ahspidey-moved

[ahspidey-moved]

i'm probably going to end up moving my entire account to a new tumblr later today??

[ahspidey-moved]

The Lincoln Assassination is really just wild if you think about it for a moment. The younger brother of one of the most famous actors in the country- himself a famous actor and heartthrob in his own right- killed the President in a theatre and yelled “Sic semper tyrannis,” a line often associated with Brutus, a character that his brother had famously played.

Like, imagine if Liam Hemsworth killed the Prime Minister of Australia at a red carpet movie premiere or something and yelled “I went for the head,” and Chris had to leave the Avengers press tour to tell everyone, “I swear I had nothing to do with this.” Imagine how weird that would be.

[ahspidey-moved]

[ahspidey-moved]

When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.

[ahspidey-moved]

all-american breakfast

(fluff, pre-stevetony, irondad)

It takes almost eighteen months after the Battle of New York for Tony to break and invite the Avengers to live in the Tower.

It’s not that he doesn’t want them there, though that’s the excuse he parades around to SHIELD and Pepper and anyone else prying into his business. I’m just not a team player, he says, sliding his purple shades onto his nose. I like my privacy.

It doesn’t really work too well, considering that that excuse hasn’t passed muster for almost three years now, since Peter came into Tony’s life. His mother was a one-night stand during Tony’s ‘oh fuck I’m dying of palladium poisoning’ phase, and she had been ready to put Peter up for adoption before Tony stepped in. Sometimes - more often than he’d care to admit - he wonders if it was the right decision to keep him. Surely, there are better parents out there in the world, people more stable and loving who would be able to give Peter an immeasurably better childhood than a former-alcoholic, narcissistic superhero.

But then Peter does something like mash a plate of peas to the ground or toss his plastic truck out the window or slobber all over the Iron Man suit, and Tony knows there’s no way he could have done anything else. Regardless of how good a father is, how perfect or imperfect he may be, how could he give this up? Peter, smiling like that, dimples peeking out from his fat little cheeks as he babbles on, half in Italian and half in English, waving his little fuzzy ducky in his fist.

Keep reading

[ahspidey-moved]

Far from home (but close to my heart)

[ahspidey-moved]

☆ she got used to all the swinging ☆

[ahspidey-moved]

They’re super cute 🥰

[ahspidey-moved]

[ahspidey-moved]

Just a Queens guy🕷

[ahspidey-moved]

have some upside-down spidey

[ahspidey-moved]

about to add onto the list of fics i'm writing because apparently i have no self preservation instincts

[ahspidey-moved]

blues to brought up reds (helpful in scenes with faces) by winston-wilson

problem with bringing out reds in blue-ish dark scenes? this psd should help you. all you have to do is manipulate the saturation (shade and vibration) of the reds.

[ download ]

[ahspidey-moved]

today i wrote another 2k for tns & i still won't tell anyone the plot or Actual Title, because i am a coward

i write too much and then chicken out of posting anything and that is exactly why things we've seen doesn't have three chapters yet + tns hasn't been posted at all

[ahspidey-moved]

The air in the hotel room was sticky, soupy, and cloyingly hot. The ancient HVAC system below the window was really only there for appearances sake, apparently, as a note taped firmly onto the plastic read “DO NOT TURN ON A/C” with a mocking little smiley face that Tony had promptly called a rude name.

He’d fiddled with it anyway, being the rule breaker he was. It had turned on, wheezed arthritically, and blown out a pathetic wisp of slightly warm air before giving up the ghost.

The cheap double bed he was laying on smelled a little musty from the perpetual damp of the room.

That’s what he got for not planning the trip like Pepper had told him to. He’d figured it’d be more fun, and certainly more his and Peter’s style, to just drive when they wanted to drive and stop when they wanted to stop. It had led them to this cheap motel in the middle of nowhere at one in the morning, Peter practically drooling on his shoulder as they’d checked in.

Now, however, Peter was not asleep. He, like Tony, had a hard time sleeping when it was hot, and in an attempt to distract himself after his second cold shower of the night had failed to cool him off sufficiently, he had taken to listing things that were cooler than this hotel room.

It had stopped being funny after about the first three items—a sauna, hot yoga, and the Amazon in July—but Tony was still laughing in his heat-induced daze as the items became more and more outrageous.

“Being burned alive,” Peter droned where he was sprawled shirtless on his own bed. Tony couldn’t blame him; he was down to his tank top and probably would have forgone that if he didn’t care about Peter seeing his scars.

“The center of the earth’s core.” Tony peeled one eye open, snorting. Peter’s hair was a riot of fluffy curls at the moment—the humidity and Peter constantly running his hands through it making it bigger than Tony had ever seen. He could see the vague outline of Peter in the dim light that the cheap curtains didn’t block out, could see his face and chest glimmering with sweat.

While Peter’s inability to thermoregulate normally kicked them in the butt in winter, it was no less true that Peter’s body was just as incapable at cooling him down as it was at warming him up. The poor kid must have been even more miserable than Tony, and doing his best to hide it with this increasingly outlandish list.

It was unbearably hot.

Tony stood as Peter expanded to “Hell, probably.”

They’d gotten ice from the machine down the hall no less than three times, but it kept melting so quickly they never really got to enjoy it. But Tony took two of the overly bleached washcloths from the neat stack and dunked them in the melted ice water. It was blissfully cool and he splashed some on his face before going back to his bed, taking a second and plopping one the dripping clothes over Peter’s face, cutting him off halfway through “the surface of the sun.”

Peter gasped, then let out a half-groan, half-yawn of pleasure, wiping his face and neck down with the rag. Tony positioned his own behind his neck, not caring that he was soaking the pillow in the process.  

He started dozing off after that, exhaustion and the slight drop in temperature making sleep seem more attainable. Peter must have thought the same, because his incredibly long list came to an end.

Just as sleep was about to claim him, the joke of an air conditioning unit ground on with a loud bang, making both of them jump. Peter snickered a little, turning over onto his side while Tony muttered an imprecation, hoping sleep was still lingering close by.

It was not to be. After just another minute, Peter quietly said, “Mr. Stark,” in a tone that suggested Tony was not going to like what came next.

He grunted in response.

“It’s blowing hot air.”

“No.” It wasn’t disbelief, but pure denial. It isn’t blowing hot air if you tell yourself it isn’t.

“It is, Tony.”

Tony star-fished on his bed for a moment, staring up at the ceiling.

“Ugh. Fine. We’re being held captive by some undercover super villains and they’re trying to boil us to death, that’s fine.” Tony rolled to his feet, grimacing at the feel of the carpet. “Get your travel size toolkit that I know you have cause you’re a massive geek.”

“Are you telling me you don’t travel with a toolkit?” Peter asked, pushing himself up, too.

Of course he did. He was paranoid. “Yours is closer.”

He flicked on a lamp, scowling at the traitorous A/C. Peter dug in his backpack for a moment before presenting Tony with a little set of mismatched tools. Tony considered for a second, then waved him off.

“You know how to fix an air conditioner,” Tony reminded him. Peter blinked, not like he’d forgotten, but like he figured Tony would rather get this done fast than use it as an opportunity to practice his repairing skills.

“Um. Ok.”

Peter dragged the tiny table out of the way, then knelt down by the unit, which was still growling horribly as it blew warm air into their faces. Tony opted to pull out a flashlight and give Peter better light, as an excuse to hover.

He watched Peter fiddle around in the guts of the HVAC, examining wires and bolts, one eye on what he was doing and one eye on the kid. His hair was plastered to his neck in some places, sweat making it darker than usual. He was biting his lip as he concentrated.

Tony didn’t think he would even pass on being stuck in this purgatorial motel in the middle of freaking nowhere if it meant spending time with Peter. Peter had a way of making everything better, a joy in his essence that even made sitting on the questionably clean carpet in the middle of the night not all that bad.

Peter let out a little triumphant noise as he found the problem.

Tony was stupidly proud of him. For everything and nothing. For existing.

“Why are you staring at me?” Peter asked as he spat a compact wrench into his hand from where he’d been holding it between his teeth.

Tony shut his jaw, his teeth clacking together, not realizing that he had been staring.

“Where’d you get the scar?” he asked. He’d noticed it earlier, when Peter had come out of his second shower without the t-shirt he’d been wearing before. It was jagged, but small, just around the curve of his side, above his hip.

Peter lifted his arm and glanced down at it. He turned back to the unit, his hands working confidently as he spoke.

“My first attempt at stopping a mugging,” he admitted, smiling a little.

“You got stabbed?” Tony asked, surprised.

“No,” Peter snorted, rolling his yes. “I tried to be all cool and aloof as I swung away, ran into the broken railing of a fire escape.”

“Ouch,” Tony said blandly, not even attempting to hide his smirk.

“Yeah, the lady I was saving was really nice about it, but her little kid thought it was hilarious.”

Tony could picture it: Peter’s well-meaning stuttering, over-eagerness turning into forced cockiness to try to emulate his heroes. He was such an adorable doofus.

“Where’d you go?” Tony asked suddenly. “When stuff like that happened, before I found you?”

Peter shrugged. “Nowhere. I’d just put Neosporin on it, stick a bandage over it, let it heal. Try to hide the bloodstains from May.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

Peter grimaced. “She thought I was getting in fights at school. Must have called them half a dozen times trying to figure it out. Eventually I got better at not getting hurt. And better at hiding it when I did.”

Tony watched him, tried to picture it. A little fourteen-year-old kid, biting down on his sleeve to muffle his cries of pain as he cleaned himself up with fumbling, bloodstained hands.

There were a lot of times when Tony regretted ever tracking the kid down, but this was not one of them.

“One more thing,” Peter muttered to himself, setting down his screwdriver. He raised a flat hand and gave the A/C a sharp smack. It shuddered into life, still a little loud, but the air that began pouring out was deliciously cold.

Peter grinned and immediately leaned forward, basking in it.

“Hey, way to go, buddy,” Tony said, clapping Peter on the shoulder and then wrinkling his nose at how sticky with sweat Peter’s skin was.

“Bed time?” Peter asked hopefully.

“Bed time,” Tony agreed, heaving himself to his feet. “And tomorrow night we’re staying in a freaking Marriott.”

Peter collapsed on his hard, double bed and mumbled an assent, already mostly asleep now that the room wasn’t two degrees shy of the boiling point.

Tony smiled, ruffled Peter’s sweaty hair then pulled the sheet over him to keep him from getting too cold. “Night, kiddo.”

[ahspidey-moved]

I’m waiting for a reply from a magazine about designing their next cover, do you have any winteriron headcanons to help relieve the stress?

Tony has always been good at Hair Stuff, mostly because he hung out with Jan Van Dyne a lot when they were kids and she’d often make him do her hair while she read through her magazines. Anyway- it means he knows how to do pretty decent braids and can give a mean fucking head massage, although he doesn’t really have any excuse to show off his skills these days because now Jan’s hair is too short to mess around with. But then! Bucky comes into the tower!!! And at first he’s really quiet and he won’t really talk to anyone unless they speak to him first, and Steve just asks them all to take it easy around him and give him some time, so Tony’s like aight whatevs and mostly just goes about his business.

Until like one night a few weeks in, and he’s gone up to the communal floor for another cup of coffee and he spots Bucky already sat at the kitchen counter, huddled over a book and writing down notes in a notebook as he goes. They say hello to one another and smile, but Bucky looks like he’s busy so Tony doesn’t push for another conversation. He can’t help but notice, however, that every few seconds, Bucky keeps having to push his hair back out of his eyes and curl it around his ears, every shift of his head meaning that more falls into his face. He’s barely noticing that he’s doing it, but Tony pulls a face because it must be annoying right? 

“Don’t you want a hair tie?” He ends up blurting over the rim of his coffee, and Bucky looks up at him with a small jump, brow creasing. 

“Huh?”

Tony just gestures toward his hair. “To keep it all off your face. It must drive you nuts-- if you want to borrow some, I think I’ve got a few in my workshop.”

Bucky pushes a hand absently through his hair, humming in agreement. Then he shrugs. “Nah, it’s alright. I, uh-- I don’t know how to tie my hair up, exactly. Never done it before.” He smiles tightly. “I sort of learn to live with it, you know.”

That sounds very Winter-Soldiery of him; just pushing past any discomfort or irritation, because it wasn’t important. Just a vessel. Tony frowns. It’s a small thing, he knows, but it’s the principal, really. Bucky shouldn’t have to just live with discomfort. “I’ll tie it up for you,” he says casually, waggling his fingers, “I know what I’m doing. I’ll teach you.”

He really doesn’t expect Bucky to agree. Bucky rarely lets anyone other than Steve touch him, and even then, it’s pretty fleeting. And for a moment, Bucky certainly seems ready to deny the request. But then he sags a little, blinking once or twice before shrugging. “If you wouldn’t mind, that’d be a real help. Thank you.”

Tony only allows himself to be surprised for a second-- he doesn’t want Bucky to think that he’s hesitant to follow through, after all. He keeps it simple; just a simple bun at the back of his head, and makes sure that his touch is gentle and he doesn’t tug at any of the hair. Bucky stays very still the whole time while Tony natters on, saying how he’d look great with a french braid, but of course, that’s a task for later. When he’s shown Bucky how to twist the tie and make it stay in his own hair, Bucky thanks him, and Tony leaves. He expects that to be it.

And for a few days, it is. Bucky has learned the basic ponytail and bun from Tony, and walks around the tower with his hair pushed back off his face more often than not. Tony thinks it looks cute on him, and he can’t help but feel glad he’s shown Bucky a way to make life just a little bit easier for himself. And there’s a good 30% increase in eye contact that Bucky makes with him when they’re going about their day, which makes Tony kinda proud too. 

And then, one night about a week later when they’re all sat watching Tomb Raider, Bucky in his little armchair in the corner of the room, he points to Lara Croft and then looks at Tony. “That’s a french braid, right?”

It’s the first thing he’s said all night, and Tony startles a little as all eyes in the room turn to him in confusion, unsure why Bucky is asking him that. Tony just nods. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

Bucky looks back to the TV, and then runs a hand through his hair. The he grins, pulling the hair-tie from off his wrist and waving it in the air. “Can you give me one?” He asks, his smile small and his voice a little nervous. 

Tony doesn’t think twice. “Of course I can, what do you take me for?” 

The whole team is sort of gaping at the two of them-- Tony can admit, even he’s surprised at this turn of events. Bucky doesn’t ask for things; not usually, and especially not from anyone who isn’t Steve. So this is rather out of the blue, to say the least. Not that Tony’s complaining, mind you. He gets the chance to play with Bucky’s hair, and he’s not gonna lie, that was a thought that made him stupidly happy. 

So he walks around to the back of Bucky’s arm chair and then runs his fingers gently through Bucky’s hair. He’s just washed it, so it’s soft and curly around his shoulders. Smells faintly like citrus. It’s lovely, and he spends a little too long using his fingers to ‘comb out the kinks’. Not that Bucky seems to mind. He relaxes onto the chair and closes his eyes, pushing his head back into Tony’s hold. Across the room, Tony catches Steve’s eye. The man raises an eyebrow in silent question, but Tony just shrugs and then begins to separate Bucky’s hair.

He works slower than he needs to, taking the time to run his fingers  over Bucky’s scalp. Once or twice, he feels the other man shiver just a little underneath him. They don’t say much, not until Tony’s finished and Bucky’s hair is pulled back into what he can firmly say is a damn good french braid. “There we go,” he declares when he’s finished, patting Bucky on the top of his head and then grinning, “Lara Croft indeed.”

Bucky smiles at him-- not a small, nervous one, not a tight faked one-- a real, toothy grin that makes Tony’s stomach do a flip. “How do I look?” He asks, framing his face and fluttering his lashes exaggeratedly. Tony snorts.

“Like you’re ready to go raid some tombs,” he says, and Bucky nods in approval, before shuffling up a little on the armchair and patting it with his metal hand. He looks up at Tony in question. “Care to sit with me?” He asks, before saying in a voice that’s a bit quieter, “I have no idea what the fuck is happening in this film. I think I need a translator.”

Tony laughs, and then turns and plonks himself next to Bucky. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, so their bodies are touching as they lean back. Tony watches the other man’s side profile, admiring his own handiwork, and the man that said handiwork is attached to. Bucky’s jaw could cut glass, and Tony figures (purely hypothetically of course) that the stubble littering his cheeks would give a wicked beard burn. 

He leans a little close to murmur in Bucky’s ear. “Next time, we’re trying out a waterfall braid.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Alright. I trust you to make it look amazing, obviously.”

Tony tries not to look too deeply into the words, but the show of trust, even if it is only to do with Bucky’s hair choices, feels like a big step. Tony is just happy that Bucky has faith in him at all. It’s nice. It means progress.

“Obviously,” he agrees, and bumps their shoulders together before turning back to the TV, their knees just brushing lightly against one another.

[ahspidey-moved]

thinking about potential mcu meeting