#peter parker sickfic

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

Middle of the Night

cw: vomit

—————

It’s 2:17 in the morning when Peter wakes up with violent urgency, stumbling to the toilet in near-complete darkness. He’s not even entirely awake when he starts to vomit, his whole body trembling and coated in sweat. The nausea is so bad that he has to brace himself against the sink beside him to avoid braining himself on the back of the toilet every time he heaves.

Eventually, his legs can’t support him anymore, and he sprawls out on the cold tile floor, panting. He starts to gain awareness as he lies there, and he begins to reflect on how much actually just fucking came out of him. His stomach roars underneath his sweaty palm, giving him a heads up that there’s somehow more where that came from.

It takes almost all of his energy to sit up and hang his head over the water where he lets the spit just fall from his mouth. He guesses it was adrenaline that made him be able to run to the bathroom, because he’d never be able to do that right now. So, he sits there, feeling his dinner coil back up from wherever it thought it was going.

When it re-fills his stomach, the nausea washes over him again, and he can feel his face go grey. With a soft whimper, he wraps his arms around his middle and prepares for another go. Right on cue, his stomach lurches, sending another wave of partially digested seafood splashing into the murky water below.

The pressure makes him feel like he has to burp, so he tries, but he ends up violently puking instead. Go figure.

He hears an awful splattering noise that indicates he failed to aim in the darkness, and the heat of embarrassment claws up from his chest to his neck and flushed cheeks.

He lets his stomach rid itself of everything it needs to, only opening his mouth in the general direction of the toilet and just letting the puke spill out. It’s not his finest moment, he’ll admit, but he doesn’t feel good enough to care right now. On the other hand, he really hopes FRIDAY doesn’t snitch on him. He doesn’t necessarily want Tony to find him in his underwear, throwing up all the expensive food he’d just bought for him not even seven hours ago.

When his stomach feels relatively okay, he wipes his mouth and flushes the toilet. He struggles to stand more than he’s willing to admit, but when he’s braced against the sink once more, he blindly reaches over to turn on the light and brave the damage from earlier.

He winces at the sudden onslaught of light, and when his eyes finally adjust, he freezes completely.

Because what the actual hell.

Not only is there some vomit on the seat and each side of the floor beside the toilet, but also all over the wall behind it and on the porcelain lid he’d frantically flipped up in his adrenaline-fueled panic.

The sight is enough to make him suddenly retch over the sink, thankfully only bringing up a few pathetic splashes of stomach acid and bile. His arms shake where he’s holding himself up, and when he glances in the mirror, he hardly recognizes himself.

He knows that if he looks over at the toilet again, he’ll start the cycle anew, so he actually gives up. He hopes Tony will forgive him for just going back to bed, because that’s what he’s doing. Needs to do, really. He’s getting lightheaded, and if he passes out, FRIDAY really will snitch.

He drags himself back to bed, shivering even under two thick blankets. With his last strand of consciousness, he turns off his alarm for school in the morning. At the very least, he’ll miss his first class cleaning his bathroom, anyway.

Not even a second later, he’s out cold. He doesn’t so much as stir until hours later when he wakes to the sound of someone’s distant voice. He groans, pressing his face against the mattress beneath him. The voice grows more insistent, echoing. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that his stomach feels like it’s rotting, but he can’t quite do anything about it yet.

Finally, the voice reaches his ears at a somewhat normal volume, and the rude reality of consciousness envelops him. The memories of last night all flood in, making him cringe and feel sort of like throwing up right where he’s lying.

“Peter,” the voice says again. Peter now knows it’s Tony. He hums, drawn out and tortured, letting Tony know he heard him. “C’mon, Pete, what are you doing? You were supposed to be up an hour ago.” He steps further into the room.

“Mm...turned off m’alarm,” he rasps, throat still raw from his lovely encounter with the toilet.

“Why? And God, kid, what died in here?” Tony suddenly asks, probably looking around for a forgotten pizza box or something similar. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I did,” he mumbles, face still buried in his sheets.

“Huh?”

“The smell s’my bathroom,” he admits, feeling much too shitty to be mortified like he knows he’ll be later. “I wouldn’t go n’there, though, I kinda threw up all over the place.”

“What?”

“Yeah. M’about to clean it, don’ worry,” he announces, honestly feeling more like he’s just going to add to the mess.

“Like hell you are, kid. Stay put,” Tony says, disregarding Peter’s warning and swinging the cracked bathroom door open wider. He flicks on the light and lets out a string of curses under his breath.

He then closes the door abruptly, turning back to Peter, who hasn’t moved an inch. In all honesty, he feels like he might hurl if he does.

“That was—okay, wow.”

“Told you not to look.”

“Peter, that is so not the point right now,” Tony replies, walking over and perching on the edge of Peter’s bed. “Why didn’t you get FRI to tell me you were sick?”

Peter groans a bit at the mention of his condition. “Dunno.”

“It’s like you’re begging me to re-install the baby monitor protocol.”

“I really jus’ wanted to sleep. Didn’t feel good. M’sorry.”

Tony sighs, reaching out to brush the curls back from Peter’s forehead. “You don’t actually owe me an apology, kid. It just makes me worried that you were alone and that sick.”

Peter wants to reply and have an emotionally intelligent conversation, but he’s starting to get that tight feeling in the back of his throat again. Nausea stirs in the pit of his belly. He’s not sure if he has anything left to throw up, but he doesn’t want to take that chance.

“Um. Tony,” he strains. “I feel...” He can’t say the actual words or it’ll push him over the edge. Might be too late, anyway.

Tony thankfully gets the message and doesn’t waste any time. He swipes the trash can from beside Peter’s desk and has it under Peter’s chin in record time. It’s a good thing, too, because Peter was right. As soon as he moved a single muscle, his stomach took that as an open invitation.

Despite the horrendous amount of stomach contents that he’d already vacated in the middle of the night, he’s throwing up again. Only this time, it’s not so easy. Rather than being able to let the sickness run it’s course and pump him empty, he’s choking, and hiccuping, and tearing his throat up with every go.

“Jeez, kid.”

Peter wants to say I know, or maybe please just kill me, but all that comes out is more burning hot puke. He feels Tony start to rub a calloused hand between his shoulder blades, and he has to admit to himself that he wishes he had this earlier today. Maybe he does want the stupid protocol back.

Or maybe he’s just sensitive from being so sick. All he really knows is that he feels miserable, and he’s glad Tony came to check on him. There would probably be another mess to deal with if he hadn’t.

After a few more unsatisfying heaves, he stares blankly at the pool sitting in the bottom of the bin and tries to catch his breath. Tony gets up from the bed, and Peter feels a sudden, childlike urge to cry out for him. His future self will probably be grateful that he doesn’t have the energy to do so.

Tony comes back, anyway. He has a handful of toilet paper, and when he sits back down, he actually wipes the sick from Peter’s mouth. It’s parental, and Peter’s so gross, but Tony doesn’t seem to care. Peter must have a fever, because he’s about to cry over it.

The tears overflow despite his efforts to blink them away, and suddenly the bin disappears from his lap.

“You’re okay, Pete,” Tony soothes, collecting Peter’s still trembling body and holding him close to his chest. His hand curves gently up and down Peter’s spine.

“M’really sorry about th’ bathroom,” Peter murmurs, finally feeling the extent of his embarrassment.

“You don’t owe me an apology, kid. Anyone who’s sick enough to do that kind of damage gets a free pass.” Peter groans, feeling a bit sorry for himself. He can’t help it. Something about the way Mr. Stark is treating him makes him realize he should’ve gotten help.

“I think it was the sushi,” he murmurs. “Tasted a little funny.”

“Yeah, well, next time seafood tastes a little funny, maybe don’t proceed to eat twice your body weight in raw salmon.”

Peter groans. “I don’t think I’ll eat anything ever again.”

Tony breathes out a quiet laugh. They stay like that for a few minutes, listening to the birds outside Peter’s window. He’s glad he decided not to tough it out and go to school. A cramp reaffirms his thoughts.

“My stomach hurts,” he moans, pulling back to wrap his arms around his middle.

“I bet it does. You want some Pepto?”

He shakes his head. “I’d throw it up. I always do.” It’s true. Almost every time he’s ever taken Pepto, it ends up spewing back out of him almost immediately.

“Okay, maybe some Sprite? We gotta get some liquids back in you, kiddo.”

Peter thinks for a second and then nods, letting himself curl back into bed. Tony pats his knee through the blanket and stands up.

“Good. I’ll be right back.” He crosses the room, stopping at the door. “Anything else you want me to get while I’m down there?”

“Um. Maybe another trash bag? This one is making me nauseous.”

“I’m right there with ya, pal. Give me like, two minutes. Hang tight.”

Peter just hugs his stomach and groans, drowning in his misery. He wonders if it’s actually this bad or if he’s gotten dramatic, but for his ego’s sake, he’s probably dying. He can barely lift his head when Tony finally comes back.

He greets Tony with a whimper. A literal whimper. He’s going to hate himself later, but for now, he just wants Tony to wave some magic wand and give him a new stomach.

“I know, kid. Go ahead and sit up for me.”

Peter regrets ever sinking back against his pillow, because now sitting up sounds like the single most unachievable thing in the world.

“If I move, I’ll barf,” he replies, only half joking.

“Then we’ll ride it out and try the Sprite when you’re done.”

Peter groans, knowing he’s never going to win this battle. He begins to lift his head and eventually his torso, feeling the ache of his stomach muscles from overuse. The motion makes him very dizzy, probably from dehydration if he’s honest.

He holds up his hand, blocking Tony from bringing the glass to his lips.

“C’mon, don’t fight me, Pete,” Tony says, almost pleading.

Peter shakes his head barely. “One second...tryin’ not to puke.”

“Ah. Got it.”

Blessedly, Tony doesn’t push the glass on him again. He sits there swallowing convulsively for a minute before he can even open his eyes. When he does, he can’t help but look at Tony with open misery.

“I know you don’t feel good, kiddo, I’m sorry,” he says, seemingly reading Peter’s mind. They’ve gotten to that point apparently. He places a steady hand between Peter’s shoulder blades and rubs in a circle. “I really think you’ll feel better if you sip on this. Just try for me, Pete.”

Peter eyes the bubbling liquid and tries not to feel entirely disgusted. In a moment of pure bravery, he reaches for the cup and takes three whole sips. It’s cooling against his raw throat, and he’s grateful to get the taste of bile out of his mouth at least a little.

“That’s it, you’re doing good. You can take a break if you want to.”

So, he does. He sets the cup down on his nightstand and lays back down while Tony replaces the bin liner for him. His head swims a little as if he’s drunk, and he gets the sinking feeling that his Sprite victory won’t last too long.

“Mm...Tony,” he mumbles, snaking a hand under his t-shirt and trying to magically settle his stomach through touch.

“Yeah?”

“Can you turn on the TV? I really need to think about something other than my stomach for, like, two seconds.”

Tony gives him a sympathetic smile, grabbing the remote and turning on The Office. He uses his foot to scoot the trash can back to where it was and sets the remote back down. Peter starts to feel himself drifting off already.

“I’ll get out of your hair. Please actually tell FRIDAY if you need me, okay? I’m gonna check in every now and then anyway.” Peter nods, curling into himself. “Alright, I’m gonna go call Midtown, tell them you’re not feeling so hot.” Peter just nods again, blinks getting longer and longer.

The voices on the TV get jumbled and muted as he’s pulled into a state of half-consciousness fueled by fever. His dreams are far-off and confusing, often nightmarish and gory. When he wakes with a start, he wonders if it was a nightmare or a memory. Sometimes he worries that patrol has doomed him to a lifetime of night terrors.

It takes him several minutes to come to and make sense of the noises in his room. He eventually fumbles for the remote and turns off Netflix, flopping back down onto his mattress.

He’s coated in sweat, battling the swirling in his stomach yet again. He has no idea how much time has passed. It’s unsettling, and he finds himself really wanting company. His mouth is also bone try, so he grabs the Sprite with a trembling hand before speaking.

“Hey, FRI?” he rasps.

“Yes, Mr. Parker?”

“Can you, um. Get Tony?”

“Alerting Boss. Would you like me to deliver a message?”

Peter shivers at the condensation from the glass running down his forearm. “Um...just tell him I don’ feel good.” He knows he sounds like a child, but his head feels very funny and he doesn’t quite know what else to say.

He must be truly dehydrated, because once he starts drinking, the sips turn to swallows, and the swallows turn to desperate gulping, and before he knows it, the cup is empty. He winces almost instantly at the new sloshing feeling in his stomach. Maybe he fucked up.

He can’t even breathe in without heaving on the exhale, and in a fraction of a second, he’s refilled the glass. He promptly sets it down and leans over, vomiting into the trash bin.

Right on cue, Tony knocks on the door and cracks it open just a tad. When he peeks in, another wet retch is climbing up Peter’s throat.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters under his breath, crossing the room to pick up the bin so Peter doesn’t fall over with the effort of heaving. He’s grateful, because the blood rushing to his head was really starting to make his vision swirl.

Tony is silently rubbing his back, and Peter tries not to be too gross. It’s sort of a lost cause, especially when he misses a little bit and pukes on his hand that’s gripping the bin. Of course, that sets off his nausea all over again.

It takes him a long while to catch his breath. He has to close his eyes and forget where he is so he can stop gagging.

“You want some Sprite?” Tony asks, unintentionally sending Peter into his worst retching fit yet. “Okay, so that’s a hard no. I’ll let you have a minute to breathe.”

“It’s—,” Peter tries, cut off by a gurgling retch. He greedily sucks in air, heaving from deep in his belly on the exhale. “Not Sprite.”

“You wanna try some juice or something instead?”

“No, I mean—that’s-” More vomit. “I threw up the Sprite.”

“Yeah, I can see that, kid.”

Peter’s never going to be able to explain if he keeps imagining the glass. He’s panting heavily over the soiled trash. “No...I drank it all,” he strains. “That’s puke.”

Just like magic, Peter’s empty stomach finds more to shove up his throat. It trickles pathetically against the plastic.

Tony stands there, processing, and then:

“Oh. Oh, Pete.”

And then Tony’s visibly trying to figure out what to do about the full cup of vomit on the bedside table. Peter feels so embarrassed all of a sudden, and if he had the energy to escape the tower and go be by himself, he would. He knows he wouldn’t make it far.

“M’so sorry.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t have done it if you had any other choice, kid. I’m just glad it’s not on the carpet.” That makes Peter feel a little better, actually. Not enough to actually make a difference, of course, but it’s better than nothing.

“When’s it gonna stop?” he breathes out, barely keeping his composure.

Tony lets out a short sigh. “I wish I could tell you. Hopefully soon.”

Peter wilts, not feeling optimistic about that at all. Last time he caught the flu, he spent the entire weekend hurling just about anywhere he deemed moderately appropriate. He hadn’t even felt as bad then.

“I’m gonna get rid of this. Do you want me to bring anything back?”

Peter takes a moment to think and then shakes his head. There’s nothing he can imagine that would ease his misery. The only thing he can bring himself to do is pray for sleep to take him, and even that’s a battle.

“Alright. Again, call FRI if you need me for anything at all, okay?”

“‘kay.”

Tony leaves him to what’s sure to be his slow death. He turns over and begs for sleep, receiving nothing but a lingering stomach ache. He lays awake for over an hour before he finally, blissfully slips into unconsciousness.

—————

A/N: Thank you for reading as always! You rock

[chocolateandredbull]

Peter Benjamin Parker was something else.

The kid had absolutely no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.

He’d told him not to eat the food from that shady looking street vendor. He told him every time they walked past it on their way home from school.

“It smells good.” “It smells like a meth lab.”

[irondadmadlads]

Irondad Prompt #200:

Peter: Merry Christmas Mr. Stark!

Tony: Merry Christmas Peter! How are you?

Peter: I’m fine. The hospital bed is kinda itchy but it is what it is. How are you?

Tony: YOU’RE IN THE HOSPITAL???

[presleyanswrites]

chilly

pairing(s): mcu peter parker x sick!fem!reader

desc basically im obsessed with sick!fics. posted one a while back for another fandom 🤭 just peter worried.

a/n holy shit im so sorry i haven't been posting lately my loves. my house is currently being sold and i've been running ramped. i wrote this after i had time off work. hope you enjoy.

warnings language, fluff, grammar. (please message me if i missed any!)

@cozytober2023

requests | open 💌 masterlist

It was only October 7th and you we're already a stuffy snotty sticky mess from the sudden drop of temperature outside.

It was cold outside, but the light from your wooden bedroom windows sunbathed the room, brightening your pale complexion.

tissues were plastered all over your messy bed and your phone was constantly dinging with messages from your group chat. you didn't show up to work, or to school that day, and by the looks of your random naps and binge watches on Netflix, you had forgot to call anyone to let them know you couldn't make it, including your boyfriend peter.

you kept coughing which made your head pulsate more as you wrapped your blanket around you and curled into it, squirming and desperately trying to get comfortable.

he was always super protective of you. sometimes it was really annoying but it felt good to know he was always thinking of you. and thats probably an understatement.

you felt sick. that might've been a blunt word, but everytime you tried to swallow your own spit it hurt like hell and you felt your head beating in pain like a heart would pump blood.

you groan and pull your comforter back over your head before you flutter your eyes closed and try to get your mind off the pain in your throat. It burned everytime you breathed which made you hiss uncomfortably. You eventually get yourself to fall asleep (after way too many doses of NyQuil) with half of your body immersed in your pillow.

you rested softly for a few hours before you woke to the sound of peter climbing through your window. you're eyes could barely adjust to the light as your tried to look up to see who it was, but your body was too tired to try and shake yourself up.

he rolled on the floor after falling from your complicated window sill but quickly got up with a groan.

he puffs, dusting him self off as he looks around the room for his girl.

"love?" peter looked around curiously to find you laying in your bed.

he carefully knelt down and shook you slightly as you woke up again with a jump.

you cough. "jesus, peter. you scared the shit out of me." you shift your arms behind you to prop yourself up, as he tucks a piece of your hair that fell back behind your ear.

"sorry," he laughs. "i just got really worried. I came as soon as I could. are you alright? why weren't you at school? or work- MJ said you didn't come."

his smile turns into a concerned perplexed look.

"uh", you sit up and rub your eye, coughing.

he noticed you sweating, and your puffy red eyes and a nose rubbed red.

"are you feeling okay?" his eyes and face look soft for you as his lip pouted a little.

he comes closer to you, kneeling down as he rests his hand on your forehead gently. you press your lips together and sniffle.

"pete, im fine."

"but- you're burning up!" he adds, as you look away from him.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier? i could've taken school off or-"

"peter." you look up.

"no." you croak, "i would never let you do that."

He puffs his cheeks and breathes out as he sits with you in your bed. You look in your boyfriends eyes as he turns his head to examine you.

"you don't look well, sweets." he frowns as he kisses the top of your forehead.

"i know", you say as you sniffle and your face starts to tickle a little.

he hands you a tissue as you sneeze in your sleeves. "bless you." he rests his tongue to the side of his mouth.

spidey senses.

"you okay?" he looks at you.

"mhm", you purse your lips.

you blow your nose as he looks at your face again.

"you gonna let me take care of you?" he holds his breath in worry.

you shake your head. "no."

he frowns again. "but you're sick! you're my girlfriend I can't just leave you here." He seems stressed, folding his his hands on your arms.

you cough and add, "i don't want you to get sick. plus, you have patrol tonight."

he shakes his head. "no way, im staying."

"No." you look in his eyes.

"Yes." he nods.

"No, peter."

"Yes, y/n." he crosses his arms.

you sigh.

"im staying right here." He says determinedly as he wraps his arms around you from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. worry chilled up his spine for you.

"okay," you give up. "its cold anyway." you couldn't resist him. you didn't want him to patrol in the this insane cold weather anyways.

you pull a sweatshirt over your head.

"movie?" we whispers. "i'll get you snacks." he rubs your back softly.

you sweat a little and try to swallow.

you smile a little, "okay."

coughing, he rubs your arm. "are you okay?" he looks at you worriedly.

"im fine, my body just hurts."

he pulls you in a hug before kissing your head and leaving the room to go to the kitchen.

he gets back almost instantly with a bag of candy and popcorn, setting it on the bed and a mug of hot tea for your throat on the bedside table.

"can i get you anything else?" he looked sad.

your heart warmed and hurt at the same time.

"no, im okay."

he places a bowl of soup down next to the mug as you lean over to take it and sip it gently.

he lays in your bed as you open your laptop to the same crime documentary.

"again?" he groans, shifting his neck up against the pillow as he scrunches his face, looking at the ceiling.

as you giggle he looks up to see your smile which made his stomach hurt.

"yes, again." you try to hold back your lips from curling into a laugh.

he sighs and clicks the play button on your computer.

you rest your head on his chest, snuggling into him as he lays his arm around you, intertwining your hand into his.

"love you." he whispers in your hair softly, tucking a kiss to the back of your head.

taglist my idols/inspo @everythingisawayoflife @cafekitsune @luveline @scarthefangirl @elliexmylove @thevoidsaidnothanks @thestarvingwriter @spider-stark @bittenbyyou @incorrectmarvelquote @badass-dora-milaje @yes-i-am-happyaspie join my taglist ♡

[1heartsickfics]

could you do one of Peter being sick at the tower (nauseous and throwing up, fever etc) and Tony goes all Dad ModeTM, and all the Avengers are like damn, Tony is being so fatherly; when did he get so soft? later tony still showing how great of a dad he is peter falls asleep on him during a movie and the avengers are like bro? ur a dad to this kid now? and tony is all defensive like no-no hes-ok maybe kind of, now stop talking you're gonna wake my kid and he smiles down like *my* kid, I like that

Apparently I'm only in the mood for writing fandom fics rn cause I am just not feeling motivated to write for my oc's lately. Anyway here's a short one.

-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"You alright there kid?" Steve asked Peter, noticing how unusually quiet he'd been tonight.

"M'okay," Peter shrugged, not sounding very convincing.

"He's definitely not okay," Clint said, "That is the face of someone who is going to puke soon."

"You gonna be sick Peter?" Steve asked, moving to sit beside Peter on the couch.

Peter swallowed hard, his face suddenly a pale green. "M-maybe," he struggled to get out.

"Clint can you-?" Steve stopped as Clint handed him the trash can, already one step ahead of him. Steve was grateful that Clint moved to sit on Peter's other side, placing a hand on the kids back as he leaned over the can. Clint had kids of his own, he knew how to do this. Steve on the other hand, felt pretty out of his element.

Peter groaned, wrapping his arms around his stomach. His mouth hung open limply and his eyes were unfocused as waves of nausea rushed over him. Normally he would be embarrassed that Hawkeye and Captain America were about to see him barf, but he felt too sick to even care.

"That's it kiddo, just keep breathing," Clint said, gently rubbing Peter's back.

"Does anybody know where Tony is?" Steve asked, looking around at the others. Tony was probably the one that Peter wanted right now. But he was met with clueless stares and blank faces.

"I'll go find him," Bruce said, standing up and heading out of the room.

Then Peter gagged harshly, his body convulsing as he threw up into the trash can. Steve brought his hand up to the kids forehead to help support him and keep his hair out of his eyes. He could feel that Peter was burning up with a fever.

"Jesus Pete what happened!?" Tony cried as he walked into the room, followed by Bruce, who had apparently found Tony rather quickly. Steve stood to let Tony take his spot next to Peter, who immediately wrapped an arm around the kids shoulders.

"I don't feel good," Peter moaned, slumping against his mentor.

"I know kid, but I've got you, you're gonna be alright," Tony said, rubbing his hand up and down Peter's arm. "Can someone go get us some water?" he asked, glancing up at the others.

Clint nodded, "I'll get it. You done for now Peter?" he asked, gesturing toward the trash.

Peter groaned, but nodded his head. Clint picked up the can and took it with him as he headed for the kitchen, presumably to clean it out and get Peter something else to be sick in for the inevitable round 2. Seems like the poor kid had caught a stomach bug.

Clint returned a moment later with a fresh bin lined with a plastic bag, and a glass of water. He set the trash can down in front of Peter again and handed Tony the water.

"Here Pete, you think you can take a drink for me?" he asked quietly.

Peter said nothing, but straightened up enough to take the glass from Tony. He took a small sip, wincing as he swallowed, then handed the glass back. Tony frowned, clearly not satisfied.

"Alright, we'll try some more later," he said, knowing that he shouldn't press too much or he'd risk making the kid sick again. "You want to go up to bed or stay down here?" he asked.

"Too tired," Peter shook his head, eyelids drooping heavily as if to prove his point.

"Okay, come here then, lay down," Tony said, placing a pillow in his lap for Peter to lay on, then helping maneuver the kid so that he was laying down.

Tony could have easily carried the kid to bed, but decided that it might be best to have him out here where he could keep an eye on him for a while anyway. He brushed the kids hair out of his eyes then grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over him as best he could.

That was when he felt the eyes on him. All of the others had been silently watching the exchange. They'd never seen Tony so... soft.

"What?" he asked, rolling his eyes at the looks on their faces.

"You the kids dad now huh?" Nat asked, smirking playfully, although there was fondness in her eyes.

"Well, no. Obviously not. I mean, he's just-" Tony fumbled over his words, caught off guard by the word 'dad'. Was he? Is that how Peter thought of him? He hated to admit that the thought made his heart swell a little. Maybe this really was his kid.

[cozy-and-gentle]

A Miguel / Peter B. Parker Sickfic

This is actually a re-upload from my blog that got deleted. Someone prompted me to do it, and I really wish I remember who did so I could tag you again. If you find this post, please let me know. I'd love to reconnect. The fanfic is down below. (I made a longer version. I don't know if I'll ever post it because I'm shy that way.)

A shameless little sickfic between Peter B. Parker and Miguel O'Hara because I'm a sucker for fevers and the sunshine/grumpy trope. And if you're a sucker for these things as well, enjoy!

It started a few days ago. 

Hopping dimensions wasn’t an easy job. But someone had to keep the multiverse as together as it could be. It wasn’t about living the way you wanted. It was about keeping a delicate balance. That’s what Miguel told himself, anyway. And thus far, that theory proved correct. 

Capture the anomalies. Send them wherever they were supposed to be. Correct the flow of canon. Reach stasis. Like clockwork.

For that week, he ended up in Canada for the Spider Woman of that dimension.

He’d faced all kinds of weather wherever he ended up.

But Canada was a new level of cold that he wasn’t used to. 

It was bone-chilling. And this anomaly was a Chameleon variant - a master of disguise no matter which variation.

This meant that Miguel was stuck at Earth-705 for damn near a week trying to hunt him down.

His suit was adaptable to the elements, but at times he had to go incognito to figure out his whereabouts. Meaning he felt every single bit of those negative temperatures. Even in his suit, he could feel the cold air entering his lungs.

Earth-705’s Spider-Woman - aka Spider Canada - was cheerful the entire time. She was one of the sunnier spider people. And in retrospect, he felt a little bad for being grumpier than usual toward her. But he was so damn cold the entire time that all he wanted to do was complete the mission and go back to Spider Society. The faster he did that, the better off they all would be.

All would be safe and he could finally get somewhere warm.

Being in a cold environment like that meant that everything was dry. Miguel noticed it by the second day.

Nueva York got cold, but it had humidity. Or at least enough humidity since the city sat near the ocean.

Miguel felt the absence of humidity in his throat. It was a persistent dryness that water temporarily helped. 

But he didn’t truly get used to it. He wondered how anyone could live there.

When he came back to HQ, the dryness persisted. 

It took a couple of days for his throat to dry out. Maybe it would take a couple of days to adjust. 

That’s what he told himself anyway. It’s not like he was traveling much in his dimension to test that theory. But it was the best he had.

The dry feeling in his throat was annoying. The cough that followed was just as annoying. Short, little coughs in an attempt to clear something that wasn’t there.

All things considered, a little cough was the best thing he could have walked away with considering he’d walked away with far worse in other situations.

Pavitir noticed after working alongside him one day, “You’re not smoking are you?” He teased in good humor.

Miguel scoffed, “No. It’s bad for you.”

The Spider-Man of Mumbattan nodded, and left, but soon came back with a cup, “Here. Good chai can help with anything.”

He wasn’t typically a tea person, but it smelled good. Spiced and warm. The kid meant well, and he thanked him as he took a sip.

It was delicious.

The day after, his cough turned into a productive one. Maybe there was something in his throat that he needed to clear. But hell if that wasn’t annoying.

“You smoking, Miguel?” Jess ribbed him.

“You’re the second person to ask, and no.”

“Second? Maybe you should take a break.”

“I’m fine. Throat’s just irritated.”

“Did you try a cup of tea?” 

Miguel sighed.

The cough stayed and he muffled it into the crook of his elbow. Annoying. Especially since it impacted his sleep. He tossed and turned the night before, unable to get comfortable. By the next day, he was tired. And stiff. 

He hated it. But all he had was surveillance. All things considered, it was quiet again which let Miguel breathe a temporary sigh of relief. Still, he was vigilant. Someone had to be.

And maybe it was the exhaustion but the screens seemed to blur ever so slightly. Like there was a soft haze around them.

Miguel closed his eyes tight, pressing his hand over his eyes in an attempt to get them to focus.

Get it together, O’Hara. 

His eyes would focus on the orange glow before they blurred again. He couldn’t remember the last time when he was this tired. Maybe grad school?

He stared at the different sectors of Spider Society. Spider People coming and going. Laughing. Talking. There was nothing so damning that pulled his attention.

So he closed his eyes with a heavy sigh to rest them.

Peter B. Parker had a ritual going on with Miguel O’Hara. He was one of the few that was able to besides Jess. He’d come in to check on him with breakfast in hand. Today was a couple of egg sandwiches on a croissant and two cups of tea. Jess mentioned he seemed to have an irritated throat, so he switched it up.

Peter pushed his office door open with his hip to find Miguel sitting in front of the screens. He usually would in the early hours. Not all the time. But sometimes.

“Hey Miguel,” he said cheerfully.

The other man didn’t move and this made Peter stop. Miguel didn’t respond for two reasons. Either he was engulfed in something, or angry. So he decided for a lighter approach as he walked up, “Hope you like egg sandwiches. Wasn’t sure if you’d like bacon or sausage so whichever one you want, I’ll take the other.”

He slowly put the bag beside him along with the cup, only to find that Miguel had his eyes closed.

His brow slowly raised and a small smile came to his face. Miguel was sleeping. This was rare. 

Peter put a hand on his shoulder, “Miguel, hey. Buddy, I brought breakfast.”

Miguel opened his eyes with a sharp intake of air which made him start coughing. He quickly covered it with his elbow.

“Ah, that’s what the tea’s for,” Peter mused as he slid it over in his direction, “Here. It has honey already. This should help.”

Miguel stared at the cup, then Peter with… it wasn’t quite a glare. It was somewhere between annoyance and a pout as he wrapped his hands around the cup with a sigh that sounded pleased.

Peter raised a brow, “How was Earth-705?”

Miguel took a sip of tea, then squinted his eyes as a sneer curled on his lips, “Freezing.”

His voice sounded like it was struggling to claw its way out of his throat.

Peter winced at the sound of it, “That’s rough,” he said as he sat beside the other man, pulling out the sandwiches, “This one’s bacon, this one’s sausage,” he slid them over, “You didn’t get sick, did you?”

Miguel shook his head quickly, “Spider Man doesn’t get sick.”

Peter let out a short, sardonic laugh, “Spider Man doesn’t get sick often,” he corrected, “I got sick way more before I got my powers. It doesn’t happen a lot anymore but when it does, strap in.”

Miguel took the bacon sandwich and unwrapped it, staring at it before taking a bite.

“Trust me,” Peter said, “I got the flu about 5 years ago, I think?” He unwrapped the sausage sandwich and took a bite, talking around it, “Glad it was me and not MJ. People were out of commission for a couple of months sometimes,” he swallowed it and took a sip of his tea, “Thanks to the healing factor, I was out for two weeks. Still a while, but not months. Everyone seems to forget that the flu can kill people, you know?”

Miguel nodded as he chewed slowly, “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, but if you need some time off you know one of us will fill in.”

Miguel grumbled and dismissively waved his hand. 

There was a moment of silence before he murmured, “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Always, Miggy,” Peter said as he gave his shoulder a friendly pat.

It was a tame day, but by the end of it, he felt like he was struggling. He was so tired. His head was starting to throb, and he was cold. It was a small chill at first. He had Lyla turn up the temperature a degree. It helped for an hour until it didn’t. And he knew it wasn’t freezing in the room. It just felt that way.

He tightened his muscles to hold those shivers at bay if anyone entered. But by the end of the day, he was too exhausted to do even that.

But no one dared enter his office.

The only person was Peter, who peeked his head in the door, “Hey, just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

Peter slowly made his way in, “Not hungry? C’mon, it’s been hours since lunch. Something’s gotta sound good.”

Miguel shook his head, “I’ll get something later.” He really wished Peter would leave. But he was insistent as he closed the gap between them. He leaned on his desk as he began listing off, “Ah, c’mon. At least take something with you. You don’t want anything? Mexican? Japanese? Indian? Chinese?” He glanced over at Miguel then looked surprised, “Are you shivering?”

“I’m cold,” he grumbled.

“It’s not cold in here. Kinda warmer than usual, actually.”

Miguel was ready to shoo him away when an anomaly alert lit up his screens.

Both men looked over when Lyla popped up and said, “Crossover anomaly on Earth 2851. Shocker from Earth 926.”

Normally, Miguel was a workaholic, but he was hoping that it was the end of the day. He pushed himself up, rubbing at his sore neck muscles, “Alright,” his voice crackled, as his mask appeared on his face.

Peter quickly began to shrug off his robe and sweatpants, “Are you sure you’re up for this, Miguel? I can grab someone else–”

“I’ll be fine,” He said quickly as he typed in his destination on his watch. A portal soon opened in front of them.

“Okay…” Peter hesitated as he pulled on his mask, “Lead the way, boss.”

Out of all the villains and anomalies he faced with Miguel, this one wasn’t the most difficult. But it was a trying mission all the same. They may have been able to apprehend the Shocker anomaly sooner if it wasn’t for the rain. 

Not only did it mess with their visibility, but it amplified the Shocker’s abilities. What could have taken them fifteen minutes tops stretched into an hour and a half. 

The Spider Woman of that dimension helped immensely and they were able to send the shocker back to his dimension. 

Neither of them had injuries, but Miguel had been shocked a few times which led to his suit glitching. And both men were soaking wet.

As soon as they landed in HQ, Peter pulled off his mask with a gasp, “I swear this thing was about to waterboard me.”

Miguel didn’t say anything as he trudged back toward his office.

Peter was quick to follow him. He needed to get his robe and sweatpants which would come in handy since his suit was soaked. And if Miguel wasn’t hungry before, he had to be hungry now. A perfect time for dinner.

“Good job by the way. I know your suit got jacked up, but you didn’t get hurt, did you?” 

Miguel continued to trudge forward.

“Okay, we’ll give you a once-over behind closed doors. But if you’re still standing, that’s a good sign! Now, what do you want for dinner?” Peter attempted to wring out part of his suit, letting the excess water drip to the ground, “Ugh, I’m kind of cold. What do you think about soup?”

As soon as they crossed the threshold of the office, the doors closed behind them and Miguel made his way toward his computer. 

Peter quickly worked to pull off his suit, grabbing his robe and sweatpants, wrapping himself in them, “Whew, that’s better. You have a change of clothes here, right?”

Miguel didn’t answer as he stared at the screens.

Peter raised a brow as he came to the other man’s side, “Hey… are you okay? You’re starting to worry me.”

Miguel’s mask dissolved and he glanced over, “I’m fine,” in a barely-there voice.

Peter’s eyes widened at his appearance. He looked exhausted and his brown skin had an ashen cast to it. Before Peter could point any of this out, Miguel’s eyes rolled back and his body pitched forward. 

–

Miguel’s eyes slowly fluttered open, Peter’s face coming into focus. The other man was pressing a cool cloth to his cheek. 

Peter let out a huge breath, “There you are…”

Miguel’s brow creased in confusion. The last thing he remembered was going back to his computer after the mission. Then, somehow he ended up in his own bed.

He was dry, tucked in, and warm. 

He was finally warm.

He tried to push himself up, but Peter held a firm hand to his chest, “Easy, Miguel, you need to rest.”

Miguel went to ask what the hell happened, but his throat was so raw that he ended up coughing instead.

Peter sighed as he rubbed at his chest with a soft circular motion until he stopped. Miguel tried to say something again, but could only wince and clear his throat.

Peter pressed the cloth to his other cheek. And as if he could read his mind, he quietly said, “You collapsed, right after our mission, burning with fever. I had to get Spider Doctor and he said you have pneumonia,” He folded the cloth and lay it against his forehead, “You should have sat out! You didn’t have to wait until you got this bad!”

Miguel sighed and glanced aside.

Peter sighed as well, “I know you’re laser-focused on saving everyone, but you can’t help anyone like this,” he pressed his hand to his cheek, “You’re still burning up.”

Miguel turned his eyes towards Peter with narrowed brows.

“Don’t give me that look,” Peter said, “Do you know how scary it was to see you faint like that?! I’m the one who should be glaring at you!”

Miguel stubbornly looked away and Peter crossed his arms. 

They sat in silence for a long time. 

Not that Miguel had much of a choice on that one.

Then he could feel the chills creeping up on him again, and he shivered as they sapped away that blessed heat that he didn’t have nearly enough time to enjoy.

Peter looked at him with a worried expression, “You’re cold again?”

Peter was surprised to see a look on Miguel’s face that could only be described as a miserable pout. 

“Here. Scoot over,” he murmured as he shrugged off his robe.

Miguel looked at him suspiciously. Peter moved him over as he scooted into bed behind him, holding him close, and resting his chin on his shoulder, “I can’t give you any more blankets, but I hope this helps. And when you’re ready for it, I got you some soup. And more tea.”

Miguel wanted to point out he had more tea that week than he’d ever had in his life. But it didn’t matter. Not when Peter was so warm against him. He turned and snuggled against the other man’s chest with a soft sigh, marveling at the feeling of his fingers carding through his hair.

Maybe he would have admitted his weakness sooner if he knew this was waiting for him.

Maybe.

But he would never tell Peter that. Instead, Miguel would soak up that moment while he had it, letting Peter’s scent, and warmth, and touch envelope him. 

Before more missions and more chaos. Before Peter had to go back to his own family.

For the moment, the other man was his.

And he swore it was a little less cold with him there.

[yes-i-am-happyaspie]

For the pure fluff prompt: How about one where Tony brings a sleeping Peter over to a meeting for whatever reason? Maybe because he's sick? (I've read multiple of fics but none of them have been because Peter's sick. And since you are the queen of sickfics, I'm offering you this prompt)

Anyways, hope you have a great day!

I finally made it through my last mini-fic prompt. I'm not sure it's exactly what @bluequeen0803 had in mind, but I think it turned out pretty cute! And! It's longer than the others I posted today, clocking in at 944 words!

Koala Care

“Alright, Kiddo. Time to go inside,” Tony said. When Peter didn’t move he rolled his eyes and released the seat belt himself. “Come on, Bud. I know you don’t feel good, but you can’t just stay in the car.”

Apparently, Peter had arrived at school with a minor case of the sniffles that had exploded into the full-blown flu by second period. He was stuffed up, sneezing, and had a fever high enough to alarm the school nurse. As expected, they’d tried to call May. But when they were unable to reach her, they’d pulled up his secondary contact information instead. That’s how Tony ended up ducking out between meetings to pick a sick kid up from school.

“I’m serious, Peter. I’ve got a meeting to get to, and I refuse to leave you in the garage,” he nagged. When the sole response he received was a pathetic whine, he huffed an annoyed breath. He’d already missed the second half of the R&D meeting he’d been putting off for weeks. Pepper hadn’t mentioned anything about it when he’d left the room. Although he was sure, her generosity had been more for Peter’s sake than his own. Either way, he wasn’t likely to get away with skipping out on mandatory board meetings as well.

“Do you want me to carry you?” he sarcastically inquired. Peter perked up slightly and mumbled something at a nearly inaudible level. “Was that a ‘No, Mr. Stark. I’m perfectly capable of dragging myself to the penthouse?’” he asked. He was surprised when Peter blinked up at him, his cheeks bright red with fever, and shook his head. “Wait, you do want me to carry you?” he asked, sure he’d misunderstood the response.

Peter hummed in the positive and sat up a little taller in his seat. “I’m tired,” he croaked, “and everything hurts.”

Tony considered cracking a joke about how the kid was entirely too big to be carried to bed. Then he got a good look at Peter’s glassy eyes and sighed sympathetically. “Alright, Kid. Just this once,” he said before hopping out the car and walking around to open the passenger side door.

After coaxing Peter out of the car, Tony crouched down to offer access to his back. The kid wrapped his lanky legs around his waist and his arms around his neck before propping his chin on his shoulder. He could feel heat from Peter's body radiating through the layers of his three-piece suit. “It’s like I’m giving a piggyback ride to a furnace,” he mumbled under his breath as he crossed the garage into the elevator.

The plan had been to unceremoniously drop Peter onto his bed, grab him some meds and then rush downstairs to attend his meeting. However, once he arrived in the penthouse, Peter refused to let go. “Peter, you have to get down,” he prompted. “If I don’t get to this meeting Pepper’s going to have my head. You don’t want to be responsible for my beheading do you?”

Peter giggled quietly but didn’t let go. If anything he held on more tightly.

“Okay, I guess you’re coming with me then,” Tony said, half expecting the kid to slide off of his back and slink into his bedroom. When that didn’t happen, he grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and pocketed a couple of tablets. Once he reached the elevator, he paused and craned his neck to try and get a look at the kid’s face. “Alright, Clancy. This is your last chance to disembark.”

“I don’t feel good and you’re super comfy,” Peter mumbled, half asleep, into his neck. Tony scoffed at the accusation and swayed his head.

Resigning himself to his fate, Tony sighed and entered the boardroom with a confident stride. All eyes were on him, more so than usual, as he strode across the room with his sleeping teenager attached to his back like an overgrown koala. “What?” he asked, then pulled a chair out and whipped it around so he could sit down without squashing Peter. “It’s ‘bring your kid to work’ day. Did you not get the memo? You all should really check your email more often.”

“Tony,” Pepper smilingly chastised. “There is no such day on the calendar. What are you doing?”

Tony shrugged and reached awkwardly over his shoulder to brush Peter’s sweaty bangs off of his forehead. “The kid’s sick,” he flippantly explained. Then grinned widely. “Actually, don’t people usually get time off when they have a sick kid?”

“He’s fifteen, Tony. And he’s not your kid,” Pepper laughed and Tony gasped theatrically.

“You can’t talk like that in front of my son!”

The entire boardroom went quiet, save for Pepper’s giggling and Peter’s quiet snoring. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” Pepper said. “Take Peter upstairs and tuck him in. I’ll reschedule this meeting for when he’s feeling better.”

Tony opened his mouth to offer a snarky remark, but before he could Peter lifted his head, eyes still closed and said, “Thanks, Ms. Pott.”

Pepper smiled softly, crossed the room and placed her hand on Peter’s forehead. “You’re welcome, Kid,” she said, then smirked in Tony’s direction. “You did a great job getting your dad out of his meeting.”

“Yep,” Peter replied, followed by a sleepy sigh. “And now he has to take me upstairs and tuck me in.”

Still grinning, Tony turned towards the exit. He knew Pepper had a lot of explaining to do on his behalf and he was sure he’d hear about it later. But for the time being, he was more than happy to carry his clingy feverish kid up to his bed.

[mareagirls]

If you’re taking requests, maybe Peter comforting emetophobic reader when she comes down with a stomach bug at his place for the first time in years?

hey anon! hope this is okay!

tw: throwing up, generally just feeling sick

(also, the reader's hair is long enough to be tied back in this!)

The sound of you whimpering is what wakes Peter up. 

He’d been dozing off on the couch with you curled up on his chest for most of the afternoon. Warm and peaceful, tracing absentminded circles into the place where your tank top rode up, and left a sliver of skin begging for his attention.

Your weight had shifted off him after a while, and he’d chalked it up to you needing to stretch out or use the bathroom and gone back to dozing.

But then;

Deep ragged breaths. Choked gasps.

His spider-sense goes haywire and he's up in seconds.

“Y/N, baby? Are you okay?” Peter tries to not sound as worried as he feels as he makes his way down the corridor to where you've shut the bathroom door.

Another whimper makes its way to his ears and Peter’s heart clenches behind his ribs painfully when you don't reply. 

“Can I come in, sweetheart?”

He hears you breathing heavily for a second before you answer, shaky and overwhelmed.

“No, no, please don’t-” your words are cut off by another gasp

Peter reasons for a second.

The door isn’t locked but you’ve also told him to not come in, and he doesn’t want to invade your space when you’re clearly hurt or upset about something. 

It all goes out the window when the sound of your retching reaches him and he bursts in without a second thought.

He finds you hunched over the toilet bowl, tears rushing down your face. The warmth has drained from your skin and you look positively miserable when you turn slightly to look up at him.

"I don't want to be sick, Peter. I really don't-" you stop abruptly, pressing one hand to your hand to your stomach and the other to your mouth.

As far as he can tell, you haven't thrown up yet, but you’re shaking all over - sniffling and gasping, teary eyed as Peter kneels down next to you. You still look beautiful, even now, with red eyes and a wobbly lower lip. Still his girl, Peter thinks. Always his girl.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay, honey," he soothes you gently. "It’s gonna be okay.” 

“I can’t- I can’t.”

You’re near sobbing when you reply, hand firm against your mouth. Peter wonders if you can even hear him under the agitation.

He leans forward anyway and uses the hair tie he keeps around his wrist to gather your hair back, making sure it doesn't get in the way.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’ll feel heaps better if you bring it up, I promise. Must have eaten something that didn't agree with you today, hm?”

His words seem to make you panic even more and you gulp so harshly that Peter hears it. You inhale deeply and press both hands against your tummy, eyes welling up as you do so.

"I can't, Peter. I can't, I'm scared-"

Over the past year that you've been dating, Peter has seen you upset, anxious, exhausted, even angry. But he has never seen you like this. Completely terrified, distressed to the point of pure dread at the prospect of being sick.

He cups your cheek tenderly with an open palm, guiding you to look up at him. Smiling at you when you turn to face him.

"I know, honey, I know. But you can do it. I've got you."

You moan a little, hands still pushing unforgivingly at your tummy - trying to dislodge the discomfort you're feeling.

And then, without warning, you pitch forward and heave with a gasp. Peter follows you down, brushing any stray stands of hair out of your face as you throw the contents of your stomach up. You're sick once, twice, until you're just dry heaving bile that dribbles into the alabaster bowl. Peter sticks by your side and murmurs easy reassurances that he hopes reach you amidst your retching.

"There you go, baby. You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."

When it's done, you apologise to him as he wipes your face clean with a wet towel and presses gentle kisses to your sweaty skin.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I'm so, so sorry- I ruined our evening."

Peter just rubs the nape of your neck soothingly and replies.

"Bub, it's not your fault. You didn't ruin anything"

"I'm disgusting."

"No, you're just sick, and I don't mind taking care of you. Okay?"

"Mhm." You don't seem a hundred percent sold, but Peter takes it as enough.

A moment of silence follows as you focus on catching your breath again. Peter, sits by your side, watching you carefully lest another wave of nausea takes you by surprise.

"I don't think I'm going to be sick again." You say after a while, shoulders relaxing infinitesimally when the realisation dawns upon you. "I'm really tired though."

Peter squeezes your hand in his own and helps you up carefully. "Okay sweetheart, let's get you to bed, yeah? Does that sound good to you?"

"Need to brush my teeth first."

And so Peter nods and stands back as you flush the toilet and brush your teeth, eyes trained on yours in the bathroom mirror's reflection.

When you're done, he guides you to his room and helps you change into his softest t-shirt and shorts, pulling the hair tie out of your hair and tucking you in when you're changed. Peter starts stepping away but before he can, your hand fists around the hem of his sweatshirt.

"I'm just gonna go and make you some ginger tea, baby. I'll just be in the kitchen."

You thank him quietly but avoid his gaze.

"What's up?" Peter makes his way back to you, kneeling by the side of the bed and taking your hand in his, unwilling to leave you looking so distraught. "Feel like you need to throw up again?"

You shake your head no, biting your lip when heavy tears start to run down your face again.

"Hey, baby- it's okay. You're okay. Please don't cry. Oh sweetheart."

"I'm sorry," you gulp. "This is so pathetic, I'm really sorry about all of it. I hate being sick so much."

Peter shakes his head. Firm, resolute. Squeezing your hand and pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. Getting sick is scary and overwhelming. It's okay for you to be upset about. Don't worry your pretty self about it."

"I don't feel pretty right now."

Peter gasps in mock horror and proceeds to press kisses all over your face. trailing down from your hairline to your eyelids where his tongue cheekily swipes away at your tears, causing you to laugh despite yourself.

"You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen, Y/N. Always are."

[idk-bruh-20]

Thinking about Peter Parker sick fics

I really appreciate the fic writers who clarify that our boy CAN get sick (Spider-Man does not have superhuman immunity!!!) but that his healing factor does, in fact, have an impact on him:

It makes him feel worse way faster.

Think about it. A normal flu lasts, what, a week? Peter's healing factor wouldn't prevent him from getting the flu, but it would make him speedrun all the symptoms.

If most people feel meh at first, then feel like crap on Day 1 and like death on Day 5, Peter would go from meh to death in the span of hours.

Recipe for needing a school pick-up and it's not even his fault? YES YEAH YOU BET IT IS.

[mystic-hyuck]

♡ 𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕧𝕖𝕝 ♡

peter parker (spiderman) x reader ‘you’re not coming with me’ - angst, fluff, happy ending (fem!reader) ‘I’m staying with you’ - fluff, comfort, sickfic rainy days - angst, hurt/comfort, fluff (fem!reader)

bucky barnes x reader ‘she said yes!’ - fluff (fem!reader) 'stay in bed’ - angst, sad ending (fem!reader)

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

Tower of Terror (reader request)

cw: vomit. This is another long, self indulgent one, and now one of my favorites—enjoy.

—————

To say that today was a long day would be a drastic understatement. After a school day full of his teachers somehow synchronizing their pop quizzes and exam reviews, he’d headed straight to the tower for training and lab work. His brain and his body are completely fried, so after being granted permission by May, he asks Tony if he can stay the night. He’s not sure he could stay conscious for the subway ride home.

“Sure, Pete. Does that mean you’re ready to cash?”

“Mhm,” Peter hums in response, his eyes threatening to fall shut and not open again.

Tony breathes out a quiet laugh. “Okay. Goodnight, kid.”

Peter murmurs something that sort of sounds like ‘goodnight’ but could also just be a random collection of consonants. He turns away, heading toward the elevator slowly. He feels totally drained, like his limbs each weigh a hundred pounds more than when he’d woken up this morning.

His head is throbbing with what’s sure to become a bad migraine if he doesn’t get to sleep soon. The air gets a little warmer as he ascends the elevator, and that nearly clocks him. He only just makes it to bed before he’s out, basically dead to the world.

Nightmares plague him instantly. He’s tossing at sea, and then he’s buried alive, and then he’s bleeding out fast—all alone in the middle of nowhere. At the end of it all, his heart clenches with the sharp feeling of free-falling, and he wakes abruptly, his lungs greedily gasping for air.

For several minutes, he has no idea where the hell he is. All he knows is that he’s soaked to his mattress in sweat, aching all over, and nauseous to the point of vertigo. He makes the mistake of sitting up. Instantly, the dark room around him seems to tilt forward endlessly, and he grips onto his sheets with white-knuckled fists.

God only knows what time it is or why his shoes are still on. He toes them off, hearing them land unceremoniously on the floor. He sits there for some time, trying desperately to remember anything about what happened before he’d woken up here. Nothing much surfaces.

He calls out for May, and is met with complete silence. That never happens unless she’s taken third shift. Maybe she had to pick up more hours?

Finally, he remembers that he’s at the tower, and he instantly feels worse. Being sick at the tower means he’s either going to suffer alone or bear the colossal embarrassment of having to ask for help from an Avenger. He groans, letting his head fall into his hands.

His headache is still pressing tight against his skull, and he feels like his brain and bones have turned to liquid. His stomach churns. With another groan, he lets himself lie back down against his sweat-cooled pillows.

Though he remains motionless in the dark room, his nausea only grows. He was hoping that it would fade as the nightmares did, but he isn’t so lucky. It feels like he’s swallowed an entire lake.

The internal battle has begun. He imagines how awful it would be for everyone to know. If he started hurling, it wouldn’t be long at all before everyone in the building caught wind of what was going on. FRIDAY isn’t great at keeping secrets.

He’s Spider-Man. He’s supposed to be a hero, not some kid that wakes up in the middle of the night with a tummy ache. The mere idea is mortifying.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing he can do about the circumstances that have been dealt to him, and if he tries to ignore them any longer, things are only going to get worse. So, he forces himself to his feet, feeling weak and full of dread.

The tower is silent as he makes his way to the kitchen, the floor seemingly tilting under his feet. He has to keep a hand on the wall beside him to avoid falling over. The journey feels ten times longer than it usually does.

He’s exhausted when he finally reaches the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. He fills up a glass of water and sips at it gingerly. It feels nice going down his throat, but not very nice at all sitting on top of the dinner in his stomach. He groans, leaning over the countertop. He burps quietly, nauseated almost beyond what he can handle.

Miserable, he lazily drags his gaze toward the cabinet where Tony keeps all the medicine. Pepto is Peter’s absolute last resort. It almost never works, and it tastes so bad that he’s vomited from the taste alone on many occasions.

Unfortunately, he’s feeling like he might have to try. If he doesn’t, that means he’s accepted the inevitable fate of emptying his stomach in a building full of Avengers. With a dramatic groan, he moves over to the cabinet, grabbing the bottle of neon pink liquid.

He stares at it with distaste, nearly shuddering at just the thought of it. If he’s going to do this it has to be quick, like a shot of tequila. He pours some onto a spoon and stares again.

Finally, he takes it, chasing it immediately with water. He swallows convulsively, begging his stomach to grant him some sort of mercy. He feels a surge of violent nausea and presses a palm over his mouth.

He shuts his eyes, swallows again, and takes several deep breaths through his nose. The wave of nausea passes slowly, painfully. His stomach makes a noise that probably means fuck you.

Fuck you too, he thinks hazily. When he feels like he might be in the clear, he pours out the rest of his water and sets the glass in the sink. His stomach turns over as he begins his walk toward the stairs. Why he picked the stairs over the elevator, he has no idea.

He’s only halfway up when he suddenly feels the worst swell of nausea yet, stopping him right in his tracks. His stomach churns hard, bringing with it a hot, rising feeling in his throat. He cages his mouth again as it rapidly fills with watery spit.

He can feel the color completely drain from his face as he stands frozen on the staircase. His heart is hammering in his chest as he silently begs God, the universe, someone to keep him from puking right now. Unsurprisingly, his prayers go unanswered.

That awful feeling of dread doubles, pouring over him like hot tar. He feels an intense urge to gag, and he’s entirely unable to stop himself from submitting to it. He pitches forward suddenly, spewing a huge gush of pink vomit all over the stairs in front of him.

Again, he vomits, splattering his hours-old dinner all over the hardwood and his socks. Immediately, he throws up again for four straight seconds. He gasps for air afterward, dizzy from the effort of being so sick.

In the eye of the hurricane, he somehow convinces himself that now is his only chance to get to a bathroom. His whole body is shaking as he climbs the rest of the stairs. By the time he reaches the hallway that connects to the one where is room is, he’s sweating bullets and so overwhelmed with nausea that he has to stop again.

He takes one more uncomfortable breath and folds, throwing up all over the floor. With his stomach all but exploding out of him, he can hardly believe that no one has peeked their head out of their room to see what the noise is. At the same time, he’s so incredibly grateful for that.

He takes two more steps and pukes again, even more than he thought possible. He coughs, spewing out mouthfuls of vomit between each one. It’s nearly a full three minutes before he can get himself to stop retching.

He pants for a few more minutes, desperate for air. His vision is blurred with tears of exertion, and even if he weren’t crying, he’d barely be able to see anyway. His head is reeling.

It’s in that moment that he realizes he’s too sick to be alone. The terrible truth sends his heart down to his stomach, and his tears become real. He only allows himself a few minutes to cry in private before he begins to consider his options.

There’s Tony, of course, but he thinks he’d rather die than have Tony see him puke his guts out. There’s Nat, but she might remind him too much of May, and he’s not emotionally stable enough for that right now. He continues to go down the list, and by the end of it, he finds himself settling on Clint.

He has kids, so maybe he’d be a little less traumatized by the whole thing. He’s also generally calmer than most of them, so hopefully he won’t yell or treat him like a burden. Clint it is.

His room is a floor up, so Peter opts for the elevator this time. He wipes the tears from his face and tries his best to regain composure. Unfortunately, he’s still feeling like a giant pile of shit, so it’s easier said than done.

When he reaches Clint’s room, he pauses in front of the door. This is it. Either he leaves the mess and tries to stay conscious long enough to get back to his room, or he tells Clint the truth. As if on cue, he suddenly almost feels more ill than he has all night, apart from right before he’d been sick.

Before he can convince himself otherwise, he knocks on the door. When a minute of silence goes by, he knocks again, a bit louder this time. After a few seconds, he hears shuffling on the other side of the door. He steps back a little, and it slowly swings open to reveal Clint, still half asleep.

“Peter? It’s nearly four in the morning, what are you doing up?”

“Um,” Peter so eloquently breathes out, suddenly unable to get ahold of himself. Fresh tears well up without his permission. “I…I’m…”

Clint’s expression changes from one of confusion to one of parental concern. He steps a little closer.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

A couple tears spill over, and he wipes them away before they reach his chin. He tries again to explain, but he can’t seem to form the words in the right order. This fever must be really cooking his brain.

“Do you wanna come in and talk?” he softly offers.

Peter shakes his head a little. His head spins. “I’m…I need help.”

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Peter shakes his head again. If his stomach wasn’t still sitting high in his throat, this would be much easier. He doesn’t have that luxury, but he tries again.

“I…I just thr—,” is all he manages before his stomach decides to make another appearance. He has all of half a second to aim somewhere else besides Clint’s feet. He turns to the side, vomiting through his fingers, down the front of his shirt, and onto the floor.

“Oh—oh, wow. Okay,” Clint blurts, probably wide awake now. Peter chokes up another round of sick onto his socks. “Alright, hey, come here.”

He takes Peter’s arm and begins leading him into the room. Peter does everything humanly possible to keep from throwing up on Clint’s floor, and when he finally drops to his knees in front of the toilet, he vomits so violently that he sees stars. Clint curses under his breath, a hand resting on Peter’s back as it heaves.

For the next several minutes, Peter is barely lucid. With what little consciousness he has, he tries hard to aim toward the water and nowhere else. He’s made enough of a mess as it is.

“It’s okay, buddy. Breathe,” Clint urges. Peter’s trying.

He’s sure he’s throwing up his actual organs after a few minutes. The only thing he can do is drape over the bowl and try not to pass out. He nearly fails.

Mercifully, he stops throwing up before the lack of oxygen gets to his head. He takes several more minutes to recover. The whole time, Clint is telling him it’s alright, that he’s going to be okay. Peter’s not so sure.

He’s really glad he’s not alone, especially now that he’s gone severely downhill. He can’t imagine being holed up in his room. He’d probably still be decorating the carpet with his stomach contents if he hadn’t come here.

The calm lasts all of eight minutes, and then Peter is suddenly launched into a fit of dry heaving. Despite his stomach being totally empty, the nausea is still rampant. He has no idea what he did to deserve this. Poor Clint doesn’t deserve this either. When he breaks his silence, it’s clear he’s reaching his limit.

“Alright, Pete…try and take it easy, kid. You’re really sick, and I’m…I think I’m gonna have to get Tony.”

That same dread pours over him. That’s the last thing he wanted. Even just the thought makes his face heat up fast. He can’t exactly express his disapproval when he’s actively still gagging. It’s too late, anyway.

“FRIDAY, could you send Tony down here, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his hand now rubbing along Peter’s spine.

Only a couple minutes pass before Peter hears Tony’s voice call from inside the room. He groans, lurching forward with another gag. A small trickle of bile comes up this time.

“In here,” Clint calls back.

“What the hell happened out here, Clint? Are you—,” Tony asks, stopping short as he crosses the threshold of the bathroom. Peter can’t help himself. He retches again, another rush of acidic bile washing over the roof of his mouth and into the toilet.

He can only imagine Tony’s reaction to walking in on Peter curled around a toilet full of puke. He’s so mortified he could die. Why does this kind of shit have to happen to him?

“He’s been like this for probably over ten minutes,” Clint explains. “I didn’t really know how to help him or I wouldn’t have woken you up. You know him better than I do.”

“Oh, kid…are you sick or is this a head thing?” Tony asks, taking Clint’s place beside him.

“M’sick,” he manages, half-choked on another heave.

“I’m sorry, Pete. How long have you been feeling bad?”

Thankfully, the retches are tapering off, and he can finally breathe a little. He spits and swallows against the rawness in his throat.

“Only when I woke up a while ago,” he breathes out. Suddenly, he remembers his stunt on the stairs. He groans, letting his head drop to where his arms are folded across the toilet. “I…I threw up all over the stairs and the hall before I came here…m’really sorry, Tony.”

“It’s alright, kid, I know you couldn’t help it.”

“But…”

“It’s okay, really. Do you feel like you’re done?”

Peter hums lowly. He nods. It’s the truth. He’s sure there’s absolutely nothing left in him to throw up, and the nausea is finally waning.

“Alright, good. I’ve got him, Clint, you can go back to sleep.”

“Are you sure? I can start cleaning outside my room.”

Tony shakes his head. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got bots that can do most of it. I’ll handle the stairs. We’re good.”

“Okay, well come get me if you change your mind.”

“You’ve already done enough, thank you for taking him in.”

“It’s no problem.”

With that, Clint leaves, and Tony is alone with Peter in his misery and embarrassment. He offers Peter some toilet paper, and he thanks him, wiping his mouth. He closes the lid and flushes the toilet.

With Tony’s help, he gets up from the floor to wash his mouth out. It makes him feel marginally better. Tony leads him out of the room, and Peter does his best not to gag at seeing the result of his earlier performance in the hallway. Tony starts leading him to his room, and when they get in the elevator, he finally breaks the heavy silence.

“You know you can always come get me if you’re feeling bad, right?”

Peter wilts a little. “I know, thank you, it’s just…I thought I could take some medicine and just go back to sleep, but obviously that didn’t work out. And I really didn’t want to bother a literal Avenger just because I had a stomachache.”

“Well, last time I checked, we’re on a first name basis, so it shouldn’t be that intimidating, kiddo. If you’re feeling like you’re gonna puke, you should let me know. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just…future reference. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but at least I won’t have to worry about you being passed out in your own sick somewhere.”

It’s nice to know that Tony isn’t pissed or grossed out, but Peter prays he’ll never have to put that earlier offer into practice. He’s had enough of everyone watching him hurl. The heat creeps back up onto his cheeks as they reach his room.

“Okay…m’still sorry I got sick on the floor.”

“It’s completely fine, kid. Don’t worry about it, shit happens. Are you feeling any better?”

Peter shrugs, sitting on the edge of his bed. Tony scoots the trash can over to sit beside his bed. He lets out a short sigh.

“Well, I have a feeling your immune system is going to knock this thing out pretty fast.” Peter hopes he’s right, for both their sakes. “Here, let me get you some clean clothes. Want anything specific?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony nods, turning to the dresser. He brings over a t-shirt, some sweatpants, and clean socks.

“You can just leave the dirty stuff on the floor.”

“M’kay. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Pete. I’m gonna grab you some water. Hang tight. And remember, you can always call me if you need anything at all.”

“Thank you,” he repeats softly.

When Tony leaves and Peter is done changing out of his dirty clothes, he’s all alone with the memory of tonight. The mortification is stifling, but he pushes the thoughts away with all the mental strength he has left. Turns out it’s not much, and he’s out like a light before Tony even returns.

—————

A/N: Thank you for reading! And thank you for the request! I loved writing this one, and I hope it’s at least a little like what you imagined it would be.

[viixenvi]

𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐃𝐚𝐲

I've never posted here before so forgive me in case I do anything wrong

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You get the flu, Peter and Steve are in charge of taking care of you while Tony (your dad) has to go to meetings. You and Peter have a plan to help Steve and Bucky make up after being mad at each other so all four of you can watch movies all day.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Peter, Steve, Tony, Bucky, Fem!Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: None

"Peter will be here soon to keep you company," Tony says, slipping his phone into his pocket and sitting next to you on the couch. He reaches over and presses the back of his hand to your forehead.

Your fever had gone down since the morning so you were already feeling a lot better than the past few days. Tony hummed and places his hand onto his knee. He has been worried for you the past few days, it was just the flu but it hit you pretty hard.

"What is Mr. America doing all the way over there?" You ask jokingly.

"For the last time, its captain america," He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. This makes you laugh, but you end up in a coughing fit.

"Maybe I shouldn't go," Tony whispers to you.

"Dad go! I'll be okay, promise!" You hold out you hand to do a pinky swear with him. This had been a tradition since he and Stephen adopted you. He locked his pinky with yours and, with a sigh, he got up.

Tony placed a kiss on your head before leaving the room hesitantly.

"Where is your boyfriend Mr. America?" You look at Steve, who is leaned against the door frame across the room. He looks down and you notice a tint of red on his face.

"He's mad at me right now."

You smile and immediately reach for your phone. You knew they were in a fight and you decided to invite Bucky over to "have a movie night" but you just wanted them to make up. You text Bucky to hurry up nd you hear someone walking down the hall.

"Peter!" You squeal when Peter is in view. He runs up to you and gives you a hug.

"Hi I missed you so much Y/n, I was so sad building the lego set without you," Peter plops down next to you and pulls his phone out to show you process of the lego set.

"You got so far in it! When I get better we are definitely finishing it together."

"Hi Mr. America sir," Peter greets Steve with a wave, laughing when Steve gets an irritated look on his face.

"Y/n put you up to this, didn't she?"

Peter looks at you before turning back to him and nodding. "Sorry Steve, you called me bite-size Stark last week, this is what you get," You giggle.

"He called you what?" Bucky's voice sounds from the hallway. He walks in and immediately gives Steve a look.

"Buck? what are you doing here?" Steve asks, trying to ignore the questioning look on his boyfriend's face.

"Y/n invited me to watch movies, why are you here?"

"Tony made me look after these two."

Bucky turns to look at us and we both smile.

"Why are you guys in a fight?" I ask, i'm just nosey and Steve wouldn't tell me.

"Because I did something I'm not supposed to do."

Bucky crosses his arm and raises his eyebrow. "Go on, tell them what you did Stevie."

"I took his arm and hid it from him because we have been in a prank war and I thought it would be funny," Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

You gasp and Peter holds back laughs. "You are never supposed to touch his arm! It's like his number one rule," You exclaim.

"That's what I told him." Bucky sighs.

"I'm sorry Jamie, please forgive me," Steve walks to Bucky and holds out his arms for a hug. Bucky is trying so hard to hold back a smile but he can't help but fail.

"You know I love it when you call me that," Bucky wraps his arms around Steve and buries his head on Steve's shoulder.

"Yay! Now movie time!" You clasp your hands together and turn to Peter.

"Twilight?" Peter suggests. You smile and nod.

"You know me too well Spiderman."

[irondadmadlads]

The Shoebox Problem

A/n: For @call-me-coley . Thank you for talking through ideas with me @yes-i-am-happyaspie .

December was a busy month for Tony Stark. With the holidays on the horizon, the hero planned multiple galas and charity events. At least once a week balls were attended by Tony. Sometimes the man went by himself. Other times, Pepper would join him. Even Peter accompanied him once or twice.

Only those closest to him knew the real reason he made an extensive amount of plans during the winter month. As a distraction from his parents’ deaths.

But that’s neither here nor there. This story is about the shoebox problem. Underneath Tony’s tree were dozens of gifts. Every one about the size of a shoebox. And they were all addressed to the same person: Peter Parker.

Tony was overjoyed to learn Peter and May would be spending Christmas with Pepper and himself. The holiday was usually a lonely one for the billionaire. Sure, Pepper would spend the day with him. But while she received calls from her extended family wishing her “Merry Christmas,” Tony’s phone remained silent.

But this year would be different. With Peter and May Parker keeping the man company, there’s no way he could possibly feel lonely.

So when his phone rang with Peter’s contact, his heart skipped a beat. Did something come up? Did they have to cancel. Tony hesitantly answered it.

“Hello?”

“Merry Christmas Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed. Through the receiver, Tony could hear the boy coughing.

“Merry Christmas Peter,” Tony replied. “What time are you and May coming over?”

“Actually…” the boy trailed off and Tony’s anxieties began to return full force. Of course, spending Christmas with his mentee was too good to be true.

But the boy’s sentence surprised him. “I’m downstairs…”

“Downstairs?” Tony asked. It didn’t take him long to realize exactly what Peter was implying when he said “downstairs.” The teen had a tendency to end up in Medbay. Tony sighed, “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing,” Peter replied, before breaking into a coughing fit. “I have the flu.”

Tony frowned. He then looked back at the tree with dozens of boxes under it. Even if the boy was in Medbay, he could still make his Christmas a good one.

“I’ll be right there.”

Tony entered Avenger’s Medbay about half an hour later. He was carrying a few boxes in his hands. Peter gave the man a wary smile, despite being in the sterile hospital room.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” Peter greeted. “Thank you for the gifts… you really didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Tony replies. “There’s more than this.”

Peter’s eyes widen. And this is where the shoebox problem comes in.

About a month before the holiday, Tony asked Peter what he wanted for Christmas. Peter replied nothing big. “Think shoebox sized,” he said specifically. But that’s the only limitation the boy set. He didn’t give Tony a price limit. Nor a limit on the gifts themselves.

So that’s how Tony ended up carrying a pile of medium sized gifts into Peter’s hospital room.

“Mr. Stark…” Peter frowns. A shiver wracks his body and he pulls the sheet closer to himself. “How much did you spend on me…?”

“Nothing is bigger than a shoebox,” Tony deflected. And Peter could only sigh. The man had a point.

Seeing Peter’s defeat, Tony handed him a gift to open. It took him longer than usual due to the IV in his left arm, but he eventually got it open nonetheless.

Peter raised a brow, “I thought I said nothing big-“

“Nuh uh-uh,” Tony quickly could Peter off. “It’s shoebox sized.”

And unfortunately, the man was right. “Thank you for the Switch, Mr. Stark…”

Tony beamed, “Ready for the next one?”

Peter nodded and let Tony continue to hand him gifts. The boy realized he probably should’ve given Tony a gift limit. He definitely should’ve given Tony a price limit. Because he’d ended up with a new phone, new watch, tickets to Disneyland, tickets to Hamilton, video games for his Switch, and multiple gift cards.

“Okay buddy,” Tony handed a gift to Peter. “Last one.”

Peter opened it to see a teddy bear dressed in a little Iron Man suit. The boy beamed. “He’s my favorite!”

Tony chuckled. “Really? It was a gag gift,”

“It’s you,” Peter replied. “You’re my favorite,”

“Oh…” Tony glanced back at the sickly boy. He was ignoring his games and new phone to cuddle with a cheap teddybear that was dressed as his mentor.

The boy let out a yawn and placed his head on the pillow. The iron man teddy in his arms. “Thanks for the gifts,” Peter murmurs. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

Tony’s heart skipped a beat. Peter called him “dad.” The man placed a kiss on the boy’s forehead as he drifted off to sleep. “Merry Christmas.”

[itsmechara426]

Irondad Prompt #175:

Royalty AU

King Anthony Stark has a plethora of responsibilities as king. However, when one of his servants — a teenager by the name of Peter Parker — becomes sickly, Tony puts all those responsibilities off to care for the boy.

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Strep Throat- Marvel Oneshot

"Y/N, darling!" Wade threw Y/N's bedroom door open, "rise and shine, I brought snacks!"

Y/N groaned from underneath a mound of blankets. She peeked over them from her spot in bed and gave Wade a pitiful look.

"You're in bed still?" Peter asked, stepping inside with Wade, "you're usually up long before now."

"Don' feel good," Y/N mumbled.

Peter's lenses widened for a split second, which Y/N had learned long ago meant his spider sense was active.

"You're sick," Peter noted.

"Congrats, Sherlock, you're a genius," Y/N sniffled, "Iron-Man marvels at your IQ."

"Aww, poor little Y/N," Wade said, sitting down on the bed, "maybe this will help?"

Y/N looked up and saw Wade waving a chocolate chip cookie in front of her face. Y/N turned her head away and whimpered.

"Don' wanna eat anything," Y/N mumbled, "throat hurts too much."

Wade looked absolutely crestfallen.

"I think you need a doctor, Y/N." Peter put a gloved hand to her forehead, "yikes, definitely feverish. All right, up you go."

"Nooo," Y/N whined, "I don't wanna move."

Wade swept Y/N up into a bridal carry, blankets and all. Y/N let out a shocked squeak.

"Wade, put me down!" Y/N said weakly.

"Nuh-uh, Sunshine, you're going straight to the SHIELD med bay," Wade said, "maybe if you're good you'll get a lollipop."

Y/N shivered as Wade carried her out of her room. Peter fell in step next to Wade and opened the front door. Wade set Y/N down in the backseat of a SHIELD hover car and got in the driver's seat. Peter sat in the back with Y/N and held her upright. Y/N closed her eyes as the hover car floated up into the sky and toward the SHIELD helicarrier.

...

"Yep," the doctor said, "the strep test came back positive. You're lucky your friends have healing factors. Strep is very contagious."

Y/N sat on the exam table, hunched over and wrapped in one of her blankets. Peter rubbed his hand up and down her arm soothingly.

"What do we do?" Peter asked.

"Take this amoxicillin 3 times a day." The doctor handed Peter a bag of medicine, "and get plenty of rest and fluids."

...

A few hours later

"Peterrr," Y/N called.

"Coming!"

Peter ran into Y/N's bedroom.

"What's up?" Peter asked.

"Can I have more pain meds yet?" Y/N asked pitifully.

Peter shook his head.

"I'm sorry Y/N, but you gotta wait a few hours before I can give you more... Wade's making you soup though, it's your favorite!"

Y/N groaned and burrowed deeper under the covers.

"My throat hurts too much to eat," Y/N whimpered.

"I know, but you gotta eat," Peter reasoned, "you won't get better if you don't."

Y/N just let out another whimper.

"What hurts, Y/N?" Peter asked, "I mean, other than your throat."

"My head hurts, and my body aches, and I'm cold, and I just don't feel good!"

Peter sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through Y/N's hair. He winced at the warmth radiating from her head. At that moment, Wade threw the door open, holding a bowl of soup with a spoon.

"Soup's on, doll!"

"Don't want it," Y/N mumbled.

"Too bad, you're getting it," Wade said, "now sit up."

Y/N sighed as Peter helped her sit up against the pillows. Wade sat down on Y/N's other side and held a spoonful of soup to her lips.

"Wade, I can feed my- mmph!"

Wade pushed the spoon into Y/N's mouth. Y/N had to admit, it tasted pretty good. Now came the hard part. Swallowing.

"Come on," Wade said, "you gotta swallow it."

With great difficulty, Y/N swallowed. Her throat throbbed as the soup went down.

"Can I have the spoon now? Mm!"

Wade shoved another spoonful of soup into Y/N's mouth. After a few seconds, Y/N swallowed. This went on for several minutes, Wade feeding Y/N and Y/N attempting to protest. At one point, Y/N tried to grab the spoon, but Wade held it out of her reach and made airplane noises as he shoved it back into her mouth. After a few more minutes, Y/N held up a hand for Wade to stop.

"No more," Y/N said weakly, "my throat is killing me."

"Alright, Sunshine, you can be done."

Wade set the still half-full bowl of soup on the bedside table. Y/N yawned and winced at the pain it caused in her throat.

"You wanna sleep, Y/N?" Peter asked gently.

Y/N nodded feebly. Peter helped her lay back down in the bed and adjusted the covers for her.

"Do you want us to leave?" Peter asked.

"No...stay...please," Y/N asked, turning over on her side.

"Okay, we'll stay," Peter said, and he resumed running a hand through Y/N's hair.

Y/N blinked heavily. Just eating had taken a lot out of her, and it wasn't long before she drifted off in the company of her friends.

[lilimonarch]

#11 Sickfic Prompts and Thoughts

A new parent or new parent figure when their child/child figure gets sick. Maybe they have a rough past, promising to give the kid the childhood they never had. They get scared they won't be good at it but they are surprisingly amazing at caretaking.