Behind the Masks and Monitors.
Summary: Steve/Tony. Meta!AU. BNF cap_usa comes back from a 7 year hiatus, fandom rejoices, and users begin to wonder why the LJ servers are always crashing. (Hint: it isn’t the Russians this time.)
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DO NOT ATTEMPT TO READ THIS IN YOUR JOURNAL'S LAYOUT OR MY DEFAULT JOURNAL LAYOUT. PLEASE READ WITH THE HANDLE ?format=light ON THE URL. Otherwise the formatting is just horrific.
widowmaker reblogged tinman
A rundown of all the weapons used in the miniseries in comparison with the animated series and the
original comic. I included (where possible) year of make, year production ceased, special capabilities
and miscellaneous information.
Before you ask, no, I don’t have a secret underground lair of guns. I just have a healthy appreciation
for certain forms of weaponry. Man, no matter how I say it I sound insane. Whatever. Enjoy.
In case Tumblr is screwing up again, here’s the link.
Source: tinman #thank you #my god people NEED this as a reference #can you do one on knives next?
little guy from brooklyn (cap_usa) wrote,
RL update + question
Life is almost settled, though still chaotic in parts, mainly got to figure out my new job—but I hope to start drawing again soon. Hopefully my old tablet still works. If not, well, nothing wrong with pen and paper. :)
I keep getting Tumblr links. Worth signing up, Y/N? Thoughts, f-list, would be greatly appreciated.
(52 comments) – (Post a new comment)
is assigned to:
Artist: cap_usa (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Please contact each other as soon as possible to exchange information. We hope you collaborate smoothly and have
an enjoyable experience in this Big Bang. You have one week to ask for another partner should problems arise.
Here again are the rules. Optional prompt list here. Schedule is here.
Feel free to contact us at email@example.com or PM a mod at shield_hq if you have any concerns or inquiries.
—SHIELD HQ Mod, _boss
Potts is online.
Stark has signed in.
Potts: What is it, Tony?
Stark: I got my Big Bang notification
Stark: I know who I’m working with
Potts: ... What did I tell you about using the private StarkTech messenger for fandom purposes?
Stark: this is important
Stark: SO IMPORTANT
Stark: ANYWAY, you’ll never guess who
Potts: Please tell me it wasn’t silvertongue.
Stark: it was fun once, but I think fandom would kill us both if we tried that stunt twice
Potts: He brings out the worst in you, I hope you realise.
Potts: Also, _boss would probably have you hung, drawn and quartered.
Stark: Why does our fandom get the scary mods D:
Stark: anyway, I’m working with... cap_usa!
Potts: Don’t you have the biggest man crush on him?
Stark: I’d prefer to think of it as a healthy admiration
Potts: Hardly any of your fixations are what I would call healthy...
Stark: I’m hurt, Pep
Potts: Get back to work, Tony, we can chat later.
Potts: And off company time, too.
Potts is offline.
Stark is offline.
cap_usa has been participating in S.H.I.E.L.D’s LJ fandom before the shield_hq community was even up and running. Steve didn’t look for fame, but he hit BNF status fast. For a while he tried making a sock account under nomad, but his style was a little too distinctive and when he was found out, well, that caused a wankstorm of immense proportions. It shouldn’t matter what name he wears, as long as he kept contributing art, but people thought it did, so he hasn’t changed from cap_usa even though sometimes he feels tired of it. The reputation has grown into something of a ridiculous legend, and he isn’t sure whether he can keep up with it. He has over 1500 LJ friends, and nearly a hundred users watching his DA account. His Tumblr account, barely active for a few weeks, has already gained more than 800 followers, and the number keeps rising. Despite being AWOL for several years, fandom embraced him again like he had never left.
However, he did leave, and a person does not stay the same, does not remain static in a time-locked capsule. Steve Rogers is now twenty-seven, has served four years in the U.S. Army (and three years in the Howling Commandos, and he was told upfront that son, your life is worth less than the work you did and the information you know, and if we ever hear about a secret being leaked, well, you know what we’ll do to traitors, we ain’t stuck by any damned humanitarian laws on that front, we are a whole different division, remember—), and now walks around in civilian clothing feeling like every step is too light, feeling like he has forgotten something important, that there should be a weight on his shoulders, a Kevlar shield over his chest and a bulky helmet on his head. He can’t regret those years, can’t regret them even for the nightmares they cause, can’t regret them because he knows he’s made a difference, somehow, somewhere, and that’s what he tells himself when he wakes up in a cold sweat, because to believe otherwise is to begin a slippery path to madness.
Then again, if he didn’t go mad after basic training, after Special Ops training, after they put him in a lab and injected him with all sorts of things he’d prefer not to know about, if he didn’t go mad when he grew up in all directions and his body felt too big to be his, when he was applauded as a scientific experiment gone right, if he didn’t go mad the first time he killed a man, the first time he killed a woman, a child, the first time he killed a civilian, a simple accident; if he didn’t go mad all those times, he’ll be damned if he lost himself now.
Steve does still believe there is good in everyone, but he is more inclined to see the bad in everyone, too. Years under the desert sun and sitting stock still in the nights where it plummeted to below freezing and seeing men kill in cold blood has stripped him of his naivety, though Bucky says he’s still stuck with a good heart, no matter what he thinks.
His psychiatrist tells him to draw, and Steve thinks the advice is redundant because he is drawing already. But he takes the words to heart and draws still-life and draws abstract and draws fanart and draws until he can’t see straight and hopes that, to someone out there, he really was a hero, like Nicholas Joseph or Phillip McCoul, but really, things aren’t that simple. Perhaps it is enough that Bucky still thinks he’s one, even though Peggy—
Looking down, Steve finds he has drawn her face, soft curves and gentle smile. He wishes he could see her—or at the very least, visit her—but they couldn’t find enough of her body for a proper burial. He closes the sketchbook and puts it gingerly away, and tries to sleep even with the moonlight shining right on his face. When he does sleep, it is completely dreamless, and for that, he is thankful.
“We’re here,” Natasha says. They stand in front of a simple brickwork store in a long line of stores on a busy street. The air smells of car fumes and crushed leaves, and splashes of graffiti are the only colour to be had against the grainy grey slates of concrete pavement. Steve isn’t sure what he imagined his workplace to resemble, but he likes how it looks like a place where he could make a decent living. His eyes are drawn to the faded yellow-gold lettering above the entrance of the building—Asgard, it reads, in a big, blocky typesetting.
“Interesting name,” Steve comments, and Natasha shrugs. They push past the glass doors of the gym, revealing a wide expansive area within. There is a collection of treadmills and other miscellaneous equipment, many of which being weights that seemed to focus on building upper body strength. There are also more people than Steve would have guessed using them at this time of day, so early in the morning. Another room juts off to the side, separated by a wall made of glass panels, where the occupants appear to be finishing up a session of yoga, rolling up mats and drinking from bottles.
Everything is very open, very safe, and as much as Steve’s eyes scan the room, he cannot find a darkened corner where something vicious may lurk; even the lockers are painted a soft cream colour and the fluorescent lighting shines unwaveringly. Some posters are up on the cork board, displaying community notices, a few advertisements, session times for various workouts—he can see the Avengers Initiative in purple print.
“There were three choices to name the gym in the end: Asgard, Valhalla, or Yggdrasil,” Natasha says, leading them to the empty boxing ring near the back of the gym. They climb through the barrier and Natasha leans against them, waiting.
“How would you even spell the last one?” Steve asks.
“Y-g-g-d-r-a-s-i-l,” Natasha rattles the letters off in the well-worn tones of one who has recited this many times before. “We were going to go with Valhalla initially, but we couldn’t have it because it had already been taken. So, Asgard it is.”
“Do those names mean something special?” The words sound foreign, even rolling off Natasha’s tongue, like she isn’t quite comfortable with the vowels lying heavy on her tongue. Steve has never excelled at foreign languages; he can only speak a little of Pakhto, but it doesn’t really count, because knowing phrases like we are not the enemy and do you speak English? and lay down your weapons, don’t quite equate to understanding.
“Special? Not to me, not really,” Natasha shakes her head and lets more of her weight settle on the ropes of the barrier. “But I co-founded this place with a good friend of mine, Thor Odinson, who has much to say on the power of a name. They come from the Norse myths, but I’ll let you talk to him about the details. He really enjoys storytelling, nearly as much as he does fighting, and I will not rob him of his fun.”
“Are you both Norwegian?”
Natasha raises a thin brow and Steve inexplicably looks at the bright red of her lips, like that of fresh blood. “Thor is; after all, he’s named after the God of Thunder. I was never dubbed anything quite so grand. My surname is Romanov. I am from Russia; I’ve only been in America a few years.”
That surprises Steve, and he says as much. He adds, “Your English is excellent, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Ha!” Natasha’s laugh is short but genuine, a small smile lending her expression a modicum of kindness. She says, “English is not so difficult. Try learning Russian and then we will talk, yes?”
Before Steve can say another word, another man enters the ring. He is immediately impressive upon standing, taller than Steve and certainly with more muscles on his frame. His shoulders are wide, and his arms are huge, and he swings them as he walks, as if he does not notice that they could potentially knock someone out. The image of a fighter wars with that of a surfer—shoulder length blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, startling blue eyes and a healthy gold tan, finished off by a wide, open smile. He is also wearing a tight t-shirt saying Free Hugs in bold text, and Steve honestly doesn’t know what to think.
“This,” Natasha says wryly, dark eyes crinkled in good humour, “is Thor Odinson. Thor, this is Steve Rogers, our new recruit.”
As they shake hands, Thor says loudly, “You should be very proud. What you are going to do is very admirable!”
Natasha explains, “Thor would love to have a greater level of involvement the Avengers Initiative, but his build is... unintentionally threatening to our milder patrons.”
“Life works in funny ways,” Thor says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. “But there lies no peace in the path of questioning why.”
“So what do you do?” Steve asks. He’s feeling himself relax, slowly but surely, the tension in his shoulders disappearing. There’s just something about the atmosphere here, the sounds of people chatting amicably in the background as they all work out, the sounds of creaking machines and the rhythmic beat of running feet.
“I teach yoga and tai chi,” Thor says proudly, beaming happily. “And boxing,” he adds, gesturing to the ring they stand in.
“I specialise in the martial arts,” Natasha says pre-emptively when Steve’s curious gaze lands on her. “Capoeira is my preferred style, though I cover many styles from East Asia.”
“Is there any Russian fighting you know?”
“Ah, yes,” Natasha grins, something wicked and sharp in her eyes. The look is dangerous, familiar, and Steve is reminded of winter, of the snow and of metal blades. “However, that is not something I am prone to teaching here.”
“Enough chat!” Thor booms, earning the stares of a few clients, most turning away quickly, seemingly used to it. “It is time for your trial!”
“Trial?” Steve asks, and his feet are already slipping into a firmer stance and his mind is kicking into high gear. He is not nervous – if anything, he feels calmer than before. He loves a challenge.
“Remember those extra tests I mentioned when we first met?” Natasha asks, stepping out of the ring and pulling her scarlet hair into a ponytail. “Well, fighting Thor is like a rite of passage these days.”
“Wait!” shouts a man, who is running towards Natasha. He stops sharply with his heels digging into the ground and grins up at Steve. “Can’t miss a chance to see Thor beat someone to a pulp.”
“Confident I’m going to lose?”
“Takes a strong man to match Thor,” the guy says, shrugging. He is wearing an outrageous purple tracksuit, and looks completely relaxed. “And it takes a smarter one to outmatch him. I should know. My first time in the ring with him earned me a pair of black eyes that lasted a fortnight. Hey, newbie. Tasha tells me you’re Steve. Clint Barton is on my birth certificate, but I’d prefer it if you call me Hawkeye.”
Steve crouches down to shake hands with Hawkeye, and notices from the corner of his eye how Thor is wrapping his knuckles with white tape.
“Are you part of the Avengers Initiative as well?”
“Natasha and Maria do a mighty fine job running it most of the time, so only when they’re short of people,” Hawkeye says. “Otherwise, I’m normally a general all-rounder of a physical trainer.”
“Time to see what you got,” Natasha says in an almost indifferent voice, and Steve makes a move to stand. Hawkeye grabs his forearm before he can get up completely, and whispers quickly, “Thor’s a little weaker on his left side, not by much, but every little bit helps, right?”
“Thanks,” Steve says, surprised, and Hawkeye shrugs it off and waves for him to join Thor.
The ring is starting to feel a little small, and Thor is looking suddenly very large, but Steve squares his shoulders and gets ready to fight. It isn’t the first time he’s fought someone larger than him—Bucky always called him a danger magnet because of that—and he knows how to use size to his advantage. A bell sounds and the note hasn’t even drifted off to silence before Thor is already swinging an arm towards his face.
Steve smiles and ducks his head, reflexes fast enough by a split second. And, to think, he was almost worried his first day at work would be boring.
Dummy is the very first pet Tony ever had. It should be obvious enough, given the cat’s name. Tony doesn’t think himself as much of a cat person, but he had been six years old when he found a sickly little kitten digging for scraps outside his house in the garbage bin. He had spent five tension-filled weeks nursing it back to health without attracting the notice of his parents or the several keepers that had been assigned to him. They didn’t call him a child prodigy for nothing, though, and Tony read several books on how best to look after a kitten. Soon enough, the kitten stopped looking as though it were trapped on the verge of death; its stomach filling so Tony could no longer count its tiny ribs from a distance, its fur turning glossy and bald patches were growing in.
He asked his mother whether he could keep it—showing the pile of linens shaped into a makeshift bed at the bottom of his closet as proof he could care for it, and has cared for it—and she said to ask his father. Tony asked, but his father didn’t really care, just waved him away and said in low undertones something that equated to having a pet might get him out of my hair. So Tony cared for Dummy, carefully bathed him and fed him on a regular basis, brushed out the loose grey fur and always made sure he had enough toys and that he was always loved.
Of course, after university, after his parents’ death, after Pepper Potts entered his life and demanded he get back into shape, Tony decided that an apartment, even one much smaller than a mansion, was still too empty with just a man and his cat, so he went out to a shelter and brought home Jarvis. Jarvis turned out to be nothing like Dummy, always energetic and more vocal, always meowing about one thing or another—Jarvis wasn’t a kitten, far from it, but he was still younger than Dummy. With old age, Dummy had gotten less graceful, more sluggish and slow and lazy.
Tony worries—though he won’t admit it aloud—and has been more lenient with Dummy lately, spoiling him a bit even with the diet in place. The cat has kept Tony company through the many phases of his life, sticking by him through thick and thin and pure chaos. Still, that doesn’t stop Tony being pissed that Dummy has miraculously found himself stuck in a tree, again.
“I swear to God, the next time I see you stuck in a tree, I’ll give you away to an animal shelter,” Tony complains, not really meaning it. He is standing on his balcony with his hands on his hips, wondering how the hell Dummy made it all the way over there. “Then you’ll be adopted into a family with children, get their sticky little fingers stuck in your fur, and no one will know to squeeze honey on your sardines because you love that.”
Dummy stares at him with golden eyes and meows once, balefully. Tony mentally notes that he is going to cut down this bloody tree, council property be damned. They shouldn’t let trees grow three storeys tall, honestly. As though to be as difficult as possible, Dummy has positioned himself on a branch that Tony can’t quite reach, and he really hopes he doesn’t have to ring the fire department for this, because that would be a waste of valuable town resources and quite an embarrassment, stupid animal—
When Dummy’s paw slips, but the cat does not fall, Tony’s mind freezes, heart stuttering, and he thinks fuck it, phone already halfway out of his pocket.
“Hey there, little guy,” Steve hums, a silver-grey cat with white socks carefully climbing into his arms. Not exactly what he was expecting when he came outside to draw the skyline, but he can’t complain, the cat rubbing against his chest and making a strange half-crooning sound. It has abnormally long whiskers, and they brush along the edge of his jawline.
“Of course!” a voice exclaims to his far right. “The other balconies. Should’ve thought about that.”
Steve turns to see Tony look at his with an openly relieved expression on his face. He says, “Would I be right in guessing that this is yours?”
“Yeah, I, just—wait a sec,” Tony says, and he rushes back into his apartment. Steve waits, idly patting the cat in his arms, then scratching its ears when it began to purr.
There is a knock on his door, and Steve calls out, “Door’s open!”
Tony enters, barefoot and smiling sheepishly. “Thanks for grabbing Dummy,” he says, and Steve hands over the cat. The cockiness has all but fled from Tony’s face, a strange contrast to when he had last seen the man. Now his eyes are carefully looking the cat—Dummy—over for injuries, absently stroking its back and bouncing it gently in his arms.
“No worries,” Steve says, and Tony seems to blink himself back into his body.
“Are you hurt?” he asks out of the blue, and Steve raises his eyebrows, surprised. Then he remembers Thor’s punch to his cheek and how it was slightly swollen to the touch. It makes him smile, because that had been the punch that had given Steve the opening to pull something really impressive on Thor—his ribs were probably smarting as much as Steve’s face right now. Steve had lost in the end, but he didn’t make it an easy win.
“I’m fine,” Steve says. He’s had worse, and a bruise is nothing to write home about. “First day at work.”
“What the hell do you do?” Tony asks, incredulous.
“Started working at a gym near here.”
“I know one of the owners pretty well. Hilarious guy, Thor.”
Dummy meows and rubs his nose against the line of Tony’s jaw, and making him laugh, and the sight warms something inside Steve’s chest. Tony looks up at him, and Steve is struck by just how much that laugh has softened his face, blue eyes electric sky.
“Hey, do you want to get a drink?” Tony asks.
Steve blinks and says, “It’s a workday?” Which is a lousy excuse, because it takes a lot of alcohol to come anywhere close to making Steve tipsy; though, to be fair, he has no idea how Tony handles his liquor, so maybe the concern is reasonable after all.
“No,” Tony says before Steve can add anything else. “I mean there’s this nice little café around the corner, sells the best coffees and éclairs, I kid you not – look, I owe you something for saving Dummy. Or something to welcome you to the neighbourhood. Unless you’d prefer a fruit basket? I don’t really dig fruit, but if you’re into keeping fit—you look like someone who works out, just sayin’—I can arrange one, with a big wicker basket and red bow and everything, seriously.”
Steve vaguely wonders how self aware Tony is that he enters a stream-of-consciousness rabble. It’s amusing, odd, perhaps a little endearing, and Steve can’t help the grin working its way onto his face.
“Have you had dragonfruit before?” Tony asks, absently adjusting his grip on Dummy. “I’ll make sure to add that, but don’t try to eat the skin. Wait, are you allergic to anything? I once sent strawberries to a friend and—”
“You know what?” Steve cuts in when Tony pauses for a breath. “Yeah, grabbing a coffee sounds good. Fruit baskets are overrated.”
Tony stops and smiles and Steve thinks he can count the laugh lines crinkled at the corner of his eyes. As Steve grabs his coat, and Tony drops Dummy off at his apartment, he leaves a note for Bucky—Out getting coffee with Tony—and tries not to feel so guilty for it. He’ll have to get the story behind Bucky’s persistent loathing of Tony out one day, but until then he’ll draw his own conclusions through his own experiences. Even if nothing comes out of this, his attempt to socialise (outside of Bucky and people from work) will probably tide his psychiatrist over for a week.
Apparently talking to people online doesn’t count, and he supposes it wouldn’t do to only talk to strangers on the Internet for the rest of his life.
bullseye reblogged cap-usa
Sorry if I mess anything up. I’m not quite used to Tumblr yet. My dash is already a bit overwhelming.
Here are some rough sketches of my current WIPs:
I’m really liking McCoul’s character right now. Where he’s being taken in the latest comic arc
I think is brilliant.
Source: cap-usa #cap-usa has a tumblr #!!! #immediate follow #LIKE A BOSS
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death
Fandom: S.H.I.E.L.D (television miniseries)
Relationships: Nicholas Joseph/Phillip McCoul
Characters: Nicholas Joseph, Phillip McCoul, Harold Hogan, Gina Hogan, Alia Nova
Additional Tags: Angst, Immortality
Series: Part 1 of the Infintity Formula series »
Fountain of Youth
“He had fallen into the void, slipping through his hands like running water. He was meant to
be dead. But there are many things that are meant to be but just aren’t.”
(See the end of work for notes.)
genius, playboy, billionaire philanthropist (iamironman) wrote,
I CHALLENGE YOU
TO FIND A FIC YOU LIKE,
COPY PASTE A FEW SCENES INTO WORD
FIND/REPLACE “C” WITH “K”
REPLACE ALL OF THEM
NOW TRY AND READ THAT WITHOUT CRACKING UP
IF YOU MANAGE IT, WELL, THEN YOU’RE A STRONGER PERSON THAN I
(67 comments) – (Post a new comment)
Fuck me, there goes my afternoon.
Damn it, I had things to do...
Instant crack-fic, oh my god, this has considerably brightened up my Tuesday.
This should NOT be so hilarious. “Kirkling the pakks of kargo, MkKoul watkhed the skene with a kautious gaze.” Or, “The kommanders were instrukting the skientists...”
One of my favourites: “The kry was high in ekstasy (...) Joseph krooked his fingers, making MkKoul khoke bakk a strangled sound.” Smut just gets fucking hilarious.
(no subject) – pseudo_zeus (Expand)
(no subject) – iamironman (Expand)
(no subject) – (Anonymous) (Expand)
OT – lady_s (Expand)
(no subject) – bullseye (Expand)
(no subject) – rescue14 (Expand)
(no subject) – pseudo_zeus (Expand)
(no subject) – (Anonymous) (Expand)
RTYI – widowmaker (Expand)
Ironman, WTF were you doing to come across this revelation? So random.
Archive Warnings: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories: M/M, M/F
Fandom: S.H.I.E.L.D (television miniseries)
Relationships: Lucky/Blake Donaldson, Phillip McCoul/Alia Novna, Harold Hogan/Gina Hogan
Characters: Lucky, Blake Donaldson, Phillip McCoul, Alia Novna, Harold Hogan, Gina Hogan
Additional Tags: Pseudo Incest, Angst, D/s themes
Series: « Part 6 of the Cradlerobbing Chronicles series »
Stats: Words: 21811 Chapters: 1/1 Comments: 71 Kudos: 136 Bookmarks: 54 Hits: 5831
all those things we lost to the winter skies
They called him the fury before the storms, but he was really the nightmare sky. He stole
the last breath and threw it against the northerly winds. It flew, free, and chaos settled in
its path like fallen snow.
(See the end of work for notes.)
I’m looking forward to collaborating with you. Depending on how early you can finish a draft/outline, I can
probably work with a 1:6k art-to-story ratio. Until then, do you want to use me as a sounding board to bounce
ideas off, or would you prefer me to back off until you’ve got the bones together?
Help sounds good to me. Two heads are better than one (or, well, three heads are better than two, ‘cause if I forgot
about counting my beta she’d slaughter my semi-colons more than she already does).
I’ve been thinking of writing up a proper superhero!AU. Not quite 100% on details yet, but I think you could help
a lot with costume design, maybe help bounce around ideas for superpowers? Probably going to be Nicholas/Phillip,
so maybe they should have parallels to their abilities or something.
Also, I want to invert some tropes and make them the villains and maybe Lucky can have a go at being the hero for
once. However, that presents with a few problems, and I don’t want to drop too much of the comic canon for this.
Whatever, anything to find Lucky in skin tight spandex will probably make me happy.