#ignore the red on the transparent image

[onefriendeveryday]

Poppy - 11/11/2023 (though uploaded 13/11/2023)

The two hundred and forty first friend. A poppy. She's too young to remember the war herself. She knows a little about it and how her ancestors grew across the battlefields, but she wasn't alive yet. She gets to experience the world after the war. She gets to grow in a field that is free from suffering. She doesn't have to see pain and misery. She is happy and lives freely in peace because it's all over now.

[vixensp1ce]

them as japanese p rn tropes

fem!reader / pt. 2 (jing yuan and aventurine)

childe

he's the sleazy coworker, the one who ogles your boobs whenever you bend over and thinks pencil skirts are a gift to humanity (his dick).

of course, accepting his invitation to hang out and drink at his place is a sure sign that you're not as innocent as you look.

and when he has you on the carpet, legs folded up to your chest, looking so sweet and breedable just for him, he realises you're not wearing underwear. just stockings. and a gasket blows in his mind.

there's an adult movie playing on the tv, but he's muted it. he wants to hear your voice and your voice only, after all.

he fucks you slowly at first, relishing the way your boobs ripple with the movement in your tight office blouse. you might be wearing a smaller one today, because the buttons are straining and he can see a peek of your lacey bra underneath.

your walls squeeze and flutter around him, betraying your need, but childe ignores it for now.

"so pretty, so, so pretty, all for me..." he mutters, still rocking his hips, grinding gently into you. the buttons come open with ease, revealing a scrap of red lace, transparent so he can see your hardened nipples.

he pauses. you seem to know what's coming next and squeeze around his dick in anticipation.

"you little slut," he growls in delight, slamming into your g-spot with such accuracy that you cry his name.

he sets a frightening pace, his dick scraping against every inch of your ribbed walls you've never been able to reach on your own, and you wonder, did he just get bigger?

"gonna cum inside, fill you up, inside inside inside," he chants, lost in his pleasure and tugging down your bra. your boobs spring free, now rippling freely like a wave. he ducks his head, suckling on one nipple, a hand coming up to tease the other one.

"ajax! oh, please, please, i'm so close," you moan, the pressure in your lower tummy building.

"with me," he mumbles, switching to your other nipple. "cum with me, baby, together..."

your rapidly contracting walls betray how close you are, and his dick twitches and twitches inside of you. childe grabs your leg, slinging it over his shoulder so his dick reaches even deeper into you, and the new position is just what you need for the dam to break.

you scream his name. you clamp down on him, hard, your back arching taut, pushing your breast further into his mouth. he cums at the same time, ropes of thick, hot cum filling you up in a place you hadn't even known was empty.

he's still pistoning into you at a violent pace, fucking you both through your first orgasm of the night.

blade

funny guy has funny tastes. if you'd known that one of his favourite things to do was to have you tied up and restrained, you would have... well, nothing, seeing as you enjoyed it just as much as he.

you were under the dining table, draped over the support crossbars and trying to clear out a particularly stubborn cobweb. blade eyes you hungrily, feeling his cock just begin to strain at his pants. he can see the outline of your panties through your clothes, the lucious curve of your ass tempting him to do something only in his fantasies.

then you pull back and stop.

"um, blade? a little help?"

his patience snaps. striding up to you, he lands a glancing blow on your behind. you yelp, your back arching. "hey, what was that for?"

he doesn't care. blade gives himself a moment to fix the image of your ass in his mind, then pulls down your clothes and underwear in one smooth movement.

"you little bitch," he snarls. a string of your arousal stretches from your pussy to your underwear. "fucking slut."

he slides his dick back and forth in your inner lips, coating it in slick and the tip rubbing aginst your clit. you moan, your back arching, grinding against him to try and get more friction.

blade reaches under the table and tugs you free, hoisting you up into his arms and carrying you to the couch.

another slap. you whimper, trying to turn back to get a look at him, but he grabs your head and forces it down.

"a slut like you shouldn't even be looking at me," he growls.

he spreads your asscheeks with his thumbs. the movement has your pussy weeping a few drops of cum onto his slick, wet dick.

"slut," he mutters again, half to himself, and slams himself into you.

you gasp, back arching, the fabric of the couch crinkling under your grip. "bla~ade," you moan angelically.

"shut up," he commands, pulling you roughly into him again. your shut up obediently. the flesh of your ass ripples up your body, and he can just see your boobs swaying to his rhythm.

he leans over you to whisper into your ear. "does my naughty little slut wanna cum?" he whispers, his gravelly voice sending sparks into your lower tummy.

you can feel his dick, thick and rock-hard, weighing down inside of you, and you can almost imagine the outline of it showing through your tummy. you nod.

he pistons his hips into yours, humping like an animal in heat, aiming right for the most sensitive gummy spot within you. you whimper and moan, your back arching in pleasure, and then you feel his hand clasp your boob to stimulate your nipple roughly.

"no-!" you squirm against his hold, but blade has you completely pinned. his other hand snakes down to where the two of you are connected, flesh smacking together and ringing through the room.

"if you want to cum, then cum." you can hear the smile in his voice as his hand finds your sensitive little nub and rubs it fiercely.

the pressure in your lower tummy spikes, and you claw at the couch as you cum, looking for something to hold onto. "bladebladeblade, ah, harder, please~"

[rintoorou]

ALOHA, HAWAII — xvi. are you still the same?

(wc: 700-ish)

while you were dating suna rintarou, you kept a mental note about all the things you found interesting about him. you knew he liked his coffee sweet, not bitter. you knew he hated using the salonpas patches but put them on before training anyway. you knew he liked his jelly fruit sticks better when cold. you knew how much he talked in his sleep. you knew he could tie his sister's hair (not just in a ponytail). you knew he disliked stuffed toys and would kick them off your bed whenever you visited the beach house.

"i feel like i'm being stared at," he told you one night.

so it's your surprise that he texts you he's at a pop-up store, filled to the brim with beady-eyed stuffed toys, next in line at the counter. you patiently wait for him outside, watching as kids and teens and their parents flit in and out of the shop. you begin to wonder how much he's changed since college.

suna's with you after five minutes. "did you wait long?" he asks.

"not really," you reply. your eyes are suddenly drawn to the paper bag in his hand, the image of him handing it to his girlfriend back home briefly passes your mind. "what do you want?" you then ask, and suna becomes internally confused when he senses a slight sting in your tone.

he nods towards your feet, "let me see."

suddenly feeling self-conscious, you try to shift his attention to something else and step back. "what? no," you brush him off, playing it cool, "i'm fine. let's just go back." he raises a brow in disapproval yet says nothing more when you begin to walk ahead of him.

but it’s a little difficult for suna to ignore how stubborn you’re being, wincing slightly when he catches sight of the red patch behind your ankles. “doesn’t it hurt?” you hear him say from behind you.

“no.” your plain response drives him to roll his eyes at you, “why in the world would you wear shoes that don’t fit?” there's a little judgment in his tone, similar to when he found out you liked your americano with three extra shots of espresso on your fifth date; underneath it all, you knew that it was because he was just too shy to show that he cared.

you puff air out of your cheeks instead of giving him a verbal answer. two beats pass and suna decides he’s finally had enough.

you’re caught off-guard when suna pulls you back by the elbow, your shoulder brushing lightly against his arm. you open your mouth to say that you're fine and he's overreacting, but he doesn't let you.

instead, he shoves the paper bag in your hands before stepping around you. this effectively shuts you up, and you watch as suna goes off the sidewalk and makes for the convenience store behind you.

it doesn't take long before he returns bringing a small plastic bag with him this time.

suna stretches his arm out towards you, telling you to take it, simultaneously reaching back for the paper bag. you accept it with thanks, but your eyes still flicker towards his with hesitance.

he tilts his head to the side, the corner of his lip quirking up in amusement. "what? do you need me to put it on for you too?" he teases, prompting you to pull the plastic further away from him even if he makes no move to grab it.

you deny how your heart skips a beat and mask your feelings with a sarcastic smile. "you read me so well," you say, opening the box of bandaids. in response, suna puts his hands up in mock surrender, "be worried if i don't."

he watches you intently, snickering when you make an offhanded comment about his design choice. "snoopy? seriously?" you rip the white paper off the adhesive at once, "you couldn't have gotten the transparent ones?"

when you're finished, you pack the bandaids into your bag before continuing your walk with suna. your ankles still sting but the pain is manageable with the bandaids.

"didn't know you and reiko still talked," suna muses after a few moments of silence. he notices the little smile that paints your lips at the mention of his younger sister, "yeah, we do."

you then turn your head to him with your brows furrowed, but look away just as quickly, "she didn't tell you?"

"nope," he answers, popping the 'p'.

you catch his attention when a small laugh escapes you. "good girl," you hum. suna rolls his eyes at this—you know he knows that you're deliberately withholding information about your topics with his sister—but a smile similar to yours graces his lips nonetheless.

"'she's a brat' is what you mean."

"wonder where she gets that from."

prev — masterlist — next

notes next chapter is gonna be another college!sunayn post so stay SEATED

tags @ilyless @strxwberri-s @bbybibi @milesmoralesluvs @hanniemylovelyquokka @nbcvs @crispchocolates @cnnmairoll @trash-master-3000 @tojirin @ryuverse @megumiif @chemiru @theycallmenanamisgirl @neoclb @krissiekris @nyxlai @tsukiran @frvppe @le000xxgrd @kr1nqu @kunihaver @toges-cough-syrup @myromanempiree @baskin-robinhoods @jeongintwt @itsdragonius @moucheslove @ichcocat @miiyas @samuel1004 @reignsaway @sonicsolos @httpshoyo

[owleics-fr]

Simple skin & accent tutorial!

I'm only familiar with making accents in CSP so some of the things you see here might be program specific, but for the most part it should be generally applicable.

Okay with that being said, here's a very basic tutorial, under a readmore because it got long (image heavy)

Assuming you already know roughly what you want to make and what breed pose you want to make it on, go to the custom skins page on the sidebar then download PSDs. For this step I'm choosing coatl F!

It should download automatically, the file will be compressed (zipped). I normally just open the folder and move the top file (without elements_friendly) to my accents folder to access it from my art program:

Open your preferred art program and open the file! It is a PSD file so it should be compatible with most art programs. When you open it, everything should look like this:

The layers probably look complicated, and it isn't super clear where you can and can't draw- but I promise it will get easier to understand! Before I even start drawing I do two things: I resize the image (changing the image resolution) to 700px by 700px. This means the image the resize better later on when I need to downscale it to 350px by 350px. Next, I make a new folder under both the existing folders with a single, full white layer in it. And set everything in "Through Skin Parts" to 50% opacity.

Lastly, put the bottom two folders completely out of your mind, we won't be touching them at all. The only folder that matters is "Through Accent Parts". As I'm drawing the accent itself, I make the lines and shadows layer invisible because they can just be distracting, like this:

That layer beneath both lines and shadows layers? The one labelled "Accent Goes Here"? That's where you draw, and you can make more layers to draw more on later. For now you can sketch your design on that layer. Here's my sketch for my skin Strawberry Pavlova:

It's pretty rough at the moment so I want to add another layer to draw my clean line art on, in CSP this means just adding another layer and turning off clipping which automatically applies as the layers above it have clipping turned on. When that's done it should look like this:

(You can absolutely use more layers for lining if that's what you prefer!)

Next is adding colour. An important thing to note for this step is to avoid using colours that are very close to black, and to avoid using black altogether. This is against skin and accent rules as you need lines and shadows to remain visible over your design, and very dark colours make this a lot harder!

When I typically colour my skins and accents I will separate out design elements (so for example all plants on one layer, all blue cloth into another layer, all jewellery on another, etc etc.) into different layers- this is purely to make recolouring easier and isn't necessary. In this case I didn't have my colours separated out as I had no intention of recolouring this skin! This is what this skin looked like when I was finished colouring:

Now I just need to do some final finishing polish on the design! For this one it involves adding a bit of pink transparent colour behind the strawberries, adding pale transparent colour under my lace and of course- adding sparkles! One of the final things I do is recolour my own line art to a red-pink colour (in this case I had it set to multiply as well- but this isn't needed!) this takes some of the harsh edges out of the accent and make the design feel more cohesive imo!

And the design is finished! The final step before we can submit this is a big one! We have to change the lines and shadows that we've been ignoring this whole time. For this I flatten all the art work into one layer, like this:

Why do we have to change the lines and shadows? Well...

The default shadows are pretty high opacity and very grey, they cover up my accent and make the details harder to see. And the default line art is black. You can edit these layers to make them much nicer. You can edit them manually- making sure to lock transparent pixels so you don't edit the coverage of the lines and shadows. Or you can do this: (You can ignore this next part if you're finding it overwhelming) Duplicate your accent design twice (so you have three layers with it on total), set both your lines and shadows layers to normal and unclip them. Your layers will look like this:

Ignore what the accent looks like for now. Next move the copied layers so one is above the lines and one is above the shadows, keeping only one in the original position. And then clip these duplicated accent layers to the layers directly beneath them, it will look like this:

Merge the accent copy layers with its corresponding lines or shadows layer, you should still have 3 separate layers when you're done: The lines, the shadows and your original accent design. Like this:

Then clip both of the lines and shadows onto your accent design layer and set both lines and shadows layers to multiply. Like this:

If you've done it all correctly your accent should now look like this:

This is a lot better than the default lines and shadows already! It's pretty dark in spots and my lines are definitely too light in other places though. So next I usually start by setting my shadows layer to 50% opacity and then going over both lines and shadows layers manually recolouring the lighter parts to a darker colour so they are visible on top of my final design. When you downscale your art to submit it, lines and shadows that were super obvious suddenly vanish- so don't be afraid to downscale it and keep editing the lines and shadows.

Here's what the final product, downscaled to 350 pixels, looks like:

This got accepted first try by skin mods (just in time for valentines!) Important things to note: places where my design is less opaque the lines and shadows are also less visible, this is completely fine! You don't have to fix this. Lines should always be visibly darker than the shadows they're on top of, this means sometimes they will have to be black to get them to show up or you may even have to make your accent underneath lighter to get everything to conform to the rules! Lastly, lines and shadows are subjective and you may end up getting rejected a few times before they're to skin mods liking. Its one of the harder parts of skin making and you won't always get it right.

Community feedback is your best friend, don't create in a vacuum! Go join discord servers where other people are making accents too, ask for help! Now go forth and make!

[rccxox]

I’m sorry, but as one of the many people who were there from the start this “apology” is truly baffling.

The only reason I kept asking Red and Flynn to handle this and DMs is that even if we go to the east common room Red has ignored the fact that there are other minors in here even if they go to the east common room it still makes them uncomfortable and I tried saying it but they didn’t get the hint. no offense, but the thing that pissed me off is how the mod team decided to give Crimson probation which was weird in my opinion and people were disgusted by it. Laci said she sent proof even though it was censored to protect those victims, 2 victims came forward and she decided not to give in to the fact Laci could send it to you UNCENSORED.

And when you started the apology (in Discord), I read it thoroughly, let’s break it down hm?

Here are the screenshots of Red’s apology if you fully want to read them.

The side server comment threw me off because if it happened there and you say “safe place” and apparently if it doesn’t happen here we’re all good. I understand if it’s something you normally don’t do.

But god forbid if we keep minors in our “safe space” safe.

“They’d been ‘investigating’ crimson on their own before digging up the nsfw stuff” First off, they were gathering up enough evidence for the proof you so desperately need and whine about.

“But they reported it literal hours after it happened so. Another lie.” I understand shit like this is severe and sensitive but damn I guess people don’t deserve time.

Do I need to explain the “crying wolf” is so disrespectful imo, but who would lie about something like this??

Heavily edited is so icky because Laci had them censored for the victims' comfort and you didn’t even see where she said she could hand it to you uncensored.

Happy to listen to our concerns but do a mass ban on people who spoke out? Okay…

There are, of course screen shots but Tumblr only has ten images per post (lmao)

Red also apologized to crimson which was so fucking weird to EVERYONE.

And for Flynn to come in, and this doesn't mean any disrespect when she started talking about how laci was stirring up in the middle of the drama, when all she did was give you all the evidence, The needed talked about how she was an unreliable source when she gave them ALL the evidence.

And when I told Flynn it was very disrespectful for her to say that she said that's what she noticed but Laci didn't mean any type of offense or disrespect and what matters if you want it uncensored evidence there's something called asking she would have provided it to you and when you sent that screenshot with who was a minor and who was an adult in the server I was just like did you actually see if she (laci) was okay with that being spread but I never got to that because I don't want to “start” more drama. People are upset with Red because she didn't acknowledge the 2 victims that have come forward and said that crimson has done that to them BOTH. kind of sounds like she (red) was victim blaming in my personal opinion, This was something they needed to talk out privately because it's easier to deal with the on one on one then rather than 600 people coming at red. There were new people coming into the chat, and they got caught in the hay fire because they didn't have the full picture. There's a reason we can't do this publicly because if you do this privately you can have awhile to dissect everything, and somebody told me “oh somebody would complain about the lack of transparency” but they could have said “we're gonna settle this in DMs. We're gonna mute this channel for a bit, and when I need to, I don't want to hear any more about it, because we're gonna deal with it in dm’s”. that's all they needed to know, there were people there who didn't have the full picture.

I'm really exhausted and it’s five in the morning .

[curvykittyyssmutfics]

Since its loki we are talking here, can we have loki lusting for his half sister, reader who is the goddess of lust and love. He does magic on her so he could do on her

Courtyard Shenanigans

Damn what a gorgeous evening tonight turned out to be. Its just what the fuck I need after the most grueling day of coming second to Thor in everything. Plus there's nothing more peaceful then enjoying the beauty of Asgard as the day settles out. Dusk makes the orange stained sky unsually gorgeous, infused with dusty pink clouds that cast the prettiest of shadows over the Royal Palace of Valaskjalf. The crisp clear breeze seems fresher than any air I've experienced on any planet.

But trying to enjoy the phenomal view, as I step out into the courtyard, is short lived. Sus muffled grunts sound off from a few feet away, seemingly near the statue my worrysome mother insisted be created in my image. What or who the hell is that moaning in terrible pain?

Crouching low, I creep along the edge of the full shrubbery leading in that direction. I can't help my eyes transforming into saucers as I peek through the multi-colored rose bushes. Utter disbelief smacks me like a speeding freight train at the scene unfolding right before my eyes: my slutty half sister riding the fuck outta one of my guards face.

The lucky bastard is horizontal on the cemented circular bench that surrounds my stone doppelganger. His hand is flying at the speed of light on the pathetic member that sticks out through the guard uniform as you grind your clearly soakin wet pussy on his mouth; transparent rivelts drip from your oozing center down his chin to his neck. I'm not shocked that his lips are so damn red and raw from your treatment but from the way he moans into your core and fucks his fist is a clear indication of satisfaction. Piercing moans of approval get louder before you begin to speak out loud.

"Fuck, riiiiight there! Come on, cause you-ah!- finished allova yourselfself twice but haven't made me cum once. Haaaah, fuuuuu- mmm.. Shame on you soldier, maybe you need a little incentive."

I watch intently as you throw your head back on a moan with closed eyes and roll your neck counterclockwise. I rather soak you in your every move, purposely ignoring the wad of cum pooled around his balls. Your freshly done braids swing widly; cute, jet black nails grip his shoulder tight in your pleasure. The breeze gets stronger for a moment, swirling around the two of you in a glittery sheer sky blue mist before dissipating within seconds. When your lids reopen, eyes matchin the color of the sky, you stare upwards with an open mouth. The man beneath you seems to go insane, licking and sucking at your hungry little cunt like a starved man in the woods.

"Gods yes, so much better. Good boy, jus needed a little push huh? Thats it, aaaaah, lemmeuseyouuuuu!"

Fuck, your skin is radiate, glistens with perspiration from all your hard work. The humping of your hips makes your perfect soft flesh jiggle erratically. How I'd be perfectly happy to die right at this moment without making my way to Valhalla if it meant trading places with that insignificant bug. He has no idea how lucky he is to have the gift of YOU sliding what's gotta to be the the universe's most perfect pussy on his undeserving mouth.

The shocking incredulity surging through me at the scene seems very understandable, the raging boner however makes me pause. It's not the first one the little vixen has caused me but the guilt that comes with lustin after you is gut wrenchin.

Probably doesn't help that you appear to have strict orders to never come near asgardian clothing. Your fuckin itty bitty knitted baby blue top and salmon tinted scrap of cloth wrapped around your waist like a snug skirt damn nearhad me drooling. You are and always will be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Shouldn't be hard to guess why I'm relentlessly having to secretly grip my dick at the base almost every time I'm in your fuckin presence. I live in a life of hopelessly attempting to not nut in my royal robes because of you.

Damn, it's impossible not to witness how this plays out since I've yearned to be in the place of this unworthy fucker for years.. How I desperately wish it was my mouth you dragged your quivering quim allover like that. I'm entranced at the way you grip his medium length blonde locks and drag across his face even faster as you degrade him.

"Gonnacuuuuum! Oh God, finally! No thanks to youuuu, had to u-use my gifts jus to get the pleasure I yearn. Yeeeeees, stay right there! Ohfuckohfuckohfuuuuuuk!"

My hands flies to grip my clothed dick firmly, this time to aid the nut trying to spray outta me instead of stifling it. It only takes a couple squeezes, along with the image of you leaning forward as the scum sucks your little clit vigorously; the flutter of your vacate gummy walls paralyzing me as my cream sprays 5 abundant globs into my mother's rose bushes. I thank the gods for your booming whine that helps to covers my perverted groan.

Your hips swivel a few more times before you drop her head back down and gracefully slip off his face. Taking a few steps back, you watch my soon to be fired guard gasp for breath; his hazel eyes are unseeing and dazed as fuck. So memorized by her orgasm, I'm estatic to notice I missed the small peckered fucker cum for a third time. It seems my little sister has also noticed, the way narrowed eyes trail to his dick and your cute little nose wrinkles in disgust.

"Leave us." She demands to him curtly before looking right into my soul through the thick bush.

As confused as he seems to be, head ducking left to right quizzically, the guard scrambles away as he hastily tucks his dick away. It would almost be funny if it werent for the sinking feeling in my gut. Nothing else to do except sheathe my still hard cock and reveal myself, I stand awkwardly and watch you fix your clothing to hide your drippy little slit.

"Come, brother." Y/n demands, finger crooked at me.

You step one leg over the bench and sit with it between your smooth chocolate thighs. Back straight with your nose in the air, you sit like a queen where that coward laid just a moment before. I walk over on stiff legs and do the same a few inches away, avoiding eye contact at all costs. The smell of your pussy lingering in the air entices my rock hard dick that taps impatiently underneath my clothing. Your stare on the side of my face almost burns but my guilt keeps me focused on the ground as you speak confidently.

"Why do you spy on me in my most private of moments, Loki? You must know it isn't proper of a brother to watch his sister do such things."

I swallowly visibly before answering.

"I'm- I'm sorry. It was not my intention. I came for air after a long day and heard noises of which I assumed were pain. Well, I thought.." I trail off uncomfortably.

"But you did not leave once you realized." You counter back.

My mouth open and closes as I fumble my response, cheeks feeling like they've been god damn torched.

"Well you- you knew of my presence and still concluded such distasteful acts, out in the open may I add." I shoot back, finally looking into your pretty, dark, almond shaped eyes.

"You didn't seem to mind as you stroked your fat cock to completion while starin in between my legs."

That stumps me as I sit gazing at your beautiful frame, mouth slightly agape. But you only giggle at me as you stand and prepare to exit the courtyard.

"Next time be more inconspicuous; my father wouldn't like to see you do such things. In fact I think mother would be amused even less." She teases me and turns to leave.

A snap of my fingers brings my statue to life. The stone scrapes loudly as it moves and grabs each of your wrists, locking them in place into the air. The way you stand there helpless and shocked does soothe my ego a bit, I can readily admit.

"You blame me as if you weren't gyrating allover that man's face like a common whore. Yes I lust after you, dear sister. But I know you do for me as well. Yet you charade around the castle flamboyantly, refusing to wear our royal attire. Instead insisting on donning tiny earthly garments and then bending in front of me every chance you get. You want me y/n and I'm sick of you pretending you fuckin don't." I say leaning in close, lips just half an inch from your own.

Already a bit agreeable, I sense how much our close proximity affects your state of mind. As tense as your flawless frame is, your gorgeous eyes shut and you lean in to try to kiss me. Before you can I raise my right hand, swiftly drawing a circle in the air with the tip of my finger, watching as glittery emerald green smoke forms a thin circle. I gently blow it into your face and you unknowingly inhale as I press my lips to yours lightly for a few seconds before pulling back. You try to follow, lips pouting as I deny your request.

"Lokiiiii. Kiss meeeeee." You whine, arms pulling at the stone hold on your wrists.

"Hmmm.." I pretend to think dramatically. "Beg me, sweetheart."

Your response is instantaneous.

"Please, big brother, pleeeeease! I want you, no NEED you so bad. Can I have your lips? No wait!Your cock? Pretty please? Promised to always take care of me right? Need you to take care of me now, Lokiiiii."

"Ok, Ok y/n. I'll give you what you want, but only if you answer a question. If you lie, you don't get my cock. Understand?"

"Yeeeees big brother." You slur back at me, lookin a bit dazed from my little homemade concoction.

"How many of my personal guard have you fucked?"

"Just the one you seen me with today. It was awful: he came with a quickness I couldn't have imagined. He's the only man I've ever been with." You answer honestly.

"Glad to hear I needn't murder my entire guard then. Alrighty, honey sit up a bit."

You do as I ask and I slide underneath your restrained body, taking out my leaking dick. I wiggle the shaft back and forth, smacking it against your plump soft brown ass cheeks. Fuck, your moans are like music to my ears and I curse myself inwardly as a feel a tautness in my groin from the way you frantically hump back at me.

"Please Loki, you promised me. One question and I answered. Gimme my dick. I've earned it, have I not big brother?"

That filthy fuckin mouth spurs me to lift you by your hips and rapidly poke my fat cock tip into your snug little hole. (Although he should fear my wrath, I am suddenly semi grateful for the foreplay my guard provided for how fuckin drenched you are now.) It feels so fuckin good.

The way you squeal and tremble has me mandhandling you with a tight grip, keepin you in place as I dig into the tightest pussy I've ever felt. It's so warm, so wet, just the most perfect little slit to ease into. I can't cease the breathless way I repeatedly grunt your name into the air of the courtyard loudly.

The tense sensation bubbling in my balls and pelvis quadruple and its my turn to whimper loudly. It's barbaric the way I fuck into you for the first time, carelessly crying my pleasure into the wind. Your wails are even more unhinged and it's a miracle that nobody has come by to see who's out here groaning like a wounded animal.

"Haaaaaah! OhmygodsLoki! Ohgodsohgods, so very good big brother! Just like my dreeeeams- aaaaahhhfuu-Loki!!!"

You've hit feral and I've only just got in all the way. Our chests heave simultaneously as I reach up to flick your little top out the way, watchin your breast flop out and shake uncontrollably at your attempts to fuck onto my cock. If not for my hold on your hips you'd most definitely would be successful in milking me within seconds. It shouldn't be this hard not to breed you but it's taking all my will power not to creampie my little sisters pussy.

"Y/n s-stop it, lemme-FUCK! Darling, please just lemme handle it. C-can't hold back if you don't keep still. Haaah, ohgods! Please sweetheart!"

The swiveling of your hips is gonna be my demise. All I can do is match your frenzied pace, pulling out only half way before slamming in each time. I know I'm giving my princess what she deserves as continuous praises for me spill over your plump lips.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyoubigbrother! Your cocks the best! I'm yours Loki, only your yours tohavetoholdtofuck! Ohgods! You'resofuckinamazing!"

The whiny dirty words, plus the way your soaking wet pussy puts my spasming dick inna chokehold makes me lose all concentration. The stone statue releases its grip on you and falls back into place as if it never moved and inch.

Your quick to lean forward on my chest, one hand slipping down to rub at your sticky little clit as your hips never miss a beat in their delicious torture. Its almost pathetic when you cum on the first stroke of that throbbing button, except im grateful because there was no way I could hold out for much longer.

"I'mcummingLoki! Yesyesyes, cumming on your cock big brother! Feelssogood! Ah ah ah! Mmm yeeeees Loooki!"

Warmth spreads throughout me as you put your pretty face in my neck and fuck the shit outta me. Fuck the tables have turned, high pitched moans flowing from me as I stare into the sky blankly as you force me to creampie your tiny little cunt. I'm gasping through my groans as I try to breath through this intense fucking orgasm.

"Y/n haaaah oh Gods, y/n! Suchabrat for thiiisss. Gonna make you pay little girl. Ohfuuuuck, big brothers gonna get you back.."

Gush after thick gush pours into you as my arms drop limply to the ground. My hips quiver and I can't control the small humps they give as I fuck my heavy load into you. I don't notice how the last of the sunlight slips behind the castle, dimming the courtyard. It's hard to observe anything other than my cock becoming overstimulated from cumming twice so powerfully within just a few minutes.

"Ah, ah, ah y/n! Waaaaait darling, gimmeasecondplease! 's too fuckin good, haaaah! Please pretty girl, need a moment." I beg unashamed, head thrashing from left to right.

Thankfully your hips circle to a slow halt, but you dont immediately release me as you did the guard. I can admit I am less than pleased at the way you sit up and look down at me sinisterly while I suck in air desperately.

"No fair big brother, you used your powers on me.." You say in-between heaving breaths as I look at you in shock. I had no idea you knew..

Your hypnotizing eyes swirl with that tantalizing sunset color as the shimmering blue mist appears again but this time surrounding the two of us thickly.

"Now I wanna use mine on you."

OH. FUCK.

[bromcommie]

moving like a river of trouble crossing

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

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

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

i.

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

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

Sure. Sure, he's awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, fine. Great.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No shit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It lasts for-fucking-ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s 1 in the morning.

That makes it nicer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was gonna throw it out anyway."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wake up.

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

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

Steve swallows. "Thanks."

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

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

vii.

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

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

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

“What about Kate?”

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

“What about her?”

“You talk to her yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So it is about Stark, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not what I said.”

“What are you saying, then?”

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

viii.

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

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

ix.

“You’re up late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk about what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kinks, right.”

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

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

“Alright, then.”

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

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

“I’m good, thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It gets real brutal real quick, after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he thinks, he might even believe it.

x.

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

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

You must miss the good old days, huh?

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

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

(epilogue)

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

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

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

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

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

"You alright?"

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

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

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

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

xx

[oogalaboogalabich]

More Bloodweave comic outline. Links to 1 & 2 below.

Part 3: Orb Boy starts learnin' The Angry on how to vampire better

The first battle against the goblins commences not long after they pick up two females. A gith and a half elf. Both seem very fun and very angry at each other.

They do surprisingly well, though astarion gets fairly badly hurt.

He watches while gale and this blade of frontiers fellow and how well they work off the others fighting style. Same with the religeous and military types that have been bickering the whole fight despite the fact that they practically danced together. its actually quite fascinating to see in action, despite the frustration of being basically ignored while hes bleeding out.

He fails to dodge when The Blade lobbs something at him. He readies a nasty lityle retort about how whatever he tried to do didnt manage to kill him... when he realized hed been healed. Almost entirely.

The....the bloody -hero- just ...-helped- him.

What a fucking idiot.

---

Astarion hangs back when everyone heads to camp to fuck with the blacksmith, who seems actually very nice. Its a bit off putting in a way that a quick cuppa with Auntie Ethel cures with ease, and decides to actually pay her that visit sometime.

Astarion returns from the grove with some things he plans to squirrel away. He would deny it if asked, but he directly avoided stealing anything from the hellspawn. Not out of pity of course. Definitely not. The druids were massive pricks anyways.

He finds gale resting atop the boulder pile in the center of camp, splayed out shirtless and laying in the sun.

Fuck thats right. Hed been so worried about everything, he hasnt even taken the time to enjoy the fucking sun.

Gale hears him approaching, twists to one side and utterly beams down at him. Hes cleaned up really well.

The sun, astarion notices, shines almost red through his hair.

"Youre back! Excelent!" He lifts himself into a one handed flip off the rock with the practiced ease and casual nature of a man who has no idea hes showing off and lands a few feet from him. He looks a little toasted, but it makes him look all the more lovely- LIVELY. Lively is what he was thinking.

Tch... bloody prick with his crazy acrobatics and dumb fuck beard.

and his stupid perfectly waxed moustache, and rediculous tattoos down one side of his torso and...straight past the beltline of his breeches...

His mouth felt so dry all of a sudden.

"Must say i havent had such an easy time getting warm in quite a while. The rock behind your tent is the nicest but i dont much think youd appreciate me looming about your tent, aye?"

(should gale say "aye" in this au? Should look into waterdavian/dnd pirate slang if thats even an elaborated thing. I like it. I need an excuse)

Astarion and he talk about how it felt stepping into the sun for the first time in forever.

Astarion had woken up in the pod and promtly begun panicking until he realized there were holes in the transparent chitain, and the sunlight was beaming through. He lifted a hand to it and felt such a rush that hed managed to break himself out and spent some time just ....being excited about something. Anything at all.

Gale finds he rather likes that mental image. This surly little wildcat grinning up at the sun and raising both hands up while he laughs for the wonder of it.

Perhaps then falling back and flipping off the very sky...it seems like something he might do.

Gale simply woke up on the beach and lay there a while to process and plan, nothing too interesting.

So Gale mentions that sometimes, back home, he would stay up late certain mornings to watch Artor step out into the Sun.

Its a morning ritual to keep himself sharp and humble. He would stare out until the sun peaked over the horizon, cast a sphere of invulnerability and watch from the safety of it.

(Note: this doesnt actually work in canon, but gale either wouldnt know that or would have been forced to forget whenever he relearns that fact. Plot thickening joose)

"He wont admit it but im almost entirely sure he used to collect his own ashes, before he learned the spell. that was a long time past, though, far before either of us were a glint in our mothers eye."

"Collected them? What for?"

"He probably wanted to see if it was useful in some way. Mummy dust can be a Powerful addative to healing salves and potions of disguise."

He holds up a finger.

"Though never vice versa, mind.- Stands to reason vampire ashes might be valuable. He still has a small warehouse full of the stuff.

"Round oh id say ..nearly seven maybe eight thousand clay urns, in all. he tells everyone they were a group of spawn hed collected in his earliest centuries.

"But Im fairly certain he says that to keep us on our toes. I cant imagine how he would have managed such a massive hoard. I have fourty someodd siblings, and most of them are a bloody handfull."

"Seven thousand!?"

"The man is over a millenium old, astarion. Thats a lot of sunrises."

---

Things branch off to where Astarion says he cant turn into mist or summon wolves because hes a spawn, and he feels a little cheated that spawn have no substantial powers or abilities aside from basic teleportation. And even thats gone with the tadpole.

This distresses gale on his behalf.

"I...astarion i think cazador has been keeping you far more ignorant than you are aware of. Vampire spawn have a veritable littany of skills and abilities to hone on, it just takes time and practice like any other."

"What do you mean?" And gale vanishes in a puff of smoke turning into mist and back with his arms out in a gesture of "see?"

"What in the hells?"

"I cant summon wolves per se. But with ...well proper feeding, theres a great deal we can do. We arent helpless. Were just

"Slaves"

"I would more readdily compare us to marrionettes. Poppets, worker drones and the like. but yes. Essentially."

"Well.." astarion huffs, " what can we do?"

Gales smile grows boyish and enthusiastic, and he grabs astarions hand- pulls him towards the water. " Do you see that cave over yonder, just past the canoe?"

"I see it." Astsrion yanks his hand free with a disgusted little sneer.

"Alright. I want you to picture yourself in total darkness. The furthest reaches of the light are several turns out, and none can reach you.

"This had better be going somewhere."

"Just do it, trust me."

"....Very well."

"Alright now...connect to that darkness. Feel where your body ends and the shadows begin. Feel their coils reach out and embrace your limbs, your lungs, your mind." He presses a palm near the center of his back "draw them in with your breath. anchor yourself with them until you sink deep....deep into the dark...."

He feels those shoulders relax just a little.

"Now...tell me ...whats inside that cave, astarion?"

"....how should i kn-....oh...."

Hes suddenly there, as if one foot of his essence has stepped from where his body stood into the dank cavern.

"theres. Hmmm well theres an astonishing lack of dirt...it smells ...gods just -awful-...but its soft....and...warm." he gets an almost whistful quality to his voice.

"so wonderfully warm..." he draws another breath, as if he could consume that warmth. he hears a chittering at his ear, and suddenly realizes.

"Bats....there must be dozens of them." Gale is surprised by how bright that smile is. It warms him to see.

"now...call them."

"How do i do that?"

"I cant tell you that, you have to figure it out."

There was a physical whomph of sensation within him as his own irritation broke his focus.

"Tch well thats not very generous of you."

"I cant teach you to walk astarion, i can only offer you my hand."

Astarions pout deepens and he opens his mouth to speak, but gale continues.

"If you still need help in say...give it three days. Why mess with a cliche? If you havent summoned those bats by then-

"What makes you think we will still be here in three days?"

Gale thinks of all the goblins they've fpund dead around here. The goblins theyve killed. there will be way more further out. Way more than they could realistically fell in a few days.

"Just a hunch."

[lavendergalactic]

HI! sorry if this was already asked but uhm how do you edit your gifs? Like how do you add the gif part to the img bg or like what app do u used? Also how do you make it like transparent- I'm so sorry if this is too many questions- feel free to ignore-

i tried making a video tutorial for this but turns out im just horrible at explaining things, also my way of making gifs is extremely complicated and there's probably easier ways of doing it LMAO

i make a frame in ibis paint and add a green / blue / red screen over it (depending on what colours are in the main image)

then i go to capcut and put the frame over the gif

then i put it in ezgif and make a gif like this using the video to gif feature

then i put it in this website to remove the background

(you can play around with the percentage to get rid of the background colour)

then you'll end up with something like this

idk if any of that made sense, i'm horrible at explaining things

there's definetly easier ways of doing it but this is just the only way i know how

[bloggedanon]

TOY COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN. DM IF INTERESTED, OR IF YOU JUST WANT TO DONATE.

Alright, listen up, folks.

My hours have been reduced to nothing for months now on account of disabilities I'm trying to get treated for, I got a med bill I wasn't expectin' in the mail, and now I'm woefully far from bein' able to pay for my upcoming psychiatrist appointment, which I have to pay for by the 24th of this month. This one is really important because there's a strong probablility this one will be the one to prescribe me some meds that just might enable me to be able to acually take care of myself (read: actually function at all) for the first time in my life. I'm prolly gonna need like $300 to cover the appointment. I ain't askin' y'all to help me for free, however.

I can sew together little pillow monster things. They have zipper mouths and button eyes. They're hand-sewn, from a pet-free home.

This is my oldest (and smallest) example. about 7" wide and tall. The ones I'm proposing to sell will be about 9" wide and tall.

Here are the buttons and (9) zippers I have available for this endeavor. (Sorry about the lighting.) Note the loops on the zipper pulls for easier zipping.

Uhh, those are soda can pull tabs in the corner. Ignore that, I'm procrastinating on working on a project.

In terms of fabric, I have fleece and flannel of various colors. 'S all preshrunk in a washer and dryer, but I don't have a good way to showcase or store fabric other than shoving it all into one plastic bag. That aside, here's the flannel I have:

(Dark blue, light blue, teal, white, space [small amount], and scales [purple, blue, and green scales, small amount])

And here's the fleece:

(Purple, red, orange, and black [small amount])

Note how I have more of some colors in one material or another than in others. This means certain body surface colors may not be possible due to material limitations. I have a whole bunch of thread colors, and just an overall abundance of thread tho 👍

These are custom made to order, and the production is paid in advance. You can do custom colors (body, front vs back color, the color of the inside of the mouth, whether or not you want it to have a tongue, number / color of eyes) and you can POTENTIALLY do other customizations. (Want it to have a ridge on its back like a cartoon dinosaur? Want me to give it horns? Want me to try to figure out how tassles work? Want it to have floppy, doofy, cow-lookin' ears? [I recommend fleece for these kinds of additions, trust me on this one.]) Shape alterations mmmmaayyyyy be possible, but that's pretty dubious. Bear in mind that any customizations / additions will likely drive priduction time wayyy up, and there are things I might not be able to do.

Shipping will be paid seperately, and at the time of shipping. I can't really afford to cover shipping, but also I have no earthly idea how to calculate shipping. I have a tiny scale at home now that I can use to weigh the finished product, but that's about it. These are gonna have to be personally taken to the post office, which means a lot of walking. I dunno, we'll figure it out.

This is all being said and shown in the interest of maximum transparency with this stuff. You will recieve update images with progress on your little monster dude, and you're gonna have to give feedback on the button placements and angles before I sew 'em on so that way I know I've got the look you want on it.

Payments are done over Paypal.

Base price: $35 USD + shipping

Comm slots open: 9

Customizations and additions will add to the price, but the extent to which it happens is (sort of) negotiable. Most customizations are going to be (sort of) experimental on my end, and hand sewing takes forever, especially when you have "everything magically is really hard and takes too long" disease.

If I hit my goal, I'll stop accepting donations. If all 9 commission slots are taken, I will update this post with a good ol'-fashioned pinned reblog and close commissions AND donations. Note that I can only work on one pillow monster at a time, and that it's on a first-come-first-serve basis. If I'm working on one and you want to commission one, I'll let you know and ask if you wanna wait for it. You'll get a number (1-9) to signify whose order I need to do next.

In the meantime, I need to go pop out and sell some blood plasma, probably. 🤡

[humusboii2thereturnoftheking]

Israel is the low-hanging fruit Human Rights Organizations pick on for validation.

Remember these organizations operate on donations. If you were attempting to maximize donations, which topic would you discuss?

(A) The Uyghur concentration camps in China

(B) The genocide and ethnic cleansing in Sudan

(C) The genocide and ethnic cleansing in Myanmar

(D) One of the worst humanitarian crisis ongoing in Yemen

(E) The terrible human rights violations in Iran

(F) Pakistan expelling two million refugees

(G) Russia's war crimes and massacres in Ukraine

(H) The war in Gaza launched by Hamas

Obviously, the answer is G, as evident by the mind-boggling amount of attention the conflict receives. The popularity of the Israel-Palestine conflict pales in comparison to other global major events and Human Right Organizations know it.

For The Red Cross, Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch It is much more profitable, popular and safer to criticize Israel than Russia, Iran, Sudan, China, Pakistan, Myanmar, Nigeria, Yemen, Syria, Lebanon, etc.

Let's summarize:

The ICRC (International Committee of the Red Cross) has made 6 times more statements to criticize Israel and has often resorted to hyperbole to cast Israel as a “limitless” destroyer to evoke sympathy for one side and demonize Israel. No statement was made speaking directly about the massacre of October 7th. Beyond language, only 2 statements condemning Hamas include videos and pictures while 38 tweets condemning Israel contain images, graphic testimonies, and videos designed to solicit greater attention and a stronger response. Through their Twitter, it is evident that the ICRC has dedicated large amounts of resources to interviewing doctors and victims in Gaza, to editing infographics and videos, and to appearing on the news to talk about the devastation in Gaza. Comparatively little to no attention was paid to Israeli victims.

Human Rights WatcH (HRW) - Is obsessed with criticizing Israel in the conflict and has been called out by their own founder for abandoning their mission and focusing on scrutinizing Israel. HRW disproportionately focuses on condemnations of Israel and that publications related to Israel often lack credibility. HRW also promotes an agenda based solely on the Palestinian narrative of victimization and Israeli aggression.

Amnesty International - Disproportionately singles out Israel for condemnation, focusing solely on the conflict with the Palestinians, misrepresenting the complexity of the conflict, and ignoring more severe human rights violations in the region. In October 2023, in the aftermath of the brutal Hamas attack on October 7, Amnesty emphasized “the root causes” of the conflict, in particular “Israel’s system of apartheid imposed on all Palestinians.” Amnesty does not identify “root causes” on the part of any other actor, including Palestinians and terror groups.

I will reiterate- these organizations follow the wishes of their donors and while their funding isn't fully transparent here are some notable moments:

• In November 2023, MEMRI leaked a document detailing a €3 million donation in 2018 to HRW from Qatar.

• In February 2020, it was revealed that HRW's Executive Director Ken Roth accepted a donation in 2012 from a Saudi real estate tycoon for $470,000 “promising not to support advocacy of the LGBT community in the Middle East and North Africa.”

• In December 2013, Amnesty International admitted to working with the Alkarama foundation, whose Qatari co-founder has been accused of financing Al Qaeda and its affiliates.

• In February 2021, Indian officials accused Amnesty International India of money laundering.

Recommended further reading:

For those complaining I'm relying on UNWatch and NGO-Monitor: Every word is backed by a source which you are encouraged to verify yourself. Anyone refusing to accept factual data because of their cognitive bias should not be discussing this topic in the first place.

Today is the 187 day since Hamas abducted men, women, elders and children from their homes. 133 of them are still in captivity. Ceasefire will only come when Hamas surrenders and releases the hostages.

[whenemmafalls]

this was requested by a few people so, without further ado, below the cut i’ll explain how to make an edit of the eras tour poster like the ones that can be found here. i’ve seen different versions of these floating around twitter/tiktok/etc for a while but let’s be honest..the picsart ones don’t look as cute. i use photoshop 2020, but older versions should work just fine since this edit doesn’t involve anything too fancy!

now, i started with the original poster and carefully removed all of the images to create a base template that i’ve used for all the posters since. i don’t really feel like explaining how to do that because it feels kinda unnecessary when i can just link it to you. so go ahead and start by downloading my base template, which you can find here. 

once you have that open, you’ll want to gather your images. you’ll need nine images that should be at least 300x300px in dimension and one much larger image to serve as the center png. how big this needs to be depends how large the subject of the photo is, but it should probably be around 2000px. keep in mind that the subject shouldn’t be too wide either, or else it will block the surrounding photos when you try to position it. for example, the below image wouldn’t be a good option because her arm would cover at least one of the other eras.

once you have your photos picked out, you’re gonna want to drag the nine smaller ones into the document and crop/scale/position them so that there’s one in each square. remember that the template layer should be above the photo layers so that they’re contained within the frame. once you’ve done that, it should look something like this:

now it’s outlining time. first, make a new transparent layer and place that between the photo layers and the template layer. it’s really REALLY important that you remember to always paint on this transparent layer and NOT directly on the photos, as we want to be able to edit the photos later without also editing the borders. i used a website like this to find the color codes of the backgrounds on the original poster, so i’ll just put them here for you:

debut: #bcd5b8 fearless: #f4cb8a speak now: #cfb6d4 red: #a45865 1989: #c0e6f9 rep: #5f5c57 lover: #f8bad3 folklore: #d3d0c9 evermore: #ceb69c

you’re gonna want to select the paintbrush tool and set it to 20px and choose the “soft round” setting in the general brushes folder (this will make sure that you don’t have any harsh edges). then, change the color of the brush to whichever era you’re starting with, using the hex codes above. now you’re ready to go in and start painting! on your transparent layer, outline the edges of the subject of your first photo. you don’t have to be super precise with this because the soft edges allow for more error!

once you’ve done that, go ahead and change the brush setting back to hard round in order to fill in the surrounding edges, like so:

and voilà! pretty easy, right? now you just have to do that eight more times for each era, using the corresponding hex code for your brush color. and again, ALWAYS REMEMBER TO PAINT EVERYTHING ON THAT TRANSPARENT LAYER!!! pro tip: you can use the rectangular marquee tool to contain the square of the era that you’re working with so you don’t have to worry about staying inside the lines. once you’ve done that, it should look something like this (just ignore that the reputation background is too light, i used the wrong color and didn’t notice until later):

ok now you’re gonna want to download this lovely psd pack in order to color the photos (you could also color them yourself, but i’m bad at coloring so i took the easy way out). open that up, and drag the first one over for whichever era you’re starting with. position it so that it’s directly above the corresponding era’s photo and then right-click the psd and select “ungroup layers” (you wanna do this because you won’t be able to create a clipping mask from grouped layers). then, with all the layers of the psd selected, you’re gonna wanna right-click and select “create clipping mask.” this should make it so that the filter is only visible on that era’s photo. now just repeat that process for each era! once you’ve done that, you should have eras-colored filters over each image, like so:

now it’s png time! i’m not gonna explain how to make a png here because it would take too long and i’m such a perfectionist that the way i make pngs would probably get me locked up. however, here’s a really useful, in-depth tutorial on the subject if you’ve never made one before. go ahead and make your png and drag it into the document once you’re done. scale/resize/crop the png so that it fits nicely in the center of the document (and remember that this should be the topmost layer at this point, right above the template layer, so that it’s visible). it should look something like this now:

now you’re gonna do the same thing for the center psd that you did for all the other eras, by creating a clipping mask from the “midnights” era filter:

now all that’s left is the text! you have a few options for this part depending on what kind of edit you’re making. for the eras edit series, i made a png of each album title and positioned that in the center, like this:

i’ve also seen a lot of people making edits of these for their pets/grandparents/themselves, in which case you probably want to put a name of some sort in there. i made a sample of this to show you. first, you’re gonna want to download this font. it’s not the exact font from the poster because that one costs money, but this one looks almost exactly the same once you stretch it vertically. once you’ve installed the font, make a new text layer and write whatever word you want. change the font size until it roughly matches that of the surrounding words (remembering that it won’t be as tall). then, right click the text layer and select “convert to smart object” so that you can stretch it and then select edit > transform > warp. a number of dots should appear around the text, which will allow you to pull the top and bottom edges of the word so that it looks as tall as the original font. once it roughly matches the poster font, press enter to exit out of warp mode. the text will also look blacker than what's on the poster, so just right click on the text layer/smart object, select “blending options,” and reduce the opacity until it matches. this is what i got:

now you could stop there, but i like to mess with it a little (bc perfectionist) and go back and tinker with the paintbrush/clean up the edges and alter the brightness/contrast so that the images match each other a little better. after doing all that (and fixing the rep background color), this is what i ultimately ended up with (i also changed some of the images cause i didn’t like them):

and that’s pretty much all there is to it! i’ve never made a tutorial before so idk if i explained too much or didn’t explain enough but please please feel free to message me if you have any questions/require further clarification on anything!!! ok thanks bye!:)

[haevnlii]

how i make scripts aesthetic on google docs (on pc) <33

Part One - Images

! Due to Tumblr's 30 image limit, I'll have to make this in parts. This one revolves around how I sort pictures to make them look aesthetic or just more organised in my script. + I'm not the best at organising tutorials sometimes but I'm trying to not make this confusing <//3

Ignore any typos and errors, thankyou. If you need me to re-explain anything, please feel free to ask. I feel like I haven't explained properly but, idk what else to do, lol :,)

Page isn't broken, to avoid messing up the way images are organised.

— ◦◦◦

What do I use?

Other than Google Docs (obviously), — Fontspace | A background remover [my mains: 1, 2] | Pinterest/WeHeartIt/Google search, and other sources for pretty pictures, pngs, etc. 🤍🌙

bundling images

Using the different text wrapping options, I found that it helped a lot more to "bundle" images together, so that things look prettier + more organised.

! example

This is pretty simple, honestly; Fontspace provides font text as pictures, transparent bg and not, — so organising the text from it will fall under the tut for this bit.

^ These are the text wrapping options. The first one is the default and limits text placement/movement, the other four allow you to move text where-ever on the document (especially if print view is off) but each do different things.

In order of settings, examples (press images to see properly):

! tip : If you're bundling images that "overlap" too much, make sure to crop at least one (or however many needed) past its actual size so that it won't be a pain in the ass moving them later on.

- You may also use "behind text" for one of them, if it helps, so that it's easier to select the images, this also applies to using image over text (examples in each image).

what I mean:

Using these features, I'll—as per the aesthetic of my script—sort things accordingly. Get creative with the way you're doing this, and keep experimenting 'till you're able to make stuff look the way you want, lol.

"BuT DaRLIng wHaT Do I dO wItH ThIS iNFo??!?!?" bitch idk find an aesthetic 💀💀

like those 2016 fashion sticker books or smthn, idk- whatever u like-

Going into the aesthetics more ;; I usually pick diff aesthetics for each script and refuse to script until I find a pretty one LMFOAOAO- But I especially go for inspiration from (Korean?) bullet journal aesthetics which include lots of image bundling and customised tables.

Why korean ones specifically? Idk the difference, but using "Korean" as a keyword gets the stuff I'm looking for. 💀 But I also search for little pngs I want to add to my script; and if it's a false transparent png or has any background, I use my background removers to make it an actual transparent png.

And, sometimes, I like to search for colours then use my snip tool to screenshot them really thin, like those brown-beige borders you see in all my posts, then use them in my script like highlighter lines, like-

That's pretty much it, really.

! examples from two of my scripts

Fontspace fonts apply as well. One thing about Fontspace is that, you can change the colour of the text ;; as well as the background.

The brown colour is the text's colour, the blue one is the background's colour. You can of course choose to have no background, but it's there as an option.

I don't know of any features where you can save a colour but that's maybe me being dumb ;; but what I do is set a certain colour (i.e. blue) then use the colour adjustment in google docs to change it to black, red, or whatever over colours r in the script.

i.e.:

Anyways I'm p close to the image limit, so that's it for this post.

I hope this makes sense bc explaining this was harder than I thought. 💀💀 Once again I can clear anything up if needed

! tips

Keywords you can use for tiny decorations, are "clipart", "[aethetic name] clipart transparent png", "[aesthetic name] sticker png transparent", etc.

You can have a look at the aesthetics wiki for ideas for your script

Fotor is what I use to crop images into different shapes, and it is how I got the circle/heart shaped pictures in my documents ^-^*

...I'll add more when I remember them.

next up ··· customising tables ✿

[lights-out-away-we-go]

The redbull honer causa - an overview

Oliver Mintzlaff (Managing director/CEO):

-Wants Horner gone, had already prepeared a statement

Jos Verstappen (absolute dick):

-wants Horner gone, his reasons are probably purely personal

Lewis Hamilton:

-only driver besides Max who spoke about the whole mess said it should be investigated properly

Toto Wolf:

-said multiple times that the sport and investigation should be more transparent

Hemut Marko (advisor of RB):

-hasn't said anything yet, but history tells us him and horner are not friends

Geri Halliwell (wife of Horner):

-plays the good girl PR happy family wife

M. Ben Sulayem (Fia president):

-said it hurt the sport but also said that we should ignore it because f1 doesnt need this negativity, the fia is not investigating horner

C. Yoovidhya (thai buisnessman):

-shareholder of redbull, is on horners side

In short, everyone is oc acting in their own interest, not because they want to fight abuse. It hurts the image of the sport. It hurts the image of Red Bull and that of course could make them loose money. And everything is about money.

Rn it's the Austrian partie (i.e. CEO Mintzlaff and Helmut Marko) who wants Christian gone, against the thai shareholders of Red Bull (i.e. the Yoovidhya clan) who have Horners back and who are the reason why Horner won that "independent" investigation.

The Redbull GsmbH belongs to 49% to Mateschitz (Austria) and 49% to a chinese company owned by the Yoovidhya family, and 2% belong to Chalem Yoovidhya on his own.

[maimedaffair]

tbt, tumblr rp trends version. repost and bold the trends you have taken part in, leave untouched the ones you’ve seen but haven’t taken part in, and cross out the ones you can’t remember or have missed.

photoshop replies. / formatting by making a line break before the end of the text field to create a block of text that never looked good on themes. / doing the aforementioned but also trying to make the lines looks even with spacebar. / the first rise of promos being two vertical images side by side. / “straight outta __” promo trend that lasted like less than 12 hours. / making shitpost promos specifically for april fool’s day. / c.rystal r.eed, d.ylan o’b.rien, and n.ina d.obrev are the only three faceclaims in the world. / everyone’s period faceclaim is adelaine kane in reign. / ian somerhalden at 35 years old works as a fc for a high school student. / amb.er h.eard is the only faceclaim in the world.

cutting threads who. / container themes. / container themes at an angle. / container themes and the links blend in with the background. / themes with a gif as a sidebar. / themes with full-width or height sidebars no one really knew how to make look good. / update bars separate from the rest of the theme. / tacky-looking autoplays. / autoplays but this time the player is tiny and in the description and starts from the beginning every time the page loads. / autoplays but this time the horizontal player at the top or bottom has a transparent layout. / “you can’t see the expression in 100x100 icons”. / insanejournal icons. / rping with big gifs. / rping with big gifs but this time it’s ironic. / “#ignore the text”

‘greeter' open starters for new followers / “hey how about we do this reblog karma thing where you send a meme if you reblog it bc no one is doing it” / “i will block you if you don’t reblog the meme from the source” / torn paper effect mobile banners. / mun faceclaim. / small text. / double small text. / triple small text. / magic anons. / rping with personals via anon asks. / a border inside the icon and an initial on the bottom right corner. / taking icons off hollow-art and just putting a psd over it. / red text on black background or vice versa no matter how difficult it was to see bc Edgy. / “multimuses are bad”. / all the mun information on the caption of the promo, including experience and formatting preference. / video promos.

[kevinwikse]

Mr. Beast? Who? Just another YouTuber Twat, the Digitally Mind-Raped Gen-Z can't seem to suck up to hard enough.

There’s a certain poetic justice, a sweet, intoxicating schadenfreude, that comes with watching the glittering facade of a Gen-Z idol crumble under the weight of their own hypocrisy. These so-called "heroes," birthed from the shallow womb of social media, are nothing more than cardboard cutouts, propped up by the delusions of a generation that mistakes followers for value and viral content for substance. The most recent victim to the altar of transparency? Some YouTube influencer—Mr. Beast, they call him. A name that screams "red flag" louder than a politician’s promise, and yet, they worship him like he’s the second coming of Christ in high-definition.

Gen-Z loves their heroes because they’re accessible, relatable, and most importantly, they give away free shit. “Hey Kevin, do you like Mr. Beast?” they ask with wide-eyed naivety, as if the approval of someone like me—a man who has long since lost faith in the false prophets of the digital age—would validate their shallow obsession. I look at them, these misguided souls, and feel nothing but a cold, dark satisfaction as I tear down their idol.

"Who?" I reply, because the name means nothing to me, as it should to anyone with a shred of self-respect. They scramble to explain, to educate the old man about this new age messiah who supposedly gives money to people, as if that’s some sort of divine act. I laugh—a bitter, contemptuous sound. "Socialism gives money to people, too," I remind them, "but that doesn’t make it any less of a piss-poor ideology for idiots who can’t fend for themselves."

Their eyes narrow, their faces flush with the righteous anger only the young can muster. "Mr. Beast is awesome and funny!" they retort, as if humor and charisma could disguise the fact that YouTubers are nothing more than walking billboards, shilling for clicks and cash, devoid of any real talent or worth. “And that name,” I add, “sounds like something a pedophile would use as his online handle.”

They hurl insults—jealous, bitter old man, they call me. Jealous? Maybe. But not of their hero, no. I’m jealous of the simplicity of their ignorance, the bliss that comes with not knowing just how deep the rot goes.

And then, months later, the reckoning comes. The news breaks, the hero falls, and the same kids who once sang his praises are now scrambling to distance themselves from the wreckage. Mr. Beast, it turns out, is exactly what I said he was: a walking dumpster fire of biomedical waste, a creature of the night whose deeds are far darker than the pristine image he peddled to his adoring fans.

“Uh oh,” I hear them say, their voices now tinged with the realization that their idol was nothing more than a mirage, a reflection of their own desperate need for meaning in a world that offers none. “Who knew?”

Who knew? I did. Because I’ve seen it all before. The rise and fall of false gods is nothing new—just another cycle in the endless march of time. But this? Watching them suffer the sting of disillusionment, seeing the heartbreak and devastation etched across their faces? That’s the real reward. That’s what warms the icy void where my heart used to be.

So, Gen-Z, go ahead and worship your heroes. Place them on pedestals and shower them with praise. But remember this: the higher you lift them, the farther they have to fall. And when they do, I’ll be there, watching with a grin, knowing that in the end, your heroes are just as worthless as the platforms that birthed them.

-Kevin Wikse