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#I am not a trick I am transparent

moonrunsaway · 10 months

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My mother sees the worst in me. She sees a mirage, a trick, a lie waiting to be sprung upon her. She sees my father.

- I realize too late (moon. )

#I am not a mirage i am real #I am not a trick I am transparent #I am not a liar #I am your daughter

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alfheimr · 5 days

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My Favorite Cheap Art Trick: Gradient Maps and Blending Modes

i get questions on occasion regarding my coloring process, so i thought i would do a bit of a write up on my "secret technique." i don't think it really is that much of a secret, but i hope it can be helpful to someone. to that end:

this is one of my favorite tags ive ever gotten on my art. i think of it often. the pieces in question are all monochrome - sort of.

the left version is the final version, the right version is technically the original. in the final version, to me, the blues are pretty stark, while the greens and magentas are less so. there is some color theory thing going on here that i dont have a good cerebral understanding of and i wont pretend otherwise. i think i watched a youtube video on it once but it went in one ear and out the other. i just pick whatever colors look nicest based on whatever vibe im going for.

this one is more subtle, i think. can you tell the difference? there's nothing wrong with 100% greyscale art, but i like the depth that adding just a hint of color can bring.

i'll note that the examples i'll be using in this post all began as purely greyscale, but this is a process i use for just about every piece of art i make, including the full color ones. i'll use the recent mithrun art i made to demonstrate. additionally, i use clip studio paint, but the general concept should be transferable to other art programs.

for fun let's just start with Making The Picture. i've been thinking of making this writeup for a while and had it in mind while drawing this piece. beyond that, i didn't really have much of a plan for this outside of "mithrun looks down and hair goes woosh." i also really like all of the vertical lines in the canary uniform so i wanted to include those too but like. gone a little hog wild. that is the extent of my "concept." i do not remember why i had the thought of integrating a shattered mirror type of theme. i think i wanted to distract a bit from the awkward pose and cover it up some LOL but anyway. this lack of planning or thought will come into play later.

note 1: the textured marker brush i specifically use is the "bordered light marker" from daub. it is one of my favorite brushes in the history of forever and the daub mega brush pack is one of the best purchases ive ever made. highly recommend!!!

note 2: "what do you mean by exclusion and difference?" they are layer blending modes and not important to the overall lesson of this post but for transparency i wanted to say how i got these "effects." anyway!

with the background figured out, this is the point at which i generally merge all of my layers, duplicate said merged layer, and Then i begin experimenting with gradient maps. what are gradient maps?

the basic gist is that gradient maps replace the colors of an image based on their value.

so, with this particular gradient map, black will be replaced with that orangey red tone, white will be replaced with the seafoamy green tone, etc. this particular gradient map i'm using as an example is very bright and saturated, but the colors can be literally anything.

these two sets are the ones i use most. they can be downloaded for free here and here if you have csp. there are many gradient map sets out there. and you can make your own!

you can apply a gradient map directly onto a specific layer in csp by going to edit>tonal correction>gradient map. to apply one indirectly, you can use a correction layer through layer>new correction layer>gradient map. honestly, correction layers are probably the better way to go, because you can adjust your gradient map whenever you want after creating the layer, whereas if you directly apply a gradient map to a layer thats like. it. it's done. if you want to make changes to the applied gradient map, you have to undo it and then reapply it. i don't use correction layers because i am old and stuck in my ways, but it's good to know what your options are.

this is what a correction layer looks like. it sits on top and applies the gradient map to the layers underneath it, so you can also change the layers beneath however and whenever you want. you can adjust the gradient map by double clicking the layer. there are also correction layers for tone curves, brightness/contrast, etc. many such useful things in this program.

let's see how mithrun looks when we apply that first gradient map we looked at.

gadzooks. apologies for eyestrain. we have turned mithrun into a neon hellscape, which might work for some pieces, but not this one. we can fix that by changing the layer blending mode, aka this laundry list of words:

some of them are self explanatory, like darken and lighten, while some of them i genuinely don't understand how they are meant to work and couldn't explain them to you, even if i do use them. i'm sure someone out there has written out an explanation for each and every one of them, but i've learned primarily by clicking on them to see what they do.

for the topic of this post, the blending mode of interest is soft light. so let's take hotline miamithrun and change the layer blending mode to soft light.

here it is at 100% opacity. this is the point at which i'd like to explain why i like using textured brushes so much - it makes it very easy to get subtle color variation when i use this Secret Technique. look at the striation in the upper right background! so tasty. however, to me, these colors are still a bit "much." so let's lower the opacity.

i think thats a lot nicer to look at, personally, but i dont really like these colors together. how about we try some other ones?

i like both of these a lot more. the palettes give the piece different vibes, at which point i have to ask myself: What Are The Vibes, Actually? well, to be honest i didn't really have a great answer because again, i didn't plan this out very much at all. however. i knew in my heart that there was too much color contrast going on and it was detracting from the two other contrasts in here: the light and dark values and the sharp and soft shapes. i wanted mithrun's head to be the main focal point. for a different illustration, colors like this might work great, but this is not that hypothetical illustration, so let's bring the opacity down again.

yippee!! that's getting closer to what my heart wants. for fun, let's see what this looks like if we change the blending mode to color.

i do like how these look but in the end they do not align with my heart. oh well. fun to experiment with though! good to keep in mind for a different piece, maybe! i often change blending modes just to see what happens, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. i very much cannot stress enough that much of my artistic process is clicking buttons i only sort of understand. for fun.

i ended up choosing the gradient map on the right because i liked that it was close to the actual canary uniform colors (sorta). it's at an even lower opacity though because there was Still too much color for my dear heart.

the actual process for this looks like me setting my merged layer to soft light at around 20% opacity and then clicking every single gradient map in my collection and seeing which one Works. sometimes i will do this multiple times and have multiple soft light and/or color layers combined.

typically at this point i merge everything again and do minor contrast adjustments using tone curves, which is another tool i find very fun to play around with. then for this piece in particular i did some finishing touches and decided that the white border was distracting so i cropped it. and then it's done!!! yay!!!!!

this process is a very simple and "fast" way to add more depth and visual interest to a piece without being overbearing. well, it's fast if you aren't indecisive like me, or if you are better at planning.

let's do another comparison. personally i feel that the hint of color on the left version makes mithrun look just a bit more unwell (this is a positive thing) and it makes the contrast on his arm a lot more pleasing to look at. someone who understands color theory better than i do might have more to say on the specifics, but that's honestly all i got.

just dont look at my layers too hard. ok?

#process #art tutorial #unsure what else to tag this as. if this does not post properly i will cry.

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blushweddinggowns · 1 year

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“I know I have something clean in here!”

Eddie watched him, half amused and half exhausted. He leaned his head back against Steve’s bed, crossing his legs on the floor. He was dripping wet and freezing, impatiently waiting for Steve as he dug through his closet. He didn't know what he expected to find when ninety-nine percent of his clothes were on the floor of Eddie's room.

See, shit like this is why they always hang out at Eddie and Wayne's new place, instead of this certifiable mansion. Besides the fact that Steve liked to be as far from his house as possible, it took away some options for them to do dumb, impulsive shit. Like dragging each other into his pool, fully clothed at 2 am.

In November.

If it wasn't for the stupid fumigation at his apartment, they would be dry and asleep by now, or at least dry and giggling throughout the night. He also wouldn't be trying to think of an excuse to sleep in Steve’s bed, with all of these stupid guest rooms. It was so easy at his place, with its uncomfortable couch and shitty heater. It took almost nothing to convince Steve to sleep with him every night.

He sighed, shamelessly staring at Steve from behind and thanking the powers that be he decided to wear white tonight. He could make out all of the muscles in his back through the transparent fabric, cold water still dripping from his hair. He was too beautiful for his own good, or Eddie was just obsessed.

Probably both.

Maybe Eddie should use this as an opportunity to get used to being without him. This little game he was playing could only last so long after all.

He knew he was monopolizing Steve's time, like an ass, and he’d been doing it for months. Ever since he was out of the hospital, the two had been inseparable. No one even called Steve's house anymore, half the time when Eddie answered the phone it was Robin or one of the kids asking for Steve.

There's yet to be a time when he wasn't there.

Hell, even before that. The little saint had been there for every step of his recovery, bringing him books, music, and his own adorable self. His little crush on Steve had grown into a full-blown infatuation. He was all he could think about anymore.

Steve was just so…him. Self-sacrificing, hilarious, disturbingly attractive, Eddie had been doomed from the start. Eddie became the one who picked Steve up from work and dropped him off, deciding that he deserved to be chauffeured around for a change.

Steve became the one waiting for him at home from his dealings, cooking food for him and his uncle, always reassuring him that he wasn't a bad person and it was temporary, just until he had enough cash to leave this hellhole. He wasn't sure how he was ever going to leave without Steve, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. Or he would just stay in a town that loathed him until Steve moved on with his life.

Whatever came first.

They just fell into each other, like they had been best friends all along. And maybe he was tricking himself, just building up a mountain of false hope, but from his view, Steve loved their time together just as much as Eddie did.

Steve had been the one to press himself against Eddie's chest on that first night, sleepily putting Eddie’s arm around him with a soft, "I'm cold."

Steve was the one who would spend hours laughing with Wayne on the couch, giggling at elementary school photos of Eddie and swapping stories, never shutting up about how cute he used to be.

Steve was the one who wiped his tears away if he had night terrors, reliving almost dying over and over again in his dreams.

And Eddie couldn't help but push.

It felt like he had to touch him all the time or he'd combust. Steve was touch-starved to hell and back, and Eddie took full advantage. An arm around his shoulders when they walked, a hand on his thigh when they drove, pinkies linked when they went to sleep. Steve leaned into it all, he never tried to push Eddie away, he'd only ever pull him closer.

He rationalized it. If Steve ever told him no or to back off he would immediately but…he just hasn't.

Besides, Eddie almost fucking died to save the world, he could indulge in some self-destructive behavior a little bit here and there, even if it would lead to the worst heartbreak of his life.

Eddie shifted, trying to get comfortable but there was something digging in his back. He reached behind, pulling at whatever was poking him under the mattress. It was some wadded-up denim, shoved right under the edge of Steve's bed. A question was already on his lips as he unwrapped it, dying when he realized what it was.

It was the vest from the Upside Down. Steve had told him it was unsalvageable months ago and Eddie had believed him, even if it made him a little sad. He had loved that thing.

But here it was, washed and only partially stained with the remnants of Steve’s blood and the general muck of the Upside Down. Why did he still have this? Why did he lie?

Steve turned as Eddie stared at it, a yellow sweatshirt in hand and a pleased smile on his face. Eddie doesn't think he's ever seen Steve’s smile drop so quickly. He was kneeling in front of him in an instant, snatching the vest from Eddie’s hands with trembling fingers. He clutched it against his chest, looking absolutely mortified.

“I can explain.”

“You kept it?”

“I-I’m not a creep, really! It just helped me sleep when you were in the hospital and it became this stupid habit and I should have told you- ”

Steve’s face was on fire and he was talking a mile a minute, his voice shaking. Eddie just looked at him, stupified as Steve desperately tried to explain why he was cuddling with a ratty piece of Eddie’s clothing.

“I was gonna give it back," Steve held it tighter against him, like the thought of parting with it physically hurt, "I swear! but you just wouldn't wake up at first and I needed something-"

Eddie’s eyes traveled down, landing on his lips, his self-control evaporating with every stuttered word out of Steve’s mouth.

“A-and I shouldn't have lied, I can give it back, really, I didn-”

“Steve, I’m going to kiss you now.”

“I-what?"

Eddie didn’t wait, couldn't wait, and Steve was so close, looking irresistibly embarrassed. Eddie grabbed behind his neck and pulled him down to his level, pressing their lips together before he could question himself.

Steve was kissing him back before he could even think to regret it. He melted against him, letting the vest drop down in between them. Steve sighed against his lips, resting his hands on Eddie's shoulders to steady himself. Eddie pulled away first, half to double check that this was okay and half to try to will his erection away so Steve could sit in his lap.

Steve looked down at him with dazed eyes, his lips wet with Eddie’s spit. He watched with rapt attention when Steve licked at it, closing his eyes with a pleased hum, like he just loved the taste.

God, he was going to give him a heart attack.

They grinned at each other like idiots, Steve finally breaking the comfortable silence with a shy smile, "Does this mean I get to keep it?"

#steddie ficlet #stranger things #steddie #just keep taking my own scenes because they kinda work in this format!#eddie munson #steve harrington #drabble #the word erection is mentioned #oh my #living the unknown dream

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yuna542 · 1 year

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Connected (OT8 x reader)

Part 11<-

Part 12

Pairing: Chan x reader, Felix x reader, Hyunjin x reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Warnings: Suggestive Themes, Swearing, mentions of sex, pet names, jealousy

Word Count: 5k

Note: Had to split the original part again. So here you go with some extra fluff before we get to that naughty Hyunjin smut… Don’t come at me because of that cliffhanger! I read all of your suggestions and already included some of them into the upcoming parts. So don’t be shy and continue to send me your requests!

On your first day of your new job as the personal manager of Stray Kids, you didn't expect to be standing in front of the man you made out with last night in a club. But it soon becomes clear that the Stray Kids don't just want you as their manager.

Will this passionate arrangement end your career?

The knock on the door of your office jolted you out of your work and the surroundings blurred before your eyes for a moment as you averted your gaze from the laptop. But it was only Chan who slipped through the door and smiled broadly at you.

"Busy?", he asked in passing, and you rubbed your eyes tiredly.

"It's always busy."

He sauntered into the room with his hands in his pockets, looking at the new decorations you had put up. In addition to several small cacti and succulents, you had also placed a few scented candles that filled the room with pleasant lavender and mint. The way he blinked in your direction and the smug smile on his face made you suspicious.

Chan had done something, you just didn't know what yet.

"Are you going to be at rehearsals later?", he asked, dropping down onto your couch.

"Sure. The dancers will be there and it's the last rehearsal before the shoot tomorrow. I want to make sure everything works out."

Chan nodded and propped his forearms on his knees, staring intently at you. He was making you more nervous with every passing second.

"Is there anything you need?", you finally asked, getting up to go to him. He smiled mysteriously again and as soon as you were within reach, he pulled you by the wrist to the couch where you dropped down next to him. He laid your legs sideways across his lap and played with the waistband of your black stockings.

"I just wanted to see you before we start rehearsals."

You rolled your eyes slightly and smirked.

"What is it really Channie?"

He pressed his lips together and traced patterns with his thumb on the bare strip of skin on your thigh that peeked out from under your skirt.

"Am I that transparent?", he asked, amused, and now it was clear. There was that adventurous gleam in his eyes that he always had when he knew something he wasn't supposed to say.

You nudged him impatiently against the shoulder with your foot and said:

"Tell me! What have you done now?"

He quickly grabbed your ankle and playfully pinched your calf.

"Okay okay! Wait!", he laughed and his big hands gripped your thighs tightly, so weren’t be able to nudge him again.

"You need to close your eyes!"

Astonished, you tilted your head and looked at him in disbelief.

"Is this some kind of trick?", you asked, trying to get a clue from his impenetrable expression as to what he was up to.

"No. Just do it okay?", he said, and you sighed loudly.

"Mhh", you mumbled as your eyes closed. Chan looked at you for a few seconds. The way your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks and your sweet lips twisted into an excited smile made his heart flutter.

A sharp gasp escaped you when you felt his lips on your neck, and you had to giggle when he spread wet kisses in a ticklish spot.

"Channie!", you gasped and you squinted your eyes harder. You felt his sweet laugh against your chest, his lips right above your breasts.

"Maybe it was a trick after all. You just look too cute today..."

"What are you doing?", you asked, unable to stop grinning.

"Give me your hand!", he said softly, giving you a quick kiss on the nose. Confused, you held out your open palm to him and he took your hand gently. Then you heard something jingle and something cool touched your palm.

The little thing was as heavy as metal and just as hard.

You frowned and that's when Chan said:

"You can look now."

Slowly you opened your eyes and looked directly into Chan's excited face. His eyes lit up with anticipation and he waited anxiously for your reaction.

Then you looked at your palm and recognized the silver key. It looked like a door key and shone like real silver in the light of the office.

Even more confused than before, you looked at Chan again, not daring to move your hand. Only gradually you started to understand and you could only slap a hand over your mouth in disbelief.

Had he really done that? Had it really worked?

It was too good to be true, so you just stared at him wordlessly, before you could say something.

"Channie, what does that mean?", you asked in a shaky voice, glancing again at the key that lay heavy in your hand.

"We talked to Mrs. Chung and a few others and explained your situation. I did some research. Through your employment contract, JYP Entertainment is obligated to provide you with a place to live. Our proposal was accepted as it has benefits for all parties."

The information didn't quite get through to you yet. Chan wanted to kiss you really bad, you looked so adorable looking at him from wide eyes.

"That means..."

"You're moving in with us. As early as tomorrow. A moving company will take care of everything and bring your stuff to the dorm during the next days.“

Your mind went blank. You could only stare at the key and slowly close your hand around it. Now that the information had slowly reached you, you shook your head.

"Chan, what... how..."

You had no idea what to say. Once again, he had completely overwhelmed you, and you didn't know how you could ever repay him for all that.

"That's incredible," you breathed, and he chortled delightedly.

"I hope this isn't happening too fast for you. But we wanted to hurry since you already have to be out of your apartment by the end of the week."

Chan caught you just in time as you threw yourself into his arms, the key tight in your fist. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself against him until you were sitting sideways all the way on his lap. He held you by the waist and returned the hug with a happy smile. You nuzzled your face to his neck and a broken gasp escaped you, very similar to a sob.

All your worries evaporated into thin air and a heavy stone was lifted from your chest that had taken your breath away for days.

"Thank you Channie! I don't know how I can ever repay you for all that you have done for me."

You felt his body heat and his cologne swirled around you like a pleasant cloud.

"You do such a good job and take such loving care of us... That's the least“, he breathed, enjoying the way your body nestled against his chest.

It seemed like you were never going to let him go and that was just fine with him.

His hands traveled up your back, under your shirt and stroked down your spine to your bra. You detached yourself from him a little to be able to look at him, but without taking your arms from his neck.

His eyes roamed curiously over your face and he was pleased to see your glazed eyes and overwhelmed smile.

"You have no idea how much you're helping me with this... How can I make it up to you?", you asked, stroking your fingers over the back of his neck, to his hairline and nuzzling him, making him grumble in satisfaction.

"Kiss me and maybe I'll think of something", he teased, and you didn't let him tell you twice. You both grinned like idiots and all you had to do was lean forward and your lips collided.

He cupped your face with his hands and put everything he had into the kiss. The key you unconsciously put next to you on the cushion, because as great as it was to have something material that gave you security, it was Chan you wanted and would prefer every time.

He tickled little sighs out of you as he gently bit your lip and your tongue slid into his mouth without resistance. Your hands found their way into his hair and your entire body melted into his. It wasn't long before the kiss became more heated and chaotic.

When he pulled back briefly, his mouth landed on your neck and licked a strip down to your collarbone. As he exhaled, goosebumps spread across your body as the spot tingled cool. You grabbed his hands and put them to your breasts, which he squeezed lightly.

„Can I fuck you right here? At your office?“, he pleaded and kissed your earlobe.

“I’ll do anything you want, Mr Bang”, you teasingly cooed and tugged your hands under his shirt to touch his abs.

“You know how sexy it is when you talk to me like that?”, he grinned and grabbed your ass to knead your skin under your skirt.

It took quite a while before you realized the knock on the door. Breathing heavily, you detached yourselves a little from each other and someone was already pushing down the handle.

You slid off his lap next to him just in time as Na Ji-Deung entered. The young man had been working for the company for a couple of years, but had been responsible for organizational tasks and had only been back in town for the last week.

He was now in charge of managing the economic aspect and quotas of Stray Kids, and now worked closely with you. He was a few years older than Chan and from the very beginning loved to interfere in matters that were actually your area of responsibility.

He was constantly sneaking around near you and knocking on your office more often than it was necessary. That's exactly why you quickly found him very annoying, since he always barged in when it didn't suit.

You also noticed his attempts at flirting, but you kept it to yourself. You really couldn't use any extra stress right now.

Now he was glancing back and forth between you and Chan, who was staring at the ceiling in annoyance, taking a deep breath. Quickly, you straightened your shirt and took your legs off Chan's lap.

"Can I help you?", you asked when he didn't say a word.

He quickly cleared his throat and straightened his tie.

"I wanted to let Bang Chan know that the background dancers are all here now. I couldn't find him so I assumed he was here."

You thought you detected a slightly sour tone, but maybe you were just imagining it.

"You were obviously right about that. You found me", Chan said and stood up. You grabbed the key and slid it into your bra before standing up as well.

"Thanks. We'll be right there", Chan said again emphatically when he didn't move.

"Everyone is already waiting for you", Ji-Deung replied, to which Chan raised his eyebrows with a petrified expression. You quickly grabbed his upper arm.

"Go ahead! I'll be right there", you assured him, and after a brief hesitation and an emphatically long look at Ji-Deung, he nodded and then left the office. Only when he was gone did Ji-Deung seem to breathe a sigh of relief and relax a bit.

"Do you need anything else?", you asked with a smile and that's when he seemed to think of something again.

"Uh yeah... I would need your signature for the upcoming cooperation", he said and held out to you the document he was carrying. You nodded quickly and took it from him.

While you skimmed it, he looked around the room a bit and then stared at the sofa where you had just been making out with the leader of the band you were both working for.

"You get along pretty well with Bang Chan...", he remarked seemingly unintentionally.

As you pulled a pen out of your drawer, you had to smile a bit.

"Yes. We work very closely together, so we spend a lot of time together. Wouldn't be so good if we didn't get along."

He nodded slowly and tensed up again. You put your signature on the document as you found everything to be suitable and handed it back to him. He ran his hand through his short black hair and averted his eyes from your legs, which he had been looking at while you leaned over the desk.

"Are you very close?", he asked then suddenly and you could only raise your eyebrows in surprise.

"I get along well with all the members...", you said, and finally he took the document from you.

"Or what do you want to know?", you added sharply.

Quickly he shook his head as he looked into your face.

"Nevermind."

"Excuse me. I have to work", you said monotonously and finally he understood and said goodbye. You left your office after him and made your way to the practice room. Your heart was still pounding with nervousness.

Did he suspect something or was he just too curious?

If he only knew that you were regularly fucked by the members...

Rehearsals were in full swing and the guys were doing their best with the new choreography. The background dancers were also excellent and all sympathetic and sweet.

During a meeting, you struck up a conversation with one of the younger dancers and you quickly got on the obvious topic.

"I've seen that you can dance very well too", he said, brushing his brown hair out of his forehead.

He was really cute, had dimples when he smiled and was polite.

"I was a dance teacher in America. Now here I just dance for fun", you explained and he nodded attentively.

"That's cool. You'll probably know all the choreography by heart."

"Not yet... But I'm working on it", you laughed and he leaned against the wall next to you.

„I could teach you."

That's when Lee Know elbowed Hyunjin in the side and nodded in your direction. Both of them were busy talking to the choreographers. But Hyunjin immediately clenched his teeth tightly when he saw the handsome young man with you and how he made you laugh.

After a few more runs, your body automatically moved to the music and imitated the dance steps. You would have loved to join them on the dance floor. The performance was energetic and exciting.

The guys were fully engaged and during a small break the handsome dancer came up to you again.

"The steps already look better on you than they do on us", he laughed, and you shrugged it off.

"No... I don't think so. I still don't understand the most of it. For example, the transitions..."

You started fooling around a bit and he showed you some of the steps in more detail. Hyunjin kept looking in your direction and gradually became more and more restless. He couldn't stand the way he looked at you when he gently touched your arm and you blinked at him with your beautiful eyes.

Eventually he couldn't take it anymore and broke away from his position. The guys were busy making adjustments anyway and you winced when he suddenly appeared next to you.

"How do you like it so far?", he asked, naturally putting an arm around your shoulder. As he did so, he didn't take his eyes off the dancer, who immediately became quietly.

"It looks really great. The power goes well with the song”, you said a bit irritated.

Hyunjin smiled slightly.

"What are you up to?", he asked, and the dancer took the floor:

"I'm just showing her some of the dance steps."

Hyunjin nodded and looked down at him like an insect.

"Oh yes. I almost forgot... Lee Know needs you. You should go to him."

"Oh really? Yes okay."

Somewhat confused, he listened to him and walked over to Lee Know, who had never said that. Hyunjin just wanted to remove him from around you.

"What was that about?", you asked in wonder, looking up at him.

"Do you like him?", he asked, and you had to smile lightly. Was he a little jealous?

Just because you were talking to another man?

"He's nice. He offered to help me with the dance cover I wanted to do."

"Hm... You know I can help you too."

Quickly you nodded and smiled knowingly.

"Of course I know that."

"Good..."

He just looked at you for a while. He loved the way you glanced at him. Like he was something fascinating that you couldn't take your eyes off. Hyunjin had to rejoin the others, but didn't miss the chance to stroke your back and seemingly accidentally touch your butt.

As the rehearsal drew to a close, everyone was sweating and out of breath. But it all worked out and the choreography was finally wrapped up. After the guys thanked the staff and said goodbye, you could see the handsome dancer approaching you again.

With gritted teeth, Hyunjin noticed this too.

Why couldn't that stupid boy just disappear?

He stood by you for a while, you chatted casually, and every time you smiled, Hyunjin wanted to run over and finally put an end to it. When you even gave him your cell phone and you exchanged numbers, Hyunjin couldn't stay calm anymore.

Within seconds, he was standing next to you and the smile was gone from his face. Instead, he only radiated coldness and you could only look at him silently.

"The rehearsal is over. You can leave now buddy!"

Although his tone sounded friendly and he patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner, there was no warmth that he usually radiated.

"We were just exchanging numbers in case I ever have a question about choreography or a dance cover. I don't always want to bug you guys about it since you're so busy."

You sounded like you were justifying yourself and the dancer was getting more confused each second. Hyunjin continued to look at him coolly and nodded slowly.

"I think that won't be necessary."

"Jinnie... Can we talk in private?", you whispered then to end the awkward situation. He nodded and together you walked down the deserted hallway.

As soon as you turned to him, you crossed your arms.

"What was that about?", you snapped at him.

"I don't like the way he looks at you."

"Ri-eun is just being nice!"

Hyunjin raised his eyebrows and slowly approached you. Like a predator encircling its prey.

"So you already know that frat-boy's name? Do you really think he wants to help you? He just wants to fuck you, can't you tell?"

His voice got darker and darker and you bumped your back against the wall. Astonished, you looked up at him and audibly exhaled as he trapped you between his arms, which he placed on the wall to the left and right of your head.

"Oh, you're jealous", you noted quietly, and he immediately frowned.

Was that what took his breath away as soon as he saw you with someone other than his members?

"Maybe”, he murmured.

As he spoke, he moved his thumb to your chin, pulling your lips apart just a little before running it down the front of your throat, adding just enough pressure to make you gasp.

"Maybe I'm just scared."

The tension was taut to the breaking point and you barely dared to breathe. His face hovered close to yours and he pushed your legs apart slightly with his knee.

"Scared?", you asked breathlessly and could only stare at his perfect lips.

His skin was still shiny from the exertion and the hairband kept the soft strands of hair out of his face. In his eyes now shone not only the typical warmth, but dangerous heat that could burn you at any moment.

He stroked his fingers further down your neck, leaving a crackle on your skin.

"I am scared because I don't want anyone else to realize how beautiful, smart, funny, kind and just so damn lovable you are. Because maybe then they will steal you from us. We don't want to lose you, princess."

His words made your whole body tingle and you automatically put your hands to his chest to feel him closer. His fingers slid down your collarbone to your chest.

"You're not going to lose me. After all i’ll be moving in with you in a few days."

At that, he lifted his eyes and looked at you in surprise.

"You said yes?"

An amused snort escaped you.

"Of course I said yes. You guys mean just as much to me, haven't you noticed?"

Now all he could do was smile, and it was the most beautiful smile you've ever seen. His hand stroked your neckline and you wanted to feel his touch everywhere at once.

He leaned forward until his mouth hovered next to your ear and you had to suppress pressing against him as your upper bodies touched.

"Come to the dorm tonight... Then I'll show you how much you're really worth to us”, he whispered in your ear and your whole body trembled with excitement. With a smile, he kissed down your jaw with his hand still on your cleavage, eliciting a trembling gasp from you.

Only briefly did his lips detach from your skin and you looked at him in wonder, but his gaze was fixed on something in the hallway.

You followed his gaze and your heart leapt.

Ri-Eul was standing in the hallway and was probably about to leave. He was staring at both of you and Hyunjin made no move to let go of you. Quite the opposite. His lips brushed along your neck again and one hand lay firmly against your breast, while you had to suppress a desperate moan with all your might.

Quickly the dancer tore himself away from the sight and hurried along the corridor until he disappeared.

"Did you have to do that?", you asked, clawing your fingers into his chest as his warm breath brushed against the sensitive skin on your neck. A chuckling laugh escaped him and he lightly squeezed your breast through the fabric of your top.

Of course he had done this on purpose.

He wanted to be seen like that, so the boy would understand that there was nothing to get from you.

"I'll see you tonight", he said with a meaningful grin, squeezing your hip. Then he disappeared back into the practice room to finish discussing with the boys.

Your heart fluttered like crazy when you later stood in front of the dorm's door.

The thought that this would soon be your home was so unreal that for a moment you just stared at the white door. It wasn't until someone came up the stairs behind you that you remembered to ring the bell. While waiting for someone to open the door, you looked down at yourself.

You had put on a long black coat, because although the first flowers were already blooming, the icy wind of winter was still sweeping through the streets.

It had taken you forever to decide what you would wear. Hyunjin's words and his jealousy had not left your mind. You also wanted to give him something, which is why you had chosen a tight white dress. You knew exactly how much he loved white on you and also how much he liked to look at your body, especially your boobs, when you wore something more revealing.

Your outfit for him was safely tucked away under your coat, with only your white stockings peeking out from underneath. When the door opened, a delicious scent of chocolate immediately hit you.

Felix stood in the doorway and smiled when he saw you.

"Hey, Y/N! You're just in time. I need you to do me a favor."

Taken off guard by his radiant energy, you let yourself be pulled into the apartment with amusement. You were a bit surprised, since you had expected to be alone with Hyunjin, but when you saw Changbin putting on his jacket in the hallway and Chan slipping into his shoes in the living room as well, Hyunjin had probably made sure that you were undisturbed tonight after all.

"You have a key now, don't you? Why are you ringing the bell?", asked Changbin with a heartwarming smile.

You slipped out of your boots and Felix directly intertwined your fingers.

"I don't live here yet, Binnie", you replied over your shoulder, as Felix was already pulling you along. You let him lead you through the living room and up to the open kitchen.

"I found out last that you're really moving in with us", he said over his shoulder, and you waved hurriedly at Chan as you passed.

He just grinned a little, since Felix had taken you in before you could even say hello.

In the kitchen, Han was mixing up some protein shake and when he saw you, he leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Yeah. I can't quite believe it yet either", you said, and that's when Jeongin joined you in the kitchen.

When Felix let go of your hand to open the oven, you understood why everyone was now gradually drifting into the kitchen.

"I wanted you to try my brownies first. I tried a new recipe", he said, setting the warm tray down on the sideboard. That's where the tempting aroma came from, and your mouth watered at the mere sight of the brown mixture.

"Felix is mean and didn't allow us to take anything until you tasted it", Jeongin muttered with his arms crossed, watching longingly as Felix began to cut the dough into small rectangles.

"Otherwise, there wouldn't have been anything left", Felix laughed, offering you one of the pieces on a plate.

"You don't have to tell me twice", you said, taking a bite of the juicy brownie.

Indeed, they tasted different than usual. The chocolate was more intense and a slight bitter note made you feel directly addicted. Your eyes got big and as soon as you swallowed, you nodded vehemently:

"These are unbelievably good, Lix!"

Satisfied, he smiled and watched you devour the whole thing.

"I'm glad you like them. Because I prepared a whole can for you. You can take it with you then", he replied, tapping a blue can that was next to the sink.

"Now give it to me!", Han yelled at him and pushed him roughly away from the tin.

He took a piece and Jeongin also made a grab for the brownies. Together with Felix, you went back into the living room and saw Changbin and Chan standing at the door ready to leave.

"Are you guys leaving?", you asked as Felix also grabbed his jacket and you slowly approached Chan.

Before answering, Chan pulled you closer by the waist and kissed you without warning. Completely caught off guard, you looked up at him and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"What was that for?" you asked with an amused smile.

"I just felt like it", he replied, and you grinned at each other like love-struck teenagers.

"Hyunjin made us leave", Lee Know replied from behind you. You hadn't even noticed how he had come into the room. Turning to him, you now saw Seungmin also leaning against the doorframe.

All of them were dressed and on the go.

"That's right. He said that we should be gone by the time he gets home... So we're going to get something to eat in town", Changbin explained, and Han came back out of the kitchen.

"He owes us all dinner now”, he said, coming up to you.

So Hyunjin had planned all this after all. Your heart pounded excitedly in your chest at the thought that he was doing all this to be alone with you.

"You haven't even taken off her coat yet!", suddenly Han snapped at the others, helping you out of your coat like a gentleman. He tossed it to Jeongin, who hung it up in the hallway.

Han's eyes wandered over your body in surprise and you could feel the guys' gazes prickling your skin.

"Shit we should have asked for so much more", Han muttered, looking like he was about to drool at the sight of your cleavage.

"Where's Hyunjin?", you asked in wonder, since he wasn't at the dorm.

Seungmin glanced at his watch, then said:

"He had to go to work again. He should be back any minute, though."

"Come on, let's get out of here! A deal's a deal", Chan then said, but not without giving you a pat on the butt. Sullenly, Han tore himself away from the sight of you and was dragged along by Changbin.

Felix was the last and you held him back by the arm before he could disappear.

"Thanks for the brownies Lix. You really need to show me how to bake!"

His eyes glittered like amber and his hands were firmly on your hips.

"I can show you how I make the brownies. Then you can help me", he said, and you nodded quickly.

"Sounds good."

"Then we'll have a baking date", he smirked and you ran your fingers over his chest.

It sounded like a sweet temptation you couldn't resist. Just like you couldn't resist putting your lips on his and pulling him into a heartfelt kiss.

As if he was just waiting for it, he hastily returned the kiss and you could taste the chocolate on his lips. It was intoxicating and when you broke away from each other, his eyes shone even more.

Just as he was about to lean down to kiss you again, you heard Changbin calling from the stairwell:

"Yongbok! Are you coming?"

And already Minho's voice was echoing off the walls as well:

"Hurry up, brownie boy!"

Sighing, he hung his head and you couldn’t resist kissing his checks and his pretty freckles, while he squeezed your hips.

"See you, jagi", he whispered, giving you one last innocent kiss on the lips.

"Bye, Lixie," you replied, and he walked backwards out the door to look at you until the last moment.

->Part 13

——————————————————————-

Taglist (closed):

@poisonivy21 @elizalabs3 @chartrucewhore @smutlemononeshot @hgema @bookwyrm28 @jeongchaos @jihanlovic @comingupwithacoolnameishard @marked-unknown @yuhjoeyuh @bakedlilgoonie @itstorimf @toomuchtellyneck @ana-stasssiaaa @galaxypox @n034sy @amara-mars @purple-belle @amararosesblog @tori719 @rindomo @freakinthesheets-excelexcel @niaalove @crazyllamasurfer @luunaruwu @mariegalea @kimseungminsprincess @julciaqwerty @officialshania @whore4stucky9104 @foxinnie8 @i-dont-know-me-either @sirenthalia @mixling-blog @httpsmultifandom @hyunlixwife @eastleighsblog @tzalethhwang @queenofdragons12 @fixation-dump @midsoulz @emmxxsworld @scarletrosesposts @sugahannie @jinniespuppy @minervasystem @tasteskz-sworld @hyunlixsbbygirl @purple-bell

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strawberrymilk-sunshine · 1 year

Note

Okay but like...marine biologist MC who's two fave sea animals are eels (any kind) and octopi, and when it's cephalopod week they just barge into Monstro Lounge to tackle Azul and yell 'HAPPY WEEK OF THE CEPHALOPODS' as if it's his birthday and he's just confused af because wha??? Also although kinda invasive she asks questions about if they can do this or that (fun fact; octopi have detachable dicks) she's basically like Hange is to titans

I really like this idea bc it gives me an excuse to show you all my silly little merfolk anatomy headcanons :)

No real plot, just y/n being accidentally annoying.

Warning(s): fem reader, invasive questions

It was a calm afternoon.

It was October 8th, and all was well.

All was well... until you kicked open the doors to the Mostro Lounge and ran as fast as you could towards Azul, who yelled out in absolute terror when he saw you running towards him.

"HAPPY CEPHALOPOD AWARENESS WEEK!!" You yelled, tackling him to the ground.

"Happy.... what?"

"Cephalopod awareness week!" You responded. "You're a cephalopod, right? This is your week!"

"...what are you talking about, (Y/N)?"

You see, you were a marine biologist back in your world. And your favourite animals were eels and octopi.

You enjoy learning about sea creatures of any kind, but especially eels and octopi... and well, now that you know three merfolk- who are literally half marine life- you need to know everything about them.

"So, you and the Leech twins are of the same species, right?" You asked, prying his lips apart with your fingers to get a look at his teeth. "So why are their teeth sharp while yours look more like a human's?"

"Get off me please."

You got up and off of Azul, who also stood up and dusted off his clothes.

"I suppose I'll answer a question." Azul said.

"So are there different species of merfolk? And I don't just mean different bottom halves, I mean like... different classifications!"

"Yes, there are. I myself am what's known as a cecaelia." He explained. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to-"

"Is your blood blue?" You asked.

"...what...?"

"Octopi have copper-based blood, as opposed to human's iron-based blood, which makes octopus blood blue rather than red! So is your blood blue?" You excitedly asked.

"(Y/N), as I said, I have to get back to-"

"Can you regrow your limbs?"

"Arms and tentacles, yes. Now, I really-"

"Do you have bones when in your mer form?"

"Yes but I have none from the waist down. (Y/N) I have to-"

"Do you have a hectoctylus?"

"W-we don't need to talk about that right now." He said, blushing and looking away.

"Heyyyy Azuuuuuuul~!"

"Ah Floyd thank the Seven you're here. Azul sighed. "Please entertain (Y/N) while I manage the Lounge."

"What?"

"Good luck!" Azul said, running off.

...

"So do you have pharyngeal jaws?" You asked, looking upwards at Floyd.

"Pharyngeal-? Like, in my throat?" He asked. "I mean yeah, I do, but I don't see how that's-"

"Why did merfolk evolve the way they did? You're clearly sea creatures, but your top half looks like a human. Why is that?"

"Well, I think there are two theories... it's either that we used to be humans that evolved to live in the sea but like, that's hiiiiiiiighly debated. The other theory's that we evolved to look like this to trick humans into throwing themselves into the sea... so uh... why're you asking this?"

"Were you transparent when you were born?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Are you bioluminescent?"

"Yep."

"How poisonous is your blood?"

"How am I supposed to know that????"

"Can you unhinge your jaw?"

"Yeah. But you know, it's kind of a-"

"Can you show me!!?"

"I mean... I guess I don't see why not..."

"Floyd! This is a family friendly café! This is no place for initiating a mating ritual!" Jade said, hands on his hips.

"I wasn't tryna initiate anything! (Y/N) just asked me to show 'er how I can unhinge my jaw!"

"It's still quite inappropriate."

"Welp. I'll take this as my chance to skedaddle. She's your problem now, Jade."

"Excuse me-?"

"Bye-bye~!"

Floyd ran off much like Azul did earlier.

"Does Azul have a beak?"

"I... what? Why would you want to know that?"

"Do you swallow prey whole?"

"Yes, but (Y/N), I-"

"Is there a food chain with merfolk? Like, do merfolk eat each other?"

"Quite unfortunately, yes. But you should really-"

"Can I get a look at your pharyngeal jaws?!!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Oh wow (Y/N) would you look at the time? The Lounge is about to close! Please feel free to come tomorrow and actually buy something!"

Jade pushed you out the front door.

"Should we just ban her from entering the Lounge?" Azul asked.

"I mean, we tried that with Rook and it didn't help. At all." Floyd said.

"Maybe we should just bite the bullet and let this happen." Jade suggested.

The three sighed.

Oh well. At least they know about this apparent "cephalopod awareness week" now, and can hold some kind of event at the Lounge and make more money. Yay.

#one question i cut was uh #y/n: do you have human genitals when you're in this form?#azul ashengrotto #floyd leech #jade leech #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #azul x reader #floyd x reader #jade x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #floyd leech x reader #jade leech x reader

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andmaybegayer · 7 months

Note

What are some of the coolest computer chips ever, in your opinion?

Hmm. There are a lot of chips, and a lot of different things you could call a Computer Chip. Here's a few that come to mind as "interesting" or "important", or, if I can figure out what that means, "cool".

If your favourite chip is not on here honestly it probably deserves to be and I either forgot or I classified it more under "general IC's" instead of "computer chips" (e.g. 555, LM, 4000, 7000 series chips, those last three each capable of filling a book on their own). The 6502 is not here because I do not know much about the 6502, I was neither an Apple nor a BBC Micro type of kid. I am also not 70 years old so as much as I love the DEC Alphas, I have never so much as breathed on one.

Disclaimer for writing this mostly out of my head and/or ass at one in the morning, do not use any of this as a source in an argument without checking.

Intel 3101

So I mean, obvious shout, the Intel 3101, a 64-bit chip from 1969, and Intel's first ever product. You may look at that, and go, "wow, 64-bit computing in 1969? That's really early" and I will laugh heartily and say no, that's not 64-bit computing, that is 64 bits of SRAM memory.

This one is cool because it's cute. Look at that. This thing was completely hand-designed by engineers drawing the shapes of transistor gates on sheets of overhead transparency and exposing pieces of crudely spun silicon to light in a """"cleanroom"""" that would cause most modern fab equipment to swoon like a delicate Victorian lady. Semiconductor manufacturing was maturing at this point but a fab still had more in common with a darkroom for film development than with the mega expensive building sized machines we use today.

As that link above notes, these things were really rough and tumble, and designs were being updated on the scale of weeks as Intel learned, well, how to make chips at an industrial scale. They weren't the first company to do this, in the 60's you could run a chip fab out of a sufficiently well sealed garage, but they were busy building the background that would lead to the next sixty years.

Lisp Chips

This is a family of utterly bullshit prototype processors that failed to be born in the whirlwind days of AI research in the 70's and 80's.

Lisps, a very old but exceedingly clever family of functional programming languages, were the language of choice for AI research at the time. Lisp compilers and interpreters had all sorts of tricks for compiling Lisp down to instructions, and also the hardware was frequently being built by the AI researchers themselves with explicit aims to run Lisp better.

The illogical conclusion of this was attempts to implement Lisp right in silicon, no translation layer.

Yeah, that is Sussman himself on this paper.

These never left labs, there have since been dozens of abortive attempts to make Lisp Chips happen because the idea is so extremely attractive to a certain kind of programmer, the most recent big one being a pile of weird designd aimed to run OpenGenera. I bet you there are no less than four members of r/lisp who have bought an Icestick FPGA in the past year with the explicit goal of writing their own Lisp Chip. It will fail, because this is a terrible idea, but damn if it isn't cool.

There were many more chips that bridged this gap, stuff designed by or for Symbolics (like the Ivory series of chips or the 3600) to go into their Lisp machines that exploited the up and coming fields of microcode optimization to improve Lisp performance, but sadly there are no known working true Lisp Chips in the wild.

Zilog Z80

Perhaps the most important chip that ever just kinda hung out. The Z80 was almost, almost the basis of The Future. The Z80 is bizzare. It is a software compatible clone of the Intel 8080, which is to say that it has the same instructions implemented in a completely different way.

This is, a strange choice, but it was the right one somehow because through the 80's and 90's practically every single piece of technology made in Japan contained at least one, maybe two Z80's even if there was no readily apparent reason why it should have one (or two). I will defer to Cathode Ray Dude here: What follows is a joke, but only barely

The Z80 is the basis of the MSX, the IBM PC of Japan, which was produced through a system of hardware and software licensing to third party manufacturers by Microsoft of Japan which was exactly as confusing as it sounds. The result is that the Z80, originally intended for embedded applications, ended up forming the basis of an entire alternate branch of the PC family tree.

It is important to note that the Z80 is boring. It is a normal-ass chip but it just so happens that it ended up being the focal point of like a dozen different industries all looking for a cheap, easy to program chip they could shove into Appliances.

Effectively everything that happened to the Intel 8080 happened to the Z80 and then some. Black market clones, reverse engineered Soviet compatibles, licensed second party manufacturers, hundreds of semi-compatible bastard half-sisters made by anyone with a fab, used in everything from toys to industrial machinery, still persisting to this day as an embedded processor that is probably powering something near you quietly and without much fuss. If you have one of those old TI-86 calculators, that's a Z80. Oh also a horrible hybrid Z80/8080 from Sharp powered the original Game Boy.

I was going to try and find a picture of a Z80 by just searching for it and look at this mess! There's so many of these things.

I mean the C/PM computers. The ZX Spectrum, I almost forgot that one! I can keep making this list go! So many bits of the Tech Explosion of the 80's and 90's are powered by the Z80. I was not joking when I said that you sometimes found more than one Z80 in a single computer because you might use one Z80 to run the computer and another Z80 to run a specialty peripheral like a video toaster or music synthesizer. Everyone imaginable has had their hand on the Z80 ball at some point in time or another. Z80 based devices probably launched several dozen hardware companies that persist to this day and I have no idea which ones because there were so goddamn many.

The Z80 eventually got super efficient due to process shrinks so it turns up in weird laptops and handhelds! Zilog and the Z80 persist to this day like some kind of crocodile beast, you can go to RS components and buy a brand new piece of Z80 silicon clocked at 20MHz. There's probably a couple in a car somewhere near you.

Pentium (P5 microarchitecture)

Yeah I am going to bring up the Hackers chip. The Pentium P5 series is currently remembered for being the chip that Acidburn geeks out over in Hackers (1995) instead of making out with her boyfriend, but it is actually noteworthy IMO for being one of the first mainstream chips to start pulling serious tricks on the system running it.

The P5 comes out swinging with like four or five tricks to get around the numerous problems with x86 and deploys them all at once. It has superscalar pipelining, it has a RISC microcode, it has branch prediction, it has a bunch of zany mathematical optimizations, none of these are new per se but this is the first time you're really seeing them all at once on a chip that was going into PC's.

Without these improvements it's possible Intel would have been beaten out by one of its competitors, maybe Power or SPARC or whatever you call the thing that runs on the Motorola 68k. Hell even MIPS could have beaten the ageing cancerous mistake that was x86. But by discovering the power of lying to the computer, Intel managed to speed up x86 by implementing it in a sensible instruction set in the background, allowing them to do all the same clever pipelining and optimization that was happening with RISC without having to give up their stranglehold on the desktop market. Without the P5 we live in a very, very different world from a computer hardware perspective.

From this falls many of the bizzare microcode execution bugs that plague modern computers, because when you're doing your optimization on the fly in chip with a second, smaller unix hidden inside your processor eventually you're not going to be cryptographically secure.

RISC is very clearly better for, most things. You can find papers stating this as far back as the 70's, when they start doing pipelining for the first time and are like "you know pipelining is a lot easier if you have a few small instructions instead of ten thousand massive ones.

x86 only persists to this day because Intel cemented their lead and they happened to use x86. True RISC cuts out the middleman of hyperoptimizing microcode on the chip, but if you can't do that because you've girlbossed too close to the sun as Intel had in the late 80's you have to do something.

The Future

This gets us to like the year 2000. I have more chips I find interesting or cool, although from here it's mostly microcontrollers in part because from here it gets pretty monotonous because Intel basically wins for a while. I might pick that up later. Also if this post gets any longer it'll be annoying to scroll past. Here is a sample from a post I have in my drafts since May:

I have some notes on the weirdo PowerPC stuff that shows up here it's mostly interesting because of where it goes, not what it is. A lot of it ends up in games consoles. Some of it goes into mainframes. There is some of it in space. Really got around, PowerPC did.

#computer stuff #vlsi

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lilaira · 5 months

Note

Okay I am absolutely shit at drawing blood and I was meant to ask: how do you manage to do such gorgeous blood outside of the shade/lumishade effect on sai? CSP's fx are dogshit and I wish to learn from the blood master ~

peach colour and semi transparent brush on shade mode in sai should do the trick also copious amount of photo references

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mrsfrecklesmarauders · 13 days

Text

Friends. Just friends. How could anyone be just friends with someone so gorgeous? Sweat kept dropping down Sirius’s neck, his shirt was wet, his hair was wet, his cheeks were red, his lips were so dry that he kept licking them.

Remus was so hot he couldn't take it. He was literally so hot he couldn't breathe.

"Do you think Snivellus wants to kill us?" Sirius said, taking his time to speak. Remus understood it was so hard to talk, even breathing was hard in this heat.

"Or tempt us" Remus whispered, looking at the drop of sweat on Sirius’s neck.

Sirius heard him because he smiled.

"I reckon is not time for joking, Moony"

They've been locked in the bathroom for what felt like ages. Snape's doing. With one of his chemistry tricks, he had made the temperature and air in the bathroom be very hot. They had tried opening the window but it was stuck. They had tried calling for help but everyone was probably at The Great Hall for dinner. Plus, no one would come, the "Bathroom closed for repairing" sign probably kept everyone away.

Remus was struggling to breath properly and he kept sweating like a pig. But he had to admit that seeing Sirius so sexy like that was a gift.

They had agreed just to be friends though. And friends didn't drool while seeing their friend dying from heat. Would they die, eventually?

"God! I cannot take it anymore" Sirius moaned as he took his sweaty shirt off.

"What are you doing?" Remus asked midway.

But Sirius was already shirtless and Remus couldn't take his eyes away from his naked sweaty torso. He was biting his lip.

Remus hated this beautiful wanker for being a nob. For breaking his heart. For using him. For making him believe they could have something real. Maybe it was Remus's fault for continuing with everything while knowing how Sirius was. 'I am a free spirit' he had said 'I don't want a relationship just have a bit of fun'. Remus knew he accepted those terms but he was still angry that Sirius didn't change his mind.

"I cannot take it. I am too hot"

"Yeah, you are" Remus tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry "I mean we both are right now..."

Sirius looked at him "You should take some layers off, Moony"

Remus had been safe under the school's jumper even in the hottest days. The white shirt would be transparent to show everyone his binder, his feminine torso. So Remus was always covering himself. Though right now he was boiling.

What Sirius was saying was not in a flirty way. But rather concerned of Remus's health.

"I'm okay"

However Remus's self shame and disphoria were stronger than anything else.

"Remus, we are slowly suffocating. It's not that I wouldn't want to see you naked. But right now it's not about that"

"I know! But not thank you"

"Moony..."

"I SAID I DON'T WANT TO, SIRIUS!"

"You can get a fever..."

"SHUT UP!"

Remus finally took off his jumper because he couldn't take it anymore. But there was no relief. Every fabric was burning him. He ripped his tie off and opened a few buttons of his shirt.

He knew Sirius’s eyes were on him. Remus didn't dare looking at Sirius. He felt exposed and he didn't like it.

There was silence for a while after that. Both boys trying hard to maintain their breathing stable.

"If we are going to die, Moony, I have to tell you something"

"We're not going to die" Remus snorted "Snape might be an arsehole but he is not a murderer. He will come and get us"

Sirius twisted his mouth as if he didn't believe him.

"Ok but Moony..."

Remus didn't want to hear more. He was so afraid of hearing that Sirius didn't love him, that Sirius didn't feel anything for him. Remus didn't want to hear how they should just forget what happened between them and move on. Because that was exactly what Remus believed Sirius was going to tell him. Mr. Free Spirit, Don't commit with anything or anyone. Fucking wanker.

"Shall we try opening the window again?" Remus interrupted.

Sirius was slowly panting and Remus tried not to make it weird and sexy in his mind.

"If we couldn't open it when we were stronger, I don't think we would be able to do it now"

In response, Remus struggled to get up.

"Moons..."

Remus noticed the surfaces of the loo like the sink, the stalls' doors, the walls and the floor were getting warmer and warmer.

The window in question was way up, almost reaching the ceiling. Remus thought about the imbecile who decided to build it that way many many years ago. Inconvenient. The window should be open at all times to ventilate any bad smells in the loo. Or maybe it had been open but Snape managed to close it and lock it for his stupid prank.

"Come and help me" Remus said panting as well. He craved some cold water. He would glady get into the freezing lake during winter. God, it was winter outside. They needed some air.

Remus extended his hand to help Sirius get up. The boy looked like he was melting on the floor. Sweating everywhere. Even in that state, he looked absolutely gorgeous. Remus probably looked awful.

Sirius raised his arm lazily and when they touched hands, Remus realized Sirius’s skin was sticky and hot. 'Do not make this sexy' Remus told himself as he put all his strength in lifting Sirius from the floor.

"Come on, get on me" Sirius said once he was on his feet.

"What?" Remus's cheeks surely were red. He could excuse it with the boiling temperature.

"I'll lift you so you can open the window" Sirius explained, looking exhausted "You're lighter....like a bag of bones"

Sirius smiled at his own comment. Remus wished he didn't love him this much.

"Fuck you"

Sirius made kind of a ladder with his hands. Remus climbed into it and sat on Sirius’s shoulders. Sirius was groaning and whining in the process. It was an awkward moment as well. Sirius’s face was too close to certain parts. And damn Remus was sweating everywhere even down there. And shit, why did Remus have to be a horny teenager full of hormones?

Something was clear. If he got out of here, he was going to kill bloody Snape.

"Fuck... Okay.... A little bit to your left, Sirius... The other left, prick.... There there there!!"

"Hurry up, Moony!! You're heavier than I thought!" Sirius said with a grunt.

Remus managed to get to the window. But it was indeed stuck. He tried sliding it with all his strength and nothing. He didn't have much strength anyway.

"Fuck, it's hard" Remus moaned.

"Sorry what?"

Please please please. Don't think dirty, Remus.

"The window, Sirius. Hard to open"

To Remus's surprise, Sirius giggled.

"I've never thought I'd be between your legs this fast, Moons"

Stupid little bastard. Remus was going to kill him.

That comment made Remus so nervous some how that he lost his balance. He slid from Sirius’s neck to Sirius’s waist, only because he grabbed him before he dropped to the hot ceramic floor. Then gravity pulled Remus back but since he was wrapped around Sirius’s body, he pulled the other boy down with him.

Remus hit the floor first and Sirius with his naked sweaty torso, and kind of a hard bult on his trousers, fell on top of him.

They both let out groans and gasps that in other circumstances would have sounded suspicious.

If the Devil exited, he was surely delighted by the way Remus's mind was sinning as he stared into Sirius’s gray eyes. Mind full of indecencies. Body full of desire.

"Get off me! You're too hot!" Remus exclaimed "I mean in temperature!" he added seconds later.

This was too embarrassing to be true.

"Sorry" Sirius mumbled as he slid aside, facing the ceiling "You're hot as well, Moony" he added with a teasing tone "And I don't only mean in temperature"

Even though Remus was feeling weaker for the effort he had made, and felt his body was on fire and at the same time made of wax, he managed to laugh.

Luckily Sirius laughed with him. Though their voices sounded weaker.

"What, friend? Does this provoke something in you?" Remus asked jokingly.

"Do you feel something, friend?" Sirius replied with his cheeky voice.

Remus couldn't even explain all the wild things he was feeling.

Remus's head turned to look at the boy next to him. Sirius was already looking at him, all sweaty and red. So beautiful and sexy it was killing Remus.

Sirius scooped closer. Remus didn't push him away. He was too weak to move anyway.

"I want to kiss you so badly" Sirius whispered.

Remus was out of breath.

"I am still angry with you"

Remus wanted to kiss him too. So so badly.

"I know" Sirius closed his eyes in tiredness.

Remus was feeling very sleepy as well.

"I want to kiss you too"

Remus closed his eyes, because suddenly he couldn't keep them open.

Remus was barely getting air into his lungs. His body was so hot he didn't even feel it anymore. His clothes were wet and sticky. This was surely what dying felt like.

If these were his last thoughts, then all that Remus could think was how much he loved Sirius Black. There was anyone in the world that could make him feel this way. There was no one that he adored most. And he needed to tell him. Maybe forgive him. And then tell him that there was nothing Sirius could do to make him stop loving him.

"Sirius..."

"Mmm..."

"Sirius, wake up..."

Nothing.

"I told you, Professor. I saw Black and Lupin getting into that bathroom and lock themselves in there. Doesn't it seem suspicious?"

"Well, it does Snape"

Snape? That bugger had been planning everything.

"I bet they are planning one of their silly pranks"

Remus had to do something.

"Sir... Siri...."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"OPEN UP, YOU TWO!!"

More knocking.

"I SAID OPEN UP!"

Remus was drifting to sleep when he heard a loud BANG of the door being kicked open.

Then a yell:

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?"

Maybe the homophobic wanker of Slughorn would have a heart attack seeing two half naked boys lying on the floor covered in heat.

But Remus didn't care anymore. He heard distant noises as he drifted to sleep. And bam, he was unconscious.

#The time Snape accidentally played matchmaker #marauders #maraudersera #muggleau #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #trans remus lupin

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machiavellli · 7 days

Text

Lip oils recommendations🍒✨

@gufu-vire I’ve always wanted to this, thanks for the opportunity 😌

From the most expensive to the cheapest…

I. Clarins Lip Comfort Oil - 30$

I’ve tried those two shades (Cherry and Pitaya) for months now and those are simply amazing. 1. The color is so pretty and it absolutely doesn’t get into the lines of your lips. 2. Very hydrating, I have crusty dry lips and I can use this on a daily basis without having my lips dry at the end of the day. Also the container doesn’t leak! Lovely soft candy smell too! My only complain is the price…worth it yes, but so expensive. Wide range of shades. 9.5/10

II. Gisou Honey Infused Hydrating Lip Oil - 28$

I would eat those for breakfast. They are so shiny, so tasty and the colors are beautiful. I’ve only tried those two shades, Mango Passion Punch and Watermelon sugar, and oh my if they have a good taste and smell, never had a lip oil smell THIS good. Also, this is so hydrating, really. Your lips are going to be SO SMOOTH (so comfortable), it works just like the most hydrating lip balm you could possibly find. I am so glad they did this tinted version, because I couldn’t bare the smell of the original one (it smells like fried food and even if that hydrating, I couldn’t use it😭). The best lip oil I’ve ever had (I only had those for a week, but I’ve been using them constantly, but in case something goes wrong in the future, I’ll do an update here). Also very expensive, but shut up and take my money for this. And again, SO SHINY OMG. 10/10

III. CLINIQUE Almost Lipstick - 25$

This is not actually a lip oil, like, not totally, because it is still emollient like an oil and also I wanted to talk about it since it was everywhere last year. The color got me obsessed with berry lip tints, it changed my idea of “ideal color” forever. Still, I expected so much better. I have dry lips, as I mentioned before, and this isn’t hydrating enough and for a product of THAT price it isn’t really acceptable. My lips always crack after not even thirty minutes, the trick is to put underneath a basic transparent lip balm and voilà, but you know…in italy I payed even more than in the us for this product and I was disappointed (30€ which is way more that 25$). The black honey from clique was a cultural reset and I shall try one day the liquid form, hopefully that will be more hydrating. Still, the color on the lips is so beautiful yet natural. Not sentenced. 7/10

IV. Pacifica GLOW STICK Lip Oil - 11$

This is what the Clinique one should’ve been. I originally bought this because I was searching for a dupe of the black honey and, oh my, if I striked right (I bought this one before the og). The effect on the lips is the SAME, you can’t tell them apart, the shade is Crimson Crush. Also, this one really does the job, it is hydrating, not as much as other presented here before, but it works well and the price is good! Not sentenced. There are also other very cute shades. Also I think that a stick lip oil is genius. 9/10

V. NYX FAT OIL LIP DRIP - 9$

This one almost feels like a lip gloss from how glossy it is. Also the shades can be either sheer, a slight tint, or also almost a full color. I have the shades Status Update and That’s Chic and I used them a lot this summer. The color doesn’t last too long, but it a lip oil what do you expect, it’s transferable. Not sentenced. Can get in the lines of your lips. Very pretty overall, very good price and also great shade range (I want to try some more of those uhh). Container doesn’t leak! A very solid 8/10

VI. Essence hydra kiss LIP OIL - like 3-4$

Lovely lip oil, the formula is very comfortable and soooooo hydrating. An awkesome every day lippie and colors are very nice. I have no complains except one: the container leaks. I can’t bring it anymore with me because it has become all sticky on the outside, thankfully we had a long run before this, I’m almost out of it anyway (I ate it gnam😀) . Not sentenced. Otherwise, sooo good! 7.99/10 for the container not the product

VII. Essence Cranberry tinted lip oil - also 3-4$

This lip oil is THAT GIRL. Amazing, so surprised the first time I tried and now look at us, at the second empty bottle, hoping to find another one somewhere, since it is hard to find it in store. So hydrating and you get the cutest tint!! Essence never does one wrong when it comes to shiny lips and I love them for that. The container doesn’t leak!! Not sentenced. 10/10!

Thanks for coming to my ted talk hihi🫶

#I had so much fun #I have so many lip products because that’s the only thing I wear tbh #beauty #girl blogger #girblogging #lip oil #sephora #my blog stuff #makeup

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666writingcafe · 2 months

Note

can you write about how M!MC gets hard(under his pants 😏)when he sees Asmo for the first time

I wonder if you are the same anon that wanted me to write about Asmo kicking M!MC's nuts. If so, I'm glad you liked it well enough to submit another request.

In any case, my thoughts about it are under the cut. Apologies in advance about the formatting; I'm currently on mobile.

The first time the two of them meet isn't during the exchange program, but several months prior at a coffee shop. M!MC is in the middle of studying, while Asmo has been ordered by Solomon to get him a cup of joe. M!MC notices the increase in noise as people begin fawning over Asmo but tries his best to block it out. He has to remain focused on his assignment.

A few minutes later, M!MC catches a pink flash out of the corner of his eye. Glancing in its direction reveals Asmo leaning against the counter, loudly chatting with one of the baristas.

Except that he's not wearing anything pink.

M!MC almost dismisses it as a trick of the light when he notices it again. A shimmery, almost transparent pink radiates off Asmo and starts surrounding the barista.

Deciding it best to take a break, M!MC pushes his assignment off to the side and pulls out his sketchpad. Normally, he would try to take a reference picture, but his mind has already done it for him.

He's so engrossed in his drawing that he doesn't see Asmo receive his order.

Or that Asmo meets Solomon outside.

Or that Asmo tells his companion to wait a moment while he ducks back inside.

No, M!MC doesn't notice anything until he hears someone ask,

"What are you drawing?"

Looking up reveals Asmo looking directly at him. M!MC momentarily freezes as he begins scolding himself for drawing someone without their permission.

"May I?" Not hearing any objections, Asmo gently picks up M!MC'S sketchbook and flips it towards him, examining the portrait on the open page.

The longer Asmo looks at it, the more embarrassed M!MC gets. He feels his face grow hotter and, to his dismay, his pants getting tighter. He's never had anyone express this much interest in his art, and of course the first person who does happens to be way out of his league.

Flipping the page over, Asmo grabs one of M!MC's pens and scribbles a note on the back of the picture.

"I'll see you around," he states, handing the sketchbook back and winking before turning around and leaving the shop again.

M!MC feels like he's shaking as he reads Asmo’s note.

I've been drawn countless times, but you are the first artist that has truly captured my aura. I am honored to be your muse.

#obey me shall we date #obey me mc #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus #obey me solomon

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vivelarevolution13 · 30 days

Text

moving like a river of trouble crossing

Rating: M | Word count: 10,260 | Tags: Set in the lead up to and right at the end of CATWS, Character Study, PTSD, Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug (And A Friend), Wait No Not That One, Going Down Memory Lane, SHIELD Has Shitty Therapists, Horrible People Still Acting Like People, Captain America Politics, Natasha's Love Language Is Surveillance, Folks Trained For Violence Engaging In You Guessed It: Violence | Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff, implied Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow (non-explicit, but still reasonably fucked up by virtue of Rumlow being Rumlow)

(belated) fic for @catws-anniversary, day 2. Thank you so much for putting it together, guys! | march 27th theme: steve rogers | prompts: guilt, "it kind of feels personal" | part of a WIP to be published on AO3

and because I apparently can't help myself with the music-fic thing, playlist for this here

Good morning Captain Rogers. It is 05:15 AM, EST. Up 'n' at 'em. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 04:41 AM, EST. Would you like me to set the blinds to a lower density? Don't you nuh-uh at me, sunshine - get your lazy ass out of bed. You're gonna be late. Good morning, Captain Rogers. I understand you are under some duress right now, but please do not be alarmed. It is 2:32 am, EST. The year is 2012. You are in New York City. You are safe. Please try to take a breath. Would you like me to call anyone?

Good morning, Steve. Good morning. You're gonna be late. You awake? You awake yet?

Sure. Sure, he's awake.

That afternoon he packs his bag, the single duffle that fits all of his earthly possessions. He tries to ignore the vaguely smug tone of Fury's voice when he tells him they already have an apartment set up for him in DC: ten minutes from HQ, real convenient, and has he ever been to see Lincoln Memorial? He'll love it, it's a nice spot for a walk, especially in the summers, or so Fury's been told.

Steve's been to DC, but he's never beeen to the memorial, never seen much of the city outside the confines of the hotel the USO booked for them. He thinks he can count the grand total of places he's gotten to see up close on his right hand, and half of them were in the European Theatre. The other half he's running from now.

He's sure it'll be grand, he tells Fury. Beats the smell of moldy brick in the heat and a patchwork city manifesting ghosts out the corner of his eye, he doesn't say. ii.

They get him a therapist as a part of his onboarding at SHIELD. It’s due diligence, they say, in the aftermath of New York – someone to help him transition into his new role. But it’s been almost nine months now, and Steve’s learning their language, the words that get caught up in between all the red tape: saying assistance when they mean overwatch.

“This is supposed to be a safe space, not an interrogation,” the woman says at the start of her first evaluation, meeting all of his unease with a reassuring smile, and something about the misplaced quality of it puts him on a knife’s edge.

He only pieces it together the second time he’s called in to meet with her, when he's a bit more clear-headed and a whole lot more impatient than during their initial encounter. It only takes a few perfunctory exchanges before he starts registering the image as a whole: the painstakingly nonthreatening, gentle demeanor, the conservative clothes she’s wearing; the pale complexion and the sharp features and the unmistakable lilt to her voice, soft and rolling and decidedly more old country than east coast.

It would feel almost perverse, he thinks from a distance, if it wasn’t already painfully transparent and tactically inept to boot: this attempt at the same trick that didn’t work in their favor the first time around. He supposes he can’t blame them for trying to fill in the gaps between what they could scrounge up from paper and old photographs with something predictable and comforting, something expected of his background and what is now probably regarded as an antiquated time period.

He also knows that going off of little information when dealing with a potential threat is dangerous. What’s even more so, he thinks as he nods politely along to the lady's explanation of their work together, is believing you know more than you do, and that’s the easiest mistake to exploit.

Here's a fact probably still recorded somewhere on a faded death certificate: Sarah Rogers never lived long enough to get gray in her hair like that.

Here’s another, probably only still recorded in his memory and nowhere else: his mother had been fiercely caring, yes, and compassionate to a fault, but her kindness had never translated to docility, and it sure as hell had never translated to softspoken dishonesty.

So when the shrink bearing a near-painful resemblance to her starts asking incisive questions enshrouded in unoffensive words and indulgent tones, Steve packs his entire reality into a series of half-truths without batting an eye and doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

Yes, he’s eating. Yes, he’s sleeping well. No, he’s not on edge – sure, it gets hard, sometimes, but exercise helps, meditation, music. Going out into the world, meeting new people. Trying new things. Yes, he’s ready to be back in the field. No, not so much so that he’s itching for it. Yes ma’am, he’s doing fine, just fine, thank you for asking. iii.

“I heard Hannah’s single,” Romanoff's saying, and it’s not the first time his brain is latching onto the fact that she’s keeping pace with him without losing too much breath, without any discomfort in the cool air that's just starting to roll in as fall bleeds into the city, painting it in darkening evenings and dimming colors. “You know, from forensics? Glasses, leggy, science-y type. Blonde – you like blondes, right?”

“I’m starting to think you only have one thing on your mind,” Steve pants, pushes harder ahead until his calves start burning, just to see if she'll allow herself to follow. Keep moving, keep moving. You awake yet? “Gotta admit, it’s making it kinda hard to enjoy all this quality time we spend together.”

“What, you’re going to stop inviting me on runs? Aw, Rogers. Break a girl’s heart, why don’t you.”

“It’s not really an invitation if you just show up without me letting you know where I’m going, you know.”

She shrugs. “I needed to burn some energy, and you’re not exactly the most unpredictable person in this city.” Her ponytail whips over his shoulder as she follows his sharp right turn around the War Memorial and passes him towards Constitution Gardens, too close and competitive. “Brunette, then? There’s a girl in operations, real tough, good with a gun – at least your propensity for that type has been well documented, but I guess you didn't really have enough time to enjoy it, y'know, all the way –”

Steve knows she’s talking about Peggy, he does. It doesn’t help the hard-wired alarm bells going off in the back of his head any. He digs his heels in, skids to a stuttering halt over the wet pavement, and somewhere in the back of his consciousness he’s quietly pleased that it catches Romanoff off guard a little.

“What, too far?” she jokes, but her eyes are quick over his face; cataloguing the boundaries, the places she can still push.

He's sure it's well-meaning, as much as a blatant handler can get. But some habits are just harder to shake than others. That, he's intimately familiar with.

“If I say yes, will you stop? Or at least stop tailing me?”

“I don’t tail you. That’s below my paygrade,” she says, mouth quirking up at the corner like that’s all the punchline she needs as she types something into her smartphone. “I’ll text you her number. She likes spicy food and old movies.”

“Sure, fine. Great.”

“It is. You'll see.” The phone disappears back into one of the many hidden pockets of her skin-tight leggings. The marvels of modern technology, Steve thinks. Natasha quirks a challenging brow. “Now can we start the actual run finally or have you reached your limit, grandpa?”

He's all but ready to chicken out of the date all week, fighting the urge to cancel at the last minute, but he figures the girl doesn't deserve his bad manners just because he feels like spiting Romanoff when she tries to play his puppetmaster.

In the end it goes...surprisingly well. As Romanoff described, Lina’s beautiful and sharp and a little closed off, tough as nails and maybe even more rigid in her approach than him, but once they get over the initial hurdle of awkwardness and expectations the conversation flows with relative ease. They swap the basics, they talk interests and habits and what moving to DC's like, fun little stories from growing up; he tells her about the butcher on his block when he was a kid that kept a rooster in the backyard, and she tells him about the kid on her floor at community college that set the dorm on fire trying to boil an egg. They talk SHIELD and her work training the new recruits and there’s a spark in her eye as she dives into giving him a breakdown of what he should look into, BJJ and MMA and gyms around town that would be discreet enough to take him in.

“SHIELD’s got plenty of hand-to-hand experts,” she says in a pensive tone over the dessert, “but it can get a little…”

Steve chuckles around his spoonful of the sticky rice, the sweetness of the mango across the back of his palate soothing the previous burn of the spice. Turns out he likes Thai food, too. Who would’ve thought. “Intense?”

“Testosterone-riddled, I was gonna say,” Lina grins, conspiratory. “And paranoid. Not the best scene if you just want to learn,” and he nods along because it’s true, and because it’s a relief to have someone else say it for him.

So it’s nice, and sweet, and ultimately entirely impersonal. He walks her to her door and she gives him a kiss on the cheek, and when she explains how she’s not really looking for anything right now her dark eyes are warm and honest but not overly apologetic. It’s a gesture he’s grateful for.

“Besides, not to be blunt, but you don’t seem all that…” She trails off, waving her hand.

He winces. “Interested? I am, really, but...” And that’s just it, isn’t it. He’s interested; she’s wonderful, just his type, seems to like him well enough. But.

“Look, I get it. We’ve all been there. Can’t really avoid it in this business.” She shrugs as if to say what can you do, smiles up at him knowingly. “Wrong place, wrong time, right?”

And Steve thinks, yeah. Yeah, something like that. iv.

“–piece of shit, every time, wet sand all up in the fuckin’ thing. Goddamn Kandahar all over again,” Rumlow’s muttering, agitated and half to himself, and Steve doesn’t ask about the last part, just dumps his own gear on the rack and drops down onto the bench. They might be friendly, but they’re not friends – Rumlow doesn’t owe him his history. “I get sent to the fuckin’ desert in this weather one more time, I’m gonna start missing New York winters.”

The jet’s engines hum at his back, adrenaline leaving his body in slow pulls as he watches Rumlow work, notes the intermittent scarring over his hands as they strip the jammed gun down like it’s muscle memory, quick and capable. There's not a spot on him that seems unmarred, really - the scars are a continous, scattered motif up to his face, moving faint in the dim light of the jet.

Loved being in the ring, he'd said once with a wry grin, as far back as I can remember. Might've gotten the shit kicked out of me more than was strictly necessary, though. Accounts for me ending up here, in any case.

He’s drawn this exact scene, it occurs to Steve before he can push it away; down to the boxer's shoulders, down to the complaining, and more than once.

“You from the city?” he offers, an easy distraction that Rumlow seems grateful for.

“Yeah. Yeah, born and raised right off of Arthur Ave.”

“No shit?”

“Yep. Good old Belmont.” He looks up, gaze turning sharp at whatever he catches on Steve’s face before he can look away. “Wouldn’t think you’d know where that is. You ever even been past Central Park?”

Steve gets a flash of washed-out color and brilliant light, of Art and Charlie and the rest of them from the Y dragging him up to Harlem; thinks of the queens with their elaborate glamour and loud, unapologetic laughter and that last wet spring before the cops started shutting everything down, of stumbling tipsy towards the A down 155th Street with empty pockets and Jeanie giggling into his shoulder about some honey-eyed daddy that gave her a sweet kiss goodnight. A well-insulated secret, a fleeting memory of feeling like he could swallow the world whole.

It’s not what Rumlow’s talking about, he knows. He nods anyway.

“Loved that neighborhood. My folks moved us out to Staten when I was in high school, though,” and Steve must make an involuntary face at that because Rumlow chuckles and says, “Alright, tough guy. Not all of us had the privilege of living within two blocks of Prospect Park.”

“Neither did I, but it sure beat Staten," Steve snorts. "And it wasn’t even as much of a privilege, back then.”

“Yeah, I think you’ll notice a lot of things’ve changed.” He tilts his head, scratches contemplative at his stubbled chin. Steve wonders if he’s projecting the bitterness in Rumlow’s voice. “A lotta things’ve gone to shit in that place. Food’s still way better than fuckin’ DC, though. Not nearly enough Italians over here.”

“Yeah. All that white marble and not a single decent, roach-infested deli. Real shithole. Should put that on the tourist brochures,” Steve says after a moment, testing the waters. It gets another laugh out of Rumlow, low and maybe a little surprised, and the sound settles like molten lead in Steve’s stomach, grounding. v.

One morning in November he gets a phone call from a Washington Post journalist asking for his statement on the newly planned Captain America exhibit, and then in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it feat of persuasion it’s three days later and he’s somehow been roped into a grand opening ceremony, a speech and a press conference at the Smithsonian.

It lasts for-fucking-ever.

By the time he's back in his neighborhood his ears are ringing with leftover noise and applause, his cheeks sore from a constant smile that'd felt more like a slashed tire than a friendly gesture even as he was forcing it. He'd reverted back to the Best Foot Forward, Always mentality of the bonds circuit quick enough - but at least back then it felt like it had a marginal purpose, no matter how flimsy or false. Back then it didn't drain him this much, he doesn't think, no matter how frustrating. Best Foot Forward these days feels more like sleepwalking his way off a cliff than anything else.

The second he's through the door he shrugs out of the tie and starched shirt chafing at his neck, tries not to think about how he still would've preferred all the commotion and the pretense to the unfamiliar silence of the otherwise big apartment building. Tries to give the feeling resurfacing in him now that he's got attention enough for it a name other than unbearable.

Here's the thing: pain, Steve knows on an intimate level, is something you get used to. It's not to say you forget it exists completely: you just subsume it, you learn to expect it. It’s less about it becoming a habit and more that it becomes a part of you when you’re not looking: fills up all the empty crevices it can find and creates a mold, and that’s the shape you start to take if you live with it long enough. The problem with that is that the longer it goes on, the less space in you there is for other things.

He was five the first time he got really sick. It'd started simple enough – the winter of ’23 came early and sudden, and New Year’s Eve found him in bed with a fever that earned the dreaded prefix scarlet soon enough when the spread of dotted red started taking up more and more space on his body. He'd spent two weeks feeling like someone's dangling him off the edge of the unknown, and much longer than that after with his mother's watchful eyes following him from the window whenever he left the house, like she couldn't force herself to look away.

But he made it. Despite all indications, little Stevie Rogers didn't die, and it was a miracle with a capital M. All he had to do is make peace with having a somewhat faulty heart as a keepsake of his survival and maybe never playing for the Dodgers, which is not to say it stopped him from trying.

But then next year it was the whooping cough so bad it cracked a rib, then his left ear giving out on him after a prolonged sinus infection, then the asthma he barely even noticed amidst everything else until it layed him out flat midway through a game of stickball bad enough it landed him in the hospital. The minor league dreams dissolved fairly quickly after that.

In ’25 he missed more school than he attended. The kids from down the block came round to call on him less and less, and it wasn't too long before they forgot completely and it was just him and a handful of toy soldiers left, with names like Joe and Jack and occasionally if he allowed himself, Steve. Their neighbors started smiling at him more. The grocer started handing him a fistful of candy under the counter every time they came in, looking at his mother in a way that said sorry for your loss and that Steve hated with a passion, least of all because he couldn't even enjoy the pity because hello, here comes diabetes. Then it was the pernicious goddamn anemia and months and months of the liver-fucking-everything diet followed closely by its sworn enemy the ulcers, and then the growing pains, and then the bad back, and then the bum joints –

Here’s the thing about pain: the longer you carry it, the more you forget you’re doing it in the first place. You ignore it because it’s the only way to survive it, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? And that’s when you start thinking you have it under control. You start to think you’ll be ready when it comes for you again.

Here’s the other thing about pain: you’re never ready. It comes as a surprise each time. He wasn’t ready in ‘30 when the neighborhood suddenly started reeking of despair and death and he wasn’t ready in ’36 when his ma went and he wasn’t ready in ’44 when he got shot in the neck and thought oh, so it can still hurt like this. I can still bleed.

Then '45 rolled around and a new thought followed, a miserable dot at the end of a sentence: maybe bleeding out would've hurt less. At least it would've made us even.

None of that experience and understanding stops him feeling it now, again, still, like an interrupted line from that first fever chill to here, standing in the middle of his living room with a glossy brochure full of dead faces in his hand and an exhaustion so deep it roots him to the spot.

And then there’s the anger, of course: equally familiar but much more muted, less expressive than it used to be, dancing around the edges of everything else. He looks back down at the crumpled pamphlet, to where the folded-unfolded-refolded creases cut through the title:

Captain America’s team: the top tier of the World War II effort and a leading example of integration!

As if they were somehow Captain America's or even the US army’s to begin with; as if it was encouraged and Steve didn’t have to stand around in moldy tents arguing his brand-new, star-spangled ass off with Major Whatshisname and Colonel Whoever-the-fuck for days on end just to keep them eating in the same mess hall and sleeping in the same barracks. Nothing about any of the ugly parts, about the blood and the bureaucracy and the bullshit. Nothing about any of them, either - no mention of Dernier's politics or Gabe's professorship or Morita's writing. Not a single inch of space left for their families or their own stories except as a footnote in Steve's own, a way to make it picture perfect.

Nothing about Bucky other than the barebone facts: he was Steve's friend, he was a good soldier, he died. The meat and blood and soul of the person, left out; the fact of whose fault it ultimately was, conveniently gone.

And that name – the Howling fucking Commandos. The bunch of them would’ve busted a rib laughing at it, laid out all grandiose like that. For one, it’s still as ridiculous as it was back then – sounds more action novel than historical account and distinctly less bureaucratic and arbitrary than the Specialized 107th, which is what they were strictly called in the paperwork. Personally, Steve always thought that out of the variety of nicknames they’ve been awarded, the Invaders was by far the most fitting. Truer to wartime, to what it was they really did, and far more threatening if it ever reached the other side of the line. Then again, from what he’s gathered so far, it seems like America’s done far more than its fair share of invading since. It definitely accounts for the 180 degree change in branding.

Turns out it’s still all about selling comic books and war bonds. And Steve, too caught up in his own sorry wallowing, is just going along with it.

Jesus, he thinks, the tone of it coated in a wry, familiar voice nestled in the back of his brain but much harsher than it ever was in reality, drop the philosophy for one goddamn minute. Anybody ever tell you idle hands are the Devil's playthings? Get moving, Rogers. Trade the speeches in for something useful.

So he does: chucks the paper into the empty white fruit bowl collecting dust on the countertop, turns the TV on to a random channel to break the silence. He doesn’t recognize the title of the movie playing but it’s soothing, the background awash with static and the accents just familiar enough to make for pleasant white noise. He heats up his leftovers, sprawls out on the couch and gets to reading the reports Fury had unloaded on him, tuning in every so often to the witty back-and-forth dialogue. It’s maybe half an hour of squinting at indecipherable bureaucratic jargon before he finally gives up, lifts his head to rub the sleep from his eyes.

One of the men on screen – Nick, Steve thinks, or maybe that one’s Mikey, he hasn’t been following along all that well, to the work or the film – is trying to dissuade the other from visiting his mother’s grave in the dead of night.

It’s 1 in the morning.

That makes it nicer.

It doesn’t make it anything, Nick. A grave is a grave. There’s not a religion in the world that says a person’s soul is buried with them in their grave, the man argues, and it’s like whiplash pulling him out of the serene lull, the memory of a name over a plot in Greenwood he’d never gone to visit, and he thinks, a little disoriented – of course there’d be no soul in that patch of land. The grave itself is empty.

They’d given him reports in the beginning, too: a neat stack of papers, most of them stamped DECEASED in glaring red letters, and the single mocking MISSING IN ACTION. At the very end there’d been a laughably short list of contacts; among them a phone number and address for one Rebecca Barnes-Proctor.

God help us all, he can imagine the voice of George Barnes saying even now, jokingly abject, our Becca’s married a Proddie.

But there had been briefings, then, and the shitshow over Manhattan, and in between all of that the days where he couldn’t even find the will to leave his apartment block, let alone go to Brooklyn. Over and over, he’d given himself the same excuses as with Peggy – it would be too much, too soon, too selfish to usurp her life like that.

Of course, the truth of it all was much simpler. All too cowardly, too, in a way that has the guilt blooming with a vengence somewhere in the pit of his stomach: he didn’t have the guts to look Bucky’s baby sister in the eye, no matter her age, and say, I’m sorry you didn’t get a body to bury. I’m sorry the one time he needed it I didn’t do the job he spent his whole life doing for me. I’m sorry I left him behind when it should have been me down there in the first place.

He watches the two men stumble around in the muddy dark of the graveyard and yell and bicker in a way that strikes Steve as bitterly melancholy, the familiarity of it unmooring.

Mike, y’know what? Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do, Nick finally admits at the foot of the tombstone, wild-eyed and devolving into a rambling laugh, and ain’t that a kicker. Welcome to the club.

It’s very hard to talk to a dead person, we have nothing in common. Hi, ma.

Nick, you’re making me forget the kaddish, Mike chides with mounting frustration as Nick keeps giggling and it’s not funny, it’s really not, the whole premise of it deeply morbid, but Steve finds himself laughing right along with Nick’s hysterical hiccups, his childlike plea of I don’t wanna die, ma.

You don’t get a choice in the matter, his own mother had told him when he was maybe 8 or 9, faced with the concept of death the first time when Mrs. Kowalski from 4C got sick, if that’s the way the chips fall, then that’s God’s will. But what matters is the middle, what you choose to do with it. Do you understand?

He didn’t, really, not back then, and ten years later when they’d lowered her into the ground all he could think was: what is the point of it, anyway, of all those right choices, if all that happens is you end up dying alone?

Steve hadn’t been, of course. For all of the isolation he’d felt during those last few months of his mother’s illness, he’d never been really alone. There’d been the Barnes’ and the old ladies from church and even some of the folks Sarah had helped treat at the hospital coming by and Bucky, Jesus Christ; Bucky crying at the funeral and saying kaddish for months like Sarah was his own and letting Steve rage and lash out until all the fight had drained out of him, his arms like a vice around Steve’s shaky frame.

And there’s the actual goddamned truth, he thinks, bone-weary. The only truth that matters, the one that’ll never get written on any museum walls: Steve was only ever as strong as the people propping him up.

I think that’s the reason we’re such good friends, Nick is saying to Mike when he tunes back in, and Steve’s not laughing anymore, hasn’t been ever since his throat had gone tight a long few minutes ago, because we remember each other from when we were kids. Things that happened when we were kids that no one else knows about but us. It’s in our heads. That’s how we know they really happened.

What are you talking about? I know what really happened when I was a kid.

Yeah, but no one else does, Nick says, painfully earnest. I mean, everyone we knew as kids is dead.

He shuts the TV off with a soft click, waits a long while before the heartbeat pounding in his ears has settled. Thinks about what it really means, then, to embody the final resting place of all your ghosts.

Maudlin, Bucky’s voice echoes in his head again, fills out the crevices of the silent apartment like a slow bleed. Always gotta be so maudlin, Rogers, like you’re Scarlett O-fucking-Hara. Just get up. Get up, Steve, c'mon.

“Yeah,” Steve sniffs, wipes a rough hand over his eyes; laughs again because it’s a damn joke, all of it, and he can afford to lose the plot in the privacy of his own home. “Yeah, fuck you too, asshole. Go haunt somebody else.” vi.

"Heard you had an eventful weekend," Rumlow comments when they all pile into the locker room the following week, a little roughed up and beat and stinking of iron and sweat but otherwise in decent spirits. "Seemed like a good time, all those pretty girls throwing themselves at you to shake their babies and kiss their hands or whatever."

"Shows how much you know. The pretty ladies were all balding men over the age of 50," Steve says, only half-joking, shrugging into his civvies with a wince. There's a cut on his side where he fell a little too close to a protruding piece of rebar that's already reopened twice by the time they've gotten off the jet, but despite the sharp sting of it he's feeling better than he did just a mere twelve hours ago.

Idle hands turns out to be true enough. Wryly, he thinks he might owe sending an apology up to Sister Andrea, although he figures anyone that enjoyed using a ruler on little kids that much wouldn't have ended up in Heaven, anyway.

"But sure, it was alright. A little too much attention all at once, if I'm being honest."

"Oh yeah?" Rumlow huffs. "Big talk coming from someone who dresses like you do. I hope you didn't show up there wearing that."

Steve frowns down at the faded jeans, the fitted grey shirt – one of many pairs that came with the closet in his apartment. It rubbed him the wrong way, at first, but it's easier in the end; not having all that wide array of choice dumped over his head all the time. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing. I just get worried they're gonna start cutting off blood flow at some point, y'know," Rumlow grins, his teeth very white in the bright fluorescent lights. "God forbid we go to a bar one of these days, I'd have to mind every creep from here to Dupont tryna get a peek down your shirt."

"Fuck off," Steve huffs, feeling heat flush down into his neck despite himself. Yeah, blood flow really isn't the problem. He gestures at Rumlow's own undershirt, all slick black and skin-tight, motion packed in. "Look who's talkin'."

"Yeah, but I don't dress like this out there. This is all for you guys," he yawns with a stretch, all exaggerated bravado. "I got one of those, y'know - work-life balances. Out there I clean up nice. You, I imagine you sleep in that shit."

Steve snorts. "You'll be happy to know I clean up just fine. Got the one suit and everything."

"Is that right? They get you decked out in some bespoke threads for the parade, Cap?" He chuckles at the face Steve makes when the word bespoke fully registers. "See if I believe that without any evidence."

Steve digs out his phone reluctantly. He does have pictures, is the thing, woke up the next morning feeling like a sack of potatoes tossed from a great height just to see his phone light up with an email from SHIELD's HR with an attachment sent over for approval - like he was a celebrity ending up in a tabloid, he thinks again with distate, like he should care much either way what he looked like. He thumbs through his email to the one labeled FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION, and shoves it over at Rumlow before he drops onto the bench to sort out the rest of his pack.

"Looking good, you weren't kidding. And the mural's all heroic," Rumlow comments lightly as he scrolls through. "Wait, don't tell me - the little mustachioed, scruffy looking one is the frogeater, yeah?"

Steve laugh comes easier this time. "The little mustachioed, scruffy looking one would've kicked your ass six ways from Sunday if he'd heard you call him that. Yeah, that's Dernier. Gabe, next to him," he lists, trying not to think about how it comes across that he's memorized the order, "Dum Dum - he didn't like that nickname, either - Bucky, Monty, and Morita."

"Sure were big on callin' each other everything other than your names, huh?" The joke is followed by a stretch of quiet, and when Steve looks back up Rumlow's frowning at the phone a little, a flicker of uncertainty over his face that Steve doesn't get to figure out before it's gone. His face smoothes out into a mostly neutral expression, an undercurrent of something unnerved and white-hot, and Steve can't help himself.

"What?"

Rumlow passes him the phone back with a shrug. "Nothing, just - haven't seen those pictures since I was in high school," he says, a little distant like the memory's faded to oblivion since, and hell if Steve'll ever stop finding it strange that all of them ended up in dusty old school books, long obsolete. "Long time ago, now. Guess I just remembered all of you being much older, is all."

He leans back against the wall of lockers, pensive, watches Steve fumble with the zipper of his hoodie where it keeps sticking for a minute. "You must miss it, though. The good old days. Your people."

Steve clears his throat, yanks at the cheap piece of plastic again. The fit and cut, he might've gotten used to - but he'll never get over the waste; just how quickly everything falls right apart in the future. "Yeah, well. Like you said, it was a long time ago."

"It was, wasn't it. Longer for some than others, though," he says cryptically, and Steve really has nothing to say to that that won't land him right back where he was two days ago. He doesn't have to, in the end, because Rumlow throws a curt nod at his front, and it takes a second too long for him to interpret what his zeroed-in expression means, to register the dotting of blood through the thin fabric of his shirt. "You're bleeding all over the place again."

"It's fine. Don't feel it much," Steve says. Something's different. What's different? Wake up.

"Sure. Never do, do you," he says, gesturing to the hoodie with a thoughtful expression that's inching away from the easy banter. "That shit's gonna stain, though."

"I was gonna throw it out anyway."

It should be enough, and in any other situation it would be. Any other situation he'd shrug it off with more conviction, Rumlow'd call him a tough guy with just the right amount of mockery, and the tension would pass. Except that Rumlow had to lead them into uncharted territory and Steve hadn't been quick enough to notice before he was flailing, too exposed.

Except that instead of a quip what he gets is Rumlow's stepping into his space, the casual slouch of his shoulders replaced with something more deliberate when he reaches for where Steve's hand is still holding onto where the teeth of the zipper have gotten all gnarled. In a heartbeat Steve's back to square one: keenly aware of the proximity and every inch of his body in the cramped space; back to that first day in the elevator with Rumlow's dark eyes turned on him with a questioning look and a twist to his mouth that said it's a pleasure, Cap but meant I've been here long enough - you don't impress me any more than any other kid I've seen this place chew up and spit back out.

It'd been enough to get his spine straightening of its own accord back then, too; the sheer challenge of it, pushing at the boundaries of hierarchy. It makes him want to pull away now, want to put the usual distance between them, to get the hell out of this stuffy locker room. Makes him want to push forward until he meets something immovable and solid. Want. want, want - too much and for things that were unreachable. That's always been his problem, hasn't it?

The sound of the zipper is too loud in the mostly empty space when it gets yanked loose, pulled up and over the slow spread of the stain, and Steve realizes with a start that he didn't notice the chatter die down as the few stragglers left the room. Realizes that he hasn't moved a muscle in a good minute, like a butterfly with its wing pinned.

Rumlow's touch lingers, just the barest pressure under his Adam's apple, and Steve's breath catches. Rumlow makes a considering noise.

He snapped a guy's neck with those hands not two hours ago: a thoughtless, instinctive thing in the middle of the ambush that was waiting for them. It's not that Steve's forgotten it; Steve's aware of it to the point of failure. It's just that it got bound up with everything else, the easy reliance and the ribbing bordering on rough and the adrenaline under his skin like a necessity.

Wake up.

Rumlow's eyes on him are sharp, a little curious. Less surprised than they ought to be.

Wake up, get moving, get out of sight. We've been here before.

Steve swallows. "Thanks."

"Sure." Rumlow steps back to hoist his bag over his shoulder and the moment breaks as quick as it came on, the whole uninterruped line of him lax and easy again, surface friendly. "Now you won't scare the guys at the front desk."

And then he's off down the hallway, leaving Steve to lean on the cool metal of the wall and do everything but think about the sudden feeling of being off balance, a little too tight in his skin in a way that only half has to do with the too-quick beat of his blood, the lingering smell of Rumlow's cologne.

vii.

Funnily enough, the Christmas gala almost slips his mind – an extraordinary accomplishment, considering that he spends most of December thinking up viable excuses not to go, dodging Romanoff’s questions and sideways looks with the agility of a man running for his life.

“We can hang out with the civilians. Break the record of how many weapons contractors you can piss off in one night,” she says one brisk and sunny afternoon when she manages to drag him out to a coffee shop barely across from SHIELD, the steam from her tea swirling up in billows to fog her opaque sunglasses. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know any civilians,” he says, deliberately obtuse. It’s a joke; he can’t help that it’s also mostly true.

“What about Kate?”

It’s not a surprise anymore, really, that she knows everything about his life, that she has no problem making that clear to him when she wants to. He’s fine with it, he has to keep reminding himself. Maybe it’s a control thing, like when she acts like she’s not holding back when they spar, a holdover from some other life. Maybe this is the closest they get to trust, and it doesn’t matter. Much like the tails that he pretends not to clock, the check-ins and evaluations and this whole neatly preordained life someone else's drawn up for him – it comes with the package, and what difference does it make, anyway? It’s simpler like this. He can do his job, and if thinking that he’s a situation she has a handle on makes Romanoff feel better, then that’s fine, too.

“What about her?”

“You talk to her yet?”

“I talk to her all the time,” he points out. Natasha cocks her head, the rest of her expression as obscure as her shaded eyes.

“It’s for a charity. The gala.” She keeps switching lanes. Trying to get him to stumble, he thinks.

“Yeah, Ms. Potts said.” Two can play at that game. “You want a date so bad, why don't you pester Barton this much about it?”

“Clint doesn’t need pestering. It’d be good publicity if you showed, you know.”

He scoffs; there it is. “For what, the charity or Stark Industries?”

“So it is about Stark, then.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, over-sweetened and dark. 100% pure Colombian arabica, apparently, and with the price tag to reflect it. The acidic taste sticks at the roof of his mouth. “I don’t have a problem with Tony.”

He doesn’t. Stark’s a good man, he thinks, despite having inherited all of Howard’s arrogance and none of his approachability. Whatever tension was there in the beginning had dissipated, though, the second Tony plummeted thousands of feet from the sky after having, for all intents and purposes, blown himself up to save all their sorry necks. They’d broken bread, shaken hands, parted ways.

For the best, probably. Good man or not, Tony has a singular way of getting under his skin.

And then there’s also the fact that being in Manhattan just doesn’t feel right, not with the destruction still settling over everything like a cloud of noxious dust, the fenced off craters and leftover vigils scattered every few blocks like an improvised graveyard. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 4:47 AM EST. It is a new day. Do you see it? Do you see it yet? Are you awake?

It’s not new, this sense of loss: looking at the city and feeling grief, compounded.

“Not what I said.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying SHIELD throws shitty office parties.” Natasha frowns and chugs half the scalding cup in one go before pushing up from the table, checking her phone. “I have to go,” she says, gives him a long look that he can’t really decipher, unusually lingering and far too serious by Natasha's standard. “Come to New York, Steve. Or at least think about it.”

viii.

He goes to see Peggy again, because of course he does. She greets him at the door with her most pleasant, polite smile this time, the kind reserved for strangers – Time for my medicine again, is it, darling? – but it’s alright, he understands. They’ve explained it to him, the good and bad days, how there’s rarely any constant. He’s grateful, anyway: just so grateful to have her around, as much as he can. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when she cries, when she calls for him like it’s been another seventy years, why he holds her brittle hand in his until she gets hazy around the eyes again and he feels a nurse’s gentle tap on his shoulder, hears her suggest that he come another time.

He takes the Harley out on the highway and drives aimlessly for the rest of the evening and well into the night, down and out and then back again until the traffic has thinned out to semis and the rare leftover commuter. He watches the speedometer kick up to 80, 90, a 100, the bike struggling, feels the rumble of the engine all the way up his spine when it skids unbalanced over the odd ice patch and thinks, grateful, grateful, grateful.

ix.

“You’re up late.”

“Hey.” Most of the building’s emptied out by now – he’d thought he’d find some privacy in the abandoned atmosphere of the holidays, and instead here Rumlow is when he was meant to be three states over, strolling through his periphery looking like he’s got nothing but time on his hands. “Thought you left with everybody else.”

“Nah. Had some business to take care of.” He settles against the wall opposite Steve, watches him shake out a one-two-three pattern that has the chain of the bag groaning. “Thought you’d be at Stark’s fancy party and putting that suit to good, promotional use.”

He never gets a chance to think about it, it turns out, getting called in two days before Christmas and ending up sending Ms. Potts – Pepper, please, call me Pepper – an overly apologetic, last-minute message excusing himself from the night. It’s a good call, in the end. The last thing he needs tonight is to be stuck in a room full of obscenely drunk, obscenely rich people expecting him to gush over the hors d’oeuvres and play at appearances.

He feels as though what he’s doing right now isn’t much different, though. It takes a whole lot of effort and posturing to dredge up a wry smile for Rumlow, anyway. “Well, it’s been busy here. Couldn’t fit it into my packed schedule.”

Rumlow snorts. He gets that expression on his face, sometimes, that same brand of amusement that makes Steve second-guess whether he’s actually in on the joke or just the punchline of it, that gets him hot under the collar in all the wrong ways. The punching bag chooses this moment to finally release its desperate grip on the physical realm, flying off the chain with one last pitiful creak and sending sand spraying across the floor. Rumlow’s eyes track the movement with unabashed fascination.

He walks over to the neat row of bags Steve’s lined up and picks one up with relative ease, a casual show of strength. “So you gonna talk about it,” he pipes back up, handing Steve the replacement, “or do I have to keep standing around here until you’ve run the rest of ‘em into the ground?”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s got you shredding through these poor fuckin’ things at 11 pm on Christmas Eve.”

He wants to point out that he could be asking the same question – that there really is no reason for Rumlow to be here this late when he’s still technically on medical, to be in his usual tac clothes and looking as wired as Steve’s feeling. You ever take a day off? he considers asking, but that’d be prodding. What’s worse, it’d be hypocritical.

“Nothing, you know how it is – mission ran long. Had some leftover energy.”

“Yeah, Rollins mentioned you guys ran into some kinks.”

It’s not exactly the word Steve would use to describe the shitshow of that morning, utter failure avoided by a narrow margin because it was an old school lab, Christ, still had extracurriculars on the weekends and everything, and they just charged in half-blind.

It’s rigged, naturally. The room blows as he’s getting the janitor out, tears the face of the building open towards the sharp drop below, and all Steve can think is what a stupid, avoidable way to die. The electrical fire smell lingers for a long time after the explosion, the patter of the wet snow through the blown roof nowhere near enough to put the flames out.

They’re told to avoid detailing the collateral in the report, after: SHIELD had no way of knowing the complete situation beforehand, they say, short and brooking no argument, and Steve’s getting real damn tired of hearing that. By the time they wrap up cleanup he’s shivery and exhausted and when he finally dozes off on the long flight back with his ear to the monotonous drone of the engine, it’s to vague, uneasy bursts of the taste of ash in the mouth and many small, cold hands dragging him deep into the frozen ground.

Absurdly, the first thing he thinks of when he startles awake is Dugan’s thick mustache chained solid with frost, lips blue with the cold and grumbling under his breath.

"Gee, you're looking awful familiar there, Dum," Gabe'd say, biting off the ends of his sentences with the chatter of his own teeth. "Made this snowman that looked just like you when I was a kid - all white and lumpy with a great big bush over his lip. 'Cept his carrot nose was half as long and he never ran his fuckin' mouth this much."

And despite the cold and the misery, Dugan would elbow him and Gabe'd elbow back, obstinate. And Bucky'd laugh, Bucky'd call them all a bunch of fucking morons, and do they really want their last to be the Germans hearing them squabbling like two bitter old biddies out on the steps of the church for the whole neighborhood to see? Think of the image of our troops, golly gee. God forbid.

He strips out of his wet suit at the compound by rote and doesn’t think about the numbing cold of December among towering trees, of snow burning his fingers raw, clinging to his lashes. He runs until his lungs burn and it’s nothing like that thin, strangling air of the mountain range, nothing like warm skin sticking to icy metal, muscles all locked up and tears hot like bile in the back of his throat and the wind screaming in his ears, and –

Winters are warmer now, somebody’d told him at some point. Something about northern lights and the ozone in the Earth’s atmosphere.

“Kinks, right.”

He smooths out the edges of the tape that’s come loose over his knuckles, tries to tuck it in where he’s spotted red through the fabric. Suddenly he’s all too aware of the seconds lumbering on in silence, the eerie, empty quiet of the building; Rumlow looking at him with a single-minded intensity that makes the back of his neck prickle with heat, gets him on edge in a way he doesn't want to parse, doesn't have the energy to hide from.

It'd be no use, anyway; sometimes he thinks Rumlow can smell it on him, blood in the water.

“Alright, then.”

He aims a perfunctory jab at the bag and lets it swing back to catch it mid-air, brand-new vinyl creaking under his fingers, and considers ignoring the man altogether. He's not feeling generous with his words tonight. “Alright what?”

When he turns back around Rumlow’s ditching his holstered gun on the bench. Steve didn't even notice he was armed. “You said you got some energy to burn – so let’s go a few rounds.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on,” and it’s his voice in the end, if he’s being honest with himself, that makes Steve fold; the cajoling tone and those long, tightly rolled vowels that curl and hook into the sheltered space behind his ribs. “C’mon, man, it’s been a while. I could stand to let off some steam, too.”

Come on, do it for me, Bucky had said in dozens of different iterations over the years and then only once after when it had meant something, only once when he was really asking, back up against the hard bark of the tree with his hands dangling between his legs like a man who had no more use for them. You gotta promise me, Steve, he’d tried, low and worn thin, and Steve didn’t, couldn’t find the words to that wouldn’t be a complete lie and a betrayal. Instead he’d leaned harder into his side, hand at the back of his neck, and wanted and wanted and wished like hell, not for the first time, that he could drain the misery and exhaustion out of Bucky’s body at every point of contact.

Come on, Rumlow says, and Steve goes, Pavlovian.

He rewraps his hands in silence, waits for the other man to tape up before he steps into the ring.

“Y’know, it could’ve been worse,” he says, circling Steve, tone casual, “No casualties is better than what we get most days. So you might as well stop with all this self-flagellation bullshit, Cap. It’s no good.”

“You wanna keep talking,” Steve goads him because it’s worked in the past, because it really has been a long day, “or do you wanna fight?”

They start off slow, Rumlow testing the waters and Steve pulling his punches by habit by now. He manages to land a few hits that don’t really scratch the surface, doesn’t pull back in time to avoid Rumlow’s hook. His blood rushes at the first, second, third collision, zings up his spine and sharpens everything out, bright Technicolor; it’s good, doesn’t even hurt, he’d almost forgotten –

It gets real brutal real quick, after that.

“C’mon. What, you gettin’ bored already?” Rumlow says the third time he gets past his guard, an edge of something mean and frustrated in it. He strikes out again just to skirt off Steve’s belated block, more provocation than actual intent. “Jesus, you fallin' asleep on me? Fight the fuck back, old man.”

“Look who’s talkin’,” Steve gets out, putting distance between them. “Ain’t you supposed to be passed out drunk on eggnog in Staten Island right now?”

“You ever stop running your mouth? No wonder you were the neighborhood punching bag, kid.”

“I weighed a 100 pounds soaking wet, I had to compensate. What’s your excuse?”

He’s slow this time, too. Rumlow’s not someone who signals. The kick to the plexus sends Steve stumbling back and something pops, loud. He coughs once, twice; shakes it off.

“Aw, there he is. You’re alright,” Rumlow says, deceptively sweet, dismissive. “You’re just fine. Come on, Cap. You gonna quit being a pussy or what?"

Here’s the thing: he’s not sure he likes Rumlow all that much, really, can’t read him all the way to be able to say for sure; isn't sure that he wants to. They don’t know each other, not in a way that counts – it’s only been a handful of times that they’ve even worked on the same team in the time Steve’s been in DC, even less they've gotten to have anything that counts as a real conversation outside the single locker room incident, but he’s been leading men long enough that he can pick up on the patterns. He can see the way Rumlow commands respect among STRIKE, knows the type, besides: collected and confident and purposeful, committed to the cause to the point of failure. Violent, too, sure, shooting for the head when Steve’d still be asking questions; a little too rough around the edges, sometimes, yes, but so what – Steve’s seen his fair share of that. Steve’s lived it, felt it on his own skin, inside and out, been in it for three whole years. So what. He’s not about to run away screaming.

It isn’t even the first time they’ve done this, beaten the shit out of each other after hours in the deserted facility. It’s not the first time he’s seeing Rumlow in this light, eyes dark and focused; liking it a little too much, maybe, liking riling Steve up and drawing blood. A natural progression to all the things about him Steve maybe didn't want to notice and all the things that had his full attention since the second they met.

It’s fine – Steve figures, this body can take it. It’s what it was made for, anyway. Steve figures better here than out there, and out there Rumlow’s all brutal efficiency and casual competence and Steve trusts him to have his back, get the job done, which is the only part that matters. Steve trusts him, is the thing, and that carries more weight likeability ever could.

Rumlow’s fist connects with his jaw and he feels it rattle up into his teeth, the dull pain like a live current through his body, whiting everything else out: you awake, Steve? You awake yet? Is it enough, to still be able to bleed?

So sure, maybe it’s the violence that gets him. Maybe it’s that Rumlow fights just dirty enough and doesn’t pull his punches with Steve, grins at him sharp when he spits blood from his busted lip and squares back up. Maybe it’s just that he’s not afraid to touch him or look at him wrong. Everyone else seems to be.

He blinks sweat out of his eyes and creeps in close, lands a few swings in quick succession that have Rumlow easing off, head snapping to the side.

“Yeah. That’s it, there you go. C’mon,” he laughs, pushes damp hair out of his face in a well-worn afterthought of a move, and Steve –

Steve has to remind himself, is the thing. Every goddamn day of the week he has to keep reminding himself of where he is. Eventually, he thinks, it might stick – but God, he’s sick and tired of it.

They don’t even look alike. For one, Rumlow’s much older than Bucky ever got to be. Has the scars and the experience and the too-mean edge to his voice to prove it.

But in the end, when he's got Steve face down on the floor, breath hot down his neck, it turns out it doesn't really matter all that much.

He bucks anyway, if for no other reason just to prove a point to himself, just to feel his bones grind together. You're still moving, you're still just going forward, heart pumping like it's gonna burst with it. Rumlow twists his arm further up his back, grip iron tight. “I said stay down.”

“Yeah, fuck you,” Steve pants into the mat. “Pretty sure this ain’t within kickboxing rules.”

“Pretty sure there was no talk of rules in the first place. I keep tellin’ you, don’t I, you gotta get that or else people’ll think you’ve gone soft. Someone might take advantage.”

“You ever quit talkin’ shit?” Steve throws back at him.

“Nah.” Rumlow shifts, the weight of him heavy and hot, too close. Steve can’t catch his breath. Rumlow’s knee is still pressing into his back and he can already feel a bruise spreading at the bottom of his ribs that’ll be gone in the morning. He doesn’t even feel it all that much. He never even – “See, I don’t think you’d want that.”

Steve could break the hold with ease. He could throw Rumlow off and still walk away with most of his dignity intact. Steve could do a lot of things.

He’s fucking tired, is the thing. He’s in his body and buzzing hard out of his head and it hurts, Christ, it hurts so bad, has for such a long time now, and it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter one bit.

Keep moving, keep moving. Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe it's alright if it's not him, anyway; a river of trouble, cross currents, carrying him along.

It’s just easier, in the end, to trust someone on his team. That’s all there is to it. It's easier, it is, it's getting there at least, Steve keeps telling himself as he lets Rumlow take him apart in more ways than one.

Eventually, he thinks, he might even believe it.

He meets Sam Wilson on a humid day in late May when the sun's barely made its way up, the sky an overripe color and all of his bruises already healing or healed or tucked neatly all the way back under the surface. Like many things with him these days, it starts off as muscle memory; then a shot in the dark, then relief when it works.

It still takes all of his willpower not to physically retreat when he's hit with the familiar, tired refrain:

You must miss the good old days, huh?

But then Sam cuts straight through the middle of it: Sam calls his bluff, quick as hell but with kind, serious eyes and an outstreched hand, and by the time the sleek black car rolls up to the curb with a roar Steve's got another title in his little book of the future and a chest that feels slightly lighter than it did when he jolted awake at 3 in the morning.

Romanoff pulls them back out onto the street without a word, and he doesn't even mind the knowing look she casts his way all that much. Just looks out the open window, the spring air whipping past as the speedometer ticks up 40, 50, 60, and thinks about whether the farmer's market will be open when they get back in: having some fruit in that goddamned fruit bowl might be nice for a change.

(epilogue)

When all is said and done, he thinks he really should have seen it coming. There was no talk of rules, and it's Steve's own damn fault for not listening. When the dust settles and the Potomac still reeks of a gasoline fire, when Steve's switched back onto battlefield efficiency despite the nightmares creeping into his subconscious with a vengance, it really shouldn't feel personal.

Except for the memory of Rumlow's slick grin in the too-bright, too-close space of the elevator, except for the phantom feeling that he can still sometimes smell scorched skin on his stomach; except for the way Bucky's horrified expression is burnt into the backs of Steve's eyelids like a brand, like a scar that won't heal fully.

Except that it's nothing but personal, in all the ways that matter.

Sam looks at him in question when he pauses in the middle of breakfast, eyes glued to the closest thing that passes for a modern TV in a roadside diner in Bumfuck, Iowa. Hospital breakout, the breaking news states, three dead, seven injured, dangerous fugitive on the loose. Be advised. Do not engage. Do not engage.

Yeah. Too fucking late for that now, isn't it.

"You alright?"

That's a loaded question, he thinks. I'm not sure what that really means and I don't know if I have for a while, he thinks.

You awake, Steve? You awake? You see it yet?

"Fine," he says, and digs back into the cold, gummy pancakes. "You think they got any blueberries in this place?"

Sam's face cracks into a smile, dubious and slow and then all at once. Sure, if you say so. Sure, I see what you're doing, but I'll trust your lead. Prop me up, I've got you right back. "Man, I don't think they even have hot water, but. Gimme five minutes and a Captain America name drop, I'm sure we can figure something out."

#this got very long jesus christ #I overthought it so now I'm just hoping it fits the event and the prompts??? anyway #so unbeta'd. my apologies and also enjoy! I hope!#catws10 #catws anniversary #steve rogers #brock rumlow #natasha romanoff #don't wanna tag sam because he only shows up for a blink of an eye but. he shows up and also I love him<3 #idk if it’s actually an M rating but. just to be safe #cw: violence #(but only barely)#gaslighting #by sheer virtue of the bastard involved #stevebucky #steve rogers/brock rumlow #I don't know the tag for that and I kind of don't want to know #this was really interesting and challenging and ultimately very painful to write ngl #my fic

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spearxwind · 8 months

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Feel free to ignore, but your rendering of ice is just so so good; I feel like I can hear the crackling groans of it. If you'd be willing, could you share how you do it?

Aw man thank you so much!! It's not too hard to do, but I don't have visual examples on hand right now 😅

The trick that works best is having the base layer be half transparent, and then clip more colors on top of that. The base itself works best as a clear light blue/teal, and the clipped colors get progressively darker depending on the jaggedness of the ice, but in general its darker towards the "middle" (in areas where theres thicker ice and light cant penetrate as much". The thicker the ice, the less transparent it is!

This way you can add grunge textures on top to act as imperfections, and also frost. Its especially effective to add a few odd white cracks here and there to give it depth as well

I genuinely just fuck around and find out, a lot of the heavy lifting is done by the textures themselves because like I said grungy textures do wonders to look like imperfections in the ice and also frost. Which is something a lot of people pass up when drawing ice, so it ends up looking more like crystals because they are so clean cut without imperfections

Also, desaturaring colors also works very well. Ice CAN be really really colorful and blue!! But generally we perceive coldness with lack of saturation, so i like picking the colors somewhere between steel grey and blue. But also I am a desaturation freak i love faded colors x)

#i hope this helps at least a little!!#its really not many layers bc rendering takes a long time. its about optimizing #ask #windyart #ice

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celticcrossanon · 3 months

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Celta, M let it slip at the very end of her latest hilarious PR article today in The Mirror ("Meghan Markle has a 'new trick' to win over Prince Harry's family after years of feuding") that H&M want to reconcile with the Royal Family and "cut losses, repair rifts, and ensure those titles don't go anywhere." 😂 H&M also want to use Fergie as an "ally" for any peace talks H&M have with Charles and for Fergie to "stand up for [M] against the likes of Camilla and Kate." H&M are so transparent! 🤣

Hi Nonny,

That is a damning slip, as it shows that what Meghan is worried about is Harry losing his titles (because then she automatically loses hers). She definitely told on herself there.

I would think that Fergie's recent health issues (breast cancer) and the rumoured breakdown of her daughter Eugenie's marriage are quite enough for her to cope with, without being pulled into the never ending drama of the Harkles and their sense of entitlement.

Additionally, if that is an example of Meghan's strategic thinking, then I am crying with laughter. As if Fergie's opinion has any weight in the royal family compared to The Queen and The Princess of Wales. Sure, Meghan, send Fergie in to bat for you and we'll see how that goes. Could she have picked a worse champion (maybe Prince Andrew)?

Edit: Article mentioned in ask

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who-is-page · 6 months

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-taps mic-

Hey just to be transparent here but. I constantly get followers who are like "DNI if you like or make dark fiction!" and that's an entirely fair and valid boundary to have, I'm not criticizing that in the slightest-- but I have published dark fiction, both in the alterhuman community (see Whispers as published in Inky Paws) and under other pseudonyms in other places, and I also love reading and watching horror.

I've never hidden the kind of things I love, and as a canine psychopomp alterhuman I myself am quite literally the stuff of horror stories so I feel like it shouldn't be surprising at all, but this has kind of been happening a lot lately. I don't want people to feel like I've tricked or bamboozled them when they inevitably do figure out that I'm a bit of a gorehound and monster-movie lover. (Like, I like it so much that for my 3-year anniversary with Chimeras, they got me all the Alien movies on Blu-ray and we watched all the movies in the Conjuring universe while I was visiting them. SWOON~) So like, take this information and do with it what you will! I just want to be clear that I love this type of stuff, and if that makes you uncomfortable or you've violated your DNI by following me, you can unfollow with no hard feelings.

#personal #And if you're reading this and you also love this kind of thing I am making a heart gesture with my hands @ u #❤️

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moorishflower · 6 months

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trick-or-treat

Hello dear sweet becostumed mendicant I fear that I am out of candy but I DO have this transparent png of my cat looking suspicious