#rogersant

[braveclementine]

Chapter 15

Warnings: None

Copyright: I do not own any Marvel characters or locations. However, I do own a few OCs like Elizabeth, Katherine, Stacy, and Jessie. I do not condone any copying of this.

"Y/N, please, can we talk?" Wanda asked.

You sighed. It was early in the morning so only you and the guys- minus Tony and Stephen- were wide awake and working around the farm. Even from where you stood feeding the chickens, you could see Steve, Bucky, and Sam with their shirts rolled up, showing off their muscles, and working in their jeans and leather boots with the cows.

"Yeah, Wanda, we can talk." You muttered, dropping more feed around your feet, before checking the water dishes.

"It's just, I know you're mad about us not coming back for Minerva, but Vis and I just couldn't. We had our twins and it was just going to be to much for us to handle by ourselves. And Jessie, Katherine, and Pietro weren't ready. We don't have a big family like you, Y/N, we can only take care of so many kids at once." Wanda said in a desperate voice. She really wanted you to believe her.

"I know, I know." You muttered and then sighed. "I just keep thinking about Minerva and how much. . . I mean she doesn't even know her brother Wanda."

You did feel a little better, seeing how guilty Wanda looked with that statement. You sighed again, "Are you guys taking her when you leave?"

"We all want to, but if she doesn't want to come with us, then we can't really force her." Wanda said, although the last bit was an obvious lie. They could force her to come with them, but they didn't want that kind of resentment from both her and us. It would probably hurt to much. It was unusual for a soulkid to reject their parent or a soulparent to reject their kid, but on the rare occasions that it did happen, it was extremely painful.

"It's almost been five years Wan." You sighed, but you were starting to feel bad now. "But I suppose if it's what she wants, then you. . . than she can go with you guys. I know it's what's best for her anyways."

"But you love her like your own?" Wanda said.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." You said softly. "And so does Tony, Stephen, and Loki."

"Yeah, I think I could tell." Wanda said with a small smile. "At least if she doesn't want to come back with us she'll have a good home. That gives me some comfort."

I couldn't imagine Minerva rejecting them. They just needed to put in a lot of effort to show that they really wanted her. That was the part that I was wondering if they could pull off.

They would have to reconnect with her. The last time they had seen her, she was around four or six months old. Minerva was going to be in a hard spot for a while.

"Do you want any help?" Wanda asked as you moved to start picking all of the raspberries that were ready on the plants.

"No, I've got this. You can go and see if Fury wants some help with breakfast though. It's his day today and he sometimes has some difficulty with the one eye. Don't tell him I told you that though, he'll never admit it."

"Got it." Wanda said, getting up from where she had been crouching beside you to go back into the farmhouse.

"You okay?" Bucky asked, startling you as you hadn't heard him approach.

"Yeah, I'm fine Buck." You said, plopping the raspberries into the basket. There were actually quite a few bushes and you were going to have to work fast to get them done quickly.

"You want some help?" Bucky asked.

"Thought you were helping out Steve and Sam with the cows?" You questioned, looking up at him.

"They've got it fine without my help." Bucky said with a shrug. "I was actually about to go back in. Where's Clint? I thought he was going to help with the berries today."

"He's milking the goats." You said with a shrug as well. "We're two hands short cause Tony and Stephen are still sleeping in, but that was to be expected."

Tony and Stephen rarely slept, usually staying up through the night. Tony stayed up to tinker in his lab while Stephen would stay up in the library and pour over books about magic. It was always a bit disconcerting when you got up in the middle of the night and they were just wide awake.

You always felt bad about their inability to sleep normal hours like normal people, but this was something they'd dealt with pretty much their entire life and didn't see anything wrong with it.

"If I really cared about having them helping around the farm though instead of sleeping, I would just go to bed with them." You said nonchalantly.

"Fair." Bucky said with a small grin. He sat down next to you and started to pick the berries.

"Bucky I already told Wanda that I don't need any help and if you start helping, she's going to think that I pushed her away because I'm still mad at her."

"Aren't you?"

"No, we sort've figured things out this morning."

"Well, I can be very persuasive." Bucky said, putting a handful of berries into the basket, before leaning over to kiss you passionately. "But you know that."

Giggling, you pushed Bucky away. "Sure thing C-3PO."

"Well that's a new one." Bucky said sardonically, rolling his eyes. "Did Tony come up with that?"

"No. He was going to call you BB-8." You said, lips twitching.

"Why? That thing is so tiny." Bucky grunted.

"Bucky Barnes. BB." You said with a tucked lip smile.

Bucky groaned. "Time to get everyone to start calling me James again."

"Oh? Is that truly what you want, James?" You smirked.

"Oh doll, stop talking. The things you do to me when you say my name like that. Shit and it's not even eight yet." Bucky groaned, fixing the crotch of his jeans, before moving farther down to start picking the blueberries.

You smiled to yourself before you picked up the raspberry basket to bring inside. You put the raspberries in a glass jar, putting it in the refrigerator so that they stayed fresh now that they were off the bush, labelling them with their date so that they were used in time.

Fury and Wanda were cooking in the kitchen together, talking about past missions and things like that.

"Is it weird to be retired?" Wanda was asking.

"A little bit. Especially when you take into account that I'm immortal. But it's not indefinite. We have long lifetimes ahead of us so we may go back to it. We're not going to leave Earth undefended, we've just taken a priority into which missions really need to be done and which ones our agents could handle." Fury said, scrambling up the eggs in one of the large frying pans.

"Yeah, that makes sense." Wanda said softly.

"Is everyone almost done outside?" Fury asked, looking at me.

"Steve and Sam are still taking care of the cows. And I think Clint is still milking the goats, but he ought to be done with that soon. Bucky insisted on gathering the blueberries and blackberries but I think that's it. Well, someone might have to wake Tony and Stephen up-"

"Yeah, I'm not doing that job." Fury said, turning the bacon over.

You laughed. "Yeah no, don't worry. It'll either be F.R.I.D.A.Y. or me. But they don't need to be awake quite yet. They probably had another late night."

You headed back outside to see if Bucky wanted you to help out with the rest of the berries.

Alpine was outside now, rubbing against Bucky's legs and you smiled.

"No." Bucky kept saying to her in sweet voices, lifting the berries up over his head. "you can't have these."

You giggled, coming over and taking the basket from Bucky's raised hands as Alpine climbed all over him.

"Come here Alpine." You said sweetly, scooping her up in your other arm, making sure your fingers brushed over his tented area. Bucky groaned, muttering a curse word under his breath. You headed into the house, meeting halfway with Clint who was carrying the glass jugs full off milk.

"Successful hunt?" He teased, nodding to the berries.

"Extremely successful. Especially for Alpine." You giggled, before lowering the white cat to the floor as you entered the house. She just stared up at you, asking for berries.

"Damn cats gonna get sick one day." Clint sighed. "She watches the bunnies eat the berries and automatically thinks she can too."

"Actually, they can have blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries." You admitted, finally dropping one blackberry for her to eat. "But these are ours."

Clint chuckled. "Can't blame her for wanting them. You grow the sweetest fruits."

You flushed, knowing it was a double innuendo. "Knock it off trouble." You muttered, quickly moving into the main part of the house. Clint laughed behind you.

You quickly filtered the berries into separate jars while Clint took the milk to one of the tanks so that it would churn and purify.

Fury and Wanda were just setting the table and putting out the food. Pietro, Jessie, and Katherine were coming down now.

Some of the kids were awake now, the older ones anyways. Stephen came downstairs, dark circles under his eyes, though he was dressed cleanly. Vera was in his arms and he set her down in her high chair.

"How'd you sleep?" You asked, running your hands up to his shoulders so that you could hug him.

"Hmm? Oh I didn't go to bed last night." Stephen yawned, kissing the top of your head and then moving back so that he could sit down in one of the chairs. "I just got so caught up reading one of the books that I forgot to go to bed."

You tsked. "Stephen. . . "

"I know, I know. I'll get some sleep tonight, I promise." He said, kissing the palms of both your hands and looking up at you with a tired smile.

"It's going to be a slow day today. How about you and Tones take a nap after breakfast." You said, running your fingers through his hair.

"How about you join us if it's so slow?" Stephen teased, pulling you closer to his body.

You giggled, "I would, but then you wouldn't get any sleep now, would you?"

Stephen smirked.

You laughed, kissing the top of his head, before moving away so that you could grab some applesauce for Vera.

"What are we doing today?" Lucy asked as she sat down at the table.

"We're going to show your Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins around the farm, then we're all going to go into town and join the festivities for the Memorial Day festivities. Then we're going to come home and have dinner." T'Challa said.

"Okay!" Lucy said with excitement.

Tony came down the stairs, looking just as tired as Stephen, coming over and sitting next to you and him.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" You asked softly, passing him the bacon platter.

"A couple hours. . . I think." Tony murmured.

Minerva came down the stairs at that moment, making a bee-line for Tony, climbing up into his lap.

"Morning sweetheart." Tony murmured, kissing the top of her head. You gave him a plate so that he could put some food on it for her. Minerva ate in his lap and you could tell that Wanda was looking at the rest of you. It took all of your power not to look over at her. You didn't want her to know that you were aware of her stares.

Although, she might've been able to read your mind.

"Go and take a nap. Both of you." You commanded as breakfast came to a close and the children had scampered outside with their cousins.

Tony and Stephen both shook their heads. "We're fine Y/N. Really."

"It wasn't a suggestions. Now go!" You said, pointing your finger towards the bedrooms.

"Love you gorgeous." Tony said, pecking you on the lips.

"See you in a few hours darling." Stephen said, kissing the top of your head.

They both went upstairs and then you went ahead and finished the rest of the chores that needed to get done.

***

You watched as Vision and Minerva played games together at the booths that had been set up at the carnival. You were chewing on your bottom lip as you watched them. She seemed to enjoy the robots presence. But it made sense that she would get closer to Vis and Pietro first as they were Elizabeth's literal soulmates while Wanda, Jessie, and Katherine were the soulmates of the soulmates.

"Hey!" Steve said, coming up from behind you with Bucky on his heels. Sam wasn't around at the moment.

"Hey." You smiled at them. "What have you been up to?"

"I was remembering the last carnival I was at." Steve said with a small smile.

"Yeah, it was the Stark Expo." Bucky grinned. "Howard Stark showed us one of his flying car inventions. Then Stevie here disappeared to sign up to go into the army. That's the night that changed all of our lives."

"But there were things I didn't get to do that night that I did want to do." Steve said.

"Oh?" You questioned.

"I didn't get to dance." He said. "Dance with me sweetheart?"

"Of course Stevie." You said sweetly. Bucky and Steve took either of your hands, leading you away from the games.

There was indeed a dance area, mostly older couples dancing, although there were a few young pairs, and also a couple of small kids.

Steve pulled you onto the floor, wrapping one arm around your waist, the other clutching your hand. You put your arm around his neck and the two of you danced slowly.

There was some sort of sadness in his eyes as he danced and you were sure that he was thinking about the past.

"Stevie." you said softly. "You don't have to worry about the past anymore. The past is quite literally the past. And we can't do anything to change it."

He was silent for a moment and then said, "You know, I could've. I could've changed so many things, using Starks' time machine."

"But you didn't. Because you know you can't." You said softly. You paused and then asked a question that had weighed on your heart a lot since you'd learned about it. "Do you regret it? Not going back for her?"

Steve's eyes flashed again with that sadness. "You know, Peggy was the only person I ever broke a promise to? I told her I'd dance with her and I never did. But no, Y/N. No. I have you. I have Bucky and Sam. I was stupid for ever even thinking about going back for Peggy. I could never really have what I wanted with her and that was a family. I have you. I have Bucky. I have Sam. I don't regret that I didn't go back. I just wish I could've kept my promise somehow."

You nodded, leaning against his chest. "I'm sorry you didn't get to keep it."

Steve held you a little closer. "I wouldn't say that."

As the dance came to a close, Steve kissed you sweetly, before saying, "You have no idea how much I love you cookie."

"I love you too. . . Captain." You whispered.

His eyes darkened. "Bucky was right. You're being a terrible tease today aren't you?"

You just smiled.

Then Bucky was there, asking if he could cut in for a dance. Steve gave him my hand and Bucky was soon twirling you on the dance floor.

"You alright doll?"

You looked at him. You wanted to talk to him about Peggy and how he had felt about all of that mess. But you had told Steve the past didn't matter. And it didn't. So you didn't ask.

"I'm alright Buck. It was just. . . well it's nothing really." You smiled, leaning into his embrace.

"You can tell me anything doll."

"I know. I just don't think I need to with this." You said with a smile. "I talked to Stevie about something, that's all."

"Well okay." Bucky said, leaning down to kiss you. "By the way, you're a fabulous dancer doll."

You giggled. "Yeah, well, you're leading."

"Don't you think for a second I forgot about this morning." Bucky growled in your ear. "You're gonna spend the night with us tonight."

You giggled. "I look forward to it. . . Sergeant."

You quickly drew from his arms. He made to catch you and you dashed through the carnival. Steve and Bucky were hot on your heels as you giggled and ran.

You saw Tony and Stephen up ahead and they looked over at you when they heard your giggles. Stephen swept you up into his arms, twirling you away as the two super soldiers made another grab for you.

"What are you doing darling?" He asked, turning his back to the super soldiers.

You giggled.

"She's being a bad girl. Come on, give her back." Bucky said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Are you being a bad girl?" Stephen asked, smirking.

You nodded, giving him an innocent look with round eyes. "Very bad doctor."

"Oh bloody hell." Stephen groaned.

"Told you." Steve smirked.

"Why are you being a bad girl?" Stephen growled lowly in your ear.

"Because I like to tease you." you said cheerfully.

Suddenly you spun out of his grip, taking off running again. You giggled when you looked behind you and saw that all four of them were chasing you.

You giggled when Bucky caught you around the waist, before tossing you over his shoulder.

"Oh sweetheart." Steve said, grinning down at you. He looked over at Tony and Stephen, "I think the three of us are going to head home early."

"I think the two of us are going to join you." Stephen smirked.

Steve looked surprised, but then he said, "Well, well, that does sound like fun. What do you think cookie?"

You gave them a thumbs up.

"Words." Tony and Steve demanded at the same time and you could already feel yourself growing wet with their demands.

"Yes Daddy, yes Captain." You teased again.

"That's it, home now." Steve growled.

Oh boy, were you in for a long night or what?

[chemsexholmes]

I do think it's interesting that the actors of the 60s and onwards were so resistant to being typecast, or at least there's an attitude among a certain caste of actor about that sort of thing, when for like, all of vaudeville into the film of the 30s entertainment was reliant on "types".

[fazcinatingblog]

dunno whether to cricket tonight and die in 38 degree heat or

[kingofthewilderwest]

My country music record collecting obsession contributing to Gravity Falls meta was not on my 2024 bingo card but here we go.

One of the earliest country musicians with some sway in the 1920s was Riley Puckett, though I highly, highly doubt that "Pluckin' Jim" Puckett references him.

They used an image of George Jones. Pretty dang famous and respected to this day. Nnnnot exactly some classic yodeler, but known for his Great Voice.

"Hillbilly" was the official name of the genre until the mid-1940s. Yodeling was big in the 1920s and 30s because everyone wanted to be Jimmie Rodgers, but it had a mainstay with the singing cowboy movies - the Gene Autries and Roy Rogerses. They stretched yodeling through the 40s, but by the 50s, yodeling wasn't Country Central. But rock-and-roll was breaking out of country at this time.

George got rolling in the mid-50s and broke out by the end of the decade, so we're not out of the ballpark for some of the joke references. And hey! I will take the George Jones Easter Egg!

George Jones's presence doesn't feel targeted - they tossed him on to make sure their "Cipher is Real" cover was distinct from The Real Deal. See, The Book of Bill is referencing a notorious album cover. Notorious. 75% of what you see is cut-and-paste from the real deal. I love the reference and it's inspired. But in "Cipher Is Real" being an imitation, it's almost a downgrade. "Haddock, what can be zanier than Bill the Over-Toasted Demon Nacho usurping a country album?" May I burn a fantastic new image in your mind.

Move over, "Cipher Is Real." Make way for "Satan Is Real."

This is not parodic. They did this cover. Please give it up for the (highly talented) Louvin Brothers with their 1959 album Satan Is Real.

Let me stress that this masterpiece is not edited. The brothers painted, crafted, and erected sixteen-foot-tall plywood!Satan themselves. Then they just. Set fire to kerosene-drenched tires in an old rock quarry behind their house and posed.

[darsynia]

\o/ Thank you!! I have to laugh because as I was writing it, I was so immersed in the plans I had for it that I guess I just didn't think about how awesome it would be to have them BOTH THERE?? So then it hit me around chapter 2 and I did indeed kind of scream in the corner for a bit. VALID GIF is what I'm saying 💚

((I did a search for 'chris evans scream' and... I don't know what I expected, but this is a JOURNEY))

Just Right | Ch 1

(Steve Rogers/F!Reader, post-Ultron multi-chapter)

gif by @dailystevegifs

Summary:

You've been in love with Steve Rogers for at least a year, but he treats you the same way he treats every other member of the team-- with respect, but nothing more. It takes an inter-dimensional mistake and a whole second, more assertive, actually interested Steve for you to realize that you don't want just any version of Steve Rogers-- you want the one you've been pining for all this time.

Length: 2,998

FIC MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER | MCU MASTERLIST

Ok so the thing is, I adore @ronearoundblindly, and I decided to write her this. The idea I got also very happily fits with my Avengers Bingo square of 'Is it permanent?' It's not my first Steve fic, but it is my first Steve/Reader! I hope you like it Ro.

Reader's nickname 'Dine is pronounced 'Dean.'

Chapter One

You simply can’t believe this is happening.

Fifteen minutes ago, while you were going over proposed alterations to Sam Wilson’s Falcon suit, a person who looked exactly like Steve Rogers walked through the wall right beside you.

“Oh my God!” you’d immediately said. “Do not tell me that Stark created some kind of matter splitter that lets a person walk through walls, please? I live here. I don’t want to put alarm lasers in my bathroom, but I’ll do it!”

Steve had looked behind him at the solid wall and seemed surprised. “I’m sorry miss, but just a second ago, that was a doorway.”

“If you two are trying to distract me out of noticing that the controls for Redwing are different, it’s not going to work!” Sam said, his focus remaining on the sketch you’d mocked up for him.

You’d looked back over to Steve, and that’s when you noticed that something was… off. First of all, you hadn’t designed that uniform, but he did have a few vintage ones still floating around. Second of all, his hair was longer than it had been the previous day at the monthly midday meeting.

The third difference was the way he was looking at you. Admiringly. Something he’d never done before-- you would have noticed. 

Sam asked a question about one of the altered features, and as you went through your explanation, you’d kept an eye on the way Steve was wandering through the large room. He seemed to be growing more and more confused, picking up an item to frown at it, walking around one of the free-standing computer terminals, and generally seeming lost. More than once, you’d caught him looking over at you in confusion.

With alarm bells going off in your head, you had made a decision. “You know what, Sam, I think I just caught a problem with this. Can I fix that and have you go back over it tonight, after the dinner thing?”

“Sure, ‘Dine. How many wings did you sign up for?” Sam had said challengingly.

“Oh no you don’t! That’s confidential information. Not as many as you, that’s all I’ll say.”

“You know it. See ya, Steve,” he’d said on his way out. You’d walked along with him, and once Sam was through the door, you hit a very specific button on the panel next to it.

“I think you know I could probably break through any one of these walls,” Not-Quite-Steve said from across the room. He sounded regretful.

“I mean, you could try, but this room is fortified. We test prototypes here, and not every invention behaves as expected,” you’d replied, a little proud of your deliberate double meaning. The button had sent an alert to just Stark, for now, but it also turned on a live recording of the whole room, displayed in certain spaces all throughout the complex.

“That’s why there are no windows,” Faux-Steve observed calmly. “Basement of the tower?”

You had willed yourself not to react to that. After the disaster with Ultron, after losing Bruce to fury and almost losing Stark to guilt, they’d all moved upstate, away from the bad memories. Was this Steve from their past or a whole other future? Was he really Steve at all?

“What were you doing right before you came here?” you asked, walking slowly over to the locker area. You’d probably fit into a few of the things there, if you had to.

“Arguing with Tony over something I thought he shouldn’t be doing.” He’d offered her a thin smile and slipped his hands into his pockets, like that would make him seem less dangerous. You knew better. “Look, whatever it was, it sent me here, and this ‘here’ isn’t my here.”

Natasha had taught you never to give too much away. “Oh?”

“My ‘here’ doesn’t have--” 

Before Fake Steve could finish his sentence, Stark burst into the room completely suited up, and things had gotten chaotic from there. 

You’re on your way up to one of the open office rooms to write down everything you can remember, but as you get closer to the correct floor, you slow down. You have a bit of a dilemma, and no amount of reassuring yourself is helping.

The sticking point is how you realized something was wrong, what first made you recognize a discrepancy. The longer hair thing will probably be enough, but it isn’t the whole truth. You don’t want to reveal the whole truth, because the whole truth involves something you’ve kept to yourself for over a year.

The real truth is you are head over heels in love with Steve Rogers. Your Steve Rogers, except he isn’t yours. He’s never looked at you the way this one just did.

You haven’t let that be a problem, of course. You’re in your dream job; after being in armor fabrication and development at Stark Industries for years, you’d been recruited by Tony Stark himself to work with the Avengers. It’s been a genuine pleasure creating individual designs that are tailored to each fighter’s strengths and weaknesses, instead of the mass-produced stuff you’d worked on for Stark Industries. 

You’d tried hard not to let yourself show any favoritism, after you’d realized your crush on Steve wasn’t going away. You don’t even call him Steve, except in your own head-- but all of that is at risk right now. You’re tuned to indifference, and the open interest you’d caught a glimpse of today is sending your senses reeling.

“Hey, ‘Dine. Tony sent me up to make sure you’re okay, said you looked a little shaken up.” It’s Natasha, and she’s coming your way down the hall. Now you’re even more shaken, because if Stark noticed, Nat sure as hell will.

“I need to write this shit down, but yeah, a little bit,” you admit. “It’s like if instead of Vision, the model in the cradle was Rogers, and they got him 95% right.” With a 5% ‘thinks I’m cute’ flaw, you don’t say aloud.

Nat follows you inside and stands waiting as you busy yourself with finding an incident report and the exact right pen. You handle it right up until you start writing your name and her shadow darkens the rest of the paper.

“Something you need?”

“You’re freaked out.”

“Well, yeah. If an interdimensional version of St-- Rogers is able to stroll into our test room, we’re going to need some equally interdimensional protections for this place, not to mention a thousand thousand other important locations all across the country!” You’d just picked something out of midair to bluff her, but it’s the truth, and now you’re even more worried. You set down the pen and look up at Natasha. “What if they need him, Nat? What if we can’t send him back?”

“If it’s something Tony built, Tony can build it,” she says pragmatically. “One worry at a time.”

“There she is!”

You’re late to the gathering, and you’re going to have to make up an excuse, because the forty-five minutes you spent dithering over your clothing choices had everything to do with the image you wanted to present tonight. You ended up going with something casual, dressed-down, because as much as you’d felt a little thrill at the way Alternate Steve had looked at you, it had been disconcerting and alien. No way did you want to foster more of that.

You look up and smile weakly at Sam-- until you remember something. “Shit, Sam, your thing! I’m so sorry, I didn’t go back in the room after--”

He comes over and slings an arm around your shoulders, comfort bred by familiarity. “No, I get it. Don’t worry, manufacture isn’t set for another week.”

You relax into the hug, slip a hand around his waist and squeeze before both of you let go. “It’s just that I promised--” This time it’s Sam’s expression that interrupts you.

“You know you design this stuff, you don’t have to act like armor yourself, right? You sensed something right away, didn’t you? And you got me out of the room.”

Stark’s loud, defensive voice cuts through your mumbled explanation.

“-veryone’s giving me shit over this, but I’m not the one who screwed up! And I’m the one who’s going to fix it, so lay blame on the correct Stark! Who is, for once, not me.” He’s been making his way over to you to thrust your favorite beer in your hand without asking. You look around for Sam, but he’s gone. “If anyone should be mad, it’s ‘Dine,” he shouts over his shoulder. In a quieter voice he adds, “Don’t tell them I said this, Brigandine, but I apologize on behalf of my bumbling alternate universe counterpart. Who knows what kind of weird traits IMPOST-Steve has that our version doesn’t!”

You already feel sick, and you haven’t drunk or eaten anything yet.

Stark drags you over to the catered wings and fills a plate for you without paying much attention to the cues you’re trying to give him, which is tipsy-typical. Honestly, you’re kind of grateful; with a plate piled high you’ll have every excuse to focus on your meal instead of the cluster around the Steves. Your gregarious boss at least carries it for you, and you indicate the farthest table. This earns you a bit of a concerned look, but you just clink your beer against his and tell him to shoo.

It’s interesting watching the seemingly identical men holding position, holding court, really, as the various Avengers and associated staff ebb and flow around them. It takes a good hour (and half of your plate) for each person to get some time with the newcomer, after which the lights dim a bit, along with everyone’s senses. This is the open-bar payment for the all-hands monthly midday meeting of the day before. Not all the attendees actually live at the compound; you only see the whole team once a month.

With the lights down low, your corner is practically dark, but when a familiar figure approaches, you know who it has to be.

“Have they settled on a name for you yet?”

“Tony seems to favor ‘Major America,’ which is better than I would have expected,” Not-Steve says as he pulls out a chair and settles into it. He turns his head toward you and smiles, the relaxed, almost-flirty kind you’ve always wanted from him. “I get the feeling that if it weren’t for the contrast in uniforms, most of these people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

You make a non-committal noise and finish off your beer. It takes a few gulps, but he just watches, like there’s anything more to see than an anxious, embarrassed woman incredibly out of her depth.

“What about you?” you ask, afterwards.

“Well, we don’t have this complex, which I think I gave away when we met the first time. Tony asked me not to go too deep into the changes--”

“No, no, I get it,” you interrupt. “There could be something we don’t know about yet.”

“And vice versa, yeah. It might have taken longer for me to figure things out if it weren’t for one of the biggest differences. I’ve never seen you before.”

The half-bottle of alcohol hits you just as he says that, and you stare at him.

“Yeah, seeing Sam so comfortable with a complete stranger in a room that strangers probably shouldn’t be allowed in ticked some ‘danger’ boxes for me,” AU Steve says. 

The light from the only nearby lamp edges his profile in yellow, and you decide to call him Gold Steve in your head, because ‘AU’ is the periodic table symbol for gold, and that’s what passes for clever for you right now. You’re so proud of this that you miss the next thing he says, and have to ask him to repeat it.

“I said, how did you know? You knew right away.”

“Your hair is longer,” you say, a little too quickly.

Gold Steve tips his head sideways and regards you with a look that amplifies your blood alcohol content to dangerous levels. “It’s a subtle difference. You noticed that?”

“For all you know, it’s my job to keep everyone up to regs,” you joke. 

His slow, easy smile is familiar enough, but for the fact that you’re alone together in a dark corner. “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” he says warmly.

It’s time to get out of here before your lost dignity is your only legacy here at the Avengers compound. Already the tipsy feeling is fading, but the Steve Proximity Alarm is blaring at full volume.

You didn’t actually know how accurate the thought was until Gold Steve stands and gallantly (bafflingly) offers his arm, and you hear a second familiar voice behind you.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, is it? She just had the one beer.”

Gold Steve reaches up to rub the back of his neck, clearly chastened. “No, of course. Just instinct, I guess.”

“This is above my pay grade,” you squeak, and set off toward the door. You’d been looking forward to talking to Clint while he’s here. There’s a containment idea you’d had for some of his more dangerous arrows-- but there’s no way in hell you’re staying around to watch Steve Rogers talk Steve Rogers out of paying attention to you.

As you slip through the door, you hear one of them call out, “‘Dine, wait!” but you have no idea which one of them it is.

The next day brings with it a more detailed plan of what to do with Gold Steve. You’re on the periphery and busy with the planned upgrades to Sam and Clint’s gear, so you only hear about it at lunch. 

From Gold Steve himself.

You hadn’t even planned to go to the cafeteria area, but as always, your minifridge is sadly devoid of take-out when it really matters. The kitchen looks safe when you get there at two PM, late as usual, but in your defense, you were really caught up in the creative process. 

One of the things you love about the Avengers Compound is the random thoughtfulness scattered everywhere. In the cavernous freezer, there’s always a supply of various frozen meals, almost as if you were living back at home and digging in your mom’s fridge to find something she’d made two months ago. They’re made biweekly but eaten any old time, and you score a hit on the back bottom shelf: your very favorite hearty soup.

You’re mid-microwave with it when Gold Steve walks in to rinse out his bowl. Seems he’d made the same exact thing. You wonder who helped him, where that person is now, and why Stark had thought it necessary to design a kitchen with only one way in or out. Hasn’t he ever seen Jurassic Park?

“Oh, hello,” Gold Steve says. You aren’t looking over at him, but you can hear the smile in his voice. You don’t answer right away (because your brain is running through a fragmented list of things to say, and every time you grab one it’s garbled. ‘Soup is for the winter,’ is right out. ‘It’s nice to not expecting to see you here’ makes you nearly abandon the kitchen and push past him out of sheer desperation), and he fills the silence for you. “Oh, that smells familiar, is it the soup?”

You nod, hoping like hell that his version of Tony Stark hasn’t designed telepathy.

“Maybe it’s bad form to joke about it, but I wouldn’t mind taking that recipe back with me. If we figure out how to send me, of course.”

If this was your Steve you would have said something like, ‘I imagine we’d just write it down and put the notecard in your pocket.’ You do joke with the guy, it’s not like you never interact. It’s just that those interactions are as platonic as two houseplants sitting on the same indoor windowsill.

The microwave dings, and you excuse yourself to grab the spoon over near where Gold Steve is standing. After a stir and a taste determines it needs more time, you grit your teeth and start the timer for another minute.

“I’m sorry I make you so uncomfortable, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“You don’t!” you lie, but Gold Steve’s crossed arms lay on the guilt too much to ignore. “I’m… not used to the attention,” you say delicately. His brows furrow, and somehow there are still forty more seconds on the timer before you can be saved by the bell. “She who is seen and not heard?”

“I don’t believe that for a second. Sam Wilson hugged you at that thing last night, you don’t get there by being seen and not heard.”

“Yeah, well, I’m one of the only people who love Redwing as much as he does,” you mutter.

To your delight and horror, Gold Steve comes over and rests a heavy hand on the microwave door, inches away from you. “I cannot imagine being in a room with you and not seeing you,” he says.

The traitorous microwave beeps loudly, startling you sideways into his arm for one shocking second. You back away, saying the first thing that comes to your head.

“Why?” You close your eyes tightly as you realize you’re basically asking for a run-down of compliments from the guy, rushing to say, “I don’t mean that. I mean, I do, but I’m just--” 

You hear the sounds of the microwave being operated, and confused, you just stand there with one hand clapped over your mouth, eyes closed. After two loud beeps and the start button, the microwave runs for a few seconds, beeping loudly again. It’s so unexpected that you open your eyes and see Gold Steve with an encouraging look on his face, one hand held out placatingly in your direction.

“Can we start over?” he asks.

Next chapter...

[azriona]

Chocolate Chip Shortbread cookies

(Marks & Sparks copycat recipe)

(for @paula-in-dreamland, because she asked)

So full disclosure: I found this recipe online around ten years ago, but no idea where because the link appears to be broken. Ah well. It's not an exact copycat, but it's good enough for me and I love these better than actual c.c. cookies, probably because of the obscene amounts of butter in each cookie. The originals might be British but I am American so deal with the measurements as is.

Ingredients:

8 ounces (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temp

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/4 tsp salt

1 tsp vanilla extract

2 egg yolks

2-1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips (i sometimes add another quarter cup; you do you)

Instructions:

Cream butter and sugar together for 1-2 minutes. It will be fluffy-looking. Like a unicorn.

Add salt, vanilla, and egg yolks, and beat until smooth.

Add flour one scoop at a time and mix until incorporated. It'll be thick, like peanut butter.

Add chocolate chips. Maybe some more chocolate chips. A couple more? Yeah, that looks good.

Roll out the dough on a floured surface to at least 1/4" thick. (Thicker is fine, too, just adjust your bake time accordingly.) I like to aim for a rectangle the size of a regular piece of paper. (8-1/2 x 11, or slightly shorter than an A4 if you're European and still yelling about how much two sticks of butter weighs. It's 226 gram, btw.)

Cut the dough into even squares or rectangles. Or triangles. Or circles. Or hell, cut out tiny Bucky Barneses for all I care, go wild.

Bake on a lined* cookie sheet at 325F for 12-15 minutes. Cool on a wire rack. (*Lined with parchment paper or silicone mats. You can get cheap ones at IKEA, they're the bomb, and you will never have cookies stuck to your cookie tray again.)

Hide the cookies from your children and your husband, or you will not have any cookies and then you will be sad. Like Bucky Barnes. Probably should have made a second batch of Steve Rogerses or Clint Bartons. Ah well, next time.

[abarbaricyalp]

Ooh okay, "listening to someone’s heartbeat" for SamBucky, please 👀

Laughs evilly

It had been a long time since Bucky had prayed a Rosary. He wasn't actually Catholic. The Rogerses were, not the Barneses. He wasn't really anything, to be honest. But the old set of prayers had come back to him unbidden when he'd seen Sam go down with the building. When he'd thrown himself onto the rubble and started to dig by hand, the rocks beneath his fingers had become prayer beads and each one was a Hail Mary that he'd find Sam in one piece and breathing.

It wasn't just that the building had come down. The entire ground beneath it had opened up and swallowed everything on top of it--righteous, glorious heroes included. And Bucky had had to watch it happen from dozens of meters back, too fucking far away to do anything about it.

Each rock-bead and prayer was accompanied by a litany of Sam's name. Bucky had definitely said Sam's name like a prayer before. And a curse. But more often a prayer. He wasn't sure he'd ever meant it as desperately as he did now.

The Hail Marys lost lines until Bucky's own pleas became nothing more than Sam come back to me Sam come back to me Sam come back to me Sam come back to me Sam come back--

He found, unbelievably, the star of Sam's suit first. He'd already scuffed his fingers raw, so he didn't really care about more damage as he began hauling rocks away almost faster than he could move. He kept losing his footing--his kneeling?--as he worked, but there was Sam, coming out of the cave, back into the world of the living. Bucky unshrouded his face, got a hand beneath his neck and lifted him out of the rest of the rubble.

The skidding and sliding down all of the rock Bucky had just displaced was not graceful and he was going to have bruises and gashes up and down his legs, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything except the man in his arms who wasn't reacting to being out in the sunlight again.

"Sam," Bucky prayed again, familiar plea starting up in his heart and head once more. "Sam, it's okay. You're okay. Stay with me, alright? You came back. You came back. You're alright."

Upon flat ground, he laid Sam out and immediately put his ear down to Sam's chest, checked his pulse at his wrist, and then his neck. He could feel it. Knew Sam's heart must be beating, but he couldn't hear it.

"Hey!" he called without lifting his head from Sam's chest. "Hey! I need medical! I need everyone!"

He clung onto Sam's hand between both of his, folded together like that actually made prayer work, and kept praying to Sam to come back.

. . .

Bucky was very good at getting into places he shouldn't be, even when everyone in a hospital was aware he was going to attempt to get into that place. Usually people left him alone when it was Sam. They were supposed to know that he was family and Sam was his and there weren't arguments about this.

But they were far from their usual stomping grounds and Sam had needed immediate stabilization, so this wasn't a team he knew. Instead, he'd had to break the lock on the door and let himself in during the 35 second lull of the nurse going to investigate the vending machine that had not changed once again.

Sam was in a good bed. Of course he was. He was Captain America. They'd cleared half the floor for him, which Sam would hate when he woke up. There were machines doing important things. Bucky knew what they all were, but he was letting himself focus on the panic and dread taking up most of the space in his head right then.

He pushed the door shut again and drew down the privacy screen a little. It would not stop people from seeing him, but that wasn't really his problem at this point.

Beside Sam's bed, he carefully checked his pulse, the bandages around his head and the early casting on, like, everything. He checked through the bag of belongings set aside on a chair. Then he carefully let himself into the bed, because there was enough room, held himself very still and taut so he didn't put any weight on Sam whatsoever, and laid his ear over Sam's chest again.

This time, he heard his heartbeat, sure as a prayer.

. . .

Sam woke up to pain that was very far away, but also persistent and rude. It made the warm weight on his chest that much more concerning. He was pretty sure if the pain was that far away, everything else should be too. His hand, as he tried to raise it to feel out what was on his chest, certainly felt far away. Like his arm was long, long, long and trapped in a black hole.

"What?" he asked, when he gave up on raising his hand. There was supposed to be more to the sentence, but the pain in his throat was much closer than the rest of it. Tears sprung up to his eyes from the impossible sandpaper burn of speaking. The tears then burned the hell out of his eyes, which felt like he'd poured sand directly into them.

This was not ideal.

"I'm listening to your heartbeat," a familiar voice said. And it was like daylight at the end of a tunnel. Sam knew where he was now. Well, not fully, but Bucky was beside him, so could it really be that bad?

Sam nodded. Bandages scruffed along a pillow behind him. He wondered if talking was any better now. "Is it--" he started, but grimaced and tried to jerk away from the fresh onslaught of pain.

The warm weight on his chest was gone, but a straw was against his lips just a few seconds later, so that wasn't so bad. He swallowed cool water down carefully. It tasted like straight tap. He wondered if Bucky would sneak in a filter for him. Still, the relief was pretty instantaneous. They really needed to figure out a better form of intubation.

"Is it still there?" he finished. It still hurt his throat something fierce, but while that was hurting, he figured he'd try to open his eyes instead. A room swam into bleary view, but Bucky wasn't there.

The weight returned to his chest. Sam closed his eyes again.

Without Bucky laying on it now, Sam was able to lift his hand up to Bucky's hair and kind of pet through it. It got exhausting after half a second, so he just left his hand there instead.

"Yeah," Bucky whispered after a while. Sam almost forgot what he'd asked. "It's still there."

And between beats, Sam could hear Bucky whispering thank you thank you thank you.

[emilybluntt]

The Rogerses together is even cooler. in/sp

[dwellordream]

I’ve been rereading All of Us Honorable and I’m struck by how wonderful, as always, your characterization is. I love watching the Rogerses grow and develop as people, while still acting consistently in line with their very distinct personalities. I especially appreciate how your fics aren’t Everybody Lives AUs, your characters face canon-realistic tragedies and hardships that I feel fleshes them out more.

I was wondering, how did you come up with the initial premise of the AU? Were you looking at the Stark family tree and intrigued by Branda Stark marrying a random Stormlander, and went from there? AoUH has an incredibly unique premise. I greatly look forward to seeing you continue with the sequel, With Their Bones. Cheers.

I think the premise emerged from me wanting to explore the idea of a minor house who aren’t super wealthy or powerful but who are ‘in the shadow of’ larger houses and also the idea of an extended Stark family with cousins and roots in different places.

[ten-cent-sleuth]

A Galling Yoke, Part 6

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for the Can Only Move Your Eyes or Can Only Hear square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 3.2k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

The pounding on your front door commenced moments after you had broken your fast. You and Mrs Rogers exchanged a look before you tidied up your place at the table and turned to watch the parlour door. Stomach full and mind fresh, you were not even annoyed that Sherlock was about to drag you somewhere at an improperly early hour; indeed, you were quite excited to know where.

Rogers stepped through the door with an ever-suffering expression. “Master Oliver Johnson with an urgent message for you, my lady.”

You furrowed your brow but followed your butler to the foyer. Your questions—well, some of them—were answered when you spotted a dust-covered, dirt-smudged young boy rocking on his heels.

“Good morning, Master Oliver,” you greeted him with a smile. “Has Mr Holmes sent you?”

“Yessum,” he said, brandishing a piece of paper from his pocket. Halfway through handing it to you, he widened his eyes and dropped into a deep bow, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the mixed-up formality.

“There is no need for that,” you assured the child as you unfolded the note. Looking up at Rogers and his wife, you said, “I have been summoned to Cable Street.” Apparently, the detective had finally tracked down Miss Algar’s residence.

Your butler’s mouth downturned tightly. “I dislike Mr Holmes dragging you all over the city, ma’am. You have not been made to walk so much in years.”

“Walk? To Cable Street?” interjected Mrs Rogers. “No, indeed! Why not hail a hansom for her ladyship, dear?”

A small smile leapt to Rogers’s face as he nodded and did as bidden, though it fell once more when he eyed the urchin in passing. You forbore a chuckle.

“Your husband is quite protective of his domain, is he not?” you mused.

“Of his domain?” she echoed. “I suppose. I for one am pleased you have found a friend and are getting out of the house, ma’am.”

“I for two,” you quipped, though you were already looking back to the young boy fidgeting with the uneven end of his shirt. “Mrs Rogers, would you please fix Master Oliver a plate? I do not think Lucy shall have finished clearing the breakfast parlour by now, so he may have whatever he likes from there. Should it not be enough for a warm meal, have him see Cook.”

The boy’s face lit up. “Oh, thank ye, m’lady!”

“I thank you, Master Oliver.” You patted him on the shoulder as he hurried to your housekeeper’s side, and his haste gave you pause.

“Mrs Rogers?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Please also prepare some food for me to bring along. I cannot imagine Sherlock has managed to break his fast if he has been investigating this early.”

She smiled. “Certainly, ma’am.”

You left to change for an outing and found the Rogerses conversing in the hall when you returned. The missus handed you a container as her husband said, “A hansom is at the kerb, ma’am. It was quite brisk outside, so I took the liberty of retrieving your cane.”

You accepted it as he handed it to you. “I thank you, Rogers.”

It was Mrs Rogers’s turn to look worried. “Your hands are quite full now. I do wish we had a footman to accompany you, my lady, though I understand why we do not.”

“Fret not, I shall have your aid to the kerb, the driver’s aid to Cable Street, then Sherlock’s aid onwards.”

“Well then,” she said with a sigh and a smile. “Your detective awaits!”

You flushed at such an epithet but did not dare mention it, lest you protest too much. Indeed, Sherlock was awaiting, the tracks that he had worn into the sidewalk nearly visible by the time you arrived at Cable Street.

“You are pacing, sir,” you couldn’t resist stabbing at him as you alighted from the hansom.

“You are late!” he retorted, glaring at you while you paid the driver.

“You must be hungry!”

When surprise and confusion overtook his sullenness, you decided you had won that battle.

“Have you eaten at all today?” you demanded, though you didn’t wait for a response before shoving into his chest the food Mrs Rogers had wrapped. “Break your fast; I shall see if anyone shall receive us at this hour.”

Luckily, someone would: the landlord was rather eager to welcome the great Sherlock Holmes and his titled companion, in fact. The “Lady” before your name might only be a courtesy, but courtesy had its perks.

Unfortunately, the woman who opened the door on which the landlord knocked was not as eager. While he launched into a whispered argument with her, Sherlock tapped on the back of your left hand, which rested upon the handle of your cane.

“Is this a fashion statement, then?” he murmured.

You chuckled and shook your head. “I suppose most people assume so. Rogers customised it after I had complained it was too fashionable and therefore too impractical to actually support me when my knee is particularly troublesome. Anyone who notices that it looks not quite like the typical lady’s walking stick would sooner accuse me of eccentric taste than of a hidden injury.”

“Mm… Clever.” He did not lift his hand off of yours, and you swallowed hard.

Before you could make sense of either his compliment or his ongoing contact, the woman threw her hands in the air, drawing your attention back to the flat.

“All right!” she bit out. “I shan’t be getting any peace anyhow if you’re so insistent!”

The landlord grinned. “You shan’t be regretting it, Lydia.” Turning back to you, he bowed and said, “My lady, Mr Holmes, may I introduce Mrs Kinley to you? She is the live-in nurse and maid of the lady you seek, Miss Algar.”

Mrs Kinley’s face was pinched as she scanned you two. “Well, come in, would you? The sooner you start your business, the sooner you get through it.”

You followed her inside, sharing a look with Sherlock.

“What in Christendom could you possibly want with the miss? She is not much for talking these days, you know.”

“That is quite all right,” said Sherlock. “We only have a few questions for Miss Algar, and then we shall be on our way.”

Mrs Kinley gave him a strange look but did not reply. To your shock, she barged into a bedroom without knocking or announcing herself.

“Mrs Kinley—” you began to admonish her, but you pulled up short upon seeing Miss Algar. Pillows propped her up in the bed, quilts tucked neatly around her. Her arms, pale and frail, lay at her sides, and her head would have lolled just as lifelessly if not for the brace supporting her neck.

You felt Sherlock freeze behind you, too. “Er,” he coughed, “is Miss Algar…? Perhaps I ought to wait outside while she gets dressed.”

Mrs Kinley snorted. “I am paid to feed her, to wash her, and to move her every few hours so that she does not develop bed sores. I am not paid to change her clothes merely for gentleman callers. What impropriety can she get up to in her condition, anyhow?”

“Her condition?” you echoed weakly. The lift and fall of Miss Algar’s chest was barely visible beneath her covers, but you watched for it obsessively.

Shaking her head, Mrs Kinley stepped aside and ushered you both into the room. “I see now that you are only poor fools who came here uninformed,” she muttered. “The miss was paralysed in some incident several years ago. Now, her mind is lost to us. She cannot twitch a finger or wiggle a toe.”

You inhaled sharply.

“A strike on the back of the head that requires a physician’s house calls twelve years after the fact,” murmured Sherlock, drifting towards Miss Algar. “Of course. How did I not foresee this?”

You frowned at how Sherlock scanned Miss Algar, his critical eye all the keener for not having the possibility of offended sensibilities to avoid, and turned to the woman’s nurse. “There is no need to take that tone, madam,” you told her as you pulled yourself to your full height. Limited as the improvement may be, you continued, “Miss Algar is still human and still deserving of respect. You are here to care for her, do you realise? You ought to neither deride what she cannot do nor disdain what she can. Knocking on her door and refraining from calling her ‘the miss’ could not go wrong, for instance.”

Red in the face by the time you were done, Mrs Kinley sneered and moved towards the door. “I shall keep that in mind, your ladyship, for the next hour you have to poke around Miss Algar’s belongings.”

You waited until she had shut the door soundly behind her before pinching the bridge of your nose and turning back to Sherlock. “I suppose I have grievously overstepped—”

“And what a treat it was to witness,” he mused.

Your eyes shot open, startled by the awe in his voice, but you quickly forgot that when your gaze met Miss Algar’s across the room.

She blinked rapidly at you a few times—or were you imagining that? Surely, if she were as insensible as Mrs Kinley described, she could not be…aware? Awake?

“My lady? Are you quite all right?”

You straightened and snapped your jaw shut, only then realising it had been gaping at all. “I… I have a hypothesis.”

Sherlock raised his brow, and after a moment, you realised he was waiting for you to do something about it.

You turned towards the other occupant of the room. “Good morning, Miss Algar.” Pointing to yourself, you gave your name and added lightheartedly, “You may know who I am, and I certainly know who you are, but worry not. There was no love lost between Mr Sulyard and me, so there need not be any lost between us.”

Seeing her blink rapidly a few more times, you confidently ignored Sherlock’s sceptical expression as you pointed towards him.

“This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, Her Majesty’s brightest consulting detective and Scotland Yard’s greatest investigative asset. I would not be surprised if your nurse has failed to keep you abreast of the goings-on of London these past several years, so you may not have heard of Mr Holmes, though I assure you that he shall seek justice for you above aught else. Would it be all right for him…for us to ask you some questions, to that end?” You kicked yourself after a breath’s pause. “Um, blink twice for yes and thrice for no, I, uh, I suppose. Would it be all right?”

Slowly, deliberately, Miss Algar blinked twice.

In spite of yourself, you looked to Sherlock for his reaction. Which, happily, was to grin like a madman.

“You, my lady, are a wonder.”

You hid your blush by focusing back on Miss Algar. “Well, madam, we best arrive at the same page. Sherlock and I are investigating the death of Mr Sulyard, which we believe you witnessed. Are we correct?”

Miss Algar glanced down briefly before meeting your eyes again and blinking twice.

“On a scale of two blinks to six blinks, how well do you remember what happened twelve years ago?” asked Sherlock.

At her six blinks, you covered your wince with as sympathetic a smile as possible.

“In that case,” he said, “I should like to set the scene with as much detail as we can. Were you and Mr Sulyard together on purpose? Two for yes, three for no, as her ladyship suggested. Yes it is. Did you two meet at that particular hour regularly? Yes? At that particular location? Excellent, I thank you. The first letter of the street on which one would find this establishment, was it A? B? C? D? E? E, then—Edward Street? Hmm, would it happen to be the Younges’ lodgings? They have a certain reputation about the clientele they accept, see…”

Once Sherlock had, painstakingly, received a description of that evening before and during the attack, including one of the shadowy assailant and the weapon he’d wielded—with help from your interjections of “Is that all the detail you have, or is there more Mr Holmes should ask you?” and similar—you laid a hand on his arm to hold him back from another question.

“Miss Algar,” you said softly, “would you like to take a break now? To rest your eyes, perhaps?”

Blinking so much could not be very comfortable…and neither could reliving what must have been the worst night of one’s life.

However, her gaze hardened, and she blinked three times.

Sherlock reached up to squeeze the hand of yours on his arm. “We thank you for your dedication, madam,” he told her.

“In that case, I have a question to add,” you said. “Do you know why this man you have described attacked you and my husband? Without a shadow of a doubt?”

It was disconcerting to see her answer no while her face remained slack, devoid of any confusion or disappointment or frustration, as you had come to consider natural when having to tell someone that one did not know the response to their question.

“Do you…” You dared a fleeting glance towards Sherlock. “Do you believe only one of you was the true target?”

Hesitation was clear in her eyes, but her two blinks were as steady as ever.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Sherlock squeezed your hand again.

In your stead, he inquired, “Do you believe Mr Sulyard was the primary target and you were merely a witness to be taken care of?”

Two blinks.

The primary target the primary target the primary target…

A witness to be taken care of… A witness to be taken— Oh, goodness—

You exhaled shakily.

What if— What if—

Sherlock’s hand tightened around yours once more, though this time, it was not a quick gesture: the pressure, calm and grounding, remained steady on you.

“Again I thank you, Miss Algar, for your willingness to answer all of these questions,” he said. “You have given us much to work—”

A knock on the bedroom door cut him off.

“That’d be an hour, then,” said Mrs Kinley as she re-entered the room. Miss Algar’s eyes had glazed over and dropped back to her counterpane before the first syllable was out of the nurse’s mouth. “You two best be on your ways now, I think.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very well, Mrs Kinley. We thank you, Miss Algar, and wish you well.”

Mrs Kinley gave him another strange look but, again, did not speak as she led you two back to the flat door. Really, though, Sherlock was the one leading you out, the warmth of his gloved hand still blanketing yours.

“Good day,” you managed to get past the lump in your throat.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Much obliged for your hospitality, Mrs Kinley.”

The woman looked as startled as you felt, but she did not get a chance to respond as he swept you out the door and onto the street. Safely amid the anonymity of the East End, your shock melted away in a fit of giggles.

He levelled you with a dour look. “I am quite glad you are finding humour in this, my lady.”

“It is just— It is just— Sherlock,” you wheezed through your laughter, “I do not think I have ever heard you be obliged for anything, and certainly not much obliged!”

A sliver of a smile cracked through his bemusement. “Not even for nonexistent hospitality?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to not violate the laws of propriety so egregiously as to cackle in public. Gracious—you had not whispered and snickered about someone like this since you had chased off your last governess with your mud-covered hems and Sherlock had cheered you up from Lord Coltidge’s rant by reminding you of all Mrs Tattershall’s follies. How many years ago was that? Twenty? One and twenty? Certainly, you both had continued teasing your individual brothers for their individual foibles, but there was nothing quite the mark of intimate friendship as making a new ridiculous acquaintance at one another’s sides and then rolling your eyes at each other about the person.

Warm and bright, his eyes burned through you, and with another swoop of your heart, you found yourself breathless for an entirely different reason than uncontrollable giggles.

“Sincerely,” he sighed, “I am glad you find humour in it. I felt the need to speak such niceties since you did not seem up to filling your typical role of softening my unsociable edges for people.”

You arched your eyebrow. “Is that what I am, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” he said, rising to your challenge with his own raised brow. “As well as much more. You fill many roles, my lady.” Thankfully, you did not have to think of a suitable reply to that, as he went on, “You seemed rather…distraught, after Miss Algar confirmed she was likely just in the wrong place at the wrong time. What troubles you?”

You looked down and stared at how his hand was still clasped atop yours. You had both his arm and your cane supporting you now, which must have made you seem quite absurd, yet you felt all the more secure for the absurdity.

“Could I have been killed, too?” you whispered.

You felt his step falter beside you. “I— Pardon me?”

“If this man who apparently wished my husband dead so strongly that he would track him down to Edward Street and hit him with a hammer only attacked Miss Algar because she had the misfortune of having a tryst with Mr Sulyard on that day, could I not have been the one to end up in that bed just as easily?”

Sherlock’s jaw worked for a moment.

“Further, am I selfish and despicable for thinking such a thing?” you rushed out. “It is not that I am glad she was hurt in my place. It is only that I am…unsettled to think that I too brushed against the possibility, without even realising until years after the fact, of…of…”

He shook his head, relieving you of the struggle to find the right words. “You are the least selfish and least despicable person of my acquaintance,” he began, “which is, considering my occupation, extensive, you understand. I cannot assuage your other concerns as readily, for it is not my custom to go down rabbit holes such as these; indeed, I must recommend that you do not go down them, either.”

“That is more easily said than done,” you huffed.

Glancing around and seeing a largely deserted street, as was expected on a workday morning, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to turn and face you. “You were not harmed twelve years ago: you were safe at home. You have not been harmed in the intervening years: in fact, you have led a contented life. You shall not be harmed from now on: I shall not let aught happen to you.”

You blinked up at him. A foot of empty air separated you two, but just standing close enough to be dwarfed by his height, just staring into his eyes and drowning because he was staring back, made you feel hidden from all that was dangerous in the world—watched over by all that was good—ultimately, safe.

Safe, and terribly disconcerted.

“My, Sherlock,” you chuckled nervously. “That is not a very logical promise to make, is it?”

He flushed. “No…no, it is not. Forgive me,” he mumbled, turning back forward and continuing down the street. “Shall we go to my flat to work on the case?”

Mutely, you nodded. Although you would not have been able to explain the hypocrisy, you had not wanted him to withdraw that promise, as illogical, as incredible, as it may have been.

Well, I tried to fit in some comfort/protectiveness/height tropes to apologise for the delay in updating haha. Please tell me your thoughts on this fic! What do you want/expect to happen next? How do you feel about the story vibes so far? Or just come talk to me about Sherlock/Enola Holmes because I really want a friend! (Or friendS?? Potential group chat??? How obvious is my desperation for companionship right now,,) Thank you for reading!

[writing-by-night]

Seven Days to Christmas Countdown: Day 6

Pairing: PreSerum!Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Prompt:  Stucky Hallmark AU - Steve’s art career in the city has just started off, but now he’s home for New Years, only to run into his childhood friend Bucky, who’s now running the local bakery 

Word Count: 2.5k

New York’s a bustling, slushy mess three days after Christmas, unfortunately. No train tickets were available to get home for Christmas with his ma, so Steve’s had to settle for going home to his tiny, speck on the map town outside of Albany for New Years instead, the first year he’s been able to afford to do so since college.

His art career is finally stabilizing, regular commissions for artistic paintings of products for decently sized companies who aren’t the giant exploitive giants many people have to rely on, which he also did for years

In addition to that, he’s got a small career of posting his work and projects on social media, never showing his face but telling stories and the Irish folklore his ma handed down to him when she and his grandparents immigrated to an audience. Plus, there's a little bookstore back home that’s commissioned him to celebrate an official change of ownership, so that should be nice.

He gets home on December 28th, late at night, falling asleep as soon as he’s home and has greeted his Ma. The next day, he’s apt to explore with a sketchbook, soon finding himself outside the bookshop that hired him – Noble Barnes’ Bookshop. 

It’s cozy, classic, and by all means the perfect spot to paint. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he opens it – @noblebarnesbooks, the shop he’s actively outside of

| Noble Barnes Bookshop 

Hey! Just checking today at 2:15 is still good for you?

| Steve Rogers

Yep, that still works1

I’m actually outside rn, I’ll come in? 

| Noble Barnes Bookshop

Oh, I can see you! Come on in:))

Steve steps inside and it's equally quaint and cozy, a large central display full of queer books with a rainbow flag in it. The side wall has dozens of flags displayed – bisexual, lesbian, gay, trans, nonbinary, genderfluid, pansexual, demisexual, asexual, aromantic, agender, sapphic, demigirl and demiboy, just to name a few

And then he spots the man behind the counter who he was just texting

Bucky fucking Barnes.

His childhood best friend.

Son of his mother’s best friend. 

And. He’s fucking hot.

“H-hi-?”

“So it is you!” Bucky grins and Steve realizes he definitely recognizes him. He’s not exactly the scrawny kid he was, though still a bit skinny… but Bucky, he’s ripped, and gorgeous, and he’s got long hair

Long, silky hair Steve wants to run his hands through already

He’s well and truly fucked.

“Y-yeah, yep, its me – I don’t think there’s that many Steve Rogerses out there really-”

“Your Ma mentioned you were coming for the new year and then I thought it just had to be coincidence-”

They go back and forth for an hour, Steve still a blushing, stuttering mess and Bucky cool and indulgent, and Steve has never wanted anyone more. And he’s not even sure Bucky’s gay, at least until-

“Yeah, I had a shitty ex a while back. Brock Rumlow, remember him? Used to be a quarterback or something for that school we played against ages ago. Anyways that was horrible and I came back here and bought this shop to make a dream come true”

Bucky has an ex- and it’s a man? Okay, but Brock is like the opposite in appearance than he i- it’s a shitty breakup, maybe it’s fine? Shit, Steve should say something

“Oh, I’m so sorry- I haven’t really dated since highschool, I mean I go to stuff but it never really… clicks.” Not like this anyways. Honestly, sitting on Bucky’s couch above the shop is more intimate than anything he’s had in years, and since a few failed casual things he mostly gave up on all of it. But, he’s an artist, and definitely a romantic. Most people don’t seem to like the second, or find the first too unstable. Or both.

“Yeah, I get that… I mean it’s not always easy to find guys, who wanna deal with me,” Bucky sighs, taking a sip of the coffee they’ve made, spiked with bourbon because why not. At least they’re both legal now, unlike when Bucky was stealing beers from his dad in highschool. Ah, fond memories. His first hangover. They’d grown apart by then.

“Just guys for you?”

“Yeah, what about you?”

Steve shrugged. “Both. Don’t entirely have a preference, you know? Either way, I like people, I like different things, I don’t exactly have huge preferences. Though I can lean towards women sometimes”

Bucky nods understandingly, stoking the wood stove, because of course he has one.

“You got plans for New Years? I can’t imagine Sarah wants you staying in, she’ll worry you’re bored, and she turns in early right?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, but I don’t know where I’d go.”

“The pub down the road does a  coffee house-open mic type thing, Leona started it up once she got back from college. And on New Years it goes all night, literally until dawn”

“That sounds amazing,” he smiles, moving a bit closer until their thighs are touching

“You should come, you’d like it,” Bucky smiles. Steve hands over the sketch he’s been halfheartedly working on as they chat, silently preening at the nod of approval he gets

“You sure I’d be welcome?”

“Yeah, I am,” Bucky smiles softly. “C’mon, don’t be shy Stevie, I’ll take you.” Stevie. Fuck. 

Steve’s mouth goes dry at the nickname. It never used to make his head spin before…

“Y-yeah, yeah sure. I’ll come”

On New Year’s Eve, Steve’s frantically pacing in his childhood bedroom, completely unsure what to wear. What. The. Fuck.

“Baby? You okay in there?” Sarah knocks on the door and Steve opens it, nodding. 

“Yeah, I’m fine Ma, uh. Just not quite sure what to wear y’know?”

“Mhm.. You’re seeing James tonight, right?”

“Uh- yeah, yeah I am”

She nods knowingly and Steve flushes with embarrassment. “Ma- look it’s not like that”

“Of course not.” she smiles angelically and he groans

“I don’t think it is at least- I mean-”

“Hold on.”

She disappears and he’s left to fidget until his mother returns with a package. “This was going to be for the holidays but I got the shipping info wrong,” she explains, setting it on his bed. “I think that might be luck.”

When he opens it, she’s not wrong. He’s never been luckier – it’s a beautiful, soft blue sweater. Not gay enough for his taste on its own…

Quickly, he grabs some skinny jeans and a patterned lavender button down to put under it… some jewelry, that always makes him feel a little gayer and prettier… ooo, makeup- he’s started learning a bit… why not? 

Perfect. 

He checks his watch, hurriedly finding a pair of comfortable shoes as he hurries down. Bucky’s gonna be here soon to drive him.

Actually, soon seems an understatement, given that as soon as he comes downstairs Bucky is standing there chatting with his Ma, dressed in a pair of paint-speckled jeans and a red flannel, chin-length hair combed neatly and the top half pulled into a ponytail. 

He’s hotter than he was the first time they reunited, somehow. And they’ve been spending just about every day together, too- because of the commission. Obviously. Clearly. The painting of Bucky leaning on the counter of the shop with a loving attention paid to making his expression just right and his arms toned perfectly…

Nope. Not the time- Steve can have his gay crisis later.

When Bucky turns Steve can spot a blush on his cheeks, and he must have a similar one

“Hey, Buck,” he smiles shyly, coming to give Bucky a hug

“Hey baby,” comes the reply, mumbled into his neck and somehow making Steve blush further. 

“Have fun!” Sarah chirps, and both of them snapping out of the near-trance to head out the door. 

Bucky opens the car’s door for Steve. 

He’s not going to survive this.

They get to the pub soon enough – not hard, it’s a small town so it’s not like it takes very long to get anywhere. It’s just as cozy as Steve remembers it, bustling with warm chatter as he slowly greets the people he went to highschool with or friends and Bucky’s relatives who knew him all through childhood.

Throughout all of it, Bucky keeps an arm around Steve, and Steve can’t stop thinking about it even once the open mic starts, the two of them perching on one available chair, Steve on the chair itself while Bucky leans on the back, chin occasionally brushing the top of Steve’s head and arms around his neck.

Steve thinks about this far too often.

He thinks Bucky does too based on how often he leans down as if to kiss his hair and then stops himself. 

Bucky plays the guitar.

An hour to midnight, this is Steve’s prime discovery. 

Yes, former friend Peggy Carter has kids now – always  a good friend, still happy to chat along with her. Nat, who he actually sees a lot at college given as they go to the same school, turns out to be with Wanda, and has brought her home. This is not surprising. Carol Danvers now owns the pub after inheriting it from her wife Maria’s uncle because Maria doesn’t want to own a pub but is fine with being married to the owner. She and Bucky are all but best friends and this is a blast to watch given as she seems to be the only one under the age of sixty who can beat Bucky at darts.

 Angie Martinelli is, as everyone expected, the mother of Peggy’s children, and works in the local diner. Maria Hill, valedictorian, is half of the local legal firm alongside the now significantly older Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson. Matt still interrogates Steve about all the activism he’s doing in the city and restates his standing offer to be Steve’s attorney if he gets arrested(again). Steve accepts this offer. 

But honestly, who cares about all of that? Look, it's nice and all but he could’ve guessed most of it.

What he could not have guessed is that James Buchanan fucking Barnes can play the guitar. This man.

And his voice.

Steve can’t keep his thoughts straight. It’s rich and he’s singing some love song. It’s not Auld Lang Syne like the six versions he's already heard tonight. 

His head is spinning – he needs fresh air.

Nope, he needs to hear this more-

Bucky sings two more, and Steve listens to each one. His pencil’s moving faster than usual – trying to capture it perfectly. He wishes he brought his watercolors but his colored pencils do it fine for now..

“You drew me?”

He looks up in surprise when Bucky makes it back, instantly slamming his sketchbook shut

“N-no-”

Bucky smirks playfully, ruffling Steve's hair. “You totally did.”

His head spins. 

“M-maybe I did,” he mumbles, leaning into the touch. “I’m getting a drink – you want anything?”

He all but crashes into the single open spot at the bar, groaning as Natasha makes her way over.

“So. He’s still hot?”

“He is so hot,” Steve groans. “Nat, I’m supposed to be over this”

“You don’t do ‘over this,’ when you were all but in love,” Natash rolls her eyes, chatting with Carol as they get their drinks

“I- what- was not!” He sputters as the redhead laughs. 

“You were, completely and utterly – and he’s the same, moron”

“He- what?!” This whole thing is overwhelming him but he also doesn’t really want to end the conversation right now

“Oh Stevie,” she faux-soothes. “It’s not like he sang three love songs making full eye contact with you, or like he hasn’t taken his hands off you all night or anything – of course, it’s just so hard to guess”

He freezes.

All those lingering touches… hanging around his neck… tucking him close, Bucky fixing his hair… the way his hand lingers, tracing down Bucky’s arm when he would step away…

Fuck. He’s like a deer in the headlights.

Maybe Bucky is into him.

“So- what do I do?”

“Well, he’s single?”

“And?”

“Turns down every person who asks him out.” Carol appears, smirking, with another round of drinks. “Steve, he’s been talking about some old friend who he can’t get out of his head for years. He barely touches anyone, and he’s all over you”

“So?”

“Kiss him,” she responds, as if its obvious. “It’s new year’s. Everyone’s gonna be kissing – kiss him at midnight and flirt until then”

“I can’t flirt”

“You can when you’re drunk,” Natasha snorts, passing him a drink. “But not too drunk. Then you just wax rhapsodic art or random shit.” She takes her own shot, disappearing. “Good luck, punk.”

Bucky chooses that moment to appear, snaking an arm around Steve’s waist. “Hey, Romanov! Only I get to call this one a punk.”

That’s… kinda possessive.

And that’s kinda hot.

“Just you,” Steve confirms, leaning into the touch. “Promise you”

“You promise?” Bucky confirms. “On your Ma?”

“On my Ma”

Five minutes to midnight. Somehow, Steve’s found himself on Bucky’s lap as the last group finishes up a medley.

There’s a strong arm around his waist protectively, and he can feel the brunette’s breath on his neck.

They’ve been physically closer and closer since his chat with Nat.

He really wants to kiss him.

“Hey Bucky?”

Five!

“Yeah?”

Four!

“I- uh-”

Three!

“I lo-”

Two!

“I really, really like-”

One!

Steve crashes their lips together before he can overthink it. He’s half expecting to be rejected, but Bucky reciprocates it instantly, a hand tangling into Steve’s hair and manhandling the smaller man to straddle his lap.

There’s confetti and shouting and cheering and lots of people kissing.

He doesn’t notice anything but how Bucky’s got him close.

“Fuck”

“I love you,” Bucky gasps out, hugging him closer. “Fuck, Stevie. I really love you- I’ve loved you since highschool” 

“I-I love you too.” He’s never felt more sure of anything before. He’s so sure about Bucky. He doesn’t think about it, but its so natural to say. And the words contextualize so much of highschool, really.

They’re stumbling into some sort of a hallway, somewhere somewhat guarded from people, and Steve is being pushed against a wall, moaning as Bucky all but attacks his neck, lifting his legs to around his waist. “Fuck… should’ve told you soon as you came home, doll”

“You- you should’ve- ‘won’t hold it against you,” Steve pants, capturing his lips in another kiss.  

“Be my boyfriend, Stevie. Stay,” Bucky gasps softly. “D-do what you love… don’t have to leave the city. Come home weekends or I’ll come- just- I can’t let you go”

“I will- I’ll stay” he promises hurriedly. “Fuck- just- kiss me!”

“I love you, Stevie”

“I love you too”

-

A week later, it’s time to return. Steve wishes he didn’t have to.

Bucky’s been insistent about him not giving up his life in the city to come home or for his sake, but he still wants to.

Soon, maybe after college.

He’s been waking up with Bucky every single day, loved beyond measure. Sarah’s so proud, and definitely called it. He can’t imagine any other way this could have gone. 

Well, he can.

They just aren’t nearly as happy

[xkcd-bracket]

Ginger Rogers - Actress known for dancing with Fred Astaire

Mister/Fred Astaire/Rogers - Confusing reference to Fred Rogers (host of children's show, popularly known as "Mister Rogers") and to Fred Astaire (Dancer, actor, and singer)

[imagining-in-the-margins]

you just seem like the nicest person ever, the human embodiment of sunshine ☀️ i hope you have a wonderful day 🫶🏻

Awe, thank you, friend. I’m very happy that it feels that way! I’m just a person at the end of the day, but I try to do what I can to be better.

Whenever people compliment me, I always think about an interview I read with Mister Rogers’ wife, Joanne, where she spoke about how people view him:

“He’s out there now as somebody who’s somehow way above all the rest of us,” she said. “People invariably say, ‘Well, I can’t do that, but I sure do admire him. I would love to do it.’ Well, you can do it. I’m convinced there are lots of Fred Rogerses out there.”

I just think that’s a really nice way to live.

I hope you have a wonderful day too 🌈⛅️

[ao3feed-stevebucky]

as long as you lawve me

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/7wgVqRf

by ryoorisuru

From this day on, Steve’s sole regret in life will be that he didn’t get to grab his phone to record the shit out of this moment, just so he could proceed to joyfully embarrass Bucky by replaying it for their friends and family on every single Special Occasion life will bring, year after year, from now until the day they decide it’s time to kick the bucket.

The next four generations of Barnes-Rogerses could have been blessed with actual exclusive footage of Bucky waxing poetic about ass, unfiltered and unabridged, and now they never will, and that’s a damn tragedy. Steve is in dismay.

Words: 2775, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Crack, Fluff, Established Relationship, vague mentions of dental surgery, anesthetic-induced silliness, Dorks in Love

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/7wgVqRf

[pepikhipik]

Knižní tip: Putinovy války

Mark Galeotti je jedním z nejpronikavějších analytiků ruské minulosti, současnosti i budoucnosti. Otevřená ruská invaze na Ukrajinu v únoru 2022 tragicky upozorňuje na zásadní význam pochopení souvislostí mezi politikou a válkou. Galeotti barvitě ukazuje, jak Putinovo Rusko vedlo své války, jak tyto války formovaly politiku země a jak naopak politika formovala vojenská tažení Moskvy.

- JOSHUA C. HUMINSKI, ředitel Centra Mikea Rogerse pro zpravodajství a globální záležitosti

Kniha představuje barvitý popis toho, jak Putin během svého působení u moci používal ozbrojenou sílu, což vyvrcholilo smrtící válkou na Ukrajině.

- LAWRENCE FREEDMAN, emeritní profesor válečných studií, King's College London

Jeden z předních světových odborníků na současné Rusko přináší v knize „Putinovy války“ aktuální přehled konfliktů, které Rusko vyvolalo od doby, kdy se Vladimír Putin stal nejprve jeho premiérem a následně i prezidentem – od první a druhé čečenské války přes vojenský vpád do Gruzie a anexi Krymu až po plnohodnotnou invazi na Ukrajinu.

Profesor Galeotti se také zabývá širším kontextem Putinovy rekonstrukce vojenské moci a zaměřuje se na to, jak se v této nové studené válce se Západem ruský prezident stále více spoléhá na sílu při prosazování svých zájmů v zahraničí. Zároveň ve všech Putinem vyvolaných konfliktech nepřehlíží ruská vojenská selhání na taktické i strategické úrovni a předpovídá možné scénáře vývoje invaze na Ukrajinu i budoucnost vojenských vztahů mezi Ruskem a jeho dalšími sousedy v čele s Čínou.

Kniha je prošpikována anekdotami a přímými výpověďmi bývalých i současných ruských důstojníků a poutavým způsobem seznamuje čtenáře s historií znovu se probouzejícího ruského medvěda. Ještě nikdy nebylo důležitější pokusit se pochopit, jak a proč Putin nařídil svým ozbrojeným silám, aby se pustily do nejrůznějších vojenských dobrodružství. Neexistuje přitom autor, který by byl způsobilejší k tomu realisticky zhodnotit skutečné schopnosti ruské armády a předpovědět další směřování Putinova agresivního režimu.

Zdroj: Nakladatelství Bourdon

[sztupy]

A végén a Mister Rogerses rész elég hülyeségnek hangzik

The short answer is... a tilt-shift lens.

The slightly more complicated answer is... Mister Rogers.

Depth of field is the area in front and behind your chosen focus point that remains in focus and then slowly gets blurry as you get farther away.

Shallow depth of field only has a narrow slice of the image in focus and gets blurry super quick. This is caused by a large lens aperture and being close to the subject.

Deep depth of field can extend through the entire picture if your aperture is small and you are super far away.

Usually the depth of field lines up with the image sensor of your camera. So if it is tilted forward, the plane of focus matches.

The stuff outside the green area would be blurry. The edges of the green would be slightly blurry. And the dashed green line would be the sharpest area of the photo.

But the tilt-shift lens allows you to create chaos with your plane of focus. In most cases, you would use this to flatten the depth of field so you can get a 2D plane entirely in focus.

If you were to use a normal lens, the bottom left and top right would be blurry.

But with a tilt-shift lens you can do this.

The green area is taking a little nap on the floor.

However, there is an unintended side effect created by this lens. (The "Scheimpflug intersection" if you want to go down the rabbit hole.) You can choose absolutely wacky planes of focus that create a very narrow depth of field over a geographically large area.

Believe it or not, this is when psychology comes into play.

And possibly Mister Rogers.

Our only reference for such a large area having a shallow depth of field is our memories of miniatures on TV. So Mister Rogers and Thomas the Tank Engine trained our brains to see this effect as... small.

Depth of field shrinks the closer you are to something. And when filming miniatures, you are placing the lens close to the scene. But the scene represents something big in our minds. We buy the effect, but not 100%. That blurriness wouldn't be there at a regular scale. So our subconscious remembers we are watching small things pretending to be big. It just files that away in the back of our mind.

And then when we see something like this...

Our brain is all, "Look at all that tiny shit!"

Without Mister Rogers, our brains may have never made these connections and tilt-shift photography may just make us wonder why everything is all blurry. That connection to past experience is vital for this effect to be convincing.

Brains are neat.