A debt incurred and paid in one day doesn’t often lead to one making friends, but when Cy is saved by Spider-man after running from HYDRA goons. He’s given the chance to pay that debt back when the vigilante ends up injured on Cy’s behalf, leading to the vigilante crawling through Cy’s living room window every time he’s injured- be it a stabbing, another gunshot wound, or apparently a paper cut.
Lost Loves and New Beginings
Loki/Calder Smith (original male character)
Loki never understood the Midgardian tradition to bury their dead. To wrap them up and shove them under dirt and worms, and for what? So the living could come and visit them? Keep them trapped and never let themselves or their loved ones move on? It was a terrible and disrespectful tradition in his mind, and one he never wanted to ever participate in.
Until he stumbles upon a man sitting in a small, forgotten graveyard and learns that maybe burying your dead doesn't mean keeping them trapped.
Hell Fire // Heaven Sent
A series; (eventual) Stucky/Kaine Harper (original male character)
Part One;
Steven Grant Rogers
Steve Rogers/Kaine Harper (original male character)
Steve feels lost, hounded by everyone, and so far behind the curve in this new time he sometimes wonders how he hasn’t forgotten how to breath. Was breathing different back in the 40’s?
Since Loki’s attack he’s helped rebuild the city he grew up in, fought for, died for, and somehow fallen back into. He’s working with SHIELD, living in Avengers Tower, and doing the good work of Captain America across the nation until he feels like his eyes are bleeding, his lungs are collapsing in on themselves, and his bones are ready to make a run for it right through his skin.
The one reprieve he has is the museum – full of history and art that connects the past to the present. Having his own exhibit has actually been helpful when the world is too much. Because here he can breath, remember what, who, he fought for and even if he misses them he can always see them here.
A museum is a lot of things; history preservation, art, cultural movements, a place to grieve, a home away from home for someone like Steve. He didn’t expect to meet someone who felt the same way.
Hey look! pt2 of my drawings for ch1 of OMiMT!! that fucking DISAPPEARED. so here, have it again!
I highly doubt i'll be drawing such detailed backgrounds again anytime soon, but again. I am v proud of it and i want to share it. the floor is suppose to be wood floors, but i got lazy with the details after the bookshelves and finally figuring out the perspective and the inking. it looks like shitty brown carpet, but oh well. Still Proud. <3 Enjoy~
I'm still really proud of this. it was also a bitch and a half. it's from CH1 of Old Magick in Modern times(OMiMT)!
background, uhg. the webbing on Spidey's suit, fuck me. awkward angle of people kneeling/falling down, yes i do like to torture myself. thanks for asking.
nonetheless. I am proud and I want this back on my tumblr. so here. take it!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 10 is up!!!
I am rather proud of of this one~
Huge GIGANTIC thank you to @magikarpballoons for helping me with this chapter. They are wonderful and have been a huge help in letting me bounce ideas off their head and helping me connect things in my writing to actually make sense for the reader. You’re the fucking best babe <3
Old Magick in Modern Times (A Perter Parker Fanfiction)CH.2
A/N: Chapter 2 is up!! In Peter's POV none the less! I'm still learning Cy and Peter's voices, but I like how this one turned out. And if we're being honest, I'm not entirely certain how I managed to get this written out by today, but I did!! Enjoy! <3
( Chapter 1 )
Peter is an adult in this story, 22-24ish
Warnings: Wounded vigilantes, cursing, mild anxiety, and sudden crushes
Chapter 2
Peter wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. There was an ache in his side and chest that hadn’t been there before, and his head started throbbing every time he tried to open his eyes. There was also a decent sized chunk of memory missing.
What did he remember? He was on patrol near an abandoned part of the city after getting some weird reports about possible movements from Cap and Mr. Stark. He hadn’t seen anything, no wait that wasn’t true, or it was almost true. He hadn’t seen anything at first, he’d heard it- gunshots, and a lot of them.
It hadn’t been hard to find the ensuing chaos and maybe he should have thought a bit more about what he was seeing when swung in, the resulting angry scream that pierced his ears was probably a good sign this wasn’t a good idea, along with the sudden pain in his side. That probably wasn’t a good sign, although the screaming in his ear wasn’t doing much for his equilibrium nor were the resounding gunshots that followed them.
The last thing he remembered was touching down in an alley as far away from the goons with guns as he could get them. He thinks there was a conversation, but he couldn’t remember what it was now that he was awake.
Maybe Peter could try opening his eyes again, he was sure he could do it if he just concentrated a bit-- “Aaargh.”
“Oh, hey careful. Stop trying to open your eyes.” A voice Peter vaguely recognizes, hands on his chest, the light behind his eyelids disappearing as a cool feeling encompasses the top of his face.
And then the voice speaks again. “You were shot twice, once just under your left ribs - nothing vital hit, I promise. The second bullet grazed your left side just under the first. You had some pretty bad blood loss, but you’re patched -- ok stop moving. No seriously-” An annoyed sigh, then a hand on his forehead and one on his shoulder stilling him, he didn’t even realize he had been moving.
“I don’t- what’s-?” Peter rasped, his throat felt like sandpaper, his voice feeling foreign to his own ears, and then the hands were moving from his shoulder and forehead to his back and neck and helping him sit up.
“Try to keep your eyes closed.” The voice sounded calm, almost kind, in an exasperated sort of way. Something cool and smooth pressed against his lips. “Drink.” It was a command, an order from someone Peter didn’t have the capacity to question at the moment.
Whatever it was sliding down his throat was soothing and tasteless, immediately making his throat feel better and, oh that was totally water. Yeah, yeah that makes sense. Honestly Peter, what else would it have been? Another cool and smooth thing pressed against his lips, a cup he thought, it was a cup, and he opened his mouth readily.
Ok, nope this one was not water. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to think about what this could possibly be.
He probably would have asked what it was if he could have kept himself conscious long enough to form another thought other than how disgusting it was.
The next time Peter woke up he was in a much more comfortable position and place. His head didn’t hurt when he opened his eyes, and while his side and chest were still sore, the throbbing and pinpointed pain weren’t there anymore.
Looking around the room there wasn’t anything Peter recognized, but he was certain it was a different room than the first time he woke up. There was a dresser, the bed he was currently lying on, well he was sitting up, albeit slowly, some colourful, abstract canvas paintings hung on the walls, and a chair with a pile of clothes on it by one of the two doors. A bathroom and an exit is what Peter guessed.
Moving wasn’t the easiest, he could feel the stitches pull at every shift, but he eventually managed to sit all the way up and put his feet on the ground. Inhaling and exhaling deeply Peter sat still and took stock of what he could about his body and surroundings.
His back, legs, and arms were sore, his side hurt, but not like hell. He could see just fine even if the edges were a bit blurry, but he was pretty certain that was because he just woke up after being drugged.
The walls were a light grey, almost white, the dresser a few shades darker, but still grey, as was the bedframe and sheets. So the clothes sitting on the, of fucking course, grey chair stood out to Peter with all their colour and bright yellow piece of paper sitting on top.
‘These clothes should fit, I was guessing your size tho, so mix and match. Bathroom is through the door to the left of the chair. Take a shower, I was only able to clean so much off you without stripping you and just- no thanks.
Be gentle with your stitches. You’re healing it’ll take a while to feel better. Be kind to yourself.’
“Huh…ok then.” Reading the note didn’t tell him much about what to expect, but he didn’t get the feeling he was in any danger. I mean, the guy patched him up and is telling him to be careful with himself right? He couldn’t be that bad.
Shaking his head, Peter tried the closed door to the left of the chair, lo and behold, a bathroom with...little sticky notes all over it.
Toothbrushes and toothpaste. Open a new one for yourself. On the drawer under the sink.
Towels and robes. All clean, promise. On the cabinet across from the sink
Use whatever you want or need - things are replaceable, people are not. On the back wall of the shower.
“Yeaah...weird. Nice, but weird.”
---
The shower had been a blessing, hot water eased his muscles, and the feeling of being clean as he stepped out and toweled off was more of a relief than Peter had realized when he had first stepped into the sticky-noted bathroom.
Rifling through the pile of clothes he eventually settles on a pair of light blue joggers, a plain black t-shirt, and bright green hoodie, before making his way to the second door. Hand on the doorknob, Peter stands there, unsure if opening it would actually be possible, or wise to his now recovery health, but after nothing pinging his spidey-sense the thought fuck it rings through his head and steps out into the hallway.
It's not what he was expecting.
Peter wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting, but after the all grey room he woke up in, bright blue walls, hard, dark floors, and strings lights lining and lighting up the hallway wasn’t exactly it. More of the colourful, abstract-looking paintings hung on the walls where there weren’t doors. To his right, Peter could see the end of the hallway, a dark green door with silver trim and filigree. It had an aura around it that made his spidey sense scream at him to run. To his left was the other end of the hallway, leading out to an open floorplan of the kitchen and living room.
The bright blue, almost baby blue paint continued from the hallway to the living room with a few bookshelves breaking up the colour. There was a bright yellow, heavily stained couch and a beaten up coffee table in the middle of the room.
The blue stopped at what he could tell was the kitchen, an awful bubblegum pink with dark wood cabinets. Standing in the middle of it was the guy he was pretty certain had saved his life.
Silver, almost white hair spilled around him in messy, unkempt, i-definitely-just-woke-up waves, and seemed to reach down to his waist. Dressed in black skinny jeans ripped in the knees and no shirt, made him look like a ghost with how pale he was. He was leaning against the counter almost directly opposite of him, a mug held in both hands close to his chest, looking off into the living room. Peter wasn’t sure if this guy was alive or just some weird statue. With the look of the rest of the place, he wouldn’t have been that surprised if the person was just a statue. A very beautiful statue. A very pretty guy.
Peter stood there, at the hall's entrance, unsure what to do and staring.
He should probably say something, it was pretty obvious the guy hadn’t heard him come in, but say what exactly?
‘Hey man, how’s it going?’ ‘Holy shit. You’re hot.’ ‘Hey, thanks for saving my skin?’ ‘So, where am I?’ ‘Holy shit, you’re gorgeous.”
Thankfully, Peter was saved from having to say anything when the silver haired guy turned to him. Light blue eyes lighting up like he had known Peter his whole life.
“Hey morning, wasn’t expecting you up and walking for a few more hours.” His voice was easy, smooth and disarming. It made the hairs on the back of Peters neck stand on end. “How’re you feeling?” A head tilt and a soft smile that made Peter a bit weak in the knees.
It was a question. The guy had asked a question and Peter wasn’t sure how to answer. How was he feeling? Better than before, sure. But so very, very freaked out. Something about this place seemed strange, almost wrong, like it shouldn't exist or maybe couldn't exist?
Maybe Peter was dying or dead! That would make more sense than the hair raising, confusing, all around, damn strange feeling this attractive statue person was giving off. His spidey sense, where it had been fine before, telling him everything was ok before he left the room, was now freaking out. Telling him to run, to get out, that there was something coming up behind him and needed to run, run, run.
A snap of fingers and then the voice again. “Hello? Spider?”
Peter nearly jumped out of skin and did jump right onto the wall, clinging to it with a look of a startled cat.
“Ummm… you should really let me take a look at your stitches before you do something like that.”
“Oh, right, yeah. Sure. Not a problem.”
Being examined, his shirt and sweatshirt hiked up halfway up his chest, cold fingers softly prodding around the muscle and stitching, and then something colder was being spread and numbing part of his skin. This wasn’t the most uncomfortable situation Peter had ever been in, although it was close.
A shirtless, attractive guy with a tattoo on his chest (it was a flower of some kind Peter observed, trying and failing not to stare so much), was leaning over Peter as he laid on the bright yellow couch, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling, and the only thing Peter could think to say was; “Why isn’t your ceiling painted?”
Why isn’t your ceiling painted? How does that even make sense? Who paints their ceiling?!
Laughter interrupted Peter’s mounting internal panic and he turned to see the guy bent over, a look of pure joy and a smile wide enough to split his face. Are his teeth--
“Fuck man, maybe I should!” A few more peals of laughter were ripped from the guy before he calmed down enough to speak a full sentence again.
“Alright, Spider-dude, nothing’s infected and with the salve, and your apparent natural healing ability, I should be able to take the stitches tomorrow. You should be able to leave by the day after.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“What what?” An eyebrow raised, a hand on hip, and head cocked to the side like he was questioning Peter, as if Peter was the crazy one for asking what this guy meant by tomorrow and you can leave the day after.
“What do you mean I should be able to leave the day after tomorrow?” Maybe Peter had started yelling, he knew he was standing again, and while he was now noticing how much shorter he was then the other guy, what felt like a foot at least, but was probably only a few inches, he couldn't find it in himself to be intimidated. He’d taken on bigger guys for less. Ok maybe not for less, but still he’d fought bigger guys.
“Dude, you’re injured! You were shot. Twice.” A huff of exasperation and hands tossed in the air before slapping on his thighs. “You need time to heal!” Maybe it was how the stranger sounded more like he was pleading then giving an order or maybe Peter’s curiosity about the guy was overriding his common sense.
The fact that he had been shot before and this was by far the least amount of pain he’d been in ever, certainly didn’t hurt this guy's chances in Peter’s eyes. Usually the bad guy doesn’t take the time to minimize the pain you're in and make sure you heal correctly.
And so he was sitting back down on the couch, not defeated, but maybe a bit more content with the situation. “What do I have to do?”
A huff of annoyed laughter as the guy sat down on the coffee table across from him, leaning on his knees, and when he spoke his voice was soft and kind. Peter couldn’t find it in himself to meet his eyes.
“Be kind to yourself. Your job is hard and from the vigilantes I’ve known, I have a sneaking suspicion you're not getting paid for the work you do. It takes time, even with accelerated healing, and the most important thing you can, should, and I would ask of you, to do is to rest, let me make the food, use whatever salve or potion I give and follow the instructions on them carefully.” A smile, kind and easy, with a hint of danger around the edges that made Peter want to question everything the guy was saying and follow every order.
Peter was starting to wonder how he’d survive the next few days.
Old Magick in Modern Times (A Peter Parker Fanfic)CH.1
A/N: I've been sitting on this idea for like a year and finally started writing it a few months ago! Thank you @velvetparkerx for the encouragement to post it<3 you're wonderful and i love you. pls enjoy!
Peter is an adult in this story, 22-24ish.
Summary: A debt incurred and paid in one day doesn’t often lead to one making friends, but when Cy is saved by Spider-man after running from HYDRA goons. He’s given the chance to pay that debt back when the vigilante ends up injured on Cy’s behalf, leading to the vigilante crawling through Cy’s living room window every time he’s injured- be it a stabbing, gunshot wound, or apparently a paper cut.
Warnings: Blood, cursing, wounded vigilantes, and characters being dumbasses.
Chapter 1
Things had been going great, honestly. No really, they had! The plan was simple: get in, get the grimoire, fuck with them a little bit, and then get out. It was easy, super simple, only four steps, nothing should have gone wrong. Nothing had technically gone wrong actually.
Cy had gotten in without trouble, had gotten to the main control room with minimal contact with the enemy, only being seen by two guards patrolling the corridors and they weren’t hard to disarm and silence before they could raise an alarm. It was fairly easy to figure out where they had put the grimoire, especially since Cy had some wonderful insider knowledge on how the building should work.
If we’re being honest here, it always helps to have first hand experience with HYDRA. They’re very uniform in how they do things from underground illegal lab to underground illegal lab. Which, if you ask Cy, is a very bad idea if you have a tendency to lose your kidnapped, illegal experiments. And in Cy’s experience, they often want some type of revenge once they get out and if you know what to look for, HYDRA bases aren’t too hard to find, especially if they’re new. They’re not the best at hiding yet if they’ve only recently been set up.
So, again, it was simple; get inside the new almost fully put together, underground HYDRA base, find the grimoire they had stolen, steal it back, maybe fuck with their other stuff if time allows, get out. Easy, something Cy could do half-asleep with both hands tied behind his back.
And it had been! Sure, the exit might not have been as silent and unnoticed as Cy had originally planned, but Cy was nothing if not adaptable to the bullshit that happens around him.
So, if he might have found some freshly drawn up plans for a take-85 on making super soldiers, and he maybe, just maybe might’ve stuffed as many of those plans as he could fit into his bag as he was hurrying to get out the door before he was found as the alarm blared around him about their being an intruder.
Ok, so maybe it wasn’t all going according to plan, because if it had, there wouldn’t be an alarm blaring and there probably wouldn’t be the sound of gunshots following Cy down the main corridor.
But honestly, whose plan ever goes perfectly?
The nervous laughter that escaped Cy’s throat as he ran was cracked and laced with madness, it had been a while since he had had to run for his life. It had been, if he thought about it, eight and a half years since he had truly run for his life.
Wow, really? He’d gone eight years without this shit? What was the point of this again?
Something something adrenaline rush, something something very important, hand-written text from his mother that he had been looking for for eight years, and there might’ve been something about a curse. Cy couldn’t be sure at this point, a bit too distracted trying to outrun his pursuers.
Rounding a corner Cy’s boots skidded on the floor, his messenger bag flying awkwardly across his chest almost unbalancing him completely, at least the door was now in view. A couple more yards and Cy would be home free, outside of the claustrophobic, dark walls that all look the same. More importantly, throwing himself at the door and bursting out into early evening air of the outside world, he only had about a hundred feet until he was out of the protective shield that fucked with his magick.
He was so close, maybe things hadn’t gone absolutely to plan through this little misadventure, there were still the sounds of stomping feet and shouts following him, along with the occasional gunshot, but hey only a few more feet until -- “Wooo!”
The excited exclamation Cy let loose when he crossed the barrier and turned to face his pursuers, a manic glint in his pale blue eyes, did not go unnoticed by the HYDRA agents.
They stopped, guns raised and poised on him. Eight of them, Cy counted, but there could always be more waiting to file out. Although he doubted that, there were probably more in transit, but here? In the abandoned, near completely run down industrial neighborhood on the outskirts of the city? Nah, Cy was pretty confident that it was just the eight of them.
Theoretically, now that Cy was past the barrier, it should be easy for him to lose the HYDRA thugs, but when had anything actually gone easy for him the past hour? His idea was simple; take a step back, spin on his heel, and bolt like a bat out of hell. With his magick on it’s way to feeling normal again it wouldn’t take much for him to throw up a few shields if they decided to start shooting again, and really, of course they were gonna start shooting again. It’s what they do.
What he wasn’t prepared for, and honestly it wasn’t something he would have ever thought to be prepared for, because who prepares for a flying blur of red and black to come out of nowhere just as you start to take your planned step back, just as the shooting starts up again, snag you around the waist with arm, and zip off in another blur of ‘this might possibly be a person, but I actually can’t be sure’?
It was absolutely terrifying and Cy would be lying through his teeth if he denied that he didn’t scream like a 12 year old seeing a horror movie for the first time. He’d never been swinging in between buildings with angry shouts and rapid gunfire following him, usually he was running. On the ground. Like a normal fucking person.
Ok, maybe not a normal fucking person, because normal fucking people don’t have magick, and are usually technically classified as human. Which Cy was, technically, not. And he was beginning to think that maybe this thing that grabbed him wasn’t-- oh, wait no that was totally human blood he was smelling and now they were stumbling to the ground in a neighborhood Cy definitely didn’t recognize.
“Ow ow ow. Ok! We’re going down!”
“Shit. Fuck, that’s the ground.” Cy grumbled as he rolled on the concrete, getting to his feet in a less than graceful manner. He’d never been one for flying or jumping around, well maybe swinging was a better word for what had just happened, but really that’s just being pedantic-- “Dude, I think you’re bleeding.”
“Oh, y-yeah. I’m-I’m ok.”
Cy still wasn’t sure where they were, some back alley he’s pretty sure he hadn’t been to before, but now that he was back on stable ground and could look around, he did recognize one thing; he was now face to face (ok actually face to mask, but still the sentiment applies) with Spider-Man.
“Holy shit you’re Spider-Man.” Cy whispered, the bubbling annoyance at being kidnapped cooling down rapidly to stare wide-eyed at the youngest Avenger. Spider-Man gave him a thumbs up and Cy could only assume there was a smile underneath his mask with how enthusiastic he seemed.
It now seemed to be devolving into a staring contest of sorts, Cy standing wide-eyed, his ice blue eyes bouncing back and forth from the other man's face to the two bleeding holes in his side and back again. Spider-Man standing a few feet away, an arm clutching his wounded side, now rapidly bleeding and starting to sway.
“Yeah, so yo-you good? I gotta- I gotta…” More swaying, a stumbling step back into the brickwall of the alley, and the soft sound of fabric ripping. “..gotta go..”
Things felt a bit slow to Cy after that, or maybe they felt rushed, he’s still not entirely certain. It wasn’t hard to catch Spider-Man, it wasn’t even that hard to pick him up, what was hard was getting the young Avenger from the random ass alley back to his apartment. Cy had always and probably will always be very, very happy to have his own innate magick.
Thank you ma, he thought to himself.
Holding the Spider close to his chest Cy dipped two fingers into the puddle of blood pooling at his knees, quickly writing out the runes for the transport spell on the concrete encircling them. Runes glowing, air thickening and sparking, Cy and Spider-Man disappearing in seconds leaving nothing but a small puddle of blood already drying.
Yeah, things had been going great, now they were just going. Kinda.
---
Magick has a tendency to work quickly and easily, an intimate thing often attuned to its caster, especially when it comes to blood magick. Transportation spells are easy, small organic alterations or potions and other blood spells are also easy to learn and keep up with. Healing spells can be a bit more tricky, especially any kind of surgical spells. Those require magick and skill outside of magick.
So setting an unconscious, bleeding from two bullet holes in the side, young vigilante on his couch, Cy did his best to be careful not to agitate the already angry wounds.
“Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.” Muttering curses under his breath, Cy rushed to his bathroom first, grabbing the human-centric first-aid kit in the cabinet, before moving quickly to his lab at the end of the hallway to grab blood clotting, numbing, and healing potions and salves from the ‘finished’ rack.
The fact that Spider-man was making small, pained noises as Cy knelt beside him and began cutting into his suit was something he would take as a good sign. Maybe things would be ok.
Yeah, things would be fine. They were even looking up! Ok, maybe not, because actually that was a lot of blood now beginning to seep into the faded yellow fabric of the couch. But it’s fine, everything would be fine, because Cy knew how to do this. He had done it before on himself, on his brothers, on his father, on friends, on other dumbasses that wanted to save a city, but were too squishy and human-like and never wore anything that would actually protect their squishy-ness.
Case-in-point; the dude laying on his couch was wearing spandex. What exactly was he hoping to protect with this shit?
Patching up bullet wounds was a thing he knew how to do, but something he had never really gotten over was how much a person can bleed from something so damn small.
Cleaning off as much blood as possible and dropping a few drops of a clotting potion into the wounds. Setting the numb salve around the first wound, just under his ribs, and then along the second wound across his side, Cy set to work on stitching them up. It took a while, or maybe it just felt like a while. Things as delicate as removing a bullet and then stitching up the skin and making sure the bleeding wasn’t coming from elsewhere in the body takes a lot of concentration. And some skill, but experience and magick certainly help in place of properly trained skill, or at least that’s what Cy keeps telling himself.
Maybe it was a few hours or maybe it was barely an hour when Cy was able to finally take a breath, satisfied with the stitching and the even breathes coming from the passed out vigilante. He smiled. Cleaning up would take a hot minute, sure, and some of the blood probably wasn’t ever going to come out of the couch, but hey a debt incurred and repaid in one day!
Cy would call that a win.
Sitting down on the floor and leaning against the couch he was pretty certain he could pass out right there if he let himself, but then who would clean up his now bloodied and vaguely destroyed living room?
Sucking in a breath, he heaved himself up to standing again, leaving a bloody hand print on his jeans and the wood floor beneath his feet.
“I don’t wanna.” Cy mumbled, halfheartedly glaring at the empty vials and bloodied cloth littering the coffee table and floor. Living alone had its perks in some instances, others it was not so apparent what the perks were.
Being able to bring a wounded vigilante back to patch him up, because he didn’t know how to contact the Avengers and it felt wrong to just drop him somewhere else? Absolutely perfect.
Having to clean up after said ‘patching up’ of a wounded vigilante while being tired from infiltrating and then running from HYDRA, being kidnapped and swung halfway across the city, transporting himself and the Spider back to his own place? Yeah, Cy was now kinda wondering why he didn’t take his brother up on the offer of being his roommate last year.
Oh well. He could deal with scrubbing the blood up later, but at least cleaning up the rags, vials, and other assorted medical and magickal things was a good enough start before a shower was needed.
