#the quality looks so iffy on my phone

[seaslugfanclub]

Hi!! It's anon that requested permission to draw Ace and HJ :) ALSO IM SORRY IF I WROTE ALOT I HAVE A TENDENCY TO RANT WHEN I DO ART + idk I have a lot to say I just thought it would be cute to see them dress in eachothers clothes lmao (ik in the ship chart it says that neither of them lean strongly into borrowing or lending clothes but I still thought it would be a cute idea) Sorry if the proportions are kinda weird I've literally never drawn furry art before. Also, it's hard for me to draw hj so :P

Again, sorry if it's a little low quality... Iffy phone camera + inability to draw digitally or if it looks a little weird cuz I rarely draw (But uhm genuinely, I really love your writing, all your disney villain fics are so fun to read. You've single-handedly re-sparked my interest in Disney villains 👍 Also motivated me to read the Villain series by Serena Valentino, which is basically like villain backstories)

Giggling and kicking my feet rn, THIS IS THE CUTEST SHIT EVER 😭💕😭💕💕💕💕 thank you so much!!

You drew Ace and HJ so adorably, now I want to draw them in an outfit swap too!

[centrally-unplanned]

Hm I think this a weird take based a bit on strawmanning other people. We have this question from a reader:

From my understanding you suggested that in the near future AI will be able to sum up the content a user may want to see into a digest, so that they can spend less time using their devices. I think that is a misunderstanding of how the typical user experiences social media. While there surely are some brilliant people such as the young scientists you described during the episode who use social media only to connect with peers and find valuable information, I would argue that most users, alas including myself, turn to social media when seeking mindless distraction, when bored or maybe too tired to read of watch a film. Therefore, having a digest will prove unsatisfactory. What a typical user wants is the stream of content to continue.

Which I agree with, Cowen's proposal (in an earlier interview) that AI summaries of social media would be widely used and cut back is iffy to me. At the margins used, sure always, but not much - its not being used for information like that. Its experiential. Its like 80% jokes, you think AI is going to summarize jokes? And then what, you read the summary and then sit on the bus not looking at your phone for the rest of the trip?

He replies to this question along two axes: one is saying that Substitution Effects are everywhere, even in addiction:

I think these are some of the least understood points of 2024.  Let us start with the substitution effect.  The “digest” feature of AI will soon let you turn your feeds into summaries and pointers to the important parts.  In other words, you will be able to consume those feeds more quickly.  In some cases the quality of the feed experience may go up, in other cases it may go down (presumably over time quality of the digest will improve). We all know that if tech allows you to cook more quickly (e.g., microwave ovens), you will spend less time cooking.  That is true even if you are “addicted” to cooking, if you cook because of social pressures, if cooking puts you into a daze, or whatever.  The substitution effect still applies, noting that in some cases the new tech may make the cooked food better, in other cases worse.  In similar fashion, you will spend less time with your feed, following the advent of AI feed digests.

That cooking analogy is like such an oddball choice to make - being addicted to cooking is like not a thing, so we don't have any points of reference, and as much as it is I don't buy you at all! I don't think they would cook less. They would be less happy, its an addiction. What??

I won't totally reject it, like I can imagine how social media is about giving you "hits" and if something gives you hits faster it can sate you faster. I just really don't think feed summarizes are going to do much in that regard.

The second point is a bit meatier - essentially saying people are tying themselves up into a contradiction when they discuss how social media is both an addiction and also a social pressure from peers:

The AI example is also a forcing one when it comes to motives for spending time with social media feeds.  Many critics wish to have it both ways.  They want to say “the feed is no fun, teenagers stick with the feed because of social pressures to be in touch with others, but they ideally would rather do something else.”  But when a new technology allows them to secede from feed obsession to some degree, (some of) those same critics say: “They can’t/won’t secede — they are addicted!”  The word “dopamine” is then likely to follow, though rarely the word “fun.” It is better to just start by admitting that the feed is fun, and informative, for many teenagers and adults too.  Of course not everything fun is good for you, but the “social pressure” verbal gambit is a slight of hand to make social media sound like an obvious bad across all margins, and a network that needs to be taken down, rather than something we ought to help people manage better, at the margin.  If it really were mainly a social pressure problem, it would be relatively easy to solve.

This seems like a strawman to me - everyone agrees its fun in some sense, its just more complicated than that. And that is not how people are using social pressure at all. He thinks of it as a "social pressure to stay informed", like everyone needs to know the facts of what happened, etc. So if you get an AI summary of "what happened" then you can survive gossip at the lunch table without embarrassing yourself.

Which is not how this works - the social pressure is to be there, be part of the conversation, be in the room where it happens. You sometimes won't even be reading any of the same stuff as your peers, but you can develop taste and contribute and share in the culture. The pressure is that the culture feels non-optional, to be someone who doesn't have online tastes makes you weird and cringe. And, to be clear, it makes you feel cringe. No one needs to call you cringe, its self-policed. And even for you direct friends, what you think they are gonna post Youtube videos, ask you to watch them, and then you are just gonna pretend you did via an AI summary? Again, that will happen, but bro that is lying, that won't become the default way anyone interacts with this stuff.

When teenagers say they want to delete social media, they do not mean "I did not have fun for the last 15 minutes scrolling my feed". Instead they referring to a wider, embedded social order and self-identity formation culture that is rubbing them wrong. Which they might be projecting, of course, but its a far wider critique.

I'm not even coming out here as a social media mental health critic, I have my complaints but I am unsure more than I am sure. But that is independent of this being a rushed analytical model.

[kellyscabin]

Hey I love ur amvs!! I was wondering if you had advice for someone that's interested in making their own? I'm not sure what the best programs are for editing or getting clips. Ty! :)

this is so flattering thank you so much!!!!! I LOVE making amvs…… favourite thing in the world to do so this is gonna be probably longer than you wanted…..

I’ve bounced around just about everything in the last couple years so I can give you a few different ideas!!

For clip sourcing:

initially, I used episodes that I had downloaded as supernatural was airing so the quality was iffy and there were logos on a lot of them… THEN I went the screen recording route (for when I was on my phone, I’ve never tried this on desktop but I know this works well for others!!) but I found that the quality still bugged me AND I ended up with nearly 2000 supernatural clips on my phone…… which was a nightmare to sort through… NOW I use this which is very fabulous and easy to use… you can select which eps to download if you don’t need all of them!! (and no vpn needed)

For editing:

I’ve used a lot of different programmes til I found one that worked well for me so definitely shop around…. youtube tutorials are your friend…. when I started, I was using sony vegas pro…. which worked fine even though my laptop was the first one ever made… but I didn’t want to pay for it and it got blocked on my laptop forever and windows would notttt let me get it back…….. SO, as I mentioned, for a while I was editing on my phone which I would personally nottt recommend for full length amvs… smaller edits would be completely fine!! I used splice which was very basic but it got the job done!! actually. looking through my videos- everything from mr perfectly fine to dean movies was made on my phone which is about 30 videos- so this works!! it’s just much more difficult and harder to polish up…. I personally make amvs much quicker and cleaner on my laptop.. and noticed a big big difference in my own quality since I switched….. NOW I use capcut since it’s free and my laptop can run it without any issues. I’m genuinely very impressed with it as a free software- lots of really good tools and effects, I find it so easy to alter colours and subtitle as well!! which I struggled with on other platforms!! very user friendly too!!! would be very beginner friendly!!

fun stuff :)

PLANNING is my absolute favourite part of making an amv…… normally I hear a song and can very easily picture shot by shot how I would amv it - once I’ve got the song and general theme I’m going for- I normally print out the lyrics and annotate them - jotting down timings, voiceovers, season, arcs and clips.. I can sometimes skip this if it’s just a simple video but if it’s anything complicated I HAVE to write it down. I also find it’s easier to make a video have a ‘point’ if I do this??? idk.. I think it helps but idk if this is something everybody does :)

there’s the spn transcript searcher which is very useful as well if there’s a line you’re looking for but can’t remember where it’s from!!

and of course homeofthenutty which is great for thumbnail stuff!!

editing things:

honestly… I don’t think there’s a wrong way to do this if you’ve got a really fabulous idea….. timings are the trickiest thing to get the hang of- I do dashes on my printed plan to kind of show where I need cuts and if it’s fast cuts I write down how long each clip should be so it looks cleaner. I find that my videos don’t really look finished until they’re subtitled either- so that always helps!! everybody kind of does that differently so definitely play around until you find a style you like!!

I wouldn’t worry too much about colouring when you’re just starting out- sometimes I find that filters can be distracting but I know others who swear by them so that’s just personal preference!! I really just tweak certain clips to make them less saturated or green-looking….

for posting:

I really recommend posting simultaneously on tumblr and youtube!! I have videos with basically no notes on tumblr but did really well on yt and vice versa!! the yt algorithm can be funny- I find that as long as it has a custom thumbnail and a few comments it does alright!! on tumblr- I always link the yt video since the tumblr player doesn’t always work for everybody…. also don’t be afraid to use taglists!!! I’m sure your mutuals would love to be tagged and please definitely tag me in anything you make!!! genuinely owe so much to my mutuals for their support 🫶🫶 and also don’t be afraid to self-reblog!! chronological dashboard means people WILL miss things if they aren’t online!!!

but genuinely the most important thing is to have fun…… I seriously love amvs…. I think they’re the best thing in the world and spend probably at least half an hour minimum a day watching amvs…….. and we need more of them!!!!! so thank you!!! and please please tag me when you make one!!! and feel free to dm me if you need anything at all!!! like all technical aspects aside… an amv made with so much love and to a fabulous song is a gift to the world…… 🫶🫶

[lilypadlys]

Mushy May Day Nineteen - Coffee Shop AU

Ship: Ifrit/Zephyr

Notes: I changed the prompt for today. I’ve been on an Iffy/Zephy kick lately so Imma be fluffy about it. I love these two and spent the whole time writing this giggling and kicking my feet. Prompt list by @forlorn-crows. See prompt list here

Word Count: 483

Read on AO3 or below the cut

Ifrit looks up from wiping down the counter when the shop bell rings. He smiles when he sees his favorite regular walk in. Float in really. Zephyr has an airy quality to them that makes them seem as if they barely grace the ground when they move.

They’re wearing their favorite blue turtleneck and their silver hair, styled in a wolf cut, is pulled back into a bun today. Ifrit wants to free it from the elastic to watch how it spills over their shoulders in an equally floaty way and…Ifrit is starring again. Whoops.

He shakes his head to clear it as Zephyr approaches the counter.

“The usual for you today?” Ifrit mentally fist pumps that he kept his voice from cracking in nervousness this time.

“Yes please.” They say quietly but chipperly.

“Okay! It’s on the house today.”

“Really?”

Ifrit has to suppress a goofy grin at the way their eyes light up in surprised elation.

“Yup! You’re such a loyal customer.” No other reason. “We’ll have it on the bar for you when it’s ready.”

“Thank you so much!”

Ifrit does grin when they’ve turned their back. He can help it; happy to see them happy.

Mist, his coworker, saw the whole thing and rolls her eyes teasingly.

“Easy there loverboy. There’s little hearts floating above your head.”

“I can’t help it!” He whines. “They’re cute.”

“Well then stop staring wistfully and make their drink. You wouldn’t want them to have to wait too long.”

“Oh yeah!” That springs Ifrit into action.

Mist takes over the register while Ifrit mixes up Zephyr’s oat milk latte. He writes Zephyr’s name on the cup in cursive and draws a little smiley face. He goes to set it on the bar but then thinks better of it. Instead he walks over to the little nook Zephyr always sits in to give them their drink.

“One oat milk latte!” He grins and hands over the drink.

“Thank you!” They reply before looking worriedly at the ground. “Oh! You dropped something!” They bend down to pick up a small scrap of paper. “Here.”

Ifrit does his best to keep the confused expression off his face as he accepts the paper. Then he reluctantly returns to his post behind the counter. He takes a sip of his shift drink and glances at the paper. Then he nearly spews his coffee. On the paper is a phone number with, call me! Written below it.

Mist glances at him with an raised eyebrow and he grins embarrassedly. Looking between Ifrit, the paper scrap, and Zephyr watching Ifrit none too discreetly she sighs and laughs.

“It’s about time for your break, yeah? Why don’t you go sit for a bit.” She flicks her eyes to Zephyr.

“Okay! I’ll be back!”

Ifrit wastes no time chucking his apron off, grabbing his drink and practically skipping over to where Zephyr waits.

[pb-dot]

Why Peebs never got into fanficiton

It occurred to me the other day that despite having quite the voracious appetite for fiction back in my youth, I never got into fanfiction. So, how come? Part of it is just the circles I moved in back in the day, as the cis and presumably straight nerd sphere wasn't super into fanfiction, and by the time I started moving queer-wards my habits were kind of set. There is, however, another reason, and it's this particular wild ride I want to take you on today dear readers.

NOTE: It is difficult to tell this story to its full extent without sharing a bit more detail about my meatspace identity than I'd prefer to, so I have taken some steps to anonymize as much as I can. If you by chance have a hunch about the name of the fic I'm talking about, do free to drop me DM and talk about it, but please don't start flinging speculations on here. Thanks in advance.

With that meaty disclaimer out of the way, let's talk about that one time my mother sent me DBZ fanfiction. Back in the days of my prepubescence, my mother was the family's "computer person." She had some education in early IT, database work, and that kind of thing, so she was the one to introduce the Internet into our family. Mind you, this was in the days of the ISDN line, a step up from the 56k modems that took up your phone line, but still a slow and expensive solution compared to the broadband connections that would come some years later.

Not to sound like Grandpa Internet here, but the web was fundamentally different back then. Before the rise of Google, or halfway decent search engines, finding anything on the internet was a question of what search term you used and which of the many many search engines that were available you used, and what you found were of wildly differing quality. A lot of it was homemade web pages following this or that template, hosted on this or that hosting site, but there was very little in terms of connective tissue. This is all to say that when you came across something that was almost what you were looking for, you had the tendency to just check it out and see if it hit the spot eventually.

All this preamble is to say that when my mother sent me a mail with a link to a collection of stories written about a character whose given name was identical to our family name, I decided to give it a gander although I wasn't immensely interested in it. Turns out it was a loosely organized collection of stories about a fan-created character in the DBZ universe, although I did not know this because the ol' screamy punchman show hadn't really made it to my corner of the woods at this point.

This character, whose name was the same as my family name but as best as I know wasn't inspired by anything else than the sound of it, was the daughter of a particularly biologically implausible pairing in the Dragon Ball Z universe, and given how quickly said pairing decided to throw their contempt for biologists and their so-called facts in the reader's faces told me my mother probably hadn't read very far into the thing before sending it my way.

Now, I want to be clear, this wasn't a full-blown lemon or anything, but I was a sheltered kid what sex and sexuality were concerned, and it didn't take much more than a mention of doing the nasty and a tasteful fade to black, that in retrospect left some big questions unanswered, to have me quite flustered.

This isn't to say things didn't get considerably more citrus-y later on. You see, this character grows up and is cool and important in the way such characters often are. What is slightly more remarkable about her is that Alien Puberty hits her like a sackful of bricks and goes what I can only describe as "Transformatively-Fuck-Crazy" on a supporting character. The whole consent situation around the thing is real iffy I realize, now in retrospect, but at the time I was mostly in shock over where this little reading session had taken me.

The session, however, was far from done. Not much came out of this alien consent-light fuck-berserkergang, however, as our heroine had some time travel to get into. At the time I was very confused about the time travel just suddenly being a thing, but later on, I came to realize Dragon Ball Z was just Kind Of Like That.

You see, some Jessica Rabbit-looking alien with a clashing primary colors color scheme and an understanding of the concept of clothing that is adventurous to say the least who wants to kick her ass but finds herself unable to do so on account of the heroine being actually quite good at this ass-kicking business. Our scantily-clad would-be conqueror does the most logical thing in her situation and goes back in time to kill the protagonist's dad. You know, as you do when you have near-perfect mastery of time travel and a grudge. You'd think she'd get into some Kang The Conqueror shit, but maybe that's the next point on her agenda, idk.

This villain also could turn invisible, so nobody's going to accuse her of being a one-trick pony. How does our heroine beat this somewhat overstatted threat? I can't remember, but if I were to guess, it ended in a cliffhanger and lots of screaming, so you can't blame the author for diverging from the form language of the show if nothing else.

So that's the story of my main first encounter with fanfiction. It left me confused in more ways than one, and it kind of became a bit emblematic of the format for me once I figured out that it was in fact fanfiction. Was that unfair of the younger me? Perhaps, while I can't really claim it as a good read, I did keep reading it until I was done. Whether that says more about the fic or about me, I am sure I do not know.

[obihoekenobi]

Part One - AU where Padme lives and joins the Rebel Alliance (Inspired)

“There is an entire subplot with Padme joining the Rebel Alliance with Mon Mothma and Bail Organa. This was really her story, that was going along at the same time that Anakin was being seduced by Palpatine at the beginning before he turns.” - George Lucas

[selenitis-draws]

Inktober: Days 1 & 2

This is my first year doing Inktober!  I’m really nervous about posting what I draw, because I don’t really... draw traditional art (・・；) I have no idea what I’m doing haha. But I want to improve my lineart, and build a habit of drawing daily, and this seems like a good challenge for that. Good luck to everyone else doing Inktober!

[corysmiles]

Ok so I was reading your little streamer au story Just a Joke and that part about the matchbox bed had me thinking, what if Tommy did a stream where he just showed off his house? Like, just walked the camera from room to room and talked about different stuff he had for fun. (Probably not his whole house, just his bedroom and maybe one other him sized room if he has it)

He would probably see nothing wrong with most of it (or even if he does, he doesn’t think it’s a big deal and ignores it, thinking everyone else will do the same) but his friends see how poorly made and “diy” everything looks (like his bed) and start thinking about how all tinys have to live like that.

I imagine Wilber especially starts to feel bad, looking around his house and seeing all the stuff he takes for granted, all things that tinys could only get a poorer version of, if they got a version at all.

Not to mention, Tommy seems to be a bit better off then a lot of tinys, so some don’t even have the stuff he does, and/or have ones of even lesser quality.

Maybe it’s just a one off little “oh...that sucks...” or maybe they try to do something about it. Idk, just think it’s a cute and sad idea. (I have more to say about this idea, but I don’t want bombard you with a super duper long ask, so just take these basics for now I guess, sorry)

-tired anon

House Tour

————————

Little Streamer AU

CW: language

Notes: Woah little streamer content?? In this economy??? More likely than you think. And thank you so much for this awesome idea tired anon I love it :D Without further ado have a fun tiny Tommy housetour followed by Wilbur’s confusion over tiny culture

————————

Tommy hadn’t been this excited for a stream in a long time, but as he set up everything he was practically bouncing on his feet.

He was going to do a house tour- or a room tour- for the chat since they’d only ever seen a bit of it in the background. It was a lot different from his normal content, but it felt refreshing doing something so new.

When he finally stepped back and looked at everything a grin spread across his face. He didn’t think his room had looked this nice since the day they built it. His red sheets were perfectly tucked into his matchbox bed, his dollhouse desk was wiped down and shiny, and even his scrap-fabric rug was dusted.

Pride swelled up in his chest at the sight.

“Mom!” he yelled as he peaked his head through the “window” in his room. It really was just a hole in the wall to the human part of the house, but it also let light in to his room. “I’m gonna be streaming soon!”

He didn’t even wait for an answer before he happily popped back into his small room. It was still a little dusty since it was inside of a wall, but there was nothing he could really do about that. The viewers would just have to deal with it, he mused.

Quickly he sent out a tweet for his stream and hit “go live” on his pc. Almost immediately people flooded the chat even though it was still just his starting soon screen, and one name in particular caught his eye.

WilburSoot: this is not exciting

Tommy grinned and stifled the laugh that threatened to burst out of his chest. Of course Wilbur was messing with him, who would he be if he wasn’t messing with the tiny. And even though it was just one message Tommy was excited to know he was there.

Wilbur had actually been the one to convince him to do a house tour. Tommy never really thought his room was much, it was decently sized but not very exciting, but still Wilbur thought it would be a fun idea for an easy stream. The tiny still has been pretty iffy about the idea but after constant nagging from his brother-figure he gave in.

“Hello chat!” Tommy yelled as he switched his screen to his camera. Dramatically he swung it around to zoom in on his face.

“How are you doing today? I’m doing so well,” he grinned, “Today’s gonna be a little different actually- spicing things up Yaknow. You get to see my big man home!”

The chat blurred in the corner of his eye as he explained what the stream would be, and chugged a cup of coke he’d poured right before he started. It was all going well, and they seemed to like it a lot more than he thought they would.

First Tommy stood up from his desk and pointed it at his setup, “See this is where the magic happens boys.”

He laughed as the chat flew by even faster with one message catching his eye.

“Hey it is not a Polly pocket desk it is a Barbie Ken desk,” he pouted, “please I’m better than that.”

Step by step he moved across his room explaining his furniture and showing off his favorite things. They got to see his cardboard bed, his “borrower hook” he’d been trying to teach himself how to use, and even his “spider hole” in the wall where bugs got into his room.

Most of the time the chat seemed to find it funny, but every once in a while people seemed concerned. He just chalked it up to humans though.

At the end of the stream he put the camera on his desk and jumped up on his bed to say goodbye. To make it even funnier he loaded the tiny nerf gun Wilbur had bought him a while back and tried to shoot the camera.

“I’m gonna shoot you if you don’t leave, go!” he yelled jokingly, “Disparse! Leave! Go home!”

Once the chat seemed to calm down a bit he said his actual goodbyes and teaches as the screen turned dark. Just like always he let out a breath of relief that the stream went well. He enjoyed streaming, but it was still stressful trying to make sure everything went right.

After a minute he fell back onto his bed and scrolled through his phone until discord dm flashed on his screen.

WilburSoot: how did you get a whole fake room for a stream??

Tommy frowned and quickly opened the app staring at the message.

Tommyinnit: what? vc?

The tiny sat back against his bed and waited for his friend to respond as anxiety curled up in his gut.

“Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice crackled.

“Hey Wil, what the fuck do you mean?”

Through his phone he could hear Wilbur shifting around as he stumbled on what to say, “That room.”

Tommy frowned and tilted his head even though he knew the human couldn’t see it, “What about it?”

“What- that can’t be your room, right?” Wilbur’s laugh boomed, “It was a good joke though.”

“Wait wait Wil,” Tommy fumbled, “What the fuck do you mean? This is my room.”

The silence that filled the call almost made Tommy wish he hadn’t said anything at all.

“Huh?”

“Uh yeah,” Tommy coughed, “That really was my room, what’s wrong?”

Wilbur’s staticky hum echoed through his phone, “Oh uh… I don’t know I thought you’d have like…actual furniture?”

“I mean, it works doesn’t it,” Tommy frowned as he leaned back against his sheets, kicking up his feet on the edge of the box, “It’s not that bad.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur paused, “you sleep in a box.”

The tiny froze and stared at the worm edges of the matchbox he slept in. He never really thought about it. It was pretty normal for tinies considering how expensive real furniture was, and he was probably better off than a lot of other tinies.

“Uh well yeah big man,” Tommy stuttered, “I’m a tiny.”

“Well no shit I know that but shouldn’t you have like an actual bed? You have a real pc!” Wilbur said, getting louder by the second.

“Well yeah,” Tommy muttered, “But spending over a thousand pounds on a bed frame just doesn’t seem worth it to me okay?”

Again silence filled the call, and it lasted so long tommy thought the human had left.

Wilbur was the one to break the silence, “One thousand pounds?”

“For a shitty one yeah,” Tommy frowned. He still remembered the day his parents had searched endlessly for any bed frames only to find that they were all thousands of pounds. They had seemed so upset about it, but Tommy never really cared.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Wilbur dropped, “I shouldn’t have said anything I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Tommy smiled, I’m the corner of his eye he saw one of the hoodies he’d bought during his last visit with Wilbur, “But my spider hole is very real and very important to me.”

Wilbur’s loud laugh burst through the phone making the tiny’s heart swell. He missed the human more than he’d admit, and it was always nice hearing his friend’s voice- even if he was just joking about his spider hole.

“Yeah yeah, your spider holes fine. Very normal,” Wilbur joked before his voice steadied, “Seriously though, sorry about thinking it was a joke. I just- I don’t know. I feel like maybe I’ve taken my things for granted. I didn’t mean to seem rude though I-

“Nah stop,” Tommy smiled, “Your house is shit man, I’ve been there.”

The tiny stared at Wilbur’s profile picture as his wheezy laugh filled the room.

“Yeah yeah whatever,” and then an added, “love you Tom.”

Before Tommy could respond he heard the ding signalling Wilbur had left the call. The silence in his room now only filled by the sound of his parents shuffling around somewhere else in the house.

“Yeah,” Tommy hummed, “Love you too Wil.”

Taglist:

@encaos @blurrybunnie @brooky71 @forgetful-dorito

[ozzy-bozzy]

Could you possibly do a Reki x reader hurt/comfort where reki’s having a bad day and unlike usually reader can’t pick up on his signals so he sorta snaps that them?

hello my lil anonie, 'm sorry if this is a bit poor quality but i'm really tired! But I wanted to finish this tonight so here u go :) it helps to write angst when I'm tired bc I don't have a bunch of energy

You waited in the usual spot, fingers drumming against your thigh as you waited for Reki. You two would be headed to his house from school as planned, and you were buzzing with excitement you could hardly stand still. You kept glancing around, looking for the usually upbeat boy and had almost missed him when he came into your field of vision, kicking a rock as he walked. He had nearly walked past you since his head was down and wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Calling out his name, he raised his head and had an almost tired look on his face,

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He just half shrugged in response, and you were a bit iffy on his reply but you figured if something was truly getting to him he would tell you and you could talk about it,

“Well, I’m really excited to hang out with you today! I was thinking about it during the entire class I don’t think I learned a single thing” You and Reki fell into step as you walked home, which mainly consisted of you talking and him quietly listening, not muttering a single word.

Once you made it to his house, he opened the front door and went straight to his room. You followed closely behind, struggling to take off your shoes as fast as he did and offering a quick greeting to his mom and sisters who stuck their heads out in the hallway at the sound of the door opening. In his room, Reki had leaned his board against the wall and tossed his bag half haphazardly onto the floor before curling up over his covers, not even bothering to take his jacket off. You came into the room, excited to finally be here and spend time with Reki. You saw him curled up on the side of his bed and smiled, an idea popping into your head. You quickly put your bag near the door and crawled up on the bed, coming up behind him and lightly shaking his shoulder.

When he didn’t move, you shook him a little harder. He curled tighter into himself and you tried to roll him over, but he wouldn’t budge. You were softly saying his name over and over, thinking he was playing some silly game with you which you were determined not to lose. You tried grabbing onto the arm he had tucked into his chest and he just roughly pushed your arm away from him. Shocked at the sudden movement, you backed away a bit from him,

“..Reki…?”

“Why can’t you tell that I want to be left alone right now? How hard is it to get anything through that thick skull of yours? I just had a really shitty day and you’ve been so preoccupied talking about yourself and ignoring me the entire time we’ve been together to even bother to notice I’m feeling shitty! Honestly, you can be so annoying sometimes…”

You blinked owlishly at him, looking at his irritated face and seeing the tears begin to well up in the corners of your eyes he just huffed and turned back over. You stood from the bed and grabbed your bag, making your way to the door. You passed his mother and siblings who had heard the shouting and tried to get you to stay, knowing Reki was just worked up, but you passed them without a sound, put your shoes back on, and walked home.

Sniffling and trying to keep the tears from falling, you made your way home. Once home and in your room, you curled up in your own bed and if you weren’t reliving Reki yelling at you over and over in your head, you might have laughed at how you’re now in the same position Reki was in. As you felt the beginnings of a headache coming along, you decided it was probably best to get some rest and felt yourself slipping away to sleep.

You didn’t sleep long, maybe an hour or two, waking up to the sound of your phone going off. Ignoring the abundance of texts Reki had sent you, you took note of the time and put your phone back down, rolling over away from it and closing your eyes again, willing yourself to fall back asleep and leaving Reki to be dealt with in the morning.

[rigelmejo]

hey anyone learning japanese - do you have any recommendations for Reader tools?

As in tools where you can click for word definitions, for txt documents, webnovels (websites), pdfs? For the computer, or for the phone? Any Reader apps?

I primarily read on my phone or on paper, so I’m mainly looking for apps or web browser tools that will work on a phone web browser. Though I don’t know of ANY japanese reader tools so please if you know of computer ones let me know. (I know of LingQ app but I do not want to use it if possible, since its definitions were iffy for chinese and I imagine the same is true for japanese, also it cost $12 a month).

I know of https://www.japanese.io/ but I have never used it, and I’m not sure how much you can do with the free version. 

I know of Idiom app - but it only works with websites, and its definitions can sometimes be iffy (great alternative to LingQ though since I find the quality of definitions is similar, but this app is free)

I can use imiwa dictionary app to copy/paste in text, and get an annotation of the definition of words below it. That’s not the same as a quick click-definition for just unknown words though.

Also any recommended sites to find novels TO access and read? I know about https://www.aozora.gr.jp/ for novels, and http://aozoraroudoku.jp/ thanks to @yue-muffin. But not of any others, like modern webnovels etc.

[pretty-setter-bois]

everybody business

     THE NEXT DAY has been even more dull than the last, and you know you have to do something besides your repetitive sulking.

all you can think about is suna.

had he slept well? had he eaten? where was he, anyway?

what are you supposed to do next?

your phone rings, and after a rushed bit of thinking and a few rings, you decide to answer.

“hello?” you tiredly raise the device to your ear.

"hey," answers kita. "you haven't been answering any of our calls."

"ah, sorry." you rack your brain for a lie. "just been busy."

"hmm," kita thinks, perceptive as always. "well, i was hoping if we could meet up."

"i don't think i can, sorry-"

"(Y/N)," he says sternly. "i know you're not busy."

you stay quiet. kita isn’t as close to suna as his two underclassmen are — the miya twins — but he knows much from the way they’ve been acting recently after every time he brings up the middle blockers name. if they’re having problems with him, then you were bound to, too.

"i'll pick you up in the afternoon, and i'll text you the details." he instructs. "please take care of yourself."

kita ends the call, but your phone hangs limp in your hand.

when was the last time suna had said those words to you?

"I'M SORRY FOR picking you up on such short notice," kita apologizes as he holds the door to the café open for you. "i have to go back to the fields after tomorrow, and i wasn't sure when the next time you'd pick up the phone would be."

"sorry," you look down in embarrassment. "i'll try to answer."

he brushes it off as nothing and the two of you situate yourselves in front of each other at a table near the window. he excuses himself to get your order, only taking a few short minutes to return with two disposable cups.

you open yours and the familiar scent of sweet tea wafts into your nostrils.

"you remembered?" you ask, surprised.

"of course," he laughs lightly. "you were always drinking tea on the colder days of practice."

you smile as you look down at your tea, drinking the hot beverage in short sips in-between your conversation with kita.

"tell me, what's on your mind?" he asks, knowing that a 'how are you?' wouldn’t quite get him the answer he was looking for.

"i… don't know.…" you answer, looking back down at your cup.

"i'm not asking who's in the wrong and who's in the right," he reassures. "i just want to make sure you're okay."

his words alone are enough to make you realize that you aren't okay, and you decide to confide in kita.

"i'm not sure." you answer. "i'm not sure how i'm supposed to be feeling."

he nods, not wanting to interrupt your flow of emotions.

"it's like, one day, he cares about me — not that he doesn't, it's just that on that particular day, he's showering me with affection — but the next, he's giving me one-word answers and disappearing off to god knows where, not answering my messages or calls and coming back in the ungodly hours of the night."

kita's surprised, but he tries to hide it to not make you worry anymore than you already are.

"and he left yesterday, after telling me he didn't have anything planned for the day… and he still hasn't come back."

"have you tried contacting him?" asks kita.

"same old," you mutter, referring to your unread messages and missed calls. "he hasn't replied, or seen anything.”

"oh." kita raises his eyebrows slightly.

he doesn't know what to do, but it doesn't seem like you want anyone else to get more involved than he already is.

"yeah," you sigh, playing with the cup. "but thank you for this. i really needed it, even if i was too stubborn to admit."

"it's no problem." he smiles, always selfless.

that is a quality you always admire in kita. he always puts others above himself, making sure they get what they need one way or another.

he was much more subtle about it when someone could be as stubborn as you, but he knew he needed to be upfront.

"so, what are you gonna do now?" kita asks.

before you can answer, a familiar voice speaks up.

"oi, kita, is that you?" aran exclaims. "and (Y/N)!"

"hi, aran." you smile.

kita offers a similar smile, and aran pulls up a chair to your table. the three of you end up reminiscing on memories and catching up, losing track of the time completely.

the sun begins to set when aran notices that he has to get home, leaving you and kita outside of the cafe. he insists on walking you home, and you oblige on the short walk to the empty apartment.

he drops you off at the complex door with a wave and a few words of reassurance, and you feel much happier entering your humble abode than when you left it.

after kicking off your shoes at the door, you enter your shared room and change. though suna was still on your mind, you want to hold onto the good feeling that kita has given you. there are people that care for you.

your phone begins to beep rapidly at once, startling you enough to drop your earring. you curse as you pat the floor down for the small piece of jewelry, exhaling a breath of relief once you recognize the small golden glint among the yarn on the carpet.

you place it on the counter, rolling your eyes as you pick up your phone.

tsumu :|

5:48 P.M.

Hey!

You've been ignoring all my calls and texts, and the ones from 'Samu, too!

5:50 P.M.

ARAN JUST TOLD ME WHAT HAPPENED!

Me and 'Samu are taking you out today. End of discussion.

5:51 P.M.

'Samu says he's not coming if you don't answer, hurry up.

me

5:53 P.M.

i don't like the club.

tsumu :|

5:54 P.M.

Took ya long enough!

Who said anything about the club?

me

5:54 P.M.

then where are you taking me?

tsumu :|

5:54 P.M.

…

5:56 P.M.

I promise you'll have a good time!

It'll be like a small get-together with us and the old volleyball team!

you think for a second. where did suna usually go if he wasn't out at practice or with his friends?

me

5:57 P.M.

fine.

tsumu :|

5:57 P.M.

You won't regret it, promise!

you sigh, turning off your phone. guess you had to get ready again.

previous | masterlist | next

TAGLIST ☆☎☂♔

@stfucanunot @sunaswife @sredamancy @kiyobbie @kairebear-4evr @youngestdelacour @kara-grayson04 @anngelllla @tycrackculture @kingkagss @heyatsumu @kathya420 @gladly-olus@hxneybee-uwu @1lluminat3 @heyitzwolf@pharvhs @asdfghjkl7things @tinygremliin @pelicanpizza​ @xfangirl-trashx​ @nintendoutoori​ @toaster-stick​ @nit-sir-hc @daphnxy​

NOTES ♕❣⁂ღ

surprise chapter!

the next chapters are going to take a while because that’s where everything takes place, and i’m a bit iffy on how to put it all together.

[noelclover]

On Genshin Impact: Zhongli

Now I’d like to preface this by saying that I do appreciate Jinjinx and Tuner and their maths and that this isn’t a criticism of them as much as it is a criticism to the folks out there who hate Zhongli and the various arguments given. a) We were baited into rolling through MiHoYo’s false advertising. No. You weren’t. You were baited into rolling for the character because of information obtained from a beta because you can’t understand the simple concept that whatever happens in a beta is subject to change. Unless you mean to tell me that you looked at a cool ad wherein a character attacks and decided that he’s DPS material, which is... kind of understandable but strange, as that would mean that if Soraka is seen attacking, she’s an ADC. ((No, please don’t build Soraka ADC, I’ve seen it, it’s really, really iffy.))

b) Why wouldn’t they make him a DPS if they gave him cool animations?

Why wouldn’t they? The visual design of a character does not necessarily correlate to their roles. Not all wizards have pointy hats and be old, not all fighters walk around in breastplate.

c) He’s not even a good support!

Debatable, but it’s very hard to weight defensive supports against offensive ones because the latter is generally more flashy and something you can really feel while the former is a lot less exciting to think about.

d) Noelle’s shield is better than his!

Noelle’s shield scales with her DEF, which is something you’ll probably be building on her due to how her Burst scales.

Zhongli’s shield scales with HP%

This means that, depending on the calculation, odds are Noelle’s shield will be tankier than Zhongli’s, if only because there’s not as much damage reduction (as far as I understand it. I don’t really know shield mechanics and whether or not damage reduction applies before damage is applied to the shield. It it does then you’ll get more mileage from Noelle’s shield because you probably stacked defense, which means a greater percentage of damage reduction, which means less damage is applied to the shield.) So yes, her shield is better than his, except for the simple fact that his shield does AoE, thus generating quite a few shields for you to pick up and has half the cooldown her does, while having roughly double the duration. This means that if you use his shield not to enable your (masochistic) face-tank fantasies but as a safety net or an opportunity to sneak in some extra attacks, his shield will probably last you all the way up to recast.

Does this make his shield better than hers instead? No clue, it really depends on how you use it and honestly, I think it’s impossible to calculate shield value by virtue of it being a shield. You have to calculate the number of hits a shield can take, how much DPS you lose out on a stagger, the opportunity cost of attacking while the shield is up, etc etc. I personally think that his shield is good if you’re a somewhat decent player because it’s a nice safety net. e) He doesn’t do good damage! Xiangling does more damage than him! He’s a support, not a DPS. I don’t know what their stats are as the wiki doesn’t state it, but he may have more base stats than her, which in turn would work much like the Diluc vs Razor argument, wherein Razor has a higher attack percentage on his attacks but Diluc has a high base stat to work with resulting in Diluc outdamaging Razor anyway. Dreamy made a video on it, I don’t really remember much from it though as it’s been a while. f) He’s bad, you just can’t admit it!

He’s not bad, but I certainly won’t say he’s great. Is he worthy of being called a 5 star unit? Honestly? That’s debatable. The only other 5 star I have is Childe and he can’t reach his maximum potential with me (at c0) because I don’t have the crit damage bow he needs. I do have Diluc on my NA account which I don’t play and I’ll admit that Diluc feels really smooth to use and play however, but he’s basically Riven and saying that an easy-to-use-Riven feels better to play than tanky-Trundle is kinda... well yeah. Hard comparison. g) According to the numbers, he’s not worth it! It really depends. I don’t agree with Tuner’s statement that Zhongli is only good when you can swap out a character because you’d have enough DPS for your content because I think Zhongli can provide some quality of life that makes it easier for you to clear said content. Additionally, if you pair him with Geo MC (and why wouldn’t you) you’d get quite a bit of free damage. Hell, even pairing him with Ningguang is pretty darn good due to her buff from walking through the screen and his pillars basically letting her act as a turret, which means that he can enable more DPS output that you would otherwise (because dodging takes up time and stamina which can be converted to more DPS). Given that it’s tremendously difficult to calculate quality of life changes (literally how), I’m really not sure one can say that he’s bad. Underwhelming perhaps because of them, but not bad. h) You’re just unhappy he’s getting buffs! No, I’m happy he’s getting buffs. I just don’t think this was the buff he needed. If anything, I really want his pillar to generate energy, and, though it’s definitely broken, for it to scale with the number of constructs around. I’d like for Zhongli to do an Unlimited Meteor Works. Additionally, I’m not sure about buffing a character because of a community whining for him to be something he wasn’t meant to be is a good thing, and that’s power creep aside. Yeah, it’s a PvE game and so power creep may not (to some) matter as much, but I’ve seen how games can be ruined by power creep. i) You’re just a blind devotee to MiHoYo and Zhongli! Or you’re paid!

I wish they were paying me, and no. I wish MiHoYo wouldn’t make the whatever-oculus’ into a treasure hunt. It’s annoying. I wish Violetgrass was available for purchase. I think getting 4 star weapons on the character banner is asinine and you should get the banner character guaranteed for your first 5 star when you roll on that banner. Additionally, I wish that they would make MC’s ability to change elements easier, I think resin makes sense but is kind of ass and I wish exp is easier to earn.

The game has faults, as does the company because they’re the ones making them.

Also I don’t even Honkai Impact, I installed it and didn’t touch it on my phone for 3 months. I personally think that Zhongli makes a player’s life easier. It doesn’t mean that I think he’s someone you should absolutely roll for, or that he’s without flaws. When I look at a character and their kit, I think about the role they fill and not the roll I want them to fill.

[antiloreolympus]

without bias from my side, I read this comic, I enjoy it and the characters to a certain level interest me. I have my issues with it, but I'm trying to understand your arguments but bringing fan bias into this isn't going to validate any argument brought forth. There's genuine issues yes, and the latest chapter brought forward is going to upset a lot of people content wise because there is no trigger warning. But with all sincerity, and no bashing towards you, This is a free comic on a app that has a lot of issues with each of it's comics, I can point out issues in majority of the popular comics on the app. Some of the point's you have are yes, valid and worth the discussion.

But the way you characterize the characters sometimes is iffy, Hades is not Persephone's sugar daddy, she genuinely tries to not get spoiled by him, returning the coat, the hair pin at first, the fact her phone is broken beyond belief and her computer was literally from a dump, wanting to loom her clothing before the shopping trip. Have the recent chapters made her relationship with him like that? Yes. It's annoying. Did we really need Hades and Persephone not taking the situation seriously and being romantic after cursing someone? We did not, It gets in the way. The romance aspect of this comic gets in the way of actual plot. It frustrates me.

And this week with the chapter going public is going to be the most upsetting and people will just purely gush about Hades and Persephone. The fact trauma is being ignored upsets me. Minthe was abusive and in terms of what actions she took to be with someone is extremely toxic. Taking someone down a peg by giving them a reality check after giving a chance to know them is what would be healthy in a sense or recommending therapy which is now, coming up. Tower 4 was a mess. She regretted it yes. But she never got to sit down with Persephone and when she did, she was extremely rude. Both parties in this situation have critics. I like this comic, I do admitting this with bias. I know what it's like to have a "Apollo" in your life who you fear. I was naïve at one point and I wanted freedom from someone so badly, that the after math that person caused, I found this comic and someone knew what it was like somewhat. At the current moment the hades and Persephone stuff focusing on a relationship is turning me off yeah. Do I still want heavy themes in this comic to be dealt with and shown so I may not feel alone in my experiences, in genuinely terms yes. I want these themes to be expressed with both sides. Do I need a relationship filler piece every episode? God no. Whatever happens, happens. If you don't like this comic, then criticize it all you want. There's things wrong with it, I don't think bringing fan bias into the conversation and possibly mock or criticize fans in a way that makes them look stupid, will make anyone have a discussion with you without anger and or pettiness. If this is what they like at the current time and want to celebrate it and praise it then let them. If you want improvement, then approach it in a way that many people with critic jobs do. Write to her possibly, ask questions as to why the quality isn't as lovely, ask why the relationship is being more fleshed out then the other stories. If anything I say hurt you in a way, I apologize. I just want to actually discuss without bias or hate.

Nah it's ok, I see where you're coming from

However, I'll have to start by saying that this blog is mostly for people to send in their criticism. I'm doing this blog for fun so I don't wanna treat this like a job. Plus, I'm not going to be able to ask RS any questions as she's both busy and can just block me in second but might try that one day.

When it comes to engaging in discussion, I don't bring any bias into it as I actually don't hate the fans. I clown on the 'stans' (the ones who get mad that LO critics even exists) but I've had civil convos with a couple fans.

I let them like what they like, I'm not saying they can't enjoy LO but there are reasons why others (myself including) are anti or neutral with LO. I don't use their tag for that reason (even though I keep appearing there).

On to the other stuff:

Hades: I agree which is why I hate that the recent chapters throw that out the window. She was so willing to just buy whatever which is why we say it gives sugar daddy vibes. He will literally buy anything for her if she asks.

Minthe: I actually don't agree with Minthe unwillingness to apologize but Persephone did end up holding it over her head as blackmail (and being flirty with her bf) so I can see why she didn't apologize after that. Is it right? No, not at all. I just understand where she's coming from. Can't remember the other times Minthe and Persephone where alone together though.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Hi! If you don't mind could you write me some headcanons about being bff with some female cp's? Like Jane, Nina, Clockwork, Nurse Ann...?

One of my best friends is called one of these names so it was odd to write XD Some headcanon’s were totally true about her as well, and some definitely were n o t. XD

Anyway I’m not sure how comprehensive this is since I just kinda spewed it all out so, uh… I hope you like them! 😅

~~~

Clockwork:

·         Natalie stays at your house all the time and eats all your food. Girl has a FAST metabolism so you cannot tell, but she eats e v e r y t h i n g.

·         She doesn’t even have a key to your home, you just come home from everyday activities and she’s slumped in your couch cushions watching TV and there’s a pool on your bathroom floor from her shower and- oh, she has also ordered pizza so get your wallet out.

·         You just squint/glare at her before flopping on the couch beside her. She hands you the remote and gets comfier by you.

·         Even when you have a romantic interest over, she is there at your house, comfortable on the couch playing games on your phone as you walk your ‘friend’ to your room.

·         It’s not all frustrating though, she’s always there to protect you. There have been multiple burglaries that she has intercepted and ‘taken care of’. She’s honestly like a guard dog who also has an excellent sense of humour.

·         And don’t think she just wants you around for your apartment and money. Nay nayyyyyy nay. She tells you all about the Creepypasta drama and what’s going on at the mansion, even though you aren’t apart of that life.

·         And she calls when she’s away. Just calls up to talk to you.

·         You two are the kind of friends that don’t need to talk to each other all the time. In fact, you agree that talking to people all the time is annoying and too much trouble, and you could totally go without each other for days (Weeks even) if either of you were busy! But… without either of you even realising, you always end up contacting each other in one way or another every day, anyway. Its easy with you two. No romantic relationship could compare.

·         She was the groom and you were the bride in your make-believe weddings and mums and dads games as kids.

·         On Toby: “Okay Nat, I like Toby but I hope you know, if he hurts you… well there is absolutely nothing I can do to wreak revenge on your behalf, as he is a duo hatchet wielding psychopath, except maybe give him a stink eye. … When he is looking away and therefore cannot see the stink eye.”

·         More on the Toby subject: Clockwork once took you to Slender Mansion (Cuz you were targeted by a botched victim of hers because she cares about you and she wanted you close by to keep you safe until she could, like, finish killing the guy and all. Whatever though, no biggie. Pft, At least that’s how she made it out to be.) and she had to leave you for a moment so she handcuffed you and Toby together because he’s the only one she could trust to watch you.

·         It was very awkward for the two of you, but definitely a bonding experience. You were both very happy to see Clocky come back though.

·         HORROR. The world of horror is your favourite genre together. Supernatural horror, slashers, basement dwellers, vampires, werewolves, the blob, stalkers, murderers, psychological horror, black and white, colour, movies, tv shows, books- whatever. You two get so excited to experience new fictional horror.

Jane The Killer:

·         If you’re into boys, let me tell you right away- Jane is very critical of their actions. She was at a very influential time in her life (Especially concerning boys and girls and romance) when she met Jeff and Liu. She met those boys, thought ‘Oh, they’re cute. Maybe budding crush?’, and then Jeff killed her family, burnt down her home and ruined her life and Liu became an asshole, and now the male species has been, sorta… tainted. She knows there are good ones (In fact, m a n y boys are lovely, of course.), but one’s that you’re in romantic cahoots with are always going to be under her very watchful eye anyway so she doesn’t really bother to hold back her fear (Which translates into dislike… or hate) with them. So if you have boy problems, be careful. Provided you like this/these guy/s, at least. If you don’t like them, then she’s the perfect person to go to!

·         If you are a boy, then- of course, none of this applies to you. She loves you. Don’t worry. You’re her best friend!

·         Girls are an entirely different situation though of course. Jane drinks that love women juice every single day.

·         Jane is really good with altering clothes, so she’s the one you go to when you need help hemming something or taking something in. She likes to do it, too. Quality best friend time while not being lazy.

·         Speaking of her hating to be lazy… This does not apply at night. Nighttime is a whole other ballgame. Its bedtime by 7 for her if you don’t lock her into plans a week in advance. If she is braless and in her P.J’s, you will not be able to peel her from her home. Except for snacks, but even if she goes to the grocery store, she’s not getting changed and she’s going to wear her bunny slippers.

·         You two watch so many cartoons together. Gravity Falls, Star Vs The Forces of Evil, Over The Garden Hedge, Villainous, Looney Tunes, Ducktales, etc. Any and all that you can get your hands on.

·         You two are prepared to get platonically married, for any reason. Like, you need to stay in the country? Married; You’re staying. You’re the only one who can testify against hr in the court of law? Married, so by law you don’t have to. One of you accidentally planted yourselves with a kid and (Cuz you’re ride or die for each other, obviously), you’re gonna parent the child together and cuz of religious beliefs one of your would feel better about raising them together with a wedding band? Married.

·         Jane doesn’t drink, so when/if you get drunk she’s always there to keep you safe.

·         Jane also gets friend-jealous, a lot. Like, that bitch just called you her best friend, Y/N. Is she your best friend? I thought I was. So who is it, Y/N? Me or her? HM? (She is prepared to turn up to wherever you and this person are hanging, all glamorous and cool as she is, and show off. Prove she’s a way better friend then this new person so they back off).

·         When you were little, she was the bride and you were the groom in your wedding/marriage/mums and dads games.

Nina The Killer:

·         You have known her for both your entire lives and there have been iffy, and dark times but through hell and high water you have stuck with her. You love her. She’s your girl, you are her person too. You will be with her, and protect her from anything.

·         You are the only one in the world that loves her, really. You may not quite understand her weirdness, but you stick with her anyway because you love her.

·         Just like- baseline of your friendship is being ride or die for each other.

·         You were also really into Jeff, but at a more… healthy? Level? Like, you were still romantically interested in a real-life murderer, but you wouldn’t have done anything about it. You wouldn’t hurt anyone (Except to protect others) or victim blame, or contact the victims (Dear God) or whatever, but you would take peaks at fanfiction and gab with Nina about it. I mean, it’s not grand, but in comparison to Nina, hah… you were harmless.

·         Now though, that you’ve met him and he is the reason your bets friend is so hurt and broken, you are not the fondest of him. I mean, you still have a place in your heart for the version of him you and Nina made up in your heads (The version that Nina still believes is real) but that isn’t the real him. Jeff Woods is an ass. You need to keep your friend safe from him.

·         And uh… so nowadays… occasionally, you will find out where Jeff is (You keep an ear out) and, you know, just… lie your ass off to Nina. Yep. You tell her you heard that he’s in the opposite direction than he is so that she’ll unknowingly put more distance between him and her.

·         Yes. It’s a lie, but… its for the greater good! It’s for Nina’s mental health and physical safety.

·         Anyway, moving on to lighter things.

·         In your make believe mums and dads/’grown up’ games that you would play together as kids, you were a single parent and she was the dog.

·         She will lie for you in an instant. She’s also really good at it.

·         You walked into a room once and saw she was drawing something, and it turned out to be your joint tombstone. She has not let this go- you will be buried in the same plot together, if it is the last thing she does. This is slightly concerning, but… also kind of cute. You can roll with it.

·         “What if I get married or have kids?”

·         “They will need to apply with me to join. There will be an interview process.”

·         ‘What about pets?”

·         “Oh, they can come in! No fee!”

·         Do not underestimate her weight. If she doesn’t want you to leave, she will hold onto your leg and go deadweight, and you will s t r u g g l e.

·         Nina talks to herself, but she acts like the person she’s talking to is another person, inside her mind. You both know its not, but you refer to the other girl as Agnes anyway. Super casual.

·         Follows you when you go on dates (At least the first one with someone)to make sure all goes well and texts you rapid fire when she smells something fishy. Even the smallest thing.

·         You two really love dystopian teen fiction. Divergent? Matched? Hunger Games? Maze Runner? Ugles? Alllllll. You consume them and then watch the movies/tv shows too.

Nurse Ann:

·         Live-in medical services! This means you can get really cheap life insurance and not worry about it to much.

·         And on the topic of insurance… Ann is super smart, and organised, and just really awesome at practical stuff like that. Insurance, bills, mortgages, any kind of forms and receipts. And she’s happy to sit down and help you go through it- and, as we all know, everything is better when it’s with a friend you feel comfortable with.

·         You can tell Ann anything and she’ll just roll with it. No judgment. Either she takes it and lets you talk about it or she just acknowledges it and moves on.

·         Like Jane, Ann has very little patience for boy problems. In fact, she has zero time for it. Boys? Girls? No thank you. So if you’re into boys, I have some bad news for you.

·         Best friend maintenance. Occasionally, Ann will over work herself (with murder) and you will need to guide her to relaxation. Gently persuade her to sit down at the dinner table and just make idle chit chat with her every now and then as you make her a good, hearty meal (Or as good as you can do XD Anything between Beefy stew and a Cheese toastie will work fine, don’t worry. She’s not picky at all), and then watch some movies with her. No phones, no knitting, no drawing, no… whatever. No other activities except TV watching! She needs to rest. I’m always shocked at how relaxing just sitting and watching TV can be. There’s a big difference between doing that and multitasking.

·         Ann will call you to pretend there’s an emergency if you want to get out of social engagement.

·         A thing that two enjoy together is science fiction. Star Trek (Including the animation), The War of Worlds, the world of Star Wars, Dune, a Handmaids Tail, The 100, Eureka, etc. She loves the brainy stuff.

·         Ann is the logical friend, who tries to give the most practical advice and make pros and con lists and everything. And then you go ahead and do the crazy thing, the thing she said definitely would not work and would probably make things worse, and she just face palms and says she’s never getting mixed up in your mess again. … Until the next time, when she totally does.

·         “I love you Y/N, but I am not about to walk into a police office and bail you out of jail so do not do that.”

·         You trap her into resting by painting her nails (Hands and feet) in her sleep right before her alarm is about to go off so she has to take the morning SLOW or the paint will mess up. She just wakes up, you hold up a sign in front of her face that says ‘NAILS’ and she stops immediately. “You bitch.”

·         As kids, of course, the two of you would play make-believe family games and you were both mums (/ or you were the dad). She was the working mum and you were forced to stay home take care the baby (large container of vitamins with a face drawn on).

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 3

 chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

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

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.  

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those  birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh.  And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?  

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you  lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.  

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

[outshinethestars]

The Single Greatest Act of Hypocrisy in European History (Hetalia fic)

So, the Berlin wall was down, everyone was reunited, everything was awesome.

Prussia himself was perfectly happy, far happier than he ever expected he could be (Prussia didn’t know why he wasn’t dead, and he didn’t know if he would die, and he didn’t know if his living was hurting Germany somehow, and he didn’t know if his being alive meant that something catastrophic was about to happen to Germany, and he had never been perfectly happy and at peace before and he didn’t know what to do with himself and-).

However, in this modern world of happy perfection there was one great, glaring imperfection .

Hungary and Austria’s love life.

Or rather, lack thereof.

When Prussia had asked Hungary about it (yes, really, he’d asked, okay maybe not directly, but she’d known what he meant) she’d said something about times changing and moving on, and how they were their own nations now and who knew what the future would hold, a relationship could complicate things.

And it had been quite a long time since they were married, and it honestly hadn’t been the happiest of marriages then.  It wasn’t like Hungary needed Austria, seriously, it was Austria who needs him, but Prussia could tell by the way she laughed about it that she still loved him, and sure she was perfectly fine without him, but she missed being with him.  She just wouldn’t admit it.

And of course, Austria, the idiot, had no idea.

The problem, in short, was communication.  Austria and Hungary needed to talk about their feelings (don’t laugh).

So, this wasn’t the first time that Prussia had done this.  It wasn’t even the first time that he had done it to Austria.  Prussia had, in fact written countless fake love letters to Austria over the centuries, posing as all sorts of people, much to other people’s anguish and Prussia’s own amusement.

Prussia had never, however, done this with good intentions before.

It somehow made the whole thing feel morally iffy.

But Hungary was pretending that everything was fine when it wasn’t, and Austria was pining.   He wasn’t even trying to pretend not to be pining, because Austria, the melodramatic sop, let his emotions dribble all over the place.  Not, like, loudly, because he was a gentleman, or whatever.  But his pining drooped everywhere, annoyingly obvious if you knew him at all, which Prussia unfortunately did.  He was pining so piningly that his whole country was covered in Essence of Pining, a miasma so thick that it threatened to leak over the border. Ew! Gross! No!  Something had to be done.

Enter the Awesome Prussia.

Prussia was very good at what he did.  The handwriting forgery was not the easy part , but it was the part that Prussia was so practiced at he could almost do it in his sleep.  He’d forged the handwriting of almost every nation in Europe, as well as nations outside of Europe, people who weren’t nations, etc.

The trickier part was the actual content of the letter.  Prussia had written these before, but never like this.  No, this time it needed to be sincere .  No clever insults that are only apparent on second or fourth reading, no subtle undertones that imply that the sender is an idiot, only deep, genuine heartfelt love, the love that both parties felt, but were too stubborn to come out and admit.  Idiots.  (really, don’t.)

The letter to Austria was by far the easier of the two, even though Austria was about as attractive as a damp rag.  Less attractive, actually, damp rags are useful.  Still, it wasn’t too hard to write a fake love letter to him, firstly because Prussia had done it before, and secondly because because as far as Prussia could tell Austria didn’t have the good qualities God gave damp rags, any good qualities he could think of to mention were ones Hungary had told him about, and finally because he knew Hungary pretty well, so impersonating her wasn’t too hard or, like soul-crushingly horrifying or anything.

Hungary, on the other hand, had innumerable good qualities, and Prussia had no idea which ones of them Austria actually appreciated.  And furthermore, writing to Hungary involved impersonating Austria.  It involved getting into the headspace of Austria, it involved getting into the headspace of Austria deeply, amorously in love with his best friend.  Ew!  Yuck!  Who would ever want that ??? Also, Prussia had only written Hungary a fake love letter exactly once.  It was supposedly from Poland, the fallout was fantastic, and Hungary had made him promise, on pain of terror, Never to do that again.

… This was for a good cause, though.  Hungary would forgive him.

… … Right?

He didn’t really need to send a letter to Hungary.  She could see Austria’s egregious pining as well as anyone else.  But still, there’s a difference between knowing and being told outright.  Just because someone knows you love them, doesn’t mean you don’t still have to tell them.  Austria was a wimp.  (...)

Anyway, Hungary wouldn’t be any less furious with him for writing a fake love letter from her, he’d never done that before.  Might as well go all in.

The letter came on a sunny spring morning.  The sky was blue, the birds were singing, everything was beautiful and as it should be.

Hungary’s heart stopped a little when she saw Austria’s familiar handwriting on the envelope.

It was a love letter, and it was so incredibly romantic and heartfelt, that she teared up a little in spite of herself.  She read it through, and then read it again.  

Some highlights include:

“I think of you often.  I think that I have never stopped thinking of you, you who have always held my heart in your keeping.  But now that there are no barriers between us, no physical ones at least, I cannot seem to think of anything else.  My thoughts are always turned towards you, and it breaks my heart to wonder if you ever think of me in return.”

And:

“Though it’s embarrassing, I’ll admit that I spend hours of every day staring out my window, the one that faces you.  I miss you so very dearly.  All my music is mournful, yearning music now, I try to play more cheerful things and my heart is not in it.”

It concluded:

“I don’t know if you have feelings for me still.  I know that we were not married long, and our marriage was not always a happy one. I only write this to tell you how I feel, and to ask: are you willing to try again?  

If you have moved on, if you have no romantic feelings for me, I will understand and accept it.  I cannot promise not to be hurt, but I know such feelings are selfish, and I will hope and endeavor to one day be a better friend to you than I was once a husband.

Yours eternally,

Roderich Edelstein.

Hungary thought of all the reasons she had to not to pursue a romantic relationship.  They all seemed so hollow and empty in the light of Austria’s letter.  She wanted to speak to him in person.  She called him.

Austria, meanwhile, had received his own letter.  He had suspected it was some cruel joke of Prussia’s at first, but upon reading it all doubts left his mind.  The letter sounded like Hungary, it felt like Hungary, and it was such a very kind letter.  He didn’t think that Prussia was capable of such kindness even as a joke.  He had read the letter five times and paced around his house with it held tightly to his chest, as if he could inscribe its words on his heart.  He hadn’t dared to hope.   He had no idea what to do with himself now.  His phone rang.

“Hello,” he said, not sure yet if he was relieved by the distraction or annoyed by it.

“Hello Austria?”  It was Hungary, her voice uncharacteristically shy, “I would like to speak to you.  Could I come over to your house this afternoon?”

“Yes, of course, yes!”  Austria said.  In his heart, he was agreeing to a proposal of marriage.

“I read your letter,” Hungary said, taking it from her pocket.

“My letter?” said Austria, “But you wrote…”

Both of them realized in the same moment.

Prussia will Pay , Hungary thought.

It was like a swooping empty feeling, the realization that all those things in her letter, all those things that had made her heart warm and her eyes tear up, had been empty, hadn’t been real at all.  And almost worse than that, it was a betrayal.  She would never have dreamed that Prussia would do this to her, not like this, not with something he knew she cared so much about.

“Give me yours,” she said to Austria.  Wordlessly, he handed it to her.

She began to read and… She couldn't be angry anymore.

Whereas the letter Prussia wrote impersonating Austria was sweepingly romantic, hers was much more frank.  It detailed her feelings, all of them, as if Prussia had looked inside her mind and scooped them out of her.

“But what do you see in him,”  Prussia had asked her once, it must have been close to a century ago now.  Here were all her answers. Sprinkled in lovingly between all her present hopes and fears.  All the things she’d told him in conversation, and all the things in between that she hadn’t said, but he had recognized all the same.  He had remembered all of it, understood all of it, and put it all into words for her.  She thought it might be, in it’s twisted, Prussia sort of way, the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her.

It ended thusly:

“I’ve told myself so many times over the past few years that I don’t need you.  And in all honesty, it’s true that I don’t.  But I think that we, as nations, sometimes get too swept up in what we need.  We forget that it’s alright to want things, that what we want matters too.  I don’t need you, but I want to be with you.  I’ve decided that what I want, what we want, is important enough to overcome any difficulties that might come.  

With love,

Hedervary Erzsebet”

He’s right,   Hungary thought, he shouldn’t have chosen for me, but he’s right.

Austria cleared his throat cautiously, “You read this,” he said, holding the letter she’d received in his hands, “and then you came to see me?”

Hungary smiled at him.  What did it matter that it had taken Prussia’s meddling to get here, they were here now.

“I meant this,”  Hungary said of the letter she’d just finished, “every word.  I didn’t write it, but I should have.”

“I would have written this too,” Austria said, “if I’d gotten up the courage.”

“Please, as if you could come up with something as romantic as “ your smile is like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, it warms me to my very soul,”’  Hungary laughed. Now that she didn’t feel quite so lied to, the whole thing felt ridiculous,  “Do you really stare out your window in my direction for hours every day?”

Austria blushed, “That could have been an exaggeration.”

“It could have,” Hungary agreed , “but was it?”

“No,” Austria admitted.  Hungary grinned at him.

“You’re adorable,” she said.

“How did he know about this ,” Austria said, hints of outrage coming back to him, as the situation truly sank in.  He pointed to a part in the letter that read,

“ I wrote a piece for you.  I didn’t mean to, it began as something else, but as I wrote it, and as I played it in my house, in the loneliness, every note was for you.  So I scratched out the title and wrote For Hungary at the top of the page.”

“I imagine he broke in and went through your things,” Hungary said.

“He did break in and steal all my underwear once.  And,” Austria added thoughtfully, “Someone has been cleaning the house while I’m not looking.  I thought it might be you?”

“Austria, I love you,”  Hungary said, and oh how easily she said those simple words now that it felt as though her soul had been laid bare, “But I don’t love you nearly enough to be that deranged.  Apparently Prussia does, though.”

“Prussia,” Austria sniffed, “is simply deranged.  I think I’ll start making messes on purpose now.”

“No you won’t.  I’ll be coming here often, and I refuse to be in a pigsty.,” Hungary said.

Austria sighed.  “I suppose I won’t then,” he said,  “Really, though what was the point of all this?”

“The point,” Hungary said, “Was that we, or, well mostly me, were being ridiculous, and he put a stop to it.”

“What, and there’s no ulterior motive?”  Austria scoffed.

Hungary shrugged, “You can keep reading the letters until your eyes bleed, but I doubt you’ll find any.”

Austria shook his head,  “My love life was rescued by Prussia ,” he said, “I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from the ignominy.”

Hungary laughed, “I won’t tell,” she said, “It is an irony, though.  Prussia would die before he’d admit he has emotional needs.  Now, come play me the music you wrote for me.  I’ve been wanting to hear it all day.”