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cellarfulofnose · 2 years ago

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Lovesick Blues

Prompt #10. I got the rockin' pneumonia, I need a shot of rhythm and blues...

[Note: I want to play around with the timeline a little bit, so please bear with me. This is set in 1962, when Pete Best was still on drums and the band was playing the Cavern circuit. But let's pretend the events of Knowing Me, Knowing You have already happened (even though it's set in 1963), possibly minus the van-snuff-scene. Anyway. 1962. But John knows about the kink.]

It's not normal.

Not that Paul's an impartial judge of what's normal, mind. But where these sorts of things are concerned, he's got a very keen eye indeed, and today, John's touching his throat and wincing far more often than can be considered normal. When he screams his ripping notes, his voice goes raw, and fuck if he doesn't sound like a rock star, the best this side of the Atlantic, but it looks--and sounds--like it hurts. More than normal.

Paul doesn't bring it up. It's a subject far too close to home for him, and in front of Pete and George, he wouldn't dare. That's all he needs, to be told John's touching his throat a perfectly normal amount, thank you, and why were you lookin' anyway? Paul doesn't follow that rocky road any further than he has to.

As soon as practice ends, John's coughing. Not your garden variety throat-clearing ahems, really coughing. Paul doesn't say anything. Doesn't even look. Is it so unusual? Over the course of practice, they'd smoked enough among the four of them to fill George's mum's ashtray to spilling. And then there was the yelling. Paul would be surprised if John wasn't coughing. And the others aren't saying anything, so. Maybe it is normal. He unplugs his bass.

"Yours again tomorrow? Same time?" says Pete.

George nods. "Me mum's doin' supper for us. So don't eat first."

John's gone quiet now, so Paul chances a look, just in time to see John's nostrils flare wide and his mouth drop open (oh, shit, oh Jesus...)

"hh'EtShhoo!"

Right in his hand, not even in his bloomin' sleeve or anything. Paul looks away so fast his hair swishes across his forehead. He's going to be blushing for a good five minutes now, and what really gets him is, he's not even sure if John would remember why. John hasn't brought it up again, his secret. Not since that day in his room with the little white downfeather. And Paul's damned if he's going to be the first one to ford that stream.

There are two possibilities that nauseate Paul equally. First, John's forgotten about this particular kink of his, or dismissed it as a one-off, in which case Paul will just have to sit on it for a few more years until he inevitably outs himself again. Second, John remembers every grisly detail and wants nothing to do with it. Paul's praying it's the former. Either way, he's not bringing it up. No fucking chance.

"You comin' down with something, John?" Pete asks, and Paul almost drops his bass.

"Yeah." John sniffs roughly, snorting down the back of his throat. "It's syphilis. Caught it off your mum."

"Ah, get bent."

"Yeah? Come 'ere and say that again, I feel another one coming..."

"Get out of my house, Lennon," says George. "Don't need you spewin' your germs all over."

Pete brushes past Paul with an unenthusiastic Bye, and Paul manages "See ya." John's joking about that other one, right? Bass in hand, he turns around under the guise of saying goodbye to George.

John kneels on the ground, snapping his guitar into its case. He looks run-down, a little paler than usual, maybe, and his eyes seem...puffy. Like there's pressure in his head. He catches his collar on one thumb and pulls it up to wipe his nose.

His eyes meet Paul's.

Paul looks at George and spits out, "See you tomorrow." George raises an open hand in a half-hearted wave, and Paul takes that as permission to leave.

He's almost on his bicycle when the door slams and John lumbers down the front steps, prodding at his throat under the hinge of his jaw, like he's feeling swollen nodes.

Paul grips the handles of his bike. Swallows. "Honey lemon tea's good for a sore throat," he finally says.

John's eyebrows go up. "Is it." He sounds haggard. Rough.

"Mm-hmm. 'Specially after the--" Paul shakes his head and breathes out a whispering hiss, a shadow of his Little Richard scream. "Y'know?"

John snickers, and Paul feels less like he wants to crawl in a hole. He opens his mouth to say goodbye, but that snort of a laugh must have knocked something loose, because now John's frowning, blinking, tipping his head back, curling a hand in front of his face...

"--'EHsSHhoo!" Like a punch, straight from the chest.

"G'bless you," says Paul, because that's what normal people say, even though all the blood's rushed out of his head and into his body, and he feels like if anyone touched him right now they'd burst into flames. God. Right in his strumming hand, too.

John paws at his nose, pinching and pulling to swipe it clean, then rubs his hand on his trouser leg (Suffering Christ, thinks Paul). He looks up, rheumy and reddened, and cracks a wicked grin. "Like that, do you?"

Paul's heart thuds in his chest, his cheeks scorching. He casts a frantic look at George's house to see if anyone is close enough to have heard--

"Yeah, you do, you dirty bugger."

"John," Paul pleads, almost whispers, but John just smiles with his tongue in his cheek and turns to head home. Coughing every ten steps.

When Paul's got control of his legs again, he straddles his bicycle and pedals home. So, John remembers. And not only that, he's...not entirely against the idea. It almost knocks him off two wheels, playing it back in his head, imagining what he'd do and say to see Paul squirm.

Tomorrow's practice is going to be incredibly interesting.

Next Day

The phone rings mid-day. It's George.

"John's out sick, so. You still want to come to practice?"

"Oh, uh." Paul glances across the room, but Mike hasn't looked up from his lunch. Still, he turns his back to the kitchen and, for some reason, lowers his voice. "Yeah. Sure."

"Right," says George. "Pete's not comin', so it'll just be us."

Paul rolls his eyes. Might have been nice to lead with that. But he did lead with a very pertinent piece of information, so Paul quickly asks, "With--with what?"

"...You what?"

"Um, John." Paul shifts the receiver to his other hand. "What--what's wrong with John? You said he's--"

"Oh. Yeah, he's got a cold. He just rang me. Sounded pretty bad."

Paul's head is swirling. John didn't fucking ring him. It was George's practice, true, but...And how bad was pretty bad? Did he mean that he could hear the cold in his voice? Congestion, hoarseness? Or were his...other symptoms actually audible through the line?

"Huh," he says.

"Yeah. You comin', then?"

"...Yeah. Oh, yeah." Paul's not paying attention. He's thinking of honey lemon tea.

***

Practice is, as expected, a bit of a wash. There's not many songs they can do without a rhythm section, so they jam for a while and hash out their solos until they know them backwards without missing a note. It's ridiculously efficient. Hey Good Lookin' in particular sounds so much better without a drum kit, George starts to talk of trimming the fat. Paul shushes him, but he does make a good point.

Supper is a roast that Louise began cooking the night before, with Pete and John in mind, so it's a king's feast for Paul and the rest of George's family. George plows through three servings without slowing down. Teenagers, Paul thinks, though he shrugged off that mantle only a few months ago. He does his best to match George's pace, which earns him nothing but smiles from Louise. Easy to charm, this one. Paul bats his eyes and compliments her cooking--and her hair, for good measure--with just enough tact that she sends him on his way with a pat on the cheek and bundle of blackcurrant cakes. He thanks her profusely amidst eye-rolling from George, who helps him sling his guitar case on his back nevertheless.

He hugs George before he slips out the door. He's not sure why--could be that George was standing there looking all top-heavy and lost, and Paul got sentimental, or maybe it's something he'd do all the time without John and Pete around, he doesn't know. But it's nice, if brief, and it makes George smile.

Shadows are falling by the time Paul drops off his guitar and starts making his way to Mendips with the bundle of cakes. They're his ticket past Mimi--from George's mother, he insists when she informs him that John's ill and won't be taking visitors. Told her I'd hand 'em over personally. He knows from the hour and the open bottle of headache pills on the kitchen counter that she doesn't have the energy to argue with him tonight. He's smirking all the way up the stairs, but when he reaches John's room, he falters.

The door's shut, but no light on under to indicate anyone's inside. Paul raises his fist to knock, then lowers it. What if John's asleep? He turns the knob slowly and carefully, almost noiseless, and slinks inside.

"The fuck are you doing here?"

Paul freezes as the lamp clicks on. John's sitting up in bed, wearing his horn-rims and a white t-shirt. Balled-up tissues are everywhere, dotting the bedspread and the floor like autumn leaves.

"You sound shit," Paul says, because he feels the need to play defense, and because John does. He sounds twenty years older, if he smoked for forty of them, and so stuffed-up it's almost funny. Almost.

"Yeah, and you look it," John snipes. "What's that?"

Perhaps it shouldn't be a comfort to Paul, the ease with which John slings muck right back at him, but it is. Means he's in at least fair humour. He shuts the door and raises the cloth-wrapped bundle. "Cakes from George's mum."

John hums approvingly. "Wasn't that kind of the old bat."

"'Ey, none of that." Paul plops down at the foot of John's bed, and the papery rustle tells him he's just sat on tissues. He blinks the thought away and adds, "They're good."

"Probably would be, if I could fuckin' t-taste--" John chokes, then fully succumbs to a rib-shaking spell of coughing, curling a fist over his lips.

It's not a lightning-strike of arousal, but a stab of affection that courses through Paul. John sounds worse than yesterday. "Did you try that tea?"

"Yeah." John pushes his glasses back up and mops at his nose with a crumpled tissue that looks like it's outlived its usefulness. "I did." Sniff.

"Did it work?"

John shoots him a red-rimmed glare, and the message gets through: Take a good, long look at me and ask me that again, so Paul quickly backtracks. "Did it--did it make your throat feel any better?" He adjusts his grip on the bundle of cakes. He sort of wants to eat one, just to give his mouth something to do, but that'd be rude, wouldn't it? Not before John has one, anyway...

"For a bit," John relents, "but then it--" he swallows, and a wrinkle forms in his brow. He shakes his head, nettled.

"I'll make you another one." Paul sets the cakes aside and moves to get up. He'd started to feel superfluous, and the idea of being useful lights a spark under him.

"No--" John's hand is on his arm before he can push himself to a standing position. Paul tries not to stiffen at the touch, but it makes his heart go double-time. They haven't gone to bed together, either, since that last time. Paul's pretty sure they haven't even touched.

The closeness seems to hit John at the same time, and he pulls his hand back; not too quickly, but fast enough that he leaves a cold shadow on Paul's skin when his warmth disappears. He blinks and points vaguely to his throat. "Hurts too much to swallow," he says softly.

For a moment, Paul's so concerned that he forgets about the stolen touch. "Does it hurt to talk?"

"Yes," John rasps, but a wry grin gives away the fact that his sudden weak, wheezy voice is a put-on.

Paul huffs out a laugh. "Well, you ought to get somethin' down you. Something to drink, at least, you've got t--"

"Yes, Mother," John scoffs.

"Don't take that tone with me, young man." Paul's a stern Yorkshire housewife in an instant, his index finger raised in warning, turning over the notion that this isn't something either of them should joke about (while knowing, of course, they're the only ones who should be making mother jokes).

But John doesn't laugh, and he doesn't fire back a delinquent son's ungrateful retort. For a second, Paul's petrified that he did push it a smidge too far, but John's expression clouds, his eyes hazing half-shut, his lips parting, and Paul's heart stops for a different reason.

"--hh." John lifts a hand to his face, one long finger stopping just short of his nose, then stalls for a moment. His lashes flutter with another soft inhale, and the severe curve of his nostrils becomes more pronounced--colors a bit, even...but nothing happens.

Paul can't look away. He's burning, mortified, but transfixed, and John's breath is stuttering again, the barest shallow gasps...He cups both hands in front of his nose, book-folded, hovering in anticipation...

"ahh...h'ahh--come on..."

Paul nearly shivers. He's glad in part that John's hands are blocking the view of his mouth and nose, because he looks so desperate in just his eyes and eyebrows, so profoundly sneezy that Paul's fairly certain he'd combust if he could see John's whole face.

John gasps sharply, teeters on the edge for a moment. Then he deflates with a heavy sigh and a sodden string of curses.

As soon as John looks up, Paul tears his eyes away, tingling all over with built-up expectation, anxious energy with nowhere to go. He almost wants to pretend he didn't see that, didn't see John almost almost almost and then not sneeze, but a sheepish smile and a raging blush are creeping across his cheeks, so he just bites his tongue and blinks at the bedspread.

"Hey."

Paul looks up, powerless not to.

John takes off his glasses. He looks waterlogged, swollen, seconds away from tears of pure irritation, but he's smiling. "Could use your help." He sniffles--nothing gets through.

Paul forces his voice to remain even. "With what?"

"'S been happenin' all day, that." John's voice has lowered, and Paul shudders to recognize it; unmistakably filthy, even wrecked with cold. A cat playing with its quarry.

"Horrible tease," John continues, "bloody awful. Can't hardly stand it. I'm dyin' to sneeze, but I just..."

He pauses a second too long, and Paul can't keep from covering his mouth, worrying at his lips. Burning up on the spot, damn him.

"...Can't," John sighs (fuck that--he purrs), victory in his voice. "I'm stuck."

Paul takes a deep breath. "What d'you want me to do, then?"

"Make me sneeze?" John lifts his eyebrows, imploring. "Won't you?"

Paul's hard enough to shatter at this point. He can't wrap his head around how cavalier John is with all of this. Like it's nothing. Like it's normal. He tries to squash his smile, but it doesn't work. He drops his eyes, shakes his head. "All right."

John sighs dramatically. "You're a lifesaver."

Instead of answering, Paul plucks a tissue from the box on John's bed (on the bedside table must've been too far away, he notices with a strange thrill). He rolls one corner between his thumb and finger until it holds a stiff point, then twists it like a rope. It's very imprecise origami, but it does the job.

"What you doin'?"

Paul shows him the tool. It's no eiderdown; no short, wispy barbs, just a singular, deadly point. He lets John watch as he rolls it between his fingers again.

John's eyes narrow in confusion, then widen with sudden clarity as he surmises exactly what it's designed to do. He hesitates for half a second, then sticks his chin out, wordlessly offering himself up. The skin on his nose is chapped around the edges, raw and red.

Paul's heart skips. He shifts his hips to edge closer to John, then--fuck it--swings one leg over, straddling him. Looking down.

John's nostrils flare--excitement, not irritation, but it still makes something flutter in Paul's chest. When John's hands slide up his thighs and latch onto his hips, anchoring him in place, it's almost enough to stop him breathing. He shifts again, trying to feel less constricted.

"Come on," John says softly, and gives a quick squeeze.

Paul obediently grabs his jaw, and he feels John's muscles shift under his skin, prickly from a day unshaven. Really warm.

"Which side?" Paul asks, before he can get caught up worrying how warm is too warm.

John twitches his nose, blinking thoughtfully. "Left."

Paul starts to move toward his left, short-staffed as his brain currently is, then corrects himself and dutifully eases the point of the tissue into John's left nostril.

"Aah." John cringes like he's been hit and lets out a short noise of discomfort. It's so much less gentle, and so much more acute, than a fluffy downfeather. Paul twists his wrist just so, and John makes a sound between a wince and a cough.

"Really--really tickles," he manages, his voice tight, tears spilling from his left eye.

Paul's shoulders lift with a breath he doesn't mean to take. "Yeah? 'S it working?"

"Um." John's panting through his mouth, as if to mitigate a sharp pain. "M-more."

Paul's confused but utterly taken by John's inability to express what he should do, beyond the fact that this isn't enough. He wiggles his hand very slightly, letting the tool twitch about.

"Oh, fuck--!" John nods, then gasps when the extra movement sends a fresh river of tears down his cheek. He's struggling for a breath, but in between shallow, stuttering inhales, he manages, "I'm gonna sneeze...!"

Paul's already dizzy--the way he couldn't pronounce any of those words properly for congestion, the relief he must feel in saying it after a whole day of false alarms--and then John follows through on his warning.

"hah'tssschhew!"

His body jerks under Paul, a little earthquake, and just as soon, he's gearing up for another one--

"hah'EsSCHhew!"

They're obscenely wet, the result of a day without reprieve. Paul's hand, caught in the crossfire, gets misted, and his heart leaps into his throat. John's eyes stay closed a moment, visibly lighter and dreamy with relief. Then he sniffles, swallows, blinks them damply open.

Something in John's gaze jars Paul to action. "Here--" He presses the un-twisted end of the tissue to John's skin and gently drags it over his upper lip to clean him up.

John's eyes flutter shut again. He leans heavily into the touch, moving his head this way and that against Paul's hand. "Needed that," he sighs.

"Yeah?" Paul breathes. "Felt good?"

John huffs a tired laugh, which makes him cough. "You've no idea."

Oh, I think I have some idea, Paul doesn't say.

"Hang on, I need to--" John rips one, two, three tissues from the box and eases his head away to bury his nose in them. "Sorry," he quietly adds. He blows hesitantly, then forceful and harsh, bending over his lap. When three's not enough, he grabs another handful and blows with a sound that makes Paul's eyes water.

"Gentle," he scolds. "God."

John doesn't let on that he's heard, but he finally straightens, dabbing at his reddened nose, sniffling thickly. He looks so tired. Paul didn't notice before, but there are heavy bags under his eyes now. And a glisten of sweat gathering at his hairline.

Concern stirs in Paul's stomach at that. He presses the back of his hand to his own forehead, then moves to feel John's. John bats his hand away before he can reach, and there's no real force behind it, but he looks caught, like he wants to take it back. "I'm fine," he says, sounding anything but.

"All right." Paul figures it's not worth quarreling over. They've got a good thing going, here.

As if to prove his fitness, John lifts his head and says, "Give it another go?"

"I..." Paul shuts his mouth. Is he actually considering arguing this? He must be mad, but for some reason, he can't fully give over. "You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." John's face falls just the tiniest bit. "Don't you want--"

"Yes. No, I do. I do." Paul's got another tissue twisted and at the ready in moments. It was bad enough, John finding out he was into all this. If, by some twist of fate, he starts to think that Paul's in any way put off by it, that would be unbearable. It's so far from the truth that Paul almost has to laugh; he's enthralled, enamored where any normal person would be disgusted. Swallowing shivers of guilt, shame, and fear, he slips the pointed tissue into John's nostril--the right one, this time, just to keep it interesting.

"Little fas--" John starts to say, but Paul speeds up before he's even done, and he chokes on the itch. He's barely able to sputter There in between weak, twitching coughs. Both his eyes are streaming this time. He looks like he's weeping. But after just a few moments, he wrenches a shaky gasp and twists to the side.

"aHdt'shhhew! --Ahh, God..."

John clutches his throat in pain. His breath snags on the exhale, and he coughs sharply, a rattling cough that sounds downright bubonic.

Paul chills with worry. "Are you okay?"

"I'm--" John coughs again, "'M all right, yeah."

"Do you want to stop?" Paul can hardly believe he's asking it.

John shakes his head adamantly. "No. Just..." His mouth tightens as he looks for the right words. "Can you use somethin' else?"

Paul doesn't mean to look confused. But it's so unexpected, he tilts his head to the side a bit, and John rushes to continue.

"I want to sneeze again. Get another one out." He snuffles uselessly, as if for emphasis. "But that, it tickles too much, feels like it's scrapin' me brain. I think it's making me cough."

Paul doesn't miss the way John clenches his jaw when he swallows, the unmistakable tightness of pain on his face. "And it hurts?" he ventures.

John doesn't meet his eye. "Bit," he says blandly, which Paul understands to mean he's near tears from the pain. His heart sinks, but John's asked him to help impart a small measure of relief, and he's not about to let him down.

Paul cups the side of John's face, resisting the urge to stroke his thumb over his ruby cheek. "I'm not sure if it'll work."

John looks exhausted. "I'll try it, whatever you can think of, just..." He trails off.

Paul draws a deep breath and brushes his fingertip, feather-light, over the rim of John's nostril.

John huffs and wrinkles his nose, pure reflex. But he doesn't cough. Paul tries again, barely grazing John's chapped skin with the edge of his nail, too light to scratch.

This time, John's lips part, and he puffs out a short breath. He nods once, subtly. "Keep going."

Paul traces the other nostril as gently as he can, faint and teasing. John's nose is already turning pink. Clear, watery fluid is starting to glisten on his upper lip. He's frowning slightly, eyes shut. But not in pain. Paul starts to worry his finger against the side of John's nose, tapping, tracing tiny circles where his nostril begins its proud curve. On the other side, and back.

John gasps, his nose twitches, and he pitches forward with three small sneezes in a row.

"hah'Tchew! aht'chshw! ahh'tchhiew! --aah..." He's stuck in limbo again, left open-mouthed and wanting by a sneeze that won't come.

Paul can't help himself. He leans forward and plants a quick kiss on the pointed tip of John's long-suffering nose.

John gasps, equal parts surprise and need, and sneezes helplessly all over Paul.

"hhH'ASHHEW!"

"Bless you," Paul says breathlessly, because he feels like he's going to rapture if he doesn't. He wipes his face in a daze with the back of his hand, as John ducks into a handful of tissues and coughs. It's a strong, barking cough, and he just doesn't stop, hardly long enough to steal his next breath before he keeps at it.

"Hey." Forgetting everything else, Paul crawls off his lap and rests a hand on John's back. His shirt is soaked through with sweat. Heat radiates from his body.

Oh, shit.

Paul feels John's forehead, and it's like he's been in the sun all day. "John, you're burning," he murmurs.

John coughs--and coughs--and, trembling, catches his breath. When he speaks, it's the shredded rasp of someone about to lose his voice. "You shouldn't be here."

It's like John's pulled a rug out from under him, and Paul drops for a moment before the ugly crash. Acid dread claws at his stomach. He's such an idiot. Such a selfish bastard. Why had he come here, anyway? To get his rocks off? His best friend's laid up, sick as a dog, and all he'd thought of was getting his cock wet. He takes his hand off John's back. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He knew this would happen. "I'd never have made you do that, I didn't know it was this bad..."

"That's not what I--" John flinches, and his hand is at his throat. He tries again, much gentler, just above a whisper. "That's not what I mean. You don't want to catch this."

Paul stares. That's what John's worried about, of all things? His well-being? It doesn't make any sense. "Just a cold," he mutters, dismissive, but as soon he hears it, he knows it's not true.

They don't say flu, but with a shared look, they know. They don't say anything for a while. Then John turns away and coughs. It breaks Paul's heart a little bit, seeing him take this small measure to avoid spreading anything to Paul. But he must know that that ship's sailed. Paul's fate was decided with that last sneeze (which still has him tingling all over to think about), and he's resigned to it. It's worth it if it's John.

"Right, um." Paul tries to push off the bed without jostling John too much. "I'll get you some water." He sets the cakes on John's desk and crosses to the door.

"Paul," John says, too loudly.

"Shh. What?" Paul shushes him before he can stop himself. Not for Mimi's sake; she must have gone to bed already. But he shouldn't aggravate his voice any further.

John obliges anyway, quiets to a whisper. "You'll stay?"

Paul's heart rips. John's never asked him to stay--not outright, at least, only hinting, Guess you'll be headin' out, then? And the way he's looking at him, his too-bright eyes, his pale cheeks. God, he looks so...so...

"Yeah, 'course I'll stay," says Paul, as if it were ever a choice.

John presses his lips together and visibly softens. Paul watches the tension go out of him. Before he can start getting all misty-eyed and girly, Paul offers a half smile and slips out the door.

All the lights in the house are off when Paul creeps down the stairs for a glass: Mimi's in for the night. He fills it from the tap in the upstairs bathroom. While he's there, he rummages through the medicine cabinet until he finds some aspirin.

"Bring your fever down," he whispers to John, handing him two white pills with his glass of water. John nods his thanks and swallows them without complaint.

They settle under the covers after stripping off their jeans ("You went to sleep in jeans?!" Paul demands, and John grumbles something about yesterday's clothes), tucked together with John's back to Paul's chest. Paul's certain John can feel his heart racing. They'd laid down like this once or twice, one of the last times Paul stayed over, but the novelty hasn't worn off. It's usually the other way around, too, Paul in front with John curled around him, but this is lovely. John's warm back against him, the smell of his soapy hair and fevered sweat. Paul slings an arm around, and John gathers their hands to his chest. His ribs rise and fall, sometimes with a slight crackle, as he breathes heavily through his mouth.

Paul doesn't sleep. He'll drift for a minute, his head full of nonsense conversations and chords, but then he jerks like he's falling out of a tree and finds himself wrapped around John again. It doesn't seem to bother John. He's not asleep either, but he seems more out of it as the night goes on.

The coughing is almost constant. It's not so bad, for the most part--just one or two fits, the rest scattered--but around midnight, he starts and doesn't stop. Paul coaxes him to sit up, let his head drain, take a sip of water, all the while rubbing his sweat-damp back. John calms enough to lie down again, but in a hoarse whisper, he tells Paul he's much too hot to lie back-to-chest any more. Paul tries not to let it crush him. John's right, of course; they're all but lying in a puddle of sweat now. He bundles all the bedcovers on his side and tries to take some solace in the sight of John peeling off his shirt and shorts. John presses against the cold wall instead of Paul, baring his whole body to the night air except his feet, which he leaves under the covers.

Before too long, maybe an hour, John's fever throws him to the other extreme, and he's shivering audibly. Paul whispers his name to check if he's awake, and when John doesn't reply, he starts to wrap the blankets around him. John shapes back into place straight away, flush with Paul's chest, and Paul smiles despite everything. He covers as much of John's skin as he can reach and drapes them both in the blankets. John shivers for what feels like an age. But gradually, finally, he stills and begins to snore. Paul feels like a weight's been lifted off him. He doesn't join John in sleep, but his rest is far more peaceful.

Some time later, John sneezes twice, sudden and wet, curling in on himself. Paul's barely awake, but it puts butterflies in his stomach, and he kisses bless you against the back of John's neck. His euphoria disappears when John wriggles out of his grasp, but he's only sitting up to blow his nose for a minute or two, and then he's back in Paul's arms again.

Paul kisses his neck, slow and mild. John doesn't have the energy to reciprocate, and Paul doesn't expect anything, but John's every breath is a pleased sigh. Their hips move together for a short while, just feeling in the dark and the quiet, before any of this has to be real again. Finally, finally, sleep finds them both.

Epilogue

There's not much to do in the following days. On the morning that Paul sneaks out, John's lost his voice completely, but his fever's gone, and he's more or less mobile. That afternoon, George shows up at Paul's to check on him, and to hear news of John (and to ask to borrow one of his records, though that only comes up as he's leaving). Paul does his chores, tries to write. Cooks dinner.

Two days later, John phones him, prompting him to Guess what. Paul gets through four guesses before John snaps that he's got his voice back, dickhead, and just in time for the show they're supposed to put on that night. Paul's ecstatic. He misses singing with him and, all right, he could use the money. He lies down for a short nap in the middle of the day, just to be sure he's rested up for their big post-flu debut.

When Paul wakes, his throat is dry. He stands up to get himself a drink, and the pressure in his head shifts, making him dizzy. Making his sinuses burn.

He sneezes. And sneezes again.

"Shit," he hisses, and immediately winces at the pain in his throat.

Brilliant.

Paul heaves a sigh and fills his pockets with tissues as he gets dressed. He knew this was coming; he'd have to be an idiot to think it wouldn't. But without a doubt, it was worth it.

6 notes · View notes

anniesocsandgeneralstore · 2 years ago

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Annie, my dear! That last chapter just blew me away!!! 💗💗💗

Bellmoral rightfully creeped me out so much. Also, this line??? "They crashed into each other like tectonic plates that formed entire mountain ranges." INCREDIBLE. That one line described so much of what those two were feeling at the moment. AND THEN YOU GAVE US A "WHO DID THIS TO YOU?"??? GIRL, THAT'S ALMOST TOO MUCH. 😆🥵 "Her father described the bond once as a place in his heart that was solely Carole, that whispered to him what she needed and what she felt. Ronnie was sure Jake could feel the anxiety roiling around inside her, the urgency, the horror." 😭😭😭💗💗💗 THE FIGHT BETWEEN JAKE AND BRADLEY BROKE MY HEART SO MUCH. 😭💔 I could feel Ronnie's pain and I just wanted to hug her! "Jake was her mate, her Alpha, and Bradley was getting in the way. He was keeping Jake from protecting her, comforting her, helping her. He didn’t know it, but he was pouring gasoline on an open fire that was already more than willing to burn the world down to get to her." THESE THREE SENTENCES ARE JUST *CHEF'S KISS*. SERIOUSLY. And then when Ronnie walks right past her brother to get to Jake I have to admit I was like "Yeah, fuck you Bradley, you absolute idiot." 😆 "“So if you’re gonna kill him.” Ronnie took one step forward, placing herself between Bradley and Jake. “You’re gonna have to go through me first.”" YOU TELL HIM, RONNIE. 🙌🏻🙌🏻🙌🏻 I could also feel the pain from Bellmoral's digs at Bradley for keeping Ronnie on the outside, for not even noticing that Ronnie had found her mate. And then Ronnie begging Jake to save her brother & then the two of them fighting Bellmoral was again just 😭😭😭💔💔💔 And even though I read the tags and knew Bellmoral was going to come to a grisly end, I still wasn't expecting THAT. HOLY SHIT. 😮 Then Ronnie saying goodbye to everyone in the hospital parking lot and her hugs with Pete and Bradley. 😭😭😭💗💗💗 “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. Like I’ve loved you from the moment I started breathing, Ronnie.” FOR REALS. WHERE DO I FIND MY OWN JAKE LIKE THIS. 😭🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 AND THEN THE REST OF THE CABIN SCENE. GIRL. 😆🔥🥵 I adored the bit at the end with Ronnie dreaming about what their new cabin will look like. So sweet! Also, your descriptions of everything are amazing and make for an absolutely vivid story in my mind's eye.

Is it too early to ask for a sequel??? BECAUSE BABIES. 😆

Indy.....this means everything to me.....the quotes.....the emojis....the gifs.....i will simply be passing away now....thank you so much you mean the world to me

#annie answers #my darling darling indy #the echo reaction

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timeless-hollywood-classics · 3 years ago

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Five Came Back (1939)

Nine passengers board a commercial flight from Los Angeles to Panama City: wealthy Judson Ellis and Alice Melhorne, eloping because their parents disapprove; an elderly couple, Professor Henry Spengler and his wife Martha; Tommy Mulvaney, the young son of a gangster, and his escort, gunman Pete; Peggy Nolan, a woman with a shady past; and Vasquez, an anarchist being extradited and facing a death sentence for killing a high-ranking politician, and his guard, Crimp. The crew consists of pilot Bill, co-pilot Joe Brooks, and steward Larry.

On their way to Panama, a fierce nighttime storm buffets their airliner, The Silver Queen. A gas cylinder is shaken loose and knocks a door open. Tommy falls near the door; Larry grabs the child and hands him to a passenger, but the plane lurches and Larry falls out the door. An engine fails and the pilots are forced to crash-land in a jungle. In the morning, the professor recognizes plants of the Amazon rainforest: the aircraft has been blown far south of where rescuers will search; the nearest civilization is across the mountains.

Weeks go by while Bill and Joe struggle to repair the damaged airliner. The experience changes everyone. The Spenglers rediscover their love for each other. Bill warms to an appreciative Peggy, although she tells him about her sordid past. Judson falls apart, staying drunk much of the time, while Alice toughens up and begins to feel attracted to Joe. Vasquez, seeing how well most of the group are coping with their situation, reconsiders his radical beliefs.

On the 23rd day, Crimp disappears; Tommy eventually discovers his dead body. When Peggy and Pete go looking for Tommy, he leads them to Crimp, killed by a poison dart. Pete orders Peggy to take Tommy to safety while he covers their retreat. He is killed by the unseen natives. The remaining survivors board the now-repaired airliner, but as the engines turn over, the oil line in one engine starts leaking. Bill and Joe patch it, but inform the others that the patch will fail some time after takeoff, leaving only one running engine. As a result, the aircraft can only carry four adults and Tommy across the mountains. Vasquez suddenly grabs a pistol and announces that he will choose who goes, since he is doomed either way and is therefore the only one without bias. While the repairs are being made, Professor Spengler tells Vasquez that he and his wife volunteer to stay, as they have only a few years left anyway. Judson, on the other hand, tries to bribe Vasquez by offering to pay for a top lawyer.

When the aircraft is ready, Vasquez announces that both pilots, the two young women and Tommy will go. Judson attacks him, and in the struggle Vasquez shoots him dead. The airliner takes off, leaving behind Vasquez and the Spenglers. As the natives approach, Professor Spengler quietly informs Vasquez that they must not be taken alive, as they will be tortured. Vasquez lies to him, telling him that there are three bullets left. He kills the couple with his last two bullets, then awaits his grisly fate.

#lucille ball #chester morris #john carradine #allen jenkins #joseph calleia #c. aubrey smith #classic hollywood #classic movie stars #golden age of hollywood #old hollywood #classic cinema #classic movies #1930s cinema #1930s movies #1930s hollywood

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brokehorrorfan · 4 years ago

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A criminal mastermind unleashes a twisted form of justice in Spiral starring Chris Rock. The next chapter in the book of Saw opens in theaters this Friday, May 14, via Lionsgate.

Broke Horror Fan is giving away five Spiral: From the Book of Saw prize packs that include an Atom Tickets code redeemable for a pair of Spiral movie tickets along with a Spiral T-shirt, hat, and backpack.

To enter, email [email protected] with SPIRAL in the subject line. In the body, tell me your favorite Saw trap, and include your name, mailing address, and shirt size preference (unisex S-XL).

One entry permitted per address. This contest is open to US residents only. Five winners will be randomly drawn on May 14.

Spiral: From the Book of Saw is directed by Darren Lynn Bousman (Saw II, Saw III, Saw IV) and written by Josh Stolberg & Pete Goldfinger (Jigsaw, Piranha 3D). Chris Rock stars with Max Minghella, Marisol Nichols, and Samuel L. Jackson.

youtube

Working in the shadow of his father, an esteemed police veteran (Samuel L. Jackson), brash Detective Ezekiel “Zeke” Banks (Chris Rock) and his rookie partner (Max Minghella) take charge of a grisly investigation into murders that are eerily reminiscent of the city’s gruesome past. Unwittingly entrapped in a deepening mystery, Zeke finds himself at the center of the killer’s morbid game.

Stay tuned for my Spiral: From the Book of Saw review tomorrow morning!

#spiral #saw #spiral: from the book of saw #spiral from the book of saw #chris rock #contest #article #samuel l jackson #samuel l. jackson #max minghella #marisol nichols #jigsaw #horror #darren lynn bousman #charlie clouser

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spooderboyandtincan · 4 years ago

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Happy Halloween!

A/N: Here are the actual episodes of Buzzfeed Unsolved mentioned in this fic! The Terrifying Axeman of New Orleans and The Horrors of Pennhurst Asylum. As a warning, both of these videos describe both very grisly and gory things, so please watch them with caution!

(Also, the author in no way claims to own or use these videos for commercial property. Just wanted to include them!)

~~~~~

Peter was having a great day, even when an apple tried to give him a concussion.

Normally, he would have caught the traitorous fruit, but there were several families around who might have noticed his outstanding reflexes, so with some split second thinking he let the apple bounce off his head.

“Ow!” Peter massaged the top of his head. Tony and May turned to him, both slightly concerned. “I think this tree is trying to kill me.”

“Oh, spare us!” Tony said to the tree, reaching out to ruffle Peter’s curls. “Not my darling son! Take me instead!”

Peter rolled his eyes at the dorky genius, actually finding himself feeling a little bad for the poor apple tree. “Don’t worry,” he muttered, patting the rough bark. “It wasn’t your fault.”

There was something very adorable about watching Peter trying to comfort a tree, both Tony and May observed. Their kid’s heart was so pure and kind it was blinding.

Peter snatched an apple off a low-hanging branch and, before Tony or May could stop him, bit into it. “Wow,” he mumbled through a mouthful of fruit, “this’s really good! Can we pick some?”

“That’s what we’re here for!” May sang. “Did you check for worms before you bit into that, Petey?”

“Worms?!”

Tony shook his head in fond exasperation. Peter spat his mouthful of apple on the ground in disgust, chucking the half eaten red orb to the side. “Ew ew ew ew ew!”

“Buddy, I’m pretty sure there weren’t worms in there,” Tony suggested.

Peter shrugged. “But are you sure? Now we have to pick more apples just in case they’re all wormy.” He stuck out his tongue in a mature display of unhappiness.

“Thought you liked picking apples,” he questioned, suddenly worried that Peter had only been pretending to enjoy himself.

“No, no I do! It’s really fun! But now I can’t eat any,” he pouted. “I’m so huuuungry.”

He frowned in concern. “Why don’t we get some food and come back, kiddo? We can grab an extra coat from the car while we do.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m already wearing, like three of yours,” Peter laughed. He gestured to the layers of puffy jackets he was bundled up in, along with his favorite Spider-Man hat and thin black gloves.

“Actually, I think you need a scarf,” Tony observed. “We can’t have any spider-baby popsicles on our hands, now can we?”

Peter rolled his eyes. Tony began fussing over him like a mother hen, wrapping his own scarf around his neck and zipping up his third coat. He took the boy’s small hands in his and winced, rubbing them to bring some warmth.

“You’re gonna lose fingers if we don’t get you some better gloves, bud.”

“I’m fiiiine.”

Peter heaved the bag of crisp, red apples into his arms with ease. Tony and May grabbed their own separate ones and heaved them over their shoulders with a lot less ease. They headed toward the muddy dirt road, lugging their apples and stopping for a moment to admire some chickens.

“Ooooh!” Peter exclaimed suddenly, spotting a glimpse of orange behind the tall pine trees. “Mr. Stark, May! There’re pumpkins!” He jogged off.

“Don’t you wanna get food before this, Pete?” Tony called, following the boy.

“I’ll eat the pumpkins!”

“Look out for worms!” May teased. Tony found himself thinking of the classic nursery rhyme, Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater.

May found the perfect pumpkin almost at once. It was on the opposite side of the small field under a beautiful towering oak tree with red and golden leaves still on its branches. The pumpkin was a beautiful shade of dark orange and wonderfully round. She held it against the chest like it was a baby.

Tony didn’t have any particular pumpkin in mind that he wanted so he decided to let Peter choose for him.

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna get the wrong one,” Peter worried.

“It won’t be the wrong one, kiddo,” Tony promised.

“Get that lumpy one, it looks like his head!” May advised from across the pumpkin patch. Peter sniggered.

“I’m offended. My head is perfectly oval-shaped,” Tony objected.

“Smooth as a shark,” Peter muttered to himself, completely missing the perplexed look from his father-figure.

He picked up the lumpy pumpkin and then began to scavenge for a second one, humming. “This is Halloween, this is Halloween, pumpkins scream in the dead of night… ooh.” Peter knelt down and began to inspect this potential nominee.

It was huge. Wide and tall with a round face and a flat back. The stem was long and twisting. The color was beautiful.

It. Was. Perfect.

“I found it!” he yelled. May and Tony turned to long at him and Peter displayed his pumpkin proudly.

“Congrats,” said May, her grin wide. Tony applauded.

“Can we get it?”

“Of course, Roo.” He smiled, kneeling down to take the lumpy pumpkin while Peter stood up with his own. “Do you wanna get another?”

“Are you sure? I mean, I kinda do…”

“Yes, Petey, I’m sure.” Tony bent to press a quick kiss to his forehead. “Actually, I’d be delighted if you got another one. Really.” He loved seeing Peter so happy over a simple fruit. (Vegetable? Gourd?) Tony would gladly buy thousands of pumpkins if Peter could always be this happy.

Soon Peter had selected two more pumpkins, a wide, squat one, and round, light orange one. They made their way back to the parking lot and the barn, where lots of fresh produce stands were set up.

There was a beautiful, towering willow tree that Peter admired, watching its long limbs sway in the wind peacefully. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of rain and hay and something just distinctly fall. He trotted back to where his family stood in a line to buy their pumpkins and leaned into Tony, letting him wrap strong arms around him and hug him close.

They bought their pumpkins and sat down at a picnic bench under the willow tree and basked in the sunlight. Tony left to the car and came back with a picnic basket akin to the ones in cartoons.

Peter’s eyes lit up when he noticed the mac and cheese in a plastic container and immediately he dug in. After inhaling his pasta, he dug through the basket. His eyes sparkled like stars.

“Rhodey made us brownies!” Colonel Rhodes’s brownies were the best. They were gooey and somehow always warm, with extra chocolate-chips and an oreo in the middle. Rhodey had drowned them in jack-o’-lantern shaped sprinkles. He had even included a bottle of whipped cream, though most of it had probably been used on the current brownie Peter had just bit into.

“Oh, yummy,” May said, helping herself to a large one. Tony took his own and sprayed almost as much whipped cream on it as Peter had.

Before he took a bite, he laughed. “Pete, how did you get whipped-cream on your forehead?” He balled up his sleeve and wiped it off. Peter squirmed away.

He played a quick rhythm on his pumpkin before glancing toward the various stands by the barn. “We should get apple cider,” he said, having a sudden realization. “I guess they probably wouldn’t go very good with brownies but maybe with pumpkin pie or something…?”

“Good idea, bud. How about some candy apples while we’re at it?”

“Yesss.”

Peter was bouncing in his seat while he waited for May and Tony to finish their sandwiches. He helped himself to a few more delicious brownies, trying to savor every bite. (And failing because they were so good.”

When they finished their food, they took a quick moment to put their pumpkins in the trunk of the car, then Peter led the way to the barn. At the back of the big room there was a large assortment of fresh produce, which May made a beeline to. On the right wall were four tall refrigerators, chock full of apple cider.

“Why are they in milk cartons?” Peter wondered, opening the door and pulling the juice out. “Here!”

“Just one? You need to hydrate, young man,” he teased, pulling out three more jugs.

“I won’t just drink apple cider, Mr. Stark.”

“Actually, I think your blood is gonna be 75% apples, kiddo.”

“Carrots or asparagus, Pete?” May called.

“Carrots?”

“Good choice, honey.”

Tony noticed wonderfully red candy apples displayed on one of those cupcake stands he always saw at fancy parties. He pointed them out to Peter, who grinned and asked if they could have some.

“That’s what we're here for, Petey-Pie.”

The young man at the stand wrapped the tree apples individually with cellophane and placed them in a bag.

“That’s smart,” Peter said as they joined May at the checkout line. “Apples probably wouldn’t taste good with a paper bag.”

The cashier recognized Tony when they bought their food. Her hand flew to her open mouth and she shook her head in amazement. “You’re… you’re….”

He offered a smile. Peter inched behind him and grabbed his hand. Tony squeezed his hand comfortingly and moved in front of him so no one could see his face.

The cashier began to check out their items robotically, staring at Tony for an uncomfortably long time before she blinked and asked, “Do you want a bag, sir?”

Once they stuffed the groceries into the trunk of Tony’s car, Peter admired the farm one last time. The big willow tree swayed gracefully in the brisk wind as if it were saying farewell.

Peter crawled into the back seat and slammed the door, curling up and shivering. Tony glanced in the back mirror and quickly moved to turn up the heat.

He rested his chin on the edge of the window. The position was far from comfortable but at least he could watch the trees fly past as they drove.

“You okay back there, Petey?” Tony asked, sounding concerned.

“‘M good. Just thinking,” he mumbled. It was hard to talk with his jaw pressed against a hard surface.

“You sure, bud?” Tony still sounded worried. Peter sighed.

“Stop worrying,” he groaned. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, Petey, I trust you.” If he hadn’t been driving the car he would have held up his hands in mock surrender. “But you know that you can come to me for anything, right? Even if it’s just a stubbed toe, okay?”

“I know, Mr. Stark, really.”

A snore filled the car, and they both laughed when they looked to May and realized she was already asleep.

“So kiddie, whatcha thinkin’ about?” he asked.

“How I’m gonna carve my pumpkin!”

~~~~~

Peter dramatically threw the three pumpkins he was carrying down onto the kitchen island, pretending to wipe sweat off his forehead. He snickered when May rolled her eyes.

Peter took off his layers of coats and threw them on the couch, hanging his scarf up and then ripping off his hat. His hair frizzed everywhere and Tony laughed, his eyes soft and adoring. He flattened it down with his hand and pulled Peter into a crushing hug, bending to kiss his still slightly puffy curls.

They sat down at the kitchen island and chose their respective pumpkins. Peter looked around. “Where’re the knives?” he asked.

“Oh, I know.” May stood up and rummaged through the upper cabinets, bringing out an orange carton. “Here!”

Tony watched nervously as Peter grabbed a carving knife from the box and stabbed the top of his pumpkin without any regard for his personal safety.

“Careful, bubba,” he warned. He was about to take the knife from Peter’s small hands and bend it into pieces for being so dangerous and trying to hurt his kid. “No lost limbs today, okay?”

Peter laughed and continued to cut the top of his pumpkin. He yanked the stem out and sliced off the stringy guts. He took an orange plastic scooper and started scraping the seeds and guts out of the inside. Tony took his own pumpkin and did the same, keeping a watchful eye on his reckless kid all the same.

“What are you carving Pete?” May asked.

“Secret,” Peter grinned, turning the pumpkin so they couldn’t see it. “You can see later!”

“Well, fine. What about you, Tony?”

Tony hadn’t given much thought about it yet. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had an idea that might work. “Secret,” he said.

May sighed in amused exasperation. “Suit yourself, lumpy. I’m going with the classic.” She took a purple sharpie and started drawing.

“Why aren’t there Halloween Carols?” Peter wondered aloud. “I don’t know like, any spooky songs and it’s sad.”

“There’s that one, um…” Tony trailed off. He did know the actual name of the song, but the look on Peter’s face would be priceless. “Spooky Scary Pumpkins? Ghosts? Is that it?”

Peter slowly raised his head, his eyes wide. “What?”

“You know, that one you’re always singing,” May said, joining in. “‘Spooky scary pumpkins’ sounds right.”

Peter groaned and buried his head in his arms. “No. This isn't happeniiiiiing.”

“I believe the correct title is ‘Spooky Scary Skeletons, Boss,” said FRIDAY’s disembodied voice.

“Thank you!” Peter threw up his hands in relief. “Spooky scary pumpkins. Ugh. Thanks for the nightmares.”

Tony ruffled his hair. “FRI, play it for us uncultured zombies, will ya?”

The first few notes of the song played and Peter started headbanging exaggeratedly, doing a dance in his seat. “Such a bop,” he said to himself, then went back to carving his pumpkin.

A bop? Tony decided not to ask. He sketched out his idea on the pumpkin with a light pencil and rummaged through their carving tools.

“Mr. Stark, you didn’t get the guts out!” Peter protested.

“Don’t worry, bud, you’ll see. Trust me.”

Tony finally found what he was looking for. “A-ha!”

“Is that..?” Peter leaned over. “Is that a dremel drill? Isn’t that for like, trimming dog nails?”

“One of its many uses!” Tony switched it on. “Carving time.”

“Ooh. That’s cool, I wanna try!”

He handed the drill over to him. Peter turned his pumpkin around to the back and started carving. “Oh, so it only gets like the fleshy parts! The flesh? So then it kinda glows through.”

“That’s right,” he said. “It looks pretty cool when you put a candle in it.” Tony took the drill and got back to work. Their song was still playing in the background, and at some parts Peter would do a dance and sing along.

After about fifteen minutes of ridiculous chatter and multiple songs played, May jumped up. “Finished!”

“Already?!” Peter exclaimed. “Lemme see!”

“Just a sec.” May ran off and grabbed a candle from one of the drawers in the living room, then hurried back. She put it in the pumpkin and lit it carefully. “Ta-da!”

“Oooh!”

May had carved a traditional pumpkin with a big, spiky jaw, a triangle nose, and big triangle eyes. She had taken seeds and put them in the corners of the eyes to act as pupils.

“Oh, he’s cross eyed!” Peter laughed. “That’s really cool.”

Tony grinned. “Clever. I like it.”

“Thanks, Tony. I think I’ll borrow that drill from you when you’re done. I want to make a flower on the back.”

“Sure.” Tony continued working on theinrticate design, squinting and trying to make it as precise as possible. He caught Peter trying to sneak a peak and shooed him off cheerfully.

When Tony looked up to check on Peter, he nearly cooed. His kid had the most adorable look of concentration on his face. His tongue poked out between his lips and his brow was furrowed. Peter worked carefully, selecting the tools he knew would work best and using them delicately.

When Peter looked up again, the sky was considerably darker. He looked at the clock. “How is it already five?!” No way had he been working for one and a half hours straight.

Tony blinked and snapped out of his stupor. “Huh. Time flies, I guess. I’m about done, how about you, kiddo?”

“Almost… I kinda messed up a few details but I think it looks okay!” He scraped the pumpkin more and looked up. “There! Where are the candles?”

“Here you go.” May smiled and handed him a red candle that smelled like cinnamon. He took the lighter and dipped his hand in the pumpkin while Tony watched anxiously.

“Don’t burn yourself, baby.” He bit his lip in worry. “Be careful.”

“I am!”

May dimmed the lights and pulled the curtains shut. The candle glowed brightly in the dark room and Peter turned the pumpkin to face them.

May gasped. “Oh. Oh my goodness! Peter, that’s gorgeous!”

The boy blushed in the candlelight. “Thanks.” He looked to Tony, who had been strangely silent this whole time.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Petey….” Tony felt his arc reactor and in his mind, compared it to Peter’s intricate, detailed carving that he had spent so much time on. “Petey… you made my reactor?”

“Uh-huh! I kinda messed up some parts, but I think it looks pretty good. What do you think?”

“I… I… oh my god, baby, I love it. I love it so much.” He pulled his kid into a hug, squeezing him tight. Tony kissed his head and blinked away the tears in his eyes. Peter, surprised at first, hugged him back. “Thank you, Petey.”

“No problem,” he said, voice muffled in Tony’s sweatshirt. “Does it look good?”

“It looks beautiful, baby.”

“I had no idea you could make something like this,” May murmured, tracing the arc reactor with her fingers. “Wow, honey. This is spectacular!”

“Thanks.” Peter’s face heated from the praise and he pushed his head further into Tony’s chest. “What did you make?”

“I was wondering when you’d ask.” Reluctantly, he let go of Peter (but not without another forehead kiss) and grabbed the lighter, He lit the candle, turned it around, and-

It was Peter’s turn to gasp. “Is that me?!” He admired the glowing spider emblem with wide eyes. It matched the one on his suit exactly. “Oh my god!”

Tony beamed. “Do you see the resemblance?”

“I’m pretty sure you just stole my suit and like, made it into a pumpkin. It’s so cool! I love it, thank you!”

“It was my pleasure,” he said graciously, giving a little bow. “Where do you think we should put them?”

“Um, I dunno. Where’s a good spot?”

Tony looked around. Eventually they decided to put them on the mantle above the fireplace. Peter worried they might rot, but the man assured him they wouldn’t and turned off the fireplace just to ease his kid’s fear.

Peter took a look at the room. A few days ago he and Tony had draped bright orange and purple lights around the room and Peter had added some webs that would definitely leave stains. There was a black spiderweb table runner on the coffee table, and in the kitchen there stood a plastic cauldron filled with dry ice. Ghosts made of tissue and paper mache balls hung from strings by the fireplace and above the couch and tv. Peter took a black and orange oreo from a pumpkin shaped plate cheerfully.

“When’s dinner?” he asked, realizing how hungry he was getting.

“Are you hungry, bud? We can order a pizza, how does that sound?” Tony replied, smoothing down his curls and then ruffling them so they puffed back up again.

“Great!” Peter patted his curls back down and flopped on the couch, taking out his phone.

Only fifteen minutes later the pizza arrived. Peter jumped up happily and opened the box.

“It’s pumpkin shaped!” he exclaimed. “That’s so cool!” The pepperoni slices had been arranged in jack o’ lantern face and Peter laughed. He took four big slices for himself and sat down at the table while May joined him. Tony poured three glasses of apple cider and gave the biggest one to his kid, then sat down next to him.

Peter wolfed down his pizza in the blink of an eye and downed the cider just as quickly. May and Tony started on their second slices while he started on his fifth.

He was about to ask May if she knew that some spiders had blue blood when her phone rang. She smiled apologetically at them and stood up to take the call.

“Sandra? Oh, hi.” She wandered into the living room. “Uh-huh? Oh, that’s too bad, I’m so sorry.” A pause. “I could. Yeah, no problem. It’s okay. I hope everyone feels better.” May put her phone down.

“I’m sorry, guys. I have to fill in for a friend for a few hours.” She sighed. “Her twins are sick and she really needs this. I have to go but I’ll be back soon, okay?” May grabbed her coat and gloves. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay, Aunt May,” Peter said, offering a smile. “What time will you be back?”

“Around two.” She titled his head back to kiss his forehead. “Get some sleep, both of you. No scary movies. Larb you!” She headed toward the elevator.

“Larb you too!” he called back as the doors closed behind her. Peter sighed.

The room was oddly silent without May’s laughter, but soon Peter started chatting and laughing and they relaxed into their normal banter.

When they finished their pumpkin pizza, they sat down on the couch. Peter snuggled into Tony’s side and yawned, grabbing his Starkpad. He scrolled to a video and poked Tony’s shoulder.

“What’s this, kiddo?” he asked, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulling him closer.

“Buzzfeed Unsolved,” he mumbled. “That’s Ryan and that’s Shane.”

“Huh. That’s cool. They solve mysteries?”

“Sometimes. They don’t really solve them, I mean, it’s called Buzzfeed Unsolved, but they do talk about suspects or theories or whatever. Sometimes they do supernatural ones and they’re really funny. And spooky,” Peter rambled. Tony chuckled and turned his attention to the video.

The Haunted Halls of Waverly Hills, read the title. As the creepy introduction played, Tony frowned. The two men he assumed were Ryan and Shane were walking around a long, spooky hallway with cameras that made everything look like it was tinged green.

“You sure this isn’t too scary, Pete?” he asked, not wanting his kid to have nightmares.

“It’s not,” Peter grumbled. “I’m fine. This one is cool!”

“If you’re sure, Roo.” Tony still sounded skeptical. He was prepared to turn off that tablet the second Peter showed any sign of fright, but he never did.

“This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved we explore Waverly Hills Sanatorium as part of our ongoing investigation, ‘are ghosts real?’” said Ryan.

The camera panned to Shane as he shook his head. They went on to explain the history of the sanatorium. Peter giggled at their many jokes, especially when Shane made snarky remarks. Tony deduced that Shane was the sceptic while Ryan strongly believed in paranormal happenings. He was inclined to side with Shane, but Peter looked just as nervous as Ryan was when he walked down an empty hallway all alone.

“Pete, are you sure this isn’t too scary?” he repeated after a particularly gruesome description of the horrors that took place in that old building.

“Yes, Mr. Stark.” Despite his annoyed tone, Peter was smiling.

“Okay, okay.” Tony turned to press a tender kiss to his temple. “I just don’t want you to have nightmares.”

“I won’t. It’s okay.” Peter flopped against him and pressed the next video. “Promise.” He yawned.

The videos, Tony admitted, were pretty cool. He liked how they listed theories and possibilities instead of just leaving the mysteries unended. The two men were funny and entertaining, and he found himself enjoying the videos.

By now they had watched at least nine or ten episodes. It was easy to get lost in all the videos, which were only twenty minutes long each, but when you watched a few more, time had passed faster than you expected. When Tony checked the time he was surprised to find it was already nine-thirty.

“You tired, bubba?” he asked gently as Peter yawned. “You’ve had a pretty big day.”

Peter shrugged. “A little.”

“Do you wanna go to bed now, sweetheart?”

“Sure.” He stretched and yawned again. “Tomorrow’s Halloween, right?”

“That’s right,” he hummed. He helped Peter stand up and they made their way down the hallway. “Good night, baby,” he murmured, pulling him into a hug.

Peter felt a warm kiss pressed to his curls. “G’night.” He hugged Mr. Stark and stumbled into his bedroom, rubbing his eyes.

Tony watched with love shining bright in his eyes. He headed to his own bed and climbed under the covers, curling up and turning on the bedside lamp. He grabbed his glasses and perched them on the edge of his nose, planning to get a little reading done before he went to bed.

He couldn’t help but worry about his kid, who had just binge-watched ten episodes about terrible deaths and tortures. “FRI, tell me if he can’t fall asleep, or if he does and wakes up. Just tell me if he’s scared.”

“Certainly, boss,” the AI said smoothly. Tony nodded and began reading, though he barely took in a word, much more focused on the boy in the room next to him.

~~~~~

Peter thought he had been tired. He had nearly unhinged his jaw from yawning so much. But now, he lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

He shifted around, trying to get comfortable. Heavy blankets tangled around his legs as he thrashed. Peter sighed and mashed his pillow over his face.

After what felt like an hour (but in reality was only fifteen minutes) Peter rolled over and sat up, yawning and scratching the back of his neck.

He grabbed his Starkpad and earbuds. Peter only used one, because two was too overwhelming. He went to youtube and clicked on the first unsolved episode he found, just wanting to sleep.

The intro played loudly in his ear and Peter relaxed.

“This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved we’ll cover the Axeman Killer of New Orleans,” said Ryan Bergara. “One of the strangest serial killer cases I’ve ever read.”

“And you’ve read a lot,” Shane replied.

Ryan explained the timeline, which began in 1918 in, of course, New Orleans and ended around eighteen months later. He detailed the mysterious and morbid attempted killings, saying, “In chilling fashion, he only seemed to strike people while they slept in their beds.”

Just to make sure, Peter peeked out the curtain. He shivered and hid further under his blankets. He snickered quietly when Shane made a joke right off the bat.

When the video ended, he turned it off and lay back down. He scrubbed his eyes, feeling refreshed but sleepy at the same time.

Except now, he was having a lot harder of a time falling asleep.

Peter stared at his bedroom door nervously, expecting someone to burst in brandishing an axe.

It never came.

He watched apprehensively, knowing this was stupid, and rolled over so he faced the wall.

Now his back felt even more exposed. Peter shivered and faced the door in a panic, swearing he heard something.

Nothing.

He sighed shakily and curled up under the blankets, his heart racing and his eyes wide. The shadows seemed to dance and his eyes flitted from corner to corner as he expected some creature with razor sharp teeth to come leaping out of them.

A chair, which he had thrown some dirty clothes on the other day, now looked like some skeletal creature with a huge head that could swallow him in one bite.

Peter, in a sudden burst of adrenaline, threw off his covers and sprinted the few feet down the hall to Tony’s room, the door slamming open. Peter leapt onto Tony’s bed, shaking, and wrapped his arms around the man.

Tony went rigid with surprise. “Peter?” He straightened up, squeezing his kid tight protectively and looking murderously around the room for the source of Peter’s fear. “What is it, baby? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Peter shook his head and crawled shakily into his lap, pressing his face into his chest. “Petey? What happened?” His voice was soft and gentle but somehow worried and protective at the same time. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Peter sniffed and blinked a few tears out of his eyes. His cheeks heated in embarrassment. He wilted in Tony’s arms both out of shame and overwhelming relief that he was safe now.

“Oh, baby,” he cooed. “You’re okay, I got you, you’re okay. I’m here, shh.” He kissed his delicate brown curls. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Peter sighed in relief and squashed his nose against Tony’s reactor. “‘M sorry,” he mumbled.

“Why are you sorry, bubba? You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?” Tony murmured.

Peter nodded. “I- I just got scared.” His voice cracked and he tried not to cry.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re okay. I got you. Nothing’s gonna happen to you, ‘kay?” He brushed his fingers through his curls. “Pete?”

A soft snore filled the peaceful quiet of the room. Peter’s breathing was slow and even, his face lax. Tony’s face softened. He carefully maneuvered Peter’s limp body under the war covers and wrapped his arms around him, pressing his nose into his curls. “I won’t ever let anything hurt you, kay?” He sighed in contentment, holding his kid tightly. “I love you so much baby.”

Tony’s eyes fluttered shut. “G’night, sweetheart.”

~~~~~

Taglist: @imissyoutoo @aj-that-person @tonystark-deserves-better @nathaly-ab @skeeter-110 @peter-and-tony-vlogs @teammightypen @joyful-soul-collector @loveliestdisappointment @depuella @scwene-qween @honeythepooh @pixiethefirecat7 @spider-man-lover @jami161 @bringitonvoldie @queen-of-sarcasm-25 @roxy3457 @memilon @iron-loyalty @gralaca @bitchingpretty @pillowspace @thatminecraftgal @clockworkteacup @hatakehikari @wtfischeese @keep-a-bucket-full-of-stars @skydiving-without-a-parachute @yansi1923

If you want to be added/removed let me know!

~~~~~

/ST*RKERS DNI/

#FINALLY finished this #Happy Halloween!!!#peter parker #tony stark #may parker #aunt may is the best #pumpkin picking #pumpkin patch #pumpkin carving #tw knives #knives tw #irondad and spiderson #aunt may and tony are best friends #protective tony stark #worried tony stark #scared peter parker #buzzfeed unsolved #halloween tw #st*rkers dni

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sasskarian · 4 years ago

Text

First Line Meme

I was tagged by @asaara-writes. Thank you, my dearest! <3

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

My Heart and I -

If there’s one thing about Evelyn Swann that the entire Commonwealth knows by now, it is her love of music. Silence does not mark Evelyn’s arrival anywhere— instead, the soft tones of Billie Holiday do, crooning about mountains moved for love. Or the sultry voice of Lady Day herself, Ella Fitzgerald, floating around her and the companions like a bubble of the past, dreaming on into the future. Heavy footsteps beat out a tempo contrasting Butcher Pete and his big old ‘knife’ and everywhere she goes, she trails ribbons of jazz and cheer.

Like Afterimages -

The settlers call her a survivor. Sanctuary calls her a savior. Codsworth cries when she returns from the wastelands, dragging in another minute— heh— victory for the Minutemen, or another rescued synth she doesn’t tell anyone about. But Mama Murphy just calls her a ghost.

That’s what she is, after all. Just a two hundred year old ghost. Like a mirage, superimposed on the darkness, burned into immortality by nuclear fallout and tragedy. Evelyn is only sometimes here, those dark gray eyes a pair of rain clouds on the distant horizon, drifting on invisible fronts. The thunder is inside of her, too, a raging storm swirling in her chest, beating fists made of babies crying and gunshots rimmed in frost ringing out against her ribs.

The Thrill of Your Hand -

Danse has been a soldier too long to be a deep sleeper.

That’s the first thing the Brotherhood trains you out of. The indoctrination comes later, because only a good soldier can be indoctrinated, and a good soldier has to wake up at the first hint of danger. So when he hears the first whimper from across the room, his eyes snap open.

Paladin’s Bubble -

The Commonwealth is quiet tonight.

It’s not silent, by any stretch: Evie can hear the hounds in the distance, their mutated throats sending their boofs echoing through the streets of Boston even from a long distance, and somewhere— a mile or more— the whoop of a raiding party rises over the station’s lookout, too far away to do anything but pity the poor prey they’ve caught. Dogmeat grunts, his paws pushing against her armored thigh as he stretches. His ears are perked, though, so he’s just catching some rest while he can. Even the thwomp-and-hiss of her partner’s power armor is missing from the darkness, the red light of his scope the only thing highlighting his face in their little bubble of quiet.

After the Glitter Fades -

“If there is a future to be had,” Fenris murmured, his lips hovering near Hawke’s, “I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

His gorgeous green eyes were fixed on hers and Hawke fumbled for a moment, a half-smile playing across her mouth as her fingers played with the crumbling stone behind her. Silly, but part of her almost wanted to believe him. With the smallest sound, Fenris leaned in, his gauntleted fingers sliding through her hair as he kissed her— it started out soft, a chaste brush of warm lips and warmer breath, but within a couple of heartbeats, it deepened into something that promised wildness and fire.

Glitter: Marginalia - (E)

She can’t remember what dragged her awake— only that it left a sour, desperate taste in her mouth like old coppers and the cheapest bottle of whatever would get her drunk enough to sleep.

Waking up with nightmares is nothing new. The Amell curse, as most of the Kirkwall film crews call it, has yet to hit Hawke directly, but it had taken her father (a stunt gone wrong) and her mother and uncle (an unlucky intruder)– had struck Carver, too. She and Garrett and Bethie are safe, so far, but it's only a matter of time until it circles back around. The curse is a generations-long predator, still and patient, and it will hunt them down one at a time if it has to

Ah, Kirkwall, she thinks, some blend of annoyance and fondness and adrenaline mixing uneasily in her heart. You fuck with us again and again and still, here we are.

He Might Like That -

“So. Let me get this straight.” Greef lifts his bad knee with a groan, settling it over his other leg so he can sprawl a little more indolently. Din’s HUD focuses in, shows the elevated temperature in the joint in a dark red, and he turns it off with a flicker of his eye. Greef lifts his glass again, takes a sip, and gestures with it before continuing. “You two. Not together?”

Where I Can’t Follow -

The day Geralt of Rivia dies, he hears the whistle of the sword which almost kills him. There’s a series of tiny holes stamped along the spine of the blade, keeping weight down and adding a sinister shrill hiss through the air on each pass. The raiding party - if it can be dignified with such language - are nearly all armed with similar steel, with hunting horns, rattling chime-spangled shields, and bullroarer slings wailing and droning like an oncoming swarm of giant wasps. The effect is deafening, overpowering all efforts to coordinate the various companies on this mission.

Malicious Compliance - (M)

So this is how it feels to have a galaxy tremble at your feet.

Not just the galaxy, though— millions of lives shuddering under the weight of your boot on their necks cannot compare to the half-lidded gray-blue eyes drinking you in like you’re his salvation and damnation both. No, there is power in this, in these stolen moments with him, that rivals nothing else you’ve found anywhere among the stars.

He’s a brave man, your Captain.

Counting the Days (since Exegol) -

“That’s good, Finn.”

Rey smiles, feeling the Force ebb and flow around Finn as he manages to lift himself a few inches off the ground-- along with the meditation mat, two glasses of water, and the plate of snacks they keep for anyone who comes to visit. Finn cracks an eye open, smiles back at her, and lands with a thump. For half a moment, she almost expects him to be disappointed that his training is progressing slowly: hyper-competency is a Stormtrooper trait he’ll never outgrow.

Star by Star -

The galaxy looks different now.

It’s not just the cautious celebrations still happening, weeks later. And it’s not just the way people step back from her now, too much reverence in them for her comfort. It’s in the way she looks at the sky and sees the color of Luke’s eyes, and the gentle wind that feels so much like Leia’s hand, she cries. The way that Poe’s back straightens at the podium, broadcasting Republic news to everyone, and Finn’s hand clutching his under the table, their life forces bright and right in her senses.

Stardust and Memory (and a little bit of romance) -

“Wow.”

Jaal chuckled against her ear, hands firmly on her waist; a good thing, probably, or she’d be on her face on the floor. “It is… a lot, I know.”

“No!” Sara protested, only wilting when Jaal tilted his head at her. “...okay, maybe a little. There’s just— a lot of them?”

Scars and Holes and Broken Things -

Whispers follow him wherever he goes.

What’s left of the crew whispers in the halls, the mess, on the bridge, and conversations trail off when his ghost walks through, haunting the only place that's ever felt like home. Whatever they’re saying doesn’t matter, though—he doesn’t care. He’s too tired to care. He hasn’t slept more than his body demands in weeks. Tali’s immune system has already begun to destroy itself, and even though the Normandy is stocked with more dextro rations than it’s ever carried before—

Almost like Shepard knew. Always prepared, that’s my girl.

Heart of the Woods - (E)

You left the Templars, but do you trust mages? Can you think of me as anything more?

Less than a fortnight of sweet words, gentle touches, and stolen kisses are the only weapons she could levy against the trauma that shaped a man’s youth. And for a moment in time, Isera hoped.

Common Ground (isn’t so hard to find) -

“Skkut! Ryder!”

“Sorry, Enroh— oh!” Sara tried to stop, bounced into a low bench, and crashed into a pile of bruised, groaning Pathfinder on the other side. At least this time, she remembered to shield her head as she skidded to rest against the wall. Lexi would be pleased. Another concussion would get her put back under the scanner and that just ruined everyone’s day. “...ow.”

A Language Reserved for Lovers - (M)

The first time you touch him, his skin flushes red; the first time he touches you back, he trembles. Interesting, since if there is a word to describe him, it is steadfast. But there is more beneath the easy surface, beneath the deadly grace and unflagging stamina. He is loyal, and good, and so fascinating under the burden of his name. But nineteen is a young age, even if you're only a little older, and he seemed so young at first, unsure and innocent— then he gave you that crooked little grin, and stole your heart with it.

Every Beautiful Thing -

I would prefer to be Mary Shelley. She died a widow.

Despite a foolhardy counter, thrown in indifference and pride, Edith never really thought she would be a widow. Despite her foolish quip so many years ago, she is no Mary Shelley. And despite moderate success as an author and teller of stories, the only thing she and Shelley have in common is a belief in a world outside of the everyday, and widowhood.

Yesterdays -

He’s always thought she was invincible.

Sure, Morrigan told them the truth of the Archdemon’s death, an account more grisly and heartbreaking than the one Riordan gave; just the sort of tale that might ensnare a young boy’s heart, give him delusions of grandeur, while an older man might look upon it with resignation. But the truth doesn’t sink in until now.

If You Ever did Believe -

“There are people dying,” Isera repeated slowly, as if she could make her advisers understand what she'd seen. As if giving her memories voice might lift some of their weight in her heart. “We couldn’t even get to Redcliffe because of the fighting.”

Three days of being stuck on a horse, only to have to turn around after three skirmishes— their first mission to the Hinterlands had been a remarkable experiment in failure. Isera had learned her skills at the hands of the best of her clan, had fought alone for years, and yet the shock of tripping over Varric and accidentally hitting Cassandra with a ball of ice had made their first fight a near loss.

Some saviors, Varric had laughed afterward, staggering around like baby nugs.

Glitter: Velvet over Veridium -

If anyone had ever accused Marian Hawke of being a reasonable adult human being, she might have laughed at them. No, she'd have pointed and then laughed at them. But under all her bluster, and all her immature jokes, her dirty one-liners and cheesy pick-up lines, there was an adult hidden in there somewhere.

Okay, maybe I put more than one opening line, but I have a thing for context, dammit!

This got so long -- mobile users, I’m sorry omg.

Forwarding the tag (no pressure as always!) to @mayihavethisdanse @athreehundredthirtythree @thebisexualmandalorian @natsora @loquaciousquark @valdomarx @theggning @cullywullycurlywurly @systlin and @third-rail-vip

#dragon age #mass effect #star wars #cullavellan #fenhawke #fallout 4 #the witcher #shakarios #danse x sole survivor #geraskier #lavellan x fairbanks #ZevWarden #wardistair #rydaal #long post #my fic #i did the thing #do the thing

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years ago

Text

Don’t Hide That

Prompt: okay i know its an overdone trope but its an overdone trope that i love //so much//- would you ever consider doing one of those "peter tries to hide an injury from a mission and the team finds out and reminds him he can ask for help and also that he's a silly idiot boy" bc those always make me feel so like ?? warm?? cared for?? i just love them so much

Thanks so much for the prompt, babe!

Read on Ao3

Pairings: none, love me that found family

Warnings: peter gets hurt kinda bad...there’s description of vomiting, blood loss, blacking out

Word Count: 2407

Spider strength is both a blessing and a curse.

Peter can hold this building up long enough for the others to get the people out. He can do so he has to do it. He grits his teeth inside the mask until the air squeaks out and still he clenches. Peter knows he’s not supposed to clench his jaw this hard, it fucks up his neck and his shoulders and his whole system, but he has to hold this building up.

He hears Cap in his ear and he holds on. He sees Sam flying by him and gives him a quick nod.

“Don’t let your head drop, Pete,” Sam grits out as he punches a bad guy square in the face, “you’re doing great. We’re almost done.”

Peter knows better than to try and spare breath to reply.

Rhodey swings by with a swarm of drones after him, sending repulsor blast after repulsor blast into the buzzing mass. Peter shifts just an inch to the left to make sure he gives them enough room. Rhodey glances at him before he has to duck around the corner and vanish again.

Peter grits his teeth and holds on.

How long has he been holding this? Minutes? Seconds? Hours? Does it matter?

No, Peter thinks, holding tighter, it doesn’t matter. I just gotta—I just gotta keep holding.

His arms burn. His shoulders ache. Something in his left ankle gave out ages—seconds?—ago. He has to hold on. Just hold on. Come on, Spider-Man.

Sweat starts to run into his eyes. He blinks away the salt and holds on. His eyes start to burn. He squeezes them shut, willing them to stop. He wobbles. He forces his eyes back open, peering through the eyes of the mask. Karen’s in his ear, Cap’s in his ear. They aren’t all out yet.

“Spider-Man, status.”

“I got it,” Peter gasps, wobbling a little, “I got the corner. I’m gonna—how many are left?”

“Half a dozen. We’re almost out.”

“Wait, did you just say you have the corner?”

Natasha’s worried voice is enough to send tremors to his knees. No. Not now. He can’t fall.

“I’m fine.”

“Pete—“

“I said I’m fine,” he growls out, restacking his leg and shifting, even as the movement sends a bolt of pain through his left side.

No tenderness. No weakness. Not now. He can’t let go.

He hears more concern coming from his comm but he ignores it, shooting off the vaguest reports and asking questions about how many more are there? Where are they? Are the others still coming?

The little twinge of pain in his left side isn’t going anywhere and he shifts again. Trying to figure out if he’s pinched a muscle, if he’s just breathing wrong, why doesn’t he remember how to breathe properly, Sam’s helped him so much with that.

Peter clenches his jaw and holds on.

He shifts again and he hears the sharp crack.

Fuck.

Broken ribs are the worst.

Peter knows if he were to let anything slip, the slightest hiss of breath over the comms, a noise, even a gasp, someone would come to his side in an instant. But then they’d be leaving people in danger. They can’t deal with this. He can.

He holds on, despite the pain.

He scours his mind for every little thing Natasha’s taught him and schools his face into the perfect blank expression. Even beneath the mask it helps. His breathing becomes more controlled, his face barely twitching as the pain doesn’t let up. He has to be stoic. He has to do what needs to be done.

Peter straightens up so he’s not hunched over, even as his muscles groan and his ribs cry out in protest. Unlike the normal fluid grace, this is halting, jittery, and wrapped up in strings and strings of agony. He strains against them all and stands. The smallest gasp escapes his lips and he almost freezes, worried that a tender voice will come over the line and make him shatter. He has to hold on, he has to be strong. He pushes the pain to the back of his head.

“Almost there. Just a few stragglers. Start getting the others to safety.”

The rush of relief is almost enough to make him drop but he won’t. If he doesn’t move, if he hardly breathes, the pain is at a point where it’s not overwhelming. To it fades into the background, with his straining muscles and jilted breaths, no longer governing his every move.

Just a little longer.

Just…a little…longer.

He can do this so he has to.

“Get clear!”

The second he hears Cap’s voice he lurches into motion, tearing out from under the building and slinging a web up as high as he can. He pulls himself free with the instinct overwhelming his system, not enough to stop him from moving properly, until he’s up, up, high away from the building crashing down. His hand brushes something wet, and he looks down—

A dark patch grows on his left side.

Peter can’t tear his eyes away from it.

It’s so much blood.

It’s so much—

—crash.

Not bothering to look where he was swinging, too distracted by the sight of all that blood, Peter crashes headfirst into a billboard and rolls onto a roof, landing so hard it knocks the wind out of him completely.

The dull pain becomes a fierce agony, flaring up so brightly that it rushes into Peter’s lungs and makes breathing seem impossible. He can’t see. Can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t feel anything other than the sharp stabbing in his side. Blearily, he tears off his mask to try and get some air but it’s no use. Everything is fuzzy. He’s on his back, why is he on his back? His arms go up on instinct to defend himself but he can’t move, has barely a kitten’s strength, he’s defenseless—

Is he making noise? He can’t tell, everything’s so fuzzy, he doesn’t know what he’s looking for, he doesn’t know who he’s looking for, did they win? Where are the others? There’s something in his ear but he can’t tell what through the haze. He curls up, trying to hide, trying to make himself as small as possible, but it’s no use, they’ve seen him, he’s gotta get up, he’s gotta go, he’s gotta help, he’s gotta—

It’s no use. He collapses time and time again and every time he hits the ground he hears a crack.

Eventually he can’t move.

There’s something pressing down on top of him. Concrete. Rebar. The roof caves in around him and—

No. No, he’s not there. He’s free, he got out.

Peter blinks. A mixture of blood and spittle and bile pools on the ground in front of him, more dripping bitterly from his lips. The sight of it makes him heave again, more bubbling up and oozing from his mouth. He ends up on all fours, his vision spinning so wildly it makes him retch again. Each one makes his ribs throb harder until his stomach is entirely empty.

It’s over. They’re safe. Right?

He can…he can rest now?

…yeah…yeah that sounds like a good idea.

Peter’s just…he just…he’s just…gonna take a nap…right here.

Right here…yeah, it’s fine…

He passes out.

Rhodey’s scanning for Peter the second he gets the alert that he’s lost consciousness. He slams the reverse hard, turning back and racing through the buildings, looking for something, anything, where are you, Pete—

There.

“I got eyes on him,” Rhodey says, snapping open the helmet and racing to his side. He immediately clocks the pool of bile and blood smeared all over Peter and the still-growing stain on his side. “Sam, get over here, now!”

“Oy my way.”

“Come on, Pete,” Rhodey mutters, rolling Peter onto his uninjured side so if he vomits more, he won’t choke himself, “you’re gonna be alright, I promise.”

Peter is so small, and so young…his face is pale and covered with a grisly sheen of sweat, his lips almost white under all the partially congealed blood and spittle. Rhodey’s metal hand lands on his shoulder and the flimsy give of the muscle makes him wince.

“Sam!”

“Here,” Sam says, landing a few feet away and dropping to his knees beside Peter. “I got him. You make sure to get that suit applying pressure.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. We gotta stop the bleeding.”

“Won’t that fuck up his ribs more?”

“His ribs are already fucked, man, we gotta make sure he doesn’t bleed out too.”

Rhodey winces and does as Sam asks as Sam starts running through his medic kit. For a second, this isn’t Peter, he isn’t in a suit of armor, and Sam isn’t Sam. He’s somewhere else, someone in the desert, the smoking wreckage of a plane not too far away.

Then Sam looks at him and calls his name.

“Rhodes, C’mon. You gotta keep him here, you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Rhodey grits his teeth. “Where, here?”

“Yeah. Harder.”

Even unconscious, Peter lets out a hiss. Rhodey winces and looks back up at Sam.

“Harder.”

Rhodey can’t stop himself from full-on grimacing as he presses down, Peter jolting under his hands.

The jet can’t get here fast enough.

Sam works quickly, his hands steady, doing his best to get the kid stabilized before the jet comes to whisk them back to the compound. They can’t risk carrying him as he is, too much of a risk they’ll do more damage. But their wings and repulsors feel like tantalizing useless hunks of machinery as the fliers crouch there.

“Hang on, Pete,” Sam mutters, “we’ll get you home.”

Peter blinks his eyes open to the lights that are way too bright. He shuts his eyes and groans, only to gasp when the movement tugs at too many places in his body.

“Peter?”

Peter turns his head as the light behind his lids dims, opening them just enough to see the—

“Guys?” Wow, does he really sound like that? “What’s wrong?”

He licks his lips and tries again.

“Are you—am I—“

What happened? He’d been in the fight, helping, then the explosion had blown out one of the support beams and he’d jumped down without a thought because there were people in there and they needed time to get them out so he’d—

—oh. Right.

Peter’s eyes widen as he takes in the stony gazes of Cap, Mr. Stark, Colonel Rhodes, Black Widow, and Falcon.

“A-are you guys mad?”

Sam curses and Peter flinches as much as his ribs’ll let him.

“I-I’m sorry I couldn’t hold it for longer,” Peter tries, “I’ll do better next time, did we—did you manage to get everyone out?”

“Peter,” Cap says, taking a step forward, “they’re all okay. We managed to save everyone.”

“O-oh,” Peter burbles, sighing into the hospital bed, “that’s…that’s good.”

“Yeah, Pete, it is,” Cap repeats, still coming closer. He reaches out and lays a hand carefully on the bed right next to his head. “But you’re not okay. You almost didn’t make it.”

“…s-sorry.”

“No, Peter,” Cap corrects softly, reaching out to—to…brush his hair back from his face? What? “It’s not something you apologize for.”

“You can apologize for scaring the shit out of me,” comes Mr. Stark’s voice, quickly followed by a thwack and an indignant yelp.

The fingers in his hair make it really hard to focus on anything other than the pleasant buzzing sensation—though that’s probably whatever painkillers they’ve got him on—but still Peter pries his eyes open to stare up at Cap—oh and there’s Colonel Rhodes, and Falcon?

“G-guys?”

“We’re not mad at you, Pete,” Falcon says firmly, “just worried. You could’ve died out there and that building didn’t need you holding it.”

“But I—“ Peter swallows— “I had to hold it.”

“Why?”

Peter frowns at Rhodes. “So you guys could…you know, go in and save people?”

“We can fly,” Rhodes points out, “we could’ve gotten in there. You got hurt, Pete, and we’re not okay with that. You can take care of yourself in a fight.”

“We’re not mad, Baby Spider,” Black Wid—Natasha says, coming up to the bed too, “we’re just worried. You ask us for help next time, hmm?”

Cap—Steve hasn’t stopped stroking his hair and Peter’s having a really hard time keeping his eyes open right now.

“B-but I—“

“Shh,” she soothes, reaching down to trace his cheek, “we’re not. And you’re okay now. You just gotta remember you can ask, right?”

“…you promise you’re not mad?”

Steve huffs a laugh. “The only reason I’m not hugging you right now is that it would hurt. So…” He ruffles Peter’s hair in just the right way and Peter can’t hold back the keen. Sam chuckles.

“We’re not mad, kid. Promise.”

“I…did the breathing technique you suggested.”

“Good. We can work on that when you’re not holding up a building.”

Peter looks around at them. They really don’t look mad, but…

“W-where’s Mr. Stark?”

“I’m here, bambino.”

O-oh. Oh, Mr. Stark isn’t angry. He never calls Peter that when he’s angry.

Weathered fingers slide into his hair next to Steve’s and Peter’s eyes flutter shut. He hears Tony chuckle from somewhere above him.

“Why don’t you sleep this off, bambino,” Tony hushes, “and then we’ll promise we’re not mad again.”

Sleep. Sleep sounds good.

“Silly boy,” he hears Natasha say faintly, “you can always ask for help, you just need to be a little less stubborn about admitting you need it.”

“Don’t scold my baby spider.”

“Your baby spider?”

“Shh, you’re gonna wake him up!”

“How is this my fault?”

“For the love of god, will you shut the hell up?”

“You shut up!”

Peter drifts off to sleep in the warmth of the bed with the lights dim and two hands tangled in his hair.

#spider-man #spiderman #peter parker #whump prompt #Steve Rogers #natasha romanoff #tony stark #sam wilson #james rhodes #clint barton #dragonbabbles #fic

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mysterioh · 5 years ago

Text

The Ignorant Beauty and The Beast of New York - Chapter 3

PAIRING: MOB!STEVE ROGERS X READER

SYNOPSIS: Y/N is an exhausted bio major. Steve is danger with a capital DANGER. She thinks he’s a sarcastic prick with an impressive knowledge in art history. He thinks she’s cute even if she’s only running on one brain cell. All he wants is a single date, but she’s adamant upon denying.

Masterlist

We Meet Again My Love

It was rush hour on E 52nd. Two lines of steel and tire, each one tailgating the one in front with disgruntled city folk inside waiting for even an inch of movement. At the junctions, cars weaved into the traffic as seamlessly as a shuffled deck of cards only adding to the frustration of those already on the packed street. Especially, the frustration of one mobster.

The rain softly falling from a thick blanket of gray above provides a sort of peace in the middle of such tedious traffic. Steve looks at the raindrops racing down the window of his black Mercedes AMG, his chin propped up on his hand and elbow resting on the side of the door. His patience wearing thin with every motionless minute that passed. At least he kept himself busy with his thoughts wandering off to the mystery girl from the museum.

Secretly, he'd do anything to meet her again. She plagued his every thought, veering him from his work and making him lose all his focus in anything and everything he did. He hated it but never tried to stop it.

He was on the way for a job with Bucky in the driver's seat and Sam in the passenger. There was a sleek Cadillac in front of them and one behind for backup as if he was the damn president.

It was a simple job. Threaten the pastry chef down on 54th for paying up what he borrowed four months ago. Probably break a few things and stick the meatball’s head in a coffee grinder for good measure. A lot easier than most tasks and definitely not needing three luxury cars filled with notorious mobsters to finish, but then again the kingpin was never shy to boast just how powerful he was. Not to mention, he wasn’t much of a fan of doing the dirty work.

“Steve?” Bucky called. Steve hummed a response, turning his towards him. “We’re here,” he says.

“Took long enough,” Steve clicks his tongue. “You know what to do,” he tells his friend. The man nods with Sam getting out of the car. “Take the guys in the back and make sure to take the kid with you this time. ”

Sam growls quietly. “Is that really necessary?” he questioned with his head ducked into the car. “The kid’s a troublemaker.”

Steve’s eyes flit towards him and Sam was starting to regret what he said. They were friends since high school. Steve saw Sam the same way he saw Bucky; as a brother. And treated him as such. They smoked cigars and drank liquor during Sunday football. They dragged Bucky down to the depths of hell for his lengthy history of psycho girlfriends. But when it came to the matter of the business, Steve wasn’t a friend to him or anyone else. He was his boss and his orders were firm.

"'The kid ain't so bad," Steve said pulling a box of cigarettes out from his coat pocket. "I owe his auntie a favor so do as I say and show the boy what a good Brooklyn beating looks like."

Sam sighs with a nod and closes the door behind him.

“Don't worry," Bucky chimes in. "We'll take the kid," he says, unable to hide his own distaste. "I'll send him to get you when we're done."

Steve lights his cigarette as Bucky gets out of the car. Sam hollers at Clint coming out of the car from behind, telling him to bring the boy with him.

"C'mon, Pete," Clint hissed at the teen. "We don't got all day!"

"Yes, sir!" Peter squeaks getting out of the car and running to catch up with them. He was around the age of nineteen but looked like he belonged in the ninth grade. A bit short and skinny with pale skin - paler than usual today .

Steve watches how the boy follows the rugged men towards the shop. Sticking out like a dandelion in a cluster of weeds. He chuckles at the way Peter frantically nods at what they're telling him. His eyes alert and footsteps light. So light that he ends up tripping over himself and into Bucky.

Bucky smacks him on the back of the head, scolding him for being stupid.

"Quit playing around, kid!" Bucky snaps at him. "The boss is watching ya!"

Peter gulps, bobbing his head up and down while rubbing the back of his head before following them inside. Steve shakes his head while exhaling a puff of smoke. The boy reminded him of himself from a long time ago. The first time his old man took him out on a job. God bless his father's resting soul.

You inhaled the sweet aroma rising from the cup in your hands. Already tasting the saccharine flavor of French Vanilla on your tongue.

The tiny cafe huddled between the high rise buildings on 54th was the best place for some quality coffee and study time. You never understood how the place could be so empty when they had the best service.

It could have been the outward appearance that gave it a bad connotation especially on a droll, rainy winter day like today. Washed out underneath an overcast sky, it hunched in on itself, fighting against the cold rain. Hundreds of people rushed by it, out on the crowded street never giving the poor thing a chance.

If even one ventured to come inside, they would understand just how charming the tiny shop was. Warm and cheery in its aura and its employees with bright lights and colorful walls. Not to mention in its sweet smells of hot coffee and freshly-baked pastries.

Sometimes the best places in the city were the ones no one knew anything about. And you came to the conclusion that it was a good thing. The less people knew of this place the less crowded it would be. The less crowded it was meant that it’d be quieter. The quieter it was made it an even more ideal spot for studying biological mechanisms.

Unfortunately, today was a bad day to study at the cafe on what would have seemed to be an overall good day. Not even a second after you cracked open your notebook, a group of grisly men with guns slammed the door open and walked in, demanding to see the owner of the cafe.

The men were ruthless and destructive, breaking everything that came in their way. Purposefully dropping the cups and plates on the counter to the ground and flipping over tables.

The shop was empty with only you and another customer, an old man reading the newspaper by the window.

You froze in the corner, not knowing what to do. Your heart pounding against your chest and breathing heavy. You could make a run for it but there was a good chance the guy with the long hair would catch you easily.

The men didn't seem to care about the two bystanders, barely even noticing the two of you. Their goal was the head and there was no need for them to drag in the innocent. So you decided to stay put until action was needed.

The owner, Manny, was dragged out of the kitchen by one of the men.

Manny fell at the feet of the brunette who seemed to be the leader. His face twisted in fear and covered in sweat.

"Been a while, Manny, how’s it been?” Bucky asks. “Been missing ya.”

“Please,” Manny begs, his voice strained. “I’ll pay you back just give me some time!”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “You’ve been saying that for four months now, fatass.” He pulls Manny up by the collar. “Ya know how much the boss hates being lied to,” he seethes.

“I know, I know,” Manny nods like a maniac.

“I don’t think you do, buddy,” he shakes his head with a twisted grin, placing his gun underneath his chin. “The big guy is real pissed that you dipped on him and took his money on top of that. So pissed that he decided to come all the way over here to see ya.”

Manny swallows with the color draining from his face.

“Hey kid, go get the boss,” Clint orders Peter.

He nods and dashes out the door to get the boss leaving all of them in horrifying anticipation. He returns in a few minutes opening the door and letting in another man. Taller with broader shoulders and a very familiar face.

Your skin pales at the sight of the freak from the museum.

“You!” you blurt out, pointing at him and making all eyes turn on you.

Steve turns his head and his eyes light up.

Mean Gangster Mode Deactivated

“Rosalind Franklin!” Steve smiles at you, walking past the chaos and towards you in the corner. “How’s it going? How’d your paper go?”

You stare at him confused. “Y-you’re a gangster!” you yelled, pointing at him.

"Gangster's a bit vulgar don't you think?” Steve shrugged.

"You're a fucking criminal!" you emphasized in shock.

Bucky’s gun drops to his side, but his grip on the pastry chef remains tight. His eyes flit towards Steve then Sam then Clint. The latter two asking the same silent question with their eyes.

"Damn, that hurt me right here,” Steve frowned playfully, pointing to his heart. “After all, I’ve done to help you? This is the thanks I get?”

“I never asked for your help,” you spat at him.

“Right, the whole DNA thing again,” he said. “You know, Rosy, I was really bummed out when you ditched me at the museum that day. Stripped me bare of my words and left me all alone without a goodbye. That’s cold, sweetheart.”

“My name isn’t Rosy,” you snapped at him. “And are you mental or something? Why in the world would I drink coffee with a stranger!”

“Then what’s your real name?” Steve asked, stepping into your space. His head leaning towards you with a loose strand of hair falling in front of his ocean blue eyes. His hand is flat against the wall behind you, caging you in from one side to keep his balance.

You have never been this close to a man before. Especially one so effortlessly handsome and dangerous. He licks his lower lip with a sharp smile and you gulp speechlessly.

He was dressed formally. A three-piece suit that looked very expensive, probably costing more than your scholarship. You can see the way his muscles bulge under his coat. He most definitely did not pad his suits. There’s a strong urge within you, pushing you to place your hand on his chest.

Just for a second. Just to see if a man this perfect actually existed.

You could smell the strong, crisp scent of cologne coming off of him and its intoxicatingly addictive, pulling you closer into his temptation.

“I’d really love to get to know you more,” he crooned.

His voice was so tender and earnest and you didn’t understand why. Neither did he. Sure he’s seen a billion pretty faces in the past, but for some reason, yours won’t leave his head. Yeah, he only met you last week without even a single detail but damn, did he want to learn all the explicit intricacies that created you. Maybe he was going mental.

“I’ve been thinking about you lately,” he confesses. Your cheeks heat up and the tips of your ears light up. “You’re always stuck in my head,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it is about you, but you got me runnin’ in circles.”

His subordinates looked at him confused as if he wasn’t the mob boss but some lovesick teenager. You tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“You’re nuts!”

Steve laughs heartily while standing straight. “I had the feeling that’s how you’d react.”

“You can’t just say stupid stuff like that!” you scolded him. “You don’t even know me!”

“All the more reason for us to have a coffee together!” Steve suggested. “And how convenient for us to be in a cafe.” He turns around towards Sam still holding the owner of the shop with a gun to his head. “Hey, Manny, can I get a table for two?”

The man nods slowly while in a chokehold.

“Great,” Steve nods and looks around the place. “God, this place is a fucking mess.” He places his hands on his hips and turns towards you. “Tell you what, how about we ditch this joint and go down to this real classy place on Hyde Ave?”

“I’m not going anywhere with an ugly dirty mobster,” you spat at him, pushing past him and grabbing your bag. You strut past the others who were still frozen in confusion and impressed by your boldness.

Steve grins at your insult. “A pretty face and a sharp tongue?” he said, following behind. “You’re a girl after my own heart.”

“I don’t want your heart,” you snapped at him. “Or anything to do with you. Stay the hell away from me and it’ll do you some good!” you threatened before turning on your heel and pushing past the door.

Steve watches your retreating form with an even wider grin and giddy excitement in his chest. Playing hard to get I see. Mark my words, sweetheart, I’ll win this game. My name isn’t Steve Rogers for nothing!

“Uh, boss?” Clint asked from behind. “Who was that?”

Steve turns to look at him with a coy grin and the distant sound of wedding bells ringing in his ears.

"The future Mrs. Rogers."

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #mob!steve #steve rogers #mobster steve rogers x reader #mafia au

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