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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

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Be With Me Instead

Sequel to Treat You Better

Warnings: non/dubcon sex, oral.

This is dark!Bucky Barnes and dark!Peter Parker explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader deals with the end of her relationship and the dissemblance of her life.

Note: I wrote a sequel to a one shot. Surprise, surprise. I hope y’all enjoy!

Let me know what you think!

To say your head hurt was an understatement. Your skull felt as if it would split in two. Your stomach was sour and your muscles ached. You smelled of sweat and something more definitive. A scent so carnal and strong it could not be mistaken.

You groaned and tenderly touched your temple as you laid on your side. There was heat behind you. It radiated beneath the covers and embraced you. You rubbed your head shakily as your dreams fizzled to nonsensical snapshots.

You hadn't been so hungover since your first year of uni. It kept you from more than two drinks on a night out since. Until last night. The memories a haze in your mind, blurred with your nocturnal fantasies.

You remembered Bucky, the bar, the first drink, the second, and the third, the shot of tequila. Then it all went static. You rolled flat onto your back and your arm rubbed against the source of warmth beside you. You looked over and gasped.

Bucky's bare chest rose and fell in the dim light. The morning sun was blotted out by the thick blinds. His metal arm was bent over the sheet and his dark hair was a mess of waves across the pillow. He was naked and so were you.

You sat up and struggled to untangle yourself from the covers. You fell onto the floor, your ass tender as it met the carpet. You remembered it then. All of it. The elevator, his arm around you, his lips on yours, calling his name as he--

The springs of the bed shifted and you looked up as he rolled over and leaned on his elbow to gaze down at you. He smirked, his eyes tired but sparkling. You stared back at him, mortified.

"What are you doing all the way down there?" He purred.

You shook your head and glanced around. You ignored him as you stood and groggily collected your clothes from the floor. Your legs were weak and your flesh buzzed. You could feel him still as visions of him fucking you replayed in your head.

"Hey, going so soon?" You looked over at him as you searched for your panties. Giving up, you pulled on your jeans and hooked your bra.

"B--Last night was...bad." You croaked and pulled your shirt over your head. "It shouldn't have happened."

You grabbed your jacket and purse. You paused and touched your stomach as it threatened to flip. He was unfazed as he pushed the blankets aside and stretched with a yawn.

You tucked your socks into your purse and forced your feet into your boots. You stumbled and he caught you as you struggled to stand straight.

"That's not what you said last night." He chided. "Sounded to me like you enjoyed yourself."

"I was drunk," You pulled away from him. "And Peter--" Your heart dropped as you recalled Bucky holding his phone over you. Looking into the dark lens as he gloated. "Tell me you didn't send it."

He smirked and you clasped your hand over your mouth. You were gonna spew. You fought to keep your stomach calm and backed away.

"How could you do this?" You gasped.

"You guys are over. What does it matter? So you had a little fun." He reached out to you and you evaded him.

"You tricked me." You sputtered. "I was drunk, upset, and you-you--"

"Don't act so innocent. You came to the bar with me, you had three drinks--"

"You said you'd drive me home and you just dragged me back here and...and--”

A knock, then more pounding, came at the door. You froze and your eyes widened.

"Open the fucking door!" Peter shouted from the other side. "You fucking asshole."

You stared at Bucky, silently pleading. Just wait for him to go, please. Bucky chuckled and brushed past you. You turned and grabbed his arm but he was too strong. You remembered the night before, how easily he had used your body. His metal hand around your throat.

"Please, don't. Bucky, I can't." You kept your voice low. "Just let him go."

He shrugged you off and you watched him stride to the door. He swung it open and Peter lunged at him in an instant. Bucky sidestepped and grabbed him by his scruff and tossed him to the floor.

Still naked, he stood calmly as Peter leapt back to his feet and spun around. He raised his fist but never struck as his eyes strayed to you. He dropped his hand and stepped back as if he had been hit. You winced and clutched your bag as your head swirled.

"I'm...sorry." You rasped and dashed past Bucky to the door.

You didn't look back as you fled down the hall. You crashed through the next door and down the stairs as the world rushed past you. You ran from your mistake frantically until you were on the street.

You swept past the pedestrians intent on their own destinations and to the grimy waste bin by the curb. You hugged the rim and retched into the depths as your entire body rebelled. You could rid yourself of the bile but you could not rid yourself of your guilt.

❤

You spent your Sunday in bed, hungover and heartbroken. What had you done? You were so naive. So stupid.

What else could Bucky have ever wanted from you but sex? You wondered however if it was more about Peter; about the odd vendetta Bucky seemed to have forged towards him in the last few weeks. To think Peter had the video, that he saw what you'd done was worse than the crime itself.

You cried, and slept, and tried to forget.

Monday came and your classes kept you busy but couldn't erase the blot on your soul. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. The days were barely discernible. Your mind and body functioned off of sheer routine, not a thought was spared beyond your self-pity.

You ignored your phone. Peter texted until you muted his notifications. A private number kept calling but you could guess who it was. You had no reason to ever go near the compound again and less to associate with its residents.

On Friday, you only had one class at noon. You were done just after two and eager to go back to your dorm and order pizza. Stew in your new solitary mourning; for your relationship, for your dignity, for all you had drunk away in one night.

Campus was chilly. Winter greeted the students with a blanket of snow and the approach of the holidays was darkened by the imminence of finals.

You walked along the winding path that led around the quad. The bushes were barren and prickly, the statues shrouded in hills of powder. You stopped to look up at the postmodern shapes arranged to seem as if they were floating. You tucked your hands in your pockets and shivered.

The snow crumpled behind you. As you waited for your fellow student to pass you were surprised when the footsteps stopped next to you. You frowned, confused, and glanced over.

Bucky's dark hair poked out from beneath the black beanie, he wore a thick jacket with fleece lining, and leather gloves. His eyes peered up at the statue as if he didn't even know you were there.

"What are you doing here?" You hissed.

"Well, you won't answer my calls," He spoke without looking over at you. "You do know I'm trained to find people. You can't just run away."

"Can't you take a hint?" You scowled.

"Can't you?" He countered. "Come on, we both enjoyed ourselves, didn't we?"

You looked down and dragged your foot through the snow. You felt a swirl in your stomach. The same you felt whenever you thought of that night. He was right but you weren't going to admit it.

"It doesn't matter." You insisted. "Look, I have exams. I have a degree to focus on. Let's just leave whatever that was as it is. Just sex. Regrettable sex."

He scoffed and nodded. You turned to watch him purse his lips as he thought.

"I don't wanna leave it." He said. "And I won't."

"Just leave me alone," You grumbled and spun back down the path.

You weren't surprised when he followed. You knew it wouldn't be that easy. He had come all the way here, incessantly called you for days, not to mention the scheme that created this mess.

"That's not how this works." He kept stride with you. "You don't just walk away from me."

"Please, just stop," You begged as you walked faster. "I can't do this."

"Do what? You were happy enough to hang around when Peter was standing you up. And now you're just ditching me because spider-boy still won't grow up." He grabbed your arm and almost pulled you off your feet as he made you stop. "I told you things I never told anyone else. This isn't just sex to me."

"You're insane. I was so fucking drunk, you could have been Peter and I wouldn't have known." You tried to wriggle free of his grasp.

"You knew it was me. You wanted it. You wanted me. You still want me," He squeezed your arm and leaned in. "I'm everything Peter isn't and that's exactly what you need."

"Let me go," You breathed. "Please. Just let me go."

"Never." He sneered.

"I'll scream." You looked around. Students shuffled by on their way to and from class. "I will."

He grinned and shook his head. He let go and stood straight. His blue eyes narrowed and he looked down at you. Knowing, confident, dangerous.

"Fine." He squared his shoulders. "Next time, you can scream all you want."

Your eyes rounded and your lips parted in shock. What did that mean? You knew it wasn't good.

He gave a two finger salute, "see ya around," he intoned as he stepped past you.

You turned and watched him stroll off down the path, seemingly invisible amidst the groups of overtired students and self-involved professors. You glanced around and felt your own insignificance. Your vulnerability.

Even if you had screamed, would anyone care?

❤

You shivered as you reached your dorm. You weren’t so sure it was the cold as your run-in with Bucky replayed over and over in your head.

When you entered the dorm, the three girls you shared it with were all closed up in their rooms. It was unusual not to find them giggling in the common room together. They were likely holed up prepping for finals.

You kicked your boots off and left them on the mat. Your bedroom was unlocked. You must’ve forgotten to lock it before class. Oh well, you were too distracted to care.

You set your bag on your desk as the door closed behind you and turned with a yelp as a small figure greeted you from the corner.

“Jesus, Peter, how did...what are you doing here?” You touched your chest and pushed yourself against the desk.

He glared at you as he leaned against the wall with arms crossed. “I’ve been texting you.”

“Why? What is there left for us to talk about?” You flinched as he pushed himself away from the wall.

“There’s a lot to talk about,” He sneered as he got closer. “Like you fucking him the same night we broke up. That’d be a start.”

“What can I say, Peter? It happened.” You retorted.

“And you just had to let him record it?” His lips slanted in detest. “What? Is that what I did wrong? I didn’t treat you like a slut?”

“Don’t,” You warned him. “I didn’t know...I was drunk. Very drunk.”

“And that’s an excuse?”

“We’re over. What does it matter?” You snapped.

“Yeah, but usually when a relationship ends, you don’t just jump on the next guy you see.” He spat. “And then you ignore me? For a whole week? Two years. Did it mean nothing to you?”

“It meant everything to me, Peter,” You countered. “But we were never going to last and it has nothing to do with Bucky.”

“So…” He was so close you could feel his breath. “You fucking him now?”

“No, I...it’s not your concern anymore,” You swallowed as he backed you up to the wall. “You should go.”

“I saw you talking to him,” He said evenly. “Out on campus. You looked pretty cozy.”

“Just go--”

“Not as cozy…” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He swiped over his screen and smiled as he held it up. “As this.”

Your veins turned to ice as you watched the video. Bucky behind you, his hand at your throat, your flesh clapped as you called his name. Your voice was wild, it barely sounded like you. But it was you.

“So is that what you want? To hurt me?” You blinked away the tears. “Because you did that long before now.”

“What I want is for you to get on the bed.” He spoke quietly but his words cut through you.

“Go, Peter. We’re over.” You tried to push him away and he caught your arm and twisted. You whined as your wrist threatened to snap.

“If I have to tell you again, I can hit send. We’ll see what everyone else thinks of your short film. Hell, maybe you’d do better in a film degree.” He taunted and waved his phone in his other hand. “It’s a big campus but these things travel fast.”

You lowered your brow. The air was knocked out of you. You’d always known him as the sweet, compassionate boy you’d met that first day on campus. You knew he had changed, that’s why you’d broke it off, but you didn’t know he was like this.

“Please don’t do this,” You pleaded. “Peter, I’m sorry.”

“Get on the fucking bed now,” He drew the words out and closed his eyes as he inhaled. “Naked.” He let go of your wrist. “We’ll see who the little boy is.”

His eyes opened and you winced at their intensity. You gulped and nodded. You tried to speak but your voice was caught in your tight throat. You carefully stepped past him. You peeked over at the door. You stopped then bolted to the door.

Before you could grab the handle, it was covered it corded webs that sealed it to the frame. Peter sighed. “Don’t make me use them on you, too. Bed. Now.”

You turned and gave him one last look. Of disgust and desperation. He didn’t waver.

“And if I scream?”

“I can shut you up,” His fingers bent slightly as he lifted his hand. “Do I need to?”

You looked to your feet and unzipped your jacket. Your hands were shaking. You dropped your jacket on the floor and then your sweater. Your loose tee and jeans crumpled a top the pile with your socks trapped in the denim.

You stood in your panties and bra and peeked over at Peter. He shrugged and you knew he wasn’t going to stop.

You undid your bra and added it to the mess on the floor. You rolled your panties down and stepped up to your single bed. You climbed up and drew our knees to your chest to cover yourself. You couldn’t look at Peter again. You stared at the polka dot comforter beneath you and waited.

You listened to his footsteps, him fiddling with something unseen, the rustle of his clothing. You sensed him as he neared the bed.

“Come here.” He pointed to the mattress in front of him.

You turned and shoved your legs over the edge as you sat there. You ignored his naked figure and kept your eyes down. He grabbed the back of your head and pressed his cock to your lips.

You closed your eyes and parted your lips. He slipped inside and you gagged as he forced himself down your throat. Your eyes watered and you struggled to breath around him. He didn’t wait for you. He thrust in and out of your mouth. Each was hard, decisive, as if he meant to hurt you.

Again. His hand moved and his other came up to hold your head in a vice. He fucked your face as you slapped his thigh helplessly. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, didn’t even seem to notice as you fought him.

Finally he pulled out. Spit coated your lips as he let you go and you fell back, out of breath and coughing. You were dizzy from the sudden and rough assault. Stunned by Peter’s behaviour. Senseless.

“Turn over.” He barked and you looked down at him. You just stared at him.

He grabbed your arm and pulled you up. He spun you around and pushed you against the bed until you lifted your knees up on the mattress. He grabbed your neck and shoved you down until your head was on the mattress. He slapped your ass and you exclaimed.

“Shut up,” He snarled and you bit your lip.

His cock prodded you as he felt around for your entrance. He pushed into you slowly at first and then slammed into you all at once. You whimpered and he thrust again, harder. He bent over you and grabbed your arms. He bent them behind you and jerked his hips again. Each time he rocked into you, it was sharp and jolted your entire body.

He hissed as he was driven by his own ferocity. Everytime you made a sound, he sped up. Your body shook as he rutted into you over and over. You were embarrassed as your unexpected arousal eased the glide of his cock.

You shuddered and held your breath but you couldn’t resist it. The burning in your core, the flare that sparked and broke the surface. You gritted your teeth as you turned your face down muffled your orgasm in the duvet.

He growled. Not groaned, growled. You’d never heard him like this. Sure, your relationship had been anything but abstinent but something in him had come unhinged. He wasn’t holding anything back. Every ounce of hunger, anger, frustration, everything, was spoken through his touch.

He slowed suddenly. He kept his strokes long and even. He was pacing himself. He sped up again only to falter. Every time he came close to finishing, he pulled the reins back.

He released your arms and pushed you down until your legs slipped over the edge of the bed and your hips were flat to the mattress. He impaled you with decisive thrusts, his hands on the small of your back as he pinned you down. His breaths were deep and eager as he bucked against you.

When he came, he didn’t let up. He grunted and spilled inside of you but didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. His cum seeped out as he buried his cock in your over and over. He crashed into one last time, sending a pang up your spine as he did, and stayed there.

He squeezed your ass and pushed it apart. He wiggled his hips and let out a long breath.

“Is that what you wanted?” He smacked your ass and your body tensed. “A man.” He snarled. “Huh?”

“P-Peter,” You whispered as you turned your head.

“I guess falling in love with you just wasn’t enough,” He pulled out and pinched you so hard you cried out. You were too weak to move. “Have fun with Bucky but don’t come crawling back to me when he’s done with you. I don’t like leftovers.”

You rolled over as he turned away and started to dress, bending to grab each piece of clothing from the floor. Your lip trembled as he pulled on his jacket and tucked away his phone.

He didn’t even look at you as he left. The door slammed behind him and the tears began to flow. You had been ready for the break-up, but never for this.

❤

Finals came and went. You were numb. In a haze. For once you weren’t nervous for your exams but only because you could barely focus on them. After each, you emerged barely able to remember what you’d written. You couldn’t think about anything but Peter’s harsh goodbye and Bucky’s ominous promise.

The holiday break arrived and campus was mostly abandoned. You planned to stay on campus that year with Peter but instead you'd be alone. Your parents decided to finally take that Christmas trip to the Bahamas like they'd always dreamed of. It was too late to go home.

Christmas Eve. You ventured out to grab a few groceries for your solitary christmas dinner. Nothing special. Pasta and pinot. Last minute shoppers bustled in the small shop and you wove between them as the early winter dusk started to descend.

You stepped out onto the street as the grey sky turned a deep blue. You looked up at the sliver of moon and frowned. This wasn't how you'd imagined your Christmas. Never overly festive but you had looked forward to a cozy holiday with Peter. Well, that was a long gone hope.

You started down the street and were startled as a car honked at you and pulled up to the curve. You recognized it and walked faster. The engine died and the door opened and closed. The footsteps neared and you tried to elude them.

"Hey," Bucky caught your arm and forced you to slow down. You almost dropped the large paper bag.

"Leave me alone." You didn't look at him.

"Hey, I was just gonna help you out," He grabbed the top of the bag and you stopped before he could tear it. "That looks heavy."

“Please.” You hugged the bag and backed away from him. “I told you before--”

“You’re all alone.” He said bluntly. “On Christmas.”

“And so are you,” You countered.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” He warned and reached for the bag again. “I could help you. Take care of you.” You wrestled with him but he easily took the groceries. He looked inside and tutted. “That’s a lot of wine for one person.”

“Fuck off.” You turned on your heel and stormed away. He could keep it all. You just wanted this all to end. The dread, the dreams, the terrible guilt that never quite left you. He followed.

“Just let me give you a ride. We can talk.” He caught up with you. “What is it? A five minute ride to campus? Just five minutes, please?”

You stopped again. You looked up at him sharply. You were tired. You just wanted to get back to your dorm and hide.

“Five minutes and you leave me alone for good.” You declared.

“Five minutes. That’s all.” He agreed and his lips curved just slightly.

You shrugged and gestured past him. He led you back to his car. He placed the bag behind his seat as you got in and he took the driver’s seat.

You crossed your arms and stared out the window as he turned the engine. You were reminded of that night he’d driven you home. You’d bought his sweet little act hook, line, and sinker. How stupid.

“I...wasn’t trying to trick you. I just wanted to be close to you.” He pulled out. “I hope you know that.”

“You recorded it,” You spat. “How was that not malicious?”

“That wasn’t about you, it was about him,” Bucky said. “I wanted him to see what he’d taken for granted. What he’d lost.”

“Are you stupid? Did you really think that was right?” You looked at him. “You could’ve been normal. You could’ve waited instead of getting me drunk. You could’ve just told me you were interested.”

“Do you think that would’ve worked?” He wondered as he steered. “I’m a lot older than you. I don’t know how things work these days.”

“You don’t just feed someone drinks and call that a relationship,” You shook your head. “You don’t send a video to her ex. You don’t--You don’t know what he did.”

“What do you mean?” He stopped at the intersection.

“Nothing. I just...me and Peter could’ve ended this as friends and you took that from me. And now, you know what, you’re right, I am alone. I--” You squinted as he turned away from campus and your words tumbled to murmurs. “Bucky, what are you doing? Where--”

You felt a prick in your neck and clapped your hand against it as you looked over at him. He held a syringe as your eyes felt loose in your head and a warmth spread along your neck and through your limbs.

“B-Bucky…” You fell back against the seat.

“I won’t let you go.” He said as your eyes closed. “I can’t. I love you.”

His voice floated around you and faded into the black as you slumped against the door. You sank into the void, entirely and blissfully numb.

❤

The shroud slowly lifted from you. Your eyes fluttered open and you groaned as the ceiling was painted in flickering light. The crackle and smell of fire tickled your senses and you looked around the unfamiliar room. You rolled onto your side and tenderly cradled your head. It felt like a pebble was bouncing around your skull.

A dark figure knelt before the artificial fireplace, the poker in hand as he stoked it. Slowly Bucky turned his head and his face came clear through the haze. He wore a pair of flannel pants and a grey tee.

You pushed yourself up and hung your legs over the side of the bed. He stood and set aside the iron poker. He neared and sat beside you, his hand on yours.

“Take it easy.” He cooed. “You’re okay.” He lifted your hand and kissed the back of it.

“Wh-where…” Your mouth was dry and you couldn’t find the word.

“Home.” He smiled and brought his hand up to cradle your face. He kissed your forehead as his thumb rubbed your cheek. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

You grimaced, confused. He reluctantly let go and stood. He walked around as you tried to clear your head.

There were two doors, the windows were blacked out, but otherwise it seemed like a normal room. It could’ve been any apartment nestled in the midst of the overpopulated city.

“It’s already noon. You should dress.” He placed a dress in your lap. “Then we can open our gifts.”

Your mind threatened to crack. What the fuck was going on?

“My ma never let us sleep past six, even on Christmas, but I figured you needed the rest,” He continued. “You looked so peaceful.” He smiled and you unfolded the red velvet. “You can get cleaned up just in there.” He pointed to the door on your right. “I’ll be here.”

He sat in the armchair by the fire and leaned his chin in his hand as he watched you expectantly. You stood as you tried to hide your discomfort. A man who stuck a needle in your neck was bound to do a lot worse.

You hesitated as you neared the door. It would be a place to hide for a while at least. You said nothing as you kept your eyes on him and backed through the door. You closed it, slowly. He never stopped watching and you found the lock on the door didn’t work.

You turned and held up the velvet dress. The straps were thin and the burgundy skirt was trimmed with matching fur. You hated it.

You look down at your own clothing. He’d taken your jacket and boots off. Your sweatshirt was rumpled from your induced slumber and your jeans were stained with salt along the ankles.

If you refused to be his doll, what would he do? You weren’t stupid enough to think you could keep him out, especially with a door handle that didn’t even click into place.

Even if you fought him, he probably had another needle at the ready. Besides he was much too strong for that. You knew that already. There were no windows in the bathroom. No way out it seemed as those in the other room were sealed.

You only had one choice. Well, not really a choice at all.

You quaked as you undressed. You avoided looking in the mirror as you folded your clothes on the counter. You kept your bra and panties on, even though they felt grimy from your sweat. You pulled on the dress. It was too tight and too short.

You wrung your hands as you looked around the bathroom. It was nice despite being a prison. Your nerves whirled around you and threatened to choke you. You flinched as knuckles tapped softly on the door.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

You blinked and marched to the door. You opened it, slowly, and stared back at him. He looked you up and down and grabbed your hand. He had a dreamy light in his eyes as he drew you out of the bathroom into the soft glow of the other room.

The tree in the corner had been lit up with pale string lights and you blinked away the specs they left in your eyes. He stopped you and tisked.

“No,” He pulled the strap of your bra down your shoulder. “Take this off.”

You tucked your lip under your teeth and reached back to unhook the bra. You wrestled it out from beneath the dress and he took it from you. He flung it beside the bed and turned back to you.

His hands startled you as he brushed up your skirt and along your thighs. He grabbed your panties and tugged them down. You winced at his force and the cotton dropped to your ankles. He nudged you forward and you stepped out of them before he kicked them away.

“There, perfect,” He took your hand again and drew you over to the tree. “Time for presents.”

He let go of you and sat on the floor like a child. He took a box from the pile beneath the fir and reached up to pull on your wrist.

“Come on. Sit.” He held up the wrapped gift. “Open your presents.”

You obeyed stiffly, careful to keep the skirt from showing too much. Your hand shook as you accepted the first box from him. You ripped away the paper and crumpled it up in your fist. You set it down and stared at the box lid.

“Bucky…” You glanced up at him. “It’s not too late. You can let me go. I won’t say a word. I’ll--”

“Open it.”

He shoved the box closer and it almost slipped from your grasp. His smile fell as his metal finger rubbed against his thumb nervously.

You let the box settle on your lap and you slid the lid off. Inside was a golden chain with your and Bucky’s initials hanging from it. You lifted it and he was swift to take it from you.

“Here,” He spun his finger. “I’ll help.”

You turned, rigid as he got to his knees and neared you. His fingers tickled your throat as he wrapped the gold around it and clasped it at the back of your neck. He played with the dangling links and sent a shiver through you.

You drew away and resumed your seat on the rug. He handed you another box, this one bigger. He waited, expectantly. After a moment, he nodded and raised a brow. You opened the second gift and revealed a set of sheer lingerie. You quickly covered it up and cleared your throat.

“You don’t like it?” He asked. His tone was dangerous.

“I do. Thank you. I just wasn’t expecting it.” You lied.

His metal fist balled and unballed. You kept looking back to it as he seemed to sway between delight and anger. You shuddered and he handed you the next gift.

“Good, good,” He said. “I picked them all just for you. I really hope you love them.”

You bit your tongue anxiously and opened the next gift. A dress similar to the one you wore but made of glossy silver silk. Then there was a toiletry set and some make-up and final a small box drawn from just beside the trunk of the tree.

Bucky’s jaw twitched as he bit down and turned the velvet box in his fingers. He cleared his throat and got up on his knees. You glanced around, your heart seemed to stop as you realised what he was doing. He was most assuredly out of his mind.

“Sweetheart,” He gripped it as he brought one knee up, “Will you…” He popped it open and revealed a diamond cut into a teardrop. “Marry me?”

You were light-headed. You pushed the empty box from your lap and stood. You could barely do that as you tried to wave him away.

“Bucky….” You gulped. “Bucky…” You spun and raced for the door. “You can’t do this! Let me go!”

You wrenched the door handle but it wouldn’t turn. You tried to rip the door out of its frame but it didn’t even shake, You beat on it and hollered.

“Help!”

You sensed movement behind you and before you could turn to see, Bucky’s arm came up around your waist and he dragged you back. You struggled with him but it was all too easy for him to bend you to his will.

He shoved you to the bed and you caught yourself on the mattress with a yelp. He followed quickly and turned you onto your back as he straddled you on the edge. Your legs dangled over the side and you slapped at him.

“Please, please, why are you doing this?”

He caught your hand and stilled it with his vibranium grip. He bent all your fingers but one and forced the ring onto it. You swiped at him with your other hand and he swiftly caught it.

“Don’t be ungrateful,” He snarled. “I got you all these nice things and you go and spit in my face.”

“No, no, Bucky, please,” You begged.

“Quiet,” He barked. “It’s my turn now. Time for me to open my present.”

He released your hands and grabbed the straps of your dress. You flailed out at him and he snapped the velvet easily. You wriggled weakly and wheezed. You couldn’t breath. Your chest felt like it would collapse.

“Please,” You said. “Bucky… you’re scaring me.”

“You love me,” He sneered. “I know it. I knew it that night. The way you sounded when I touched you. The way you said my name,”

“I was drunk,” You grasped his wrists as his fingers hooked around your shoulders. “Bucky, I can’t even remember that night.”

“Shut up!” He shouted and shook you. “Stop lying!”

You bit your tongue and tasted blood. Your head spun as you felt his weight shift and the velvet tickle your thigh. He tore your skirt up to your waist as he hovered over you on his knees.

“Bucky,” Your voice cracked as you pressed your hand over his. “I still love Peter.”

“No,” He pushed himself off of you. “You don’t” He gripped his head. “You love me!”

“Bucky--”

“I already told you to shut up,” He growled. “So shut up before I make you.”

He gruffly ripped his shirt over his head. His thumbs hooked under the elastic of his pants and he pushed his shoulders back. His blue eyes were dark and sinister as he watched you sit up.

“Keep the dress on,” He shoved his pants down.

You stood as he quickly untangled himself from the flannel. He caught you by your throat and forced you back down to the bed. You grabbed his thick forearm as he knelt over you, his fingers threatening to crush your throat.

“Say it. Say you love me.” His hissed.

“You’re hurting me.” You clung to his arm.

“Hurting you!? I’ve only ever been good to you and you--” He stuttered in rage and forced his leg between yours.

He kept his hand on your throat and lifted your other leg as he placed himself entirely between your legs. He bent your leg around him as he bent over you, almost crushing your neck with his hand.

“I never wanted to hurt you, but you insist on hurting me,” He squeezed as his hand crawled up your leg. “Say it!”

You squeaked as you slapped at his hand. His fingers crept over your thigh and down your pelvis. He pushed his fingers roughly between your legs and felt along your folds. His touch hurt as he forced two fingers inside of you, dry.

He poked in and out harshly and your eyes rolled back as your vision began to spot. He loosened his grip but kept his hold on you. He rescinded his fingers and pressed the head of his cock against you.

You hugged him with your legs, trying to force him away. He slid his tip inside of you and you let out a stifled moan. You hit his thick bicep as he inched into you. You whimpered and scratched at the vibranium.

“Ple-ease,” You rasped.

“Say it.” He thrust sharply and impaled you entirely.

“Buck--”

He thurst again and your voice fizzled with a sob.

“Say you love me,” He pressed his lips to your cheek. “Say it.”

He jolted his hips, each time your whined and felt even weaker beneath him. Your head swam and as your walls clenched around him.

“B--” You could barely breath.

“Say it.” His spit trailed across your cheek as he nuzzled your neck.

He sped up, the bed trembled beneath you. You were crushed beneath his relentless pounding. Each thrust sent a reverberation up your spin and ripples along your thighs. You snaked your arm around his neck and pushed your head back into the mattress.

“Say.” He jerked roughly. “It.”

“I--I--” His hand slipped away as he nibbled at your throat and he cradled your head. “I… love--- you!”

You exclaimed as you came suddenly. You were appalled and stunned by your bodies response to him. He was inflamed by it and rutted into you even harder.

His thick grunts stormed in your ears as his fingers stretched across the back of your head. The velvet was rough between your bodies as he moved against you. He snarled as he spasmed. Your body went limp as he emptied into you.

He stilled and rested his weight over you. You closed your eyes, your face wet from tears and sweat. His hand fell away from your head and he laced his fingers through yours and placed with the diamond there.

“I love you, too,” He cooed and kissed your neck.

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searchingforstarss · 4 years

Text

written for this anon that sent me this prompt a few weeks ago! i answered the original ask & i promise it was meant to be posted sooner but then i realised it was going to be a lot longer than the 1k i originally planned and then the holidays happened and i forgot about it in my drafts so here we are! i hope you see it and enjoy it x

---

“Shit, Parker, you good?”

That’s the only thing Peter hears crackling through his comms the second he hits the ground.

It’s Bucky’s voice, and he figures it’s probably a fair question. He’s just been thrown to the ground by a blast from a some sort of energy gun that one of the crazy guys on the ground is wielding, and he, Sam and Bucky are trying their best to get them to just stop and go the hell home.

“I, uh, yeah, I think I’m-”

There’s a creaking sound above from where he’s still sprawled out on the ground, trying to catch his breath without exacerbating the twinging in his ribs.

He cuts himself off suddenly to raise his gaze, sucking in a sharp breath as he sees the bodega on the corner of 82nd Street that he landed beside begin to lean, the structure looking like it’s beginning to give way, groaning under its own weight.

Before he can even think about opening his mouth again to call for assistance, for someone to help him out of here, anything, the whole thing collapses and caves in beside him, cracking steel, concrete and ply raining down on him.

He screws his eyes shut desperately, curling in on himself. He tries to bring his arms up to shield his head, but before he gets the chance, his right arm is pinned to the asphalt by a steel support beam. It must have have once been holding the building up but it's now clearly been rendered useless considering the majority of the building is sitting in pieces surrounding him.

He waits for the claustrophobia to set in, for the memories of Toomes to come rushing back and debilitate him but they don’t. He lets out a breathy sigh and lets the fact that he can still see the clear blue of the sky above him, the rubble not entirely hemming him in, comfort him. He’s okay. Someone will come for him.

Slightly fruitlessly, he pulls to try and tug his arm out from where it’s lodged underneath the mangled wreck of steel. Usually, he’d be able to lift it off himself without even thinking twice, but with only one working arm at his disposal and his body worn from a fight they were so close to winning, he’s not exactly at his strongest. He gives one last yank, pulling on his right arm with his left but it doesn’t move. Pain races through his muscles and he lets out a muffled groan. “Ah, fuck, ouch.”

“Language, tiny-tot,” Sam jibes, but when Peter doesn’t answer, too busy trying to steady his breathing, his voice grows serious. “Spider-Man. Peter. You okay under there? We saw that building go down on you, man.”

Awesome. Fantastic. How incredibly embarrassing.

This is what he likes about fighting alongside Sam and Bucky, though. They let him have free rein, they trust him implicitly to make his own decisions and they don’t freak out or fly off the handle the second something slightly varies from how it was meant to go - unlike Tony, who seems to find it difficult to deal with Peter getting hurt while fighting alongside the Avengers. Part of him is glad the man is preoccupied with investor meetings today. He would have lost his mind the second he saw the building go down, probably (no, scratch that - definitely).

“Yeah, I’m okay. Most of it missed me.”

Sam seems to consider this reply because there’s silence over their line. Peter reaches up with his free hand instinctively to shove his comms deeper into his ear through the mask, to make sure it hasn’t just busted as well. In moments like this, he’s grateful that the team forces him and Tony to wear their own earpieces, despite their undying faith in both their AIs, for moments when things go awry - exactly like this one. He’s almost positive Karen is offline after the blows to the suit - both the initial blast and the impact of the building - because usually, she would be chirping in his ear by now, offering him a blow by blow recap of any damage to the suit or injuries sustained and offering assistance, which usually (or, always) involves calling Tony.

“Are you injured at all? In any pain?” That’s Bucky’s voice now, and Peter pauses to consider. He’s not in any actual pain, really. Sure, the steel that’s pressing against his arm and keeping him pinned down underneath the remnants of the bodega is kinda sore, but he’s not bleeding out. He’s had a lot worse than this.

“Nope, no pain. My arm’s kinda stuck though, so I don’t think I’ll be able to get myself out of this one in a hurry…” Peter admits.

“Don’t worry about it, short-stuff. Buck and I will be down as soon as possible, it won’t be longer than ten minutes, just sit tight, okay? We’ve nearly got this.”

“Will do,” Peter answers in the affirmative, “good luck.” Then, the comms line goes silent again.

He’ll be fine. Ten minutes isn’t that long. He can wait.

---

Turns out he and Sam must have a very different idea of ten minutes because it feels like hours that Peter’s been lying here.

That would be all okay normally - he thinks he would probably have gotten the better end of the deal, settling back under here while Sam and Bucky continue to fight, if it wasn’t for the unforgiving, bitter cold of the clear New York winter day.

He’s lived in New York for his entire life, he knows how to protect himself from the bitingly low temperatures of December and January. He’s spent years bundling himself up in second-hand sweaters, coats, scarves (and then usually a beanie and gloves at Ben and May’s, and then just May’s, insistence) before he steps outside. He can deal with the cold. It got a bit harder after the spider bite, getting used the thermoregulation abilities, or rather, the complete lack of thermoregulation abilities of a spider, but he’s managed it.

Even so, this? This is something else. He’s got nothing but the thin material of the Spider-Man suit to protect him against the elements and it definitely, one hundred per cent, does not help that along with Karen being damaged in the fall, Peter’s certain the energy blast must have short-circuited the whole suit because he’s becoming more and more aware by the second that the heater built into the suit is currently completely nonfunctional.

Peter is freezing, lying under the half-decimated building on the icy sidewalk, frosty cold creeping up around him and wrapping him in its frigid hold, binding his limbs stiff and numb.

He’s trying his hardest to not think about this, though, instead trying to focus on the blue of the sky he can still see above him. It doesn’t work that well, not when the tips of his fingers and lips are tingling from the chill in the air and he can barely feel his trapped arm anymore. He’s not so sure that’s a good sign.

He tries once more in vain to pull it free with as much force as he can muster, but that’s not much with the shivers running through him and cold dampening his strength.

He sort of regrets what he was thinking about Sam and Bucky before, and about Tony not being here. If Tony was here he would have had Peter dug out within minutes of the structure collapsing inwards, to hell with anything else he would be meant to be focusing on. It’s a selfish thought, Peter knows, because he shouldn’t want people to sacrifice the whole fight just to save himself from a little discomfort, but god, what he wouldn’t give to be warm right now.

A groan pulls itself from the back of his throat before he can stop it when a gust of wind rushes past, sending a wave of icy air hurtling over him. He bites down on his lip as soon as he hears the sound escape his lips, but it’s too late, and his comms line is crackling to life in his ear again.

“Come in Spider-Man? Are you there? Peter?”

Peter groans again. He’s just cold.

“Mmm, ‘m here.”

Bucky makes what sounds like a slightly unimpressed hum of approval.

“Update us. How are you doing down there?”

Peter briefly considers brushing everything off, but one of the many things Mister Stark has been trying to instil into him, specifically to ‘ask for help when you need it, you self-sacrificing idiot child,’ springs to mind.

“I, uh, just… how long do you guys think you’ll be? It’s kinda super cold down here,” Peter admits, trying to force words out around his numb lips.

“Hopefully only five minutes out now, I’ve just got to take out the last guy on my block then I’ll be straight down to you. Can you wait that long?”

Peter considers. Can he wait five minutes? He thinks so. Plus, he doesn’t want to seem weak. Five minutes is manageable.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. It’s just uh, my suit’s heater broke, so y’know…” Peter says, trailing off when he hears Bucky bark out a short laugh.

“Of course Stark built you a damn heater,” he quips. “I’ll see you in five. Try not to die from such tragic hardship until then.”

Bucky’s teasing like he always does, Peter can tell, but even so, the tiniest spark of indignation rises inside Peter. It’s not his fault that his stupid spidery DNA doesn’t know how to stop itself from freezing completely.

He wants Tony, but his only link to him has been severed so he knows he doesn’t have any choice but to wait this one out.

---

Seconds and minutes seem to freeze in the chill of the air.

Time slows in the cold.

Peter’s just fighting to stay awake at this point, though he can’t really remember why he’s trying to stay awake? Is someone coming for him? That would be nice, he thinks.

He’s reduced to nothing but the shivers that wrack his body and the icy air that feels like it’s stabbing him everywhere he can reach with a thousand tiny knives, biting him right down to the bone.

At one point, he must have tried to curl himself into a fetal position because his knees are tucked up as close to his legs as he can get them, but it’s not really doing all that much and the little body heat he has left that he’s trying to preserve seems to be rapidly escaping him.

Soon there will be nothing but winter inside of him, not a single spark of heat remaining to sustain him.

He still just wants Tony.

He was on a mission, right? He thinks so. Why isn’t Tony here?

Tony.

Peter’s teeth are chattering as he tries to force words out. He can barely move his lips. “K-K’ren? Mister St’rk? Call Mister St’rk. Pl’se?”

No reply. The faint static continues. Cold surrounds him.

---

There are voices in his ear somewhere, drifting around him, and he strains to focus in on them but the cold running through his veins has paralysed him and he feels like he’s far, far away. He wishes that if he has to be this far away, then it could at least be warm wherever he is, but it’s not. It’s cold.

He doesn’t want to be cold anymore.

He’s cold. So, so cold.

Scraps of metal and wood are being lifted from around him, and he blinks slowly a few times behind the mask. Then the steel is dislodged from on top of his arm, but he just stares at it stupidly. He can’t feel anything. Why can’t he feel anything?

“Peter?”

Peter tries to focus his eyes above him. All he can see is dark brown hair hanging across someone’s face, dark eyes with something like worry in them, maybe. Bucky? He was here right?

Peter isn’t sure anymore. He just wants Tony, but Tony doesn’t have long hair. At least he thinks he doesn’t. This isn’t Tony.

He closes his eyes again behind the mask. Maybe if he sleeps then when he wakes up Tony will be by his side. That’s usually how it works.

His mask is being tugged up off his face and he wants to protest but that seems like a lot of effort. He scrunches his eyes up against the brightness of the afternoon, no longer filtered by the mask. Too bright. Too cold.

“We’ve got you, Peter, you need to keep your eyes open. Do you think you can do that?”

No. He feels as if he’s encased in ice and it’s making his whole body feel heavy; his eyelids are hard to keep open. It’s all too hard.

“Can’t.”

“Shit, fuck, Sam, his lips are blue,” the voice - Bucky?- says, sounding worried.

Are lips supposed to be blue? Before he can answer his own question, his eyes fall shut again and the cold wraps around him, submerging him. The voices are drowned out by the steady nothingness of unconsciousness a few seconds later.

---

There’s a slow and steady bumping movement somewhere beneath him. Peter can’t quite pinpoint where it's coming from because his eyes still feel too heavy to drag open but he’s not sure why the pavement is moving until he realizes that what he’s lying on is far too soft to be the sidewalk.

He’s wrapped in a blanket as well. That’s nice.

There’s a low whirring, the rumbling of an engine, rubber on asphalt, and Peter knows he must be in the back of a van. He would panic, it sure seems like a situation to be panicking, but then a familiar voice fills his ears and he relaxes just a fraction.

“We need to call Stark” - it’s Sam’s voice, but that’s not what Peter’s focused on. Stark. He knows that name. Why does he know that name? It sounds safe and he wants them - “otherwise he’ll have a heart attack when he sees Peter when we get back and I don’t really fancy that on my conscience.”

Why is Peter going to give Stark… Mister Stark… a heart attack? He doesn’t want to do that. No, no, no.

Then there’s ringing filling the van. It’s a little shrill and high-pitched. Peter moves to tug his hands out from where they’re encased in the slightly scratchy woollen blanket to press them up to his ears when the sound is cut off by a voice.

“Wilson? If no one is dying this probably needs to wait, I’m in the middle of-”

Peter knows that voice. It’s the Stark they keep mentioning. Mister Stark. He’d quite like to see him right about now. Is he here?

“No one’s dying, but we just wanted to give you heads up about Peter-” - Huh. Peter. That’s him. He wonders distantly what he’s done. Nothing too awful, he hopes - “before we get back. He’s not in, uh, not exactly in the best shape.”

Rude, Peter thinks.

There’s an immediate change in tone, and Mister Stark’s voice becomes sharp at the edges with a tense kind of worry. “What happened? Do you need me down there? How bad is it?”

“We’re on our way back to the tower now, we’ve got him. He was, uh, stuck under some rubble round by 82nd for maybe twenty minutes or so, but he’s a bit out of it, and colder than he probably should be-”

“And you left him there? For twenty minutes?”

“In our defence, we didn’t realise how cold it was going to be for him, he said he was-”

“Fine, right? Is that what he said? For Christ’s sake, have neither of you learnt that the kid is always full of shit when he says he’s fine?”

The voice - Mister Stark, Peter’s hazy mind has to remind itself - is angry now and Peter doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want anyone to be angry with him, but he’s not quite sure how to make anything better. He whines, low and desperate in the back of his throat.

“Shit. Bad idea. Take him off speaker,” someone is saying, and then Mister Stark’s voice disappears. He waits a minute for it to return, but it doesn’t, the van only filled by the other two voices and Peter doesn’t like this. Is Mister Stark so angry that he left? He wants him back.

He whines again, stupid and needy. Where did the voice go? Where did Mister Stark go? He wants him back.

“M’ster St’rk,” Peter calls plaintively, finally managing to blink open his eye as wide as he can to search for him but all he finds is Sam and Bucky sitting strapped in opposite him. He frowns when he doesn’t get an answer.

Sam glances at him briefly, before turning his attention back to the phone pressed to his ear. Ah. That must be why Peter can’t see Mister Stark. Doesn’t change the fact that he wants him here though. “Look, we’re nearly back at the tower. We’ll talk to you then.”

The tower sounds familiar to Peter. If that’s where they’re going then that’s okay with him. He hopes they get there soon.

After this, everything falls into silence. Mister Stark’s voice still doesn’t come back.

---

When they pull up in the parking garage, Peter manages to stumble out the back of the van, legs still weak and shaky beneath him as he shivers. Bucky casts a strong arm around his shoulders and he leans into the support to stop himself from pitching forward and ending up sprawled face-first on the concrete.

Tony is the first thing Peter lays eyes on.

The man had been pacing back and forth in front of the elevator when they first pulled in but stilled as soon as he met Peter’s gaze.

He’s wearing a slightly rumpled looking suit jacket and dress shirt, the top few buttons undone. If he was ever wearing a tie, it’s been discarded somewhere along the way. He’s got a navy blue blanket gathered in his arms, as well. It’s worn like it’s had one too many trips through the washing machine, but even so, it’s still stained in the odd place if you look close enough, marks that look suspiciously like hot chocolate, and maybe butter from popcorn spillages adoring the fluffy material. Tony doesn’t seem to mind as he cradles it close to his chest.

He steps forward to meet them, taking a few hurried strides before he extends the arm that isn’t curled around the blanket to sweep Peter out from under Bucky’s arm into his own. Not that it takes much effort, because Peter is reaching for him the second he’s close enough.

They meet in the middle and Peter, the cold having sucked all of the little grace he had in his body, all but falls into Tony’s arms, trusting the way his arms shoot out to catch him, wrapping around him and keeping him close. Tony’s warm and it’s nice.

“Hey, Mister Stark,” he murmurs blearily into the fabric of Tony’s suit, where he’s immediately pressed his face into his shoulder. “‘M fine, I promise.”

Tony hums. He’s got his gaze fixed down on Peter, seemingly ignoring Bucky and Sam, who are standing off to the side. Peter feels kind of bad for them, but he doesn’t have the mental energy to try and deal with too many things at once. He’s tired and he still feels like remnants of cold have hidden themselves away inside of him. He can’t stop shaking. He leeches as much warmth from Tony as he can.

“I’m not all too convinced of that, kiddo,” Tony says softly, “but lucky for you, I don’t think it’s anything we can’t fix. We can’t get rid of you that easy, huh?”

Peter gives a tiny laugh, more sad and worn than joyful. “Guess not.”

Tony pulls away from Peter for a brief second, only to tug the blanket he’s still wrapped in off. It looks like it might be an old SHIELD issue one and Tony wants it off. He replaces it with the worn blue one that he’s holding and Peter instantly recognises it as the one that lives on the sofa (or folded neatly over the back, if Pepper’s home), that they curl up under during movie marathons, or the nights after the particularly hard patrols when Peter stumbles into the living room and collapses next to Tony and can’t find the energy to move to his own room. It's comforting. Familiar.

“You’re still shivering,” Tony notes as he smoothes the blanket over Peter’s shoulders with gentle hands.

Peter nods defeatedly. “Yeah. ‘M sorry, I messed up. The suits busted. Karen, my heater, all of it.”

Tony glances over at Bucky and Sam briefly with narrowed eyes, before he asks, “wait, your heater?” Peter pulls back at the sharp, biting tone. He didn’t mean to make him angry again.

He nods cautiously. “Uh, yeah. There was a guy with a gun, um, a ray thing, and he got me with his blast.”

Tony pulls his lips together into a tense line. “We’re calling Bruce.”

“I feel fine. A little longer under this,” Peter says, gesturing to the blanket as he pulls it further around his shoulders, “and I’ll be fine.”

“Nuh-uh. You were lying there without your heater for almost half an hour, do you have any idea how cold it is out there?”

Peter furrows his brows. Uh, of course he does. He’s just been lying out there in the same cold Tony’s talking about. “Yeah, it’s cold, but I swear, I’m-”

“Nope. Not doing this with you, buddy. C’mon,” Tony asserts, and Peter is too tired to argue, plus the weight of Tony’s arm hooked around his shoulders is steadying and warm and he kind of doesn’t want to risk doing anything that might make it go away. He takes a few steps forward before he jolts back a little and spins around in Tony’s hold to glance back at Bucky and Sam.

“Uh, I’ll see you later guys. I’m sorry I kinda got in the way and stuff,” Peter offers suddenly. Tony decidedly doesn’t turn around, but he does pause his footsteps to let Peter take the moment.

“Don’t say that, Peter. You did great. I’m sorry we couldn’t get to you sooner,” Sam tells him. Peter smiles, albeit a little wanly.

“It’s not your fault,” Peter says softly. He hopes they believe him, but the forlorn look on Bucky’s face tells him that maybe they don’t. He also hopes they both don’t notice the way Tony stiffens at Peter’s words, as if he doesn’t believe them either.

---

Bruce only hovers over Peter up in the penthouse for ten minutes or so, checking his vitals and running tests for hypothermia, before eventually deciding that if Peter was hypothermic, that he’s fairly stable now. Tony relaxes back into the couch - where he’s sitting next to Peter, almost shoulder to shoulder - at this.

“I’ll be back up in an hour or two, okay Peter?” Bruce tells him, but his eyes flit over to Tony as well. Peter knows what he’s doing, making sure Tony doesn't let him move from the couch. Jokes on both of them, though, because he doesn’t think he could muster up the energy even if he tried. “I just want to make sure that your temperature has stabilized and it’s not at risk of going south again. You’re sitting around 95 degrees at the moment which I’m happy with considering you run a little cool, anyway. If you can maintain that then I’ll let you go.”

“Mhmm, got it, Doctor Banner. Thank you,” Peter says, giving a sleepy nod in additional confirmation against where he’s still resting against Tony’s shoulder. It seems like a lot of words but his tired mind gets the general gist of the whole thing.

Bruce turns to leave the room and Peter turns his gaze up towards Tony. “You gonna stay?”

Tony nods obviously, as if it was a stupid question in the first place. “Course. It’s my living room after all,” he jests, “plus, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t freeze.”

“Thanks, Mister Stark,” Peter says, completely earnestly, ignoring Tony’s sarcastic comments and seeing right through them to see them as what they are. Tony offering to stay with him. Tony wanting to stay with him.

“No problem,” Tony says, and his voice doesn’t sound as easy as it had before, as if he’s slightly taken aback by Peter’s sincerity. “You wanna try to rest your eyes for a bit?” Tony offers, and Peter doesn’t respond. He's tired and he's just been offered sleep, so he lets his eyes fall closed and knows that he can fall asleep safe and warm.

---

Peter wakes up, once again, to the sound of voices surrounding him sometime later. He feels decidedly less lethargic, but he’s still too comfortable to move so he just lies there and listens for a moment. Tony’s speaking anyway, and he sounds terse again, so Peter figures that maybe right now isn’t the best time to interrupt. He thinks maybe he’s on the phone until he hears Sam’s voice.

“We didn’t know. I had no idea about him and the cold, or why he needed his heater, I swear Tony, otherwise we wouldn’t have-”

Tony cuts him off. “It isn’t just about that though. God, he’s sixteen and he was caught underneath a goddamn corner store and you left him there.”

“I know, I know, it sounds bad, and it is bad, but we were all there because we had a job to do, Tony. You know how it works. There were people, civilians, Peter would have killed us if we left them there to go and help him.”

Tony huffs out a sigh and grumbles half-heartedly in a way that tells Peter that he isn’t actually quite as angry as he’s letting on. He must know that Sam and Bucky are right. Because they are, Peter would have been so mad if they chose to put him above everyone else. He’s a superhero, that’s not how it’s meant to work.

“Yeah,” Tony says, a tiny show of concession. “I know what we do is high stakes and I also know what he’s like. He’s irritatingly stubborn, I get it. Other things were going on, he said he was fine, whatever. But when I send him out with you guys, with any of you, I trust you to protect him. He hasn't got the experience that we do. I needed you both to look out for him and you didn’t. He’s a kid - he’s my kid, that means I need him safe, you get that?”

Neither Sam nor Bucky have kids so they don’t look like they particularly understand the exact sentiment, but what they do get is that fierce protection that radiates off Tony whenever he’s close to Peter is not something to be messed with - ever.

“I - we really are sorry, Tony. Let us know when Peter’s awake?” Sam asks tentatively, and there’s silence for a moment.

“Yeah, yeah, will do. Just get out of my living room.”

Peter waits strategically for a few minutes, staying still as he lies where he’s burrowed up against Tony. He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of faking it until Tony speaks up again eventually, exasperation and amusement lacing his tone. “You can open your eyes now, Pete. I know you’re awake.”

Peter opens one eye tentatively and offers Tony a sheepish grin.

“How d’you always know?”

“Your nose twitches more when you’re awake,” Tony says, as if that’s a perfectly normal observation to be making. Peter figures that for the two of them and the amount of time they spend together, it probably isn’t that far out of the ballpark of normal - whatever the hell that means when it comes to them.

“They didn’t mean to, you know. They didn’t know. They looked after me real well, once they got me out and all that” Peter offers, changing the subject back to Sam and Bucky in a way that makes Tony’s shoulders stiffen just a fraction.

Tony gives a one-shouldered shrug after a moment. “Yeah, I know,” he says. His voice sounds slightly defeated, and he sucks in a sharp breath of air. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed at them for not protecting you.”

“I’m Spider-Man, I don’t need protecting,” Peter protests, but Tony just raises an eyebrow.

“I think we’re gonna have to agree to disagree on that one, kid.” He pauses for a moment. When he speaks next, his voice is lighter. “I’m making your next suit out of merino. Insulating, temperature-regulating, all that good stuff. With a heater and fabric like that, you’ll never even be able to imagine being cold in the suit.”

Peter rolls his eyes up towards Tony. “That seems unnecessary.”

“I wasn’t asking for feedback. This is entirely non-negotiable,” Tony presses on, but he chuckles when Peter tugs one hand out from underneath the blanket and curls it into a loose fist to bump into Tony’s shoulder.

“You worry too much.”

“You get hurt too much.”

“Part of the job, not my fault” Peter counters, voice lowered slightly as he mutters under his breath in that petulant, teenager-esque way that Tony adores because it reminds him that Peter still knows how to act his age underneath all the superhero-bravado.

Tony pauses. “As it turns out, worrying is part of my job as well,” he says gently. Exactly what job he’s referring to goes unspoken, but at this point, they both know it’s probably gone well past the slightly distant mentor job Tony originally undertook.

Peter pauses and considers this. A barely suppressed dopey smile pulls at his lips. “Maybe we both just can’t help it,” Peter decides. Tony nods. This seems fair - and also kinda true.

“You got that right, buddy.”

Peter leans further back against the couch and curls closer to Tony, letting the man fuss for a second and wrap the blanket tighter around his shoulders. There’s probably no need, the shivers have stopped and he’s perfectly still now, body temperature holding steady. He allows it, though, and just burrows into the fluffy fabric. It feels nice to be looked after, to be protected.

He cracks one eye open again.

“Did you really have to call me irritatingly stubborn?”

---

Two weeks later, the weekend is forecast to be the coldest of the winter so far.

Peter wakes the next morning to find a suit made of merino wool, as promised by Tony, alongside a pair of gloves modified to fit his web-shooters, wrapped and sitting at the end of his bed.

He rolls his eyes but wears it once - partly just to humour Tony and partly because it really is damn cold - and he hates that it’s the coziest he’s felt on patrol all winter. He also just looks straight-up ridiculous.

(If he wears it a few more times - only on the coldest of days - then that’s nobody's business).

#prompt fill #my writing #irondad #irondad fic #poor peter i really have been putting him through it lately

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adasttrawrites · 4 years

Text

A Year in the Countryside

Chapter 1: Alone At Last

Full story on ao3.

Hermione Granger has had enough of Rita Skeeter and the rest of Wizarding London watching her every move. The Wizarding world's sweetheart packs up her things and relocates to a tiny town in the Cotswolds in order to escape prying eyes. She's ready to embrace a year living a quiet life of reading her favourite books, making friends with her neighbours, and most importantly, not running into anyone she knows.

She is only two days into her new, quiet, very normal life when she finds herself face to face with the very last person she ever thought she'd see at a farmer's market: Draco Malfoy.

Chaos, calamity and general hilarity ensue!

“Here’s the key, dear. Now, remember that you have to turn the lock twice to deadbolt the door. Make sure you do. It’s a safe town but you’re a young girl. Better to be safe.”

Hermione accepted the key to her new apartment, smiling at the landlady. She was going to perform several security spells as soon as she was alone but thought that assuaging the old lady’s concerns was a small price to pay for such a beautiful home.

“Thank you, Mrs Llewellyn, I'll be very careful.”

“I’ve left a lemon cake on the kitchen bench for you, dear, and there’s bread, a pint of milk and some eggs in the fridge. I didn’t know if you would have the energy to go shopping this evening, so I thought it would be best to keep some things for you.”

“Oh, you really didn’t have to, ma’am, I wo—,”

“Nonsense. It’s my pleasure. I’ve got to go now, my husband’s waiting for me at the town hall for bingo.”

“Thank you for everything. I really appreciate it.” Hermione walked Mrs Llewellyn to the door and waved as she went down the stairs. Shutting the door and dead-bolting the lock, she turned and sighed with relief. Even though she hadn’t yet removed her furniture from her purse, the small apartment was hers. Her home. A one-bedroom home, with a living and kitchen area, and best of all, a window seat looking out over the road.

Hermione got to work setting up the furniture she needed. Up until recently, the apartment had been a storage space for the bakery downstairs. When the baker’s wife, Mrs Llewellyn, had finally thrown out all of their unnecessary junk, she cleaned up the rooms nicely and advertised it on the local bulletin board a week prior. Hermione, who had been hopping around the little towns in the area, had snatched up the offer and eagerly contacted the Llewellyns to let them know she was a responsible adult who didn’t smoke.

At the time, Hermione didn’t know why she was so keen on renting an apartment in a village in the Cotswolds, but now, she breathed a sigh of relief. Churchbury was a sleepy town, with beautiful flowers and its namesake church sitting in the middle of the town centre. Everyone knew everyone and no-one was magical, as far as she could tell. At the end of the day, she wasn’t in Wizarding London, thankfully. In the months following the war, she had been swamped by adoring fans and crazed reporters, trying to get the scoop on her life. It turned out that, while Ron and Harry were also fair game, no-one really cared about what her two best friends were wearing, or what restaurants they went to. It was “Hermione Granger this” and “Hermione Granger that” and it was maddening. She had had enough by the time winter had rolled by and spring offered her the chance to travel the world. She told Rita Skeeter, in an effort to satisfy her, that her travels would be to get to know different cultures more intimately. However, she had lied. As soon as Skeeter had published an extremely exaggerated article stating that Hermione would spend the next six months with her secret Veela fiancé in Paris, Hermione Apparated to the English countryside to clear her head. No-one would know her there, and when she saw the advertisement for the apartment while walking past the town hall, she knew this would be a good hideout.

Hermione’s parents, now back in London and with fully restored memories, were happy that their daughter was going somewhere they deemed safe, especially after fighting in a bloody war. Her father had insisted that he teach his daughter some basic tips, like using a screwdriver and how to kill spiders. She didn’t have the heart to explain that her wand served as her tool for all such tasks, and let him spend an afternoon showing her how to hammer a nail and find the stud in a wall. Her mother was excited to visit and Hermione promised they could come and stay when she was settled. Harry and Ron had both expressed their confusion at her wanting to leave London for an extended time, but after she had assured them of her safety and gotten Ministry permission to have a Floo connection in her new home, they seemed okay with the idea.

“Promise us that you’ll visit for dinner often.” Harry said as he hugged her goodbye. He gave her a framed photograph of him, her and Ron smiling at the camera. It was the only Muggle photograph they had ever taken together. Ron handed her a large cake, most definitely from his mother, and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ll miss you, Hermione, but at least it’s only a year. Don’t forget to owl whenever you can.” Thankfully he hadn’t tried to kiss her on the mouth. She had gently told him that she wasn’t interested in being more than friends after the war, and he had begrudgingly accepted that it was for the best.

Ginny had been the most excited about Hermione’s decision. She thought it would be a good way for Hermione to meet men. Tourists, she had reasoned, would pass through the area frequently. Male tourists, Ginny had said, winking.

“Be safe! Come back home whenever you’d like. We’ll be here, waiting for you.” She pushed a little figurine into Hermione’s hands. It was a wooden carving of two little girls, standing hand in hand.

“What is it for?” Hermione had asked.

“If you shake it, the matching one on my bedside table will light up and I’ll come straight through the Floo, in case you need some girl time. Even to chat.”

“Oh, Gin. It’s great, thank you.”

She was engulfed in a hug by Harry, Ron and Ginny, before Disapparating away to just outside her new village.

By the evening, Hermione had moved in most of her furniture and warded the apartment. It was really unnecessary in such a safe town, but she was a creature of habit and after spending a year on the run, protection spells were muscle memory. The bed she had bought was big. She was tired of sleeping on the tiny cot in which she had spent most nights of the last year. It was time for a large bed, where she could starfish out and not hit a wall or fall off. She placed the photograph on her bedside table along with Ginny’s gift. Walking into the living area, she surveyed her work. A big, soft sofa sat opposite a television set. She had set up several bookcases against the walls and laid cushions out on the window seat. Every tea she owned was now neatly stacked up in the cupboard above the kettle and a frittata was cooking in the oven. Her mother had secretly called ahead to the local grocer’s, and Hermione was surprised to find a parcel full of groceries show up with the delivery boy on his way home that evening.

“All done, eh, Crookshanks?” She had let him out of his carrier after she finished enlarging all the furniture from her bag. He was now sitting with his face pushed up to the window. He turned for a second back to give Hermione an admonishing glare, before returning to his earlier gaze.

As she sat back onto the sofa and waited for her dinner to be ready, Hermione was suddenly overcome by the feeling of acute loneliness. She knew it would be this way, being alone in a new town, but it was still an odd feeling. She ate dinner in silence and fell asleep at 9 pm.

— — —

Hermione walked down the path to the local farmers market. It was Saturday and she had spent the previous day moping and getting drunk on a bottle of wine that she had found in her mother’s grocery package. This morning, she had woken up feeling sorry for herself and decided, after a brief Floo call with Ginny and a Pepper-Up potion, to get out of the apartment and explore her new village. Armed with Muggle money and an assortment of cloth bags, she braved the market to meet her neighbours and buy some fruit.

“Miss Granger!” Mr Llewellyn waved from the bread stand. She smiled and walked over.

“Good morning, sir. How are you?”

“Well, thank you. Take a loaf for yourself, they’re nice and warm.”

She tried to pay but he insisted that she keep her money for other things. She tucked the seeded loaf into a bag and thanked him, making her way down the line of stalls. At the fruit seller’s, she picked up apples and oranges, as well as a bottle of cherry juice. At the cheesemonger’s table, she tried several local cheeses and bought a square of sharp cheddar for the pasta she planned to make tonight.

After her bags were heavy enough that she couldn’t walk much further, Hermione decided to turn back, until she caught sight of a stall at the very end of the market. A bookstall. Narrowing her gaze and marching over, she gasped. It was old books. Her favourite.

“Miss? Is there anything you’re looking for?” An old woman was sitting on a stool behind the table, a pair of thick spectacles perched on her nose. She had several layers of clothing on, regardless of the fact that it was a warm, sunny day. Hermione touched the spine of a novel and smiled at the lady.

“Just browsing, thank you. You have a lovely collection here, ma’am.”

The old lady looked very pleased and sat up.

“I own the secondhand bookstore over there,” she jabbed a thumb across the river at the row of shops opposite them. It was a tiny shop, wedged in between a tea shop and a florist. It reminded Hermione of 12 Grimmauld Place.

“Oh, it’s lovely.” She looked down at the books, gently letting her bags slide off her shoulders and onto the ground. Selecting a beautifully bound version of Pride and Prejudice, she opened it and sighed at the familiar words.

“Do you like Jane Austen, dearie?”

“Very much, Miss, uh—,”

“Owens. Mrs Dorothy Owens. What about you? What is your name?”

“Hermione.” It wasn’t Hermione who spoke, and she spun to her left to see the unexpected, grim and terribly handsome face of Draco Malfoy looking down at her.

“Oh my—,”

“Her name,” Malfoy turned to Mrs Owens and smiled his charming, reserved-for-strangers-only smile, “is Hermione Granger.”

#dramione #post-hogwarts #a year in the countryside #hermione granger #draco malfoy #harry potter au #hermione x draco #draco x hermione #dramione au

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myfeetkeepdancing · 4 years

Text

A Winter Wonder | Peter Parker x Male!Reader

Word count: 4742

🎄 Enjoy the upcoming holidays! 🎄

_______________________________________________

Everyone has their season. For some, the unbridled sun and heat waves crashing down onto our bare skin are the best days of the year. Others prefer the spring, the start of something new. The transformation from the gray, cloudy days into the brighter ones. Where warmer, brighter tints arise in mother nature's palette of colors again.

And then there was winter. A white Christmas is often said to be a cliche. We hope it happens every year. And that one year, when it really happens. It's magical. You're gaze fixed upon that white sky. Watching as the heavens slowly coated the world in a blanket of snow Feeling the flakes touch upon your warm skin. And the cold air picking at your exposed skin. A content sigh fans out as a foggy cloud in front of you. Straightening your collars and tucking on your gloves, you carefully make your way down the white covered steps. Here and there a few imprints from previous pedestrians. You can't help but smile at that crystalline crunch as you plant your feet into the untrodden fresh snow. Further down, the pavement was almost cleared of snow. The usual crowd working their way downtown. You double-check the time on your phone before you make your way down the street.

Christmas decorations are everywhere across the city. From the enormous tree in the center square, littered with twinkling lights and colorful decorations. The small market stands with sweets and drinks. Families spending their time ice-skating. Browsing shops and buying presents. As the Christmas songs finally find their place in the time of year. It's a peaceful and wonderful time.

Making your way past all the shops and malls, you end up at the usual meeting point. Walking down the snowy path, you eye that familiar bench. Peter wasn't there yet. Your eyes immediately turn to the sky in between the tall buildings. Perhaps you could see him swinging in-between. But to no avail. You turn around, taking in the stunning view across the park. Other then a few people walking their dog. It was idyllic.

Then that familiar trickle, a glowing feeling, radiating from one of your nostrils. You feel the warmth running down to your lip. Undoing your glove, you unwrap the wrinkled tissue from your pocket. The taste already on your tongue. You can already trace the first drop falling from your lip. Creating a stark contrast in the snow. Dabbing that one nostril, you stare at the sight of the red-stained snow. A sigh escapes your lips. Seating yourself on the nearby bench, you clench the tissue around your nose. In an effort to halt the bleeding. Each season also has its downside.

The squeaking sound of boots moving through the snow wakes you. "Y-You alright?" A familiar voice calls behind you.

"Peter!" Raising yourself to your feet. "I'm fine." You swing your arms wide open. Peter hesitates for a moment, looking at the blood on the floor. Then checking for a sign of blood coming from your nose, before pulling you into a tight hug. Encased into his embrace, you feel his arms squeeze around you. Peter was the only one that could give such satisfying hugs. So strong and passionate.

"It's so good to see you again!" Peter happily exclaims. Holding you close in his strong arms. Lifting you up from your feet out of excitement. "I've missed you!"

"I missed you too." You smile from ear to ear.

"Got one again?" Peter leans in and carefully studies the blood coming from your nostril.

"Time of the year." You shrug your shoulders.

"C' mere." Fully concentrated, he wets a piece of the tissue. And cleans the remains of dried blood around your nostril with great care. "Much better." He smiles. You can't help but smile back. That glow on his face. It's heartwarming.

"So, what happened to you?" Tilting your head ever so slightly. Inspecting his right cheek, a light red mark up graced his otherwise flawless skin. "Looks like you got hit by a car."

Peter chuckles as his gaze falls to the floor for a moment. Shaking his head. "I- eh…"

"You know what." You dive forward, grabbing a handful of snow. "Put some ice on it!" Tossing it into his face.

Peter, in response, puffs and blows, wiping his face clean. Laughingly throwing back the remains towards you as he almost tumbles over the bench.

You hunch forward, dodging his throw. But as you come back up, Peter reaches out for you. A massive ball of snow in his left-hand closes in. "Please! No!" You plead before he grabs you by the collar. Giggling as he drags you in. There was no chance you were getting out of that punishment. You squirm and thrash about as the ball of snow sinks it's way into your neck. Peter laughs hysterically as he looks onto you jumping around, trying to get the snow out from your jacket.

"You made your point." You puff. "But, that blush ain't masking it, Pete." You chuckle. Lightly slapping his cheek with your gloved hand. Still cold from the snow.

"Ouch." He winces away from your touch, protesting sarcastically. "That hurts."

"Oh, shut it. You'll regenerate that in no time." You remark with a smirk on your face. "Now…" Wiping the layer of snow clear from the bench. "Normal people would have chosen a warmer spot to meet up. Especially at this time of year."

"Normal people." He chuckles. "Not us." Peter seats himself beside you, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Just look at it, isn't it beautiful?"

"It's gorgeous..." Your attention gets drawn to a winter wonderland in front of you. The tall, imposing trees were now burdened with a thick layer of snow on their branches. The vibrant green grass hid away by a white frosting. Like an empty canvas, waiting for the artist's brush. The pond is frozen shut. Creating a mirror-like surface. Only a gentle breeze of snowflakes dwindling down to earth. Bringing a peaceful harmony to it all. "So, how'd you get that?" Tapping at your cheek.

"Well, I… Eh." Peter hesitates for a moment. "You know, with the w-winter and all that." Judging by his reaction, you know this was going to be good. "The cold temperatures and such..." He grins for a second, shaking his head. "I-...I crashed into a brick wall when my webs didn't connect." He smiles at you with a confessed expression. Lips pressed together. Somewhat ashamed of his action. "Damaged a fire escape in my fall."

You can't help but laugh at his story. You've known Peter long enough to laugh these moments off. Peter, of course, followed. "I'm sorry for laughing… But-" Wiping the tear rolling down your cheeks. "-you really need some winter-webs." Bellowing into laughter again.

Peter looks up, his mouth falling open. "(Y/N)." He calls out. "That's it!"

"Yeah, well. Who knows..." You chuckle as you regain yourself. Shaking the funny thoughts from your head. Trying to focus on your eureka moment. "If you think about it-" You both start rambling about the concoctions, listing different reactions and arrangements of chemical ingredients. Peter attentively nods along to your train of thought. Proposing different options and enthusiastically adding on to your ideas. Onto that scrap of paper, left in your jacket, you begin scribbling the formula. It's a symphony of ideas coming together. It flows so smoothly from the mind. As the pen flips from hand to hand. Allowing each other time to write their ideas down. Propose new things. You both gaze at the scribbles before realizing the nostalgia. You look up, giving each other an excited smile. Spotting that innocent sparkle in Peter's eyes.

"I think we're onto something." He says. "We need to test it!"

"For sure!" Handing him the folded piece of scribbles. "Now, what's left are the ingredients."

"I can fix that." As he notes it down in his phone. "I still don't get it how you didn't get into MIT." He sighs defeated. "You'd fit right in. I know you would!"

"It's what it is, Peter."

"No, it's just not fair! You-"

"Peter!" You call out, trying to get his attention again. "How's the heating in your suit?" You subtly try to change the subject. "Last time we were here, icicles dangled from your nose." Peter's face was now full of color, his nose and ears burning bright red. A vibrant smile stretched across his face.

"Mister Stark was really impressed by your work." His eyes lit up, locked with yours. Full of adoration and pride. "He did do a double-check of course. Didn't want me to burn to a crisp."

"Neither do I. But how about you?" You continue. "Do you like it?"

"I love it." He pauses. "No more chilly winds. No more runny noses. It's great!"

"Good." You nod. "Good…" And search in the pockets of your jacket. "Still got that Spider-Man scarf?"

"Of course." He chuckles. "I'm never letting that go."

"It looked so fluffy. Shame you didn't wear it."

"I'm just glad she didn't knit a sweater."

"Would've worked better than the scarf." You joke. "Alright, are you ready for this?"

Peter shifts on the bench. "So..." Leaning in, as he whispers. "What'd you manage to make out of it?"

"You're not gonna believe your eyes."

"Show me." He wiggles closer towards you...

"Check this out." You turn over your wrist and bring up your new gadget.

"That small?!" Peter's eyes widen. "Awesome!"

"Here it goes." Putting the button like thing on the inside of your wrist. You both tentatively watch in silence for what's about to happen. But nothing does. You both jump back as a puff of smoke erupts, letting it fall to the floor as metallic bits spew from the opening onto the snow. Little sparks mark the end of its life.

"Was that supposed to happen?" Peter asks, looking up at you with big eyes. Questioning your tech.

You squint, giving him a disapproving look. "What do you think, Peter?"

"I'm sorry." He apologizes. "But I'm sure we can make this work. Say, how about we do one of those weekends again? I for sure can't work on it in Mister Stark's lab."

"Does he know?"

"No, and let's keep it that way." Peter looks over his shoulder as if he expects someone listening in on him. "What do you say." He hunches closer to you." I help you fix it, if you help me with my 'winter-webs'." Awaiting your reaction. "C'mon! It's been forever!" Pushing you against your shoulder.

"Hell yeah!" You slap him against his shoulder. "I'm in!"

"Awesome! How about the days of Christmas?" He quips before you get a chance to say anything. "Spend it with us!" His eyes sparkled with excitement. Innocent puppy-like eyes stare at you. "Ooh, then we can do presents for each other!" He instantly adds on.

You can't help but share the same excitement. "Yes, please!" You clap your hands together. "Then, I don't have to babysit my awful nephews."

Peter jumps up. "Alright!" Balling a fist as a way of showing his victory, followed by a happy skip. "I'll let May know."

"Hey!" You try to call him back as he suddenly darts off. "Peter!" Picking up the mess from your failed gadget.

He stops dead in his tracks. Laughing and mumbling to himself. "I'm sorry (Y/N)." He says, walking back to you. "I... got carried away. Got so many good ideas." A huge smile on his face got you wondering what got him all worked up. If it had to be that good, you sure had to come up with something that could match his.

"Well, hot cocoa is that way.." Pointing backward over your shoulder. "Let's start with that. You owe me one." Straightening your collars, and tucking your hands in your pockets as Peter catches up with you. "After all, I'm freezing."

"You did that to yourself, dumbass." As he darts his cold hand in between your collar and neck out of nowhere.

"Peter!" You shout, running a few paces ahead.

Since you were separated last year at the end of school. You each were forced down your own path. Peter got into MIT, and you somehow didn't. There were a lot of discussions about it. The expectations for your parents. The advice from school. What you wanted.

Nevertheless, it didn't change a thing. Peter was devastated. And so were you. But life went on. It had to. But without your best friend. Without your equal. Without your lifeline.

And time pushes people apart, forces you to grow up, and requires you to evolve and be more serious with life. Almost like sucking the fun out of things. Preparing you for real life.

But being together. There was something relaxing and calming about it. Being with Peter, everything looked brighter. Better. Less daunting. More fun. Time to be yourself. And times like these really felt like a relief. Joking around, messing with each other. Spending time at the local arcade hall. Sharing a meal. Falling in those pointless nerdy conversations at the cinema, while standing in front of posters. To a point, you completely forget to pick a movie at all. Just rambling about anything. Singing along to a song together. There was so much in common. It's special. And you begin to realize that once you were forced apart. Your friendship was special. Where would it end...?

"(Y/N)?" A voice wakes you from your moment of reflection. "You want some more, sweety?" You pull your gaze from the plate in front of you. A mess of mindless mushed ice-cream laid in front of you. As Aunt May brings up the dessert platter.

"N-No, thank you, I've had more than enough." You politely waved her away. "Can you hand me that, Peter?" Pointing to the whipped cream beside him. A grin spread across his face.

"I thought you'd never ask." He happily comments. He brings up his other hand, which was encased in a metal like glove. At the fingertips, a blue like hue beamed outward. The plate of whipped cream slowly started moving upward. You both giggle and wonder at the fantastic piece of tech you two managed to rebuild.

"Boys." May sighed as the plate slowly hovered it's way over to you. "No more tech at the table. If you're finished, you-..."

Peter cocked his head towards May. Losing his concentration over the plate. "-can do the presents?!" He finishes her sentence. Causing the plate to obey the laws of gravity again. Followed by a clatter of shards and whipped cream splattering across the table. None of the three around the table were spared. A moment of silence followed. As you locked eyes with Peter, biting his lower lip. May sighed deeply, giving Peter a judgemental stare. "Sorry…May." He quietly apologized.

"Go change." She points towards his bedroom. "Both of you."

Giving you a smiling glance, Peter jumps from his chair and makes for his room. You sit in silence for a moment. Taking the napkin, wiping away the spots of cream from your face.

"So, what'd you ask for?" May asks as she starts piling up the plates.

"Nothing special that I'm aware of."

"Hmmm." She hums. "I have to say, I haven't seen him this nervous for Christmas. Like… Ever. Are you sure?" She asks, questionably frowning at you.

"I don't know…" You intended to help her clean the table. Collecting leftovers and such. But get pushed away immediately.

"Go." She waves you away with a smile." Go, do your presents. Something has Peter busy. It's too quiet in there." Wiping the whipped cream from her forehead with the towel.

"Peter?" You ask, going headfirst around the doorframe into the room. Looking around, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Peter was nowhere to be found. You make your way to your backpack, just to make sure your present was still there. From the bathroom, you hear the tap running and the sound of a toothbrush. It's been a while since you last visited Peter's room. Walking around the room, you take in the various posters. Some things have changed. But you haven't taken the time to take it in. The stack of new comics. Little tech bits and bobs he collected over time.

You fiddle a bit with his black and white Kodak camera. A stack of incredible images lay beside his desk. If only people would know who really took them. Carefully lifting the corner of the Iron Man poster, you admire the growing collage of newspaper clippings of Spider-Man. Peter is proud of what he does as Spider-Man. And he has every reason to be so. But for a long time, he couldn't share his experiences with anyone. He also wouldn't. The things that he saw and helped to prevent. Still, he isn't the type of person that would boast about it either. In the end, not even to you. But you could sense how proud he was afterwards. When you would congratulate him on his recent success. He just glowed. So you couldn't resist collecting little clippings for him to put up on his wall. A way of showing his achievements. But also that the things he does, had an impact. And if only for a very small audience, they still deeply appreciated his work. A small inset picture draws your attention. Your eye is being drawn to it. Like spotting a coin on the sidewalk. It's a clipping from last year, at about the same time.

Then you eye his drawer. You knew exactly which one to open. You concentrate on the noises coming from the bathroom. But by the sound of it, he wasn't coming back yet. So you rummage around the drawer. With a satisfied grin, you pull out the Spider-Man scarf. You can't help but sniffle as it looked so wrong on so many levels. The colors and patterns. It's hilarious. Winding it around your neck, and seating yourself comfortably on the desk chair. You grab one of the comic books lying around. And patiently wait for Peter to return. Only a few pages in, the bathroom door swings open. Peter appeared all tidied up, clean, and smelling fresh. Full of confidence.

"You wanna go?" Holding the door to the bathroom.

But before he has a chance to respond, you let the comic fall forward and shoot a web from your wrist.

"No…(Y/N)." He giggles, pacing towards you. You missed entirely. A string of web dangled from the ceiling. Peter utterly unimpressed by your actions. "Gimme those..."

You pout your lips, giving him a disappointed look. "I was hoping to at least find this wrapped." Tugging on the scarf. What followed was the inevitable tickling punishment. His strength was no match against you. In no time, Peter's strong arms had you squirming in his grasp. Removing the scarf and web-shooters from your defeated body.

"Alright, gimme a moment to freshen up." You blow and puff, catching your breath after the tickle fight with Peter. In the bathroom, you take a moment to change your shirt and tidy up. To your surprise, you find spots of cream literally everywhere. Even on your trousers. After a good clean up, you return to his room. A nervous flutter had your system scrambled. What if he didn't like your present? It kept circling in your mind. What if...

"Look!" Peter shoots up from his bed. "It's here." Handing you the comic he was reading. "I found it!"

"You can't convince me, Peter." Brushing his comic aside as you walk by.

"C'mon, (Y/N)!" He protests, flapping the page to and through. "I'll stop talking about if you read it."

"And admit I was wrong?" You quip as you look back over your shoulder. "Never…"

"Ooow…" He sighs. Falling backward on his bed.

"So, about the presents-" Taking your bag on your lap. Feeling a flutter of nerves. "May said we could open them. And eh… I...I've been-..."

"W-Wait." Peter interrupts. Nervously pacing up and down the room. "Can I-... go first?"

"Uhm, sure." Setting the bag beside you, you perch yourself upright on his desk chair. "Go for it." You give him a reassuring smile.

"C-Can-..." He stutters. "Can you… like… c-close your eyes?" He asks with his hands hidden behind his back, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet.

"Okay." Closing your eyes and await his instructions. "I can do that."

"Please… (Y/N)." He mutters nervously. "Don't be mad. I've..."

"Peter, how can I be-..." But a waft of warm breath tingles your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Your heart skips a beat. And your breath stocks in your throat along with the words. And before you were able to register what was happening. Your lips connect with something soft and warm. A hint of mint and freshness fills your senses. In an involuntary response, you pull away slightly, inhaling a small breath of surprise. And find yourself being drawn into it. Not only by both hands clasping onto either side of your head. But also a sudden spark igniting within. A craving. A desire. A pair of hands take the side of your head. The thumbs slowly caress your cheeks. Pulling you deeper into a slow and tender kiss.

A sense of relief. It's happiness that washes over you. You want Peter close to you. More than ever before. With your eyes closed, you reach out for his figure. Letting your fingers ghost along his body, from his torso down to his hips. Through the fabric of his clothing, your fingers lightly brush his rippled muscles. You feel his lips tremble against yours, as you reel him in towards you. Gasping a little as he throws his leg over one side, seating himself on your lap. A warm sensation shoots through your body like you never experienced before. A euphoric warmth of pure joy and bliss. His lips moving in perfect sync with yours. Kissing you slow and gentle. Your hands hold onto his hips, drawing him closer to you. Resting Peter on top of your pelvis. His fingers slide towards the back of your neck, intertwining with the end of your hair. Loosely playing with your it, as he holds you. Your lips dancing in sweet harmony. Your hands slide up and down his spine. You feel his lips curve into a smile. You both fall into a small chuckle.

As a soft moan falls from your lips as your part. You open your eyes, Peter's forehead resting against yours. You look up and lock eyes with his. Peter gazed at you with big heart eyes, sparking with tenderness and love. You watch breathlessly as his eyes studied yours with silent intensity. A blush colored his cheeks. Followed by a genuinely sweet smile, you wish never would disappear. His smile was one of happiness growing. You couldn't do anything else but return the smile. His lower lip quivered as a exhales a shuddering breath. "I love you." He said softly, before closing his eyes. Trying to hide the tears welling in his eyes.

"Peter..." You whisper, trying to get his attention. At the same time, you try to fight the tears as well. Swallow the lump forming in your throat. "Hey…" Your voice cracks. As you hold his cheeks in the palm of your hands. "Listen to me." Softly caressing his cheek with the pads of your thumb. He slowly opened his eyes, trying to blink away the tears welling in the corner of his eyes.

"I love you, Peter." Pressing your lips on his. "With all my heart."

A small tear rolls down his cheek. His cute smile still widespread on his face. "Hey...What are those tears for?" You ask, holding him close to you. Wiping away the rolling tear down his cheek.

"Tears of joy." He chuckles, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "You make me so happy." He sniffed softly, his nose all runny. "I love you (Y/N)." His eyes turned watery again, so you wrap your arms around him. Pulling him into a tight hug. Peter's head buried in your neck. "I love you so m-much..." He snickers into your ear.

"Pete… Stop." You sniffle, rubbing his back. "You're gonna make me cry as well."

"I'm sorry." Wiping his nose clean with the back of his hand. "It's the nerves." He chuckles.

"I gotta admit, Peter. You got balls." You compliment him with a kiss on the lips... "I couldn't understand why you would brush your teeth…"

Simultaneously, you both shoot back up and glance up at the sound of slow clapping coming from the door. May stands there, giving you both a look of approval. "Merry Christmas." She beams. "I've seen those heart eyes for such a long time." As she comes forward. Peter and you share a quick moment of eye contact. Not sure what was happening next. But May leans in and kisses you both on the forehead. "I guess you don't have to fight over who's going to sleep on the couch tonight, after all." She rubs your shoulder. "I'm really happy for the two of you. You two deserve each other."

In silence, you both watch May walk away. Peter's arm was wrapped around your neck, his other hand on your chest. Your one arm was wrapped around his lower back. The other hand on his hip. A lovely position. So calm and serene. Watching May leave the room. You turn to each other again. You both smile with the sense of relief, knowing that May approved of the relationship. But are then shaken up by a metal sound. "You two will definitely not be touching these kinds of things in a while." May jokes as a metal glove gets tossed through the door.

"Have fun." She gives you a wink before pulling the door shut. You can't help but chuckle for a moment. And listen for movement coming from the other side of the door. The grin on your face stretching.

"Is she gone?" You whisper, keeping your gaze locked to the door.

"I don't know." Peter murmurs back.

"But, can't you sense it with your tingle?"

"Only your heart racing like crazy." Pressing a kiss on your temple. "Hey..." Cupping your chin with one hand, making you turn your gaze to him. Kissing you very gently on the lips. "I didn't get it… What'd she mean?"

"Peter…" You chuckle. "It doesn't matter." You let your fingers brush past his cheek and hold the back of his head as you press your lips onto his. "Because you made this the best Christmas ever." And end by planting a soft kiss on top of his nose. "Thank you."

"You're everything to me (Y/N). The months that I spend away from you…" He blushes. "Have been the hardest. You complete me in every way. I don't want to be without you. Ever." He pauses for a moment, looking at you with those heart eyes and a cheesy smile. "Will you be my Christmas present?"

"Absolutely." You wholeheartedly agree. "My present wasn't boyfriend worthy anyway." You whisper.

Peter's eyes widen as his mouth falls open slightly. "Boyfriend." He giggles, spinning the desk chair around. The world fading away around the two of you. There were only the two of you. Nothing else. Now you understand what all those love songs are about. Happiness and joy. Bliss. Finally together. Wrapped in each other's arms. With a thump, you land onto his mattress. Warm and cozy underneath his sheets. Captivated in his full embrace. Cuddling, snuggling, and spooning.

"Can I unwrap my present?" He whispers in your ear, followed by a brush of his lips on the nape of your neck. While ghosting a finger along the hem of your shirt.

You roll onto your back, allowing Peter to bury his face into the side of your neck. Kissing you gently. As you rake your fingers through his fluffy brown curls. Bringing your lips to his ear. Quitely whispering to him. "If it were up to me, you and I wouldn't be laying here wrapped in the first place." Peter chuckles softly, his breath fanning across your collarbone, as his hand slowly caresses your waistline. His lips meet your jawline as he rolls on top of you.

"Never leave me (Y/N)."

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x male reader #peter parker x male!reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker #peter parker imagine #tom holland peter parker #peter parker tom holland #peter parker oneshot #christmas oneshot #spiderman x male reader #spiderman x male!reader #male reader #male!reader

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whumphoarder · 5 years

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Them’s the Breaks

Summary: Peter is home alone and ends up breaking his ankle. Figuring his super healing will fix it overnight, he doesn’t tell anyone and tries to sleep it off, only to wake up in the middle of the night in agony. Cue Tony, saving his ass yet again.

(Alternative title: Super Healing is Not All it’s Cracked Up To Be Tibia)

Word count: 3,174

Genre: Whump, hurt/comfort, fluffy angst

A/N: Thanks to @sallyidss for beta reading!

Link to read on Ao3

Prior to being bitten by a radioactive spider, Peter had broken exactly one bone in his life.

He was eleven. Someone dared him to do a flip on a trampoline at a classmate’s birthday party. The flip itself was mediocre, but the landing was legendary. Blood streamed down Peter’s face from his now crooked, throbbing nose, ruining both his brand new stormtrooper t-shirt and the horrified birthday girl’s pink dress.

Ned—ever the sympathetic friend—had puked on the spot, which hadn’t done wonders for either of their middle school social statuses.

Peter managed to hold it together pretty well for the twenty minutes it had taken Ben to arrive, but the second the car door was shut and they pulled out of the driveway, the façade crumbled. Peter’s shoulders shook and tears ran down his cheeks, stinging his nose, because, as it turned out, broken bones just really hurt. Almost as much as Peter’s pride.

But Ben was there, and Ben always knew how to make Peter feel better. He cracked jokes about his nephew’s failing gymnastics career and tossed wadded up Burger King napkins at the kid’s messy face all the way to urgent care until Peter’s choked sobs turned to quiet giggles.

The doctor reset Peter’s nose and May fussed over him all weekend, making sure he was icing it appropriately. Three weeks later, he was back to normal.

But that was before the bite—before Peter had taken the unofficial job of crime-fighting teenage vigilante.

He’s up to eight bones now, lifetime total. Besides the nose, there were four ribs last summer (for the record, being thrown into brick walls really sucks), his collarbone back in January (missed a web and crashed onto the roof of a parking garage), and two fingers just before spring break (got stomped on by some dude gallivanting about in a rhino costume, what even is his life?). Luckily, super healing came as part of the package, so what had taken Peter’s sixth grade body weeks to repair, he now accomplishes in mere hours.

Today, however, it’s not Spider-Man who injures himself. It’s just Peter Parker, fresh off an evening patrol, wiping out in the goddamn shower.

“Oh shit!” Peter gasps sharply as his feet slide out from under him on the wet surface. His hand flies out on reflex and grasps the shower curtain, which he pulls down on top of him. As he slams onto the floor of the tub, his ankle rolls sideways underneath him. A split-second later, the metal curtain rod hits him in the face.

“...Rude…” he groans.

Water is still streaming down from the shower, splashing onto the sheet of vinyl now covering Peter’s body. He pulls the curtain off himself with another groan and gingerly pushes himself up to sitting. Half-blind from the shampoo running into his eyes, he reaches up over his head and fumbles for the shower handle. The water stops.

Peter makes to stand, but a sudden jolt of pain just above his ankle stops him. With a grunt, he lets himself fall back against the tub, teeth clenched.

Oh yeah, he’s never gonna live this one down.

It’s not his most graceful moment, but somehow Peter manages to extricate himself from the tub. Thankfully May is out of town this weekend so no one is around to hear the crashes and muffled curses issuing from the bathroom. He quickly dries off and pulls on some clean sweat pants and a t-shirt before hopping on his left leg to retrieve a bag of frozen peas from the kitchen. Once back in his bedroom, he carefully props the already-swelling ankle up on pillows and rests his makeshift ice pack on top.

It’s times like these when Peter curses his mutated spider metabolism for burning through normal painkillers so fast that Tylenol and ibuprofen are about as effective as Skittles. Tony has better drugs at the compound—the kind that actually work on him—but Peter isn’t too keen on explaining to his mentor how someone who’d stopped a runaway car with his bare hands and walked away without a scratch a few hours ago was no match for his own bathroom.

Plus, it’s really not that bad. He can deal. He’ll just sleep it off and everything will be fine by the morning.

Peter wakes to nauseating pain.

It takes him a moment to orient himself. He’s lying on his bed in a tangle of covers, a deep, pulsing ache radiating from his right ankle. He flaps his hand around under his pillow until he locates his phone and lifts it to his face to check the time. It’s 1:13 a.m.

God, this sucks.

When Peter pushes himself up to sitting, he can’t help but let out a muffled cry as a fresh wave of agony shoots through his leg all the way to the hip. It’s healing—he swears he can actually feel the bone knitting itself back together under his skin—but something about it feels different. Wrong.

Flipping on the bedside lamp, he pulls his covers off his aching foot and instantly gasps at the sight. It’s purple with bruises and swollen to double its usual size. On the side, right where the ache is deepest, the bone is jutting out at a weird angle and his stomach rolls at the sight. When he tries to move his foot slightly, searing pain nearly makes him lose his dinner.

This isn’t right. None of his past breaks have ever hurt this much. He can’t do this anymore—he needs help.

Fingers trembling, he types out his message: Mr. Stark? Are you awake?

It’s about thirty seconds before Peter sees the three dots indicating that Tony is typing: Haven’t slept since the 90s, kid. Why?

Peter steels himself with a deep breath as another pulse of pain stabs his ankle. He types out and backspaces a few different variations of his confession, ranging from ‘I fucked up my ankle and it’s killing me pls send help’ to ‘Nothing, just couldn’t sleep, sorry’ before finally settling on a vague version of the truth:

I might have done something dumb

Within five seconds of sending the text, Peter’s phone starts ringing, startling him. His fingers fumble to accept the call. When he speaks, his voice comes out more like a squeak than anything else. “Yeah?”

Tony cuts right to the chase. “How dumb are we talking here?” he asks briskly. “Because my lawyers generally appreciate a heads up.”

“No, it’s not that kind of dumb,” Peter manages to grit out through the pain. “It’s um… it’s just…” he trails off, not sure quite how to word this.

“It’s one in the morning. Just spit it out,” Tony prompts.

Tears are pricking at the corners of Peter’s eyes now, the ache somehow finding a way to become even deeper. “I-I got hurt,” he manages to say.

Tony’s tone instantly sobers. “Where? How bad?”

“No no, it’s not that bad,” Peter says quickly. “I just messed up my ankle or something. I thought I could just sleep it off and my healing would fix it, but it’s like”—he takes a shuddery inhale—“It just… it just really hurts, Mr. Stark.” He wants to cry; he feels absolutely pathetic.

Tony curses under his breath and Peter hears a lot of movement from the other end of the line. “Why didn’t I get any alerts from Karen on this?” he demands. “Because I put all those safety features in your suit for a reason and if I find out you coerced that Ned buddy of yours into disabling yet another layer of security, I swear to god, Pete—”

“I didn’t, I promise,” Peter interrupts. “Karen doesn’t know because it didn’t happen on patrol.”

“How did it happen then?”

“I just… kinda fell?”

“You fell?” Tony questions, confusion in his voice. “Fell where?”

Peter’s face flushes. “You know what, I-I’ll be okay,” he says. “I’m sorry to bother you, it’ll be fine in the morning, just—” Another pulse of pain shoots daggers up his right leg and his breath hitches.

“I’m already on my way,” Tony says, and Peter can hear the sound of wind rushing over the line now. “ETA, thirteen minutes.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to come out here!” Peter protests. “I just need some of those painkillers that you and Dr. Banner made. I dunno, maybe you could just send a couple over in one of your suits...?”

“Cute,” Tony remarks. “It’s adorable how you think I’m gonna let a fifteen-year-old dose out a drug strong enough to knock the Winter Soldier on his ass.”

“I’m sixteen now,” Peter argues. “Sixteen and a half, actually.”

“Equally adorable how you think stating your age in fractions helps your case,” Tony quips. “Listen, just hold tight, kid—I’ll be there soon.”

Peter sighs as the call disconnects.

Eleven minutes later, Tony arrives at the apartment and lets himself in with the spare key May had given him when it became apparent Peter's internship was more than just a run-of-the-mill semester-long program. He pauses in the doorway of Peter’s messy room to gaze at the miserable teenager sprawled out on the bed.

“Jesus, kid,” Tony swears quietly.

Peter gives a small wave. “Hey,” he mumbles. The nausea is back and he’s sweating slightly now. “Did you bring the drugs?”

“I did,” Tony says, his gaze narrowing as he steps closer to the bed, “but given that your ankle is currently resembling Violet Beauregarde’s, you’re not getting any until FRIDAY does her thing.”

Peter huffs, but he’s in too much pain to come up with anything witty to say. He holds still as Tony taps twice at the nanotech armor’s housing unit on his chest. A light appears and quickly scans over Peter’s body from head to toe.

After a moment, the light disappears again. “Scan complete, boss,” FRIDAY reports. “Partially healed misaligned fracture detected in the lower right tibia.”

“I broke my leg?” Peter balks. “I thought it was the ankle?”

“Your ankle is made up of three bones,” Tony explains. He pulls out his phone and starts typing something as he goes on. “Tibia, fibula…”—he pauses and glances up, frowning—“and that one that doesn’t rhyme.”

“The talus, boss,” FRIDAY supplies.

Diverting his attention back to the phone screen, Tony gives a short nod of acknowledgment. “Yeah, that one.”

“Oh.” Peter glances down awkwardly. “Um, I’m gonna take anatomy next semester.”

Tony hums absently. He finishes tapping out whatever message he’s been sending and pockets the device again. “In the meantime, I’m sure Bruce can tell you more fun bone facts when we get to Medbay.”

“Whoa, wait, what do you mean Medbay?” Peter demands, a fresh wave of panic and guilt crashing over him. “All I need is some meds so I can sleep through the worst of it and I’ll be fine,” he insists.

Tony huffs. “Your knowledge of anatomy might be lacking, but last time I checked you were getting an A in English so you should know that ‘misaligned’ isn’t a word you want connected to ‘fracture’. It’s healing wrong. You need x-rays. And a real doctor.”

With a groan, Peter drapes his arm dramatically over his face. “Great. Even my super healing is against me.”

“Not to mention you still haven’t told me how you fell,” Tony continues with a pointed look, “so if you’re trying to hide some other injury, or a vertigo thing, or—”

“I’m not,” Peter mumbles into the crook of his elbow. With a sigh, he lowers the arm from his face and looks miserably up at his mentor. “I just slipped in the stupid shower.”

To Tony’s credit, he doesn’t laugh.

(Even though his lips do twitch.)

Instead, he steps out of the bedroom and returns a moment later with a cup of water, which he hands to the kid along with two of the super strength painkillers from the orange pill bottle in his pocket. Peter downs them gratefully.

“Your aunt’s got her car here, right?” Tony checks.

Peter nods. “She took an Uber to the airport. Won’t be back until late Sunday. Conference for work.”

“Think she’d mind if we use it as a makeshift ambulance?”

Peter just shrugs.

“Alright then.” Tony presses the housing unit again and this time the armor encases his whole body. “Now I’m gonna pick you up and carry you down to the parking lot, and you’re not gonna make a big deal about it. Capisce?”

Peter suppresses a groan of embarrassment as he’s gathered carefully into Tony’s arms. Maybe next time he wipes out in the shower, he’ll get lucky and just drown.

The painkillers are strong and Peter ends up sleeping through most of the two-hour drive back to the compound. By the time they pull into the parking garage—May’s little dented Ford Focus looking positively ridiculous next to Tony’s array of expensive sports cars—it’s nearly four in the morning.

Bruce is waiting for them with a wheelchair, which Peter instantly balks at using.

“I don’t need that—I can totally walk,” he protests.

Bruce gives him a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, that’s not a good idea. Judging by the scans FRIDAY sent ahead for me, your bone rotated as it healed—that’s why it looks so deformed right now. Walking on it is only going to cause further problems.”

“You heard the man,” Tony says, gesturing to the chair. He smirks. “Unless you'd prefer me to get the suit on again.”

With a groan, Peter transfers himself into the chair. His ankle really does feel better now. The swelling is down and the pain only flares up when he jostles it too much—he can tell the bone has mostly knit itself back together.

Once back in Medbay, they’re joined by another doctor—someone from SHIELD called Helen Cho who Peter has never met before. She does some x-rays and an MRI while Peter half-dozes, still foggy from the medication.

When the scans are complete, he’s transferred back to a hospital bed while the two doctors talk over the results with him and Tony. Peter tries to pay attention but he’s still groggy and exhausted, so the medical jargon sounds more like irritating droning than actual words. Then all of a sudden, the three of them start throwing around words like ‘rebreaking’ and ‘inserting pins’ and ‘realignment surgery’ and Peter snaps right out of his haze.

“Whoa, whoa, what do you mean surgery?” Peter demands. “It’s fine, oh my god.”

Dr. Cho gives him a half-smile. “Look here, Peter.” She holds up the x-ray and points to the bulge on the side of Peter’s ankle. “This malunion is going to significantly reduce your mobility, as well as potentially cause chronic pain. Given your”—she pauses for a moment—“unusually active lifestyle, I would highly suggest surgical correction sooner rather than later.”

And that’s how, several hours later, Peter finds himself lying on a bed in a pre-op room at SHIELD Medical, waiting for some surgeons to take a bone-saw to his freshly healed right leg.

“How you feeling, kiddo?” Tony asks, plopping himself down in an armchair beside the bed.

“Really stupid,” Peter answers honestly. He gazes down at the deformed bones in his ankle. “All this from falling in the shower.”

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Eh, this shit happens. One time in college, I threw my back out during a ping-pong match with Rhodey.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

Tony nods. “Bodies are dumb. Even enhanced ones—did you know Steve once sneezed so hard he dislocated a rib?”

Peter gives him a skeptical look. “Now you’re joking.”

“Cross my heart,” Tony chuckles. “Then Thor clapped him on the back and popped it back in.”

Peter opens his mouth to express his disbelief at this information, but before he can do so, a nurse dressed in light blue scrubs comes in to take him to the OR. A fresh wave of anxiety comes over Peter and he shoots his mentor a pleading look.

“You’re really sure this is necessary?” Peter tries one last time.

Tony gives his shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be fine,” he assures. “As soon as you’re healed up, I’ll teach you some sweet ping-pong moves.”

Peter smirks. “Maybe I should get Rhodey to show me so I don’t throw out my back.”

“Nah, you don’t want him either,” Tony says, waving his hand dismissively. “I might have thrown out my back, but he ended up with a concussion.”

Peter blinks at him. “What kind of ping-pong games did you play?”

Tony locks eyes with him. “Ball is life, kid.”

The surgery itself goes as well as can be expected. Peter wakes up groggy and disoriented, with three new metal pins inside his ankle and a bright red cast around the outside. Bruce feeds him ice chips, and Tony video calls May from his Starkpad so she can fuss over her nephew a bit from Denver. Peter silently marvels at how this ridiculous life he leads has somehow brought him to the point where Iron Man and the Hulk are functioning as his postoperative caretakers.

Then his thoughts are derailed when he suddenly throws up bile all over the bedsheets and Tony’s tablet.

“It’s okay, Peter,” Bruce assures the thoroughly humiliated boy—who is now clutching a pink plastic basin to his chest as if his life depends on it—as he helps the nurse to strip the bed. “Nausea is a really common side effect of the anesthesia, and especially considering how much you had to be under for your metabolism, this is to be expected.”

Standing off to the side, wiping the tablet down with disposable disinfectant wipes, Tony huffs. “I mean if you knew that, Bruce, you could have warned me…”

Whether the antiemetics the doctors give Peter do their job or simply knock him out through the worst of the nausea, Peter will never know. But when he wakes again a few hours later, life is significantly better.

He’s released from Medical the next morning and Tony brings him back to the compound to finish recovering in his own room. The cast comes off Sunday morning and Peter’s good as new.

Late Sunday afternoon, Tony drops Peter back off at his apartment—Happy tailing along behind in a much shinier, undented, and heavily upgraded Ford Focus—and thanks May for loaning him her vehicle before asking permission to use their restroom.

Emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later, Tony ruffles Peter’s hair and tells the kid to take it easy before driving off again.

When Peter goes to take a shower later that night, he finds the floor of the tub covered in adhesive non-slip rubber duck decals.

(Yeah, Peter’s never gonna live this one down.)

Fic Masterlist

For more Tony helping Peter out sticky of situations, try:

You Broke Tony

The Five Times Peter Denies an Illness or Injury + the One Time He Doesn’t

#peter parker whump #spider-man fic #hurt peter parker #irondad fic #spiderman #surgery #my fic

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supermacaroniandsqueezeblr · 5 years

Text

“Wizards” AU fic: Chapter Ten

I’m finally FINISHED at last!! This fic was a labor of love and passion for me, and I’m really happy that I was able to finally complete it. I hope you guys have all enjoyed the story, and I hope you all like the happy ending!

A few days after the events of the festival, Sean and Emilia had eventually decided to both tell their parents about their engagement to one another. Upon hearing the news, the king and queen were thrilled, for now their kingdoms could finally be united as one, and the two lovers would be crowned as the future monarchs. It was agreed that the ceremony would be held the next year on the first day of spring, and both that and the Spring Festival would be combined into a week-long celebration.

As the months passed along with the changing seasons and their corresponding festivals, Sean and Emilia grew closer together, and seldom a day went by when they weren’t seen spending time with one another. During the summer, they snacked on ripe strawberries and went stargazing in the evenings, and when fall and winter arrived, they drank hot apple cider and spent the nights inside the old oak tree they called home, curled up together underneath fluffy blankets to keep warm and reading stories to each other out loud. They felt safe and content in each other’s arms as they drifted off into a peaceful sleep. Sean himself felt like the luckiest guy around to have someone like Emilia, and Emilia felt very fortunate that someone like Sean loved her in return.

Eventually, the snow began to melt as winter slowly transitioned into warmer weather. The kingdom’s subjects knew it was time to prepare for not only the next festival, but for the royal wedding as well, and they wasted no time in getting to work right away. Under the instructions of the king, decorations were crafted, fruits were being harvested, and the utmost care and attention was given to the flowers and plants to make sure they looked their best for the big week. All the fairies could hardly wait, including Sean and Emilia, as well as their parents.

At last, the big day arrived, and the entire kingdom waited with bated breath for the ceremony to begin as they took their seats on rows of toadstools underneath an apple blossom tree. Both Sean and Emilia were excited, but very anxious at the same time. The bride-to-be was almost finished being dressed and made-up by the servants, while her soon to be groom was nearly done getting ready himself. He straightened out the white bowtie he was wearing, brushed his hair once more, then took a good look at his reflection in the mirror on the wall of his bedroom, drawing in and letting out a deep breath. Peter and Daryll, who were acting as Sean’s best men, were watching nearby.

“You nervous?” Daryll asked. Peter made a face at him and lightly smacked him on the shoulder for asking such an obvious question. “Ow! Sorry.” he replied.

“No, it’s alright,” Sean started. “To answer your question-y-yeah, I am...a little.”

“I’m sure it’s perfectly normal to be feeling that way before your big day, Sean.” Peter reassured him.

“I don’t know...it’s just that this has all been planned practically since the day I was born-and now, it’s finally happening.” The prince let out a sigh, his mind going back to all the lessons and wisdom his mother had taught him growing up, as well as all the interactions he had with Emilia during his childhood. “What if I’m not good enough to rule the kingdom?”

“Sean, what are you talking about?” Daryll exclaimed. “You’re going to be a great king!”

Peter nodded in agreement. “Yeah, you’re smart, hard-working, and I’ve never seen anyone quite as skilled in magic as you.”

“And besides, you’ll have Emilia to help you.” Daryll winked.

“But what if I’m not..good enough for her?” The thought briefly crossed his mind, and it was enough to make his stomach drop.

“Now that’s the craziest thing I’ve heard yet!” Daryll quipped, rolling his eyes. “You love her, don’t you?”

“Yes, with all my heart.” Sean answered.

“And she loves you, right?”

“Of course.” Reinstating that out loud made him feel much better, and pushed away those negative thoughts.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about! I think you’ll be just fine.” Daryll finished. “But you’d better hurry up! You don’t want to leave her waiting!”

“Alright, alright, I’m ready!” Taking another deep breath, he headed out with his friends following close behind. They landed at the foot of the apple blossom tree, his mother waiting there with a gentle, comforting smile. Sean smiled back. Just then, Jacob and his band, who were sitting off to the side, started to play a sweet concerto. The crowd went into a series of excited murmurs as two little flower girls dressed in pink fluttered in between, tossing pink petals from a woven basket. At last, they were followed by Emilia and her father. Giving her a smile and her hand a tight squeeze, he escorted her down the aisle.

Sean didn’t think it was at all possible for Emilia to look more beautiful than she did at last year’s spring festival, but his breath was taken away as soon as he saw her. She was wearing a gorgeous off-the-shoulder dress fashioned of white rose petals, and tied around her waist was a ribboned sash made of woven spider’s silk and dyed a peachy pink color. Hovering a few feet behind her, two other girls were holding up the ends of the ribbon, following along with each step she took. White roses and a spray of pearls on wire adorned either side of her head, and baby’s breath was scattered in her hair. A cobweb veil concealed her face, and a floral anklet on her right leg completed the look. When at last they reached the floral altar at the tree’s base, the others stepped aside as Sean turned to face Emilia. He lifted the veil, revealing her face to the crowd before her as she smiled warmly at him. Sean returned the expression, and in that moment, they knew that their love was truly meant to be. The music then stopped as the king began to speak.

“My fellow subjects!” he declared, stepping forward. “Today is a momentous occasion for us all! Not only does today mark the first day of the season of Spring, but today, the time has come for my daughter, her royal highness, Princess Emilia…”

As he gestured to her, Emilia smiled and bowed her head gracefully.

“As well as my son, his royal highness, Prince Sean…” the queen added, gesturing to Sean, who smiled and nodded.

“To take their places as the future king and queen of the mountain fairies!” the king finished, arms outstretched.

The crowd cheered and applauded before the king continued. “When our reign comes to an end, it shall be Sean and Emilia’s solemn duty, to protect this kingdom and its people-to rule from the heart, with wisdom and integrity.”

The queen then gestured for Emilia to step forward towards her as she reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out her wand. “Dear Emilia, noble and pure-hearted,” she began as she gently waved it over the bride’s head. “You’ve shown knowledge and maturity beyond your years, and you always wear your heart on your sleeve with pride. These are the qualities that, when the time is ready, will greatly suit you in becoming who you are destined to be-Emilia, guardian of the forest glen-queen of the mountain fairies.”

As she spoke, a sparkling shower of fairy dust shone from the wand’s tip, and in a brilliant flash of light, Emilia found herself wearing a golden headpiece with a sparkling sapphire in its center, just like the queen was wearing. She grinned with delight as she gave a curtsy in appreciation, and the queen returned the gesture.

The king drew out his wand from within his robes as Sean stepped towards him. The future monarch closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly as the king waved his wand and began to speak. “Sean, dear lad, your hard work and dedication to your kingdom is truly remarkable, and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that you’ll be a great ruler someday. Wear this hat with honor, for you shall become-Sean, leader of the Knights of Stardust, protectors of Dolan-king of the mountain fairies.”

With a touch of the wand and in the blink of an eye, Sean’s simple feathered cap transformed into a wide brimmed light green and blue hat. As he opened his eyes and looked upwards toward the new garment, he couldn’t help but think it suited him perfectly. He and the king bowed towards each other as more applause from the fairies followed, and then the king spoke again.

“May I have the rings?” he asked. At once, a small boy dressed in red and pink and wearing a yellow daisy cap appeared by his side holding a miniature satin pillow with two glistening dewdrop wedding rings resting on top. The king took the pillow, standing in-between the couple, as Sean took one ring and carefully slid it onto Emilia’s index finger, with that same sweet, shy smile she had come to love so much. Emilia smiled back and put the remaining ring on Sean’s gloved finger as they intertwined hands.

“Do you, Queen Emilia, take King Sean to be your lawfully wedded husband, and pledge your love and loyalty to him from this day forward, now and forever more?”

“I do.”

“And do you, King Sean, take Queen Emilia to be your lawfully wedded wife, and pledge your love and loyalty to her from this day forward, now and forever more?”

“I do.”

“With that, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” the king declared, smiling warmly. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Emilia, practically jumping up and down with excitement, closed her eyes and cupped Sean’s head in her hands, kissing him tenderly, as Sean did the same. As they kissed, a light breeze swept through the apple blossom tree above them, causing a shower of petals to flutter down, surrounding them. The crowd erupted into a frenzied applause, cheering wildly for the newlyweds. Even Peter and Daryll were finding it hard not to get a little misty-eyed. As the band began to play once again, Sean and Emilia walked down the aisle hand in hand as the fairies continued to clap with delight. One of the flower girls from before handed her a beautiful bouquet of white roses, as the newly crowned queen tossed it behind her. The guests leaped high into the air to grab it, but in the end, Gerda was the one to catch it, much to Greta’s dismay, as she crossed her arms with a huff.

The wedding reception that followed soon after was a grand celebration, complete with a great feast full of delicious food and desserts, including an extravagant three-tiered cake, as well as more music and dancing. But everyone had to agree that the stars of the afternoon were Sean and Emilia as they raised glasses of punch, giving a warm toast to the happy couple. And indeed, they couldn’t have been happier as they waltzed together, lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes. In that moment in time, both Sean and Emilia knew that with the other by their side, their future would be a bright one.

And of course, they lived happily ever after.

The End

#i hope this is good!!#i tried my hardest #emily's terrible fanfics #ralph bakshi #ralph bakshi's wizards #non disney animated films

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forestwater87 · 7 years

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John Dies at the End -- David Wong

So okay this is literally the best book I’ve ever read, but there’s really no way to explain “drug that lets you see into other dimensions turns two assholes into the worst exorcists ever” that doesn’t make it sound a little lame, so fuck it. I’m typing up the entire goddamn prologue.

If you need something to read, just . . . try it. It’s amazing. Try the book that the author calls a “convoluted NyQuil fever dream of a horror story,” “a Class II biohazard,” “the unholy thing I was growing in my brain’s murky cloning vat,” a “gruesome hyperactive chain of absurd non sequiturs,” “a crash between two semi trucks hauling napalm and vibrators,” “400 pages of undiagnosed personality disorder,” a “150,000-word cry for help,” “a hallucinogenic cacophonous Mardi Gras of fart monsters,” and “a 400-page tour through my misfiring synapses.”

Seriously, everyone. A work of fucking genius.

Prologue

SOLVING THE FOLLOWING riddle will reveal the awful secret behind the universe, assuming you do not go utterly mad in the attempt. If you already happen to know the awful secret behind the universe, feel free to skip ahead.

Let’s say you have an ax. Just a cheap one, from Home Depot. On one bitter winter day, you use said ax to behead a man. Don’t worry, the man was already dead. Or maybe you should worry, because you’re the one who shot him.

He had been a big, twitchy guy with veiny skin stretched over swollen biceps, a tattoo of a swastika on his tongue. Teeth filed into razor-sharp fangs—you know the type. And you’re chopping off his head because, even with eight bullet holes in him, you’re pretty sure he’s about to spring back to his feet and eat the look of terror right off your face. On the follow-through of the last swing, though, the handle of the ax snaps in a spray of splinters. You now have a broken ax. So, after a long night of looking for a place to dump the man and his head, you take a trip into town with your ax. You go to the hardware store, explaining away the dark reddish stains on the broken handle as barbecue sauce. You walk out with a brand-new handle for your ax. The repaired ax sits undisturbed in your garage until the spring when, on one rainy morning, you find in your kitchen a creature that appears to be a foot-long slug with a bulging egg sac on its tail. Its jaws bite one of your forks in half with what seems like very little effort. You grab your trusty ax and chop the thing into several pieces. On the last blow, however, the ax strikes a metal leg of the overturned kitchen table and chips out a notch right in the middle of the blade. Of course, a chipped head means yet another trip to the hardware store. They sell you a brand-new head for your ax. As soon as you get home, you meet the reanimated body of the guy you beheaded earlier. He’s also got a new head, stitched on with what looks like plastic weed-trimmer line, and it’s wearing that unique expression of “you’re the man who killed me last winter” resentment that one so rarely encounters in everyday life. You brandish your ax. The guy takes a long look at the weapon with his squishy, rotting eyes and in a gargly voice he screams, “That’s the same ax that beheaded me!” IS HE RIGHT?

I WAS PONDERING that riddle as I reclined on my porch at 3:00 A.M., a chilled breeze numbing my cheeks and earlobes and flicking tickly hairs across my forehead. I had my feet up on the railing, leaning back in one of those cheap plastic lawn chairs, the kind that blow out onto the lawn during every thunderstorm. It would have been a good occasion to smoke a pipe had I owned one and had I been forty years older. It was one of those rare moments of mental peace I get these days, the kind you don’t appreciate until they’re ov— My cell phone screeched, the sound like a sonic bee sting. I dug the slim little phone from my jacket pocket, glanced at the number and felt a sickening little twinge of fear. I disconnected the call without answering. The world was silent again, save for the faint applause of trees rustling in the wind and crumbly dead leaves scraping lightly down the pavement. That, and the scuffle of a mentally challenged dog trying to climb onto the chair next to me. After two attempts to mount the thing, Molly managed to send the chair clattering onto its side. She stared at the toppled chair for several seconds and then started barking at it. The phone again. Molly growled at the chair. I closed my eyes, said an angry five-word prayer and answered the call. “Hello?” “Dave? This is John. Your pimp says bring the heroin shipment tonight, or he’ll be forced to stick you. Meet him where we buried the Korean whore. The one without the goatee.” That was code. It meant “Come to my place as soon as you can, it’s important.” Code, you know, in case the phone was bugged. “John, it’s three in the—” “Oh, and don’t forget, tomorrow is the day we kill the president.” Click. He was gone. That last part was code for, “Stop and pick me up some cigarettes on the way.” Actually, the phone probably was bugged, but I was confident the people doing it could just as easily do some kind of remote intercept of our brain waves if they wanted, so it was moot. Two minutes and one very long sigh later, I was humming through the night in my truck, waiting for the heater to blow warm air and trying not to think of Frank Campo. I clicked on the radio, hoping to keep the fear at bay via distraction. I got a local right-wing talk radio program. “I’m here to tell ya, immigration, it’s like rats on a ship. America is the ship and allllll these rats are comin’ on board, y’all. And you know what happens when a ship gets too many rats on board? It sinks. That’s what.” I wondered if a ship had ever really sunk that way. I wondered what was giving my truck that rotten-egg smell. I wondered if the gun was still under the driver’s seat. I wondered. Was there something moving back there, in the darkness? I glanced in my rearview mirror. No, a trick of the shadows. I thought of Frank Campo. Frank was an attorney, heading home from the office one evening in his black Lexus. The car’s wax job gleaming in the night like a shell of black ice, Frank feeling weightless and invincible behind the greenish glow of his dashboard lights. He senses a tingling on his legs. He flips on the dome light. Spiders. Thousands of them.

Each the size of a hand.

They’re spilling over his knees, pushing up inside his pant legs. The things look like they’re bred for war, jagged black bodies with yellow stripes, long spiny legs like needle points.

He freaks, cranks the wheel, flips down an embankment.

After they pried him out of the wreckage and after he stopped ranting, the cops assured him there wasn’t a sign of even one spider inside the car.

If it had ended there, you could write it off as a bad night, a trick of the eyes, one of Scrooge’s bad potatoes. But it didn’t end there. Frank kept seeing things—awful things—and over the months all the king’s doctors and all the king’s pills couldn’t make Frank’s waking nightmares go away.

And yet, other than that, the guy was fine. Lucid. As sane as a sunset. He’d write a brilliant legal brief on Wednesday, and on Thursday he’d swear he saw tentacles writhing under the judge’s robes.

So? Who do you go to in a situation like that?

I pulled up to John’s building, felt the old dread coming back, churning like a sour stomach. The brisk wind chased me to the door, carrying a faint sulfur smell blown from a plant outside town that brewed drain cleaner. That and the pair of hills in the distance gave the impression of living downwind from a sleeping, farty giant.

John opened the door to his third-floor apartment and immediately gestured toward a very cute and very frightened-looking woman on his sofa. “Dave, this is Shelly. She needs our help.”

Our help.

That dread, like a punch in the stomach. You see, people like Frank Campo, and this girl, they never came for “our help” when they needed a carburetor rebuilt.

We had a specialty.

Shelly was probably nineteen, with powder-blue eyes and the kind of crystal clear pale skin that gave her a china doll look, chestnut curls bundled behind her head in a ponytail. She wore a long, flowing skirt that her fingers kept messing with, an outfit that only emphasized how small she was. She had the kind of self-conscious, pleading helplessness some guys go crazy for. Girl in distress. Makes you want to rescue her, take her home, curl up with her, tell her everything is gonna be okay.

She had a white bandage on her temple.

John stepped into the corner of his tiny apartment that served as the kitchen and smoothly returned to place a cup of coffee in her hands. I struggled to keep my eyes from rolling; John’s almost therapist-like professionalism was ridiculous in a room dominated by a huge plasma-screen TV with four video game systems wired to it. John had his hair pulled back into a neat job-interview ponytail and was wearing a button-up shirt. He could look like a grown-up from time to time.

I was about to warn the girl about John’s coffee, which tasted like a cup of battery acid someone had pissed in and then cursed at for several hours, but John turned to her and in a lawyerly voice said, “Shelly, tell us your story.”

She raised timid eyes to me. “It’s my boyfriend. He . . . he won’t leave me alone. He’s been harassing me for about a week. My parents are gone, on vacation and I’m . . . I’m terrified to go home.”

She shook her head, apparently out of words. She sipped the coffee, then grimaced as if it had bit her.

“Miss—”

“Morris,” she said, barely audible.

“Ms. Morris, I strongly recommend a women’s shelter. They can help you get a restraining order, keep you safe, whatever. There are three in this city, and I’ll be happy to make the call—”

“He—my boyfriend, I mean—he’s been dead for two months.”

John cast a little gleeful glance my way, as if to say, “See how I deliver for you, Dave?” I hated that look. She went on.

“I—I didn’t know where else to go. I heard, you know, through a friend of mine that you handle, um, unusual problems.” She nudged aside a stack of DVD cases on an end table and sat the mug down, glancing at it distrustfully as if to remind herself not to accidentally drink from it again, lest it betray her anew. She turned back to me.

“They say you’re the best.”

I didn’t inform her that whoever called us “the best” had pretty low standards. I guess we were the best in town at this, but who would you brag to about that? It’s not like this shit has its own section of the phone book.

I walked over to a cushioned chair and scooped out its contents (four worn guitar magazines, a sketch pad, and a leather-bound King James Version of the Holy Bible). As I tried to settle in, a leg broke off and the whole chair slumped over at a thirty-degree angle. I leaned over nonchalantly, trying to look like that’s exactly what I had expected to happen.

“Okay. When he comes, you can see him?”

“Yes. I can hear him, too. And he, uh . . .”

She brushed the bandage on the side of her skull. I looked at her in bewilderment. Was she serious?

“He hits you?”

“Yes.”

“With his fist?”

“Yes.”

John looked up from his coffee indignantly. “Man, what a dick!”

I did roll my eyes this time and glared at John once they stopped. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a ghost, but I’m guessing that if you did, the thing didn’t run over and punch you in the face. I’m guessing that’s never happened to any of your friends, either.

“When it first happened,” Shelly said, “I thought I was going crazy. Up until now, I’ve never bel—”

“Believed in ghosts,” I finished. “Right.” That line was obligatory, everybody wanting to come off as the credible skeptic. “Look, Miss, I don’t want to—”

“I told her we would look into it tonight,” John said, heading me off before I accidentally introduced some rational thought into this thing. “He’s haunting her house, out in [town name removed for privacy]. I thought you and I could head over there, get out of the city for a night, show this bastard what’s what.”

I felt a burst of irritation, mostly because John knew the story was bullshit. But then it suddenly clicked in my mind that, yes, John knew, and he had called me because he was trying to set me up with this girl. Button-cute, dead boyfriend, chance to be her hero. As usual, I didn’t know whether to thank him or punch him in the balls.

Sixteen different objections rose up in my mind at once and somehow they all canceled each other out. Maybe if there had been an odd number. . . .

WE HEADED OUT, in my Bronco. We had told Shelly not to drive herself, in case she had a concussion, but the reality was that, whether or not her story was true, we still had vivid memories of Mr. Campo and his unusually spidery car. You see, Frank found out the hard way that the dark things lurking in the night don’t haunt old houses or abandoned ships. They haunt minds.

Shelly was in the passenger seat, hugging herself, looking blankly out the windshield. She said, “So, do you guys, like, do this a lot?”

“Off and on,” said John. “Been doing it for a few years.”

“How does somebody get into this?”

“There was an incident,” he said. “A series of incidents, I guess. A dead guy, another dead guy. Some drugs. It’s kind of a long story. Now we can see things. Sometimes. I have a dead cat that follows me around, wondering why I never feed it. Oh, and I had one hamburger that started mooing when I ate it.” He glanced at me. “You remember that?”

I grunted, said nothing.

It wasn’t mooing, John. It was screaming.

Shelly didn’t look like she was listening anymore.

“I call it Dante’s Syndrome,” John said. I had never heard him call it any such thing. “Meaning, I think Dave and I gained the ability to peer into Hell. Only it turns out Hell is right here, it’s all through us and around us and in us like the microbes that swarm through your lungs and guts and veins. Hey, look! An owl!”

We all looked. It was an owl, all right.

“Anyway,” I broke in, “we just did a couple of favors for people, eventually word got around.”

I felt like that was enough background and I wanted to stop John before he got to the part where he says he kept eating that screaming hamburger, down to the last bite.

I left the truck running as I jumped out at my place for supplies. I bypassed the house for the weatherworn toolshed in the backyard, opened the padlocked door and swept over the dark shelves with my flashlight:

A Winnie the Pooh toy with dried blood around its eyes;

A stuffed and mounted badgerconda (a cross between a badger and an anaconda);

A large Mason jar filled with cloudy formaldehyde, where inside floated a six-inch clump of cockroaches arranged roughly in the shape of a human hand.

I grabbed a medieval-style torch John had stolen from the wall of a theme restaurant. I picked up a clear squeeze bottle filled with a thick green liquid that immediately turned bloodred as soon as I touched it. I reconsidered, sat it back on the shelf and grabbed my vintage 1987 ghetto blaster instead.

I went into the house and called to Molly. I opened a small plastic tub in the kitchen cabinet filled with little pink, rubbery chunks, like erasers. I put a handful in my pocket and rushed back out the door, the dog following on my heels.

Shelly lived in a simple two-story farmhouse, black shutters on white siding. It sat on an island of turf in a sea of harvest-flattened cornfields. We walked past a mailbox shaped like a cow and saw a hand-painted sign on the front door that read THE MORRISON’S—ESTABLISHED 1962. John and I had a long debate at the door about whether or not that apostrophe belonged there.

I know, I know. If I had a brain, I would have walked away right then.

John stepped up, pushed open the front door and ducked aside. I dug in my pocket and pulled out one of the pink chunks. They were steak-shaped dog treats, complete with little brown grill lines. I realized at that moment that no dog would know what those grill lines were and that they were purely for my benefit.

“Molly!”

I shook the treat in front of her and then tossed it through the door. The dog ran in after it.

We waited for the sound of, say, dog flesh splattering across a wall, but heard only the padding of Molly’s paws. Eventually she came back to the door, grinning stupidly. We decided it was safe to go in.

Shelly opened her mouth as if to express some kind of disapproval, but apparently decided against it. We stepped into the dark living room. Shelly moved to flip on a light, but I stopped her with a hand motion.

Instead, John hefted the torch and touched his lighter to it. A foot-tall flame erupted from the head and we slowly crept through the house by its flickering light. I noticed John had brought along a thermos of his coffee, this “favor” already qualifying as an all-nighter. I admit, the horrific burning sensation really did keep you awake.

I asked, “Where do you see him, mostly?”

Shelly’s fingers started twisting at her skirt again. “The basement. And once I saw him in the bathroom. His hand, it, uh, came up through the toilet while I—”

“Okay. Show us the basement door.”

“It’s in the kitchen, but I—guys, I don’t wanna go down there.”

“It’s cool,” John said. “Stay here with the dog, we’ll go down and check it out.”

I glanced at John, figuring that should have been my line as her handsome new knightly protector. We clomped down the stairs, torchlight pooling down the stairwell. Shelly waited behind us, crouching next to Molly and stroking her back.

A nice, modern basement.

Washer and dryer.

A hot-water heater making a soft ticking sound.

One of those waist-deep floor freezers.

John said, “He’s not here.”

“Big surprise.”

John used the torch to light a cigarette.

“She seems like a nice girl, doesn’t she?” John said softly and with a kind of smarmy wink in his voice. “You know, she reminds me of Amber. Jennifer’s friend. When she came to my door, for a second I actually thought it was her. By the way, I wanna thank you for comin’ along, Dave, sort of being my wingman on this. I’m not saying I’m going to take advantage of her distress or anything, but . . .”

I had tuned John out. Something was off, I knew right then. Lingering in the back of my mind, like a kid in the last row of the classroom with his hand up. John was acting all detectivey now, leaning over a large sink with a bundle of white cloth draped over the side.

“Oh, yeah,” said John, pulling up a length of cloth. “Take a look at this shit.” The garment was white, a single piece with straps, like an apron. Well, it had been white. Once. Now it was mostly smudges of faded-blood pink at the center, like a kindergarten kid’s rendering of the Japanese flag.

I turned to the large floor freezer. That freaking dread again, cold and hard and heavy. I strode over and opened the lid.

“Oh, geez.”

It was a tongue. That’s the first thing I saw, rubbery and purplish and not quite human. It was longer, animal-like, twisted inside a ziplock bag and coated in frost. And it wasn’t alone; the freezer was filled with hunks of flesh, some in clear bags, some bigger chunks in pink-stained white paper.

Butcher paper. White apron.

“Well, I think it’s obvious,” said John. “Those stories of UFOs that go around mutilating cows? I think we just solved it, my friend.”

I sighed.

“It’s a deer, you jackass. Her dad hunts, apparently. They keep the meat.”

I nudged around and found a frozen turkey, some sausages. I closed the lid to the fridge, feeling stupid, though not for the reason I should have felt stupid. I wasn’t thinking. Too late at night, too little sleep.

John started poking around in cabinets. I glanced around for the boom box, realizing now that we hadn’t brought it down here. Why did that bother me? It was upstairs with Shelly, right?

“Hey, Dave. You remember that guy whose basement got flooded, then called us and swore he had a fifteen-foot great white shark swimmin’ down there?”

I did remember but didn’t answer, afraid of losing that thread of thought that kept floating just out of reach like a wayward balloon on a windy day. Besides, when we got there, it wasn’t a great white at all. Just a garden-variety eight-foot tiger shark. We told the guy to wait until the basement dried out and call us back. When the water left, so did the shark, as if it evaporated or seeped out the tiny cracks in the concrete.

Think. Damned attention span. Something is wrong here.

I tried to pull myself back from my tangent, thinking of the boom box again. John had found it at a garage sale. There’s a story in the Old Testament, a young David driving away an evil spirit by playing pretty music on his harp—

Wait a second.

“John, did I hear you say you thought she looked like Amber?”

“Yeah.”

“John, Amber’s almost as tall as me. Blond hair, kind of top-heavy, right?”

“Yeah, cute as hell. I mean—”

“And you think Shelly looks like her? The girl sitting upstairs?”

“Yeah.” John turned to face me, already getting it.

“John, Shelly is short. Short with dark hair. Blue eyes.”

—They haunt minds—

John sighed, plucked out his cigarette and flung it to the floor. “Fuck.”

We turned toward the stairs, took a step up, and froze. Shelly was there, sitting halfway up the stairs, one arm curled around Molly’s neck. Innocent, wary eyes. Playing the part.

I stepped slowly onto the third stair, said, “Tell me something, Miss, uh, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your last name—”

“Shelly is fine.”

“Yeah, remind me anyway. I hate forgetting things.”

“Morris.”

I took another step toward her.

“That’s what I thought.”

Another step. I heard John step up behind me.

“So,” I said, “whose house is this?”

“What?”

“The sign out front says Morrison. Morris-son. Not Morris. Now would you describe your own appearance for me?”

“I don’t—”

“You see, because John and I have this thing where we’re both seeing completely different versions of you. Now, John has eyesight problems because of his constant masturbation, but I don’t think—”

She burst into snakes.

That’s right. Her body sort of spilled out of itself, falling into a dark, writhing puddle on the ground. It was a tangle of long, black serpents, rolling over each other and down the steps. We kicked at them as they slithered past, John warding them off with the torch.

Some, I saw, had patches of color on their scales, like flesh or the flowered pattern of Shelly’s dress. I caught a glimpse of one snake with a writhing human eyeball still embedded in its side, the iris powder blue.

Molly jumped back and barked—a little too late, I thought—and made a show of snapping at one of the snakes as it wound its way down the stairs. She bounded to the top of the stairs and disappeared through the doorway. We kicked through the slithering things and stomped up after the dog, just as the stairwell door banged shut on its own.

I reached for the knob. At the same moment it began to melt and transform, turning pink and finally taking the shape of a flaccid penis. It flopped softly against the door, like a man was cramming it through the knob hole from the other side.

I turned back to John and said, “That door cannot be opened.”

We stumbled back down the stairs, John jumping the last five, shoes smacking on the concrete. The snakes fled from the firelight and disappeared under shelves and between cardboard boxes.

That’s when the basement started filling with shit.

The brown sludge oozed up from the floor drain, an unmistakable stench rising above it. I looked around for a window we could crawl out of, found none. The sewage bloomed out from the center of the floor, swirling around the soles of my shoes.

John shouted, “There!”

I whipped my head in his direction, saw him grab a little plastic crate from a shelf and set it on the floor. He climbed up on it, then just stood there with the muck rising below. Finally he looked at me and said, “What are you doing? Go find us a way outta here!”

I was ankle-deep now in a pool that was disturbingly warm. I sloshed around, looking above me until I found the large, square duct feeding into the first floor from the furnace. The return air vent. I went to a pegboard on the wall and grabbed a foot-long screwdriver. I jabbed it into the crease between the metal of the duct and the floor, prying down the apparatus with a squeal of pulled nails.

I finally got a hold on the edge of the metal duct and felt it cut into my fingers. I pulled it down to reveal the dark living room above me, blocked by a metal grid. I jumped and knocked the grate aside with my hands. I leapt again and grabbed floor with both hands, feeling carpet under my fingers. With a series of frantic, awkward movements I managed to pull my limbs up until I could roll over on the floor of the living room.

I looked back at the square hole and saw a flicker of flame emerge, followed by the torch and then John’s hand. In a few seconds we were both standing in the living room, glancing around, breathing heavily.

Nothing.

A low, pulsing sound emerged from the air around us. A laugh. A dry, humorless cough of a noise, as if the house itself was expelling the air with giant lungs of wood and plaster.

John said, “Asshole.”

“John, I’m changing my cell number tomorrow. And I’m not giving you the new one. Now let’s get this over with.”

We both knew the drill. We had to draw the thing out somehow. John handed me his lighter.

“You light some candles. I’ll go stand in the shower naked.”

Molly followed me as I went back to where we left the boom box and the other supplies. I lit a few candles around the house—just enough to make it spooky. John showered, I found another bathroom and washed the sludge off my shoes and feet.

“Oh, no!” I heard John shout over the running water. “It’s dark in here and here I am in the shower! Alone! I’m so naked and vulnerable!”

Out of things to do, I walked around for a bit and eventually found a bedroom. I glanced at my watch, sighed, then lay down over the covers. It was almost four in the morning.

This could go on for hours, or days. Time. That’s all they have. I heard Molly plop down on the floor below. I reached down to pet her and she licked my hand the way dogs do. I wondered why in the world they felt the need to do that. I’ve often thought about trying it the next time somebody got their fingers close to my mouth, like at the dentist.

John came back twenty minutes later, wearing what must have been the smallest towel he could find. He lowered his voice. “I think I saw a hatch for an attic earlier. I’m gonna see if there’s room to crawl around up there, see if maybe there’s a big scary-looking footlocker it can pop out of or somethin’.”

I nodded. John raised his voice theatrically and said, “Oh, no. We are trapped here all alone. I will go see if I can find help.”

“Yes,” I answered, loudly. “Perhaps we should split up.”

John left the room. I tried to relax, hoping even to doze off. Ghosts love to sneak up on you when you’re sleeping. I scratched Molly’s head and—

SLEEP. LICKING. A soft splashing sound from another room. I dreamed I saw a shadow peel itself off the far wall and float toward me. Most of my dreams are like that, always based on something that really happened.

My eyes snapped open, my right arm still hanging over the edge of the mattress, the rough tongue still flapping away at my ring finger. How long had I been out? Thirty seconds? Two hours?

I sat up, trying to adjust to the darkness. A faint glow pulsed from the hall where the nearest candle burned away in the bathroom.

I quietly stepped off the foot of the bed and headed across the room into the hallway. Down the hall now, toward the sound and the light. I ran my hand along the textured plaster of the wall until I reached the bathroom, the source of the gentle splashing. Not splashing. Slurping. I peered in.

Molly, drinking from the toilet. She turned to look at me with an almost catlike “can I help you?” stare. I thought absently that she was drinking the poowater with the same mouth she used to lick my hand. . . .

If she’s in here, then that wasn’t her by the bed.

I picked the candle off the counter and headed back to the bedroom. I stepped in, the candle casting an uneven halo of light around me, rustling the shadows aside. I moved toward the bed and saw . . .

Meat. Dozens of the wrapped and now partially unwrapped hunks from the freezer, laying neatly on the floor next to the bed in an almost ceremonial fashion, the objects arranged in the rough shape of a man.

I moved the light toward the head area, where I found a frozen turkey still in the Butterball wrapper. Under it, wedged between turkey and torso, was the disembodied deer tongue, flapping around of its own accord.

Hmmmm. That was different.

I jumped back as the turkey, the tongue, and a slab of ribs levitated off the floor.

The man-shaped arrangement of meat rose up, as if functioning as one body. It pushed itself up on two arms made of game hens and country bacon, planting two hands with sausage-link fingers on the floor. The phrase “sodomized by a bratwurst poltergeist” suddenly flew through my mind. Finally it stood fully upright, looking like the mascot for a butcher shop whose profits went entirely to support the owner’s acid habit.

“John! We got, uh, something here.”

It was about seven feet tall, its turkey head swiveling side to side to survey the room, the tongue swaying uselessly below. It extended a sausage to me.

“You.”

It was an accusation. Had we dealt with this thing before? I didn’t remember it, but I was bad with faces.

“You have tormented me six times. Now prepare to meat your doom!”

I have no way of knowing that it actually said “meat” instead of “meet” but I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt. I ran.

“John! John! We got a Situation Fifty-three here!”

The thing gave chase, its shaved-ham feet slapping the floor behind me. My candle went out. I tossed it aside. I saw a closed door to my right, so I skidded to a stop, threw it open, and flung myself in.

Linen shelves smacked me in the face and I fell back out of the closet, dazed. The meat man wrapped its cold links around my neck and lifted me up. It pinned me against the wall.

“You disappoint me. All those times we have dueled. In the desert. In the city. You thought you had vanquished me in Venice, didn’t you?”

I was so impressed by this thing’s ability to articulate words using that flapping deer tongue and a frozen turkey that I almost lost track of what it was saying.

Venice? Did he say Venice? What?

Molly came by just then, trotting along like everything was just A-OK in Dogland.

Then she noticed some meat standing nearby and started happily chewing on a six-inch-wide tube of bologna serving as the thing’s ankle.

“AARRRRRGHHHH!!!!”

It dropped me to the floor. I scrambled to my feet and ran downstairs. The meat man followed.

At the foot of the stairs, John was waiting.

He was holding the stereo.

The monster stopped halfway down the staircase, its eyeless turkey head staring down the device in John’s hands, as if recognizing the danger.

Oh, how that Old Testament demon must have howled and shrieked at the sight of young David’s harp, seeing at work a form of ancient magic that can pierce any darkness. The walking meat horror knew what was coming, that the same power was about to be tapped.

John nodded, as if to say, “Checkmate.”

He pushed the “play” button.

Sound filled the room, a crystal melody that could lift any human heart and turn away any devil.

It was “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake.

The monster grabbed the spots on the turkey where its ears would be and fell to its knees. John wielded the stereo before him like a holy talisman, stepping up the stairs, driving the sound closer to the beast. Every inch of its fat-marbled skin and gristle writhed in agony.

“Take it!” John screamed, suddenly emboldened. “It looks like you should have taken time to beef up your defenses!”

The beast grabbed its abdomen; in pain, I thought.

Instead it pried loose a canned ham and, before John could react, hurled it at the stereo, the can whizzing through the air like a Randy Johnson fastball.

Direct hit. Sparks and bits of plastic flew. The stereo tumbled out of John’s hands and fell heavily to the stairs.

Disarmed, John hopped down to the floor as the beast rose to its feet and pursued. It grabbed John by the neck. It snatched at me, but I dodged and grabbed the coffee thermos from the table. I ran back with the thermos, spun off the top and dashed the contents at the meaty arm that held John.

The meatstrocity screamed. The arm smoked and bubbled, then burst into flame. The limb then blackened and peeled off from the socket, falling to the hardwood below. John was free, falling to his knees and gasping for air.

The beast howled, collapsing to the floor meatily. With its only remaining arm, it pointed at me.

“You’ll never defeat me, Marconi! I have sealed this house with my powers. You cannot escape!”

I stopped, put my hands on my hips and strode up to it. “Marconi? As in, Doctor-slash-Father Albert Marconi? The guy who hosts Magical Mysteries on the Discovery Channel?”

John stepped over and glared at the wounded thing. “You dumbass. Marconi is fifty years old. He has white hair. Dave and I aren’t that old combined. Your nemesis is probably off giving some seminar, standing waist-deep in a pile of his own money.”

The thing turned its turkey at me.

“Tell ya what,” I offered. “If I can get you in touch with Marconi so you two can work out your little differences, will you release us?”

“You lie!”

“Well, I can’t get him down here, but surely a being as superhumanly powerful as you can destroy him at a distance, right? Here.”

It watched me as I fished out my cell phone and dialed. After talking to a secretary, a press agent, a bodyguard, an operator, the secretary again and finally a personal assistant, I got through.

“This is Marconi. My secretary says you have some kind of a meat monster there?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

I offered the phone to Meaty. “Do we have a deal?”

The thing stood up, hesitated, then finally nodded its turkey up and down. I held out the phone, while giving John a dark look that I hoped conveyed the fact that Plan B involved me letting the monster beat the shit out of him while I tried to escape out of a window somewhere. Fucking girl and her “ghost boyfriend.” Marconi would have seen this shit coming a mile away.

A bundle of sausage fingers took the phone from my hand.

“So!” it boomed into the receiver. “We meat again, Marconi. You thought you had vanquished me but I—”

The beast spontaneously combusted into a ball of unholy blue light. With a shriek that pierced my ears, it left our world. The lifeless meat slapped to the floor piece by piece, the cell phone clattering next to the pile.

Silence.

“Damn, he’s good,” said John. I walked over and picked up the cell phone. I put it to my ear to ask the doctor what he had done, but it was the secretary again. I switched it off. The doctor hadn’t even hung around long enough to say hello.

John made a casual hand-dusting motion. “Well. That was pretty stupid.”

I tried the front door and it opened easily. Who knows, maybe it had never been sealed. We took time to straighten up the place, not finding any Morrisons restrained or dismembered and figuring that “Shelly” was at least telling the truth when she said the real family was on vacation. The shit had vanished from the basement, but I couldn’t fix the heating duct I had messed up earlier. We packed the meat back into the freezer as best we could, with one exception.

The sun was already dissolving the night sky by the time I got home. I opened up the toolshed and set the broken boom box inside. I found an empty jar, filled it from a square can of formaldehyde and dropped the deer tongue in. I placed it on the shelf next to a stuffed monkey paw, lying lifeless with two fingers extended. I locked up and went to bed.

—from the journal of David Wong

#john dies at the end #david wong #seriously #my favorite book #except maybe the sequel #gotta be real this book still scares the shit outta me #it's the best combination of funny and horrifying

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