late spring, ~7,000 words. an explicit ethubs fic ft. cherry trees, orgasm denial, strap ons, chastity devices, and proving each other wrong as a hobby.
at the beginning of hermitcraft season 11, bdubs stresses about settling in, and etho connives to get him a helpful housewarming present.
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Peter Parker learns two new things in the beginning of January, and it's that teenagers with the powers of a spider can, indeed, get sick, and that Tony Stark should never be allowed in the kitchen ever again.
This is extremely fluffy and has nothing but good things.
Peter’s new best friends are a box of tissues and a small bag of cherry-flavored cough drops. He woke up this morning feeling like he got hit by a truck; a runny nose, watery eyes, a headache that felt like there’s a brick strapped to his forehead, and a sore throat were all the causes of this. He barely stumbled out of bed, his senses slightly dulled, and by the time he managed to throw some clothes on, he was almost late to school and Aunt May hurried him outside, shoving an apple into his hands and kissing his forehead. Peter suspected that he didn’t look sick considering the fact that she didn’t ask him if he felt alright so he went to school regardless, the Spider-Man suit stuffed into his backpack as well so he can get started on his afternoon patrol immediately despite his condition.
If there is anything that is certainly true, it’s that getting through the school day was much more difficult than Peter originally thought it would be. By his lunch period, Peter’s headache was pounding and he could barely stand even being in the cafeteria due to all of the noises, scents, and bright lights, which is why he retreated to the bathroom and ate his apple in there. He had the money the buy something else to eat, but Peter didn’t have much of an appetite afterwards.
The rest of the day until last period was just Peter popping cough drops like candy and trying his best to power through his headache, praying that time could go by quicker.
Currently Peter is sitting in his last class, which is an incredibly boring English class that he only ever pays attention in because he’s not very good at it. This time, however, it’s different. He eyes the clock on the wall, watching as the second-hand ticks almost in slow-motion. The drawling voice of his teacher is almost enough to put him to sleep, but Ned comes through and pokes him with his pencil once he catches Peter’s eyelids slowly closing. Peter rubs his forehead against the sleeve of his shirt, trying to put pressure on it to help relieve him of some of the pain. It doesn’t work.
Nausea is what hits him first after a few more minutes of boring lecture. Then all of his senses go back to being dialed to eleven without warning and he can feel everything. His thoughts are too loud. The entire classroom is too loud. Everything is too loud. He needs to get out of here. Peter’s muscles move by instinct and he clumsily stumbles up from his chair, almost knocking his notebooks off the table in the process. He hears his teacher ask him what he needs but he’s out the door before his brain can register the words spoken to him. The last thing he hears is Ned worriedly calling his name.
By the time Peter stumbles into the thankfully empty bathroom, he rushes over to a stall and starts dry-heaving. Nothing comes out and he doubts that anything will, but he does this for about five minutes anyway, his heart pounding against his chest, tears from congestion due to sickness and possibly from feeling so distressed spilling down his cheeks. Finally, after about a few minutes that felt like hours, Peter’s throat has decided it had enough and he leans back, drawing in small, erratic breaths.
“I called Mr. Stark from your phone and also grabbed your backpack,” Peter hears Ned say, his echoing voice shattering the silence that once hung around them, and if he weren’t so exhausted, he would thank him. “He’s on his way here. Maybe we should get to the nurse’s office to wait for him there? Also, is this a spider thing? Do all superheroes go through this?”
“Stay with me.” Peter simply requests. “Quiet, please.”
Ned seems to understand and Peter focuses on keeping all of his stomach contents inside, as well as stopping his head from spinning so much. He is no longer dry-heaving and instead stays slumped against the wall of the stall, his breathing hitching every now and then. He loses track of time and at that point, he isn’t sure if Ned is still with him. Knowing his best friend, though, he probably is. Ned would never abandon him, especially in a time like this.
The silence works wonders. Peter already feels himself beginning to find his senses again, even if he isn’t one hundred percent alright yet. He feels Ned awkwardly shifting from foot to foot by the bathroom door, probably waiting for Tony to show up so he can explain everything first. What a good friend, Peter thinks in satisfaction and adoration before he returns to attempting to regain control of himself.
“I thought you stopped getting sick once you got your freaky spider powers,” A familiar voice behind him quietly remarks after a while, and Peter feels his shoulders sag in relief. He cranes his neck and sees Tony Stark hovering over his shoulder, one strap of Peter’s backpack slung over his shoulder. He is wearing a suit, the sleeves ruffled and creased as if he were in a hurry, which means that he’s been at a meeting. Peter can almost see the concern in his dark eyes, his lips etched into a frown. “You alright, kid? You look like a hot mess.”
“C-Can we just…go? Like, leave? Please? It’s kinda loud.” Peter manages to say, drawing in a shaky breath as he attempts to stand, his hand clutching the wall of the stall. His head is still pounding and protests against the sudden action, and he would have tripped and fallen into the toilet if Tony hadn’t caught his arm, pulling him backwards. Peter’s cheek is now squished against Tony’s chest and he takes another deep breath, trying to ground himself. “Hi,” he says to Tony, whose chest rattles with quiet laughter.
“Hey,” he replies, his hand ruffling Peter’s hair, who closes his eyes in contentment and lets out a small sigh. The two of them remain like that for a few minutes and Peter focuses on the sound of Tony’s heartbeat, his breathing pattern, and the low hum of the Arc Reactor. Eventually, his body starts to feel heavy and apparently Tony notices that, too, since he mentions, “As much as I appreciate you falling asleep on me, we’re both going down if you do and I don’t trust what’s possibly on this school bathroom floor. C’mon, let’s get out of here. I already signed you out and told your aunt.”
Peter nods in understanding, parting from the awkward hug they had and following Tony out the door, making sure to say thank you to Ned before he left, and eventually outside of the school building. He shivers against the brisk January air, his hands traveling up his arms to rub some warmth into them, though he feels much better now that he is outside and not boxed in.
Tony casts him a withering look, “Don’t tell me you showed up to school without a jacket or anything, even when you know damn well that spiders can’t thermoregulate. Please, my heart is weak as it is.”
“Okay, then I won’t tell you.”
Peter hears Tony loudly groan and watches as the man slips the black jacket off of his suit, tossing it to Peter, the fabric landing straight on top of his head. Peter pulls it off his face and begins putting it on, grinning as Tony mutters something about stupid teenagers. Once they get to the parking lot and enter Tony’s expensive car, Peter begins to feel dumb and like a burden.
“Uh, I’m really sorry that I interrupted you in your meeting,” Peter apologizes, his fingers toying with the hem of Tony’s jacket. “I just didn’t know who else to call since May has a busy day at work and you’re the only one who knows I can…get like this. Other than Ned.”
“Don’t sweat it, kid, it was a boring meeting anyway. I was just about to send you some cat memes before your friend called,” Tony reassures as he turns up the heat in the car, making a face at the sound of Peter sniffling. “Wait, are you sick? I thought it was just sensory overload.”
“It was sensory overload. I just have the most wicked headache right now,” Peter complains, leaning his head back against the cushioned seat of the car. His headache is somewhat better now, instead leaving him with a dull ache rather than the sharp, excruciating pain he was experiencing before. Tony seems to understand and does not ask him further questions as he drives out of the parking lot and out into the street.
The trip to the tower is short and Peter doesn’t fall asleep during it, but he does take advantage of the time to try to recover from his earlier overload. Tony drives smoothly despite New York traffic and even has his music turned all the way down, which Peter greatly appreciates. He is in no mood for AC/DC music that is loud enough to destroy his eardrums.
“What’s his temperature, Fri?” Peter hears Tony ask as they walk inside, and Peter takes a seat on the couch while Tony puts his backpack on the floor beside him.
“100.6 degrees Fahrenheit, which is classified as a low-grade fever. He seems to simply have a cold according to my scans. His vitals are all okay for now.”
“Thanks, Fri,” Tony then turns to Peter, who is already helping himself to a few tissues from the tissue box that sits on the coffee table. “Hear that, kiddo? You have a fever. If I see you get up from that couch and avoid resting, I’m gluing you there.”
Peter rolls his eyes at Tony’s threat as he blows his nose, “Look who’s talking. Aren’t you the one who always avoids resting?”
“One more crack like that out of you and I’m putting a bucket of salt into your soup.”
Mr. Stark knows how to cook? That’s a new one, he thinks as he tosses the tissues into the trash can, which is thankfully nearby. “You can make soup? No offense but I didn’t think you knew how to cook.”
Tony grins maniacally and Peter can tell that he made a mistake when he asked. “Yes, I actually have a very special Stark recipe. It’s my original recipe. Oh, you’ll love it, you can even ask Rhodey. I made this for him hundreds of times when he was sick and it works like a charm. It’ll definitely help you feel better.”
Something tells Peter that Rhodey would advise him to run for the hills and avoid the soup at all costs but at this point, Peter is too tired from the day’s events to stop Tony from his desire to cook. “I’m just gonna…close my eyes for a bit.” Peter announces to no one in particular as he curls up on the couch, bringing his knees to his chest, “G’night…”
Sleep takes him easily and the last thing he is aware of is someone tucking a warm blanket around him.
Something or someone is poking him in the cheek. Incessantly.
“Five more minuuuuuuuutes,” Peter groans, turning on his other side as if that would stop the poking. It turns out that it didn’t and Peter grabs the edge of the blanket, pulling it over his head. Since when did he have a blanket this warm and fluffy? “Stooooooooooop. It’s not a school day, Aunt May, I wanna sleep iiiiiiin.”
“Sorry it break it to you, kid, but it’s definitely not your aunt and it definitely is a school day,” A voice responds and Peter immediately recognizes it as Tony’s. Peter cracks his eyes open and turns to lie down on his back, his forearm thrown over his forehead. He feels another poke on his cheek and realizes that Tony has been poking him in the face with a spoon all this time.
Peter feels sleep gradually begin to tug him back and he murmurs lazily, “I’m going back to sleep, Mr. Stark.”
“Oh no, you don’t. I have something for you.”
“Too tired. Don’t make me sneeze on you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
This continues on for a while before Peter relents and sits up, yawning as he rubs his eyes with a hand. How long was he even asleep? Before Peter can ask, an incredibly warm bowl is place on his lap and he feels like he just got his answer. He was asleep long enough for Tony to fulfill his promise to make the soup.
“It took me a whole two hours. I almost thought I forgot the recipe since it’s been so long since I made it,” Tony explains as he sits down on the couch next to Peter, “but thankfully Rhodey still knows it so I called him and he filled in the blanks. He asked me to give you his condolences, but I think that he’s just messing around. He loves it, too.”
Oh dear God, Peter thinks, completely horrified at the sight of the “soup” in the bowl. The color is a very strange, almost greenish-white color and there is an overabundance of noodles, some of them even poking out of the broth. There are a few soggy carrots floating around in there, as well as small pieces of potatoes. Peter isn’t able to identify anything else that happens to be inside the soup, and he isn’t sure if that is a good or bad thing.
Tony is practically bouncing in his seat and Peter can tell that he’s excited for Peter to take the first bite. Peter is almost tempted to claim that he’s too nauseous to eat it and call it a day, but one look at the ecstatic expression on Tony’s face is enough to chase that thought away. Peter doesn’t have the heart to deny Tony, especially when he worked so hard on making this for him. Plus, he’s also had to deal with a lot of Aunt May’s cooking and believe him, her cooking skills are almost as terrible as Tony’s, so eating this all should be no big deal.
Well, here goes nothing. I hope Aunt May knows that I love her, just in case anything happens to me, Peter thinks before he fills up the spoon with some broth and a few carrots here and there, taking a reluctant sniff before shutting his eyes and shoveling it into his mouth.
To his surprise, it doesn’t taste as bad as it looks, but the texture is awful. Peter’s first instinct is to gag and spit it out, but he suppresses the urge and somehow manages to swallow it. When Peter looks back up, he realizes Tony is looking at him expectantly and he weakly lifts up his hand to give him a thumbs-up sign as he lies right through his teeth, “It’s really good, Mr. Stark. The best soup I’ve had in years.”
Thankfully, Tony accepts that response and puffs out his chest proudly. “I knew it! I knew that you’d love it! Rhodey always says that it’s better if I just keep the soup between us but I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him that you loved it. See? I’m definitely a genius in all areas.”
Was it really worth it? Peter wonders as Tony continues happily rambling about his cooking skills, even asking Friday to save this moment in her files so he can look back at it. He smiles as he answers his own question, Yeah, it totally was.
Peter can barely focus on the movie playing on the T.V. It’s not because he’s not interested in the movie – he actually very much is – it’s just that his symptoms came back with full force. Since Peter has mutated genetics due to the spider bite, regular medicines have zero to no effect on him and he’s had to deal with them without the help of anything other than natural healing things. To put it simply, it sucks.
Tony and Peter had been sitting on the couch – Tony’s arm slung around Peter’s shoulders and Peter’s head resting on his shoulder - for who knows how long, marathoning whatever movies that Peter was in the mood for, which so far included Interstellar and almost all of the Jurassic Park movies.
As the movie continues playing, Peter reaches for another tissue only to come back up empty-handed as the box is surprisingly empty. Tony notices and rolls his eyes, “How could you have gone through an entire box of them in less than one day? Geez, I would have bought more of them if I knew.”
He starts to stand up and Peter has to resist the urge to pathetically whine at the loss of contact. He uselessly slumps down against the couch, in Tony’s spot, murmuring something about it not being his fault that Stark Industries has a shortage of tissues. The lights emanating from the television soon begin to bring Peter’s headache back to full force so he rightfully turns away, nuzzling his head against the cushion in hopes of relieving it. Naturally, that action does absolutely nothing.
“Mr. Stark,” Peter calls as he shifts in position, nearly kicking the blanket off of him. When he gets no response, he whines again, this time much louder, “Mr. Staaaaaaaaaark. I think I’m dying. This may be the end of the line for me. Tell Aunt May that I love her. All of my Spider-Man gear goes to Ned. You can get all of my limited edition Iron Man stuff. It’s like having your own merch but not paying for it. Also, if my English teacher asks about my essay, tell her that it was so good that you buried it with me.”
“Oh, quit it, you drama king,” Peter hears the sarcastic voice of his mentor as he approaches with another box of tissues, setting it down on the coffee table beside him. “And I thought I was a hassle to deal with when sick.”
Peter frowns as he sits up, reaches over, and takes a tissue, a stone of guilt forming in his stomach. Maybe he should have told Tony back at the school that he’d be fine and he can deal with this by himself. It seems as if Tony has a lot to do today, anyway, and Peter didn’t intend on adding his own problems to that list. However, it seems as if Tony read his mind because he felt a gentle hand ruffle his hair, the owner of said hand murmuring something about just messing around, and that is enough to cause Peter’s lips to curl back into a smile.
“You wanna finish up the movie, bud?” Tony offers, and Peter vigorously shakes his head only to stop as his head starts spinning.
“No, head hurts,” Peter answers honestly and even though Tony says nothing, he can feel the worry practically washing over the man in waves.
“Hey, how long have you been sleeping lately? Estimated hours per night for this week.” Tony’s sudden question causes Peter to look up at him in confusion only to realize exactly in which direction this conversation is going to be heading in. Peter may be staying in Tony’s place for now, but he is not going to be lectured by Tony Stark again, even if his sleeping habits have something to do with the severity of his headaches and sensory issues.
“Six,” Peter lies, though a stare of blatant disbelief from Tony causes him to quietly amend, “Okay, maybe more like three. Or less. Listen, Mr. Stark, I just have a lot going on! I have a lot of projects and assignments for school, and I have to keep my grades up otherwise they’ll kick me out of there! Do you think I want to spend all night listening to some required video of a college dude talking about solving integrals?”
Tony is oddly silent for a few moments and Peter begins to think that he’s in the clear, although what the man asks next causes him to tense, “Are you sure it’s just that? There’s nothing else that’s the cause of your piss poor sleeping schedule?”
Nightmares, Peter instantly mentally answers. Ever since The Vulture incident – involving the plane crash and the building collapsing on top of him – Peter has found himself dealing with an abundance of nightmares that leave him waking up in a cold sweat or with a scream trapped in his throat. He’s been terrified of going to sleep and often left projects and essays undone until the last minute just so he can have an excuse to stay up all night doing them rather than sleeping. He just cannot go through another nightmare where he sees the Vulture’s metal wings covered in his blood, or where he’s choking on dust and his own tears as pieces of a broken building are piled on top of him, pressing him against the ground.
Peter feels his own breathing beginning to quicken so he chases those thoughts away, his hand gripping the couch in order to pull himself back into reality. Instead of claiming that nothing else bothers him like he usually would, Peter chooses to remain silent. For a while, neither of them say anything. However, he suddenly feels the couch shift as Tony plops down on it and sits beside him, and the two of them share a glance.
Eventually, Tony – a bit awkwardly - opens his arms and gestures for Peter to close the space between them, and Peter wastes no time in doing so. He immediately sinks into the embrace, warmth seeping through his aching bones.
“One time, a while ago, I had Palladium poisoning,” Tony suddenly speaks, and Peter looks up at him before looking back down at the faint blue light on the man’s chest, the Arc Reactor covered by the cotton of Tony’s white shirt. “The Reactor was saving my life but at the same time, it was killing me. I tried every single thing to make it stop but nothing worked. There was a good chance that I was going to die.”
Tony’s voice was breaking and Peter rubs his hand against his back, his eyes focused on the Arc Reactor. Peter had always admired it, considered it a symbol of strength, courage, and intelligence. However, when he saw the scarring around Tony’s chest, overheard Tony speaking in a hushed voice to Rhodey about how much it hurt sometimes and noticed how tense Tony got whenever someone he didn’t trust touched it, he realized that it also served as a constant reminder of what Tony went through in Afghanistan.
“I didn’t tell anyone. Not Happy, Pepper, or Rhodey. I didn’t want anyone to know. I tried getting through it myself,” Tony quietly admit, “and I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. I mean, I did in the end, but you get the point, kid. Some things you don’t have to go through alone. Some things you shouldn’t go through alone.”
Peter simply nods his head in understanding, resting his forehead on Tony’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. If there’s anyone who understands nightmares more than anyone, it’s Tony Stark, and Peter knows this.
“How come you went to sleep here? I don’t mean to pry, I’m just curious.”
Peter blinks at the question and realizes that he didn’t even think of nightmares when he took his nap on the couch. It barely even crossed his mind. “I, uh…” Peter began, hesitating before softly admitting, “I guess I just feel safer with you. Yeah. I feel safer with you. I didn’t think that I would have any if you were here.”
The two of them share another brief moment of silence together and Peter begins to feel as if he messed up big time by admitting something so personal and emotional to a man who didn’t do well with either things.
“I’m here,” Tony promises, and gently squeezes Peter’s body closer to his. It’s a simple promise of safety and comfort, but it means so much to Peter.
Peter lets out a small laugh in response, full of mirth and gratefulness, before he closes his eyes once again, faintly beginning to feel sleep start to drape over him like a blanket. “I know.”
He kicks at the sand, “Fuck you,” he spits, “I hate you.”
The corpse seems to be laughing at him, as if it agrees: Hey! I hate myself too!
He’s been going in circles, or at least he thought he was, until he stumbled upon the nightmare diesel that was the glow-corpse 3000.
He spits again thinking of an idiot he was, he should have left with those neutrals, through the sewers, and gone to the settlement with all the others. Then he would have at least gotten a nice meal.
He wears a white polo, and dark, pressed pants, showing off just how much of a newbie he really was. He would get beaten up by the deserts more colorful inhabitants if they saw him, or worse, get mistaken for a Drac.
It had been daytime when he had met his new friend, but another trip around in a wide circle had led him back by sunset when the real terror began.
The body was dried out beyond recognition, it’s tight jeans torn and useless, and the jacket loose on its frame. But it was laughing, he knew it was, and maybe even gesturing rudely at him. But when the moon rose high and the stars came out, he would watch as the wispy hair on the ugly thing begin to glow, softly at first, then bright.
Then, it’s skin followed, the mangled corpses laugh turned into a howl at his terrified expression: What’s wrong Angel Dust? Never see a glowing corpse before?
When his terror was eaten away by hunger he said to the corpse: “I’m not the idiot, you are.”
Sure I am hotshot, you’re the one in civvies, while I’ll always look hoppy in this getup.
His night wore on, and the corpse didn’t let up in it’s glowing-like-the-sun mission to make him go blind. He tried kicking sand over it, tried breaking it’s ribs to get it to stop, but the smile never went away.
I’m a disco ball baby! And I’ll never stop!
He tires himself out, his vision swimming, until he finally asks: “Was it radiation? Did you glow when you were alive?”
The corpse didn’t say, but he already knew the answer.
He looked down at his hands, at his fingers, at his dark claws that rose where his fingernails should be. “Me too.”
This time, the corpse wasn’t laughing.
Morning came and the glow faded, and the obscene gesture turned into a helpful one, the corpse was pointing at somewhere in the distance. “Thanks,” He said, “And fuck you, now I’m going insane and talking to dead bodies.”
The corpse laughed again: How do you think anyone survives out here? By being sane?
He, in a moment of bravery, stole the corpse’s jacket. It was thick black leather, and on the back: RAGE, RAGE. Spray-painted in white.
all of my morning meetings have been cancelled even though i still have like 6 left so it's ethubs hours as long as i can manage it. been thinking really hard abt how to whip this fic into shape bc i really really like the intro and the concept but the plot is not coalescing due to Too Many Examples.
"You know, it's weird watchng you do that to somebody else," Bdubs says as Etho jumps down the side of a hill, just far enough for a sharp shock to the ankles. "Being on the outside of your thing."
"Impulse still treating you right?"
"Of course. Nothing but sweet, all the time. He tries real hard not to hurt me."
"Mm, negative reinforcement wouldn't work on you. You're not like a dog." Etho winks. "A dog runs away when you hurt it. But you—"
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for no particular reason at all, i have cleaned up and painstakingly sequenced the playlist i listened to while writing both pink hoodie exchange fics. side a leans toward bdub's pov in second skin and side b covers the rather moodier (& rated E for etho pov and Explicit) sequel reasonable doubt.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
strange currencies, 4.5k, transfem4transfem ethubs ft. accidentally consensual forcefeminization, comedic miscommunication, and increasingly arcane business deals in the name of love.
"Well?" Bdubs said, hands on hips, heart fluttering. "Do I look ridiculous like you wanted?"
Etho smiled, eyes crinkling. "Light red does suit you. You look good, trainee."
So that tone of voice had guaranteed Bdubs was going to be an abysmal employee as Etho proceeded with training, as if the ankle-biting silverfish and wither rose thorns weren't bad enough. The end rod of shame for unfinished interiors was easy to brush off, but Etho was a touchy trainer, correcting posture with false politeness and a firm grip. Lightly condescending "suggestions" sent shivers down Bdubs' spine when whispered over a shoulder or with casual projection across the room as Etho watched the endermites chase Bdubs around the office. It was almost like those early days again, except with less confidence, not more.
While trying to get reacquainted in season 7, Bdubs begins to suspect that Etho has some pretty specific ulterior motives behind all the years of unorthodox deals and teasing.
