#probably gonna disappear again for whumptober for the next couple days

[dawntainbobbynash]

#never moving on from how they're holding hands here

[sergeantsporks]

Your recent post gave me a craving for a whump fic where Amity DOES stab Hunter, but it's not immediately fatal. Eda finds her kneeling, in shock, next to Hunter, who is unconscious and laying in a large and growing pool of blood. Eda or Amity seals the wound (Owlbert or fire glyph or abomination plug?) but he has lost too much blood and they race against time to the healing coven for a transfusion, ring the doorbell and hide. They spend the night hidden outside, waiting to see if he made it.

I am 100% focused on whumptober, I whisper as I open up another word document, I am not getting distracted by side-fics

“If you really wanna help, then give me that key!”

Hunter lunged forward, his staff catching the string of the key around Amity’s neck and tearing it loose. Amity lunged for the key—Luz neededthat!

Hunter’s weapon pinned her arm, and she reacted instinctively, her magic forming to her fear and creating a sharp weapon on the end of her hand. Amity swung her arm up almost without thinking, and the pressure from Hunter’s staff dropped away as he let out a choked, garbled scream.

Amity froze, her abomination weapon buried right where Hunter’s neck met his jaw. She hastily shoved the key in her pocket, grabbing the front of his cloak as he fell and lowering him to the ground. Her weapon was still stuck, and she forced herself not to remove it, instead kneeling next to him. “Don’t die!” she begged him.

Hunter gurgled in a final kind of way, blood dripping down the surface of Amity’s weapon.

“No, no, no, no—”

Please don’t die!

Xxx

Eda dove down through the tunnels, worry fighting excitement. She hadn’t heard Amity or King in a minute—she knew they could handle themselves, but the golden guard had bested both her and Luz together before.

She swooped out into a wide cavern.

“Eda!” King called. He was stuck, horns first, in a rock, and Eda tugged him out.

“Whoa, you made short… work… of…”

She landed next to Amity, who was staring blankly ahead. The sleeve of her coat was soaked in blood, and it was starting to drip down into a red stain on the sand.

It wasn’t hers.

Amity seemed very determined not to look down at Hunter, her eyes glazed over. Eda couldn’t blame her for disassociating from the situation—she wouldn’t want to have her talons stuck in someone’s face, either. She wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to do it.

“Boots—Hey, Amity.” Eda took her shoulders. “Amity, are you hurt?”

Amity shook her head, tears blooming in the corners of her eyes. “I can’t move,” she whispered, “He’ll bleed out.”

Eda took another look at Amity’s blood-soaked sleeve. Wouldn’t be long before that happened anyway, at this rate.

“Okay,” she said quietly, “Okay, Amity. Just a few more seconds, alright?” She traced a fire glyph on the ground, scooping up the fire in her talons. Thank you, owl-beast. She put her free hand on Amity’s shoulder. “Okay. Let him go in three… two… one!”

Amity pulled her hand away, her abomination goo mixed with blood. Eda quickly put her fire against Hunter’s face, wrinkling her nose as the smell of burning flesh hit her nostrils.

Hunter let out a gurgling scream, his back arching. Eda removed the fire, and he went limp. “Hey—you still alive?” she felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak. Uh-oh. Eda glanced at Amity, who was hugging herself tightly, rocking back and forth. Eda shook her head. Poor kids. Both of them.

She could hear movement in the tunnels—time to bounce. She scooped up Hunter. He needed help—the cauterization wouldn’t hold forever, and he’d already lost too much blood. “Okay, everyone hang on!”

King and Amity grabbed her arms, and she lifted up into the air, flapping out of the cave and into the sky. Hunter shivered violently, heaving in wet coughs frantically. Eda flapped her wings just a little harder, slicing through the air like a knife.

Amity’s grip started to loosen, and she stared ahead, still not looking at Hunter. Eda glanced down at her.

“Hey. Boots. It’s okay—you didn’t mean to hurt him this bad.”

“He attacked you,” King reminded her.

“I didn’t have to make the weapon so sharp,” Amity said in a daze, “I could have used a hammer, or something blunt.”

“You were in the middle of a fight. Things happen. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Eda swooped in for a landing when she saw glimmering lights. “There’ll be a healing coven center some—there!” She gently settled Hunter down on the doorstep of the hospital, then gestured for Amity and King to hide. She knocked twice on the door, then dove into the bushes, joining the kids.

The door opened, and Eda heard a gasp from the healer, and shouts for a blood test.

“Okay. Time to go.”

Amity grabbed her arm. “We can’t leave him!”

“There’s nothing else we can do.”

“Please, I… I need to make sure he survives.”

Eda took her arms. “And what if he doesn’t?” she said quietly. Maybe not the best thing to say right now, but she couldn’t sugarcoat it—he might not live the night, no matter how hard the healing coven tried. She knew from experience that they couldn’t fix everything.

“Then I need to know.”

Eda settled down next to her. “Okay. Fine. We’ll stick around.”

Amity twisted her blood-stained hands. “…Eda? Do you… really think it’s okay?”

Eda heaved a sigh. Oh, boy. Parenting. “You were in a fight,” she repeated, “Everything happens fast, you have to make split-second decisions. You’ve never really been in a real witches’ duel before, the one with Luz didn’t count. And he’s trained in combat. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t acted?” Eda gently tugged the gloves off of Amity’s hands, and removed her coat, tossing the bloodstained clothing articles out of her sight. It felt warm enough here that it wouldn’t be a problem to get rid of the extra layers. “I don’t think you reacted wrongly. There might have been another way out of the situation, but that doesn’t make the way you took any worse.”

Eda drew an invisibility glyph, holding her breath and flapping up to the windows. There was Hunter—healing coven members were all gathered around him, checking his heart rate. His arm was plastered with patches—Eda could recognize painkillers and sedation in there, as well as a stimulant patch—probably to keep his heart beating. Whoof. He was going to be completely out of it when he woke up.

If he woke up.

Quit that, she scolded herself. She couldn’t think like that, for Amity’s sake. Eda dove back down, as she took a breath and the spell ended. Amity shifted from foot to foot. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“Okay, okay, hold your breath.” Eda scooped Amity up, holding her own breath with the invisibility spell and flapping back up to the window.

The healing coven had added a few more patches—more painkillers, another stimulant, and now a bag full of red blood dripped into his arm. Amity made a little noise, and Eda ducked back down. “You can’t take a breath, the spell fades,” she hissed. Amity nodded, taking in another breath as Eda pulled back up with another spell.

Even more painkillers. At this point, Eda sincerely doubted that Hunter would be able to form a coherent thought. Or move. But then he did, his fingers twitching. He coughed, his eyes opening just ever-so-slightly. His glazed-from-pain-meds eyes slid around the room, landing on the window—and looking directly at them. Amity gasped, and Eda dove back down. “I’m not bringing you up there if you keep stopping the invisibility spells,” she scolded.

“Sorry.”

Eda set her down. “You stay here, and I’ll report back down, okay?”

She swooped back up to the window. The coven members had put a couple more sedation patches on Hunter’s arm, and he was passed out again, the rise and fall of his chest still uneven.

Eda landed next to Amity and King. “They’ve got him pretty hopped up on sedation and painkillers.”

Amity bit her lip. “Is that good? Is that bad?”

“Good,” Eda replied. Maybe if she said it confidently enough, Amity would believe her and stop worrying.

And it worked. At least a little. There was a tiny little relaxation of her shoulders. Eda nudged her. “You should get some sleep. You’ve had a long day. I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

Amity shook her head. “How can I—actually, that doesn’t… sound like a bad idea.”

Amity sat down with a sigh. “Eda. Be honest. Do you… do you really think he’s going to be okay?”

Eda hissed out through her teeth. “I… I don’t know. It was a nasty wound—but he’s one tough customer. If anyone can get through it, it’ll be him.”

Amity ran a hand through her hair. “He was so desperate. So scared to fail.”

Eda extended one wing around her. “And if he’d succeeded, you’dbe the one in the hospital bed. Amity. I know it’s hard to have this kind of… burden, I suppose. It’s good that it’s hard for you to hurt someone else—it means you’ve grown as a person since when you first met Luz. But you can’t think too hard about it, okay?”

Amity didn’t respond. She’d fallen asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily, snuggled in Eda’s wing. “Ohp—okay. This is a thing that’s happening.”

Eda gently slid her wing out from around Amity, settling the witchling on the ground. She flapped back up to the window. The coven members had all disappeared, leaving Hunter alone. His breathing had evened out, his chest rising and falling evenly. Even with the multitude of patches plastered on his arm, his face was still twisted up in pain, and blood stained through the bandages wrapped around his face. His face very nearly matched the color of the bandages—pale as paper, the dark circles under his eyes standing out like bruises against his skin.

After watching for a while to make sure the healing coven wasn’t coming back, Eda gingerly slid the window open, slipping into the room. Hunter shivered at the sudden draft from the window, but didn’t wake up. Eda supposed that the four sedation patches on the belly of his forearm saw to that. She shook her head. “You really got yourself into a mess, huh, kid?”

Eda heard a chirp, and Hunter’s cloak rustled. The cardinal palisman wriggled out, warbling softly and sadly, gently pecking the uninjured side of Hunter’s face. Eda scooped up the little bird.

“I wouldn’t do that. He needs his rest.” Eda patted the bird’s head. “You picked a heck of a witch to bond to, huh? No powers, self-destructive—”

The palisman pecked her fingers indignantly and fluttered back down to Hunter’s chest, chirping softly at him. To Eda’s surprise, Hunter’s face relaxed just ever-so slightly. She glanced out the window—the sun was starting to rise. She gave the palisman another pat on the head.

“You got it from here?”

It chirped an affirmation, and Eda started out the window.

“Hngh…”

Eda whirled back around. Hunter’s eyes were open just a slit, giving her a dazed, unfocused look. She moved back and knelt down next to him. “Hey. You gave us a scare.”

“Mrgh.” He winced, his fingers twitching like he was trying to touch his face.

“No way. You need to hold still. Look. Kid. Amity’s really sorry she stabbed you. She was freaking out about it. Wouldn’t let us leave until she was sure you’d be okay. We weren’t going to just leave you for dead—but Belos would have. Listen to me—you drove yourself crazy over that blood and ended up getting really hurt trying to continue a fight you weren’t going to win. Belos isn’t worth that. And if you keep trying to please him, you’re just going to isolate yourself and get yourself hurt worse. This time, we were able to get you help. Next time, you might not be so lucky, or you might fight someone who won’t be as nice as Amity.” Eda sighed. “You probably won’t even remember this—you’re out of your mind on painkillers. But hey. Take care of yourself. And… maybe start considering that if this is what he drives you to, then Belos might not be the kind of guy you want to follow.”

“Hrgh—”

Eda looked around and found a stack of pain patches. She applied it over one of the used-up ones, and Hunter’s eyes slowly closed. She went back to the window. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

Eda jumped back down to where Amity was waiting, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “He’s going to be okay.

Amity grabbed her arm. “He is?”

Eda nodded. “He’s in rough shape, but he’ll make it.”

Amity’s legs wobbled, and she slumped against Eda. “He’ll be okay,” she said dazedly, “I didn’t kill him.”

Eda scooped her up, tucking a still-sleeping King under her arm. “C’mon. Let’s go home.” She cast one last look at the hospital as they flew away.

Good luck, kid.

[actress4him]

Querencia 9 - Trying

(Day 3 of Whumptober 2021)

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @inky-whump , @lave-whump

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Fandom: Original work

Warnings: lady whumpee (no whumper), referenced fantastic prejudice, referenced panic attack, referenced homelessness, panic, touch repulsion, trauma

No. 3 - STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT…

taunting | insults | “Who did this to you?”

.

Nari and Jamil sit at the kitchen table for a long time after Liliana rushes out, lost in their own thoughts. Jamil is probably berating himself for feeding the kid bacon, and Nari knows she should talk to him about it, but she can’t seem to pull herself out of her own spiral of, What do we do? How can we possibly fix this…fix her?They’re in way over their heads. Yeah, they all came into this team with their own types of trauma, but not like this. She’s not a therapist. None of them are. That’s what the kid probably needs, a therapist, but somehow she gets the feeling the suggestion wouldn’t go over well.

Jamil is actually finally the one to break the stormy silence. “Um, do you want some breakfast?”

Normally she’d get it herself but he needs something to do right now, something to make himself feel better about what just happened. “Sure. What you’re having is fine.”

He busies himself getting out eggs and firing up the stove.

“You had no way of knowing.”

He nods without turning around. “Yeah, I know. Still feel bad, though.”

“I know.” She sighs, drums her blunted fingernails on the table top. “It’s gonna take time.”

At this he spins around, still holding a brown egg just a shade lighter than the palm it’s cradled in. “What…what do you know, do you know anything more than what Quinn told us? Where she’s from, what happened to her?”

Nari shakes her head. “Nope. She spoke more this morning than I’ve heard from her so far…if you don’t count the things she was saying in the hall last night. I’m hoping she’ll open up to us eventually, but…it’s gonna take time.”

Jamil chews on his lip, thumb rubbing over the smooth surface of the eggshell. “Probably has something to do with her powers, huh?”

She offers him a small, sad smile. “Probably.”

Jamil is one of the lucky ones. He grew up in India, where the revelation of people with powers had gone over quite differently than many other countries. He has two loving parents that were happy to encourage him in exploring his powers. There had never been a day when he had to be afraid for his life because of what he could do…until he came to the U.S. and joined their team, of course. Sometimes she wonders if he ever regrets his choice. He’s the heart and soul of their little family, though. She can’t imagine not having him here.

Shaking his head, he turns back to the stove and cracks the egg on the edge of the counter. “It’s been what, two years now?” He doesn’t have to specify that he means since Frost saved that burning building and turned everyone’s view of Supers upside down. “When are we gonna stop having to deal with the fallout of people’s stupidity over ‘Nons’?”

Nari leans onto her elbow and fiddles with her eyebrow ring. “I wish I knew, dude. I wish I knew.”

.

Thankfully Nari is able to coax Lili out of her room for lunch fairly easily. The door opens to a practically brand-new person, obviously having taken advantage of the shower after breakfast. There are no more streaks of dirt across her face, and her once frizzy, tangled hair frames her cheeks in soft curls.

She looks like the kid she is. A nineteen year old girl, according to Jamil, who should be starting her first year of college or working at Starbucks and hanging out with her friends going to parties and concerts.

Not living on the streets. Not having panic attacks because she thinks she’s going to be in trouble for healing someone.

The only thing ruining the illusion is the baggy long sleeve tee that used to be white, and the navy blue lounge pants that are streaked with mud and pool around her ankles. And, of course, the ever present gloves, threadbare as well. Nari makes a mental note to slip some of her own clothes into the dresser in Lili’s room, at least until they can take her shopping.

Not much is said over lunch, a simple affair of various kinds of sandwiches. Liliana manages to eat one with only jelly, and the rest of them pretend very hard to not be watching her like hawks.

Nari and Alex both invite her to hang out with them afterwards, but she shies away and retreats back to her bedroom.

The next couple of days pass in the same way. They barely see her except for meals, though she is eating more and more. Jamil has made it his personal mission to come up with things for them to eat that are simple but interesting. Nari is able to get a few pieces of clothing to Lili, and, though it takes her a while, she eventually shows up wearing some of them. It’s a change that brings a smile to all of their faces. The subject of shopping, though, seems to throw her into a near panic, and Alex saves the day by quickly changing the subject before she can make another hasty retreat.

On the third evening, she finally gives in to their requests to hang out, much to everyone’s surprise and delight. They’re taking turns playing sports games on the Wii, something Quinn insists on them having because, “If you’re gonna burn your brain cells staring at a screen, you might as well get a little exercise while you do it.” It seemed like the best option for Lili, since they had no idea if she had any experience with video games.

She spends most of the time curled up in the armchair, separate from everyone, not making a sound. But she’s here. She’s present, with the team, seeing them behave together like friends, like a family, and that’s gotta count for something. Nari is encouraged by it, anyway.

She’ll get there. This is a good first step.

It seems like an even better step when Alex somehow convinces/coerces her into taking a remote and joining him in a game of archery. She looks so small next to him, silhouetted against the big screen, and her hands shake so badly for the first couple of rounds that she barely hits the target.

But she doesn’t give up. She doesn’t run away. And little by little, as they all encourage and cheer her on, she seems to even relax, her virtual arrows hitting closer and closer to the center.

It’s enough to bring a smile to Nari’s face.

Then the game ends, and Lili loses badly, of course, but everyone still cheers and she seems the most comfortable she’s been yet. Not smiling, but not stiff and cautious, either.

Until Alex puts a friendly hand on her shoulder.

In the blink of an eye she’s crumpled into a pile on the floor. Nari isn’t even sure to start with what happened, it’s all so fast, but she is sure that Lili is kicking frantically against the floor, trying to get away from Alex. Immediately he drops down to her level, apologizing, but the damage is already done, despite the fact that none of them have any idea what the damage is or means or how to keep it from happening again. As soon as she’s far enough away from him to deem it safe, she bolts to her feet and runs out of the room.

In the silence that follows her exit they all hear the quiet clicks of her bedroom door closing and locking.

“I…I don’t know…I didn’t use my strength on her, I promise, it wasn’t that hard. And I could have sworn she saw it coming, I made sure she was facing me first before…” It’s rare for Alex to be at a loss for words, but he just shakes his head and drops down the rest of the way to the floor.

Quinn sighs. “It’s okay, Alex. We know you didn’t mean to. I think it’s safe to say that any kind of touch is off limits for now, though, until we find out more.”

Nari is still staring at the doorway where Lili disappeared, her heart aching at the sudden leap backwards in progress, at the fear she had seen flashing in Liliana’s eyes in the near-darkness. “Oh, jagiya. Who did this to you?”

“I don’t know.” Jamil steps up next to her, eyes trained in the same direction. “But whoever it is, when I find them I’m gonna make them wish they’d never laid eyes on her.”

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Shot to Hell

Writing finally worked again! I thought of using this for Whumptober but then I was like, screw it, who’s gonna wait a month? So here have the Spider-Man content you’ve been asking me for, plus Tony and Bruce father-henning Peter.

Major thanks to @whumphoarder for beta-reading.

*

Peter fades back into consciousness right in the middle of a heated debate between Tony and Nat over the best method of peeling hard boiled eggs. 

“Wha’ happ’nd?” he croaks, prompting Tony to stop mid-sentence (“No, you don’t crack them on a flat surface, you gotta hit em with a–”) and both of them to turn their heads in his direction.

“Oh, look who decided to wander back to the land of the living,” Tony teases, but even in his still-dazed state, Peter can see relief blooming on his mentor’s face. 

“I passed out, didn’t I?” he asks. 

“Bingo. 10 points.” Tony raises a mocking eyebrow before asking in a more sober tone, “How are you feeling?”

“...Shot,” Peter deadpans, eliciting an eye roll from Tony and a grin from Nat.

“Do you remember what happened?” she chips in.

“Uhm… kind of?” Peter tries to think through the fog in his pounding head. He recalls the impact of the bullet with his body, and then someone―Dr. Banner?―plucking said bullet out again in an increasingly painful procedure that must have led to him blacking out. It’s the in-between that he’s kind of fuzzy about. For example, how he moved from the intersection of 77th and 164th to a room with the most hideous, peeling lilac-coloured wallpaper he’s ever seen and three venus fly trap plants on the windowsill. 

“Where am I?” 

“Bruce’s humble abode,” Tony explains, gesturing around to the sparsely adorned room. “Very humble, actually. Not even sure he has indoor plumbing.”

Nat rolls her eyes and hits his arm with a playful backhand.

Peter frowns. “Why are we at Dr. Banner’s?”

Tony shrugs. “It was closest, and we had to get that bullet out of you before your freaky spider DNA started knitting itself back together.”

“Bruce has all kinds of medical equipment here,” Nat explains. “He sometimes treats undocumented citizens.” 

Tony raises an eyebrow. “How do you know that? I didn’t even know that.” 

Nat shrugs mysteriously, then pushes herself away from the edge of the desk she was sitting on top of. “I’m gonna tell him that your disaster kid woke up.” 

“I’m not–” Peter starts at the same moment Tony asserts, “He’s not–” 

“Yeah, yeah, save your breath.” Nat’s smile is amused and a little bit fond. 

Once she’s left the room, Peter pulls the blanket off his bare chest to try and get a look at the bandaged wound in his abdomen, but even lifting his head a little sends jolts of pain through his body and a groan escapes before he can stop it. 

“Easy, easy,” Tony says, pushing him back down. “No moving just yet for anyone with holes in them.”

“Is it really bad?” Peter asks, trying hard to mask the worry in his voice. He’s been injured in countless other ways since getting his powers, but it’s his first time getting shot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders whether there will be any lasting damage. 

Tony’s expression goes soft as he seems to read his thoughts. “Bruce says you’re already healing. The bullet missed all the vital organs. With your healing factor, you should be back on the streets in a couple days.” 

At Peter’s relieved sigh, Tony then launches into an explanation of the very painful things Clint and Steve did to the Hydra agent who fired the gun after the other left to get Peter to safety. Peter nods along, feeling his eyes growing heavy. He doesn’t even realise that they’ve slipped shut until he feels Tony lightly rest a hand on his shoulder, but opening them again seems like way too much work. The wound is pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and he’s suddenly exhausted.

“...Peter? I thought you said he was awake.” 

“Yeah, he was until five minutes ago. Come on, kid, the doctor’s in.”

“Ngph,” Peter grunts, blinking his eyes open again to see Bruce swim into focus, the doctor’s brows knitting in concern. “‘M awake.”

“That’s good.” Bruce gives a small, encouraging smile. “I just want to check your vitals and see if there’s anything we can do for pain management. I know that normal painkillers don’t work on you, but there are some alternatives we could try.”

“No, no it’s fine. It’s not hurting that much,” Peter lies. 

“Uh-huh,” Bruce says, obviously not buying it. He fixes a blood pressure cuff to Peter’s upper arm and inflates it.  

"Yeah, that's still pretty low, but moving in the right direction. You probably shouldn't try to get up just yet."

"Probably?” Tony interrupts. "If he tries to leave this bed any time before tomorrow morning, I'll confiscate the suit for a month."

"Alright, Tony. Calm down." That's Nat, seated in a chair at the foot of the bed.

Tony flashes Peter a warning look before sticking his tongue out at Nat.

"I'm gonna take your pulse.” Bruce puts two fingers onto Peter's wrist and looks at his watch for a while. "120―Your heart's racing. Not much pain, you said?"

"I've had worse," Peter mumbles. That's not a lie, at least. The two-day migraine he had after getting bitten still ranks on top of that list, closely followed by the time he ruptured his Achilles tendon during a triple backflip in the Spider-Man suit from the roof of the gym. 

(The video Ned took of this particular incident still circulates on TikTok).

Tony huffs out a breath and mutters something that sounds a lot like god, this kid.

"Alright." Bruce lifts the blanket to check the bandages and seems to be content with what he's seeing. "Just try to rest like this, but if you can't sleep, we can think of trying some cannabis drops."

“Thanks, Dr. Banner,” Peter says.

"Oh, and you should eat and drink something if you feel up to it. You lost quite a bit of blood back there."

"Uhm." He definitely doesn’t feel up to that―he’s been lightheaded and slightly queasy since the time he woke up, and the mere thought of food turns Peter's stomach. "Maybe drink something?"

“We can start with that.” Bruce removes the blood pressure cuff and starts to put it back into its bag. “I’ll bring you some juice.”

“I’ll get it,” Nat offers and leaves the room. She returns a minute later with a small bottle of orange juice and a pink straw that she passes to Bruce.

“Oh, organic and fairtrade,” Tony comments, eyeing at the label. “You’re in for a treat today, kid.” 

Peter chuckles, but cuts himself off abruptly when he makes to sit up and the pain in his abdomen flares to the point that his vision greys out. “Ow,” he mumbles. 

Tony shoots out a hand when Peter lists towards him and carefully lowers him back down onto the mattress. “What did we say about not getting up yet?” the engineer pronounces through gritted teeth. “There’s a straw in that.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Peter awkwardly takes a few sips from the bottle while lying back, and then stops to draw in a breath. 

His unsuccessful attempt at sitting left him even more dizzy than before. The juice settles uneasily in his stomach and he puts the bottle down after finishing half of it before turning onto his uninjured side with Tony’s help. Nat and Tony restart their quibble about egg-boiling behind Peter while Bruce, sitting right next to him, starts to scroll through something on his phone. 

Peter closes his eyes and attempts to fall asleep, but the longer he tries, the more the pain radiating from the bullet wound seems to increase. On top of that, there’s a growing sick feeling in his gut that’s impossible to ignore. He slowly draws his legs up to his stomach, but it doesn’t help, so he stretches them back out and surreptitiously rests a hand on his belly. Adjusting his head on the pillow, he tries to carefully breathe through his nose.

“You doing okay?” Bruce asks quietly, looking up from his phone after another few attempts by Peter at finding a comfortable position. Peter nods, then lifts his hand to stifle a sick burp that carries the taste of orange juice. Cold sweat has broken out all over his body and he can feel himself starting to tremble minutely. 

Bruce regards him with a frown, then addresses Tony and Nat, who are still caught up in their banter. “Why don’t you two take this outside?” 

Tony starts to protest, but Bruce gives him a pointed look that the other man seems to understand, because he closes his mouth again and gets up from the far side of the bed. "See you later, buddy," he says, giving Peter’s shoulder a squeeze.

Once the two of them have left the room, Bruce turns back to Peter. “What’s going on?” he asks. 

“I, uhm, I kind of feel like throwing up,” Peter admits in a whisper.

“It’s alright, that happens,” Bruce assures him calmly. “I’ll get you a bowl, okay?” 

“I don’t want anyone to see–” 

“I get it,” Bruce reassures. “Don’t worry.” 

He disappears out of the door and Peter keeps swallowing thickly against the nausea rising up in his throat. The only thing worse than throwing up in front of the Avengers would probably be throwing up onto an Avenger’s bed. Luckily, Bruce reappears quickly with a basin in his hands that he sets down within Peter’s reach. “Try to breathe through it,” he advises. “But if you need to get sick, it’s okay.” 

Peter nods miserably. He tries to follow the scientist’s advice of breathing calmly, but it doesn’t do much to quell the nausea. A few minutes later, he has to reach for the basin, saliva already pooling in his mouth. 

"Here." Bruce helps him prop himself on his elbow. Peter shakily spits a few strings of saliva into the basin until a gag rises in his throat and he brings up a gush of orange juice. He barely manages to draw a breath before a second wave forces its way up. Peter can’t stop a whimper from escaping his lips between retches when his wound protests the sudden movement.  

“Hey.” Bruce pats his shoulder awkwardly. “You’ll be alright. Just get it all up.”

Peter is panting and shaking all over when he finishes. Bruce passes him some water to rinse his mouth. 

“That sucked,” Peter croaks after swirling and spitting it back out. He more crashes than lies back down on the pillow, pain radiating in waves through the lower half of his body, making his head spin. 

Bruce gives him a slightly sad, sympathetic look. “I’m sorry it’s hurting.” He gestures at the basin. “Are you okay if I take this away?” 

Peter nods, closing his eyes. A part of him is absolutely mortified at the idea of one of the world’s best scientists cleaning out his puke bowl, but the pain has taken most of the embarrassment away, and if there is anyone of the team he feels least uncomfortable seeing him like this, it’s probably Bruce with his slight shyness and calm down-to-earth attitude.

The man returns a few minutes later, bringing along a cold cloth for Peter to wipe his face, a small box of mints, and Tony.

“Day just keeps getting better, huh?” Tony remarks.

“Ugh.” Peter buries his head in his pillow. “This is such a disaster. And I was looking forward to the mission. And the team.”

“Hey.” Tony’s tone softens. He strokes some of Peter’s sweaty hair away from his forehead and then brushes his eyes shut. “We’re still here. Go to sleep now, kid. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

So Peter does.

_________

All my fics

Taglist: @toomuchtoread33  @yepokokfine

[khlowx]

Whumptober 2020 ! (Haikyuu!!)

Prompt list by Angsy_Cheez-it on Wattpad.

English isn’t my first language sorry if there are mistakes.

Warnings : Multiple several alternate universes - neighbors, roommates, bar/pub, stangers, aftermath of violence, assault, blood, bruises, injuries, gentleness, help, pre-poly, pre-relationship, flirt, potential death, shock...

Day 26 : Broken ribs. (Bokuto/Akaashi/Kuroo/Tsukishima)

The laughs were loud in the pub. The place was crowded like every Friday nights. Kuroo sighed as he hung up his black apron in the employees’ room. Terushima had just freed him from his night shift a few seconds ago. The clock on the wall was showing a good three in the morning. Repressing another sigh, the black-haired man waved goodbye at his friend throughout the open door and exited the establishment by the back. He shivered from the cold night and took one or two steps in the black alley that leaded to the front of the bar and to the street. His body froze before he could process what was happening. All his senses were on alert, the feeling of danger omnipresent. Then he heard it. Muffled whimpers of pain and rushed breaths. Without thinking of what could be behind the big dumpster, the rooster head trotted to the source of the noises.

There was a blond guy with glasses in a really bad shape, seated on the cold floor. His glasses were twisted and wobbling on his nose, blood was dripping from his split lip and bruises were forming almost all over the skin Tetsurou could see. He knelled besides the poor boy, startling him slightly.

“- You’re alright pal ?

- Do I look alright ? the other spat in return.

- Well no, obviously. Kuroo chuckled awkwardly. Do you want me to call an ambulance ?”

At this, the injured man shook his head vehemently. After calming him and assuring him that he would not call the emergencies, the bartender helped him to his feet. Except, that the blond wasn’t able to stand by himself. The brunette’s mind was racing. He clearly couldn’t let this dude alone on the sidewalk and his lip was still bleeding even with the tissue pressed to it for a ten minutes.

“- Come to my place, I’ll heal you.” he murmured.  

The other’s eyes shot up and he just stared at his rescuer, dumbfounded. When this latter insisted and slid a hand around his waist to support him, he winced and looked down again.

“- Yeah, okay. Thanks. the blond wheezed, suffering.

- No need to thank me, that’s normal.”

With that, they began to walk slowly, Tetsurou still helping the hurt boy. They chatted a bit on the way to the bartender’s flat. He learned that this unknown person’s name was Tsukishima Kei, he was twenty-three and had been assaulted by a hooligan whom wanted his wallet, phone and so on. He had been left with nothing, next to the pub a few seconds before the raven found him. When they finally arrived, Tsukishima was breathless, grimacing and sweating. Understandable.

“- I live on the second floor, you’re gonna be okay ? the older one asked worriedly.

- Hm, I think so.

- ‘kay, let me open the door and I’ll help you after.”

When Kei’s back touched the wall of the building, his brows furrowed. He was biting hard on his bottom lip, aggravating the bleeding. Thankfully, Kuroo retrieved him quickly like he had say.

  “- Bro ! I was starting to wonder if you had found a one night st- wow. Who’s that ? You look awful, mate. What happened ?

- Thanks. the stranger snorted at Bokuto’s question.

- Bo, that’s Tsuki. Tsuki, I present you my roommate : Bokuto Koutarou. I found him next to the pub in that state.

- It’s Tsukish-

- Man, really ? I don’t know who you annoyed, but he didn’t miss you ! That’s for sure !”

The gray-haired man whistled, analyzing his surprise guest from head to toe. Tetsurou leaded the blond to the couch where the latter sat happily. He listened barely to the discussion of the two roommates, closing his eyes tightly. He only opened them when he heard the door shut.

“- He’s going to ask our beautiful neighbor if he has some meds and stuff like that ‘cuz I totally forgot we didn’t have all of that. Kuroo explained with a smirk.

- Beautiful ? Kei repeated, skeptical.

- Breath taking. A cold beauty like an angel fallen from heaven.

- Sounds a little exaggerated in my opinion.”

The owner of the place just laughed. A few seconds later, Bokuto returned with a man that seemed to have fallen indeed, but rather from his bed than any mystic high place. Their arms were full of bands, disinfectant and other things.

“- Akaashi, long time no see !  

- Not even twenty-four hours, Kuroo-san. the aforementioned responded, deadpanned.

- You sound tired. You should sleep at night, we wouldn’t want your pretty face to be messed up with dark circles under your eyes. the rooster head flirted obviously.

- You’d always be gorgeous either way, ‘Kaashi ! Koutarou chimed in, leaving his stuff on the coffee table.

- I was sleeping until someone woke me up abruptly. the newcomer replied between gritted teeth.

- I think that’s my fault, actually. Sorry.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to Tsukishima. After the presentations had been done once again, the four men made their way to the bathroom and put themselves at work. In fact, Kei just sat on the tub and waited here. Keiji was kneeling in front of him, busy with his lip while Tetsurou was holding a pack of ice under his eye, a thing he could do himself but the other had insisted. Bokuto was against the sink, watching them attentively. The flirt went on all the time the care lasted, sometimes including the not-so-stranger-anymore.

“- Are you hurt anywhere else Tsuki ? the beefiest one of all asked when the younger got up and winced once again.

- No, I’m good.

- Are you s-

- Great ! Let’s watch a movie then ! the bartender exclaimed, applauding enthusiastically.

- At… five in the morning, really ? Akaashi yawned.

- It’s always the good time for a good movie, ‘Kaashi.” the other decreed, then winked and brought them back to the sofa.

The blond didn’t have the energy to go back to his place right now and even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he was enjoying the three men’s company. They had saved him after all, and they didn’t have to. Not to mention that they were quite attractive.

Koutarou opted for a Disney, not really surprising. Somehow, it made sense with his childish behavior. So they all got comfy while The Princess and the Frog was downloading. They watched it in relative silence, Akaashi stuck between the owners of the pace and Tsuki next to Kuroo. Half-way through the film, the oldest were already asleep. Bokuto was curled against Keiji’s side, drooling on his shirt, and Kuroo’s head had fallen on the youngest’s shoulder. When TV only showed a black screen, the clock was showing a quarter past seven.

“- You should sleep.

- I can’t. I have to go home, my own roommate is probably freaked out.

- Why didn’t you want to go the hospital earlier ?”

Kei was silent for a moment. It was a legit question and he felt like he owned an answer to the man that had woken up in the middle of the night to help him.  

“- My brother works there. I don’t want to see him.

- You should consider it, I saw how you seem to suffer every time you move.

- Yeah, probably.”

The blond got up, placing the Tetsurou’s head on the awake man’s shoulder.

“- What are you doing ?

- I told you already, I’m going home. Sorry for leaving you with them like that and for everything else, I guess.

- Tsukishima-

- Have a nice day, Akaashi-san. I owe you one, but a least I know where Kuroo-san works.”

He slipped out by the door after putting his shoes on and disappeared out of Keiji’s sight. This latter sighed and closed his eyes, decided to have some deserved rest finally.

A couple of days passed without any news of the injured boy they had met. Until that one night when their neighbor burst in the roommates’ apartment. He was visibly shocked and trembling. He held out his phone for the two others to check the article he was previously reading, without a word.

“- A young man found dead in the streets of Tokyo, three days ago. Koutarou read out loud.

- He seemed to have been assaulted the night before, and had been healed by someone. However, his several broken ribs perforated his lungs and he died from asphyxiation.”

Just under these few written sentences figured a picture of the dead : juvenile face, glasses and blond hair.  

[dweetwise]

day 16: bad day

prompt from: whumptober (tho i misread the title and can’t post to the challenge but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ i still like it) pairing: felix x ace notes: felix’s day goes from bad to neutral to Nice (tm). also everyone except david is a shitty person in this lmao. warnings: implied emotional abuse, implied cheating, threat of violence word count: 2900

It was official; this was the worst day of Felix’s life.

It shouldn’t have been. He should have been happy, maybe a little shocked and nervous, but definitely excited. Not anxious, scared and downright spiteful like he felt right now.

His girlfriend was pregnant. They hadn’t been trying, but she was excited to tell him regardless, already thinking of baby names and giving Felix no room to voice any of his doubts. He knew this was what he claimed he’d always wanted, what he knew his parents wanted for him, to continue the family name since he was the last of his line.

He took another swig of the foul-tasting beer and wondered if she’d done it on purpose. She’d been not-so-subtly hinting at marriage for months, and Felix had always brushed her off. Maybe this was her taking matters into her own hands, forcing Felix to commit to her or drag down both his family name and professional image for having a child out of wedlock.

He didn’t want to marry her because she always seemed way more fond of his money than Felix himself, and he didn’t want to have kids because…

Well. He hated children.

He probably should have brought up that particular piece of information sooner, but he wasn’t sure it would have even made a difference. Not to his parents, not to his girlfriend, and certainly not to the ungodly amount of distant relatives and business associates who kept bugging him about settling down and starting a family.

Because, for some reason, dedicating the last twenty years of his life to doing what other people wanted him to do wasn’t enough.

He’d stupidly believed it would get better. That the twelve-hour work days and countless all-nighters on uninspiring projects would eventually pay off, when in reality all it had lead to were more boring projects. He’d thought buying his girlfriend expensive gifts and taking her on weekly dates followed by the obligatory weekly sex would make them fall in love, but instead she was pushing him into commitments he wasn’t ready for.

He downed the rest of the beer and tried to numb out the suffocating feeling of being trapped. He was doomed to keep living his shitty life exactly the way others dictated, and there was nothing he could do to change his fate.

Maybe that’s why he’d chosen this bar. It wasn’t the usual high-end, after-hour cocktail bar next to his office where everyone would recognize him. It was a shitty sports bar owned and frequented by foreigners, where nobody would approach him to congratulate him on the “good news” after his girlfriend e-mailed his entire contacts list in her excitement.

He debated getting another beer, maybe finally being able to pick one that didn’t taste like piss. God, how sad was his life that the biggest act of rebellion he could come up with was getting drunk on cheap beer in a bad part of town?

Felix clutched the glass tighter in his hand, frustrated at his life but also at himself, how he was unable to do anything but play right into everyone else’s plans. Fuck, he needed to do something different, something he’d never even considered would be in the realm of possibilities for him. But what?

He looked around the bar, seeing a group of backpackers animatedly chatting in what sounded like Spanish. He could go travelling, but that wouldn’t accomplish much except buy him a little bit of time. Not to mention his girlfriend would guilt him until he let her come along.

He could always get blackout drunk and puke his guts out in the bathroom. Maybe get into a bar fight. Try to get his hands on some drugs. Hire a prostitute.

Unfortunately none of those things seemed even remotely more thrilling than the bland beer he’d been drinking the entire night.

Felix sighed and buried his face into his hands. For forty years, he’d kept telling himself he wasn’t like everyone else, that he’d do something meaningful in his life, that he was a risk taker and not a conformer.

And he still would; he just didn’t know what. If he only got a sign—

The door to the bar slammed open and Felix snapped his head up from the noise, his table rattling from the impact of the door hitting the wall.

There was a man, his grey hair and cheap suit both wet from the autumn rain, clutching something under his arm while panting like he’d just run a half marathon. He hurried to close the door, and Felix didn’t mean to stare, but it was the most exciting thing to happen all night.

The man caught Felix’s eye and gave a quick grin.

“You saw nothing,” he offered before running up to the bar.

“Don’t tell me ya fuckin’—” the bartender started, clear annoyance on his features.

“Oops, gotta run, I was never here!” the man offered good-naturedly before hopping over the bar and disappearing into the back.

“Ace for fuck’s sake!” the bartender cursed, yelling at the doorway to what had to be a back room or kitchen. Still, he made no move to follow him, instead sighing in agitation and aggressively started cleaning a couple of pint glasses.

Felix realized three things at once; one, the new customer screamed trouble. Two, he clearly knew the bartender. And three, Felix was intrigued.

He made his way to the bar with his empty glass, placing a ten euro bill on the worn wood that earned him a fresh glass of beer in only a couple of seconds. He appreciated that the bartender hadn’t tried to make small talk during the entire evening, and lamented the fact that he had to break the silence.

“Who is your friend?” Felix asked, trying to ignore the self-consciousness that always surfaced when he had to subject the world to his extremely obvious German accent.

“'Friend' is a strong word,” the bartender huffed in annoyance, though it seemed to be directed at the person they were talking about and not Felix. “'A pest who keeps comin' back like a boomerang no matter how many times I kick 'im out' sounds more fitting.”

Felix hummed in acknowledgement and sipped at his beer, deciding to sit down at the bar instead of returning to his table.

“He seems interesting,” Felix mused, trying to fish more information about the man.

Instead of humoring him, the bartender stopped cleaning the glasses and gave him an incredulous stare.

“You've gotta be fucking kidding me,” he deadpanned. “The hell's a guy like you see in a rat like 'im?”

“That wasn't what I meant,” Felix insisted, staring at his glass in embarrassment. He was just curious, he wasn't… interested, at least not that way. God, why could he never communicate properly? This is why he never tried anything new.

He heard the bartender sigh long and loud, like this wasn't the first time he'd had to put up with a similar situation.

“Look mate, whatever yer thinkin', don't,” he offered, like that was supposed to help Felix at all. “Guy's way more trouble than 'es worth, an' he sure as hell ain't here to make friends.”

Felix didn't have time to reply, not that he even knew what he would have said, before the door slammed open once again and heavy footsteps stomped into the bar.

“Oi!” the bartender shouted in annoyance. “Don't go draggin' mud into my bar!"

“Where is he?” one of the new patrons demanded in German, and his voice was threatening enough to make Felix glance over his shoulder at the new arrivals.

He saw a group of four men that looked like bad news, their cheap clothing and poorly made tattoos making Felix think of some lowly local gang.

“Read the sign, mate,” the bartender scoffed, pointing at a metal plaque in the style of a road sign that said ‘Service in English only’.

“What a fucking moron,” one of the thugs commented, not even attempting to switch languages.

“We know he's here!” the man at the front barked out and proceeded to slam a fist against the bar.

“I got no bloody clue what yer talkin' about!” the bartender claimed. “But if yer gonna come to my bar an' start a fight, so help me—”

"Let's just beat him up!” one of the men was getting impatient.

“For the last time, where is he!?” one of the thugs surged forward and grabbed the bartender by his collar.

“You've got the fuckin' wrong place, I dun know shit about what ya even want!” the bartender, to his credit, didn't even bat an eye. Then again, it looked like he could easily hold his own in a fight.

Felix heard a gasp and noticed one of the Spanish kids cower closer to the corner they were sitting in, observing the scene with fear in her eyes.

The tension in the air seemed like it was about to snap, and instead of making Felix want to bolt into the safety of his mansion, it made his adrenaline start pumping.

This was what he needed. A thrill.

“You heard the man,” Felix raised his voice, finally turning to address the group. “You're in the wrong place.”

“Shut the fuck up, this doesn't involve you!” one of them eloquently responded.

“It started involving me when you barged in and ruined my night,” Felix explained calmly despite feeling his palms start sweating from nervousness, years of faking an unphased persona finally coming to use.

“Okay, the fuck's your problem!?” the guy who seemed to be the leader demanded, finally letting go of the bartender in favor of looming over Felix threateningly.

“I said,” he emphasized, slowly lifting his pint glass to take a sip of his drink and flash his ring with the family insignia. “You've got the wrong place.”

There was a moment of silence when all Felix heard was his own heart beating in his ears, keeping his expression neutral and looking at the thugs like they were nothing more than a fleck of dirt on his expensive suit. Hopefully, they'd recognize the symbol, even if the Richters hadn’t been involved in the local underworld for years, not after the disappearance of his parents.

“The fuck is he on about?” one of the men, who looked to be the youngest, demanded. “Let's just beat them both up and—”

“Shut up,” the leader barked, glancing at Felix fleetingly. “We seem to have gotten lost on the way.”

Felix couldn’t help the smug smile.

“Happens to the best of us,” he said.

The group slowly started slinking out of the bar without further complaints, with Felix's eyes following them the entire time as if daring them to protest.

“Sorry for bother,” one of them even offered to the bartender in questionable English before the door closed after them.

“I'll be damned,” the bartender huffed and crossed his arms, giving Felix a look that could generously be described as somewhat impressed. Felix offered a shaky smile in return before he focused all his attention on staring at the surface of the bar and trying not to tremble from fear as the adrenaline left his body. He hoped it wasn’t obvious he was taking unnecessarily deep breaths and that cold sweat was running down his back under the suit.

That had been the most idiotic thing he had ever done. It was stupid, it was dangerous, and unnecessary and—

And he'd never felt such a rush of absolute victory before.

There was a thud as a beer was placed in front of him, and he glanced up to see the bartender smirking at him.

“It's on the house,” he said in a heavily accented but otherwise fluent German.

Well. It seemed this night was just full of surprises.

Soon after, Felix found himself sitting in a corner booth nursing his two beers. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt good, and it wasn’t just from the alcohol buzzing in his system.

He’d proved to himself that he had balls. He was one wrong move away from ending up in a bar fight, and even that thought didn't make him cower in fear like it would have before. Despite never being in a fight before, his confidence was soaring, and he liked to imagine him and the bartender could have easily taken the four thugs.

And then his night only got better as a handsome stranger slid down into the opposite side of the booth.

“So, King told me you saved my ass just now,” the man said with a charming smile, casually leaning closer and propping his chin up on his elbow like they were old friends catching up.

It took Felix longer than he'd like to recognize the man as the one that caught his attention earlier. Without the baseball cap, sunglasses and cheap suit jacket, he cleaned up rather well, dressed in a simple light pink button-up and jeans. Slightly messy, silver hair was a stark contrast to the mischievous brown eyes and almost youthful, cocky smirk on his face.

Felix suddenly realized why the bartender thought he was interested in more than just the man's colorful personality.

“I suppose that's true,” Felix said after a way longer silence than was socially acceptable, but his companion was courteous not to mention anything.

“Well, whether you meant to or not, you have my thanks!” the man grinned good-naturedly. “I would have bought you a beer, but I see David's already got you covered,” he added, gesturing to the two pints where Felix was still working through his first.

“Yes, it's…” Felix started, debating whether he should be honest about his distaste for the drink or not. Fuck it, drunk and brave had worked earlier. “A shame it doesn't make it taste any better.”

The man barked out a laugh and Felix smiled at the success of his joke.

“I know, right?” his companion snickered. “I keep telling him to mix it up, maybe get some nice wines too, but he insists on importing that awful stuff the Brits call beer.”

Felix smiled politely, not knowing what to add to the statement. Regardless of what the bartender—David?—had claimed before, the two definitely seemed to be friends.

“I'm sorry, where are my manners!” the man suddenly seemed to realize, offering his hand over the table. “I'm Ace.”

“Felix,” Felix replied, returning the handshake firmly, like his father and numerous career coaches had taught him.

“So, Felix,” Ace continued, retracting his hand but leaning over the table even further. “What brings you here? I think I'd remember seeing someone like you before.”

Was that flirting? It had been so long since anyone had showed any interest in Felix, he couldn’t even recognize what was just casual conversation, too used to business world small talk about the stock market and someone's secretary's family.

“I needed a change,” Felix said, before realizing he probably shouldn't be revealing too much. “—of scenery,” he hastily added.

Ace regarded him silently for a few heartbeats and Felix gulped down some beer to try not to fret under the scrutinizing gaze.

“Scenery, huh?" Ace hummed. "Seen anything you like so far?”

Okay, that had to be flirting. Right? Felix stared at Ace's face, but the other wasn’t giving anything away. And Felix thought he was good a keeping a straight face.

“Maybe,” he answered simply, keeping eye contact much longer than appropriate on purpose.

Ace didn't look away and Felix wondered if he was the only one who noticed the tension in the air.

He always sucked at flirting, even in his native tongue, and now he had to do it in broken English. He thought he'd been pretty obvious, but he still wasn’t sure if Ace was just being friendly. Maybe he wasn’t even into men.

Well, to be fair Felix didn't think he was either, university time experimentation aside. There was something about this particular night, like he was desperate to prove to himself that he was still capable of making decisions for himself.

He’d always thought he wouldn't cheat, but he also knew that if Ace offered, he wasn’t going to say no. If this was the only thing in his life he still had control over, he was going to make the most of it, and he no longer cared if that made him a bad person.

“You know, I've stayed in a bunch of different hotels in the area while I've been here,” Ace mentioned out of the blue, and Felix furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “There's a pretty good one just down the street.”

Felix swallowed, at last realizing what the other was getting at.

“Really?” he asked, trying to mask his suddenly surfacing nerves.

“Yup. Kinda cozy, very… discreet,” Ace chirped casually, like he was talking about the weather and not propositioning a stranger.

Felix cleared his throat and shoved a hand in his pocket, managing to fish out a crumpled twenty euro bill despite his sweaty palms. He slapped the money on the table, hoping the tip would convey his gratitude to David for setting him up for the best night of his life.

Finally, he stood up from the booth and offered Ace a nervous smile that probably made it glaringly obvious just how eager he was.

“Lead the way."

[iron--spider]

sharp corners (whumptober - secret injury)

Tony keeps watching as newly minted one year-old Morgan toddles around her own party, gazing up at all the adults that are here, chronicling her every move. Pepper invited a few Stark employees with children around the same age, and it’s like watching a herd of baby deer muddle around, with no real intentions of going anywhere in particular. They’re just walking because they can. 

 But they have one very formidable foe in their paths. Sharp corners. Tony didn’t realize how many they had in this room, one of the living rooms with a kitchen and dining space—there are all kinds of coffee tables, side tables, weirdly shaped chairs. Danger at every turn. Or corner. 

 Peter swoops in so Morgan doesn’t run into the table beside the couch again. They’ve already got one crying baby being comforted on the couch, and every other second there’s another close call. Everybody’s on high alert. No baby is safe. 

 It’s getting under Tony’s skin.

 It’s becoming an unspoken thing, like everybody is afraid to say Tony Stark throws a shitty birthday party for kids, but they’re all standing in front of the corners and pretending they’re not. Peter is the only one being genuine, as always. And Tony can see everything May is thinking on her face. 

 Morgan stumbles into Peter’s arms, shrieking happily when he settles her in his lap. Since she started walking she usually doesn’t wanna stop for anybody, not even him or Pepper, but she’s had a special soft spot for Peter from moment one. Which doesn’t surprise Tony in the slightest. 

 He kneels down next to the two of them just as Peter is blowing raspberries into Morgan’s chubby little cheek. 

 “Can you hold court for a minute or two here?” Tony whispers, so Pepper can’t hear. 

 “Uh, yeah,” Peter says, giving Tony a look. “What are you gonna go do? Because more Barbies could really, like, liven this thing up. You don’t have the submarine Barbie down here and that’s her favorite one.”

 “I’m not gonna go get more toys,” Tony scoffs, shaking his head at him. “I’m gonna go deal with our little situation here.”

 “Situation?” Peter asks. Morgan is grabbing at the collar on his shirt, holding onto one of his fingers.

 Tony taps the corner directly behind Peter’s head. 

 Peter narrows his eyes. “What are you gonna do? File them down?”

 Tony glares at him. “Just trust me, please. Stay your interesting and endearing self and entertain the masses.” He taps Peter’s nose, ruffles Morgan’s untamed curls.

 “Uh, okay,” Peter says, and Tony glances back to see him watching him worriedly, craning his neck.

 Tony finds the tennis balls in a broom closet. He bought a lot of random shit when Morgan was born, a lot of shit they didn’t need, or didn’t need at least for another couple of years. He remembers Pepper’s face when he and Peter came back with the ten pack of tennis balls, among other unnecessary things. Tennis balls? Is someone making a career change? Are we getting a dog? Then Peter talked about a dog for twenty minutes, and appropriately distracted her from the roller skates and VR headset in the basket.

 Tony gets overzealous, he knows this, everybody knows this. He’ll probably never even use any of the shit he bought in his baby-induced stupor, because he can usually get something better or invent it himself. But he’s glad he got the tennis balls.

 He sneaks out of the closet, sliding along the wall like he’s on a covert mission, and that other baby is still crying. Jesus, he knew a one year old’s birthday party might be a miss, but these guys are gonna go away thinking Tony can’t babyproof his place. He marches deep into the kitchen, and thankfully, nobody’s gonna be in here for another half hour or so because that’s when the lunch is gonna arrive. He briefly wonders if everybody is judging their appetizers too, and shakes his head, getting back to the task at hand.

 Pepper babyproofed the set of knives, of all things, like Morgan was gonna climb up on this counter three times her height and choose a knife as her new toy. Tony unlocks Fort Knox, and takes out the sharpest one, glancing down at his feet to make sure one of the babies isn’t down there searching for something sharp. He’s alone, thankfully, and he pops open the tennis ball container like a can of cat food, and pulls the first one out. He puts it down on the counter, holds it with two fingers as he lines up the knife, and as soon as steel touches down on nylon, the ball pops away from his grasp and bounces across the kitchen.

 “Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters, knowing if Morgan hears that she’ll come zooming in here like an out of control mini-bus, and Peter definitely will, considering the enhanced hearing. He puts the knife down—scoots it closer to the wall just in case—and walks over to the offending tennis ball.

 “I am Iron Man,” he mutters, snatching the tennis ball off the ground, popping it from hand to hand. “I can, and will, conquer this foe. No more baby heads bumping into hard corners, oh no, not today.”

 He puts the ball back down on the counter again and tries to saw through it.

 “This shouldn’t be this fucking hard,” he groans, gritting his teeth. 

 The ball threatens to jump out and roll away again, and Tony’s getting a little too recklessly angry, the small voice in the back of his mind telling him to settle down.

 But that kid is still crying in the other room.

 Tony holds the ball in his hand and cuts away at it with his other hand, and it absolutely shouldn’t be this goddamn hard, and he reminds himself to pull his hand away when he gets all the way through the ball—

 But it falls apart like a newly cut apple a lot quicker than Tony expected, and he slices right through his palm like it’s what he’d been aiming for all along.

 “Shit,” he hisses, white hot pain shooting through him, the blood bright and horrifying red, not something he’d ever wanna see in the middle of his daughter’s first birthday party.

 “Oh, goddamnit,” Tony says, grimacing. He glares down at both halves of the ball, and moves over to the sink, quickly running the water over his injured hand.

 He knows immediately that this isn’t the kind of wound he can just wash off and walk away from, and he’s seen a lot of shit in his life. He knows he needs to take care of it, and that means Pepper will notice his absence. Then Pepper will find out the dumbass thing he did, and Pepper will be pissed. Nobody ever wants Pepper to be pissed.

 Tony watches the blood flood down the drain and chews on his lower lip.

 “Hey,” Peter’s voice says, as he comes around the corner. “What are you oh my God.”

 It’s like Tony’s heart is sucked directly into his throat and he whips his hand out from under the water, flinging droplets and blood fucking everywhere. And yet, he still hides his hand behind his back. 

 Peter stares at him. Looks down at the ball, cut in half, the drops of blood surrounding it like some half-assed modern art, and then back at Tony, the guiltiest man in the world. Peter narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”

 Tony scoffs, shaking his head. “What did I—nothing. I didn’t do anything. That’s always been there.”

 Peter stares down at the tennis ball. He looks up at the bloody knife on the counter. Jesus Christ. “You tried to cut the tennis ball in half to put on the table corners and you cut yourself.”

 Tony sighs, holding out his hand. It stings and the cut is still dripping. “Yeah, Pep is gonna be pissed if she finds out I did some dumb shit today of all days. Usually I get a pass—she gets irritated, yeah, but today is not a pass giving day.”

 Peter sucks in a breath and nods, moving into a mode that Tony has seen him in on more than one occasion. He opens up the second cabinet, takes out a glove—no, three gloves—and puts one on, depositing the other two on the counter. He grabs both pieces of the ball and tosses them in the trash, giving Tony a withering look. Then he grabs the Windex and starts cleaning up the blood.

 “Tony, like, do something, stop just standing there—”

 “Right, right,” Tony says, even though his brain is drawing complete blanks, because they’re still too close to the party itself and he’s fucking something else up for Pepper, as fucking usual, because that’s who he is and who he always will be.

 “Keep running your hand under the water,” Peter says, a little softer now. 

 Tony nods, rushes back over, and sticks his hand under the still-running water. Peter cleans the blood up best as he can, ignores the water that was sprayed with Tony’s sad attempt to hide his hand. 

 “Okay,” Peter says, throwing away the paper towels and the glove he was using. “Okay, okay, we’re gonna make a little compress, then we’re gonna put the gloves on your hands—”

 “Explanation for that?” Tony asks. 

 Peter shrugs. “I mean. You’re the one that can think on your feet. Remember the time I threw the bag of money out of the window?”

 Tony narrows his eyes. “How could I possibly forget?”

 Peter shrugs again, more dramatically. 

 Tony blows out a breath. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll think of something.” He’ll think of something stupid, that’s for sure, but Pepper is pretty used to that, so he might be able to pull it off.

 “Okay, I’m gonna go to the upstairs bathroom and grab the bactine—” He stares at Tony’s hand anxiously, and looks up at him. “I think we might need stitches.”

 “We?” Tony asks. “Can you feel it too?”

 Peter narrows his eyes at him. 

 “No time,” Tony says, waving around his free hand. He turns off the water, gesturing dramatically for a paper towel. Peter hands it to him with a big sigh. “You go get the bactine and the better bandages, I’ll do the compress for the time being—”

 Peter keeps looking anxiously at his hand. “Okay, okay, but Tony—”

 “Stitches tonight, promise, cross my heart, I’ll let her be pissed at me later, not now.”

 “Okay, okay, back in a flash.” Tony watches as he speeds through the hallway, and once he’s out of the danger zone he immediately crawls up to the ceiling and disappears towards the loft. Tony quickly makes a thin strip with a couple paper towels, and presses it on top of the cut. The blood still seeps through, and Tony rolls his eyes. Why in the hell did something like this have to happen today? He should be able to cut a tennis ball in half. It should have been too easy. He should have been able to cut them all in half.

 “Tony?” Pepper calls.

 His heart shrivels up in a panic. “Yeah, hun, I’m, uh, getting some more of the little—the little vegetables, and the, uh, the peas Mo likes! Yeah!” He doesn’t know why he added the last yeah in there, like a moron, and he definitely didn’t say any of it like a normal human being. 

 “Bring the carrots she likes too!” Pepper calls back, and Tony wilts in relief.

 “Yeah, gimme—couple minutes, I got this, I got this.” He shakes his head at himself, how he made bringing in vegetables sound like some immense task. He holds the paper towels to the cut, his fingers soaking with blood, and he thinks his body is being fucking overdramatic right now, he’s been cut worse without this much blood, it’s just gotta be bleeding like this—

 “TONY.”

 Peter’s voice, hushed but loud enough for Tony to hear. He turns around, inches from the fridge, and sees the kid standing there at the top of the stairs. In a flash, alright, but how, with the amount of shit he’s holding, Tony doesn’t know. Peter has bandages, bactine, Neosporin, rubbing alcohol, gauze, three of Morgan’s Barbies, including the newly purchased Black Widow one, and...the Hulk Smash hands. 

 Tony sees where this is going. Peter grins happily when Tony shakes his head at him, and he starts down the stairs when Morgan herself waddles into the hallway.

 Both of them freeze. 

 She stands there, keeping an unsteady hold on her stance, and she looks back and forth between the two of them, letting out a small, nearly silent squeal. They don’t have the baby guard over the stairs today, which is another negligence, but Peter shifts all of his loot into one arm, and rushes down, scooping Morgan up with the other. She grins, babbles something quietly to Peter as he moves fast into the kitchen.

 “What are you doing, little monkey?” Tony asks, bending down to look at her. She paws at his nose.

 “Tony, you got her?” Pepper yells. “She got away from Diane—”

 “Got her, got her, no help needed here, we’re good!” Tony yells back.

 “You keep sounding like someone is holding a gun to your head,” Peter says, putting all his supplies down on the counter. Morgan notices the Barbies, and looks at Peter in delight.

 “Yeah, I’m—I don’t hold up well under Pepper pressure,” Tony says, tossing away the blood-soaked paper towel and starting the work with the real first aid.

 “You got this?” Peter asks, swinging Morgan back and forth, making her laugh.

 “Yeah, kids,” Tony says. “Enjoy yourselves. Dad’s just bleeding.” He pushes everything down towards the sink, like on a conveyor belt, and the Surf Instructor Barbie tries to come along for the ride. “I assume I’m wearing the Hulk hands.”

 “Yeah, I thought that would be good, better than stupid cleaning gloves,” Peter says, holding Morgan against his hip. “You know like, none of her toys are age appropriate.”

 “I know,” Tony says, wincing at the Neosporin. “I go a little crazy with shopping for kid shit. I’ve got you to supervise.”

 “And no one’s taking Barbies away from little princess,” Peter says, kissing Morgan’s cheek. She loves that, and she laughs joyfully. Tony’s still got a gaping wound, but he peers over his shoulder to admire them, anyway.

 ~

 Peter cuts up the tennis balls and puts them on all the corners. Tony entertains as the Hulk for almost half an hour, and only slips up about his injury once, which he turns into a dilapidated roar. Everyone has fun, Morgan receives some toys that are more age appropriate, they eat, no more babies run into hard corners.

 Peter and May are showing Morgan her new dog guitar when Pepper peels the Hulk hand off Tony’s injured one. She raises her eyebrows at the wrapping which, thankfully, isn’t covered in blood.

 The dog guitar plays one long, mangled note, and Morgan claps.

 “I knew you’d done something to yourself,” Pepper says, raising her eyebrow at him. “I didn’t know what, but I knew you’d done something.”

 Tony grins, and absolutely does not look at Peter.

 “And this one helped,” May says, touching Peter’s knee with her foot.

 “How do you know?” Peter asks, accusingly. 

 “I just know,” May says, giving them both the same look.

 “Yeah, they work as a team,” Pepper says.

 Tony clears his throat. Well, it’s true. “I’m totally fine,” he says. “Just. Dandy. Just a scratch.”

 “You need stitches, don’t you?” Pepper asks.

 “Yeah,” Tony says, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I think I’ll probably lose the whole hand if I don’t get them within the next half hour.” He shrugs with his remaining Hulk fist. “Thor got these for her, right? Or was it us? I know it wasn’t Bruce.”

 “Yeah, it was Thor,” Pepper says. She leans in, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re a moron and I love you.”

 “I love you too,” Tony says, a little wary of her tone. “You’re gonna make Peter contact Helen, aren’t you?”

 “Oh, absolutely,” Pepper says, looking down at Peter. 

 “Got it,” Peter says, pressing a long kiss to Morgan’s forehead as she grasps at his chin. “Totally fair. Totally.”

 Peter and Tony walk towards the main door, shoulder to shoulder. 

 “I think we got off easy,” Tony says. 

 “Yeah, I was thinking she’d make me stitch it up myself,” Peter says. “Then we’d both be in trouble.”

 “I love you and I trust you, but yeah, no,” Tony says, patting him on the shoulder with the Hulk fist. He hopes the whole process goes quick. The five of them have a date with Barbie in Swan Lake tonight to cap off Morgan’s birthday. Hand or no hand. 

[lyssismagical]

make me into more than a goner

Whumptober Day Twenty-Two. Hallucination

Read on AO3

(“If you were good enough, maybe Tony would still love you!”)

He gasps, eyes darting around as he wakes up.

A jail cell.

God-knows-where.

He got hit by a fucking train.

His friends are going to be killed.

He has no one to save him from the mess he’s created.

He’s-

He’s in a lot of pain.

Hissing through his teeth, he pulls himself to his feet, eyes bouncing between the sleeping officer and the few others in the cell. Everything hurts, but he needs to get out of here. He needs to save his friends. He needs… He probably needs medical help. He really just wants to take a nap in a real bed.

He breaks the lock with ease, pretending it doesn’t pull at a wound on his shoulder. The blood drips down his back, but he ignores it.

Out. He needs to get out. Immediately. He needs help.

(He pretends he has someone to call for help. May can’t help him. The Avengers are broken up, either dead or retired, he doesn’t know their numbers anyway. Pepper’s got Morgan, he can’t ask her to rescue him. Happy and Rhodey are with Tony in his bedridden state… Peter can’t. He can’t bother them again, and again, and again. Especially after he just failed so miserably.)

Smells assault his nose as soon as he stumbles out of the jail into what seems like farming area. A goat tries to take his jersey which he quickly tugs over his head, eyes darting between the people. None of them could be real. This could all be a hallucination. He just has to trust that this is real.

“Could I use your phone?” he asks the first person he can see with a phone.

It’s handed over to him without a question. In Queens, nobody would’ve been this kind to him.

But he’s standing there, in the middle of fucking nowhere with no one to call, desperate for help.

He doesn’t want to bother anybody. But there’s one person that could help him. One person that genuinely would want to come all the way to the Netherlands to save him. One person who wouldn’t hate him for what he’s done.

“Keener.”

“I need help.”

* Everything hurts, his brain feels like it’s made of jello, his knees are weak.

MJ would’ve said something about symbolism or something metaphorical about him limping through the field of tulips, but she’s not here, and he can’t think of anything she’d say other than it sucks.

(Alone, alone, alone-)

And then the jet flies down in front of him, slowing to a stop, almost soundlessly.

Peter stops moving, scrubbing a dirty hand over his face. He’s been on the edge of a mental breakdown for hours, it’s only a matter of time before he breaks.

The jet opens and a ramp lowers to the ground, revealing none other than Harley Keener.

The older boy saunters down the ramp like he’s worth a million dollars, all long limbs and mad-scientist hair and smirking mouth.

“Wait!” Peter shouts, holding his palms out in front of him.

He hates that he has to ask. He hates that he can’t trust anything around him. Not now. Not after how easily Beck pulled the rug of reality out from under his feet.

Harley stops, lifting his hands as well in a sign of surrender.

“Peter?” he calls out, southern accent lilting. “Is everything okay?”

“How do I know you’re real?” he shouts, taking a staggering step backwards. His legs throb at the movement and his knees threaten to give out.

Even from far away, he can see the way Harley’s face falls and creases. “What? Of course I’m real, Parker.”

“Tell me something only you would know!”

He’s only known Harley for less than a year. There’s not much that only Harley would know.

“Um, right, okay… Morgan’s nickname for you was Pumpkin Pie because she heard Pepper calling you Petey-Pie once. And when we had a formal dinner, Morgan insisted on pumpkin pie for you. Pumpkin pie makes you sick, but you didn’t want to crush her spirit so you ate three slices and pretending to really love it. I had to spend the majority of the night on the bathroom floor with you while you threw up for hours. Is that good enough?”

Peter lets out a watery laugh, stumbling forward until he can collapse against Harley.

“It’s really good to see you,” he says, blinking back tears. Harley hesitantly wraps his arms around Peter.

Harley’s patient as he waits for Peter’s breaths to even out, and then he’s pulling away, grabbing Peter’s chin and tipping his head up.

“Shit, you look roughed up. You know it’s my obligation to murder whoever did this, right?” Harley grins, looping an arm around Peter’s shoulders, quietly careful of Peter’s wounds. “Time for me to play Nurse Keener. Morgan taught me everything I know about nursing.”

Peter offers what he hopes is a grateful smile, but he knows it probably comes out like a grimace. He does trust Harley. He’d trust the older boy with his life, because he knows Tony would.

(Tony who’s probably just gotten the news that Peter’s god-knows-where and that Harley’s stolen a bunch of tech and disappeared to find him. Tony who’s probably trying to convince Rhodey and Happy to let him come see if his kids are okay. Tony who’s still weak and tired and can barely stay awake for a few hours at a time, who’s missing an arm, who’s hooked up to more machines then imaginable.)

Harley makes quick work patching Peter up. Stitches, gauze, bandages, medical tape, relocating his shoulder.

“Ow,” Peter whines, shoulders tensing as Harley continues stitching the deep cut in his shoulder blade.

“I thought you had spider strength?” Harley teases without stopping. “This is nothing. Happy’s told me about the dozens of times he’s given you stitches and he never mentioned you complaining this much!”

“Fuck off.” Peter clenches his fist in his hair, squeezing his eyes shut.

(Beck is out there and Peter screwed everything up. He couldn’t have possibly made a bigger mistake than the one he made the other day. Giving Beck the glasses, trusting that man so easily. Handing over everything-)

“Relax,” Harley mutters, cutting the string.

Peter stands up, tears blurring his vision. “Don’t tell me to relax!”

He shouldn’t be shouting. Harley dropped everything to fly out to the fucking Netherlands to try to fix Peter’s mistakes. He shouldn’t be shouting, but he is, and he still can’t be sure whether or not this is real.

“I gave the glasses to Beck! I messed everything up!” he shouts, pushing his hand through his hair and pulling at it as though it’ll get his head to straighten out. “The only thing Mister Stark left me and I gave it to Beck who’s going to kill my friends and half of Europe! Don’t fucking tell me to relax!”

Instead of meeting him with soft words and apologies, Harley meets it the way Peter had needed him to. The way he felt he deserved.

“You fucked up, Parker!” Harley shouts, standing up as well. He’s a good couple inches taller than Peter and he uses it to his advantage. “Is that what you want to hear? Yeah, you fucked up! Big time!”

Peter’s crying, that much he’s sure of. And he’s still angry. Awfully angry. The kind of anger that consumes your insides and lights you on fire and dyes your vision red. But he’s so tired. So, so tired. And hurt.

“But everyone fucks up, Parker.” Harley’s breathing heavily, but he’s not shouting anymore. He sounds as tired as Peter feels. “Everyone does. You just made a mistake. That’s okay. We’re going to fix it.”

“Mister Stark’s-”

Harley’s already shaking his head. “You’re wrong. I know what you’re going to say. Trust me, the only thing Tony’s going to feel is worried. He’s not going to hate you. This isn’t going to change anything.”

Sitting down, Peter chokes on a sob, hiding his face in his hands.

(“Weak. Pathetic. If you were good enough…”)

“Everyone’s asking who’s going to be the next Iron Man and the next Tony Stark, and I- I can’t do that. I can’t be him. I can’t,” Peter cries into his hands. “Harley, I can’t be him. I can’t live up to that. I already failed him.”

(“If you were good enough…”)

Laying a gentle hand on Peter’s good shoulder, Harley shakes his head. “Don’t tell Tony I said this, but you’re better than he ever was. Whatever Beck said to you, it’s not true.”

It’s too late for kind words like the one’s Harley’s offering. It’s too late to consider accepting anyone else’s truths. It’s too late. Beck’s words have already encircled Peter’s head, already wrapped around his throat, already planted themselves in his chest like weeds. It’s too late for anything other than the insecurities to grow.

(“If you were good enough…”)

“Plus,” Harley continues, laughing quietly. Peter lifts his head to find Harley grinning maniacally. “I’m the next Ironman. Have you seen the news? I’m being called Iron Lad.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but it alleviates a lot of the pressure on Peter’s shoulders. Harley wants to be the next Iron Man. Peter doesn’t have to. Peter can just be Spider-Man.

“Iron Lad? Really?” Peter says, trying to laugh as well, but it comes out warped and distorted like he’s underwater.

Harley takes it though. “Yep! Gonna be Iron Lad, Spider-Man, and their Leader, Miss Morgana!”

It helps. The jokes help. Having Harley here with him helps.

Harley, all mad scientist hair and long limbs and wide eyes. All snappy words and calloused hands and sarcasm. All Tennessee drama and southern charm. All Tony Stark down to the core.

“Well, what do you say? You ready to kick ass?”

* Harley lands by Peter, faceplate of his Iron Lad suit lifting to reveal his grinning face.

“You got him? You good?” he asks, eyes sliding over Peter’s burnt and bloody suit. “You need Nurse Keener to help you out again?”

Peter tries his best to offer a smile. He’s not okay. It’s going to be a long time before he’s okay after this disaster. He still can’t help but look around him, checking for drones, checking to see if Beck is somehow alive, somehow lurking. His hands won’t stop shaking.  

(“You lied to me and I trusted you!”)

(“If you were good enough, maybe Tony would still love you!”)

“I got him,” Peter says. “It’s over. I’m okay… I just need the world’s longest nap.”

Harley’s grinning and he loops an arm around Peter’s waist to lift him up in the air in the suit, just like how Tony used to do it.

Peter drops his head against the metal shoulder of the suit and finally lets his walls crumble and he breaks.

If Harley notices Peter shaking in his grip, if he notices Peter crying for the trip back to the jet, if he notices Peter discreetly wiping his bloodshot eyes when they land, he doesn’t mention any of it.

(“You lied to me and I trusted you!”)

(“If you were good enough, maybe Tony would still love you!”)

(“I’m real, Parker.”)

* Tony meets them just outside the cabin.

He tries to hide the fact that he’s been crying, and Peter does the same, but they can both see through each other’s facades.

“You’re real?” Peter can’t help but ask when he’s wrapped in a warm hug. He’s clutching the back of Tony’s shirt, ignoring the guilt that wells up in his stomach, ignores the awful wave of pain at only one arm wrapping around his back.

(“If you were good enough, maybe Tony would still love you!”)

“I’m real, kid. I’m real, I promise,” Tony says against his forehead. “I’m real. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

(“You lied to me…”)

(“If you were good enough…”)

Peter cries, letting himself fall apart once more. Watching over Tony’s shoulders as Harley scoops Morgan into his arms, somehow still grinning, still laughing, telling Morgan about how he played Nurse Keener again.

He watches Pepper and May sitting on the porch swing, both of them looking beyond exhausted but content. Happy. Leaning against each other.

He watches Happy and Rhodey leaning against the car in the driveway, drinking from pop cans and debating who has to feed Gerald.

It’s not perfect. It’s from it. But it’s real.

(“You lied to me and I trusted you!”)

(“If you were good enough, maybe Tony would still love you!”)

(“I’m real, Parker.”)

(“I’m real. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”)

(“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”)

[aelaer]

300

Tumblr’s algorithm picked up my last whumptober post and that unexpectedly rocketed me up to over 300 followers (welcome new folks, I haven’t had a chance to even look at y’all yet). But really it’s quite flattering. (I think at least 10% of them are pornbots, but beggars can’t be choosers.)

So I guess in uh, celebration/woohoo, I’m just gonna post snippets from my WIPs (outside of the whumptober ones as those are coming out in the next couple days) which… well, it’s something. :3 Yes it all has to do with Stephen, I’m going one-trick-pony mode right now and it’s a friggin blast.

This is long and has WIPs of art too, so cut cut cut bellllooww.

The farking Doctor Strange/Sherlock crossover that’s been at 80% complete since July and still has no title

However, before Sherlock got caught up into the cloak once again, he forced his eyes to the man’s hands. A lot could be discovered by someone’s hands.

And what hands they were. His eyes involuntarily widened at the sight of the ragged, and in some places hypertrophic scars on the back side of each finger. He quickly looked to the other hand; they were there, too. Clearly they were crushed in some sort of accident, but an accident that left him upright and without any hint of a limp. It was possible that they were caught in some sort of machinery, but both at the same time? Statistically speaking, a car accident was more likely. A car accident that damaged the bonnet of the car and crushed his fingers between the steering wheel and the dashboard, more than likely leaving permanent nerve damage. Unfortunate.

The age of the scars showed that they were healed over, but their nature made it difficult to determine how long ago they were received. With the overall lack of fading, however, it was likely that the damage occurred within the last few years. He could not see his palms and determine anything from there, but the callus upon his right middle finger determined which hand he wrote with. Or once wrote with, at any rate. His hands could certainly be worthy of further study, if only to attempt to determine their surgical history.

Upon his left wrist was, of all things, a wristwatch. He narrowed his eyes. It was a Jaeger-LeCoultre and it was not a counterfeit by any means, but it was not a model he recognized. It looked very similar to the Master Ultra Thin Moon only just released; was this an early prototype for a new model? Even as the question fluttered through his mind, he immediately chastised himself for his stupidity. There was clear wear on the band that spoke of it being worn for years, never mind the cracked face. 

Custom-made, he eventually concluded, though even that answer did not quite sit right with him. Regardless, it spoke of a man who had wealth— or used to, in any case. The wear and damage on the watch told a new picture now, but he seemed to still be connected to some form of influence. His clothing was of a very rich quality, and that was not including the unique cloak. Perhaps he was now connected with someone in the Greater Tibetan area, or someone of wealth in the Indian subcontinent. Or from there, at any rate. 

He let his eyes go up the length of the man’s sleeves. Cloth bands decorated the forearms of his otherwise seemingly-plain shirt, likely made of wool and hemp. He indulged himself and studied the embroidery on the edge of the cloak again. He received no further information concerning its origin and make beyond what he had already determined, but there was something about it that was absolutely enchanting.

But enough lingering; he finally turned his body to lay on his side and brought his eyes up to meet the bearer of this very odd ensemble of attire.

And he saw himself.

Within the Shadows (villain!AU) sequel that finalllyyy has a title, Inhibited Lodgings (I think this one is about at 85%! So soooonnnn)

When one of the nurses came in with dinner, Stephen hardly acknowledged him. The nurse set the tray on the overbed table and, after a quick, “Eat while it’s hot!” left the room.

Stephen ignored it. He continued his obsessive perusal of the tablet, shaky fingers managing to steady enough to click link after link after link.

Stark came in an hour later and the tray was still untouched. He quirked his brows up. “Y'know Doc, if you don’t eat, Doctor Cho is going to be very stern with you and you’ll feel terrible after that.”

He raised his head from the tablet at the sound of Stark’s voice, blinking. “What?” He then looked at the tray of food. “Oh… right. I forgot that was brought in.” He looked at the now stone-cold chicken and broccoli with a small grimace.

“I’ll have them make you another plate. Send that info up, FRI.” Stark sunk into one of the chairs beside the bed. “What has you so distracted, anyway?”

Stephen turned the tablet around to show him his screen, which had a list of all the Billboard Hot 100 and Billboard 200 for all genres in 2011. “I only considered yesterday that there might be differences in music between my reality and this one. A check to see if my favorite artists existed here turned into something of a full day project.”

Stark was clearly interested. “No kidding. Did you find any differences?”

“Dozens. In some ways it’s amazing that it’s only that many across hundreds of artists and songs, but I cannot imagine not having Rocky’s training montage paired with ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ ”

“I know I’ve seen a couple of those films, but I couldn’t tell you the name of any training song off the top of my head,” he said. “But I’d probably remember a song with that name.”

He nodded. “Exactly! I can live without the 'Macarena’ and 'Kung Fu Fighting’, but that song made that sequence legendary.”

Stark’s lips twitched in amusement. “I’ll take your word for it. Anything particularly good from your reality that you found missing?”

“I’m still debating if losing all of Journey’s discography is worth never having to hear 'Don’t Stop Believing’ again.”

Time Travel Pseudo!villain Stephen aka Freakin Carmen Sandiego (yes, this is gonna happen. But it’s not happening until those two above are completed, and it’ll be written concurrently with the rest of the villain!Stephen series, as I suspect it will be on the longer side. The outline’s 4 pages long…)

He walked over and crossed his arms as Bruce replayed the video; it was definitely a better quality than the pixelated mess of everything else he’d seen so far. Even with the high-definition, though, the man’s fully-black outfit made him difficult to see against the night sky, and his face was completely covered by what looked like both a mask and hood. He’d be all-but-invisible without the glowing lights all around him. A gasp suddenly ran through the crowd, and the camera swiveled to look at the Palace of Westminster, now bereft of the tower. A few shouts then broke through, and the camera footage swung back to the night sky, but the man was gone.

“Where’d he go?” Tony asked as he leaned over Bruce and pressed both the replay and mute button.

“Uh, according to witnesses, after Elizabeth Tower vanished, he darted under the bridge— probably at the end with the screaming there— and disappeared.”

“I thought that was Big Ben,” he muttered, pressing replay again.

Bruce shook his head. “No, Big Ben’s the bell in Elizabeth Tower. I knew someone in college— British— who got rather annoyed over that misnomer. Really annoyed, actually.” He made a face to himself.

Tony, however, was busy squinting at a bit of the footage he had paused. “Does it look like he has a sort of— something— on his chest?”

The physicist leaned in and squinted alongside him. “Yeah. I’d say it almost looks like one of your arc reactors, but I don’t think your arc reactors do this.”

“But it could still be a power source,” Tony answered. 

“Definitely,” Bruce answered. “It looks almost like he’s pulling from it.”

“That makes no sense, but a lot of this alien tech is nothing like anything that exists on Earth right now. I’d be interested in figuring out how it works.”

Bruce continued to peer at it. “So would I,” he said. “If you can keep it from S.H.I.E.L.D long enough to do so.”

Tony makes a face. “They have the scepter to play with. They can have it when I’m done.”

“You’re going to have to catch him first,” he pointed out.

“Pshh, after Loki, this’ll be easy-peasy. We’ll have him caught within two days.”

ARTS (just the two Stephens for now)

I didn’t have time last weekend to work on digital Stephen, but he’s still a lot farther ahead than when I last posted here sooooooo. (I won’t have time this weekend either, so… he’ll come sooner or later).

Annddd I figured out what my ugly yellow corner square is gonna be. I’m doing fan art for a fan fic like a real nerd. Bringing out the prismacolors again. Right now I’m still in the ‘messing around with line art’ phase. I plan to do this while I’m at tabletop gaming on Sundays.

And that’s that for WIPs. Now I need to go work on ficlets.

[sylvanfreckles]

Do These Tacos Taste Funny to You? (Whumptober 2020)

Summary: After a visit to a food festival, Sam is stricken by a mysterious ailment.

* * *

Sam thanked the cashier as she handed him his salad, poking a couple of bills into the tip jar with his free hand. He and Dean were investigating some weird omens near a college in New Hampshire, and as it turned out the college's international student union was having a food festival to raise money for their event budget.

He took a seat at an empty table and popped open the salad container to admire the brightly-colored vegetables for a moment. They were obviously farm-fresh, not from the produce section at the supermarket. The dressing was a homemade vinaigrette, too, and there was even a little box of croutons made from toasted rye bread.

“This place is awesome,” Dean announced as he settled into the seat across from Sam.

Sam wrinkled his nose at his brother's selections. “Really, Dean?”

Dean paused, taco halfway to his mouth. “What?” He had, predictably, gone for the greasiest and least-healthy options. Sam could see a plate of three more street tacos loaded up with greasy steak and sour cream, a basket of fried cheese curds, another basket of bite-sized spring rolls, and a cup of espresso.

“I can hear your arteries hardening,” Sam complained as he prepared his salad. “You should really watch what you eat.”

“Spring rolls have cabbage,” Dean retorted around a mouthful of taco. “That's a vegetable.”

“Yeah, a fried vegetable.” Honestly, why was he even trying? Cas must be somehow scrubbing his brother's arteries out when no one was looking, that was the only way Dean could have lasted so long without some kind of heart trouble. He speared some spinach and a sliver of red bell pepper and chewed it while considering his case notes.

“Got anything?” Dean asked. He was shoveling fried cheese curds in his mouth now. Sam tried not to watch.

“Couple of unexplained deaths,” Sam shook his head. “Not much here to go on. Might just be a residual haunting, not something intelligent.”

Dean nodded. “Might need to look into this a little further. Might need a couple days here.”

Sam rolled his eyes as he scooped up the last forkful of salad. “We're not hanging around just so you can give yourself heart disease.”

“What? I'm perfectly healthy!” Dean punctuated his words with an expressive, disgusting belch. “So, where to next?”

* * *

Luckily, the collage had local history dating back to the town's founding in its archive. He tore off half his list and passed it off to Dean, ignoring his brother's griping about not having a computer to go through.

The town's newspapers were in thick, heavy binders that sent up a cloud of dust when Sam dropped one on the table. He waved away the dust with one hand, the other hand creeping toward his stomach to press against the discomfort there. Sometimes watching Dean eat was enough to gross even Sam out, despite the gruesome horrors of their everyday lives.

He flipped through the pages and noted down anything that might need further research, nearly doubling over from the sudden, sharp pains in his stomach. Maybe the dressing hadn't agreed with him—there had been some unusual spices in it.

“I got nothing,” Dean announced, dropping two more of the heavy binders next to Sam's. “You sure we should be looking here? This place doesn't exactly have a long history of ghost activity.

Sam's stomach churned and he swallowed hard. “It could be something recent stirred up a spirit that was mostly at rest.”

“Yeah, well, doesn't seem like it.” Dean sat down in a chair a few spaces down the table from Sam and swiveled around to prop his feet up on the table. “Hey, let's hit that festival again. I think the taco cart was gonna make churros this afternoon.”

Sam clamped a hand over his mouth and lurched for the nearby trashcan, barely making it before he began to retch. Stomach cramping, arms quivering, he crumpled to his knees and hung over the plastic receptacle as his body tried to wring itself inside-out.

He started when someone touched him on the back, then realized it was just Dean resting a hand on his shoulder. Sam tried to say something, maybe tell his brother to stand clear, but he couldn't turn away from the trashcan long enough to get a single word out.

“What's gotten into you, Sammy?” Dean murmured, rubbing across Sam's shoulders. It was such a familiar gesture, from a time when stomach bugs were still scarier than monsters and Dad was never home to hold his hair back (metaphorically). “Well...or what's coming out of you.”

Sam let out a groan of dismay that quickly turned into another retch. He kept his eyes squeezed shut to avoid the sight of the mess in the can, but the smell hit his nose and he was retching again.

Dean moved away from him, but before Sam could protest his brother's absence the older Winchester was back to swap out the trashcan in front of Sam with an empty one. “Can you hang on while I dump this and pull the car around?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Getting the dirty trashcan out of the way was a big help, but he could still feel his stomach rolling and cramping. He hadn't felt this sick in a long time. This was worse than any hangover nausea; it felt like it whatever part of his body wasn't queasy was burning up.

It felt like hours, but Dean was finally back with a bottle of cold water. “Rinse and spit,” he commanded. Sam tried to obey but that triggered another gag, even though he only had bile left to bring up. “Can you walk?”

Sam nodded, though he wasn't really sure about that. To his relief Dean did most of the work hauling him up to his feet, then pressing the trashcan back into his hands. Walking was horrible. The world tilted and spun around him, and if Dean hadn't had a hold of his arms Sam might have pitched over and lain forever in a pile of his own fluids.

He almost laughed when they got to the car. Dean had dug out a canvas drop cloth to cover the seat in case Sam was sick again, though when his stomach jumped and spun as he sat down it didn't seem like such a ridiculous idea. Sam let out a long, pitiful moan and rested the trashcan on his knees, bending over so his face nearly disappeared into it.

“Not long now, kiddo,” Dean said. His hand was back on Sam's shoulder, rubbing back and forth with a soothing rhythm.

“'M almost forty,” Sam tried to protest.

“Yeah, well, you'll always be a skinny little nerd to me,” Dean teased, ruffling Sam's hair. “You know, if you puked in your hair we have to shave it all off.”

Sam let out another groan at the p-word and curled even tighter over the trashcan. He didn't have the energy to snark back or even give his brother a rude gesture, but he was sure he could save it up for later. When Dean eventually caught the stomach bug, for instance. Revenge would be sweet.

They reached the hotel without much incident, though Sam's stomach had protested a few of the sharper turns. He kept his head over the can long after they'd stopped, not wanting to risk walking the few short feet into their room.

“Come on, Sammy, up you go.”

But Dean was there. Horrible, awful, drill sergeant Dean. He was pitiless as he hauled Sam's dying body out of the passenger seat of the Impala and forced him to walk five or six yards into the comfort of their hotel room.

“Dude, come on,” Dean laughed. “You'll feel better in a real bed, I promise.”

He was probably lying, but Sam had no choice but to follow blindly. The world had narrowed down to the pain in his stomach and the heat in his body as Dean steered him the vast distance from the door of the hotel room to the nearest bed.

Sam flung an arm across his eyes and moaned as Dean fussed around tugging off his boots and loosening his belt. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Dean's voice was gentle as he patted Sam on the knee. “I think you're running a fever, too. Lemme get you more water.”

Sam tried another groan, but his brother was persistent. Another bottle of water was placed on the nightstand next to his head, with strict instructions to try to drink a few sips now and then to keep his body hydrated. Then, wonder of wonders, Dean placed a cool, damp towel across Sam's forehead.

He was wrong. Dean wasn't a drill sergeant...he was an angel.

“Okay, kiddo, sure,” Dean was laughing again. “Just get some rest.”

* * *

The light in the room was too bright. Sam groaned and flung his arm over his eyes again, the towel that had been on his forehead sliding to the ground.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean called out. Far too cheerfully for someone who'd spent the night in the same room as a guy puking his guts up.

“Just remember you're next,” Sam retorted, waving a hand threatening in his brother's direction. That was one thing about living in such close quarters—what goes around always comes around.

“No, I don't think I am.” Dean sounded positively gleeful this morning.

Sam risked moving his arm to glare up at his brother. “Something you feel like sharing?”

“Just a little piece of news this morning,” Dean waved his phone in Sam's direction. “Seems there were quite a few people hospitalized last night.”

He nearly sat up, but his stomach cramped painfully when he tried so he sank back down in the bed. “What happened?”

“Near as they can tell they all attended the food festival yesterday,” Dean explained. Well, yeah, obviously. That was probably the biggest event in town right now. “More importantly, they all had salads with this delightful vinaigrette dressing.”

The mention of food made Sam groan again and he draped his arm over his eyes. “Don't tell me...”

“Looks like a case of good old food poisoning, Sammy. Guess the tacos were the best choice after all.”

Sam fumbled for the second pillow on his bed and chucked it in the direction of his brother's voice. Dammit. He was never going to live this one down.