Warnings: language, hinted sexual/physical abuse, violence - Deadpool’s in it guys, it ain’t PG.
A/N: This is my take on the soulmate trope. It’s not necessarily an AU, because technically heartmate is canon in the Marvel world - at least with Wade’s comics. This part is an introduction to the characters!
Summary:You’re a mutant turned mercenary, working with the best merc around - Wade Fucking Wilson aka Deadpool. You are also someone who doesn’t believe in the whole heartmate crap. How could two people solely be made for each other? Steve Rogers is Captain America, Avenger extraordinaire. Call him old fashion, but he believed in heartmates and knew he had one out there. The two of you cross paths one day and things get set in motion. Can Steve get passed the jaded wall you built or would things just crash and burn? And will Wade Wilson finally learn to put the seat down after taking a piss? Who knows.
Quetzalcoátl. A print of this painting can be found on my Etsy store at this link
This is a devotional image of Quetzalcoátl, the
Plumed Serpent, Lord of Creation, the West, the verdant summer,
fertility, and life. He is is the holy man who transcended the
limitations of the flesh and transformed into the Morning Star. He is
the priest who guides the souls of men. He is the Lord who gave the
breath of life to the first men, who discovered corn, who stole the
bones of the ancestors from the underworld in order to give us life, and
who sacrificed himself in order give movement to the sun and establish
order on the earth. Here, Quetzalcoátl appears at the dawn of time.
There was neither earth nor sky, but only a terrible goddess who writhed
and moved at all times, so that nothing could exist upon her surface.
Quetzalcoátl and Tezcatlipoca descended to her and entered her through
her mouth and her navel, and ripping her in half, placed the upper half
in the heavens where it became the sky, and the lower half below where
it became the earth. Here, his leg transforms into the Feathered
Serpent, ripping the body of Tlatecuhtli, the Earth Lord, goddess of the
earth, in twain, to bring stability to the cosmos. Beside him, the
first man and woman, Oxomoco and Cipactonal, stand in a jade bowl,
having just been created, while he breathes air into their lungs and
gives them life. He dances, in a symbol of artistic creativity, and is
wreathed in flame, as a reminder of his final sacrifice when he purified
himself and was transformed into the morning star.
Examples: Hunting down lost items, finding the path when you have lost your way, giving you strength in social situations, cursing enemies
Tips: Find shark teeth along the shores of oceans early in the morning while the tide is low. Sharks are very active at night, and often lose a tooth while biting into flesh, so early morning gathering is highly recommended. Ethically speaking, and out of respect/safety with sharks, you should try to stick to this method instead of hunting the teeth from a living shark. Wait for the teeth to come out naturally, or gather teeth from a dead shark, but do not hunt these beautiful animals for teeth alone. You can also purchase shark teeth in bulk, but I find it more special to use teeth that you have found on your own, as it is more connected to you as a person. I have gathered all of these teeth in my collection while visiting shorelines and ocean states throughout my life, so it is very doable with some incentive. Good luck!
“That’s a bad word,” a small, solemn voice said, and when Bucky turned around he was met with a small, solemn pair of eyes to match. Her blonde hair had been pulled into lumpy braids by someone with neither the skill nor the patience to do a good job of it, and the colour combinations suggested she’d had a lot of say in her outfit.
“It is,” Bucky agreed. He dropped the hammer, examined his hand and the skin that’d torn loose, then fished awkwardly in his pocket for a scrap of tissue or something. “I figured Russian’d be politer,” he said absently.
“Aunt Nat knows Russian,” the tiny human informed him, then turned on her heel, her rubber boots flapping around her calves as she headed back into the house next door. Bucky watched her go for a second, then shrugged and clanked down the ladder, vaguely hoping that ‘fully furnished’ somehow included band-aids.
“-leaving the house?” The voice was exasperated and doing a barely passable job at hiding the fond. “Katie Margaret Steven Barton…”
“I get more middle names when he’s madder,” blondie informed Bucky, and the guy in the ragged sweatpants and the purple hearing aids (and nothing else, and Bucky was trying so very very hard not to notice the lack of shirt) looked up to meet his eyes.
“Hey,” the guy said, awkward, and rubbed at the back of his head with the hand that was holding a battered and brightly coloured box. “So I guess we’re your new neighbours.”
“I guess,” Bucky said, and for lack of an alternative he waved awkwardly with the hand that had already bled through the clump of shredded tissue he’d pressed to it.
“On it.” Before Bucky could move he’d had his hand grasped by long calloused fingers, and he figured it for a handshake and was just about to reciprocate when the guy pulled away, leaving Bucky with -
His neighbour patted the cartoon-covered band-aid fondly. “We’re pretty fond of Dory, right, squishy?”
It was Barton junior’s turn to grab Bucky’s hand, and this was more casual physical contact than Bucky’d had in longer than he’d care to admit.
“All better,” she said, satisfied, then smacked a kiss over the plaster before holding Bucky’s hand out to her father. The man looked up at Bucky then, apparently taking his raised eyebrow as something resembling consent, bent with a wicked little smirk to press his own mouth half against flesh.
The scrape of morning stubble went straight to Bucky’s dick.
gentle reminder that simon and rick are very similar characters with many parallels between them (unsupportive fathers, escaping reality through drugs/hiding in a cave, finding support and family in the ula/army, being told by a fatherly figure to kill kieren because he stands in the way of the father figure’s agenda AND refusing to do so, etc, etc, etc).
the single most significant detail in which their story arcs differ is that rick is fate is decided at an instant after refusing to harm kieren, whilst we are still (painfully… hopelessly?) waiting to find out how simon’s story will end.
WARNING: Graphic depictions of blood, gore and/or torture
Ray feels himself being shaken
awake, his finger tips trembling painfully and humming with lights. Half
unconscious he draws his hand closer, taking in the intricate wiring with
confusion before rocketing up straight, eyes wide and alert. Staring at his
hand, he feels himself beginning to panic, fear clawing its way up from his
stomach and using his ribs as a ladder. Shaking himself and trying to level his
head, Ray struggles from the blanket he had cocooned himself inside of and
scrambles from the couch. “Fuck!” he exclaims, staring down at his hand as the
painful sensation continues to shoot through his fingers; your interlinked
distress signal crying for help with impatient hums.
He starts pacing frantically,
unsure what to do; his movements sharp and clumsy. Such a signal only sounds when the cybernetic enhancement is damaged; and this could happen for a wide array
of reasons. Trying to calm himself down, he thinks of the possibilities and attempts
to ease his heart rate. You could have tripped and fallen, could have been
submerged in water for too long; but none of it fit with the deep pit of
anxiety beginning to form knots in his stomach.
Reaching for his phone, he presses
his fingers to the back of the device, flinching as the technology draws the
information from his cyber fingertips and inside of its mechanism with a warm shock.
Left stinging, he scrolls through the data your signal had sent, becoming angrier
as he listens to the audio recording contained within the internal black box.
that I have your attention - Make sure he’s watching - I think we need to get a
few things straight”
The sound of your bloodcurdling
screams are accompanied by your leg’s silent distress call, the faint beeping
lacing as an undertone beneath a sickly, wet tearing sound that echoes
uncomfortably throughout the apartment; burrowing its way into the carpet.
“I’m in charge here”
with unwavering determination, slinging his weaponry together as his hands
shake; a stream of curses running under his breath. Readying himself, he
uploads the location of the signal to his phone before bolting out the door and
into the cool night without a moment’s hesitation.
“All you’ve gotta do sweetheart, is
tell us where your boyfriend’s crew hangs out”
The punches come quick and sharp,
pummelling into your tender stomach mercilessly, causing you to double over
while trying to stifle the groan. Lifting your head, you stare at him, his
square face furious and pink; eyes the colour of muddy dishwasher water. It had
been at least four hours. Four hours since the first time they forced glass
into what remains of your weeping leg. Four hours since you’d promised yourself
that you’d kill them all, slowly.
Ryoumarx exploring each other’s scars. And it starts off light and fun, telling stories about the scars they got from childhood misadventures and embarrassing blunders but inevitably they start talking about the most painful ones, the ones that still ache even though the wound had healed over years ago. There are tears before the night is over, and gentle kisses pressed against the marred flesh, and in the morning the old injuries hurt a little less.
There are two songs in the second person on 1989. The first is How You Get the Girl. It’s mostly a fairytale, an instructional booklet for any boy, and any girl, but Taylor slips herself in just at the end: how you get the girl becomes, and say you want me.
U R In Love doesn’t quite do that. It’s a beautiful, breathless song. The verses start off quietly. They’re almost austere. When the chorus comes it’s lush and open: you can hear it in the silence / you can feel it on the way home / you’re in love / true love.
The verses are images from a relationship. They’re familiar pieces of shorthand, and she doesn’t flesh them out much. Morning / his place / burnt toast / Sundays. We all recognize the hallmarks of something settled and sweet. You keep his shirt / he keeps his word.
Towards the end, you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the war / and why I’ve spent my whole life trying to put it into words.
That’s the only I on U R in Love. It’s not Taylor who’s falling, who’s trusting, who is in love; she’s the one observing, noting the way love fills up the air around two people, how it can be palpable, and invisible, and unspeakable. Falling in love is one thing; describing it is another. Feeling is its own provenance, its own wild, unfamiliar country. Her work is to walk back and forth across that border, translating feeling into an album’s worth of songs.
People dismiss both feelings and the art that we make about them as women’s work, minor domestics, melodrama. One of the things Taylor Swift does best is to write songs about feelings that are as big as feeling itself is: she refuses to believe in the supposed smallness of her subject matter. So here love opens the door: you understand now why they lost their minds, and fought the war— big ideas, men’s ideas, spiraling out from the familiar feminine.
There’s no irony, no anger, no control or power to this song. Instead it’s full with feeling; the feeling of loving something, and wanting to talk about it, and knowing you’re not quite doing it. And loving it anyway, both the trying and the failing. The feeling and the way you describe it.
Trying to put it into words: the last character on 1989 is the one who wrote everything that preceded this moment, Taylor from behind the scenes reminding us of all of the work that went into this album, and the ones before it. Of all the roles she takes on, this one is my favorite, perhaps because the labor of writing is often just as invisible as the labor of putting on lipstick and the right shoes, and making sure your hair is behaving every time you leave the house.
It’s done in private; it’s done to your own standards, and it’s up to you to find the words, and then refine them until they work. It’s something you do because you’re driven to it, and because you love it. I said earlier that what Taylor Swift means to millions of people is that your I remember is enough, but that’s not entirely true— I remember is only enough when you then use it, making that I remember a part of telling your story just the way you want it told.
I’ve been thinking a lot this week about Joanna Russ’ 1983 bookHow to Suppress Women’s Writing. The cover gets passed around on Tumblr a certain amount, because it lays out the bare bones of her argument, the phrases people use to dismiss and demean women’s work. She didn’t write it. She wrote it but she shouldn’t have. She wrote it, but look what she wrote about. She wrote it, but she isn’t really an artist, and it isn’t really art.
Each of these accusations has been leveled at Taylor Swift in turn: the press said that having co-writers on her songs meant she wasn’t really writing them, so she wrote every word on Speak Now all by herself.
That album marked a sharp turning point in her career: where before, breakup songs had tended to stay into the sad, sweet, territory of Teardrops on My Guitar, Speak Now had the much more accusatory Dear John, and the frankly nasty Better Than Revenge. As her fame became ever more mainstream and the subjects of her songs better and better known, Taylor’s habit of writing about her personal life began to look very different to certain people.
It’s one thing when a teenage girl writes about her exes; the grown ups can write that off. But when it became apparent that she wasn’t afraid to call one of them out– to be specific, and remind us that there was a face, and name, and career attached to the man who’d hurt her– it got too real for some people. It’s fine for girls to get their feelings hurt and talk about it until the way they talk about it threatens an actual man, at which point, she’s either hysterical, or a selfish bitch.
So often women’s art holds up a mirror to the bad behavior of the men in their lives, and men say, god, can’t you think of something else to write about? Did you have to expose me like that? She wrote it but she shouldn’t have. She wrote it, but look what she wrote about. It’s just her little girl’s diary. It’s pop, it’s melodrama, it’s delusional, it’s insane. She isn’t really an artist, and it isn’t really art.
Because if you can deny the creative work that went into transforming experience into song, you can pretend she never thought about what happened to her, or much of anything at all. If you can deny that the story was important in the first place, you can keep pretending that what happens to women doesn’t matter to you, and shouldn’t matter to them.
Before Speak Now it was easy to dismiss Taylor Swift fans the way we always dismiss young women: as dumb romantics obsessed with the interior of their own minds and hearts, and deaf to everything else. Speak Now marked the moment Taylor began to use her voice to tell stories about something other than the culturally sanctioned narratives of Romeo and Juliet. Suddenly it became apparent that she was going to speak ugly truth to specific power– and that the fanbase she’d amassed when she seemed harmless was going to love it when she did.
Worse than that, that girls were going to learn from her: you get to decide what happened to you, and whether you want to talk about it, and how. There’s nothing more threatening to patriarchal culture than when women learn to use their own voices– except maybe when they start to see each other as allies instead of enemies, too. Taylor Swift’s success proves, among many other things, that women are hungry to hear stories lived and written and sung by their peers, which is to say, to hear voices that sound like their own, and validate their lived experiences as being not just true, but worthy of the attention and transformation and time it took to make them art.
Red is a meaner album, even. Red is mean. There are flashes of lightness, sweetness, and hope— on State of Grace and Stay, Stay, Stay, and Holy Ground— but most of it is: so there we are again when I loved you so / back before you lost the one real thing you’ve ever know. Red brims with pain disguised as fury, calling itself sadness. It’s an amazing album. It’s the last desperate cry of someone who wants very badly to believe that she isn’t ever going to have to make any hard decisions, or get over him, or grow all the way up. It’s the manifesto of someone dying to believe she’ll always be young, and right.
1989 is tougher. Pop has a harder sheen than country. Taylor puts all kinds of distance between herself and her songs, which are increasingly inhabited by what are obviously and explicitly characters. She introduced the album by saying she was going to shake it off, shake it off, and telling everyone she wasn’t writing about boys anymore.
Whatever she’s writing about, though, the point is that she’s still writing at all. 1989 closes looking in on someone else’s love, and describing it from the outside, the melody soaring in the chorus and the verses coming on in a reverent hush. It’s still Taylor’s song, and her voice, and her words– her subject, approached from a different, slightly older angle.
The point is: Taylor herself will go through whatever she goes through, as she goes on and grows up. She will keep trying to put it all into words, all of it. And she will be right to do it. The women who love her will keep listening. We’ll all keep finding new way to fall in and out of love, and tell stories about what it feels like when we do. It will be work. It will be art. It will be worth it.
Tim Hortons is no Biggerson’s. But the menu promises that the breakfast sandwiches are hot and that they come with bacon and that’s about all Dean can ask for right now.
He does almost have a heart attack when Sam leans over to whisper, “Make sure it’s not Canadian bacon. We’re in Canada.”
He flags down the waitress and explains, in explicit detail, how he would like his bacon cooked.
Jody and Mary are still waiting in the car. The four of them decide to eat there, away from the noise and civilians. The somber mood of the funeral has still carried over somewhat, and admittedly Dean’s finding it a little hard to choke down bacon after smelling burning flesh all morning.
“So, I got there kind of late,” Mary says through a mouthful of biscuit - apparently not plagued by the same loss of appetite that Dean is. “What were the other hunters like, anyway?”