Does house-husband count as a job? Probably not, so let’s go with baker haha. Lately I’ve been really into the unobtainable idea of owning a cute little bakery, I love to bake and to make a job out of it would be amazing.
25. What fictional character do you wish you could meet?
I’m gonna go with my love, my husband, my dream man, Julian Devorak from The Arcana, because I am Fucking Weak for that bastard
8. Do you have any allergies?
I am allergic to basically everything that grows in Texas.
Guess where I live.
I am also allergic to dogs, like full blown asthma attacks, sneezing, cannot breath cannot function allergic.
Can I get collar or food with Peter love your work sorrybibmissed last week!!!!
No worries, babe. <3 Welcome back to this week! Let’s do a collar for Peter.(for torture tuesday)
After being rescued, he kid is different. There’s no denying that. Where Peter was once vivacious and talkative, he is now despondent and moody.
Tony doesn’t know what to do. But when he catches the kid the rubbing his neck and throat raw, he has to do something.
He confronts Peter about it.
“I’m not sure you want to know,” Peter says, scrubbing his knuckles just under his adam’s apple. The skin there is a halo of pinkish red.
“Try me,” Tony challenges, eyes on the rash.
Peter inhales, looking away from Tony to think for a few moments. Finally, he seems to assemble a sentence that he can live with: “He kept me in a collar,” he explains. “It was welded to my neck, so it never came off.” Then, more softly, “It was never supposed to come off.”
Tony understands psychosomatic trauma. He nods. “And sometimes you can still feel it?”
“No,” Peter says, turning away from him now so Tony can only see the kid in profile. His eyes are fixed on the window, where the sunlight glitters off the windows of other skyscrapers. “My neck feels really…” He touches a hand around his own throat, fingers light over his trachea. “…Bare.”
Tony doesn’t quite understand. “Does it bother you? Feeling air on your skin, or–”
Peter interrupts him with an irritated sigh. “I miss the collar, Tony. I miss it,” he snaps at last. “I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere, like I was something worth keeping in place.”
He winces at himself, perhaps hearing what he’s saying and feeling fresh shame. Tony tries to keep his face implacable, neutral. He fails.
“I know it’s fucked up,” Peter continues. “But I can’t explain it. I just miss having it.”
Tony hesitates for a long moment, then he sighs. “Wait here.”
When he returns, Peter is sitting, knees curled up to his chest defensively. He regards the nylon dog collar in Tony’s hand with a blank expression. “I thought you didn’t have a pet.”
“Gag gift from Rhodey. Something about needing to be kept on a short leash,” Tony explains. “I have a hard time throwing out gifts. They spark too much joy.”
Peter laughs softly at the pop culture reference, and that’s a good start. That’s more like the Peter Parker Tony knows. He reaches out for the collar.
“Do you, uh, need me to put it on you?” Tony offers, even as he places the collar in Peter’s hand.
Peter snaps it around his throat and feels over the smooth woven texture of the collar with three of his fingers. His relief is visible, even palpable in the air around him.
I would like to see auctioning or wing whump with Peter please:)
Ah, yes. Peter and the auction. I’ve done this before, but I think I can do better. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to, love. <3(for torture tuesday)
trigger warnings: human slavery, humiliation, beating, brainwashed, burning, implication of sexual abuse...I sleep better thinking of Peter as an adult in this
Peter and the ceiling have a relationship. He likes to skitter up there when he’s left alone in his...prison. Clinging to the ceiling, pressing his cheek to concrete, it almost feels like being back in the city. Like being Spider-Man.
Peter’s not Spider-Man anymore. He’s barely even Peter.
The lock rattles in the door and, reluctantly, Peter crawls back down to his bed (a plush feather mattress that Peter hasn’t slept on once). They don’t like to find him crawling around the walls and ceiling.
“Good morning, Peter.”
“Morning,” Peter mumbles. His spine stings as he says it. The nerves there remember the cane. Remember your manners, Peter.
“That’s much better.” The man stoops down to cup Peter’s jaw in his warm hand.
Peter sags into it, eyes sliding closed. He hates this hand.
“You have a big day ahead of you. Are you ready?”
“Yessir,” Peter grits out in a mumble. The taste of ‘sir’ in his mouth isn’t so bitter if he can blend it into another word.
There’s no way to sweeten kneeling on the floor. Peter crouches. He leaps and swings. He flies. He doesn’t kneel.
---
Peter expected an auction block. He expected a bare wooden platform and a crowd of people pressed in close around him.
He gets none of that.
Dressed plainly, Peter is led into a brightly lit room. Three, immaculately dressed people on cell phones sit in a semi circle, bidding paddles on their laps. When Peter enters, they all shuffle to stand, trying to get a better look at him.
He turns his head to the side, wincing. Embarrassed. His eyes are swollen and wet, tears about to spill out. He doesn’t want to cry in front of these people. Not just because it’s not allowed, but because...
Because Peter still likes to think of himself as brave.
“Ms. A,” Peter’s handler says. “You may go first.”
Go first?
Ms. A is a blonde woman with manicured, crimson nails. She tucks those nails between Peter’s lips and examines his teeth. She lifts his shirt, palpates his thighs and calves. To her phone she says, “He seems normal to me.”
She requests to cut Peter. She is denied.
Mr. B is a tall man in cashmere who checks the whites of Peter’s eyes and presses his thumb against Peter’s tongue.
He requests to remove Peter’s pants. He is denied.
Mr. C doesn’t touch Peter at all. He asks his age, where he’s from, where he’s worked...all the normal questions. But he asks strange questions: the languages he speaks, if he’s afraid of water, how often he dates. Peter answers these through a grit jaw and stares at Mr. C when he relays the information to his phone.
He requests to burn Peter. He is denied.
When they return to their seats, Peter’s handler takes him by the shoulder. Peter crumples under his hand, ducking his head and blushing. The bidders respond to this with a twitter over their phones.
“Mr. C,” his handler says, drawing a lighter. “Do you smoke?”
Mr. C nods and lights a cigarette. He takes a single puff on it before passing it to Peter’s handler. Ms. A and Mr. B lean forward in interest.
“Hold out your hand, Peter.”
Peter watches his hand extend towards his handler as if of its own volition. He watches the lit cigarette sink into the center of his palm. The flesh there hisses as it’s burnt, but Peter doesn’t make a sound.
Peter’s handler continues to talk as they wait for his hand to heal. “He’ll need special accommodations, of course, given his unusual abilities. I’ve found that managing him can be...enjoyable, even. He’s intelligent, so he needs constant stimulation and...”
The handler cuts off when Peter’s skin visibly stops swelling. Retracts. Fades from angry pink to white. When he’s fully healed, Peter curls his fingers over his palm.
Can you do Peter and car trunk? I love your torture Tuesday stuff
Of course, love! Thank you so much. Peter in a car trunk it is.(for torture tuesday)
trigger warnings: child abuse, abduction, implied trafficking, bruises, broken bones…it’s not as bad as it sounds. But it’s bad.
Peter gingerly rolls over, groaning all the way. He’s been trapped in this trunk for hours. Alone and in the dark.
He’s being transported, and that’s never a good sign. Abducted children + car trunk =
…well, Peter doesn’t want to think about what it equals.
His bruises knock against the thinly carpeted metal. Deep, tender blotches along his spine, hips, and knees. No matter how he lies, the metal bumps bruise.
And he can’t shift too often, or he’ll jostle his broken femur. Each time the car hits a pothole or makes a turn, he can feel the splintered ends of bone grind together.
For the first hour of the trip, Peter was inconsolable. He cried in a way he never had before: sobbing and wracking himself. Eventually, these sobs ebbed to a steady flow of tears. Then nothing. Just blank, numb…nothing.
He misses May. He misses Ned. He misses home.
The car stops suddenly, sending his body crashing towards the interior of the trunk. White hot pain shoots up his broken femur. Peter hisses and lifts his leg by the knee to drag it closer to his chest.
Light pours into the trunk, and Peter flinches away from it. The sear of the sun is too much after so many hours in the dark.
They scoop him out like a bride, like a child. Despite the arrow of pain that shoots up his leg, Peter squirms in their hold.
“I don’t want to,” he says, even as they lower him into a different car, a different trunk. “Please, don’t–”
If you want to u would like to see Peter with sleep deprivation and temperature extremes thank you for doing this every week it's very exciting
Yes, babe! Of course. The man returns.
Peter swelters. He lays on the bed, over the covers, burning alive. The man said he’d be back for him in two days. He left food and water for two days.
But it’s been eight.
In the summers, the man turns on the attic fan to keep Peter’s room bearably cool. But the switch to attic fan is outside the locked door, in the hallway. And in the man’s absence, Peter’s room has become an oppressive kind of hot.
The kind that lays heavy over the body. The kind that suffocates his lungs and fills his head with cotton. Peter is soaked with sweat.
Without water, he dehydrates. Without food, he weakens.
For the fourth and fifth days, Peter slept off his hunger and heat fatigue. But on the sixth, he lay awake in the swelter. Unable to sleep.
He can’t tell which keeps him awake: the heat, or the certainty that he’s going to die. The sun sets, but the heat doesn’t lessen. The sun rises and Peter broils.
---
On the ninth day, the attic fan suddenly rattles to life above him, sucking the hot air from the room. Peter gasps. He feels as if he’s been in a boiling pot of water and the lid’s just been lifted.
Still hot. But at least he can breathe.
The deadbolt slides free and the man comes in. He’s wearing a suit and smells like an airplane when he gathers Peter onto his cool lap. He rubs his fingers through Peter’s sweat damp hair. He uncaps a bottle and pours chill water over Peter’s parted lips.
Peter longs to reach up and seize it from his hands, wrap his mouth around the bottle, and chug. But he knows better. Water and food are to be administered at the mercy of the man, on his terms, or water and food can be taken away.
“I got held up,” the man says lowly. It’s good to hear a voice. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”
Peter presses his face into the fabric of the man’s trousers. Thinks about what it was like when his parents were still alive and they came home late from date night. Their clothes were cold from the outside air, and Peter was warm in his pajamas.
Back then, it made Peter feel vaguely excited. Like there was a whole adult world out there waiting for him.
“Thank you for coming back for me,” Peter whispers.
Hi! once you get this you have to say five things you like about yourself, publicly, then send this to ten of some of your favourite followers spread positivity! ❤
Ahhhhh Thank you so much for sending this!!!!! 💖💖💖 This means a lot - it really made my day! Sorry my response is delayed, but I’m in a new full time class for the next few months and it’s taking up more of my time than I thought RIP.
What do I like about myself, hmmmm….
1) My cosplays! I love cosplaying in different locations because it makes the travel and the memories so worth it 😊 And the nice, new, spiffy wardrobe is a side benefit haha!
2) My new red hair! I had it dyed just before things kicked off XDDDD As soon as it’s safe to go out again, I’mma get it more copper-ified 😄
3) My writing! I do enjoy writing…70? 80%? of the time? (And the results of it 100% of the time!) What can I say, it’s frustrating sometimes, but as with many things, if I ignore my stupid self being resistant and just do it, it actually turns out to be a really fun time LOL.
4) My physical fitness! I’m no Captain America, but I try to stay in shape (so I look good cosplaying!) and I have, at various times, done kung fu, kendo, tai chi, batto do (japanese sword cutting), figure skating, and, uh, pole dancing 😆😆😆
5) My art! I love my art. I may not be prolific like others (time constraints, so I haven’t developed speed) but I am able to determine how and what I want to do, and how specifically I want to improve, and very nearly accomplish it ^^
