#marvel snippets

[backtothefanfiction]

Joaquin x Reader Random Dialogue Prompts

I have a whole load of dialogue prompts saved on Pinterest and was looking to bounce off one but ended up just coming up with this instead.

SNIPPETS OF CONVERSATIONS

Y/n: if you do that again I’ll throw you out that fucking window you- what are you doing?

Joaquin: Checking how high the drop is. See if it’s worth it.

——————————————

Joaquin stands in the door way watching as Y/N checks their hair in the mirror just before an important undercover mission.

Joaquin: It looks fine, don’t worry about it.

Y/N: I wasn’t worried about it… I am now.

——————————————

Joaquin: you know, I’ve always found your voice to have a calming affect on me.

Y/N: what? What the actual FUCK!

Sam: Dude? She is literally always shouting at you.

——————————————

Y/N: I swear to God Torres, if you put that song on one more time!

Joaquin: what? It’s my work out song. It’s the only thing that gets me pumped up.

Y/N: You’ve literally played it 10 times already.

Joaquin: So…

Y/N: *groans

——————————————

Joaquin and Y/N getting ready to spar in the training room

Joaquin: why are you smiling at me like that?

Y/N: because I’ve been waiting all week to kick you ass.

Sam: oh this is gonna be fun.

——————————————

Joaquin: I hate you.

Y/N: you don’t mean that.

Joaquin: well right now I do.

Sam: what happened?

Y/N: I ate his last pop-

Joaquin: she ate my last fucking pop tart.

——————————————

Let me know if you’d be interested in anymore of these.

[nyoclosmom]

hehehe

[helps-the-writing-brain-go]

Billy eats.

The plate raised up through a seam in the floor glitters, polished to a mirror shine and edges gilt in gold. The "food" is a small pile of appealing shapes - ovaloids, frustums, spherocubes and the like in pastels and soft jewel tones.

Supposedly, it's meant to stimulate omnivorous appetites, but everything Billy mechanically shovels into his mouth tastes like ash.

He can't think like this. Can't observe. If he does, he'll go back to thinking about the source of this food.

Another bite. It dissolves on his tongue without much prompting. He barely has to swallow. Useful, when he can barely bring himself to do so.

Something needed to be easy, where gaining it hadn't been.

Hard-won, the kinder would call it. Lucky shot, would sneer the meaner.

[But all Billy can hear is the wet splatter as skin split under his knuckles, neon pink fluid hot and stinking of something like diesel smearing his face, and that awful, awful click as something gives way in its throat and it stops-]

Billy's stomach roils and he bites his lip, clamping a hand hard over his mouth.

He can't vomit. He can't.

He needs this energy. Wasting it after all that-

Don't think about it.

Billy breathes hard through his nose, shaking. His eyes dart to and fro, trying to latch onto something in the present.

The lavender frustum in his hand has crumbled like wet sand. No structure beyond the surface, no support to resist his grip. No juice or crumbs will hit the floor he knows. No mess to be cleaned up.

Billy shovels the rest of it in his mouth before it can disappear fully.

He needs this.

It still tastes like ash.

[artficlly]

i who have known death [snippet]

heya, it's my birthday so as a treat here is a snippet from the mini-series i've been on and off working on <3 if you're interested, let me know

monster hunter!bucky x healer!reader apocalyptic fantasy marvel au [4.7k words] - - -

To my Esteemed Sisters of the Veil,

I write to you from Redhollow to inform you of my safe arrival. The journey was arduous and the roads long, but fortune spared me from any encounter with the Blight. This place is as unforgiving as the maps foretold. Its people are hardened by struggle and steeped in suspicion, and they do not look kindly upon the Veil. Yet, I remain steadfast in my purpose. In time, I hope to earn their trust.

I humbly request additional supplies so that I may begin my work in earnest. Tomorrow, I shall seek an audience with the leader of this settlement, should I be able to determine who holds such authority, and I will offer my services as a Healer of the Veil. Though I walk among those who do not welcome me, I trust in my training, in the wisdom of our order, and in the purpose that binds us. It is an honour to serve in the name of the Veil.

I who have known death.

I who have known the end.

Your hand paused over the sliver of parchment, and your metal-tipped pen was poised as you considered your words. There was more you wished to say, more that clawed at the edges of your thoughts, but the words would not come.

Hastily, you scribbled down an addition—In six months' time, I shall send word to update you on my progress. If no such correspondence reaches you within this timeframe—your hand hesitated once more, veil shifting as you titled your head. The words wavered in your mind, yet you forced your hand to move, the ink biting into the parchment—If no such correspondence reaches you within this timeframe, presume me dead.

The metal tip of the pen rattled as you shakily dipped it into your glass ink pottle, and you signed your name along the worn edge of the parchment, sealing your fate with careful strokes of black ink.

Your eyes darted beneath the black lace of your veil, scanning the cursive lettering before you. With a shaky breath, you folded the paper, tucking it into a yellowed envelope. Your writing supplies had not fared well in the swamp; everything here was always somewhat damp... or rotted. 

A sharp sigh escaped your nostrils as you tucked the sealed envelope into your satchel, swinging the small leather bag over your shoulder and fastening the strap across your ribs. The heat clung to you like a second skin—not the dry, searing kind that cracked the earth, but a thick, suffocating humidity that seeped into everything.  Each breath felt like recycling your own exhale, warm and stagnant. You had grown up beneath thinner skies, where the air was sharp and metallic, no matter how deeply you inhaled, it never quite filled you. Here, the air was different. It hung heavy, dense as murky water, sinking into your very marrow.  Even standing on solid ground, it felt as though you waded through thigh-deep mud, each movement slow, laboured.  You wouldn't be surprised if, upon splitting your ribs open, they found your lungs blooming with mould, your bones sodden with the slow rot of the swamp—nature’s decay.

The wooden stairs of the boarding house curved under your weight as you descended into the main lobby. Each time you walked across the damp-infested panels, you could imagine them buckling beneath you, disintegrating into a mash of fibre and rot. The attendant, a rather spindly man with a pointed face, looked down his nose at you, deep-lidded eyes marred with a look somewhere between disinterest and disgust as you breezed past onto the front street.

The heat that hit you was almost immediate, the black lace veil clinging to your sweat-slick face. Your long-sleeved shirt, made of a soft, breathable fabric, stuck to your back; the material soaked through. Your pants fared no better, though the loose, draped fabric hanging from the front and back—a modest, practical addition to the Sisterhood’s attire—offered some protection from the muck that splattered up as you pressed onward into the main street.  

Smoke rose from scattered chimneys, curling into the grey sky. Wooden structures stood huddled together, their warped frames blackened by damp and rot, leaning into one another as though they might collapse without the support. Redhollow was no grand city—it was a last desperation for perseverance, a fragile foothold carved into the mire. Its streets were little more than mud-choked pathways, slick and treacherous beneath the weight of passing boots and wagon wheels. The scent of wet timber, stagnant water, and the acrid bite of burning peat filled the air.

The steady rhythm of hammer on anvil echoed somewhere deeper within the settlement. Traders lingered beneath the awnings of the market square, their voices hushed, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their knives. The few souls who dared to call this place home moved with wary purpose, shoulders hunched, eyes darting to the shadows as if expecting the swamp itself to reach out and drag them back into its depths.

Beyond the tangled maze of stilted homes and sagging storefronts, the fence of great wooden stakes stood wearily, its sharpened logs slick with moisture, failing to keep the wilderness at bay. The Blood Swamp had already claimed parts of the town, its creeping roots strangling the abandoned outskirts, pulling ruined shacks down into the muck. Rusted waters were illuminated by lantern light, mist curling and beckoning, patient in its insatiable hunger.

Shaking the feeling that unseen eyes watched you from the depths, you made your way to the tavern. With a quick ease, you weaved your way through the locals who sparsely occupied the street, crossing the cobbles that seemed to sink further into the land by the second. As you walked past a group of large, burly men and their horses, you felt their suspicious glares and scowls. They held dented and scratched metal helmets under their arms, clearly armed to the teeth. Monster hunters, bounty hunters… or simply Hunters, as they referred to themselves. They were well-known in the outer areas of the Blood Swamps and shared a purpose akin to yours and your fellow Sisters of the Veil—eliminating the Bloodworm Blight.

But a synonymous purpose did not make you alike. Or, for that matter, like each other. 

You avoided eye contact, noticing the lingering scent of smoke that accompanied them. The remnants of the pyres scattered across the landscape were likely their doing. You had counted more than you could fit on two hands during your travels through The Blood Swamp. At least, you thought, it was better than the smell of decay. And the Blight that followed.

The tavern grew quiet as you entered, the stench of sweat and mildew hitting you in a wave. Men crowded around stained and scratched tables, hair slick against drenched foreheads. There was a room half-obscured by cigar smoke to your right, a lone bar at the back of the ramshackle building. You swallowed hard, suddenly grateful for the veil over your face, even if it choked your breath. You did not want these people to witness the hesitant expression that slipped through as you cautiously approached the barman at the back. 

You went to lean your forearms on the bar but paused, noticing how wet and sticky the stained wood appeared in the dim candlelight. The eyes of every man in the tavern burned into your back as you cleared your throat, drawing the attention of the barman who stood a few paces away, polishing a glass.

“I was wondering, when does your—” Your question was rudely ignored as the red-faced barman huffed.

“We don’t serve womenfolk around these parts, Sister.” He interrupted, body swivelling as he turned to serve a lone man who dared to press closer to the bar. 

You chewed your lip, fingers tapping across the leather of your satchel strap as you patiently waited for him to return. 

“Sister, it ain’t proper—” The barman sighed as he eventually drew his eyes back onto your veiled form. 

It was your turn to interrupt now. “The messenger, when is he due to arrive?”

“Arrive?” The barman chortled. “He left three days ago.”

The barman tried to turn again to serve another customer, but you stepped forward, braving the sticky bar to draw his attention back to you. “And when does he return?”

“Dunno. Sunday? Ain’t no set schedule around these parts, Sister. Hard to find one with Bloodworm attacks and all. You understand?”

Your lips pulled into a frown beneath your veil, and before you could think of a reply, the barman had dismissed you, his back fully turned to face you. Cheeks burning, you rotated yourself, facing the onslaught of watching eyes who chuckled at your humiliation. There was a murmur of what you could only assume was a warning. You’re not welcome here, Faceless Sister. 

This was hardly the reception you would’ve received back east.

You knew it was time to make a hasty retreat; the pit in your stomach told you so. Veering through the tables, your escape wasn’t as covert as you had hoped. The men leered as you passed, quiet snickering following you. 

As if the people of Redhollow hadn’t filled their bellies enough with your humiliation, two younger men blocked the entrance. One of them couldn’t have been older than twenty; he looked barely out of boyhood. His limbs were gangly, and his hair cropped short, and he had a hesitant grin across his hairless face. The other was older and larger, with blond hair swept across his forehead, arms crossed over his chest, and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. A slight stubble ghosted his jaw, red mud long-forgotten splattered up his right shoulder and neck. 

“Sister.” The blond greeted, blue eyes quickly scanning your form. “It’s your lucky day. The boss wants to meet you.”

You paused, wavering in place. “The boss?”

Your question was left unanswered, and your feeble attempt to shimmy past the two men was aimless. A hand found your shoulder, guiding you—with some force—towards the darkened back room. 

It was a small, cramped space, maybe once a pantry to store dry goods. Now, the space was laid bare, the stench of smoke and alcohol clouding your senses even through your veil. The room was empty, aside from a rickety table and a man who sat behind it. 

He was a study in quiet menace. A leather patch obscured his left eye, showing signs of wear and cracking, with a jagged scar running beneath it from forehead to cheek. His other eye, keen and calculating, locked onto you with the focused intensity of a predator evaluating its prey. His face was weathered and hardened, framed by a coarse beard streaked with grey. However, there was no mistaking the vitality in how he held himself—every movement precise, every gesture deliberate. One gloved hand rested on the table, the leather scuffed and stained, while the other toyed absently with a blade.

“A Sister of the Veil so far from home…” The man mused, his deep voice untainted by emotion. “My name is Fury. Nick Fury.”

“You’re the mayor of this place?” You asked, your voice firmer than you felt.

Fury’s lips curved into a dry, humourless smile as a low chuckle escaped him. The two men behind you exchanged glances, their amusement silent, but their shoulders shook ever so slightly.

“Ain’t no mayors or presidents in these parts, Sister,” Fury replied, the knife still turning lazily between his fingers.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you clasped your hands before you, adopting an air of indifference to match his. If the Sisterhood had taught you anything, it was the value of never showing your true emotions. A clear mind in place of panic or fear was champion. Fury’s eye narrowed slightly, his head tilting just enough to show his careful assessment of your every move.

“The men here, I employ them,” Fury continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “Huntin’ Bloodworms for the farmers in these parts.” His gaze lingered.

You tipped your head, the veil shifting just enough to observe the gangly young man who had ushered you in. His fidgeting hands betrayed his nerves despite the bravado in his earlier movements. You did not peg him as the monster-hunting type, maybe a trainee, the son of some farmer who insisted on continuing to farm his lands despite the ever-growing threat. 

“I understand,” you said, your voice flat but measured. “That is hard work. I commend you and your workers.”

You didn’t blame the farmers, even if some back east thought them foolish. Between the patchwork of red-tinged bodies of stagnant water that shimmered like pools of molten rust, there were isolated islands of firm, fertile soil. These pockets of stability offered enough foundation for farmers to stake their livelihoods. The bloody earth was unnaturally fertile, yielding crops in abundance, likely the result of thousands of forgotten bodies turned to natural compost. 

Fury’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. “Now, who did you piss off to be sent out this way?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “Or were you cocky enough to take it on and found yourself blindsided?”

Your jaw tightened, and you folded your hands tightly together. “We don’t get to choose our assignment.”

“Oh?” He feigned interest. 

“Fate chooses,” you explained, feeling a touch of defensiveness creep into your tone.

“Fate?” Fury’s scoff was low and dismissive. “Who is Fate?”

“No… it’s not…” You exhaled through your nose, searching for the words. “We pull a name—a location—from a bowl, and that is where we are sent. Fate decides where our help is needed most.”

Fury looked down his nose at you in disbelief. “So you believe fate thinks we don’t need help out here? Ain’t no Faceless Sisters past the midlands.”

“No. There are just…fewer settlements than in the east. Chance of the draw.” You replied, shrugging faintly. You could understand his point, but it didn’t sway your opinion. Fate’s Draw had remained a tradition for a reason—it prevented bias, allowing all remaining civilisations an equal opportunity to be drawn.  

Fury snorted, shaking his head as he exchanged looks with the men behind you. “So you got real shit luck then, huh?”

You met his remark with cold silence—the distant hum of conversation and laughter from the main room filtering through. There was no such thing as luck, only fate. 

He scoffed, louder this time, unruffled by your lack of response and his gaze hardened. “Right, well… you’re here now. I guess I have a proposal for you, Sister.”

“A proposal?”

“Yes.” Fury leaned forward, the blade in his hand now still, its point tapping idly against the wood, each click deliberate. His single eye observed you, gauging your reaction. “I got a team of hunters, my best crew. They’re in need of a healer. Their last one was taken by the blight some months ago.”

You stared at him through the wispy fabric of your veil, your fingers tightening around the leather strap of your satchel.

“No.” The word left your lips before you had fully considered it.

“No?” Fury’s brow arched, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief. 

“That’s not my line of work,” you clarified, your tone even. “I thank you for the offer, but—”

“You’re a healer.” Fury interrupted, and you exhaled loudly from your nose in unspoken disapproval. 

“I’m a Sister of the Veil.”

A beat of silence followed. Even the men at your back seemed to stiffen. Their wariness was not aimed at you but rather at the storm simmering beneath Fury’s composed exterior. He let out a slow exhale, his fingers flexing against the hilt of his blade before setting it aside. 

“Sister, I’m gonna be honest with you.” Fury spoke finally; his voice dropped, quiet but firm. “Ain’t none of these folk gonna trust you if you don’t prove yourself first. We don’t like outsiders in these parts, especially not eastern folk who think they know how everything works.” 

You straightened. You knew this long before you set foot in Redhollow. The westerners were a hard people, bred by hardship and distrust. Their history was carved into the lines of their faces, into the callouses on their hands. They endured, not by kindness, but by suspicion. You had expected your arrival to be treated like an ill omen, and so far, you were not disappointed.

“I’m not sure—”

“Ain’t no insult to your abilities, Sister,” Fury interrupted, his tone sharp. “But you’re gonna be sent away with your tail between your legs. If these folk don’t like you, they will make your life hell.”

Your mouth parted to speak, but Fury held up a hand, halting you mid-breath. “I’ll pay you, Sister. Hell, you do a good enough job, maybe these folk will trust you enough to like you. You could set up shop here in town—no more need to be runnin’ off with the hunters.”

Fury’s good eye remained fixed on you, unflinching, as though he could will you into submission with a stare alone. The men behind you shifted uneasily like spooked horses, the soft scrape of boots on the worn floorboards. You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as his gaze bore into you. You were an outsider, a stranger in a hostile land, surrounded by men who could easily overpower you. 

“I’m offering you a way in,” Fury continued, his voice never wavering. “I don’t got time to hold your hand and make you feel safe, Sister. So, I am offering you a chance to prove you’re more than just another outsider passing through. You think these folks will trust you if you stay holed up, tending to the sick who don’t want your help? No. You earn their trust by showing them you’re willing to stand where it’s ugly, where it’s dangerous.”  

“And if I refuse?”  

A short, humourless chuckle came from behind you. The blond man—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself like he’d seen more blood than peace—exchanged a glance with the one beside him. The younger said nothing, nervously looking to his feet. 

Fury shot them both a look, and the chuckle died in the blond’s throat. “You walk out that door, and you try your luck. But don’t think for a second these people will welcome you with open arms. You’ll be alone, Sister. And out here, alone ain’t a good place to be.”  

“And how can I know that I can trust you?”  

Fury didn’t react at first, his face unreadable. Slowly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. He spoke, his words blunt, unvarnished. “You can’t.” 

—

You quickly gathered that the Hunters to whom you had been unceremoniously promised weren’t entirely aware of the arrangement struck between you and Fury.

Peter—the younger, jumpier man tasked with escorting you to the stables—had filled the silence with hasty explanations as you braved the mud-slicked cobbles of the main street. The five men, he had told you, were called the Jackals. They were experienced Hunters, men who had lived and worked in the Blood Swamps under Fury’s command since boyhood. Barnes, their leader. Rogers and Wilson, his muscle. Barton and Maximoff, scouts—quick on their feet and skilled survivalists. 

The air inside the stables was thick, a blend of damp hay, sweat, and leather that curled in your lungs. It was cooler here but no less stifling under the weight of five sets of eyes peering at you from behind steel masks. They loomed among the horses, their bodies draped in dark, weathered leathers reinforced with plated armour.

"This some kind of sick joke, Parker?"

The voice was low, rough with displeasure. Its owner stood with his arms folded over his chest, his broad frame blocking out a good portion of the lantern light. He was built for the brutality of the hunt—his leathers, worn to a dull brown, softened by years of sweat, blood, and swamp rot. Scratched and dented plates strapped over his shoulders and forearms caught the dim light, their dull steel gleaming where grime hadn’t yet taken root. His gloves were thick, the knuckles reinforced with metal studs. His helmet, forged entirely of steel, bore the mark of a red star, indented deep into the metal and painted red. The colour had chipped away with time, leaving behind a rusted, faded outline. Through the narrow eye slits, a sliver of his gaze met yours—cold, assessing, the pale glint of a predator sizing up something foreign, something unwelcome.

"This isn’t what I meant, and Fury knows it."

The others remained silent. One of them leaned against a stable post, fingers idly tapping against the grip of his weapon—his helmet bore the symbol of a shield engraved into the surface. Another stood with one foot braced against the lower beam of a stall, absently brushing orange mud from his gloves, an empty quiver slung over one shoulder. A leaner figure, positioned slightly apart, shifted restlessly. Even behind the mask, you could sense it—the way he practically vibrated, a coil wound too tight.

You expected distrust. The Western folk had long since abandoned any love for the Veil, that had become quickly apparent. But this was different. This wasn’t a simple superstition but a raw wound that had not yet healed, and perhaps it never would.

Peter shifted beside you, clearly desperate to be anywhere but here. “She’s the healer,” he repeated, though the moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to regret them. “Fury said—”

"Well, you can march her right on back to Fury, can’t you?" Barnes’ voice was final and disdainful. "Tell him to get a proper healer while you’re at it."

You turned slightly, your head tilting as you regarded Peter through your veil. His jaw clenched, lips thinning as he glared at the Jackals. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he muttered, “You know what? Fuck this.”

He twisted on his heel, boots squelching in the mud as he stormed away. “If you wanna complain, go take it up with Fury yourself. See how far that gets you. But until you do, she’s here, and you’re stuck with her. And if you don’t listen, you’re not getting paid.”

Silence settled thick as he disappeared down the path.

"That Parker kid is getting bold," one of the Jackals muttered—the shorter man with the quiver.

"A little too bold," another agreed.

And then, their attention fell upon you.

You eased your shoulders back in quiet confidence, straightening under their scrutiny. Your prior reluctance had been gut instinct for a reason. There was no sense in pushing a foolish proposal if both parties disagreed. And yet, here you stood, bound to this arrangement whether they—or you—liked it or not. Unsure of addressing the obvious, you opted for silence not to aggravate them further. 

It seemed you would have to return to your room in the boarding house. Wait until supplies arrived and offer your services from the safety of the town’s perimeter. Hope that some hopeless bastard was desperate enough to seek your services. 

"She’s fuckin’ creepy, ain’t she? A Faceless Sister…" The voice carried a thick, lazy drawl. One of the muscle-bound men—Wilson, perhaps—sauntered closer, his boots scuffing against the packed dirt. His helmet stood out the most. Two crude wings had been welded onto either side, the dented feathers arcing back in place of ears. His gloved hand lifted, fingers curling as if he meant to lift the hem of your veil.

"You know," he mused, his tone dipped in amusement, "I heard they don’t talk ‘cause they got their mouths sewn shut. Stops the bloodworms from climbin’ in—"

You struck before he could finish.

A sharp slap to the back of his hand sent it recoiling as if burned. The movement was swift and precise. He jerked back with a yelp, cradling his wrist like a scolded child, and the Jackals erupted into laughter, a dry, humourless bark. “I don’t talk,” you said coolly, your voice measured, unwavering, “because I don’t have anything to say.”

"I don’t believe that." Barnes’ voice cut through the noise. His helmet shifted slightly as he regarded you, perceptive eyes unreadable through the slits. His arms remained folded, thick with muscle beneath his leathers. “How’d you end up here, talkin’ to us if you don’t have anythin’ to say?”

A challenge.

One tempting enough to sway your desire to return to the boarding house in milliseconds.

“Fury asked me, not the other way around.” You replied sharply, and the small, winged Jackal whistled lowly in response to your tone. 

“You gotta bit of an attitude, don’t you?” Barnes pressed closer until you could practically smell the scent of horse on his leathers, his sheer size casting a long shadow over you. “That why you got sent all the way out here? Sounds like an execution to me, it’s a death sentence out in the swamp.”

Even as your pulse ticked up, the sound of your blood pumping in your ears, you held your ground. You tilted your chin up with an air of indifference, arms crossing over your own chest to mirror him. You’d met many men like Barnes before—hard men, cruel men. Men who thought presence alone could bend others to their will.

But no matter how strong or ruthless, they all died screaming in the end. You had seen it first-hand one too many times. 

Barnes gave a sharp exhale, something between a scoff and a snarl. “You think you’re different, huh? Think you’ll last out here?”

“I didn’t come here to impress you.” You replied, pressing closer until your chests almost touched, and for the first time in six years, you wished—God, you wished—that they could see beneath your veil to glimpse the defiant smirk that curled upon your lips. “I have a job to do, and you’re standing in my way.”

A rumble of amusement passed between the Jackals. The leaner, energetic one, with a white lighting strike painted across his mask, let out a low chuckle. “Cold, this one.”

“Cold don’t mean shit out here,” another muttered, the edges of the shield engraved onto the side of his helmet catching in the lantern light.

Barnes considered your words while his pack bickered and finally spoke up, voice low. “You afraid of dying, Sister?” He asked.

"No." Your answer was simple and unwavering. "Do you not know the word of my creed?"

Silence met you, so you spoke once more. 

“I who have known death.” Your hand raised to your left shoulder as you cut a motion diagonally downwards, the repeated on your right as you drew out an X across your chest. “I who have known the end.”

The masked Jackals looked between each other, a silent consideration between the group. The archer, his helmet adorned with a painted arrow curving like a mohawk, gave you a slow nod—an acknowledgement, perhaps, or a sign of reluctant respect.

“I imagine you’re the type to have seen the end, hm? You have that look in your eye, the look of a man who understands that death is a forgiving mistress.” Your head slanted as you stared into Barnes’ eyes through the black lace, and you could’ve sworn he held his breath. “No, I am not afraid of death. I embrace it. I would much rather be dead than become a blightborn monstrosity.” 

Barnes let out a slow, guttural exhale, almost a growl, his head tilting slightly as if in consideration. Your words had struck true, just enough to cause the Hunter to pause and think.

"Can you ride?"

It wasn’t just a question. No, it was an offer—an invitation. Something in your response had turned his opinion and earned his unspoken approval. 

"Yes."

"Can you fight?"

You inclined your head, letting the question hang before answering. “Yes.”

His silence stretched, his stare pressing down on you even through his mask. “If you fall behind, we won’t wait for you.”

“I understand.”

His shoulders eased slightly as if considering something unstated, and he hesitated a fraction of a second too long before shifting his weight and turning away towards his horse. The others took this as a cue, dispersing to their horses and readying to mount up. 

“Got everything you need in that tiny bag of yours, Sister?” One called back to you, the one with lighting painted across his helmet, a mocking glint to his tone. 

You didn’t respond. But inwardly, you smiled.

They wouldn’t understand.

[ghost-bxrd]

Sharing more snippets of this because nobody’s gonna care for this fic anyway but I need to get it out of my system so badly I’ll be useless for anything else if I don’t lol

[scuffe3d]

Feeding the adam-gooner community one sketch at a time…(LMFAO BYE TIKTOK☠️☠️)

[baambastic]

Selina’s first hint that the kid was awake was the sound of one of her apartment windows sliding open.

She was in the other room, brushing a particularly stubborn tangle out of Roz’s otherwise silky black fur as a few of her other cats milled about by her feet. She dropped the brush immediately at the noise and, despite Roz’s mewling protests, hurried into the living room.

The kid was halfway out the window already when she arrived, Otto and Hecate watching from nearby. He whipped around at her approach and froze, meeting Selina’s gaze like a deer in headlights. The blankets and pillows he’d been resting amongst on the couch were in total disarray. She’d let down her guard after the kid had slept through most of the day after she brought him home.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she advised, forcing herself to appear calm. She didn’t want him to bolt without thinking. Gotham was still plenty dangerous in the early evening.

The boy opened his mouth, seemingly to respond. His lips moved, but no sound came out. A look of confusion passed over his face before his eyes widened in clear panic. Right, hadn’t Leslie mentioned the kid’s voice might’ve been affected? Had to do with that particularly nasty knot of burns over his throat.

“If you want to ask questions, I’ll get you a pen and paper,” Selina offered. “And if you want answers, you should close that window for now.”

The kid continued to eye her warily for several moments before slowly pulling his leg back inside, wincing at the movement. He made no move to shut the window.

“Good enough,” Selina sighed. “Just a sec.”

She walked over to the kitchen area of the open-floor room, keeping the kid in sight the whole time. He was very conspicuously doing the same, though his gaze occasionally wandered to Roz and Isis, who had followed Selina into the den. Not that she could fault the kid for his wariness; she’d have already made it two blocks away by now, were she in his shoes. Waking up in a stranger’s apartment was a top-ten nightmare scenario for street kids.

As she moved, she realized with some annoyance that she’d forgotten to hide away the bronze tiger after admiring it last night. It was still sitting conspicuously on the kitchen counter, in plain view of the whole damn apartment. Hopefully the kid wouldn’t recognize it from the museum.

[staticfangs]

god i read the unproduced origins: magneto script and i’m so unwell about it i gotta talk about it for a sec because im lowkey fixating over this movie that WASNT EVEN MADE.

i won’t spoil much for those who want to read it themselves (i’ll link it below) but it was written pre-first class so the cherik lore is different but i fuck with it lowkey. erik is like this muscular construction worker trying to make a living for himself and he decides to travel for his nazi manhunt and meets therapist (psychologist?idk really) charles who runs an institution in israel hoping he can help him through his painful memories of the holocaust.

plus there’s literally a part where charles and erik are in this bar and take down some thugs together and run away from the cops holding hands and laughing. like this might as well be called the cherik origins let’s be real.

tbh this script gave me some inspo for a fic because it’s given me so much insight on erik as a character and i feel the need to write this beautiful trope. we were SO ROBBED

[realcoffinpuppy]

One Fated Advocate: Loki x Reader Snippet.

“Dearest,” he calls to you softly, trying to ease you, “just listen to the stars and let them guide me to you. I don’t want you to fade.” 

Every word that slips past Loki’s lips sends you spiraling more and more into confusion. Why had he been calling you starlight? What was this threat if it wasn’t him? You still had your immense doubts, feeling almost petrified by all these unanswered questions. So when you had turned in hopes for those gentle and brightened shores to greet you a way out, a twisted nightmare ensued that led you all the way to Manhattan, New York. 

The clear skies you’d wish to see were clouded and filled with debris. The smell of fire, rubble and blood fill your nose as you run further and further into the hellscape that was your past. 

Chitauri whirr and zip overhead in a fast pace; the force of their tailwinds sending you forward on the ground with a hard and long scrape against the concrete. You can see the trail of blood from your palms paint the ground beneath you; the pain from your head throbs immensely by impact. 

You can hear Iron Man’s pulsators zip by, cascading bright lines above to further stop the evil that floods your hometown. Though your attention doesn’t stick on the hero for too long when another stampede of frightened people burst from behind you in trepidation of what is pushing them along. In a hurry, you scramble to your feet and bound the same way. 

In all honesty, you’re not sure what it is exactly that you’re running from if not the Chitauri above. The feeling of dread drowns you into a mindless heap of terror as you take cover underneath a car next to a closed alleyway. You don’t know where else to go and it’s the only thing that was close enough to shield you from any eyes or danger. 

The car you are hiding underneath is picked up and launched into a nearby building, causing more debris and chaos to fall upon you. Your screams are halted by the dust that infiltrated your lungs and you cough trying to get up once more. 

“You insignificant cattle will always kneel.” 

Loki, The God of Mischief, stands before you with a gaze that you completely recognize and it sends you to freeze. It only furthers his amusement as he glares down at you. That is until those tendrils that you see are vine-like encase you in a shield, protecting you of whatever plans that Loki had. It’s sudden, fast and instant.

“I didn’t realize it was this bad…” Loki’s voice echoes in your head and you’re already quick to try and escape the confines he’s got you in. 

“Let me out,” you gasp and heave, trying to claw through the glowing ropes, “out! Out!” You beg.

You’re soon transported back into a place that looks where you always wanted to be. There’s the distant shores, trees, calm and quiet. Loki reappears with a small whoosh of magic and in fear you fall backwards landing on the sand. The glowing vines fade off as you pathetically attempt to catch your breath. 

Loki looks contemplative and anguished as he looks at you. For a long moment, he says nothing and waves a slightly glowing palm in front of himself, showing himself on a lonesome throne. 

“I am sorry, for everything, my dear starlight—”

“Stop–,’’ a gasp, “calling me that.” you shakily get up to your feet and clench your fists. 

“I will keep you safe.” Loki promised, “I will. You don’t understand and that’s okay but you just have to listen. It’s only a matter of time before—”

A thud of the ground makes you nearly fall again and Loki’s eyes dart around, seeing the cracks in the sky and below. In a desperate attempt to keep you safe once more, a ball of powerful light shoves you back with immense speed and sends you flying backwards. With the forces pushing you further and further away from what was your imagined oasis, Loki’s voice follows. 

Just listen and only trust me. 

Your back smashes against your mattress and you gasp before jolting up in a cold sweat. Silence aside from the bustling city outdoors reaches your ears, almost as loud as your thudding heart. 

Bucky is not going to believe this one. 

[martelldoran]

"I can wait."

"Why should you?" 

Bucky dropped the basket and plucked the biggest apple from its depths. He whipped a small switchblade from his pocket and with a practised flourish, he began peeling the apple. Every movement was precise. Steve didn't dare speak. They were caught in a moment between time. The breeze had quieted in the trees and the farmhands were silent - or else Steve was so enraptured that every sound that wasn't the gentle scrape of a knife through apple flesh had faded. 

Steve stood too close to Bucky. He knew propriety demanded that he step away but he couldn't bring himself to. He was close enough that the low autumn sun haloed each of Bucky's fine eyelashes until they were gilded. It caught in his hair too, and Steve felt like if he was to run his fingers through his curls, they would come away soaked in gold as if Bucky was Midas. 

To move, to blink was to miss how he held the fruit, manipulated it until it had shed its skin and bared itself for him. Steve was transfixed. Bucky's touch was gentle but sure. Steve had felt his friend's touch. It was nothing new to him. Bucky gave it to him freely. It wasn't uncommon for him to find reasons to reach out: to straighten his tie, to ruffle his hair, to sock him in the arm. Caught as he was between seconds, he felt every phantom touch all at once. Bucky's hand heavy on his shoulder, thumb slotting into the hollow beneath his collarbone. Bucky's arm slung across his shoulders, fingers tickling the skin where his shirt sleeves ended. It set Steve ablaze and the hunger that had been gnawing at his bones coalesced into a desire so ferocious it caught the breath in his throat. 

[latverianpaparazzi]

marvel PLEASE give us an entire animated daredevil series like this (source)

[616swanda]

Me when i see yuri:

[madamebaggio]

“Are you still in pain?”

“Will you nurse me back to health if I say yes?”

“I was actually planning on sleeping with you if you said no.”

“Jesus Christ, Jess.”

“Oh, fine. I’ll kiss your booboo if you’re in pain.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

“It wasn’t what I was planning on kissing today.”

“Jess, don’t make me laugh. My ribs are killing me.”

[gossippool]

ok hear me out on this fic idea i'm working on. so my own special little version of wade in my head is a massive empath in the sense that he not just knows about other alternate timelines and things behind the fourth wall but he actively feels the emotional and existential effects of them. i kinda mentioned this in one of my fics and already but imagine wade knowing what every other version of himself has been through, the good AND the bad. but he feels it all the same way because he doesn't have the good things in this universe but conversely he's also kinda been through all the bad things too. (in my head the things about him he knows unprompted but he has to voluntarily tap into everything else if he wants to.)

SO THEN imagine that because of this he also has the power to know what every single wolverine has been through. him not just empathising with logan but actually knowing and feeling all the shit he did and how he feels about it. like a person-A-can-feel-others'-emotions AU but dialed up to 11 because he also has to deal with his OWN shit from other universes

[phaticserpent]

You know what?

A lot of Ultron fans say that he has a great soothing voice. Do you think he could sing?

:O OOOO hmmmmm omg

Music was something you and Ultron shared in interest, whether the genre was classical, pop, rock, punk, metal, indie, lofi....the two of you would often relax to it.

Ultron has watched you sing and hum to it, especially when you're lost in your work or the moment. The way your face was flushed but you were the happiest he'd ever seen. He wouldn't admit to it, but he longed to join you whenever you were jamming it away.

Plus, he knew he wouldn't be able to hit those high notes.

Still, he started the habit of humming. You would hear a deep noise that often soothed you and you would follow it, like a siren song. Seeing Ultron humming was something you never thought would be possible, you assumed he would pause immediately when he knew you were on the move.

With an idea in mind, you started listening and putting on more songs that catered to his voice type.

Then soon enough, when he thought you weren't listening, he would softly sing to himself. You could hear it, low at first but you pressed yourself against the door to hear his voice clearer. You didn't want to embarrass him, but you would have to pitch a karaoke night idea to him. Maybe the two of you could do a duet.....

Taglist (send an ask in my inbox to be added!): @moonr3ap3r @thequeerwasteland

[artficlly]

daughter of the rotsál snippet

hi all, ive been hit with my usual seasonal depression yippe... my goal for this month was to write 50k words. i am currently at 37k on the first draft of the daughter of rotsál. this fic is turning out to be a lot longer than i first anticipated it would be so it's been a bit overwhelming to work on. per usual my imposter syndrome is telling me i'm a bad writer (as is the curse of a creative). thought i'd share a snippet with you all, so here is a full scene where isolde the oc meets bucky for the first time.

in the mean time while i suffer writing this first draft, would you guys be interested in seeing some more snippets or lore bits? i did contemplate writing a one-shot just so i would have something more to post than these ramblings haha. let me know!

Head held high, Isolde strode through the emerging path, ignoring the whispers and stares. 

“Ah, here she is.” Father Dreykov spoke, his hand finding the small of Isolde’s back as he guided her before the Naraki leadership. “Isolde. The bride.”

The Naraki leadership loomed before her, a half-circle of men clad in armour and furs, each radiating authority. The man in the seat was undeniably the Ealdorman Steve of House Rogers. He sat tall, his posture regal yet relaxed, his broad shoulders draped in a wolf fur cloak, his armour battle-worn, streaked with faint scratches and dents. His face was as commanding as the rest of him—a square jaw, strong cheekbones, and a mouth set in a line of quiet contemplation. His golden hair was tied back, though a few strands had escaped to frame his face. His blue eyes settled on Isolde with an unsettling intensity. His wife, Lady Peggy, stood tall and poised, a hand resting lightly on Steve’s shoulder. 

Isolde was sure that if Lord Steve wasn’t already married, she would have been offered as a bride to him instead. Isolde swallowed hard as Peggy’s gaze lingered, her expression unreadable. There was no malice in her eyes, but neither was there comfort. Isolde got the impression that this was not a woman who tolerated weakness—not in herself, not in her husband, and certainly not in anyone who might step into their world.

“She is Idamirian.” Lord Steve spoke, a hint of surprise in his words. 

“Well, yes. She was once before she became a daughter of the Rotsál.” Father Dreykov replied, and Isolde recognised a slight hesitancy in his words, as if he was carefully selecting each that passed his lips. “Do you take issue with this?”

Isolde’s chest tightened.

“No. The opposite.” Lord Steve raised his hand to absentmindedly stroke the stubble across his jaw. “I wasn’t aware that any from Idamir survived.”

They didn’t. Hatred coiled in Isolde’s gut like a mighty serpent, and it took everything in her not to sneer at the Ealdorman. His words were so casual, so dismissive—the anger that roared in her veins was as hot as any molten rock that rained from the sky. Of course the Naraki hadn’t thought of the repercussions; of course, they had thought Idamir extinct except those already married into their bloodlines. 

“I expect most didn’t.” Father Dreykov chuckled in relief. “Isolde was one of the few we managed to save during The Black Dawn.”

“An Idamirian daughter of the Rotsál…” Lord Steve pondered aloud. His pronunciation of Rotsál rolled across his tongue with a rumble, his southern accent thick. “A good choice, priest. I will give you that. There is worth in such a bride. She speaks our language, I presume?”

Yes. Yes, she did. Isolde remembered quite vividly the number of times she had been scolded and beaten for her southern accent slipping through in etiquette classes. The Rotsál aimed to neutralise, ensuring a girl could fit in any and all situations. She had not spoken the language in nearly a decade, so she imagined she would be rusty and stiff in ability, but she had spent the first thirteen years of her life communicating in nearly strictly the southern tongue. 

“No, not that I am aware. The Southclaw is not exactly something we cultivate when raising these girls.”

Isolde held her tongue, but annoyance swept through her. Her knowledge of the language would have to be a surprise for her husband once they were wed. Her husband… she wondered which of the armed thegns positioned around and behind Steve would be him. They all had an equal bulkiness to their stature, pure muscle and strength, lined with scars. She did not dare squint too closely at them nor meet their eye. 

“A shame. She will have to learn.” Steve replied with a sigh, settling further into his seat. “What exactly do you cultivate in a bride, priest? I have only ever known your Rotsálian daughters to be assassins, or they meddle in politics that aren’t their own, dressed up in riches to disguise the fact that below it all, they are just simple whores.”

The casual way in which Steve spoke to Father Dreykov astonished Isolde; it was as if disrespect dripped from his every word. It was a carefully constructed vision of mutual respect between the two; that was for sure. All for the sake of alliances. Yet Steve seemed eager to push the boundaries, prodding at Father Dreykov in the hopes that he may pop. 

Isolde’s eyes shot over to look at Father Dreykov, equal parts shock and equal parts horror seeping through her neutral facade. Father Dreykov, to his credit, had not gone red in the face; rather he puffed out his chest and let out a strained chuckle. “That is why daughters of the Rotsál are so special, you see… they are trained to be anything you need them to be. I would not… doubt their prowess.”

Lord Steve’s curiosity peaked, and he leant forward in his seat. “So this one is a bride, but if required, she can be an assassin? A whore?” 

“If that is what you want from her, then yes.”

Steve leant back in his seat once more with a chuckle, looking over his shoulder at a warrior who stood half-drenched in the shadows. “You hear that, Bucky? An assassin in your mix. Is this to your liking?”

Steve’s words hung in the air, a strange blend of jest and command, and as the name was spoken, the figure in the shadows began to move. Slowly, deliberately, the man called Bucky stepped forward, peeling himself from the darkness like a predator emerging from its den. The flickering firelight from the torches cast sharp, angular shadows across his face, revealing a visage that seemed carved from ice.

The infamous Bucky of House Barnes, the White Wolf, the Vetur Soldat, Thegn and Warlord was every inch the Naraki warrior. His shoulders were broad, his frame tall and imposing, clad in dark leather armour. The left pauldron bore faint, jagged etchings in the Naraki style, designs that marked him as a warrior of high standing, though not overly ornate. Across his shoulders a mantle of white wolf fur, its edges worn and weathered by years of riding beneath ash-laden skies

His face was a harsh masterpiece, handsome in a way that unsettled more than it comforted. A strong jawline was covered with stubble, two days old, Isolde estimated. His cheekbones were sharp, his nose slightly crooked—broken at least once in his past. The most striking feature, however, were his eyes: cold, piercing, and unrelenting. Steel blue, they cut through the dim light. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much and felt too little, who measured the world and its people with a calculated detachment.

His hair, dark and shoulder-length, was pulled back loosely, a few messy strands falling forward to frame his face. A scar ran from the corner of his jaw up to his cheekbone. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword, the leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from use. 

“She looks too weak… too small to do any real damage, don’t you think?” The man replied, his tone callous and cold, though edged with a cruel amusement. A rumble of laughter passed over the tent. His expression barely shifted as he scanned her from head to toe, his lips pressing into a thin line that spoke of disappointment—or disdain. Whatever he was looking for, he did not see it in her. Isolde recognised the undeniable sting of disappointment in his expression. His words, though directed at Steve, were aimed at Isolde, each one sinking into her like a barbed arrow.

“You want a different bride?” Steve queried. Isolde held her breath. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, even if it felt like her cheeks burned in shame under the scrutiny of so many eyes. She would never hear the end of it when she returned to Rotsál Manor, denied and dismissed. Spoiled goods. The other Sisters would mock her relentlessly, not even good enough for a Naraki Savage. Would she ever be offered another mission? Or would she be cast away, ruined? How could she look Natasha in the face… how could she face Sister June—

“No. She will do.”

Despite the hatred and the disgust, Isolde found herself exhaling sharply in relief. She would do.

She would do.

Father Dreykov gave her a pleased look, the other Father’s bristling in approval.  

Isolde noticed how Lady Peggy subtly twitched, her nails digging into the shoulder of her husband. The blond man tipped his chin up, meeting the eye of his wife. Then, with a gentle elegance, the brunette woman leant over to whisper into her husband's ear.

“My wife wishes to ask a question.” Steve spoke up, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. Bucky, who had begun his retreat back into the shadows, hesitated.

“Of course.” Father Dreykov offered with a slight bow of his head. Isolde wondered if the Father’s skin crawled every time he was forced to show respect to these Horselords. She wondered if rage boiled beneath the surface, knowing he had to treat these inferior men as equals. 

“Does your bride have no tongue?” Lady Peggy’s tone cut through the tent like a knife. The crowd shifted in agreement. “Does she not speak? I would like to hear her speak on this matter of marriage before any finalisation.”

Isolde’s eyes shifted to Father Dreykov. The Father, knowing how many eyes lay upon them, subtly nodded his head in permission. 

“I speak, my lady.” Isolde silently thanked Lord Velka that her voice held steady. 

Lady Peggy’s brow quirked in surprise, a delighted smirk pulling at her lips. Even Lord Bucky, in all his indifference, grew still at the sound of her voice. 

“Idamirian… your mother was a healer, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“And your father a blacksmith?”

“No. He was a hunter.”

Lady Peggy’s head quirked in surprise. 

“And you can ride a horse?” 

“Yes.”

“What about running a household, a village? The duties expected of a thegn's wife?”

“Yes.”

Peggy paused, a small hmph passing her lips. Her fingers trailed a pattern across her husband's shoulder, swirling in thought as she continued to assess Isolde with clever eyes. “And how old were you? The day of the Black Dawn?”

The memories flooded back to her. The earth rocked, the walls shaking so hard that dust fell from the roof. Dishes clattered, clay bowls and plates slipping off shelves and shattering by the hearth. The explosion, the boom of it so loud that she thought her head would be split in two…her mother, her face was blurry now, ushering her from the house as the walls caved in. You must go. You must run. Ash rained from the sky, coating every surface. In the distance, a plume of smoke so large, an indescribable mass—

Isolde swallowed back the bitter taste, relaxing her jaw to ensure the words she spoke did not sound through grit teeth. “Three and ten.”

“Which makes you…”

“Three and twenty.”

The question confused Isolde. What was the Lady looking for, evidence that she was unfit? That she was a child, unfitting of such a position? 

“And do you consent to this marriage?”

A quizzical expression slipped onto her face before she could catch it, her body twisting to glance at Father Dreykov as if asking what he made of the question. She found herself stumped momentarily, consent? Why would she need to consent when it was Lord Velka’s will?

“I do.” Isolde finally replied, spine straightening.

“No, do you truly consent to this marriage? You have not been forced or persuaded into this?”

Maybe her confusion betrayed her, or perhaps her tone was not final enough. Her gaze shifted to Father Dreykov once more, brows knitting together before she spoke up once more, more forcefully this time. “I do—”

“Don’t look at the priest. Look at me.” Lady Peggy cut her off immediately, and Isolde snapped her eyes back to meet hers. There was a fierceness to her tone but an underlying worry Isolde could interpret. “Do you consent? You can say no. Tell me, truthfully.” 

The tent had fallen into a hush. Lord Bucky watched her carefully with narrowed eyes. She only now realised that the lid and waterline were marked with a smudged kohl, adding to the intimidation of his stare. Isolde was consenting, wasn’t she? She had trained her entire life for a mission as important as this—why would her opinion, her decision, ever come into question? She had no reason to question her autonomy; The Order of Rotsál knew what was best for her. This was her mission, her path.

“I consent to this marriage, my lady.” Isolde cut back, words final.

Peggy inhaled sharply, then with a tight nod, she turned to look at her husband. It seemed Isolde’s words had convinced her, or at least for the moment. 

Steve looked up at his wife with a smile, eyes wide with unmistakable love. “Wonderful. Tonight, we will celebrate. Come nightfall tomorrow, they will be wed, and our two clans will be bound by blood.”