(This is either hopeless crack or a terrifyingly possible scenario)
Natasha Romanoff takes a deep breath and, in a show of the unparalleled self-control she is known for, doesn’t kill the idiot in front of her in the most brutal way she can imagine. She hasn’t committed murder in front of witnesses since she was thirteen, damn it.
This waste of space and oxygen in front of her will not mar her perfectly clean record. No matter how satisfying it would be.
She does the next best thing and smiles her sweetest I’m-gonna-stick-so-many-knives-in-your-back-your-own-parents-will-mistake-you-for-a-pincushion smile, turns around and walks away.
Two years. That’s how long she’s been in the States now. Two years of suspicious stares and whispers. Two years of being treated like a bomb about to explode – or a KGB agent living the American university life.
(Which she isn’t. Like Natasha would lower herself to the status of a common agent. Please. But they don’t know that, so it really is just their damn prejudice talking.)
There was a reason Natasha insisted on keeping her last name, even though ‘Miller’ or ‘Walters’ would have given her much less trouble. But sometimes–
She’s been studying political science for two years now and still the only reaction or analysis on current foreign policy issues earns her nothing more than scoffs and mocking ‘what would you know about our country?’s.
Today it was a sneered ‘Well, if you don’t like it here, why don’t you go back to Russia.’
Which isn’t even close to the worst thing Natasha’s ever heard, but there’s something about those words, something about the accompanying smirks and giggles that still ring in her head–
Something about that sharp You-don’t-belong-here-and-you-never-will-and-you-should-bow-down-before-our-greatness-for-even-granting-you-the-pleasure-of-being-allowed-to-set-a-foot-into-our-precious-golden-perfect-country. And there’s only so much you can push, and push, and push, until something breaks–
By the time Natasha reaches the chemistry lab, she is shaking.
Tony Stark is standing over the remains of an experiment that Natasha is confident contains at least five illegal substances, but he pushes off his protective glasses with a bright grin when she enters. It slips off his face the moment he registers her expression.
“It’s not like you can talk, that’s what they keep telling me!” Natasha hisses like an enraged cat. “And I’m so god damn tired of having my roots showed in my face! Of having my nationality invalidate every fucking sentence I form. If you don’t like it, leave, that’s what they always say! Well, I fucking will!”
Tony, who until that moment, has listened with a sympathetic expression perfected over the many, many times Natasha has subjected him to this particular rant, freezes.
“What? You can’t go back!”
Because Tony is right, more than he knows, more than he’ll ever know. There’s no such thing as defection from the Red Room, and even if there wasn’t a price on her head, Natasha has no interest in returning there. Russia isn’t home. It’s frozen lakes, and snow on her hair, and blood in her mouth, and trembling hands that never cling tightly enough to her mother’s coat.
Going back isn’t an option. But…
Natasha takes a few deep, calming breaths. “Okay,” she says, and there is no fury in her voice anymore. Only thoughtful contemplation. “Okay. ‘If you don’t like it, do it better’, that’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it? Well, fuck them. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
Natasha whirls around and fixes her only friend with a stare of smirking satisfaction and ever-growing glee. A saner person would have flinched away in terror.
Tony tilts his head with confused intrigue.
“I’m going to start my own country. And you’re going to help me make it happen!” Natasha declares.
[It’s not a question, and it’s not a ‘No’, and Tony has never learned how to back down from an impossible challenge, and if it had been anyone else the story would have ended here, with a crackpot fantasy of two overworked college students that has absolutely no place in the reality they live in.
But they are Natasha Romanoff and Tony Stark.
They are an ex-Black Widow who survived becoming an ‘ex’ in a line of work that doesn’t offer retirement and a rich kid with more genius than the world knows what to do with – and there is a damn good reason why, in another world, SHIELD went through a lot of trouble to destroy a possible friendship before it could ever form.]
YES I DID AND I PROBABLY REWATCHED IT LIKE 3 TIMES ALREADY AND I LOVE IT A LOT,,,, so here’s my suggestion for the AU:
lance is merlin and keith is arthur
arthur and morgana’s roles are switched here - lotor might be the legitimate son but he’ll turn “evil”
zarkon is uther obviously
coran and allura are both gaius. don’t question it
shiro is leon, a knight that has been there since the very beginning
pidge is gwen (except she won’t marry keith, that’s lance’s job)
hunk is lancelot, the best friend who knows of lance’s magic
kolivan is the dragon. just. yes
people fear keith because he constantly looks angry and doesn’t go easy on anyone during training
he’s shouting at a servant who dropped the shield for the 4th time when lance comes along
lance: “hey come on my friend you’ve had your fun” keith, confused and frowning: “do i know you?” lance: “i don’t think so?” keith: “…then why did you call me a friend?” lance: lance: “you’re right. i could never have a friend who is such an ass.” keith: keith: wHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU-
the first bad meeting is based on a misunderstanding instead of genuine arrogance
so much banter omgg
keith: [kills a bandit and scares the last one away] lance, raising his fist: “and let this! be a lesson to you!!” keith: lance: “what?” keith:
lance: “IT WASN’T PIDGE! IT WAS ME! I’M THE SORCERER!” keith: “lance!” zarkon: “guards, take him to the dungeo-” keith: “no, no, your highness, you don’t have to do that, you see… lance is… he’s suffering… from… a severe mental illness.” zarkon: lance: keith, putting an arm around his shoulders: “yes. he’s, uh… he’s in love.” lance: “what?” keith: “with pidge.” lance: “no i’m not.” keith: “shut up. yes you are.” lance: “no i’m not-”
keith: “oh thank god, the berries worked.” lance: lance: “you didn’t know if they worked?” keith, casually: “no, i wasn’t sure about it.” lance: lance: “and you’re telling me this now?!” [mocking, high pitched voice] “oh, what is that wildeoron eating there? just a little snack called lance-”
THE BANTER IS SO PERFECT
lance: “you’re just such a dollop-head.” keith: “a what?” lance: “a dollop-head.” keith: “that word doesn’t exist.” lance: “yes it does. it’s idiomatic. if you interacted more with people, you would know.” keith: “…fine. explain ‘dollop-head’ to me.” lance: “in two words?” keith: “sure.” lance: “lord keith.”
lance: “i need a crossbow.” shiro: “oh, then i wouldn’t take the one you currently have. it can hardly hurt a fly.” lance: lance: “and if i did, theoretically, want to hurt a fly… which one would i take?” shiro: “oh, this one, definitely. it’s a masterpiece.” lance: [tries it out and destroys the barrel] lance: “yes. perfect.” shiro: “what exactly do you need it for?” lance: “to kill keith.” shiro, laughing: “driving you mad, is he?” lance, cheerfully: “not for much longer!”
ok but- little Les being intrigued/amazed at the left-handed newsies bc it's 1899 and being left-handed still has a stigma and in school they're forced to write with their right hand but the newsies just use whatever hand is their dominant one
Just a stupid lil thing I wrote because this is a cute idea. This is after Les and Davey go back to school, enjoy!
“What are you doin’ that for?”
Albert looked down at Les. He was staring over the top of the desk, looking for all the world like Albert’s scrawled, half-illegible name was the most confusing thing he’d ever seen.
“I’m signin’ in to stay at the lodge tonight,” Albert said, setting the pencil down. “One of my brothers are sick and my old man doesn’t want me catchin’ his bug.”
“No, I don’t mean that,” Les said. He grabbed Albert’s hand, holding it up to him as if to prove his point. “Why are you writin’ with this hand?”
Albert rolled his eyes and snatched his hand away. “‘Cause writin’ with the other one’s gonna make my name look like I was tryin’ to write Race’s.”
Les looked genuinely frustrated as he held up his own hand. “You’re allowed to write with your left hand?”
Albert shrugged and took Les’ shoulder to steer him inside the lodging house. “Uh, yeah. Unless Jack made up a new rule against usin’ your dominant hand in the last ten minutes.”
Les shrugged, following him over to the couch and flopping down beside him. “My teachers say left-handed kids are stupider than kids that use their right hands.”
Albert smirked and ruffled his hair. “Think again, shortstop. Racer uses his right hand and he clearly ain’t the smart one here.”
“Hey!” Race chose that exact moment to walk into the room, a playful glare situated on his face. “I heard that, DaSilva!”
“So come at me, Higgins,” Albert said, wiggling his eyebrows tauntingly. Race took his invitation in stride, jumping over the back of the couch to tackle him to the floor.
“Mister Jacobs, what are you doing?”
Les tipped his head back to look at his teacher, who was frowning down at him, ruler pointed at the top of his worksheet. “I’m… I’m doin’ my work, ma’am,” he said.
His teacher sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose under her glasses. She exhaled, then grabbed his paper and held it up for the rest of the class to see.
“Can anyone please remind Mister Jacobs what I’ve frequently reminded you all not to do when writing?” she said sternly, peering at the kids looking at her bewilderedly. A young boy with platinum blonde hair and crooked teeth, Paul, shot his hand up. The teacher jabbed her ruler in his direction. “Mister Leslie?”
“Don’t do it with your left hand,” Paul said, smiling smugly. “It means you’re stupid.” Les stuck his tongue out at him.
“Albert does it and so does a ton of my other friends! And they ain’t stupid, you are!”
“Mister Jacobs!” the teacher said, cutting him off with a fierce glare. “Please don’t disrespect your fellow classmates. And for heaven’s sake, say ‘are not’, not ‘ain’t.’ Honestly, I have no idea where you got that mouth of yours after you left school for those few months.”
Les shrugged. “My friends.”
“Are these the same friends that told you to write with your left hand, Mister Jacobs?”
His teacher shook her head disapprovingly, then bent down to switch his pencil to his right hand before tapping her ruler against his worksheet and walking off to look at another boy’s answer to a question. Les waited until her back was turned, then switched back over to his dominant hand and kept writing. He liked his friends better than that old hag, anyway.
I’d like to revisit a twitterfic I wrote back in May about Moderately Well Off Businessman Derek Hale, who walks by the same set of panhandlers every day because he always gets focused on the stresses of his job and forgets to try a different route.
He’s had a soft heart since he was a kid; he always rescued wounded baby animals in the forest and tried to patch them up, much to his mother’s dismay. So he can’t say NO when the lady on the corner tells him she can’t feed her twelve children and the man next to her hears the exchange, sees Derek pulling out cash, and counters with his fifteen children. It seems like a lot, but Derek came from a pretty big family - all the dozen plus kids constantly running around the Hale property might not have been his mom’s, but they were related to him and a part of his childhood that he misses.
That nostalgia - it’s lonely in the city, so far away from the Hale House in woodsy Beacon Hills - leads him to pull more bills out of his wallet, asking the kids’ names and listening politely to the man’s stories. It also leads to others in the area catching wind of his generosity and taking advantage of it. Some are much younger, so they don’t have kids of their own, but they inevitably have ailing parents or grandparents or aunts, or younger siblings back home who can’t even afford to eat cereal. The mere thought of that twists something up inside of Derek, and he passes over an extra few bills and tells them to buy something sugary and fun, too, like Lucky Charms.
Time passes, and all these devoted, destitute families are steadily draining his pocketbook. To be entirely honest, Derek’s starting to get a little antsy about it, but he can’t stop now…not when they all rely on him, and gosh, he doesn’t lead a terribly lavish life, so he doesn’t really need all this money. It’s what he keeps telling himself every time he hesitates while reaching into his battered old bag, which Laura had given him when he’d moved to the city. “For all your important papers,” she’d said, looking as teary-eyed as his mom, which had made him feel awkward and sad until she’d punched him on the shoulder and everything shifted back to normal.
He talks to her, still; he talks to all his family, and sometimes he wonders why he’s staying here, earning a paycheck he doesn’t care that much about. He doesn’t talk about that during the calls, though, or about the emptiness he has to tamp down each time he hangs up. He’s got a decent life, as things go, and he sees his family on holidays, and so what if he doesn’t really have time to date? He has other interests. There’s no reason for him to feel lonely.