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Natasha Romanoff Masterlist of Fic Recs - Version 2.0 - Page 3

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Updated June 2021

This is not an exhaustive list (and in no order whatsoever) of the brilliant fic that is out there. Please let me know of any i have missed or any recs to put in and I will endeavour to add it. I have not included warnings or ratings. Please make sure you look at the tags, judge for yourself and as always take care of yourself first. (16 authors under the cut)

🎂🎂Happy Birthday 🥳 🎁🎈🎊🎉

Aww, thank you! I haven't been active on here at all, I didn't think anyone would remember 💙

#j rambles #builder051

I'm doing Whumpmas in July, and day 17's action is to ask a friend how their day is going. How are you, Est? It's been a while, but I think about you often and hope you're doing well.

This is so sweet Laur! 💙

Sorry it’s taken me a few days to reply - I haven’t been on here much lately... I think lockdown and everything else going on has messed with my head - I’ve had a couple of episodes recently, but I’m trying to get back on track and hopefully I’ll get back into interacting/writing on here and the like...

I hope you’re doing well, you’re so sweet - thank you for the lovely message 💙

#Est replies #thank you #lovely people are lovely!#💙#mental health tw #builder051

Day 12: Out in public

Warnings: emeto

Fandom: Spider-Man (MCU)

_____

“Mr. Stark, really, you don’t have to,” Peter insists. Though the more he says it, the clearer it becomes that Tony’s not listening. “It’s fine. You don’t have to walk me up to the door.” He decides not to add that his stomach’s on the fritz. But if he’s honest, that’s the main reason he wants to shake off his mentor before they make it up to his apartment.

“No, I gotta talk to May, tell her what a good job you’re doing,” Tony says, making a dismissive motion at Peter. He holds the building’s front door open. “Go. After you.”

“Mr. Stark, come on, it’s embarrassing. It’s fine.”

“I know. That’s my job,” Tony says. He pushes the button to call the elevator.

“We can take the stairs,” Peter suggests, a squeak in his voice. He isn’t keen to experience the the drop in his gut when the rickety machine starts to rise.

Tony squints at the dented metal doors set in the wall. “Is this original to the building? Do you think your landlord would let me install a new one?”

“I don’t know,” Peter sighs. A sour taste is growing at the back of his throat. “I’m just gonna take the stairs–”

But at that moment, the elevator doors open, and May steps out, holding a trash bag. “Oh.” She says, blinking at Tony. Then she addresses Peter. “I assumed that’s where you went, you know, when you rushed out halfway through breakfast without telling me where you were going.”

“Completely my fault,” Tony says. “I had a, uh, project. He gets excited. Great kid you’ve got here.” He gives Peter a rough pat on the shoulder. Peter has to fight the urge to push him away.

“Ok, yeah,” May says skeptically. “But I’d really rather you tell me where you’re going when you leave.”

“He will,” Tony promises. “I’ll make it up to you. Let me buy you lunch. There’s a great Thai place across the street. You ever been there?”

The thought of food brings on a gag. Peter quickly steps away from Tony and holds his fist up to his mouth. “Maybe some other time. I really have to–” He’s on the point of opening the door to the stairwell, but his stomach can’t stay in place any longer. His shoulders jerk forward and he heaves, spraying bile all over the floor.

“Oh my god.” May drops the garbage bag and reaches for Peter, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt to keep him from slipping and falling. “Ok, you’re ok.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter chokes. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“Yeah, I don’t know either,” May says. “You would’ve told me if you were feeling bad, right?” She bends slightly to look Peter in the eyes. “We’re not past being honest with each other here.”

“No, it just came on really fast–” Peter vomits again. “Shit.”

“That’s one of my bad habits,” Tony admits. “The cussing. Not the, um. Other stuff.”

May isn’t listening to him anymore. “Ok, do you feel like you can walk upstairs?” she asks, rubbing Peter’s back.

“Mm, yeah, I think so.” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Alright. There we go.” May opens the door to the stairs. Then she looks to Tony over her shoulder. “Another time, ok?”

“Yeah, message received,” he says. He picks up the trash bag and holds it at arm’s length. “I’ll just toss this. Dumpster’s out back, right?”

#tw vomit #out in public #novemetober 2018 #day12 #nov. 12 2018 #novemetober #submission #builder051 #such good tension in this fic omgosh #also #'not the um. other stuff' killed me lollllll #zkjdlfjasldkfj i love

Look at this adorable holiday card I got in the mail from @builder051 ! Laur, you are so awesome for doing this and your personal message on the inside was super sweet. 🥰

#your capsicle is the best and cutest thing ever #i love him so much #i had a rather crummy day and finding this and reading it when i got home made me smile so wide omg #thank you so much 🥰#builder051

15 and 38

15: Favorite movie

Why do you have to be so cruel, dude? I live under a rock, I barely ever watch any movies. (The last time I did was online with @plotmatsu & @sickandvomiting and that’s been forever ago.) I think if I really need to pick something I’d say Bambi, solely for the reason that we had it on VHS and that one (along with a bunch of other Disney movies) was what my grandma and like baby me used to watch over and over and over again, to the point I still know all the damn lines to each of the movies. My mind still connects those movies to living at my gran’s so they just remain special.

38: My childhood career choice

I was an embarrassingly stereotypical child, growing up I really wanted to become a vet.

#builder051

the migraine fic (SPN, sick!Sam)

for @builder051, and I duly apologize for HOW GODDAMN LONG IT TOOK ME TO WRITE THIS I AM SO SORRY. Also, I apologize for it being kind of vague and weird, as I’ve (thankfully) never had a migraine, so the descriptions were - again - vague and third-person-y. But hopefully you will enjoy, regardless.

triggers: migraine, emeto/vomit (not much)

*EDIT: photo from Supernatural Wiki. No copyright infringement intended!

“Ggh—” Sam choked, squinting tight against the horrendous pounding in his skull, tears streaming. “God—”

Dean readjusted the cold washcloth on his brother’s neck, setting his jaw in steel reserve against his own welling emotions. He spoke to him, his voice very gentle (in a way it hadn’t been in a long, long time). “Easy, Sam…” he murmured, a low baritone rumble. “Take it easy. I gotcha.”

Together they waited, Sam hovering in dread over the toilet bowl, suffering through the awful throes of another migraine. They’d started accompanying the visions – flashes (rapid, disorienting, like closing your eyes against sunlight streaming through trees while riding in a car) of death, of women shrieking, of people dying in fires, of blood splattering and yellow eyes flickering, sinister, inhuman. In the wake of this episodic madness, Sam would find himself on his knees, clutching his head against the onslaught of horror – and of pain. Dean was helpless to stop these attacks, but damned if he didn’t try anyway.

Another feeble moan, and then a gasp, and then Sam doubled over with a harsh retch, stomach acid splashing into the water below. He let out a soft sob, more tears welling and spilling down his cheeks (particularly his right eye, where most of the sharp agony seemed to be concentrated, throbbing a pulsing staccato – stabbing, unbearable, pain).

Dean’s mouth hardened into a thin line, his brow drawing together in worry, in sympathy, in sadness. “Jesus Christ, Sammy…” he murmured, rubbing Sam’s back in soft circles. “Wish I could do more t’help you, man. Just breathe. ‘S okay. I gotcha.” (mindless reassurance, trite bullshit, he thought, what a help).

He’d spent the last couple hours sitting on the edge of the grimy motel bathtub (ass numb, back aching), bent over his little brother, who was bent over the toilet, suffering through unceasing agony. Dean himself hadn’t ever had the pleasure of experiencing a full-blown migraine, but he knew Sam was predisposed. Kid used to spend hours studying textbooks in dim motel lamplight, squinting with fatigue, until he started rubbing his right eye and letting out soft little grunts of pain that eventually escalated to full moans, at which point Dean would intervene and send his ass to bed with a cool washcloth on his forehead. Those headaches, Dean remembered, were few and far between – but when they hit, they hit him hard.

These new ones, however – the ones that followed the visions – were another animal entirely. Supernatural, almost, in their alarming alacrity. No pills Dean could shove down Sam’s throat, no words of soft encouragement as he vomited, no back rubs or cool cloths on his forehead, could slow them down. His poor gigantic little brother would spend the next several hours in absolute misery, having to take the next day to recuperate (slowing them down considerably, but damned if Dean was going to complain). He’d called Bobby – told him about the visions, the attacks, everything going on with Sam that was beyond the abilities of Dean’s unwavering solid big brother presence to heal – and got nothing. Bobby was just as helpless to solve this mystery as Dean, and after promising to hit the books and get ahold of them as soon as he found something, after some imparted advice on migraine remedies and dehydration risks and illegal ways to fork hospital-grade pain meds, he hung up.

(Son of a BITCH! Dean had screamed, and thrown his phone against the wall).

Beneath him, Sam began to shiver, panting with exertion and huffing out helpless, small grunts of pain. The shakes had set in, and this part Dean hated almost as much as the puking. “D-Dean,” he choked out, spitting into the toilet bowl. “Sss-”

“I gotcha, Sammy,” Dean assured him, keeping a big warm hand on his shoulder, reaching up with the other to dab at his clammy forehead with the washcloth. “’m right here. Shh.”

Sam’s torso convulsed with a few more abortive heaves, bringing up a thin dribble of mucus and not much else. Poor kid hadn’t eaten since lunch, no wonder he wasn’t bringing anything up.

After the last dry cough, with no results, Dean gave Sam’s back a final and reassuring rub. “Sam, you’re all cleaned out, man. C’mon, let’s get you back to bed. Sleepin’ on the bathroom floor ain’t gonna help your situation.”

Sam moaned in opposition, not at all agreeing to Dean’s proposition of movement. He hissed against a spike of pain, reaching up to clutch at his right eye, and his face contorted with a sob that tore Dean’s fucking heart out.

“Sammy…” Dean tried again, cupping Sam’s forehead in his own palm and redoubling his back rubbing efforts with the other hand. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise. C’mon...”

Slowly, eventually, Dean was able to help Sam to his feet, and together they limped carefully back toward the musty queen bed (the one closest to the tiny shithole bathroom, obviously). Dean mumbled a few more easys and I gotchas as he maneuvered Sam’s giant drooping frame around his shoulder and onto the mattress, pausing to let him catch his breath. Sam was still bent over almost double, clutching his right eye with one hand, reaching down to feebly grip the edge of the bed with his other hand, and Dean made sure to set the trash can at his feet, just in case, before heading back into the bathroom.

When he returned a moment later with a freshly dampened washcloth, he eased Sam down into the pillows and placed the rag over his eyes, keeping his hand steady on Sam’s brow, because he knew that the pressure felt good (k’p your han’there, Dean, Sam had slurred once, sighing in muted relief).

“Gonna figure this out, Sam,” Dean vowed, keeping his voice low. “Gonna fix this. Swear to God.”

And when Sam finally succumbed to tearful exhaustion, easing into unconsciousness, Dean was able to breathe his own sigh of relief and let his shoulders sag, ignoring his own aching back, because as long as Sammy was suffering these godforsaken attacks, he wasn’t gonna acknowledge his own pain.

And if he had to set aside every other hunt to find the evil sonofabitch who did this to Sam, who made him something other, something not-human, something with precognitive powers beyond his control that made him writhe with agony, then so be it.

#builder051 #spn #supernatural #sickfic #sick sam winchester #dean winchester #migraine #emeto #spn sickfic

23 for Bel?

Someone pressed another shot to his lips, and Bel knocked it back, grimacing as the alcohol burned his throat. The guy laughed as Bel choked, balancing the slender dancer on his lap.

“Too strong for you?” he asked.

Bel tried to smile, to keep up appearances. It wasn’t the first drink he’d had that night--far from it, and it was starting to take a toll on him. While he normally didn’t drink on the job, he wasn’t strictly working at the moment. It was an after-hours party, one of his boss’s most profitable ventures as it allowed the clients free reign to interact with the dancers “off the clock”. It was all fake, of course. The dancers were still very much working, and Bel had a stack of ones tucked into his waistband to prove it.

Beneath him, the guy shifted to reach for another drink, and Bel nearly slid off his lap. His head was spinning, and his stomach felt sour even before the man offered him another drink.

“I shouldn’t,” Bel said, his words slurring a little. But when the man persisted, Bel took the shot, swallowing a few times in quick succession when it threatened to come right back up.

“Is everyone having fun tonight?” a voice said, and Bel looked up to see Angel sauntering over. The young latino boy slung his arm around Bel’s shoulders, offering some discreet stability and helping Bel to his feet. “I hope you don’t mind if I borrow him for a minute,” he said, already pulling Bel off the guy’s lap before he could answer.

“You look like you could use a break,” Angel said to Bel as he helped the taller boy through the crowd. “How’re you doing?”

Bel shook his head, his stomach lurching. “I’m too drunk,” he whined. “It’s not fun anymore.”

“Yeah, I sort of figured that, too. Come on, let’s get you somewhere a little more private. Malik won’t notice if you’re gone for a little bit.”

“I think I need to be sick,” Bel moaned. He hiccuped, pressing a hand to his lips.

“That’s okay,” Angel assured, changing direction and pulling Bel towards the bathroom.

They didn’t make it in time. Bel hiccuped again, this time spitting up a mouthful of alcohol onto the floor. He moaned and held his stomach, but Angel didn’t even stop. “Don’t worry about it. I bet they won’t even notice.”

He pulled open the bathroom door and pushed Bel inside, locking it behind them as Bel stumbled over to the toilet. Angel was quick to gather Bel’s long, purple hair back from his face, rubbing across the boy’s shoulders as he belched sickly over the water.

“You need to learn to pace yourself,” he chastised.

Bel lurched forward, vomiting up a wave of nearly clear liquid. As soon as the first wave ended, another followed with such force that it nearly missed the toilet altogether. Angel grimaced, giving Bel a pat on the back.

“Go on,” he urged gently. “Get it up. You’ll feel better once you’re empty.”