#anyway this was pretty heavily inspired by your own fic 'Holiday To Another World'

[victorluvsalice]

Merry Christmas Ace!

@ace-of-tales You asked for Aziraphale and Crowley from Good Omens visiting Secundus, as you thought Aziraphale in particular would like all the inventions there...and then I mentioned him getting a taste of the March Hare's tarts, and you were like "YES THAT." XD So here that is! Hope you like!

--

“Oh, these – these are absolutely amazing! Crowley, you have to try some!”

Alice did her best to stifle a laugh as she watched one half of the newest pair at the tea table go to absolute town on the March Hare’s tarts. “I take it you’re pleased with the vittles on offer?” she commented, leaning on her elbow.

“I think it’s safe to say this is now his favorite part of our trip here,” Crowley replied, grinning at his partner over an untouched cup of tea. “Always been a bit weak for good food, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale shot him a playfully-scolding look. “It’s your fault,” he declared once his mouth was empty. “You’re the one who introduced me to it.”

“Yessss,” Crowley said, smirking back. “Best bit of temptation I ever did.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I won’t argue with that.” He grinned over at the March Hare. “Genuinely, these are absolutely fantastic. I thought Jane Austen’s tarts were delectable, but these – ! Oh, you can simply taste the love.”

“I make every batch with as much love – and strawberries – as I can fit in them,” March said, beaming back and bouncing in his chair. “Delighted to hear they pass muster! Though not mustard. That’d be horrible.”

“It would,” Victor agreed with a little laugh.

“Oh, indeed – but instead, now you can tell everyone who comes by that your tarts are truly heavenly,” Richard added, giving March a nudge and a theatrical wink.

“Oh, I’m sure they’re much better than that,” Crowley said, picking up a tart and examining it. “You lot are a lot more – creative than Heaven or Hell. Part of the reason Aziraphale and I were so keen on sticking around on Earth – that and avoiding all the nonsense Upstairs and Down. Humans make some fascinating things, when they put their minds to it.”

“I’m a hare,” March pointed out, pulling up his ears for emphasis.

“I think he’s using ‘human’ to mean sapient creatures as a whole,” Alice said, patting his head. “After all, it doesn’t sound like they have anything like you, Dormy, or Cheshire where they come from.”

“Not that I’ve seen – our world is quite sadly lacking in intelligent animals with stupendous baking skills,” Aziraphale confirmed. “I don’t believe we have anyone quite like your ‘Touched’ either, which is a shame. Some of the inventions you have around here are fantastic – that clock tower, for instance, with the giant bird coming out of it on the hour. Most amusing!”

“Oh, Cuckoo Ben? That nearly scared the life out of me when I first heard it go off,” Victor admitted, grinning. “But it is funny, once you get used to it.”

“Me, I liked that motorized bicycle we saw the other day,” Crowley said, with a sharp-toothed grin. “The one that fellow was bragging could outrun any horse. Reminded me of the Bentley, the way he was zipping around. I could something like that while we’re in the city. Get us places a lot faster than that carriage we rented.”

“I’m – I’m rather content with the speed at which our horses move,” Aziraphale said, grinning nervously. “And that demonstration did end with the inventor going straight into a wall. I had to, ah, assist slightly in making sure he didn’t end up in the morgue.”

“I noticed – though I don’t know if you really had to,” Crowley pointed out. “Based on what we’ve heard, these folks could have just shocked him back again.” He frowned, turning his tart over in his hands. “Which – does feel like it should be causing more of a fuss on both our ends. Hell doesn’t like a sinner escaping.”

“And Heaven would be rather cross about the population going down,” Aziraphale agreed. “But I don’t know much about the local theology.”

“We’re still trying to figure that out ourselves,” Richard told them. “The recently undeceased don’t tend to remember much about their time on the other side. What little we’ve gotten out of them makes it sound like everybody gets chucked into a waiting room first.”

“Mmm – meaning the local versions of Heaven and Hell might have already compensated for our propensity for bring people back to life by not letting anyone in until they’re sure they’re dead,” Alice added.

“Maybe,” Crowley shrugged, and took an experimental bite of tart. “Not like I’m going to – oh.”

He stopped, blinking behind his sunglasses. “Oh wow,” he continued, sounding lightly stunned. “This is good.”

“What did I tell you?” Aziraphale chuckled. “Congratulations Mr. Hare – you’ve won over the agents of both Heaven and Hell with your cookery.”

“Excellent – though it does feel like those should cancel each other out,” March noted, rubbing his chin. “Guess we won’t know until I die, though! And get past the waiting room.”

“Which hopefully won’t be for a long, long time,” Alice said, patting his head. “Anyway – is there anything else you two wanted to see while you’re visiting?

“Well...” Aziraphale grinned. “I did hear something about a restaurant where the food literally rains down from the sky...”

[sicklylittlesnowflake]

Can you write a Spider-Man sickfic where peter wakes up in the middle of the night whenever he's staying at the Stark Tower and he's woken with a really upset stomach and he feels so nauseous he's scared to move and he accidentally ends up throwing up all over the floor and leading to the bathroom of captain americas room that he happened to be staying in while he was gone and once he feels a little better after puking everything up he goes to Tony's room & is crying because he feels really sick

(HEAVY EMETO WARNING. DONT READ IF ITS NOT FOR YOU!!! This one is a little shorter because I think a shorter length is more appropriate for the fic!! :D)

When Tony agreed to take Peter for a week, he wasn’t really expecting to be agreeing to what was essentially a “Father for a Week, and maybe more” contract.

It was his own doing really, and Tony certainly didn’t hate being Peter’s faux father for a week, but it wasn’t exactly what he was expecting when he organised a week holiday to Barbados for Aunt May and her best friend following Mother’s Day. He was very glad to have organised it, Aunt May was a remarkable and inspirational woman who Peter spoke highly of and cared for very deeply, and she more than anything deserved this. He had given Peter a budget, despite Peter’s bashful refusal to start, and the holiday was planned. If anything, it helped Peter out with his budgeting skills he could potentially use in the future.

Aunt May had been extremely moved and delighted, over the moon and close to tears. She had felt so unbelievably loved and touched by this grandiose gesture, and was so humbled by the action. She tried to refuse, not wanting to accept such a gift, but Peter and Tony convinced her into it. She eventually obliged, but was still at a crossroads as what to do with Peter.

Tony had brushed off her suggestions of getting a relative or asking the Leeds to let Peter stay as a favour (“and no, Peter, I am not letting you be alone for a week, absolutely not”) and offered to let Peter stay over at Stark Tower for the mean time. He was more than happy to let Peter stay. He was a bubbly and optimistic presence that brightened his day, and gave him more motivation to work.

And for the most part, they had had a pretty amazing few days to begin with. Peter learned a lot from Tony’s work, and acquired new skills and knowledge, Tony felt a lot less anxious with such a ray of sunshine helping him out, and they had great chemistry. They were a good team. They watched movies from Tony’s time Peter had missed out on, and played Peter’s favourite video games. They had midnight snacks, and all around, it was a great time.

Until 3 am in the early hours of Friday.

Peter doesn’t know how it happened, but everything went downhill really fast. Like some rapid landslide that came tumbling down at record speed and coming to fuck him over and crush him to death.

He’d felt a little off throughout the day. He’d get sudden waves of slight nausea he got over pretty quickly. He’d get flashes of bright light that’d leave him feeling faint and stumbling slightly, and little gashes of pain every so often in his head. He’d feel a little queasy, stomach unable to digest as much as he usually did (Peter ate a lot, and this was in a way concerning.)

Peter had felt so tired and oddly down that he decided to head off to bed early, at around 10 pm. It was an abnormally early time for him. He went to bed usually in the early morning hours, and so did Tony. They had hung out together and watched movie until about 2 pm, and Tony was slightly concerned.

He brushed it off with the conclusion he must be having an off day, and that the exhaustion from the recent past had just caught up to him. Tony could only smile softly and give him a little hair ruffle and offer him Steve’s usual room, hoping that staying in the hero he looked up to and admired’s room would lift up his spirits a little bit. Plus, the bed was of a better quality anyway (for an old man, Tony would say, much to Steve and Bucky’s annoyance) and it was certainly much bigger. The room had a few more features that Peter could use, and perhaps was a much needed change in atmosphere.

That made Peter a little happier at least, and put his troubled mind at ease. He took the offer gratefully and went straight to bed. The moment his head fell against the heavenly soft, crisp pillow and he pulled the luxurious duvet over him, he was lulled into a sleep that he desperately needed.

It was pretty peaceful, for the most part, but suddenly in the early hours of that day, Peter fell into a weird fever dream state. He’d wake up feeling delirious and confused about his surroundings, unable to tell his dreams from true. Everything seemed to be warped in an extremely trippy way. The world seemed to tilt uncomfortably and he’d feel a little queasy, like he was on some boat constantly being rocked by strong currents.

His stomach would lurch uncomfortably and swirl around, and he’d feel unbelievably nauseous. He’d feel horribly weightless, that sickening sinking feeling he’d get on a rollercoaster that made him feel scarily out of control.

Peter curled up in on himself and hugged his stomach to try and soothe the nauseating feeling. He squeezed his eyes shut, begging his body to allow him to fall back asleep but the sickly sensation was far too much. He gagged, cringing at the liquid that burned at his throat.

But he felt far too exhausted and drained to stand up and run to the bathroom, and while Peter was a pretty logical person who relied on his smarts to survive, every inch of his nauseated body was telling him to go against his very being’s natural instinct.

But suddenly his stomach cramped horribly, causing him to gasp and gag, and Peter tried so hard to close his mouth as quickly as possible, but to no avail.

Peter leaned over the bed and sick poured out of his mouth and trickled onto the floor. Peter clamped his hands against his mouth to try and nip this horrifying situation in the bud, but another round of nausea surged through his body as more sick spilled out of him and onto the floor. Peter was frozen in horror and shame at what had just happened, as if  time had just ceased to exist.

He felt unbelievably lost and in shock, but thankfully he regained control of his senses and managed to yank himself off of bed and run towards the bathroom. More sick could only trickle down onto the floor, leaving a horrible trail behind him as he burst into Steve’s en suite.

Peter shuddered at the cold marble floor against his feet and gasped, and only succeeded in forcing more liquid up his throat. Peter slid against the smooth floor and fell onto his knees, hunched over the toilet and immediately began to retch.

He clung shakily onto the toilet sides as he continued to heave and throw up, his entire frame racked with intense shakes. He wasn’t seizing, but it definitely looked like he was. He felt so unbelievably out of control and unstable, as he continued to puke all contents of his stomach. He whimpered as the bile burned painfully at his throat, his stomach cramping up with pain as he continued to retch.

Peter’s hands crept over to his stomach to try and soothe it as it continued to contract and empty itself out roughly. Finally, Peter finished, and he was sincerely hoping for that sense of relief and clarity to his system after, but he was greeted by a rude awakening in knowing it didn’t happen.

Peter just felt worse afterwards, and fell back against the wall as he whimpered. His bottom lip quivered with shame and misery, squeezing his eyes shut as Tara pricked at his eyes. He brought his knees up to his face and buried it there, hoping to find some sort of sense of composure or calm, but he couldn’t find it. All he could hear was his racing heart and the wave of anxiety hammering onto his heart and screaming at him.

Peter breathed in heavily, the pace of his breathing quickening into a rapid, short and shallow rhythm. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen into his system and his body was panicking. He shook tremendously, his whimpers becoming louder, and eventually tears started to fall from his eyes. He started to sob, and everything seemed to get louder and louder until he reached a moment of serenity.

Then he bounced up and ran out of the bathroom and sprinted towards Tony’s room. He burst through the door and started to sob again.

Tony woke up with a jerk, springing upwards into a sitting position. He looked  around wildly as he tried to assess his surroundings, and when he locked eyes with Peter a sense of protectiveness washed over him.

“Peter, what’s wrong?” He asked in concern, pushing the covers off and coaxing Peter towards him.

There was so much Peter wanted to say, and it was all too overwhelming so all he could do was burst into a fresh batch of tears again and slide down the wall in misery and shame. He fell back into his head in knees position and cried hard, sobbing out nearly incoherent “I’m sorrys”.

Tony widened his eyes in alarm and slid off of his bed and kneeled down to Peter.

“Hey, kiddo, what’s up?”

“I threw up everywhere and I ruined Captain America’s room and i feel so sick and miserable and I hate it I hate it all so much,” He sobbed.

Tony sighed softly, softly holding his shoulders, as if to steady him, “Hey, kid, that’s not your fault. Don’t be sorry, it’s okay if you’re not feeling well.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter cried, as he came closer to burry his head into Tony’s chest and continued to sob.

“I’m such a burden on you, I’m so sorry, we were meant to have fun but I ruined it! I was supposed to be a good faux son, and now I just..I’m so sorry..” Peter continued to sob, his voice muffled by the fabric of Tony’s t-shirt.

“No you’re not, Pete. Faux father, right? And fathers stick with their sons through thick or thin. I’m going to take care of you, and make you feel better,” He promised gently, pulling him in for a hug and rubbing his back fondly, ruffling his hair as he did so.

“I’m so sorry you had to do this, I’m so sorry,” Peter sobbed again.

“Jesus, kid, we’re banning ‘sorry’ from your vocabulary, okay? But I wanted to do this. I want this, I want to be here for you. It’s okay. You deserve it. You need it,” Tony reassures.

“I need it,” Tony confirms, and with Peter by his side, no matter how sick, somehow he feels a little more whole. Like some emptiness he didn’t even realise was there now felt a little more whole. Yes, he was going to make this work.

It would be the start of something beautiful.