#think how landing this aircraft would be a white knuckle experience

[imsureiforgotsomething]

Having sight of the ground is an important factor in piloting an aircraft. For a pilot, this is nightmare fuel. Half of their field of view is obscured.

Just for that factor alone, I wouldn't be surprised if this design never got beyond the drawing board.

[polaroid15]

Of Flying and Falling

Summary: On their way home from a fancy conference on the coast of Vancouver, Tony and Peter's helicopter crashes, ending what should have been a perfect weekend filled with maple ice cream and sea water in a desperate battle for survival.

Read on Ao3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/28534992

---

When Tony wakes he wishes oblivion would pull him straight back under. It’s not the first time he’s felt this way. Countless nights of parties and post-battle aches and pains have granted him as much.

Today it’s not much different.

He knows his eyes are open, though he can barely see straight, the world a mess of blurry colors and a fierce pain connecting his brain to his neck and spine. At first he thinks it’s a migraine, but a throbbing pain in his leg tells him otherwise. He squints through the haze of pain to assess the source of his hurt and sees, in striking double-vision, his right leg crushed between sheets of dull metal. He stares at it with wide eyed confusion until it clicks.

A trip to Vancouver. A fancy conference. Maple ice cream by the ocean.

The helicopter- it had gone down.

God, how he wishes it could’ve just been a migraine.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut and forces his mind to focus on his breathing. How in the hell had they crashed? Seriously, what were the goddamn chances?

He inhales, holds, exhales, holds. The air around him comes out in a faint wisp of fog, though he doesn’t feel cold.

He feels better.

A flash of a memory runs across his weary eyelids. He sees the pilot limp in his seat and hears panicked yelling in his ears. He sees a pale, freckled hand on his arm that connects up to Peter’s face, eyes wide and panicked. He’s holding onto Tony so tightly that he knows with a surety it will leave a bruise.

A scared kid, plummeting out of the sky.

Oh God.

“Peter!”

Tony winces as he tries to shift in his seat. The skin underneath his seatbelt aches as his fingers struggle to unclick the metal. Only now as his vision clears does he notice the pilot ahead of him, neck bent at an impossible angle.

“Christ. Christ!.”

Numb, he turns to look beside him and sees Peter pressed against the shattered glass of his window, eyes closed and covered in blood. His small hand is still stretched out towards Tony in what could’ve been a childish gesture, though empty and dripping with crimson.

He can’t tell if he’s breathing.

“P-Peter.”

Tony remembers it all now. How he’d pulled Peter out of school early to join him on the trip. How excited he had felt to show Peter off to his colleagues and for Peter to experience the conference. How he and Peter had sat on the coast, breathing in sea water and Peter facetiming May in front of a Canadian flag, smiling wide.

“Kid-” His breath freezes into a block of ice in his chest as he shoots his hand to the side, reaching desperately for the boy. It hits the damp material of Peter’s sweater first, once grey but now the colour of old rust. Swallowing against a sharp pain in his throat, he curls his fingers weakly around the fabric and tugs at it. Peter’s head slides further down the window, leaving a gruesome red smear against the glass in its wake.

Peter doesn’t stir.

Choking on air, Tony tries again, this time more intently. It makes his head spin. “Peter, wake up buddy.”

Still unresponsive, Tony feels his mind draw a blank and he drops his hand. His chest is tight and his heart is beating impossibly fast, so much so that he can feel his pulse in his temples. Through the harsh staccato of his breath he’s vaguely aware of the wind whistling through the cracks and gaps of the damaged aircraft. It sounds threatening, as if the outside world is trying to claw its way towards them and finish them off; to take Peter away somewhere Tony can’t follow.

He tries to breathe, can’t, and without much grace wiggles his fingers under the kid’s throat, praying for a pulse. After a moment of agonizing patience, he feels it. A beat of life.

“Pete-”

His relief is joined with an unwarranted sob as Peter groans. The pressure in his chest loosens, even if only slightly, and he continues to encourage the boy back to consciousness. “Earth to spidey.”

“F’ve more minutes.”

“Oh lordy. Peter!”

Ever so slowly, Peter shows his eyes. Tony watches brokenly as they fill with confusion. “Wha?”

“It’s okay kiddo. It’s okay. Look at me.”

“What?” Peter says again. His head pulls away from the glass and Tony winces at the tiny shards of it embedded in the side of his face. With great difficulty, Peter’s eyes reach Tony’s own. They flicker with understanding, even fear. “Tony? Y-you’re covered in blood.”

“I know. We had an accident.”

Breathing becoming more laboured, Peter tries to sit up and cries out as he does. His hands reach up to ghost at his abdomen where the seatbelt is still pulled tight. “Oh,” he says. “Tha’s not good.”

A familiar sting erupts in Tony’s eyes and he swallows against the tightening of his throat. Not good. So not good. “Breathe Petey. We’re going to be fine. We have to get out, though. Can you move?”

Still obviously struggling with basic comprehension, Peter nods hastily a couple long seconds after the close of Tony’s question. With shaking hands, the boy reaches for his seatbelt and grits his teeth as he pulls it apart. When it loosens he leans back with wide eyes as if blinking away stars and doesn’t respond when Tony tries to soothe him.

“Take it slow. Take your time.”

Peter is still staring heavily at the dented ceiling of the helicopter, breathes stilted. “The- the pilot?”

Looking over at the broken man, Tony feels his stomach tighten. “It doesn’t look good Pete.”

“Oh.” To Tony’s horror, a tear appears against the blood and grime on the kid’s cheek. His head rolls to look at Tony, fever bright eyes landing on his leg. “Tony-”

“I know,” he says tightly. The acknowledgment brings a fresh wave of pain over his body that makes his stomach twist into knots. “I’ll need your help to get it free. Think you can circle around and pry it out for me?”

Peter blinks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Kid?”

“Yeah?”

“I need your help to get free. Then I can help look you over. Okay?”

“Oh. O-okay.”

Tony watches closely as Peter curls his scraped and bruised hands around the door of the helicopter and pushes it ajar. It brings with it a gust of bitter air and they both shiver fiercely against it.

“Remember to take it slow buddy.”

Nodding, Peter uses the top of the door to shimmy himself to the edge of his seat, grunting through the pain. He must lose his balance because in the next second, he’s gone. Tony hears him hit the ground hard. Then silence.

“Peter!” Tony moves to help the boy and nearly screams when the movement pulls on his trapped leg. He grinds his knuckles into his forehead and fights to regain air in his chest. When the fit passes, he trusts himself to speak once more. “Peter! Are you okay?”

There’s another beat of long, painful silence before he hears the rustle of leaves. Peter’s head appears at the foot of his open door, pupils blown wide and looking dazed as ever. “‘M good. S’ry.”

Something twists savagely in Tony’s gut. God. He should’ve waited for Peter to get more oriented- should’ve made sure he was ready to move. All his rational thought has seemed to drift far away like a cloud from the sky they had fallen from.

“‘M coming.”

Before Tony can even open his mouth Peter is stumbling out of sight. He practically holds his breath until he hears the light scraping of metal against his own door and helps Peter pull it open. The movement must throw Peter off balance again because he falls backwards onto his butt, staring amazedly up at Tony like he had no idea how he got there.

“Careful bud,” Tony frets. He leans down and reaches out a hand to help Peter up, who takes it weakly.

“S’ry,” Peter says again, shaking his head. “Dizzy.”

“No kidding,” Tony agrees. Up close, he can truly appreciate how mauled the kid’s head is; thick blood coagulating against his temple and in his hair, leaving a gruesome trail all the way down to the neckline of his sweater and out of sight. He doesn’t even want to think of everything he can’t see.

Peter falls against the body of the helicopter, hands ghosting over the crunched metal around Tony’s leg. After what must be some delirious consideration, Peter’s hands find themselves on each side of the opposing medal. Without warning, he pulls.

They both scream.

It takes a long time for Tony to see anything other than the sudden whiteness that has dominated his vision. When it clears, he finds his leg is free. Very broken, burning with pain, but free. He chokes on his tears and swallows the acid in his throat.

“G-good job kid.”

Silence.

“Kid?”

Tony whips his head to the side and braces himself against the interior of the helicopter as his vision tilts and slides like a damn kaleidoscope. When it returns to an equilibrium, it nearly whites out again in sheer panic.

Peter is sprawled out on the grass on his back, lax face tilted up towards the sun. Tony’s too antic to tell if the kid is breathing and every shred of common sense flies away from him as he pushes himself out of the body of the aircraft.

He lands next to the boy and chokes on a scream when his bad leg hits the ground. He does throw up this time, shuddering against the pain of it all. A faint ringing has started in his ears, but none of it matters. All that matters is Peter.

With shaking hands Tony reaches to find the kid’s pulse, this time on his wrist, and collapses in on himself when he finds it for the second time. It’s fast and thready, but there all the same.

“Thank god,” Tony breathes. He crawls closer and taps on Peter’s cheek. The blood on his skin sticks to Tony’s fingers. “Peter. Pete.”

This time Peter’s ascent back into consciousness is easier. His eyelids pull up to half mast and he hums, head turning ever so slightly to meet Tony’s worried gaze. Everything in Tony’s chest seems to melt as he studies his kid. He brushes the hair out of Peter’ face, hand lingering. “What happened bud?”

“Dunno,” Peter replies honestly, eyebrows pulling together. “Hurt.”

Tony takes it as his invitation to check what injuries the boy’s been hiding. Peter watches detachedly as Tony pulls up the hem of Peter’s sweater and gasps at what he sees, limbs going numb and his pulse doubling in tempo.

All the skin Tony can see is a dark, molten purple, nearly black. In the worst of the bruising Peter’s skin is raised in ugly irritation. Tony’s no doctor, but he’s sure the seat belt had cut into his gut and wouldn’t be surprised if the kid was sporting some broken ribs or bruised organs.

Internal bleeding, his mind supplies, but he pushes it away.

They need help. Badly.

“Cold.”

Tony snaps his head towards Peter, finding him with his arms curled feebly around his frame and the setting sun casting long shadows across his face.

Not good.

Gears spin and catch in Tony’s head. “Hang on kid,” he says, then staggers to his feet, using the body of the helicopter to keep himself from falling. Fearful for what he might find, he heaves open the door to the cockpit and uses every last bit of strength to pull himself inside.

“Williams?”

Tony reaches out his hand slowly and rests in gently on the pilot’s shoulder. When it doesn’t illicit a response, his fingers ghost through the blood and broken glass to find one of the man’s veins. Unlike Peter’s, it’s still against his skin.

“Oh Christ.”

Tony sits back against his seat, hands trembling violently. Though thoroughly surrounded in it, the air seems to vanish from the atmosphere, leaving him gasping. God.

“Tony-”

A voice through the haze. He feels a warm hand on his thigh.

“Mr. Stark. Look at me.”

Slowly, he does, aware as if from a great distance Peter’s worried eyes. The kid is leaning heavily against the opening in the cockpit, looking faint but determined. “It’s not your fault. You have to breathe.”

It takes some time. It always does.

Again, Tony breathes.

“Good,” Peter mumbles in relief, head dipping forward. Tony snakes his hand up to his chest and feels the evidence of his heart working underneath the layer of grime and singed clothing constructing his shirt and takes a long moment to really feel it.

Eventually, the universe rights itself.

“Sorry kid.”

Peter shakes his head, but doesn’t raise it, body lax with exhaustion. If he hadn’t known any better, Tony would’ve thought the boy had fallen asleep standing against the side of the aircraft. His small voice travels up and Tony barely catches it. “D-does the radio work?”

Feeling dumb for not thinking of it sooner, Tony looks hurriedly towards the contraption. It’s crushed, just as his leg had been. Nothing more than useless scrap metal.

“Nada,” he chokes.

“Phone?”

Tony grits his teeth, pulling his phone out from his suit jacket. The cracked screen displays his worst nightmare. “No service.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The sun is barely visible through the trees now, the last of its light turning the pine needles gold. Tony sees Peter shiver once more, this time harder, and he pulls himself towards the edge of the seat. “It’s starting to look like we’re going to have to stay the night kiddo.”

Peter shifts, allowing Tony to drop to the ground beside him. He looks distant, like all the times in a post-spidey incident they’ve had to hook him up to an IV filled with the good stuff. “The night,” Peter repeats, slurring his words. Then he laughs. “Camping.”

Against his better judgement, Tony smiles. “Yeah. Just like camping.”

“I’ve never been camping.”

“Well, there's a first time for everything.”

Peter laughs again, but this time, it tapers off into a grimace. The boy crumples like a poorly stacked card tower and Tony lunges to catch him, leg igniting in bright pain at the sudden movement. They end up in a tangled pile of limbs on the forest floor.

“Peter?”

Heart thundering once more, Tony raises himself and turns the kid’s chin into his line of sight. Contrary to his suspicions, Peter is blinking up lazily at him, expressionless but conscious.

“Answer me bud,” Tony says loudly, raw anxiety flooding every nerve in his body. His hands ghost over the kid’s abdomen and then his face where his head is still leaking blood. “Peter,” he says again, this time more urgently. The kid’s eyes remain painstakingly vacant. “Talk to me.”

The sunset shines like fire against Peter’s face. The young hero blinks, then blinks again. Slowly, Tony sees recognition return. He whimpers and Tony’s eyes well up with tears. “Peter? Can you hear me?”

Peter nods.

“Good, good. Can you tell me your name?”

Peter considers it for a moment before clearing his throat. It must cause another spark of pain because his eyes screw closed before reopening once more. “Peter.”

“And who am I?”

“Tony.”

“Great job kiddo. You’re acing my test. One more question, alright? How many fingers do you see?”

The confusion is evident on Peter’s face as he squints towards Tony’s raised hand. After a long painful silence, he gives up and falls back. “Six?”

If the fear shows on his face, Peter doesn’t pick up on it. “Not quite,” he says sourly, curling his hand back into a fist. “But that’s okay.”

Peter hums. “I’m cold.”

God, he’s never felt so useless in his life. Tony bites his lip hard and stares into the wide expanse of wilderness around them. He wonders if they’re still in Canada or if they had managed to cross the border.

Regardless, they need a fire.

“I hear ya kiddie,” Tony says. A sudden rush of adrenaline courses through his veins, numbing the raging pain in his leg. He runs his hands through Peter’s hair and the boy leans into the touch, eyes fluttering. “I’ll get us a fire started, okay? Stick tight.”

“Mmm?”

“Stay here,” he repeats. “I’ll be right back.”

But Peter doesn’t respond.

Gritting his teeth, Tony stands once more. He limps away from the helicopter and braces himself against the nearest tree to blink through the stars collecting in his eyes. Though he’s only moved a couple steps, he looks back towards Peter, the boy unmoving in the grass.

“Oh god.”

The adrenaline fades fast. Tony uses all of it he can to snap thin branches off surrounding trees and limp them back over to the helicopter. Everytime he deposits a load of wood he crouches down to make sure the kid is still breathing.

He makes three trips. By the fourth, he can barely stand and the sky is dark.

Peter doesn’t stir as Tony drops down to the earth beside him. He lets the kid sleep on as he arranges the wood together over a mound of disrupted dirt where the helicopter had sheared the earth clean. He grabs a fistfull of dry grass and tucks it into the center of his structure. Then, using the blessed lighter in his pocket, sets it ablaze.

It’s weak but functional and Tony nearly collapses at the relief of the flame. It illuminates the small area around them and Tony uses it to crawl towards Peter, shaking him awake. The boy’s eyes are completely delirious as he grapples to come back to himself.

“What?”

“We got a fire,” Tony explains gently. Under his touch, Peter’s skin is iced. “Come warm up.”

Nodding, Peter allows Tony to hoist him into a sitting position. The movement must pull at the injury in his gut because he grunts through clenched teeth, nearly collapsing back down. Tony catches him at his shoulder before he can, noticing the thin sheen of sweat on the kid’s neck and forehead with worry. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “Easy does it.”

After another series of awkward and painful maneuvers they end up leaning against the metal of the helicopter, side by side and the fire glinting like magic in front of them. He feels Peter relax against his side, the kid’s head falling to rest heavily on Tony’s shoulder.

He thinks of hours before when he and Peter had been enjoying matching maple ice creams. How they hadn’t shared a single care in the world.

Stupid of him to believe it could last.

Peter shifts against him, pulling him away from his thoughts. He’s looking intently into the fire. “Marshmallows?” He asks.

Chuckling, Tony holds him tighter. “Sorry kiddo. Not this time.”

“Bummer.”

The attempt at humour dies like the sparks shooting up from their small flames and Tony feels the dread creeping back into his bones like a disease. This is all his goddamn fault. ��How’re you feeling kiddo?”

Peter hums as if in deep thought. The blood on his face is bright and unrelenting in the glow of the fire, like some permanent reminder of Tony's failures. “Did you know my parents died in a plane crash?”

Tony jolts, the response hitting him like a freight train. He rubs Peter’s arm as his throat tightens. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“They must’ve been really scared.”

“Are you scared Peter?”

Slowly, Peter shakes his head. “No. Got you.”

Swallowing his tears, Tony presses a kiss to Peter’s temple. He grapples with his words, a deep sorrow replacing his physical pain for a brief moment. “Your parents had each other.”

As if agreeing, Peter makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “I wish I could’ve known them better.”

“They’re with you,” Tony assures quietly. He moves his hand to place it against the boy’s chest, the fabric warm from the fire. “They’re always with us, Pete. Our family never leaves us.”

Peter smiles. Even through the blood and dirt and utter delirium, he looks happy. “You’re family.”

Tony’s chest tightens.

“You won’ leave me. Right?”

“Never,” he promises.

Peter smiles again. There’s blood on his teeth Tony hadn’t noticed before and he hopes to god it isn’t new. “I’ll never leave you either.”

“Good,” Tony says. He pulls them closer together, trying his best to ignore the numbness in his toes. “I’m going to hold you to it Parker.”

“Mmm.” Peter’s smile falls slightly, eyes drifting closed. “M’kay.”

Tony feels his own eyelids drooping. He surveys the kid through heavily lidded eyes. “We checkin out?”

“Mm.”

Peter’s weight increases against his side as he falls asleep. Tony rests his head on the top of Peter’s curls and soaks in the warmth of the fire. For some strange reason, he feels a calmness he can’t describe. In fact, he can hardly feel the pain in his leg anymore.

Within seconds, he’s asleep.

---

When Tony wakes up the next morning, their fire is dead.

The ashes still smoulder, sending thin wisps of smoke up into the bright light of the morning. For a moment he lies still, blinking away his incoherence and moaning when his leg twists in a horrible pain.

God, he’s so screwed.

A chill rushes over him and he pulls his jacket more tightly around his frame with numb fingers. The warmth Peter had provided throughout the night is gone.

“Peter?”

Tony forces his eyes to open fully, turning his head to his left. He expects to see the kid curled up in a ball or leaned back against the aircraft.

Instead, he doesn’t see Peter at all.

“Damn it.” A stroke of fear beats hard against Tony’s chest like a drum. He scrambles in the dirt, sweeping his eyes over the clearing in hopes to find the missing boy. His breath hitches and stalls as he tries to curb the mounting panic.

Then he sees him. The boy is across the clearing, laid out on his stomach and unmoving as if he had fallen.

“PETER!”

Tony tries to stand and fails. As soon as he puts pressure on his crushed leg it sparks in agony and his knees buckle. He claws at the dirt, vision white, and for some time is quite unaware of anything past the lightning rods of hurt in his bones.

Vertigo washes over him as he twists on his side. Slowly, the world swims back into focus. God. Not doing that again. Taking deep, lung shattering breaths, Tony pulls himself to his knees.

“Peter!”

Again, the boy doesn’t move. Tony swears and hobbles forward on his hands and good knee, dragging his injured limb behind. By the time he reaches the boy, his muscles are shaking and he has sweat dripping in his eyes. He uses the last of his rapidly depleting strength to heave Peter onto his back.

“Kid?”

Peter’s face is more pale than Tony has ever seen it. His stomach twists and he raises the hem of Peter’s shirt once more, gritting his teeth at the unimproved arrangement of bruises and welts. If anything it’s gotten worse.

“Come on,” Tony urges, lightly shaking Peter’s arm. “Wakey wakey.”

The world seems to pause on its axis as Peter’s eyes slowly drift open. There’s absolutely no coherence in them, and it takes Tony another five minutes of talking to get the kid to even look at him.

“Tony?”

“Yeah kiddo, it’s me,” he says, voice thick. “What’re you doing all the way out here?”

“Here?” Peter shifts, cries out, and fights to breathe. His eyes snap shut and his fingers curl weakly in the grass as he writhes against the pain.

“Christ.” Tony’s hands hover uselessly over the boy, scared to even touch him. “Kid? You okay?”

“No-no!”

Maybe it’s the pain, maybe it’s the exhaustion. Hell, maybe it’s just the sheer audacity of the situation, but soon they're both laughing. It’s choked and bizarre and so astronomically far from humour.

Eventually, their delirious chuckles taper off into heavy breathing. Peter looks up at him with eyes that tell Tony he’s probably seeing in double again.

“Why’d you leave the helicopter?” Tony asks. “You can’t scare me like that Pete.”

“Sorry,” Peter says. His hands are still wound tightly into the earth. “I was- I was- I thought I heard Ben.”

Tony frowns, leaning forward to press his fingers against the wound in Peter’s head. It trickles blood at his touch and Peter swats him away. God, he wishes he had the technology to tell him exactly what was going on. He’s no doctor, but he’s pretty sure hearing the voices of deceased relatives is not a good sign.

“Don’ worry,” Peter says as if reading his thoughts. “I’m not crazy. Just got confused.”

“I know. I’m sorry Pete.”

“I wanna go home.”

“I know.”

Peter sighs out a shallow breath, staring up into the grey sky. “I don’t know if I can move.”

Trying to keep the panic off his face, Tony doesn’t bother arguing. He knows the boy is right. They’re running out of options. No food, no water, and both injured to hell.

“That’s okay,” Tony says. There’s a deep sadness in his chest that he can’t quite place. “Rest up here for a bit. Get that spidey strength back.”

“How’s your leg?”

“Not so good,” he replies honestly. “But don’t worry about that right now okay?”

“M’okay.”

It doesn’t take long for Peter to nod off again. Away from the cover of the helicopter, they’re much more exposed. Tony knows realistically that they won’t survive much longer out here. He knows realistically that he should find them shelter, maybe even water, but the idea is too much a fantasy to ever be achieved in his current state.

It’s out of his hands, now.

---

Harsh coughing brings Tony out of a fitful slumber. He doesn’t remember falling asleep but surely he must have, the sky now painted in neon oranges and pinks as opposed to the glare of the morning. They’re still lying in the middle of the clearing and Tony can’t feel his fingers and toes.

And Peter? Peter is choking.

Tony pushes himself towards the boy, biting his cheek harshly when his leg flares with pain. Peter is turned on his side, clutching his abdomen with both hands and struggling to breathe. There’s thick red blood spraying out of his mouth with each cough and Tony watches in horror as it doesn’t stop.

“Peter?”

If the kid can hear him, he doesn’t acknowledge it. The coughing persists, the bottom half of his face painted red.

He almost doesn’t notice the plane.

Tony feels frozen. He’s sure Peter is dying.

“Tony!”

The voice is distant. Tony feels strong wind whip through his clothes, his hair. He holds Peter’s hand and rubs his back.

“Tony!”

He spares a glance away from Peter and sees Rhodey hanging from a plane by a long rope, slowly descending towards them. His eyes are wide, reflecting Tony’s fear.

“Hurry! He- he’s dying-”

The relief of their rescue is buried in the very real possibility that Peter won’t make it out off the ground. His struggles for air are getting weaker now, lips tinted blue.

“T’ny.”

“Don’t talk kid,” Tony says. “Save your air.”

Rhodey reaches the ground and unclips his harness from the rope that had carried him there. He starts racing towards them, talking hurriedly over a com.

“Tony.”

One of the kid’s hands finds its way on Tony’s arm, just as it had when the helicopter was moments from hitting the ground. It scratches weakly at the fabric, eyes becoming more frantic.

“You’re going to be okay. Rhodey’s here. He’s going to help-”

“Oh my God!” Rhodey falls to the earth beside them, hands ghosting over Peter. “We need to get him in the sky now.”

Tony can feel his body shutting down. Everything that had happened since the helicopter began to plummet out of the sky comes crashing down around him. There’s a sharp sting of acid in his throat and he feels weak and dizzy.

He can hardly feel the pain anymore.

“I can’t carry him,” Tony says. “My leg. You need to take him. Take him first- come back for me after.”

“And the pilot?”

“Dead.”

Rhodey doesn’t waste any more time. After giving Tony’s shoulder a sharp squeeze, he pulls Peter up into his arms into a bridal carry. The boy, through his coughs, finds it within himself to scream. He jerks against the pain, hands curling into Rhodey’s clothes. Rhodey shifts the kid in his arms and his mouth moves softly in words Tony can’t hear.

As they turn and leave, Peter reaches out towards him, the distance between them growing.

“You’ll be okay,” Tony says to himself, though it’s clear the boy won’t hear. It’s a mantra, a promise.

“You’ll be okay.”

He watches dizzily as Rhodey runs back towards the plane. The world is shifting in a way that he’s not accustomed too. It makes him nauseous and tired and oh god he hopes Peter will be okay.

As his vision fades, he sees Rhodey secure himself back to the rope, holding Peter protectively against his chest. Even from where he sits, far away, he can see the kid’s red blood shining bright against his face.

His kid.

His Peter.

It’s the last thought he has before the world makes one last vicious twist, and he falls back into darkness.

---

He wakes up on the plane.

It’s a strange feeling, being weightless in more ways than one. They must have him hooked to some good drugs because he can barely keep his eyes open and his leg is blissfully unproblematic. From what he can see, he notices Peter laying in a stretcher beside him. The kid’s eyes are open too, but only slightly. He’s covered in bandages and tubes and wires. With numb fingers, Tony reaches out and touches the kid’s arm.

Peter shifts to look at him and smiles when their eyes meet. For the first time in two days, there’s safety in them.

“Hey,” Peter says. His voice is raw.

“Hey yourself,” Tony giggles. God, he feels higher than a kite.

Peter giggles too, his pupils still blown to hell. He shifts ever so slightly in order to lean closer to Tony and whispers as if uttering a secret. “No offence but that- that camping trip really sucked.”

“I agree.”

“I mean. I mean- there weren’t even any marshmallows.”

Tony laughs loudly. He can see Rhodey out of the corner of his eye near the wall, watching them in a weary, bemused expression. His gratitude for his friend is beyond words.

“Don’t worry,” Tony says. “Next time there’ll be, there’ll be-,” but the words die as everything blurs in a soft array of melding colors. He forgets what there’ll be, and when his vision steadies, Peter’s eyes are closed. He looks incredibly young, Tony thinks. Too young.

“No next time,” Tony decides. “No sir.”

He reaches out across his stretcher to Peter’s and grabs the boy’s wrist. The contact calms the last ember of his anxiety, and all the tension seems to drain out of his body.

They’re okay.

They’re going to be okay.

[joontier]

Read or Ride

—> Pairing: namjoon x female reader

—> Genre/warnings: crack basically, joon tryna fite a baby, sMUTTY SMUT SMUT - oral (m and f receiving), riding

—> Words: 5.4k

—> Summary: Unknowingly dissing a novel right in front of its author? We’ll see how that ends.

—> A/N: Comeback is real loves

There's something about airports that Namjoon loves - a satisfactory sensory experience: whether it be the wheels rolling against the shiny tiled floors; children playing along the moving walkways, pretending to be Michael Jackson and doing moonwalks; the sound of getting your passports stamped; or the boarding tickets getting ripped.

But, there's one thing rising author Kim Namjoon distinctively enjoys. People-watching.

Not in a creepy way, of course. Namjoon loves the range of emotions attached to airports and how he witnesses all these first-hand. There are anticipation and excitement from those who were traveling for leisure, sadness from those who have to leave their families temporarily, indifference from people who have to travel for business. For Namjoon, airports are easily on top of the list when it comes to public places, despite having to pay an excessive amount for a bottle of water or a bland donut.

Namjoon takes delight in observing humanity, to say the least. It's what constantly inspires him to write and inspire other people in return. The tall twenty-four-year-old just passed the immigration area and is on his way to the boarding gate to sit down and enjoy the overpriced coffee he bought moments earlier. He doesn't want to brag about finally making it big, but when a lady asked for a picture taken with him and asked him to sign on a piece of paper, he couldn't help the subsequent spring in his step when he continues towards his destination. Namjoon takes a mental note to tell this later to his mother who has a google notification alert set for her son's name.

Only a few people are lounging in the boarding area when Namjoon arrives and looks for a seat near a socket where he can charge his phone. You look up from your seat as he approaches and Namjoon gives you a small smile as he takes one across yours. Moments later, after Namjoon sends a message to both his mother and agent informing them of his soon departure, he notices you pull out a book from your carry-on, the all-too-familiar white cover catching his attention.

Namjoon tries not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation but also attempts not to pump too much air into his head with the photo op earlier and now having to watch someone read his book. He must've hit it big this time, as his third novel has finally reached the New York Times Best Seller List, despite originally having it published halfway across the world and in another language.

Your eyes scan the book's summary at the back and Namjoon feels like he's been punched in the gut as he doesn't miss the way your nose scrunch after going through the short passage. That's a first. The author tries to divert his attention by scrolling mindlessly across social media but still secretly gauging your reaction as you finally start reading the book. He takes a look at his surroundings, enjoying his watching of the never-ending arrival of planes and putting his peripheral vision to the test as he observes your reaction from time to time.

He's thankful that you're focused on reading the book because minutes after looking forward to your facial feedback, he realized he's harboring quite the crush on you. Pretty quick and unusual for a stranger and even more in a public place full of it, but Namjoon claims you're close, if not completely, to his type.

You've gone for an autumn-inspired look, sporting a white sweater, white-washed ripped jeans, oxfords, and a cashmere caramel coat draped over your knees. Not to mention the gold-rimmed glasses perched on your nose, giving off an incredibly homey feel. The way your hair falls from your shoulders as you dropped something or the way you push the bridge of your glasses up also doesn't go amiss. He just finds everything you do endearing, and it takes him all his patience and self-control to not walk over to your seat and introduce himself.

It's been a while since he's been in a relationship, his harshest breakup the inspiration for his first novel. He's tried to go on blind dates set up by his friends, mostly Seokjin, but none of them felt right. Namjoon wasn't sure if it was simply bad timing, or he's gone through a phase of enjoying his freedom from a toxic past.

Namjoon's outright staring is momentarily interrupted when you stand up all of a sudden, placing a random receipt you grabbed from your bag and using it as a bookmark. He takes a look around and sees people forming a queue near the gates, thankful that you hadn't noticed his more than inappropriate staring.

Since a small plane will be accommodating your four-hour flight, the airline staff tells everyone to queue by seat order, calling those seated in the far end of the plane to get in first. There are a few people between where you and Namjoon stand, and Namjoon can't help but hold on to the small sliver of hope that you two will be seated next to each other.

The staff then proceeds to call on those who occupy the mid-section of the plane, and excitement bubbles inside Namjoon as you both move forward in the queue, passing those who were still waiting to be called. The rest of the jet bridge is quiet save the rolling of suitcases' wheels against the plastic flooring and Namjoon's steadily increasing heartbeat. Namjoon was usually suave when it comes to interaction with the opposite sex but God, where is all this high-schooler shit coming from?

He searches for his own seat, chanting the alphanumeric characters in his head like a mantra. Namjoon nearly bumps into you as you stop by the twenty-sixth row, lifting up your carry-on towards the cabin. He would've offered a hand with that but Namjoon's brain was too busy with the fact that you were going to be seated next to him. Almost. Well, you were seated next to the window and Namjoon was next to the aisle, and God forbid someone to take the seat in between.

A couple of minutes more pass and the head flight attendant announces that the plane is doing its final ground checks and will be departing soon. Admittedly, Namjoon absolutely adores airports, but the flight itself? Not so much. He despises the way his stomach lurches during take-off and landing, and can't help imagining that one of the plane's engines will give out, crash head-first in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and if he surprisingly lives, he'd go all-out survival mode on an uncharted island with the minimal knowledge he'd gotten from watching survival documentaries on National Geographic.

He's elated when he figures no one's seated between you, but that fact wasn't enough to calm his nerves as the engines finally roar into life. A part of him curses the person supposed to be seated between you for not showing up, so now you'd have to witness him shaking more vigorously than a rattlesnake's tail.

Namjoon completely misses out on the aircraft's safety regulations, shifting endlessly in his seat and as the plane finally reaches the runway, you can't help but ask him if he's okay. Initially, he's pleasantly surprised by your voice, how it's equally angelic as your face, but the nagging voice at the back of his head overthrows yours and it takes him a few seconds to register that you're trying to talk to him.

"Me? I, uh, yeah," he stammers out, completely at a loss of words. "Sorry, flying isn't just my thing," Namjoon chuckles nervously. Your eyes travel to the way he's gripping onto the armrest, knuckles almost turning white with tightness. "Do you want me to hold your hand?" His head snaps up to look at you, and your cheeks instantly flush with heat while the man looks at you dubiously. "I mean, my Nana gets anxious during flights so she holds my hand all throughout the trip..." the last words come out of your mouth in mumbles.

'Great,' Namjoon thinks. Now, the girl he has a crush on, who, by some miracle, happens to sit right next to him, thinks he has the same flight tolerance as a God-knows-how-old granny. Way to go, Kim Namjoon. He's torn between having a deflated ego and a nearing a nervous breakdown and decides that having to deal with the latter would be easier, considering the situation and his options.

"Um...sure," Namjoon finally answers, reaching out his hand for you. You send him a genuine smile as you link your hands with his. He feels worse than a baby traveling for the first time. Just then, he twists his head to look across the aisle, just to see a year-old baby smiling back at him as if to mock him.

‘Wow’, wonders Namjoon, ‘since when were humans too young to be taught about respect?’

Namjoon wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep but when he opens his eyes, it's already been three hours since they departed. It saddens him that your hands were no longer linked together, though he did enjoy the short period that they were. Your hands were so soft and your fingers felt like they had the right size just to fit perfectly into his. Under the disguise of rubbing his nose, pretending that there was a small itch, Namjoon finds himself swiftly inhaling the scent of your hand cream, shea butter, one of his favorites.

If Namjoon felt like a creep earlier, there was nothing compared to what he felt now. He tries to keep his thinking straight again, and as his eyes drift back to the passengers seated across the aisle, he finds a pair of big blue eyes from the baby staring back at him, with the same mocking smile earlier.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at the small human as if taunting him to say something. The blue-eyed baby stares at him back, before sticking his tongue out at the author and bursting into a fit of laughter. The joyful sound caused smiles to etch into the faces of nearby passengers, but to Namjoon, it was the purest form of ridicule he has received for the past twenty-four years of his life.

He opens his mouth to say something intelligible but realizes he's trying to fight with someone nearly a quarter of his height so he closes his mouth and ignores the baby. The pilot announces that you'll be reaching your destination in less than an hour, and Namjoon decides that this was the perfect time to initiate a conversation with you - it was now or never.

The words appear in jumbles in his head, so when he settles on something as safe as "Pretty interesting book you got there," he lets out a long-held exhale of air. You look up from your reading and place the bookmark-receipt on the page where you stopped. Ah, the mark of an avid reader - anything of close proximity can be deemed a bookmark.

"Yeah, recommended and given by a friend. Not into these types of novels though," you answer, lips forming a tight smile. "What's your type then?" Namjoon asks, unsure if he's still on the topic of novels.

"Mystery. Adventure, political or historical, perhaps," comes out your reply, and you tilt your head as if thinking of more. "Romance novels these days... they almost all have the same storyline. Whether they end up together or not."

"So this is a stereotypical novel then?" the latter asks with eyebrows raised.

"Well, I haven't reached the end yet, and I don't really want to prejudice..." she pauses for a moment and turns to book to check the front, "N.J. Kim, whoever he or she is."

Namjoon hopes that you don't skip to the last page of the book to see his face in monochrome and a short paragraph on his journey of being a writer to accompany that. "It's a cute story though, very light mood compared to those I've read recently. A change of atmosphere is appreciated once in a while." While Namjoon wants to convince you that things are about to get heavier in the final chapters and the upcoming sequel despite you being cute and all, but that would've been throwing a year and a half's work straight to the bin.

Before Namjoon decides that it's not his book that he wants to talk about, his bladder starts acting up so he excuses himself for a while and stands up from his seat. His long legs stride down the aisle and he comes face-to-face again with the blue-eyed baby. What has he ever done in his life for little humans to despise him this much?

The year-old boy rests his chin on his mother's shoulder and stares at him, doe eyes adding to the intensity. Then he breaks out into a fit of laughter again causing the mother to turn around and look at the reason. She sends Namjoon a brief smile before heading to the lavatory with her son giving him a two-teethed smile.

When he comes back to his seat ten minutes later, he finds you still reading. Although this time around, he finally builds up enough courage to initiate a proper conversation. That is until you beat him to it. "Quite the line down there yeah?" Namjoon chuckles in agreement, buckling his seatbelt. There's a pregnant pause before you reach out your hand to him for the second time today. You state your name as he returns the gesture, "Namjoon," the author replies along with a dimpled smile.

"So what's your story?" Namjoon inquires, shifting his body so he could lean his elbow on the armrest. "Just taking a break from work...And a friend recommends the place too," comes your reply.

"Ah, the same friend that gave you that book?"

"Yep."

"You seem to trust that friend's judgment."

"Yeah, and now I know not to," you sigh, resting your head against the chair. "Why so?"

"This book is almost like what I expected. The reason I don't delve into romance because ninety percent of it is mostly crap. I enjoy reality. I revel in its authenticity, unlike fabricated ones like these where the female character always seems to come in some form of distress and lacks the confidence to solve her own problems. So here comes Mr. Perfect clad in his knightly armor with two propositions a) he tries to solve all the lady's troubles or b) he'll just add himself to the list and cause more inconvenience."

Namjoon, now sporting a wounded ego, intends to retaliate, but decides on keeping the conversation going rather than defending himself. He lets you rant about previous books you’ve read and your thoughts on it while he tells stories from his travels around the world, smoothly avoiding the reality of him being a writer and you were just criticizing his novel.

--

There's a pang in your chest once you've parted ways with the stranger you've acquainted with. You've never had an interaction with a guy before who listened intently as Namjoon did, not even at work to say the least. You couldn't deny the fact that he was cute either, so having to know just the name of a possible total catch was upsetting.

It's a quick ride to your hotel and when you reach the building, you make sure to take a snap to send to Ariel. Something feels off once the driver hands you your luggage, remembering that your case seemed to be lighter than your own. You don't put much thought to it as you want to take a nap once you get to the room before heading out to the city.

As soon as the receptionist hands you the key card, you do a near sprint towards the closing doors of the elevator, waving your free hand to the passengers. Sleep was about to overcome you, dozing off during the elevator ride and using your luggage as support but you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep well when you don't wash up after a long trip.

You fall on your knees once you get to the room, dragging the luggage down with you, too tired to exert any more effort. You put in the combination to the lock with one eye open, resting your back against the bed frame. Your head shoots up when you see 1-2-3 on the wheels and the zipper won't slide open. Shit.

You hadn't bothered changing the default combination when you bought the bag two weeks ago. You hadn't found any other reason to do so anyway. Seeing as no one else could've had changed it during that time, you check the rest of the luggage and inspected if it was truly yours. It seemed like yours from the front, the logo still in its place and a red lining along with the zippers.

When you twist the bag to check the rest of it though, you find out that the blue luggage tag you've attached to the side handle with a label 'DO NOT TOUCH' is nowhere to be seen. A thin laminated card has taken its place instead. It takes you by surprise when the card reads 'N.J. Kim' along with his contact information in case of loss. There was no way you could've been on the same flight as the author of the book you were just reading. Not to mention you didn't have anything good to say about the book too.

You find yourself pressing the numbers on your phone regardless, just wanting to get your first day of vacation hassle-free. It takes a few rings before someone picks up, a male voice saying something in Korean. You weren't that all too familiar with the language, although you remember Ariel watching a drama of some sort and came across the phrase.

"Um, hello?" you answer with crossed fingers, wishing that the person on the other line could speak in English.

"Yes hello. Who is this?" You breathe out a sigh of relief as the guy responds.

"I'm ______ and I'm looking for N.J. Kim. May I speak to him please?"

"Sorry but Mr. Kim isn't available at the moment. Would you like me take a message for him?"

"Yes, please. Could you tell him that I've mistaken his luggage for mine? Perhaps he's taken mine by mistake too?" you pause as you think for a solution to meet halfway "Maybe we could meet up somewhere so I can give this back at once."

The man mumbles something in Korean but judging by the way he spoke, he sounded like he was reprimanding a small kid. "Yes of course. I shall relay your message ASAP. Although I have to remind you that he won't be available until after a few hours. Would you be willing to wait until then, Ms. _____?"

"A few hours?!" you can't hide the risen pitch of your voice and you cough as you echo what he said one more time. "My apologies miss, but Mr. Kim is currently at an event. If this is of utmost importance to you, as his agent, I'd like to personally help you if you are willing to pass by the venue now. It's at a hotel in the heart of the city."

Not wanting to prolong your stress any longer, you respond in the affirmative. The guy, who you later learned to be Seokjin Kim, gave you the address of the book signing event.

- - -

A sudden wave of realization hits you when you see a standee by the hotel’s lobby - one around Namjoon’s height and his dimpled smile, holding the book you were just reading. And criticizing. He looks more of a recording artist than a best-selling author with promotions like these, but the thought of openly complaining about a book in front of its author is eating at your conscience and you feel your legs turning into jelly.

You head towards the function room, remembering that you still have the novel in your bag. God, this is going to haunt you like a terrible nightmare. You notice some girls standing a few meters away from the doors and you hear them giggling and talking about Namjoon. It doesn’t surprise you though, knowing for a fact that your seatmate on the plane could easily pass for a celebrity.

The guards let you in when they see your book and as you enter there is an elevated platform with Namjoon seated with a while interacting with his fans while signing the books. A crowd of nearly all girls are seated facing the platform, few are taking pictures and some are cheering him on, occasionally asking him questions while he continues to sign the novels.

You continue to watch the whole scenario, not noticing someone walk to your side. “You must be _____,” he asks. “Seokjin Kim.” Introducing himself as his agent, he leads you to a waiting room behind the stage and asks you to wait as the event is about to end.

Thirty minutes and an awful lot of screaming later, Namjoon enters the room and for a moment you’re taken aback by his presence. He has his hair styled up this time, dressed up in clothes that fit his size more compared to what he looked like a few hours ago at the airport. Not that he looked any less cuter though.

You’re thankful you taken a seat on a couch on the other side of the room openly ogling him. He hasn’t noticed you yet, picking up a few personal things near the vanity mirror. “Hyung, you should’ve seen the girl I sat next to at the plane! She was... fuck. I can’t get her off my-“ Namjoon spins just enough to see you there, visibly swallowing when he couldn’t finish his sentence.

“So you’ve met Ms._______,” Seokjin states as he re-enters the room. Namjoon remains speechless as you answer for him “I’m the girl he sat next to on the plane.” You don’t know how you’ve managed to gather up the confidence to say that, but the smirk playing on Seokjin’s lips is not helping.

“Well done, hyung. Well done,” someone claps from behind Namjoon, checking you out in the most obvious way possible. He waves at you, introducing himself as Jimin and cousin of Namjoon. He extends a hand his hand out for a shake, sending you a wink when you return the greeting.

Jimin, the blonde-haired adonis, reaches something from the pocket of his jeans and slaps it on Namjoon’s chest. You see a hotel key card, and the all-too-recognizable aluminum packet of a condom behind it. “Your luggages are in the room,” Jimin informs, sending a wink to Namjoon this time.

Face paling quickly, Namjoon coughs and quietly asks you to follow him, not meeting your eyes. The elevator doors open, Namjoon walks in first with you following closely behind. Sadly, you didn’t notice the gap between the doors and you trip, landing face flat on Namjoon’s chest which was firmer than your will to live at that moment. You’re sure your face has gone through all shades of red now, the rest of the elevator ride unbearable.

“This is going to be awkward, but, I- um...I’d like to apologize for what I’ve said back at the plane...about your book...” You cringe at your words, a very vivid memory of you ranting now etched permanently inside your brain.

"How about I prove you wrong about my novels?"

He drags his finger along the edge of the lamp by the corner, absentmindedly feeling the smooth surface and not wanting to meet your eyes.  When he turns to look at you though, it takes three seconds to register that your lips are finally on his, your mouth firmly pressing against Namjoon's.

It's just as soft as he imagined, the cherry taste of your lip balm leaving him wanting for more as you suddenly pull away. "You have no idea much I've imagined--" Namjoon starts to speak but you place a finger on his lips to shush the man. "Shut up and kiss me already."

His hand finds its way to your neck, while the other supports his weight as he gently pushes you to the wall. Once more, your lips meet together and a shiver runs down Namjoon's spine, sending charges throughout his whole body, especially down south. Namjoon leaves your lips for your cheek, then your jawline and he's thankful that you look up in bliss, giving him more access to your throat.

Slender fingers travel to the hem of your sweater, lifting it a little so his fingertips dance their way onto the expanse of your skin under your clothing. You push yourself off the wall to take off the ridiculous amount of clothing you still have on while Namjoon forcibly opens his button-down shirt, the sound of buttons falling muted against the carpeted floor.

Namjoon curses under his breath when your hand brushes by the erection straining against his jeans. It's almost embarrassing for him to get hard so quickly this time, but no one could've blamed him when a pretty girl was already on her knees ready to suck him off. Namjoon feels the room temperature rising by the second, beads of sweat slowly glistening his forehead. When his cock finally springs free from the confines of his boxers, you grab his length, tentatively swiping your thumb across the slit, a string of pre-cum glazing your finger.

Kim Namjoon is definitely blessed.

He lets out a hiss when you bring your lips to his cock, letting the tip of your tongue trace the singular vein popping from his length. Namjoon isn’t sure which is hotter - your mouth on his cock or the visual you’re generously providing him with.

“Fuck, enough of that.” He guides you up, supporting you by the waist. Namjoon then pushes you down to lay on the bed, hair splayed all over the pillows and your torso hitting the soft bedding. He captures your lips in an eager yet playful kiss while his hands travel along the length of your body.

He growls into the kiss, one hand reaching down to open your thighs. As Namjoon’s cock brushes against your clothed cunt, you helplessly lift your hips to grind against his, desperate for some friction. “Not so fast, baby girl,” Namjoon whispers against your skin, nipping lightly at the shell of your ear.

“Joonie please,” you whimper, his cock twitching at the sound. Pulling down your bra to expose your breasts, Namjoon’s featherlight touches around the area hardens your nipples in an instant and he brings his lips to the hardened nub then blowing cool air against it as he does the same with the other.

Having enough of the man’s teasing, you plan on giving him a taste of his own medicine when your hands travel slowly to his length. Namjoon notices the motion of your hands though, taking both your hands with one hand and pinning them above your head. He then proceeds to revel in the smoothness of your skin until he reaches your thighs and looks up at you, sending you a flirty wink.

Kim Namjoon will be the death of you and you’re sure as hell enjoying every second of it.

He moves closer, nose expertly brushing against your covered clit. You shiver at the feeling, and the moment Namjoon pushes your panties to the side and flattens his tongue against your folds, you instantly let out a cry of pleasure. He wastes no time taking off your underwear for you, feeling and seeing your excitement at par with his. Namjoon continues with his torture, licking his lips when he finally sees your folds glistening, sweet and ready to be divulged. His skilled tongue circles your clit and then slides into your clenching hole to get a taste. You whine, hands tugging at his hair at his ministrations. You almost lose it when his tongue meets your clit again, this time sucking on the bud. You wriggle your hips, trying to free yourself but Namjoon pins you down with strong hands, licking and sucking at the nub.

“I-I’m so... so close,” you moan, breathless when Namjoon suddenly pulls away. Your head snaps up and you stare at him incredulously. “You know, I’d love watching you come apart with my tongue, but I’d rather have you cum on my cock,” he rasps out, manhandling you so that you’re seated on his lap in one swift motion.

"Ride me," Namjoon's voice drops to a whisper, his mind clouding as he feels your center pressing against his cock. You notice him hesitate for a moment, staring at his discarded jeans on the floor, remembering the condom Jimin handed him together with the key card. “I’m clean and on the pill.” You reassure him, getting a soft ‘fuck’ in return. You lower down to let his cock grind against your entrance, the divine feeling making you both shudder and moan. If he already feels like this even before he's inside you, your mind couldn't possibly cope with what could happen moments later.

Once you're positive that you've already coated his length with more than a generous amount of your slick, you give him a quick kiss before pushing him further towards the headboard. Slowly, you sink down onto him, the breach making you gasp out in pleasure. Your eyes close for a moment as he finally reaches the hilt, letting yourself get used to the feeling of him stretching you out.

Subconsciously squeezing around him, Namjoon lets out a broken moan, his line of vision focusing on where both of you are joined as one. You start rocking your hips slowly, placing your hands on his shoulders for support. "Is this okay?" you ask him, his silence causing you the slightest hint of worry. "Yes, oh-" he responds, heaving a sigh when you squeeze yourself around him, the previously articulate man now at a loss for words.

“Shit, if you keep doing that...” Namjoon rasps, hands on your waist tightening when you clench around him again, purposely this time. “Like this?” you confirm, enjoying his reactions. You continue moving your hips, forward then back, reveling in the feeling of his cock a snug fit inside you. Unfortunately, after letting your gym membership crumble to dust, your stamina is not cut out for reaching your highs like this. Namjoon notices your movements stutter, and starts snapping his hips up to help you.

God, he’s reaching in too deep like this and you don’t think you’re going to last that long like this. Slowly, you feel that familiar pressure building up inside you, eyes rolling to the back of your head. When Namjoon’s thumb finds your clit, it finally hits you so strongly that your body bows towards his, hands resting on his chest for support.

Namjoon, desperate for his own release as well, switches your position one more time. “How are you so tight?” He mutters to himself, face hovering above yours as he supports himself on his elbows, snapping his hips as he gets lost in the feeling of having your walls clench around him. “One more time for me, baby.” You’ve come to adore the pet name he’s given you, but when he said that with a particularly strong thrust, your muscles contracting once more.

Namjoon’s hips stutter, and while you mewl against his chest for the overstimulation, he lets out a deep grunt as he reaches his climax, using your pussy to get off. You reach your high again one more time, clutching onto the bedsheets for dear life. He’s still breathing hard while he slips out of you, planting a kiss on your cheek as he heads to the bathroom to get a washcloth. When he returns, he finds you’ve turned to lie on your side, already snoring softly.

‘Guess who fell asleep now?’ He chuckles to himself, proceeding to carefully wipe the remnants of your intimacy on your thighs.

[thulkwarrior]

Do you think Thor would ever beat up General Ross? If not how would he react? If you could write a fic about this it would literally make my day!! 💕

right! i wasn’t planning on this being so long, but then it ended up being 3k words sooooo…. enjoy lol!! also this is endgame spoiler free, because i like to ignore that endgame happened. 

warnings: broken bones (it’s not at all explicit but just in case!)

                anxiety attack 

words: 3338

for a man who turns big and green when he’s angry, bruce banner is not very good at expressing his emotions. ironic as it is.

sure he can yell and scream just as much as the next person; but only he with an observant eye can pick up on the microscoping shows of fear, hurt, or even happiness that bruce expresses on a day to day basis. for thor; the asgardian, this took a bit of getting used to.

small tells wasn’t exactly the asgardian way, it was a ‘go big or go home’ kind of realm. it’s pretty much guaranteed that you’ll never meet a timid asgardian in your life. far from it. so it took thor a while to gain the ‘bruce banner eye’.

but after a couple stray hulk outs and the occasional plate thrown at his head, thor had fine tuned his ability to read bruce almost perfectly. he could see the way his lip quivered just slightly when he was sad, the tiny squint of his eyes when he was happy and the way he tucked his thumbs into his fist and squeezed when he was scared.

which is why thor went into red alert when a squadron of men landed on new asgard, and he noticed bruce’s thumbs slip into his fist.

“i didn’t authorise any aircraft to land within our borders.” thor stated indifferently as three men in military uniform and holding guns stepped from a helicopter and approached him, bruce, brunnhilde and heimdall.

the man at the forefront held out a badge, general thaddeus ross, US air force, thor took notice of the pop of bruce’s joints as he squeezed his thumbs harder.

“it’s an inspection, we are under no obligation to forewarn you about inspections.” the man, ross, replied. his eyes had begun to roam, eyeing up his council, thor noted the way they landed and lingered on bruce.

“inspection?” brunnhilde spoke up, and his beady eyes shot to her.

“yes, ma’am. an inspection. to make sure your people are… safe. that they’re not a threat.”

brunnhilde scoffed, “a threat? we’ve been here six months with no incidents, why would you suddenly be concerned that there’s a threat?”

thor raised a hand to brunnhilde but intercepted before the man could speak again, “i’m sorry sir, but i will not have my people gawked at like animals and inspected like criminals.”

the general seemed taken aback for a moment, before he seemed to regain himself and took a step forward, “need i remind you, mr odinson, that you are guests on this planet, and in this country. we were kind enough to let you in, we can just as easily throw you out.”

thor felt the anger rise and the electricity crackle under his skin, but heimdall’s hand on his shoulder kept him grounded. he clenched his jaw and ground his teeth but nodded slowly, before gesturing with his arm, “of course. follow me.”

the man smirked, “lead the way.”

thor turned and finally snuck a glance at bruce. as expected his face was neutral, save for a slight tremor to his lip, and a look at his hands revealed white knuckles. thor’s stomach turned at the sight. he wanted to ask if he was okay, but bruce didn’t look at him once, his eyes stayed glued on the general, who seemed to be staring back.

figuring he could ask bruce about it when they were alone, he began to lead the men to the council hall. despite thor’s fast pace, bruce kept himself glued to thor’s side, not wanting to fall even a little behind. taking pity on the way he tumbled every now and then to keep up, thor decided to reach down to hold one of his hands. bruce clutched on tightly and immediately, and his palm was covered in a cold sweat. the weight in thor’s stomach grew heavier.

when they arrived at the small council hall and thor went to sit down, he loosened his grip so as to allow bruce to sit in the seat next to him, but bruce’s hand squeezed his tighter. that’s when he finally looked at thor, pleading with his eyes. thor’s mind begun to cloud with worry, but all he could do was grip his hand again.

“so, let’s talk business.” the general had seated himself in one of the chairs opposite thor’s council while the other men stood behind him, guns in their hands, ready. thor nodded.

“we’re gonna need to stay about a week, to get a real feel of your people and how they have adapted to life here. we will not interfere, just observe.” he said, thor hummed.

“a week? pardon me general, but where are you planning on housing for a week?”

“i beg your pardon?”

“well, you gave us the smallest amount of land you could. we have no spare housing, no spare rooms. not even a barn you could stay in.” thor explained calmly.

the general glared at thor slightly, before turning and whispering to the men behind him. they exchanged hushed conversation before turning back to thor, “we can set up camp on the launchpad, by the chopper.”

“as you wish.” thor replied.

“if i may continue…” the general continued through gritted teeth, “we also want to get a feel of authority here. how you run things. i know you’re used to a monarchy, but under our government we need to know how you command and run your people. as part of this, we want to privately speak to each member of your council.” his eyes fell on bruce, “each one.”

thor could now pick up the tremor in bruce’s grip. he flicked between bruce and the general’s faces, they were looking intently at each other, but the unmistakable quiver of his lip told thor that bruce’s was a look of fear.

“of course” he agreed, reluctantly.

a smile broke out under the general’s thick moustache, “excellent! we’ll settle ourselves in and then begin with the interviews right away! starting with… mr banner, i think!”

thor swore he felt bruce’s blood run cold.

the men walked out, leaving only the council in the room.

“this is ridiculous.” brunnhilde muttered, angrily throwing her hands in the air. “he can’t just fly in here with his big guns and mustache and analyse us! we’re not an experiment! you can’t let him do this to us! thor are you listening?!”

but thor wasn’t listening, he was too busy looking at bruce. he realised that the tremor wasn’t just in his hand, but his whole body was convulsing. and his eyes were trained on the door the men had just walked out of, unmoving.

“bruce?”

a shot of pain in his hand caused thor to look down and their still joined hands, only his fingers had gone completely purple, and pain climbed up his wrist as bruce continued to squeeze.

“bruce? honey you’re hurting me.” thor spoke more urgently this time, and he brought a hand down to try and pry bruce’s fingers away. brunnhilde and heimdall now seemed to notice something was wrong.

“bruce?” brunnhilde tried, as thor continued to try and pull bruce’s fingers away. he didn’t respond again, just kept looking at the door, shaking and squeezing.

“bruce please… stop”

it was the loud snap that brought bruce back to reality.

thor yelped loudly and cupped his hand which bruce finally dropped, looking at bruce in shock. bruce’s face seemed to reflect his, he looked in disbelief at thor’s hand, and then back down at his own. his fist was green.

“thor, i’m… i’m so- i’m sorry…”

heimdall rushed toward thor and looked at his hand, “it’s broken, it’ll heal in a couple of days but i should set it. come to the med building.”

he left no room for argument as he dragged thor by his other arm, thor made a noise of protest and looked to bruce but could only give him a look of sympathy before being pulled out of the room.

as soon as thor was out the room bruce’s knees gave out and he fell into one of the chairs. he couldn’t bring himself to look at brunnhilde, so he kept his head dropped looking at the floor.

“what the hell was that, bruce?” she said, after a moment of silence.

“i-” he began, trying to come out with some sort of explanation, but all that came out was a whisper as his throat closed up and his eyes flooded with tears. the shaking was back, and his thumbs tucked back into his fists.

“it’s that man isn’t it.” she stated, more than asked, “let me take you to your house-”

“no!” bruce jumped back as brunnhilde reached to help him up, “no… just- just make sure thor is okay. please. i’ll walk back myself.”

brunnhilde pressed her lips together, “i don’t think you’re in any state to be on your own bruce…”

“please, i’ve already hurt one person. just…go. i’ll be fine.” he wiped the tears streaming down his cheeks and cleared his throat, “i’ll be fine.”  

brunnhilde looked reluctant, but eventually placed a hand on bruce’s shoulder before nodding and leaving towards the med building.

finally on his own, bruce leaned forward and placed his head on the table. he took in deep breaths as he felt as if his lungs were being crushed until his head swam and his vision started to blot green. images of thor leaping away from him in pain flashed through his mind as he panted, then of heimdall taking him away from him, and then val’s shocked face. and then ross. ross. ross…

“hello, bruce.”

“brunn?” thor asked as he saw the maiden approach the med building, “where’s bruce?”

“he’s still at the council hall.” she replied, sitting down in the seat opposite thor who now sported a splint on his hand. “he wanted me to come make sure you’re okay.”

“what? and you just left him there?!” thor growled in response.

brunnhilde raised her hands and nodded to thor’s bandaged hand, “i didn’t feel i was in a particularly good place to say no.” she retorted defensively.

thor shrank slightly and retracted back in his seat, cupping his hand to his chest, “you’re right, i’m sorry.”

they fell into a silence, neither sure what to say. they had never seen bruce in such a state. not after a hulk out, not even before a hulk out. he had gone completely comatose, save for snapping thor’s hand. feeling the throb in his fingers thor knew that bruce was afraid of that man, and he needed to know why.

“i need to speak to that general.” thor said, and brunnhilde nodded.

bruce couldn’t move. he tried, he really did. he tried to run, willed his legs to move and get him out. he begged his hands to cover his head and close his eyes, and hope that when he opened them he wouldn’t be there anymore. he would wake up to the sunrise, thor wrapped around him, protecting him.

but he was frozen. and he was there. and it was real.

“quite the life you’ve built for yourself here.”

bruce didn’t think he’d ever have to hear that voice again. it was stupid of him. stupid to think he could ever be allowed to be happy, to live a normal life with his husband and his friends.

“i mean, i always figured you’d end up a recluse somewhere, tony stark’s protection couldn’t last forever. and it only took him… a few years to blast you into space and leave you there to rot?”

bruce wanted to protest. to get up and tell him that tony is his friend, that he cares about him. that he is capable of love and being loved, but ross’ words banged around in his head, invading his thoughts and poisoning his mind. he held his breath as ross began to move, taking slow steps towards him.

“marrying the king of asgard though! now there’s something i couldn’t have expected!”

he began to circle around bruce’s chair until he was stood behind him. bruce could have run, the door was right in front of him, and ross was behind him. but he couldn’t, and ross knew this too.

“i hope you enjoy it while it lasts, wasn’t that your husband i just saw running out with a broken hand?”

the sudden feeling of hands dropping onto his shoulders made bruce’s blood run cold and his breath get caught in his throat.

“what will it be the next time, bruce? his arm? his leg?” hot breath hit bruce’s skin, “his neck?”

images of him harming - killing - thor flashed through his mind and he quickly shook his head.

“no?” ross was now leaning down so he was speaking into his ear, “but you’ve already hurt him once. what’s to stop you doing it again? “

“i-” bruce’s voice was thick and broken as he tried to talk through the lump in his throat, “i love him.”

ross scoffed, “love? you’re incapable of love! all you know is to destroy. and that’s all you’re good for!”

bruce shook his head again as tears streamed down his face. ross’ hands gripped his shoulders tighter and bruce felt the panic rise. his limbs began to tingle and his vision started to blot green.

“you’ve had your fun here, but i’m going to take you away, bruce. my job is to determine the safety of this area, and i deem you dangerous. you’re coming with me!”

bruce’s chest heaved as the words dug into him harder than the fingers in his shoulders, “no!”

his voice was deep and afraid, now. hulk wanted to come out, to protect bruce. and bruce didn’t know if he could, or wanted to stop him. he sobbed as he saw green.

“that’s it, bruce! turn green, make my day!”

“what do you mean he’s not here?”

thor was stood on the launchpad with the group of men, but the general was nowhere to be seen.

“he went back to the council hall, said he needed to speak to someone.” one of the men replied.

thor’s look of confusion turned to one of worry, “oh no,”

he began to run towards the hall, his mind racing with thoughts of bruce. of how afraid he looked, of the way he gripped thor’s hand like it was the only thing keeping him safe. god, he shouldn’t have left him.

he halted to a stop when a roar pierced the air, coming from the council hall.

“bruce…” thor whispered, he began running again, as fast as he could.

“bruce!” he shouted as he approached, the building was in his sight. the first thing he noticed was the hole where the door had previously been, the second thing he noticed was the hulk lying, unmoving on the floor.

“hulk!” he screamed, dropping to his knees beside the hulk’s body. it was then he noticed the slow rise and fall of his chest. he was alive.

thor brought a hand up to his face and stroked his cheek, “oh, what did he do to you?”

“i merely tranquilised him.”

thor’s head shot up at the sound of the generals voice, and anger immediately erupted into his veins. he leaned down to place a kiss on hulk’s forehead before standing and turning to the general.

“if you value you your life, you’d better have a damn good explanation for this.”

ross narrowed his eyes and threw the tranquiliser gun he was holding to the ground, “is that a threat, mr odinson?”

“you shot my husband, yes it’s a threat” thor growled, “speak quickly.”

ross glared at thor, “that creature was going to kill me! i was just asking mr banner some questions, when he hulked out and tried to attack me!”

a crowd had formed around the scene, but thor paid no attention to anyone. his eyes stayed burning into ross, the flickering of blue in his pupils revealing his barely contained fury which threatened to seep out of him at any moment.

“it is your responsibility as the leader of asgard to make sure you do not pose a threat to our country, and i deem that this creature” he pointed a finger to hulk, “is dangerous! and he’s coming with us.”

ross suddenly pulled an intercom to his mouth, “the beast is down, let’s pick him up and go.”

thor had begun to spark, and dark clouds gathered above them.

“you’re not touching him.”

ross visibly backup up as thor’s eyes began to glow, and electricity bounced from his skin. he was like a bomb that was seconds away from detonating. brunnhilde had pushed her way through the crowd of people and gasped when she saw hulk lying unconscious on the ground with thor kneeling next to him. she ran forward to hulk’s side and stood next to thor, staring ross down.

ross licked his lips and took another step back, “if you hurt me, you and all your people will be exiled from this planet. you’ll have nowhere to go! are you really willing to put that creature before your people?!”

thor didn’t need to answer, though.

it started with heimdall. without a word, he joined brunnhilde, putting himself between hulk and ross. he didn’t say anything, but everyone knew what he meant, ross would have to go through him to get to hulk.

that was all it took, then. the asgardians began to encircle themselves around hulk, until they had created a barrier around him. each one was staring at ross, daring him to make a move.

thor smiled, finally breaking his eye contact with ross to look at his people.

“we won’t hurt you, general.” he looked back, “but if you come here and threaten my husband again, you will have 500 asgardians to answer to.”

ross was red in the face, but his hands shook with fear as he looked at the crowd of people glaring daggers in his direction.

“abort, let’s leave.” he said into the intercom.

“you’ll regret this.” he said to thor, before turning to leave back towards the launchpad.

thor was at bruce’s bedside the second he heard the sound of him calling out.

“hey, my love. i’m here, it’s okay.”

bruce looked disorientated, his eyes frantically shooting around the room, confusion written on his face. but when his eyes landed on thor, they filled with tears.

“thor…”

thor leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, “shh, it’s okay. he’s gone. he’s gone.”

“he- he tried…” bruce tried to speak, but sobbing wracked his body so harshly he couldn’t get the words out.

thor brought his uninjured hand up to stroke bruce’s hair as he cried, placing gentle kisses on his face and hair and whispering quiet words of comfort.

they stayed like that for a while, until bruce’s crying dwindled down into whimpers and his whole body shook.

after a couple deep breathes, bruce tried to speak again.

“i thought he was going to take me again, away from you. and away from here… i didn’t want to…”

thor shook his head and used a finger to wipe and bruce’s cheeks, “no one will ever take you away from me. no one. i wouldn’t let them. asgard wouldn’t let them. okay? you don’t have to tell me about that man, or how you know him. all i care about is you, safe, and here with me.”

bruce nodded, and untucked his thumb from his fist to bring it up to thor’s cheek, “i love you, so so much.”

thor placed his bandaged hand over bruce’s and smiled, “words can’t even begin to describe how much i love you.”

he leaned forward and placed a kiss on bruce’s lips. it was wet and sloppy but neither cared, they were just happy to hold each other.

“i’m sorry about your hand.” bruce whispered as they pulled apart.

thor laughed and kissed him again, “it’s okay.”

[wildefiction]

Of Course...Mr. Collins

TEN

It had been several years since you'd flown, but the seats that awaited you in First Class were brand new. Lowering yourself into the plush reclining chair, you were delighted to find a menu resting on the table between you and Misha, bottles of water already in place. 

After placing both your messenger bag and Misha's beneath your seat, you wriggled back against it, smiling up at the stewardess who approached you. Glancing at Misha, her eyes narrowed briefly in recognition before turning back to you. 

“Aloha! Would you like a drink? Our signature cocktail is a Mai Thai this morning. We also have fresh squeezed juices as well as soft drinks and hot tea or coffee?” 

“Uhm, orange juice please?” Smiling at the young woman as she turned her nervous gaze to Misha, he answered her silent question as well. 

“I'll have the Mai Thai, thank you.” The woman nodded before bustling away while you dug through your bag in search of your wallet. 

“What are you doing [Y/F/N]?”  

“Looking for my wallet, how much do you think orange juice is?” 

With your head buried in your bag, you didn't notice Misha laugh to himself. Placing a large hand on yours, you stilled, raising your head to glance up at the man sitting next to you. 

“[Y/F/N], it's free. Everything is. Wait till you taste the food, I've heard Hawaiian has pretty good meals.” 

“Oh, well, I won't say no to free juice and breakfast!” Beaming, you settled back in your chair, content with your flight, even though you hadn't even left the gate yet.

Your eyes widened, as Misha reached over and pushed the silver button that lie flush against the recliner, lowering the back of your seat into an almost fully flat bed. He leaned over you then, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with renewed exuberance as he stared down at you, a soft smile spreading across his features. 

He'd been flying at least twice a week for the last ten years and had grown used to the feeling. It was endearing to see someone experience it for the first time. 

Turning, he thanked the stewardess for the drinks before holding yours out to you. The orange juice was chilled in a clear glass, a small cocktail of orange slices with pineapple lie skewered across the top of the drink. Raising your glass to meet Misha's outstretched one, the quiet clink of your respective beverages signaled the beginning of your first trip with Misha in charge. 

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you snapped a picture of your fancy orange juice and sent it to your sister with the hashtag #pinkiesupbitches. 

“I could get used to this! Is this how you always fly?”

“Oh but wait! There's more!” You laughed as his deep melodic voice mimicked the late Billy Mays. 

Misha’s shoulder brushed yours as he once again leaned over your seat, his broad chest resting against your shoulder as he tapped another button on the opposite arm of your chair. Two additional successive taps revealed a hidden bar that rose up from the armrest, folding across your lap. 

“Is this my crash bar?!” The sarcasm dripped heavily from your voice as you looked up at him again. 

Your breath caught in your throat with how close he was to you, and you steeled yourself to keep from reaching up to him. He was teasing you, it was plain in his expression. Smiling to yourself, you decided to bide your time and exact your next move when he least expected it.

“Here you go ma’am.” Turning towards the voice, the same stewardess from earlier had returned, in her hand was an Apple iPad Pro. Thanking her again, Misha grabbed it for you and set it into the bar across your lap, where it supported itself, able to turn to different viewing angles and heights. 

A blush crept over your cheeks as you realized how incompetent you were. Of course the bar held a tablet. Why wouldn't it? Turning to adjust the travel pillow behind your head, you smiled again. 

Where you'd always been one in a row of too many cramped seats in coach, behind you, the wall was covered in a starry mural, heavy cream curtains hung on either side, dimming the cabin. The soft fleece blanket and reclining chair made you all but forget that you were on a plane until the captain's voice floated through the air. 

“Good morning folks! This is your captain speaking. On behalf of Hawaiian Airlines we'd like to extend our greatest appreciation that you chose to fly with us today.” The jet rumbled backwards as it was pushed out of the gate. 

“Our expected flight time is five hours and forty-five minutes.” “Now, about an hour or so into our flight, we'll be experiencing something most Seattleites aren't accustomed to, if you look out your windows, you'll be greeted with a warm golden light. We fondly refer to this as sunlight. No need to be alarmed!” 

A deep, rumbling laughter sounded over the intercom and the familiarity of dry jokes and the hum of the engines reminded you of the last time you'd traveled.

Ten minutes later, the roar of the engines escalated as the wheels lifted off the tarmac. Grinning, you leaned forward. In your excitement, you turned to share it with Misha, but found the man with his eyes closed, a white knuckled grip on the center armrest, tension radiated through his body with his nerves. 

The headphones resting over his ears prevented him from hearing your question of concern as you checked to see if he was okay. Reaching over, you placed a steady hand on his wrist, and he jerked involuntarily before settling under your touch. A small smile chasing over his features disappeared as the aircraft lurched into a brief pocket of turbulence before evening out. 

Screwing his eyes shut, Misha gripped your arm again until you reached cruising altitude. Removing the headphones, he lowered his seat into its fully reclined position as he settled in for the trip. 

“Sorry about that. Its just take-off that unnerves me for some reason. Thanks for the support.” His deep blue eyes searched your features as relief flooded through him. 

Pulling his blanket up to cover himself, he closed his eyes. Laying back next to him in your own recliner, you mused 

“Tut tut, aren't I the floozy! Sleeping with my boss less than a week after being hired!” You laughed then, a hand braced against your chest with a look of mock horror on your face.

Misha smirked, lifting one heavy eyelid to look sideways at your grinning countenance. Turning on his side to face you, he reached up, running one hand through his espresso soaked hair, trying with no luck to rearrange the strands into a more presentable fashion. 

“So, what questions do you have?” 

“Huh. I mean, I've never cuddled with my bosses before. But then again, I've also never seen any of them naked.” 

Blushing, you stared into your lap, ringing your hands as you mentioned the text.

“What can I say, figured I'd lay my cards on the table right away!” You both laughed then, earning you concerned looks from the occupied chairs surrounding you. 

"In all seriousness though, I really am sorry for that. It was a complete accident. I should have double checked before sending the message."

You were quiet a few moments as the flight attendants buzzed around you, checking in occasionally to offer another free drink or a plate of macadamia nuts.

Popping a few into your mouth, you savored the delicately buttery texture. It'd been awhile since you'd had them and you savored the small snack. Breakfast consisted of a small cheese omelette with island grown sausages, fresh fruit and a warm poppy seed scone. 

“Fun fact, if you eat a ton of poppy seeds you'd be totally stoned. Did you know that?!” 

“That's such an old wives tale!” 

“Let me guess, you read that on the internet?” Misha smiled and then laughed again, the rich reverberations making you smile as well. You thoroughly enjoyed Misha's laughter and his company, and truth be told, you hadn't minded a bit when you'd received the accidental text that Saturday night. 

“Well, if there are no more questions at the moment, I'm going to try and sleep. Might I suggest you do the same? We've a busy weekend ahead of us Ms. [Y/L/N].” 

With that, Misha flipped over to his other side, intent on falling asleep, but instead his mind swam with images of you. You knew you'd likely regret the decision later, but you were far too excited to spend your first time at the front of the plane sleeping. Turning to the iPad resting across your thighs, you put the cushioned headphones over your ears and watched ‘The Help’ while sipping your new Mai Thai. 

As the credits rolled two hours later, you rubbed your eyes, the quiet lull of the engines along with the darkened cabin and Misha's low, even breathing next to you had you closing your eyes in comfort.

There was another two and a half hours of flight time before landing in Hawaii. Maybe Misha had a point? Upon landing on Oahu you'd be three hours behind home, meaning there would be three more hours of work - whatever that entailed, before you’d sleep for the night. 

Settling down in your reclined seat, you glanced over at the man sleeping next to you, hardly able to believe this was your new life. You began to wonder what had happened with his previous assistants, why would anyone would want to leave this job?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

TAGS: @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven

[redlegomaniac]

Shot Down [WW2]

Disclaimer : Dreamworks owns everything WWII Shot Down Dear Hiccup, This letter is in response to your most recent sending. It was good to hear from you again, as always, and I was ecstatic to learn of your promotion in your wing. Berk is quiet without you. I miss you, and dare I say it I miss your cousin too - to an extent. I am proud of you son, more than you can ever imagine. PS: I saw Heather Oswaldson the other day, she looked nervous about seeing me. Stay safe and write soon, - Stoick Dearest Love, I am writing to you with a heavy heart. I hope one day you will forgive me, or hold some semblance of respect for me in the future. There were dried tear stains on the paper. I cannot wait any longer, My Love. I want to have a future with someone and to live without the fear of losing that someone everyday…I have been seeing another man, while you have been away. I realize that I am selfish, and for that I am sorry. A Thousand Apologies, - Heather

A young man, nearly twenty years old with auburn hair and forest green eyes, held the small pieces of paper between his index finger and his thumb. He sighed, and looked up to the empty room around him. He checked his watch, reading eleven o’clock pm. Normally he would be in his bunk right now, sleeping quietly through the night along with the others of his wing. Normally, he’d be missing his home. Today was different. The air was damp, and the dew dripped from the blades of grass outside the lounge house he was in. The night’s darkness was noiseless, and the only light of the room he was in was the flickering candle before him. He put his elbows and hands on the table, tapping the rhythm of an old tune he had heard from his mother years ago. He should feel tired, but he wasn’t. He had slept the day’s afternoon away. The door opened, and a figure stood in the doorway. “Are you ready?” The young man didn’t answer. Instead he held the letter from Heather over the flickering flame, and let it burn in his hand, ignoring the heat of the burning paper even as it neared his fingers. The man standing in the door stared with wide eyes, then listened to the young man’s words. “Is anyone ever ready?” Hiccup stood up, picked up the note from his father and folded it before sliding it in his left chest pocket, and sighed. “What were the survivability predictions again, Eret?” The man standing at the door retrieved a notepad from an inside pocket of his coat and thumbed through the pages. “Uhhh… Well it’s double digits.” Eret said carefully. “Freddy Ingerman ran the numbers twice, and given what we know of the region so far…” “I know.” The auburn haired man replied shortly. His high school sweetheart had just given up on him, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care at the moment. He was thirty minutes away from embarking on a solo reconnaissance mission over Denmark. Hiccup clenched his fists, breathing in and out once before walking past the other man, leaving the room and entering the silent night. The two men walked down the stretch of flattened dirt they called a runway towards the hangars and the barracks. “So…eh.. “ Eret said sounding a little unsure. “Is everything alright?” He asked seeing the scowl Hiccup had adopted. “Just…..Just some problems at home.” Hiccup mumbled. “I got a letter… She’s been cheating on me.” Eret sucked in a breath. “That’s harsh, mate.” He muttered. “It’s just… we were high school sweethearts and now I don’t know what I’ll do without her.” Hiccup talked with a hand out before him, swaying his hand to emphasize his point. Eret yawned, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Mate.” A lull in the conversation, and then he continued. “D’you think I can get a cup of tea before we leave?” Hiccup sighed. “I don’t understand you Brits and your tea.” The British man gasped in shock as he placed a hand over his heart. “Oh you wound me, Haddock.” They heard the sounds of boots running towards them, and looking back they saw a figure approaching quickly. “Haddock, Eretson. You two are to report to the briefing room immediately. Further instruction will be delivered there.” The figure, an eighteen year old private, said, saluted, then ran off. After sharing a glance, they walked in silence towards the briefing room. Freddy Ingerman was there, being the top analyst on base, and likely the smartest man there besides Hiccup. “Evening, Haddock and Eretson.” “Evening.” They responded together. Hiccup took a seat, resting his head on an open palm as he leaned slightly onto the armrest while Eret stood at the edge of the room. It was cold in the room, and the ceiling lamp that hung by the wire swung slowly. Freddy Ingerman clasped his hands together. “Right, so you both know your flight paths?” The two pilots nodded, and Hiccup stood up, glancing at Eret. “I’m ready if you are.” He said, to which Eret nodded, and Freddy spoke up. “Great! I-uh, I’ll let traffic control know you’re leaving.” The analyst left the room, leaving Hiccup and Eret together once again. Ten minutes later the two pilots, with Hiccup piloting a Lockheed P38-G Lightning painted a dark navy blue with black stripes, and Eret piloting a stock model of a Supermarine Spitfire MkVb, made their way onto the airstrip to take off into the early dawn’s dark sky. “Traffic Control this is Night Fury 1-1, ready for take-off.” “Copy that Night Fury, you are clear for take off.” The twin engined plane slowly crept down the runway, extending the plane’s control flaps to takeoff position and pushed the throttle lever forward, increasing speed in a rumbling crescendo. After a few moments, Hiccup lifted off the ground, and he flicked the switch for the internal cockpit light on, as well as flicking the switch for the landing gear to retract. Eret took off shortly behind him, taking up a spot on his right around 20-40 meters away to give the larger aircraft room to maneuver. Hiccup leaned his head to the edge of the cockpit glass, to see where his wing-mate had ended up, and saw him wave in his own cockpit. He waved back, and smiled softly. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any problems with this early morning flight. Stars twinkled above them, and Hiccup notified Eret that he was turning his light off. It was times like these that he loved about being a pilot. Just, to be able to experience the sight of stars and sometimes the planets much closer than anyone else in the world. He sighed, and wished the war to be over. He wished to be home. He reached forward, a grabbed a photo that was lodged by the edge of a screw that helped secure the compass’ covering. He snorted, remembering what he had said to Heather when she had sent him the photo of them together. “I’m going to put this next to my compass, so that I will always know how to find home.” He sighed, and felt the small ache of his heart tug at his feelings. No. Not now. He can cry when the war is over. He took his feet off the rudder pedals, and halfway stood up in his cockpit in an attempt to stretch his legs. In the distance he saw large masses of clouds, and above those clouds he saw flashes of white light. He clicked on his radio. “Haddock to Eretson, how copy?” Eret’s british voice was barely louder than the white noise of the radio. “Solid copy, go for it.” “Looks like we have a storm coming up.” “Uh-huh, yeah I see it too, Mate.” There was static, and then he spoke again. “We’re about a kilometer from where I need to turn around.” “Copy that, Eretson, I’ll be fine from here. Drinks are on me when I get back.” The British man’s laugh came over the radio, “Godspeed Haddock, I’ll hold you to that drink.” Hiccup looked to the side to see the British fighter plane dip down before rolling to one side and turning around to return to the airfield. Hiccup pulled the flight stick towards him, and the plane began to climb upwards into the clouds. Pelting rain and thundering lightning did not worry him, he had flown through storms before. This is like any other storm, he reminded himself. There’ll be pockets of clear sky here and there. He was glad he was in a larger plane, since the turbulence didn’t affect him as much. He flew alone across the Channel, making his way to mainland Europe, and from there he’d be flying towards Denmark. He had been tasked with taking pictures of cities and manufacturing complexes, but because it is dark and the moon cannot shine through rumbling clouds, Hiccup feared that his mission would be doomed a failure. Lightning flashed before him, illuminating the skies and the ground to his south. When he saw land, he was supposed to head East, so after checking the compass, he rolled to his left and banked in a wide turn to conserve speed before aligning himself to the horizon when the compass dial rested on North East. He stayed within sight of the coastline, however the only sight he had of the coastline was when lightning flashed around him. Thunder rumbled louder than the engines on either side of him. He looked out over his right wing, watching freezing rain slide across the side of the cockpit. Looking forward once again he saw an opening in the dark clouds, and after pulling the flight stick this way and that he maneuvered toward it. Hiccup took his hands off the controls, letting the plane fly itself since he was out of the clouds, and stretched. After a breathy sigh he popped his knuckles and reached down under the main console for a pair of wool gloves and a thick scarf. The temperature was dropping, and the standard issue wool insulated leather jacket wasn’t helping as much as it should. Hiccup retrieved the small pieces of clothing from the net-sack that was tied to additional screws going into the console and placed the gloves on his lap while loosely wrapping his neck in the scarf. He picked up the gloves and slid them onto his hands, and flexed his fingers to get used to the additional movement for the stiff finger sections. Even in the darkness he saw the cloud of breath as he exhaled. Since he was the designated reconnaissance pilot, the plane mechanics suggested that they take off as much weight as possible to make him faster and lighter. Unfortunately, this meant removing the cockpit heating system. He looked at the altimeter, and saw that he was at seven thousand meters above the ground. The moon made an appearance soon after, shining down it’s dusk rays on the ground. Hiccup looked up, really hoping someone on the ground didn’t see a black dot move across the white moon. He was fully above ground now, having flown inland from the coastline. It was a quiet night, and the rumbling engines beside him almost lulled him to sleep, but unfortunately, he was jolted awake at the sight of green traces of light flying over him. Hiccup cursed, punching the throttle forward and looking back to see two black lines with circles. Orange and white muzzle flashes made Hiccup duck into his seat. Bullets flew around him, luckily not hitting the plane. He lowered the plane’s nose, hoping to lose them when he converted his altitude to speed. Hiccup looked back again, seeing the two hostile planes gaining on him, and when he turned around he realized there was a third plane in front of him. He rolled, using his elevators and ailerons to barrel roll out of the way of the incoming spray of bullets. He heard and felt several thumps, looking out over his left wing he realized that he had been hit. There were holes punched out of his wing, and Hiccup narrowed his eyes in frustration. Of course there would be a German air patrol at night. Hiccup rolled to the left, and dove in an attempt break the enemy pilots’ sight of him. He looked up, and saw the rectangular wings of the enemy planes continue in a straight line before the lead plane banked left, and the second plane followed soon after. It was a three versus one scenario. It’d be near impossible for him to win. That didn’t mean Hiccup would give up. Instead, adrenaline pumped through his blood and he watched the black shape heading away from him. He maneuvered the plane so he could line up the gunsight with his target. He checked behind him quickly, realizing that he had separated this pilot from his wingmates, and adjusted the gunsight to be just before the target. Hiccup pressed down the button to fire his machine guns, sending a salvo of red tracer bullets after the enemy plane. He saw sparks, letting him know that his bullets hit, and watched as the plane in front of him rolled to the left. Hiccup stamped down on the rudder pedal, jolting his plane to the right while pushing his flight wheel to the left. The contradicting forces made a stable line of travel for the gunsight, and Hiccup fired the guns again, this time also squeezing the trigger for the P38’s cannon. Hiccup straightened out, and dove to dodge the wing of the enemy plane that had been ripped off with gunfire. He sighed. One down, two to go. Flak exploded around him, nearly blinding him and sending shrapnel through his wings. He cursed again, and rolled the plane again when he saw a black shape approaching him quickly. Green tracers pelted the right engine, and Hiccup pulled the throttle lever all the way back to kill speed. The hostile plane overtook him, and began to rise back into the clouds. ‘If he’s in front of me, where’s the other?’ He thought, and ducked while punching the throttle forward again when green tracers flew just past the edge of the windshield from the side. Hiccup chose to go after the enemy pilot that was rising back into the early morning sky, and he looked back to see the other pilot turn towards him and unleash another volley of machine gun fire, striking the right engine again. Hiccup extended the flaps to combat position, giving him more lift and agility, and he pulled the flight stick back and fired a salvo of cannon and machine gun fire towards the enemy in front of him. The red hot tracer hit the fuel tank of the other plane, causing it to burst into purple, orange, and red flames. He was losing speed, and the other plane was gaining on him again. In the fireball of the other plane, he recognized the shape of the fighter to be a Messerschmitt 109 fighter. “Messershit.” He laughed to himself, knowing that he wouldn’t make it home. The white tracers of the cannons’ behind him ripped holes close to his engine, instead clipping the underside of his wings and tearing the flaps off. His plane lurched to the right side, and Hiccup decided to roll with it. He turned the rudder to the left, to avoid a flatspin(1). He felt his stomach rise into his chest as he dove down, going from five kilometers in the sky to two kilometers. He pulled up as hard as he could, knowing that the plane could take the stress even if he couldn’t. The Messerschmitt had dove behind him as well, but pulled up much earlier than Hiccup did. He looked forward, seeing tall trees and open fields in some places. He was alone, and he was going down. Somewhere. He was still able to choose where that may be. Hiccup peeked out from behind the seat once again, seeing lonely log cabins and larger fields. He cursed again when the messerschmitts guns tore off the tip of his left wing, and ducked when the bullets did not stop. He felt several thumps along his back, praying that the steel plate behind the seat did not fail him. He felt a sharp piercing pain in his arm and saw that he had been shot. The cockpit glass had been punched through. Hiccup looked at the ground before him, realizing that he was way closer to it than he had thought. Trees scraped at the underside of his wings, and a tall one snagged and snapped the elevator off. “O-oh shhiiIIT!” The nose dove downwards, and he roughly pushed the lever for the flaps all the way forward. The extra lift brought his nose up. Hiccup looked to the right, to see a wing that had a multitude of holes. Hiccup shut his eyes tightly, a single tear streaming down his cheek as the wing skidded across the ground, and that finally made the rest of the plane fall to the snowy ground as well. The straps holding Hiccup to his seat snapped, and he lurched forward, hitting his head on the leather pad under the gunsight. His head was pounding, but he was alive. That’s all that mattered. Everything hurt, and with fumbling and bloodied fingers, he unlatched the cockpit hinge, and pushed as hard as he could. He was forced back into the seat by the weight of it, and he tried again, with both hands. It gave, and swung over his head before snapping the bolts off that held it to the plane and falling to the snow. Hiccup half stood on unsteady legs, and brought one leg up and over the wall of the cockpit before stumbling and landing on his side in the cold snow. “Pappa! Det er piloten!”(Papa! It’s the pilot!) He heard, at the edge of reality. He heard the snow crunching below feet, and knew this was it. This was the end. He pushed himself to roll over, and try to stand before collapsing to his knees. A few meters away from him stood a young woman and an older man. Hiccup’s vision pulsed with white and red, but he saw a shotgun in the man’s hands, and he began kicking away from them. He didn’t get far however, because he hit the cold metal of his crashed airplane’s tail, yet he covered his head in his arms. The man’s voice was gruff. “Amerikansk?”(American?) Hiccup froze, lowering his arms and nodded slowly. He didn’t know what the extra ‘sk’ was at the end, but he recognized American. The man smiled, and spoke to the woman.“Astrid Finder slæde, tak.”(Astrid find the sled, please) The girl, Astrid, looked at him and nodded before running off into the darkness of the night. The man slowly walked forward, and took his finger away from the shotgun’s trigger. “Du er sikker.”(You are safe) Hiccup blankly stared at him. “Safe.” The man said, and that was when Hiccup slumped over, unconscious. Astrid returned with the sled, and the man loaded him onto it while Astrid poked around the cockpit to see if there was anything of use. Under the seat, she felt leather, and gripped it before pulling it out from under the seat. She also noticed a photograph of the man on the sled and a dark haired woman standing together. “Kom, Astrid.”(Come, Astrid) The young woman looked up, nodded, and followed along as the man tugged on the rope to the sled, dragging Hiccup back to their home. The man pulled the sled to the edge of the patio space, and carefully moved around the pilot before lifting him and carrying him up the stairs and through the door to the cabin. Astrid then dragged the sled around the back of the house and leaned it against the wall before going inside. She saw that her father had placed the man on the floor, and had stripped his shirt off. “Hvad nu?”(What now?) “Vi plejer ham til helbred, så du og han vil blive med dine fætre i Sverige.”(We nurse him to health, and then you and him will join family in Sweden) Her father, narrowing his eyebrows as he inspected the gunshot wound. “Hvad?”(What?) Her blue eyes went wide. “Hvad med dig?”(What about you?) “Jeg skal blive.”(I must stay) Her father kept his eyes away from her, before blinking a tear away. “Astrid, find saks og bandager.”(Astrid, find the scissors and bandages) Astrid went and searched through the cabinet drawers, before finding a wooden box containing string, bandages, and needles. She passed the box to her father, and went into her bedroom. “Jeg går tilbage til at sove, Papa.”(I’m going to sleep, Papa) “Godnat Astrid, sov godt.”(Goodnight Astrid, sleep well) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Waves rocked the fishing boat, and Hiccup groaned in his sleep. Astrid’s father looked out over the rest of the foggy bay, hoping they would have a smooth sailing. His daughter sat at the front of the boat, silent as a stone. She must’ve been angry at him. “I’m doing this for you, Eliza.” He looked down to his left, to see the American sleeping. He didn’t know how the pilot was still alive after the crash. If he had slid any further he would have gone into a tree. If he had fallen any other way, he would have skidded into other trees. The bandage on his left arm was still in place, though he did not remove the bullet fragments. Hiccup woke up slowly, feeling the slight rocking of the boat. He opened his eyes slowly, and tried to move. He couldn’t move, his body was too sore. He looked up, seeing a man at the wheel. Where was he? He gasped for air, feeling a white thrashing pain in his arm and in his chest. “Godmorgen, amerikansk.”(Good morning American) He stayed silent, his eyes were wide, and slowly, he sat up, feeling muscles stretch and bones shift painfully. “Amerikansk?” Hiccup looked at the man. “Why am I alive?” “…” “Uhm… Parlez-vous français?”(Do you speak French?)Hiccup’s mind was foggy, and french was the only other language he knew, aside from broken German. The man’s features brightened. “Oui.”(Yes) “Pourquoi suis-je vivant?”(Why am I alive?) “Parce que vous êtes - Amerikansk.”(Because you are… American) The man pointed at his ring finger, and Hiccup saw the ring, and then the man pointed at a US flag patch that was on Hiccup’s jacket.

Oh. Hiccup made a mental deduction that his wife must have been from America. Astrid looked back, seeing the American talking in a mixture of English, French, and Danish. Land came within sight, and she beckoned for her father to watch for sea-rocks as they entered a very small and secluded cove. Hiccup looked at the girl at the front of the boat, seeing her braided blonde hair sway as she turned. She had the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen, they reminded him of the sky, and he turned away to look behind them. There were no words shared between them, and by how her eyes turned darker as she looked at him he presumed that she didn’t like him. “Oh!” Hiccup looked towards the man, and Astrid’s father retrieved a leather bound book from inside his coat. He held it out towards the American, and Hiccup looked over it, realizing that it was his journal. “Yours.” He accepted it tentatively, and opened the cover of it, finding the photo of him and Heather staring at him. He sighed, taking the photo in between fingertips and tearing it in half. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. Hiccup put two hands together, making a heart shape, and split them to symbolize a broken heart, then sighed. The man pointed at the book, and then to the girl. “She find book.” He said, with a thick accent. “Je vous remercie.” (Thank you) Hiccup said. On the shoreline there were two skinny figures, dressed in brown fur coats. From what Hiccup could see, they were twins. Astrid’s father cut the engine, and let them drift towards the pebbled shore. The man explained through hand gestures and broken french that they were family that had fled Denmark before Germany invaded. He also made sure to tell him that they were crazy, and to not be shirtless around the girl-twin. Later that evening, after Astrid’s father had returned to Denmark, to their little log cabin, Astrid walked carefully around her new home. For now, that is. When the war was over she fully intended on returning home. She heard, “Me Likeeyyy,” coming from the living room, and walking in there she caught sight of Hiccup’s bandaged torso. The girl-twin was giggling, while the male twin was standing behind the counter, making retching noises into the wastebasket. “Ruffnut, nok.”(Ruffnut, enough.) Astrid said. “Awe, men har du set amerikaneren?” (Awe, but have you seen the American?) Astrid sighed, secretly looking at his toned torso, and poured herself a mug of water before returning to her room. Slowly overtime they had gotten used to the American living with them, the twins found that he was fun to mess with, and that he didn’t get angry often. They had also discovered that he was a much better cook than the rest of them. Astrid thought he was handsome, and overtime they had grown closer. They often didn’t share words, until he stood in the doorway of her room one evening. He looked down at a dictionary. “L-Lær d-dansk?” (Teach Danish?) Hiccup asked slowly, annunciating each syllable carefully before pointing at himself. Months passed after that night, and most of the day Astrid taught him Danish. And, while she taught him Danish he taught her the basics of English. Hiccup sat at the table, with a pencil in hand and a paper before him. He was drawing, in the early hours of the morning, and Astrid crept up slowly behind him. She watched as the flame of the small candle flickered this way and that before she got sight of the charcoal on paper. She realized he was drawing her. She breathed silently, before resting her chin on his shoulder, simply watching his hand move. When he was done, he moved the pencil to one corner, and drew a rose, and a heart, and wrote H + A inside of the heart. She smiled, feeling a warm feeling in her chest before turning and kissing his cheek. 0o0o0o0 Annnnnnnd done. Finally. *whew* okay time to disappear again, probably.