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its-a-hil · 1 year

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ok. random question. literally from the random question generator at randomwordgenerator dot cahm: What's your go-to funny story now, but was horrendous at that moment?

(i think it gave me a question i already know but eh shoot)

hm.

alright i think this is actually more of the reverse than the forward direction, but sure

when i was in middle school, i was such a horrible procrastinator (note: i am still one of those) that i often wrote rough drafts of essays during lunch

(the one year in middle school i didnt do this was when i had english 1st period. tbh i wish my schedule had worked out like that all 3 years, but alas)

but i got so comfortable just throwing out words with a pencil that i kept doing it and now i almost never edit anything bc i need to write it all in one go or it's wrong

but final drafts still had to be typed & printed, so it was only my rough drafts that were like this

fast forward to high school, and rough drafts became less of a thing

my compulsion to procrastinate did not.

oh also relevant here is that i was emotionally incapable of asking for an extension or submitting online after class or anything

so.

senior year of high school. we had an essay to write on Twelfth Night, where we had to pick a word that was repeated a few times and discuss its effect on the story

i picked 'fancy' and used it to argue the absolute bullshit point that it meant the whole thing was a dream, because i had no other ideas and my brain refused to set aside time to do something more reasonable

except.

i did not begin writing until lunch of that day.

i did not have access to the computer lab i had planned to write the essay in.

i pleaded with a friend to lend me his laptop, on which i did the most frantic writing of my life. i dont remember if i ate any food during that lunch period.

(according to my diary i also said something shitty to that friend even as he was doing me a massive favor, which. god.)

looking at the document now (ty google drive), it seems that i didnt actually finish the essay, just wrote notes on the different uses of the word

im not sure if it was just a rough draft or notes kind of thing that was due, or if i lucked out and the essay was extended or something? unclear

but what is clear is that i wrote 440 words in just over an hour, and that's not counting the quotes i had to transcribe (which also made up over 400 words)

the following night i turned it into an actual 750ish word essay in also about an hour, bc. yeah. (i still didn't write an intro until i printed it out during study hall the next day lmao)

so anyway the essay was shit, the teacher was genuinely confused and pulled me aside after the class where she handed the essays back

note: she was also the theater teacher & that semester i was doing the play afterschool, and i think she knew i was better than what i handed in

in my defense i was fairly depressed that couple of months, partially due to an responsibility that i did not realize i could easily say no to. the only consequence that refusing that responsibility would have had is that i would have hated myself less and possibly liked engineering more

oh also looking at my diary apparently that was also the week that i taught precalc bc the teacher's partner was suddenly out for paternity leave and i had an essentially free period during the precalc class

so yeah that's probably the third most interesting week of my senior after the week that we had the play performances and the week i was out in the hospital when my lungs spontaneously collapsed

the funniest part of that story is that it took me another 3ish years to realize that i wanted to be a teacher, and another 2 years after that to act on that desire. lmao

anyway bc im sure you freaks want to see it, im putting the essay under the cut

Actual essay:

Twelfth Night is one of Shakespeare’s most fantastical plays. Even without the use of magic, the supposedly realistic events are completely improbable. There is evidence that the play was intended to be a fantasy, and throughout the play, the word “fancy” is used to suggest to the audience that the events of the play are little more than a fanciful construction of Orsino’s mind.

Orsino speaks four of the six instances of “fancy” or “fantasy.” Two of these instances come in his first monologue, right at the beginning of the play. He claims that “so full of shapes is fancy that it alone is high fantastical” (1.1.14-15). As Adams says, in this passage Orsino claims “that his own imagination is so fertile that it is supremely capricious and whimsical.” (Adams 58). It is odd that the play would start with this double mention of fancy, especially when the word is not mentioned again until the end of Act two. It is even stranger that the plot concludes with Orsino making Viola/Cesario his “fancy’s queen” (5.1.415). Although Feste finishes the play with his final song, this line is the last spoken by any other character, and is a natural conclusion to the play nonetheless. There must be a reason why the play both begins and ends with a word only used six times throughout. This is the most direct clue that the play does not merely describe events in Shakespeare’s mind, but instead describes events in Orsino’s mind.

More clues can be found by examining the other uses of fancy in the play. Sebastian remarks “Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep” after encountering a smitten, and unfamiliar Olivia (4.1.65). This line comes in one of the more fantastical scenes in the play, where Sebastian enters Illyria and is mistaken by everyone for Cesario. Sebastian can only conclude “this is a dream,” and calls upon fancy - imagination - to keep him from waking up. Sebastian addresses fancy as a powerful being, that has the ability to manipulate the world he sees. If the play does take place in Orsino’s imagination, fancy would have this power. Another thing to note about Sebastian’s mention of fancy is that it is in reference to Olivia. Her love for him, and reproach of the men who were dueling him, is the only reason he would want to continue living in this dream.

Olivia is a common subject of fancy, as used in its alternate definition of love. Malvolio, just before seeing Maria’s letter, thinks aloud that “should [Olivia] fancy, it should be one of my complexion” (2.5.24-25). Almost all references to fancy are directly related to Olivia. In fact, every major male character, except her uncle, is in love with Olivia. It is difficult for Orsino to conceive of a character who is not enamored when in the presence of the beautiful lady Olivia. To him, when Olivia enters, “heaven walks on earth” (5.1.99).

Regarding the rest of Malvolio’s scene, it is no less strange than Sebastian’s. The dour puritan begins with a statement of love for his lady, and then follows the insane directions of a letter that apparently describes her love for him, while the pranksters hide and watch in a nearby bush. Orsino’s mentions of “fancy” also take place in strange scenes. Without touching on the chaotic mess that is 5.1, 1.1 regards a Duke, who has been laid low grieving over his unrequited love for Olivia. She, in turn, decides not to admit any suitors until she has spent seven entire years mourning her dead brother. This scene feels almost surreal, setting the stage for the play that is to follow. Since almost every instance of the word fancy comes during a surreal scene, it can be inferred that the word is an indicator - a message to the audience that this play is a fantasy in the mind of Orsino.

There is one more use of “fancy,” however. During the argument between Orsino and Viola, Orsino speaks of men’s fancies as “more longing, wavering… than women’s are” (2.4.41-42). Twelfth Night is certainly long, spanning three months in Illyria, and the play constantly wavers from uplifting to demeaning, from reasonable to insane. The play as a whole fits so well with Orsino’s description of his “fancies” that one must wonder why that particular description was used. Interpreting Twelfth Night as a fancy conjured up by Orsino’s stricken mind makes a good deal more sense than attempting to reconcile the events with the real world.

Work Cited:Adams, B. (1978). Orsino and the Spirit of Love: Text, Syntax, and Sense In Twelfth Night, I. i. 1-15. Shakespeare Quarterly,29(1), 52-59. doi:10.2307/2869169

The notes i wrote during the lunch period:

The first appearance of the word comes during Orsino’s monologue. The grief-stricken man describes his lovesickness by referring to his imagining of fantasies involving Olivia. Fancy is “full of shapes” to hear him tell it, filled with all kinds of images (1.1.14). This implies an interesting idea of the plot; it may be nothing more than a lovesick dream conjured by Orsino’s mind. After all, the plot is as “high fantastical” as something a distressed lover might imagine. (1.1.15).

Malvolio’s mention of fancy is also about love and imagining it. He talks about “her [Olivia’s] fancy,” but the context of the scene and the rest of his dialogue imply that he is the one who fancies Olivia (2.5.24).. Malvolio claims that Olivia has said she would fancy “one of my complexion,” indicating that Malvolio has, through confirmation bias and imagination, convinced himself that Olivia was in love with him even before reading Maria’s letter (2.5.25). The fact that Malvolio, the outwardly stalwart Puritan, is as fanciful and in love as Orsino is a strong device for making fun of the Puritans as Shakespeare was wont to do.

Sebastian has his reference to fancy when he meets Olivia and finds that he is the object of her fancy.

[Discussing of the other two quotes]

In Twelfth Night, characters mention fancy when in fantastical scenes. Orsino had neglected his duties as a Duke to be lovesick over Olivia, Malvolio convinced himself that Olivia was in love with him moments before happening upon a letter regarding Olivia’s love, Sebastian came to a foreign city and found that a woman he had never seen was madly in love with him, and the final scene is perhaps the most fanciful of them all. Everything comes together in a hilarious, satisfying, and utterly unrealistic way. The use of the word fancy indicates that a scene either was or will be fanciful. This implies that Shakespeare is breaking the fourth wall, drawing attention to works of the imagination when the audience may be considering the play as imagination. In that way, Shakespeare implies that this comedy, however nice it may seem, is just a lovesick fantasy in the mind of Duke Orsino.

Note also that almost every mention of the word is in reference to Olivia. The only exception is when Orsino calls Viola his “fancy’s queen,” but Orsino could just be (Inception-style) trying to prove to himself that he can love another. That is why the timeline does not make sense; Orsino needed to believe that his mind was not so changeable, that he would need three months with another woman to move past his love for Olivia.

Quotes:

1.1.14-15:

Orsino: “So full of shapes is fancy

That it alone is high fantastical.”

Context: These lines conclude Orsino’s opening monologue about his lovesickness and passion for Olivia. The monologue is discordant throughout, and this line sounds very arrogant, that nobody but a lover could have an extreme imagination.

This quote illustrates Orsino’s arrogance about his position (which is expanded upon in his later argument with Viola) and tells the audience that Orsino has spent some time cooped up in his mansion thinking of Olivia.

2.5.23-25

Malvolio: “I have heard herself come

thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one

of my complexion.“

Context: This comes just before Malvolio finds Maria’s letter, when he is fancying that Olivia might be in love with him. He has almost convinced himself of her love even before he sees Maria’s letter, which would be a strange coincidence if Twelfth Night was not a comedy.

This quote describes Malvolio’s desperation to be loved by Olivia. He uses a few choice words and actions of Olivia as a justification for her love, indicating confirmation bias and lack of perspective.

4.1.63-66

Sebastian: “What relish is in this? how runs the stream?

Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:

Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;

If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!”

Context: This comes just after Sebastian enters Illyria and finds a beautiful woman suddenly wish to marry him. It is so illogical that he believes he must be dreaming, and he wishes for fancy to keep him from waking up.

This quote tells us that Sebastian is wondrous at his entrance to Illyria. He forgets about Antonio as soon as strange men wish to duel and a strange beautiful woman claims to be in love with him. Sebastian is far more relaxed than most people would be in this context, especially if they could not find Antonio, the only person he was close with for the past three months.

5.1.412-415

Orsino: “Cesario, come;

For so you shall be, while you are a man;

But when in other habits you are seen,

Orsino's mistress and his fancy's queen.”

Context: This is the last line spoken by any character except Feste. It comes after Orsino learns of Viola’s true identity and gives up his love for Olivia.

This quote implies that Orsino still thinks of Viola as Cesario, at least while she is in men’s clothing.

#lifeblogging #sorry for it being so long #but i also fact-checked myself on a lot of details thanks to having the edit history and thanks to writing everything in my diary #so ty past sahil dont know what we'd do without your need to write for us

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she-wolf-of-highgarden · 3 years

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I think where I have a hard time with Arya and Sansa’s relationship is that Martin gives Sansa a defense mechanism where she doesn’t look back at things. And I’m not saying Arya is terribly self-reflective, but he allows her to have more than he does with Sansa.

Your little sister was hiding in the woods for three days? Don’t think about it.

Your little sister is missing after the brutal purging of your household? Don’t think about it. In fact, forget to ask about her.

The last thing (that the readers know) you said to your little sister was how much you disliked her and how you thought she should be dead? Don’t think about it.

That lack of reflection can make it hard, especially when you compare the two. Arya thinks about her sister. Arya misses her sister. Arya gets:

“Arya sipped at her tankard cautiously, between spoonfuls of pie still warm from the oven. Her father sometimes let them have a cup of beer, she remembered. Sansa used to make a face at the taste and say that wine was ever so much finer, but Arya had liked it well enough. It made her sad to think of Sansa and her father.” - Arya II, ACoK

“When she thought of seeing Robb's face again Arya had to bite her lip. And I want to see Jon too, and Bran and Rickon, and Mother. Even Sansa . . . I'll kiss her and beg her pardons like a proper lady, she'll like that.” - Arya VII, ACoK (she shows she’s willing to change her behavior if only for a little while to make her sister happy)

“So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly. All I could ever do was shout the words.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile. He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.” - Arya II, AFfC

And I’m not pretending that Arya doesn’t have some not nice things to say about her sister. She does. But Martin balances it better with her than with Sansa. And part of that is the defense mechanism and part of that is that Arya insults Sansa’s interests which is not okay, but she never actually calls Sansa herself stupid. Martin, however, does have Sansa insult Arya herself. Not just her interests or friends (which she does but in fairness Arya does that to her too so it kind of evens out), just Arya herself.

“She treasured every chance to spend time with him, few as they were. The only thing that scared her about today was Arya. Arya had a way of ruining everything. You never knew what she would do.” - Sansa I, AGoT

“What could you want to see?" Sansa said, annoyed. She had been thrilled by the invitation, and her stupid sister was going to ruin everything, just as she'd feared. "It's all just fields and farms and holdfasts.” - Sansa I, AGoT

“The kitchen yielded no lemon cakes, but they did find half of a cold strawberry pie, and that was almost as good. They ate it on the tower steps, giggling and gossiping and sharing secrets, and Sansa went to bed that night feeling almost as wicked as Arya.” - Sansa III, AGoT

“Hodor!" Sansa yelled. "You ought to marry Hodor, you're just like him, stupid and hairy and ugly!" She wrenched away from her sister's hand, stormed into her bedchamber, and barred the door behind her.” - Sansa III, AGoT

“It was for love," Sansa said in a rush. "Father wouldn't even give me leave to say farewell." She was the good girl, the obedient girl, but she had felt as wicked as Arya that morning, sneaking away from Septa Mordane, defying her lord father. She had never done anything so willful before, and she would never have done it then if she hadn't loved Joffrey as much as she did.” - Sansa IV, AGoT

Arya ruins everything , Arya is wicked, Arya is stupid.

And do we have good points that come from Sansa? Sure. But there are still moments where Martin will kind of take away from the moment which is a problem when you have only a few moments.

For example in ASoS we get:

“Lady Leonette gave her lessons on the high harp, and Lady Janna shared all the choice gossip. Merry Crane always had an amusing story, and little Lady Bulwer reminded her of Arya, though not so fierce.” - Sansa II, ASoS

which is followed by

“Sister. Sansa had once dreamt of having a sister like Margaery; beautiful and gentle, with all the world's graces at her command. Arya had been entirely unsatisfactory as sisters went. How can I let my sister marry Joffrey? she thought, and suddenly her eyes were full of tears.” - Sansa II, ASoS

That’s kind of rough. Yet after this we do get a nice moment between the girls.

“She scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it between her fingers. Heavy and wet, the snow packed easily. Sansa began to make snowballs, shaping and smoothing them until they were round and white and perfect. She remembered a summer's snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They'd each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she'd had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she'd slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn't, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.” - Sansa VII, ASoS

And we know from Arya (and that Alyane chapter in TWoW should it ever come out) that there were nice moments between the girls, even after the Trident. I mean Sansa does confide in Arya.

“Suddenly Arya knew where she had seen those dogs before. The night of the tourney at King's Landing, all the knights had hung their shields outside their pavilions. "That one belongs to the Hound's brother," Sansa had confided when they passed the black dogs on the yellow field. "He's even bigger than Hodor, you'll see. They call him the Mountain That Rides.” - Arya V, ACok

And Sansa even tells Arya about Jeyne Poole’s crush on Beric Donderrion or at least it is implied.

“Dondarrion? Beric Dondarrion had been handsome; Sansa's friend Jeyne had fallen in love with him. Even Jeyne Poole was not so blind as to think this man was fair.” - Arya VI, ASoS

“She told me." It all seemed so long ago. "Her friend Jeyne Poole fell in love with your Lord Beric.” - Arya VII, ASoS

So they obviously talked. We just don’t really get to see it. And its important to note that we get it from Arya. Sansa doesn’t usually think about it or mention it. Because that is her whole deal. In order to protect herself, she just doesn’t deal with things.

Does that mean she is unsympathetic? No. The poor girl deserves sympathy. What it does mean is that is difficult to show what she feels about her sister because she doesn’t think about her sister. Arya thinks about Sansa more because Martin gave her a different defense mechanism. We can point to places where Arya thinks positively of Sansa and it is harder to do that with Sansa. Is it because Sansa is awful? No. It’s because Martin decided that her defense mechanism was to just not think about upsetting things and so she doesn’t think about Arya the way Arya thinks about her.

I would also point out that I think part of the problem is Martin is iffy at writing female familial relations in general. It gets better as the books go on, but still. Your telling me we couldn’t get one scene with Cat and one of her daughters? Really? Martin doesn’t really show us female familial relations in general, you have a few instances of it, but its rare. We dont even get a scene where Cersei is alone with Myrcella. We know for a fact that Sansa and Arya have good moments, but Martin doesn’t show it in real time and that is kind of annoying.

#I blame the author #this draft suddenly became relevant

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khrtbh · 7 years

Conversation

Nana: I love Reborn! He's such a good little boy

Reborn: I want to kill Lambo

Nana: ...Reborn's adopted

#khr #katekyo hitman reborn #nana #nana sawada #reborn #reborn khr #incorrect quotes #quotes #this has been in my drafts forever and it suddenly became relevant #mod lee

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mochegato · 3 years

Text

Even the Losers

Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 3

“We have a problem,” Tim grumbled as he stumbled into the dining room. He threw the morning newspaper down on the table, letting it slide the last few feet until it stopped millimeters short of Bruce’s coffee.

Bruce sputtered his eggs and grabbed the paper, staring at the picture of him speaking with Marinette and Adrien that took up the entire front page above the fold. He threw the paper back on the table. “Son of a b…”

“We’ve been getting calls from PR all morning,” Tim interrupted him before Alfred got upset with Bruce for his language. “Because they’ve been getting calls from every newspaper, news station, blog, and interested citizen in the world, calling to ask them about it.”

Tim poured himself a large cup of coffee, larger than usual. He’d had patrol last night and gotten woken up at the crack of dawn this morning with calls about the story. So he was running on all of three hours of sleep and just wanted to crawl back into bed, but with this story, there was no chance of him getting to bed until after tonight’s patrol had already left.

It didn’t help that he was beating himself up for not picking up on the cues she was giving that night. He’d run into her. He and Stephanie had talked to her. He saw her freeze up when she realized who he was. He knew she was acting off, he just hadn’t thought it was nefarious. If anything, it seemed hurt, not scared. He should have caught onto her body language. He should have noticed how she seemed to freeze when he mentioned the family. She must have thought he was fishing, letting her know he was onto her and her plan to do this.

“You’d think after all the false alarms they’ve reported in the past that they’d know better by now. Not every black haired, blue eyed child is a Wayne. I’ve had PR draft up a statement that while we appreciate her support for the orphans, she is not, in fact, a Wayne,” he finished, taking a bite of his muffin, missing Bruce’s grimace.

Damian grabbed the paper, wrinkling it in his clenched fists as he scanned the text. “She must have orchestrated the whole thing to put this out. How else would they know these details?”

“No,” Dick commented thoughtfully, prying the paper away from Damian to take a look at the picture. “If she was in on it she would have put on a better act. Look at the image. She isn’t playing into it. She looks scared, not excited to ‘introduce her fiancé to her family’.” Dick quoted. He briefly scanned the paper for more information.

All the evidence appeared to be the picture, her physical features, and some call logs to her parent’s business. Dick scrunched up his face with concern. While not damning, it was interesting. He didn’t know any reason Bruce would have to contact a bakery in Paris. “Not to mention the story would have gone out yesterday for a bigger circulation boost. Sundays are the big press days. They wouldn’t have waited until Monday. That suggests they researched, or rather stole the information. And no quotes from her in here.”

“Fine,” Damian growled, acquiescing to his logic. “Maybe she did it after the fact. She saw the opportunity and took it.”

“No,” Bruce admitted quietly. “She wouldn’t have had to do that.” The room seemed to become still as everyone turned to face him. “If she wanted this story to go out she could have put it out at any time. And she would have played up the dance, would have sought me out at the gala. But she didn’t.”

“What dance?” Duke asked cautiously, his focus entirely on Bruce now.

“I asked her to dance. She said no. Ran away as quickly as she could actually,” Bruce chuckled self-deprecatingly as he stared at the paper in Dick’s hands.

Damian blinked at him as though the longer he stared the clearer what was happening would become. But no matter how hard he stared, the image didn’t become clearer. If anything, things became hazier. “This could all be a clever ruse. She wants to appear innocent so when you confront her she can point out that she didn’t do those things. It says she’s an aspiring designer. This could all be for publicity.”

“She wouldn’t have to go through all that,” Bruce stated again, more finality in his voice. He finally looked up, but still didn’t make eye contact with any of them.

Dick stared at Bruce, taking in his response, letting the words and their broader meaning sink in. The words he wasn’t saying hung in the room like thick smoke, winding their way into everything they touched, stealing the air out of the room. “What are you saying Bruce?” Dick asked cautiously

“The story’s true, isn’t it,” Tim observed. It was a statement more than a question.

Bruce nodded with a sigh. “Except for the meeting her fiancé part.”

Tim knew it was true even before Bruce’s verbal acknowledgement. The pieces suddenly fit together. It was the only thing that made sense. That’s why her reactions were off. That matched. He saw her face when they told her the gala was to celebrate family. He saw her body language change sharply when Stephanie joked about Bruce taking in everyone he saw. He wasn’t sure what to make of it at the time and didn’t really even try because it didn’t seem relevant and they had more important issues to think about, namely celebrating Duke. After the story, he thought the reactions were a tell. But now… now that he knew, they were a tell, but for something else entirely.

She was trying to be polite about it, not letting on how hard it was hitting. And oh God, didn’t that make it worse. Everything they said had been cordial, joking at Bruce’s expense, at their own expense. But with the new knowledge… it was at hers. They weren’t jokes, they were digs. They were attacks. They were him putting her ‘in her place’; out of the family. Tim took in a shuttering breath and collapsed on the couch, his head in his hands.

He would have so much to apologize for. He would have to find her and make sure she knew he didn’t mean his words the way they must have come across. He knew how it felt to not be accepted. He knew how it felt to not feel loved by your parents. He knew how it felt to have your place in the family questioned constantly, to be attacked, to be unwelcome. He wouldn’t wish that on enemies, let alone family.

“Who is she, Father?” Damian demanded.

Bruce met his eyes, guilt swimming in his own. “She’s your half-sister. Her mother and step-father have been raising her in Paris,” Bruce answered calmly.

Damian fought the gasp his lungs demanded against his will. His father was confirming it. He was acknowledging her. But never trusted them with the information. “Were you ever going to tell us?” Damian finally asked with forced coolness

“I was letting the dust settle on introducing Duke before I broached it,” Bruce hedged.

“So you just found out,” Damian asked angrily. That would make sense. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them, him. It was that he didn’t know until recently. Of course that was what happened.

“No.”

Damian gaped at him, his hastily built protective construct shattering with one word. “How long have you known?”

“Since she was born.” Damian gaped at him. He’d known. He’d known since before Damian came to live with them and still never told them. He didn’t trust him. Even after all he’d done, he still didn’t trust him. And now he was letting this unknown, this daughter, even just thinking the word made him wrinkle his nose in disgust, do whatever she wanted. He trusted her but not him.

“You have a daughter, a biological daughter you’ve known about for decades and that you never told us about,” Dick asked again in a daze. He fell into a chair staring at Bruce incredulously. There was no way. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He loved kids. He loved his kids. Why would he send one away? He hadn’t even wanted to do that to Jason.

“So I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know?” Duke asked. He looked around, taking in the stunned, disbelieving, hurt expressions.

“Not just you,” Damian gritted out.

Duke sucked in a breath and pulled out his phone, texting Jason and Cass to let them know what was happening. They were going to want to know as soon as possible too. All of them were going to have questions and issues with this information. And if the conversation went on much longer, they may want to be involved.

“Why was she there last night? What did she want? Surely she wouldn’t have come without a plan,” Damian pressed. Nobody had access to the kind of power and money they had and just walked away. If she was presenting herself and not to them, to the press, there must be a reason, a plot. They needed to find out more about her to figure it out. “How did she get a ticket in the first place?” That might be a place to start. It would give an insight into her accomplices and they could be pressed later for more information.

Bruce sighed and looked back down at his food, pushing the plate away, no longer hungry in the slightest. “I can’t answer how she got her ticket. As to why she was there, she was there to talk about a position for a friend of hers… with Lucius apparently, not me.”

“She was using her name to get her subpar friend a job,” Damian spat in disgust. There had to be more though. With their name, she could get much, much more. This had to be an opening gambit. The job must be placing an operative, loyal to her, within their institution. Next was the stunt with the press. They needed to figure out her next steps.

“No,” Bruce insisted. “She didn’t mention her association. He doesn’t know… well, he does now. He spoke to me after the gala, said he discovered one of our managers is stealing ideas and there was someone he was going to spend the weekend researching but he was excited about hiring him. Luthor is trying to hire him, so if we don’t act fast we’ll lose him. I’m betting that was her friend.”

“You don’t know that,” Damian growled out. “That could be a coincidence.”

“I’ll confirm with Lucius today, but it fits with what I know,” Bruce insisted calmly. “From what her mother has told me over the years, it’s the kind of thing she would do; go well out of her way to help a friend. And her mother let me know she was planning on attending the gala to talk about hiring her friend. I just thought she was going to talk to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell us,” Dick asked breathlessly. He was staring at Bruce with hurt saturating his eyes. He heard nothing after Bruce admitting he’d known about her and never told them. He was aware Bruce had been saying things for the last few minutes but none of it had registered. None of it was what he needed to know.

Bruce sighed and ran his hand over his face. “Nobody knew. Nobody but me and her mother and step-father. It was easier that way.” Easier to pretend was left unsaid. Easier for Bruce to pretend like he hadn’t cut her out of his life, like he didn’t regret it every day. Easier for Bruce to try to forget.

“Not even her?” Duke asked.

“Not even her,” Bruce confirmed with a sigh. He ran his hand over his face.

“Why?” Dick was staring at him in wide eyed confusion. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. He’d been with Bruce for twenty years and never heard a whisper of a biological daughter. But she existed. And he knew. Bruce took a deep breath and Dick scowled. “I swear to God, B, if you say some dumbass excuse like to protect her…”

“She has a happy life. Her mother and step-father love her beyond words. They support her, love her, encourage her. They’re there for her whenever she needs it. They never miss an event. Family dinners every night. She has friends… a good life. She’s safe. She never had to worry about defending herself. She never had to be taught what to do when she got kidnapped. Never had to… doesn’t remember seeing the people around her dead from the latest rogue attack. Not like what she would have here…” he again left the last part of the sentence off. The “with me” was left for everyone to fill in on their own.

“You’re a good father,” Tim assured him weakly, because at this point, with this information…

“I hope so.” Bruce gave him a weak smile. “But when she was born… I had an obligation. I had a responsibility.”

“She was your responsibility!” Dick yelled, his face suddenly contorting in anger and frustration with Bruce.

Bruce looked away stoically, face suddenly a mask devoid of emotion. “She had a better option and I made sure she got it.”

The room was silent for a few moments while his words settled in. The only sound was Dick seething in his seat. “But she doesn’t know you? You never visited. You never interacted with her. Even not telling her who you were to her,” Tim clarified.

Bruce shook his head. “I visited her final project for her degree a few weeks ago under the guise of research for the fabric project. She’s a designer. I was hoping to get her in on the fabric project. I thought it would be a good cover to get her comfortable with the family. But I didn’t talk with her while I was there.” He chuckled slightly at the memory. “I couldn’t even get close. There were too many people talking to her, congratulating her, offering her internships. Her work was beautiful.”

“But you’ve talked with her parents,” Tim checked.

He sighed and waved his hand helplessly. “I spoke with Sabine every so often to check on Marinette, make sure she was okay. I helped pay for her schooling, but even that was disguised as an investment into her parents’ company.”

“So her parents were having you pay for their company, holding the secret over your head,” Damian spat out.

“No!” Bruce growled. He knew Damian was having a hard time with this. Hell, that’s one of the main reasons he waited so long, because he knew Damian wouldn’t react well. Damian would have taken it as an attack on his position in the family. And after the way he treated Tim and Dick when he first found out about them… They could protect themselves against his attacks. She wouldn’t have been able to. He didn’t know how far Damian would actually go and he didn’t want Damian to have to find out either. He had been waiting until Damian was more settled, more secure in the family and their unconditional love for him before he reached out to her. But he wasn’t going to let him disparage Sabine and Tom. They’d been nothing but understanding.

“They only let me put in the amount for tuition. They wouldn’t allow me to give any more than that and Marinette got a scholarship for her university so she didn’t need any assistance. I tried to keep giving them money for her to at least have spending money but they refused. They stopped accepting the transfers. They only relented when I said it would look suspicious. So they’ve been creating a trust for her with it.”

Damian grumbled and looked away. Whatever their game was, they were certainly good at it.

Bruce dropped his head into his hands. “Nobody was supposed to know about her until I was sure it was safe,” Bruce grumbled into his hands. “Until I’d had a chance to talk to everyone about it.”

“Well now everyone knows, so maybe now is a good time to start trying to make that connection,” Dick growled.

“If she’ll let us,” Tim added. He remembered the look in her eyes when he talked about his… their family.

“It’s never too late to start trying to bond,” Dick insisted. His eyes were bordering on wild. They could bring this back, right? The family had come back from worse. They’d faced steeper hills. Hell, Damian tried to kill them when he first came. Jason had also tried to kill them all more than once when he came back. She couldn’t be that bad. They just had to make the first move. “We just have to let her know we want to.”

Tim shook his head and looked down, not at all convinced it really was as easy as that. Tim was awkward on a good day. He could make friends but usually they made the first move. He was pretty certain she wouldn’t make the first move in this instance. Damian wouldn’t accept her, period. Dick would crowd her. Jason would… whatever Jason did, probably disappear. She wasn’t a Robin so he probably wouldn’t try to kill her. Cass would try, but her success depended on Marinette understanding what Cass wasn’t saying. And Bruce… Bruce was never good at understanding emotions or sympathizing. Honestly, their best hope was Duke.

Duke breathed out a deep sigh and looked away. This family was not easy to get along with or find your place with. And bonding with each other? He managed because he fought next to them. They bonded in the field, in their suits. He wasn’t sure if they realized that about themselves. If they interacted outside the suits it was because of the bond they formed inside them. She wouldn’t have that opportunity and without it… The prognosis was not good.

“What are you going to do, B?” Tim asked tentatively. “Because whatever your plans were, now she knows and she’s dealing with it on her own. She… You need to talk to her.”

Bruce sucked in a breath and massaged his temples. “I know.”

“And you need to apologize,” Dick added firmly.

Bruce nodded. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” Dick growled. “You have no idea what has to be going through her head right now.” He grabbed his bag and stalked out of the manor, slamming the door as he left.

“And you need to decide what we’re going to tell the public,” Tim added. “We need to put a statement out soon.”

“I know,” Bruce agreed. His voice this time was more detached. That was something he would have to decide, but that wasn’t the priority right now and not something he wanted to do without her input.

He needed to come up with a new plan and quickly. This was nothing like the one he had come up with. He was supposed to have more time. He was supposed to be able to ease into this. He was supposed to be able to feel things out before deciding a path. He was supposed to control the environment and how his family found out.

But now he was thrown into it, they all were, and he had no idea how to proceed. He didn’t know her well enough to anticipate how she would react to the situation or to him. He didn’t know her well enough yet to know the best way to approach her. He needed to come up with a game plan. He sighed heavily. He had to get into the office, not show anything out of the ordinary. And once he was behind his office door, he could talk to Sabine. She would know what to do.

Chapter 5

Tags:

@maribat-bdbwm @jayjayspixiepop @redscarlet95 @alice-hazelwood @deathssilentapproach-blog @unoriginalmess @alyssadeliv @emotionalsupportginger @frieddonutsweets @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @toodaloo-kangaroo @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @iloontjeboontje @wolf-for-life @maribatserver

#maribat #bio!dad bruce #bio dad bruce wayne #roynette #Even the Losers #mbdbwm2021 #prompt - bonding

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a-lil-perspective · 4 years

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To Top It Off

A/N: You asked for a Hunter X Reader drabble? No? Well that’s what you’re getting. :) It’s been too long, and this has been in my drafts for months. Here’s to me not overthinking so much and just posting whatever this is.

———

“Is there a particular reason why you have my shirt on?”

You direct your attention away from the experiment before you and Tech to address the rich baritone flooding the room, the oversized length of his borrowed top acknowledged by its hem brushing your upper thigh in your twirl around to face.

“It can’t just be because I’m your biggest fan?” Your voice notched an octave higher and your lashes fanned a convincing aura of innocence, to which the man was not buying, what with the way his arms folded pointedly across his chest.

His... near bare chest, that is.

Nearly bare and nearly busting out of the thin tank top material.

Holy kriff.

Hunter pressed his lips into a tight line. “No.”

You were grateful for Tech’s interjection. “The explanation is simple: her clothing is now covered in smoking holes.”

At least the shorts survived, you nearly supplied in your absent state.

“Wha—why?!” Hunter startled.

“Ah, well you know the—”

“Actually, I don’t want to know,” Hunter decided. Kriff. He knew better than to actually ask. When things went down—or went up in smoke within the walls of the Havoc Marauder, Hunter would just as soon slip his bandana over his eyes and pretend it didn’t happen. The kids rarely ever listened, anyway.

“So, obviously, she needed a timely replacement,” Tech continued. “However, Wrecker’s top weighed her down, being far too large, and due to certain specifications regarding female anatomy, the circumference of the torso area on Crosshair’s top was simply too snug over her—”

“Tech. I get it. Thank you,” Hunter interrupted with a raised hand, voice uncharacteristically tight and slightly panicked in the effort to halt his younger brother’s implications. He was indignantly aware of his heartbeat drumming hard against his ribcage. He sighed deeply in an attempt to weed out the growing tension. “You couldn’t have just given her one of yours?”

“Mine are damaged from other experiments. No.”

Hunter clucked in disapproval, mumbling under his breath at the ironic misfortune. “Okay. First order of business: you need new clothes, lil’ bro. Next time, tell me before you get down to the single pair on your body—wait, is that one even clean?”

“The current hygienic state of my clothing has no relevance here, Hunter.”

“The hell it don’t. I can smell you from here.”

“Your genetic makeup involving sense and smell has always been augmented, so kindly put the ‘heightened senses’ card away.”

“Dude, that’s not it. Go take a bath. Karking hell—”

“Why don’t you explain yourself?” Tech crossed his arms, frowning. “You have more than one shirt, so you will certainly not miss this one,” he gestured to the loaned top on your body.

You rolled your lips to prevent an untimely snicker as you looked on in amusement at two grown men frivolously bickering over the top portion of uniform blacks.

Now preventing curious eyes from scoping out the stripped-down version of Sergeant Hunter? Well that’s another matter entirely.

You couldn’t (and made no effort to) tear your gaze away from its appraisal of his upper half; the sleeveless ivory undershirt clinging immodestly to his figure and accentuating both the toned diameter of biceps and broad expanse of his torso. Every fiber of the clothing article seemingly brand into his sculpted physique—you swore the very seams would burst at the way his built chest puffed through the tight fabric.

A damp trail of sweat began to accumulate at your hairline.

You silently chide yourself when Hunter’s gaze made a full stop and narrowed in your direction. You swallowed the undignified noise bubbling in the back of your throat.

Hunter rather relished in your wantonly eyes and slack-jawed expression undressing him, mentally filing the reaction away for later. He rested his lower lip between his teeth—an act done with nothing short of deliberation, he will admit—and continued to address his vod’ika without missing a beat.

“Yeah, well, mine are actually being cleaned hence why I only have one and she—”

“Oh Sergeant, stop whining,” you don’t know what came over you as you tossed your head back with a feigned groan. It echoed in the room. You chewed your lip. “Would you like it back now?”

Your tease palpitated, fingers suddenly encircling around the hem of the top and without warning, tugging upward.

A brief flicker of taut abdomen is all Hunter witnessed as he narrowly avoided the sight of a strip tease right then and there.

Everything within him—except dignity, which was hanging by a loose thread anyway—screamed in protest for looking away.

The visual of your smile from his periphery, dazzling and absolutely lacking any demure, was like a feedback rushing through his system, quickening his pulse. He wished he could be like Tech standing next to you, completely unbothered (more like barely paying attention) at the sight of your bare torso.

He fumed silently and exasperatedly shook his head, stuffing down the strange sensation beginning to bud and knot itself deep inside.

“No—Y/N, just... You know what? Keep it. It’s fine,” Hunter stumbled over his words. He forcefully cleared his throat, brusque awkwardness at your little theatrics just a surface portrayal of the way it affected him.

“Mhm. That’s what I thought,” you hummed in victory, considering a moment before deciding to release the top. It cascaded freely down your front once again. You suddenly strode forward, an unmistakably minx attitude falling attaché to your every step.

Well haven’t you gotten brazen.

You paused directly in front of him, hovering a finger just mere inches from the tip of his nose. The smirk never left your features. “Now I don’t want to hear another word about it, Sergeant.” Your eyes perpetrated. “My orders. Clear?”

The only thing that became clear to Sergeant Hunter was that he would be personally retrieving his shirt from your body, later.

His orders.

#star wars #the bad batch #clone force 99 #hunter #sergeant hunter #my husband #please enjoy my pun-filled titles #I made Reader a little thotty here😂😂#not gonna lie I’m really scared about posting this #I don’t know why XD #have had this in my drafts since June #LOL #trying to just post drabbles when they come and not be such a tight wad about my work #my writing #it’s a lil thing

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rye-views · 3 years

Text

A Promised Land by Barack Obama. 8/10

I would recommend this book to my friends. I would reread this book.

There are certain things that Barack articulates that I’m thankful for. His over-optimism and feelings of eccentricity. I completely related to its isolating feelings even though it wasn’t the same situation and experience as mine. It’s nice to see something similar from someone different. I also liked his description of feeling everything in its entirety and how it was like a movie splice. I have felt this many times and it’s a beautiful way to describe it. I like how so much of what Barack says, thinks, and feels are so genuine and relatable. It's nice to see someone articulate and empathize this well, esp. from a man and a man in power.

I love learning that Michelle was disappointed by the situation caused by his choices at times. Other things were more important at the time and nice to see it be relevant.

It’s interesting to see the difference between this book and “Becoming.” They have different aims, but it still shows me a difference between a man and woman. I also notice that when men are described, it’s always physical. When it’s women, it’s more character and personality.

Crazy how intelligent and emotionally aware Barack is. When he stated how he couldn't just pick and choose the good things of Reverend Wright's church, I was like true and wow.

The things that Toot taught Barack is what someone should've taught me as I grew up.

Barack comparing the rides to Noah's Ark is amusing.

When he mentions translations of what the Big 4 are saying, I think about how we can't be straightforward in politics. Why not?

It took me forever to read this because I really wanted to absorb the knowledge. There's a lot of events that are covered and things I had no idea about. I love how this catalogues so much of history that were relevant to my lifetime.

Memorable Quotes: “gives even my roughest drafts too smooth a gloss and lends half-baked thoughts the mask of tidiness” “I needed to focus on only those things to come.” “Much of what I read I only dimly understood” “a bond between those who had once seemed far apart.” “Whatever it was, I knew I wasn’t ready.” “An America that could explain me.” “I suffered rejections and insults often enough to stop fearing them.” “Enthusiasm makes up for a host of deficiencies.” “Failure and want were all around you.” “It should have been enough.” “but my mother was never one to see hard work as anything but good.” “On top of my sorrow, I felt a great shame.” “There’s a physical feeling, a current of emotion that passes back and forth between you and the crowd, as if your lives and theirs are suddenly spliced together, like a movie reel, projecting backward and forward in time, and your voice creeps right up to the edge of cracking, because for an instant, you feel them deeply; you can see them whole. You’ve tapped into some collective spirit, a thing we all know and wish for – a sense of connection that overrides our differences and replaces them with a giant swell of possibility – and like all things that matter most, you know the moment is fleeting and that soon the spell will be broken.” “To be a workhorse not a show horse – that was my goal.” “I had become a mere conduit through which people might recognize the value of their own stories, their own worth, and share them with one another.” "Yes we can." “the personal really was political” “I had to listen to, and not just theorize about, what mattered to people.” “it wasn’t so much what he did as how he made you feel. Like anything was possible. Like the world was yours to remake.” “It’s hard, in retrospect, to understand why you did something stupid.” “In fact, you shouldn’t even count on my vote.” “What do you consider your place in history?” “I could take a punch. And I didn’t give up.” “I knew I could afford to be patient.” “but the only way for Daddy to disguise himself is if he has an operation to pin back his ears.” “Forgotten people and forgotten voices remained everywhere.” “the more troops would become targets of an enemy they often could not see and did not understand.” “The power to inspire is rare. Moments like this are rare. You think you may not be ready, that you’ll do it at more convenient time. But you don’t choose the time. The time chooses you.” “people were moved by emotion, not facts.” “Beneath the low-key person and deep convictions, he just plain liked the combat.” "defined not by what they are but what they can never be." "To the relief of his keepers, the bear became accustomed to captivity." "he understood better than most the complications of race, religion, and family, and how good and bad, love and hate, might be hopelessly tangled in the same heart" "She was one of those quiet heroes that we have all across America." "But I worry that my memories of that night, like so much else that's happened these past twelve years, are shaded by the images that I've seen, the footage of our family walking across the stage, the photographs of the crowds and lights and magnificent backdrops." "a keeper of values we'd once thought ordinary but had learned were more rare than we had ever imagined." ""It's going to be hard to get the public excited about food stamps and repaving roads," Axe said. "Not real sexy."" "This time I said nothing, admiring his occasional, almost endearing ability to state the obvious." "You must be under the mistaken impression that I care." "all of them unified only in their common desire to be somewhere else." "ready to die for eternal joy--or maybe just a taste of something better." "But make no mistake, it was weird." "the unspoken regrets." "my supporters lacked all conviction, while my opponents were full of passionate intensity." "Michelle was someone who started from the heart and not the head, from experience rather than abstractions." "I wanted to believe that the ability to connect was still there. My wife wasn't so sure." “The

audacity of hope.” "Sometimes your most important work involved the stuff nobody noticed." "forgotten under the accumulation of the new joys and paints that make up a life." "you learn to improvise to meet your objectives--or at least to cut your losses." "They would take for granted that their aunt was on the U.S. Supreme Court, shaping the life of a nation--as would kids across the country. Which was fine. That's what progress was like." "Did they miss the rhythms of ordinary life? Were they lonely? Did they sometimes feel a jolt in their heart and wonder how it was that they had ended up where they were?" "I reminded myself that every president felt saddled with the previous administration's choices and mistakes, that 90 percent of the job was navigating inherited problems and unanticipated crises. Only if you did that well enough, with discipline and purpose, did you get a real shot at shaping the future." "Was it possible that abstract principles and high-minded ideals were and always would be nothing more than a pretense, a palliative, a way to beat back despair, but no match for the more primal urges that really moved us, so that no matter what we said or did, history was sure to run along its predetermined course, an endless cycle of fear, hunger and conflict, dominance and weakness?" "meant to be a reminder--in a place premised on hate and intolerance--of the common humanity we share." "A man making up for things." "For war was contradiction, as was the history of America." "To be known. To be heard. To have one's unique identity recognized and seen as worthy. It was a universal human desire" "pleasures that cost nothing, belonged to no one, and were accessible to all." "I suppose, when the world slows down, your strivings get pushed to the back of your mind." "whether in my seeming calm as crises piled up, my insistence that everything would work out in the end, I was really just protecting my self--and contributing to her loneliness." "It was a lonely thought at a lonely time." "You never looked as smart as the ex-president did on the sidelines." "Get exposed to other people's truths, I thought, and attitudes change." "It wasn't often, I thought, that a true act of conscience is recognized that way." "their struggles and resentments troubling but remote." "are mere conduits for the deep, relentless currents of the times or whether we're at least partly the authors of what's to come." "contemplating the knife's edge between perceived success and potential catastrophe" "daily, unheralded acts of people who weren't seeking attention but simply knew what they were doing and did it with pride." "She makes me better as a person and better on the page."

#a promised land #promised land #barack obama #book #review #commentary #rye-views #8

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anemonenemerosa · 4 years

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The Spare - Chapter 4

Hello fellow people, here comes the fourth chapter of my fic. As always, this is a spinn-off of @lumosinlove Sweater-Weather, so the universe belongs to her, while the Harry Potter characters beling to JKR.

Please be careful if you feel triggered by past abuse topics.

Chapter 4

With an exasperated huff, Regulus chucked The Hobbit into a corner of his room.

After realising that no one even seemed to know of the existence of the light fiction in the library, he began to keep all relevant books he found in his room. By now, the stack on the floor was reaching his hip. But whatever he did, he could not distract himself from the impending game against the Lions this evening. He had neither seen nor heard from Sirius since the draft, he did not expect a call, and was rather indecisive on how to react to his brother.

It was the first time the brothers played against each other in an actual game, in the NHL no less. Of course, everyone supplied their unrequested suggestions, or rather demands. The Death Eaters wanted him to rile Sirius up, taking his focus off the game. His parents insisted that he had to outshine his brother, presenting himself as the genuine heir of Orion Black.

God forbid anyone considering to ask me about that, Regulus mused.

It was not his very first game in the NHL but surely the most sensational so far. The media was all but hyped about the game but the 'Brother Rivalry' overshadowed by the 'Captain Rivalry' and Sirius' broken ankle. He was relieved that Severus took up so much media presence but he did not fool himself. A lot of eyes were going to be on him. Hence his indetermination.

Following the Death Eaters lead to distract Sirius with chirping and slurs was not a viable option. He would probably rise in their graces but also draw public attention for gamesmanship, without doubt overshadowing his actual hockey performance, which he wanted to be noticed for. Of course, his parents would not appreciate Regulus taunting Sirius either. They wanted him put Sirius to shame by performance, not immature behaviour.

They expected Regulus to outrank the Captain of the rivalling team with six years of NHL experience is his sixth-ever game. Personal relations be damned, this is a hideous demand, Regulus scoffed, finally giving up on distracting himself from his brother and stepping into the shower.

Regardless of how hard he tried, he would always be seen in relation to Sirius. Thank you, brother. You just have to fart to overshadow my life. Merde... connard stupide!

_________________________________________________________

It hadn’t always been like that, Regulus had to acknowledge. As small boy he looked up to his bigger brother. He cared for him in a different way than their parents. While they clothed, fed and trained him, Sirius was the one who hugged and comforted Regulus when their father scolded him for being shy and introverted.

“A hockey player does not hide in corners!”, Orion used to spit, his patience always on the meagre side.

Sirius loved him in a different way than Walburga and Orion, cheering him up instead of punishing him when he messed up.

“You need to toughen up, boy” his father explained one day, “You have been pampered too much. Crying and asking for cuddles is for girls.”

But his older brother would hear nothing of it. Sirius instructed Regulus to sneak into Sirius' bed after nightmares and during stormy nights. Thinking of it now, Regulus realised that he must have been as much of a comfort for Sirius as the other way around.

From the beginning of Regulus life, Sirius was famous for his talent but it did not affect their relationship until he was getting prepared for a professional career as soon as he turned twelve; spending the summers in training camps and receiving additional private lessons at the rink in their basement. They saw each other infrequently and Sirius was mostly too tired for playing with Regulus if he got a bit of spare time. That did not stop them from secretly snuggling up in bed.

However, their dynamics began to shift as the rising success of his brother took up all attention from their parents. Whatever concerned Sirius was more important and Regulus began to feel a constant sting of jealousy souring his mood. Then puberty hit Sirius hard, causing him to rebel against his tight schedule. Regulus was eight when he began asking Sirius to obey just to make their parents stop beating him and nine when Sirius gave in.

Daft fool, Regulus thought while scrubbing his hair with a bar of soap. If he had just kept his head down... but that wasn't Sirius.

Well, Regulus was able to learn from other people’s mistakes, kept quiet and secured himself a comparingly unbothered time. At least for a while.

Sirius draft to no other team than the Gryffindor Lions had had a severe impact, not only on Sirius' life. He remembers his brothers’ conflict after the call: The excitement from being picked first over all from a strong team mingled with the dread from their parent’s wrath concerning the particular team. Back then, Regulus did not understand the uproar. He was twelve, hadn't learned about the end of his father’s career and wanted his brother to be happy for living his dream. God, he even sneaked in a Lions hat for Sirius. Mrs. Kreacher, albeit reluctantly, bought the item during her weekly errands. Their ancient house-maid always had a soft spot for calm little Regulus that did not extend to his boisterous older brother, but making Regulus happy seemed to outweigh her reservations.

Once Sirius had left to live with the Dumais family, Regulus suddenly became the sole focus of their parent’s energy. As he was twelve, he was subjected to the same extensive training as Sirius and while he was absolutely able to hold a candle to his older brother, it was nothing to knock their parents' socks off. Sirius had already been there and Regulus keeping up was just expected, business as usual, not a big deal.

Eventually, learned what ended Orion’s hockey career. A centre of the Lions had sent him crashing into the boards, causing irreparable damage to his father’s spine. And while his father had to leave the rink forever, the other player wasn't even penalised. This put the drama about Sirius draft into perspective. Still, Regulus missed his brother immensely but after two years of dwindling visits, he got annoyed. Sirius rare calls more and more turned into chorus of praise for his team and especially the Dumais'. He was more and more badmouthing their upbringing and telling Regulus off for defending their parents. "Tu ne comprends pas, Reg." You don't understand. Of course, he never understood, did he? Little naive Reg did not just see how his brother went and found himself a better family, preferring to spend his time with them instead of his actual family, with him. No, Reg was not left-behind, he did just not understand!

_____________________________________________________________

“Je serai toujours ton frère, Reg!” Oh, fuck you!

It has been several weeks since he allowed all the memories and feelings concerning his brother to surface and it always hurt him but for now, he would channel the feelings of abandonment, anger and disappointment into determination. He would at least try and make his parents proud, would treat Sirius as much as any other player as he could, brother or not.

“Hockey is about winning, not fun, not comradery!”, his father used to stress constantly.

Regulus took that to heart. He stepped out of the shower, very wrinkly but ready to let his performance speak for him.

Soo that was chapter 4 for you, I hope you enjoyed it. Stay save and channel your inner Hufflepuff

#Sweater Weather #lumosinlove #regulus black #Regulus is sick of it #secret nerd #sirius and regulus #ice hockey

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

Text

Mr. Self Destruct

Warnings: Bucky’s a bastard, control, PTSD and other lovely mental issues, eventual noncon

This is dark!Bucky Barnes and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: Bucky has been left by his closest friend. With no other choice, he works for Stark Industries in the name of both Stark and Rogers but before he can begin his new position, he is mandated to attend counselling. With you, the company’s resident therapist.

Note: This is gonna be a two-parter because this one shot got a bit beyond my control. But I hope you guys like this. If you’re wondering what’s going on with me is I have no focus and this is what I decided to do instead of anything useful. Love y’all.

Anyway :) Please like, reply, and/or reblog if you read.

Since it all ended, since the lost were found and the ash returned to sunlight, life had grown hectic. Your line of work became all the more important. New patients, new problems, new hours.

For those dark years in between, it was grief counselling for the lost. Guiding others through the stages as you worked through them too. But how was one to cope with the loss of time? To cope with displacement in a world that had gone on without them. To come back to not only a different world, but different people.

Those they had known before changed, but they’d stayed the same. To them, it was a blink of the eye. In their minds, they were never gone. They didn’t know the world after them. The flecks of dust that floated through the air, the startling silence that overtook the streets and stilled the leaves. They couldn’t know and they couldn’t understand.

Stark Tower bustled. It was like before, not that you’d been there then. You were hired during the blip. Steve Rogers organized sessions for the mourning and you accepted the chore of guiding them. Of teaching him how to address issues of grief and death. Of facing the unknown and the uncontrollable. Something he never quite managed to do himself; never really managed to let go of what he lost.

He was gone now. In the media, he was dead, like Stark. You were of the privileged to know that he chose to leave this world. His one goal achieved, he left behind all he’d fought so hard to restore. He left behind those who depended on him for his fantasy. For the life he refused to let go of. For her.

You couldn’t blame him but in your opinion, professional and otherwise, it would not ease his doubts. Not quell his fears of a life squandered. He was still running. He’d always be running. But he made his decision and chose the same plight in another time. There was nothing to do about that.

You were anxious. A new patient. You knew of him but you’d never met him. Would you call Steve a mutual friend? Maybe just an acquaintance; a colleague. As much as your relationship with the man had blurred lines, so to had it with this man. His oldest and closest friend, rather ally. The one he’d laid his life down for and yet left behind just as impulsively. The man with a plan had never truly had one.

You stared down at the city through the window. Behind you, your pad and pen rested on the round table just beside the dark green chair. A couch sat across from it, grey but cozy. Long enough to recline but your patients rarely did more than sit stiffly or pace. Maybe hug a pillow as they sobbed.

You gripped the window frame. You were rarely so nervous about your job. You couldn’t be. Your task was to put people at ease, not rile them. Bucky’s file was there too. Hidden in the drawer of your desk. You’d pored over it. Military records and censored Hydra documents. A puzzle with missing pieces.

You heard footsteps in the hall. They paused before your door and you peeked over your shoulder as the frosted glass darkened. The figure on the other side was still. You waited. When they finally knocked, you flinched. You turned and stepped around the couch. Your heels were loud as the carpet dissolved to hardwood.

You opened the door. “Come in,” You greeted, unsurprised by your visitor. Early but long-awaited. Long-dreaded. Why? He was just a man.

He blinked and nodded as he stepped past you. The canvas jacket hid his metal arm and he seemed like any other man. His hands were tucked into his jeans as he hesitantly entered and looked around the office. The lights were dimmer than the usual fluorescents of the tower; the space cozy compared to the sterile labs.

“Would you like something to drink?” The door clicked as you closed it and he glanced around to look at it. His jaw clenched.

“No...thank you,” He walked along the back of the couch and you passed along the other side.

You took your notepad from the table and twirled the pen between your fingers. It hit your thumb and bounced off the leather folder in your hand. It landed at his feet as he halted suddenly. He picked it up with his vibranium fingers and considered the shiny brown plastic trimmed in gold. He offered it back to you without a word. You took it and he went back to investigating with his eyes.

“Would you like to sit down?” You asked. Your voice sounded brittle and you nearly choked on the pieces as it cracked.

“No,” He said curtly as he gripped the back of the couch.

“Do you mind if I do?”

“Go ahead,” He shrugged.

You sat and the green leather felt unwelcoming. He stared down at his metal fingers and they tightened around the grey upholstery. His long lashes shrouded his eyes and his thick beard was laced with shadows. His long hair was drawn back in a tie but strands hung loose and untamed around his face.

“You don’t want to be here.” You said.

“What gave it away?” He rolled his eyes. You didn’t reply. “I have to be here, because they say I do.”

“And if you weren’t here, what would happen?”

“Then I couldn’t work.” His tone suggested you were stupid.

“And what would happen if you couldn’t work?” You prodded.

He looked up at you and his blue eyes burned hotly. “Then…” He began and tore his gaze from you. “I wouldn’t work, I guess.”

“Is there anything else you could do besides this? Besides fighting?”

“Not since I put my name down in 1941,” He grumbled and turned his back to you. “Can you just tick the box so I can go?”

“No, because then I wouldn’t be working,” You insisted. “So...you gonna sit down?”

He sighed and circled the couch. He considered the cushions but carried on. He passed your chair and went to the window. He stood as you had only minutes before.

“Why can’t you do anything else?” You asked. He was quiet as he played with the cord of the blinds. “Mr. Barnes--”

“Bucky,” He corrected you.

“Bucky, why can’t--”

“Because I don’t know how. I know how to kill and that’s it.” His voice was heavy and wrapped around your throat. “I just wanna kill the right people this time.”

“You enjoy it?”

Silence. He pushed himself away from the window and the cord brushed against the frame noisily. He stayed behind you, pacing just around your chair.

“It’s my job.”

“And you enjoy your job?”

“It’s work.”

“You’re not answering my questions.”

“Because they’re stupid questions.” His hands were on the back of your chair as he loomed over you.

“They are relevant questions.” You insisted, fighting not to flinch. If he sensed the rise in your nerves, it wouldn’t help. “So, do you enjoy your work?”

“I’m good at it,” He shoved himself away from the chair so hard it moved. “It’s what I know, what I do.”

“You never wanted to be anything else? To do anything else? Surely, as a child, you didn’t foresee war--”

“As a child, I was stupid. And as an adult, worse.” He walked along the wall and looked at your degree. He leaned in as he read the cursive font of your name and said it allowed. “I was never smart enough for all that.”

“According to your records, you were top of your class.”

“In a Brooklyn public school. In the 30s. Surely not the peak of education.” His eyes remained on the framed certificate.

“Your grades were good enough to qualify.” You suggested. You began to scribble notes softly, recalling that he was a patient. That you needed to record this all.

“I qualified for enlistment, too. They still had to draft me, though. Maybe if those universities had too, I’d be just like you, doc.” He touched the glass of the frame with his real hand. “Maybe I’d have spent the last half of the century at a desk pushing a pen, unaware of all the bullshit in this world.”

“If you could go back and do it that way, would you?”

“Like Steve. Like the hero, huh?” He stepped away from the wall and kept his back to you. “He was always braver than me, or I thought so. What kind of bravery is it just haul ass back to the past? I didn’t ask him to keep me out of prison, to keep Stark from killing me, but he did that out of his vainglorious honour. Then he left me and where was his honour then?”

He kicked the couch with a grunt and crossed his arms. You watched him as he kept his face hidden from you. He paced along the far wall, back and forth as he steamed.

“You’re mad at Steve for leaving?”

“No.”

“But you are mad.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m stuck here. With you, talking about...nonsense.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I have to be.”

“No, Bucky,” You stood slowly and set aside your notepad. “Why are you here?”

He stopped and turned to you. He crossed the room until he was right before you, glaring down. His lips twitched but he quickly pressed them together and shook his head. He scoffed.

“Because I always do what I’m told.” He backed away until he was right before the couch. He sat and clamped his hands down on his knees. “Like a good soldier.”

The sessions turned to silence. A pattern at first. Each a face off between you and Bucky. Vague answers, if any. Then he stopped talking at the end of the first month. You sat, talking to the walls of your office,no response as he checked his watch and waited. But you didn’t stop.

As he sat, you took your notes and went over them after he left. The bulk of his issues were intertwined with deep post-traumatic stress and feeling of abandonment. Not just that Steve left him, but that he’d been left to Hydra for decades without a thought. A sense of powerlessness left him wanting control and the one thing he could control was his own voice. He told you what he wanted and the rest, he kept to himself.

After your last meeting, you poured yourself a glass of wine and stared at the blank page. You’d acted as if you’d been writing but the pen was dead and merely left embossed scribbles in the paper. He was your only new patient so far and the others didn’t have any problem talking. If anything, they talked too much. They didn’t stop and reflect on what they said, even when prompted.

You set aside the leather folder and packed it away. You finished the warm red wine and left the glass beside the sink in your small bathroom. You pulled on the plaid blazer hung over your desk chair and hooked your bag over your shoulder. The New York sky was dark outside your window. You couldn’t spend another night in your office.

You hailed a cab and watched the blur of the city. Your little walk-up beckoned you inside and you dropped your bag atop your disposed shoes. You stopped inside the living room. Dark and grim. You flipped the switch and the antique sconces shone deep yellow in the small room. Empty.

The mug you’d left on the coffee table was still there and the book you tried to read was closed and forgotten on the corner. Everything was in order and yet it felt as if something was different. As if someone had been there before you. You walked the perimeter but found nothing amiss. Nothing but the tickle at the base of your skull.

You removed your blazer and folded it over the back of the armchair. The summer was fading and autumn slowly crept up in the evenings. You sat on the couch and took the book from the corner of the table.

It looked worn though you still hadn't gotten more than halfway through. Though every time you opened it, the spine seemed weaker as if you'd been contorting it to fit your hand. But it didn't fit your hand. Not quite.

You dropped it and sat back. You were due to see Bucky again at the end of the week. You'd seen him a couple times beyond your office. In the halls with his co-workers, with the authority he disdained so much.

You didn't know how to get through to him. Couldn't, you were sure. Perhaps, you didn't need to. Maybe he only needed to. How could you ever help a man who wouldn't help himself?

You brushed aside your flurry of thoughts. You weren't at work. Your notepad stayed in your bag and rarely did you mull over it at home. It was too easy to let it consume you.

You clicked on the television and laid back. The white noise filled your ears and you closed your eyes. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. You'd figure something out.

Friday. You were due for your next session with Bucky that afternoon. The tower was at a peak, the crowds flurried in and out of the revolving doors as you opted for those doors hidden at the side of the building.

You stopped by the small kiosk that sold overpriced caffeine and ordered some seasonal favourite with an extra shot of espresso. You dropped a tip in the bowl as your eyes fixed on the gift shop nestled between the newspaper stand and a tiny realty office. The lobby was a microcosm of the city itself.

You'd never been in the shop despite having passed by it for several years. You took your cup and crossed to the little store. You stepped inside and nodded at the cashier who didn’t seem to notice you over their phone screen. You glossed over the shelves of stuffed bears and dogs, beyond the trail mix and tees, to the small rack of notebooks in the back corner.

You took a small one and ran your finger over the hide cover. Lined pages and a single ribbon to keep your place. A loop inside the cover with a pen through it. It would be a start. You went to the counter and purchased the overpriced journal. In the scheme of life, what was a few dollars?

You tucked the book into your bag and sipped from your latte carefully. You wove through the lobby of people and stepped onto the packed elevator. The ascent was slow and tense. The bodies lessened with each floor and along with two others, you departed on the top floor.

Your first patient for the day was a press secretary still struggling to make sense of the world after the blip. Along with everything else, the media had changed and so not only her life, but her work had transformed with the dusting. She was slowly regaining her feet and her position in Stark Tower, learning from her former apprentice who had taken her place during those long years.

When she left, quite happily, you sat at your desk and shuffled through your folders. Despite your early successes of the day, you dreaded your next client. Bucky was never easy to decipher and time didn’t help that. Each time you saw him, it only seemed harder to get through to him.

You rose to stretch your legs and filled a carafe with water and set it on the round table beside the couch, two glasses with it. You peered out the window as taxis honked below and the streets glared in the afternoon sunlight. You went back to your desk and sat, a folder open before you but unread. You couldn’t focus. Not lately.

Was it you? Something was off. The order of your life, established after the devastation of that singular day, had dissolved in its undoing. Chaos returned when the world had. The change was so subtle you couldn’t place it. Every room you walked into seemed amiss, disordered and yet nothing was different. All was as it should be. Or looked to be.

A knock came at the door and jolted you. You straightened in your chair and called to the frosted glass. “Come in.” You watched the handle turn, the broad shoulders as they entered, the head of dark hair pulled back lazily, the observant blue eyes as they found you at your desk. “Good afternoon.”

Bucky only grumbled as he closed the door behind him. He stood by it, daring not to come any further. This was how it always began. His reluctance kept him unsettled. He’d hover there by the exit, hoping for his dismissal, then he’d pace, trapped in his cage. Silent, almost unresponsive as your words bounced off his stony veneer.

“Water?” You offered. He followed your gesture to the pitcher and shook his head. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his eyes explored the room. By now, he knew every inch of the place. “Will you sit?”

You waved to the seat across from you and he squinted. He tapped his toe and tore his hands from his jeans. He shrugged and crossed the office to sit where you bid. Not a word. A defiant obedience. He’d sit, he’d act the part, but he wouldn’t give you anything.

“Our session will be short today, but you will have homework,” You began. “Mr. Hogan called me last night. I’ve been sitting here staring at these.” You took the stapled pages from the top of your mess. “Go on.” You urged as you held them out.

He took the paper and read quietly. His thumb went to his mouth but he resisted the urge to chew it. He forced his hand down and tossed the forms back on his desk. “You haven’t signed off.”

“I haven’t.” You confirmed. “But I will. I want you to know why I’m signing them.”

“To get rid of me.” He stated.

“No. Not that. Because you won’t be rid of me,” You assured him. “As it says, I will only approve your return to the field with the mandated sessions still in place.”

“Impossible. I’ll be away. Can’t say for how long. Missions are...unpredictable.”

“So we will schedule around them. This unpredictability is exactly why we need to continue.”

He stared at you. His nostrils flared and he leaned back in the chair, his fingers twined across his stomach as he rested his elbows on the wooden arms. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Well, you haven’t done much of that, have you?” You bent and pulled your bag closer behind the desk. You reached into it and took out the notebook. “So, I don’t want you to talk. I want you to write.”

You set the notebook down before him. He sniffed and his eyes focused on the journal.

“For you, not me. Write whatever you want to. Make a grocery list, write a poem, a story, put your thoughts down, draw a picture. But put something in there.” You explained as you stood and reached across for the pitcher.

You filled a glass and sat down to sip it. He looked up at you. He watched the way your throat contracted as you drank and you placed the glass down before your hand could shake. Something about the way he looked at you was startling.

“You want me to keep a diary?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” You allowed. “It’s all for you. I will never ask what you’ve written in it or any secrets you hide inside of. I’ll only want assurance that you’ve been using it. That’s all. Simple enough?”

He pursed his lips and took the notebook from the desk. He flipped through the untouched pages and sighed. “Will you sign off?” He lifted his gaze to you.

You grabbed a pen and the forms. You flipped to the third page, scribbled across the line and added the date. You slid them back across the desk. “There. Take ‘em to Happy and he’ll get you started.”

He blinked. His hand tightened on the journal as he stared at the papers. “We’re done?”

“For today,” You said and stood. “I suppose you’ll be deployed sooner than later. Don’t forget the notebook. We’ll arrange a session upon your return.”

He tapped his thumb on the notebook and reached for the forms. He stood and held them together in his hands. “And if I don’t return?” You looked at him but didn’t say anything. He nodded and chuckled darkly. “You’re right, I always come back, don’t I?”

“A single line a day is better than nothing.” You told him as you rounded the desk. He followed closely as you neared the door and turned back to him with your hand on the knob. He was nearer than you expected. “Manageable.”

“I’ll be fighting. Killing. Should I write in blood?” He challenged wryly.

You sighed. “If that is what you need to do…”

“I’m kidding.” He shook his head.

“I realize that, Mr. Barnes.”

“Bucky,” He corrected as he did every time you called him by his surname.

“Bucky.” You turned the handle and pulled open the door. You stepped back as you did if only to escape the unyielding warmth radiating from him. The smirk that peeked through was unsettling. The way his eyes followed you like a prey. “Don’t hesitate to stop in on your return. Or any time. My office is always open.”

The smirk broke through entirely and he rubbed his thumb along the notebook as he peered through the door. “Alright, doc.” He turned and stepped into the doorway. He paused and looked back as he raised the papers and journal in half-salute. “Thanks.”

With that, he left you. You closed the door behind him and exhaled. It might’ve been too soon but keeping him pent up and prodding him incessantly was doing him little good. Perhaps a mission would open his eyes. Shake him. Make him realize that five years in the ether had changed him further and exacerbated the untouched issues that had consumed him before. Or maybe, he would get himself killed.

You knew that wouldn’t be the case. He might be reckless and self-loathing but something deep inside had kept him hanging on. He wanted to live, you knew that but he didn’t. And that was the core of his issues.

Bucky

There was an odd rush of nerves as Bucky sat in the jet. It was like the day he’d gotten the letter. The day he was drafted. The day he decided his life was over. And it was. His former life cracked down the middle and it would never be the same again. Dead or alive, it was over.

Sam sat beside him, strapped in, arms crossed, eyes closed as he softly snored. They had hours to go before they landed. Bucky was restless. It wasn’t unusual. He didn’t sleep much since his return. Since Steve had said goodbye. That short, heartless goodbye.

He shifted in his seat and unbuckled the belt. He stood, arms out to keep him from swaying with the motion of the flight. He rounded his chair and went to the luggage bay to fetch his canvas duffel. He unzipped it and the notebook rested atop his gear, as if waiting for him. He took it and sealed up the bag and tossed it back in its place.

He sat but didn’t buckle in. The flight was smooth to this point and he’d survived worse than a little turbulence. He held the notebook closed as he looked up to the cockpit. The windshield cut through the dark clouds. He clenched his jaw as he looked down at the hide cover. Already, his fingerprints were worn into the journal.

He was reluctant to open it that first day but after tossing and turning for a few hours in bed, he turned on a lamp and cracked the spine. He tried to write his life story but couldn’t get past the first line, then he’d tried to recount his friendship with Steve but that made his stomach churn. Then, on the fifth page, he’d started drawing.

It was a poor caricature but to him, it resembled her. The doctor with her stern expressions and her piercing eyes. She always looked at him as if she were reading him. As if she could see right through him. He hated that. He wanted her to close those fucking eyes. To stop looking at him. Stop asking him her stupid questions.

The next page was a schedule. A date marked the top and hours kept track of her movements. Several hours in her office, patients and co-workers dropped in now and then, and occasionally, she ventured out to get a coffee or snack. He followed her home.

He’d been there before that. Several times. He knew about the book on her coffee table, the unwashed mug in her sink, and the toys hidden in her top drawer. He also knew about that folder she had on him. If she was to know everything about him, he only deserved the same. To know every facet of her almost hermit-like existence. Outside of work, she lived a lonely life. Pathetic.

After she’d signed his papers and given him the book, he thought of her more often and so found himself tailing her almost daily. It was a game in his mind. It made him laugh. She was so unaware, so naive. It was so easy for him and she didn’t even have a clue. Didn’t know that he was in the next aisle of the grocery store or just on the other side of her window.

And it made him feel good. Dared to think, though he quickly pushed away the thought, that it gave him a purpose. A focus for the storm inside of him. She was right, he was angry. Time and again, he’d was left to rust like an old shovel. And he was only good for one thing. The monstrosity attached to his left shoulder was his only use.

A degree on her wall couldn’t make her understand that. Couldn’t make her understand him. She could pretend to know but she never would. She didn’t know pain, didn’t know loss, didn’t know the resent that burned in his chest. She didn’t, but he could show her.

The notebook fell open in his hands as he snapped back to the present. To the humming jet and his snoring comrade. He glanced down at the journal in his lap. His poor rendering of her face stared back at him. He felt it again. The nervousness. He clapped the notebook shut and cleared his throat.

He warily looked around. Sam was still out and the pilot distracted by his flight plan. Bucky let the pages flutter open again. He slid his finger along the inside of the cover and pushed the pen from its loop. He turned to a fresh page and ran his hand over the paper. He relished the possibility on the blank surface.

He pressed the top to paper and his hand moved without thought.

Reader

It was two weeks since your last session with Bucky. He was away on a mission; top secret. Intelligence not for the likes of a company therapist. It gave you a much needed break. You barely looked forward to his return, not even certain if he’d check-in willingly. He’d have an excuse now; work, training, briefings, reconnaissance. Another tug-of-war to be had.

You got to the tower, your eyes still heavy with sleep, and yawned on your elevator ride. You didn’t have any appointments that day but paperwork and the recovery program funded by Stark Industries was enough to keep you busy. A quiet day in your office was something to relish.

Your office door was unlocked. Odd. You were meticulous about securing it nightly. Your own issues of paranoia and safety. When you worked at the inner-city youth centre, a lock was your best friend. One night, one lapse, it was nothing. You were tired and the nights weren’t growing any easier.

You only opened the door a few inches before it was pulled the rest of the way. You were stunned to find Bucky on the other side. Speechless. You righted yourself quickly.

“Mr. Barnes.” You greeted him. “You’re back.”

“Doc,” He waited for you to enter. “You said you’re door was always open.”

“Locked when I’m away, I believe,” You stepped inside warily. “Was it not?”

“Picking a lock isn’t so hard,” He assured you. “I got tired of waiting in the hall.”

“How was your mission?” You changed the subject. His tone suggested an urge for confrontation. You wouldn’t feed it. His intrusion in itself was a cry for conflict.

“A mission.” He closed the door. The lock clicked. You didn’t show that you noticed. “The usual.”

“When did you get back?” You went to your desk and set your bag down behind it. You removed your jacket and passed him again to hang it on the rack. His own was on a peg already.

“Just this morning. Before sunrise.”

“And you came here first?”

“No.” His footsteps moved from hardwood to carpet. “Not first.”

You turned and looked around. His notebook was on your desk, beside an open folder. You glanced at him as he watched your eyes flit around the room. He stood just beside the desk.

“Can we talk?” He asked. You were surprised by the question.

“Of course,” You assured him. “Would you like some tea? Coffee? It’s early, I usually--”

“I want to talk,” He insisted. “Will you sit?”

He waved to your green chair. He was only feet away from it, just between it and your desk. He was determined. He had something to say. It seemed like progress.

“Alright,” You crossed the room and sat. You were stiff and straight in the chair.

He didn’t sit himself. He turned and closed the folder. He took it and turned back to you.

“Do you think this is me?” He held it up. “This shit? This list of orders? What they made me do?” He dropped the folder in your lap and it nearly fell to the floor before you could catch it. “None of it is me. My decisions. My actions.”

“I know that,” You assured him as you held the folder steady. “I never said, nor thought, that it was.”

“No, what you said, what you wrote,” He reached over and picked up another sheet. Your writing scrawled across it. “‘Issues of defiance… combative… compensation for loss of control.”

You stared at him. He was visibly angry, his voice was like a razor.

“These are not bad things, merely observations. To help you.”

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” He crumpled the paper up and threw it so it bounced off your chest. “I do have issues...with control.” He retreated and grabbed his notebook from the desk. “I don’t like being controlled but I do like control.”

He neared as he opened the journal and turned it to you. He held it out until you took it. You looked up at him. “I don’t want to read this. It’s yours.”

“Read it.” He growled.

You slowly glanced down and your eyes skimmed the page. A roster of times, places, and activities. Your office number, your address, an account of your route home. Below a full detail of your day. Your heart felt as if it stopped and you gulped as you let the notebook close and lowered it to your lap.

“Just that for now,” He bent and took the book from you, the folder too. “Don’t want you reading too far. That would spoil all my plans.”

He set the folder and journal down on the round table beside your chair. You stood. You felt weak.

“Mr. Barnes, you should go.” You stated. He chuckled.

“Sit down.” He said quietly.

“Mr. Barnes--”

“My name is Bucky.” His voice rose suddenly. “And I said ‘sit down’. Now.”

“Bucky, you need to go or I will be forced to report this--”

“To who? Hmm? If they even believe you, what are they going to do? Fire me? Fine. All the better. I don’t need handlers. And that won’t keep me from you.”

“I could have you arrested.” You didn’t move.

“You can try. What exactly could I be charged with? You think you’ll get out of here with that?” He pointed to the journal and you peered past him to the door. “You think you can even get around me, doc?”

You looked at him again. He gripped your shoulder with his vibranium hand and leaned in.

“So, doc, you gonna sit or did you need some help?”

You relented, though your knees buckled easily without thought. You sat as he released you and backed away. You clasped your hands together and watched him as he neared the couch. He sat with a smirk and stared back at you.

“So, I want to talk about control and my issues,” He began. “Is that good? I’m talking.”

You nodded but couldn’t find your voice. You could barely breathe.

“You know, I was thinking about it. On my mission, ya know?” He spoke easily. Taunting you. “I’d much rather kill a man with my hands than a gun. That’s real control. To rip a life away from someone else with one’s own hands and not some disposable weapon. To see the light fade away because you willed it so.”

You struggled to keep from trembling. He stared you down, challenging you to look away. You kept your eyes on him if only to keep from getting dizzy. Slowly, he let his gaze drift and he sat back as his focus descended.

“Take your blazer off.” He ordered. “Get comfy, doc, we got a lot of talking to do today.”

“Mr--Bucky,” You hissed. “Really, this is--”

“Off.” He snapped his fingers. “Everything.”

You blanched. You pushed your legs together and crossed your arms protectively. “You don’t want to do this. This isn’t...you.”

“You don’t know me, doc, but I know you,” He said. “So go on and let me see what’s hiding under that little costume you wear every day.”

You blinked. He didn’t flinch but you did. You looked to the door.

“Ah,” He warned. “You’re either going to comply or I’ll tear it off myself.”

You lowered your eyes. He’d won. You slid to the edge of the chair and pulled of your blazer. You stood and laid it over the table atop the notebook. You couldn’t face him entirely as you bent to unzip your heeled boots. You set them aside with your socks and straightened to unbutton your blouse. You put it with your blazer and undid your fly. Your pants fell to the floor almost without guidance. You bent to gather them and placed them on the pile. You stood and stared at the floor.

“Everything, doc,” Bucky said. “As cute as those little panties are…”

Eyes down, your head felt like a brick, you trembled just a bit as you reached back to unclasp your bra. It loosened and you let it fall down your arms. You tossed it onto the table without looking. Your fingers clenched the grey cotton and you willed yourself onward.

You should scream. You inhaled but a tut kept your voice within. “You scream and I’ll break your jaw.”

You peeked up at him. He’d sat forward, ready to rise, ready to charge you and snap your neck with a flick of his wrist. You dragged your panties down and stepped out of them. You looked away and dropped them on the table.

“Now you can sit,” His tone lightened. Almost a song. “And we can continue, doc.” He paused. “Wait, you need to take notes or something?”

You shook your head and locked your legs together as you crossed your arms. You forced yourself to look at him. He sank back against the couch with his arms stretched across the back.

“Tell me about the man you killed.” You prompted.

#dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes #fic #au #marvel #dark!fic #mcu #captain america #dark!verse #darkverse

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bestworstcase · 4 years

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I was reading the newest chapter and I think Rapunzel sees Moira as a threat because she's like the only one to challenge her (and not relent) and because she sees her as turning Cassandra away from her.

yeah!

vbhjdfdsf thank you for sending this because a) yes and b) calibrating this was actually one of the two things that made this chapter SUCH a struggle [the other thing was the first scene with cass and moira whew i went through like 10 drafts of that] so it’s good to hear that that all landed the way i wanted it to.

but like

im gonna ramble under a cut rip i hope you like to read

you know the bit in KAQOH where rapunzel is like. [clearly projecting her mixed-up feelings about cass onto her parents] “if the king and queen fall apart, other couples will follow their lead, and soon all of coronan society will crumble. and you know what they say: as goes corona, SO GOES THE WORLD. do you want that to happen, lance? DO YOU?” and then kicks over her easel?

emotionally speaking that’s sorta where rapunzel is in moonless air rn, except more because she is a) only six months and change out of the tower and b) still in the thick of the actual problem vs being miles and miles away and projecting her feelings onto other, smaller problems.

which is to say...

- rapunzel grows up in total isolation and her only human contact until she is eighteen is with a viciously emotionally abusive woman whose sole interest in her was tending to the sundrop. she is trained to be a people-pleasing doormat whose only acceptable feeling is “happy and ready to ask how high when gothel says jump!”

- upon escaping this situation rapunzel had a grand total of, like, three days of being a relatively normal person before she got whiplashed into this position of enormous social power; as a princess whose return is/was considered nothing short of miraculous, she became entirely surrounded by people who adored her without question and were invested to an unusual degree in pleasing her.

she then begins the long process of learning that the way gothel treated her was exceptionally abnormal and cruel, but... what she doesn’t grasp, because how could she when she has no frame of reference, is that her experiences as a princess are equally as abnormal.

meaning... rapunzel learns gradually that it is okay for her to feel what she feels even if she’s discontented/unhappy/upset/mad, which is correct. but because she is a princess she is surrounded by people who are, by and large, just going to cater to her whims unless directed otherwise by her father. this does not equip her to figure out what a normal, equitable interpersonal relationship looks like at all.

this is why she screws up on boundaries so much both in benighted and now in moonless air, but it’s also the reason she is struggling SO MUCH with navigating this delicate sort of detente she has with cassandra now. like, prior to this point the sum total of her experience in interpersonal conflicts are: 1) the spat she and eugene had after his botched proposal [when eugene was clearly in the wrong, and came to her to apologize, which fixed everything], 2) cass blowing up at her after unification day [which came a little bit from rapunzel stomping on her boundaries but mostly from cass wrongly taking out her anger with herself on rapunzel, and which again was fixed by cass coming to rapunzel to apologize], and 3) monty being curt with her at the goodwill festival [not resolved, but also overshadowed by all the chaos that happened immediately after].

so... based on her own life experience, rapunzel effectively only has two models for how interpersonal conflicts go: either 1) the other party is an evil manipulative liar whom rapunzel needs to stand up to [like gothel] or 2) the other party made a mistake and it’s on them to apologize/come talk things out [like eugene and cass in benighted]

and her current issue with cass... for a lot of reasons does not fit into either of those models. and it’s all wrapped up in this OTHER thing where cass is telling her corona sort of sucks and her father did this horrible thing and the people who attacked rapunzel/injured her/brainwashed her have a valid point, actually.

so rapunzel flounders around trying to figure all this stuff out and she is ABSOLUTELY NOT EQUIPPED TO DO THAT because exactly zero of her past experience with navigating conflict has any relevancy to her current situation... and the only person she feels able to turn to for advice is eugene, who is himself totally disconnected from the issue and also, where saporians and the separatists are concerned, emphatically does not know what he’s talking about.

and on top of that, bubbling under the surface is the lingering side effects from sugracha digging into rapunzel’s brain and stirring vigorously, namely: she broke some mental boundaries that rapunzel built for herself and that is allowing certain feelings (such as anger) to bubble up to the surface more easily. [similar to how zhan tiri crawling around in cassandra’s brain knocked a couple early childhood memories loose]

and then!!! to make matters worse!!! rapunzel’s love for cass is the hook sugracha hung all the magical manipulation on. so rapunzel is coming down from the high of this magic-induced obsession with cassandra and that is mixing with her real love for cass in fun new ways which is to say rapunzel is nursing a hell of a crush on cassandra rn, right at a time when she and cass are having a rocky time of it and cass is getting closer to this other woman who is blatantly flirting with cass and goes out of her way to be nasty to rapunzel and seems to have suddenly supplanted rapunzel as cassandra’s best friend. so rapunzel feels very threatened by moira and does not have the experience/emotional intelligence to identify that a lot of that stems from romantic jealousy so she’s trying to find an explanation that makes these feelings “rational” and like, makes sense of her Inexplicable Desire to pry cass away from moira with a crowbar sljkdflkjsdf.

and as if that wasn’t enough rapunzel is now surrounded by people who have zero reason whatsoever to give a damn about her personal baggage and very little incentive to be patient with her while she flails around making a mess because she has no idea what to do... and all of these people like cass, are friends with cass, would take cassandra’s side over rapunzel’s in a heartbeat. so there’s this goodbye and goodwill vibe too where rapunzel is feeling this surge of resentment because she doesn’t. know how to handle not being liked in general.

which all puts rapunzel on this slip-n-slide down the path of least resistance, which is: dig in heels and jam the square peg of the current situation into the round hole of her past experience and try her best to make it fit and then work from there. this creates a) a strong incentive to find a narrative where cassandra is somehow misguided/a victim in all this and b) a likewise strong incentive to view moira as a gothel-like figure, i.e. an enemy to be overcome.

so rapunzel’s brain rn is like [fork in garbage disposal noises] 24/7 and that is why this section of the story is very much her lowest point. she hasn’t quite bottomed out yet but it’s gonna happen in the next like, two or three chapters. and then she’s got a hell of a hole to dig herself out of. she is trying so hard but she is being asked to fly when she has barely learned to crawl so RIP

#bitter snow #this poor girl needs a THERAPIST #ksjkdfjs this is also def the 'i really hope this isn't coming across as character bash-y' section of the story JKLSDFJKLSDJF #because its really not i just really really love goodbye and goodwill and i wish #more had been done with those emotional beats #and it's my city now #so i'm taking those emotional beats and going hog wild >:D #Anonymous

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