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redstringraven · 2 years

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12 & 14 for the happy lil fic writer guy 🔪🌸

ToT thank you, THE JENN 🖤💜🌻

The Happy Fic Writer Ask Game

12) what is your favorite theme/subject matter/trope/ship to write about? why?

cripes, uh. it feels like a cop-out to say it varies with my mood, but in all honesty the thing i enjoy writing the most kind of depends on where my headspace is and what sorts of 'energy' have my attention. like, i'll have periods where i'm consuming a lot of spooky/horror media and that makes me wanna write drearier things, horror elements, mysteries, or high-suspense sequences. when i'm energetic and happy, i wanna write more wholesome interactions or 'down time' and slice of life things i'd wish i'd gotten to see in canon.

the closest i can get to nailing down a singular, consistent thing is that i'm a sucker for found family, as well as giving platonic/familial bonds just as much (if not more) exploration as romantic ones. ;-;

i dunno, i think i really enjoy writing pretty much anything that's not hopeless, grimdark angst where there's no light at the end of the tunnel.

14) share a snippet.

here is a rough, unedited snippet from the next chapter of It All Starts with a Dead Girl, which i am slowly pecking away at my writing brain is just big time struggling right now.

Leo turned, and he started down the next hall. Mikey’s footsteps followed behind him. Then they sped up, and his brother glided to his side. “--hey, Leo?”

“Yeah?”

“...are you okay?”

Despite expecting that question, he’d hoped that--maybe--Mikey wouldn’t ask it. Leo frowned and kept walking. His eyes dropped to the floor ahead of them. Mikey continued, “because… you’re acting kinda weird again. --Not like before, though!” He held up his hands. “Now it’s more like… I dunno. You’re real… jumpy? I guess? And distracted a lot. And you’re never distracted. I should know!”

“It’s…” Leo's voice faded. He slowed to a stop, and his fingers closed into loose fists at his sides. Pulling away from his family, withdrawing into his own head, and creating an echo chamber for that voice. It’d made things… it’d made him worse. If he started to do it again, what would he have learned? And what would he be risking?

Leo took in a slow breath. “...I’ve… been seeing someone.”

“...whoa, like a date?! Because that’s--”

“--what? --No.” Leo scoffed, and he gave his hand a dismissive flick. “Like. …--like a ghost.”

Mikey stared at him. His brows tensed, as though trying to decide whether to be skeptical or if he needed to start freaking out. “...iiiiiis this some kinda revenge-prank you and Raph are pulling?”

“Mikey, I’m serious.” Leo turned to face him in full. “Ever since I got back to New York… --it’s hard to explain. I-I’ve just felt like there’s something ‘here’. And I keep thinking that I’m seeing this… --this girl. But she’s always gone before I can get a better look, and I’ve only seen her clearly once.”

Mikey’s expression became harder to read, which did nothing to settle the anxiety bubbling in Leo's chest. He looked down.

“Sometimes when I go back into my room, things have been moved or knocked over,” Leo continued. “It’s. It’s usually books, but one time it was my photo album. I thought it was Klunk at first, but he can’t pull things out of my shelves--and there’s no way he could have reached the middle ones. --Or candles will go out while I’m meditating. Or if I shut my room door, it opens on its own. That pipe that just landed on my arm--I thought it was a hand--it looked like a--...”

Saying it all out loud, he became painfully aware of how crazy it sounded. “I thought. --I thought there might be something in the reservoir we hadn’t noticed. But…” After a beat’s hesitation, he lifted his eyes to meet Mikey’s again. “There’s nothing here. ...and none of you have said anything. Or. Seen anything, or.”

His voice faded. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that he’d actually just said all of that out loud, or Mikey’s overwhelming stillness. ...Maybe he could pass it off as a prank after all. Laugh, cuff Mikey on the arm, and hope it'd be forgotten by morning. Shell, Don was still healing--he didn't need--

--Mikey’s hand took his shoulder. He held it gently, but with grip enough that it grounded him again. “Hey. …thanks for telling me.”

#;meme: the happy fic writer ask game #tmnt 2003 #[ i'll throw it in the tag since there's a snippet jfkldsjkfld ]#[ THANK U AGAIN THE JENN ]#;letters

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cinnamonrollstark · 5 years

Text

Irondad Bingo: Trope: Protective Tony

Wow, thanks for the repost @irondadbingo!! Hope yall like the last one. If you haven't read it yet, do, because this is the second one in this little mini series! Enjoy!

◇◇◇

Peter's been sleeping in Tony's bed. He refuses to leave, get up, or to eat. He's still and unshakable, and hasn't cried since Tony picked him up. It scares the man, even though he knows that greif is different from person to person, he wants Peter to feel free to express what he needs to.

Periodically, Tony comes in with a drink and a snack- neither of which the boy consumes. He's focused on the blue walls of Tony's bedroom, breath still and concentrated.

"Kiddo?" Tony asks at the door, not picking up any real movement from Peter. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Just the slight movement of Peter's head, the almost nonexistent shake of curls. "Okay." He says, crossing the threshold, over to the bed, where he sits next to Pete. He rests a gentle hand between the boy's shoulder blades, sinking with each breath.

No words are enough to fix this. I'm sorries and condolences do nothing to mend him. The only thing that has made the slightest impact of the kid in the past three days is contact. Hugs, ruffles of the hair, and at night, being sandwiched between Tony and Pepper.

Tony was never a snuggler before Pepper, but when he started having nightmares, the warm form of her body molded around his was the only thing that could save him. He understands that now, as he pats Peter's back, occassionally running a hand through his hair. It's a very intimate thing, but in a very innocent way. Intimate in the way a newborn is as it rests against a parent's chest, feeling the heartbeat of a mother or father against their own.

Tony can feel Peter's heart, and he's grateful. Peter is alive. He cannot fathom how he or anyone else might've managed if he'd been with May that morning.

His heart breaks for the child. May was a kind and patient soul, a good mother- even only as a role she'd stepped into, an aunt in a parental set of shoes- and this loss is greater than Tony could ever wish Peter to outlive. He is small and shaky, a child taking his first steps in a world without one of the closest people to him.

Somewhere in another room, CNN drones on, some famous Republican and some famous Democrat arguing over something unimportant. Tragedy puts it all in perspective; everything outside this world is menial, a grain of sand against the asteroid-sized hurt.

"Peter, buddy. You've got to eat something," he whispers, expecting resistance. "I know how this feels, but you are here, Peter, and because you are here, you need to take care of yourself."

Peter rolls sideways against the comforter of the bed and props his head against his hand. His elbow makes a dent in the fabric.

"Okay," he resigns. "Okay. I'll eat."

He doesn't look too enthused, but he accepts Tony's word, and slowly gathers himself up and out of the bed. He stands in front of the blinds, and soft afternoon light creates a halo over his chestnut hair.

Tony watches him from the safety of his pillows and is amazed at his strength. From legs to belly to shoulders to neck, he holds himself upright, and manages to stay that way.

"On one condition," adds Peter, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "we go out somewhere."

°°°

Tony had definitely been suprised by the suggestion, but agreed all the same. They pull up out front and wait a moment before exiting the car. Peter's shaky in his seat, likely nervous about being in a car.

"What is this place?" Asks Tony, because he's lived in this city forever and he's never seen this resteraunt.

"A thai food restaurant. I haven't been in a while."

And Tony's not opposed, because honestly, if he thinks about it, pad thai doesnt sound so bad. When the sit down inside, he notes the lively lighting- bright and colorful. It seems like a great environment to be in tonight, and he feels that it will cheer him up.

They flip through there menus, and although he's not sure why, Tony gets the sense that's something's wrong. Peter frowns at his menu, either in concentration, or maybe he's just upset.

There's an item on the menu he just knows will make Peter laugh, thank god. "Pete," he starts. "Look at this."

Tony flips the menu around and points to the dish, giggling. "I could totally go for some Larb right now, what about you?"

At first Peter smiles, but the expression falters and crumples after a brief second.

"Oh, Peter." Tony grabs his hand across the booth, squeezes the soft skin. "Don't cry, buddy."

He instantly regrets it, although Peter doesn't really seem to mind. He's too focused on reeling it in, but Tony wants to tell him to forget that, to go ahead and cry if he needs to.

Peter wipes his eyes, smearing tears across his cheekbones. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and let's it out. "I'm sorry," he says, hiccuping against the ball in his throat.

"Don't apologize. You do what you need to do."

"I know," sighs Peter, sniffing. "But I don't want to cry right now. I want to feel something other than sad or numb, and that's all I've got right now."

Tony gathers his thoughts for a moment before he knows what to do. Peter's been singing this song, nonstop for the past few months, a relentless tune that plays in the back of Tony's mind whenever he sees the kid.

"What are you doing?" Peter asks in response to Tony stepping up on top of his chair, and then the table.

"I try to say goodbye and I choke," Tony starts. Peter is instantly embarrassed.

"Mr. Stark. Get down."

"I try to walk away and I stumble,"

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. "Oh my God."

"Though I ate a pie and its clear,"

"Those aren't the words."

"My world crumbles when you are not here!" Tony puts his hands on his hips. "Get up here."

"Tony. No."

"Tony yes. Goodby and I choke," He continues, louder now. By now, a good lot of people are staring. Waiters and waitresses are not amused.

Peter resigns to the fact that he has to join in. He stands on his booth and sings with Tony,

"Try to walk away and I stumble,"

And they're loud, now, probably too loud. Tony continues to sing the incorrect lyrics but Peter adds, "and though I try to hide it, it's clear, my world crumbles when you are not here."

"Sir," says a waiter, hands planted angrily at the small of her back. "I'm going have to ask the two of you to step down and exit the resteraunt."

Tony steps down and holds up a hand. "You finish singing." He looks to the waiter, who is annoyingly taller than him. "Let him sing."

"Sir!" Says the waiter, as Peter finished. "My wo-o-r-ld it crumbles, when you are not here."

When he's done, Pete looks down, satisfied. "Its time the two of you leave. Now."

And that same faltering, from before, that spark of joy that flits out of those big brown eyes, and it's the waiter's fault. Tony's fist rises and plants itself squarely under the man's nose before he can stop it.

As he tries to recover, Tony watches the light filter back into the kids eyes, and he pulls him off the table.

"Let's get out of here," he says, his hand gripped around Peter's exiting the door and laughing as it clinks in goodbye.

When they get to the safety of their car, Peter smiles at him.

"Well," he says, "I certainly didn't larb him."

And he laughs, and it's a glorious sound, a miracle to hear considering recent events. When Tony catches that fleck of golden hope hidden in Peter's irises, he hopes it never fades, and if it does, that he is not the cause.

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