#like i don’t think we recognise how insane it was that winter soldier and days of future past came out within TWO MONTHS OF EACH OTHER

[thesunsethour]

since the superhero film genre is kinda dead nowadays (condolences but argue with the wall) it truly pains me that this new generation of teenagers won’t get to experience what we did in 2014. march? captain america the winter soldier. may? xmen days of future past. two of the most movies of all time for sending young teens insane on this website. we used to be a proper country

[tinyyoungblood]

hi!! adore your work love. could you maybe do smth where stark!reader has to get her wisdom teeth out but HATES the dentist so she brings her boyf peter and her dad w her?? and then when they get home the avengers are all waiting with like comical amounts of flowers and stuffed animals and then reader says some funny shiii and thor thinks she’s like dying lol. idk if that made sense but i’m getting my wisdom teeth out soon and i’m scared😭 thank u so so much love u babe

pairing: peter parker x stark!reader

a/n: tysm lovely :,) i rushed through this like my life depended on it, but i hope i’m not too late. either way, i hope you’re okay! it’s frightening but those bad boys gotta go because we don’t need that kind of energy in our lives. enjoy x

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

wisdom teeth? more like wisdoom

y/n has to get her wisdom teeth removed and it’s the singular most dreadful thing she’s ever had to do, which says a lot because her dad is tony richling stark

doing dreadful things she doesn’t want to do but still somehow end up doing just because she can is a personality trait at this point

no one really makes a big deal out of it since ~death~ is part of their job description, but y/n is terrified

and when a stark is terrified the only thing that will keep them one step from insanity is researching the hell out of it

that information will be info dumped into every conversation for the next few weeks leading up to the appointment

“y/n you need anything from the store?” "no thanks, did you know the side effects of getting your wisdom teeth out include ✨sudden death or blood clots✨ tho” “……..i have a coupon?”

the day of the appointment, peter comes along and literally doesn’t let go of y/n’s hand. he keeps touching her to let her know that he’s there and it’s so. adorable

he would rest his hand on her knee, gently stroke her back while holding her, or just play with her hair

happy drops them off and he’s too Cool™ for emotions but he knows y/n’s a wreck, so he just fist bumps her with a single nod and she almost breaks down bc it’s really affectionate

y/n is sitting in the dentist chair and genuinely nothing is happening yet, but she’s squeezing peter’s hand like it’s a sponge

peter might have a high pain tolerance but he’s in pain pain and he prays that his hand won’t just explode on him

the dentist notices how peter tries to keep it together and chuckles

“you okay there, son?” “yea it’s fine, had a better time when a building fell on me tho haha” “pardon?” “oh i mean i didn’t have a good time, i just had a better time”

because y/n is running Anxious Town™, the dentist gives her a sedative to help her relax 

plus, an injection of local anaesthetic to numb the tooth and surrounding area

she doesn’t feel anything and it’s GREAT

the procedure is quicker than expected and now the real fun begins

she tries to walk but she falls down so peter scoops her up bridal style and happy stays glued at her side

y/n doesn’t mind although she literally doesn’t recognise them and they’re practically strangers to her

but girly sees an opportunity and tries to flirt with peter bc why wouldn’t she

“you’re pretty” *blushes* “why thanks” “you should let your girlfriend know” “i should let her know i’m pretty?” “so you do have a gf? :(” “yea it’s you” “:)”

they stop for gas and peter goes in to get some water for y/n, and in her infinite wisdom, she decides it’s burger time

her mouth is completely numb and she’s practically leaving a trail of drool behind her, but she’d kill for a burger right now

so she wobbles around aimlessly for an hour on some random parking lot as if the ground might just magically open up like a rabbit hole and lead her to five guys

she’s going places. not back to the car. definitely not five guys. they’re closed. but places

peter finally finds her and he’s drenched from head to toe in sweat. he doEsn’T wAnt tO tALk abOut iT tho so she lets him take her to subway instead

normally, she would know that peter’s usual subway order is bread-lettuce-jalapeño

but in her drugged-up state, it had simply slipped her mind so now she’s staring at him like he’d just murdered someone right in front of her

“that- that’s your order?? no meat or anything just bread, lettuce, and a little spice?”

meanwhile at the compound, sam and steve are ordering everyone around bc they want to decorate this place before y/n gets home to surprise her

they take it very seriously too. they’ve watched like one HGTV show and said it’s our time

they finally get home and tony gives y/n a big hug, asking her what took so long

happy tells him that she was keen on getting burgers bc apparently someone has taught her that stressful times call for ~cheeseburgers~

he proceeds to look at tony with a pointed look

tony just shrugs and goes “she was a problem child. we don’t mention her dark past”

she’s swaying on the spot and keeps grinning like a fool and thor just stares at her weirdly before elbowing bruce and whispering loudly,

“what’s wrong with her? is she dying? should i start collecting leaves, i know this remedy—"

no one can tell if y/n is just happy to see the newly decorated home or if she’s just delighted to see everyone but then she goes around hugging the entire team

she doesn’t even acknowledge the sky-high pile of teddy bears and flowers everywhere bc she’s just squeezing everybody

y/n is so high, she just starts to spill all of her feelings about everyone and they’re already so overwhelmed by the hug chain they can’t take this too

“wanda i just want you to know that you’re like my big sister and you’re always taking care of me and i know you and vision are just going to make such good parents one day”

“bucky you absolute PRICK, you FIEND, you’re the best chess player ever and that’ll never change and i wouldn’t be good without you, i hate to say it but you deserve happiness even after you made me lose five times in a row yesterday”

“dad, you’re so strong and smart, even though we’re like never on the same page, you’re always along for the ride, i want to be like you when i grow up, i swear i’m gonna try to be as good to the avengers as you were to us” “aww- wait makes you think i'll be the first to die“

“nat you’re such a bitch about your protein shakes but you’re my best friend and i wouldn’t have it any other way, you can try out as many make up looks on me as you want”

“bruce, brucey, i would live with you in your lab for the rest of my days if i had to, whenever you ask me to hand you stuff i feel useful and important”

“laura’s way out of your league clint i have no idea how the fuck you got her but don’t lose her and i want to be your next child’s godmother”

“steve…we’re your family now. we’re always gonna be your family now. okay?”

“loki you’re not fooling anyone with your attitude, we all know you’re part of the family, you were just misunderstood and messed up bc of your dad–FUCK him by the way–but i realised everyone deserves as many chances as they need because of you”

“sam i would genuinely kill anyone who wronged you, even if they cut you in line at the grocery store, i would knife them no hesitation”

“thor, you poor golden retriever have been through so much, on my way here i made a wish on an eyelash for you bc you deserve better, your postcards always make my day, love you”

she mumbles something to peter that no one else can hear but he blushes and chokes back a sob

y/n orders hot soup and bucky brings it to her but before he even has time to react peter drops everything and ZOOMS across the room in .3 seconds

he barrels into bucky so hard they both go flying, but peter just smoothly rolls out of it and onto his feet like some kind of super ninja

“DUDE WHAT THE HELL” “😠 y/n is not supposed to drink hot liquids 😠”

all of this happens in mere seconds but sam has filmed it all and now slow mo clips go viral online of some mysterious kid knocking over the winter soldier

y/n’s a little in and out after that, but when she fully regains consciousness, she’s on a pile of blankets, surrounded by the team on the floor <3

* * *

let me know if this is actually comforting lmao stay hydrated pals

hc masterlist

[buckyreaderrecs]

A Toast to Whiskey: Chapter 1 / 2

Summary: You work in an old bar hidden away from the modern world. It's almost charming, but not quite. That's probably why Bucky likes it.

Words: 2,325 Pairing: Bucky Barnes/reader Characters: Bucky Barnes Additional tags: Bucky needs a hug, recovering Bucky, mostly canon compliant (Infinity War and Endgame didn’t happen, Stark Tower still exists), angst, she/her pronouns, more tags/characters to be added with part 2, brief mention of Nazis, mental health will be prominent part of part 2

Note: Find this fic and others on A03 - click here. And follow this Tumblr! I post lists of Bucky/Reader fic writers and reblog all my favs. I’ve just started it, so would love the support! xo Rhi

Dedicated to: @browngirlmagic for the conversation. The next chapter is the Lush one!

A Toast to Whiskey Chapter 1 / 2

There were a lot of things in the dusty, old bar that made the man's jaw clench in annoyance, distaste, or anger. You were compiling a list of these things, doing your best to minimise their occurrences. There was one you couldn't avoid though, and it was almost amusing that it bothered him at all. Each time someone ordered a drink - beer, cocktail, shot, whatever - a clean glass was given. The man didn't like it. Was it not like that in his time?

If James Buchanan Barnes thought he'd gone unnoticed in the hole-in-the-wall bar you worked at, he was mistaken. Not entirely, to be fair; the baseball cap and quiet stopped the other patrons from even giving him a second glance. 'Patrons' might have been too civilised of a word to call them. They were old, sickly, local men that had been drinking the same beer from those same taps forever. Harmless, mostly. Unobservant, entirely. Not you though. The first day Bucky walked in and taken a barstool on the very corner, closest to the door, you knew exactly who he was.

Like a lot of people that came and went from the establishment, Bucky's seeking of anonymity was granted. You pretended to not recognise him. You were kind to him, a little more gentle than you were to others, but mostly just a good bartender. And in time, you grew accustomed to the charade. He came in a couple of afternoons a week, but never during the nights when it would be busy. Eventually, he even started to speak more than a couple words to you.

"New cap?" you greeted Bucky with a grin, putting the only drink he ever ordered down in front of him.

Bucky wrapped his right hand around the glass of whiskey. He glanced at you, smiled and shrugged.

"Speaking of new, can I ask you something?" you asked.

The expression on Bucky's face was guarded, but definitely one of concern. You realised you should have just asked, rather than let his mind spiral.

"What’s your problem with clean glasses?"

He looked surprised. Surprised was an experience Bucky wasn't particularly used to or fond of. He wouldn't hold it against you though.

"How do ya know I got a problem?" he asked back, genuinely curious.

Shrugging, you looked around casually. "Guess I notice a lot of things about people,"

"Right," he said slowly, knowingly. "I don't know… Just seems wasteful… Is it the law?"

"That we have to use clean glasses?" you asked with a laugh. "I don't know… probably not. I mean, it's more hygienic. Probably makes the drink taste cleaner or whatever. Board of Health might have a problem with us if we didn't… Not that I've seen one of them in here in years."

Bucky picked up his glass and finished the whiskey. "Fill her up," he quipped. He'd made a half-joke, and you appreciated the effort.

"Yes, sir. Lemme know if you, you know, what anything else," you told him, topping him up, knocking your knuckles on the bar top, and walking away.

…

Bucky Barnes certainly wasn't the most chatty person you'd met. It was better to ask questions if you wanted to pass time with conversations. Easy conversation was one of your special skills, being a bartender and all. However, it was incredibly difficult to do this when you were purposefully avoiding topics that would put Bucky in a position to have to, you know, admit his identity and all that. So, things stayed superficial.

No, Bucky didn't watch the game.

Yes, the weather's been insane.

No, he doesn't want any nut mix.

Okay, maybe yes to pretzels.

Yes, he can see your hair has changed colour.

Yes, he likes it.

For as long as it had taken to get to the point of superficial conversation, it didn't take any time at all to run out of things to say. As it turned out, neither you nor Bucky had lived, or were living, shallow enough lives to sustain it. There were questions you were begging to ask, and if he was honest with himself, Bucky was kinda just counting down until you finally spoke up.

…

"So, I got a question,"

"Mmm. You have a lot of questions," Bucky said, smirking then taking another sip of his whisky.

"You could ask me somethin' if you want a change of pace, pal."

It was a joke. Just banter. But a dark expression flashes across Bucky's face for only a split second. You didn't catch it.

"What's your question, Y/N?"

He knew your name?

Of course he knew your name. He was The Winter fucking Soldier. He probably knew everything about everyone that worked and frequented the bar. How had you not thought of that before? Suddenly, it seemed risky to ask what you had planned to.

Bucky watched you hesitate. He sighed and looked around at the empty room. It was a Monday afternoon and it was just before the regulars showed up to knock beer bottles together and catcall you across the bar. It was just you and him.

"Ask," he said softly, taking his cap off and setting it down on the barstool next to him. You watched Bucky run his hands through his hair, tucking some of it behind his ear.

"Why do you drink whiskey?"

Bucky laughed. Like, a proper heartfelt laugh. "What?" he said, nose still scrunched up in amusement.

"What?"

"Why do I drink whiskey?" he repeated.

"Yeah… I mean… It's disgusting… and, like, you… can't get drunk, right?"

There it was. You did it. Admitted you knew him. Which he figured out. So none of what was happening was really a big deal. But it sure as fuck felt like it.

"Right. I can’t- Well, I can, but it takes a lot,"

"Asgardian mead a lot?"

Bucky grinned and tipped his glass towards you. "How do you know about Asgardian mead?"

You snorted. "Everyone does. Everyone knows everything these days,"

"That's what we want you to think," he said, not skipping a beat.

It made you laugh. It was already better talking to him without false pretences. "So, whisky?"

"Ah… Guess it's that everything's different now… An' that's mostly good. But… You know."

No. No, you didn't know. How could you even begin to understand? "Yeah," you said, your voice far more quiet than you meant it to be.

"Whiskey's still whiskey,"

"It tastes the same?" you asked.

"Almost. Not exactly. Close enough,"

"Makes sense… But why here? S'not like this bar been here since the 40s or anything."

Bucky was visibly trying not to smile. Or make eye contact. "Ah… Not sure how to answer that without… offending ya,"

"Huh? ... Oh, I don't own the joint or anything,"

"You don't?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"No? You think I did? Why?"

"You're…" but he shrugged, still guarded. "I don't know," he lied. "But, ah, I was just lookin' for somewhere…"

"Pretty much stuck in the 40s or thereabouts?"

He nodded, smiling. "But without the Nazis,"

"Mmm… I mean… Have you watched the news lately?" you very quickly said.

"I try to avoid it," he admitted solemnly.

As people started to wander in, the conversation waned. Bucky watched you serve cold beer and pour bags of crisps into bowls. He listened to the worst songs being picked on the jukebox and he sat truly shocked you weren't even at least the daughter of the owner. Despite what you may have thought, he hadn't bothered to investigate you at all and finding his assumptions to be wrong was unsettling.

See, Bucky was a little bit smitten with you. He thought you were smart and sassy and timelessly beautiful. You were the ultimate perk of randomly picking this as his hideaway from the world. But, he figured you were only here because it was a family business. Why was someone smart, sassy and beautiful working strange hours at a shitty bar?

It was hard to say which of you was more curious about the other.

…

Something about what Bucky said had stuck in your head. Whiskey, his drink of choice, was the closest thing to his own time he could find. You could do better than that though.

About a year into working at the bar, you were finally allowed to venture into the cellar to clean it up. There were boxes of shit from forever ago down there and you just wanted it sorted, gone, and the space put to better use. Most of what lived beneath the floor was trash, but every hour or so you'd find something cool. A few vintage beer signs. Empty bottles of collector edition Coke. That kind of stuff. But, there was one thing you had found that you now wanted to stumble across again.

Nobody could remember where it had got to.

It took two days of searching to find it.

The bottle of whiskey was shoved under a bunch of paperwork in the office's bottom drawer desk. Not exactly where you'd store something worth a lot of money, but hey - the barely-there owners of the bar were eccentric, to put it nicely. You didn't recognise the brewing company on the peeling label, but that wasn't the point. The date on the bottle quite clearly read 1940.

When Bucky took his usual spot that afternoon, you bounced over to him with a grin on your face. He looked up at you, keeping his cap.

"Aren't you gonna ask me why I'm so happy?" you said, elbows on the bar and head in your hands.

Bucky smiled a little. He seemed sad. Sadder than usual. Good timing.

"Why are you so happy?"

"'Cause I found something that's gonna make you real fuckin' happy. Check this out!"

You produced the bottle from where you had it stashed under the bar and handed it to Bucky.

Bucky's lips parted slightly and his eyes went all glossy. He read the label carefully, probably trying to place the brand you couldn't. He handled it so carefully, even more than you in your fear of dropping it.

"This is real," he finally said.

"Yeah. I found it in the basement ages ago and just remembered it. 1940, so I figure it's like, first or second batch after Prohibition, yeah?"

Bucky nods. "I guess…" he replied, smiling, remembering Prohibition. "And before all the distilleries had to stop again,"

"For what?" you asked.

"The war," he said so matter-of-factly that it hurt a little. He looked up then, saw your confusion. "Dunno if it was law or if they just did it, but most places stopped making drinking alcohol and started making stuff to help win the war. And ah, whiskey stopped being made because it took up too much crops. I don't know. Something like that."

Something like that. Like he hadn't lived history.

"I didn’t know that. That's…" Not 'cool.' "That makes sense… Anyway. Open it," you ordered, getting out two clean glasses.

Bucky put the bottle on the bar and looked at you seriously. "Y/N, that's gotta be worth… a lot… Can't open it for no reason,"

"Nobody here cares about it. And besides, it's not really no reason, is it?" He didn't move or say anything. "Bucky." He flinched at his name, glanced around to make sure nobody heard. They hadn't. "I think you kinda earned this one, yeah? Now do me the honours."

Why was everyone in Bucky's life so goddamn stubborn?

He sighed and opened the bottle silently. You nodded in encouragement, letting him pour.

"A toast," you posed, holding your glass up. Bucky mimicked your action. "A toast to…" Everything in your head sounded either very cliché or very sad.

"Whiskey," Bucky finished.

"Whiskey," you agreed.

Drinking at the same time, Bucky swallowed in two gulps while you struggled with a sip.

"Jesus fucking Christ it tastes like cat piss now and it did then," you whined, pouring the liquid left in your glass into Bucky's. He laughed at you.

After drinking that down quickly, Bucky reached across the bar and took your hand in his. "Thank you, Y/N. Really."

A toast to finding things that make us less homesick.

…

After the 1940 whiskey, Bucky came in more regularly. He stayed longer, despite the place filling with people. He even began to talk to the other regulars when they sat at the bar and argued with you about politics, the news, and kids these days. You watched him play devil's advocate, siding with the old men, sarcastically poking fun at you with a quick comment every now and then.

You weren't sure when it happened, but you realised Bucky had grown to be comfortable in the space. And there was something about that that made you ridiculously happy. Like, sunbeams bouncing around on the inside of you making you all hot and tingly and full of joy whenever he was there kind of happy. It was gross.

Bucky would walk in, sit, place his cap down and grin at you with his cute little teeth and sparkly blue eyes. It made your day without exception, and you started to notice more little things about him and how they made you feel. When he hooked his hand behind his ear it would make your stomach flip.

One time, when he was telling you a story about carnival rides and baby Steve throwing up, a loose strand of hair fell across his face and you immediately and unconsciously leant across the bar and folded it gently behind his ear for him. Bucky froze, and you went to apologise, but he spoke first. "Thanks," he said softly, with more meaning than the situation called for, then continued on with his story.

It was like that for just over a month. Then he stopped coming in. There was nothing in his final visit to indicate he wasn't coming back. Bucky just disappeared.

CLICK TO READ PART 2/2

[falloutmelody]

“You are the best thing that has ever been mine.”

(GIF IS NOT MINE, FULL CREDIT TO THE PERSON WHO MADE IT!)

PAIRING: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

WARNINGS: Mild threat, especially towards the end. The reader is injured in this following an interrogation, although there is no vivid description of these injuries! Nat and the reader are also being held hostage and are locked in a cell, but again, it’s nothing too vivid!

REQUESTED BY: Anonymous! Thank you so much for requesting, I hope this does your image justice and that you enjoy this one too! Don’t hesitate to send any more requests my way, especially if they’re for Nat, because I love writing for her!

WORD COUNT: 2016! Again, I had a lot of ideas, so this is a long one!

I wasn’t too sure if anon wanted this to be a follow up to my last Nat x reader, where the reader was Bruce’s sibling, so I’ve left it intentionally vague! So, if you want it to be a follow up because you liked that story, or just want something separate, either way, this should be okay with you! Again, I pictured this as happening post the first Avengers, but before Winter Soldier! But as always, no spoilers, so don’t worry! I wasn’t expecting to have time to get this done until next week, but, somehow, I did, so it’s a bit earlier than I promised!

As always, my requests are very much open! I write for Doctor Who (Thirteen’s era only currently), the MCU and Buzzfeed Unsolved! So, if you have something you want me to write, don’t hesitate to let me know! Please send requests to my ask, which you can find here!

Your feet scraped on the ground as you were dragged through the dimly lit corridors by two men that were insanely well built. You tried your hardest to focus on where exactly they were taking you- to give yourself some sort of mental map of the maze-like halls of this underground base. But you couldn’t. Your head was hurting way too much for that, and despite all your hours of training, all that was really dominating your mind in that moment was how much pain you were in. Apparently, not even all the fancy SHIELD training in the world could help you ignore the pain that came from being punched repeatedly in the face.

The sound of a distant creak reached your ears as the guards beside you roughly grasped your sore upper arms, forcing you to come to a very sudden stop. “What’s happening?” You weakly mumbled almost immediately, obviously not expecting an actual answer. All that you’d heard from these guys since they’d caught you the day before was increasingly aggressive demands for information about your mission and SHIELD in general, and of course, very violent threats to both your own life, and the life of your partner.

You were proved right as you received absolutely no verbal response. Instead, you were merely thrown forwards, hitting the cold ground before you with a violent thud. Sharp and searing pain radiated throughout your whole body as you forced yourself to bite back any cries of pain, scrunching your right hand up into a fist to try and help you cope.

“Nice to see they’re being hospitable.” A familiar female voice reached your ears soon afterwards, causing your pain to momentarily be replaced with relief.

Natasha was safe.

As the sound of a metal door slamming shut reached your ears, informing you that you were once again locked back up in the dismal holding cell, you weakly rolled over and pushed yourself up, deciding to settle for just sitting partly upright when your tired legs protested too much at the idea of physically standing up. “Yup. Made me feel very welcome,” you mumbled quietly as your vision finally focussed and adjusted to the light in the room, leading you to soon move your head in the direction Natasha’s voice had come from.

There she was. Thankfully, as far as you could see, the redhead seemed completely unharmed. God, you’d been borderline out of your mind with concerned that they’d try and get answers out of her whilst they’d been ‘interrogating you’. Whilst you of course, knew that she could handle such things, the image of her being physically hurt understandably caused you great distress.

A brief look of concern momentarily brushed over the expression of the Avenger as she met your gaze, with Nat soon making her way to your side, easily kneeling down beside you. “Jeez, what did they do to you, Y/N?” The two of you had spent a fair amount of time together now, but this clear tone of concern was genuinely new. Not that Nat had never allowed herself to express a softer side towards you, because she almost certainly had done, but this just a new level. Apparently, they really had hurt you. Given the pain you were in, that fact didn’t surprise you in the slightest.

“Mostly punching, I think. I… I’m not gonna lie, I kinda lost count after a while,” you admitted truthfully. Had it been anyone else in that room with you, you 100% knew you wouldn’t have been so open, out of fear of how you would be perceived. But this was Nat. Nat, who somehow always provided you with a strong sense of safety and made you feel incredibly comfortable being your real self around. Whether it was the same for her, you weren’t entirely sure, but you liked to think so.

You were brought out of your thoughts soon afterwards by another thing that caught you off-guard. Nat soon allowed her partly gloved hand to lightly settle on the left side of your face. You winced at first due to the pain but didn’t outright protest. It was an oddly comforting gesture. It was an oddly comforting gesture, a very nice and welcome contrast to the violence you’d suffered mere moments before.

After allowing her hand to linger there for a few moments, Natasha proceeded to very gently apply pressure, causing your head to lightly tilt to the side. That was when you figured out exactly what she was doing. She was trying to get a better look at your injuries.

“Nothing looks too deep, so you should be okay. When we get out of here though, you’d better promise me that you’ll get this looked at by a medic,” Nat spoke, her words being quiet to ensure that you were the only one that would hear her. You forced yourself to give a small smile, not wanting to nod and break out of the comforting touch of your partner.

“Yes, Doctor Romanoff,” you couldn’t help but softly remark in your best attempt at a playful tone. You just badly wanted something to lighten the mood. Your efforts were soon rewarded, as a small scoff of amusement came from Natasha, the soft sound causing your heart rate to pick up for something positive for the first time since you’d been brought here.

“Glad someone’s appreciating my skills,” Nat countered. “Just give me your word that you’ll get it treated, okay, Y/N? I don’t like the idea of something serious happening to one of the few people I trust to have my back.” Once again, you were somewhat caught off-guard by her words, allowing yourself a few moments to process the compliment, which was possibly one of the most meaningful you’d ever received, before you responded.

“I promise, Nat.” Your words were quiet but sincere, as you focused your gaze on her eyes. If you weren’t concerned about making her uncomfortable with sentimentality, or rushing things and ruining your relationship, you would have taken that moment to reassure her that you had absolutely no plans of making her lose you in the near future. Meeting this woman was, quite frankly, one of the best things that had ever happened to you, you had no plans of tossing that aside.

So, instead, you decided to once again make a light-hearted comment, to lighten the mood once more, before you would presumably start discussing how you were going to get the hell out of here. “You know, if I didn’t know you better by now, I’d think that this concern meant that you loved me.”

You watched as a somewhat coy smile soon formed on Nat’s expression. “Maybe I do,” she responded.

Wait.

What?

Your brain repeated those three words in a frantic manner, not being too sure how to respond to that. Hell, you didn’t even know if she was being serious. But if she was… Your heart rate once again slightly spiked at the idea, making you feel almost like a cliché character in a romantic novel.

You struggled for words for a few moments, something that you presumed showed on your expression, as you heard Nat give another small noise of amusement. Should you say it back? Would that make it seem insincere? Would that make her uncomfortable to outright state it? Thankfully, your rambling mind was soon given something to bring it back down to reality as Natasha proceeded to speak once more, her hand slowly coming away from the side of your face as she did so.

“Anyway, I’ve been thinking, and I think I’ve come up with something to get us out of here. I managed to get started on it whilst you were-” the red head began. However, she was very abruptly cut off, as the metal door suddenly swung open with a bang, and a man walked through that you vaguely recognised. You had absolutely no idea what his name was, but he was the man that had been doing most of the questioning during your interrogation. A deep-buried sense of nausea and fear formed in your stomach as the peaceful bubble Natasha’s presence had created for you was instantly shattered. What did this guy want now?

“My men and I are growing tired of getting nowhere. We’ve informed your beloved SHIELD that we have you, and what the consequences will be if they don’t pay the ransom we’ve stated.” No need to ask what those consequences would be. Your earlier conversation with these guys had given you a clear enough picture of how they liked to deal with people. Your stomach only dropped further as the man soon brought his attention over to Natasha, gesturing to his men with a simple hand gesture. As two soldiers began to make their way over to her, panic raced through you.

No. No. They were not going to hurt her like they’d done with you.

As they grabbed Nat’s arms, you quickly shot up onto your feet, earning you the attention of everyone in the small cell. Trying to ignore the sharp pain that was once again racing through you as a result of your sudden movement, you immediately spoke.

“Wait. I might have known more than I let on. I’m the one you want to speak to.” Of course, you were lying. Besides, even if you did know anything important about SHIELD and why you’d been sent here, you’d rather die than share it with these guys. But they didn’t need to know that. All you would have to do was ramble on about nothing and endure whatever they did to you until Nat was able to spring herself free.

“Y/N,” Natasha began, but she didn’t get much of a chance to finish her thought as the supposed boss shot her an aggressive look indicating that he wanted her to shut up.

The boss took a few steps towards you, studying you for a few moments. You weren’t entirely sure what exactly was running through his mind as he did so. Was he trying to figure out if you were being sincere about your claims that you knew more than you claimed? Was he trying to physically assess your weak points? You weren’t sure, but you refused to look away from him as he did so. This strange studying lasted for a few moments, before he turned back to his guards, and gestured with his head in your direction.

It was almost familiar at this point, the sensation of those insanely well-built men grasping your upper arms. “You’d better be telling the truth. Or your girlfriend will suffer for it, understood?” The boss spat at you, causing you to give a weak nod. As they went to lead you out the room, you brought your attention to Natasha, not entirely sure how to communicate in a simple glance that this was part of some complicated plan to buy her time to get you both to safety. But you were certain that she’d caught on to what you had in mind. Natasha had been doing this job far longer than you had, after all.

Unfortunately, though, you didn’t get to hold her gaze for long, as the guards quickly dragged you back out into the corridor. As you were once again stopped whilst the door was locked behind you, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back at Natasha through the small window at the top of the door, giving her a weak smile as you did so. That was supposed to be some sort of comfort, a promise that you were going to be okay. You knew you couldn’t really guarantee that, given what was going on, but you wanted to try and give her some sort of reassurance.

With that, you were soon dragged off, back into the cold, dark maze of this underground facility, with only one goal in your mind.

You were going to buy her time to get you both free. And when you were both free? You were going to tell her you loved her too.

AN: And I’m going to end it there! Thank you so much for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it! Don’t hesitate to send requests in, if you would like me to write something for you! Hope you’re having a good day, and I’ll see you all next time!

[d2kvirus]

Dickheads of the Month: September 2020

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of September 2020 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

Remember how proven liar Boris Johnson said he had a world-beating oven-ready Britait deal, which was also the basis of his election slogan campaign of “Get Britait done” and the lack of support for the deal is the reason he sacked 21 of his own MPs?  Just asking, because he tore the whole thing up and said it was unworkable - which also led to Brandon Lewis saying in Parliament, so it is now forever enshrined in the Hansard, that De Pfeffel merely broke international law “in a very specific and limited way” - you know, sort of like how the Manson Family broke the law in a very specific and limited way

The bold vision of a new BBC shared by Tim Davie was revealed when he threatened comedy shows with the axe if they kept making jokes about Britait, the Tory Party or Donald Trump on his first day on the job, because as we all know the best form of comedy comes from punching down rather than up, which is why Little Britain definitely hasn’t aged appallingly

Master of decorum Donald Trump couldn’t even wait a few short hours after Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death before he started rallying the foot soldiers about cramming somebody more fitting with what he wanted into the Supreme Court

Mayor of Amity Island governor of Florida Ron DeSantis continued his bid to be recognised for having the worst response to the Covid pandemic in the congress of having the worst possible response to the Covid pandemic by deciding that, actually, the state of Florida needs to lessen its Covid restrictions at a time when cases of Covid have begun to rise alarmingly in the state

It’s no surprise that proven liar Boris Johnson lied in Parliament by referring to Serco’s failing test & trace app as “NHS Test & Trace” - however the biggest issue is that the BBC had been using the exact same phrase for at least two weeks before that

Nobody was surprised to hear smirking cretin Priti Patel personally using the term “activist lawyers” that the Home Office (headed by P. Patel) had previously used to dehumanise and demean people upholding those pesky immigration laws that the Tory Party really don’t like getting in the way

Tax dodging orange goblin Donald Trump was asked a simple question: Do you think that white supremacists are a problem?  We are still waiting for an answer to that question...

Okay, so now the Conservative Party are cracking down on people breaking lockdown, with threats of a £10,000 fine - rather than circling the wagons around them and throwing out one cock and bull excuse after another like they did when Dominic Cummings broke lockdown to nip off to Durham after testing positive for Covid on what just so happened to be his wife’s birthday

You know that Matt Hancock is good at his job when, having been sent out in front of the cameras to defend The Tory Party appointing ex-Australian PM and all-around arsehole Tony Abbott as a trade advisor in spite his history of misogynistic, homophobic and “Let’s kill the elderly so we can survive Covid” comments the best he could do was say he was a good negotiator...which promptly led to all manner of comments about Harold Shipman being a good GP and Fred West laying one hell of a patio 

According to Jacob Rees Mogg the public having a legitimate complaint about it being damn near impossible to have a Covid test is nothing more than “endless carping” and not, say, legitimate criticism of a woefully underprepared government trying to coast by on the bare minimum who have the gall to try and blame the public for their long list of catestrophic fuckups

It was no surprise to hear proven liar Boris Johnson hand-wringing about “the freedom of the press” after Extinction Rebellion finally realised that being annoying idiots is far more likely to gain support if you’re being annoying idiots with a purpose - just as it was no surprise to hear that proven liar Boris Johnson had no opinion whatsoever of Tim Davie telling BBC newsreaders to fall in line with the corporation (read: Tory) line or they’d be sacked

Once again there was a chance for Keir Starmer to show that his talk of being “true Opposition” is more than a soundbite and, once again, he wimped out on it when ordering Labour MPs to abstain from voting on the Overseas Operations (Service Personnel and Veterans) Bill for fear of being accused of being “anti-British” by voting for a bill created to stop prosecution of British troops for using torture instead of voting against it - and then sacking Nadia Whittome, Beth Winter, and Olivia Blake from their junior ministerial positions when they were three of the 18 Labour MPs who voted against it

It clearly never occurred to Marsha Blackburn when she was browbeating people about the Constitution of the US never being rewritten that the Constitution of the US has been rewritten several times already.  There’s a reason they’re called “Amendments” and not “Footnotes” you know...

Smirking cretin Priti Patel proudly stated that, if she saw her neighbours, she’d gladly call the police due to them breaking the law.  This was around 14 hours after she’d voted to break international law in the Commons, or a few short years after she broke ministerial code by nipping over to Israel to have undisclosed meetings with israeli officials, which begs the question about whether her neighbours are just as willing, doesn’t it?

Judging by Alan Sugar tweeting out conspiracy theories about Covid being created in a Wuhan lab, I think it's safe to say that no Apprentice game show host is capable of not acting like a complete arse on Twitter.  Luckily for the UK, Sugar isn’t Prime Minister - he’s merely a member of the House of Lords...

It’s been a while since WWE acted like totalitarian dicks to the wrestlers employed independently contracted to them but they managed to find one by telling every single one of their employees independent contractors that they could no longer use Twitch or Cameo as it was decided this was being “detrimental” to the company...you know, the bunch of carnies who sign billion dollar deals with our journalist-murdering, woman-oppressing, Yemeni-slaughtering, 9/11-planning “allies” Saudi Arabia, don’t have any for of healthcare for their employees independent contractors, continued a pay per view even though one of their employees independent contractors died due to a stunt going wrong that was linked to the company cheaping out on a safety harness, and apparently not knowing that the term “independent contractor” doesn’t mean the company can sign them to five year deals but sack them at any point - and then prevent them from working anywhere else for 90 days

We had confirmation of Alison Pearson possessing a terrifying combination of pig ignorance and outright sociopathy when she began a Telegraph article with the following: “My son has Covid-19.  Good.”

Sour grapes from Lisa Nandy over people forgetting she was in the Labour leadership race judging by how she apparently didn’t listen to a party pledge to tax corporations and instead spout off a bunch of nonsensical gibberish that sounded uncannily like Britain First rhetoric under the belief that sounding like Britain First is guaranteed to win back working class Northern voters

Litigious TERF JK Rowling revealed her latest book is about a man who murders people while dressed as a woman, which definitely hasn’t drawn any form of comment whatsoever...

You would like to believe that reports of Limestone Games not only effectively stealing the game Aeon Must Die! from the actual dev team who were forced out of the company by a culture of abuse and harassment by a shady cabal who took over the studio would have eld to the game’s release being postponed, especially after it emerged that assets used in the game’s trailer were infringing on various copyrights - but instead Focus Home Entertainment responded by twiddling their thumbs and doing nothing

I’m sure there’s no connection between Alan Sugar demanding people go back to work as if the number of Covid cases has been rising to an alarming degree and how Alan Sugar is bemoaning that his commercial property portfolio is not making him “enough” money due to people staying at home.  None whatsoever...

The fact that those moron parents in California started a wildfire after setting off fireworks for their baby’s gender reveal party that led to over 20,000 people having to evacuate their homes is dickheaded enough - but the fact that it’s not the first case of this happening, as a similar incident happened in Arizona back in 2018, makes them look even more dickheaded

If you want to say you put Britain before anything else, like Andrea Jenkyns did in her latest Twitter tsunami of childishness and spite, it doesn't look good when you say you're pro-Trump before pre-De Pfeffel as it defeats your own argument almost as fast as being Andrea Jenkyns - or, you know, failing to spell the word “British” correctly when accusing people of being anti-British

It would have been wise if West Ham announced that manager David Moyes and two players had tested positive for Covid before their match with Hull - not after the match had kicked off, leading to Moyes legging it out of the stadium

Whatever it is in the mind of DeAnna Lorraine that snapped and had her babbling insane nonsense that The Masked Singer is part of a covert plot to have people wearing masks probably can’t be repaired, and appears to have also caused her to accuse anyone who thinks she does sound insane of being acolytes of George Soros

Professional victim Laurence Fox somehow believed that posting a chat log of a conversation between himself and Rebecca Front and then howling about being “cancelled” - and then a few hours later had to very publicly backtrack, no doubt because his agent had several dozen words with him

I have no idea why David Cameron convinced himself that showing himself helping out in the Chipping Norton food bank was a good idea, considering he’s the reason why food banks exist in the first place

How nice of Manchester Metropolitan University to tell the students who were confined to accomodation so unable to go out and buy food, who were paying £9000 tuition fees for face-to-face tutoring that was done via Zoom that makes such good value of the hundreds of pounds of rent they have to pay per month when they could have had those same lectures from home, that they’re not allowed to protest about this situation and had to take any signs posted on their windows critical of the government down immediately

In normal circumstances Mason Greenwood and Phil Foden sneaking girls into the England team hotel would look pretty stupid, especially in Foden’s case considering the odds of his live-in girlfriend not finding out about this are practically nil, but during a global pandemic it looked so incredibly boneheaded it’s lucky they play for the Manchester clubs otherwise the front pages would be calling them ignorant traitors or some such bullshit

Nothing sums up Premier League referees quite like them clearly not understanding the current definition of the handball rule, but rather than actually look it up they make it up as they go alone leading to more penalties being awarded for handball in the first four rounds of Premier League fixtures than in entire seasons - not helped by Premier League referees also operating VAR, where they seem to have a policy of “If you ignore my cock up, I’ll ignore yours”

And finally, inventing yet another terror atrocity, is Donald Trump and his batshit insane proclamations about cans of soup being a much bigger threat to American lives than, say, and AR-15.  But then again, it’s not like his support base has a habit of throwing cans of soup at crowds of people

[bithor]

so i just hit 1k (and im more than halfway to 1.1k??) which is insane - thank you guys so much for supporting me and this blog! additionally, school let out a couple of days ago, so i’ve suddenly got a lot of free time on my hands, and what better way to use that than to give back to you guys? recently, you guys voted on what you wanted to see me to do celebrate this milestone; i couldn’t pick just one, so i decided to do a bunch of them - namely, detailed and simple blogrates, name aesthetics, marvel rates, and blog compliments!

rules —

- must be following this pile of dust (too soon?)

- reblog this post

- optional: check out my writing, graphics, and my main blog

- optional: go follow two of my faves, ky @tiredbuchanan​ and mel @ironhawks!

- blacklist #1kbr if you need to

- be patient; these will take a while, but i will get them all done eventually!!

- send me an ask with up to THREE of the following: 

- for a simple blograte, send me a ☆ + tell me something good that’s happened to you recently!

- for a detailed blograte, send me ✧ + call me out for using google slides to make my header, i deserve it, or just send me your favorite marvel scene. [these are done individually - if you want one, don’t send requests for any of the other options! they take a lot of time to get done, so a blogger who wants this won’t get any of the others]

- for a blog compliment, send me ♡ + another blog you love!

- for a name aesthetic, send me ☀︎ + your name and your favorite season!

- for a marvel rate, send me ☾ + your favorite marvel movie/character/ship/anything!

formats are under the cut, along with some of my favorite mutuals!

faves [in no particular order]: @tiredbuchanan​, @ironhawks​, @broklynbarnes​, @thinkfasts​, @winter-soldiers​, @goldenkillmonger​, @softiesteve​, @bitonysstark​, @bisteverogers​, @stuckygrief​, @daisyridlay​, @daysoffuturepast​, @catfasteve​, @peggysgf​, @brooklynstevies​, @babylevines​, @stevenvrogers​, @jewbucks​, @bbarnes​, @petcerparker​

simple blograte format

url: don’t rly get it? / nice / iconic?? / show-stopping. wow / steve rogers icon: could use a touch-up / nice / cute!! / pls give me the link?? / sam wilson theme: default theme / well-planned / woah i love / brb stealing your code / clint barton content: not really my thing / great / holy hell i love? / reblogging everything rn / nat romanoff creations (if applicable): none / good job!! / damn that’s talent / teach me ur ways / thor overall: cool cool / awesomesauce / a fave!! / what?? is your secret / bucky barnes following? not yet ♡ / now! / of course!!  / do you need to ask / tIL THE END OF THE LINE

detailed blograte format [creds to @excelsjor​]

B A S I C url - dgi sorry | not from my fandoms | could be better | pretty cool | really like it | absolutely incredible! domain - don’t have one | dgi sorry | not from my fandoms | could be better | pretty cool | really like it | absolutely incredible! icon - could be better | don’t recognise it | poor quality | pretty cute! | omg awesome | tempted to steal it T H E M E desktop theme - default theme | not my style | could be better | kinda pretty | gorgeous | stealing your code color scheme - not my taste | pretty | gorgeous | i love it sm! nav page - don’t have one | i think something’s not right | incomplete | bit basic | lovely | absolutely perfect about page - don’t have one | i think something’s not right | incomplete | bit basic | lovely | absolutely perfect mobile theme - not my taste | mismatched/hard on the eyes | nice | amazing | *casually screenshots for future reference* mobile header - nonexistent | i don’t get it | not my fandom | bit blurry | alright | lovely | absolutely gorgeous mobile colors - kills my eyes | don’t match | looks nice | damn that’s amazing!! P O S T S reblogs - urm nonexistent ?? | kinda random | not my fandom | pretty good | wonderful | incredible! creations - you don’t have any | not my fandom | great start | not bad | lovely | so original | gorgeous | how are you so talented?? personal - nonexistent/can’t see | not enough | too many | you seem sweet | omg you make me laugh so much we should be friends! O V E R A L L overall - meh | pretty nice | great | amazing | 1000000/10 teach me your ways following - no sorry | not my fandom | now! | ofc | do you even need to ask?? | you’re one of my fav blogs!

advice/compliments:

name aesthetic example (basically what your name reminds me of):

sandhya; sunsets overlooking the water, ink on pages, dark jeans fraying at the knees, light on hardwood floors, strong black coffee (the ones i actually do will will be longer)

marvel rates [basically which one i associate you with]

old guard: tony stark / steve rogers / natasha romanoff / bruce banner / clint barton / thor new guard: sam wilson / t’challa / peter parker / ant-man / bucky barnes / dr strange  asgardians: thor / loki / valkyrie / hela / heimdall / odin guardians: peter quill / gamora / rocket / drax / groot / mantis shield agents: phil coulson / maria hill / nick fury / melinda may / daisy johnson / fitzsimmons  location: avengers tower / wakanda / asgard / triskellion / brooklyn / xandar team: avengers / revengers / guardians / howling commandos / dora milaje / valkyrior 

[haikyuuau]

on your left (kageyama tobio x reader)

Part 1: unromantic

[on your left, engaged au! – part 2 of the "awkward love" series]

//professional volleyball player! kageyama x newscaster! reader// word count: 2026 words

a/n: this is a crack fic that was inspired by a scene from Captain America The Winter Soldier.

“On your left” is a term that is shouted at slow pedestrians, slow cyclists, slow skaters while passing on their left side, often used as an insult to indicate that someone is extremely slow

“Thank you so much for making time to come over today. It is an actual honour to have you here with us today.  First of all, congratulations to your success and excellent plays in the recent national volleyball game, Hinata-kun and Kageyama-kun,” the radio host, Kise Ryota settled down in his seat and spoke into the microphone quickly to which Kageyama blushed badly at the compliment.

“Thank you for having me here today,” Kageyama quickly replied, pressing his temples to soothe his hangover and taking a quick swig of water and mentally cursing Hinata for dragging him to the bar yesterday after a long practice while Hinata simply sniggered at his actions.

“So recently it has come to our attention that #kageyamaonyourleft is trending on Twitter. Would you mind explaining to us the meaning of this hashtag?” Kise quickly glanced at his script with an amused smile adorning his face, implying that he was aware of the reason for said hashtag.

The second Kise finished his statement and the clip capturing the exact scene started playing, Hinata simply looked to the side, trying to suppress his laughter while the redness of Kageyama’s face intensified as he recalled the events that led up to today.

Picture this. Normally, couples would enjoy walking together with a dog accompanying them on their peaceful walk that usually consisted of hand-holding, telling lame jokes, communicating their life, spending quality time together and admiring the scenery around their neighbourhood.

Well, unfortunately, Kageyama was anything but normal and in fact, he enjoyed doing things out of the norms.

Flashback start

After the engagement, Kageyama and you decided to move in together, seeing that your busy careers seriously limited the time you spent together and Kageyama was actually happy to be able to spend quality time with you though he repeatedly stated that you would serve as a burden to him and act as a deadweight.

However, there was a major problem. As someone with years of experience in cross country, it was undeniable that you possessed some form of athletic abilities in which Kageyama was salty about. Aside from the fact that you were somewhat socially awkward, you were capable in your studies, attending Tokyo University which was the best university in Japan, you were dubbed as one of the most influential women (previously bachelorette) in the world at the age of 25 and you were someone that excelled well in your career. To tell the truth, if not for your parents’ hopes for you to become a newscaster, you would probably be a runner that represented Japan in the running category.

As your fiance, he was definitely proud of your success at such a young age and he celebrated your success together, eating together in fancy restaurants whenever volleyball training permitted him to and going on dates to Tokyo tower which he finally learnt, was not a transmission tower. However, your success also fuelled his competitiveness which was a trait that he brought with him after his graduation from Karasuno High School. He simply disliked losing and if there was one thing the both of you liked, it would be morning runs before work began.

Intense concentration was written all over Kageyama’s face as he attempted to soothe his breathing patterns, determined not to lose to someone that wasn’t an Olympian. It was meant to be a normal run in the morning until he had proudly declared to you early in the morning that he would go easy on you because you didn’t undergo the intense stamina training sessions that he was subjected to regularly. He knew that this was untrue because you regularly worked out in the gym to keep fit and had the stamina of a bull and you had calmly replied to him, “Sure Kageyama.” Challenge accepted.

He was proven wrong again at the intense pace that he had set for himself due to his competitive nature and his fear to lose because his pride and dignity was on the line and he began to slow down, starting to lose track of his stamina. Due to the success of the national volleyball team, people on the street easily recognised him as the rising star setter and attempted to approach him for an autograph but the scowl that was permanently stuck on his face said otherwise.

“On your left,” you whispered loudly as you passed by him, grinning to yourself as though it was a major accomplishment, speeding up once he had heard you. “SHut up (Y/N)” was all he thought in his mind and he seriously wondered if you were Hinata in disguise with the insane stamina, thinking about how you still had the breath to talk when you guys were literally running a whopping 7-mile pace. Determined not to let the gap between the two of you widen and thus lose, he quickly wiped off his sweat with the sleeve of his dry fit shirt (that was soaked at this point in time) and caught up with you when you guys were at the pond area of the park while shouting vulgarities at you.

Unaware of the attention that he had received thanks to his harmless action and the fact that someone was recording this whole ordeal on Instagram, the two of you continued to run together. To the bystanders around you, you guys seemed like adversaries and were anything but a normal couple. You two were running neck to neck and at this point in time, you were pushing the limits of your tired out muscles while Kageyama was gritting his teeth so hard that you swore that you could hear it snap. People were shouting out encouragements to you, recognising you as the famous bachelorette that recently got engaged. Some people were even taking sides and betting on who would win while you attempted to flash bright smiles at them to get them to support you and boo at Kageyama to lower his morale.

Honestly, this seemed more like an election campaign right now.

Looking forward, you saw that you were approaching the corner of the park where a slope stood and a chin-up bar was oddly enough placed there. You took a glance at Kageyama and realised that there was no way you were going to win as you noticed that Kageyama was slowly pulling ahead of you and gave a smug smile, indicating that he was aware of that and you mouthed to him, “Screw you.” You were fully aware that Kageyama was better than you at inclined areas of running and considered the consequences of the decision that you had made at the last second.

Summoning your inner parkour self, you took a leap of fate and prayed that Kageyama would save you should you fail because you didn’t know how to swim and swung across the bars to arrive at the other side. You looked up to see Kageyama narrowing his eyes and shout out, “Don’t say it, don’t you dare say it.” Upon landing perfectly, you yelled to Kageyama before proceeding to sprint even faster, “On your left.”

“Come on!” a frustrated groan from the back of you fuelled your motivation to hasten your footsteps and dash even faster to the bench that signalled the finishing line which looked like a scene straight out of the cartoon. Giving a winning smile, you threw your hands up high and finally slowed down your steps.

Pointing to Kageyama in the stance that you knew Oikawa used to annoy Kageyama in his high school days, you held your arm by your hip, mimicking Kageyama’s actions in the morning and purposely lowered your voice to sound like Kageyama’s pitch, saying, “Next time, I will go easy on you.”

“Shut up you cheated, you idiot,” Kageyama clenched his sides, indicating that the stitches had started kicking in.

“It is called being resourceful and not being an idiot when there is an easy way out and for your information, you are the one that proposed to me so too late,” you reached for your toes easily without breaking a sweat, stretching your tired muscles.

You waved to the supporters on the opposite side of the park and yelled to the ones who betted that you would win, “Enjoy your free meal.”

Hopping onto the back of Kageyama’s back and hearing a faint “oof” from him, you were glad you had won the bet and teased, “Now for your walk of shame.”

“Onward you peasant!”

Flashback end

“I think that the video speaks for itself,” Kageyama stated after the laughter in the studio died down and proceeded to say, “The scores are currently 4 to 5, 4 to (Y/N) and 5 to me.”

“I am beginning to feel that (Y/N) was the one that went easy on you though. She looked effortless while she was running while you looked like you were in pain,” Hinata pointed out, ignoring the glare that Kageyama was sending to him.

“Better start working out before you become so slow that (Y/N) runs away from you,” Kise laughed and continued, “But this kind of confirms that you have a special kind of Chemistry between you two right? I mean it was very shocking when the rumours that the two rising celebrities were dating.”

Scratching his head, Kageyama was slightly embarrassed and looked down on the floor before answering, “I mean it is probably a bit surprising for me to say this but as a couple, we probably do things that are not very normal and it is hard for us to find time for one another. I think our interests and acceptance are probably the reasons why we are still together today and I am thankful for what she has ever done for me. Moving in together, we learnt to adjust to one another’s quirks and grow together. I am proud to say that I am her fiancé and I seriously love her to death even though I don’t really express it to her. I don’t think I have ever said ‘I love you’ to her in a long time so this pretty much affirms our relationship together.”

Hearing that, everyone let out an “aww” sound and even the cameraman started saying, “Goals, pure goals.” Once most of the people in the room settled down, Kise ended the interview, saying, “There we have it folks, the one and only rising star, Kageyama who shares his insights with us on marriage life.”

Honestly, Kageyama couldn’t wait to get back home to see your reaction when you saw the interview and he smiled softly, glad that he had married a woman like you despite how annoying you were.

Omake

“(Y/N), we are starting in 10 seconds,” the cameraman reminded you as you quickly drank a sip of water to quench your thirst, ignoring the hard copy script on your paper. Regaining your composure, you swiftly smoothed down your blouse and skirt, replying “Roger that.”

“Welcome back to Breaking News on Sunday Nights. I am (Y/N) and I will be your host today,” you gave your usual greetings and flashed a welcoming smile, proceeding to read the lines on the teleprompter.

Unaware that the video of you and Kageyama’s morning run incident had become viral, you continued delivering the news calmly and effortlessly, “Today, we have some breaking news with us. Last Sunday, Kageyama Tobio, one of Japan’s national volleyball team members was spotted in the Miyaji, Sanriku Fukko National Park with fiancée, (Y/N) (L/N). The two seemed to be engaged in a competition as they ran along the perimeter of the park. Before reaching the finishing line, the woman grabbed the chin up bar and leapt across the pond in order to win. The spectacle was captured by a bystander and the video he posted on Instagram has since spread like wildfire."

Upon realising what you were reporting on, your face quickly reddened and you tried to recover by continuing to say, “She beat Kageyama and she is proud of it.”

[sankta-arya]

The Seasons of My Love (3)

Written for day 1 (soulmates) and day 5 (seasons) of @jonsa-week

Rated mature, major character death

3. Melting In My Hand

Chapter title from ‘Misty’ by Kate Bush

A widow at twenty-five and her only experience with marriage being quite a horrendous one, Sansa has no intention of ever getting married again.

That's until she meets a handsome young soldier in a pub.

After fifty-five years of marriage, two children, five grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, Jon and Sansa are still happy. But then disaster strikes.

Sansa is twenty-five.

She and her friends have all signed up as army nurses. She wanted to spend her last night before leaving in peace and quiet, but somehow she let Margaery talk her into coming along to a pub. A group of soldiers awaiting deployment are spending their free night here as well and the girls are giggling too loudly as they try to catch the boys' attention.

Because that's what they are: boys, all ranging between the ages of seventeen and nineteen - perhaps one or two can boast to be twenty or twenty-one - and they have no idea what's waiting for them. The Knights of Summer, her mother would have called them.

Sansa feels out of place, being not only the oldest of their group, but also a widow. She can't say she regrets her husband's death, she's too relieved to be rid of him. Joffrey was a vulgar bully and at times she can still feel the bruises and cuts that used to litter her skin during their marriage. Between Joffrey and leering Uncle Petyr, she's had her fill of men, so unlike her friends, she's not keen on having an innocent flirt with an army boy.

She takes a sip of her soda, trying to smile at a bawdy joke Margie's cousin Megga just shared and excuses herself. She needs some fresh air and a cigarette.

It's colder than she thought outside, so she wraps her coat more tightly around her as she tries to light a cig. The flame of her lighter keeps flickering out and suddenly a pair of large hands cup around hers to shield it from the wind. His head's bent down, but she recognises the unruly dark curls. He's one of the soldiers from inside the pub.

"Thank you," she mutters.

He glances up at her with a smirk. "You're welcome, Miss."

Their eyes meet, and even in the dark, she can see colour flooding his face. His lips part in surprise and she instantly drops her cigarette, fleeing back inside.

She tries to ignore him for the rest of the evening, overwhelmed by all the beauty she can suddenly see and what it means.

It's not until later, when Margie is talking to her handsome stranger and lightly brushes her hand over his shoulder, that Sansa can't take it anymore.

She stalks over to them, heels clicking rhythmically, and practically shoves her friend aside.

She's not even sure what she was planning to do, but now that she's close enough to count his eyelashes and study the curve of his lips, she doesn't hesitate.

She cups his jaw, lightly scratching his wispy beard and dives in to kiss him deeply, encouraged by the hoots and delighted shrieks of their respective groups of friends.

I loved a maid as white as winter

with moonglow in her hair

Sansa sighed as she pulled the brush through her thick, snowy mane. They'll find him, she kept telling herself. He'lll be fine, the mantra repeated itself over and over again in her head.

She couldn't allow herself to think otherwise. Oh, how she wished she could be out there looking for him herself, but she would be of no use to them.

I shouldn't have sent him out by himself. Jon made the trip to the grocery store just around the corner and the bakery across the street almost weekly. The doctors said it was good for him to keep doing things independently as long as he could. The worst that had happened so far was that he got angry because the butcher wouldn't sell him any bread.

It's all my fault. She'd given him a list, told him exactly where to buy what, but perhaps she should have waited until she felt better and could have gone along with him, or asked Minisa for help. It's just that she didn't want to impose on her daughter's life more than she already did.

Suddenly the front door swung open and she pushed herself to her feet, bracing her hand on the table to keep herself steady.

"We were out of dog food," she could hear Jon explain to Mina. "Your mother forgot to put it on the list."

They hadn't had a dog in seven years and the store on Torrhen's Square he went looking for had closed nearly two years ago. When he couldn't find it, he'd tried to head home again, but he had forgotten how to get back.

***

The next morning she woke up to Jon opening drawers, a scowl fixed on his face. At first she'd asked him what he was looking for whenever he did that, but she'd learned it often set off his temper.

He glanced up to find her standing in the doorway and beamed at her. She was fond of his smiles, they made him look fifteen years younger and incredibly handsome.

He closed the distance between them quickly - he was still in an excellent physical condition for his age- and cupped her cheeks to kiss her. Suddenly his hands slid down her neck and collarbones and he started to fondle her breasts.

"Jon!" she cried out, swatting his hands away as she pulled back. "We're too old for that nonsense!"

She pushed past him to get to the kitchen. She almost jumped when she suddenly felt his hand groping her arse. "I can't help it, lovely girl," he whispered into her ear. "You drive me insane."

***

She was sitting on the bench under the cherry tree, trying to focus on her knitting, but the doctor's voice kept echoing inside her head.

She'd been able to hear the words, but she couldn't make sense of them. Lymph nodes. Metastasis. Early stage 4.

"Is it treatable?" Minisa had asked. Her stomach churned as she recalled the look of pity on the oncologist's face. He'd murmured excuses like "your mother's age" and "with her medical history."

I'm still sitting right here! part of her had wanted to scream, but she'd just felt too numb.

"How long?" she remembered asking.

"Difficult to tell, probably six months."

Dying didn't particularly scare her, being left behind was always worse, but she couldn't leave Jon, not now.

"Should we tell him?" Mina had asked after explaining the situation.

The doctor had rubbed his chin and removed his glasses, wiping them as he pondered her question. "I believe it's best to consult the physician who's treating your father before making a final decision," he'd stated eventually. "But I'd advise against it. He won't remember most of the time, and when he does, it might be too much to handle."

***

So Sansa tried to cope by herself, keeping her husband in the dark on the fact that she was dying. She willed her body to stay strong, for him. The doctors and her daughter and son had all agreed that she shouldn't tell Jon, but she kept worrying. What's going to happen when he wakes up one day and I'm gone?

She was aware telling him probably wouldn't make any difference, but it still hurt so much to lie to him and to bear this pain alone. She had Arya and Brienne, but neither of them were good at talking, and Sansa would never burden Mina or Ned with her own troubles. She was their mother, for Seven's sake!

Jon had been her rock for over fifty-five years, and though he was still with her, she was on her own now. Some days she felt like the Jon she'd known and loved for so long was already gone.

Jon would have never shoved her aside in frustration. Jon wouldn't stand in front of their open window stark naked, glaring and shouting at the people who pointed and laughed behind their hands.

***

Brienne and her husband Jaime were visiting. They'd just finished their tea and cakes when Jaime proposed they all play a board game together. Sansa tried to distract him by asking how his brother Tyrion was doing, not wanting to explain that Jon was no longer able to remember the rules to most games.

She couldn't make Jaime change his mind however, especially after sweet oblivious Jon agreed, both men's competitive streak coming out, but she did manage to steer their choice toward a relatively simple card game.

Yet twenty minutes in, Jon suddenly leapt to his feet, roaring: "You're all cheating!" and threw his cards in Jaime's face.

"Hey, sit down, caveman!" Jaime urged him, as Sansa hid her flushed cheeks behind her own cards.

"You're a fucking cheater, Lannister!" Jon threw back at him, banging his fist on the table.

Sansa thanked all the gods Brienne had the presence of mind to stop Jaime from taking it any further by putting a hand on his arm.

***

Jon was walking around naked again, but at least he wasn't near any streetside windows this time. He grinned at Sansa as she let her eyes trail down his body, desperately wondering how she was going to convince him to put on some clothes.

Suddenly he slapped his own arse. "I have a nice butt, don't I, Sansa? I've seen you looking at it. I know you want to get your hands on me," he purred, trying to wink at her.

She decided to indulge him, taking a step closer and admitting: "You caught me!"

Suddenly her vision became blurry and her knees buckled. The last thing she heard was his panicked cry: "Sansa! Sansa, baby! What's wrong?"

***

Five months later.

Jon hobbled on through the black-and-white streets of Wintertown, the snow flurrying down around him. For some reason he'd woken up in a hospital bed that morning, and though his joints felt a little stiff, he was quite sure he was not ill, so he had no business being in a hospital.

The world around him looked drab and dull. It hadn't always been like that, but he couldn't remember when or why it had changed. When he closed his eyes, he could still see colours: blue and pink and cream, and a rich rusty red that smelled like lemons and lavender.

He couldn't recall the exact significance of those colours and that scent, but he knew he had to get back home, where she'd be waiting for him, and everything would be fine.

Her name was on the tip of his tongue. He wet his lips, trying to remember. He kicked the lid off a trash bin, huffing in frustration.

He crossed the street when he saw a florist shop, going in to buy a pot of jonquils. After another forty-five minutes, he'd finally found the house with the cherry tree.

He patted his pockets, looking for a key. When he realised he must have forgotten it, he knocked on the door, but no one came to answer it. How foolish of him! It was the middle of the day, she must still be at work.

He sat down on the bench under the cherry tree and decided to wait for her. It was colder than he'd realized. He rubbed his hands together, blowing hot air into them, wishing he had a warmer jacket.

He pushed himself to his feet, groaning at his protesting joints and started pacing the front garden. He didn't really keep track of time, but after a while he decided to get comfortable on the bench again. She won't be long now.

He could feel fatigue settling in his bones and his head slumping to his shoulder. He jerked up, suppressing a yawn. She won't be long now.

He felt so sleepy suddenly. He'd just close his eyes for a minute.

A delicate hand touched his shoulder. "Jon," she whispered. He blinked, shielding his eyes from the bright light that suddenly invaded them.

She was standing in front of him in a lovely blue sundress, long auburn hair framing her face in soft curls. "Sansa?" he asked, his voice rough.

She beamed at him. "Come."

He took the hand she was extending to him without hesitating.

[harrisonkitteridge-blog]

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the shadows. He was also the bearer of the light that drove out the darkness.

Before Holmes Met Watson by Harrison Kitteridge

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the shadows. He was also the bearer of the light that drove out the darkness. Living out this paradox could be quite stressful. Obfuscation. Lies. Deceit. He had always been fascinated by people’s attempts to subvert the truth while living in a world in which there were cameras everywhere, constantly recording, sending everything back to The Archive, where anything governments or other powerful entities hadn’t obscured was searchable. Everyone could see everything, know everything about everyone else. “The Age of Transparency” was how the headlines had heralded The Archive coming online. Mendacity now took careful planning. Saying you were working late when you were really at a seedy motel rolling around on the bed with a colleague was a nearly impossible sell now. As were most forms of impersonation. The ubiquity of biometric readers employed to do everything from unlock doors to sign for packages meant most impostors quickly set off alarms when The Archive recognised someone was in two places at once. It had become so difficult to hide, and detective work was about uncovering concealment. The spotlights The Archive shone into people’s lives made Sherlock’s illuminating insights seem like a flickering candle, and he feared he was obsolete.

As a boy, Sherlock would spend hours upon hours neglecting his school assignments to browse the Personal Archive Files of strangers. He watched in fascination as the chain reactions of their ill deeds accelerated towards their explosive finales. All the evidence was there. The outcomes were predictable, yet the affairs, the embezzling, the betrayals always seemed to blindside the victims. They see, but they do not observe, Sherlock often thought. More damningly, they thought The Archive could do the observing for them. Everyone was watching everyone else all the time, so the misapprehension wasn’t wholly unreasonable. Nevertheless, it didn’t erase the simple consequence: Sherlock Holmes was a detective who almost never had any cases to solve. If you are what you do, what did it mean that he was constantly doing nothing?

#

John Watson was a doctor and a soldier. He lived and worked in a war zone. He saved the dying and on rare occasions had to pick up a gun and kill the living. He’d been trained well to do both. He preferred the former. There were moments when John was alone that it seemed to him his life was some sort of dream or even a simulation. War was terrible and chaotic and hellish. It was also thoroughly ludicrous. There was always something to do, though, and that left you with little time to realise that nothing made sense. The why of the fight was impossible to appreciate when you were in the valley of death. And when you stepped away far enough to look in at the mass slaughter, you realised the why was never good enough, and the true insanity was anyone thinking the depth of the suffering was justified. John struggled with the contradiction in himself: he was a healer and a killer. There was something he enjoyed about the risk of standing next to that yawning, dark abyss. He tried to ignore that part of himself and focus on the bit that spent exhausting hours in the operating theatre patching up the wounded. He thought of himself as a surgeon first, but his title belied that. Everyone called him Captain Watson.

Day One: Shopping

Adaptation. It is the driving force behind evolution. The species that is better adapted to its environment is more likely to survive. Humans are incredibly adaptable. We can adjust to almost any circumstance, survive nearly anything. John Watson pondered these things as he broke into a clammy sweat and hid behind one of the large potted plants lining the gleaming hallways of the mall. He’d adjusted to life in Afghanistan, to the gunfire, the bombs, the blood, the death. Calm in the face of chaos had become his default setting, and all this… peacefulness had his nerves singing and his pulse racing. He wished he’d thought to spend his leave in his hotel room and just have everything he needed delivered: food, spirits, companionship, but especially the items he’d promised to pick up for his mates stuck back in Kabul. He’d thought the novelty of going to one of the few remaining shopping centres would be a bit of a lark, but he hadn’t realised just how much he had changed. He’d always managed to take leave with friends he’d been deployed with, and without that familiar buffer he was flailing wildly and on the brink of a panic attack all because he was in a shopping mall that was too brightly lit and filled with civilians whose situational awareness rivalled that of a thick plank. He was beginning to get strange looks.

In another part of London, Sherlock Holmes was doing shopping of his own.

They claimed the stigma had been removed, but it hadn’t. He could see it in the eyes of the pedestrians who saw him make the left turn into the building; he could see it in the eyes of the staff. There was always a measure of contempt chased with a sharp spike of moral superiority. It was the pity that rankled him the most, though. But he kept coming to the Controlled Substances Dispensary because he knew the molar concentration of what he was getting down to four decimal places. The precision of it all provided a sort of comfort, although he found the blankness of the stark, unadorned white walls sinister – their cool inhospitality was quite deliberate.  He provided a retinal scan and was assigned a number. He’d long realised that no one liked to sit by the vents on the north side of the room, which blew arctic blasts in the summer and seemed to ooze positively equatorial humidity in the winter. It was early spring, so predicting the temperature was a bit chancier, but he took his usual seat directly under the openings and was shocked to find the problem seemed to have been repaired. A pleasant, gentle breeze wafted over him, and, as he watched a young man (early twenties, art student, hooked on some variant of methamphetamines) shamble towards him, he knew his day would go poorly.

“Nice day for it,” the art student said, smiling as he took the seat right next to Sherlock.

“Is it?” Sherlock replied, giving him a scathing look.

“I suppose not,” the young man said, recoiling slightly. At least he had the decency to take the hint and move a few seats away. Sherlock sighed in relief. He abhorred familiarity.

Back in the shopping centre, John had abandoned his cover and made his way into a supermarket. He’d picked up some chocolates and biscuits for his colleagues at the hospital and was consulting his list for what to buy next when he came to the fresh fruit section. He paused in front of what seemed like acres of bananas and stared. The sheer abundance of it all seemed preposterous to him. It’s all that unblemished yellow, he thought. He picked up a hand of seven and added it to his basket. He consulted his list again and headed off to find some authentic hot pepper sauce for his Jamaican anaesthetist.

Sherlock’s number was called, and he was ushered into the back room to receive his standing order. He’d never seen the woman manning the inventory before. She had brassy red hair and a nosy demeanour. He braced himself.

“Mr Holmes?” she asked, and her nasal inquiry made him want to throw things. Of course he was Mr Holmes. Hadn’t his number just been called? Hadn’t he just been escorted in?

“Yes,” he replied. He could hear the faint whir of the machinery retrieving his medicine and felt the blood in his veins pulse a bit faster. The vials popped up from beneath the counter.

“A bit strong, isn’t it?” the clerk said, examining one of the labels.

“I prepare the final solution myself,” he replied, reaching for the vials. She withheld them.

“And you’re allowed?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, clenching his fist. “I’m allowed.” He stared at her without blinking, and after several moments she handed him the vials.

“Would you like some syringes?” she asked.

“I have my own, and I don’t share,” he replied, tucking the vials into his coat pocket. Part of him didn’t like the profound sense of relief he received from feeling their slight weight set him ever so marginally off balance. But hearing them clink together, knowing he had them if he needed them set his mind at ease in a way nothing else could.

As Sherlock left the dispensary, he witnessed a strange phenomenon. In the distance, dark objects were falling from the sky. At first, he thought they might be delivery drones that had been clumsily hacked and were part of an inept terrorist attack, but they were the wrong size and shape. In addition, there were no wailing warning sirens, no people running, no screams. There was only an ominous silence that seemed to have swallowed the noise of the city.

John heard them smack into the pavement wetly before he saw them out of the corner of his eye. It took every ounce of his self-control not to yell “Incoming!” and dive into an improvised foxhole. But they weren’t bombs; they were birds, plummeting from the sky like giant black hailstones, already dead before they hit the ground.

“It’s raining crows,” a woman wearing a mauve dress stated as their small crowd stood and watched disbelievingly as the avian projectiles exploded as they hit the pavement, splattering blood and entrails astonishing distances. “It’s raining a flock of crows.”

“A murder,” John said mostly to himself. “That’s what you call a flock of crows.”

“I think they’re ravens,” a man said, grimacing at the carnage and flinching at each thudding splat. “They roost in the bell towers of some of the cathedrals and in the Tower of London.”

“What are they called?” a boy asked, pulling at John’s sleeve. “If crows are a murder, what are ravens?”

John looked down at the boy. He was slender to the point of breaking, white as milk, and something about the seriousness in his pale eyes and the wildness of his dark curls set John on edge. He reminded John of the stories of the Daoine Sith his grandmother had told him. The strange boy standing there looking like one of the faie, the dead birds, the constant prickle down his spine – it all seemed to augur ill, and suddenly he wished to be back in Edinburgh starting his medical studies. That’s when he’d been happiest. Hadn’t he? “An unkindness,” John finally answered, feeling compelled by the child’s unwavering stare. “They’re called an unkindness.”

Day Two: Gardening

It was dark, dank, and everything smelled of shit. But that was how you grew magic mushrooms, Sherlock mused to himself. Psilocybe Stantonia to be precise – powerfully hallucinogenic and highly in demand. They were the fungal equivalent of precious gems – more valuable than truffles even – and, while not strictly illegal, trading in them was a dodgy business. But dodgy businesses were Shinwell’s speciality, weren’t they? That and bare-knuckle boxing.

Sherlock Holmes had met Shinwell Johnson at The Ludus, an underground club dedicated to the pugilistic arts. It was a dark, cave-like, medieval sort of place with sawdust on the floor to soak up the blood and sweat. In the pits of The Ludus there were only two rules: no weapons, and you couldn’t kill anyone – it was too much bother to clear up the bodies. Oh, and there were no rounds; the bout ended only after one of the fighters couldn’t get up any more. Shinwell had grown up there, taking on his first fight at the age of sixteen. Twenty-five years later, he had seen every combination, every dirty trick, and the vastness of his experience more than made up for the slight slowing of his reflexes. He also still had a right hook that could drop a mule.

Sherlock’s first night at The Ludus had become the stuff of legend. According to Shinwell, he had “fooking swanned in like His Majesty, the King” and stunned the onlookers by requesting to fight in the open category. To keep the fights fair and the bets coming in, there were rough weight classes, and the organisers tried to match fighters by skill. In keeping with the spirit of the founding of the club, however, there remained the open category where you could fight any and all comers. Over time, it had supplanted the heavyweight class, but every now and then some arrogant sod swaggered in and received a spectacular thrashing. There were a flurry of bets on Sherlock’s fight, and when he stripped to the waist and revealed the track marks on his left arm, the odds against him surviving more than three minutes soared to 50-to-1.

Shinwell had objected on principle – an addict wasn’t in the proper state of mind to appreciate the consequences of the suicidal decision he was making. That, and he was obviously a toff. If he died, it would bring the filth. Shinwell had nearly come to blows with the bookmakers, and only his long history prevented him from being thrown out and barred. He looks made of marble, Shinwell thought as he observed the swathe of pale skin stretched over Sherlock’s thin frame. He’ll shatter at the first blow. Shinwell had watched in concern as Sherlock meticulously wrapped and taped his hands. At least he knows to do that much, Shinwell thought, some of his worry easing. As he watched Sherlock warm up and stretch, he began to wonder if he’d jumped to a parlously mistaken conclusion. Yes, the man needed feeding up, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and Shinwell recognised the camouflaged strength in his muscles and tendons that practitioners of kung fu called “iron wires”. But more than that, it was his economy of movement; there was a precision there that could only be the product of a disciplined mind. He began to shadow box, beginning with some simple combinations, and Shinwell choked on his chips. God, but his hands were fast. His strange, almost translucent eyes were clear and focussed, and there was something distinctly lethal lurking behind them. Shinwell had seen enough of them in his time to know: The man was a killer. Shinwell downed his pint, headed back over to the bookies and placed all of his night’s winnings on Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s opponent went by the moniker The Butcher, and he was a literal giant – enormous, thick-necked and notoriously able to absorb punishing blows. But he had grossly underestimated Sherlock’s speed, skill and strength. The quick combination that had The Butcher stunned then out cold before he hit the ground came after only thirty-five seconds. Shinwell had never heard The Ludus so quiet. Sherlock asked to fight again, and Shinwell let his substantial winnings ride.

The next bout remained one of the most beautiful fights Shinwell had ever witnessed. Sherlock’s adversary, a skilled mixed martial artist who called himself The Sword, was much more careful than The Butcher had been, circling Sherlock warily, trying to get the measure of the new phenomenon. Sherlock waited patiently until he had no choice but to attack, and Sherlock seemed to melt away only to surge back towards him, raining exquisitely placed blows to his vital organs. Shinwell almost wept at the elegance of the execution. Wherever The Sword went, Sherlock was there first. Can he read minds? Shinwell thought as he watched Sherlock sidestep a blow that would have at least glanced anyone else and viciously box his opponent’s ears. Shinwell knew how disorienting that ringing inside your head could be and was unsurprised when The Sword met his end.

Sherlock retreated to his corner seeming deaf to the cheers at his triumph. He was glistening with sweat and flushed, his dark curls nearly sopping wet. Shinwell was straight enough to calibrate a level, but he realised the enigmatic stranger could have nearly anyone in the room if he thought to ask, but he seemed uninterested in making any acquaintances. He had come alone and wasn’t celebrating what were thrilling victories that would be talked about for ages. He quickly cut the tape from his hands, towelled off and dressed. When he left, ignoring the many offers to buy him a pint, Shinwell followed.

Too many egos had been bruised and too much money lost for there not to be an attempt at retaliation. Sure enough, a group of The Butcher’s mates already had Sherlock cornered when Shinwell exited the building.

“Now, now, lads,” Shinwell warned. “No one likes poor losers.” There were enough of them to subdue someone of even Sherlock’s prodigious skill, but with Shinwell added to the mix, the odds had shifted out of their favour, and they wandered off muttering threats.

“I could have managed,” Sherlock said.

“Of course you could,” Shinwell replied. “There’s nothing like a good street brawl, though, is there?”

“I suppose not,” Sherlock said, something approaching humour entering his expression. At that moment, Shinwell Johnson decided to adopt Sherlock Holmes. He was an absentee parent, but Sherlock found he could count on him whenever another pair of fists were needed, and Shinwell actually had someone clever to consult about his schemes. That’s how they’d ended up covered in shit, harvesting mushrooms in a derelict greenhouse.

“How long will it take you to test them, then?” Shinwell asked.

“Most of the night,” Sherlock replied, looking at Shinwell’s thrice broken nose and scarred knuckles. All the abuse he had taken would soon tilt him towards a dilapidation that matched the disrepair of the greenhouse they had just been picking through. Sherlock turned away, wondering if he had caught a glimpse of his future.

#

Approximately 40,000 feet above, a military transport plane had just reached cruising altitude. One of its passengers was John Watson. He hated flying. He wasn’t frightened of it or anything; he just found it depressing. Shouldn’t there be some sort of teleporter that beamed you thousands of miles away in seconds? Or at the very least a hyperdrive that could complete the journey from London to Kabul in minutes not hours. What on earth were they doing on an aeroplane in this day and age? He sometimes wondered if they were part of the problem – he and his colleagues. Ready bodies to throw in front of the canons and pull the triggers made the decision to fight more palatable than it should have been, and violence and war thrived on fear. Fear is a powerful motivator, but it is also the destroyer of dreams. They’d stopped dreaming, hadn’t they? They lived perpetually crouched in a defensive position, their minds crippled by the uncertainty wrought by decades of instability.

Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, John rifled through his bag in search of something to eat. He was slightly overwhelmed by the variety of snacks he’d crammed into his baggage, but he managed to decide on some savoury crackers and a paradoxically firm but creamy new variant of White Stilton. He offered some of his meal to his neighbours, who gladly accepted in lieu of army rations. The crackers were crisp but not hard and flaked pleasantly on the tongue. The seasoning was well balanced if just the tiniest bit over-salted, and the cheese complemented it well. Some wine was in order, John thought in disappointment. Curious about the ingredients, he read the label as he bit into another cracker. Rosemary, thyme, and (yes!) that was a bit of dill. He didn’t have a sophisticated palate, but he grew up with a father who was an excellent cook, and his mother had kept a small herb garden in the back yard. John was often called to help with the weeding and harvesting. As light as the work had been, he had always complained.

“Johnny,” his mother would say. “I want you to always remember that we are connected to the soil. We have to respect it.” And she would plunge his hands into the wet earth and laugh as he grimaced.

He’d made her stop calling him Johnny when he was a teenager. It had seemed so important then. When his parents had left him at his dormitory that first day at medical college, their eyes had been shimmering, and his mother had embraced him. “I’m so proud of you, Johnny,” she’d said, ruffling his hair. He’d blushed and smoothed his hair down, embarrassed for his roommate to see him being coddled. The insane idiocy of youth: making people ashamed of being loved.

“I told you to stop calling me Johnny,” he’d said, not wanting her to leave but desperately needing to be out on his own.

“She’ll call you whatever she likes,” his father had said gruffly, pulling him into a tight hug. “Work hard,” he’d admonished.

“I will,” John had promised.

That was the last time he’d seen them. The accident had been so bad they’d had to close the caskets. Everyone told him he should have sued the automobile manufacturer and the company that had made the self-piloting software, but that would have meant reliving it all, thinking about them like that. He couldn’t have borne it. Someone else had brought the court case, and he’d eventually received part of the settlement. He gambled the money away over the course of a single weekend.

John had started an herb garden many times over the years, and each time neglect had caused the plants to wither and die. He lived a soldier’s life, and it censured the delicacy required to make things grow.

Day Three: Gifts

Besides the quaintness of the mode of transport, the thing John hated the most about flying was how shattered he always felt after a long trip. It didn’t matter if he’d had a good kip and drank his weight in fluids; he always got off the plane feeling disorientated, dehydrated and in the mood to punch things. It’s all that recycled air, John thought, blinking to try and moisten his arid corneas. Kabul was parched, and so was he.

John was taken aback by the immense relief he felt when he entered his stark quarters. The tightness in his chest had eased with each second he got closer to the base, and the sight of his cot, camp stove and canteen almost brought him to his knees. This temporary structure in the middle of a war zone, these humble necessities created more of a feeling of home than the country of his birth. Part of it was his comrades-in-arms. The smiles and warm greetings of “Captain Watson” provided succour he hadn’t quite realised he’d needed. There were people here who knew him, who valued him. There was also a bracing sort of comfort in how unequivocal the mortal threats that surrounded them were. Death comes to us all, but for most it was an abstraction. Its proximity removed some of the fear. John found there was a certain purity in living in purgatory. Afghanistan was filled with friends and foes bent on destruction; England was filled with strangers. John strongly preferred the former.

As news of his return filtered through the base, his surgical team, poker and rugby mates all dropped by to welcome him home with warm hugs and claps to his back. And this was his home. He could see that now. He swallowed over something tight in his throat and emptied his luggage onto his cot. He sorted through the gifts he’d brought back, feeling a bit like Father Christmas. Nearly all of them had asked him to see if he could find the sweets and biscuits that had been their favourites when they were children. John supposed it lessened the sense of insecurity somehow, brought them back to a simpler time, made massive problems seem solvable. A few bottles of spirits also made the rounds. Those were for a bit of fun over a game of cards or to obliterate even temporarily the memories of the particularly bad days when it seemed they’d wandered into hell itself and the Devil had everything turned up to eleven.

John could spin a good yarn when he was in the mood, and his recounting of his sojourn to the mall had his visitors in stitches. He left out the bit about the ravens, because it seemed like too ill an omen. None of the gathered were religious or superstitious, but imagery had the power to lower morale, and, as an officer, it was his duty to keep their spirits up, even if he had to sacrifice a bit of his pride and admit he’d been overwhelmed enough by his shopping expedition to take cover behind indoor shrubbery.

They all shared a bit of scotch, and John listened as they recounted what he’d missed. Thankfully, there’d been only a few minor skirmishes, and, while any single death was keenly felt, the days when the bodies (or what was left of them) had to be stacked like cords of wood were nearly impossible to manage.

A few hours later, John was on his own again. There was one gift left in his bag. Once he’d stumbled across the snow globe with the single, blazing red poppy inside it, he couldn’t leave it behind. He’d even taken the time to have it wrapped at the store. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the gift’s intended beneficiary to come and welcome him home.

#

Back in London, Sherlock had managed to wash most of the stink of excrement from him and was in one of the laboratories at St Bartholomew’s Hospital testing the potency of the mushrooms he and Shinwell had collected. Shinwell had a mate of a mate of a bloke who was flatmates with a mycologist. It was a convoluted history to which Sherlock had paid scant attention then routed away from his long-term memory. At the centre of the labyrinth was the claim that this particular variant of Psilocybe had been bred to produce enhanced psychedelic effects. Sherlock’s preliminary tests confirmed that the mushrooms consistently contained much higher levels of the psychoactive compounds than would be expected – enough to defeat the purpose of their creation. The dosage of psilocybin was well above what was ordinarily consumed and would almost certainly poison anyone who consumed them.

Sherlock thought of the greenhouse Shinwell had shovelled full of shit and where he had devoted hours to meticulously minding the spores he’d spent nearly his entire savings on to ensure they sprouted. He called the fruit his “gold nuggets” – they were meant to fund his retirement. There had to be hundreds of pounds of the things.

Shinwell was a good sort for a degenerate, Sherlock thought. They weren’t exactly friends, but there was a measure of trust and loyalty in their relationship that Sherlock felt bound to respect. If the mushrooms had to be scrapped, Shinwell would get spectacularly drunk and instigate a pub brawl, but the next day he would bounce back and find some other get-rich-quick scheme. He always did. But the mushrooms could be salvaged, Sherlock pondered, if instead of drying them and selling them as edibles, the psilocybin were extracted into some sort of tincture that would administer the correct dosage. A new delivery method would set Shinwell apart from his competitors and perhaps even allow him to charge a premium.

Sherlock sketched out some ideas for the extraction and began a rough first attempt at the procedure. In the lab next door, an exhausted graduate student had fallen asleep standing up and missed a crucial step in her experiment, which exploded. It was nothing catastrophic, but it was enough to startle Sherlock into knocking over his equipment and breaking some of his glassware. He cut his hand rather badly and sucked at the gash while he reached for paper towels to staunch the bleeding. He tamped down on the wound and looked for the first aid kit. He spent longer than he’d care to admit awkwardly using tweezers he’d hastily sterilised to remove the splinters himself. He was minutes away from the casualty ward of a major hospital, but he didn’t want to wait for hours to be seen for a laceration, which, while nasty, didn’t appear to need stitches.

After he cleared all the debris from the wound, he cleaned it thoroughly and bandaged his hand. As he replaced the first aid kit, he heard the sound of bees buzzing. How on earth had they found a way in? He turned around and saw an enormous swarm across the room, and his usual fondness for the creatures was supplanted by a deep fear. They were too large, he realised. They were the size of sparrows. They weren’t real.

“I’m hallucinating,” he said.

He was suddenly and violently ill, turning himself inside out vomiting. The extraction. When he’d cut his hand, some of the concentrated extract must have got into the wound. It was being delivered through his blood, and he’d ingested some of it when he’d sucked the injury.

The bees were coming.

There was someone laughing maniacally.

Was it him?

His heart.

He could feel it slowing down.

It would stop.

He would die.

He needed to speed it up.

The cocaine. It was still in his coat pocket. He needed a syringe. He managed to pry the first aid kit back open, sending its contents flying.

Everything was tinted hot pink, and the sound of the bees tasted like burnt roast.

What was he looking for?

He picked up some ointment and some tablets. No, that wasn’t right.

His heart. It was dying. That’s it: a syringe for the cocaine. He rifled through the mess on the floor until he found one. He crawled back over to his work station and pulled his coat down from the stool where he’d laid it. His hands were too big to fit in the pockets, which were filled with tiny crabs. He shook the coat upside down, emptying everything in his pockets onto the floor. The crabs scurried away, and he slithered on his belly on the floor, following the rolling vials across the room.

He ripped the syringe from its packaging with his teeth. His hands were too small to hold it properly. It told him to go away, that men with small hands weren’t to be trusted. He roared at it to be quiet and shoved its pointy mouth into the vial of cocaine, pulling up the plunger to fill its throat and choke it with the solution.

A vein. He had to find a vein.

He injected himself, felt his heart begin to race, stumbled out of the lab into the hallway and collapsed.

KEEP READING

[meganlpie]

A Date with HYDRA

Anonymous asked: Hello!! I’ve had a Bucky x reader idea! Reader is in the same cafe as him, she’s waiting on a date and he’s just there Turns out the guy she’s waiting for is a bad guy. Bucky recognises him so pretends he’s with reader, so the guy leaves. Reader is a bit annoyed but Bucky doesn’t want to give away his identity either so leaves and then later on she’s walking home, the guy tries to attack her but bucky steps in and saves her. It can end anyway :) X

Here you are, lovely! I do not own Bucky or Steve. They belong to Marvel.

Warnings: Violence and a teeny bit of fluff

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader, Steve Rogers

Bucky entered the quaint little cafe, eager to get a cup of coffee. The moment he set foot in the cafe, his blue eyes surveyed his surroundings. It was a habit he’d picked up that he couldn’t quite break. The first thing he saw was you. You were glancing around the cafe and it was obvious that you were waiting for someone. A date most likely.

               Sighing bitterly, Bucky moved to sit down at the only empty table available. It was right next to yours. Before he could sit, the chime above the door sounded again causing him to look up. His jaw immediately stiffened and it took everything in him not to run away at the sight of the man who entered the cafe.

               The man, a HYDRA agent, didn’t even seem to notice the former Winter Soldier. Probably because his metal arm was covered and he didn’t look unkempt anymore. He looked like a regular guy to those who didn’t know him. Bucky almost relaxed when he realized the agent wasn’t there for him. Then, Bucky noticed the agent’s eyes trained on you. Thinking quickly, Bucky stood up again and plopped himself down in the seat across from you.

               "Hey, Doll. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was insane.“ You simply stared at Bucky like he was insane. "Um, do I know you?” Bucky gave a little shrug. “Please just go with it. I’ll explain later,” he whispered. Your face contorted slightly in confusion and irritation. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I’m waiting for someone.” Bucky nodded. “I know.”

               He chanced a quick glance back at the door and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the HYDRA agent was gone. He returned his gaze to you and nearly flinched. You were sitting back in your seat, arms crossed over your chest and an angry fire in your (e/c) eyes. “Did you just scare off my date?” your voice was low and almost threatening.

               "Yes I did. He wasn’t who you thought he was. Just trust me. I know.“ You scoffed and began whispering harshly, "Trust you? I don’t even know you. I’ve never seen you before today and, judging by your behavior just now, I’m sure I don’t want to see you again. Good day.” You got up and stormed out of the cafe. Bucky only let out the breath he’d been holding and looked over his shoulder to watch you go.

               As he turned to face front again, another form caught his eye. It only took a split second for Bucky to realize that it was the HYDRA agent following you. Throwing a bit of cash on the table, Bucky got up and moved as quickly as he could without causing a scene. He left the small cafe and walked in the direction he’d seen you go.

               Rounding the corner, Bucky heard your muffled screams. He ran in the direction of the sound and found you. The agent had you in his arms and was attempting to bind your hands and drag you away. You were fighting back with every ounce of energy and strength you possessed, but the agent was stronger and well trained.

               Ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head, Bucky raced over and punched the agent. The agent dropped you to the ground and began fighting Bucky. You watched from the ground as you took the gag from your mouth. You wanted to scream and attract the attention of a police officer, but it looked like Bucky had things in control. Until the agent drew a gun from the inside on his jacket.

               "Look out!“ you cried as the agent aimed for Bucky. Bucky stuck out his left hand and effectively stopped the bullet. He grabbed the agent by the throat with one hand and pushed him up against the wall. With his free hand, he dug into his pocket and tossed you his cell phone. "Look in my contacts and call Steve. Tell him Bucky needs help and where we are,” he ordered, practically growling. With shaking hands, you found the contact and hit call.

               It only took a few minutes for Steve to find you. “Buck? Everything okay?” Bucky was still holding the HYDRA agent. You were still on the ground, your back against a wall, too shaken to move. In a hushed voice, Bucky explained to Steve what happened. Steve nodded and looked at your trembling form. “Take care of her, Buck. I’ll get this garbage where he belongs.” Bucky finally let go of the agent and slowly approached you.

               "Hey…it’s alright,“ he cooed, keeping his voice soft. He sat down next to you and put a hand on your knee in an attempt to comfort you. You finally looked up, but refused to meet his gaze. He saw the tear streaks on your face. "Doll…look at me.” You slowly turned your head to meet his eyes. “There we go. I know you’re scared, but I-we can help you.”

               "How? Who was that man? How do you know him?“ Bucky chuckled lowly, despite the lump of nerves forming in his throat. "Alright. I’ll explain everything, but let’s get somewhere safer first. I’m going to take you with me. The Avengers Tower is the safest place in the city and from there, we can figure out why that man was after you in the first place.” You nodded and let Bucky help you to your feet.

               "I’m sorry for what I said earlier. Back in the cafe. Thank you for saving me,“ you whispered. Bucky shrugged as if to say it was nothing. "Wait!” you suddenly cried, making Bucky jump. “Did you say you live in the Avengers Tower?” Bucky threw his head back and laughed heartily. Putting your arm around his flesh one, Bucky started walking again. “I did, Doll. Come on. I’ll tell you all about it on the way there.”

(a/n: I hope you like it, anon!)

Tagging: @fairytalesexistxx and @brewsthespirit-blog