#at least i now know that my watercolor paper is shit

[phrokk]

a cute beetle larv i found. no idea what family but when in doubt its probably some kinda weird chrysomelid

[grogusmum]

WIP WEDNESDAY/SNEAK PEEK

Dieter Bravo x muse!f!Reader

A Xanadu inspired AU

A/N: Just a little proof that I am working on this idea threw out there earlier in the summer

Prologue: Don’t Walk Away

“Dieter, I foolishly thought a loving person could…” Anika was past crying, but the sadness in her eyes would break anyone's heart. But Dieter was too angry, so instead, he spat -

“No,” she sighed, “help you. Fill the void that you had been filling with -”

“Fix me!?”

Dieter knew Anika loved him and didn't make a project of him, at least not on purpose. But he was feeling defensive -

“What, Anika?”

“Every excess. I was enough of a distraction for a little while. But my novelty has worn off, I guess.”

And that is when Dieter’s tears began to fall.

“I’m sorry, Dieter, this is goodbye.”

He wanted to yell, cover all his insecurity and pain with rage, but he could never do that to Anika. But he couldn’t bring himself to be magnanimous about it either. All he could muster was a broken ‘fine’.

The fire is dangerously high, but Dieter doesn't much care as he tosses another painting on the fire. They’re shit and only represent his manic despair. When he reaches the bottom of the pile, he shuffles back into his studio and pulls out his most recent sketch pad. It fights him a little, and when he gives it a forceful tug, some loose drawings float to the floor. He trains his eyes onto the one on his croc clad feet.

The Cliff Beasts Debacle was finally complete, with his wife walking out the door. The one and only good thing he said came from that ridiculous film, and the fucked up experience of making it. Dieter would love to say he just threw himself into his work, but parts began scarce ever since. (Shocker.) So he drowned himself in whatever mind altering substance was available and painted. It only reminded him more of the worst time of isolation while making that wretched movie. So, not helping.

It’s you.

Eyes wide and a playful knowing smile; at some point, he had added color, and your eyes look so real. He looks around at the other drawings, some large sheets of good art paper, some torn scraps, all you. His muse. His beautiful muse. Now, if he was with anyone and described you as such, they may think he’s waxing poetic about a lover who supported and inspired him. Sure, you were his lover. And you did support and inspire him. But when he says you were “his muse”, he means it. Literally. A daughter of Zeus… and Mnemósine. Not that he can't pronounce her name, so he kind of forgets about the titan goddess of memory (to her vexation).

Dieter picks up the watercolor; his hands trembling. He looks out the picture window at his impulsive bonfire. He grabs a few items in his art studio, bursts out the door, rounds the pool, and places the portrait on a nearby table. Out of his pocket, his pulls a zippo lighter and a small bit of wood, lights it until the end is glowing, and sends off a sweet smoke.

“Terpsichore!” the actor intones. He’s only ever used the name one other time. Generally calling you by the name you gave him. But for this, he uses your greek name. The Official One. Trademarked and all that.

“I - I beg - I beseech you, return to me. You came to me once, and I squandered your gift and, um, yo-your favor. I have learned my lesson. Just let me prove it to you.”

The glow of the fire flickers on his face in the halflight, and he murmurs your name. The one you gave yourself, the one he moaned when you touched him - “Please come back to me.”

Suddenly, the Santa Ana winds kicked up, and his rendering of his lovely muse is pulled from his hand and flies up on the draft made by the fire. He can't see if it went into the blaze or not, only that it went up and over. Then the quiet but for the snap and pop of the flames was interrupted by the blare of a fire truck siren, called by a neighbor, no doubt.

THANKS FOR READING 💚

[come-on-shitty-boys]

// So A Snake Walks Into A Bar. inked 06 //

prev << 06 >> next

*The nature of this series may be not be appropriate for all readers. Content warnings include: vulgarity, heavy swearing, and implications of adult relations.  Due to these themes, this series may not be suitable for readers under the age of 16.  Reader discretion is advised.*

The Winged Viper was easily the seediest bar on this side of town with at least one bar fight ending in someone being dragged out the back door every night, the kind of place where eye contact with the wrong person might just end with you being pulled from your stool by the collar of your shirt, whiskey breath in your face as you blink through the insults. But there was something about the dingy establishment that always brought you back. Maybe it was the drinks where the shots were poured just a little too long or maybe it was the Halloween skeleton that just stood by the door year round, donning different hats and decorative pieces for the changing of the seasons. 

Or maybe it was him and that stupid smile on his face as he raised his hand in your direction, waving you over, pausing only for a moment to laugh at something the bartender had shouted at him. Yeah, maybe it was Daishou Suguru who already had your drink sitting on the strangely sticky table, a basket of onion rings ready to share. This had become the Friday night routine years ago when you had both outgrown the loud music and overpriced shots of the clubs downtown, always a little too crowded by the city’s college students. Instead, you both had begun opting for the not-so-quiet and only ever so slightly less crowded atmosphere of The Winged Viper, just becoming a part of the regular group of bikers and college professors who found the bar just as endearing.

Daishou’s crooked smile greets you as you slide into your seat across from him. He’s washed the ink from his hands and replaced the collared shirts that he favors in the shop for a simple t-shirt, showing off the tattoos that flowed down his arms, transforming himself from the professional artist into just another guy to blend in with the crowd. 

He can’t even get a word out before you’re dropping a binder on the table. That stupid black binder that Kuroo had stuffed full of drawing assignments for you. A waste of paper. A waste of your apprenticeship. “The fuck is this?” He asks, eyebrows scrunching in confusion as he flips open the proof of deforestation that you had just slammed in front of him.

And then he’s laughing.

Face relaxing as his fingers weave through his hair, bright laughter ringing through the bar. “You’re fucking kidding me! This is insane, Y/N.”

“No, trust me! I know! I’m the one drawing 300 fucking lines everyday! ‘Ru, I’m going to lose my mind and it’s barely been a week,” you say, rubbing your face between your hands.

His lips quirk into a teasing smile, raising his eyebrows at you. “You know, I’m pretty sure I told-”

You don’t think it’s possible to roll your eyes harder and Daishou can only chuckle at your dramatics, watching as you fully lean into the eye roll and stare at him with a playful annoyance written across your face. “Yeah, yeah. You told me so. I thought you were just talking shit! I didn’t think he would actually be this terrible! Suguru, the closest I’ve gotten to tattooing is washing his ink cups. How am I supposed to learn if he won’t even sit down and tell me a little about what he’s doing? I don’t even know what the machine feels like in my hand! How do I turn it on? Do I do the linework first or do I do color first? Is it like watercolors where I start light and go dark or do I-”

“You’re thinking too much. It’s been a week.” That playful grin sinks into something more sincere as he looks at you from across the table, taking your hand to really get you to focus on him, except now you’re not focusing on his words, but rather the way his hand fits so nicely in yours and his thumb running over your knuckles, the soft brush of the calluses of his hands from years of tattooing and drawing. His mouth is moving and you’re sure that whatever he’s saying is important, but fuck. Have his eyes always been that green? They’re crinkling as he says something that makes himself laugh. Maybe you should laugh too? His fingers are finding the spaces between yours and you see him stop talking.

Fuck.

You’re supposed to say something.

“Yeah, I completely agree,” you say.

Daishou clicks his tongue, waggling his finger at you in mock disappointment. “I knew you weren’t paying attention.”

“I was absolutely paying attention!” You object. “I was listening the entire time.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Sure, Y/N. And just what are you agreeing with?”

“I’m agreeing with what you said! It’s not my fault if you don’t remember what you said.”

“Gaslighter.”

“Okay, fine. I wasn’t listening! What did you say?” You sigh.

“I was saying that if Kuroo doesn’t work out, you can always come apprentice with me,” he offers, locking eyes with you, sincerity swimming in the green. 

Friends. 

That was the label that you two had settled on back when you had met, back when you had drunkenly stumbled to bed with him.

Just . . . friends.

A heavy pause between the words to fill in all that was unsaid, time to see his eyes dart down to your lips before reaching your eyes again.

Just friends.

A confirmation as your hand drifts from his shoulder to his chest, eyes following the path of your fingers as they trail further down his body to hook onto the belt loop of his jeans, a firm tug to pull him against you, the only invitation he needed to push his mouth to yours, pressing you back against the wall as his hands found your waist.

Just friends who sometimes make out.

Shirts are thrown across the room and pants are kicked off in the least sexy way possible as he nearly trips over himself, but it’s fine because his mouth is on your neck, pushing you back down on the bed, teeth grazing skin in that way that never fails to have your mouth falling open.

Just friends who sometimes also have sex.

His hand squeezes yours gently, bringing you back to the present moment. You don’t want to look at his face as you pull your hand away, because you know there would be a flash of sadness swimming across his eyes, no matter how hard he denies it. “I can’t, ‘ru,” you say.

“Why not? I can teach you everything he can and I promise, I won’t make you polish the tile with my boxers.”

“Ew! Is he going to make me do that?”

Daishou winks, smiling at you softly. “I won’t give him any ideas. But I’m serious, Y/N.”

You blow out a sigh. “I know you are, but this is something I have to do on my own. I really appreciate it, but it’s not going to feel right if I let you mentor me. It’ll feel too easy, like the whole opportunity was just handed to me on a platter.” You couldn’t let yourself do that. It was the one thing that had held you back from apprenticing with Daishou in the first place. He was a brilliant artist and one of your best friends, but you couldn’t shake the nagging feelings that he would’ve just given you the apprenticeship without having to really work for it. He would tell you that that wasn’t true, that you really did deserve to apprentice with him, but that couldn’t stop that nagging in your head.

Besides, Kuroo’s work aligned more closely with your own style. Daishou had fallen into the realm of realism, being able to push colors in a way that seemed like a picture had been printed directly on the skin. But, Kuroo– He was an artist unlike any you’d seen in your life. Pushing the boundaries of composition and form in ways that didn’t just utilize the shape of the body, but enhanced it, finding ways to draw the eyes around unlike any other tattoo artist you had studied. He was everything you wanted to be and more. There was no one else that you wanted to learn from, but fuck–

He was a prick.

And you weren’t about to forget that, especially when he wouldn’t even look at you when you walked into the shop the next morning. His head was buried into his newest flash sheet, inks spread over the counter as he pulled an outline, but you did see those amber eyes quickly dart in your direction before returning to their work.

“How was your date?” Kuroo muttered, leaning back from the page to examine his handiwork from further away. You could see his features scrunch in distaste as he re-wet an area of ink to remove some of the pigment to try to fill the space again.

But, you’re too busy rolling your eyes as you hang your jacket by the door. “It wasn’t a date.”

He snorts, dipping his brush back into the blue ink. “Sure it wasn’t.” 

“Why do you care?”

“Did I say that I care?”

You round the counter to stand opposite of him, busying yourself with making a pot of coffee to only further enable Akaashi’s caffeine problem. “Then why would you ask how it went?”

“I’m just trying to be polite,” he says, pushing a smile that really looks more painful than anything. “We’re going to be stuck with one another until you either finish this apprenticeship or quit, so my apologies for trying to make this a little less dull for the both of us.”

“Yeah. Okay, fine.”

“So? How was it? You never said.”

“Because it wasn’t a date, Kuroo.”

He finally looks up at you, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Does he know that? Because guys don’t look at people like that unless they’re into them.”

You roll your eyes, helping yourself to one of Akaashi’s clean mugs as you pour yourself a cup of coffee. You raise the pot in a silent question to Kuroo who just gives a slight nod in answer. Two steaming mugs on the counter. Cream and sugar for him. Black for you. 

“We’ve talked about it.”

“And?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a nosy bastard?”

For the first time since you’ve known him, you swear Kuroo smiles at you, a true genuine smile as if he doesn’t hate your presence after all. There’s the faintest glint of mischief in his eyes as his lips shift into a smirk. “I’m not nosy. I’m just curious.”

“Curious about things that don’t concern you, like usual,” Akaashi states as he passes behind you to refill his mug from the fresh pot. He turns his attention towards you. “Ignore him. He’s a gossip at best, and meddlesome at worst.”

“I do not meddle!”

Akaashi slowly draws his eyes away from his mug to stare blankly at Kuroo. “Do you want to tell that to Tsukishima or should I?”

“Okay, so I meddled once,” Kuroo states, splaying his hands out as if it was only natural to get in the middle of another person’s business every now and then.

You didn’t know that it was possible to roll your eyes with such overwhelming drama until you saw the unparalleled amount of sass that Akaashi threw into that single movement. Steel blue eyes met amber in a look that could only be described as complete and utter disbelief. No words passed between the tattoo artist and the clerk for a long moment, just facial expressions of exasperation as a silent conversation took place.

Until Akaashi gave up, groaning in frustration. “You sent that poor barista flowers every week on Tsukki’s behalf! You can’t do that, Kuroo! You can’t go to the coffee shop and flirt with him and then say, ‘Oh, hey! Actually, my friend is really into you’. That’s meddling, Kuroo.”

“It wasn’t even that bad,” he scoffs.

“Tsukki got blocked and you’re no longer welcome at that coffee shop.”

“So, he wasn’t into my pick-up lines! How is that my problem?”

“You harassed him!”

Amber eyes dart over to you at the stifled snort that you were trying to hide behind your hand. The sneer that you’ve come to know all too well pulls at Kuroo’s features. “You got something to say, kid?”

You choke down your laughter, struggling to swallow those final giggles as you shake your head. “Nothing! Nothing. It’s just not surprising that you don’t have any game.”

“I have game!”

“Yeah? And that’s why you’re still single and trying to weasel your way into my love life?” You tease, leaning forward against the counter to push the nonchalance as you quirk an eyebrow at him.

But his mouth just grows into a smirk as he matches your posture. “So you admit it? You’re seeing him?”

And that was all it took for you to push away in frustration, hands in the air as you walked away from this nightmare conversation. You’d rather be repainting the walls with a detail brush before you had to put up with his shit any longer.

Silence dances in the front of the shop allowing Kuroo to return to the flash sheet in front of him. It stays that way for a while, the clacking of Akaashi’s keyboard being the only thing to fill the silence in the early hours of the shop.

He doesn’t even look at Kuroo when he starts talking again, eyes solely focused on responding to the floods of e-mails from the previous evening. “Do you care?”

“About what?” Kuroo mumbles, swishing his brush in a glass of water, watching the water turn to that same electric blue color that he had been using only moments before.

“You know what. Daishou and Y/N.”

Kuroo’s scoff is enough of an answer, but just to further push his point, he looks up to look at the clerk. “No, Akaashi. I don’t care.”

And Akaashi just nods, glancing at his friend from the corner of his eye to where Kuroo was staring at the curtain towards the back of the shop, the direction that you since disappeared as if he was willing you to return. “Sure.”

{Taglist: @boosyboo9206 @zamorazz @universal-s1ut @localgaytrainwreck // never miss an update! send an ask to be added to the inked taglist!!}

[baronetcoins]

I feel like I win when I lose—Director's Commentary

In what is rapidly becoming a tradition of mine, I went on a research Bender for my Yuletide fic and there are so many details I want to point out and discuss—so I will. This year I wrote I feel like I win when I lose for @avengingmariner and I did loose my mind over it, but in a fun way. Join me in my descent into madness below the cut.

My brief was "you must put my man laurence in A Situation" and I somehow landed on the core nugget of "Napoleon finds Laurence in his darkest hour, instead of Tharkay"—mostly because NGL I haven't read further in this series than Victory of Eagles. I'm working on it, just not there yet.

From that point I just sort of... started writing and felt out where the story wanted to go, and then I kept falling into research holes. Here are some of the fun pieces of information I learned in rough order of where they popped up in the fic.

There was chicken set aside from the dinner he was supposed to have had hours ago, before an urgent missive had pulled him away—a simple roast bird, born out from what local provisions had been found

The WEEK I was working on this, Max Miller of Tasting History put out a video on Napoleon. I wasn't able to work in a lot of detail about the food here just because I couldn't make it flow into what I was writing, but there's so much I wish I could have talked about. The weird thing with chicken! Apocryphal stories about how dishes got their names! His drinking habits! The inherent whatever of breaking bread with somebody who's supposed to be your enemy! Now that I'm writing this paragraph I feel like I need to write another fic about food.

And then I Made chicken marengo the week after because I was curious. It was fine?

le mistral noir

Now this bit owes its thanks to Kangoo, my resident French correspondent. I was talking to him about what could be a nickname the French soldiers used for Temeraire, and he suggested "le mistral" which he described as "(very cold and often violent wind that blows into france from great britain, known for cleaning the sky of clouds and also wrecking your shit) (also the name of a fighter plane)" and I went "oh, that's Perfect". And I wanted to be able to explain that reference. Because it's So Good.

He blinked around at the courtyard of brick building before being hurried just as swiftly into a fine bedchamber where he was given a cold supper and the opportunity to wash himself. With little else to do, he fell into another restless sleep.

This was a fun bit of gamesmanship to think out—where would Napoleon want to set the treaty signing in order to send a message? And in order to think about that, I had to learn more about how the government of Britain worked in this timeframe (polisci major hat incoming).

In the US, authority to make treaties is vested in the executive branch, but the legislative branch has to ratify them. I did not know how that worked for the British, because their system mystefies me to this day. Luckily, I found this paper which explains how it worked in 1938, and there isn't much reason to expect it to have changed in that period, so the answer is "at least in theory, the authority rests with the Crown".

Based on that, I figured he'd want to make a point by holding it in a royal building as opposed to Westminster, so I went with St. James' palace which has been used for state stuff forever. Unfortunately, the details for the interior of St. James' are scarce. I was looking at 1860s watercolors to try and squint out a layout.

It was a dress uniform of aviator green, with gold braid and buttons as well as twin epaulettes. He dropped it as if it were a hot coal.

This was perhaps my longest diversion. I'm not intimately familiar with the internal culture of the military <understatement, but I knew having Laurence be present in any form would be read as a huge statement. So what kind of statement would you want to make? Ultimately I went with "the biggest 'fuck you' possible", so Laurence in a British aviator's uniform.

Then there was the question of fringe or no fringe. Which didn't even make it into the fic, but was an interesting diversion. You see, "captain" is a term that connotes a different level of authority in the Army vs the Navy. NATO has a standard rank scale I was able to squint at here, as it tries to standardize across branches and countries. Captain in the British Army is an OF-2 rank, but Captain in the British Navy is an OF-5 rank. What does it represent in those terms in the Arial Corps? I have no idea! This impacts nothing here other than if one or both epaulettes would have fringe on them.

He wandered the hallways, passing French soldiers who saluted him and English dignitaries who ignored him or glared at him in turn. In desperation he returned to seek refuge in the room he’d been left last.

The medal Laurence gets is that of the Légion d'honneur, and nominally military personnel in uniform are supposed to salute other uniformed personnel wearing it, regardless of ranks involved. That was too good of a detail not to gesture at.

The Wikipedia article

I picked Jacques-Louis David entirely because he's my favorite artist of this time period and location, though the fact he did official work for Napoleon was a bonus. I'm very interested in the uses of these really formalized displays of image-crafting as used for propaganda, and also it's just fun to think about. Spent ages looking at Wikipedia too to get the formatting and the style of writing right, which I think I did.

The Title

Really, it just made me laugh, so it had to stay. I mean the song is also fitting and I think it's the sentiment I wanted to gesture at emotionally, but it is also funny,

[poorlilpubby]

Oh im about to fucking rant and vent, i dont care that this is my porn blog im fucking ranting on here. Not to doxx myself but yo hurricane milton was actually fucking shit. Jesus christ, not only a leak in some room that idk the name of, causing my parents to be such little fucking bitches about it. And i was fucking high as hell. Do you know what thats like? Having to be a voice of reason for mfing grown ass adults in their 50's? While im high? Im literally having to lean against the wall to keep myself upright and yet im still being more reasonable than both of you. I shouldnt have to straight up tell you guys to take turns talking. Then there was a leak in my room, which genuinely was the least worrying thing. Like it got close to my pc WHICH I BUILT, literally my prized possession, but i cleaned it up. Too bad i had a pad of watercolor paper go to waste. And ughhh im lucky my house wasnt destroyed but oh my god my entire, basically my entire town, has no electricity. Every single streetlight is down and oh god the people here cant fucking drive they're literally yelling at each other every second. AND GUESS FUCKING WHAT THE ELECTRICITY WONT COME BACK UNTIL AT LEAST WEDNESDAY. its friday now. it was gone since Wednesday night. Ugh im glad we have a generator. But oh my fucking god. The worst. Absolute worst part about this. Is that both my parents are just home, since they cant work. Im literally walking most of the day, in my boots bc i refuse to buy walking shoes, bc i cant stand being at home. And yeah i should invest in some good shoes, they're no more than 30 bucks probably. But i genuinely refuse to spend money. Im fucking broke and im saving up for college rn bc my dumbass was so fucking dead set on leaving this fucking state, absolutely going no contact with family but that didnt fucking work out. I didnt do any backup bc well god being alive was so much fucking effort and it still is. I would do anything but be next to my parents bc genuinely there isnt one conversation where they point out smth wrong with me or judge me. And yet im doing everything for them cuz im the only one whos being fucking competent rn or ever honestly. God i need my fucking job applications to be seen but they're not being fucking seen. And the hurricanes are delaying the one place thats giving me training, and its gonna look good on my resume since its somewhat closer to my field than just a retail job. And i cant even fucking do sexwork bc i frankly dont want to do sexwork for the rest of my life. I wanna keep my face hidden. Im just trying to make a few extra bucks but that doesnt seem to work out bc i just wanna have privacy. Ughhh and its so fucking oversaturated too. Anyways, im in fucking hell uhhhhh thas ittt 😁😁😁😁

[delulluart]

do you have paper recommendations (for both drawings and watercolor paintings)? i want to get back into traditional art and don't really know were to start. also what pencils do you use? and watercolors? or do you use guache? what brushes should i get? sorry i know this is a lot of questions but it is a bit overhwhelming and i really liked you're ghost paintings 😊 and i don't want to buy bad things

oh dear, first of all: thank you, I'm very happy to hear you enjoy my silly stuff! And it is always great to hear people getting back to traditional art, since it seems like almost everyone is doing digital art exclusively these days (this is NOT me shitting on DA, i love you digital art people).

Anyway, yes, there's *a lot* of options out there and it is so, so important to get at least okay-ish quality equipment.

Paper

Paper is, in my opinion the most important factor, especially for watercolour works. switching to good quality paper was an absolute game changer - 0 exaggeration!

Watercolour paper:

I use mostly Hahnemühle Britannia 300g/m² cold pressed with matte surface. it comes with different surface options, depending on the effect you want (rougher surface etc., but i don't vibe with that). it is still relatively affordable, but still, hurts the bank account quite a bit.

If i want to go for some more silly stuff, i use Hahnemühle Burgund 250g/m². because it's thinner it is cheaper (you just can't put as much water and as many layers on it, which, for my use case is usually perfectly fine).

If i want to go full fancy I use the Hahnemühle mould made 300g/m². It's handmade paper, not from trees but with fabric, it is incredible how well the colours work on this stuff. Many people use Arches paper, but that is way too expensive for me. and I'm very happy with the Hahnemühle.

The difference between cheap as shit no-name watercolour paper and some good quality brand paper is, and I cannot express this enough, incredibly big. those ugly rims and splotches and uneven colour fades? that's the cheap paper's fault, not yours. It made me really desperate thinking I'm just too stupid for art, when it wasn't my fault.

For drawings I also use Hahnemühle:

my favourite is Skizze 190: very smooth surface, very white and very affordable!

another is Nostalgie: It feels even smoother in a different way, is less white. at first touch they seem identical, but handle very differently. this one is just as affordable as the Skizze 190 one.

Cheaping out on paper means you'll pay with happiness, really. save your nerves and motivation and spend the money on nice paper. trust me.

I'm not sure, Hahnemühle is available wherever you live, but go to an art supply store (a good one) and ask for help there!

Pencils

I exclusively use Staedtler Mars Lumograph pencils these days. They are very consistent in their...abrasion? there's no hard chunks in the lead, and they cost very little. They also have the Lumograph Black pencils which have a high charcoal level, which is super cool when you have very dark areas, because it won't get super shiny!

Watercolours

I got myself a set of Lukas Studio Watercolours and added a few more that i use often/ needed more than the ones already included in the set. They're not very expensive (compared to other big brands that everyone seems to use) and i like them. I never tried the expensive Windsor etc. paints, though. The price is very attractive and I never had any problems with them.

I also have a Gouache set that I got second hand from my sister by Caran d'Ache. I don't know whether it's good or not, because I rarely use it, mostly for accents on my watercolour paintings.

Brushes

until very recently I used rather cheap but good synthetic brushes for ethical reasons. I accidentally bought a natural hair one and it was....extremely good. With a heavy heart I now switched full time to much more expensive Kolinskis. Ethically this is an absolute nightmare and I will try to buy as few as possible and use them forever before buying new ones. But they are, unfortunately, much better. I wouldn't necessary recommend the brand I used because they're bad at keeping a tip, though.

But if you're just starting: go to an art supply store and get 3 synthetic ones in small, medium and slightly bigger with a nice tip and you'll be very happy for quite a while, i promise!

I also highly recommend getting a Pentel Aquash as a starting tool and for painting outside (don't buy a cheap fake, they're terrible)

alright, I hope i could answer your questions and if you (or anyone else) wants to know more, just ask :)

[ginstermoff]

Being human is about finding love and happiness in the little things you do. This goes twice for disabled and chronically ill people.

I enjoy creating art (trad and digitally, watercolor, oil, gouache, colored pencils, markers, oil pastels, pixel art, animation ect), i love crocheting (even though i suck at it), paper crafts, book binding, cross stitching, embroidery, sculpting with polymer clay, painting on deer skulls/antlers, working with resin, making charms out of perler beads, sewing, mending my clothes, making my own patches, i love all of it so much. And because there's so many things for me to do, i seldom get bored.

I can't do normal work because when I go to sleep at night i never know how much pain my body is in when i wake up, making it borderline impossible to find a job, what with schedules and shit.

My life does not have a purpose, at least not in a "i will change society with my actions" kinda way.

I'm not a good person by any means, I'm impulsive and I have anger issues and I'm mopey because my body aches 5 days out of seven. On good days I have about 3-4 hours i can actually use productively, including basic hygiene and feeding myself.

But I try to be kind, and I try to do my best and although I'm failing every now and then, I think that's enough. I'm okay.

And you know what?

You are, too.

I love you.

PS: i got legs :v

[joyful-soul-collector]

I'm annoyed that I have gifts for two different online friends that ghosted me, that I'll never be able to give them now.

I made one a painting of a story they were writing, and the other friend I'd annotated a book of flower meanings where I marked flowers that reminded me of them, since they loved flower symbolism. I don't want to throw these away because I worked so hard on both of them, they took hours, but at the same time like... Idk, what else am I going to do with them? They're unique gifts, made personalized for those specific people. I can't just gift them to another person. I suppose I can still use the book and throw out the annotations because I made them on sticky notes, but that'd just be throwing out 90% of the gift anyway. It'd be like if I somehow washed the watercolor off that painting, it'd just be paper again.

I'd planned to meet both of these people in person one day. I'd made them with the purpose of them being physically given when we met. Hell I just found out I'm going to England next year, and if I was still friends with one of these people I would've been able meet them. We would've been online friends for 5 years by then, and we would've finally been able to meet and see each other for the first time. We could've planned something fun to do together, even if it was just hanging out and talking in a Cafe all day.

But they stopped enjoying talking to me. Apparently for no reason other than that "we're different people now". Which apparently means they had to block me and never speak to me again. And the other friend, I don't even KNOW why they left, they just did.

I feel like every day I realize more of what I lost when they left. I have so many things that remind me of them both. I still enjoy all the things they introduced me to, and eventually I won't associate flowers or certain songs or podcasts with these people, but right now it just sucks. Right now I have gifts that won't ever be given and songs that used to make me smile.

Ik this all sounds dramatic n shit but I just really miss them right now. I really thought these were people I was going to talk to, at least occasionally, for the rest of my life. And what sucks so much is that even if they came back, if they decided they wanted to be friends with me again for some reason, I wouldn't want them back. I don't want to hang out with people who think it's okay to just completely ghost someone they're close to with no explanation, I don't want to be friends with someone who thinks being "different people now" is grounds enough for a dramatic friendship breakup text and blocking me on everything because if we grow apart apparently that means we can never speak to each other again.

I don't want to be friends with people who don't want to be friends with me. And yet I'm still so fucking angry and sad that they're gone.

[littlewalken]

Dec 16

Pondering yet another redraft of the boy band story. I know when I fleshed out this latest version from just notes earlier this year there were some places that I still left as notes because nothing was coming then.

Don't know if today we're going out and doing real life or staying home and making wither soup or casserole with peas.

If I do some serious arting I need to do it on the big paper. I need to put in the practice for the next round of colored and watercolor pencil tests. Part of that should be deciding if there are brands I want to bother testing.

One of the things is if I am going to use the Spectrum Noir 120 watercolor set I might have to swatch them all again. I had swatches that must have got ruined or something during the fucked up year that was 2021 because I don't have them now. They're decent pencils but the set is like too big and I'd sell it at a reasonable price because it's one of those I don't want but don't want to just give away, know what I mean, unless it's to a literally starving art student with promise like I was because who knows what I could have done if I had my hands on decent supplies earlier than I did.

Health wise experiments with adding a protein powder drink look promising. I break up the two scoops in to two separate drinks int he morning and afternoon. Perhaps I should say that unlike the blood builder pills my body is more at ease with these.

Expression of depression after the picture

While dealing with those older unpleasant thoughts that like to pop up, I hope you don't know what I mean, by declaring a moratorium on them is steadily working I am finding myself getting in to thought loops and I am uncertain if it's because I am getting a better handle on a life time of a brain trained by my environment for a very long time to be a certain way or it's the combination of long term and seasonal depressions, or all of that.

And still feeling like I'm never heard, literally and figuratively, outside this blog has to be some of it.

This is why I hate moving, I said the same address for the place however many times, you're repeating numbers I didn't even mention, and then it's on me when you drive by where the place should have been, and oh, finally you figure you might have copied the address wrong but only because the paper you wrote it on is with us.

If the Life Ruiner was still part of the unit it would be my fault anyway because if she had to be right I had to be wrong.

My brain doesn't need any help telling me I'm a piece of shit, I've known that since 1980 at least.

[saywhatjessie]

Not just one, but TWO requests?! Oh we are popular today.

I've gotten at least one tattoo a year ever year since I turned 20, so starting in 2014. I took all of these pictures just now so the ones that look old it's because they are old lol.

HERE WE GO

IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

Interrobang!? Baby's first tattoo. She started meaningful but not too meaningful. It's my favorite punctuation symbol on the inside of my left wrist. It only took twenty minutes and to this day it's the least amount of money I spent on a tattoo but I think that's because I got lightheaded and they had to give me a lollipop.

Squiggly line I went with my friends to get tattoos before a fan convention in 2015 don't worry about it we're moving on

Lake House Coordinates Matching tattoos I got with my sister for my college graduation showing the coordinates for the lake house we had as kids that we since had to sell. The most visible whenever I worked as a cashier and the one I have had to explain the most.

L'amore e l'arma (Pretend there's an accent on that e I don't feel like looking for special characters.) It means "Love is the weapon" in Italian. Love is the weapon is a NeverShoutNever song lol. This was a last minute tattoo for the last minute tattoo GISH item in 2017. It doesn't really mean a lot to me but it looks sexy when I wear tank tops so like. No regerts.

Tattoo of me getting a tattoo This is everyone's favorite. This was the 2018 GISH tattoo item. Some people tried to find clever ways to get around the wording but I'm like fuck no I'm committing put my fucking face on my leg. It's one of the funniest things I've ever done, it looks fucking sick, and I'm still mad to this day that it's not in the GISH hall of fame like lOOK AT IT IT RULES

Three of Wands This is a twofer! The second tatoo of 2018, it's my Forever Unfinished because the artist doesn't tattoo anymore and it's also the one I got done in someone's living room! Everyone needs at least one tattoo from someone with a tattoo machine that's done in someone's living room. Anyway, it healed like shit and there's supposed to be watercolor in the middle so I'm always seesawing between asking someone else to finish it or just getting the whole thing covered up. It's on the inside of my right forearm so that's like prime real estate. IDK, dude, it will look like this for the forseeable future.

Cat paw print Back to basiccs - and I mean the most basic - this is my cat's paw print on my ribs. Done by the same tattoo artist in the tattoo of me getting a tattoo, which is kinda neat. Yes, it's supposed to look like that: I took my cat's paw, inked it, and put it on paper and she just did an exact recreation. I think it's cute. He's not dead or anything, I just love him.

finger rings Yes, I SOMEHOW got a tattoo before everything shut down in 2020. I had no way of knowing things would shut down - I got this bitch in January - but I was SO RELIEVED when we started quarantine that I'd gotten my 2020 tattoo so early. It was extremely lucky. Anyway, each line represents one of my siblings. On my middle finger because it looks dope and also because they're my siblings so flipping them off is a standard greeting lol.

Destiel mixtape Ayyy lmao. This is the tattoo that's gotten the most internet attention for obvious reasons. Tattooed literally the day before the first Valentine's Day after November 5th. Like we were about to have a Destiel wedding and I walked into a tattoo shop like "Can you do this?" And they were like "I can do this right now." I regret nothing. I am mentally unwell lol. Just you wait, though: this baby's gonna extend out into an entire fandom sleeve. I have more than just SUPERNATURAL brainrot and I'm not afraid to show it.

Arachne: Goddess of Spiders I had one condition for this tattoo: I wanted her to be creepy as shit. I'm so sick of tattoo artists making monsters hot. Like if you wouldn't fuck a monster that looks like this, you're weak and your bloodline will not survive. The Arachne myth was the thing that first got me into Greek Mythology in third grade so I of course had to honor her. Also, I'm gonna get an Athena tattoo on the other side of my arm so like the ~dichotomy. This is the tattoo that all my tattoo people friends say is their favorite. It's techincally interesting and the first one that really fits on my body and also it's hilarious that I'm very sunshine and rainbows but I have this creepy bitch lurking on my arm. Everyone loves the Spitties (spider titties) but it's important to note that when my sleeve is down, all that peaks out is the Spidussy.

Sword and Olive Branch Finally we're all caught up! Yes, these are techinally two tattoos but they are a set and so I'm touring them together. I got so many guessed for the meaning behind this - war and peace, Athena theming, Things Gays Like - and while those are all good and in character for me, the most boring and true reality is that these are the two main elements on my family crest. My mom is Scottish, so a claymore. And my Dad is Italian and our family for generations owned an olive grove. It's literally just narcissim lol. The olive branch goes on my Greek mythology sleeve arm for obvious reasons and the claymore is on my fandom arm because it can double for a lot of swords in a lot of fandoms. I can multitask. They're still healing as you can tell from this pic but they look sick as hell. The olive branch is my first color tattoo so that's exciting :)

More tattoos will come in time and when I get more money but twelve tattoos at 28! I'm pretty pleased with that.

[funsizedcrow]

I did make those fake season memes!! Im glad that they inspired someone to make something bc I kinda gave up on my idea for it lol. Maybe one day I'll get back to it

I did find the doc where I wrote some stuff for it though! The first 3ish episodes of said potential fake season! I put it under the cut

-

(We open on iris, a snowy planet. Ohio is sitting in a base, throwing a table tennis ball across the room, catching it off the bounce.)

(Cut to iowa looking at a neighboring  base. Idaho is next to him.)

Iowa: hey

Idaho: yeah?

Iowa: you ever wonder why we’re here?

(sound of a ship landing.)

(Ohio comes running up to the top of the base.

Ohio: what the hell was that?

Iowa: a ship

Ohio: are you sure? You’re not just hallucinating again?

Iowa: probably

(Ohio sighs)

Ohio: give me the sniper rifle

(ohio looks through the sniper rifle)

Ohio: holy shit, that is a ship! And there's a person walking out of it!

(They run down to where the ship has landed. Sherry, Darryl, and Terril are already there. Ohio and Sherry glare at each other gayly, before turning back to the ship)

(The doors open, and everyone holds their breath. A figure steps out.)

Ohio gasps dramatically.

Ohio: 479er?!

(Ohio’s tone turns angry)

Ohio: you’re the one who brought us here!

479er blinks. Then sighs

479er; well fuck.

(end of episode one)

(episode 2 opens with 479er sitting in blue team’s base.

479er: so you’ve been…fighting each other this whole time?

Idaho: yeah, until we got bored, and called a truce for a while

Iowa: they had movies

Idaho: yeah, five of them. Which we have watched about a thousand times each

Ohio (wistfully) yeah… (her tone grows more serious) but that didn’t last.

Idaho: yeah. The truce ended when Terril decided it would be a good idea to toilet paper our base

Iowa: toilet paper is a very limited resource

479er: huh. 

479er: I am sorry, you know. It was pretty shitty of me. But I had orders.

479er: to be honest though, you should be glad you left the project before…

Ohio: before what?

479er: Before everything. Lets just say that things turned to shit pretty quickly.

Iowa: Is..Wash okay?

Ohio: and connie?

479er: Wash is…he’s better now. I think. And connie….

479er: she’s dead. 

Ohio (quietly) oh.

479er: yeah. Georgia's dead too, or missing, at least. And South.  Most of the top agents. 

Ohio: oh.

Idaho: So why’d you come here, anyway?

479er: I’m on the run. Wanted for crimes commited while working for Freelancer.

479er: it turns out they did a whole lot of shit that even I didn’t know about.

479er: this planet was isolated. Isn't even on most maps.

Ohio: yeah, we. Kind of figured that out.

Ohio: are you going to stay here?

479er: No offense, but this place kind of sucks. 

Ohio: yeah. I think that was kind of the point. Why we were sent here.

479er: right. But, I think I’m going to head out to another planet. TIt originally had a lot of research going on, promising alien artifacts were found. But something happened, and now it's been mostly forgotten by the unsc. 

479er: I could..take you with me. If you want.

Ohio: (hopeful) that would be great!

Ohio: you should bring sherry and the others too.

479er: I thought you hated them?

Ohio: (laughs) hate, sure. But they don't deserve to stay here. 

Idaho: you don’t want to leave sherry behind

Ohio: hahaha what? No, I'm just. Being a decent fucking person

Idaho: uh huh. Sure.

Idaho: you know, vera, subtlety is not one of your strengths.

Iowa: shooting is! And watercolor

Iowa: and being in love with sherry.

Ohio: okay, thats enough.

479er: (holding back laughter) alright, they can come.

(end of episode 2)

(episode 3 opens with ohio knocking on red bases door)

Darryl opens the door)

Darryl: oh, it’s you.

Darryl: are you here to give us another ‘present.”

Ohio: no

Ohio: Get Sherry. I’ve found us a way off of this shithole of a planet.

(Sherry shows up)

Sherry: You what?

Ohio: the person from the ship, 479er. She’s a pilot from project freelancer. And she’s taking us to a planet called Chorus.

(cut to all six of them sitting in the ship)

Sherry: so, chorus, huh?

Ohio: yep. Apparently all the inhabitants cut off connection with the unsc years ago.

Sherry: You know, ever since I got here, I’ve been waiting to leave. But now that we’re going, I think I’m going to miss the planet. Whatever its name is

Ohio: I always called it Deep Freeze. 

Ohio: But, yeah, I think I'm going to miss it too.

Iowa: I won’t miss the ice spiders!

does anyone have any aus or ideas that involve the triplets and or sherrys squad that they wanna talk to me about (please pelase pleasepleadeplaeasepleasepleaspleaspelple

[blenselche]

Gonna try my hand at animating something tomorrow or the day after -- might not go well lol. I’m not a digital artist, I majored in watercolor with an independent study in printmaking... so I didn’t even know you could press shift to make a straight line until like, 2 days ago. I feel real dumb. I’ve always just used the hand-me-down 90s tablet from my Schwaerdaadi like paper. Finding out that there’s shortcuts has blown my mind, like, DUH there’s shortcuts and tricks n shit but I never thought to look for them! I used to go into paint to make straight lines, I’d draw over text on a new layer to make it a different color ffs. Now I know how my 80 year old parents felt when I showed them how to use tivo. So, I’m emboldened to at least try animating something  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Fuck it, I'M starting a new ask chain because I WANT TO 🧚‍♀️🔮💭this is the hobby fairy! 🧚‍♀️you've been visited and blessed with creative motivation and inspiration 💫poof💫 ! share with your followers a hobby/hobbies that aren't related to the main subject of your blog! then pass the love 💞 on to 5 of your favorite blogs!💭🔮🧚‍♀️

Aw, thank you, sweetheart! This is a really cute ask chain!

Other than the main subject of my blog, fandom and writing for fandom, I am a highly, highly creative guy that can always use more motivation lol!

I used to write a lot of poetry, back when I wasn't writing fanfic. I don't do it as often now, partly because I get my writing craving out elsewhere and partly because I'm in a much better place mentally now than I have been, like, ever. It's rough out here boys, let me tell you.

The best example I can give you of what my poetry is like - without digging through all the composition notebooks stashed away - is "Let Your Guard Down". It holds a bunch of the imagry I tend to use when I write poems. Additionally, I think it has that sort of poetic flow, and, of course, holds the theme of heavy angst that my poetry always has 🤣

Another hobby is ceramics. I play with it whenever possible (re: not as often as I'd like, but occasionally lol).

I can throw on the wheel but mostly I enjoy the sculptural shit. Throwing is meditative and sometimes I jump on and throw myself a set of mugs or bowls or something real quick but handbuilding makes me lose time like nothing else. It sucks me in. Probably because both it takes me forever to handbuild and because it feels a little like playing with mud, like when you're a kid.

I've put some of the progress photos of projects on here, this of my piece "chained to the bottom" and this of "burnt out" but here are some more-

Don't mind the aggressive watermarks. I've been burned by art thieves many, many, many times before. Click to enlarge/for better quality.

What I still do all the time though is draw!

Generally, if I'm not at school/doing adult shit I gotta do (ugh) and I'm not checking Tumblr for a few minutes or writing for an hour, I'm drawing. I draw, right now during the summer, for about six hours a day at least. Drawing has always been my escape. When I don't want to or didn't want to live in the real world, I went to art. I can make a new world there, or I can purge all of my thoughts to make the real world less heavy, y’know? Make yourself anew.

I draw in traditional mediums, lots of graphite and colored pencils, occasionally charcoal or watercolor or acrylic, usually striding for realism. It's the way my brain works, I like realism, romanticism, and surrealism. And I like traditional because, well, it's what I am most familiar with but also there's just something about the ability to touch and feel everything in it that I like. All the different tools *cough* for mark making from and the different paper weights and surface textures of different types of paper and the different erasers and- I could go on forever. I love the tangibility of working traditionally rather than digitally. I love it. Not just a stylist or two, a supportive glove, and a screen. To me, traditional just hits different. I totally respect digital though, the shit ya'll digital artists make is incredible and blows me away. I could never. Traditional simply scratches my brain the right way lol

And here are some Tumblr examples I've put out there already of my sketches/doodles: assorted Chris and Seb doodles for an ask, sub!Seb in a collar, Steve in panties and his shield harness, and Seb as Tommy Lee. And here are two examples of finished, fully rendered works (that tumblr is gonna eat the quality of, I just know it)-

(the left is done in graphite, the right in colored pencil)

Thank you for the ask!! I hope you didn't mind my information dumping about some of this stuff haha

[bytchysylvy]

SCANNER VS PHOTO (phone) OBSERVATIONS AND GRIEVANCES

COLOR

the scanner is way better about preserving the right hue except when it comes to reds. sometimes it preserves it really cool red but it pulls too much from oranges. The scanned colors on casarin are almost exact, the photographed colors on alex are almost an exact match; the photo doesnt capture the red in the shadows of casarin’s hair (idk why i picked that the shade nevermind that) and alex’s yellow orange and skin are too dark leaning too red.  the orange i use for oasis and alex is warmer than the one i use for latikam and susarikas (salmon), irl they look almost the same, the scanner will turn the salmon straight up pink. Worth mentioning this example is after contrast editing but its still very apparent before any adjustments.

TOP - what they look like irl BOTTOM - what the scan says they are (various samples to account for slight variations ect)

TEXTURE

scanner preserves crisp lines better. everybody knows this. But it always has a grain to it. When taking into a program and doing more linework there I think its the better option since is vibes with the digital textures better imo. But after editing and everything else i dont think its noticeable. In colors it KILLS. Scanner looks like the vision of a man dying of radiation, photo clearly has paper texture. Its most notable in alex’s hat. There’s also this strange haloing on the lines with the photo. No idea why. I think its something exclusive to my phone. To be expected the more the contrast has to be edited the worse it all gets. 

Scanner reduces the watercolor edge look, photo seems to amplify it. My phone does this to all photos i hate it. Normally I like watercolor edge but Im shit at evenly applying color so its working against me i think. These are alcohol markers btw not watercolors. Its a side effect of the fact I dont know how to color. The scanner drags my uneven coloring further though. Especially in faces. I hope we all die.

Not a fan of the speckling but thats a paper issue more than anything as far as i know. I used this paper since it was like the second best about that. Overall I dont think I can win. They’ll just always look better in person. You had to be there. 

EDITING

when im doing just lines it never matters lol. Scanner is better in preserving crisp, matching the digital noise texture vibe unintentionally, and keeping the paper level and flat. But I have 13 years experience I can salvage linework from the shittiest of photos without much more effort lol so I’m kind of a spoiled brat about this one.

Scanner will keep the white FFFFFF, and washes out everything else. Photos are a mixed bag. Overall I think I ended up using about the same settings in the end loll? But photos I have to account for the ambient color (even on an overcast I got a slight yellow, idk man) and the fact I cant take a straight non blurry photo. Though overall I think photos take being edited better. I feel like im not riding such a fine line between overedited grainy ass nam flashback lookin bullshit. I know that’s perfect for sf vibes but I want to be in control of it at least.

MATERIALS FOR REFERENCE

Strathmore marker paper I think

sakura micron 01 black; sakura gelly roll white 10 (you can color over the white with the copics btw i didnt know that)

copics e33 e11 e25 r39 bg93 y23 (shading rv99); e30 y23 yr15 yg67 (shading bg96 bg99)

photo taken in overcast afternoon by window but also a single warm lightbulb in the background which is probably where I was getting that slight yellow from now that I think about it. there were 45mph gusts today so. :/

idk what my scanner is i doubt it matters its cheap you think i have money after getting copics lmao lol lol ha

[thiswasinevitableid]

.. for mermay.. 8, indruck nsfw?

Here you go! Duck’s design is based on a rudderfish.

Authors note: since prompt 8 is “drunk,” drinking is mentioned in this. It’s also implied Indrid is doing some self-destructive behaviors to cope with trauma.

The party is a splendid success, as was the book launch that preceded it. Indrid has done what he does best, lined his pockets and those of his agents and editors, and gotten everyone talking. 

“Did you see the one of the pyres?”

“The one of the hurricane aftermath, the look in the girls eyes is so haunting.”

“Personally, I found the jeweled mummies a bit much, but the emergency room shots? Stunning.”

This is why Indrid is sitting on the rocks on his private cove, and will not be going back up to the house until he’s polished off all three of these heavily spiked bottles of eggnog. It’s better than the time he emptied most of a bottle of vanilla vodka, but not by much. 

He was tipsy when he snuck out the back door and down the path to the sea. So when the empty bottle rolls away, all he can do is whap at the air close to it and wave as it plonks into the water.

“Oops. Hic, oh, hic, well, what’s one more piece of trash in, hic, a dying world?”

He yelps, knocking his remaining bottles into the sand as the lost one flies through the air towards him. Or he thinks that’s the trajectory; it’s hard to tell. The point is, the bottle is back and he’s clutching his chest like an old man in a silent movie.

“Look, man, I know it’s temptin to just leave trash everywhere, but there are signs up and down this beach sayin not to litter.” A man floats in the water at the foot of the rock, black hair plastered to his forehead and muscular arms crossed over a bare chest. 

“It, hic, it was an accident. And I am, hic, in no condition to retrieve anything from the water.”

The man frowns, “shit, if you’re that drunk, you oughta get off the rocks. It’s deep here, you might drown. Go sit on the sand, it’s safer. Warmer too, still holdin heat from the sun.”

“I, I’m fine, hic, don’t, don’t need some wet man babying me.” He stands to prove his point, nearly falls face first into the water, and sits back down, “see, m’fine.”

“Get off the rock.” The man says, sounding for all the world like a cat owner two seconds from grabbing the spray bottle. 

“No.” Indrid huffs. 

Water splashes his face and he sputters.

The man pulls his hand back, preparing to send another wave at him, “Get.”

“Fuck you” 

The splash is much more intense this time and he curses, scrambles sideways, and falls to his knees in the sand. 

“That’s better, now I don’t gotta worry about fishin your careless ass outta the water.”

“If, if we are, hic, t-talking careless, you, you shouldn’t say a thing. You’re, hic, swimming in cold water with, without a wetsuit.”

The man shrugs, “Don’t need one.” With that he floats on his back, bringing a dark-scaled tail into view. 

“You’re, hic, you’re a merman.” He crawls forward, breathless, “that’s so cool, wanna, gotta photograph you, so handsome, gotta-”

“Nope” The merman swims back into deeper water, “no pictures, those can end real bad for us.”

“But, but you’re so beautiful. If, hic, if pictures are no good, I, I can draw. I draw good, even if no one likes it.”

“Uh, you really wanna sit on a cold beach paintin my picture instead of hangin out at that shindig?” He points up the hill to the brightly lit house. 

“No, nonono, hic, don’t, don’t wanna go back up there, s’awful, hic.” 

“Awful?” The merman sounds concerned, and in the patchy moonlight he swims close enough that Indrid can see the details of his face, “is someone up there hurtin you?”

“No” He shakes his head, “it, it-”

“Indrid!”

“Damn it.” He mutters as the merman retreat beneath waves. As his guests grow closer he stands, carefully picks up all three bottles, and heads uphill to meet them.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid shuffles through the house, head pounding, decides he hates the following people, in this order:

-His agent

-Himself

-Whoever mentioned it was a shame there were no Plata River Bridge photos, causing Indrid to drink a whole martini in order to bite his tongue.

It’s not until his third cup of coffee that he remembers the merman. God, he was really rude to someone who was just trying to keep him from drowning.

Very, very carefully, he makes his way to the beach, sketchbook in one hand and thermos in the other. 

“Hello?” He calls across the water. No reply. Of course there isn’t; the merman has the whole ocean to explore, there’s no reason for him to hang around Indrid’s house. He sighs, sits down on a piece of driftwood, and draws. Normally the cold would drive him back indoors, but today it’s bracing, blowing his hangover off of him and down the sand. 

“Glad to see you’re in one piece” 

Indrid sits bolt upright. The merman waves to him.

“You came back?”

“Yeah? I mean, this is part of my rounds, so I come by here at least once a day. More surprised you’re down here when it’s all cold and grey.”

“I, ah, I wanted to apologize for last night. I was being stubborn and rude.”

“You were, but I was kinda grumpy too. At the end of my shift and all that, but I shouldn’t have splashed you.” He smiles, swims closer, “do you, uh, remember any of the other stuff you said?”

“I have a vague memory of begging to photograph you. Or maybe draw, it’s all very fuzzy.”

“You did. I, uh” the merman’s cheeks turn pink, “you were really, uh, well let’s just say you were excited at the idea of drawin me, so I thought maybe, if you wanted to..”

“Yes”  Indrid shifts down into the sand so he can rest his back on the log, “can we do it now? You said you were on rounds, and if you’re working I don’t want to interrupt.”

“I’m done for the day. Should I get on a rock or somethin?”

“Can you come on the sand at all? Oh, ah, it seems you can.” Indrid scoots back as the merman slides gracefully ashore. In the daylight, his tail is a rich green-brown, his hair streaked with grey near his forehead. His eyes, one green and one brown, regard Indrid with curiosity as he turns to a new page. 

“You got a name?”

“Indrid. Indrid Cold.”

“Duck Newton. It’s a nickname.” The mer stretches his arms and tail, and were Indrid in a self-flattering frame of mind he’d say he was flexing for him, “I gotta pose?”

“No, as long as you don’t move too much, I should be fine.”

Duck nods, shifts onto his belly with his tail dipped in the surf. Indrid sets his pen to paper, asks Duck what he does for work and when the tunnel vision of his project dissipates, it’s dusk.

“Oh my, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

The merman yawns, “S’okay, it was nice talkin with you, and I got to birdwatch some. Can I see?”

Indrid turns the sketchbook. Mis-matched eyes widen. 

“Holy fuck. You made me look damn good.”

“I simply captured you as you are.” Indrid feels a blush moving up his cheeks as Duck scoots closer. 

“You gonna do this tomorrow?  If, uh, if you don’t wanna draw me again, I can bring you some interestin stuff from the water. If, uh, if you want.”

His schedule for tomorrow starts with a phone interview, after which he was planning to sit in a dark living room and watch mindless T.V.

“That sounds lovely. Thank you, Duck.”

The merman beams, waves, and then pushes back into the sea, raising his tail once in farewell. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

“...now, Juno thinks it’s-holy fuck ‘Drid, was that your stomach?” Duck raises his head from where he’s been sort-of-napping, sort of talking.

“Hmm? Yes, I suppose it was.” He has his watercolors out today, a surprise stretch of sunny days rendering the beach and hillsides in glorious technicolor. 

“When did you last eat?”

“..............”

“Oh my fuckin god, ‘Drid, no wonder you look like you’re close to passin out.”

“I’m fine.” 

Duck has that look on his face again, the one he got when Indrid admitted to walking the cliff-side trails when he’s coming back from the roadhouse on the edge of town. When Indrid says he hasn’t slept in two days. 

The merman says nothing, goes back to reading the book of nature essays Indrid brought him. A buzz cuts through the air and he groans, shuts off the alarm on his phone, “I need to go get ready for that interview.”

“You wanna meet up tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Great. But, uh, seem to remember you promised me some of those cookies you say are the best in the world.”

Indrid smirks, “I suppose I did.”

“I want some. But not for dinner, with dinner. You feel me?” There’s an edge in his drawl, as formidable and unyielding as the nearby cliff-face. 

“Alright, I'll bring you some other things to try.” Indrid smiles, suddenly looking forward to a grocery run. 

Duck, now in the water, looks over his shoulder, “Good boy.”

Indrid shivers even as heat blooms in his chest. 

When sunset graces the beach, Indrid is busy setting out a half dozen take-out containers and many plastic boxes of cookies and fruit.

“Damn” Duck slides and wiggles his way onto the sand by the blanket, “you went all out.”

“You wanted a meal. I brought you one.”

“Sure did.” Duck sniffs the air, taps a carry-out bowl of soup, “what’s this?”

“Umm” Indrid peers at the label, “french onion soup.”

“Can I have it?”

“Of course.”

The merman downs the soup as fast as temperature allows, munches happily on the orange segments Indrid peels and samples the cookies. 

“Ahhh” He flops his head into Indrid’s lap, “that hit the spot.”

The human nods, bottle of pineapple soda on his lips. He’s so happy and full. 

Wait.

“Duck? Did you suggest this just so I would eat something?”

The face in his lap only looks a little chagrined, “Kinda. I been meanin to suggest this, and today seemed like the right time. And, uh, I know sometimes I have a hard time lookin after myself for me, but if someone else tells me to do it, or I have to do it as part of lookin after them, it’s easier. Thought that might be goin’ on with you. I, uh, I won’t do it again if you don’t want me to.”

“Nono” Indrid sets a hand in his hair, stroking it so Duck rubs his cheek against his thigh, “you’re right. It was easier to do the kind thing for myself when you told me to. Would, ah, would you be willing to do it again.” 

Duck meets his eyes, gaze bubbling with something dark and alluring, “Sure thing, ‘Drid.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Before you go, I wanted to give you this.” Indrid holds out the small camera. Duck, perched on a rock, takes it with a puzzled frown. He adds, “It’s waterproof. You mentioned you wish you could take pictures of the things you see in your home. I couldn’t think of a better time to give you than your trip.”

“Thanks, ‘Drid.” Duck leans forward, rubbing their cheeks together, “you remember your instructions?”

“Yes.” He whimpers when Duck pulls back. 

“Good. Want you in good shape when I get home.” Duck’s voice returns to normal, “should be back in a week. I’ll see you then.”

Indrid waves goodbye, keeps waving well past the point where Duck could see him, even if he surfaced. Then he grabs the basket of fresh oysters and heads to the house to call Barclay. 

The phone calls and dinners with one of his few friends in town are part of his agreement with Duck. The mer told him he couldn’t meet every night, so maybe Indrid should find other forms of company. He also helpfully supplies Indrid with fresh shellfish that he has no idea how to cook, but his friend the professional chef certainly does. This dovetails nicely with his promise to Duck to eat at least one full meal a day.

It’s not just the strange dynamic they’ve hit upon that’s improving his life; it’s Duck. The merman makes him feel so safe, like someone cares about the real him and not just the him that makes them money or feeds their morbid curiosity. Not to mention he’s even more handsome than Indrid first thought and he spends plenty of nights jerking off to the thought of a cool, strong tail between his legs. 

He does well the first five days Duck is gone. Barclay and Dani come over for dinner, he paints and draws prolifically, and he even reads up on whether it’s feasible for him to adopt rats (“those are kinda like otters, right?” “close enough.”). Friday night his agent calls, excitedly reporting that it’ll soon be the fifth anniversary of the Plata River incident and the magazine is getting requests for a feature on it and Indrid will be perfect. 

Indrid says he’ll think about it, hangs up, and opens the fridge. He promised Duck he’d only drink if it was with dinner or with friends. He grabs two wine coolers and heads into the living room. 

The next day, he’s idly fiddling with the dating app he hasn’t touched since December when a new profile appears. Very good looking, close by, clearly just passing through town, and interested in Indrid. He invites him over, spends the next half hour getting ready, and even cleans the bedroom because well, that’s what he’d do for Duck, he should do it for anyone else he brings over. 

Indrid opens the door at the second knock. The guy takes one look at him, shakes his head, and returns to his car.

Indrid downs the remaining wine coolers and goes down to the beach to sulk. He tucks his legs up, pressing his forehead to his knees, and rocks back and forth. He’s nearly sober when a voice drifts across the waves.

“‘Drid?” 

He looks up, glasses slipping down his nose, “Duck? You’re, you’re back.”

“Yep. It was fast goin the last ten miles. Brought the camera back, think you gotta be the one to get the pictures off, but I can’t wait to show you all the cool shit we saw.”

“Me neither” He stands and instantly pitches forward, landing on his hands and knees in the shallow water. 

“You been drinking?”

“Yes.”

“You and Barclay have a good time?” He’s giving him the benefit of the doubt, giving him an out, and Indrid decides that isn’t what he wants. 

“I wasn't with Barclay. I got horrible news last night, and today I tried to get laid and got rejected, and I’m at the point in my life where I nearly called after the guy that he could keep his eyes shut and I’d just blow him so he wouldn’t need to look at or touch me. So yes, Duck, I’ve been drinking.”

Duck’s expression swims between concern and disappointment, then comes to rest on neutral steel, “That ain’t what we agreed.”

“I’m aware. But I don’t care, I don’t” he aims a splash at Duck, “it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, nothing will come of it, same as always.”

The merman cocks an eyebrow, “You really think that? You forgettin I said there’d be consequences if you broke the rules?”

“Oooh, I’m so scared.” Indrid splashes him again.

Duck smiles, reminding him that all his teeth end in points, “Didn’t say anythin about scarin you. You really wanna believe that nothing matters, you can head home. Or” he points to a nearby rock, “you go get on your hands and knees, facin the cliffs.”

Indrid crawls gracelessly to the designated spot. It’s dangerous to turn his back on the ocean, but a gentle voice in his mind reminds him over and over that Duck is here. Duck won’t let him get hurt. 

There’s a splash as Duck pulls himself onto the rock. Then a whoosh of air and a sting in the right side of his ass. He yelps, startled, and looks behind him.

“If this ain’t okay, need you to say so now.” Duck’s eyes are wide and hungry, but his hands stay on the grey rock. 

“It’s okay.” He can’t believe this is happening, can’t decide if he should tell Duck this is not remotely a punishment. 

Another sharp grin, “Eyes front.”

Indrid’s barely obeyed when the next strike comes. Duck is strong and makes no attempt to hide it, hitting him hard enough that his knees jolt forward in the sand. The pain lights him up each time, forces the thing knotted in his chest up towards his throat. 

When the blows stop he whimpers, pushing his ass back in hopes of more.

“Don’t worry, ‘Drid, I ain’t done with you by a long shot.” Cold fingers undo his fly, bring his pants and underwear down to his thighs. He’s expecting another hit, wiggles his ass in anticipation. 

What he gets are teeth sinking into his skin.

“AH!GOD” He yells loud enough that his throat hurts.

Duck chuckles, “Holler all you want, we both know no one can hear what goes on on this beach, especially with all the wind.” He bites down again, Indrid thrashing and moaning as teeth sink into already reddened skin. Duck growls in reply, savaging the meat of his as and grazing his teeth along his thighs, dangerously close to his balls. He’s already getting hard, the process expedited by warm breath and lips on his body. 

He moans embarrassingly loud when Duck shoves his ass apart.

“Damn, you really did get all prepped for that fella. Shame, he didn’t know what he was missin.” The plug hits the sand to his right.

“You, you don’t have to flatter meEEEoh, oh Duckohmygoodness.” His fingers dig into the sand as the merman teases his rim with a flexible tongue. There’s a muffled laugh, but Duck doesn’t respond beyond that, too busy threatening him with a good time as his tongue gives an experimental push. 

Then it retreats and he turns his head left and right, delivering quick bites to either cheek before his tongue returns. He alternates between the delicious, teasing licks and painful bites, the shift never coming when Indrid expects and causing him to cry out every time. When the mer releases one side of his ass in order to slap his thighs while he continues licking, kissing, and nipping his way across bruised, sensitive skin, Indrid lets out a strangled sound, the thing in his chest now trapped at the back of his throat. 

“You make such cute noises, but they ain’t the ones I’m lookin for. I ain’t stoppin until you apologize.”

Indrid opens his mouth, intending to say something about how this is the wrong way to make him do so. 

“I, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t be angry with me, don’t leave, don’t leave me here, I can’t, I, I don’t want to think about it, Duck please, I’m sorry, so sorry” he;s hunched forward, sobbing into the sand, when he realizes he’s fully clothed and Duck isn’t behind him.

“No” he squeaks, “no please don’t go.”

“I ain’t goin anywhere.” Duck slides up the sand next to him, pulls him into his arms, “I’m so sorry darlin, I didn’t mean to make you cry, I took it too far, I ain’t mad, not really” he eases Indrid’s glasses off and sets them out of harms way, “oh darlin, c’mere, it’s okay” salty kisses dot his forehead and green scales pet his legs. 

“It’s, hic, it’s not your fault. I, I l-liked it, but this has, hic, been building up for months. Years.” He hides his face in Duck’s chest.

“Years?” Duck grabs Indrid’s sweater from where he cast it off, draping it over the human. 

Indrid sniffs, “You know I’m a photographer. But I’ve never told you what I photograph. I, I made my name recording disasters and their aftermath. For a long time I took pride in it; someone has to document those things, so we can’t erase them, so we have to confront them and try to make things better, or try to keep such tragedy from reoccurring. I was so good at recording it I became famous. Wealthy. And I learned that most people like to gawk at horror and then go about their days. I, I tried branching out and...and I ended up with a disaster anyway. A bridge collapse, I chronicled everything from the instant it started to the funerals and it, it was too much. Ever since then I’ve felt trapped by my work. At times, by my life. My agent wants me to go back for the fifth anniversary, he told me so last night.”

“You ain’t goin, right?” 

“I don’t think I can.” 

Duck nods, rests his chin atop his head, “tell me what you wanna do instead.”

He does. He tells him about his other art, about the pitches for childrens books and the plans for a real vacation, about the life that, for the first time, feels in reach when he speaks about it. By the time he’s done the stars are out and he’s much calmer and clear-headed.

“Did you mean what you said earlier? That, that you thought I was attractive?”

“Every damn word.” Duck rolls them so Indrid is on his back, kisses his cheek, “thought so since that first night. But, uh” his gaze flicks down to Indrid’s crotch, “if you want more proof I’m happy to give it.”

“Please?”

“Get your pants off and lay on your sweater.”

Indrid complies, shivers when Duck guides his shirt up and off. 

“Fuuuuck” the mer rubs his hands up and down his torso, “when it warms up, you’re gonna swim out with me so I can get my fill of this while you ride my dick.”

“Yes. Ah, I, I did prep, but it’s been long enough now that lubrication may be an issueOOOh, ooohyes.” He release into the sand as Duck grinds his tail against his cock. The scales feel as lovely now as they do when he pets them, and he wonders if Duck will let him get off by humping his tail one of these days.

“It won’t, trust me. Lemme just--there we go. Open your legs. Heh, eager little thing.”

“I’ve wanted this too long to play coy.”

“Good.”

“Eeep!” Something slick and squirming presses into his ass, “do, do you have tentacles?”

“Kinda? They’re just the tip, for this exact reason. It, uh, it feel okay?” Duck smiles reassuringly and that, combined with the genuine concern in his voice makes Indrid moans and nudge him closer. 

“VeryOH, oohgracious” two more tentacles join the first, pulsing and scissoring him open, “how many are there?”

“About eight.”

He moans louder and Duck laughs, pushes his hips forward, “glad you like it, darlin’. Because from where I’m sittin your ass is fuckin amazin and I wanna be as deep in it as I can.”

“Yes, absolutely, pleaseAHHnnn” enough tentacles now that he can’t keep an accurate count, “please use it as you see fit.”

“As I see fit huh? That’s a tricky question. See, sometimes I wanna, fuck, wanna shove the whole thing in you at once and make you scream while I leave my mark on your neck.”

“AHHnnngod” A firmer shaft pushes in, ridges rubbing all the right places as the tentacles continue exploring him. 

“Other times, think it’s better to tease you with the tip, maybe make you blow me first and jerk you off until you’re beggin for my dick.”

“Yes, yesyesyesyes”

“But tonight” Duck bottoms out with a groan, “I’m gonna take it nice and slow, show you just how fuckin wonderful you are. How much you mean to me. My Indrid.”

“Yours” Indrid twines his limbs around him, “god, Duck, it feels so good, you’re so good, you always look after me.”

“That I do. Because you deserve it. And” the tentacles find his prostate and he nearly howls as Duck continues, “you deserve to learn how t’be nice to yourself. And I, ahfuck, know that ain’t easy, but I’m gonna be here to help.”

“Yes, ohgod, yes, you’re, you’re so perfect, aaAAAhnI, I’m, close sweetheart, you fill me so well.”

“Damn right. Gonna, nnngh, gonna find every fuckin way to fill you, make you feel fuckin amazin, fuck, that’s it darlin, ohfuckyeah” as he starts spilling into him, Indrid cums with a shout, splattering their stomachs. Duck moans at the sight, wriggles his hips as his shaft continues rippling and pulsing. It turns out mer orgasms are long, so long that Indrid is whimpering from overstimulation by the time Duck pulls out. 

A gentle, salt-soaked kiss to his lips, “Lookit you, took it all. You’re so good for me, darlin.”

“Mmmhmm” He doesn’t want to let go, cold, wind, and damp be damned. Duck seems to understand, holds him and whispers sweet promises in his ears until he’s shivering.

“‘Drid, your teeth are chatterin.”

“I kn-know, I s-should g-go home and w-warm up.”

Duck kisses him again, “sooner you go and rest, sooner we can do this again.”

“An excellent p-point.” He stands, blows a shaky kiss towards his future, “see you tomorrow.”

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 1

chapter 2!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word count: 7k (i am insane i know this!! you can also find this fic on ao3 !!)

Author’s note: hello! attempting to upload a fic on here for the first time ever! do i understand this website’s format. perhaps not. but am i going to try? perhaps yes! anyways hope you all like it :) likes and reblogs are very much appreciated!!! umm idk how this works if you wanna follow me you can?? do follows exist on tumblr dot com i think they do. hope they do. love you all. this is a long chapter buckle up (BUCKle up lmao i am not funny)!! enjoy ;o

“Hey, can you come look at this?”

You teach three classes a week- Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. The latter two are enjoyable in their own right, but Mondays are definitely your favorite. Instead of teaching kids, who are funny and creative but so messy, and so loud, you get to teach adults. People your own age or usually older, putting you in a position of authority, valuing your opinion, wanting you to come look at things.

It’s a delightful power trip.

You turn away from the window to see who’s speaking.

It’s Steve.

Of course it’s Steve, your star student, staring at you with a worn, weary intensity, wiping a paintbrush on a paper towel. He’s already pushed his sheet of paper across the table, bumpy with water and watercolor paint, cream-colored edges starting to curl. He leans away from it, reclining in a seat that’s adult-sized but dwarfed by his frame, looking so forlorn, like the paper just abandoned him, moved to the opposite side of the table by itself.

You stifle a laugh.

“Sure,” you say, and make your way over to his table.

Steve fidgets in his seat as you look at his painting. You try to keep your jaw in check.

It drops anyway.

As always, it’s beautiful. He’s painted a sky, swirling with purples and pinks, and careful clouds, flickering in and out between layers of paint, elegant and pale yellow-orange. And the sun- it’s off-center, and you’re sure it was unintentional, but that adds to the effect, because it’s hot red, and dazzling, and slowly seeping into the still-wet sky. Tendrils of red like real sunbeams, pushing through the clouds like a real sunset.

You don’t know why Steve even takes this class. Half the time, you feel like he should be the one teaching.

“It’s gorgeous,” you say eventually, once your words come back to you. “I love how you painted the sun- the red, oh my god. You’re seriously a natural.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and you push the paper back towards him. He looks down at it, still tense, brow furrowed, and you almost laugh again, until he looks back up at you. “I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

Power trip.

“I love it,” you say, giving him a reassuring smile, which he hesitantly returns. You might be laying it on a little thick, but Steve still looks distressed, and you genuinely like the guy enough to try to help him.

When he walked in with his friend for the first class, you were floored. People like Steve don’t attend classes like this- classes like this are attended by regular people. Not people that walk like dancers, all grace and light steps, not people that are extraordinarily jacked, with jutting shoulders and rippling muscles, not people that have a weirdly authoritarian air around them, like a politician, but less shrewd.

Still, you welcomed them and made awkward small-talk and tried not to stare at their arms and hoped you came across as a somewhat decent person. It’s your first time teaching adults, you explained, and Steve gave you a smile so sincere and reassured you that you would do great, boosting your confidence to the point where you actually did.

Steve is lovely. He’s passionate about art and has a good eye, a better eye than you, really, and he always tries so hard with whatever he does, and he’s funny in a dorky way, and completely unaware of it. He always wears a baseball hat and tucks his shirts into his pants and called you ma’am once, and looked so surprised when you burst out laughing and told him to call you by your first name. With him, two classes have flown by, and now, during the third, he’s warmed up to you enough to talk to you like a friend.

The friend he brings with him, though?

A total douchebag.

The night to Steve’s day, the rain to his sunshine. It’s obvious that Steve brings him along as some sort of moral support, to make himself look less out of place, which is fine, except the guy always treats you like you’ve perpetually offended him.

And maybe you have, maybe one time you did something that’s worthy of his eternal dislike, but you wouldn’t know what it is, because he’s never brought it up, because he barely fucking talks.

You don’t think he’s a naturally quiet guy. He definitely looks like he has a lot to say, but no matter what, he only ever talks in single-syllable bursts, quiet enough that half the time you miss what he’s saying.

He doesn’t ignore you, either- he listens to everything you say and lets his judgement flicker over his face- which is way worse. A glare is a slight misstep, a shake of his head means that you’ve just said something that he finds stupid, a scowl is a catastrophe.

You don’t even know his name. He’s never introduced himself, and always writes his name in a shaky, illegible scrawl on the sign-in sheet, and by now you don’t care enough to look it up.

Still, you’re nice to him, polite. It’s okay if he doesn’t like you. You don’t need to be liked- being noticed is enough.

You shift away from Steve to his friend, sitting next to him at the table. He’s staring at you in a way that you can only describe as violent, and you flinch, and then plaster your smile back on.

“How’s it going?” You ask, expecting no response, stealing a glance at his paper. He’s painted the entire sheet a watered-down blue, and you want to congratulate him, for actually participating this time, but you don’t say anything. “The watercolors working out for you?”

Your heart goes out to the poor paintbrush in his hand. It’s barely been used, is steadily dripping water, and is being throttled in his gloved grip. He always wears one glove- it’s weird, but you’re not going to pry.

He catches you looking and a whole myriad of emotion plays over his face; irritation and shame, a creased brow and a scowl. You have the feeling that you’ve taken a massive overstep, even though you haven’t said anything else, even though you’re not looking at his hand anymore, just at him.

His hair hangs over his eyes, glossy and carelessly wavy, which you would find pretty, maybe, if he wasn’t looking at you the way he is. Like you’ve just done something terrible.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s it.

Even when you turn away, he’s glaring.

You hate it, so you pretend it’s not happening.

Steve gives you a sympathetic glance before you head back. You wave it off.

“Shonna,” you call, to the fiftysomething woman hunched over her painting a few tables down, “how’re the flowers looking?”

***

Thirty minutes before your fourth Monday class starts, you arrive at the studio to find Rina washing paintbrushes in the sink.

“Hey,” you call.

She turns to you and gives you a surprised grin. “Oh, hey! You’re here early- come help with these brushes.”

You set your bag on the counter by the wall and join her at the sink. You’ve known Rina for ages- ever since you were roommates in college. The class before yours is taught before, some advanced painting thing that she is extremely overqualified to teach.

She’s kind of famous. And kind of self-absorbed, and a little bit pretentious, but maybe that’s just what happens when you’re as successful in your field as she is. No matter what it is, you can’t complain- she’s the one that helped get you this job in the first place.

“A couple of people in my class like to get here early, so I just try to arrive before them,” you say. She passes you a clean paintbrush. You reach around her and tear off a paper towel from the dispenser. “Did you dye your hair? It looks so pretty.”

“Yes!” She shakes her head, letting her hair sway. Last time you met her, she had dyed it pink. Now it’s mahogany red, straight and sleek and falling just past her shoulders. She looks a little unreal. “How’s your class going? Are the people okay?”

“Yeah, most of them are pretty nice.”

She passes you another paintbrush to dry. You consider bringing up Steve’s friend, but decide against it.

“That’s good- and you’re welcome, by the way. But okay, listen. Do you remember that one guy I told you about a while back, Dustin? So yesterday I was just sitting at home, and then he texted me…”

With the formalities out of the way, she launches into a story about someone you definitely don’t remember. Still, you humor her, listen to what she has to say, chime in at the right parts and say “really?” and “no way!” too many times. The minutes tick by.

When all of the brushes are washed and dried, you take them, since you’re going to be the one using them next, and start setting up for the class. Rina walks away and grabs her stuff from the counter. She lingers by the doorway, door already propped open, aimlessly scrolling through something on her phone, hesitant to leave for a reason you don’t know. Maybe she has more to say- if that’s even, like, possible.

You set the brushes in a container at the center table, and head over to the shelves on the far wall to pull out more supplies. Unfortunately, today’s class is revolving around watercolor again. It’s drudgery, such a boring medium- dull, unsaturated, painstaking when it comes to detail. You bring out a stack of paper, the least-depressing palettes, and then mason jars for holding water.

You’re setting the last jar on the table when Rina shrieks.

It startles you, making your hand slip.

The jar wobbles over the edge of the table and then falls, shattering into cloudy glass pieces at your feet.

“Shit,” you curse, and look over at her. “Rina, what the hell?”

Standing across from her in the doorway, having arrived early for class as usual, are Steve and his friends, two shades more flustered than usual. Rina is gawking at them.

Okay, they’re attractive, but not that attractive.

Not shriek-worthy attractive.

You sigh loudly and carefully step over the glass, making your way over to them. “Hi, Steve,” you say, and he jolts, like a scared cat. He’s blushing, stepping back into the hallway, hands awkwardly dangling at his sides. His friend is staring at Rina like he’s about to murder her, and you’re staring at him like you’re about to ask him to pass you the broom behind the door.

Because you are.

“Sorry about… that. There’s a broom behind the door, could you pass it to me?”

He opens his mouth to say something, and you are desperate to hear him, even if he’s only going to utter a simple yes, but Rina buts in.

“You did not just ask the Winter Soldier to pass you a broom.”

Who?

“Girl, what?”

All three of you turn to her, cornering back into the wall. She looks even more unreal, eyes blown wide, red creeping up her neck, giving her hair a run for its money, still gawking. You resist the urge to reach out and pull her chin back up, to close her mouth.

She alternates between looking at Steve and at…  

“That’s the Winter Soldier,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself, or you, and then steps closer to Steve, who instinctively takes a step back. He’s fully in the hallway, now. “And you’re Captain America.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He stays silent, and you feel bad for him, that’s all you can feel, really- you are confused beyond reason, halfway convinced that Rina is losing her shit, still awaiting the broom, still awaiting Steve’s friend’s words, racking your brain for any image of Captain America or the Winter Soldier that you might have- and coming up completely empty.

You don’t watch the news, like, ever.

Little details float back to you. Steve’s dressing sense, his manners, his muscles…

The baseball caps that both of them are always wearing...

His friend’s glove…

Oh, fuck.

“Are you?” You ask dumbly. The question is meant for both of them, but you only look at one of them while speaking. A glare meets you back- a slight misstep.

You can’t even see your feet, in this situation. You’re walking blind.

Steve crosses his arms and looks at you sternly. He doesn’t look angry, but as close as he can get. “Yes,” he says, completely guarded and unfriendly and not lovely at all. “I thought you knew that.”

You are so stupid- how did you not know that?

“I didn’t,” you say, and you don’t sound convincing at all. Not much fazes you, but you are absolutely, positively fazed right now, and starting to spiral out. “I had no idea- I thought you guys could have been, like, bodyguards, or something, not actual Avengers, oh my god. I’m so sorry, shit, thank you for your service?”

You’re going to end it all- this is so embarrassing.

Steve’s mouth twitches. Rina is scarlet-faced. The Winter Soldier, god, looks so tense, like he might shatter, too, into silent, grumpy pieces all over the floor.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, and marginally relaxes. He stays in the hallway, the Winter Soldier by the door- you should have paid more attention in your tenth grade history class, what is the guy’s name?

Rina peels herself off the wall, and you start to get nervous. There’s a painful silence, with lots of staring, where you’re still trying to coax a few rational thoughts out of your brain, and only coming up with one- Rina needs to leave.  

You try to tell her that with your eyes, with a pointed look, but you’re not great at this whole communication-through-expressions thing, so she doesn’t get the hint, or does and just ignores it.

“So, let me get this straight,” she says, tearing the silence like a plastic seal, voice starting to rise, from wonder to excitement, from painless curiosity to danger, “there’s two Avengers taking your class? And you didn’t even recognize them?”

“Nope,” you say, looking away, at a stain on the wall, at the distant glass shards still unswept away on the floor.

“That’s…”

She trails off before she has the chance to call you stupid, because the Winter Soldier gives her a pointed look of his own. Low brows and dark eyelashes, blazing blue eyes- she has no choice but to listen. Your staring was irritating, but his is intimidating.

She scampers away, mumbling something you can’t catch and brushing against Steve as she leaves.

This whole thing is so unprofessional, but at least you can breathe again-

“Here,” the Winter Soldier says, and a broom handle comes into your view.

Just one word, but you’ll take it with open arms. You take the broom from him, give an unreturned, unfamiliarly sheepish smile and head back to the broken glass on the floor.

The broken glass is swept up and tossed in the trash. You avoid looking at the doorway, focusing on other useless tasks instead. Rearranging the supplies on the table, fiddling with the window blinds, chatting with the rest of the class attendees as they start to file in.

Then the class starts and you’re swept back into your demonstration, talking and teaching and showing off different techniques that can be done with different types of brushes. You only look in their direction once, right after showing off some technique you barely remember from art school with a fan brush- they sit at their table near the back, Steve paying attention as usual, his friend silently reacting, as usual.

So they decided to stay- that’s good. Great, even.

Until the next part of the class starts, when everyone gets to work on their own paintings, when you have to stop talking.

You mill around the room, searching for a conversation to join in on or a comment to make, but find none. Then you take a sheet of paper and hopelessly try to draw- search for a distraction and a spark up of an idea, something, anything, and come up completely empty. It’s just...

How famous are they? Like, A-list celebrity famous? Are they offended that you didn’t recognize them- should you start treating them differently? You don’t keep up with this stuff. You have an impossibly long list of other things to worry about- you don’t have the time to worry about this stuff. The Avengers aren’t something you think about ever, because why should you?

If you opened any newspaper or magazine you would find something about them- a charity gala they attended, some recent threat they neutralized, the latest gossip surrounding their personal lives. But those lives are so far detached from your own that you’ve never bothered to look.

You simply don’t care. You’re not a native New Yorker- it’s not like these people are your hometown heroes, that you grew up idolizing them. They save the world time and time again and society is forever indebted to them and all of that, but what are you supposed to do about it?

And most importantly, what is the Winter Soldier’s fucking name?

Enough of this chaos goes on in your mind to make your head hurt. Fuck it, you decide- you’ll face it. You straighten your shoulders as you stand, trying your best to look purposeful as you walk to their table, like you have reason to go over there. Yeah, they’re strong. Genetically enhanced and all of that, and they’re important: they’re Avengers.

But they’re taking your class.

You slide into the chair across from the Soldier without taking the time to gauge their reactions.

“Do other people here know?” You ask.

Steve startles, eyes widening, and then considers the question while swirling his brush in green paint. He’s working on a landscape today, you think. “Shonna might,” he says, not rudely. “But nobody else.”

So maybe not that famous. Or maybe the people here are just like you and don’t care.

But it still doesn’t make sense. “Then why did you think that I knew?”

“Because you talk a lot,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing ever.

“Well, yeah, that’s part of the job-”

Steve cuts you off, and fuck, you hate getting interrupted. But he’s smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to get upset over it. “You talk a lot to us.”

Us?  

More like to him.

You take it in stride, don’t let your confidence slip. You’ve purposely angled your head away, and you know the Winter Soldier is staring at you- you can feel it on your cheek, on your shoulder, on every nerve in your face. You don’t look back at him. This revelation hasn’t made him any less unpleasant.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s just as obvious, “because you’re a nice guy, Steve.”

Steve raises his eyebrows so high that they disappear under the brim of his hat. You smile at him as nicely as you can, sugar-sweet, until he can’t take anymore and drops his gaze back to his painting. You turn back to the nameless man across from you.

Winter Soldier.

“Hi,” you say, only to him, and prop your elbows up on the table, resting your face in your hands. “I love the little pattern you have going on with your painting.”

It’s random splotches of black paint- calling it a pattern is an exaggeration. But you carry on.

“This is probably a bad time to ask, and it’s kind of a dumb question, but, like, what’s your name?”

He just barely raises an eyebrow, allowing for a fraction of surprise, before schooling his expression back into his usual mix of anger and boredom, a casual glare and slight frown. For a moment, you wonder what he looks like when he’s happy.

“You don’t know his name?” Steve is in disbelief, and then he winces, and you think he’s been kicked under the table. Abruptly, you laugh.

It rings out. A few people turn and stare, but you brush it all off with another smile.

He’s still staring. You don’t mind it.

The paintbrush in his hand is suddenly unsteady.

“My name is Bucky,” he says, slowly and loudly enough for you to make out the sound of his voice, for the first time ever.

He is definitely bothered by you asking, his mouth drawn tight, and you can’t even take the time to appreciate how cutesy his name is compared to his demeanor, because oh hell. It’s going to be difficult to keep up this whole dislike thing, if his voice sounds like this, low and rough and gritty like sandpaper, pleasantly grating over you and your skin…

You have to consciously remind yourself to keep on smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Things should feel different, but they don’t. Nobody really reacts- everything resumes as normal. Steve focuses on his panting, adding delicate brushstrokes to the branches of a tree. You linger for a moment, and then get up from the table and flutter off to someone else.

For every class, you wear this kitschy apron, paint-stained, with strings tied in a hasty bow against your back that Bucky always aches to even out. Someone tells you something, and you respond eagerly, fully phased out of the past incident.

He stares until he realizes he’s staring, and then drops his eyes back down to his paper.

Steve wanted to attend this class for a number of reasons- he was bored and wanted something to occupy his time, he wanted to revisit an old hobby, he wanted to learn from you- some hip, emerging artist he’s a fan of, whose work he’s been following for a while now, who is seriously talented, although you have yet to prove it. He wanted to go do something separated from the events of his regular life.

So much wanting. Bucky wants to know why you’re so indifferent.

He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that you didn’t know his name, or that you didn’t flinch or gasp or accuse him of something, or pointedly look at his left arm. Should he be thankful? Steve is clearly thankful, already loosening up, freed of any lasting tension.

Bucky just feels wary. You’re unsettling.

You come back over to their table one more time. The sleeves of your shirt are pushed up, and there’s a smear of something dark on your forearm, ink or paint. On one wrist you’re wearing a  bracelet made of braided leather. On the other you wear a bulky digital watch.

Practical.

“Everything okay?” You ask, as if something not okay could potentially have happened, in your forty-five minute absence.

Steve fixes you with a friendly smile. Bucky can’t ever bring himself to do the same.

“Yep,” Steve says, and you nod your head, clearly relieved.

“Great!” You glance at him for a spare second, and turn away again.

Everyone he knows is so guarded, walls built high and doors barred shut. Except for you, if Bucky can say that he knows you, the perky art instructor, Steve’s favorite artist. You’re confident and flippant, and that should be a bad pairing, but somehow you can carry yourself within it just fine. Always purposeful in the space you occupy, not reacting to the knowledge of his and Steve’s major, momentous identities.

Bucky wonders, idly, as he blots water over what you so generously called a pattern, why you didn’t.

It’s not like he wants you to acknowledge it, wants you to call him a war criminal or a Rusisan spy. He just wants you to-

He doesn’t know.

The class goes on. An older couple sitting a few tables away have caught your attention, chattering on and on about their personal lives.They have a pet cat that their landlord doesn’t know about, and when they retire they want to move to the seaside in Italy, and in May their son is going to graduate high school.

“High school?” You gasp, loud for no reason. “I hated high school.”

Before the class ends, you take your position at the front of the studio, and talk some more. He knows it’s part of your job, but you are excessive.

There’s an art exhibition going on at some museum, and one of the featured artists is an acquaintance of yours, and on Saturday the admission fee is discounted, and if anybody is interested, you have a stack of flyers on the center table. And you hope that everyone has a good week.

You look at Bucky while finishing up your little monologue, giving a half-smile that’s for the whole class, but seemingly only directed at him. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, you’re looking somewhere else.

***

“Morning, pal, you ready to go?”

Steve gives him a hopeful smile as he peels an orange.

Bucky’s hair is still wet from his shower, dripping water onto his shirt. It’s early, too early to go anywhere. He doesn’t even know why he’s awake- usually after his wake-of-dawn runs, he falls back asleep, or lies down and just stares at his ceiling, thinking, until he grows restless enough to get up and do something. But today, the restlessness came much sooner, so he got up much sooner, and it might already be a mistake.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, next to Sam, trying to think of something that Steve might have had planned for today, and coming up completely empty. “Go where?”

Steve looks hurt, for a brief second. “The exhibition at the museum, remember?”

Oh.

That.

“I’m not going to that,” Bucky says, harshly enough for it to be dropped.

Steve does not drop it. “Hey, come on. Just look at it.”

From his back pocket, Steve pulls out a flyer, one of the flyers you had out on Monday, folded up in a neat square- when did Steve pick one of those up? He holds it out, and Bucky, wishing he was asleep again, takes it.

He unfolds it, and the words are written in tiny letters, and the few photos on the paper are in color but too grainy to make out, and it gives him a slight headache, but he pretends to look it over. Sam leans into him to see it, loudly crunching cereal in Bucky’s ear.

“Looks cool, Rogers,” Sam says, and Steve grins, and now Bucky is the bad guy in the situation, for not wanting to go, even though Sam isn’t going either.

Bucky passes the flyer back without reading a single word.

“I’m not going,” he says, again.

But Steve is relentless. He sets the orange peels aside and gives him a look, and Bucky can already feel his resolve starting to crumble, and it’s kind of pathetic, really. Does he not understand that Bucky is already doing as much as he can?

“Why not?”

He picks the easiest answer.

“I don’t want to.”

Steve’s brow furrows as he splits the orange into two, giving half to Bucky. Sam slurps the milk from his cereal bowl.

They’re all blissfully silent.

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says suddenly, almost begging. “I really want to see it.”

“I don’t-” He falters, he’s losing the battle. “How many people are there gonna be?”

Steve lights up. Bucky tries to stay indignant, tries to keep his face twisted in dislike, but it’s difficult with Steve. He’s always so full of optimism, has so much of it that it spills out through the seams, rubs off onto whoever’s closest.

“Not that many,” Steve says, like a promise, shaking his head. “That’s why we should go now.”

“Will she be there?”

Sam perks up.

Steve frowns. “No? Or wait, maybe. It’s a public place- I don’t know. She could be.”

It’s miles off from the answer he wants, but again, for Steve, he’ll take it. Bucky ignores Sam leaning across the counter like an idiot and asking “who’s she?” and eats his orange slices in silence.

***

Huge, bulbous heads, and beady little eyes. The limbs are long and wavy and contorted in the weirdest positions, seas of arms and legs and joints, women twisted over each other in gnarled embraces, a man with his arms twirling over and over again around his own torso. And the colors- a complete eclectic mess of everything- blue, red, yellow, green, purple. Everything.

You walk through the museum floor one, two, three times. The paintings on display are unsettling and ugly, and you’re on the verge of tears.

They’re gorgeous. Pain thrown on a canvas, told through canvas. It’s overwhelming- you’re overwhelmed, and you can’t do anything else about it. The museum just opened and there’s barely any people around- you can wallow in your sadness as much as you want to, for now.

Or maybe you’ll wallow in your frustration, instead.

This… you want to create like this.  

But you don’t have it.  

It being an impossible, nearly unattainable type of pain, or misery or anger or any other emotion so strong and visceral that you could translate it into something like this, something that evokes something else from other people. From an audience.

You might have had something like that once, but that’s all too far behind you now. Forgettable. What you need right now is an idea, a spark of inspiration, a single coherent thought. A confirmation that you aren’t completely lost.

You wander back to a painting in a far corner, all alone in a small alcove. A red woman, with her head nestled in green grass and legs wrapping around the sun, quite literally head over heels for it. Her mouth is wide open, gaping, calling, wailing, maybe. She has a hooked nose and a mole on one of her arms, and her white dress has fallen down to pool on the grass, and her legs are lithe and unshaven, prickly like the grass, just like the yellow spikes of the sun, drawn almost comically.

How do you even- how do you even come up with things like this?

By living an interesting life, probably. Through not being boring.

You stay there for a while. Long enough that more people start to file in, pretentious art students wearing all black, eccentric people with awesome haircuts, tourists. They peer over your shoulders, awkwardly, waiting for you to move. When you don’t, they leave you to be, giving you a rude look or two that you pay no mind to. There’s space on either side of you, if they’re so desperate to see. Sidling up right against you is kind of weird, but you’ll excuse it, for this painting.

Eventually, you realize that you should probably get going.

You’ve been standing so long that your legs are starting to ache, and there’s countless other Saturday errands you have to run- doing your laundry, buying groceries, calling up your mom- boring Saturday things to do.

You leave the red woman, regrettably. The fabric of your sleeve comes back dry when you wipe your eyes, even though you feel fully washed away, feel like you’re floating as you drift over to the elevator.

The doors slide open and a few people file out, and then it’s empty, thankfully. You step inside, press the button for the ground floor, wait for the doors to fully close-

“Wait,” a voice calls.

You’re not rude- you press the button to hold open the door.

When it fully opens, Steve steps inside, followed by Bucky.

You’re still out of it. You don’t even realize who they are, not until the doors have slid shut and the floor jolts as the elevator starts its descent and they’ve been staring at you for a solid five seconds.

“Oh, hi,” you say, after too much silence. You need to get yourself together. “You guys came!”

Put a little pep in your step! And more joy in your voice- nobody wants to listen to someone so drained.

Steve shrugs. “I wanted to see it.”

Bucky just smolders, clearly saying with his silence, “I didn’t.”

“Did you like it?”

Steve considers your question. The elevator stops at another floor and the doors slide open, but there’s nobody waiting to step inside. You wait for Steve to gather his words together, sure that he’s trying to come up with a nice way to voice whatever he’s thinking, which is definitely not nice. There’s no way that he liked the art, not one chance.

“It was… intriguing,” he says, at last. Neither of them are wearing hats today, because the museum doesn’t allow it. Even in this artificial light, his hair shines, golden-blond. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you say, without wasting a second. “The one of the red woman- it’s probably the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

“It’s only January,” Bucky grumbles.

His voice shocks you, sends an ice-cold jolt up your spine that you definitely dislike.

Steve turns to him, peering over your shoulder, surprised and disappointed. The two of them have a silent conversation with their eyes and you stand in the midst of it, waiting for the goosebumps to settle back down, waiting for the chill to go away.

It’s difficult- he clearly doesn’t like you, either- and even if he has his own troubling little backstory, which you don’t care enough about to google, it’s not justified.

But…

It almost makes his aggression... amusing.

“It is January,” you say politely, dismissing him. “Great observation.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors side open. You exit in step with Steve, with Bucky right on your heels.

You all stand around in the museum lobby, a wide hallway down from the giftshop and a small cafe.

“Are you headed out?” Steve asks. He puts his hands in his pockets, feet planted wide.

Bucky crosses his arms. He’s wearing all black. If it were anyone else, you would make a joke- he could almost pass off as a pretentious art student, if the outlines of his body weren’t so visible through his clothes, all taut muscle and sharp angles. His hair curls over his shoulders, prettier than anything you’ve seen on any girl.

These guys are Avengers, you think, and proceed to push the thought away.

They look so… un-Avenger-y.

“Um.” You press a hand against your forehead, trying to formulate a response. Chores suddenly seem miles away, the last thing you should be doing. You have all of Sunday to complete them, anyway.

“I was going to get something to eat from the cafe first,” you say, nodding over in its direction. “You guys wanna join me?”

You don't know why you look at Bucky when you say it

“Sure!” Steve says, all cheery, still standing alongside you. He smiles and his teeth are pearly white.

Of course his teeth are pearly white. Dentists everywhere are probably cowering, clutching their little metal instruments for dear life.

Then he hesitates, and turns to Bucky. “If you have nothing else to do, I mean.”

Bucky pauses. You and Steve both stare him down.

“They have these raspberry-almond muffins that are to die for,” you say, like it’ll convince him.

He rolls his eyes. Bored and still gorgeous- if only.

“I’m free,” he says, and you don’t know why he looks at you when he says it.

You pay the bored teenager working the cash register with cash. He gives you your change, and when he turns away to prepare your order, you shove half of the bills and all of your coins into the tip jar.

Bucky sits at the farthest table with Steve. His knees can barely fit underneath it, and the tabletop is sticky, and he’s now willingly spending more time here, and with no disguise there is no way that he isn’t going to be recognized by someone, and he doesn’t know why he hasn’t fully booked it yet.

Because…

He doesn’t know.

Maybe because you’re not asking for anything from him, aren’t minding that he’s sullen or unapproachable or anything else- his presence seems to be enough for you, which is bothersome, and at the same time, mildly exciting.

“Are you having fun?” Steve asks, while you smile at the teenager handing you plates of muffins, little glasses of some milky-espresso-coffee drink.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, while you start your journey back to the table, and Steve opens his mouth to respond, already bothered, and Bucky’s already guilty, but then Steve hops up to help you carry everything back.

You sit down laughing. Steve is laughing, too. The corners of your eyes crease and he can see all of your teeth, and you look at him for a split second, and then turn away before he can get a read on your expression.

He sits in silence, while you and Steve trade jokes and stories and easy banter, talking about art and local politics and all types of things he can’t bring himself to care about, things that Steve is relishing in. You’re witty, apparently, or at least quick enough to get a few quick laughs out of Steve, and Bucky would never say it, he’s barely thinking it, but he appreciates you for it.

And the muffin isn’t quite to die for, but it’s okay.

During a lull in the conversation, you break your attention away from Steve and turn back to Bucky. You look concerned, almost, still smiling but without showing all of your teeth, leaning towards him like you’re about to tell him a secret.

“I never apologized for before,” you say, and Bucky immediately sits up on edge.

Even Steve goes wary, eyes narrowing.

You suddenly give a long, weary sigh, and press a hand against the back of your neck, like whatever you’re about to say is going to be so tedious. “For my friend flipping out when she saw you guys- she’s literally crazy, she’s always doing too much- but on her behalf, I’m sorry.”

The silence following afterwards is deafening.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, after a long moment, while you’re still looking at Bucky- your eyes make his skin itch, and he doesn’t say anything else. “She’s not the worst that we’ve gotten.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, great,” you say, and you slump back in your seat, looking away, back to your half-eaten muffin. You pick off an almond from the top and eat it. “Glad we got that out of the way. I just thought it would be weird if I didn’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, so polite, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve his thanks. “Have you known her for a long time?”

“Yes, oh my god,” you say, and readjust yourself in your chair again, accidentally bumping your knee against Bucky’s, but not apologizing for it. He glances underneath the table, at your entire bare knee, visible through a rip in your jeans. “Rina- her name is Rina- was my college roommate for a while.”

“You went to college?” Steve asks.

“I have an art degree,” you say dryly, “which was… an okay decision, I guess. Sometimes I think I should have just dropped out and done, like, stand-up or something.”

You clearly don’t want to discuss it, leaving the last part as some sort of rhetorical joke. Steve takes the hint and nods, already closing the chapter, and you take a sip from your little glass, finally silent. The foam on the top of the drink sticks to your mouth until you lick it off. Bucky replies to it anyway.

“Why stand-up?”

You turn to him so fast that he almost misses you faltering, and give him a dazzling smile. He thinks of your bare knee under the table, and tries not to sweat. “Because I’m funny, Bucky.”

He doesn’t like how his name sounds when you say it. “Tell me a joke.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, and clasp your hands together. Steve is watching, rapt at attention. “Let me think real quick- oh, I have one. Which beverage has a black belt in karate?”

Bucky waits.

You wait, expecting something from him.

It’s Steve that has to say, “I don’t know, which beverage?”

“Fruit punch,” you say, exaggerating the last part, and Bucky just keeps on waiting.

Steve cracks a small smile.

“Let me tell you another,” you say. “What type of phone does a piece of fruit carry?”

Steve takes a few wild guesses. He’s enjoying this, and you are too, both of you feeding off of each other. “A phone-fruit. A fruit-phone. A frone?”

You shake your head. “A blackberry.”

Bucky doesn’t tell you that he has no idea what you’re talking about.

“Tough crowd,” you say, when he doesn’t react. “Don’t worry, I have more. Where do you go on red and stop on green?”

“Where?’ Steve asks, waiting, leaning forward in anticipation.

“When you’re eating a watermelon!”

It is not funny, it’s painfully unfunny, and maybe that’s why you and Steve burst out laughing. Bucky steals a glance at your watch, since he doesn’t wear one of his own. It’s nearing noon- how has so much time passed? Why is he still even here when he doesn’t even like you?

“Why are all of them about fruit?”

You look at him like his question is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard. “What food is the best listener?”

Bucky just sits. All the foam in his little espresso thing has dissolved, having been left untouched. He doesn’t like the taste of coffee- too bitter, and caffeine doesn’t work on him, anyway. Maybe he should drink it, because you paid for it, and because you didn’t make a comment about old-fashioned manners or chivalry when Steve offered to at first, just shrugged and got in line.

He knows that you won’t care.

The drink sits on its own, glass beading with condensation.

“Corn is the best listener,” you say, without waiting for Steve to throw his questions or guesses at you, without waiting for Bucky to spit out another sentence. “Because it’s all ears.”

“That wasn’t funny,” he says, and glares at the spot beside your head.

You nod sympathetically, and he thinks again of the rips in your jeans. “I know. But it was about a vegetable.”

Oh.

You stare at him straight-faced, crossing your arms over your chest. Steve does the same, and then he realizes- the two of you are a bunch of kids, punks, juveniles- mocking his stature, pretending to be serious, somehow not offending him.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says. “You’re…”

He can’t even help it. He looks back at you  and his face works on its own. He gives a single, dry chuckle, but he’s smiling, and dragging his hand over his face, scrubbing it off just as fast, but you still see it, and smile back and gently nudge his knee again underneath the table, and then turn back away again, and he’s still staring at your hair while you take big bite out of your to-die-for raspberry-almond muffin, already back in conversation with Steve.