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02decay · a month ago
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02void · a year ago
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princessofkazakhstan · 11 months ago
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jessiegail · a month ago
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Even in the cemetery Dean smiles thinking of his happy place..Blue Skies and Apple Pies.....................and Cas’ Blue Eyes. (I added that bit to the prompt) 
This was silly but fun to make. I’m having such a great time with these prompts. 
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gothish · 9 months ago
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simplyclockwork · 3 months ago
If you are still taking prompts I’d love a fic where Sherlock is in handcuffs for some (not sex related reason). Either he has been arrested, or Lestrade or John or Mycroft are trying to keep him out of trouble, or he put them on for an experiment and can’t get them off. Whatever you wish. The point being he is outraged to be in handcuffs, unable to get out of them. I’m over 18, though I’m not seeing this as a smutty piece. Thank you.
Sorry for the wait, anon! I've finally filled your prompt, which you can read below the page break, or on Ao3 here!
Thank you for the prompt and please feel free to send more in the future if you're okay with waiting a bit for it to be filled :)
The great Sherlock Holmes had landed himself in a rather interesting situation, all through his own fault and an unfortunate misjudgement. Typically, Sherlock knew, he could intellectualize his way out of most close calls and mishaps. But not today.
Today, Sherlock Holmes was stuck in a pair of handcuffs. Not only was he stuck in said handcuffs, but he’d had the not-so-brilliant idea of cuffing himself to the towel rack in the bathroom. There was a purpose to it, as there always was when he conducted an experiment. An old cold case, a dead man discovered handcuffed to a towel rack in a bathroom, keys nowhere in sight. No sign of foul play or anyone having been in the house when the man’s unfortunate handcuffing occurred. Sherlock, intrigued, had worked to recreate the case using himself as a subject. In preparation, he had reinforced the towel rack, lifted a pair of proper cuffs from Lestrade’s utility belt at their last case, and locked himself in place in a mimicry of the unfortunate soul.
He then promptly dropped the key on the floor and kicked it — quite accidentally — far out of range beneath the claw-foot tub. That had been four hours ago, and Sherlock had been standing awkwardly between toilet and sink with his wrists locked over his head at an uncomfortable angle. His arms grew numb within the first half-hour, feeling lost within a half-hour after that, and now ached terribly. His legs were cramping, the discomfort alleviated only by Sherlock twisting his body in an awkward bend to sit on the toilet seat. And while that position rested his legs, it placed a terrible strain upon his shoulders, forcing him to revert to standing within five minutes.
He was, to put it mildly, furious. Also, just a touch embarrassed, not that he would admit that to anyone but himself.
All in all, the experiment was proving to be a dismal failure. Although, Sherlock was beginning to understand how the man might have died, seeing as he had locked himself in the bathroom while living alone, his family miles away out of the city, with no one expected at the flat for several days. It was now painfully — in a very literal sense — easy to see just how and why the man had died. The man’s motive for handcuffing himself in the first place was harder to understand. Unless he’d been aiming for a slow, awful death, in which case he’d clearly succeeded, judging by the pain radiating through Sherlock’s body.
As luck would have it, Sherlock did have a flatmate. A man who would, eventually, have to use the loo and would hopefully come to Sherlock’s rescue. But John was working today and wasn’t due home for another three hours.
With a bone-deep sigh and a wince for his aching body, Sherlock rested his forehead against the wall and settled in for a wait.
It was going to be a long day.
It had been a long day.
Numerous staffing sick calls and several crotchety patients with rather awful, infectious symptoms had run John ragged throughout his shift at the clinic. His feet were dragging, his head pounding, when he finally dragged himself home and up the seventeen stairs to the flat where he lived with Sherlock. He wanted nothing more than to crack open a beer, order some takeaway, and plunk himself on the couch until he could take himself off to bed.
But first, John knew he would have to deal with whatever chaos Sherlock had enacted while John was at work. They had no case on, and Sherlock had been a whirlwind of boredom and frustration for the past several days. The night before, he had taken to a stack of cold cases dropped off by Lestrade as a blessing in disguise. John had gone to bed with Sherlock spreading case files all over the living room and muttering to himself, and he’d woken to more of the same. So it wasn’t entirely out of order for him to anticipate a similar tableau when he stepped through the entryway and into the sitting room.
The space did look much the same, festooned with a chaotic mess of papers and manila folders, grisly photographs spread over the walls, sofa, and coffee table. While all this was familiar, there was the apparent absence of one neurotic detective flatmate, missing among the mess.
John glanced at the coatrack, saw Sherlock’s familiar Belstaff and his scarf, both still hanging in their respective places. So he hadn’t gone out. There was no sign of a struggle, no sound of clinking laboratory glass in the kitchen, no surge of running water clanking through the flat’s old pipes. It was almost dangerously quiet, a kind of quiet John had begun to think of as ‘the calm before the storm.’
“Sherlock?” He closed the door behind him and moving deeper into the sitting room. There was no reply. Brow furrowed, John peered into the kitchen and confirmed that it was indeed empty. He called again, “Sherlock?”
With a rising sense of concern, John trotted down the hallway and peered into Sherlock’s room. It, too, was empty. The bed was perfectly made, the sheets unmarred since Sherlock had spent the night pacing the sitting room instead of sleeping.
John was beginning to wonder if something had happened to Sherlock. Could he have been taken? Forced away and whisked off to who knew where? He reached for his phone before his eyes landed on the fogged glass door beside the bed, the one that led to the bathroom. John paused, frowning. He hesitated for a moment before stepping closer and pressing his ear to the door, feeling a flicker of discomfort before he realized he heard nothing.
Or, wait… What was that? The sound wasn’t that of a running shower or the splash of a bath, nor was it the sound of teeth brushing, face washing, or bodily functions. It was, to John’s alarm, a low groan, one of discomfort, and not one he believed to be related to… well. Bathroom things.
John grabbed the doorknob, glad to find it unlocked, and swung into the bathroom after another brief hesitation. “Sherlock, are—” The words died on his lips as John froze, taking in the sight.
Said sight was Sherlock himself, handcuffed by the wrists to a fearfully strong towel rack, hanging limply with his sweat-soaked curls dangling in his face. He looked pale and pained, his face twisted by discomfort, half-awake and bent into an awkward position between toilet and sink.
“What in the bloody hell?” John managed once the initial shock had worn off. He started forward, frowning as Sherlock lifted his head and blinked blearily at him.
“Ah, John,” he said in a voice closer to a croak than his usual rumble, “there you are.”
“Yep, here I am,” John replied in disbelief, eyes moving rapidly over Sherlock as he tried to assess his condition. The red marks on Sherlock’s wrists and the pale, blueish hue of his fingers were concerning. “What happened? Did someone attack you?” He cast back over his memory of the sitting room. “Were we robbed?”
Sherlock shook his head and grimaced. He straightened with a groan, his features twisting with evident pain. “Not robbed,” he rasped, looking suddenly abashed.
“Then who did this to you?” John demanded.
Sherlock’s expression turned sheepish. “I did it to myself.”
The confession froze John in place, poised as he was to reach up and test the circulation in Sherlock’s fingers. He turned his head, coming face-to-face with Sherlock, inches apart, and blinked. “What?” When no answer was forthcoming, he asked, “Why? Is this some kind of kink? No judgement, but this doesn’t seem like it was meant to go this way.”
“It was for an experiment,” Sherlock replied in a clipped voice, avoiding John’s eyes before tilting his chin toward the tub. “The keys are under there.”
Still struggling to process Sherlock’s words, John automatically bent and felt beneath the tub, grabbing as his fingers encountered metal. He straightened up slowly, still bemused, the keys in hand. “What kind of experiment requires you to handcuff yourself to a towel rack?” John asked, reaching up to unlock Sherlock’s wrists and knowing the answer would likely be beyond him. No doubt, it would all be due to some inane reason John would never understand.
As Sherlock began to babble about the unsolved case — now solved at the expense of Sherlock’s circulation — John saw that he was right.
“So, let me get this straight,” he began, as Sherlock let out a grateful groan and began to rub at his freed wrists with clumsy fingers. “A man died handcuffed to his towel rack, and you thought it would be a brilliant idea to re-enact said scenario even though everything pointed to the man dying from said cuffing?”
Sherlock was silent for so long that John didn’t think he would answer. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes.”
John pressed a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes as he prayed for patience. “I will never understand you,” he said in an exhausted voice, suddenly wishing he’d had that beer before he bothered to look for his mad flatmate.
There was a smug edge to Sherlock’s voice as he replied, “I should hope not, John. The day you understand me will be the day there are no more mysteries to solve in the universe.”
Rolling his eyes, John snagged Sherlock’s elbow and steered him toward the kitchen. “God forbid,” he replied, trying and failing to keep a hold on his amusement. “Now, shut up and let me see to these wrists.”
Sherlock let John shove him into a chair with an indulgent smile. “Of course, Doctor Watson.”
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et-ignis-ira · 15 days ago
Also Starscream: 
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thesnowbunkertapes · 8 days ago
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late-to-the-party-81 · a month ago
Bom Bom
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A/N: This is a little one shot from my Musical Marvel Stories series over on AO3
If you want to listen along heres the link and start the music when Wade tells you to :)
Words in italics are Deadpool talking to you. Words in bold are Deadpool talking to himself.
Rated Mature, not suitable for minors due to Deadpool (he's his own warning) graphic violence and bad language.
Word count: 1.9k ish
Bom Bom
Well hello there! Your friendly neighbourhood Deadpool here!
What? Sweet little Petey doesn’t have the monopoly on being friendly, and…erm… in the neighbourhood. Although I sure would like to monopolise…[no…no…bad Deadpool…you’ve got a Colossus….I mean…erm…colossal…dick at home]…..anywho.....
Here’s a little look into a normal day in my life, which isn’t normal by anyone’s standards.
A battered taxi splutters its way up the potholed road towards a dilapidated warehouse. The driver is a nervous looking, skinny man of south Asian descent. In the back, a tall slender man, dressed in dirty red spandex with black accents lounges across the seats, arms folded behind his head. The taxi lurches to a stop and the passenger slides solidly into the rear foot-well.
“We’re here Mr DP. Or at least I think we are.”
The passenger rolls onto his hands and knees and pushes himself up.
“Thanks Dopinder. Maybe head back down the track a-ways and wait for my signal.”
“What type of signal?”
“You’ll know it when you see it. I’ll know it when I make it.”
The passenger exits the taxi, heads to the trunk and removes a large black holdall, which rattles metallically. Tossing it over his shoulder he swaggers towards the doorway of the warehouse. One of the doors hangs on only the upper hinge, so the lower half of the door swings out from the frame slightly. Stopping outside the door the man in red rummages through the bag. He slides a pair of swords in to the holder on his back, and then a pair of pistols into his thigh holsters. He slides a variety of grenades into the bandolier slung across his chest and grasps a semi-automatic in his right hand. He moves to walk cockily into the building but just before he does…
Hit it!
The man pushes open the better of the two doors, wiggling his ass in time to the music only you and he can hear.
[What the fuck is the cat with the bass and drum? What does that mean?]
A dozen or so men are inside the warehouse. They have a general air of menace and scruffiness about them. Ripped jeans, steel toe-capped boots, vests and plaid shirts. Greasy hair, facial scruff and stereotypical tattoos. They are almost ubiquitous in their attempt at individuality. There are a number of rickety tables between them, loaded high with various film wrapped, white packets. Crates and barrels line the walls between the tables.
[Sixteen pints of rum, now she’s talking…]
“Hello boys!” The man waves cheerily as the men turn to face him. “Now normally I’d be making friends with you guys, big fan of your product. Unfortunately though, you decided to branch out. And you went for the little branches, the kiddy sized branches…and…well…that just fucks me off. So, whilst a permanently pissed off, teenaged friend of mine is currently dealing with the guards at your safe house, I thought I would come and see you fellas.”
He has their attention, but the men are still wary, shifting slightly from foot to foot, a huge juxtaposition to the calm aura of the man in red.
“So, the question is, punks, are we doing this the hard way or the easy way?”
[Excellent –a trumpet solo!]
One of the goons suddenly draws a pistol from behind his back, and shots at the man in red. The bullet passes through his shoulder, blooming a deeper red against his suit . The man looks down at the wound.
“Motherfucker! Ow! That fucking hurt!” He looks back up at the gang members facing him. His unexpected reaction has thrown them, and their eyes dart to each other. Then, as if by some unspoken command, the others draw their own guns. The man in red turns as if to look right at you…..
The hard way it is then!
….and then dives to the side as the gang members open fire.
“Yippee Kiyay!!” He lands inelegantly on his face behind some kind of metal storage box.
Well that was lucky. I mean, what are the chances that this would be right here? Anyway, it’s shootin’ time!
The mercenary comes up on his knees behind the metal box, resting his semi-automatic on the edge and starts to shoot. His opponents dive for their own cover, a couple of them flipping the tables they are stood at, and bullets hit the white packages with soft ‘thunks’, puffs of powder shooting up into the air as the bricks fall to the floor.
Our hero……yeah, imma goddamn hero…..clips one of the dirt bags in the shoulder, sending him spinning before crashing to the ground. If we could see the man in red’s face…trust me, you don’t wanna….he’d be grinning. But then, “click”. His gun jams.
“Well isn’t that just peachy? Time to get dirty. And I just love getting dirty.”
He tosses his gun overarm, and it hits one of the goons in the head, bowling him over. The man in red throws a gas grenade before he draws his pistols from his thigh holsters and launches himself out from behind his cover. He advances across the grey concrete floor, focussing on accuracy as much as he can, as the hail of bullets rip into his flesh.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow!” But he’s been doing this type of thing for some time and more of his bullets find their mark more than not. The remaining goons catch up the guns of their fallen comrades, but there are few of them left now and they don’t understand how their attacker is still moving. By all rights he should have bleed out on the floor several rounds ago. They back towards each other, unintentionally making it easier to pick them off. They are too transfixed by the strange wiggling dance to pay attention.
But then, one of them slaps his hand out behind him, striking towards the wall. A loud grinding sound can heard, despite the gunshots. The wall parts, creating a small gap. Four of the five remaining bad guys manage to back through it, but the fifth falls to the ground, a red hole in the front of his skull and his brains decorating part of the solid wall behind him.
Click…click… “Well these are useless now.” The empty pistol are thrown to the side, and another gas grenade is thrown, before the twin Katanas are withdrawn from their sheaths.
Please ignore physics here and how it is virtually impossible to draw a full length sword from a back holster.
A resumption of the grinding noise makes the man whip his head back round. The gap is slowly closing.
“Oh no you don’t!” He runs full pelt at the narrowing gap, making it through just in time….or rather, almost just in time.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” He looks down at where his left ankle meets the closed wall, his left foot crushed and stuck between two pieces of cement. He hops around for a few seconds, trying to determine if he can free himself. He turns towards the last of his foes, who once again are struck dumb as their brains desperately try to process what their eyes are seeing.
“Well this is embarrassing. Just hang fire fellas, I’ll be right with you.” A flick of his wrist, a flash of steel and a spray of blood and he is free. One of the gangbangers vomits and passes out.
“And then there were three. I’d say I’d go easy on you, but I’d be lying. I like it rough and hard!” He hops forwards, blades spinning and one of the men loses his head. Literally. It bounces off the chest of the man next to him and the now lifeless body crumples, pumping blood across the cement. This spurs the final two into action. Their opponent is at point-blanc range now, so they let rip with everything they have left. But it’s all in vain. The bullets rip through the man in red but they don’t slow him. One goon screams as his arm falls to the floor, followed shortly by the rest of his body as it goes into shock. The final man fires, a last ditch effort, but his bullet ricochets off one of the swords towards some gas canisters that have foolishly, and, for plot purposes, fortuitously, been stored in this feeble attempt at a panic room.
Well, this is going to hurt! [bom bom bom!]
The taxi driver is lounging in his vehicle, incongruously bouncing his head in time to some music, when a large explosion sounds from the area in which he dropped off his fare. The yellow car rocks as the shock wave reaches it, before the occupant rolls out of his door. In his disorientation he takes a few steps towards the carnage, when he suddenly realises he can no longer move. He turns his head and sees a large metal hand clamping onto his shoulder.
“Do not worry,” states a heavy Russian accent. “I will go and clean up the mess”.
Yes, that absolutely fucking hurt. And why is it so black in here?
“Wade, I know you are awake. You need to open your eyes.”
Right, eyes, opening them…..
Our hero blinks, and as his vision clears he can see a metallic face looking down at him and….
“Is that a smirk I see on your handsome face, my chrome-penised friend?”
“You, Wade, are a constant idiot. идиот! You do know that, да?”
“You love it really, baby”
Colossus sighs and rolls his eyes.
Deadpool looks up at what he considers to be thesexiest hunk of metal to ever grace the earth, but realises that the world isn’t holding steady.
“Erm…why are you so far away big guy, and why am I swinging and…..” Realisation dawns. “Have you put me in my weapons bag? The indignity!”
“It was there and it works. I did not want to be completely covered in your effluent. Be thankful I did not zip it up.”
“You’re the best, Silver Balls. And when I’m recovered I promise to cover you in other fluids.”
“Shut up, Wade.”
There is silence for a moment, but then…..
“Soooooooo, what’s my damage this time?”
“Left foot, cleanly cut off, right arm and leg explosively removed. General charring down the remaining right side of your body.”
“At least I didn’t hurt my pretty face! And you’ll put me back together won’t you?”
Colossus stops walking and gently places the bag on the ground. He kneels down and gently lifts Wade out, cradling him as carefully as he can, a small smile shining on his face.
“I will always put you back together Wade.”
“But next time, will you be the one to take me apart first?”
The metal giant shakes his head, but a smile still partially remains.
“You always ruin the moment, золотце.”
“Yeah, because you never ruin m………” The sound is muffled as Colossus places Wade back in the bag, zips it, picks it up and resumes walking back to the taxi that is waiting for them.
A/N: Colossus calls Deadpool an idiot and his precious, golden one in Russian
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02decay · 3 months ago
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02void · 11 months ago
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princessofkazakhstan · 9 months ago
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autobot-and-proud · a month ago
Jazz: *dies and goes to oreo heaven*
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Okay so Erskine's whole evil plot on lsodm was mad complicated. So I'm just imagining what it was like when he was put in charge of Dead Men missions:
Erskine: So, our mission is to take back Cork from Mevolent. Hopeless is going undercover. Dexter, you need to capture this person. Anton, you're in charge of building the teleporting Hotel. Saracen, sow dissent amongst Mevolent's ranks. Larrikin, you're making the battering ram. Skulduggery, stand around and look pretty.
Everyone: why don't we just teleport in at night?
Erskine: because that way is less fun, and I'm in charge. Got it? Let's go.
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doyouknowhowtowaltz · 12 months ago
Ah, yes. Me, my husband, and his litany of dead subjects
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I got a little busy at the end of last week, hence why I was unable to finish gnome-vember, additionally I tried writing for one of the days and... well, that's a story for another time. Please take a completed version of Day 4′s prompt family as compensation. And here is the original meme:
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jaybeefoxy · 11 months ago
A Seasonal Fandom Carol to fit just about any ship you have.
This occured to me on hearing the "I saw three ships" carol this Christmas.
"I saw four ships come sailing in, come sailing in, come sailing in. I saw four ships come sailing in on Christmas day in the morning.
I saw Geraskier sailing in, come sailing in, come sailing in, I saw Geraskier sailing in, on Christmas day in the morning."
You can repeat for as many as you like, just change the number and add your ship. Janto, Johnlock, Mormor, Mystrade... most ships are two syllables so they're always going to fit. If your ship extends to more syllables, then do your best! 😁
Merry festive season.
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