanted this over and done with as quick as possible. 

There was no way out of this for you any other way.

Your hand fell limp against the pavement and you closed your eyes to keep your tears trapped as well as any other sign of pleasure for this monster.

These thoughts danced through your mind as you limped your way back to your home, the Stark tower. How could someone just emotionally and physically destroy another person and leave them to rot in their own puddle of trauma?

Luckily for you, no one would most likely be home at the Stark Tower and anyone that was- would be asleep at the late time of night. Your father being out of town for meetings and the rest of the avengers having their own missions and lives to attend to.

So you thought.

After reaching your much so desired destination, you take a ride in the elevator that lead you up the tower. The ride seemed like hours of sorrow even though it only took roughly 30 seconds. 

Eventually, the doors open and you see the empty floor of your home before you. Your bare feet trot against the marble ground, your black heels in your shaky grip. All of your eye makeup was smudged down your face and your lipstick was swiped to one side from the forced kisses you had been given. Your leather jacket was stuck to your damp and damaged skin, your well put together outfit was now torn in places and was disorganised.

The lights flickered on automatically at the sense of movement, the Kitchen lights already being on- which was unknown to your mind. You walk through- about to take the stairs up to the floor of bedrooms until your movement is cut off by a soft voice.

“(Y/N)? What are you doing home so early?” 

You stop, not wanting to look back but without even seeing who had spoken, it was obvious by the gentle tone of the voice that it was Steve who had seen you.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at a high school reunion?”

You slowly look over your shoulder, seeing Steve emerge from the kitchen in a white tank top and comfy sweats and mis matched american socks and his hair messed up from perhaps sleeping. Your voice trembled, failing to find an answer for the first avenger.

Steve’s eyes widened for a second, shocked to see you in such a state from just seeing the back of your clothing and your face which had a black and blue bruise with yellow undertones coating your left cheek, foundation rubbed off in certain places and hickeys pulsing at your neck.

“Woah, woah.. (Y/N) what happened?!” Steve spoke in a worried tone and quickly paced over to you.

Once he was close enough, you collapsed into his broad chest. Your fist weakly gripping the white fabric on his chest as he held you in a protective embrace.

“I..I didn’t want it, Steve..”


20 minutes had passed, you were sat on the living room sofa with blankets wrapped around your damaged body as Steve had dressed and bathed you himself. You wore a pair of his own sweats and one of his shirts which were both very much so oversized for you form.

Steve walked over, holding a large mug of hot chocolate carefully- handing it over to you carefully and sitting down next to you. 

From what Steve had gathered from your fragile state and disfigured mental state, you had been raped. From seeing your body once he had bathed you, he saw scratches in places that shouldn’t have marks on such perfect skin, bruises and more sinful  wounds. After seeing your limp, he devoted himself to carry you around for the night and after giving him permission, he had dressed and cared for you. Steve didn’t want to pressure you into telling him about how everything happened.

He didn’t want to reopen fresh wounds.

“Thankyou, Steve..” You croaked, your voice hoarse and broken from within.

Steve offered a sad smile, watching you take sips of the sweet, steamed liquid which eased your sore throat slightly and made your damaged insides slowly heat up the cold actions that had swarmed inside your body.

“No need to thank me, doll.”

It was your turn to offer the sad smile to your fathers teammate, even your own friend. Your eyes were dry due to crying out all of the moisture left in your eyes. The smile fell from your chapped and swollen lips.

“Sorry, i-i..I didn’t call because my phones broke and all.. I-I should’ve been more careful, fuck- my dad’s gonna kill me.. I’m always breaking phones and you know how annoyed he gets, you know, you’d think maybe a 24 year old would be more careful..”

Steve gently cut off your rambling, “(Y/N), it’s not your fault for what happened.. Tony won’t even care once he find out what has happened, you know he has to know- (Y/N)…”

You look up from your mug, both hands enclosed on the pottery. 

“Don’t tell him, Steve..”

“(Y/N)-”

“Not now, not tonight..” Your voice cracked, holding back a sniffle. “I just want to be here with you, I-i don’t want to deal with telling him just yet..”

Steve looked into your (E/C) eyes, he could only imagine what monstrous things you had seen and felt in the span of a few hours. He couldn’t make you more upset, not after what had happened.

“Alright, yeah.. okay.”

You slightly scooted over, ignoring the pain that burned between your legs from the harsh actions that scraped between them earlier. Placing the empty mug down on the coffee table and resting your head against Steve’s chest, his heartbeat soothing your broken state. Nothing was more healing for you than having Steve here to take care of you in such a depressing time for you. 

You both stayed like this for a while, Steve rubbing small circles against your aching ribs and your eyes slowly fell shut, exhaustion taking over you.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

The Torture Murder of Sylvia Likens

In early 1965 a struggling housewife named Gertrude Baniszewski started advertising her home as a sort of flophouse for inconvenient children, where parents would pay her to look after their children while they searched for work. Baniszewski soon took in the oldest daughters of two circus workers, Sylvia and Jenny Likens, and agreed to accept $20 a week for their upkeep. It was a cramped situation between the family and the two guests, and Baniszewski began taking her anger out primarily on 16 -year-old Sylvia. Rumors spread at school that Sylvia stole food out of rubbish bins and had a boyfriend, and as punishment Baniszewski starved the girl, whipped her, slapped her around the face. Her sister Jenny was just twelve, and felt too powerless to act. Their caretaker’s rage peaked when their parents were late with the $20 payment; Baniszewski invited several neighborhood children over and encouraged them to mistreat Sylvia; and so her torture really began.

Sylvia was tied up in the basement for days on end, accused of imaginary slights and punished near continuously. She was beaten daily, often barefisted, and lit cigarettes were stubbed out on her body. Sylvia had to beg for food and was forced to soil the narrow bit of concrete she was confined to, and the kids Baniszewski befriended took turns stripping her naked and whipping her, yanking out tufts of her hair, burning her.

The autopsy of her body later revealed over two dozen impact injuries and Sylvia’s genital reason in particular was a center of massive trauma. She was also covered in a number of small cuts, burns, and rope burn injuries, and was severely malnourished. But the injury thst caught investigators eyes the most was the awful message scrawled childishly on the teenagers stomach in red welts: I’M A PROSTITUTE AND I LOVE IT!

Neighbors last heard Sylvia banging on the basement wall with a shovel, and then she seemed to disappear. Sylvia was, in fact, enduring her final round of torture at the hands of the sadistic housewife and her group of morally vapid children. As punishment for wetting herself earlier in the day, Sylvia was made to keep standing while her head was repeatedly punched into a wall. She was then flipped on the concrete while a boy heated a needle to write the grim exclamation on the poor girls abdomen. Sylvia was thrown on a bed to sleep, while her foster mother went upstairs and watched television.

The next day, Sylvia was delirious due to dehydration and internal bleeding. She could not stand or walk and lapsed in and out of consciousness. Her sister Jenny tried to sneak food to her, but it was too late; Sylvia Likens was dead, from a combination of malnutrition and internal injuries.

Baniszewski made the children swear to silence, but police visited the house to discuss Sylvia’s absence from school and were tipped off by Jenny as to what happened. Sylvia’s battered corpse was discovered in a bedroom, and it was immediately obvious she was the victim of horrendous abuse. The crime scene examiner called it the worst case of abuse he had ever seen in the state of Indiana. Baniszewski, her daughter, and several local children were arrested and put on trial. The unsmiling housewife was sentenced to life, her daughter to a maximum of ten years, the her accomplices recieved various reduced sentences when they gave evidence.

2

Why do we have a beer opener in the lab? 

Well, sometimes larger amounts of butyllithium is needed and it would take too much time to get out everything from a “Aldrich sure seal” bottle through the concrete hard septa with a syringe and needle…

n-Butyllithium, abbreviated BuLi or nBuLi is an organolithium reagent used as a strong base (pKa ≈ 50) in organic chemistry and as a initiator for the anionic polymerization of dienes in polymerchemistry. Due to the large difference between the electronegativities of carbon (2.55) and lithium (0.98), the C-Li bond is highly polarized and the BuLi is highly reactive.

Well, okay, but why was the septa and the fancy bottle? Alkyl-lithium compounds are stored under inert gas to prevent loss of activity and for reasons of safety, since they react with everything, from moisture in the air, CO2, labcoat, skin, face and everything. n-BuLi is not that bad compared to the sec- and tert-BuLi, but it could also ignite easily and it’s really hard to extinguish, since it will probably react with the extinguisher. It is usually handled using air free techniques to prevent mishaps and serious problems, so if you use BuLi, don’t take off the septa, use a needle and argon gas.

Olicity Drabble: Hold Me Closer

[A little between the scenes (smack you with the angst) drabble…]

He finds her in the locker room, tucked around a corner so she can hastily strip out of the red dress that is stained with sweat along the armpits, and reeks with a chemical smell that she is trying to ignore even as she trembles. When he first saw her in that dress, the zipper teasing high up her thigh and slinking around her back in a sinful promise, he imagined dropping to his knees and parting the material with his teeth.

Now the red fabric pools at her bare feet with the clink of the zipper against the concrete and he feels nothing but an aching tenderness, even with her standing there in her bra and panties and reaching for the clothes folded on the bench.

“Hey,” he says softly, and she jumps, clutching the pale purple blouse to her chest. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Hands held out, approaching her slowly, as she closes her eyes in relief behind her glasses and her tense body sags a little when his fingers graze her shoulders. With a little sigh, she lets him pull her into his arms, standing on her bare toes and pressing her face into his shoulder.

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8

“And if there’s one thing he loves about Felicity Smoak, it’s that fear has never stopped her. She leaps from rooftops and stays beneath crumbling concrete and plunges a needle into the neck of the man with a sword to her throat to save the world… They fell in love on the battlefield—it means he fell in love with a soldier. What she told him tonight, that marriage was fighting together, only made him love her more.”
Hold Me Closer by jsevick

Rivers and Roads

A/N: Five times Oliver tells Felicity about his scars, and one time she tells him about hers. Title from the Head and the Heart song by the same name. Also on ao3.

They’re in Texas by the time the wound on his hand has healed, the raw, silvery-pink skin stretched tight to span the gap cleaved by his clutch on Ra’s al Ghul’s sword.

“I still don’t get it,” Felicity says, turning over his left hand in her right and glancing down at the remnant scar of the wound that she had carefully bandaged for weeks. The wind whips a lock of hair loose from her ponytail, and she absently tucks it behind her ear before settling her free hand back over the top of the steering wheel. “I used to flinch away from dodge balls in gym class — you know, the soft foam ones that are practically pillows? — and you grabbed a sword.”

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#21 - You Pass Out (Part 1)

Ashton: The outside music festival was supposed to be fun, but thanks to the 31 degree Celsius weather, it was anything but, Bodies were pressed up against each other and sweat was dripping down your forehead. Why hadn’t you gone with Ashton to get drinks? The heat was getting intense with every passing second and it was becoming way too much for you. You turned, trying to push your way through the large group of people. But your legs weren’t going to get you much further as blackness took over your vision, and your legs gave out from under you.

Calum: You had been ill with the flu, stuck in bed for the last week. Your body had absolutely no energy, but today you had a sudden appetite. You were glad as it was a sign of getting better, but because Calum was out picking up some stuff, you were on your own. Standing on your shaky legs, you walked into the hallway, inching your way down the hall. It was amazing what no food could do your body. Your legs were shaking and your head was light headed from standing up after so long. You had to stop, dropping on your knees and flopping forwards, your body just too weak to manage.

Luke: The camera’s were flashing and there was no sign of your boyfriend Luke. One minute you had his hand, the next he was gone and you were alone. Your anxiety immediately kicked in and you were hyperventilating in desperate search for Luke. You had tried calling his name, but the screaming drowned you out by a milestone. You were spinning in circles, trying to get any glimpse you could of Luke. He was so tall, you though this would be easier. Your hyperventilating continuing to grow quicker and your body began to tingle. Before you had a chance to realize what was happening, you hit the ground, your head bouncing on the concrete.

Michael: It was just a needle, but to you, it was a life or death situation. You absolutely despised them, and even the sight of blood was enough to knock you out. So that was why Michael had to be with you when you went to get blood taken. Your two worst fears mashed into one experience. The nurse had you in the chair, your free hand gripping onto your boyfriend’s. He had told you not to look, but being you, of course you did. The minute the blood squirted up into the little cylinder, your eyes rolled into the back of your head and your body fell forwards.