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paradiseinternet · 4 months ago

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I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter One

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 4.4k

triggers: war (hinted at), death (mentioned, not detailed), childhood trauma, poverty, out-of-body-experience.

author's note: Ayo, waz up. If you see this fic pop up in ao3 at some point it'll probably be me. I've got three chapters done so far but not gonna post them all right away. If you don't like world building, slow burns, and a touch of enemies to lovers, then this fic isn't for you. If you like soulmate au's, somewhat realistic character interactions (not "omgomg y/n I love you!!! <3"), and heavy main character setup, then this is for you. Seriously, I'm afraid of commitment so that slow burn gonna come in h a r d .

Enjoy luvs. --Missy

Chapter One: Merely a Suggestion

Although it is a controversial topic, you are one of the few who believe soulmates are only really a suggestion. This naturally wasn’t your original hot take on soulmates; in fact, you swore to marry your soulmate the moment you found them. However, the world is sweeter to a five-year-old and reality doesn’t really daunt on the youth until at least eight. Marriage is a beautiful thing and by the time you were six you’d concluded that although you and your soulmate would get married, it didn’t have to be immediately. When you were seven and outside during recess, you would tell your schoolmates that you couldn’t wait for the day you could meet your soulmate. Don’t get it twisted, you weren’t entirely ignorant—your mother and father had told you that many people got a soulmate, but few met them. This didn’t damper your optimism and everything was sunshine and rainbows until you turned eight. It was at this point that you became more self-aware and less self-absorbed.

Your mother, bless her heart, was a kindred soul who worked two jobs: one as a waitress at a restaurant down the street in the evenings, and the other as a childcare worker for a local pre-K daycare. On the other hand, your father worked only one job as a mechanic for his own business (of which was slowly going bankrupt). They are soulmates and you love them just as much as they love you. However, love doesn’t mend all holes. When you turned eight, the entire world seemed to flip on its head. Quickly you became aware that living in a single-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of California wasn’t typical for a family of three, never going out to eat isn’t necessarily common, and working more than one job in a two-income household isn’t normal. It was at this point that when your birthday came, you’d ask for fewer, less expensive things in hopes of being less of a financial burden. Your family was not rich, well off, or even content. Instead, this loving family was so poor that your father would need to occasionally go to food pantries sponsored by local churches to even put sustenance on the table.

Even with such a financial burden, you’d made sure to do your best in school in hopes that one day you can be successful and care for your own parents when they reach retirement. And so, by the time you became eight, your fantasy of marrying your soulmate went onto a backburner as more pressing matters took stage.

By the time you were almost ten years old you’d accepted that maybe you were part of the 40% of the population that didn’t have a soulmate; or more dauntingly, the 27% that would never meet their other half. Not that the former number is necessarily terrible, it’s certainly better than the other side of the 27% that typically results in death.

In reality (and taking historical facts into consideration), only 6% of the 60% who are supposed to find their soulmate actually do—and live. So, when your tenth birthday came and no new soulmate identification aid popped up on your skin, in your mind, or with your vision, you’d thrown in the towel with grace and accepted your placement in society.

In this universe, an unknown power assigns one person with another and declares them soulmates. The most common pairing is between a man and a woman; however, it isn’t uncommon for there to be a same-sex bond, a bond with multiple people, or a bond that is simply platonic. Something more consistent are the Soul Identification Aids (SIAs for short). These are the aids given to each soulmate as a sort of guide on how to find the other. Not all SIAs are immediately noticeable, but they tend to be on the more obvious side. Additionally, a new SIA is given to the person when they turn ten. Typically, the old SIA will be replaced by the new SIA (since many aids are not compatible). In the event both identifications can work smoothly together, the soulmates keep all pre-existing SIAs. Everyone is given an SIA at birth as many doctors and nurses exclaim with joy when a baby is born and they are first to witness the name, phrase, etc. of a lifelong future partner. There is however a small caveat to identification aids-- if your soulmate has yet to be born, you are stuck with your initial SIA from birth until your destined person comes into the world. In which case, the younger soulmate will receive two new SIAs (if compatible) and the older soulmate will gain one new aid on the day of birth of their soulmate. Many scientific investigations have also speculated that if your soulmate is not born by the time you turn ten, you do not receive a new SIA until your soulmate enters the world.

So, when you were born late into the night and there was no physical sign of a SIA, this didn’t worry your parents. Afterall, not all SIAs are visible, and non-visible marks tend to run in the family. Your mark would eventually show up, and even if it didn’t, there was always a new one that would come when you turn ten. Thus, when you turned ten, your parents began to worry. You had woken up excited to see in what way you were going to find your soulmate, only to see not an inkling of a sign. The rest of the day was spent with your parents testing, prodding, and scanning for any sign of a new SIA. When nothing came to a head and you began to feel low, your parents told you everything was going to be fine and that they loved you no matter what. Then, with a little hope, your mother reminded you that you were an evening baby, so perhaps the new marks wouldn’t kick in until you were officially ten.

That night, emotionally exhausted, you’d slept like a rock. There was only one point where you were rustled awake by the feeling of falling. Like your room, everything was dark; so, when you opened your eyes and couldn’t see a thing, you reminded yourself that you were in fact not falling, but instead sleeping in your twin-sized bed. Attempting to go back to sleep, you resituated yourself and cozied up with a pillow and cuddled up to the person beside you.

What?

You bolted into an upright position, trying to see what was going on. Stumbling out of bed, you turned on the lamp light to see no one in your vicinity other than your mother and father on the other side of the room cuddling each other on their full bed. At your hasty and loud movements, your father raised his head to look at you.

“What is it?” He mumbled, still half-asleep.

Looking around again, you decided to brush off the odd event as a physical hallucination and yawned, “Nothing, just felt like I was falling.”

He nodded his head before going back to sleep, only for you to turn off the light and do the same.

Christmas Day came, and the holiday was slowly losing its charm the older you got. With the new information that there isn’t a Santa Claus, you’d fell into a world of horror—not at the idea that there wasn’t a large man sneaking into the apartment every year, but that your parents, without fail, have been paying for your extensive wish-list every year. That was a bandage that was ripped off the same year that it was determined you didn’t have a soulmate. You were twelve now and had come to terms with becoming unnecessarily excited with gifts you felt so-so on. So long as your parents believed you were happy with the inexpensive present, you were truly gifted with the joy of relief in knowing you’d saved them a few bucks. This, to you, was enough.

Although this year was a little different. In recent news, your father came home a few months ago saying that his business will go bankrupt soon and so he’s looking for other jobs. With the new financial stress, you’d done everything you could to cut down on costs. Shorter showers, walking home instead of being picked up, finding little things you could do to lessen their burden. So, when this Christmas came around and your father made the announcement, you were overjoyed.

“I have found a job!” He declared joyously.

Not only had he found a job, but it would pay more than what he was initially doing at the auto shop. The catch however was that it was a job with the military, and he was required to go into basic training for a few weeks, away from home.

Your mother, the strong-willed woman that she is, held down the fort as you both gave your goodbye’s as he left for training. In the weeks that he was gone, time was a little strained and schedules were jumbled. The apartment was becoming more of a mess as there was now only one parent in the house. However, you both pushed through and welcomed your father back with open arms when he was finished.

He wasn’t stationed immediately; in fact, it wasn’t until you were 15 years old that he had gotten a call. The army had found a placement for him somewhere in Afghanistan and he was to be deployed for about nine months. This time around your mother was a bit more hesitant. Afghanistan? At his age? He was already close to the max age of deployment, and they had limitations for a reason. It took a few days, but with the hope of giving you a better means of living and perhaps putting some more money in the already lack-luster college fund, she reluctantly confided.

Unfortunately for you, when your father was expected to be deployed it would mean he would miss your birthday—the sweet sixteen. But with promises of trinkets and memorability, you smiled with tears in your eyes and waved goodbye once more. The two of you would have a father-daughter date when he came back to make up for the lost time.

The day had arrived, the day that you’d never forget. Your 16th birthday. There were no big parties and no equally big plans. Just you and mom having a nice at-home dinner with a small gift ceremony. In the morning you were treated to sleeping-in and then given breakfast in bed with your favorite breakfast items. A small lunch came later in the day with plenty of sweet snacks to accompany you throughout the special event. Time was spent watching movie marathons, panting nails, writing letters to your father, and a variety of other activities you enjoyed. As the memorable day came to an end it was topped off with a Skype call with your father, having him wishing you a wonderful birthday, and an even better year. You’d hadn’t even gone into the bedroom until after eight in the evening, and so you began your nightly routine. Shower, pajamas, brushed teeth, water on the bedside, along with some extra routine things you do. By the time you had gotten done with preparing for bed, your mother had already dozed off, having put on an eye mask and earbuds in to allow you ease of movement as you got ready for slumber. The day was certainly memorable.

But it didn’t end there.

Almost as soon as you laid your head down onto the pillow, you felt the sensation of falling. Except this time, you were awake opposed to sleeping, and your eyes hadn’t even closed yet. Light had filled your vision so fast that it was as if the sun decided to take a detour back into the sky, pushing the night away. This wasn’t the only sensory overload however, as the audio of the quaint bedroom seemed to be blasted with dozens of voices—voices that did not match the tone of your mother. Next you had realized that you were no longer laying down, but instead standing up straight with a hand tucked into your dress pant pocket.

Dress pants?

It was then that your eyes focused, not looking at something, but more everything in hopes that some sense can be made. Your heart was beginning to beat rapidly, and your brain took laps within your skull. Confusion molded your facial features, your brain having not a clue as to what was going on, but somehow something inside of you understood. “Understood what?” is a good question, a question you were about to come to the answer of.

“—are you okay?” Asked a voice to your left. You twisted your head to track the voice, only to see multiple mouths.

Another person spoke, this time possessing a higher pitched tone, “Mr. Stark, do you need a glass of water?”

‘What?” Was the thought that passed through your mind.

Someone tapped your shoulder, and you looked towards the direction of the touch.

“Sir, are you alright?” A man was in your face. You looked up at him, he was only slightly taller which would make him rather short for a male. He was pudgy with brown eyes and slicked back hair that was a little longer than what would be typical for a man.

You breathed and formulated some form of a word out of your lips, “Where . . .”

Then you stopped without even continuing the sentence, a look of surprise cased along your features as you were startled by your own voice. Except it wasn’t your voice. This voice was a lot deeper in comparison. Had you not felt it come out of your throat, you’d have assumed someone was right next to your person and said the word instead.

You licked your lips as a strange look passed through the features of the man in front of you as he tried to make sense of what was going on. When your tongue exited your mouth, however, you felt little hairs move on your face. Now that you think about it, your mouth doesn’t taste how it did a moment ago. It felt drier and there was a linger of something that had a potent after-taste. Something was different, a lot of things were different. As the few seconds ticked by, a dawn of realization casted across the man’s face.

It was at this moment that you’d come to the realization that the room was a bit quieter than it was a few moments ago. You had turned your head to where the initial parade of noise was coming from only to find some faces. Correction, many faces. Each one showcasing a similar expression to the one the man beside you displayed a few moments ago. Then, as if following a script, the faces started to change into the same form of realization the man had given you.

That’s when the room roared to life with questions ranging from “Who are you?”, “How old are you?”, “Where are you from?”, and so on. There seemed to be a never-ending assault of words pointed in your direction that came so quick you could feel the exhales of the people warm you up slightly as it touched your skin.

Then it dawned on you, a realization that could be titled ‘Better Late Then Never.’ This situation, this body, these people, this is not your setting. Not your room, not your mom, and certainly not your body. That man beside you is not short but instead you happen to be taller. The only thing that you knew in this situation was that this is the body of your soulmate. A man, standing on a slightly elevated stage with a minimalistic microphone in front of him, addressing dozens of people in what can only be assumed to be a press conference. A man you thought didn’t exist, a soulmate you previously believed you were not destined for.

You glanced back at the man beside you as he hastily grabbed and dragged you into a particular direction. Where you were being taken off too was unbeknownst to your knowledge as you blink and find yourself back in the apartment standing in the middle of the kitchen.

The time could not have been more than five minutes since your initial, unexpected bodily switch, and yet your entire world has changed. Focusing your eyes again and feeling the cold vinyl below your feet, you took a shallow breath. This felt like your body. Your mouth tasted familiar, and your fingers felt leaner than the ones you had just moments before.

Looking down at the counter you faced, a torn piece of paper and a well-used pencil was before you, as were a combination of letters and numbers that filled the off-white sheet. Gently grabbing the paper, in fear of tainting its viability, you slowly read the note as you process what it says.

10880 Malibu Point, California, USA

An address. Your soulmate gave his address.

Suddenly your mind swirled with the next course of action as your heart started to speed up again in excitement. However, you stopped the trail of thought as a smile crept onto your face.

‘I have a soulmate,’ you’d thought in endearment.

Had it not been for your sleeping mother you would’ve squealed. That thought was quickly swept away as worry settled in.

You don’t have a phone book with adresses, so you’d have to go to the library and use the computers there. Additionally, you’re 16. If he has his own address and is a speaker at a conference, he’s probably an adult. The Global Soulmate Registry Association (GSRA) isn’t particularly favorable towards the joining of an adult and minor soulmate after breaching the threshold of a particular age gap. Additionally, if he had immediately left the room to look for something to write on, he probably doesn’t realize how old you are.

‘A letter it is then,’ you had concluded.

A letter is the most viable step. You wouldn’t need to go to the library in that case to see how long it would take to get to his home, you’d just need to get a letter and a stamp. A letter would be able to inform him that the two of you would need to be separated for the time being until you’re a legal adult. A letter is a harmless form of communication that can keep the two of you in contact without actually seeing each other. This way, you get to know this “Mr. Stark” without breaking any rules set in by the GSRA. And to be completely honest, you were very interested in learning about this man and why his name sounded so familiar.

The news had been on fire for at least a week. Talk was going around about the recent happenings of the “2003 Tokyo-Stark Conference” and how world-renowned Tony Stark does in fact have a soulmate. Video footage had been released of the entire ordeal staring you and your awed expression. While watching the news you couldn’t help but flush in embarrassment as your eyes darted everywhere within the video and facial features contorted constantly—most being a sign of confusion and disorientation.

You’d yet to get ahold of the letter and stamp—still frazzled by the whole ordeal. If the press is this attentive to a single man, how would they react to the news of who you are? Nerves shook your body as doubt laid on your mind. Perhaps this letter needed to be re-thought.

Another week went by, and you’d finally calmed down your nerves. Regardless of the repercussions, you would let your soulmate know that you got his message. A smile made its way on your face once again at the thought of having a soulmate.

Sitting beside your mother, the two of you were chatting away with the TV on in the background. You have yet to tell her the exciting news, but tonight that was going to change. The most recent broadcasting was still on the “Soul-Stark” mystery; however, now it was highlighting the many women who have come forward claiming to be Tony Stark’s soulmate. Initially you were worried that he would believe them, and that your soulmate would be ripped away from you; but, after Tony released a press statement, your worries melted.

“She knows how to find me. Figured she’d find me sooner, but hey, patience isn’t my strong suit,” he had stated with a sly smirk on his lips.

That’s right, he gave his address to you. No one has his address other than the ones he trusts. No one can prove their reliability unless they possess the note that you have. That’s why a letter is perfect. It’s effective, reliable, and prevents any bundles of nerves from forming if you two were to meet in person. Because to be honest, you’re not entirely sure if you could meet him face-to-face right now. The very thought makes something in the back of your brain twitch. It wasn’t anything bad, just that this person who has all the fame and fortune anyone could want, was your soulmate. You. Acne-infested, poverty-stricken, popularity-lacking, you. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he would take you at face-value, but considering your face is one big zit, that’s a hard pass. Perhaps after some time you can accept the man the universe has given to you, and you expect that time will come in about two years when the GSRA won’t breathe down your neck.

Suddenly, your mother grasped her chest in pain.

“Ahh!” She groaned.

Your eyes widened in shock, unsure how she could be in pain without anything physical around her to be threatened. Swiftly you held the hand that was on her chest and put the other on her back, rubbing small circles.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” You asked in worry.

She shook her head, seemingly unable to speak. This carried on for a minute or two as she caught her breath.

Releasing some air she huffed, “I don’t know, it just felt like something stabbed my heart.”

In that moment she looked at you in the eyes and your own widened in shock.

“Mother!” You yelled, unintentionally recoiling from what you looked at.

Her features molded into that of confusion as black tears rolled down her cheek. Almost simultaneously she seemed to be aware of the liquid feeling on her cheek as she went to wipe the tears away, only to see the gunk that came out of her sockets. The two of you stood still not saying a word, trying to understand what was happening.

It was during this moment that the TV flashed blue and red as it had the words “Breaking News” on the screen. Then a woman’s face appeared as she began to give the people the latest scoop.

Without a breath the newswoman began, “Break news: We have just received reports of an airstrike in Afghanistan. The attack, carried out by opposing forces, targeted a U.S. military base. Details are still emerging, and we will continue to monitor the situation closely. Stay tuned for further updates.”

That’s when it occurred—the realization.

Your father is stationed in Afghanistan. Your mother is crying black tears. There was an attack on a U.S. military base. Those tears weren’t bizarre, they were signs of a soul break. Your father is dead.

Unsurprisingly, your mother derived the same conclusion but was not willing to accept it without proof. She quickly got off the couch and ran to get the home phone, dialing a number you didn’t know. The next few moments were spent with her waiting as she got past the operator who connected her call only for the other end to speak out:

“Sorry, but all available representatives are currently on the line. Please wait as—.”

She fell to her knees, no longer able to take the strain on her brain and on her heart. It was when she fell you heard a sound you’d never forget, as the most soul-sucking sob left her lips. Mothers have a tendency to take all the weight of any situation, standing strong so that their little ones have something to look up to and aspire to be. Therefore, when the very woman who has raised you with an iron fist and soft heart completely fell apart, you were confused. You were worried. You were devasted. How does one fix a hole that is too big to mend?

Taking tentative steps to the corner your sob-filled mother fell, you were about to get down with her when the TV made an announcement.

“This just in: Our latest sources have confirmed that the weaponry used in the attack on the U.S. military base in Afghanistan was manufactured by the domestic company, Stark Industries. More details to follow as we learn more,” the woman said in haste.

A far-taken picture was displayed on the screen detailing a missile on course to the base with the logo of Stark Industries plastered to the side.

The only thing close to a representation of your thoughts after the announcement was the word “numb.” Your mind drew blank as your breathing stopped. Any movement made to aid your mother was quickly drawn to a halt. A few seconds passed by as the sound of your mother’s sobs only increased with the new information—having the attack being worse coming from your own country. As for you, your mind began to piece it all together.

Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries and the mind behind the weapons, killed your father. Your soulmate killed your father. Fuck the idea of indirect actions—one man is dead because of another. The man you have loved your entire life was killed by the one you’re destined to be with for the rest of eternity.

At this revelation you have made your decision. One that you will argue was not made as an act of emotion-clouded judgment, nor a means of revenge. It is simply because of the bad taste that enters your mouth when you say his name.

And here it is, the moment that defined everything:

“I hate Tony Stark.”

So yes, even though it is a taboo perspective, your opinion remains stagnant.

To you, soulmates are only really a suggestion.

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paradiseinternet · 2 months ago

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I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter Four

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 4.9k

triggers: foul language, childhood trauma, poverty.

author's note: another chapter in the bag :)

Chapter Four: Many Familiar Faces

The walk back to the motel room felt agonizingly long, even if it only took a maximum of ten minutes all together. As you entered the lobby again for the third time that night, she had less of an expression of confusion, and more one of shock. It could be assumed that this was because not everyone got to see Iron Man land right outside the doors of their workplace. Her eyes said a million things that you preferred not to answer, so you swiftly made your way up the flights of stairs after hanging up the raincoat and hat.

He had let you go without so much as a word, in fact, he left you before you left him. You thought it would be hard to walk away as his eyes bore holes in your back, but this difficulty faded as he reentered his suit and flew away into the night sky.

It took a few moments after watching him fly off to put your thoughts in an order you could understand for later deduction. You always liked to imagine your brain to be an office building with neat manilla folders and grey cubicles. Although the entire filing cabinet you labeled as “Soulmate” just expanded and will be needing an additional area for storage. Very little things required more than a single manilla folder. In fact, you can list on one hand what subjects have a metal cabinet to itself. Relationships (because they’re complicated), Soulmate (because the whole situation is complicated), Family (this wouldn’t require a section to itself, but you keep avoiding reorganization), and The Future (which isn’t complicated, but you aren’t entirely sure what you want to do in the end game so there’s a lot of suggestions).

And so, after reorganizing a little bit in the middle of a cool New York night, you went back to the comforts of your temporary room. After everything you can’t help but feel a little dirty. You have gone up and down those stairs one too many times (even if you weren’t present for every instance). Additionally, being on the streets with socks on aren’t exactly the most sanitary precautions. There’s the option of taking a shower, but between being physically and emotionally exhausted, you choose to sleep. Besides, you don’t have work tomorrow so you can spend that time thinking about what to do now that the largest weight on your shoulders is not going to bother you anymore.

Sleeping under the covers felt like it would be putting you at high risk for bedbugs, so you chose to sleep on top of the bed instead. As a blanket you took the towel you used for your shower earlier along with an extra that was lying around. Your arm was used as a pillow after determining that the backpack would be too bumpy.

Sure, you could go back to your studio and be somewhat more comfortable there, but it would be a waste of money to buy the room and not use it. Besides, now you have a new supply of complementary soap, shampoo, and conditioner for the apartment when you get back.

Now if your next-door motel residents could just be a little quieter with their activities, that would be swell. But hell, this was a two-star motel for a reason.

Getting up wasn’t so bad, sure you have slept in better ways and places, but the beautiful thing about being groggy is that your mind has yet to calibrate for the previous events. The entire exchange didn’t register in your brain when you were packing up your stuff, nor when you ransacked the entire room for freebies. It still hadn’t surfaced even as you left the motel ten to eleven (because you need to get your money’s worth). In fact, it wasn’t until you were halfway through the bus ride back did it hit you like a ton of brick. The sheer force of the information was enough for you to give a verbal “OH MY GOD” to all the people on the bus. Naturally you didn’t intend to be caught so off guard, but with-it being New York, nobody paid you any attention. Not that you were worried about onlookers right now, you had other things to attend to.

Everything from that point on was a blur. Because of this, you got off at the wrong stop and had to backtrack to your apartment. Somehow when you did get there you took the elevator to your floor and managed to fish out your keys. Before you could however your neighbor across the hall managed to catch you.

“Dere yuh are! I was wonderin’ if yuh had gotten kidnapped,” said a gruff voice from behind you.

David is one of those old guys who have a rough exterior but a soft interior. He is bald with wrinkles to show he has frowned for most of his life. Although you can’t see them at this moment, he has several tattoos on his body, the most notable being the sleeve on his left arm. From how he explains it, he used to be on the bad side of New York since he was a kid up until his mid-20s but turned his life around after spending some time behind bars. Once he got out, he joined a biker gang and went to work. He had retired from being a mechanic at the age of 64 and has been enjoying retirement ever since. Never had kids, never had been married. Sometimes you think he talks to you because he wants to see if he was missing out on the whole no-kids thing.

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t tell you. Just decided to spend my special day elsewhere,” you replied, head still in the clouds.

“Ah, yuh got married?” He inquired, trying to catch a glimpse at your hands from where he was standing in his doorway. “Who’s dah lucky fella?”

The two of you don’t talk too much, just when one or the other gets lonely. So as far as he knows, you could be married. He doesn’t broach the relationship topic too much, taking you to be a loner (which he isn’t wrong).

You chuckled absentmindedly, “Ah, yeah, no. Just my birthday.”

He hums in acknowledgement and asks, “Was it alright, or what?”

How does on respond to that when it was absolutely not “alright”? The same way you respond to everyone when you don’t want people to pry into your life.

“Yeah, same old same old.”

Just then you felt a very sharp burst of electricity, like you had accidentally touched a person who had been rolling around on a carpet. This feeling was rather familiar, but you haven’t had it since you were barely 16 years old. Then again, he hadn’t met you until last night. The only thing he needed was a clear picture of your face, which his suit no doubt provided. If you have to guess, he is digging up information about you at this very moment and just now he has found out and said your name. This possibly may be your biggest nightmare. One screw up on your part of assuming you were never going to do a body swap again and look where that has gotten you.

“Well yuh missed quite a stir. Yuh with me? Shit was blowin' up and people were everywhere. Right?” He explained as if the entirety of New York wasn’t there to witness the same events on the screen.

You responded to him with a slight twitch, trying not to show the effects of the light shock as you started to walk into the studio, “I’ll try not to miss it next time, sounds eventful.”

Just as you locked the door behind you, you threw your backpack in no particular direction and pressed your back to the door as you slid down it. You buried your head into your hands as you curled up on the cold plastic tile floor.

That pull from last night is now an aching in your heart, like a nasty bruise that appears with no cause of origin. It reminded you of a string that is strained and has become weaker, its threads taring one by one. This isn’t a pain that is unbearable, but it is certainly stronger than what it felt like last night. No doubt this is connected to the conversation you had with him, but you’ve never heard of symptoms like this. If you had managed to somehow break the bond, then your heart should be in an astonishingly high amount of pain, yet it is not. Perhaps this is the sweet spot, a feeling that doesn’t go away, but one you can survive. Afterall, if there was a soul break you’d most likely have black ooze coming out of every hole in your body and be dead in the near future, just like your mother. Instead, you feel lonelier than normal with a touch of painful annoyance. If this is the price to pay, so be it. Fate or not, you cannot love that man—for both your sake, and your parent’s.

Lifting your head up you find your vision to be blurry, not realizing that you had been crying. How odd, why are you crying? You felt your tears and looked at one on your finger to make sure it wasn’t black. Upon quick inspection you find there was no color other than the crystal-clear liquid that leaks out of your eyelids.

You got up off the ground as you came to the realization that you haven’t eaten anything today. Now that you think of it, you haven’t had a true meal since yesterday afternoon (because ice cream does not count as a meal).

The kitchenette is just to the right of the entrance, so you trudge across the murky yellow tiles and over to the off-white fridge. Opening it you find a half-eaten jar of pickles, the end pieces of some white bread you bought discounted the other day, a small stack of American cheese slices, and a singular hot dog. Giving up on the fridge you go over to the cabinet that is almost ready to fall off the wall and find a nearly empty container of peanut butter along with some packets of honey you’ve snatched from Popeyes. You already know your ramen supply is out and with the given choices, you make the decision not to make a disgusting concoction and instead head over to the grocery store. It’s been over a week since your latest grocery run, and even the last time could barely be called proper shopping. In an attempt to save money you’ve been restraining your diet. Not the healthiest, sure, but necessary to keep the heat on. As of late your consumption has consisted of ramen, pasta, soup, and beans with rice. You’ll be excluding soup from your diet soon since it’s May, and the weather is finally warming up.

The thought of going back out into society was a little draining, but that might just be hunger talking. Without further consideration you grabbed your wallet and keys that you left on the floor by the door and headed out.

Making your way to the store isn’t so bad, it happens to be within walking distance—well, most of everything is within walking distance. The only thing that put you off was the feeling of being watched. But on a positive note the area isn’t too crowded, so you won’t be bothered by too many crying children and instead be around the elderly whom of which enjoy shopping in the middle of the day.

Your list isn’t very long, so short in fact that you didn’t even need to keep a list. This proved to be a mistake when by the end of your shopping trip you had concluded that something was missing. No matter, you’ll remember when you get back home.

When getting to the counter you crossed your fingers hoping you had enough money in your account to afford everything. However, this wasn’t the case. If it weren’t for the cost of rent and your low-paying position, maybe you could buy everything you needed, but today just isn’t the day and you don’t get your next check for another three.

“How much more do I owe?” You ask in the way that many people ask when they’re short. Desperate, but mostly embarrassed.

The man behind the registered looked at his little screen on the register and replied, “The remainder is $32.56.”

Yikes, you could’ve sworn you had more money in the account than what it took off. Your total was a little over 70 because you were being frugal, and this trip was going to feed you for the next two plus weeks (hopefully). Thankfully prices have been going down ever since the housing market crashed a little over a year ago, but it still isn’t enough.

After storing your card back into your wallet, you went to look for any cash you had on hand. Finding a ten-dollar bill, you decided that was all you could fork up and will need to figure out what items you’ll need to give back. You weren’t willing to use a credit card considering the current cost to take on debt.

However, as you started to hand the cashier the money, a thick hand blocked your path.

“It’s alright, I got it,” said the voice to your left with a crisp 100 being passed over to the clerk.

Looking at the masculine voice next to you, you began to refuse until you took in his appearance. The man wore a nicely ironed suit with black tinted glasses covering his eyes. His hair was slicked back which exposed his minorly receding hairline. If it weren’t for how his face was structured, you wouldn’t have been able to tell if he was pudgy or very muscular. Spoiler: he’s pudgy.

Instead of refusing his kind gesture, you were so caught up in his familiarity that the transaction was already complete by the time you came back to.

“I—wow. Okay, thank you! That was incredibly kind but unnecessary,” you thanked gratefully.

He gave a very, very small smile, “It’s alright miss, I assure you that it was very much necessary.”

Why is he so familiar?

You chuckled lightly, “If you insist. Thank you, again, for your generosity.”

“Your gratitude is not mine to take, but I’ll be sure to pass it along,” he said as he turned back to the cashier as his single item was rang. It was some fancy looking whiskey.

Just as you were about to walk away with your arms filled with grocery bags, you turned back around and asked, “What’s your name?”

He looked back at you and replied, “Just call me Happy.”

Put off by the weird name, you continued your way out of the store and made your trek back to the apartment. Initially there was no sensation of being watched, but it came back after walking a block. However you brushed this off because everyone is being watched, it’s a busy city after all.

Ramen, what a delicacy. Except ‘delicacy’ isn’t the word you’d use as you slurp up the familiar chicken-flavored cardboard. More fitting words would be necessity, sodium, and empty calories. But this is life, and you are grateful to that man, Happy, for allowing you to buy everything you had picked out. Thanks to him, or more so the secret sponsor that was funding his choice, a quarter of your fridge is full and half of your cupboard has food. Granted, you have many cupboards (five to be exact), but when you can barely fill one up, what’s the point of using the others? So, you sat on your bed while gazing out at the blue sky through your window as you slurped up the noodles.

That earlier sensation of being watched disappeared instantly as you entered your building and hasn’t returned since. Not that you were missing it, of course. The sensation of being watched is always unnerving so with it being gone you felt more at ease. Now, you had the rest of the day to do absolutely nothing . . . or clean. You could do that. But that sounds like it requires motivation, which is something that just isn’t coming to you right now.

New day, same pain. Getting out of bed was a bit of a struggle. This is not a foreign issue to you, but it certainly hasn’t gotten any better over the past few days. It’s been years since you’ve gotten a solid night’s sleep without needing to get up for a glass of water. Sometimes you’ll just lay in bed after having woken up and do nothing. You could always see your ceiling due to the light pollution, so occasionally you’d make out weird shapes in the paint until you pass out. Trish claims that waking up a couple of times a night consistently is a sign of depression, but you fail to see the connection. Afterall, this has been a habit of yours ever since the incident.

Getting ready for work isn’t so hard, all you need to do is pin your hair out of the way, freshen up, and get dressed in the assigned uniform. The uniform is a T-shirt with the coffee shops logo on it. With it being so local, the dress code is a little more lenient to your delight. However, with you being the manager, you’re required to wear slacks and not jeans unlike the other associates. To be honest, you’re not entirely sure why you’re a manager. The increase in pay is nice and you think you’re doing your job just fine, but the owner is always on-site so there’s really no need for other management. But hey, whatever keeps your pay the same.

The café is within walking distance, because again, most things you need in New York are. In total it takes you almost thirty minutes to get there, which is not bad considering you don’t have a car. Although in a big city it’s not always great to have a car since with traffic it can take the same amount of time to get to point B as it would on foot. Normally the walk wouldn’t be so bad, but today you’re running late.

Squeezing by the pedestrians on the street, you hurry your way to the coffee shop. Your shift starts at nine in the morning and it’s currently 8:53. This wouldn’t be an issue if you only had a few minutes left of the walk, but you’re currently at least fifteen minutes away. Keeping at your typical pace would result in almost a 10-minute tardy punch-in, and that just won’t do. So, time to make up some for some time.

There’s a shortcut you take in between an alley that you don’t normally go through since it requires you to climb a fence, but you’re under pressure. Jerking left you jumped over a knocked over trash can and jogged over to the previously mentioned fence. Getting a grip on the metal wire you then climb over. The second part is more fun as you jump off on the other side with the short burst of adrenaline one receives when falling from a high place.

Your forehead is beginning to sweat but that isn’t something a damp paper towel can’t fix at work. Besides, sweat right now is not your largest concern. You glance down at the watch nicely situated on your left wrist, the one that is hiding his name from society. Typically you’d use a couple of scrunchies or hair ties to cover it up, but today you decided on a thick watch. In times past you thought about getting a tattoo over his name and hope that it covers it up good enough, but the risk of the artist spreading the word of who your soulmate is prevented you from doing so in the past.

‘This is not what I need to be thinking about right now,’ you reminded yourself.

The watch told you that there were only four minutes left until punch-in time, and you still have at least nine minutes to go. That means you need to make up for the five minutes difference.

Pushing your glutes to the limit you bolted to work while accidentally hitting into people on the way. However, the more you ran, the harder it was getting to focus. The ache in your heart was acting up again even though it has been slowly going away over the past hours. Nevertheless, the feeling is powerful enough to make you lose your concentration and bump into someone with a force strong enough to make you almost fall over. Thankfully whoever it is isn’t as easily swayed as they remain a standing structure while catching you. Reorienting yourself, you give a half-assed apology and go to keep making up lost time when you briefly caught a glimpse at the mans face.

So, now you’re stunned while standing in the middle of the busy street just gawking at this man. This man, whom of which, you distinctly remember being on the rooftop with you the other night after the body swap occurred. You didn’t get his name, but this is most certainly the same person.

“Hey, you good?” He asked, breaking you out of your hypnosis.

Hesitantly, you nodded. Then you turned and walked away, realizing that he doesn’t recognize you because you weren’t in your body at the initial time of meeting. The thought is surreal, meeting someone but not actually meeting someone. But pretending to be a complete stranger is for the best, for your sake.

Unfortunately you don’t make it to work on time, arriving three minutes late. On the other hand, the owner doesn’t seem to be in the building yet, which means you won’t get a headache until he checks the timestamps. To clarify, the owner isn’t a mean guy, he’s just particular about what hill he would like to die on.

“Hey! How was your birthday?” You hear Trish from behind the counter.

She must’ve been the opener for today, which means she’s been here since five. How she can remain cheerful after getting up so early is beyond you.

“It was eventful,” you lightheartedly replied.

The less she knows, the better. The less everybody knows is for the best. The sooner you forget, the quicker it all goes away. Following these three easy steps will hopefully result in successfully terminating the existence (or thought thereof) of your soulmate.

Looking around you do a quick headcount and find the café is slower than usual. Probably because of the mayhem that happened at the expo, and with it being so close, there is no doubt some debris still being cleaned up.

“Yeah? Isn’t your studio near the expo?” She offhandedly asked.

You walk towards her behind the register as you then explained how your birthday went while keeping out all the parts about your soulmate. Hopefully by explaining how uneventful your entire vacation was, she’d lay off a little. This unfortunately had the opposite effect as she then rushed you and grasped your arms, successfully pinning them to your body. She’s little taller than you, enough to loom over you and get right up in your face

“A motel? As in the same motel that Tony Stark’s soulmate was spotted at?!” She nearly yelled.

Your heart dropped. Did she know? Did everyone know? Who was the snitch? You bet it was that receptionist, what a bi—.

‘Stop it, if your face was captured then she would’ve already known it was you, calm down,’ you reasoned.

“Uh, I don’t know?” You said while trying to be as vague as possible. “Who’s his soulmate?”

Don’t be suspicious, don’t be suspicious.

She squealed like some schoolgirl who gets to spill the latest gossip, “That’s the thing, no one knows. The news has been flying off the wall ever since yesterday about conspiracies on who she is. Apparently, Mr. Fancy Pants flew over to her in front of a motel to meet her.”

Trish took a breath of air then continued, “But whoever tipped the news couldn’t get a good picture because the area was whether too bright or too dark. And you know how it is when an area is too dark. ‘But Trish! How can it be too bright if it’s too dark?’ Thanks for asking!”

Another breath. You apparently asked the wrong question; she can go on like this for days.

“The person who took the photos said that the light was emitting from the playboy and the lady, meaning they have that glowing SIA. But it went away after she, get this, slapped his hand away! That same person said they couldn’t make out what the conversation was about, but it didn’t look good.”

You were in too much shock to make an expression of fake shock, which resulted in you making an actual face of shock. This worked in your favor as Trish continued.

She almost snorted, “I know right, who does she think she is? If you happen to be the soulmate of the literal richest person in the world, why the hell would you treat him like that? If she doesn’t want him, I’ll take him. I mean, for one he’s a superhero, two he’s ultra wealthy, and three he’s ultra wealthy. And yes, I know two and three are the same, but it’s good to highlight important points.”

You do, in fact, happen to be the soulmate of the richest person in the world. But to you, his wealth holds no value and you’re not going to bend your back for someone like him. If it weren’t for this secret that you wish to take to your grave, you’d have explained to her that he is all hers.

The doorbell above the entrance chimed signaling a new customer. Trish half-heartedly glanced up at the person before returning her stare back to you.

“We’ll continue this conversation—,” what conversation? “—after I take this guy’s order.”

Then she released her grip to help the person who sat down towards the corner of the room. You, on the other hand, are still in shock. What tore you out of your mental state was the television lighting up, broadcasting the exact headline Trish was talking about.

“WORLD-RENOWNED PLAYBOY REJECTED?”

This is turning into a literal nightmare, and you’d like to wake up now. Everything that is happening is the exact reason why you didn’t want to met him. Well, not exactly, but it’s mighty good motivation to avoid him. You don’t feel like giving him your sob story, so saying “I don’t want to be famous” is a plausible excuse.

Just then you felt someone pat your shoulder as they passed by.

“Table 16, the person who just walked in, is requesting you specifically,” Trish informed as she went to ground some coffee beans.

You pointed at yourself and clarified, “Me?”

“Uh, yeah? I didn’t know you had any regulars, but kudos to you,” she released a snicker. “Besides, he looks like a sugar daddy in the making, work it girl.”

Not many things make you blush, but that got a rise out of you, barely tinting the tops of your ears which thankfully didn’t spread to your face. However, her statement did leave you a little confused. You have one regular, but she is not a he and doesn’t even come in at this time. Nor does she sit in that corner because (according to her) it’s a little too off-putting for her tastes and it’s away from where she can people watch from the windows.

Regardless, you make your way over to the corner of the café, pen and paper already in hand. The accessories are really just for style because you’ll typically make the order yourself and people don’t generally buy so much that you can’t keep track. But it comforts the buyer knowing that you’re paying attention and wanting to get their order right.

Reaching the table, you put on a smile and look down towards the man at the 4-person table. He is wearing tinted sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low. The back of your mind says he’s vaguely familiar, but there aren’t enough shown features to confirm the stipulation.

“Hello sir, my name is (Y/N) and I’ll be your server today. How are you this morning?” You ask in the fake enthusiastic stereotypical customer service voice.

Being a waitress isn’t your job; it never has been. You’re a barista, someone who makes the drinks and occasionally warms up pastries. But with the café being an open-floor layout, not everyone wants to order from the counter and that’s fine. Besides, those who sit down and want to be served typically leave tips, while those who come up to the counter don’t. So, although you aren’t a waitress, the tips are nice to have once in a while. However, you’re about to find out that this is a tip you’d be fine missing out on.

“Not too shabby,” he said as he looked up to you. His voice was smooth as brandy and polished like a granite countertop with a hint of confidence. If it wasn’t for your instant dawning, you’d have been breathless just from the sound of his immediately recognizable voice.

Instead, you let out a small whine mixed with a drop of dread, “No . . .”

This isn’t just a sugar daddy in the making, he’s your fated sugar daddy!

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