#no really the kids are calling these things movement shooters now what the fuck

[jayextee]

Quake II (2023)

Sometimes my dumb ass does a smart thing. Having got word of leaks confirming a Quake II remaster to follow 2021's excellent treatment of the original game, I purchased the sequel in the Steam summer sale.

Quake II, as it stood then, was a mess. Unable to run on my Windows 10 computer in anything but software rendering (ugh) and at that in a window that wouldn't resize or go fullscreen correctly. Almost entirely unplayable; but that's okay, this is for the remaster incoming, right?

AND IT DID. AND IT'S GLORIOUS.

I won't go into detail about the remaster and what it adds to the experience, that can be found elsewhere. I'm reviewing this as a game outright.

So, Quake II is a 1997 first-person shooter set during a war with the biomechanical horror race The Strogg. To all intents and purposes, they're a dollar-store Borg from Star Trek, assimilation and all. This means that the planet Stroggos and the setting of the game are OOPS! ALL TECHBASE! and historically some Internet tastemakers have taken issue with this, deriding the game as samey and boring.

They're wrong, of course.

So, the FPS part of the FPS; although in recent times this sort of thing has been labelled 'movement shooter' because every notable permutation of a bigger thing needs its own genre and subgenre label to keep YouTube comment sections on fire; is solid. It's close to DOOM in terms of player weapon balance, with a few scant changes -- the most-notable being the mighty railgun, only one of the most-satisfying guns in any first-person-shoosty ever. Enemy variety is good and covers a variety of approaches and creates more than enough different combat encounters to keep things interesting; and actually since this remake has restored some hitherto-cut animations and attacks (especially the Berzerker, who is now an actual threat instead of a joke with no punch nor line to its punchline) it functions even better than the original did, which was no slouch.

BUT MUH SINGLE LEVEL THEME...

About that. The name of the game here primarily is in environmental storytelling lore-building. Not an awful lot is made of the Strogg's tendency for taking human meat-creatures and jacking them up to their technology to create the Strogg as they are. But it's there, in the levels. Starting incredibly subtly and getting stronger as the campaign progresses, we see fellow humans from the plot's counter-initiative strike prisoned, tortured, chopped into pieces, diced up, and eventually processed into the game's grunts.

Even close-up inspection of the various enemies reveals skin stretched over machinery bolted onto skin bleeding into circuitry and so-forth. Derivative in a way now, but aside from the aforementioned Star Trek space robo-zombies, it wasn't in 1997. It was cool. And it gives Quake II's world a distinct flavour, that's fun to blast through; accompanied by some rockin' Sonic Mayhem music and techno-brutalist architecture. Chef's kiss. It's great. I can't stan this enough.

So the game has a single theme to its levels? It's consistent and builds the lore and actually if you look closely, it varies the way in which this theme is presented according to this.

Is it all good? Nah. Actually, nah. I personally feel that the game overstays its welcome by a hair, and a few of the later missions get unwieldy and cumbersome with their intended progression; alternate routes and shortcuts can circumvent this somewhat, but a fair few of them reveal the thinking behind adding a waypoint/compass system to the remake. It's welcome, even for someone who's played the originals a dozen or so times like myself.

Quake II's good. Ignore the influencers who say otherwise, and grin and bear all the techbase, you might enjoy some quality first-person shootin'. 4/5

[fakenerdboy]

It's been about 24 hours so I can write a post I know nobody will read.

Jesus Christ, at least the NYT will stop talking about that fucking debate for a minute. Of course, the usual suspects are already running their hit pieces about how this makes Trump unstoppable and Biden's on the back foot, despite the fact that this development is nothing but good for Biden's message, and will probably continue to do so as the Republicans go crazy.

First, the given. They were always going to blame dems for the shooting. They will continue to do so even now that we know the kid was a registered republican, because he donated $15 to dem campaigns once. For the record, as if it needs saying, that's the weakest connection they could possibly have and proves nothing. They'll make all kinds of conspiracy theories about it. I wish liberals hadn't jumped immediately to false-flag theories, but I guess all we do now is make a conspiracy out of everything. I'm sure that will end well for everyone. Looks like they also might jump after the Secret Service for not preventing it, which is interesting.

The thing is, none of it matters at all. What matters is how those all-important undecided voters think of the whole thing. The only way I could think of that it could turn out badly for Biden is if the shooter turned out to be a Biden supporter, which we now know is not true. He could be some kind of never-trump republican (all at 20 years old), but that still doesn't change the fact that the call is coming from inside the house.

The idea that this attempt means Trump has now won is... so fucking stupid. He doesn't look any stronger. Republicans aren't going to vote for him any harder than they already would, they're voting already because they were promised an abortion ban. Independents aren't going to jump to his side just out of sympathy - did you guys all forget how everyone fucking hates this guy? He's been losing his own party in primaries, underperforming his own fucking polling. Get a fucking grip.

Biden got up to a podium quickly, and said exactly the right things. This shouldn't happen to anyone, because it sets a bad precedent for all elections and candidates. Wow, maybe that's why we should fucking BAN ASSAULT WEAPONS so it can't happen again! He was even coming out of church to say it!! The optics of this couldn't be any better. The shooter was some kind of fucking gun nut, we know that already regardless of motive. Dems are the party trying to prevent gun nuts from killing people - so far, it looks like they're running on that, and that's good!

I'll tell you what I think will happen, and that's that the republicans are now going to go crazy. Trump hasn't really been given his phone back yet or whatever, but I don't doubt he's going to double down on his FBI assassination theory. Someone is going to say something completely fucking out of pocket at the RNC, and it's going to make them look insane. They're trying to politicize the shooting, and they're the ones who are always saying we shouldn't do that. Rational people, I believe, are not going to buy the idea that it's not their very own rhetoric that led to this.

Attacks like this don't happen to a strong political movement that's winning with the people. They simply don't, especially in our current environment. This is nothing more than a major sign of fractures within the conservative moment, fractures that have been going on basically since the guy got elected and he took over the republican party.

I can't believe (I mean I can, but it's somehow an even dumber tack to take than panicking after the debate) that people are choosing to see the political fallout from this as anything other than a complete and total affirmation that we are on the right and winning side here, because it is. The right is killing each other, and we're the ones saying we think that shouldn't happen. Thankfully, people posting on tumblr about how it's over and trump won are far less important than biden and other leaders expressing the exactly correct message that this shouldn't happen. What's left to be seen is if they'll complete the sentence - and it's because of Donald Trump that we're at this point.

[faint-petrichor]

I couldn't resist the opportunity. I'd played Alan Wake, so for a moment I became worried I might be an instrument in some supernatural scheme. Instead I said fuck it, and picked my pen back up.

"All wars ended, poverty abolished, climate crisis averted, fully automated luxury space communism achieved. Humanity enters a neverbeforeseen era of peace, discovery and flourishing."

Then I took the book and burned it, with the hopes that would be the end of it. At first, nothing happened. My friend wouldn't stop yelling at me, waving his arms around and running himself out of breath. I stood still over the fireplace, gazing past the fire. My pulse was red hot and there was a pit in my stomach. Was I really so arrogant to think I could save the world with a few scribbles on a page?

"Look buddy I know you got big ideas, but isn't that a bit fuckin reckless? I've seen the movies, I know how this shit goes. There's always a catch! Always!

The monkey's paw is gonna curl on us and it's all gonna go to shit. Couldn't you just have asked for a car or something?"

A few days passed and nothing seemed to happen. Then months, and then a year. Everything seemed to be going the way it always had. At least I didn't set the world on fire, I thought. I started to doubt the whole thing, maybe we were both wrong that night. I'd spend all day doing nothing but checking every news source I knew for a shred of a hint. Years went by this way, and I'd whittled myself away to nearly nothing.

I hadn't heard from my friend since that night. He sort of just vanished off the radar, left his wife and kids and everything. We did everything we could to find him, but there wasn't a trace. In distress I confessed to his wife it was probably my fault. I probably would have been tried for murder if she didn't think I was insane.

But then, he called me.

"Hey Charlie, we're doing it man! We fuckin did it."

I didn't know what I was hearing, I thought I was dreaming. I was nearly sure I was, as much as my confidence in reality had deteriorated these years.

"What?"

"It's me, Gio, man! Look, after that night I had an epiphany. I thought ok, maybe the world's gonna burn down—but what if it doesn't? What if this shit just keeps going day after day while I sit around worrying about it doing nothing? So I packed my shit and joined the revolution.

No no no, I'm serious. We've been fighting the feds and the cops for years.

Of course you didn't see it on the news! You think they'd let people know real shit's going down? No way. Just shooters this, vandals that. We seized the fuckin capital man. We're gonna dissolve the US and put up a provisional government.

No I'm not fuckin with you, listen! Something happened that night. Not just to me, seems like a bunch of people. We all had the same epiphany. I don't know if it's some woowoo shit with that book or what, but it happened. We were turnin out numbers left and right. Next thing you know, there's a real movement. It was like electricity, man. I tried to contact you but you never answered."

It felt like the world was closing in around me. But it turned out everything he was saying was true. It didn't happen smoothly, but one thing after another, it all started coming true. A decade and many losses later, war was over. With the international people's republic established, humanity was now free to prosper. First came the advances in energy, medicine and production. Then the advances in space travel. I wound up retiring in a cozy little colony orbiting Mars, something I only dreamed possible as a child.

The only thing I regretted was sitting back doing nothing. Gio never let me hear the end of it with all the tales of his war days—He left out the part where he lost an arm and a leg. I was content to spend my days caring for him and writing stories to teach the next generations. It was the least I could do... No, it was what I wanted to do.

“Please stop writing! The very next thing you write will actually happen!”

[amlovelies]

Kindling

big thanks to everyone on discord for your help and feedback on this one 💜. Julia and Cyn rescue some hostages and then make out in an alley 😉

fandom: fhr pairing: Julia Ortega/f!sidestep (Cynthia Basri) rating: M, death/violence mention as well as some mild spice words: 2.9k read on ao3

               Even without your telepathy, it’s easy to know where to go. The craned necks of passersby and the distant sound of sirens all point towards Los Diablos’ latest disaster. Ortega had been frustratingly vague in her message, no information, just an address and a ‘come quick’. Not that you really need details. There’s nothing else you’d rather be doing.

               There had been a time when you had to work to slip behind the barricade unnoticed. Back when you were still an unknown vigilante, as likely to be a nuisance as an assistance. When you had to amplify your usual projections: ‘don’t notice me’ and ‘there’s nobody there.’  It’s still uncomfortable letting them drop, feeling the moment when you are seen, when you are recognized. Feeling little excited exclamations of ‘Sidestep’ and ‘hero’ in the minds around you.

               Uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but also real. You spend so much of your time hiding, just a ghost in a crowd, dancing at the edges of life, but not now. Not when the officers give a respectful nod in your direction. Not when they look at you like someone who matters, like someone who can help.

               You allow your mind to expand, to scan the city block around you as you take in the scene.  Brushing over the crowd, you sense nothing to be concerned with, just morbid curiosity and anxiety. A customer is worried about their favorite teller. Exclamations that this is a nice neighborhood, things like this aren’t supposed to happen here. Never mind that they have no idea what ‘this’ is, they’re just irritated at the disruption to their daily routines.

               You know the moment Ortega notices you by the lift at the edge of her mouth. She throws a smile in your direction that makes your stomach knot before returning her attention to the officer in front of her. You still don’t know what to do about this new thing. Fuck, you shouldn’t even call it a thing, that makes it too real. So what if you’ve been kissing, so what if you’ve let her see your face? You’re sure it’s just a passing fancy on her part, a new way to stave off boredom, and you are too stupid and selfish to stop it.

               She nods at your approach, and you take the opportunity to listen in. An established routine, it’s happened more than once that the LDPD failed to give the Rangers crucial information.  Sometimes it was simple incompetence, like an officer in over their head who was unable to recall the right details. Not always though. Not everyone has such an appreciative viewpoint of the Rangers, and some have a real problem with having to play second fiddle to a woman. Want to see her knocked down a peg or two (or in that case, nursing a couple broken ribs).

                               Even if she hadn’t asked, you would have checked. Would have let your consciousness spiral out, gentle fingers touching lightly against the minds around you, getting a fuller picture of the situation. It’s too ingrained a reflex, your primary role, reinforced in endless hours of training. Always meant to be a fly on the wall, not a part of the action, only there to report and monitor. Not anymore. You are so much more now.

               Seems like a botched robbery. The ringleader is a fire boost, Pyradical, and he has at least two modded goons with him.  That’s more firepower than the LDPD can comfortably deal with. It makes sense they called the Rangers in. You’ve heard the name before. He’s new on the scene and young. Early twenties or so, another desperate kid taking a chance with the boost drugs and looking to get rich quick. He was blamed for the robbery of La Brea Jewelers last month. Nasty. Last you heard, the security guard was still in the ICU recovering from the burns, but that had been a solo job. He’s getting more daring.

               Ortega gives you a look as the officer mentions hostages, and you switch your focus. A year ago, this would have been outside your range, but not now. A deep breath as you push your consciousness out to toward the darkened bank. Heat, intrusive and suffocating, blazes across your consciousness and your lips pull back in a snarl in response. You change direction, not trusting yourself to touch the knotted maelstrom of Pyradical’s thoughts. Even that brief connection was enough to make your muscles tense and bunch.

               The hostages are easy to pinpoint, beacons of terror and despair. The officer had said four hostages, but you only count three. Did they separate the hostages? Or is this an inside job? You need more information so you let your consciousness dip down, no longer a light brush, but letting yourself connect with one of them.  

               You rear back almost instantly as the scent of burning flesh fills your nostrils. A steadying hand on your shoulder keeps you from wobbling.

               “You okay?” Anathema asks. Her brow is furrowed until you give her a small nod. Her frown returns, however, as you relay what you had seen in the teller’s memories. The branch manager was dead, Pyradical holding a flaming hand to his face when he refused to input his half of the vault combo. You need to move quick.

               It’s a simple plan: you and Anathema will sneak around back and focus on getting the hostages out. Ortega will create a big showy diversion and keep Pyradical busy. Getting attention is what she does best after all. Power has been cut to the building, so you don’t have to worry about any alarms. Anathema rubs her hands together and you grimace as the sharp scent of acid fills the air.  You’ll never get used to the sound of metal bubbling as she presses her palm against the lock. You close your eyes and focus on the minds inside. The world narrows down. Narrows down to just this building, you feel yourself settle into your body. Awareness focused, reflexes honed, like an arrow ready to be fired, listening and waiting to react.

               The mod guarding the back door goes down easy. He had no hope of dodging your punch to his throat. Especially not when his brain is telling him you’re still a foot out of reach. He goes down and you keep moving.

               It’s stuffy inside, warm even for Los Diablos. Sobs, muffled and hopeless escape from behind the teller line, but no sounds of alarm. You step over the prone body and into the dim interior of the bank, Anathema following close behind. Any second now Ortega and her distraction should arrive.

               Glass shatters as her familiar form crashes through the front window. A roar of surprised anger erupts and chaos descends. It takes an effort to ignore the sounds of the fight, the fizzle of Ortega’s mods and flesh hitting flesh, you have to ball your fingers into a tight fist as you resist the urge to join her. Orange and white light paint the walls in bright flashes as you draw closer to the hostages.

               You catch an intention and roll to the left as a bullet narrowly misses you. Before you exit your roll, Anathema is already moving, her fist flying towards the shooter’s face.

               You trust her enough to turn your back on the fight. The hostages look dazed, eyes unfocused and tears staining their faces. The fear rolling off them hits you like a wave and you strengthen your shields. You make quick work of the zip ties binding their ankles and wrists. One of them begins to bolt, fear clouding his judgment. He’s only focused on the safety promised by the daylight shining through the shattered window, not one the flames shooting from Pyradical’s hands.

               It’s a good thing you’re quick, hands flying out to grab the back of his jacket and pull him away from the danger. Heat billows in waves from the lobby. Even through your mask, your eyes burn from the acrid smoke as cheap décor goes up in flames.

               Ortega’s voice taunts from the lobby. You can’t make out the words, but you know the tone. As long as she’s laughing things are under control.

               It’s easy enough to soothe the hostages, just a gentle brush against their minds, a promise of safety, of making it out of here alive, to trust, to be ready.  A firm command to their minds and they follow you out the door.  

               You lead the hostages to the waiting hands of the paramedics who are waiting with shock blankets and oxygen masks. Your objective completed you turn back to the building. Smoke pours out the shattered window mixing with the omnipresent Los Diablos haze. If you don’t end this fight soon the whole building is going to go up.

               You’re nearly to the building when Ortega leaps out the window.

                 “Get down!” she yells. Not that you are given a choice as she barrels into you. The wind is knocked out of your lungs as she tackles you to the ground.

               “What the fuck—” but the words are lost in the explosion that shakes the ground.

               Your ears ring. Ortega’s lips are moving, but you have no idea what she’s saying. Probably some dumb quip.

               This is not the time or the thing you should be focused on, but she’s so close. It feels different. Different now that she’s kissed you. Different now that you’ve felt her lips against yours. Fuck, you want to feel them again.

               You should focus on the fact that there was just an explosion, but instead your whole world has shrunk down to the weight of her body pressing you into the ground. The concrete is hard and painful under your body. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

               “Was that really necessary?” Your voice has none of the steel you were hoping for. It’s a gulping flustered thing.

               “Better safe than sorry,” Ortega says with a wink. “Besides, I’m quite comfy.”

               “Really? Is that all you think about?”

               “Only around you,” she says as she presses her lips down against yours. Even with the mask in the way, you can’t help but gasp. She doesn’t need her mods, or even to touch your skin to leave you feeling electrified.

               And then she’s up, all movement and action, turning back to the burning shell of the building. Anathema emerges, one of the goons in tow, and you breathe a sigh of relief as Julia surges forward to help her. Smoke rises in thin tendrils from her suit, and there are patches where the fabric has burned away to reveal her pale freckled skin underneath. Skin that is untouched and undamaged despite being caught in the explosion.

               Pyradical is dead, going out in a blaze of glory rather than allowing the Rangers to bring him in.

               The hostages are shaken up, but physically fine. The goon you’d left unconscious by the back door is carted away in the back of an ambulance, the other in the back of a cop car. He’s lucky to be alive. Anathema shielded his body with her own during the explosion. Not that he’s feeling particularly grateful right now.

               The action is over and you let yourself slip into the background. Anathema has already left, back to HQ for a shower and change of clothes. Ortega holds court answering questions and smiling for the cameras. You should leave, head home, but you can’t bring yourself to yet. Not with the glances Ortega keeps shooting you.

               At last satiated, the press leaves, and with them the rest of the crowd. It’s oddly peaceful. The fire from the explosion has long since been put out, though smoke still hangs in the air. The surrounding area is almost empty, now that the excitement is over, people go on with their day.

               You fall into step with Ortega as she walks to where her motorcycle is parked. It’s a natural instinct to envelop her in your projection, to let her pass unnoticed as well. A young woman nearly walks into her, and Ortega shoots you a questioning glance. You shrug, she should be used to this trick of yours by now. It’s just easier to wrap you both in a bubble of anonymity. To not have to worry about sharing her with the public.

           Her smile turns wicked, and something in your stomach flutters, twists, knots. You don’t have the language to describe the things that smile does to you. You can’t read her thoughts, but you can guess her intentions. This is when you should dodge, should step to the side, distance yourself. You don’t. You let her grab your hand and pull you into the dimness between two buildings.

                Her hands are quick, nimble, as they roll up the edge of your mask with ease. As if it was a regular practiced movement, and maybe it is becoming one. How many times have you let this happen now? You’d have to stop her if she tried to remove the whole thing, but she doesn’t. Only your mouth is exposed, and only for a moment, before she captures your lips in a kiss.

               This is so much better than that ghost of a kiss during the fight, so much better when you can feel the brand of her lips on yours. A small sigh escapes you, and that’s all the invitation she needs to deepen the kiss. Her tongue darts out, teasing and quick; one hand grips the back of your head. Her nails scrape against the nanoweave of your mask as she angles you exactly how she wants you.

                Oh, this is foolish. This is playing with fire and knowing that you will get burnt, but not caring. You have so many scars already, what is one more?

               The kiss breaks and she pulls back. You chase her lips, wanting more, needing more. Another drag, another kiss, you’re used to wanting things that will end up hurting you.

               “You’re too damn tall,” you huff. You need her closer, but you don’t trust your footing balancing on your tip toes. Your arms wind around her neck as you attempt to pull her down to your height. She concedes bending down to kiss you again. She chuckles against your lips, the reverberations traveling down to your toes and sending a shiver down your spine.

               Before you can protest, her hands move to your waist, and she lifts you with an ease that draws a surprised squeak out of you, one that is cut off as she captures your lips again. Your legs wrap around her waist as if by instinct, pulling her flush against you. Nothing but your skinsuits between you. You trust yours to stop a knife, a bullet, but now it feels so insubstantial. Unable to protect you from hungry press of Ortega between your thighs as she holds you pinned against the brick wall of the alley.

               Adrenaline from the fight is still coursing through your veins. Your very blood transforms into an electrical current, dancing through your veins and grounding you on the feel of Ortega’s lips. You wonder if this is how she always feels. Your fingers knot in her hair, pulling it out of her careful braid. The small curls at the nape of her neck wrapping themselves around your fingers much like how your limbs are wrapped around her.

                You should stop this, eventually you will have to stop this, but that thought is a small voice compared to the screaming of your body. A voice drowned out by the groan Ortega makes as you nibble on her bottom lip, and her grip tightens on your thigh. For a few moments the rest of the world ceases to exist. There is nothing but this moment. You don’t think, can’t think of anything but her. Her hands and her lips and the blood pounding in your veins. You thought you felt alive during that fight? There’s no comparison.

               Eventually, the kiss breaks, and she rests her forehead against yours. You both are breathing heavy; your pulse is a wild erratic thing. A softer kiss this time, not quite a peck, still letting herself linger, but the frantic need of a few moments ago has dissipated.                

                Your legs wobble when she sets you back down on your feet. From the smug smile on her face, you know she notices. You wish you had a sharp quip at the ready, but you’re still too drunk on her.

                At least pulling your mask down means she can’t see your facial expressions.

               You walk back to the bike in silence. She’s closer than she needs to be. Her hand keeps brushing against your arm. Gentle, accidental touches which you know are no accident at all.

                “Come back to HQ with me?” she asks as she climbs onto the bike. “I’ll order pizza and you can keep me company while I do paperwork?” 

               You don’t have to read her mind to know she isn’t thinking about paperwork. Not with the way her eyes trail over your body. Letting you know she is looking, appreciating.

                “Only because I’m hungry,” you lie as you take the helmet from her outstretched hand and climb behind her.

                “Don’t worry,” say says with a wicked laugh, her hand squeezing yours where it rests on her waist. “I’ll make sure you’re satisfied.”

[reasonandempathy]

On the Kenosha Shooting

Like, I’ve gone over this incident and the videos a number of times.  And the videos do make the case for “he was acting in self-defense.”   They do.

But I’ve never seen a single person who is arguing that be consistent with their own previous statements, their own stated beliefs, or wrestle with the fact that the kid and his mother broke numerous laws in their efforts to, at least theoretically, “support law and order”.  

The Vigilante is a hero of “Law and Order”.

Fuckwits like Tucker Carlson warned not even two months ago that “kids with guns will run our streets” as a fear-mongering piece about the left-wing unrest.  But now that there are actual bodies in the ground and a right-wing kid did it, he’s steel-manning.  He’s praising the kid as a hero, that we shouldn’t be surprised that “17 year olds with rifles decided that they had to maintain order?”

“Are we really surprised that looting and arson accelerated to murder?” just ignoring who did the killing.  Ignoring who came to the scene armed, ready to kill (”we don’t have nonlethal���), as part of a movement and group directly linked to and supporting police officers who salivate at the chance of abusing and harming citizens and protesters.  That the group previously and publicly acknowledged that they’d been told multiple times by police to not show up, but they did so anyway.

The vigilante is a hero of “Law and Order”.

That he literally wasn’t legally allowed to be there. That he violated state and federal laws to show up.  That he and the group he was with brandished their guns and showed up explicitly to agitate and fight the “thugs” in the streets.  That you’re not actually allowed to kill people because you brought a gun and they didn’t.

That after the first man was killed, the second group of people did explicitly things that we would call them heroes for doing in any other context.  They saw a man with a gun kill someone and they rushed him.  They tried to take him down.  That’s explicitly what every wannabe tough guy says if they’re in that situation.  That’s what teachers should do with a mass shooter, right?  How many dead teachers do we mourn because they did the Brave and Noble thing (which they did) and gave up their lives to stop someone who killed people?

How many cops are we supposed to mourn for dying in the line of duty?

And somehow we’re supposed to side with the gunman who, by all accounts, escalated the situation to lethality.  Who broke numerous laws not in the past (I’ve seen people bringing up god-damned traffic tickets), but literally there.  That night.  With his parents’ blessing.  Who already shot and killed one man when Huber and others tried to swarm him and get the gun away from him because he already killed a guy.

It’s just so fucking obviously twisted around.  Literally last week the right-wing and people on here were blasting Jacob Blake and defending the cop who shot him because if you torture everything in impossible ways you can try to squeeze out some bare-bones and cowardly line of the cops being afraid, despite literally seeing his kids in the car.  Despite actually having a hold of Blake when you shot him 7 times in the back.  Despite and ignoring literally everything, the cop was afraid and the entire incident with Blake started with him being a good Samaritan, escalated with cops literally not knowing how or not bothering to properly apprehend someone, and ended with a paralyzed father, shot in front of his kids, handcuffed to his hospital bed.  As if police all over the world can’t apprehend someone without paralyzing them.

To get back on topic.

Anthony Huber saw a man with a long gun who killed someone and decided to try and stop him with a god-damned skateboard.  That a man with a pistol also tried to stop him, but didn’t actually use it.  He actually was the one who tried to de-escalate the situation, while the Kenosha LARP Guard went there explicitly to escalate the situation and kill people.  “We don’t have nonlethal.”

And we have video of them escalating a situation from nonlethal to lethal.

Literally every step along the way for weeks Rittenhouse, his family, and the people he was associated with showed their hand.  That they were there for violence and to kill people.  Against what the cops had previously told them to do.  Because they wanted to.

The Vigilante is a hero of “Law and Order”.  And so many people don’t realize how fucking blatantly biased and flatly stupid that is.

[theoneforwriting]

Bad Aim

Day Six

Prompt: Lab Day

Villainous July Enemies and Allies

Summary: Everyone can think of ghastly things. There’s only the few that bring them into reality.

“Hey Mr. Stark!”

Tony in one movement swept his project to the side like it didn’t matter. He turned around acting as if he hadn’t just been scared pantless.

“Oh, hey kid, what’s happening?” Tony’s cool demeanor returned as he looked Peter up and down, his glasses telling him he was in perfect health.

“Oh oh, never mind Mr.Stark, I’ll just” Peter’s shoulders sagged in what seemed to be defeat. “I’ll just go home if you’re busy.”

“Kid, what have I told you about the whole “Mr.” thing, it’s Dr.” Tony joked.Tony started fiddling with a screwdriver

“Also don’t beat around the bush what’s up?”

“Well today,wait uh not today, the other day you said we could just kind of hang out in your lab?” Peter explained in a rush.

“Oh yeah, a lab day…” Tony’s voice trailed off as he snuck glances at what he had been working on.

“Like I totally get it if you forgot I mean I would forget too if I was a big busy billionaire so like we can always do this another time.” Peter’s voice trailed off near the end into mumbling,

“Awe c’mon I didn’t forget!” Tony said when he absolutely forgot “let’s take a look at those web shooters huh, you said you wanted a better system for finding the right ones?” As Tony talked he shoved the papers on his desk into the closest drawer nearby.

The mention of Peter’s suit had the kid light up in a way that warmed Tony’s heart, his work being appreciated always did that to him.

Soon enough Peter’s awkwardness was shoved aside to make room for science, just as quickly as Tony’s previous project had been shoved aside.

Tony’s memory of said project would also be forgotten for a time.

For a time.

————A couple of hours later

Tony and Peter have since moved onto many other miscellaneous projects. The web shooters were ridiculously easy to fix up.

Grease streaked Peter’s forehead, the attempt of trying not to get his school clothes messy long forgotten.

“Gee kid you're a disaster.” Tony said, flipping off his goggles.

Peter snorted, “Speak for yourself.” Sure enough where the goggles had been marks were left behind making Tony look like the night owl that he really is.

“Aw gee look at the time, I’ll grab us an apple or something brb.” Tony started to pull his shirt back over his tank top.

“You did not just say brb out loud like that.”

“I did, now you have to live with it.”

“Old man.”

“Literal child.” Tony called out as the elevator’s doors closed.

After having his brain do so many mental hoops it was still on a roll waiting for the next problem to create a solution for.

He tried just scrolling on social media,he really did.

Alas Spider-Man may be able to handle a giant man-rhinoceros but Peter Parker can’t sit still for longer than three minutes.

Any equipment he might touch could get him in trouble, a few minutes ago he accidentally crushed a wrench like it was a soda can.

So playing with anything big and important looking was a no-go.

Peter sighed dramatically, seeping his gaze across the lab in thought.

That’s when he saw the partially open drawer. Mr.Stark’s lab always looks like a tornado hit so the fact that the drawer had even attempted to have been closed made it already intriguing.

“Awe come on Peter” Peter said to himself “it’s Dr.Stark’s desk it’s probably in there for a reason cause it might be a super cool new suit idea that he doesn’t want my grubby hands on…” What was supposed to be a talk not to look had somehow turned into one telling him to look.

“Oh fuzz Ned’s imagination has really rubbed off on me.”

The drawer slid open with a horrible squeal of its “gears” as if announcing Peter’s crime.

“Oh blueprints and some…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he really started to look.

And looked.

And he looked.

It’s all he seemed to be able to do as he looked at what seemed to be endless papers and

Is that a model?!

“What the fuck.”

Peter kept looking anyway.

Looking.

Finally, Peter himself started looking horrified.

To Peter the ding of the elevator seemed to be the executioner asking for any last words before letting the blade drop.

To Tony it was just that, the ding of the elevator.

“Hey Peter turns out we didn’t have apples but we had some grapes and pop-tarts, teens like those right?” He set the items down looking back over at the open chassis of what they were working on.

“Oh!” Tony started to dig around in his pockets before finally finding what he was looking for.

“I also have some mint gum, apparently spiders hate mint and I wanted to see if the same works for you.” He looked up to see Peter’s reaction.

Peter’s face was ashen and his forced smile said it all, at leash Tony thought it said it all, maybe it did and he just heard the wrongs things because the next thing he said was

“Gee kid, guess you already tried the whole mint thing, must suck peppermint sticks are the staple of the holidays.” Tony leaned back, eyeing Peter up and down.

“You good?”

“I uh, what?”

“You” Tony pointed at Peter “good?” Tony showed a thumbs up.

“Oh uh I’m I…” Peter’s voice trailed off.

He could just pretend. Things could go back to normal, two dorks playing with machines as they joke about how crappy their lives are. Peter could go home, go to sleep and just go to school the next day and excitedly tell his friends what he did yesterday at Tony Stark’s lab. He could tell Aunt May what a fun day he had yesterday once she got back home from work.

But would he even be able to fall asleep?

Could he keep these what if’s? from May?

Would he even be able to see Tony the same way again?

Could he live without knowing the truth?

What

What would Spider-Man do?

Peter knew exactly what he would do.

What Spider-Man would do.

So with a shaky breath he mustered up the strength he reserved for hostage situations.

“No, no, not everything’s okay.”

“Oh?” Tony said genuinely concerned.

“Yeah.”

Peter pulled the drawer open all the way.

“What is this?” He gestured to it, finding himself surprised that his hands weren't shaking.

“A drawer?” Tony joked. Oh it was such a bad joke. The ribbons of insecurities wrapped around the joke were in mounds.

“Tony.”

“It’s just some blueprints for a project I’ve been hired on.” Oh no too much you said too much Tony.

Peter’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“It sure is some project Mr.Stark.” Peter pulled out a blueprint, looking at it again pained him.

“A collar that redirects telepathic abilities back to the user in extreme force.”

Peter let the blueprint flutter to the floor as he pulled out another.

“Steel gloves that can prevent energy flow by a form of extreme acupuncture.” He threw the paper to the floor,

Peter pulled out a list of ideas that haven’t yet become blueprints, the names themselves just giving you an idea of their purpose.

“Straight up Steel spiked boots.”

“Underoos.” Tony interjected.

“Sub-Zero cuffs.”

“Kid!” Tried Tony.

“Chloramine head-set.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker!”

“What Mr.Stark!?” Peter’s voice had no remorse.

“These “ideas” are more than extreme these are torture devices!” He slammed the list onto the counter top, surely leaving a dent.

The air was heavier than the amount of bodies Tony held to his name.

Neither party dared to make a move.

“You shouldn’t have seen those.” Tony pressed.

“And what you would’ve kept lying to me?” Peter snapped.

“I wasn’t lying I just wasn’t telling you-“

“That you were building for the fucking raft?!”

Tony’s heart sank.

Peter shouldn’t know.

Peter shouldn’t have ever known.

Peter can’t be allowed to know.

Tony used his watch.

“What are you doing?” Peter’s voice was losing it’s fury.

The Iron Man gauntlet fully enveloped Tony’s hand now.

“I’m sorry kid.” He said, aiming the beam at him.

“No you're not.”

Tony missed the shot. There are so many reasons why he missed that damn shot.

He keeps missing shots, at Peter, at Spider-Man, chances at having a family, chances at having love.

Tony would forever keep missing his shots.

Tony Stark has a bad aim.

Good God does Tony Stark have a bad aim.

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Persephone's Symphony | Day Two / Part One | Hades

Hey lovelies this isn't completely done (this chapter, I mean) but this was a good spot to post it because it's been a while and I'm proud of this part. The next part will be about the same length (I'm guessing) and will be the long awaited bathtub scene! enjoy, and sorry for how ramble-y this chapter is. It's on purpose LOL!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: PTSD in action on both parts, self-loathing

Word count: 2.7k

Previous | Next

Master List

Maybe saying yes is the wrong answer. It certainly goes against the protocol his commander explicitly told him to follow.

Stay inside, Barnes. Keep the curtains closed, limit the amount of lights on inside the house. Don’t let her out of your sight— not even for a second.

It was all basic, day one things that any rookie would know. Bucky is a lot of things but he isn’t a rookie— he’s been around the block his fair share of times and then some. Still, the last thing his commander had told him rings through his ears as he crosses the threshold of the Wilson’s family residence and feels the sun, warm and steady on his face— and on his one, good arm— for the first time in twenty-four hours.

Be a ghost, Barnes, or you might just become one; you understand me?

Bucky had answered yes, again— obviously. Maybe that’s just a thing he does; saying yes when he doesn’t know what else to say. Saying yes when he should be saying anything but.

But what?

But it’s not like it really matters— there was no other choice that time. He’s a soldier, he was given his orders, and— whether he likes it or not— Bucky always follows his orders.

The door creaks shut behind him, a little loud for his liking but the sound of the willow trees snapping in the yard are enough to drown it out for the most part— Well, Bucky always follows most of his orders.

That was also before everything went straight to hell, though— before no one thought to tell him that he's not dealing with a victim; he’s dealing with a survivor. Fucking military— he should have known they’d leave the important details out. They’ve been shoddy since the forties, always squirreling away information from the little guys. Eighty years later, one hundred and six years old, and he’s still a little guy. No closer to gaining an invite to the big kid table than he was at twenty-six when he still had two good arms. If anything he’s further away now, begging for scraps when there was once a point in his life where he at least had a seat somewhere.

With someone.

Nothing’s changed— nothing will change and he doesn’t expect it to— but this time there’s a difference.

There’s a big one.

It’s the canyon between grief and watching your family get slaughtered in front of you; the insurmountable jump from longing for those you’ve lost and having them ripped away from you so violently that you can’t function. Can’t sleep. Wake up scared. Jump away from every touch, every noise, like every shattered vase is out to personally kill you—

Why the fuck wouldn’t they tell him that the girl he’s supposed to be protecting has PTSD? He may be old— the term may be different now— in his day they used to call it shellshock— but it’s yet another thing that hasn’t changed. Nothing ever changes; not really— not for him.

Soldier.

Scientist.

Same fucking difference— the signs are still the same and she has all of them.

He would know— he should have known from the moment he walked through the door— they should have told him!

He saw the pictures. Saw the scarlet circles and lifeless eyes and blood. Fuck, there was so much blood and that was just a grainy photpgraph from a junky projector! He couldn’t smell it— couldn’t taste it— through the pictures but he has an imagination— well, what’s left of one at least. He can’t say he didn’t leave most of his creativity in those hills of Austria— gods only know he left most of everything else there�� but even if he had left all of it he wouldn’t have to dig far for a memory of his own. They don’t tell you as a soldier that fresh blood smells like rotting honey— that it lingers in your clothes and hair and on your goddamn lips for hours.

Soldier.

Shooter.

Fucking psychopath with a gun and one arm and snow still shoved so far down his throat that he can’t breathe—

No, if they don’t bother telling their soldiers then there’s no way anyone thought to tell the cherry pie angel. They probably thought it would ruin her sweetness. They probably didn’t even think to tell her at all. Bucky definitely didn’t. He should have. If he had, maybe he would have been able to catch her before the flies ate through her wings completely. Maybe if he had just done his damn job instead of being sucked in by the sticky marmalade of her laughter then he would have seen the way she was melting right in front of his face. July in Brooklyn does that to a person.

It brings the flies to the cherry pie.

The flies to the rotting honey.

The flies to too fucking late— he had twenty-four hours and instead of doing something he just let her sink. Some guard dog he is.

Bucky watches as she gingerly sits on the edge of the white swing, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. She lifts her feet as soon as she’s down, toes hanging a good few inches off the ground as they curl around the thick bayou air, clenching and unclenching rhythmically. They never touch the bamboo mat and her eyes never lift from the shoreline— not even when he takes a couple measured steps towards her. It’s unnerving, to say the very least.

“We can’t stay out here too long.” Bucky isn’t used to speaking this quietly but it feels like if he doesn’t level his voice to match the whispering of the wind across the bulrushes then he’ll be hurting her more than he already has.

Her answer isn’t any louder than his— the only reason he even hears it at all is because he refuses to look away from her. He only hears her because his eyes are already on her lips, willing her to stop sinking her teeth into the soft flesh. Please, please, please stop—

“I just need a few minutes.”

Her eyes are wide and rimmed with red, toes continuing to work against the breeze with the same automatic movements. Clench. Unclench. Clench. Unclench. He doesn’t understand. It’s like she’s trying to work the feeling back into them— or maybe like she doesn’t know that she’s doing it at all. Hell, if the way her eyes have glassed over means anything then he would wager that there’s a good chance she doesn’t even fully know she’s outside. Yeah, that’s shellshock alright. Clench. Unclench. Clench. He doesn’t realize he’s copying her movements until his jaw aches.

Unclench.

“I know, doll. I—” He finally tears his gaze from her rigid figure— from her bruised lips— looking as well to the horizon. Maybe she’s on to something; maybe the waves will tell him how to help her— “I know.”

Can they tell him how to help himself? He shuffles forward again, stopping at the edge of the swing, gaze sweeping from the water to the barriers of the premise. Who is he kidding— of course they can’t. This isn’t about his salvation anymore. Those days have more than come and gone. Now it’s about hers— it’s about an assignment and keeping ten toes and ten fingers connected to two legs and two arms. Right now is about an order and Bucky Barnes can certainly follow orders— maybe that’s all he can do.

He gives the shaking girl who— despite everything— is swathed so prettily in the shade of the porch another once over.

Maybe but maybe not too.

Maybe he can’t follow orders at all.

Maybe he can’t afford to think about it for too long.

Because if he can’t follow orders then what can he do?

Bucky is still staring at her when she speaks again but her sudden words still make him jump nonetheless. “There’s room.” Her voice falters for a moment, lips hanging open and eyes faraway, before she continues. “If you want to sit, I mean. There’s room.”

He shouldn’t— he knows he shouldn’t, sitting isn’t a part of his orders— but he does. He couldn’t say no to her if he wanted to.

“Thanks.”

He definitely doesn’t want to say no to her.

“Sure.” Her voice is barely a hum— barely there at all— and he can’t choose whether to look at her lips or her fingers, which are now following suit.

Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench.

It’s an impossible decision— much like the ones from his days as a soldier— but it demands a choice from him nonetheless— unlike the ones from his days as a pawn. Her nails drag over the wood, snagging every so often, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Clench. Can she even feel him next to her? Back in the day— before that day— he used to watch his comrades do the same thing. He used to do the same thing. Sometimes he still does. He knows exactly what he would want someone to do for him.

He makes the choice for an impossible decision, wrapping his hand around hers until their fingers are laced together. “You can talk to me, if you want.”

It seems to work, if only marginally, because she stiffens for a moment, fingers flexing around his. Bucky can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, the way she grips his hand so unsure of herself. Is she unsure of herself, though, or is she still lost somewhere in the depths of her mind, drowning in her rotten honey thoughts?

Her hand stills— an answer in itself— before her voice, slowed as though stopped by lips that have been glued shut, sounds. “Do you ever feel like you’re drowning?”

It’s not what he’s expecting but what else is new— neither was she and yet he’s here, listening to the moments they’re allowed to be outside— all of zero moments, that is— tick away as her toes clench and unclench.

Tick, tick, tick— what would his commander say.

“Yes.”

Steve used to ask him the same thing, Bucky adds silently, but only when they got older.

He supplies, “I think maybe that’s a part of being human.”

Tick, tick, tick— his commander wouldn’t say anything, he would just put Bucky on probation.

Still, he doesn’t rush her— he can’t. He won’t. She just told him she’s drowning; he’s not going to be the ocean to her frenzied attempts to stay afloat. He’ll just hold her hand, and keep looking over her shoulder, and then over his own, and when the time comes he’ll tell her they have to go, because that’s what she’s expecting. He would know— there have been times he’s wanted someone to do the same for him.

Tick, tick, tick— this is worth probation.

“I don’t think I like being human.” She hums back.

No, Bucky wants to say— no, I don’t either, doll.

Being human sucks and he’s not very good at it. He would know, he’s been a lot of things— been compared to a lot of things. Robot. Popsicle. Dog— yeah, he’s a real jack of all trades and so far human isn’t near the top of his ‘favourites’ list. Maybe that’s because if he wasn’t human then he wouldn’t be any of the other things either— maybe if he wasn’t human then he wouldn’t be so easily turned into a monster.

Tick, tick, tick— maybe.

Tick, tick, tick— have his thoughts always been so disorganized?

Tick, tick, tick— maybe it’s the shellshock.

Bucky doesn’t say any of that, of course.

What he does say is— “What would you like to be instead?” —as if he can make everything all better himself.

He can try, at least. He’s been compared to a slave too. Being hers doesn’t sound all that bad.

Thunder rolls over head and it sounds more like a grandfather clock— or the impatient tapping of his commander’s fingers— than anything Bucky’s ever heard. Still, he waits to move. Tick, tick, tick. He waits for a lot of things.

Bucky waits for the sky to turn grey— for the first droplets to mix with the salty bay air and blow against his neck and face.

It’s familiar, the sticky, salty rain, and he isn’t expecting it.

He isn’t expecting Delacroix to remind him so much of his own home in Brooklyn.

He isn’t expecting the way that sitting next to this soft creature feels so much like sitting on the docks with Steve the summer before his enlistment. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning— Steve had said it at one hundred but he may as well have said it then, at eighteen, too. Because little did Bucky know, Steve had always felt a little bit like he was drowning and now Bucky, at one hundred and six, always feels a little bit like a bad friend.

Like a bad brother.

Like a bad dog— he should have scented it out all those years ago but instead he just waited.

Tick, tick, tick— all he does is wait.

Bucky waits for her to squeeze his hand once more— for her tiny fingers to alert him that she’s ready to move.

Maybe if Bucky had waited until Steve had told him that he was ready all those years ago then Steve would have waited for Bucky to be ready too. Because as he sits here, his skin turning swampy in the sticky, salty rain he realizes that no, he wasn’t ready for Steve Rogers to leave him behind.

He wasn’t ready to face the world alone.

He wasn’t even ready to face Brooklyn alone. Sometimes he still waits at the deli for him and orders the hero sandwich because even though he doesn’t like the absurd amount of pickles, Steve always had. Maybe if he eats enough— and waits long enough— then Steve will come back.

Tick, tick, tick— for a man who isn’t patient, Bucky Barnes sure does do a lot of waiting.

Bucky waits for her answer— because that’s what matters most. Not Steve’s wishes, not his commander’s impatient tapping, not even his own nostalgia that’s starting to make him, too, feel like he’s drowning. He used to love swimming in the Atlantic but when he licks his lips and tastes salt he’s sure it would take a miracle to get him to go in again. It would take a hundred years— or maybe just eighteen— and a push from a man who left Bucky almost as fast as Bucky had left him.

“I want to be a god—” she says it so suddenly that he jolts, eyes scanning their surroundings before realizing it’s just her determined, honey hollow voice sounding from next to him— “I want to be god— or invincible— or anyone but me, I think. I just don’t want to be me anymore. So yeah, I want to be a god.”

She still sounds so far away. Like she’s underwater— like Steve that time he wanted to see if Bucky could hear him scream from under the surf. He couldn’t but he told Steve he could. It doesn’t matter anymore— not right now. Only she does and her airy confession.

It makes Bucky’s heart clench and, as a reflex, so does his hand.

He releases the pressure accordingly— in his hand, not his heart— unclench— and as he does she adds— “and I want to take a bath.”

In that moment, despite his worry for her, he’s ecstatic she isn’t looking at him because if she had been then she would have seen the way his jaw drops. It takes him a moment to answer— a moment to pull himself out of the gutter his frozen-robot-dog brain drags him to— but he settles on one thought in surprisingly record time.

He can’t make her a god but he can sure as hell watch her back if she wants to take a bath.

He can’t make it all better but he can do that no problem.

So of course he stands, squeezing her hand one last time before saying, “okay, doll.”

Maybe Bucky is following orders after all. Maybe it’s a matter of choosing which— whose— orders to follow.

____________

Tag list: @xhollycowx @remembered-license @dumble-daddy @hellotvshowtrash @thesummerbucky @elijahs-wife @cari1bunny @im-just-star-dust @motherofallthesmallthings​ @hazardoushallucination​ @em-august @nuttytani @brown-eyed-babes @imaginearyparties

(message me if you want to be added / removed from the tag list -- I'll hold no resentment if you do LOL)

[unsettledink]

Kinktober Day 28

Pocket Change

Prompt: Paid Sex

Word Count: 3882

Summary: Peter thinks he has to feel like he's earned things to be happy with them? Well, Tony doesn't like it but he can work with it.

He can take advantage of it.

(slightly dark!Tony, consent issues, dirty talk, humiliation, rough sex, first times, sass)

*

Peter doesn’t like his gift. 

They’re up in the penthouse after hours of messing with a new variation on the web shooters, and Tony thought it was the perfect time to give Peter his graduation present. A little early, but whatever, it’s better than forgetting, right?

“What?” Tony says. “What’s wrong? Normally people like my gifts.” Which is completely false, but maybe he can convince Peter it's true. 

“It’s great, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “Really, it is.”

“But?”

Peter hesitates. “It’s just,” he says, “um. A lot.”

“No it’s not,” Tony says, and it really isn’t.

“Well, it’s a lot to me,” Peter says. “I just don’t really feel like I’ve done anything to earn it.”

“Okay, well— first thing,” Tony says, “you don't need to earn it. That’s kind of the point of a present, Peter. And second, you’ve earned pretty much anything I could give you simply by Spider-Manning.”

“I have some pride,” Peter mutters. “And I don’t do that to earn anything, I just… I have to do it. It feels weird to consider that part of some sort of exchange.”

“Yeah, pride? Pride is a bad idea,” Tony says, and he does not appreciate the look Peter gives him. “Hey, don’t give me that, it should be obvious I know what I’m talking about. I didn’t say I was good at not having it. But if it’s preventing you from accepting a gift that would make life easier, that I want to give you— not worth it, kid.”

Peter sighs. “Nevermind,” he mutters. “Just— thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Tony frowns at him. This is completely unacceptable. Peter has to feel like he’s earned shit to be happy with it? Fine. 

It’s stupid as fuck, but he can work with it.

“Friday, don’t I have a stash somewhere around here?” Tony asks.

“Third drawer down on the left hand side of the sink,” Friday says. “With the corkscrews.”

“Why on earth did I put it there,” Tony mutters, digging around until he finds an envelope. 

“I couldn’t possibly say,” Friday says, dry as a desert. 

“Alright,” Tony says, back on the barstool. He dumps the envelope out, bills scattering across the counter. “What have we got here?”

“Why do you just have a whole envelope of money in your corkscrew drawer?” Peter asks. “Actually, why do you even have a corkscrew drawer? Is that a thing people have?”

“It’s not just corkscrews, obviously. And I have stashes everywhere,” Tony says. “You never know when you might need some cash.” He stacks the loose bills; looks like about thirty thousand, roughly. He taps them against the counter, evening the stack. 

This is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea, and Tony knows that. If he does this, if he goes there, he won’t be able to play it off as a joke or a test or something innocent, and everything will change. He should not do this.

But that part of his head is a lot quieter, now. Sometimes, he thinks he came back a little wrong. That when he died—and he had died—when the stones did their thing and put him back together, they didn’t do it quite right. Because the part of him that was never more than a whisper is so, so much louder now. 

That’s the part that is saying, why not? Why shouldn’t he? He knows what he wants, knows how long he’s wanted it, so why shouldn’t he just take it? Life’s short, after all. It’s not like Peter is going to say no. 

It’s not like Tony can’t make him say yes.

“Okay,” Tony says. “You wanted to feel like you earned the money I give you, right?” Peter nods, slowly. Tony holds up a single hundred. “I’ll give you a hundred to take off your shirt.”

Peter startles. “To— what?” he says. “I— are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” Tony says. Grins. “Come on, I know you’ve taken it off for less.”

“That is not— you know what, fine!” and Peter yanks off his shirt. His overshirt. 

“Very funny,” Tony says. He sets the bill on the counter, separate from the rest. Picks up another and sets it on top of the first. “Another hundred to take off that shirt too.”

Peter huffs, apparently deciding to treat this as some sort of poor taste joke. Pulls his shirt up over his head and drops it, and immediately crosses his arms over his chest. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Tony tells him. He adds another bill to the pile. “A hundred to take off your pants.”

That gets a hesitation, but Peter does it all the same. He’s starting to blush now, faintly. “Really?” Tony says. “Leaving the socks on? Is that the vibe you’re going for?”

“Hey,” Peter says. “You didn’t say anything about socks.” He glares at Tony. 

“Oh, already hedging for more,” Tony says. Peter opens his mouth, like he’s going to deny it, and then says nothing at all. “Okay, a hundred for the socks. I’ve never paid someone to do that,” he adds, contemplatively. 

“Great,” Peter says as he hops on one foot, peeling off his sock. “I’m so glad I got to be your first for that,” and then he freezes for a moment like he just processed what he said. 

If Tony has his way, Peter’s going to get to be first for a number of things. 

Peter crosses his arms again when he stands, and it isn’t anything Tony hasn’t seen before. He’s had Peter in nothing but his boxers down in that lab several times, or caught glimpses when Peter’s changing into the suit. There’s nothing new about what he’s seeing now.

It’s still different. 

“Alright,” Tony says. “Come here.” He waits until Peter is standing right in front of him, watching Tony warily. Blushing darker by the second, and this— Tony sets another bill on Peter’s pile. “A hundred for a kiss,” he says, his mouth dry.

Peter’s eyes go wide. He glances down, licks his lips. “Okay,” he whispers, too easily, and leans in. 

It’s a soft little brush of a kiss, chaste, and Tony’s not having that. This might be the only one he ever gets, so he’s going to make it count. He gets his hand around the curve of Peter’s jaw, fingers on the back of his neck, and pulls him in closer. Kisses him harder, filthy, Peter’s mouth opening when Tony presses his tongue against it. Peter shudders at that, leaning in closer and moaning into the kiss. 

When Tony lets him pull back, Peter is slack jawed and flushed, looking utterly ruined from such a small thing. “You know that was the wrong answer, right?” Tony says, low. “Someone offers you money for sex, you’re supposed to say no.”

Peter swallows. “It was just a kiss,” he says. Hesitates. 

Looks Tony straight in the eyes. “Do you want to buy some more?”

Goddamn.

Tony doesn’t say a word. Just picks up another hundred and adds it to the pile. 

This kiss is better, Peter eager for it, his hands coming up to cling to Tony’s shirt. He’s not any good at kissing, but it doesn’t really matter to Tony at the moment. Tony can make up for it. 

Peter tries to pull back when the kiss ends, when Tony goes in for another. “Isn’t— isn’t it for each?” he says. 

“Oh no,” Tony says. “The first one was only worth that because it was the first. And it was your first too, wasn’t it.” Peter nods, a tiny movement. “A hundred buys a lot more kisses now,” Tony says. 

Not that he’s actually keeping count. He just kisses Peter, Peter edging closer and closer, pressing against him and kissing back. Trying to copy what Tony does, with limited success, and making soft, pretty noises into Tony’s mouth. Tony reaches out and fumbles around at one point, dropping another bill near Peter’s pile and going right back to kissing. 

Peter’s half in his lap, straddling his thigh and grinding his crotch against it, almost humping Tony. He whines softly when Tony pulls back, his fingers tightening in Tony’s shirt. “A hundred to leave a mark,” Tony whispers. Peter nods.

Tony grabs Peter’s hair, yanking his head back and loving the gasp that gets. He puts his mouth right over that pulse point, Peter’s heartbeat pounding along, and sucks at it. Bites a little, working at it to leave something that will last more than a few hours with Peter’s healing. “Ohmigod,” Peter groans. “Mr. Stark—” 

He should tell Peter to call him something else, but like most of the shoulds, he shoves it aside without any real effort. 

Peter moans as Tony keeps worrying at that spot; he would be noisy, Tony thinks. He likes it. Still— he pulls away, pressing his hand to Peter’s chest and pushing him back, away. Peter looks confused, and keeps looking confused as Tony stands, sliding off the stool. Holds a hundred between them, waiting until Peter takes it. “Get your underwear off,” Tony says. 

He doesn’t watch, walking over to the living room area, digging around in a couple spots until he finds what he wants. Drops that and the pile of bills he scooped up on the couch as he sits on it, and looks back at Peter. Peter’s shifting from foot to foot, nervous, and he’s got nothing to worry about. Fuck, he’s hot. “Look at you,” Tony says. 

Leans back and spreads his legs. “Come here.”

Peter takes a step forward; “No,” Tony snaps, and Peter freezes. “Crawl.”

There’s a long moment of nothing, Peter just staring at him, wide eyed. “What?” Tony says. “A hundred not enough for that? How about two?” Peter shudders. “Three?” 

He’s blushing as he kneels, as he starts to crawl toward Tony. Blushing dark and all down his shoulders, not looking at Tony at all, obviously embarrassed as hell, and Tony likes that too. Likes even better that Peter is doing it anyway, even if it’s just for the money. God, Tony knows this is wrong, knows he shouldn’t be touching or looking or even thinking about Peter this way. But he is, and he has been, and it only makes it worse that he’s purchasing it, playing on Peter’s insecurities to get what he wants. 

It makes it so much better. 

Peter stops between Tony’s legs, settling back on his heels and darting a glance up at Tony. Tony picks up three bills and shows them to Peter, Peter’s eyes following them as Tony sets them on his other side. “The same for you to get out my dick,” he says. 

That is definitely a moan Peter bites back before he reaches up, fumbling at the button and zipper of Tony’s jeans. He pulls Tony’s dick out carefully, his hands gentle, more than Tony wants them to be. “Another three for your mouth,” Tony says.

Peter hesitates. Looks up at him, nervous but a little— teasing? Cheeky, maybe? “I don’t know,” Peter says. “Shouldn’t it be worth more?” 

Tony laughs. “You greedy slut,” he says, and Peter’s face somehow goes redder. “First off, you’re not going to be any good, so it’s not like I’m paying for quality.” Peter’s eyes go wide, that sass dropping away entirely, and ducks his head. “And second— it’s worth more the more innocent you seem,” Tony says. “And you’re seeming less and less so by the second.” 

“Oh god,” Peter mutters. “I—” He whimpers, softly. When he looks back at Tony, his eyes are liquid, like he’s a little hurt. And probably a lot embarrassed. Good. 

“Maybe you have a point,” Tony says. Picks up four bills and holds them out. “I’ll spend another hundred on you because you’re just so pretty.” Drops the bills instead of adding them to the pile, watching as they flutter down around Peter’s knees. 

It’s not a good blowjob, not at all; Peter doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing, messy and not in the good way. It’s still pretty hot, from watching Peter trying alone. Better when Tony takes charge and holds Peter’s head, fucking into his mouth instead. “You’ve got a tongue,” he says. “Use it.”

Even better when Peter tries to, when Peter gags on Tony’s dick, throat convulsing around the head. Tony groans, forcing Peter back down, again and again, until tears are streaming from Peter’s eyes— but if Peter didn’t want this, if Peter wasn’t willing, there’s no way Tony could make him stay. Fuck, just that thought is almost enough to have him close to coming; he pulls Peter off fast. 

Fuck, Peter’s a mess, lips red and swollen, spit all down his chin, tears on his face. Disgusting. “You have options,” Tony says, a little breathless, and Peter blinks at him, slow. “Three hundred, I come on your face. Four, I come in your mouth and you swallow like a cock hungry bitch.” Peter shudders. “Five— fuck it, six hundred, and you get up here and fuck yourself on my dick.”

Peter’s mouth drops open as he stares at Tony. For a second, maybe two at most, before he speaks; “Six,” he says. “That one.” 

“Mmm,” Tony hums. Picks up the condom and lube he’d brought over earlier. “For six, I use both,” he tells Peter, holding them up. “For eight, I lose the condom, and for a thousand— I lose both. I fuck you rough with nothing but spit, and you thank me for it.”

He’s got Peter in his lap before he can even blink, Peter taking the condom and lube from his hand and tossing them aside. “The last one,” he says. 

“You’re a real gold digger, aren’t you,” Tony says, and he really hadn’t expected Peter to be such a slut, or so down for rougher stuff. Or maybe it’s just for the money. “I bet I could have gotten you to do it for half.”

“Maybe,” Peter says. “But you’ll never know.” Jesus Christ; Tony leans up to kiss him, and Peter jerks back. “That’s extra, remember?”

“For a thousand I can get a few kisses.”

Peter hesitates, losing that teasing veneer for a moment. Regathers himself. “You could afford a lot more than a thousand, Mr. Stark,” he says, soft and low, batting his eyelashes. 

“But are you worth it?” Tony says. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and fuck me and find out?” Peter’s shaking, ever so faintly, but god, he’s got some balls on him. Like Tony didn’t already know that. He reaches over and grabs some bills, no idea how many, and presses them against Peter’s chest. Peter’s hand comes up to take them, and Tony pulls him down, kisses him until Peter melts against him, until he’s gasping into Tony’s mouth. 

“You’re already worth it,” Tony tells him. 

He doesn’t take nearly the time he should, making Peter lick his fingers, spitting on them and pressing them into Peter, opening him up. Peter’s still tense, still barely taking three by the time Tony’s patience snaps, but he’ll be fine. “Mr. Stark—” Peter whispers when Tony urges him up, spreading his ass above Tony’s dick. 

“Shhh, kid,” Tony says. “It’s going to hurt, especially with your tight little virgin hole. I’m going to fucking split you open and you’re going to thank me for it, beg me to fuck you harder. Aren’t you, Peter? Because that’s what I’m paying for, after all.”

“Shit,” Peter breathes out, closing his eyes. Nods. 

He’s loud as Tony pushes into him, gasping and whining and eventually, sobbing, his hands biting into Tony’s shoulders as Peter squirms, flinches and fights every inch. It’d be so much easier on him if he’d relax a little, but Tony’s not going to point it out. Peter’s shaking by the time he’s settled on Tony’s lap, taking every bit of his dick. His eyes are squeezed closed, and he ducks his head, setting his forehead against Tony’s shoulder. 

“Fuck, baby. You really are a whore, deep down; look at what you’ll take for my pocket change,” Tony tells him. Peter moans against his skin; Tony can feel tears dripping on him. “I love it,” he says, rocking his hips up into Peter a few times, Peter nearly screaming. “Can’t wait to fuck you, but I don’t have to, do I?” 

Peter’s hurting, it’s so obvious he’s hurting, but he still shakes his head. “You don’t,” he says. He sobs as Tony pulls him back up and off; Tony spits in his hand and gets that little bit of extra wetness on his dick. Wraps his hand around Peter’s, and there’s all the proof Tony needs.

“So is it the pain or the thought of that money that’s keeping you hard?” he asks. “Because your dick’s real happy about this.” Peter shakes his head, still tucked against Tony’s shoulder. 

“It’s you,” he says. 

“Kid,” Tony says, dragging Peter back down onto his dick. Peter muffles his cry in Tony’s shoulder. “I’m not paying you enough to be romantic.”

“Don’t have to,” Peter whispers, cutting off another sharp cry, his mouth open against Tony’s skin. Fuck, he feels so good, so tight and hot; Tony wouldn’t mind keeping him just like this, forever. 

“Go ahead,” Tony says, pressing Peter’s head closer. “You can bite me, baby,” and Peter does, sinking his teeth into that muscle. It hurts, but not enough to be distracting; just enough to remind Tony of it every time he fucks up into Peter, every time Peter jolts and tugs at that spot. He’s easing up a little, getting used to the feel of it, but he’s still clinging to Tony all the same. 

Peter moans, the first sound he’s made in a while that doesn’t sound pained, and Tony grins. “Gotcha,” he whispers, and pulls Peter down on his next upward thrust, getting another of those noises, and another, Peter starting to work with him. Starting to, for just a minute, and then he makes a sharper, startled noise, stiffening, his teeth biting down harder. 

Tony stills. “Did you just come?” he says, even though he really doesn’t need a reply. Peter lets out a tiny, high pitched little whine, and nods. “God, talk about a pain slut,” Tony says. “You know, that’s not really getting my money’s worth out of you.”

“Oh my god,” Peter mumbles. His eyes are squeezed shut when Tony grabs his hair and yanks his head back. “I’m so sorry.”

“Not yet you’re not,” Tony tells him. He hauls Peter off his lap and tips him over on the couch, sprawled along the length of it. Peter starts to push himself up, but doesn’t get far before Tony’s on him. He gets a foot on the ground, a knee on the cushions, and Peter’s legs wrapped around his waist, thrusting right back into Peter. Leans forward, his hands on Peter’s arms up above his head. “I should have known you wouldn’t last,” Tony says. “Should have known you couldn’t control yourself. I should dock your pay for that— or maybe I just won’t tip you.”

Peter’s gasping beneath him, probably hurting in a whole new way, still sore and now oversensitive from coming, having a hard time taking the pounding Tony’s giving him. “Mr. Stark,” he manages, “fuck, I— I can make it up to you, how can I— oh god—” 

“Can you?” Tony says. “What have you got to offer, hmm? What are you going to give me that I haven’t already bought?”

“I don’t know,” Peter gasps. “I don’t know, Mr. Stark— whatever you want, anything you want. Please, just— let me make it up to you.” Fuck, he sounds pretty when he begs. 

Peter sucks in a breath, soundless, with the next thrust, his eyes going wide, and that’s where Tony wants to keep him, right there, just like that. “I— I’ll— fuck!” He catches Tony’s gaze, holds it. “I’ll offer you a discount,” he says.

Tony laughs at that, short and sharp, a little out of breath himself. “The fucking gall of you,” he says. Peter moans, and when Tony glances further down, Peter’s already nearly hard again. “Tell you what,” Tony says. “You manage not to come on my cock before I’m done, I’ll give you an extra thousand. Might even give you that tip after all too.”

Peter tries, he really tries. Tony doesn’t make it easy for him, slowing down and hitting that spot again and again until Peter’s thrashing under him. “Please,” Peter gasps, “Mr. Stark, please!”

“I like hearing you beg,” Tony says, “but this is all on you, kid. A thousand if you don’t, remember?” Jerks his hips forward and holds Peter there, grinding against his prostate. Peter howls.

“I can’t,” he says, “I can’t—”

“Two thousand,” Tony whispers, leaning in closer, kissing that dark spot he’d left on Peter’s neck. “I’ll double it if you don’t.”

“Fuck,” Peter says, panting. “Mr. Stark—” He’s gritting his teeth, tense under Tony, trying to hold it back through sheer will. 

“I knew you were that greedy,” Tony says. “Want to get every last cent out of me you can, don’t you.”

“Can’t,” Peter whines, the word breaking, and then he’s coming, sobbing as he jerks in Tony’s hold. It’s so good, Peter tightening around him like that, almost too tight to even fuck into; Tony manages a few more desperate thrusts and then he’s coming as hard as Peter. 

He sinks down onto Peter as he finishes, completely done in for at least a bit. “I will pay you a ridiculous amount,” he mumbles, “to just be quiet and stay like this for a bit.”

“So…” Peter says, sounding as out of it as Tony feels. “To cuddle?”

“An obscene amount,” Tony tells him. 

“You’ve already paid me a ridiculous amount,” Peter says. “I mean, I lost count around two thousand.” 

“Told you,” Tony mutters; god, won’t he just shut up and take it? “Pocket change. I’ll give you ten, easy.”

“Jesus,” Peter says. “You’re crazy, Mr. Stark.”

“Worth every penny,” Tony says. 

“Mr. Stark?”

“Mmm?”

“I didn’t do any of it for the money,” Peter whispers.

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I kind of figured. It’s a good excuse though, right? Now shush and cuddle.”

He can feel Peter laughing, his stomach tensing, but he’s good and stays quiet. 

“You know,” Tony says after a while. “All of that’s not even a fraction of what it costs to make your suits. Not even counting my time.”

“Oh my god, I don’t want to think about that!” Peter hisses. Tony snickers. 

“Um,” Peter says, after another few minutes have passed. “Maybe… I could retroactively earn those? Somehow?”

Tony grins, hidden against Peter’s chest. “I think we can work something out,” he says. “Though you did forget one thing.”

“What?” Peter says, startled, and Tony waits. “Oh!” Peter says, after a minute. Huffs a little laugh. 

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” he says. 

Softer, lower, hooking into Tony like a whole new addiction: “Please, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “Next time? Please fuck me harder.”

Tony groans. “Maybe later, baby,” he says. “How much is it going to cost me?”

“I think we can work something out,” Peter says, and Tony can hear his grin.

[lestatslestits]

Dear Evan Hansen info dump! Dear Evan Hansen info dump! Pls I saw it in London and fucking despised that show

OKAY sorry this took a while I got tied up at work.

For those unfamiliar, here’s a very basic rundown of the plot as I remember it because I refuse to revisit it.

Content warning for. So many things. Suicide, mental illness, lying, gaslighting, and like. Just a weird song about siblings. I dunno.

So basically there’s this kid named Evan Hansen who has social anxiety and probably depression, and he sees a therapist, who has told him to write letters to himself as an assignment. It’s the first day of school after summer break and his arm is in a cast because he broke it climbing a tree. This is our “hero.”

He’s got a crush on a girl named Zoe (Zoey?), who he desperately wants to notice him but he’s awkward and shy and has a song about it. Zoe’s older brother, Connor, is what happens when 45 year old theatre producers google what a depressed teenager looks like. I think he may actually be described in canon as looking like a school shooter? Even if I’m wrong about that, it’s clearly the intended vibe.

So Evan goes to school with his letter, meets Connor there (who he does not know at all, and that is extremely important), and Connor asks to sign his cast. He does it HUGE letters so it’s impossible to miss, but while this interaction goes down he finds Evan’s letter, which talks about how he has put all of his hope into his relationship with Connor’s sister, Zoe. It’s worded weirdly ambiguously because it’s a surprise tool that will help us later. Anyways, Connor freaks out at the idea of Evan writing about his sister, and he takes the letter.

Later Evan gets called into the office to speak to Connor’s parents, because Connor has committed suicide. And on his person is a letter that begins “Dear Evan Hansen.”

So now everyone is convinced he was Connor’s only friend, and that this was Connor’s suicide note. Connor’s family starts asking Evan questions about Connor and instead of explaining the mixup, Evan just ???? Goes with it???????????? He makes up a WHOLE ASS BACKSTORY about his deep friendship with Connor, writes additional Dear Evan Hansen letters, and develops a relationship with Connor’s grieving family.

A person at school (in the musical the character is a girl but in the movie I think the actor is non-binary and I dunno if the character will be or not) sets up a memorial for Connor and asks Evan to speak. He does, someone posts his speech on youtube, and he goes mega viral for talking about the impact Connor had on him. Suddenly a whole campaign starts, around the phrase “You will be found.”

Evan gets super famous, but his mom and his friend uhhh Jared I think is his name have gotten wise and shit is falling apart.

Okay I did have to google a bit for the ending because I blocked it out.

Ultimately Evan confessed what he did to Connor’s family, because the “suicide note” got leaked online and now people blame Connor’s parents. So he comes clean in a way that is like “I’m so sorry, but please consider that I was sad.”

And they’re mad but they don’t pursue it at all or tell anyone about all of his lies because ???? What are consequences???

Evan’s mom finds out that his fall that led to a broken arm was actually a suicide attempt, so she feels guilty and sad for??? Being a single mom and having to work?????

A year later Evan meets up with Zoe who says that actually everything Evan did was okay because it brought her family closer together, and actually thru needed this.

Evan has no consequences, other than feeling kind of guilty, and the show ends with him writing another letter to himself.

So like.

Where do I start? The weird infantilizing bullshit of a sad white boy receiving no consequences for his actions?

The fact that all of the work on “The Connor Project” is done by the show’s one (1) character who is regularly cast as a person of color, who receives no appreciation?

The fact that, oh yeah, it turns out that Connor was emotionally abusing his sister for years, to the point where she has a whole song about how she doesn’t know how to mourn for someone who has caused her so much pain. Evan, aware of this, uses his own ROMANTIC FEELINGS FOR ZOE to come up with a lot of stuff to “prove” that Connor actually cared about her, making her believe that her dead brother who tormented her actually gave a shit, because it helped Evan get a girlfriend. This plot point literally FLABBERGASTS me because I never see anyone talk about it. Also I’m pretty sure the tie-in book tried to retcon this and make it an unreliable narrator thing and in general to make Connor more sympathetic by making him queer???, but it’s never addressed in the musical, so it’s not really possible to consider that canon.

Also Evan sings a song, allegedly from Connor’s perspective, about all the things he (a character who is romantically interested in her) thinks about her....using her dead brother as a mouthpiece???

The fact that Broadway started a whole #youwillbefound movement. That’s right. They started a suicide awareness campaign based off of a COMPLETELY CANONICALLY FAKE CAMPAIGN and people took it seriously, like people who sing The Last Five Years at their weddingsxhhkkgukj

Uhh the fact that the fandom woobifies both Evan and Connor and SHIPS THEM together even though they do not know each other, which is literally the point of the story 🤪🤪🤪

I could go on but damn I’m pissing myself off.

WAIT I forgot to add that @wolfsbaneblooming said she thought the movie trailer was an SNL sketch and she’s RIGHT

Uhh tagging @theclichefortunecookie because I promised an infodump

[harringtonheartache]

Daybreak | Part Twenty-Two

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Lab Escapee! Reader?

Summary: Goal: enter the void. 

Word Count: 3,000 +

Warning(s): Guns/gun violence, cussing

A/N: I return! Let’s fight! The gushy fluffy stuff will follow soon after, don’t worry. 

The wall came down quickly this time; a short rumble that evolved into a strong blast. And then the wall was gone. All four who witnessed it did so only partially, as they flinched hard when it crumbled, and when they looked again it was over. Jonathan tried to put his legs to use, swinging them over couch arms and pillows as he staggered to the rest of the group. 

“Should we expect company?” Hopper called out to whoever would answer. 

There was a growl, a response from the wall itself, and the anticipation was resolved as a familiar no-face emerged from the demolition. It ducked it’s head as if too tall to fit through the entryway, and slime slid off it’s frame like shedded skin. Flaunting its lanky pairs of limbs, it pulled itself up and gave a low growl as if to say: “miss me?”. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Hopper responded. 

He cocked his gun and pointed it sharply, three flinching as an offensively loud shot was taken. 

The bullet was taken right in the mouth by the creature, and it stumbled, a reassurance to the sharp shooter. But it stood straight again a moment after, recovered promptly from it’s mild daze. It shook its head like a wet dog, and in a similar manner, gunk flew from its blurred figure. The growl from before had grown stronger with the creature’s rage, and it howled with matured volume. 

“What is this thing?” 

It wasn’t the first time Hopper asked this question, but it was the first time that the answer was right in front of him. He took two more shots and they landed in roughly the same spot, like the monster had swallowed them. 

Steve curled his hands around his bat, his weapon of choice. One hand was drawn back quickly. Forgotten yet fresh, the cut on his palm stung at his imprudence. He looked to his hand, a spot of red daring to show through the white bandage, then wrapped it around the bat just as firmly as before. 

“Fuck you,” he muttered as he twirled the bat, stepping forwards to strike. 

The creature turned (a new target!) and caught the bat right in the neck. The wood hit with a smack and following came a screech; unhappy. 

“Harrington, take a step back!”

Steve adjusted his footing, but stayed where he was. Another twirl and he landed another hit on the creature’s torso. At this point it was becoming a piñata. 

Jonathan took Steve’s step back for him, then a few extra towards the back of the house. Joyce’s hand, curled into a claw, reached for her son’s fading arm. She turned when it completely slipped from her grip to see him jogging for the backdoor. She began to call out his name, getting through the first three letters before cutting herself off, breath shallow, turning back towards the action. Wobbly stature, she floated in the direction her son disappeared. 

Hopper was grabbing Steve’s shoulder now, first from behind to pull him back, then maneuvering his hand to the kid’s front side to push him backwards. First asking, then taking charge. He tossed the barrel of his gun upwards to grab a hold of it again, aiming and firing another couple shots at his target. Steve threw his shoulders up, flinching, then took a breather as he watched the monster eat a few rounds from Hopper. 

A few seconds longer and Jonathan reappeared behind him, knocking into his mother who had been half-way retreating herself. He gripped her shoulder strongly, then stepped in front of her with his own gun, retrieved from his father’s old shed out back. It was smaller in size compared to Hopper’s, but that made it easier to hold. He fit his hand around the metal with morale that would make you believe he had actually fired the thing more than a handful of times. In some part of his mind more present than he was then, he was grateful that his target was bigger than a tin can. 

“I’m coming in,” he shouted to Hopper.

Taking his turn, he pulled the trigger rapidly, a grimace on his face and ire in his stance. After Jonathan’s fifth fire the creature seemed to have started feeling it, it’s once strong stature beginning to fold. As if restricted by another force, it batted aimlessly at the space before it in a blind attack of desperation. It struck out, though, and it’s sloppy movements began to make the scene look like a drunken bar fight. 

One of it’s excessively long arms crashed into the coffee table beside it. While knocked around a fair amount, the old piece of furniture had managed to come out the other side of the first fight in one piece. Running low on luck, it was flipped with this strike and landed on it’s side in a rough commotion. Broken down the middle and now without one of its stubby legs, the table reflected just about everything else in the home. Cracked and with parts missing, it was a rather fitting analogy for the Byers’ residence. Slid from its surface was a stack of missing posters, and a few of them drifted off underneath the couch.  

Joyce, in an alarming eruption, shouted at the creature before them as if angry for it’s rude behavior. She stepped forwards, and with a rage that had been boiling longer than she had realized, grabbed the gun from her son. He let her take it and forfeited the stage as she lined up her shot, firing more rounds than he had. Almost too fast to qualify as ‘one after another,’ the bullets found their target in a messy smoke show of fury. 

It had taken enough damage, and with a stumble in it’s step it attempted to have one last go at the enemy. It’s feet didn’t land quite right as it moved forward, and as if tripping lazily, it fell to the ground. After it settled, unmoving, another rumble came, and the dazed mistook the sound as one emerging from the creature. The floor began to shake, and one by one they realized that it was whatever force lay inside the wall that had awoken again. 

The creature began to stir and Steve raised his bat with half of a flinch. Against the floor it’s shaking became more violent, a seizure of sorts, but then it was sucked backwards in one grand motion into the void contained within the wall; as if grabbed by the leg and pulled back, but there was no hand around it’s ankle. This outburst of action startled the audience of four and a few of them gasped. 

Steve’s feet staggered, one taking a step forwards and the other staying in place like it disagreed. He turned himself around instead to look at Hopper, his face asking a question his voice couldn’t find. The bat hung from his grip childishly. 

“Okay,” Hopper said. He wondered if he should congratulate the team on their apparent win, then continued without addressing it: “I guess we know where to go”. 

Steve took a survey of the team and locked eyes with Joyce. Coming down from her murderous outburst, still shaken in a manner she might never really recover from, she blinked back at him then turned to her son. “Stay here,” she told him, tone flushed with unease, grateful yet pained in a way she had not yet found the words to express. She opened her mouth to speak again, and though she intended to speak easily her voice hitched innately.

“Keep watch, okay?” Joyce said with a fake sense of calm. 

Hopper, with his pull to leadership, stepped towards the wall. The corners were shrinking inwards, and the burning fear that A.) they’d miss their chance partnered with the fear that B.) they’d get stuck inside. With one hand in front of him he reached an arm inside. The upper half of his forearm disappeared into the dark gap in reality, and the wall stopped shrinking. 

“It won’t close with us inside,” he said to the room. 

Steve, bat still swinging loosely against his legs, stepped aside Hopper. He reached his own hand into the void, and glanced at Hopper with a look on his face that admitted he was still a bit confused. “Why did it close with Nine inside?” he asked. 

“It must have wanted her there,” the man responded, reclaiming his arm and looking back to Joyce still standing with her son behind them. 

“Guard the house,” Joyce said, half-joking to her wet-eyed kid who couldn’t decide if this was an ask he should be compliant with. “We’ll be back, it’s better you’re here to help us out.” He silently agreed, a nod with tight lips, and then leaned forwards to hug his mother. His arms overlapped against her back, and in a moment of peculiar contemplation, Jonathan wondered if they’d still hug this often after things were over. 

Joyce joined the end of the line and Hopper, with a burst of courage as if acting on a dare, stuck one foot into the void. The bottom of his boot splashed in the shallow water beneath his foot, and the corners of his eyes drew in as he squinted at the ground below. He contemplated whether it was still appropriate to question things. Steve, deciding that they were well past that, walked straight into the void through the open area beside Hopper. He kept his bat snug in the grip of his right hand, and it was splashed with water at his sloppy entrance. “Come on,” he said ardently, an expression on his face that asked what was taking them so long. 

Three pairs of feet stood isolated, the only things visible in the stretch of darkness, and then marched forward. No one really took the lead, and instead they walked side-by-side one another as their eyes searched for anything before them. 

“How do we know where we’re going?” Hopper asked, the silence enough to make him question if the other two could see perfectly, and it was only his poor eyesight that left him in the dark. 

“We don’t, I guess. Just keep going, there has to be something here. I watched half of Joyce’s living room get sucked into this place,” Steve said. 

-

Will Byers sat (no longer alone, mind you) wrapped tightly in an abundance of blankets that began to feel decorative against his skin, still cold enough to bring concern to those who felt it. Nine drew a hand away from his cheek, chewed her tongue for a moment, then searched around the fort for another blanket, however feeble, to throw on top of him. Goosebumps began to prick at her own skin, her body settling into the cold as Will’s had done, but she pushed the sensation towards the back of her brain; negligible. 

It startled her when he spoke, though hoarsely, and she turned to his figure, size doubled by layers of cloth. “How are we going to get back? Back home?” he asked her, and she swore her skin reacted, made colder by his words. 

“I-” she began, halting, eyes back on the ground as she continued her search for a blanket as if to show the journey back home was no worry. It was a performance though, and her voice did all but reveal it as she weakly gave an answer. “I’m going to find the entrance again. We’re gonna walk right back into your house.” A smile twitched at her lips, strained, as she looked to the boy again. 

He smiled back at her, performance bought if only out of desperation. “You really came from my living room? Like a portal?” 

Nine grabbed a pillow from the ground, saved from the water as it sat on a plank of wood, and tore the cover off of it. She bent down, one hand with the pillow and the other with the case, and looked warmly into the boy’s eyes. “Just like a portal. I’ll show you soon. You’ll get to go home.” 

She put a hand on his shoulder and brought him forwards with a guiding hand, placing the pillow behind his back and letting him settle against it. Tempted to laugh at the meager piece of cloth left in her hands, she took the pillowcase and draped it over his shoulders. How much could he weigh? 80 pounds? 85? She calculated quickly. Maybe she should add an extra pound or few for the blankets. She could carry a kid that small, right? She wasn’t sure there was an option left that didn’t require it. 

“When are we going to go?”

His energy to ask questions seemed to come from the adrenaline brought by another person’s presence. Nine rubbed her hands up and down his shoulders swiftly, hoping that her dwindling body heat may transfer to him as she did, and looked to his ghostly face once more. 

“Soon,” she said. “I just want you to warm up a bit first.” They smiled kindly at one another. 

-

“This isn’t encouraging,” Hopper said as he walked, talking if only to remind his teammates the gravity of their situation. “We’re keeping the… door... within eyesight, right?” he said, voice bordering on frantic, unwillingly comedic. He turned around to look behind him, eyeing a dull light somewhere in the distance that he told himself he wouldn’t let get any more dull. 

“Look,” Steve said, pointing with his bat, looking around at the faces of those following him. He spoke with exclamation the second time he said it, letting himself get excited for a moment. 

Ahead of them a forming fog, a brightening light, and figure something like the ghost of a house. Steve smiled, slightly exasperated, looking between it and the other’s confused expressions. He ditched them after another second, taking off in the direction of his materialized hope. 

“Hey!” Hopper called out after him, but Joyce followed, and then so did he. 

Steve tossed the door open then entered without a second thought. “Nine!” he called out, her name an expectation rather than a question, like he had already decided she was there. His feet dashed around the house, circling through the kitchen then bounding down the hallway. “Nine! We-” He opened a door to an empty bedroom. “We’re here! Where are you?” He moved to a second room, nothing but genuine belief that she’d be behind one of the doors in this house. He said her name again as Joyce and Hopper arrived at the house’s entryway. “Will?!” Joyce called out. The two names mixed together as both were shouted throughout the house that was thick in shadows. No one was there to claim them, though, and that dawning realization brought the search party back to the living room. 

“How are they not here? It’s the only fucking place in this place? How-” Steve turned in a circle like he could had missed her, sitting in some corner he’d overlooked. 

“Hey, hey! Calm down, everybody. This is just the first place we’ve found.” Hopper said. Joyce looked away defeatedly. 

Steve was starting to look unhinged. “It’s the only place we’ve found!” He paused. “I-”

A heavy sloshing was heard in the distance, a slow but repeated pace echoing a sound caught only by Steve. Hopper, grateful for his silence but naturally troubled by it as well, looked down at him expectantly. “Wha-”

“Shh-” Steve started to shush Hopper, then pushed past him instead to rush towards the house’s front door, still hanging open from their intrusion. 

Despite the minimal light creeping out from the house, the figure walking up towards what would (normally) be the Byers’ front yard was hard to make out in the dark. 

Arms wrapped securely under Will’s weight shook desperately with each step forward. Steve was standing on the front porch when the light finally caught up to the figure before him: Nine, slouched yet trying hard to stand tall with a bundle of eleven-year-old in her arms. She was the only thing visible outside the house, a long strip of light obstructed only by Steve’s silhouette engulfing her completely now. Behind him and on either side, Joyce and Hopper turned to his stall in movement. 

Nine drew her head up, long blinks between squinting making her unable to react before Steve was running, all but stumbling down the steps in his feverish dash to reach her. Water flung from his legs as they were thrown in long strides. Her grip on the boy tightened, determined not to drop him in the commotion that her daze left her unable to read appropriately. Part of her gave into believing it was Steve, and the other half was convinced it was a hallucination. Get to the house, her only self-given instruction, still looped in her head. 

Joyce, with a startled sob, followed Steve now. He reached Nine first, and with his own tears brimming he grabbed for her shoulders to steady her. She felt like she was sleepwalking, but upon seeing Joyce’s face, let up on her hold on Will. Joyce took him into her own arms, relieving Nine and clutching her son: seemingly weightless to her despite his very real presence. 

Nine sighed — the only sound close to a response she could manage, or maybe it was just a reaction — and with Will’s weight removed, her legs began to feel numb. As if the fog around her had made its way into her head, the surrounding people started to feel less than there. Steve moved now, unobstructed by the kid no longer in her arms, to grab for Nine’s other shoulder. Her legs folded before he got a good hold of her, though, and she teetered over as he tried to keep up with her crash. 

She landed on the ground, her fall half-broken by Steve’s rapid motion that managed him under a portion of her upper half. With panicked breathing he readjusted himself to plant her on his lap. He sat up on his knees, turning to glance behind him before returning to drag his eyes over Nine’s face. He gripped onto the fabric of his own sweatshirt as the person who wore it exhaled with fading strength in her breath. 

---

A/N: FLUFF COMING SOON PROMISE

Tag List: @ggclarissa @gurl-ly @alewifex @we-are-band-sexuals @cpt-lamby @l0ve-0f-my-life @easvtohate @used-avocado @kwyloz @itzpikapie@samwise-babeyy @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @mochminnie @peterwandaparker @ayamecrevan @lilyhw1 @seninjakitey @lulurose17 @write-from-the-heart @marvelouspottering @hargreevelr @sledgy14 @stranger-names @pradaxstyles @im-a-stranger-thing @fancytravelerbird @queenofthehairharrington @blahhhhhhhaaa @prettysbliss  @lolychu​ @crimesolvin​ @kik51199​ @androgynousplaidpeanutlawyer 

[twokinkybeans]

Hello! I absolutely love all of your stories! I have a request, can you do a Starker story where Peter and his class go on a field trip to stark tower? I don’t really mind what happens there I just really want to see the ship. If you can thanks so much 💗

CHAPTER 2: BACKPACK

(Read chapter 1: Science Rules on Tumblr / AO3)

Summary: Peter is 14. Recently got his Spider powers and is no longer friends with Flash. Ned is in the picture. They go on a high school excursion and Peter is set on finding Tony to ask if he can join the Avengers. Side note: Tony is not romantically/sexually interested in Peter until chapter 3, when they are in an established relationship. Warnings: Angst. They talk about death whilst not actually mentioning it. Flash is an absolute asshole as always.

Rating: Mature (just to be sure for later on lol).

I actually had this one finished last Sunday but never got around to posting it. It isn’t edited at all, so I hope you enjoy! :P -Lien

“Mister Thompson, if you don’t take a seat this instant, it’ll be detention for you,” Mister Harrington threatens. Flash immediately presses his ass back into his seat and grins at Peter from a distance. They might resent each other now, but their infinite common interest in science, technology and Tony Stark has never faded. They don’t really talk to each other anymore and Peter is not expecting their broken friendship to ever be mended. Not with how Flash treats him these days, at least. The first cracks in their friendship appeared during their last visit to Stark Industries, when Flash became jealous of Peter for spending time with Tony. Flash’s behavior completely changed with his growing popularity at Midtown High. With regards to friendships, he ended up choosing quantity over quality. This resulted in him attempting to gain the schoolkids’ favors by bullying. Since Peter used to be his friend, he became an easy target. Peter might miss what they once had, but at least he managed to trade his friendship with Flash for an even better one. Ned Leeds enabled his geeky side and ever since the boy had helped Peter up after Flash had pushed him to the floor the first time, they became inseparable. Obviously, the school wanted to go to Avengers Tower to get them interested in pursuing careers in science and technology. Something both Ned and Peter already kind of were. As excited as everyone was to get a look inside the labs and workshops, there is a significantly higher interest in getting a glimpse of not just Tony Stark, but of any of the Avengers, now that Stark Tower has been rebirthed as Avengers Tower. However, there was another occupation that Peter also took interest in now that he had gained his Spider powers a little over half a year ago. Becoming an Avenger was his number one career dream. He’d no longer just help the little guy. He’d be able to help everyone. There’s nothing Peter wanted more than to run into Tony again like he did when they had the class trip in middle school. Maybe Peter could train under him? Learn from him? Tony would be the Master to his Padawan. He’d be an Avenger. All he needed right now was the courage to actually ask. Well, he’d have to find Tony- or any Avenger for that matter- first. … The second they set foot in the building, Peter grabs his bag and takes out the Science Rules cap that he wore as a child. He didn’t expect Tony to actually recognize him after all these years, but at least he has one point of reference he could fall back on. Security reminds him he’s not allowed to wear the cap inside, so he opts to attach it to his belt and have it hang from his hip. Flash makes an off-handed comment about it, but Peter ignores him. It still baffles Peter that Flash seems to feel no remorse for joking about the cap that he knows was Peter’s father’s. After the first two hours of the excursion Peter already starts losing hope. Most locations they go to are quite secluded and it’s not easy to get away from the security’s watchful eyes. They had to put their bags in a locker room earlier, so save for his web shooters, Peter couldn’t show Tony the suit he'd so proudly put together. If he would ever run into him. After hour three they’re finally allowed to go into the labs and actually do some tests themselves. Most of the materials they work with are quite harmless. The only thing that really could hurt them if they’re not careful is the bottle of slightly diluted bleach on their desks. At least all of the students want to make a good impression on Stark’s scientists, so they’re all on their best behavior. Everyone, but… “Whoopsies,” Flash deadpans next to Peter. The teen looks up surprised from his own workbench to see Flash, who is stationed next to him, purposefully elbow the bleach bottle. The opening up top is small, but some of the liquid still splashes out of it. Onto Peter’s hip. Peter stares at the cap that now has bleach splattered all over it and then back up at Flash who grins. “Guess it really is a one of a kind now.” Peter runs away from his spot to one of the security guards. He doesn’t trust himself to not start crying if he actually takes time to ask his question properly so all he can blurt out is: “Toilet?” The guard sees Peter’s panic and lets him out. “Uh, there’s one on the left right there.” “Th-thank-“ Water. Peter needs water right now. Needs to wash it out, even though the fabric is already lightening. Who knows, maybe he could wash it out with the tears that are forming in the corners of his eyes. He rushes and throws open the door, immediately starting the stream of water and shoving the cap under it. The further he can dilute the bleach, the better. His left hand clutches the little tag on the inside in an attempt to keep anything from spilling into it and messing up his father’s handwriting. A soft sob escapes his throat, but he’s startled to hear a urinal flush in one of the stalls. He sniffs and attempts to wipe away the tears with the elbow of his shirt. When he hears the door unlock he looks down in a half-assed attempt to focus on cleaning the cap. He bites on the inside of his cheek and clenches his jaw, feeling the presence of the man from the stall emerge. The man casually washes his hands next to Peter but his movement suddenly halts. “Peter?” Peter could recognize that voice in his sleep. His heart beats loudly in his chest and the world is spinning. He blinks before whipping his head up to lock eyes with Tony Stark. “Jeez, you’ve grown.” The man’s brows curl together at the look on Peter’s face. The boy breaks eye contact and looks forward into the mirror, only to realize his cheeks are red and his eyes are puffed. “What the hell happened?” There’s a moment of silence. Peter barely realizes that Tony recognized him. Knows him, still. Is concerned for him. Peter’s mouth opens and closes and he takes a breath before looking back down at the cap and continuing to attempt to wash out the bleach. “Bleach,” he mumbles. “Didn’t take you to be that clumsy.” “Wasn’t wearing it.” “Still.” Peter scrubs more aggressively now, tears threatening to spill again. He’s making a fool of himself and he wishes he could just disappear. “Hey,” Tony says quietly. “Hey-“ Peter’s eyes widen at a hand suddenly holding onto his lower arm. Peter’s frozen where he stands and can only watch defeated as Tony turns off the tap. Only now he feels how wet his cheeks are. When did he start crying again? “Damage’s already been done.” Tony takes the cap out of Peter’s hands and studies the lightened splotches on the front. “Don’t you think this looks cool?” He tries. “Don’t want it to look cool.” “I’m sure your dad won’t-“ Tony stops himself, knowing exactly why he shouldn’t finish his thought. He sucks at his teeth and looks away. “Sorry, how’s your mom?” Peter nearly laughs at Tony’s inability to read the room. “She was with him.” Mortified at his previous decision on how to continue the conversation, Tony takes a step back. Peter looks down at his wet hands and adds: “It’s okay.” “To be honest, no, not really. Are you taken care of?” “My aunt.” “Didn’t Richard have a brother?” Peter looks up again and grimaces, feeling like every word falling from Tony’s lips is a stab to the heart. “Fuck, I’m-“ “It’s okay.” “It’s not.” Tony shakes his head and moves closer to Peter again. “I’m sorry, kid.” The man scoffs. “I used to be better at this… Well, no actually, that’s a lie.” Peter swallows as the two just stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, neither of them sure where to go with this. The boy then clears his throat and moves to stand up straight. “I am, eh… Here on another excursion.” “High school this time, I presume? Or are you in uni already?” “Parents wanted me to have a somewhat normal childhood, so they didn’t want me to get ahead that far. My aunt honors that wish.” Peter now properly washes his hands, since his hands had started to tingle from the bleach. “Aren’t you bored out of your mind, then?” Peter raises his eyebrows and chuckles. “Maybe.” Tony’s wrist beeps and he takes a glance at his watch, sighing exasperated. He heads for the door and hands Peter the cap back on his trek. “Pete, I’m sorry, I gotta go. Give reception a call-“ No, is all Peter can think. Before he can form a rational though, he reaches out and webs Tony’s hand to the door handle, locking both of them in the bathroom. Tony stares down at the substance keeping the door shut and his hand attached to it. “What the-“ “I want to join the Avengers.” Peter is ready to hit himself in the head. That question was way too direct and now he’s really done it. Tony laughs surprised. “Oh, bother. You’re Spider-Guy?” Peter’s eyes widen. The man hadn’t said no. “Spider-Man.” “Right.” “Wait, aren’t you fourteen?” Tony asks confused. Peter’s aware his physique as Spider-Man is wildly different from what he appears as in daily life. “And a half.” “Kid, if that really is you, you need to stop before you get in over your head, okay?” Tony wants to step towards him, but is held back by the webbing. “You think I’m lying?” Peter crosses his arms offended. “Well, no, but-“ The billionaire shakes his head at the substance and scoffs. “You’re putting yourself in danger when you shouldn’t.” “I’m not stopping.” “What- are you an adrenaline junkie? Please, don’t tell me you’re doing this because of me. It’s not worth it, I promise you.” Peter stares at the wet cap in his hands. “Not everything’s about you.” He wishes he swallowed those words, but Tony seemed to be self- aware enough, taking the comment somewhat gracefully. “Then what is it about?” “Half a year ago I got these… Powers.” Peter raises his hands up to look at them and sighs. “I’m stronger and faster… And I- well…” He trails off and pulls his face together in a frown. “When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t, and then the bad things happen? They happen because of you.” “As inspiring as that is, you shouldn’t be doing any of the stuff I’ve seen in those videos.” Tony’s pulls at his wrist and swears silently. “Jesus, what is this made of?” “You… Watched the videos?” “Yeah, kid, I did, now please get this stuff off me?” “Right! It usually dissolves after two to three hours, but I have a dissolver in…” Peter falls silent as he realizes that what he needs is locked away by security. “Kid,” Tony threatens. “My backpack.”

[kikis-writing-world]

Weapons Training

Summary: Agent Whiskey has another encounter with the woman who took his watch.

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Female OC (Future Agent Brandy)

Word Count: ~2000

Rating/Warnings: PG, but overall SFW - Whiskey has some dirty thoughts.

Author’s Note: Another installment of Agent Brandy - reuploaded because tumblr mobile thought an edit meant “oh, okay, I’ll delete this whole post!” Punk ass bitch... Anyway, as mentioned before, not all the drabbles in this universe will be strictly chronological.

First part here!

The memo went out a week or so after Whiskey’s encounter with (the pickpocket) the hopeful agent: The recruitment session was over and two new agents would soon be joining their ranks. The next several days for the recruits would be spent honing their expertise to find out where they were best suited. Whiskey knew the board was hoping for at least one new field agent, but there were also the behind the scenes crews, like R&D or Medical, that were eager for recruits as well. Whiskey didn’t even know the girl’s name to find out if she’d passed recruitment, let alone find out where she’d land. What was he supposed to say? “The girl who swiped my watch from under my nose? Yeah, keep her away from me.” He’d never do that for two major reasons:

1. He’d have to admit that she’d fooled him, and 2. He absolutely wanted to see her again - just maybe at a safe distance this time.

His wish was granted a few days later as he saw her. She was dressed like an agent this time - That answered his question on whether she’d passed recruitment or not. Her hair braided over her right shoulder, white button up shirt under a dark grey vest and matching dress pants. He caught sight of the way the pants hugged her ass and thighs before losing her around the corner.

Before he even realized it where his feet were taking him, he was following her around the corner and into the weapons testing department. Had he noticed, he might have come up with a plan of what he was going to say or do once they were face to face. Instead, he just stared at her as she turned to see who had joined her in the room.

“Agent Whiskey.” She greeted cordially, nothing like the bashful, flirty woman she’d been at the elevator. Where before she seemed nearly starstruck, now she couldn’t care less that he was near.

“Sunshine,” he greeted in turn. While the sight of the woman didn’t brighten his day nearly as much as she had the first time they met, he knew the nickname would serve as a reminder. It let her know that he hadn’t forgotten that first encounter. The nickname made her grin wickedly. “I s’pose a congratulations is in order.”

She nodded appreciatively, “and I thank you for your help in that matter.”

Whiskey tried to hold in his outburst, feeling his face tinting red at the strain. His infamous temper won out however as he strode towards her, pointing in her face. “You stole my watch!”

“Borrowed.” She seemed unfazed at Whiskey’s annoyance, turning away from the Agent to peruse the weapons along the walls of the armory. “I had every intention of giving it back once I was done with it.” She glanced at him, looking for the shine of the watch under his sleeve. “And I do see it’s been returned to its place.”

He glared at her as she returned to looking at the weapons, her fingers skimming over a shotgun before passing it over. “You think you’re mighty clever don’t you, darlin’?”

“Only compared to some.” She shrugged, taking a knife off the wall to examine.

“I hope you’re not meaning me,” his voice held a sharp tone of warning as his footsteps mirrored hers, not letting her get too far away from him.

“If the watch fits.” She teased, sparing him a glance over her shoulder with a dazzling grin. He felt his ire flare up again, but he didn’t want to show her that she was still getting under his skin.

“How about a little friendly competition then?” He suggested, looking pointedly at one of the doors that led out of the armory. Behind it held one of the training rooms: built to survive just about any thrashing an Agent could dole out with any Statesman issued weapon, and with enough technology to create practice simulations and measure intricate readings.

“What do you suggest, Agent Whiskey?” She asked, turning to face him. He definitely held her interest now.

Whiskey grinned triumphantly, crossing the room to pull a whip down from it’s display. It wasn’t his personal whip, the one he knew like an extension of his own arm, but it was similar enough. “A little target practice. Weapon of choice, of course.”

She watched as he clipped the whip to his belt before she looked over the room. If he was honest, her wide eyes made her look like a kid in a candy store. He wondered if she’d choose something she was familiar with, trying her best to beat him, or pick something exciting that she couldn’t help but want to get her hands on. New agents could be so fickle.

She picked up a revolver and tested its weight in her hands. She slipped the holster around her waist with practiced ease. He had to admit, it was a good choice. A weapon he’d used many times before.

“Let’s do this.” She goaded, passing him to saunter confidently into the room. Whiskey chuckled at her smugness, following her in and pressing a few buttons on the screen to set the scenario.

Twelve holographic targets popped up throughout the room, split symmetrically down the middle with six on each side.

“Weapons holstered. Computer will count us down on my mark. Fastest to get all targets wins.” He explained calmly.

“On your mark, then.” She nodded, turning to focus on the field ahead of her.

Whiskey watched her for a moment, taking in her profile. Her muscles were tense, poised and ready to strike. She rolled her neck and wiggled her fingers to loosen up as her eyes darted between targets.

He turned to his own field and signaled for the computer to count down. A robotic voice echoed through the room.

3… 2… 1…

The loud buzzing was drowned out quickly. Gunshots rang as the whip cracked. A few seconds and it was all over.

The back wall illuminated with the times for each side of the room, Whiskey’s time blinking to indicate a winner - by only a few tenths of a second. He grinned triumphantly as she huffed.

“How the fuck do you out-whip a damned revolver?” She cursed, making him chuckle.

“Well, if you ask nicely, maybe I’ll show you.” He couldn’t stop his voice from slipping into that flirtatious drawl from the first day they met, adrenaline still coursing through him from the rapid attack.

“Really? Even after I took your watch?” She questioned cautiously.

“I thought you only borrowed it.” He joked. “C’mere.” He nodded for her to stand with him. She holstered the gun that had just finished smoking, and crossed the room. He grabbed her upper arms, turning her so that her back was to her front. She stumbled slightly with the suddenness of the movement, falling backwards into his chest.

“Right-handed?” He asked, breath tickling her neck. He already knew the answer from watching her shoot. She nodded in affirmative and he gave her the whip to hold in her right hand, covering it in his own. He took her left wrist in his other hand to hold her in place, kicking her feet gently to move them into the proper position. “Good. Now swing it over your head a bit, get a feel for it.” He told her, swinging their connected hands. She tilted her head upwards as she watched the whip. “Get used to the feel of it, the ridges of the handle, the weight of the thong.”

“The what?!” She tried to step away from him, but his left arm circled her waist quickly, keeping her in place and holding her tightly against him.

“That’s what it’s called, Sunshine. Don’t shoot the messenger.” He chuckled, ignoring how soft she felt against him. He watched as she swallowed hard, her throat bobbing with the effort. Once he was sure she wasn’t going to run again, he returned his left hand to hers.

“That’s it.” He mumbled as he sensed her relax again. “You ready?”

She didn’t have time to answer before he snapped his wrist, the motion so familiar to him that he was sure he could do it in his sleep. Her hand dragged along with his, moving the whip as it sliced through the air. The telltale crack echoed through the room, making her jump.

“Holy shit!” She cursed loudly, jumping away from him. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the now immobile whip hanging from her hand. “That’s intense!”

He laughed at her reaction, the spark in her eye. “It’s an underestimated weapon,” he agreed, holding out his hand. “But you can feel how much power it has.”

She nodded in agreement as she handed the whip back. “That was amazing. Thank you.” She smiled gratefully at him, and it almost made him feel bad for the anger he’d held for her, for wanting some kind of revenge.

“What else you trainin’ with? Other than a six shooter?” He asked as he hung his own weapon back onto his belt.

“Other guns, I tried out some blades but they’re not really my style.” She shrugged. “I’m good with explosives, but sometimes you need finesse.”

“What about your watch?” His question made her glance at the watch on her wrist. It was very similar to Whiskey’s own watch, but they had styled it to look more feminine. His watch would have looked bulky on her tiny wrist, but this one fit well. “You go around borrowing things, you oughta know how to use ‘em.” He teased.

“I’m getting used to it.”

“Show me?” He moved to the touch screen to set up a new training scenario. Holograms filled the room, silhouettes of 3 people walking around. Two were blue, while one was outlined in red. They walked in random patterns so that she would have to watch, wait, and make sure her shot was clear. “Paralyze the red target.”

“I can do that.” She hummed to herself, getting into position and holding up her watch. She clicked the outer frame of the watch to the proper setting - level of force: paralysis. He watched her eyes darting between the figures, waiting for her opportunity. He tried to keep himself still, silent, not wanting to throw her off.

She tapped the button watch, eyes on the red hologram. The room made no noise - nothing to indicate she’d hit the target or accidentally got a bystander instead. Her eyebrows furrowed.

“What ha-” She started to ask before she blinked several times. Whiskey grinned as she looked down, seeing the paralytic dart sticking out of her own right shoulder. She slumped to the floor, no doubt already feeling the chemical take over her arms and legs. “What?”

“Ah, rookie mistake.” He cooed innocently, kneeling down next to her. “Bet you accidentally switched your watch. Probably thinks you’re left-handed.” He picked up her wrist to show her the watch, her arm limp in his grip. “If it thinks you’re wearing it on your right hand, any weapons adjust accordingly.” He pointed out the tiny, pin-sized hole the dart had come out of, pointing back at her instead of out past her fingertips.

“You…” She was having trouble lifting her head. He dropped her arm, helping to lay her prone in a more comfortable position.

“Don’t worry. It’ll wear off in an hour or so, you’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll even tip someone off that you’re in here.”

She grumbled unintelligibly, unable to talk as the paralysis took over her tongue. If looks could kill, well he might not be dead but he would certainly have a few new scars on his pretty face. He stood over her, making a show of polishing his watch with his opposite sleeve.

“You messed with my watch, I messed with yours. Now we’re even, Sunshine.”

He tilted his hat at her before strolling away, whistling a happy tune. On his way to his office, he hinted to a passing R&D agent that the new recruit had gone into weapons training and someone should probably peek in to make sure she hadn’t hurt herself.

He was going to get chewed out for sure, but it was oh so worth it.

tagging: @wickedfrsgrl​

[writingblock101]

Black Hawk Down (Dick Grayson x Reader)

I thought of the title before I thought of your superhero name and I think the pun would make Dick Grayson proud. 

Summary: “Please do a Dick Grayson imagine where the reader is also a superhero and gets seriously injured by Deathstroke.”

Word Count: 2,300

Warnings: Violence, injury, gore (blood and such) 

Tags: @eternaleviee​ @idkmanicantenglish​

You dodge the onslaught of bullets, flipping a table to use as cover then brace your feet on the table, and kick forward as hard as you can, sending the table flying into the bodyguard. He grunts, slamming into the wall, pinned by the table while you unsheath a throwing knife and throw with damn near perfect precision into another bodyguard’s hand, holding a gun. 

The man drops the gun with a scream, giving you the opportunity to charge him and drop your elbow on his collarbone, shattering it. You grab the table Eddie “Slug” Gange is hiding behind and chuck it away, but he greets you with a gun, shooting you in the shoulder. Thanks to your armor, the bullet doesn’t break skin, but it’ll leave one hell of a bruise. 

You growl to yourself and roundhouse the gun out of Gange’s hand then punch him in the face, sending him to the ground. He scrambles to an upright sitting position, using his feet to push him backward while nursing a broken nose. 

“Stay the fuck away from me!” He growls. “Do you know who you’re messing with?!” 

You roll your eyes and seize the front of his shirt, dragging him to his feet. 

“Yeah, you’re Eddie Gange, one of the biggest drug dealers in Bludhaven.” 

Across Bludhaven, Nightwing is taking down the distribution warehouse while you took on the main meth lab where Gange himself overlooked operations once a month. Together, you two were conducting the largest drug bust in Bludhaven ever, an operation which Nightwing fondly refers to as Operation Breaking Bad. 

“The question is,” You tilt your head. “Do you know who you’re messing with?” 

“Ooh, how dark and mysterious of you, Black Hawk,” Nightwing says in your ear. 

You roll your eyes behind the mask, unsurprised by his comment. 

“I’ve got men deeper in this city than you can even fathom,” Gange hisses. “They’ll come after you if anything happens to me.” 

“Yeah, not the first time I’ve gotten that threat,” You punch Gange in the face, sending him to the floor then drag him to his feet again. “Just be glad I’m not Red Hood because he isn’t as kind to drug dealers as I am.” 

Before Gange can open his mouth to remark, a bullet shoots through your shoulder and into Gange’s shoulder. You drop Gange in surprise and pain, leaving him screaming on the floor, while you hold your now bleeding shoulder and look behind you for the sniper. Another shot fires through the warehouse, just above your head. A warning shot. 

“Shit!” You curse, shoving Gange behind a table then positioning yourself over him. 

You pull Gange to an upright sitting position against the wall, your body between him in the table, acting as another shield to him then you pull gauze out of your utility belt and begin packing Gange’s shoulder. 

“Ah!” He moans in pain. “What the hell?! I thought you said you didn’t bring Red Hood!” 

“I didn’t,” You growl, holding more pressure on Gange’s shoulder. 

Besides, shooting through an ally isn’t Jason’s style. This is someone else, someone with armor-piercing bullets and one hell of a shot. There are only two people who fit that description, and neither of them are good. 

“What’s going on?” Nightwing asks in your ear, the sound of fighting barely audible in the background. 

“When’s the last time we heard from Floyd?” You ask Nightwing, finishing your wrappings on Gange’s shoulder. 

Another shot fires through the table, this time through your opposite shoulder and into Gange’s opposite shoulder. 

“Ah, fuck!” You cry in pain, your hand going to your other shoulder. 

“Is Floyd there?!” 

Before you can answer Nightwing, the table is ripped away. You turn in your low crouch to face the shooter, still shielding Gange, knives in both hands. 

“No,” You say flatly, staring up at the shooter. “It’s someone worse.” 

“Black Hawk,” Deathstroke greets calmly. “I see you’ve found my contract.” 

“Deathstroke,” You straighten, standing protectively between the mercenary and Gange. 

“Did you just say Deathstroke?!” 

“I’m not here to kill you, kid. Get out of the way, and we’ll avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.” 

“Not going to happen,” You growl, tightening your grip on your knives. 

“Black Hawk, be careful,” Nightwing insists. 

You throw your first knife into Slade’s shoulder and the second into his knee then dive forward, roundhousing the knife further into his knee. Deathstroke falters for a moment, his knee giving out, but he yanks the knife out of his knee and swipes at you, slicing across your leg. You roll back in front of Gange, knives in both of your hands again, but Deathstroke simply straightens and pulls the knife from his shoulder, letting it fall to the ground. 

“As much as I would enjoy dragging this out,” Deathstroke pulls a gun from his thigh holster. “I’m a busy man.” 

His finger pulls the trigger as your knife leaves your hand. As the bullet tears through your chest and exits your body only to bury itself into Gange’s heart, your knife rips through the thick skin of Deathstroke’s neck. He curses, hand covering the blood leaking from his neck while you collapse onto your knee, holding your chest. 

“Was that a gunshot?! Black Hawk, are you hit?” 

Shit. You whip around to see blood leaking from Gange’s chest. Fuck, no! You crawl on your knees to him, ignoring the deep burn in your chest from the multiple bullet holes. Gange twitches as blood leaks from his heart, coughing wetly. You kneel on the wound while preparing gauze to stop the blood flow, Gange weakly protesting underneath you. 

“Call EMT,” You tell Nightwing through gritted teeth then shut off your comm. 

While Nightwing has every right to be concerned, you know Deathstroke isn’t here to kill you, so the last thing you need is Nightwing in your ear. 

You remove your knee and start packing the wound, your shoulders burning and your chest aching, but you ignore the burn, focusing on the task at hand. Deathstroke sighs behind you. 

“You really don’t stop, do you, kid?” 

You ignore him, continuing to pack the wound, your collection of gauze running low. 

“That’s pointless and you know it,” He crosses his arms. “You don’t have enough gauze to pack a chest wound.” 

He’s right. But you ignore the logical side of you that knows packing a chest wound is next to impossible given the large size of the thoracic cavity and continue making an effort. Maybe you can stop the blood flow enough for someone to get here. 

You vaguely hear the sound of a sword being unsheathed, but before you can react, there’s something sharp cutting deeply across your ribs. Gasping in pain, your hand quickly covers the large wound, pain shooting through your body. 

Warm blood trickles down your side and every breath burns. You cough wetly, fire stroking up your ribs as you try to breathe. With every small movement in your chest, another shot of pain stabs your lunges and your ribs. You shutter as a large spout of blood gushes for a moment, causing you to fall forward, your arm barely catching you from face planting. There’s a hand on your shoulder, carefully easing you to the ground. 

“Breathe, kid,” Deathstroke gruffly tells you. 

You want to scream that you can’t breathe as everything in your chest tightens, but you only let out a pained groan. Your chest pulses with pain, your blood staining the ground around you. You feel your hair and the back of your neck becoming wet, soaked with blood. You hear another gunshot, probably Deathstroke killing Gange. You try to open your mouth to protest, but it comes out as a wet cough, more blood oozing from your side and your shoulders. As another shot of pain spikes through your chest, you can’t help the whimper that leaves your lips. 

“I told you to stay out of my way,” Deathstroke growls, lifting your wrist and hitting the distress signal on your gauntlet then he disappears. 

Your head swims as another wave of pain wracks through your body. Slowly, you raise a shaking hand and click your comm back on. At the sound of your comm coming back online, you hear Nightwing let out a sigh of relief. 

“I hate when you do that,” He grumbles. 

You chuckle weakly, but it turns into a wet cough, tightening and pulling everything in your chest. A sob wracks your body, tightening everything again. You wheeze, trying to pull a full breath in, but your ribs protest at the movement. 

“Black Hawk, breath. Okay? I need you to breathe, I’m on my way, I got your distress signal,” Nightwing orders. 

“W-wing,” You manage to say. “Gange is-is dead.” 

“It’s okay, just keep breathing okay. Keep your eyes open.” 

You whimper again as another wave of pain rolls through you, dark spots spotting the ceiling. Dark spots? Where did those come from? Is there something in your mask? You try lifting your hand to brush away whatever is in your mask, but pain shoots down your arm, making you cry out. 

The dark spots get larger and everything feels fuzzy. Distantly you hear a loud roar. A lion? No… Why would a lion be in Bludhaven? That roar is familiar. A black and blue face appears above you. 

No, not blue. That’s a mask. Nightwing. He tries to say something but it sounds like he’s underwater. You feel something heavy on your chest, then something tight binding it. There’s a loud ringing in your ears and it feels as if your head is filled with cotton. 

Blue and red flash outside. An explosion? Nightwing looks over his shoulder toward the light then grimaces. He says something else to you, something about… Breathing? Who knows. There’s something behind your legs then you’re in the air. Pain shoots through your chest, but you’re leaning against something warm. No, someone. Black and blue-- ah, Nightwing. 

Your vision blurs then another wave of pain wrecks your chest and everything goes dark. 

. . . 

You open your eyes to the smell of breakfast. Your head still feels fuzzy, but you’re coherent enough to know you’re in Dick’s apartment. You try to sit up, but your chest, now wrapped in gauze, protests, causing you to let out a groan. 

Dick, who was listening for you, rushes into the room, his face flooding with relief. 

“Thank God, you’re awake,” He helps you sit upright, resetting your pillows so you can lay back then hugs you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Ho-ow long have I been o-ut?” Your voice cracks. 

Dick reaches for the glass of water sitting on your nightstand. You gratefully down half the glass, Dick carding his fingers through your hair. 

“How long have I been out?” You ask again, your voice much less hoarse. 

“About forty-eight hours. You lost a lot of blood and needed a blood transfusion.” 

You spot a bandaid in the crook of Dick’s elbow. 

“Aw, did you give me blood?” 

“Of course,” Dick grins, leaning forward and kissing your forehead. “Overcame my fear of needles and everything.” 

“How brave,” You chuckle, but it pulls at your ribs, making you wince instead. 

Dick frowns, looking around for something he might be able to give you, but you put a hand on his thigh. 

“I’m okay. Thank you. You didn’t do all this yourself, did you?” You ask, gesturing to the bandages. 

“No, definitely not. I’m good, but I’m not that good. Dr. Leslie came by, speaking of which, I’ll have to call her soon and let her know you’re awake. How are you feeling?” 

You shrug. 

“I’ve felt better before,” You admit. “Did they shut down the rest of Gange’s operations?” 

“Yep,” Dick nods. “And arrested a handful of his dealers. Bludhaven PD is looking for Deathstroke, but they’re not going to find him,” His expression goes dark. 

You sigh, feeling the same guilt that Dick does. It was an oversight, really. You two should’ve checked if there were any contracts out for Gange. Given how successful he was in Bludhaven, there was sure to be someone who did not appreciate his success. 

“Deathstroke is the one who hit the distress signal,” You tell Dick. 

His eyebrows go up for a moment but he just sighs and shakes his head. 

“I will never understand him. He’ll shoot through you to kill someone, cut your side open, but will make sure you can get help.” 

“Slade Wilson is a confusing person,” You agree. 

“Yeah,” Dick says quietly, then looks over at you, smiling softly. 

He rests a hand on your cheek then kisses you gently, resting his forehead against yours. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, you really scared me,” He admits. 

You place your hand on top of his and kiss him again. 

“I know, but I’m okay.” 

“I love you,” He says quietly. 

“I love you too,” You say back with a grin. 

Dick sits back, running his fingers through your hair again. 

“Are you hungry? I made breakfast.” 

“Yeah, eating something is probably a good idea.” 

“Do you want to eat in here, or in the kitchen?” 

“Honestly, I don’t want to be in bed, but logically I know that’s a bad idea.” 

Dick chuckles. 

“Probably not. We’ll have breakfast in bed.” 

He kisses the top of your head then goes into the kitchen to make two plates. When he returns, you turn on the TV and pick a light-hearted show while you two sit in bed and eat eggs and bacon. 

Once you finish eating and the plates are discarded to the side, you curl up against Dick, your head on his chest and his arm around your shoulders holding you close. He knows he needs to call Dr. Leslie, but you’re alive, in his arms, and he just wants to hold onto that peace a little longer. He kisses the top of your head and tightens his arm around you, releasing any lingering fear and tension in his shoulders. 

You’re the Black Hawk. It’s going to take a lot more than Deathstroke’s sword to kill you, especially if Dick has anything to do with it. 

Y’all really like Dick Grayson cause the next few requests are about him (Don’t worry, I’ll still be hitting Jason ones and the other bat brothers). Anyways, a disclaimer-- I’ve never watched Titans. I want to, but I can’t find it anywhere so y’all get a mixture of characters based off the comics, Teen Titans, Young Justice, and my own thoughts-- for example, Deathstroke. 

[iron--spider]

four photographs

In honor of Father’s Day. Tony Stark displaying very Dad-like tendencies when it comes to one Peter Parker. No Endgame spoilers

----

1.

“How many are you gonna eat?” Tony asks, standing in front of Peter. “How many? I’d like to know an exact number. I’d like to know your plans.”

Peter stares at him, and he feels like he’s been caught, despite the fact that Tony’s been across the lab since all of this started. This, being—creating the giant pile of plastic beside him.

He’s in the middle of Number Unknown ice pop, and this one is green. He’s had at least six other green ones. He thinks.

Peter continues staring at Tony. He doesn’t know what to say. His hands are numb and frozen, he’s got a brain freeze. His whole head is an ice pop. He’s still eating an ice pop. Ice pops. Ice pops everywhere.

Tony narrows his eyes. He’s in the patented Dad pose, hands on hips, head cocked, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed. His mouth is slightly agape, because he’s stuck between shock and deciding what he needs to say next. Peter can tell.

“When I bought those I thought you might be having one,” Tony says, eyes darting back and forth between Peter, his ice pop, and the pile of remains beside him. Some of the plastic strips still have juice clinging to them, the juice he couldn’t suck out no matter how hard he tried. A rainbow of juice drops left behind.

“Peter,” Tony says. He steps closer, leans down. “Earth to Peter Parker. Are you in an ice pop coma? Is someone forcing you to consume as many ice pops as possible? Blink twice for yes.”

Peter doesn’t blink. He just takes another, blistery cold bite. Green apple, down to the roots of his teeth.

Tony straightens back up. Shakes his head. “My God,” he says. “He’s not there anymore. He’s gone full ice pop.” He walks over, grabs one of the discarded plastics, twisting it between his fingers. “What the hell do they even call these things, really? They were just in some…red net bag when I bought them. Shit, was that a sign? Were they even supposed to be there? Maybe some villain planted the idea in your head, told you to tell me to get them. Now you’re broken.”

“Ice bag stick,” Peter says, taking another icy bite. “Ice stick bag.”

“No way you call them either of those things,” Tony says, letting the plastic flutter back down to join the rest.

“I used to eat these in elementary school,” Peter says.

“And May realized you ate seventy two of them in one sitting and stopped buying them for you. You had a burst of nostalgia recently and decided to get me in on it?” Tony asks.

“Maybe,” Peter says. “Kinda.”

Tony’s smiling a little bit now. “You asked me to upgrade the web shooters as a distraction. You totally could have done it on your own.”

“Oh, definitely.”

Tony hums to himself.

“How many would have been too many?” Peter asks, pushing the ice up to the top of the plastic. “You know, had I—not gone the distraction route?”

“Four?” Tony asks.

“Oh,” Peter says. “Good thing I went the distraction route.”

Tony stares at him like he’s trying to figure him out. And then he pulls his phone out of his pocket, aims it at Peter, and takes a picture.

“Oh, smile,” Tony says. “I bet your teeth—”

Peter grins.

“—yep, yep, I was right. Mud. Dirt. You look insane, Parker.” He snaps a couple more photos.

“I couldn’t stop,” Peter says, taking his last bite and then tilting the plastic up so he can get the juice out. “I still don’t know if I’m done,” he says, garbled through his current endeavor.

“I hope you left some behind for your ice pop dealer,” Tony says, marching off in the direction of the freezer. “I’m gonna try to count how many you had based on how many are missing.”

“Definitely more than twenty!” Peter calls.

“Yeah,” Tony calls back. “The pile speaks for itself.”

 2.

“Just slip and move, kid, c’mon. I know I’ve seen you fight before.”

 Peter tries to be light on his feet, but he feels big and weighed down by the padding. The boxing gloves. The stupid red foam helmet they’re both wearing.

 “Yeah, random dudes,” Peter says. “Not you. Not a—real person.”

 Tony reaches out and pops him one in the shoulder. He’s clearly pulling his punches, but Peter isn’t keyed in, so he’s still not catching them, not blocking. Tony laughs, and they circle around each other. Peter tries to copy him, stay light on his feet.

 “Oh, they weren’t real people?” Tony asks. “I’ll tell that to the guy that stayed webbed to a tree on 3rd for six hours.”

 “I didn’t box with him.”

 Tony reaches out and taps him again, this time in the middle of his forehead. Or, his foam forehead. He feels really dumb.

 “Didn’t you tell me you learned to fight from the movies?” Tony asks, hands up by his face but ready to move at any second. “Rocky is a good movie. Rocky is an excellent movie. That’s the kind of film I’d expect to see you referencing—running up sets of stairs, arms in the air, children racing after you in the streets—actually, I think I’ve seen that happen—”

 “Maybe I just don’t wanna hit you,” Peter says, fast, without even really thinking about it.

 Tony laughs, and keeps moving without missing a beat. “Pete, c’mon. C’mon, I trust you. We’re just sparring, it’s fine.”

 Peter sighs. They keep circling around each other, and Peter tries to stay on the balls of his feet. He reaches out and throws a punch, which Tony purposefully doesn’t block.

 “There we go,” Tony says. “Okay, c’mon. I know you’re a fighter, Spider-Man. Just gotta style you up a little better. I’m tired of all the broken noses. How many times have you broken your nose? At least a dozen times.”

 Peter rolls his eyes.

 “Okay, Mr. Sass, okay,” Tony says, and he lands another punch, with a little more force behind it, in the middle of Peter’s chest.

 “Okay, okay,” Peter says.

 They start sparring more intensely after that. Nothing serious, no hard hits, but Peter matches Tony’s movements, watches his footwork, blocks his hits and throws some of his own. This is the first time someone has genuinely—trained him, in combat. Or made an attempt, anyway.

 Maybe he gets a little too into it.

 “Perfect, kid,” Tony says, after Peter lands a punch in the middle of his forehead. “Good, good—”

 Peter grins, slips away, and then winds up. He’s aiming for Tony’s forehead again. He totally—he totally is. Aiming for his forehead.

 Except he hits him square in the nose. Hard.

 Peter gasps and Tony staggers back, both gloved hands clutching at his face.

 “Oh my God,” Peter breathes, rushing towards him in a panic.

“Maybe that was a little too good,” Tony says, chuckling wetly.

 “Oh no, oh no,” Peter says, his heart beating loud in his ears. He rips one of his gloves off with his teeth, quickly ridding himself of the other once he’s got his hand free.

 “It’s fine,” Tony says, still covering his face. “Totally fine.”

 “Lemme—oh fuck.”

 Tony pulls his hands back and glares at him. “Language, spider-baby.”

 “I broke your nose. I broke your nose.” Peter reaches up to grip his own hair in an instinctual move, but instead he grips the stupid foam helmet. He rips that off too, tossing it aside.

 “Hey,” Tony says, watching its trajectory. “Throwing shit now—who said we were done?”

 “I broke your nose.”

 “I know you have super strength, I was prepared for this,” Tony says, walking over to the chair where he stowed his phone. He grabs it, holds it up in front of his face, narrowing his eyes at himself and the new wound. “Actually, I just wanted to claim elder abuse.”

 “Stop,” Peter says. There’s a crack across the bridge of Tony’s nose, bright red blood streaming from his nostrils. “Oh shit, it looks bad.”

 “Only I’m allowed to use the ‘s’ word—”

 “I’m a teenager—”

 “Precisely.”

 Peter sighs.

 “Come over here,” Tony says, motioning with his head. “We need a selfie.”

 “A self—a selfie?”

 “Yeah, put at least one glove on, I wanna send it to May.”

 “Oh God. Really?”

 “Yeah.”

 Peter sighs. He shuffles over to where one of his abandoned gloves is, putting it back on. He goes over to stand beside Tony and pouts.

 “Just consider it payback for all the times I’ve annoyed the shit out of you,” Tony says. He throws an arm around Peter’s shoulder, and Peter holds one glove up like a reluctant winner. “Say ‘bloody nose!’”

 “You’re the worst,” Peter says, as Tony snaps the photo.

 “I’m the best,” Tony says. “Alright, let’s—let’s get to the med bay and bother somebody about this.”

 3.

 Tony sits at the edge of Peter’s bed, and feels like any minute, the world might explode.

 His world, anyway. The tiny portion of the larger world that he’s carved out for himself. To keep himself sane, to keep his family safe, to keep the things he loves intact. Yeah, that world—it’s got cracks in it now, and they’re all surrounding Peter.

 The news is on mute, the TV above Peter’s bed blaring in its silence, the kid’s image plastered there alongside the headline BREAKING—SPIDER-MAN REVEALED AS QUEENS RESIDENT PETER PARKER. They have an old school photo, which makes Peter look younger than he is, which in turn makes Tony furious. Not even he can stop the coverage, and he’s sure as hell tried. Peter’s phone keeps buzzing in Tony’s pocket, but he doesn’t look at it. He feels half catatonic, has been stuck in that state since the photo was delivered earlier today. The photo he’s still clutching, face down, in his left hand.

 They received it at the first guard gate, in a plain Manila envelope. It made its way to Tony’s office, where May was already with him, because Peter had been gone for more than ten hours without checking in, which is never a good sign. The envelope was addressed plainly, only said TONY STARK on the outside with nothing else, and he wondered how the fuck it got here. In his mind he had planned to order someone to check the cameras, talk to the gate guard, but he kept quiet, trembling hands peeling the thing open.

 The photo was black and white. Peter, in his suit, without his mask, chained to a chair. Blood around his mouth. A black eye. A cut along his neck. And a message, in red sharpie, that said WE HAVE YOUR SPIDER-MAN. A note taped on the back demanding six million dollars or they’d release his identity.

 Tony had started to get the money ready to go immediately, but then Peter himself showed up. Bloody, one chain still around his wrist. Promptly collapsing at their feet.

 His identity went live about an hour later, with all the evidence the public could need, and Tony hasn’t moved from this spot since. He swallows hard, watching the kid sleep, and he tries to kickstart his brain, tries to get into gear, tries to figure this thing out. He considers denying it, but they already have photos of the two of them hanging out in public together, as they tend to do. There’s been speculation about Peter’s identity for months, and this is the final puzzle piece pulling it all together. Of course he’s Spider-Man. Of course.

 Tony turns the photo over, and his heart aches at the sight of it. The defiance in Peter’s eyes, among all that pain. All the bruises. Tony feels like Peter had to have known what would happen if he escaped, but he’s stubborn—he wasn’t gonna let Tony give up anything for him.

 Tony wishes the kid knew by now that he’d give up anything to keep him safe.

 Tony startles a little bit when the door opens, and he turns the photo back over, putting it on top of the small shelf beside him. May walks back in, clicks her tongue when she sees the news is still rattling on about their latest story.

 Tony gets up to meet her, taking one of the pillows out of her hands. She’s got a couple, since Peter likes to sleep with about ten of them if he can, and she’s got a bag of his clothes.

 She meets Tony’s eyes. “So, uh—any more thoughts on what we should do about this?” she asks.

 His mind is a jumbled mess. This is a problem he’d never exactly planned for, because he’d fought so hard to keep it from happening. He clears his throat. “I guess we’ll deal with it,” he says.

 She nods at him, and her face changes. She looks resolute. “Yeah,” she says. “We will. He’s got us, right? We’ve got this?”

 Tony nods, because that is something he can agree with. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s got us.”

 “Alright,” May says, putting her things down. “Uh, help me arrange these without waking him up.”

 Both he and May walk over on either side of Peter’s bed, ignoring the news and the horror of their new situation. Tony gently slips one hand around the back of Peter’s head, avoiding the bandage at his temple, and lifts him up a little bit. May helps put the pillow down, and then Tony rests Peter’s head back down on top of it. He swipes a stray hair out of the kid’s eyes, and May leans down, kissing Peter on the forehead.

 “We’ll figure it out,” Tony says, his voice rough. “We will. I promise.”

 “I know,” May says. “We have to.”

4.

 Tony sits in the stands beside May and Happy and sinks a little lower into his seat. Flashes keep going off, but a lot of them are aimed in his direction, and that pisses him off something awful.

 “I should have worn a disguise,” Tony says, looking at May. “A fake mustache. Some bad eyebrows. Something.”

 “You’re fine,” May says, patting his knee. “They knew you’d be here anyway.”

 “If you were wearing a disguise, I would have had to wear one too,” Happy says. “And I feel like it would have made us stick out more.”

 Tony sighs. “Probably.” He watches the kids go across the stage in their black graduation robes, meeting their principal, shaking his hand, receiving their diplomas. “How many more?” he asks. “How many more til Pete? I’m suffering. I’m dying.”

 “You’re dramatic,” May says, but she’s suppressing a smile.

 “Context clues, Tony,” Happy says. “They just announced Amy Ourelis, so it’s gotta be soon.”

 It was fine when the kid was down in the chairs on the ground level—the three of them were making faces at him, signing messages back and forth, but he got up to get in line what feels like hours ago. And it’s been torture ever since, save for the brief moment when Ned went across the stage.

 “Too many kids go to this school,” Tony says. “Too many kids with last names starting with A-O.”

 “Your patience is unparalleled,” May says.

 “I know,” Tony says. “I’m very proud.”

 “Look look, there he is,” Happy says, leaning over and pointing. Both May and Tony follow his finger and see Peter standing at the side of the stage, at the base of the steps, and he turns, eyes darting around to find them. Both May and Tony’s arms shoot up into the air, waving around kinda manically.

 Peter waves back, grinning, and Tony smiles at him.

 “He looks so goofy in that cap,” May says.

 “We actually had to use your barrette,” Tony says.

 “Really?” May asks, raising her eyebrows at him.

 “Yeah,” Tony says. “Damn thing kept falling off.”

 “I told him.”

 “Julian Pao,” the announcer says, into the microphone.

 “Oh, I think he’s next,” Happy says, as they watch Julian go across the stage. “Should be—”

 “Peter Parker.”

 Tony jumps to his feet and May quickly follows, and they clap and hoot and holler like insane people. Like they’re at a concert.

 “Way to go, Pete!” Tony yells. “Hell yeah, Peter!”

 And then he realizes that everyone—everyone—is on their feet, too. The place has erupted in clapping and cheering, and it includes all the school board members across the stage. Tony hears some exclamations of “YAY SPIDER-MAN” and so, so many people are taking pictures.

 Peter gets his diploma, shakes his principal’s hand, and turns to wave in their direction. They wave back, probably too enthusiastically, and Tony’s heart swells with a kind of pride that he’s only ever felt for Peter Parker.

 ~

 They created a special exit for Peter, considering there’s a shit ton of paparazzi waiting for him out front, and May, Tony and Happy meet him there. It’s a long hallway at the back of the stadium, and even though they’re alone, Tony can still hear the reverberations of all the other students and their proud families passing through.

 Peter rushes up to them, beaming, and May catches him in a hug. His cap is crooked on his head now, and Tony straightens it out.

 Jesus, he’s so close to crying. He steps back, wiping at his eyes, and tries to cover it with a smile.

 “Did you hear that cheering?” Happy asks, smacking Peter on the shoulder once May pulls back. “They know they’ve got a damn hero in their midst.”

 “I think all that was for Julian Pao,” Peter says, laughing.

 “Honey, can I get a picture of you and Tony?” May asks. “Quick, before he breaks down.”

 “Mrs. Parker,” Tony hisses, narrowing his eyes at her. She smiles a little wickedly.

 “Yeah, yeah, I wanted one anyway,” Peter says.

 Tony clears his throat. “Alright, lemme just make sure the kid’s barrette isn’t visible,” he says, peering around the back of Peter’s head.

 “I think it’s buried in my hair pretty good,” Peter says.

 Tony nods, and wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulders, looking down at him. He’s hit with that fondness, ever present when he thinks about Peter. But it’s particularly strong and gripping in this moment.

 “You know, I’m really proud of you, Pete,” he says. He can hear May clicking away, taking photo after photo. He feels the tears coming on again, and he’s gotta stop ‘em. “I mean, I absolutely expected you to faceplant walking across that stage, but you—you made it. You made it all the way.”

 Peter snorts, the tassel on his cap swinging back and forth. “Well, I’ve gotta make my old man proud, right?”

 Tony is struck in the face of that statement. Frozen. He doesn’t know what to say, and he hears Happy snickering in the background.

 “Right, kid,” Tony croaks. “Right.”

 “Alright,” May says. “Look at me. Say ‘MIT!’”

 They both face her, and Tony tugs Peter close.

 “MIT!”

 ~

 Tony shreds the ransom photo. The ice pop photo becomes Peter’s contact picture in Tony’s phone. The boxing one becomes something Ned sends to Peter every time he doubts himself, which Tony totally condones. You broke Iron Man’s nose! You’re capable of anything!

 And the graduation photo is blown up, framed, and has a spot of honor in the living room.

 Peter’s made Tony into a damn sap. But when he looks at that picture, he feels like he’s been one all along. The kid just brought it out in him.

[simonlovelazy]

Unknown/MC (mysme)

Title: Bite the Bullet

Fandom: Mystic Messenger

Pairing: Unknown(Saeran)/MC

Tags: Mature (graphic description of death, sexual innuendos), contract killer AU

Word count: 2485

Summary: Some people have more reasons to complain about their job than others.

Written for @unknownzine​ Once again thank you for the opportunity, beta reading and all the patience!! With each turn, he wandered farther from the noise of the main street, and deeper into the forgotten parts of the city. The light from the scarce street lamps glided over the puddles and shook under his heavy boots. No one passed next to him in the narrow alleys, but he knew he wasn’t alone. Maybe this was what the prospective believers felt when he was running the “background check” on them – the intangible impression that a pair of eyes was fixed on their every movement, the rising sense of panic as they felt the phantom of his breath on their necks. But with the subtle difference that he couldn’t be more unfazed.             “It’s a good place, don’t you think?” Unknown said, turning lazily.             And there she was, his shadow, with her little mouth wide open in shock. Her hands, in turn, they didn’t even budge, the gun steady in their clasp. Unknown had to admit he was a bit surprised too – that a frail thing like that could have a reason and the nerve to try to eliminate him. 

          “Not much of a talker, huh? Or are you scared of me?” Carefully leaving the blind spot, and making sure his face was not exposed, he edged closer to her. The girl stood firmly with her gun still pointed at his head. Interesting. “I like it here because it never feels alone, you know?”            She visibly faltered, but wouldn’t look away from him. He wasn’t dealing with a complete newbie.            “Cameras. It’s the back of a pawn shop, after all.”            Recognition lit up her eyes, and she peeked behind him, just to find the ruthless lens staring straight at her.           He towered before her after closing the remaining distance in one leap. His one hand grabbed her chin in a way far from affectionate, while the other dismissively pushed the silencer aside. “You can’t shoot me here, sweetheart,” Unknown whispered in her ear.            She yelped in surprise when he yanked the gun completely out of her grasp, twisting her wrist in the process. And he didn’t stop there, having tucked her pistol next to his own, he continued squeezing her bones even tighter, just for emphasis. “Give me one reason why I should let you live.”            “It’s n-not personal.” Oh? Difficulties speaking with your jaw crushed?           “Let me go, and I’ll tell them I finished the job. That you’re dead. Just lie low for some time,” she continued despite his increasingly apparent amusement. “Okay, listen, I know who’s next.”           Lies, lies, lies. It’s even cute, in a way. She really thinks she can get away with this.            “Who sent you?” Another squeeze.           “I never met him directly. All I got was your photo, the date, and the place; all delivered to me by some unimportant minion.”             “Do you think I’m stupid? They told you about other targets, but you conveniently don’t even know who you’re working for?!”            “I don’t work for any organisation, but I do have ears, and I can put two and two together.”            “That’s even better. It means no one’s gonna miss you.”            There was a squeak, followed by the sound of metal slamming against the brick wall.            “Hey, kids! Why are you snooping around in here? Get out!”           All Unknown got to do was to rearrange his hold on the girl in a less suspicious way before he glared at the clerk standing in the door behind him. She stumbled back when he let her free.            “I’d show you how it’s supposed to be done, but it’s not my call. We’ll go on a ride instead; I want you to meet someone.” “Are you serious?”           “It’s really not the time to act like a princess,” her kidnapper hissed in annoyance. “I’ll kindly remind you that I have two guns, and you have none. Do you really think you’re in a position to make a fuss?”            “But you can’t kill me, now can you? You still need to wait for your boss’ orders, sweetheart.” MC knew she was pushing her luck with him, and hell, he really did have two guns, but it was still worth a shot. He couldn’t do anything to her till they got there – wherever this “there” was – and the more information she gathered before that, the better.            “I would be nicer to my future interrogator. And a bit more convincing – I don’t buy a word you’ve said so far.” There was no other addition, but a frown when he bent over the stick to cuff her.            “So you just so happen to have handcuffs at hand. Wait, I see – you’re this type.”           A stern warning lingered in his eyes. His hands were just as cold as they were in the alley, and not a tad more delicate. There was no point in fighting just yet. Soon, her hand hung limply from the handle at his car’s door as if she was trying to get some breeze under her armpits or whatnot.            He reassumed his place behind the wheel, turning the key in the ignition. A little dice dangled from its end. Classy.           “They weren’t meant for you.”            MC smiled wickedly. “Ouch. That’s not what a girl wants to hear. You could at least pretend I’m special.”           Her kidnapper turned to her quickly with a deadpan expression, before the car finally kicked in to the motion, and they left the parking lot with a crunch of gravel under the tyres.            “Where are you taking me?”           “You really don’t seem to get the situation, so I’ll spell this once more for you. You don’t get to ask questions.” He was squeezing the hell out of that wheel. “You’ve been following me for the whole day. Why?”             MC looked down on the frills of her dress, trying to burn the whole thing with her stare. She had really gone through this dumb masquerade for nothing, didn’t she? “They said it’s 3 million wons extra for every detail about you. Where you go, who you’re meeting up with – things like that. I was supposed to wait with the rest of the job for the moment when you’re done in the city.”            She could no longer recognise the landscape blurring behind him in the car window.            He slowly shook his head, “It means they don’t even kno —”           The momentary chaos was all too familiar – a gunshot and a jolt when the bullet pierced through the bodywork startling the driver, who almost lost control of the vehicle. MC lurched forward on instinct, tugging painfully at her right wrist. Obviously, it would still be too late to save her, had the shot been accurate. Not that she was the target.            “Who are they?!” Her kidnapper’s voice was unusually high-pitched.           She glanced briefly at him – and, wow, he got paler, if that was even physically possible. Then, sitting up a bit, she checked the wing mirror. A black, shiny beast – at least two classes better than their car – right on their tail, with a barrel sticking out from the driver’s side.            “No clue! Gimmie my gun back!”            “So that you can finish your job? No fucking way! I will lose them.” He stepped on the gas.            “It’s just one guy, and he’s also driving – I can handle him. Just give me the gun already! It’s our best shot!”           MC was jolted against the door as the car turned, screeching in the last moment. Getting herself in place again, she fastened the seatbelt, going below her hanging arm. The good thing was that the streets were unusually busy for this hour, the bad thing – well, their excuse of a car wasn’t exactly a racer.            “How do they know I’m still alive?” her driver yelled over the engine, weaving between the cars.           MC scratched her chin absently. “They could send someone to check on me, but it only happens when... just who the hell are you?”           “Maybe you’ll live long enough to find out.” The way he said it, there could be a hint of a sardonic smile under his mask, but, really, there was no way of knowing.            “Well,” MC started, looking behind, but there was no shooter to be seen. “The money they offered for you seemed a bit too good to be true. Or easy.”            “Was it worth it?”            “Let’s say I’m having second thoughts right now.”            “Shit.”           It was almost too late when he noticed the side road. The sharp turn didn’t send her flying like the last time, but the car skidded on the slippery surface, nearly crashing into the pick-up on the adjacent lane. The loud thudding of MC’s heartbeat accompanied the honking of the annoyed driver they left behind.            Reckless as it was, it seemed that the sudden change of the route did the trick. They had been driving for at least 15 minutes without anyone trying to shoot them. Having got out of immediate danger, MC started to consider her options regarding the danger seated next to her. He turned into another desolate, outgrown road with determination that led her to believe that the meeting point with his boss was closer than she’d like.             “We’re out of petrol.” Her kidnapper announced in disbelief. “That bastard must’ve got the fuel tank.”            “How much more?”            “Nothing. We’re running on fumes.”           MC closed her eyes and put all the irritation that had built-up in the last 24 hours into a solid kick on the dashboard. He merely eyed the muddy footprint adorning his glove box.            And then, the car stopped.            The palms of his hands banged on the wheel as he exhaled heavily. He took the keys out and left without a word.           MC opened the door on her side and straightened her back with a groan. It was dawning already; the plane of navy blue shyly paled on the horizon. There was nothing around except for the waist-high grass smothering the road from the both sides. And no one in sight.            “Hey! Didn’t you forget about something?” She jingled her handcuffs.           The kidnapper had already managed to walk away quite a bit down the road. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied, without slowing down.           She cursed under her breath, looking around for anything to pick the lock with. But even if she found it, she still had no car keys, no clue where she was... “Wait! I know who’s next! And more things too!”            If he said anything, she couldn’t hear it.           “They said that when they’re done with you, they just have to deal with ‘the other one.’” With one foot on the asphalt and the other one pushing at the door, MC tried to rip off the handle in the final act of desperation. She turned her head to gauge his reaction. “Does it mean anything to you?”            All she could notice from that distance was that he was facing her, motionless in the middle of the road. One quick movement of his hand, and the mask fell to the ground. He rubbed his face as if he were trying to wake up. But suddenly, something came over him, and he was running back in her direction. It took one glance behind her back to realise why he was in a rush.            The hitman was back.            “Hurry up! Faster!”            Her kidnapper-turned-saviour was next to her in no time.           “Shit. Shit.” He was visibly struggling with the little key. “Don’t think it changes anything between us. You’re still going to the questioning.”            “Can’t wait."            The car was getting so close, they could hear it roaring. There was no time to lose, but something with the lock was clearly off.            It was an odd moment for an even weirder thought, the guy without his mask looked much younger than she had initially suspected him to be. He simply didn't belong here.            Someone shut the door mere steps away from them.           They were shielded by their own door, and now it was really a matter of seconds; he froze when MC snuggled against his torso, reached behind his belt, pulled the gun out, and leaning out of the cover, fired three silent shots.            The man fell to the ground in an instant. She came up to the body as close as the handcuffs let her. About 35 years old, average-looking. She’d never seen him before. Two wounds – one in the shoulder, another in his neck. She could have done better, but it wasn’t half bad for a right-handed person under pressure.            “Why?”           MC took her eyes off the corpse. Her kidnapper leant against the side of his car. His dilated pupils were glued to her with a sense of restlessness.            “Why did you do that?” When he spoke, there was a miniscule quiver to his lips.           “Would you rather have him kill both of us, or...?” It was his first body. This discovery was surprising, considering how he’d been trying to intimidate her this whole time.            He nervously grimaced. They were holding each other at gunpoint. Would he really be able to pull the trigger?            "They will come searching for you,” he stated.            “Not if I finish the job now.”            “Don’t,” he said quickly, “you can work for me.”            She couldn’t help but laugh. “What can you offer me? Health insurance? Early retirement?”           “The person that hired you is one of the most powerful people in this country. And he already knows that you failed once.” He motioned to the steady trickle of blood seeping from the corpse and running downhill. “Do you really think he’ll take a chance that you haven’t made a deal with me?”            Unbelievable. “So, what’s the offer?”           “We can help each other. I could make use of your personal... talents, and in return, you will be more than safe in Mint Eye.”            He stiffened when she moved her gun and put it back in its place. MC stretched out her left hand, “Deal.”             He shook it with an enigmatic smile.            "What are we doing about him?”            “Well, no one is going to look for him, I can guarantee you this. My bullets are untraceable, but the car...”            “That won’t be a problem,” he said, taking out his phone. “We’re not that far from Mint Eye.” With the body happily pushed into the grass, they sat on the bonnet and waited for transport. The relief was unreal when MC rubbed the red marks on her wrist. That is, until her new boss tugged her other hand and clasped it together with his.            “You can’t be serious.”            “Easy, princess, it’s just a cover story for when they come here.”            MC raised her eyebrows, “Kinky.”           They stared for a while at the sun languidly making its way up above the fields of green. Both of them tired of this day beyond words.            “What kind of job do you need me for anyway?”            He dragged on his cigarette with an expression of utter seriousness. “You will be my personal assistant.”  

[ephemeralstark]

Below Freezing

Summary:  Peter jumps into below freezing water to save a little girl, only to break his web shooters and damage his heater. With hypothermia settling in he decides it's a good idea to walk to Stark Tower, thankfully Karen is a snitch.

A/N: I’m in the process of cross-posting my AO3 fics on here as well, so please bear with me and excuse any technical mistakes, I’m not used to posting on tumblr yet. Thank you! 

AO3 Link to fic

Complete | 3K | main tags: peter parker can’t thermoregulate, peter parker has spider traits, protective tony stark, hurt/comfort, whump

Snowflakes swirled and danced through the air in hypnotic patterns while Peter swung through them between the buildings, feeling increasingly more and more thankful for the heater in his suit that kept his toes warm and stopped his fingers from growing stiff with the cold. He needed to remember to thank Mr. Stark next time he saw him.

Peter hated the cold.

He hadn't when he was younger, in fact, he used to build igloos and snowmen out on the street with his Uncle Ben for hours on end. He would be wrapped up in nothing more than a thick jacket and a woolly pair of gloves but he would never feel the cold and would stay out until Aunt May insisted he absolutely had to go in and have dinner.

After Uncle Ben died Peter stopped building snowmen, it wasn't as fun on his own and May always had to work late because suddenly there was only one person bringing in money and it wasn't enough. That and he was too cold. Even when he wrapped himself up in so many layers that he could barely move, he would find himself shivering and seeking out the nearest warm building.

Peter was pulled from his mindless swinging and spiralling thoughts by a shriek that cut through the air. He instantly changed directions, making his way towards the noise and hoping that he wouldn't be too late to whatever was happening.

Another shriek sounded and despite Peter’s heater he felt ice run through his veins. That had sounded almost… childlike? He hoped that it wasn't a kid in danger, but his gut feeling was telling him to move faster.

It seemed as though the scream had come from the park ahead, which was good as it meant Peter was close by, but it also meant that he was going to have to travel the rest of the way on foot. He dropped to the ground and ran through the shoe trodden snow into the park, looking frantically for someone in distress.

The park was mainly empty though. There was a small child holding onto a woman’s hands as she was taught how to ice skate on the frozen over pond, a couple sipping steaming drinks while walking hand in hand, and a dog walker rubbing their hands together for warmth between stick throws.

Peter soon located the source of the scream as the little child wobbled on her skates and let out a deafening shriek. Relief flooded through him, removing all traces of icy panic from his veins, there were no children in trouble, everything was fine. It was just the just the kid being afraid of falling on the ice, that wasn't anything to concern himself with.

“Hey, Karen, is there anything happening around here?” Peter asked, wondering if it would be alright to call it a day. May would be home in a few hours and he still had that chemistry project to finish off.

“I’m not receiving any reports of trouble at present.” Karen informed him.

Maybe it would be a good idea to head home, he’d been out a lot as Spider-Man lately despite promising Mr. Stark that he was getting plenty of rest, at least if he went home then Karen wouldn't be able to snitch on him again.

“Thea! Oh God, help me! Someone please!” A woman screamed.

The woman ice-skating with the kid. Except… Peter couldn't see a kid any more.

Instead, he saw a gap in the ice and a panicking mother. Putting two and two together, he abandoned all thoughts of going home for a relaxing evening and sprinted towards the gap in the ice.

“Thea! Thea, come back here baby, please,” the woman sobbed as she knelt on the ice and fished her arms in the water, trying to grab her child, “help me! I can’t get her, I can't swim and she never had lessons. Thea!”

“Excuse me,” Peter said, running onto the ice, and gently pulling the mother back by the shoulders. The last thing he needed was two people drowning in freezing water. “I’ll get her, I promise, just stay back.”

The mother did as he asked which made him think that she knew of Spider-Man, without her to worry about Peter took her place by the hole and peered in, it was too dark to see anything.

“Karen, does this thing have a torch?”

“Initiating Night Light function.” Karen announced.

“Night light? Really, Mr. Stark?” Peter muttered as he peered into the water.

He caught a flash of silver, possibly the girl’s skate reflecting the light back at him? He wasn't entirely sure but the clock was ticking on and he needed to get the kid out of the freezing water before it was too late.

Throwing caution to the wind, Peter dived into the water, following the silver flash.

The water was beyond cold, it was worse than he could have ever imagined, there weren't enough words and adjectives in the world to explain how brutally cold the water felt, but Peter pushed through it. He forced his muscles to move rather than freezing up, moving in the direction of the flash that he had seen which appeared to be the right move as his instinct to follow the silver was correct, and even better the girl was still conscious.

She was trying her best to swim but obviously had no idea what direction to go and no skill to power her movements.

Peter was on the clock, he had no time - or air - to offer her reassurances, instead he swam towards the girl and pulled her towards him so he could hold her close to his chest with one hand and use his other three limbs to swim back to the surface as quickly as possible. The girl panicked for a moment and kicked him, before realising that he was helping and ceasing her struggles.

“Detecting core temperature drop.” Karen informed him as though that was news.

If he wasn't at risk of inhaling water he would have snapped at her that ‘yeah his temperature was dropping, he was in freezing cold fucking water’. Thankfully Peter’s hand hit something solid, something other than water, and he realised he was at the surface.

For a split second he panicked and thought that the hole had frozen over again, leaving him and the little girl trapped in an icy grave.

Oh shit, no, no, no, not again, Peter thought frantically, I can't be trapped underwater again, Mr. Stark won’t save me this time.

Peter hit his hand against the ice in an attempt to break it, but the water stole all the strength behind the movement leaving him to claw uselessly at it. He was ready to give up hope when he saw a hand fishing around in the water less than a metre away.

Peter moved over to the gap feeling overwhelmingly grateful that the kid’s mother had decided to keep searching in the water for her daughter rather than doing as he said and staying back. He pushed the kid towards the hands and felt her being pulled up and away from him.

With the adrenaline of the save fading he realised how desperate he was for air, his lungs were burning and he wanted nothing more than to just breathe in.

He hooked his hands over the ledge and heaved himself up, gasping for air, it made him choke slightly as the air came through with a little water that had clung to the surface of the mask. He could feel multiple hands all over his body, pulling at him and helping him get out of the water completely.

Peter braced himself against the ground on his hands and knees, coughing and spluttering for a few minutes while his body shivered aggressively in an attempt to heat himself up.

“K-Karen,” he choked out. “Heater.”

“I’m afraid your heater has been severely compromised, the temperature of the water has caused it to shut down. I would recommend drying off and putting on something else.” Karen said. “Would you like me to call Mr. Stark?”

“N-n-no.” Peter said through chattering teeth, he did need Mr. Stark but he was capable of walking to the tower. He didn't need to be saved all the time, how could he be taken seriously if he was constantly needing backup?

He shrugged his way out the hands that were patting at him, afraid that they would try to pull off his mask to see if he was alright.

After clambering to his feet, he made his way unsteadily in the vague direction of Stark Tower, or was it the Avengers tower now? He should ask Mr. Stark when he saw him because it wasn't clear any more, and why hadn't Mr. Stark gone through with the sale? After Peter had saved the plane and crashed his stuff? No. Crashed his plane and saved his stuff, mostly.

Peter’s brain felt as numb as his extremities.

He realised he was staggering an awful lot and was probably rousing suspicion from civilians, so he aimed a web at the nearest building. Nothing happened.

“Kar’n?”

“Your web shooters have malfunctioned, the fluid appears to have frozen in the canister causing it to perforate.” Karen informed him. “Your speech sounds slurred, are you sure you don't want me to call Mr. Stark?”

“D-don't,” Peter said, “‘m fine. J-j-just walk.”

It turned out that walking was a great idea, one of the best ideas that had ever been idea’d… idea’red? Idea’ed? Thought of! Peter’s brain was starting to feel all warm and mushy, walking was great.

“Kar’n? Walkin’ is g-great!” Peter declared.

“You appear to experiencing some acute confusion, Peter, it seems you are suffering from hypothermia. Your core temperature is dangerously low.”

“Y’ur d-d-dang-dange-” he couldn't say it so he decided to just cut to the chase, “low!”

“Attempting to call, Mr. Stark.” Karen replied.

“N-n-no!” Peter protested. “I’m w’rm now! I feel g-g-good. I sh’ld t-t-take m’ suit ‘ff.”

“Do not take off your suit.” Karen said very quickly.

“K-K’ren, y’ur t-t-too b’ssy.” Peter slurred.

“Mr. Stark is on route, you need to keep the suit on and hold on for him.” Karen said, ignoring his insult. “He is less than a minute away.”

Peter blinked as her words set in.

“B-but ‘m Sp’der-m’n.” He protested. “I d-don't need b’ckup.”

“You definitely need backup,” Mr. Stark said landing on the slushy pavement behind Peter.

“Woah!” Peter said, his suit’s eyes widening comically, “Kar’n! That’s Ir’n Man. Hi Ir’n Man, I w’s cold but now I’m n’t. I stopp’d shakin’.”

“That’s not good, Underoos,” Mr. Stark said and Peter noticed that his voice sounded soft.

“Misser Star’,” Peter slurred, “y’ur cott’n candy ‘nd fl’ffy clouds.”

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Stark asked before shaking his head, “you know what? Never mind, we need to get you home.”

“But, I don’ have red slippers ‘n a hot air b’lloon.” Peter said, confused as to how he was going to get home.

“Alright Dorothy,” Mr. Stark said, “come on, it’s time for Spider-Baby to learn how to fly.”

Peter was scooped up by Mr. Stark and pressed against his chest, held in place by two unmovable metal arms. They shot into the air causing Peter to laugh as though he was on a rollercoaster and not suffering from severe hypothermia.

“Misser Star’, we’re flyin’,” Peter said excitedly through numb lips, “bu’, we’re flyin’ back!”

“I don’t want the wind chill to make things worse, especially at this speed. So, we’re going backwards” Mr. Stark informed him.

“Misser Star’, the ligh’s are fairies.” Peter stated seriously as he stared down at the city below. There were so many lights and they were moving in and out of focus and dancing about.

“Come on Kiddo, we’re almost there, stay with me now.” Mr. Stark said.

Peter didn't respond, he was too busy wondering why his tongue felt so heavy in his mouth, and also why were tongues so weird? It seemed like it didn’t even fit in his mouth properly...oh no… what if it wasn't his tongue? Had someone stolen his and replaced it with an imposter tongue?

He needed to tell Mr. Stark but the imposter tongue wasn't working right, more proof that it wasn't his one. Before he could worry any more about that he felt Mr. Stark slow down and turn so they were going forwards, Stark Tower loomed in front and Peter saw one of the windows opening for them to enter through.

Woah, Peter thought to himself, that building is huge and just came from nowhere!

The air inside was hot, too hot, it seemed to burn at Peter’s skin through the suit and he was struck by the very real terror that he was cooking inside the Spider-Man suit.

“No!” He screamed flailing so suddenly that Mr. Stark released him in shock, Peter’s legs were too numb to hold him up and he crumpled forward onto the plush carpet, water dripping from him onto it.

“Peter, it’s alright,” Mr. Stark said, Peter could hear the metallic whirring and grinding of the suit retracting and in moments Mr. Stark was at him side, pulling him up into a sitting position.

“Too hot,” Peter slurred, “burnin’.”

“You’re actually too cold kiddo,” Mr. Stark said gently, “come on, we need to get you into something dry.”

Peter was pulled to his feet, most of his weight being supported by Mr. Stark, but the little he could bare himself was making his legs shake as they slowly made their way to Peter’s room.

“Am I gonna shower?” Peter asked.

“No, not right now Underoos,” Mr. Stark said, “your temperature is too low for that.”

With a great deal of staggering and a few comments about Peter replicating Bambi’s first steps, they made it to his bedroom.

“We need to get you in your jimmy jams, Kid,” Mr. Stark said, “now we’ll do this quickly because I know that if that brain of yours wasn't floating in La La Land you’d find this a tad humiliating.”

“Where’s La La La La Land?” Peter asked.

“Exactly.” Mr. Stark said as he pulled off Peter’s mask.

“No!” Peter yelled. “They can’t know who I am!”

“Kid, calm down, it’s just us two here, your identity is safe.” Mr. Stark said soothingly as he pressed the spider emblem on the front of Peter’s suit causing it to go slack. “Your lips are blue and I’m too young to have grey hair so just work with me here, Pete.”

With a great deal of effort, Peter was finally sitting on the side of his bed wrapped in an abundance of fluffy towels while Mr. Stark rifled through his drawers looking for pyjamas.

“Which drawer are they in?” He asked. “A little help would be great here.”

“What if you put your hand in one drawer ‘n it came out a differen’ one?” Peter asked.

“Ok, so you’re useless right now,” Mr. Stark muttered, as he continued to search. “Got them! Right kid, without your suit on I can’t monitor your temperature and the last reading was 90.8 degrees, which means it’s your lucky day. You get to wear my watch.”

Mr. Stark helped Peter clumsily thread his arms through his pyjama top and watched as he took the watch off his own wrist, fiddled with it, then strapped it onto Peter’s .

“91.1.” Mr. Stark read, “ok, you’re improving, and don't even think of messing with that thing. I’ve disabled all the systems other than medical observations.”

“Come on, Underoos, let’s get these trousers on then we can both forget all about the last fifteen minutes.” Mr. Stark said.

“Why ‘m I putting clothes on?” Peter asked, “‘m too hot.”

“No your cold and your brain is playing tricks on you,” Mr. Stark told him. “ Now let’s get you under those covers because you need to warm up and I don't think we’d manage to walk you anywhere else. Or maybe we would, but I’m not doing that again.”

It took another ten minutes but eventually Peter was in his bed, buried under a mound of blankets and Mr. Stark was sitting on the bed beside him, helping him drink a mug of hot chocolate and monitoring his temperature.

“91.6°F,” Mr. Stark declared. “See, we can do this.”

“Why ‘m I here?” Peter asked. “Why not the hosp’tal?”

“I couldn't take you to a normal hospital thanks to that bizarre DNA you’ve got going on, and there isn't a medical team based in this tower, they’re generally only on standby when an Avengers mission is happening. Which means you got Dr. Stark.”

“Huh,” Peter murmured, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. “Someone stole my tongue earlier but I think they gave it back.”

“Did they now?” Mr. Stark asked

“Uh huh.”

Time passed with meaningless and delirious chatter, as Peter’s temperature continued to creep up.

“Mr. Star’?” Peter asked suddenly.

“Yeah Kiddo?”

“I feel cold,” Peter murmured. “I don' like the cold.”

“That’s actually a good thing, it means your body is reacting correctly again, soon the shivering will start up once more and before you know it you’ll be a toasty spider.” Mr. Stark said.

“But I don' like bein’ cold. Not since Uncle Ben died.” Peter said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“It never bothered me ‘fore,” Peter explained, “but after Ben when it got cold outsi’, I got really, really cold.”

“Hey, Pete, I don't think it’s your Uncle’s death that caused that.” Mr. Stark said gently.

“No?”

“Spiders typically can’t thermoregulate, and if you have some spider traits then this could be one of them. I was wondering about it earlier, but with the temperature of that water anyone could have ended up with hypothermia so I didn't have proof that you can't thermoregulate. Now though, with that information, it seems fairly likely.”

“So, it’s not a punishm’nt?”

“Punishment? For what?” Mr. Stark asked sounding genuinely confused.

“For letting Ben die.” Peter said quietly.

“Kid, May told me what happened, that wasn't your fault.”

“I had my powers, I didn’ do anythin’.” Peter admitted.

“You were a kid and none of that can be blamed on you whatsoever.” Mr. Stark said as he ran a hand through Peter’s hair comfortingly. “Powers or no powers, you were too young and you should never have been in that situation.”

Peter didn't reply, he was distracted by the trembling that seemed to overcome his entire body. Had Mr. Stark said that the shivering was a good sign? Because Peter was beginning to feel like it was the opposite. His teeth chattered and his muscles spasmed uncomfortably.

“M-m-misser S-s-s-star’” Peter stammered, “It-t-t’s c-c-cold.”

“I know, I know,” Mr. Stark said as he checked the watch again, “93°F. This is good, Pete, I promise. No more winter swims though.”

“N-n-never.” Peter promised.

“Good, Kid, god you did a great job saving that little girl, but I was so scared when I got the message from your AI. I didn't even realise how bad it was, and you weren't making any sense.” Mr. Stark admitted. “Just… just think of yourself as well as others in the future, alright?”

Peter nodded, his throat felt tight with tears at Mr. Stark’s honesty.

“Also, you’re telling May about this one.” Mr. Stark said, still playing with Peter’s hair in a way that made his eyes grow heavy.

Peter let out a shaky laugh.

“T-t-thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Anytime, Underoos,” Mr. Stark said softly. “Just not anytime soon, please. Now why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll stay here and keep an eye on your temperature.”

Peter yawned, sleep did sound like a good idea.

“N-night, Tony.”

“G’night, Kiddo.”

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and feel free to send a message/ask if you’d like! I appreciate all the time you have given my writing, thanks again!