mutatiio

[mutatiio]

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN as ANAKIN SKYWALKER and EWAN MCGREGOR as OBI-WAN KENOBI STAR WARS EPISODE III: REVENGE OF THE SITH (2005)

[mutatiio]

X-MEN 2000 | dir. Bryan Singer

[mutatiio]

and if i add nebula and scott summers,, what then??

[mutatiio]

Krakoa’s Mr. February (Daken) by Nick Robles

[mutatiio]

@talessculpted

GAME OF THRONES

Two Swords | 4.01

[mutatiio]

𝕀'𝕞 𝕒 𝕥'𝕚𝕖𝕗 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕚𝕝𝕤…

    𝚊𝚗' 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍.

indie Gambit / Remy LeBeau. Here for a good time. 18 + / CET / Vibes & Verses included free of ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇ.

sideblog to @himbohotel

CODE | DOSSIER | ©

[mutatiio]

MULTIMUSE MEME: Send a " ⭐ " and I will list muses I would be interested in throwing at yours, or potential muse combinations if you are also a multi. If you like any of the suggested combinations, you are welcome to come plot or start interactions with them.

If you can't see / use the symbol for any reason, send " star! " instead. If you are a multi and you want to see which muses I would be interested in throwing against a specific muse of yours, send ⭐+ that muses name.

[mutatiio]

Send a 👫and I’ll write four headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship

[mutatiio]

[mutatiio]

steve doesn't lie that often.

not unless it's on paperwork - shaved dates, forged signatures, false medical records - but those don't count. to him, those are necessity. everything else?? he tries to be honest. honest about who his is. about what he stands for.

but this?? this part of him?? the way his gaze sometimes lingers too long on another man's hands, his biceps, the way his jaw looks when he laughs - this, he's always kept close to his chest.

he never had to lie exactly. not when the world made it so easy to keep things unsaid.

his mother would always ask if he was seeing a nice girl. she meant well, she always did. he used to feel bad letting her believe it. bucky, on the other hand, had spent years trying to play matchmaker. always trying to drag him on double dates with him and imogen, like it was some sort of game. tell me what you like, steve, he'd grin with his arm flung around his shoulder, brunettes?? blondes?? freckles?? c'mon, help me help you.

steve would shrug. say he was busy, that he wasn't looking.

but now here he is - in a dim alley with blood on his lips and an incredibly attractive man too close to him, complimenting him and touching his cheek so gently. he glows from a kind of confidence you only get from knowing people want to look at you.

and yeah, steve's looking.

he doesn't mean to, but he is. he notices the way the collar on his shirt curves along his throat. the way his smile curves lazy and sure. the sort of voice steve wants to listen to. the same charm bucky thought he had.

"you oughta be careful, mister." he says, quiet, a slight drawn curling around the words. "sayin' things like that... about men." it's not an accusation. just a fact. "i dunno 'bout manhattan, but around here... people wouldn't take too kindly to it."

he'd tried to steel himself. to focus on anything but the man in front of him, but then the handkerchief brushes down over his lip, dragging it just slightly, and steve's heart seems like it's trying to climb right out of his chest. his grip tightens around his sketchpad. then, because he's used to brushing it off, steve almost tells him he's fine. that it doesn't hurt. that he's used to worse.

but something about this guy makes the lie stick behind his teeth.

"yeah." he says finally, exhaling through his nose. "it hurts." eyes glance down, somethings are easier to say without looking at someone. "not the worst i've had. won't be the last. but, yeah." then he looks back up, something steadier in his gaze. "most things worth doin' do."

Tony really likes the accent.

To hell with modern times and whatever led to Steve losing that sweet accent. Tony bites the tip of his tongue every time Steve opens his mouth, holding back from grabbing his face in his hands and kissing him stupid— it's what he would have done with his own Steve. It's what he will definitely do from this point on, because he's already making the mental note to tell Steve to start letting the accent out more often, once he gets back to his own time.

He really should be looking for the others, but surely they can complete this mission without him.

His brows arch slightly as he waits for Steve to say or do something about what Tony just said. He knows for a fact there is no way that Steve was homophobic at any point in his life, he's just too good for that; but Tony also knows that things were way different in the 40s, liking another man could get a guy killed and pretending to be straight and as opposed to homosexuality as everyone else was common. As far as Tony knows, Steve might pretend just to keep himself safe. Then again, Steve has also shown a level of recklessness that might indicate otherwise.

So many possibilities, and Steve's question is vague enough a reaction that it doesn't answer Tony's inner question.

Instead of voicing that, he smiles a charming smile. "A handsome AND smart guy," he muses. "Not many of those around these days. You're an endangered species."

Surely that's a term that already exists, right? The worst part about time travel is having to check himself to avoid using terms or quoting things that don't exist yet. It is damn near torture for someone like Tony, who references pop culture so much in conversation, and who never really paid that much attention to how his father spoke because he didn't ever have anything nice to say.

His thumb, with the handkerchief in the way, gently drags over Steve's bottom lip, he applies light pressure, trying to stop the bleeding, as he motions with his chin. Whoever did this was lucky that Tony didn't make it there sooner, or he would have erased a couple bloodlines from existence.

But as it turns out, trying to stop someone's lip from bleeding is the perfect excuse to stare at that someone's mouth.

It's good to know the pretty lips aren't a result of the serum.

"Does it hurt?" he asks. "You're a tough nut to crack, I'd be cursing my lungs out."

[mutatiio]

steve watches him - this sharp-dressed, smooth-talking man with his too-clean clothes - and tries to figure out if he's being toyed with or if this is just... how he is.

"still standing." he repeats, though it hardly meant much. he hadn't won. if anything, he was lucky the guy who'd thrown the last punch didn't think it was worth the energy finishing the job. his ribs ache when he breathes, his lip is still bleeding, and he's fairly certain one eye is going to be a deep, spectacular shade of purple in the morning.

still, the stranger had a point. he was still standing. and he would have kept getting up no matter the damage.

but he doesn't want to punch him - not for looking through the sketchpad. steve's not that angry. just sore. and, maybe, a little embarrassed someone like him had seen those drawings. pages full of imagined places, quick sketches of bucky and imogen, strangers on the train, a few too many sharp-jawed men from memory or imagination. stuff he wouldn't exactly show around.

then the mention of him hearing something and wandering towards it, just in case someone needed help.

and that... quiets something in steve. just a little.

people don't do that. not around here. not at this time of night. you minded your business. you looked away. but this guy walked straight into the dark just in case someone needed a hand. steve doesn't say anything to that, but his gaze lingers on him a little longer than before, just considering him.

and then the man is moving again - stepping closer, reaching into his vest for something. steve stills when the handkerchief comes out. not in fear, just out of instinct. the material brushes his cheek, gentle in a way that doesn't belong in a place like this, and he hisses lowly through his teeth. the sting settles fast.

"i'm not bleedin' that bad." steve mutters, eyes flicking away. like he needs to remind the guy that this isn't necessary. and then he starts talking. about scars and men and what they say women want, when they're actually just thinking about themselves. steve lets out a scoffing breath, barely a sound.

but then he keeps talking and the words fall into place. he goes still again. eyes shifting to tony's. like he's trying to decide if this is a joke. a trap. something worse. because no one says things like that. not here. not to him. unless they're trying to get something out of you or unless they mean it.

but all he sees is a calmness. open, not laughing, not daring him to take the bait. just waiting. and steve's heart kicks once, hard, and suddenly he can hear it pounding in his chest.

the alley feels quieter than it did a second ago. the world feels like it's leaning in on him.

"... that your way of sayin' you think i'm handsome??" he asks finally, voice low and cautious.

Oh, this one is even mouthier than the Steve he knows.

Tony finds that he likes that, likes that even without the extra inches that make Steve taller than him in the future, Steve isn't afraid to tell him what's what. Not fully recovered from one fight and already willing to pick another one if the need arises, but never one to throw the first punch. No. Always self defense or in defense of others, never an attack, because he's a good guy like that, and that is something no serum can generate and no laboratory can replicate. You're either born with it or you don't.

Still, Tony scoffs at him.

"Too banged up to stop you," he repeats, not mocking but quite amused. "Buddy, you fought multiple guys and are still standing up and mouthing off. I think if you really wanted to, you'd have punched me in the jaw already."

Tony even taps his own cheek with the edge of the sketchpad twice as if inviting Steve to try, before he hands it over because he's got a point, it's not Tony's to look through. Then again, can anyone blame him for being curious about what his boyfriend was drawing over half a century before they met?

He listens as Steve explains what got him into this fight, and vividly remembers a conversation he had with Bucky at some point about how there was always an old lady, a little kid, a stray dog, someone who needed somebody else to stand up for them and Steve simply couldn't look away, couldn't mind hos business– had to go out of his way to make it his business. Again, it is the sort of goodness that you can't create in a laboratory. The sort of infuriatingly selfless behavior that made Tony fall for him in the first place.

"I wouldn't know, I'm from Manhattan," Tony says when Steve mentions Brooklyn hospitality. "And yeah, I was supposed to find some friends, but I don't really have a destination so I just... started wandering and ended up hearing you and checked, could have been somebody that needed help."

He reached into his vest's pocket, pulling out some handkerchief folded like a triangle that the seamstress he went to insisted was necessary to complete the outfit, and reached over to try and clean some of the dirt on Steve's bruising cheek.

"You know... people say ladies like men with scars," he muses. "But it's actually men who like men with scars. Never seen a woman be like 'oh, look at those bruises and scars, he's so handsome', but men? They love projecting like that, they love to say a guy like that gets all the ladies because it's what THEY find attractive," he wipes his cheek quickly but gently. "Anyway, I bet you're going to get all the ladies with that bruise."

[mutatiio]

It's good to be on top.

Akihiro as Wolverine in Dark Reign.

[mutatiio]

forgive me. everything i say sounds so childish. (either mags or bucky whichever makes more sense 2 u)

Erik hears the words - soft and uncertain. He turns to her, this woman with eyes that had seen too much, like many mutants her age and younger. She stands there, looking almost ashamed to have spoken at all.

Childish. That is what she fears she sounded like.

But to Erik, the truth is the opposite.

If anything, it was the younger generation who always sounded older than they should. Wiser than they had any responsibility being. War did that. Fear did that. Being hunted, hated, learning to survive in a world that treated your very existence as a threat - it aged them. Left them voicing things no one should ever have to.

He steps closer, voice quiet, steady. "Childish?? No. You speak like someone twice your age." Erik's gaze softens then, just slightly. "But even if it were childish... You are young, Clarice. You are allowed that."

[mutatiio]

steve doesn't take the sketchpad right away. his gaze lingers on the man - this stranger with clothes that seem far too clean for the filthy alley they're standing in.

"you always go rifling through other people's things??" steve asks, voice with just enough edge to get the point, but not enough to bite. his shoulders are still tense, still braced for another round if it comes to that. "or just when they're too banged up to stop you??"

steve takes his sketchpad then, looking it over to note the damage. it's not so bad. the spine is lopsided, a few shoeprints and dirt. nothing he couldn't fix. he flips through the pages quickly, eyes darting over the smudged pencil lines. some sketches are ruined from the mistreatment. others are okay. most of them were never meant to be seen, not by anyone.

"they were pickin' on a kid," he mutters, quieter now. "half my size, maybe less." he shrugs like it doesn't matter, like it's just another day - but it always matters. that's the whole problem. if bucky were here he'd be telling him off for it, but bucky's not here. hasn't been for months now. "told 'em to back off. they didn't. so..." a gesture to his bruised face. "y'know. brooklyn hospitality."

steve glances back up, eyes scanning the sharp lines of the man's coat, that soft glow again, the confidence he carries himself with. he's dressed far to nice to be skulking around brookyln's alleys after dark, let alone the back alleys.

"you lost or somethin'??" and then, without thinking. "i might be able to direct you to where you're going."

@mutatiio said:

brooklyn never sleeps, not really. it just got meaner when the sun went down.

steve wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood on already scraped knuckles. his lip is split, cheek starting to swell. the alley behind the old diner him and bucky used to frequent is quiet now, echoing faintly with the last of retreating footsteps and jeers. another fight he couldn't win - but he stood his ground anyway. he always does.

he leans against damp brick, chest rising and falling in shallow inhales. his sketchpad had been trampled somewhere along the way. his pride too, but he can at least pick the sketchpad up.

then, just as he's catching his breath, he hears approaching steps. steve flinches, back straightening instinctively. it's not one of the other guys. too well dressed. dark layers, a strange soft glow coming from somewhere under his shirt. perfectly groomed, far too smooth and slick for this sort of place.

steve blinks. "you with them??" he asks, voice hoarse but steady. "because if you are, you're late."

They were supposed to stay on track. Easy in, easy out, that's what Tony told the others. No mingling with the locals, no messing with the timeline, no killing Hitler regardless of how tempting that was. Get the information they needed and then get the hell out. That was supposed to be easy.

But then Tony got lost.

He got too confident with his knowledge of modern New York, thought it couldn't possibly be THAT different and sure enough, the bank was in the same place, he was able to get money out of his family's account because Howard Stark hasn't changed his password in over 80 years. A considerable amount, but one that his to-be-parents wouldn't notice. Then, he got distracted getting himself better clothes because the ones they'd crossed through with were just CHEAP. The problem was finding his way back once he got out.

The more he walked, the less he recognized his surroundings.

Some labored breaths from an alleyway caught his attention, and he rounded the corner, stopping as soon as he spotted the man standing here. Shorter, scrawnier, but holding himself with that very same air that screams 'I can do this all day'. Steve Rogers, in all his early 40s glory.

More than once, Tony had teased Steve about the sort of thing he would have done to him if he'd met him sooner. His dirty talk encompassed all eras, from going on and on about what he'd have done to Steve when he was fresh out of that laboratory where they buffed him up, to saying he could have folded him like a lawn chair before he got the serum. Though that last one had mostly been a joke.

Now, seeing the man in front of him, realizing he is just as handsome as before —as handsome as later on??? This whole time travel thing is too confusing—, Tony realizes those words that he'd said just to watch Steve get flustered might hold more truth than he intended.

Steve's words snap him out of his thoughts.

Tony blinks, clears his throat, takes a step forward and steps on something soft. A sketchpad. Tony picks it up, pats as much dirt off of it as he can and wipes some off with the sleeve of his navy blue shirt before he rolls it up to his forearms.

"Whoever 'them' are, looks to me like you gave them one hell of a fight," Tony says, smiling as he steps closer. "One against a group and you're still standing. It's impressive, really." before he holds out the sketchpad, he decides to give it a look. "And you've got a hand for more than just punching, from the looks of it."

[mutatiio]

@talessculpted

[mutatiio]

it had been a long night at the bar. what would usually drown out everything else now irritated him. too many people, too much noise, the constant press of bodies and the low thump of the music. he barely notices the drink at first. some guy handed it to him, said it was from someone sitting at the counter. getting free drinks barely counter when he's the owner, but who was he to say no?? he took a sip out of habit, not thinking. bitter, a little off, but he was already running on fumes, already half-numb from a dozen other distractions. he figured the taste was just some cheap bourbon he didn't know they stocked. by the time the glass was half empty, the room started to tilt. there's a familiar coldness in him, the realisation that suddenly, his hands don't feel like his own. that each movement felt slowed.

he'd stepped outside to clear his head, stumbling into the alley behind the bar, one hand on the wall like the stability could steady the swim of his vision. that's when he noticed them - shadows in the wrong places, steps that matched his own too precisely. he just about got his claws out, but the drug had sunk too deep, dulling his instincts. he swings, he misses, he practically falls into their fist. one hit to the gut, another to the back of the neck. he barely manages to snarl before he's face-down on the ground and the world goes black around him.

-

akihiro hits the floor hard, shoulder-first and grunts from the impact. he doesn't move at first. the world is thick around him, everything swimming at the edges. his mouth is dry. skin clammy. muscles heavy and uncooperative. whatever they'd given him was still dragging him down. he can feel the wrongness in his body like a buzz beneath his skin. his healing factor wasn't gone, just... muted?? can tell by the way his hands and wrists still ache from the claws. he thinks, distantly, that they must have used something like heat. less intense thankfully. no hallucinations this time. no whispers in his ear.

he tries to inhale deep, but he coughs halfway. his hands are bound behind him and the edges of the constraints bite into his wrists. he jerks when he hears the voice, cursing his dulled senses for not even noticing her.

head is lifted an inch off the floor, tired eyes squinting at her in the dark. maybe he recognises her, but he's not sure. his jaw moves like it takes effort just to speak.

"... who the fuck are you??" before he drops his head back against the concreate with a dull thud. which, ouch.

Starter for @mutatiio Avery w/ Akihiro

Avery still had a full set to play when she left the bar. At the start of her break, she pulled her guitar strap over her head, returned the instrument to its case, left the case on an empty back room storage shelf, and then escaped out the back door. She emerged into a humid night, the air cloying thick with concrete and rust, New York sky incandescent between the breaks in the towering buildings. A few minutes later, walking North towards the Subway, Avery's paranoia about that guy who kept eyeing her in the bar was proven warranted: she was being followed. Two or three, obvious tails, and a couple extra she probably didn't see but whose eyes she felt on her. In glimpses, she saw them: men in bulky black street clothes that did not blend into the other pedestrians as well as they wished. Avery walked in circles, around and around the blocks, down into a Subway and back out, onto a bus she got off at the next stop. An hour into this process she realized this was a persistence hunting strategy, wearing her out in fear and anxiety as she tried to escape her unshakable stalkers. So, she slipped back into some side street, and waited.

Unfortunately, whoever the fuck these people were, they were way smarter than the idiots she hoped they'd be. Five of them came out of the wood work to chase her into an alley where two more waited. She backed, out of the street and into the mouth of danger. Her charge was too low to get her over top the buildings to her left or right, so her only options were forward or back. Five or two? Two was easier. The men moved fast, faster than humans, hemming in on her but she darted into the alley. She smashed through the line with a punch to a jaw and darted under a thrown arm. Avery bolted, running for the opposite street, only to catch from the corner of her eye at the edge of the wall the brief movement of a man stepping forward. An arc of electricity sparked from a device in his hands. It was like getting lit on fire, every muscle seizing at the same time, and she was blown back off her feet. She had enough charge to fight off the paralysis but not before the six men were on her with ropes and a bracelet around her wrist that nullified her powers.

All Avery thought before she was tossed unceremoniously into the back of a van was, should have gotten on a train out of the city. Whoops.

Two or three hours later, Avery was sitting in the basement of some warehouse, somewhere that probably wasn't Brooklyn anymore. It was a miserable space, concrete, steel, locked door, her arms tied behind her back, and left in the near darkness except for a pinhole of light that filtered in through an old wire grate window just above ground level. The room smelled of rust and mildew, a significant portion of the floor taken up by a large puddle filled with oily gunk. Despite the desperation of her predicament, Avery had found the driest spot she could, sat down with her back to the wall, and waited. She fiddled with the bracelet, a power inhibitor. It was cheap plastic and she scratched at its smooth surface, finding a small line in the construction with her fingernails. Avery picked, and picked, and picked, listening to the voices, footsteps, around her. She had a theory to the identity of her captors: mutant hunters that sold poor kids on the slave trade. Which meant a lot of things that Avery wasn't too concerned with right now. She spent six years in the Lock-Up, when it came to escape attempts and survival she was patient.

Still, it was a surprise when the door opened again and someone else got thrown into her accommodations. A room mate in the form of a large, well built young man with black hair. He was trussed up as well as she was and in the brief light, Avery recognized him: the owner of the bar. What was his name? Crap. She couldn't remember.

Anyway.

"Sorry, I skipped out," Avery said to him, "i was busy being kidnapped."

[mutatiio]

@talessculpted

Oscar Isaac and Jessica Chastain

SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE (2021) - Episode 4 - The Illiterates