#Steves fighting against public perception | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lowkeyorloki · 4 years ago

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lbd

After a fight with Loki, you wear the smallest dress you can to an Avengers press event...

(smut smut smut)

The party was awful.

Stark’s press events often were. It was interesting, how the media had changed over the past eight years. In 2012, you and the rest of the Avengers would only be seen on news stations. Now, it wasn’t out of the ordinary to for your names to be in tabloids next to celebrities like Taylor Swift or Noah Centineo. The team wasn’t just heroes anymore, you were public figures as well.

Hence the formal attire, the flashing cameras, the expensive wine. These events only happened about once a year- they were manageable. Just a pain. Besides, you always had Loki to endure them with.

Except, not tonight. And so, the party was awful, not just boring.

The argument you had with Loki last night carried over into today, and when you were asking him about the event, he gave you no answer. Never in a million years did you think he would ignore during this. The press, the world, had never really forgiven him for New York. He was hated by the general public. It didn’t help it was a well-known fact he was with you: you, the youngest Avenger. You, who had been America’s golden girl until Loki corrupted you.

That was what everyone liked to say. Really, you just got older. And cynical. You couldn’t fight the worst of the worst throughout the universe and remain idealistic.

You and Loki had to stick together for public appearances. The reporters tore you to shreds if you didn’t. And besides that... You didn’t like not being around the god. It was so much better to face things with him. You were together. Even when things were tense, the two of you could always lean on each other. That was the nature of your relationship.

And yet, here you were, halfway through your third glass of champagne, giving Steve a half-hearted smile as he spoke. Every so often, your eyes scanned the large hall, eventually falling on Loki. He avoided your gaze each time.

You wanted to be angry, or bitter. That’s what you felt earlier today when he wouldn’t speak to you. Loki wordlessly dressed in his suit, looked you up and down in your floor length dress, and left your shared room. In a fit of rage, you had dug through your closet for something that would anger him. No, not anger. That wasn’t the right word.

Entice him. Make him protective. Despite your life with him, you were still seen as the innocent Avenger. The normal girl who stumbled into justice. You never wore short or form fitting clothes anywhere there would be cameras. You were modest. That was the role you were pidgeonholed into. Social media, combined with constant interest and exposure, ensured that. In 2020, half of being an Avenger was perception. Every team member was an archetype. Every team member adhered to that. Outwardly, at least.

So when nothing in your closet would accomplish what you wanted, you raided Natasha’s. She helped you pick out something no one would expect you to wear: A silky black body con dress. When you tried it on, it barely came halfway down your thighs. There was little left to the imagination, considering its length and low neckline.

You paired it with heels, and painted your nails Loki’s shade of green. Natasha gathered your hair into a messy bun, leaving your neck exposed. Even Wanda joined in, brushing sparkles over your collarbone. You looked unlike you ever had before.

Honestly, you looked like Natasha did on a daily basis. That brought you some amount of comfort, knowing you wouldn’t be sticking out. But it went without saying you didn’t look like yourself, and no one had ever seen you like this. The press would have a field day.

But it wasn’t them you cared about. The only person you were thinking about was Loki.

And he didn’t even do a double take. When you first walked into the room, his eyes rested on you just a second. Then he turned away.

So you didn’t find yourself angry like you were just a few hours before this. When Loki ignored you, you only felt... Sad. Empty, almost. You had been upset with each other for less than a full day, but you missed him. If there was no animosity between you two, Loki’s hand would be on the small of your back right now, and he would be whispering into your ear. Sharing jokes about everyone at the party, wrapped up in each other.

You fought so little. It was something you weren’t used to.

“Hey.” Steve sticks an elbow into your ribs, pulling you from your thoughts. Next to him, Bucky wears a worried expression. “You okay?”

You sigh. Tipping your head back, you drain the rest of your drink and then nod.

“I’m fine, Steve.” he looks uncertain. “I mean it. I can last one night without him. Just because I’m in a relationship doesn’t mean I’m any less independent.”

“I believe that.” Steve agrees.

“You only believe her because that’s how you are.” Bucky grins at Steve, leaning over to steal a quick kiss from Captain America. Steve smiles, just barely, and holds Bucky’s hand in his own after the dark-haired man pulls back. Your eyes flicker away, but a genuine smile grows on your lips. You love to see your friends happy. They deserve it, your whole team does.

It’s moments like these, when Steve is focused on Bucky and you on Loki, you remember you and Steve used to date. It seems like a completely different time, but it wasn’t even ten years ago.

You were with Steve when Loki attacked New York.

“I’m going for a refill.” you state. Both men look uncertain. You pay it no mind. “Do either of you want anything?”

They shake their heads in response, so you make your way over to the bar. There’s no one there, not even the bartender, which bothers you at first. Then you realize it’s exactly what you need. Just a few minutes alone to clear your head. The bar is in same room as everyone else, so classical music and conversation are all around you. Still, you manage to find solace.

It’s quickly interrupted.

“Hello, darling.”

Loki.

His breath tickles the back of your neck as he speaks. As soon as you’re aware of his presence, his smell envelops you. You shiver, noticing how close he must be to you.

You don’t turn around.

“Hi Loki.” you greet him back, eyes forward. You voice almost shakes, and you exhale, willing yourself to keep cool. Loki was always so calm and collected, something he used as a weapon. Clearly, even against you.

Loki hums, and his fingers softly begin to dance over your bare shoulder.

“You look different,” he states. “With those shoes, you almost reach my height. But darling, you have never looked so small.” Loki’s voice drops on that last word, and a wave of heat flashes through your body. You set your glass down on the counter next to you, worried whatever Loki does next will cause you to drop it.

“Funny.” you say. “I don’t feel small.” You know Loki, know what the word small is code for. “Or weak.”

Loki tuts, and his large hands slide from your shoulders to your hips. Your dress is so short that his pinkies lay on your bare skin.

“No, I suppose you don’t.” Loki leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he talks. You can’t help it, you tremble, your surroundings beginning to fade away as you focus on the god. “I bet you felt quite powerful, teasing me in this dress. Talking to Steve Rogers.” Suddenly, Loki pulls you into him, and you gasp. His length presses completely against your ass, and you are barely able to bite back a moan.

This is harder than you’ve ever felt him. Your breathing becomes hitched, but Loki’s strong grip keeps you glued to him. His fingers dig into your hips, and you’re sure there will be bruises tomorrow.

“Did you think,” Loki rolls his hips against you, causing a mewl to escape your lips. “...that I would forget your past with Rogers? That it had just, slipped my mind that he is the only man you have ever laid with besides myself?” Loki’s lips connect with the crook of your neck, pressing wet kisses there that are anything but gentle. “Or was that the point? To make me jealous?” Loki’s next words shake you the most. “Can you even count the amount of times I have been inside you?”

Just like that, his hands relax, and you begin to catch your breath.

“Smile.” Loki points, and you notice the groups of reporters making their way to you, cameras flashing. Loki pivots, turning both of you so you face the them. He drops one hand to his side, but the other snakes around your waist. It won’t be obvious in the photos, but his fingers are dangerously close to your heat, filling you to the brim with want.

Just as you manage to get yourself under control, the cameras begin flashing. You force a smile, and when you look at Loki, he’s staring straight ahead, expressionless.

You hated getting photos taken, knowing the headlines they would be paired with. But Loki hates it even more. You were always the victim in the media’s eyes, but Loki had never outgrown the villain. He worked so hard to be good, so hard to change. And for what? No one believed him, save for you and his brother.

Your heart grows heavy, and despite the fight, despite the teasing that left you melting in his arms, you want Loki to know you appreciate him.

You tug on the front of his suit jacket, capturing his attention. Loki looks down at you, confusion in his eyes. You reach forward, placing your hand on the back of his neck and tugging him down so his lips met yours.

It was filthy, the way he kissed you in front of the press. Loki once again pulled you to him, your chests pressed together. He laid his hand on your back, and thank god he did, because it kept you grounded. Your teeth clacked together more than once, and Loki gave you no opportunity to gather yourself before he sucked on your bottom lip. Your were eyes closed, but you still heard as the reporters went wild, cameras snapping as they each tried to get the juiciest shot.

Loki was the one who ended the kiss, tugging away from you. He took your hand in his, waving with the other. In the crowd, you could see Steve standing in shock, arm around Bucky’s waist. Stark was next to them, looking furious.

Loki makes eye contact with you before he briskly walks away, tugging you with him. You have no time to ask where it is he’s taking you before you somehow slip into the kitchen unnoticed.

The kitchen staff stops, and you realize what this must look like to them. Loki, with a hungry look in his eyes, and you, swollen lips and practically half-naked. Jesus, was this where you thought the night was going?

“Get out.” Loki addresses the staff. They share glances, unsure of whether to listen. Loki sighs. “We are two hours into a four hour party. No one ever comes for food, they just want to drink. You are no longer needed. Now, get,” Loki’s irises flash green. “...out.”

They listen then, rushing out of the doors and through the backroom that will lead them from the building. The locks on each door click shut, surely a result of Loki’s magic.

“You.” you squirm under the god’s harsh gaze. “Are a very. Stupid. Girl.” with each step Loki takes forward, you take one backwards, until your back is against the tiled wall. Your heart begins beating fast. You look to Loki’s pants, taking in the tent. Your heart rate accelerates even more.

He places his hands on the wall, one on either side of your face, trapping you with him. Wordlessly, Loki begins sucking on your collarbone, his lips moving down your breasts until they hit the neckline on your dress. Your eyes roll back, and you grip Loki’s hair tight. He rams his knee in between your thighs, and you cry out.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he rolls his hips, and now that you’re alone, you can feel and experience it to the fullest expense. Your mouth falls open as Loki presses his clothed length against your clothed sex, moaning and letting out a string of curses. “Look at me, darling.” You listen, obeying Loki as he removes his knee.

Loki makes full eye contact as he takes your left breast in his hands, kneading and massaging you as he gauges your reactions. You begin panting, and soon enough, Loki grabs the front of your dress with both hands and rips it, exposing your bare breasts.

You hiss at the sudden cold, but it doesn’t last long as Loki sucks on your nipple, running his calloused thumb other the other. Loki swirls his tongue, and you whimper, arching your back. As the sensation builds inside you, Loki takes a steps back, drinking in the sight of you.

“The media won’t soon forget this. Until now, the worst they had caught us doing was holding hands.” he growls. His lips are redder than usual, and his hair was messy because of your fingers in it. “I can imagine the scolding from Stark.”

“Who cares about Stark? You just ruined Natasha’s dress.” you say, your voice strained. His absence is noticeable, and your body aches for Loki’s touch. He raises an eyebrow.

“Sweet girl, whose fault is that? None of this would ever have happened if you simply dressed appropriately.” the hair on your arms stands up. Loki hums. “I think you should make it up to me. You got us into this mess, did you not?” Loki smirks.

The feeling in your stomach builds up again, lust taking over you. You take off you heels, and sink to your knees. Loki’s pupils dilate as you move closer to him.

You unbuckle his belt, sliding it off and discarding it on the floor next to you. Slowly, you unbutton Loki’s dress pants, your fingers catching on the tip of his underwear as you do.

You want to draw this out, to tease Loki as he teased you. But when you see his hard length, and the damp spot on the cloth holding it, you can’t bring yourself to. Loki is a god, much stronger and faster than you. When you turn to dust, Loki will be as young and full of life as he is now.

But his needs are the same as any other man’s. You’re determined to fulfill them.

You brush your mouth over him, causing Loki’s eyes to close momentarily. When they do, you waste no time exposing him. Loki fingers run through your hair immediately, grasping tightly. You can hear his breathing become just a bit irregular.

You keep your eyes on Loki’s as you lick him, from shaft to head. You lap at the precum there, then slowly take him into your mouth.

Loki lets out a sigh, his lips parting, and you rub circles onto his hipbones with your thumbs. You bring your arms against your chest, pushing your bare breasts up to make them appear bigger. You want to give Loki the best view possible.

It must have worked, because Loki’s hips buck forward. The tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, and you almost gag. Instead, you moan around him. setting a slow pace. Every so often, you flick your tongue across his head, and Loki tugs on your hair when you do.

Loki quivers, and he’s thrown his head back now. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth open, and he looks so pleased. Pride washes over you at the thought of you making him feel this way.

You bring your hand up, taking the parts of Loki that your mouth just can’t reach. With the added freedom, you circle his tip, switching up the pressure and surrounding him with your warmth. Carefully, you cup his balls, making sure every part of him is paid attention to.

Loki groaned as you fucked him with your mouth, cheeks hallowed. He begins panting, holding your head even tighter. His shirt has ridden up over his navel, and the sight nearly drives you crazy.

“I’m going to-” you don’t let him finish, picking up the pace until Loki jerks forward, spilling his seed with a curse.

There’s so much, some dribbles out the corners of your mouth before you can swallow it all. Your chests warms at the idea of part of Loki being inside you. You’ve barely leaned back to catch your breath before he’s pulled you up and into a kiss, groaning as he tastes himself on you. Your body becomes slack, relying entirely on Loki’s for support.

“You’re insatiable.” he says into your mouth. He picks you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. Loki carries you to a nearby counter and sets you atop it.

Your dress is hiked up to your hips now, leaving you covered in just a g-string. As Loki begins to take it off, you stop him.

“Wait.” you say. He stops, giving you a surprisingly soft look. “I just...” you splay your hands across Loki’s strong chest. “I want to see you too.” your voice is quiet.

Loki places his hands over yours as you unbutton his shirt. You slide it down his shoulders, then trace his collarbones and curve of his abs. Under the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, Loki looks even more pale than usual, the sharp contours of his body illuminated and exposed.

You never grow bored of the sight of him.

Now fittingly bare, Loki’s fingers travel up your thigh and stop at your sex. Similar to you, his gives you a few strokes over your thong before he rids you of it in one fluid motion. He angles himself to you, his tip teasing your entrance as he smirks at your noises.

He enters you all at once. You bite down on his shoulder, nails raking down his back. You hold tight to Loki as he sinks into you, moving in a slow and almost tantalizing way. There’s sweat on both of your bodies, and despite your exposed state, you feel yourself heat up.

Loki’s rhythm increases as you adjust to him. His hips move back and forth, and your bodies move in tandem, made for each other. You coo into Loki’s ears, moaning about how good he felt. How breathless he made you, how only he knew how to make you feel this way. No one knew your body like Loki.

The coil inside you finally snaps as Loki hits a pleasure spot deep inside you, and you let out a cry into his shoulder. Loki cums not long after, his body going tense as he rides out the wave of pleasure.

He holds you, rubbing your back as the aftershock rocks through your body. You shake, exhausted and satisfied as you close your eyes for a moment of rest.

Eventually, Loki sets you back down on the floor. He tugs your dress down over your legs, and tucks stray pieces of hair behind your ears. You watch him wordlessly, allowing him to take of you.

After Loki is dressed himself, he gives you the jacket of his suit to wear.

“Oh.” you look down, remembering he ripped your dress. You slip the jacket on, buttoning it to protect the little modesty you have left.

He takes your hand, leading you to the door and back into the party. Before he does, you stop.

“I’m sorry about our fight.” you say. Loki lets out a chuckle, making you feel silly.

“Oh, sweet girl. After a tryst like this, I can assure you all is forgiven.”

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firebrands · 4 years ago

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the square root of infinity | stevetony

2.7k, established relationship, first fight angst | on ao3 | for @maguna-stxrk

***

Tony finds out with his hands deep in JARVIS’ code. Former-JARVIS, actual-JARVIS, he hasn’t really decided on what to refer to the mess of numbers of letters that formed his former AI, and now, well—Vision, too. It’s all a mess, really, and Tony wanted something simple to do with his hands, minimal focus, low-risk.

He should have known better, really. Nothing about him, his work, his life, has ever been low-risk.

It’s a command from Steve with a privacy protocol. Search, identify, and surveil Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, also known as The Winter Soldier. Missing, found, and missing again as of six months ago. Tony frowns at the monitor. He knows he hasn’t read it wrong, but can’t believe it; he reads it again.

Somehow, in the span of time of Steve coming back from Washington, of them settling in together, he’d done this. He’d asked JARVIS to do this for him, and keep it from Tony.

Tony leans back against his chair. “FRI,” he says.

His new AI chirps to life. “Boss?”

“Gimme everything JARVIS found on this.”

“It’s on your phone now, boss.” In front of him, a hologram materializes as well, displaying hundreds of photos, grainy and filtered, and copies of reports on sightings. Tony stands up, takes a step back and frowns some more. He opens his mouth a few times, borne of his need to verbalize even without anyone listening; he’s angry. He’s more shocked than angry, but the anger is there, low and simmering.

Beneath it, though, is a grain of doubt: Why? Why did he keep it hidden? Especially now—after all the truth came spilling out of them, crystallizing into something Tony held dear. And after all Steve had said, about keeping secrets, about trust. He briefly considers asking FRIDAY to print it all out, just so he can throw the sheaf of paper in front of Steve and demand: what the fuck, but he’s better now, more mature. Or so he likes to tell himself.

So instead, he walks to the penthouse and finds Steve reading.

Tony clears his throat.

Steve looks up. “Hey,” he says, setting his book down. “You done working?”

Tony smiles, pained and tight. “So,” he says, sitting at the foot of the bed. “Bucky.”

Steve’s eyebrows meet, looking concerned. “What about him?”

Tony shuts his eyes and counts backward from five. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Steve inches closer to him and rests his hand on Tony’s knee. Tony doesn’t open his eyes.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Steve says very quietly.

Tony’s eyes fly open, the anger now boiling over. “Oh is that it?” He asks sarcastically. “So you decided to use JARVIS—without my permission, to look for him?”

Steve’s mouth works, and he looks genuinely shocked. “You said I could talk to JARVIS.”

“That’s not the point!” He pushes Steve’s hand off him and stands. “Why would you keep that a secret?”

“I—I didn’t,” Steve says haltingly. “I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to know if JARVIS could find him, but I knew it was almost impossible anyway, so there was no real point—”

“If there was no point,” Tony says, voice lowering, “then why’d you do it?”

“Tony,” Steve stands now, too, tries to reach out and touch Tony’s elbow, to disentangle Tony’s arms that have crossed over his chest on their own volition. “He’s my best friend. I’m worried about him. I just thought it was something I should do myself.”

Tony nods, not really listening. His head is swimming with what he thinks could be actual reasons why Steve had kept this from him. A tangled mess of fear and insecurity, then shock at his ability to be aware of it. Is this maturity? He doesn’t like it much. Better if it stayed Steve’s fault—and it is Steve’s fault, it is. But maybe Tony doesn’t need to work himself up like this. But then again, Tony’s already worked up. “Stop,” Tony grinds out.

So Steve stops, a foot away from Tony, looking more scared than Tony’s ever seen him.

“I’m going to go.”

“Don’t.”

Tony looks up at Steve. He hadn’t even realized he’d looked away. Steve takes a deep breath, closes the space between them, and takes Tony’s hands in his.

Tony sighs.

Steve threads their fingers together, squeezes Tony’s palms. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want to say more than one syllable, maybe?”

A joke? Now? Tony feels his frown deepen.

“No.”

“Is this a fight?”

Tony looks up at him. “A fight means you don’t think you should be sorry.”

“Now, hold on a second,” Steve says, a small frown beginning to form on his face. Barely perceptible, if you didn’t know the signs. “I already explained why—”

“And that’s supposed to make it okay?”

“Where is this coming from?” Steve asks, letting go of Tony’s hands, which means he’s mad too, which drives Tony insane.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“There’s no need to raise your tone—”

“Don’t fucking use your de-escalation tactics on me.” Tony hisses, turns on his heel, and walks out the door. He gives himself the satisfaction of slamming it shut.

***

The next few days are filled with small acts of penitence: a cup of coffee on the bedside table when Tony wakes, a sandwich in the workshop, a completed report for a day-old mishap. It’s on Thursday that Tony’s heart finally softens. Over nothing, really, just a small doodle on his desk. He realizes, in that moment, that of all his achievements, perhaps learning to understand Steve Rogers should rank highest. Right up there with being understood by him, too.

Tony’s lying in bed, reading a report on his tablet, when Steve peeks in.

“Hey.” He sounds tentative.

Tony sighs, sets his tablet aside, and takes off his glasses. “Well, come in.”

Steve’s barely able to hide his grin, and nearly bowls Tony over when he hugs him. “Hi,” Steve says, burying his nose against Tony’s neck.

“Hello to you too, you overgrown labrador,” Tony laughs, pushing Steve away a little lest he be crushed under all combined weight of supersoldier and three bowls of pasta that Clint prepared for dinner.

“I missed you,” Steve says, hugging Tony closer to him. He looks up at Tony, resting his chin right on Tony’s sternum. “Was that our first fight?”

Tony snorts. “Unlikely to be our last,” he says.

“Hey,” Steve chides, leaning up and brushing Tony’s nose with his. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. Anyway,” Tony leans closer, brushes their lips together. “Make it up to me.”

Steve arches an eyebrow.

“Don’t start,” Tony warns.

Steve huffs out a laugh, tips them over until they’re lying down, and makes it up to him.

***

As a man of science, it behooves Tony to conduct experiments and to test hypotheses.

First, identify the problem.

Second, conduct research.

Third, develop a hypothesis: follow if / then structure.

Fourth, test through experiments: ensure factors are varied one at a time.

Fifth and final, draw a conclusion.

Tony’s tapping the tip of a screwdriver against his bottom lip as he thinks, and then two strong arms wrap around his waist and just like that, the problem has identified itself.

(One frustrating blind spot in Tony’s life: relationships. Which isn’t to say he hasn’t tried to make sense of them, sped read through self-help books and trawled through Reddit. Unlike everything else, research pales in comparison to experience, and there’s only so much he can do to make sure this one precious thing in his life is perfect.)

“Busy?” Steve presses a small kiss on the back of Tony’s neck. Tony can barely suppress a shiver.

He wants to say, I was, until you showed up. It doesn’t just apply to this moment. That fact shouldn’t hurt.

Instead, Tony says: “Yeah, kinda.”

“Okay,” Steve says easily, pulling away. He comes back to press a quick kiss to Tony’s cheek. “See you later?”

“Yup,” Tony says, and okay. Maybe he needs to spend a day or two really figuring out who the problem is, here. (It’s him. He knows this. He’s always the problem.)

Two days later, Tony settles on having to review related literature. In this case, this means sitting alone in the workshop as he relives every moment when Steve was distracted. Was that a sign? In a brief moment of clarity, Tony asks: “Fri, am I crazy?”

“Signs point to no, boss. But I can pull up recent results on the search engines?”

“I’d rather not hear what the general public thinks, thanks,” Tony says, sighing. He rests his face in his hands. It’s not like he meant to think of this—what is wrong with his brain, that the intrusive thoughts come in the form of the few moments he’d asked Steve what was on his mind, only to be brushed off?

What did that mean?

Did it matter?

Step three: if that was a sign, then there was a problem.

If that wasn’t a sign, then there wasn’t a problem.

If Tony didn’t figure this out, then there would definitely be a problem.

This isn’t how a hypothesis is meant to sound. Tony’s a terrible scientist.

“Fri, call Bruce.”

“Tony?” Bruce’s voice is rough. He sounds annoyed.

“Hey, seven PhDs, how do I form a proper hypothesis?”

“Fuck you, Stark.” The line clicks off.

Tony turns his wrist, checks his watch. Three AM? Figures.

He stretches out his back. “Friday,” he says, standing up. “The search functions for Barnes.”

“On it, boss.”

“Atta girl.”

***

Try as Tony might—and he’s trying, which in itself feels like a failure, because Tony stark does or does not and there is no need to attempt—he feels like something has shifted between them, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Maybe he’s just making it all up in his head. That’s the easy solution, isn’t it? And that’s usually the answer: start with the easiest answer and work your way up. He can already see Natasha rolling her eyes at him. Maybe the solution is to stop treating your relationship like it’s quantum theory.

Steve’s hand is on his lower back, steering him inside a restaurant. He thinks only of what Steve said, all those weeks ago: I had to do it myself.

Tony wants to argue, right this moment. But how can he? It’s awful that they can be so alike. The only reason he keeps his mouth shut is because he knows that Tony’s used that argument before. Maybe this is growth, to know when to back down from a fight. Or to avoid one totally.

Steve reaches over the table, brushes his fingers over Tony’s wrist. “You okay?”

There are a lot of answers to that. Tony settles on the truth. “Not really.”

Steve’s brow creases with worry. “What’s wrong?”

Again: an infinite multiverse of answers to answer a question that simple. With this, Tony does struggle for a moment, and the next words are much harder to say—they almost feel caught in his throat, like a lump of meat. “I don’t know.”

“You can tell me anything, you know,” Steve says gently. So gentle, it almost breaks him; Tony doesn’t deserve this. Steve doesn’t deserve this.

“I know,” Tony says, and this is him lying through his teeth, and this is what he’s good at, and maybe this is why he’ll never know how relationships are. It’s a trust issue, probably. He doesn’t know if the issue is with Steve, or with himself. “Don’t worry about it.”

Tony tries harder, now: smiles more, eats with gusto. He knocks Steve’s thigh with his knee, looks up at him from under his lashes. This is what life is like for Tony Stark: it’s acting. He knows the approximations to get his point across. As their evening goes on, the small wrinkle on Steve’s forehead smooths out, and maybe Tony wishes he wasn’t so good at pretending.

Maybe he wishes that Steve read him better.

***

The moment of epiphany is often described as transcendental.

This one hits like a ton of bricks—literally, because Tony does know what that feels like, and the suit is shock proof, sure, but that shit still fucking hurts, and even in moments of epiphany, somehow he still manages to go off on a tangent. The point remains: Steve’s hand is on his hip, and they’re in bed, and epiphanies usually equate clarity, peace.

Tony freezes up.

“Tony?” Steve murmurs, sliding his hand up Tony’s side.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, sitting up. “I know I’m being difficult.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Steve sits up beside him, rests his hand on Tony’s shoulder, and turns Tony to look at him. “Who said you were being difficult?”

“Me, I’m saying it,” Tony says. Panic is beginning to bubble in his belly, slowly rising up his throat. Typical of him to mistake a eureka moment with a panic attack. Par for the fucking course for Tony Stark. “I’m being difficult right now.”

“No you’re not,” Steve says, rubbing up and down his arms. “Tony. Look at me.”

Tony breathes out through his mouth, then in through his nose. Steve tips his chin up and meets his gaze.

“Here are the variables,” Tony breathes out, is afraid of what he’ll say next, his brain is fogged over and full of static. “I love you, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

Steve takes a deep breath, takes Tony’s face in his hands. “Here’s a constant,” he whispers, breath warm on Tony’s cheek. “I love you. I love you. You, Tony Stark. I love you.” He kisses Tony, hard and close lipped, more aggressive reminder than affection.

“Okay,” Tony says, because there’s a wild part of him that still thinks—there was a problem, there was a problem and if this is love, then what comes next? If this is constant, then what variable will arrive to change all of that?

Steve kisses Tony again, almost desperate, this time. “Is this about Bucky?” Tony sucks in a breath at the question, horrified at being discovered. Steve hums, then he runs one hand down Tony’s back, up his arm, down his side. A reminder of his presence. Tony is suddenly grateful for it.

“And if it is?” he murmurs.

“Tony,” and somehow, Steve sounds fond, which throws a wrench in this whole debacle, and deep in the recesses of Tony’s brain, rationality begins to take root. “He’s my best friend. You’re the love of my life.”

Tony breathes.

“Did you hear me? You. You’re the love of my life. Please don’t make me compare,” Steve huffs out a small laugh, and it warms Tony all over, like sunshine peeking through the clouds after a strong rain. “And maybe you don’t believe me just yet,” Steve touches their foreheads together, then rubs his nose against Tony’s, the affection plain and chaste. It makes Tony feel more loved than he’s ever felt in his life—not that there were many moments to compare against, but still.

“I feel a little crazy,” Tony says, finding it in himself to smile up at Steve.

“A little crazy in love?” Steve asks, grinning.

“I can’t believe you just made a Beyonce reference. In the middle of my panic attack.”

Steve bites his bottom lip, a poor attempt at stopping himself from laughing. Tony flicks his forehead. “Say it again,” Tony says, and his smile still feels a little wobbly, but it’s a step.

“Crazy in Love?” Steve asks, pulling Tony close and wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist.

It’s an odd angle, and eventually Steve shifts to lift Tony up onto his lap. “Ass,” Tony says. “You know what I meant.”

Steve smiles again, right before pressing a kiss to Tony’s shoulder. “Step one,” he says. “The problem is you’re afraid I don’t love you. Step two: find out how to show you that I do.” He pauses, and Tony feels breathless as he presses another kiss to Tony’s bare skin. “Step three. Hypothesis? If I show Tony I love him all the time, then eventually he’ll believe me.”

“Sounds like a shaky hypothesis,” Tony says, but his voice quivers a little as he says it. He can’t explain how he feels, other than warm in Steve’s embrace.

Steve tuts. “Step four, experimentation. Small gestures, date nights.” Steve rubs Tony’s back as he speaks, and stops to tilt Tony’s head up to face him. “Am I getting this right?”

Tony smiles. “I don’t know, what’s the conclusion?”

Steve wraps his arms around Tony’s waist once more. “You’re here. I’m here. I love you.” He leans up, brushes their lips together. “Is that enough?”

#stony #steve rogers #tony stark #stevetony #(well hello) (sometimes you just want to write something warm and familiar. i thought i'd forgotten how.)#things i write

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mediocre--writing · 4 years ago

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i know we always talk about billy easily submitting to his dad but imagine this:

neil is charismatic, that must be where billy gets it, because he has the whole town fooled. nobody sees the demonic beast hiding under human flesh.

neil knows all the neighbors by name. he treats the custodian as he treats his boss. he offers help to old ladies with groceries and helps them cross the street.

people wonder why billy seems to glare at his father and disobey him so often; for how good a man neil is, it’s astonishing how resentful billy is of him.

billy will snark back in public, blatantly roll his eyes, flip him the bird when he’s not looking (and leave it up long enough for him to see when he turns).

the party thinks he’s an asshole who hates everyone. steve can’t believe the amount of disrespect he gives his dad. nancy and jonathan are floored at the vulgar words he speaks about him with, how he talks about him to his face.

max is more sympathetic than ever. how neil is so well known and widely liked by the people of hawkins and how nobody would ever even begin to believe a word of the truth billy could tell.

it’s almost like there’s nothing to be done. because as awful as neil is, there’s some days when billy won’t shut his mouth. and it gets him into trouble.

he’s spiteful and vindictive and vulgar when they shout at each other, but once billy is shoved against the wall, it’s a 50/50 chance he’s gonna fight back.

some days he can’t be bothered. is sick and tired of his own life, he lets the one ‘warning’ hit be enough.

other days he shoves back. he always gets shoved harder after. he’ll rile neil up to the point of maximum damage, but it’s so easy to get him angry it’s almost funny.

billy wishes, every time he gets hit, that some random townsperson would just walk into their living room. or kitchen. or billy’s bedroom. or, on one occasion, their back yard.

nobody sees billy hargrove: victim of abuse. they see billy hargrove: hates the nicest man in town. it’s ridiculous and billy can’t stand it.

he’s almost 18 now. he’s sick of hawkins and ready to leave and go anywhere but where his dad is.

but he wants one last joyride on the anger express. maybe ruin a reputation in the process.

so he acts out one day, while they’re walking down the sidewalk from a store max and susan had wanted to look at before grocery shopping.

billy knows how to get under neil’s skin. it’s one of the things he prides himself in knowing well.

he makes an off handed comment about how shitty it is that he’s being dragged into family outings. “we aren’t even a family,” he’ll say.

neil will give him a look. one that says he’s gonna get it when they’re home. where nobody can see who neil really is.

then billy brings up his mother, how she was so much better than neil could ever be. “she made the right decision to leave you,” he snickers as he watches neil’s fists clench.

a myriad of comments follow. ones about how neil is gonna lose another wife. ones about how he still can’t get billy into place. ones about how awful it must be to enjoy hating children.

there’s one more thing that he’s depending on to be the final fuse to make neil explode, right in broad daylight. bringing in the one thing neil hates most in life: “it’s too bad you’ve got a faggot for a son, huh?” billy says, just loud enough to be almost heard by the old lady walking a few steps in front of them.

when neil’s mustache curls into a pained grimace, billy knows he’s won. knows that he’s got the upper hand of the situation, even if he’s gonna get hit for it.

knows, right when the name “william,” comes out, threatening as ever, that he has won.

so he adds fuel to the fire. “do you think red or pink lipstick would look better with my complexion?” just to see the extra line that forms above neil’s eyebrows.

neil stops walking. turns to look at billy. they’re still in the middle of the sidewalk, max and susan a few feet away, stopped as well. max looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.

“well, you know, when i become a drag queen, i’ll have to look good, right?” billy asks his father, and it’s like he’s lost control over his own mouth. “so what’ll it be, dad? pink or red?”

and maybe the alarm bells and flashing red lights in billy’s head should have stopped him from talking. maybe he should have let this grocery trip be about getting weekly groceries.

but something about how he could see his fathers breathing speed up and his face turn so pink it’s almost purple, it’s fun.

with the added addition of seeing some of max’s little friends leaving the theatre at that moment.

right when the boys notice max, neil lunges for billy.

the old lady that had been steps in front of them has turned to see what the thud behind her was, only to see neil holding billy by his collar and his neck, shoved against a brick wall, billy’s toes barely touching the floor.

for being in such a compromising position, billy shouldn’t look as smug as he does when the old lady drops her purse with a gasp or when he sees max’s friends’ faces contort with fear. or when he sees harrington exit the movie theatre as well.

it happens quickly, the fight. billy thinks his brain went black and acted on instinct, he doesn’t remember a thing.

but the bystanders see it all. how close neil leans in to sneer something in billy’s face. how billy laughs, then lifts a knee to hit neil where it hurts.

how he stumbles enough for billy to get on his own two feet.

there’s a quick moment where neither moves, then neil rams into billy, but billy keeps his balance well, planted feet and all, and shoved neil back.

within the next minute, they’re both on the floor and alternating who’s got the upper hand. they’re decently matched as opponents, but neil has the upper hand. he’s taken billy down so many times he knows just how to bring him down physically, like how billy can destroy neil with words.

max and susan are backed up another few yards, susan holding max behind her, but not saying a thing. both are too shocked. this has never happened in public.

the party are watching from across the road, and steve feels like he should do something, because neil just slammed billys head into the cement. and he can’t really tell from how far they are, but billy’s nose is sure to be broken.

“call hopper,” steve instructs the party as he moves to walk across the street.

dustin grabs his arm before he can move far. “billy beat you once before, and now there’s like two of him, steve!”

steve walks over anyway. billy had been straddling neil prior, pushing a finger into his shoulder, before being slammed back to the ground.

there’s many different slurs being spewed from neil’s mouth, many of which change steve’s perception of billy entirely, but that’s not important now.

steve gets to where susan and max are when neil gets a grip on billy’s dangly dagger earring and pulls until it rips out of billy’s ear.

susan is staring, horrified at the scene, and max has shoved her face into the pink cardigan her mother wore, peeking out every moment or so.

when she spots steve, she doesn’t feel relived like she hoped she might, she just feels worse. more people don’t need to be involved.

“max, the party’s over there if you wanna...” steve suggests, motioning over his shoulder where the boys are crowded around a pay phone.

max pulls susan along with her across the road, glancing back at steve, who doesn’t seem to know what to do either.

what is he supposed to do? it’s not like dustin was wrong, steve’s never won a fight on his own.

luckily, right as he sees neil stand up and literally stomp as hard as he could on billy’s elbow, backwards, he hears a siren.

sees hopper’s cruiser pull around the corner and feels like a weight is both equally being lifted off his chest and being pushed down heavier.

neil is standing above billy, a few scrapes and forming bruises, ruffled clothes and a tear in the polo he was wearing, but nothing more damaged than his ego.

billy, on the other hand, is laying face down on the concrete, elbow bending in a way that is not natural and half his face covered in blood from both his nose and his ear.

neil looks only mildly frightened by hoppers appearance, and something about it rests uneasy with steve.

steve feels like he’s having an out of body experience as things happen. like he’s only there to observe, which he kinda is, but it’s hazy.

susan comes back, along with the boys following a shaken up max.

another cop, steve thinks it’s callahan, tries to wake billy up, because at some point neil had rendered him unconscious.

neil looks calm while this happens. he has an almost proud air about him as he watches a man try to wake up his son that he’d beaten so bad, he’d passed out.

it makes steve sick.

it also makes steve wonder if this were a semi common occurrence.

billy is driven to the hospital, mostly because his nose is crooked, his ear is still bleeding, and his elbow is most definitely facing the wrong direction, but they also think he may have cracked a rib or two.

neil is driven off in a cop car, callahan’s, while hopper stays to take stories.

it’s news to steve when susan and max share that this has happened multiple times, just never to such a detrimental state.

max recalls the first time that she’d met billy, he’d been wearing a cast on his arm and refused to tell her how he broke it.

steve sees billy in his head. sees the bruises on billy’s back when they’d play shirts and skins and how he’d chalked it up to a childish fight or a fun night with a girl.

sees how billy would favor his left leg for two weeks during basketball, and only wear sweats, but steve had noticed bruising around his right ankle when he’d change his shoes.

sees how billy seems to have insanely good intuition to when people are behind him or when he’s in a crowded place, always on the lookout.

sees, not justification, but a reason behind the way billy acts.

steve can’t imagine, even if his dad was like neil hargrove, having enough nerve to hit him back. even speak rudely towards him.

he recalls all the times he’d seen billy talk shit about his dad or snark at him in public. now he sees them as acts of bravery and defiance from an abuser rather than impolite and hateful towards a parent.

billy’s been fighting this whole time. and he’s been on the right side of the fight.

#stranger things #billy hargrove #neil hargrove #steve harrington #kinda but not really harringrove but imma tag it anyway #harringrove #mw harringrove #mediocre—writing #lol none of this is proof read so good luck #tw abuse #tw domestic violence #tw neil hargrove #tw gore #kinda??

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years ago

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À la Carter

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Rating: T Word Count: 1572

Summary: Even when she’s helping Sam, Sharon has her own agenda.

Sharon’s fingers tap. They spread and pinch, manipulating the scale and definition of Riga’s rooftops. When she feels like she must be zeroing in, she stops, straightens from where she’s been leaning over the screen of her tablet.

She tosses back a swallow of her drink, a flinch around her eyes as the alcohol stings her cut lip. It had been a while since she’d had to fight her way out of a tight corner (or configuration of shipping containers), before Sam, Bucky, and their pet baron showed up in Madripoor. Her tongue prods the cut.

Her satellite access came through, like she knew it would, and John Walker’s no needle in a haystack. On her screen, he’ll be displayed as TRACKER 01, but his position might as well be stamped with the shield—that symbol of justice and virtue and treachery and regret and whatever else the thing stands for these days. She’s a little behind on American public perception when she only feels very loosely American herself. An expat snagged on the last unravelling thread of her former country’s flag.

Another sip, another wince, is punishment in advance. Sharon’s about to do what she does in this new life of hers: take her cut. Her deal with Sam is going to develop a deviation he doesn’t know about. It’ll be seamless, wasting very little of anyone’s time, a detour on the streets of Riga; the view lies between her forearms, resting on the glass surface of the table.

She likes Sam, likes him a lot. The patience and problem-solving in his eyes that say he’s actually listening. The way he looks without his shirt. His persistent trustworthiness when trust is something Sharon thought she no longer dealt in. No giving it out and no inviting it. People don’t just trust her here. That’s why she has hired security. But she’s already expecting Sam to follow through on his end of their deal and sort out her little being-labelled-an-enemy-of-the-state issue, so she’s committed to helping him. The instinct to is annoyingly natural.

Here’s the wrinkle in their verbal contract: the job’s personal. Sam and Bucky are aware of that, she’s certain, and she wonders if they’ve considered that she might be too. It isn’t about her freedom of travel between countries or the do-gooder urge—which Sam in particular appears to overflow with—to ensure Zemo is once again caught and held to account. It’s a Steve thing. She’s heard a lot of rumours (there’s one circulating in High Town at the moment, that Steve is on Mars, building the bones of Elon Musk’s Martian colony in exchange for a couple billion dollars and, presumably, his own self-respect), and it hurts that she can’t dispel any of them, even to herself. Sharon doesn’t know what happened to him. All she knows is that there’s a new guy slinging his arm through the straps of Steve’s old shield and that she doesn’t really feel as casual about it as she might’ve led Sam and Bucky to believe when she mentioned Walker to them. She’s angry. Because she looks at New Cap and wonders what it was all for.

She drums her fingers on the tabletop.

With a deep breath, Sharon touches the screen again. Now swiping intently, she finds TRACKER 01, AKA John Walker. She pulls her phone towards her because she should call Sam to tell him the location. And she will. What she’s going to do first is just for herself.

Hacking into Walker’s comms is surgical and effortless, not requiring payment or bartering like the satellite access, just the skills she keeps honed. Sharon enables a moderate vocal distorter and slides into the ‘secure’ channel. She’s determined to keep her anger and bitterness out of this side-mission, but with nowhere else to go, resentment climbs the back of her neck as an uncomfortable, spreading heat.

“Hey, John.”

“Who is this?” his voice snaps at the other end of the line.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Sharon tilts back in her chair until she can prop the heels of her boots on the table, posture perfectly at ease as she goads him. “Do you prefer ‘John’ or ‘Captain America’?”

“Who are you? A fan?”

Well, she has to laugh at that.

“Um, yeah,” she gushes, channeling the preteen goddaughter she might’ve had if she were living a life where she could make real friends and have neighbours instead of hosting underground art auctions and sniping hostiles from an open window while two idiots from her old life sprint past on the street below. “Is this the Captain America Hotline?”

“Let me tell you, you are seconds away from being located and identified by the U.S. government,” Walker threatens. At least he’s smart enough not to hold on to his fan theory any longer.

“At ease, Cap. I’m not doing any harm.”

“What you’re doing is something incredibly foolish and you will reap the consequences.”

“It’s been a few seconds,” Sharon taunts. “Either the government’s found me and they don’t want to rudely interrupt our conversation or my capabilities exceed theirs. Which one do you think it is?”

“What do you want.”

It comes out flat and hard.

“No more warnings? You’re not going to try to brute-force your way to the conclusion of your choosing?”

“That isn’t always the best method.”

“Something tells me somebody taught you a lesson recently,” Sharon observes, crossing her ankles and rocking her feet side to side on the table. “How bad were you humbled?”

“I went up against the Dora Milaje.”

“So you really got your ass handed to you. I’m surprised you’d be so forthcoming about that. Stiff-upper-lipped soldier type.”

“I figure you could find that information if you really wanted it.”

“You’re being generous then? Saving me time?”

“I just want you to get the fuck off this line.”

“Back to business then,” she says.

She can hear Walker’s breathing change, from a heavy pant to the sound of him clearly trying to control it. Less background noise too, like maybe he just entered a building. She assumes he’s trying to be stealthy. That means he’s either sneaking up on the Flag-Smashers or fears they’re sneaking up on him. It’s almost time to quit toying with New Cap and alert Sam so he can soar in, kick a few asses, maybe save a life. While she goes back to drinking alone in High Town, knowing Madripoor is beginning to tear itself to bloody shreds with so many sharpened claws.

“What do you want?” Walker repeats.

“To tell you I wouldn’t have minded calling you ‘Captain America.’” Sharon shrugs for her own benefit. “It’s just a name, and yet… I think it’s going to bother you. Realizing that you won’t live up to it, I mean.”

“You’re pathetic.”

His breathing’s a little harsher again. He might be climbing a flight of stairs.

“John Walker, I almost feel sorry for you,” she says. “I might if you came off as less of an asshole.”

“Don’t waste your condescension on me. I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

She laughs at him.

��That’s ridiculous. What sort of man agrees to be Captain America when someone as incredible as Sam Wilson has just given up the shield? When the world doesn’t need to close their eyes to picture Steve Rogers still standing behind it? Walker, you stepped into a shadow that was still fading because you were too vain to miss your opportunity. Well now that shadow’s never going to fade,” Sharon hisses at him, her feet hitting the floor as she hunches forward, studying the orange tracker. “You think you’re standing in the sun, but you’re not. And it’s only going to get darker for you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” His voice is hushed, but the tone is arrogant.

��I’m sure you will. You’ll take them without any regard for anyone around you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lectures. “I’m helping—”

“Of course you’ll say you’re helping people when, really, you can’t see past the larger-than-life persona you borrowed like a rental tux. It’s never going to fit, John. While you’re watching yourself, all those people are seeing the guy in the ill-fitting suit, the guy who thought he was going to pick up that shield and turn into Steve Rogers. You’ve got one thing in common with Steve: a name that would be forgettable without the actions you attach to it. Soon, you’re going to wish you really were that forgettable, but it’ll be too late. The world will be watching.”

Sharon closes the connection and throws herself back into her seat, slapping her phone to the table, almost too hard. She rubs her temple and mindlessly watches the tracker flicker back and forth; Walker must be moving around the building more rapidly without her in his ear to distract him. She could’ve done worse, gotten him discovered by the Flag-Smashers, gotten him shot. That’s further than she’s willing to go though because Sam’s given her this pesky sense of hope that her life won’t always have the blinding lustre of destruction. The high shine of a speeding car, the glint of the sun peeking past Icarus’s silhouette. It’s time to let Walker destroy himself.

And, because he must think he can get in the way of that and mitigate the fallout, it’s time to call Sam.

#my writing #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #Sharon Carter #John Walker

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evendeadlmthehero · 5 years ago

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The Five Year Promise: The Outcome (10/10)

Summary: Y/N Stark, a 20 year old superhero, makes a promise to a 16 year old Peter Parker that if five years pass and she still hasn’t found love, that they’d go on their first date. And then, the snap happens; Y/N’s gone and Peter isn’t.

Warnings: angst, violence, swearing

The Five Year Promise Masterlist

Based on the events of Avengers: Endgame and Spider-Man: Far From Home (2023)

The black fabric of your clothing caressed your skin as you sat against the cold couch. This was your home, apparently. A place you were unfamiliar with due to your five year absence. You felt a vacant void within your mind, a feeling of anguish everytime someone had smiled at you in pity.

So many heroes who you have not met. Some of them with powers beyond compare. Some of them were able to fly, shoot lightning, have super strength, telekinetic abilities, alterfication in size and other powers you have not seen yet. But somehow, the cruel and momentous villian that the Universe has ever been exposed to was defeated by your father; a human.

It had not made sense to you. You tried to make it make sense when you had spoken with Dr Strange. But the man looked at you in guilt and sadness, repeating the same thing everytime you asked him why.

“It was the only way.”

It didn’t make sense. Surely Wanda could have defeated him. Surely Strange could have defeated him. But maybe your grief and anguish clouded your perception. The perception that this was the only way. When will accept this? Only time will tell.

“When I told people I was finally moving on,” your father spoke, as you watched him with Morgan on your lap. You looked at your father in adoration and desperation, wishing he was really standing there. Wishing it wasn’t an AI. “From the d-dea- the disappearance of my daughter, I lied.”

A tear escaped your eye as your father’s figure stood up and walked towards the three of you. Thor, Peter, Steve, Rhoudey and Happy all stood behind as the video was playing. “I could never move on. She’s my daughter. My first daughter. And Morgan needs her. What we’re doing is damn near impossible so I made this video in case I didn’t make it. Maybe- maybe I’m just overthinking. This will work out perfectly.”

He then looked at both you and Morgan, bending down. You reached out to touch him, but was left with a hollow feeling as you realised it wasn’t real. He was really gone. “I love you all 3000.”

•

Your back was against an old oak tree. You can feel the bark piercing your back, surely leaving red marks. The garden was soundless, an occasional sound escaping from an Alpaca nearby. Leaves rustled against the ground as the sunset down.

You heard footsteps coming towards you, looking up to see Peter’s face. He gave you a small smile, one that was not out of pity. One that told you that he was checking up. To let you know you were not alone. That in the five years that you, May and Ned were gone, he understood what you were going through.

He sat down near you, breathing in the fresh air. You glanced down, looking at the tattoos coming out of his suit. You moved your hand up, carefully placing it on his arm. Peter glances at your hand, unsure at what you were doing.

You traced his tattoos. It seemed every each one had a meaning. One was a Star Wars quote about hope, which you knew was a reference to Ned. You rolled his sleeve up to investigate further.

You saw an image of Mary holding her son, Jesus. You smiled to yourself, knowing that Peter’s motherly figure was of course his mother and May. You then went to look at the tattoos on his neck. Goosebumps arose on Peter’s skin when you delicate fingers skimmed across his neck.

At there it was; a date. The date that was 5 years after you made the promise. The promise that you’d go in a date with him, that you’d finally give Peter a chance. It was almost a month ago that the date was meant to happen, and here Peter had it tattooed on his neck.

Peter looked down at you, his fingers gently pushing your hair back. He then gently caressed your cheek with his thumb, looking at you with love and gratitude in his eyes. Gratitude that fate had finally brought you back to him. “Tell me exactly what’s on your mind right now.”

“We never got to bury her,” your voice still hoarse from the funeral service that was hours ago. Peter knew who you were talking about when you had said ‘Her’. “She died alone. Without anyone to hold her. Without anyone to talk to her till she took her final breath. She died in a place she’s never been to and on a cold, hard surface. All she ever wanted to do was wipe the red off her ledger. But- but what she didn’t know is that she didn’t need to. She wiped it a long time ago. She- she didn’t need to do that- I don’t understand why she did that, why my dad did that- I just don’t understand why-“

Peter grabbed you as you fell into a fit of sobs, rubbing your back gently. “When you, May, Ned and My Uncle left me, I felt the same. I felt hurt and betrayed by the universe. But the worst thing I did?”

You moved away from the hug to look at him, waiting for him to continue. “The worst thing I did is leave everyone who was trying to help me. Especially your Father and Nat. They tried to keep in contact with me but- but I felt like I didn’t need anyone. That I’m always going to be on my own. And I don’t want you to feel like that.”

“I’m just scared,” you whispered, sniffing as the cool wind blew your hair back. ��Scared of the unknown. The Avengers lost half its members in the Battle. What if we can’t protect it anymore? What if my father’s and Nat’s sacrifice was for nothing?”

Peter sighed, scratching his beard. “No one knows anything about the future. And if the battle showed anything, it just showed that we have allies all around the galaxy. Captain Marvel, Guardians of The Galaxy and all those armies from all around the planets. We might not know what’s in store for the future, but there are Avengers everywhere willing to bet their lives for freedom.”

•

Your heart was beating rapidly against your chest. You were nervous. More then you’ve ever been in your life. You looked at yourself in the mirror, letting out a breath. Your hair was straightened, you wore a dark rose lip gloss and had a golden eyeshadow look.

You wore a white milkmaid dress, one that was off the shoulder. You never felt as beautiful, yet terrified, as you did at this very secound moment. Every minute that passed by was another minute that you over thought.

And then there was a knock on the door. You froze, your breath slightly faltering. It was now or never.

“C’mon, get a grip,” you told yourself as you grabbed your purse. You then walked over to the door of your room before opening it. There, you saw Peter holding a bouquet of red roses, donning an all black suit.

“Wow,” Peter whispered, looking at you amazed. You blushed, looking down at your feet. “You make the five years of waiting totally worth it.”

“Shut up Parker,” you laughed, rolling your eyes at him. Butterflies were occupying your stomach and you knew that they weren’t leaving anytime soon when you made eye contact with the spider boy.

“These are for you,” Peter spoke, giving you the flowers. You smiled, taking it from him before sniffing it. The flowery, magical smell hit you, making you close your eyes.

“They smell amazing,” you told him, before placing them into a vase near your door. “Thank you Peter.”

“No worries Princess,” He spoke, before extending his arm. “How about we head to our 7 o’clock dinner reservation?”

You grabbed his hand, a smile on your face that wouldn’t leave. “Let’s do it Mr Parker.”

•

“I still can’t believe we’re having our first date in London,” Peter spoke, as he ate his spaghetti. It was a gorgeous resturant, one that gave you the view of the London Bridge. “I always thought it was going to be at the Thai place near my house.”

“Well I have business matters to attend here for the week,” you spoke, taking a bite from your ravioli. “I need to do a press conference today about some pressing matters.”

“Like what?” Peter asked curiously. You took a sip from your wine, before placing it down. You then looked outside where the river of Thames was. A dark cloud started to form over the famous river. “Y/N?”

“Oh sorry,” you shook your head, now paying attention to him. “Basically the state of the Avengers. The new members like Carol and Scott. And what to do with the children who are still homeless after the decimation.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it Y/N?” Peter spoke, now putting away his fork and knife to grab your hand. “You can always get Sam or Happy to speak on your behalf-“

“I have to,” you cut him off. You nodded to yourself, biting your lower lip. “I have to. Because if I don’t, I’m not a Stark.”

“If you feel like you have to, I will be standing right beside you,” Peter spoke, caressing your hand. You smiled at him, feeling less anxious about this week’s press conference. “No matter what.”

“Peter?” Your voice slightly wavered. You were now glad you rented out the whole resturant, giving you and Peter both some privacy. It meant you could be more open with him without having the public know every detail.

“Yes Y/N?” Peter asked, his face more serious at the tone of your voice.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” You asked him. Peter smiled so widely, he could feel the muscles of his cheeks hurt. This is it. This is what he wanted. This was the ending he wanted in the five years of pain he endured.

“Yes I will,” he replied back. He leaned forward, capturing your lips in his. It was a short, sweet kiss. One that made sure you remember this moment for the rest of your life.

You pulled back, suppressing the huge smirk that wanted to escape. Your eyes then unintentionally went back outside to the River of Thames, before they widened at the sight.

“Well as our first act of boyfriend and girlfriend, do you want to fight some elemental monster with me?” You asked, as you stared at the giant creature that emerged from the river, lightening coming out of it.

You saw a man flying around the beast, throwing green mist towards it. Peter looked outside the window, lifting up his eyebrows as you both got up from your seats. “Yeah, I mean sure why not.”

You pressed the button on your necklace before a now black suit enveloping your body. It was to commemorate Natasha Romanoff. Peter too pressed the button on his necklace, one that you created for him, before his spider suit came alive.

“Well come on Quasar, hop on,” Peter told you. You put your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he put his hand below your bum. He then ran up to the window, which you blasted down with the Quantum energy.

He then jumped out of the window before you let go, flying towards the source with your now boyfriend beside you.

“This is a great first date!” You spoke from the comms. You heard Peter chuckle at that. “Us fighting monsters together.”

“And I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Peter replied back. You smiled before charging full speed towards the creature.

Maybe everything was going to turn out just fine.

Fin.

Post Credit Scene

One Week Ago

“You know I tried,” Bruce spoke to you and Steve as Steve begun readying up to put the stones back in their respective timelines. “I tried to bring her back, when I snapped my fingers, I tried to bring her back.”

“We know,” you spoke softly, rubbing his now huge green arms. “We know Bruce. But I think we just have to move on, rebuild the Avengers. It’s what she would have wanted.”

Bruce nodded, a sad look in his face. He loved the women. He wanted to run away with her, start a new life. But it was never meant to be. He knew that now. Their jobs, their duties prevented them from ever trialing their love.

But in a different timeline, in particularly 2014 Vormir, a certain Black Widow laid soundlessly on the ground. Her own blood surrounded her as her eyes were shut; no pulse heard.

‘Bring everyone back,’ Bruce thought, as he brought his thumb and index together, ready to snap. ‘Bring her back.’

And as soon as his thumb and index swiped, there was a thunder. The Black Widow still laid on the floor soundlessly, her chest unmoving, her face pale and her blood getting cold.

One second passed.

Two seconds passed.

Ten secounds passed.

A minute passed.

A deep breath was heard and echoed through the walls of Vormir.

“That’s weird,” you spoke, feeling the absence of an item on your wrist. Bruce looked at you, a confused look in his eyes.

“What’s weird?”

“The charm bracelet that Nat gave me,” you spoke, rubbing your wrist as you grabbed the jewellery item from the the ground.

“It- it just broke. Out of nowhere.”

Taglist will be added tomorrow

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weirdcanucks · 4 years ago

Photo

For today's feature film, we look at Kevan Funk’s critically-acclaimed debut feature Hello Destroyer. The film swept Vancouver Film Critics’ Circle, winning 5 awards including Best Canadian Picture, Best BC Film, and Best Director. I've compiled a bunch of reviews and filmmaker interviews on the institutionalized violence, hockey culture, the craft of filmmaking and the Todd Bertuzzi case.

Synopsis

A young junior hockey player Tyson Burr’s life is shattered when a routine hockey play goes bad. In an instant his life is abruptly turned upside down; torn from the fraternity of the team and the coinciding position of prominence, he is cast as a pariah and ostracized from the community. As he struggles with the repercussions of the event, desperate to find a means of reconciliation and a sense of identity, his personal journey ends up illuminating troubling systemic issues around violence.

Where to Stream

CBC Gem if you are in Canada

Keep Reading for

Directors Guild of Canada post screening Q&A: does the Todd Bertuzzi case inspired the film?

Aggressively Canadian: An interview with the director Kevan Funk

Hello Destroyer explores the thin line between hockey menace and model

Review from Josh Cabrita of VIFF

More filmmaker Q&As

Content Warning: Violence

🎤 DGC Post screening Q&A

Audience: I grew up in BC. I remember in high school, the Todd Bertuzzi case was hung over the news of the city for a while. And I was just wondering if that's something that inspired this film at all?

Funk: Yeah. Todd Bertuzzi is my favourite hockey player of all time. So, yes definitely. I grew up in Banff, but I was a Canucks fan. The Todd Bertuzzi thing was something that I found remarkably frustrating at the time because I remember it really well too. I remember the hit on Steve Moore ahead of time when he hit Naslund, and I remember very well there was this intense bloodlust in Vancouver for retribution. And I don't mean just like among the fans. (There were) literally editorials about being like "we get pushed around too much, we need some identity. You can't let this happen, blah blah blah." And Todd was that guy. I still think Todd certainly deserves to be held responsible for what happened as an individual in that incident. But again, like that moment in terms of thinking about cultural culpability and how the idea of an act of violence extends beyond just a perpetrator of a crime and the victim and how a much broader group of people are implicated. I'm I really don't believe this idea of good and evil is something that really exists. There's like a select handful of people who we might be able to define as evil. But I think most violence that exists has a lot to do with social or cultural conditions around the people who are involved in that.

The Todd Bertuzzi thing was definitely something that informed it. I was hesitant to talk about it earlier before the film sort of got its own life and took out its own legs because I didn't want it to be "the Todd Bertuzzi story" because it informed it. But so did Derek Boogaard, Rick Rypien, a lot of these guys. And to be honest, the fundamental thing that started me on writing this film was Errol Morris's film Standard Operating Procedure. It's about the prison guards at Abu Ghraib who were busted for this despicable torture. He does this incredible thing of holding them morally responsible for what they did, but also showing that they're victims of a system that essentially asked them to do this and then throw them all under the bus to wipe its hands clean when it becomes public. So that came first. But certainly heavily informed by Todd Bertuzzi. I mean, his name is Tyson Burr. You know, there're some strong hockey knots in there.

🎤 Aggressively Canadian: An interview with the director Kevan Funk

NOTEBOOK: You’re a Canadian filmmaker making a film with hockey in it, so there’s an impression that the film is about hockey. But from watching the film there’s a sense that it’s not the game, necessarily, that interests you, that if you were working in a different setting, you’d have made the same film, but about, say, football or the military instead of hockey. Would you say that that’s an accurate assessment?

KEVAN FUNK: Yes. The inclusion of hockey has much more to do with its presence as a cultural institution, because the film is very much about institutionalized violence. I have this frustration with English[-language] Canadian cinema’s lack of boldness in terms of embracing our identity and placing ourselves in Canada. So I knew I wanted to make something that was very Canadian, and so hockey just sort of ended up being that.

Hockey movies are super interesting in that they’re associated with being very Canadian, but most of them—the majority of them—are goofy comedies that say very little about either Canada or the sport of hockey itself. So again, even though Hello Destroyer wasn’t a film about hockey per se—certainly more the setting than the subject, having that locker room culture be reflective of an actual reality was very important to me, because I don't think that it’s represented properly in most work.

📄 Seventh Row: Hello Destroyer explores the thin line between hockey menace and model

In major junior hockey, players must walk a thin line between what their coaches deem acceptable and unacceptable violence. If players avoid violence, they risk being seen as “soft” by their teammates and employers. At a home game when the team is trailing, the coach, Dale Milbury (a name referencing two notorious champions of hockey violence, Dale Hunter and Mike Milbury), demands that the team “protect the house”. Eager to prove his worth, Tyson throws an illegal check that slams an opposing player face-first into the boards, leaving his opponent with broken vertebrae and a brain hemorrhage.

Televised hockey tends to glorify cheering for violence but provides no explicit reminder of any physical consequences. Hello Destroyer breaks this convention and does not sanitise the violence. In Funk’s hands, a fight is not heroic, gladiatorial combat, but sweaty, desperate grappling, conveyed through the thudding of fists, cries of pain, and, loudest of all, the cheering crowd. Funk frames the fights themselves in claustrophobic close-ups, frequently shifting focus, and never quite providing a clear view as the punches connect. The effect is alienating, and it forces an audience familiar with hockey fights to confront their brutality. Funk implicates fans for enabling violence by foregrounding the pleasure on their faces and the players’ pain through the physical ugliness of the fight.

✏️ Review from Josh Cabrita of VIFF

Kevan Funk’s debut feature, Hello Destroyer, is not only a perceptive exegesis of Canada’s colonial history and cinematic representations of hockey, but also about a myth that all children who play the game grow up with. Funk has stated in interviews that if the film was made in another country, it might’ve been set in the military or a different institution, but the fact that Hello Destroyer -- one of very few Canadian films to grapple with the sport’s hypocrisy -- takes place in the world of junior hockey makes it hard to deny the specifics for the allegory. The buzzing sounds of the overhead lights in a vacant rink, the dress code of having a black suit and tie for every game, the anger expelled at a hockey stick during a coach’s rant: these are all textures and details I’m firmly acquainted with. Yet it’s these same environmental observations that form the basis for a critique of hockey culture's contradictions and hypocrisy: contemplation and belligerence, civility and violence, alienation and ‘community’.

But, above all else, this is a film about culpability: the role complacency, the status quo and generational exchanges play in redirecting guilt to maintain a corrupt system of power. Tyson may not be the main perpetrator against the opposing team’s player (for guilt requires free will - something the film posits is out of his hands), but he’s most certainly guilty of contributing to a culture that normalizes the root causes of such an action: how he willingly shaves his own head after his teammates buzz it in a ritualistic hazing, how he remains silent when a lawyer fills in his voice, and how he stands by as a teammate is awarded the player of the game and parades a traditional indigenous headdress around the dressing room.

🎤 VIFF Post screening Q&A

#change hockey culture #film

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spacesnail3000 · 5 years ago

Text

Brooklyn’s Sweetheart Chapter 17: You’re A Beast, Barnes

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Chapter Summary: All it takes for Bucky is five martinis and three tequila shots and then he’s pulling down his pants in the middle of the bathroom. Steve’s not sure whether to be worried or impressed that he’s not dead yet.

Word Count: 5,653

Warnings: Language, drinking, smut (rimming, blowjobs, public)

Masterlist

Steve awoke early that morning from restless dreams, visions that haunted him inside and outside of sleep. His mother. Peggy. Bucky. His girl.

Their girl.

He hadn’t seen her in days—not since the funeral.

Part of him seethed when he thought about it, muscles tense, fists clenched. Another part of him, however—another part of him felt broken, chest and throat tightening, skin buzzing with pain.

It was a visceral response, either way, but he was more inclined to block out the sadness in favor of rage. He had broken knuckles and a bloody lip to attest to that.

“Time to wake up, sunshine!” Sam’s voice rang through the small Brooklyn apartment.

Steve sat up and looked around. He realized quickly that he wasn’t in his own bed—he wasn’t in a bed at all, actually, but instead on Sam’s sofa. Sam was in the kitchen, a metallic clang against plastic echoing in the living room as he shook a protein bottle around.

“What time is it?” Steve asked. He went to rub his eyes and flinched when a sharp sting spread through his skin, mixing with the dull ache of a bruise.

“Almost ten,” Sam answered. “Want a protein shake?”

“Sure,” Steve grunted and stood up, stretching out his aching limbs. He was shirtless and he could see more purple mottling on his stomach, around his ribs.

Sam handed him the protein shake and nodded to his injuries. “How ya feeling?”

“Like a truck ran me over,” Steve mumbled. He popped open the protein bottle and took a sip, cringing at the taste of watery vanilla—made with rice milk, no doubt, part of Sam’s new health kick.

Sam chuckled and went back into the kitchen. “Not a truck, no. But Rumlow wasn’t going easy on you last night.”

Steve groaned at the memory. He didn’t know if the throbbing in his head was from his hangover or his concussion.

Sam continued, “Still, man, congrats. Rumlow didn’t make it an easy win, but you managed it!”

The memories from last night flooded his mind. It wasn’t too different a night from the entire past week. There was an underground fight club they frequented in Brownsville, one that Steve participated in every so often. He hadn’t fought much for the past year—not since meeting Peggy—but now with so much built up anger and frustration over everything that had happened in the days leading up to the funeral, he needed to release his emotions somehow.

Fighting worked wonders for his excess energy.

He had fought every night that last week, and he had won every single match. Last night, he fought Brock Rumlow—one of the mobsters from Hydra, whose territory mostly spanned the other side of the Hudson despite their slow encroachment on New York City. Beating Rumlow to a pulp the previous night had not only won Steve ten grand, but it also established the dominance of the Brooklyn Mob over Hydra—informally, at least.

Steve finished off the protein shake and set the bottle on the kitchen counter.

“Feel free to take a shower, man,” Sam said, “You stink like shit and you got blood on my throw pillow.”

He glanced to the couch where his head had been resting, indeed finding dark brown stains of dried blood on the square pillow there. “Right. Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll just—” Steve motioned to the bathroom and got on his way.

“And Buck’s gonna be here in a few. We’re going out to breakfast—wanna come?”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve mumbled, then shut himself behind the bathroom door. As he showered, wincing from the hot water running through the cuts on his face, he readied himself for Bucky’s arrival.

Things were tense between the two men since Y/N had decided to leave. Bucky wasn’t doing well with it—eating his feelings and drinking away the pain at night. He knew Bucky blamed him, and he knew he was falling back into old habits like drinking and partying. Not that Steve was doing much better. He drank just as much, his smoking had doubled, and of course the bruising on his face spoke for itself.

But he didn’t know what to do, or why he felt this way. The past year when he had been staying away from Y/N, focusing instead on the mob and Peggy—that had been fine. He had been fine.

But now…

He ran his hands down his face, rubbing soap into the lacerations until it burned so bad, the pain was all he could think of.

When he got out, he dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that Sam had left out for him before slicking his hair back to the best of his ability and running his knuckles against his jaw. He was getting a little scruffy, not having shaved for a few days, but the hair did a little bit to hide the bruising on his jaw and the cut on his chin from his fight two nights ago with one tough bastard named Wade Wilson.

As he entered the living room, he saw Bucky and Natasha sitting on the couch with Sam.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greeted his friend with a clap on the shoulder, pretending not to notice when he shied away. “Nat. Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Buck stayed at my place last night so he invited me.”

“Oh.” Steve didn’t know what Bucky was up to lately, but now he wondered if he was back with Natasha… But Natasha was with the Maximoff girl… Right?

“You look like shit,” Bucky commented dryly.

“Yeah, Rogers, what happened?” Natasha asked, a smirk playing on her red lips.

When Steve ignored her, Sam answered, “He dragged Brock Rumlow across the ring last night.”

“Brownsville?” Bucky asked, turning in his seat to look at Steve, brows furrowing as he took in Steve’s full appearance, bruises, cuts, and all.

“Yeah,” Steve grunted, putting on his sneakers. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about it—not before a cup of coffee, at least. “Can we go now? I’m starving.”

It didn’t take long to walk to Coulson’s, only a few blocks down. The diner was a staple for them—they had been going there since high school for late night burgers and milkshakes, and Bucky realized that despite all of the stress from the last few weeks, his and Steve’s tumultuous relations with Y/N, some things never change.

He had to admit his annoyance and anger with Steve and how they had handled everything. Bucky didn’t think he himself was blameless—he acknowledged his own part, not supporting their girl enough, not being perceptive enough to realize how she was suffering. He wouldn’t apologize for punishing her when she deserved it, but he was sorry for everything else.

It was driving him crazy. He wished he could tell her this—beg for forgiveness—but he didn’t know how.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake,” Bucky said, looking over the menu. “And a BLT. And fries.”

Sam raised his eyebrows from across the table. “That all?”

“I’ll have a side salad, too. Dressing on the side.”

“You’re a beast, Barnes.”

Steve stayed silent through the exchange, only speaking to order a breakfast spread and a coffee. He remained as such throughout most of breakfast, even as the others made conversation; how Sam’s latest fling with a girl from the Bronx was going, the latest Giants game, and construction for the Manhattan location of the Widow’s Web. Only once Steve had finished his first cup of coffee did he speak at all.

After Natasha mentioned her relationship with Wanda, Steve asked, “She’s still working at the Web?”

Natasha nodded, eyes lighting up with amusement as if she could see where Steve’s train of thought was going. She was always able to see through him like he was made of plastic wrap. “Yeah, but it’s a pain for her to commute now that she moved into their new apartment.”

“Where is their apartment?” he asked, trying to seem nonchalant.

She scoffed, but the smirk on her lips told him she wasn’t annoyed with his query. “I don’t know if I should tell you, Rogers. I’m perfectly aware of how Y/N broke up with you—”

“She didn’t break up with me—”

One of her perfectly groomed eyebrows arched so high Steve thought it might detach from her forehead. “Oh? Well it sure seems like it.”

His voice strained with effort as he resisted the urge to yell at her, or punch something, or flip the table. He was working hard on not making scenes in public. “I’m not asking for the address. Just making conversation.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Right. Well it’s not too far from the university. Wanda said they can walk to class.”

“Classes have started already?” Bucky asked, eager to smooth over the tension still radiating from Steve.

“Yep,” Natasha popped her lips, that sly grin coming back. “And don’t ask me what classes your girl is taking—I have no idea about her.”

Steve rolled his eyes and mumbled into his coffee mug, “She’s not our girl…”

“Not anymore she’s not.”

“Nat.” Bucky sent her a look, not mean, but stern and exasperated as she tried to rile Steve up further. “Knock it off.”

Steve looked at Bucky then, really looked at him—for probably the first time that entire morning. He took in the tight t-shirt Bucky wore, straining against his chest, the sleeves rolled up on his thick biceps. The man in front of him—the man he had known his entire life, who he had grown up with, who he had seen blossom from an awkward teenager into this beautiful man.

It wasn’t hard for Steve to admit that he missed him.

So things had been tense between them—Steve knew Bucky was mad at him, and Steve’s mood was rarely much better—but Steve missed Bucky. He knew Bucky would come around eventually. Not many things could get between their years of friendship.

Bucky held his gaze, wondering what Steve was thinking—and then Steve’s lips quirked up in a smirk behind his mug, his eyes sparkling with something suddenly.

Oh.

Well, Bucky was still a little pissed off, but he could work with that.

He was never good at holding a grudge, anyways.

Maintaining eye contact still, Bucky picked up his milkshake and wrapped his lips around the straw, taking a long sip and letting Steve observe the pucker of his red lips, the hollow of his cheeks as he sucked.

Steve licked his lips, mouth parted for a moment, entranced at the display, but their attention was diverted as the food arrived.

As Bucky started on his BLT, Natasha asked, “Buck, you coming to the party tonight?”

Bucky nodded, mouth full, and Steve asked, “What party?”

“A rave in East Village. Wanna come?”

Bucky swallowed and looked at Steve again—Steve, who was looking back at Bucky in an almost challenging way.

“Sure,” Steve said, surprising Bucky. “I’ll come.”

“Don’t need to go defend your title in Brownsville?” Bucky asked. Part of him still wanted to be angry at Steve. However, another part was excited for Steve to go tonight. He couldn’t remember the last time they had gone out together—it was before Y/N, maybe even before Peggy. Not that Bucky had been partying much the last few years after he got clean, but he was excited still. They could fool around like they used to, and it would be like old times.

Steve shrugged. “I think I’m done fighting. For now.”

Bucky snorted, but grinned at his friend. “You’re never done fighting, Stevie.”

It was later that night, almost midnight, when Steve saw Bucky outside of the nightclub in Manhattan, and he almost had an aneurysm at what he was wearing. A skintight silk button down shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest, matched with the tightest jeans he owned. His hair was down, long at his shoulders, a piece braided in the front. Red lips slick with spit, skin a little shiny, it was clear that Bucky had already pre-gamed earlier with Natasha.

As they stood behind Natasha, who was whispering to the bouncer, saying some sort of magic words to gain them entry, Bucky slung his arm low around Steve’s waist, swaying on his feet a little.

Steve slid his arm around Bucky to steady him, and his body tingled at the feeling of Bucky’s slimmer frame against him. He had always loved being able to support Bucky like this, hold him up when he was drunk. Steve was always the skinnier one growing up until they finished high school and then somehow he grew taller and filled out.

Bucky always said he loved Steve either way, and he was the only one to love him when he was tiny.

“How much have you had to drink?” Steve murmured to him, voice a soft growl close to Bucky’s ear.

Bucky shuddered, his shoulders vibrating under Steve’s arm. “Maybe one or two martinis at the Widow’s Web.”

“One or two?”

“Or five.” Bucky shrugged. “You know me.”

“Yeah I do. All too well…” Steve trailed off as the bouncer ushered them inside.

It was packed, lights flashing green and blue. Streamers, bubbles, and glitter floated around in the air, giving the sense of being underwater. Go-go dancers stood around the crowd on pedestals, dressed in clamshell bras and tight scaly skirts. Heavy electronic music played, and Natasha led the boys through the throng of dancers up to the bar. She managed to get them drinks relatively quickly—even though the bar was crowded with people, the bartender seemed to recognize her and got her order together pretty quickly.

She got them all shots of tequila. Steve cringed at the taste; it reminded him of the last time he had drank tequila and the bad decisions that had come with it.

After two more tequila shots, Natasha was pulled away by somebody she knew, and then Steve felt Bucky tugging at his waist.

“Come dance, Stevie!”

Steve had no chance to respond before Bucky was pulling him onto the dancefloor, expertly weaving through the crowd and then grinding his ass against Steve.

Well, Steve wasn’t going to protest.

He hadn’t gotten off since before the funeral, and he hadn’t fucked Bucky in much longer, and he was getting that craving again. Bucky was always the perfect sub for him. Something Steve admired about Bucky was his ability to switch between roles so well.

Another thing Steve admired about Bucky was his tight little ass, which Bucky was grinding against Steve’s half-hard cock like he was being paid for it.

Steve’s hands settled on Bucky’s hips, gripping tightly and moving them as he pleased. Bucky’s back was pressed tight to Steve’s chest, and Steve’s lips skimmed his ear, his neck, his jaw, where he nipped harshly at the bone, eliciting a deep groan from Bucky that rumbled through Steve’s chest.

After a few songs, the tequila started to kick in, and Steve felt bolder. His hands wandered up and down Bucky’s sides, his chest, skimming across soft bare skin juxtaposed by coarse black chest hair. He took a handful of Bucky’s pec, squeezing, slipping underneath his soft shirt and pinching at his nipple.

“Missed you, Buck,” Steve groaned in response to Bucky’s breathy whimper.

“Steve,” Bucky gasped as the man behind him brought his other hand to cup Bucky’s growing erection through painfully tight denim. His hands worked Bucky’s chest and cock in tandem until Bucky was shuddering and shaking, turning around to face Steve. “C’mere—” Bucky muttered before crushing his lips to Steve’s.

The kiss was deep and filthy, tongues dragging against tongue and teeth, lips sucking apart with lewd sounds drowned out by the music. Their bodies gyrated against each other to the beat, Steve’s hands gripping Bucky’s ass in a bruising hold, keeping their cocks pressed against each other through two layers of denim. Bucky fisted Steve’s hair, ran his hands down Steve’s neck and back and then tucked up underneath his shirt, lying flat against heated skin, damp with sweat.

Steve sucked a bruise into Bucky’s neck, all teeth and harsh sucks, while Bucky ran his nails down Steve’s shoulders.

“Want you,” Steve breathed into Bucky’s ear.

“Then take me.”

Without any warning, Steve led them to the men’s room, shoving Bucky into a stall and dropping to his knees. His hands worked Bucky’s jeans off quickly, pulling them down his thick thighs.

“No underwear, Buck?” Steve smirked up at him. “Feeling hopeful tonight?”

Bucky snorted. “The way you were eyeing me at the diner earlier told me all I needed to know about how things would go tonight, Rogers. You’re not as slick as you—oh, God—” His insults were cut off as Steve suddenly took Bucky’s entire cock into his mouth, down to the root, nose buried in Bucky’s shaved pubic hair.

Another thing Steve admired about Bucky was that Bucky kept everything so soft and smooth down here. It made giving head a downright joy.

“Oh, Stevie, please, yes—” Bucky gargled, slanting his fingers through Steve’s hair and holding him there.

Steve pulled back and dipped his head down, licking down his long shaft, tonguing the join between his cock and balls, and then running his tongue all over his balls until they were dripping spit. Steve sucked one into his mouth, playing with it with his tongue as Bucky chanted pleas and praise, mind lost at the feeling of Steve’s mouth on his most sensitive area.

Maneuvering their bodies so Bucky was leaning against the stall wall, Steve encouraged Bucky to spread his legs as much as possible with the restraint of his jeans around his thighs, even yanking his pants further down to get Bucky’s legs as wide as they could go in this dirty club bathroom. Then, Steve dove in, starting again at Bucky’s balls, sucking and tonguing them, and then licking back around to Bucky’s taint and burying his face as far as he could between Bucky’s legs to lick at the rosebud between his cheeks.

“Oh, fuck!” Bucky gasped raggedly, holding Steve’s hair with both hands and shoving.

It was an incredibly awkward position for Steve, face shoved into Bucky’s balls, mouth desperately trying to reach his asshole, chin absolutely soaked in saliva. One hand pumped Bucky’s cock and the other gripped his ass cheek, kneading and spreading them.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” Bucky canted his hips forward, trying to get more of Steve’s mouth on him. “More, Stevie, please—more—”

Steve pulled away, grinning at Bucky’s disgruntled whine. After a sharp smack to Bucky’s ass, he shoved at his hips. “Turn around and bend over, baby.” His voice was so rough and gravelly it made Bucky shiver.

Bucky obliged quickly, and Steve wasted no time in spreading Bucky’s ass and placing the width of his tongue over Bucky’s little pink asshole, letting the split that had collected in his mouth drip down his tongue and over Bucky’s rim and down his perineum, coating his balls in slick saliva.

Once Bucky’s hole was wet enough, Steve put his mouth fully over the puckered flesh, sucking at the rim hard. Bucky cried out, shoving his ass back into Steve’s face and reaching down to slowly stroke his own cock.

Next, Steve straightened his tongue and slowly breached Bucky’s entrance, letting Bucky’s flesh tense and relax around him. Meanwhile, Bucky kept up a string of pleas and cries, begging Steve for anything and everything.

“So good, Stevie, so fucking good—God—fuck!” Bucky growled. “Yesyesyes—please, Stevie—more—want your fingers—”

Steve could never deny Bucky.

Retracting his mouth, he sucked one finger into his mouth and covered it until it was dripping wet, then slowly entered Bucky’s hole, glistening with spit in the dim fluorescent light of the bathroom.

“You like that, baby?” Steve asked as he started fucking Bucky with his finger. “You like me licking out this sloppy little hole?”

“Steve—yes—fuck—”

“You like me eating you out on this dirty bathroom floor? You’d let me fuck you anywhere, wouldn’t you, Buck?”

“Yes, yes, please—”

“You’re filthy, baby—fucking filthy for me—all for me, right?”

“Yeah, Stevie, only for you—please let me come—”

“Come for me, sweetheart—that’s right—” Steve leaned forward and licked around the finger pumping in and out of Bucky’s ass, reaching his other hand around to play with Bucky’s balls until he could feel them drawing up against his body. Bucky let out a few little moans, breathless and sweet, and then Steve felt the other man’s release dripping down onto his hand.

Bucky leaned against the stall, pressing his face against the cool metal, while Steve took away his finger and gave a few soft licks to Bucky’s rim. Then he stood up and slotted himself behind Bucky, kissing up and down his neck, sweeter and softer than he had any right to be after the depraved words he spoke.

Bucky slowly turned around, a little shaky on his feet and a little awkward with his pants still down. They kissed, sloppy and hot, until Bucky reached for Steve’s erection.

Steve stopped him with his hand that wasn’t covered in come. “I want to take you back home. Wanna come in your ass.”

Bucky groaned low in his throat and nodded, mouthing at Steve’s cheek and jaw. “Want that—yes—please, Steve—”

Steve chuckled and pulled away. He locked eyes with Bucky, keeping eye contact as he brought his hand up and licked the come off his fingers, sucking them into his mouth one at a time. “You always taste so good, Buck.”

He offered some to Bucky, and he took his fingers in between his plump red lips and sucked all of his own cream off, not blinking once as he worked.

Once they were cleaned up, Steve helped Bucky put his pants back on, and then kissed him once more. “Let’s go home.”

Later that night, as they cuddled in Bucky’s bed, Steve’s come still leaking out of Bucky’s ass, Bucky murmured into Steve’s shoulder. “We gotta get her back, Stevie.”

Steve sighed. He had thought the same thing a hundred times in the past week alone. “I know… But how?”

“I don’t know… But we have to figure it out.”

“Wait, wait—” Wanda grunted in the middle of the stairwell, between the fourth and fifth floors. “Wait! I said wait!”

All the girls around the dresser groaned. Two on one end and two on the other, Kate in the middle doing her best to keep the piece of furniture together, the girls paused their hefting and heaving at Wanda’s demand.

They had found the dresser on the curb two blocks down and had come too far to give up now—especially when dressers this size would usually cost upwards of three hundred dollars, more money than any of them had put together.

But moving furniture was never easy, not when the elevator was broken and they lived on the top floor.

“What?” Kate snapped, poking her knee forward to stop one of the dresser drawers from sliding out and falling through the stair rail and down four and a half floors. “Why are we stopping?”

A petulant whine came from Wanda’s throat. “I need a break!”

“Oh my God!” America moaned, “We’re almost there!”

“We’re only halfway there!” Wanda protested, gently setting the dresser down on the landing. “This thing is fucking heavy!”

“Are you seriously doing this?” Y/N asked, stationed right beside Wanda. She adjusted her grip on the dresser so it wouldn’t fall down and squash Kamala and America.

“I have no endurance, okay?”

“At least she admits it,” America muttered, and the girls huffed a laugh, too out of breath for much else.

Kamala groaned “We need to speed this along! I have a meeting with my advisor in forty minutes.”

“For what?” America asked.

“Changing some classes to fit my major.”

“What’s your major?” Y/N asked. She hadn’t yet gotten to know the other girls very well, only having lived with them for about a week. Classes were about to start and she was nervous enough—she hadn’t even thought about a major yet. It seemed like every time she turned a corner, there was another thing she was behind on.

And the list was mounting—she hadn’t done her FAFSA, hadn’t signed up to the bill sharing website they needed for utilities, hadn’t bought the required textbooks for her classes. She had only picked her classes a few days prior—and the pickings were slim so close to the start of the semester. The four classes she chose included a seminar, a class about ancient history, a chemistry course, and an introductory art class as an elective. While trying to find classes, she realized she knew almost nothing about anything, so she decided to try a well-rounded schedule of courses this semester to try and figure out what exactly she wanted to do with her life.

“I’m film,” Kamala said.

“What about you guys?” Y/N asked.

“I’m doing theater,” America said, “But after I graduate I’m going to law school.”

Kate said, “I’m doing engineering. I’m torn between chemical engineering, electrical engineering, and mechanical engineering.”

Wanda added, “I’m doing business. My dad wants me to take over the liquor business one day, so I guess I’m getting ready for that.”

Y/N hadn’t even thought about graduation or anything after that. She couldn’t fathom the work that went into engineering, or law, or business, or getting a job, or—

“What about you?” Kate asked her.

“I’m undecided,” she shrugged. “I don’t really know what I want to do yet.”

Wanda smiled at her and nudged her with her knee. “You have plenty of time to figure it out.” She smiled back, but there was a sinking feeling in her stomach, a suspicion that she wasn’t good enough or smart enough, inadequate in so many ways.

Did she even deserve to go to NYU? Was this truly the right place for her?

Or was her purpose in life to serve the mob, as her parents had told her all her life?

Kamala grunted, lifting the dresser again. “Can we get going? I don’t want to be late.”

They all started lifting together, grunting and groaning in turn, when a familiar voice called from the bottom of the stairwell.

“You girls need help?”

“Ouch!” Wanda yelped as Y/N stumbled and almost dropped the dresser on her foot. The blood left her face and she started to sweat—and not from the physical exertion.

Bucky’s face appeared on the other end of the dresser, taking the load off of Kamala and America. “Here, you girls get the sides.”

Y/N remained silent as Bucky directed them up the rest of the stairs, carrying most of the weight of the dresser and helping America position it in her room.

“There ya go,” he breathed, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Thank you so much!” America said, a wide grin on her face. “I mean, we could’ve done it without you, but I probably would’ve ended up punching Wanda in the face with all her whining.”

“Hey!” Wanda frowned, smacking America lightly on the arm.

Bucky chuckled. “Anything for one of Y/N’s friends.”

The three girls who knew nothing of Bucky turned to face Y/N, shocked.

Kate asked, “You know him?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Kamala asked.

Her response was an awkward chuckle. “Well I was trying not to drop the dresser… So…” She hadn’t looked at Bucky once since they got into the apartment, pointedly avoiding eye contact with him now as he stared at her.

It was his first time seeing her in a few weeks, and his heart leapt at the sight—she looked good, really good. Hair shiny, skin glowing, nails painted bright red. She wore high waisted shorts that showed off just the slightest hint of her ass, and a skintight off-the-shoulder top.

Bucky missed her, but he had to admit, if this is how she was dressing now, maybe college was the right decision for her.

“Why don’t you show me around, sweetheart?”

Y/N glared at him; however, he knew she wouldn’t say anything against him—hoped, at least, that there still might be something left of their obedient little doll. Still, she hesitated, worry on her face behind her anger.

Wanda touched her arm. “I’ll keep an ear out.”

She sent Wanda a grateful look and turned to leave the room. As they left, Wanda whispered to the other girls, “He’s her ex-boyfriend. Total asshole.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at that but paid close attention to the girl in front of him as she showed him the living room and kitchen. He noticed they seemed to have no space for anything, boxes all over the place, counters cluttered with pots and pans. That was run of the mill for a Manhattan apartment, but he was sure it was a pain in the ass.

He followed along as she pointed out each bedroom in the hallway. “And this one’s mine,” she said shortly, stopping in front of the closed door at the end. She made no move to open it.

“You gonna show me inside?”

“No.”

He chuckled, delighted at her fiery attitude. He could deal with the brattiness as long as she was actually speaking to him. “C’mon, sweetheart. I swear I won’t try anything. We’ll leave the door open.”

The way he looked at her with eyes so earnest, big and blue and pleading—it weakened her resolve. She considered it for a moment and then looked away from him, chewing on her lip, suddenly a little shy. “It’s really small. Nothing fancy.”

“Darling, I just wanna see it. I don’t care how it looks.” He brushed past her and took hold of the doorknob, letting himself inside.

Small was an understatement. Her queen-sized bed took up half the space, and the rest of it was filled with boxes. The walls were drab—greying white, holes in the drywall everywhere. Clothes littered her bed and the desk chair from her old room that was shoved into a corner between the wall and the bed.

She weaved her way through the boxes and plopped on the bed, leaning back on her hands and staring up at him. “I don’t have room for a dresser. And I don’t have closet space. So…” Her sentence finished with a shrug.

“Aw, honey…” He frowned, surveying the space, mind working with how he could help. “Maybe I can build you some shelves. Hang ‘em up right here, and here,” he pointed to a few spaces on the walls. “I could put hooks or racks in them so you can hang your clothes.”

Her mouth twitched. “You don’t have to do that. Really, it’s fine.”

“I want to. It’s the least I can do, after…”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she asked, “How did you get my address?”

“Natasha told me.” It was a lie, but she didn’t need to know about the extent of his and Steve’s scheming over the past two weeks.

“Why did you come here?”

He pulled his backpack off, and that was when she noticed it wasn’t his backpack, it was hers. It was the one she had packed for the few days before her dad’s funeral, when she was staying at the boys’ apartment. She had left her things there and completely forgotten about it until now.

“You left this stuff at our place. I wanted to return it.”

“…Oh.”

“And I wanted to check on you. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Her lips seemed to waver between a smile and a frown, pink and glossy, just like when he first kissed her at her birthday party. He kept his distance, not trusting himself if he was too close to her, and definitely not here, in her room, which smelled like her, like sweet flowers and vanilla.

“When do classes start?”

“Next week.”

“What’s your schedule like?” She hesitated, looking at him with an untrusting, wary expression. He sighed, holding up his hands in innocence. “Just so I know when to come and install the shelves.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, but she relented. “I have classes every day in the mornings and swim practice every afternoon. I’m looking for a job too but I don’t have anything yet. You can come next weekend.”

He smiled at her, that bright, happy grin that lit up her childhood. “Great. I’ll see you then.”

He turned to leave, and before she could stop herself, she scrambled off the bed and grabbed his wrist before he could go. “That was it? That’s all you came for?”

Looking down at her, he nodded, schooling his expression into one of honesty and concern, which was exceptionally difficult when all he felt was hunger for her. “Yeah—what were you thinking?”

Quickly, she let go of his hand. He immediately missed the feeling of her soft skin on his. “I don’t know.”

He smiled again and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. God, how was she so soft? “You seem happy, darling. And I want you to know I’m proud of you for making it here, making it to NYU. You seem to be doing well.”

She paused, then nodded. “I am.”

“Good.”

And with that, he gave her bare shoulder a squeeze and left the room without another word. She stood still, shocked for a moment, focusing entirely on the tingling feeling where his hand touched her shoulder, wondering why her skin was breaking into goosebumps just from a simple, innocent touch.

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 4 years ago

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LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

The fallout from the story of Trump calling soldiers “suckers” and “losers” continues. Yesterday, Trump told reporters that military leaders don’t like him because they want to funnel work to defense contractors. “The top people in the Pentagon… want to do nothing but fight wars so all of those wonderful companies that make the bombs and make the planes and make everything else stay happy,” he said. White House chief of staff Mark Meadows tried to spin this as Trump’s attempt to protect soldiers from “the military industrial complex,” a phrase Republican President Dwight Eisenhower used to warn against funneling tax dollars into military contracts. Trump then retweeted posts comparing himself to Eisenhower.

In fact, Trump has made military build-up and selling U.S. weapons abroad key to his foreign policy. His Defense Secretary, Mark T. Esper, is a former top lobbyist for the defense contractor Raytheon, and last year, Secretary of State Mike Pompeo declared an emergency to push through $8.1 billion in arms sales to Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates after lawmakers of both parties objected to the sale.

Trump’s about-face from boasting how he has built up the military to saying he opposes military build-up seems most likely to be simply another angle of attack against a story that is not dying. Yesterday, in The Atlantic, conservative columnist David Frum published a story titled “Everyone Knows It’s True.” Frum noted that while the First Lady, Cabinet secretaries, and Fox News Channel personalities have all insisted the story is false, the people who worked closely with Trump on military matters have remained resolutely silent.

Frum wrote, “Where are the senior officers of the United States armed forces, serving and retired—the men and women who worked most closely on military affairs with President Trump? Has any one of them stepped forward to say, ‘That’s not the man I know’? How many wounded warriors have stepped forward to attest to Trump’s care and concern for them? How many Gold Star families have stepped forward on Trump’s behalf? How many service families? The silence is resounding.”

Today, Trump’s former fixer Michael Cohen released his new book. It, too, spoke of a disconnect between Trump’s public words and his private attitudes. “The cosmic joke was that Trump convinced a vast swath of working-class white folks in the Midwest that he cared about their well-being,” Cohen wrote. “The truth was that he couldn’t care less.” “Everyone other than the ruling class on earth was like an ant, to his way of thinking, their lives meaningless and always subject to the whims of the true rulers of the world,” he said.

Trump’s apparent tendency to treat women as subject to the whims of others was in the news today as his attempt to get rid of E. Jean Carroll’s defamation lawsuit is threatening the rule of law. In 2019, Trump denied he had raped Carroll, a journalist, more than 20 years ago, saying he had never met her and suggesting she was making up the story for publicity to sell a forthcoming book “or carry out a political agenda.” In November 2019, she sued him in New York for defamation.

Trump tried to stall Carroll’s lawsuit, arguing that a president was immune from civil lawsuits in state court, but in August, a federal judge rejected his bid and allowed the case to proceed. Carroll’s lawyers have asked for a DNA sample to match against material on clothing she was wearing when she says he assaulted her.

Today, lawyers from the Department of Justice asked to take over the case, arguing that Trump was acting in his official capacity as president when he denied knowing Carroll and thus should be defended by the DOJ, which is funded by taxpayer dollars. CNN legal analyst Elie Honig called this “a wild stretch by DOJ.... I can’t remotely conceive how DOJ can argue with a straight face that it is somehow within the official duties of the President to deny a claim that he committed sexual assault years before he took office.” He continued: "This is very much consistent with Barr's well-established pattern of distorting fact and law to protect Trump and his allies.”

According to University of Texas Law Professor Steve Vladeck, the argument that Trump was acting “within the scope of his employment” when he defamed E. Jean Carroll is an attempt to get the suit dismissed altogether, because the government itself cannot be sued for defamation. Slate’s legal writer Mark Joseph Stern called the move “shocking and profoundly disgusting… and appalling and irredeemable debasement of the Justice Department, a direct threat to the very legitimacy of an agency that is responsible for enforcing federal law.”

The corruption of the DOJ was in the news in another way today, too, as White House chief of staff Mark Meadows told Fox News Channel personality Maria Bartiromo that he has seen “additional” documents from John Durham’s investigation that spell “trouble” for former FBI officials who began the inquiry into the ties between Trump’s 2016 campaign and Russia. Attorney General William Barr appointed Durham to investigate the FBI after the agency’s independent inspector general reported that the Russia investigation was begun legitimately (the Republican-led Senate Intelligence Committee agreed). "Additional documents that I’ve been able to review say that a number of the players, the Peter Strzoks, the Andy McCabes, the James Comeys, and even others in the administration previously are in real trouble because of their willingness to participate in an unlawful act and I use the word unlawful at best, it broke all kinds of protocols and at worst people should go to jail as I mentioned previously," Meadows said.

But observers were quick to note that the White House chief of staff should not have seen any documents in a pending DOJ criminal investigation. Meadows might be making up the story that he has seen such documents. He has been in the news before for a loose relationship with facts: he represented that he earned a four-year college degree when, in fact, he earned a degree equivalent to two years at a community college. Or his comments might mean the DOJ is coordinating with the White House. Neither is good news.

Three drafts of a report from the Department of Homeland Security reviewed by Politico today give some insight into the upcoming election. They warn that Russia is trying to spread disinformation in the U.S., saying that “Moscow’s primary aim is to weaken the United States through discord, division, and distraction in hopes of making America less able to challenge Russia’s strategic objectives. Some influence activity might spill over into the physical world and motivate domestic actors to violence.” The report predicts foreign cyberattacks on the 2020 election, focusing on the personal information of voters, municipal and state networks, and state election officials. It notes that “Russia already is using online influence operations in an attempt to sway US voter perceptions” and to drive down minority participation in the election.

Even more striking, though, under “terrorism,” the first draft of the report says “Lone offenders and small cells of individuals motivated by a diverse array of social, ideological, and personal factors will pose the primary terrorist threat to the United States. Among these groups, we assess that white supremacist extremists—who increasingly are networking with likeminded persons abroad—will post the most persistent and lethal threat” throughout 2021. They will use “simple tactics—such as vehicle ramming, small arms, edged weapons, arson, and rudimentary improvised explosive devices” to encourage violence within the United States.” The report warns that they might well target campaign activities and election events.

According to the first draft report, white supremacists are more dangerous than foreign terrorist groups, which are “constrained.” The next two drafts watered down the words “white supremacist extremists,” calling them “domestic violent extremists.” But all three drafts note that white supremacists have killed 39 of the 48 people judged to have died from terrorism in the U.S. between 2018 and 2019.

None of the three reports refers to any threat from “Antifa,” the loose group of anti-fascist activists the Trump administration often describes as the instigators of recent unrest. Instead, two of the drafts say that rightwing extremists are trying to escalate lawful protests into violence.

The documents were leaked to Ben Wittes, the editor in chief of the national security website Lawfare, a leak that suggests someone at DHS is concerned about the administration’s apparent encouragement of rightwing extremists. (The citation for the first draft of the report is in tonight's notes. It’s worth reading.)

Finally, on Rachel Maddow’s television show tonight, former Trump fixer Michael Cohen confirmed something that many of us have suspected all along. "Trump never thought he was going to win this election, he actually did not want to win this election,” Cohen said. “This was a branding deal. That's all that the presidential campaign started out as, this was a branding opportunity in order to expand worldwide."

Heather Cox Richardson

Notes From An American

#quotes #newsletter #politics #political #election 2020 #Heather Cox Richardson #Notes From An American

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things2mustdo · 4 years ago

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Face it, the mainstream media is not only full of contradictions, but deep-seated, institutionalized biases. When a male or conservative does something, it is often considered horrendous. Yet when a female, liberal or a member of another “special” group does the same thing, passes are given or journalists’ eyes are averted.

Social media users with common sense political opinions have already started to compile these glaring double standards. Return Of Kings and its supporters should continue doing the same thing.

So here are five of the most egregious recent examples of hypocritical mainstream media madness:

1. Use of dead veterans’ families at political rallies or conventions

When Khizr and Ghazala Khan appeared at the Democratic National Convention to lambaste Donald Trump for his views on Muslim immigration and supposed behavior, commentators and journalists went wild with fanfare. Their son Humayun, a Muslim soldier, had died in Iraq. Trump was attacked for allegedly grandstanding about and minimizing Humayun’s death.

Meanwhile, many of these same newsmen and women, including Rachel Maddow’s stooge Steve Benen, derided the Republicans for featuring Pat Smith, mother of Benghazi fatality Sean Smith, as a speaker at their own Convention. Mrs. Smith had laid into Hillary Clinton over the latter’s role in and perceived indifference to her son’s death in Libya. So one family became heroes to the media for going public after their tragic loss, while another was portrayed as so weak in their grief that they were manipulated by big, bad Republicans into talking.

Moreover, Trump had nothing to do with Sean Smith’s death. Compare this to Clinton, who was the Secretary of State at the time of the American deaths at Benghazi and whose State Department had received numerous calls for assistance. Considering that Sean Smith and others died alongside U.S. Ambassador Christopher Stevens, the first American ambassador to be killed whilst serving since 1979, the woefully insufficient security precautions taken by the Obama Administration and Secretary Clinton should not have transpired. But this spotlight on Clinton does not make for good (liberal) news.

2. Psychiatric records for a war hero vs. medical records of a pathological liar

Countless liberals, both in the media and within other leftist cabals like mainstream Hollywood, have attacked those questioning Hillary Clinton’s health as “misogynists,” “sexists” and other undesirables. When these tags are unable to be used, leftists claim that even piecemeal doubts about her physical condition are nothing but conspiracy theories on par with Roswell UFOs and lizard people running the world.

Yet eight years ago, these same people were frothing at the bit to out John McCain for his supposedly poor health. Most perversely of all, they homed in on his decorated military service, suggesting he had Presidentially disqualifying mental health conditions from his service in the Vietnam War and the multiple years he spent as a prisoner-of-war. “Where are his psychiatric records?” bellowed one piece from Salon, in addition to a number of other articles that more than hinted at the same topic.

Whilst I, like many of you, revile his putrid, watered-down “Republican” policies on many issues, McCain had gargantuan balls in Vietnam. Here is a man who spent more time as a tortured prisoner-of-war, including a stay in the notorious Hanoi Hilton, than Barack Obama spent in the US Senate. As the son of the commander of US forces in Vietnam, McCain received numerous offers of repatriation from the North Vietnamese. He refused and would only accept being returned home once fellow American soldiers captured before him were released. By contrast, Hillary lacks the mental fortitude to tell the truth most of the time, not even after she’s had seizures, coughing fits, and dramatic collapses on camera!

3. Sexualizing political candidates (and removing their genitals)

When an artist by the name of Lushsux painted a mural of a scantily-clad Hillary Clinton, a local Melbourne, Australia council and numerous global commentators derided it as “misogyny” and “sexual objectification.” “Take female politicians seriously!” was the crux of their shrill arguments against the rendering. Lushsux then trolled his critics by repainting the mural so Hillary was dressed in an Islamic burqa. Soon after, multiple statues of a nude and testicle-less Donald Trump appeared in American cities. Unlike the Hillary artwork, the proliferation created huge fanfare and delight amongst both prominent leftists and run-of-the-mill liberal voters. Why is one act so offensive and the other so funny, particularly in age where body-shaming and mocking someone’s appearance is meant to be so taboo?

Most of the critical commentaries about the Trump statues that appeared in the mainstream media, of which there were few, failed to take into account one glaring significance of the testicle-less Trump. Short of them being violently taken or hacked off, how exactly could Trump have no balls? Imagine the furore if a statue, mural or other representation of Hillary Clinton had lacked breasts or shown her vagina circumcised/mutilated. “They’re condoning violence against women!” would be the stock-standard answer from liberals and their even more deranged SJW cousins.

4. Lesbian’s Olympic marriage proposal vs. heterosexual male’s Olympic marriage proposal

This is bad and misogynistic:

This is love and should be applauded:

Leftists rejoiced when Olympic official Marjorie Enya asked her partner, rugby sevens player Isadora Cerullo, to marry her using a microphone. Love wins, right, especially when it’s gay love? But when Chinese athlete Qin Kai asked silver medalist He Zi to marry him, the knives from the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) came out. The BBC, unfortunately taxpayer-funded, published an article insinuating that Qin Kai was attempting to control He Zi with the very public marriage proposal. Not only could it be control, it could be awfully pernicious “male control.” Coverage of Enya’s proposal to Cerullo, however, got the broadcaster’s tick of approval.

If either of the two proposals is a form of control or narcissistic, it was the lesbian one. Unlike the Chinese diver, who was competing individually, the lesbian proposed to was part of the Brazilian team, which had not even been awarded a medal. Brazil had come ninth and that night Australia had beaten New Zealand for the gold medal. He Zi may not have won the gold medal, but she had actually participated in the final. But do not let facts get in the way of a good male-bashing.

5. Objectifying men vs. objectifying women

Cosmopolitan has established itself as a dual enabler of both ditzy female airheads and SJW political freaks. Over time, the magazine has come out strongly against countless normal displays of male sexuality, admonishing men who appreciate female breasts and buttocks for being “horrible.” Of the many Cosmopolitan pieces to take this line, an article in mid-2014 takes the cake for its ridiculous shaming of harmless, healthy behaviors. Ironically, though, covers for this publication feature the same sorts of thin, healthy women that men desire most in the first place.

Fast-forward a mere two years and Cosmopolitan went to the extraordinary effort of cataloguing 36 men whose crotch bulges tickled their fancy. Of course, numerous other articles during that time had objectified men in a way considered misogynistic when males do it to women, but the timing was amusing. After so much talk of valuing female athletes, whose physical accomplishments are far less than men, for their work and not their bodies, Cosmopolitan celebrated the years of sacrifice of male athletes by effectively taking photos of their barely clothed genitalia.

We could keep on going

Many other hypocritical pieces were penned about these situations, not just the ones I have referenced. Then there’s the great number of other articles we could assess and critique on separate issues. You may be convinced, and rightfully so, that the mainstream media is inherently biased. But we need to take this to the next level and disseminate the proof to wider audiences.

Journalists and commentators will continue their bad habits, that much is clear. What matters now is fighting back. Complaining about double standards only goes so far. Exposing them in an organized fashion stands a better much chance in helping us to arrest and then reverse this institutional bias.

As Return Of Kings readers, you are our extra eyes and ears. If you find more examples of extreme leftist media bias, bring it to our attention.

https://www.returnofkings.com/19995/anti-female-stem-bias-a-bayesian-explanation

The New York Times recently ran a long piece exploring the history of women in STEM fields and attempting to explain the ever-present difference between men and women in performance and participation in these fields. The article begins by citing research on perceptions of female aptitude in math and science:

“Researchers at Yale published a study proving that physicists, chemists and biologists are likely to view a young male scientist more favorably than a woman with the same qualifications. Presented with identical summaries of the accomplishments of two imaginary applicants, professors at six major research institutions were significantly more willing to offer the man a job. “

She shares an anecdote that is supposed to display the prejudice of professors against females in the field, but instead illustrates one valid reason for the bias displayed by the Yale study:

“Other women chimed in to say that their teachers were the ones who teased them the most. In one physics class, the teacher announced that the boys would be graded on the “boy curve,” while the one girl would be graded on the “girl curve”; when asked why, the teacher explained that he couldn’t reasonably expect a girl to compete in physics on equal terms with boys.”

Enter Bayes’ Theorem

Bayes’s theorem is a foundational principle of statistics and probability that allows us to update our estimations about the trueness of a fact based on new evidence. The math of Bayes’ theorem is simple and elegant, and the overarching idea is powerful — we can use evidence in a formalized manner to change the probability that something may be true, and this can often have non-intuitive results.

The classic example of Bayes in action is medical tests — for example, if 1% of women have breast cancer, and a mammogram detects the cancer 80% of the time with a 10% false positive rate, what is the probability that a positive result means the woman has cancer? If a mammogram is positive, the chance of cancer is less than 8% due to the presence of false positives, as well as the low baseline population rate of cancer.

What does this have to do with women and STEM fields? Readers of this site are familiar with the allure that even a plain looking girl can have at the height of her availability and youth. This isn’t just a factor when getting free drinks at the bar – it extends to the classroom, hiring for jobs, treatment in everyday life, and many other areas. Girls in primary and secondary school are judged to be better students, despite boys showing a significant advantage in standardized tests starting around middle school. The article highlights the ways that women are supposedly discouraged by the system, but makes no mention of the advantages they enjoy.

Put simply, women are more likely to be handed accomplishments without having to work for them, both due to the power of their sexuality and as unconscious overcorrection for their supposed disadvantages in opportunity. Given an applicant with a certain pedigree – a Ph.D, say, from a top graduate program —we will have a certain estimation of that person’s intelligence and aptitude. However, the “false positive” rate on those qualifications identifying extremely high aptitude is likely to be much lower for a man, who has not enjoyed the advantages of a feminized education system, catch-up programs, and the hint of his sexuality influencing the evaluations of his superiors.

The bias against hiring a woman whose qualifications are equal to a man, and their subsequent lower salary offer, is simply a use of Bayesian inference. It accounts for the implicit probability that the female will not be as good as her résumé suggests, to say nothing of the chance that she will leave her job to begin a family and leave her employer empty-handed at some point in the future. If, as the example above states, both men and women implicitly behave as if men are superior in math and science, we must give some consideration that this is a possibility.

If Men Are Better At Math/Science — What’s The Big Deal?

The media is encouraged to sing the praises of women where they excel compared to men, and females indeed show demonstrated advantages in many cognitive areas. They are better at language acquisition, picking up on non-verbal cues, and we are all familiar with their evolved capacity for psychological manipulation. Many would suggest that women have better organizational skills. They are incarcerated for violent crimes less often, are less prone to risky behavior, and are more resilient to psychological trauma such as PTSD.

But when it comes to exploring why men have long-demonstrated advantages in certain disciplines, the media scrabbles to ascribe the boogeyman of injustice perpetrated on the protected class. The article is quick to dismiss the repeatable and longitudinal difference between males in females in standardized testing, a long-standing form of evaluation that every college and grad school uses to give out valuable admissions spots. It also does not mention the lack of female representation in technology entrepreneurship, a field that is less dependent on credentials and more on individual drive, creativity, and aptitude.

It could certainly be true that women are discriminated against AND that they are simply less common at the far right of the aptitude bell curve necessary for competitive positions in academia. But I challenge you to find this idea entertained in any mainstream publication despite the mountains of circumstantial evidence. Larry Summers was tarred and feathered for even mentioning research on population dynamics as a potential driver of this difference. The lesson here is that, when you begin an “inquiry” by presupposing the conclusion, you will end up with a politically correct and eminently intellectually dishonest worldview.

Read More: The Anti-Male Commercial

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go-redgirl · 4 years ago

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Ellen DeGeneres Loses 1 Million Viewers After Apologies for Toxic Workplace

When Ellen DeGeneres returned from a summer hiatus to open the 18th season of her daytime talk show in September, she came armed with an apology. “I learned that things happen here that never should have happened,” she said. “I take that very seriously. And I want to say I am so sorry to the people who were affected.” Those remarks came in the wake of reports of workplace misconduct at “The Ellen DeGeneres Show.”

Viewers tuned in for the apology: This year’s season opener had the highest ratings for an “Ellen” premiere in four years. And then they tuned out. “Ellen” has lost more than a million viewers since September, according to the research firm Nielsen, averaging 1.5 million viewers over the last six months, down from 2.6 million in the same period last year.

The decline has come at a time when workplace behavior, in Hollywood and elsewhere, has come under intense scrutiny against a backdrop of protest and social change. It is a startling setback for one of daytime television’s most successful franchises and for Ms. DeGeneres, who was at the forefront of an earlier cultural shift when, as the star of a prime-time network sitcom in the 1990s, she announced that she is gay.

The show’s loss of more than a million viewers translates to a 43 percent decline, representing a steeper drop than any of its competitors. This TV season, “Ellen,” the winner of dozens of Emmys since its start in 2003, is no longer in the same league as traditional rivals like “Dr. Phil” (3.1 million) and “Live: With Kelly and Ryan” (2.7 million). Now it finds itself uncomfortably close to shows hosted by Maury Povich (1.4 million), Kelly Clarkson (1.3 million), Rachael Ray (1.2 million), Tamron Hall (1.1 million) and Jerry Springer’s former security guard Steve Wilkos (1.1 million).

The loss of viewers includes a 38 percent decline in her core audience, adult women under 54, according to Nielsen. And it appears to have put a dent in the show’s ad revenue. From September to January of the 2019-20 season, “Ellen” brought in $131 million from advertisers, according to the research firm Kantar. That has fallen to $105 million for the same period in 2020-21, a drop of about 20 percent.

Ms. DeGeneres, 63, has publicly mused on the possibility of leaving the show in recent years, and the spotlight on her workplace troubles has added to the questions about her future. Her talk-show contract runs through next year. Warner Bros., the division of AT&T’s WarnerMedia that produces “Ellen,” confirmed that the show would return for a 19th season in September, after her usual summer hiatus. A spokeswoman for Ms. DeGeneres declined to comment when asked if the 2021-22 television season would be her last.

“‘The Ellen DeGeneres Show’ remains one of the top three highest-rated syndicated talk shows this season,” David McGuire, an executive vice president of programming at Telepictures, a Warner Bros. subsidiary, said in a statement. He suggested other reasons for the decline, like changing viewing habits during the pandemic.

“While broadcast is down across the board and Covid has been challenging for production, we are looking forward to bringing back our live audiences and a 19th season filled with all of the hilarious and heartwarming moments that have made ‘Ellen’ one of the longest running and most successful talk shows in history,” he added.

Whether or not the next season of “Ellen” is its last, WarnerMedia and Ms. DeGeneres are together for the long haul. In 2019, the company made a deal with her to produce four programs for its HBO Max streaming platform, including a home-design challenge series; a dating show; an animated show, “Little Ellen”; and a documentary series on inventors made in conjunction with the Albert Einstein estate. (In another deal, she recently signed a multiyear pact with Discovery to produce natural history documentaries and series.)

Public perception of Ms. DeGeneres started to change in July when BuzzFeed reported that several of the show’s former and current staff members said they had confronted “racism, fear and intimidation” on the set. Several staff members also said producers had sexually harassed them. Warner Bros. investigated the workplace and found “deficiencies.” Three high-level producers were fired, including Ed Glavin, an executive producer; Jonathan Norman, a co-executive producer; and Kevin Leman, the head writer. Ms. DeGeneres apologized to her staff before addressing her viewers in September.

Some observers believe the accusations may have weakened Ms. DeGeneres’s relationship with her audience. The host built her show as an oasis from the outside world, a place of goofy dancing, light jokes, cash giveaways to surprised audience members and high-wattage celebrity guests. Several years ago, she adopted “be kind” as her motto, in response to the suicide of Tyler Clementi, a gay college student who took his own life after being bullied.

“Her brand is not just being fairly nice — it is ‘Be Kind,’” said Stephen Galloway, the dean of Chapman University’s Dodge College of film and media arts. “She’s chosen two words to stamp herself. You cannot have hypocrisy better defined than when you’ve chosen those two words to define yourself and everyone is seeing the opposite is true inside your show.

“The reason the incident with the producers was such a difficult and perilous moment is it’s the first time where something surfaced to indicate that a family — Ellen’s own professional family — was dysfunctional,” he continued.

Ms. DeGeneres referred to her motto in her on-air apology. “Being known as the Be Kind Lady is a tricky position to be in,” she said. “So let me give you some advice. If anyone is thinking of changing their title or giving yourself a nickname, do not go with the Be Kind Lady.” She added that she was indeed the cheerful person she appeared to be on television, but was also someone who experienced moments of sadness, anxiety and impatience.

In addition to her daytime show, Ms. DeGeneres is also a prime-time star for NBC — and her show for that network, “Ellen’s Game of Games,” also a Warner production, has lost 32 percent of its viewers this season, as well as 35 percent in the adult demographic important to advertisers.

Even with the complications affecting all talk shows during the pandemic, “Ellen,” with its loss of 43 percent of its audience, has suffered a steeper decline than its rivals. “Dr. Phil” is down 22 percent, and “The Kelly Clarkson” show has lost 26 percent of its viewers. Kelly Ripa and Ryan Seacrest’s show has just lost 3 percent, and “Tamron Hall” is down 9 percent.

Ms. DeGeneres beat the odds to make her show a success. There is a television graveyard filled with the comics, actors, anchors and reality stars who have taken a crack at syndicated talk shows only to be yanked off the air because of low ratings. And when “Ellen” premiered, she also had to overcome the hesitancy of affiliate managers who thought an openly gay person could not connect with the women who make up most of the daytime audience. Her quick wit and approachable manner earned her millions of fans and ultimately a plum late-afternoon slot in most markets. As recently as a few years ago, the show was drawing roughly three million viewers an episode.

As Ms. DeGeneres fights through a loss in popularity, she has turned to celebrity friends to help her make the case that there is not much difference between the on-camera Ellen and the real Ellen. When Michelle Obama was a virtual guest last week, she spoke warmly about the time she went to Ms. DeGeneres’s house and they played a piano duet together. A video clip of the pair at the piano was shown.

Another recent guest, Jennifer Garner, also appearing remotely, raced to her hotel room balcony at the host’s request to tell passers-by how much she adored Ms. DeGeneres. “I love her!” Ms. Garner shouted. “She’s kind! She’s a humanitarian! She loves animals!”

By John Koblin

The post Ellen DeGeneres Loses 1 Million Viewers After Apologies for Toxic Workplace appeared first on New York Times.

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anonthenullifier · 5 years ago

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To Avoid a Scene

Vision and Wanda meet for the first time after Leipzig.

AO3 link

The uneven cobblestones cause an odd pressure against his soles, the rounded bumps jutting up at varying angles and depths creating a sense of uneasiness in his usually confident gait. His ankles react immediately, stabilizing him, and Vision discovers that the whole experience is charming in its simplicity, a new sensation he has not encountered before. The alley he traverses is narrow, rows of brightly painted houses snuggled close together, the colors random and appealing, some of the stucco sides trimmed with ornate patterns, while others have murals of royalty and piety. Vision reaches out a hand, trailing it over a basketball sized stone built into the wall of one of the houses (or perhaps the house was built around the stone, a philosophical debate only time travel might solve).

A group of young men round the corner, their presence instantly setting his body into a quiet terror, the disguise he’s wearing is new, only tested three times in public back in New York. Vision shoves his hands into his pants pockets, shoulders lifting defensively as he tucks his chin down, and he inches closer to the wall. The men don’t seem to notice him, or if they do there is no indication they think anything of his presence. He is almost clear of the group when one of them veers off, distracted by his phone, and Vision tenses as he fights the urge to phase his body through the man. Instead he allows their shoulders to bump, jostling the stranger slightly. “Przepraszam*.” Vision’s apology is quiet, worry about his accent being too off or his pronunciation horrific tempering the sureness that typically instills his voice. The man, thankfully, continues without another look and Vision releases a breath.

The alleyway gives way to a square, the same types of buildings, these colors perhaps more diverse and bright with their red shingled roofs, line the perimeter. In the middle of the square, atop the smaller, more even brick foundation, are white tents housing tables and chairs, lanterns hanging on posts next to each table while other, smaller string lights twine around the rods at the ceiling of the tent. It is serene, almost like a painting, the colors blending into a surreal and comforting conglomeration of twinkling lights and happy voices. An accordion player adds to the overall ambience, the music moderately paced and carefree, creating an almost fairytale-like quality.

Among all of these lights somewhere is Wanda.

It has been exactly 38 days since the Raft breakout, 38 days of relative silence in the compound, Tony occasionally conversing with him, mostly concerning Rhodes and finding Steve, but those moments are fleeting. Tracking down the rogue Avengers was not easy, nor did he necessarily follow the Accords’ protocol to locate them in Wakanda, particularly the part that stated once he found them he had to turn them in. Somehow he missed that step, instead amending his own internal protocol and contacting T’Challa. From there he received little news, thinly veiled comments suggested the fugitive teammates were fine but nothing truly substantial. He had attempted more pointed inquiries about Wanda, yet those were never answered. That is until he received a heavily encrypted and straightforward message - Warsaw, Rynek Starego Miasta, 23rd of June, 21:00, disguise required - W. He immediately destroyed all evidence of the message and then proceeded to convince Tony to allow him to follow a lead on Steve’s whereabouts.

There are many things he hopes are connected to this invitation. First is that it means she had actually received his own communications. Second, that what he said in them was enough to convince her of his intentions, or lack of intentions to turn her back over to General Ross (another convenient breach from the Accords that should concern him, but silence and 38 days of thinking has changed his perceptions on the rigidness of loyalty to laws). Third, and this is perhaps the thought that causes the greatest increase in his pulse, the arhythmic beating of his heart deafening when he considers the possibility, perhaps she has missed him too.

Vision methodically meanders around the perimeter of the tents, ocular sensors reprogrammed to specifically search out Wanda (and all the other fugitives). The facial recognition software was fine-tuned and updated courtesy of Stark for the purpose of being better able to find their teammates, though he doubts this meeting was the intended outcome of the upgrade. An invisible rope loops around his chest, squeezing the excess air from his lungs when he finally locates her, his heart drumming so quickly it clashes horribly with the rhythm of the accordion player in the square. His hands seek an even deeper refuge in his pockets, fingers clenching nervously as he approaches the blonde-haired hostess standing at the front of the tent, who smiles at him, “Dobry wieczór**.”

“I-“ Natasha, during the time when they were all together, before the Accords, always insisted on having a working knowledge of any language required for a mission. This did not mean being conversational but at least being aware of the tasks involved and having enough of a vocabulary to function within the constraints of the mission. Vision, unfortunately, did not factor in to his language acquisition that he would be meeting Wanda at a restaurant, he had assumed their meeting would be more clandestine. What he is never, ever, under any circumstance supposed to do in an undercover mission (not that he has actually been on such a mission but he has attended all the trainings) is betray his foreignness to the area. It’s a good thing Natasha is not here to see his utter failure. “I um, am meeting a friend.”

“Ah okay,” the woman smiles politely, transitioning into English while waving her hand towards the tables, “enjoy your meal.”

Vision offers a grateful smile and a “Dziękuję***” before winding slowly through the maze of diners until he sees her sitting at a two person table in the corner.

A term he comes across often in reading books of varying styles and genres is having one’s heart in their mouth. It never quite made sense to him since it is anatomically impossible and quite an exaggeration and yet, currently, if not for his reliable physiological assessments that say otherwise, his heart is beating so furiously that it feels as if it has journeyed upwards to writhe anxiously on his tongue. He is overwhelmed at the sight of her, not fully convinced she is actually at the table, his mind attempting to rationalize that he may be hallucinating. The woman has strawberry blonde hair and is wearing warmer colors than he’s ever seen on Wanda. Yet the way the lantern next to the table illuminates her face, highlights her defined cheekbones and the gentle curve of her lips, glistens off the rings adorning her fingers, leaves little doubt that it is actually Wanda. Then she makes eye contact with him, the sly smirk on her face further cements it is her and he isn’t consciously aware of his feet continuing to move until he reaches the table.

“Wanda…” her name trails off, his voice caught between ending at her name or continuing on to inform her it is him, given his vastly different appearance. She, in her typical fashion, rescues him from this awkwardness.

A tight smile accompanies her, “Hi, Vision.” The message was clear on the time and place, thus it shouldn’t be a surprise she can logically conclude the blonde haired man standing in front of her is him, but he is still amazed at the seamless acceptance of his disguise. Wanda studies him with a detached sort of interest, one not nearly as warm as before the Accords. “Your mind feels different from everyone else.” The explanation is acceptable, the notion she sensed him with her powers stirs a longing inside him, a desire to feel the touch of scarlet in his mind, lose himself in the serenity of her presence. “You can sit.”

“Yes, sorry.” Vision’s hand trembles slightly as he pulls out the chair and lowers himself down.

“That’s,” she points a finger at him, moving it up and down in the air, “a new look for you.”

One of the hardest normative behaviors to understand after he was created was the use of humor; the timing, the content, the tone, and the delivery all requiring numerous factors to determine the efficacy of the joke. He practiced so much with Wanda (she was the most willing to help him and he enjoyed her laughter the most) that he finds it comes naturally now, without thought. Vision pointedly plucks the polo he’s wearing. “I attempted to study Polish fashion in order to fit in.”

His victory is a minuscule smirk and an even less perceptible shake of her head before the amusement vanishes from her face, replaced by a reserved seriousness. “How does it work?”

Vision had not expected to need to speak so openly about his powers in such a place, his eyes reluctantly leaving Wanda’s face to assess the attention of those around them . No one seems at all interested in their conversation, far too lost in their own. So he turns back to Wanda and proceeds. “It is an integration of Mr. Stark’s,” she bristles at the name, something Vision would normally and politely point out, only he does not bemoan her it now and so he continues, “latest nanotechnology and my molecular manipulation. We have found the nanotechnology helps to stabilize my abilities for longer durations and also when I am caught off guard.”

“You’ve never lost your clothing by being surprised or,” she shrugs, head bobbing in time with her thoughts, “ever, actually, regardless of how long you were in them.”

“This is true, but the effort for a complete shift of appearance is significantly greater and requires a constant level of conscious awareness. The nanotechnology serves the role of my awareness, essentially.”

The waiter comes to the table, silencing Vision’s next thought, and places a white porcelain mug (that sits on a matching little saucer) along with a plate containing what looks to be a mix between an apple pie and a cake. The man turns towards Vision, “Dla ciebie****?”

Much to Vision’s appreciation, given his clearly poor preparation and the fact his mind cannot focus on anything other than the way the lantern casts shadows on Wanda’s face, Wanda saves him. “On nie jest głodny*****.”

A polite annoyance instills the nod of understanding, the man bowing slightly towards Wanda, “Smacznego******.”

“Dziękuję,” the friendly smile tugging the corners of her mouth up falls once the man is gone and it is just the two of them once more, “I assume you aren’t hungry.”

“Correct.” Vision is uncertain how to enter into the conversation he knows they should have, the polite, surface level words pleasant so far but he understands the wounds of their actions are far too deep to be alleviated by pleasantries. Yet, watching her wrap her fingers around the mug, lifting it to her face where she inhales the aromatic steam, a soft smile on her face, makes him want to remain right at this level of camaraderie. “You have a new look as well.”

She takes a sip, eyes watching him over the rim of the cup. “Yeah, Nat requires a new hair color every two weeks, new clothing needs to be cycled in periodically.” Another sip and still her eyes won’t leave him, something of a challenge forming on her face. “Luckily she said we can repeat colors once we run out of options.”

“Perhaps you will not need to do so for long.” The comment escapes before he can reel it back in, betraying the thoughts he’s had almost hourly since the airport. Vision understands (mostly, at least) the complicated relationship and clashing of ideology between Tony and Steve so he is well aware of the naivety of the statement. As is Wanda, whose demeanor slides from distantly warm to frigid, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh? You think we’re going to cave, agree to sign the Accords?”

Vision’s hands rise up slightly, palms facing her in hopes of conveying his apologies at the muddied intention of the comment. “No, not at all-“

“Is Ross rescinding them then?”

“No, I-“

The cup clinks defiantly against the saucer, her body bending forward as her voice lowers, likely to keep her anger hidden so the people around them won’t begin to take notice of the disruption to their pleasant evening, “Then why say it?”

If it was 45 days ago, Vision would consider reaching out, employing the tactile comfort he had only recently become more comfortable using with Wanda, but he knows it would be a mistake to do it now. There is an invisible but defined boundary between them, one he will not cross in fear of losing the potential of future meetings. This line is not just physical, clearly his words have set off alarms already. “Because I-“ the truth of his loneliness is undeniable though he isn’t certain if that will invoke more ire or if it would be well met, perhaps even reciprocated, “it is so different now.”

A commiserate nod goes along with her dry, “Very different.”

The silence that encases their corner is bloated with all the words that need to be said, the truths of their actions and all that has befallen them. He even practiced his apology on his flight, stumbling over the growing list of regrets including his persistent guilt over keeping her at the compound, his decision to leave her on the tarmac to check on Rhodes, his inability to garner security clearance to see her at the Raft, and his cowardice in not shirking the rules earlier to get to her. None of that comes out though, the silence punctured only by the scrape of her fork and the distant disembodied conversations of the happy people around them. When he finally finds something to say it is embarrassingly empty. “What are you eating?”

“It’s szarlotka - apple pie.”

A sense of deflation occurs at the answer, at the depth of conversation they are having. His hopes of deep understanding and reconciliation dropping away as the silence crawls back in. “Why did you wish to meet?”

Wanda puts the fork down.”Why did you try to contact me so many times?” So she did receive them.

“I-” Vision feels the eyes of the world on him, whether it is true or not, he always feels watched and judged. “Can we go somewhere more private?”

Her “No” is unflinching and then it morphs into a weapon, “I chose this place because you don’t like to make a scene.”

The depths of his missteps have haunted him, every decision that led them to this restaurant closes in on his mind as he realizes the severity of their severed trust. “I have no intention of sending you back to...” He can’t say it, not after the security videos he watched, after seeing the torture they put all of his teammates through, the worst of it always reserved for Wanda. “Please believe me.”

Wanda studies her nails, rubbing at the chipped polish on the tip of her thumb, returning to her prior question with a little less anger and an increased sense of desperation. “Why did you try to contact me so many times?”

This is the moment he has wanted, needed to experience, has spent hours and hours ruminating about what exactly he will say and how she will respond and whether she will smile at him and take his hand like she used to or if she will stand up in disgust and walk away, lost to him forever. A third option exists now, a possibility that she responds apathetically and then tells him it was nice to see him, the way old friends do in movies when they know this is the last time they will meet, too different now, too far along diverging paths for anything more to happen. Vision has no control over her reaction, something he has told himself over and over again. He only can control his own self. “Because I miss you.” She doesn’t stand in anger. “Because I have spent every minute since Clint came to the compound thinking about all of the harm I have caused you. I am ashamed of my behaviors and of the consequences I did not realize they would have.” Her face is not filled with apathy, instead it is a brimming with melancholy. “I needed to apologize to you.” It is a pathetic version of what he had scripted, less eloquent and verbose, having prepared separate apologies for each transgression. Except he can’t seem to remember his words around her, a factor he should have included in his calculations.

“Thank you.” The weight of those two syllables is immense, the start of his atonement evident in the way she says it, without anger and without annoyance.

The other factor in his prior correspondence attempts had been to assess her well-being, something he believed he may be able to do now given her less guarded tone. “How have you been doing?”

Immediately her countenance shifts, returning to a cool detachedness. “I’m surviving.” As she always does, her resilience awe-inspiring. “You should probably leave now.”

Vision has a feeling of his heart dropping down into his stomach, which is not true but he can’t seem to make his mind think otherwise. “Why? Was it something I said?”

“No.” A fleeting curve pulls her mouth up. “I have to do a video check in with the others soon.”

“May I walk you back?” As he asks the question he is already aware of the answer. One brief conversation is not nearly enough to repair what has been done. If she already was worried for her safety, him knowing her actual location is too big of a danger.

Wanda confirms his thinking, “No. I’m going to sit here by myself a bit longer and then see if I can get back safely.”

“Wanda I-” no doubt she believes there is an ambush, that he is the bait used to bring about her complacency before the others surround her and take her back. If meeting him at the restaurant was to avoid a scene, she will remain in public as long as she can. The best he can do is attempt to allay her fears, “I promise, no one else knows you are here.”

The stare she gives him is heartbreaking, stitched with threads of pity and skepticism. “I trust you, Vision,” words that fish his heart out of his stomach, giving it wings to flutter in his chest, “but I don’t trust Stark. How do you know he didn’t track you?”

Immediately he thinks Because I trust him and is glad when he does not actually say that, because even if he truly believes Stark would not do that, he cannot say it with 100% certainty. All of them have been greatly affected by falling out of the Avengers. Suspicions and tensions are high. While Vision was corresponding with T’Challa, he and Tony had many carefully worded and suggestive conversations that always left a bitter taste in Vision’s mouth and a fear that Tony somehow knew. What if the upgrades with the sensors are relayed directly to Tony? What if he has been listening the entire time? Vision did a full body scan prior to coming and found nothing of concern. But it could be in the nanotechnology, it could be in his communicator, Tony could be waiting down the street to arrest Wanda. “I don’t.” A tight, forgiving line closes her mouth. “May I at least remain in the skies to ensure nothing comes for you?”

“I can’t really stop you from doing it.”

For the first time in a long time he genuinely smiles, an action she almost mimics completely. “I should go then.” Wanda nods, watching as he stands. This is where he should apologize once more, wish her luck and a safe night. “How did you know I had a disguise?”

“I didn’t.” A whirlpool of questions swirls in his mind, unsure which one to pluck out. A pressure on his fingers calms the storm, his gaze turning down to see her lightly gripping his last two fingers, the disguise fading from the skin directly under her touch. “But I had a feeling you’d find a way to see me.”

Vision knows if he allows the surge of joy in his heart to rain from his eyes that it will cause a scene, so he tamps his hope and provides her with what he intends to be a friendly tone. “Good night, Wanda. May our paths cross again.”

The softness of her “Goodbye, Vizh,” remains in his mind for the rest of the evening as he hovers above the city, keeping a careful watch.

*Przepraszam = Excuse me

**Dobry wieczór = Good evening

***Dziękuję = Thank you

*****Dla ciebie = For you

*****On nie jest głodny = He is not hungry.

******Smacznego = Bon appetit

#scarlet vision #wandavision #wanda maximoff #vision #thescarletvisionnetwork #the vision #mcu #i know there have been a lot of these #but i finally came back to it after two years #mine

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prisonrose · 5 years ago

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“Why Eternatus?”

So a common question posed by players with regards to Rose is “Why the hell did he decide to go with the most drastic option and nearly destroy Galar in the process? Wasn’t there another option to solve Galar’s energy crisis? If it was such a big deal, why didn’t he tell anyone other than Leon and Oleana about it?”

The short answer is that he was out of options. The slightly longer answer is that there might have been other options, but they were pretty much unavailable to him, and the Darkest Day was the one thing he KNEW would work. And he didn’t tell anyone else about it because, quite simply, he wasn’t allowed.

I know what you’re thinking. “Rose is the president of the biggest conglomerate in the entire region. What do you mean he couldn’t tell the people of Galar about the impending crisis? He was the man in charge!”

Well, yes, it’s true that Rose was the president and CEO of Macro Cosmos, the company that he founded and built from the ground up. But anyone who thinks he didn’t have to answer to anyone else because of that knows little about the business world.

In the real world, CEOs are beholden to their Board of Directors – investors that keep the company afloat in exchange for shares of the business pie. So, basically, if the CEO is the Prime Minister or President of a country, the Board of Directors is Parliament or Congress.

They quite literally own parts of the business and get to sit in on meetings to steer the company in the direction that they want, and, yes, even evaluate the CEO and oust him if they think he’s doing a bad job or is too much of a risk to keep on board. This has happened to all kinds of founding CEOs, from the WeWork charlatan Adam Neuman, to even the respected and fondly remembered Steve Jobs from Apple.

This very nearly happened when Rose first discovered the possibility of an energy crisis in the near future. When he shifted the entire region to rely on Dynamax energy instead of fossil fuels, he assumed it was a renewable resource inherent to the lands, like wind or solar power or, perhaps more accurately, geothermal energy. When this proved not to be the case, he immediately brought it to the attention of the Board of Directors of Macro Cosmos.

He admitted that he’d made a mistake by assuming Dynamax energy was renewable, but expressed relief that they’d caught the mistake so early so they could come up with other clean alternatives that wouldn’t lead to disaster. He suggested they break the news to the public and let them know they were working on a solution, but the Board wasn’t fucking having it. Clean Dynamax energy was integral to the Macro Cosmos brand, and without it, their stock prices would take a significant hit, as well as the public’s trust in the brand. They were wholeheartedly against the idea.

Rose replied that it wasn’t something they should saddle future generations with, and if they acted quickly, they could surely profit off of the alternative power source as well! He suggested incentivising the public to come up with solutions – he could flex his warm public image, and they could even make a catchy ad campaign for it to generate interest and increase the public’s perception of them despite the mistake! Surely with many minds working to solve the same problem, they’d come up with many possible solutions much faster!

The Board, however, regarded the idea with much skepticism. They felt it was inviting trouble to essentially incentivise the public to come up with alternatives that might serve as competition for their virtual stranglehold on the market. It still felt like they’d ultimately lose money in the end, which was unacceptable. They told him not to go public with information about the coming crisis, or else.

Rose incredulously asked how they were supposed to come up with solutions if no one was willing to admit there was even a problem in the first place. Their response was that a problem 1,000 years in the making wasn’t a problem at all: the bottom line was all they were concerned about.

They wouldn’t let Rose speak on it any longer, and not-so-subtly hinted that they were considering finding a replacement for him if he continued to push the matter, since it was that much of a financial scare for investors. It was then that Rose was faced with a stark dilemma.

If he defied the Board and went public with it anyway, he’d lose his position and all of the resources at his disposal to fix the crisis he’d unintentionally created. Then he’d be replaced by someone else who would do exactly as they said to gain more profit, even at the expense of the region. He’d still have pretty significant severance pay, but he’d be on his own against the conglomerate he built that owned nearly half of the damn region. It would be like bringing a gun to a tank fight.

Keeping his position as CEO was imperative, so he apologized for making such a fuss over something “so small” to put their minds at ease and agreed to abide by the gag rule, but he began privately searching like mad for a solution. Since it was basically one man researching solutions for a problem no one even knew about all by HIMSELF (not counting all the responsibilities he already had as a CEO and the Chairman of the Pokemon League), his options were severely limited. While he had people like Magnolia researching individual aspects like the Dynamax phenomenon in general, HE was the only one with the full picture and who knew how dire the need for that information was.

If that had been all, it still probably wouldn’t have spurred him to go all Darkest Day on everyone’s asses, but the situation somehow got even worse. He began keeping a close eye on Galar’s energy consumption, and found out that the region’s usage was steadily increasing year by year. The crisis coming in 1,000 years had been overly optimistic at best – the crisis was speeding closer and closer at an exponential rate (his projections actually estimated it would be depleted in less than 140 years!), and he was the only one who even knew or cared enough to even address it at all!

So when you combine “I’m the only one who really realizes that this is even a problem, other than those actively trying to cover it up” with “oh shit the energy crisis is probably going to grow closer at an exponential rate” and “I’m really not getting any younger, and if I’m not careful, this knowledge could die with me, and Galar will lose the only person with the resources at his disposal and the commitment to save it,” Eternatus starts looking downright reasonable.

Invoking the Darkest Day may have seemed like a VERY drastic move, and it was, but it was a calculated one. It was the only solution he could come up with and that he KNEW would work – possibly the only solution there really was.

He didn’t have the time or resources to think about trying to find another alternative when the answer – the reason the Dynamax Energy was present in the region at all – was staring him right in the face.

#{ headcanons }#long post #{ metas }#i told you i didn't come here to play and i meant it #ok to rb

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