An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“—and then, blam-blam! Do-do-do-do—blam blam blam! Blam! There’s this totally crazy laser beam that just — whoosh! — went right over my head and I’m like, holy cow—! It was insane, Mr. Stark, you should’ve seen it!”
Peter’s voice stretched thin where it tried to sound excited, pulled taut over something fragile beneath his vocal cords; barely rising above the steady chimes and beeps of the many machines lining the room.
It was a space he knew all too well by now — the kind of familiarity earned through frequent repetition. And each one, he made sure to note, was against his liking.
Both he and Mr. Stark had both spent way too much time here over the past year.
At least this time, he got a bigger room.
“Mhm-hm.” Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder beside him, Tony managed to wedge himself into the hospital bed without complaint. Half-reclined against the raised backing, his head tipped slightly back with his eyes shut, looking almost like he was dozing off; if not for the attentiveness hidden in every quiet hum of acknowledgment he gave.
Both his arms folded loosely across his chest, almost lackadaisically. He listened to Peter’s constant ramblings like it was any other day.
“Then there’s this crazy bright light, and next thing I know Thor flies right over me — and Vision, Mr. Stark it was so crazy, he just tore through everything with his yellow stone laser thing and there were lasers everywhere — blam! Blam blam! It was insane!”
The room itself seemed to breathe in quiet, artificial rhythms, a sharp contrast to Peter’s highly excited and breathless chattering. Ventilation whispered through hidden ducts as purified air filtered down from the ceiling. Sleek panels hummed low along the walls, transparent displays flickering faint blue light that painted everything in a sterile, muted glow.
Somewhere behind him, a pump cycled with strict precision — whirr…pause…whirr — pushing fluids through clear lines that disappeared beneath the tangle of blankets and tape at Peter’s arms; a steady, persistent soundtrack that had been on nonstop repeat.
“…and then you fly by — at first I had no idea it was you, ‘cause, you know, there was so much going on. And then one second I’m still strapped to the table and the next…wait, no, the next…no, that was after Bucky tried to get me out, which — okay, that part was insane, ‘cause he just, like, came outta nowhere…and there was fire everywhere! I swear, even the ceiling was on fire, and there were these like, fire-balls flying around that just fwoosh! fshhrr! It was everywhere — it was so crazy, Mr. Stark!”
Though animated with excitement, Peter’s eyes still looked utterly drained beneath it all, faded pale and hollow with dark exhaustion carved deep beneath them in bruised half-moons. Yet his words still came out quick and eager, tripping in uneven bursts, each word rushed for the next. All as his voice thinned into something weak and crackly, his breaths catching on themselves as the energy started to slip away.
Tony wasn’t surprised Peter kept talking, words spilling out in stubborn defiance. The kid had already informed him and every nurse that passed by that he was, verbatim, “more sick of sleeping than sitting through A.P. Bio.”
Tony didn’t argue with that. After all, he’d seen how this would end.
“Mhm-hm,” he hummed, low and steady.
He just let the kid have the sliver of wakefulness while it held.
“One second I’m laying there, and the next — wait, no, Groot. Did I tell you about Groot?” Peter pushed on, his voice lower in volume yet still persistent all the same. “He was yelling — or, you know, Groot-yelling, which is still yelling, I think, just more…plant-like? I don’t know, it was weird…and I think Bucky was throwing Rocket, that raccoon, at some point. That I could’ve imagined. That was really weird. It was all so crazy, Mr. Stark!”
Tony listened to the recollection with one ear tuned to Peter, and the other turned to the machines. His attention flickered between the rise and fall of Peter’s voice and the steady lines on the monitors. Never fully settling on either.
Still, his response came easily. Familiar.
Automatic.
“Mhm-hm.”
While he’d never tell the kid, Tony didn’t exactly require the play-by-play from Peter. He’d lived through the same battle with significantly more consciousness and substantially less blood being siphoned out of his body at the time. Safe to say, his version of events had considerably fewer gaps in it.
And whatever gaps adrenaline and panic had left in his own memory, FRIDAY had spent the last several days methodically tearing apart every second of footage available. Suit telemetry, thermal scans, comm logs, HUD recordings — replaying the disaster on an endless loop while searching for anything that could give them answers.
Anything that explained what Osborn had turned himself into.
“And then this music starts playing — old people music, Mr. Stark, like, really old — and then Star-Lord’s just flying around shooting stuff and there were explosions and yelling and Thor was crashing through walls —”
But somehow, none of the footage or his own recollection hit quite the same as hearing Peter talk about it.
Maybe, he figured, just maybe — it was because the kid recounted the whole nightmare like it had been some sort of chaotic Avengers field trip instead of the closest Tony had ever come to losing him since actually losing him.
He wasn’t entirely sure his shrapnel-damaged-but-technically-repaired heart was built to withstand this many near-death experiences involving one deeply unlucky teenager.
Identity Within: Part I︱Chapter 17, Rinse and Defeat (PREVIEW)
“—and then, blam-blam! Do-do-do-do—blam blam blam! Blam! There’s this totally crazy laser beam that just — whoosh! — went right over my head and I’m like, holy cow—! It was insane, Mr. Stark, you should’ve seen it!”
Peter’s voice stretched thin where it tried to sound excited, pulled taut over something fragile beneath his vocal cords; barely rising above the steady chimes and beeps of the many machines lining the infirmary room.
It was a space he knew all too well by now — the kind of familiarity earned through frequent repetition. And each one, he made sure to note, was against his liking.
Both he and Mr. Stark had both spent way too much time here over the past year.
At least he got a bigger room this time.
“Mhm-hm.” Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder beside him, Tony managed to wedge himself into the hospital bed without complaint. Half-reclined against the raised backing, his head tipped slightly back with his eyes shut, looking almost like he was dozing off; if not for the attentiveness hidden in every quiet hum of acknowledgment he gave.
Both his arms folded loosely across his chest, almost lackadaisically. He listened to Peter’s constant ramblings like it was any other day.
“Then there’s this crazy bright light, and next thing I know Thor flies right over me — and Vision, Mr. Stark it was so crazy, he just tore through everything with his yellow stone laser thing and there were lasers everywhere — blam! Blam blam! It was insane!”
The room itself seemed to breathe in quiet, artificial rhythms, a sharp contrast to Peter’s highly excited and breathless chattering. Ventilation whispered through hidden ducts as the purified draft of air filtered down from the ceiling. Sleek panels hummed low along the walls, transparent displays flickering faint blue light that painted everything in a sterile, muted glow.
Somewhere behind him, a pump cycled with strict precision — whirr…pause…whirr — pushing fluids through clear lines that disappeared beneath the tangle of blankets and tape at Peter’s arms; a steady, persistent soundtrack that had been on repeat.
“…and then you fly by — at first I had no idea it was you, ‘cause, you know, there was so much going on. And then one second I’m still strapped to the table and the next…wait, no, the next…no, that was after Bucky tried to get me out, which — okay, that part was insane, ‘cause he just, like, came outta nowhere…and there was fire everywhere! I swear, even the ceiling was on fire, and there were these like, fire-balls flying around that just fwoosh! fshhrr! It was everywhere — it was so crazy, Mr. Stark!”
Though animated with excitement, Peter’s eyes still looked utterly drained beneath it all, faded pale and hollow with dark exhaustion carved deep beneath them in bruised half-moons. Yet his words still came out quick and eager, tripping over themselves in uneven bursts, each word rushed for the next. All as his voice thinned into something weak and crackly, his breaths catching on themselves as the energy started to slip away.
Tony wasn’t surprised Peter kept talking, words spilling out in stubborn defiance. The kid had already informed him and every nurse that passed by that he was, verbatim, “officially more sick of sleeping than sitting through A.P. Bio.”
Tony didn’t argue with that. After all, he’d seen how this would end.
“Mhm-hm,” he hummed, low and steady.
He just let the kid have the sliver of wakefulness while it held.
“One second I’m laying there, and the next — wait, no, Groot. Did I tell you about Groot?” Peter pushed on, his voice lower in volume yet still persistent all the same. “He was yelling — or, you know, Groot-yelling, which is still yelling, I think, just more…plant-like? I don’t know, it was weird…and I think Bucky was throwing Rocket, that raccoon, at some point. That I could’ve imagined. That was really weird. It was all so crazy, Mr. Stark!”
Tony listened to the recollection with one ear tuned to Peter, and the other turned to the machines. His attention flickered between the rise and fall of Peter’s voice and the steady lines on the monitors. Never fully settling on either.
Still, his response came easily. Familiar.
Automatic.
“Mhm-hm.”
While he’d never tell the kid, Tony didn’t exactly require the play-by-play from Peter. He’d lived through the same battle with significantly more consciousness and substantially less blood being siphoned out of his body at the time. Safe to say, his version of events had considerably fewer gaps in it.
And whatever gaps adrenaline and panic had left in his own memory, FRIDAY had spent the last several days methodically tearing apart every second of footage available. Suit telemetry, thermal scans, comm logs, HUD recordings — replaying the disaster on an endless loop while searching for anything that could give them answers.
Anything that explained what Osborn had turned himself into.
“And then this music starts playing — old people music, Mr. Stark, like, really old — and then Star-Lord’s just flying around shooting stuff and there were explosions and yelling and Thor was crashing through walls —”
But somehow, none of the footage or his own recollection hit quite the same as hearing Peter talk about it.
Maybe, he figured, just maybe — it was because the kid recounted the whole nightmare like it had been some chaotic Avengers field trip instead of the closest Tony had ever come to losing him since actually losing him.
Tony wasn’t entirely sure his shrapnel-damaged-but-technically-repaired heart was built to withstand this many near-death experiences involving one deeply unlucky teenager.
I FINALLY finished this cute little three panel comic I’ve been doodling. Between classes ending, switching jobs, and heartbreak, good lord. I’m still very much obsessed with these books and will be posting more stuff like this 🥹
(nobody tell me to color it I’ll do it for the next one…)
sometimes i wonder if we have forgotten that sharing creative work is, fundamentally, a bid for human connection. like I'm not posting art or fic for 'engagement' i'm posting it looking for other sickos to play with! i'd be making it anyway for my own gratification because there's something wrong with me, i'm sharing it hoping we can have something wrong with us together <3
If you haven't heard, the em dash has been getting a lot of attention lately…
Because it was trained on pirated work—including freely accessible online writing (like fanfic, academic texts)—ChatGPT picked up patterns and quirks native to human writing.
Including (sigh) the em dash.
There are other victims here (RIP tapestry and delve 🫠), but the appropriation of the em dash—a punctuation mark beloved by writers everywhere—feels especially personal.
A kind of low-grade panic is ensuing. Writers who once memed their own em dash overuse—the greatest punctuation mark ever to grace the control-freak’s lexicon, frankly—are suddenly backing away to avoid accusations.
No. More. We have centuries of dash-abusing writers behind us. We will not sit quietly while AI repurposes our beloved stilted aside—or the just-one-more clarification the sentence demands—or the dramatic pause your comma could never—etc.
You don’t write like AI—AI writes like you.
Defend the em dash.
(Feel free to download/share/stick it where it matters!)
I really hate to be the one who says this, but to everyone who hoards ancient files on their computer like priceless artifacts — backing them up on five external drives and three cloud accounts because you think, ridiculously, that you'll need to access them again one day in their raw format...
No, really, I hate to say this...
Let me make it clear that in starting this project and accessing these nearly 8 year old files, I have only encouraged my OCD compulsions in a way that's gunna piss off my therapist big time 😅
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
For as casual as Tony tried to sound, there was clear tension in his voice.
When Peter’s eyes lingered on the yellow band around his wrist, the quiet strain he heard in Mr. Stark’s words started to make sense.
Piece by piece — the morning light through the windows, the birdsong beyond the walls, the quiet hum of the med bay. All of it wove itself around the slow, sinking realization of what had happened.
His head rolled to the side, more from inertia than intent, and his chin dipped into the aching slope of his broken shoulder— gravity and the absence of strength bringing his gaze back to Tony, still seated in a chair at the foot of his bed.
“…he to’k…my bl’od,” the words tangled weakly, barely a whisper, escaping his lips as his mind drifted where he didn’t want to follow.
The room spun, the edges of his sight dimming; yet even as the weight behind his eyes pulled him under, Tony’s voice cut through.
“Yeah…” he eventually managed, no more than breath. “Yeah, he did.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t true silence. Not really. The monitors kept their rhythm. Oxygen threaded through the mask fit snugly around his mouth. Somewhere beyond the window, a bird called out; light and consistent, filling the space between each exhale from his lungs.
Though daylight pressed at the windows, the room remained still, caught in its own quiet pause of time.
Steve laid unmoving. Peter too.
And Tony — elbows digging into his knees, shoulders slumped, spine curled. He sat still at the foot of their beds, stuck as if gravity pinned him there, keeping him nearly as motionless as those he watched over.
“..he…to’k…” Peter’s chest heaved up as he inhaled. “…he to’k…Oz.”
The words hung in the air, thin, weak.
Once again, Tony’s voice barely registered as sound.
“Yeah,” he murmured, nodding slightly. “Yeah, he did.”
For once, it wasn’t silence that followed. It wasn’t the lack of questions, or any answers that came with them.
It was the aftermath of it all.
His blinks came slow and uneven, each one heavier than the last. When he tried to open his eyes again, the effort failed halfway. The world pressed down against his lashes, his body made of lead, his chin sagging deep into the hollow space of his broken shoulder — as if his muscles had given up completely on holding him upright.
Exhaustion pulled at him, heavier than death ever felt.
In the lingering quiet, he swallowed hard, the lump in his throat tightening until it burned — a quiet war between breath and breaking.
“…he killed…‘arry.”
The words had to crawl their way out — torn, broken. They clawed past the knot in his chest, over frayed vocal cords, and fought against lungs too weak to do anything more than breathe.
And though he got the words out, they were left without any response.
Peter barely managed to peel his eyes open. Just an inch, just enough to see blurred shapes and color. He couldn’t be sure if Tony noticed. Couldn’t even tell if his gaze had found its mark.
A tremble wove through his lips. It caused his voice to shake as he choked out,
“…’mr. ‘ark…I thi’k…I think…he killed Harry.”
Peter didn’t have any say in the exhaustion that took over, no control in how the final phrase left his lips — how he collapsed into himself as his thoughts dimmed and slipped away.
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
pixelskylines
stormborns
gummygunk
titsay
areudirty
