Peter: MR. STARK PLEASE-

Peter: MR. STARK PLEASE-

Tony: *making a peppermint circle around himself* NO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Peter: I WONT DO IT AGAIN I PROMISE-

Tony: NO, NO HUGS FOR YOU

Rhodey: *turns to the invisible camera*

Rhodey: I sometimes wonder why I still stay here...

Sensory Prompts

cold, smooth slate

smell of smoke in icy air

a shimmer of water droplets in the sun

mint leaves

cold mud

the squeak of an old wooden staircase

paper tearing

light on the bottom of a clear pool

radio static

wind chimes

light reflected on puddles

the green iridescence of a beetle’s wing

slipping into warm water

a glow stick being snapped

night wind carrying the scent of freshly baked bread

wet, rotting leaves

dice against a table

the taste left in your mouth after a dentist’s appointment

a bite of an apple

people talking a room away

walking barefoot on sidewalk

dark, bitter chocolate

dryer lint

plucking a peach off the tree

calloused palm

pine needles

aloe being slathered on a sunburn

eggshells cracking

a dog’s cold nose

porch light in the distance

pouring something into a glass

soft cat feet

scraping at a scab

a deer darting away under the trees

jumping into a cold pool

a paper cut

a too-rich dessert

putting on clean underwear

an unpleasantly damp handshake

sweaty socks

the soft fur behind a dog’s ears

crunching ice at the bottom of the glass

licking your fingers while eating Cheetos

fighting against the urge to cry

floating on your back in water

soreness after exercise

the smell of an elderly relative’s house

bowling alley carpet

fresh paint

fireworks close enough to feel in your chest

the radio playing in the background at a restaurant

watching aquarium fish

a toilet flushing in a public restroom

your breath coming out in clouds in the cold

putting accidentally way too much salt on your food

poking at a bruise

rain on a metal roof

scent of a damp basement

the weird green afterimage after coming in from the snow

getting scratched by briars

a popsicle stick against your tongue

opening a window

walking on gravel

cold pizza

blowing out a candle

a swallow of a carbonated drink

packing peanuts

a bleeding mosquito bite

trying to fall asleep in a too-warm room

loud laughter somewhere else in the neighborhood

a round rock in the palm of your hand

putting your hair in a tight ponytail

steam rising from a bowl of soup

gum with all the flavor chewed out of it

the feel of banana peel

heavy boots

latex gloves

cold coins

an earthworm squirming in your palm

someone pulling away from a hug you wish would last longer

cloudless summer sky

ripping up a tuft of grass

getting water in your eyes

clean sheets

the packaging of snack food you’re eating late at night

cold water down your neck

nasty-tasting medicine

cleaning dirt from under your nails

holding your breath underwater

flies buzzing

thick fog

aluminum foil

the smell of stagnant water

the light of a full moon

bending a green twig in your hands

another person touching your skin with cold hands

motion sickness

tufts of shed fur

hard candy dissolving in your mouth

a feeling of acceleration in your chest

im not a great writer but please ill try my best

I've been seeing this fic prompt thing around a lot and Im bored so I thought I'd give it a go, just slightly modified.

Send me a fic title and a character or ship and I'll write it for you

The characters/ships I'll take are in the tags but y'all already know

What a beautiful day it is to not be a racist and appreciate Michelle Jones as the MCU’s MJ

If I have to see yet another blog/post say with their whole chest “WE LOVE MARY JANE NOT MICHELLE SHE IS NOT MJ ONLY CLASSIC MARY JANE!!!!” while simultaneously loving PS4 Mary Jane (who is nothing like the “classic” MJ) AND TASM MJ (who never even existed in the movies aside from deleted scenes), I’m gonna scream.

Accepting adaptations and changes to MJ’s personality and as a character is all well and good until she’s not longer a white red head?

Hmmm.

Qwhite interesting.

for @lovelyirony because her style inspired me while writing this

The first thing, the first real thing, that Jim notices about Tony Stark is his hands. His hands: not manicured, not delicate, not soft or smooth, not perfect. Not what he expected from a rich kid whose daddy’s money paves the way for every milestone of his life.

No. They’re rough and calloused, with engine grease, of all things, still under his nails, and scars around his knuckles that don’t look like they’re there from fights, but rather from hours of long work resulting in skin that doesn’t heal properly.

They’re mechanic’s hands, worker’s hands, the same hands that Jim, who’s worked on his dad’s car and his momma’s stove all his life, has.

So. Tony Stark, heir to the grand fortune of Stark Industries and son of the American hero–the Merchant of Life–Howard Stark, has something in common with Jim Rhodes, nothing but a momma’s boy from rural Pennsylvania.

Jim keeps that in mind.

The second thing he notices is the way Tony speaks. It’s an observation that comes after a few weeks of knowing him, not within a few seconds, because Tony’s voice changes, and it requires attention to notice. And care. Jim notices because he’s…paying attention. Because he cares. Huh.  

That’s an emotional thread to pull on some other time, he decides.

But Tony’s voice…it surprises him, because the almost childish babble laced with excitement is so different from the sharp quips paired with sharper smiles and different still from the slurred words that hold no meaning but build up so many walls and the furthest from the seductive purr belonging to someone so many years older than Tony.

Tony’s like a parrot, mimicking the tones of those around him, blending in so that no one realizes he doesn’t belong, but Jim does. Because he’s paying attention.

And maybe that’s why he’s the only one who gets to hear the babble, the voice that maybe belongs to the real Tony.

The real Tony.

Jim wants to meet him more than he realizes, or understands.

Why is he so attached?

He’ll figure it out some other time.

The third thing that Jim notices is the way he sleeps, and he thinks that the only reason it took him this long (almost four months) to notice is because Tony doesn’t sleep while he’s awake. When Jim falls asleep, Tony’s awake, or not even in the dorm, and when he wakes up, Tony’s awake, but more often than not, gone already, unless he never came home in the first place.

Home. Huh.

When he comes home–to the dorm–after a late night of studying, Tony’s there. In bed. Asleep.

And it’s so different than Jim was expecting.

Tony’s not sprawled out, like he should be, not taking up space, like he owns it, not acting like a rich kid who’s there because his daddy put him there.

Because he isn’t any of that, and Jim knows that now, but it’s still a shock to come home and see Tony–who’s so much tinier than he thought–curled up on the edge of the bed, knees tucked to his chest, a whole two feet of bed unused behind him.

Like he’s leaving space for someone. Like he’s waiting for someone to slip in behind him and complete the puzzle he’s created. Like he’s waiting for comfort he’s never gotten before.

It…hurts.

And Jim can ignore it, at first.

But then Tony mumbles in his sleep, almost rolling off the bed, and the pieces of the puzzle don’t matter anymore, because Jim slips in to fit them together.

And Tony relaxes in his arms.

And it feels right.

And Jim knows, now, why he was paying attention.