MRS

callistontheweb:

starkwest:

I saw a comment today wherein the author of the post declared loudly and vehemently that Tony Stark was a spoiled and selfish drunk who had had a charmed life and honestly cared only for himself and partying. A man who blustered through life laughing and joking. That he really wasn’t a hero of the same caliber of the other Avenger’s and they (the author of the post) were surprised the Avenger’s even let him join. Further, they summarized that since he had always been that way, had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and was doted on since birth, he would never change. 

I sat for a while. Re-read the post. Read it again. Went and had a smoke. Came back. Read it again. Contemplated moving on and couldn’t. It just kept whispering away at me.

I have no idea if the blogger was considering MCU Tony or 616, but either way, imo, they are so far off base, the game changed at half time and the diamond became a muddied pitch.

Anthony Stark was born into wealth, yes. Doted on since birth? By whom? Certainly not his father. Howard Stark was a physically and emotionally abusive bastard and I don’t care how much money and power you stand to inherit, that shit leaves scars. Deep ones. Scars that no-one can see but which you can still feel the blood flowing from and the ache of the bruise decades later. Spoiled? Perhaps, in the sense that young Tony was provided with all the tools his father’s social standing and bank accounts could afford. He lived in a mansion, had a butler, went to private schools. None of that though compensated for the fact that those private schools were boarding schools that Tony started attending when he was seven. Barely out of babyhood, he was sent away from his mother, from his home, from all he knew and was left with the distinct knowledge that if he didn’t excel at everything, his father’s hand would exact the price.

He’s a drunk? Absolutely. Tony Stark is a recovering alcoholic. Does he do it just to look cool and party with the in crowd? No. Fairly sure Tony graduated from that school decades ago. He is a dyed in the wool alcoholic in life-long recovery. It isn’t a cool story line. It isn’t a funny thing to throw into a fic for light relief. It is a day to day, minute to minute struggle that Tony will face for the rest of his life. 

Laughing and joking? In another life Tony would have been an award wining actor. To understand this man you need to pay attention not to what he says and does, but to what he doesn’t say and do. Tony has a suicidal/depressive streak the size of Texas.  Insecurities were implanted in this man at birth. Tony is a showman. He can hide anything. however, deep inside, in that still, small quiet place that only he hears, the pain is black and thick and muddled and confused and only those that truly know him, that pay attention to what he isn’t saying, know just how self destructive this man can be….and only those that take the time and effort and are willing to pay the fee of heartache and tears that are the toll exacted to get close to him, know why.

A charmed life? Really? Are you sure we are talking the same Tony Stark here? The Tony Stark who’s parents died in a car accident and left him orphaned as a teenager? The same one who’s surrogate father had him kidnapped and held thousands of miles from his home and family? Tony Stark who was tortured by same said kidnappers and operated on without anesthetic while he screamed himself hoarse in agonizing pain and crippling terror? Anthony Stark, who has lost his company, had everything taken from him and clawed his way back? Stark who lost his mind, his family, his best friend in a bitter war that left bodies, hearts and souls stained with the blood of soul mates and lovers? That Tony Stark?  Yeah, his life as been charmed as hell.

Not good enough to be an Avenger? The team he houses and funds? The same Avenger’s that he founded? The Avenger’s that he deleted his brilliant mind to protect? Not enough of a hero you say? Tony would actually agree with you. No-one loathes him as much as he does himself. No-one feels his inadequacy as much as he does. He would agree that wrapping himself in metal and launching himself bodily into battle to save his city, his country isn’t good enough. Carrying a nuke on his back to certain death? Tony would very much agree that this doesn’t constitute a hero. However, his friends and family, the one who had to watch the man they love risk killing himself over and over and see him coming back again and again, bloodied and bruised with just that much more of himself taken away, all to keep them safe, to keep the country safe, 'to protect those who can't do so themselves', Those people would take you to the floor and fight you in the dirt to be sure you know that Anthony Stark may be a lot of things but selfish isn’t one of them and that above all Tony Stark is a hero and a patriot who has before, and will again, sacrifice himself willingly to protect those he loves. No matter what it takes from him personally and no matter how little of himself it leaves him with, he will throw himself on the line every time, because he doesn’t feel he matters, because the people always come first…because that’s what heroes do.

**

Brilliant.

18.09.14 /  5,316 notes
 Lamke’s Fashion Week in India.

Lets take a minute to appreciate this photoset.

Thor #1 (2014)

18.09.14 /  138 notes
It was time… for an All-New Thor.
18.09.14 /  958 notes

pryce14:

Spider-Gwen for my cool-down today.  God I loved this issue and have full confidence (read: sincerely and utterly hope) that we’ll see more of her after spider-verse.

18.09.14 /  398 notes

Empty

flagshipnameddesire:

Eames had always felt empty.

No matter how much he ate, whom he loved, or the amount of money in his pocket he always felt an aching need deep down in his center. He felt like he hadn’t eat in weeks, like he was hallow, devoid of something intrinsic to the human experience. Even from a young age he knew that when other children were off finding themselves, becoming who they were, he was missing something. So he started taking their things.

At first a gesture, a movement, a gate as they walked. This boy’s habit of touching his lips when he grinned. That girls tendency to pop her hip out when she stood a certain way. This boy’s taste for creative words and his quick use of them.

When he was a little older he started taking their actual things, reaching out when no one was looking to snatch a toy, a pen, a picture. The first time he paid for it, the second time he remembered those words, soft and silky like his father’s ties, and they poured out of him like honey in his teacher’s ear. Each lie was easier then the last, each so perilously close to the truth that it began to seem true itself. Each one sticking in the back of his mind like a bookmark to be saved and called on later.

By the time he was in secondary school it had become second nature, to take things, to take people. The way that boy leaned back in his chair, always with his legs open when he was bored. How his friend, the gambler, always slipped a coin back and forth along his knuckles. The way that older boy leaned in close and the younger girl swooned. That older boy’s wallet as he focused a little too much on that younger girl. He saw the way people looked at the boys and girls in his school who were happy, always laughing and being the center of attention and he took it from them. He was always smiling even when they looked away, he was always leaning in and they were always swooning.

The day he told his mother he wouldn’t be following in his father’s footsteps was the day he took the pieces of her broken heart. They weren’t so old, he had a brother, a sister, they could carry on in the family name. He took the leash and the money his mother gave him and ran with them. He took the freedom of the homeless man, the reckless abandon of youth, and he took himself from their world.

One year later in a small room in Mombasa he took the feather lite touch of a woman’s hand and left her standing alone, and in his confusion at not wanting what he clearly could have he took the drink offered by a strange man and found himself looking over the abyss.

Dream-share.

He took the word as his own, called himself a dreamer. The old man said he had a talent and he could teach him something about it, the Indian man said he had charm and he was sure he could put that to use selling something. He smiled as he took the offer.

They asked what they should call him, Eames, he took the name of his father’s favorite chair. They asked where he was from and he took the address of his closest friend. They showed him how to project someone else in the dream and he took the shape of his favorite primary school teacher. He took the vials of compounds the Indian man gave him and he learned. He took years of the older man’s life, he took the Indian man’s trust, he gave them nothing but the charming facade they expected, the smiles and laughter he’d practiced for so long now. When the old man retired he took on the name of ‘Forger’, he took the meaning behind it and he added his own. Not just a thief, not just a projection, but a Forger.

The first time he met Arthur he took the man’s hair, slicking his own back in a poor mockery of what Arthur’s had been. He’d never had so much trouble taking something from someone as he did that little piece of Arthur. The second time he met him he’d grown a little more, taken a few more things. A love of blazers in soft, thin fabrics, a taste for gambling from the old man, a tendency to poke fun at what people said. This time he took his calm under fire, be it bullets or otherwise. Then he met Cobb and he took his passion, his belief in the possibilities.

When they all came together again the world had taken Cobb’s wife, the dream his mind, but Arthur was only missing those pieces Eames had pried loose.

He liked prying parts of Arthur loose.

They worked together and every day he took a little more. He cracked that calm exterior by taking specificity, he took the way talked and the words he used, it was worth a shot. He took the black suit and jacket on the plane with his own dark clothes and added red, which he had taken from Ariadne. He took the shirt Arthur wore to use in the first dream. The more of Arthur he took the more of Arthur he found, until finally he offered something of himself.

The first time in years anything that he actually felt or thought came bubbling up, concern about the security in the hotel. He gave Arthur that small piece of himself and Arthur gave him a smile. When they woke up he saw the look, his look from the cab, plastered on Arthur’s face and he didn’t take it back.

At the airport he took a trolly for his one bag, he offered to share it with Arthur who declined. He took the long way to the front for a cab and Arthur took it with him. He rode to the nearest, decent hotel and Arthur rode with him, and he took Arthur’s will to go and kept him there. He and Arthur got a two room suite and Arthur gave him a glowing smile in the main room, and he took it and kept it in the back of his mind with his lies.

That week he took Arthur, when Arthur came to his room at night and gave himself to him. He took every moment like a greedy child picking up toys. Over the following months he took every piece of Arthur that the man would let him have, a smile, a kiss, a finger running along the tattoos he’d taken from men in the bowls of London. Each and every bit he took he collected somewhere in himself, he didn’t use them the way he used all the other pieces of himself, he kept them stored away where only he could find them so they couldn’t be taken from him.

It was years later, well after he’d stopped moving and settled in with Arthur in London, well after he’d taken a dozen other jobs, well after he’d taken everything he could from Arthur and still stuck around that he realized something.

He hadn’t felt empty since that plane ride, since that calm, cool demeanor, since he’d taken that hair. He realized as he walked down the street, hand in hand with the other man as Arthur carried on about something and didn’t look at anyone else to even try and take something, that he had no reason to. He didn’t need to take anything more because everything he was he’d already given to Arthur, and Arthur had already let him take it back.

Eames didn’t feel empty anymore.

18.09.14 /  17 notes

nat-draws-things:

As promised I made more - Les Mis AU everyone!

18.09.14 /  284 notes