Red is for posted, white is for requested/planned/written
As a child, Gavin is alone in his own personal hell. That is, until he discovers that he can communicate across the distance with a boy around his age who is just as desperate for connection - if they can allow themselves to be close to each other.
Honor Bound Masterlist
AO3
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Contents: whump of a minor, psychic connection, nightmares, child abuse, child neglect, platonic bed sharing, cuddling
~
Isaac sat up in bed, gasping against the terror that choked him. There was someone – something – in his room with him. His gaze flew around the room, searching for the dark figure he knew he should see—
The dead plaything that was stalking him from the shadows.
He pressed a hand over his mouth to muffle his frightened whimpers. A hand landed on his shoulder. He cried out and flinched away.
There was no one there. He was alone in the room. Inside his mind there was only a soundless, terrified scream.
Is that you? he called out into the darkness.
Tears spilled from his eyes – tears of relief that didn’t belong to him. {Yes,} came the answering voice. {Please, please help me.}
Are you back in the basement? Isaac’s stomach clenched. Is he… hurting you?
{I’m scared.} That hand – smaller than Isaac’s, the other boy must be younger, and sounded younger too – settled on his shoulder again, dug its fingers in.
I know. Isaac covered the boy’s hand with his own. I can feel it.
His own room was small and dark, but it was safe. The moon was filtering in through his curtains. His mom and dad were asleep in their own room down the hall. Still, Isaac felt the other boy’s fear and pain, as real as his own, and shuddered. He squeezed the boy’s hand.
What’s happening? Where are you?
{In… in my room.}
That was good, at least. That was… better than the basement. Isaac took a deep breath. What happened?
{Please. I had a nightmare. I’m scared. My mom isn’t coming, PLEASE—}
Okay. Isaac glanced down at his twin bed. It was small, but so was he. His parents had told him it was time for him to get a grown-up bed last year, because he was going to start growing soon. And then he hadn’t started growing. There was room enough in the bed for both of them, if they huddled together.
Here, Isaac thought, sliding over until he lay on the edge of the bed, his back to the rest of his room. Can you… can you feel where I’ve made room for you?
{In… your bed?} Isaac could feel the boy hiccough. He could feel how hard the boy was crying.
Yeah. I don’t know how this works, but… can you feel it, if you try your best to lay down here, next to me? I can… I can keep you safe. My room is safe.
{…safe.}
Yeah.
It was so strange; the bed didn’t shift, and Isaac didn’t feel the air move. But he felt it, when the boy curled up against his chest, buried his head beneath his chin. He felt the boy’s arm wind around his waist and hug him as hard as he could. He felt the wetness of his tears as he kept crying – but couldn’t hear the sound of it.
Is this okay? Isaac thought as he held the other boy close.
{Y-yeah,} came the answer. {Thank you, I’m… I’m sorry.}
Why?
{Because… because I…}
The boy fell silent, just pressed his tear-stained face against Isaac’s shoulder. Isaac wrapped him up tight in his arms, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t see the strangeness of his own arm floating in space above the boy he couldn’t see.
It’s okay, he thought silently. You can just stay here until… until you’re not scared anymore. You can sleep here, if you want. I won’t make you leave. Tomorrow’s Sunday; I can sleep in. My mom won’t be in to get me.
The other boy took a shuddering breath, blew it out. Isaac couldn’t feel it against his shoulder, could only feel the boy’s chest expand and contract. {You… you promise?}
Isaac swallowed tightly. I promise. He hugged the boy tight. You can stay here. Nothing can get you here, right?
{I’m still in my room.} There was a silent sob that Isaac felt rather than heard. {I’m still…}
But you can feel me there, right? You can feel me there with you?
{…yes…}
Isaac chewed his lip. He didn’t wish he could be there with the other boy; his stomach clenched at the thought of being trapped in that horrible place with him. But he could bring the boy here, could let him feel a little of the warmth and safety he had to spare. Awkwardly, haltingly, he laid a hand on the boy’s hair and ran his fingers through. Just like his mother did for him when he was sick, or scared. The boy took a shuddering breath.
I’m here, Isaac thought. Let’s just be here, okay?
{O-okay. You’re… you’re here. You’re here with me.}
You can stay with me all night.
The boy nodded. {Yeah. Yeah. I can… stay with you. All night.}
Isaac fell silent then, but so did the boy. He just held him then, felt the boy’s shivering slow and eventually stop. Isaac’s eyes closed. He fell asleep like that, with the strange, distant boy in his arms, laying between him and the rest of the world.
John recognizes a wealthy client’s stolen pet immediately, even filthy, with two black eyes. He moves quickly to buy him back from the box truck driver in possession of him, and then must think what to do about this. Meanwhile, he looks after the abused pet in a motel room.
CW: lay it on thick hurt/comfort, pet whump universe (not bbu), caretaker has some ulterior motives but is largely sympathetic, offscreen noncon with multiple whumpers, sti mention, underweight whumpee mention, whumpee offering sex, bruises, burns & cigarette burns, nonsexual nudity and bathing, platonic bed-sharing, medically inaccurate care I’m sure, one shot probably
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“I know you remember me. I’m sure I remember you.”
The unfortunate creature— for he looked more a creature than a boy in the low light, in the filthy west Texas motel room John had rented for the night with cash— dared to steal a glance up at him.
His eyes were dark, and bright with fear. Bruises ringed both of them like an unlucky fighter, purple as the Easter cloth draped on all the crosses they’d driven past. John knew from the taut look of the eyelids they’d been swollen shut a day or so earlier. The boy pet had dried blood caked in his nostrils and on one side of his downturned mouth. His hair was a matted and filthy mop that fell over his forehead and ears in greasy, wavy sections crusted together with more old blood.
The boy looked at him cautiously. There was too much fear in his posture, in his eyes. It was impossible to tell if he recognized John, too.
John squatted down to be eye level. As he thought it might, this made the frightened pet drop his eyes and flatten his spine as best he could against the nicotine stained paint of the motel wall.
“Hey, now,” John murmured, as if to one of his racehorses. They were spirited, flighty things, nothing like the quarter horses he’d grown up with. He talked to them all the same, though, from the spring colts to the swaybacked veterans.
“I’m not gonna hurt you. I know you’ve seen a lot of people lately, huh? You probably don’t remember me. That’s okay. I remember you. You were at Jack Kinsington’s place before all this.”
The boy did not look back up at him, and his dirty hair gave away his trembling, but he was listening.
“I came by with a couple of horses. Bays, both of them. Soaked in sweat and prancing all around, you remember them? They’re high strung, they don’t like to ride in the trailer. Anyway, I told Jack he ought to let you stretch your legs. He did, but you were so numb you couldn’t stand for a while. You looked right at me.”
The boy turned his head an inch, so he could glance up at John’s face again.
“You remember that day. Sure you do. I thought you were in rough shape then, but I have to say, you look worse now.”
That lost him the eye contact. That was okay. The boy remembered. If not his face, then the incident.
“I thought it was awfully cruel to keep you in a space that small,” he went on. “I don’t know how some people do to a person what they wouldn’t do to an animal. They justify it, I guess. They project things onto these pets they buy and then they punish them for it. Gives them their kicks. Even Jack Kinsington, who I have to admit I respected up until that day.”
He stopped that train of thought.
“Why don’t we get you up off the floor there and let me take care of you, huh? No offense, you look kind of like roadkill.”
The boy made no sound, no indication that he’d even heard except for the way his chest expanded a little faster with his quickening breath. The poor thing's heart must be pounding. John had a knack for fixing things up, be it a business his brother had fucked up or a lame horse, a broken water heater or a vehicle. He spent less time fixing things now and more time delegating what other people needed to fix, but this boy was downright hurting his innermost, rarely expressed tenderness of heart, and he wanted to fix something for him.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said again. His knees were getting tired in this deep squat, and his boots had no give in the toes for it. “I’m gonna clean you up and look after you. You don’t have to do anything, just don’t fight me too much. Can you do that?”
He reached out and laid a hand over the boy’s. The abused pet flinched but didn’t jerk away. John encircled the boy’s wrist in his hand and pulled it slowly away from his body, towards him. “Can you stand?” he asked, pushing himself to standing and bringing the boy with him.
He made it to his feet, and was nearly as tall as John, but stumbled when he tried to take a step.
“Please,” he whispered reflexively as John moved closer, flinching to protect his battered face.
“Please what, baby?” John muttered, lifting the boy’s arm over the back of his shoulders and wrapping his arm around his slim waist to help him walk. “You’re okay, you’re right here. I’ve got you. Let’s get you in the tub.”
Slowly, they staggered to the motel bathroom a d John flicked on the staggeringly white lights that buzzed and hummed to life. He sat the boy on the lip of the low bathtub as gently as he could.
“I’m going to give you a bath,” he said matter-of-factly, turning the taps so warm water began to fill the tub. “Where did all this blood come from?”
The boy was watching him warily, dark eyes following his every move.
“You hear me? Where’s all this dried blood coming from, huh?”
“I don’t know.”
John nodded, pleased the boy had spoken. Some didn’t, or wouldn’t, he knew, not once they looked like this one did.
“Did they beat you? Is that what all this is from?”
He gave a small nod, blinking in discomfort at John’s bluntness.
“Did they hurt you in any other ways?”
He nodded again.
John felt a tug of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. “How?”
Jack’s pet looked evasively at the rising bath water.
“If you tell me how you’re hurt, I can help you better.”
Nothing.
“What’s your name?”
“Paulo.”
He put the emphasis on the au, and there was a way he said his L that positioned the tongue differently than he did when saying other words.
“Paulo,” John said, putting the emphasis on the vowels of the first syllable too, but with no attempt at altering his very American L. I’m John. I bought you from that man, the one with the box truck. I take it Jack Kinsington sold you? Or were you stolen?”
Tears shimmered in the boy’s dark eyes, swollen and purple still like a raccoon mask. He bit the inside of his cheek to steel himself and keep from letting them fall.
John gentled his voice. “Paulo. I only ask because it’s important. If you legally belong to Jack, I gotta bring you back to him.”
Paulo’s head snapped up. He lost control of the tears, which spilled down his bruised cheeks. He grabbed hold of John’s sleeves, pulling himself closer as if his whole body was not bruised and sore. “No,” he begged urgently. “Please. I’ll do anything. Please. I-I’ll do anything you want, I can’t… please don’t….”
An idea dawned on him and he let go of his latest captor’s sleeve in order to lift his trembling fingers to his own tattered shirt. He pulled it over his head with a barely-suppressed whimper of pain. His torso was bruised like his face and arms, dark black and purple impact points on his warm toned skin like fists or boots, some that looked like electric burns left from a cattle prod and others more reminiscent of the yellow, oozing wounds cigarettes tended to leave. He was ribby, in a dehydrated, sudden sort of way that looked like he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last few days.
He started on the button of his pants and John reached out to stop him. “Hey. No. What’s this?”
“Do- do you prefer girls? I can be just as good for you.” His glittering eyes were simultaneously like a starving animal and horribly blank. “They all say so.”
Ah. There was an answer to one of his questions. He pulled Paulo’s wrists away from the opening of his pants, held them in his own on the cool edge of the tub between them. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not interested.”
“I could take a bath,” he whispered hopefully.
“You will take a bath. But I’m still not interested. I need to know— were you given to someone by Jack Kinsington rightfully, or were you stolen?”
The fear was back. John didn’t know which was worse on this one, the dead eyes or the fear. “Don’t take me back to him.”
“He hurt you a lot, then? Jack?”
John already figured as much. Despite his admiration for the man’s business sense, he was a cruel and sadistic pet owner. Once he’d seen a boy shoved into a cage fit for a fox, he’d reconciled that much in his mind. It was like that often, when it came to human pets, and never quite who you’d expect.
The boy begged miserably. “Please, Sir. I’ll do anything.”
“You mentioned that. He didn’t sell you, did he?”
Paulo glanced down.
So he’d bought a stolen pet. That’s what he more or less suspected when he’d seen the boy at the rest stop, weeks after he’d seen him in the cage at Jack’s and much worse for wear.
Jack Kinsington would probably be even more open to buying more of John’s racehorses in the near future if he returned his favorite boy-pet to him. Don’t worry what it cost to get him back, Jack. Less than the yearling I’ve got for you to look at this spring, I can tell you that. Call it even.
John turned off the taps and tested the water with his fingers. He’d wondered if the boy would be willing to take those filthy clothes off in front of him, but seeing as he’d just offered himself, he thought it more likely now.
“Take those off,” he said of the boy’s remaining clothing. “You can borrow some of mine when you’re cleaned up.”
Despite his offer less than five minutes ago, Paulo was modest to the point of shyness once he was naked.
“It’s okay. I’m not even looking at you,” John assured him a little gruffly as he helped him into the water. “I just want to get you clean.”
Paulo flinched as he submerged, undoubtedly feeling every burn, cut, and bruise as he did. He was so dirty that tear tracks were now visible on his face from his crying. John wet a rough motel washcloth in the warm water and brought it to his face. He dabbed and nudged the dried blood from Paulo’s mouth and nose. The boy tried very hard not to flinch and shy away, and in return he tried to be very gentle. “Good,” he said quietly, wetting the cloth and returning it to the blood and swollen tissue. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
Paulo made brief eye contact with him at that, probably because it had become a foreign concept that someone would make an effort against hurting him. Just as quickly he slid his gaze away, back to an indeterminate point on the bathroom tile.
“You wanna do this next part?”
Paulo didn’t answer.
John moved as gently and quickly as was prudent over the rest of his body, knowing he was hurting him when he passed over the yellowed cigarette burns on his legs and hips.
“I know. You’re gonna be okay. Almost done. You’re doing really well.”
Paulo let John wash his hair, using some of the hotel shampoo that would likely sting some cuts but was desperately needed. He closed his eyes as John worked his fingers through the blood and dirt, the snarls coming apart slowly with gentle patience. As he rinsed the boy’s dark hair clean, John noticed he had stopped shaking.
He drained the now red-brown water and wrapped Paulo in a white hotel towel. He looked better clean, though there was nothing to do for the bruises but wait. He sat on the side of the motel bed as John went through his black duffel bag, pulling out sweatpants, a gray cotton T-shirt, and ibuprofen for him.
Paulo dressed in the bathroom and accepted two of the pills. He came out and sat on the end of the bed afterwards, staring at the pattern on the comforter.
“Does Jack know who had you?” John asked as he set up his phone charger. “The guy with the box truck out there?”
Paulo shook his head. “That man wasn’t the first.”
So he’d been bought and sold multiple times since being stolen—kidnapped— from Jack's property. It was possible Jack knew the original perpetrators, but had no idea where his pet was now. John sighed. His mind was working analytically, trying to understand every facet of the situation before he acted— trying to understand how he could manipulate it most in his favor. But that all felt shallow and cruel when he truly saw the boy in front of him, his damp hair and his bruised face, his narrow chest and the way he was nervously picking at a scab on the inside of his wrist.
“Don’t do that,” John said softly. “I don’t want you getting any infections.”
Paulo stopped immediately but looked intrigued by the care in that statement. Likely no one had said anything like it to him in a long while now.
“Are you hungry?”
Paulo shrugged. John raised his eyebrows and he went with a more committed shake of the head. “No, Sir.”
“…Are you scared?”
The boy swallowed, touched the scab on his wrist without picking it.
He’d said it before, but he knew he’d have to say it a hundred more times, and show it a thousand, before it sunk in. He likely would not end up doing that, but he’d say it as long as the pet was in his possession. “I promise I'm not gonna hurt you.”
“What, then?” Paulo asked, shrugging one shoulder to his ear in what felt like embarrassment at his own question.
“If I’m not going to hurt you? What then?”
He nodded.
“Nothing. I'm gonna take you back to Tennessee.”
“To Jack?”
“For the time being, to my place in Lewisburg. I have a farm.”
“What kind of farm?”
“Horses. You wanna come?”
He said he did. Not that he had much of a choice. John suspected they both knew that killing him on the side of a dirt road in west Texas would be better than what might happen if he took him back to Tennessee and failed to promptly return him to Jack. Jack would take it out on his lost little pet as much as he did John.
“I can’t believe you’re still even sitting up and talking. Come here.” John stood up and pulled the corner of the bedsheets down. “Lie down.”
Paulo did as he asked.
Before John would cover him up he asked, “Can you tell me if anyone kicked you in the back or abdomen, or if you feel any pain when you move or breathe?”
He thought about that. “I don’t know. I’m sore.”
“Any sharp pains, anything feel broken?”
“No?”
“Can I touch your stomach right here? It won’t be for long.”
A little apprehensive, Paulo agreed. John placed his hands on his abdomen and prodded his way along, trying to feel anything amiss or to get a sharp yell from Paulo. None came.
“Does this hurt anywhere more than soreness?”
“No,” his patient said in a small voice.
“Okay,” he said, and covered the boy to his chest with the blankets. “I’m done. Thank you. I was worried you might have internal bleeding, or broken ribs.”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’ll need to get you checked for other things too, soon. Make sure you didn’t contract anything.”
It took a moment for this to register, but when it did, Paulo blushed scarlet.
“It’s okay,” John assured him. His next gesture surprised him. Tenderly, he brushed the back of his knuckles to an unbruised spot on Paulo’s cheek. He was quickly becoming endeared to this unfortunate little pet. “You’re probably alright. And even in the event you did, it’s not your fault.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to?” Paulo asked, leaning his cheek almost imperceptibly into John’s knuckles.
John retracted his hand. “No. I didn’t want to because I am not interested in hurting you.”
“I said you could.”
“You and I both know it would still be hurting.”
Paulo laid his head back on the pillow. “I don’t understand what you want.”
“For starters, I want you to tell me what you want to eat.”
He didn’t eat much, but he did make an effort. John got the impression he was suspicious of every simple kindness, every time there were footsteps outside their door in the breezeway.
When he turned out the light and put a partition of pillows between them to sleep, he felt Paulo start awake every time a car pulled into the parking lot, or the AC beneath the window kicked on with a rattle.
“You’re okay,” he said drowsily from across the pillow divide, which made it feel more like bunking together and less like sharing a bed. “Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows where you are at all. That door is deadbolted. And I’m here between the rest of the world and you. You can sleep tonight. Nothing can hurt you.”
He doubted words would actually help, since the boy's nerves were probably completely shot, and who knows when was the last time he’d had a good nights sleep, and felt safe enough to do so? Still, he thought it should be nice to hear. It was the least he could do. He didn’t make any undue promises. Just tonight.
Paulo was quiet for a minute, and then John heard a wet sniff that was the unmistakable sound of crying. He didn’t think he should say ‘don’t cry’ to someone in his position, so he didn’t. He just listened from across the pillows until the little pet fell asleep.
please help me find this fic. I think Tony adopted Peter (maybe after mays death) and Peter was like 14. they had super cute and close relationship. I remember them going shopping for a new bed because tonys was too small and Peter often spent the night with him. also I remember one day Peter waking up and was stretching on the bed and so Tony started to tickle him.
it’s been a long time for you. We couldn’t find your fic and we are so sorry, we do have other fics with Peter and Tony sharing a bed.
Bed-sharing (platonic)
There’s also this one that has tickling
Rest Your Weary Head, Child (Forever On My Shoulder) by Buckets_Of_Stars
When Peter's study group ends up staying out later than expected, the result is as unsurprising and enduring as Tony could possibly imagine.
Or: Peter is tired and wants to cuddle his Dad.
Platonic bed sharing is such an undervalued trope. And I’m not talking about “there’s two of them and only one bed”—I’m talking about “there’s three (or more) suckers who have to snuggle up and you know two of them are going to wake up spooning or in each other’s arms”. You know, the “there’s not enough room, one of us should sleep on the floor but no one’s volunteering so we’re all just cuddling” kind of bed sharing. Bonus points if two of them hate each other and sleep on either side of one person, or end up being the ones snuggling. I need more bed sharing where nothing comes of it because they’re friends and sharing a bed doesn’t mean they’re going to end up together.
Prompts: #76 from @irondadmadlads and @comfortember prompts falling asleep on someone & quality time
“Pep!” Tony doesn’t care that he sounds whiney. Well, maybe he cares a little bit, but he has other, more important things to focus on. “Honey, I can’t stay in bed all day! I have things to do. I’ve been in bed all week, and–”
“I thought you might say that.” Pepper smiles brightly. “Would you rest if someone stayed with you? Misery loves company, after all.”
“Is that so?” Tony grumbles, feeling irrationally annoyed at the way his hopes soar at the thought of not having to be alone today. He stuffs down the hope and tries to sound indifferent. “You’re really going to stay here with me today?”
Pepper gives him a smile and Tony knows she can see right through him. “Mm, not quite.” She doesn’t explain herself, just leaves the room without another word, and Tony flops back onto his pillows with a heavy sigh that makes him cough a little. He’d been knocked on his ass almost a week ago by the cold from hell and though he’d love to be able to get up and get on with his life today, he’s actually still feeling really exhausted. Not that he’s going to admit that to Pepper.
Tony drags a hand down his face and starts to make a list in his head of things he’d like to get done today. When Pepper comes back into the room, she has someone shuffling along behind her, and Tony immediately forgets his entire list when he sees who it is.
“Peter?”
Peter pokes his head around Pepper, raising his hand in a little wave. He’s holding a box of tissues to his chest with his other arm, and he looks terrible, his face pale and his nose red. He’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, and he shuffles over to the wall closest to Pepper’s side of the bed, kicking his sneakers off and lining them up neatly before dropping his backpack down next to them.
“Hi, Mr. Stark!” Peter says, his voice so congested it doesn’t even sound like him.
“You’re sick too, huh?” Tony asks, guilt straining his voice. “I’m so sorry, Roos.”
“I’m okay,” Peter replies, sounding anything but. “Ms. Potts said you’re not feeling well and wanted my company. Which, I’m not sure I’ll be any entertainment because I’m also not feeling well, but–”
“Pete,” Tony cuts him off, because Peter is grimacing and rubbing at his throat as he talks, his voice croaky and fading fast.
Pepper notices, too, and she ushers Peter toward the bed. “You’re running a fever, sweetheart, so you’re going to get into this bed and rest today. Both of you are going to rest, got it?” She says, looking pointedly at Tony over Peter’s head.
“Got it,” Peter replies obediently. He climbs into the bed, sitting with his back up against the headboard, and lets Pepper pull the blanket over his legs. She smoothes her hand over his forehead, and he leans slightly into the touch, closing his eyes and making a little humming sound that turns into a whimper when she pulls her hand away.
“We stopped by and got a dose of meds from Bruce,” Pepper tells Tony. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. is going to be keeping him updated on Peter’s temperature. And she’s going to call me if either of you need anything. Okay?”
“Okay,” Peter says, answering again for the both of them. He shivers a little, then drags the sleeve of his hoodie under his nose, wincing as the action irritates the raw skin around his nose. He sheepishly grabs a tissue when he sees the way Pepper is looking at him, pressing it to his running nose and mumbling an apology.
“You two take care of each other, okay?”
Tony and Peter both nod, and Pepper leaves, kissing Peter on the top of the head and then making her way around the bed to do the same to Tony before she goes.
“Well,” Tony says once she’s gone. “Guess we’re gonna get a little quality time together today, huh?”
Peter, who’s dabbing at his nose with another tissue, swallows with a wince. “Huh?” His eyes look a little glassy when he looks over at Tony. “Oh, yeah!”
Tony crosses his arms over his chest. He feels terrible for getting Peter sick, of course, but he’s glad Pepper thought to coordinate him coming to the Tower for the day with May so he won’t be in his apartment alone. Being alone while sick isn’t Tony’s favorite thing, and being alone in general isn’t Peter’s favorite thing, so the arrangement works out. Plus, he really does enjoy Peter’s company, even if Peter will likely be sleeping for most of the day. Tony’s thoughts drift to his mental to-do list again, thinking about how much he might be able to get done while Peter naps, but he pauses when he realizes Peter is still staring at him.
“So,” he says, rolling onto his side to face Peter. “How are you feeling, bud? What do you want to do?”
“We could watch a movie?” Peter suggests. “Ms. Potts said to choose Star Wars if you want to be awake, or a movie that was made after I was born if you need to sleep.”
“Did she now?”
Peter nods seriously, completely missing the smile that Tony tries and fails to fight from spreading across his face. “I also have some homework I could work on, but that’s kind of boring.” He takes a long, shaky breath, and Tony suddenly realizes that he’s trying to be his usual chatty self, despite his rapidly fading voice and the fact that he’s clearly miserable.
“Hey, Pete,” Tony says, watching Peter shiver. “Why don’t you lie down so you can get all the way under the covers?” He holds the comforter up, and Peter nods, practically melting down the headboard until he’s completely horizontal. He curls up on his side, facing away from Tony, sniffling while Tony tucks the blanket around his shoulders.
A shiver runs through Peter, and Tony reaches out to rub his back, hoping the motion might help him feel a little warmer. Soon, Peter is almost asleep, his breath whistling in and out through his nose, and Tony is startled a little when Peter clears his throat loudly and reveals that he’s still awake.
“Your heart sounds really loud,” he whispers, and a second later he’s rolling over to face Tony, scooting closer until he’s fully pressed up against Tony’s body. He feels Peter’s hand against his face as he clumsily reaches up, his fingertips aiming for Tony’s pulse point and landing on his cheek instead. Tony’s skin is pulled slightly under the touch as Peter’s sticky powers are activated, his fingers prickly and clinging to his face.
“You’re…alive…I think?” Peter says, his eyes closed as he tries to assess the results of his failed attempt to check Tony’s pulse.
“I’m alive.” Tony reaches up and gently takes Peter’s hand, pulling it away from his face and wincing when the removal of his sticky fingers feels like someone ripping a bandaid off of his cheek. “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” Peter whispers, letting his hand fall to Tony’s chest, fingers immediately sticking to the skin above the collar of his shirt instead. It’s an odd feeling, slightly uncomfortable, but Tony doesn’t mind. Peter is almost asleep again. Tony reaches over and cards his fingers through Peter’s hair, and Peter snores a couple of times, then shakes his head slightly like he’s fighting sleep.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice is so small and so hoarse and Tony cringes because he knows it’s probably painful for him to talk, if his own experience this past week is anything to go by.
“Yeah, bud?”
There’s a long pause, during which Peter tucks his face into Tony’s shoulder, nuzzling the fabric of his shirt with his nose. “I have to cough,” he finally says, his voice muffled.
“Thanks for letting me know,” Tony chuckles dryly. “This is the part where you unstick yourself from me so you can cover your mouth. You know, keep your germs to yourself.”
“You’re the one who got me sick though,” Peter murmurs, then promptly sneezes right into Tony’s shirt.
“Oh, what the– That wasn’t a cough!”
“Oh.” Peter sniffles. “My bad.”
“You are absolutely disgusting,” Tony grimaces. He looks around for the tissue box, but it’s on the far nightstand on the other side of Peter.
“I…am?”
Tony sighs. “No. You’re not. You are pretty sick, though.”
“Yeah,” Peter agrees. He lifts his head, unsticking his hand from Tony’s chest and tucking his face into the crook of his elbow to cough. “It sucks.”
“Want to try a movie, or do you want to sleep?”
Peter nestles himself back against Tony’s side and closes his eyes with a congested sigh. He doesn’t answer, but two minutes later, he’s snoring.
Tony grabs his phone from his nightstand. He can work on a lot of things from his phone, which is the only device Pepper didn’t confiscate from him. While Peter sleeps, he plans to get at least five things from his list done. The first task is checking his emails. He taps on his inbox, but he doesn’t even get through the first email before Peter shifts in his sleep, tugging Tony’s shirt down with his hands as he tries to burrow further down into the warmth of the blankets.
“Hey!” Tony protests softly. He looks at where Peter’s hand is attached to his shirt, stretching out the fabric, and tries to gently slide a finger between Peter’s palm and his shirt to free himself. Peter moans unhappily, but his hand doesn’t budge. Tony tries a slightly more forceful approach. He peels Peter’s fingertips up one by one, but he’s not entirely successful until Peter moans again and lifts his hand up all the way. As soon as his hand is free, however, he slides it up under Tony’s shirt sleeve, seeking warmth for his fingers. His cold, sticky fingers.
Tony sighs. When Peter had been awake, unsticking himself from Tony felt like a bandaid being ripped off, uncomfortable and a little painful, but he’s worried it will be worse now that Peter’s asleep and he doesn’t want to risk losing skin or something. As soon as Peter stills, he pulls up his emails again, resigning himself to staying very still and very stuck.
He lasts about one hour before he gets bored of reading and responding to emails.
“Pete?” He whispers, satisfied when Peter doesn’t answer. He just needs to unstick Peter from his arm, and he can sneak down to the lab while Peter rests in bed. He reaches his opposite arm over and takes Peter’s wrist, giving an experimental tug. The motion pulls at his skin, but Peter’s hand stays firmly pressed to his bicep.
“Mr. Stark?” Tony looks over to see Peter blinking sleepily up at him.
“Your hand is glued to my arm,” Tony explains. Peter sniffles and looks down at where his hand is tucked under Tony’s shirt sleeve. It takes him a moment to move, and when he does, his motions are sluggish and clumsy. When he pulls his hand away, Tony clamps his mouth shut to keep himself from crying out in pain.
“Sorry for stickin’ to y–” Peter’s cut off by a yawn. “To you. When I’m sick it’s harder to control.” He yawns again, and Tony chuckles, adjusting the covers over Peter and sliding away and out of bed before Peter can stick to him again.
“Go back to sleep,” Tony says. “I’m just going to run down to the lab for a bit.”
“Pepper said I’m supposed to keep you in bed,” Peter says weakly. His voice crackles on the last few words, and he buries his face back into his pillow to cough a few times. He lifts his head, rubbing at his eyes with a fist and looking sad. “Sorry I’m not very good company.”
“You’re the best company, Pete. I just have a little work to do.”
“But you’re not supposed to work today,” Peter argues hoarsely.
Tony sighs. “I’ll just be down in the lab for an hour, two hours tops. You can stay here and nap the whole time.”
“I could read you my book for English,” Peter offers. “Or you could read to me…?”
“While that is a very tempting offer, what if we go down to the lab for a little bit first? You can come with me and keep me company down there,” Tony tries again.
After a moment of consideration, Peter nods. “Okay.” He sits up carefully, scooting to the edge of the bed and planting his feet on the floor, shivering hard when he loses the warmth of being under the comforter. Tony takes a blanket from the bed and wraps it around Peter’s shoulders, then helps him stand, frowning when Peter sways a little on his feet.
“Here,” Tony says, grabbing the box of tissues from the nightstand for Peter and immediately smirking when Peter holds up a finger and inhales sharply, but instead of taking a tissue from the box right in front of his face, he tugs the sleeves of his hoodies down over his hands and aims a sneeze into the fabric instead.
“Wha–? Okay,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. He shakes the tissues in front of Peter’s face with a pointed look. “Bless you.”
Peter sniffles wetly and takes the box, crossing his arms to hold it against his chest, but still not using a tissue. “Thanks.”
In the elevator, Peter leans up against the wall, letting his head rest against the cool metal side. His face is flushed red, and Tony reaches out, pressing the back of his hand to Peter’s cheek.
“Feeling pretty warm there, bud,” he says. Peter responds with a cough, sagging against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. When Peter is done coughing, Tony holds his arms open.
“Want a lift?”
Peter shuffles forward, sniffling miserably, and lets Tony pick him up, blanket and tissues and all.
“Hold on,” Tony says, and realizes his mistake a second too late when Peter actually latches on to him, his arms and legs wrapped around Tony like he’s a sticky koala. He tucks his warm face against Tony’s neck and huffs out a little sigh, and Tony doesn’t move when the elevator doors slide open. He looks out into his lab, at all of his waiting projects, and then down at Peter dozing off in his arms. With Peter clinging to him like this, he’s not even going to be able to sit at his lab table, let alone get any work done.
That’s how Tony finds himself back in his bed a couple minutes later, literally stuck to a sick, feverish teenager, and falling asleep to the sound of Peter’s loud snores and a movie from 2003 playing in the background.
dandelion squirms, pressing closer against geralt. it’s a warm night; the warmth of another body is not quite pleasant, but dandelion’s less than ideal, clingy sleeping habits are a small price to pay for his companionship. geralt wraps his arms around the poet, who wriggles mightily before going limp across geralt’s chest, aggressively chamomile scented curls pressed into his face, tickling his nose.
geralt sighs. he had always found chamomile to be an unpleasant, cloying scent, but somewhere along the line he began to associate it with this—dandelion’s body a comforting weight on his chest. it had been a strange, sudden realization that he no longer minded the scent.
it takes geralt a few moments to carefully rearrange the curls into a not quite so ticklish configuration, but he falls asleep quickly and sleeps through the night despite waking unpleasantly sticky with sweat.
We’ve all seen the traumatized Whumpee who after being rescued desperately clings to the Caretaker and refuses to let them out of their sight. But consider this: an overprotective Caretaker who refuses to let the Whumpee out of their sight. Maybe because they blame themselves for the Whumpee having been captured in the first place. Maybe because they’d had a bad argument right before the Whumpee was captured, and they’ve spent weeks or months thinking that those would be the last words they ever said to each other.
Bonus points for the Whumpee coming to for the first time after being rescued, to find the Caretaker sleeping right there in the bed with them.
Extra bonus points if the Whumpee eventually gets fed up with this and snaps “Seriously, I’m not made of glass! I don’t need your help just to go to the bathroom!”
