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yonkimint · 3 years

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So Show Me, I’ll Show You

Part 28.1

This part has written parts with pictures in between.

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When the door to your hospital room swings open, you groan in relief. Finally Jimin was here to jailbreak you. It was great having Lauren, Heeji, and Luna here but they are dutiful bulldogs and you can’t blame them. Your last visit to the hospital had left them pretty traumatized.

Your hopes fall when a man in scrubs steps into the room instead. You had seen him once or twice but you had never exchanged words. In fact, the only reason you remember him at all is because he is white and you thought that was odd, considering you were in a Korean hospital.

“Oh hi,” you say, uncomfortable, when he just stands at the foot of your bed. His head is bowed so you can’t study his face too closely but his presence puts you on edge. He doesn’t respond to your greeting so you push on, trying to keep your tone nonchalant, “The nurses just did their rotations and I’m doing fine. Did you need to check something?”

He laughs. A low throaty laugh that has haunted all of your nightmares. Your hands fist around hospital sheets as a cold chill runs up your spine. Swallowing around the lump rising in your throat, you peer closer at him.Mark’s hair is black. This orderly’s is ash blonde. But everything else… you suck in a sharp breath.

“Hello, y/n, did you get my flowers?”

He lifts his head and all his sharp features suddenly come into focus. He has been here the whole time watching you try to recover from injuries that he perpetuated. He looks pleased. And his pleasure makes you want to claw his face off.

“Go to hell, asshole.” You try to sound menacing, to hiss these words like poison, but they only come out a weak, fearful wheeze. Mark clucks his tongue at you.

“Look at you, y/n, trying to be brave when you’re really nothing but a weakling. A cowardly little girl. You would be nothing without me and you know it. You don’t really think you’re going to fight me, do you?”

There’s a glimmer in his eye and it makes you so angry. But the part of you that has endured his abuse for years is still the stronger part and you feel your anger give way to hopelessness. Mark is right. You won’t fight him.

“Good girl. Now, we are going to go on a little field trip, okay?”

You shudder as he steps around the bed and traces the IV still in your arm. You had been waiting until the last second to remove it so the nurses wouldn’t suspect anything if they walked in but now you regret that choice. Mark has no intentions of being gentle with you.

He presses a palm against your mouth, smiling vindictively as the fingers of his other hand loop around the tubes that have been delivering your medicine and fluid for the last few days and yanks the whole thing loose. You whimper into his skin as blood splashes from your open vein.

“How are we supposed to go on a field trip when any camera is going to catch you dragging me out of this room?” you ask him, hoping fleetingly that he hasn’t thought of this. But he’s been here for who knows how long.

“My little writer,” he coos, snatching your phone from your lap and slipping it into his scrubs pocket, “You really do try to think of everything that can happen, don’t you?”

You glare at him. You have taken abuse from him all these years and still, it’s the patronizing that sets you off every time. And he knows he’s pushed the right button too because he laughs and pats your cheek gently.

“Oh my sweet little y/n, the field trip is right here in the hospital. I’m going to roll you out of here in that wheelchair,” he says, pausing to point to the wheelchair that sits in the corner of your room, “and we’re going to go down the hall. And you’ll do exactly what I tell you to because you know that I have your phone which means I can either let you say goodbye to your friends or make them think that you never want to see them again. Your choice!”

This is so cliche, you think, hobbling out of bed when he gestures for you to get up, like something out of a stupid soap opera. Disguises himself as an orderly and kidnaps me right under everyone’s noses. God damnit.

Your field trip brings you to a supply closet on the third floor of the hospital which, conveniently, is under renovation. You can’t help but think that Mark is following this cliched script just to piss off the writer in you.

Now that you’re out of sight of the cameras, he has tied your limbs to the chair so you can’t run away. A gag sits roughly in your mouth and cuts against the corners of your lips. Mark is circling you as if deciding where he should start.

Lauren told you that he threatened to do so much worse than put you in the hospital next time he found you and you let your eyes flutter shut in defeat.

You choose not to think about that. Instead, you let your memories play like old movie reels on the backs of your eyelids. Heeji’s art galleries. Lauren’s photo shoots. And Luna’s ridiculous seances every full moon.

You stifle a chuckle. No need to bring on Mark’s wrath any sooner than necessary.

And then, newer memories begin to play and a lump rises in your throat. These ones aren’t supposed to be tinged with melancholy. These are supposed to be the memories of starting over. The memories from after you are safe.

You swallow hard.

The flight had already taken a lot out of you. This was just the cherry on top of a totally stressful, life changing ice cream sundae. At least this coffee shop seemed safe and warm while you tried to figure out if you were going to be homeless or not.

Seoyun, the barista, had been kind enough to give you the WiFi password so looking up your address shouldn’t be too difficult. Still, you lowered your head down on the table with a sigh of defeat. Seoul was so confusing.

“Oh, I know that look,” a voice sounds above you. Your head snaps up, eyes narrowing, already distrustful of a friendly stranger in the heart of South Korea. He smiles at you and his perfect rows of white teeth are so familiar, you already feel your tense muscles uncoiling. He presses on, “it’s not your first day in Seoul, is it?”

You glance at your luggage and back at him, remembering Lauren’s texts to go find BTS. As if the butt of some cosmic joke, it seems that they have found you instead.

You roll your eyes at him, “what gave it away?”

He glances down at your luggage too and laughs. You study his face carefully so you see the exact moment he makes a decision that will alter the course of both your lives.

His hands are full with two trays of coffee and he shoves them down on your table without asking. You raise an eyebrow at him, not really surprised by his boldness but somehow taken aback all the same, but he only flashes his brilliant smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the force of it. He sits down.

“You look like you don’t trust yourself to breathe. Like you’re trapped in your own brain or something,” he comments.

You lean forward, reminding yourself to calm the flare of annoyance rising in your chest before you speak. “Jimin,” you say evenly, “do you think you can just sit here with a complete stranger, flirt with her a little bit, and she’ll open up with her whole life story?”

“It’s always worked before,” he chirps back, batting his eyes, that same heart melting grin never wavering. But you see it there behind his gaze. No one has ever called him out on this before and you smile.

“I sincerely doubt that…” you say, trailing off as his hand darts out for the phone you’ve left on the table. You gasp, your reflexes too slow to catch him now, and he giggles swiping through as many un-password protected screens as he can.

“Well, I sincerely doubt that you know where you’re going since you’re sitting in a random coffee shop with all your luggage so, out of the kindness of my heart, I’ve decided to help you find your way,” he says, handing the phone back and gesturing for you to unlock it for him.

Your insides are screaming not to do it. You have to keep a low profile or starting over is going to fail but the earnest look in his eye has you wavering. With a sigh, you unlock the phone and you feel it deep in your gut, everything is over before it’s even begun.

It didn’t really matter what Mark was doing to torture you, just that he was and the pain was excruciating. You had heard a rumor once that after a certain point, the body would stop responding to pain but you were sure now that that was a lie. This was endless.

Your eyes start to roll back when Mark claps in front of your face again. You blink back into focus and your whole body is screaming for relief. He’s looking at you like you should say something to him but you can’t speak, the gag still firmly in your mouth, muffling all your screams.

“Can’t have you dozing off, my favorite little writer, you’ll miss the best part!”

You quirk an eyebrow, inviting him to give his little villain’s speech. He obviously wants to follow the soap opera script so you might as well let him follow it to its natural conclusion. He grins, tracing your jaw line with something icy cold. A knife?

No, you tell yourself, don’t think about that.

“You’re probably thinking how cliche this all must be. The hospital disguise. The hiding in plain sight. You’re probably even thinking that since we stayed in the hospital, it’s inevitable that I will get caught. Which is true. The question is if it will happen before or after I kill you,” he says, “And maybe the more important question is this: why did Mark do this to the thing that makes him all his money?”

The thing? You would spit on him if there weren’t a gag in your mouth.

He leans close, his eyes boring into yours. “And the answer is really quite simple. You disgust me. You think you’re so talented and so clever. Everyone adores you and bends over backwards to care for you and what do you really need protection from? Your big, bad manager and publisher?”

He’s going to keep ranting, you know it, and you don’t want the short time you have left to be spent listening to this tirade. They say it’s normal to disassociate under trauma and so you do, falling into your memories again.

Namjoon had warned you about Yoongi before you even stepped foot in the studio. It still wasn’t enough to stop the way your heart dropped down into your stomach when you caught a glimpse of him in the hallway.

You had told him after the fact that you didn’t remember this moment but the truth of the matter was, it was impossible to erase this memory from your mind. With all the steel you could muster, you met his gaze. Dark, critical eyes stared back at you, soft pink lips pressed into a thin, annoyed line.

You offered a gentle smile like it was an olive branch, your knees wobbling while you waited for him to roll his eyes or storm away. But his eyes only widened, those annoyed lips parting in a small ‘o’, color rushing up to dust his round cheeks.

It made your knees knock together and you ducked your head. What was that? Forget it. If he was going to refuse to meet you, you weren’t going to waste feelings over it.

The next memory spills into recollection almost on top of this one.

Would it be okay if I came and listened to what you’re working on? you texted Namjoon.

Jungkook and Hobi were arguing about who got to be Luigi in the next race. You chuckled to yourself, amazed for the billionth time that you had somehow been invited to hang out with these boys again. You had already known they were incredible but actually interacting with them was overwhelming. They were as wonderful as they had always seemed from afar.

Even, you thought, Yoongi. He had extended a truce but he was still frustrating to no end. What did he mean you could never be friends? He was obviously capable of being friendly and you knew the way he cared for and protected his group members. It shouldn’t sting so much that he didn’t want to be YOUR friend but what could you do?

“Y/n, I curated a meme just for you,” Tae whispers from his place beside you on the couch and you startle when he pushes his phone into your hands.

“What the hell, Tae?” you burst out laughing, trying to make sense of the chaotic picture before you. He starts laughing too, satisfied by your reaction and takes his phone back. You punch his arm lightly and mutter, “you’re so weird.”

Let me ask Yoongi, your phone chimes. Your stomach surges with some feeling you don’t understand. You remind yourself that you’re just going to hang out with Joon. This has nothing to do with Yoongi and yet…

How is he supposed to become your friend if you let him keep avoiding you?

He says you can’t talk but you can come in.

You’re out of your seat before you have time to think about it more. The boys look up at you in surprise and you announce that you’re gonna hang out with Namjoon a bit before you challenge them to Mario Kart. The look of fear in Jungkook’s eyes sends you into another fit of laughter and you pat his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Kookie, winning isn’t everything!”

“Yes it is!” he groans as you walk away.

In the studio, your stomach starts to dance again. Yoongi doesn’t look up from the scratch paper he’s scribbling on but you can see the way his fingers tighten around his pen. He is as aware of your presence as you are of his. When Namjoon points to the spot on the couch beside him, it takes all your concentration not to trip over your own feet.

You scold yourself for this silly behavior. There are more adoring members of this kpop group to be mooning over. Mooning over? You are NOT mooning over Yoongi. Who said that? Not you.

Anyway, whatever it is you’re feeling, Yoongi has done nothing to deserve it. So why do your eyes keep landing on him as you survey the room?

“I don’t like that lyric there,” Namjoon says, “maybe we should move it down into the second verse.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes but it’s softened by the small smile playing at his lips. He and Namjoon must have been going back and forth over these lines for quite some time. You watch as he scribbles out the words and moves them lower down the page.

His eyes meet yours and the hairs rise on the back of your arms. He doesn’t look upset that you’re there and that’s almost more unsettling than him insulting you. You press your lips together and search for anywhere in the room to look but him.

The phone in your lap will have to provide distraction enough. You pick it up and fiddle around between home screens but there’s nothing as interesting there as what’s happening before you so you listen in on the lyrics they’re crafting while you pretend to text the girls.

Of course, when you find out the song is for E.L. Penn, you spiral. You knew your worlds were going to collide if you stuck around long enough. It’s never been a secret to you that Namjoon was a fan of her work — your work — or that they would have worked with her on the movie if she hadn’t gone on hiatus.

But you are just an English teacher in Seoul and not the recipient of this song that is making your heart hurt. You can’t believe Mark would hack into your Twitter account just to set this in motion without you. He’s trying to push your buttons and it’s working.

So you do the only thing you can. You call Lauren.

When you return to the studio, Namjoon is gone. You knew he would be since he passed you in the hall while you were still on the phone. Yoongi looks up at you in surprise but you only offer a curt nod before beelining for your spot on the couch.

The tears spill out before you can help it and your phone buzzes with a text from Yoongi. You feel stupid as you read his stupid question through blurred vision. You respond sardonically and toss your phone onto the couch.

When he tells you you’re killing the vibe, you almost launch to your feet and run out of the room but Yoongi stops you. You stare at him, mouth gaping open like a fish.

“You want to what?” you ask, wondering if he’ll scold you for talking out loud to him.

He reaches for his guitar instead, a sleek, black stained acoustic that you’ve seen in several lives from before you actually knew him. He strums the chords lightly, the sweet sounds discordant in the small space. You blink at him.

“It’s something I’ve been working on,” he says vaguely, “I’m just curious what you think.”

“Why me?” you ask, confused. He frowns at you, his lips puckering and little dimples appearing in the corners of his cheeks.

“Just be quiet and listen, okay?” he asks it like a question but you know he’s giving a command.

You smile at him a little too sweetly and then settle back into the couch, pulling your legs up to your chest, so you can rest your chin on your knees as he starts to strum. He rolls his eyes at you but there’s a smile in them that you’ve never seen directed at you before.

Your stomach makes that weird lurch again and you finally resign yourself to what you are feeling. Butterflies. Min Yoongi is giving you butterflies.

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ridemedaddyjames · 5 years

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Split - Part IV

Split - Part III

Pairing: Kevin Wendell Crumb x reader

Warnings: angst, cursing, stockholm syndrome

Words: 2,100

“You mean you don’t wanna leave?” Hedwig questioned, completely befuddled by your response, his attention span dwindling again. “Okay, I’ll show you my room,” he shrugged, taking your hand in his as he led you through the complicated maze. When you finally found his room, it seemed to be a well organized mess. Of course, you could never find anything in here, but he had no trouble at all.

“Hedwig, this is your room!?” You exclaimed, smiling widely at how much it truly represented his mind and personality. With everything strewn about, it made it difficult to maneuver through the mess, but he managed to get to the CD player and turn up the music.

“Do you like it? Miss Patricia gets kinda angry when it’s a mess, and Dennis refuses to come in.” Hedwig said, wondering how you’d feel about all of it.

“I think it’s amazing, it really represents you,” and, just like that, you couldn’t stop yourself from grinning like a child. Hedwig always had that affect on you, to make you happy no matter what the situation may be.

“Wanna dance to some Kanye West?” He asked, grabbing you and showing you how to move as he twisted his body into different directions. You tried to mimic him, turning yourself in the same way, but, instead of dancing, you’d just ended up tripping on a pile of toys and clothes.

Hedwig laughed, bending over to help you up. Being the deviant you are, though, you decided to pull him down with you instead. He landed on the pile of clothes, rolling with laughter. “You’re the bestest friend ever,” he said, finally catching his breath as the two of you got up.

“Well, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” you reminded him as you wrapped your arms around him, comfortingly. He held you close, and you could feel him playing with your hair as you giggled.

“Okay, we gotta get back before Mr. Dennis comes, or he’ll be really mad that I let you out. Etcetera,” Hedwig nodded, walking with you back to the room where you were supposed to be being held.

The two of you exchanged one last hug before he disappeared, leaving you alone with your thoughts once again. This time you imagined what it may be like to have kids. Patricia would be the aunt that would spoil them rotten. Hedwig would look at it as having a new friend and twenty-four hour playmate. Dennis would probably see it as a nuisance, and would ask that you keep it contained, and Kevin...Kevin would be the happiest he’s ever been. He would want to prove that he could do it; raise a child without all the problems he had to face growing up. That in itself seemed reason enough to do it, but it was all a fantasy made up in your head, and you realized that when Dennis opened your door and let himself inside.

“I brought you something,” Dennis fidgeted, awkwardly, as he did his best to hide whatever it was behind his back. “Close your eyes, and put out your hands.”

If he’d have said those words to Marcia or Claire they would be screaming with fear, but you could hardly contain the excitement that was coursing through your veins. When you opened your eyes, you found a book resting in your palms. ‘Frankenstein’ you read, feeling an immediate attachment to him as a person with this inanimate object. You ran your fingers over the cover. The pages looked as if it had been read a thousand times, but the binding was so perfect that it seemed to be brand new. This represented how well put together he seemed on the outside, and the story behind those walls; his beautiful disguise. Your eyes lit up at the gesture, your heart racing in your chest.

“I thought you might like something to pass the time. It’s - um - it’s my favorite. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to, though.” Dennis stated, his Boston accent thicker than usual in part to his nervousness. Tears swelled in your eyes, but you did your best to blink them away, still so awestruck that he had given you something that meant so much to him.

He was being so gentle, and, without even thinking, you leapt from your spot on the small cot to throw your arms around his neck. His hands rested against your waist, taking in the smell of your hair. Dennis was falling for you, and it absolutely terrified him, but you were just as broken as he was, and he couldn’t help but find some sort of comfort in knowing that.

“Dennis, will you dance with me?” You whispered in his ear, feeling his muscles tense at the feeling of your breath on his skin. It had been a weakness of his, and you’d known it from the start. That day he brought you here, asking Marcia to dance with him, you still burned with jealousy that it hadn’t been you in his arms. At first he was hesitant, his fingers landing stiffly against your sides, and you prayed to no one in particular that he would loosen up.

Finally, he moved with you, slowly at first, before the steps had taken on a life of their own. The two of you seeming to follow the same nonexistent rhythm as you danced to nothing at all. By the time you’d finished, you were entirely out of breath, arms around his neck, beaming widely up at him as you felt his chest against yours. You hadn’t realized how close the two of you had been, or how natural it all seemed.

Your insides fluttered, dying to say what was on your mind, but there weren’t enough words to speak how this man made you feel. Which is why you broke the nonexistent barrier, and, without warning, leaned up on your tiptoes to press your lips to his.

Dennis stood there, awkwardly, letting it happen, eyes wide in horror before slowly easing into it. You felt his hand slowly move up your back before holding you closer to him. His other placed, softly, against your cheek. Your eyes fell shut, enjoying every second. Your gut told you that this was wrong, but Gods how it felt so right. This was absolute bliss. This was love.

Suddenly, Dennis pulled away, taking a step back as he put his hands on his hips and stared at the ground. He was thinking, and you wanted to know what went on inside that beautiful mind, until he said something that cut you to your core.

“We can’t,” he realized, breaking the silence. “I shouldn’t have done this, it was a mistake. I can’t get close to you, it’ll only make things harder than they have to be.” He seemed to say it more to himself than to you. Finally, Dennis reached for the door to slam it shut, but you stopped him, taking hold of his thick, bulging, arm, and pressing yourself against him once again.

“Please, please, don’t go. I just,” you stopped, trying to find the words. “I dont want to be alone.”

The hurt in your eyes made him hesitate, and it was that split second of worry that told you he really did care. Before you could stop him, he’d rushed out of the room, leaving you in silence.

Feeling defeated, lost, and alone, you through yourself down on the cot before breaking down in tears. To your surprise, and after what felt like an eternity of sobbing, a soft voice came from the other side of the room. “Y/N, why you cryin?” Hedwig muttered, coming to sit beside you on the tiny bed. You had pulled your legs up to your chest, and, although you hesitated at first, you couldn’t stop yourself from falling into his arms. Hedwig didn’t know how to react, his body going limp compared to the stiffness of Dennis. You rested your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Ultimately, he opted for the safe route as he ran his fingers through your hair, soothingly.

“Is this because of Mr. Dennis? Was he mean to you?” Hedwig finally asked, mustering up the courage to talk to you. “If it is, I told him we’re dating, and that he doesn’t have a chance.”

“Hedwig, I need to tell you something,” you muttered, feeling your heart break once again.

“Wait, wait! Do you like Mr. Dennis?!” Hedwig gasped, unable to comprehend what was happening as he pushed you off of him. “But - but I thought you were my girlfriend?!” He stammered, looking at you like a lost puppy.

“You’re my friend, and I care about you in a different way than I care about him.” You confessed, trying your best to clear up this whole entire situation. “I love you both, just in different ways,” saying it out loud meant finally coming to terms with it, and it only made it hurt worse. Maybe you’d been wrong; maybe Dennis didn’t care about you at all.

“He didn’t pick you! He wanted them. The other girls! You’re mine!” He shouted, bringing you back to reality as your breath caught in your throat. This nine year old had found a way to pour salt in an open wound, and you could feel it eating at you from the inside out.

A heart wrenching sob pulled from your throat, echoing off the walls as you tried to stop yourself from falling apart in front of him. Fuck this, fuck all of it. What made Claire and Marcia so perfect?

Hedwig sat there, fearing what you might do next as the truth soared through your veins like a venomous drug. Your eyes were bloodshot, your throat burned, and you felt like you could never shed another tear, but they still came. “Y/N...do you want me to talk to him? I mean, he doesn’t really listen to me, but I can if you want me to,” Hedwig offered, seeing how hard this was for you. As much as he wanted you for himself, he couldn’t help that he also wanted to make you happy.

“You would do that for me?” You whimpered, wiping the tears from your eyes. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that you didn’t deserve Hedwig as a friend, he was too kind hearted.

“Of course I would, but, I don’t know what you see in him, I think he’s creepy,” Hedwig shivered, making a disgusted face. It was enough to make you smile, leaning in for a quick hug before he took off.

Part of you hated yourself for what you were about to do, but the other half convinced you that it was okay. So, instead of shredding the book that Dennis had given you, you’d decided to read it instead. With every turn of a page you found yourself falling more in love with him as a person, and understanding why this book mattered to him so much. As your eyes grew heavy, you pulled the book against your chest, cradling it in your arms; which is exactly how you’d fallen asleep.

When you woke up, Dennis was standing over you, arms crossed, breathing heavily. It seemed as if he were contemplating how to go about this whole ordeal. Looking up at him, you were sure your eyes were bloodshot, and you realized your appearance must have been questionable.

“Speak,” he finally ordered, making you jump at how dark his voice was. This was a side of him that you’d rarely seen, and it was starting to make you nervous. It should’ve absolutely terrified you, made you cower beneath him. No, this voice did something entirely opposite. It awoke something in you that you’d never felt before; a burning hunger in your gut that was completely alien to you. You needed him like a moth needed a flame, and like an addict needed a drug. He was your drug. Dennis never made it feel like love, though. No, this was cat and mouse to him. Just another game, and, with your head in the clouds, you couldn’t help but let your mouth flow freely with how you’d been feeling from the moment you were brought here.

“I think I love you,” you muttered, giving it everything you had as you threw all caution to the wind. This was your chance to get exactly what you wanted, pain, and lies, and chaos combined. If he didn’t kill you, the adrenaline of your love for him would.

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sam-winchesters-lost-shoe · 4 years

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Bandages and Booze

Ship: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester (platonic)

Warnings: Blood, drama, hellhounds, minor language, fluff,

Summary: While trying to help someone who made a deal with a crossroads demon, Y/N is injured by a hellhound, and rushed to a hospital by Sam and Dean.

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“Calm down, Alright. The goofer dust will stop the hellhound until we can figure something out. Just stay in the circle.” Sam advised. The poor woman nodded with wide eyes and did as he said while dean and I burned my glasses with holy oil so we could see the hellhound.

“How’s it going over there?” Sam called once he finished making the circle of dust. I held up the glasses to my face, taking a quick look through the lenses. “Looks good to me. I think we’re ready.” I called back. The growling of and gnawing of teeth at the door grew louder, and we could hear the hound throwing itself against the bolted doors in an attempt to get inside.

“Good. We’re out of time. Hand them over.” Dean said with an outstretched hand. I shook my head quickly and planted my feet.

“Nuh-Uh. I got this. My glasses, my kill. You guys have been babying me for months now, I’m doing this.” I replied firmly. Dean didn’t listen and marched over, attempting to take the glasses from my hand. I quickly put the glasses on instead, and a second later the door to the room split open.

“Shit.” Sam muttered, pulling out his knife and standing in front of the woman while looking frantically around the room. “Y/N, where is it?”

The hellhound began to stalk through the doorway, teeth bared and eyes glaring. I pointed at it with my finger, my other hand clutching the knife. It began to slowly move towards the woman, or more specifically, Sam. He was guarding her, and something told me that the hellhound wouldn’t care if it had to rip open two people instead of one.

“Hey, over here you ugly mutt.” I called to try and get it’s attention. When that didn’t work, I tried whistling loudly. The hellhound continued to advance towards Sam and the woman, and my heart started to pound even harder in my chest. I took a few steps towards the hellhound, and it hardly even noticed that I was moving. Brandishing the knife, I decided to try and take the opportunity.

When the hellhound was about ten feet in front of Sam, I could see it lowering itself and getting ready to jump at him. I charged towards it, ready to stab it in its ribs when it’s ugly head snapped in my direction. I slid to a stop as it bared it’s teeth. Sam and Dean could tell that something was wrong, but it was too late. In a split second, the hellhound knocked me to the ground, slamming my head against the stone floor and crushing me under its weight. I could hear Sam shouting distantly, but the hellhound barking an inch from my face was all I could make out. Then it lifted its black paw and raked down my side with its claws. I screamed in pain as the dog dug long gashes from my ribs down to my hipbone. I slashed at the hellhound with my knife in an attempt to get it off, but the hellhound only dug it’s other claw into my thigh and howled in my face again.

I screamed in pain and threw my head back, but I couldn’t get it off of me no matter how hard I tried. I could already feel the blood oozing from my side and onto the floor, but the hellhound just got ready to tear into my flesh again. At the same moment, Sam charged the hellhound and buried the knife in the beasts side. It howled and fell off of me, collapsing onto the stone floor.

I took a gasping breath and saw Sam’s own chest heaving above me. He dropped the knife and was crouching next to me a second later, concern tightening his face in a way I had never seen before.

“Dean, go get the car!” Sam bellowed. I could barely hear Dean sprint out of the room as my vision started to go spotty. I tried to push myself up onto my elbows, getting a glimpse of my blood-soaked shirt before Sam gently pushed me back down.

“Don’t sit up, it’ll only make the bleeding worse.” He advised as he pulled out a square of gauze from his pocket and tore off the wrapping. He lifted my shirt and pressed it onto my wound, and I winced in response. He apologized under his breath but kept pressure on my abdomen.

“Is it dead?” I mumbled, looking up at Sam with worried eyes. We were both sitting ducks right now, if it was still somehow alive. Sam did his best to smile.

“Yeah. It’s dead. Let’s just focus on getting you to a hospital, all right?” He looked around to see if Dean was back, but then heard the impala’s car horn outside and let out a sigh of relief.

“Alright, this is gonna hurt like a bitch, but I’m gonna have to carry you.” He warned. I nodded and gritted my teeth, preparing myself for the pain. Sam scooped me up in his arms, doing his best to support me behind the shoulders and knees. I saw stars for a few seconds and grabbed onto his shirt instinctively.

“Sorry.” He apologized again, trying to make me more comfortable. “Keep pressure on your stomach.”

I did as he said and grit my teeth as he hurried out of the house and towards the car. Dean already had the back door open with supplies on the seat. He was back in the drivers seat with the engine running, ready to slam on the gas pedal the second we were in the car. Sam made it to the impala a few seconds later and carefully set me in the backseat before climbing in after me.

“Step on it.” Sam said breathily the second the door was closed. He started fumbling for the roll of bandages that Dean had prepared, but I had already bled enough to make everything feel fuzzy. The gashes in my stomach were a lot deeper than the ones in my leg, but both were continuing to bleed profusely. Sam started with my leg, wrapping the bandages around tightly to try and keep pressure on it. The more serious wound was definitely my stomach, and I was having a hard time keeping pressure on it with the increasing fatigue I was facing.

“Sam.” I croaked out, trying to get his attention. He continued to bandage my leg with his face twisted in concentration before responding “almost done.”

He paused for a second, biting his lip in thought. “Alright, uh, I’m gonna have to sit you up for a second. Bear with me.” He carefully sat me up, earning another pained groan from me. I leaned back against his shoulder as he quickly wrapped the bandages around my midsection. The entire time he was quietly muttering apologies, with the word ‘sorry’ being used at least a hundred times. He then lowered me back down to be sitting with my head propped on his lap. His hair hung down into his face as he looked down at me.

“Hey. You holding in there?” He asked quietly. I did my best to nod in response but it only seemed to worry him more. He put his hand over mine to add more pressure to the wound as he became more worried about blood loss. I reached my other hand over, twisting some of his flannel in my fist.

“Sam.” I tried again, but my voice seemed to give out on me. I could feel myself slipping into unconsciousness and tried so hard to fight it, but it was no use. I had never fainted from blood loss before, and I was terrified. My vision began to fade out but my heart began to pound even more as panic set in.

“Y/N? Y/N, can you hear me?”

My hand was still latched onto his shirt when I succumbed to unconsciousness.

—————

My entire body felt so heavy. My veins felt like they were pumping cold lead instead of blood, and I couldn’t bring myself to lift them up. It took a bit of effort, but eventually I was able to force my eyes open. I groaned and blinked a few times, caught off guard by the lack of light in the room. I was in a hospital bed, based on the soft beeping of the monitor next to me, and the IV attached to my arm. There was a faint light on a table nearby, but it was still difficult to see in the room.

That was when I noticed the figure next to the bed. Or...more accurately......slumped over the side of the bed and snoring. Sam’s hair had fallen into his eyes as his chest rose and fell, but his cheek was pressed against his arm which he was using for a pillow. His one arm was stretched out so it was only a few inches from my hand, and I gently reached out to hold it when the door opened and Dean tiptoed inside.

“Y/N, you’re......you’re awake.” Dean said quietly, smiling when he noticed. He set down the backpack he had slung over his shoulder and made his way over to the bed.

“Hey.” I said, apparently a bit too loud for Dean. He put a pinger to his lips and nodded to Sam with his chin. I tilted my head slightly in silence before whispering “why can’t we wake him up?”

Dean tiptoed over next to the bed before sitting in the other empty chair next to me and leaning forward. “You have no idea how long you were out, do you?” He whispered.

I shook my head in response as he nodded. “You were unconscious for about two days-“

“Two days?!” I interrupted dean, once again a bit too loud. Sam stirred a little bit in his sleep, but luckily for me didn’t wake up. Dean gave me a warning glance before continuing.

“Yeah. Two days. Doctors said you had a concussion and had practically gone into shock. That and the blood loss, well.....it wasn’t looking good for a while. We honestly weren’t sure if you were gonna pull through. So yeah, that means that Sam hasn’t slept in.....” Dean trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, lets just say it’s been a few days.”

I nodded in understanding and looked back at Sam. I couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at my lips when he let out a particularly loud snore. Dean nodded and looked over at Sam too while shaking his head. “I’ve never seen him so worried.”

“Really?” I asked, my cheeks flushing pink. It was hard to imagine him actually being so concerned about me, but then I thought back to the car ride. He really did seem worried. Dean nodded and scratched his cheek with a yawn.

“Come on, don’t act surprised. I’ve seen the way you two act around each other.” Dean chuckled quietly. “Speaking of, the reason I went back to the bunker was to get Sammy some clean clothes. He’s refused to leave since we brought you here, but uh, he needed something new to wear. The old ones were a little.....bloodstained.” Dean mumbled the last part and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

I hadn’t even noticed that Sam was missing his usual layers. He was only wearing a t-shirt, no flannels or anything. He also didn’t look like he had showered since I had gotten injured. The blood had been scrubbed from his hands, but his hair was greasy and unbrushed. He looked like a college kid, honestly. Dean yawned again and rubbed his eyes before standing back up.

“Well, now that I know you’re alright, I’m heading back to the motel and actually getting a decent nights sleep. Call me if anything happens, alright?” Dean put a hand on my shoulder, and I nodded back. He gave me a small smile and made his way out of the room as quietly as he could.

Unfortunately, the door creaked on his way out, and Sam started to stirr again. It seemed like he was able to gain consciousness long enough to realize that he had fallen asleep, and he sat up with a groan. His eyes were puffy with sleep and his hair was sticking up at odd angles, but he seemed to slowly wake up.

“Hey.” I whispered, reaching out and taking his hand as gently as I could.

“Hey.” Sam mumbled with another yawn. I smiled back at him and he rubbed his eyes. After a few seconds he met my gaze again, freezing for a moment and blinking as his brain caught up to what he was seeing. His eyes widened and seemed fully alert now.

“Oh my god.”

He shot up in his seat and leaned forward, pulling me in for a hug. It stung a little, but I didn’t mind. I wrapped my arms around him and laughed a little bit as he hugged hard enough to almost knock the air from my lungs. “Careful, Sammy. I’m damaged goods.” I teased.

Sam pulled away but kept me at arms length with his hands on my elbows. He sat down on the edge of the bed with a smile. “Right....sorry, I just....i was worried.”

“Dean told me.” I grinned. God, it was good to see him again. The way his smile reached his eyes almost made me forget all about the stitches in my stomach and leg.

“Right.....” Sam nodded slowly, glancing over my face with a relieved grin. Then he shook his head. “Uh, do you need anything? Painkillers? I can get a nurse.”

“I’m fine, Sam. Really.” I laughed slightly before wincing when laughing pulled on my stitches. I quickly stopped and put a hand over my ribs before smoothing his hair with my other hand. “Everything’s fine.”

He closed his eyes when I ran my fingers through his hair, smiling a little to himself. I could tell that something was on his mind, but couldn’t tell what. He looked down at the sheets and picked at his fingernails absentmindedly. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I nodded silently to get him to continue. Sam took a deep breath and did that thing that he does where he lifts his eyebrows while he clears his throat. “So uh, I’ve had a lot of time to think these past few days, you know? And I guess I uh......I realized that, uh......you know, I was really worried, so I.....um.....”

He paused to rub the back of his neck, then continued. “You know, we’ve been on the road for a while. I’d like to think that we’ve gotten kinda.......close......but I kinda didn’t realize just how close until I thought we were going to lose you. So, anyways......I......uh.....”

“Sammy, don’t hurt yourself.” I smiled. I knew exactly where he was going with this conversation, and I could tell that he had no idea how to say it. He didn’t need to say it though, I already understood. “You look exhausted. Let’s talk about that in the morning, okay?”

Sam nodded in relief and let out his breath. “Yeah, that sounds good.” He agreed quickly. “You’re supposed to be resting, anyways.” He stood back up and started to sit back down in his chair next to the bed when I stopped him.

“Hey, those things aren’t very comfortable. Come lay with me.”

“What?” Sam asked innocently, raising an eyebrow. He looked back at me as if we wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Come on, I’m not gonna offer again. Come get some rest.” I scooted over in the bed to give him some room, and after a minute of deliberating he made his way over. He slid under the sheet next to me and got himself comfortable. He stayed a few inches away from me, probably not wanting to intrude on my personal space.

For someone so smart, he could be so naive.

“Hold on, this isn’t very comfortable.” I frowned teasingly. I then turned on my side, throwing an arm over his chest and using his torso as a pillow. He seemed a little surprised, but then I could almost feel his entire body relax. His other arm slowly found its way around my shoulders and I let out a content sigh.

“Much better.” I grinned and looked up at him. He was smiling widely back at me but trying to hide it. I could also see the fatigue that was weighing down his eyelids and how hard he was fighting to keep them open. I got comfortable with my cheek pressed against his chest and allowed my eyes to drift shut. Sam yawned in response and rested his chin on the top of my head.

“Goodnight, Sammy.” I whispered.

He started snoring again in response.

#sam winchester imagine #spn fanfiction #television #supernatural #sam winchester #dean winchester #winchesterbrothers #winchesters #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester one shot #supernatural one shot #supernatural fluff #supernatural fanfiction #hurt!sam #injured!reader

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milkywaydrabbles · 4 years

Text

Together we will Live Forever

So this is my first commissioned piece, and the first thing I’m posting on my new Tumblr! I’m hoping to get a lot of prompts and drabble requests along the days but I’ll start with this!!! Hope everyone enjoys!

“Here… here! They’re over here!”

Sounds muffled, dust flew in their lungs, making it harder to breathe. Their eyes were glossed over, red and puffy. They can hardly remember why they’d been crying. It felt like years since they last saw sunlight, those damn ugly fluorescent lights burning their retinas day in and day out.

In reality, it’s only been about six months since the kidnapping. Though, they could be wrong with the time. They never left the basement. They never saw the sun. But hearing someone else’s — anyone else’s — voice that wasn’t part of the League of Villains was a miracle on its own. But this voice kept getting closer, and sounded more and more desperate with each call. Then multiple voices came.

They opened their eyes a bit wider, blinking away the burning sensation that they felt with the strain. Then they saw the faces of the voices.

There were heroes here .

After so long, after continuous torment and torture and sleepless nights there were finally heroes . They could have sobbed then, if their throat weren’t so raw from the strain. Physically exhausted, they didn’t even move, just prayed that the heroes would pick them up and take them away from all of this.

“Hey, stay with me honey—we’re gonna get you out of here okay?” They heard a female voice speak out. Sounded slightly familiar, Midnight, they thought. Didn’t matter right now. She reached out to touch them, noticing the immediate reaction was to flinch away and shield themselves with their lacerated arms. The female hero gasped, looking at the dirtied and infected lesions on the skin.

“Oh my god,” she gasped again, mostly to herself, before turning around and yelling out again. “ We need a medic! ”

They didn’t remember much after that moment, just more seemingly encouraging words amongst the chaos happening around the two of them. Then they nodded. There was a question there somewhere but they didn’t remember what it was. Maybe it was just habitual, with all the times the villains would ask them if they would be good and heal them .

Then it was black.

The next time they woke was a week later, hooked up to some IV drips in their arms and a breathing tube strung down their nose. Panic rose quickly, knowing the feeling of needles in their veins to keep them barely alive all too well. Bile rose with it, biting back the stomach acid that was boiling up their throat was difficult. The only thing that brought them slightly down from the extreme anxiety attack that was seconds away were the bandages that practically held their arms together. That was barely enough to keep them grounded to reality.

The league would never take the time to make sure the arms were covered . Ever anxious and ever suspicious, their guard was held high.

Then a man spoke in the room.

“You’re awake.” A very obvious observation, but necessary to bring the attention to him. Seemed as if he were there for the entire spectacle. He would have stepped in, if he saw their panic get worse than it was. But this situation was very delicate, he knew this. Six months filled with trauma and pain was enough to send a civilian into a frenzy immediately. Slightly surprised they were able to stop yourself before screaming into the void, he questioned them. “Are you okay?”

No, no no no nononono —

“Yes… I’m—”

Hurting, and scared, and always in pain. Not trusting of you, but it hurts so much. Please, please stop the pain please make it go away please help me please please pleasepleaseplease —

“—fine.”

That was a lie. They knew it as well as he did. But he wouldn’t comment on it. Whatever made them feel most comfortable. The man gave them a minute to recollect their thoughts, and calm themselves as best they could before continuing.

“My name is Aizawa Shouta, hero name Eraserhead. You were rescued a few days ago from the League of Villains.” He paused for a moment, seemingly uncomfortable at the thought. “You are currently in the Musutafu general hospital. Do you… have any recollection of your last six months?”

So it was half a year. They sat there for a moment, reliving every memory their brain brought up. They remembered everything, down to the gut retching stench in the foul basement they were placed in. The details would haunt them. Their face dulled, eyes losing focus. They were being pulled into a pit of darkness as the memories came back. He saw that.

Their face twisted into one of pain, feeling the lacerations on their arms throb with the memory. How they were forced to use their quirk, even though it wasn’t nearly strong enough to do what they needed to be done due to malnutrition and lack of sleep. How, day in and day out, there were different thugs brought to them with all kinds of wounds—from some fresh blood still sticking to their flesh, to others who had clearly waited much too long to get it looked at and now had pus mixing with whatever bodily fluid dried and crusted over.

They remember how, no matter how many times they yelled and screamed and sobbed, no one came. How their arms at one point felt like they would rip right off, and how they had to switch from injuring their own arms to their legs just to save themselves from mutilating their limbs to the point of amputation.

They remembered the mocking tones of all the villains that would come through, and how they would leave them alone only because they were so disgusted with the pools of blood and bits of flesh that were tearing off no one even wanted to be touched.

They remembered how those were their favorite days, no matter how much it hurt .

“Hey, hey, come back..” His voice was soft, soothing almost. The man— Aizawa — brought their attention back to reality.

“I...remember most of it. I don’t remember getting there...” Their voice cracked before continuing. “But I remember being there.” Being used, over and over and over —

His phone rang, breaking their daze again. They flinched away from the sound, he noticed, and turned away to answer. The call was short, with a few grunts of affirmation from the hero and a sigh. He turned back once the call was over. “With your permission, we would like to keep you with some heroes during your healing and interview process. To understand why the League needed you specifically. Do I have your consent?”

They nodded, a bit shaken.

He, on the other hand, shook his head. “I need verbal confirmation. Do I have your consent to keep you on campus of UA high with professional heroes for however much time is needed for your healing and interviewing process?” He asked again, this time with more detail. Aizawa needed them to understand fully what was at stake.

“Yes… Yes, I consent.” They paused for a moment, question dancing on their tongue. “Will you be...one of the heroes there?” They weren’t sure why they asked. They didn’t particularly care, as long as they stopped feeling so scared all the time. This was a goddamn nightmare .

“Yes, I will be with you most of the time.”

The thought made their stomach settle.

Days passed in the hospital, heroes came in and out—most of them already knowing who they were. Seemed they would all be interacting with them on campus. Some were more personable than others. Midnight and Present Mic—they learned around the third visit their names were Kayama Nemuri and Yamada Hizashi—were very chatty. Always trying to make conversation with them.

Even though it was rare they replied, rare they would even pay attention. The thought was nice enough for them though, even if they didn’t have it in them to interact. Other heroes like Snipe and Ectoplasm came to introduce themselves, but never stayed long. The air was thick with tension—and they didn’t know how to handle someone with heavy trauma. Usually the professionals didn’t have to stick around to see the aftermath of what happened to the victims who survived whatever they needed saving from.

It was finally time to leave, and although they were relieved to be away from the hospital bed, they were scared to go into the unknown. Then Aizawa came through the door, helping settle any of the fears that came into their mind. This made them feel off — they had no connection to this hero. There wasn’t a reason in the world to trust him any more than the other pros that had walked into their room.

But they never felt as safe with anyone else than with Eraserhead.

“There’s a car in the front of the building, a dormitory has been set up for you personally. Are you ready?”

They stuttered for a moment, grasping onto their arms that have finally begun to heal. Then, with a quick and less than audible yes they stood in front of the open door. And paused.

It was hard to step through, fear coursing through their veins. Two weeks in a safer environment than what they had had for six months was difficult to leave. Aizawa waited, more patient than they could ever ask for. Then he stepped through first, keeping the door open for them.

“It’s safe, I promise.” They’ve heard so many promises it’s hard to tell if this one will be kept.

They took a step through anyway, breath held in their lungs as they stepped under the door frame and into the hero’s personal space. The world was too big, too unknown, there were too many people walking around, too many faces they didn’t know , too many memories coming back —

They felt a hand lightly on their shoulder. Instantly, their arms flew in front of their face in a feeble attempt to shield away from the world and the man’s touch. No words came out of their mouth, just small whimpers and attempts of saying ‘ stop!’ , and so he did. He gave them time, standing off to the side away from their safe haven. He waited for the shaking to stop.

“I’m sorry, for touching you..” He apologized, and sounded sincere. They’ve heard sorry so much, usually followed with a cackle and absolutely no remorse that they almost felt bad for pushing him away.

“It’s...I’m—” There were no words that could possibly tell Aizawa how miserable they felt all the time and they wished they could use their healing quirk on their mental health to fix it and make this better . Letting out a frustrated sigh and tugging at the roots of their hair, they shook their head.

“I’ll follow you.”

He nodded, and walked through the corridors slow enough for them to remain as close or as far as they wished without getting lost. They stayed closer to him than he thought they would.

The car ride was quiet, no words exchanged except a ‘ thank you ’ for the car door being held open, followed by a quick ‘you’re welcome ’. They fiddled with the bandages, trying to unravel a piece and look at the flesh underneath.

“You should leave those on. From experience, looking at what’s underneath isn’t always comforting.”

They paused, and took a quick glance at the man next to them. He hadn’t moved, and still looked forward in the car. They sighed, but ultimately listened. The rest of the ride they kept still.

“This will be your new, temporary home. My room is right across from yours. If you need anything, you can ask.”

They nodded in thanks, not letting their lungs grab in their much needed air until they heard the door click behind them. The shock of the last six months hit them all at once, their mental walls crumbling down—along with their legs. They were left at the edge of the room, drained of all energy they had been using even for the short amount of time they had to be a human. Their arms still stung, months of abuse piled on top of each other without reprieve or proper healing, but that was in the back of their mind as they laid on the floor arms wrapped tight around themselves. They didn’t even have the proper energy to cry—not really . Broken sobs and airy wheezes were all that were heard in the room.

What they didn’t know is that the Erasure hero was still in ear shot, the weeping penetrating his thoughts as we walked into his own dormitory.

The next morning they woke still on the floor, limbs tucked tightly against each other. It was terribly uncomfortable stretching out, muscles sore from the way they slept on the ground. Their head was pounding, heart racing—they’d forgotten where they were.

The panic slowly dissipated when they took another look around the room: It was far too clean, and organized to be the basement of the league.

That’s right, UA dorms.... They sighed, slowly standing on wobbling legs to freshen up for the day. At least this was more of a studio apartment rather than a dormitory, with its own bathroom and kitchen.

By the time they were done with the as-scalding-as-they-could-manage shower, they changed into whatever generic clothing was given to them for the time being and really looked at their arms for the first time in weeks. Most of the wounds were scabbed over, healing hopefully properly. Some of them, the more infected of the bunch, looked like they still had pus oozing from some of the sides. Mostly clear liquid, so it seemed like the infection was slowly going away. They would have to get it checked out again soon...

A knock at the door startled them enough to gasp, eyeing the frame wearily. Then a voice rang out.

“It’s Aizawa.”

Their heart rate picked up, albeit for no apparent reason , and went to open the door after removing its many locking mechanisms. Seemed UA knew to take as many precautions as possible, and for that they were grateful. Their eyes locked onto the hero’s, and he looked almost as horrible as they did.

Bloodshot eyes, bags underneath telling a story that would have screamed ‘he’s been awake for days’ if they could recite words. They hadn’t noticed what rough shape the pro was in yesterday. They felt almost.. guilty, for being so focused on themselves.

Aizawa stayed at the door unmoving until he was invited in. Even with them moving off to the side, as an unspoken invitation, he stayed still.

“...You can come in.” Even those words sounded so forced.

He slowly walked in, bringing a bag and a to-go cup into their view. “I brought you a few things for breakfast, wasn’t sure if you had eaten today or..” Or at all within the last few months is how he wanted to end it. The unsaid question was louder than the words he murmured. “If you allow us, we’ll be having a recuperating session with Recovery Girl, that doubles as an interview. I’ll be walking with you to the session.”

It always astounded them how good with his words he was. If he ever became a villain it’d be very easy to manipulate people with how he chooses his sentences so carefully...

Stop it!

People were trying to help them, and here they were thinking the worst. The frustration must have shown on their face since he spoke again.

“We can reschedule this for another time.”

“ No — ” too forceful, they winced. They tried again, quieter. “... no. It’s okay. I’m... not too hungry.” Somewhat a lie. They were too scared to eat in fear it meant they’d be taken advantage of again, like every other time they needed their energy.

In any case, Aizawa held out a plain wrapped bun with a bottle of water. “At least have this, you look like you’re going to collapse.”

They sighed before agreeing.

The meeting overall was painless, mostly. Recovery Girl introduced herself with her government name, Chiyo Shuuzenji, before invading their personal space. That took time getting used to. They flinched for each smooch that came their way for most of the session. Then, after most of the wounds were noticeably better, not healed , the questions came.

“Now, my dear, what is your quirk exactly? The more detail the better.”

They swallowed the first few times they tried to open their mouth, silently thanking Aizawa for giving them that bottled water earlier. After a few more attempts at speaking, they got some words out.

“It’s… a healing quirk. I can… I can heal virtually any physical injury. I can get to internal bleeding also. I don’t have to imagine it, I don’t have to touch the specific area… as long as I touch that person, and I just think to myself heal — whatever they have that’s physical, I can make it go away.”

They paused for a moment. They hated being reminded of this part.

“But I… I get hurt. I get these cuts on me. I can, um, imagine where I want the cuts. So they can be anywhere on my body. I try to, um, keep them in the same area to… to uh… make it easier for me.”

To make it easier to disinfect one giant spot on their body than a lot of little spots.

“The bigger the damage I’m healing, the bigger the cuts get. And these last few months...” They didn’t want to continue.

Without them noticing, their body was going into a state of shock to be able to actually speak about what has happened the last few months. Even just speaking about their own quirk was triggering their body into panic. They began to shake, just a little, and they brushed it off as being cold. They knew better, but hoped that if they continued to talk themselves down from the attack they could just get over it.

The questions continued.

“When you were with the League of Villains, how often did they make you heal them?”

It was getting harder and harder to speak, shallow breaths were picking up. They pressed on, regardless.

“It was, u-um, almost every day. They kept coming—kept bringing in random people to heal. They pushed me, they kept-kept trying to get me to do more.” Tears were pooling in the corners of their eyes, they tried to blink the salty reaction away. It didn’t work.

“Then… then they—the Nomu—they were… I was—it couldn’t get better and I kept trying, and, and—”

The shaking became violent, and they pressed the heels of their palms into their eye sockets, rubbing viciously—almost as if they were trying to get the thought to go away

“Come on, you can do it — keep trying, ” the white haired one bit out. He was the leader, they learned at some point. They kept trying to heal the monster in front of them. It was missing half an arm and a full eye.

It’s been days of nonstop healing on their behalf. No food, barely any water, their energy levels were dangerously low.

“I-I can’t, it won’t — I can’t!” They cried out, hands shaking clutched onto the mass of arm that was dripping blood. The harder they tried, the deeper the lesions continued to become on their arms. They were almost like claw marks now, dark blood oozing over their own arms. It was hard to tell the difference between their blood and the beast’s.

They were healing — something . But it wasn’t enough to actually heal whatever was in front of them.

“This is useless,” one with black hair and damaged flesh spoke now. “Just have them heal everyone else before they pass out again.”

They wanted to cry, they didn’t want to heal anymore.

The white haired brat spoke one last time, “Fucking useless,” and left the scene. Leaving you to heal everyone else with the marred man watching over you.

They heard their name being spoken, almost yelled, in a frantic voice.

“—stay with us, come back to us! ” The masculine voice tried to reach them, and they gasped out trying to get air back into their lungs.

“I’m, I’m sc—I’m scared! ”

The strangled words sounded so pained , Aizawa didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t touch them, couldn’t make this any worse. He just wanted them better . He could only imagine the damage they’ve been dealing with mentally.

He spoke their name again, this time quieter—almost trying to convince himself it would be okay.

“Hey, hey, I’m right here—it’s safe here, with me, look at me—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence before they flung themselves into his grasp. It was the closest thing to them that would make them feel smaller. Aizawa was taken back by their immediate touch. Last time he attempted to do this they pushed him away. Perhaps this trigger was worse than the first, something they needed grounding for.

The hero wrapped his arms around them, feeling them grasp at the fabric of his clothing as they sobbed into his chest.

All he could do to console them was continue to whisper that it was safe there, that he was there for them , and he would protect them. Eraserhead himself wasn’t entirely sure how many of those were truths, but right now he had to believe it most for their sake.

It took a little under a half hour to finally calm them, back to having a pounding head and racing heart just like this morning.

The session ended after that.

Days turned into weeks at the school, and the “interviews” were more delicate. Aizawa was there for each one, and after a handful more with Recovery Girl making sure their wounds were only scars now, he conducted them alone. The hero always made sure they were comfortable, only asking more questions when he felt they could handle it. And when he noticed the shaking, he would either take a break or stop altogether.

That was in the beginning of their one-on-one sessions.

After two months there for the interviewing process, Aizawa turned into Shouta, taking breaks turned into reassuring hand holds, and stopping turned into much needed time in his arms. They still very much cried, a lot of the memories were more overwhelming than they initially thought.

But Aizawa— Shouta — was there. Shouta was always there. And if they couldn’t do a session that night, not mentally prepared for what was to come—he’d always be understanding. He’d never get frustrated, never push for them to speak.

They wanted to trust him so badly, with all their heart. They hoped one day, they’d be free of their mental prison.

The fourth month they were there they began speaking more freely. This time, it was over breakfast. It was a Saturday—Shouta had the day off from teaching. He had cooked for the two of them that morning.

“They burned me, once.”

He almost dropped his utensil on the ground, startled by the sudden admittance.

They pressed on, “They asked, if I… if I could heal myself. I don’t know why. But I said no , and it’s true. I can’t. It would be a vicious cycle of healing and hurting if I could. But um… the one with the white hair?”

“Shigaraki,” Shouta reminded.

They nodded in understanding. “Shigaraki, he didn’t believe me. He got the other one with the blue fire—” Dabi “—to burn me.” They paused for a moment, lifting their shirt just high enough on their side so he could see the blotchy skin that never fully recovered.

He could only imagine what it looked like when they first received it.

“When they realized I wasn’t lying, they… called in one of their paid off doctors.” The pain wasn’t any better , but they kept that information to themselves.

Shouta stayed silent for a moment, not knowing how to react. “Thank you for trusting me with this information,” was all he said before returning to their peaceful breakfast.

That night, after his patrol, Eraserhead couldn’t sleep. He was getting too close to them, he knew. It’s been nonstop attachment on both ends for four months. He understood they needed someone to help them through this counseling, and he was the best for the job at this point.

But he was attached. He could no longer tell the difference between talking them down from a panic attack because they needed it or because he couldn’t breathe seeing them in pain like that. It was selfish on his part, he knew that. He also knew that eventually, they would leave the dorms, go back to their home, and try to assimilate back to their own norm in society. There was a very big possibility that he would never see them again.

The thought made him sick to his stomach.

Four months of banter, four months of whispered stories and shared secrets. Four months of gentle, fleeting touches. Four months of building a trust that he would never break, not in his life.

Being the professional hero he is, he even thought about making up some sort of excuse as to why he wouldn’t be able to do this with them anymore. Something along the lines of, “The more people they have to interact with, the easier it’ll be for them to go back to the world.” It sounded nice, in theory—on paper.

But would he really be able to do it? Would he really be able to break apart that bond that they had built up so well together?

Not in his life.

Not that they’d ever allow it. They still had attacks, and night terrors they spoke to Shouta exclusively about. If he ever dumped them on someone else their whole being would be crushed. They would find him and scream at him at least once—and shut down completely. It would be a soul-crushing reminder that the world is a cruel and evil place, and that no one cares about each other—not really .

For their own sake, they would not, could not , let Shouta go.

Eraserhead thought about how he’d be able to disconnect personal from work, when he heard a thud coming from across the hall.

And then another.

And then another .

His hero instincts kicked in harder than ever before and ran into the hallway with his heart in his throat. He yelled out for them, banging on the door with each call. He heard sobbing, and warned them that he was going inside the room. He wasn’t entirely sure any of his words were getting to them.

The lock was broken with a kick to the door, and the sight in front of him was enough to make him cry. Their body was hunched over on the ground, head banging against the floor. Their tears were visibly hitting the floor, and the most gut wrenching of it all was and they seemed to still be asleep through this whole nightmare.

Shouta moved to their side on the floor, doing his best to lift their head in his hands and rub the tears away with his thumbs. He continued to call their name, giving them a little shake every now and again trying to wake them as gently as he could. When their eyes opened they were strained, vision blurred. He needed to ground them, still in a haze.

“Hey, I’m here—can you say my name? Tell me who I am, please .”

Their breathing was heavy still, eyes trying to focus on the body in front of them.

“Sh-Shouta,” they hiccuped, grasping at whatever article of clothing they could find. They calmed quickly after that, falling asleep, in his arms.

I’m a fool , he thought, for thinking I’d ever be able to leave them.

The next week or so, Shouta had been dancing around a question that’s been on his mind. It was ridiculous, completely illogical, but after the last night terror he had witnessed it seemed like the best course of action. Normally they weren’t very perceptive of things happening around them when the hero was around, they felt safe enough to not have to pay attention. But today...

“Shouta, are you okay?” Their voice was as soft as ever, almost fearful he was going to tell them that this was enough and that they needed to move on with someone else for protection.

He nodded, biting the bullet and spilling the question—well, statement really.

“Live with me?”

They paused, eyeing him. He couldn’t tell if they were going to laugh, or cry, or scream, or run away . His look was blank, as their look was one of shock.

Then they smiled.

“That would be nice, please.”

After that bit of excitement, the rest of the day was dull for both parts. They packed a small bag that had the more important clothing—they were right across the hall, as it were. But...it was a nice sentiment from the hero. Their anxiety had kicked in a few times throughout the day, thoughts screaming in their head.

He’s going to take advantage of you.

He wants you for your quirk.

He’s going to use you.

They had to shut those thoughts out.

Shouta came back in between teaching classes and patrolling the streets in the evening. He knocked lightly, this time he didn’t wait for them to let him inside. They had become so comfortable with each other the last few months that it was second nature to always be around their presence. Their arms wrapped around his waist, a hug so light it were as if they were scared he’d disappear.

What he didn’t know is that was, in fact, their fear.

He returned the embrace, firmer, before helping move the small quantity of things they had packed up to his studio apartment-esque dormitory and handed them their own key.

“If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, please, let me know.”

He saw their first, real smile.

They made themselves as comfortable as they could in their new home. Temporary as it may be, it was home . A safe space for them to be, to exist. It was time for bed now, though they still felt a bit weary trying to sleep knowing that Shouta was still out there being Eraserhead making sure the streets were safe.

So they stayed up...

And stayed up later.

And eventually, clinging onto themselves in the middle of the bed, heard the familiar click of a door being unlocked and saw the pro hero walk in. They almost smiled, until they saw the condition the hero was in.

Their heart dropped.

“Shouta,” his name was rushed out, and they unwrapped themselves from the sheets and ran to him, stopping short in front of him and hovered. He was stabbed in the arm, it seemed.

He shrugged, peeling off the capture scarf that he always had wrapped around his neck.

“It’s fine, I just need some peroxide.” His voice and breathing was so even it should have made them feel better about the situation. There was no panic, no real pain, he would be okay.

But it wasn’t enough for them.

“Shouta, please, please let me—”

“ No .” That was the first time he was ever forceful with them.

They flinched, having to tell themselves over and over again that he wasn’t mad at them, that he wasn’t yelling because they did something wrong, that he wasn’t going to throw them out.

He saw the immediate shift and sighed. He realized now how it could have come across. He called their name.

“Please, you have overused your quirk for so long. This is nothing, just a flesh wound. Please...please don’t.” His voice was at a whisper.

Their anxiety wanted to flare up again, so much. It was yelling in their head again, that he was a liar and that this was the way to get close and use them, use them, use them!

He was going to walk away to go clean up, and they moved without thinking. They had to help him, they had to at least give him something as thanks for the last few months. Their hands reached up to his face, caressing him. Eyes closed, the deep wound he once had on his arm slowly stitched itself together, patching up like nothing had happened. It felt slightly uncomfortable for him, now able to physically feel the healing process at an accelerated rate. But after mere seconds, the wound was gone. Nothing was left except the rip in his clothing.

And then their wound came.

It wasn’t as deep or as large as his, but very much visible on your arm. The blood oozed from the lesion that was created, dripping down their arm. They sighed, taking the pain as best they could before releasing the hero in front of them.

The two stood in silence for what felt like hours, a mixture of astonishment and disappointment written all over his face. They didn’t know how to react, and decided maybe it was for the best if they..left.

Not that he would let them.

He sighed, grabbing a hold of their hand like fine china and brought them over to the first aid in his— their —bathroom.

“That was irresponsible, you know.” There was no malice in his voice.

He worked silently, dabbing peroxide as gently as he could onto the wound and wrapping it neatly with gauze. It was finished up within a matter of minutes, and by the time he looked up their eyes were red and puffy, sniffling away—they were crying.

“Did I hurt you? Why didn’t you say anything?” He questioned, his turn to caress their cheeks.

They shook their head while rubbing away the stray tears.

“I just—” a hiccup “—I just want to say thank you, somehow .” The weeping became louder, no longer able to hold back.

“You have done so much for me, Shouta—too much. I’m always fucking scared, so anxious all the time. I cry all the time, I’m waking up in the middle of the night screaming. And you’re always there! You never complain, you never push me away. I don’t know if this is sympathy or guilt or, or—”

The rest of their words became jumbled in a mess of sobs and heavy breaths, trying to stay afloat in their mind.

They felt something on their forehead.

Shouta dropped his forehead onto theirs, hands moving from their face to caress their back. Their breathing hitched, still sniffling but attempting to keep it under control.

“You are not a burden. You were never a burden. Never to me. Getting to know you has been one of the best things that has happened in my life in a very long time, never think otherwise.” His voice was stern, but sure. No waver in his tone, they could tell he was serious and truthful.

Their now shaky hands were pressed on his broad shoulders, grounding themselves.

“ Why?”

It was a loaded question, they both knew it. Why keep them around? Why were they so special to him? Why did he take so much time even after the physical healing to help them? Why didn’t he go back to his normal routine? Why did he ask them to live with him?

Why, why why —

“Because it seems I have fallen in love with you.”

The rest of the night seemed like a blur, heavy emotions swirling in the atmosphere. There were more tears, on both parts. Confessions were spoken aloud. Bodies melded together on the sheets of their bed. One last I love you whispered in between shared, secretive kisses before finding sleep deep within the night.

It had been now seven months since showing up to UA, three months since they and Shouta had started a relationship together. Their mental stability had gotten stronger, and it seemed like the League of Villains had fallen deeper underground with little to no activity. They were finally in a safe place, able to go home without fear or repercussions.

Except they didn’t want to go.

And if Aizawa were being honest with himself, he didn’t want that either. But he understood that it was a necessary push for them to be free of the mental barrier they had placed on themselves. As long as they were here , in this school, they would be constantly reminded of the reason they felt so trapped. He needed to push them out to the world, just a touch, so they could become better for themselves.

The two stood uncomfortably by the gates of the school, all of their personal belongings, and whatever they wanted to keep that was given to them by the school, packed up. It seemed like a painful goodbye, spending all this time together with the heros and teachers, and eventually students, that they wouldn’t see everyday anymore. An even more painful goodbye to the man they found themselves loving more and more each day. Now that they wouldn’t be a constant in his home, he could easily forget about them. He could replace them with someone not so broken, someone who wasn’t as panicky, someone who he didn’t have to babysit .

“You’re thinking too much.” He broke the silence, and dissipated their doubts, if only by a little bit.

Aizawa grabbed them, just as delicate as any other time he ever held them, and pressed a chaste kiss to their forehead.

“You’ll be alright. You’ve gotten stronger in the last few months. You can do this, you know you can.”

They let out a shaky breath, nodding in agreement.

A month had passed since their departure from UA. The dormitories were missed, but their home was missed more than they thought possible. They spent most of their days cleaning up the place, and getting used to going back out into the world. Sometimes they’d still jump at the shadows. Other times they’d still wake up to the sound of their own screaming.

Other times, they’d feel the weight of the world lifted from their shoulders when a certain someone would remind them that they were doing something thought impossible in the beginning. They were alive , learning how to live again. They started to smile more genuinely, more often.

Tonight marked a month and fifteen days after leaving, and it was the first time Shouta would enter their home. It took a lot of mental preparing, he knew, for them to finally share the piece of their first life with him. This was now solidifying the trust they had been building over the course of the year. They would have a normal dinner date together.

He managed to squeeze himself out of the patrol he originally had thanks to a certain loud friend of his, and made it on time awkwardly holding a bottle of wine with a name neither of them could pronounce. He seemed so out of place at the door, and when they broke into laughter, all the tension was lifted from the scene. He smiled, the feeling reaching his eyes.

“Thank you,” he paused. For trusting me. For believing in my words. For letting me learn about you. For not shutting me out when I pushed you too hard. “For inviting me tonight.”

They smiled with a shake of their head, and led him deeper into their safe place--towards the dining room. “No, Shouta, thank you ,” For being patient. For teaching me how to love myself. For showing me I had the strength to overcome this. For reminding me that I’ll be okay. “For taking the time to come.”

��The night was long, and filled with smiles and quiet laughs and shared secrets. The bottle of wine was empty by the end. Now, with their bellies full, the long day had come to an end and with their blessing, Shouta would be staying the night. Somehow, in their inebriated stupor, they had managed to wash up for the late evening and head off to bed.

The two of them stayed awake for a while longer to talk about whatever came to mind. They let out a yawn mid sentence.

“You feel okay?” More of a way for Shouta to see if they’d like to go to sleep.

They gazed at him, hoping that he could see every ounce of adoration and respect they had for him. They thought about the last eight months of their life, how it started off so broken and terrifying. They thought about how the man in their bed started off as a stranger that couldn’t even touch them , that the mere thought of him being too close made them want to claw at their eyes and peel away their skin.

They thought about the moments they wanted to take their own life, how they eventually shared those secrets with him. They thought about the times they didn’t say anything at all.

Then they thought about how over the months they grew, how they became better. How the once-stranger turned into a friend, and eventually, a lover. How he had always been there as an anchor, never overstepping any boundaries and giving them the space they needed whenever they felt unsafe, even from him.

How they learned to cope with the trauma, and learned to manage their panic disorder that was still very much with them due to post traumatic stress.

They thought about how, even though it was a hard and heavy process, they would be okay. That they had survived through hell and came back from it.

Shouta waited, as the gears turned in their head. He knew they were thinking too much, but this time it felt different. When their eyes unfocused the smile on their lips grew, though it was subtle. He let them be; patient as always.

“I’m fine.”

They were still growing, still finding themselves in this terrifying world. But they were managing all the same. They were mending themselves, with some help along the way. No matter how slow the process was, they were healing.

They’d be fine.

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txnysheart · 5 years

Text

let’s get on with living (while we can) [7]

chapter 7: i intend to hold you for the longest time

word count: 6815

warnings: chemo, chemo side effects, homophobia

summary: the press start speculating about steve and tony’s absence from the public, peter goes through his second round of chemo, and there’s a press conference

read on ao3: x

playlist: x

chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 - chapter 4 - chapter 5 - chapter 6 - chapter 7 - chapter 8 - chapter 9

series masterlist | masterlist

━━━━━━━━

ARE THE SUPERHERO HUSBANDS RETIRING? - Originally Posted on 29 Oct 2017, at 19:57

Sierra Nelson BuzzFeed Staff - Tony and Steve Stark-Rogers not making any public appearances for the past three and a half weeks has, understandably, started a flow of rumors. Avid fans have theorized everything from holidays to assassinations. However, the most popular theory is that this is the end of their careers as superheroes and the beginning of a comfortable retirement.

Tony is over halfway through his forties - I know, we can’t believe it either - and Steve will be an entire century old next year. The superhero business is a very dangerous and taxing one, so it would be understandable that they’d want to quit now, after all these years of risking their lives to keep civilians safe.

As much as they’ve earned a it, saving the world and whatnot, there are a few things that just don’t add up with the retirement theory.

First of all, they haven’t made any public statements about it. They were not part of the fight that took place right outside New York City two days ago. Only Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, James Rhodes and Sam Wilson were present. People were, and still are, expecting an explanation as to why neither Tony or Steve Stark-Rogers were on the scene, but so far; nothing.

Another point that has been made is that their teenage son, Peter Stark-Rogers, has also been absent from the public for just as long as his parents. While not much is known about the boy, we all know seeing him out with his dads, or other Avengers, is a common occurrence, as well as seeing him outside the tower as he heads to and returns from school. This has led some to believe that they could have moved to a more remote city no one has figured out where is yet, since Peter would obviously have to attend school somewhere.

Something many have suggested is that this is nothing more than a successful attempt at a secret vacation. After the incident two years ago where the paparazzi figured out the address of their holiday home in Malibu, it would make perfect sense for them to do their best to keep their travel plans private. No one will ever forget the iconic video of the couple telling the paparazzi off rather aggressively. Rightfully so, as they had snuck into the backyard, spooking their then 14-year old son who had been out there by himself.

So, the questions are many. Have we seen the last of Iron Man and Captain America in action? Are they on vacation? Are they just keeping a low profile? Or is something else going on?

Peter had just been scrolling on his phone, but handed it over to Tony when he saw the article. Tony held the phone in his left hand - he’d finally gotten the cast off the previous day.

“What’s wrong?” Natasha asked suspiciously as she eyed Tony’s skeptical expression.

“Press is speculating about why Steve and I haven’t been seen in public for a while,” he sighed, handing the phone over to Steve.

“What’s it say?” Sam asked, leaning forward. Everyone else was listening now too.

Bucky, Natasha, Sam, Pepper, Rhodey and Happy were all spending the day with Peter, Tony and Steve, seeing as the second round of chemo would begin the next day. They often popped in for short visits, but Steve had invited everyone over for dinner to take Peter’s mind off of things. By things, he really meant chemo.

“Just theories about why no one’s seen us. Looks like it’s tied between retirement and secret vacation,” Tony told them.

“Secret vacation would make sense, though. I mean, after what happened in Malibu,” Rhodey commented.

“A repeat of that, and I might actually kill the paparazzi this time,” Tony muttered, not forgetting how much they’d scared Peter anytime soon.

“That makes two of us,” Steve agreed with raised eyebrows and slightly tense body language.

“Yeah, that was… not fun,” the boy agreed, a tad bit uncomfortable thinking back to the event, and adjusted his beanie. He was rarely seen without it now.

“Quite the understatement, kid,” Steve commented when he gave him his phone back.

“Can I see that, Peter?” Pepper asked, already planning out an approach to this in her head. “Thanks,” she smiled when he gave her the phone. Reading over the article swiftly, she soon handed it back, and straightened up, suddenly looking very professional.

“Alright, what we need to do is to make some sort of public announcement, or they’ll just keep on speculating. I’m thinking a small press conference where I choose who get to be there so we know that whoever’s there are serious reporters. No tabloids, no people who’ve written or spoken negatively about you before, etcetera,” she suggested, but knew everyone would agree.

“You’re the expert when it comes to this. Sounds very good, Pep,” Tony approved.

“But what do we tell them? How specific are we?” Steve asked to clarify.

“We don’t lie, but they don’t need all the details,” she continued, and then made eye contact with Peter. “And you’re old enough to be part of deciding how much you want the press knowing. If you want them to know what’s going on with you, that’s okay, but we could also just tell them that there’s a personal emergency. They don’t need to know everything right now.”

“Yeah… Yeah, that last option sounds good,” Peter decided hesitantly. Pepper knew that they’d eventually have to come clean about what was happening, but didn’t say it out loud.

“Who’s gonna be holding the press conference?” Bucky asked. He was leaning back in the couch, arms crossed. Natasha was sitting next to him, cross legged, one knee resting on his thigh.

“Would you two do it?” Pepper asked Tony and Steve, who both nodded.

“Definitely,” Steve confirmed, then looking down at a tense Peter next to him. “You don’t have to be there,” he assured him.

“Good,” he breathed out, not at all fond of crowds. Especially not ones where he would be the center of attention.

“I’ll arrange it for Tuesday,” Pepper said, looking around the room to see if anyone disagreed. Tony shook his head.

“That would be great, but… chemo’s Monday through Wednesday. We can’t leave Peter.” The boy squirmed at his Dad’s words, feeling like a bother.

“Oh, god. Sorry. I- Sorry, it completely slipped my mind for a second,” Pepper apologized, realizing she’d gone full work mode and forgotten about the actual nature of the situation.

“Thursday could work,” Steve suggested. “If someone could look after Pete while we’re gone.”

“I’m not a baby,” Peter protested lazily.

“No, but you’re not gonna be feeling well,” Tony told him, even though he knew Peter knew.

“Right.” He looked uncomfortable at the thought. He’d rather forget about it for as long as he could.

“We’re watching the press conference together, obviously, so we’ll all be here with him,” Natasha said, as if stating the obvious.

Peter was relieved, but also a bit reluctant to let them see him at his worst. Even if it would only be for an hour or so, it could turn out to be just when he’s puking his insides out. He wasn’t keen on anyone having to be there for that.

“Good. Good, thank you,” Tony smiled. How he’d ended up with such great friends, he’d never understand. Natasha sent him a half smile, a little put off by the way he was acting. The snarky, sarcastic Tony had faded away rapidly the past few weeks, and the change was kind of unnerving. She’d kill for a ‘thank you’ packed into a joke at her expense. There’d never been any doubt that Tony cared about his family and friends more than anything. But he’d always shown it in his own distinct way. Not like this.

“Sure. Anytime.”

────────

“You’ve lost some weight, Peter,” Doctor Anne Reynolds said, her face expressing gentle concern when he stepped off the scale. Before each round of chemotherapy, he had to go through a few standard tests; a scan of his lungs, a physical examination, and a weighing.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Peter said sheepishly.

“It’s alright, I know it’s difficult to eat. What kind of foods have you had?”

“Uhm, it- it hasn’t been very varied,” he chuckled. “I’ve had a lot of smoothies and milkshakes. And pancakes and, uh… soggy corn flakes.”

“You’d be surprised how many people’s go-to food is soggy cereal,” Anne smiled reassuringly, writing down what he told her. “Well, everything is set. I’ll give you more antinausea drugs this time, that sound good?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

After a last minute trip to the toilet, he settled in the same comfortable chair he sat in last time. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like this part,” Anne apologized when she saw Peter squeezing his eyes shut at the sight of the IV. “You’re lucky you’ve got good veins, so I don’t have to stab you five times to get it right.” That got a slight laugh out of the boy. “There. All done!”

He relaxed his tense body, leaning back in the chair. “Bring on the drugs,” he smirked playfully, trying to hide how nervous he was. The first time he’d been scared because it was all new. He didn’t know what to expect, other than it being not nice. This time he was scared because he knew what it’d be like: very not nice. Maybe even less nice than last time.

With even more antinausea medication than the first time, he became really drowsy, curling up into a ball. Steve and Tony spoke softly to him, and by the time he was switched over to the chemo drugs, he was half asleep. He fell asleep shortly after, and was only really awake to drink water. When awake, he recognized the warm sensation murmuring in his body that Anne had explained was completely normal, and nothing to worry about. It was constant, almost buzzing, and even though he’d describe it as warm, he still felt cold. He was wrapped up in a thick duvet, and was, as always nowadays, wearing his beanie.

It was Steve who woke him up when it was time to move to the bedroom. He blinked tiredly up at him. God, he looked so young. “We’re just gonna move to bed, and then you can go back to sleep,” he explained, putting an arm behind his back to gently push him to sit up properly. “And Dad has pills for you that’s gonna help even more with the nausea later.”

“Mhm,” Peter acknowledged, stretching his legs out; they were pretty stiff after being curled up for hours.

“You good to walk?” Steve asked just to be sure.

“Mhm. Yeah, I’m good,” he yawned as he planted his sock-clad feet on the ground. “Where’s Dad?”

“In the bedroom,” Steve told him with a smile. Peter was adorable when he was tired. Shuffling his feet, he eventually made it there, Tony ready by the bed to tuck him in.

“You just go back to sleep,” Tony whispered, making sure the boy was comfortable, and kissed his forehead. With closed eyes, Peter reached one hand up to pull his beanie off, dropping it next to his pillow before dozing off.

Biting his cheek, Tony held back tears with a slight grimace on his face. It was so obvious - too obvious - now how sick Peter was, and he hated thinking about it so much. He absolutely despised it. Still, he couldn’t stop looking at him. His son. His only son. Probably the only child he’d ever have. And that was more than enough - he didn’t need anyone else. Peter was all he wanted. All he could ever wish for, and so much more.

I won’t ask why, he reminded himself.

“You okay?” Steve asked quietly, observing his husband. Tony shook his head.

“No.”

“Me neither.” Steve tugged at his hand, making him turn around so he could see his face properly. He didn’t like the hazy look in his eyes. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, voice so full of emotion, yet so quiet. His fingers danced over Tony’s cheekbone.

“I won’t. I’m right here.” Even though he was whispering, it was clear that he was sincere. And determined not to dissociate again. Steve was too, and brought him to their bed in the same room. None of them planned on sleeping - Peter could wake up at any given time - but Steve just wanted to hold him. To keep him firmly grounded. Tony let him; letting his husband dominate his senses. They breathed.

Steve hummed a melody Tony only recognized because he’d hummed it to him before. A part of him wanted to ask him what song it was, but he didn’t. If he did, it wouldn’t be special anymore.

The lights were dimmed - dark enough for Peter to sleep undisturbed, but bright enough for his dads to be able to see him. They were both faced towards him, Steve spooning Tony, holding him tightly.

“When he was little, I used to just watch him sleep. I… I didn’t sleep much, so I’d just sit and watch him,” Tony mumbled, eyes never leaving Peter. The way he let his sentence hang in the air told Steve that he wasn’t done talking. He just needed to organize his thoughts. “Always made him look even younger than he is,” he settled on.

“Mhm. Looks like a baby when he sleeps. Even now.” His voice was slightly muffled by Tony’s hair, and he used the opportunity to place a couple of kisses to the back of his husband’s head. Tony reciprocated by bringing Steve’s hand that was resting on his stomach to his lips, leaving feathery kisses on his knuckles, then cradling said hand to his chest.

How much time had passed when a noise from Peter caught their attention, they weren’t sure of, but they were up right away to see if something was wrong. By the time they reached his bedside, he was sitting up.

“Are you gonna be sick?” Steve asked, a hand on his shoulder. The boy’s face scrunched up.

“Not sure. Probably,” he mumbled. His face paled. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Tony grabbed the plastic bucket from right next to the bed, bringing it up to hold under Peter’s chin just in time. As he threw up, tears rolled down his face, and he sobbed whenever he got a break, which in turn had him panicking because he couldn’t catch his breath.

“You gotta breathe, sweetheart,” Steve coaxed when Peter’s throwing up paused for a little while. His breath hitched, making him cough, but he got a good, albeit shaky, deep breath, and it calmed him down a little; stopped his crying. Another deep breath, and then he was heaving into the bucket again, his stomach nearly empty, and then there was only bile coming up. It burned in Peter’s throat.

When nothing was left, Peter was still dry heaving, unable to stop his stomach from spasming, and he was crying again. He absolutely despised that part. It went on for at least a minute, and then he was breathing heavily, feeling exhausted. “I’m done,” he sighed, letting himself be pulled into Steve’s side while Tony went to clean the bucket.

“Honey, will you get him his toothbrush?” Steve called out.

“Sure thing,” Tony confirmed, flushing the contents of the bucket down the toilet.

“How’re you feeling?” Steve asked Peter, voice low and comforting.

“‘m okay. Really tired,” Peter mumbled into his chest, and it was just something about the way that he was slumped against him that made him tighten his grip around the boy and take hold of his legs to carefully hoist him into his lap. “Not a baby,” Peter attempted to protest, but the way he relaxed in his Pops’ arms betrayed his words. His face was pressed into Steve’s shoulder, and Steve was drawing slow circles on his back.

The endearing scene made Tony swoon when he came back into the room with the - now clean - bucket and Peter’s toothbrush.

Not even two minutes later, Peter was tucked back in, having brushed the acidic taste in his mouth away, and he’d swallowed an antinausea pill which he was begging would work.

When he’d dozed off again, the dads were still at his bedside, and Tony lifted his hand up hesitantly. He drew it back, letting it linger in the air. He almost put it back down in his lap, but decided against it, bringing it to Peter’s head.

Ever since they’d shaved his head, Peter hadn’t let anyone touch it, and always wore a beanie in the day. But the way he leaned into the touch even in his sleep, had Tony and Steve smiling. Tony lightly drew figures with his fingers, consumed by the way his son reacted to it; the same way he always had.

The usual feel of his soft curls was gone, and it felt a little strange to caress his son’s bald head, but he still adored it. Anything that’d make Peter feel better, Tony would do, and that was no secret. Steve would too, and was just as captivated at the scene in front of him as his husband.

Quietly scooching his chair closer to Tony’s, he latched onto the arm that wasn’t occupied with Peter, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder.

“Tired, honey?” Tony whispered, turning his head to look down at his husband.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled with a smile, meeting Tony’s eyes for a couple of seconds before looking back down at Peter, content to just sit there watching him. “Love you, Tony,” he whispered.

“Sap,” Tony smirked, but still placed a kiss to the side of his head.

“Sure,” Steve laughed softly, tightening his grip on Tony’s arm a little.

────────

There was a knock on their bedroom door fairly early in the morning. Being the least groggy of the three, Steve got up and opened the door.

“Morning, Doctor. Everything alright?” he smiled politely at Anne who was holding a plastic bag.

“Oh, yeah, all good. I brought something for Peter. Is it okay if I come in for a bit?” she asked cheerily.

“Sure, of course. Pete just woke up.” Steve stepped aside, opening the door wider to let Anne into their room. She always had a smile on her face, and it was contagious.

“Good morning,” Tony greeted her from the chair next to Peter’s bed.

“Hey, Anne,” sounded the boy, giving her a wave. He was sitting up in bed, messing around with his phone.

“Sleep well?” she asked, sitting down in a chair on the other side of the bed. Steve sat down next to Tony.

“Yeah, pretty well. Only woke up a couple times, and fell right back to sleep,” Peter confirmed, pleased with at least feeling rested.

“Threw up?”

“Yeah,” Peter grimaced, “but it’s fine. Less than last time.”

“Well, good. ‘Cause I brought you something.

“Oh?”

“Mhm. You said you hadn’t been eating very varied, right?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, curious as to what she’d brought.

“So, I brought some other foods I think you might like.” The plastic bag she had put down by her feet rustled as she picked it up to put on her lap. “Get that overbed table, would you?” she asked Tony. It was right next to him, against the wall, so he was able to grab it without getting up, wheeling it so it was over Peter’s lap. “Thank you, Tony.” Both men had insisted on being called by their first name, just as Anne had.

First thing she put on the table was a small lidded plastic bowl of fruit salad. “I just brought small samples of everything, ‘cause I’m pretty sure you won’t like even half of it,” she chuckled. “But I think this is a great way to figure out more things you can eat so you don’t grow tired of the same things over and over again.

“Soggy corn flakes is getting a little boring,” Peter admitted.

“Good! Means you’re open to trying some new foods. This fruit salad doesn’t have anything with really strong flavors. Just bananas, pears, watermelon, honeydew and, uh, dragon fruit actually! Looks really exciting, but doesn’t taste much.”

“That sounds good, actually,” the boy smiled, taking the lid off the bowl to taste.

“You don’t have to taste it all now, I’ve got a few more options I’m gonna leave here for you, so no rush,” she explained, receiving a nod from Peter who took an experimental bite of watermelon. All three adults were very pleased when he gave a thumbs up.

“Next up is chicken,” Anne announced, pulling up a rectangle plastic box. “Skinless and boneless, and,” she pulled up another box, “you can have mashed potatoes with it.”

Peter nodded fairly enthusiastically, not even noticing the fact that he’d eaten five entire pieces of fruit. Steve and Tony looked excited at their son eating, and were so very grateful to have a doctor who truly cared about Peter.

“And then the less exciting counterpart to what you’re eating right now.” Another box was placed on the overbed table. “Normal salad. But, you might be surprised, this treatment can change up your tastebuds, so maybe you’ll love it!”

She proceeded to pull up a plain sandwich, applesauce, boiled eggs, scrambled eggs, and even some mints and hard candy. “It can help with nausea,” she explained, sending a sneaky wink in Peter’s direction.

“You’ve got an entire buffet here, kid,” Tony chuckled, looking at all the different foods on the table. “Thank you so much, Anne,” he said sincerely, gratefulness gleaming in his eyes.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she waved away, getting up from the chair. “I’ll get going, but I’ll see you guys in a few hours. Don’t eat it all at once, Peter,” she joked, and walked to the door. Peter laughed, waving at her before she closed the door behind her.

“You really liked that fruit salad, huh?” Steve asked, surprised, but happy to see that there was only one piece of fruit left. It wasn’t a big portion by any means, but Peter evidently enjoyed it.

“Yeah, guess I did,” Peter agreed, just as surprised as Steve when he realized the piece of dragon fruit he just picked up was the last one. He popped it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before speaking again. “Don’t think I wanna try anything more right now, though. Can we put it away for later?”

“Sure, I’ll go put it in the fridge,” Tony said, stacking up the boxes so they’d be easy to carry.

While Tony was out of the room, Steve noticed the way Peter kept wringing his hands together quite harshly. “You okay, Petey?” he asked, and Peter looked confused when he met his eyes.

“What?” Steve gestured to his hands. “Oh, my hands just hurt a little.”

“Want me to massage them?”

“Could you?” Peter almost sounded desperate, and Steve furrowed his brows.

“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And, to him, it was. Peter held out his hands, and Steve took hold of his right one first, kneading it gently. The boy sighed with relief at the feeling, visibly relaxing back into the bed that kept him sitting up. His eyes were closed, and the corner of his lips were curled upwards in a barely-there smile.

Getting back from his trip to the nearby kitchen, Tony looked on from the door for a few seconds, a little lost in how content Peter looked before Steve beckoned him over. “Sit on the other side of him,” he told his husband, and Tony did so. “His hands hurt,” he explained, lifting Peter’s hand up to show Tony he was massaging it.

“Mhm,” Peter confirmed sleepily, and Tony laughed fondly as he reached for his son’s other hand. Both men were happy to keep massaging his hands until they had to get ready for the chemo session of the day.

They’d do anything for him.

────────

Come Wednesday evening, and Peter was back to being absolutely worn out. Him feeling so well at the beginning of the second round on chemo had only been false hope. He’d barely been able to sleep, his bones and muscles had ached, and he’d thrown up a lot. But, he’d become quite fond of fruit, and ate quite a bit of that, to everyone’s relief.

When Tony had gotten the wheelchair from the corner of the bedroom, Peter hadn’t even protested. He just slumped down in it, feeling faint. Tony pushed him about ten feet before Peter shifted uncomfortably. “Wait. Wait, I’m gonna be sick,” he warned, sitting up straighter, and Steve was thankfully able to get the plastic bucket in time. Bags forgotten on the floor, Steve kneeled in front of Peter, while Tony tried soothing him with soft words and comforting touches to the back of his neck.

Leaning back, Peter was out of breath. “Done,” he sighed. “Sorry.”

“I’m about to ban that word, Pete,” Tony smirked, a hand on Peter’s cheek, and was delighted to be rewarded with a laugh. He dried away the tears on Peter’s face, and kissed his forehead.

“That was quick,” Tony commented when Steve was back by his side. He’d gone to rinse the bucket and put it back.

“Met one of the really nice nurses, uh… what’s his name? Tall, with that tattoo.”

“Oh! Uhm, Leonard?”

“That’s it! Yeah, he insisted on taking care of it so I could get back to you guys.”

“Well, that’s very nice of him,” Tony smiled as Steve picked their bags up from the floor. “You know, I could take one of them,” he offered, pushing Peter along, who was half asleep.

“Nonsense. What’s the point of having super strength if I can’t carry all the bags?”

“You’re right. That’s the sole purpose of the serum, obviously.”

“Yeah, you dum-dum.”

“My favorite insult,” Tony snickered. “So clever, babe.”

“You’re the brains. I’m just here for brawn.” Steve was barely containing his laughter, and Tony shook his head as he chuckled.

“So you’re saying you’re the dum-dum?”

“I’ll take it; that’s my own fault for making it too easy.”

“You’re both dum-dums,” Peter mumbled, eliciting surprised laughter from his dads, and earning himself a playful flick to the ear from Tony.

“I suppose we are,” Steve sighed, big smile on his face.

────────

With Tony and Steve having just left for the press conference, Peter was sitting on the couch next to Rhodey, leaning his head on his shoulder. One look at the tired the boy had Rhodey lifting his arm to let Peter rest against his side instead. It was a familiar feeling. Peter had always been a cuddle-bug with the people closest to him, and Rhodey had always been one of those people.

Natasha sat down on the other side of Peter, a bowl full of pieces of fruit in her hand for Peter. He hadn’t had much to eat that day, so Steve and Tony had encouraged them to feed him while they were gone. They even left a list of foods Peter liked, which now consisted of soggy cornflakes, smoothies, milkshakes, pancakes, fruit without too much taste, scrambled eggs, and chicken.

“If you need anything, or if you don’t feel good, you let us know, okay?” Rhodey said, lightly squeezing Peter’s upper arm.

“I’m good for now. But, uh… I should probably have a bucket here in case I need to throw up,” Peter told him, a little embarrassed at the last part, but no one else minded. “There’s one in my room.”

“I’ll go get it,” Bucky offered, getting up from next to Natasha, discreetly caressing her hair as he walked past her. The corners of her mouth lifted at the gesture, and she let her eyes follow him until he was out of the room.

Sam emerged from the kitchen with two smoothies; one for Peter and one for himself. “Here you go, kiddo,” he said, holding one out for Peter, but Rhodey reached out and got it instead. “You better not steal it from him,” Sam teased, and Rhodey put his hands up in a show of innocence when he’d passed it to Peter. He sat down in a lounge chair close to the couch.

When Bucky got back, he put the bucket next to couch, within reach from his place next to Natasha. She mumbled something in Russian that made him smile, and his response had her rolling her eyes fondly.

────────

“And you’re sure you’ve got this?” Pepper asked Tony for the third time.

“Yes, Pep, I’m sure. Don’t worry. Really.”

“Can’t help it. You’ve got quite the history with press conferences,” Pepper smirked, and got a small chuckle from Steve who was adjusting his tie.

“True, but this is about Peter.”

“I know. You two are gonna do great,” she smiled. “I’ll go and introduce you.”

Just as Pepper had said, it was a pretty exclusive press conference, with no more than twenty reporters in the room. Some were with newspapers, while others were with TV channels, so there were a few cameras there ready to capture the event. It was being held in a room in the compound that’d been used for press conferences on several occasions; perfect for it with a stage for everyone to be able to see them.

“Do I look okay?” Steve asked, wanting his husband’s approval before they went on national television.

“Perfect,” he smiled, running one hand down Steve’s chest to straighten his tie. And also just because he could. “Do I?”

“‘Course you do.”

A short kiss was shared before they turned their attention to Pepper, who soon waved them out on stage. “Good luck,” she whispered when she passed them.

They’d planned for Tony to open, so he stood in front of the microphone, leaning his forearms on the podium.

“Thank you, Pepper. Well, as you all know, we’ve been out of the public for a few weeks now. And, no, we haven’t been on holiday. Nor have we been abducted by aliens, or assassinated by the Illuminati,” he joked to set the mood to a light one. “And we’re not retiring either.” When he said that, his breath caught in his throat just a little. He hadn’t given it any thought. The world just might’ve seen the last of Iron Man and Captain America. For them to come back after all this, there’d have to be a miracle.

“But, as of right now, because of a personal emergency, it’s not possible for us to take part in usual Avengers business, or leave the Compound.” Tony took a step to the side to let Steve take over.

“While we’re dealing with this, we can assure you that the safety of the public is in good hands. As you all saw last week, they can manage better than fine without us.” He looked to Tony, wondering if he should say anything more, but he just shrugged. Steve nodded towards the reporters, a silent question of whether they should just open for questions now. Tony approved with his own nod, so Steve addressed them again.

“Any questions?”

A bunch of hands shot up, and Tony picked one out randomly. “You, with the blue and white tie. On the left.”

The man stood up. “Can you tell us who this emergency is about?” he asked.

“Not at the moment, no, just that it’s someone close to us” Steve answered. Short and to the point.

The next reporter was chosen. “How much longer will you be confined to the Compound?”

“We’re not sure. It’ll probably be a good while.”

Another reporter. "Is there a reason you've specifically chosen the Compound?"

"This place has its perks. We also thought it was best to get out of the city."

They kept asking questions, politely attempting to get more information out of them, but with Steve in charge of answering their questions, they got nothing else than the exact amount of information they’d agreed on sharing for now.

In a very out-of-character way - at least to the press - Tony stood to the side in courteous silence. However, one particular question had him taking over the microphone without hesitation.

“There have been rumors that you’ve put your son into the foster care system, is this true?”

“Absolutely not,” he denied firmly, but didn’t want to let him keep the attention, so he looked through the room to pick out the next one, but the same reporter kept talking.

“Wouldn’t that be for the best, though? I mean, with your lifestyles…” he trailed off, gesturing to them, and the room started murmuring.

From the tone of the question, Tony and Steve both had a feeling that he wasn’t talking about them risking their lives on the job, and the smaller man swallowed thickly before speaking into the microphone again. “Because we‘re Avengers?” he still asked, with a disapproving frown and tight jaw, hands clenching down on the podium until his knuckles turned white.

“No, no, it’s just,” he chuckled, but no one else at all were amused, “don’t you think he should get to grow up in a proper family?”

With ice cold eyes, Tony stared at him, doing his best to stay calm. “We are a proper family. I’m not gonna waste my time trying to get through your thick homophobic skull, so just get out.”

“What? Oh, come on-”

“I’m not joking. Leave of your own volition or I’ll have someone remove you.”

He muttered something to himself, a certain slur starting with an ‘f’, as he turned to pack his stuff up, but didn’t take Steve’s enhanced senses into account which were laser-focused on him. The soldier’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief of what he’d just heard that man refer to his husband as.

“Hey!” he called out, away from the microphone, but voice loud enough to carry across the room, catching his attention again. “Don’t you dare call my husband that. Don’t call anyone that,” he warned. "I don't think you understand how offensive that word is." He had a protective hand on Tony’s back who looked slightly confused. Steve cleared his throat, pulling himself together before calmly speaking to the crowd through the microphone. “I think we’ve answered enough questions for today. Thank you all for coming and being so polite. I apologize. Please respect our privacy and don’t speculate any further about our public absence.” He led Tony off the stage to where Pepper was anxiously waiting for them.

“Did he call him… you know-” she began, but refused to say the actual word.

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed, disgust clear in his voice.

“I’m really sorry. This is my fault, I let them send him instead of the person I requested, I’m so sorry-” she rambled, distraught at what had just happened.

“You couldn’t have known,” Tony cut her off, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “The only one here who’s done anything wrong is that nimrod. Not you.”

She sighed, sending them a smile that didn’t really reach her eyes before excusing herself when someone called her over.

Tony held Steve’s hand and looked up at him. “You didn’t have to do that, babe. I didn't even hear it. And I’ve been called worse,” he mumbled, just loud enough for Steve to hear. The look he had in his eyes was one reserved for his husband and no one else.

The words Tony thought would make the situation better only made Steve’s face crumple in disapproval. Not of Tony, but of anyone who’d ever made him feel like that. “That doesn’t make it better. It just makes me feel sure that calling him out was the right thing to do.” He made circles on the back of Tony’s hand with his thumb, lost in his eyes for what seemed like the millionth time. “I’ll always stand up for you.”

“I love you,” Tony whispered, squeezing his hand.

“I love you too.” Steve kissed his forehead.

With them in the room were a few people working, hurrying around, directed by Pepper; none of them really having time to notice the pair’s intimate moment at the edge of the room.

“Let’s get back to Peter,” Steve smiled, pulling Tony by his hand with him to the elevator.

Once the doors closed and they were by themselves, Tony placed his hands on Steve’s chest, and lifted himself up on his toes to whisper into his ear. “That was really hot.” A kiss to his neck and he got back down to his regular height, smirking up at Steve who was sporting an open-mouthed, lopsided smile along with wide, delighted eyes.

He collected himself, walking forward until Tony was trapped between him and the elevator wall. “Yeah?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, pressed up against him; now he was the smug one. Tony might pretend to be offended whenever Steve pointed out how much smaller he was than him, but Steve was very well aware of the fact that Tony actually enjoyed the size difference. A lot.

“Mhm. Now kiss me, we’re only going a few floors up,” a flustered Tony spluttered out, pulling him down before he could say anything more. They fit together as perfectly as ever, and the kissing grew heated within seconds. Hands exploring known territory, soft sounds of approval being swallowed by each other, and then they were startled apart by the ding announcing that they’d reached their floor.

Composing themselves, they felt like teenagers as they walked out of the elevator, heading for their apartment where they knew Peter was waiting along with everyone else. Except Pepper who was still working on getting everything back to normal at the compound after the press conference, and Happy who was doing his job as head of security. Just outside the front door, Steve pulled him in for another kiss, cradling his neck, one arm around his waist. Tony melted into him, and stayed glued to his side even after they pulled away.

Upon opening the door, they could hear everyone talking, and when Peter laughed, it was like nothing else mattered. They just wanted to see him happy.

And he was. His back leaning against Rhodey’s side, the man’s arm resting across his chest, and feet on Natasha’s lap, he was tiredly grinning. Everyone was happy.

Peter noticed that they’d gotten back and his smile got impossibly more radiant.

“Hey, Petey-pie,” Tony laughed softly as he walked over to Peter to place a kiss on the top of his head - well, the beanie.

“Hi, Dad. You guys were great.” He paused as if he suddenly remembered something. “But that guy was such a dick-”

“Oi!”

“-like what does he think this is? The nineteenth century? I’m so tired of people like him spewing bullshit like that. Like what- what does he even get out of it? It's not like-”

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, Pete,” Steve cut him off, kneeling in front of him, before he could work himself up about it. He always did when someone insulted his dads purely based on the fact that they happened to be not straight. “There’s always gonna be people like him. And that’s okay, because we know that he’s wrong. The only reason I got so mad was because of what he called Dad. You're smart, so I assume you’ve figured out what it was?”

“Yeah,” the boy whispered.

“You gotta pick your battles. And, for me, this was one of the ones worth picking. That word just… It stings a lot more than other words. Okay?”

Peter nodded, feeling a little bummed out thanks to that reporter, but Rhodey was there and he was ready to make it better.

“One thing’s for certain, Pete; you sure do have two badass dads,” Rhodey smiled. He looked up at Tony from where he was still confined to the couch by Peter resting against him. They shared a look, one with decades of friendship contained in it. Just a slight lift of one eyebrow, and Tony knew Rhodey was asking him if he was okay. He answered with a crooked smirk.

Peter ended up being carried to bed by Tony after he’d fallen asleep on Rhodey. Making sure he was comfortable, Tony then pulled his beanie off, having gathered that he liked sleeping without it. Steve looked on from where he was sitting on the end of the bed, hand protectively resting over Peter’s legs.

“We need sleep too, you know,” Steve whispered when it looked like Tony was about to grab Peter’s desk chair to settle down in it for the night. Tony paused.

“Yeah,” he admitted, slouching a little, not caring about keeping up appearances for his husband.

He followed Steve voluntarily to their bedroom, intertwining their hands on the way.

Once tucked into bed, Steve stayed awake, humming songs and stroking Tony’s back to help him fall asleep. It took a while, but Steve didn’t mind. He was just happy when his husband started snoring.

Small victories.

16 notes · View notes

the-stick-scribblers · 5 years

Text

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, like they tell you to do when you're anxious and you just need everything to slow down. And I think of Ireland because I remember the rolling green hills giving me this peaceful feeling, and that's what I want now. This is what I'm imagining as I lay here, the IV in my arm, a place almost as far from here as possible.

Drawing blood, I suddenly understand the phrase in a way I haven't before. Sort of dark to imagine, the tiny needle literally pulling blood from the vein in my arm, slowly draining it into the clinical plastic bag at my side. God, why do they have to be clear? The temptation to open my eyes, even just one of them, if only for a second, is strong. I don't know why. I hate this. I can't even think about it without getting sick to my stomach, hence the conjured images of craggy green hills against a gray sea and white sky. I cling to them but my stomach does a sick sort of flop anyway.

"Question," says a voice from my left, but I assume it's addressing one of the volunteers and I ignore it. Then, "What are you doing here if you obviously hate it so much?"

Carefully, I turn my head -- fortunately the voice is speaking from the side opposite my own plastic bag -- and open my eyes. The man, not much older than me I guess, on the table closest to me is lying with his own arm outstretched, and I can see his bag of blood just fine, though he isn't looking at it but at me.

"Sorry?" I say. Isn't it sort of common knowledge that you leave each other alone at these things?

"You hate this," he repeats. "So why come?"

He has a haughty sort of expression on his face, and I notice that his clothes are nice. Well-fitted, and his shirt, rolled up to the elbow on his right side, just above where the IV is taped to his arm, looks expensive. He's probably just here for something to do because he has no real responsibility.

I turn my head away again and roll my eyes. This is a mistake, as it sends another wave of nausea rolling through me. "It's a good thing to do," I say. And this will be the end of it, I assume.

Only then the stranger says, "Oh, you're one of those. A Do-Gooder."

Despite myself, I'm intrigued -- and annoyed. Why else would anyone be here, and how dare this complete stranger write it off as trivial, silly, meaningless. He doesn't even know me.

"Brian," he says then, and this time my head whips toward him. He's laughing before I remember I'm wearing a brightly-colored name tag, the name "Brian," my name in at least one sense, scrawled across it in a bold, blocky script that couldn't be more different from my own. "Brian Do-Gooder."

"What is your problem?" I ask him, and to my surprise he answers me.

"About a dozen things probably, though only three or four are the reason I'm here."

This startles me into paying more attention and I notice that the mystery guy's name is on his name tag too.

"Thurio?" I say.

"Shakespeare."

"Why?"

"No idea," Thurio says. "It's not like I named myself."

Fair point, I guess. Again I notice his clothes. They're too nice to be at a blood drive, or maybe that's just what he wants people to think? I'm not sure what to make of his statement that his problems are his reason for being here. Does he mean literally -- is he sick? Does that even make sense? Maybe he means he's broke, though it doesn't look like he's donating anything they pay you for.

"Let me guess," he says now, and he tips his head further back against the little, paper-toweled pillow beneath his head. "You think there's something wrong with you. Maybe you've done something you're not proud of. Hurt someone. In the boring sense?" He lifts his head from the pillow and looks at me more closely, like he can read what I'm thinking if he tries hard enough. "No," he says slowly, drawing the word out, a long O. "I don't think so. Something more interesting. But still not as bad as you act like it is. And this is your way to attempt making some sort of cosmic amends. Probably no one even knows you're here. Am I right?" He doesn't give me a chance to answer, but instead barrels on, with apparently no care for how rude he's being. "So what'd you do? God, you didn't get someone pregnant, did you? This would be a really ironic way to try to make up for that, and it severely pales."

"I didn't get anyone pregnant," I say, and Thurio nods to me, as though he has suspected this all along even though he's the one who brought it up in the first place. Still, I'm glad to have the chance to say this, because aside from the detail of it, his read of me isn't entirely inaccurate. But he doesn't need to know that. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you," I say, and turn away again.

I'm not sure if he's going to say anything else or leave me alone, because this is when the alarm starts. At first I don't understand what I'm hearing. I think it feels so impossible, so dissonant with the time and place that my brain can't supply me with the answer as fast as it usually would. But it's the screeching, flashing noise of a fire alarm, and after several seconds of a frozen sort of terror, I realize this.

I'm so stunned -- can this happen at a blood drive? We didn't go over emergency exits -- that for a while I don't move. I'm not sure what to do with the plastic bag full of my blood, and when I look around, the volunteers working the drive are all busy with other people who probably need more help than I do.

"Jesus, you really can't deal with this, can you?" Thurio says from my other side.

I turn to look at him and he's standing right beside my padded table, his own bag of blood held in his hand.

"Here," he says. He comes around to the other side and unhooks my bag from beneath the table where it's been hanging and slowly filling up as the IV does its work. Then he wraps a hand around my elbow and pulls me so I'm sitting up. He holds out the bag to me but I just look at it with the same sick, flip-flopping feeling in my gut. I shake my head because I don't dare open my mouth to speak.

As all of this is happening, the room is clearing out and the alarm is still blaring. The people working the blood drive are helping people out of the room, directing them toward the building exits, explaining where to go once they get outside. No one is even paying any attention to us.

"All right," Thurio says. He reaches for the IV in my arm, braces one hand against my forearm and grips the other around the long plastic tube.

"No!" I say, just in time to keep him from yanking the needle out of my arm.

"Seriously?" he says, but I can't stand the thought of this all being a waste. But he shakes his head and leaves the needle in place. I get down from the table and we rush toward the door of the room. "This way," Thurio says, now carrying both bags of blood, his own and mine. He hurries down the hall and I have to run to keep up so the IV doesn't get ripped out of my arm anyway. Every once in a while I feel it tug against my skin. It stings and gives me a lurching, ill sort of feeling, but there's nothing to do other than keep on, following Thurio, who at least seems to know where he's going.

Thurio leads us to a door no one else seems to be using, but I have no choice but to follow him. Then we're outside, and I feel winded in a way I'm sure I wouldn't if all of my blood was currently in my body where it's supposed to be. But the sun feels good on my face and there's no one over here, which is nice after the panic inside.

I gesture to the wall of the building and Thurio follows me over so I can lean against it and catch my breath.

I feel light-headed, and for a couple minutes I just rest, my face warm under the sun, and try not to think about anything other than stabilizing my body. When I feel a little better, I realize that for a moment, I've felt that tugging sensation in my arm again, the soft spot on the inside of my elbow where the needle is still rooted in the vein. I open my eyes and see Thurio shaking both of the bags.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"If you don't shake them every few minutes, the blood clots," he tells me.

I take his word for it, and the shaking only lasts another moment.

It's easier to see him out here in the sun than it had been inside when I was distracted by trying not to throw up all over myself. Now the IV is attached to me but no longer pulling the blood out of my arm, and it's easier to focus. He's got dark hair that seems to have a bit of a curl to it, though it's short. Handsome features, though now he's squinting in the sun.

"Come on," he says. "We should get this out of you."

He pulls on the bag as he moves toward a set of steps a few feet away, so I have to follow him and sit beside him. Without the panic of the screaming fire alarm -- still going off faintly inside, and it occurs to me that in case there's a real fire, we should probably move further away from the building -- and the need to rush that it had presented, the idea of this stranger removing the IV from my arm no longer feels quite so horrifying, and I still don't like the idea of touching the bag myself.

"Just, be careful," I say.

Thurio looks up at me and gives me what I can only assume is a wry expression.

“Are you sure you know how to do this?”

“It’s not like it’s difficult,” Thurio says.

“Maybe we should just wait until we go back inside.”

Thurio looks up at me, expression plainly saying that it doesn’t make an inch of difference to him. “Do you want to wait?” he says.

But the thought of staying out here in the sun for God knows how long with the needle still in my arm makes me feel a little sick. I shake my head.

“Okay,” Thurio says. He holds my elbow in one hand and gets a firm but gentle grip on the needle with the other. “You might want to close your eyes,” he says, and I do.

#first i wrote the rest of this in both the wrong tense and wrong pov #then i posted it to the wrong blog #honestly sometimes i just need to be taken out of commission for a recharge #jesus h christ #short story #flash fiction #idek

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soartfullydone · 7 years

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Hot Imperial Agent Alert

It’s a week late, but here is a thing I was working on for self-insert weekend featuring @parttimedragon‘s Imperial Agent OC, Carter, who is incredibly attractive and who I have a terrible, awful crush on.

It only got worse after I learned he really doesn’t like Sith, and if I’m going to be anything in Star Wars, it’s a Sith.

So, parttimedragon, if you read this, I hope you enjoy it and that I didn’t get too much wrong. I also know absolutely nothing about The Old Republic game, so this is actually set between Episodes III and IV... while also kind of referencing the Hand of Thrawn duology. It’s a hodgepodge basically.

Darth Inferna.

That’s the name his mission log gave him. And no matter how many times he checked and rechecked, the name on his datapad remained the same. No other missions were pending, no other excuses. He would have to accept it.

Cipher Nine sighed through his nose, a short, scornful sound, and ran a hand through his thick, black hair. Another opportunity to clean up Sith messes.

Great.

Now, he had to make his way to the Chimaera for the full briefing and to meet the Sith. He couldn’t wait.

He hitched a ride aboard a shuttle full of ensigns and Stormtroopers on their way to join the crew of the Star Destroyer. Unsurprisingly, he was the only agent on board. Being one of the first and the few to graduate from the Royal Imperial Academy with such a distinction—to say nothing of the specialized training he endured after the fact—Cipher Nine took the silence and the curious, some downright distrustful looks he received in stride. The Imperial Agent program was a new one, enacted by Emperor Palpatine himself, who supposedly took inspiration from the Sith Empire long since passed.

Not that that was public knowledge. Sith were hardly remembered now, and for good reason. Vicious and vile things, they died out long before the Jedi did. Or, they were supposed to have. As the Agents and certain members of Imperial high command had learned, some of them were, in fact, alive and well and working for the Empire.

Taking certain inspiration from them was all well and good, he supposed, but Cipher Nine could only hope that the Emperor wasn’t making a grievous error directly aligning himself with these Sith animals.

After seven standard hours aboard the shuttle, he disembarked aboard the Chimaera, striding towards the lift that would take him to the bridge. He could make the proper contact with high command there, and then the cloak and dagger workings of his role could begin. But first he had to—

“Agent Carter, I presume?”

Cipher Nine started at the warm female voice coming from his left. He turned to find a human woman striding alongside him, about a foot shorter and sporting an appraising expression.

There weren’t too many people who could sneak up on him, but she didn’t look like anything special. Brown hair pulled high into a ponytail. Not regulation. Dark, close-fitting clothes with hints of red and lace-up boots. Also nowhere close to regulation. Between her fingers spun a code cylinder, and by her hip jostled not one but two lightsabers as she walked.

Don’t tell me.

“Darth Inferna?” It was only his training that kept the dread—and disgust—from his voice.

To his surprise, she laughed. Putting a finger over her lips, she said, “Ssh, not so loud, Agent. And believe me, that’s the only time I’ve ever said that to a man.”

His eyes widened. Was she actually hitting on him?

“So, do you need to rest up a bit more, or are you ready for the briefing?”

Cipher Nine squared his shoulders and said somewhat imperiously, “I’m always prepared to perform my duty, Sith.”

“Ah, very good. We’re on a bit of a timetable right now. So—” She swept an arm out to her right. “Will you please step into my office?”

Her—? Agent Carter looked, and stopped in his tracks. Before him was a cantina, one of many set up aboard all the Star Destroyers in the fleet, and much tamer than any you’d find on Coruscant or Corellia. And currently it was empty besides the Sith, who’d sat herself at the bar, and the bartender.

"A wine for me, Fleint. You know what I like. And get my friend here whatever he wants, and don't hold out on the good stuff. Oh,"—Inferna snapped her fingers—"and prepare an ale, almost forgot. Forvish, the hard stuff." She slipped Fleint a few credits, and the bartender turned toward him with a faintly raised brow.

You can't be serious.

"Just an ale for me, as well. Anything but Forvish," he said, sitting himself stiffly beside the woman. Agents had always been thoroughly instructed to blend in rather than stick out. It helped lower guards and loosen tongues. Outsiders, by contrast, bred suspicion and hostility. Still, he wouldn't drink more than a few sips. He had no idea what the Sith was playing at.

She didn't speak again until Fleint brought them their drinks and dismissed the man with, he was floored to hear, sincere thanks. Cipher Nine eyed her wine with distrust. It was white and bubbly, not at all like the bitter dark red he'd been expecting. His own ale was more potent than he’d anticipated, not the watered down concoctions he was used to receiving from most establishments. Amber-colored, the ale went down smooth, leaving a very faint taste of sweetness behind. Apples.

He set it aside almost immediately, pausing when he saw that she’d done the same to the Forvish ale as well. In fact, she hadn’t imbibed any at all.

The Sith noticed his movement from the corner of her eye, and Cipher Nine clenched a fist as everything from her smile to the easy set of her shoulders radiated amusement.

"Have I threatened you before, Agent?" she asked him, blue eyes twinkling.

That right there was enough to unsettle him. She didn’t have the sickness of the dark side in her eyes. No bloodshot veins or heavy shadows beneath her lower lids. No unnatural yellow or orange taints to her irises. Just a deep, clear blue.

And that was another thing. If she didn't have a Sith's unholy eyes, if she had to have normal ones, then why did they have to be blue?

"No," he answered neutrally, "we've never met before."

"Thankfully," she said with a knowing smile, speaking his hidden thought aloud. Dread coiled in his stomach, but she didn't retaliate, didn’t speak at all about his rudeness which it was now apparent that she could clearly sense, despite his training to resist Sith influence. Maybe his training wasn’t failing him at all, though. Maybe she was just annoyingly perceptive. Her smile only grew wider, and she sipped her wine.

Was she even a Sith?

As soon as he thought the question, he dismissed it. He knew she was not unfamiliar with the Sith ways. The tilt of her head was too proud, the smile on her lips a tinge too arrogant. Even by just sitting there and swirling her wine in the glass, savoring the flavor on her tongue in a scene of raw indulgence, she mirrored every Sith he'd been unfortunate to meet. Perhaps her temper was not as obvious nor her cruelty so openly exposed, but she was of their kind, that he had no doubt. Besides, if she were not a tested, trained Sith, then she would never have been given over to a Star Destroyer for service, nor he assigned to her on an even ranking for a mission.

“I overheard Governor Tarkin say you agents are trained in a variety of specializations,” Inferna led on, looking at him expectantly.

On second thought, he would keep drinking. “That’s right. He is—“

“Slicing, spying, sabotage,” she interrupted casually. “Hand-to-hand, assassination.”

A few of those belonged more to other agent types than his rank as a Cipher, but he’d let her believe what she wanted, especially if she was rude enough to interrupt him. “More or less.”

She braced an elbow on the bar and rested her head on her fist. The smile she sent him now was utterly feline. “And what about seduction? Is that true, too?”

So. That was the real reason for this impromptu interrogation. That was the kind of mission this was going to be. Well, at least it made sense now why she kept trying to flirt with him, to see if they would have any chemistry when they were in the field. Great. He strongly considered ordering another drink, this time one that was much stronger.

Cipher Nine downed the rest of his ale, setting the glass down with a loud clunk. “Of course. Seducing someone’s not exactly difficult.” Icy blue eyes gave her a once over. “You might want to see about working on that.”

Her arm dropped as she threw back her head and laughed, an utterly delighted and undignified sound. Human, it was so…human. The Sith couldn’t have thrown him more off balance than if she shot him full of Force lightning. “You’re probably right.” Inferna chuckled low under her breath. “I’ll be sure to learn from you, Agent, and your clearly superior charm.” More teasing sarcasm. “Fortunately, though, we won’t have to demonstrate that skill set for real this time. I don’t believe either of us are Moff Disra’s type. No, he’s going to need…a much firmer hand than a lover should provide.”

He blinked. Moff Disra?

Did that mean they would be heading to Bastion, one of the Empire’s best-kept secrets? The Agent’s fingers started to itch. The sheer amount of information hidden in that place, the political intrigue, the clandestine setting. It was both a playground and a challenge for someone like him, and if the Moff there was somehow stepping out of line… His body thrummed with anticipation just thinking about it.

The code cylinder spun between Inferna’s fingers again, coming to rest between thumb and forefinger as she extended it to him. Her nails were manicured, not too long, and painted with a clear coat, not filed into claws or some other such nonsense. She pointed one at the cylinder once he’d taken it. “Everything you need to know is in there. We’re not supposed to discuss it openly, in a cantina of all places after all.”

Then why did you bring me here? He gritted his teeth but stowed the cylinder away safely. “When do we leave?”

“In about two hours, aboard a recently-acquired trading ship in Hanger Four called the Breakaway.”

“By trading ship, you mean a smuggler’s ship.”

“Now, who am I to judge anything or anyone on a rough and rowdy past?” Though her tone was mildly chastising, the curve of her mouth betrayed how pleased she was that he’d noticed that. You catch on quick, it seemed to say. “Is that enough time for you to—?”

His glare cut her off, and she threw up her hands in surrender. “Just making sure. You’re the first agent I’ve worked with, you know.” Those infuriating blue eyes caught something over his shoulder, causing them to light up anew. “Ah, Admiral, you made it!”

Cipher Nine craned his head to look in curiosity—and he immediately straightened, sitting up, heat rushing to his face.

A male Chiss approached them with measured steps, his blue skin looking far too agreeable against the stark white of his uniform, his shoulders military straight in a hard, broad line. His blue-black hair was short and neatly styled, and his red eyes assessed the agent briefly before flicking to the Sith. “I see, as usual, you didn’t waste any time, Lady Inferna.”

Was the universe trying to kill him today? Between placing an oddly-cheerful Sith in his path and the cool, cultured voice of this Chiss Admiral, he was starting to suspect so.

“We were just getting to know each other,” Inferna said, handing over the cup of Forvish ale. The Chiss took it, eyes glittering. And Cipher Nine watched, stunned, as the Admiral actually took an appreciative sip from a drink that a Sith had handed him. The trust between the two of them, the familiarity, it would have made sense, wouldn’t even be shocking, if the woman had been anything other than a Sith.

He studied the Admiral, who didn’t strike Cipher Nine as being unintelligent. He also didn’t observe any power plays at work here, no tests or typical Imperial scheming. Which could only mean the trust was genuine, and mutual.

But how?

“Agent,” Inferna said, snapping him out of his grim musings. She gestured to the Chiss with a flourish. “May I please introduce the Chimaera’s latest acquisition, Grand Admiral Thrawn. Thrawn, meet Agent Carter, aliases Cipher Nine and—”

“Nightshrike,” Thrawn finished smoothly, extended a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Agent Carter.”

Cipher Nine shook his hand, feeling his face warm again. “The pleasure’s mine, sir.” He would have said more, but… He was tongue-tied all of a sudden. He released Thrawn’s hand and cleared his throat.

“Don’t worry, Carter. The Admiral has that effect,” Inferna said helpfully, eyes twinkling. Cipher Nine got a hold of himself.

Thrawn himself didn’t seem to be bothered by the Sith’s shenanigans or his. Cipher Nine wondered if he was just used to it or was naturally unflappable. “And how are the two of you getting along?”

“He doesn’t like me, I’m afraid,” Inferna answered before he could, shrugging. “But I think it’s not serious enough that we can’t work around it. I’ve studied his prior mission reports, and I trust in his abilities.”

Once again, Cipher Nine was surprised at the honest assessment and who it was coming from. He was also wondering how in the hell she’d gotten ahold of his mission reports and through what clearance.

But wait… Did that mean all the time she’d spent interrogating him was just to get to know him? Maybe lighten him up? But for what purpose? Searching for weaknesses to exploit, perhaps? Sith always had ulterior motives, and he couldn’t believe that this one was just concerned about how well they’d work together in the field.

But Thrawn tilted his head and confirmed just that. “Still, complete cooperation will be necessary if this mission is to be successful. Tell me, Agent, is it Lady Inferna’s own capabilities that concern you? I can personally attest to her competence and her willingness to… How did you put it?” he asked Inferna.

With a smirk, she said, “Play well with others.”

“Of course.” Thrawn nodded, some inside joke between them. “And I would not have recommended her to carry out this mission on equal rank with you if I didn’t trust you both could succeed.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Cipher Nine replied, noting that word. Trust. “Your recommendation carries a lot of weight.”

“But something still troubles you.”

Cipher Nine willed his face blank.

But Thrawn, with those glowing red eyes, had seen it. “It’s natural to be wary of the Sith, Agent. I myself felt that same wariness when I first came into contact with them. I still do. They are willing to do anything to achieve their goals, even if they alone are all who would benefit from those actions.” That depthless gaze flicked to the Sith. “Lady Inferna is no different, but her goals align with the Empire’s, and she has consistently demonstrated a value for her comrades’ lives. Even, sometimes, to the detriment of the mission.”

An admission like that would have been accompanied by a sneer of contempt from most Imperial officers he knew. Even he, an agent who represented the Imperial ideal of professional perfection, felt a glimmer of disdain deep in his gut. The mission should always take precedence. Nothing else mattered. But the Grand Admiral in front of him spoke with an air of respect for the Sith, for the lives of fellow Imperials. And the latter was something Cipher Nine could understand, too.

Inferna huffed, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Well, there went all my street cred. Thanks a lot, Thrawn.”

“Do you not want Agent Carter to be reassured that he isn’t going out on a suicide mission with you?”

“He would have figured it out eventually,” she shot back, and then grinned at Carter. “After I played with him for a bit.”

Cipher Nine scowled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I don’t appreciate being talked about like I’m not here, you know.”

A quirk of Thrawn’s lips. “Apologies, Agent. I’ve been too preoccupied with the particulars of this mission to consider your feelings.”

“It’s fine, sir.” He was far too forgiving when it came to Chiss. Such a weakness. “And consider me more or less reassured.”

“Very good,” Thrawn said with a knowing look. Had he fully perceived Cipher Nine’s reluctance, his steely resolve, and found them both worthy? No way to tell, for he then quirked a blue-black eyebrow at the Sith. “Lady Inferna?”

Inferna crossed her arms, mirroring Carter’s body language. The two assessed each other, Agent and Sith, and Cipher Nine had to admit that, if he hadn’t known what she was beforehand, then she would have been attractive to look at. A heart-shaped face; a straight, pert nose; lush, dark brown hair; eye-catching, sensual lips; not a single blemish on her pale skin. A keen intellect shone clearly in those damnably blue eyes, his favorite color, as they traced over his own features, lingering on the scar that crossed over his nose from one cheek to the other. A question lingered in her gaze, but all she said was “He’s a bit of a sourpuss, but he’ll do.”

His eyes narrowed. No, the Sith animal was definitely not attractive. But at least, he decided as he looked at the Grand Admiral, she kept attractive company.

And, apparently, she was competent and wouldn’t send him straight to his death for her own glory.

He’d believe it when he saw it.

“For the glory of the Empire,” Inferna said, raising her glass.

“For the glory of the Empire,” Cipher Nine echoed back in unison with Thrawn. That, he would gladly, ardently toast to, even if it was coming from something like her.

#parttimedragon #self insert weekend #star wars ocs #agent carter #a prison of words

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fortitudesouth · 7 years

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2016: In fanfiction

I did this last year for my own amusement, and procrastinated this year. But here it goes. Same stuff as last time, a variety of fandoms, and the stories weren’t necessarily written in 2016, but that’s when I read them. Also, I’m addicted to h/c and angst, so fair warning, these range from fluff to heavy topics. So without further ado:

Boku No Hero Academia

I. Sharp Eyes by PitViperofDoom

Aizawa gets an unexpected visitor with a strange but earnest request.

This author has done multiple stories in this fandom, I am a big fan. Midoriya looking out for his friends, you know? It gets me. Warning: heavy themes referenced.

II. the storm comes quietly before it shakes the entire world by Tatsumaki_Sama

Midoriya's “Fearow” did not want to come out of its Pokeball.

With the popularity of Pokemon Go this past year, someone had to write out this story. And Tatsumaki_Sama does it extremely well.

III. Barology by MissAquarius

Barology: the study of gravity.

So if you’ve hung around for a while, you might know that I’m a big fan of friendship stories. This is an excellent one. It is a H/C story, so be forewarned.

IV. Among the Ashes by AliFyre

Raised by his hero and older brother, the famous firefighter Iida Tensei, Iida Tenya has always had a bright beacon in his life inspiring him and drawing him forward. However, when Tensei is grievously injured in a fire set by a serial arsonist, his life is turned completely upside down. Suddenly his brother’s caretaker, Tenya must learn to cope with a slew of new responsibilities and find a new place to lean on in his time of hardship. Being unable to rely on his brother for emotional support, he must find other ways to cope with the drastic changes in his life -- something which Midoriya Izuku is all too happy to help with. Meanwhile, the fires in the city keep burning, reminding him every day of the pain his brother is suffering -- and his own desire for revenge.

So if you didn’t read all that, then let me tell you this: heavy themes. But a very good story.

Harry Potter

V. when in doubt, go to the library by LullabyKnell

The Hogwarts Library saves the Wizarding World through the power of reading.

Sighs. Yes.

VI. THERMOS!, or, How a Muggle-Born Brought a New Age of Spell-Making to Hogwarts (Entirely by Accident) by susieboo

Muggle-born witch Phoebe McDevitt just wanted her tea to stay warm during class. She didn't expect to accidentally start a spell-making craze among her classmates.

[Oneshot. Next generation. Based off a Tumblr post, which I will link to in the notes.]

Had me giggling. The next gen we need.

Haikyuu

VII. Wish by someonestolemyshoes

Kageyama Tobio wished upon a falling star.

He would learn, in due time, that stars do not grant wishes, for stars do not fall: they float, many millions of miles away, and there they always stay, keeping themselves very much to themselves.

No, the little ball of falling light on which Tobio cast his wish, was a fire demon.

And fire demons don’t grant wishes either.

But they, at the very least, will listen.

The right amount of fantasy and angst. Sad, but in a melancholy way with a nice ending.

VIII. Jump Start by Esselle

"You came to see how I'm doing?" Kageyama asks blankly. "Why?"

Daichi shrugs. "Why not? We're both in this scene, right? So I know how it is. You had some rough luck, so from one racer to another… I guess I just wanted to come wish you the best."

"…Oh," Kageyama says, looking no less confused.

In retrospect, Daichi supposes that this is kind of weird. But the nurse had said no one had been up to visit. Where is the kid's crew?

He doesn't pry. Instead, he says, "I'm Sawamura Daichi. It's nice to finally meet you in person." '

Daichi visits a racing prodigy in the hospital after an accident and finds, in place of a hardened champion, a bedridden, frustrated boy. Injured and friendless, Kageyama is wary of opening up to anyone. But Daichi, Suga, and Asahi know that crew is family; if Kageyama has neither, they'll try to be both.

No you guys don’t understand I need Karasuno supportive family it’s my jam

IX. sister's day by Interconnected_3

When he was five, she cut her hair, and kept cutting it.

Tanaka loves his big sister. Tall, cool, smart, dependable, and also the biggest liar he’s ever seen in his life.

Parental loss AU: On a certain May evening, Ryuunosuke finds an unfinished letter written to Saeko when he was six. To celebrate ‘Sister’s Day’, he decides to fill in the blanks in more ways than one.

I’m not crying you’re crying. Warning: Many heavy topics. Please read the tags, folks.

X. A Split-Second of Violence by maychorian

Hinata is loud. Hinata is annoying. Hinata is also passionate and sunny and bright, and so full of joyful energy that he brings out the best in everyone around him, even if they occasionally want to slap his head to make him shut up for awhile. When a split second of violence threatens to take all of this away, Karasuno responds with a fury.

Okay. So. Last year a KnB story by maychorian was on my list. She writes such good stories she single-handedly dragged me into the haikyuu fandom. Yep. This is where it all started. Possibly my favorite h/c story of all time. Heavy themes, lots of medical hurt, and bullies.

KHR

XI. Like Butter (Scraped Over Too Much Bread) by Umecchi

Alaude had known it was likely an inevitable confrontation. Daemon wasn't one to ignore people who were annoying him or getting in his way, and Alaude had always been magnificent at accomplishing both of those things at the same time.

So he'd known. Didn't mean he was happy about it.

This is a really, really great story. Just to warn though, violence and *spoiler* character death. But it’s just...so good?

XII. Sidelines by esama

The world ended and Tsuna survived.

This kept me fascinated, even though I generally avoid dystopian futures, I love time/au travel stories, and this was well done. Warnings include violence and Byakuran. Peripherally.

Voltron: Legendary Defenders of Earth

XIII. Enduring by prettyshiroic (AnalystProductions)

Keith is made of fire.

Resolve burns through his core, like molten rock churning its way through the lava that courses through his veins. Hot and raw and fiery. It’s not quite anger. It’s just fire, and it spreads into everything he does so easily and chaotically. The starry sea they fly through becomes ablaze when he’s piloting - sometimes literally when he and Red unleash the firepower. His eyes flicker and fire dances in them when Pidge says she wants to leave the team. There’s the dulled dwindling embers longing to be rekindled when the group are sat together in the morning, when Keith takes the risk to melt into the moment and squeeze himself into scenes he’s never been a part of before. And then there’s sweltering infernos that are unyielding and untamed as he charges into enemy lines, fights to protect and defend.

Keith is made of fire.

So when the flames turn against him suddenly, it never fails to come as a surprise.

This is yet another fandom you can blame maychorian for me involving myself in. Geez. Anyway, heavy themes like chronic illness. Plus Keith’s generally sucky backstory.

XIV. Child Soldiers by birdzilla

Allura knows that her paladins are young, but not how young. It turns out to be a difficult revelation.

And so it goes. War- even intergalatic war in space lions- isn’t a pleasant thing. Dragging kids into it without realizing that’s what you’ve done- well.

And that’s it for 2016! Hopefully nice things will continue to come out in 2017 as well. Enjoy!

#fanfic #fanfiction #KHR #haikyuu!!#favorite things #voltron #Harry potter #boku no hero academia

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flauntpage · 7 years

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Center of Attention: Alex Honnold, El Capitan, and the Media Machine

It didn't take long for news of rock climber Alex Honnold's ascent of El Capitan to burn through the internet.

On June 3, the 31-year-old Sacramento native became the first person to free solo, or climb without ropes, Yosemite National Park's famous 3,000-foot-tall cliff face—a once-in-a-millennium achievement in the same vein as Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak or Wilt Chamberlain's 100-point basketball game.

Within hours of its completion, "Exclusive: Climber Completes the Most Dangerous Rope-Free Ascent Ever" was posted on the National Geographic website, written by veteran climber and fellow adventurer Mark Synnott. In the days that followed, Honnold achieved the kind of fame that only massive clickbait can muster, as news sites blared (and shared) headlines like "Vomit-inducing clip shows man climb sheer rock face with NO ropes – can you bear to watch?" (Daily Star, UK) and "Alex Honnold's free solo climb of El Capitan was dangerous, perhaps insane, and the athletic feat of the century" (FOX Sports).

Indeed, Honnold himself is amazed by his own good fortune. "I'm totally delighted," he told VICE Sports. "In some ways it hasn't really sunk in. It's kind of hard to believe it's done." When asked if there was ever even a sliver of doubt in the epic three hours and fifty-seven minutes that he spent on the wall, he's honest and forthright: "It went perfectly; very much a best-case scenario."

By week's end, the climbing press (yes, there is such a thing) had taken notice of Honnold's mainstream media coverage. Alpinist Magazine, the leading authority on all things climbing, gushed, "The world gasps in the aftermath of Alex Honnold's free solo of El Capitan's Freerider." In an e-mail to VICE Sports, Alpinist editor Katie Ives writes, "I think even many experienced, longtime climbers see Alex Honnold's accomplishments as something that's almost beyond the edge of comprehension."

Honnold after completing his El Capitan ascent. Photo by Jimmy Chin, National Geographic

What lies beneath the surface of Honnold's achievement is a media machine that unites the spectacular scenery of Yosemite with an exceptional athlete who is willingly part of a narrative that is just getting started. Indeed, three days after Honnold's ascent, National Geographic sent out a press release announcing that it would be the subject of a big-budget documentary, tentatively called Solo, to be released in time for the Sundance Film Festival in January 2018. Tim Pastore, National Geographic spokeperson, said, "He is a true explorer in every sense of the word, one who fully embodies the pioneering spirit we have championed at National Geographic for more than 129 years."

In that time, the National Geographic Society has sponsored more than 12,500 expeditions and scientific projects around the world, funding renowned explorers such polar explorer Robert Peary, diver Jacques Cousteau, and dogsledder Will Steger. So it's easy to understand why National Geographic, with 18 million followers on Twitter and close to a hundred million Facebook friends worldwide, would be the perfect outlet to break this story. Under the ownership of Rupert Murdoch and 21st Century Fox, National Geographic Films has become a media giant in the past decade, underwriting not just award-winning nature documentaries but producing docudramas such as Genius, about the work of Albert Einstein.

"Genius" might be an apt descriptor for Honnold, whose progression as the world's most famous solo climber started in 2008 with an ascent of Moonlight Buttress in Zion National Park. "There's a famous story of how when Honnold first did the free solo of Moonlight Buttress in Zion National Park, Utah on April 1, 2008 that people thought the reports were an April Fool's joke," Ives says. "The idea of someone climbing a route that difficult without a rope was so hard to conceive."

Yosemite, with its golden California sunshine and laid-back, feel-good vibe, is where every rock climber worth his chalk bag wants to make his mark. Writing in Alpinist magazine, Alex Lowther described Honnold's paralyzing fear during a bold solo ascent of Half Dome later that year. "He's trying to get Doubt back into its lair, to recompose himself. A bolt within reach is tempting, but he resists and commits. He commits and succeeds." In fact, Honnold's Half Dome climb had so many sketchy moments that for a time, he swore off free soloing. Lowther noted that Honnold had given it a "sad face" in his annotated climbing journal.

"I think in retrospect I should have given it another couple of days," Honnold told Lowther. A lesson had been learned: more preparation was needed for free soloing major climbs.

At the time, Honnold's shy, hermetic, off-the-stone persona (he lived in a bland 2002 Econoline van) contrasted greatly with that of Dean Potter, another solo Yosemite climber who thrived on risk and reward. Potter pushed defying gravity into the realm of performance art, partaking in both high-lining (tightrope walking between two massive cliffs above a yawning chasm) and wingsuit flying by jumping from cliffs, bridges, and off mountains. Alas, Potter died in a BASE-jumping accident in Yosemite in 2015.

"I didn't really know Dean and wouldn't want to speak for him," Honnold says, "but he saw all of these activities as a personal art form and being at one with nature." Though Honnold took parachuting lessons (Potter felt that a fall on a big wall could be mitigated by wearing a parachute), he had zero interest in activities that distracted him from rock climbing.

A high-liner above Yosemite Valley. Photo by Flickr user Jeff P/CC BY 2.0

Nevertheless, Honnold's free-soloing exploits were attracting media attention (including from, VICE). Sender Films, makers of climbing action porn, got ahold of Honnold and re-created both the Moonlight Buttress and Half Dome climbs for Alone on the Wall, a 23-minute documentary that was later condensed into a four-minute clip that would be sold to National Geographic. While Honnold's climbing shines, Honnold the human is presented as almost some kind of idiot savant, a "bumbling, dorky, awkward kind of goofball," according to North Face professional climber Cedar Wright. In 2013, CBS Sixty Minutes introduced Honnold to millions of viewers who, if they didn't think mountain climbers were insane before, certainly did now.

"You hear some climbers voicing concerns about the overwhelming mediatization of the event—the way the free solo was filmed almost as a spectacle produced for mass consumption—and how that content has been rolled out in what appears to be a very carefully planned and controlled way," Ives says. "The notion of publicity and corporate profit has long been a topic of debate in the climbing world: How does it affect the experience? Does it contribute to a heightened willingness to take risks? Does it turn a climb into a PR event? A climber into a product? And since climbers tend to associate free soloing with ideals of 'purity,' that debate can become intensified in such cases."

Honnold begs to differ, noting that climbers like John Bachar and Peter Croft had received their share of media attention for ropeless ascents. "Those guys were soloing for the camera at the time. The scale is a bit different now in terms of filming, but it's a pretty natural step for what I'm doing."

A view of Yosemite Valley. El Capitan is on the left. Photo by Flicker user tuliodaza/CC BY-ND 2.0

After free soloing the massive Half Dome, Honnold says, "El Capitan was always going to be the next logical step." The easiest route—perhaps "least outrageous" is a better term—is known as Freerider, which Honnold first climbed with a partner back in 2004.

"Jimmy Chin (a fellow North Face athlete) approached me about wanting to do a documentary, and I was like, OK, well, if we're going to do a documentary then it should be about El Cap," Honnold says. Chin and his wife, Chai Vasarhelyi, had produced Meru, a feature-length documentary about climbing an extremely remote Himalayan peak in 2011. Meru won awards at numerous climbing festivals around the world and had successfully crossed over into mainstream festivals like Sundance in Park City, where it won an Audience Award for Best American Documentary.

In fact, Honnold and his National Geographic film crew sought to make sure the climb was not tipped off to members of the media or the public beforehand. Tens of thousands of visitors have flocked to Yosemite to witness rock climbers undertaking bold, daring climbs in the past and creating a media circus was the last thing anyone wanted; the timing of the climb and its messaging would be ruthlessly controlled by the National Geographic team. Post-climb, a photographer working with NG who had not read his non-disclosure agreement had to remove his photos from a popular climbing forum. No one connected with National Geographic would comment about Honnold's climb for VICE Sports.

Far from getting in Honnold's way, the film crew enhanced his chances for success. "They worked with my sponsors and others to keep public appearances and obligations to a minimum while I was training," a period that lasted six months. "The film crew are all top-notch climbers as well, so we were able to share information about how we could approach the climb and solve some of the problems that I might encounter on the route."

It's worth noting that Honnold had climbed the 3,000-vertical-foot Freerider from start to finish a dozen times previous to his June 3rd attempt. Pre-climb preparations also included rappelling and rehearsing sections while securely roped up, a common practice for climbers attempting multi-pitch ascents. He even used climbing chalk to outline particularly tricky foot placements.

On game day, Honnold blasted up Freerider from the base to the summit in just under four hours without a second of wasted effort. The doubts that had momentarily plagued him years before on Half Dome would not show themselves on this day. Honnold says, "If anything, I came away thinking that maybe I'd over-prepared for the climb."

When Honnold's close friend and world-class climber Tommy Caldwell took to social media to call the climb a "moon landing," it was an accurate analogy. Like the early astronauts, Honnold was on a dangerous mission, flying the ship and in control of his destiny. A single mistake would send Honnold whistling through space, untethered, until he hit terra firma. The camerapersons filming en route watched in amazement as Honnold ticked off pitch after pitch, charging ever upward.

"I think I'm my 'best climber' right now," Honnold says. "Physiologically I'm a bit past my prime but I have been smarter about nutrition and training. I'm not sure if I'm climbing any harder but I certainly am feeling more solid. Five years ago, just the thought of soloing El Cap was scary, and then it all went super-smoothly so there's been some evolution, there."

So what's the next step? Honnold has hinted in the past that while he'll never quit climbing, he might take a pass on free soloing. He tells VICE that "right now, I don't know if I want to take any more steps after this one."

If and when Honnold does embark on his next adventure, he knows that there will never be another El Cap. "I guess you could say the next step might be to free solo a harder route on El Cap," he says, "or El Cap, Half Dome, and Mount Watkins in a day (a feat that Honnold achieved with a partner, Tommy Caldwell, in 2012).

"It's still just not as big of a jump as climbing El Cap itself."

Center of Attention: Alex Honnold, El Capitan, and the Media Machine published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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