#rowanwhispers

[the-faultofdaedalus]

a4 aka Harley keener lives, starts building a rocketship from scratch to go personally kick thanos in the dick, a couple others ask what he’s doing and join, soon most of north america is in on this, Shuri gets in on it, they pick up the bots and the other half of earth, and also. the other halves of alien species that were killed along the way, and about 4 billion human civilians, one HELL of a lot more aliens, 5 AI’s, captain America, about 3 people with homemade suits of ironman-esque armor, various inhumans, and a fucking GOD are all rattling through space in the junkiest spaceships ever built to punch thanos Directly In The Face

they stop at titan to pick tony and nebula up and then the biggest roadtrip in HISTORY can commence

#rowanwhispers #a4 is just 1.5 hours of roadtrip shenanigians #half an hour of thanos being beat up by half the universe #then tony/nebula Fix Everything #and the rest is just roadtrip shenanigians with peter and everyone else who was dusted on the way back to where they all live #infinity war spoilers #A4 spoilers #(because fuck you this is happening) #tony on titian: oh god oh god oh god #harley keener after pulling up in his homemade spaceship: HEY LOSER GET IN WE'RE GOING TO KICK THANOS IN THE DICK #My writing

[rowantreeart]

My art pieces for the @voltronbang! I was partnered with the lovely @story-monger.

#rowanwhispers

[rowantheengineer]

@unkemptcallibrator, @four-tris-otp theres some issues going down in the library (group chat) and we need everybody who has even rudimentary experience with physics or quantum mechanics. @apilotandhercrew, you should probably be there too

#rowanwhispers

[the-faultofdaedalus]

im crying in the club howard tries to tell tony that he was a disappointment to both him and maria and tony’s INSTANTLY like “i call bullshit on that one” because maria loved both of them unconditionally and everything good in him that howard calls “weakness,” the caring, the compassion, everything decent, he learned from her

#rowanwhispers #TONY! STARK! LOVED HIS MOTHER #HE GOT ALL HIS BEST TRAITS FROM HER #HE IS NOT JUST A CLONE OF HOWARD #im. sobbing #reading legacy of doom was a Good Choice

[the-faultofdaedalus]

a n y w a y s the sequel to the star!tony fic that kinda started off this blog is. sorta up. its not finished because i low-key abandoned it. a while ago but i thought i should post what is there. 

enjoy!

#rowanwhispers #star!tony #STAR TONY IS BACK BITCHES #and hes fucking dead #yeah i guess there was supposted to be. a prolouge or maybe some context #but fuck that i guess #this is fiction #tony stark #tree writes

[the-faultofdaedalus]

an important and necessary photoset

#rowanwhispers #yes i did take a picture of every good tonybutt in fatal frontier while i was reading it #was this a horiffic waste of time? yes #did i do it anyways? obiously #this is. most likely gonna continue for all of my other comics adventures #tony stark

[the-faultofdaedalus]

you know it makes sense that “groot speak” was an elective in asgaurd, especially for the royalty, because in that one comic groot’s species is. kind of a war-mongering race, taking other planets for themselves. Groot’s an outlier, but we can still see how. uh. angry he can get. 

It’s probably useful knowledge for the two conquering species to be able to communicate with each other. 

#rowanwhispers #infinity war spoilers #i guess?

[the-faultofdaedalus]

i love how with the website “did thanos kill you” pretty much UNIVERSALLY everyone who got spared is squaring up to personally fight thanos and honestly? honestly? A4 come through with this get the remaining population of the world to go personally kick thanos in the dick

#rowanwhispers #I LOVE THIS

[the-faultofdaedalus]

Tony the Dragon Rescues a Princess

because @ilunabarrean wrote such a good I ALSO HAD TO WRITE GOOD DRAGON TONY

... part one, i guess, because this got WAY longer than expected. Whoops. I have no regrets.

The girl has heard stories, shouted over wine and rum by her father and her friends, whispered between the bitter, jealous queen and her maids, stories of a monster, a demon, of fire and hatred and burning things. Stories about the smell of smoke and blood, stories of children stolen from their beds. Stories of great red death killing whatever it wishes.

She grows up afraid, of sharpness and fire and anger, of hoarded gold and envy, of plated armour and red, red eyes.

She does not grow up afraid of the thing in the myths.

The page tells her stories, too. Stories of a protector, of a guardian, of one as old as the oldest oaks and just as kind.

He tells her of a place that the afraid can find a home.

They’re stories of a beast, yes, with claws as big as a full-grown man and twice as sharp as a sword, with fire breath and eyes as big as her window, but he also tells her of kindness. Of claws used with the utmost carefulness, of fire used to warm, of eyes that understand.

She is 13.

She has never been afraid of the dragon.

She is arranged to be wed in a fortnight.

(read more under the cut)

She writes a letter on the finest paper she can find, draws out every letter with care she never showed in her lessons and seals it in wax. She doesn’t have a stamp, so she improvises, presses her grandmother’s pendant into the cooling wax.

She watches the page, the one who told her the stories, ride west from her tower window.

Three days later, three days of staying awake and looking out over the woods for a sign of something, three days of falling asleep at lunch and getting confined to her rooms due to sickness, he comes.

She doesn’t see his shadow across the stars, she doesn’t hear him land on the roof, graceful beyond his size, so careful that not a single tile is forced out of place, she doesn’t notice him coiling around her tower like a serpent.

She does see when he looks in her window with his great golden eye, and all she can think is that the page was lying.

His eye is bigger than her window.

“Hello, little tinderling,” It says, voice deep, deep like the dungeons below the castle, like the cellars that her father spends too much time in, but warm as a hearth, and one massive claw slips through the window, the letter she sent held carefully in its grip. The seal isn’t even broken, pried away from the paper with care she wouldn’t’ve shown. “You called?”

She nods, unable to make a sound, not because of fear, but because of awe, because she can see the smoke curling into her room that smells like the richest cocoa and wood, because the night guards have not noticed the hill-that’s-not-a-hill, because she still thought him a myth, until now.

She feels, more than sees him shift, sees one massive wing furl up through her other window, fold back into place, feels the gale it causes, despite moving so slowly.

He doesn't say anything more, just watches her, waits for something, a signal or a sign, patient as the ground the castle, not her home, never her home, was built on.

Eventually, after one very slow blink, she takes a breath. “I do not wish to be wed.” She says, and the dragon rumbles something that sounds like mountains moving.

“You wish to leave?” He asks, like he knows the answer anyway, and she hesitates.

“What if I don’t?” She asks, because if there is one thing she knows, it is not to believe empty promises. It is that everything, so small as a couple words spoken out a window in the dead of night, has a price.

The dragon rumbles again, something like laughter, but there is something far too understanding in its eyes. She wonders what could make a dragon this big, this ancient, afraid. “Then I will leave. If you need me, I will always come back. Alway.”

“Ok.” She says, nods, and all of a sudden, she doesn’t know what to do. The dragon seems to sense this, and his eye crinkles up, like he’s smiling.

“Take all you want, child. I have carried heavier than this tower.” He tells her, and she believes it. She’s already packed, the things her grandmother left her, her favourite embroidery and a bag full of thread, brightly coloured and expensive, one of the few measures of excess that she had actually enjoyed. Her favourite books, her sturdiest clothes, a pack full of dense bread and dried meat.

A sword, bare-bones and undecorated, with a simple leather handle. She wraps it in cloth, and ties it to her side.

The dragon waits as she fills her bags, looks around her room, her prison, one last time. She will miss it. It’s the last place she saw her grandmother. It’s the place she learned to read, it’s the place she learned to sew. She will always miss it for those memories. She will never regret leaving it for what it became.

The dragon moves away from the window, lowering it’s massive head, and she takes it for the invitation it is, taking a deep breath before stepping out of the window, bundled in rough clothes more fitting for a stable hand than a princess, her belongings on her back, about to fly away on a dragon’s back.

His scales are smooth, barely sharp at all, and the small spikes make handholds as she picks her careful way across his head, between his horns, to between his wings where there is already a saddle made of soft, warm wool resting.

She can feel him holding very, very still. She’s not sure if he just breathes that slowly, or if he’s taking special care not to jostle her. Either way, she’s not afraid.

The saddle is more like a nest, really, nestled in between two spines, and there’s a blanket behind her that she could pull up over her head, if she wants. She doesn’t, just settles in and looks out over the castle from an angle she’s never seen it from before.

Everything looks very, very small, the dragon’s tail nearly reaching all the way around the walls, and she doesn’t doubt that one of his wings could cover the entire courtyard, if he so wished.

As soon as she’s settled, he shifts, uncoiling from the tower that she once lived in, and turning his head to face her again. “Are you ready, little one?” He asks, and she is. She wants to leave, to fly, to run far, far away from all the things her parents expect of her, and she nods, breathless for all that the air is clear and sharp. His mouth moves into something that might be called a grin had it not had so many teeth, and turns back, rustling like a cat about to pounce, making a noise like a million softly shifting coins. She grabs the spine in front of her, and he launches into the air, massive wings beating once, twice, unfurling like the sails of foreign ships leaving for home, catching the wind and soaring.

She laughs, the sound torn from her chest, delighted and sharp and unexpected, and the dragon laughs too, deep and rumbly like a cat’s purr, the wind cold on her face but the dragon warm beneath her, a pocket of safety in the endless sky, wings pumping like forge bellows, stirring up the air beneath.

She wishes she could see the stars, but it is too cloudy to even see the moon. That is the only thing she would change.

The dragon turns, again, and his eyes glitter in the darkness, like the light of a wax candle cast off an old book. Yellow, and old, and full of stories. “Do you want to see a trick?” He asks, and despite years of her father warning her away from street jesters, clutching her close and his coin purse closer, she nods, giddy and breathless and for once, completely unafraid. “Then hold on, little tinder.”

There’s rope around the saddles, and she ties it tight around her waist, knots she had to bribe the royal ship-hands to teach her. As soon as she’s secured, holding onto the spine in front of her with a white-knuckled grip.

And then the dragon’s flying higher, powerful beats of his wings pushing them up and up and up, and she has to close her eyes as they stir up the clouds. They’re not as soft as she thought she would be, damp and thick and freezing, but the dragon is warm beneath her and the blankets are soft, and she can feel water beading on her eyelashes.

And then it all stops, the air against her face and the wet, the cold, and at another rumble from the dragon, she opens her eyes, and gasps.

They’re above the clouds, and the stars are strung out above them like nothing she’s ever seen before. There’s no black in this sky, shades of blue and purple and everything in between, but not much of that, either, for every single space is filled with stars. “Oh, wow.” She says, and reaches up like she can touch them, if she stretches far enough.

The dragon laughs again, wings spread wide but not moving, just hanging in the sky like snow on a windless day, like a leaf caught in an updraft, still and quiet and between sitting on a dragon the size of a hill, above the clouds and under the stars, she feels very, very small.

It’s freeing, feeling so small, like she’s shedding all of the overinflated importance placed on her from birth, like all the responsibilities and expectations and the entire kingdom resting on her shoulders have fell away and given her a chance to breathe.

“It is beautiful, yes?” He says, and she knows he can’t see her, but she nods anyway, unwilling and unable to tear her eyes from the stars. She knows when he turns to look at her, because he rumbles agian, taking in his tiny burden, her hand raised to the sky like she could steal one right out of the sky. “You can not reach them, little jaybird,” he says, but she doesn’t lower her hand, and despite his words, flies even higher. “I have tried.”

At that, she looks at him, wonders just how far away the stars must be if even he cannot reach them. “Oh.” She says, and he rumbles in agreement. It should be cold, this high, but it isn’t. “Thank you-“ she says, and claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh no!”

The dragon stops so fast its almost comical, half-turning in the air and looking at her with wide, concerned eyes. “What is wrong?” He asks, “Did you forget something? Do you wish to return?”

She shakes her head, closes her eyes and takes a breath, like her grandmother taught her to fight away the chilly feeling in her chest. “No, no, I have been terribly rude, I’m sorry.” She says, “I forgot to ask your name!”

The dragon laughs as he rights himself, continues flying towards their destination, wherever that may be. “Then I must also be rude, because I have not asked yours either, little Bluebell. You may call me Tony.” He continues, a smile in his voice.

“Then you can call me Ella.” She says, and she’s smiling just as hard. “Thank you, Sir Tony.” She says, after floundering for a proper title, something less simple, grander than simply “Tony.”

The dragon’s — Tony’s — wings falter in surprise, and he turns to look at her. She wonders if she perhaps made a mistake. “I am not a knight, little Ella.” He tells her, but he doesn't seem angry, or upset, or really anything aside from confused.

She sits up as straight as she can, puts on her best princess face. “Well, you are an awful lot more knight-like than any knight I have ever known.” She says, wrinkling her nose at the memories, men in unwashed full plate, smelling of sweat and blood and drink, starts ticking off her fingers. “You rescue princesses from towers, you are kind, and brave, and honourable, and I daresay you would not need sword or armour to fight, if you had to.” Tony shifts, at that, and if she thought that something as big as a small mountain could be self-conscious, that is what she would think he was, and smiles. “My knight in shining scale.”

Tony huffs. “I did always want to be a knight.” He admits, and she leans forward to hear him better, no matter that his voice could be heard across the kingdoms if he wishes. “I thought the idea most noble, when I was but a yearling, smaller than you, even.”

She can’t imagine him that small, like she can't imagine the castle as a handful of tents against the sea. It seems wrong, for something so large, so stable, so ancient, to have been small, once upon a time, but at the same time, it gives her hope.

Maybe, one day, she can be important too, important because of how she’s grown, not because of who has made her. “I thought the stories far more entertaining that the reality, I must admit.” He continues, “But all the same, It was a nice wish.” He says, and he sounds wistful. Like if he had been human, he would’ve been a knight, one of the good ones. One of the ones they wrote stories about.

And she remembers the sword she has packed away beside her, a solid, reassuring weight at her side. She scrambles to get it out, and it feels silly, suddenly, a rose thorn next to the dragon’s claws, but she is not wielding it to hurt. Not now, not as long as she is able. She scoots forwards, as far as she can reach in the saddle, and rests the flat of the blade on his left shoulder.

“I,” She starts, projecting her voice the way her mother taught her, weary and bitter and wanting to be heard, puts as much kindness into it as her grandmother did, “Princess Isabella Fawkes, first of her name, granddaughter of Queen Mariana Hart.” She moves the sword to the other shoulder and swallows down a lump in her throat. It all suddenly seems far more serious than she had set out to make it, than she had thought it would be, but she is riding away from home on a dragon’s back, granting one of his wishes using her grandmother’s name. “I hereby knight you, Sir Tony.”

The air is still for a moment, not even his wings moving to stir it, and he turns. “Thank you, little princess.” He says, and she can nearly feel his gratefulness. “I hope I will stay deserving of being your knight.”

“I am sure you will.” She says, and he rumbles a laugh, like he doesn't quite believe her but is happy all the same.

He starts flying again, speeding west, and she settles in for a long journey. She is about to fall asleep when the dragon speaks again. “Thank you.” He says, “Sleep well, little lady.” He tells her, and she drifts off above her kingdom, under the starry sky, on the way to her new home.

#rowanwhispers #my writing #dragon!tony #I GUESS #i love him #tony stark

[the-faultofdaedalus]

so, this is gonna interest absolutly no one, but i have a patreon now! if. if that’s a thing people want to do. just gonna say that.

#rowanwhispers #this is prob dumb #but whatever

[the-faultofdaedalus]

me: this doesn't have to be realistic i don’t have to explain this people will accept it because comics has already done it

also me: spends a fucking hour researching how force fields work because i need to know, personally, how these fucking things work

#rowanwhispers #suspencion of disbelief? bintch who? #why am i like this #TREE WRITES BADLY

[the-faultofdaedalus]

friendly reminder that tony stark has had 3 of his kids die, two (or all?) in frount of him as he watches :^)

#rowanwhispers #infinity war spoilers

[the-faultofdaedalus]

langstymclangstface replied to your post “The one thing I will not budge on at all whatsoever even if a marvel...”

I always liked to imagine Maria as more of a engineer. Like here’s Howard surrounded by the most beautiful women in the world But a woman in shapeless overalls, her hair messily tied up in a scarf with grease stains on her face threading him with a spanner for touching something he shouldn’t have is who he falls for

and that’s great! 

I, personally, though, see her much more as a coder for a couple reasons? One was that she could’ve been in Bletchley park, as a coder, which works in-canon bc peggy carter was also at Bletchley park before she was recruited into the SSR, and is also a way she could’ve met howard, Two is that in the time period she would’ve been alive in, after the war, software engineering was not considered valuable work. It was, specifically, considered women’s work until the men realized that “oh, this is actually important and hard work” and took over. And, really does that not fit maria so well? He see her face once. Only once, in the entire MCU. She’s barely ever mentioned. Honestly, unless there’s a plot reason for it, it seems like everyone just collectively forgets she exists. 

AND another thing I like about maria being a coder, being so naturally talented at that sort of thing, is that she would’ve taught tony that. And you know what, through everything, has always been the best thing tony’s ever made? Not the suit, not the tower, not the compound. Not any weapon ever. 

It’s his AI’s. Who are made of code. Sure, dummy, and u, and butterfingers are physical, as well, but that dosn’t make them who they are. 

And Maria would’ve taught him that. That would’ve been something he got from her, not howard, and i think that’s so, so important. That even if some people, lots of people, will never stop comparing him to howard, who was, by all accounts, a shitty, shitty dad, he got that from his mom.

(there’s also a whole thing on pattern recognition and how it relates to code and music and how That would be a thing but im not gonna bc this is already long) 

Yes, i love you headcannoning her as a mechanic, but I won’t. 

Because from the maria we’ve seen? from the lack of what we’ve heard of her? She’s not one to stand-out. She’s not one to make an in-your-face statement like that. She’s soft-spoken, and quiet, and able to manipulate you into giving her whatever she wants without giving anything in return. She’s every inch as smart as her husband, but so much less willing to show it. 

Sure, Tony can be flashy when he wants, he can get his hands dirty and he knows mechanics like the back of his hand, he’s not afraid to take the spotlight, sure, that’s Howard. 

But when he taps out music on any hard surface, when he charms people by making them feel like they’re the ones in the spotlight, when he knows how to read people like a book and find patterns in the smallest of gestures, when he listens and when he creates people out of nothing but numbers, That’s all Maria. The part of him that fights, silently, the part of him that rebuilds, his heart, that’s Maria. 

#langstymclangstface #rowanwhispers #ANYWAY THIS IS LONG AND RAMBLING #AND I HONESTLY DON'T MEAN ANY OFFENCE #but... that's not how i see maria #maria was raised in an upper-middle class italian family #she walked the same circles as the elite of the italian government #and she knew how to do it well #but the first chance she could she went to britan to fight the only way she really could: with numbers #with numbers and code and /patterns/ #(and NONE OF THIS is outside possibility #lots of italian girls and women from that class were recruited to bletchley park #and maria IS ITALIAN) #like... she can be a fighter and not be... obious about it #it would've taken a tremendous amount of courage to do that #she dosn't have to be loud to be just as effective #listen god this will forever be my headcanon and NO ONE CAN CHANGE THAT

[the-faultofdaedalus]

at this point im gonna be like. the last person to see IW because i have to wait till BP comes out on dvd and that’s in MAY 

im gonna be the last one standing wish me luck

#rowanwhispers #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[the-faultofdaedalus]

anoncoward replied to your post “You tellin me if Tony had just dicked down Justin Hammer we could have...”

I just realized - the odds of Tony having an unsolicited dick-pic from Hammer are.... near 100%

you are absolutely correct and there is a REASON tony has hammer’s number blocked. every single way he can manage it. 

#anoncoward #rowanwhispers

[the-faultofdaedalus]

should i close my window so the first rain of the year doesn’t get inside my house? yes. am i going to? HELL NO

#rowanwhispers #R A I N MY OLD FRIEND #IT SMELLS SO N I C E