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.
Summary: After the Avenger’s falling out, you were put in charge of putting Bucky together. Under King T’Challa’s orders, you were given a month’s time to create a new arm while simultaneously figure out how to get the triggering memories of his past out of his mind. As the time goes by, you found yourself confiding in him, despite his frozen state.
A/N: Sorry for the wait! This was a long and difficult one to write, phew!
Summary: You are on a mission of your own when you get caught by a certain superhero.
You take in a deep breath before taking a step out of the bright yellow taxi and shutting the door. You look straight up, scanning the wide, glass covered, thirty-floor building looking for anything out of the ordinary. You then nervously fix your blouse and straighten out your skirt before heading towards the main doors of the building. You understood why they picked you for this mission, but you were just the healer. You didn’t put your life at risk like this. Like the others….
“Y/N once you get through the doors there will be a security checkpoint. You are going to need to use the I.D. badge that I gave you and swipe it at the scanner. It should hopefully work and get you in,” says one of your teammates, Ida, through the intercom placed in your ear.
“Hopefully?” you hiss quietly, “You mean to tell me this might not work?”
“I am 99% sure that this will work. I mean, come on. It’s me we are talking about,” she replies rather smug.
A/N: This is my first fic!!! I am really proud of it, I hope you enjoy. If you do please let me know what you thought, constructive criticism is always good! Enjoy!
Warning: stabbing, one cuss word, blood, death
ALSO NOT MY GIFS!
That is what it felt like when the knife entered your stomach. You had always thought it would be painless because of the shock and adrenaline. But no.. lucky you.
As the hydra agent removed the knife you felt the wound get warm. But the warmth continues to rise in intensity until it burns. It burns and stings and you can feel every bit of it. Putting pressure on it with your hands does not help the pain, but it’s necessary. Your knees give out and you use the wall behind you to slide to the floor.
The hydra agent pulls his gun out of his hip holster pointing it directly at your head. “You could join us you know. Help us take back the Winter Soldier… What do you say?” “Fuck you.” You replied spitting at the mans feet. “To bad, would have been nice to have worked with such a pretty face.” He then replaces his gun on his hip “hope he is worth the suffering” he spits menacingly then walks away.
You look down at your hands and see the blood still pouring out as if the pressure is doing nothing. You know you are losing too much blood too fast. It is pooling around your legs. At least the wound is cooling.
“My sections clear, Y/n do you want my help?” You hear Bucky say through your earpiece. “Y/n?” He says again. “I need help.” You say between shaky breaths as the panic of dying sets in. “Y/N!! I’m on my way sugar stay right there!”
Hearing his pet name for you puts a smile on your face. When you went against Tony and sided with Steve to save Bucky you never knew that feelings would blossom from it. You hadn’t even thought about anyone romantically since your boyfriend, Pietro, died 2 years ago. You and Bucky had been on a few dates, but you could never bring the relationship further because you were afraid. Afraid of what happened before to happen again. You couldn’t deal with that pain again.
“Y/N!” Bucky says as he round the corner. He sees the blood running to the floor, encasing you in a pool of blood that runs all the way down to your feet. Just seeing him sends the panic away, maybe having someone with you calmed you down. “Shit Y/n I’m going to get you back to the Jet. This is probably going to hurt.” Bucky says softly before picking you up.
But it didn’t. You couldn’t feel anything other than the cold of your wound and a want to sleep. “Bucky,” you say as your vision is slowly going darker, “I’m sorry.” “Stay awake alright? What do you have to be sorry for sugar?” He says as you see his eye well up with tears. “Not being ready. You’re amazing, it was all my fault.” “You did nothing wrong, I’ll wait for you as long as you need, you just need to stay awake.” You take your last bit of energy and reach up to touch his face. He was so handsome, you were so glad to have met him. Then it all goes dark.
You wake up and have to blink a few times to soften the blow of the bright light.
reader almost gets bit on a run and Daryl is furious with her. They get back to
the prison and she asks him to teach her a thing or two about self-defense
against walkers and people. Sweaty training ends in rough smut, Daryl style. ;)
You hear the gates of the prison opening, one by one, as you
sit in the car with Rick and Michonne, waiting to leave the prison and go to a
town nearby to gather supplies. You wipe your hands up and down your jeans a
few times and take a few deep breathes, trying to calm your nerves. This was
the first run you had gone on with Rick’s group and you were nervous as hell,
but you wanted to prove your worth to the group.
Rick and Daryl had rescued you from a herd of walkers a few
weeks, your group had been overrun by a sudden herd and you had lost everyone,
you thought you were also gone until you saw Rick and Daryl run up to you, with
four walkers nearly on top of you, as they chomped at you, trying to grab your
flesh. The two men easily pulled the walkers off you and smashed their heads
in, using their boots and couple of iron rods in their hands. They had been in
the area looking for supplies at the time they heard you scream. You had never
been so glad to see other people in your life.
After that they offered you a place to stay at the prison,
Rick asked the three questions and you seemed to pass. The past few weeks you
had been lucky enough to have a roof over your head, a safe place to sleep, and
people who actually seemed to be decent human beings. It was like an
out-of-body experience for this world, you were so happy to have found them.
And then there was Daryl, one of the men who had saved you. Daryl was something
so different, you didn’t even know how to describe him. Shy but confident,
tough but sensitive, kind but harsh, he was the kind of man it would take a
lifetime to figure out and you certainly would have no problem with that.
You couldn’t help but notice this confident, yet nervous,
man, every time he was near you. He didn’t say much, but he always seemed to
have twenty things on his mind. You wondered what it would be like to hear all
those thoughts that never escaped his mouth. This run was important to you,
showing the group you could handle yourself. But Daryl? Daryl was more
important, in a world like this, there is no time to sit back and ponder.You wanted to be with him any chance you got.
Your head snaps back to reality as you hear Daryl’s
motorcycle roar to life in front of the truck you rode in. You see Daryl look
back at Rick and nod as he drove forward out of the gates, one by one. Rick
followed him out and you look back, seeing Carl and Sasha quickly closing each
gate behind your entourage. You bite your lip a little feeling the rush of
butterflies again in your stomach. You gripped the knife in your hand tightly,
almost drawing blood, you wince and put the knife back in the holster on your
side, continuing to play with your hands for the drive.
okay so i picture ryan outside of the crew as a naturally fidgety guy. it’s never a ridiculous amount of movement, but it’s a jogging of a leg when he’s leaning against something, tapping his feet/playing with his shoes when he’s seated, hands always in pockets and at the back of his neck and running through his hair and rubbing at his mouth and scratching at his ear.
when he’s the vagabond, he has to hide who he is. everything is changed, from voice to posture. namely, every significant mannerism, everything that identifies him as ryan, disappears. he moves little outside of necessity, stands tall and intimidating and still.
but he just can’t seem to rein in his hands.
he tries, certainly, exercises a significantly increased level of control over his habits. vagabond is a different headspace, after all, the reservation and lack of identity drilled into himself. the vagabond doesn’t need to run a hand through his hair when he’s nervous, as it’s pulled back in a ponytail or tied up in a bun. the vagabond wears a mask, couldn’t rub at his mouth if he tried. the vagabond recognizes that he blushes from the neck up, and that touching the area in his habitual manner just brings attention to whatever moment of weakness his hand is trying to conceal.
but his fingers are itchy, his fingers don’t rest. they drum against his hip, against the holster of his pistol, against the hilt of his knife. they snatch up pens and throwing knives and twirl, roll them across scarred and skinned knuckles almost too fast to be seen. they are the only thing about the vagabond that are not controlled, not a well-oiled part of the machine.
maybe that’s why they are so very good at the artistry of torture.
Summary: You are a new addition to the Avengers, and have only ever seen your teammates with their walls up. However, one by one they slowly start to let you in, and you finally see them as human.
A/N: I feel like this series will just get better and better. I’m starting to hammer out what I want the tone to be, and this was just a blast to write. I kind of want to talk about this part so I’ll put a longer author’s note after the tags for anyone who wants to read my thoughts about this part. Enjoy! And a giant thank you to everyone who read Tony’s part and liked, reblogged, commented, sent me an ask, etc. I was so motivated during this part and I know that that feeling will just get bigger and bigger!! :)
Warnings: language (some stronger swears here friends), mild (non-graphic) violence
Now that you have all your references, how do you get started? The first thing to do with any costume is to break things down into its base parts. Let’s use another Automata character as an example.
Her outfit can be broken down into the following parts:
When you break a costume down into its base components, it’s easier to see the individual pieces and pick a starting place. When you begin working on a piece, you might have to break things down even further. For example, the cloak can be further broken into the cloak, hood, tassles, decorations, and cloak clasp. Alternately, you can group things together; the gloves, kneepads, and hip holster could easily be grouped together as “accessories.”
So how about the machine?
We broke it down as follows:
Curved neck/shoulder/back portion
Electronics - Eyes
Electronics - Cooling
While “Electronics - Eyes” could belong with the head, we’re breaking it out as a specific thing we want to remember. “Electronics - Cooling” is also important so we want to make sure we build things with that in mind. If you need a wig or a specific makeup job, those need to be considered too.
The other thing we had to do was reassign the proportions. As you can see in the picture, the machine is shorter than a human with the shoulders lower and hands reaching the knees. The hands and legs are also very skinny. How do you translate that to a human?
Take a picture of yourself against a neutral background (front, ¾, side, back). If you have an image editing program, you can reduce opacity to 50-75%. Now you have a template you can print out to draw on or use an image editing program to scale images to. This is useful for scaling costumes with unusual proportions, but can also be good for scaling large props, or serving as a template for an original design.
This method helped us figure out the proportions for the machine as well as how to do the arms and legs. We also decided what to build the limbs from; Sintra and styrene because we have plenty of both on hand. Using materials we already have means we can put the budget toward other things. Both are also lightweight and durable.
We had a few ideas on how to do the head (paper mache, slush-casting), but decided to see if we could find something pre-made. After visiting a few plastic stores and home improvement stores and not finding anything, we found an acrylic globe online (that can be picked up at Home Depot; go figure).
For the torso, we originally wanted to find a garbage can or some other kind of large tube. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find a large tube or a garbage can that wouldn’t require large amounts of surfacing. We decided to go with EVA foam for the outside with a plastic frame on the inside. For the curved shoulder/back part we’re thinking about carving XPS board, but we haven’t fully decided yet.
Have plans in mind, but stay flexible too. Remember money isn’t the only cost, but also time, both for making and finding materials.
That wraps up this write-up. The next update will be the start of the build. See you then!
prince cassian & smuggler jyn (like han and leia) pls?
Boy oh boy did I do a thing…instead of a drabble this turned into a fic just shy of 3000 words (I also kinda probably tweaked this from what the prompter probably intended but….eh. It’s fine.) (EDIT: NSFW)
darling, i’ll tuck your name under my tongue
beneath his station, what he was doing. Cassian couldn’t bring himself to care.
You mention a democratic politician during casual conversation. The words ‘2nd amendment’ rumbles deep in the back of the throats of the natives. They all instinctively reach for their hip where a holster would normally sit.
It is 96 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Yesterday it snowed 3 inches. You think it may have rained on Tuesday.
There is a man by the side of the road selling homegrown vegetables and fruits. You buy a watermelon. “They’re in season!” He says, his smile full of teeth. Too many teeth. They are always in season.
You visit the islands of Georgia. The sand is pale. It is as pale as the faces of the national park rangers. “Don’t go onto the beach at night.”
You go fishing in a river. You catch a Bass. Bass don’t have teeth normally do they?
Peaches. There are peaches everywhere here. You cannot escape them. You must eat them. Peach viscera coats your floor, and peach puts fill your garbage can. You are happy. The peaches are sweet and sticky.
You feel the call of the World of Coca-Cola. You cannot resist. You must make the pilgrimage to Atlanta. You have seen the same car pulled onto the side of the road with its hazards on five times. You reach the world of coke. You do not remember your name as you wander through bubbley, red halls. You try the Beverly. You are infinite.
Seriously, imagine Lance in this outfit: leather pants, low slung, with hip holsters and shoulder holsters, since he’s the sharpshooter. Lance has a blue long leather jacket, because of course. A navy blue cowboy hat, because Lance would love it and never take it off.
He’s the ranged fighter so Keith can be the close-combat fighter without getting sniped. And when he and Keith go into the space saloons, ready to gamble because they’re low on funds and need quick cash, Lance distracts the folks at the tables simply by being his flirtatious self — he’s learned how to hone it, use it to his advantage in more subtle ways. I mean, look at him:
And Keith? He’s rocking an even longer jacket, a dark red duster, and he uses a pair of twin knives as his weapons of choice, but you better believe he has daggers hidden all over his person.
And while Lance is being quietly distracting, making eyes at the other poker players, Keith is using slight-of-hand to make sure they get a decent sized pot to take home — and he’ll be smug as hell when he gets to walk out with everyone’s money and Lance, the one they’ve all been drooling over.
Not that his facial expression would give any of that away, he’ll just stand up and give them all an intense glare:
And they do contract mercenary jobs to stay fed, which doesn’t always work out, but it doesn’t matter as long as they survive to get paid — but they can’t always help themselves when it comes to helping people out for free. They’ve got a reputation that gets them both honest and dishonest work, and they kick ass every time. In leather, and boots, and wearing holsters, and just …
So yeah, this idea wouldn’t leave me alone, therefore, I wrote fic about it:
Now I really need someone to come up with an idea for a Peter, Peter and Peter story! Someone getting Parker, Maximoff and Quill into one request or prompt. I’d love the person able to do it 5-ever for sure XD Not trying to be mean just… well maybe a bit. Something like “Why are all guys in my life called Peter?” feat. my brother, my best friend and that weird guy in a spaceship! -Requested by anon I had an idea of a team-up last night, so here’s a one-shot feat. Peter, Peter, and Peter XD ✯
Characters: Peter Parker, Peter Maximoff, Peter Quill Word Count: 1,746
Excerpt from one of the several Check, Please! fics I am working on.
This one’s an AU, one of the “Jack went into the NHL at 18 and Bitty has some unrelated career” variety, of which there are many.
Shitty Knight (that was going to take some getting used to) was waiting outside the locker room when Jack emerged. With him was a shorter man, slender and blond, wearing a blue t-shirt and the shortest red shorts Jack had ever seen on an adult. He had sunglasses perched on his head and was deep in conversation with Knight. Must be an intern.
As Jack drew nearer, they both turned toward him. Jack almost stopped walking. The blond man was armed; he had a hip holster clipped to the waistband of his miniscule red shorts.
“Um – hello,” Jack said. He was trying not to stare at this tiny, armed – okay, the word his brain kept suggesting was ‘twink,’ but that seemed uncharitable so he resisted it. This tiny armed person. He focused on Knight, who would surely explain.
“Jack. Good skate?”
“Yeah, I coulda predicted that. Jack, this is Eric Bittle. He’ll be heading up your security detail.”
Jack could not keep the look of incredulity off his face. Bittle seemed totally unsurprised by his gobsmacked expression. “Go ahead, get it out of your system,” he said, his voice a smooth, Southern-accented tenor.
“I’m sorry, but – really?”
Knight also looked like he’d had this conversation more than once before. “To paraphrase Shakespeare, though he be but little, he is fierce.”
“Midsummer Nights’ Dream,” Jack said.
“Mr. Bittle is my best agent, Jack. He may not look like a bodyguard, but he is quick and he’s a crack shot.”
“If you say so, Knight, but…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m not usually this much of an asshole, but this is my life we’re talking about, and you – I’m sure you’re good at your job, but you look like I could tip you over with two fingers.”
Bittle calmly took the sunglasses off his head and handed them to Knight. “Try it.”
Jack spluttered a little. “Look, I’m not going to…”
“Bless your heart, this isn’t my first time at the bake-off, Mr. Zimmermann. I know how this goes. Nobody buys it until I show them, so go ahead. Try it. And don’t hold back.”