#virtue anniversary event

[virtue-and-beneviolence]

Virtue virtue! Happy 1 year on this hellsite and thank you for existing 😭🖤 your event looks super fun! If you don’t mind me joining I would like to ask for Haikyuu and One piece lol.

Fun facts about me:

I’m super shy but once I know you I won’t shut up ever.

I love animals and would willingly give my life for one

I‘m scared of men above 2meter, everything smaller I can beat up just fine so they don’t scare me as much.

I like to paint and crochet.

My anger issues are hell.

I love you and your breadstick. (that sounds so much more wrong than intended)

HOW MANY 6'5 MEN DO YOU SEE THAT YOU HAVE EVEN GOTTEN THIS FEAWR OR IS LIKE ONE GIANT ENOUGH TO TRIGGER THAT BC JESUS

Naoyasu kuguri for fucking sure. He's good for you bc he's a great listener (only for you), and he can be rather crafty (only around you). We all know he's rather guarded, but you would be a rare exception. He's the type to secretly do lOTS of research into your hobbies fr good gifts (but not until he's given a few mediocre ones in the beginning of your relationship -- it's okay, he grows up sksks). Plus, his anger is cold, when yours is hot, so he can temper you and extract you from a troublesome situation, all while cooly planning the utter evisceration of who ever wronged you.

Iceburg,,,bc that's an animal guy if i ever saw one please i can't scroll anymore ahahahshshhs he's big and dumb but he's like sweet with animals and man im so sorry this is the only pic i could find and that's literally all i got iha;oviher;

i chose from the tiniest icons and blew it up for the comedy lmaooo

[bromcommie]

moving like a river of trouble crossing

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

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

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

i.

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

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

Sure. Sure, he's awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, fine. Great.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No shit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It lasts for-fucking-ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s 1 in the morning.

That makes it nicer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was gonna throw it out anyway."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wake up.

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

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

Steve swallows. "Thanks."

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

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

vii.

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

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

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

“What about Kate?”

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

“What about her?”

“You talk to her yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So it is about Stark, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not what I said.”

“What are you saying, then?”

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

viii.

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

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

ix.

“You’re up late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk about what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kinks, right.”

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

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

“Alright, then.”

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

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

“I’m good, thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It gets real brutal real quick, after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he thinks, he might even believe it.

x.

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

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

You must miss the good old days, huh?

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

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

(epilogue)

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

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

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

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

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

"You alright?"

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

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

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

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

xx

[accio-victuuri]

oh i like these posts. hahahahahaha! politics aside, oh well, no actually— i don’t think we can ever put aside politics when it comes to the boys ; I see cpfs sharing posts and commenting on this person’s “greeting” for wyb. and well, you will see why. she is a politician in hongkong.

[Patriotic top star Wang Yibo]

What big day is August 5? Last year, this day was the 12th anniversary of the New People's Party; it was also the birthday of Wang Yibo, a top star in the mainland.

Wang Yibo has a deep connection with Hong Kong. He was born in 1997, when Hong Kong returned to the motherland. I still remember that he sang a song "Stand Up" for Hong Kong on the 25th anniversary of the return; on July 1, 2023, he personally came to Hong Kong to attend the "Greater Bay Area Film and Music Gala" "The Moon Rises in the Bay Area", but unfortunately it did not cause much response at the time.

Although he is not a popular idol of Hong Kong people, friends who pay attention to the mainland entertainment industry know that Wang Yibo is a top star in the mainland entertainment industry; he has extraordinary dancing skills, and his status as the "King of Dance" in the mainland is unquestionable. In addition, he is also engaged in many public welfare undertakings; he recently filmed a documentary series on protecting pangolins as a public welfare ambassador of WildAid. He is an artist with both talent and virtue.

I once asked a public question in the Legislative Council: Since Hong Kong is hosting many events and concerts, the SAR government should actively consider inviting mainland top stars Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo to perform in Hong Kong. I believe that this will attract a large number of fans from the mainland and around the world to support Hong Kong and truly promote Hong Kong's concert economy.

Recently, there are two things about him that impressed me the most. First, his performance in the mainland hit drama "War of Faith" was amazing, and his acting skills have made a great leap forward. I, like many mainland audiences, think that he deserves the "Best Actor". Unfortunately, he was not nominated for the Best Actor in the list of nominees for the Shanghai TV Magnolia Awards earlier. This incident triggered a series of controversies in the mainland entertainment industry. Many people feel sorry for him.

In addition, when he was serving as a torchbearer for this year's Olympics in Paris, he saw a fan holding a mini national flag accidentally dropped it on the ground, and he picked it up spontaneously, showing his sincere respect and love for the national flag. If every young person in Hong Kong can spontaneously love the national flag and national emblem, and understand that it represents the dignity of the country, then it means that Hong Kong's patriotic education has truly succeeded.

In summary, Wang Yibo is an outstanding young man. He went to Korea for training when he was young. After years of hard work, he has mastered first-class dancing skills. His acting skills have also been recognized in recent years. Even though he is a top star with huge commercial value, he is also enthusiastic about public welfare. He is really a role model for artists. I hope that young people in Hong Kong will take him as an example and learn how to be a good young man with both talent and virtue, who loves the national flag and spontaneously safeguards the dignity of the country.

* So i guess it’s now obvious why cpfs like this post so much. it’s because both of them were mentioned. and is is what we’ve been hoping for, that they will be invited to events and probably even work on a project together because they are “positive” artists. and how important it is for them to maintain that image to stay safe in the industry. tho i have to say that it’s not hard for them cause they are good natured people. It’s not an “act”, that is just how they are.

and it’s what we’ve been saying, that these two are one of the best ways for CHN to have some soft power in the international stage. tho i’m sure they will have detractors who will be quick to pull out “evidence” of their government support and use it against them.

also months back, she also posted something about CQL. so yeah, no wonder she got popular with cpfs ⬇️⬇️

China’s “danmei” genre is booming in the West

The article “How to Tell Chinese Stories Well” (July 14) overlooks an important genre that is growing in popularity in the West and is more reflective of contemporary Chinese life than works from decades ago such as Shanghai Life and Death or The Wild Swans.

I am referring to the danmei genre of online novels. Danmei is a term that originated in Japan. This new genre has spawned a number of very successful online novels that have been adapted into extremely popular Chinese TV series and translated into English. A prominent example is The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, which was adapted into the Chinese TV series The Untamed in 2019 and translated into English and is available on Amazon.

Untamed made two young actors, Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo, famous in China. Another very successful work is Erha and His White Cat Shizun, which made the New York Times bestseller list in English. The English version has a wide readership in the West and is available in paperback.

Danmei novels celebrate “boys’ love”, which is officially frowned upon. A major production based on Erha, produced by Tencent, has been shelved. But the genre has a large following in China and abroad, inspiring fan art, fan works and merchandise.

Many danmei online novels are written by women for women. Why are they so popular among Chinese women? Their popularity reflects the frustrations of contemporary Chinese women: they are trapped between traditional, realistic, family-oriented marriage concepts and a desire for romance and true love, as celebrated in danmei novels. Such novels have become a channel for their fantasy and escapism. Surprisingly, these novels have also been loved by Western audiences.

While TV series based on such novels have been banned, animated versions of some popular works are still in production. The resilience of the genre, which is seen by the authorities as a departure from the official "main melody" works, reflects the delicate relationship between the authorities and the artists who create them. Most of the time, the authorities have the upper hand, but the ban has not stopped private enterprises and creative talents from finding space for the genre to thrive. Can we call it the authorities' "one eye open, one eye closed" attitude?

* this is a short but very interesting take on the whole thing. she is not even mentioning how TGCF is so popular in the mainland and continues to do so with it’s donghua and manhua. i guess it’s really one eye open and one eye closed and i hope it stays that way so that this genre will continue to thrive! i’m not holding that much expectation for the live action versions tho.

[dark-frosted-heart]

The Fairytale Keeper's Final Assessment - Roger (Part 2)

This is the 1st anniversary event and is in his POV.

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this

Roger: You need a beer after working up a good sweat. Here, cheers.

Kate: A tavern…always a tavern…

Roger: What’s up, not in the mood to drink?

Kate: Now, I was feeling thirsty and I like this tavern because it’s comfy. However…I’d like more of…Nevermind.

Owner: Yo, Kate. You’re letting this guy lead you around again? You never learn, do you?

The owner held out a small dish to Kate.

Owner: I want you to try some of this dried fruit. Roger’s the type to say salting the meat will make it taste good so he’s useless.

Kate: I get it. To Roger, nutrition’s all that matters.

Roger: Hm…?

Kate was laughing as she enjoyed her conversation with the owner.

(You’ve grown used to it. Both being with me and being in this type of environment)

Shortly after meeting, Kate and I had spent a whole day together.

At the time, I dared Kate to join me on a brutal mission and even shot a man down before her eyes.

Kate’s been earnest since the moment I met her and gives 100% in everything.

That way of life’s a virtue.

However, in darkness, it’s a disadvantage.

(I know that the harder and more sincere you try, the faster your life will be destroyed)

(That’s why I told Kate that day…)

(“It’s wise to keep your distance if you want to live”)

(I always thought that Kate would go back to her old life while keeping her distance)

(Even now, Kate is with me)

Kate: Roger, hey, Roger.

Roger: Hm…?! Mmm.

When I turned my head to look at her, she shoved dried fruit into my mouth.

Kate: Hehe, that’s for always bullying me.

Roger: Oh? YOu’re learning how to deal with me. Howeverー

I pinched Kate’s cheek and examined her.

Roger: I'm the kind of person who, when someone treats me badly, I want to treat them even worse. Remember that.

Kate: Got eet.

Kate rubbed her cheek and happiness returned to her voice.

Kate: Can I take you somewhere this time, Roger?

Roger: Next I was going to take you to the black market where drugs are secretly being sold.

Kate: I’ll pass on that today!

--

Kate took me to a lovely little cafe on a street corner.

Kate: I wanted to visit a place like this at least once with you.

Roger: Oh, even just one drink’s elaborately made. Do they have a bigger size?

Kate: Hehe, I thought so…

Roger: Hm?

Kate: You may be inconsiderate but you won’t turn a person down.

Roger: I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel insulted or flattered.

Kate: A compliment, more or less.

As I was having the coffee and lovely little pastry Kate ordered for me…

Something cold fell on my cheek.

Roger and Kate: Ah…

When I looked up, pure white snowflakes danced in the clear sky.

Kate: Snow…At this time of the year?

Roger: Diamond dust*

Kate: Diamond dust?

Roger: A few days ago, we had some out of season snow. The snow that collected on the building’s now being blown down by the wind.

Kate: Oh, how fascinating. …It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

Kate murmured as she stared at the snow falling like petals.

Kate: There’s something I once heard. That people make up to 35,000 decisions a day. If one of them had been different, we wouldn’t be seeing this today.

As Kate says, life’s made up of countless choices.

(When the day ends, I’ll reveal the fairytale keeper agreement to Kate and leave the choice to her)

(I don’t think I should be involved)

(Kate decides what she wants to do with her life)

(...But)

Kate’s gaze, which was focused on the snow, suddenly turned to me.

Kate: I’m glad I got to meet you Roger through a miraculous coincidence.

(Ah, I see)

(Not immediately giving her the choice of whether or not to continue as a fairytale keeper)

(Not telling her that the moment when we’ll have to part ways is coming)

One unconscious thought assembles into a big motive.

(I still want to be with the little lady, don't I?)

Just as the falling snow reminds me to look up at the sky, Kate’s words remind me of how I feel.

Feelings are too simple to ignore.

Roger: Pfft, haha…

Kate: Huh, what’s wrong?

Roger: It’s nothing.

Hey, Kate. There’s one more place I’d like to go.

–

Roger: Oh, so this is where you used to live.

Kate: Yes. Looks like Victor’s still paying the rent. For when I come back one day.

Kate surveyed the place in nostalgia.

She muttered something before I could show her the agreement form.

Kate: If my time as a fairytale keeper’s coming to an end, then we’ll have to part ways.

Roger: Kate, here.

Kate: A letter of agreement…to continue as a fairy tale keeper?

Kate blinked as I told her everything.

She then nodded once, as if understanding everything.

Roger: Originally, I’m the one that’s supposed to sign it. But I think the choice should be yours, Kate.

Kate: I knew that you, who told me that I should “think for myself”, would say something like that.

Roger: The choice is yours, but let me tell you how I feel first.

I closed the gap between us and examined her expression.

And then I placed a hand on her head.

Roger: Kate, I’d die of boredom without you. I’d miss you. So stay as a fairytale keeper.

Kate: Roger…

Roger: So, what are you going to do, Kate? Continue being a fairytale keeper? Or are you going to say farewell-to me.

*He says 風花 which is “snow on a clear day” but that felt weird to use in this exchange. Though I don’t know if diamond dust is the right term to use either given where the snow came from.

[infinitelystrangemachinex]

I don't know your blorbos at all, but I'm so happy for you that they hugged. Your insanity over it has been delightfully infectious!

Thank you 😭😭 It's been such a fun week and I'm glad it's been fun to watch the meltdown from afar!

Like, it's probably clear at this point what happened, but let me provide the sequence of events just to shed a little light on the meltdown and what it's like being in the group chat right now:

Start reading a shoujo fantasy manga in 2009 (I was a teenager) and very quickly latch onto the B-pairing which is so doomed by the narrative the main character and the male lead kiss and sort of start dating within the first couple volumes, while this second male lead - whose literal name means it is his role in the story to bring these two other characters together against his own interests - silently yearns for the main character who is oblivious, while being the funny guy everyone underestimates, while having a backstory so tragic and violent he wants to spare every other character from it no matter how often he's asked, while being so genre-aware he's practically walking meta

Watch over the years as this shoujo fantasy becomes a slice-of-life about the main character's career as a fantasy pharmacist. The characters are now adults. This main character and the second male lead spend whole arcs together hundreds of miles away from the prince the main character is supposed to be dating. This goes on for YEARS

An anime adaptation goes for two seasons from 2015-2016. The fandom grows. Everyone pities the fans of the B-pairing because this is a shoujo and the A-pairing is already together. The small B-pairing fandom grows nonetheless, starts a Discord, and are viewed as insane people from there on out, which is absolutely true, but still

The manga continues in the meanwhile. After yet another arc where the B-pairing has an adventure together, the author goes on hiatus for 1 year

It's 2024. The manga returns from hiatus, where the first 2 chapters of the new arc immediately address the B-pairing and their circumstances. B-pairing fandom is starting to lose its mind but we are used to setting our expectations low and relying on speculation and fanfiction for romantic developments anyway

September 23rd, the 3rd chapter since the hiatus drops. The main character opines on the strengths and virtues of the second male lead and defends him to a stranger without knowing he's listening in. He drops his impenetrable funny guy/tough guy act, CRIES, and after 130 chapters of silent pining, thinking his presence is unwanted and his feelings are unwelcome which has caused him to always hesitate to even touch her, he hugs her

He asks her to keep his heart, which he means both platonically and, unbeknownst to her, almost certainly romantically. She says she'd like to just keep all of him - forever - and hugs him back

This happens on the first day of the B-pairing's ship week, which will have its 10th anniversary next year

This also happens while the B-pairing fandom is doing a reread of the manga

The B-pairing fandom loses its collective shit

More people are screaming in joy at each other in the Discord voice chat than have ever been in the Discord voice chat at the same time. Everyone feels both drunk and high for days at a time. It is now day 7 and it is still hard to believe this story development actually happened. The current arc has barely started. We are not okay

[icedragonlizard]

Headcanons for all the dream friends spending time on the Forgotten Land

I headcanon that all of the dream friends visit the Forgotten Land after the game's events, and I think that the game's 2nd anniversary would be an absolutely perfect time to go over those headcanons!

I am fully aware that Nago, ChuChu and Pitch don't actually count as dream friends but I do not care. They deserve to visit the place every bit as much as the others do.

The dream friends don't all use the same method of getting to the Forgotten Land in the first place. While some of them rely on Elfilin to open up portals for them to go through, there are others that use a completely method of getting there without Elfilin's help whatsoever.

Magolor uses the Lor Starcutter to get to the Forgotten Land. Yes. That's right. He uses the wonderful big blue boat to travel through dimensions to get to that place himself! And he's been more than glad to use the Lor to let some of the other dream friends get there.

Marx, Taranza, Susie and the mage sisters all get to the Forgotten Land by Magolor taking them there via the great Lor Starcutter.

Everyone else gets there through Elfilin's portals. That of course means all six animal friends, Gooey, Adeleine, Ribbon, Daroach and Dark Meta Knight. Elfilin is glad to open up portals to get them there.

Wait a minute... he lets Dark Meta Knight get there with portals? Elfilin and DMK aren't even friends at all, so what gives? It ended up this way because it is literally DMK's only way of getting there. He's not allowed on the Lor because he fails miserably to get along with Magolor. Admittedly, Elfilin is nervous of DMK, and so he only reluctantly lets him visit the Forgotten Land via portals.

DMK only goes to the Forgotten Land if Daroach, Adeleine and Ribbon go along with him as they all go through Elfilin's portals together. DMK is supervised by the rest of the wave 2 dream friends when they're at the place, to make sure he doesn't go and harm or kill any of the waddle dees.

What do the dream friends do once they make it to this world?

A lot of things!

They've explored all the areas that Kirby adventured in.

Taranza, the animal friends and Gooey were mind-blown by the nature and scenery of this planet.

Adeleine and Ribbon were given infinitely more ideas to make paintings for! Ribbon became an artist thanks to Adeleine ahahahaha!

Marx and Magolor had a grand time in Wondaria.

Susie and Magolor were all giddy to check out Lab Discovera.

Francisca loved the snowy areas and Flamberge loved the lava-hot areas, although Zan Partizanne frowned at not seeing any stormy or electrical areas on the planet.

Might Daroach have stolen things here when nobody was looking?

Oh and by the way... not all dream friends were safe from confrontation during their adventures there. Believe it or not, there are still some hostile awoofies that exist... LOL. A few of the dream friends have ended up needing to fight off awoofies. DMK ended up even killing an awoofy, but that's only because it attacked first.

A fight between Marx and DMK broke out in the Forgotten Land.

What do the dream friends do in Waddle Dee Town?

The animal friends go fishing in the pond. Kine goes in the pond and pretends to get caught, and then yells angrily when Nago ends up catching him.

Gooey likes to nap inside the house that Kirby has here. By the way, I headcanon that Kirby has two house, with his secondary house being the WDT house compared to his default house being the one in Popstar. Gooey loves that Kirby has another home! He and Elfilin drew together more closely by virtue of being Kirby's roommates.

Taranza was given permission to do some fun gardening work here.

Adeleine has actually began opening up an art studio at Waddle Dee Town! When the waddle dees saw her art, they were impressed and agreed they'd help try to make her art studio happen. Ribbon promotes it at Ripple Star.

Daroach likes to get on the observation tower a lot. He did it initially to get a good look across the Forgotten Land, and then he's also done it to perform magic tricks for everyone to watch from below.

Marx flies around Waddle Dee Town laughing like a maniac. He refrains from causing actual mischief because Magolor reigned him in during his visits there, but no one cares that he just flies around it.

The mage sisters do some "fireworks" in the sky with their weapons, wowing the waddle dees from below.

Susie was invited by the Deedly Dees band to sing for them a few times! She did a karaoke for the "Welcome To The New World!" song. She's also attempted to give the Cafe an ice cream expansion.

Magolor enjoys the weapons shop as he was giddy over all the costumes that Kirby has available. He attempts to wear them himself! With how much time he spent there, he was even given permission to add some alternate costumes himself!

All of the dream friends have participated in the Colosseum. Susie was allowed to use her business suit, Adeleine and Ribbon were allowed to be a duo while performing in battle, Magolor was excited to wear the costumes (from the weapons shop) while battling, and the colosseum is where WDT's residents got to see Marx's totally outlandish and insane fighting abilities. Dark Meta Knight got kicked out of the colosseum for provoking Meta Knight a little bit too much.

All of the dream friends got to see Kirby's mouthful mode in action, too. Let me say that their reactions varied from disgusted bewilderment to thinking it was absolutely hilarious. (Marx and Magolor especially laughed their butts off during it)

It made Susie very happy to learn that Kirby used a gun ability (Ranger) during his adventure here. Believe it or not, I headcanon she's been teaching him how to use a gun before Forgotten Land's events, and he actually picked out the Ranger ability out of inspiration for her. It actually warmed her heart a little bit there. She also thinks that the 'Space Ranger' outfit for Kirby is utterly adorable!

The dream friends liked Kirby's ability costumes in general. Magolor is evidently the biggest fan of those costumes with how much he involves himself at the weapons shop checking them out and even making alternate costumes.

Out of the dream friends, the ones to interact the most with the Beast Pack would be the animal friends. They had a great time meeting all the fellow animals here. Nago became friends with Carol and Leon because he's a cat just like them!

Elfilin is on good/decent terms with most of the dream friends. There were a lot of dream friends that he was initially scared of but then eventually warmed up (Magolor, Daroach, Susie, Taranza). The only ones he's not actually friends with are DMK and Marx. He and DMK rarely interact, and Marx ends up scaring him a lot.

I think that basically sums up my thoughts on the dream friends spending time in the Forgotten Land.

Once again, Happy 2nd birthday to this amazing game! And I think the dream friends deserve to visit this wonderful place. At least canonically the entire dream team got to see it, now let's have all the first, second, and third waves go check it out! And also the Dreamland 3 animal trio because I think all six animal friends deserve to visit the place together! All these amazing characters do!

Thanks for reading everyone.

[cerastes]

Whatever is it that's causing Dorothy's Vision to be so delayed on global anyway?

I made a post about this that I cannot find for some reason, but long story short, they (this being Yostar) has specific dates to adhere to when it comes to slotting big events, which lead to them doing the switcheroo with Dorothy's Vision and Ideal City (in CN, Dorothy's Vision came out before Ideal City).

For nearly two years, (after W's banner, which was also delayed quite a lot), events in CN and other servers have run in pretty much the same order with a few small exceptions so big anniversary events always run in the same anniversary dates. What really sent the minecart off the rails is that Hypergryph over in CN realized that for the most majority of people, Contingency Contract is downtime: Very few players aim for higher than Risk 18, and let's be real here, the vast majority just looks up a guide to Risk 18 ASAP and then goes back to farming 1-7 for the rest of the two weeks, maybe doing the daily map. It's not even a guarantee that high-end players will try for high Risk anymore; I myself used to Max Risk, or at the very least, Risk 26, but I lost all interest because all high Risk nowadays simply devolves into 1:30 minutes of doing the map, 7 minutes of stalling the boss in place while slowly chipping them to death. Which is incredibly boring. My fellow ex-Max Risk friends feel the same way.

Why is this important? Because this led to a decision by Hypergryph: Run CC and events simultaneously. CC9 overlapped with the end of Stultifera Navis and the start of the Under Tides rerun, and CC10 ran concurrently with Ideal City. This was received positively among CN players.

Yostar did not follow suit in either occasion. Not only did this mean that they were adding two extra weeks of dead time twice after events (so a whole month of dead time CN did not have), it also set the schedule on fire with kerosene because anniversary dates are kinda inflexible, resulting in the whole mess we are dealing with here. The worst and most frustrating part is that this could've been avoided very, very easily: Yostar simply had to do as Hypergryph did in CN for the other servers. It was that simple. Unfortunately, Yostar assigned their weakest, puniest personnel to Arknight's scheduling, it seems, so now It's A Mess. There's even two distinct rumors running around that after Dossoles, they'll run Mlynar's banner, further delaying Dorothy... Or, alternatively, that they'll run Mlynar's banner after Texas the Omertosa's banner. Now those would be some real good fireworks. Dorothy isn't meta and is a new character (albeit with some existing connections on virtue of being a Rhine Lab Director and having been involved with [SPOILER]), but Mlynar very much is meta, in addition to having been in NPC jail for years now, so, well, That'd Get Pretty Ugly.

There's also another rumor that the Dorothy's Vision delays stem from them not having yet translated the Rhine Lab manga (you know the one), which does provide context for Dorothy's Vision, but I personally don't buy it.

So, basically, Dorothy's Vision should come after Dossoles theoretically, but given that Yostar time and again proves unable to do things competently, schedulingwise, Who Knows, Actually.

[finalgirlminamurray]

alright i'm gonna do it. my tcm fanfics:

The Sawyer Sisters, Fifty Years Later. the first one i posted which i wanted to get done in time for the 50th anniversary of the events of the first movie (not the movie itself, that was this year). consider it an introduction of sorts to the setting and characters of my gender-swapped au. written as an in-universe journalistic article but the kind that someone may have written out, sat down and looked at for a while, then discarded. i wrote it a few weeks before posting and i think it came out well enough. i felt like i should do something to celebrate the date and also establish my ideas.

The Texas Chainsaw Tarot. a conceptual piece that just consists of my descriptions of what i'd imagine a tcm-themed tarot deck would look like. i'm interested in tarot from an artistic/symbolic perspective and designing fandom-themed tarot decks is always fun, but i can't draw so i have to write it out instead. i'm glad i posted it on ao3 because it got some decent engagement. i still stand by all my choices.

don't question the virtue names: the sawyer sisters saga. this is my collection of all the sawyer sisters-verse fics i've posted. i'd already had these written but i did some significant edits before posting, and i think they turned out alright. still it's a very niche thing to have written so i didn't expect much of an audience. it's possible to read these like original fiction, but it would be too much to make the necessary changes to make it actual original fiction, you know? anyway what i've posted so far is focused on chastity (chop top's counterpart) and what she was doing in 1969-1973, because i felt that needed the most elaboration in this universe, and it turned into a whole thing because i just kept writing more and more detailed lore. i'll probably post more stories focused on other characters and time periods at some point, but for now we have a three-part history. (chass has kind of become my blorbo from my brain due to how much i've expended on her story, and she's not even really my favorite of the sort-of ocs!)

features a lot of 60s-70s cult stuff, partly inspired by some of the true crime literature i read around this time for "research", and partly by just the general vibe of the era. i deliberately didn't want this directly based off of any real-life things even though it's impossible not to be influenced, just as real cult leaders were probably inspired by the tactics of others before them. also features a lot of ocs.

i actually wrote these in reverse order of how they ended up being posted. i just kept going further back in the timeline while i wrote

ace of swords, or the rhythm of life (is a powerful beat). the first in the aforementioned series. chastity goes to la, meets and eats a girl, joins a new community, meets another girl, and... this was just meant to establish how she got to the final point, but it became its own thing soon enough. 2 chapters, 14k words.

hit the floor (and crawl to your mama). chastity goes to a party and has her first negative experience with the cult, then goes home, but not for long. originally written as an interlude of sorts. the last chapter takes place later in the timeline than everything else that's been posted so far, because again, these were written in reverse order. 3 chapters, 12k words.

the flesh failures (let the sun shine in). the last part...for now. chastity does something she's not proud of and unintentionally performs a heroic action, then gets her head bashed in for it. 3 chapters, 14k words.

more to come if i ever post the rest, and then...who knows? i'd also really like to expand on this verse here in ways that wouldn't fit into a published fanfic, regardless of whether anyone else cares lol.

[tomorrowusa]

On the 80th anniversary of D-Day, President Biden gave a speech in Normandy which was anti-Nazi and pro-democracy. So Republicans naturally regarded it as an attack on Trump. That tells us a lot about how MAGA identifies itself politically.

President Biden commemorated the 80th anniversary of D-Day with a traditional American speech about the civic values this country has taken from that event: Democracy is good, fascism is bad, allies are necessary, etc. [ ... ] Breitbart’s Joel Pollak complains that Biden’s speech was “a veiled attack on his domestic political opposition in the upcoming election.” Erick Erickson moans, “I don’t think it was appropriate for Biden to turn the remembrance of D-Day into a political attack on his opponent.” It is true that some media outlets interpreted Biden’s remarks as an attack on Trump. But the speech didn’t mention Trump. Nor did it refer to him obliquely. What it did was denounce a series of ideas that Trump does not claim to believe. [ ... ] All Biden’s rhetoric is totally standard fare from postwar American presidents. This is a bit like how every gauzy Super Bowl commercial in the Trump era about how people should be nice to each other came across as a subtle attack on Trump. When the leader of your party opposes your country’s basic values and human decency, giving a speech touting those values without sounding partisan becomes impossible.

Trump is clearly against human decency. So his supporters are going to claim that any speech extolling such virtues is therefore anti-Trump.

Trump fans apparently think the solution is to stop presidents from giving overseas speeches touting American values. Maybe the solution is to nominate a Republican presidential candidate who’s not an authoritarian criminal?

[3rdeyeblaque]

On June 7th, we venerate Elevated Ancestor Mother Julia Greeley on the 105th anniversary of her passing 🕊

Affectionately known as Denver’s Angel of Charity, Mother Julia is a Servant of God & is the Patron of Black Catholics, Firefighters, Children, & the Poor/Homeless.

Mother Julia was born enslaved in Hannibal, Missouri sometime between 1833 -1848. She endured hellish treatment, even as a young child beneath her mother's skirts. During one fateful event, in particular, she was stricken by the whip that the slave master used while beating her mother; permanently damaging her right eye. Decades passed before she became among the first "freeman" in the state following the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863. A young woman now, Mother Julia subsequently earned her living by serving White families throughout Missouri, Colorado, Wyoming and New Mexico —though primarily in the Denver area. It was her work with the family of Colorado’s first territorial governor that brought her to Denver in 1878.

Two years later, she worked odd jobs around the city until she came upon the steps of the Sacred Heart Parish of Denver, where she was conditionally baptized into the Catholic Church - since she hadn't known if she'd ever been baptized before. She became an enthusiastic parishioner, a daily communicant, & became an active member of the Secular Franciscan Order in 1901. The Jesuit priests at her parish recognized her as the most fervent promoter of devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus that they'd ever witnessed.

She was often seen wearing a floppy hat, oversized shoes, & dabbing her injured right eye with a handkerchief while pulling her red wagon of goods to deliver to the poor & homeless of the city. She'd often do this at night, knowing that some of the poor White families would be embarrassed to be seen receiving charity from her, a Black woman. Whatever she did not need for herself, she gave to the poor. When she had nothing more to give, she begged for food, supplies, & clothing for the needy.

She had a particular devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and would deliver pictures & pamphlets depicting it each month to firefighters throughout the city of Denver. As a daily communicant, Mother Julia also had a rich devotion to the Blessed Sacrament and the Blessed Virgin. She'd recite prayers even while working outside of the parish. She did so until the day of her death. Mother Julia died on June 7, 1918 — ironically on the day of the Feast of the Sacred Heart, around 80 years old.

After which, her body lay in state for 5hrs in a funeral that drew hundreds throughout the city to pay their respects to the woman who fed, clothed, & suported them in the dark for years on end.

Mother Julia was buried in Mt. Olivet Cemetery. The Catholic Church finally granted the request from many for her to be considered for canonizatio in 2016.

As part of the Cause for Canonization, her body was transferred to Denver’s Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception in 2017. Her remains were placed in a funerary box made of exotic red heart wood near the altar of the Sacred Heart in the northwest corner of the sanctuary, which will later be encapsulated in a sarcophagus made of Caralla marble (the same stone used by Michaelangelo in his statues). She is one of 6 Afrikan descendants in the U.S. to have open canonization causes with the Catholic Church. Currently, she remains a Servant of God.

In 2012, Catholic Priest, Father Blain Burkey authored a book entitled, “In Secret Service of the Sacred Heart: The Life and Virtues of Julia Greeley,” which later was adapted as a documentary film.

" My communion is my breakfast " - Mother Julia to the priests of her parish.

We pour libations & give her 💐 today as we celebrate her for her service to the city of Denver & for her patronage of all Black Catholics, firefighters, children & the homeless communities whom she served.

Offering suggestions: red wine, bread, catholic Bible, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, parish of denver badge, & little red wagons.

[virtue-and-beneviolence]

hi virtue!!! virtue anniv event bc u seem to need an ask rn!

i now come here to grace ur presence: requesting the two sports animes i hyperfixated on. blue lock and haikyuu! im actually rlly interested in what u think ab them vibes wise hee hee

my notes for you was "characters must wrangle and dazzle raye"

Eita Otoya is that. just standoffish to be interesting, pretty enough to catch your attention, shockingly good at wrangling you all while appearing typically aloof. Big on PDA. oh, and it's n shock that he cleans up real good and is ngl a little vain to put it diplomatically. He def thinks you on his arm is the best look. But he doesn't view you as an accessory bc i just KNOW he would do (almost) anything to keep you with him, all while hiding some of the effort or lengths he would go to if you ever gave any indication of wanting to leave.

Yasushi Kamasaki is my pic for you because look, he's so fuckt up over you. And everyone knows it and i think you deserve that. Big cat guy, loves helping you take care of lil baby kitties. Loves dressing you up real pretty and parading you around,,,volleyball,,,events. He will not hesitate to pluck you up and away from a scenario that might go badly bc, again, you're feral as fuck. And when i say pick you up, i mean tuck you under his arm kicking and screaming as he either politely grimace smiles, or flips off the other party with a threat on his lips, situation pending.

[reviewinghiccup]

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY HTTYD FANDOM! | HTTYD TALKS | DRAWING PARALLELS

Can you imagine? It's has been 13 years since the world of Berk and the archipelago opened up to us. Since we entered this crazy, viking village 12 degrees north from hopeless and a few degrees south of freezing to death.

I reckon the HTTYD anniversaries might kick off a little differently for fans all over the globe depending on its opening, because DreamWorks commemorated the HTTYD's 13 years on the 22nd of March on Instagram, though I distinctly remember it opening where I was on the 27th because it was also my birthday and I wanted to watch a movie.

Which means, yes, guys, I'm turning 24 today! HAHA! To mark this double celebration, I thought of doing something fun and a little different from my usual posts just to get the ball rolling. So, question, have you guys ever watched She's Out of My League?

She's Out of My League is a Jay Baruchel movie. A rom-com produced by Paramount Pictures AND (wait for it...) DreamWorks Pictures. It was released in March 2010 which meant that our Hiccup-voice-actor here had two movies playing at the cinema simultaneously.

I remembered that I wasn't allowed to watch the movie, but my older brother (10 years older than me) snuck me into the theatres to watch. I remember him covering my eyes for a bit and not understanding a lot of the humour back then, but I did remember the premise, so here goes...

Premise:

Kirk (Jay Baruchel) is your everyday, average Joe. Coupled w the fact that he is somewhat a pushover and insidiously insecure, he tries to get back with his manipulative ex-girlfriend Marni. After that failed, he stumbles onto the path of the beautiful Molly, who by beauty standards, personality and life-style choices is considered a hard 10, while he is rated a mere 5.

When Molly seems to take an interest in Kirk, the whole world is put out of balance and their friends smell impending doom by virtue of their different "social ratings." However, are these standards real, or just a social construct that needs debunking?

______________________________________

I'm not here to criticise the movie. I'm sure we all have our thoughts. Nor am I saying that this movie or the romantic storyline holds a candle to the HTTYD franchise or Hiccstrid, but, it was hilarious to discover a number of parallels between these two worlds.

DRAWING PARALLELS

THE CHARACTERS

Kirk Kettner (Jay Baruchel) - The awkward underdog, highly underestimated by everyone including himself and doesn't see that he is, in fact, more than his make.

Molly (Alice Eve) - The beautiful, blonde and determined love interest. Lawyer turned successful events planner. Independent, fiercely confident and a real go-getter.

Devon (Nate Torrence) - The nicer friend in Kirk's friend group. An adorable, huggable sweetie pie who still believes in magic and romance.

Dylan (Kyle Bornheimer) - The guy you'd love to hate. He is Kirk's overbearing older brother who bullies Kirk to mask his own insecurities.

Stainer (T.J. Miller) - The quick talking, witty side-kick whose crazy ideas propels the storyline into an absurd direction. Who is actually, also Tuffnut.

Katie (Kim Shaw) - Molly's younger, dimwitted sister who is just getting by.

Patty (Krysten Ritter) - Molly's best friend and business partner. Strong-willed, independent and fiercely loyal.

THEME, MESSAGE & STORYLINE

(1) IT ISN'T ABOUT HOW YOU LOOK LIKE, BUT WHO YOU ARE ON THE INSIDE

It's a cliche to say, beauty is from within. But it doesn't make it less true. I think what makes Molly attractive is because she is a really nice person, adaptable. Her beauty is an aspect of it. Imagine if Molly had Marni's personality. The story would've turned differently.

This is also Kirk's selling point. The pinnacle of his entire personality is the nice guy card, it's what attracts Molly.

Likewise w Hiccup, he is a genuinely good guy. You can't fault him for his courtesy. Though Kirk's personality seems more like a caricature of Hiccup's, ironically. And, Hiccup's strength and leadership is not something you'd notice on his person but in him.

(2) YOU NEED TO BE GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOURSELF

I loved Portrait of Hiccup as a Buff Man [Episode 8, Season 1 (Riders of Berk)] for many reasons, but mainly because it was the episode Hiccup proves to himself that he is worthy.

She's Out of My League was a movie about Kirk learning that he is worthy. That he isn't just a five, that this whole rating system is nonsense. He was always good enough for Molly, he was never good enough for himself.

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE FOR YOUR FAVOURITE EPISODES FROM RIDERS OF BERK. THE LIST IS OPENED ALL WEEK!

Which is your favourite ROB episode (Part I)

Which is your favourite ROB episode (Part II)

Though She's Out of My League didn't dive into Kirk and Molly's relationship and life after they got back together, I am assuming Kirk found his courage in someways. He ends up flying a plane, which is a life long dream of his, he dreamt of becoming a pilot. And well, we all know that if Hiccup existed today, and was a real person, he would've been a pilot too. Maybe in the AirForce, on a jet black plane named Toothless.

HICCSTRID MOMENTS

No review of mine is complete without Hiccstrid.

Kirk and Molly have roughly the same hair colour as Hiccup and Astrid. My favourite scenes in She's Out of My League are the romantic montages of them going out. This is one of my favourite shots from the show:

I crushed hard on Jay Baruchel. I mean, the dude has got some game. I mean, awkward af, but still, he's pretty cute. I mean... let me show you...

I'm still smiling!

THE ROMANTIC MONTAGES IN SHE'S OUT OF MY LEAGUE FELT LIKE A HICCSTRID AU FAN FICTION GOT PRODUCED INTO A MUSIC VIDEO!

I'm not recommending you guys watch this show by the way. If you haven't that is. If you're not used to this type of adult-comedy, you might not like it. The pacing is a little choppy, and it does slap you w many cringy moments. But sometimes, its just so ridiculously hopeless you can't help but laugh.

I don't remember if the show did well, but its not a bad movie (to me). It was underrated for what it was trying to accomplish, but it could definitely do w some refining . Like, I would've loved it if they developed the characters and the romance more.

But at the time the movie was released, I think a lot of people related to Kirk. The whole, "on a scale of 1 to 10" thing has messed w a lot of confidences.

As a teenager, I reckon that's more of a problem. I remember that popular girls in school were always pretty and the hot guys were always good looking. And well, it's hard to not believe that looks don't play a part.

But, once I grew out of it, I honestly found those attributes to come in second to many other qualities of a person. Looks just happen to be a bonus. Hahaha, look at me, a day older and already issuing unsolicited advice.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY HTTYD FANDOM!

[katierosefun]

Hello!

I’m rewatching BE (again) and I’m curious what you think of the timeline of jwds. Some people are like oh yeah they def did stuff/something after [insert arrest/clue/chase scene/homoerotic moment] and stuff like that. I personally think that while there was a lot of sexual tension going on, nothing really happened until the ds arrest scene which was basically a confession. If I had to add anything to what happened in that scene I would say the “missing” part is that I think ds stopped jw from full on confessing bc ds knew he was going to jail. He didn’t want anything to happen bc it would leave jw tied to him but also not really tied to him and he didn’t want jw to wait for him or feel trapped. Jw has had no one in his life to count on and be cared for by. Letting jw create that link between them only to be whisked off to prison two seconds later would exacerbate his abandonment issues. Homeboy literally cried over ds’s hands he would not have handled an acknowledgment of anything beyond “juwoon-a” well. Also I fully believe that jw did not visit him in prison and ds wouldn’t have allowed him to if he’d gone.

But yeah anyways those are my very messy thoughts lol. What do you think about the timeline? Do you think anything happened that wasn’t shown in the show and/or how things went at the end and after Nam Sang Bae’s death anniversary (I also think that was the first time they’d seen each other since ds got out of prison)?

Thanks!

hi anon!

to answer your questions: i honestly think part of my love for beyond evil is that there are some pretty ambiguous moments where it seems like dong sik and joo won hung around each other more than was seen on screen, so i personally love playing with whatever might have happened between them during that time.

that said, from a more technical perspective: i think the beauty of a lot of television shows (not just beyond evil, but especially beyond evil) is that there's always going to be an ambiguity of what happens where and what's shown on screen or not. i think true film theory professors/geeks could ramble for hours about the power of the camera in storytelling and how it completely changes the medium of what we know vs. what we don't. which is really all to say that i think since it's a show that has a camera that turns on and then turns off, beyond evil inherently is going to have scenes that probably happened but just aren't actually shown to the audience.

so just by default, i think there must have always been things happening between dong sik and joo won that just didn't happen in the show, and that's just by virtue that this is a television series that's made deliciously more ambiguous by director shim na yeon and writer kim su jin's creative choices.

but from a fan's perspective: oh yeah, i think dong sik and joo won absolutely had some closer will they-won't they moments that we didn't get on screen. not necessarily because the cast and creators cut them, but just talking about the characters themselves here--i like to think that joo won and dong sik had plenty tenser moments of just. figuring out whatever the hell is going on with their relationship.

and as a fan/fanfic writer, i definitely love playing with what could have happened in those kinds of moments. in some versions, i like the idea of one of the two of them crossing a line somewhere . . . and in other versions, i like the idea of the two of them telling themselves that what they have is enough, and neither of them will do a single thing about it until maybe a year or ten years after the events of beyond evil. but who knows! the world is our oyster when it comes to things like that. it's just always nice to see when people have different interpretations and different ideas of how joo won and dong sik might have finally gotten together :)

[tekdecksmtg]

From the Archives: Wilds of Eldraine Prerelease

As I recently did the Bloomburrow Prerelease, I thought I’d look back on my first prerelease, which happened to be my first in-person Magic event since getting back into the game!

I was writing some logs at the time on my experiences but didn’t post them anywhere. I still remember how much excitement I had coming out of this event, just it being my first tabletop Magic in person in like 25 years. Let’s see what I thought at the time!

Archive:

First ever prerelease event and first time playing in-person MTG in about 25 years!

I’m given my prerelease kit which contains a promo card Restless Vinestalk and six Wilds of Eldraine draft boosters from which I need to construct a 40 card deck. I open my packs and then sort all my cards by color.

While I had some nice white pulls, I knew that I needed to focus on creatures and interaction. After sifting through all my cards I eventually narrowed down to green and black for my deck.

Match 1: After the construction period, the Magic Companion app tells me where to sit. I’m put at Table 4 against white/green. Can’t believe I’m about to play my first game!

Game 1: Got out some creatures and damage, but he had a flying griffin that was just too strong and ultimately beat me. I had seven mana up for Virtue of Persistence but it was worthless to cast as I needed an answer. Went into desperation mode digging via my Collector’s Vault finding a flier to block one turn but inevitably nothing else.

Game 2: More of the same considering decks are only 40 cards. He was able to pump up creatures with Royal Roles, copying them as well. I was able to take his flier by casting a fight spell targeting it versus my Scream Puff, but his tramplers were a problem. Ultimately ran out of time in our match and he was ahead on life so he was awarded Game 2 (though he was in control anyway) and subsequently the match.

First match lost 0-2-0.

Match 2: As we get ready to move tables, the Companion app tells us what’s next and I’m surprised to see that I have a ‘bye’. As there were uneven players someone had to sit out each match. I would’ve preferred to actually play but fortunately having the bye awards me the win at least.

Second match won 2-0-0.

Match 3: I’m slotted back at Table 4 again for my match against an opponent playing predominantly blue and black.

Game 1: Quite a bit of good back and forth, creatures attacking and damage being dealt. The game turned on him being able to get me to sacrifice a couple of creatures followed by fliers that I couldn’t stop and ultimately beat me down for the loss.

Game 2: Really close and intense game. Lots of back and forth for a while with creatures trading off, but the game changer was my Virtue of Persistence which started bringing back creatures from a graveyard each turn, focusing on his dead fliers and my food creators first for defense then moving to offense. Overwhelmed him and won my first game in person!

Game 3: A little close early but I was able to drop my Sentinel of Lost Lore which got rid of his creature/adventure in exile as well as his graveyard. Then I was able to bargain my Hamlet Glutton on T5, followed by more creatures the next turn. He appeared to get mana flooded and I was able to take down the game pretty easily!

Third match won 2-1-0.

Overall I finished 2-1 (4-3-0) and in 11th place out of 25. The two wins awarded me two Set Boosters and I was also given a Magic 30th anniversary harvester of Souls for participating.

Absolutely incredible event; just such a fun time and made me realize how much I’ve missed playing Magic in person, especially at an event like this where everyone is on equal footing. Can’t wait to go for another; might have to sign up for the Legacy Open next!

Additional Notes:

* Virtue of Persistence was my favorite card from the deck, so powerful to get that early removal and game-changing if you can get the enchantment side out later.

* Collector’s Vault did absolute work, letting me cycle cards to rebalance my hand while also making Treasure tokens that could fix mana and allow me to cast more spells.

* Hamlet Glutton was only seen once but dropping a 6/6 trample on T5 is quite nice with the bonus 3 life gain coming along with it.

* My deck had no way to deal with creatures with evasion; I need to remember that for future events. There needs to be a way to stop fliers especially.

[haggishlyhagging]

"Some enchanted evening, you will see a stranger. . . ." The music came up at the MK Club in New York, and the buyers and fashion writers, who had been downing drinks from the open bar for more than an hour, quieted as rose-colored lights drenched the stage. Six models in satin panties and lace teddies drifted dreamily into view and took turns swooning on the main stage prop—a Victorian couch. The enervated ladies—"Sophia," "Desiree," "Amapola"—languorously stroked their tresses with antique silver hairbrushes, stopping occasionally to lift limp hands to their brows, as if even this bit of grooming overtaxed their delicate constitutions.

The press release described the event as Bob Mackie's "Premiere collection" of fantasy lingerie. In fact, the Hollywood costume designer (author of Dressing for Glamour) had introduced a nearly identical line ten years before. It failed then in a matter of weeks but the women of the late '80s, Mackie believed, were different. “I see it changing,”Mackie asserts. "Women want to wear very feminine lingerie now."

Mackie got this impression not from women but from the late-80s lingerie industry, which claimed to be in the midst of an "Intimate Apparel Explosion." As usual, this was a marketing slogan, not a social trend. Frustrated by slackening sales, the Intimate Apparel Council—an all-male board of lingerie makers—established a special public relations committee in 1987. Its mission: Stir up "excitement."

The committee immediately issued a press release proclaiming that "cleavage is back" and that the average woman's bust had suddenly swelled from 34B to 36C. "Bustiers, corsets, camisoles, knickers, and petticoats," the press kits declared, are now not only "accepted" by women but actually represent "a fashion statement." A $10,000 focus-group study gathered information for the committee about the preferences of manufacturers and retail buyers. No female consumers were surveyed. "It's not that we aren't interested in them," Karen Bromley, the committee's spokesperson, explains. "There's just limited dollars."

In anticipation of the Intimate Apparel Explosion, manufacturers boosted the production of undergarments to its highest level in a dozen years. In 1987, the same year the fashion industry slashed its output of women's suits, it doubled production of garter belts. Again, it was the "better-business" shopper that the fashion marketers were after; in one year, the industry nearly tripled its shipments of luxury lingerie. Du Pont, the largest maker of foundation fabrics, simultaneously began a nationwide "education program," which included "training videos" in stores, fitting room posters and special "training" tags on the clothes to teach women the virtues of underwire bras and girdles (or "body shapers," as they now called them—garments that allow women "a sense of control"). Once again, a fashion regression was billed as a feminist breakthrough. "Women have come a long way since the 1960s," Du Pont's sales literature exulted. "They now care about what they wear under clothes.

The fashion press, as usual, was accommodating. "Bra sales are booming" the New York Daily News claimed. Its evidence: the Intimate Apparel Council's press release. Enlisting one fake backlash trend to promote another, the New York Times claimed that women were rushing out to buy $375 bustiers to use "for cocooning." Life dedicated its June 1989 cover to a hundredth-anniversary salute, "Hurrah for the Bra," and insisted, likewise without data, that women were eagerly investing in designer brassieres and corsets. In an interview later, the article's author, Claudia Dowling, admits that she herself doesn't fit the trend; when asked, she can't even recall what brand bra she wears: "Your basic Warner whatever, I guess," she says.

Hollywood also hastened to the aid of the intimate-apparel industry, with garter belts in Bull Durham, push-up bras in Dangerous Liaisons, and merry-widow regalia galore in Working Girl. TV did its bit, too, as characters from "The Young and the Restless" to "Dynasty" jumped into bustiers, and even the women of "thirtysomething" inspected teddies in one shopping episode.

The fashion press marketed the Intimate Apparel Explosion as a symbol of modern women's new sexual freedom. "The 'Sexy' Revolution Ignites Intimate Apparel," Body Fashions announced in its October 1987 cover story. But the magazine was right to put quotes around "sexy." The cover model was encased in a full-body girdle, and the lingerie inside was mostly of Victorian vintage. Late-'80s lingerie celebrated the repression, not the flowering, of female sexuality. The ideal Victorian lady it had originally been designed for, after all, wasn't supposed to have any libido.

A few years before the Intimate Apparel Explosion, the pop singer Madonna gained notoriety by wearing a black bustier as a shirt. In her rebellious send-up of prim notions of feminine propriety, she paraded her sexuality and transformed "intimate apparel" into an explicit ironic statement. This was not, however, the sort of "sexy revolution" that the fashion designers had in mind. "That Madonna look was vulgar," Bob Mackie sniffs. "It was overly sexually expressive. The slits and the clothes cut up and pulled all around; you couldn't tell the sluts from the schoolgirls." The lingerie that he advocated had "a more ladylike feminine attitude."

Late Victorian apparel merchants were the first to mass-market "feminine" lingerie, turning corsets into a "tight-lacing" fetish and weighing women down in thirty pounds of bustles and petticoats. It worked for them; by the turn of the century, they had ushered in "the great epoch of underwear." Lingerie publicists of the '80s offered various sociological reasons for the Victorian underwear revival, from "the return of marriage" to "fear of AIDS"—though they never did explain how garter belts ward of infection. But the real reason for the Victorian renaissance was strictly business. “Whenever the romantic Victorian mood is in, we are going to do better,” explains Peter Velardi, chairman of the lingerie giant Vanity Fair and a member of the Intimate Apparel Council's executive committee.

In this decade's underwear campaign, the intimate-apparel industry owed its heaviest promotional debt to the Limited, the fashion retailer that turned a California lingerie boutique named Victoria's Secret into a national chain with 346 shops in five years. "I don't want to sound arrogant," Howard Gross, president of Victoria's Secret, says, "but . . . we caused the Intimate Apparel Explosion. We started it and a lot of people wanted to copy it."

The designers of the Victoria's Secret shop, a Disneyland version of a 19th-century lady's dressing room, packed each outlet with "antique" armoires and sepia photos of brides and mothers. Their blueprint was quickly copied by other retailers: May's "Amanda's Closet," Marshall Field's "Amelia's Boutique," Belk's "Marianne's Boutique," and Bullock's "Le Boudoir." Even Frederick's of Hollywood reverted to Victoriana, replacing fright wigs with lace chemises, repainting its walls in ladylike pinks and mauves and banning frontal nudity from its catalogs. "You can put our catalog on your coffee table now," George Townson, president of Frederick's, says proudly.

The Limited bought Victoria's Secret in 1982 from its originator, Roy Raymond, who opened the first shop in a suburban mall in Palo Alto, California. A Stanford MBA and former marketing man for the Vicks company—where he developed such unsuccessful hygiene products as a post-defecation foam to dab on toilet paper—Raymond wanted to create a store that would cater to his gender. "Part of the game was to make it more comfortable to men," he says. "I aimed it, I guess, at myself." But Raymond didn't want his female customers to think a man was running the store; that might put them off. So he was careful to include in the store's catalogs a personal letter to subscribers from "Victoria," the store's putative owner, who revealed her personal preferences in lingerie and urged readers to visit "my boutique." If customers called to inquire after Ms. Victoria's whereabouts, the salesclerks were instructed to say she was "traveling in Europe." As for the media, Raymond's wife handled all TV appearances.

Raymond settled on a Victorian theme both because he rise renovating his own Victorian home in San Francisco at the time and because it seemed like "a romantic happy time." He explains: “It’s that Ralph Lauren image . . . that people were happier then. I don't know if that is really true. It's just the image in my mind, I guess created by all the media things I've seen. But it's real.”

Maybe the Victorian era wasn't the best of times for the female population, he acknowledges, but he came up with a marketing strategy to deal with that problem: women are now "liberated" enough to choose corsets to please themselves, not their men. "We had this whole pitch," he recalls, "that the woman bought this very romantic and sexy lingerie to feel good about herself, and the effect it had on a man was secondary. It allowed us to sell these garments without seeming sexist." But was it true? He shrugs. "It was just the philosophy we used. The media picked it up and called it a 'trend,' but I don't know. I've never seen any statistics."

When the Limited took over Victoria's Secret, the new chief continued the theme. Career women want to wear bustiers in the boardroom, Howard Gross says, so they can feel confident that, underneath it all, they are still anatomically correct. "Women get a little pip, a little perk out of it," he explains. “It's like, ‘Here I am at this very serious business meeting and they really don't know that I'm wearing a garter belt!’” Gross didn't have any statistics to support this theory, either: "The company does no consumer or market research, absolutely none! I just don't believe in it." Instead of asking everyday women what they wanted in underwear, Gross conducted in-house brainstorming sessions where top company managers sat around a table and revealed their "romantic fantasies." Some of them, Gross admits, were actually "not so romantic" like the male executive who imagined, "I'm in bed with eighteen women."

-Susan Faludi, Backlash: the Undeclared War Against American Women

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Erec Smith

Published: Jan 31, 2024

The historic Supreme Court ruling to end affirmative action in college admissions was one of the biggest events of 2023, but few acknowledged the ruling's inapplicability to military academies and, by extension, military recruitment strategies. Unlike public civilian institutions, military academies still face scrutiny for imposing quotas and skirting merit as a primary factor in admissions and recruiting. But affirmative action is only part of the problem.

As with other institutions, DEI—Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion—is a volatile point of contention in the military. In fact, prominent figures in and around the military insist that DEI threatens national security. The issue is bigger than unequal admissions and recruitment. DEI writ large is eroding the integrity of the U.S. Armed Forces from the inside out.

Before I go any further, I need to clarify that I am not against diversity, equity, or inclusion in their original meanings. As a black man whose father has shared stories about racism in the Army during his 22 years of service (including two tours in Vietnam), I would like nothing more than to improve race relations in the military.

But the words "diversity," "equity," and "inclusion" have gone from obvious American virtues to vices in recent years, not because Americans have soured on racial equality, but because those words have taken on meanings that actually oppose their common interpretations. This new DEI, backed by an ideology of critical social justice, is the very opposite of the social justice values espoused by the civil rights movement.

To be clear, the ideology of critical social justice is not Martin Luther King's civil rights. King highlighted character, open-mindedness, and equality. Sadly, the critical social justice variety of DEI (Let's call it "CSJ-DEI") is about the primacy of skin color, intolerance of opposing viewpoints, and the inherent inequality between white people (fundamentally considered oppressors) and non-white people (fundamentally considered oppressed).

Former King speechwriter Clarence Jones agrees, insisting this ideology "would violate everything that Martin King and I worked for." In fact, because of the divisive and meritless nature of CSJ-DEI, the 93-year-old has said, "I am damn sure, at this time in my life, I'm not going to turn my back. This time is more urgent than ever."

[ WASHINGTON, DC - JANUARY 12: U.S. Sailors with the U.S. Navy Ceremonial Color Guard present the colors during a ceremonial wreath laying at the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial on January 12, 2024 in Washington, DC. The ceremony is being held ahead of Martin Luther King Jr. Day on Monday, January 15, 2024, to honor the civil rights leader on the anniversary of his birthday. ]

Righting the wrongs of the past does not necessitate new wrongs in the present. The systemically discriminatory U.S. Army of the past is gone, but contemporary DEI initiatives could do more to reintroduce differential treatment than end it for good.

CSJ-DEI is bad for everyone, especially in the military. It is notoriously divisive; but what is a national military without unity? It demonizes the virtues a well-functioning military cannot do without: hard work, action orientation, rational thinking, discipline, etc. Why? They are considered "aspects of whiteness."

So where do we go from here? How can we protect our military from CSJ-DEI while still embracing traditional civil rights? That is, how do we make sure DEI initiatives in the military are the kind that promote equality, merit, free speech, and, of course, unity?

Fortunately, members of Congress are starting to listen, and some are taking action. Senator Eric Schmitt (R-Mo.) included an amendment in the National Defense Authorization Act to put a hiring freeze on CSJ-DEI initiatives in the military so that the Government Accountability Office can conduct an audit of federal DEI-related employees to ensure that any initiative to improve race relations is done productively.

Sen. Schmitt's plan is simple: look and see for ourselves. "Every branch of our military has a duty to promote and exemplify cohesiveness within a unit, branch, and fighting force as a whole," Schmitt told the Washington Examiner. "Driving wedges between soldiers with DEI initiatives undermines the military's main purpose: ensuring the United States remain ready to confront adversaries with overwhelming force wherever they may arise."

Senator Schmitt is onto something. Sunlight is the best disinfectant; an audit could help determine which initiatives are or are not good for the overall functioning of the U.S. Armed Forces. No one is against diversity, equity, and inclusion in the original senses of those terms, but it looks like contemporary DEI training flies in the face of American values like merit, unity, and, most ironically, equality.

Erec Smith is a Research Fellow at the Cato Institute and Associate Professor of Rhetoric at York College of Pennsylvania.