#steve be walking off his concussions like a pro

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Steve: My toxic trait is that I don't believe in concussions and I just walk them off like a pro

Eddie:

Eddie: Nope, you're seeing a doctor

[morganbritton132]

Thank you for feeding us with the Steve Has Older Siblings AU. God tier level of characterization I gotta say.

How do the older siblings handle the “Eddie Munson Problem”? I would imagine they actually do try to get rid of him at first given Eddie’s reputation but then realize he treats Steve better than any of them ever have.

Well, there is cash incentive.

Richard Harrington still has aspirations of going into local politics one days and he is not going let Al Munson’s son kill that dream. Or kill their son. Richard waves a dismissive hand in his wife’s direction because, “Of course. Of course. Or that.”

Whoever makes that boy disappear gets five thousand dollars.

(1.)

Claire takes a direct approach. She corners Steve and tells him that Eddie is a drug dealer and a drug user. She tells him about all the scary things that showed up on his toxicology report in the hospital and Steve replied flatly with, “Wow. Crazy. I had no idea.”

“I’m serious,” She says. “You could get hurt with someone like that. Do you know how that would make us feel if something happened to you?

“I fractured my ankle at a track meet once and Dad made me walk to the car afterwards,” Steve replies. “I think you guys will be fine.”

“I’m serious.”

“You know, Claire,” Steve nods to himself because, yeah. Sure. Let’s do it. “How have you felt the last three years? Or, I don’t know. The last two concussions? You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with for years now and – and you’ve never cared so why now? What’s Dad giving you to ruin my life because-“

He shakes his head, “This is not worth it. Like how picking up the phone when the mall caught on fire with me inside it wasn’t worth the effort. Tell Dad you tried really hard, but no. I’m not going to get rid of one of the few people in my life that actually like me.”

(2.)

Jason takes a different – dumber – approach. He goes in with no plan and no intentions, just took the opportunity when he saw Eddie’s van pulled off on the side of a backroad. He bangs his fist against the side and is delighted that he caught Eddie and Steve.

He threatens to beat Eddie up which is bold to say to an accused murderer in the woods, but okay.

Then he turns around and threatens Steve that he’s going to tell their dad that he was getting high in the woods if he doesn’t keep away from trailer trash, but Jason is fucking idiot because they were decidedly not getting high in the woods. He leaves with an eighth of marijuana and  no closer to five thousand dollars because Steve had just shrugged like, “Okay? Go ahead. Tell him.”

(3.)

Richie does not participate in this because he actually wants to improve his relationship with his little brother and he was the first person Steve went to after they got Eddie, barely breathing, to the hospital. He saw how shaken up he was and he also saw the bruising around Steve’s neck.

He knows what the bruising looks like. He knows how people gets bruises like that. And he knows that he’s a coward because he could not bring himself to ask a question he did not want the answer to. And he knows Eddie Munson.

Eddie is harmless.

All you have to do is have one conversation with the kid and you’ll see that he couldn't hurt a fly. Richie, however, had many conversations with him when Harrington & Associates took his case on pro bono so he knows just how harmless Eddie is.

He also knows that Eddie spends a lot of time trying to make Steve laugh. Richie has spent enough time in his life making his brother miserable. He's not doing anymore.

[findafight]

Not me writing a prologue for a fic I'll maybe never write about Steve being on the Dream Team lmao. I saw a pro basketball player Steve post a while ago and couldn't stop thinking about it. Anyways-

At the end of March Madness in 1989, the scout for the Pacers has lunch with the head coach of a community college basketball team that somehow made it to the first round before being pulverized. They sit across from each other, the coach seemingly a bit overwhelmed but not outright surprised. That's good, it means Jerry, the scout, doesn't have to worry about him freaking out or babbling too much.

The team captain had caught his, and possibly others', eye. Good layups, a few three pointers, solid defence, and a helluva lot of potential add up to someone to keep an eye on, except they can't because the guy plays for a rinky-dink community college and only had one televised game. The only reason Jerry saw the kid is because the Roane County Community College Ospreys had put in a hell of a fight the past three seasons. Jerry wonders why the hell the kid hadn't been offered a scholarship somewhere...not Roane County. Doesn't matter though, because they're here now.

"so. You wanted to talk about Steve?" Says the coach, August Nearaly, a bit weary.

Jerry nods, sipping his coffee. "Yeah. Wanted to get a sense of him before I actually talked to him."

August sighs. "As a player or as a person?"

Raising his eyebrows. "Is he that different off the court?"

"no! No, not like how you probably think. Harrington's a sweet kid, but also incredibly...well, not weird, but. Peculiar? He's got quirks. Bit paranoid, but not in a conspiracy way. In a 'no one should walk home alone in the dark' or 'hey, where'd John go? He was right here and then I did a headcount and he's not?' kinda way. Y'know? Like, they're all adults, but he does headcounts and worries anyways."

"huh. Oookay?"

"it-- I'm not saying this to rag on him, to be clear. It just too a while to get used to. Honestly, it's been good for team building. Makes them think of each other not as individuals, but part of a unit that needs everyone healthy and whole to work."

"that's good. He's a team player."

"oh yeah. It's not surprising, really. He's from Hawkins." August says the name like Jerry should know what that means. It's a town, sure, but other than that... Jerry's at a loss. Maybe something a few years ago about a fire? "He has most assists in Osprey history. Some of the guys joke that he's allergic to the ball."

"He's good on the court?"

"Jerry. I know you're here because you saw the March Madness game. You know he's good. He'd be even better if he could afford those fancy prescription goggles Horace Grant wears."

"seriously? Why not contacts?"

"don't make them for his prescription. You didn't see his interview? Kid's got thick horn rimmed glasses. Too many concussions apparently. God knows how he tells players apart when the jersey colours are similar."

"shit. That's why he was squinting the whole time? I thought he was just stressed."

He shrugged. "eh. Probably a bit of both. He takes it seriously, but not too seriously. Y'know? Half the guys were shitting themselves from nerves and Harrington stands up in the locker room, hands on his hips, and gives a speech worthy of the most melodramatic underdog sports movie."

Jerry laughs. "No shit."

Waving his hands, August nods. "no shit! He says all this stuff like 'we worked hard...we deserve this...we may not win but let's do our damn best. The worst that could happen is we lose, and that isn't the end of the world. So let's go out there and play some basketball!' or something, his was better, and the boys cheer. Then they put in fifty points to one-thirty."

Jerry winces. "Must have hurt, huh?"

August grins. "No way. One of the best games they ever played. You saw it. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't. They played their goddamn hearts out." He leans forward. "My boys don't have the same facilities as the big universities, or the funding to offer scholarships. They're at Roane Community because they want a degree or certificate but have other responsibilities. Parents or siblings to stay close to, jobs to work, people to take care of. They joined my team because they like playing basketball, loved the game and wanted to spend some of their precious time playing it. They put the work in on the court and off it. And we made it to the NCAA tournament because of it. We put in fifty points against the goddamn Michigan Wolverines! The champs! And they knew that. I've never heard of a locker room after an 80 point defeat so happy."

"seriously?"

It's all pride when Coach Nearaly says "yep. They may not be the best basketball players in college, but my god, they're probably the best team."

"because of Harrington?"

"partly. They all contribute, make sure they do things right. It's not a one man show, that's the point. They rally around him, but they all are part of the team, and know it. That's what Steve makes sure. Why I made him captain."

"So, you think he'd be a good pick for the Pacers?" This is, after all, a business meeting.

August nods, picks at his pancakes. "I'll be honest with you Jerry. You're not the first scout to talk to me about Steve."

"really? Who?"

"you know I won't say. But, between me and you, Steve's Indiana born and bred. His wife's planning on getting some lib Arts degree in Chicago or Indy, and your offer might be the deciding factor for them."

Jerry blinks. "He's married? At, what? Twenty-one?"

August nods. "Just turned twenty-two. High school sweethearts or something. Obsessed with each other." He chuckled, a bit ruefully. "I'm a bit jaded but damn. You mention her name? He lights up like the fuckin Fourth of July."

Jerry whistles. "Honeymoon phase gets us all."

"for almost two years? Nah. It's just love." It sounds a little wistful, coming from August. "Anyways. I dunno if the other team is serious about him, and if they are, they'll probably be disappointed. Kid isn't moving out of the Midwest. He's got family here, and is getting a goddamn elementary education degree. He won't uproot his life for a chance at the NBA. But, if you offer. Well. He'd at least seriously consider it."

Humming, Jerry chews his eggs as he thinks. "You think he'd be up for the lifestyle? The road games out numbering home ones?"

There's an air of seriousness when August levels Jerry with a look. "If he doesn't want to, he'll tell you. You gotta give him time to talk to his family though. This offer? It'll come out of left field for him, even if I give him a heads up. You get that, yeah? You want to recruit a kindergarten teacher to the NBA without any build up. He needs time to process that and then see where the people in his life are at with it."

"I guess it is unusual."

"try being the community college basketball coach getting two goddamn calls from NBA scouts. Thought I was hallucinating."

Jerry laughs, counts some bills for the tip. "Thank you. For your time and insights. Let Steve know I'll call tomorrow?"

"will do. He'll still probably drob the phone on you, though."

"as long as he doesn't hang up!"

[insomniac-astronomer]

Natasha Romanoff x Reader: Apologize

I strike again, second night in a row. I'm really glad everyone's on a Natasha kick right now. Pro-tip: If you go to Disneyland and meet the character and fangirl wayyyy too hard, she'll give you a hug. And I don't care that it's fake, NATASHA ROMANOFF GAVE ME A HUG DAMMIT.

Can I just get one request? Pleeeeaase? It would make my whole month ❤️ took me a whole hour to write this fic, it would mean a lot!

Description: Reader has a habit of apologizing way too much. 4 times you apologize and 1 time she apologizes to you. And I'm just trying out this format of fanfic.

Pronouns: neutral! No pronouns used!

WARNINGS: writing while being concussed and feeling like shit, totally not based on how my attractive coworker told me not to say sorry today, no but seriously none

*not my gif* I love her endgame hair, can I be a redhead so I can do it too pls

You speed down the hall, anxiously trying to remember where Tony said the kitchen was. Day 2 as an official (and very very lost) Avenger: not going so great.

You duck around corners, not even sure if you're on the right floor. Tony Stark doesn't need to put a directory for his own house because he lives here. But some people don't and you sure as hell wished you weren't going to be stuck here for training for who knows how long-

Suddenly, you slam into someone. You feel your eyes widen and your face turn into a grimace.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" You immediately sputter, taking large steps backward. "I should've watched where I was going-"

"No, it's my bad, I was looking down." The voice of Natasha Romanoff responds.

Ah, shit. Of everyone you could've ran into, it had to be the one you most admired (and the prettiest one but lol you're so out of her league that you're not going to even go there). Force of habit, you continue to say "no, it's my fault. I'm so sorry-"

"Hey." She gently cuts you off. "Doesn't matter. You okay?"

You nod while asking "are you?"

"Yep. It's all good." She smiles.

"Okay, I'm sorry." You give her a little smile in return.

"Stop apologizing. Where are you trying to go, anyway? This hallway's a dead end."

💫

The quinjet after a rough mission is always the last place you want to be. But here you are.

Tony is asking you about mission details while writing stuff down. The rest of the team is crammed around this ridiculously small table, pressed up against the jet's walls so you can collaborate on how to deal with Nick Fury when you land.

"Alright team, let's take five so we can all cool down." Tony throws his pen angrily on the desk. Steve folds his arms and walks away.

You screwed up the mission. Of course you did. And immediately Tony wanted to place all of the blame on you because you're the newest and the youngest. Frozen in your guilt and shame, you are completely zoned.

"Excuse me," Natasha says, trying to move past you to get out from behind the table.

You move quickly. "Sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" She just looks at you and you dart your eyes away.

"I was in your way."

"You don't need to apologize for that."

"Yeah I do," you fiddle with the cuff of your suit.

Without another word, she walks away.

💫

After a month, Tony's impromptu vacation to Hawaii with Pepper, several bottles of expensive wine to Nick Fury's office, and Cap's new collection of 50 broken punching bags, the team made up and decided to have a movie night.

You were so glad that no one was yelling at you anymore. They still don't trust you, but at least they're not mad. In fact, you were so relieved, that all of the stress of the last month started to sink in. You struggling to keep your eyes open after so many sleepless nights. Ten minutes into the movie and you're already out of it.

You fall asleep for like five minutes and jolt back awake. Your head had landed on the shoulder next to you. Natasha.

"I'm so sorry." You whisper to her.

"Hm?" She looks at you.

"For falling asleep on you." You clarify.

"Oh, I had no idea." Her attention is back on the movie.

"Oh, sorry."

In the dim light of the movie screen, she gives you a look that definitely says stop apologizing. But before you think she's mad at you, you catch a glimpse of her smile.

💫

Steve asked you out. And you don't know what to do. You ran away. You can hear his footsteps as he tries to find you.

You spy Natasha's room and knock on the door. You hear a faint "yeah?" and you're already inside.

Natasha raises her eyebrows at your wild state. "What's going on?"

"Sorry, Steve asked me out and I ran away- just saw your door so- yeah, sorry."

"Wow, two sorrys in the same sentence, that's a new record." She teases you.

You smile sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Is sorry your default setting?" She laughs just slightly and your heart pounds. A little giggle escapes you. Shit, you didn't mean to do that out loud.

Giving into your feelings just a little bit, you walk further into the room. She gestures to the empty space on her bed next to her. You sit down very anxiously.

"Steve asked you out?" She questions, turning her gaze to you.

"Yeah," you sigh.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing! I just ran!" You shout a little louder than you mean to. "Sorry."

"No sorrying allowed in my room." She turns on her side to face you. She looks so relaxed.

"Sor-"

"Don't you dare." Her smile lights up your heart.

You feel yourself start to relax, too. Your eyes meet her's and you suddenly don't feel scared to hold the contact. Her eyes are really pretty, actually.

Before you loose your nerve, you start to say "Nat-"

"You know what," she cuts you off. "You should say yes to Steve."

All of the comfort that was there disappears. Her cold voice shocked you back into reality.

"Oh," you look away from her, a little pang of disappointment in your heart. "Okay."

You stand up and leave the room.

💫

You are right in the middle of a bowl of ramen and an episode of your guilty pleasure show when your door busts open. Literally. Slams into the wall and everything.

You lean forward to see who came to disturb you and see Natasha closing the door behind her.

"Y/N, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you to say yes to Steve!" She speaks very quickly.

"What?" You set the bowl down on your nightstand and wait for her to walk over. "Start again, slower. And you don't have to yell."

She exhales loudly. "Okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you to say yes to Steve. I just panicked."

"What do you mean?"

"I want to ask you out myself." Natasha is the one who can't make eye contact this time.

"Really?" You try to sound interested but not too excited but also not too serious.

"Yeah. I was going to and then I panicked and I just said something stupid to make you leave. I'm sorry."

"Hey," you gesture for her to sit next to you. "No sorrying allowed in my room, either."

You see her smile a little bit, her shoulders full of tension.

"And of course I'll go out with you." You finish.

Her smile widens and she turns to you. Her hand reaches up and holds your cheek. She starts to lean in-

"Wait, I was just eating ramen." You stop.

"That's okay," she leans closer. "I like ramen."

Thanks for reading. Don't steal, this is a threat (just kidding, but not really). Also, comment if you have a guilty pleasure show, or if it's just me. Mine's Jane the Virgin and I know don't know anyone else who has even heard of the show.

Buy me a coffee?

[sunriserose1023]

Another Try [5]

SUMMARY: He was supposed to return the Infinity Stones. He used them instead.  WORD COUNT: 5976 PAIRING: Steve Rogers x Female Reader WARNINGS FOR THE SERIES: Language, canon divergent, timeline delineation, explicit sexual content, canon-typical situations/injuries, more warnings will be added/removed as the series progresses

Masterlist

You had your catsuit on but hanging off your waist as you tried to fix your hair. Natasha was the best at leaving her hair down, curled or straight, not letting it hinder her in any way as she kicked serious ass. If you tried to do that, you spent most of the time pushing your hair out of your eyes, and that one time you tried to take a minute and put your hair up in a ponytail in the middle of a fight, Tony ended up with a grade II concussion. Something he still takes every chance he can to remind you about. 

You spit out a breath, letting your hands and your hair fall. You shook your head and shook out your arms, starting to go back to fixing your hair, stopping when you saw a bit of movement behind you in the mirror. You leaned to the side and Steve poked his head in the doorway. A smile spread over your face as you beckoned him into the bathroom. 

“Hey, Cap.”

He nodded, raising an eyebrow as he took in your black tank top and half-zipped suit. You rolled your eyes as you motioned towards yourself. 

“I get too hot if I put the suit on before I’m fully ready. And my hair’s not cooperating, so …”

Steve slowly nodded, leaning against the doorframe. You were distracted by his thick arms in his dark suit, and when you let your eyes drift back to meet his, you saw the smirk on his face. You felt your own face heat up and you shook your head as you turned to the mirror and began again to gather your hair into a ponytail. 

“Have you ever braided it?”

You snorted, shaking your head. 

“I can’t braid my own hair. I can kinda do someone else’s, but I don’t know how to get it started. I wish I could French braid. That would be perfect.”

Steve pushed off the wall, walking to stand behind you, looking down at your head. 

“Let me try.”

You met his eyes in the mirror.

“I’m not your guinea pig, Rogers.”

He smiled, laying his hands on your shoulders. 

“You’re not my guinea pig. You’re not the first girl I’ve done this for.” “Let me just tell you, that line? Not going to get you far.”

Steve paused, your words sinking in as he smiled, shaking his head.

“You’re the worst.”

You laughed, dropping your hands. Steve gave your shoulders a squeeze before murmuring for you to tilt your head back. You did, eyes closing as he began picking up pieces of your hair, sliding them together, twisting gently before picking up more strands. 

“Bucky’s little sister taught me how to do this. Buck was at school one day, and Becca and I were home because we both had the chickenpox. We didn’t have a television back then, and nothing fun was on the radio during the day. So Becca taught me how to braid her hair.” “And you were a natural?”

Steve snorted. 

“Hardly. My hands shook so bad you couldn’t even tell there was a braid. But Becca was so calm and patient with me, and before the week was up, I was braiding like a pro.”

You hummed softly as Steve’s nimble fingers continued to drift through your hair. You let yourself get lost in his gentle touches, the pleasure of someone playing with your hair, getting very close to dozing off. 

“There.”

You blinked sleepy eyes open, looking at yourself in the mirror, eyes widening when you tilted your head and took in Steve’s handiwork. 

“Wow.” “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

You laughed, shaking your head, reaching back and lightly hitting his chest before turning to face him. 

“It’s perfect.”

Steve was smiling back at you when he leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. Your hands moved to his face, his smooth, freshly-shaven skin soft against your palms. You hummed against his mouth when his arms slid around you, pulling you closer. 

“When you two are done playing grab-ass, the jet’s ready.”

Your face was on fire when you pulled away from Steve’s kiss, the two of you turning to see Bucky with a shit-eating grin on his face. You narrowed your eyes as the former assassin began whistling as he walked away, and you lowered your forehead to Steve’s chest. He gave your shoulders a gentle rub, speaking low. 

“Come on. They’re going to give us enough grief as it is.”

You nodded, turning back to the mirror and pulling your suit into place. Steve stepped up behind you and zipped it, meeting your eyes in the mirror. 

“Soon as this mission’s done, we’re going on our date.”

Your lips curved into a smile. 

“Like the minute it’s over or am I going to have time to shower?”

Steve shook his head. 

“Never mind. I rescind my invitation.” “You can’t do that!”

He held out his hands as he backed out of the room, and you laughed as you hurried after him. The two of you ran onto the quinjet, stopping when all eyes were on you. You looked to Steve, who raised an eyebrow at the crowd of Avengers. 

“What are you all standing around for? Buckle up. Let’s get going.”

You took a break from meditating, your pre-mission routine of trying to get yourself in the right headspace. You unfolded your limbs from where you’d been sitting on the floor, looking around the jet. 

Wanda and Pietro were sitting in two of the chairs, facing each other, their knees touching. Sam and Steve were in the cockpit, while Bucky was sitting across from you, sharpening one of his many knives. Natasha, Clint, and Tony had somehow managed to sit this one out. 

Your attention went back to Bucky, to the slow, methodical way he drew his knife over the strap he was using to sharpen it. Your eyes traced his movements, the slow back and forth, somehow soothing. 

“You gonna say something or are you just going to stare?”

You smiled. 

“I’ll just stare.”

Bucky shook his head, a smile on his lips. 

“What’s on your mind, pretty eyes?”

You didn’t answer, watching as Bucky stopped sharpening his knife. He lifted it and narrowed his eyes as he studied the blade, then went back to sharpening. You thought about ignoring his question, but the man had patience galore—something you did not expect from the former Winter Soldier. You moved a bit closer to him, pitching your voice low. 

“Steve asked me out.”

Bucky stopped the movement of his knife, lifting wide grey eyes to you. 

“No shit?”

You nodded, and a smile spread over Bucky’s face. 

“That’s my boy.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile came to your lips. You lifted a shoulder and shook your head, letting out a sigh. 

“Doesn’t matter, because where are we? Not on the damn date. Jetting off to parts unknown yet again.” “It’s not ‘unknown.’ It’s South America, the Amazon rainforest.”

You groaned. 

“Oh, my favorite.”

You hung your head as Bucky laughed under his breath. You looked down at your hands, then back to Bucky, who was watching you with a smirk on his face. You smiled, shaking your head. 

“Ignore me. I’m being stupid and selfish.” “Hey, you’re allowed.”

Bucky stood up, walking over to you and sitting beside you. He tapped your knee, leaning closer to you and speaking under his breath. 

“Especially knowing how long it took ol’ Capitão to get his head out of his ass.”

You giggled, leaning to push Bucky’s shoulder with your own. He winked at you and you glanced towards the cockpit, seeing Steve staring back at you with a smirk on his face. You felt your cheeks warm, and Steve gave a quiet laugh before he turned to Sam. 

You shook your head, crossing your legs again, letting your hands rest on your knees, palms up. You inhaled, holding the breath as long as you could before exhaling, trying to clear your mind before the mission. 

“Easy. Just take it easy.”

You nodded, whimpering as you leaned against Steve, careful not to put any weight on your right foot. He slowly took a step and you tried to imitate him, gasping when pain shot up your leg. Steve shook his head, scooping you into his arms and walking towards the quinjet. 

You felt the breeze as Pietro ran past you and Steve, his sister in his arms. Wanda rolled her eyes as he set her on her feet, pushing her brother’s shoulder and murmuring in a language you didn’t understand. Bucky jogged up beside you and Steve, nodding to the twins. 

“She’s right, you know.”

Wanda grinned and Pietro rolled his eyes behind Bucky’s back, and Bucky turned to walk backwards, looking you over. 

“You okay?”

Your hand shook as you gave him a thumbs up, and he gave a sigh. 

“That was a nasty fall.” “I’ve had worse. Can’t really recall one right now, but…”

You’d taken a tumble through the floor of an old hut this particular HYDRA faction was using as their base camp. No one had realized the hut had a secret underground compartment until you’d fallen and heard a sickening crunch from your leg. You rolled your head to look at Bucky, wincing when you saw the blood on his cheek. 

“Jeez, Buck.”

He raised an eyebrow and Steve lifted a shoulder to rub at his own cheek. Bucky lifted a hand, making a face when his fingers came away bloody. 

“Gross, but it’s not mine. No big deal.” “Only us lowly mortals got hurt this go-round, huh?”

Bucky smiled, but it slid from his face when you shifted in Steve’s arms, grabbing onto the harness on his chest that held his shield. Steve stopped, and you grit your teeth as you tried to straighten out your quickly swelling leg. 

“Breathe.” “God, this hurts.” “I know. We’ll be home soon.”

You nodded, putting your face in Steve’s shoulder as he carried you into the jet. Bucky hovered close behind, sitting beside you once Steve had laid you on one of the benches in the back, taking your hand and squeezing it before he walked towards the cockpit. 

“Scale of one to ten.” “Ten. It’s a ten.” “A fuckin’ ten?”

You laughed, smacking Bucky’s chest. 

“Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

Bucky nodded, offering you a hand. You took it, using his strength to try and maneuver yourself into a comfortable position. After a moment, you relaxed, breathing deeply. You had your eyes closed when Bucky softly spoke. 

“If it helps, the bastard who pushed you met the business end of Steve’s shield before you landed.”

You pursed your lips. 

“You know, that kinda does help.”

Bucky gave a quiet laugh. 

“Can I do anything?”

You shook your head.

“I just really want to pass out and not be able to feel my heartbeat in my ankle.”

Bucky made a face, nodding as his metal palm pressed against yours. 

“Try and rest. We’ll be home soon.”

You nodded slowly, trying to calm your breathing, moaning softly when you felt the sickening thump of your heartbeat in your leg. Unbeknownst to you, all of the color had slid from your face, a cold sweat breaking over your forehead. Bucky whistled through his teeth, making the twins look over to him. He nodded at Wanda, mouthing to her. 

“Little help?”

Wanda nodded, standing up and gripping her brother’s shoulder for a moment. She nodded again, slowly making her way to you and Bucky, eyes already glowing red by the time she reached you. A gentle touch of her hand to your forehead and your hand went limp in Bucky’s, unconsciousness taking your pain away. Bucky nodded, then met Wanda’s eyes. 

“How’s the head?”

She held up a hand in a “so-so” gesture and Bucky nodded. He glanced down at your sleeping form, then back to Wanda. 

“Can you tell if she’s okay?” “I can try.”

The jet gently shook with a bit of turbulence, and before Bucky could make a move to Wanda, her brother was behind her, holding her steady. She smiled, lips barely moving as she murmured something only Pietro could hear. He snorted, going quiet as Wanda held a hand over your right foot, fingers causing red sparks to slowly dance as her hand hovered over your ankle, moving slightly before coming to a stop in the middle of your lower leg. 

“Her leg is broken.” “Really?”

Wanda nodded. 

“Both bones, I’m afraid.” “Shit.” “It should be elevated, at least above her heart.”

Bucky watched as Wanda created an intricate net of glowing red ropes, and he helped lift your leg until Wanda could put her makeshift orb under your foot. You gave a quiet moan in your sleep, and Bucky glanced back to see Steve watching him. Bucky motioned with his head and Steve murmured to Sam, patting his shoulder as he walked to his best friend.

Bucky laid your hand by your side and stood up, putting his hands on his hips. 

“Sit by her awhile. I’ll go bother Sam.”

Steve clicked his tongue, shrugging his shoulders as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I thought you two were pretty comfy back here.”

Bucky blinked, then gave a laugh. He backhanded Steve’s shoulder with his metal hand and shook his head. 

“Would you relax? We’re friends. And no offense, but she’s not my type.” “Oh, really? And what is your type?”

Bucky automatically glanced towards the cockpit of the jet, quickly glancing away as his cheeks went red. Steve’s eyes widened as his mouth fell open, and Bucky shook his head. 

“Just sit here, would you? Don’t be stupid about this.” “I just—“

Bucky didn’t wait for Steve to finish his sentence, and Steve huffed an exasperated breath as he watched the back of Bucky’s head walk away. The twins nodded to Steve, going back to their seats. He glanced at your leg, stepping forward and gently unzipping your boot, removing it from your foot as easily as he could. He studied your leg, waking to the cockpit, to the passenger seat, where Bucky was sitting. 

“Yeah, that’s why you got to … hey, punk, what the hell?”

Steve took a knife off Bucky’s belt, turning it in his hand as he walked back to you. Everyone on the jet seemed to fall silent, watching as Steve pulled the material of your suit away from your knee, slipping the knife through the material. He slid the knife down the leg of your suit, hissing when he pulled the two pieces of material aside, seeing the intense bruising and swelling of your leg. 

“Damn, Y/N.”

He looked over towards Wanda.

“Is everything okay? Other than the broken bones?”

Wanda nodded, closing her eyes and wincing, lifting a hand to the back of her head. Pietro muttered in their native language, and Wanda laid a hand on his shoulder. She blinked twice, then met Steve’s eyes. 

“Yes. Both bones in her leg are broken, slightly displaced, but not bad enough to cause further damage.”

Steve nodded and sighed. 

“Thank you, Wanda.”

She smiled, leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. Steve bent over you, picking up your hand and holding it, exhaling slowly as he brushed his fingertips over your still-braided hair. 

Steve walked down the hallway of the medical wing, hair still slightly damp from his shower. He walked to the room Jarvis had told him you were in, lifting his hand to knock, going still when he heard the sniffle. He gentled his knock, pushing open the door before you could answer. 

He watched you quickly wipe your hands over your cheeks, unable to hide the tear tracks and red eyes. He shook his head and you blew out a breath, motioning for him to come and sit beside you. He took your hand, no words leaving his mouth, but curiosity all over his face. You sighed, staring at the hand he was holding as you spoke. 

“They took x-rays and the … both bones are broken in my leg. It’s a bad break, and they …”

You sighed again. 

“They’re going to have to do surgery. Probably put a couple of rods in my leg.” “Oh, jeez.”

You nodded, and Steve watched a muscle in your jaw tic before you spoke again. 

“And they … they said that the recov—recovery is hard, and even if everything goes perfectly, I probably won’t be able to go on missions anymore.”

You leaned back against the pillows, taking your hand from Steve’s and covering your face with both hands. You weren’t able to see the shock on Steve’s face, or the way he blinked a few times before shaking his head. He reached out and gently took your hands off your face, gently rubbing his thumbs on your wrists. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” “It’s not!”

Steve smiled softly, moving to sit on the edge of your bed, keeping one hand in his lap. He looked back at your face, keeping that gentle smile on his own. 

“You don’t have to go on missions to be a good agent.” “I know. But I like going on missions. I’m good at it. Well, I thought I was.” “Hey, one injury doesn’t mean you’re a bad agent.”

You shook your head. 

“It’s not fair.”

Steve sighed, shaking his head. 

“No, it isn’t.”

He met your eyes, saw the tears sparkling. You shook your head and sniffled. 

“I’m sorry, I … I think I just want to be alone for a while.”

Steve slowly nodded, picking up your hand and bringing it to his lips. You pushed a smile onto your face, and he nodded again as he walked to the door. It wasn’t until the door shut behind him that you broke, picking up a pillow and putting it over your face to muffle the sobs. 

Sobs he heard anyway. 

Steve walked back to his room, passing Natasha on the way to see you, not speaking or acknowledging her presence. She narrowed her eyes as she watched him press the button, then step into the elevator. 

“JARVIS?” “Yes, Miss Romanoff.” “Where is the captain going?” “To his room, ma’am. Shall I ask him to wait for you?”

Natasha thought for a moment, then shook her head. 

“No, thank you.”

She stared at the elevator for a moment, then shook her head as she walked down the hall to your room in the medical wing.

Steve stepped into his apartment, shutting and locking the door behind him. He pushed both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“This isn’t supposed to happen.”

He looked around the room, bare of anything personal, as warm and inviting as a prison cell. He walked into his bedroom, eyes taking in the crisply made bed, the masculine furniture, the fake plant on the windowsill. He shut his eyes, shaking his head. He walked to the spacious closet and shut the door behind him, pushing things aside until he found the briefcase. He knelt down and opened it, studying the Infinity Stones staring back at him. 

He could use the aether, turn Y/N’s broken leg into an illusion. But … that could end up being more harmful. 

He could use the Time Stone and go back to just before that bastard pushed her and take him out. Or he could make sure she wasn’t near that bit of rotten flooring. Or he could go back even further and convince her not to go on the mission. Have Natasha take her place instead. 

But what could happen to Natasha if he did that?

Steve stared at the Stones, finally closing his eyes and hanging his head. He closed the briefcase without looking at it, giving a long exhale before returning it to its hiding place. He moved to sit with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, arms resting on his knees. 

He knew he’d caused some damage by not returning the Stones and using them instead. He knew how easy it would be to use them again and again, for his own selfish reasons, but that makes him no better than Thanos. But hadn’t he earned some selfish?

Hadn’t you? 

Steve let his head fall back, staring at the waning light creeping in through the slats in the door. You’d never broken your leg in his timeline. You’d gotten hurt on missions, of course—everyone had—but nothing to this extent. Nothing that could permanently take you out of the game. No, this injury was brand new. 

Steve got an itch at the back of his neck when he thought about that. 

He shook his head, pushing to his feet. No, this time would be different. He glanced towards where the briefcase was hidden. This time, you’d be fine.

One way or another. 

Steve couldn’t sleep worth a damn, so he finally gave up, got out of bed and ran ten miles. He showered and decided to grab a cup of coffee before he went to the medical wing, hoping to see you before they took you back for surgery. 

Imagine his surprise when he walked into the kitchen and saw you standing at the counter, a mug in your hands. 

“Y/N?”

You turned to face him, a bright smile on your face. The shorts you were wearing showed off your legs, neither of which were swollen or bruised in any way. Steve shook his head and your smile widened. 

“Morning, Captain.”

Steve shook his head, eyes going from your leg to your face. 

“How?”

You shrugged your shoulders, setting the mug on the counter. 

“I felt better this morning, and I could move without any pain. They redid the x-rays and there is no evidence of a break. I’m fine.”

Steve crossed the kitchen in a flash, taking you in his arms. You laughed, lacing your arms around him, closing your eyes as the warmth of his body bled into yours. As you leaned into his thick chest, Steve spoke softly. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” “Me, too.” “I just … how?”

You shook your head, sighing softly, stepping back from Steve. 

“I don’t know for sure.” “But you have your suspicions?”

You smiled and nodded, looking down at your hands. You opened your mouth, closing it again when Natasha and Clint walked into the kitchen, stopping abruptly and eyes widening when they saw you. Clint shook his head and you smiled, lifting a shoulder. 

“I’m okay.”

Natasha shook her head as she stepped forward. 

“How? I saw your xrays. There’s no way—“ “Must have been a miracle.”

Natasha’s eyes widened and Clint huffed out a breath, tossing his head to the side and whining as he walked to the coffee pot. He took the whole pot and carried it to the table, wrapping his arms around it, pulling a straw from the jar on the table and putting it into the pot. You shook your head, laying a hand on Steve’s arm as you stepped around him to gather the ingredients to make a new pot of coffee in the second coffeemaker. 

Steve was quiet as he watched Natasha sit beside Clint, pulling her feet up, wiggling her toes as she pushed them under his leg until he sat on them. Clint grunted and took a sip of coffee through his straw, hovering protectively over the pot, cradling it as Bucky and Sam made their ways into the room, both of them sweating. Bucky’s hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and he nodded when you held up a finger at him, then pointed to the coffee pot. Sam went for the refrigerator, taking out the carton of orange juice.

“Use a glass, Wilson.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder and glared at you, but he relented when you cocked an eyebrow at him. He took the glass Bucky offered him from the cabinet, pouring the juice into his glass, then going still before shaking his head. 

“Wait just a damn minute.”

Bucky glanced at Sam, then blinked wide eyes as he turned to you. 

“Whoa. You’re …” “Fine.”

Bucky shook his head, kneeling down before you, making you jump when cool metal fingers brushed over your shin. 

“How? This thing was twice the size and so purple it was almost black yesterday.”

You lifted your toes to his metal shoulder and pushed, barely moving him off-balance. 

“Must have been a miracle.”

Sam cursed under his breath and Bucky stood to his feet, sighing and shaking his head. Steve shook his head, looking from Sam to Bucky, then over to where Natasha had a knowing smile on her face. 

“I don’t know what’s happening.” “Par for the course, right, Capsicle?”

Tony’s brows furrowed when he looked from Steve to you, shaking his head as he pointed to your leg. 

“What’s going on?” “Little miraculous healing before breakfast.”

Tony groaned, pushing Sam aside as he went for the coffee pot, grumbling under his breath. 

“It’s too early for this shit.”

Tony poured himself some coffee, throwing it back like a shot. He poured some more, returning the pot to the base, gasping and bobbling the mug when he saw the snake coiled up on the counter. Steve instinctively stepped in front of you, and you giggled as you laid a hand against his back, going on your tiptoes to peek over his shoulder. Tony set the mug on the counter, moving to run cool water over the back of his hand, which was covered in coffee and slightly burnt. 

“Goddamn it. You son of a bitch.”

Steve’s eyes widened as a golden light shone, the snake transforming into a man sitting on the edge of the counter. 

“Such language at such an early hour, Anthony.” “You made me spill my coffee, you bastard.”

Steve’s eyes were wide, heartbeat thundering in his ears as he stared at the man. The noises in the room faded as he looked back to the table, where Natasha and Clint sat, Clint with his head bowed, straw of coffee still in his mouth, Natasha with a small smile on her lips as she scrolled through news apps on her phone. Sam and Bucky were talking low on the other side of the room, and Tony was muttering under his breath as he turned off the faucet and dried his hands. You stepped from behind Steve, hand sliding along his shoulder as you made your way to stand in front of the … god on the kitchen counter. 

“I suppose some thanks are in order?” “Whatever could you be referring to, my love?”

Your cheeks went pink, eyes rolling as you gently shook your head. He leaned in towards you, inky black hair gleaming even in the industrial lighting. 

“You know I could never bear to see you hurt.”

You smiled, glancing back at Steve, the smile sliding from your face when you saw the twitch in his jaw, the hard set to his eyes. 

“Steve?”

Tony, Sam, Bucky, Natasha, and Clint all looked your way when they heard the slight tremble in your voice, scrambling into action when Steve quickly crossed the room, grabbing the man by the lapels of his coat, yanking him up and pressing him against the wall. 

“What the hell are you doing here?!”

Shouts echoed around the room, words Steve couldn’t hear and didn’t bother trying to understand in his haze of rage. The man winced when Steve moved a thick forearm to press against his throat, green eyes meeting Steve’s own, a flash of surprise accompanying one dark eyebrow raising. 

“Well. My, my.”

Steve narrowed his eyes as the man coughed, wincing at the increase of pressure on his windpipe. Steve went to open his mouth, falling silent when your sweet voice broke through. 

“Please, Steve, come on. Look at me. Steve.”

He did, turning his head just slightly to meet your wide, frightened eyes. You nodded, doing your best to keep your voice level. 

“It’s okay. Everything’s okay, Steve. Just let him go.”

Steve gave a shake of his head. 

“This is Loki.” “I know.”

You shook your head, one trembling hand moving to rest against his shoulder. 

“Loki wouldn’t hurt us.”

Bucky made a disagreeing noise, clamping his mouth shut when you shot a glare his way. You looked back to see Steve staring at you, and you shook your head again, moving your hand up a bit to let your pinky finger brush against Steve’s cheek. He gave a small shake of his head, voice barely a whisper. 

“He’s … evil.” “No, honey. No. He’s just … mischievous.”

Steve shook his head again, and you moved both hands to touch him. 

“It’s okay, Steve. Just let him go. I promise you, he’s not going to do anything to hurt us.”

Steve slid his eyes back to Loki, who nodded. 

“She’s right. If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be bleeding … Captain.”

Steve felt his lips trying to curl into a snarl, but he slowly relaxed, dropping his hands from Loki, dropping him to the ground. Loki stumbled a bit, straightening his cloak and glancing back at Steve, a knowing, yet curious look in his eyes. Steve looked to you, taking your hand and pulling you close, putting his face in your hair. You closed your eyes, wrapping your arms around him, motioning for the others to leave. They did, and when it was just the two of you in the kitchen, you moved a hand to gently scratch at Steve’s scalp. 

“Can we talk?”

Steve tightened his grip on your waist for just a moment, giving a long exhale as he stepped back from you. He turned his back to you, placing his hands on the counter and hanging his head. You licked your lips, taking in a breath and letting it out slowly as you spoke. 

“What was that?”

Steve shook his head, lifting it to glance out the window, throat working as he swallowed. 

“Loki’s the one who healed you?”

When you didn’t answer, Steve turned his head, looking over his shoulder and meeting your clearly worried eyes. You nodded, and Steve shook his head, looking back out the window. 

“And what do we have to give him in return?” “What? No. We don’t … Steve.”

He couldn’t look at you, and you licked your lips before speaking again. 

“What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer, so you went on. 

“You’re … not acting like yourself. It’s almost like you have no idea what’s going on here.” “So fill me in.”

You shook your head, stepping closer to him, then taking a step backwards. 

“Will you look at me?”

He hung his head, closing his eyes. He finally turned around, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest and meeting your eyes. You shook your head again, fighting the urge to go to him. 

“What is going on with you?”

Steve shook his head and you blew out a breath. 

“Don’t … don’t lie to me. You’re not the same Steve we left here last week. What happened?”

It took him by surprise, the fact that he actually wanted to tell you. But how could he?

“I’m actually from eight years in the future. The Avengers broke up, only getting back together when it was a last resort. Then we lost. We lost so badly that half the population just disappeared. Not that it bothered you any, because you’ve been dead for years in my time.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder, back out the window. He knew he couldn’t tell you the truth, but how could he lie to you? He uncrossed his arms, letting one fall by his side, using the other hand to rub his chin. 

“Something did happen. I just … I’m not sure what.” “What do you mean?”

Steve shook his head, turning to face the window again, putting both hands on the counter.

“It’s like … like I’ve lived this before, but … differently.” “Different how?”

Steve swallowed. 

“Loki was a bad guy. Pietro died soon after we met him. Bucky was a master assassin, and you and I never touched.”

You blinked, giving a sharp exhale. Steve shook his head, looking over his shoulder at you. 

“It’s hard to tell what’s real. What’s an actual memory and what’s not. I’m sorry.” “Don’t apologize. Steve.”

He turned his head to look at you, seeing the worry on your face. You went to him, one hand moving to his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. You shook your head, just staring at him. 

“I can’t imagine that. Not being able to remember, or not sure what to remember. Oh, honey.”

You wrapped your arms around him and Steve melted into your touch. His hands came up to press against your back, holding you close as one of your hands drifted up to stroke his hair. After a few moments of silence, Steve spoke again. 

“You’re sure Loki’s on our side?”

You smiled. 

“I’m sure. He’s crafty, but he’s one of us. Well, as much ‘one of us’ as a god can be.” “Okay.” “I mean … we never would have beaten Fury without Loki’s help. He saved our lives.”

Steve’s eyes flew open. He gently pushed you back, keeping his hands on your shoulders as he studied your face. 

“Fury?”

You nodded. 

“Undercover HYDRA agent? Brought the aliens down on us in the Battle of New York? If it wasn’t for Loki, we would have been toast.”

Steve just stared at you, barely even blinking. You gave a shaky exhale, letting your hand fall to his shoulder. 

“I’ll get you the files, let you refresh your memory.”

Steve slowly nodded. You smiled as you let your hand slide from his shoulder to his back. 

“Loki just likes to play tricks. He’s the god of mischief, after all. But he’d never hurt us.” “Are you sure? The stories of what he did to Thor alone, I just …”

You furrowed your eyebrows. 

“Who?”

Steve met your eyes, saw the confusion in them. 

“Thor.”

You shook your head. 

“Who is that?”

Steve felt his heart stutter in his chest. He blinked, speaking again. 

“Thor. The god of Thunder. Loki’s brother.”

You pursed your lips, shaking your head again. 

“Loki doesn’t have a brother. He’s spoken some about a sister, but I don’t know if she’s actually alive or just a scary story they told to keep him in line.” “Are you sure?”

You shrugged your shoulders. 

“We could always just ask him. But I … I think he would have told us about a brother by now.”

Steve swallowed hard, slowly nodding his head. You moved a hand to cup his cheek, feeling your heart thud in your chest when he turned his face to your touch, closing his eyes. 

“Let me get you some water, okay?”

Steve nodded, pressing his lips to your palm until you’d stepped too far away. He stared straight ahead, mind churning, heart racing with the realizations that were suddenly hitting him, the consequences of what he’d done only beginning to scratch the surface.  

Pietro was still alive.  Bucky was thriving.  Thor didn’t exist here.  Fury did, but as the complete opposite of what Steve had known. 

Steve took the water bottle from your hand, smiling back at the soft smile you gave him. He set the bottle on the table and took your hand, tugging you close. You had that same soft smile on your face when he lifted a hand to your cheek, caressing gently as he pressed his lips to yours. 

It was worth it. 

You were worth it. 

TAGS:  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​, @chonkychornes​, @sarcasm-myfriend​, @patzammit​, @beardburnsupersoldiers, @sallyp-53, @moodymcu, @angrybirdcr, @bellaireland1981, @brittanymcsharry, @free-2bmee, @laneygthememequeen, @iwritesmutsandfluff, @captain-rogers-beard, @geeksareunique, @alexxcorona113, @iluvsumbucky, @readermia, @buckmecaptain, @jennmurawski13, @emmandhercoffecrisp, @geekysimmerthings, @deidrashouseofpain, @idjitmonkey, @peaceinourtime82, @fallenoutofrose, @anika-ann, @superavengerpotterstar, @nerdgirljen, @thefanficfaerie, @adaliamalfoy, @rinthehufflepuff, @fallenoutofrose​, @scentedsongrebel​, @badassbaker, @iluvsumbucky​, @donutloverxo​

[teamatsumu]

Nutella

Summary: Late at night, you turn on the kitchen light to find a stranger bleeding on your floor and eating your Nutella.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 3,590

A/N: Idk this idea is either awesome or absolutely terrible lol i’ll leave that to yall. thank you to @chillingbucky for giving this a read x

Main Masterlist

This had to be the worst mission Bucky had ever undertaken.

It had started off great. A simple extraction. A biohazardous vial in an inactive HYDRA base with no more than ten guards. In fact, it had sounded so easy that Bucky had volunteered to go solo - how difficult could it be? He had worked alone as the Winter Soldier for decades, and he still wasn't used to working as part of a team. Most missions required thoroughly planned team attacks and chances for solo missions were rare, so when the chance presented itself Bucky immediately jumped at it.

Steve was slightly more at ease knowing Bucky was doing this alone. He understood his need for solitude and why he cherished it so much. He also realized that Bucky worked best alone. He was a one man army and ten men were absolutely no problem for him.

However, that was far as the pros of the situation went. The minute Bucky set foot into the HYDRA base, he realized how incredibly wrong his intel had been. The base was teeming with soldiers. Apparently, it had been reinhabited a few weeks ago. No one had bothered to tell him that. Bucky cursed internally as he peeked around a corner to see five guards lounging in front of a steel door.

He took a deep breath. Fuck this. He was in way too deep to go back empty handed now.

Technically, the mission was a success. He’d gotten the vial, secured it in a case on his belt, and managed to disarm and contain fifteen of HYDRA's men. On the other hand, he had also gotten his flesh arm slashed, his head banged so hard he was sure it had earned him a concussion, at least one broken rib and a stab wound on his leg. It sounded like a lot, but Bucky was still able to walk, courtesy of the serum flowing through his veins.

It hadn’t been more than five minutes on his bike before everything started to swim in front of Bucky’s eyes. It became worse after a few minutes, and Bucky had to slow to a stop. His head was pounding like crazy. Every breath he sucked in hurt, the sharp pain of his splintered rib at his side was too much - he needed to not be in constant motion for his serum to work effectively.

He dropped the bike on its side, stumbling until he met a wall and sat down against it. The stab wound in his leg was still bleeding, though a little less heavily now. His slashed arm, though, was still bleeding profusely like there was no tomorrow. His metal arm was clicking and whirring like crazy, he’d taken a few heavy strikes and he was sure the machinery needed desperate fixing. It reminded him a little of Tony’s robots. After taking a few deep breaths to try and calm himself, Bucky finally managed to look around at his surroundings.

He had been driving in upstate New York. The houses around him were small and close together, but they were quiet and clean. There were very few street lights, so Bucky was cloaked in the shadows, and none of the houses had fences around them. Jesus fuck, he'd driven into a gated community. He'd actually driven straight through the houses instead of bypassing them. Wow, he really didn't have any idea what he was doing, did he? Thank god he'd stopped.

He was leaning against the side of a corner house, making him lean forward away from it. As he stood up, he grunted again, the street and his bike swimming before his eyes. He couldn't drive like this. He had to get that concussion checked. But how? The Compound was still ages away, and there was no way he was going to a hospital. He scared the people there. Doctors were hesitant around him, patients stared at him, and all it did was heighten his anxiety. He preferred Dr. Cho, who didn't seem to mind him and didn't have an audience gawking at him around her.

He looked at the house he'd been leaning against, eye catching on a ground floor window. He dragged his feet closer to realize it was a kitchen. The counters and various dishes were visible even though the lights were off. Contemplating his position, hyper aware of the blood now dripping down his calf, Bucky gave into temptation.

Popping the window open was child's play for Bucky. The locks weren't strong, nor was there a reinforced steel grill covering the windows. It slid up smoothly, and was big enough for him to slide through legs first. He grunted as his ass hit the floor, breath catching at the piercing pain from his rib. He clutched at his side and stood up again, once more feeling the room spin.

The first thing he did was close the kitchen door so he could turn the light on. He squinted at the sudden brightness, blinking and turning away from the lights to get used to it. He groaned quietly at the sight of the blood he'd already began trailing on the floor. Fuck, he'd have to clean this up before he left. Somehow, that was the least of his concerns at that point.

He managed to find two large rolls of paper towels that he pressed to his leather clad arm and thigh. They immediately soaked up the blood, making Bucky use more and more in order to clean up the blood trails on his limbs. Pressing his flesh hand to his head showed that he hadn't cracked his skull open. He flexed and extended his metal arm, feeling the plates slide back into place. He'd received a lot of blows on his left shoulder, and it had definitely jostled the prosthetic. He'd have to wait for Dr. Cho to take a look when he got back.

Man, the Compound seemed so far away right now.

Bucky opened the fridge then, looking to ease his burning dry throat with some water, which he did. As he was about to put the bottle back in its place, his eye caught an almost full brown jar on the refrigerator shelf. Nutella.

His mouth watered at the prospect of eating it. He had quite the sweet tooth, and Nutella was a guilty pleasure he loved indulging in. Steve had pried the jar from his hands many a time, admonishing him that he'd get sick if he finished an entire tub in a single day. Bucky had always scoffed at that, claiming that the serum wouldn't let him and that it was the one good thing that came out of being a super soldier.

He grabbed the jar without thinking, which he probably should have done. He was in a stranger's house, eating their food and drinking their water, leaving a bloody mess on their clean white marble floor. The concussion didn't let him think though. He rummaged around for a spoon in the drawers, and before he knew it, he was on the floor, back against the counter and legs spread out before him, shoving spoonfuls of chocolatey goodness into his mouth. Every now and then, he'd drink some water, his wounds almost completely forgotten except the pounding of his head. The melting sweetness on his tongue helped relax him, and he felt his eyelids start to droop.

……………….

You heard a distant thudding noise that made you look up towards your open bedroom door, removing an ear bud. When nothing else came, you shoved it back in, turning to your laptop. But then you heard another thud, this one louder, you pulled both earbuds out, pausing the video to listen carefully.

There was another sound, a sort of squeak that often accompanied leather boots. It was too close to be coming from next door. No, this had to be your own house.

You felt yourself tense up, throwing your blanket off your legs before standing up. Your bare feet hit the cold floor, but you didn't put slippers on. You walked to the bedroom door to look out towards the living room. Nothing. It was all quiet.

Just as you were about to move inside again, your eye caught light. You froze in the doorway, eyes trained on the crack of light from under the kitchen door. You hadn't closed that door. You never did. And leaving a light on? You'd be caught dead if you ever let that happen, which only meant one thing.

Someone was here.

You frantically looked back into your room, realizing you had no weapons. Of course you didn't. You were a doctor who worked most days and lived alone. You had always assumed that the knives in your kitchen were all the weapons you'd need. Break-ins weren't common in communities like this.

Your heart was beating fast, and another thought occurred to you, filling you with confusion. If someone was going to rob you, what the hell were they doing in the kitchen? You didn't have anything valuable in there. So what….. what were they doing?

Taking a breath, you quietly tiptoed to the kitchen door until you were standing right in front of it. Your hand was sweaty as it wrapped around the doorknob. You twisted it silently, inhaling sharply when you realized it wasn't locked. Then, you opened it just a crack.

The door didn't make any sound and light flooded your vision, making you blink a little. As your eyes adjusted and improved your vision, you spotted something dark standing out on the marble floor. Blood. You stared at it wide eyed, unable to register what you were doing. Before you knew it, the whole door was pushed wide open and there you stood in the doorway, staring into the room.

It was a complete mess. There was blood on the floor, lots of it, and drenched paper towels stacked together at one place. But what caught your eye the most, was the huge man sitting on the floor.

He was decked in all black, but the silver of his arm stood out proudly against the dark torso. His boots were thrice the size of your feet, military built and menacing to look at. He had long brown hair that partly obstructed your view of his face. Said face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, but the pale blue of his wide eyes stood out against the chestnut locks of his hair.

In one hand he held a jar of Nutella. In the other, a small spoon suspected midair, halfway to his mouth.

You stared at each other for a good few moments, neither of you knowing where to begin. Then, he spoke up.

“I can explain?”

His words seemed to snap you out of your trance and you blinked furiously, sure that whatever this was would disappear. You couldn't convince your brain that it was real. It was too bizarre.

“Wh- how- you…..?” You stuttered as the man stood up, albeit slowly. You stumbled back until you met the wall, pressing yourself to it. Standing up, he looked even more massive, packing a good many pounds of muscle. Not to mention the silver gleam of his prosthetic wasn't doing anything to make him less intimidating. Wait, silver arm?

“I know you.” You blurted out. “You- on YouTube.” You managed to say, gesturing vaguely to where you came from. You'd seen this guy. He was Captain America's best friend. What was his name? Something Barnes?

“Bucky.” The man spoke. “Bucky Barnes.”

Did I say that out loud?

“You did.” He spoke again. “It's okay. Panic makes people do that often.”

You nodded slowly, still holding yourself stiff against the wall. The man- Bucky- fidgeted a bit, flinching. You caught that immediately, and like a switch being flipped, you immediately noticed the details you had so pointedly missed. The blood on the floor was coming from him. He was leaning heavily on one side, which meant he had some injury there, and his eyes were blinking a little too often.

“You're hurt.” You commented, feeling your own muscles relax slightly, though you didn't move from where you were. The man shrugged, but even that made him wince.

“I'm sorry for breaking in.” He muttered, his voice low, and much softer than what you expected. “I uh, I think I have a concussion, so I wasn't able to drive. And I needed to stop the bleeding-” He stopped as he looked around the floor, wincing and giving you a sheepish look. “-and I ended up making this mess. God, I feel so bad.”

You let out a strangled noise that was a cross between a laugh and a yes, taking a small step away from the wall and shaking your head. “It's uh, it's okay. I guess. You said you have a concussion?”

He reached up to touch the side of his head, probably where he was hit. “‘M not sure. But it feels like one?”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Feels like one? How many concussions have you- oh, never mind.”

He chuckled a bit at that, but groaned immediately afterward, swaying a little. You instinctively moved forward, hands raised up in front of you in case he fell. But he didn't.

“Yeah. That's kind of my job description.” His voice was strangled.

“I could take a look?” You offered. “I'm a doctor.”

His eyebrows shot up. “A doctor? Wow, just my luck. I broke into a doctor's house.”

You let out a laugh, stepping closer until he was only an arm's length away. “Let me take a look at you. If you're going to get home, you need help.”

He eyed you a bit, still hesitant. “I- I wouldn't want to burden you.”

You shook your head immediately, waving his words away. “Nonsense! I'm a doctor. Plus, it would be an honor to help an Avenger.”

He cracked a smile at that, finally giving in. You motioned him to follow you, and you led him to the bathroom. You put the toilet seat down so he could sit there, pulling out the first aid kit from under the sink. Yours was a little more advanced, equipped with needles and surgical thread. You knew how to use it, after all. You turned back to your unexpected midnight patient, taking a breath.

“I'm going to have to cut some parts of your clothes away.” You explained. “Is that fine with you?”

You saw him contemplate it again before complying, straightening and nodding. You got busy cutting the fabric then, but all throughout your work, you felt his eyes on you.

“You're a lot calmer than I anticipated.” Bucky commented. “Not that I was expecting to be caught, but I just imagined you'd scream until I left.”

You smiled. “Trust me, I wasn't too far from doing just that.” That got a laugh out of him. “Blood doesn't freak me out anymore. And the minute I realized you were injured…. I don't know. It just didn't seem like you were going to hurt me.”

He seemed taken aback by that, watching you with wide eyes as you prepared a suture needle. “I didn't scare you? Wow, that's…. the exact opposite of what everyone says to me.”

“Really? Well, I can see why people think that. But you just seemed more alarmed to see me than I was to see you. Or maybe that was because of the jar of Nutella in your hand.”

He groaned at that, giving you a sheepish smile. “I kind of have a soft spot for Nutella. I'm sorry. And I wasn't exactly thinking straight. You know,” he gestured vaguely to his head. “Concussion.”

You nodded. “That's understandable. I'd want Nutella when concussed as well.”

You finished up on his leg, moving to his arm now. He shifted a bit, and you could feel his discomfort. It wasn't hard to identify. You'd often had patients who were uncomfortable with the invasion of privacy that often came with doctor visits. Bucky showed all those signs of touch aversion.

“I'm sorry that this is making you uncomfortable.” You spoke up, cutting the sleeve away. You inhaled at the deep gash across his bicep, moving to grab the rubbing alcohol.

“It's okay.” His voice was low, almost whispering. “I'm just- it takes some getting used to.”

You nodded. You knew the story of The Winter Soldier. Years and years of poking and prodding was more than likely to contribute to his post traumatic stress. You understood the behaviour all too well.

“I have a patient,” you spoke as you applied the first stitch. “he was misdiagnosed by three different doctors before he finally came to me. He absolutely refused to let me do a physical examination on him, insisting I use the reports from the previous doctors. He was so traumatized by the constant pricking and blood sampling that he simply couldn't do it anymore. The very sight of me pulling on gloves would often send him spiraling into a panic attack.”

You cut the thread and sat back to look at your handiwork, before turning your eyes up to meet Bucky's gaze.

“His pain can measure up to only a fraction of what you went through, but it still puts things into perspective for the third eye. Me.”

He nodded at that, allowing you to apply gauze to the freshly stitched wound.

“Is he still like that?”

You smiled. “No. He learned to trust me. Open up. And I'm happy to say that I diagnosed him correctly. He lives a healthy life now. Even has a kid.”

You saw Bucky's lips twitch a little in a smile, nodding. You continued.

“What I'm trying to say is, trust doesn't come easy. But there are people in this world that are willing to help you if you want it. You just need to know where to look for them.”

His stare softened then, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Do any of them by chance live in gated communities in upstate New York?”

You laughed at that, standing up and putting away your supplies, cleaning the sink up. Your cheeks had heated at the comment, heart skipping. He was definitely flirting with you, and you had to say you didn't mind it.

You managed to find some clothes that your brother had left last time he was there, and they just fit Bucky. You then made him a cup of tea that you swore would make him feel better, and gave him some pills. You two sat on your living room couch, talking about every random topic you could think of. Bucky told you about his life, how hard it was adjusting to the world of today. He talked of the 40s and the War, though he skipped over the time he spent under HYDRA. Understandable. You in return talked about your own days, the hospital, your colleagues and how living alone was treating you.

“It's nowhere near as exciting as your life, but I'm happy being bored.”

“No, no.” Bucky immediately stopped you. “Boring is good. Boring is... normal.” Something flickered in his eyes and he smiled at you. “I can't remember the last time I just sat and talked like this.”

You sipped at your tea. “I'm glad you're experiencing it now.”

It was almost 3 at night when Bucky finally said he had to go.

“I don't think I'm comfortable with you out on the road like this.” You commented as you followed him outside, watching him pick up his motorcycle from where it lay on its side. “It's still dark. And you haven't exactly recovered.”

Bucky smiled at you, a soft grin that made your heart skip. “I've overstayed my welcome, I think. And I feel a whole lot better. Thank you, Y/N. For everything.”

You smiled and waved it off. “It's no big deal. I'm glad I could help.”

Bucky threw a leg over his bike, fiddling around with the keys. It roared to life and he looked at you again. His expression showed a gentleness and peace that made your own insides turn to mush. A sudden surge of confidence made you step forward, leaning over him until your lips pressed to his cheek. You felt him tense, then relax. As you pulled away, you saw his cheek turn pink under the streetlight, and it only made you more giddy.

“I'll see you.” It was a promise. His face was inches from yours as he spoke, and your breath halted. You nodded, stepping back and giving him one last smile. Then the bike started moving, and before you knew it, he was speeding off down the street.

It was two days later when you next heard of Bucky. You had just gotten back home from the hospital, and on your front step lay a large jar of Nutella tied up in a pretty pink bow. You grinned and picked it up, looking at the small card attached to it.

Just replacing what I took. I'd like to buy you coffee sometime too, to make up for the damage to your kitchen :)

-Bucky

Right below the name were the messily scribbled digits of a phone number, and your smile widened even more, a giddy feeling spreading over your chest. It took everything in you to not squeal on the porch. Instead, you managed to calm yourself down enough to unlock the door and get inside before you did just that.

....................

As always, feedback is appreciated!

[midnightkens]

Freedom

Tony Stark has always known trauma. 

Warnings for: Graphic descriptions of violence, physical/emotional abuse, suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, gendered slurs, PTSD, depression, anxiety, Howard Stark’s A+ Parenting

If Tony weren’t such a disappointment, his father would love him. This he knows for a fact. The boy lies on the floor, bruised and bloody, waiting for Jarvis to help him, his father’s words ringing in his ears.

Robots? Again? The military doesn’t care about robots, Anthony. Don’t bother looking at me until you make something I can actually use.

Worthless.

You’re a fucking waste of space, Anthony, and your mother should have just aborted you when she had the chance.

Tony can’t decide which hurts more: Dad’s words or his fists.

*

He hasn’t seen his mother in a month.

Mama has always been a fleeting figure, coming and going to charity events and almost immediately retreating to her room. But she never shouts at Tony to leave when he came in for a cuddle. He curls up next to her and she blows on his hair, making him giggle.

“What has my bambino gotten into today?” she asks.

And he launches into everything he had done that day, from building things, to cooking with Jarvis (but never about Dad hitting him; he cried about it to Mama once and she only said he didn’t mean to), and Mama listens and smiles softly.

Then she sleeps.

And sleeps.

And sleeps, and then wakes up and does it all again. Sometimes, though, she’ll squeeze in time for him. She’s been teaching him piano. Dad says he’s not very good, and Mama angrily shushes him and reassures him that Dad is wrong. Tony lets Mama hold him close, and Tony breathes in the scent of her flowery perfume.

It’s better than the scent of Howard’s harsh cologne.

*

Mama never stays, but Tony convinces himself that it’s fine, that he doesn’t need her physically there to know that she loves him.

That doesn’t explain why his heart feels cut to bleeding every time she leaves, though.

*

Tony rocks back and forth as he hides in the closet, eyes clenched shut and hands clamped over his ears. If he hides here, he’ll be safe. Dad won’t be able to find him, won’t be able to see him if it’s dark, won’t be able to hear him if he doesn’t cry, doesn’t breathe.

His eyes burn, and he blinks the tears back because Dad can’t find him, he can’t get hit again, he won’t.

Maybe, just maybe though, Tony deserves it. Dad had told him to stop building robots, and he did it anyway, but the design was so cool, and he thought that maybe his dad would like it, even though he’d threatened to hit him if Tony showed him another robot, but Tony never learns. It’s no wonder Dad hits him and calls him a worthless waste of space.

He made a mistake by leaving the bot on the floor of his bedroom. He jumped when he heard a loud crash, followed by a roar of, “God fucking dammit, Anthony!” and something in him had screamed safety safety get to safety, if he can’t find you, you’ll be safe.

The closet was safe, and he never wanted to leave.

*

Blood rushes through his ears. His heart pounds, and he tries to suck in air, but he can’t. He is going to die.

Dad’s going to kill me, Dad’s going to kill me, Dad’s actually going to kill me, help me, someone, help mehelpmehelpme, I can’t breathe and he’s going to kill me.

Howard isn’t even home, off on another expedition to find Captain America. Logically he knows this, but his brain is too loud, and he’s breaking Dad’s rules again, and Dad could come home at any second and find him and his fists hurt and Tony’s ribs still aren’t healed and -

Tony’s going to die.

*

He’s so hungry.

Dad had come home from Stark Industries early and found Tony cooking with Jarvis. Dad hates it when he cooks with Jarvis, says it’s too girly and that he hasn’t raised his son to be a pussy. Jarvis is careful to make sure Dad never finds out, because “What he doesn’t know won’t harm him, Master Anthony”, but Dad came home and caught them, and Tony had been having so much fun until he saw Dad.

When he sees Dad, he has to actively try not to shake. It always hurts more when he cries or shakes. His fractured cheekbone is proof.

Only this time, Howard doesn’t punch Tony. He doesn’t yell. Instead he sneers, grabs Tony by the hair and tugs until Tony’s looking him in the eye.

“What did I tell you about cooking, Anthony?”

Tony swallows the lump in his throat. He will not cry. “T-that it’s too girly.”

“And?”

“And…”

“Spit it out, Anthony!” A harsh tug draws an involuntary gasp from Tony. “I don’t have all fucking day!”

“Th-that you’re not raising me to be a pussy.”

“That’s right, Anthony.” He lets go and shoves Tony into the marble counter.

“Mister Stark, really-”

“Stay out of this, Jarvis!” Dad looms over Tony, and he represses a shudder. “I don’t think I’m getting through to you, Anthony. I do everything I can to make you tough. The world is cruel, boy, and you wouldn’t survive for a second because you’re too fucking sensitive. You like cooking? Too bad you won’t get to eat a fucking bite of it. And if I catch you sneaking food, you can kiss Jarvis goodbye.”

Dad drags Tony to his room and locks him in. Then, silence.

Tony’s too afraid to cry.

*

Jarvis sneaks Tony some food anyway, because for some reason, Jarvis loves him, but Tony can’t eat it all because fear makes the food taste like ash.

Tony becomes a pro at sneaking small snacks into his room over the years. They don’t taste like ash, and they’re easier to hide from Dad.

There’s still blood on his carpet from the last time he ate during a punishment and Dad found out.

*

Be a man, Anthony.

You’re a disappointment.

Grow the fuck up, pussy.

Get out of my sight!

I hate you.

Tony has trouble sleeping. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Dad’s taunts him until he’s wide awake, until he’s coming up with bigger, better weapon designs, because even though Dad hates him, Tony still yearns for approval.

He can’t-won’t, sleep until he’s better.

*

When Tony is twelve, Dad beats him so badly that he ends up in the hospital for a week.

Tony hadn’t even done anything wrong this time, hadn’t tried to show Dad his projects, hadn’t even noticed he was home. Dad had been gone again, searching for Captain America, and things had been...peaceful, for once. Tony had been sitting at his desk reading a book when Dad stormed in.

His rage was almost tangible.

“I couldn’t fucking find him, Tony”, Dad yelled between hits and kicks. Tony tried to curl up to protect himself, but a sharp kick to his ribs sends him reeling. He gasps, and Dad shouts, “I lost Steve, and I fucking got stuck with you instead! A worthless, useless, pussy of a boy!”

Tony wakes up a day later, confused, groggy, and panicking because he can’t see out of his left eye, but Jarvis tries to calm him as the doctor lists off his injuries.

A concussion, three broken ribs, internal bleeding caused by a rib puncturing his spleen, and some heavy bruising and swelling. If Jarvis hadn’t found him, he would have died.

Not for the first time, Tony wishes he were dead.

*

He’s numb, but he accidentally cuts himself in his lab one day and it makes him feel...better. Centered.

Alive.

Stealing razors is easy.

Bringing it across his skin and making himself bleed is somehow even easier.

*

Howard sees and smacks Tony so hard he tastes blood, but for once, he doesn’t care.

It makes him feel better. Not even Howard can take that away from him.

*

He goes to MIT, and his father hounds him for bigger, better weapon designs.

Tony hates himself for being afraid, for still wanting love and attention from Howard. He’s not a dumb child anymore; he knows that he rarely gets what he wants (he can’t even make a friend; he has to build himself one, and after the press conference Tony walks away with bruised ribs), but he’s still hopeful, like some stupid child.

He’s a genius. So why does he keep acting this way?

*

And then, Tony meets Rhodey.

*

Rhodey is everything that Tony has ever wanted, but has never deserved. He’s funny, he’s kind, he defends Tony when other students make fun of him, he lets Tony sprawl on top of him when he’s desperate for touch (and Tony is desperate for touch a lot).

Rhodey is comfort and safety, and he’ll probably leave just like everyone else,  but Tony will let himself have this nice thing for once.

Even if it doesn’t last.

*

Soon enough, Rhodey becomes suspicious.

Tony’s noticed that others downplay his intelligence, but Rhodey is a genius too. He notices Tony’s strange eating habits, the way he flinches when people move suddenly around him, the way he hides snacks around the dorm, the way he curls himself into small spaces when he’s scared.

Rhodey’s asked, but Tony has deflected every time. Rhodey, the saint that he is, drops it but Tony knows that he won’t be able to hide forever.

*

That day comes sooner than Tony would like.

He’s on the phone with an enraged Howard, who has called him and his latest designs “worthless garbage”, who wonders what he did to get stuck with “such a fuck up for a kid.” Tony is shaking and trying so hard not to cry that he doesn’t hear Rhodey enter the room.

At least he isn’t here to hit me.

Howard screams, “Don’t fucking call this house until you do better!” and hangs up.

Tony runs a trembling hand through his hair and flinches when he hears, “What the fuck was that?”

There is fire in Rhodey’s eyes, a fire that Tony isn’t used to seeing from Rhodey. He’s seen Rhodey

mad, but never like this. Not angry enough to kill. And while a tiny part of Tony’s brain knows that Rhodey isn’t mad at him, a larger part of him is so terrified that he’s curling up under his desk before he can think about it. “I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad because I can fix it, I promise I can I just need to be better, but Rhodey, please don’t be mad.”

Rhodey crouches in front of him, but keeps a distance. Tony tries to back up and involuntarily whimpers when he realizes that he has nowhere to go, that he’s not safe, that Rhodey can see him, so he’s in danger, danger, danger.

“Hey, Tones, it’s okay,” Rhodey says gently. “ I’m really sorry I scared you. Can you come out? I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Tony frantically shakes his head, fully expecting Rhodey to ignore him because, when they aren’t hitting him, that’s what people do. But he never feels Rhodey’s hands on his arms, never even hears him sigh frustratedly. Instead he hears, “That’s okay. Can I touch you?”

Tony wants to shake his head, wants to beg Rhodey to leave him alone, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Because this is Rhodey.

Even now, he knows that Rhodey won’t hurt him. He still can’t leave the comfort of his tiny space, though, so he offers Rhodey his hand. Rhodey clasps it tightly over his own and rubs his thumb over Tony’s knuckles. The gesture is small, but soothing, and Tony feels tears spring to his eyes.

Rhodey is so good, and Tony is a bad person who doesn’t deserve him.

“I’m sorry I scared you earlier, Tones. I was just so mad.”

“It’s okay. I piss a lot of people off. Miracle you haven’t run off yet, really -”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rhodey keeps his voice low and soothing, and Tony hates himself for taking comfort in it. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Howard.”

Tony is confused. Rhodey’s mad at Howard? But Howard’s right. It’s Tony who is the worthless, useless, fuck-up. It’s not Howard’s fault that Tony is so terrible.

“All of those things he said about you Tony? They’re not true. You’re not useless, you’re not worthless; you’re not a disappointment. Howard is a jealous, bitter old fuck, but that’s not your fault. It’s his, and you deserve so much more than what you’ve gotten, and I’m so, so fucking sorry. I know that big brain of yours is probably telling you otherwise, but I want you to listen to me, okay? There’s nothing wrong with you, and you do not deserve it.

Tony’s crying before Rhodey finishes. No one except for Jarvis has told him any of that before, and to hear it from Rhodey means everything. He hates that Rhodey knows, is so deeply ashamed, but he slowly uncurls and comes out from underneath the desk. He hesitates before throwing himself into Rhodey’s lap, but Rhodey says, “C’mere, Tones,” and Tony throws himself at him.

Rhodey catches him. Every time.

*

Things aren’t weird between them after that. Tony thought that it would get weird for a while, but nothing has changed. Rhodey doesn’t just accept Tony’s quirks anymore (which has been enough for Tony in the first place); now, Rhodey tries to actively understand them.

Tony loves him.

*

Jarvis comes to MIT to tell Tony that he’s been diagnosed with lung cancer. Tony cries, and Jarvis reassures Tony that he’ll be just fine, and Tony has such a bad panic attack after Jarvis leaves the next morning that Rhodey nearly calls an ambulance.

Three and a half weeks later, his mother calls and her words make his blood run cold.

“Oh, tesoro, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart, but Jarvis passed away last night.”

*

He goes home for the funeral and stays for a week. When he comes back to campus, he has two broken ribs, a limp, fractured cheekbones, and a black eye that he covers with foundation. Rhodey narrows his eyes, and before he can speak, Tony hurriedly passes it off as a lab accident.

“Things explode around me all the time, Rhodey, god you should know this by now.”

Rhodey huffs and shakes his head, but he drops it, and Tony breathes a sigh of relief. Tony doesn’t have the energy to talk about this with him right now (or ever), and Rhodey asks about Howard so often that Tony knows that Rhodey is sure of the fact that Tony gets hit at home and he’s just waiting for Tony to confirm it. Tony can’t, won’t, confirm it even to Rhodey. His former nanny squealed once, and she was gone the next day. Tony can’t afford to lose Rhodey, and Howard could make people disappear in the blink of an eye. So Tony would never tell him that Howard had hit him, not even because Tony had made him angry again, but simply because, “Jarvis isn’t here to protect you now, is he, boy?”

It’s routine, and Tony’s heart no longer races whenever they go through this, because his mind worries about almost everything else, but Rhodey has never been, and never will be one of them. He sees Rhodey and instead of screaming danger, danger, danger, his mind calms and says, love, comfort, safety. Safety is a foreign feeling to Tony, and he relishes in it whenever he’s near Rhodey. Rhodey will never hit him. Rhodey will never starve him, or tell him he’s worthless, that he hates him, and that Tony should go die. Rhodey is kind, he is gentle, and he never drags Tony out of tiny spaces that he crams himself in when he needs to feel safe. Rhodey tries to coax him out with a low, soothing voice and gentle words, and when Tony refuses to come out, he asks Tony if he can touch him before taking his hand in his own.

Tony gets hit at home. It’s an unspoken thing between them, but there are many of those.

*

Anxiety leaves him alone for once. Depression wraps her claws around his very being and refuses to let go. He drags a ball and chain with him wherever he goes, and no matter what he does, the crushing weight never lifts. Depression sounds like his father; only instead of shouting, she whispers horrible, worthless, bad person, you deserve to get hit, no one could love you until he takes a razor to his ankle just to make the voice shut up.

Depression tells him that Jarvis got cancer and died to get away from Tony, that he never loved Tony, and that it was the only way Jarvis could get away from him. Not even a razor can stop that, and Tony cries, and cries, and cries, because if Jarvis couldn’t love him, then who could? Not his father or mother, that’s for sure. Rhodey says he loves him, but Jarvis did too, and that was a lie, so surely Rhodey must be lying too. The thoughts crush him, but he puts on a brave face to avoid worrying Rhodey. Even if Rhodey abandons him eventually, he’s here now, and Tony hates worrying him. Despite his exhaustion, he gets out of bed, goes to class, hangs out with Rhodey, and works in the lab. He showers every other day, and he tries to eat regularly, but it’s so hard because he’s just not hungry. His masks work nonetheless, and Rhodey stays off his back.

*

He meant to get out of bed hours ago, but even breathing takes up too much energy. Rhodey is curled up beside him, arms wrapped around his middle. He runs fingers through Tony’s hair, causing Tony to blink sleepily. He’s so tired, but he can’t sleep.

“What’s wrong, Tones?” Rhodey murmurs against his hair. “Talk to me.”

He can’t.

He’s tried, but he can’t.

*

An idea comes to him.

He’s been toying with the idea since he was young, about eight years old, but he’s never tried. It used to scare him, and it still does, but it’s his only option at this point. Jarvis is dead, and Howard hates him, and Mom hasn’t spoken to him in two months, and Rhodey’s worried, and Tony is exhausted. His masks are falling apart, he’s falling apart, and Rhodey saw cuts on his ankle and Tony had to play it off like another lab accident, and now Rhodey’s watching him like a hawk. Howard is becoming more demanding, more threatening than ever before now that Jarvis is dead, and Tony can’t take it anymore. He has panic attacks that completely deplete his already low energy. Everything is too much; he’ll never escape unless he does this.

He’s better off dead.

*

Rhodey’s ROTC buddies drag him out of their apartment to go to a party, and Tony knows that this will be his only chance. Rhodey has been watching him too closely; he’ll never be able to do this if he’s here. He sees Rhodey off with a cheerful, “Have fun, sugarplum!” He knows Rhodey will be gone for awhile, so he puts on his pajamas, makes some popcorn, and watches Back to the Future. When it’s over, he turns the television off, washes his bowl, and retreats to his bedroom. He should be anxious, but he isn’t. He should go searching for Rhodey, beg him to talk him down, but he won’t. This is what Tony wants, what he needs.

It’s better this way. Rhodey won’t have to worry about him, and he’ll be free from Howard. Free from the anxiety, the depression, the terror that he feels every single day of his goddamn life. He’ll never get hit again, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll see Jarvis again.

The pros outweigh the cons. It’s an easy decision.

The blood pools from his wrists. He’s heard of people regretting it, but that’s not the case for Tony.

For the first time, he is at peace.

*

He wakes to an obnoxious beeping sound.

A hand runs through his hair and he involuntarily leans into the touch. Soft lips kiss his forehead, and he forces his eyes to open, hoping to see Jarvis. When his vision finally focuses, he has to blink back tears of sadness and disappointment.

Rhodey’s mother smiles softly at him. Tony loves Mama Rhodes, knows that she’s the closest thing to a mother he has, but if Mama Rhodes is here, that means Tony is alive.

He failed. Surprise surprise. God, he hates himself.

Someone is crying, but it isn’t him. His face is dry. Tony decides to ignore it for now. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with it.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mama Rhodes says. She brushes his bangs from his forehead. “You gave us a pretty good scare there.”

He’s disappointed her. He’s always disappointing someone.

“What happened?”

Tony knows what happened. Someone found him and called an ambulance. But who found him? Rhodey was out.

“I found you, Tony.” Tony freezes. No, no, no, no. He slowly turns his head, hoping against hope that he’s wrong, that it didn’t happen, that he’s imagining it. But when he sees Rhodey on the other side of the bed, face wet with tears and eyes bloodshot and puffy, Tony feels his blood run cold. His best friend found him and had to save him. “I came back from the party, because I knew something was wrong, and I found you. You were unconscious, and god Tony, I’ve never been so scared in my life. I’ve been here the entire time. Mom and Dad just got here about an hour ago. Tony...Your parents are coming. My dad went to go find them.”

Tony finally cries. He can’t even kill himself right, and now Howard is going to do it for him.

*

The doctors recommend that Tony receive inpatient treatment. Howard refuses.

*

Mom cries, and Howard shouts.

“I can’t believe you would fucking embarrass me like this, Anthony! Did you even think about how this would look for the company? For me? Do you want people thinking I’m a piece of shit, Anthony? It sure fucking seems like it! You’re so goddamn selfish. All you ever think about it yourself, and I’ve had it!”

Howard gets kicked out. Tony’s mother gives him a hug and a teary kiss, tells him she loves him, and leaves.

She doesn’t come back, and Tony is numb.

*

In October, days after he is released from the hospital, rumors start circulating about Howard’s parenting. Howard holds a press conference, and Tony is forced to lie to a sea of reporters and tell the world that he and his father have a great relationship, that Howard isn’t abusive, that his father loves him and he loves his father in equal measure.

When all is said and done, Howard grabs Tony by the wrist and says, “If you ever embarrass me like this again, Anthony, and you’ll wish that you had cut a little deeper. Lord knows I do.”

He releases Tony’s wrist and saunters off. Tony goes to rub his still-healing wrist and sees blood.

Howard popped a stitch. Tony doesn’t even care.

*

Go to class, work in the labs, do homework, hang out with Rhodey, eat, shower, sleep, repeat.

Tony’s never been one for monotony, but he needs structure a bit more than he’s willing to admit right now. Rhodey needs it too, if the way he’s sticking to Tony like glue is an indicator.

In December, everything changes.

*

Mom is dead, and Tony cries for her.

But Howard is dead, too.

I’m free, Tony thinks as he stares at Howard’s body. I’m free.

*

The mansion is quiet without Howard. Even when he wasn’t physically present, Tony was always tense, sensing danger. But Tony, for the first time ever, is calm as he roams his childhood home. Rhodey is with him, and that probably has something to do with it, but Tony doesn’t care. He’ll take whatever peace he can get at this point.

*

Tony runs through the mansion halls, eager to show Jarvis his new pet. It’s a frog he found in the pond, but it’s not poisonous or anything. He knows. Uncle Daniel taught Tony all about frogs once while he was staying with him and Aunt Peggy. He doesn’t have a name for the frog yet, but Jarvis will help him with that. Jarvis is good at those kinds of things.

“Jarvis, Jarvis, look what I got!” Tony shouts as he skids into the kitchen. Only Jarvis isn’t there. One of the cooks, Andrew, is. Tony doesn’t mind. He likes Andrew. But that’s not what makes Tony stops in his tracks.

Dad is there too.

Dad wasn’t supposed to be back for another three weeks. Tony’s mouth goes dry, and his heart begins to pound. Dad dismisses Andrew. Tony resists the urge to beg him to stay. It’ll only be worse if he begs.

“What’s that you got there, Anthony?”

“A….A frog, Dad.” He blinks back tears. Tears only make Dad angrier, and Tony’s so, so tired of being a failure and making him angry.

“Why did you bring a frog into this house? Did you want it as a pet?”

Tony nods, too afraid to speak. Howard laughs. “You can’t have a pet, boy. Only good people can have pets. And you know what you are, right?”

“A bad person,” Tony parrots back.

“That’s right. But you never learn, do you?”

Tony braces himself, but Howard’s fist never comes. Nothing could have prepared him for the white-hot pain he feels when Howard throws the boiling water on him. Tony cries, he can’t help it, the pain is just too much, and Howard smacks him. “It’ll get worse until you learn your lesson, boy.”

Tony jolts awake and gasps, chest heaving in panic. He can feel the water on his body, can feel the burns; he wraps his arms around himself and rocks back and forth on his bed, waiting for the pain to go away. He can’t cry, because Howard will hear him, and it’ll be so much worse if Howard hears him crying. He can hear Howard walking down the hall, can smell his cologne, and Tony swallows the bile rising in his throat.

It takes twenty agonizing minutes for Tony to realize that none of it is real. Howard is dead. He can’t be walking down the hall. He’s dead, so Tony can’t smell his cologne. Tony resists the lingering urge to hide in his closet, telling himself that it was just a dream, that Howard can’t hurt him anymore.

He chalks the nightmare up to the stress of the funeral and tells himself that it’s officially over, that he can relax.

*

The nightmares don’t stop by the time Tony returns to MIT for his final semester. If anything, they become more intense now that he’s away from the mansion. He wants to curl up and sleep next to Rhodey, to soak up the comfort so badly that he aches with it, but he doesn’t want to let Rhodey know that he’s having nightmares. If Rhodey knew, then he would have to tell Rhodey about getting hit.

Tony’s worked too hard to keep his secret safe.

*

He and Rhodey are watching a movie when Howard appears.

“A movie?” He sneers. “You’re wasting time, boy. The military won’t wait because you wanted to watch a movie.”

Tony leans into Rhodey and buries his face in his stomach, Rhodey’s arm automatically moving to rub Tony’s back. Tony ignores Howard and chalks the hallucination up to being tired.

It’s not real, it’s not real, you’re just tired, it’s not real.

*

Howard’s hand wraps around Tony’s throat, and Tony gasps for air. “You’ll never amount to anything, Anthony. I can’t believe I got stuck with such a fuck up for a kid.”

*

He shakes, and Rhodey holds him tight.

The nightmares will pass soon. At least Tony hopes they will.

*

When the phone rings, he’s terrified that it’s Howard calling to berate him. He flinches if Rhodey moves suddenly, bracing himself for a punch. He can’t sleep at night because the terror keeps him awake; his heart races over every unexpected sound because his mind thinks it’s Howard. He curls up under the desk he can hardly fit under whenever an experiment goes wrong, his mind going Rhodey won’t be able to find you and hit you, it’s safe under there, you need to hide to he doesn’t hit you.

Rhodey has never hit him, has never even raised his voice at him. The terror is irrational,  Tony knows, but he can’t stop because he’s just too afraid of everything.

But it’s fine.

He’s always fine.

*

He sees Howard wherever he goes. In class, in the lab, in the living room of his apartment, Howard is always there. Just standing, silently disapproving.

*

He’s upgrading DUM-E when it happens.

He hears Howard creep up behind him, smells his cologne. Tony stiffens as Howard walks into his line of sight, sneers, and says, “You’re wasting time, boy. Those fucking robots of yours aren’t worth anything. I wouldn’t have to hit you if you would just fucking learn.”

And then Tony feels Howard’s fist connect with his face, feels the spit as Howard shouts, feels the violent tug of his hair. It’s too late to hide, he’s not safe, he’s not safe, he’s not -

It stops as suddenly as it starts, and Tony barely makes it to the toilet before he throws up everything in his stomach (which isn’t a lot. He’s just not hungry these days).

It was so real. Howard was there, Tony knows it, he felt it. He smelled the cologne, felt Howard’s fists, felt his hand yanking his hair. It’s sleep deprivation. It has to be. There’s no other explanation.

Tony doesn’t sleep that night. He’s too busy shaking in terror. Howard is standing next to his dresser, sneering at him.

“You’ll never be free of me, boy.”

*

“This class is so fucking useless.”

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

You’re fucking useless, boy.

Tony quakes as Rhodey morphs into Howard. You’re fucking useless, you’ll never amount to anything, I hate you, I hope you die.

Hot water on his body.

Hot metal in his hands. Then, Howard’s sharp laughter.

Calloused hands around his throat.

Shiny black loafers connecting with his ribs.

“-ones, hey, it’s okay! Tones, it’s okay, I’m right here, it’s okay!” Something grabs his hand and Tony can’t help it. He’s so terrified that he shrieks.

“Don’t hit me! I don’t care what else you do, just don’t hit me!”

Stop fucking crying, boy.

Pussy.

Stark men are made of iron.

“Tony, it’s Rhodey.”

Rhodey? He’s here? Where? All Tony can see is Howard, Howard with his fist raised -

“I’m not going to hit you, Tony. It’s 1:30 PM. We’re in our apartment in Cambridge. We go to MIT, and I was ranting about our literature course. Howard is dead. No one is going to hit you.”

Howard? Dead? But Tony sees him; he can’t be dead.

“I’ve got you, Tones. It’s just me and you here. You’re okay.”

“Rhodey?” He still sees Howard. It can’t be true. But he hears Rhodey, and Rhodey would never lie to him, would never hit him.

“Yeah, Tones. It’s Rhodey. What do you need?”

“Talk to me, I need…”

I need to make sure you’re real.

And Rhodey rambles until the hallucination stops. After it’s over, Tony curls up in Rhodey’s lap. The jig is up. Rhodey knows about the hallucinations. Knows that Howard used to hit him. Yet he hasn’t laughed at Tony once, hasn’t told him that he must have done something to deserve it.

He rubs Tony’s back just the way he knows Tony likes, and Tony soaks up the comfort.

*

Tony is physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.

He can’t sleep, he can’t eat, he keeps seeing Howard, and he cuts more than ever before, and Rhodey’s so worried, but everything is just too much. He’s with Rhodey in Philadelphia for spring break. They’re curled up together in his childhood bed. It’s 1:00 in the morning, and Tony’s crying. Howard has followed him here, too, and Tony hates himself for being so afraid. Howard is dead, and he’s still finding new ways to torment Tony.

He chokes on a sob, trying not to wake up Rhodey and failing. The arms around him tighten, and Tony realizes that this is one of the only times he’s ever allowed himself to cry.

“What’s wrong, Tones?” He feels lips on the top of his head, and that just makes him cry harder. He doesn’t deserve Rhodey’s kindness, but he’s crying too hard to say anything. The tears come hard and fast, but he can’t stop. He hates himself, hates how he’s so scared of Howard even though the bastard is dead, hates how he throws up everything because he smells Howard’s cologne, hates that he can’t work on his bots because Howard appears and sneers at him, hates that he sees Howard wherever he goes, hates that he can’t find any fucking peace.

Tony cries for hours. He knows, because the sun eventually comes up, and Mama Rhodes eventually comes into the room. She stays, too. Tony loves her, but he doesn’t deserve her either.

You don’t deserve anything, Howard says. I made you. You’ve done nothing. Remember that.

Rhodey rubs his back, and Mama Rhodes talks to him. Tony’s throat is raw, but the tears refuse to stop. Distantly, he hears Rhodey tell his mother that he’s been crying for twelve hours, and part of him feels ashamed, but hasn’t he earned it? Hasn’t he gone through enough? Jarvis always told him that crying was nothing to be ashamed of, and Rhodey has always echoed that statement. So what if it’s been twelve hours? He’s been through years of torment, and he’s never been allowed to express how sad he is for one fucking minute.

So right now, in this moment, he lets himself cry. It’s been twelve hours, but that’s not nearly enough to make up for a lifetime of pain and fear.

He hears Howard huff angrily and knows that he’ll never truly be free.

[alexshq]

INTRODUCING... 

( stephen bentley santos ) is a ( twenty-three ) year old, ( cis man & he/him ), who prefers to go by ( bentley ). they were born on ( july 7th ) making them a ( cancer ). currently they live in coast city and have lived there for ( five years ), they also work at ( the beach / country club ) as a ( surf instructor / server ). most people would describe them as ( considerate, resourceful ) & ( imprudent, negative ), but they are best summed up as ( the crestfallen ). you might recognize them as ( evan mock ), or from their aesthetic; ( surfboards, band t-shirts, worn converse & vans ).

BASIC STATS.

full name: stephen bentley santos.

nickname(s): steve ( family ), bentley / ben / benny ( friends. )

date of birth / age: july 7th, 1997 / 23. 

place of birth: wainaku, hi.

gender & pronouns: cis man & he/him.

orientation: bisexual & biromantic.

spoken languages: fluent english, basic spanish. 

education: high school.

occupation: surf instructor & server at the country club. 

relationship status: in a relationship with veronica york.

FAMILY STATS.

father: samuel santos. 

mother: louise bentley-santos. 

siblings: none.

children: none.

pets: none.

social class: middle class.

PHYSICAL STATS.

hair color / length: currently pink / very short. 

eye color: brown.

height: 5′11″ ( 180cm. )

build: slim. 

noticeable scars: left eyebrow after a surf accident. long scar along his right knee after a car accident. 

tattoos: small map of hawaii islands on right bicep. 

MISCELLANEOUS.

mbti: enfp.

hogwarts house: hufflepuff.

moral alignment: chaotic good. 

HABITS & HEALTH.

drug usage: smokes marijuana when feeling anxious or when the pain in his knee is too much. 

alcohol usage: minimal / a beer here and there with dinner. 

addictions: used to be addicted to pain killers, has been sober for a year. 

diet: cooks most of his meals and tries to make them healthy. 

allergies: peanuts.

phobias: becoming an addict again. 

mental disorders: anxiety. depression. 

HEADCANONS.

the santos family lived a relatively quiet life in hawaii - they owned a restaurant loved by locals and tourists alike, they lived in a small house with a view of the beach and they had no issues with anybody. that’s why it was difficult for them to upend their lives and move from hawaii to california after louise’s father fell sick. 

death tw / while los angeles was a short drive away from the beach, it was still different. it was nothing like waking up to the sounds of the waves. ten year old stephen hated california. he missed hawaii. he missed the beach, the quiet, and their restaurant. but his grandfather was sick and getting sicker by the day. stephen ended up hating california even more when his grandfather died a year later. 

stephen - who now only answered to bentley, his middle name and his grandfather’s last name - began surfing again to take his mind off of things. while out in the water, it was easy to ignore the fact that he was in california and not home. he spent more and more time surfing, becoming competitive as he got older. 

car accident tw, injuries tw / it’d only been hours since he’d graduated high school when he and his best friend got into a car accident. they were on their way to celebrate at a friend’s beach house when a drunk driver t-boned their car. while he had some internal bleeding, cracked ribs and a concussion, it was his knee that took the brunt of it. he was about to go pro, he was about to do what he’d wanted to do all his life and it was taken away from him in an instant. 

physical therapy was absolutely hell, especially when he saw the looks the nurses gave him - he knew they doubted he’d even walk again without help. he hated it there until he met a girl around his age whose dream had also been shot. they were different, too different, but they fell in love as they got to know one another. 

drug addiction tw / as much as he loved veronica, he couldn’t stop himself from popping pill after pill to dull the pain in his knee. he became the worst version of himself and still, she stuck around, helping him through it. it’s been a year since he pulled himself out of that dark hole and he never wants to go back. he can handle the pain better now. pills aren’t worth it when he has so much to lose. 

he’s bought a ring and plans to propose to veronica soon... he just needs to find the perfect place and moment. he knows he’s been acting off lately, but it’s only because he’s so nervous. he just wants to show her that he’s serious about them. 

POSSIBLE CONNECTIONS.

surfing buddies and/or someone who took surfing lessons from him. 

best friend. 

co-workers. 

la locals - high school classmates. 

good influence. 

bad influence. 

stoner buddy - makes sure he only smokes weed and never does anything harder than that.

[stoven-harrington]

Where do the time go (during the summer I spent with you)?

Steve Harrington X OC

This story happens a year after season 3, so Steve is now 20.

Steve Harrington AU in which Steve is dragged into 2019. With him here in the new modern world, going back to 1986 just might be possible. Time travel, new friends, old friends, with so much at hand, love shouldn’t be on the table. But life doesn’t always go as planned.

Part I

Chapter 2: Rene saves a Damsel in Distress

“Ahhhh what year is it?!” I jolt up from the bed and looked over at Nico, his face turning to the window next to us and growling. I groan and turn the light on in the room, throwing a pillow at him when I see that it’s 2 am. “You suck bro.” Getting up, I walk over to peek through the window and that’s when I see it. “What the fuck is a dude sleeping in our back yard?” Nico continues to growl and stare at the window. I could let him in, even though I really shouldn’t since he’s a stranger. As I gaze at the guy, the annoying part of my brain that’s a goody two shoes is nagging at me to help him. Despite it being summer, the nights get pretty cold. He could get sick or he could get attacked by an animal. Ugh to be nice or not to be nice? I mean, if I really think about it, if he tries anything, I could just sick Nico on him. Alright, I’m letting him in.

Throwing on some sweats and grabbing my bat, I head downstairs with Nico in tow. I wonder why that dude is even outside though? Eh, whatever. Putting on my shoes and opening the backyard door, I quickly walk over to the guy. Nico comes over and starts to sniff the guy before looking up at me. When I shine the light from my phone I notice some slime on him. One word: Gross. Using my bat as an extendo arm, I nudge the dude on the shoulder.

“Psst. You drunk?” I whisper, loud enough for him to hear me. Nothing. Seriously? I step closer and that’s when I notice the blood. And more of the slime. I quickly wipe it off my hand and notice that his whole body is covered in it. There’s a thin trail of blood coming from his hairline and he’s knocked the fuck out. Damn, he could have a concussion. I turn the dude over and try to lift him up, ignoring the grossness of the slime on my hands and the faint smell of eggs.

“Jesus, how much does this dude freakin weigh?” Checking out the rest of his body, I see a torn pant leg and lift it up, gasping at the wound and blood pouring out. Fuck, just what the hell happened to this dude? As I struggle to pick him up, Nico starts growling towards the forest. “Nico: Тихо*.” He shuts up after that and the only sound around us other than the animals in the forest is something else. It sends shivers down my spine as I feel the hair on my neck stand up.

The voice is unnatural and looking into the trees I spot the thing making that ungodly sound: a creature on two legs and slimy looking about more than 100 feet away from us. I stop moving and watch, hoping, praying that it’ll go away but FUCK man this sucks. I mean, I could leave this dude and save myself but nah. My morals and guilt would eat me alive and getting attacked by this thing doesn’t look like a good time. So: I’ll save this damsel in distress. He certainly seems like a damsel though, what with that full set of hair and nice face. God, what a pretty boy. Nico doesn’t make a sound or even move and I’ve never been more grateful for training him to be such a good boy. If we make it, I sure as hell was gonna give him a shit-ton of treats and tummy rubs.

After waiting maybe a minute or two, the creepy creature snaps its neck towards a deer not to far from it and starts chasing after it. I could feel my heart racing and almost fall down in relief. As long its not us, screw the deer. Oh god-wait, I hope it doesn’t kill Bambi. Who am I kidding? It’s totally gonna kill Bambi.  You’ll always live through the Disney movie. Ahh, I should focus here, I got this pretty boy with me at the moment.

But really, just what in the mcfuck was that? Could this dude be running away from that abomination? It would explain the slime that he’s covered in but ughh the smell SUCKS. Wait. Checking on the dude again, he still hadn’t woken up but was still breathing. Okay, that’s good but how the hell am I getting his ass inside? At this point he’s not gonna wake up and he ain’t gonna feel anything right?  Guess I’ll just drag him inside.

Grabbing his hands, I start dragging him back inside the house, slowly and quietly as to not make a lot of noise. If that creature comes back, oh it is ON but it’s too early to be throwing hands with something that will definitely kill me. Nico follows us in until I reach the stairs. I lose sight of the big doof I call my dog as I groaned. Gazing down at the dude covered in slime, I debated whether or not to wipe the slime off before or after the stair climb. Pro to him being slimed up: he could slide up the stairs with ease and less effort. Con: he’d get slime all over the wooden steps and I’d have to clean it up anyways. Not to mention the possibility of me slipping on my ass down the steps in the morning. Okay, not covered in slime it is.

Sitting him up against the stair railing, I run to grab a towel. It got me thinking: Even after I bring him up, what next? A bath right? I mean, I wouldn’t want to wake up smelling like trash plus I should try to clean his head wound and that wound on his leg. Heading back and kneeling next to him, I start wiping him down, gentle of his head. I briefly lift the torn pant leg, thankful it’s not bleeding again.

The only bedrooms are all upstairs and this guy could really use a nice bed and a serious bath cause oof. Looking at him though, my heart tugged at him. I mean, what kind of shitty luck did you have to have in order to get knocked out, cut his leg and a possible concussion? I couldn’t stop the sigh escaping my lips.

“Oh well, wondering isn’t gonna get me anywhere, up the stairs we go.”

*Тихо= Quiet in Russian. Rene taught Nico command words in different languages so that Nico would listen to certain people like her and her aunt.

Continue reading: Part III

or

Read it here on archive of our own

[getseriouser]

20 THOUGHTS: COX GETS OFF (HOW COULD WE NOT?)

A second week now into the season and what have we learnt, what can we frank from our Round One observations and what did we go too early on 

Well, the Bombers had a better second half but geez the week on the track did nothing between games, the Dogs are definitely finding a new gear in 2019 and yep, the rules have done very little.

But it’s still too early for final judgements, last year, the Suns started 2-0 and were third after two rounds, the Pies were 0-2 and third last.

That said, after Round Three last year Port were unbeaten and top, so don’t expect to be naming premiers next week either…

 1.       Let’s start with the girls. Over 53,000 in Adelaide to a yes, one-sided Grand Final, but the blokes have those too, um, 2007, or 2015, take your pick. But yes, great celebration, great spectacle, big fan of the AFLW going up and up – but the naysayers going with the “oh, only reason the crowd was so big was because of free entry”. Firstly, Adelaide played in Sydney on Friday night and has more paid-up members than that ground has seats, pretty sure even if it did come out of their hip pocket there would have been plenty of paying guests if need be, and secondly, what a shonky argument, it’s like saying road users only drive on the West Gate Freeway because its not a toll road. Please be serious..

2.       Don’t let yourself get sucked into pro-Steve Hocking nonsense, “oh the new rules have been epic!” No. Scoring is down from 90 to 80 on average per team to Round 2 compared to last year and scoring shots are down 9%. So we’re getting less offense and his rules do nothing to stop congestion other than after a goal’s kicked and the ball is back in the middle, which is happening less. Tell you something for free – those conversations of crisis we had two months into last season, they’ll come back soon enough. But here’s the thing – the game’s fine, leave it. Anyway.

3.       Dogs-Hawks was interesting, credit to the Dogs, had allllllll of the ball in the second term but didn’t put the Hawks away, kept them in it. Was 23-4 the Bullies’ way for inside 50s in that quarter but they only put on two goals to one.

4.       But yes, from a poos and wees perspective, they did go two down on the bench, have two horrendous frees in the last one of which gave Schache and absolute freebie and the Dogs snuck home. If you’re Hawthorn you’re stiff but if you’re Footscray this should have been in the bag prior to a crazy last term comeback.

5.       And we’ll say this again - Libba is a top 10 midfielder in the game who’ll never be seen as one. Not classy or flashy, but gee blokes like him find themselves in winning sides more often than not. A buy.

6.       Swans again, not enough soldiers through the guts, Kennedy 36 touches, Parker 26, yes Jake Lloyd got 34 but otherwise what, Harry Cunningham, Oli Florent, really? With no midfield that team will struggle to score all year. A lean year for a bounce back soon enough we think.

7.       Brissy beat a very rusty West Coast (proven with how they performed this week) and then a dodgy North, hold fire, they’re not the three-peat Lions reincarnated, but good signs.

8.       Yep – the Langford Guelfi thing is a bizarre as you’ll see. Now the Dons did play better in the second half, playing like that they’ll be much better, but there’s six quarters of utter filth in their 2019 already they can’t just ignore. Any non-competiveness this Friday night at all and its call in the tarp and shotgun on their season.

9.       Dees got ahead of themselves? Two really ugly weeks where they thought it might just happen? Need to do the work fellas. Christian Petracca should be either Jordan De Goey or Clayton Oliver by now.

10.   Tigs, Rance wasn’t the difference, goes to show how important a raging Martin and Cotchin are. Dion Prestia looks a million bucks when Dusty polls 3 votes, but if he is held like Pig Greenwood did to him last Thursday, do we know for absolute sure Prestia was even at the ground?

11.   Oh the Pies paid a heap for Dayne Beams… not really, had they not traded for him, and taken their own picks to the draft, due to the complex draft points system they would have gotten their Academy kid Quaynor and Father-Son Kelly anyway, so from a draft haul perspective the selections would have been the same either way, just the picks used were different. All in all its just one first rounder next year, now that’s value.

12.   Two rounds in, yes the Crows are loving that they have the Blues first rounder, so right now the Crows have pick 4., but they swapped picks, so the Blues have theirs and that’s pick 8. This is only a mess for Carlton if Adelaide ends up being any good, work to do still.

13.   I know it was Freo, and I know it was a Sunday timeslot, and I know they’ve had lean years, but barely 10,000 to the home opener for Gold Coast last weekend. Gee, I just can’t see this ever becoming a 20,000+ a game club. Then again, to be fair, weekend before, Giants got 15,000 to their home game against Essendon, so work to do on both fronts.

14.   James Hird to return to Essendon, now Robbo, whats upstairs in your ‘alone time financial institution’ doesn’t need to make to print, he has barely reappeared in public let alone the idea sacking a 0-2 premiership coach to bring back the formerly suspended unproven coach. Please.

15.   Eddie McGuire copping overs for his coin toss comment last weekend. Had nothing to do with her just an unfortunate mistake – but for balance, upon reflection, geez he got unders for his Goodes/King Kong comment a few years ago, go find that audio for a listen, it has not aged well at all Edward.

16.   How does Michael Christian have a report saying Dylan Grimes had concussion symptoms and on Tribunal night the Richmond doc says no medial report he did stated any such thing? That can only go well…

17.   Melbourne will run through a banner this week covered in mean tweets as an act of defiance and resilience to online bullying and the like. Hate to say it, whilst the topic and angle is right, it’s a problem I’m glad the Dees want to combat, but giving air to the content is just what fuels those looking for a reaction – if anything this gives the ‘trolls’ what they want, as opposed to sending a message back, “hey kids, keep it up, you might make a Demons banner!”

18.   Couple non-AFL for a moment, um Ange Postecoglou – soft. Talks in the press this week as to why he ‘had to resign’ from Soccerroos coach in an “I had no option, it was their actions, they leaved me with no choice”. It’s only a view but for mine Peter FitzSimmons really quite harmless comments on Channel Nine got under Ange’s skin and then what, he chose to walk because he might get sacked if he didn’t qualify for the World Cup, which is totally normal behavior from the FFA if so, but at the time he was still amidst qualification and we ended up qualifying. Righto Ange, sorry, you’ve lost me.

19.   And here’s one you won’t like – Ben Simmons is badly overrated. Yes, very talented, one of if not our best basketballers ever, but if you’re a guard in the NBA, I don’t care how magical your passing is and your ability to drive to the post and score in the paint almost at will, if you cannot score 3s you’re not elite. Don’t care if your teammates are amazing from downtown though, that just masks your massive deficiency. It’s like a test batsman who can’t play a cut shot or a tennis player who simply cannot volley, don’t care if you’re an amazing cover drive or down-the-line forehand, if there’s a key part of the game you just can’t do, not even ok at but totally inept – you’re just a pile of mashed potatoes to me, sorry.

20.   And let’s finish with the girls again because Erin Phillips won the AFLW MVP again, and is possibly our best footballer in the country. But if she isn’t, it would probably be Sam Kerr. Going well our girls at the moment, going very well.

[goarticletec-blog]

Justin Olsen Will Get Lost

New Post has been published on https://www.articletec.com/justin-olsen-will-get-lost/

Justin Olsen Will Get Lost

Feb 8, 2018

Justin Olsen’s start is perfect.

It’s a frigid November evening in Park City, Utah, and the gold medalist’s final run on Park City’s bobsled track. After three races and two days competing against twenty-three teams at the Bobsled World Cup, this will earn him the points he needs to get to Pyeongchang.

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The four-man team hunkers down in the bullet-shaped sled: Olsen first, in the driver’s seat, with three push men (responsible for furnishing a thigh-crunching boost of power) behind. They gain speed through curves one, two, three, gravity thrusting the sled down. Spectators spring onto their tiptoes; a kid whoops and punches the air as the sled barrels through curve six.

Olsen (top, right) consults his teammate, Evan Weinstock, before a run at the Lake Placid Olympic Sports Complex.

Joao Canziani

Half bent over, in helmets and matching skintight navy-blue suits, thirty-year-old Olsen—the gold-medalist push man turned pilot—and his teammates are nearly impossible to differentiate from each other. Together, the team looks more like a giant whooshing snap pea than a quartet of elite athletes. Bobsled is a balancing act, and shaving off a few hundredths of a second comes down to Olsen’s power, speed, and precision.

In his 2013 memoir, But Now I See, legendary bobsled driver and Olympic hero Steve Holcomb likened bobsled to ballet. It’s an apt analogy. These men could blend in on an NFL sideline, but they’re actually burly ballerinas, exploding off the starting block tiptoed in steel-plated shoes that flex like a leather slipper, and mirroring each other with near-perfect synchronicity.

Holcomb led the U.S. Men’s Bobsled Team to three Olympic medals, ten World Championships, sixty World Cup tour medals, and served as Olsen’s unofficial mentor. If things had gone according to plan, Holcomb would’ve been piloting down this slippery, fifteen-turn track. But in May 2017, Holcomb was found dead in his dorm room outside of Lake Placid, New York, upending U.S. Bobsled’s plans and expectations. Olsen was left to grieve his friend and advocate—and get back in the sled. With only a few short months to spare, he had to figure out not only how to lead a team he wasn’t supposed to be leading, but also how to find a way to the Olympic podium.

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Spectators at the Lake Placid bobsled track wait for the next sled.

Joao Canziani

Bobsled might not seem as dangerous and difficult as it is. If you’re watching a race on TV, say, it could look as if there’s not much to it: What else is there to do besides jump in a sled on an ice-coated slide and let gravity take over?

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But bobsled is wild. If you know nothing about the sport outside of the movie Cool Runnings, here’s how it works: In either the two-man or four-man race, one or three brakemen (or push men) push the 450-pound sled. The driver (also called the pilot) steers by tugging on D-rings, like taut sleigh reigns. Once they’re off, bobsled speeds can exceed ninety miles per hour, with each rider plastered to his seat by more G-forces than astronauts experience at takeoff. Every turn on the track is like getting kicked in the groin and chest while a truck sits on your head, Olsen told me. It’s almost like the nauseating pull of a roller-coaster loop, but 100 times more intense.

The International Bobsleigh and Skeleton Federation

The goal is to maintain fluidity, to not crash or fall over. The subtlest of movements can mean the difference between a gold medal and missing the podium entirely. If the driver catches a curve too late, or comes off early, the sled can flip and plummet down the track, ejecting the riders onto a sheet of ice that cheese-grates the skin.

And bobsled drivers barely get a chance to practice before competing, upping the stakes on the entire enterprise. There are only sixteen tracks in the world, each with its own set of curves, gradients, and conditions. So pilots have to memorize them, walking down a track to quickly learn its quirks before getting in maybe three runs prior to a major race. (Imagine if NASCAR drivers, jockeys, or speed skaters had less than five minutes on their tracks before go time.)

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Piloting requires not just skill but a hefty dose of intuition, since it’s impossible for a driver to see much more than a few feet in front of him in the twisting, thunderous tunnel of ice. It also demands the ability to mentally disconnect. It’s not about strategic thought, but about letting go, almost like getting lost, and somehow finding the right amount of control in a largely uncontrollable craft.

“Every run down the track is kind of like a car crash,” Olsen says. “Like an old car hitting a really long patch of ice.”

Joao Canziani

Who would want to repeatedly relive a car crash? As a job?

Olsen might not have dreamt of becoming a bobsled champion growing up (not many kids do), but he was built for it. Born to two competitive athletes—his dad played football and basketball, while his mom ran track—Olsen was raised in West Texas and immersed in the Texas faith of football. Early on, he showed a propensity for two traits bobsled coaches love: a hunger for speed and an utter lack of fear, no matter how turned around he might’ve been. At age four, says Olsen’s mom, Kim, he took off his bike’s training wheels so he could go faster. (He suffered his first concussion shortly after, when he flew over the handlebars and landed on his face; in sum, he’s had around ten.) As he grew up, he’d wander off aimlessly into the woods and fields around his home for hours, somehow always navigating his way back home. “He’d come back with scraped shins, dirt splotched across his face, bruised up, and mosquito bites covering every inch of him,” says Kim.

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When Olsen was ten, his football coaches told his parents that he showed boundless promise, thanks to his abnormal commitment to extra practice time and his untamed exuberance on the field. He went on to play football at the Air Force Academy, where he studied engineering, a dream asset for bobsled, since athletes are tasked with repairing their own sleds. But he didn’t stay long—“I wasn’t ready for that kind of structure”—and went back to Texas, where he worked multiple jobs and took engineering classes, unsure of what to do next. “He was sort of just…lost,” Kim says.

One day in 2007, Kim heard a radio ad calling for athletes with strength, speed, and a high vertical jump. “And something about bobsledding,” she says. “In San Antonio, of all places. I figured Justin had all those things, so I told him to go.”

Joao Canziani

Olsen and four other guys showed up and went through the paces. Team USA coaches invited him to travel to Lake Placid, New York, the headquarters of U.S. Bobsled, to be evaluated for the team. “It felt like it was right to at least give it a shot,” Olsen says. He was nineteen and broke­, so he sold his motorcycle, stereo—anything he could find to pay for the plane ticket. “I thought he was out of his mind,” Kim recalls. But a few weeks later, after cutting it in early tryouts, he called home with news: He was moving to upstate New York.

The sliding track suited him. He craved its explosive starts and the adrenaline of winning by .01 seconds. “He didn’t mind that when you’re making it in bobsled, you end up riding in a sled that gets flipped over by amateur drivers,” says Brian Shimer, U.S. Bobsled’s head coach. Physically, Olsen was a near-perfect push man: tall, with broad shoulders and knotty legs that could lift the entire U.S. figure-skating team.

About a month into his new career, he met Holcomb, the centerpiece of the U.S.’s Men’s Bobsled Team. (“The best,” says Olsen.) All of the new push athletes wanted to be on the ten-year veteran’s sled, USA-1; Olsen surprised everyone when, in his second season, he landed the coveted spot and started pushing for Holcomb in the two-man. “He called me and the first thing he said was, ‘I’m on Steve’s sled!” Kim says.

Over the next eight years, Olsen traveled the circuit with his team, racing in both the two-man and the four-man with Holcomb, hanging out with him in training rooms and hotel lobbies. “Justin was the man-child on the team, and definitely the entertainment,” says retired push man Steve Mesler, a veteran of Holcomb’s four-man sled. Holcomb was the pro who “kept to himself,” says Olsen. He’d always been the quiet teammate, and for good reasons.

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A stoic older-brother figure, Holcomb was an unlikely Olympic champion with a complicated backstory. In 2006, just as he started to succeed on the track, he noticed his eyesight worsening. He told no one. Doctors diagnosed him with keratoconus, a degenerative eye disease that distorts the cornea, and warned him that total blindness was imminent. He kept driving—bobsled is the rare sport where one can get away with less-than-20/20 vision—but the pressure of battling the disease, and his decision to keep it secret, isolated him from the team. He suffered from depression and, in 2007, washed down seventy-three sleeping pills with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in a suicide attempt. A few months later, upon his coach’s urging, Holcomb received an experimental surgery—a surgery subsequently named Holcomb C3-R—to correct his vision.

After winning the gold medal in Vancouver. L-R: Curt Tomasevicz, Steve Mesler, Olsen and Holcomb.

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Holcomb returned to driving just as Olsen started to shine as one of the team’s best push men. The legendary driver remained reclusive, but Olsen had a penchant for opening him up—cracking jokes about the young upstart one day beating the older vet, peppering Holcomb with questions about what to look for during walks down the track, indoctrinating him into Olsen’s not-so-secret Swiftie side. “Steve walked in on me once in my hotel room,” says Olsen. “He was like, ‘Dude, you’re this big-ass guy, in tiny little underwear, listening to Taylor Swift.’ I said, ‘I don’t know, man. It just makes me feel good.’” The duo often appeared together doing “the Holcy Dance”—a kind of restrained shuffle of Holcomb’s that became a team joke as they competed around the globe.

Together, they medaled in two World Cup races and won the 2009 World Championships in the four-man. In 2010, as they headed into Vancouver’s Olympics, their four-man sled, dubbed the Night Train, was number one in the world, and for the first time in sixty-two years, Americans won the gold. Along with their teammates Steve Mesler and Curt Tomasevicz, Holcomb and Olsen landed on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

L-R: Holcomb, Olsen, Mesler, and Tomasevicz.

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Throughout, commentators spoke about Olsen and his meteoric rise with astonishment usually reserved for kid prodigies. Bobsledders typically either push or drive; switching positions is rare, especially after reaching the pinnacle of the sport as a push man. “It’s very difficult to be a brakeman, then pick up the skills to drive,” says head coach Shimer, a five-time Olympian himself. But Olsen was different. He’d had a great mentor to study, the best in the world. After Vancouver, he thought, Maybe my time as a brakeman is done. “My coaches said, ‘You’re a great brakeman, and you’re young; we’ve got to get you in the driver’s seat,’” he says.

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He split his time between pushing for Holcomb and feeling out driving. “In driving, if you’re not really ready for what you’re about to see [on the track], that’s when you can make mistakes,” Olsen says. And he did make mistakes, a lot of them, but he knew what a winning drive should feel like. “I was ready for whatever challenges driving came with. Learning to drive new tracks and managing stress, I was fine with that.”

“For me, [he] was going to be our next Steve Holcomb,” says Shimer. “Our next franchise. The program was going to be built around Justin Olsen.”

Last March, Holcomb and Olsen were in Pyeongchang for a World Cup race—the first on the new track built for the 2018 Games. They strategized how best to run the track’s sixteen curves. Curve two was particularly tricky. On their second day, while Holcomb was still bumping the wall, Olsen ran it clean and explained to Holcomb what he’d done. Advising his mentor felt new, and weird.

Afterward, they sat together and talked. “He kind of caught me off guard,” Olsen recalls. Whatever it is that makes bobsled pilots great—that intangible quality drivers and coaches can’t exactly define—Holcomb said he thought Olsen had it. “Pilot instincts, I guess,” says Olsen. “It was the first time he’d ever said anything to me like that.” Olsen, Holcomb said, was going to be a phenomenal driver. “Well shit, thanks,” Olsen replied, humbled.

Olsen and Holcomb at a New York Rangers hockey game following the Vancouver Olympics.

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Two months later, on a humid and cloudy May morning at the U.S. Olympic Training Center in Lake Placid, where dozens of winter Olympians live year-round, frantic texts from his teammates suddenly popped up on Olsen’s phone: I’m worried. I haven’t heard from Steve. Have you seen him?

More texts rang out. I’m just really worried about Steve. I have a really bad feeling. Olsen asked them to call the building’s manager to open Holcomb’s door, on the opposite side of the dorm-style building from him. “I don’t mind if we barge into Steve’s room and he yells at us,” he texted back. “I’ve done it before.” He dressed quickly, then heard furious knocks at his door. Olsen opened it to find the manager of Lake Placid’s training center, one of Steve’s closest friends, winded and panicking. “It’s bad, it’s really, really…”

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Barefoot, Olsen ran through the halls to the opposite wing of the building and found two of his teammates hugging outside Holcomb’s door, tears streaming down their faces. “Somebody tell me what’s happening,” Olsen said. “What did you see?”

Holcomb celebrates a four-man run in Koenigssee, Germany in January 2017.

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“He’s dead,” one of them mumbled. Olsen didn’t believe it at first. “Did you check his pulse?” Olsen asked. The door was cracked. “Yeah, we did. He’s not moving,” they said. Holcomb, only thirty-seven, had died in his sleep. (An autopsy later found excess amounts of sleeping pills and alcohol in his system; the coroner ruled it an accidental death.)

Olsen went back to his room before the emergency medical technicians arrived. “I just didn’t want to see my close friend like that. I was shocked, but I wasn’t completely frozen,” he says. He had calls to make, to coaches and the CEO of U.S. Bobsled.

When he hung up his last call, Olsen felt his tempered resolve give way to a familiar dread—shortness of breath, nausea, and panic, as he experienced a kind of déjà vu from two years prior, when his father had died from a sudden heart attack. Back then, with his dad, he tried not to think about it and just kept racing. He’d deal with it later, he told himself. But with Holcomb’s death, “I knew I couldn’t act how I did with my dad,” says Olsen. “I knew I needed to be here this time…I knew that I needed people around me, and that people needed me.”

“Olsen was a rock,” says Holcomb’s best friend, Katie Uhlaender. “He helped me sort through the chaos.” He’d lost the person who represented his immediate future; the person who told him, You’re next, and was supposed to lead him there. “You’re not prepared to lose someone close until you lose somebody close,” says Olsen. “No one can replace Steve. I won’t.” He couldn’t breathe well at times, but he adopted the role of a leader, a role he knew the team needed.

Joao Canziani

“Justin stepped up. He knew how important Steve was,” says Shimer. “Steve Holcomb was the soul of this team. He was one of the best drivers in the world. The prospect of the two of them driving at the Games—that’s tough to walk away from.”

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After the memorial service in Lake Placid, Olsen knew he had to get back to training for Pyeongchang. Training was relatively simple in the off-season—a lot of cardio and weights and making sure you don’t get hurt. Getting back in the sled was not.

Joao Canziani

Four months before the Games, the team gathered, as they always did, for the first run at the Lake Placid track. For a decade, Holcomb had taken the first run. “This year, my coach looked at me and said, ‘Olsen, you’re going to be the first one down the hill.’ That was my oh shit moment.”

For a second, he felt physically unable to take a step forward. “I had to,” Olsen says. “Even though I didn’t feel like [Holcomb] and I were done when he passed away—this is still my sport, even though it’s not the same.”

Holcomb’s death doesn’t make it harder to drive, Olsen says. What’s difficult are the waves of yearning for more time spent walking down the track, knowing that Holcomb would do anything to help Olsen improve. He’s motivated by his memory, by trying to find what else of Holcomb’s he can carry with him, and by all the things Holcomb taught him—like how reveling in achievement isn’t as important as the opportunity to have it.

“All you really have is what’s right in front of you,” Olsen says. You travel full speed, falling into a blinding, white blur where unexpected things happen—where, if you’re going fast enough, you can soar upside down and come back again, seamlessly.

After his November run in Park City, Olsen competed in five more World Cup events, ending up as the top American finisher in the last two races before the Games. It’s the position Holcomb would’ve been in, the one with all the hopes and expectations for the medal stand.

This week, after the ceremonies and the practice runs in Pyeongchang have passed, Olsen will arrive at the track again. He’ll close his eyes at the top of the hill and find a dark kernel of stillness. In the symphony of low hums coming from somewhere down the ice, he’ll summon his previous runs. He’ll think of curve two, and Holcomb’s advice about curve nine will reverberate in his head.

He’ll open his eyes at the start and tap the sled to signal to his teammates that he’s ready. He’ll jump in and let go. The world will turn quiet for fifty seconds in a sea of blurry white. And, hopefully, he’ll lift his gaze and punch his fist in the air because his start was perfect and he’d figured out the rest.

Photography by João Canziani • Videography by Matthew Troy •

Edited by Whitney Joiner

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[first-and-ten]

Week 16 Recap

Week 16 set up a few thrilling playoff races, while some upsets knocked out a couple of contenders. The Seahawks are still in it, so I just might have two teams to root for in the playoffs! (Plus the Eagles and Generic Non-Patriots AFC Team.)

And then of course the league went and destroyed the Week 17 schedule. But I’ll get that later. 

Teams That Need Kaepernick: CLE, CIN, IND, HOU, JAX, NYJ, MIA, DEN, GB, PHI, NYG, ARI

Coaching Graveyard: Ben McAdoo

The Room Where It Happens: PHI, PIT, NE, JAX, MIN, LAR, NO, CAR, KC

Fallen Tributes: CLE, NYG, SF, IND, DEN, CHI, TB, WSH, ARI, GB, CIN, NYJ, HOU, MIA, OAK, DET, DAL

IND 16 - 23 BAL Game ball: Joe Flacco  Bet: + $2 [W] The Ravens couldn’t handle a double-digit spread but they got the job done. Their defense hasn’t looked quite as ferocious without Jimmy Smith but Flacco got over his injuries or got a bug up his ass or something and he’s playing well, just in time for the Ravens to fall back-asswards into the playoffs.

MIN 16 - 0 GB Game ball: Harrison Smith Bet: + $12 [W] Smith showed why the pro bowl is stupid by having an amazing game a week after getting snubbed. The Vikings shut the Packers out in Lambeau for the first time ever, the Vikes’ first shutout earned in 20 years and the Packers’ second home shutout suffered this season, and it clinched a first round bye for Minnesota. So yeah, a good day in Vikings Land. 

ATL 13 - 23 NO Game ball: Mark Ingram/Butt Interception Bet: +$3 [W] Highlight of the year: Marshon Lattimore covers a pass, it bounces off another defender’s hands and onto Lattimore’s ass as he lands face-down on the ground, lattimore reaches back and picks it off by pinning it to his butt. Amazing. This game was not as close as it looks: The Falcons were down 20-3 for much of the game. Revenge is a dish best served in a game that clinches the Saints’ first playoff berth since 2013 and makes it so the Seahawks have an actual shot at the playoffs.

BUF 16 - 37 NE Game ball: Grawnk and, once again, the NFL rules Bet: +$10 [W] The Bills failed an ill-advised 4th down and had a clear TD overturned right before the half. Who knows what would have happened if they had gone into the half up 23-16 like they were supposed to instead of tied? The second half as it was basically consisted just the slow, painful dissolution of the Bills’ will.

CLE 3 - 20 CHI Game ball: Mitch Bet: +$2 [W] A new low. The Browns went 0-14 to start last year, this one has reached 0-15 with a match against the goddamn steelers of all teams next week to try and avoid 0-16. Would any team take greater pleasure in being the nail in that coffin? The Bears won. They swept the AFC North. That’s weird. 

DET 17 - 26 CIN Game ball: Randy Bullock Bet: -$20 [L] Just when you think you know how the NFL works this happens. Probably better to knock the Lions out now than have them watching for the least likely scenarios to put them in the playoffs next week, but this game was still depressing. What’s the use of the Bengals winning when they are all dead men walking? Why can’t we have nice things?

DEN 11 - 27 WSH Game ball: Not Broncos QBs Bet: -$2 [L] Just when I was thinking that the question of Vance Joseph was answered, this happens. This was not just a matter of Brock Osweiller sucking like he usually does, it was also weird stupid shit that has plagued us all season. Maybe he still has to go. Which is terrible because the league needs more black coaches. But at this point he’s not just wasting this amazing defense: CJ Anderson is being squandered on an offense that can’t take advantage of his solid three-down running.

LAR 27 - 23 TEN Game ball: Todd Gurley Bet: -$30 [W] Gurley’s 80-yard TD reception was the difference in a game that saw the Titans put up a spirited effort to retain their playoff spot with better pressure and coverage than I would have expected. I’m inclined to get worried about the Rams over this result but I don’t know if that would be giving them or the Titans enough credit. Gurley is getting MVP buzz and I would be down for it. I’m among those who are disappointed with Marcus Mariota’s season and thinking they need to look at a coaching change, whether or not they manage to hold onto their playoff ticket.

MIA 13 - 29 KC Game ball: Alex Smith Bet: -$15 [W] Terrible.

LAC 14 - 7 NYJ Game ball: Antonio Gates Bet: +$25 [W] Just terrible. 

TB 19 - 22 CAR Game ball: Cam Newton Bet: -$3 [W] A sloppy game that Cam had to win by himself by recovering a fumbled exchange and diving into the end zone in the last seconds. The Panthers clinch a playoff spot and the Buccaneers go a second week in a row with a near-win over a higher-rated division foe. They have a chance to make it three in a row to close out the season.

JAX 33 - 44 SF Game ball: Jimmy G holy shit Bet: -$16 [L] I don’t even know what to say. The Jags were so frustrated they started fighting on the sideline. Garoppolo kept his cool, and he’s now 6-0 as a starter, which is mind boggling. Not a great look for the Jags going into the playoffs, or a wakeup call just in time to knock out the Titans.

SEA 21 - 12 DAL Game ball: Justin Coleman Bet: +$3 [W] Coleman’s pick-6 put the nail in the Cowboys’ coffin, not just for the game but for the season. Ugly game, with Seattle becoming the first team in the Super Bowl era to win a game despite losing more yards to penalty than they gained in offense. Russell Wilson was held under 100 yards passing. That’s bad.

NYG 0 - 23 ARI Game ball: Larry Fitzgerald Bet: -$1 [L] The Cardinals join the Broncos in being on both sides of shutouts this season. How’s that interim job going, Steve Spagnuolo? This is some terrible shit. It was a bad pick, too, I’m not sure what I was thinking. This may have been Fitzgerald’s last home game ever.

PIT 34 - 6 HOU Game ball: Mike Hilton Bet: +$14 [W] This was the total dismantling that the scoreboard says it was. Hilton gets the game ball after notching 3 sacks, extending his impressive lead in sacks among DBs. Tom Savage left the game with concussion symptoms only to come back a couple drives later when Houston’s man-off-the-street backup also got a concussion. Meanwhile Jadeveon Clowney got hurt and DeAndre Hopkins made an unbelievable catch that didn’t really mean anything, so basically the Texans’ season in a nutshell.

OAK 10 - 19 PHI Game ball: Malcolm Jenkins  Bet: -$2 [W] Any hope after last week that Nick Foles could lead this roster to the Super Bowl is pretty much gone. I feel smart for positing that the problem is still Foles, not the defense, because the Defense carried this game, despite almost letting Marshawn Lynch become their first 100-yard rusher allowed. The Raiders got turned away in the red zone 3 times in the second half, and then Jenkins stripped Jalen Richard and pounced on it to set up a Jake Elliott boot in the last minute to take the lead. Then of course the Eagles blow up Derek Carr and return a fumble for a TD to ruin the spread. Thanks. 

Record this week: 12-4 Record this season: 159-81 Locks record: 71-17 (Survivors used [XXX]: ATL, SEA, NE, GB, PIT, DEN, DAL, MIN, NO, DET, KC, LAC, MIA, SF, JAX, BAL) Upsets record: 31-33 2014 pace: 176-63-1 Pickwatch leader: 130-70 (Jeff Ratcliffe, PFF) Betting: -$18 ($0)

NFL Title Belt: NE (defended from BUF)

MMA jackpot candidates: CLE (15)

FANTASY CORNER

Danger Squirrels 168 - 144.8 :) The Champs [W leg 1 of 2-week series, 5-8]

I finish leg 1 of the last week of this league with a head start thanks to starting the perfect roster other than the 10-point bump I could have gotten from Frank Gore over Paul Richardson. I really hope I win this thing because I think I might drop to last place if I lose, after winning the league last year. Siemian the Finals 182.70 - 117.89 No Rules Cobras [W, 8-7]

This is how the season ends. With a 7th-place finish and a solid win. I am officially the lowest-finishing team that didn’t autodraft. Great. I’d like to thank CJ Anderson for being the only good Bronco on offense.

[watchingthesuperbowl]

Notes taken during Super Bowl XXVIII

PREGAME

This is the Channel 4 version of an NBC broadcast. Again. Dick Enberg on PBP. Trumpy on color commentary.

Enberg: Both kickers are Canadian. Steve Christie and Eddie Murray.

FIRST QUARTER

Huge kickoff return from Kevin Williams on the opening kick. Nearly takes it to the house. Returns it to the Buffalo 48.

First play from scrimmage: Aikman to Irvin across the middle for 20 yards. Bills blitzed and went single coverage and got burned.

Cowboy drive stalls there. Aikman didn't see an uncovered Alvin Harper on third down. Would have been an easy touchdown, but he threw to Williams instead.

Dallas settles for an Eddie Murray field goal. 3-0, 2:19 into the game.

Bills moving the ball well on this drive. 24 yard swing pass from Kelly to Thomas beats the Dallas blitz. Buffalo is inside the Dallas 40.

Enberg: Bills RB Kenneth Davis owns an auto repair shop in Dallas. He got a bunch of crap last year after the Super Bowl.

Third and 7, Bill Brooks drops what would have been a first down. Steve Christie will come on to attempt a long field goal. 54 yards. It'd be a Super Bowl record. And it is. Would have been good from 60. Tie game, 3-3.

Hey, that's not Mick Luckhurst. Someone new is hosting for Channel 4. Bob Golic and Mike Sherrard are the expert commentators. UK host takes a swipe at Scott Norwood in referencing that Christie field goal. Not cool, man. Not cool. Scott is family for Bills fans.

Sounds like a pro-Bills crowd. They let loose with a "BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCE" after Bruce Smith stuffed Emmitt Smith.

Third and 11, Aikman trips over an offensive lineman's foot on the snap. He gets up but gets sacked anyway.

Tasker gets held flagrantly (and facemasked) as he attempts to block the punt. No call. Bills take over at their 41.

This is a violation of the agreed-upon rules.

Thurman Thomas fumbles on the first play of the drive. Dallas recovers at midfield. Washington forced the fumble. Woodson recovered.

Aikman sees Harper open this time. Gains around 25 on a down and in. Tackled at the Bills' 15.

End around to Kevin Williams. It's not a reverse, dammit. Gains six yards.

Enberg: Marvcus Patton's mom was a pro football player for the LA Dandelions.

Cowboys stall again in scoring position. Murray hits a chip shot. 6-3 Dallas.

Bills moving the ball well, but Bill Brooks drops another pass on third down. Great throw, just dropped. Argh.

Dallas gives the Bills a get out of jail free card. They run into the punter on fourth and 3. Buffalo has it, 1st and 10 at its own 46.

Punters aren’t supposed to be on their back.

Jim Jeffcoat hits Thurman Thomas almost immediately after the handoff. A weird-looking play - It almost looked like Thomas didn't even try to get away, but I imagine he didn't expect to have a 300 pound dude falling on top of him the moment he got the ball.

Buffalo still moving the ball as the first quarter ends. Kelly to Andre Reed, down to the Dallas 34. 6-3 Dallas after a quarter.

SECOND QUARTER

Andre Reed is in pain. Reed's right leg bent funny when he got tackled at the end of the first quarter.

Cutaway: Former heavyweight champion Ken Norton Sr. Enberg says the Nortons are feuding.

Trumpy: Bills are throwing the ball all over the place, throwing well. High percentage stuff, short passes underneath.

Kenneth Davis with a nice run up the middle, gets around 10 yards, inside the 20.

Third and 3, Kelly to Beebe for a first down at the Dallas 5.

Cowboys DBs are trying to strip the ball on nearly every tackle.

First and goal, Thomas dances his way into the end zone. Touchdown. 10-6 Buffalo.

Trumpy: "That was a beautiful drive."

17 plays, 80 yards, nearly 7:30 of possession on that drive.

Golic: Bills needed to stretch the Dallas defense laterally, Kenneth Davis did that and it opened up the middle for Thomas.

Host asks Golic whether that drive will give the Bills the confidence to play their normal game, instead of doing what they did in the last two Super Bowls. Golic says yes, it would certainly make it easier if you stuck with your gameplan instead of throwing it away.

Speaking of sticking with your gameplan, the Cowboys run another deep in route on the first play of their next drive. Aikman to Irvin for 15.

Now Emmitt Smith up the middle, rumbles to the Buffalo 49.

Cutaway: Dallas backup QB Bernie Kosar.

Trumpy says Aikman told him he was having trouble sleeping and doing basic things after a concussion in the last game. Aikman said he didn't tell his coach or trainer. This was meant as a funny anecdote, but kind of makes me feel icky.

Bills continuing to do what they've done. They're moving the ball 5-10 yards at a time, methodically moving up the field. Kelly has plenty of time to throw.

Kelly: 13-16, 127 yards. Enberg says he hasn't thrown an interception in 14+ quarters.

Kelly fires deep down the left sideline to Beebe. Just barely overthrows him. Trumpy says that play is intended to make sure Dallas knows they're willing to throw deep.

Third down, Dallas with seven defensive backs and a defensive lineman dropping back into coverage. Nearly picked off by Kevin Smith, but Smith drops it and they'll punt.

Great punt by Mohr, all kinds of hang time, caught by Steve Tasker at the 1. Trumpy: Tasker is the first player Levy went out and got when he took over in Buffalo.

Cowboys offense moving in fits and starts, but they've made it into Buffalo territory. Less than 2:00 left in the half.

A short pass to Emmitt Smith gets Dallas to the Bills' 32. Being the smart player he always was, Emmitt gets out of bounds to stop the clock.

Aikman drops to pass, nearly has the ball knocked out of his hand by an onrushing Bruce Smith. Nate Odomes picks it off, returning it 40 yards into Dallas territory.

Swing pass to Thurman Thomas for 13. Inside the Cowboys' 35. 0:36 left in the half.

Andre Reed wide open, gets to the 12. For some reason, he doesn't get out of bounds. Bills burn their second timeout. Argh. Get out of bounds, Andre. 0:27 left in the half.

Kelly: 17-23, 173 yards. Has thrown 126 consecutive passes without an interception.

Second and 9, Kelly throws an ill-advised pass as he gets pressured. THROW IT AWAY, JIM. Goes through McKeller's hands, maybe should have been picked but wasn't.

After a Thurman Thomas shovel pass, the Bills use their last timeout with 0:02 left on the clock. Steve Christie comes on to attempt a field goal.

Enberg: Steve Christie replaced Scott Norwood, who missed blah blah blah wide right.

Trumpy opines that nobody in Buffalo will ever forgive Norwood for that, ever. Perhaps he missed the time, a couple days after the miss, when tens of thousands of Bills fans chanted Norwood's name and cheered him wildly when he spoke. F that noise, Trumpy. We protect our own.

Norwood splits the uprights. The underdog Bills lead Dallas 13-6 at halftime.

THIRD QUARTER

Okay, second half. Here we go. Time to watch my heart break in real time for the fourth week in a row.

Bills get the opening kickoff. Al Edwards takes it out to the 25 or so. Kevin Smith, the Cowboys' best cover man, is injured and it looks fairly serious. Eventually he gets up and walks off under his own power.

Buffalo moving the ball well early in the second half. Thomas up the middle, then a short hitch to Bill Brooks out to the 43.

Third play of the Bills' drive, Thomas fumbles on a run up the middle. The Cowboys' James Washington picks it up and weaves his way through the Buffalo offense for a touchdown. 13-13 tie, less than a minute into the second half. Leon Lett stripped the ball from Thomas, atoning for last year's botched fumble return.

I hate this so much.

Decent kick return from Copeland, out to the 35 or so and the Bills start again.

Trumpy: If things go badly, Thurman Thomas can begin to turn on himself and struggle.

Speaking of things going badly, Jim Kelly is sacked on third and long. Buffalo goes three and out. This half almost couldn't have started any worse. Dallas starts at its own 36 after the punt.

Trumpy: This is a dangerous drive for the Bills. If Dallas scores here, it will give them a psychological boost.

Cowboys driving, pounding the ball with Emmitt Smith. Into Bills territory. Trumpy says the team that adjusts better at halftime generally wins. That's obviously been Dallas so far.

Emmitt blasting his way through the defensive line. Another chunk of yardage, inside the 25.

Cutaway: Bills LB Darryl Talley injured on the sideline. Shoulder injury, it seems.

Now Bruce Smith is injured. Trumpy suggests maybe he hit his "crazy bone" on the Astroturf. Talley comes back onto the field.

Not that it matters. Emmitt Smith is unstoppable. He almost singlehandedly took them the whole way down the field. Breaks a Jeff Wright tackle and gets into the end zone. 61 yards rushing, just on that drive. 20-13 Dallas.

Le sigh.

Bills DL Phil Hansen injured on the touchdown.

Buffalo offense trying to get Thurman Thomas back up emotionally.

Enberg: This possession for Kelly and Thurman Thomas, if they go three and out, we may have just seen the end of the game.

Big return from Beebe on the kickoff. Finds a seam and gets out to the 36.

Kenneth Davis starts the next drive at RB for the Bills. He gets decked in the backfield on a screen pass. Loss of 8.

Davis gains 18 yards rushing on the next two plays, just barely gets a first down at the Buffalo 46.

Now a completion to Bill Brooks, gets into Dallas territory with a first down at the 43.

Cowboys go to a 4-0-7 defense on third and long. Kelly throws incomplete and the Bills will punt. A poor punt from Mohr, 22 yards and out of bounds at the Dallas 23.

I know, Jim. I know. I feel it too.

Dallas doesn't do much and will punt. Downed at the Buffalo 15. 3:05 left in the third quarter.

Enberg: Cramps are keeping Thurman Thomas on the sideline. I was just about to say that Kenneth Davis was dramatically outplaying Thurman, and then Davis dropped a direct snap. Chris Mohr comes on to boot it away.

Lincoln Coleman (who?) is in the backfield for the Cowboys. No word on Emmitt Smith's health. Looking it up, he's an ex-Arena Leaguer, was the third running back behind Smith and Derrick Lassic. Coleman ran for 57 yards in the Thanksgiving Day ice bowl against Miami, the one Leon Lett lost with a brain fade.

Cowboys go three-and-out, and we seem to have settled into a field position battle. Somewhere in Youngstown, Jim Tressel smiles.

Third quarter ends. It's a 7-point Dallas lead. The Bills have the ball and are still in it.

Golic: The Bills aren't doing anything dramatic or remarkable right now, but they're not letting Dallas get momentum.

Channel 4 shows the Phil Hansen injury. Blame Astroturf - his foot planted, then didn't move when someone fell on his leg.

Channel 4 host suggests Thurman Thomas isn't suffering from cramps, but is suffering from embarrassment. I really don't like this guy.

FOURTH QUARTER

First play of the quarter: Kelly telegraphs a throw to Don Beebe. James Washington picks it off. That was Kelly's first interception in 16 quarters, 140 passes.

Cowboys getting the ball to Emmitt Smith on the ground and through the air. He takes it to the Buffalo 25 for a first down. Trumpy says he wants to watch this game again and count Emmitt's broken tackles.

Bills blitz, leave Nate Odomes in single coverage on Alvin Harper, and it's first and goal at the 5 after a 20 yard completion.

Third and goal, Emmitt Smith tackled inside the 1. Cowboys will go for it on fourth down.

Touchdown. Emmitt goes left on a pitch and makes it to the end zone without much trouble. 27-13 Cowboys.

Emmitt: 25 rushes, 117 yards, 2 touchdowns

Bills moving the ball a bit on the next drive, but the clock is at 8:00, they're at their own 35, and they need two unanswered touchdowns.

And as soon as I say that, the drive stalls. Kelly sacked on third and 10. Chris Mohr will punt, and I suspect we're about to see a whole lot of Emmitt Smith.

Poor kick. Cowboys take over near midfield with exactly 7:00 on the clock.

Smith: 340 touches this season, 1 fumble.

Cowboys drive: Run, run, short play-action pass. First down. Clock still rolling.

Enberg: No team in the history of American professional pro sports has lost the championship four years in a row. Bills: Hold our beer.

4:17 left on the clock. Cowboys still have the ball. Aikman goes deep to Irvin, trying to twist the knife and end it. Just barely overthrows him.

Enberg: 1988 draft top three WRs: Sterling Sharpe, Tim Brown, Michael Irvin. So that was good.

Aikman goes deep to Harper. Tackled at the 1. First and goal. Cowboys call timeout with 3:23 left on the clock.

Trumpy: Do we talk dynasty for the Cowboys? Enberg: The scary thing is that the Cowboys are such a young team. This might be the end for the Bills' dynasty, but the Cowboys will be around for a while. 

Enberg: If Emmitt Smith scores a rushing touchdown, he would be the first to score three in one Super Bowl. Trumpy: Well, let's give it to Emmitt.

After a false start penalty, Smith gets back to the 1 on first down. Second and goal from the 1, Daryl Johnston stuffed.

Trumpy: Emmitt Smith was the first Dallas Cowboy to be named NFL MVP.

Enberg: Thurman Thomas and Emmitt Smith are close friends, worked out together last offseason.

Trumpy: It's almost painful to look at the Buffalo bench. Almost, Bob? ALMOST?!?

Bills call timeout after Johnston's second down run. Third and goal from the 1. 3:01 left.

Buffalo stuffs Emmitt on third down. They call their final timeout. 2:54 left. Eddie Murray on to put it away with a chip shot.

Yep. Got it. 30-13 Cowboys. 2:50 left.

Trumpy: Bill Bates, Jim Jeffcoat, and Mark Tuinei are the only players left from the Tom Landry era in Dallas.

Cutaway: Bernie Kosar being congratulated by teammates.

Bills moving the ball down the middle against a very loose Cowboys defense keeping everything in front of them. Well, they were until Keith McKeller got called for offensive pass interference.

Two minute warning. Bills still have the ball, but it's academic at this point.

On third down, Kelly rushed and tries to throw the ball in desperation to offensive lineman Glenn Parker. It's knocked down and somehow there's no intentional grounding penalty.

Fourth down conversion: Kelly to Brooks down the middle to the 30. 1:20 and counting.

A weird play on first down. None of the linemen do anything, for either team. They all just kind of stand there, except for Jeffcoat, who decks Kelly on an incompletion.

Bills get inside the 20 on this drive, but nobody really thinks it matters.

Fourth and long, Kelly throws to Beebe, it's complete and Beebe immediately goes out of bounds. Which would have been smart if he weren't way short of the first down marker.

Emmitt Smith is the MVP.

Bernie Kosar takes the final snap and takes a knee. Game over. 30-13.

POSTGAME

Immediately after the game, Emmitt Smith went to console Thurman Thomas, who told Emmitt that Smith is the best running back in the NFL. Smith returned the favor.

Enberg on Smith calling Thomas the best: "That's kind, even if it's not necessarily correct." Harrumph.

Golic: Bills came out and played well, but it was like one play (the fumble recovery touchdown) completely destroyed them.

Sherrard: Cowboys will keep this team together for a long time.

Golic: Bills aren't losers, they're the second-best team in the NFL for four years in a row. They see themselves as a very strong, very successful team.

Sherrard: Emmitt Smith is the offensive MVP. Golic: James Washington is the defensive MVP.

Host: Jimmy Johnson may want to leave Dallas and coach an expansion team. Golic: Jerry Jones won't want him to leave. Jones: Hold my beer and watch this.

Jerry Jones: This is possible because Jimmy Johnson has given everything he had since he got there, and his spirit is reflected in the way this team plays.

Jimmy Johnson: People say we've been at each other's throats. When you win Super Bowls, the only things you're going to do with each other's throats is hug them.

Johnson: Didn't change much at halftime. We made some mistakes in the first half, second half, they made more mistakes than we did. Bills are an excellent team, otherwise they wouldn't have been here four years in a row.

Host: Sounds like Johnson wants to stay. Golic: We'll see what happens. I don't think Johnson's going to want to sue, and will honor his contract.

Apparently the host is Gary Imlach. Good to know.

[bestnewsmag-blog]

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Steven Holcomb: Olympic gold medallist bobsledder found dead at 37

Olympic gold medalist bobsledder Steven Holcomb has died, aged 37.It’s far believed Holcomb, who changed into observed in his room at the USA Olympic Training Centre in Lake Placid, Big apple on Saturday, died in his sleep dead 

  He competed in 3 Iciness Olympics and piloted us four-man bobsled team to gold at Vancouver 2010 – the USA’s first Olympic title in the event in 62 years.

At Sochi 2014 he received bronze in both the 2-man and 4-man bobsled.

“The whole Olympic circle of relatives is stunned and saddened by way of the incredibly tragic loss nowadays of Steven Holcomb,” said US Olympic Committee leader government Scott Blackmun.

“Steve becomes a first-rate athlete and even higher character, and his perseverance and achievements had been a proposal to us all.”

Holcomb had been competing considering 1998 and gained 5 international titles and changed into also a six-time international Cup champion.

His achievements got here in spite of a serious eye disease that left him with streaked and blurred vision.

Holcomb found out to drive a bobsled via sense instead of sight however his situation supposed he become taken into consideration legally blind and become almost compelled him to retire a year earlier than the Vancouver Games.

Non-surgical remedy reinforced the cornea, permitting him to compete, and he went on to win the primary of his 5 world titles in Lake Placid in 2009.

Holcomb discovered in his autobiography how he had struggled to return to terms together with his condition and attempted suicide in 2007.

Exfoliation Tips for Dead Skin Removal at Home

  Having a glowing and radiant skin is the dream of many. However, a clear and radiant skin needs a lot of care and nurturing which includes following a proper skin care regime, eating a healthy diet, and periodically removing dead skin cells. This helps in removing the accumulated dead skin from the surface and reveal a glowing skin.

Dead cell accumulation leads to a dull and lusterless skin. While some of the body processes involve dying of old cells and growth of new cells naturally, the removal of dead cells is important. This is done through exfoliation methods. Exfoliation can be done on any part of the body to remove the dead skin cells.

Things to consider

Exfoliation is an important step towards revealing a radiant skin, However, the process needs to be carried out with care and gentleness, so that the surface skin is not damaged or scratched. Be gentle yet firm with your strokes when removing dead skin cells, thus refraining from causing injury to yourself.

Softer areas such as areas around the eyes and mouth need to deal gently with a mild scrubbing motion. Rough areas such as legs and buttocks need a little more vigor when exfoliating them, to remove the dead skin cells.

Homemade natural exfoliation products

There are several homemade methods as well as products that can be used for excellent exfoliation Apart from being natural, these methods are effective to gain youthful, glowing skin. Some of these methods are:

An inexpensive yet very effective homemade scrub is to mix organic white sugar with virgin olive oil to make a thick paste. Apply it on the surface and scrub in a circular motion till the sugar melts.

Baking soda is a great scrubbing agent when mixed with water and applied as an exfoliant.

Grounded coffee seeds to act as an excellent exfoliant when mixed with olive oil and used as a scrub.

Preparing exfoliating natural face masks at home is easy too.

Take equal quantities of fruits such as papaya, kiwi, banana, and pineapple. Mash them in a blender and mix with a small quantity of honey or yogurt. Apply the pack onto the skin and leave for 15 minutes. Wash off with cold water.

Mix clay with distilled water and glycerin to make a thick mask. Apply it on a face and leave for 15mins before washing off. It is a great pack for oily skin.

Avocados are great for exfoliating skin. Mix equal quantities of avocado and corn meal to exfoliate the skin.

All these exfoliating scrubs can be used on the whole body too when made in large quantities.

The Case for Flag Football As an Olympic Sport

    The Olympics are unlike any other sporting competition on the planet. For 16 days, over 300 events representing 35 sports and every country on the planet compete to take home their prized medals, and I have looked forward to watching the Summer Olympics every 4 years since as far back as I can remember. But there’s always been something missing. One of the United States most popular sports, and a top 10 sport throughout the world, it looks as though tackle and flag football could be Olympic sports by the year 2024, but issue obstacles still remain for that to become a reality. First, we’ll walk through some reasons why the road to getting American Football included into the Olympics has not been an easy journey, followed by why we believe flag football to be the logical solution and choice as a future Olympic sport.

WHY ISN’T AMERICAN FOOTBALL ALREADY AN OLYMPIC SPORT? According to an article by NFL.com, the biggest logistical problems facing the sport of American Football being included in the Olympics are very similar to that of Rugby. With the large numbers of participants on each team, the “gender equality” formats where both men and women participate in every sport, and the compressed 3-week schedule that would be tough with a more physical game like football and rugby. Furthermore, for American Football, the barrier to entry is high due to its cost to equip all players with pads and gear and therefore has also been slow to adopt in many foreign countries, especially of the poorer variety.

Knowing all this, it’s hard to see how either sport would be a good fit for the Summer Olympics. Rugby is a lot like Soccer in that very little is needed to play the sport in terms of gear and practice at its base level, and has a much larger international following. This among other reasons has recently allowed Rugby to be cleared for the Olympics starting in 2016 by changing the traditional style to a less traditional “sevens” format which is faster paced with fewer people, which could help carve a similar path for American Football, or flag football more specifically.

TACKLE SAFETY CONCERNS Even more and more high school, college and pro teams are starting to reduce the number of contact practices, still sporting the likes of soft-padded headgear and shoulder pads for added protection. But what if we could limit the contact players see before high school and middle school while also addressing some of the concerns for the sport related to it being fully accepted into the Olympics?There’s a lot of talks recently revolving around the safety of tackle football, and not just in the NFL where concussions are a major concern. Starting as far back as the youth football level, recent evidence has surfaced supporting the idea that even short of a concussion, repeated head impacts and collision can manifest in similar brain injuries later in life for kids tested between the ages of 8-13. Many researchers are suggesting kids shouldn’t be playing football at all, suggesting that kids’ heads are “a larger part of their body, and their necks are not as strong as adults’ necks. So kids may be at a greater risk of head and brain injuries than adults.”

DREW BREES BELIEVES FLAG FOOTBALL CAN SAVE FOOTBALL As of 2015, studies show that flag football is the fastest growing youth sport in the United States, greatly outpacing the growth of traditional tackle football. Many individual high schools are making the switch to flag football over the tackle, getting other schools in their regions to follow suit creating organized leagues and divisions. It’s even an officially recognized varsity sport in many states, and with women especially flag football is a way to allow easier participation versus the physical nature of tackle.And he’s not the only one. Recently Drew Brees was interviewed by Peter King for NBC’s pregame show and had some strong words on why he believes flag football is the answer. “I feel like flag football can save football,” Brees said. Brees coaches his son’s flag football team, and played flag football himself through junior high, never playing tackle football until high school. “I feel like (flag football) is a great introductory method for a lot of kids into football,” Brees mentioned. “Otherwise I feel it’s very easy to go in and have a bad experience early on and then not want to ever play it again. I feel like once you put the pads on there are just so many other elements to the game, and you’re at the mercy of the coach in a lot of cases too. And to be honest, I don’t think enough coaches are well-versed enough in regards to the true fundamentals of the game especially when the pads go on at the youth level.” Many other pro athletes and coaches have expressed similar sentiments as well, singing praises for the sport of flag football, and the rise in popularity of the sport echoes that.