#vintervittran writes

[vintervittrannerd]

Training Challenge #3

“Based on my experience on the beach the day before, I form a new plan.”

How did your rider’s first day of training go? @thescorpioracesfestival

Freya had spent her fair share of time down at the beach during training season. The capaill uisce were driven mad by the autumn sea, and there were too many of them packed at the beach, so injuries that required a vet were bound to happen. The first days of training was always a mess. It was screaming horses and screaming humans and broken bones and blood on the sand and very very little actual helpful training.

Freya wasn’t interested in risking both her and Corax life in the chaos called training that was happening on the beach these first days. Later, after the parade when things are more orderly, she’d take Corax down to train amongst the others. But for now, they’d stick to the cliffs and the occasional early mornings on the beach.

It’s still early, the sun barley risen over the horizon as they make their way down to the beach. It’s not the Skarmouth beach, where everyone would be today, but the beach below their farm. The beach where Freya found Kaja all those years ago. It feels like an eternity ago, and like it was yesterday, all at once.

The beach isn’t fit for riding, it’s too rocky and uneven, but riding is not what they’re here for. Instead, Freya leads Corax along the shoreline, just barley letting the waves touch his hooves. With one hand she’s firmly holding the lead rope, while the other ties knots in Corax mane, and she whispers low and constant in his ears. The knots are to ground herself, to guard from the magic in Corax veins and the lure of the capaill uisce. The whispers are to ground Corax, to remind him that she is there and to distract him from the call of the sea. She leads him back and forward on the beach, each turn taking them a little further into the ocean. It’s a dangerous game, but one they’ve played many times before. Freya has all of her attention on Corax, making sure he still pays attention to her and not the sea, but in doing so she can’t watch the sea for signs of any wild capaill uisce. Luckily, the sea is shallow here, only slowly getting deeper, so the sea horses must rise from the sea a distance away if they want to attack. They’d still reach Freya quickly, but at least she would have a warning.

Corax is calm and focused today, so Freya slowly takes them further out until Corax has water up to the middle of his cannons. Then they stop, and Freya feeds Corax a few pieces of raw meat as they stand still, letting the sea suck and tug at their legs. The sea is luring them, wanting to drag them out into its depth, but it’s still far from November, and they’ve done this every year since Corax was just a colt. They can resist the sea. Freya just hopes that will still be true on the day of the races.

Masterlist

[vintervittran]

Hi, Happy Fanfic Writer Friday! My question for today: looking back on your progress since you first started writing fanfic, what are the things you're most happy with?

Hi darling Jelly! ❤

Honestly, the fact that I dared write and publish a fic without having the whole thing planed out beforehand was a big step for me, and I'm very happy that i did it for the friendly neighbourhood exchange. Usually I want to have a fic completely planed out before I write it down (hence I've almost never published anything) but now I've realised I can start writing without planing every little detail first so now I've started writing a lot more 😊❤

[littlemissagrafina]

Thanks for the tag @wh0doyouthinkyouareiam

Rules: Bold the aesthetics you relate to and add twenty of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold

(soft!) baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night |

(dark academia!) neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story |

(edgy!) closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humor | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks |

(seventies!) colorful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | DIYing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding |

(preppy casual!) collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colorful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairy-lights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

(@masterninjacow) rainy mornings | sweet steaming tea | cats’ purrs| daydreaming about fantasies | back hugs | glinting necklaces | loud video games | grumbling thunder | constantly chewing gum | wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underwear to bed | watching horror movies at night | nibbling on chocolates | talking to yourself | short hair | sad lofi music | messy sketches | sweet-scented body wash | spicy noodles at midnight | hating physical affection but craving it at the same time | ending all texts with lmao or rip

(@cherriigguk) | dried flowers | painting at 2 am in oversized sweater| up until sunrise | abundance of blankets and plushies | minimalistic colours | writing when you can’t sleep | warm banana bread on a winters day | stroking a sleepy dog | big eyeliner | butterfly clips | lo-fi hip hop | glossy lips and rose tinted cheeks | afternoon tea with old friends | oversized cardigans | herbal tea | dainty jewellery | self-care evenings | messy low bun or ponytails | dark hair | too many sketchbooks

(@bisoo) Fairy lights | Walking in the woods | night city | waves sound | drinking hot chocolate or tea during raining days | being wrapped in a blanket | polaroids | pastel stuff | mint tea | cats’ furr | baked brownies or cookies | French toast/pancakes for breakfast | drinking tea at 3 am with friends | café | doing braids on your friend’s hair | lots of plushies | doing old drawings again | boxes full of doodles | iced coffee

(@midnightlunaandinnerfangirl) having tons of plushies | wearing black | knitting | making your own clothes | napping in the sun | dancing in your bedroom | reading books in your bed | oversized hoodies | combat boots | flowy dresses | lots of piercings | wearing multiple rings on your fingers | gardening | ripped black jeans | chokers | wearing tights | oversized sweaters | black nail polish | holding babies | coffee

(@superherotiger) Posters on your bedroom walls | Marvel/Star Wars shirts | hot chocolate at night | platonic cuddling | family jewellery | ocean breeze | sand on your feet | reading books in the sunlight | stuffed toys | big jackets | black hair | playing games | night owl | clean and orderly | blues and greens | trinkets from travels | LEGO | unfinished sketch books | sunny days | starry nights

(@an-odd-idea) constant daydreaming | full notes app | studying maps | staying up late | meaningful jewelry | searching for music to match what you’re writing | loving deeply | always cold | cuddling cats | no makeup | long hair | camp t-shirts | songs on repeat | singing in the car | fuzzy blanket | chamomile tea | midnight snacks | summer nostalgia | bad at hugs but really wanting them anyway | holding hands |

(@jelly-pies) ink on your hands | doodling random quotes/song lyrics | t-shirts and denim shorts | keeping mints in your purse | lip balm | talking to inanimate objects | half-full journals | backpacks | fandom trinkets | flip-flops | board games | songs from original movie soundtracks | holding conversations with kids | fanarts saved to your phone | lying on the grass | floating on your back in the water | full hearty breakfasts | casual side-hugs | dozing off anywhere | fruit shakes |

(@imalivebecauseirondad) daydreaming | platonic hugs | staying up late reading fanfiction | casually telling people you love them | writing when you feel sad | going online when you can’t sleep | messy room | closet filled with all kinds of clothes | stressing about work but still procrastinating | cats | wanting an animal but knowing you can’t take care of one | taking photos of your friends/family at random moments unexpectedly | nostalgia fro something you don’t recognize | doodling in the margins of books | singing alone | karoake | video games | binging shows | comics | wishing for something impossible

(@dredfulhapiness) crowded libraries | naps | chronically cracked phone screen | CD collections | musical theater | Every Kurt Vonnegut book | bookends | patterned button-ups | magical realism | scream-singing Taylor Swift | winter nights | nails bit to the quick | jigsaw puzzles | black coffee | drive-in movie theaters | driving at night | thunderstorms | horror novels | owning multiple sets of dice

(@wh0doyouthinkyouareiam) unmade beds | soft blankets | iced coffee | lightning shows at night | hair tangled with sea salt | rain gear | red lipstick | gold hoop earrings | light summer dresses | messy embroidery | pressed flowers | leather notebooks | black gel pens | books in languages you can hardly understand | glasses slipping down your nose | painted toenails | smiling underneath a mask | foggy October mornings | sneaking out to go stargazing | mint-chocolate candy

(@littlemissagrafina) too many notebooks or sketchbooks | the smell of the ocean | sunsets in summer | painted nails | natural hair | too many WIPS in your docs | musical soundtracks | talking to friends until after midnight | fandom merchandise | high waisted jeans | coffee cups sitting empty next to you long after you finish them | fluffy socks | fairy lights | paint/ink/graphite stained fingers after art | the soft glow of candles | day dreaming | more than one piercing | unedited/unchecked writing | the still silence when the world is meant to be asleep but you're still awake | being open and affection with your friends |

I'll tag: @scooter3scooter @itstimeforachange01 @joyful-soul-collector @justt-ppeachy @canonismybitch @blondsak @vintervittran

[littlewomenpodcast]

Little Women: Is it Bhaer or Baer

I was having a chat with @vintervittran​ and it reminded me that this is still the most plausible explanation for Friedrich´s mis-spelled last name. Louisa your crush is so obvious!

 I speak German and Bhaer is not German. Bhaer doesn´t mean anything. Baer without "h" is an actual German last name and means a bear. For years I actually thought that Bhaer was a typo, but if it was a typo why no one hasn´t fixed it for the past 150 years? unless ..it was intentional For the 1880 edition of Little Women Louisa went back correcting some of the German phrases. For example “Das ist gute!” in the first edition of the novel to “Das ist gut! but she does not touch on Friedrich´s last name and she knows it is written incorrectly. Every single feature that Fritz has that for some readers, especially the younger ones have come-out as horrendous, they all come from Henry David Thoreau who merited Louisa´s life long affection. Henry and Fritz both had a last name that Americans had difficulties to pronounce. This is what Henry´s good friend, Edward Emmerson wrote: “We always called my friend Thó-row, the h sounded, and accent on the first syllable and other friends called him “Mr. Thorough.” This is what Jo write´s about Friedrich´s last name: ”Now don´t laugh at his horrid name; it isn´s pronounced either Bear or Beer , as people will say it, but something between the two, as only Germans can do it”.

[itsreallylaterightnow]

💎- What was your favorite part? ✏️-Would you go back and change anything if you could? 📣-What was the best piece of encouragement you got?  For either My Bones Have Found A Place (To Lie Down & Sleep) or Run Into My Arms Again (walk with me into the light) - Febuwhump

Okay I’ll answer all questions for both works!!!

1. My bones have found a place (to lie down & sleep)

💎- tony waking up to the empty bed was probably my favorite thing to write hands down!

✏️- yeah, I might make it a bit longer! Go deeper into the story of it if I could go back :)

📣- between you and vintervittran I loved both of your support so so much!!!

2. Run into my arms again (walk with me into the light)

💎- to pick a favorite from this is - maybe impossible. But I will say I was most proud of the “presumed dead” chapter. I literally adored what I did with that chapter!

✏️- honestly... I don’t think so. It is probably the work I’m most proud of and I dont think I would change anything about it!

📣- hm... okay so this work got 356 comments, so to be honest I don’t think I could pick a favorite! But when I say that I read and cherished EVERY SINGLE ONE I mean it! The comments are what kept me posting in time every day!

[vintervittrannerd]

Training Challenge #7: “Racing is about more than riding.”

 What is your rider learning about racing, especially on a capall uisce? @thescorpioracesfestival

Racing, Freya has found out, is all about knowing your limits and pushing them the exact right amount. If you don’t push them, or do it too slowly, you might as well not even enter the races, because you’ll never be where you have to be on race day. But pushing them too much or too fast… well, that way you won’t live to see the winter.

Freya has seen it both too many times to count. She’s seen it previous years when she worked alongside grandpa down at the beach, and she’s seen it this year as she watched the training from above.

Some riders play it safe, as safe as racing on murderous beasts can ever be at least. They train as far from the sea as they can, never daring to come close to it. They drape their horses in charms and iron, in desperate attempts to distract them from the November magic. They hold the rains too tight, never daring to give the capaill uisce even a small bit of freedom, never daring to be fast. If they make it to race day, they’re not ready for it. Many die, many loses their horses to the sea, and the ones that survive usually don’t manage to cross the finish line.

Other riders are too daring. They throw themselves into the chaos at the beach, with newly caught, or newly bought capaill uisce and too little training. They try to be fast. They drive their horses too far. They push too hard, too fast. They end up drowned, or eaten, or dashed against the rocks.

Freya don’t want to make the same mistakes. She knows her and Corax limits, here at the cliffs and at the small rocky shore bellow their farm. For weeks now, well years if truth be told, she has tested them and stretched them and prepared as much as she could. But now, it is time to truly push them. Today they’ll train on the beach with the others. Freya is terrified they’re not ready.

Masterlist

[vintervittrannerd]

Training Challenge #4: Make a Friend

@thescorpioracesfestival, this is a collaboration with @the-man-who-loved-a-mare

Freya felt quite bad for leaving so much of the vet work to grandpa. October was usually quite a busy month for them, with all the damage the capaill uisce was doing, both the racehorses and the wild ones that came up from the sea. This year was no exception. What was an exception this year was Freya herself. Since she had written her name on the board in the butchers shop, the other riders had decided they didn’t want her to tend to their horses. As if she would deliberately hurt the horses just to sabotage for the other riders. Freya was more than a little offended by the fact that people could ever believe such a thing. The older islanders wasn’t too rude about it, they might be pigheaded and refused her near their capaill uisce, but at least they let grandpa tend to them. The tourist that were racing were far worse, and Freya was quite certain that they would have refused grandpas help as well if they had just been clever enough to realize Freya was his granddaughter. Luckily for their income, most of them didn’t make the connection between old Dr. Connor the vet, and the name Freya Thorne written on a blackboard.

So, Freya was left doing all the work grandpa didn’t have time. And today that meant visiting a part of Thisby she’d rarely been to. She’d accompanied grandpa to many of his customers, but not all of them, and never to the Willis farm. But there had been a lame sheep, and grandpa hadn’t had time to go, so here she was, pulling up to a small farm in their rusty old pickup truck and jumping down in the mud.

There were no sight of the boy who had contacted her, nor of any sheep, so Freya poked her head into the windswept barn in hopes they’d be inside, hiding from the October weather. They weren’t. The barn was empty of any living thing, and a part of her brain registered that it smelled rather more like it did in Corax stable, than it did in a sheep barn. But it wasn’t until she walked around the corner and saw a black uisce mare and a boy, holding a struggling sheep, that she connected the name Willis with the name she had seen on the butcher’s board, Jaxom Willis – Saoirse. This was another rider in the races.

Jaxom Willis had brown hair and a scar running across his face. He looked vaguely familiar, Freya had probably seen him in Skarmouth sometime, but she’d never spoken to him before.

When she got closer, he put the ewe down, which promptly tried to escape from the nearby capall uisce but was stopped by the rope tying it to a stake in the ground, and walked to meet her. The black mare followed him, looking like she’d very much have them both for dinner, but before she could do more than moan, Jaxom turned to her with a stern “no” and shooed her away. The offended look the mare gave him reminded Freya very much of Green, the barn cat, when Freya stopped her from hunting birds, and she had to hold back a chuckle.

Jaxom tuned back to her, shook her hand in greeting and started leading her back to the sheep as he talked,

“I’m Jaxom. That,” he nodded at the uisce mare, “is Saoirse. She’s lovely but, uh. Don’t touch her. Sorry we have to do this here, usually I’d have us in the barn to get out of the wind, but my ewe won’t go in there, even if Saoirse’s shut in the paddock. Smells too much like her I suppose. I have us on this side of the pasture since the fence blocks the majority of the wind, but neither one of them are too happy about it.”

Freya could see that. The ewe was almost frantic with fear of the predator looming on the other side of the fence, and the mare still looked deeply offended that she hadn’t been allowed to eat Freya. They stopped by the ewe and Jaxom continued speaking,

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. We usually work with Dr. Connor, but I know he’s too busy with the Races this year to deal with this.”

“Freya. Thorne. She’s a beauty” She smiled at Jaxom and gestured to the mare, who currently had her ear pinned back, glaring at both Freya and the sheep. It was evident in Jaxoms voice when he spoke of her that he loved the capall uisce, and besides, she was gorgeous with those blue eyes, “and this is fine, our sheep wouldn’t go into Corax stable either. Uhm, Corax is my capall. He’s the reason I’m not down at the beach helping. Apparently, no one wants another competitor near their horses.” She couldn’t help rolling her eyes as she said the last bit, as she was still quite annoyed by it.

Freya kneeled beside the frightened ewe stroking her neck and talking softly to calm her down. The ewe stopped trying to escape and her eyes weren’t quite as frantic as before, but she was still tense, and very aware of the capall, but Freya supposed there was no avoiding that.

Apparently, Jaxom didn’t train down at the beach when the other riders where there either, and so he hadn’t heard she was racing this year. He didn’t seem bothered by the fact that another rider was tending to his sheep’s though, and that, in combination with his obvious love for the uisce mare, made Freya decide that she liked him.

The ewe, as it turned out, had stepped on a small piece of a nail, that had embedded itself in her hoof. Luckily, it hadn’t gone deep in, enough for it to be painful for the sheep to step on, but not enough that it had caused any severe damage. Freya managed to get the nail out, and clean the wound. She put on a bandage to keep any dirt out and told Jaxom to keep an eye on it, but hopefully it should be healed up enough that the bandage shouldn’t be necessary in just a few days.

While she’d been examining and treating the ewes’ hoof, she and Jaxom had discussed the races and Jaxom had told her that he was competing to be able to keep Saoirse, since his family didn’t want him to have a capall. Freya had been overwhelmed by a feeling of sudden gratitude towards her grandparents, who not only had allowed her to tend to an injured uisce mare, but also to keep baby Corax and who had helped and supported her every step of the way in raising a capall uisce in their barn. She couldn’t imagine what she would do if they hadn’t let her keep Corax, if she had had to fight every step of the way not to lose him. She really hoped Jaxom and Saorise would make it through the races, and that his parents would be convinced.

When the sheep was done, Freya left the small farm with a smile on her face and the feeling that, maybe, she had gained a new friend.

Masterlist

[vintervittrannerd]

Welcome to Thisby!

Training Challenge #1

Introduce your rider. @thescorpioracesfestival

Freya Thorne loved Thisby. Where the tourists saw a cold, rocky island full of uninhabitable steep cliffs and scrubby vegetation, Freya saw the grandness of the landscape and the naked beauty of moors with heather abloom. Where her mother had seen muddy pastures and dirty, smelly herds of sheep, Freya saw the calm friendly animals she spent countless hours with as a child, curled up in the hay with their woolly bodies keeping her warm and their soft muzzles against her chin. Where her sister had seen a small place with nowhere to go, Freya saw the comfort of knowing her place in the world and the freedom of being herself.

Freya loved it all, the sea, the cliffs, the heather, the small houses, the little towns, the sheep…and the water horses. Horrible and deadly as they might be, she still loved them. She shouldn’t, she knew she shouldn’t, not when they were the reason she lost most of her family. Her father had been killed by the horses when she was 9. He had wandered down to the shore to collect oysters, and a capall uisce had emerged from the water to drag him into the sea. Freya still missed her father terribly, but she never hated the water horses, not like her mother did.

Even after her father’s death, they had stayed on Thisby. Her mother had moved back to her own parents’ farm with her daughters, Freya and Jenna. The next few years of Freya’s childhood had been a relatively happy one. She loved living on the farm and enjoyed accompanying her granddad when his work as a veterinarian took him all over their island. She was, overall, a happy child. Until, one October day shortly after Freya’s 17th birthday, she’d come home to the news that the boat her uncles had been out fishing with had been attacked by capaill uisce, killing both her uncles. After that, Freya’s mother hadn’t been able to stand the island, and before winter arrived she had packed all of her things and taken the 12 year old Jenna with her to the mainland. Freya had stayed behind. Not because her mother hadn’t begged her to join her, but because she couldn’t leave her grandparents all alone. And if truth be told, she couldn’t leave Thisby either. It was home.

It had been nearly 10 years now since Freya had decided to stay on Thisby. She missed her mother and sister terribly, just like she still missed father, but she’d never once regretted her decision. She’d only been to the mainland once in the 10 years, to celebrate Jenna’s 18th birthday, and although she enjoyed spending time with her mother and sister again, seeing her baby sister all grown up and changed into someone she didn’t really know had given her a lump in the throat and an intense longing to return home to Thisby.

No, Freya Thorne would never leave Thisby. The island was in her soul, in her blood. It was the island where she had been borne, and it was the island where she would die. And the dying part might not even be that far away, because this was the year when Freya Thorne would compete in the Scorpio Races.

Masterlist

[vintervittrannerd]

Training Challenge #6: Explore the Festival

How does your rider navigate the Festival? @thescorpioracesfestival

The traditional Scorpio dress was made of heavy wool and dyed a deep bloodred colour. The skirt was long and flowy, and the bodice was laced and heavily embroidered with seashells and pearls. A blue woven shawl and tiny bells around the ankles completed the look. The dress had once belonged to Freya’s grandma, and together they had altered it to make it fit Freya.

The Scorpio dance, danced at the festival to the beat of the Scorpio drums, was, just like so much about the races, seen mostly as entertainment by the tourists, and Freya supposed, by a lot of the islanders as well. But it was so much more than that. The dance was a celebration of Thisby and the Scorpio Sea and the mare goddess. It was an honoring of the sacrifices and losses that had been made and that would be made, and a prayer to the island and to the sea to keep sheltering and feeding them another year. It was as old as the races themselves.

But sure, it was also fun. Freya had participated in the dance since she was 18, wearing her grandmas dress from when she herself had been part of the dance. The dance was supposed to be performed by young, unmarried islanders to represent the future of Thisby. Having just turned 27 at the beginning of the month, Freya supposed she might not count as “young” much longer. But she was unmarried, and anyway, no one would stop her from dancing. The “young and unmarried” was more a suggestion than a rule, and Freya suspected it had more to do with the fact that older and married people didn’t have the time or energy to dance in the streets all night, than with any symbolism.

Tonight, as the festival buzzes with life around her and the beats of the Scorpio drums vibrate through her body, Freya dances. She dances as if this was the races, as if her life depended on it. She dances to chase away the doubts and fears she has about riding in the races. And slowly it works. The drums sound like Corax hoofbeats on the cliffs as they gallop together. The taste of salt in the wind is the same as when she stands in the sea with Corax by her side. The way her straw blonde hair whirls around her face is familiar, same as when it escapes her ponytail when she rides. Right there, on the streets of Skarmouth, her red skirt billowing around her, the sound of the bells around her ankles drowned out by the drums, Freya loses herself entirely to the island. She no longer worries about the races. They might kill her, or they might not, but either way, she is part of this island. It is in her blood. Just as the sea is in her blood. Just as Corax is.

When they call for all riders to head to the ceremonial stone, she follows without hesitation. She spots Jaxom in the crowd and nods at him, but don’t approach. This feeling inside of her, of being one with the island, is yet too fragile for her to risk losing it by speaking. Instead, she stands silent, as the woman in the bird costume spills a bowl of blood at the stone. She stands silent as rider after rider mount the stone and declares their intention to race. She stands silent until it is her time to step up onto the rock. Then, the feeling of certainty, of belonging grows stronger. This is where she is supposed to be. On this island. On this rock. Whatever may come, she is of Thisby. Freya looks out over the crowd and speaks.

“I will ride.” The slice of the knife and her blood dripping on the rock is nothing as she says the words that promise her to the sea, to kill or let live as it pleases. “Freya Thorne. Corax. By my blood.”

Masterlist

[vintervittrannerd]

Training Challenge #2: “She’s moody and she’s slippery and she’s in love with the sea.”

Describe your capall uisce. @thescorpioracesfestival

The door to the stable creeks open and a warm smell of hay and animal envelopes Freya as she enters. This is where she and grandpa store the straw and hay for the sheep during the winter, and where, up until six years ago most of the junk from the farm had ended up. The junk is gone now however, replaced by a large stall. There’s a soft clucking coming from the stall, and Corax jet-black head appears over the stall door. At the sight of the stallion, Freya’s face melts into a soft smile, and she clucks back to greet her best friend. As she gathers up Corax bridle and saddle, Freya remembers the day six and a half years ago when she first encountered the wild capall uisce that changed her life forever.

It had been a cold grey day in March, a few years after Freya’s mother had left the island. Freya had been down by the shore in search of a missing sheep when she had heard the keening. She knew better than to follow a strange call by the sea of course, even though they were far from November, the sea was never completely safe, and horses could still appear anytime. But the sound had carried such pain and despair that she just hadn’t been able leave without investigating. And that’s how she had found her. An uisce mare, grey as the rocky shore, entangled in a fishing net and with a deep nasty-looking cut on her hindleg.

Maybe it had been instinct from the years working as a vet side by side with her grandpa, or maybe it had been, as her grandma said later, her kind heart getting the better of her, but Freya had freed the mare and brought it back to the farm with her to tend to its injured leg. Her grandma had fretted and protested, but grandpa had just smiled a small private smile and helped Freya tend to the mare. Together they had built a paddock fit for a capall uisce, away from the fields the sheep grazed on, and Freya had started working on rebuilding parts of the old barn to a stable. She’d named the mare Kaja, after the grey birds that always perched on the roofs in Skarmouth, and it had soon become clear that she was pregnant. Late in April a colt had been born, black as the night and with startling silver-grey mane. Freya had been there when he was born, and for the following months she had spent almost all her time with Kaja and the colt, whom she had given the name Corax. She had never seen an uisce foal before, and even though she had known that he would grow up to be one of the most dangerous predators on the island, she couldn’t be afraid of him, and she couldn’t help but to love him. Kaja had left the following November, returning to the sea where she belonged, but Corax had stayed.

He'd stayed with her.

Freya is abruptly woken up from her memories by Corax suddenly snatching the beanie from her head.

“Hey! Give that back!”

The stallion makes a clucking noise that sounds a little like laughter and shakes the beanie like it’s a prey he’s caught. Freya reaches for it, but Corax jumps out of reach and shakes the beanie again. He seems very pleased with himself.

“Corax!” Freya can’t help but laugh at him. He’s still young, only six years old, and still very playful. Stealing-Freyas-hats is a game he’s played ever since he was a foal and never seems to tire of. But today, they don’t have time for an endless game of chase-the-beanie, so Freya gets a small plastic bag from her pocket and fishes out a dead mouse that she found caught in one of the mousetraps earlier in the morning. It’s nothing more than a small snack for a grown capall uisce, but Corax happily trades the beanie for it and then stand still while Freya tacks him up.

She’s fumbling with the buckles, nervous in a way she’s usually not about riding Corax. But today is special. Yesterday, she signed them up at Gratton’s. Today is their first training as official participants of the Scorpio Races. They’re ready, she knows that. Corax is fully grown now, and he loves to run, but still, the nerves are there. Corax seems to sense her unease, and gently nudges her with his head. Freya smiles at him, runs her fingers through his silver mane and take a deep steadying breath.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go for a run”

Masterlist

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Training Challenge #5: “By my blood.”

    @thescorpioracesfestival

Somedays, Freya doubted she had made the right choice when she signed up for the races. There was still time to back out. Even if it meant losing the entry fee, Grandpa would understand. Even though he never would say it directly to her, he might even be grateful if she backed out. He respected the races and the water horses, but he didn’t understand them. Not the way his wife, Freya’s grandma had. Not the way her father had.

Freya remembered going to the Scorpio Festival as a child with her father. It was one of her earliest memories. She had been five and mother had been at home with a newborn Jenna, not deeming the festival fit to bring a baby to. Freya had clutched fathers’ hand and stared wide eyed at all the people moving around her, more people than she had ever seen in her short life. It had been frightening and exciting and terrible and wonderful all at once.

They had eaten November cakes and danced to the Scorpio drums and searched for the Mare Goddess seashell. Father had drawn shapes with ashes on Freya’s face and explained all about the festival and the races and the horses to her. Freya’s mother had brought her daughters to church with her on Sundays, but her father was of an old Thisby family and still held many of the old believes. It was he who had taught her to love and respect the water horses.

For many years after his death, they hadn’t visited the festival. Freya’s mother had kept both of her daughters at home and refused to visit the festival her husband had once loved. But then she had left for the mainland, and Freya was free to do as she pleased. She’d visited the festival every year since then, often with her grandma, and she loved it. Every year, she had looked forward to the festival with a happy anticipation. But not this year. This year, Freya was terrified. Paying the entry fee and getting her name on the board at the butcher shop, that might be the official signing up for the races. But standing up on that rock, offering up her blood and her name and Corax name, that was what truly counted. That was a promise made not only for other people, but for the island and the sea. There was no backing out of that.

She wasn’t sure she could do this.

Masterlist

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Training Challenge #10: "On horseback, it's easy to be certain."

Write about the final days leading up to the races. @thescorpioracesfestival

Beach training is going better than Freya would have expected. It’s been almost two weeks since she and Corax first started training among the others and no disasters have yet to happen. The races are in just a few days and, if you didn’t count the possibility of both her and Corax dying, Freya feels quite good about their chances.

She and Corax has walked in the sea along their own rocky shore by the farm every morning, trying to get used to being close to the ever-stronger lure of the Scorpio Sea, and she feels like its working. Corax is attentive, maybe a little too interested in the sea for Freya’s comfort, but ultimately, he never fails to listen to her. And he’s never tried to either eat her or drag her out in the sea, which is always a win when you work with the capaill uisce.

Down at the beach it’s not as simple. The sea isn’t a problem, at least not a big one. And the noise and people don’t seem to bother Corax too much either. He’s curious and Freya always take a few minutes at the start of every training session to just walk around and let him look at everything to get used to it. The other capaill uisce, however, is a problem. Corax hates them. He gets nervous around them and if they come too close and he feels like they’re a threat he will try to attack. Their second day down at the beach he had attacked a bay stallion that had flattened its ears and snapped at Freya’s leg. Corax had responded by surging forward and trying to bite the other stallions face off. Only a very sharp thug at the reins and a snap with a red leather strap right by Corax face had stopped him from doing any real damage. Since then, they’ve stayed as far away from the others as they can get on the beach, opting for training closer to the sea where less riders dare to take their horses.

When Freya had complained about it to grandpa over dinner, he had told her not to worry over it, and that Corax was probably trying to protect Freya as well, which made him like him more.

“But it distracts him” Freya had protested, “he’ll not be as fast as can be, and we won’t win. I just want to honor dads memory by doing good.”

“Freya,” Grandpa had looked at her with a very serious expression on his usually smiling face, “I might not know much about training and racing, but I know this much: The races aren’t about winning. The sea doesn’t care about that. And neither did your father”

Grandpa might not be of old Thisby himself, but his wife had been, and so had his son-in-law, Freya’s father. It was grandpa that had told Freya that her father had competed in the races himself, as a young man, long before Freya had been born. Her mother had never mentioned it, and as long as she had been on the island, the stories of their father had been about what a good man he had been, about him working as a groom in the Malvern yard, and about how much he had loved his family. Freya had never heard a single word about him riding, let alone racing, a capall uisce. But when her mother had left, and Freya had decided to tend to the grey uisce mare with a foal in her belly, her grandfather had told her the stories of her father in the races. He had been a fifth and competed two years in a row on a brown uisce mare with mane as black as the sea in a storm. He never won, but he didn’t do too badly, even managing to get in third place the second time. He had come from a long line of racers, and grandpa had said that the Thorns had competed in the races ever since they first were held, every firstborn son racing at least once in their lives. Freya didn’t intend to break that tradition.

She thinks on that as she steers Corax away from the other capaill uisce and urges him into a gallop along the shoreline. His ears are pricked, and even though his attention is split between her and watching the other uisce on the beach, he seems to enjoy running and her heart is running with him, loving every second on his back. He is not as fast as Freya knows he can be, but she realizes that grandpa is right, it doesn’t matter. She might not win the races, but with Corax under her, her grandpa supporting her and her father’s memory in her heart, how can she ever truly lose?

Masterlist

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Training Challenge #8: Home & Family

@thescorpioracesfestival

It has started to rain when Freya walks back towards the farm with Corax after another day of beach training. The clouds are dark and promise a heavier rainfall during the night, and Freya is relieved they made it back before the worst of the rain arrives. She isn’t a fan of getting stuck out in a rainstorm with so many capaill uisce out on the beach.

There’s light in the windows of the house, so Grandpa must already be home. When they come closer Freya can see him moving around in the kitchen, no doubt preparing the dinner. Freya get a warm feeling when she sees him, mixed with the usual worry of losing him. He is all the family she has left now, after grandma died a few years ago. Him and Corax.

After her mother and sister left for the mainland, it had felt like a sign when Freya found Kaja at the beach and Corax was born. Like somehow, she had lost family, but also gained new one. Kaja had also left, but Corax remained a part of Freya’s family, as essential as grandpa.

When she’s brought him inside his stall, put away all the tack and put his dinner, a large bucket of raw meat, down on the stall floor to him, Freya lingers in the stall for a bit. She treads her fingers through Corax silver mane and rests her cheek against his soft black shoulder and hums softly to him as he eats. He is family, and sometimes she loves him so much it frightens her. Most of her family is gone, but Corax remains, as does grandpa, and she doesn’t want to lose either of them.

She gives herself a few more moments to lean on Corax and breath in his smell before heading out of the stall and out into the rain again. She doesn’t want to worry grandpa by staying out too long.

Before she heads inside though, Freya decides to check up on the sheep to make sure they’re secure in the barn before the rainstorm comes in at full force. She’s greeted by soft bleating when she enters, and although she had intended to just do a quick count of them and then head inside, she can’t resist sitting down in the straw among the sheep for a few minutes, the way she use to as a child. Two of the sheep, Moon and Jen, immediately approaches and demands pets by softly nudging Freya with their muzzles. They don’t keep many sheep, only eleven ewes and, in spring and summer, their lambs. Freya knows them all by name, was there when most of them were born, and no matter how much she loves Corax, there is something about interacting with animals that she can let her guard down completely around that is hard to beat. The sheep gives her a feeling of safety, of familiarity, of calm that is hard to find anywhere else. They remind her of being a child and playing out in the barn with Jenna, after their father had died and they moved to their grandparents’ farm. Jen was named in honor of Jenna, born the spring after she and their mother had left Thisby, and with wool the same warm brown colour as Jenna’s hair. Freya’s own hair, with its frizzy yellow curls, bare more resemblance to the straw she’s sitting on than to any of the sheep surrounding her. Evidently, the sheep thinks so too, because a sudden thug brings Freya straight back to reality as Gretel, one of the youngest ewes, tries to eat the ponytail sticking out from under her beanie.  

“That is not for eating.” She flicks Gretel gently on her muzzle and the ewe stops chewing on Freya’s ponytail to give her an offended look. “I’m sorry, but its not.”

With a last few scratches behind the sheep’s ears, Freya gets up and starts to brush off the straw from her pants, just as a loud “meow” announces the arrival of their black barn cat, Green. Freya smiles and meows back at the cat and Green comes closer and starts to stroke against her legs.

“Hello pretty girl, have you caught any mice today?” Green meows as a response and continue to circle around Freya’s legs, making the walk out of the barn more difficult than necessary.

One look at the sky outside, and Freya decides to bring the cat inside the house with her. If there’s really a storm coming tonight, she doesn’t want Green to be out in it. She scoops up the now purring cat and, shielding her as much as possible from the ever-increasing rain, hurries to the house.

Inside she is greeted by their large grey sheepdog, Ash, the smell of freshly baked bread and grandpas voice calling from the kitchen to tell her to wash up before dinner. With a smile, Freya does as she’s told. She wants to spend as much time with grandpa before the races as she can, so tonight, she has decided to let herself forget all her worries about the upcoming races and just have a nice evening. Tomorrow, she can worry about something going wrong during the races. Tonight, she’ll have dinner with her grandpa and fall asleep to the sound of him reading to himself in the living room. Tonight, she’ll feel perfectly safe.

Masterlist

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Freya and Corax Masterlist

All my enteries for the Scorpio Races festival 2023, with rider Freya Thorne and her capall uisce stallion Corax. All entries is also on ao3 in the Scorpio races festival 2023 collection, link here.

Challenge 1

Challenge 2

Challenge 3

Challenge 4

Challenge 5

Challenge 6

Challenge 7

Challenge 8

Challenge 10

Challange 11

Challange 12

[vintervittrannerd]

Training Challenge #11: "It's not much farther. Only three furlongs, maybe. I don't want to hope, but I can feel it pumping through me."

Create a post about the races! @thescorpioracesfestival

Today is the day. Race day. Freya has never been this nervous, excited, and scared at the same time in her entire life. Today could change everything.

Grandpa is already down at the beach for the earlier races as the official veterinary, to tend to all the injuries that will undoubtedly occur today. Since he needed to leave early, and Freya didn’t need to be down at the beach until later, she had taken care of the morning chores with the sheep. When she come back to the house to change into her racing outfit, she finds he has left something for her at a stool in the kitchen. It’s a racing saddle. It’s old and worn, but someone, probably grandpa, has polished it until it looks almost new. It’s engraved along the edges of the saddle flap with a pattern of a thorny vine, and entwined in the pattern are the words “from the sea” on one side, and “to the sea” on the other. It is beautiful.

There’s a folded paper at the table and Freya picks it up to see a note written in grandpas almost illegible handwriting.

“My darling Freya. This saddle has been in the Thorne family for a very long time. It was the saddle your father raced in, and his father before him. After he died, your mother wanted to get rid of it, but I saved it, just in case you or your sister ever wanted it. I guess you’ll be needing it today. Your father would be so proud of you, and so am I. Love you always, Grandpa”

Freya looks at the saddle and the note and feels so full of emotions that her eyes water. She blinks furiously, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t cry today. Instead, she picks up the saddle, letting her fingers trace the pattern on the sides, tucks the note into her shirt pocket, and takes a deep steadying breath. It’s time to head down to the beach. It’s time for the race.

***

The beach is chaos. There are horses and riders everywhere. The horses are restless and sea wild, and the riders are desperately trying to control them and do last minutes prepares. Freya tries to find a less crowded corner, where she quickly saddles Corax with their colour – a deep purple the same shade as the heathers in bloom – and the old race saddle. Corax isn’t wearing any iron or charms, but she has braided his long silver mane in intricate knots, and the cheek pieces of his bridle is twined with strips of cloth cut from one of Freya’s old scarfs. Freya hopes it will help him focus on her and not on the November sea.

She goes over the tack one more time, making sure everything is perfect, and then ties the purple cloth around her arm. Her fingers are shaking slightly, and she tells herself to get a grip. Corax is dancing around, not wanting to stand still, and twisting his head to look at all the other capaill uisce. He’s nervous, and she’s nervous, and they can’t head back into the mass of capaill and riders like this. To calm them both, Freya starts to softly sing a lullaby. It’s an old Thisby lullaby, one that her father had sung to her as a little kid. She used to sing it to Corax when he was a colt and they tried to approach the sea for the first times, to keep him focused on her and to calm her own nerves. It worked then, and it’s working now. Her hands stop shaking and Corax stills and turns his head toward her. Freya scratches him behind the ears and leads him to a large stone that she uses as mounting block.

They’re calling from the start line for the riders to line up and with a deep breath Freya steer Corax toward it. The other capaill uisce are jostling and pushing against them, and even though Freya tries to steer Corax towards the end of the line, it’s too crowded, they can’t get there. Instead, they get crammed in between a bay capall that’s draped in an absurd amount of iron and a chestnut capall ridden by an old fisherman Freya vaguely recognize. Corax flattens his ears and bares his teeth at the other uisce, but Freya bends forward and draws shapes against his neck and hums the lullaby again. Corax flicks an ear back toward her, momentarily leaving the other uisce alone. Then the countdown begins.

“Ready…Set… GO!”

If the beach was chaos before, it’s nothing compared to the race. Corax shoots forward, quickly leaving the bay uisce behind. For a few paces the chestnut keeps stride with them, it’s long ears slicked back, it’s shoulder crashing into Corax. Corax twists his neck to bite it. His eyes are wide and the look on his face are less equine than it has ever been before. Freya desperately thugs at the reins, trying to get Corax away from the chestnut. They can’t get caught in a fight, or they’ll never finish the race. Corax listens, but when she tries to steer him towards the sea, the path is blocked by a grey uisce mare with bells on her hooves that’s cantering sideways, fighting her rider every step. All around them there are horses fighting and riders trying to not get thrown. It’s a death trap, and Freya knows that if they don’t get out of it soon, they’ll most likely die here. She desperately tries to steer Corax around the fighting horses, trying to find an opening. They weave around a rearing capall, narrowly avoiding getting hit by the hooves, and finally, has some open beach in front of them.

Corax surges forward, leaving the mess of horses and bodies behind them. Freya lean forward, clutching Corax mane for support and whispers encouragingly in his ears. There’s three capaill uisce right in front of them, galloping side by side, but they keep as far away from the water as possible. Freya steers Corax towards the water and with a burst of speed they pass the three capaill.

Corax hooves are almost touching the water and there is something not quite horse-like on his face, but Freya keeps the reins steady and draws shapes along his crest and whispers in his ears and keeps him focused on her instead of the sea. They can do this.

One of the uisce they just passed is gaining on them, a long grey face with bared teeth and wide eyes coming up beside Freya’s knee. It snaps at her, sharp teeth grazing her leg, and without thinking she presses her leg to Corax side, urging him into the water to get away from the other uisce. Salt water flys up around Corax hooves, hitting the grey in the face. It goes completely mad, and with a scream throws itself at the sea. Corax just barely gets out of the way in time, and the grey dives into the sea behind them. Freya casts a look behind her but can’t see if the rider managed to get off in time or if the grey uisce dragged him down with it. She can’t focus on that now.

Turning back, she realizes with a start that there is only two other capaill uisce in front of them. A bay uisce in orange colours galloping right behind a black under green colours. With every stride Corax gains on them. It’s not far left now.

Freya’s heart is galloping in beat with Corax hooves. They’re side by side with the bay uisce, the black one just half a length in front of them, and the finish line is fast approaching. They’re fast, breathlessly fast. But not as fast as they can be. Freya’s still holding the reins too tight, desperately hoping Corax won’t forget himself and attack the other uisce or simply throw himself in the sea, taking her with him. But he can’t be fast enough with her holding him back. The other riders are also holding tight to their reins, not trusting that their capaill uisce won’t drown them if they get the opportunity. But with a pang, Freya realizes that she does. The world stills around her, and all she can hear is her own heartbeat, and Corax hooves drumming against the sand.

She trusts Corax. And if the sea wants them, this is not the day it will get them. She lets go of the reins.

Masterlist

[vintervittrannerd]

True as Sarcasm

By @vintervittrannerd for @whotheheckitheheck

Rating: General

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark 

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, James “Rhodey” Rhodes

Summary: The first time he said it, it was pure sass. But over time, the word started to feel more and more true, until Peter realizes that’s what Tony has become to him. A dad. 

This is for @friendly-neighborhood-exchange, you can read it on Ao3 here :)

The first time he said it, it was pure sass.

He had been back as Spider-man for a few weeks, after the month-long grounding he had gotten after May found out about him swinging around Queens stopping crime after school.

The grounding had been a compromise. May had been absolutely furious with everyone when she first found out (Peter still winced at the memory of her shouting at Tony for what seemed like hours) and had forbidden Peter from going out as Spider-man ever again. Peter had been certain that that had been the end. Once May made up her mind, she very rarely changed it, and she had been angry enough that not even Peter’s otherwise quite successful puppy eyes had worked. But to his astonishment, Tony had, after letting May finishing her shouting, somehow convinced her to let Peter continue his vigilantism. 

  There had to be rules of course. Peter wasn’t entirely happy with all of them, but May and Tony had been in agreement and there was no way Peter could change their minds once they had teamed up against him. The rules included strict curfews for patrolling (10pm on school nights and midnight on weekends), school and homework had to come first, he had to make time for his friends and family, and his sleeping schedule had to still be appropriate for a teenager (though Peter suspected he had quite different views on appropriate bedtimes for a 15 year old than the adults had). He also had to get some actual training, which resulted in an agreement that he should spend every other weekend at the Avengers compound and train with any of the remaining Avengers (which meant either Tony or Rhodey, or occasionally Vision if he was there). He also had to continue his patrol reports, but now directly to Tony, and was under no circumstances allowed to tone down or hide an injury of any kind. Not that he could hide it anyway, because Karen kept a log and reported directly to FRIDAY, and if she deemed any injury severe it would alert Tony the minute it happened. Peter was not very happy about this particular rule, but found it best not to try and hack Karen again. At least not so soon. He figured he would give it a few months at least, and then he and Ned could see if they couldn’t change Karen’s coding without Friday (or Tony) noticing.

And then there was the grounding. Peter had hoped that the, in his opinion, absurd number of rules would be enough of a punishment, but May did not agree.  

“The rules are just to let you be Spider-man at all. The grounding is for lying to my face for months.”

Peter couldn’t really argue with that, and besides he did feel bad for lying to her, so he accepted his punishment with minimal complaint.

And when he was finally allowed back out as Spider-man, things had been so different from how they’d been before the Vulture incident that Peter didn’t quite know how he should behave. Mr. Stark had taken a much bigger part in his life, way beyond what he actually had to according to his deal with May. Not only did he listen to all of Peter’s patrol reports, but he seemed to take a genuine interest in Peter's life, chatting with him about school and friends and Legos. He’d also started to invite Peter to the compound more often, not just for his training sessions, but to work in the lab with him and one time just for a movie night (Tony had claimed that he just needed a third person so a majority could vote against Rhodey's movie suggestions, but after a few minutes of mock betrayal when Peter sided with Rhodey, he had just decided that voting was a bad idea anyway and they should just take turns choosing what to watch on movie nights). And Peter found that he grew more and more comfortable around Mr. Stark, his nervousness and insecurity slipping away and being replaced by a familiarity that he hadn’t expected but definitely welcomed.

Which was how, a few weeks after he’d been allowed out as Spider-man again, Peter found himself in the compound kitchen after a training session with Rhodey while Tony cut up bread rolls and fussed over Peter like a mother hen.

“Have you eaten yet? It’s important to eat after you’ve trained, especially with your metabolism. We don’t want you passing out on us now, do we? Also, water,” Tony tosses a water bottle at Peter and then continues to rummage around in the fridge, pulling out a package of roast beef “you need plenty of water after working out, so drink up.”

Peter can’t help himself, the situation of THE Tony Stark preparing a sandwich for him and pestering him about drinking water is so surreal that the sass just slips out.  

“Yes dad.”

Rhodey snorts behind him and Tony turns to glare at the both of them.

“Very funny. But I have a deal with your scary Aunt and she will have my head if I break it. And I happen to be rather fond of my head.”

“Your deal includes making sandwiches?”

“My deal includes keeping you alive” Tony says with a stern look at Peter, who has a very hard time keeping himself from laughing. “Now shut up and eat your food.”

Peter rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest. He is starving after all.

***

It becomes a thing after that.

In fairness, Peter only sarcastically calls him dad when Tony is really helicopter parenting. In other words, all the time.

And really, who can blame Peter? Tony is, after all, the worst case of helicopter parent that Peter’s ever seen. Seriously, Peter has had four parents during his fifteen years on this planet and none of them has been quite as overprotective as his mentor is.

Peter doesn’t really mind it though. It’s kinda nice to have someone else that looks out for him, besides May. It’s mostly just a fun thing to mock Tony with, especially since he insists that he’s not a helicopter parent and is just being a “responsible adult” (at that, Rhodey had laughed so hard that he nearly fell of the chair he was sitting on and Tony had thrown a half-made sandwich at him).

He doesn’t know when or how it happened. But somewhere during the months of lab days and movie nights and texting each other stupid jokes, the “dad” had stopped being sarcastic and started being…something more. Peter wasn’t really sure what it was, only that Tony fricking Stark, Iron-man, genius, billionaire, philanthropist and arguably the best Avenger, had stopped feeling like just a mentor and started to feel something that was much closer to a real dad. It terrified Peter, but at the same time it made him feel safe and calm. Like he had someone he could lean on. Someone who would never leave him to face the world alone.

And that was precisely the reason he was terrified. Because Peter knew all too well that father figures did leave, even if it was unwillingly. His first father, Richard Parker, had left, died in a plane crash when Peter was four and he still missed him terribly sometimes. His other father, Uncle Ben, had also left, bleeding to death in an alley while Peter held him. And the grief he had for Ben was something he couldn’t even put words on, because it was mixed with guilt. Guilt, because he was the reason Ben had been in that alley in the first place. Guilt, because even with his powers, Peter couldn’t save his life. And guilt, because even though Ben had been his father in every sense of the word and he had loved him so much, Peter had never told him. He’d never called Ben Dad, or told him that he saw him as a father. In his mind, Peter knew Ben must have known anyway, just as Peter knew Ben had seen him as a son even if he never said so. But in his heart, there’s still a stab of guilt. He should’ve told Ben. He should’ve told him how much he meant to Peter.

Peter Parker knows that father figures leave, unexpectedly and painfully, and he knows the guilt that can follow. He knows he can’t always prevent the leaving, but he can prevent the guilt of never telling. And so, he starts to make a plan.

***

Peter has never been this nervous in his entire life. He almost asks Happy to turn the car around and take him back to the apartment at least twelve times on his way to the compound, and when the elevator doors open up to reveal the corridor that leads to the lab, he almost asks FRIDAY to take him back up again.

But he doesn’t. He steps out of the elevator with the small gift bag clutched in one hand and takes a deep breath. He reminds himself that he’s a superhero and that he’s supposed to be brave and that really, this shouldn’t even be something to be afraid of in the first place. Really, it’s just a small present. It’s just Tony. It just happens to be Father’s Day.

Tony looks up from his workbench when Peter enters the lab and blinks several times at him. He looks disheveled and tired and Peter suspects that he has spent at least the past 24 hours in the lab.

“Peter? Is something wrong? Wait, shit, did I miss that this was a compound weekend?”

He looks stressed and guilty enough that Peter rushes to reassure him.

“Oh, no, everything’s fine! Just… Rhodey said you weren’t busy today” (actually Rhodey’s exact words had been “It’ll do him good to be dragged out of his lab for a while, he could use the break”) “and so I asked Happy to drive me here cause… uhm, I just… I wanted to… I-I mean I just thought…” Why can’t he form a full sentence? His brain refuses to be of any help at all, so Peter gives up on trying and just holds out the gift bag to Tony “Here.”

Tony accepts the bag with an odd look on his face. “What’s this?” When Peter just blushes and doesn’t answer, Tony carefully pulls the gift out of the bag.

It’s a mug, the kind of mug that you could get in any gift shop, red with the words “World’s Greatest Dad” written on it. Only Peter had made it a bit more personal and had drawn a small golden Ironman helmet to the side and added the word Iron, so the mug now says “World’s Greatest IronDad”. Tony’s eyes go wide when he sees it. He stares at it, blinks slowly and continues staring as if he can’t quite believe it’s real.

Peter wonders if it is too much. If it is too little. If Tony will just assume it is a joke gift. If, maybe, it would be better if he thinks it’s a joke gift.

Tony is still staring at the mug.

Peter thinks maybe he hates it. Maybe he’ll look at Peter and tell him to take his mug and all its implications and get out of his lab. Maybe he’ll distance himself from Peter again. Maybe…

Tony sniffs and turns away, blinking furiously and swiping a hand at his eyes.

Now it’s Peter’s turn to stare.

“Mr. Stark…are you…are you crying?”

“No” Tony sniffs again, and his voice sounds suspiciously shaky. “It’s just that the air in here is very dry and it makes my eyes water. It’s a perfectly normal thing.”

“The air humidity is at a very normal level,” FRIDAY comments. “It should not affect your eyes in any way, boss.”

Tony glares at the ceiling and mutters something that sounds like “snitch”. Peter can’t stop himself from snorting and Tony turns his glare at him instead. However, the glare quickly melts into a look so soft and full of love that not even Peter's overanxious brain can doubt it. And finally, he dares to say the words he came here to say, the simple yet terrifying words he’d turned over and over in his head, wondering if he had any right to say them. The look in Tony's eyes wipes away all of Peter’s worries. So, he says it, and he means every single word.

“Happy Father’s Day, dad.”