#so now it's matted and itchy even after being washed

[catcatb0y]

Not being to regulate my emotions properly is so wild, like

Loss? Death? Inevitable.

Realizing that I will never be able to properly live as a fully function human because of my disabilities? Been there, realized that.

What would normally cause a large emotional spiral? Shut down.

The pants that I want to wear getting dirty shortly after I washed them? Absolutely devastating. Terrible. Horrible. I will never recover. I'm already tearing up.

[intothedysphoria]

It took a while to convince Billy to let Steve cut his hair.

After the Fourth of July, the Battle of Starcourt, it had been a gross mess. Blood and inter dimensional goo and tar had made its way into the curls which Billy was so proud of. Steve had been too busy holding his boyfriend, relieved that he was alive but it smelled fucking foul.

One of the doctors had threatened to shave Billy’s head because it was so matted. Billy’s response was to try to kick him in the balls. Shouting that he wasn’t a military bootlicker. So they took the safe option and left Billy’s hair alone.

Steve had gotten accepted into cosmetology school around the same time as Billy got discharged from the hospital. Billy’s hair was in slightly better shape than what it had been, since now he could wash it, but it was clear that it wasn’t bringing him the same joy it used to.

He offered to help Billy do something fun with his hair. Billy called him gay and shut the bedroom door on Steve. So, Steve practiced on himself mostly. It went pretty well until the one time Steve had managed to convince himself that he could pull off bleach blonde. Billy kissed him and called him a Midwestern Jason Donovan. Steve had never ran for brown hair dye faster.

Surprisingly, it was Billy who brought up the subject again, in the November of 1986. Their relationship felt easy now, what had used to be constant arguments becoming an easy give and take without even having to say anything. Billy had been washing the dishes because Steve struggled with the feel of dirty plates on his hands and called out across the breakfast bar.

“Hey dumbass- want to use me as a Barbie today? Hair’s too fucking long.”

Steve didn’t take that show of trust lightly. Billy was back to his usual routine of preening in front of the mirror every morning, clearly happy with his hair again, but he’d decided to let Steve help.

They set things up on the bathroom floor, Steve not doing anything really, just giving him a trim but feeling Billy’s head relax into his hands was a euphoria Steve had never experienced before. Ugh, he was so in love it was disgusting.

Stands of blond hair started to fill the towels on the floor, Billy complaining that it was itchy but usually staying silent, seemingly enjoying the feeling of being “pampered”, if you could call it that. Steve made a mental note to book them both in for a manicure.

Hands shaking slightly, he held a mirror out for Billy’s appraisal when he was done. Billy turned his head this way and that, occasionally making an approving hum at his frankly almost identical hairstyle, before turning to Steve. Steve decided to attribute the blush on Billy’s cheeks to the heat, even though it was almost winter.

“Suppose it’s fine Harrington. You could have made it more badass though.”

Steve flicked at his nose.

“Fine, I love it you dork.”

Yeah, Steve was pretty happy about that.

[pisscreant]

hi! i live in canada im VERY familiar w the cold so here's some things off the top of my head please lemme know if u want anything more specific ok here goes:

-i find the nose gets cold before anything else. sometimes the first thing i feel when i wake up is how much colder my nose is than any part of me in the blankets, if it's cold enough outside you can actually FEEL your snot freeze inside your nose (its really itchy), its a good sign that someone's been out in winter recently if their nose is a little red

-snow comes in a LOT of different textures, sometimes it's very powdery and blows around everywhere, sometimes it's DENSE (good for packing into snowballs), often there's a thin crunchy layer on top and then a lighter layer under, lots of room to play

-for people with glasses, coming in from the cold usually involves several seconds or maybe even a minute or so where the lenses fog up from the sudden temperature change, and it gets really hard to see

-anywhere snow gets inside, it melts! most people tend to stomp off their boots outside right before heading in to catch the worst of it, and a lot of shoe racks have thicker mats with tall ridged edges underneath to keep the water in, but stepping on a puddly of icy water in your socks is still a hazard of the season (we call that getting a soaker here, but i think that's just local)

-anywhere that gets a lot of foot traffic and snow will inevitably get a lot of ice, as the people walking slowly melt down the snow which then refreezes overnight. we tend to put down salt on the sidewalks/walkways to combat this (the salt helps the ice melt down faster + now theres a little more traction when you step), and it leaves white salt stains on your boots you have to wash off

-i haven't heard of snow falling off a roof and killing anyone personally (although i dont doubt it could if there was enough of it), but as a kid i was CONSTANTLY hearing adults tell me to step away from being under roof edges because of ICICLES. they can get REALLY big and heavy, especially if it's warm enough to melt the snow in the day but still cold enough to refreeze it at night, and ive seen them rip out eaves, wreck cars, and cause concussions if people aren't careful

-after being outside for long periods of time, your skin tends to get a little numb. after coming back inside, as the feeling returns, your arms and legs get REALLY really itchy and red for a few minutes. i find hot showers usually help, but that can be a little risky since it's hard to feel how hot the water really is, which makes burning yourself a risk. eventually the feeling comes back and the redness fades, though, and then it's back to normal

hope any of this helps a little!

holy SHIT than you so much. these are details I'd never know about otherwise. esp the stuff with texture and how it feels on skin (and the nose freezing shit is a very distressing thought. Idk how yous deal with it). skin feeling numb makes sense since it happens when I touch ice but the idea of it being all over the skin is Something.

very handy insight and really drives home how primal and all-encompassing Shivers must be both as a spirit and a sensation Harry experiences. Also I will never complain abt my town's climate ever again.

[justsomewhumpee]

Curly-haired whumpee ideas!!

Saw an AMAZING idea from @redd956 soooo of course I had to come back and write about it cause as a person of color, having suuuper curly/ textured hair used to be the bane of my entire existence growing up- so I know it can cause some fun situations for whumpee >:)

Tightly curled hair is usually very voluminous. That can be great but thick, curly, poofy hair is even easier for whumper to reach out and grab.

Don't have access to a shower? Good luck getting your hair to re-curl until you find one! Even if you leave curly hair tied back in a ponytail, it gets extremely uncomfortable after a while. Because of the curls, its much easier for the hair to get matted even when in a ponytail.

Speaking of which, if whumpee is clever and has the energy to regularly comb through their hair with their fingers, it can certainly help prevent matting but they will be left with a hair texture more akin to an afro. That's great, but only if whumpee already has a suitable haircut for an afro! If not, whumpee could run into issues.

With maximum volume and sometimes little to no visible curl pattern in an afro, if their hair is long enough whumpee will have serious trouble if whumper doesn't allow them to pull back their hair. With thick and textured hair, it can be so dense that it can completely obscure vision and totally blind a person. Even more of an issue if whumpee is restrained or something!

Thick, curly hair causes a person's scalp to get MISERABLY itchy after not being washed for a long time. Especially if the person had been sweating because the dense curls will trap all of that against the scalp.

Also one I find interesting but quite sure how to apply it- tightly curled hair does not shed the same way that straight hair does. Usually straight shed hairs fall off the head, but shed hairs for super curly hair stay trapped inside the coils of the curl. Usually (for me at least) this all comes out when its brushed through completely. It causes big issues and severe matting if you don't brush/ pick/ comb really curly hair regularly.

Maybe when whumper grabs a fistful of whumpee's hair, they see an opportunity, and whumpee cuts it off with the nearest object to break free. Whumpee honestly couldn't care less about their now short-cropped hair. At least they can actually see now that its not covering their face.

When a stranger caretaker rescues whumpee from captivity, they cant even see their features because of the thick unkempt hair covering their face. Imagine their shock and dumbfounded expression when they see whumpee for the first time after they finally get a chance to shower, revealing their true curls.

These are just based off of my own hair experience! Feel free to add more if you want!

[typical-simplelove]

Part 6 - As a thank you

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: This was my favorite one to write thus far, so I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: exhaustion, crying, champagne

Word Count: 528

It was perfect. It was so perfect that it was overwhelming. Mat was in charge of your date night, and he planned it perfectly. The past few weeks have been tiring and exhausting, and somehow, Mat knew exactly what you needed for a date night. All you wanted to do was relax, and Mat caught onto that feeling you silently expressed. He met you at the door and immediately took your purse from your hands and led you into the bathroom where he instructed you to undress and get in the bathtub. He had a bath ready for you. The minute you settled into the warm water, you sighed in contentment. It was perfect and so relaxing. Mat gets in and settles in behind you, so he can hold you and stroke your arms perfectly.

“We’re going to have a spa night for date night,” Mat whispers in your ear. He hands you a flute of champagne and clinks his glass against yours. You have no idea where it came from, but you weren’t going to complain.

Mat pulled out all the stops. When the time in the bathtub was deemed finished, Mat handed you the softest robe ever which was monogrammed with your name on the back in your favorite color. You slipped into it with Mat wearing a matching one. It was like wearing a pillow.

He then guided you into your living room where Mat had face masks ready with your favorite snacks and Netflix ready to go on the TV. You and Mat picked the masks of your choice before putting them on. You then picked the movie and cuddled as you watched the movie and ate the snacks. After fifteen minutes later, you went into the bathroom and washed the face mask off. When you got a look at your face, you began to cry. The stress was lining your features with your eye bags being a prominent feature. You were so tired and exhausted. You didn’t realize how much you needed this spa night until Mat made you do.

Hearing your sobs, Mat ran into the bathroom and grabbed you right before you fell to the tile floor. He holds you tightly as you sob into his soft robe and tries to calm you down. When your sobs have subsided, Mat pulls away to look at you and dry your tears with a face cloth. “What’s wrong?”

You look Mat deep in his eyes and try to tell him. You try to tell him how tired you are and how much you needed this evening. You try to tell him how he just knew you needed this and how grateful you are. You try to thank him but what comes out instead is, “I love you.”

Mat smiles at you and says, “I love you, too,” as if he knew exactly what you were trying to say. He then pulls you into another hug and kisses your head as you relax in your hold.

“Can I take my mask off now? It’s starting to make my face itchy.”

You giggle and pull back. “Yeah, you’re starting to look like a green monster.”

Taglist: @joelsfarabees, @ana-maa, @stars-canucks, @ilyasorokinn, @maximoff-xmen, @barzysandmarnersbitch, @coffee-ontherocks, @2manytabsopen, @boqvistsbabe, @frederikanderson, @fanficrecsby-e, @iwantahockeyhimbo, @heatherawoowoo, @islesnucks, @plds2000, @goalision, @besthockeyfics, @heybarzy, @localhockeygirl @ddayyuu, @bb-nhlqueen7, @cherrybarzy @lam-ila (Join my taglist here!)

[staysaneathome]

The Self-Preservation Society (1)

Des’ Daddy isn’t his Daddy anymore.

Des knows this because his family told him so. They’ve been whispering it into his ears, into his skin, into his tummy, with every quiet, soft step they take. Whispers of dusty, of spicy, of preserved, not sweaty and stinky and smoky like Des’ Daddy should be.

He thinks he’d know it even if they didn’t tell him though. Des’ Daddy went off to the wax museum with short hair, dark eyes, a lumpy eyebrow, and a grumpy frown. The man who came to find them and kissed his Mama at the butterfly exhibit has curly hair, freckles, a warm smile, and eyes so green Des’ family wanted to land on them, explore the vibrant flowers within.

But he is not Des’ Daddy, even though Mama likes him more. Even though Mama had got upset when Des was confused. Even though he swung Des up onto his shoulders in a piggyback ride that his Daddy never let him have. Even though he reads Des bedtime stories every night about birds piercing insects and bringing them back to the nest for their babies, even though he kisses Des’ forehead every morning and tells him to have a good day at school, even though he makes Mama laugh and put down the special juice to dance with him in the living room to Abuelita’s old tunes.

He is not Des’ Daddy.

And he knows Des knows this.

Des thinks he knows Des’ family knows this too.

His family whispers, predator, danger, predator, and Des tries to make himself look bigger. He’s messier, doesn’t cover his mouth to cough or blow his nose, doesn’t wipe his face at dinner or wash his hands after playing in the garden. Mama gets mad, and gets even madder when he doesn’t want to take a bath, because this is protection, this is defense.

Look, see how dirty and germy I am. You can’t eat me, or else you’ll get sick and die. Or I’ll taste really, really bad and you’ll wanna throw me up. So don’t eat me. Don’t even think about it.

But Des’ defenses don’t protect Mama. Mama doesn’t have a family like Des does, not yet, and she’s touching him so much to get rid of his protection, and she gets sick. She falls over in the middle of the day and has to be rushed to hospital. Des sits on a chair next to what is Not his Daddy and hears small snippets of big words like “cardiac arrest” and “cardenolides” and “overdose” and “overnight monitoring”.

The man who is not Des’ Daddy straps him into his car seat after the doctor tells him they’ll call with an update in the morning, and begins to drive.

“You did this, didn’t you Des?” He asks, in that mild way he does now. Nothing like the way Daddy used to yell, voice lowering and loudening until it sounded creaky with volume. Des wishes that he’d do that instead of this.

“Didn’t mean to.” He bites out, glaring down at his hands. One of his sisters perches on his clenched fist, opening and closing her wings softly and slowly. She’s very pretty, and her orange and black and brown wings feel like the gentlest kisses.

The man who isn’t Des’ Daddy nods, like this is perfectly normal. Like they aren’t driving past their house and out onto the motorway again, further and further away. “Of course you didn’t. Your mama loves you after all. It’s not your fault you can’t love her back properly.”

Des’s mouth drops open. “I can too.”

He’s very good at loving. He loves, loves, loves his Mama, his real Daddy, his Abuelita, his family. It’s why they came to him after all, when he fell from the big tree in the woods behind their house and everything hurt. They whisper they love him when they’re small and wriggling, when they’re quiet and growing, when they’re big and flying, and he whispers that he loves them too, because he does.

“No you can’t.” The hand that reaches out is faster than a bird.

It doesn’t feel like anything at first, as Des stares at his sister’s limp, crushed form in incomprehension.

Then the pain hits him and he opens his mouth in a wounded howl. It hurt him, it hurt him, the stranger hurt him, the predator hurt him, help, help, help.

His family come to his aid, filling the car, millions upon millions of beautiful orange, brown and black wings beating furiously around him. Protect, defend, beloved, ours, stay away, don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch—

The thing that is not Des’ Daddy laughs. It doesn’t even look away from the road as the poison drips down its face, doesn’t even blink as it lashes out and hurts more and more of Des’ family with every sweep of an arm. “You see? With all this inside you, Des, how could you love somebody? How could you love anybody? But don’t worry. We’re going somewhere where they can fix you up and make you aaaall better. Make you into the son Mama deserves, so you can love her properly. Don’t you want that? To love your Mama properly?”

Des can’t stop crying, reaches out and calls his family back to him. He doesn’t wanna go with the predator, but he doesn’t want his family getting hurt anymore either, he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

They’re scared too, he can feel them, even as they whisper beloved and we love you and be brave and ours as they wander over him, as their wings brush his skin in the gentlest of kisses and comfort.

Outside the car is getting brighter, big, big buildings with lots of lights zooming past like fair lights on a tea cup ride or a merry-go-round. It makes his head hurt, as more tears spill from his eyes and he tries to sniff past his runny nose. Some of his family move to the window, blocking out the lights that make him feel like he wants to be sick.

“Ssh, easy Des.” The stranger hushes, tone soothing and comforting, the same as when reading bedtime stories about the daddy bird bringing his babies pretty dragonflies and bluebottles and butterflies to eat. “We’re almost there. You’ll feel so much better once we’ve got all that nonsense out of you and fixed you up. You’ll love your Mama so much. Don’t you want to love your Mama?”

He shakes his head, sobs coming harder. He does love his Mama, but he doesn’t wanna go with the predator, with the Not-His-Daddy, doesn’t want to get hurt anymore, he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

Eventually the car stops. There’s a click from the front. A door opens and slams shut.

Des hopes for a second it’ll be home it’s stopped in front of.

But then the Not-Daddy opens the car door and reaches in to undo the straps of Des’ car seat. He’s smiling gently, soothingly. “C’mon Des. Time to go.”

Des screams.

He screams as the Not-Daddy pulls him out of the car and slams the door, crushing some of his family in the process. As he starts to drag Des towards the wax museum, smiling at everyone who passes by like nothing’s wrong, like Des isn’t wailing behind him.

Nobody even looks down at Des, not even like they do when he cries while in the shops with Mama. It’s like he’s not even there.

“No! No!! You’re not my Daddy, let me go! Let me GO!!” He tries to sit down, tries to drag his legs. His family swarm around him, wings beating furiously as they cling to the back of his shirt, to his ears, to his hair.

The Not-Daddy laughs, yanks him along, like everything he and his family are doing doesn’t even matter—

There’s a noise that can only be described as a Crunch.

Last Christmas, Mama sent Des’ Abuelita a little soldier man for her present. He and Mama stayed up so they could watch Abuelita open it on the computer while his Daddy snored, watch her admire his tufty white beard, his furry black hat, his shiny red coat and black boots. The soldier man had a little flap on his back, and when Abuelita pulled it up, the soldier’s mouth opened. Abuelita had put a walnut into it, and pulled the little flap down, and the walnut’s shell fractured open with a little snap that made Des jump and Abuelita laugh and croon at him through the screen.

That’s what The Thing’s jaws slamming shut on his Not-Daddy’s arm makes him think of, as it shatters the arm like the walnut’s shell.

The Not-Daddy shrieks, high and inhuman like a recorder blown wrong, and drop Des.

He falls back on his bottom, dazed as no longer being pulled along.

Only for the Thing that appeared from nowhere and bit the Not-Daddy to scoop him up and start running.

Des screams again, wriggling and fighting against the too tight too strong grip, screams for his family, for his Mama, for somebody to come save him.

The Not-Daddy is screaming too, yelling things like “STOP!! HELP! HELP!!” and “LET GO OF MY SON!!” Things that make all the people who’d ignored Des before turn around and stare, pull out phones, lunge out to stop the Thing that’s got Des.

But they can’t catch it. The Thing twists under and through grasping arms in a way that can’t be real, can’t be possible, making people slam into each other as it ducks between them to thunder down a set of stairs, Des’ family not far behind.

It leaps over the metal barrier, legs high and graceful like the horses on TV that Des’ Daddy liked to watch on weekends, making his tummy swoop like he’s missed a step climbing the stairs too fast.

It swoops even harder when it leaps and sliiides down the metal bit between the escalators, like Des has always imagined doing. He always thought it would feel like the big slide at the fancy park Mama has to drive to go to, or going down the helter-skelter on an itchy mat at the fair, fast and whizzy and fun with all the people and posters flashing past.

Des hadn’t thought it would be so scary, the down so sharp he’s sure he’ll topple forwards and crack his head open, sure he’ll slip and is falling from the Big Tree again, his tummy flailing like one of his family with a damaged wing, his throat cracking as his screams are torn from it.

He can only whimper once The Thing jumps off at the bottom and is running again, taking sharp turns through the nasty smelling tunnels until a train is in front of them and swinging itself not through the doors into one of the carriages, but up and over and down behind the little wall in front of the space separating them, caging Des in its impossibly bent and tangled limbs.

The train screeches and starts to pull away from the light of the platform.

The Not-Daddy is too far away to stop it, though his screams are still echoing through the tunnels, ringing in Des’ ears.

His family are not.

Des feels like crying as thousands of thousands of butterflies descend onto The Thing keeping him captive as the train whizzes off into the darkness, wings beat beat beating around him in time with their song of protect, defend, intruder, predator, thief, family, beloved, ours, defend, protect, don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch.

They cluster as the train picks up speed, clinging to him and to the Thing, gathered so thickly that Des can feel thin droplets of liquid seeping into his hair, into his clothes, onto his skin. He laughs, because this is his defense, his family’s defense, that feels as gentle and soothing as bathwater to him, but won’t to this thing, hadn’t to Mama.

The Thing tenses, muscles locking tight and spasming around Des. In the light of the carriage behind him, Des can see its eyes blinking rapidly, before squeezing shut tightly in pain. Yeah, serves it right for trying to eat him!

The Thing raises a hand and brings it down towards his head—!

Des recoils with a cry, praying that it won’t hurt even more of his family than the Not-Daddy did.

…?

There’s no hurt…?

Instead, it feels like The Thing’s fingers are just…sitting there? On top of Des’ hair? Not even on top of any of his family, trying to trap antennae or crush wings.

The fingers stay flat and gentle even as another spasm rocks through The Thing’s body, even as his family crawl over them to investigate.

Then, slowly, the fingers on Des’ hair begin to move. Back and forth, back and forth, very, very slowly and carefully. There’s no pressing down, no digging in, nothing.

It’s…stroking him? Like he’s a cat, or something?

The train slows down to a stop as it emerges back into the light. There’s a hiss as the doors open and people get on and off. Then a beeping as the doors hiss shut again, and the train speeds back off into darkness.

And through it all, The Thing just keeps stroking him. It doesn’t try to hurt his family, even as its eyes are screwed shut and its body flinches irregularly.

There are brightly colored bands on its wrists, glowing bright green and yellow in the dark. Lots of his family are clustering over them, investigating, seeing if there’s any nice nectar for them there.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Des shouts. Mama says it’s not polite to shout, but he can’t hear anything over the rushing of the train otherwise, and he’s very confused by this Thing.

The Thing doesn’t reply.

“HELLO?!” Des shouts, even louder. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

There’s a moment.

And then the Thing gives a sharp, jerky nod.

“OKAY, SO WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Des frowns when The Thing doesn’t reply again. “EXCUSE ME, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION! CAN'T YOU TALK?!”

The Thing shakes its head tightly.

Oh. Now Des feels bad, like when Mama told him off for asking why Maisy from the park had that pink plastic thing in her ear, and wouldn’t play tag right unless you really pushed her. “I’M SORRY.” He yells, because that’s what Mama made him say to Maisy.

The Thing’s fingers go back and forth over his head again, so he thinks it’s alright.

“ARE YOU GOING TO EAT ME?!” Des asks, because that’s very important for him to know.

Shake, shake, shake.

Des nods, heaving a deep breath. It doesn’t smell very nice, but it helps make his heart not race, and he slumps against The Thing’s limbs. His family’s wings slow, and the liquid slowly stops dripping down onto them.

It’s okay. He’s not going to be eaten. They’re not going to be eaten. Everything’s going to be okay.

“ARE YOU TRYING TO RESCUE ME FROM MY NOT-DADDY?!”

Nod, nod, nod. The jerks going through the Thing’s body are stopping now, though it’s eyes are still squeezed shut.

“THANK YOU.” Des shouts, because his Mama raised him to be a polite boy. “SORRY ABOUT TRYING TO MAKE YOU NOT EAT ME AND MY FAMILY’S DEFENSE CAR-TE-NO-LIDS!”

The Thing nods again, though its brow has creased more. In pain or confusion, Des isn’t quite sure. It moves its hand back and forth again over his hair though, so he’s pretty sure he’s forgiven.

Des stares at The Thing closely, not that he knows it’s not going to eat him or hurt him.

It’s a very odd looking Thing, almost like if someone tried to make something that looked like a person, but didn’t get all the details quite right. It looks normal enough from the nose up, if a bit grubby and sweaty. It’s also dressed like a person, with a shirt and pants and a backpack and shoes, even if these clothes are very holey and too-big, like when Abuelita sends Des things ‘to grow into’ for Christmas.

The problem is that it’s got these weird dark lines on both of its cheeks that go down its neck, where its mouth can open really wide like Abuelita’s neat little soldier. Its arms and legs also bend a lot past the way Des’ can, like it’s plasticine or Hugo from the Playground’s really bendy Nutcracker Barbie ballerina doll.

His brothers and sisters perched on The Thing don’t tell him of the same dusty, spicy, preserved smells that came from the Not Daddy, but there is a scent of artificial, of not-organic that they communicate to him while wandering over The Thing’s jaw.

Then he notices something behind it.

There’s a tall teenager in the train carriage behind The Thing that’s staring down at them through the window, eyes wide and mouth open. The tall teenager has a big poofy cloud of hair that Des thinks is very impressive, and wants to smush between his hands, like a pile of bath bubbles.

There’s soft, wavy white stuff floating around the teenager, like stuff on top of the bathwater after all the bubbles have gone.

There’s so much floaty stuff that it makes it very hard to see anyone else in the carriage.

“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?” Des shouts at the teenager.

The Thing blinks at him, eyebrows raised. It lifts a hand and points to itself, as if to say, “who, me?”

“NOT YOU!” Des yells, exasperated. “THE BIG TEENAGER WITH THE BUBBLE BATH HAIR! WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!”

The big tall teenager startles then, and lifts a hand and points to themself, much like The Thing did. The Thing twists its head all the way round like an owl in time to see the teenager with the bubble bath hair mouth “me?” at them.

“YES YOU. HONESTLY!” Des huffs. Why are teenagers and adults so slow all the time? And why can’t he twist his head round like an owl? It’s not fair.

There’s a moment of silence as the train slows down and pulls into the next station.

Then there’s the unpleasant swooping in his stomach again as the Thing hurls them over the train wall and onto the platform, somehow managing not to squish any of his family in the process and takes off running again.

There’s a loud “HEY!!” and over The Thing’s shoulder, Des can see the tall teenager with the poofy hair following them out of the carriage at a sprint, going through people as the floaty white stuff seems to make the people go see-through like ghosts whenever the teenager touches them.

One of his slower brothers, an older brother, is caught in the rapidly spilling floaty stuff as he tries to flutter up after them as The Thing runs up the stopped middle steps of the escalator, barely keeping up, and then—

Des feels cold. So, so cold, like after he fell from the big tree and was crying and no one was coming for him and he was scared.

He can’t see his brother. He can’t feel his brother.

He doesn’t want to talk to the tall teenager anymore.

“THE POOFY TEENAGER'S GAINING ON US!!” He yells to The Thing.

The Thing twists its head around to look again, but its feet keep running at full tilt. Des yelps as they slam into a cleaning man with a big yellow cart full of stuff, making him feel sick as The Thing pinwheels and hops to avoid falling over the now toppled cleaning man, who yells lots of bad words Mama tells him not to say after Daddy says them.

But when his head stops spinning, he watches as the big yellow cart rolls down the stairs, inexplicably gathering speed as it bursts through the barrier and zooms towards the top of the stopped escalator.

The stopped escalator that the tall poofy teenager with the bubble bath hair is just about to come out of.

The teenager can’t disappear through big yellow carts like they can people.

There’s lots of yelling, and banging, and screaming, and clattering, and Des sort of wants to see what happened, because it sounds like something he’d see when Mama lets him watch cartoons on the weekend. But The Thing’s escaped the cleaning man’s anger and run up the stairs out of the station, taking off down one of the brightly lit streets, weaving through crowds of adults in funny, shiny clothes.

It’s so dark, it’s clearly past his bedtime, but Des doesn’t feel sleepy at all.

He just clings tighter and watches his family flutter behind them as The Thing carries him farther and farther away from the teenager and the Not-Daddy that want to hurt him.

[dc41896]

Small Mishaps

Pairing: Chris EvansxBlack Reader

⚠️: All fluff💕

“Da-yee!”

Chris couldn’t help the smile tugging on the corners of his mouth as he heard the shouting of his newest nickname paired with little feet padding closer to his office.

“Yes bae-yee?” As if on cue, he turns to see the dangling plaits and toothy smile of his four year old, Kira, looking like the exact copy of him at that age and even displaying the same seemingly unending energy.

“Spa now?!,” she asks lightly tugging his hand to make him get out of his chair.

“Give me a second, let me make this last note,” he answers lifting her to sit on his lap. With a small huff, she wraps her arms around his neck making him chuckle from her cheek being pressed so closely against his. Ever since early this morning all she wanted to do was play her new game with him, but each time she asked he always said the same thing.

Later.

To anyone else, later might’ve been fine. However to a toddler, later was an unknown answer that just made her antsy as she looked at that ticking thing on the wall wondering when later would come.

“How long’s a second?”

“Well uh mathematically speaking, it’s much shorter than a minute.”

“Oh...what’s mat-tick-catly?” Head tilted back, his laugh echoes throughout the office and into the halls at his daughter’s attempt to repeat the challenging word.

“It’s just a big word for numbers,” he smiles kissing the top of her head. “Nothing you need to worry about until you get older and go to school. But hey guess what?”

“Hmm?!”

“I’m done, which means-,”

“Spa!!! Cmon da-yee you’re gonna look so pretty!,” she excitedly claps, leaping from his lap and pulling an amused Chris behind her.

———

“There, now no touch!,” Kira orders with a pointed finger making Chris hold up his hands in surrender as he chuckled.

“You got it.”

“And what’s going on here?” Back from your run with Dodger, you lean on the doorframe giggling as you take in the sight in front of you. Sat on the tile floor with one leg crossed over the other, white cream speckled with orange dots messily covered his forehead, nose, and cheeks while your daughter squat beside your nighttime bag rummaging through your products.

“Kira wanted to play spa, so I’m her customer.”

“Here you go,” she smiles handing him a single square of tissue paper.

“What’s this?”

“I think that’s your bill honey,” you quietly laugh as your daughter nods her head.

“Five monies please!”

“Kira, you’re gonna make your dear old dad pay? After all the fun we’ve had?” Rocking back and forth on her feet, her eyes roam around the room waiting for her requested payment and making Chris shake his head as he chuckles.

“I’ll give you cookies...”

Smile lighting up her face, she takes the piece of paper from his hands and instead gives it to you leaving you silent with mouth slightly agape. “Your turn mommy!”

“Let’s get this off of daddy’s face first then after I shower we can work on me,” you smile watching her reach for the silver handles of the facet before being placed on the counter by your husband. Slowly tip toeing to your phone, you return pressing record just in time to catch their cute exchange as your daughter dangles her feet back and forth.

“Now you look pretty forever and ever!”

“Forever and ever?! What magic did you use huh?,” he asks tickling her side. Zipping her lips, she shakes her head making her plaits wildly swing around.

“Nope, it’s a secret,” she giggles holding onto his hand and playing with the silver band on his finger.

The following morning, the Evans household started as usual these last couple months. Sunlight peaking through the curtains. Chris groaning as he begrudgingly gets up to use the bathroom leaving you lying in bed snuggling with the comforter until he would return taking its place. Taking over his side of the bed, you smiled to yourself waiting to hear his deep chuckle followed by the feeling of soft hands gently lifting your “sleeping” body and keeping you close to him while you both lied in comfortable silence.

Instead, you felt your arm being frantically shaken by your husband repeatedly beckoning you to wake up.

“Babe. Babe!”

“Hmm what’s wrong?,” you groggily ask rubbing your eyes to help you see clearer. Small red sploches dotting his face, you rise on your knees getting closer to his face making sure what you were seeing was in fact true. “What happened to your face?”

“I don’t know. I just noticed it when I went to the bathroom.”

“Does it itch?”

“A little. Do you think it was the mask?”

“Maybe, do you remember if she used anything else from my bag?” Shrugging his shoulders, there’s a momentary silence before his palm hits his forehead as he silently curses.

“Of course this happens on the day I’m supposed to talk with Jimmy Fallon.”

“Listen it’s okay, we’ll hopefully have you fixed before then. Just let me think of what could help.”

“Mommy! Da-yee!” As if on cue, Kira runs into your bedroom using the bench at the end of the bed to climb in and stand next to you. “Ooh I want face paint too!”

“It’s not face paint honey, daddy might’ve had a reaction to the mask from last night.”

“Reaction?,” she asks slightly tilting her head.

“Yea, like when you ate peaches that one day and your tongue was itchy and cheeks got puffy? That’s a reaction.”

“Ohh...I hurt da-yee?” Frowning with pouted lips, Chris picks her up smoothing the frizz from her hair as he kisses her temple.

“Noo no sweetie you didn’t hurt me. I promise I’m fine, my face just looks a little funny.”

“Mommy’s special tube didn’t work.”

“Special tube?,” you both inquire looking puzzled. Nodding her head, she nervously wrings her hands together afraid of your coming reactions.

“The white one.”

“Ohhh...”

“I’m guessing this white tube is what caused me to look like a Dalmatian with red spots?,” Chris asks slightly rocking Kira back and forth.

“Yea, it’s my acne gel. I call it my special tube because only I can use it sweetie,” you answer lightly rubbing her back.

“Ohh, sorry.”

“It’s okay, let’s not use it anymore though. Especially on daddy’s delicate skin.”

“Delicate?,” he asks raising an eyebrow in amusement making you laugh.

“Babe you even said so yourself that you have sensitive skin, don’t start,” you laugh stepping out of bed. “Now let me go get the rash cream.”

“Wait, rash cream?”

“You have a better idea?” Groaning as he rolls his eyes, Kira places her hands on either side of his beard before kissing his cheek.

“No worry da-yee, mommy can fix it.”

“I hope you’re right bae-yee,” he smiles blowing raspberries on her cheek making her wildly giggle.

———

“Okay first it was poor Dodger’s haircut now this?! What is going on in the Evan’s household during this quarantine?,” Jimmy asks trying to hide his laughter but failing.

Sat at the island in his kitchen, he chuckles to himself while shaking his head at his current predicament. Surprisingly the rash cream did help a bit, but the red spots were still evident on his face although a bit lighter in color.

Especially now currently being in the room with the best lighting.

“Well uh as you can see it’s been a bit eventful,” he laughs as he runs a hand through his brown locs. “Kira’s been watching her mom do her nighttime routine so now her favorite game to play is Spa. Long story short some things didn’t agree with my skin when we played yesterday.”

“Ohh noo,” he laughs covering his mouth with his hands. “Are you okay though? How did she react when she saw you?”

“Yea I’m fine. It was a bit itchy but now it’s starting to fade away, and at first she thought it was face paint, but after telling her what happened she felt bad because she thought she hurt me. So now she’s been checking on me and making sure I’m okay.”

“And speaking of, looks like she’s here to check on you now.” Turning around, he smiles seeing his little girl in her jean overalls raised on her tip toes trying to get a look at Chris. Waving her over, she nervously steps to her father before he sits her on his lap.

“Hi Kira! How are you?”

“Good,” she shyly replies playing with her braid.

You tried to keep her occupied during his time away with his interview, but your sneaky little one took advantage of your lapse of judgement when distracted by your phone. She said she was going to the bathroom and by the time you thought you should walk with her, you could hear feet scurrying down the hall towards the kitchen.

Catching the corner of his eye, you mouth “sorry” before he smiles mouthing back “it’s okay” and giving you a quick thumbs up.

“And how do you like being home with your parents this whole time?”

“I-I like it. We get to play a lot!,” she smiles making both men lightly chuckle.

“So your dad tells me you like to play a game called Spa. Is that something you’d want to do when you get older?” Nodding her head, she giggles looking up at her father as he kisses the top of her head.

“Well I already know you’ll do such a good job with your own spa one day from this video from a little birdie’s instagram.” As he plays the short clip of Chris and Kira talking in the bathroom while he washes off his mask, he meets your eyes shaking his head as you innocently shrug your shoulders as if you didn’t know anything.

“Hmm I wonder whose Instagram you got that from?”

“You know I can’t reveal my sources,” Jimmy laughs. “The adventures of being a girl dad though right?”

“Yea, and I wouldn’t change a thing about it,” Chris smiles holding onto his baby girl as she latches around his neck.

Taglist: @fumbling-fanfics @honeychicanawrites @honeychicana @lady-olive-oil @themyscxiras @melinda-january @lovelymari4 @literaturefeen @damnitaa @curlyhairclub @renfrewscorner @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @nunubug99 @felicity-x0 @ellixthea @jojolu @jnk-812 @brwn-sgr @captainsamwlsn @wildfirecracker @nina-sj @iammyownlover @chaneajoyyy @secretmysteriousperson @plokyu23

If anybody wants to be tagged, has asked to be tagged but don’t see your name, only wants to be tagged for certain people I write for, or no longer wish to be tagged just let me know🤓!

[kiragecko]

Hey, Autistics, can you help me?

This is an Autism parenting post, but our whole family is neurodivergent and I just want to know how to help my son be more comfortable. Still, you don’t need to read if you don’t have the spoons, or don’t want to.

My son has stopped bathing.

I’m looking for ideas of what could make the experience tolerable for him. If you had trouble with similar hygiene stuff, what helped you? If you had issues with different stuff, but the root problems were the same, what did you do? Or if you think I might be missing an issue, please mention it. I just want him to be able to stop scratching and getting raw spots; to be clean and comfortable and not afraid.

So the things I think might be making bathes/showers/anything else I can think of too hard for him:

modesty-related phobias. He doesn’t want his privates to ever be visible.

executive dysfunction. Bathing has too many steps and overwhelms him, even if the steps are written down, or we’re walking him through them. 

hypersensitivity. Everything feels too much. Bath water, soap, shampoo being rubbed into his hair.

transition being painful. He has to stop doing something, usually something he enjoys, to bathe.

feels it’s unimportant. We want him to bathe, but other then being itchy all over (after 2 MONTHS of this), and having a sore here or there, he can’t really see why not bathing is a problem.

fears. He’s terrified of water in his eyes, of sitting in dirty water, of slipping (we got a mat which helped), of - well, fear itself, I think. He gets worried and then hides from the worry until it consumes him.

Pika is 10. He can argue circles around me, and pull my husband into endless circles that get nowhere. He’s from a family with eczema, and really can’t afford to abuse his skin.

Right now, he’s started letting me pour water over his head while he kneels by the tub. Today was the second time I managed to wash his hair this way, and I can’t stop praising him. He was AMAZING.

I need help with ideas for the rest of his body, though. We’ve tried not to be the type of parents that force their kids to do painful things to “build character.” I’m hypersensitive as well, and get that some things are torture. But there’s no way to work around hygiene. Maybe there’s an alternative to baths/showers I could try, but he needs to get clean SOMEHOW.

[ampmiscfiles]

To Us You’re Worth Everything: Chapter 11

Start from the beginning

Peter groaned as he opened his eyes and sat up. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was in a park, and he wasn't sure how he got there.

Stretching, he lifted his hand to scratch at his itchy cheek, meeting a crusty substance. Frowning, Peter picked at the dried substance on his face before pulling his hand away to look.

Peter felt the blood drain from his face as the dark red, almost black, flakes peaked out under his nails and on his fingertips. Following down from his hands, his arms were marked with dark streaks, some places thicker than others. His clothes were stained in blood, blood that clearly wasn't his.

Quickly, Peter lurched to the side, throwing up what he had had for supper.

What had happened?

Crawling away from the tree he was under and further into the bushes, Peter wrapped his arms around himself, panic seeping in.

He had no idea what was going on. He didn't remember anything after leaving the group home, but clearly something had happened.

Trying to calm his rising panic, Peter closed his eyes and let the sounds of the park wash over him. The cool breeze rustling the tree leaves. Children laughing on the distant playground. Dogs happily enjoying playing with their owners. Couples chatting happily as they walked the pathways.

It was nice, and Peter felt his heart rate slow.

Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath before fully analyzing his situation. He couldn't exactly exit the cover of the bushes looking like he did. There was no way a blood covered teenager would be ignored.

Looking around, Peter sighed in relief as he caught the strap of his bag buried in between the bushes. He grabbed it, pulling it out and brushing off the twigs and leaves. He started at the set of pajamas he had thrown into the bag when he changed. He knew he could swap out what he had on for them, but they were all he had. If he waited till nightfall, he could change and find a laundry mat. There was a good chance that he would be able to find some loose change by then, plus no one would be around to possibly catch a glimpse of what he was washing.

Releasing a sigh, he laid back on the soft grass, trying to remember anything from the night.

Whose blood was staining his skin and clothes? Why was it there? What happened to the person it belonged to? Had he tried to save someone and suffered a blow to the head? It would explain the lack of memory.

It was the only option he would allow himself to consider, because he wasn't sure he could handle it being anything else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tony pulled the cap further down his head and put on his sunglasses as he exited his car.

He was surprised to find himself looking at a rather public park. If the kid was trying to stay low-key, this was a risky place to be.

Holding up his phone, he began the trek toward the location of the tracker. He wasn't sure what he was going to find, if he really found anything at all. Peter could have ditched his bag at some point, or even managed to have found the tracker and took it out.

Praying for the best, he continued on.

His phone ringing temporarily removed the tracker location as Pepper's face filled the screen. Frowning, he answered her call.

"Hey Pep, I'm-"

"Tony!" Pepper shouted into the phone. "We have to find Peter! There's been an incident not far from the home. Another body, the worst of them so far."

Tony felt a cold dread seep into his bones.

"They found blood in the alley beside the home Tony. They think who ever killed the man, caught him there and then took him away. Tony.....that maniac could have Peter!"

Pepper's hysterical sobs filled the phone.

"Pep, Pep, listen to me!"

There was a sniffle on the other side of the line as Pepper tried to compose herself.

"Has anyone talked to the kids?"

"Tony! They're missing too!"

"Great." Tony huffed, running a hand down his face.

"Pepper, I want to you focus on finding Wanda and Pietro."

"But Peter-"

"I'm handling Peter. Just, just trust me here Pep. Let me do this."

There was silence then the shuffle of someone moving around.

"Ok Tony. I'll call the others and tell them to focus on the twins." she took a deep breath. "Please, find my son, Tony."

"Let me know when you have the kids." Tony said, disconnecting the line.

He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, the calm, sunny day a stark contrast to the feelings inside him. On his phone, the little light continued to blink and Tony prayed he was going to be happy with what he found.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pietro looked at the building before him with wide eyes.

"You can't be serious."

"I am." Wanda said, eyes narrowed in determination. "We're going to make sure things go the way they need to."

Pietro huffed out a breath and ran his hand down his face before turning to her.

"We can't just walk in there, Wanda."

"We're not, but Kent and Kathy Matthews distant cousins are." she said casually.

"Now I know you're not being serious."

"I am. Now put on the rest of your outfit."

"Exactly what are you planning to do? This place is littered with cameras and, relatives or not, they're not going to let us see them. We don't even know if they're awake! They weren't exactly in the best of shape when they were brought in. Cl-those two random criminals did a work over on them."

"You forget," Wanda smirked. "I managed to get into the heads of the Avengers. I think I can handle things here."

"Again, the camera footage?" Pietro pushed.

"We'll collect it before we leave. No traces left behind."

"Ok, but what'd your goal here?"

Wanda paused, looking away from her brother and toward the building.

"We both know who's in that building, Pietro. They've mistreated him. Physical, mental and verbally abused him. I can't let them get off as easy as they're going to. Jail isn't good enough." she said, looking at him out the corner of her eye.

"I think you feel it too."

Pietro didn't respond for a moment, choosing to let her words sink in. She wasn't wrong. He didn't think a simple jail sentence, even if it was life, was good enough for all the damage they caused.

Squaring his shoulders, he took Wanda's hands and gave a squeeze.

"Yes, you're right. I think it might be a good idea for our cousins to do a little....reflection on their actions. Maybe try to picture themselves in their victim's shoes."

Wanda just returned the grin he flashed her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tony's anxiety spiked a little as he got closer to the location of the tracker. He was growing a little weary at the fact the signal hadn't moved at all since he locked on to it.

"Please let him be ok." Tony muttered, stopping where the tracker blinked.

Frowning, he looked around the area. Maybe Peter had ditched the tracker after all.

He had just about decided to continue on down the path when I slight shuffle from the bushes next to him caught his attention. Slowly, he made his way over, pushing aside the foliage.  

"Peter!"

Peter jumped, surprised by the shout as much as the fact someone had managed to sneak up on him. Rolling over, he stared wide-eyed into the equally wide-eyed face of Tony Stark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pepper ran her hand through her hair as she waited on Sam to return to the car. Her nerves were strung tight as images of what could have happened to Peter flew through her head.

She barely knew the boy, but she had immediately fallen in love with him.

How could anyone not?

It was so easy to see past the evidence of abuse to the sweet boy buried inside. They had already glimpsed him through interactions with Spider-Man.

Peter held Spider-Man in such high regard that it was as if he saw himself as two separate people. That Peter Parker and Spider-Man weren't the same person.

Maybe that had been how he was able to maintain his upbeat attitude, because he clearly didn't hold the Peter Parker side of himself in such a light.

Still, somewhere out there was a lonely kid in desperate need of help.

She couldn't think anything less.

She couldn't think he wasn't.

She looked over as Sam opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.

"Here." he said, handing her an iced coffee. "How are you holding up?"

"Been better." she sighed.

"Well, I'm not about to help matters." Sam winced as Pepper turned her puffy eyed face towards him.

"The twins are missing."

"They're what?" Pepper yelled.

"Just got off the phone with Steve. The kids bailed and haven't been seen since. They've tried finding them, but no luck."

Pepper narrowed her eyes.

"You don't believe him."

"Oh, I believe Steve wants me to be believe they can't find them. I think the truth is they don't really want to."

"Why not? Peter is already missing, now they are to!"

Sam sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"He think they know, or at least Nat does, where they went."

"And I'm guessing she's not telling, nor is she going after them herself."

"She wouldn't let them go if she didn't think it was something they needed to do or they couldn't handle. I'm sure they're fine. Let's just focus on finding Peter for now."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, I just got off the phone with Sam." Steve sighed, sitting down at the table next to Clint.

Peter's case file was once again spread out before them.

"Let me guess, he doesn't believe we don't know where they are."

"Well, we don't." Steve replied, motioning between Clint and himself. "She does."

The two looked over as Natasha typed away furiously on her laptop.

"Leave them be. They can handle their business. They'll be fine."

"You're not leaving us much of a choice." Clint huffed.

"What do you two know about the mysterious killer the police are chasing?"

Steve frowned as he shared a look with Clint before turning to Natasha.

"I know the police are mighty territorial about it. They're been very clear they don't want our involvement. I think its rather stupid considering the increase in attacks, manner of violence, and the fact there has been no real connection from one victim to the next-"

"Other than criminal history." Clint finished. "I may not approve of the guy's methods, but he's not exactly attacking the innocent here."

"Still, none of the other vigilantes in the city go that far-"

"Frank Castle and Deadpool-"

"Haven't been seen in the city in months. These attacks have only been happening the past two." Steve shot as Clint shrugged.

"Fine. So what's the point, Nat?" Clint asked, ignoring Steve's eye roll.

"Considering the Matthews, I decided to look into some of Peter's other foster families."

"And?"

"A few of them have joined the victims list."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ma'am, I afraid we can't just let you in to see the Matthews. They're in police custody. You would have to have permission to-"

"I'm sure it won't be a problem for us to have just a few moments with them." Wanda smiled, her eyes flashing red.

The man stood frozen and silent for a moment before a dopey smile crossed his face.

"Of course. I don't see why not. I might do them good to have some family chastisement."

"Thank you."

The twins followed behind the doctor, Wanda stretching her powers out to touch each person they passed. They couldn't afford for anyone to give fully accurate descriptions of them, even if they were disguised.

"Around the corner is the room they're located in. Just give the officer outside the room your names."

The two nodded towards the man as he shuffled off back the way he came.

"So far so good. Let's see your next trick." Pietro whispered into Wanda's ear.

"Prepare to have your socks knocked off." she smirked, leading the way.

As they approached the room, the officer stationed outside stood to face them.

"I suggest the two of you turn and leave. This couple is under arrest and police observation."

"We're their cousi-" Pietro started before being cut off.

"I don't care who you are. No one is getting through that door. I don't know how you made it this far, but I'm going to have security escort you-"

"Surely you understand our need to see family." Wanda smiled sweetly, her eyes flashing red.

The officer looked at the blankly before nodding with a smile.

"Please, go right in."

"Thank you."

"Wow. Those training sessions are really paying off." Pietro whispered in her ear as they entered the room and shut the door behind them.

"Nat is brutal." Wanda replied.

The two stopped talking as they took in the ghastly sight of Kathy and Kent Matthews. The damage Clint and Natasha had inflicted had been highly underrated by the officers and social worker that had taken Peter away.

"Well, is it wrong that I don't feel at all bad seeing them this way?" Pietro asked, stepping up to the foot of Kathy's bed.

"This will pale in comparison to what I'm about to do." Wanda said, eyes narrowed. "They're bodies have been pushed to the limit, but I'm going to break their minds."

Pietro watched as Wanda stepped in between the two beds.

"I want you both awake for this." she said lowly, raising her hands and touching their foreheads.

The Matthews gasped in both pain and shock as their eyes flew open and consciousness returned to them.

"Hello there." Pietro grinned, leaning down on Kathy's bed.

"Who the hell are you?" Kathy asked, voice raspy.

To her right, Kent looked at the two intruders, unable to speak as his mouth was to swollen.

"It doesn't matter who we are." Wanda hissed. "What matters, is that you understand the atrocities you've committed, and that you will admit to your actions."

"You're insane." Kathy's eyes narrowed. "We're not admitting anything. How did you even get in here?"

"Tsk tsk." Pietro frowned, shaking his head. "That's not what we wanted to hear."

"No, it isn't." Wanda glared.

"Get out!" Kathy rasped.

"Not without a little parting gift." Wanda smiled wickedly.

"I'm going to let your mind pick itself apart. Everything horrible thing you've done to someone, you're going to know what it's like. You're going to feel the pain you've caused. You'll be begging for mercy long before it's over. I hope it wrecks you."

Pietro watched as Wanda's finger tips swirled with red magic as she placed each of her hands on the forehead of Kathy and Kent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Kid, what happened?" Tony panicked, pushing to himself into Peter's hiding spot. "Are you ok? You're covered in blood!"

Peter couldn't speak as Tony frantically checked him over for any serious wounds.

"Jesus, kid." Tony sighed. "You had us all worried."

"H-how did you...."

"I put a tracker in your bag." Tony answered, no longer guilty for his actions.

"You put a tracker in my bag?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Pete, I know the signs of avoidance better than anyone. It was written all over your face and body language. You had no intention of facing what was coming your way." Tony said, still studying Peter for injuries.

He knew the boy healed fast, but some wounds healed faster than others. Pepper and the twins would be furious if Peter was returned without care.

"I...I can't..."

"Come on kid, let's go get you cleaned up."

"No." Peter said, pushing further back from the billionaire. "I'm not going with you."

"Pete," Tony sighed. "You have three of the most powerful and influential people in the world focused on you right now, how far do you think you'll get?"

Peter frowned, looking down at the grass.

"They need to focus on someone else." he sniffed.

"And who would that be?"

"Anyone but me."

Tony narrowed his eyes as Peter still refused to look at him.

"Kid, they're not the only ones looking for you. Your little stunt, as I'm sure you know, wasn't unnoticed. The home called the police. Your description is out there and they're looking for you. Where do you plan on going?"

Peter felt the uncomfortable sting of tears in his eyes.

"I thought so." Tony frowned. "Come on kid, let us help you."

"You can't!" Peter yelled, pushing away further. "You can't help me and you shouldn't help me! You're wasting your time, all of you! You'll take me back and wish you hadn't! Just leave me alone and you'll be better off."

Tony watched as silent tears slid down the boy's dirty face. In all his years, he couldn't say a child's tears had ever affected him as much as Peter's did.

"You can't disappoint them, Peter."

"You don't know me."

It was true. Tony didn't really know Peter. Hell, he didn't really know Spider-Man all the well. Sure, he had worked with him enough to get a bit attached to his upbeat attitude, but these past few days had thrown all he knew out the window.

Spider-Man and Peter Parker were both the same person, and yet not. Peter had worked hard to give them a distinction. It was a little concerning.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Tony finally crossed, what he was positive was, the last line.

"Look, Peter. You're soulmates with Wanda and Pietro, and they love you already. Pepper was ready to adopt you the moment we learned about your situation. As soon as she does, and she will, that makes you my son and I protect what's mine. So, we can do this one of two ways."

Peter finally looked up at Tony's words, a feeling of dread creeping up his spine at the tone.

"One, you come with me willingly. Two.......I put you in a suit and take you back by force."

Peter froze.

He couldn't be serious.

A long look at Tony's face told him he was.

Peter's thoughts whirled inside him. He wanted to feel anger. Anger at Tony for tracking him. Anger at Tony for threatening him. Anger at Pepper wanting to adopt him.

Anger and Wanda and Pietro for being their soulmate.

He was supposed to age out of the foster system and be on his own. Never find his soulmate or mates.

Never hurt them.

Never cause them sorrow.

That's all Peter Parker was good for anyway.

There was only one choice.

Forgoing his bag, Peter darted out of his hiding place. He was small and fast. There was no way Tony would be able to catch him. He would just have to keep running until he couldn't anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Wow. These are brutal." Clint winced as he looked over the crime scene photos of Peter's former fosters.

"They're some of the worst." Natasha nodded with a frown.

"The Matthews were pretty nasty." Steve frowned. "Maybe they were worse."

"Or maybe the Matthews just got lucky enough to be victims of a break-in instead of this guy." Clint replied, completely unphased by his mentioning of the strange event surround the Matthews.

"Should we look into them?" Steve asked, crossing his arms.

"Normally I'd say yes," Natasha shrugged. "But I could really care less at this point. Whatever they did, they paid for it. Looking into them won't change anything now."

"This guy is all over the city." Clint whistled. "I mean, the killings have no pattern to place. The only links are criminals and the fact they all happen at night."

"Does anyone know if Peter was looking into this?"

Natasha and Clint both paused.

"I mean, he's on the streets every night as Spider-Man. I can't see him ignoring it."

"He's not the only vigilante out there, though." Natasha replied, leaning back in her chair. "Maybe they all are."

"I know that look." Clint huffed. "Who's at the top of your list?"

"There was an attack in Hell's Kitchen not to long ago. I can't imagine the Devil of Hell's Kitchen isn't investigating."

"Does Spider-Man know him?"

Natasha shrugged at Steve's question.

"Spider-Man has been seen talking to him once or twice. Just how well they know each other is unclear."

"Why are we asking this again? I'm pretty sure local law enforcement doesn't want us 'intruding on their territory'." Clint scoffed.

"The Matthews are about to be involved in a high profile crime case." Steve said, looking up at the ceiling. "If the guy doesn't already know about them, he will soon."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tony sighed as Peter darted out the bushes. He had really hoped the kid would come along willingly.

"FRI, launch the suit."

Back at Tony's car, the emergency suit engaged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter had a brief ting of his Spider Sense before he found himself enclosed in, what he knew, was an Iron Man suit.

Tony hadn't been lying.

"Let me out!" he screamed, watching as the ground got further and further away.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Peter." FRIDAY's calm voice filled his ears.

"Releasing you from the suit would cause you serious injuries from your fall."

"This is kidnapping!" Peter shouted, desperate to reason with the AI.

"Technically it's a rescue." Tony's voice came through the speakers. "You're a runaway kid. I'm rescuing you from the streets and possible danger."

"I didn't ask you to!"

"I'm going to anyway."

As he tried to decide if the risk of breaking out of the speeding suit was worth it, a thought struck him.

The voice of anger that had rose up in him, was silent.

The time the voice should have been the loudest, and there was nothing.

He didn't know what to think of it.

"Trust me kid. You may not think it now, but you're going to thank me later."

Peter didn't reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pepper snatched up her phone as it buzzed in the console.

Sam watched as she fumbled to turn it on to see the message.

/I've got him. I'm taking him to the compound. He's escaped from one home, he'll escape another./

A tear slipped down her cheek as she quickly sent a reply.

"Please tell me it's good news." Sam said, looking at her hopefully.

"Tony found him. He's taking him back to the compound."

"Well, I guess we should go alert the cops and the home."

Pepper nodded, putting the car in drive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Incoming call from Boss.”

“Patch him through FRIDAY.” Steve replied.

“I have a special package in the way. Make sure you secure it when it gets there. I’m about 10 minutes behind it.”

“Package? You order us something special, Tony?” Clint smirked.

“If you consider the insecure, disgruntled, wonder twins teen soulmate ‘special’, then yes.”

“What do you mean ‘10 minutes behind’?” Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow at Clint and Steve.

“He’s in the suit. Kid tried to run again. Hence the ‘secure it’ warning.”

“You put the kid in a suit?” Steve groaned. “Tony...”

“No choice Cap. You'll see when why when he shows up. I'll be there shortly."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose as the line went dead.

"Well, come on boys. Let's go greet our little Spider-Baby." Natasha smirked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter felt his nerves spike as the compound came into view. He knew as soon the suit landed that would be it for anymore escape attempts.

He most likely wouldn't be allowed out of anyone's sight any time soon.

"Your vitals are concerning, Peter. If they continue in this fashion, I will have to alert Boss of your distress."

Distress!

Of course he was in distress!

This was the last thing he wanted. He wasn't supposed to come back to the compound. He wasn't ever supposed to see any of the Avengers again! Spider-Man was supposed to leave New York. Branch out somewhere new. Maybe even become an entirely new vigilante even!

It had been a small thought in his mind for a while. He loved being Spider-Man. It was the only good part about him anymore. Spider-Man was useful and, for the most part, people loved him.

Spider-Man was everything Peter Parker was not.

Spider-Man was also easy to track. If he left New York, word of him showing up somewhere else would spread quickly, and no doubt the Avengers would be on his doorstep before he could blink.

No, Spider-Man would have to take a break and let a new hero step in for a bit.

It was sad, but also ok. It didn't matter what suit he wore, he was still Spider-Man regardless.

That, however, was quickly becoming a distant option.

He would be trapped with the Avengers, with his soulmates. There would be no way to hide all the things wrong with him.

They would learn quickly that he just wasn't meant to be loved anymore. He lost that right when May died.

When May died, he learned he should have been left alone.

"Prepare for landing, Peter. I have alerted those at the compound of your condition since Boss hasn't arrived yet."

Tony wasn't there?

Peter wasn't sure why that bothered him. The man had only betrayed his trust over and over, there was no reason to care anything about him.

Immediately, Peter felt the guilt creep up on him.

This was exactly part of his problem. Tony had done what he had to, and Peter was being his normal, ungrateful self.

This was why he didn't deserve kindness. This was why when someone did show a hint of care, Peter knew they were wasting their time and would ultimately be disappointed in him.

There was a jolt as the suit landed and a brief moment before the pieces separated, revealing him to Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Clint Barton.

"Welcome back little spider." Natasha smiled

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wanda leaned against the car as she waited for Pietro to round up the security tapes. She felt confident in the knowledge that, when they awoke, Kent and Kathy Matthews would be screaming their guilt.

With any luck, they'd never spend another night without the nightmares of what they saw.

"Got them." Pietro grinned, holding up the tapes as he stopped next to her.

"Good." Wanda smirked. "Maybe we won't be in quite as much trouble."

"Oh, we'll definitely be in trouble. Still, if ends in them paying for what they've done, I'll gladly take whatever punishment we're given."

Wanda nodded in agreement as she pulled out the keys to the car.

"No way!" Pietro said, snatching them from her hand.

"You almost killed us on the way here. I'm driving back. I want to be able to see Peter again."

Wanda puffed out her cheeks in frustration.

"My driving is perfectly fine and I want to see Peter too!"

"Then get in the car. I'll deliver us safely back to the compound."

"Whatever." she huffed, grumpily getting into the passenger seat and crossing her arms.

[reading-hub]

BATMAN VILLIANS - Calling them Daddy/Mommy in a non-sexual situation:

Ft. Bane, Poison Ivy, Mad Hatter, Two Face, & Killer Croc

BANE

It was during your private self defense classes with Bane. You thought it’d be piece of cake. There’s plenty of women taking classes in order to defend themselves walking alone during such dark nights. Banes’ idea of self defense classes was that, cranked up to 100.10%.

You were sweating bullets, body feeling numb, and all you wanted was the sweet release of death.

Bane, seeing you face planted on training mat, he lifted you to sit up with those big hands of his like you barely weigh anything.

Your face got droopy from exhaustion, your shoulders could barely hold you to sit up straight, making your upper body rock back in forth.

“Can you stand?” His deep accent brought you back from semi day dreaming. Your head lolled back dramatically and responded in the most childish-pouty way, “No...!” His eyes scanned your state of body at that moment. Was he judging you??

Before you could figure out what he was doing eyeing you like that, he stood tall and was about to walk off. Until you pushed your body back on the mat, both hands barely grasped his ankles but he stopped moving. Good.

“Wait—! Daddy help me up!” Pause. What just slipped from your mouth just now?

You froze, making it easier for Bane to lift his foot up, then again, he could’ve done anytime he wanted. His knees bent down to your ground level, his finger pushes away a strand of hair from your face. You could barely register what was going on. You suddenly yelped in surprise as Bane lifted your whole body close to him, walking out the training room with him.

POISON IVY

You felt embarrassed afterwards. It was like that one time when you accidentally called your teacher ‘Mom’; everyone had a good laugh, it was overall embarrassing for one whole day, and it rests in the back of your mind for the rest of your adult life.

You and Ivy were very good friends. You honestly don’t know how this weird friendship came to be. You told her about some of the small plants you have at in apartment, shyly admitting that you’ve even given said plants cute nicknames.

The next thing you know, you’re visiting her tropical lair once a week, heck, sometimes you just spend the night there during weekends.

You felt like you can talk about anything with her. There was something about the way she spoke to you, like you mattered. It flattered you really. Insecurities that you’re afraid to tell to your own parents, you’ve told her. Deep repressed thoughts and feelings you have that you would never say openly, she’s listened to.

It was getting late, you rambled on to her once again and you didn’t even notice how dark it was outside. You shifted awkwardly, wanting to say something. Before Ivy could notice, you blurted out,

“Mommy, is it okay if sleep here tonight?” Ivy looked at you at that moment with a fluttering gaze. The best thing you could do to make this less awkward was laugh nervously, in the hopes of her laughing too. But she didn’t, she just stared at you. She gave the most faint smile she could make to you, “It is late, if you’re lucky, you might end up sleeping next to me tonight.”

Heart just sank. Exe.has stopped working.

MAD HATTER

It was quiet, too quiet. Even being in the back of Mad Hatter’s hat shop, it was getting too boring. Jervis was preparing another tea party for tomorrow night. Said it will be a night to remember, especially with you by his side.

You offered to help in anyway you could. Perhaps you could score some extra scones for going to such lengths, and besides, Jervis just looked the cutest when he was concentrated on a certain task.

While people like Gothem citizens always poked fun on how short he was, you found him to be unique and partnership material all the more. Even if he gets small tantrums when things aren’t going his way, or that one time when he bitch slapped you after refusing to put on that itchy blonde wig and small blue dress for him. Looking back you’ve should’ve known better.

You helped him organize any tea cups and utensils that would be needed during the tea party. Then, something caught your eye, “Should I wash these tea cups for the guests, Daddy?” you coughed with embarrassment and cringe. “They...look pretty dirty..”

Jervis came to your side immediately after, his hand placed onto your own gently. “No, no, my dear, use the cloth I gave you instead.” He suggested. Did he not hear what you just addressed him as???

Before you could sigh in relief from that embarrassing stunt you pulled, he spoke soon after. “While I am not your father, the thought of you addressing me in such a manner has got me all fluttering.” While his back was turned from you, you felt as though he was smiling gleefully as you continued cleaning the tea cups.

TWO FACE

Harvey wasn’t exactly ‘husband material’. His mood swings were as unpredictable as they came. He’d hold onto you tenderly, rubbing your back late at night, the next morning you’d wake up to harsh yelling and a slap in the face.

A relationship like that came with a lot of things, angry sex, tender loving, fear. And yet, you chose to stick around all the more.

It was midnight, he was lashing out once again. You couldn’t even sleep though that noise, no one could. You got up from your queen bed, go up to Harvey to see what got him so angry this time. You scoffed at yourself, what could you do if you went to his study? Calm him down?You really didn’t think this plan through.

His study was open, a small crack was left to peek inside without disturbance. Without thinking, you opened the door, the sound of creaking could be heard. You cringed at the sound, hoping to not have Harv hear, he heard.

In response, he threw a book at the door, to get you to leave him alone. The book was close to hitting you in the face, only to miss by a few inches, but the surprise caused you to yelp in fear.

“Get out, bitch! We don’t need you.” His harsh and blood curdling tone almost made you cry whenever he directed it towards you, it was hard to get use to for the most part. “This is the only way I can lash out without harming you, leave us.” His soft tone also made you cry because of how rare he spoke to you in such a way. It showed he was still sane in your eyes. No matter how many doctors in Arkham say to you otherwise...

Before you could respond back. He threw another book as a warning. “What part of leaving don’t you understand?!” His burnt hand clenched in anger. And all you could do was sit there, frozen in fear. He stormed towards you, you had a bad feeling where this was going.

Before you could process the situation you put yourself in, you flinched before him, arms covering your face so he couldn’t hit there. “Please don’t hurt me, Daddy!!” You cried out. Not even realizing what you said to him, you still braced yourself for any pain that came to a part of your body.

It was silent. You open your eyes, cautiously. “What the hell did you just say?” He was confused, trying to wrap around his head of what made you say that. You looked shocked too. Why wasn’t he hitting you? Oh no..

You opened your mouth to try to explain yourself, but Harvey beat you to it. “Don’t answer...” His still harsh tone was still present but deemed down for some reason..

“I need a drink...” His soft voice came afterwards, grabbing whatever available alcohol was lying around in his study right now. You just sat there, eyes wide like a deer in front of headlights. You should probably sleep now.

KILLER CROC

You honestly thought that Arkham was basically sending you to your death whenever they decided to send you to bring his meals.

If only they knew that sending a decently attractive human to his lair, would cause some disturbances. Especially a giant crocodile man who hasn’t experience intimacy in quite a long time.

“Waylon! I’ve come to bring your meal for tonight!” You shouted. “Don’t try and eat the hand that feeds you.” You said under your breath.

“Bring it here and I won’t!” The sudden jumpscare from him, shook you to your very core. Shook was an understatement, though. “Waylon, that isn’t funny. It really scared me.” You held onto your chest, trying to compose yourself.

You gave him his scraps food through a small hole that was similar to a dog door, making easier for anyone to transfer Croc’s food without the fear your hand getting chewed up.

Croc smelled and inspected the food for a while, similar to a wild animal, making sure there wasn’t any sedatives mixed in his food this time. Before he could make the decision of eating, “Don’t worry, no medicine was put in it.” You just had to open your mouth, now he’s really not gonna eat it!! Damn it.

“I don’t want it anyway. Take it back!” He commanded you. No, you weren’t gonna take this. “No Waylon, I can’t do that.” You rejected him. Maybe you were too harsh sounding...No! He needs to learn that using fear to bully someone into submission is not gonna work this time!

“Gett’n too confident with me being behind this cell.” Cheeky. He’s trying to break you when your trying to stand up for yourself.

“Don’t get me wrong, Waylon, you terrify me to my very core. But I’m not gonna stand here and be walked all over.” Wow, you’re really proud of yourself right now.

He was silent, time to hook him in! “Come on, Daddy, eat your scraps, pleeease...” Except for that. You were not proud of yourself anymore. Oh shi—

He chuckled loudly, you swore his whole cell and where you were standing, was vibrating from his loud excessive laughing. It was embarrassing.

“Shut up!” Your voice was too meek compared to his loud chuckles escaping him. “Now that was funny, lunch lady.”

You stormed off, not taking the food with you. Oh well, hopefully all that laughing got him to eat his food. Spoiler: it did :)

[askme-polaris]

Bath time and the voices are back...

It was a somewhat normal day at the Hazbin Hotel. All of the staff was busy or at least one of them was before he went on his break. Husk had retreated to his room once he finished his shift where he found our little bundle of jitters scratching and itching up a storm. "Poli...what are ya doin on the floor? And why are you scratching so much... Stop before you end up breaking the skin." He interrogated the small fruit bat demon who had paused in her scratch fest and looked in the direction of the voice with her bright,purple eyes.

"I'm itchy, mr. Husk! Make it stop itching!" The bat whimpered, starting to scratch again while crying. She had been itching for a while but she didn't know why. It felt like something was biting her all over but she could never reach and so she was scratching in an attempt to make it go away and soothe the itch. Husk noticed her distress and scooped her up in his arms. "Guess it's bathtime then. Let's get you cleaned up so the itch goes away,yeah?" He suggested gently,softly petting her ears and giving her his kindest smile despite knowing she couldn't see it. Polaris nodded and let herself be carried in the bartender's arms to his bathroom. He ran the shower to the temperature she preferred and helped her undress before placing her in the tub and scrubbing her in the spots she had scratched feverishly with gentle scrubbing motions. This was like any other shower with Husk. She trusted him to help her get cleaned but couldn't help how sensitive her body got to his touches in certain spots. She'd freeze up and let out a squeak when his paws scrubbed on her chest and de-tangled the matted fur around that area, thoroughly scrubbing the shampoo and soap in well to ensure her cleanliness. He did this everyday so why was it different this time? His paw moved down and she jumped,squeaking again as he scrubbed between her legs. He knew she couldn't help it, women's bodies are sensitive. He figured she must have been extra sensitive since she couldn't see and had to trust Husk to assist her in tasks she couldn't do even if he guided her through the process. 'Why do i always get so sensitive with him during our showers? I trust him with all my being. So why...? Why does my body react this way?" She pondered to herself,listening to the pattern in the water coming from the shower overhead pattering on the porcelain floor below them. It reminded her of rainfall from the topside in the living realm. She loved the rain and would often fall asleep to it in class on instinct. She tried not to focus on his soft,gentle scrubbing on her body and think more about her past life and what she could remember well. She was however brought out of her nostalgia trip when she felt him scrubbing the skin connecting her wings and tail before moving on to the curves and dips of her back and legs. She flinched,feeling his claws run along the skin under her fur. She never knew why bathtime was always so sensual in her mind. She supposed it was because the demon she was so deeply enamored with was the one scrubbing her from head to toe with careful,precise touches and reaching the spots she couldn't but were very sensitive for her. These touches often result in her nearly crippling over from the stimulation and she felt herself getting warmer and often found her mind wandering with the water pouring down. She shook those thoughts from her mind when they would resurface again. Every damn time! Why do they have to come and ruin my peaceful bathtime with Mr. Husk!

He's not even mine...

She often yelled this at herself for letting her mind conjure such thoughts. She was always snapped out of her self-scolding by the feeling of the water pouring down on her and Husk. The soup and shampoo and de-tangling conditioner being thoroughly rinsed and washed out, leaving her fur soft and with a pretty shine to her coat. As always,Husk climbed out first wrapping a towel around his waist before gently scooping Polaris out after him in a towel and turning off the shower,letting the tub drain. Husk cleans himself after Polaris is clean. He always put her before himself. He wasn't selfish and cared for her deeply.

Husk dried off and dried off Polaris,blowing through her fur with a blow-dryer. He chuckled when she puffed up from the warm air,causing the said bat to blush and pout at him laughing at her predicament. He proceeded to apply her deodorant to her underarms and moisturized her fur and hair,knowing that she was susceptible to dryness as soon as they hopped out of the shower. He'd already brushed her teeth and was now brushing and combing out the kinks and tangles in her head of hair. He smoothed her fur down,kissing her forehead and dressed her in something comfy. A simple,backless sweater with sparkles paired with black shorts. He heard her stomach grumble accompanied by her sheepish giggle.

"Let's get you some grub. Must be a bit hungry after getting a nice scrub in the tub." He figured as he booped her nose,being rewarded with a smile and outstretched arms as his signal to pick her up. "Looks like you aren't itchy anymore so let's go eat. I'll cook up somethin for ya." He picked her up and carried the both of them to the dining room to get something to eat. He cooked up some meat for her and watched as she hungrily chowed down,wiping the juices from her mouth as she ate.

He saw the look on her face as she lowered her muzzle to the plate. "Don't you do it." He warned as he saw her tongue flick out between her lips. "Don't you dare. Poli,I'm warnin ya. Don't you lick that plate." He threatened half-heartedly,sighing as his warning fell on deaf ears as she proceeded to lick the juices that dripped from the meat from the plate. A pool of juices from the pork chop he cooked for her was now being lapped up by her pink bat tongue. Once she finished, she giggled and let Husk take her plate to wash. He washed hers and his and they walked back to his room together. Poli had gone quiet and looked noticeably upset about something. "Polaris,what's the matter? You feelin alright?" He expressed his worry,approaching the small bat as she twiddled her fingers and lightly grinded her teeth together. Minutes passed and she remained quiet. Just as Husk was about to call out to her, she finally opened her mouth to speak. "I feel dirty... Why was bathtime so much more different this time than all the other times you bathed me? I can still feel your paws ghosting over my body even though we already left the bath and these thoughts... They don't feel right...i feel so bad about it...why was i so s-sensitive afterwards?" Her voice cracked as she spoke and tears bubbled up in her starry eyes,sniffling. Husk looked at her with wide eyes and took a seat beside her. "Poli, you-" He was interrupted by her mini screech of guilt. "A-am i bad for having these thoughts?! I-is it wrong?! A-am i wrong for thinking that way?! I-i feel like m-mr.Angel! I-is that b-bad?!" She continued to ramble and spout until her words became a jumbled mess and he couldn't decipher anything she was saying. He gently grabbed her and pulled her into a hug as she sobbed. She was coming undone once again and all husk could do was wait. Wait for her to come back down and reach her calm again. It took a bit but he eventually pulled her to arms length and she looked up at him with watery pale blue eyes. "A-am i...gross for...imagining you and i...in that way?" She shakily asked,hoping he wouldn't be disgusted with her and kick her out of his room or even worse than that.

"Those thoughts aren't bad at all...they're normal...i don't know why you were so jumpy and maybe you were extremely sensitive this time cause i had my paws lingering too long in those spots... I got distracted and caught up in my own thoughts... For some reason, my dumb old brain hyper-fixated on the softness of your fur and how your life must have been when you were alive. Don't ever think you were bad for having those thoughts,Poli. I care about you so much." he hugged her to his chest,rubbing her back and rocking her gently like he always did when she had her moments. "Y-you don't think I'm gross...m-mr.h-husk?" She felt him shake his head and tell her no in a hushed tone. She sniffled,snuggling up in his embrace before they both lied down at the head of his bed. Husk put on some nice,calming music to fill the quiet void between them. They didn't need to talk after that so they gazed into the other's eyes while Sway by Michael bublé played in the background. Husk took this as a chance to intertwine his and Polaris' claws together and hold hands while laying on the sides facing each other. A somber smile finding its way to both their faces. For a moment,they saw the other's human self in place of their own. Polaris saw Husk's human incarnation. A man with scruffy facial hair, tired brown eyes that looked sick of everything,with short messy graying hair. The man wore a vest over a white button-up shirt with black slacks with bands around the middle of the long sleeves of the shirt. In Husk's eyes, he saw in place of Polaris, a fair skinned girl with purple hair fading into a purplish-pink at the ends. The girl had pretty magenta colored eyes that he wasn't sure if those were contacts or her real eyes. The girl wore a purple off-the-shoulder sweater over a violet zip-up crop top with dark purple jeans and dark grey boots with purple along the front. He noticed there was a necklace with a rubber ring hanging from her neck matching the one he found Polaris with when they first met. After what he'd been told, he guessed the ring was a stimming toy to help Polaris with her stimming. He subconsciously reached out to stroke her cheek,seeing the girl jump before leaning into his touch with a soft smile. They both blinked,seeing the other was back to their normal demon appearance. To Polaris, while others might not have found Husk's human parallel self attractive, she found the man to be very handsome and good looking. She began to wonder if they had met while they were still alive, would they have gotten along and been friends or perhaps something more like they do here in hell?

Maybe not... But it didn't hurt to imagine such a nice vision. Husk had gotten stuck in his thoughts again and imagined a world where he and Polaris were both still alive and they had crossed paths. He would react brashly before being awestruck at her beauty,apologizing for being so rude and the two would strike off a conversation,getting to know the other while walking side by side.

Wouldn't it be nice to have someone to love and hold in your arms?

[socialjusticeartshare]

In Their Own Words, Migrant Children Describe Horrific Conditions At Border Patrol Facilities

Kids told lawyers they’re sick, cold, wake up hungry in the middle of the night, sleep on cement floors, and take care of babies separated from their families.

A 16-year-old mother sleeps with her baby on a cement floor. A 12-year-old wakes up in the middle of the night from hunger. A 5-year-old is sick and has no socks. An 11-year-old cries in a cell, and is only let outside for a few minutes each day. 

These are some of the stories collected by a group of attorneys who interviewed more than 60 minors at U.S. Border Patrol facilities in El Paso and the Rio Grande Valley sector over the past few weeks. They provide a horrifying portrait of life in detention, where toddlers and children sleep on concrete under bright lights and are not properly fed, allowed to bathe or brush their teeth. 

“The declarations paint a picture of wanton disregard for the safety and welfare of children in their care,” said Hope Frye, an immigration lawyer who spoke with migrant kids. “There is a complicity across Customs and Border Protection in the systematic persecution of children and the cruel and inhuman circumstances in which they are kept.”  

On Wednesday, the lawyers involved in the Flores settlement, an agreement that outlines child welfare standards in detention, filed a temporary restraining order in federal court. It would force the government to allow the facilities to be inspected by public health professionals and staffed by medical professionals. 

On Friday, a judge ruled that the government and Flores lawyers must address the conditions in mediation run by an independent monitor who is tasked with making sure the Trump administration complies with the settlement. 

The emergency order comes amid a national discussion about the horrific conditions in Border Patrol facilities, which some experts have recognized as concentration camps. The crisis has intensified as record numbers of children and families cross the border, and facilities have shut down temporarily or quarantined children because of flu outbreaks. 

Since December, five children have died in Border Patrol custody. 

A Customs and Border Protection official told HuffPost that “as a matter of policy, CBP does not comment on ongoing or pending litigation.”

While the Trump administration is focused on border security and detaining families for longer periods of time, kids told lawyers they felt desperate, sick and neglected in Border Patrol facilities. Here are some of their stories from the court filing, in their own words.

 “I have shoes but no socks.” ― A 5-year-old from Honduras

“The immigration agents separated me from my father right away. I was very frightened and scared. I cried. I have not seen my father again. 

I have been at this facility for several days. I have not been told how long I have to stay here. I am frightened, scared, and sad. 

I have had a cold and cough for several days. I have not seen a doctor and I have not been given any medicine. It is cold at night when we sleep. I have shoes but no socks.” 

“My baby and I slept directly on the cement.” ― A 16-year-old mother from El Salvador

“Two hours after we crossed, we met Border Patrol and they took us to a very cold house. They took away our baby’s diapers, baby formula, and all of our belongings. 

After that they took us to a place with a tent. Up until this point, our family was kept together, but here they took our daughter and me out of the cell and separated my fiancé from us. Our [one-year-old] baby was crying. We asked the guards why they were taking our family apart and they yelled at us.

After that we stayed in a room with 45 other children. There was no mat so my baby and I slept directly on the cement.

I have been in the U.S. for six days and I have never been offered a shower or been able to brush my teeth. There is no soap here and out clothes are dirty. They have never been washed. My daughter is sick and so am I.”  

Every night my sisters keep asking me, ‘When will our mommy come to get us?’ I don’t know what to tell them.12-year-old from Ecuador

“I’m hungry all the time.” ― A 12-year-old from Guatemala 

“The guards were mean and scary. They yelled at us. One day the guards wanted to know if anyone had snuck food in the cell. They found one kid who was about 15 or 16 years old who had a burrito, pudding, and juice. The officials handcuffed his wrists.

I’m so hungry that I’ve woken up in the middle of the night with hunger. I’m too scared to ask the officials here for any more food, even though there is not enough food here for me. In the morning we get oatmeal, pudding, and juice. In the afternoon we get soup, a cookie, and juice. For dinner we get a burrito, pudding and juice. 

I saw a child ask for more food once and the guard told him ‘No, you’ve had your ration.’ Sometimes the younger kids get an extra chocolate pudding. I need more food too.”

“The officials here are very bad to us.” ― A 12-year-old from Ecuador

“The officers took everything from us except our documents. They even took our shoelaces. There was a mother in our group traveling with a very young baby. The officers took her diapers, baby formula, and nearly everything else she had and threw it away.

The water here is horrible. It tastes like chlorine. We can use cups to drink the water. But the water tastes awful and I don’t like it at all. None of the kids here like the water.

The officials here are very bad to us. During the night when we’re trying to sleep they come in and wake us up, yelling and scaring us. Sometimes children rise up in the night and officials yell at them to lay back down. The guards who are yelling don’t speak much Spanish, so it’s hard to understand what they’re saying. My sisters and I are very scared when they yell at us and other children.

Every night my sisters keep asking me, ‘When will our mommy come to get us?’ I don’t know what to tell them. It’s very hard for all of us to be here.”

“Who wants to take care of this little boy?” ― A 15-year-old from El Salvador

“A Border Patrol agent came in our room with a two-year-old boy and asked us, ‘Who wants to take care of this little boy?’ Another girl said she would take care of him, but she lost interest after a few hours so I started taking care of him yesterday. His bracelet says he is two years old.

I feed the 2-year-old boy, change his diaper, and play with him. He is sick. He has a cough and a runny nose and scabs on his lips. He was coughing last night so I asked to take him to see the doctor and they told me that the doctor would come to our room, but the doctor never came. The little boy that I am taking care of never speaks. He likes for me to hold him as much as possible. 

Since arriving here, I have never been outside and never taken a shower.” 

“My baby was naked with no blanket.” ― A 16-year-old mother from Honduras 

“We were put into a three sided cage with the fourth side open to the outside filled with loads of people. We had to wait for someone to stand up and quickly take their place on the ground.

My [8-month-old] baby was naked outside with no blanket for all four days we were there. We were freezing. My baby couldn’t sleep because the ground was cement with rocks and everytime she moved the sharp ground would scratch her. There were many pregnant women who had to sleep on rocks and I felt very badly for them.

My baby began vomiting and having diarrhea. I asked to see a doctor and they did not take us. I asked again the next day and the guard said ‘She doesn’t have the face of a sick baby. She doesn’t need to see a doctor.’

Since we arrived here my baby has lost a lot of weight. Her pants are very loose now. She is not sleeping because she is sick, and it is very loud. She cries a lot and is listless.” 

My [8-month-old] baby was naked outside with no blanket for all four days we were there. We were freezing.16-year-old mother from Honduras

“We cry a lot.” ― 11-year-old from El Salvador

“We are being held in a cold cell. We sleep on the floor on mats with blankets. I have only been permitted to take a shower twice in the almost two weeks we’ve been here. We’ve been allowed to brush our teeth once. 

About three days ago I got a fever. They moved me alone to a flu cell. There is no one to take care of you there. They just give you pills twice a day. I also am having an allergic reaction all over my skin. My skin is itchy and red and my nose is stuffed up. Two times they gave me a pill for it but not anymore. 

They let us out of our cell twice a day for a few minutes but other than that we just sit there. We cry a lot and the other kids in the cell also cry. It’s so ugly to be locked up all the time.” 

“None of the adults take care of us.” ― A 15-year-old who didn’t specify their country of origin

“I started taking care of a [little girl] in the Ice Box after they separated her from her father. I did not know either of them before that. She was very upset. The workers did nothing to try to comfort her. I tried to comfort her and she has been with me ever since.

She sleeps on a mat with me on the concrete floor. We spend all day every day in that room. There are no activities, only crying. We eat in the same area. We can only go outside to go to the bathroom. We don’t have any opportunities to go outside to do activities or anything. There is nothing to do. None of the adults take care of us so we try to take care of each other.”

Article Source

[outtacommission]

everybody, please believe I’m fine

hello i have the soren sickfic!!!!!! (no pairings, just sibling h/c)

Ao3

If there was going to be a day for this to happen, it would happen to be this day. Soren wakes up to a dark, cloudy sky, cold rain pattering against the window, and a splitting headache. He doesn’t realize how bad it is until he sits up in bed only to have a bolt of pain spear through his skull. He drops his head into his hands with a hiss and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes. It takes too long for the throb to lessen enough to look up again, and when he does, it becomes apparent that the headache isn’t the only discomfort plaguing him at the moment. Pressure is already building in his sinuses, and his throat is itchy and sore when he swallows.

Soren freezes. Is he… Is he sick? He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this way.

He groans in frustration and rakes a hand through sleep-matted hair. Is this because I didn’t wash my hands with soap before lunch a few days ago…? Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of getting back at him for laughing at Claudia that one time when she fudged a spell and accidentally gave herself a rash.

Either way, a cold can’t get in the way of his responsibilities. He’s a strong, tough guy. In all honesty he thought he was beyond getting sick at all. The last time he was ill was…probably as a child. There was one instance in his early teen years when he had an allergic reaction to some weird edible plant he ate on a dare, but he doesn’t really count that.

It’s weird that he’s suddenly experiencing these symptoms now, when his body is in such excellent condition. Guess it can’t be helped. The day has to go on, and he can’t spend it in bed.

He skips breakfast. Out of all the days to do so, this is probably the worst one, but he can’t really seem to work up an appetite. In fact, the thought of porridge or pastries makes him a little nauseous. That’s also unusual, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’ll make up for it with a large lunch—surely he’ll be feeling better by then.

The castle seems draftier than normal and his armor sits heavy on his shoulders when he puts it on. His muscles ache as he reaches up to secure his pauldron. He willfully ignores it.

Claudia catches up to him in the corridor on his way out to meet with the rest of his troop. “Mornin,’ Sor-bear!” she says loudly, running up to his side. “I didn’t see you at breakfast!”

Soren tries not to wince when the volume of her voice causes another spike of pain in his head. “Uh, yeah. I didn’t really feel like breakfast today, so.”

“You…didn’t feel like breakfast? That’s weird.” She reaches up and pokes his cheek gently. “You feel like breakfast to me!”

He only laughs softly in reply.

Claudia frowns. “You okay, Sor-bear? You seem…quiet.”

“Ah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He smiles, internally grimacing at how utterly unconvincing he sounds. “Just a little tired. Didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

His sister purses her lips and places a hand on his shoulder. “Then take it easy today, okay? You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Including Dad.”

Soren starts a little at that. He and Claudia have always been close—closer than most siblings, he thinks—and sometimes it seems like she can read his mind. Truthfully, he’s not entirely convinced that she can’t, since magic doesn’t make much sense to him. It can be a little unnerving. And Claudia is terrifyingly smart and perceptive when she wants to be.

And, well, maybe it’s a little bit true that he carries himself like he’s got something to prove. But when you’re the youngest member of the king’s army, ever, and the son of the High Mage, it’s hard not to feel pressured. Eyes are on him all the time, and no matter how skilled he is with a blade, he can’t help but wonder if people look down on him for not being talented with magic. And by people, he specifically means his father. Not that Viren has ever given him much reason to think he’s disappointed in his lack of magical ability, but when Soren watches him and Claudia together, he can’t stop the idea from passing through his mind.

He’s never admitted that before. It’s just a nagging little thought that he usually stuffs deep, deep down under bravado and confidence, and that works pretty well.

Damn Claudia for bringing that up now. Damn her for noticing it in the first place. Soren is not insecure. That’s just not a thing. And he certainly doesn’t think this deeply about things. Feelings and emotions and worrying about not meeting expectations are not a part of who he is.

“I’m not—I don’t—” Damn it. He stutters to a stop as his face screws up, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. Forcefully. The ache behind his face flares and he groans.

“Bless you!” Claudia says, surprised.

Shit. Soren sniffles wetly, dragging the back of his hand under his nose. “Thanks.”

His sister comes to stand in front of him and crosses her arms. “I’m serious, Soren. Don’t push yourself today.”

With one last sniff, he straightens up and puts on his best smirk. “I’m fine, Claudia. I’m not gonna keel over or anything.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, but then cracks a smile and shakes her head. “Okay, well, I’ll be around. If you happen to need anything.”

He smiles back and nods before turning and continuing on his way.

—

Training is… Well, it goes a lot worse than he had anticipated. The floodgates open ten minutes in and he's instantly soaked through, and training in wet gear is miserable enough on its own. But on top of that, his armor is so heavy and each swing of his sword takes herculean effort. He doesn’t understand. He’s never had this much trouble. Armor isn’t light, exactly, but it’s never weighed him down like this, even while wet. He’s never struggled so much to get his footwork right. His movements are sluggish and clumsy and it takes far more concentration than it ever should merely to keep his balance while his sparring partner deals offensive blows. And despite the constant movement, he's freezing. Courtesy of the rain.

It’s when he’s finally knocked on his ass that he admits to needing a break. He stows the wooden training sword and makes his way to the water pump around the corner of the courtyard, where he takes a moment to press his forearm to the wall and rest his head on it. His body is so weak and drained of energy. He definitely shouldn’t have skipped breakfast, but even now the thought of eating makes him feel ill.

He growls in frustration. This is so inconvenient.

A cough suddenly bursts from his throat, forceful and dry. He’s been having the urge to cough since he got his heart-rate up, but hasn’t allowed himself more than a quick clearing of his throat until now. Now, the cough completely takes over and his lungs heave as he hacks, feeling how much the illness is settling into his throat and chest and head.

Why can’t the day just be over already?

No sooner had the thought entered his head than a distant clock chimes twelve, and he groans again as the coughing tapers off. Lunchtime. And then he’s supposed to have swordplay training with the step-prince. He usually enjoys being Callum’s instructor, even if the kid is no good with a blade, but today just thinking about training is exhausting.

That, and he still isn’t hungry. Either he forces himself to eat and potentially vomits from it, or he continues on with an empty stomach and drains what little energy he has left and pray that he can keep pulling strength from somewhere.

Neither option sounds good.

Technically he could always admit to not feeling well and take the rest of the day off, but that’s not going to happen.

He pushes himself upright and takes off for the training ground again. But after a few steps, the blood suddenly drains from his head and his legs lose strength completely. He stumbles to the wall again, feels his shoulder slam against it as his vision starts spinning and morphing into bright shapes and a rushing sound fills his ears. For a few moments, he’s completely cut off from the world and his own body as he can’t see or hear, and can only feel a dull tingling, trembling sensation.

When he finally comes back to himself, he’s lying slumped on his side in the grass not five feet from the water pump. His hands are shaking, he’s covered in cold sweat and rain, and his head is absolutely pounding.

What…just happened…?

Fear starts burrowing into his consciousness as he comes to the realization that he’d just passed out.

Oh, not good, not good, not good, not good.

He’s got to get up before someone sees him like this.

His first attempt fails miserably. As soon as he sits up and tries to get to his feet, his muscles scream in protest and dizziness overwhelms him, knocking him right back down. He pants roughly, the air making his throat ache. He’s weak as a newborn foal, and probably looks about as graceful as one. Oh, this is so bad. What if he can’t get up? What if he has to call for someone to help?

No, he can’t. He’s stronger than this. He’s got this. It’s just a stupid cold.

He removes his pauldron, gorget, and breastplate, and it’s a little easier to breathe. He leans his head against the stone wall and focuses on drawing oxygen into his lungs. This is because he skipped breakfast for sure. He really should try to eat something for lunch, even if it’s just a piece of bread. And maybe he would, if he felt steady enough to stand.

After a while, his hands stop shaking quite so badly and the dizziness recedes, leaving just the terrible headache and utter exhaustion in its wake. Soren takes a deep breath, begs his body to cooperate, and slowly climbs to his feet. Thankfully, this time, his legs are solid enough to hold him and he doesn’t get knocked back down by vertigo. Good enough. He coughs again into his elbow and makes his way back out to the training ground.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle now, hardly enough to notice, but everything—including Soren’s hair and clothes—is still wet and cold. He shivers.

Surprisingly, Callum is already there on a bench with his head bent over his sketchbook. He looks up when Soren approaches.

“Hey,” he greets. “I was wondering where you were.”

Soren’s brow furrows. “Why? Training’s not ’til one.”

“Uh, it is one.” Callum tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. “Where’s the rest of your armor?”

It’s…been an entire hour? There’s no way. He couldn’t have been sitting by the water pump for a whole hour, and he hadn’t heard the clock chime. He’s not…

“Hellooo? Soren?”

Callum’s waving a hand in front of his face.

Jeez, he’s out of it. If he can’t get his head on straight maybe he really shouldn’t be swinging a sword around, even if it’s a wooden one. “Sorry. What was the question?”

Callum frowns at him, confused and maybe a little concerned. “Are you alright?”

Soren blinks. It’s getting a little hard to breathe again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“Because you’re missing half of your armor.” Callum’s shrewd green eyes linger on his face for a brief moment. “And you look really pale.”

Panic rises in Soren’s breast. He totally forgot about his discarded armor. His chest heaves. “I was just—sparring. That’s what…what a good workout’ll do for you. You should try it sometime.” He stretches his arms out in front of him and bends sideways, ignoring the persistent ache in his muscles and praying the kid will just take the explanation.

Of course, he does not. Callum puts his sketchbook aside and stands. He’s decently shorter than Soren, but something about being sized up makes Soren nervous and he unconsciously backs up a little. “Are you…sure? You really don’t look too good, Soren.” Something lights up in the prince’s eyes and he rubs the back of his head. “You know, you shouldn’t train with me if you’re not up to it. I don’t mind missing a day—”

“No, no, no.” It’s no secret that Callum doesn’t like sword-fighting, or any type of fighting, but Soren’s taken that as more of a personal challenge. He was entrusted with teaching the step-prince how to fight, and it’ll reflect badly on him if Callum is unable to at least defend himself in battle. “Nice try, but we’re not skipping training.”

“But you—”

“You should be focused on yourself.” He goes to retrieve the sparring swords and tosses one to the prince (which is dropped and clatters on the cobblestone). Soren rolls his eyes and tries to convince himself he’s feeling alright. He’s not—he still feels worryingly out of breath, his nose is running, he needs to cough, his body is almost unbearably heavy and every inch is in pain. Maybe he’ll cut their training short today, but he can’t allow either one of them to just skip it.

They work on offense. He shows Callum the proper footwork and techniques and they run through them together over and over again. Soren wonders if the prince can tell how sluggish and uncoordinated he’s feeling. It’s only gotten worse since that morning. But if Callum does notice anything, he keeps his mouth shut.

He’s demonstrating another technique for the fourth time when he feels it again. An uncomfortable chill creeps up his neck and down his arms, causing him to break into a cold sweat, and his head starts getting light. No, no, no! This isn’t happening again. It can’t. He is not about to faint right in front of Callum. He’ll…he’ll be alright if he just ignores it. If he keeps moving and powers through, it’ll go away. He thinks.

He pulls up out of his thrust and turns to the young boy, panting. “Okay, now…now you try it.”

Callum looks unsure, but he makes a pathetic attempt. As if anticipating the scolding Soren would give him for messing up again, he grimaces and sighs. “I just don’t really get how the steps work. Like, I could never remember where to put my feet if I was actually fighting someone, you know?”

Soren’s breath comes in ragged pants. No matter how much he wills it away, black spots are clouding up his vision and the rushing sound is coming back. He’s gotta do…something.

“Sorry if it doesn’t make sense to me that when you’re in battle you’d basically just start dancing with the other person, but I really don’t get why—uh. Soren?”

He’s aware, on some level, that he’s just staring into space. At some point he’d put his weight on his sword, leaning on it like a crutch, and the fact that he doesn’t remember doing so is kind of alarming. He needs to answer Callum, but he has no idea what the kid had been talking about and he’s far too preoccupied with focusing on not falling over.

“Soren?” Callum appears in front of him, big eyes wide with worry. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

A little bit of clarity comes back to him. “I’m—I’m okay.” He puts a hand on Callum’s shoulder in what’s supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but when he tries taking a step he ends up putting most of his weight on the prince’s small frame.

“Whoa—Soren—!”

His strength leaves him and suddenly he’s on his knees with his face buried in Callum’s tunic. He reaches up a shaking hand and grips his jacket. Tries to tell him that he’s fine, he just needs a minute, but soft gasps are all that come out of his mouth before he’s coughing violently.  

And then, somehow, he’s on the ground again. Callum is hovering over him and shouting something that he can’t make out.

He feels absolutely terrible. Easily the worst he’s ever felt in his entire life. As soon as he’s down, all interest in putting up a front and powering through his illness vanishes without a trace. All he wants is his bed. And his mother.

Things go dark and hazy for an indeterminable amount of time. The next thing he’s aware of is a cool hand on his face and voices above him. Something is pressed to his lips and then there’s liquid trickling into his mouth. It’s sweet, and he can’t help but sputter and cough when it makes its way past his tongue.

“Come on, Sor, you need to drink it.”

That voice has him prying his eyes open. “C…Claudia?” It’s still hard to see as his head hasn’t stopped spinning, but her long, dark hair is unmistakable.

“Yeah, I’m here.” He thinks she smiles a little. “You’re alright. Think you scared the daylights out of Callum, though.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a pathetic groan.

“Try to drink some of this, okay?”

More liquid is poured into his mouth, and now that his body actually recognizes what it needs to be doing, he manages to swallow it.

“Good, Sor.”

In the back of his mind, he’s aware that he’s still on the ground in the courtyard, undeniably making a huge scene with his sister there holding up his head and helping him drink. He’s never going to live this one down. At the moment, though, he can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed, even if he would like to get in bed as soon as possible.

When Claudia lowers the vial, he coughs again. “Wh—what happ’ned?”

His vision is slowly clearing, and he can see a look of sheer worry come over his sister’s face. She looks at the prince, who’s still hovering, but over her shoulder now. “Callum?”

“I don’t know, he just…passed out. He was really pale when he showed up. I knew he shouldn’t have been training and I told him that but he didn’t listen.”

Claudia looks back down at Soren and sighs. “You’re such an idiot. I told you not to push yourself too hard.” She presses a palm to his forehead. “You’re running a fever, Sor-bear. Ready to go to bed now?”

He can’t do much more than moan miserably in agreement. What an awful day this has turned out to be.

“Alright. Callum, help me get him up.”

And it isn’t over yet, he soon learns, as they help him get upright and walking. The lightheadedness comes back almost instantly and his body sags, like there are weights tied around his limbs and torso. He gasps at the pain that spears through his head.

“He’s heavy,” Callum groans.

Soren almost feels bad for the two of them. He’s not much more than dead weight, hardly able to lift his legs and shivering all the while. When the cough comes back, he tries to lower his head out of courtesy. His throat is killing him.

They make their way through the castle corridors slowly. Claudia murmurs soft encouragements to him the whole time, even when he tells her he needs to stop and rest (which is more often than he wants to admit. He blames the weakness on the apparent fever). At the edges of his consciousness, he is aware of the servants and guards who stop to ask if he’s alright, and it’s absolutely humiliating to have his fellow guardsmen see him in such a state. He wishes he could just sink into the floor.

When they’re almost back to his chambers, a new voice pipes up down the hall. “Callum! There you are. I was looking for… Uh, what’re you doing?”

Soren likes Prince Ezran, even if he doesn’t always understand the kid. He’s sweet and curious and more clever than a kid his age should be. He can’t say that’s a trait he appreciates right at the moment, though.

“Getting Soren back to his room,” Callum replies.

Quick little footsteps echo on the walls as Ezran comes closer. “Eugh. What’s the matter with him? He looks like he’s about to puke.”

“He’s not feeling well. Hey, would you mind getting the door?”

The hinges creak when Ezran pushes it open, and the relief Soren feels at the sight of his own bed is absolutely immense. His body turns to jelly as soon as he’s able to sink onto it. His head misses the pillow, but that doesn’t matter. He closes his eyes and lets out a soft sigh.

“I sent for the court physician,” Claudia says as she begins removing the rest of his armor. “And Dad.”

That has Soren picking his head up again. “Dad…?”

“Well, yeah.” She looks at him like she doesn’t understand why that would be a problem. She probably doesn’t. “He’ll want to know what’s going on.”

He groans, letting his head fall back forcefully. Of course, his father would find out what had happened eventually, but he’s definitely not thrilled about having the man here at his sickbed. If he even bothers to come, that is. Honestly Soren isn’t sure which he’d prefer.

When the armor is off, Claudia steps back with a satisfied breath and turns to the princes. “Okay, you two, you can run along. I can handle him from here.”

Callum gives a hesitant nod. “Um, sure. Feel better, Soren.”

“Get well soon!” Ezran says, lifting his little toad creature above his head and scurrying out after his brother.

He gives a little wave in thanks and instantly feels better as the door shuts behind them.

Claudia gives his shoulder a nudge. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”

He patiently allows her to help him change. She’s the only one he would ever let do it.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” she asks as she holds out his nightshirt for him to slip his arms into.

“Dunno.” He coughs gently as she pulls it over his head. “Thought I could make it through the day.”

She huffs, exasperated. “You know, for a knight, you don’t really have a good sense of self-preservation.” She pulls back the bedcovers and helps him get situated under them, fluffs up his pillows, and pulls the sheets up to his chest like their mother used to do when they were little. “I wish you’d just told me earlier that you were feeling sick. I’m your sister.”

“You would’ve stopped me from going to training.”

“Yeah, and maybe then this wouldn’t have happened!” She sits on the side of the bed and gently pushes a lock of sweaty hair back from his face. “You look really awful, Sor. You gotta take better care of yourself. You didn’t eat breakfast and you—” She stops abruptly, a horrified look coming over her face. “You haven’t eaten at all today, have you?”

He looks away, wincing in guilt.

“Oh, Soren—no wonder you collapsed! You’re such an idiot.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Well, it’s worth repeating.” She gives him a sad look that makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. “I heard Callum yelling for help out in the courtyard and when I saw you on the ground…”  

His cheeks burn with something more than fever. “I’m sorry, Claudia. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Her bright green eyes wander over his face for a moment before she sighs. “It’s alright, I’m just glad you’re okay. But, please, don’t do this again.”

He gives her a small smile. “Won’t. Promise.”

“Good.” She ruffles his hair and stands up. “The doctor will be here soon. I’m gonna get some food sent up in the meantime. Is there anything you want? Soup? Jelly tarts?”

“Soup is fine.” He still feels sick at the notion of eating anything, but he definitely doesn’t have a choice in the matter now. There haven’t been too many reasons over the years for Claudia to mother him like this, but she sure is good at it. And he wouldn’t admit it, but just having her looking after him has already made him feel ten times better, at least mentally and emotionally.

Once she’s spoken to a few servants, she returns to his bedside with a basin of water and a cloth. “So how are you feeling? Be honest.”

Soren shrugs. “Exhausted, mostly. My head and my throat hurt a lot. And I'm really cold.”

Claudia hums sympathetically. “That's the fever. You’re burning up.”

He grunts unhappily. “This is pathetic.”

“No, it's not. Everyone gets sick sometimes. Even you.” She wrings out the cloth and presses it to his forehead.

“Dad's not gonna be happy with me.”

She pauses for a brief moment, some emotion passing through her eyes that he can’t quite recognize, and then resumes wiping down his face. “He knows it’s not your fault.”

Even in his feverish state, he doesn’t miss the fact that didn’t disagree with him.

“Try not to worry about that,” Claudia says. “Just focus on resting and getting better.”

“Okay.” Hopefully he can fall asleep and just forget about this whole day. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll even wake up feeling well again.

Just as he closes his eyes, though, an itch flares up in his sinuses and his breathing hitches a few times before he sneezes. The force makes him groan.

“Bless you,” his sister says, gently wiping under his nose. “Poor thing.”

He gazes up at her through stinging eyes. “Thanks for taking care of me, Claudia.” He really doesn’t know what he’d do without her.

She smiles warmly. “You’re welcome, Sor-bear. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[thecomicsnexus]

The Amazing Spider-man #100-102. September-November, 1971. By Stan Lee, Roy Thomas, Gil Kane and Frank Giacoia.

Spider-Man is patrolling the streets of Manhattan looking for crime. Just when he thinks it is going to be a quiet night, he spots a bank robbery in progress. Spider-Man quickly stops the crooks. After wrapping them up in webbing, Spider-Man leaves them for the police. As he observes the arrest, he wonders what it will take for the people of New York to stop seeing him as a criminal. Swinging away, the wall-crawler comes to realize that being Spider-Man isn't as thrilling as it once was. Watching New Yorkers milling about in the streets he envies them for the normal lives that they live. Returning to his apartment, Peter decides that he wants to spend the rest of his life with Gwen Stacy. With the constant danger of being Spider-Man, he decides that in order for Peter Parker to have a life, Spider-Man must die. Peter then gets to work to create a serum that will strip him of his spider powers. Once complete, Peter drinks the potion and instantly begin getting dizzy. With his head pounding, Peter decides to go to bed and try to sleep it off.

Peter begins to dream, his first thoughts are of how he feels guilty for the death of his Uncle Ben. How, with his Aunt now a widow, he was forced to find a source of income to help support himself and his aunt. To this end, he ended up getting a job as a freelance photographer for the Daily Bugle, whose publisher -- J. Jonah Jameson -- often uses Peter's photos to discredit and demonize Spider-Man. He then recounts how his romance with Betty Brant was lost due to his alter-ego, and how she eventually became engaged to Ned Leeds. However, he now loves Gwen Stacy. He thinks about how Gwen blames Spider-Man for the death of her father.

In this dream, Spider-Man calls out into the sky, asking why he has to constantly live a life of tragedy. Suddenly, he hears a familiar voice calling out for help and begins traveling the rooftops to help. Suddenly, he is attacked by the Vulture who swoops in from the skies. Although the villain has the element of surprise, Spider-Man is easily able to incapacitate his longtime enemy. As the Vulture falls to the ground, Spider-Man snares him with a web line, but no sooner has he done this that he is whipped in the face by the Lizard's tail. Spider-Man struggles with the Lizard, wrapping webbing around the man-monster's mouth. He then flees his new attacker to try and find the person calling for help. He is then attacked by the Green Goblin, who Spider-Man knocks off his glider. Moments later, he is attacked by Doctor Octopus. Like with the other foes, Spider-Man knocks out Doctor Octopus and continues on his trek across the rooftops. He is then attacked by the Kingpin, but despite the villain's great strength, Spider-Man defeats him in hand-to-hand combat.

Spider-Man reaches the voice and is surprised to see the spirit of George Stacy floating in the air. George tells Spider-Man that he knows that Spider-Man is really Peter Parker. He implores Parker to keep his powers to continue fighting against the forces of evil. His final words is that Peter is Spider-Man, and therefore not entitled to a normal life, which is a blessing and a curse. Suddenly, Peter wakes and realizes that it was all a dream. He begins regretting drinking his formula without testing it first as his sides have become incredibly itchy. Removing his sweater, Peter is shocked to discover that he has grown four additional arms in his sleep.

Peter Parker has grown four extra arms. He realizes that it's because of the potion he created and took to remove his spider powers so that he could stop being Spider-Man and live a normal life and settle down with Gwen Stacy.

Peter, in his news state panics, thinking himself a freak, he snaps back to reality when his phone rings. When he answers the phone it turns out to be Gwen, she's inviting him to come see a movie. Peter makes up an excuse and snaps at her so that she'll leave him alone and forget him in case they don't see each other again. Gwen is saddened by this but gets the message and hangs up. Peter tries to envision the good that could come of his new arms but that quickly turns into what would happen if his Aunt May saw him in this state and what it'd do to her heart. Soon after his phone rings again, the second call ends up being Joe Robertson from the Daily Bugle offering him a late-night photo assignment. Peter rejects the offer, saying he's going to the country for a rest cure, which angers Jameson but worries Robertson. This leads Peter into a deeper depression thinking that he's now lost both the girl of his dreams and his job.

After that Peter gets an idea, he calls Dr. Curt Connors and reveals to him that it is Spider-Man and that he needs his help. Spider-Man asks Dr. Connors if he has a place to he can stay for a while Curt offers up his Southhampton home for Spider-Man's use telling Spider-Man that the key is under the mat and that if he needs it there is a fully-equipped lab is in the basement. Peter hangs up and starts to pack. Knowing he cant take a cab or train in his condition he decides to web-swing to Connors' home.

Peter arrives and the scene shifts to a boat a mile down shore where a meeting is being held between some scared sailors, the meeting is led by 'Whitey', who tells them that Captain Bloom is dead. Whitey blames the guy in the hold because they've had nothing but bad luck and missing sailors since they found him stranded in the ocean, they go confront the man in the hold, though he is barely awake, he manages to hold them off and escape, leaving the crew to think that he jumped overboard.

Night falls however and the crew go to sleep and the man returns to the ship, but now his skin is pale white and he resembles a vampire. The man thinks to himself that night is his time and he thirsts, he slaughters the crew and drains their blood by before dawn. When dawn returns, so does the man's rationalism and conscience, he is overwhelmed by guilt and leaps into the sea in an attempt at suicide. That attempt fails and he soon washes ashore, walking along the beach only to find a familiar looking Southampton beach house, he flies into a window on the upper floor and begins to sleep.

Spider-Man who is a few floors below him is becoming increasingly frustrated with his failed attempts at curing himself leading him to smash a test tube which wakes up Morbius. Morbius spies on Spidey and recognizes his costume but can't place it, he notices the six arms as well but in is thirst he cares not and hastily swoops down and attacks Spider-Man. Morbius smacks into Spider-Man but he rebounds quickly only for Morbius to jump towards him again gripping at Spider-Man's throat. Spider-Man sees the resemblance of a vampire at first but won't believe it initially writing him off as another kooky super villain. Spider-Man bats Morbius away but he quickly bounces back his fangs inches from Spider-Man's throat. This changes Spidey's mind and he calls Morbius what he initially refused to believe... a vampire. Morbius scoffs at this before pouncing on Spider-Man yet again and throwing him down from the second floor leaving Spidey in a dazed unconscious state which is perfect for Morbius to feed upon.

Right before Morbius is about to feast on Spidey is when Dr. Connors arrives, Connors dodges Morbius' attack but is panicked by his presence which leads the good doctor to transform into the monstrous Lizard. The two creatures argue about who will be the one to kill Spider-Man. Just as the two rush towards Spidey, he wakes up and sees them coming at him from both sides.

A six-armed Spider-Man is caught between the Lizard and Morbius, the living vampire. Both foes end up fighting for their right to destroy the wall-crawler. However, during the fight, the Lizard is knocked into an electrical panel, and Morbius manages to bite him, but Spider-Man fights him off before he can get away. To Spidey's surprise, something in Morbius's bite has caused the Lizard to partially revert back to Curt Connors. The effect is temporary, however, Connors maintains his mind but struggles to keep the Lizard from taking control. The two decide to work together to try to find a cure for themselves and deduce that something in Morbius's blood could possibly cure them.

Meanwhile, Morbius has retired, and as he sleeps he reflects on the events that caused this transformation: How he and his lover Martine Bancroft and an assistant were out on a yacht conducting an experiment to cure Morbius of a degenerative blood disease. The experiment backfired, turning Morbius into a living vampire. After killing his assistant, Morbius dives into the water not wishing to hurt Martine.

Awakening again, Morbius goes back out on the prowl seeking out fresh victims to feed on. As Spider-Man and Connors swing through the city looking for Morbius, Gwen Stacy sits at home worrying about what happened to Peter. When she calls his Aunt May, she becomes even more worried when May tells her she hasn't heard from Peter either. At the Daily Bugle, J. Jonah Jameson confides in Joe Robertson about the Bugle's financial problems.

While elsewhere in the city, Spider-Man and Connors find Morbius, and they battle him. During the fight, Connors manages to extract some of Morbius's blood and injects himself with it. Surprisingly, it causes him to change back to his human form. But before Spider-Man can take the rest of the sample, Morbius grabs it and flies off. Spider-Man hitches on for a ride with a web-line, shadowing Morbius all over the city. Morbius eventually flies smack into an overpass causing him to fall into the river below. Spider-Man manages to recover the blood sample before Morbius sinks to the bottom. Injecting himself with the cure as well causes Spider-Man's additional arms to disappear.

From Marvel Wikia

The anniversary issue is pretty much filler with a small framing story that is mostly the prologue for the following issues.

While the story about Peter becoming a monster is easy to relate, the solution to his problem is pretty much too convenient. They just happened to crossed paths with Morbius on Dr. Connors house. And he is the key to make Peter human again. That’s just lazy.

Again, Peter’s problems in the meantime were serious, but they were resolved with a deus ex machina.

Not having Romita inking also affects the art a bit (but it’s not so bad).

I give the arc a score of 8.50

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

DOTW 9 - Start

With Hanji and Moblit at work so much, Eren had noticed a few things. Moblit was almost always exhausted when he came home, while Hanji almost always had way too much energy. Hanji was horrible at cooking and cleaning, so when he was home, Moblit was the one who did all the work. It didn't sit right with Eren. He was sitting at their dining table eating their food. He used their water and power and slept in their spare bed... and he paid nothing for all it all. He didn't like it. He wasn't used to it... but with the cast on his ankle, he couldn't find a new job. Without a job, he couldn't pay for his share of everything. So he started helping around the house. Just small jobs at first. Like doing his own washing, or stacking and emptying the dishwasher. When neither of the pair said anything, he took it to mean he was doing the right thing. With the chores being done, Moblit had more time to rest, and more time to be with Hanji, and that made him proud. Every morning he'd wait until the house was empty to start. He'd vacuum and mop, before cleaning through the kitchen and tackling the washing. He even managed to get the curtains down and wash them, surprised to find they were actually white and not the coffee colour they'd been when they'd gone into the machine. Sure, it was hard as fuck to manage the stairs with a full basket of washing and annoying cast on his leg, but it was worth it. The house felt bigger and brighter, it smelt like lemons and oranges, instead of the empty void left from scent cancelling spray, and he most of all, it kept his mind busy. Almost daily he'd text Marco, his friend wanted to catch up, but even with all the work he was doing around the house, Eren didn't feel like he had the right to invite Marco over. He still felt at times he was being too pushy and clingy. His anxieties getting the better of him, especially when he didn't hear from Levi again after they went shopping. He also didn't want to get too attached to the place, because Zeke had promised he'd return... not that his heart was listening to his head. In the apartment, he couldn't play his music too loud, but if Moblit wasn't on split shifts, he could have it as loud as he wanted. No one was there to judge his awful singing. No neighbours were banging on the door because he was being too loud. He'd missed music so much. It kept the demon at bay, and kept the memories from suffocating him. So he kept going.

Waking up later than normal, he went about his morning routine in the bathroom, before getting dressed to face the day. A small amount of concealer hiding the black bags that marred his face. He'd had nightmares the night before, and how he hadn't woken Hanji and Moblit, he had no idea. Grabbing his crutches, he headed downstairs.

Moblit was cooking breakfast as his limped in, while Hanji was sitting at the dining table. It was rare for them both to be home in the morning, and his stupid anxieties rose their ugly head

"Good morning, Eren. Come take a seat"

He swallowed hard. His first instinct was to run. It didn't matter that Hanji was smiling, he was sure she was about to yell at him. Limping over to the solid jarrah dining table, he slid into the seat closest to Hanji. He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up and now they were getting rid of him...

"Eren, are you alright?"

Nodding quickly, he pushed a fake smile to his lips

"Just a little sleepy"

"Aren't we all? Anyway, Moblit and I wanted to have a little chat with you"

Here it came. She was going to yell... he'd messed up. He shouldn't have cleaned the house. He should have stayed in his room, where he couldn't make trouble

"Moblit and I have been talking..."

Cutting her off, the words fell out before he could stop them

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have cleaned without asking. You've got every right to be mad... I mean... it's your house and I'm stranger... I didn't mean to make trouble for you"

"Huh. What? No. We're not mad"

"Y-you're not mad?"

"Hell no. If you want to clean the house, go for it. No. That's not what we wanted to talk about"

"It's not?"

"Moblit, are you mad Eren's been cleaning our house?"

Moblit snorted

"Nope. It's never looked or smelt better, and it's been a huge help having another set of hands around here"

"You're not going to yell?"

Hanji placed her hand on his

"Nope. We actually wanted to know if you'd like to make it an actual job. Not like a real job, but more like for pocket money?"

"What? Why?"

"Because you're cleaning our house, silly"

"You're letting me stay here... I can't pay rent or anything... I don't need payment"

"Sweetie, we didn't take you in so you'd do stuff for us. And we thought you might feel a little bit more independent if you had some income coming in"

"But you guys are the ones paying for everything. It's not cheap living here, even in the suburbs and there's food, water, power, rates, gas... then you've both got cars on top of the house costs"

"Trust me. Between Moblit's job and mine, we're fine. And besides, we want you to feel like this is your home too"

"But it's not"

"You're practically family. Seriously. If you want to have people come over, that's fine"

"People?"

"Like Marco, or Levi"

"Levi doesn't like me, and Marco... I didn't want to invite him over without your permission"

"Marco is your friend. It must get pretty lonely here"

"It's alright..."

"Oh. Then maybe I shouldn't have invited him over?"

"You... invited him over?"

"Yep. He's coming to dinner, and so is Levi"

He wasn't prepared to see either of them...

"I thought we could make it a celebration"

"What are we celebrating?"

Coming over from the kitchen, Moblit placed a plate stacked with pancakes down in front of him, and another plate down in front of Hanji

"Hanji, what have I told you about starting at the beginning?"

"I was getting there"

"Oh, by all means, continue then"

"I'm trying to"

Moblit kissed Hanji's cheek fondly, returning to the kitchen to grab his own plate, while Eren stared down at his pancakes. He really wasn't used to having someone make him a breakfast like this

"You've got a scan booked at 11, if everything looks good, we can go ahead and take that cast off. I'm not making any promises, but the last scan looked really good"

His last scan had been almost right after his injection induced heat, and he couldn't even remember it. Hanji had apologised over and over for it all, and for how the doctor had treated him. She'd also put him on multivitamins designed for omegas, and wanted him to work on gaining weight. He'd always tried to keep his figure in check, so the thought of gaining weight didn't sit well with him. He'd rather be too thin. He wanted to get back into dancing once the cast came off, and most alphas preferred a thin omega. Zeke had preferred a thin omega... the idea that his brother wouldn't recognise him if he gained weight scared him more than he'd admit

"When I can start dancing again?"

"Not just yet. We'll need to work on building strength back up in your ankle. I know it's not what you want to hear, but rushing into dancing again could lead to further complications. You could do permanent damage and never be able to dance again"

"So..."

"So, we'll take it slow with rehab and walking. I know you have a yoga mat, gently yoga stretches are alright"

"I... don't know that much yoga. Most of the stuff I do is stretching"

"As long as you're not running around in 6-inch platforms, things should be ok"

Moblit took the seat across from him with a smile and a nod

"You should eat before they get even colder"

"Oh... right. I think I'm in shock"

Hanji choked on her mouthful of pancake. Draining half her mug of coffee, she sucked down a deep breath while still coughing

"Sorry! It's just sometimes you say the cutest things"

He wasn't trying to be cute

"It's fine. I was thinking you could help with tonight's menu?"

"Zeke taught me how to cook... I don't know much... but I can generally follow a recipe"

"You're doing better than Hanji. She tried to prepare this romantic dinner one time, but forgot she'd put the roast in the oven and ordered takeaway instead. We were woken in the middle of the night by the fire alarm"

"She... no way"

"It wasn't my fault. I came off my shift after spending three days at the hospital... I shouldn't have been adulting"

"After that, its became a ritual to check the oven every night"

"I can see why"

"Eren, you're supposed to be on my side"

"You shouldn't have been in the kitchen"

Hanji stared at him, failing to hide her smile

"Ok. Maybe not. But Moblit didn't marry me for my cooking prowess"

"No, I had to marry you because no one else would"

"That and I make stupidly happy"

"Yeah. You really do"

Struck with the unexpected prangs of jealousy, Eren didn't know how he was supposed to act. He didn't understand relationships. He only understood behaving and doing what he was told. Zeke would kiss and hug him, let him sit in his lap as he fed him, but he was his brother so none of that counted. Stabbing his fork into the tower of pancakes, he blocked Hanji and Moblit from his mind.

The trip to hospital was kind of over before it really set in. His anxieties gripping his mind and not letting go. Hanji tried to soothe him, only for it to all go over his head. He couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was the scan. He was sure they were going to tell him he'd have wear the cast for the rest of his life and that he'd never dance again. So when he was told his scans were good, and that he getting itchy piece of shit cast off... He wanted to scream with happiness. After weeks of confined itchy smelly torture, his ankle was free! He wasn't free from crutches just yet, but fuck it felt good to have the cast off. Ruffling his hair, Hanji was all smiles as they walked back to her car. His ankle was a bit stiff, but it was barely noticed

"How does it feel?"

"Amazing. I'm not going to miss it"

"Don't forget you need to take it slow"

"I know... I can't wait to wash my foot"

"Let's get you home then. We need to decide on tonight's menu"

"Wasn't Moblit doing that?"

"He's gone to get groceries, and we've got like a hundred cookbooks at home that we've never used. We can get as creative as we want"

"I want to take a bath first... if that's ok?"

"You don't need to ask. It's your home too, remember"

Home. He couldn't really think of it like that. Home was wherever Zeke was... but Zeke had told him to stay with Hanji and Moblit... so maybe it really was "home", just for now?

"Thank you"

*

The bath was magical. He'd scrubbed and scratched at his ankle until he was sure all itchy and flaky skin was gone. He had new scarring from the operation, the scars barely making a dent in comparison to his old ones. Running his fingers around the two parallel scars of his past, his whole body shook. No matter what happened, they'd always be there. He'd never be able to escape the tight feeling of the invisible hold they held on his chest. If he ever found an alpha he truly wished go to be intimate with, they'd run once they knew the story behind them. Allowing himself a few moments to compose himself again, he wiped at his face. He wasn't in that place anymore. The people who'd do this to him were gone. He had a new "home" here... and despite how loud and invasive Hanji was, she'd never do what they did to him. He couldn't help being wary around Moblit. The male alpha had done nothing wrong, he'd even gone out of his way to try and make him feel welcome, but Eren couldn't control his fears and anxieties. He couldn't help the sick feeling that sometimes formed in the base of his gut. Not that Moblit ever said anything about it. About the distance or the timid looks. The man took it in his stride, probably because Hanji would have told him he was damaged. The love the pair of them shared... he didn't understand. Not when he'd witnessed such violence between alphas... not when he'd witnessed what his father did to his mother... but maybe... maybe this was what he needed? A place where they really didn't care he was an omega?

[ravenvsfox]

Hello hi! I have a prompt if you're feeling up to it? There is so much of Andrew looking after sick!Neil but can we have it reversed? I think Andrew would low-key (highkey) love the focused attention from Neil (also,,, Neil not being sure how to look after sick people and turning to advice from the other foxes as discreetly as possible bc there's no way Andrew wants them knowing he's anything less than impenetrable)

(I did my best w this prompt from one POV, sorry it took so very absurdly long! lots of Andrew thoughts with a side of useless boy dialogue)

He wakes up bleary and dry-mouthed, his tongue catching on his hard palate like papers rustling together. Andrew squints into his pillow, pressing two fingers into the eyelid of one streaming eye. The sun is too dilute to touch him, and the breeze from the cracked window chills him so much that it hurts, muscles locked and shivering.

He knew he was getting sick when the hurt that lives inside him flared real, visible and disgusting. All this hacking, running, sweating makes him vulnerable, loud when he wants to be quiet. Neil had called him overdramatic. He’d dragged the covers to his side of the bed in reply, battered sleep’s door until it splintered.

Now he feels like he always felt in the heart-racing countdown to withdrawal, fighting through sweat and aches and cracking lips, cracking skin, cracking strength. Whiskey won’t help him here though. Nothing will help him here, after rowing through the confused, freezing night and only now washing up in foggy morning, fever lapping at him.

Something drips onto his hot forehead and his chest pumps hard, startled. His eyes flash open.

Neil is frowning, looming over him and holding a cold rag that’s a bit too wet. It’s clumsy, but it feels better when Neil arranges it on his sweaty brow. His hand stays on the compress, a sustaining pressure, like he’s healing with just his hands and his willpower. Water runs into his hair like tears.

“How are you?” Neil asks. His other hand walks from the bedspread to Andrew’s side, he can feel the fingertips becoming a full-palmed press. It’s the comfort of a person who always feels better when he’s touched hard and deliberately, alive in a way he can feel.

Andrew doesn’t reply, but he knows that his closed eyes and relaxed body mean something to Neil. He trusts him with his hot forehead and his bedside.

“You look bad,” Neil continues.

“I am not playing,” Andrew says hoarsely. “If that’s what you’re angling for so tactfully.”

Neil’s hands retreat, Andrew’s forehead folds under the rag where no one will see. “I’m here because you’re my— I’m not worried about our goalie, I’m worried about you.”

“You’re here because this is your room,” Andrew corrects.

“Fine,” Neil says, voice full of the opposite. “I’m going to practice, anyway, since that’s all I care about.”

Andrew feels him leave their bed, and he finds that the wet smell of his hair was keeping his headache at bay. Another drop of water rolls down his temple, and he scrubs the compress from his face so he can watch Neil leave, but he’s already gone.

It haunts his heart, for a while, the snapped olive branch, the hurt that put its fist in its mouth and left the room so Andrew wouldn’t see it properly.

He knows, deep in him, that he’s not being any different than usual, but he also knows what Neil might have expected, seeing him spread out in their bed with his eyes wet. He’s trying to fix Andrew’s surface like he never tries to fix what’s underneath.

Neil doesn’t have the vocabulary for sickness that isn’t terminal, though. He can’t fathom something between a bandaid and a prosthetic.

He drifts, for hours, so thirsty that he can feel it in his skin, so stuffed from throat to nose that he can only breathe dry and heavy through his mouth. He can hear the wheeze inside of him.

In foster care, they would make him sleep in the garage when he got sick. They didn’t want him to infect a house full of already difficult children. He remembers watching the shadows of feet moving in the light under the door, the way the cold only made him sicker and angrier, a yoga mat between his body and the concrete.

He blinks and his eyes are crusted together. He can taste salt. He thinks of Neil and the pain in his chest changes. He latches onto the feeling, like the garage door opening in the morning, letting him back into the warmth.

There’s water on the bedside table the next time his eyes open all the way, and he rolls, panting with the movement, putting his hand around the base of the glass, his muscles loose, feeling barely taped together.

He feels a hand on his spine, and then the glass is plucked from his grip. He slits his eyes against bright bright sunlit auburn, and gulps when Neil tips the glass against his chapped lips.

“This is bad,” Neil says urgently. “You’re too hot, I think we have to break the fever.”

“You will be sick,” Andrew warns, delirious. “You’re so close.”

“I’m close,” Neil confirms warmly. “And I got Dan to cancel practice tonight.”

“What?” Andrew says, uncomprehending.

“Exy. Not happening.”

“Are you also sick?”

Neil laughs quietly, and Andrew’s eased back onto the pillows, glass drained.

“Do you want me to be here?” Neil asks quietly. The back of his hand keeps brushing against the flushed skin of Andrew’s cheeks.

“I want you,” Andrew starts, swallowing and coughing around the caught, sharp feeling in his throat. “I want you to cancel more practice. All of it.”

“Funny,” Neil says flatly. “Anything else?”

Andrew screws his eyes closed and says nothing. He wants him to stay close. He feels so much like a cure, he’s burned so many things out of Andrew before.

“I don’t know how to help you,” Neil says honestly, rough with frustration. “Just tell me what’s hurting you.”

It’s a childish response to pain, wanting to see the physical source of it so it can be staunched and fought and squared away. His energy is frenetic, actively pursuing, waking Andrew up. The heat of Neil is different from the heat of his fever—jungle rain instead of drought.

Neil gets up to leave again, and Andrew catches him by the wrist. It’s the fastest he’s moved all day. “Stay.”

Neil stops moving immediately, save for the way his hand curls until they’re palm to palm.

“Yeah,” Neil says, and gets up into bed, drawing Andrew’s hand with him. He ends up half arched towards Neil, hand sweaty, t-shirt twisted around his chest. It’s uncomfortable. It’s better.

Sleep tries to put a bag over his head and lead him out of the room, but Neil’s presence is neutralizing, especially when he starts to talk.

“Practice was terrible, you didn’t miss much.”

“I didn’t expect to,” Andrew says stuffily. Neil pinches his pinky between two of his fingers.

“Your alternate sucks. He shouldn’t be allowed in goal if he’s going to desecrate it like that.”

He’s talking about the scrawny freshman goalkeeper with the attitude of a fourth year and the skill of a high schooler. Something about him fires Neil up in a way that Andrew finds off-colour amusing, on a good day.

“He didn’t save a single goal. It wasn’t even practice, it was public humiliation. Renee would’ve obliterated him, and her skill set is limited, next to you. But christ, Nicky could’ve done better. I was considering locking him in the change rooms but you know how fucking loud he is, and last time Wymack…”

Andrew’s mind wanders, alternately focusing on the slip of Neil’s fingers between his, the whir of the overhead fan, the way the tag on the duvet is irritating the bare skin of his stomach. His insides are an uneasy sea, and his face is raw from rubbing his running eyes and nose. Neil’s voice is so soft, even when he’s saying things that should leave scratches.

Andrew thinks, confused, that he’s never been taken care of before, except by an apologetic Nicky on his way to a shift at Eden’s Twilight, a bottle of stolen tylenol left at the foot of his bed. Cass— no. He’d been afraid to be the sort of foster kid who needed things, and so his weakness was folded up and swallowed. He pretended not to hurt for as long as he was with the Spears.

His withdrawal and rehabilitation had been his own problems, bloody things dragged through the foxes’ house. Everyone’s noses wrinkled, involuntary, at the ugly sight of his healing.

But Neil shared his coping mechanisms and grinned at his anger and provoked him into something, urged him into something—

Sometimes he feels like the monster, the shapeshifter, being coaxed back to humanity by the love interest, the waning moon. Neil makes him feel like his fangs are receding. Neil is a speech and a silver bullet.

For so many of the worst years of his life, everyone else waited for him to fall off the precarious side of a building, told him that it would get better, told him there was a safety net five stories down, even though he couldn’t see it. Neil launched the front of his body over the side, teeth gritted, muscles straining, and started hoisting him up by the hand.

His throat clogs with tiredness, itchy and thick. Neil’s free hand passes over his damp hair, his body heat bumping closer like a mouth ducking to kiss him, and Andrew is dropped, overwhelmed, into sleep.

______

“No, I don’t know. It’s not about him. No, Dan. Put Matt on the phone? Don’t tell him—no, I’m serious.”

Andrew’s face breaks watery sleep, but his ears are still foggy underneath the surface. Neil’s voice is low and distant, probably in the seat by their window.

“Hey,” Neil says quickly. “Do you still have the recipe for that soup you were making Dan last— no he’s fine. I just wanted to…” He makes a clucking noise, upset, and Andrew rolls over to watch him. He finds him staring distractedly out at the parking lot with his feet tucked underneath him, unlit cigarette between his fingers.

There’s a burble of a voice on the other end of the line, and Neil puts his head back. Andrew watches the whole long arc of his neck and feels a violent pull of affection in his gut, wishes he could do something about it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, Andrew frowns at the shift in Neil’s tone. “It’s scaring me. I know it’s not— he’s not that sick, or hurt, and no one’s responsible, so it’s…” he looks towards Andrew, whose eyes are still slitted against the lamplight.

“Exactly,” he breathes, looking back out at the cloud-frothed sky. “I can’t fight a virus for him. And I don’t know how, I don’t know what people do, like, am I supposed to be doing what he wants or what he needs because they’re not— I can’t solve this with cigarettes on the roof, and I can’t pour alcohol on it, but I want his eyes clear again. I don’t. I hate it when I touch him and he doesn’t react. I can’t… he’s too sick to see straight.” He’s getting upset. Andrew can hear his own heartbeat reacting, surging ahead.

“I know,” Neil says, frustrated. “But I don’t want to do nothing. I just--do you have that recipe or not?”

A moment, a hum, a scribble.

“Okay, thanks Matt. I’m not telling him that. Okay. Okay. Bye.”

He flips his phone shut and drops it on the carpet, putting both palms to his eyes and holding them there, cigarette still dangling. Andrew’s eyes close, but he hears it when Neil sighs and stands, moving carefully to the door. He can sense him pausing at the foot of the bed and watching Andrew for a moment, and then he says, “you’re awake.”

“Yes,” Andrew replies, not opening his eyes. “You were having a heart-to-heart two feet from my sickbed.” He can tell that Neil’s gnawing his lip. He can almost hear the skin tearing.

“Did it bother you?”

“You are constantly bothering me.”

“I mean—“

“I know what you mean. I do not care what you do or do not tell Boyd.”

“I think,” Neil starts, “that he was too surprised that you have a human response to viral infection to use it against you.” He sounds torn between annoyance and amusement, and Andrew cracks an eye at him.

“I don’t need soup,” he informs him, and Neil sags, walking heavily over to the bed and dropping down in front of it. It’s so dramatic that Andrew might have left the room, if he were mobile.

“What do you need?”

They look at each other, and the only sound in the room is from the galloping fan and their breathing.

“Get in bed,” Andrew says finally, trying halfheartedly to make it seem like it’s not an answer to his question.

Neil’s eyes go cotton-soft, grateful. He puts his face down on the blankets in front of him, and Andrew stares at the slip of a cowlick on the top of his head.

“Painkillers first,” he murmurs. “Aaron got you NyQuil, and there’s Vicks in the bathroom cupboard.”

Andrew lets him talk, and knows that he’s been searching for ways to fix this, asking their teammates and the internet. There’s a bow in Andrew’s chest, and Neil always seems to have a grip on both slippery loose ends. The knot of it keeps giving and giving and giving.

Neil stands again, hesitating. “Thanks for trusting me with this,” he says softly. He closes the door behind him, and it clicks into place like it’s embarrassed.

Andrew blinks. Gluey sickness peels back just enough for him to recognize that he’s enjoying himself somewhere through his gummy symptoms. Neil treats a nasty flu with the same attentive concern that he affords gunshot wounds, that he never seems to give his own pain.

He’s never taken care of someone, and Andrew’s never been taken care of, but it works, somehow, it makes sense. That garage door swings inward and the warmth wriggles back into Andrew’s fingers.

Neil comes back in with a tray full of over-the-counter medications spread out like a dessert sampler, and Andrew coughs, hard, over the unfamiliar twitch of laughter in his throat.

Neil sleeps through the time that practice usually falls, and Andrew holds him to his chest, too hot to sleep. Neil bought him strawberry lozenges designed for kids, and Andrew’s halfway through the pack, mouth buzzing. The sun melts, a slab of ice cream on the hot horizon.

“Hey, knock knock,” Nicky says suddenly from the doorway, and Andrew’s keenly aware of how debauched their room looks, the wrappers and kleenex and clothes and heat, Neil crushed to Andrew’s body. “I just wanted to see if you were okay, and I knew neither of you were offering any updates, so hey, I’m here. Are you okay?”

Andrew means to say ‘leave’ but what actually comes out is “yes”. The painkillers must be there, behind his teeth, loosening his tongue. Nicky beams. Neil hitches his leg higher over his hip. Andrew pinches his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, Nicky is gone, and so is the sun. But Neil’s there, shivering without a blanket, mouth wet at Andrew’s clavicle. He sighs into his hair, and the breath comes easy. His chest is clear.