Hey! Guess what! After 5 days in the hospital I'm going home!
Little update, I'm ok, not great but ok. Seems we got everything under control. I'm still pretty fucked up from the meds but after 5 days of dialysis, fluids and basically being lifeless i feel so much better. Hopefully things keep going well. I am forced to wear a mask from now on while in public not ideal but whatever. But yea, I'm going to get home shower, rest and ill be back to posting soon! Thank you for the get well wishes. They mean everything to me! 🖤
Summary: You and Bucky fell in love quietly and deeply, the kind of love that felt like coming home after war. But when you were diagnosed with a terminal illness, you chose to protect him the only way you knew how: by leaving before he could watch you fade. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Word Count: 4.1k+
A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I wanted to really hurt tonight, but it’s really long. So I’ll share half of my suffering with you guys (/hj) and the other half later. Happy reading!!
Main Masterlist | Part 2
You hadn’t expected much when you joined the team. Not respect, not belonging, and definitely not love. You weren’t one of the flashy ones either. Not like the godlike ones or the headline names. Your talents were subtle, quiet. Support work, recon, sometimes intel, sometimes patching people up between missions. Normally in the background and always trying not to get in anyone’s way.
You met Bucky Barnes on a Tuesday morning. You remember that because it had been raining. The kind that soaked through your boots and your mood, and made the Tower feel lonelier than usual. He was standing in the gym, watching the rain pour against the glass walls, barely moving, like the storm was inside him too.
You didn’t say anything that first day. You just stood a few feet away, drinking your terrible coffee, and both of you pretending not to notice each other.
The second time, he spoke.
“Morning,” He said gruffly, his voice low like gravel.
You smiled. “Barely.”
It wasn’t a cinematic beginning. It began with smaller gestures and quiet kindnesses. He started sitting with you in the rec room when the others got too loud. You brought him fresh coffee when you passed the kitchen because you noticed he liked it black and too strong. He started walking you back to your room after late missions, even when you insisted you were fine.
Then one night, when your hands were trembling after a near-death close call, he took them in his, warm skin against cool metal, and just held them until the panic faded.
“I’ve got you,” He’d whispered.
And from that moment, you knew.
You didn’t fall all at once; no, not you, and not Bucky. But over time, like sand wearing down stone, you carved out a space in each other’s lives. One that became necessary. Familiar. Safe.
You were the one who kissed him first. It was quick, you were nervous with your heart pounding loudly. He’d stilled like a statue for half a breath. Then pulled you close like he’d been waiting years.
Everything after that felt like healing. Soft mornings and hesitant laughter. A shared toothbrush, his old t-shirt on your skin, late-night walks when sleep wouldn’t come. He called you “doll” when no one else was around, and you teased him for it. He told you about the old days in pieces, slowly, only when he felt ready. You didn’t push.
He spoke with his eyes before he ever used words, and you learned quickly how to read them. Tired eyes meant he didn’t sleep so you stayed close, sometimes in silence just to anchor him. Distant eyes meant memories had pulled him under. So you’d distract him with a game or a dumb movie. Sometimes you’d even do horrible impression of Sam. It worked more often than it didn’t.
He was surprisingly good at domestic things too. Laundry. Folding towels. Even sewing. You once came home to find him repairing a ripped sleeve of your favorite hoodie, his brows furrowed in concentration, metal fingers surprisingly gentle as they worked the needle.
“Didn’t know you could sew,” You said, standing in the doorway.
He glanced up. “Used to fix Steve’s stuff. Back then, you didn’t toss clothes when they tore. You learned how to fix ‘em.”
You stepped forward, grinning. “My hoodie’s being saved by history.”
He smirked. “You’re welcome.”
You loved him. God, you loved him.
Bucky wasn’t big on public affection, but in private, he was warm and clingy in the way that people who’ve spent their lives alone tend to be. He’d pull you into his lap while watching movies, arms around your waist like he needed to be sure you were real. Sometimes, he'd trace the lines of your palm like he was memorizing the map of you.
“You’re too good to me,” You whispered one night, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of his heart.
He didn’t say anything right away, just tightened his hold. Then, quietly:
“No one’s ever said that before. Not like that.”
Mornings with Bucky were slow and sweet.
He always woke up first, but never left the bed. Just stayed curled around you like a shield, his hand absently brushing your hair, your shoulder, or your arm. You’d pretend to sleep longer just to enjoy it all. The weight of his presence, the safety of it. He knew. You knew he knew. But he always let you pretend.
Sometimes, he’d hum old songs, stuff he remembered from back then. He never did it around anyone else. Just you.
Once, when you asked why, he only answered, “Those songs feel like you.”
You didn’t know what that meant. But you never asked again. It felt sacred.
There were inside jokes too, like how he always called you “the dangerous one” when you swatted at him with a dishtowel, or how you pretended his metal arm beeped like a robot’s whenever he poked you. You once stuck googly eyes on it. He found them three days later in the shower.
“Real mature,” He’d muttered.
“You left me unattended.”
He gave you a look, deadpan. “You’re always unattended.”
You beamed. “Exactly.”
He loved seeing you happy. You could tell.
Even when he tried to act unimpressed, there was something in the way his eyes crinkled when you laughed too loud, or how he’d lean back just to watch you talk about things you loved whether it be music, books, or dumb memes Peter showed you.
And when you were tired, overwhelmed, or worn thin by the world, he didn’t ask questions. He’d just reach out. Tug you to his side and press a kiss to your forehead.
“I’ve got you,” He’d say.
And he always did.
Even when things started going downhill.
It started small.
A headache that lasted longer than it should have. A dizzy spell in the shower. Pins and needles in your hands when you typed too long. It was anll easy enough to dismiss. You didn’t think much of it, not at first. You were tired, stressed, and probably pushing too hard in training. It was easy to brush off when the Tower was always in motion, full of mission prep, early morning sparring, Sam yelling about breakfast food, and Bucky’s deep voice murmuring good morning into your hair.
But then you dropped your coffee cup one morning. Just slipped from your hands, no warning. Glass shattered across the floor like a gunshot. Bucky looked up immediately from the couch, brows furrowed.
“Hey,” He called out, getting to his feet. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” You answered quickly. Too quickly. You bent down to clean it up, waving him off. “Just clumsy today. Had a bad grip on it.”
He hovered nearby anyway, crouched beside you, brushing away glass with his metal hand before you could slice yourself.
“You’re not usually clumsy.”
You forced a laugh. “Guess I’m evolving.”
He didn’t smile. Just looked at you a little too long. But then he dropped it, for now.
Other days, your legs felt heavy like your bones were made of wet concrete. You’d get out of bed slowly, waiting for the room to stop tilting, and sneak painkillers into your mouth before Bucky woke up.
He caught you once.
“Love, why are you taking those?” He asked sleepily, rubbing his face with one hand.
You shrugged. “Training soreness. Nat kicked my ass yesterday.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t spar yesterday. You were with Bruce doing some file sorting.”
Shit.
“Right. Yeah. No, I meant… the day before. It’s fine. Just overdid it.”
He didn’t believe you. You knew it. But you changed the subject fast. You kissed him, stole his shirt, and made some joke about him being old and creaky; and just like that, his concern faded into teasing.
But his eyes still lingered a little longer than usual as you moved around the kitchen that morning, like he was waiting for something else to fall apart.
You started keeping water in every room. You got overheated quickly now, and your mouth was dry more often than not. Sometimes your vision would go spotty if you stood up too fast. You started hiding the bruises too, the weird ones that bloomed like ink stains across your skin without warning.
Your smile became a tool. A mask. A defense.
“Nothing a little coffee won’t fix.”
“Guess I need to eat more iron, huh?”
“Pretty sure this is just stress. Tony stresses me out.”
Everyone bought it. They always did.
Except Bucky.
One night, after a shared dinner with the team, you excused yourself early and barely made it to the hallway before your legs gave out. You caught yourself on the wall, heart pounding like a war drum. Your vision wavered. You thought you might throw up.
You took deep, careful breaths, waiting for it to pass.
Bucky found you a minute later; not collapsed, but close. You were standing stiff, holding the wall, and blinking hard.
“Hey,” He reached for you. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” You croaked. “Just… dizzy. Think I stood too fast.”
“You’ve been acting off for weeks,” He said, voice low. “Is something going on?”
You smiled, tired and crooked. “You worry too much.”
“Because I’ve lost too much.”
That made your chest ache worse than the actual pain.
You touched his face, thumb brushing the scar near his cheekbone. “You’re not losing me.”
Later that night, when he finally fell asleep with his arm around your waist, you stared at the ceiling and wondered how much time you had left before you’d have to break that promise.
The next morning, while he was out on a run, you called the doctor.
You didn’t tell him. Not yet.
The clinic was small. Tucked away in a quiet part of the city in the kind of place where no one would ask for autographs or clearance codes. You’d chosen it carefully. Not Stark-approved. Not affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D. Just… normal. Human. Somewhere you could be anonymous for a moment, where the walls didn’t echo with weapons and war and legacy.
You sat on the crinkled paper of the exam table, cold in the fluorescent light, as your fingers twisted the edge of your sleeve until it wore thin. The doctor was kind, older, with eyes sharp behind thick glasses. She asked questions, ran tests, and drew blood.
You came back a week later for answers. She didn’t say the word right away. She didn’t have to.
The silence, the sigh, the way she sat down instead of standing, it told you everything.
“It’s rare,” She spoke carefully. “Aggressive. It’s likely genetic, but the stress you’re under probably worsened the symptoms. I’m… I’m so sorry.”
Your mouth was dry. “How long?”
“We can’t be exact. But it’s progressing fast. Months. Maybe.”
Maybe. That word would haunt you.
You walked home in a haze.
Everything felt too loud. Car horns, wind through your coat, your own footsteps on the pavement. You kept your phone in your pocket, even though you knew Bucky had texted twice:
You okay?
Want to make dinner together or order in?
You didn’t reply.
Not until you were already at the Tower, already up the elevator, and already standing outside the floor you shared like a stranger on the wrong doorstep. When the door opened, Bucky was mid-laugh, probably from something Sam had said over comms.
But then he saw your face.
His smile dropped instantly. “Doll?”
You blinked. “Sorry I took so long. Went for a walk.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… long day.”
He stared at you. For a moment, it looked like he might ask more. Push. Press. He was good at reading people, especially you. But instead, he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, and held you close.
You felt like glass in his arms.
That night, you couldn’t sleep.
You watched him in the dark, his breathing steady, jaw relaxed in rare peace. This man, this haunted, broken, beautiful man had just started to believe he deserved good things again. He was trying. Healing. Building something with you.
You couldn’t steal that from him. You wouldn’t let his second chance be another tragedy.
So you made a choice. You weren’t going to tell him. Not yet.
You’d give him good days. Soft mornings. Sunlight and safety. Laughter. Love.
And when the time came… you’d figure it out. You’d find a way to leave.
Before he ever had to watch you fall apart.
The days went on.
Bucky didn’t notice at first. Not the extra naps you took, or the way your hand hovered over your side when you thought no one was looking. He didn’t question why you turned down missions. He just squeezed your hand and said, “Rest is good. You deserve it.”
He didn’t know you were already slipping away.
Some nights, you lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling while his breathing rose and fell beside you. He looked so peaceful when he slept, like whatever ghosts he carried let go of him just long enough to rest. You’d shift closer, soaking in his warmth, his presence, his life.
You couldn’t help but keep thinking how unfair it was.
He was finally okay. He was finally happy. And you were about to become another scar on his soul.
You started wondering if it would hurt him less… if you left first.
Just disappeared. Said something awful. Said nothing at all. Let him hate you instead of mourn you. Maybe it would be easier, in the long run. Less traumatic, something cleaner.
Because Bucky had already watched people die. People he loved. You didn’t want to be a memory he flinched away from.
You wanted him to live.
But then–
One evening, you were curled up on the couch, pretending to watch a movie while your body throbbed beneath the surface. Your joints ached. Your head pounded. But Bucky was beside you, one arm thrown lazily around your shoulders, your legs tangled together under the throw blanket.
“I don’t say this enough,” He murmured, voice quiet, rough, and honest, “But I really like this life with you.”
You swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
He nodded, still looking at the screen. “Didn’t think I’d get it. Something normal, safe. You… you make me feel real again.”
Something cracked in your chest, deep and quiet.
You didn’t deserve that. Not when you were lying to him every day. Not when every sweet moment was borrowed time.
Later, when he was asleep, you sat on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, and let yourself cry. Silent tears. Ugly, hurting, because you didn’t know what was worse:
Dying with him holding you, and breaking him.
Or leaving before that happened and breaking him anyway.
You covered your mouth with your hand. Your body trembled. The ache in your side flared again, sharper now. You reached blindly for the bottle of painkillers tucked behind the sink.
You stayed there for almost an hour, in the quiet hum of the night.
Trying to convince yourself that love meant letting go even when everything in you screamed to stay. But you knew you couldn’t.
So, you started with the little things.
Stopped staying in his room every night. Claimed you couldn’t sleep, needed to stretch, needed to read, or needed a little space. Bucky didn’t question it at first. Just gave you a sleepy nod and a quiet “Okay, doll. Come back if you change your mind.”
He always left the door open for you which only made it harder.
You stopped holding his hand in public.
When he reached for you, you’d pretend you didn’t notice, or shift your focus just in time to miss it. You told yourself it was working. That he didn’t mind. That he didn’t feel the way your fingers used to curl into his like second nature.
But then one afternoon, walking out of the Tower, you crossed paths with Sam and Nat. They cracked a joke. Something harmless. You laughed weakly and when Bucky reached for your hand like he always did, you tucked it into your jacket pocket instead.
He didn’t say anything, but you felt his eyes on you the whole way home.
You started canceling plans. Dinner reservations. Movie nights. Coffee runs.
You blamed headaches. Scheduling conflicts. Steve’s old files that you “really needed to go over tonight.”
He started offering to stay in, but you turned that down too. “Go,” You’d say with a soft smile. “You should go. I’m okay, promise.”
Every time you said it, you felt like you were digging your own grave. But if you could just ease him away from you, make the distance feel natural, maybe when the worst came… it wouldn’t feel like a fall. Just a long, quiet drift.
But even that wasn’t enough. So, you had to increase the scales.
You stopped saying I love you first. And then you stopped saying it at all. That one nearly broke you.
Because he noticed. He didn’t push. Bucky never pushed when it came to your heart. But you saw it, the way he hesitated now before saying it, like he was bracing for you not to say it back.
Sometimes you said thank you instead. It sounded like goodbye.
One night, he sat down beside you in the common room, his expression unreadable, posture stiff.
“You mad at me?” He asked.
You blinked. “What? No. Of course not.”
“You’ve been pulling away.”
“I’ve been tired.”
“You’ve been lying.”
Your breath hitched. It wasn’t like him to raise his voice, but that edge was there now full of frustration, confusion, and something worse: fear.
“I’m not lying,” You whispered.
He looked at you, eyes stormy and tired. “Then tell me what’s going on. Tell me what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why are you leaving me like this?”
The silence stretched too long.
You stood up.
“I just need space, Buck.”
And that was the worst lie you’d told yet.
Because what you really meant was: I need to make this easier for you. I need you to stop loving me before it kills you.
You walked away, heart shattering in your chest. And he didn’t follow. And that night, for the first time since he’d fallen asleep beside you all those months ago, the door stayed closed.
But even after that, still– he didn’t leave.
He gave you what you asked for. Space and distance. He stopped reaching for your hand in the hallway, stopped knocking on your door at night. He didn’t press when you skipped dinner, avoided movie nights, or disappeared into empty corridors with too-bright smiles and too-late excuses.
He didn’t say I love you anymore, either.
But he looked at you like he was begging to.
Like maybe, if he stared hard enough, long enough, he could piece together what was breaking you from the inside out.
And that, more than anything, made your chest ache. Because you knew Bucky.
You knew how he loved: fiercely, stubbornly, completely. He didn’t let go unless you tore yourself from his hands.
One night, you found him alone in the common room, lit only by the dim glow of a laptop and the cold flicker of the city outside the windows. His brows were furrowed, eyes locked on the screen, and jaw clenched the way it got when something didn’t sit right in his chest.
You hadn’t meant to stop. You were supposed to pass by, to keep walking, and pretending.
But then you saw it on the screen from the search tabs. Your search history. You don’t know how he got it, if you had forgotten to log your account out from his computer, if Tony had something to do with it, or something else. But there it was:
You stepped back too quickly, your heel knocking into the wall. His head snapped up, and your breath caught. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you.
Not accusing. Not angry. Just hurt, scared, and quietly desperate.
You turned and left without a word.
That night, you sat at the edge of your bed for over an hour, staring at your reflection in the dark window. Your eyes were sunken. Your skin dull. You didn’t recognize the person staring back.
You’d tried to do this gently. Quietly. Give him peace instead of grief. But it wasn’t working. It never would at this rate.
So you did the only thing left that you could control. You decided to end it: truly, finally, and brutally.
You found him the next evening in his room. He was sitting on the floor beside the bed, back against the wall, one hand curled in his lap, and the other toying absently with a photo you’d taken together months ago. A rare day off with wind in your hair and sunlight in his smile.
It made what came next even harder.
You swallowed hard. “We need to talk.”
He didn’t look up.
You stepped inside anyway. “I’ve been thinking… this isn’t working. Us. I think we should break up.”
Still no reaction. His thumb brushed the edge of the photo.
“I mean it,” You said. “You deserve someone who’s actually here. Someone who doesn’t disappear. Someone who’s not lying to you every day.”
That got his attention.
Slowly, he looked up, eyes dark and unreadable. “Then tell me what you’re lying about.”
Your heart thudded painfully. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t what?” He asked, voice quiet. Controlled. “Don’t ask why the person I love is trying to vanish in front of me?”
“I’m not–”
“Yes, you are.” He stood now, the photo dropping to the floor between you. “You’ve been slipping away piece by piece, and you think I’m too broken to notice? You think I can’t feel it every time you shut a door between us?”
You turned your gaze away, jaw trembling.
He stepped closer, not touching you, just watching. Analyzing.
“Whatever this is… whatever you’re hiding… let me carry it with you.”
You shook your head. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll kill you,” You whispered. “Just like it’s killing me.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
His breath hitched, just once, and for a second, neither of you moved.
Bucky just stood there. Breathing. Hurting. Waiting for you to take it back. To say more. To let him in. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
If you said it out loud, if you gave it shape and voice and weight, it would become real. Too real. And you weren’t ready for the way his heart would break when he finally understood.
So instead, you took a step back. Pulled the door between you shut again. This time, for good.
“I didn’t mean that,” You said flatly, forcing your voice steady. Cold. “I’m just done.”
Bucky blinked, his expression hardening like something was folding up behind his eyes.
“You’re lying.”
You crossed your arms. “No, I’m finally being honest.”
“Bullshit.”
“I don’t love you anymore.”
That hit him.
He flinched like you’d struck him.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, suffocating. You kept your face blank. You had to. If you faltered, even for a second, he’d see through you. And then all of this would be for nothing.
He took a breath. “You expect me to believe that after everything? After us?”
You shrugged. “People change.”
His jaw tensed. “Is this because I found your search history? Because I looked?”
“No,” You said. “It’s because I’m tired. Of pretending, of playing house, of being with someone who looks at me like I’m the only good thing in his world. It’s exhausting.”
He was quiet for too long. You almost hoped he’d yell, scream, demand answers, rage at you, anything.
But instead, he said quietly, “You’re trying to make me hate you.”
You didn’t respond.
“You think if I hate you, it’ll be easier.”
Still, silence.
His voice cracked just slightly when he added, “But it won’t. Because I won’t.”
You looked down at the floor, willing the sting in your eyes to go away.
“Then maybe you’re more broken than I thought.”
That one worked.
He blinked slowly, jaw tight, like you’d finally struck a nerve that bled.
A beat passed. And then he spoke, voice quiet:
“Okay.”
Just that. No plea, no begging, no last-minute desperation. Just surrender.
He stepped away from you toward the exit, as if physically pulling himself from your orbit. Then he reached for the door, paused for a heartbeat, and said without looking at you:
“If you ever decide to stop running, you know where I’ll be.”
And then he was gone.
You stood there, rooted in place, your breath stuck in your throat. You had done it. You had finally pushed him away.
So why did it feel like you’d just shattered something permanent inside yourself?
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Quick info about me: I’m a queer, terminally ill, rare, incurable disease warrior from St Louis, MO USA.
I don’t have many people in my real life, but I’d love more internet friends.
I am an elder gay, cosplayer, anime/manga fanatic, crafter, V. League volleyball fanatic, and obsessive book collector/reader. I’m also a writer and photographer. Haikyuu is my life.
This Tumblr is my personal blog, especially as I deal with the pain, grief, and loneliness of dying.
Telling me that you considered never talking to me because I'm terminally ill and you can't handle having a friend who's going to die... Is what I would consider an inside thought. You're allowed to feel that way or have felt that way, but you don't have to say it to me.
It's actually somewhat hurtful.
I wasn't going to actually post about this, but it's happened a few times now.
There's a surgery, that if I got it, I could stop taking a medication that is actively harming me. If I got this surgery, I would still be terminally ill, but it would buy me 15-20 more years. I've never been able to access this surgery. It's extremely invasive, requiring a reconfiguring of muscles in both my legs. I would be completely unable to bear any weight for at least several months, and full rehab lasts several years. That's several years of being unable to work or earn income. The surgery itself costs upwards of 40k without counting hospital or rehab bills. I was born with my illness, I grew up knowing that I was dying. I grew up knowing that my miracle pill exists. It just exists behind a paywall.
Art from when i was in the hospital all through last Christmas, New Years, and Valentines Day and a nurse got hella aggressive with my PICC :) because she decided i wasn’t actually in pain ig?? and was annoying her? by crying? and requesting medicine and getting upset and advocating for myself when she left me for 2+ hours past when i was due :””) ?? wild
I have a fanfic idea. So this is for an A/B/O universe except purely focused on pack dynamic and found family and no sex stuff. Although trigger warning for terminally sick themes. So what happens is that poeple form packs in this world and Peter use to have a pack. First his parents, then May and Ben, then Ned and MJ, then Tony, Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy, and finally Morgan after the snap. And there’s this thing called bond depression that happens after losing a packmate (especially a mate) and Peter has been through this with losing his parents, Ben, and then Tony. (Although it was more severe for May and Pepper since they lost their mates.) But while it’s horrible, you can recover from it, especially by spending time with the rest of your pack or even just friends in general. Anyways, there is a more severe version of this called Bond Sickness. This usually only happens when you lose like, 4 or more pack mates at once. So it’s pretty rare. (Used to only happen during wars) And this actually causes the body to start shutting down. Like the strain from so many broken bonds is unable to be processed. It’s hard to sleep, or eat, or even move. You are tired all the time. And parts of your body start going numb. It’s like cancer, causing a very slow death. The only way to cure it is to have your other pack bonds try to ease the burden. Both pack depression and bond sickness are worse depending on how many people you’ve previously lost. Because broken bonds don’t just go away, it’s more like they scab over so losing a new person opens that scab. After no way home, by magically erasing everyone’s memory, Strange accidentally broke all of Peter’s pack bonds. Making it seem like his pack never met him in the first place. Peter was already dealing with the broken bonds from his parents, Ben, and Tony, then May just died, and now the impossible happened and his bonds broke despite his packmates still being alive. Which doesn’t normally happen even with amnesiac patients.
So I’m debating whether to do the normal route where Peter decides not to say anything to his pack for their protection or if Peter tries to tell his friends and they just genuinely don’t believe him. And since I’m making Peter an alpha in this I could make it more angst in having them misunderstand and assume he’s a random strange alpha trying to force himself on them or something. When Peter realizes he’s genuinely making them feel uncomfortable and unsafe, it breaks his heart but he backs off and says he’s sorry…for…for everything (looks at MJ’s scar) and don’t worry…they’ll never have to see him again.
It usually takes 4 or more broken bonds to induce Bond sickness. By the time Strange finishes his spell, Peter has 11.
5 dead. 6 forgotten.
ANYWAYS! So he doesn’t even try with the Starks because he’s a stranger and they are very famous so they would treat a strange alpha, especially one near Morgan, as a threat and he isn’t willing to risk that. Plenty of people already try to get close to them. (And he can’t bear to go through the situation with his friends again. It hurts too much). So Spidey is acting solo and doing his own thing. And then he starts running into other vigilantes. I’m wondering if he already knew them in a vague sense, like they ran into each other before but weren’t really close, or if this is the first time he runs into them. Either way, he does see the other New York vigilantes more often. The defenders Darerdevil, Iron Fist, Jessica Jones, and Luke cage. Possibly add Deadpool and maybe Frank castle too (ooh, maybe ghost rider). So they are sort of acquaintances at this point. And then Spidey ends up helping some of their civilian selves a bit (I have an idea where one might be an omega who is having trouble getting home and some thugs stop them but then Spiderman interferes and makes sure they are safe, so now the person is curious. (Again, zero sex stuff. There will be no relationships in this idea.) So they start getting closer to the spider and eventually they all kinda form a friendship with each other. Able to call for help when they need it or crash at someone’s safe house. Get patched up. Sometimes just being a person to talk to. And Spidey is there for them and doesn’t judge. So they are now more like friends but as they get to know Spiderman, they start noticing things. Like him being slower to move at times or occasionally seeming in pain but brushing it off, and they start getting a bit worried about him. (Again, if I have them know Spiderman before the spell they could see a more dramatic change but I also like the idea of Spidey being almost hesitant to reach out when it starts being obvious the others are trying to be friends. (Like he’s scared of friendship).
Peter is not having a good time, it’s hard to eat. Hard to sleep. He often wakes up throwing up whatever he was able to force down. Nightmares galore. And his instincts are completly on the fritz. He only forces himself to eat because he knows spiderman needs his strength to save people and is trying to calm his protective alpha instincts by making sure everyone in his ‘territory’ is ok. He has to physically resist going to his former pack’s favorite places. But over all his body has just been feeling terrible and his previous calm and relaxing scent turned sour weeks ago. He doesn’t dare go out without scent blockers on. And his ruts? The absolute worst, (in this world, ruts and heats are more like times when an alpha or omega’s instincts are kicked up into high gear along with a slight fever. An alpha can be soothed as long as they can take care of pack mates but for someone with broken bonds, it becomes almost unbearable) so Spidey might have legitimately almost died during it. Like the spider bite 2.0 only worse and with a crippling depression that his entire family is gone. So lots of throwing up, barely able to breathe, chest pain, and sobbing. Again. Bond sickness can literally be fatal. The only reason Spidey is alive is because he has a slight healing factor. But even now the sickness is getting worse. That could actually be what tipped the defenders off, Spidey acted strange after he disappeared for a week and they start noticing him shaking a bit more or not eating as much as they think a spider powered hero should with his metabolism. Small things like that. But Spiderman keeps trying to brush it off. (Maybe it only worked because they weren’t close enough yet to pry deeper) Then his next rut comes around and I think maybe something could happen where his costume tears and they finally smell his scent only…it’s sour and tinged with sickness. Like…really sick. And that’s when they realize that spiderman is legitimately dying.
So now they are all really worried about their friend. (Another reveal option could be Spiderman coughing up blood). But Peter still keeps pushing them away. Hasn’t even revealed his identity to them. Then one of them (likely a former soldier because this is a more war related sickness) realizes what the scent is and that it’s bond sickness and what that probbaly means. That Spiderman lost his entire pack. (Or if Frank Castle is here, he might have almost developed it and went to see a doctor or something. The typical trigger is 4 or more bond mates so he just barely hit under the mark). Might even have a few vigilantes wonder if Spiderman lost his pack because someone deliberately targeted them or something. But back to the point, Spiderman is dying. Like, legitimately dying. The only way to cure bond sickness is to have other pack bonds soothe it. So they are either trying to find Spidey’s pack and learn he doesn’t have any, or found out previously he didn’t have any pack (maybe Jessica and Matt Murdock team up to look through files or something? Or Spidey had his birthday and they found out and asked why he didn’t spend it with friends and family and he reveals there was no one but them to spend it with. (Peter was 19 when no way home happened so now he’s 20)) and now they are panicking because they didn’t want their friend to die. But he needs a pack. So they all make the executive decision that if he doesn’t have a pack, guess they’ll just have to be his pack. So now each of New York’s vigilantes are attempting to do things to welcome a new pack member (Spidey) who is absolutely terrified of getting attached to anyone again. And along the way, the defenders end up becoming a pack themselves. (Previously they worked together but weren’t pack yet).
I’m debating if they all agreed to have at least one of them be packmates with Spidey to help him and they all try to get closer to the queens vigilante until he chooses someone, or if they all just came to the same conclusion but haven’t told each other their ‘brilliant’ idea. So don’t realize the others are also trying to form a pack with him. The best part? Besides maybe Matt (and Frank if he’s there), NONE of them are very touchy feeling or have any experience making a pack bond with someone. They are all loners. And so they have NO IDEA what they are doing or how to be pack with someone.
This whole thing was inspired because I want terminally ill Peter and the only cure is to be found family with the rest of New York’s vigilante community.
