#or play an entire series with a punctured lung and multiple broken ribs and once they retire it's a normal

[umflowers]

re: lewis' comments about qatar, please remember this is a man known for being exceptionally thoughtful about his actions and how they impact others, who nonetheless posts pictures of his very sculpted professional athlete's body, pinching the literal skin on his stomach with captions about how it's stubborn fat that he can't seem to exercise off. professional athletes do not view their bodies as bodies, which deserve care and concern. they view their bodies as the key to their high performance and ability to win, which they are addicted to. it quite literally doesn't occur to them to slow down and recognize what the body needs to be healthy. no professional athlete should be trusted with their own safety.

[bearfeathers]

A friend and I were discussing sports injuries, and she mentioned that hockey players are notorious for finishing out entire seasons before some AWFUL injuries are finally discovered, and I was curious if any of your favs have had some memorable ones?

They absolutely are notorious for this. Especially when it's Cup time. They're hedgy about injuries even at the best of times, but during the playoffs? You won't hear a peep. The culture is such that they're praised for playing through the pain and sacrificing for the team, but it's extremely unhealthy. These guys literally destroy their bodies for their sport. All athletes do, really, but hockey players in particular are made of something else.

I think the one that sticks out to me for Chara was playing with multiple jaw fractures (held together with plates and screws!) during the 2019 Cup run after getting hit in the face with a puck. He played another year with broken fingers and finished another season with a fractured fibula.

Bergeron played through an entire series one year with a separated shoulder, broken rib and punctured lung. Greg Campbell once finished out a PK with a broken leg after using his body to block a shot.

Hockey players are insane.

[mandadoration]

you’re a fine girl - ii

summary: Agent Whiskey would really like you to say his real name for once, and you refuse, playing this little game of his until he finally makes you say it. The circumstances for it aren’t exactly ideal, though. 

word count: 2, 014

pairing: agent whiskey (Jack Daniels) x reader

warnings: canon-typical violence (and then some), swearing

a/n: With how short this series is, I’ve decided not to change the summary for each chapter :)

chapters: i | ii 

Read this on AO3

You’re stuck in your office doing paperwork and sorting through various agent requests nearly the entire time Whiskey is gone, and you thank whatever higher power is out there because you can’t help but rerun the memory of the tangible fear that flashed through his face when he visited you in the office right before he left. You looked through the mission debrief again an hour after his flight’s scheduled departure, skimming for any notable information that you might have missed, even if you could recite it by memory. The only notable thing is that Ginger had written down that the arms dealer had a branch in the drug trade-- something that apparently Whiskey knew due to some run-ins prior to his assignment. You knew of his past with drugs and his family, the memory of the first time you read about it in his file making your heart ache for him. Other than that, you don’t know what had gotten him so riled up. He’s gone on much more dangerous missions before, and it’s not the first one that had dealt with drugs. You had requested Ginger to let you know if anything important pops up while she supervises Whiskey’s mission as casually as possible, knowing that if you had asked if you could keep up with him yourself it would look highly suspicious. But Ginger had nodded with that knowing smile of hers and told you that you would be the first to know if something happened. 

So here you are now three days later, running on cat naps and coffee for the fear that you might miss something, once again denying Gin’s request for 200 proof alcohol. Every now and then your gaze flicks over to the black Stetson still sitting on your desk. You won’t lie that the urge to put it on has plagued you once or twice, but you haven’t given in to it. You jolt when Ginger’s request for a video call pops up on your screen, and your heart sinks as you accept it. 

“Ginger, what--”

“Whiskey is coming in hot with injuries,” she says, voice breathless and she types something on her computer. “Headed straight for medical. Triple is keeping it contained and under control, and Club Soda is on standby at the hangar to wheel him straight into theatre for emergency operation.” Your nails dig into the wood of your desk. 

“How long until he gets here?” you dare to ask, voice shaky as you give a once over to the medical report that Soda is typing up in real time on your second screen to see the extent of his injuries.

Multiple gunshot wounds. 

Fractured/bruised ribs. 

Fractured left tibia. 

Broken left fibula. 

Dislocated both hips. 

Poss. punctured lung. 

Poss. concussion/head injuries.

Risk of--

And you swipe the screen away as you feel nausea rolling in your stomach with each line that Soda fills out. 

“9 minutes and counting,” Ginger says. You clench your jaw. 

“Why didn’t we hear about this before?” you grit out. “Madrid is 9 hours away at most--”

“They’re coming in on the Blackbird,” she interrupts. “Fastest plane we could get in Spain, and they brought a doctor on board. He’s been holding steady for 4 hours.”

“That doesn’t explain why we didn’t--”

“Whiskey had requested the information remain private until he was close enough,” Ginger says. “He… he didn’t want to worry you.” You swear, and slam your fist on your desk, unconcerned with how Ginger could construe it. Agents come in hurt all the time. It came with the job and plenty of agents were bull-headed. Whiskey was just another agent coming in from just another mission with another run-of-the-mill complication.

You know in your heart that’s not true. 

“I’m meeting him in the hangar,” you say sharply, and you end the call just as Ginger starts protesting. You grab your jacket and sling it over your shoulders as you practically sprint down the hallways. The hangar was at least ten minutes away from your position in the intelligence wing, and Whiskey was, by now, seven minutes away. 

You somehow make it in five. 

Soda is already there in his scrubs with three other attendants with a gurney ready to wheel Whiskey away when he arrives, and the four are in a hushed, serious conversation that stops immediately when Tonic spots you storm in. She steps in your path to try and stop you.

“Brandy, what are you--”

You push past her and walk straight up to Soda, which sports a scared expression when you shove a finger in his face. “Did you know about this?” you demand, you voice echoing in the hangar. “Did you know he was coming in hurt?” Tears burn in your eyes that you quickly blink away. 

“No, no!” Soda stammers, hands up in surrender. “I was told, like, 15 minutes ago, I swear!” You’re about to rip him a new one when the hangar starts to buzz as the Blackbird starts to fly in and prepare for landing. Soda snaps to attention, barking orders at Tonic and Seltzer to radio in the theatre and prep for the incoming patient, and waving over Vermouth to help him with the gurney. Air whips around you as the four work with brutal efficiency, climbing up the stairs to the plane before it fully locks in and carrying Whiskey down with Triple Sec and what you assume is the doctor stumbling after them, blood smeared all over their hands and clothes. You immediately rush over as Vermouth is putting an oxygen mask over Whiskey’s mouth. 

Frankly, he looks like shit. 

There’s blood and dirt all over Whiskey, his suit torn open and messy from the patchwork job done on the plane. His moaning something unintelligible, slurred with pain as the one eye not swollen shut glazes over, and he fumbles around in disorientation. You barely keep up with the gurney as they wheel him fast as possible through the underground hallways, shouting at people to move out of their way, and you stumble once or twice when you don’t dare to take your eyes off of him. Soda practically punches the button for the emergency elevator that takes them deeper underground to the medical wing, swearing to high heaven about how they should build a medical center on each level, and Soda actually does punch the button for the floor of the medical wing when the elevator doors open and they shove everyone in. 

Whiskey’s eyes are fluttering, hissing in pain when Seltzer keeps firm pressure on the largest wound on his side, blood sluggishly dripping to the floor. He’s reaching around, looking for something, even as the other attendants try to hold him down. There’s an awful feeling building in your chest as you watch him struggle. Whiskey eventually lands a hand on your arm, digging his nails in, but it falls as he keeps searching. You call his name, softly, grabbing ahold of the hand that’s been flailing around, warm and wet with his blood, and bring his hand up to cup your face. You don’t mind that it paints you red.

“Jack.”

And Whiskey calms down. His grip tightens a fraction in yours, and he lolls his head to look at you, eyes just the slightest more focused than they were before. 

“Darling,” he rasps. Despite the obvious discomfort, Whiskey reaches into the pocket that lines the inside of his tattered jacket and pulls something out, and he presses it into your hands just in time before the elevator dings and the doors open. His hand slips from yours, unable to keep a hold with the slick blood, and he’s gone down into surgery before you can properly react. The last thing you see of him is his eyes slipping shut.

The doors to the elevator have already closed by the time you unfreeze, and your fingers ache as you force them to unfurl to see what Whiskey had given you. 

Even covered in blood, the thin, braided silver chain shines in the light of the elevator, a small pendant with a moon carved into it. There’s a crumpled up slip of paper in your shaking hands as well, and when you manage to unfold it, you can barely make out Whiskey’s handwriting past the bloodstains. 

For Brandy, my finest girl. 

It takes Tequila calling the elevator back to the main floor to finally find you collapsed against the furthest wall.

---

“Alright, honey,” Ginger murmurs, sweet and low in her throat, “let’s get you cleaned up.” 

After Tequila had discovered you with drying blood over your clothes, he had practically carried you to Ginger’s office with some kind of knowing look on his face that’s rather uncharacteristic of someone that regularly goes square dancing for the hell of it. But you’re too caught up in your head to really process anything except the last glance you got of Agent Whiskey, bruised and battered from a mission gone awry over and over again. Tequila knows he’s got god-awful bedside manners, and has resigned himself to standing by in case you start to tip over. Again. You’ve got a bruised knee to attest to that. 

You’ve long since given up trying to get the two to leave you alone. Ginger wipes the bloody handprint from your face with a warm wet rag, tilting your chin with a gentle hand, glancing at you every now and then from where she kneels in front of you. 

“Ginger,” you sigh. “I’m fine, really.” She fixes you with a hard stare that screams Yeah, right. “Seriously.”

“If you’re fine, why are you shaking?” she asks bluntly. You frown, but clench your fists to try and ground yourself. Ginger shakes her head and sits back on her heels. “Brandy, it’s okay to be worried.”

“Who says I’m worried?” you say much too fast. She motions to your face. 

“You get a little indent right here between your brows when you fuss,” she says. You scowl and reach up a hand to feel for it, but she grabs your wrist before you can smear the tacky blood on your face. You lower it back to your lap and let her wipe off most of the blood. 

“I’m just… pissed I wasn’t informed because Whiskey was afraid he’d hurt my feelings,” you say bitterly. “I’m the intelligence supervisor, these agents are under my protection, and if I don’t know everything that’s going on, and someone gets hurt, that’s my fault.” You clench your jaw. “How am I supposed to do my job if someone’s trying to put roadblocks in front of me? They need to understand that what I do is in their best interest, and that I’m perfectly capable of pushing aside emotions to deal with the problem. They need to trust me.”

“You think we don’t do things in your best interest either?” Tequila asks. You look at where he’s leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. “Trust is two-way street, Brandy. It sounds more like you don’t trust Whiskey to get shit done.” You open your mouth to argue back, but he holds up a hand and keeps talking. “If Whiskey had told you that he was coming in, in that serious condition, no less, that you would’ve been able to keep your head straight on your shoulders to keep working until he got here?” 

“Yes!” you answer incredulously. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Really? You wouldn’t have been running around like a headless chicken if you had heard that by the time he got here, he very well could’ve been dead on arrival?” You balk. 

“Tequila,” Ginger hisses. 

“Medical would’ve taken care of him,” you grit out. 

“That’s if they got here on time,” Tequila says. “Face it, Brandy. You would’ve freaked the fuck out if you had been told as soon as he radioed in.” 

You laugh humorlessly. “You’re a real son of a bitch, Tequila.” You stand up abruptly in your chair and shove past him, leaving red marks when you open the door. 

---

Forever Tag: @mabelleen @mando-vibes @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore @lavenderl3mons​

you’re a fine girl Tag: @mrsparknuts​

[allonsysilvertongue]

Always Done What You Say

This was how it began - Tony Stark had called on Peter Parker for a mission while he was out with May except the mission did not end the way anyone imagined or hoped it would, and now Peter’s life has been pulled out from under him.  Previously

Chapter 2

“Kid?”

He struggled to keep his voice calm, no sense escalating the situation, even when Peter had failed to answer him.

“Standby,” he informed the medical responders on scene, engaging his thrusters and hovering a few feet off the ground. “There are casualties.”

With that, he shot off, flying towards where Natasha had identified her location earlier before Tony sent her off after the Hulk. The kid was there, on his knees, clutching a hand so tightly. On his viewfinder, the image of a familiar bracelet was magnified – a bracelet that Pepper had helped the kid picked out for May’s birthday two months before Squidward & Co paid a visit, two months before Thanos. With everything that had happened – losing Peter and half of the universe, and bringing them back – that felt like a lifetime ago.

May had never taken the bracelet off, especially after she thought Peter was lost to her, and that bracelet on that hand Peter was holding tight right now told Tony all he needed to know.

May was trapped beneath that gigantic, fallen billboard that Steve, Scott and Clint were trying to lift without causing any further damage to those pinned under it.

On his comms, he could hear their grunts and Peter’s pleas.

Tony landed, palms out. He activated heat scanners, identifying four people beneath it.

“Rhodes, four identified,” he informed so the information could be relayed to the medical responders. “Injuries unknown yet…”

Steve glanced up at the sound of his voice and gave Tony a nod, giving him the all clear to cut through the billboard with his lasers.

“One here, here and there,” Tony gestured at his team members.

With that information in mind, Steve lifted and pushed his portion away, allowing Clint to immediately scoop a little boy, his arm stuck at an odd angle, out from under. Tony’s breath hitched, his fingers clenched. The boy was so young and while Tony wasn’t an expert on children, he was sure the kid couldn’t be more than ten.

“Oh God,” Scott heaved, pressing a fist to his mouth.

Tony remembered then. Scott has a young daughter and the image of that boy… It was a parent’s worst nightmare.

There was a woman, face covered with dirt, looking at them with panic in her eyes. She struggled to speak, her legs pinned beneath a scaffold from the billboard.

“My – My baby,” she managed.

“He’s alright,” the words slipped before Tony could stop himself and her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing coming out in short, sharp wheezes. In his ears, Rhodey informed that he had dispatched medical teams over to their location.

From his peripheral vision, Clint was performing CPR – pressing on the boy’s chest and muttering a series of ‘come on, boy’ to himself.

“Okay, kid, you pull her out once I lift this alright?”

Steve’s voice brought him back to the scene in front of him.

He saw Peter nod once and with a grunt, Steve lifted the remaining portion of the billboard. Peter moved into action, reaching his hand under and curling it over her midsection before pulling her out and the howl that escaped his throat was a sound that Tony didn’t think he could ever forget.

By then, the medical units had arrived and Tony was vaguely aware of them pronouncing the boy dead despite Clint’s effort to save the child. The boy’s mother was loaded on a stretcher and quickly whisked away towards a waiting ambulance.

“Get me out of this, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Tony commanded. “Now.”

Once freed from his suit, he dropped on his knees next to Peter, two fingers pressing the side of May’s neck trying to find a pulse.

Please, please, he thought feverishly.

He felt it, faint and weak, but still there.

“She’s alive, kid,” Tony reported with a hand on Peter’s shoulder to … comfort him, provide him some strength… He didn’t know. There was no protocol for this that he could fall back on. “She’ll be alright.”

“Tony,” Clint called for his attention, nodding to the team of paramedics rushing towards them before directly addressing Peter. “Kid, you gotta let them take your aunt now, okay? People will start to make connections between Peter Parker and Spiderman if you don’t let your aunt go. Spiderman wouldn’t be this visibly upset about – “

That was cold. Even if Clint had a point, that was still cold.

“I don’t care,” Peter shot back, trying to hide the sniffles but they could still hear him inhale a shaky breath through their comms. “She’s – May’s – Look at her – oh God.”

How did she end up here in the first place?

Tony looked up briefly, wondering for a second if the electromagnetic wave that had disrupted his suit which he also assume must have toppled the billboard could have travelled this far out of the perimeter they had set up. There were civilians here – May, the boy and his mother – just on the fringes. They didn’t do enough.

He didn’t do enough. He had called on Spiderman. The kid’s phone had alerted him to Peter’s location – three minutes away from where the attack was taking place – and he had activated the kid. Of course May wouldn’t have gone home. Of course she would have stayed around, nearby, especially since her nephew was in the fight.

He should have never –

“Sir,” one of the paramedics jostled him slightly to get to May.

“We’re taking her upstate,” Tony announced, forcing his attention back on his young protégé and his aunt. “F.R.I.D.A.Y, alert the medical team at the compound. Run scans once we’re in the jet and send it to them.”

The medical teams on standby at the Headquarters had treated some of the worst injuries the Avengers sustained and it would be far better to have May close by for Peter’s sake. Clint managed to haul Peter up, holding him firmly by the shoulders to keep him upright and steady, moving him towards where Nat had flown the jet down. Bruce was there and he took one look at the unconscious woman being wheeled in before his gaze snapped to Spiderman.

Clint sat the kid down and the moment the jet took off, Peter’s fingers grappled the seam of his mask and pulled it off, revealing a horror-stricken, paled face teenager. He inched forward to take May’s hand into his own, holding on to her like a life-line.

“Scan complete,” F.R.I.D.A.Y announced into his personal channel.

“Report,” Tony requested as he watched Bruce administer a shot on May’s arm causing her entire body to slacken a minute later.

“Survival odds – 34%,” F.R.I.D.A.Y reported. It took all of his effort to school his features, to not let the sudden jolt in his heart or the sinking feeling in his stomach play across his face. “Spinal fracture detected. Cerebral hematoma noted. Broken ribs identified. Lungs are punctured. Comminuted humerus fracture of the right arm. Multiple contusions and abrasions.”

Tony reached out, holding on to the hand rail above him to collect himself. His gaze flickered to Peter sitting with his head bowed as if in a silent prayer, May’s hands held between his own, all the while unaware of his aunt’s chances.

“Do you think she’s in pain?”

Peter’s voice was small and worried. Gone was the abundance of energy and enthusiasm that usually accompanied his words.

Tony clasped his shoulder, squeezing it gently. His mind ran a mile a minute trying to think of something comforting to say, anything at all that could ease Peter’s worries but the words were stuck in his throat.

“We’re two minutes out,” Natasha announced.

May’s a fighter tho, so we’ll see...

As requested, I’m tagging you guys @stardemon39 @lokilovemail