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irondadgroupie · 5 years

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8. FEVER

A/N: Whumptober is never over! I had this written ages ago and kept waiting whether inspiration would strike for me to add more but alas, nothing happened.

“Emergency numbers are on the fridge and the fire extinguisher in the hall. You remember all, right?”

Peter nodded and followed his aunt to the door.

“I left you money for food but there is meatloaf in the fridge plus some frozen dinners, they should be enough,” The woman began to put on her purple coat. “Tony promised to call you regularly and if anything comes up, he will be right over.”

The boy was practically shaking with excitement: his first weekend alone in all his life. May was going out of city to get extra training on interpersonal interactions and that left Peter to himself. Of course, Tony had offered his place but the boy wanted to learn independence. He was already 16 years old, it was about time he learned to spend a weekend without a guardian.

“Don’t worry, May,” He hugged his aunt in farewell and took her bag to carry it to the car. “I will be fine!”

“I’m dying.”

His body was freezing, throat in flames and head felt heavy like a bowling ball. Peter curled up further into himself and desperately wished he had grabbed a blanket or two from the couch. His duvet was not enough to combat the chill in his bones.

He didn’t even know bones could hurt.

His feverish coma was broken into by a shrill noise.

Why the Hell had he set Back to Black as Mr Stark’s tone? First thing tomorrow, he was setting it to Morning Mood.

“How is the little man doing?” Mr Stark’s voice was too loud and clear for his ears.

“Crappy,” Peter croaked out and coughed dryly.

“Aww, kiddo,” The man rarely called him anything other than Peter or Kid, kiddo was a major step for them. “Do you have- fuck, that’s a stupid question. How high is your fever?”

“Don’t know,” Peter curled up and set the phone on the mattress near his mouth. He was too tired and aching to hold it to his ear. “Can’t get out of bed.”

“That sounds serious,” Tony’s voice turned harder. He was not an expert but it sounded like the boy had more than just a simple cold. “I’m coming over, just try not to die on me.”

Peter did not answer, he was already deep in the dream land.

“Peter,” Someone was shaking his shoulder literally a second later. The boy jumped up and scrambled away from the offender and would have fallen had Tony not grabbed him at the last minute.

“Jesus, kid! You aim to give me a heart-attack?” The man maneuvered the boy back on the bed, his fingers burning when they came in contact with his skin. Peter was breathing heavily, still in shock as his mind refused to comply with reality.

“But- what- how are you here?”

His mentor raised an eyebrow: “What do you mean? I said I was coming to check up on you.”

“Yeah, but, it’s been like a minute.”

Concern blinked in Tony’s eyes as his hands grasped the back of Peter’s neck and his forehead.

“Okay, your fever is definitely up to 103. Have you eaten anything today, or even drunk?”

The boy predictably shook his head, his form shaking as he was not covered by anything more than pajamas.

A minute later, Tony put on water kettle and shoved a thermometer to Peter’s mouth. His hands kept hovering between the boy’s hair and face, trying to bring comfort by gentle strokes.

“You don’t need to stay,” The boy said from around the glass stick and ended with a cough.

“A-a,” The man held out a finger. “No talking for you until you have had something warm to drink. Plus, that is just your self-sacrificing idiot-self talking. I know that deep there, deep deep down,” He poked at Peter’s chest,” is a scared little boy who wants me to stay here and take care of you.”

Tony had a point, Peter could not deny it. He had never been sick and alone. Well, the spider bite he had a kept a secret but Ben and May had been present and attainable when need arose.

The fever rose to 103.5.

“Yikes,” Tony grimaced and waved the meter to get the liquid to normal numbers. “We need to keep an eye on that one. Is there a flu going around?”

“Influenza at school.”

“And you didn’t get vaccinated why?”

Peter blushed: “I never do. Aunt May gets, yes, because she works at a hospital, but she says a healthy young person with no medical issues has no acute need for it.”

“Well, looks like you have got it now. All the symptoms match: rapid onset of high fever, exhaustion, throat pain, let’s just hope no nausea comes up.”

“You just had to jinx it.”

Tony grinned with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” The man knocked on Peter’s desk three times.

The news on the television provided a good soundtrack to the phone call as Tony reached out to one of the only people he trusted with his life- and his kid’s.

“It was 103.7 an hour ago, he has been sleeping ever since,” He reached look at the open door. He heard soft snoring but got no visual because of the angle.

“Is it normal?... Okay, yeah, I gave him fever reducer and hot chocolate…. no milk, just water…. Okay… yeah… so, we don’t need a doctor unless… okay, thanks, expect another call in an hour, I need to check on the kid, try to get him to eat something- Yes, Rhodey, just soup, it’s not like I would feed him a steak.”

He found a can of vegetable soup and added in extra water to make it easier to swallow. The food and a glass of water were balanced on a tray as he softly kicked the door wide open. Peter had curled up under the covers, pillow had fallen on the floor.

“Peter,” Tony lowered the meal onto the desk and sat down beside the snoring boy. He touched the flushed cheek with the back of his hand and grimaced: fever had not come down the slightest.

“Kid,” He shook the boy’s shoulder gently, Peter was feeling bad enough as he was, he did not need a harsh wake up call. “Buddy, you need to eat something.”

Peter coughed and turned onto his back.

“No,” His young voice was raspy and the word was followed by dry coughing and a whimper. The man frowned, he would need to keep an eye in case of a throat infection.

“Yes,” Tony stated and stacked the pillows. He grabbed Peter under arms and lifted him to a half sitting position.

“I don’t feel good,” Peter shook his head and wrapped the comforter tighter around himself.

“You feel sick?”

“Dunno.”

Tony nodded: “Let’s try at least,” He grabbed the soup and twirled it around with a spoon, making sure it was not too hot.

Peter looked wary.

“If you feel sick, tell me, but at least try a little. Maybe some food in your stomach will improve your condition.”

The boy bit his lip but nodded. Tony gave his protég�� a grateful look and lifted the spoon to his mouth. Peter blushed but it was not from the fever.

“I can feed myself.”

“Even on the normal day you drop half the food on your lap.”

It was a joke between them that you could tell what Peter had eaten a certain day just by looking at his shirt. Once they had had a barbecue and the boy had managed to stain his clothes before even taking a single bite of his steak.

“If you drop the soup, I will need to wash the covers and then you will be cold and miserable.”

Mr Stark had a good point and Peter opened his mouth. The meal was great and his mentor was a terrific feeder. He knew to give just the right amount to not make him choke or leave marks on his face.

“You have much experience with this?”

Tony looked up from blowing on the spoonful of yellowish soup: “This? None, but I am an engineer, steady hands.”

The boy opened his mouth as the spoon reached his lips. Their teamwork was seamless.

“This is still humiliating.”

“Now you can tell Tony Stark fed you like a baby. Your popularity will skyrocket.”

“You really don’t understand high school, Mr Stark.”

His stomach gave the first signs of having enough. Peter clamped his mouth shut and turned his head away.

“You full? You didn’t even have half of it,” Tony frowned but leaned closer as Peter turned paler and started sweating slightly.

“Nauseous?”

The boy cleared his throat and swallowed.

“Could you bring a bucket?”

Peter’s voice was even, not hurried was but he was clearly not feeling great. He fetched the required item from the bathroom.

“Okay,” Tony set next to the bed and sat beside the boy, rubbing his back and lifted a glass of water to his lips. “Try this, maybe it helps a little.”

Peter took a small sip, his eyes on the red plastic container.

“I think you just ate too quickly to an empty stomach.”

The boy swallowed heavily and nodded: “Yeah, it’s starting to go away.”

“I could open the window. Fresh air might help,” Tony stood up at Peter’s nod. The air was crisp and he hoped it would help bring down the boy’s fever.

He had Peter stay on the lifted position to prevent nausea and constant coughing.

Two hours later he measured the fever again.

“103.8”, Tony shook his head as he read the reading out loud on the phone. “It keeps going up…. Well that plus he is coughing constantly, his throat hurts… what? I- um- let me see.”

“Buddy,” He set his phone on the desk next to a cup of warm water, honey and ginger ,”Open your mouth for me.”

Peter sniffled and obeyed. Tony turned his head to the light.

“Thank you,” He helped his ward to lay down again and returned to the phone call.

“Inflamed and red… no, nothing like it… alright…. just, he aches all over and feels cold but really he is like a boiler.”

The doctor on the other line told his verdict.

Tone raised an eyebrow.

“Really? That’s it, just rest and fluids? The kid looks like death warmed over-“

“Mr Stark,” Peter whined in annoyance.

“Hush, you,” The man set a finger over the boy’s lips. “Just, shouldn’t he be in an IV or- yes, I know about the healing factor but- Fine! Fine! But I will hold you accountable if this turns out to be a deadly killer virus that will spread across the globe and kill millions-“

“Mr Stark!”

Tony ended the call, took in a calming breath and smiled gently.

“You want some fruit? Oranges or grapes?”

“What the hell was that?”

“Oh,” The man shrugged and adjusted his patient’s covers. “That was just my public persona taking over for a second.”

“Public-“Peter’s brain was too much like mush to keep up with his mentor’s fragmented reasoning.

“Yes, I am a celebrity so I have multiple personalities. One is the hard-to-work-with genius and the other is currently trying to decide what fruits you favor.”

“Which of them is the real you?”

The question was so genuine and said in a voice so concerned Tony could not help but feel his heart melt.

“Let this be a hint: I never lie to you,” He bopped the boy’s nose and Peter scrunched his face.

#irondad #fanfic #whump #whumptober #fever #my writing #my fanfiction

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aquaquadrant · 5 years

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Title: it wears a mask Chapter Warnings: Minor blood/injury description, death mention. Summary: Beck has a change of heart at the trainyard and takes Peter captive instead. In many ways, it turns out much, much worse. (NOT SLASH)

Chapter Eight Preview

“So what happened?”

Peter is expecting Virgil’s question, but it still makes him tense. It’s sometime in the late afternoon- after his rude awakening last night, it seems Beck wanted to give him time to sleep before sending Virgil in to check on his wound. The left side of his face is more sore than it’s been for a couple days, now. Peter can tell he accidentally pulled some of the stitches loose, but it’s hard to tell how bad it is without a mirror.

He sits cross-legged on the bed, keeping carefully still as Virgil examines the wound on his face. It’s not bleeding anymore, he doesn’t think, but he knows it was last night because there are bloodstains on his white pillowcase now. Is he supposed to ask for a new one? Or just take it off and leave it by the door? Virgil hasn’t mentioned it and no one else has spoken to Peter yet.

“I guess I slept wrong,” Peter mumbles, avoiding Virgil’s eyes. He isn’t sure if Virgil knows about his nightmare, but he isn’t about to talk about it.

“Hm, guess so.” Virgil is clearly unconvinced. “Luckily, you didn’t reopen the wound itself, just tore some little exits for the sutures. As far along as they are now, I’m comfortable leaving them open. Just wash well every day so they don’t get infected.”

“Okay.” Peter relaxes slightly when Virgil pulls away. “Thank you.”

Virgil nods. “Yep. Shouldn’t take more than a couple days for it to be completely healed. Gonna scar, though.”

Peter pauses. “… oh.”

Despite everything, he hasn’t considered the possibility of the wound leaving a scar. He’s never gotten one before from his various Spider-Man related injuries. But if he thinks about it, he’s never had a wound this deep before. His extra durability typically leaves him with nothing but cuts and bruises that fade within a couple days. Nothing that needed stitches before.

A choking, stinging feeling wells up in his throat. Of course his first scar had to be from this. And of course it had to be on his face, of all places. Even when he gets out of here- and he will get out of here- he’ll always have the scar to remind him how Beck defeated him. It’s not a scar he can be proud of, and Peter never would’ve thought something like this would matter to him but it does.

But he’s not going to cry in front of Virgil or where Beck could see it, so he blinks and clears his throat. “Okay.”

“Yeah, sorry kid,” Virgil says apologetically. “Your hand should be good as new, though.”

“Yeah…” Peter picks at his Velcro cast, fighting the urge to bounce his leg. “Um, Virgil? Do you happen to have like… a mirror or something? In your case?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Virgil reaches into his case and pulls out a smaller first aid kit. “Here, the inside has a mirror.”

Peter takes the little pouch, feeling sheepish. He could’ve done this days ago if he’d just asked. He unzips the kit and sure enough, one of the inside flaps has a little mirror on it.

Peter isn’t prepared for the face that looks back at him. Pale, dark circles under the eyes, messy hair. His cheeks are hollower than he remembers. It’s hard to tell if he looks younger or older than he is. And after not seeing himself for a week, the effect is jarring. There’s an odd disconnect between the sight of his fingers brushing his face and the feeling of it on his skin.

The wound looks awful. He knew it must, from how it felt, but actually seeing it is another thing entirely. It trails from his left temple all the way down to his jaw, clipping the corner of his eyebrow and skirting beside his eye. He didn’t realize he was so close to being blinded, and the thought is chilling.

It’s an ugly line, puffy and red and misshapen from the few stitches still left holding it together. At its widest point, it’s about as thick as his finger, tapering off into a narrowed tip at the top and bottom. Considering this is how it looks after a week of healing, Peter can’t even imagine how bad it was at the start.

The stinging feeling is back, pressing against his eyes. “Thank you.” Peter hands the kit back. “Um, thanks for everything, Virgil.”

“Don’t mention it.” Virgil’s voice is softer. “It’ll look better with time, don’t you worry.”

“Yeah.” Peter smiles weakly. How to explain that he’s less concerned about how the scar looks, and more concerned about what it represents?

Virgil snaps the case shut. “Well, if there’s nothing else that needs attention, I guess I’ll be going then.”

Peter’s heart jolts. “Wait.”

Virgil pauses, giving Peter a curious look.

Peter flushes. “Sorry, I- I mean… do you have to go now?” he asks quickly, desperately hoping he doesn’t sound whiny. “I mean, what’s the rush, right? Why not stay and chat for a while?” He tries for a smile. “Like, you know, we- we don’t really know much about each other? And I figure, there’s no harm in-”

“Your name is Peter Benjamin Parker,” Virgil interrupts calmly. “You’ll be turning seventeen in a few months, on August 27. You were raised by your Aunt May since you were four years old, and her husband, now passed. Armed mugging almost two years ago, you were there to witness it. You’re a science geek, a math geek, basically every kind of geek under the sun. Real genius level IQ. Your best friend is Ned Leeds and your crush is Michelle Jones, goes by MJ. You were blipped, and brought back to help reverse it. Formerly mentored by Tony Stark.” Sympathy flashes in his eyes. “You were there when he died, too.”

Peter can’t breathe. The knowing look on Virgil’s face is too genuine, too understanding, and suddenly he feels as raw and exposed as he did at the trainyard. These people should not know his life this intimately, people Peter barely knows.

Virgil gives him a rueful grin. “Sorry, son, but that’s not how this works. We know you a lot better than you think.” He stands up and grabs the handle of his case. “Until next time.”

It barely registers when Virgil leaves. Peter sits numbly, and it isn’t until his vision blurs that he comes back to himself. It’s enough of a reminder to get him off the bed and into the bathroom, away from the drone’s- and Beck’s- prying gaze before he loses control of his emotions completely.

He’s been vulnerable enough for one night.

~*~

Peter’s woken by the sound of the door opening.

Such a small sound, but he’s awake in an instant. He hasn’t slept deeply in days, whether it’s at night or one of his restless day naps like this one. The overbearing silence and his increased jumpiness make for a sense of heightened awareness that’s both a blessing and a curse; his chances of getting caught off guard are slim, but he can’t relax.

Peter is up and ready before the door has even closed again. He’s startled to see not one of the people who bring him his meals, not even Virgil, but Beck.

“Well, don’t get up on my account,” Beck jokes, raising his eyebrows.

Peter stares. He still can’t get over how strange it is to see Beck in casual clothes, after first associating him with his Mysterio disguise. He looks like the host of one of those home improvement shows May likes to watch, not a criminal mastermind.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asks.

“What, no hello?” Beck sniffs, putting his hands on his hips. “Alright, straight to business, then. After our little late-night chat the other day, I’ve decided we need to find an outlet for you to get rid of all the twitchiness.”

Peter shakes his head. “You’re not really here right now,” he says lowly. “You can’t be, that- that was just yesterday and you were away travelling. You can’t be here now.”

“I am, though,” Beck sighs. He stretches a hand out. “Go ahead, check.”

Peter narrows his eyes. Carefully, he approaches Beck just like he did last time, and quickly taps the back of his hand. He’s met with solid flesh, not the empty expanse of a drone’s illusion, and he lets out a heavy breath. It’s somewhat of a relief, but he doesn’t relax.

From what he’s been able to gather, Beck wasn’t supposed to return for at least a couple more days. The idea that he might’ve returned because of Peter… he doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s bad enough that Beck saw the nightmare at all, but Peter had been desperately hoping they would just… move on and pretend like it hadn’t happened. He should’ve known better.

“So, what, you cut your secret shady business trip short because I had a nightmare?” Peter asks suspiciously. “Why?”

Beck shrugs. “This isn’t the sort of thing I wanted to have my team handle,” he says vaguely. Then he abruptly claps his hands together, making Peter jump. “Now get up, we’re going on a little field trip.”

Peter’s heart slowly climbs back down from his throat. “Where?” he demands, stifling a small ripple of fear.

“Not far. Just to stretch your legs.” Beck studies him, and a mocking glint enters his eye. “Unless you’re not up for it?”

Despite his wariness, Peter know he can’t pass up this opportunity. He slips off the bed, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m fine, let’s go.”

“Yay.” Beck rolls his eyes and turns away, opening the door. “Come on, then.”

Peter can’t help but notice the boldness in Beck’s movement, to turn his back on an enemy with complete confidence he won’t be attacked. It’s an unexpected and bitter reminder of just how effectively he’s trapped Peter.

But it’s quickly forgotten when Peter follows Beck out of the cell. A wave of adrenaline hits him as he realizes he’s out, he’s really out after over a week of imprisonment. The room they walk into is massive compared to the cell, with high vaulted ceilings. Peter can immediately tell they’re still in Prague from the architecture of the building alone- it’s good to know, somehow. He wasn’t sure if they’d relocated him anywhere or not.

The old historical charm is a jarring disconnect from the harsh, industrial concrete and fluorescence of his cell. But even more jarring is the presence of people- people working at desks with high tech computer monitors, people sitting at small tables in the corners, people walking by and talking in pairs. It’s eerily reminiscent of an office atmosphere, with fewer suits. Not what he would’ve expected for an evil lair.

The worst part though has to be when people look over at him and smile. Or wave. Or even call out, “hey, Peter!” Like they know him. Like they’re friends. Some don’t even acknowledge his presence, while others nod his way and nudge each other.

Peter has known, realistically, that there was an entire team working behind Beck. He’s met several of them during his meals. But to see it so clearly laid out like this, to see the way they see him, like he’s an inside joke of theirs, is incredibly unnerving. He immediately recalls his discussion with Virgil yesterday; “we know you a lot better than you think.”

“Keep up, Peter.”

Beck’s voice snaps Peter out of his thoughts. The man sounds only slightly annoyed, like he can’t even be bothered to be truly cross. Peter nearly trips over his feet as he speeds up a bit, falling into step next to Beck and watching him out of the side of his eye. Just in case.

They’re headed for a door, it seems. There are several of them at random points in the walls; Peter catches a glimpse of another similar looking room through one of them as someone leaves through it.

Then Peter’s vision halts on a particular door. It’s a set of double doors, actually, thick carved wood and polished brass handles. It’s not the detail that catches his eye, though. It’s the sudden, overwhelming buzzing in his head that tells him those are the doors that lead outside.

It seems ridiculous, at first. That they would just be sitting there, part of the wall, with no barrier or padlock or guards. But there’s an instinct deep inside him telling him it’s right, it feels like wind in his hair and sun on his face and the urge to run that seizes him is so powerful, it makes him freeze in place as surely as if he’d turned to stone.

Every muscle in his body is shaking. The doors are the way out. He wants to run. He has to. Get out, get to safety, get to help. There are probably other people out there, society, people that can help him. His mind screams with the need, and it’s like a skittering wild animal pacing around in his skull, all scrambling legs and frothing fangs.

Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out.

He can see it in his mind’s eye. There are no drones in this room, no active weapons of any kind. Right now, Beck is just an ordinary man. He couldn’t stop Peter. None of them could. It’s a simple matter of running, five seconds max. He can outrun any of the normal people in this room, he’s sure of it, and if someone happened to catch him, he’s strong enough to get away. Just run and he’s out, he’s free, and nothing could stop him.

But Peter doesn’t move. A part of his mind, however distant it seems right now, reminds him what would happen if he did. He feels the threat hanging over him so heavily, it’s as if he’s the one with a sniper trained on him instead of Ned and MJ, wherever they are.

Just run, and two of the most important people in the world to him will die.

And as soon as the reality of it sinks in, Peter knows that’s too high a price. He feels the will leave him in a rush, escaping him in the form of a slow, long exhale. He curls his good hand into a fist, his nails digging into his palm, and forces himself to turn away.

Only then does Peter realize the entire room has gone still. Beck is watching him, has been watching him this whole time, and the grin that spreads across his face now is a horrifying mixture of satisfaction and pride. He gives a single approving nod before turning again, continuing towards the door like nothing happened.

Peter swallows hard, feeling like he’s rotten inside. Like some pathetic, disgusting little creature. The memory of Beck’s mocking voice rings in his ears; “be a good little spider.” He hates it, hates what Beck’s done to him and hates himself letting it happen. But there’s nothing else he can do.

Peter follows Beck into the room.

~*~

#spiderman far from home #spiderman ffh #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #marvel fanfic #my writing

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feywildatheart · 5 years

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Nenîth,

We're still okay. I suppose you could guess as much just by the fact that I'm writing, but I figure you like to hear it stated plain, all the same.

We snuck back to the ruins after our night in the woods, and I ventured ahead to see if someone might have discovered the giant we killed, and be standing guard waiting for us, but the giant's and the tiger's bodies were still there, near as I could tell untouched by anything except scavenging beasts from the woods. When it seemed the coast was clear, I went back and fetched Elyn and Cloudleaper, and we made our way into the ruins -- where we were promptly spotted by a gnoll just inside the entrance, who threw a rock into a nearby spiderweb and then scurried off, leaving us to deal with the phase spiders whose attention he'd grabbed.

We did better with them this time than we had back on Nosirion-1, at least. Once we'd dispatched the spiders, we followed after the gnoll, and found ourselves at a branching corridor, with both sides ending in closed doors. A quick look at both of them made it clear that one had been disturbed more recently than the other, and after a quick discussion we decided to try that side first, figuring that we knew something was in there, and we didn't much care to try the other side only to discover the gnoll had come around behind us and we were trapped.

We could hear the sounds of many creatures from beyond the door, and Elyn and I, at least, I think are still wary after our last fights on Nosirion-1, so we decided to at least try to talk to the gnolls, instead of opening with aggression. Elyn cast Tongues, so that the gnolls could understand her, and I opened the door and ducked through first, so that if the gnolls decided to open with aggression, it would be focused on me rather than her.

We found ourselves in a small room fairly packed with gnolls, including two who seemed to act as some sort of leaders to them. I could only make out Elyn's half of the conversation, so I don't know precisely what happened between them, but I do know that I didn't have to shoot any of them, and she negotiated a truce of sorts, safe passage for us and the archaeologists in exchange for the gnolls being allowed to stay in the ruins, and meat from anything we killed while we were down there. And two weapons, Elyn relayed to me and Cloudleaper, so I pulled out the weapons that had been in the bag of holding when we first acquired it -- as well as my own sword, the one that got damaged by the acid in the Twilight of Cinders, in the hopes that perhaps they'd take a shine to it and take it off my hands -- and the leaders chose from amongst them. Not my sword, unfortunately, though a moment later Elyn offered them a third weapon of their choice in exchange for information, about what awaited us further in the ruins and about how many giants might be living on the mountain, and that became two additional weapons when one of the other gnolls, Elyn told us later, decided that it wanted the 'jagged sword', and to my gratification, took my damaged sword for its own. I do hope he's very happy with it (he seemed well-pleased, in any case!), and I'm glad to not have to drag it about anymore, even if it doesn't actually make the bag of holding any heavier to carry.

The most we could gather from the gnolls about what awaited us ahead was that there was a room they'd barricaded with two very large creatures with sticks. Not giants, they said, but lumpy, and "bald", like us. I figured orcs, or trolls, or something of the like, and so we tore down the barricade -- well, Elyn mostly did. I think I pulled something when I tried to help, so it mostly fell to her, unfortunately -- and found ourselves in a very small room with two very large trolls.

Cloudleaper's flaming trident cipher came very much in handy in the fight that ensued, as we eventually discovered that trolls will heal themselves unless they've been damaged by fire. But with the help of that, she and I and Squirt were able to take them down, while Elyn mostly stayed out of the way of their clubs and kept the three of us on our feet, which we sorely needed. Trolls hit hard, it turns out. Shocking, I know.

It couldn't have been later than early afternoon, by then, but the fight had taken a lot out of us and so we decided discretion was the better part of valor, and that we would stay in that room through the night and continue on when we were fresh and rested. I butchered the trolls' bodies as best as I could, and cut their meat into pieces I could carry without further injuring myself, and carted it all back to the door that the gnolls had barricaded up behind us, and knocked upon it and shouted that there was meat for them, and then left them to it.

In he morning, we continued on, and found our way into the ruins proper, through a series of halls and doors, one of which was trapped with a spell that we -- well, I -- inadvertently set off, which Elyn and I only knew because all of the sudden Cloudleaper, who was giddily excited about the prospect of giants, suddenly was trying desperately to convince us that we should just leave, maybe, right now.

Elyn, bless her, was as bewildered as I was, but had the means to try to do something about it, and cast Dispel Magic, which restored Cloudleaper to herself. How many times did the people in Haewood warn us about traps? And I really did mean to be cautious about them, but there we were, all the same.

I tried harder, going forward. Beyond the door, we found more hallways, and a room that turned out to be a closet of sorts, full of robes and simple adventuring gear, all of which were thousands of years old just like the ruins, but also like the ruins, seemed to have been preserved by some sort of spell that protected them from the ravages of time. That made Elyn and I stop and consider whether it might affect anything within the ruins, and whether it might be affecting us, and whether we might come out of the ruins after what had seemed like days, only to discover that weeks or longer had passed for everyone else.

We both pretty quickly decided not to continue down that train of thought, because it was too horrifying to consider. I don't think that's really the case, though. For one, Elyn's been using the speaking stone that Erel Dhuna gave her to check in with her every night, and I'm sure she'd have said something if, from her end, we were checking in less frequently than that. But also I know you both, and I know that if I wrote to you that I was venturing into some ruins and then you heard nothing at all from me for weeks, or gods forbid, years, you wouldn't be sitting in the Feywild sadly hoping that I was okay and wondering what had happened to me. You'd both be breaking down the doors and coming in after me. So it's probably fine.

Beyond the closet we found a wide, curving hallway with doors set along it, that seemed to get wider in one direction and narrower in the other. As we'd made our way there, we'd passed a number of doors that looked to have been broken down, and rooms that had been smashed and destroyed, we could only assume from the trolls, and so we decided we'd explore the narrower direction first, in the hopes that if we did encounter anything we had to fight, it would at least be smaller.

Some of the doors along the hall were closed, and we left those alone, and others were open, and those I mostly just leaned inside to make sure there weren't any creatures in there that might come upon us from behind once we'd continued past. Which worked fine until I stuck my head through one door and some horrible thing dropped down on top of me and tried to smother me.

I didn't get to participate in that fight much, and I didn't get a good look at the thing until it was dead, but Elyn and Cloudleaper told me it looked like a cloak, except living. They tried to attack it, but it wasn't any thicker than a normal, non-living, non-murderous cloak, and so any time they hurt it, it hurt me too, since it was wrapped around my face. It was strong, too, and try as I might I couldn't get it off me, and then it cinched even tighter and I couldn't breathe.

Squirt eventually managed to drag the thing off of me, and between the four of us we were able to finish it, and then I sat down to catch my breath and Elyn poured some of her healing magic into me, because between the cloak-thing and her and Cloudleaper, I badly needed it.

We decided to finish clearing the hall before we went into the room the thing had been in, so we turned about and made our way to the other end, where it looked as though part of the ruins had collapsed into a pile of rubble, though that turned out to be an earth elemental lying in wait. Cloudleaper attacked it straight away, because of course she did, but I called out to it in Ignan and told it that, despite what it might seem from Cloudleaper's eagerness, we didn't actually want a fight, and would be happy to leave it in peace if it did the same to us.

Thankfully, I think Cloudleaper may have actually helped more than hindered, because the elemental said that it seemed like we were skilled fighters, and it had been a long time since it had enjoyed a good fight, and so suggested a contest of arms, and if we won would agree to let us as well as the archaeologists behind us pass in safety.

I relayed this to the others as quick as I could, and then we fought, though it seemed that Cloudleaper and Elyn were holding back, I can only assume on account of knowing it wasn't a fight for our lives (well, we hadn't actually discussed the terms if we lost, so who knows, perhaps it was a fight for our lives after all), until I reminded them that the elemental wanted a worthy fight, not to have us pull our punches, so to speak, and then they started fighting the way that I'm used to them being capable of.

We acquitted ourselves quite well, I think, and it wasn't long before the earth elemental conceded the fight, after a particularly forceful kick to the chest from Cloudleaper. Elyn asked me to ask it if it wanted any healing, and it seemed surprised but agreed, and so Elyn cast a new spell she's been working on figuring out -- Mass Cure Wounds, which dealt us all a staggering amount of healing in one go, and left me gaping at her in surprise and delight.

It gave to Elyn, as thanks for the healing, a huge star sapphire, and then offered us a secret: that near to where it had been resting, there was a secret door with a passage behind it, one that it didn't think any of the other denizens of the ruins knew about, where we were likely to be able to rest in safety.

I asked if there were something I could have the archaeologists tell it, so it would know them and know not to attack them, and it said that if they gave it my name, that would suffice, so I told it my name (I sort of badly wanted to tell it my name was Maliah Firetongue, but thought that perhaps that might be a bit much, and so I did not). It only occurred to me after the elemental had left, no doubt to rest and finish the healing the Elyn had started, that I should have asked for its name. I tried to call for it a few times -- quietly, just to see if it was around -- but didn't get any answer, and I didn't want to disturb it any more than we already had, so I let it be.

Beyond the hidden door, we found a sort of communal living area, with doors leading off of it, but we all flopped down onto the couches in the living area to rest before going through them. We were all exhausted, by that point, and sorely in need of it.

Once we were feeling a bit revived, though, we dragged ourselves to our feet and went through the rooms in turn. There were five of them in total, a series of bedrooms in various states of disarray and abandonment. Most of them had at least a few items left behind -- but only a few, so we can't quite figure out what might have caused these people to leave this place behind and let it go to ruins. It clearly wasn't something that happened suddenly, because there's not enough left behind for that. But there's not nothing left behind, either, so it doesn't seem like they entirely had the luxury of time to pack up their things and leave. Why would someone go to the trouble of collecting rocks, only to leave their collection behind, if there weren't at least some sort of pressure driving them to leave faster than they otherwise might be inclined to?

We did find a rock collection in one of the rooms, and some books in a few of them, and various other little things left abandoned, like a boot -- one boot, why would someone leave one boot behind? Elyn thinks maybe the items we found weren't left because the inhabitants of these rooms were in a rush, but just because they didn't care about these items enough to pack and carry them, but then why one boot? If they didn't care enough about the boots to bring them, wouldn't they have left the pair behind?

I'm not saying that I think they all left in a great rush, I'm just not reading any meaning in all this as clear as Elyn seems to.

In any case, we've been a little concerned about the prospect of not being able to clear out the ruins in their entirety the way that the archaeologists would need in order to be able to study this place safely, so we've been trying to gather things that the scientists might find of interest to take back, so they might have something to study, and we've been taking pictures of things before we move them, too, so they'll be able to see how we'd found them. Elyn seemed a little hesitant about disturbing things, but I reminded her that they'd promised us some portion of anything we found, so it's not as though they're expecting us to leave things untouched. Between the trolls that have come through here, and seem to have smashed furniture and broken down doors and left a wake of destruction behind them, and the various other beasts and creatures that have moved in over the last few years, I doubt they can expect anything to be undisturbed, in any case. So we've been taking care to take our pictures, but we've also been putting things that seem like they might be of interest into the bag of holding, to bring back to them. Elyn took a romance novel for herself, something in Elvish which she read a few chapters of to us later when we'd decided to call an end to our exploring for the rest of the afternoon and evening, and there was a science book that seemed like the sort of thing the archaeologists could make good use of, studying the difference in scientific knowledge and ideas between then and now. And I took the rock collection, because it seemed to me -- well, they could maybe tell where the rocks had come from, couldn't they? And that might tell them a bit about where the people who had lived here had been, and how widely they had traveled, and that seemed to me like the sort of thing that archaeologists might find interesting and useful. I don't know, but there's room enough in the bag for now, and it doesn't weigh me down any extra, so I took them.

We were feeling recovered enough from our rest that we decided to venture out to clear another room or two, before returning for the night, and we found ourselves in a crowded room that looked like it must have been barracks at some point. I learned from the cloak-thing, at least, and was a little more cautious in glancing inside, which proved to be wise because there were two very large hook-clawed insect-like creatures clinging to the ceiling within. Squirt bounded up onto the bed beneath one and blinked up to it to bite at it, and I tried to get to a place where I could have enough distance between me and them to use my bow -- I am doing a little better with my swords than I had previously, sometimes, but they don't hit as hard as my bow, and I'm happier with a bit of distance between me and whatever I'm fighting.

Between the three of us, we managed to kill them, and I took what meat I could from one of them to bring back for the gnolls, and put it into the bag of holding, and then we debated what we ought to do next. It still seemed early in the day, though without any sort of sunlight to take our cues by down here, it's hard to tell, and we were hurt but not too terribly, especially after Elyn healed us a bit. But she was close to having exhausted her magical stores for the day, so we decided to call it a day early. Goodness knows, it had already been an exciting one, and I don't think any of us were too heartbroken at the opportunity to rest and tend to our wounds and heal a bit. And to write our letters, and to read ancient romance novels.

I'm going to go see if I can convince Elyn to read us another chapter or two of that Elvish one before we all call it a night, we've just gotten to a good bit with our heroine and her wife-of-convenience trapped in an airlock together, and if someone doesn't start talking about their feelings I might actually perish.

I hope we're able to finish the book before we leave here, or the archaeologists are going to have to wait their turn to get their hands on it.

I love you both. I'll write again soon, I promise. Even if you wouldn't know the difference, since I won't be able to send any of these until we're back in town anyway.

All my love,

Maliah

#in character #in character: letters #episode 61 #episode 62 #dnd

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spidermanswifi · 6 years

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Savior: viii

Steve Rogers x Reader

welcome to when this starts to get even more sad! also ok real talk, I am so blessed and happy that so many people are liking this and are asking to be put on the tag list!!!! i love you all so much

oh also some of my tags are not working so pls message me if you aren’t on the list below!!

savior masterlist

As soon as he noticed your body starting to fall to the floor, Steve had you in his arms. He begged you over and over again to open your eyes, your faint heartbeat making his mind race in panic. Right now he didn’t care that Rumlow had escaped once again, he only cared that you were okay, that you were alive. Steve slid one of his hands over to the side you had been shot, pressing his hand down to try and stunt the bleeding.

Despite having dealt with blood and injuries before, his hands shook. All he wanted was to keep you safe, but he couldn’t even do that right. His wide eyes locked on Sam, who was already dialing for one of the guys to come get the three of them. All Steve kept thinking of was a woman with red lipstick and dark hair, a gunshot, and a pool of blood. He had his heart shot out right in front of him, and now it was happening again. All because he loved you. Wasn’t love supposed to be kind? Was love supposed to hurt this much? He couldn’t remember a time when love didn’t hurt. Maybe everything that I love, I touch and it’s meant to be broken.

When the black SUV arrived, Steve wordlessly slid into the back seat, tears filling his blue eyes.

He was completely silent on the ride back, lost in his thoughts. You were currently unconscious on his lap in the backseat of the car, his hand still pressed tightly against your wounded side. Steve was afraid to lift his hand; he knew that if he did, it would be painted with a reddish hue.

If you didn’t get her into this mess, she could have been in paradise with someone that wouldn’t cause her pain. He thought bitterly to himself, guilt filling his senses.

The thought of your body jolting from the force and the pain of the bullet kept running through a loop in his mind, making his stomach tighten. This was never supposed to happen like this. He knew it would have never been perfect, but he had thought that he could have at least kept you safe and out of harm’s way. He hated himself for not being able to do that simple thing, after all this time.

As soon as they arrived back at the mansion, Steve had you sent to the med wing, knowing Banner would help you heal quickly. He wanted to be there with you more than anything, but something he decided on the way back kept him from being there by your side. Instead, Steve walked to his room, his still shaking and bloody hands stuffed in his pockets. He couldn’t bear to look at your blood staining his hands; felt too responsible when he saw the rusty red color coating the hands that were supposed to shelter you from harm.

The soft sound of knuckles rapping against the doorjamb pulled Steve out of his thoughts. It was Bucky.

“Hey bud. Are you...are you okay?”

“He got away. The son-of-a-bitch shot her, and I let him get away.”

Bucky winced, feeling nothing but sympathy for his best friend “How is she?”

“I’m not sure. Alive, I guess. I—I asked Banner not to give me updates unless it was something bad. I haven’t heard anything yet.” His hands fisted inside the material of his pockets, relishing in the feeling of his short nails digging into the skin of his palms.

“You love her, don’t you?” Bucky asked quietly, shutting the door behind him and leaning his back on it.

Steve took a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I do. But I need to let her go.”

Although Bucky’s gaze turned sad, Steve knew that he understood. After Peggy was ripped from his life, Bucky had told him time and time again that he was never going to let something like this happen to Steve or an innocent life ever again. So he would do anything for Steve when it came to protecting the woman he loved; you.

Steve rubbed his face, turning to look out the window. “Buck, I need ya’ to do something for me. I need you to look after her while I go after Rumlow. Take her somewhere nice, somewhere lavish.”

Bucky knew better not to argue. As much as he wanted to fight Rumlow side by side with his best friend, he also knew that Steve wouldn’t trust just anyone with keeping his girl safe. Bucky knew Steve trusted him better than anyone, so he felt honored given the task.

Steve turned to look at Bucky, fire in his eyes. “He’s a dead man.”

When your eyes fluttered open two days later, the first thing you noticed was that Steve was nowhere to be found. Instead, Bucky was standing at the foot of your bed with two suitcases and a remorseful look on his face.

“Y/N, as soon as your vitals are normal, you and I are going on a little...vacation of the sorts.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly. “Steve put you up to this?”

“It really is just for your own safety and—hey! I don’t think you should be ripping those off quite yet.” Bucky protested as you ripped the heart monitors off your chest. If Steve thought he was going to get rid of you that easily, he had another thing coming.

Bucky tried to stop you as you got out of the bed and stomped your way up to Steve’s room, but he also had to take into account of how stubborn you were. So he opted for trailing behind you instead. When you made it in front of the big oak door, you pushed it open, the knob banging against the opposite wall when the door swung open from your rather violent push.

“Steve Rogers. What is the meaning of this little trip?” Steve’s eyes met Bucky’s, and then met your angry gaze head on.

“I can’t keep you safe like I thought I could. I don’t know what I was thinking keeping you here...it’s dangerous for you to be with me.”

“You can’t just...I should get to decide if it’s too dangerous for me or not.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, your anger disappearing. His words sounded like he didn’t want you here anymore. Here with him.

Steve let out a short, humorless laugh. “You have several injuries—”

“To be fair, I was the one who ran. It wasn’t your fault that I fled.”

“You could have died—”

“But I didn’t!” You exclaimed, flinging your arms up.

His eyebrow twitched. “If we would have been just a few seconds later—I can’t deal with you getting hurt because of me.”

Panic set in when you realized he wasn't going to budge, and you needed to pull out all the stops to get him to see that staying was what you wanted. Trembling, you took a step forwards, “Steve, I love you.” He froze, an unfamiliar look flitting across his face. Setting his jaw, he turned so his back was to you.

“I don’t love you.”

You felt like you had been slapped. Taking a step back, your voice rose an octave. “I—I don’t believe you.”

Steve turned to face you again, staring directly into your eyes. He cursed himself for what he was about to do.

“I don’t love you. The only reason why I wanted you here was so I could piss Rumlow off. So I could take something of his.”

Swallowing thickly, you turned and started walking out of the room. When you got to the door, you paused. “Well, congratulations. You got what you wanted.”

@winenighthoe @createdbytinyaddiction @cam0flug3 @jonsnowisnotdeadthough @afraidofyourownminddrreid @ssweet-empowerment @emilypkuzu @huntermichelle @liamssmiler @nyoomiemaximoff @kindnesswins @white-chocolate-mocha-fan @insposcollective @ssweet-empowerment @meme-lord-and-savior-sebastian @koizorahana @lilypalmer1987 @peter-spider-parker-man @bookgirlunicorn @sofipatey

#steve x reader #steve fic #steve rogers x reader #steve imagine #steve rogers imagine #steve fluff #marvel #steve rogers au #mobster steve #mob! steve #steve rogers #captain america au #cap au #captain america x reader #steven rogers #sr

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thelioninmybed · 6 years

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Imrael and Khazri meeting each other's parents. OR ALTERNATIVELY their parents meeting each other.

I started this, Anon, only to find out I’d ALREADY started it like, three years ago. That was clever of me (and leaves me even less excuse for this taking so damn long, sorry!)

The Lady Keira Arroway, protector of Dawnwood, famed beauty and socialite, tossed her flame red hair, picked her nose and wiped it under the taproom table. “I don’t know what you want me to do about it,” she said.

Although it would have been polite to wash and change his clothes before meeting with nobility, and very pleasant to sleep twelve hours or more, Imrael had gone straight from Ferris’ front gates to the nameless tavern that was Keira’s second home. His own, after the library, and his clinic before he’d set off questing. “Don’t be a dick, Keira. Talk to your father.”

She offered him an elegant shrug. “What do you think he’s going to do about it?”

“Send a weatherworker to clear the roads? I don’t know, it’s not my village. You asked me to report and that’s what I’ve done - at great personal risk no less - and the least he can do is-”

“Alright, alright, don’t shout.”

Imrael hadn’t realised that’s what he’d been doing until she said so. “It’s been a long few months,” he said at a carefully normal volume.

“Another drink?”

“Yes,” Imrael said, with feeling.

“I didn’t think anything would come of it,” Keira said, once she’d flagged down the waitress and procured two flagons of mediocre ale. “I just wanted to show the old man I was taking things seriously. He isn’t going to like this.”

“Probably not. You can tell him we killed a god on his account if that will sweeten the pot.”

“You’re a fucking liar, Rae,” she said, with a grin that crinkled up her nose and made her green eyes sparkle.

“I have not lied to you once in my entire life,” said Imrael solemnly, unaccountably relieved to feel their old, easy camaraderie returning. Two loutish students again, with no greater responsibilities than turning in their next assignments and not drinking away their stipends.

“Interesting phrasing there. Anyway, leave it in my hands. I’ll talk to Papa, sort the peasants, none of that’s important. The real question is, did it work?”

“It is important, people are dy-”

“Imrael. My friend. Don’t take this as me believing you about the god, but I can see you’ve been through something because I don’t know why else you’d be wearing that hat. I’m sure it was all very traumatic but now it’s time to get drunk and never think about any of it ever again. So. Did you, or did you not seduce that adorable goblin you’ve been pining over? All that sharing bed linens, huddling for warmth, tenderly chafing cold hands-”

“He almost died of hypothermia.”

“So you saw his cock? Why’re you being so coy? Are you- oh.” Her eyes narrowed. ”You are in love with him.”

“Keira-”

“And he doesn’t even try to deny it,” she crowed to the room at large. “Smitten! I never thought I’d see the day. Where is he? Are you finally going to introduce us properly?”

“So,” said Khazri. “What did she say?”

“Not much.” Imrael went to blow on his fingers, already numbing, and then reconsidered and intertwined them with Khazri’s gloved hand. There was a moment of awkward limpness and then he squeezed back. “She said she’d do something, just like she says she’ll pay you back when she borrows money. I’ll go annoy her tomorrow. Maybe you could come too?”

“Do you want me to threaten her?”

“No! Gods no. Keira’s heart’s in the right place, she’s just-” Imrael waved his free hand vaguely. “Rich. You should meet her because she’s my friend.” It would take some careful management and probably some more bribery to ensure she never mentioned why he and Khazri had been sent off on that ‘quest’ in the first place, but Imrael was up to it.

“I’m better at threats,” Khazri said, and Imrael could read him well enough to catch the fear that the humour overlaid and gave his hand a comforting squeeze.

“You’re wonderful at threats. Time to practice having a drink with an old friend instead. Say midday? Back here?”

“I’m not going to disappear. Again.”

“Shh. I know. Where do you usually stay when you’re in the city? I never asked.”

Khazri got that shifty look that meant he wasn’t going to answer because he knew Imrael wouldn’t like it. “Are you going back to your rooms?”

“Nah. My parents haven’t seen me in two seasons. Also their house is warmer, the sheets are cleaner and they’re obliged to feed us. Yes, I did say ‘us’ before you willfully misinterpret. You’re going to have a proper meal and sleep in a bed and not a hayloft - was it a hayloft? I knew it.”

Khazri scuffed his boot through the slushy ice in the gutter. “I don’t get on well with parents. Historically.”

“Was that a joke?” If it was, it was only in part and Imrael squeezed Khazri’s hand. “Don’t worry. You’re a significant improvement on the last partner I brought home.”

“How?”

“I’d rather not get into Eshe.”

“Oh.” And that, if nothing else, was a reason to love Khazri; he didn’t ask awkward questions.

“You can borrow some of my clothes, or my sister’s - she won’t mind and she’s closer to your height.” He hesitated. “You don’t have to do any of this.”

“But you want me to.”

“Yes.” Fumbling sex - or not so fumbling, Khazri was a very quick learner - and life-threatening drama was one thing. Friends and parents and quiet conversations, all the trappings of a life together were quite another.

“How do they feel about dogs?”

Penneth and Aruna Sovelin were good parents to a fault. As a teenager Imrael had rather wished they weren’t, and had bought home a succession of increasingly unsuitable partners, culminating in Eshe, whom they really should have taken him to task over. They hadn’t though, any more than they did when he appeared with no warning, a ragged goblin and two timber wolves upon their doorstep.

“Is there anything your friend can’t eat?” his father asked, rolling flatbread at the kitchen table, floured to the elbows.

Imrael glanced to Khazri, more from politeness than anything else. Khazi would eat bark and insects in a pinch, and the idea he’d refuse a meal of any kind was ridiculous. Unless he’d gotten it into his head that people were trying to poison him, which did happen. The conviction, not the poisoning. To the best of Imrael’s knowledge, anyway.

“I can eat,” Khazri said.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any meat for your- dogs.” To his father’s credit, he hardly stumbled.

Khazri tilted his head. Beryl’s ears flicked forwards. Jeff whined. “They don’t mind,” Khazri concluded.

“They found a dead aurochs in a snowdrift yesterday,” Imrael said reassuringly. “It was hardly rotten.”

“Oh good! I’d pet them if I weren’t baking.” Although Imrael had his mother’s height and lanky frame, there was no doubt as to where he got his temperament. ”Your mother’s finishing in the shop. Would you tell her two minutes? And please charm your clothes, dear, you’d think you’d been rolling in dead aurochs.”

“Dead aurochs is a generous assessment,” said his mother, sticking her head around the door. “What happened to you?” She cast the charms to cast off the grime herself, which was a relief; he hadn’t the will to do it himself, or do much more than flop into a chair and start shovelling lentil soup into his mouth. Half the seasoning was enchantment, his father doing what he could to compensate for ingredients too dear or foreign to get hold of here in Ferris, but so had it been throughout his childhood and the way the flavours slid, translucent, off his tongue was comforting in itself.

Like dark hair and sharp noses, curiosity ran in the family. Curiosity that, thankfully, Imrael could keep on himself as he related the story of their adventures. Not the version he’d told Keira, in which all dangers were exaggerated along with his heroism, and with more of a focus on gratefully healed peasants than ancient, murderous evils, but close enough, and that took them most of the way through supper. Khazri was quiet as ever but Imrael thought it came across as modesty and sincere appreciation for his father’s cooking; accepting a third helping was a sure way to his father’s heart, and Khazri ate like he hadn’t had a decent meal in a month (which he hadn’t; another detail Imrael glossed over).

“It’s very brave,” Imrael’s mother said when he’d stopped talking about their adventures long enough for her to say it. “Both of you. I didn’t know there even were male mercenaries.” In the same ‘I’m trying’ voice she’d used when he’d wanted to keep a jarful of snails as a pet or go to university.

“I know I’d be terrified,” Imrael’s father agreed, widening shadowed eyes. People didn’t go to elven apothecaries just for medicines and fetishes, although Imrael’s father’s were very good (and Imrael was both too old to make fetish jokes and not too old to be rapped with a wooden spoon). People came for the experience and that meant feyness and an awful lot of glitter.

“I’m not,” said Khazri. “Not really. Not a mercenary, I mean, not not terrified.”

“We’re very proud of Imrael for what he’s doing,” his mother went on doggedly. She didn’t chatter like his father did, flitting from point to point; once she’d decided she had something to say, she said it. “I hated it at first - some part of me still does - but this isn’t Faerie. We can’t make puppets of our children. Can’t seal them up in mirrors if they defy us.”

“They sent me to my room often enough, though,” Imrael interjected lest they forget their own monstrosity. And also because Khazri likely didn’t want to hear more of the old punishments listed. ‘Fed to spiders’ wasn’t even on the list of joking threats his parents had once made when he wouldn’t go to bed, but better to take no chances.

“We’re glad he’s not alone. We thought that woman of his would take responsibility but she never has,” his mother said and Imrael wanted to cringe because it was such a parent thing to say, so caring and so clueless, and so not a thing to joke about with Khazri later. There were downsides to a boyfriend who never asked questions and had a reptile’s understanding of parental interest.

“Pff, Keira can’t take responsibility for her own life,” he said carelessly. “She can’t even take responsibility for her bar tab.” ‘She’s just a friend’ wasn’t an argument worth having, Imrael had learnt.

“Or the last one,” his father put in.

“Eshe paid her tab, though I’ll concede she didn’t have her life together.”

“Or at all.” His mother sniffed. “Liches”

“She wasn’t dead when I met her,” he said hastily, lest Khazri get the wrong idea.

“We have clever children,” said his father, fond and weary. “But there’s not an ounce of sense between them.

Khazri swallowed. “Is Belain still. At Court?” He didn’t ask questions but he listened, and he’d been watching them all gossip as raptly as he’d ever watched a game trail. Imrael though he knew why but wasn’t about to embarrass him by pointing it out.

Imrael’s mother pursed her lips. “She likes it better. Everything we did to leave it and she rushes straight back. No sense at all, but then it’s easier for girls. Not a place to raise a son.” It was a conversation his parents had had often enough, to him and about him when they thought he and Belain long abed.

“Will you both be staying the night?” said his father, gathering up the plates.

“Yes, we will. Thanks, Papa.”

“Help me clear the table.” All the fuss to get away, all the insistence on being modern, but his father and Imrael were the ones who’d cooked and done the dishes for as long as he could remember. Sometimes his mother helped and but today she stayed at the head of the table and nodded to Khazri, who had risen, to do likewise.

“You’ll look after him?” she said stiffly, as Imrael ducked into the kitchen.

And, almost lost under the clatter of dishes; “Yes.”

”A lich?”

“Shh. I’m asleep.” Imrael’s bedroom was mostly storage now, and stank of drying herbs. Eyes gleamed lambent in the dark of it, and something huge and predatory panted. More worryingly, the bed wasn’t made for two, never mind two and an adult timberwolf, but they’d dealt with worse.

“I wasn’t- I don’t- My aunt’s dead. Only not.”

“That’s not at all comforting. Not even slightly. And it’s really unfair how you’ve cornered the market on weird family shit. I can’t even date a lich without you topping it.”

“I thought she wasn’t dead until after-”

“She wasn’t! Shush or I won’t invite you back.” Imrael rolled over - or attempted to. There wasn’t room and so he settled for wriggling pointedly.

There was a thoughtful pause. A flicker in the gleam of his eyes as Khazri blinked. “Your father’s a good cook,” he concluded.

In lots of ways it wasn’t a very satisfactory conclusion to come to, but in lots of ways it was.

#Anonymous #Raised By Wolves #Imrael Sovelin #Khazri Il'harren #Keira belongs to @pargile from way back when credit where it’s due.

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violetsystems · 5 years

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#personal

The only drama I’ve been tolerating lately is my return to reading physical comics in public. The world has gone batshit insane and that isn’t the intro panel to Immortal Hulk. It’s pretty much real life for me without much explanation or external plot narration. After a year of writing here about how I feel on any number of issues nobody in real life knows any different. It’s always been here where the act of social sharing has fifteen layers of safeguards in terms of anonymity. The community has always been very subtle and muted in how it treats each other. It’s intimate how you come to know a person through their curation of content. There’s entire relationships I have with people on here that matter more to me than people I’m in daily contact with in Chicago. I’ve been submerged in the deep web like a cybernetic dolphin in a tank for years with the rest of you. The Tumblr fishbowl has always been much more comforting than the public eye. The only theory I have is that people really don’t pay attention to anyone in real life. I’ve come to know the pain of recognizing when people stop listening. Most people just project how great they are or how much more they know. Society in America especially under the guise of capitalism is always a competition. You can only assess the success or value of a person by the amount they make or more importantly spend. From there people splinter off into efficiently divided cliques, tribes and teams that people try to draft you into out of fear of isolation. Peer pressure doesn’t ever go away unless you shut the door completely or maybe even bust it wide open. Even then it just gets nastier and more sophisticated. You’d have to be the Hulk to enjoy that kind of constant abuse. My follower count has been mostly the same which has always been something I respect. Everybody knows I try to play it safe and genuinely respect different perspectives. I walk boundaries and I maintain layers beyond that. Around this time last year I had made a decision in my life to focus my attention on things that made me happy. One of those was my communications here with people. Things had grown from this into real life in a magical way. And then people starting hijacking the narrative for their own selfish reasons. Putting their own spin, opinion and value on the things they thought I was “trying to say.” That kind of thing has been happening to me since the beginning of time. People trying to turn something I do into something that can benefit them, influence or control. When it comes to blogging on the internet here the outside world is mostly negative towards this space. Truthfully I am pretty excited about the recent purchase of Tumblr but everything in the press is always negative. People are so conditioned to bad news these days that we just fixate on the drama and do nothing about it. People crave it in almost everything. Walk into a coffee shop and employees are trashing other coffee brands instead of focusing on their own. People talk behind other people’s back like it’s a secret trial and never face the demon within themselves. Sometimes these things escalate into crossing the line or threshold of your dreams overcome by some madness and zealotry. They think they have a say in whatever it is I do in my own time. And with me we already know how badly people have fucked up in this regard. It is sadly comical at this point and I am the butt of a constant cosmic joke. It would be a broken record to spend another year describing how I haven’t gotten over it. I don’t give a fuck about any of that shit really anymore. I changed my train route, subscribed to better coffee at home and read Hulk comics on the commute.

With all the drama between Sony and Disney over Spider-man people forget sometimes we’re talking about movies. Who owns the rights to the intellectual property of poor artists to bankroll their studio profits every summer is maybe important. If you didn’t have twenty two movies linked together already. I don’t know really I just read comics. I’m supposed to have an opinion about every part of the world I’ve never lived in. Within all these arguments it’s always picking a side. Mostly because people want a battle and a chance to feel right even when they are missing a perspective totally. We can focus on all the talking about the problems all day and never find a solution. It’s been particularly hard for me to come to grips with being in the environment I’ve been in. I spent five years traveling to Asia to figure out my place outside of all this. This last year I came back and focused closer to home. In that respect I’ve found New York to be much less pretentious than I thought it would be. It’s truly the city where you can cry on the street and nobody cares. That feeling of freedom is something I don’t feel lately myself in Chicago. There’s too much manipulation and utilization of public space. People so concerned about why you aren’t happy and never would do a thing to correct the problem. There has to be something wrong with you for feeling that way. In New York you kind of share the space and let things breathe. In Chicago everybody is trying to maximize your contribution to society. Your social obligations in the highest taxed city in America are also taxed if not just by patience and will alone. I pay taxes and I don’t mind paying them. But encroaching on people’s life, liberty and pursuit of happiness for the sake of a brand is a bit weird. Unless it’s Pink. This coming from a guy decked out fully in Nike and Undercover. You see these shirts that say “Chicago Over Everything” and then you see me rot in silence in my street wear coffin. I hear a lot of sentiments that don’t ever address me directly. People project what they hope you will hear and expect you to take the bait. Looking for a fight. Looking for a new friend to abuse. Looking for another cult member. People approach inclusion by never leaving you alone and make you feel crazy for feeling claustrophobic. I guess people have never been a victim of police entrapment. That’s some drama I’ve already written about and left in the dust. These days it’s ten thousand times worse and then again I’m over it. The double standard I see in the real world is mostly about making people question their legitimacy in the face of incompetence. I’ve been the victim of so many dumb social experiments for art’s sake and otherwise. All it ever really amounts to is intimidation and drama and it’s boring and ineffectual. We argue things we can’t or won’t change instead of leading by example. And leading in public by yourself with no safety net gets old after awhile. Especially when nobody remembers all that you’ve done. Or at least gives you the benefit of the doubt when the court of public opinion puts you on trial for the fifth week in a row. People who will talk about you behind you back all day but never address you to your face. Never acknowledge your validity. Too busy being negative to give you a chance to shine.

There’s an entire decade of my life that has been left behind and forgotten about outside of Tumblr. Imagine the irony that the people I shared things with here knew the deeper side of me. And we all watched me get passed over and ruminate about how I could be a better person. How I could right all these wrongs? How I could be the hero. And almost eerily like the Hulk comic I’m looked upon as something else. I haven’t really had a modern comic experience quite like reading that graphic novel. I just ordered the next volume and get to pick it up from another school’s campus after work tomorrow. I do have to work all day tomorrow. I’ve done that for almost two decades. People still treat me like a kid. People on Tumblr of course know I don’t feel like a kid or even remotely account for one mathematically. But I’ve learned people look for any excuse to write you off. They do it for years and when you grow better they find another thing to drag you down with. When they can’t find anything they just ignore you. And here we are a year later looking back. It’s that time of year again. People are actually back in school. Just like every other year really it feels like. People can acknowledge I feel invisible but not acknowledge me personally. That’s the whole curse of the Undercover aesthetic. You wear it so well even the police start getting it twisted. Nobody asks. Nobody has the guts to approach you and treat you fairly. And so you grow to know better than to waste you time on shit that doesn’t appreciate your value. It’s a mind fuck for me really to understand the way forward is more of the same. That being isolated and exiled in some way is far more safe at this point of my life. That maybe there’s things too precious for me to share with people who can’t fathom or know the value I place on it. Because they don’t make the sacrifices I do to keep things safe. To be responsible and be myself at the same time. A year ago I felt like that mad scientist locked in a lab. I’ve done enough barbell reps to be the skinniest Hulk alive. The title of that volume is “Or is he both?” It’s a far different vibe from either Professor Hulk or Planet Hulk. Bruce Banner is a transient who changes into the Hulk nightly. He’s tracking gamma ray signatures of what he calls Walking Ghosts. Toxic creatures exposed like a virus to gamma radiation by another scientist trying to heal his son. Banner is trying to right a wrong and at the same time stay in control of his inner core of responsibilities. He keeps a secret that grows out of control and finally the Hulk cannot be contained. Interestingly enough the Hulk exacts his rage in frighteningly calculated ways. He even speaks kindly of Banner. He also buries the other scientist in a mountain and makes him ponder hell forever instead of ending his life. The Hulk eventually learns about this green door through the Walking Ghosts that whisper about it in fear. There’s no gatekeeper at that door to hold the Hulk back. And I’m sure there’s so much more drama behind that door. It’s only Volume two after all. I can’t wait to find out because that’s about the only drama these days I pay attention to. I don’t need any drama getting in the way of my love for you. Hulk out. <3 Tim

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