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#I just noticed Wade is the one who cut off Miles web
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I love this variant cover. Like the colors are so nice and vibrant. And the movement is so fluent, like come on look at those badass poses! And Miles in the backround is the cherry on top.
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starkeristheendgame · 4 years
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middle of it the avengers alarm goes off. The argument spills over during the battle (and of course everyone can hear them and is trying to ignore it) and it ends with one of them saying they should just break up. Then something happens and they make up lmao
So there seems to be a part missing to your ask, but I pretty much got the gist! I hope this is okay, and that you enjoy! Ages are ambiguous so let your imagination run free. Its mostly angst but at the end there’s hopefulness for a brighter future. Tony is kind of portrayed as a bit of an ass in this, but we all know he just struggles with relationships and emotions so I hope you won’t judge him too harshly.
TW: Angst | Fighting | Temporary break up | Very brief note of minor injury.
Tony’s words still ring like Church bells through his head, even hours after they’d been spoken. That harsh spitfire tone, the broken fury in his eyes as he spat the words in the midst of battle, launching that anger against their enemies. Tony’s eyes, normally rich brandy that made him think of warm nights in front of a fire, had been been inferno and rage all day.
“We’re better off without each other”.
He flinched at the echo memory, staring dully off into space as he held the pack of cooling gel against his bruised side, the taste of copper drying on his tongue. His bruised sides were his own fault; his blind rage and anguish at their fighting had transgressed into the battle. His hits had been sloppy, unkempt, and it had fallen to the rest of the team to try and hold together their splintered edges.
Even now, the rest of the team are as sullen and awkwardly tense as the seething, newly un-coupled pair. Even Steve, normally so brazen and uncowed, sits grim in the pilot seat, jaw set and gaze on the miles of clouds before them. Clint, nursing a leg and his checked pride, is a comforting but ever silent presence at his side. No warm jokes, no lopsided smiles.
Tony is the worst. Cold and impassive at the rear of the jet, working on his Gauntlet with silent fury. Peter wondered what would happen when they got back; he’d more or less moved into the penthouse with Tony by this point, their lives entangled. Peter had no idea about post-breakup protocol. Tony had been his first real relationship, the first one to have any true weight and meaning.
The aching tiredness of war had settled in. His body felt leaden and tender, and on any other day he would have curled up against Tony’s side and napped the journey home away. Now, he leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes, focusing on keeping his breathing measured and even. The battle he’d just fought seemed nothing in comparison to the fight that had began this morning and had broken like a storm on the battlefield.
“You’re unseasoned! You’re a child. Our worlds have been nothing alike and neither are we!”
“You’re half a lifetime behind me, Peter. Sometimes, I think that’s how it should be. Apart.”
“If you hadn’t been bitten by that spider, me and you? We wouldn’t ever be in the same circle”.
When he opened his eyes again they were wet and they stung, and they were home.
No. Not home. Not for him, anymore. Peter accepted the hand that Steve offered him, and followed the rest out in stony silence. He wondered if this would be the end of it; the legacy of his time as an Avenger. His entire relationship put on blast over the comms, his friends and childhood heroes unable to look him in the eye.
Medical cleared him with two cracked ribs and his own teeth imprints on his tongue. Two painkillers and a glass of water later, and he itched to be out of the suit, to be clean and to curl up in a soft bed. His only clothes were in the penthouse, however, and he reluctantly shuffled to the elevator, head low and arms wrapped around himself for comfort more than to relieve the pain.
He crept cautiously into the open space, ears perked and eyes alert. He couldn’t see Tony anywhere, though, and by the time he reached the small staircase that led up to the balcony-style second floor, he was relaxed.
A fool’s act. No sooner had he rounded the corner, light-footed on the plush carpet, he stopped. Perched on the edge of the bed, with one smartly dressed Pepper Potts between his splayed thighs, was Tony. He had his head tucked down against her stomach, arms loose around her waist, and though he could see only her back, he could tell she was running her fingers through his hair.
Heart clenching, Peter turned away and fled before they could notice him, taking the elevator down to the foyer. It was easy enough to ask for a car to drive him home, the wide eyed receptionist sympathetic and astounded by his presence. The driver who pulled up was not Happy, but he was soft and cheerful, and roused Peter gently from where he’d fallen asleep against the window on the ride home.
His bed was cold and empty, a sore trade-off from where he would normally be. But the shower was warm and a balm to his aching muscles where the painkillers had stemmed the pain but not cut it off completely. When he was dressed and beneath the sheets he turned his cheek to his pillow, and let his mind wander.
“I’m - Not - Helpless!” He snarled, kicking furiously at the robotic figure that tried to swing for his jaw. He obliterated it, pieces flying in all directions as he waded through the outburst and onto the next, his partner’s bitter tone a soundtrack to the splintering of metal before him. He lashed out again, ducked, used a web to throw the sentient steel away from him.
“You’re untrained! You’re green! You’re a fucking colt amongst stallions and I won't stand by and watch you get hurt!” Tony’s eyes were wildfire like his voice, and any other moment his appetite for war would have made Peter’s thighs squeeze together and his teeth catch his tongue. Then, it terrified him, enraged him, and saddened him. They spat fire at each other and used it to fuel their defence, and they both steadfastly ignored the pleading protests of their colleagues over the comms, tuned in to their every word. The shame had only made Peter angrier.
He awoke with it burning inside him, smothered quickly by the sight of the bare pillow before him. No sleep-warm brown eyes looking back at him, just the residual stiffness from his injuries and the bitter taste of loneliness. Peter shifted and pushed himself to his feet, forcing his morning routine. He dreaded the text that would ask him to pick up his things, or the call that would tell him Happy was on his way with his stuff.
It never came. But neither did any other call. His phone was silent from any Avenger, none of the usual post-mission calls to fill in paperwork or check-ins from the others. No Steve asking if he wanted to jog together on Wednesday, no Tony asking him to come to the lab with sexual emojis.
Only Ned, MJ, Aunt May, even Flash. Though the latter was just another request for Tony's attention. No matter how many times Peter secretly prayed each time he picked up his phone, it was never the name he wanted. By the 6th day, he'd well and truly come to realise that was it.
It was over.
They were over.
He sniffled into his ice cream. The past six days had melted into scrolling through his old messages, bawling, and watching Elle Woods get her happily ever after. He'd taken her example in the first film and had stomped silently to the grocery market to buy several litre tubs of ice cream in varying flavours. He'd put the Spidersuit under his bed and hadn't looked at it since.
Except by the next Saturday he'd run out of emotions to cycle through and messages to cry over and the itch to be out in the nightlife, sailing between the stars took over.
Putting on the suit felt like a punch to the gut and a glass of cold water at the end of a desert.
He stood on the roof of the apartment complex, swept his gaze slowly over the cityscape, then stepped off the ledge. The drop made his heart skip a beat and the adrenaline crash through his veins, and flicking his wrist with a web at the next building felt like salvation. He dropped, swung, pulled and sailed until he was panting behind the mask, arms quivering as he roamed steadily from the lower city level to the skyscrapers and business buildings, towering above the rest like sentinels and watchmen.
He ignored the nagging memories of doing this with Tony. The two of them laughing through the comms, of clinging to each other above the clouds where nobody could see them. He focused on the ache of his muscles as he climbed higher, higher. The Stark Tower was the tallest building in New York, but the Reach Building was a close second, and empty at this hour.
He threw a web and let the momentum take him, swinging a steep arc and letting go so that it tossed him high into the empty darkness, the cool breeze buffering him as he raced in the sky, baring his stomach to the stars above, arms spread and head tipped back on a delighted, breathless sigh.
One moment, he was gazing at stars, twinkling and careless above him. The next he was rolling backwards, over, and what should have been cityscape became two slats of neon blue, surrounded by peony red and rich gold. He startled, jerked, and they fell in graceful tandem. Peter's heart thumped behind the bars of his chest, and he was left breathless as he stared, the fall ignored for the jarring reality that Tony was here.
The cityscape rushed up towards them and solid arms slid around his waist, driving the breath from his lungs. The firm press of metal was something Peter had resigned himself to feel only in his memories and dreams, and he couldn't remember how to breathe in at the feel of plated fingertips digging into his hips.
They free-fell down, plummeting fast. A shift of Tony's leg and they tipped, rolling gracefully until they were upright and then Peter's entire body tingled as he heard the thrusters of the suit engage. Falling became flying upwards, held safely against warm, solid metal, though he didn't dare to lay his cheek against Tony's chest as he might've before.
He did turn his head away and close his eyes though, relishing in the feel of their bodies together last he suddenly wake up and realise, not for the first time, that it had all been a dream. It was only a cluster of seconds, but it felt like an eternity before he was being set down as gently as if he were glass, held tight by an arm around his waist as Tony's reached up, tugging off the mask as his own faceplate flipped up.
"I can't ". Tony's voice broke over the word, breathless and agonised as he clung to Peter, holding him tight. Shock rendered him speechless and he simply stood lax in Tony's grip, on his tip-toes and leaning back into the solid arm around him. Tony's eyes were dark and red, glossy like he'd been crying mere moments before they landed. He looked sleepless, exhausted.
"I can't do it" he repeated, slower, weaker. "I can't be without you. I hate myself for it, because you deserve better. Because being with you automatically means risking losing you. But I can't lose you like that". He slumped at the end of it, defeated, and Peter finally managed to swallow the knife that had lodged itself in his throat, robbing him of his words and leaving tight pain in its wake.
“You don’t get to dictate what I am and aren’t capable of doing anymore. You don’t get to keep comparing me as weak or useless against the rest of you” he breathed, tears stinging at his eyes and turning Tony into a large, red blob. A red blob that hesitated, before nodding. “And you don’t get to break up with me because you’re being a selfish ass” he added after a pause wherein both of them were too afraid to say or do anything else.
“I can’t promise I’ll be perfect. I’m undoubtedly gonna fuck up again at some point. But... Fuck, I want us to be able to fight about it, and stay together. I want you to tell me I’m wrong and I want to fall asleep next to you in the same night, because I haven’t slept since you left. And-”
Peter sucked in a breath on a sound between a laugh and a sob, wiping heavily at his eyes before he reached up and pressed his palm over Tony’s mouth, muffling whatever tangent he was about to spiel off into. The prickle of Tony’s signature stubble against his palm was a sensation he wouldn’t trade for the world in that moment.
Tony stopped, breathed in a puff of warm air, and watched him with docile hope as he leaned forwards, slowly and carefully, ducking his head out of the way of the faceplate. Tony’s eyes shone with broken adoration as he removed his palm and tipped his head, pressing a brief, weak kiss against Tony’s mouth. His legs felt weak for it and he moved his hands to Tony’s shoulders, clinging to the burnished metal.
“Come home” Tony whispered against his mouth, fingers flexing into Peter’s sides, and he nodded immediately, ducked his head down to Tony’s chest as the faceplate snicked shut and they soared towards the stars.
It wouldn’t be perfect. But that was okay, because they’d work through it and keep loving each other anyway.
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Spider-Verse (SWS #69)
Previously posted as KoFi Exclusive Fic 
SUNDAYS WITH SPIDEYPOOL MASTERLIST HERE
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“So this is your universe?” Miles peered up at buildings that were familiar but not quite right, at stores that had a letter or two off in their name, at colors that just felt off. “It seems dark.” “It’s not as bright as yours.” Peter kicked away a piece of trash as they passed an alley. “Not as clean cut as yours. And not as hopeful as yours, if I’m being honest. “Well, why not?” Miles ran his hand over faded graffiti on a wall, frowning over the dull colors and sloppy lines. “What’s so bad about this universe that everything is like this?” “Nothing’s bad about my universe.” Peter said irritably. “It’s just… different. Things are a little more serious. Not every situation can be defused by a witty one liner, I don't crack jokes after I get hurt. You know, people die and you don’t really get over it. Guilt never really leaves, it just sort of hurts a little less when the sun’s up. Heroes aren’t as good as you think they are, and bad guys aren’t all bad. The lines between right and wrong are a little more blurred over here and it's reflected--" 
Peter waved his hands towards the sunset that wasn't as brilliant as Miles would have expected, the music from a store that sounded just half a step flat. "It's reflected in everything you see.” 
“My dad would hate it.” Miles decided, wrinkling his nose at the smell of less than fresh food on display outside a corner shop. “He likes things black and white, right and wrong, good guys and bad guys.” “Your dad would hate it.” Peter confirmed. “But I’ve gotten used to it. Tell you the truth, I didn't even notice how off this one was until I ended up in your verse. Yours is so bright and well meaning and colorful, it makes my home seems like a less friendly version, but hey. It still needs a Spider-man, right? Even if my world considers me a menace to society, and your Peter Parker was a golden-boy." “So, if the lines are blurred in this verse--” Miles risked a glance up at Peter. “--are you really a good guy? Like my Peter Parker, he was a really good guy, right up to the end. Kept telling me it would be okay, gave me the courage to go on and do something with myself. Is that you too? Because when I met you, you seemed to hate being Spider-man and kept telling me to walk away." “Most days I’m a good guy.” Peter met his eyes steadily. “And most days I love being Spider-man, but I’ve been doing it for a long time, kid. And we might be heroes but we’re also human and we get tired."   “What--what does that mean?” “It means--” Peter snatched a few apples and handed the vendor a couple dollars. “It means that sometimes you’ll run into people who are evil down to their core, and just breathing around them makes you sick. People who are so corrupt your skin will crawl and you’ll never feel clean again. And those people? You won’t want to save them. You’ll want to save everyone from them, and then leave the baddies to die because you know the world will be a better place without them." He took a big bite of the apple and added, “And those are the times where you know if you’re a good guy or not, Miles.” “...Have you left some baddies to die?” “I haven’t saved everyone I should have.” Peter said evenly, truthfully. “But I haven’t saved everyone I wanted to, either. It evens out in some shitty way." “Oh.” Miles took a bite of his own apple, chewing as he thought. “Your Uncle Ben, right? You didn't save him? I feel like all the Peter Parker's I've met, it's always an Uncle Ben" “I feel guilty about my Uncle Ben every day.” Peter tossed the apple up in the air and caught it again. “But I also know that what happened to him could have happened in any store on any corner in this city. And you’re right-- it’s almost always an Uncle Ben.” “Mine was Uncle Aaron.” Quietly, Miles copying Peter by tossing the apple into the air. “I feel guilty about that even though I don't think I should. He was a bad guy, you know. And bad guys deserve---" Miles coughed to clear his throat. "Was your Uncle Ben a good man? Or was he like-- was he like Uncle Aaron?" “Just because someone’s involved in a life of crime doesn’t mean they aren’t a good man.” When Miles looked up at him doubtfully, Peter shrugged. “Even mobsters go to church and give to the poor and kiss their moms. Wouldn’t you say that makes them good men?” “I think the murders over shadow it.” Miles pointed out. “Don’t you?” “Your Uncle Aaron loved you.” Peter switched directions and pulled his mask out of his pocket, securing it before thwipping a web up to the top of the building and starting to scale the wall. “He encouraged you and cheered you on and when it came time for him to obey his boss and hurt you? He walked away. He was a good man.” “...oh.” Miles stared up at the building for a minute, then thwipped his own web out and attached it to Peter’s butt, climbing up after him. “I don't want to talk about this anymore. Um, are you still into Mary Jane in this universe?” “We aren’t together anymore, no.” Peter scowled when his pants started slipping, and reached back to reattach Miles web to the building. “Not for a few years now.” “So I’m doomed to be single if I’m Spider-man?” It was Miles’ turn to scowl. “That doesn’t seem fair. I’m too young to give up on love! Plus, my mom says I'm cute. I don't want to be single and gloomy forever just because I can stick to things." “Well the gloomy comes and goes, but I never said anything about being single.” Peter chuckled. “And I might have given up on love there for a little bit, but it found me whether I wanted it or not.” “Uh--- that sounds ominous?” Miles offered. “So you’re in love? What’s her name?” “His name is Wade.” Peter climbed over the railing at the rooftop and reached down to help Miles up as well. “But he goes by Deadpool. He's a mercenary." “He's a mercenary?!” Mile’s eyes about popped out of his head when Peter jogged over to a man dressed in red and black spandex, sporting enough weapons to look like a character in those video games his mom didn’t let him play. “Sorry, you said he’s a merce--” He shut up when Peter ripped his mask off and jumped into the guy’s arms, then the guy tore his mask off and-- “Oh yikes that's--” Miles did a double take when he saw Wade's face. “--That’s unfortunate. What the heck happened there?” “Miles, this is Wade.” Peter brought the guy over to meet him and Miles stuck out his hand automatically, smiling as big as he could through his own mask and thankful that no one could tell he was still staring like a damn fool. “Wade, this is Miles. He’s one of the ones I met when the universe did that awful blippy thing? Remember?” “I definitely remember dis booty disappearing into a black hole, yeah huh.” Wade patted Peter’s ass, and Peter smacked his hand away, muttered, “For the love of god, behave.” “It’s uh-- It’s nice to meet you? Mr. Deadpool, sir?” Miles squeaked, trying not to gape at the scars and bumps and--seriously what was going on with this guy’s face? “My name is Miles Morales.” “What’s with you Spidey’s and not hitting puberty until your thirty?” Wade joked, elbowing Miles in a friendly fashion. “Don’t worry, Pete’s voice didn’t drop until just last year, it was like hanging out with one of the chipmunks until everything finally descended and it got deep--” “Miles is in highschool, babe.” Peter cut in, and Wade gasped. "And by the way, my voice didn't just drop last year, what the hell?"
Wade ignored Peter and clapped both hands onto Miles' cheeks, squishing them together. “Oh my god he’s a baby! Pete you brought me a baby-bug! Can we keep him! He’s so little! Look at his little suit and his tiny feet!" “Uh--” Miles tried to intervene. “Actually--” “I shall call him squishy.” Wade said solemnly. “And he shall be mine, and he shall be MY SQUISHY!" “Ummm---” “Oh I know!” Wade snapped his fingers. “I’ll get food! Kids like food right, that will make you trust me, right?” “What?!” “Alright, that’s enough of that.” Peter disengaged Wade and pushed Miles back a short distance. “Don’t mind him, he just has zero manners and some how even less tact. He’s nice though. Means well.” “He’s your….” Miles hesitated. “Life partner?” “Boyfriend.” Peter corrected. “About a year now. We run patrol together and eat junk food together and the sweatpants I was wearing when you met me? His.” “Which is why they were grey and terrible?” “Which is why they were grey and terrible.” Peter confirmed. “But don’t tell him that, he’s weirdly proud of those ratty things.” “So he--” Miles’s eyes lit up when Wade suddenly popped back up with bags of food. “Is that Mexican food?” “Piles of it.” Peter grinned. “Let me show you how we end most nights of patrol.” **************** **************** “So your universe isn’t all black and white.” Miles said thoughtfully, chowing down on his fourth burrito of the night. “Sometimes bad guys are good, sometimes good guys aren’t really heroes and apparently mercenaries are super chill if not a little weird?” “Super chill and a lot weird.” Peter winked over at Wade. “It’s not as hopeful and bright as your universe, but it has good sides.” “Hey, speaking of good sides, have you met my other person Wanda Wilson?” Wade asked curiously. “Busty blonde gal, rocks some red spandex like nobody’s business? I don’t want to scare you and say she’s terrifying, but Squishy Spidey, she is terrifying. But in like… a sweet sort of way.” “I-- I don’t know a Wanda Wilson.” “And you don’t want to.” Peter shook his head quickly. “If that particular spandex clad disaster shows up in your universe, just take the day off and move right on with your life.” “Pick my battles.” Miles stated, and then-- “Did he just call me Squishy Spidey?” “Yeah, good luck with that.” Peter said dryly. “Once Wade gives you a nickname, you’re stuck with it. I’ve been Peter Pumpkin Pie for about eight months now.” “Well as long as no one at school gets ahold of that nickname, we’re chill.” Miles laughed and Wade high fived him behind Peter’s back. “That’s the spirit.” he said confidently. “See? All Spidey’s think I’m great, just takes a little time to get used to my particular brand of charm!” “How long does it take?” Miles whispered, and Peter whispered, “I’ll let you know when it happens for me.” Miles just grinned, and went back to eating his burrito. Not all was bad in this verse.
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@bethy-sue @thesmollestgay @babypinkbunny @lilwitchybee @kloudbby @shipeveryonetogether @shadowrayven @hausoffro @plutoisstillsalty @thereaderandwriterwithin @thecat-theparrot-theonion @zerokrox-blog @zuretha-metal @hurricanesass @tstilcr @ulnusilmukka @kahowl-knight @oswolfpack @larissaloki @stuckony-stank @blackhearted @iona-laia @itsallyd @youarenewformetoo @megahuffledor @starks-avengers @tabziecat @stitchinaride @ceealaina @cwar1864 @trinidaddee @emogoddess24 @my-drowning-in-time @pidgist @yukina64 @words-aremy-weapons @psychobitchgonepsycho @little-big-mac2 @multishippinglife @susana0 @paranormalmoonlight5 @lullilt @girlnic @vgurl18 @sw3etpotat0
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stormcrawler75 · 5 years
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A New Kind of Experiment Chapter one: The Beginning
Summary: Living in an abusive home, Virgil doesn't think life can get any worse. But after running away and meeting a stranger by the beach with a tail that is decidedly not human, his life gets a whole lot stranger.
Characters: Virgil, Patton, & Remy. There will be more characters in later chapters!
Warnings: Child abuse, Needles, Blood, 
Big thanks to @sanders-trash-4ever and @gaypowersunite for proofreading, editing, and helping me come up with ideas for this story! You two are the best, thank you so much!
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                                                             ~
Virgil could hear his mother distantly screaming after him as he raced away from the house, barely registering his father’s loud cursing and the slamming of the front door. He haphazardly sprinted down the path that led to the beachfront, only realizing that it was raining when the adrenaline started to fade. He stared up into the pouring rain, feeling it mix with the blood streaming from his forehead and trickle down his cheeks. The darkness of the storm surrounded him, and his mind was filled with the thought that this was one of the worst times he could have chosen to run away.
But he kept moving. He couldn’t go home. He just couldn’t.
The path was wet and slippery with no railing to help Virgil go down. It went directly down the hill from where his parent’s beach house proudly sat. Virgil wanted to slow down and take a second to just breathe and maybe even sit down because his head was really hurting now. But his heart was beating so fast and it was like a part of him was screaming that he couldn’t stop, his mom and dad would find him, they’d be so angry so Virgil had to move, he had to move fast.
He yelped in surprise when his bare foot slipped on a wet stone and he went careening sideways. A scream caught in his throat and he just barely managed to throw out his arms to catch himself before his head hit the rocky ground. Virgil sucked in a breath and pushed himself back up. He back was aching and the cut on his forehead was really throbbing. But Virgil couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving, keep running. He stumbled down the path, a little slower this time, and almost broke out into sobs when he got to the bottom of the hill and the ocean was stretched out in front of him.
Virgil bit back his tears and stumbled his way onto the sand and to a large rock that was just close enough to the ocean so that incoming waves brushed against his feet. Virgil collapsed onto the rock and gasped for breath, pulling his knees up to his chest. The rain was letting up a little so it was a little trickle instead of the heavy downpour it was just a few minutes before.
His breath shook, and he curled a little tighter around himself. This was only a temporary solution and Virgil knew it. So did his parents. He’d have to walk back up to his house eventually and they’d be there waiting patiently for him.
It wasn’t that Virgil wanted to stay at home. He’d loved nothing more than to start a new life somewhere far away from where his parents would never find him. Where he didn’t need to worry about whether he’d be allowed to eat the next day or walk on eggshells every second of every minute of every hour of every day.
But, he couldn’t. He didn’t know anyone outside of his family and every aunt, uncle, or cousin he had would turn him into his family instantly. And, despite his parents being abusive, he was the only son and heir they had. He was the one who would be taking over the family business when he turned 18. They kept Virgil under their thumb. If he disappeared, then they’d have police officers search the entire damn country to find him. Virgil would never be free from them.
Virgil shivered as a cold breeze cut through the air. His thin clothes were stuck to his skin and, despite being the best money could buy, they did nothing to protect him from the chilly air. He sneezed and wiped away a trail of blood from the bridge of his nose. The sluggish flow of blood had started to slow and Virgil was pretty sure he would be okay. His father hadn’t knocked him to the floor that hard and from what Virgil could feel by gently feeling his forehead, wincing and whimpering the entire time, the cut wasn’t that deep.
He set his chin on his knees and watched the ocean. The waves were really gentle that night and the rain landing on the water made a soothing sound. Virgil sniffed and wiped at his forehead, smearing the blood which had stopped bleeding entirely now. ‘I should enjoy this while I can’ , he thought. ‘This will be the last time I’ll be allowed out of the house for a long while.’
Virgil sighed and looked out as far as he could. Even though his body felt like one big bruise, it calmed him to just look out at the waves. It was calming, the colour of the water soothed him, there was a person out there staring at him-
Virgil jerked up and pushed himself off the rock. Was he seeing something? Was his head injury making him hallucinate? He rubbed at his eyes and took a step closer. Sure enough, there was a person bobbing out in the distance staring right at him.
Virgil couldn’t make out what the person looked from where he was but it was easy to see them staring right at him. He stumbled a little closer to the water and swayed a little. Why was there someone swimming near his house? There wasn’t any other houses out here for miles and miles. Did their boat crash or something? Were they hurt?
The person stared at Virgil for a few more seconds before they started to swim toward him. They were swimming a little strangely, ducking under the water and coming back up, sort of like a dolphin. Virgil felt dumbfounded and confused. Who was this person?
The person pushed themself up on one of the rocks that were placed waist deep in the water. Virgil still couldn’t see them very well, but he could make out their upper body now at least. They were wearing a dark blue sleeveless shirt and had dark blond curly short hair. There was a little name tag on their shirt but Virgil couldn’t see what it said.
Who was this?
Virgil took a shaky step forward, legs wobbling under his weight. “Hello?” The person was fixated on him, studying him curiously. They frowned in concern, presumingly at the blood smeared on Virgil’s face. Virgil blinked and waved at him. “Hello?!”
The person perked up and waved happily at him. It was really hard to make out any distinct facial features or even body shape really. But they had such a happy and safe vibe to them that Virgil felt himself relax a little. They pointed behind Virgil and he looked back to see that they were pointing at his house.
“Uh, yeah,” Virgil confirmed. “That’s my house.” The person shook their head and pointed more insistently. Virgil glanced at them in confusion. “Um, I don’t know what you’re trying to say here, dude. Sorry.”
His new friend huffed and beckoned Virgil closer to them. Virgil hesitated, not sure if going near a stranger when he was hurt was a good idea, and the person just gestured a little harder.
Virgil decided to take a chance, and he walked forward, wading into the water. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen? They kill him? His parents were probably going to kill him sooner or later anyway so no big deal.
It was a lot easier to see what the person looked like up close. They were tanned with freckles spread across their nose. There were some kind of goggles on them that did nothing to hide the bright blue eyes behind them. Virgil was so focused on their eyes, he didn’t notice their arms until they were being used to pull him into the stranger’s lap.
Virgil gasped and jerked forward. All of the emotions of not really caring what was going to happen to him immediately fled and he was left with pure instinct and will to live. But his arms were being pinned to his sides and the person was just so strong. Virgil tried to push himself off the stranger’s lap using his legs but the stranger wrapped something heavy around them. Something wet, something smooth but almost slimy at the same time. He looked down, expecting to see the bottom half of a wetsuit,
And his mind went blank.
Wrapped around his legs, was a tail. An actual, fucking, mermaid’s tail. With light blue and grey scales on it and thin, blue fins at the bottom.
“What the fuck?” Virgil whispered in shock. He jumped when the stranger starting chirping and whistling in his ear. Were they trying to speak to him? Their nose was buried in Virgil’s hair and when the stranger drew back they whistled almost sadly. “Let me go!” Virgil pleaded, straining his, admittedly weak, muscles. “Please, I’m scared!”
The chirping grew soft, like the mermaid (merman? merperson?) was trying to soothe him but the grip didn’t loosen. Instead, he was just shifted so the merperson was holding him with one arm and was digging around in the little pouch they had around their waist that Virgil could feel digging into his back. He tilted his head back and a strangled gasp escaped him when he saw four needles held firmly in the Merperson’s hands.
“Let me go!” Virgil screamed. “Let me go!” He jerked and struggled in the Merperson’s grasp. “Somebody help me!” He screamed and wailed, not that it did him any good. His parents’ house was far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to hear him and there were no other houses around for miles.  
The Merperson didn’t stop him from making a racket. They kept a steady stream of soft and gentle chirping and whistling in Virgil’s ears as they tilted Virgil’s head so they had access to the veins on the side of his neck. They squeezed Virgil, almost tenderly, before pushing the first needle into Virgil’s neck.
Virgil’s vision blurred and his muscles went limp almost immediately. He felt like someone was stuffing cotton in his head making it hard to think or speak. He slumped back into the Merperson’s chest. Virgil could barely feel the webbed fingers running through his hair or the other three needles being injected into him.
Another hand settled on Virgil’s knee and he blinked sluggishly. His vision cleared a little, and he saw that he wasn’t alone with the Merperson anymore. There were about eight more of the Merpeople surrounding them now, all in dark green shirts instead of the dark blue one that the Merperson who was still holding Virgil was wearing.
The one with the hand on Virgil’s knee was chirping something and the one holding Virgil whistled sharply back. Virgil watched numbly as the Merperson in front of him gestured at the others and the other seven dove into the water, reemerging pulling something behind them.
His eyes slipped closed and his last thought was wondering what all these Mermaids were doing with that big tank.
                                                              ~
                                                              ~
“How did this happen, Patton?” Remy, the Merman Explorer in charge of the section of water they were currently in, looked over at Patton with a bemused expression on his face. “I thought this was a field observation only. No scientist has actually ever studied a human in a closed setting before.”
Patton sighed and his tail twitched, splashing water behind them. “I meant it to stay a field observation, Rem, I really did! But,” the field scientist spread his hands helplessly, “he was hurt, Remy! And once I got a whiff of him and I smelt how scared he was I couldn’t exactly leave him! He must’ve been abandoned by his pod!”
“Abandoned?” Remy reeled back in shock. “But he’s practically a guppy!” He gestured to where the human was being transferred to a portable tank.
Patton nodded sadly. “He is. But he was all alone on the beach and hurt! He had to have been abandoned! His parent’s den had all it’s lights on and their scent is all over him and not in a good way! They had to have hurt him and then abandoned him!”
Remy sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay.” He smacked his hands against his cheeks and straightened up. His own green tail was swishing through the water anxiously and in frustration. “Okay, I can make this work. The higher-ups are gonna assign some lab scientists to study your baby human here but, in the meantime, he can stay at the Explorer’s base. We got some stolen oxygen tanks we can use and we’ll feed him some fish we catch. Did you give him the shots that will make sure the ocean won’t kill his fragile human body? For the water pressure and temperature?”
Remy waited for Patton to confirm before he glanced back at his small team of Explorers. “We’re Bringing the Human to our base,” he ordered. “I want him looked after and clothes found for him. I ain’t having him staying in the ones he got on. The kid will freeze within the hour.”
He turned back to Patton and gave him a sympathetic smile. “It’s too bad you can’t study him, Pattycake. I know you really grew fond of him during this observation.”
A pang of sadness went through Patton and he looked away, staring behind Remy at the little human curled up in his tank. One of the Explorers was being held up over the water by her team and leaning into the tank’s opening, trying her best to spread an Atlantean blanket over his form. “Well, I just hope that whoever gets to study him appreciates him a whole heck of a lot.”
Remy clapped a webbed hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure they will, Patty. Now,” he turned back to his team, tail snapping through the water with authority, “let’s get that tank closed up and move out! I want that kid’s tank put in our communication room and someone watching him every hour until those science nerds can get all prepared!”
“Yes, sir!” His team snapped salutes at him and they all split up, the woman Explorer fell back into the water and let her tail regain her balance for him. Remy pulled a remote out of his belt and pressed a button, closing up the tank’s opening.
Patton forced himself to look away from the kid in the tank. “I should get going too. My higher ups will want a detailed report on what happened here.” Patton sighed and pushed himself further into the water with Remy following close behind. The team of Explorers were pulling the tank along by the bars on the sides.
Patton hummed, and a smile broke out on his face. “But, even if this isn’t the best situation ever, this is groundbreaking! A Human is going to Atlantis! Isn’t this exciting, Remy?”
Remy chuckled and the two dove into the ocean water. “Sure is, Patton. I bet those Scientists are going to freak out about their new subject.”
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themegalosaurus · 7 years
Text
A Hiatus (SPN genfic, 1777 words, G)
I wrote this for @quickreaver for Summergen 2017. She had some super creative prompts but I chose this one: ‘downtime’.
LJ || AO3
Dean doesn't notice Sam's beard growing in until he looks up one morning and double-takes at the mountain man entering the kitchen. "Dude," he says, and Sam, soft in long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, blinks at him through a halo of tousled hair. Come to think of it, that's longer than normal too, curling at the nape of his neck where it's usually disciplined into something at least approximating order just under his ears. "You going for some kind of Chewbacca deal?" Dean asks, and Sam rubs a hand over his jaw, back up through his hair which ends up sticking up worse than ever. "Just don't see the need to cut it right now," he says. "I only do it for the Fed outfits, anyway, and we haven't had a proper case in forever." Then he shuffles over to the coffee machine and makes himself a fancy latte with one of the bottles of syrup that have appeared on the counter in the last few weeks. "I'm pretty sure you've been a good few inches off an FBI regulation cut for the past five years," says Dean. Sam shrugs broad shoulders and Dean looks down at his black coffee, sniffing enviously and surreptitiously at the caramel-vanilla scent that wafts in his direction from Sam's girly turquoise eco-mug. It's true that they haven't caught a hunt in a little while. It might be something to do with the Brits; they got so used to being drip-fed leads via text message that he and Sam have gotten lazy on their usual routine of scouring the web for whatever weird stuff might be happening in their line. Add to that, it's summer, and things always just seem to die down a little this time of year. It's like payback for the enormous shit-show that kicks off every spring.
Later that morning, making a grocery run in the 90-degree Kansas heat, Dean can understand why the creepies of the American Midwest, at least, might choose to lie dormant for a few weeks every year. The car has air conditioning but it's old and not good for much, and the black paint and leather interior combine to turn his baby into a sweatbox that has him gasping for the cooler as soon as he hits the gas station on the outskirts of town. He buries his face amongst the chill plastic bottles of soda before reaching in further to swipe the coldest Coke he can find from the back of the shelf. Then he grabs an armful of miscellaneous chips and candy, and three boxes of Popsicles from the freezer by the door. When he gets home he stashes the groceries and is disconcerted to find that Sam isn't in the library, or in his bedroom, or in any of the easily accessible rooms downstairs. Dean is just getting concerned when his phone buzzes with a message. "Did I hear the car? I'm outside. Up the back stairs." Dean bristles at the implied instruction before realising that he has nothing better to do, grabbing a beer for both of them, and heading out. He finds Sam in the centre of a cleared area of ground, hidden from the view of passers-by by virtue of its location in the middle of the disused power station next to their home. Brown brick walls climb up enormous in every direction, the huge span of earth between them covered mostly with nettles and weeds. Dean's only been up here once before, waded through thorns into the open vault of the building and retreated rapidly back down again when he realised it housed nothing but ragged bushes and bits of uncleared factory junk. Sam, though, must have been working on this project for a long time. He's dug out a large, rectangular plot against one of the walls, from which tendrils of green curl up against the brickwork, clinging into the crevices. Neat rows of small plants march out in rows across the earth, right up to the edges of the patch. Evidently, the need for space is such that Sam's decided to expand; Dean's dumbass brother has chosen as his occupation on this hot summer day the insanely unsuitable task of breaking up the next patch of the concrete floor. Just as Dean emerges out into the sunlight, Sam brings a huge heavy mallet down onto the ground, sending dusty powder spraying up in every direction. He staggers backward, drops the mallet and wipes a sweaty forearm over his face. "Beer," says Dean, offering a bottle damp with condensation. Sam gawps at him like he's fricking God's heavenly messenger before taking the beer in a blistered hand and downing what looks like three-quarters of the bottle. "Gardening," Dean says, half a question. Gardening Winchester-style, with a sledgehammer and steel-toed boots. "Yeah," says Sam. He indicates the vines presently sunning themselves against the brick. "Tomatoes are coming out, look." He's not wrong. There are plump red cheeks peeking from under the leaves, all over the wall. "I thought we could jar them up for pasta sauce or something." "Sure," says Dean. He looks at the wall, assessing. There are a lot of tomatoes. "I wasn't sure if they'd take," Sam says. "But." "Yeah," says Dean. He reaches out and snags the nearest tomato, holds it poised for a moment between his two fingers before he pops it into his mouth and bites into it, where it bursts wet and vivid over his tongue. Pasta sauce is always useful, he supposes. He looks at Sam again. It's not just the beard and the unkempt hair that make his brother look wilder than usual. Sam's built up a tan through these days outside, is golden brown where he's too often library-pallid from hibernating with only the glow of a laptop to sustain him, his arms swelling bronzed and sledgehammer-strong. It's also the clothes. Rather than the usual layers of plaid or his neat Fed suit, Sam is wearing an old shirt, a scruffy tee with a hole along one side of the collar that he (naturally) has sweat right through. He smells terrible.
For some reason, the whole disgusting spectacle makes Dean feel great. "You want a popsicle?" he says, and Sam's eyes light up. "Back in a second." They sit straight-legged on the baking concrete and eat the popsicles, looking up through the ragged edges of the factory's rafters to the bright blue Kansas sky. A bird of prey wheels overhead, something big - an eagle, maybe - and suddenly Dean's jolted into a memory of another summer, a motel in the middle of the Arizona desert with an outdoor pool and the sky open like this above them, Dad gone and he and Sam the only people for miles around, except for the worn-out middle-aged woman who ran the place. Dean had done bombs into the deep end of the pool and Sam had ploughed earnestly up and down, swimming laps, his chest and shoulders just starting to fill out into adolescence. Dad had been on some hunt that he hadn't thought Dean ready for (Dean wonders now if it was a siren, something like that). School had been out. Doubtless whatever followed after had been the usual terrifying horror show, but thinking back to that moment what Dean remembers is the quiet and the unusual sense of freedom, of peace. "We could build a pool out here," he says. Sam raises his eyebrows, looks around. "It's big enough, I guess." He glances down at the hammer. "Don't much fancy digging that out by hand." "Yeah." They'd need some machinery, of course, but that could be done. This is farm country. Dean could source a digger, put on dungarees and a southern accent and talk nonsense about crops. No reason why not. "You got anything else fit to eat?" he asks Sam, swiping another tomato. Sam has some zucchini bristling under broad leaves at the back of the plot, so they yank them free and make a garlicky, buttery pasta dish for dinner. After, Dean comes back up outside, notionally to measure out for his pool-in-progress but really to relish the stars scattered overhead across the huge, black-purple sky. Sam comes up with a glass of whiskey and they sit in the dark together, the herby scent of the vegetable patch floating exotic in the air around. "Summer vacation," Dean says, and Sam says, "Breathing space," rapid and a little uncertain. He smiles at Dean, a quick flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Yeah," says Dean. Dean sticks a message on a local small ads site, looking to borrow a digger. He marks out ground across the other side of the space to where Sam has his vegetable patch, deciding how big they need to make their pool. He gets the other sledgehammer and starts breaking up the concrete, acquires a pretty thick tan of his own, and develops his own beard (which, okay, takes a little longer to grow in than Sam's). He's sleeping better than he has done in years, worn out with physical work and the peculiar tiredness of long days in the sun. It's August third when Sam knocks on his door in the morning and sticks his head into the room. He's clean shaven, his cheeks oddly pale against the tan band of skin across his eyes and nose. "Sorry, man," Sam says. "Caught a job up in Wisconsin. Djinn." "All right," says Dean. He rubs his hands over his face, beard prickling under his palms. That'll have to go. The Fed threads are hanging neatly in his wardrobe, a little musty after their long summer of disuse. A lifetime of training means his weapons kit is ready and waiting. He tugs it all out, the guns, the knives, the ammo, and fights down the knot of regret, reluctance, whatever it is that is weighing down his stomach. "Come on," he says to himself in the mirror, shaving away the evidence of the weeks off work. His old self stares back at him. Dean feels his shoulders sag. As the car pulls out onto the highway, the sky rattles thunder. A fat drop of rain hits the windshield. Sam wrinkles his nose and looks up into the darkening clouds. "Good for the garden," he says. Then he pulls a Tupperware out of nowhere. The scent of fresh-picked tomatoes fills the car. Dean's stomach begins to unclench. He looks over at his brother. "You still haven't cut your hair." Sam grins at him. "Eh, it's not exactly regulation anyway." "Yeah, okay." Dean says. He grabs for the Tupperware box. "Give me one of those."
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