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theartofdreaming1 · 4 years ago

Photo

Here is my attempt at portraying Peeta’s camouflage skills convincingly 😅😅

As usual, my thoughts regarding this week’s prompts and random thoughts on chapters 19-21 are below the cut.

heart

While I love all the banter between Katniss and Peeta, I think my favorite of these three chapters is: “Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this,” I say. “Although for all I know, I am killing you.” “Can you speed it up a little?” he asks. “No. Shut up and eat your pears,” I say. A classic 😄

mind

I always imagined that Cato went after Thresh before coming for Katniss and Peeta because a) Thresh took the backpack for District 2 (which contained the body armor that would make dealing with Katniss’s arrow so much easier) and b) Thresh killed Clove and Cato wanted to avenge her... Although I have no idea how Cato ended up killing Thresh... he was doing pretty well for himself in his grass-y area... Maybe the Gamemakers wanted to punish Thresh for not killing Katniss and generated that thunderstorm and rain to force Thresh out of his refuge, which would give Cato a fair chance to kill him, I guess...

soul

Lol, honestly, since Peeta just generally seems to be motivated by kindness and love/caring, I don’t think it took much for him to keep the star-crossed lovers angle alive (I could easily imagine him actually noticing Katniss in the willow tree early in the Games and offering to take care of the District 8 girl, so the Careers would get the hell out of there, away from Katniss)

Chapter 19:

Peeta, who’s been wounded, is now my ally. [...] I’d loathe any tribute who didn’t immediately ally with their district partner. Besides, it just makes sense to protect each other. - Honestly, this just highlights what a kind person Katniss is, despite her aloof front; her innermost instinct is always to stick together and to protect. Because it doesn’t really make sense for her to team up with Peeta - she knows he’s wounded and won’t be of much help to her, her chances of survival are way better if she stayed on her own, but it’s not something she’d ever consider now that they are allowed to form a team (and only then does she even factor in the whole ‘star-crossed lovers of district 12′ -angle)

Peeta, it turns out, has never been a danger to me. The thought makes me smile. - Aww 😊 (but also, how heart-breaking that the Capitol will do everything in their power to change that, to make Peeta become a danger to Katniss 😢)

He’s very hard to predict, which might be interesting under different circumstances - Okay, but this just makes me think of that exchange in Gilmore Girls when Paris and Rory talk about how you know a guy is right for you: “Someone who’s compatible but not compatible.” “Yeah, kind of. I mean, you respect each other’s opinions and you can laugh at the same jokes, but I don’t know – there’s just something about not quite knowing what the other person’s gonna do at all times that’s just really exciting.” - fits these two to a T 😏

In fact, I’ve just about decided I’m on the wrong track entirely, that a wounded boy would be unable to navigate getting to and from this water source, when I see the bloody streak - Okay, but how flipping tough is Peeta?! He’s severely injured, with multiple tracker jacker stings and he drags himself to this terrain that is almost impossible to navigate for someone in his condition - a sturdy dandelion, indeed!

“You’re here to finish me off, sweetheart?” - What an entrance after having gone AWOL for quite a couple of chapters 👌🏼👏🏼

“Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.” I jerk my head back but end up laughing. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” [...] “Katniss?” Peeta says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words “How about that kiss?” I burst out laughing - He’s lying in a river bed, slowly dying, and he can still make her laugh 😊

“You know, you’re kind of squeamish for such a lethal person” - It’s such a small comment, but I can’t help but think that Peeta is just kind of intrigued to discover all these little idiosyncrasies that make up the ever-elusive Katniss Everdeen ;)

Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss him, stopping his words. - Aww, she doesn’t even want to consider him dying, so she spontaneously decides to cut him off with a kiss👀👀 Honestly, at this point Peeta has elicited 2 (!) spontaneous kisses (the kiss after the chariot ride and this one) from Katniss, who generally isn’t that big on touching people

“You’re not going to die. I forbid it. All right?” - Stubborn, protective Katniss... But also reminds me of their rooftop “date” in CF and the “Then you’ll allow it?” “I’ll allow it” - exchange

I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he’d be happy to lie there gazing at me forever. He’s great at this stuff. - KaTNisSs, gurl... 🙄🤦🏼‍♀️

Chapter 20:

But I knew he was injured. And still I came after him. I’m just going to have to trust whatever instinct sent me to find him was a good one. - The very best of instincts, Katniss, don’t you worry😉

Peeta’s struggling to get up when I reach the cave. “I woke up and you were gone,” he says, “I was worried about you.” - Gah, why are the both of them so good?! They just care for and worry about each other 24/7

“How do you feel?” “Better than yesterday. This is an enormous improvement over the mud,” he says. “Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag... and you.” Oh right, the whole romance thing. - Oh Katniss...😐 I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. - Where did Peeta pick this up? From a time his family was less dysfunctional? Observing couples in the town square? Or is he a fricking disney prince and these things come natural to him? Questions, questions...

“You didn’t sleep,” Peeta says. “I’m all right,” I say. But the truth is, I’m exhausted. “Sleep now. I’ll keep watch.” [...] I test his cheek. Hot as a coal stove. He claims he’s been drinking, but the containers still feel full to me. I give him more fever pills and stand over him while he drinks first one, then a second quart of water. - These two are just too stubborn to take proper care of themselves - good thing that each of them is adamant to force the other to sleep/drink/eat when necessary

“Besides I like watching you sleep. You don’t scowl. Improves your looks a lot.” - When presented with the choice of being flirty vs being a cheeky little shit, Peeta will choose being a flirty cheeky little shit every time 😂

“I’m going to make soup,” I say. “Don’t light a fire,” he says. “It’s not worth it.” - Okay, but what he’s actually saying is “I’m not worth it” 😭😭

Katniss telling that story about buying Prim’s goat😊... A young buck, probably a yearling by his size. His antlers were just growing in, still small and coated in velvet. [...] Beautiful. - We are all very much aware of Peeta’s appreciation for beauty, but the same does apply to Katniss, too (she’s just overall more pragmatic)

“Was it [the goat] still wearing the pink ribbon?″ he asks. “I think so,” I say. “Why?” “I’m just trying to get a picture,” he says thoughtfully. - Peeta is so detail-oriented! I have this theory that this is actually something that enables him to overcome his hijacking; we catch glimpses in MJ of how he inches himself out of his condition by asking/focusing on small details or things most people would dismiss as trivial (Katniss’s favorite color, the color of her dress visiting District 7, her Dad singing the Hanging Tree when Peeta was 6 or 7 years old...) and I feel like it makes a lot of sense - his tormentors in the Capitol either wouldn’t have access to distort these moments or not even consider them to have any significance (since they are all about big, flashy gestures in the Capitol), so these memories would remain untouched. Luckily, Peeta seems to live by Robert Brault’s words: “Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things. “

“Really? What did you cost me again?” I ask. “A lot of trouble. Don’t worry. You’ll get it all back,” he says. - Well, he’s going to cost her a lot more trouble in the future - but we know he’s going to make up for it and bring her much happiness, too 😊

“You’re not risking your life for me.” “Who said I was?” I say. [...] “Of course I’m not going.” [...] “You’re such a bad liar, Karniss.” [...] Anger flushes my face. “All right, I am going, and you can’t stop me!” “I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I’m yelling your name I bet someone can find me. And then I’ll be dead for sure,” he says. - Soo.. their love language is offering to sacrifice their life like it’s nothing, huh?! 😳😅

Peeta eats without complaint, even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm. He rambles on about how delicious it is, - lol, sounds like a husband trying to get back on his wife’s good side after they had a row 😂

I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it’s too late, he’s already losing consciousness. - Ah, the most important indicator of true love: having person A force-feed person B a sedative so they can run off to get them life-saving medicine ;)

Chapter 21:

I lie next to Peeta in the bag, trying to absorb every bit of his fever heat. It’s strange to be so physically close to someone who’s so distant. Peeta might as well be back in the Capitol, - Reminds me how in MJ she’s going to be so close to Peeta (mentally/emotionally) while he will be physically so distant (in the Capitol!)

a tiny orange one [backpack] [...] that must be marked with a 12 - Interesting how that backpack is orange, huh? Why is that? Are smaller backpacks generally orange (like the one Katniss already has) to be more visible or is this simply to connect the backpack to Peeta (though we don’t know his favorite color at this point)? Do the Gamemakers care whether Katniss gets a matching backpack? It just seems like an unnecessary detail to throw in🤔

The table has just clicked into place when a figure darts out of the Cornucopia, snags the green backpack, and speeds off. Foxface! - Honestly, this was a truly brilliant move; kudos! 👏🏼

[Clove] carefully selects an almost dainty-looking number [knife] with a cruel, curved blade. “I promised Cato if he let me have you, I’d give the audience a good show.” [...] “I think...” she almost purrs. “I think we’ll start with your mouth.” [...] she teasingly traces the outline of my lips with the tip of the blade. - Okay, but the idea of Clove cutting off Katniss’s lips is just all kinds of terrifying and disturbing 😨

“No! No, I-” Clove sees the stone, about the size of a small loaf of bread in Thresh’s hand [...] Thresh brings the rock down hard against Clove’s temple. [...] and I know she’s a goner. - Interesting how Katniss describes that rock that basically saves her life (or at least kills her assailant) as bread-sized, huh? “Your district... they sent me bread. [...] Conflicting emotions cross Thresh’s face. He lowers the rock and points at me, almost accusingly. “Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl.” - Katniss mentions the bread from District 11 as a proof of her alliance with Rue (and the recognition of D11) and Thresh spares her; bread keeps saving her life (while it keeps representing acts of kindness)

Cato kneels beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. - I appreciate this small, humanizing moment with Cato

The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green and silver moth landing on the curve of my wrist. - I don’t know much about North American insects (not that I know that much about European insects either - just recently came across a relatively rare moth on my walks that I had never seen or heard of before) - is Katniss describing a special/noteworthy species of moth? Or is this a more literary symbolism kind of moth? (Just looked up some symbolism meaning of moths: change/transformation, seeking light; power of regeneration in some Native American mythology, hmm...)

#thgagain #thg #hunger games #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #thg meta #thresh #my sketches and drawings #everlark

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splintered-emotions · 3 years ago

Text

astrid's giant marvel complaint

this will encompass age of ultron, civil war, infinity war, endgame, loki, eternals, and multiverse of madness probably in release order so spoilers ahoy

also i'll just do it in bullet points for general ease and plus subpoints work so much easier that way

there's a few disclaimers that i should put in before i get too far in this:

i am a tony stark stan so that has almost assuredly colored my perception of these movies, however, given the fact that my next two favorite characters were bucky and loki, it shouldn't be too bad

some of these realizations i only made after i exited the marvel fandom post endgame so originally i did enjoy all of these movies

i have read like 2 comics so don't expect that to really factor into any of this.

there is a mention of rape within it because of a joke made within age of ultron that i fucking loathe so keep your own mental health in mind if/when you get to that section because this is just something that i'm doing for fun and it isn't necessary to harm yourself to read it

and finally, this is all my own personal opinion and if i disagree with any of your thoughts, that may be because i haven't watched a couple of these in a while

anyways the people who wanted this: @yellow-feathered-faerie and @beenovel i hope you have fun reading the efforts of a few days

okay so starting off with age of ultron (i've already done a dissection of this with @yellow-feathered-faerie on a shared discord server so if any remarks are recognizable, it's from there) just a warning before we get into this, this is the only movie mentions rape in a joking manner, so if you would like to avoid the discussion of this topic, just skip ahead to civil war sometime before the final bullet point for aou

so this is what i kinda like to call the start of the decline

the first symptom is honestly wanda’s arc and therefore pietro’s a bit too

more specifically her arc throughout all of her material, but for now specifically age of ultron

i don't dislike the characters in theory, i just don't like what was done to them

because they could have worked with the comics characterization from what i can tell from sources online, but the whole thing with them still being x-men characters make it worse than it would have been otherwise

and the whitewashing and making them work with fucking hydra when their comics iterations were literally jewish make it so much worse

so first off all, we have them blaming Tony Stark for killing their parents because two of his bombs crashed into their home. already i hate this reasoning but i can acknowledge that at a young age, this probably made complete sense to them. but given that they're 24 in the actual movie, it makes far less sense

especially because i’m younger than them and i have slightly more sense than blaming the person who likely only built a prototype (albeit a working one) rather than fire the fucking weapon

they quite literally volunteered for HYDRA (a literal nazi organization) when they were teenagers in order to get revenge???? when like there was literally a whole thing about how Stark only sold to the US military and that his advisor/semi father figure was literally selling weapons under the table to terrorists about 7 years before this movie took place. and even then, it wouldn't have even been him who built or even fired the damn thing

because Stark weapons were used because of their efficiency and the fact that they worked basically every time

because a weapons company would not have been that rich via just the US military without some extremely high quality shit being sold

anyways somehow this changes in basically a split second halfway through the movie because some ai was trying to end the world (normal marvel shit) and they're both suddenly okay with him

Oh yeah after this wanda literally agrees to join the avengers a team with stark as one of the literal founding members (not technically

also wanda just fucking set off the hulk onto a civilian target casually and never gets any repercussions for that

if you’re gonna do that, why even imply real world consequences in the next movie.

there’s also the whole thing about nat being a monster because she can’t have kids because of an invasive surgery she did not consent to which is just fucking ridiculous because people with uteruses aren’t defined by whether or not they can have kids. it should be their own actions and shit like that that actually affect who they are as a character, not their reproductive status

and anyways they fucking scrap this relationship anyways with only the barest of hints to it in ragnarok and infinity war

the fact that they only blame tony somehow for this

as if the movie itself does not show that he just wanted to test it a bit, not fucking awaken a murderous AI. like the writers do kinda attempt to show this as a negative thing with like thor literally choking tony when he’s creating vision with bruce, but it honestly refuses to acknowledge that wanda and therefore hydra have some fault in the matter as well because she literally gave him a vision of everyone dying, which directly led to ultron being a project in his mind.

i’m not saying that tony does not play any role in this, but he plays less of one than the other characters choose to acknowledge

also let the characters be friends for fucking once. like in avengers we had a thing where they could possibly turn into friends, but with iron man 3 and ca:tws, there was no hope. however, they could have made a fucking ATTEMPT

THE FUCKING RAPE JOKE

for context: tony says that he wants to reinstate prima nocta, which is just a really fucked up policy done by noblemen on the wedding nights of women who lived on their land, during the scene where they are all attempting to pick up thor's hammer

wikipedia states "[prima nocta] was a supposed legal right in medieval Europe, allowing feudal lords to have sexual relations with subordinate women, in particular, on the wedding nights of the women" which gives you a clue as to what exactly the fucking writers wanted to bring up in their supposedly family friendly movie

and just deadass what was the need because there’s literally so much else that you could joke about and yet the writers chose THIS the man is supposed to be someone that we are rooting for not actively hating because you couldn't think of a good fucking joke

and that’s it on age of ultron so onto civil war where my blood truly begins to boil. once again this is something that i have discussed on the server so some remarks will just be copied from there.

i don’t like this movie for several reasons

and all of them can be laid at the feet of the people who wrote the damn thing

we begin with the fact that there are technically two things moving the plot forward the entire time

the sokovia accords

zemo and his framing of bucky

first problem: we know literally nothing about the sokovia accords other than the fact that superpowered people are required to sign them to continue fighting crime and threats and shit

not looking at agents of shield or any other supplementary material, just the fucking movie

and any other information that we are given is from thaddeus ross, an american politician/general i think, who is notoriously unreliable given the fact that he literally tried to hunt down bruce banner in the incredible hulk movie

therefore, using the information that was confirmed by other figures who weren’t ridiculous enough to fucking try and hunt down a man who will literally become bulletproof if he gets angry or scared, all we really know is that they need to sign it and be overseen by a UN approved committee

this kinda results in the thing that’s supposed to move the plot for at least part of the movie from what i can tell (it’s very unclear whether this is supposed to be relegated to a subplot once we reach the ⅓ mark of the movie) being fucking useless past this point

there’s like a mention of it in infinity war with rhodey telling ross to fuck off, but deadass, there’s no lasting effects beyond them just splitting the avengers up using this as a device to kinda do so, when i think it could have been more compelling and establish zemo as a stronger villain if it was his own actions that actually broke them apart rather than sheer coincidence because one dude, no matter how rich, could not have fucking manipulated over 100 countries into signing a legal document

so basically this could have been done away with if the writers knew that you don’t have two main plots within a single movie without either fucking over one, or managing to weave them intricately, which marvel has never been known to do particularly effectively without one sticking out like a sore thumb in a field of what should have been actually good writing with how much these movies fucking rake in

OH ALSO they never really explain why steve’s so deeply against them. yeah i get that tws was meant to be like sometimes the people in charge don’t have the purest motives/are fucking nazis. but they fucking defeated those guys and strucker was supposed to be the last one in age of ultron. so like who the fuck was he afraid of being in charge? because 1) the UN is a hell of a lot different than the league of nations that cap would have grown up with and someone should have fucking told him that at some point so it shouldn’t be that unless we’re going the route of shield tells no one fucking anything unless they deem it necessary and for that i’d like to point to the fact that fury fucking mentioned tony worked on the project and not once mentioned him when the plans to destroy the helicarrier were made and 2) there’s no one that he could have possibly recognized that was on the fucking project other than thaddeus ross. and he would be kept in check by ya know the other people on the panel because this is not a purely US panel because that’s what the fucking purpose is you dumbass.

plus it’s not like a governmental body as big as the fucking UN can keep their meetings secret. like someone should have known realistically. and then to just have the completely fabricated deadline just ignored casually after emphasizing the three days crap is just ridiculous

and just as a last statement regarding the accords, to quote Fae: “It really says something when one of the most vital parts of the plot is left for fans to figure out”

before we get too far into the movie, let’s discuss what you probably were not expecting me to bring up as a tony stan: peter parker

first things first, i don’t have a problem with the character, i have a problem with how he was handled.

because why the fuck was he introduced like that i get that his backstory has been run through over and over again, but this was so much worse than any other possible intro

we don’t know how he got his damn powers

we don’t know what the fuck his great power moment was because that only shows up in no way home

which makes no fucking sense, with the timeline that has been given and only further serves to traumatize this like 17 year old who has been through far too much already

which then forces the question: what made him want to start fighting crime? like if his great power moment only came like 7 years after he was introduced as a hero, then why the fuck did he start?

one interpretation is of course that he looked up to stark and that’s why he went oh i have superpowers? better go fight crime, but there’s nothing in the actual movie that tells you this. or any of the other ones for that matter. he says that he looks up to him, but not really why he began superheroing when he was a high school student.

will we ever get the question of how the fuck is he superheroing with like 50 ap classes (the kid wants to get into MIT, there’s no way he’s taking normal courses) and the homework that comes with it answered? because i know how much homework comes with aps rn and i barely manage to get in some writing for my fics before i fucking conk out at like 1am so how sleep deprived is he?

also he was never fucking told why he was fighting, which may be a character thing more than a writer thing, but it’s sure as hell as problem that the writers could have fucking fixed so it’s being included

i get that movies have like fixed time lengths but like there’s so much information that you actually need to include in this movie for half the plot to make sense

like for any noncomics readers, actually for just everyone who watches this trainwreck: what the fuck are the accords, how are they meant to be implemented, how long has this been going on, why have we never heard of them before, shouldn’t there have been some fucking mention if they were in the works since fucking 2012 and shield was literally a spy organization and two of the avengers are fucking spies, are the avengers too far up their own asses to notice shit like this happening, so on and so forth

because there sure as hell weren’t any explanations about this in canon.

also deadass how do you explain Steve, Sam, and Natasha never telling tony about the whole winter soldier thing

because the writers sure as hell didn’t try

they just shoved that in there without even once bringing it up in a previous movie, making steve’s villainization of tony in age of ultron even weirder.

also how is it not a bigger thing that hydra killed howard? because that seems like a pretty big thing for them to just never acknowledge. because this also make steve someone who covered up a crime this big. there should be some kind of fucking consequences for it. because like there’s suspension of belief and then there’s just complete fucking nonsense.

another thing is the fact that none of the characters are particularly likeable in this movie

it’s literally just relying on everything built up from the previous movies to try and convince us that oh this is the good team and this is the bad one and yet each one of them makes terrible decisions. the only one i can actually see myself siding with is team iron man because it means that there’s actual oversight on superpowered beings coming into a country that isn’t america. because as it is, they’re an american team through and through. their actual origins don’t matter, but the fact that they were sponsored for all this time by shield and their base of operations is in new york, means that them just casually invading another country could put all of them in especially hot political waters. and this would just be a way to actually ensure that no politics are interfered with AND that they can’t come in fuck things up and leave without having at least something in place to provide some kind of clean up for these attacks.

honestly the accords and the bucky mess should have been two different movies

and yes i know that it’s gonna be a politics mess rather than the action that marvel’s known for, so then just don’t try and do an accords plotline. like i said earlier, just have zemo split them up so then it makes the plot less cluttered with what was supposed to be the logical consequence of their actions. we’ve already disregarded it enough for suspension of disbelief, the audience sure as hell doesn’t care now. we want a compelling story. and that needs a villain whose plans don’t just fall into place by sheer chance.

and because she’s here, i cannot help but complain about how fucking terribly the writers seem to treat wanda

first of all, they show her with a lack of control over her powers when hydra (an organization which would not have taken less than perfect execution from her) were the ones who gave her her powers and trained her in them

and like at this point, all we’ve seen of her has been hatred and mishandling of situations which for someone that we’re literally supposed to be rooting for makes no sense

and the whole thing with putting vision through like 5 floors because he was kinda trying to protect her from the reaction that would erupt from her going out into public when she needed the backlash to come down even a little bit more, especially because she is a person with powers and people are assholes to the things that they fear

but i mean i kinda get it, but not to the extent that she did it if you get what i mean

ALSO why the fuck were wanda (ex-hydra with mind control powers) and bucky barnes (previously mindcontrolled by hydra) put in any close range. did he even know her past? because he would have been a hell of a lot more against literally being on the same side as someone who willingly joined (there’s no clear evidence in canon that she did it unwillingly based off of the comments made in aou but that’s a whole other bucket of worms) the organization that fucking tortured him for 70 years of his life.

ant-man. it’s just why’d you have to tie him in like this. i like that nice little oh he has kinda met the falcon at the point thing, but like the whole thing with the conscience and “you can never trust a stark” is just so over the top. like has he ever met tony stark. or even howard stark. no??? then why have him be like oh it’s your conscience speaking when you have not met this man at all. his conscience is the fucking reason why he’s a superhero dumbass. do you think that he became one for fun? no it was because his weapons were in the hands of people who were using them to fucking hurt others and terrorize more and he wanted to do something about the events that his own trust in obadiah stane caused (yes i have strong feelings about tony stark, you cannot stop my power because the russos have already done worse to me. all you can do is make me hurt in new and interesting ways)

also there’s like 50 thousand better ways he could have been introduced to the rest of the avengers, this was honestly the worst possible one. you could have gone a route like sam where he’s introduced at like a party or implied to have met them before at a low scale battle. something that doesn’t make me want to cry at how much of a shift this was from the first ant-man movie where he refused to just believe everything that hank said.

and finally: the final battle.

i honestly don’t understand how tony’s meant to be the villain in this one. because had steve just fucking told him the truth at fucking any point in time, there would have been no need for this smackdown. there would be no “did you know?” necessary. but no, the russos just wanted to “flip the script” and have superheroes fight each other because it’s not like superhero movies are supposed to be a form of escapism in which the audience doesn’t have to deal with bullshit like this.

and this is pretty much just a reaction to fucking batman vs superman which, from what i’ve heard about it, wasn’t particularly good either.

oh and the letter. the bane of my existence (derogatory). it’s so fucking arrogant too. like this isn’t the same kid from brooklyn who didn’t like bullies. he IS a bully now.

honestly the main thing for this movie is that the creative team on this genuinely don’t seem like they care about the characters within this movie. like say what you want about things like iron man 2 or thor dark world, at least they felt like they had a soul.

#i'm not tagging this because i refuse to have an angry mob who will find me eventually #but i want peace for now

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sumerun · 3 years ago

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hi there!! your ayato gfx was absolutely stunning i stared at it for a good minute just processing everything!! i've always been interesting in dabbling in gfx but i'm tech noob at best, an idiot at worst. do you have any advice for someone looking to start out? like resources, software etc. thank you sm and have a wonderful day/night

hello, sweet anon! first of all, thank you so much for your kind words! :)

note: text-heavy!

PEP TALK?

before we proceed, i just want to preface that getting into gfx design can be extremely frustrating. it is a part of the arts and as anything relating to the arts, it takes time and a LOT of practice. you, yourself is the biggest critic of your own work and you're also learning 21612198 tools. you will want to tear your hair out. you might have to learn theories and concepts that traditional artists learn in class to improve your own work. that being said, it is also very rewarding and fun, hehe

so what i always say to someone who wants to get into gfx design is, to just have fun. make the things you want and don't stop making them. the more you make, the more you improve. you can always learn the essentials of gfx design ofc!! but it's kinda boring so use whatever fandom as the subject to make it more fun

SOFTWARE

so the most well-known program that it's used in gfx is adobe photoshop and illustrator (there's more but those are the main two). it is not free and you gotta pay a subscription. if you can't afford it, you can always pirate it. BUUUUT, there's nice, free alternatives out there such as: GIMP (app), Photopea (browser based). it doesn't have everything photoshop does, but it's a nice way to dip your toes in!

RESOURCES

- your best resource is literally youtube and google haha! there are so many good videos you can search up and you can follow along. this is risky imo bc you can spend more time watching than doing, which defeats my points above.

- behance is a platform by adobe where you can find some resources, tutorials, and portfolios of other artists. it is a HUGE source of inspiration for me. i go on that website like at least once a week lMAO.

- pinterest is also a website i peruse often for inspirations! but at the same time, i'm torn bc there's a lot of stolen work here. so just keep that in mind

- the iconic gif tutorial by anue and this gaming gif tutorial by senka (yyh) is a GREAT way to start gfx design tbh. you'll learn to mess around with various tools when you make gifs!

GENERAL + IMPROVEMENT TIPS

i really wish i can just tell you the topics and tools you should learn but there's so much that it can get overwhelming. so take it at your own speed:

- like i mention above, learn the fundamentals. this is gonna be boring but use your favorite subject to make it fun!

- ok hear me out but as a beginner: copy and emulate. there's a reason why artists do master studies. you learn how the old and new masters paint, analyze their techniques and apply them to your own. it's pretty much the same in gfx design. emulate your favorite designs, learn why they use the colors they do and why they placed a certain font there. try to remake your favorite posters that you've seen and ask yourself why did they do that?

but ofc this is strictly for studying! this does not mean should plagiarize and post the same poster, but ayato version or something LOL. the line between plagiarism and inspiration/homage can be blurry but you need to make sure you are using this chance to learn and develop your own style! :)

- write down your ideas! sketch them out! whatever is in your brain might come out completely different on paper. and that's natural! it just help to visualize things

- PEN TOOL IS YOUR BEST FRIEND. i use this shit for EVERY single project so know it like the back of your hand.

- keep your past works and use it for self-critiques or just to look back and see how far you've come

CONCLUSION

remember, it will suck for a little bit while you learn all the tools in your software. you might not be able to materialize your ideas bc you don't know how to do something. it's ok!! you will get there once you're more experienced. just keep making gfx and ask for critiques. you will learn a ton! or sometimes, just walk away and let your brain rest. sometimes, we make a better product when you let it sit for a bit.

you got this, anon :) shoot me an ask/DM if you need anything else!

#letterbox #anon #sorry this took so long!

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not-me-simping-for-blasty · 4 years ago

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Train Cars and Sun Spots - Kaminari Denki

—/—

You think he’s beautiful.

A disarming, reckless sort of beautiful as he barrels into the train, jumping headfirst through the doors just seconds from closing. He erupts into a flurry of fidgeting as he skids to a stop, one hand patting down his wild blonde hair and the other dusting off his sweats. It’s like he can’t sit still. Like he’s got an itch in his skin that’s shifting his weight around, balancing on one foot and then the other- rinse and repeat as he grabs onto the handrail above his head for stability.

Another second passes and then he’s pulling a plastic water bottle from his bag, twisting it open and crinkling the plastic. It seems to you that that he’s trying to make as much noise possible, but then you notice his headphones. They’re black and yellow, undeniably playing at full blast in his ears. You then decide it’s much more likely that he just can’t hear himself- that he somehow doesn’t realize how much of a scene he’s making in the otherwise quiet train car.

You find it a little refreshing, him seemingly appearing out of nowhere. You’d been riding this train for weeks now, to and from school, and you’d seen the same people day after day. The same old businessmen and their same old brief-cases and their same old silence. Not him though- never him and his noise. You were sure you’d remember hearing someone as loud as him.

Still, you try not to stare.

Although, you suppose, it wouldn’t really matter. He probably wouldn’t be able to pick you out of all the other people staring. It’s like he’s got the entire train car arrested and staggered; all eyes stuck on the strange boy who was moving far too much for a 7:00AM commute.

Shifting in your seat, you balanced your book higher in your hands. You hoped that by just barely skimming your eyes over the top, hiding inconspicuously behind the pages, you could look and not be noticed.

You were wrong.

When you glance over at him, he’s already looking at you. He’s got eyes like molten gold, and when he smiles they crinkle closed into happy little slits. That smile is easy and unrelenting when he pushes away from the handrail, hands shoved into his pockets as he nears.

“Hey there!”

His words are friendly, but god, if his voice isn’t loud. You wince, beginning to think that you’d severely underestimated the volume of his music. You’re sure now that it absolutely must be bursting his eardrums.

“Oh-“ He looks sheepish. Then he’s yanking the headphones from his ears, and dropping into the seat next to you. “Too loud, right? Sorry! Didn’t realize.”

You’re stunned.

At first, it seemed unbelievable that this conversation could’ve arised from just a single glance; but then you look a little closer, at his shifting eyebrows and his grin that’s colored shades of flirtatious and it’s a little more believeable. You realize quickly that’s all it ever would’ve taken with him- A single look.

“I’m Kaminari.” He announces confidently, your silence not deterring him in the slightest. “Kaminari Denki.”

“Oh. Okay. Um, hi?”

“Hi!” He greets again, and then he’s pulling that same water bottle from his back. It’s crinkling and half-empty and he’s extending it to you. “Want some?”

It’s in the way his eyebrows wiggle, the mischeivous glint in his eyes- you can see his intentions plastered across his face. The water bottle’s just a front for an indirect kiss. Quite literally the oldest trick in the book.

You want to roll your eyes, but then you look at him again. At his bright eyes and long lashes and shaggy hair falling softly over his forehead. He’s the sort of pretty that gives a lot of second chances- you were no exception to that rule.

“No thanks.” You laugh, easily dazzled by his sunshine smile. You raise a palm to push the bottle away. “Keep it to yourself, yeah?”

“Aww, but you’re too cute not to share with!”

The line rolls off his tongue smooth and easy, and you’re sure now- Kaminari’s a flirt. A shameless, brazen one dripping honey between his words as he fluffs his hair. It’s all a little too natural, a little too practiced. It takes only seconds, and you know definitively that you’re far from the first girl he’s offered his water to.

He’s still cute though, if only in a fleeting way, so you decide to humor him. It’s not like you’ve got anything more pressing to attend to.

“Mhm. And just how often do you use that line, huh?” You ask, rolling your eyes playfully.

“I-“ He starts, but then he’s slouching into the seat laughing. “Yeah, maybe not my best work. Meant it though.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“No, really! I did!”

You look at him again.

Kaminari’s straightened himself, eyes earnest and smile kind as he gazes back. He’s fiddling with the strings on his sweatshirt, idly twirling them between his fingers. It’s a human gesture. Unrehearsed and unpracticed and seemingly only for your eyes. You begin to wonder if that’s his real tactic- coming on strong just to melt into warm, sun-soaked softness.

“Alright. I believe you. Maybe.” You say. “But you’re on thin ice, Kaminari.”

“I’ll take it!” He fist-bumps the air. “See normally, I’d be totally crashing and burning by now!”

“So you are admitting I’m not the first girl you’ve tried that on?”

“What I- Okay. Yes? Maybe?” He laughs nervously, hand once again twirling his sweatshirt strings. “In my defense, I’m not the smartest guy, alright?”

“Nor the quietest either.”

“What?”

He’s got his head turned, cocked to the side as he blinks slowly at you. You think he looks like a confused puppy.

“You practically screamed at me when you said hi.” You tell him easily, letting an amused smile crawl across your lips. “Kinda thought I was being yelled at for a second.”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry! Really! I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s okay. Can I give you just a little advice, though?”

“Sure?”

“Don’t scream at the next girl and then immeadiately offer her something to drink. That’s generally pretty suspicious.”

You watch the light leave Kaminari’s eyes and then he folds in his seat. He snaps at the waist, dropping his face into his palms and letting out a theatric groan.

“God, I messed this up.” He whines, peeking at you through his fingers. “Messed up real bad, didn’t I?”

“A little,” You laugh. “But it’s alright.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re good.”

He smiles then, so relieved and happy and just downright giddy that it nearly blinds you. It’s the kind of smile that makes you think he swallowed the sun; like rays of light were bursting through the tiny gaps in his teeth.

“So, what’s your name then?” He asks.

“L/n Y/n.”

“Y/n. Hmm, I like it.” He sighs happily. “Pretty.”

“That’s my first name.”

“I know.” He grins, all pearly whites and crows feet. You think he’s got a dangerous smile- one that lets him get away with anything. “Figured we’re close enough for that, right?”

“I’ve known you for two minutes.”

“Hey, 2 minutes, 2 hours, 2 years- who’s counting?”

“Me.”

“Okay, well good then.” He snickers. “Because I’m like, really bad at math- Wait. Shit. Should I have told you that?”

“Probably not.”

“Man, I am bad at this.” He whines. His knees knock into yours when he throws himself back into his seat. “It’s not my fault, alright? Usually I never get this this far with girls like you.”

“Girls like me?”

“Mhm. Cute ones.”

“Oh my god.” You roll your eyes, only so forgiving. “Really laying it on thick, huh?”

“For sure. My stop’s next so I gotta make sure you actually like me at some point in the next few minutes.”

Something evil slithers into your mind, and you’re smirking when you turn toward him. There’s just an inkling, a tiny little theory in your head, and you want to test it.

“Who said I didn’t already like you?”

Kaminari jumps, his cheeks reddening by the second. There’s nothing cool or composed about him and your theory is confirmed.

Kaminari is a dork. A massive, massive, dork desperately pretending to be a cool guy.

“I- what? You like me?” He asks excitedly, voice rising higher. “Seriously? Like, actually?”

“Sure.” You giggle. “You seem pretty harmless, all things considered.”

“That’s- is that a compliment?” He asks playfully, squinting his eyes at you. “Because harmless wasn’t exactly what I was going for.”

“Oh, so you were trying to creep me out?”

“No!” He shakes his head, cheeks slightly flushing as he laughs.

You giggle too, unable to help yourself. Kaminari really is cute, a lot more so when he’s not recycling tired lines.

“You’re mean.” He smiles something small and pleased. “I like it.”

Suddenly the train car jolts, brakes squeaking and squealing as it skids to a stop. You rock forward with the force, and Kaminari knocks his shoulders into yours. When you look at his face, he’s got that mischevious glint back in his eyes, as he bites down on his lip. A second passes and then he touches his shoulders into yours again.

“Really sorry.” He smirks. “Bumpy ride, you know?”

You roll your eyes again, but you are actually feeling a bit charmed. He’s got a sneaky way of buttering people up, you realize- of somehow weaponizing his own embarrassment.

“But I actually do have to go.” He stands, and then he’s pressing his hands together and winking. “I’ll see you here same time tomorrow, right?”

“I don’t know, are you gonna yell at me again?”

“Absolutely! Gottta yell at all the pretty girls, you know?”

“Stop.” You laugh, blushing. You nod towards the doors. “I’ll be here, but go. Door’s gonna close, you dork.”

Kaminari nods and then he’s shoving his headphones back in, still crinkling that water between his fingers. There’s nothing quiet about him as he leaves and you come to think that maybe that’s how he really gets you- it’s not with lines or indirect kisses or grace, it’s with air that seems uncomfortably vacant when he leaves. It’s with the vaccuum he leaves behind.

You watch the doors close after him, but he’s stops on the platform, shooting you a thumbs up through the window. There’s a goofy grin plastered across his face, wide and sunny and brillant. It’s the kind of smile that leaves you wondering if Kaminari knows just how brightly he shines.

When the train kicks into motion again, you’re smiling too, rubbing your eyes as you blink away the sun spots he left behind.

//—//

jus a lil somethin for denki,, as a ~treat~,,, may or may not turn this into a tiny lil series we’ll see :))))

#bnha kaminari #mha kaminari #kaminari denki #denki kaminari #kaminari x reader #kaminari x you #kaminari x y/n #denki x reader #denki x y/n #bnha fic #mha fic

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dafuq-i-did-not-sign-up-for-this · 3 years ago

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Hear me out: shameless spoilers for Four Knights of the Apocalypse and Seven Deadly Sins ahead.

What if Sin is Derrieres reincarnation?

Given the fox theme and name and eyes, the connection to Ban and Lancelot seems most obvious, but what if Nakaba is back in troll mode?

When Derriere died, Mael let her and Oslo have a reincarnation so they can get revenge on him if they wish to. They would keep their memories as well. Now there's a few things that don't exactly add up about that theory, but here's what I could think of so far:

Derriere has the same eyes as Ban. We haven't seen Sins eye color yet. For all we know it could be hers.

We have seen Sins furr tho, and it's the same pink as Derrieres eyes in the anime. (tho in the English translation Sin is described as a red fox, but pink and red, y'know)

Sin's attitude and use of language screams Derriere to me, if you read the manga with that comparison in the back of your mind. Sin's just trying to get these kids to Liones alive and god does he need a nap. Sounds about right for a 3000 year old elite soldier turned babysitter. I'm getting slight Witcher vibes.

In recent chapters Tristan asked Sin for his age. Sin said 3000, and at the kids shocked reaction claims to be kidding. Clearly not kidding from a story telling point of view.

Now here's what I can't wrap my head around in the Sin situation yet:

Let's be honest, Derriere would rather rot in hell than take a single order from Meliodas ever again, let alone serve him sitting on a throne.

I do see her doing Elizabeth favors tho, or generally hanging out with her.

The first thing we see of Sin, before we see what or who we're looking at, is the crystal around his neck. It has to be shit important. In illustrations we've seen it's kind of a light blue. Interesting.

Sin uses spell beads. Merlin's spell beads. Now we could assume they're just common by now, seeing as in NNT the Holy Knights used them during the ten year gap were Merlin was not with them, but:

It's been (even if in a side comment by Nasiens) specifically pointed out how Sin knows a lot about Arthur and his Chaos Knights. We could obviously shove that onto him being somewhat the mentor character and a tool for delivering exposition and shit, but he's been telling the kids a lot about Arthur for a while now, and it's the first time it's been pointed out. Stuff like that just rings alarm bells in my writer brain.

Then there's the most interesting scene we got of Sin so far, one that heavily implies the Sin is Lancelot theory: the one during the night before they pass the mountains. The kids ask why the mountains are so dangerous, Sin replies cause they make you see things. He examples specifically: your future self or even future lover. Then he gets called around by a ghost looking like a bride who knows his name. Implying that first of all Sin is not his real name. For obvious reasons I'm gonna assume that bride is Guinevere, AKA Arthurs beloved, the person whom Lancelot, should Nakaba stick to the bare bone of the Arthurian legends, will fall in love with. I really like that scene. I really like Sin.

Sin could be a completely new character that we still sort of know already for all we know. He could be Derriere (I really like the idea of a former Commandment, Demon Clan elite soldier babysitting a bunch of snutnosed somewhat Holy Knight apprentices). I don't see why Derriere would change her name tho if she kept her memories as Mael said she would.

Sin could also be a double agent for or against Camelot, a creature Arthur created or befriended and drove away again for obvious reasons, a straight up child/creature of Chaos, or one of Merlin's experiments. I do believe he has some connection to Chaos/Arthur/Camelot.

At first I thought he's Bans eyes and ears, in a literal way, but the personality doesn't fit. I do believe Sin to be their own person. Possibly Lancelot. Possibly someone else. Possibly the Knight of the Apocalypse with no fixed appearance (who is possibly Lancelot lol).

I'm excited to see how this plays out. We're still a loooooong way from any reveal that big I'd dare say, but once we get it oh boi am I gonna be insufferable about it.

#four knights of the apocalypse #nanatsu no taizai #seven deadly sins #nnt theories #4kota spoilers #nnt spoilers #4kota theory #4kota sin #arthur 4kota #nnt derriere

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vikingnerd793 · 3 years ago

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Multiple stable streams now which is great news!

Meant to share my learnings from a custom gaming PC and Valhalla and all the troubleshooting.

1. RGB is great in theory. RGB is NOT GREAT if you have a custom PC of mix and match components for best performance, which means all those components have their own RGB software that all will 100% compete with each other and lead to PC problems, and dysfunctional lights. Add RGB peripherals to that with their own software and you have a whole ass mess. RGB software needs a lot of work as a whole. Stick to one brand for your components or keep your RGB to a minimum, or be ok with your rig looking a little mix and match with the colors.

2. 30 series GPUs are a furnace. An absolute furnace. A 3080 ti will be among the hotter of the 30 series, too. Get a lot of fans, crank the RPM when you know your PC will be under load, and keep your room cool on top of that. Otherwise you will absolutely have thermal throttling and other issues EVEN WITH your GPU when trying to do the crazy stuff, like game in 4K while streaming internet is 1080P 60 FPS.

3. Speaking of overheating and shitty software- I have the Aorus Gigabyte 3080 ti that uses RGB Fusion software and it is the worst software next to the G. Skill memory software. It stopped recognizing my GPU in the software to fix the LCD screen on the card. And because of that, it was misreading my GPU temp!! Which I was using to gauge heat. It turns out much of my issue with game crashes to desktop was overheating…..DESPITE 13 fans and a Aorus Water Cooler 240. Use an app like MSI Afterburner and track your component stress. Do NOT rely on an LCD screen unless you’re very confident in your component and your software giving an accurate reading.

4. The reality is, my rig is a monster. It STILL could not run Valhalla on ultra graphics and stream in 1080P 60 FPS once it got hotter and my room was no longer cool. You need a cool rig to keep your PC stable and that is a shit ton of stress on your PC. Dial down Valhalla’s graphics slightly (turn off motion blur, dial down volumetric clouds and shadows. Three minor things that make a huge difference).

5. Valhalla is an extremely resource heavy game. You need to give it a very wide berth. Minimize your tasks, turn off in game overlays, Turn off full screen optimization and game borderless if you’re streaming (It doesn’t do well when you constantly minimize it in full screen to switch scenes and such on your stream), and lock your FPS if you notice huge spikes. I lock mine at 90 now and it stays consistently at 80 FPS unless my rig starts heating up. It’s a great game! But very hard to stream with great quality AND play Valhalla with great quality with stability unless you minimize every possible conflict or issue.

6. IDGAF if you have DDR5 memory. DO NOT assume you can just overclock it to XMP with no issues. Don’t let your benchmark software fool you. There are real issues with stability of DDR5, especially with 12th gen intel.

7. Do not overclock and assume any stability in general. It’s always a risk. I only had my memory overclocked and it wasn’t working. People tend to obsess with over locking and benchmarks. For the love of god, just enjoy PC stability. I’ll never take that for granted again!

8. Be aware of the strain your monitor and the native refresh rate and resolution has. I bought an ultra wide 4K screen, 175 mhz. Looks GORGEOUS. But it takes a pretty damn powerful PC to be able to output that kind of quality.

That’s all I’ve got, for now. Custom PCs are “get what you pay for” and I paid for a top end rig. But the other reality, is top end PCs come with a lot of work as those powerful components you bought can have serious issues if you’re not extremely mindful of all that can go wrong. I thought my PC was bricked. It turns out, not even my PC could handle everything I was doing with the issues I had to address. And Valhalla is NOT easy to play and stream! I love it, so much, but it isn’t.

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multi-lefaiye · 3 years ago

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YEAH YEAH!! Ok so sorta my theory goes that humans in their universe isn't the one giving ballyhoos out, and instead it's our universe's love for them (and our current involvement with the comic) that is feeding them. You're completely right about Bugs too!! She ALWAYS looks at Us when talking to, as i thinkkk it was swiper who said it? But she hears who is giving her Ballyhoo, and she always talks to us or faces us when she does it. It lines up with Scooby's comment about how it's getting worse! Her small bursts of talking to us would be us experiencing her through flashbacks, and it would be more consistent as the time to current events gets closer and closer. I would continue with how Bugs gives us a bit more evidence ("keep all eyes on me" and "look away kids" meaning shes AWARE shes being watched), but i have MORE evidence!!

Someone mentioned in a post (you'll probably find it in the scoob and shag tag theres like 5 of us here LMAO) how all the colors of the Beings are the same as a TV screen's colors, and how theyre all sorta tech-based (all the characters having files, their tech screens, etc). What if the beings ARE apart of a TV though? The colors that make up the pixels on our screen, to show us the entertainment we desire. The comic. The beings obviously have control over ballyhoos, and are REALLY getting involved now. Like you said, its supposed to be a rare occurrence, but now we have Mickey, Bugs, Scooby, Deedee, and possibly more. Why? Because its entertaining to us! Its drama! Theres probably other reasons, but it fits, doesnt it? Are all the characters in the comic real? The theme thus far has been humanity, and the meaning of it. It'd fit in quite nicely, although idk how far into the idea the comic would go. I do really think, at least, our involvement with the comic is going to affect Shaggy in some way once he gets ahold of Jump Cut. The comic has also interacted directly with the readers, when Bugs asks the viewer who should he kill first. Apparently the decision WAS up to the viewers who voted on polls or in comments! I do think that'll make a return too. ANYWAYS IM RAMBLING I HAVE MANY IDEAS FLOATING IN MY HEAD,,,

ANON I AM TELEPATHICALLY GIVING YOU THE BIGGEST HIGH FIVE RIGHT NOW. THIS IS ALL SO FUCKING COOL HOLY SHIT..... BESTIE YOUR MIND

I'm not a super analytical person and I'm really not that good at Theorizing, but your asks have got my brain fucking SPINNING in circles in a VERY good way.... basically I need to check the Scoob and Shag tag more often huh-

I really think this idea works with the meta nature of this series--especially in regards to the characters' identities. One thing I like to joke about is that like... just who the characters are makes summarizing this webcomic to anyone the most RIDICULOUS experience. And while these characters in-universe are more than just fictional characters, the comic also doesn't simply let go of that identity. Also, with the amount of references to film/television in general, I REALLY like the idea that the beings' colors are specifically meant to tie into that. It works much better than just arbitrarily assigning colors.

Side-note, this also has me wondering a bit if there's specific symbolism around which colors seem to be assigned to each character. It could definitely be an arbitrary thing, but the fact that it seems there are two characters aligned with Magenta is really interesting to me. As I said before, it feels a little weird to have two, so if that IS the direction Dingo is going, then there's gotta be some reason behind it, even if it may ultimately be a simple one.

The colors don't necessarily seem to be unique to each character, so what connects each character to the entity they align with? I honestly might end up sitting down sometime soon to try and analyze similarities with Deedee and Bugs that make them both stand out to Magenta, but that might be a bit of a moot point because there's still a lot we don't know. Still, might be a fun exercise... actually fuck it okay I'm gonna brainstorm a little.

The main thing that stands out in my mind is Magenta's dialogue during the scene where Deedee gets their blessing. As I said previously, the dialogue implies that getting blessings like this is meant to be rare (specifically mentioning that Magenta and the others made some sort of promise not to interfere with the conflict going on in the story, and Magenta is making an exception for this situation), but it's got me thinking a bit.

Deedee gets Magenta's blessing because of her desperation to protect her brother and her devastation that he sacrificed himself for her. Magenta specifically says that Deedee and Dexter's bond reminds them of their relationship with their own siblings, and they want to stop the senseless bloodshed that resulted in Dexter's sacrifice to save his sister.

It's a bit of a tenuous comparison, I will admit, but I think it could easily be argued that this parallels Bugs's alignment with the Martians--I don't remember exactly which update this first comes up in so I could be wrong, but Bugs wants to help the Martians against the Toones, and especially against Mickey. Sure, she isn't a Martian herself, but she has a connection to them. Plus, though she is a rather capable character in combat, she doesn't really seem to revel in senseless violence. She's far from a pacifist, but she's not doing anything without a purpose. Especially in part two, long after she seems to have received Magenta's blessing, she states that her goal, while it isn't necessarily PEACE, is to put a stop to Mickey, which would (at least hopefully) stop the violence.

Okay yeah this got out of hand, and like I said this is very tenuous and I'm definitely not stating any of this as fact. I just really think there has to be some kind of rationale behind each character's ultimate alignment--I HIGHLY doubt it's pure coincidence that Bugs and Deedee specifically both seem to be aligned with Magenta. We don't know much about the entities so far so this is mostly speculation, but there has to be something.

Okay I gotta stop before I start looking into color theory and analyzing the full cast, this is long enough and we don't know enough about the entities in my opinion to fully speculate more about which entities are going to be aligned with which characters (assuming more and more of them are going to be making deals). (And once again I'm just gonna say that I'm forever obsessed with the imagery in the Coward King arc finale with Velm in the field of cyan flowers. Even if this predates the reveal of the entities, it

Also you're 100% right that all of this ties in really well with the theme of humanity in the comic--the characters' identities as fictional characters VS their identities as actual people is a really interesting conflict (idk if that's the right word but brain is mushy). The fourth wall breaks only add to this--while it comes off (especially when Bugs is first introduced) as a playful reference to fourth wall breaks in the original cartoons, it really seems like they serve a greater narrative purpose here. I mean, why CONTINUE calling back to them and making them a core part of who Bugs is as a character rather than simply a small joke or reference?

Also. I just had a thought. Remember when Bugs was introduced and shown to be eating a banana rather than a carrot? I know that was 100% very likely just a visual gag to separate this character from the original cartoon, but on the same line as these characters forming identities outside of the original cartoon characters they're based on.... idk that's just making me think.

I am very interested to see how all of this continues to evolve, and I'm SO fucking sorry for this mile long essay I wrote in response, but I really love your thoughts!!!! Please feel free to keep sending them my way!!!!

#talk to the bunnykitty #scoob and shag #scoob and shag anon #anonymous #sorry i took a bit to answer this but genuinely thank you for sending me your thoughts #this was a big fuckin highlight of my day honestly #i love this silly series so much and i love how intricate and interesting the lore is #and man y'know i'm not really the type to make my own theories most of the time #but you've got me thinking #i am connecting dots. i am connecting them.#and you are too i love these #long post

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suntrastar · 5 years ago

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sink or swim

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you first meet ransom when meg drags you along to a party. everything somehow spirals from there.

warnings: swearing, smut (but like very vague smut, nothing super explicit), ransom’s general assholery

word count: 9.3k

author’s note: i hate ransom drysdale! he is a shit character! if he existed irl i would whoop his ass with NO hesitation. but i still wrote this fic because ... a bitch gets thirsty okay?? okay. and ik this is very long BUT a lot of it is dialogue so it should flow pretty fast!!! likes and reblogs are always appreciated!!! ily now enjoy!!! you can also read this on ao3 :)

There’s something fun about being somewhere where no one wants you, and then something shameful.

Meg isn’t touching you, but as she drags you around her famous grandfather’s mansion in search of people to bother, it feels like she has you on an invisible leash, fastened tight over your neck. To keep you tethered to her- like a fucking dog.

The leash hurts like it is not made of plastic or metal but instead two hands squeezing tight, wringing you dry, choking you harder and harder and bruising you purple with no remorse.

Now, she’s debating political theory with her douchebag fuck of an uncle, who almost hits you once- almost hits you twice with his cane while waving it around as he quotes Fox News-

Their voices rise. You’re the only one that flinches.

Standing awkwardly on the edge, you wonder why you are the only guest at this terrible party that looks so lost. Meg gives you a covert this-is-total-bullshit glance, and a small, pained, rehearsed smile, both of which you have to return- that’s the real reason you’re here, after all- and her uncle rants on, wholly oblivious.

You look past them both, to where one man stands by himself.

He’s leaning against the far wall, and while Meg retaliates with some of her favorite words, including audacity and bigoted and problematic, you take a sudden, intense interest in the wallpaper pattern, sweeping your eyes over the span of it, looking over the man just once.

He is staring right back at you.

All it takes is his eyes- he’s just staring, but you’re absolutely embarrassed.

He looks rich, with too much product in his hair and a coat that looks like it cost more than your rent, with loafers that expose an uncomfortable amount of ankle and an expression that morphs into something wolfish as he starts towards you-

Before you can think, he’s joined your little circle- Meg prefers standing, so of course, everyone stands- and smiles when she glares at him.

He isn’t looking at you anymore.

“So,” he interrupts, and his voice is so dark, “what riveting political topic are we debating tonight?”

You should call an Uber. Why did you accept Meg’s offer of a ride?

“Ransom,” Meg says sweetly, “could you just, like, fucking not?”

This is supposed to be a Christmas party, but none of these people seem to be in the Christmas spirit. Including her uncle, with his stuffy sweater set and clunky-as-hell shoes. He sputters something about young people and their profanity, and then hastily leaves.

Without thinking, you breathe out a heavy sigh of relief.

The man smiles wider. Unfortunately, it makes him look very handsome.

”Ouch,” he says lightly, to Meg, and turns to you.

A shiver runs down your spine.

You hate him immediately.

“Who are you?” he asks.

For whatever reason, the question makes Meg scoff. She shakes her head at you- a warning. Her hair flounces with the movement.

Because she doesn’t want you to, you give him your name. And then add, because your name alone seems like a title too stripped down, “I’m Meg’s friend.”

It’s hard to convince yourself to be polite, when you don’t like how he’s been looking at you- with his eyes narrowed and brown furrowed and lips parted. He gives an insufferable nod.

“Right,” he says. “The one she’s been showing off all evening.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Ransom-” Meg starts, and suddenly you are so angry, at this man for confirming what you thought was all in your head, at Meg for suddenly swooping in to save you, like she’s been waiting for it-

“I guess,” you say, and smile a little, and regret everything.

“That’s pathetic,” he says, and looks at you kindly.

Apparently, Meg is the only one allowed to be self-righteous in her annoyance, or anger, or any other mildly passionate emotion. She doesn’t return your covert this-is-total-bullshit glance.

So you fend for yourself.

“Well, so is this fucking party, so-”

He interrupts you with a laugh.

It’s loud and arrogant and mirthless, and you’ll climb out of a window, find a way to walk through the walls, if it means that you’ll escape it.

“I’m just joking,” he says, pursing his lips, and the hands on your neck, ever-present, nearly crush the breath out of you. “Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”

“So funny I forgot to laugh,” you say, and instead of replying, he just looks at you.

He looks at you slowly, like he has nothing better to do, like he has time to waste. You can smell him- some cologne that’s spicy, and expensive, and Meg is staring at you in shock, like you’ve committed a crime.

But she’s quiet.

“I’m Ransom,” he says, and raises his hands to make little air quotes, which is weirdly adorable in a way that you hate, “Meg’s ‘asshole cousin’”

“Weird name,” you say.

You’ve changed your mind- you’re not even going to attempt to be nice.

For a second, he looks furious.

It’s attractive.

“Yeah,” he says. “Anyways, I’m about to ditch. Do you want a ride?”

How does he know you came here with Meg?

He was staring at you from the wall-

From his butterscotch-colored coat with its awful, ostensible lapels, he pulls out his car keys. The BMW logo flashes silver and blue, clashing against the gold of his pinky ring, clinking against the metal as he twirls the key ring around his finger-

For a second, you think that he’s about to toss the keys across the room and command you to fetch.

“Um,” you say, uncertainly, irritated with your own restraint, “Thanks, but Meg will-”

“Meg will what?”

He’s mocking you, and there is no one to come to your rescue.

Hesitantly, like she has to think twice about it, Meg opens her mouth to say something. What is her problem? What is your problem? Why are you treating her like she is your saving grace?

You talk before she gets the chance. “Okay, yeah. A ride would be great.”

***

Ransom offers because he likes your face.

You’re better-looking than the girls that Meg usually brings along to these parties, or maybe his standards have fallen- he isn't sure. Does it really matter? Even though he’s been looking at you all night, even though he’s positively thrilled to have you in his car, he’s not going to try anything.

There’s something desperate in your eyes that compels him against it.

You inhale sharply when he turns left.

“You forgot your turn signal,” you say, and he kind of likes how you chastise him, not angrily or even upset, but just exasperated-

How is someone like you friends with someone like Meg?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly, and the tired glare you give him is enough to make his entire week.

Now that he thinks about it, his mother is always on his case about things like this- compassion and civility and basic human decency, and how he lacks it all, but what about now? He’s taking a miserable girl to her home, simply from the goodness of his own heart, with no strings attached.

This is such a good deed- this is like charity.

His mother is also always telling him that he’s severely, almost clinically narcissistic.

He definitely is, but again, does it matter?

“So, what do you think about my family?” he asks, making a big, dramatic show of using his turn signal before swerving right, feeling too pleased when you smile.

He steals a glance at your knees and somehow feels guilty.

He’ll have to do something about that.

“They’re pretty... lively,” you say hesitantly, and he’s suddenly hating the dark, this stupid fucking night- he’d like to see you better.

“Lively,” he repeats, and barks out a laugh. “They’re fucking crazy.”

You laugh, too, a real one- off-kilter, and too loud- none of that artificial shit he heard at the party. Nothing meant to please.

“I was definitely thinking that,” you say. He catches you looking at his hands, but boldly, you don’t look away. “I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Now you’re worried about being rude?”

“I’m in a car with a strange guy I’ve never met before, so yeah.”

You’re smiling but look uncomfortable, and then afraid.

All bark and no bite- you’ve been talking all this talk, when really, he realizes, you’re so washed-out, so faint, like the bare sliver of moon out in the sky, the same weak moon he’s been cursing out. The same stars, too- you are just as scattered.

You look pretty.

“Are you scared?”

He keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks you’ll snap at him if he doesn’t. Not like anyone drives out here anyway- not like he can’t pay off a ticket or two or five-

“Should I be?”

There is something so delicious about this moment, with you starting to worry- he can’t look at the road anymore, not when he can watch your throat bob as you swallow instead, and it still feels so violating, but so good.

“Nope,” he says, and you startle when you hear him say it, and he has to bite his cheek to keep himself from smiling. “No need.”

“Great,” you say, and go quiet.

When he pulls up to your apartment complex, not too far from where he lives, he holds his mouth in check. He could say so many things right now, but for you, he restrains himself.

You have your bag in hand, seatbelt off. From the streetlight, the planes of your face look waxy yellow.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

Your hand is on the door handle, nails glittering. He can’t make out the color of the polish.

While looking at it, a sudden urge overcomes him.

And he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he wants to, so bad. It’s borderline frantic, the desire- it’s necessary and all-important and crucial, for him and his basic peace of mind, and maybe for you, too-

Who is he to deny himself?

“Wait,” he says, even though the door is open and you have half of yourself out the door.

The cold is slowly seeping in, bone-chilling.

You wait.

“Let me just,” he says, and can’t bring himself to say anything else.

He reaches out for your waxen face with one hand and presses it firmly against your cheek.

Under his touch, you shiver. He fans out his fingers to hold you better.

Your eyes are wide. He thinks you look a bit horrified- horrified with yourself for not resisting, maybe.

But he closes his eyes as he leans in, so it doesn’t matter.

He turns your head for you, a bit forcefully. You don’t protest.

He kisses your cheek.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, you’re staring at him with your mouth in a perfect circle.

“Uh,” you say, and suddenly look away and out into the night, and it makes him angry, even though it should be flattering, “Merry Christmas.”

***

You don’t think about Ransom as much as he probably would have wanted- life picks up too fast.

In the last days of the year, Meg calls you and texts you and even goes so far as to send a few emails, but finally, you seem to have found the self-respect to not respond- consider that ridiculously wealthy bridge burned.

In January, your brother leaves to study for a semester abroad. All the walls in your small apartment are suddenly looming, standing high over you, standing empty. You try to shove off the loneliness by studying harder, by staying distracted.

In February, you have the same dream nearly every night- you’re sitting outside on a porch in the sun and for some reason there’s a bird on your head, and in your lap there’s a clock whose hands don’t work, and you’re wearing a heavy necklace made of gold links that jingle, and you’re so happy.

Does the bird count as company?

In early March, while you’re watering your plants, your phone rings with an unknown number.

You shouldn’t pick up unknown numbers.

You pick up.

“Hello?”

“Remember me?”

His voice nearly gives you whiplash.

It’s dark and harsh, faceless and yet as arrogant as ever.

“Hi, Ransom,” you say, and think of the night in the car for the first time since, think of how he gripped your face so hard that his ring left an imprint. “How the hell do you have my number?”

“Meg gave it to me,” he says smugly. “She says hi.”

You wonder what Meg thinks you did to her. It’s obviously something bad, something terrible, if she so willingly gave your number to this pretty-faced, pretty-voiced, ugly-coat-wearing asshole-

“Awesome,” you say plainly. You don’t want to talk about her. “Do you, like, need something, or-”

“I want to take you out,” he says.

You laugh and your grip on your pitcher slips, sloshing water over the edge.

“You’re joking.”

He is, right?

He takes an impatient breath that, for some reason, sounds inappropriate. “I’m serious.”

“Ransom,” you say, slowly, “I don’t even know you.”

“Then get to know me,” he says testily, and you can perfectly picture him, sitting in some colossal brownstone his parents bought him, while a butler daintily dabs the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Tonight.”

You’ve overwatered your marigolds.

Has his voice really swept you this far away?

“No,” you say, and shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No fucking way.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “You have anything better to do?”

You don’t, but you take a deep breath and prepare yourself to lie-

“I’ll treat you good,” he suddenly says, and his voice is low and sticky-sweet, dripping with honey. “I promise.”

He says it in a way that makes your knees weak.

You physically have to sit down- he knows how to get what he wants.

Could you actually do this?

Could you go out on a date with a crude, pretentious, trust-fund piece of trash, who probably thinks you’re easy, who’s only calling you because he’s bored, who has already subtly insulted you twice in this conversation alone-

-who got your number from his cousin that you both decidedly dislike, who kissed your cheek like you were pretty in the dark of the night, in his cold car?

“Fine,” you say. “Take me out.”

***

He doesn’t tell you that you look nice- he just stares.

There is something predatory in his eyes.

You’re out on a Wednesday night with a bad man, wasting your time, trying to get something out of nothing, smiling a fake smile when he orders you a drink you don’t like, already irritated with him, and trying too hard to stop looking at his face.

How are you actually interested?

You tell him that you’re in medical school.

“Really,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. “You don’t strike me as that kind of girl.”

Underneath the table, you clench your hands for some sense of control, but still feel like you’re spinning. “What kind of girl?”

“Smart,” he says, and picks up his drink. The glass sweats beads of condensation, wetting the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t know you were smart.”

You shouldn’t dignify his flimsy insult with a response- he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, trying to make you roll your eyes or scowl or shiver. He wants you unsettled.

But the moral high ground is, unfortunately, too high.

“And I didn’t know that you’re such a terrible date.”

His teeth gleam white when he smiles. He knows.

He knows that he can say whatever the hell he wants, because he has money, and those eyes, and that insufferably nice rich-boy hair, and that sweater with its charmingly frayed hems, and that voice- he has everything, and then some, and he’s about to have you, too, if he keeps on looking at you like he already does.

“You’re so sweet,” he says.

“Fuck off.”

He winks and you could cry, you’re so fucking bothered-

You’re not usually this uptight, but he has you so drastically wound up that every little thing he does, even how he’s sitting- body sprawled, manspreading- is fire licking up on your skin, scorching-hot and ruining you with no remorse, like you have done something to deserve it.

When his eyes trail down, from your eyes to your mouth to your neck to below, you are so acutely aware of wanting him that you feel guilty. Like it’s a crime.

***

You don’t seem like the type of girl to fuck on the first date.

So, of course, Ransom tries to fuck on the first date.

As you stand outside the restaurant, in your dress and strappy sandals, you look so tense that he wants to laugh.

He can’t help it, because this whole thing you have going on- this weariness you approach everything with, this attitude- is so funny. Maybe, in any other situation, it would be irritating, but he’s been so bored lately that it’s stirring.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he asks, quietly, taking a step closer to you so that at this very moment, under the waning sun, you should be able to just lean up and kiss him-

You blink slowly and keep your silence.

This is fucking tedious.

This should be so easy- all he has to do is settle his hands somewhere soft and let time pass, and then before he knows it you’re there and under and begging. But he can’t bring himself to touch you just yet, not when his head is calling you pathetic, and his heart calls you-

His heart just calls you.

You start to answer, and then hesitate. All five stages of grief flicker over your face at once- denial to acceptance in the same breath.

“Sure,” you say, unevenly, desperately-

When you step inside his house, your eyes go wide. As you take it in- the decor, the windows, the excess, he locks the door behind him and takes you in.

You step further inside, and he thinks of where it would be best, but then your eyes crease as you smile- it’s impossible to wait when your smile looks like that- and so he backs you right into the closest wall, cups your face with both of his hands and kisses you.

He kisses you and you curl your hands over his shoulders and immediately kiss back, and he is taken aback and delighted.

And he knew- the entire time at dinner when you were making eyes at him like you couldn’t believe that you were actually sitting there, present in that moment- he knew that secretly, you’re a freak. He knew it- he knows it.

He hopes it.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispers, right into your mouth, when your heart has been beating right into his for a while, “Let me fuck you right here.”

You bite his lip.

He takes a hand away from your face and reaches under your dress fast, rucking it all the way up your thighs, trailing up to touch you-

“Fuck,” you gasp, and arch your back up against the wall, and he grips you a little tighter-

He presses a finger into you- pushing aside your underwear and, good grief, you’re already wet- harshly, and pulls away from your mouth, so he can watch your face.

The lines creasing your forehead look like poetry.

He thinks he likes you. It’s a shame he had to meet you through Meg- it would be nice if he had met you somewhere else, on his own.

That way, he’d be able to waltz in one day, to another insipid family gathering, with you tucked under his arm. You, with your promise of a medical degree and your strappy sandals, and your iron grip on his shoulders and your drawn out breath of a moan-

The looks on their faces would be priceless.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, and he’s a little irritated at how cracked his voice sounds, but it’s the right thing to say- you swear again and he picks up his pace, pressing hard on your clit. “If you’ll be good to me.”

“I’ll-” you say, and you’re actually stuttering, and breaking out into a lovely sweat, still forced back into the wall with his hand and body. He leans closer, so he can’t tell where you and him and the wall start and end. “I’ll be- fuck, Ransom-”

You still have your arms wrapped around him, like an embrace. He keeps one hand between your thighs, your dress pooling over his arm like water, and uses his other to work at his belt buckle.

This is also funny- you stay exactly how you are, even though at that moment, there is nothing holding you back.

***

The world is begging for you to consider your actions.

But you don’t. You know that when he offers, you’ll meet him again.

It should be too late. You’re exhausted, from a day full of lectures and an evening spent in a lab, working as a professor’s research assistant, and then studying for a few hours in the library- all you really want to do is sleep.

But then he calls.

The night is suddenly brimming with possibility, and you’ve never been more awake.

On a whim, Ransom suggests ice cream, and because you can’t bring yourself to deny him, you end up at a place that you would never go for- where everything is handmade and served in thick paper cups with multicolored plastic spoons, but he pays, because of his stupid ego or fragile masculinity or whatever the hell, so you don’t care.

He stands next to you as you order, and his shoulder keeps on brushing into yours. You can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. In the glass shield that the tubs of ice cream sit behind, you’re both reflected, your body warped and tall, his body warped and taller. In the glass, his eyes meet yours.

The tension is strong- it’s only a matter of time.

Your heart flutters.

When you sit, he bumps his knees against yours- you’re sure it’s on purpose, now, but you don’t say anything. What even is there to say?

That you like it?

When he digs into his ice cream, the plastic spoon- a green one- snaps in his hand.

And because you’re so caught up in your own ridiculous thoughts, before he can go back up to get another, you pull your own from your mouth- a pink one- and offer it to him.

The proposition makes him smile.

Why does he smile like that? Each movement, each twitch of muscle is so perfectly detached and coordinated- it’s violent.

But he still takes the spoon from you gently, with a soft hand.

He’s too pretty to be mean, you think, but against any type of judgement- not just the better kind- you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You let yourself laugh and he scowls.

“This place sucks,” he says, like he isn’t the one who chose it.

He adjusts the womens’ scarf he’s always wearing, carefully arranging it over himself so it looks like it was carelessly thrown on. The blue in the paisley print brings out his eyes- it makes him look so stupidly hot that you start to get angry.

You just shrug. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

He puts your spoon in his mouth and looks at you.

Again, the night ends at his place- this time on an actual bed, because you ask for it, and you think he likes how you look when you ask for things in the current state state you’re in-

He fucks you in the dark, and swears into your ear, and is not kind or soft in any way, but after he finishes, he takes the time to kiss the spot in between your breasts, and you think that maybe he isn’t entirely horrible. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, and his mouth is always hot.

You leave without a word.

***

He takes you out this time, in a real, urgent show of wealth- he picks you up in his fancy car, takes you to a fancy restaurant where the numbers next to the fancy menu items are all appalling, where he spends the whole time making these awful, unfunny innuendos that still manage to rile you up, because they’re coming from his mouth-

On the way back, while waiting at a stoplight, you take a deep breath and brace yourself before looking at him.

He really is gorgeous- all lazy grace and harsh angles. The light colors his face red, red in his eyes and in the plane of his cheekbone and in the slope of his mouth- like a beautiful warning sign. His hands are carelessly draped over the steering wheel and, despite the warning, you reach out and trace a finger over his knuckles.

His whole body jerks.

You quickly draw your hand back.

“What?” he asks sharply. He’s staring at you like you’re crazy.

You don’t know why this is suddenly so fucking embarrassing, all you did was touch him- but you suddenly feel terrible, and-

“Nothing,” you say, with the same tone, and whip your head away from him to the window, where you smolder in the dark and furiously stare at nothing.

The light turns green. He takes his foot off the break and all but slams it on the gas pedal, driving as atrociously as ever, looking over at you for a split second when you don’t protest. The blood rushing in your ears is too loud for you to think- you can’t form any words.

Once it subsides, marginally, you add, “Sorry.”

His jaw tenses.

You look back over at him, at his ring, and imagine it pressing into your neck.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” he suddenly asks- suddenly demands, with a blazing authority that makes your stomach do flips.

You don’t know what answer he wants. “Um, one time I snuck out of-“

“Let’s do something crazier.”

On an abandoned road, he pulls over, and then you’re under him in the backseat- doing something crazier.

You might have some type of psychic tendencies, because his ring presses heavy into your neck as he pushes himself inside you, starting at a bruising pace, and then he says your name in the dark, and he looks so beautifully flushed, startling when you grab his hair, laughing when your hand accidentally skims his thigh, smiling when you come-

You wish you had the resolve to put an end to this.

You wish you could stay when it’s over.

***

You don’t like his house.

It’s not the brownstone you imagined, but rather a huge, minimalistic box, with too many windows and spotless paint and modern wood fixtures. Ransom has all of these customary rich-person things, including stately furniture and eclectic art pieces and tall shelves stuffed with books, but owning any actual personality has escaped him.

Standing in his house feels like standing in an empty room- it’s all so apathetic.

Still, you show up when he calls.

You haven’t done anything this bad before.

But there’s a first time for everything, right? First time for enjoying bruises and biting and an unwavering grip on your neck or hips or waist or thighs, first time leaving something so intense so awkwardly.

Each time is worse than the last, with the awkwardness spiraling, accruing beyond reason, and each time you struggle with what to say- even now, you just do your best to stay quiet as you start to get up, reaching for your clothes-

Ransom drapes a heavy arm over you before you have the chance.

“You can stay,” he says flippantly, and then shifts to pull you close to him, so that you are suddenly lying bare-backed against his chest, so that his sweat-slick body and heartbeat imprints itself on your skin.

Is he asking?

You crane your head over your shoulder to get a look at him.

He returns your stare like he’s been waiting for it.

His face is still flushed pink and a lock of hair hangs low over his forehead, and if you were any braver, you would comb a hand through it, gently, with no real intentions. He’s breathtaking. Even the new, foreign purple under his eyes is a sight- pretty like something you would want to kiss.

“You want me to stay?”

He rolls his eyes and tilts his head back. You would lick the sweat from the divots of his neck, if he asked you to.

“Or leave, if you want. I could care less.”

He cares

You know it because his grip is unwavering, because the terseness in his eyes is enough to make you look away.

Eventually, you settle a hand over his arm and try your best not to tremble. Ransom mumbles something under your breath- you can’t make any of it out, but you don’t ask him to repeat it, for the fear that it’ll upset this fragile bedroom balance you’ve so painstakingly built yourself into-

He wants you to stay.

“Are you okay?” you ask, because you don’t think he is.

He inhales. You feel his chest against you; it’s shaky. You wonder, for a second, about who he might actually be, underneath the arrogance and egotism and constant need to be an asshole- is he someone you could like without feeling bad about it?

“Yeah,” he says, and throws his other arm over you, so that he is holding you. “Why?”

There isn’t a genuine bone in this man’s body, but he genuinely sounds confused.

It’s possible that you’re the one who isn’t okay.

“Because,” you say, and take a great leap of faith- holding your bare heart in your hands, you turn to face him.

You’re fully exposed and subjected to his gaze- it’s nearly eviscerating. His eyes dip down to your chest and something like insecurity flares in your chest. It’s awful and terrible and you urgently want to kiss him on the lips.

He always kisses you first. You don’t know if you have it in you to kiss him yet.

You wouldn’t ever try, in case you don’t.

“You look kind of tired,” you say, and his eyes bore into you with a sinking weight, threatening to drown. One of his hands finds a blooming bruise on your skin and lightly presses. He doesn’t react when you wince. The action is still kind- almost tender.

He sighs, and it is such a delicate breath, fanning hot over your skin.

“I’m not tired,” he says, almost childishly.

You might be overstepping. But you don’t even know where the lines have been drawn.

“Okay,” you say, and because you would not dare kiss his lips, you lean close and kiss his jaw instead.

He startles and then gives you a crooked, lazy smile. He is everything good, you think- for this one moment. Pretty and soft-handed and made of glass and honey and all other lovely things.

You tuck your head in the crook of his neck and wrap an arm over his, tight, so he knows you are there, and hope for the best.

***

In your spare moments, you’re always thinking.

Ransom knows this because of how you look when you do it- your brow furrows and your eyes go glassy, and you frown with an intensity that he has never seen on anyone else.

It happens when you finish a sentence, when you have no response for him, when he is still talking but you’ve stopped listening. When you think it’s quiet.

It never happens during sex- is it pathetic to take pride in that?

As he stands in your apartment for the first time ever, you look like you’re in near-despair, like your thoughts are wreaking havoc on your mind, destructive and distressing. You wear basketball shorts and a college sweatshirt and glasses.

He didn’t know you wore glasses, and that you looked like this in them- he’s been missing out.

“Hi,” you say, and stare at him with troubled eyes.

Your apartment is so small. He almost feels claustrophobic, standing in here. When was the last time he willingly stood somewhere so small?

The lengths he’ll go to, for…

For you, he supposes.

“Hi,” he says, and wonders, also for the first time ever, what it is that you’re always thinking. “Why do you have so many plants?”

On the windowsill, with even spacing in between, sits an entire row of glass jars housing plants- all singular flower stems, some budding, some in bloom. The petals of a marigold brush against the window, orange against the grey outside. It’s cute, he absently thinks, in a struggling, shabby type of way.

“It’s just something I do for fun,” you say, sounding irritated. “Like, a hobby.”

Infringing on the living room space is a small table, cluttered with textbooks and pens and an open laptop with its screen dark.

It still baffles him that you’re smart.

“So,” you start, and cross your arms over your chest. He feels kind of offended, because he’s just realized that he really only knows a handful of things about you, and even that handful is sparse, slipping through his fingers. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He called on impulse.

He’s just- he’s in what someone could call a mood, where he hates everything and has the intense desire to ruin something, and while he was thinking of how to fix it- beyond just getting wasted- he thought of you.

And when he called, you were sounding so tired and so he even said he could just meet you here, so you wouldn’t have to drive, so you could squeeze in a few more minutes of studying before he inevitably invades your mind-

Easily, he deflects. Nearby, there’s a hallway with two doors, one of which is tightly closed shut.

“What’s in there?” he asks, and points towards it.

You relax, slightly.

He wants to gather you up in his arms, but he doesn’t know for whose sake- his or yours?

“That’s my brother’s room,” you say, and your shoulders slump, and he resists the urge to pull you upright, and the urge to gawk. Brother? “He lives with me. But he’s studying abroad this semester.”

“Where?”

“Prague.”

He nods. This is a stiff, perfect, shocking distraction. “Nice city.”

You nod distantly and head back to the table to put your things away.

“Yeah,” you say, after too long of a pause, as you start to cap pens and set them aside. You look at him as you do it, and so you miss a few times, accidentally drawing dark lines of ink all over your fingers. “I’m glad he got to go. When we were kids, he was obsessed with wanting to travel- he had this entire map in our room, and he would draw stars over every country he wanted to visit, and there were, like, a hundred of them, and he could list every single one, in the exact order he wanted to visit, and he could even list the capitals- I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

He doesn’t.

Or, he shouldn’t, but your eyes are clearer, and as you neatly stack your textbooks in an order only known to you, he is almost intrigued.

He’s longing for you- when you are right there.

He feels like a person outside of himself, when you look at him and smile tiredly.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

There’s a cheesy ‘90s horror movie you find after a few minutes of channel surfing, complete with terrible special effects and edited-out profanity. The days are longer, now, and to stop the sun from casting a glare over the screen, you close all the blinds. It adds to the atmosphere, you say lightly, fully phased out of whatever just possessed you, and his hands are so itchy- itching to do something.

He sits. Patience is a virtue, but he is not virtuous, and so when you sit next to him and bring your knees to your chest, making yourself small, he goes to-

Something in his stomach stops him.

It’s butterflies- is he actually nervous?

This is so fucking infuriating.

You’ve got him trapped in some type of pain-and-power-play, some type of unassuming purgatory, and all he can bring himself to do is lightly brush a hand against your shoulder. You smile at his touch and his heart fucking breaks.

As the second boy in the friend group gets murdered onscreen, you close your eyes and duck your head into your knees.

“Tell me when it’s over,” you say, voice muffled.

“Scaredy-cat,” he says, even though this is no time for jokes.

You crack one eye open, looking only at him, and give him the finger.

Come here, he almost demands. The butterflies protest- he holds his tongue.

The dance continues. When the sun sets, everything darkens, settling into a dim blue. You look like something out of a painting. Faintly sad, unusually serene. The skin around your eyes has smoothened- you’ve stopped thinking so hard and he can suddenly breathe easier because of it-

And then there’s a jumpscare, and he shouts, “Jesus!”

The murderer has broken down a door, and all of the remaining characters are screaming, and you burst out laughing.

He’s in the middle of a crisis, and you’re laughing.

You lean into him as you laugh, with your head turned away from the screen and your eyes open, looking at him so fondly that he suddenly feels violated, and you let your shoulder brush against his.

“Scaredy-cat” you tease, and it’s absolutely now or never-

You’re making him weak- it takes too much time and effort for him to draw an arm over you.

You don’t flinch, but he is sure that you can hear his heart beating dangerously fast, without abandon, like it's trying to break free of his ribcage. He almost gasps when you come even closer and lightly kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around him, and his head is just saying yes yes yes-

Your mouth goes over his ear, lips ghosting over skin. He waits, more scared than he’s ever been in his entire life, for what you have to say.

***

So this is Ransom’s deep, dark, ugly secret.

He likes to be cuddled.

If it were anyone else, you would laugh.

But it’s Ransom, and so you just take it in stride, as part of his extremely fucked-up psyche that is probably a result of a hundred things he’ll never tell you- childhood trauma and neglect and the consequences that come with having more money than you need or deserve.

He’s always talking, always talking shit, always talking over you and over everyone else, and you realize, one day, that he really only is treading water- he’s only focused on staying afloat, speaking whatever he wants, but never actually saying anything.

He’s responsible for his faults, of course. But still, when he smiles in low light or curls his hands over yours so viciously, you don’t know if you should leave, or if you should just stay and pity him quietly.

You’re starting to like him too much to even care.

He starts coming around more. And he actually stays, and starts leaving pieces of himself behind. He has a toothbrush next to yours and a phone charger on his side of the bed and imported, undoubtedly expensive snacks in the kitchen.

He leaves clothes, too- you wash them with yours and keep them, neatly folded, in your closet.

On a warm day in May, he meets you at a cafe.

He does most of the talking, like always. It’s been months, already, but you still find it difficult to start conversations.

You still have trouble telling him certain things without feeling like you have to defend yourself, and he still rarely deviates from being a total dick, even when you hold him or have his head in your lap, when you make him laugh or when you kiss him.

Or when you put your hands in the sleeves of his sweaters and rub your palms against his forearms, because he’s always running warm and your hands are always cold.

He always acts like it annoys him, jumps when your hands meet his skin- but you know he secretly likes it, because whenever you’re done he pulls the hems all the way over his hands and looks at you with something amazed in his eyes.

With the weather warming up, he’s ditched the sweaters and taken to wearing these awful fucking short-sleeved button-downs, all unnecessarily tight and showing way too much collarbone. He’s making you sweat.

“You’re staring,” he says, and smiles, self-satisfied.

You bring your straw to your lips and shake your head. “I’m not.”

He knows that you can’t help it- he is always so gorgeous. He’s infuriatingly pretty.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, and nudges your foot under the table, voice suddenly low, and it’s like, holy shit-

You bring your drink down and lean over the table, careful to avoid knocking anything over, and kiss him quickly.

He tastes like bitter coffee.

You’re sad, all of a sudden.

When you settle back in your seat, you clear your throat like nothing happened. You want to lean in again and button up the rest of his shirt, and kiss him again. You want to come so close that your noses touch, and then yell at him, just for being him.

He looks appalled

“What was that for?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever done this.

“No reason,” you say. “I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like it,” he repeats, and it’s like the same reaction from the night at the stoplight, and you realize-

He’s dumbstruck.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it disappears. He sets his jaw like he’s about to get up and leave. You try not to scowl, even though you feel like you’re drifting, tide carrying you away, sand clean and smooth on where your body once was-

It gets to you.

“Can I not just kiss you?” you snap harshly, glaring at him with a ferocity you don’t think he’s ever seen.

It’s inevitable- the result of months of frustration. You can only suppress yourself for so long. Why, you want to ask, why are you not entitled to him the way he is to you and everything else? Can you not ask for him so wholly?

He flinches.

Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire, flinches.

It brings a small sliver of satisfaction with it. There’s some nerve you’ve struck, and the discontent on his face is steadily growing-

You pay it no mind, drinking the rest of your iced coffee in calm silence.

Outside, the day is vaguely summery, where the sun is out and strong, but still too cold in the shade. You stare past his head, towards the door. How quickly can you leave?

“You can,” he says quietly, when you’re rising to throw your cup in the trash. “Whenever you want.”

His eyelashes are so long- they command a moment of attention all on their own when he blinks- soft and slow and gazing at you from underneath them. You wonder if he is doing this for the same reason you are. If he’s lonely, too.

When was the last time you had the dream with the bird?

You smirk. “Whenever?”

He is forlorn.

You like him better in the spring.

“Whenever.”

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, and make your voice low, since two can play at that game.

He considerably perks up.

***

When you wake up, he’s still in your bed.

Lately, he’s been spending more time at your place than his. You think that all those windows are finally starting to get to him.

Ransom always holds you fiercely in his sleep. You break free as gently as you can and take him in for a brief moment- you like how he looks when he’s asleep. Unconcerned, chest rising slow with each breath, hair splayed over the pillow in nearly every direction. He almost looks innocent.

You get up quietly, even though there’s no chance he’ll stir- he sleeps like the dead.

Daylight filters through the blinds in white-yellow streams, dappling him golden.

You almost take a picture, but regretfully leave the room for other tasks- you stretch and water your plants and check your email, and then sit down at the table to Skype your brother.

He picks up fast.

“Hey!” you say, and at once feel so much relief, to see his grainy, smiling face on your laptop screen.

Europe has done him good- he’s grown out his hair, and his skin is glowing, and he looks so happy.

He tells you about what he’s been doing lately, studying architecture. It makes you so proud, this fact alone- that unlike you, he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t have the looming promises of debt and academic burnout and crushing, ever-present stress hovering over his shoulders. It is so good to see him, and you are so grateful that he can be who he wants to be, do what he wants to do-

“Holy shit, who is that?”

He’s looking past you. You turn around and almost jump-

Ransom stands in the kitchen, shirtless and rummaging through the cupboards. He waves at you.

You would think that someone like Ransom would exclusively sleep in, like, silk pajama sets, or something, but at least he’s in sweatpants- however low-rise they might be, however loosely knotted the drawstring is. It’s better than nothing, at least- what if he had walked out in nothing?

When you turn back to the screen, you catch a glimpse of yourself in your camera feed- you look absolutely mortified.

You are absolutely mortified. This is the start of what can only be a nightmare.

“Are you dating that guy?” your brother asks incredulously. He’s still staring at Ransom with his jaw hanging loose. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” you say forcefully, without thinking. “That’s, um... “

Hopelessly, you gesture back towards him, trying to come up with the words. Nothing feels right in your mouth- every title you can come up with is too consequential, too heavy.

“...That’s Ransom.”

“Weird name,” your brother says, and grins.

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp. “I know.”

“Hey,” Ransom says, from the back, and continues to loudly open and close the cupboards- what the fuck is he even looking for? You don’t keep enough shit in there to warrant this much noise- he’s doing this for theatrics.

“I think I’m going to go,” you say loudly. “Love you.”

“Bye,” your brother says, and he’s grinning stupidly, like a madman.

You disconnect and feel like you might faint.

Not your boyfriend, right?

“Was that your brother?” Ransom asks, casually, finally finding what he was looking for- two mugs. There is no way that he didn’t come across them earlier.

“Yeah- yes,” you say shakily. It feels like someone has filled your brain with fizzy water.

There’s a few boys your brother has met over the years, but you’ve always been careful. Because an introduction is like making a statement- it’s like saying that this person you’re with is important enough to you that they’re going to overlap, exist in more than just one part of your life.

But Ransom is a catastrophe of a person- you can barely handle him as he is. How could you ever have him as anything more?

He goes through the cupboards, again, and finds a box of teabags. “The one studying abroad?”

“I only have one brother,” you snap.

“Okay,” he says, totally unbothered, surprising you. He’s not a morning person in the slightest- why is he being so cordial? “Where do you keep your kettle?”

“Second cupboard on the right,” you say, and bury your head in your hands.

He looks at you. He is so many things, but never kind, until now. His hair, in its adorable bedhead, flops over his eyes. Before, it was only almost, but now, you think, he looks completely innocent, like the type of guy you could give kisses without feeling nervous, the type of guy you wouldn’t deny as your boyfriend.

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with you?

At the end of the day, he’s always there- you’re exclusive, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough to deserve a title?

He finds the kettle, and then sifts through the box. He sorts through different flavors with a gentle precision you’ve never seen before- is this really him? Is he the type of person that is gentle and precise?

The uneven smattering of blue-black bruises on your thighs say no.

You’re so confused that your head hurts.

“None of these flavors are any good,” Ransom says, and shakes his head. His hair shines in the morning light. “Earl Grey- who the hell drinks Earl Grey?”

“Don’t insult my tea like that,” you say, and he looks back at you and gives you a brilliant flash of a smile.

If he’s bothered at all by your denial, he never brings it up.

*** He’s too far gone.

He’s in freefall, feeling weak- he’s fucking succumbed.

To you. To your comebacks and the world-weary gaze you have of everything, to your nonsensical collection of plants and your painfully unattractive basketball shorts, to the way you laugh too loud and too little, to the way you say his name, where he can never tell if you’re happy with him or exasperated-

It’s wrong.

But, he thinks, so are all of these other things, like drugs and alcohol and blowing money on shit he doesn’t need- and you make him feel better than any of those things ever have, so why should anybody have a problem with it? A week goes by after you tell your brother that he isn’t your boyfriend- and it doesn’t bother him, because he’s never wanted that title in the first place, never has- but it obviously bothers you.

You’re disappointed in yourself, because you think you’re supposed to be better than him, because you’re so smart and he is so terrible.

He hopes that that’s not how you actually think. It hurts him to0 much to even consider it, and so he doesn’t, and so he thinks of how to keep his hold on you, and then he thinks of why he even wants to-

The truth is too apparent to deny.

After a week, he calls.

***

He’s very slow.

Not tired- just consumed with the sudden need to savor things. When you let yourself into his arms, Ransom treats you like you’re fragile.

“What’s up with you?” you ask, and as he stares, your voice reduces to something small. You go timid when his eyes are on yours, he realizes, and the thought sends a thrill through his body- he slowly rocks you, to calm himself.

Your shirt is off and you wear a bra with a small lace trim- not racy, but very cute- and he just keeps on staring.

Wow, he thinks. He fucked up good.

“Nothing,” he says, and moves one hand from your waist- he has you in his lap, straddling him- up to the top of your neck. He trails down and over to your collarbone, hooking a finger into your bra strap.

You laugh, breathy and indecent.

He lifts it, subtly, and you whine, and he bites back his own.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and kisses your neck. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Ransom,” you gasp, with your hands splayed over his back. He slowly skims his hand over, to your back, feeling every little thing, dip and contour and curve, everything- and then unhooks it, and you are bared to him and he is breathless.

He takes you by the shoulders and twists, to bring you down, to pin you against the bed. Your comforter is dark blue, like ocean water.

Your eyes are endless, like ocean water.

“Are you upset about something?”

Your chest rises and falls and he almost reaches for the waistband of your underwear, but stops himself. He presses a wet kiss to one of your breasts, and you arch into his mouth. He feels like you know every single secret of his, when he has told you none.

You know by accident that he’s ticklish. That’s it.

“I’m not,” he says. “I promise.”

He bends low to kiss down the length of your body, repositions his hands to hold your waist. He thinks that this is more intense- it is just his mouth and your skin and the sound of your breath hitching.

He still has it put together, remarkably well- unfathomably well.

“I feel like there’s something you’re- ah- not telling me, honey.”

That does it.

He grips your waist harder, in the way he knows you always like, so that tomorrow he will be able to retrace his steps, follow the blue-

“Say that again,” he says, and presses a soft kiss over you- even through your underwear, with its delicate lace trim, he can feel how wet and wanting and ready you are for him.

“Say- fuck- say what?”

Your hand flails, for a second, before you thread it through his hair, and yank. It hurts, pleasantly.

He hooks his fingers into your waistband and shimmies it down your thighs, and you instinctively spread your legs. He puts his mouth to your slit, slicker than he imagined, and the heady arousal rushing through his mind- and everywhere else- is nearly enough to make him forget what you even said-

He is quite possibly drunk off of you alone, and he wants to slap himself, and, like, press you so close into him that you forget your way out.

With the spare glow of one lamp, you look like you’re made of gold.

He breaks away from you for a terrible moment to strip, and with one hand he teases your clit, and with the other he pumps himself, hard, once, twice, three times in anticipation-

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, and comes back up to cup your face once more, and slips his hand back down into you at the same time, with his cock hard against your thigh- this is all quite slippery- the game you’re playing at and the risk he’s trying to take-

“Honey,” you say, and you’re smiling deliriously, but shakily. “Honey honey honey.”

“You’re killing me,” he says, and his voice, in a moment of terrible, vulnerable, unspeakable betrayal, cracks.

“Good,” you say, but your voice is all wobbly as he lines himself up and roughly pushes into you, holding you a little tighter to keep you steady. “You deserve it.”

He kisses you openmouthed, with his teeth scraping- it’s rough and jarring, the way you always take it. Against his mouth, you swear incoherently, stringing together a litany of curses with his name thrown in between, and goddamn him- it makes him smile.

He wastes no time- he can’t be patient any longer, not when he has you under him like this, and so he goes fast, snapping into you at a bruising pace and keeping his mouth close, and rubbing at your clit, to overstimulate you and make everything faster, harsher, more immediate-

When you come you always say his name, thickly with gravel in your voice, and gasp like the breath has been stolen from your lungs. This time, when you are so far gone that he thinks you’re beyond the realms of sound, and sight, too, with your eyes tightly screwed shut, he says it, for the sake of himself.

“I think I love you-”

311 notes · View notes

pogokitten · 4 years ago

Text

Lost and Found

By @pogokitten for @lost-lunar-wolf

Rating: Teen (for swears)

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Happy Hogan, Ben Parker, May Parker

Summary: People lose things all the time, keys, toys, favorite socks. It happens, it’s just a part of life. But sometimes these lost items make their way to soulmates. It’s phenomena as old as civilization itself. You lose your favorite hair tie and poof, it just appears near your soulmate for them to find and eventually return. Romantic or Platonic, it’s expected that everyone stumbles over some of their soulmates' lost items here and there. Some people just end up waiting longer than others.

Or: The platonic soulmate AU where Tony and Peter find and hold onto a lot of each other’s stuff over the years.

Tony is speed walking through his mansion the first time it happens. He’s not paying attention, tie barely on straight and coffee almost sloshing out of his cup as he rushes for the door. He’s late for a meeting and usually he wouldn’t care, but Obie has been up his ass about this one. Something about a grouchy general that thinks Stark Industries weapons are overpriced and overhyped needing convincing.

So when Tony stumbles on something caught under his dress shoes, he finds himself cursing colorfully as splashes of coffee dot the marble floor. He glares down at the offending object when he has his footing, fully expecting it to be a tool or something that migrated out of the workshop.

The engineer stops short and stares however, when he takes in the soft blue baby binky on his floor.

Tony is no stranger to having strange things in his house, being an eccentric billionaire and all, but he has absolutely no clue how a pacifier of all things has ended up on his floor.

Tony scoops the binkie off the floor examining it, completely baffled.

It looks new if the bright color and barely chewed appearance is anything to go by. Tony wracks his brain for any possible reason a pacifier could have made its way into his home. This wasn’t a week for the cleaners so it wouldn’t be something of theirs, and the only other people who have been in his house since yesterday were Happy and Pepper.

The engineer knows Happy himself is allergic to children, but doesn’t he have a sister or something? Does she have a kid? Maybe it got mixed up in Happy’s things? It’s not the most plausible explanation.

As for Pepper, Tony’s pretty fucking sure she doesn’t have a kid. He knows from her comments that she doesn’t have much in the way of family anymore and that she’s single. Maybe one of her college friends has kids? Could one of their kid’s binkies have ended up in her purse during a visit or something?

The theory’s not great, but that’s at least more believable than Happy being the culprit, and for the life of him, Tony doesn’t know where else the thing would have come from.

Tony stuffs the pacifier into his pocket and continues out the door resolving to ask Pepper about it later.

---

Tony never ends up asking Pepper about the binky.

He came home from an extremely long day at the office spent schmoozing the stuffy general and tossed the thing out of his pocket along with his keys onto a cluttered table in the workshop. He then proceeded to drink the night away to dull the built up tension. When JARVIS wakes him up the next morning, the pacifier is a distant memory due to his ragging hangover and Obie calling to talk business.

It’s not until a few months later that the binky even crosses Tony’s mind again.

It’s another typical day in the life of a party addicted billionaire genius, when Pepper pages him through JARVIS to help her into the house. Tony finally emerges from his lab for the first time that day, muttering equations under his breath. He’s lost in his own head, still focused on the designs he’s been hammering out downstairs.

So Tony nearly falls on his ass when he steps onto something that slides under his feet in the entryway. The engineer is quick to catch himself, heart still racing from the near drop, and looks around irritably for damn banana peel or whatever it was that almost killed him.

He quickly spots what looks like a scrap of fabric nearby. Grumbling, Tony snatches it off the floor and realizes it's not a pocket square or a tie like he thought.

No, it’s a lovey.

He gapes at the toy with wide eyes.

The blanket bit of the toy is a soft yellow fabric, the stuffed animal portion a smiling dog with floppy ears. It’s a bit love worn and could probably use a wash, but it doesn’t seem especially old.

It also absolutely shouldn’t be here.

No one else has been in the mansion for the last two days except for him, and Tony knows the lovey wasn’t there this morning.

“JARVIS, did someone break into the house to leave baby toys for me to trip on, and you just neglected to tell me?” Tony asks.

“Of course not, sir,” the AI says, sounding almost offended, “No one has been inside of the mansion aside from yourself and I would have alerted you to a perimeter breach.”

“Then how is this here?” Tony questions, holding the toy up to the nearest camera.

“It simply appeared in the foyer, sir,” JARVIS tells him.

“That’s impossible, things don’t just appear.”

“It is possible, sir. I thought it would be obvious,” the AI refutes, a hint of a smirk in his tone.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Not in the mood right now, J.”

“I believe that your soulmate has lost both the toy in your hand and the pacifier you found approximately three months ago,” JARVIS explains.

Any sort of snappy retort dies in Tony’s throat and he snaps his gaze back to the lovey he’s holding.

Soulmates were not something that Tony Stark had thought about often in the past two decades of his life.

Growing up he’d been as intrigued by soulmates as any child his age, waiting to find mysterious clothes or toys like many of his peers. He’d waited and hoped and looked for years, anything to ease the loneliness of the Stark Mansion. Only to find himself at the age of fifteen without a single lost and found object to his name. That had been when he started to doubt, when he stopped looking for items that weren’t his and steered away from conversations about soulmates.

It’s not unheard of to not have a soulmate until adolescence and beyond, but after he hit twenty-one, Tony had concluded that the cosmos hadn’t bothered to give him one. That, or his soulmate had died before they’d had anything to lose besides their life.

He is well past the age where he would have gotten a romantic soulmate bond, but a platonic or familial one…

It’s pretty common knowledge that a lot of parents and children share a familial soulmate bond, and it’s not like Tony is the most...celibate...person in the world. He’s been careful about his fun, but could it have happened? Or was this some random kid who had gotten stuck with Tony Stark as their ‘shared soul’ by the misfortune of fate?

Tony stares at the lovey in shock while his thoughts race for a long enough amount of time that Pepper irritably rings the doorbell again. Still practically in a trance, Tony opens the door for her on autopilot.

Pepper bustles into the mansion carrying several packages of mail and one of his freshly dry cleaned suits, strands of her vibrant hair escaping the usually tidy bun they’re usually pinned up in.

“Finally! I’ve been standing out there holding all these boxes for ages! Really, Mr. Stark what in the world did you order that’s so-?”

“Pep…” Tony manages to choke out, the nickname and his tone catching her attention.

His PA puts the mail and dry cleaning on a side table and turns back to him, concern on her face.

“Mr. Stark?” she asks.

With a slightly trembling hand he holds the lovey out to her. “I… I found this. And a binky a while ago. I’ve got… I’ve got a soulmate.”

“Oh… Mr. Stark-” Pepper’s mouth opens in shock as she takes in the toy, before her eyes crinkle in a smile, “Tony, that’s wonderful.”

“God look at this thing,” Tony chuckles, and to his slight horror, it’s a bit of a wet sound, “Between this and the binky, the kid can’t be more than half a year, huh?”

“I’d say so.” Pepper says smiling down at the little plush toy.

Tony swallows. “Do you think he’s mine?”

His PA looks back up at him, eyebrow raised slightly. “He?”

“Just a feeling.”

“A feeling, huh?” Pepper smiles, “Well he is yours. Your soulmate. It doesn’t matter if this child is yours biologically, because you’re going to care about them either way right?”

Tony nods, unable to voice any of his vulnerable thoughts. Too many emotions are still swirling inside, crowding his mind.

“Besides I don’t think he’s blood related to you,” Pepper tells him.

“How do you know?” Tony asks.

She gives him a bit of smirk. “Just a feeling.”

Tony gives a little laugh, giving her a grin in return. But eventually he looks back at the toy in his hands and feels it slip off his face. In his bones, he already knows that the bond he and his soulmate will have is going to be a familial extension of a platonic soulmate bond. Or more accurately, a paternal one. And that absolutely scares the shit out of Tony.

“What’s wrong?” Pepper questions, peering down at his whitening knuckles.

“Even if he’s not mine by blood, I don’t want to be like my dad,” Tony confesses in a rush, “I can’t keep the cycle going… I-”

“You won’t,” Pepper cuts him off, “The fact that you’re worried about that at all is proof enough that you care, and that you want to be better than Howard. So you will be.”

Tony doesn’t say anything to that, gaze dropping back to the lovey in his hands. He wants to be better than his father, but can he be? He’s been following in Howard Stark’s promiscuous alcoholic shadow for a long time now. But he owes it to this kid, and Pepper, and hell, even himself to try and be better.

Pepper eventually clears her throat. “Will that be all Mr. Stark?”

Tony gives her a genuine smile, the kind that is reserved only for the few people he trusts and cares for. “That will be all Ms.Potts.”

***

Peter sits on the couch in his aunt and uncle’s apartment pouting. The adults are standing near the doorway, talking. Sure he loves Aunt May and Uncle Ben, but he loves his Mommy and Daddy more, and they’ve been going on trips so much lately. They just went on a trip a few weeks ago and now they’re going on another one. And this one is so far away.

“We should probably head out. Thanks so much for looking after Pete this week,” Peter hears his dad say.

“Of course, we love having Peter,” May tells him.

“Don’t go!” Peter jumps up from the couch and tackles his mom’s leg.

“It’s not for long sweetheart,” she soothes, brushing his hair back, “Daddy and I have to go to a few boring meetings. You’ll have more fun here with Uncle Ben and Aunt May.”

“But I’ll miss you!” Peter whines.

“And we’ll miss you kiddo, but we’ll be back before you know it,” his dad says, kneeling down to hug him.

Then his dad picks him up so his mom can hug them too. Peter likes it when they all hug like that, it makes him feel warm and super safe.

“Love you. Bye-bye,” Peter mumbles into the embrace sadly.

He knows by now that no amount of begging will get them to stay, but that doesn’t stop him from trying at least a little bit every time.

His mom kisses his forehead. “And we love you Peter.”

Peter’s parents set him down and hug his aunt and uncle before they step out of the apartment and are gone. Peter’s eyes feel hot, but he doesn’t want to cry. He’s six, so he’s almost big now. Mommy said it was okay to cry no matter how old you are, but most of the other boys at school just make fun of Peter for it.

Aunt May cards her fingers through his hair. “Why don’t you go get settled, sweetie. Then we’ll all go to the park so you can play and feed the birds?”

Peter nods, subdued, and shuffles to the small guest room with his backpack and suitcase.

He sniffs back tears while he makes quick work of his suitcase, throwing his clothes haphazardly into the dresser, but takes much more care with his backpack.

Peter unzips it, double checking that all of his prized possessions are there. His dumb inhaler that he has to carry everywhere, check. His GameBoy and the handful of games he has, check. Toebeans, his stuffed snow leopard, check. His three favorite action figures at the moment, check. And… Peter panics for a moment before he feels his hand close around cold metal.

With a sigh of relief, Peter pulls the tool from his bag.

The screwdriver is small, the perfect size for Peter’s little hands. It’s old and its red handle is worn. Uncle Ben told him it’s for putting together small delicate things since it’s way too small for normal sized screws. Daddy said the screwdriver had turned up in Peter’s crib when he was just a few weeks old. He had explained that it belonged to Peter’s soulmate and that they must have lost it.

Peter’s soulmate must usually be good about not losing things though, since Peter hasn’t found that much stuff. So far it’s just been things like nuts and bolts or a couple of pretty neckties. Peter’s pretty sure his soulmate must be a grown up, since they never seem to lose fun stuff, like toys. Ned’s soulmate always loses toys, like My Little Pony dolls and plastic dinosaurs.

Still Peter keeps all the things he finds, even if they’re usually kinda boring. Uncle Ben and Daddy always say it’s important to return lost items, and there’s no way Peter would ever be mean to his soulmate. Especially when holding his soulmate's screwdriver makes him feel better whenever he’s sad. It’s familiar and it makes him feel safe, like his parents’ hugs.

Staring down at the screwdriver, Peter wonders what lost stuff his soulmate has from him.

...Maybe they’ve got that bouncy ball he lost two weeks ago? It was a really good one. He hopes they have fun with it.

Still Peter can’t wait to meet his soulmate, even if they are old. Mommy told him to be patient, but Peter’s never really been the best at that. Daddy said they would meet when the time was right and he and his soulmate needed each other most. Whatever that means.

“Peter! Come on, let’s hit the park!” His uncle calls.

The boy quickly puts the screwdriver back and zips his bag closed, swinging it onto his shoulders. “Coming, Uncle Ben!”

His aunt and uncle lead him from the apartment, his little hand clasped in his uncle’s calloused one.

Uncle Ben gives his hand a squeeze and a gentle smile when Peter looks up at him. “Buck up champ, your parents will be back before you know it.”

“Yeah,” Peter smiles and never once that week did he think Uncle Ben would be wrong.

***

They’ve just finished a meager dinner of mostly tasteless stew, and Tony wants nothing more than to collapse after another day of hard labor. He’s lost track of how many days he’s been in this godforsaken cave, no longer having any concept of time after being hidden away underground. Since that first week, most days have been the same. Tony and Yinsen desperately trying to craft the instrument of their escape without being caught, all while making their captors believe they’re cooperating.

It's a terrifyingly fine tightrope they’re walking.

At least he’s finally getting used to the constant pain of the reactor in his chest, something he’s very likely to live with for the rest of his life. However long that may be.

Tony has just stood and turned away from the fire, intending to finally sleep, when he stumbles over something in his exhausted state. He glances down half-heartedly, expecting a rock or a divet in the cave floor only to freeze when he sees it.

It’s an action figure of some sort. Clearly a superhero of some kind, his outfit is red and white with a helmet that hides his face. Tony thinks he’s flicked passed this show on TV once or twice. Power...Something. Power Riders..? No that’s not quite it.

Tony picks the toy up, feeling his lip quirk slightly despite himself.

“Stark?” Yinsen questions, coming over to look at what he’s holding.

“My kid...my soulmate,” Tony explains with a sad little huff of laughter at the other man’s raised eyebrow, “They must have lost this.”

“My children are the same, always misplacing their things,” Yinsen tells him with a nostalgic smile, “What are they like?”

“Well…” Tony heaves out a breath, blinking away the sudden urge to cry, “He’s a little boy if I had to guess, probably around seven or eight since that’s how long I’ve been tripping over his toys. He likes action figures and Legos, considering how many he loses, but I don’t...really know. I… I never got to meet him.”

And it’s true, he hasn’t. And god it feels like everything’s been a waste. He never even got to meet the little kid who’s stuff he’s been stumbling over for years. And now Tony’s in a cave held captive by terrorists with shrapnel near his heart, the only thing keeping him alive being the electromagnet in his chest and the knowledge of a missile his captives want him to build.

Yinsen puts a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You have not gotten to meet him yet.”

The engineer nods then, his jaw set. “Not yet.”

After that, Tony makes sure to keep the action figure close during his time in the cave with Yinsen. It’s almost obsessive how many times he checks that it’s still in the same place. But it’s like a little spark of hope in their dark cavern, a tangible reminder that there’s a life out there for him to return to, if he can just escape this hell.

Tony’s got to make sure he’s there to give all those toys back to the kid someday, after all.

***

Peter blinks awake sluggishly when May shakes his shoulder. “Come on. Get dressed sweetheart, breakfast is almost done. I know you don’t want to, but the two weeks the school let us have is up.”

Right. He’d been trying so hard not to think about it, he nearly forgot.

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

Peter pulls his aching body, sore from tossing and turning, out of bed while rubbing sleep from his eyes. Last night was definitely one of the worst nights he’s had these past two weeks. The teen had spent the first half of it shifting restlessly, unable to sleep, then he’d cried for at least an hour or two before finally succumbing to his exhaustion.

The boy shuffles into his clothes, not even bothering to check what he’s wearing. Moving to the bathroom, Peter cringes at his reflection after he finishes brushing his wild curls. He’s pale as a ghost, but his eyes are red and watery. Dark shadows sit under them, marks of the past two weeks of mostly sleepless nights.

He looks horrible. Like he’s a zombie or is deathly ill. There’s no way people won’t notice. The teen is really not looking forward to all the pitying looks and whispers he’s going to get just from the news he’s sure has gotten around, let alone how he looks like a ghost. Peter really doesn’t want to go back to school today...or well ever. Going back to “normal” after Ben… Well, it just doesn’t seem possible.

Unbidden more tears spring to his eyes.

Peter sighs, dropping his gaze back to the sink.

To his surprise an unfamiliar pair of sunglasses are sitting on the porcelain edge. Peter picks them up examining them, already aware that they don’t belong to May...or Ben. They’re a nice pair of sunglasses from what he can tell. The lenses are a deep red so dark it looks black, the frames a dark burnished metal. Clearly some really expensive name brand that probably costs near the apartment’s monthly rent.

Impulsively, Peter slips them on and checks out his reflection in the mirror. To his relief, they do a great job of hiding his red rimmed eyes and the dark shadows underneath them, perfect for his first day back to school. And he can admit, although they’re a smidge big, he does look pretty cool in them.

Peter slides them off and slips them into his hoodie pocket so that May doesn’t see. She probably wouldn’t approve of him trying to wear them all day. But hopefully his teachers will give him some leeway since they’ve probably all heard what happened.

Worst comes to worst, he can just lie and say he has a migraine or something.

He eats a solemn and slightly charred breakfast with May, sharing a long and tight hug with her before he forces himself to head out. As soon as he’s clear of their building, Peter slips the sunglasses back onto his face.

On the streets, no one gives him a second glance, but it is New York after all and that’s just the norm. The real test starts when he finally makes it to the front steps of his school. There are some kids milling around outside chatting about their weekends in the few minutes before the first bell. He slips past them easily enough, with only a few brief glances thrown his way.

In the hallway some of the students and teachers do give him lingering looks, but he keeps the glasses on and his head down and the whispers are minimal. When Peter finally makes it to his locker, he breaths out a sigh of relief. The sunglasses do attract a few lingering looks, but no one has commented on his distressed state.

He keeps them on for the rest of the day, sighting a migraine when asked. None of the teachers seem keen to try and force him to take them off, as expected. Peter’s pretty sure it’s just because none of them want to be responsible for making him cry or have a breakdown.

He ends up wearing the sunglasses a few more days that week, on the mornings after rough nights. The sunglasses almost feel like a shield, protecting him from prying eyes. It feels a bit like his soulmate is there, letting Peter hide behind them. They make him feel safe, and like he’s not an open book for the first time since that fatal gunshot rang out.

Eventually, after the rubbed raw pain of Ben’s death has faded a bit, the glasses end up tucked away with the little red screwdriver in the box that holds his most precious items.

***

Tony really wants a drink, despite all his promises to Pepper. He really has been trying to lay off since they finally got back together after such a long break. Not to mention he’d gotten black out drunk so many times in the first few weeks after Siberia that the few people left in his life had come together and begged him to stop before he killed himself. Tony’s a lot older than he was when he went out drinking every night after his parents were killed, and the drinking isn’t nearly as gratifying as it was then.

He hates that it’s still a struggle to not seek alcohol out on his own.

Now more than ever, especially after Ultron and the media dubbed “Civil War”, Tony wonders if he’s even managed to do any good in the world as Iron Man. More and more it seems like he just makes bigger messes than the ones he tries to clean up. Sure, he’s had his good moments, but they feel like they pale in comparison to all his missteps.

Not to mention how even when it’s a group failure, most of the world is content in letting just him take the fall. Everyone else seems to get off scot-free while Tony and his loved ones are left in the blast radius of the aftermath.

The engineer sighs, heading back to his lab after taking a stressful SI call in his office upstairs. FRIDAY opens the door for him without comment and he heads towards the single worktable he’s managed to set up so far in the compound. But then Tony blinks at the backpack that’s now sitting on top of the letter and dinosaur tech Rogers mailed him.

The bag is dark blue and little worn, something inexpensive that’s easily bought at big box stores. Feeling a bit excited, almost like he’s opening a present, Tony pulls the first zipper open. This isn’t the first backpack his kid’s lost, but it is weird that it’s happened at least four times this year alone.

Inside he finds a handful of pens and pencils, a mostly blank notebook with some pretty high level physics in it, an advanced calculus textbook that’s seen better days, and a change of clothes. There’s no name of course, because the universe hates to “ruin the surprise” as the saying goes, but it still tells Tony a bit more about the type of person his kid is.

Obviously the kid is incredibly smart, although Tony already knew that from finding the kid’s advanced biochem notebook in the first lost backpack and seeing the sort of stuff he was working on (Some of which seemed to be of the kid’s own initiative and was complex enough that Tony himself had needed to brush up on the subject to decode it).

He also knows that the kid must not come from a super wealthy household going by the cheap bag and worn clothes. Of course he already knew that too. Most of the stuff that the kid’s lost is generally well taken care of, but always inexpensive. That knowledge had certainly gotten Tony to fund a lot more scholarships for advanced school programs around New York City. Not that he knows where the kid is other than somewhere in America, but it still made Tony happy funding the future.

Smiling slightly, Tony puts everything back in the bag and is about to take it to store with the rest of the kid’s stuff when he catches sight of the pin buttons decorating the front. One is a Star Wars one with some nerdy meme on it, but the other one has the Iron Man mask on it. He lets out a surprised and almost wet laugh. Even after all these years he's still the kid’s favorite.

Tony will never forget the first Iron Man drawing he’d found that the kid had done, or the first action figure of himself he’d tripped over in the lab. Tony remembers preening like a peacock and showing the toy off to Pepper, Rhodey, and even Happy for the next week.

Somehow, despite all the shit he’s done, Tony must have done something right to end up as his kid’s hero. Becoming a superhero might not be why he originally set out to be Iron Man, but somewhere along the way he learned that he couldn’t just stand by and let people get hurt. Tony may not be as much as a pure hearted superhero as the spider kid, but it’s nice to have a reminder that he’s still got people to live up to.

Speaking of the kid, Peter is eager for sure. He’s smart as a whip and has a good heart despite all the times the universe has shit on him. And young as he is, the spiderling is using his superpowers with a maturity that most kids his age wouldn’t have. That and he did really well in Germany.

Tony looks back at the backpack frowning. Iron Man won’t be around forever, as much as Tony hates to admit it, he is getting old. And with almost all of the Avengers in the wind, he needs to make sure there are still heroes, real heroes, for the world to believe in.

Tony nods to himself and pulls up the design for the Iron Spider suit.

***

Peter pulls himself out from under the rubble of the collapsed warehouse, gasping for breath, limbs still shaking. Behind him the rubble shifts and tumbles further and the teen is quick to scramble away from it, coughing at the dust it kicks up. For a moment he just stands there trying to catch his breath and still his shaking.

Holy shit, that just happened. The Vulture dropped an entire building on him and left him to die. Peter can feel the embers of his panic trying to crawl up his throat and reignite. He already knows this incident is gonna be nightmare fuel to rival the ones he has about Ben’s death. Just like that night, Peter feels like he lost something of himself, only this time it was lost under the rubble and not in a puddle of blood.

But he thankfully doesn’t have time to dwell on it.

There’s no telling how far Toomes has gotten while he was trapped under the warehouse. Peter needs to move now if he wants to stop the villain from stealing dangerous Avengers tech. If that stuff gets out on the streets no one in New York City, or maybe even the country would be safe. The thought of what kinds of people Toomes could sell those weapons to is horrifying.

People are in danger, and even if Peter messes up or disappoints Mr. Stark again, he can’t let anyone get hurt when he has the power to stop it.

So, still trembling slightly, Peter raises his arm and shoots off a web, swinging into the night after the Vulture.

He doesn’t give a single thought to his Spider-Man mask, lost and left behind in the debris.

***

Tony is in the Avengers Compound again when he finds it.

Moving all the old Avengers tech to the compound has proven to be a nightmare. He’s still got the government up his ass after the “Civil War” debacle. Not to mention the modified alien weapons on the streets that both the DODC and FBI have been too incompetent to get a handle on, or even find the source of. But he’s still so busy with SI, the Accords, and the move upstate that he doesn’t have the time to track the guy properly at the moment.

And this Vulture guy really is below the Avengers’ pay grade like he told Peter. They were never really in the business of taking down arms dealers, not even high tech ones.

Tony sighs. He is starting to feel bad about taking back the kid’s suit. Sure, Peter was being reckless in it, but hadn’t Tony done the same in his? And Peter had the excuse of being an actual child. Not to mention sooner or later, the kid is going to remember that his powers don’t come from the suit. He’s going to run into a crime he can’t ignore and he won’t have the one thing that keeps him safe.

Tony had been telling the spiderling he didn’t want to be like his old man before the ferry shitshow, and what had he done as soon as Peter slipped up? Screamed at him, taken away the suit, and basically told the kid he didn’t want to have to deal with him anymore. And before that he had barely interacted with Peter after the whole thing in Germany, and yeah, Tony had some good excuses for that, but it was all still the exact same shit Howard would have done.

As much as Tony doesn’t do feelings, maybe he should call the kid up and apologize soon. It’s already been a few weeks.

Tony has just collapsed onto his desk chair in his workshop and started massaging at the tension headache sitting at the front of his skull when it catches his eye. A strange flash of red on his work table that wasn’t there just a moment before. Tony already knows it’s not something of his considering how little he’s been using this lab up until now.

His lip is already twitching up fondly as he reaches for it, wondering what the kid lost this time. He grabs the fabric object and pulls it out from under the stack of blueprints it’s ended up under.

For a moment nothing makes sense.

He’s holding Spider-Man’s mask.

The first one, from the kid’s onesie suit with the googly-eyed goggles sewn in. It’s soaking wet and covered in concrete dust. There are also a few smears of darker red that take a moment to register as blood to the engineer. All he can do is stare at it in utter confusion for a few seconds.

Then it suddenly makes so much fucking sense and Tony is so damn stupid. Of course It’s Peter, of course it’s always been the kid. Of fucking course his soulmate is the superpowered genius orphan with a guilt complex as big as his own. Of course it's the kid who agreed to help fight when Tony needed him the most. It was right in front of his face and he’s an idiot for not realizing that he found his soulmate nearly six months ago.

A soulmate who he’s been foisting off on Happy and refused to grow close to out of paranoid fear. A soulmate who’s looked up to Tony his whole life despite how shitty of a person Tony is. A soulmate who has obviously gone out in his homemade onesie of a suit and has obviously been wounded recently, if the fresh blood on the mask is anything to go by.

“FRIDAY, call the Forehead of Security,” Tony orders, vaguely realizing that his hands have started to tremble.

As soon as the line connects, Tony is speaking before his friend can get a word in. “Happy, where’s the kid?”

“Tony- what?” Happy asks, sounding baffled, “Who? Parker?”

“Yes. What other kid do we both know? Where is he?” Tony questions.

“Why are you asking me? I don’t know. You have his number don’t you? Or just call his-” Happy cuts himself off, and for a moment Tony thinks the connection dropped until he hears Happy swearing, “Shit! Shit!”

“What?” the engineer demands.

There's a long moment of silence and Tony thinks he might actually hear Happy gulp. “The plane. It just went down.”

“Oh God, that’s what he’s doing,” Tony breathes out, heart clenching, “Peter’s there, Happy! He’s trying to stop it and he’s going to get himself killed!”

“What? How do you know? Besides I thought you took his suit?”

“I did! But I found his old Spider-Man mask covered in dirt and blood!” Tony practically shouts into the phone, the fear he feels coming out easier as anger.

Happy is silent for a moment, maybe stunned at the outburst. “Tony what are you talking about? You’re upstate-”

“You aren’t getting it,” Tony cuts him off, feeling panic starting to win over anger, “I just found it in the lab! The lab that Peter has never set foot in! On my work table that was clear about five minutes ago!”

“What..? But that means...” there’s a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line, “Oh God. Shit- Okay. Coney Island that’s where-”

“I’m on my way,” Tony says, shoving Peter’s mask into his pocket and stepping into a suit, hoping with everything he has that the kid, his kid, is okay.

Then he’s blasting out of the lab’s launchpad, streaking through the sky towards the glowing beacon of New York City in the far distance as fast as the suit can take him. He tries to call Peter from his HUD but it goes straight to voicemail and Tony tries not to lose it completely.

---

When Tony finds Peter, bleeding, battered, and unconscious on top of the Cyclone coaster he greys out. FRIDAY is feeding him info on the kid’s condition and giving him instructions, but even as Tony’s body moves to follow her recommendations, it’s like he’s not even there. Or maybe he is but only in flashes, like his brain is skipping.

One moment Tony’s picking the kid up as if he’s made of porcelain and the next he’s shooting off into the air, streaking back towards the compound since he stupidly moved upstate and left Peter without support in the city. It feels like Tony blinks and he’s landing again and Helen and her team are taking Peter’s limp blood covered body from Tony’s arms. He thinks Pepper calls him, and then Happy.

He has no idea what he says to either of them.

And then, what must be hours later, it feels like Tony finally wakes up in the compound’s medby, sitting at Peter’s bedside. The kid’s old mask is still bulging out of his pocket. He pulls it out and stares at it for a bit before looking back at his kid, his soulmate, laid out in the narrow bed.

Peter in his hospital scrubs is smaller and paler than Tony has ever seen him against the crisp white sheets. Not that he’s seen much of the kid, a dark part of his thoughts remind him. The kid’s broken ribs and head wound are bandaged, and he’s got an air cast for a wrist fracture. Helen’s got him hooked up to a complicated IV drip of some sort and FRIDAY is keeping careful track of the spiderling’s vitals on a nearby monitor.

Tony doesn’t remember too much of what Helen said about Peter’s injuries, other than they were somewhat severe and he’d lost a good bit of blood, but they thankfully hadn’t had to operate. Although he remembers there had been a fair amount of stitches needing to be done on the kid’s torso. That and something about having to give him an insane amount of pain meds to even touch his metabolism.

Peter shivers in his sleep and Tony hesitates for a moment before pulling the blankets up higher and tucking the teen in. After a few minutes the shivering stops, and tentatively Tony takes one of Peter’s hands in his. The kid’s hand is cold and a bit clammy in his, but Tony doesn’t mind. His curls are adorably wild and the engineer has to resist the urge to brush them out of Peter’s face.

Tony doesn’t know how long he sits there holding his soulmate's hand, going over in his head again and again what he could possibly say to the kid, before he feels Peter grip his hand back weakly.

“Finally back with us, Pete?” Tony asks with a softness he didn’t know he possessed when the spider kid’s eyes start to slit open.

“Mis’r S’ark?” the teen slurs still half asleep.

Tony manages a weak grin. “The one and only.”

“Wha’ are you doin’ here?” Peter mumbles squinting his eyes open a bit more.

Tony squeezes the kid’s hand. “Didn’t want you to wake up alone and freak out.”

The physical contact and words seem to get through some of Peter’s drowsiness and confusion because he blinks rapidly then snatches his hand out of Tony’s own. The engineer tries not to feel stung by the action.

“Oh my god, your plane! Toomes! Is he okay, is anyone hurt?!” the teen asks frantically.

Tony is quick to stop the spiderling from trying to sit up. “The only one hurt was you, kid.”

Peter slumps back against the pillows. “That’s good.”

“It’s really not. Peter, you could have-” Tony cuts himself off and breathes out a long sigh, not wanting to lecture the kid while he’s still recovering.

The kid is giving him a wary look, like he’s waiting for Tony to lose it on him again. It makes him feel like even more of a piece of shit. So he does the only thing he can think of and holds the Spider-Man mask out to the kid.

“I found this,” Tony says abruptly.

“Oh. At the old warehouse?” Peter asks, taking it from him without meeting his eyes.

“No. In my lab.”

The spider kid’s head pops up at that, confused. “But, Mr. Stark, I’ve never been to your lab. And I had it for part of the fight with Toomes.”

Tony nods and clears his throat. Well, now or never. “I know. But you did lose it.”

Peter’s brow furrows in confusion. Tony sees it dawn on the kid after a few seconds, his eyes going wide and shooting up to stare at the engineer.

“You… So you’re…” the kid stutters.

“Yeah, kid. I’m your soulmate and I’ve got several boxes full of old toys, clothes, and backpacks that I’ve been holding onto for a long time,” Tony tells the boy feeling a little choked up.

Peter doesn’t say anything, he’s still staring at Tony looking completely gobsmacked. When the silence continues to stretch on, the engineer feels his insides squirm with insecurity. After everything that’s happened, maybe Peter doesn’t want to deal with such a shitty soulmate. Tony’s not sure he’d be too forgiving after the last few months of no contact and a near deathmatch with a supervillain that probably could have been avoided.

When Peter still doesn’t manage to get a word out, Tony lets himself deflate. “I don’t blame you if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore. I know I’m not anyone’s first choice of well…anything generally, and you deserve a better soulmate and mentor... But give me another chance, Pete. It won’t be perfect at first but let me try and fix-”

“That’s-!” Peter bursts in suddenly, cutting him off, “That’s not true Mr. Stark. The whole ‘not anyone’s first choice’ crap, I mean. You were...one of my first heroes and- and you still are. Both in a science and superhero sense. And yeah you, uh, do really suck at the whole…emotional availability thing, but you just need practice. Probably.”

Tony finds his mouth twitching up, especially when Peter’s ears go red at the last bit. The kid is endearingly honest and awkward.

“What I mean is, that I’ve been trying to follow your footsteps for a long time now. And I forgive you for the whole…ghosting me thing, and I don’t blame you for taking the suit after the ferry. And I want to be your soulmate if you’ll still have me after I crashed your plan, and-” Peter cuts off his own rambling and looks down, still flushed with embarrassment, “Sorry, I’m totally still freaking out that it’s you.”

“You and me both kid, I don’t know what I did to deserve compassionate, responsible, superhero Peter Parker as my soulmate,” Tony tells the kid, and immediately shoots for a joke to cut away from the vulnerability of that statement, “Even if you’re a little shit that gives me grey hair, especially with all the all the times I’ve nearly broken my neck tripping on your stuff over the years.”

“Well, I don’t know what I did to deserve Tony freaking Stark as my soulmate, even if he only loses boring crap like ties and metal scraps. Seriously, Ned’s soulmate lost Nintendo DS games and all I had to show from mine were socks or nuts and bolts. You made me so lame, Mr. Stark,” Peter whines dramatically, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

“Oh yeah, and it doesn’t ruin my very polished image as Tony Stark, billionaire genius, to trip over your Legos while out in public?” the engineer teases back, ruffling the kid’s hair.

Peter gives him a big innocent grin in response like the smartass he is and Tony just rolls his eyes.

The engineer leans forward and opens his arms in invitation. “C’mere spiderling.”

Peter lights up and gingerly leans into the embrace, careful of his injured ribs. He lets out a soft sigh of contentment and Tony won’t admit to anyone that the sound makes him melt a bit.

“Is this actually a hug this time, since there’s no door to get?” Peter questions with false innocence after a few moments.

Tony snorts. “Yes, you little shit it’s a hug.”

Peter’s laughter in his ear is the best thing he’s heard in months.

“So, when do we get to return each other’s stuff? Can we do it now?” the spider kid asks when they break apart, excitement shining in his eyes even as they began to droop with fatigue.

“Not till you’re healed, first of all. And we’ll have to take a day to do it. It’s a lot to go through. You’ve lost a lot of stuff over the years, kiddo,” Tony tells him, helping to settle the drowsy kid back under the bedsheets.

“We’ve got time,” Peter yawns, “Besides, if I didn’t lose anything, then how would you ever know to come find me and give it back Mr. Stark?”

Smiling fondly Tony finally gives in and starts combing his fingers through Peter’s hair. “I’ll always come find you, Pete.”

The spiderling gives a happy sleepy murmur in response before he slips back into sleep.

***

A few weeks later, after May had found out about everything, superhero alter egos and soulmates included, Peter is finally ungrounded enough to be allowed to go to the compound one weekend. May and Tony had talked a lot in the last few weeks and she had come to terms with everything. Well, after a lot of yelling at least. But now she was glad that Peter had another adult to care for him and watch over him.

Peter wasn’t just teasing about his not losing much over the years. He’s only brought over about three cardboard boxes worth of forgotten items. It’s a stark contrast to the eight or so big plastic bins that Mr. Stark keeps Peter’s things in. To be fair, he knows Mr. Stark has an eidetic memory which makes it pretty easy to keep track of most of his things, while Peter seems to be a bit more of a disorganized genius.

Mr. Stark starts in on his collection first, cooing over Peter’s baby toys and books while the teen sputters in embarrassment. In retaliation Peter just shoves the entire box of screws, nuts, bolts, and other assorted metal bits of various sizes at his mentor with a huff. Even Mr. Stark admits that it would be pretty boring stuff for a kid to find. Although Peter does confess to using a few spare parts in his refurbishing of tech he’d found in the trash.

“Oh wow, I always wondered what happened to my red Power Ranger!” Peter exclaims when he spots the bright flash of red and white in the box of toys Mr. Stark has just opened, “I was so sure one of the other kids at school had stolen it.”

“I found that guy when I was in Afghanistan,” his mentor divulges quietly.

Peter freezes half way through grabbing the toy. “What?”

“When… When I was kidnapped, I tripped over it in the cave the Ten Rings kept us in. I carried him around with me the whole time after that. That little dude went through the ringer with me then,” Mr. Stark explains ruefully, his eyes locked on the battered action figure.

The expression on Mr. Stark’s face is hard to decipher. It’s sad and haunted, but there’s also some deep fondness as he looks at the plastic Power Ranger. Obviously there are a lot of heavy memories tied to the toy, good and bad.

“You should keep it, Mr. Stark,” Peter says firmly, gently pushing the action figure back into his mentor’s hand.

Surprised, Mr. Stark seems to shake himself out of whatever stupor he’d fallen into. “You sure, kid?”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Stark doesn’t have to say anything, but Peter can tell. His Red Ranger means a lot to his mentor. It’s not something Peter wants to take away from him. Mr. Stark gives him a warm smile, his genuine one that he saves only for a select few people, and sits the toy on his work desk in a place of honor.

“Are you good to keep going?” Peter asks uncertainly.

He’s still not sure where the lines are with his mentor yet. They’ve slowly been getting closer over video calls and texts while Peter was grounded, but they’re both still waffling in that awkward phase when you first start actually getting to know someone.

Mr. Stark gives him a soft smile. “Yeah, kid. I’m fine.”

A bit later, after they’ve gone through and reminisced over all Peter’s baby stuff, Tony pulls a big binder out of one of the bins.

“I loved finding your drawings,” his mentor admits, “Rhodey, well you’d know him as War Machine, hung some up on the fridge as a joke when I showed them to him. And then, before I knew it, I was putting them up there myself.”

“You did what?!” Peter gapped, “Mr. Stark!”

“Oh come on kid, your artwork was adorable. Especially after the Battle of New York and I started finding a lot more Iron Man drawings. I even had a few of them framed,” his mentor grins.

Peter gives him a flat look. “You did not.”

In response, Mr. Stark just raises an eyebrow and pulls a framed colored pencil drawing of Iron Man out of one of the bins. It’s not a bad likeness, done on lined notebook paper depicting Iron Man blasting a giant monster out of the sky. Peter vaguely remembers having drawn the thing when he was bored during math class a few years ago. The teacher confiscated it when she saw he wasn’t paying attention and Peter never did get it back.

The teen hides his red face behind his hands. “Oh my God.”

Iron Man literally put Peter’s childhood artwork up on his fridge like a proud dad. He doesn’t know if he wants to preen or hide from knowing that.

Mr. Stark just laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t be like that, kid. Come on, I can’t not be proud of my kid’s artwork.”

Peter feels himself turning an even deeper shade of red. His kid.

Stuttering out something incomprehensible, Peter reaches for one of his boxes of Mr. Stark’s lost items. Still chuckling, his mentor leans over his shoulder to see what he’s digging through. He makes a surprised noise and reaches down to extract something from the collection.

It’s a very familiar small red screwdriver.

“Well, what do you know? That’s my favorite screwdriver from when I was in MIT. I put DUM-E’s circuit board together with that.”

“Seriously? That’s so cool, Mr. Stark. My parents told me they found it in my crib when I was just a few months old. I used to take it everywhere with me when I was little,” Peter recounts with a small smile.

Mr. Stark’s eyes crinkle, a subtle upward quirk to his lips. “I can see you took good care of it.”

“I’m glad I could finally bring it back to you,” Peter tells him earnestly.

He’ll miss the screwdriver a lot more than he wants to admit, but it’s something so important to Mr. Stark. This is the tool his mentor but his first AI together with. He deserves to finally have it back.

“Keep it, Pete,” Mr. Stark places the tool in Peter’s hand and fold’s the teens fingers over it, “You’ve obviously given it a good home.”

Peter looks up at him. “Are you sure?”

“It couldn’t be in safer hands, kid,” his mentor affirms.

Peter beams in response. He’d been so impatient to meet his soulmate when he was a kid, but now he knows it was well worth the wait. And there’s no one he’d want more as his mentor, father figure, or soulmate than Tony Stark.

@friendly-neighborhood-exchange

#irondad and spiderson #irondad #spiderson #the friendly neighborhood exchange #fanfiction #MCU fanfiction #my writing

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