#i am beating my ADHD to death with a stick i need to FINISH things!! these drabbles are all like 10+ pages long

[valiant-portabella-pirkko]

every now and then I go through my WIPs deciding what I want to work on and stumble across this snippet again, killing me instantly

“Ceara, I just want to ask you about something, and I’d really appreciate it if you could be straight with me for a change.” “Darling,” Ceara replied with a smug, mischievous wink, “You know I’m not straight.” “Ceara.” One breath in, one breath out. Pirkko resisted the urge to kick her under the table. It took much more willpower than she’d like to admit. “Come now,” chuckled the elder sylvari with a flourish, “You walked right into that one~! But, fine.” She settled onto the table, crossing both arms under her chin leisurely. She wasn’t actually at ease, but anyone who didn’t know Ceara well enough may well have fallen for it. “Go on, then. Out with it. What do you want to ask?”

anyway consider that your confirmation that the Scarlet/Ceara of Regrowth and Flourish AU is literally anything other than straight

[dise7se]

you can’t make a mistake (on these kind of ice skates)

by spideysforce

It begins like this: MJ and Ned show up to his and May’s apartment first thing in the morning, their incessant knocking on the front door with ushered whispers, “Peter!” followed by even more knocking. HIs heart is beating fast and he gets out of bed, whispering-shouting back at his friends to not wake Aunt May up.

Regrettably, they do wake Aunt May up at 7AM on her Saturday morning off after working 9 shifts in a row at the hospital. May still pulls Ned and MJ into the apartment, telling them she missed them, hugging them good morning and giving Peter the glare for not opening the door sooner. She may be allowing the squad to venture off on their own the winter break of their senior year, but she lays down the ground rules for their trip to the mountains outside of the city, streaked with frozen lakes they’ll venture out to skate in; She expects no blood, no blunt traumas, death, or ice all over the floor of the car. 

He felt like a little kid ten years ago, a couple of years living with Aunt May and Uncle Ben. He had recently become accustomed to living with them, they began their own traditions. After celebrating Hanukkah and when Peter got out of school for the new year, they would drive out to the mountains to sit in scenic view parking lots, an early morning radio playing exclusive MET players in winter leagues content from their practices. May would set up the trunk, and they’d all squeeze in with the door propped open, huddling close and watching the trees sway. It was breathtaking; Ben usually stood too close to rocky cliffs to capture the perfect photo, propping him up on his shoulders to get the higher angle he couldn’t score himself. The same excited feeling from the night before, the excitement and him not being able to sleep, his stomach does leaps while he watches his friends tow their bags in. It was a meteorshower visible in the night sky, digging his fingers into fresh dirt in the spring, the first snowfall of the season.

    “May, are you sure you can’t come with?” Peter asks once more, slouching and pouting his lips. He needs to raise the dramatics, she’s the best ice skater he knows. 

“Sorry, baby. It’s my day off, and you three deserve your own fun little trip.” She fastens his puffy jacket on, zipping it up to the top, yet never snagging his chin. He groans once he catches MJ hiding a laugh behind her hand. 

“You two are next,” May smiles in a knowing way, “don’t you think I’m going to let my kids go outside in the freezing cold with their jackets unzipped.”

“Of course, Aunt May,” Ned replies with his manners by the Leeds family never failing, standing happily besides Peter and chewing on his morning bagel. MJ sips on her coffee, grabbing Peter’s blue and white snowflake-knitted hat with a pom pom on the top. 

“Please, no, MJ,” Peter complains, shaking his head to dodge the hat in her hand, May turning her gaze to Ned and huffing about kids, when Ned shrugs in agreement. “Seriously, you’re messing up my hair that I work so hard to naturally stay this luscious and wavy.”

“You know who you sound like?” 

May turns to Peter to give him a very pointed look with a raised eyebrow, and he knows exactly where this is going. “Just like Tony. Always worrying about the hair, the sunglasses, how muscular you look in the Spidey suit.”

“May,” Peter shrieks, his face turning scarlet red while the room erupts into laughter from his friends who are totally betraying him right now. “That was one time in front of the mirror! Don’t get me wrong, I am very muscular in the suit, but you can’t just--”

“Can you just finish putting your hat on and get out of here already, go take your film photos for your photography project,” May presses a kiss to his forehead, gasping and taking a step once she realizes she needs to stay on the tip of her toes to reach him. 

“Yes, May,” he says mildly, “ice skating, photos, and back home. No shenanigans.”

With that, she ushers the three of them to the door, reminding them no web fluid experiments in the middle of the woods, skating where they aren’t allowed, or no fighting unsolicited sea monsters, or any monsters at all  like last summer. She exhales, her shoulders slumping and she’s giving him the same look that Happy and Tony give him before their spontaneous lectures, notorious anecdotes included. She says more ‘love you’s, sending them on their way.

---

MJ, Peter, and Ned drive May’s 1989 Revolvo outside of the city, taking the open highway to the mountains about an hour out. Peter took the driver’s seat, Ned in the front, and MJ opting to sit in the back with all their skating equipment. The car is full of laughter, music, and chattering in their ears on the drive to the lake, in true Peter Parker ADHD style, MJ and Ned Facetiming Flash and Betty, asking them to meet them on their hike.

The first thing he notices that gives him butterflies is MJ rolling the window down the second they reach the George Washington bridge, letting her curly hair- that usually smells like coconut oil and shea butter- sweep through the wind. His stomach flutters, watching her through the rearview mirror with a wide grin splat across his face, a laughter probably bubbling in her chest like his and Ned’s are full of. 

As if his big, doey heart eyes aren’t big enough, he finds Uncle Ben’s old film camera he gifted to Peter secure around her neck, snapping photos across the moving bridge. Of the sky, of him, of Ned, the car besides them on the right that honks angrily at them. He hastily laughs, asking her to get back inside the car before her face freezes.

Why is his heart beating so fast? Why is he beaming so hard at his best friend beside him, pretending to reprimand his best friend in the back of the car?

Once they’re outside of the city, Ned passes a stick of gum to each of them the moment their ears pop from the change in pressure. They argued the entire way about their school advisors, not really knowing what to do next on their way to college. They all remind him of himself in their own way, and he’s starting to miss them already. MJ wants to study law and criminology, with a forensic biology minor. After Ned graduates he wants to study computer engineering, and Peter wishes he was so sure of himself like they were.

He doesn’t offer much.

It’s fine, because his friends have been helping him figure it out, hence them pushing him to apply to this photography scholarship and contest. Every time he dares to bring up a double major in STEM and photography, his advisors laugh in his face and shut him down. They make it nearly impossible to talk, but his friends are there for him and remind him he can go at his own pace, reminding him he has his alter-ego to worry about.

Peter pulls the car off into a dirt road, surprised he even knows how to drive as a Queens dweller. They follow a path, Ned gripping onto his door handle. “Oh, G-d, Peter. Be careful! Look, there’s a squirrel!”

“Ned,” he gulps, Michelle smirking at their cowardice from the backseat of the car.

“Come on, it’s just dirt,” she suggests, and quirks her brow from an idea. Once the car is silent besides the lowered music, she jumps out and yells in Ned’s ear to watch out.

He jumps, yelling, “that isn’t cool!” and throws something back at her while Peter finds a spot on the side of the mountain. He slams on the brakes to shut them up, their petulant arguing coming to an end once they see the scenic rest stop.

As promised, his friends let him push them around and guide them like cattle to get the perfect shots. He crouches across the parking lot away from them, hearing their hushed whispers and laughters about how ridiculous he looks. “It’s for the aesthetic, okay!”

He opts for the colored film, replacing the entire roll of 50 they used just on the drive here. He shuts the back of the film camera, reeling the film roll until it catches, and finds the perfect shot of his friends whispering and slowly becomes entranced by the actual scenic view. He captures the sky from a new perspective, blocking out all of his surroundings.

He shows his friends the sky, he shows them the car headlights shining on their hearts, and the sun shining on their faces. He captures the muddled sunshine through Michelle’s curls, a blush forming on her face from the camera being too close along with Peter holding it.

His heart skips a beat every time he photographs Michelle, finding a new beautiful thing about her to be lovestruck over.

He takes portraits of the both of his best friends, planning on printing all of these photos 100 times to hang them in his room, to give to them, and to place all over the photography critique and display wall. He sat on the cold gravel road and his friends had to dust him off. His photos look how he feels swinging off of buildings at night, finding one billboard sign, like outside of Matt’s apartment that illuminates the entire block in oversaturated neons. There weren’t iron bars and concrete filling the frame like his photos from the city, it was green trees with branches draping above them, brushing across their faces, a palette of turquoise, grays, and greens.

Peter brought color into the achromatic, washed out world.

There was a photograph he knew he was going to print to become poster-sized, the subject blown up huge because he wanted to reach out into the photo itself, not yet developed. He imagines his hands in the chemical infested waters, bleach and fixer pouring down his hands. 

Ned and MJ both hang their abdomens off of the large metal railing, rockfall barriers they wrap around, the mountains blurred horizontally in the back. MJ’s hair carefully drapes over the edge of the railing, blowing in the wind. Ned stares past him, suspended in air right behind Michelle. The bars are set impossibly straight, but MJ and Ned’s body destroy the thirds in a beautiful, alluring way. Their arms dared to swing over the edge of the mountainside, throwing them into the flesh if the barred metal wasn’t holding them. Too close to the edge, too close to the sky.

“I got it,” he pants, unbelievably bashed at the one click of the shutter. The focal point is always set to 50mm and an aperture of 1.8. 

It was like chemistry, physics, it was Murphy’s Law; Whatever can happen in his film roll, will happen. 

He lowers the camera down from his face, MJ and Ned already out of there poses, he finds them smiling at him.

---

As promised in an unsaid way, MJ, Ned, and Peter cling onto each other to get the hang of skating. They each hurt themselves at least once quickly leaning over to lace their own skates leaning out of the car, parking nearby the lake and hiking across the icy-snow to get to the icy lake. The area is empty, and the mountains hover above them through the trees, sending a chill their way.

Not before long after testing the ice themselves and deeming it safe by the signs, they’re gliding along the icy lake and pulling each other down in each desperate tug to stay upright.

Ned points out, “I thought you were good at ice-skating! You’re Spider-Man!”

“Exactly!” he shrieks back, his left leg gliding in front of him causing him to flail his arms to find balance. “I web-swing! I don’t ice skate for a reason.”

Peter clears his throat, gliding over to MJ who watches Ned with a relaxed smile while he skates around the perimeter. Out of the three of them, he picks skating up the quickest, naturally fleeting over the ice with precision. “It’s not nice to hover, you know.”

He whips his head to the side to look at her, his ADHD brain reminding him it’s a joke and she’s messing with him before he falls into his own spiral of self-doubt. He smiles at her, her beige puffy coat covering her chin and she smiles into the enclosed space, looking up at him. Her hands are in her pocket, and he reaches playfully to warm his own hands up in the jacket.

“Uh, so--” he clears his throat, “it’s so cold out, right? I mean, the temperature is around freezing and we spent an hour in the mountains--”

“Yep, cold.”

“I had a lot of fun, like, I know we’re best friends and all and I’d do anything for you guys, but what you both did-- I got the perfect shot. I really did it,” he talks lamely, wondering how he still stumbles over his words around his crush he kissed in Europe. “You know, I’m probably just.. I think I’ll go take more pictures? I’ve never felt so alive and nostalgic taking pictures, and like Uncle Ben used to tell me-- Okay, I can’t take you looking at me like this.”

Amused, MJ smiles with his face too close to hers while they share body heat, hitching her shoulders. “You know I can hear your inner monologue, right?”

“It’s just-- you know, we’re hanging out. It’s not totally lame with me ruining it, we can forget this happened..”

She leans forward, leaning her forehead to his. “Do we have a reason not to?”

Right, yeah. They can do this, he thinks.

The feelings between them are confusing, and even though they’ve kissed, that was probably just a spur-of-the-moment thing, right? He did save her life and their friends, they were scared. And holding hands? That’s what all friends do-- 

His brain almost can’t process this all at once, and he thinks his cheeks can’t redden even more despite the cold and he’s sure she can see the tip of his ears burning pink-- 

He scrambles, nearly reeling back in the ice when she plants a kiss on his cheek. Her grin is huge, and she gently takes his hands out of her pockets and skates away, his heart rate struggles and he thinks this is how he’ll faint. From tachycardia. 

Ned’s voice fills overhead, and he grabs his camera from the side of the frozen lake to join them again. Persistent chills run down his spine, the misty freeze coming from the ground. They let Peter stand in the middle, lacing their hands together to skate in a chain, disastrously. It was at this moment the teenagers truly regretted not taking skating in Central Park seriously until last year, their skills unabashedly catastrophic, giving it up after they realized they can celebrate winter break inside, baking for everyone in the apartment building. 

The three of them realized Peter has his web-shooters equipped to their wrists when Ned clung onto him, nearly slipping and he tugged him up, and in their laughter released a web that shot into the snow across the lake. They stoof, starstruck, and could anyone blame them and their impulsivity? And so, what had started as simple skating to shoot film, documenting their lives beyond a surface-level way.

Ned retreats back to the sidelines, sitting a few feet away in the car on the side after skating for nearly an hour. The three of them pant in exhaustion, massaging their own limbs and stretching. Michelle attempted a jump on the ice while he went to go check on Ned, screeching and landing in an almost-split. 

He decided to keep quiet about the slight buzz that begins forming at the back of his head, crediting it to nearly slipping every five seconds on the ice. 

“Come take a break with me, I’m about to eat one of our many junk-food snacks until we can get lunch,” Ned offers after, he thinks he noticed the concern on his face from the haywire senses and doesn’t want to alert Michelle. He must suspect the way he starts shivering, too, so he sits in the passenger seat that faces the lake, besides Ned.

Ned looks at Peter, and he simply smiles back because he doesn’t want to worry his best friend. He chucks off his gloves, cleaning the camera from where it sat in ice and says he’ll be right back to take pictures in the smaller icy lake away from them.

He drags himself along the snow, taking big steps to account for the heavy skates on his feet towards the tiny icy lake besides them. He sees Ned and MJ gesture to each other, Michelle nodding her head towards him in concern, who makes eye contact with him and crosses her arms and makes a shivering motion in question. He shakes his head, sending a thumbs-up that he’s okay.

He’s reached the other side of the lake, taking pictures of Michelle skating from another angle in a snow covered patch. He shivers, the incessant cold gripping him. He feels it - a hitch, but it isn’t a shiver from the cold. He’s immediately retreating back when he hears a crunch, a kr, gripping his camera a bit tighter before throwing it to the side and he turns frantically, trying to locate the alert from his legs--

Closing his eyes, he listens to the noise of small ice particles separating, deciding where the safest spot to jump to is, letting his sense direct him somewhere else. He knew he was away from the mini lake, the frozen pond for this reason. It’s technically off the lake, but there must be a small terrain of water and he stumbles around the ice.

His skates are heavy on his aching feet, the snow seeping in from the sides that’s a few inches high, his heart racing in pure adrenaline. “MJ. Get off the ice now. Get off.”

“Peter, what--”

The glaze, icy surfaces are cracking beneath him, atoms shaking. His senses won’t stop screaming at him frantically, not guiding him except for up, and it might be too late to send his web-shooters above him, the shooters in the car with his gloves. He doesn’t have enough time to warn them to grab his web shooters for him before he’s crashing into the ground, through ice and water.

He suspends in the water, the cold engulfing his entire body, it’s unlike any cold he’s felt before, even after being trapped in snow after a fight with Mysterio. It’s unthinkable, striking his entire body. He blindly panics, pitch black in his vision and his throat burns raw as he screams. 

Get up, get up, get up-- swim, swim-- 

His body is being carved out by millions of pinpricks, the cold seeping into his body and chilling his bones and the shock gouges his brain. The skates cause him to be less buoyant, his heavy legs scraping ice and getting stuck with each desperate kick and flutter to get to the surface.

He watches the bubbles rise up in the water from his mouth, screaming he can’t hear himself underwater. He didn’t have the chance to suck in a breath, his exhalation running out and twisting and tearing at his lungs. Each cell screams breathe--

He can’t hear anymore. 

Loud ringing replaces his senses, he reaches blindly upwards and his heart rattles in his chest. The freezing temperature below the ice seizes his body. He jackknifes upwards, realizing his movement is clumsy and unreflexive.

His left skate becomes stuck in a chunk of ice, and he’s back in Europe for a moment. Heat blindly covers his face, the sensation all lost. Behind his closed eyes, a hot summer heat casts over him, but he’s being burned from Mysterio sending fire his way. He’s on Titan again, cells ripping to shreds again.

He lets himself succumb to the drowsiness, reaching up once last time to feel around as the opening of the ice flees. Even if he did make it out, his lungs feel too full in his chest, he’d need to get rid of all the liquid from his lungs fast, hoping he doesn’t asphyxiate.

He thinks he sees shadows dancing above him in the water, he’s hopeful his friends would dare reach inside for him, but it wouldn’t be fair for him. He’s drifting, he slowly diminishes away and he’s so far away from them, a dizzying sunlight blinding him and allowing him to close his eyes once more. His brain shuts off, and his senses stop screaming and allow him to let go - the panic leaves him.

He thinks he’s dreaming when he feels a hand in his, another grabbing his wrist. This can’t be right, he’s about to fall asleep into the world of unconsciousness. He’s too weak to fight the tug upwards, seeing stars all in front of him. A black canvas streaked with colors, twinkling in the night sky. He thinks he hits the air again, but he can’t take a breath in so it must not be real. He feels his body being tossed down onto the ground like a ragdoll, dragging through the snow that feels hot, lava on his skin. Is he eulogizing himself, a cynical last vision that he truly did live?

His vision comes back, he thinks, unable to cough and his legs feel ready to burst inside his body. He’s turned to his side, snowflakes falling from the sky. He thinks he can see very single snowflake in front of him, dancing for him, he thinks behind the ringing he can hear shouting, wake up! 

He wants to listen to each voice, millions of seconds passing between each frantic shout. He.. he must be allowed to close his eyes.. He wants to be taken back to the lake after succumbing to rest. He falls, stars accompanying him.

---

MJ’s boots begin to slip on the edge of the ice, bits of icicles falling into the water where Peter thrashes. “Shit, shit, shit,” she cries out, perching herself safely to grab onto his hand in the water with Ned searching frantically for his web-shooters and anything else they can use to pull Peter out of the water with.

After a minute, she’s dragging him out of the water with newfound strength, watching his blue body retreat from the water and she screams out, sobbing now. She won’t give up. She won’t give up on him, Aunt May, or on them.

“Hang off, babe, I’ve got you,” she says, looking down at him as he desperately tries to gasp for air. She begins chest compressions, unable to think. She never thought she’d be fast on the spot for an emergency, but she thinks she screams at Ned to call 911, forgetting he’s still on the line with them.

Once she gets a pulse, she and Ned carry Peter to the car. They frantically cover his body in every coat and blanket they find, thanking G-d May has spares in the trunk in case of an emergency. She shrugs her coat off, leaving her sweater on. She springs herself into the backseat, Ned doing the same in the front with the heat already blasting. She’s frantically explaining to whoever is on the other end of the phone, voice breaking as she begs for help. “He’s- he’s breathing on his own now, but he’s blinking at us. What do I do--”

A few minutes pass, she’s not sure how she hasn’t passed out yet. May’s murmuring in her ear through the phone, that Tony is talking to Ned while he drives and that he’s going to talk to her next. She’s pretty sure she agrees, but she’s curled up around Peter, his body on her lap. She gives him warmth, listening to Tony spew medical terminology at her and how to treat hypothermia. 

“You’re gonna be okay. I promise. You can’t die on us,” she whispers into the air, the car engine roaring.

--

Once Peter returns, he wonders if he’s dead when he’s conscious again. His brain registers warmth and lumps beneath him. He blearily opens his eyes, the action too much, his head is in someone’s lap. They run their hands gently through his cold hair. He feels hands around his socked-feet, and he furrows his brows in confusion. He begins to shift a little, feeling a gentle pressure on his arm and leg. There’s warmth all around his body, which is heavy but safe, it's as safe as May’s arms, Ben’s arms during a thunderstorm that shook the building, Tony’s arms after Titan. He closes his eyes, moaning and he’s ready to drift--

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” May sighs above him.

His first thought is to gasp for air, coughing and feeling his lungs clattering in his chest, his sternum erupting in pain. It feels like a hacksaw to his sternum when he breathes. 

He whimpers quietly, hearing soft shushing above him. It’s a different sound from the constant headache of the ringing, but he hears the familiar whirr of the refrigerator and picks up four familiar heartbeats. His heart feels surmounted by grief, over the sea, left far away.

He blinks his eyes open past tears, recognizing the bookcase in front of him in the living room of the apartment, with a warm body at his feet on the couch. He’s in May’s lap, “Peter, hey,” May says softly, grounding him by placing a hand on his back. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

She places her chin to his hair, sighing, and he sags into her arms. He thinks his feet are in Tony’s lap, his foot catching his side.

“Oh, kiddo,” Tony soothes, squeezing his foot gently. 

“MJ? Ned?” He rasps out, no voice there and he turns frantically.

“Don’t worry, baby,” May says softly, he almost didn’t catch it. “MJ’s asleep in the chair besides Tony, Ned’s asleep in the other. We’re all crashing from adrenaline.

His head pounds at his movements, his arms feel sluggish, but he pushes himself off of May to find his friends, safe. “Oh-- fuck. Thank, G-d.”

“Language,” May admonishes kindly, settling him further into the couch comfortably by shifting pillows. “How are you feeling?”

Noticing hers and Tony’s eyes on him, searching, both their phones to the side of them and the window allowing pink and purple streaks inside, painting the furniture and the gold illustrating each facial feature of theirs. His friends sleep in the shadows, covered in soft blankets.He switches gazes between them. Tony moves him gently, wrapping his blankets tightly around him.

He’s guessing May removed some of his soaking clothes, exchanging his clothes and he notices the fresh white cotton t-shirt on his body, smelling of fresh fabric softener. 

“Kid, you’re going to give me an aneurysm one of these days. Or, better yet, you’re going to burst my arteries yourself.” He fixed Peter with a pointed look, sighing. “I mean, you’re almost in college. I shouldn’t still be doing this.”

Everything he says comes off lightheartedly, but every word is laced with concern. He desperately wants to get argue back, but he knows today is his fault. He ignored his senses, and he doesn’t have a good enough excuse. Would he have been able to save his friends if it happened to them?

Like Tony can sense exactly what he’s thinking, he continues to assure him. “You’re hypothermic. You were blue, Pete, but your dislocated knee mixed in isn’t the worst you’ve done..”

He sighs, looking away from Tony and opting to listen to the kettle in the kitchen, May shifting his head off of her lap and into the couch cushion to it off and stares at Tony’s phone on the table.

“It was stupid, I know. I’m so sorry, everyone,” he finally says, none of the words being announced like he wants, his throat tender and unhealed, lifting his head off the pillow and moans in pain. He’s able to sit up, leaning heavily against a pillow with his elbow propping him up. He ignores the piercing pain in his ribs. ”I checked the water. I-- I wasn’t thinking, I guess.”

Tony sounded as frantic as he did back when he first yelled at him after the nearly-disastrous ferry incident. “That’s part of the problem. You are thinking, kid. You’d never do this willfully. You always jump the gun, which is something also great about you.. It can also be a great flaw.”

“Did they get hurt?” he whispers, turning back to the two teens on the smaller one-person couches.

“Nobody except for you, kiddo,” May reassures him, walking back in with a steaming mug in her hands. He takes this moment to redirect his gaze to his arm when he grabs it, his stiff elbow poked with a needle. “IV, baby. Needed to warm you up with warm saline.”

She sighs, sitting on the glass coffee table in front of him and not bothering to move the newspaper. “We’re worried, Peter. I can’t protect you like I need to, want to.” 

He collapses back down into the pillow, oblivious to May and Tony’s secret communication with each other. May, nodding for Tony to sit beside her and in front of Peter. It probably isn’t comfortable for him, but he looks over to May for answers. She furrows her brows, her mouth set in a line.

He almost smiles, seeing the two of them in front of him again when he’s not dying. The relief quickly turns to worry when he remembers what happened, guilt refusing to subside. He’s huddled in the couch, like a cold, rejected dog, signs of frostbite all over him. It’s his own fault - he didn’t listen to his sense. The dark, insidious fear of death looms over his head once more, he really scared his friends today. And himself.

Murphy’s Law comes back to his head, an anxiety swirling in his stomach. It’s an ugly, black hurricane feeling, especially seeing the dejection and defeat written on both their faces. 

“I--” he can’t manage, but the two of them see hesitation flicker across his face, voice too quiet and broken. “I’m just- I messed up. T’ny ta-taught me so much, I didn’t listen--” he cuts himself off, his voice unrecognizable, eyes widening in surprise, a realization.

“It was all my f’ult. I sc’red them, badly.” Pressing himself deeper into the corner of the pillow, tears overflow his eyes, hot streaks across his face he doesn’t expect. A shiver racks through him, not from the cold.

Tony leans over closer to him, his breath warm even through the blankets and on his exposed arm, his own hand hovering above him in hesitation, the inhibition set across his face. His mentor takes a deep breath in, gently grabbing the back of the couch and placing a kiss to the top of his head. He must’ve really fucked up today, he thinks.

He watches the fear streak across Tony’s eyes, too familiar to Titan. Peter feels deeply rooted in the couch, frozen solid from his core. He doesn’t know what the end of the story is, fear ebbing away, and he really looks at Peter face on. “I’m sorry.”

Peter feels frustrated again, just like the morning when half the world that died was brought back, feeling alone. 

He lets his tears take over him, letting May hold him on the couch, feeling too weak to do anything else. She ends up pulling Peter into her lap again, rubbing circles on her shoulder and letting her own tears escape from her eyes, some falling onto his white t-shirt. He trembles under her, Tony reaching over to squeeze his hand, the arm with an IV. He soothes small circles with his thumb, drawing patterns on his skin and turns to May with owlishly wide eyes.

“It’s alright, kiddo,” Tony whispers. “We’ve got you. May’s got you. Your friends are right here. You’re right here.”

It takes some time, but eventually Peter falls asleep like that, May and Tony’s vice-like grip never once loosening on him.

[rockinlibrarian]

Three Survey Memes

@e_louise_bates tagged me once directly and twice indirectly (I mean, since I'm already typing something here I might as well do the others too), so here. Please feel free to comment! I like discussions!

Survey One (what I was actually tagged for): Name my top ten favorite characters from ten different fandoms.

I feel like the way this is phrased, I should pick ten fandoms first and then narrow them down to the characters, so that's what I did. It's an easier way to find my favorite characters, anyway.

1. From Harry Potter: Luna Lovegood, obviously

2. From Tolkien: Samwise Gamgee, obviously

3. From the MCU: Peggy Carter, most obviously of all

4. From Star Wars: This is a product of me picking fandoms first, and then discovering I don't have an OBVIOUSLY answer this time. But when you get right down to it, I've always had a special place in my heart for Obi Wan.

5. From Diana Wynne Jones: Sophie Hatter. Stealing one from Louise there, but again, obviously.

6. From L.M. Montgomery: Stealing the fandom from Louise that time, but I on the other hand have to stick with Anne Shirley, because she may top my fave character list, period.

7. From Jane Austen: Rev. Henry Tilney, NOT stealing from Louise because again, OBVIOUSLY, as she well knows, too. :D

8. From Discworld: DEATH. This was hard, because as soon as I started thinking of Discworld, so many MUST INCLUDES came up. Tiffany! DEATH's granddaughter, whose name I totally had a minute ago when I first thought of it but now has suddenly slipped my mind as I'm typing it (my brain now keeps trying to tell me it's "Karen" but that feels utterly wrong Her last name's Sto-Helit. I think. EDIT: SUSAN! Of course. The second I hit "post")! Sam Vimes, one of the other great Sams of fiction! But who's there and perfect and wonderful through all of it? DEATH. So I'm sticking with that.

9. Uh, other Marvel properties that aren't the MCU: I just have to shout out again to the Loudermilk twins from Legion. They count as one person because they sort of are, and because their chemistry together just MAKES them, even though they both individually are pretty fun, too (Cary's dorkiness and Kerry's innocent enthusiasm for beating people up). There was like a block of three or four episodes this season without them and it nearly ruined the whole season for me.

10. No particular fandom I'm aware of but no list of favorite characters is complete without: Blossom Culp. From the books by Richard Peck.

SURVEY TWO, a writing one:

1. When did you start writing and how? In first grade I had this dream about a disgruntled Santa's elf taking our church hostage on Christmas Eve. It was a great dream, so I decided to turn it into a book. Recently I decided to revisit it-- the basic plot, at least-- as a picture book. And for some stupid reason I decided it needed to be in verse. It might work some day.

Early on all my story ideas came from dreams, actually. Still today, my subconscious does most of my story-creating. Last night I had one about this huge family that lived in a mansion with a public pool in it and had all sorts of hijinks. They were great. They lived on Chalk Street and the oldest girl's boyfriend was named Granger the Ranger. Anyhoo.

2. What is your favorite line from your own work? It's got to be "Concentration leads to Meditation leads to Levitation leads to Aviation," because that's just a way of life.

I'm also partial to anything at all that Billy Boyd says in the Pipeweed Mafia Stories.

3. Who is your writing idol, and how have they influenced you? Hmm, I wouldn't call Madeleine L'Engle my writing idol, but she has influenced me the most, with her way of seeing the cosmic in the very small and the individual in the cosmic. And I named my daughter after her. But my Patron Saint of Writing whom I occasionally call on for intervention is Diana Wynne Jones. I don't know why. She just seems to be who I need to get my writing juices flowing.

4. Which oc has the best family (found or otherwise)? Of my characters? Hmm, I've never really focused much on family in my works. Even found family. I guess Billy 'Arrison's uncle IS George Harrison, so probably that.

5. Which oc has the most satisfying ending to their story? Ah, I'm terrible at endings. None of my characters has an ending to their story, not just because most of my works have never been finished, but because I keep thinking of things that happen to them later. NO ENDINGS.

6. If you’ve gotten feedback on your writing, who is your readers’ favorite character? If not who do you think readers will fall in love with? Well, no questions there. Billy 'Arrison. I mean look how often he's come up already in this survey. If you ask anybody whose ever read my work to name ANY of my original characters, they will go with Billy. Heck, people who HAVEN'T actually read his story would pick Billy.

7. Which tropes (eg. Friends to lovers, fake death, white haired pretty boy) do you always find yourself wanting to write? All my stories tend to have the theme of disparate people becoming friends through having an adventure together. I recently wondered if that's because I've always thought friendship would be easier if you could cut out all the small talk, and having an adventure leaves no time for small talk.

8. What goes through your head when writing a scene? The... scene? Also, random entirely unrelated stuff. Because I have ADHD. My brain is impossible to follow anywhere.

9. How specific is your idea of your characters’ appearance usually? Do you draw them? (If so can we see it?) Facial features are usually fairly foggy to me. I get general shape and color, so, like, what their hair looks like, their size, their race. I get their sense of style, too-- often I give them a signature item of clothing whether in my mind or in the text. I've drawn a few of my characters, yes, but I'm not particularly good at drawing consistently.

10. What are you proudest of as a writer? That I can occasionally look back at things I have written and be delighted by them as a reader. Unfortunately most of these things I have written continue to not be finished.

SURVEY THREE, also about writing:

1. How many works in progress do you currently have? That depends on your definition of "in progress." If you mean ACTUALLY IN PROGRESS, zero. Zip. Unless you count a couple of GeekMom articles I have in the planning stage. Or unless you count not-writing. I have a living room renovation in progress at the moment.

How many works do I have in an incomplete status that I plan to get back to eventually? Hmmm. At least five.

2. Do you/would you write fanfiction? I'm not INTO fanfiction but I do/have written a few pieces when they occur to me. There's of course the Pipeweed Mafia, which is a mix of Inklings fanfic and real people fanfic. You could count me writing George Harrison into Billy's background real people fic. One of my works in possible occasional progress is a Firefly fic about how Zoe fell in love with Wash. Oh, I should have put Firefly on my list of fandoms above, just so I could name Kaylee. KAYLEE, people. But I haven't written fic about her. Anyway. I also once wrote a very short prompt response X-Files fic that always delights me. It's silly, and yet in character.

3) Do you prefer paper books or ebooks? Paper.

4) When did you start writing? First grade.

5) Do you have someone you trust that you share your work with? A few people. It depends on the type of work, who would be the best fit for it. Louise is in fact one.

6) Where is your favorite place to write? Someplace where I don't have real life demands calling on me. Oddly enough, I think I got some of my best writing done while working at the Children's Museum, during downtime. On slow days I'd write a scene on the back of my schedule. A page a day really adds up! Of course, on busy days that was unthinkable!

7) Favorite childhood book? Have I mentioned A Wrinkle In Time?

8) Writing for fun or publication? Depends on where I am in life. Now, it is for fun, unless it is an article.

9) Pen and paper or computer? First drafts pen and paper. Then putting it together on the computer.

10) Have you ever taken any writing classes? Yeah, I had some writing courses in college, and I also took correspondence courses twice.

11) What inspires you to write? Ideas. As I mentioned, I get a lot of ideas from dreams. But there's also, like, a swelling of words in my brain that needs to come out through my hands every so often. I called it "writeritis" as a kid, and I guess I still do.

TAGGING: Whoever. You know who you are, if any of this resonates with you!