paradiseinternet

[paradiseinternet]

idk when the next chapter is going to be out, but it's going to be LONG. I mean, I just got to the meat and it's already 5k words. I won't be surprised if it reaches 10k or higher.

Wish me luck lol

[paradiseinternet]

Weirdest thing just happened. I was mapping out a timeline to determine the current day in the story and how far away Tony's birthday is, right? I determined it was May 15th (for the chapter I'm currently working on). I go to write "Chapter 7, May 15" but then Word auto-fills for me "May 15, 2025."

I was like, wah?

Guys.

ITS MAY 15!!! Weird ahh sht.

[paradiseinternet]

I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter Six

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 3.1k

triggers: nothing specific

author's note: another chapter in the bag :)

Chapter Six: Your Future Isn't Mine, Yet They Intertwine

Clenching onto your possessions is nothing more than a reflex from the years of living in New York city. Pickpockets and everyday crooks snatch possessions regardless of the time of day. Though it is no doubt that evil grows denser as the moon rises. With summer approaching, the sun stays out longer; but nine in the evening is still rather late and so by the time you got off work, you were walking alone in the dark. You are no stranger to this predicament and know what alleys to avoid, shortcuts to take. Majority of these commutes back to your studio go without a hitch, tonight is no different. Apart from the ever-insistent feeling of those eyes watching your every move, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

Stepping into the complex you made the final stretch to your studio but taper when seeing another one of your neighbors seated on the ground with her head buried in her hands and a shake in her shoulders. You can hear the screaming and crying coming from the other side of the wall she leans on.

Hesitant about poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, you quietly lean on the wall she’s up against and slowly slide down to sit next to her. Her shoulders go ridged once realizing someone is sitting beside her, but from this close proximity you can hear the shallow sniffs from within her caging arms.

“Bridgett?” Voice like butter and smooth to the touch, you notice her visibly relax when recognizing your voice. “How are you holding up?”

Bridgett Davis, 32 years old and a mother to a five-month-old baby boy. She didn’t want kids, but accidents happened and now she has one. After realizing that she was pregnant she tried to find the father, but he disappeared before even realizing that Bridgett was pregnant in the first place. In the eight months she carried Rody Bridgett managed to get fired from her job and hasn’t been able to get one since. With Rody being premature he required more medical care and wasn’t able to be brought home until three weeks after birth. The doctors and nurses were expecting a longer stay, so when the baby boy was doing better than they anticipated, they praised Bridgett for giving birth to such a strong fighter. However, postpartum depression has really been hitting her and it’s not necessarily uncommon to find her in the hallway.

 Answering your question she shook her head in a feeble attempt at saying ‘not good.’ Having never had kids of your own, you can’t even try to understand what she’s going through and therefore can only provide support.

“Am, Am I a bad mother?” Bridgett sobs.

Immediately your eyes widen and go to comfort her, “No, no. You’re just stressed. You’re doing your best and that’s what’s important.”

Lightly rubbing her back, the two of you sit in the hallway for some time before she lifts her head and wipes the tears off her face. Her brown eyes are bloodshot, and cheeks rosy red. Bridgett’s eyes look at the wall parallel to the two of you, but obviously her mind is somewhere else.

Taking a deep breath she whispers, “I don’t know what to do. He’s just so, so much. I don’t think I can handle him.”

Not knowing what to say, you choose to keep quiet, letting her vent.

“Just today I looked at him, but he didn’t look like my baby, it was like I forgot what my sweet boy looked like,” she continues. “How does someone just forget a face?”

There is little you think you can do in this situation, so you offer something that you’re not entirely sure you can fulfill.

“Would you like a break? I could, well, y’know. Look after him for a few hours after work or something?” You suggest.

Tilting her head to look at you she responds, “I can’t accept that.”

“You don’t have to. I could just take him, and you can act like it was a surprise,” you offer a reassuring smile.

Scanning your face for any deception or hesitance, she soon succumbs to the idea and provides a nod. “Would tomorrow work? When do you get off?”

For the next few minutes the two of you lay out a plan of action for tomorrow’s endeavors. You’ll pick up Rody after work around 5:30 and the two of your will spend some time together—maybe going out for a walk (assuming your feet aren’t killing you) or play with some rattles. Bridgett said she’ll put together a bag for everything Rody might need, which will be picked up at the same time as Rody. You’ll babysit him for about five hours (which isn’t a lot but all you can offer) then give him back.

You can handle this. You’re doing your over-stressed neighbor a favor for the sake of her sanity. And who knows, maybe some good karma will come your way.

Waking up the next morning wasn’t nearly as terrible as normal. However, waking up before your alarm is a bit irritating. Nevertheless, this provides you with ample time to formulate a plan. Initially you had set your alarm 30 minutes earlier than usual to give you time to decided what your “rules” for Stark were going to be. But since you woke up another ten minutes before your alarm, now you have 40 minutes to get your shit together.

The overarching goal is to get him to be uninterested in you. Since meeting him the second time you have come up with three ways to get rid of him and another reason that appeared naturally. The first course of action is to be generally unpleasant to be around. Although you don’t think your personality is necessarily appalling, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to highlight some of your more . . . interesting qualities. The second section is similar to the first in which you then showcase your questionable personal traits. Like your unique hobbies, bland social life, and rude demeanor (granted, you don’t consider yourself rude, but for Stark you might as well be an ass). However, the final ploy you had in store has unfortunately already failed for the most part—to be stubborn. You didn’t realize that your soulmate was going to be just as irking as you, so there’s no point trying any harder than you already are when knowing he’s able to counter. As for the naturally occurring attribute to get rid of him . . . it is in the process of falling apart. You didn’t realize you looked older than you are and that he didn’t bother looking into you. So, if you constantly remind him of the age gap between the two of you, maybe he can be “smoked” out (embarrassed) and decide to break everything off. This will prove to be difficult in time, however, because he seems to have already accepted the age gap. And again, you don’t mind older guys, but nearly a 20 year gap is absurd, so maybe emphasizing the distaste would work in your favor.

Now with the game plan in motion, it’s time to create some rules to that very same game. Which is a bit more difficult than one might imagine. It’s easy to know what one wants, but to know what one doesn’t want is a different can of worms.

After a moment of staring intently at the ceiling an idea came to you. Physical touch. You don’t want physical touch. This is because if he’s so inclined to—damn it, you’re going to need a pen and paper to write this all down.

Getting up from your warm make-shift bed, you search around and find a pencil along with a discarded envelope that originally carried your water bill. Then you get back into bed in hopes of feeling the same warmth only to be met with a cold mattress.

Sighing defeatedly, you sit up and wrap yourself in the few blankets you have then begin to write. Alright, now where were you . . . right. Physical touch.

He’s keen on getting to know you, and the only way he’s realized that is happening is by becoming friends. Obviously, there is an ulterior motive because this is Tony Stark. So, the best way to thwart his efforts is to apply the unspoken rules of being friends onto the relationship. Which means no touchy-touchy. Friends don’t typically cuddle, and they certainly don’t kiss. Sometimes they will hug, but he doesn’t need to know what you mean by “no physical touch.” If anything, the initial interpretation would be no touching at all. So, as long as he interprets it as that and not as “nothing that is too weird between friends” then you’ll be fine.

With the first point comes the second that is building off of the first: “No woo-ing.” Friends don’t try to court each other unless they never intended to be just friends in the first place (which now that you think about it, this second rule might not be on stable ground). It’s a known fact that friends don’t let friends bring home ugly men, and although Stark is by no means ugly, he, as a friend, will not be allowed over to your apartment for so many reasons that you could probably feel yourself burn calories just by thinking about it. Although you know this will not stop him from trying to make advances at you, it will however, provide you with a little leverage if the need comes.

The third point took a couple minutes of you rolling it over in your head. It’s definitely going to be a little hard on the both of you, but you think it’s necessary. “No bringing up soul-related affairs” is the third rule. This includes things like fate and the marks the two of you have. Not discussing things like that will probably be more of a pain in the ass for you, but it feeds into your delusion that the two of you can’t possibly be soulmates. However, this guideline does come with an essential advantage. If nothing about soulmates can be discussed, then the two of you are forced to converse in a way that puts friendship on trial. Simply going out with the hope of becoming friends doesn’t mean there will be a connection worth pursuing. Pursuing something that holds no ground or commonalities is a toxic connection and cannot be entertained. No friendship means no contact, which means no soulmate, which then results in your peace of mind.

At last, the final rule. Something so important that if at any point it is threatened, you will high tail out of the country by any means necessary.

The Public Eye.

There are three things in life that terrify you: hurting those around you, opening your heart to the one person you truly hate, and being scrutinized at every corner. You are not one to confine to the whispers behind your back, it honestly doesn’t bother you. However, if everyone is saying the same thing, it is bound to be true.

Merely entertaining the thought of your every movement being watched by the press is enough to get your heart to start thumping louder. You’re not entirely sure what you’ll do if the day ever comes when the public gaze turns to you due to your affiliation with the richest man in the world—although you know with an absolute burden of truth that if that time comes, you will do everything in your power to get as far away from Stark as possible. Even if leaving the country is the only answer.

And there it is, your terms and guidelines for how the arrangement will work along with some possible ways of getting rid of him. All that’s left is texting the rules to Stark before you go to work.

Glancing at your alarm, you take note that there was still ten minutes before you needed to begin your morning routine. Reaching over onto the ground, you unplug your flip phone from the charger and mentally prepare yourself for the torture that is texting on a small device. The smart thing to do would be to take a picture of the notes you have been jotting down and send them, but unfortunately something is wrong with your phone camera, and it only shows a black screen. Which then leads you to cursing at the small letter/number keys and thinking back to his phone. It was easy to enter your information in with his phone, all the buttons were in the scream, somehow.

Grumbling to yourself you sent the message and glancing at the one he initially sent you.

You know who I am, the screen read.

His contact’s name was just a reflection of the jumble of numbers tied to his phone, and although you wanted to keep him as far away and detached as possible, you couldn’t help yourself when given the opportunity to give him a name.

So, after fumbling with the keys again you gave him a name that brought a satisfied smile to your face: Homewrecker.

Quite fitting all things considered, even if not in the affair sense, he still ruined a family. Your family.

Your phone buzzed just as you hit save for the new nickname.

Although it was rather early in the morning (almost 7:30 to be precise), it would seem this “friend” of yours was something like that of an early bird.

His response was right below your text, and it read: Is there room for negotiation?

For the second time that morning, your heart got louder—except this time in excitement. Maybe all this can be swept under the carpet a lot quicker than you anticipated.

As a response you decided to give something that could be written off as false hope: For what term in particular?

All of them, was his quick reply.

Your smile widened with malicious intent, No.

The instantaneous response you expected was more drawn out compared to his previous texts. Maybe you scared him off, pushed him into conditions he couldn’t comply with.

What is the penalty for breaking a rule? Read the text that eventually came in.

Your response was coordinated and tilted in your favor knowing no excuse he had could even be good enough: Failure to comply results in the termination of this friendship without a proper excuse.

Another moment of hesitance at his end then the phone buzzed again, and his response was not what you expected: I’ll have to take this up with my attorney.

What?

A million thoughts went through your head. Was he joking? Is this a joke? Is he just messing around with you? Is he serious? Your brain runs through a variety of ways to ask the same thing.

You don’t have money to talk to an attorney. You don’t have money period. This is not going how you wanting it to go, but then again, you didn’t exactly plan for this conversation to happen. Really you just assumed he’d be compliant considering he’s the only one really trying to pursue a relationship. But now you think you should’ve been more insistent at rejecting him if this was the outcome. This man is going to make you so financially dependent you won’t have a choice in the matter!

Actually, no. Screw that. Over your dead body, if he thinks for one second that you’ll lean on him for support, he is naïve. You’d rather be homeless than—.

The phone buzzed again and apparently your lack of a reply was enough for him to figure out what was going through your mind.

I was making a joke.

Any worry that you felt washed away like warm water flowing down your skin at the new information—which was then promptly replaced with anger.

I hate you, was your reply. The statement was more truthful than he most likely would believe, but he doesn’t need to know why.

As your phone chimed you didn’t bother to look at his response because it was time to get ready.

Halfway through your morning routine you heard another notification ping. Much like the last one, you ignored it for the sake of making it to work on time.

It wasn’t until your lunch break at noon did you finally have a moment to look back at your device. This shift was going by fast, but it was rather busy all things considered. Nothing you and your coworker couldn’t handle, of course, just a little out of pace from the norm.

Traditionally you don’t pack lunch and today is no exception. Typically you just rely on whatever product is cast aside for the reason of being unfavorable. Whether it be because some bread started to mold, a pastry got too soggy, or some bacon got a little too crispy after being forgotten due to the rush. You haven’t told your boss about your little secret of hiding away these distasteful items, but chances are no one will even know it’s gone. Mold and its surrounding area can be cut off, a soggy pastry is still edible, and charcoal crispy bacon still holds protein. Sure, your lunch isn’t always a balanced meal, but you can only do what you can with what you have.

Today you have a soggy strawberry cheese Danish, day-old coffee, and a croissant. There’s nothing wrong with the croissant, instead it was a purchase made by a customer who never came up to retrieve their order, or in other words, finders keepers.

Saving the best for last you decide to start eating the Danish while opening your phone.

His response to your hate statement was: No you don’t. And you’re not entirely sure if he enjoys lying to himself or if it’s just a pastime. Then again, he doesn’t seem to realize how literal you are when it comes to your hatred towards him.

The second text he sent was one you probably could’ve assumed.

Are you free tonight?

The answer to that question is simple enough considering the promise you made to your dear neighbor last evening. Tonight will be spent coddling and taking care of Rody, therefore rendering you unavailable for whatever shenanigans Stark wanted to partake in later in the day.

. . .

And just then, like a whisper of sin and a temptation of evil, a devious thought griped onto your brain. Your selfless intentions sparked a need to satisfy your selfish desire. Perhaps your altruistic attempt is proving to be more of an asset than a waste of time.

I am, what time are you available?

[paradiseinternet]

Hi! Love your Tony stark series, I was wondering if you would write a Loki soulmate one?

Uhhhh if I did it would be a one-shot. Got any soulmate bond ideas in particular that you want me to maybe write about?

[paradiseinternet]

I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter Five

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 4.0k

triggers: childhood trauma, poverty, age gap.

author's note: another chapter in the bag :)

Chapter Five: Your Future Isn't Mine, Yet They Intertwine

What part of “this is my future” did he not understand? Is he dense? The entire point of the initial meeting was to clarify to him that you did not want anything to do with him. You truly thought that you got the idea through his head, but maybe you were too optimistic.

He ignored your quiet reaction and instead decided to feign innocence, “Hey! You work here? What a coincidence.”

You continue to just stare at him as you realize his disguise isn’t actually all that great. All it took was for him to lift his head up and you figured out who he was. Something in the back of your mind knew an instance like this was likely. You thought about how he’ll track you down and go from there. That technology of his is way too advanced to not be used to his advantage. And what do you know, you were right; Tony Stark has successfully hunted you down.

“You know, now that we’re in the same room, I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he continued, leaning his head on his propped-up arm. “I got to thinking. You’re right, it’s your future, do with it as you will. But as that monk Swami, or whatever his name was, said, ‘you are the creator of your own destiny’.”

He leaned back up and paused for dramatic effect, then motioned to the area around you, “And destiny has brought me to this café.”

That smile, the one he is giving you right now, looks very slapable. However, for reasons unknown to you, a warmth fills your heart. His face seems to challenge you, asking for you to come up with something that will make him leave. But after a few moments of dense silence, you drew a blank and could only think of entertaining his antics.

“Really? Not your incredibly advanced technology and a GPS?” You responded dryly.

His smile grew, pleased to be getting something other than rejection, “But a minor intervention.”

You scoffed, “You’re a nuisance.”

“I’m your nuisance,” he quickly clarified.

Tony Stark is most certainly a nuisance to you, but hopefully not a recurring one.

You sigh in defeat, desperate to find an end to this, “Then how do I get rid of you?”

“Let me see,” he pretended to think. “Mm, yeah no, you can’t. Well, I am leaving town in a couple days, would love for you to come with me.”

“That’s the opposite of getting rid of you, not happening,” you said while crossing your arms. At this point your pen and notepad have been placed back into your pouch.

“Thought I’d try.”

“Stop trying.”

His chuckle in reply was different, not simply holding the sound of amusement, but also with a hint frustration, “Wow, you definitely are a ray of sunshine.”

This man is confusing, and you feel yourself torn to two sides of a coin. One the one side, you wanted to curl up and get away from him, intimidated by his stature and the differences in lifestyle between the two of you. On the other hand, you want to yell at him then kick him out of the building. But something inside you prevents you from kicking him out. You reason with yourself that it’s in fear of the repercussions of kicking a customer out for no apparent reason, but you know this isn’t the case.

“Are you going to order something?” You ask as you start to lightly tap on the floor with your right foot.

The face he pulls makes you feel slightly nauseated as you realize that something you said he’s going to use to his advantage. And with your limited knowledge of the playboy, you have an idea as to what he will say.

“Are you on the menu?”

Yeah, that checks out.

You glare and say, “Order something or leave.”

That shit-eating grin doesn’t move a muscle, looking to demonstrate that he was very pleased with himself up to this point. And in a world with only one man, he’d be one cheeky fellow with original one-liners. But life is not a box of chocolates, instead it’s a blue sphere where roughly half of the population is male. Therefore, he is not original and certainly isn’t going to sway you anytime soon. Nothing he has, you want. One way or another he’s going to figure that out, and one way or another he’s then going to realize he has no leverage.

He doesn’t spare a glance at the menu in front of him, keeping his sunglass-covered eyes on you.

“A cappuccino will do nicely, with a pretty design on top,” he answers.

You roll your eyes and walk off to the bar to begin making the drink. Trish will now be serving him if you have anything to say about it. Anything to get him out of your line of sight.

“He’s all yours girlie,” you say while walking past to get to the coffee machine.

She released a delighted gasp of shock as she made a small ‘o’ with her lips, “The sugar daddy?”

“Oh yeah, work him,” you confirm. You’re not one for feeding into her mania, but if it’s to your advantage, you’ll pull every string you need to.

She grins deviously, thinking she’s about to get an early payday and maybe something more (knowing her age ceiling). He’s used to women falling into his lap, what is it to you if he has more?

Speaking of age caps, that’s another reason (although trivial) that you’re keeping your distance. He’s a bit too old for you. It doesn’t take much math to determine that he is about the same age as your dad if he were still alive. Your dad was 17 when you were born, so essentially, you’d be dating someone roughly the same age, and that’s weird. But Trish is 25, and although that isn’t much better, at least they’re kind of closer in age. Besides, Stark is used to young women running after him.

While the coffee was dripping, you were preparing the milk and adding air to get the correct amount of foam. When the espresso was finished, you then added the milk and began the design as it reached the top. Typically you’d do a heart because everyone adores hearts in art, but this is a case you don’t want to give the wrong message to. So, as an alternative, you did a leaf.

After placing the cup with coffee on the ceramic saucer, you handed it over to Trish to deliver. In response she gave an automated ‘thank you’ and made her way to the man of the hour. You, on the other hand, went to go check on the other few customers in the shop and wipe down a few tables.

You caught Trish giving you a look as she was walking back behind the counter; in response you started to make your way towards her. For a brief moment the two of you looked at each other, trying to decipher what the other was thinking. Afterwards Trish then began the brief exchange.

“I see why you passed,” she scoffed.

“Oh?” You wordlessly questioned.

She crossed her arms in exaggeration while snapping, “What a dick, didn’t even entertain the idea. He’s insisting on you.”

A long, drawn-out sigh left your lips as your head sank. You were hoping he’d just take the hint. This is turning from a dunce case to a stubborn nut. What can you do to make him change his mind?

Ah! You got an idea. An awful idea. You had a wonderful, awful idea.

What can be done to a man who’s stuck in his heart? Give him a reason to use his head.

You walk briskly back to the table, having no doubt that he wanted to take up all your time.

He must’ve heard your steps because he had something witty to say before you were even in his line of sight.

“Oh would you look at that, the newt got better,” he said while leaning on the back of the chair.

When you reached him at the end of the table, you couldn’t help the confused bloom on your face. You knew he was referring to something, but you weren’t sure what.

He noticed your look and returned it, equally confused except most likely for the opposite reason—why don’t you know what he’s referencing to?

Chuckling he asked, “What? Never watched Monty Python?”

“When did it come out?” You asked.

“1975 I think, but don’t quote me. I was five during the release but didn’t watch it until I was a teenager,” he answered while taking a drink from the cappuccino.

You hummed, “That makes sense, I wasn’t born until ’88.”

The drink he was taking quickly left his mouth as he started coughing.

Instantly you started patting his back while reached for the cluster of napkins on the other side of the table with your other hand. Then you worked on cleaning the new mess as Tony started to recuperate.

Coffee went everywhere, the table, the chair across from him, on him, but none on you thankfully. You had been trying your best to clean him up, ignoring the warmth in your heart with every dab you made. Then your heart went ablaze for a moment as he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” he chanted with a slightly hoarse voice.

You pulled your arm away, unwilling to continue with the fire burning your heart from the contact. It was unreal, surreal, something you couldn’t quite understand. You knew you received that effect from touching him, and it had to be because of the bond, but how can something you feel so detached from be so powerful?

Stuffing the slightly damp napkins in your apron pocket, you couldn’t help but ask, “What happened?”

He ignored you and opted to establish a clarification, “You said ’88 right? So you’re 22?”

His question confused you on several levels. For one, you can’t even remember how old you are some days, much less compute your age based on year within seconds. Secondly, he should know how old you are—at least you thought he would. He knows your name because he got a clear image of your face that dreadful night. Since he was able to obtain your name purely because he captures your features, he should know everything there is to know about you.

“Yeah?” You confirmed.

So why doesn’t he know your age?

“Holy shit,” he cursed via something between an airy chuckle and a sound of surprise. Thoughtlessly he had his hand in his hair running his fingers through the dark strands.

‘He doesn’t know how old I am?’ you pondered to yourself. If this was the case, then your plan to get him to use his head just got easier. Using the age gap as leverage to explain why the two of you are not a good match will work in your favor.

It took a solid minute of him staring into the wall before coming back to reality. “Well, I mean, fate works in mysterious ways,” he determined, but not sounding overly convinced with what he said.

Damn it.

Now was the time you had to interject, “I’m confused, you managed to get my name by doing a scan of my face. Did you not bother to look more into me?”

He looked at you quizzingly.

“A scan of your face? When did I have time to do that?” He smirked and tilted his head, intrigued to know what you believed.

You crossed your arms, “When we were arguing on the street the other night.”

“Ah, the same street that was as bright as the sun one moment then as dark as tar the next?”

Dumbass.

Of course he couldn’t get a picture of you, no picture would be distinguishable in that lighting. Trish had quite literally told you that the person who witnessed the conversation between you and Stark was unable to get a photo because of the lighting, how would he be able to either?

Scoffing, you snarkily asked, “Well, then how did you get my name?”

“I asked the receptionist who the room was under,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “She gave me a weird look, but honestly, totally worth it.”

You paused, narrowing your eyes. “Then how do you know where I work?”

He swirled the cappuccino in his hand, eyes glinting mischievously. “Oh, simple. I put your name into my servers, ran a facial recognition search, and voila. Found your face, found your work. But don’t worry, I didn’t go full stalker mode and read everything in your file.” He gave a casual shrug. “I like to stay informed, but where’s the fun in knowing everything? Getting to know your soulmate is supposed to be the adventure, right?”

You could feel the irritation bubble up at his antics, but Tony didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t use your face to find your name . . . but he did use your name to find your face. His casual, almost smug demeanor always made you want to scream sometimes.

“By the way, has anyone ever told you that your face does not match your age?” Grinning slyly, he leaned back in his chair. “I thought you were at least early 30s.”

The unadulterated rage that crossed your face was enough for him to give a quiet apology, realizing that it’s not exactly the kindest thing to tell a woman she looks older than she is. To be fair, you didn’t have much care in pertains to how old people thought you were. You understand that you’ve been through more struggles than the common person, so your features would likely reflect that. However, you prefer to hear those comments come from people you know, not from someone you loathe.

“You came here for a reason,” you began, done with being near him. “Could you get to it?”

What you didn’t expect was for him to look at you with a gaze that told a story you couldn’t understand. His eyes (which were already covered by the tinted glasses) are so dark they almost looked black, like a shark. The way the light reflected off of his irises explained the great feats he has achieved, and the fears he has had to face because of it. Something about the way he looked at you was almost like he was trying to memorize your face while he could, worried he might never see it again.

Then, with a small, thoughtful nod, Tony’s voice dropped to a level tone. “Like I said, I’m heading out soon. Got a whole other life in California waiting for me—responsibilities, the usual jazz.”

You nodded, understanding. Internally you were smiling, glad he was going to be a comforting distance away from you again. Although, the ache in your heart was deceiving your brain, trying to convince yourself otherwise.

“I get it,” he continued, drumming his fingers on the table. “You don’t want to come with me, I can’t say I blame you. But I’m not talking about some grand, epic love story here.” He gave you a sideways look, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not all soulmates are meant to be romantic, you know. Sometimes, they’re just . . . really good-looking friends who have a lot to offer. Just saying."

Between a small smile and a look of annoyance, you’re not sure which one was showing up on your face. Something about his relaxed body language and light words made you want to bubble up and giggle like a teenager at his cunning way of flirting. The annoyance spoke true to your thoughts, however, as you wanted to grimace at his attempt to get familiar with you.

What to do, what to do. You had a feeling that (as to hold true from what he said earlier) if you rejected him again, he would just come back like a bad itch. Alternatively, if you were to give him a chance at “friendship” then he’d maybe be less persistent. If he got to know you as a person, then there is no doubt in your mind that he wouldn’t want to continue anything platonic, much less romantic. This absolute fact will be used to your gain as you carry out the plan to prove to him you are not a good match, starting with your lack-luster, antisocial personality. For, there isn’t a universe where the two of you are compatible. This universe, to put it simply, has made a mistake that you will take great joy in highlighting.

The nod you gave was subtle, but obvious enough to the gazing man before you. You could tell he understood because his cheeks rose as his lips took the form of a smile rather than a sly grin. This glimpse of a moment was short-lived as he once again regained the trademark smirk.

“Perfect, so I was thinking--.”

You promptly cut him off, not willing to completely give in to his charade. The thought of just allowing yourself to be friendly with your father’s executioner was not to be taken lightly; so, meticulous steps need to be planned for. Though, something else you need is time.

“If this is to happen, I need to lay down some ground rules,” your statement started off strong and hard as stone. However, what you are trying to convey is not as simple when said in words. You didn’t exactly think about what you wanted to say, considering you never planned to get to know him in the first place. “Those rules are to be determined in some time.”

He shifted in the chair, remaining leaned against the wooden backing. “As in, you don’t have a clue as to what you want.”

Your cheeks flushed from the embarrassment of not having a grasp over your own life, while simultaneously turning red in anger at his endless yapping. “I’ll have you know that I have a clear picture as to what I want, it’s just difficult to know what I don’t want—apart from you leaving me alone, that is.”

He feigned shock while putting a hand over where his heart (probably) is. “Oh, the betrayal. Fine, I’ll give you one day—but no more than that. I’m outta here in three, and I need at least a little time to figure out how to annoy you without getting a lecture.”

You rolled your eyes then nodded to solidify the agreement, “Then I will contact you in no more than 24 hours with my groundwork.”

At this point you thought the conversation was over, but his staring told you otherwise. The two of you spent at least a minute looking at each other. His expression confused you as to why he looked so pleased with himself.

“I’ll take it you won’t catch on,” he began to stand up from his seat. The cappuccino a memory lost in conversation. “How do you intend to contact me?”

The blush that barely disappeared from earlier reinstated itself at the realization.

“I . . . I don’t see how that’s my problem,” you stumbled. “You’re the one who wants all this to happen. You should be accommodating.”

He looked at you again with nothing other than mindless commentary hiding behind his pupils and lips pressed thin into a simper.

“If it pleases the court.”

Without so much of a hitch, he pulls a phone out of his jacket and selects a contact page for you to enter your information into. The exchange was as quick as you could make it—you having not bothered to enter anything extra apart from your number. Frankly, his phone was quite different from yours, it confused you a little bit when trying to adapt to the user interface. Although, if he noticed your struggling, he didn’t mention it.

Handing the phone back, you’re startled as he grasps your wrist instead and twists it to where your palm is facing the ceiling. That lingering warmth that you’ve been blatantly ignoring comes back ten-fold in such intensity that you begin to think you are suffering from heat stroke. Then, he leans down almost like he intended to kiss the palm of your hand for some obscure reason, only to stop and instead gaze longingly at the watch wrapped around your skin to prevent people from seeing his name. While still hunched over he mumbles something indistinguishable and grabs his phone with the very same hand that has your printed name. You can’t deny the little sparks of electricity that flowed through where he contacted you.             “Catch you later sweet cheeks,” he bids farewell after moving around you, taking a not-so-discrete peek at your ass, then walking out the door.

Barely a moment later you felt the phone in your right slack pocket vibrate from a new message—undoubtably that from the man who just left.

Currently, your mind is processing faster than that of a computer calculator. Nothing but ones and zeros flashing across the uncountable amounts of neurons that make up your brain. It would seem that after the somewhat-intense conversation with him, your mind had decided to short-circuit, only really focused on not-so-important details like if he paid for his coffee and how many hours you have left for your shift.

The second thought was easy to answer—the time is currently a quarter past ten, not nearly as late as you would’ve thought since the talk felt like an eternity. This means you have another ten hours and 45 minutes until you can clock out. That’s ten hours and 45 minutes that you have to keep busy while brainstorming what to text the waiting man. Tomorrow you’re working your regular 9-5 unlike the 12-hour shift you’re doing today. A coworker called out and you volunteered to wait around until the next person comes in—after all, what else can you fill your time with? The more money you make, the easier it is the pay rent this month. Especially since you spent a whole week to ‘celebrate’ your birthday.

As for the first thought, you finally got your body to move to check to see if he left any payment on the table. Yet, what you found made you recoil in shock. There, hidden under the cappuccino plate, were two folded 100-dollar bills.

You heard yourself audibly gasp, unable to believe what you were seeing. This certainly was enough to pay for the drink, but there must’ve been a mistake! The leftover change would be enough to cover your utilities for a month, maybe even with a few dollars extra to spare. It has to be an error, giving a tip of roughly $195 isn’t standard practice, nor is it normal. He must’ve put too much on accident.

‘He doesn’t know I’m poor, does he?’ you then thought.

No, that’s unlikely. He said it himself that he wants to get to know you personally, not just from reading a file.

Although . . . maybe he lied. Whether that is the case or not, you hate it when people know you’re poor. In passing you’ve observed that they look down on you, pity you. They try to censor themselves during conversation and activities to try and “save your feelings.” If this money isn’t a mistake and instead some extra funds to “donate” to his poor soulmate who works as a barista, then that bastard has another thing coming. He isn’t Robin Hood—he’s rich! The rich. As is, the richest man on Earth. One can’t steal from the rich and give to the poor if they are themself the rich person in question. There has to be a double entendre somewhere in that analogy.

With your mind made up, you pocketed the money after cleaning the table and then using the cash to pay for the coffee. The remaining amount will be given back to him when you see him next. Naturally you will be keeping a generous $20 tip for both your time and the headache along with giving half of it to your unfortunate coworker who was just trying to make a quick buck. Although $20 is more than you want to take, your spite cannot win against your inevitably resilient financial situation.

[paradiseinternet]

I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter Four

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 4.9k

triggers: foul language, childhood trauma, poverty.

author's note: another chapter in the bag :)

Chapter Four: Many Familiar Faces

            The walk back to the motel room felt agonizingly long, even if it only took a maximum of ten minutes all together. As you entered the lobby again for the third time that night, she had less of an expression of confusion, and more one of shock. It could be assumed that this was because not everyone got to see Iron Man land right outside the doors of their workplace. Her eyes said a million things that you preferred not to answer, so you swiftly made your way up the flights of stairs after hanging up the raincoat and hat.

            He had let you go without so much as a word, in fact, he left you before you left him. You thought it would be hard to walk away as his eyes bore holes in your back, but this difficulty faded as he reentered his suit and flew away into the night sky.

            It took a few moments after watching him fly off to put your thoughts in an order you could understand for later deduction. You always liked to imagine your brain to be an office building with neat manilla folders and grey cubicles. Although the entire filing cabinet you labeled as “Soulmate” just expanded and will be needing an additional area for storage. Very little things required more than a single manilla folder. In fact, you can list on one hand what subjects have a metal cabinet to itself. Relationships (because they’re complicated), Soulmate (because the whole situation is complicated), Family (this wouldn’t require a section to itself, but you keep avoiding reorganization), and The Future (which isn’t complicated, but you aren’t entirely sure what you want to do in the end game so there’s a lot of suggestions).

            And so, after reorganizing a little bit in the middle of a cool New York night, you went back to the comforts of your temporary room. After everything you can’t help but feel a little dirty. You have gone up and down those stairs one too many times (even if you weren’t present for every instance). Additionally, being on the streets with socks on aren’t exactly the most sanitary precautions. There’s the option of taking a shower, but between being physically and emotionally exhausted, you choose to sleep. Besides, you don’t have work tomorrow so you can spend that time thinking about what to do now that the largest weight on your shoulders is not going to bother you anymore.

Sleeping under the covers felt like it would be putting you at high risk for bedbugs, so you chose to sleep on top of the bed instead. As a blanket you took the towel you used for your shower earlier along with an extra that was lying around. Your arm was used as a pillow after determining that the backpack would be too bumpy.

Sure, you could go back to your studio and be somewhat more comfortable there, but it would be a waste of money to buy the room and not use it. Besides, now you have a new supply of complementary soap, shampoo, and conditioner for the apartment when you get back.

Now if your next-door motel residents could just be a little quieter with their activities, that would be swell. But hell, this was a two-star motel for a reason.

Getting up wasn’t so bad, sure you have slept in better ways and places, but the beautiful thing about being groggy is that your mind has yet to calibrate for the previous events. The entire exchange didn’t register in your brain when you were packing up your stuff, nor when you ransacked the entire room for freebies. It still hadn’t surfaced even as you left the motel ten to eleven (because you need to get your money’s worth). In fact, it wasn’t until you were halfway through the bus ride back did it hit you like a ton of brick. The sheer force of the information was enough for you to give a verbal “OH MY GOD” to all the people on the bus. Naturally you didn’t intend to be caught so off guard, but with-it being New York, nobody paid you any attention. Not that you were worried about onlookers right now, you had other things to attend to.

Everything from that point on was a blur. Because of this, you got off at the wrong stop and had to backtrack to your apartment. Somehow when you did get there you took the elevator to your floor and managed to fish out your keys. Before you could however your neighbor across the hall managed to catch you.

“Dere yuh are! I was wonderin’ if yuh had gotten kidnapped,” said a gruff voice from behind you.

David is one of those old guys who have a rough exterior but a soft interior. He is bald with wrinkles to show he has frowned for most of his life. Although you can’t see them at this moment, he has several tattoos on his body, the most notable being the sleeve on his left arm. From how he explains it, he used to be on the bad side of New York since he was a kid up until his mid-20s but turned his life around after spending some time behind bars. Once he got out, he joined a biker gang and went to work. He had retired from being a mechanic at the age of 64 and has been enjoying retirement ever since. Never had kids, never had been married. Sometimes you think he talks to you because he wants to see if he was missing out on the whole no-kids thing.

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t tell you. Just decided to spend my special day elsewhere,” you replied, head still in the clouds.

“Ah, yuh got married?” He inquired, trying to catch a glimpse at your hands from where he was standing in his doorway. “Who’s dah lucky fella?”

The two of you don’t talk too much, just when one or the other gets lonely. So as far as he knows, you could be married. He doesn’t broach the relationship topic too much, taking you to be a loner (which he isn’t wrong).

You chuckled absentmindedly, “Ah, yeah, no. Just my birthday.”

He hums in acknowledgement and asks, “Was it alright, or what?”

How does on respond to that when it was absolutely not “alright”? The same way you respond to everyone when you don’t want people to pry into your life.

“Yeah, same old same old.”

Just then you felt a very sharp burst of electricity, like you had accidentally touched a person who had been rolling around on a carpet. This feeling was rather familiar, but you haven’t had it since you were barely 16 years old. Then again, he hadn’t met you until last night. The only thing he needed was a clear picture of your face, which his suit no doubt provided. If you have to guess, he is digging up information about you at this very moment and just now he has found out and said your name. This possibly may be your biggest nightmare. One screw up on your part of assuming you were never going to do a body swap again and look where that has gotten you.

“Well yuh missed quite a stir. Yuh with me? Shit was blowin' up and people were everywhere. Right?” He explained as if the entirety of New York wasn’t there to witness the same events on the screen.

You responded to him with a slight twitch, trying not to show the effects of the light shock as you started to walk into the studio, “I’ll try not to miss it next time, sounds eventful.”

Just as you locked the door behind you, you threw your backpack in no particular direction and pressed your back to the door as you slid down it. You buried your head into your hands as you curled up on the cold plastic tile floor.

That pull from last night is now an aching in your heart, like a nasty bruise that appears with no cause of origin. It reminded you of a string that is strained and has become weaker, its threads taring one by one. This isn’t a pain that is unbearable, but it is certainly stronger than what it felt like last night. No doubt this is connected to the conversation you had with him, but you’ve never heard of symptoms like this. If you had managed to somehow break the bond, then your heart should be in an astonishingly high amount of pain, yet it is not. Perhaps this is the sweet spot, a feeling that doesn’t go away, but one you can survive. Afterall, if there was a soul break you’d most likely have black ooze coming out of every hole in your body and be dead in the near future, just like your mother. Instead, you feel lonelier than normal with a touch of painful annoyance. If this is the price to pay, so be it. Fate or not, you cannot love that man—for both your sake, and your parent’s.

Lifting your head up you find your vision to be blurry, not realizing that you had been crying. How odd, why are you crying? You felt your tears and looked at one on your finger to make sure it wasn’t black. Upon quick inspection you find there was no color other than the crystal-clear liquid that leaks out of your eyelids.

You got up off the ground as you came to the realization that you haven’t eaten anything today. Now that you think of it, you haven’t had a true meal since yesterday afternoon (because ice cream does not count as a meal).

The kitchenette is just to the right of the entrance, so you trudge across the murky yellow tiles and over to the off-white fridge. Opening it you find a half-eaten jar of pickles, the end pieces of some white bread you bought discounted the other day, a small stack of American cheese slices, and a singular hot dog. Giving up on the fridge you go over to the cabinet that is almost ready to fall off the wall and find a nearly empty container of peanut butter along with some packets of honey you’ve snatched from Popeyes. You already know your ramen supply is out and with the given choices, you make the decision not to make a disgusting concoction and instead head over to the grocery store. It’s been over a week since your latest grocery run, and even the last time could barely be called proper shopping. In an attempt to save money you’ve been restraining your diet. Not the healthiest, sure, but necessary to keep the heat on. As of late your consumption has consisted of ramen, pasta, soup, and beans with rice. You’ll be excluding soup from your diet soon since it’s May, and the weather is finally warming up.

The thought of going back out into society was a little draining, but that might just be hunger talking. Without further consideration you grabbed your wallet and keys that you left on the floor by the door and headed out.

Making your way to the store isn’t so bad, it happens to be within walking distance—well, most of everything is within walking distance. The only thing that put you off was the feeling of being watched. But on a positive note the area isn’t too crowded, so you won’t be bothered by too many crying children and instead be around the elderly whom of which enjoy shopping in the middle of the day.

Your list isn’t very long, so short in fact that you didn’t even need to keep a list. This proved to be a mistake when by the end of your shopping trip you had concluded that something was missing. No matter, you’ll remember when you get back home.

            When getting to the counter you crossed your fingers hoping you had enough money in your account to afford everything. However, this wasn’t the case. If it weren’t for the cost of rent and your low-paying position, maybe you could buy everything you needed, but today just isn’t the day and you don’t get your next check for another three.

            “How much more do I owe?” You ask in the way that many people ask when they’re short. Desperate, but mostly embarrassed.

            The man behind the registered looked at his little screen on the register and replied, “The remainder is $32.56.”

            Yikes, you could’ve sworn you had more money in the account than what it took off. Your total was a little over 70 because you were being frugal, and this trip was going to feed you for the next two plus weeks (hopefully). Thankfully prices have been going down ever since the housing market crashed a little over a year ago, but it still isn’t enough.

            After storing your card back into your wallet, you went to look for any cash you had on hand. Finding a ten-dollar bill, you decided that was all you could fork up and will need to figure out what items you’ll need to give back. You weren’t willing to use a credit card considering the current cost to take on debt.

            However, as you started to hand the cashier the money, a thick hand blocked your path.

            “It’s alright, I got it,” said the voice to your left with a crisp 100 being passed over to the clerk.

            Looking at the masculine voice next to you, you began to refuse until you took in his appearance. The man wore a nicely ironed suit with black tinted glasses covering his eyes. His hair was slicked back which exposed his minorly receding hairline. If it weren’t for how his face was structured, you wouldn’t have been able to tell if he was pudgy or very muscular. Spoiler: he’s pudgy.

            Instead of refusing his kind gesture, you were so caught up in his familiarity that the transaction was already complete by the time you came back to.

            “I—wow. Okay, thank you! That was incredibly kind but unnecessary,” you thanked gratefully.

            He gave a very, very small smile, “It’s alright miss, I assure you that it was very much necessary.”

            Why is he so familiar?

            You chuckled lightly, “If you insist. Thank you, again, for your generosity.”

            “Your gratitude is not mine to take, but I’ll be sure to pass it along,” he said as he turned back to the cashier as his single item was rang. It was some fancy looking whiskey.

            Just as you were about to walk away with your arms filled with grocery bags, you turned back around and asked, “What’s your name?”

He looked back at you and replied, “Just call me Happy.”

Put off by the weird name, you continued your way out of the store and made your trek back to the apartment. Initially there was no sensation of being watched, but it came back after walking a block. However you brushed this off because everyone is being watched, it’s a busy city after all.

Ramen, what a delicacy. Except ‘delicacy’ isn’t the word you’d use as you slurp up the familiar chicken-flavored cardboard. More fitting words would be necessity, sodium, and empty calories. But this is life, and you are grateful to that man, Happy, for allowing you to buy everything you had picked out. Thanks to him, or more so the secret sponsor that was funding his choice, a quarter of your fridge is full and half of your cupboard has food. Granted, you have many cupboards (five to be exact), but when you can barely fill one up, what’s the point of using the others? So, you sat on your bed while gazing out at the blue sky through your window as you slurped up the noodles.

That earlier sensation of being watched disappeared instantly as you entered your building and hasn’t returned since. Not that you were missing it, of course. The sensation of being watched is always unnerving so with it being gone you felt more at ease. Now, you had the rest of the day to do absolutely nothing . . . or clean. You could do that. But that sounds like it requires motivation, which is something that just isn’t coming to you right now.

New day, same pain. Getting out of bed was a bit of a struggle. This is not a foreign issue to you, but it certainly hasn’t gotten any better over the past few days. It’s been years since you’ve gotten a solid night’s sleep without needing to get up for a glass of water. Sometimes you’ll just lay in bed after having woken up and do nothing. You could always see your ceiling due to the light pollution, so occasionally you’d make out weird shapes in the paint until you pass out. Trish claims that waking up a couple of times a night consistently is a sign of depression, but you fail to see the connection. Afterall, this has been a habit of yours ever since the incident.

Getting ready for work isn’t so hard, all you need to do is pin your hair out of the way, freshen up, and get dressed in the assigned uniform. The uniform is a T-shirt with the coffee shops logo on it. With it being so local, the dress code is a little more lenient to your delight. However, with you being the manager, you’re required to wear slacks and not jeans unlike the other associates. To be honest, you’re not entirely sure why you’re a manager. The increase in pay is nice and you think you’re doing your job just fine, but the owner is always on-site so there’s really no need for other management. But hey, whatever keeps your pay the same.

The café is within walking distance, because again, most things you need in New York are. In total it takes you almost thirty minutes to get there, which is not bad considering you don’t have a car. Although in a big city it’s not always great to have a car since with traffic it can take the same amount of time to get to point B as it would on foot. Normally the walk wouldn’t be so bad, but today you’re running late.

Squeezing by the pedestrians on the street, you hurry your way to the coffee shop. Your shift starts at nine in the morning and it’s currently 8:53. This wouldn’t be an issue if you only had a few minutes left of the walk, but you’re currently at least fifteen minutes away. Keeping at your typical pace would result in almost a 10-minute tardy punch-in, and that just won’t do. So, time to make up some for some time.

There’s a shortcut you take in between an alley that you don’t normally go through since it requires you to climb a fence, but you’re under pressure. Jerking left you jumped over a knocked over trash can and jogged over to the previously mentioned fence. Getting a grip on the metal wire you then climb over. The second part is more fun as you jump off on the other side with the short burst of adrenaline one receives when falling from a high place.

Your forehead is beginning to sweat but that isn’t something a damp paper towel can’t fix at work. Besides, sweat right now is not your largest concern. You glance down at the watch nicely situated on your left wrist, the one that is hiding his name from society. Typically you’d use a couple of scrunchies or hair ties to cover it up, but today you decided on a thick watch. In times past you thought about getting a tattoo over his name and hope that it covers it up good enough, but the risk of the artist spreading the word of who your soulmate is prevented you from doing so in the past.

‘This is not what I need to be thinking about right now,’ you reminded yourself.

The watch told you that there were only four minutes left until punch-in time, and you still have at least nine minutes to go. That means you need to make up for the five minutes difference.

Pushing your glutes to the limit you bolted to work while accidentally hitting into people on the way. However, the more you ran, the harder it was getting to focus. The ache in your heart was acting up again even though it has been slowly going away over the past hours. Nevertheless, the feeling is powerful enough to make you lose your concentration and bump into someone with a force strong enough to make you almost fall over. Thankfully whoever it is isn’t as easily swayed as they remain a standing structure while catching you. Reorienting yourself, you give a half-assed apology and go to keep making up lost time when you briefly caught a glimpse at the mans face.

So, now you’re stunned while standing in the middle of the busy street just gawking at this man. This man, whom of which, you distinctly remember being on the rooftop with you the other night after the body swap occurred. You didn’t get his name, but this is most certainly the same person.

“Hey, you good?” He asked, breaking you out of your hypnosis.

Hesitantly, you nodded. Then you turned and walked away, realizing that he doesn’t recognize you because you weren’t in your body at the initial time of meeting. The thought is surreal, meeting someone but not actually meeting someone. But pretending to be a complete stranger is for the best, for your sake.

Unfortunately you don’t make it to work on time, arriving three minutes late. On the other hand, the owner doesn’t seem to be in the building yet, which means you won’t get a headache until he checks the timestamps. To clarify, the owner isn’t a mean guy, he’s just particular about what hill he would like to die on.

“Hey! How was your birthday?” You hear Trish from behind the counter.

She must’ve been the opener for today, which means she’s been here since five. How she can remain cheerful after getting up so early is beyond you.

“It was eventful,” you lightheartedly replied.

The less she knows, the better. The less everybody knows is for the best. The sooner you forget, the quicker it all goes away. Following these three easy steps will hopefully result in successfully terminating the existence (or thought thereof) of your soulmate.

Looking around you do a quick headcount and find the café is slower than usual. Probably because of the mayhem that happened at the expo, and with it being so close, there is no doubt some debris still being cleaned up.

“Yeah? Isn’t your studio near the expo?” She offhandedly asked.

You walk towards her behind the register as you then explained how your birthday went while keeping out all the parts about your soulmate. Hopefully by explaining how uneventful your entire vacation was, she’d lay off a little. This unfortunately had the opposite effect as she then rushed you and grasped your arms, successfully pinning them to your body. She’s little taller than you, enough to loom over you and get right up in your face

“A motel? As in the same motel that Tony Stark’s soulmate was spotted at?!” She nearly yelled.

Your heart dropped. Did she know? Did everyone know? Who was the snitch? You bet it was that receptionist, what a bi—.

‘Stop it, if your face was captured then she would’ve already known it was you, calm down,’ you reasoned.

“Uh, I don’t know?” You said while trying to be as vague as possible. “Who’s his soulmate?”

Don’t be suspicious, don’t be suspicious.

She squealed like some schoolgirl who gets to spill the latest gossip, “That’s the thing, no one knows. The news has been flying off the wall ever since yesterday about conspiracies on who she is. Apparently, Mr. Fancy Pants flew over to her in front of a motel to meet her.”

Trish took a breath of air then continued, “But whoever tipped the news couldn’t get a good picture because the area was whether too bright or too dark. And you know how it is when an area is too dark. ‘But Trish! How can it be too bright if it’s too dark?’ Thanks for asking!”

Another breath. You apparently asked the wrong question; she can go on like this for days.

“The person who took the photos said that the light was emitting from the playboy and the lady, meaning they have that glowing SIA. But it went away after she, get this, slapped his hand away! That same person said they couldn’t make out what the conversation was about, but it didn’t look good.”

You were in too much shock to make an expression of fake shock, which resulted in you making an actual face of shock. This worked in your favor as Trish continued.

She almost snorted, “I know right, who does she think she is? If you happen to be the soulmate of the literal richest person in the world, why the hell would you treat him like that? If she doesn’t want him, I’ll take him. I mean, for one he’s a superhero, two he’s ultra wealthy, and three he’s ultra wealthy. And yes, I know two and three are the same, but it’s good to highlight important points.”

You do, in fact, happen to be the soulmate of the richest person in the world. But to you, his wealth holds no value and you’re not going to bend your back for someone like him. If it weren’t for this secret that you wish to take to your grave, you’d have explained to her that he is all hers.

The doorbell above the entrance chimed signaling a new customer. Trish half-heartedly glanced up at the person before returning her stare back to you.

“We’ll continue this conversation—,” what conversation? “—after I take this guy’s order.”

Then she released her grip to help the person who sat down towards the corner of the room. You, on the other hand, are still in shock. What tore you out of your mental state was the television lighting up, broadcasting the exact headline Trish was talking about.

“WORLD-RENOWNED PLAYBOY REJECTED?”

This is turning into a literal nightmare, and you’d like to wake up now. Everything that is happening is the exact reason why you didn’t want to met him. Well, not exactly, but it’s mighty good motivation to avoid him. You don’t feel like giving him your sob story, so saying “I don’t want to be famous” is a plausible excuse.

Just then you felt someone pat your shoulder as they passed by.

“Table 16, the person who just walked in, is requesting you specifically,” Trish informed as she went to ground some coffee beans.

You pointed at yourself and clarified, “Me?”

“Uh, yeah? I didn’t know you had any regulars, but kudos to you,” she released a snicker. “Besides, he looks like a sugar daddy in the making, work it girl.”

Not many things make you blush, but that got a rise out of you, barely tinting the tops of your ears which thankfully didn’t spread to your face. However, her statement did leave you a little confused. You have one regular, but she is not a he and doesn’t even come in at this time. Nor does she sit in that corner because (according to her) it’s a little too off-putting for her tastes and it’s away from where she can people watch from the windows.

Regardless, you make your way over to the corner of the café, pen and paper already in hand. The accessories are really just for style because you’ll typically make the order yourself and people don’t generally buy so much that you can’t keep track. But it comforts the buyer knowing that you’re paying attention and wanting to get their order right.

Reaching the table, you put on a smile and look down towards the man at the 4-person table. He is wearing tinted sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low. The back of your mind says he’s vaguely familiar, but there aren’t enough shown features to confirm the stipulation.

“Hello sir, my name is (Y/N) and I’ll be your server today. How are you this morning?” You ask in the fake enthusiastic stereotypical customer service voice.

Being a waitress isn’t your job; it never has been. You’re a barista, someone who makes the drinks and occasionally warms up pastries. But with the café being an open-floor layout, not everyone wants to order from the counter and that’s fine. Besides, those who sit down and want to be served typically leave tips, while those who come up to the counter don’t. So, although you aren’t a waitress, the tips are nice to have once in a while. However, you’re about to find out that this is a tip you’d be fine missing out on.

“Not too shabby,” he said as he looked up to you. His voice was smooth as brandy and polished like a granite countertop with a hint of confidence. If it wasn’t for your instant dawning, you’d have been breathless just from the sound of his immediately recognizable voice.

Instead, you let out a small whine mixed with a drop of dread, “No . . .”

This isn’t just a sugar daddy in the making, he’s your fated sugar daddy!

[paradiseinternet]

I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter Three

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 3.1k

triggers: foul language, childhood trauma, poverty, anger (although reasonably justified).

author's note: another chapter in the bag :)

also posted on ->

Chapter Three: My Darling, You Are Glowing

For a birthday, this one has turned to shit and has officially claimed spot number two. Quite remarkable considering second place was originally rewarded to the birthday you realized your family couldn’t afford nice things. There isn’t necessarily a tier for these types of birthdays, but considering how your life has been going, you’re making one up on the way.

As a recap, you are currently standing in front of the reception desk inside a questionable 2-star motel. Your room is on the highest level, that being the ninth floor, and there is no elevator. Tony Stark, your deadbeat of a soulmate, decided to rush down to the lobby to obtain a business card with an address on it—while still being in your pajamas. This leaves you with a rather limited set of options for when your soulmate (a genius) will most likely arrive in his high-tech, attention-drawing Iron Man suit.

Run out of the building and try to hide in an alleyway or find a crowd to blend into.

Run up the stairs to gather your backpack then run away.

Ask the receptionist if she’s a snitch, then hide behind her desk.

Do nothing.

The first option, although the most appealing, isn’t the smartest. With you being a lady in a nightgown running into the night, there will be no doubt some predator waiting to attack. Additionally, without so much as your flip phone and keys, you stand no chance of getting back into your apartment while also sacrificing your most expensive possession (the phone).

Looking at the second option makes it seem plausible, until you’re reminded that you have never run a marathon, much less bolted up nine flights of stairs. Even if you managed to get to your room in time, the great genius most likely noted your motel room number and will be bee-lining it your way.

Although the third option wouldn’t be your first choice, considering how the others are lining up, it seems to be a worthy consideration. There is a lot of room for error, and you run the chance that she is a snitch. Afterall, when facing the boy-billionaire, it’s hard for any woman to say no. Even if she isn’t a snitch, doesn’t the suit have some form of heat-radiation-detection-thingy? It would be rather naïve to not have all the military gadgets installed to resemble a Mission Impossible movie. Now that you think about it, it’s going to be remarkably difficult to hide from someone who has a toolbelt that rivals Inspector Gadget.

Which leaves you with the final option. You are not doing the final option.

This is as much analyzing you can do because you are wasting precious time!

Without further consideration, you turn around inside the lobby in hopes of finding something to cover yourself with. In the corner you spot a raincoat that doesn’t fit the evening’s weather but is better than nothing. On top of the coat rack you took the raincoat from, there was a bucket hat. Perfect! Quickly putting everything on, you begin to make your way outside.

The receptionist behind you yelled something in which you shouted back, “I’ll bring these back! I promise!”

Stepping outside into the mildly brisk New York night, you felt confident in your abilities to blend in with the night people. Sure, you don’t have shoes on which is a bit of a red flag in your disguise, but hopefully the night will mask your socks.

‘I got this. I got this. I got this,’ you repeated to yourself as you depressingly realized there were no people around.

One of the things you learn in horror movies is to never look behind you, and since you wished to take no chances, you maintained that fact of fiction. Another thing is to never go into the darkness, but since you were wearing fuzzy socks instead of shoes, the darkness would be a better bet.

You tried to stay out of the line-light of the streetlights, but this part of town seemed to be nicely lit to your dismay.

Correction, insanely lit. The area around you was constantly brightened up and it seemed that the more you walked down the sidewalk, the brighter the light got. There was no in-between darkness like how streetlights were typically separated.

Looking up in confusion, you gasped in bafflement.

It was at this moment you heard something like a putter become silenced as the sound of heavy metal dropping temporarily replaced it. This noise seemed to be coming from where you had just left—in front of the motel’s main entrance. He has arrived.

This new piece of information got swept under the rug as you continued to gaze up at the sky. The streetlight-less sky. As in, there is no light above you to light your path. In fact, as you tilted your head to look in front of you, there wasn’t a single streetlight on this side of the sidewalk.

Your face is contorted to one of amazement and terror as you slowly let your head fall down to your body. There, from under the thick raincoat, you could see a light shining from the bottom of the coat. Reaching for the clasp that you had used to close the coat previously, you then noticed that your hand was glowing. Not letting that stop you, you undid the clothing you stole only for a beam of light to escape from every corner that you opened.

You are, for lack of better terms, a fully lit Christmas tree. Every inch of your skin is glowing, and it was so strong that it was emitting through your nightgown creating a bright silhouette of your body underneath.

Squeaking in embarrassment, you tied the raincoat back up to try and shield away possible onlookers and save your dignity.

This is when the noise from before was taken out from under the rug and presented to you on a silver platter.

Whipping your head back up from gazing at the lighthouse that is now you, you twisted your body to stare at the reason for the clanking metal from before. There, a few yards away, was the Iron Man. From breaks in the suit you could see glimpses of a light shining through. The light that was no doubt emitting from your soulmate.

‘Oh god,’ you thought in bewilderment. This is the person you were destined to be with, the one you have cast away because of what his genius mind has done. The man you hate.

There the two of you are, separated only by a few steps in the night. You stand like a deer in headlights except you aren’t the deer but instead the headlight. He wasn’t doing anything, just looking at you from inside his dented-up mask.

‘Can I outrun this?’ The answer was no but that didn’t stop you.

You don’t know what it would be like to run in a marathon, but this might be a casting call. You went from headlights to car really quick as you ran as fast as you could down the street. Granted, you knew that outrunning him is impossible considering his clear advantage, and it also doesn’t help that you’re a thousand glowsticks taped together. But when the very man you have been running away from since the age of 16 is now behind you, any idea is worth taking a chance on than possibly encountering that wild Pokémon.

As could be expected, you didn’t make it very far. Deciding to chance a look behind you, and saw nothing there, you turned back around only to run full force into a wall. Except this wall is metal. And alive. And 100% not what you want to be dealing with on your birthday.

Falling on your butt from the sheer force that was the Iron Man, you couldn’t help but yelp as your tailbone seemed to get the worst hit. That’s going to hurt later.

So there you are, laying down on the cold New York sidewalk in a stolen hat and raincoat with nothing but your nightgown and fuzzy socks to keep you warm. Your heart was beating considerably faster, but whether that was from the run or the soulmate being in proximity, you were unsure.

He took a few steps back then released himself from his metal body, stepping out onto the brightly lit sidewalk. His face was a little banged up and wetsuit-type clothing in possession of some minor rips, but he was no doubt glowing as bright as a star. It seemed to be that by proximity, the shine that the two of you emitted was growing ever stronger as the distance was being closed.

Reaching his hand out, he gestured for you to take it as a means of being helped up off the dirty ground. Then, something twisted and snaped inside your heart. Your brain no longer clouded by adrenaline but of an equally powerful drug—rage.

“Hey--,” he began but was cut short as you slapped his hand away, perhaps with a little more force then necessary.

You watched as his face went from shock to confusion, like the mere thought of anyone touching him in a way that wasn’t gentle, was taboo. At the same time, the glow started to fade away, as if the skin contact was enough to flick a light switch into the off position. Within a few seconds of stunned silence, the only light remaining was of a distance streetlamp and the faint glow of the metal handicap within his chest.

Quickly getting up from the ground by yourself then taking a step back, you stood as tall as you could while in the presence of such a highly regarded individual. You hate him, for good reason, but he is still a man with power, lots of power.

Even after straightening your spine you can’t help but note he is a whole head taller than you, very contrary to what you believed from watching the TV. Additionally, the screen didn’t do justice to his good looks, up close he looked even more spectacular . . . wait, what?

He chuckled, “Okay, you’re probably confused. I get it, lot to take in.”

Whatever he was referring to, most likely the slap of his hand, you couldn’t care less. He was talking to you, the person you have been avoiding religiously, and you are saying nothing.

“Wow,” he continued. “You . . . you’re really here.”

What is there to say? At least a million and two things. You could start by introducing yourself, but that would defeat the point of remaining anonymous.

Tony released a breathless chuckle, his voice soft but charged with excitement, “I just can’t believe it. It’s—this is it! We’ve finally met.”

How do you explain to someone who thinks they’ve done nothing wrong that everything is wrong? That your life has been a rollercoaster of emotions and bad deals because of him? Anger boiled in your chest, but something was suppressing an outburst. You couldn’t pin your finger on the emotion, but it was strong.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” You came back to reality as he asked you a question, staring at you expectingly.

His eyes looked . . . hopeful. Like a child has just been shown a bucket full of candy and the only thing that could damper their mood is to take the candy away.

You’re going to take the candy away.

Your tongue swept across your dry lips, readying your first words to this increasingly intimidating man. Perhaps the reason he was becoming intimidating was because you never actually planned for an accidental meeting. There was the thought that you would yell at him, scream, curse, give him an earful. Yet here you are, a thousand things to say but no words to say them. He is intimidating because you are in the presence of the great Tony Stark, and your mind has already built in a program explaining to you that he is nothing else but a celebrity on a screen. You and he have nothing in common—except you do. You two have a very big something in common.

“Forget . . . ,” you started, struggling to make words connect. “Forget that you saw me.”

This was for the best. If he really is your soulmate, he’d respect your wishes. Afterall, what are soulmates for if not servants to each other? Besides, this really is for the best. He’s oblivious to the pain he’s caused and is ignorant of the full story. As far as he’s probably concerned, this is the best day of his life. The first day of a long life spent with someone else, forever not alone.

His eyebrows knit together as he makes an interesting face that mimics a comical expression of confusion.

“I don’t follow. What’re you talking about?” He asks. “How am I supposed to forget something so captivating?”

The compliment goes over your head, too focused on managing this situation and tilting it into your desired path.

“This meeting shouldn’t be happening,” you struggle to maintain a steady heartbeat as your head began to drift down.

“I completely agree,” he replied.

Your head whips back up, shocked by his response. Did he understand? Is this some form of soulmate ability you’re unfamiliar with? Maybe this birthday is starting to brighten up.

A smirk is perched on his lips as he continued, “Dinner then? I didn’t mean for all this to happen while you were in your pajamas, so let’s start out fresh where we’re both prepared.”

The hope dies quickly as now you need to clarify what you meant.

“I was thinking about a steakhouse. You like steak? There’s this place that holds a constant reservation for me so--,” he was starting to talk again but you interrupted him.

“I don’t want to go out for dinner,” you tried to clarify.

He paused as his eyes showed something like a processor going through his brain.

“Yeah, good point. It’s a bit formal to start out with. Besides, probably best to avoid the crowds after the show I made,” he chuckled while pointing in the direction of the expo. “PR is going to have a field day. However, I do have to warn you, I make an impression everywhere I go.”

Towards the end of his statement he then made a motion to himself as if saying ‘I am Tony Stark, after all’.

The overinflated ego oozing out of this man was almost intoxicating, making it hard for you to breath. Not to forget that everything that was could out of your mouth was going over his head.

You tried to reinstate your point, “I don’t want to go out with you.”

This sent him into a moment of more analyzing, trying to decipher the latest bit of words you sputtered out. Everything you’ve said so far made sense to you, but it didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him.

“Okay . . . I can work with that,” he paused. “So, what do you want to do?”

“I want you to leave me alone,” you replied bluntly.

A few seconds passed by while both of you stood at an impasse. You’d like nothing more than to go back to your motel room and pretend none of this ever happened, but if you do this right, you’ll never have to worry about your relationship with Tony Stark ever again.

“Now why would you want something like that?” He asks suspiciously, slightly tilting his head to the right in curiosity.

Well? What’s your response? Sure, you have a reason (a damn good one at that), but is he worth reliving that terrible experience? Honesty is most likely the best response, but he just isn’t worth your time.

“Once upon a time I asked for this—a connection. But now, I don’t need it,” you sighed in frustration. “And frankly, I don’t want it.”

This took him back, not expecting someone to reject him. Him. Tony Stark. Surely rejection isn’t an often-had drink that he has.

“I’m not following,” he said, you could hear his voice raise in equally matched frustrations. “We’re meant to be together. That’s literally the whole idea of a soul—sorry, were you not educated on this topic?”

Your face changed into one that looked to be light anger, for this man who doesn’t know a thing about you, is questioning your knowledge.

“Yes, yes, I do know what soulmates are along with their premise. I don’t want one,” you solidify the statement with a subtle nod on your part, mentally confirming to yourself that this is what you wanted.

He seemed to almost scoff, “What? Fate has put us together; this is something you don’t just throw away. It’s something you accept, what everyone accepts.”

This bull is not going down without a fight, so it’s time to put your game face on. You tried to do this civilly, but if you need to play a little dirty, so be it. He should be familiar with the premise, considering his previous line of work resulted in the death of so many. The primary executioner of your father needs to know exactly how much you don’t need him.

“Yeah, just like how I accepted--,” you bit your tongue, the thought of your parents passing still stinging your heart. You almost slipped, almost admitting to him his own sins. Instead you say with a little wetness in your eyes, “I don’t owe you anything, nor an explanation. You’re just a problem I don’t need. Soulmates are your reality, Stark, not mine.”

The band aid has been ripped; you’ve given him your thoughts. And based on his silence, you’ve managed to say the right things. It only took a few moments after your statement, however, before he spoke again.

“Please rethink thi--,” he began softly, only to be cut off once more.

“I don’t need--,” here it is, the salt into the exposed wound. Time to cut the head off the snake. The venom was practically dripping down your chin as you finished your sentence, “--some overinflated ego telling me what my life is supposed to be like. This is my future, mine.”

In that moment, you felt something in your heart strain. It didn’t hurt, but it certainly couldn’t be ignored. And then, for a split second, you thought maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

No going back now.

[paradiseinternet]

I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter Two

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 4.5k

triggers: death (mentioned, not detailed), childhood trauma, poverty, out-of-body-experience, swearing.

author's note: hope ya enjoy the update.

also posted on ->

https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/158293111?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_860724604

Chapter Two: Not the Best Birthday Ever

Naturally you were seething with anger. However, this anger only got worse as a second later had you spat out his name, did the very words ink into your skin. There, on the inner part of your left wrist, was the name Tony Stark. Taunting. Laughing. Pointing. You can’t recall if the tattoo had hurt, your boiling hatred was enough of a numbing agent. Something you noticed later was the way it was written. It was not a typical print but instead seemed to follow the characteristics of (what you presumed to be) his handwriting.

            Immediately following the print of his name on your wrist had you felt a light shock of electricity. The kind that told you that it came from the inside, and somehow communicated that the same feeling was sent to him. However, if this is anything like the SIA that you’re familiar with, a name is only printed onto the skin of the one who said the name. As in, he doesn’t know your name because he hasn’t said it, but he knows you know who he is.

            Nevertheless, these events are in the past and when you turned 18 you had a few things that needed to be done. First, you needed to arrange your mother’s funeral because she had recently passed away. Unknown to you, after a soul break the average lifespan of the surviving soulmate is decreased significantly and the survivor only lives for about two more years. Because of this, her health had been deteriorating rapidly resulting in you needing to get a job to help pay for the costs she was no longer able to afford. The government gave your mother a tax-free stipend of $100,000 as reimbursement for the death of your father, but that money was quickly put towards medical bills as your mother started to frequent the hospital as time went on. As bills began to increase, so did the number of hours you put in. It got to the point that you dropped out of high school at 17 to get another job just to afford everything.

            The second thing on your list was to find new accommodation. You had decided that it was necessary to move as far away from Tony Stark as you could; so, New York was going to become your new home. Without a mother or father, nor any social life to speak of, it was high time to change your life and try to start anew.

            Finally, you made a promise to yourself to become better off than what your parents were. If you were to have any children to take care of in the future, you’d make sure they’d never ask for less on any holiday because of a financial burden.

            Your goals were obtainable and within reach, it would just take a bit of time.

            A few months after burying your mother you found yourself stepping out of the airport into New York. Coming prepared, you had already found a small studio apartment that would be called home until something more fitting was found. In the meantime, and one taxi later, you held the keys as you stepped into one of the cheapest rooms you could get your hands on. The floorboards squeaked almost as much as your neighbor’s bed every day late in the evening. The paint was peeling at the edges and bloated in some areas holding what you hoped to be runoff water. As for the ceiling, it was marked with occasional water damage and off-white splotches. This place was not nice, but you came from a life of not-nice things.

            It only took about a week to find a job, then another few days for an additional job. Many occupations required a high school diploma, so a GED was put onto your list of things you needed to do. For now, you were at the bottom of the barrel working as a barista full-time and pizza delivery driver part-time. Again, not ideal but at least you’re alive.

            You’d gotten into a groove of working and sleeping while somehow making time for studying for your GED. Getting the certificate didn’t take much time considering you were already good at school, the long part was just refreshing your memory and dealing with the New York state government. It was when you were about 19 years old had you received your GED, and in the meantime, you also managed to move into a nicer studio apartment in Queens (previously you had been living on the outskirts of New York City, which isn’t exactly known for being the safest). This new location at least didn’t have peeling paint, and no frisky neighbors were an added bonus. Also, since you now had a GED, your employer at the barista job was willing to pay more with the possibility of becoming manager. So now you only need to work one job. Things were looking up! You hadn’t even really thought about your mistake of a soulmate, at least not until you turned 22.

            Being 22 was apparently lucky, at least that was according to your coworker Trish. She was a bit superstitious and tended to become erratic, but otherwise she seemed sane. One day after asking for your age and replying with how you were almost 22, she had a grin grow on her freckled face as her hazel eyes seemed to shine under the coffeehouse ceiling light. Allegedly the numbers 2 and 2 together are incredible special and signify that big dreams were about to come true. Considering you didn’t really have any big dreams, other than hoping for the miracle of sleeping in, you brushed her off.

            Trish’s superstition, however, almost seemed viable when the news station began to release another round of new information. The little box TV was situated in the corner of the coffee bar so that both customers and employees could indulge in the latest information heap. This latest spill seemed to be about, you guessed it, none other than Tony Stark. Your mouth turned sour at the thought of such an evil man. So, he recognized his wrongs and changed his company entirely, so what? Your father is still dead, and no amount of philanthropy (or “hero” work) will change that. But the TV wasn’t discussing the latest scandalous acts of the billionaire, instead announcing his decision to re-instate something called a “Stark Expo” which would begin in roughly a month.

            What made you begin to believe Trish was how the playboy held himself. To the average person he looked fine, but something inside you said he was in pain. He was dying. And so, unsure whether to be uninterested or worried, you chose to ignore the footage they were playing from his announcement. Afterall, if we was dying, that means your days are numbered. You can’t do anything about his soon-to-be demise, and you weren’t planning on trying. Afterall, you ha—

            Wait, what did the news just say?

            “Hey, uh, Trish?” You called out to your sporadic coworker, anxiously adjusting the watch covering the fated soulmate name on your left wrist.

            There wasn’t a response which resulted in you looking towards a customer instead. There in front of you was a man who could’ve been mistaken for Kris Kringle, looking half-attentively at the TV.

            “Excuse me, sir,” you directed at Santa.

            He turned his attention to you and nodded his head in acknowledgment.

            “Do you recall where exactly the Stark Expo will be held?” You asked. “They just said, but I missed it.”

            “Flushing Meadows,” he said softly—perhaps this was old saint nick.

            You nodded in thanks as your mouth went dry.

‘Flushing Medows is in Queens,’ you reminded yourself. Even living in the state for about four years now, it still took time to remember all the subdivisions and boroughs inside New York City.

            No need to panic, this isn’t something you can’t handle. Sure, you live in Queens; but Queens is still large and if you take the day off you should be fine. Besides, when was the last time you stayed home and did nothing? Sounded relaxing to be honest.

            To clarify, this system you’ve worked out isn’t new. If you had gotten wind that the playboy was visiting Queens specifically, you’d effectively take the time off. However, he would typically spend his time in the heart of New York city and Manhattan. So, since he frequented the location so much, it would be expensive for you to take so much time off. Granted, if you had known that the billionaire came to New York so much you would’ve picked a different state, but nothing has happened so far. It’s more cost effective to stay put than move again.

            Typically your boss desired a reason for taking time off, and with your birthday coming up in a month, why not celebrate it this year? Granted, you couldn’t throw a party because you had no one (other than coworkers) to invite. But sometimes the best things are enjoyed individually.

            With the plan formulated, you informed your boss of your actions as everything moved into place.

            Finally, your birthday. As a present to yourself (and an expensive one at that), you had decided to take the whole week off. Might as well, right?

            The actual expo would last the entire year, but you had a hinting suspicion that the man himself would show up some time during the first week of launch—very typical for any orchestrator of events. Even if it was just a hunch, you were not willing to take the risk. Instead, you were huddled up in some blankets and eating ice cream on your second-hand bed/mattress while watching your favorite TV show. Your TV wasn’t anything special, just something you found on the side of the road with the word “FREE” on it. Maybe it was laced with cocaine or had human remains splattered on it, but free is free. Actually, a lot of your possessions were free. Since you rented a studio apartment the living room and bedroom became one, so you had to get creative with decorating. In the center of the room was a small coffee table that was given to you by another coworker who just didn’t want it anymore. Majority of your pots and pans come from the dumpster of a restaurant you pass by every day (that was a good day). Your bed (which currently lacked sheets) was bought from a local thrift shop and pillows from a nearby donation center (technically those are donations to the thrift shop, but it was just out in the open begging to be snatched). Your form of warmth came in the variety of blankets and hoodies gifted to you for holidays and previous birthdays. To save money you keep the apartment at a brisk 60 degrees Fahrenheit, so having many ways to warm yourself up was necessary. Thankfully you lived on the sixth floor, so as heat rises, so does your happiness.

Suddenly in the distance you heard some fireworks go off, most likely a signal to the rest of the city that the expo is live. Uninterested, you continued to binge your show for at least another hour, content with the discounted ice cream you found in the store earlier that day. That was until you heard sirens go by your apartment. This wasn’t unusual . . . except for when several other emergency services were following quickly behind.

Was there a fire nearby?

Glancing out the window you looked to take a glance at any orange light nearby, only to notice there was a lot of noise coming from the direction of the open building that the Stark expo was supposed to be held at. Outside there is what seemed to be tiny, self-driving fireworks almost circling the area of the event. Unable to properly make out what was going on, you deciding to pick up the remote and change channels until you find the news station. When finally getting onto what seemed to be a news report, you quickly discover that the expo was hijacked, rouge military robots were attacking everything (which was not the self-driving fireworks you initially thought), and somehow Iron Man was at the heart of it all.

            “Yeah, fuck that,” you mumbled while getting out of bed.

            Grabbing a backpack, you made the executive decision that you were a little too close to the chaos that followed Tony Stark and perhaps a motel a few miles out would be more suffice.

            Only packing the essentials one would need for a single night, you then made your way outside of the studio and towards the bus stop right across from your apartment. It was already dark outside and so it wasn’t exactly the smartest to be going out, but when facing a possible bump-in with a crook or an encounter with Loverboy, you decided to press your luck.

After hoping on the mostly empty bus, you paid for your fare then rode it for twenty-two stops (the irony). The entire time you tried not to touch anything because who knows what this bus has gone through.

Soon you arrived at something like a Best Western Hotel but if it was a secret brothel. When walking inside you were met with an interior that wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it would be. When looking up motels nearby in a catalog, this one was cheap but only had two stars. Deep inside you found some humor because your brain formulated the idea of discolored carpet and orange-floral wallpaper, but the lobby wasn’t anything close to that. Instead, there was hard-wood flooring, painted walls, and the occasional house plant.

In front of you was a woman who seemed to not of noticed your entrance. Her hair was frizzly and blonde while her face looked to mirror the makeup style of the 80s. As you walked closer you saw a cigarette between her red lipstick-stained lips. Smoking indoors is most certainly not allowed, but you didn’t exactly look for a 5-star hotel, did you?

After making your presence known you then purchased the cheapest room of the night. The woman was completely uninterested but could at least do her job. In her eyes, she kind of reminded you of yourself—tired and barely getting by. Then again, isn’t that most of the citizens in New York City?

She handed you your key (which was suspiciously sticky) and you made your way up the stairs. Many places have elevators nowadays, but that doesn’t mean these older buildings have the same pleasure. So you made your way up nine stories and by the time you reached the top you were ready to fall over.

Jiggling the key into the keyhole you grasped the handle and pulled back like the lady instructed. Apparently, some of the locks get jammed and this was the only remedy. Like magic the key twisted, and the door opened.

That’s when you laughed. Sure, the lobby didn’t look retro, but this room sure did. The exact thought of discolored carpet and orange-floral wallpaper came to fruition inside this room. In fact, it even smelled ancient. If a chain-smoker had been living here for the past decade you’d believe it.

The bed looked innocent enough (even though you were skeptical of bedbugs), so you laid your backpack on it and pulled out your pajamas. Soon after you found yourself in the bathroom that looked to come straight out of The Shinning. Seriously, it was like a miniature version of the film’s bathing room—which made you uneasy. Spending as little time as possible inside the off-putting room, you took a shower and got your nightgown on. The nightgown was modest and was the color of baby blue. It hugged the cuffs of your wrist and ended mid-calve. Thankfully, you expected the floor to be a little suspicious, so you pulled out the fluffy socks from your backpack and put them on.

At the end of your nightly routine you found yourself sitting at the windowsill of the hotel room, gazing at the general direction of the expo. Your mind was running particularly fast. About what, you hadn’t a clue; it was like your brain was on steroids and you could think of a million better things to do than sleep.

            All things considered; this is actually not the worst birthday you’ve had. Sure, running from your soulmate isn’t exactly a pleasant pastime, but it sure does beat turning 16 only for two weeks later your father to die because of your soulmate . . . then your mother to die because your soulmate killed your father. In the grand scheme of things, life isn’t great but at least you’re not dead. At least, you question how long that’ll last when suddenly multiple large-scale bombs detonated and created an expansion of fire near the Stark expo.

Your view from the ninth story of a non-brothel made your jaw hit the floor in shock. Perhaps your slightly erratic choice of moving further away wasn’t insane, but your intuition.

He’s not dead, you know this for certain because your heart doesn’t ache from a soul break. Instead, you believe your increased heartbeat was due to being so close to something so dangerous. Unsure of what else to do other than gawk, you made your move away from the window. Perhaps the less you knew, the better. Everything that this night has given you can be re-thought in the morning after a night of restful sleep.

            Moving to bed you begin to feel your wrist burn—the one with his name on it.

            His name being on your wrist is rather strange; after all, it signifies that you have not one, but two SIAs. Anyone having more than one isn’t common. The first would be the SIA dubbed “In My Shoes” (not your choice in title, that’s just what the GSRA calls it) and the other is “Say My Name.” The second isn’t too harmful (at least in terms of your purpose of never meeting the man) and was most likely the one given to you at birth or one you inherited from him, but the first one is a reason for concern. You haven’t been living in anxiety because of it, however it does loom in the back of your mind. “In My Shoes” is often systematic but how often it occurs isn’t known until it happens a second time. It’s been six years and there’s a good chance that it is a one-off soul aid, which isn’t unhear of.

            Back on task you began to rub your wrist in hopes of soothing it. It wasn’t even a few seconds of trying to remedy the burn, when suddenly you felt like you were falling. Your eyes closed in an attempt to not only ground yourself, but to get rid of the feeling. Then, as quickly as it would be to blink your eyes, you opened them to something that wasn’t there a moment ago.

It was a woman with blonde hair and a well-matched lipstick to her black pencil dress. She had bangs that stuck slightly to the sweat of her forehead as she used both hands to convey a stress you didn’t understand. By the looks of it, she was talking, but her words only began to have meaning when you decided to tune in.

“—kill yourself or-or-or wreck the whole company!” She had yelled in frustration, continuing her rant with little mind to what you were doing.

Confusion laced your features at the odd word choice as you attempted to figure out what was going on. Did you know this woman? Did she know you?

You felt exhausted, sweaty, and out of breath. You’ve never run a marathon (never had the time), but this must’ve been what it felt like.

Taking in your surroundings you noticed you were on top of a roof. Not just any roof, but one that was a lot closer to the Stark Expo than you were a moment ago. Now you’re even more confused; how can this be possi—oh yeah, right.

Looking down you saw your body covered in a roughed-up red and yellow piece of metal. It certainly didn’t take a genius to figure out that the “In My Shoes” aid had taken affect. Definitely not at a good time, but was there ever a good time?

‘Fuck my life, man,’ you tiredly thought to yourself.

Trying to gather your thoughts you decided it was best too—did she stop talking? Opening your eyes after subconsciously closing them, you saw her looking at you.

Something in your brain shifted in place as you paused then tentatively asked, “Did I say that out loud?”

She nodded.

Yep, not the worst birthday ever, but it might just make it to spot number three.

A moment of silence passed both of you as words were exchanged between the intense eye contact. Then, before she could say anything, a voice to the left of you said, “You’re not Tony.”

The lady seemed to jump in her skin, equally surprised by the new voice on the roof. Looking towards the source of the statement you saw a man wearing a similar iron body of armor sitting on top of something metal. He seemed to look as tired as you felt.

“Uhh . . .” you quietly muttered, trying to formulate some type of a response.

The woman beside you seemed to almost snicker in realization, “Definitely not Tony.”

“He would’ve had something sarcastic to say by now,” the man added, seeming to continue the woman’s train of thought.

Baffled by the ease of flow in conversation between the two people, you tried to rack your brain to figure out who these individuals are. The one sitting down you may’ve seen on the news, but this other lady was only vaguely familiar.

“My name is Pepper Pots, but Pepper is just fine,” the woman introduced herself, seemingly reading your mind.

Ah, there we go, she was that chick who was almost always by Tony’s side (apart from the models that hung on his arms). There was skepticism that she was his secret lover, but other than that bit of gossip, you hadn’t paid much attention. After all, why keep track of someone’s love life when you have no intent in being a part of it?

Out of instinct you reached out your hand to shake hers and replied, “My name is—”

You stopped before you said anything revealing; then, before you could recoil your metal-covered hand, she took it while saying, “Don’t worry about it. You haven’t come for him after all these years, so I think I get the idea.”

A small smile appeared on your face in appreciation for at least one person to understand without knowing the full story. One time someone asked if you had a soulmate. At the time you decided to be truthful and answer with a simple ‘yes’. Then they started to ask more questions, and by that time you were already in deep, so you had to explain that you willingly chose to stay away from him. They got frustrated and almost mad at your choice. Again, you do not hold a popular perspective on how to approach soulmates. It got particularly scary one time when someone caught a vague glimpse of the “Say My Name” aid and felt inclined to ask about it. At this point you had learned from previous encounters, so you would just tell them it was a ‘trick of the light’ and that you don’t have a soulmate.

Early on you learned that convincing others of a lie is easier than admitting the truth.

“I’m curious,” pried the man on the side. He was sarcastically raising his hand (if that analogy was even possible). “Why haven’t you made contact? Tony said he’d given you his address.”

Here it is, the questions. Except this time it’s not going to be as simple as ‘I don’t have a soulmate.’ These people know who Tony is and you are the only one who can do this body exchange.

Pepper chimed in, “I’m also curious. He was so excited about finding out you existed that by the time he got his mind straight, the only thing he could do was write down an address.”

How innocent, this line of questioning. These people seemed so kind, completely contrasting the allies you’d think Tony would’ve made. It almost implored you to give them the whole story, but something inside you said it would be best to just keep it short. The truth didn’t work well in the past, and the less they know, the harder it is to find you.

Licking your lips, you tasted that strong flavor on his tongue again, just like last time. Similarly, it wasn’t great and reminded you of a bad aftertaste that wouldn’t go away. However, now as an adult, you recognized that aftertaste to be some form of liquor. Alcohol never really tickled your fancy, the substance not tasting too great and being an unnecessary cost was enough of an incentive to ward you away.

How depressing, you’ll need to give these two intrigued individuals a condensed version of your store. And if they are his friends, as you suspect they are, they’re going to turn around and tell him the moment you get back into your body. Then again, maybe this is for the best. Perhaps he will get the hint. So, looking up at these people and trying your best to keep a steady tone, you said without a batted breath, “To be honest, I hate Tony Stark.”

Just like that, the water gates have been busted open. You haven’t ever told anyone your opinions of the man, and certainly not with this kind of context. However, without even seeing their reaction, you blinked, and the scenery changed again. This time you stood in the lobby of the motel with the hardwood floor beneath your fuzzy socks. How did he get down all nine flights of stairs so quickly? If he was trying to get outside, he obviously failed, which did comfort you knowing he was unable to spot any street signs. The only downside will be the journey back up.

Glancing around, you saw the frizzy-haired receptionist from before in front of you looking mildly curious about your antics.

“So, is that everything you needed?” She asked with a lack-luster tone.

Confused, you looked at her for a sign as to what she was talking about, only to feel one of your hands holding onto something. Looking down, you saw a rectangular piece of paper which you held up to your face and analyzed.

It was a business card from the motel. The front displayed the company name, phone number, and address. It was then that the printer in your brain began to print out a new message:

This business card has an address and 22 is not a lucky number.

[paradiseinternet]

Now posted on ao3!

If you prefer reading from ao3 then here is your link. If you find this work published anywhere else, that is not mine and has not been approved.

[paradiseinternet]

I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter One

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 4.4k

triggers: war (hinted at), death (mentioned, not detailed), childhood trauma, poverty, out-of-body-experience.

author's note: Ayo, waz up. If you see this fic pop up in ao3 at some point it'll probably be me. I've got three chapters done so far but not gonna post them all right away. If you don't like world building, slow burns, and a touch of enemies to lovers, then this fic isn't for you. If you like soulmate au's, somewhat realistic character interactions (not "omgomg y/n I love you!!! <3"), and heavy main character setup, then this is for you. Seriously, I'm afraid of commitment so that slow burn gonna come in h a r d .

Enjoy luvs. --Missy

Chapter One: Merely a Suggestion

            Although it is a controversial topic, you are one of the few who believe soulmates are only really a suggestion. This naturally wasn’t your original hot take on soulmates; in fact, you swore to marry your soulmate the moment you found them. However, the world is sweeter to a five-year-old and reality doesn’t really daunt on the youth until at least eight. Marriage is a beautiful thing and by the time you were six you’d concluded that although you and your soulmate would get married, it didn’t have to be immediately. When you were seven and outside during recess, you would tell your schoolmates that you couldn’t wait for the day you could meet your soulmate. Don’t get it twisted, you weren’t entirely ignorant—your mother and father had told you that many people got a soulmate, but few met them. This didn’t damper your optimism and everything was sunshine and rainbows until you turned eight. It was at this point that you became more self-aware and less self-absorbed.

            Your mother, bless her heart, was a kindred soul who worked two jobs: one as a waitress at a restaurant down the street in the evenings, and the other as a childcare worker for a local pre-K daycare. On the other hand, your father worked only one job as a mechanic for his own business (of which was slowly going bankrupt). They are soulmates and you love them just as much as they love you. However, love doesn’t mend all holes. When you turned eight, the entire world seemed to flip on its head. Quickly you became aware that living in a single-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of California wasn’t typical for a family of three, never going out to eat isn’t necessarily common, and working more than one job in a two-income household isn’t normal. It was at this point that when your birthday came, you’d ask for fewer, less expensive things in hopes of being less of a financial burden. Your family was not rich, well off, or even content. Instead, this loving family was so poor that your father would need to occasionally go to food pantries sponsored by local churches to even put sustenance on the table.

            Even with such a financial burden, you’d made sure to do your best in school in hopes that one day you can be successful and care for your own parents when they reach retirement. And so, by the time you became eight, your fantasy of marrying your soulmate went onto a backburner as more pressing matters took stage.

            By the time you were almost ten years old you’d accepted that maybe you were part of the 40% of the population that didn’t have a soulmate; or more dauntingly, the 27% that would never meet their other half. Not that the former number is necessarily terrible, it’s certainly better than the other side of the 27% that typically results in death.

In reality (and taking historical facts into consideration), only 6% of the 60% who are supposed to find their soulmate actually do—and live. So, when your tenth birthday came and no new soulmate identification aid popped up on your skin, in your mind, or with your vision, you’d thrown in the towel with grace and accepted your placement in society.

            In this universe, an unknown power assigns one person with another and declares them soulmates. The most common pairing is between a man and a woman; however, it isn’t uncommon for there to be a same-sex bond, a bond with multiple people, or a bond that is simply platonic. Something more consistent are the Soul Identification Aids (SIAs for short). These are the aids given to each soulmate as a sort of guide on how to find the other. Not all SIAs are immediately noticeable, but they tend to be on the more obvious side. Additionally, a new SIA is given to the person when they turn ten. Typically, the old SIA will be replaced by the new SIA (since many aids are not compatible). In the event both identifications can work smoothly together, the soulmates keep all pre-existing SIAs. Everyone is given an SIA at birth as many doctors and nurses exclaim with joy when a baby is born and they are first to witness the name, phrase, etc. of a lifelong future partner. There is however a small caveat to identification aids-- if your soulmate has yet to be born, you are stuck with your initial SIA from birth until your destined person comes into the world. In which case, the younger soulmate will receive two new SIAs (if compatible) and the older soulmate will gain one new aid on the day of birth of their soulmate. Many scientific investigations have also speculated that if your soulmate is not born by the time you turn ten, you do not receive a new SIA until your soulmate enters the world.

            So, when you were born late into the night and there was no physical sign of a SIA, this didn’t worry your parents. Afterall, not all SIAs are visible, and non-visible marks tend to run in the family. Your mark would eventually show up, and even if it didn’t, there was always a new one that would come when you turn ten. Thus, when you turned ten, your parents began to worry. You had woken up excited to see in what way you were going to find your soulmate, only to see not an inkling of a sign. The rest of the day was spent with your parents testing, prodding, and scanning for any sign of a new SIA. When nothing came to a head and you began to feel low, your parents told you everything was going to be fine and that they loved you no matter what. Then, with a little hope, your mother reminded you that you were an evening baby, so perhaps the new marks wouldn’t kick in until you were officially ten.

            That night, emotionally exhausted, you’d slept like a rock. There was only one point where you were rustled awake by the feeling of falling. Like your room, everything was dark; so, when you opened your eyes and couldn’t see a thing, you reminded yourself that you were in fact not falling, but instead sleeping in your twin-sized bed. Attempting to go back to sleep, you resituated yourself and cozied up with a pillow and cuddled up to the person beside you.

            What?

            You bolted into an upright position, trying to see what was going on. Stumbling out of bed, you turned on the lamp light to see no one in your vicinity other than your mother and father on the other side of the room cuddling each other on their full bed. At your hasty and loud movements, your father raised his head to look at you.

            “What is it?” He mumbled, still half-asleep.

            Looking around again, you decided to brush off the odd event as a physical hallucination and yawned, “Nothing, just felt like I was falling.”

            He nodded his head before going back to sleep, only for you to turn off the light and do the same.

            Christmas Day came, and the holiday was slowly losing its charm the older you got. With the new information that there isn’t a Santa Claus, you’d fell into a world of horror—not at the idea that there wasn’t a large man sneaking into the apartment every year, but that your parents, without fail, have been paying for your extensive wish-list every year. That was a bandage that was ripped off the same year that it was determined you didn’t have a soulmate. You were twelve now and had come to terms with becoming unnecessarily excited with gifts you felt so-so on. So long as your parents believed you were happy with the inexpensive present, you were truly gifted with the joy of relief in knowing you’d saved them a few bucks. This, to you, was enough.

            Although this year was a little different. In recent news, your father came home a few months ago saying that his business will go bankrupt soon and so he’s looking for other jobs. With the new financial stress, you’d done everything you could to cut down on costs. Shorter showers, walking home instead of being picked up, finding little things you could do to lessen their burden. So, when this Christmas came around and your father made the announcement, you were overjoyed.

            “I have found a job!” He declared joyously.

            Not only had he found a job, but it would pay more than what he was initially doing at the auto shop. The catch however was that it was a job with the military, and he was required to go into basic training for a few weeks, away from home.

            Your mother, the strong-willed woman that she is, held down the fort as you both gave your goodbye’s as he left for training. In the weeks that he was gone, time was a little strained and schedules were jumbled. The apartment was becoming more of a mess as there was now only one parent in the house. However, you both pushed through and welcomed your father back with open arms when he was finished.

            He wasn’t stationed immediately; in fact, it wasn’t until you were 15 years old that he had gotten a call. The army had found a placement for him somewhere in Afghanistan and he was to be deployed for about nine months. This time around your mother was a bit more hesitant. Afghanistan? At his age? He was already close to the max age of deployment, and they had limitations for a reason. It took a few days, but with the hope of giving you a better means of living and perhaps putting some more money in the already lack-luster college fund, she reluctantly confided.

            Unfortunately for you, when your father was expected to be deployed it would mean he would miss your birthday—the sweet sixteen. But with promises of trinkets and memorability, you smiled with tears in your eyes and waved goodbye once more. The two of you would have a father-daughter date when he came back to make up for the lost time.

            The day had arrived, the day that you’d never forget. Your 16th birthday. There were no big parties and no equally big plans. Just you and mom having a nice at-home dinner with a small gift ceremony. In the morning you were treated to sleeping-in and then given breakfast in bed with your favorite breakfast items. A small lunch came later in the day with plenty of sweet snacks to accompany you throughout the special event. Time was spent watching movie marathons, panting nails, writing letters to your father, and a variety of other activities you enjoyed. As the memorable day came to an end it was topped off with a Skype call with your father, having him wishing you a wonderful birthday, and an even better year. You’d hadn’t even gone into the bedroom until after eight in the evening, and so you began your nightly routine. Shower, pajamas, brushed teeth, water on the bedside, along with some extra routine things you do. By the time you had gotten done with preparing for bed, your mother had already dozed off, having put on an eye mask and earbuds in to allow you ease of movement as you got ready for slumber. The day was certainly memorable.

            But it didn’t end there.

            Almost as soon as you laid your head down onto the pillow, you felt the sensation of falling. Except this time, you were awake opposed to sleeping, and your eyes hadn’t even closed yet. Light had filled your vision so fast that it was as if the sun decided to take a detour back into the sky, pushing the night away. This wasn’t the only sensory overload however, as the audio of the quaint bedroom seemed to be blasted with dozens of voices—voices that did not match the tone of your mother. Next you had realized that you were no longer laying down, but instead standing up straight with a hand tucked into your dress pant pocket.

Dress pants?

            It was then that your eyes focused, not looking at something, but more everything in hopes that some sense can be made. Your heart was beginning to beat rapidly, and your brain took laps within your skull. Confusion molded your facial features, your brain having not a clue as to what was going on, but somehow something inside of you understood. “Understood what?” is a good question, a question you were about to come to the answer of.

            “—are you okay?” Asked a voice to your left. You twisted your head to track the voice, only to see multiple mouths.

            Another person spoke, this time possessing a higher pitched tone, “Mr. Stark, do you need a glass of water?”

            ‘What?” Was the thought that passed through your mind.

            Someone tapped your shoulder, and you looked towards the direction of the touch.

            “Sir, are you alright?” A man was in your face. You looked up at him, he was only slightly taller which would make him rather short for a male. He was pudgy with brown eyes and slicked back hair that was a little longer than what would be typical for a man.

            You breathed and formulated some form of a word out of your lips, “Where . . .”

            Then you stopped without even continuing the sentence, a look of surprise cased along your features as you were startled by your own voice. Except it wasn’t your voice. This voice was a lot deeper in comparison. Had you not felt it come out of your throat, you’d have assumed someone was right next to your person and said the word instead.

            You licked your lips as a strange look passed through the features of the man in front of you as he tried to make sense of what was going on. When your tongue exited your mouth, however, you felt little hairs move on your face. Now that you think about it, your mouth doesn’t taste how it did a moment ago. It felt drier and there was a linger of something that had a potent after-taste. Something was different, a lot of things were different. As the few seconds ticked by, a dawn of realization casted across the man’s face.

            It was at this moment that you’d come to the realization that the room was a bit quieter than it was a few moments ago. You had turned your head to where the initial parade of noise was coming from only to find some faces. Correction, many faces. Each one showcasing a similar expression to the one the man beside you displayed a few moments ago. Then, as if following a script, the faces started to change into the same form of realization the man had given you.

            That’s when the room roared to life with questions ranging from “Who are you?”, “How old are you?”, “Where are you from?”, and so on. There seemed to be a never-ending assault of words pointed in your direction that came so quick you could feel the exhales of the people warm you up slightly as it touched your skin.

            Then it dawned on you, a realization that could be titled ‘Better Late Then Never.’ This situation, this body, these people, this is not your setting. Not your room, not your mom, and certainly not your body. That man beside you is not short but instead you happen to be taller. The only thing that you knew in this situation was that this is the body of your soulmate. A man, standing on a slightly elevated stage with a minimalistic microphone in front of him, addressing dozens of people in what can only be assumed to be a press conference. A man you thought didn’t exist, a soulmate you previously believed you were not destined for.

            You glanced back at the man beside you as he hastily grabbed and dragged you into a particular direction. Where you were being taken off too was unbeknownst to your knowledge as you blink and find yourself back in the apartment standing in the middle of the kitchen.

            The time could not have been more than five minutes since your initial, unexpected bodily switch, and yet your entire world has changed. Focusing your eyes again and feeling the cold vinyl below your feet, you took a shallow breath. This felt like your body. Your mouth tasted familiar, and your fingers felt leaner than the ones you had just moments before.

            Looking down at the counter you faced, a torn piece of paper and a well-used pencil was before you, as were a combination of letters and numbers that filled the off-white sheet. Gently grabbing the paper, in fear of tainting its viability, you slowly read the note as you process what it says.

            10880 Malibu Point, California, USA

            An address. Your soulmate gave his address.

            Suddenly your mind swirled with the next course of action as your heart started to speed up again in excitement. However, you stopped the trail of thought as a smile crept onto your face.

            ‘I have a soulmate,’  you’d thought in endearment.

            Had it not been for your sleeping mother you would’ve squealed. That thought was quickly swept away as worry settled in.

            You don’t have a phone book with adresses, so you’d have to go to the library and use the computers there. Additionally, you’re 16. If he has his own address and is a speaker at a conference, he’s probably an adult. The Global Soulmate Registry Association (GSRA) isn’t particularly favorable towards the joining of an adult and minor soulmate after breaching the threshold of a particular age gap. Additionally, if he had immediately left the room to look for something to write on, he probably doesn’t realize how old you are.

            ‘A letter it is then,’ you had concluded.

            A letter is the most viable step. You wouldn’t need to go to the library in that case to see how long it would take to get to his home, you’d just need to get a letter and a stamp. A letter would be able to inform him that the two of you would need to be separated for the time being until you’re a legal adult. A letter is a harmless form of communication that can keep the two of you in contact without actually seeing each other. This way, you get to know this “Mr. Stark” without breaking any rules set in by the GSRA. And to be completely honest, you were very interested in learning about this man and why his name sounded so familiar.

            The news had been on fire for at least a week. Talk was going around about the recent happenings of the “2003 Tokyo-Stark Conference” and how world-renowned Tony Stark does in fact have a soulmate. Video footage had been released of the entire ordeal staring you and your awed expression. While watching the news you couldn’t help but flush in embarrassment as your eyes darted everywhere within the video and facial features contorted constantly—most being a sign of confusion and disorientation.

            You’d yet to get ahold of the letter and stamp—still frazzled by the whole ordeal. If the press is this attentive to a single man, how would they react to the news of who you are? Nerves shook your body as doubt laid on your mind. Perhaps this letter needed to be re-thought.

            Another week went by, and you’d finally calmed down your nerves. Regardless of the repercussions, you would let your soulmate know that you got his message. A smile made its way on your face once again at the thought of having a soulmate.

            Sitting beside your mother, the two of you were chatting away with the TV on in the background. You have yet to tell her the exciting news, but tonight that was going to change. The most recent broadcasting was still on the “Soul-Stark” mystery; however, now it was highlighting the many women who have come forward claiming to be Tony Stark’s soulmate. Initially you were worried that he would believe them, and that your soulmate would be ripped away from you; but, after Tony released a press statement, your worries melted.

            “She knows how to find me. Figured she’d find me sooner, but hey, patience isn’t my strong suit,” he had stated with a sly smirk on his lips.

            That’s right, he gave his address to you. No one has his address other than the ones he trusts. No one can prove their reliability unless they possess the note that you have. That’s why a letter is perfect. It’s effective, reliable, and prevents any bundles of nerves from forming if you two were to meet in person. Because to be honest, you’re not entirely sure if you could meet him face-to-face right now. The very thought makes something in the back of your brain twitch. It wasn’t anything bad, just that this person who has all the fame and fortune anyone could want, was your soulmate. You. Acne-infested, poverty-stricken, popularity-lacking, you. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he would take you at face-value, but considering your face is one big zit, that’s a hard pass. Perhaps after some time you can accept the man the universe has given to you, and you expect that time will come in about two years when the GSRA won’t breathe down your neck.

            Suddenly, your mother grasped her chest in pain.

            “Ahh!” She groaned.

            Your eyes widened in shock, unsure how she could be in pain without anything physical around her to be threatened. Swiftly you held the hand that was on her chest and put the other on her back, rubbing small circles.

            “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” You asked in worry.

            She shook her head, seemingly unable to speak. This carried on for a minute or two as she caught her breath.

            Releasing some air she huffed, “I don’t know, it just felt like something stabbed my heart.”

            In that moment she looked at you in the eyes and your own widened in shock.

            “Mother!” You yelled, unintentionally recoiling from what you looked at.

            Her features molded into that of confusion as black tears rolled down her cheek. Almost simultaneously she seemed to be aware of the liquid feeling on her cheek as she went to wipe the tears away, only to see the gunk that came out of her sockets. The two of you stood still not saying a word, trying to understand what was happening.

            It was during this moment that the TV flashed blue and red as it had the words “Breaking News” on the screen. Then a woman’s face appeared as she began to give the people the latest scoop.

            Without a breath the newswoman began, “Break news: We have just received reports of an airstrike in Afghanistan. The attack, carried out by opposing forces, targeted a U.S. military base. Details are still emerging, and we will continue to monitor the situation closely. Stay tuned for further updates.”

            That’s when it occurred—the realization.

Your father is stationed in Afghanistan. Your mother is crying black tears. There was an attack on a U.S. military base. Those tears weren’t bizarre, they were signs of a soul break. Your father is dead.

Unsurprisingly, your mother derived the same conclusion but was not willing to accept it without proof. She quickly got off the couch and ran to get the home phone, dialing a number you didn’t know. The next few moments were spent with her waiting as she got past the operator who connected her call only for the other end to speak out:

“Sorry, but all available representatives are currently on the line. Please wait as—.”

She fell to her knees, no longer able to take the strain on her brain and on her heart. It was when she fell you heard a sound you’d never forget, as the most soul-sucking sob left her lips. Mothers have a tendency to take all the weight of any situation, standing strong so that their little ones have something to look up to and aspire to be. Therefore, when the very woman who has raised you with an iron fist and soft heart completely fell apart, you were confused. You were worried. You were devasted. How does one fix a hole that is too big to mend?

Taking tentative steps to the corner your sob-filled mother fell, you were about to get down with her when the TV made an announcement.

“This just in: Our latest sources have confirmed that the weaponry used in the attack on the U.S. military base in Afghanistan was manufactured by the domestic company, Stark Industries. More details to follow as we learn more,” the woman said in haste.

A far-taken picture was displayed on the screen detailing a missile on course to the base with the logo of Stark Industries plastered to the side.

The only thing close to a representation of your thoughts after the announcement was the word “numb.” Your mind drew blank as your breathing stopped. Any movement made to aid your mother was quickly drawn to a halt. A few seconds passed by as the sound of your mother’s sobs only increased with the new information—having the attack being worse coming from your own country. As for you, your mind began to piece it all together.

Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries and the mind behind the weapons, killed your father. Your soulmate killed your father. Fuck the idea of indirect actions—one man is dead because of another. The man you have loved your entire life was killed by the one you’re destined to be with for the rest of eternity.

At this revelation you have made your decision. One that you will argue was not made as an act of emotion-clouded judgment, nor a means of revenge. It is simply because of the bad taste that enters your mouth when you say his name.

And here it is, the moment that defined everything:

“I hate Tony Stark.”

So yes, even though it is a taboo perspective, your opinion remains stagnant.

To you, soulmates are only really a suggestion.