#i wanted to make it more whumpy but wasn’t sure how | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

liz-allyn · 2 years ago

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sugar and vice, pt. 19 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: your sins will find you, eventually.

words: 10.3 k

chapter warning: heavy chapter warnings for dire!whumpy situations, death, g0re, g!uns, vi0lence!

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, wh-mp. hurt/comfort. s-xu-l situations. spousal ab-se. family trauma. dr-g use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you don't remember anyone having to figure out who else was on the landline so you could use the phone, then have you really lived? maybe wait on this one.

Back to Part 18.

Part 19

“Peter, wake up.”

The voice he could hear wasn’t his own. It was soft. Feminine. Gentle, like being awoken from a dream. He was comfortable wherever he was. He didn’t want to wake up.

“Peter, wake up,” the voice implored.

The sound of it made his heart ache. How could such a comforting sound cause him so much pain? ‘Bittersweet’ wasn’t the right expression. ‘Blissful agony’ was more accurate.

“Peter,” he heard again, the tones of the gentle voice pulling him from a dreamless slumber. Then, just like a dream, the voice faded into the abyss with a whisper.

“Hold on...”

Heaven, he thought. He was in Heaven.

The sound of her voice made him want to fall down and worship. Made him want to die.

“Gwen...” he mumbled—perhaps only in his own mind. He couldn’t move his lips. Couldn’t feel anything anymore.

What a blessed relief.

His heart throbbed as he felt himself flying. He wasn’t sure if he was sinking or soaring, but it was all so fast. All out of his control.

“You can let go now.”

“Grab ‘em!”

Gwen?

“Get ‘em up on the gurney!”

“It’s time, Peter. Time to go home.”

What do you mean by ‘home’? You’re my home. You’re my path.

“C’mon, Pete, don’t you fuckin’ do this—”

“Is he breathing?”

“I can’t find a pulse. I need the paddles.”

“Jesus Christ, Pete...”

“It’s okay, Peter. You can rest now.”

“Goddamnit—wake up, man.”

“CHARGING. STAND CLEAR.”

“Clear!”

A stab to his chest. A bite to the back of his neck.

“Hit ‘em again—clear!”

His whole body jolts. He’s sticking to the ceiling of a subway car.

“You have a choice, Peter. You don’t have to go back there.”

I want to stay with you, Gwen. I don’t wanna leave.

“Clear!”

His skin is on fire. Electricity ravages every muscle in his body. It sears his flesh and scrambles his brain. And all he can see is a pair of sparkling eyes.

Her eyes.

“Stay with me, Peter.”

“Pete, stay with us!”

“We can be together, finally. Like we were meant to be. They can go on without you.”

Her eyes. Beautiful, glittering eyes, full of warmth and sunlight. Sweet. Eyes like Honey.

“Goddamn it!” —“Again!” —“C’mon, Spidey!”—“Clear!”

The web catches Gwen by the chest, but it’s too late. It was always too late.

“Peter, please. Please. You can’t do this. You can’t do this right now.”

There is rapid whispering—murmuring, like a desperate prayer. But it’s not Gwen’s voice that he hears. It’s a voice that makes his chest ache just as much.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about everything.”

“You need to wake up, Peter.”

“Please, baby, please wake up. I’m so sorry. Just please stay with me.”

I can’t. I can’t go with you, Gwen.

“Peter, don’t do this.”

“Please just come back—”

“Why would you want to go back?”

“I need you... I need you to wake up.”

She needs me. Miles needs me. My family — my family needs me. I need to be with them.

A pair of green eyes are staring at him, but not in anger. Instead, there’s understanding. There’s compassion. There’s a hint of pride within the emerald hues.

“Peter, please, I’m sorry. Please come back to me.”

I need them. I need to make this right.

From her cloud in Heaven, she smiles at him. It breaks his heart and makes him whole.

“Clear!”

The next jolt racks his brain and yanks his consciousness from the abyss. He’s reborn again, blood-covered, gasping, and sputtering on a gurney surrounded by worried faces. Every muscle in his body spasms. His heart groans as it flutters back to life. Air slices through his lungs like razor blades. He coughs and shudders, shrinking away from the harsh light of the living.

“Thank fuck!” he hears a hiss from next to him. It’s Eddie. How did Eddie get here?

He pried his eyes open, pupils adjusting to the light.

Eddie was looking down at him, hazel-gray eyes full of joyful tears. “Don’t you ever do that again, you crazy bastard,” he chuckled. Two giant hands wrapped around Peter’s face as he embraced him lovingly.

Peter’s focus shifted as more faces came into view.

Helen Cho stood above him as she worked the pump of a blood pressure device cuffed around his bicep. She paused only briefly to wipe sweat from her brow. Miguel leaned back against a wall with eyes closed and face pale as if he was moments from throwing up. Felicia leaned over him, glaring at him with relief and fury. He couldn’t tell if the smirk that appeared was from the joy of his survival or glee from plotting his future demise. Each of them looked like they had run a marathon.

Peter’s left hand suddenly felt warm. His eyes shifted in its direction, and he followed the small hand barely covering his own.

There she is, he thought. The eyes that brought him back from the dead.

His Honey.

The kind eyes of the woman he fell in love with—against all odds, toppling all of his defenses—were fixed on him. They shimmered with tears as she struggled to keep a steady lip, gazing down at him like he was a miracle. She held his hand tightly as if afraid to let go. He was certain she was holding onto him with the intent of grounding him, but it looked the opposite. Instead, she looked overwhelmed with relief and on the verge of collapsing into a heap of sobbing gratitude.

Oddly enough, on the edge of life and death, he was the one who felt lucky. He felt contentment with the heat of her palm over his hand. He found peace in the loving look in her eyes.

He found a hope worth holding on to.

They were almost too late, Honey thought.

They found Peter exactly where Felicia thought he would be, more or less. Near Long Island City, not far from the Ravenswood Power Station. At a clock tower with a broken face.

Peter was at the bottom on a pile of rubble. It was a horrifying sight. His broken form was covered in dirt and dust, blood trailing from his ears and nose.

He was dead. He looked dead. She knew he had to be dead.

Suddenly, she couldn’t stand straight anymore. The air escaped her lungs, like a vacuum into space, as she stared at his motionless body. The sound evaporated and fragments of worried statements drifted by—goddamn you crazy sonofabitch—sweartogod you better be dead or i’ll kill ya—as Felicia and Eddie descended upon his body.

Blinking back tears, the vision of Peter’s corpse swam in her eyes.

Her mind was elsewhere.

It was night. She was at the mountain retreat, sitting up in Peter’s bed. She leaned over him, carding her fingers through his hair. Her heart ached with sympathy, forehead furrowed with concern. He sobbed into her lap like a child, curled into the fetal position.

That night, they would fall asleep hand-in-hand.

Her fingers twitched at the memory.

Hours had passed. She was sitting, perched anxiously on the back of a plastic bench, with arms wrapped tightly around herself and her eyes hawkishly observing the rise and fall of Peter’s chest.

They were in what Peter had referred to as “The Bunker.”

It was the abandoned, unfinished ‘Roosevelt Ave.’ subway station beneath Queens. Inside the decrepit station of chipping, art deco arches, and web-covered, stained glass skylights, was a row of abandoned subway cars left to rust on a track. Unlike the rest of the station, they were buzzing with energy.

They had been modified and outfitted to serve different purposes. One car held a weapons storage cache, a server room in the next, a sleeping and dining car lined with several cots and booths, a laboratory with a mishmash of equipment from the 1990s, and finally, a medical bay, which they were in.

Peter was unconscious. His body was bloodied and bruised, stretched out in a gurney, hooked up to IVs, wires, and electrodes. Monitors beeped around him, as fluid bags slowly drained into his system.

He looked like he’d been run over by a tank.

Whatever Peter attempted to do at the clock tower, it appeared as if he’d broken himself trying to do it.

A watercolor portrait of purples, reds, and blues covered the pale canvas of his torso. It looked as if the entity—Venom, as Eddie called it—had been ripped from his body, pulled out through his pores. In its wake, it laid waste to his flesh, leaving bruises that bubbled under his skin and stained his complexion in blackberry tones.

Peter had fallen unconscious just a few seconds after being revived. Dr. Cho informed the group that he still had a pulse, but she was uncertain how long it would take him to wake up again.

Or if he would. She didn’t have to say the part they were all already thinking about.

At the moment, he was sleeping, and Honey felt obligated to watch over him. His eyes twitched behind his lids, and she wondered what he was dreaming about or if he was dreaming at all. And if he was dreaming, she hoped it was a good dream.

Selfishly, she hoped she was in it. However, a familiar, bitter voice assured her that her presence would technically make it a nightmare.

Whatever anger she held, the boiling contempt fueled by her paranoia and fear, evaporated once she saw Peter’s broken body. It was a confusing whiplash of emotions—to want to shoot someone one moment and to weep over their corpse the next. She resented the conflict in her mind but understood the clarity of her heart.

She loved Peter. Without a doubt.

Whether that was a good or bad thing, she wasn’t sure. She’d been wrong about such things before.

But now, she wasn’t focused on the dark thoughts rousing suspicion in her mind. Instead, she was focused solely on his eyes, the way they shifted beneath the eyelids as he slept. She pictured their golden hue, indistinguishable from sunlight. She envisioned charting the constellation of beauty marks on his body. Kissing the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that formed whenever he smiled. Worshipping the artistry with which the gods carved out his jaw and molded his features.

She only looked up from her dutiful watch when she recognized Miles’ voice. Her eyes darted over as the teen emerged through the sliding doors. He was winded like he’d been running. Ripping off his beanie, his mocha eyes were wide with terror as he gazed at Peter’s state.

“Miles,” Felicia breathed a sigh of relief, alerting the others to his presence. He locked his worried gaze on his mentor. Other anxious faces occupied the back of the car as Johnny followed behind Miles and joined Miguel and Eddie.

“You shoulda called me,” he protested with indignation. The complaint was directed at everyone. “Why didn’t you let me know what was goin’ on? I coulda been there to help!”

“Honestly,” Felicia answered with an exasperated sigh, “I didn’t know what we’d find. Wasn’t ready to deal with that.”

“That’s bullshit,” Miles snidely argued. “One of y’all coulda died out there!” The tiniest crack formed in the tone of his voice. He clamped down on his jaw. “Pete coulda died out there! And, what, I was just supposed to sit around—?”

“And stay alive,” Eddie muttered under his breath. He sat with arms and ankles crossed across a subway bench. They turned to him, Miles fixing him with a scolding look, but Eddie didn’t shrink away. “That’s the whole point of this, kid.”

Miles’s eyes flashed lividly. “Call me ‘kid’ one more time—”

“That’s what you are!” Eddie snapped back, overcome with frustration. “Jesus Christ, you’re sixteen! Can you blame him for tryin’ to let you just be a kid for a little while longer?”

“Mira pendejo, I don’t need you to tell me—”

“No, Pete should tell you!” Eddie growled, cutting Miles off. The beefy man stood abruptly, striding towards the teen. “But since he might not ever wake up again, I’ll speak on his behalf! So shut up and listen!”

Miles snapped his mouth shut, though his eyes screamed lividly. The scowl on his youthful face made it look like he’d bitten off his own tongue. Eddie leered closer, making the teen puff up his chest, looking up only an inch to meet Eddie’s eyes.

“The world is shit,” the older man said, undeterred by Miles’ bravado. “I know it. You know it. Pete knows it better than anyone. Your uncle dragged you into this mess, but Peter tried to give you a way out. Away from all this crap. Away from Fisk. That’s why he took on the Symbiote! Not because he was chasing a high, not because he was on some power trip—he did it because he loves you, kid.”

“By almost gettin’ himself killed?” Miles snapped back. “That’s his love language? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie grumbled with a frown. Even he understood that Miles was right about that. “Some people only know how to love by how much they suffer.” He paused momentarily, keeping a stern expression while trying to conceal how much the statement resonated with him. “You either die a hero or live to see yourself become the villain. Pete doesn’t want this life for you. Trust me. You don’t want it either.”

“How do you know that, huh?” Miles said through gritted teeth. His eyes shimmered in the greenish lights of the subway car. “How do you know what I want—how does he? He doesn’t get to make my choices for me. Maybe I wanna decide for myself! Just like he did!”

His hazel-gray eyes drooped as he quietly contemplated the boy’s statement. “You do have a choice, kid,” he said, sorrow etching his features. “Just like he did.” The flared tempers simmering beneath the surface had burned off, leaving only a painful discourse behind. “And he wanted you to do better.”

Miles fell silent. His chest pumped slowly as he glared up at Eddie, jaw tensed. Cords tightened along the side of his neck, pulled taut by stubborn rage. Heat built up behind his eyelids, pushed along by tears threatening to break free. He sniffed, angrily wiping at his face, trying and failing to remain stern.

For his part, Eddie took no satisfaction in Miles’ inability to argue further. The train station was silent. From her vantage point, Honey could see the boy’s lower lip begin to quiver before he angrily bit down on it. Felicia stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Miles, albeit awkwardly.

As soon as her arms circled him, the teen’s resolve collapsed like a house of cards. His face crumpled, lines skewing his expression, and he buried his face into Felicia’s neck. Miles’ shoulders shook as sobs racked through his body.

As she watched, Honey realized she was crying along with him.

Hours passed.

More of the Spiders arrived.

Noir made an appearance but kept himself scarce. One look at Peter’s proximity to death and he spared himself from the stages of grief that would inevitably follow.

The woman Honey heard be referred to as “Redback” and “Jess Drew” arrived shortly after. She held an air of graceful authority and cautious collectedness. Although her composure was betrayed by the sight of her chewing her lower lip as Jess observed Peter. After that, she stayed away from the medical car, preoccupied with Miguel and Felicia as they discussed strategy.

The biggest surprise was the fleeting glimpse of a woman Honey had never seen. First, she saw quick movement behind the dirty subway windows. Then, a blurry silhouette zoomed across the rear exit between the cars. Finally, the doors slid open, and a pair of dark eyes blinked in her direction. A Victory roll of thick black hair pinned on the crown of her head poked out from behind the seat. As she leaned in, curtains of straight black hair cascaded off her shoulders in a pointedly-vintage 1950s style. The stranger spied on them, glancing worriedly at Peter and warily at Honey.

She was a twitchy, young-looking woman with an oval face and glittering eyes. For a gangster, her mostly-black outfit was more reminiscent of West Side Story than The Godfather. In true Rockabilly fashion, she wore a motorcycle jacket over a feminine red-and-white polka dot tank top, black skinny jeans, combat boots, and a bright cherry lip stain.

“Um... hello?” Honey asked with a shaky voice, unsure how to respond to whatever she was doing.

“I know who you are,” the woman called back from the shadows, still not fully entering the car.

Honey blinked. “Oh... kay...?”

“You never met me,” the woman affirmed, “if anyone ever asks you.”

“Um... I’m pretty sure I haven’t anyway.”

“Peni,” the voice called from the shadows. Only then did a face appear for longer than a few seconds. “I’ve watched you on camera. Hi.”

She almost did a double-take at the blunt information. Miles had mentioned the name ‘Peni’ before when referring to the team’s ‘tech nerd.’ But, whatever Honey was expecting, this wasn’t it.

As quickly as the introduction was made, it was over. Peni disappeared from view, the doors closing.

Once again alone with Peter, she stared at the empty doorway. “Hi.”

Honey was never good with silence. When it was too quiet, she was left with nothing but the parroting mockery of her inner dialogue. She recounted every word she said to Peter before the monster took over. She told him everything, and the fact that there was nothing to hide behind anymore terrified her.

What would he think of her now?

What did she think of herself? What did she think of Peter? And what would be the first thing she would say to him if she ever got the chance?

Just as her eyes began to blur for the dozenth time that hour, she spotted that the chance had arrived.

She held her breath. “Peter?”

The injured man stirred gently, lungs shakily taking in the stale air. The orbs of his eyes swam behind tightly-closed lids that were stained purple. A breathless groan crawled out of his throat.

Awe-struck, a short chuckle escaped her suddenly, with tiny tears budding in the corners of her eyes. “Hey...” she sharply exhaled, tightening her lips to keep them from trembling. One hand tightened around his fingers while the other covered her heart. “Peter... I’m—” She swallowed hard, her tongue twisted around nothing, tears dripping past her widening grin. “Hi.”

The slightest movement of his head triggered a grimace. Gently, he pried his eyelids open, like awakening from a 1,000-year sleep. She fought the urge to erupt into gleeful laughter as he laid eyes on her. Joy washed over her, sweeping her along a river of relief.

She blinked away her tears as she lost herself in the soft hue of his eyes, mesmerized by the facets of cognac and smoky quartz that rested tiredly on hers. They were, without a doubt, the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen.

A crease formed between his thick brows. “Are you here?” he murmured in a wary voice.

The smile slipped off her face at his question, eyes blinking rapidly. “I’m-I’m here.” His face didn’t soften. She suddenly thought of awful soap operas where a lead character wakes up from a coma and is stricken with amnesia. The thought stirred fear in her, followed by confusion. “I’m... right here.” Would things be better if he didn’t know who she was?

Silence. He studied her. She observed the color of his eyes dim somberly. Sadness pulled at the corners of his mouth. It twisted her heart.

He remembered her, alright.

“Why?” he croaked.

She took in a sharp breath as if a needle had stabbed her. She was shocked by the question, and in her confusion, it afforded her time to think about it.

Why was she here?

Only a dozen hours ago, she wanted to shoot him dead. Just an hour before that, she wanted to lay in the warmth of his arms forever. A handful of months before that, she was his prisoner.

Their relationship had changed so many times her mind couldn’t keep up with what her heart was feeling. Pure instinct drove her actions, for better or for worse.

But since all of her darkest secrets spilled forth from her mouth, and Venom spilled forth from Peter’s darkness, everyone had been focused solely on bringing Peter home safely. Herself included. Once Peter had been found, no one explicitly told her to follow them to the Bunker.

Instead of doing the thing she was most comfortable doing— running— she had remained at Peter’s side.

What’s that about?

A million answers swirled — I was forced to be here, I was afraid to be left behind, I had nowhere else to go — but none of them seemed right. Finally, Honey found a response that made sense. Her instincts dictated her words.

“There wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be.”

The truth sounded strange coming from her lips, shamefully. As she met Peter’s eyes, he watched her sullenly as if he were thinking the same thing.

Silence returned. The ever-present foe was broken only by a shaky cough rattling Peter’s bones. The look on his face suggested that every breath was agony.

Silence—always jabbering, when will you ever shut up?—it was deafening. Driving her insane.

“Dr. Cho wasn’t sure if—” She stopped short, anxiously rephrasing her sentence, “Um, wasn’t, uh—wasn’t sure when you’d wake up.” Her free hand rubbed her knee. The statement left her queasy. “I didn’t want you to be alone when you did.”

His lashes fluttered open, eyes full of melancholy as they rested on her. “Sweet girl.”

She gripped his hand and sat inches away, but it felt more like lightyears. It was as if Peter had died in the fall, and all that was left was a shell. The coldness of each moment pierced her heart further. Yet, despite this, she lifted her chin with resolve.

“I, um... I know it technically makes me a hypocrite,” she began softly, “but I’m trying not to be mad that you tried to get rid of the Symbiote alone.” She met his eyes with a sad gaze. “You coulda died.”

He watched her with an unreadable expression.

“I know it’s not fair for me to be angry,” Honey reasoned, swallowing down her emotion. “But when I thought you were gonna die, I was mad. And then I was sad. And scared. Maybe more scared than anything.”

His eyes drifted downcast towards his feet. “M’sorry.”

“Me too. What I did—it was... it was bad—”

“I didn’t know.”

She knitted her brows together. “Didn’t know I was sorry? Or didn’t know it was bad—?”

“Didn’t know...” he replied with a weak tone, “...what he did to you.”

Her jaw clenched tightly as heat rushed to her cheeks. She had wanted to talk but was now regretting it. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that discussion.

Peter’s eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, forehead creased with sorrow. “Didn’t know what you were runnin’ from. Thought it was me. But it was him.”

Tears brimmed as she gazed down at him. A frigid smile stretched his lips—the kind that doesn’t warm the eyes. Bitterness and sorrow weighed down his expression.

“Makes sense—why you never trusted me.” The corners of his mouth twisted downward as his eyes went glossy. Heartbreak flayed his voice. “He’s what you see when you look at me.”

He mumbled it aloud, but he wasn’t speaking to her. Instead, he was lost in a prison with bars of guilt and locks of self-loathing.

His misery cut through her like a knife to her heart. Irony mocked her. Earlier that day, she foolishly almost killed herself over the idea that Peter and John were the same. But, facing Peter in the present, she couldn’t think of anything further from the truth.

“No!” she stuttered in distress. “No-n—Peter, that’s not—I don’t, I swear I don’t.”

Remorsefully, she shook her head, welling with tears. He met her eyes again, and all she could see was despair. It was like watching a ship sink into the ocean. Like watching someone she loved drown before her eyes.

Loved.

“Peter,” she whimpered, jaw wobbling, “I... you don’t...I don’t....” Her inability to communicate infuriated her. Impatiently, she thrust the words out, “I-I love y—”

“Don’t say it,” he whispered, voice strained. He snapped his eyes shut, tearing her from his sight. “Please don’t.” It was the most desperate of pleas.

“Don’t say anything.” His voice broke on the last word. A flood spilled past the gates of his lids, rolling over whatever strength he had left. “Whether it's true or not, I don’t think I know what’s real anymore.”

Her soul shattered at his admission, and she could only nod. The trust between them— what little bit there had ever been— was broken beyond repair. No fixing it this time.

“Holy shit—he’s awake!”

She heard Johnny’s voice over her shoulder, reminding her of where they were. She looked over at Johnny, standing in the doorway of the sliding emergency exit, as he called out to the adjacent car. “Doc! He’s awake!”

Within several seconds, the car was flooded with excitement. Honey sheepishly wiped her tears away, back straightening, as bodies crowded around her. Felicia and Miles were closest to Peter, followed by Eddie and Miguel. Johnny leaped over a bench seat to join the pandemonium from the other side. Helen pushed toward the front after Felicia ordered the group to make way.

Reluctantly, Honey released his hand, standing up to give Helen her place at his side.

The doctor immediately went to work with a flashlight beaming in Peter’s eyes and her fingers on his pulse, asking him how he was feeling.

“Living the dream,” he weakly replied, with no lack of sarcasm.

“You’re lucky to be living at all,” Helen remarked coldly. “Anyone else taking a fall like that would’ve been a splatter on the pavement.”

Honey faintly responded out of earshot, her voice mouselike and thick with grief. “He’s nothing like everyone else.”

In the early stages of dawn, Honey was in the dining car surrounded by the others. Peter had passed out soon after he awakened. He slept soundly in the medical car under Helen’s observation. The doctor explained that the best thing for him would be to let him rest. Moving him would be dangerous.

Miguel pointed out that they were compromised, so there was nowhere safe to move him.

With that grim frustration, he questioned Honey before the rest of the gang. It was difficult to talk about her trauma. It was even harder to admit her betrayal to those she knew best. It was torture to talk about both things in front of everyone—strangers, like Jess and Noir, or Johnny, now catching up on what he’d missed earlier. Or Miles—especially Miles.

Part of her wanted to be offended by the interrogation's coldness and Miguel’s gruff tone. Who was he to treat her like she was a criminal?

But as soon as that defensiveness reared inside her, she cut it down. She was a rat, but did she have to be a hypocrite, too?

“Tell me again,” Miguel demanded firmly. “What else did you tell Walker?”

Honey slumped down in the bench seat with her arms folded. “Names,” she grumbled bitterly. “Times.”

With each answer, she felt her skin burning from the rising heat of contempt. There was no more hiding from it. The most she could do was be as honest as possible.

She resigned herself to scrutiny as an act of penance. “Who came and went. When they went. Where they were going. Locations.”

Miguel’s eyes went wide with alarm. “Did you tell him about this place?”

“No,” she bit back. “I didn’t even know this place existed.”

Unsatisfied, he glowered, “When did you last talk to him?”

“I didn’t talk to him—”

“Then how did you communicate?”

“Give it a rest, Miguel,” Felicia scowled, unimpressed by his ‘bad cop’ persona.

Honey didn’t feel like she was on Felicia’s good side either, but she did feel somewhat shielded by her presence.

Mercilessly, he drove right through whatever shield may have existed. “You stabbed us in the back!” he accused, pointing his finger at her. “You were offered multiple chances to come clean, but you refused, and people died. You could’ve done the right thing, but you didn’t. So I’m sorry if I’m not as sensitive to your predicament.”

Shame filled her face as she cast her eyes downward. Nothing could shield her from the guilt.

“That’s enough,” Felicia said, shooting impatient eyes at Miguel.

“Not until we know our people are safe!”

“I said ‘enough’!”

Miguel took a step back. Felicia didn’t raise her voice often, but it felt like the ground itself shook. Her eyes flashed red as she skewered him with her gaze. Quietly fuming, he glared at his superior and then stormed off.

Tiredly, Felicia sighed. “Where are we with backup?” she asked, pressing her lips into a firm line. “Who’s checked in?”

“Peni’s running comms,” Jessica replied. “Pinging everyone’s GPS now.”

Eddie mumbled through a tired yawn, “You got GPS trackers on everybody?”

“On the phones,” Miles explained. “She hacks the OS before we hand them out. Allows her to access them remotely.”

Idly, he scratched at the scruff on his face, replying, “What’s the point in that?” Then, a loud squelch from the overhead PA system erupted. Eddie nearly jumped out of his skin as if God herself were speaking.

“Means I can mine all your data and spy on you when you look up porn,” Peni’s voice echoed over the loudspeakers in the car, further startling Eddie.

“Jesus!” Eddie cursed. He hissed, eyes cast upwards at the speakers. “I don’t look up porn on the Spider phone!”

Alarmed, Johnny whispered, “Can she really do that?”

“Can we please stay on task?!” Felicia glowered.

“Miguel’s right.”

The group refocused their attention on Honey. Her head was lowered, eyes glistening. “This is my fault,” she whispered sorrowfully, replaying the series of bad decisions that brought her to this point.

When she glanced back up, she was met with more silence. Painful, but not unkind.

“I, um... I don’t—I’m not good... with... trusting people,” she said sheepishly. “Not good with... letting anyone in.” She hesitated, her voice shaky as she breathed through the heartache. Patiently, the others were waiting for her to continue.

“I... I know it’s not worth much, but I’m sorry.” She swallowed hard, her eyes rimmed with tears. “I’m sorry about Hobie,” she said with an expression like she had eaten glass. “I should’ve stopped this a long time ago.”

Felicia fixed sorrowful eyes on her. “Hobie’s death wasn’t on you,” she softly explained. “Between Fisk and the Feds, there are some hefty prices on our heads. Money like that makes loyalty difficult. That night, it didn’t matter what info you had. It was one of our guys that helped pull the trigger. Most of the time, we’re pretty good at picking out the bad apples. Not always.”

Honey stared up at her with furrowed brows, nodding graciously as she accepted the tiny reprieve from guilt.

“Plus, it helps to see everything everyone does with their phone when they’re in the bathroom.” The Voice of God chimed in again, but Peni was standing in the car's doorway this time. Eddie nearly clung to the ceiling with fright.

“How are you doing that?!” he exclaimed.

Peni rolled her eyes incredulously. “By logging keystrokes, duh—”

“No, not that!” Eddie hissed.

“Not to mention, that’s a huge invasion of privacy,” said Johnny.

Eddie looked over at the tiny woman. “Do you have this place wired or something? Or bugged?”

“Wired?” their tech nerd scoffed. “Bugged? What do you think this is, Goodfellas?”

“Good movie,” Noir stated firmly.

“That’s the one with Leo, right?” Miles asked.

Johnny blanched at the teen’s response. “Wait, what did you just say—???”

“For your information, Eddie, I don’t have to plant microphones to hear your conversation,” Peni arrogantly teased, nose in the air. “What do you even think phones are for, dummy?”

“Dude!” Johnny was still staring at Miles like he’d grown extra arms, the two of them squabbling. “Don’t tell me you’re confusing The Departed with Goodfellas—!”

“Nah, man, that’s the one with the mumblin’ dude who's like ‘you come to me on the day of my daughter’s wedding—’”

Johnny’s voice soared to new heights. “That’s The Godfather!”

“He gave me a phone!” Blurting out with alarm, Honey shot up to her feet.

Jess stared, brows furrowed with confusion. “I think we’re past that—”

“John gave me a phone!” she clarified, eyes darting to Felicia and Peni. “He told me to always have it on me... Jesus Christ! He was listening! The whole time— he could hear everything!”

The rest stared in confusion while Honey grappled with the next horrifying thought.

John heard everything.

Every conversation.

Every detail.

Every secret.

He had everything.

“Oh God,” she breathed, face full of terror.

She paled at the memory of being in her bed, curled up in Peter’s arms as he divulged his deepest secrets. The phone that would damn them all was inches away, tucked securely in the box frame.

He knows everything.

Her eyes went wide, filling with panic. “They’re coming—”

“Get down!” Peter's strained voice cracked through the silence.

A moment later, a cacophony of gunfire, pelted metal, and shattering glass surrounded them. Bodies hit the subway car floor like dominos, wedging between walls and beneath seats. Honey landed hard on her side, knocking the wind out of her.

Screams rang out all around as glass rained down on them. Pops of automatic gunfire rolled on uninterrupted, like spokes on a wheel. Honey could feel tiny pinprick stings from shavings of metal and splintered plastic, like a wasp's nest had consumed the car. The exposed parts of her skin were battered with debris. As she cowered, a heavy weight dropped on her back.

The second she recognized the cinnamon and cedar scent, she opened her eyes in astonishment. Peter was there—fully awake, with wires and IVs still attached. He protected her, blanketing her with his body while she clutched him tight. She buried her face in his warmth while hell rained down around them.

“Agghhhh!” — “Stay down!” — “Cat! Get back here!” — “Kill the lights!” — “There’s too many of ‘em...”

Voices called out frantically, rolled over by the crashing waves of gunfire.

At a certain point, she wondered how long the guns were firing. Was it five minutes? Five years? The constant barrage of blamblamblam pierced her eardrums and rattled her bones, driving her insane with terror. Her heart must have outpaced the bullets. She felt Peter’s arms tighten around her, securing her to his chest.

She focused on his body heat, his breath on her neck, and the vise of his arms. It was deja vu, eerily identical to the night he carried her away from Fisk’s garage.

Her mind transported her away from the train back to that day. She trembled in the steaming water of the bathtub, trying to read his warm eyes— the color of caramel and chocolate and bourbon—while he diligently dabbed at the adhesive covering her mouth. The only roughness in his touch came from the calluses on his fingertips.

She has no reason to trust him. But she does anyway.

His long, gentle fingers. They laid out a spread of plated charcuterie and sandwiches cut into triangles onto a picnic blanket overlooking a gorgeous vista of the Catskills. That’s where she is now. Nervously, he frets about the forgotten wine, pushing his fingers through his thick hair. He looks boyish and shy.

She has every right to be terrified. But she isn’t.

She held Peter so tight she was concerned about breaking his bones and damaging him further. But she was incapable of prying her hands from him. No one could.

There was no escaping this. They were trapped. Any moment now, everything would go black. Seconds away from the darkness. Centimeters from death.

And there wasn’t anywhere else she wanted to be.

The gunfire let up for a few moments. A pocket of air in which to breathe.

“Goddamn it, it’s S.H.I.E.L.D.!” Miguel’s voice hollered from outside the car, although hearing him over the ringing in their ears was difficult.

Honey wasn’t listening anyway. She was listening to Peter’s voice as he crooned a heartachingly pure rendition of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,’ a song she felt might as well have been written about them.

“Honey, look at me.” His alarm brought her back to the present. He stared down at her, his eyes anxiously searching her face, while he hoisted himself above her on his forearms.

The moment she locked eyes with his, tears filled her gaze. Fear, joy, desperation—it overwhelmed her, hitting her like a tidal wave. He was still injured, she noted. The skin on his face and exposed upper body were still marked up with bruises and minor cuts. But his eyes—the tang of oranges, the golden tint of an Old Fashioned—reflected how alive he was, despite his earlier outward appearance.

Adrenaline surged through his body as he caged her with his forearms. By contrast, his voice was as soft as a feather. “Honey—talk to me.” He whispered, breathless with fear he was struggling to contain. His eyes regarded her like she was something intricate, delicate, and precious. “You okay?”

Her lungs were empty. Her vision was blurred with tears. But she nodded quickly, her chin wobbling.

A glimmer of relief crossed his features as he caressed her cheek. “Okay, s’okay... you’re okay, I gotcha—” It was unclear who he was reassuring. “You’re gonna be okay, ’m gonna get you out.”

She had no reason to trust him. But she did. Her head continued to nod, and a little hum escaped from her throat in agreement.

“Stay down, okay?” he said placatingly while his thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath her eye. “Stay right here. I’m comin’ back.”

“No, please! Please don’t leave.”

“I’ll be right back—”

“I-I can’t, please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can—”

“I can’t lose you!”

His breath hitched. She felt his heart skip beneath his chest. Adoration pooled in his eyes. “I’m coming back. I promise.” He kissed her forehead softly, allowing his gaze to linger just long enough for a reassuring half-smile.

She had no reason to believe him. But she had to.

Before she could protest, he pushed himself up to a low crouch. Then, in the blink of an eye, she watched him leap from the ground and cling to the ceiling of the subway car. Stunned, she watched him crawl barefoot to the emergency exit at the top of the train car. Then, silently and swiftly, he disappeared through the port hole.

“Nancy! Stay down!”

Eddie’s voice... and his silly, endearing nickname. She was still on her back on the floor. She glanced up to see an upside-down viewpoint of Eddie as he reached for her. Next to him, Johnny and Jessica took cover beneath the table. “Stay right there! I’m comin’ to you—”

Another barrage of gunfire erupted, and he flattened to the ground. A scream ripped out at the rear of the subway car. Honey glanced down to see Miles crumpling into a ball as bullet holes sliced through the metal dangerously close to his cowering form. Beside him, Helen dragged herself along the ground sluggishly. She was covered in blood.

“Miles!” Honey shrieked. Her body moved of its own accord. Jarring drum hits rang out from both sides as she army-crawled toward the teen. The gunfire began to become more sporadic, with more frequent pauses.

“Reloading, let’s go!”

“The lights! The lights!”

Every inch felt like a mile, but she pushed on with her belly to the ground. She reached Miles first, pulling him to the ground and hugging his body closer to hers just as another wave hit. Honey guided Miles along the floor toward Helen as soon as it passed over.

The woman gasped and sputtered as she writhed in pain. Blood soaked through her right side, from her torso to her thigh. Eyes horrified at the damage, Honey searched Helen’s face desperately.

“To-to-tuorn-tourniquet...” the doctor said through chattering teeth.

“Gimme your belt!” Honey said to Miles. “Stay flat!”

The teen diligently reached for his nylon belt, shifting around to loosen and remove it while keeping his back to the floor. Honey took the belt from him and helped Helen wrap it around her thigh.

Just as she pulled it tight, the lights switched off. Frantically, Honey searched the cabin with terror, struggling to adjust to the darkness. More shouting, unfamiliar, followed by howls of fear and pain, surrounded her. From her vantage point, she could see shapes outside better now that the cabin lights were out.

Black-clad figures outfitted with S.W.A.T. gear and carrying more artillery than a small militia tip-toed around the car. She watched as one of the infiltrators passed by a window opposite from her. A pair of dark boots dropped onto the gunman, taking him to the ground. She gasped, ducking closer to the floor as the gunman was beaten and had his rifle taken. Then, she recognized Noir by his black trench coat, finally releasing her breath.

The relief was short-lived. Noir turned and fired the weapon, which looked like a shotgun, at an incoming attacker. The bang was accentuated by a splatter on the windows, like a can of stewed tomatoes had exploded. Honey yelped at the sight before covering her eyes. She felt her stomach rolling in her belly.

A crash forced her eyes back open. She looked through the darkness to glimpse Felicia’s silver hair and the glint of a silver knife. She fought hand-to-hand with another armed combatant twice her size outside the train. The stout man was no match for the smaller-framed woman’s speed. She attacked him from all sides, burying her blade between his ribs like fangs on a viper.

Another goon rushed at her, knocking her flat on her back. Honey’s heart nearly stopped with panic as she watched the gunman aim his weapon at Felicia, prepared to fire. Suddenly, Miguel leaped out of nowhere with the talons of his gauntlet raised.

The razor-sharp blades attached to his forearm rang out as they cut through the air. Honey had no idea what type of metal they were made from, but it was sharper than anything she’d ever seen. With a woosh, the blades sliced through the rifle barrel like a blade of grass. In shock, the gunman dropped the rifle and drew a pistol instead. Miguel sliced through the man’s wrists with the same ease, separating his hands from his body.

She looked away as another spray of crimson covered the walls and seat. She heard the gunman cry out before being silenced with a sickening squelch.

Miguel was suddenly yanked backward by a brutish figure, pulling him off the train.

“Miguel!” Felicia called out with alarm. Within seconds she uprighted herself and barrelled outside to back him up. Honey attempted to follow her with her gaze, but another burst of gunfire erupted, so close that she could smell the burning of her own hair.

“I’m comin’!” Miles hollered. Honey stayed down, too afraid to look up.

“They’re coming through the rear!” she heard Jess’ voice from nearby.

“Keep ‘em away from the train!” Johnny’s voice.

Where was Peter?

She felt sick. She hadn’t seen or heard him since he vanished. The idea of him meeting a brutal end made her dizzy. It made her flesh clammy. Bile crawled up her throat, with a rising panic close to a scream. She clamped her mouth closed to keep it all inside. She couldn’t think about Peter being hurt right now. She could barely think at all.

A gunshot, followed by a male groan.

“Storm!”

She squealed as Johnny collapsed through the train entrance and landed hard on the ground. From her hiding spot, she saw blood soaking his right shoulder.

Her eyes went wide. “Johnny—!”

Another footsoldier boarded the train behind him, wielding a bloody combat dagger. Dazed from blood loss himself, the soldier collapsed on top of Johnny, the knife raised up high. She watched the two men struggle, trembling beneath a seat. It reminded her of lions thrashing, burying blade-like claws into one another.

More gunfire erupted nearby, jolting her out of her reverie. Johnny’s attacker straddled him and bared his weight down on the hilt of the dagger. Arms shaking and hands slick with blood, Johnny clutched the blade, trying to keep it from piercing his chest.

Her eyes narrowed on the attacker. The man wore face paint to obscure his features, like some deranged Navy Seal. His tactical clothes were solid black, save for a white, geometric eagle patch on his shoulder. This was ‘SHIELD,’ or whatever Miguel called it.

Honey saw the strain on her friend’s face, noting the weakening of his muscles. If she did nothing, Johnny would be stabbed to death right in front of her.

She needed to intervene.

Do something.

She glanced around desperately for a weapon.

The men were snarling with lips curled back. The attacker raised his fist above the hilt, ready to bash the knife into Johnny’s chest. Suddenly, he was smacked in the face by a midweight object. Dazed, he blinked through the darkness to spot a blood-splattered ballet flat on the ground. He looked up, glimpsing its owner.

Wide-eyed, Honey stared back at the SHIELD agent as he set crosshairs on her. The man bounded forward, lunging at her. She screamed, crawling backward like a crab, as the man grabbed her by the ankle above her bare foot. He held the knife high, preparing to plunge it into her chest. A blam rang out, stopping him in his tracks, as a bullet tore through the man’s heart.

As her attacker toppled backwards, Honey turned around to see Jessica holding a smoking pistol. Without a second thought, the woman rushed up to Johnny and lowered herself to his side. “Are you hurt?” she asked Honey, offhandedly as she examined his stab wound.

Honey shook her head ‘no.’

He grunted in pain as Jessica put pressure on the wound beneath Johnny’s collarbone. “Get his gun,” she ordered as she worked. Honey blinked at the gunman’s corpse, hand still clinging to a bloody knife.

“Get the gun!” Jess repeated, eyes intense. “Works a lot better than a shoe.”

She blinked. “I... I can’t.”

The Woman glanced up at her with a hard line between her brows. “It’s either them or you. Who’s it gonna be?”

Honey stared back, face blank. Jessica pressed her lips together. “I have to check on Cho. Put pressure right here.” Honey crawled towards them, replacing Jessica’s hands with hers. She gulped dazedly, watching the sticky, red warmth pool around her fingers. He hissed in pain, but diligently, she held the compress firm.

The Woman stood quickly and shuffled over to the dead man, retrieving his sidearm and knife. She returned with the pistol in hand, ejecting, examining, and replacing the magazine like flexing one of her muscles. She wrenched back the top of the gun, letting it slide back in place with a lock.

Honey watched the whole thing, jaw agape like it was a magic trick.

Deftly, she flipped the weapon around, presenting the grip end to Honey and placing it in the woman’s hand.

“Now it’s them or him,” Jess declared firmly, jerking her forehead towards Johnny. “You choose.”

Bewildered, she warily took the weight of the gun as Jess disappeared toward the back of the train. “Don’t shoot anyone we know!” the Woman called out.

Honey stared at the gun, then found Johnny’s sweating face. “It’s okay,” she whispered, putting weight back on his wound. “I’m gonna take care of you.” She swallowed the tremor in her voice, putting on a face of confidence, despite her terror.

She could pretend to be brave? Right?

Another spray of shots pierced the cabin overhead, and she crouched down to cover Johnny.

The barrage of shots eased again, pausing for a blessed few seconds. “Incoming!” she heard Miguel shout outside. “Ultraman’s here!”

Ultraman? What...?

The emergency lights in the tunnel dimmed as a whirring sound began to ring out. With eyes like saucers, she witnessed growing pandemonium outside. More shouting and panicked footsteps echoed in the darkened tunnel, followed by a slowly-building roar, like a jet engine coming to life.

“Get down!” she heard Miles’ voice behind her. He leaped over the bench seat and pressed his body over hers and Johnny’s. Suddenly, the train jerked sideways, knocked off the track like a toy. The bodies inside were tossed to the opposite wall as the car toppled over.

Head throbbing and eyes blurry, Honey gazed around attempting to get her bearings. A bright, red light erupted, a beam cutting through the floor of the car, just a few feet away from where they had been thrown. She watched in horror as the vehicle was sliced in half like a loaf of bread.

Shrieks from terrified men echoed outside. The car rocked, metal twisting as the train's rear tore away. With her jaw agape, she peered down the train car, now opened up like a tunnel. Finally, her eyes found the source of the commotion.

A ten-foot humanoid robot smashed through the bodies of the SHIELD team, knocking them down like bowling pins. She watched in stunned disbelief as the robot’s giant legs trampled fallen soldiers beneath its mechanical feet. The arms of the robot were as thick as steel beams but faster than a human’s. They thrust out in all directions, tossing adult bodies like rag dolls. The machine was a red-and-yellow blur, with shells bouncing harmlessly off its bulletproof skin.

“C’mon,” Miles grasped Honey’s shoulder, pulling her to attention. “We gotta go!”

“What is that thing?” she gasped.

“It’s Peni!” he shouted back. “Now, c’mon, let’s move!”

Shaking the astonishment away, she followed Miles’ lead. She grabbed Johnny’s legs as the teen hooked his forearms underneath the injured man’s shoulders. They grunted from the effort of hoisting him up.

“m’sorrym’sorrym’sorrysorry...” Miles rattled off as Johnny wailed in pain. “Don’t be mad at me!”

The two carried him towards the tunnel opening, wobbling as they walked. Honey spotted movement from beside them— a gunman peering into an emergency port hole.

“Miles! Look out!” a voice boomed. She glanced over to see Eddie flying across the car, tackling Miles as the automatic weapon started firing. She screamed, dropping herself and Johnny to the ground, as bullet holes pierced the side of the car.

When she looked up, she stared at the white-eagle emblem on the shoulder of the agent as he turned his gun from Miles to Honey. The man crawled through the port hole, just feet away from her.

Horrified, she looked around until she saw the pistol Jess left her with lying in the rubble between her and the attacker. Eyes wide, she scurried on her hands and feet, crawling towards it. The gunman rushed her as soon as he saw what she was doing.

For the second time in her life, Honey fired a gun. She jolted from the shocking recoil after the trigger had been pulled. The man howled and dropped to one knee. Stunned, she watched the man writhe, having taken the bullet in his shin.

He looked up and glared at her with a murderous stare, fumes coming from his nose. Her jaw went slack as he lunged at her. She fired the weapon again, this time hitting him in the torso. It barely slowed him down, planting into the Kevlar of his vest. Before she could adjust, the attacker’s hand was wrapped around her throat, and he wrenched the pistol from her fingers.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” he spat at her, wheezing from the impact to his bulletproof vest. “Can’t wait ‘til he tears you a new—”

The man’s grip dropped immediately as his head wrenched backward.

Honey looked up in awe to see Peter, splattered blood beading down his chest, towering over them. Teeth gritted, he held the man by his hair, his massive hand expanding over the crown of his head. Then, with an enraged growl, Peter jerked his arm back.

She watched the gunman jolt as his scalp was ripped off so forcefully that the top of his skull came with it. The man flailed, legs twitching sporadically like he’d swallowed a power line. Finally, Peter released his body. With blank eyes, he slumped to the side, brain matter spilling out.

She trembled at the horrific scene, watching the attacker go limp. Her wide eyes traveled up to her rescuer.

Peter Parker. Half monster. Half man. Chest heaving, animalistic eyes roving, his savagery on full display. Her jaw hung open as she regarded him with horrified awe, with several thoughts swimming through her head.

One.

He looked feral. Blood trailed down his face and torso in tiny crimson rivers. The ghastly sight made him look both dead and alive. More beast than man. Even without the Symbiote attached, his eyes were blown black from adrenaline. She thought about how Eddie mentioned Venom ‘reacted differently’ to Peter. And now she could see why.

Violence was in his very nature. He wore it around his shoulders like a cape. Carnage was his crown. The blood staining his flesh only made him stand taller, like a conquering barbarian on top of a mountain of skulls. He never needed Venom to become something monstrous. The violence was visceral, and he could never be separated from it. Not completely.

It was terrifying to witness. She should be terrified.

Two: she wasn’t.

She realized this as he locked eyes with her, suddenly going still. She watched him. He watched her. Both of them thinking the same thought.

This is who he was. Peter Parker.

Not Venom.

Not Ben Reilly.

Not any other false name he used to conceal himself in the darkness. As much as it terrified him, he was the darkness.

His eyes softened as he looked down at her, like a switch had been thrown. He turned docile only under her gaze.

This was also who he was. And she realized that she didn’t want him any other way.

“Are you hurt?” Peter quietly asked, crouching before her as he scanned over her figure. Eyes glistening, she nodded, her mind stricken with deja vu. He reached out delicately with bloody hands and tipped her chin upwards until their gazes met.

She swayed as exhaustion collided with her, weakening her muscles. “I-I...” she mumbled, jaw agape and shoulders limp, staring up at him with a hypnotized expression. “I... lost my shoe.”

He blinked in confusion before glancing down to see one of her ballet flats was missing.

“I think I saw it over here,” Johnny muttered through gritted teeth, snapping them out of their bubble. They turned to see him sprawled out on the ground, holding his shoulder with a thin sheen of sweat on his face. “I’m okay too, by the way.”

“Johnny!” Peter said, alarmed. They dropped back to the ground and flanked the bleeding man. “Can you move?” he asked, brows furrowed.

The blonde grunted as he held onto his pectoral muscle, blood soaking half his shirt. “Sure. Flesh wound.”

A cocky smile filled with pearly white teeth assured them he was still relatively ‘normal.’ They breathed a sigh of relief as Peter delicately helped him up into a sitting position.

The attack had ended. Honey wasn’t entirely sure when. The whirring steps of the robot approaching caught her attention. She looked down to see the red-and-yellow mecha-spider step up to the opening of the train car. “That’s the last of them,” Peni’s mechanized voice declared. The robot’s torso opened to reveal Peni sitting inside. The wizard behind the curtain with painted blood-red lips.

“They’ll be back,” Peter said grimly before turning to Honey.

Tears filled her eyes as she stared back at him. Guilt gutted her, breaking her heart and every bit of strength left in her body. “This is all my fault.”

Just as Peter was about to reply, the broken sound of Miles’ voice clipped him short. The teenager whimpered, dread filling his lungs, “Guys...”

Peter and Honey turned towards Miles, seeing the teen crouched over on his knees. A body lay before him. They scurried to their feet, rushing to his side. Honey froze mid-step, eyes wide with horror.

“Eddie...” she gasped.

The burly man was on his back with a gaping hole in his chest. Slowly, it pooled with blood as he wheezed in short spurts. Miles leaned over him desperately, trying to stop the bleeding with his soaked-through beanie.

Eddie looked ashen, the life drained from his face. His eyes were wide as they stared up at the ceiling, filled with horror and awe. He sputtered and coughed, his lungs struggling to keep the liquid out. Blood tinged his lips.

“Eddie!” Honey yelped, dropping to her knees to bring her hands over Miles’s.

It was like trying to hold back a river. All eyes were now on Eddie’s dire situation—Noir, Felicia, and Peni approaching quickly. Jess and Miguel looked on from the back of the car, both of them pausing momentarily from trying to assist Helen.

Miles gazed down at his savior, lip wobbling and hands shaking. “He... he pushed me outta the way. He-he saved me—”

“Christ!” They heard Felicia curse as the silver-haired woman rushed over and touched Eddie’s pulse. Honey glanced at her, watching fear capture the fearless.

“We need help over here!” Peter called out, voice strained with panic that Honey had never heard from him before. He was winded with terror as his palms enveloped Miles’s, frantically working to stop the bleeding.

“Cho’s hurt bad,” Jessica called back. Beside her, Miguel was hooking his arms beneath the doctor’s legs, hoisting her up off the ground.

“It’s okay, we-we got this,” Honey called back. Hysteria slowly choked her. “I-I can fix this! I can patch him up!”

“But Helen—”

“I can do this!” Honey hissed, desperate tears spilling down her face. “I just need a-a med kit or... Sutures! I can sew it up, all she’s gotta do is walk me through it.”

“Sweetie,” Felicia uttered under her breath. Honey froze in her gaze, her blue eyes glazed with tears. “She’s not even conscious...”

She wore a mournful expression, condolences pouring silently from her mouth.

Honey would have none of it. Defiantly, she shook her head, lips pursed into a straight line. “I’ll figure it out myself!” she choked back a sob. “Just—somebody, get me the med kit! Get me—” Honey blocked out the worried stares that surrounded her.

Instead, she focused on Eddie. She thought about cupcake frosting smeared across the scruff of his chin. His benevolent nature as he pulled in drags of smoke, offering peace to the world in return with each outward breath. She pictured his hazel-gray eyes weighed down by heavy bags and a lifetime of failures. Despite that, his eyes persevered to retain their brightness.

He was tranquil amidst the turmoil of his life. Grateful despite his misfortune. In the middle of their war, he was a pacifist. A peacemaker.

He saw everything. He saw Peter as a brother. He saw Honey as a friend. He saw both of them as worth saving.

And now she saw the light fading from his eyes. “I can do this,” she whimpered weakly, tears spilling down her face. “It’s okay. I can fix this.”

“Honey—”

She paused, feeling the featherlike brush of Peter’s breath across her face. Hesitantly, she met his sorrowful gaze, her heart aching at the sight of tears trailing down his cheeks. He was silent, fixing her earnestly with a knowing look. He didn’t have to say anything. She could read the hopelessness written on his face.

There was no fixing this.

Somberly, they gazed at one another, both of them mirroring each other’s grief.

“S..ssay,” Honey heard a tiny voice whisper beneath her. She looked down to see Eddie looking up at her, teeth chattering. His lips were curved into a faint smile. “Wh—why the-the-the l-long face, N-nancy?”

It was like her heart literally ripped in half. She struggled to keep her sobs muted, clamping her mouth closed.

“Y-you... sh-should e-eat a Peanut Butter co-cookie, or so-somethin.’” He grinned wide, his teeth stained red. Tears dripped from her chin as she hiccuped out a small smile through her anguish.

His eyes traveled from her face to Peter’s. Though he appeared more composed than Honey, Eddie knew what Peter looked like when he was in agony.

“T-tha-thank y-you-u,” Eddie shivered, staring up at Peter with love in his eyes, “for s-saving my life.”

Red-eyed, Peter winced like he’d swallowed glass. He breathed through his nose, afraid that if he opened his mouth his soul would spill out.

Eddie gazed at him with a lopsided, lazy grin. “Don’t b-be too ha-hard on yourself.” Another cough shook him, staining his lips even further. Peter released his hold on the wound to wrap Eddie’s hand in his fist. He held on tightly as if to steady him against a heavy current.

“M’mm-’m afraid to-to die, Pete,” Eddie said with a shaky voice. He faltered for a single moment. Fear prodded at him as each expansion of his chest became heavier. Each breath came up shorter than the last.

Then, as stubborn as ever, he smirked with a flicker of light filling his glossy gaze. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he considered the irony. “Th-that’s-s gotta co-count for s-somethin’, right?”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, nodding tearfully in a silent reply. When he opened them again, the current was stronger. The light was fading as it began to pull him under. Peter and Honey gripped tighter, as if their resolve could hold him.

“S-s-so...” Eddie said, locking eyes with Peter. “Thank... you.”

Into the darkness, he drifted away.

Continue to Part 20

{back to the masterlist}

A/N Sorry for the tearjerker cliffhanger! This story is coming to a close in just a few chapters (maybe 3 or 4). Thank you for sticking with me this long. I hope that the next chapter will have everything you've ever dreamed of.

181 notes · View notes

killian-whump · 2 years ago

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Edit: I’m leaving this original post as-is, because to change it now would be disingenuous and unfair to the people who voiced (honestly, very valid) outrage at what this post seemed to be saying. This was not meant to be a post about racism or about POC whumpers’ struggles to feel comfortable in the Whump Community. The post about racism that I mention in the first paragraph was merely the starting point for a thought process that got me thinking about the niche quality of the fandom side of the Whump Community. Much like in a fetish community, many whumpers are here for their one specific Whumpee or to scratch their one very specific trope itch. It was that phenomenon that my post was meant to be addressing - and the best way, in that sense, to get your own itch scratched is by starting a blog about it and hoping others with the same Whumpee/interest come out to join you. I made a grave error by referring to the post about racism in the beginning, and using POC Whumpees as an example of a “specific itch” that someone might want to scratch. By doing so, I gave the wrong impression that this was a post (1) about the other post and (2) about racism. It wasn’t meant to be either, and I should have been much more careful in making this post to make sure I did not give the wrong impression. Racism in fandom is a very serious issue; the tendency for niche communities to create insular mini-communities (tables, if you will) based on highly specific individual needs is not. And it’s the latter that this post was meant to be about! Hope that clears it up and keeps further feathers from being ruffled. Love to you all!

I’ve been thinking more about that post about racism in the Whump Community. Despite how big the Whump Community’s gotten and how quickly it’s exploded and evolved into a big, bustling community... It is still what would be considered a niche community.

As such, it is built entirely by the individuals in the community, to cater specifically to their own needs and in the hopes that others might share their specific interests. You can’t expect a table to already be laid out for you in a niche dining hall. You have to grab a table yourself, put your own favorite dishes on it... and hope others come and join you for dinner. Because niche communities are what they are because they’re not for everybody. They’re only for the individuals who are part of them - and they exist to cater to the needs and wants of those people.

But that doesn’t mean groups/interests who aren’t “part” of the community yet are being excluded. It just means no one’s grabbed a table and slapped some of those dishes on it yet. And why haven’t you? Haven’t you ever seen Field of Dreams? “If you build it, they will come.” Get building! Communities don’t build themselves, and life’s too short to wait for others to build your happy space for you.

That’s what I did. I saw some Hook content in the whump blogs, but I knew there could be a lot more. I saw some whumpy writings in the OUAT community, but I knew there could be a lot more. I wanted more. So I made a blog to curate and celebrate what was already out there, and to connect with others who (like me) enjoyed that kind of content. The hope was (and forever is) that other creators would join in and make more content. And they did! They SO did!

And it’s not like the community as a whole decided one day to start putting white boys in boxes. One individual somewhere just thought it would be a good idea, threw a dude in a box and shipped him off to a sadist... and a new section of the community was born. And apparently so many other people crammed chairs around that table that it’s become an entire universe now, through some magic of fandom space evolution or something. And it does seem like they’re still mostly white boys, but I’m sure if you order a POC boy, they’ll happily ship you one. Or hell, order twenty! You’ll probably get a bulk purchase discount, and everyone likes a good bargain.

The point is... The Whump Community is what WE make it - and that includes YOU, whoever you are. If you want more of something - make it. Or at least provide a place for other people seeking such content to congregate so you can use the powerful force of collective puppy dog eyes to get others to make/share content with you. Hey, it works!

And if anyone out there makes/has a POC whump blog (that focuses on fictional whump scenarios other than non-fictional slavery/racism scenarios), lemme know. I’m definitely down for that!

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wander-wren · 9 months ago

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got another bot-spam comment on ao3, but this one is extra weird. let’s do some investigating!

for those not in the know, The Haunting is my dark whumpy “todoroki gets adopted by aizawa” fic. it’s also 60k words long. so right away i’m doubting this person read it. that plus the generic vibes? bot comment. but i’m also pretty sure i’ve heard of this channel before, specifically because it wasn’t crediting authors. hm. so i go check it out: http://www.youtube.com/@DnWhatIf

first of all, these are the videos i’m greeted with:

now, i don’t want to bash anyone’s taste, but this is so extremely not my thing. nooooo way. some of these read more like crackfic, which is fine, but tonally the difference is SO much. and just makes it even more glaringly obvious that they aren’t reading the fics they’re spamming or even giving them a cursory once-over (or putting strong filters on the bot? i’m not clear how bot comments work)

because this is the first thing you see about The Haunting:

i’m guessing, if it wasn’t completely random, it’s the fact that i tagged izuku as a character. and really it’s just lazy, the whole thing. it’s all bots. ai art in the thumbnail, ai voice reading the fic, bot making comment spam for you. zero respect. if this was an actual podficcer i would consider it! hell, i might even accept ai voice readings (MAYBE), if it was obvious there was a human person who cared behind them. it could certainly be a tool for good, since podficcing isn't very common (we love you podficcers. if i had a little bit more confidence i would be one of you).

but anyway, hang on, lets back up a step, because the whole reason i looked into this was the credits issue. the video “what if deku became a teacher at ua” (ugh) (i hate the title gimmick also) is going to be my guinea pig.

so in the little intro (also done by ai), it says “all credits to their respective authors” which, yikes. however, they do link to their permission statement and the fic in the description, so it….could be worse. but also, these are the comments

(and it continues like that for a bit)

the channel name also has a 4.0 after it [edit: it did when i started this post, then i got distracted for two days, and now it is gone. hm], which implies they’ve had a lot of trouble with keeping it up. so it seems likely that this is the channel i heard about stealing fics, they just finally learned to get permission and give credit to try and keep it up this time. the permission statement on this video is real (i wondered if they would just link to something else and assume no one would check), but even THAT author references being “freaked out” (positive?? unsure) when they heard of people finding their story on youtube. before giving permission to upload with credit. so that’s not great

also this sludgepit of content is absolutely the thing that attracts people with no patience clamoring for updates literally one day after the video goes up. go figure. bad vibes all around.

also, if you’re wondering about the quality of the reading (i’ve stumbled on some pretty good ai voices as of late!), it’s, uh. i don’t actually know about how all this works, but i feel like when you pick a voice to read a story it should at least be able to approximate character name pronunciation. and flow.

but alas.

i also don't want to bash the authors in question but the truth is from the very minimal poking around i did (not giving this channel any more of my time than absolutely necessary), the writing featured is....mediocre at best. which is fine and good for the fandom ecosystem and i will NEVER be anything but happy that people are writing and posting less-than-perfect works, especially since some of these premises are pretty unique and i think it's better to have the fic than not. we all start somewhere, fanfic is an excellent way to practice and get feedback at the same time, etc.

but these channels, these kinds of operations, they're going to prey on new and young authors and that's who is going to be saying yes to them. because they want the exposure, they want to be told their work is good enough for someone else to care to record it for youtube, they haven't been around long enough to recognize this for what it is: someone taking extreme shortcuts to get views and likes and a bit of notoriety off of other people's work. and that's shit.

and remember that youtube videos can be monetized!

now, i doubt this channel in particular has been monetized, although it does meet the minimum requirements as far as numbers go:

it shouldn't meet the requirements for the monetization policies, specifically these ones:

especially with the disclaimer in the beginning that the content is not their own--which might be why previous versions of the channel did not give credit. who knows.

however, youtube DID just have some scandals about people making videos that were pretty much entirely plagiarized, which were monetized, so i don't have the highest hopes in the world. still, it doesn't seem monetized, so no strikes against this particular creator for that, at least, but defo something to look out for if anyone ever brings up hosting podfics on youtube.

so yeah, bot spam, not a complete scam this time but definitely really sketchy, bad vibes all around. and i still kind of want to give them permission to use my fic just to see what would happen, lmao

#wren wrambles #ao3 #i probably shouldnt someone tell me not to #what i SHOULD be doing is writing the last chapter of haunting huh #AHHHHHHHHHHH #anyway. wren investigates really random shit pt 182326748

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greatandquestionablecontent · 27 days ago

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Seeing Double || Whumptober Day 11

This came out way less whumpy than I might have hoped, like the last one. It’s more reflective post-whump and someone processing trauma surprisingly well. Gonna share it anyway!

Contains: thoughts on grief and PTSD; electric shocks; OSHA violations; deaths by forest fire and eldritch horrors. Briefly mentioned past suicidal/psych ward experience.

Sparkplug’s POV

“We weren’t close,” is what I keep saying. Like that’ll make anyone worry less.

“Mom,” I said over the phone. “I worked in fire for years. I’ve had good friends die in front of me. I can handle this dude… disappearing.”

Which makes me sound dismissive and callous and maybe I am. I’m just not someone who deals with this stuff by talking about it. I think if there’s one thing my mom managed to internalize from Daxton’s death and my subsequent trip to the psych ward and coming out, it’s that I need to be done with the toxic masculine don’t talk about it thing. Which is surprisingly woke of her, I guess, though she didn’t say ‘toxic masculinity’ in as many words. But reassuring her that I’m fine, this job isn’t dangerous, no I’m not seeking out dangerous jobs because I’m suicidal, no I don’t want to move back to Grant’s Pass and join the only transgender support group in two hundred mile radius, there there mom yes I know it’s terrible this dude died…

Yeah, no. I shouldn’t have even told her. That’s what Lexan did. Next time I won’t.

And the thing is, now I know there’ll be a next time.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” North says, as gently as North has ever said anything. It’s alien.

“Not as many as you’d think,” I say.

Hattie’s giving me that support-group-therapist look and Jetlag is avoiding my eyes, fidgeting intently with the string of his tea bag. Since when does Jetlag drink tea? It’s all alien.

If I wanted to process Matthew’s death, I wouldn’t go to Hattie and North about it. I’d have rather had a meeting with Lexan and Gillie, maybe, or just smoked about it with Aubrey and Raegan. Jetlag is both the only person I want to talk to about this, and the last person I want to talk to about this.

“Let me check I’ve got this right.”

I think I’m all ready to spew out the facts, list off a calm summary like it’s just another day on the job, but nothing comes out. I look at Jetlag, hiding under the brim of his black baseball cap with the logo of some tech company he used to work for.

I meant to say, “Okay, so Mathew’s dead, or worse. He got eaten by shadow tentacles. This whole AR game has been a ruse to cover up why we’re actually out there, and our immersive reality was there to protect us from perceiving what we were actually dealing with. You lied to us and put our lives in danger, but according to you it was the only way to do it safely. Except it wasn’t safe, because how could it be? To call this an OSHA violation would be the understatement of the century.”

But what I actually say, just to Jetlag, is, “I don’t blame you. I’m not mad.”

He meets my eyes, and gives me a sheepish little smile. It’s not hard at all to see how this is the same guy who was hollering orders through my earpieces as I staggered towards Mathew in those final moments. If I think about it, I can still summon the sensation of the electroshock as Jetlag slammed the button again and again, screaming “Get back! Don’t approach him! Sparkplug I swear to fucking Christ-“ until all my nerves were buzzing and my legs wobbled.

Is that why the shocks had been there from the start? No laser tag realism, just a full body shock collar for someone too eldritch-entranced to listen to reason, like a dog that’s stopped obeying commands and will only listen to pain? Aubrey and Raegan said the shocks hurt way less than paint ball, but unlike some people I don’t usually get shot for fun.

You really see a different side of someone in an emergency. Jetlag is not a guy who ever worked in fire. I think he was more scared than I was.

“I’m sorry anyway,” he says.

I tell North I’ll get back to him on if I’m quitting or not. I don’t think I am, but I want to be sure.

Jetlag and I go for a walk later, at my request, the oven hot summer air making our skin prickle.

“How is it completely safe during the day? Is it just too hot and dry, even in the shadows?”

“UV radiation,” Jetlag answers easily. “They cant survive — no, they can’t manifest with this much UV radiation, even in the shade. And yeah, the heat and dry air makes it hard for them, but it doesn’t, you know, phase them out of existence.”

It’s a different world during the day, in so many ways, and we’re different people.

At night, Jetlag is just a voice in our ears, and we have our wired suits, our masks with the voice transmitters and exhalation vents to stay cool. Our visors have little fans connected to keep them from fogging up, so we’re all breathing out steam and sound like Darth Vader to any bystanders. All that gear felt claustrophobic at first, but I feel underdressed without it now. And the arena itself, of course, bears only scructural resemblance to the cyberpunk city that has been our work and play place.

I’ve read a lot about PTSD and flashbacks and revisiting trauma sites. I’ve gone to the forest where Daxton died. It was just like this — the opposite of a flashback. The ashen daylit graveyard of charred tree stumps and crumbled logs was nothing like the inferno where we lost Daxton, the flames so bright and hot and pumping so much smoke that we couldn’t even look up and see the night stars. No flashbacks. Nothing but logic to connect it in my mind to the moment a particular mortal left this world.

And this place is just any old abandoned construction site in the desert, complete with tumbleweed, dust everywhere, and plastic bags caught on rebar. Climbing here without the heads-up display feels a little like driving a car with your odometer taped over. I can’t look down and immediately know the exact distance between me and the ground. I still have my basic senses, but it’s just one more way that walking in this world is separated from the one where Mathew died.

It’s all rather anticlimactic.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

This isn’t like Daxton. I’m fine. And if anything, I feel like I owe it to Matthew to keep going.

“I’m still in,” I say.

#whumptober2024 #no.11 #seeing double #fic #my writing #sparkplug #trans whumpee #(sparkplug is a trans woman. mathew was cis but hes dead so whatever)#stop eldritch fracking 2k25 #why are my whumptober scribbles this month all like ‘im surprisingly fine actually’ lmao #no betas we die like sparkplug’s coworkers

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ctrsara · 2 years ago

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Stuff I'm Reading That I Love

(and you should read them too)

December 2022

Here’s stuff I’ve recently read, or am reading, that stands out to me, and I wanted to recommend. This is by no means a comprehensive list of the good stories I’ve read lately, but a few that are worth sharing!

Plus, the more of you that read and love and leave the authors some love, the more likely it is that these lovely stories will make it to completion! No ulterior motives at all here…

(Also, if you know these authors are on Tumblr, but they're not tagged, please let me know, or let them know or something, so I can be friends with them and tag them!)

The Meaning of Inevitable Series by (Mendeia) If you haven’t been reading this series, you’re missing out, I promise. Mendeia is a master storyteller!

The first four books are complete, and the fifth is in progress.

Words: 470,673 Works: 4 Complete:No

Eleven-year-old Peter Parker's world is shattered when both his idol and his uncle are killed in the same week. Even while grieving, Peter strikes up a friendship with the local maintenance man, Tony, who shares Peter's love of science and technology - and who may be more than he lets on.

the ghost at the back of your closet by niniblack (48238 words) This one is so hard sometimes, but also amazing, and I'm always at the edge of my seat!

Published:2022-06-10 Updated:2022-11-05 Words:48238 Chapters:9/?:

Some set-up: Tony survived Endgame, obv, but with a long recovery time. He’s fine now! But skrull!Fury still got ahold of EDITH and gave it to Peter on his Euro Trip, so we’re picking up after Peter was arrested in NWH.

I'm waiting and fading and floating away by lemonlillybee (21701 words): This one is an expanded Whumptober story, and is very whumpy! (But with lots of comfort, too) Lemonlillybee's whole Whumptober set is so impressive!

Published: 2022-10-17 Completed: 2022-11-03 Words: 21701 Chapters: 5/5

“Sleep deprivation,” Bruce whispers to Tony the next morning. “And maybe something else. I don’t know how long it’s going to last.”

Peter hears the words, but he’s too busy pacing to really process them.

@lemonlillybee

Fostering Hope Series by happyaspie The first and second stories are complete, and are amazing, but I hear there’s more to come!

Words: 96,213 Works:2 Complete:No

“Not much of a talker is he,” Tony casually stated, making Peter stomach churn with unease. He had no idea where the man was going with his assessment and wasn’t really sure how to properly defend himself. Thankfully, he didn’t have to.

“Peter has what they call selective mutism,” the social worker replied. “So, no. I suppose he’s not much of a talker.”

@yes-i-am-happyaspie

For We are Bound by Symmetry by kingdomfaraway (21834 words) I love a good biodad AU, and this one has been fantastic so far!

Published: 2022-11-18 Updated: 2022-12-12 Words: 31840 Chapters: 6/?

“I know we just met, Peter, but Tony is just down the hall and so very excited to finally meet you."

She was wrong, of course, Tony Stark was not excited to meet him. If he was excited to meet him, he would have met him at some point in his 13 years of life. Not now, not only after he had nowhere else in the world to go. Now he’s just stuck with him, unable to pretend Peter didn't exist, as he'd done since the day he was born.

@asyouleft

Chase You Down Until You Love Me by OK_ButWhy1 (17448 words): Love love love love.

Published: 2022-06-25 Updated: 2022-11-29 Words: 29281 Chapters: 8/?

Just who is this teenage boy that Tony Stark takes to get ice-cream?

Peter-gets-outed-as-Tony's-kid trope. Featuring: paparazzi and public backlash, Pepper Potts being her gloriously competent self and teeth-rotting IronDad/SpiderSon fluff.

Irreplaceable by for_the_night (40044 words): This one is so sad, but so good!

Published: 2022-04-07 Updated: 2022-11-29 Words: 46193 Chapters: 11/?

It starts with a cancelled lab session. Then two. Then three.

When Peter finally plucks up the courage to ask what he’s done wrong, he finds another kid in the lab with Tony. The teen feels a pang of hurt seeing the pair laughing and joking together, but the fatal blow is seeing Tony ruffle the boy's hair.

Tony doesn’t hate Peter. He’s replaced him.

Men of Iron by spdrmain (41899 words) This one is super interesting! The author is doing a great job with this AU!

Published: 2022-10-24 Updated: 2022-12-04 Words:66672 Chapters: 8/?

At four years old, Nathan Stark, Tony's only son, was found dead months after being kidnapped. What happened to him during that time, and how he died remains a mystery. Ten years later, Ben Parker is shot dead under suspicious circumstances. His nephew, Peter, is adamant to catch his killer. Two deaths, a decade apart, and a war on the horizon - there lies only one truth.

little pieces of home by mysterycyclone and seekrest (14202 words): More Spideychelle than Irondad, but a really interesting take, pretty AU-ish, and very interesting so far!

Published: 2022-02-02 Completed: 2022-11-17 Words: 14202 Chapters: 5/5

“You still really suck at lying,” Michelle says. She checks her phone. “You’ve still got time for lunch before work, right?”

Peter checks his phone. Eleven in the morning. “Yeah, I totally have time.”

He doesn’t really have time, but he makes it. He has to make it.

He’s missed them. He’s going to make time for them.

@mysterycyclone @seek--rest

the long game by niniblack (19377 words) This one is rough (for me), but so, so good so far.

Published: 2022-11-08 Updated: 2022-11-29 Words: 28447 Chapters:10/?

The biodad au where Peter gets arrested for selling drugs, and that actually improves his life.

@niniblack

The Grey Area by Lansfics7 (121895 words) Lansfics7 is hilarious, and this story is super interesting, and I’m definitely enjoying it!

Published: 2022-07-06 Updated: 2022-11-23 Words:121895 Chapters:10/?

Peter’s in college, rooming with his best friend Harry Osborn, crushing on his partner in crime, MJ, and making fast friends with Ned Leeds and Gwen Stacy. He's living the dream, interning at Stark Industries under a watchful eye of (mentor???) Tony Stark. But he has his hands full as Spider-Man with a gang spreading fear in the streets of New York, putting civilians at risk and bankrupting the city. Peter is determined to do whatever it takes to stop them, even if that means going in over his head when the web of lies and greed turns out to be way more than he signed up for.

Understanding the Spiderling series by AthingcalledR has been really great so far!

Words: 79,606 Works:2 Complete: No

Peter Parker is a homeless orphan who dedicates as much time as he can to helping the people of New York.

Then he gets hit by a car :D

As Tony Stark and Pepper Potts try to learn more about the troubled young man, Peter tries to reconcile himself with the painful act of letting people into his life.

@athingcalledr

but only hope and sorrows end by iron_spider Recently complete, and is insane, but amazing. Fantastic. Highly recommend!

This is going to be a rough one. It has a child in danger, kidnappings, experiments which feel like torture to those who are enduring them, and long periods of being trapped and presumed dead. It spans over a decade. It is a Hydra fic, an AU about the origins of Spider-Man and Iron Man. Please plan accordingly, but always know there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Published: 2022-03-16 Completed: 2022-08-17 Words: 126339 Chapters: 13/13

@iron--spider

Long Story Short (It Was A Bad Time) Or AIs Don't Forget by peacockgirl (70140 words): My one true love, haha. She’s been adding to this fantastic story, and every chapter is a treasure!

Published: 2021-12-21 Completed: 2022-12-07 Words: 77440 Chapters:14/14

Turns out magic doesn't affect AIs. Karen is Peter's only link to his old life, and helps him hold on when he gets low.

Meanwhile, in Upstate New York, Tony struggles with the inexplicable certainty that he's lost a kid.

Until Peter gets hurt, and Karen tells FRIDAY ...

Set in that wonderful AU world where Tony survives Endgame, and our boy (eventually) gets all the hugs he needs and deserves.

And, finally, a less recent author, not writing for Irondad anymore, but I just binged pretty much anything by Sahiya recently, and it's all amazing. (thanks @junker5 for that recommendation!)

#irondad fic recs #fanfiction recs #fic rec list #irondad & spiderson #all these authors are amazing #and i could put another 20 stories without blinking #but my hands are starting to cramp up #so next time

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letstalkwhump · 1 year ago

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Let's Talk Whump

Welcome to Let’s Talk Whump, a series of interviews that spotlight the amazing people in our whump community! I’m Malice and I’ll be your host today.

Here today to talk all things whumpy is the fabulous @not-a-space-alien!

Thank you for joining us today! Do you mind sharing a fact or two about yourself to start us off?

I love pet rats. I don’t know if I can have them anymore, though, because it’s really hard when they start getting sick and they get old so fast.

Rats make the most adorable pets! And how would you describe what whump means to you?

To me whump is about lingering on the effects of trauma and pain that mainstream media usually minimizes or ignores because it’s “too messy” or apparently not interesting I guess? Humans are messy and I want to revel in that sometimes. It feels wrong to ignore it. Sometimes I feel messy and in pain and overwhelmed and I want to read about people who also feel that way. I also like the hurt/comfort aspect because…..well, my fantasy is that someone will comfort me when I’m hurting and that someone will rescue me when I’m in pain (or on the flip side that I can save someone who’s in pain)

How did you find the whump community? What made you want to join?

I’ve written these sorts of things for a while even before engaging with anything on tumblr that was primarily made as whump. I started posting my writing on tumblr and engaging in online circles originally in the Good Omens fandom, years before the TV show came out, and gradually my writing on that front started getting darker and darker as I realized there are other people who like reading that sort of thing and it wasn’t just me. I think it did make people a little uncomfortable sometimes and they weren’t really sure how to handle it, so that’s why these days I try extra hard to make sure it’s clear what’s in the writing and how it should be viewed and handled.

If I remember correctly I found myself in this corner after a period of years where I didn’t write anything at all, then while watching some random movies I re-watched Night at the Museum and of course looked at tumblr posts about it, which led to me starting to browse g/t more often (thanks Jedtavius), and after being into g/t stuff for a while I stumbled across some people who wrote g/t whump, and from there I found some “regular” whump. The first person I remember actually talking to was @oddsconvert, who told me to read Kane and Jim, and I have been mildly obsessed with Milly’s writing since then, which gave me a framework to pull together pieces of ideas I’d always had to write MMSS, which is really my only current contribution to “whump tumblr.” (I’d always had an idea about a scientist vampire getting caught while trying to make artificial blood, I combined this with Valen, a DnD character I’d previously played as a drow, because I knew the setting in Milly’s story would be the perfect thing to tie it all together.)

Do you think your view on whump changed since you discovered the whump community?

I’m not sure if I would really consider myself part of the “whump community” because so much of what’s out there doesn’t appeal to me. At first I gave everything a try but as time went on I started getting more and more picky. I’ve grown to really dislike “pet whump”/BBU as well as nameless snippets/prompts that use cardboard cutout characters or flatten characters into two-dimensional archetypes like “Caretaker” or “Whumper.” This sounds really negative but it’s entirely a matter of personal taste and I wish people who write that stuff the best. I wish I could enjoy it because there’s so many talented people out there writing it but it just does nothing for me.

No, that’s entirely valid. There’s a lot of tropes out there and certain ones like BBU can feel inescapable sometimes! It really can be hard to find ones that tick all of your boxes. Do you have any particular favourites?

I love when a character is scared for their life, not knowing that in reality they’re completely safe/being helped.

Shocked when receiving mercy and gentleness when none is expected or deserved.

Character unused to receiving love being loved.

Monster characters hiding their monster nature, being exposed, but being loved anyway despite being treated badly for it in the past.

The power of FriendshipTM

Love being a powerful force that can pull people through the worst ordeals

Complicated relationships between vulnerable characters

Fearplay

Excellent trope choices! Unexpected mercy or kindness is so good! Would you like to share a favourite piece that you’ve written?

Honestly this isn’t even whump but I think my favorite thing I’ve ever written is still Falling Hazard. I put SO much work into that story. It had so many moving pieces and I wanted to make sure it was all polished and got the attention it deserved so it went through 3 or 4 drafts, I had the whole thing written before I even started posting it. It was the culmination of an OC-heavy, plot-intense Good Omens second-apocalypse fic that turned into more of a thriller than anything.

https://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/657822746613514240/your-own-side-masterpost

Haven’t really been interested in Good Omens fandom stuff for a hot minute but I’m honestly still really proud of it. I don’t think it’s really possible to try the “sand the barcode off and sell as an original fiction” thing because it’s so interwoven with the themes of the novel but I think even people with only a passing knowledge of good omens could enjoy it. (the first few entries in this series are kind of whumpy but the later ones are less like that)

Good Omens?! I’m going to binge this so much, I swear! What does your writing routine look like?

I only write when inspiration strikes, I generally don’t do my best work if I’m forcing myself to write. I do my best work when I’m seized by some mad ideas and feel like I’ll explode if I don’t write RIGHT NOW. I think the worst case I ever had it was this one time I wrote an entire ficlet on my phone at work. RIP my thumbs.

Ah yes. And the urge to write always comes at the most inconvenient time, doesn’t it? Do you find that somethings are easier to write than others?

I struggle to write in any universe where I can’t keep a firm hold on the worldbuilding in my head. My brain will take implications of things we see and run off with it and it’s like I run up against a wall if I can’t take everything to its logical conclusion. So I tend to write easiest in settings where the worldbuilding is simple, or based on a few things that are flexible. I tend to get really picky and a bit ridiculous about taking things too seriously when it comes to worldbuilding.

Is there anything you're working on at the moment?

My two big current writing projects are Watch Your Step and MMSS and I can’t really see that changing anytime soon. I do have a google doc with some ideas for shorter pieces and snippets that I might write when inspiration strikes.

Do you have a joke or pun you would like to share to spread some smiles today?

I'm bad at this. Please can people comment with a joke or pun. I’m the one who needs smiles. I'm so tired.

A joke for you then: What's a fanfic writer's weapon of choice? His headcanon!

Do you have any writing advice you’d like to share?

Pay attention to people in real life. Listen to the way they talk and act, the lies they tell themselves, the way they juggle things, the way they behave when they care vs when they don't care. Listen to what they say with their words and without. Dissect why strangers, acquaintances, friends, lovers interact the way they do. Notice patterns. Appreciate the complexity of human existence. Pay attention to context and background and how circumstances affect behavior. Understand that there is no true "you" at the core of every human, just a million fragments of personality seen by a million different people. Once you understand all this, you can mix and match to build a person in your head. Every character feels real when they get pieces of you, or pieces of people you know. That’s my philosophy anyway!

I’m writing that advice down, that’s really good. Are there any blogs you’d like to mention?

@whumpsday and @oddsconvert <3 I also love @demondamage’s stuff even though I havent been following for too long :)

Anything you'd like to add?

Stay frosty coolios

It was a pleasure to have you here today, @not-a-space-alien!

And to all you fab folks at home, have a whump-derful day!

#lets talk whump #whump interviews #whump community

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astriiformes · 1 year ago

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20, 39, 43, and 60, if you want to

20 - Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

Sigh. My fic tends to be extremely hurt/comfort, frequently verging into fairly whumpy (gestures at how much I wrote for Whumptober back in 2022), although I do go pretty heavy on the comfort often, too. Make of that what you will.

39 - Share a snippet from a WIP

I will share something from a somewhat neglected WIP because I love it very much still and really ought to get back to it -- my transgender Caleb Wittebane backstory fic, "Go Down to the Netherworld, Plant Grapes"

Constance might have found the change jarring, but she wasn’t going to squander it. After overhearing Goody Young and Reverend Bradshaw talk about the possibility of sending her away, she was determined to be more dutiful and Christian than ever. Like Philip. It was her responsibility now, in order to keep them both together. She would move the Youngs with her great piety and her devotion to caring for her younger brother, and people around town would start to say things like “That Constance Wittebane is growing into such a fine young woman, don’t you think?” and “Yes, her parents would be so proud” and “Maybe releasing twenty-three frogs in church wasn’t really such a sin. After all, she must have worked very diligently and patiently to get her hands on so many of them,” to which she would reply, quite levelly and not at all smugly, “Surely your praise ought to go to Christ our Lord, who gave me my great sisterly charity and prodigious frog-catching skills.” All told, she managed to keep it up for about a week.

43 - Do you take a sadistic joy in whumping your characters, or are you more the "If you hurt them I would kill everyone and then myself" kind of person?

Closer to the former than the latter, seeing as I just admitted to being a pretty solidly whumpy writer, but I would say it's quite to the sadistic point -- I have not infrequently made myself cry writing fic, and am very much a hurt/comfort writer, with certain exceptions when there's a good narrative to be had. I guess I just really like putting characters through the wringer for a good reason and often seeing them patched up and taken care of in the aftermath. Or, alternatively, for what they went through to have an impact or mean something.

This is all uh, probably somewhat revealing about myself and my own experiences, but at least that's what writing is for.

60 - Have you had a writer you admire comment on your fic? What was that like?

I have and it's always the sort of thing that makes me flustered but in, like a good way. The most prominent example being that my somewhat regular (used to be very, now is hindered by The Curse) beta reader these days, my qpp @scribefindegil was someone whose fic I really looked up to for YEARS and now I just get to hand her my laptop and say "Hey, do you want to read this?" all the time. Sounds fake and made-up.

#really really love that snippet from the caleb fic i'm delighted i had an excuse to share it #let it be known that i wrote it well before playing pentiment which has its own 'frogs in church' plot?#writers will look at a kid in the early modern era and go 'what kind of prank would they pull?' and come up with 'frogs in church'#my writing #ask meme

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connorwhumpaddict · 2 years ago

Text

“A whole new world (without pain)” (Connor whump w/Friendship gender neutral reader) ❤️‍🩹

Summary: Connor is wound up and in constant pain from his overused and strained muscles and joints, but doesn’t realise it isn’t normal since he has functioned like that since his deviancy. Until reader, a physical/ massage therapist working at the DPD offers him a massage and is horrified to find him so tense. Reader takes the time and care to bring the poor android some much needed relief.

Warnings: none

A/N: I want to specify that I’m in no way a trained physical or massage therapist and therefor I do not guarantee for accuracy in this fic. I did the best I could with research and my own experiences from physical therapy when I’ve been treated for various sport injuries. That said, please be lenient in your judgement if you have better knowledge than me on the area. I just wanted to write a whumpy massage fic for pleasure 👏🏻

Banner: By me

You’d been working at the DPD for a few months by now. The management had decided to try and do something to nurture a more healthy environment for the precinct’s increasingly stressed out personnel and one of their initiatives was hiring you as a full time physiotherapist. You had been offered a well equipped treating area upstairs where you offered treatment, consultations and the occasionally rehab session for all the precinct’s officers and other personnel.

Every Tuesday and Friday however people could book you as you’d do rounds and offer 15 minutes of shoulder/ neck massages at peoples own desks to help them loosen tight muscles that inevitably would come from being hunched over a computer screen for too long at a time. Today was Tuesday and your were making your was down to the bullpen. You looked at your pad to see who was your first appointment; Chris Miller.

You smiled as you entered the open office. You loved doing what you did and the people you worked with. You loved to help them feel better, to soothe aches and ease peoples pain. It might not feel like much, but you knew how much difference you did for your patients and that was reward enough in itself.

“Time to get to work.” You muttered cheerily to yourself.

You entered the office and was immediately greeted warmly by most of the people on shift, many which you had appointments with during your day. But first thing first, you made your way to officer Miller’s work station. “Chris you and I have a date my man!” You called in a cheerful voice.

Chris looked up from his screen and smiled. “We sure do! Thank god you’re here Y/N, my neck is killing me. I’ve been looking forward to this all week!”

“Well, lets see what we can do for you then.” You replied as you settled behind his chair. You set the 15 minute timer on your watch and placed your hands on his shoulders to do what you did best.

—

Your day went ahead as scheduled until you reached your last appointment of the day. You looked around the office for Officer Pearson who wasn’t at her desk, as was protocol when you’d been booked.

“Anyone seen Pearson?” You asked out into the room.

“Yeah, she had to go home with a stuffed nose and fever ten minutes ago.” Lieutenant Hank Anderson answered you from his own desk.

“Oh, poor her. I hope she feel better soon.” You said in compassion.

“She asked us to offer you her apologies for not having enough time to cancel her appointment with you, but she didn’t want to risk infecting you.” Connor, Anderson’s partner and more or less adopted son, added from his own seat across from the lieutenant. You’d spoken to him a few times and found him really kind and sweet, but he’d never booked your services himself even though he’d made Anderson come see you a few times when his back would act up, as the man was often too stubborn to do anything about it before he was in incapacitating pain.

“That’s alright, but seems like I have a slot open then. Why don’t I work on you Connor? You’ve never taken advantage of my service before, its about time I’d say.” You offered the kind android.

Connor seemed a little taken aback by your offer and made his LED spin yellow a few times in contemplation. “I’ve no need of your service, I’m functioning at full capacity.” He answered.

“Yeah, but you can still enjoy a massage without it having to be about increasing function. I’ve worked on Susan and Michael plenty of times and they seem to enjoy it.” You said, referring to the precinct’s android receptionist team, and made your way closer to the desks. You’d found that android’s synthetic muscles weren’t all that different from human’s. The anatomy was basically the same, but android’s muscles were more durable and could handle a lot more strain before getting injured, tense or pulled.

“It just seems like a waste of your time, Y/N. There’s probably someone more in need of your attention than me taking your last appointment for simple.. Enjoyment.” Connor rationalised.

“I promise you it’s not a ‘waste of my time’ and you’re not hogging my time from anyone else.” You reassured the detective.

Connor seemed on the verge to protest again when the lieutenant cut in. “Come on kid, you deserve to unwind a bit. You’ve been working cases back to back for the last three weeks. Treat yourself a little. I promise you it’s worth it.”

“Yeah Connor, seriously try it! Y/N’s the best!! You’ll feel like you’re floating afterwards.” Chris Miller added from his seat across the room.

Connor was silent a few seconds later, but finally gave in. “Alright then, I suppose I could try it.” He agreed.

You smiled warmly and made your way the last few paces to take your stand behind his chair. “Can you remove your blazer please, the less layers the better.” You requested as you set your timer.

Connor did as you asked and removed his grey blazer to lay it across his desk before he leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on there as well, as he’d seen your other patients do to give you a better reach to his neck and broad shoulders.

You placed your hands on each shoulder with your thumbs at base of his neck and applied a firm pressure to work into the muscle and.. Nothing.. Despite your strong force there was absolutely no give in the tissue beneath your fingers. You bit your lip and applied all your strength which were saying something (in your profession you had to have strong hands to work) and this time you did manage to make the muscle give just the tiniest bit as you swept your thumbs upwards. Beneath you, you heard Connor let out an almost inaudible hiss an saw his LED switch to yellow at his temple.

You eased up the pressure again and lowered your hands to asses across and under his shoulders, feeling your concern grow as you already had a suspicion on what you were going to find. Sure enough, you might as well have been trying to palpate a brick wall! Never in your life had you felt this tight and wound up muscles and it went down his whole back. The fact that android synthetic muscles were much more resistance to exactly this kind of tension only made it that much more horrifying that it’d gotten to be this bad. This wasn’t just something he’d developed overnight, this had been accumulation for a long, long time, how was he even functioning?! You knew androids feel pain because of a mutation in their code when they deviate so he had to be in absolute agony!

You tried to switch over to using the entire heel of your hand so you could use your entire body weight to try and loosen the rock hard knots under his right shoulder.

Connor’s light abruptly turned red and he let out another hiss of pain although much louder this time, his eyes pinched shut. “I’m sorry to say this, but.. This is not as pleasant as you made it out to be.” He groaned through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, no kidding!” You groaned yourself, but you from exertion. “My world Connor, what have you done to yourself? I’ve never felt anyone this tense!”

Anderson looked over at the two of you his eyes starting to show a growing worry. “What’s going on son? Did you hurt yourself again and didn’t tell me?” The older man’s voice held a slight hint of accusation, as if it wouldn’t be the first time Connor had been hiding injury from him.

“No Hank, I-” Another pained gasp interrupted him as you kept trying to make the unrelenting musculature give under your ministrations. “I promise I didn’t!” He finished his head leaned forwards to hide his pinched, pained expression.

“Well, I saw you literally lift a car yesterday to help a man fix his flat tire, you sure you didn’t pull something?” Officer Thomsen chipped in from his own workspace.

“That car only weighed 55% of my maximum capacity.” Connor defended himself.

“And you did jump out a window from the second floor last week when you chased that Red Ice dealer.” Tina added.

“I rolled when I landed!” Connor exclaimed as if that was a reasonable explanation.

“Oh, maybe it was when you..”

“Alright, I think I get the picture.” You interrupted before people could add to the list of reckless behaviour the android may have overtaxed himself while doing. You could feel him tense up even further (how little possible that should have been) beneath your hands. Clearly Connor weren’t comfortable being the centre of attention like this so you thought better to save him from the situation.

“This is an issue Connor, but not something that isn’t fixable. I can’t work probably on you like this however, this needs special attention.” You explained and pulled your hands off him, Connor’s LED turned back from red to yellow in relief. “You need to come see me first thing tomorrow morning in my clinic upstairs though.”

Connor turned slightly in his seat to look at you.“But, I’m working the Jackson case, I can’t..”

“Don’t worry about the case son, Thomsen and I got it covered you just.. Do what you need to do to get better.” Lieutenant Anderson interjected.

“But Captain Fowler expects me to..” Connor tried again.

“I expect my officers to prioritise their health and well-being so I don’t have to worry about sending them out in the field!” Captain Fowler suddenly appeared from the break room, holding a cup of coffee in hand. “If Y/N deems it necessary for you to receive immediate treatment that’s what you’ll do detective.” The man said in a voice that left no room for discussion.

Connor visibly deflated a bit in his seat. “Yes sir.” He still replied respectfully.

“Sooo.. Shall we say 8am tomorrow?” You asked Connor directly for affirmation.

Connor offered you a nod. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Alright then, see you tomorrow then Connor.” You walked out the office towards your clinic, you needed to go into this prepared.

—

The next morning Connor walked into your clinic at 8am sharp.

“Good morning.” You greeted the detective cheerfully.

“Good morning Y/N. I’m here for my appointment.” He greeted you back professionally.

You grinned a bit. “Yeah I figured. Please take off your jacket, shirt and shoes, but keep standing. I need to do some mobility tests first.” You asked as you lay a clean white sheet across the treatment table.

Connor did as you asked and removed his blazer, draping it across the back of a nearby chair before he tugged off his black tie, unbuttoned his white dress shirt and laid them on the chair as well, lastly toeing off his shoes.

You moved to stand behind him on his right side, but made sure you were still visible in his periphery vision. “First, make sure to let me know if anything feels too uncomfortable of painful, alright?” You instructed.

“Yes, I understand.” Connor agreed readily.

Satisfied you began your examination. “Can you bend forward as far as you can please?” Connor did, he bent all the way down until he was touching the floor flat with both hands. It took you slightly aback that he could manage it after you’d felt how tight his muscles were yesterday, that movement should be much too painful to preform to that extend. As that thought crossed your mind you noticed his LED had changed from a calm blue to a fast spinning yellow at his temple, but his expression was as calm as ever.

“Okay, and back up.” You instructed.

Once again Connor did as you asked and you watched as his LED returned to a flicker between blue and yellow. You gently placed a hand on the side of both his shoulders. “Now stretch as far as you can to the left.” You guided his movement as he did while you watched both the range of his movement but also his LED. You made him repeat the motion to the other side and, as before, he seemed to have full range, but each time he was in outer positions his LED would flicker to fast spinning yellow.

“Have a seat on the table please.” You asked and Connor got up on the surface in compliance.

“Just relax as much as you can while I guide your joints through some movements and remember, tell me if anything feels too painful.” You repeated and did some extensive mobility checks on both of his elbows and wrists and then had him lay down flat on the padded table and tested both his knee and ankle joints as well. You could move them all in almost full range, but you felt a distinct resistance in all of his joints while doing so. Throughout it all Connor’s LED again spun yellow and if you hadn’t been looking so closely you’d probably never have noticed, but you could see how his eyes tightened just the tiniest bit in discomfort as you worked. The android never uttered a single complaint however. When you stopped you noticed Connor let of a small sigh of relief.

“Okay, please sit up for a bit.”

Connor sat up in a fluent motion and leaned back on his hands braced on the table behind him and looked at you intently, showing he was listening. You pulled up a desk chair and took a seat so you could sit facing him.

“I just want to talk to you a bit before we begin treatment to understand you a bit better.” You said, making sure to keep you voice soft and empathic.

“Okay.”

“During these initial range of motion tests we just completed, did any of them feel just slightly uncomfortable or painful?” You asked him.

Connor looked a bit confused by your question. “Yes.” He answered honestly.

“Did it feel very uncomfortable or painful even? I saw your LED shift quite a lot.” You pushed.

Connor looked a bit hesitant to answer, but eventually did. “I suppose it did, yes.”

“All of them hurt you to do, right?” You stated more than asked and was confirmed when Connor answered with a simple. “Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything? I told you to let me know if anything hurt.” You asked, careful to not sound accusing, but more curious and maybe a bit worried.

“Technically, you told me to let you know if anything felt too painful or uncomfortable and it didn’t feel any worse or more painful than it has always been whenever I move around, so I saw no point in stating the obvious.” Connor explained in a very matter-of-fact way.

You looked at him for a few seconds, only blinking a few times as you processed that sentence. Once you’d gone over it a few times in your head and was sure you’d understood correctly you opened your mouth to get clarity. “I’m sorry Connor, but.. Are you telling me you’ve been this tense and felt pain whenever you’re moving? Like.. Since you deviated?”

Connor started to look very confused. “I mean.. Yeah.. The pain is always there in the background it always has been. It’s worse when I move or I need to push myself physically in the field, of course but..” His confusion ebbed away into uncertainty as he watched your expression change into one of deep worry and sympathy in front of him. “But.. Isn’t that.. Normal?” He finished in a thinner voice.

You shook your head slowly. “God.. No.. No Connor.. Your body isn’t supposed to hurt all the time.. That’s..” You paused, collecting yourself a bit. “Can you tell me if you suffered any injuries before you deviated?”

Connor’s eyes turned unfocused and his LED spun yellow, this time because he was processing his time from his activation up until his deviation. It only took five seconds before his brown eyes returned back to you, alert once more, and he started to sum up his findings;

“I was shot in both my shoulders, I was gut punched by detective Reed, been tackled, I was hit by two cars on the highway, I fell off a building twice, fell through a window, I was in a few fights, once a deviant ripped out my thirium pump and stabbed my hand to a counter with a kitchen knife then-”

“Alright, I get it. That’s plenty, thank you!” You interrupted his list sensing he wasn’t near done but having heard plenty to make a calculated conclusion “Your body suffered so much trauma and injury before you deviated, that being in constant pain has become your ‘normal’, because that’s how its always been for you ever since you became deviant.. It’s horrible that’s how it’s been for you, but it explains a lot.”

Connor seems to process your words for a few seconds. “Oh.. I suppose that makes sense..” He muttered then rubbed his neck and sighed. “Well, I feel a bit foolish now to be honest.. I just.. I really thought it was normal to feel this way..” He looked at you slightly lost. “It wasn’t until yesterday, after you seemed so shocked at my condition, I began to suspect something wasn’t right..”

“Hey.” You placed a gentle hand on the android’s knee, catching his eyes again and offered him a soft smile. “It’s not foolish Connor. Not at all! This has just always been your reality. The important thing is now you know this isn’t how it’s supposed to be and I want to do everything I can to help take his pain away from you so you never have to suffer alone like this again, deal?”

Connor seemed to peak up a little by your reassurance and managed a small smile of his own. “Deal.” He agreed.

“Good. Now tell me.. Where do you find your pain to be most intense for you most days?”

“My shoulders, lower back and both my knees usually causes me most discomfort.”

“Then that’s the areas we’ll focus on first, starting with your back today. Now I’m sorry but I’m afraid this won’t be very pleasant, at least not to begin with, but it’s a necessary evil. Just promise me to let me know if you need a break or if something feels off, I know your pain threshold is high but that just makes it that more important for you to comunicate with me, ok?”

Connor nodded. “I understand Y/N. I’ll do my best.”

Satisfied you instructed Connor to take off his pants as well and get situated under the sheet draped over the table on his front, to make sure he was as comfortable as possible and giving you unobstructed access to his entire back without issue. You left the room briefly to give him some privacy to get settled and used the time to fetch the oil you were going to use. When you returned the android was laying as instructed.

You made sure to announce your presence before you gently placed a hand on his bare shoulder. “Since your synthetic muscles in your entire back is so tense and knotted already I’m going to use a massage gun-” You showed him the device in your other hand under the table where his face peaked through the hole supporting the head. ��- to help me loosen you up while sparring my hands a bit. It uses a combination of vibrations and heat and can feel a bit intense, but it hardly makes any noise so again, if you need a break or anything else just let me know.”

“I will.”

“Good, I’m gonna begin then.” You turned the gun on a medium setting, making the rounded ball in the front vibrate back and forth. You touched the tip and could feel a pleasant warmth emanating from it as well, ready to seep in and help loosen the tight muscles. With practiced ease you pressed it down to run along his upper neck and down the trapezius muscle on his left.

Connor let out a soft groan as no doubt the sensation aggravated his sore synthetic tissue. You winched a bit in sympathy, but there really was nothing for it and repeated the motion on his other side with the same response. You worked over his neck and shoulder area for about 10 minutes and then moved on to run the palpating device down along the dorsi muscles next to his spine. The hand not holding the gun ran ahead, feeling out where the worst knots were located so you could pause and work out the worst tension where it’s most needed. Connor kept as silent and stoic throughout the session as well as you suspected, but still couldn’t suppress the occasional hiss or groan of discomfort whenever you needed to work out a tight knot. You managed to reach his lower back where, sure enough, the tension was worst. You’d just located a particular hard knot on the right side and moved the gun over it when you felt Connor tense up gripping the edge of the table and pushed his chest off with a gasp.

“Break..” He called out. “I need a break, please.” He groaned out in a pained voice.

You immediately pulled away, turning off the massage gun and setting it on a table next to you. “Of course.” You walked over to a storage cupboard where you’d stacked up different kinds of thirium packs and selected a lemon ice tea flavoured one, you’d been assured by Hank was one of the detective’s favourites. “Here, try and drink a bit of this.” You offered.

Connor looked up at the offered drink as he lay with his elbows resting on the surface of the padded table. His face was flushed blue and there were a tightens around his eyes. He accepted the blue blood and took a generous drink. “Thanks.” He breathed and allowed you to take back the half empty pack. “Sorry, I just.. That spot has always been.. Troublesome..” He explained, avoiding eye contact and looking slightly embarrassed about his outburst.

“No need to apologise, I know this isn’t pleasant, but you’re doing really well. I you prefer we can call it a day and pick up again tomorrow.” You proposed.

Connor shook his head gently. “No it’s okay.. I can take it.”

“It’s not an issue being able to take it Connor, I know you can, but this is not a race. Your health is what’s most important and we’ll get you sorted in a tempo your body is comfortable with and no faster.”

Connor looked at you and seemed to muse over your words for a few moments before he nodded solemnly. “I understand, still.. I feel okay to continue for a bit more.” He said honestly.

You took his words at face value. “Alright, I promise I’ll be gentle.”

After he’d settled back down you picked up the massage gun once more, but adjusted it to a lower setting. You positioned it back down on the knotted tissue, being careful to only apply a mild pressure. Connor tensed up again for a few seconds before you felt him pulling a few deep breaths, forcing his body to try and relax as much as possible. You worked the area over, taking your time as you gradually increased the pressure, feeling the muscle give little by little. Once there was some give and the muscle beneath had been penetrated with enough warmth you turned off the machine and picked the good oil, pumped a bit into you palm to warm in your hands.

“I’m just going to try and loosen you up some more with my hands, keep breathing for me.” You informed softly.

“Okay..” Connor huffed.

You placed your hands down and glided across the still tense muscle to work the oil in. Using your thumbs and heel of your hands you worked slowly deeper and deeper into the straining fibres. Your patience was rewarded when you finally felt the hard knot release.

Connor couldn’t hold back a deep and long groan of pure relief as he felt a huge portion of that constant tension that’d been his companion all days suddenly easing. “Aaaahhhh!”

You smiled triumphantly. “There we go.” You coaxed as you kept rubbing the area throughly for a few more minutes. You shifted over to work out the worst tension on the left side as well, using your own body weight to borrow deep, goading more deep groans of content from the android. You worked your way upwards again, this time keeping your touch and pressure more gentle and alleviating, letting the soothing oli and warmth from the friction of your hands do their things. Returning to the shoulders and neck, you kneaded the muscles along the natural alignment on both sides until you reached all the way up to the hollow in the back of the neck, moving and working down one arm then the other and repeating.

“I’m.. Starting to see why- Ahhh~ People enjoy yo- oohhhh~ ur treatments.. Ah! That’s good right there!” Connor groaned as you worked out yet another knot under his left shoulder blade. He could feel more and more tension melt from his overworked muscles the more you worked.

“See, told you I was good.” You joked with a smile, pleased to see that Connor’s pain and discomfort had eased considerably already. You worked and loosened the tight muscles for another 10 minutes, then did a last sweeping, calming rub down of his entire back area before you pulled back after one last lingering touch. You took one of your soft, white flannels and gently wiped down the excess oil from the android’s back in soothing motions.

“There, I think that’s enough for today. Try and sit up, but do it slowly, you might find yourself a bit lightheaded.”

Connor did as you asked and pushed himself up to sit on the table, keeping the sheet covering his legs. He experimentally rolled his shoulders and twisted his back slightly from side to side and looked at you with a smile and joy in his eyes. “It feels so much better already! This is amazing!!” He grinned.

You couldn’t hold back a wide smile of your own. Seeing the immense relief and restitution just one session had helped the strained android detective was what made your work so rewarding. There was still a long way to go, but this was a good start. “I’m so glad. We’ll get you up and running pain free before you know it. Here..” You handed him the last half of the thirium pack. “Drink this up before you get up and get dressed and let’s set you up for another treatment tomorrow to work on you joints, sounds good?”

Connor nodded his consent as he took a sip of his thirium. “Yes, very good. Thanks for taking care of me Y/N.”

“Of course Connor, always. That’s what I’m here for.” You smiled softly. “Take all the time you need ok, I’ll be in the other room filling out your chart, but let me know before you’re leaving.”

“I will, thank you.” Connor smiled back.

—

Over the course of the following three weeks Connor came to you for treatment several times a week to work out his many issues. Many of your sessions would start off painful and uncomfortable for the android, but he said the initially pain was worth it for the relief you’d always bring him at the end of each visit. During this time the two of you grew closer and closer and a rewarding friendship formed between you as you found each other’s company both highly enjoyable and humorous. Little by little Connor improved, thanks to your expertly help and guidance, until he’d made a full recovery and could finally feel how much easier he could move and work without being in constant pain. It was a whole new world for him and he treasured every minute of his new existence.

It was the annual DPD barbecue party and Hank had graciously offered his yard and house to host it. Since Connor had entered his life the previously grumpy lieutenant had grown much more sociable and outgoing as he’d learned to enjoy life once again. The entire precinct, you included, stood spread out in the sunny yard. Hank and Ben were manning the grill as people talked, laughed and enjoyed a cold beer or other beverage. A few of the younger officers were taking advantage of the spacious lawn to play a game of football, which Connor participated in very enthusiastically. You watched in amusement as Connor caught the ball and dodged several attempts at tackling as he advanced towards the designated touchdown area in the other end of the yard. He made it all the way and threw the ball to the ground with a joyful cheer and then proceeded to do a freaking backflip in celebration to the chorus of cheers and laughs from his teammates.

“Are you sure your aren’t using you preconstructive softwear to cheat?!” Chris panted with his hands on his knees after having unsuccessfully chased Connor.

“I am not! My speed and dexterity has just improved 21% after Y/N helped me. It’s not my fault I’m too fast for you!” Connor teased in a laughing voice.

Chris looked towards you where you sat in a lawn chair under the shadow of a parasole, drink in your hand. “Damn it Y/N! Why’d you have to make him so damn fast?!” The man yelled at you, clearly joking.

You laughed and lifted your drink in salute. “Because I could! A little competition is healthy Chris!”

“Ah, you young folks are just too soft on him, let me show you how it’s done!” Captain Fowler suddenly chipped in and ran over to join the lineup.

“Alright captain! You’re going down now punks!” Tina cheered and made some taunting gestures towards the opposing team.

“Bring it on!” Connor replied, backing towards his own lineup with his arms spread invitingly and grinning.

“That’s right, give them hell son!!” Hank cheered and clacked his grill tongs loudly.

You laughed heartedly at the joyful atmosphere that filled the warm summer air and you felt proud and happy to see how much Connor could now enjoy life a whole new way thanks to your help.

THE END

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faofinn · 1 year ago

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Swing Life Away

As promised, here it is! Sorry for the delay, life got whumpy lol

"You're kinda cute, you know?"

"Yeah? Thanks." Harrison shook his head with a smile as he returned to his notes. "Have a few days rest, keep off that ankle and you should be back to normal in a few weeks.”

“I’m serious.”

“Who have you got to pick you up, Taidgh?”

“How about you?” He joked, and then at Harrison’s look, sighed. “My roommate drove me in.”

“Great. Do you want me to go get them?”

“Yeah.”

Glad to be away from his flirting for a few moments, Harrison headed into the waiting room to find Taidgh's friend. He was easy enough to find and Harrison brought him back through to where Taidgh was waiting.

“He’s had a bit of morphine, and he’ll need someone to keep an eye on him for a few hours.” Harrison told him. “Try and make sure he stays off the ankle as much as possible to let it heal. Ice it regularly and use painkillers as needed.”

“Alright, thank you. Tai, you ready?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Can I get your number before I go?” Harrison laughed. “Maybe wait until you’re not hopped up on painkillers before you ask things like that.”

“Oh, I’m serious.”

“Yeah? Alright then. I’ll see you later.”

His friend laughed, leading him away. “Come on, you. Let’s keep it in your pants. Thanks again, and sorry.”

“It’s no problem. Take care.” He called as they left, returning to the nurses station with a smile. It always amused him dealing with patients like that, and he’d much prefer flirting over fighting. He joked with the nurses as he finished the paperwork, and then headed onto the next patient, a smile on his face.

It was the start of his next run of shifts, thankfully days, but it was slow going. The patients he had were quickly sorted, either sent home or admitted. For once, there were beds available, and they didn’t stay long in the ED. He had a run of patients just before his lunch, and was just about to disappear when one of the nurses called him over.

“Hars? One of the physios called earlier, wanted a call back.”

“Finn’s around, isn’t he? Can you get him to do it? I’m going on my lunch, I’m starved.”

“Finn answered the bleep to start with. They asked for you.”

He groaned. “For fuck’s sake. Right, I’ll do this and get this over with. I don’t get why they call us. They don’t need us, they’ve got plenty of toys up there to play with without disturbing us.”

The phone rang several times before there was an answer. “Physio department.”

“Yeah, hi. It’s Dr Cunningham from the ED. I was asked to phone you back? Apparently you couldn’t annoy my colleague instead.”

“Oh, yeah, great, give me two seconds and I’ll pass you over.”

“Sure, okay.” More waiting. He rolled his eyes, tapping his pen on the desk in front of him.

“Hey, you said to wait until I wasn’t hopped up on pain meds.”

Harrison was silent. It had been a joke, he’d been his patient, but he couldn’t help the flip in his stomach. “Uh, hi.”

“Sorry, this is really weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Sorry, sorry. I just… you were cute and I thought I’d shoot my shot.” He paused. “I’m going to go and die of embarrassment.”

“Hey, no, no. Don’t go.” He spoke before his brain caught up. “Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll text you?”

“I’m about to go on lunch, I could come down and say hi?” He hesitated. “I was about to have mine, too. We could meet in the caf?”

“Great, it’s a date!”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Harrison said, the phone already dead. What had he just agreed to?

He was ridiculously nervous as he waited, standing at the door of the cafeteria. He wasn't normally nervous, and he had no reason to be. They were just having lunch, it was a one off, nothing serious.

"Hey, Dr Harrison, right?"

He turned. "Uh, hi. It's just Harrison."

"What, no first name?" He teased.

"No, Harrison is my name. Just Harrison."

"Alright. Don't think I can really say anything, can I? A name like Taidgh? Nobody normally gets it right the first time."

"I've got - one of the surgeons here, he's called Faolan. That's a mouthful too."

"Another Irish too? We'll take over the hospital eventually."

Harrison laughed. "I'm sure you will. So, lunch? I'm starving."

"God, me too. Come on."

#tai x hars #taidgh cole #harrison cunningham #injured ankle #flirty patient #tai is the sweetest and i love him #oc #fic #whump #whump writing #fluff #meet cute #morphine

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levy120 · 2 years ago

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Can You Hear Me?

Skimming some of the new Rayman blogs I saw that there is a demand for more horror oriented content, so I kicked my own butt and finished this prompt I had lying around for a couple of months ~

Written as part of the 100 themes challenge, here is a whumpy look into the Clark Boss Encounter from R2 with fridge-horror elements.

Story below the Cut and on dA

☠️

82. Can You Hear Me?

He doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. And worst of all- his friend is suffering.

Rayman can tell, but one doesn’t have to be a genius to see.

“Clark!” he tries again, not sure if trying to reach his friend might not be making things worse. He’d already caught the absolutely guilty look in his eyes - and Rayman forgives him. He does. His friend is not to blame for the hellish torture the robots have put him through.

Still doesn’t make the bruises he’d already gotten hurt any less.

“Clark, listen to me!”

But when the hulking figure turns to face him, Rayman is immediately rushed at. He dodges the massive hands, albeit with less ease than before.

Rayman has already identified the problem in the mechanical contraption pinned to Clark’s back. It’s unnatural, looks painful too - but the Limbless doesn’t know yet how to get rid of this thing without accidentally hurting his friend.

Clark wasn’t an enemy, not a robot, or a pirate. He can’t just let his fist rain down on him! It flares up a new bout of anger in his chest, knowing that this was exactly what Razorbeard had wanted.

He dodges out of the way of Clark's charge and takes note of the mechanisms in the room. Big red buttons that scream 'push me', and up until now that had always proven to be helpful.

But before Rayman can act on his new idea, large fingers wrap around his torso, squeezing, and the Limbless feels the air leave him and his feet leave the ground.

He can't help the faint whimper at the force his friend applies. His eyes catch Clark's face for but a second. The giant looks about as awful and helpless as Rayman feels.

"Don't," he manages to breathe out before he finds himself hurled across the room.

The impact is harsh and hurts. Rayman takes a moment to get back on his feet, but Clark is already charging again with a roar that sounds desperate and painful in a way that shatters Rayman's resolve. He can't keep wasting time.

He reorients himself, pushes himself up and leaps away from Clark's powerful swing, before making a beeline for the button.

Nothing happens yet and it's with annoyance that Rayman catches note of the other buttons in the room. They'll be easier to catch in time from the other side, but he's come so far, he might as well try to trigger them from here.

Then Clark leaps into his last array, blocking his last energy sphere before it can connect with the button. It leaves a sizzling scorch mark in his friend's skin and Rayman winces with a "Sorry!"

It’s no one’s fault, Rayman tries to tell himself. But that’s wrong. It’s absolutely and undeniably Razorbeard’s fault. And maybe a little bit Rayman’s for not trying hard enough.

So, once he’s figured out what to do, the Limbless tries to zero in on the task ahead, tries not to think about the fact it's his friend he's hurting or the panic that boils underneath.

Not before long, the contraption shatters into pieces.

When Clark recovers it's with gusto, the nuts and bolts rolling off his back like rain as his hunch lifts.

Despite himself, Rayman has to try and keep himself from flinching when the giant approaches, but Clark is either not picking up on it or not acting on it for Rayman's sake.

The bruises are plentiful and more than obvious and Rayman will need to find a couple of red lums soon.

It does help, that Clark doesn't bring them up, but aside from their little celebration, Rayman doesn't want to linger.

His fingers are itching to find the robot who has done this to his friend so he can tear it up, and under any other circumstance, Rayman might be worried about the rage that coils in his gut. Clark's fine, he's fine, he's saved, he did it.

But he wasn't fine before.

Rayman bids Clark farewell if only so he can run from it and break without the giant seeing. There's a scream of anguish locked in his throat and when he closes his eyes, Rayman still sees Clark's torment in the back of his mind.

Battered fingers clench into a fist by Rayman's side as he collapses in the Hall of Doors and wails where no one can see. He can't rest though - while he's here and lamenting Razorbeard is still out there and keeps hurting his friends.

And Rayman vows to make him regret that.

#Rayman #Rayman fanfic #Rayman fanfiction #fanfic #Rayman 2 #Clark #Tomb of the Ancients #whump #fridgehorror #battle sequence #fridge horror

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deans-spinster-witchs-favorites · 10 months ago

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Oh, this one was so wonderful, but damn, it hit me right in the feels! I love her ability, and her kindness in helping the spirits, and how sweet things are with her and Jason. The reveal is so funny, I laughed at her offer to walk back out and back in again! And I absolutely loved her simple “OK” and “I love you, y’know. You running around in a onesie getting shot at doesn’t change that.” Atta girl!

But then Matty’s case, and the revelation! “there is such a look of horror and fear in his eyes…never of you and your abilities, but for what and who he fears you might see clinging to him...He is terrified that you can see the monster he has always feared himself to be. That all of his sins are arrayed around him, inescapable and unforgivable.” Damn, it got dusty in here!

“You don’t get the chance to tell him that all you see is…that 15-year old boy always tells you when Jason comes back hiding an injury or asks you to make sure he’s eating more than cigarettes. You don’t get to tell him that even from beyond the grave, Jason Todd never stopped saving people.” I smell onions…oh, no. No, no, no… “Go, go after him. He needs you more than I do right now.” The ghost of Jason Todd gives you one more desperate look, before running out into the cold after his older self. Now, now you’re truly alone.” I am undone - the onion ninjas have slain me, I am crying - this is so good!

I had to go back and reread from the beginning, to make sure Red Hood Jason wasn’t a ghost too - I’m stuck home with Covid, so don’t quite trust my brain right now. 15 year old Jason must be tied to adult Jason - otherwise surely he would have come back to check on her? Tell her Jason was ok? If she hadn’t managed to help Matty move on, maybe she could go back and find him and ask him what happened, then get word to the BatFam so Jason would have closure, even if he wouldn’t speak to her ever again? My heart is broken that a) he can’t trust their love enough to know that if legions of ghosts were following him around, she would have said something; b) if she’d never joked about something like this before, why would she start now? and c) if he’s hurting, doesn’t he think that leaving her never to return would shatter her? This just hurts my heart for the reader so much, not just for Jason. Surely Dick or one of them would start digging and find out about all the anonymous tips, Stephanie would reach out to her after seeing the change in Jason to find out what happened?

I was typing this in my docs (I’m on my phone) and didn’t want you to think I was criticizing your story, but it was so good it just really got under my skin! So I went back to your page to find the link to it, and started laughing so much I started a huge coughing jag - I’m a total idiot, and was right not to trust my brain - it’s listed under SERIES, so you’ve got more planned! I have never been so happy to be an eejit in my whole life! I was just going to delete this whole thing to save myself the embarrassment, but then thought you deserved to know how captivated I was by this. I love my angsty and whumpy stories, and you have the angst dialed to 11 in this one - I can’t wait to see what happens next!

The Ghost of You

jason todd x f!reader

summary: you’re in love with jason todd but he doesn’t know you can see ghosts. he finds out.

tags: fluff, off screen sex, angst, supernatural elements

rated mature | wc: 4.2k

a/n: finally got around to writing up the fic idea I sent in this ask. there will be a happy ending (eventually) so please bear with me

It’s cold in the apartment. The curtains are blowing in the empty breeze, window open from when it was wrenched wide. I should close that, you think numbly to yourself, but you’re not really sure that your legs will hold you long enough to cross the room. There’s pins and needles racing through your calves, spreading up to your thighs but you don’t have it in yourself to care. Jason’s gone, maybe never coming back.

On the day you met Jason, his grin was bright like the sun. You’d met at the local library when you dropped your stack of books heading to the return desk. Scrabbling to pick up your books and get out of the way, you’d bumped hands with someone. Looked up to meet his eyes and seen the sun. Jason had helped you gather up the fallen books, accidentally knocking his knuckles into yours the whole time. He’d picked up The Scarlet Pimpernel from the scattered pile and started an enthusiastic conversation about it. By the time you’d left the library, you’d gotten his number in your phone and a new book under your arm.

You’d been so distracted by your conversation that you’d forgotten to stop by and say hello to Ms. Einarsdottir in the romance novel section. Given that she’s been dead for 38 years, she probably won’t mind you missing your weekly greeting, but it’s the principle of the thing. You end up going back to the library the next day to make your apologies but the old ghost is so excited to hear about your meet cute that the two of you end up discussing it for almost an hour. The lovely woman even helps you write your first text to Jason, hovering over your shoulder and gently trying to dictate to you.

You had first seen Ms. Einarsdottir when you were six years old and looking for your mother after losing her in all the tall bookshelves. Despite it being a summer’s day this particular section of the library had been cool, a lure for any overheated child. Rounding a shelf, an older woman with her thick white hair in a braid and half-moon spectacles perched on her nose had been reading a book with a bright cover.

Tilting your head to make out the title better, you had asked, “Whatcha readin’?”

The poor woman had startled, badly, then scolded you for being in a section for grown ups. She’d relaxed when you’d asked if she’d seen your mother, placed her book down on the little reading table and engaged you in a conversation all about yourself. Your mother had found you there nearly 20 minutes later, sitting cross legged in front of an empty chair and discussing your new favourite hair bows in an excited whisper. Your mother had squeezed your hand tightly as she walked you out of the library, so engrossed in scolding you that she didn’t notice you wave over your shoulder to the incorporeal woman.

That had been your first meeting with Ms. Einarsdottir, though certainly not the last. She’d become a grandmother figure to you over the years, and nearly every week you were in Gotham you had made a point of going in to see her. She had been your first ghost.

You can see ghosts. You’ve been able to ever since Ms. Einarsdottir, and for you they’re as real as any living person. There’s no great trauma or origin story for this ability. One day you had just woken up, walked into the Gotham Public Library, and started seeing ghosts. You don’t tell anyone, really. There’s enough flavours of weird in Gotham that people would probably believe you, but it would feel strange to go around announcing this ability. As a child you were scared you’d be bullied for it, still were for seemingly talking to yourself until you’d gotten better at disguising whispers. As an adult, you’re not sure how much good it would do to say anything. You can’t summon the dead to help those grieving a loss, and most of the time the ghosts you meet simply need to be reminded they’re dead in order to move in. Most people wouldn’t want others digging into their business while they’re alive, why would they feel differently when they’re dead?

So for the most part you live an ordinary life. You wake up and go to work at the hospital. You go out to dinners with friends and on disappointing dates. Maybe sometimes in between you remind an old man that no one else can see that he’s no longer living, or give directions to a little boy that everyone else just walks right through. Occasionally the Gotham Police might get an anonymous tip on a years old murder. It’s your normal.

Your new normal with Jason is so, so good. You fit together in places you didn’t even realize were missing. The first date quickly turns into five, laughter bright and constant. Jason volunteers on the weekends, then comes to pick you up from your shifts with your favourite sandwich from the deli near Crime Alley. He brings flowers to every date and his hands tremble the first time he unzips your little black dress. He’s downright adorable when you kiss him on the cheek after offering to drop you off for brunch with your friends. Your friends giggle over him as he pulls away from the curb, demanding details. It’s easy loving him and being loved by him.

You move into his apartment, too quickly according to his little brothers. Dinners out with friends turn into entertaining at home, and taking it in turns bringing dishes that fill the apartment with mouthwatering smells. Nights out at the movies ending with heated discussions about how “the physics of explosives don’t work like that” curled up on the couch. Jokes from Dick about domesticating Jason, as the man himself childishly sticks his tongue out behind his brother’s back. Agreeing to be a plus one at a gala only if there will be french fries after. Hiding smiles behind glasses of champagne as you watch him try to navigate the crush of flirtatious socialites. You love him so much, and if the completely unsubtle questions about your taste in jewellery are anything to go by, you’ll get to love him forever.

Jason doesn’t so much tell you he’s the Red Hood as dump the evidence in your lap by accident. You’re home early (or late as it is), having been bumped to an earlier return flight from a girl’s trip after your best friend got dumped over text. You weren’t supposed to be back for another 16 hours, a fact that Jason clearly was counting on. Juggling your purse and your suitcase, you’re not paying attention as you walk through the door, trying to put your keys away. There’s voices in the living room that go dead silent as you turn the corner. Looking up to see who’s visiting, you freeze.

Dick’s sitting on your couch, a bag of frozen peas held against the bruise blooming on his cheekbone. He’s wearing Nightwing’s suit and the blue domino is on the coffee table, pushed out to make room for all of the people currently invading your living room. There’s Stephanie right next to him, frozen mid-bite, pizza almost falling out of her black-and purple gloves. Tim’s on the floor, leaning against Steph’s legs, looking more exhausted than usual and horrified. Lastly, there’s Jason. Sitting in the far corner of the couch, feet in Dick’s lap, with the Red Hood’s damaged helmet cradled in his lap. You stare at each other, and you can feel your jaw physically drop. The cheese on Steph’s pizza slips right off, landing in her lap with a wet sound breaking the moment.

“I can walk right back out and come in again?” You offer up weakly.

It breaks the hold of silence on the room, suddenly everyone talking at once. Except for Jason. He stares at you and you can’t look away, the clamour of voices fading away under the strength of your gaze. He swallows, hard.

“Stay, please? I can explain.” And he does.

It takes hours, and you steal slices of cold pizza for yourself. Tim and Steph are fast asleep on each other by the end and Dick’s had to switch out the melted peas for an ice pack you’ve fished out the back of the freezer. Jason’s scared, you can tell. Keeps starting and stopping, lets Dick take over the threads of the story, fidgets with the hem of his jacket and keeps turning the helmet over in his hands.

“—so that’s everything. Uh, I’m the Red Hood.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Just ‘okay’?” He repeats in disbelief.

“Yup. I’m probably going to have a thousand questions for you once I’m not exhausted from traveling all day, but okay. You’re the Red Hood. Which, actually explains a lot of things, if I’m being honest. But,” and you clap your hands together, “that’s going to wait because I’m pretty sure we’re all going to pass out any minute. Dick, you’re welcome to the couch if you can help Jason move those two,” and you point at the sleepers, “over to the guest bedroom.”

Guests taken care of, you push up off the floor, grab your bags, and head to the bedroom. You drop your bags just inside the door, a task for future you to deal with. Stumbling over tired feet, you manage to wash your face and change into pyjamas before falling into bed. Jason comes in, stands in the doorway hand on the knob, like he can’t bring himself to get any closer. You flop your arm out and pat his empty side of the bed.

“S’cold. You coming to bed soon?”

It takes another breath before he starts to move, a silhouette in the light from the hall. He shuffles around, the sounds comforting in their familiarity. The mattress dips under his weight, but he doesn’t curve to the shape of you like he usually does, stiff as a board instead. Huffing out a breath, you wrap an arm around his torso and pull at him until he’s arranged around you the way you like.

“I love you, y’know. You running around in a onesie getting shot at doesn’t change that.” You mumble into the side of his neck.

He says something in reply, but you’re already drifting off to sleep. As far as you’re concerned, anything else can wait. And it does. The next morning you ask as many questions as you can think of as Jason makes a late breakfast for the both of you. You unpack your bags, and he’s still answering questions as you throw in your travel laundry. You can’t hold keeping a secret against him, not when there’s still your own small part of you that you haven’t shared yet.

His revelation does answer the questions you’d been holding onto about late night disappearances, mysterious bruises, and secretive looks over your head with his family. It puts some of the ghosts you’ve seen hanging around into context, tragedies crystallizing in your mind. It brings you closer, even if he’s not willing to share some of the more horrific details of his cases with you. He asks you, once, how you feel about dating the Red Hood. You laugh and call him silly. You’re not dating the Red Hood, you’re in love with Jason Todd. His slow look of quiet wonder is possibly the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, you tell Ms. Einarsdottir (you elect not to tell her about how he’d laid you out in your bed after and eaten you out for hours after, your thighs trembling around his ears).

Together, you piece together a new normal. Jason texts to let you know he’s going on patrol and if he’ll be back before morning. You insist that he lets you know about all of his injuries, even if it’s just a scratch. He stops hiding his work from you, brings home files and folders (without pictures) to spread out on the coffee table and pull out his hair over. He’ll ask you for your input sometimes, a medical perspective on how Scarecrow’s newest fear toxin works biologically or if there’s a pattern between post-mortem reports. It’s not the life you envisioned for yourself, but you love it nonetheless because of who you are building it with.

The thought crosses your mind, occasionally, that you could help more. That instead of calling in anonymous tips on pay phones to the GPD, you could just talk to Jason. But no ghost has told you anything for weeks, or at least nothing related to their deaths and so the urgency to tell him passes. You grow complacent in this new life.

A few months later, and you’re running out of the hospital on your break to try and buy a cup of coffee from the stand in the courtyard. It’s the only place marginally on hospital grounds with half-way decent beans and you need that extra hit of caffeine to get through the last three hours of your shift. In your rush, you almost run through a young boy, managing to stop yourself just in time. He doesn’t seem to notice you at all, staring off at the small slit of the basement window.

“Hello?” You ask, tentative.

He turns, slowly, like he can’t quite be sure that someone’s talking to him. He’s painfully young, scrawny in a way that implies older than he looks but chronically underfed. It’s his eyes that get to you, large enough to swallow up his whole face and blearily lost.

“D’you know the way home, miss?” It’s a whisper on the breeze, barely a sound at all. Something catches his attention then, steals his focus away to an unseen threat that causes his incorporeal body to lock up in fear. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.

“Honey, I know you’re probably really scared and confused, but I can see you, okay? Now you might not know this yet, but you’re a ghost now.” There’s horror in the little boy’s eyes, and it’s growing fast. It’s not directed at you, but somewhere behind you. You turn, trying to see over your shoulder, but there’s nothing there but sunshine.

“Listen to me, you’ve died and what is happening right now is you’re caught in a loop of your own death. You just need to realize you’re dead to snap out of it.” It happens sometimes, ghosts caught in the rip curl of their deaths, repeating echoes of it in their disbelief at dying. You reach out, desperately wishing you could hug this child because terror is swallowing him whole. He turns, desperate, and starts running, mouth moving in unheard screams. He runs into an invisible obstacle, scrambling on his hands and knees, and then winks out of existence.

The sunny day is suddenly cold. You look around, but everyone else in the courtyard is unbothered by the sights they did not see. On autopilot, you make it through the line, adding your change to the tip jar and burning the palms of your hands on the hot paper cup. The coffee’s tasteless, only notable for the way it burns down your throat but it gets you through the last of your shift. You can’t erase the image of the boy’s face, young and deathly afraid. It haunts you; you couldn’t forget his face if you’d tried and you’re not sure you should.

Over the next few weeks, a case takes hold of Jason. It possesses him and drives him out of your bed to pour over files he won’t let you see in the dead of night. He won’t speak of it, red-rimmed eyes and stony faced. He can’t sleep over it, mumbles something about not being able to get the images to leave him alone. You push the issue only once, over a shared lunch you had to badger him to take a break for. It goes badly, Jason freezing you out. He apologizes later, for ruining the lunch you’d gone to the effort to make and for hurting you. The two of you have agreed to never go to bed angry with each other, and you never do. It hurts to see him like this. You keep showing support in whatever small gestures he’ll accept, hoping that eventually he’ll open up.

He does. Shoves the files away from him on the coffee table and leans into you where you’re curled up on the couch reading. You wrap your arms around him, fingers curling into his hair as he breaks down.

“I know you know there’s a case. Couple’a weeks ago a kid’s body turned up in the harbour, died on the way to the hospital. He wasn’t the first to be found, but this kid, he would’ve died in so much pain. And it’s tearing me to fucking pieces because every single lead has turned up short.” He has to pause before he can go on, breath thick with emotions. “I care about getting justice for every last one of those kids, but this one, this kid was personal.” You’re pretty sure that there’s hot tears burning a patch on your shoulder, but you say nothing, just keep stroking his hair.

“His name— his name was Matty. You know that community centre I volunteer at on weekends? That’s where I met him. God, he was such a bright kid. Had his whole future planned out, was gonna get out of Crime Alley and become a pianist. Just, he was so young and so full of hope and now none of those dreams are gonna come true.”

It’s evident in the way his voice cracks and his body shakes that he’s taken it so personally that someone so young and under his protection has been snuffed out. Something about this dead boy reminds Jason a little too much of himself. Maybe because they died at the same age, or he was once that scrawny and featherlight too. The police have no leads, chalking it up to just another Crime Alley street kid meeting an inevitable end. He’s got none either, all the evidence drying up and trails gone cold.

Jason tells you more about Matty, how he hated playing sports but was really good at soccer. How he’d been introduced to music in school and found what felt like his purpose in life. How Matty’s parents had worked and saved up to afford lessons for him, sending him down to the community centre to practice on the available piano. The first time Jason had met him, he’d been trying out to play in the orchestra for the musical the community centre was trying to put together and Jason had been helping to run it.

Jason pulls out his phone, swipes with clumsy fingers to find a video from one of Matty’s impromptu concerts at the community centre. The music is a little tinny front the beat up speakers of Jason’s phone, but it’s beautiful. The video’s shot with a shaky hand, and it takes a few seconds for you to really register Matty’s face. When you finally do, your heart plummets and your fingers involuntarily tighten around Jason.

“I know him. I saw him, just the other day.” It comes out before you can stop it, tongue and lips moving before you can stop yourself. The worst part is, it’s true. The Matty in the video is smiling, hamming it up for his audience, but those are the same wide eyes you saw swimming with terror at the hospital. The same bird-like bones and long fingers that had scrabbled at the ground before disappearing. You know this boy’s ghost.

Jason’s looking at you like you’re speaking in a language he’s never even heard of. “If this is a joke, it isn’t funny.”

“Wait, wait. It’s not a joke. Jason, I wouldn’t— I’d never joke about this.” You sit up and draw back, need to see his face, need to let him know exactly how truthful you’re being. “I saw him, the other day, at the hospital.” Jason tries to interrupt you, but you don’t let him speak. “I saw him because he’s a ghost and I can see ghosts and speak to them and I recognized Matty in that video because I saw him the other day and he looked so scared Jay.” You reach out to Jason, not really sure of what you’re looking for, but he pulls back.

“Okay, so maybe this isn’t a joke but I think you need to go get your head checked out if you’re seeing things that aren’t there.” His voice is uncharacteristically thin, like he’s trying to convince himself that this is just a psychological problem and not reality. You’re frustrated and desperate now, needing him to believe in you more than ever because this might actually be the thing to break you if he can’t believe.

“Jay I’m not crazy, or impaired, or suffering any head trauma. Okay? This is real. I’ve been seeing them since I was a kid and I’m telling you I saw Matty the other day. The first time we met, I was heading to the library because there’s a ghost haunting the romance section that I like to visit once in a while. I’ve been calling in tips to the GPD about abandoned bodies for years for the ghosts that can’t do it themselves. With all of the things that go on in Gotham, do you really think that something like this is impossible?”

“Okay, so you can see ghosts. What, do we need to get a Ouija board in here and Matty’ll just tell us what happened?” The words say that he believes you, but his tone screams uncertainty. It’s a start though, even if it’s a misguided one.

“No— ugh, it doesn’t work like that. Ghosts, they get tied to places, people. I can’t call them, I have to go to them.”

“What do you mean, tied to people?” He asks, eyes narrowed and voice tight.

“Like they get attached to a person, maybe someone they have unfinished business with, or maybe that they really cared for. You know, when you told me you were the Red Hood, and I told you that made a lot of things make sense? This was one of them.” And that, that was the absolute worst way you could have tried to explain it.

He jerks back and there is such a look of horror and fear in his eyes. Not of you, never of you and your abilities, but for what and who he fears you might see clinging to him. The choking sensation of grave dirt. The faces of the people he’s killed to make Gotham safer. The enemies he’s made and buried, and the people he was too late to save. Literally the blood on his hands in a twisted parody of Lady Macbeth. He is terrified that you can see the monster he has always feared himself to be. That all of his sins are arrayed around him, inescapable and unforgivable.

“I don’t— I can’t. What— what do you see?” He whispers, almost inaudible. You open your mouth to answer, but the fear of what you might say is too consuming.

Jason is up and running, prying open the window on the fire escape and escaping out into the winter’s night. You can’t do much more than reach after him, sliding off the couch and landing hard on to legs that don’t work.

You don’t get the chance to tell him that all you see is a 15-year old with a gap toothed, blinding grin wearing the Robin colours with pride. You don’t get to tell him that that 15-year old boy always tells you when Jason comes back hiding an injury or asks you to make sure he’s eating more than cigarettes. You don’t get to tell him that even from beyond the grave, Jason Todd never stopped saving people.

“Go, go after him. He needs you more than I do right now.” You whisper.

The ghost of Jason Todd gives you one more desperate look, before running out into the cold after his older self. Now, now you’re truly alone. That’s the thought that shatters you, rips sobs from where you curl in to your gut. Tears burn then grow cold on your face. You lose track of time, sitting there in a heap on the floor.

The wailing of a distant siren finally jolts you from your stupor, enough to start trying to stand. Using the couch, you pull yourself up, stumbling and tripping from the numb tingling in your legs. It’s cold out tonight, the first few flakes of snow starting to drift down. You wrestle with the window, curtains whipping into your face and arms. This window has always been difficult usually it’s Jason’s job but you manage to force it down. Leaving the glass to clean up tomorrow, you stagger off to the bedroom, the hole where your heart was aching. The window stays unlocked though, that night and every other night after. Just in case.

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viva-la-whump · 1 year ago

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Whumptober - Day 1

Better late than never, right?! 🙃

I still have 8.5 more prompts to fill, but everything else is written....most of which is still in my notebook....and now I'm transcribing them directly onto tumblr...the day before the 31st...

This will be fine... *gulp*

Anyway, I'm doing something different this year - a 31 chapter story that is sort of acting as a rough draft for a larger story I have in mind, so consider this a fleshed out sort of storyboard that skips certain parts so I can go straight to the whumpy parts. And as such, some chapters are QUITE short (which definitely helped me write them faster 😉)

**Edit!! I hadn't realized before starting that putting multiple prompts into a single entry counts as fulfilling ALL prompts and not just one! So I don't actually have to do 31 separate chapters! Woohoo!! This just cut down what I had left to do by a LOT!!**

This is a Star Wars AU that is set directly after the 'Star Wars: Rebels' finale and melds together canon and Legends/EU material. I realize the target audience for this is probably pretty small among those who will see this, but it's 31 chapters of whump so even if you don't know the stories or characters, but I do a little bit of explaining, so hopefully you'll still enjoy their pain and suffering, haha!

So without further ado!

Chapter 1

Prompt No. 7 - “Can you hear me?”

“And remember, the Force will be with you. Always.”

The speeding clouds racing towards them turned into stars, which then turned into starlines, and then all went white.

Ezra started awake and found himself…nowhere. There was nothing. Just a blank white landscape devoid of any features or life. Except for him. Was he dead? He still felt alive. But who knew if he could survive being launched into hyperspace with broken windows. Perhaps he’d been killed instantly and this was the afterlife. But no, that didn’t feel right. This didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like a Force Vision and it didn’t feel quite like the World Between Worlds he’d visited at the Lothal Temple. So what was this place?

“Hello?!” he called out, starting to walk in one direction and looking around for anything, or anyone that could give him answers.

On and on he walked, nothing changing and no one answering his calls. Ezra wasn’t sure if he’d been walking for ten minutes or ten hours or even ten years. Time seemed to feel nonexistent in this nothing-place and–

Wait! What was that? There was a speck of…something over there in the distance, slowly growing more clear as if emerging from mist. Ezra ran forward, the speck remaining small no matter how far he ran. But after a while he could distinguish that it was a human female with dark hair, though it was hard to make out any other features clearly.

“Hey! Over here!”

He could sense the person turning their attention towards him but suddenly something stopped him from moving forward. Not like a wall, but like he’d been attached to a cord and he’d used up all the slack.

Then the mist shifted again and another figure appeared off to the left, even more indistinct than the first. And then between them came a group of three figures.

“Hello!” Ezra tried again. “Can anyone hear me? Can you tell me what’s happening? Where are we?” But there was still no reaction from any of them and he couldn’t move himself forward even an inch.

Then suddenly Ezra felt like he was being pulled both forwards and from within.

He was rushed forwards, the figures disappearing and the blank white surroundings stretching to reveal flashing images he couldn’t make sense of. Unfamiliar planets, blurry faces, and a barrage of feelings ranging from fear and pain to…hope? Yes, there was an overwhelming feeling of hope, but far beyond the simple hope of one person wanting to return home. This was something bigger, seeming to fill the whole galaxy.

As confused as Ezra was with this kaleidoscope of images he was gratified to know that he’d made the right choice. Wherever this path he’d chosen led him, no matter what happened to him, he knew everything would turn out okay.

As the images started to fade, Ezra felt himself fading with it, and soon he was lost in a peaceful oblivion.

#whumptober2023 #no.7 #“Can you hear me?”#Star Wars #fic #Day 1 #lost #trance #vision #scared #angst #confused #unconscious #...kinda....

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whumping-in-the-wings · 2 years ago

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Well, I certainly didn’t intend for this piece to take quite as long as it did, but the Head Cold from Hell came back with a vengeance, and I sort of strung this together in between naps and bowls of chicken noodle soup. Which unfortunately means it’s A) not as good as I’d like and B) not as whumpy as I was initially planning, because I want to make sure I’m actually semi-coherent when we actually get to The Good Stuff. But I’m still pretty proud of how this piece turned out (and, on the bright side, it introduces both our eventual caretaker and the single most screwed-up, godawful disaster of a friendship I have ever put into words. So that’s fun!) The next piece is already mostly planned, and should be a lot better quality now that I can actually breathe out of both my nostrils.

CW: mentions of blood/injury, restraints, dehumanization, emotional whump, brief medieval medicine stuff, whumpee POV

Taglist: @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @finaldreams1106, @redwingedwhump (as always, let me know if you’d like to be added/removed from the list!)

Traces: Part Three

Previous | Masterlist | Next

By the time they made it as far as the subtle slope of land that led to the manor, Adair was very nearly reduced to what his captors supposed him to be. Their words turned into mere collections of sounds, passing over him with no more meaning than the gray autumn clouds far above. Even keeping his own thoughts together was more than he could manage; the only things that registered were the ones that were more feeling than thought, the ones that even the horses would have understood had they been in his place. The things you didn’t have to be human to feel.

Pain. Hot pain, clashing against the numb cold of all the blood he’d lost. The ropes, chafing at him, stealing the usual sureness from his feet until every move he made was more uncertain than the last. Exhaustion, worse than he had ever felt before, sore and searing and bone-deep, piercing every fiber of his body.

There were other things he should be feeling. Human things. Somewhere in his fogged mind, he knew that. The loss of the only life he had ever lived, the danger he was in and the need to keep the others out of it. But all that, for the moment, was beyond him, and there was little he could do but take whatever came and hope, afterwards, that he could pull himself together well enough to face whatever came next.

What came next, it turned out, was the hands. He felt them, too, like he did the pain in his leg, but somehow they were worse. Pain, at least, left him a little of his pride, but there was none of that to be found in how the hands poked and prodded at him. It seemed that the rest of the manor’s residents had come out to welcome their lord and his hunting party home and see his newly-taken prize for themselves, and there were too many, far too many to shy away from the way he had on the trail. They surrounded him, squeezing his arm, stroking his coat, setting their fingers against his shoulder to gauge his height. Between the ropes and the arrow-wound, trying to back up out of their reach hurt too much, and he nearly fell when he tried; this time, when some of their hands closed on his jaw and forced his mouth open, when they leaned in close to peer at his teeth, there was little he could do but let them. And all the time they were discussing him, offering their opinions in those words that no longer seemed like words, and they were close, too close, and he could barely move, felt as though he could barely breathe, and Sir Aubrey sat there on his horse, proud of himself, proud of this, and it was too much, it was all too much-

There was no real reason for the new voice to cut through the cacophony the way it did. It wasn’t a loud voice, or a particularly commanding one- it was, in fact, quite soft and light, but there was something in it that set it apart from the others, that made the others listen. Even Adair, as exhausted as he was and as useless as words had become, felt his ears prick forward towards it.

“Aubrey,” the voice said, “get that poor beast out of that mess before he tries to bolt for it and breaks that leg, and probably several legs that aren’t his while he’s at it.”

As the crowd fell back a little, the owner of the voice was revealed to be a young man leaning casually against the low stone wall, shorter and stockier than Aubrey, with several dark braids gathered into a loose knot at the back of his neck. From the look of him, there seemed no reason why the manor residents should be doing as he said, but they were, all the same, and even Sir Aubrey was smiling his half-smile. “Sterling,” he said. “I didn’t think I was gone long enough for the way of the world to change that much. Do all squires give orders to their knights now?”

“When the knight comes home with a bloody centaur, the squire has the right to say anything he wants,” Sterling retorted easily. “At least until the knight explains what the devil he’s up to now.”

Sir Aubrey shrugged. “Little enough opportunity to be found in a place like this. I could hardly ignore one that walked right into my forest.”

“And what do you suppose Cyra’s going to say when she finds your opportunity in her stable?”

“She can say anything she wants. I’m the lord of the manor, aren’t I?”

“But not of the stable. That’s Cyra’s domain. Although, given the way you smell, I suppose it’s an honest enough mistake-“

The conversation went on, but Adair could no longer comprehend it. It was too jovial, too friendly a conversation, one that didn’t belong alongside the growing horror of his own situation. The crowd had mostly moved back from him now, examining him with their eyes instead of their hands. There was still shame in that; the knowledge that they could look into his eyes and still see no difference between him and the horses made his heart clench painfully in his chest. It likely didn’t help that he was standing here as docilely as the horses were. Something in him warned against that, told him he should fight, he should do something to keep Sir Aubrey’s attention on him. But he couldn’t summon up the will to act on that instinct. Today, at least, he had done as much fighting as he could do, and he would just have to hope that it had been enough to keep any thoughts of his family well out of Sir Aubrey’s mind.

He did try to resist, a little, when they brought him into the rough, thatch-roofed stone building that apparently served as the stable. He’d never had walls around him before, never been closed in by anything more secure than the forest trees, and everything in him rebelled against the prospect. But after all that the day had brought with it, everything in him didn’t prove to be much, and his attempt to break away was pathetic enough that Sir Aubrey only laughed at it, patting Adair’s shoulder in the same way he would have done with his horse or his dogs. Though the touch was gentler than anything else Sir Aubrey had done to him, it was an insult still, and one he had to bite his tongue to keep from answering. He had resolved never to speak to this human until he had absolutely no hope left of ever seeing his family again. So long as there was still a chance that he might find his way back to the others, he would let this man see him as no more than an animal, however hard it was to bear. His human half he would keep hidden, so that, when he rejoined his family, there would still be a part of him that had always been with them, had always been free.

He didn’t bother fighting when Sir Aubrey and one of his men forced him into one of the cramped wooden stalls; it was too much of a relief to finally be allowed to lie down. Even though it was only dry straw beneath him and not the soft grass he was used to, he couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped him once his weight was no longer on his injured leg. His hands were kept bound, but the ropes around his ankles were cut loose and replaced with a slightly looser one around his neck, secured just above the stall’s half-door. Soon, he told himself. Soon they’d be finished with him, and they’d leave him for the night, and he’d have a chance to gather his thoughts, come to terms with what had happened and decide how he was going to face whatever happened next.

But, as it turned out, there was one more pair of hands he had to suffer through first.

“Ugh. He sounds almost human when he screams like that.” The younger man, Sterling, made some sort of sign against evil with one hand, and tipped a little more of the strange red liquid over the arrow-wound with the other, eliciting another cry from Adair, pinned beneath him. “Freaks of nature, these are, and for the life of me, Aubrey, I can’t see why you’re bothering with all this. You’re never going to get anything useful out of this wild thing. There’s a reason why everyone else aims arrows for their hearts, not their legs.”

“I’m not everyone else. I want to see if it can be done, and if it can be, I want to make a name for myself doing it. Simple as that.” Sir Aubrey leaned even further over the stall door, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t bother trying to clean that cut on his shoulder. It’s shallow, it should heal well enough. I don’t want him lashing out at you.”

Sterling paused in his work for a moment with an exasperated sigh. “I hope you realize you can’t keep me a squire forever. One of these days, Aubrey, you’re going to have to knight me. And you won’t be able to nursemaid me like this then.”

“I’ve been nursemaiding you since you were an owl-eyed brat with barely enough of a tunic to cover your skinny arse, and I’ll keep doing it long after you’re a knight in armor.”

“Oh, any hell but that!”

For a moment, Adair- able to make sense of their words now that every ounce of his energy was no longer devoted to staying on his feet- wondered why this conversation, which had nothing whatsoever to do with him, was still so painful. Then the realization came. I used to talk to Bracken like that. Light and laughing, without a care in the world, and then Bracken would strike out at him in mock challenge, and they’d be off on a race through the forest or a brief spar that he would always let his brother win-

It wasn’t the memory that hurt, but the knowledge that it was only a memory, now. He turned his head away and forced himself not to listen until Sterling had finished bandaging the wound and they left him there, finally alone.

Then he closed his eyes, hoping the exhaustion he’d been battling for so long would see fit to defeat him now, and replace the agony of the memories with the blackness of the sleep he so desperately needed. But, like every effort he had made today, it was a doomed one. This place unnerved him, to say nothing of its master, and his thoughts, far away with his family, refused to settle themselves. He shifted position often, as best he could between his bonds and his injuries, sometimes jerking at the ropes in the hope of gaining just a little more slack. He forced himself not to think of the others, of what tomorrow might bring, of all the other things that threatened to overwhelm him if he allowed them into his mind. The strangeness of it all was the worst. He was used to the sounds of the forest at night, the presence of the ones he loved around him, the night winds around him and only the stars above. Not this. Not this cold, stone-surrounded silence.

And try as he might, he couldn’t erase the feeling of those many, too many hands. The traces of the touch lingered on his skin like phantoms. However much he tried to shrug them off, they were still there, binding him as securely as the ropes and the walls.

Sleep, when at last it came, was fitful, and full of nightmares only barely worse than the one he was already in.

#whump #whump writing #medieval whump #fantasy whump #nonhuman whumpee #centaur whumpee

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buckybarnesowl · 3 years ago

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It Never Ends - Chapter 3

A Whumptober 2021 Series

Pairing: College!AU Bucky x fem! Reader

Series description: Bucky and Y/n are fourth-year undergrads with the same major. They’ve always had a crush on each other but were too reserved to do anything about it. One horrendous night pushes them together and they’re forced to navigate the fallout together, for better or for worse.

Series warnings: 18+!!! This series is not for minors. The main plot line is based around sexual assault/rape themes and the fallout that comes from that type of trauma. Please if you are not 18+ do not engage. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

A/n: Each chapter will be different Whumptober 2021 prompts. I'm aiming to be a completist! (We'll see how well that goes LOL). There will be a happy ending-ish, but the series is going to be FULL of whump so buckle up, it's going to be a whumpy ride (I said what I said).

Chapter 3 warnings: reference to non-con (attempted rape); reference to drugging; nightmare; panic attack; flashback/trauma

Chapter 3 word count: 2.4k

Chapter 3 prompts:

No. 18 - THE DOCTOR IS IN “Now smile for the camera” | doctor’s visit | CPR

No. 28 - IT’S NOT JUST IN YOUR HEAD “Good. You’re finally awake.” | nightmares | panic

No. 31 - HURT & COMFORT disaster zone | trauma | prisoner

Alternative Prompt No. 7 - Screaming

Previous chapter | Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The next day was like walking through a dream.

Y/n knew she was in the clinic. She heard everything Dr. Cho had told her. That they found traces of ketamine still in her blood. That she wanted Y/n to take the next week off to give her two full weeks along with thanksgiving reading break. That she would have to come back tomorrow to pick up the notes for her professors because the printer was broken. That she could report it if she wanted to, even though she didn’t remember who her attackers were. That she didn’t have to decide right then. That everything was going to feel fucked up.

It was all too much and yet somehow not enough. It just didn’t make any sense. How did this happen? Who did this to her? Why couldn’t she remember?

“I want you to take care of yourself over the next few weeks. This is a heavy thing you’ve gone through, Y/n.”

All she could do was nod.

“You’re going to feel a range of emotions, not just day to day, but possibly hour to hour. You might remember more, when you least expect it. Be gentle with yourself. Do you have anyone on campus that you trust?”

Another nod.

“Good. Try and make sure to keep people around you. You might find yourself wanting to retreat, and that’s a completely normal reaction to what you’ve gone through. But it’s important to know you don’t have to go through this alone. There are resources for you and people that care about your well-being. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. And you can come to the clinic anytime. I’m here to help in whatever way I can. In the meantime I’ll have the receptionist book you a followup for next week.”

“K,” Y/n croaked out. It was all she could muster.

Dr. Cho had been so sincere and caring, it’s just that none of it seemed real.

Walking out of the exam room and into the reception area, she could see Natasha in front of her now. She registered her furrowed brow and soft half-smile. But it was fuzzy around the edges. As if Y/n wasn’t really there even though she was.

“You ok?”

Yet another silent confirmation, an autopilot response in the only way her body seemed capable of giving.

“Let’s get you home. Wanda texted me to say she was making us some stew her mom used to make when they were kids. Sounded amazing.”

“Hmmm,” Y/n acknowledged.

Home. She was so fucking tired. She just wanted to fall asleep and not wake up for a week. What’s the point of being awake when you can’t even feel anything, and you just keep seeing the same fucking mouth and feeling the same fucking hands and—

“Babe?” Nat was blinking at Y/n as she held the door open for her.

“Sorry, kind of out of it still. The doctor said it can take up to 24 hours for the…”

She trailed off. The words were there, but her mouth couldn’t seem to push them out.

“All good. We can sit for a bit if you need?”

Y/n shook her head. “No, please. Let’s get the fuck out of here. I need a nap.”

The redhead simply nodded at her friend, relieved that she was saying what she needed.

“Food first, ok?”

When they got back to their shared dorm, Wanda had the table already set. She dished out the late lunch before Y/n had a chance to decline. After they ate, Y/n gave them the Coles Notes version of her appointment with Dr. Cho. Then she recounted what happened the night before.

As much as she could remember.

She knew Bucky had told them how he found her. God, she was mortified at that and would have to unpack that another time. For now she tried to focus on getting the story out.

It was poison and was clouding her memories and she needed it out of her. She needed her friends to hear it. She needed a witness to it. She couldn’t feel emotions, but she could sure as fuck feel that.

Wanda had tears streaming down her face at the end. Even stone-cold Natasha had a mist that threatened to spill over. But Y/n’s eyes were dry, empty voids. As if it hadn’t happened to her and she was just explaining a fucked up dream she had. More like a nightmare.

The two redheads engulfed their friend in a hug.

“Thank you for telling us,” Wanda whispered into Y/n’s hair.

“We’ve got you. Whatever you need, we’re here,” Nat added.

“I think I just want to go lie down. Still pretty tired.”

“Want us to lie with you?” Wanda offered.

Y/n smiled at her friend’s sweetness. God she was lucky to have them.

“I’ll be alright, but thanks.”

“Yell if you need something, k?”

Y/n gave a final nod before closing the door to her room. She was out within seconds of hitting the pillow.

---------------------------------------------------

Natasha: Hey, Barnes. Got a favour to ask.

Bucky: Anything. Is it Y/n? Is she ok?

Natasha: she’s fine. Well, as fine as she can be. She’s asleep and Wanda and I both have to work tonight. I know this is super last minute, but...We don’t want her waking up alone.

Natasha: took her to the clinic this am. Then she told us what happened. It’s been a day.

Bucky: Right. When do you need me there?

Natasha: Wanda’s about to leave and my shift starts at 6. So in the next hour if you can.

Bucky: no prob. See you soon

---------------------------------------------------

“There’s leftover stew in the fridge. Wanda made it today. Help yourself.”

Bucky had shown up just thirty minutes later and Natasha knew that wasn’t enough time for him to have eaten dinner.

“Thanks, Nat. That’s great.”

Nat paused for a second, then took a deep breath.

“I’m worried she’s on the verge of breaking down. She was totally numb today, but that won’t last. Best case scenario she just sleeps through the night… god knows she needs it. But—” Nat took another breath, “in case she doesn’t, just… be patient. It’s just so fucked.”

“I know. I mean, I don’t, but I saw her. The ties… Fuck. I can only imagine.”

Nat went in for a quick hug.

“You’re one of the good ones, Barnes.”

“Not sure if any man can really be good at this point, but might as well try.”

Nat chuckled before continuing, “Both Wanda and I are closing so we’ll be home super late. Feel free to sleep in my room, it’s the one next to Y/n’s and I’ll sleep on the futon out here.”

“You sure?”

“Completely. I know Y/n trusts you, which means so do Wanda and I. Thanks for doing this.”

“It’s really nothing,” Bucky blushed as he looked down at his hands.

“See ya later,” she chimed, grinning at his bashfulness as she closed the door.

Bucky ate then sat down to catch up on some reading for one of his lit classes that he and Y/n had together. He had fallen asleep with his book on his chest when he was jolted awake by someone screaming. It took just a few seconds to realize it was Y/n.

He rushed to her door, opening it swiftly, then kneeled down in the middle of the room so as not to startle her. She had soft white lights strung up around her bed and that was enough light for him try and wake her out of the nightmare she was having.

Lips. She was being smothered in lips and she couldn’t get away. Saliva was dripping down her cheeks and hot breath was suffocating her.

And yet she couldn’t move.

Then fingers. Fingers all over her body. Still she couldn’t move. She was terrified to open her mouth in case the lips made contact. But she needed to yell. She had to. It went on for an eternity. Lips, saliva, fingers in an endless darkness.

Then finally a wail escaped from her.

The lips pressed harder. She kept screaming but no one could hear.

Suddenly she was out of the room and racing down the longest hallway. Door after door after door that led nowhere.

She couldn’t find Nat or Wanda. Where were they? Why couldn’t she find them?

Finally a door opened and there they were with Steve and Bucky and Sam. It was a library but maybe it was a living room. They were all laughing. In hysterics. She was screaming at them to help her. Trying to tell them what happened. Begging them to help her.

She could sense the two men behind her coming back for more.

They kept laughing.

Suddenly she knew it was Quentin and Brock that grabbed her from behind and she yelled until her throat was hoarse as they dragged her down the hall. Her screams weren’t loud enough to drown out the laughter that echoed from the room.

Or Quentin softly whispering her name.

“Y/n. Y/n—”

“Y/n please, you have to wake up—”

She sat up with a jolt, chest heaving. She gasped when she turned and saw a man on her carpet, another scream leaving her lips as she backed herself against the wall, covering her face with her arms.

“Y/n, it’s Bucky. I’m not going to hurt you, doll,” he assured as he held up his hands in a motion of peace, before continuing with a soft but steady voice. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Nat and Wanda had to work and they didn’t want you to wake up alone so they asked me to come over. You were having a nightmare and I didn’t want you to… god, Y/n, I’m so sorry for scaring you.”

Her breaths were ragged but she lowered her arms at his voice.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, just me.”

“Oh my god… I thought you were… f-fuck,” she exhaled, curling onto her side in fetal position, her breaths picking up again. He wasn’t Quentin. He wasn’t Brock. Wait.

Brock.

Quentin.

Suddenly she was gasping for air.

“Y/n you have to breathe for me. Please, breathe for me. You’re in your room. It’s Saturday. One more week until reading week and thanksgiving. You going home for thanksgiving?”

Y/n shook her head, her breaths still shallow, wheezing.

“Neither am I. Maybe we can do a friendsgiving thing. Like an orphan thanksgiving.”

“Th-that’d be..” breath “n-nice,” breath.

“Good. That’s good. You’re doing so good, doll. Keep breathing with me.”

They stayed like that a good ten minutes, Bucky kneeling next to Y/n’s bed trying to ground her in the present, Y/n trying to steady her panicked breathing at the nightmare-induced realization.

After a quiet lull, Y/n broke the silence as she whispered, “I remember.”

Bucky nodded in encouragement. “Want to share with me? I promise I’ll just listen.”

Y/n nodded.

“Want me to hold your hand?”

She nodded again, so Bucky grabbed it firmly but with a tenderness that nearly made Y/n lose her breath again.

“It was Quentin and Brock. I know it was.” She gulped before continuing. “I put down my drink to text Nat and Wanda. When I looked up they were there and when I grabbed my drink to leave them Quentin said “I’m sure we’ll see you around.” One of the guys, the one who was kissing and touching me—”

Y/n squeezed her eyes shut at the memory as Bucky squeezed her hand.

“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere. And we can stop if you want. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

“No, I—” Y/n kept steadying her breaths. “He… while he was… he said “I told you we’d see you around.” And it was his voice. I know it was his fucking voice. I went to school with him, I’d recognize his disgusting voice anywhere.” Her chest was heaving again. “It was Quentin,” she barely whispered.

Then the tears came. First silent, shoulders bobbing. Then wailing moans, as if she was a banshee predicting a death. Her own death. Y/n felt like she was sinking into darkness and there was no rope to grab onto. Nothing to tether her to the living world.

Until she felt her hand be squeezed.

“I’ve got you, Y/n. I’m here. No one is going to hurt you. Not ever again. I promise.”

“Y-you can’t promise that!” she seethed, sobs still racking her body.

“If it means I never leave you alone again, then so be it. Nat, Wanda, and I will never leave you alone ever. We’ll be your 24-7 personal detail.”

Y/n laughed at the ridiculousness of that thought through her tears. She sniffled hard, then wiped her face with her sleeve.

“I’m such a fucking mess. Again. God, this is horrible, you shouldn’t have to do this. We barely know each other!”

Bucky laughed softly before presenting his defense. “First off, we’ve had classes together for four years, and we’ve been seat buddies for the last three of those, so I’d say we know each other.”

And maybe Bucky had had a crush on her for two of those years, but she didn’t need to know that and he certainly wasn’t going to act on it ever now. Not after the shit she’d been through.

“Secondly, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. None of this is your fault.”

Y/n huffed at at his persistence, not convinced she shouldn’t be utterly embarrassed that he’d saved her twice now.

“I mean it. None of this is your fucking fault. You hear me?”

She rolled his words around in her mind for a minute, then nodded again. When did she get so goddamn agreeable?

“Now here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go shower because a hot shower always makes anyone feel a million times better. While you do that, I’m going to make you some tea. Then you’re going to drink said tea. Then we’re going to go to bed and I do mean “we” because I’m going to sleep on your floor. I promised nothing would happen to you and I fucking mean it.”

A smile flooded Y/n’s lips, the heat from the tears on her cheeks blending with the heat from Bucky’s words.

“A little bossy, aren’t you?”

“Can’t help it, I’m used to bossing the swim team around. Like herding cats, those guys.”

Y/n chuckled then slid her legs over the edge of her bed. “Alright. One foot in front of the other, right?”

“That’s it,” Bucky replied with fondness.

When Nat came home and noticed Bucky wasn’t on the futon or in her room, her heart started pounding. Until she opened the door to Y/n’s room and saw him laying on her floor, his arm stretched up to her bed, holding her hand, as the two slept soundly.

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