#altno.3

[set-phasers-to-whump]

bound together

prompt: brass knuckles (alt no.3)

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

here's one i did ahead of time...saw the prompt and had a Vision. it's pre or established ot3. hope you like!

Illya returns to their shared hotel room with a nasty bruise forming on his temple and blood crusted beneath his fingernails. Napoleon knows this because he’d stopped Illya as soon as he’d come through the door, because Illya had been nearly an hour late, because they’d started to think he was hurt, or dead. 

“Sorry I’m late,” is all the explanation they get. “It is taken care of.”

“Happy to hear it,” Napoleon replies. “But what exactly happened?”

Illya raises his shoulder. “Was a fight.”

“A bad fight?” Gaby asks, examining one of his hands, looking critically at the blood. 

Illya gently tugs his hand out of her grip. “Nothing I could not handle.”

Napoleon reaches out a hand to touch the bruising on Illya’s forehead. The marks are evenly spaced, the same shape repeated four times. He knows what made these marks. Knows there must be more of them, hidden beneath Illya’s ever-present turtleneck. 

“Are you dizzy at all?”

Illya fixes him with a look. “I am not concussed, if that is what you mean.”

“But do you feel quite alright?”

“I am fine.”

With this, Illya brushes past them and into the bathroom. He isn’t rude about it, and Napoleon and Gaby had both expected it. 

Still. 

“Those marks on his head…” Gaby whispers. 

“Brass knuckles,” Napoleon whispers back. “How he has managed to avoid getting a concussion I really don’t know.”

“And the blood,” Gaby adds. “I don’t think it’s his, but it must have been quite the fight.”

The shower turns on, and the pair move to the couch. Gaby pours them each a glass of wine while they wait for their partner. 

--

In the shower, Illya catalogues the bruises. Uniform marks across his body, some deeper than others, depending on the severity of the hit and how much fabric had been between his skin and the metal. 

Everything aches. He has, of course, been hit with brass knuckles before, but never so extensively. Usually, they’d come as a prelude to something more, or else he’d been able to very quickly overcome their owner. 

This time, though - it had taken him a while to overpower the four men who had attacked him. He had necessarily given himself up to some punches from one man while taking care of another. 

He’d gotten it done, though. A piece of paper in his pocket, by now already torn up, and blood beneath his nails. Four bodies in varying states of consciousness lying in an alley. 

And him in the shower, rinsing off the sweat and ignoring the aches with practiced ease. 

Once the blood has been scrubbed away, he shuts off the water and steps onto the cold tiles. He dresses in pajamas - he never would have done this before them, but they’ve convinced him that sleeping in your clothes is far too suspicious of an action if someone should happen to knock on your door in the middle of the night - and prepares himself for the onslaught of touches and questions. 

He’s used to it by now. It is still very odd.  

He joins them on the couch, settling between them where they have purposely left a space. 

His arms are bare and the bruises on them are dark and angry. Gaby grabs him by the wrist, looking at the marks with scrutiny, a furrow between her brows. Napoleon scarcely touches him, his fingers light against the sore skin beneath them. 

They both know that his arms are not where the bruises begin or end. 

Gaby pulls his hand towards her, kisses the back of it. “Do they hurt very much?”

Illya shakes his head. “They are really not so bad.” The only thing a bruise can do is ache. 

Napoleon’s fingers are on his face again, touching the most painful of the bruises. “Did you kill them?” he asks, and his voice is scarcely above a whisper. 

Illya shakes his head again. Once, he would have killed them without thinking. Once, it would have been expected of him. 

“Was not necessary for the mission. They were unconscious when I left.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“There were only supposed to be two.” This is Gaby, gripping his hand just a bit too tight. 

Illya shrugs. “Maybe they got suspicious.”

“Lucky you know how to handle yourself,” Napoleon says. His voice is casual but Illya knows there’s worry hidden underneath. 

Sometimes he still cannot believe that people worry about him, now. 

“I am okay,” he says, because he wants them to know that they do not have to worry. That he has survived much worse. That, if he has any say in it at all, he will come back to them again and again. 

This is dangerous. For all of them. To be bound together like this, to care about one another like this. 

It gives them strength, though. Knowing that the others are there. Having people to hold yourself accountable to. Having people who worry when you return late. People who care about what happens to you, who care whether you live or die. 

“I am okay,” he repeats, because he knows that they know what he means. 

They both shuffle closer to him, hands and limbs tangling together, and he scarcely notices the pain. 

thanks for reading!!! hope you liked it :)

[null-whump]

Whumptober 2021

Day 2 - Alt. Prompt #3 - Caning

Ohhhhh boy this one is a bit late. I kept getting distracted while writing it and now it's 1:30 in the morning. It's still October 2nd somewhere, right? Anyway I did enjoy writing this so I hope you guys enjoy reading it! It's a follow-up from day 1! because I love Darion :))

I'm writing for Felix soon I promise

Warnings: Caning/beating (obviously), implied slavery

Word Count: 1,340

Alt. Prompt #3 – Caning

––––––––––––––––––––

It had been three weeks since Darion first woke up as Igneous’ captive, and they weren’t any closer to escaping. Just the opposite, in fact – their situation was even more hopeless than before – which they were reminded of every time they remembered the bronze metal bands that circled their neck and upper right arm.

Igneous had installed them on the second day, and Darion had fought against it, or tried to, but they were chained down and there was nothing they could do, and by the Stars, they had never felt so helpless.

The collar – the slave collar – was enchanted. A powerful spell that bound Darion’s life force to Igneous, meaning that Igneous could kill them with little more than a thought. It also meant that Darion couldn’t kill Igneous without killing themselves. In short, they were trapped until they could get the damn thing off. The armband wasn’t anything special. It marked them as a ‘dangerous’ slave; someone to be watched closely and not allowed near weapons. From what Igneous had told them, they suspected that all of his slaves wore it.

So, yes, they were trapped. But that didn’t mean they were going to be cooperative.

The door to their cell creaked and swung open as Igneous entered and walked toward them. Darion didn’t move from where they were sitting against the far wall. They were tired, their entire body ached and throbbed from three weeks of what Igneous called ‘training’ and they just wanted to rest.

“Get up.”

Darion clenched their jaw and stared at the floor. They heard Igneous’ short staff whistle through the air and flinched back, but it didn’t hit them – instead the wooden stick stopped a hair’s breadth from the side of their head.

“You’re not going to accomplish anything if you make this hurt more than it’s already going to,” Igneous said calmly. “Get up.”

Darion hesitated, then slowly pushed themselves up, first to their knees, then to their feet. The chains on their arms and ankles rattled with the movement. They swallowed hard, fighting back the wave of nausea brought by the pain radiating through their body. Igneous’ staff rested atop their bare shoulder.

“Good.” The staff moved away. “Are you ready to follow orders now?”

“Fuck you,” Darion snapped, but the anger in their voice sounded forced even to their own ears.

Igneous gave a hmm of disapproval. “Not quite there yet, I see.” He brought his staff up and smacked into the palm of his left hand. Darion barely held back a flinch at the movement. “Well, you know how to end this, if your pride will allow it.”

That was all the warning he gave before he swung the weapon against Darion’s side. They stumbled, not prepared to take the blow, but righted themselves quickly. Their chains scraped and clinked against each other. The next stroke landed across their back, then again on their side, then their arms – the gaps between each strike were unpredictably timed, just enough that Darion could never know exactly when the next one would hit.

An especially hard blow fell against the back of their legs, and they nearly fell, only just catching themselves before they landed on their knees. They barely had time to straighten up again before a blow across their shoulders made them double over again. They never allowed themselves to let out more than a gasp of pain at the hardest blows because they couldn’t bear the thought of being reduced to screams and tears at the easiest part of the pain.

Another strike, a stumble, a breath, a pause – a hit against their arm, and they bit their lip to keep quiet, almost forgetting to breathe in the space before the next – crack, and they felt blood trickling down their back as their skin split from the blows, then again – crack in nearly the same spot, and they stumbled hard, tears burning in the back of their eyes, before the next blow sent them to their knees.

They barely had time to think ‘fuck’ before the staff was raining down blows without pause, because that’s what happened when they fell, when they couldn’t even fucking stand up properly. They pulled their shaking arms over their head as the stick struck them again and again and again and again – at some point, their cries began to choke off into sobs, until finally, the pain stopped coming.

They tried to stifle their whimpers as they curled further in on themselves on the ground. The end of the staff slammed into the ground next to their head.

“Get up.” Igneous didn’t even sound winded.

Slowly, carefully, Darion moved their arms away from their head and tried desperately to gain control of their breathing as they pushed themselves up. Their chains dragged against the floor with every movement and pulled against their aching limbs. The weight dragged them down, and they had to fight not to give in and collapse on the floor. Their body screamed in protest, and another sob escaped them as they maneuvered their battered legs underneath them so that they could stand.

By the time they made it onto their feet they were trembling from head to foot, and they knew they wouldn’t be able to stand for long.

“Good,” Igneous said.

They steeled themselves for the next blow, and then the next, until their vision blurred, and their legs gave out and they were on the ground again, curling in on themselves against the horrible barrage of pain on top of pain on top of pain – until it stopped again, and they were allowed to breathe, in shuddering gasps that sent tremors through their body.

“Get up.”

Darion could barely hear him over the ringing in their ears. The staff struck their back again and their cry was more of a whine, their abused throat unable to manage anything more.

“Get up,” Igneous repeated, his voice as calm as ever.

Darion tasted blood in their mouth. “Please,” they whispered, their voice breaking. “I – I can’t –” they cut themselves off, unable to continue.

“Alright then,” Igneous said. “Stay there, if you wish.”

He raised the staff, and Darion could only shudder and wait for the blows to come again. They could barely think past the pain, could barely manage to scream or even to breathe in between blows.

When it stopped, Stars, they thought they might do anything for the agony to end. Igneous was talking but they couldn’t make out what he was saying until the staff slammed against the ground, and they knew they couldn’t take any more –

“Please,” they gasped. “Please, s-stop –”

“You know how to make this stop,” Igneous said.

The cane slammed into their back and they couldn’t breathe –

Darion sobbed, because they were in so much fucking pain, but they couldn’t give in, they couldn’t –

Igneous raised the staff, and Darion broke.

“No, wait –” they choked down their pride and forced the words out. “Please, please – m-master,” they whimpered.

Igneous was silent above them for several seconds.

“Say it again,” he said softly.

Darion closed their eyes and fought back a flood of humiliation. “Please…master.”

Igneous laughed lightly. “There you are,” he said, satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Isn’t that better, mutt?”

Shame clawed its way through Darion’s chest and held back any response they could have given. They didn’t move from their position at Igneous’ feet, shaking with pain and anger and fear and the degradation of it all.

“We made good progress today,” Igneous said. “I only hope that you won’t have forgotten it all by tomorrow.”

Darion didn’t register when Igneous left the room, they only heard when the door shut with a clang that rang in their ears for what seemed like an eternity. They didn’t bother trying to move when they were alone. They shut their eyes tighter and tried to promise themselves that they would be stronger when tomorrow came, even though they knew that it was a lie.

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Tag list! Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed, or if I missed your name by accident :)

@starnight-whump @chifechi

[copics-and-renegades]

Whumptober 2021 Day 09 Altprompt #3: Caning

This might honestly be my favourite so far this year??

There’s so many of the alternative prompts I REALLY wanna do this year, I’m just stuffing them into every day I don’t immediately have a clear idea for. *lol*

Yuan’s scar goes wayyy back to my second Whumptober piece ever, in 2019 (cw blood and gore). Basically my idea is that he (barely) survived a bombing of his hometown as a young man (teen?), back in the Kharlan War, and was stitched back together as part of a medical trial effort (why not test that new combination of surgery, artes and drugs on a random Half-Elf, after all). Since he ended up living, he was saddled with the obscene medical debt... and joined Sylvarant’s military to pay up. The scar eventually faded to almost nothing over 4 millennia of constant magical healing. Oh, but he doesn’t have a kidney on that side. They couldn’t regrow a whole organ from nothing. And that’s the story. :)

[aceofwhump]

Whumptober 2019 - Day 14 - Alternate no. 3 - Fever

Hawaii Five-0 8x09

Merlin 1x04

Murdoch Mysteries 2x09

American Princess 1x02

Once Upon A Time 4x17

Outlander 4x06

[geminihurt]

Whumptober Alternative 3 - Fever

[lionheartedghost]

Summary: Buck finally recovers enough to be a firefighter at the 118 again. It’s just his luck that he gets the flu less than a month later.

Written for Whumptober Alternative Prompt #3 ‘Fever’.

-

Buck was beginning to think he‘d run out of luck. 

He supposed he was probably lucky the firetruck had only crushed his leg and not the rest of him, lucky that Bobby had managed to talk down that kid before he could blow them all up. He was lucky he hadn’t lost the leg altogether. Lucky he’d recovered enough to train, to show up to his recertification test, to pass with flying colours. Lucky to have friends who cared enough to throw him a ‘welcome back’ party. 

And he guessed it was kind of lucky, in a way, that he’d had a pulmonary embolism metres away from medically-qualified firefighters.  But that had been the only good to come of it.

He’d been back to square one, put on blood thinners just to be safe. They wouldn’t let him be a firefighter while he was still a liability and realistically he knew that made sense, but in every other way it just felt like they were kicking him while he was down.

And then, as if that hadn’t been enough, he’d been caught up in a tsunami. A tsunami. Dizzy and exhausted and bleeding, and that hadn’t even been the worst of it, not by far. No, the worst of it had been the overwhelming fear, not for himself, but for Christopher. Doing everything he could to keep him safe, to keep him alive, turning to check on him and realising Christopher wasn’t where he’d left him. Hours that felt like centuries where he couldn’t find him, all the while running through fragments of conversations in his head, trying to come up with what he was supposed to say to Eddie, how he was meant to tell him that his son was…

But it hadn’t come to that, thank God. Christopher was safe. Buck had finally collapsed, but they’d caught him before he hit the floor, Cap and Hen and Chimney. That was pretty damn lucky. It had made him finally get his act together, too.

The doctor had told him to take it easy, so he took it easy. Three months of not over-doing it, of taking the medications they told him to take, of building himself back up until he found the humility to stop by the firehouse and talk to Bobby.

“I want to come back,” he’d said. No arrogance. No obstinacy. Only earnest. “If you’ll have me. I’m ready.”

They’d take him back in a heartbeat, Bobby had promised, as long as the doctor gave him a clean bill of health and he passed recertification. Again. 

He did it easily. 

“But no parties this time,” he’d told Bobby when he’d called him with the news. “I don’t want to tempt any bad luck or anything.”

They hadn’t had the party, but it didn’t seem to matter. It didn’t matter how close he got to getting everything back on track; he’d used up his luck, every bit of it. 

Buck had officially been a firefighter again for three weeks when he woke up feeling like his head was splitting in two. 

He sipped at a cup of coffee on the way to work, hoping the liquid might wake him up enough to keep suspicious eyes off him, or that it would at least soothe the awful sandpaper feeling in his throat. He vaguely remembered something about not drinking caffeine when you were sick, but given that the alternative had him staggering around like a zombie, he pushed the thought away. 

Hen narrowed her eyes at him the moment he walked through the doors. He gave what he hoped passed for a convincing smile, but the corners of his lips barely twitched. 

“Morning, Buck,” she said, watching him skeptically. Buck raised a hand in a pitiful wave and took another sip of coffee; he didn’t trust his voice not to break just yet. “You feeling okay?”

Buck wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He cleared his throat.”I feel fine. Are you okay?”

He’d sounded a little more hoarse than he would’ve liked, but that wasn’t that unusual for an early shift. Hen looked unconvinced, but she didn’t push it. 

Buck changed in the locker room and sank steadily onto the bench, holding his head in his hands. He just had to make it through his shift and he could go home. He could do that. It wasn’t that bad, not really. Chimney had worked a shift with a cold a year ago and complained the whole time, but he’d done it. Eddie had caught something that had been going around Christopher’s class and had spent a shift sniffling and blowing his nose, but he’d made it through. Buck could do it too.

“You doing alright there, Buck?” Buck straightened, turning at the sound of Bobby’s voice. He smiled faintly.

“Yeah, Cap. Just a headache. I’ll take some Tylenol.” That would help. It had to.

“Okay.” Bobby nodded, the corners of his eyes creasing ever so slightly in concern. “But if you need to sit out the next couple calls-”

“I’m fine, Cap, honest.” Buck stood and opened his locker, digging through its contents until he found a box of pills. He took out two and downed them, waving the box at Bobby before putting it away again. Bobby rolled his eyes.

Overhead, the sirens began to blare.

“Battle stations,” Bobby said. “Last chance to sit out.”

“And let you guys save lives without me? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

*

Buck rested his forehead against the side of the truck. The call had been relatively easy, if there was such a thing as an easy call, but the Tylenol hadn’t kicked in and his head felt too heavy to hold up. The truck jolted as it drove over potholes; the movement made his stomach lurch. He closed his eyes.

“You look miserable,” Eddie said from beside him.

Buck didn’t move. “I’m fine,” he muttered. 

Chimney scoffed. “That was really convincing.”

A calloused hand rested on his forehead; Buck batted it away and opened his eyes, staring blearily at the gazes fixed on him. 

“Buck, you’re really warm.” Eddie again.

“It’s just hot in here.”

“It’s not,” Hen said. 

Buck fumbled for the door handle the second the truck finally came to a stop. He dropped down to the floor and stumbled, clutching at the side of the truck for balance; a steadying hand caught his arm.

“You’re fine, huh?” Bobby raised his eyebrows. Buck wanted to reply, but it was difficult to think straight when the world around him seemed to be tilting. “You got him?”

Buck didn’t think the last sentence was directed at him. There were other hands holding onto him then, keeping him upright. “Come on, Buckaroo. Let’s get you sitting down.”

He didn’t remember walking away from the truck, but suddenly they were guiding him down onto a bench and there was a hand on his forehead again, a different one than before.

“You’ve got a pretty good fever going,” Hen frowned. “I knew you didn’t look right earlier. You should’ve said something.”

Buck took a slow, even breath. “It’s just a cold.”

“Yeah, if ‘just a cold’ is code for ‘the flu that’ll probably start the zombie virus’, sure.” Hen turned to look over her shoulder at Bobby. “He needs to go home.”

“No!” Buck coughed pitifully into the crook of his elbow. “I can’t. I’m okay. I’ll sit out the next call if you want me to. I’ll be fine in a couple hours.”

Bobby moved to where Buck was hunched over and crouched down in front of him. “You can’t go home?” He repeated. “Why can’t you go home, Buck?”

Buck shrugged, staring at a spot on the floor beside his shoe. “They’ll get rid of me again,” he mumbled.

Bobby glanced across at Hen. “Who’ll get rid of you?”

“The department.” Buck wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I just got back. I’ll have to get recertified again. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

“Buck.” Bobby ducked his head to catch Buck’s eye. “Listen to me. Nobody is going to fire you for getting sick.”

“They might.”

“They won’t.”

Buck looked up at him hesitantly, exhaustion settling on his face. “You’re sure?”

“Even if they wanted to try, they’d have to go through me,” Bobby said firmly, “and I wouldn’t let them.”

Buck smiled weakly. 

“I’ll have Chim call Maddie to pick you up.” Bobby stood, resting his hand briefly on Buck’s shoulder. “Sit tight.”

Buck wanted to protest that he didn’t need his sister to come and get him, that he was perfectly capable of finding his own way back, but he couldn’t find the energy to argue. He nodded instead, resting his head in his hands. 

Hen sat down beside him, knocking her knee against his. “You really can’t catch a break, can you?”

“Mm.”

“On the plus side, you’ve probably used up all your bad luck for the rest of your life. Plain sailing for you from here on out, Buckley.”

Buck looked sidelong at her. “You think so?”

Hen grinned. “One hundred percent. You’re back for good whether we want you here or not. And hey, before you know it you’ll be Cap’s age and you’ll have some annoyingly heroic twenty-something-year-old kid in your firehouse turning you grey too.”

Buck mused over her words. “You think I’ll have my own House one day?”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “But one step at a time. Go home and don’t come back until you’re not spreading your germs around the rest of us, alright?”

“Alright.”

Hen got up, patting him on the arm as she turned to leave. “Feel better, Buck,” she called over her shoulder.

And in truth, Buck felt a little better already. 

[callaeidae3]

"... have to study hard, o-or if I don't they'll expel me. Can't... I can't, Shiro. I don't have anywhere else."

[marvelous-writer]

Living Nightmare

Summary: Peter has a horribly vivid fever dream that Mysterio is back from the dead, threatening the safety of his family.

Whumptober Day Three: Fever

@whumptober2019 

Link to read on Ao3

Peter jolts awake in bed, horribly overheated and sweating. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he pants, eyes frantically searching his dark room for any sign of a threat. A loud rumble of thunder comes from outside, causing him to jump at the sound. Rain was pelting against the roof, sounding like the storm’s been at it for a while. 

Peter lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes as he lets himself lie back down. He can feel that his t-shirt is soaked with sweat, sticking uncomfortably to his overheated skin, and he scrunches his nose up at the feeling. It’s way too hot in his room and he already kicked his blankets away to the end of the bed at some point during the night. 

Letting out a low, frustrated groan, Peter rolls onto his stomach and smushes his face into his pillow. Another violent crackle of thunder comes from outside and he almost swears he can feel the house shake from the force of it. Or maybe that was his imagination.

He lays there for a few moments and listens to the sound of the rain outside. Aside from the thunder, it's actually quite peaceful, soothing enough to lull him back to sleep once again. 

Only it doesn’t last for long. 

…….

Laughter filled the cabin, as everyone sat around in the living room after dinner. Rhodey, Happy and May had driven down earlier in the morning and arrived shortly after noon time. They had decided to come together and celebrate it being a year since everyone blipped back, as well as defeating Thanos. 

A whole year had already passed by in the blink of an eye, and they had a lot to be thankful for. The vanished were back, safe and sound, and Tony was alive, happy and healthy now. It had been a long road to recovery, with countless surgeries and a lot of physical therapy… but he made it. They all did. Together. 

As a family. 

“No, no, no!” Rhodey laughed, standing beside Tony, a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he bent over laughing. “You skipped out on class that day because you went on that date with that blonde! I had to take all of the notes for you and we had a quiz the next day, too.” 

Tony tilted his head to the side and grins at him. “Yeah, and I’ll have you know that I aced that test.” 

“Thanks to my note taking skills.” 

Tony rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Peter smiled at them from his spot next to May, who was sitting next to Happy, very close, who had Norgan sitting on his lap. 

“Can we watch a movie later?” Morgan asks. 

“Which one?” Happy asks in his soft ‘Morgan voice,’ tilting his head to look down at her. 

“Tangled?” She hopefully asks. 

Peter smiles, knowing that was probably the last movie Happy would want to watch, but they all know that the guy was a complete softie for Morgan and she knew it too. Happy loved her to pieces. 

“I think that sounds like a great idea.” Happy smiles down at her. 

The house is warm and filled family. It couldn’t get any better than that. 

Tony and Rhodey’s laughs were cut off from a sudden loud bang, followed by the shattering of glass from one of the living room windows. 

They’re all on their feet and Peter’s ready for a fight, standing in front of Happy, May and Morgan. Happy drags May and Morgan down to the floor and are shielding them while Tony has Pepper directly behind him. 

A choked gasp rings out through the room, and Peter’s eyes fall on Rhodey, who was clutching at his chest, his bright green polo shirt stained a dark crimson where his hand is, blood dribbling down his arm. 

Tony’s eyes are wide as he’s looking at his best friend, who was still seated in the loveseat.

“Rhodey?” Tony says, voice tense as he grips the soldier’s shoulder. “Rhodey?” 

Rhodey’s eyes flicker up to Tony’s face, for just a second, before he falls back, slumping against the chair, unmoving. 

Dead.

Before any of them can do anything, there’s an explosion of glass from the atrium window by the kitchen and four large white drones swarm in the house. One of them shoots a blast at Peter, throwing him across the room against the wall. 

He falls to the floor as Pepper and May scream, the drones surrounding them. 

Peter pushes himself up, seeing the guns on the drones start spinning, orange sparks flying off at the speed. Green laser target dots are aimed at Tony, Pepper, Happy, May, and Morgan.

“Say goodbye to your family, Peter.” Beck’s voice comes through one of the drone’s speakers. 

…….

A strangled scream tears out of Peter’s throat as his eyes snap open, shooting up in bed, panic flowing through him. 

Beck was here, he was back and he was going to kill his family. 

Peter jumps up from his bed and tears his door open, hearing the doorknob creak under his hand as he stumbles out into the dark hallway. He runs for the stairs and bumps his left hip into the table by the railing, feeling a flash of pain shoot up his side. He manages to get down the stairs and skids into the dark living room… but no one’s there. 

Peter frowns, eyes squinting in the darkness as he looks around, noting that the windows were still in tact and there wasn’t any glass on the floor. He walks over to the loveseat and leans down, trying to look for any blood. There aren’t any stains. 

He stands back up and lets out a shaky breath, holding his head in his hands as he closes his eyes tightly. 

Was that all just a horrible nightmare? God, he hoped it was because if it wasn’t…

“Come find me, little spider…” Beck’s voice suddenly comes out of no where, startling him. “Or I’ll find your family first…” 

“W-What?” Peter stutters, eyes frantically searching the darkness. 

The drones. 

He could have more of them waiting outside. 

Peter runs to the front door and throws it open, hands curled into fists as he crouches low, ready for a fight as he steps out onto the porch. It’s still raining, the sound echoing through his ears as the droplets hit the ground and the roof. 

“Oh, Peter… aren’t you going to come and find me? Or do I have to kill your family first?” 

“Leave them alone, Beck!” Peter yells as he walks along the deck towards the stairs, searching through the darkness for the man, who was supposed to be dead.

He hears him laugh, sounding like he was close by. Peter walks down the steps, his bare feet touching the wet brick sidewalk he helped Tony build last week. Rain fell down on him, soaking him within mere seconds, his hair now plastered to his forehead, a strand falling into his right eye. 

“You thought that you could get rid of me but you can’t. I tricked you, again, Peter.” Beck's voice echoed above the pouring rain. “You ruined me, and my plans. The world was supposed to look up to me, not you! And for that… I’m going to make you pay.” 

A thick fog suddenly appears out of nowhere and surrounds Peter, making it even more difficult to see. Peter squints his eyes, scanning around himself. Through the fog, a few feet away from him, he sees a bright neon blue light. It must be Beck’s fishbowl helmet to his costume. 

“It would be a shame if you became an orphan again for the third time, don’t you think? And for little Morgan… to only get to live, for such a short time?” Quentin darkly says, voice growing deeper at the end. “And it’ll be all your fault.” 

Peter grits his teeth and swings his fist at him, but his hand connects with something incredibly rough and hard that’s definitely not glass. Peter yells out in pain and pulls his hand to his chest, hissing through clenched teeth as pain radiates up his whole arm. 

“You’re still gullible as ever, I see. You still haven’t learnt your lesson from the last time…” The man says, sounding like he was right next to him. 

Peter stumbles back with a gasp and swings his good hand out, meeting air. Beck breaks off into maniacal laughter that sends a chill down Peter’s spine. 

“The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout… down came the rain… and washed the spider out…” Beck darkly sang, chuckling at the end. 

His laughs echoed in Peter’s ears, sounding like he was surrounding him from all sides, the fog closing in on him. Peter was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. 

“Peter?” 

Peter jumps at the new voice and quickly turns around, but he can’t see anything with all of this thick fog. It was a distraction to keep him from protecting his family. If he didn’t stop Beck here and now, for good, he was going to kill them. Peter wasn’t going to let that happen. He couldn’t lose anyone else. Not again. 

“Come on out, Beck!” Peter yelled above the rain. “I’m-I’m not afraid of you!” 

“Peter!” The voice calls to him again. 

They sound so familiar… but he can’t afford to trust it. Not with his family’s lives on the line. It’s probably a trap. 

“N-No.” Peter shakes his head. “S-Stop it, Beck. You’re trying to mess with me. I’m going to- going to stop you!” Peter yelled, blinking furiously as water gets into his eyes, causing them to sting. 

“Peter!” The voice calls again, directly in front of him. 

Peter takes a few quick staggering steps backward, fear shooting through him, but his foot connects with something and he falls to the cold, wet ground. He lays there for a few seconds with his eyes squeezed shut, feeling rain hitting his face. 

“-eter? -eter? Can you hear me?” A voice was frantically speaking to him. “C’mon open your eyes.” 

Peter cracks open his eyes, only to look up and see Tony kneeling above him, soaking wet, worry plastered all over his face. But… that didn’t make any sense. 

“T-Tony? Wh-What?” Peter furiously blinks as he looks around them from the ground, only to see that all of the fog had disappeared, almost as if it had never been there at all. “W-Where’d he go?” Peter quickly asks as he struggles to sit up. 

“Hey, hey, take it easy.” Tony calmly says as he puts a hand on his back and chest, stopping him. “Where did who go?”

Peter didn’t answer him as he frantically searched the darkness around them, feeling himself shaking. 

“Peter.” Tony gently places a hand to the right of Peter’s face and turns his head so he was looking into his concerned, brown eyes. “Where did who go?” 

“M-Mysterio. B-Beck. I-I have to stop him. He-He’s going to hurt you and I have to stop him.” Peter stutters out as he begins to push himself up but Tony firmly holds on to him, keeping him there. 

“Peter, look at me,” Tony says in a serious tone, and Peter does. “Quentin Beck is dead. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you or anyone else ever again.” 

Peter quickly shakes his head. “N-No I heard him and-”

“Peter.” Tony cups the teen’s face in his cold, calloused hands, “He’s dead. I swear to you. He’s never coming back. You’re safe.” 

Peter’s brows pull together in confusion. “B-But he… he was here, Tony. I-I heard him.” 

“I know. But I promise you, he’s not. You’re sick and you have a fever.” 

That sounds familiar… and that would explain why he felt so weird, his brain feeling like it was shoved with cotton. 

“Let’s get you inside and dried off, alright? We need to get you back to bed.” 

Peter shakily nods and let’s Tony help him to his feet but Peter hisses in pain when his injured hand is jostled. That certainly wasn’t his imagination. 

“What’s wrong?” Tony worriedly asks. 

“M-My hand… it hurts. I think I…” Peter says as he looks up from his hand, his eyes landing on a nearby tree that had a decent sized fist mark on it and a good chunk of the bark was missing from it. “I think I punched a tree.” 

Tony looks at the tree too, then down at Peter’s hand as he takes his injures hand in his own, inspecting it. “It looks like a bad scrape. I’m going to have to look at it under the light when we get inside. I don’t think it’s broken but-”

“I punched a tree.” Peter tearfully repeats, guilt flooding through him at the realization. 

“The tree’s fine, don’t worry.” 

“But I hit it, Tony…” 

“Well, it forgives you. I’ll buy some special fertilizer for it at the store this weekend so you can make up for it, okay? Now let’s get you inside, alright? I don’t want you to get sicker with being out in the rain. Pepper’s going to kill me for letting you come out here.” Tony tells him as he begins to lead him back to the front porch and helps him up the steps. 

…….

After drying off and changing into some warm clothes, Tony cleaned and bandaged Peter’s hand before settling the sick teenager into his bed, once again. Turns out that his temperature had risen to 103.5 degrees, a whole two degrees since Tony last checked on him before going to bed earlier. Two degrees really did make a difference with a fever. 

Peter breathes out in relief when Tony places a cold washcloth on his too warm forehead. Tony was seated at his bedside in a chair, running a hand through Peter’s towel dried curls. 

“Go to sleep, Pete. I’ll be right here with you.” 

“Promise?” Peter mumbled as he closed his impossibly heavy eyes. 

“I promise. I’ll keep the nightmares away.” 

Peter drifts off to sleep with the peace of mind that Iron Man was watching over him, keeping him safe.