#also ignore how sweaty I am in the second photos this was like directly after a high intensity workout lmao

[hjartasalt]

9 days vs 9 months on testosterone 🫶

[sometimeinjoon]

Misleading Misdemeanor

4.1k

01 - 02 - 03��- 04

A/n: I have an obvious lack of knowledge of actual criminal procedure, ignore all the mistakes, I hope they’re acceptable. Also, it MAY get gruesome. Tread with caution.

Kim Namjoon. 24. Murderer.

Also one and the same as you, under certain conditions.

The sight of a black folder poised on your desk barely daunted you. It’s been a while, you thought, sitting down on your chair. In contrast to the multiple glaringly bright red folders in multiple towers around you, this black one seemed to hide its menacing contents quite well. To anyone else, this sole folder would be the most innocent of the swathe you basically lived in due to their sheer number.

At this point, you were never given anything but red. As soon as a case a little too complex shows up, it’s always the same phrase — “give it to the blitzkrieg" — as your superintendent lovingly refers to you. The color repulsed you so much you wanted to smash your new assistant Jennie’s head through the wall whenever she smiled at you with her less-than-pearly whites and fire engine red lipstick; she was sweet but stupid, and that plus her nauseating love for the stupid color made you want to chop her head off most of the time, but lucky for her, you were composed. You had to be, especially with your line of work.

Opening the folder, you were greeted with the typical documents: what they did, who they harmed, how many they harmed, sentence, possibility for parole, multiple photos of their crime scenes. Your eyes quickly get glued to the mug shot, which unnervingly resembled a yearbook picture more than it did an archival photo of a deemed psychopath, judging by the color of his folder that was almost never used. The motherfucker was smiling, and on top of that, the motherfucker was attractive. Nothing new in your experience though, that’s how pretty faces get away with so many crimes. You were merely noting facts.

Yelling in the corridor averted your eyes from the man in the photo to your window, seeing a man being dragged away by several police men. A dull 4 sat atop his head and you nod; the noisy ones were never really dangerous, although if it took 4 men to haul him to his cell, he sure was strong, you’ll give him that much. Behind the boisterous man was Yugyeom, your long-term colleague, sporting a proud 8. Darting your eyes around the people that were present outside your office, you gave a contented sigh. The gray numbers become overwhelming when you see too many all at once, and now that you controlled when you saw the numbers, you were invincible.

Fixing your view back to the opened folder, you begin to read on the man:

Kim Namjoon. IQ an impressive 148. 32 counts of murder, 2 counts of manslaughter. Nothing else.

You figured a man of his physique and appearance would be a rapist, and that’s beyond your bias, but he wasn’t. Perched at the very top of his victim list were his former investigators, sitting in first, second, and third, indicating succession, first being his latest victim. His case went from a white, to a red, to a navy blue, to a black in the span of a week, and no one has done that in your many years of experience. You’ve been warned quite sternly by your superintendent: “He killed the last 3, so don’t ever let your guard down. No one else can do this but you at this point, and if we lose you, the entire team’s going down.” Strangely enough, seeing this man’s case accelerate to the most dangerous color category that quickly made you excited to interview him. What number did he have? You’ve never seen anyone above a 9.

“Fifteen minutes, krieg,” Yugyeom knocks on your open door, adjusting his cuffs, as if the man they were dragging out gave him a bit more of a fuss than usual. You hated the nickname that was forced onto you, but nonetheless, you nod at him, taking one last sip from your cup before standing up, black folder in hand.

The walk to the interview room was relatively short, but filled with gasps from newer employees you passed by, and reassuring smiles from the ones you’ve been working with for a while. Throughout your career, you’ve only ever handled 3 black cases. To exemplify that feat, no one else has handled a black case. They were reserved for you. Everything above red was reserved for you. It took a lot to move up from a white case, and when a case does move up, it’s already a scare.

“Good morning, miss,” the policeman that was going to stand guard outside the room greeted you, holding the door open. Shortly after, 2 more policemen joined him. You were about to ask why there were so many of them, forgetting briefly about the supposedly extremely dangerous man you were about to encounter. You should be a little more fucking nervous, you fucking diva, you thought to yourself. Honestly though, how dangerous can this man be? Compared to you, at least.

Namjoon is ushered into the room and you don’t look up from the files you were trying to organize. You hear the door to his side of the room click, and he inhales quite sharply as he sat down.

“Wow,” he pauses for a bit too long, “you’re smart.” You can hear his smile through his voice. You don’t reply to his compliment as you continue to jot down questions you were going to ask him. “I know you know I am too, cause I know you can read my profile,” he follows up just as you pressed the button on the intercom to speak, not once looking away from your notes, and it makes you laugh right into the microphone.

“Oh shit, a girl this time?” By the way he speaks, you sensed genuine surprise in his tone.

“Sexist?” you ask, finally looking up, and you get the wind knocked right out of your chest.

A red number. It says 12.

“No, just astonished they’d even send a female in my direction, knowing what I did to the others,” he answers you, his gaze fixed right on the mirror in front of him. You feel like he’s looking right at you, except he seemed to mirror the subtle terror he couldn’t see on your face.

You struggle to speak as you not only lost your entire train of thought, but also you were scared shitless, as much as you’d hate to admit it. You didn’t know numbers could be red. You also didn’t know that the scale didn’t stop at 10.

He deadpans at the one-way glass in front of him, acknowledging the change in strategy. “I mean, I don’t think you intend to make my post-arrest kill count four, do you? It’s harder to kill someone when you don’t know who to kill, exactly.”

“Correct, even though the interrogation style’s motives must be obvious.” you try to nonchalantly answer. 

“Also wouldn’t be exactly delightful to fall for my interrogator,” he places his cheek in his hand, half-smiling. What a motherfucker. “You have a beautiful voice, ma’am, I could melt listening to you talk about what an asshole I am.” He smiles wider. 

“Great, then let’s do just that. Name?” 

“You know my name. My file’s right in front of you.”

"I’m trying to follow protocol, but since you’re so eager, let’s get to it then,” you say, and he nods.

"Let’s cut everything out,” he says, leaning onto his elbows on the table. “I know you know exactly what I am, and the flowery talk I use on everyone won’t work on someone like you.” His expression is hidden by the shadow cast by his face from the drop light on the ceiling, and oh god how you wish you could see what he looked like as he said that.

“You talk like you know me,” you say, clicking your pen down and you see him raise an eyebrow and blow air out of his nose in a form of a hesitant chuckle. You tried to ignore your obnoxiously sweaty palms. He can’t see you, you reminded yourself. 

“Kim Namjoon, 24, murderer.” The way his voice comes out so rich and deep contradicts the evil he spoke, and it scared you more how he seemed so calm and composed. You were used to murderers and rapists be this way, all collected, all chill, but the menacing 12 marking the air above him made it difficult for you to just treat him like an ordinary man.

“Any specific motives on your killings? Specific targets?”

"Anyone. Everyone. I don’t really care.” You stop writing.

“Any types you spare?”

He smiles at your question. “The ones like you.”

He’s an actual fucking psychopath, you tell yourself, and re-read his files to see if he really wasn’t a rapist, or at least a sex offender. He seems to be quite purposefully alluring.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I mean by that?” Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. You wondered why all traces of fear seem to have left your body, the red 12 you’ve willed away to not have it distract you, although it’s real, and it’s a warning. What made this too-confident of a man be a 12? Why is his number red?

“Yes, tell me more about why you wouldn’t want to kill me,” you wave your pen around in the air as you spoke into the mic, trying to humor him. Surely he was just being sly.

“Two quite simple things,” he waves his hair away from his face. “Smart,” he raises his pinky finger in a count, “and dangerous. I know you’ve been told you’re one of a kind, and you are, baby girl, you are, but you’re — ” he trails off, and looks directly at the mirror and you meet his eyes. 

“A red 12. Just like me.” 

“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” The policeman asks you before moving out of the doorway to let you in. He wasn’t the only one nervous about this, no, the entire fucking building was. Half of them were sure they were about to lose their best employee ever, and half of them are convinced you’ll break this man and skin him alive.

You intended to make neither of the two sides right.

The interview yesterday did not go as planned, and ignoring the worried looks to your direction as soon as you left the interrogation room, you decided to end the interview early, for your own sake. Your mind was racing, heart thumping like a horse that’s just ran in a race. Today though, you planned to get the answers you needed from him.

Setting your gun underneath the table, you waited patiently for Namjoon to be let in. You were nervous, more nervous than the interview yesterday, and understandably so. You were now going to be a mere few feet away from the hotshot killer, and he wasn’t going to be cuffed or restrained in any way. 

As soon as Namjoon sets eyes on you, he looks like he’s about to break out into a panic. He was expecting the mirror, the intercom, but instead, he sees the red 12 above your head, and then your actual head. He could see the blazing numbers through the mirror yesterday, despite not being able to see you in actuality. He couldn’t actually believe what he saw. He’d spent all night trying to convince himself it was an illusion. Master killers were a gray 9, so what were you? More importantly, what was he?

No words were spoken for a good 30 seconds after the door was shut behind Namjoon, the two of you just blankly staring at each other, studying each other’s features. Your hands were clasped underneath your chin, and in a fleeting moment of vulnerability, Namjoon actually tucked his massive frame into a smaller size, as if afraid of you all of a sudden, maybe shy? The audience that has gathered at the monitoring room held their breath as they waited for something to ensue.

You inhale deeply and the click of your pen startles Namjoon. “What did you do before you were arrested?” 

“Don’t you have it there?” he asks, pointing at the black folder opened at the side of the desk. He actually looks sincerely gently disgruntled by you, as if seeing you physically has ruined something in his already-ruined mind.

“I have a list of your previous crimes, yes, murder, murder, murder, and another murder, what a surprise,” you say, flipping through his papers, setting down the lie you were telling lightly. “Oh and what don’t I have, your last case. Tell me what you did.” You place your hand over the stack of papers so he won’t see the police report that you feigned not having.

“Killed a man, but this time it was an accident,” he shrugs, and looks as if he regrets having committed the crime, but you know he relishes in misleading people with his demeanor, and you know you can’t let him mislead you. 

“Go on?” You ask, meeting his too low of a gaze, and you were extremely surprised when he actually took your coaxing and just lets it all out. 

“He hit me with in the back of the head, and I, retaliated? I pushed him back too hard. He fell and hit his head on the pavement, and now he’s dead.” He finishes with an exhale. “Manslaughter. Starts with an M, but isn’t murder.”

 It’s not uncommon for criminals to make up stories and actually make them believable, but to your surprise, his account matches the one in his folder exactly. He actually just told you what happened, and he looked like he felt bad for it.

“I can’t read you,” he says, taking the words right out of your mouth.

“Why are you trying to read me?” 

“It’s important that I know you.” He answers, looking at you with softened eyes and you were at the edge of making sure you don’t believe him.

“So you can kill me?” You ask, pressing forward onto the desk.

“No.”

“Hurt me?”

“Does it look like I would try to?”

No, no it doesn’t. He seems like an angel just about now, and the annoying voice in your head that never has anything helpful to say insists that he must be sincere. 

“Tell me, why do you need to know me?”

“So that I can know what I am too.”

You don’t press any further and instead settle back into your seat. This interview was going nowhere with questioning like this, and you both knew that. You also knew there was an audience behind the mirror, and so you flip through your notes from yesterday and go on with the bullets you weren’t able to ask.

“Why did you commit all those murders?”

“It’s different for each one.”

“Okay, Jackson Wang. It says here you were best friends. Why did you turn on him?”

Namjoon’s eyes close shut and he doesn’t open them until after a whole 30 seconds passed by. “His number turned green.”

You inhale sharply when he says that and he’s just as surprised as you were with your reaction. He continues on his train of thought: “he was an 8. Gray, at first, then it started to ombre into this mud color, until eventually, after not seeing him for a while, I look up and see it’s gone completely stoplight green.”

“What does it mean when the numbers turn green? How bad is it that made you do this to your best friend?” You press forward, sliding the 4R photo of the crime scene you were talking about. Jackson Wang, steel pipe in his chest where his heart should be. It went right through him, the other end of the pipe impaled into the brick wall behind him.

Namjoon avoids the photo and looks to his side. “You don’t know anything, do you?”

“That’s why I’m asking you all these things. Let’s pretend I’m stupid. Explain this shit to me.”

He scoffs. “I can’t pretend you’re stupid. Yours are red. And it goes over 10.”

At this point, the people in the monitoring room are completely lost on the situation, questioning not only Namjoon’s mental stability, but yours as well. The ones that have faith in you are convinced that you’re doing this as a tactic and are riding along to his bullshit to juice information out of him, but only Yugyeom and your superintendent are aptly following along to the conversation. They knew what you were talking about, but just like you, they were lost on Namjoon talking about green numbers. All of you only thought that the numbers were gray. You were the only one that can see the numbers, aside from the man across you on the table, but the numbers are definitely not just gray. They can also be fire truck red. And now, to your surprise, they can be green too.

“Then don’t pretend I’m stupid. Pretend I’m your equal and I can perfectly understand your motives to your kilings.” You say leaning even further forward on the table. Namjoon starts moving his index finger against the desk in an incessant manner, drawing a short line. He exhales overstatedly and he leans forward too, his left elbow thudding onto the desk, eyes locking with yours once he settles his cheek onto his opened palm. His finger is still going at it despite the change in position, although now outlining a cross, forward, backward, sideways, stop. He assumes you’ve taken notice of his movement before he tilts his head down to look at you through hooded eyes. 

“Try it.” His finger stops.

There’s electricity in your feet and he’s uncomfortably close, but you don’t back away. You’re stuck in a staring contest with a psychopath, his moods changing at exceptional speed. One moment, he’s shy, scared, startled by your presence, and another moment he looks like he’s about to lie you down on the table and fuck you silly, like right now. He’s smirking, dimple exaggerated by the light above his head.

“Are you sure you haven’t raped anyone yet?” You cock an eyebrow.

“Ma’am,” he fully smiles at this point. “Call me anything you want. Murderer, psycho, any synonym thereof,” he settles back into his seat, his finger starting to draw again, this time slower, “but I am never two things: a liar, and a rapist. I’m a gentleman, and I’m sure of it. I’d hold the door open for you if I could once this interrogation is over.”

You toss another photo in his direction, and he takes it. He relaxes further in his seat, one arm slung behind his back rest, the other holding the picture up. He alternates looking at the photo, and then at you. He talks before you ask him anything.

“Six. Easy kill. Gray. He had a wedding ring, but he was abusive.” His finger stops moving. “I had a hard time with this one, just cause he’s so big. With my size it’s not really difficult to take someone down, but this one was muscular. Really muscular.”

“You seem almost happy about this one?”

“I am,” he sets the picture down, sliding it back to you. “He was an asshole.”

You tilt your head to the side, eyes slightly narrowed. Without looking away from him you slide another picture across the desk. You keep your hand on the glossy print while you waited for him to talk.

His face smoothens, smile disappearing. He looks like he’s choked on air when he sees the picture, lips quivering.

“Kim Taeyhung. Your brother.” You barely whisper. “Why?”

“What if I tell you there wasn’t a motive?”

“You told me you weren’t a liar, under any circumstance.”

“You’re good at your job, miss. Really good.”

“That’s the reason I’m in front of you.”

He doesn’t answer for a while, eyes fixed on the gruesome image of the man shot repeatedly, blood ironically painting the canvas that was behind him where he’d fallen over. You reach back and give him more images, more angles of the murder. After you spread out the fourth one, he slams his hand down on your wrist to stop you and stands up. The policemen barge into the room to restrain Namjoon and he doesn’t fight either of them. He throws both his hands up behind his head and smiles. With his face being closer to the light on the ceiling, his eyes become more prominent in its shadow: wide and bright and prodding. There’s something feline and predatory about his gaze, like he’s thinking of dissection. Destruction.

“No, it’s okay,” you tell the two policemen that were preparing to take him away. “Let him go. I’m not done with him yet.” They look at you extremely confused, but they obey. The monitoring room is now bursting full and hot and uncomfortable. Yugyeom weasels his way to the intercom and shushes the room before he speaks.

“Try that one more time and we’re sedating you.”

“Sir, I just held her wrist.” Namjoon looks at the mirror from side to side and sits down. “Hello to everyone watching!” he waves, smiling wide. When his lips terminate the lift at the ends of either corner, he stares at you, his look greedy, intent on taking as much of your features in as he can. He looks back at the mirror behind you, and then to you once again almost immediately. He rests his cheek on his palm again, looking like he’s admiring you from across a library table in university.

“Tell me, miss,” he smirks, “why is your highest digit here at your office an 8? And why just one?” You swallow hard at the nonchalant statement. He definitely can see the numbers, and he’s talking about Yugyeom. “Underground, we go up to 9s. Multiple 9s.”

You wave off his statement while you rearrange his file, sliding a quick compliment to his allies before his face turns serious again at your voice.

“They’re not allies. I don’t have allies. Allies are bullshit.” You nod at his even tone.

“Figures, you did kill your bro—“

Namjoon slams his hand down on the table, startling everyone in the proximity. “I didn’t fucking want to kill Taehyung, you bitch,” he literally spits out the curse he’d so aggressively thrown at you. “I would never fucking kill any of my brothers.” He was talking quick, veins on his outstretched arm prominent and angry. Almost as angry as he was. You hold out your palm to the policeman barely opening the door, peering at you through the slit on the steel. He nods, but his eyes were full of worry.

“You killed two of them,” you say unfazed, head tilted to the side. You were looking at him cripplingly, challenging him, trying to press at his emotions harder so he would burst. “Taehyung. Jimin,” you listed off. Namjoon’s chest heaves with every breath, ears red. His hand is now balled up into a fist, the other clawing at his thigh. You lean closer to him and repeat the names of the three youngest in his family. “Taehyung. Jimin.” You say with emphasis. You fish out their photos from the stack you had and flick them towards him.

He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the images. A tear slips down one of his cheeks, his face flushed, neck veins near popping, fists shaking from how hard he’s closed them in.

“Stop,” He whispers.

“Why did you kill them?”

“I was young. Stupid. Reckless. I still am,” he surrenders, tears now continuous. “But I regret harming them. Killing them. They were godsends in this hellhole.”

“You shot Taehyung 23 times,” you read off of a page in his folder. “That seems intentional, if anything.”

“Why are you suddenly an idiot?” He blinks at you. His eyes were bloodshot, brow worried and hurt was evident in his voice. “Panic. It was in panic.”

“You need to cock a gun to fire that many times in succession, Namjoon,” you cross, and his eyes grow wide at you calling him by name.

He leans forward, hushing his voice. “One,” he sticks his index finger out, “I threw the fucking bullets, alright? And two,” he follows up with his middle finger, “do not call me Namjoon. That’s not a name for you to use. You have no idea what that does to me when you say it.”

You’re baffled with what he said, and you’re not sure how to take that in. You narrow your eyes at him, feigning arrogance. 

“Namjoon.”

[bitchboyparker]

Lolita, Part 1 (Starker)

Peter Parker, the love of my life, my reason to be. My incriminator, my crime, my motive. A name I’d never forget. 

Peter was a mess of wild curls and blushed cheeks. He was waking up at noon and staying up ‘till sunrise. He was too much syrup. He was running late for events. He was poorly tailored suits and bruised knees. He was sticky-sweet kisses. He was freshly picked roses. He was an annoyance at the worst of times and endearing at the best. He got under the skin, invaded every part of me. Peter was the blood flowing through my veins. He was the conscience in my brain, the very breath of my soul. He was intoxicating. He quickly became an obsession rather than an expendable prize to be won at the end of a lust-driven game of pursuit. 

There was nothing before and nothing after my Peter. Any predecessors were quickly forgotten. Nobody could match my boy, my ragnetto, he was incomparable. 

See these shackles. Bear witness to my crown of thorns. I am not innocent, nor am I worthy of an unbiased jury, but allow me to say that my crime was victimless. I was not the witch who cast a spell, but the prince with true love’s kiss. My princess pricked her finger due to her own curiosity. She had a taste of the wine and longed for something sweeter. I felt inclined to give her what she wanted. I believe that you would all do the same.

                                                            . . .

Anthony Stark was born in Manhattan on May 29th, 1970 to Howard and Maria Stark.

Tony’s father was cold, demanding, and unforgiving. Howard inherited Stark Industries and all its wealth from his father, Isaac Stark. When both of Tony’s parents died in a car crash, the business fell directly into Tony’s unprepared and fairly irresponsible hands. Not only did he have a business to run, but he was miles away (in heart and body) from his home. He found that grief increases with distance and degree of emotional abandonment. Tony maintained a lot of regret for moving away the second he could be emancipated. He eventually took it upon himself to overlook the business’s main functions from abroad from sheer pressure and guilt. It wasn’t a difficult task as the employees on base were generally unproblematic, uninteresting, and got the job done. The business was extremely successful, so Tony didn’t have a reason to make any big changes. Stark Industries ran as smoothly as it did before Howard’s death. That was until Tony witnessed his own weaponry in action and experienced the horrors of war firsthand. 

When Tony returned and publicly announced the immediate termination of military artillery production at Stark Industries, extreme changes needed to be made to just about every aspect of the company. He was able to manage a lot from home, but the workload just got heavier and more complicated. Therefore, Tony moved back to New York from Paris. That was just about the time that Tony Stark officially became Iron Man.

Manhattan was absolutely dreadful compared to Paris. The smog, the traffic, the grey skyscrapers. Paris held a certain sort of romantic air about it. Manhattan was boring and chaotic. It was a town of businessmen and moguls, of salesmen and junkies. A borough for dreamers and failures. Tony’s hopes were slashed with every glance at the foggy, dull skyline. Each day blended into the next. He longed for change and excitement. 

In attempts to cheer Tony up, his snarky, red-headed assistant, Pepper Potts, accepted an invitation for him to judge a local elementary school’s science fair. He received such invitations from schools across the country regularly, but he declined them all without a second thought. When Pepper emailed Tony his plans for the following day, he was understandably outraged. Pepper replied with an overused speech about publicity. Tony didn’t give a fuck. 

And yet, the very next day, Tony was forced into a car, driven by Happy, headed to a primary school in the heart of Queens. He had never heard of the school before. It hadn’t produced any of his employees, nor had it produced any other people of significance (he had researched the school the night prior). He had no idea why Pepper picked this school in particular. Perhaps the timing of their request was in perfect alignment with the onset of Tony’s sullen mood. Perhaps the new batch of attendees looked promising. Whatever the reason, Tony continued to feel withdrawn and a bit annoyed with the whole affair. The company could function without him for a bit, but he could be dedicating his time to things far more valuable than judging a kiddie science fair at 11 a.m. on a Saturday. Besides, his demographic wasn’t necessarily child-friendly. 

Upon his arrival, Tony was met with hoards of press. He ignored them- other than a few stiff smiles and waves- and blindly climbed the steep stairs to the front doors of the brick building. Inside the building, the clamor wasn’t any calmer. Children rushed past him with beakers and model planets and Crayola markers. They all seemed to bounce off the walls with excitement. Several rows of tables filled the crowded gym. Atop each table was a mess of displays and poster boards, each varying sizes and themes. Tony’s security stood silently behind him, unphased by the calamity. He realized they probably all had children at home. This environment was only new to him.

A woman in a phony lab coat and an oversized pair of glasses approached him. She was the simple kind of pretty. She extended her hand and Tony returned the favour. Her grip was strong and confident.

“Hi, I’m May Parker.”

“Hello, May. I’m-”

“Tony Stark. I know.” Her voice begins to bubble with enthusiasm. “We were thrilled to receive a reply from you. We did not expect it at all. Farley told me it would be a long shot, but… You’re here. Thank you, really.”

“Not a problem. I, uh, I saw a lot of potential in these kids. You are doing something right.” Tony knew he was laying it on thick, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to shoot his shot. 

His half-assed charm did the trick. May flushed bright red and her smile softened. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.” They spent a moment sharing awkward glances before she cleared her throat and pulled herself together. “Now, if you’d follow me. We have a clipboard with all the contestants and their projects. They’re ordered alphabetically by last name. We’ll start with this row and work our way back.” She gestured to forty-sum tables. Tony flipped to the last page on his clipboard. There were 247 participants. 247 ordinary children. 247 ordinary projects. 247 future New York failures. Success was so rare in such a big city. He almost felt sorry for them. They spend so much time hoping, dreaming, only for them to become nothing. He was desperate to discover something- anything- in these kids.

Tony took off his sunglasses and put them in his coat pocket. “Will anybody else be joining us?’

May nodded. “Oh, of course.” She gestured to three other people in tacky labcoats. “Mr. Ferguson, Mrs. Julie, and Miss Ronk. You guys, Tony Stark.”

The three thanked him profusely and welcomed him to their meek little school. They all swore he’d be impressed by their students, just as any teachers would do. Tony would like to be the judge of that himself.

The fair began and the bustling about came to a stop. The children still chattered amongst themselves and presented their projects to parents and companions, but there was a nervous buzz in the air. 

The first presentation was from a girl named Mary Jane. She had a matted tangle of frizzy hair atop bug eyes and chicken legs. He immediately noticed that she had an attitude.

“Hello, Mary Jane. What do we have here?”

The girl squinted at Tony and promptly replied, “Call me MJ. And my project is on conspiracy theories.” She shrugged. “Mostly aliens.” Tony actually laughed. MJ took this as her cue to begin. The girl attempted to provide evidence for aliens as well as various famous landmarks as alien bases. She went into depth about how the eiffel tower is “the perfect UFO shape” and how aliens are inevitable in “the very big galaxy.” Tony found himself accepting her points. 

While her topic was more of a pseudoscience than anything, Tony thought MJ’s low quality photos of aliens and her confidence contributed to her grade. She made a good impression on him. B+ for now. 

Tony didn’t come across another good presentation until he had begrudgingly sat through 82 childish ramblings and 15 baking soda volcanoes. This presentation was also related to spaceships, but of the Star Wars genre.

“Hello. I am Ned Leeds,” he recited mechanically as if he had practiced this a hundred times. “My project is about the scientific inaccuracies in Star Wars. I accept constructive criticism. I hope you enjoy this presentation.” 

The kid was clearly nervous. Tony tried his best to laugh at all the right places and nod reassuringly, but Ned stayed just as sweaty from the moment he started talking to the very end. 

“Thank you, Ned. That was wonderful. I know how much time you put into this project.” May smoothed his hair and the kid lit up like a glowstick. After walking away, she explained, “He’s my nephew’s best friend. Most of that project was completed in my living room.” 

“Nephew,” Tony questioned. She nodded. “Is he participating in the fair?”

“Yes! In fact, he’s the next presentation. Here.” They rounded the third row of tables and came upon a small boy who was adjusting the elemental models in front of his poster. “This is my nephew, Peter Parker.”

Peter jumped at the sound of his own name and a bright red blush colored his cheeks and ran down his neck. The boy stared wordlessly at Tony. His first thought was that the boy was stunningly beautiful.

“Hey, kid. I’m Tony.”

“Hi, Tony. I’m Peter.”

“So I’ve heard. What do we have here?”

Peter looked to his aunt who nodded for him to start. He cleared his throat and balled his sweater into his fists. “For my project, I researched the differences between vibranium and adamantium.” He said the words slowly and carefully as to not stumble over them.

Tony was genuinely surprised. “Wow. You do this yourself?”

“Well, Aunt May helped me research some things.”

May looked incredibly proud. “I have no idea what any of this is. It’s all Peter, I promise.”

Tony looked him over approvingly and allowed him to continue his speech. Peter explained in simple terms how each material is made and the little differences in the chemical process. He included little fun facts here and there, including why each chemical was created or how it was discovered. Tony knew all of this himself, but he hung on to every word. He noticed a few childish mistakes, but who gives a fuck? The kid knew more about these materials than most adults. He was beyond words. 

The rest of the presentations went in one ear and out the other. That incredible little boy left a mark on Tony. He couldn’t shake Peter from his brain. He already knew without a doubt that he’d award him first place, but he felt the kid deserved so much more. The boy was extremely intelligent and his future looked bright. Tony wanted to ensure that for him. 

When it came time to pick first place, Tony immediately said, “Peter. One-hundred percent. That kid waxed scientific poetry. No other kid here today could even come close to the complexity of his project.”

May beamed. “I know I sound biased, but I have to agree.”

The other teachers looked like they wanted to disagree or pose an argument for the other students, but they were hesitant to challenge Tony. It was unanimous. Peter Parker won his very first science fair. 

. . .

Later that night, Tony exchanged emails with May Parker. She thanked him a million times over for attending the fair and for making Peter’s day. She sent him pictures of Peter with his blue ribbon. The boy looked ecstatic. Tony was thrilled that he did that, even if Peter was unaware of his contribution. 

Tony sat back from the computer and looked at his suit in the center of the room. It sparked an idea. 

“To: maypark3r@gmail.com

 RE: Science Fair

How would Peter like to visit sometime?”

“To: anthonystark@gmail.com

RE: Science Fair

Wow. Are you sure? 

He’d be thrilled, Tony. That would be amazing.

When?”

“To: maypark3r@gmail.com

RE: Science Fair

Tomorrow?”

“To: anthonystark@gmail.com

RE: Science Fair

Yes!”