#watercolor tin empty

[thispapercloud]

My watercolor palette I made in college using a mini Altoid Tin and an empty chewing gum packet. It’s served me well for a long time as a tiny travel-size palette. Just goes to show you don’t need trendy fancy tools to make art (though if they bring you joy to own I say go for it!).

[hauntedfalcon]

a few months ago my husband was on a business trip to Portland when that freak ice storm hit, and his coworker drove them both through it in a little rental car

she had mentioned that she likes painting with watercolor but doesn’t have anything professional grade, and I have nothing if not too many tubes of watercolor and empty palette tins, so I curated a little palette for her as a “thank you for keeping my husband alive in the icepocalypse” gift

it’s been months and she’s still talking about that palette. my husband is on another business trip and he just sent me photos of the paintings she’s made with it. 🥰 anyway forming connections with human beings you’ve never met is neat, that’s all

[mintysstar]

Ｗｈａｔ  ｗｅ  ｄｏ  ｄｕｒｉｎｇ  ｔｅａ  ｔｉｍｅ

Side to side, just trying to carefully step on the snow and trying to find firm ground to not let any of these boxes fall into a huge sugary mess. He wasn’t trying to make a big deal out of this but he had spent a lot of time making these sweets. Every single one was decorated to perfection. Initially Mint had planned to bring just one cake, a simple chocolate one that his…That Creamy said he liked it so much after trying it.

But once he started to bake, he just could not stop. Thinking and going over what he was going to say. And pin/pointing what he was going to say if it went in a different direction. He whipped the lemon meringue when the idea of them splitting off came to his head. Would Creamy erase his memory? Would he just take a harsher approach and spirit him away??

He did leave a note… Just in case he didn’t return that afternoon.

The way to Creamy’s house wasn’t that far off from him it was very close to a couple of other houses. The housing on the island wasn’t much of a problem. They didn’t stay empty too long, even after someone moved, they would be occupied. And yet Creamy’s side seemed to be… Quieter than the usual neighbor.

Maybe he was keeping it that way, maybe it was magic to keep other penguins away. Maybe Creamy wanted to be left alone.

“Do you need some help with that?” He was sitting by the steps to the door of the house. Still disguised as a penguin. How long had he been waiting there? Creamy smiled, he felt happy that Mint had taken h invitation, after all this time. But they could spend it just like normal. No weird attacks, no penguins becoming evil thanks to magic.

Creamy himself felt a bit scared too. During that last discussion, he didn’t want to call it a fight, but couples did fight occasionally. He hoped that this would at least manage to soothe things down a bit more. Mint stumbled a little as he adjusted the boxes with a quick nod.

“I thought you would be waiting inside.”

“Yeah, I was going to but I forgot we had to get inside my house first.”

The other penguin was confused, raising a brow as Creamy took some of the boxes and gestured the door with his head. Mint had been inside Creamy’s house before, it wasn’t anything interesting. It was a little bare, but he had blamed that on the fact that the supposed penguin had recently moved.

When they walked in, it was still bare, with a single couch and a lamp in the middle. He was going to keep walking until Creamy took his flipper, making him a bit flustered as they walked back out. Then waited for a spot.

When they walked in he almost ran back out when the swirl of colors attacked them. The door closed behind them with a slam as his eyes adjusted back to the light. “Woah…”

Mint watched as everything around him grew to live. Quite literally as they rose like the sunflowers looking for their namesake. Maybe he was shrinking instead. If he had been asked a few days before he would have denied this place to be Creamy’s house. That it was something out of a watercolor painting from a penvictorian artist. There was no shortage of color.

The house was perfect for a fairy to live in. With soft pink hues mixing with deep purples and oranges you could say that he was walking in the sunset. The walls were covered in pictures of flowers, stained papers with beautiful pictures of seals with pretty dresses just like Creamy. “Come on! I have the water already boiling for us.”

He glanced up, there was the seal, wearing a yellow overall that was maybe a bit too big for him because the fabric gathered and layered around his ankles with a beautiful mayflower embroidered on the side. And the shirt, puffed sleeves, he managed to see the name Campion and 3°B stitched on the side of one sleeve.

“Oh, are we having tea?”

“Yeah… I know that it’s a bit expected but I got a new tin that I wanted to try. It’s cherry with Tigerlily.”

A few seconds passed, staring at each other for a split. Lingering in the air.

“So this is your house?” “Yeah! I like to keep it… Cheerful.”

“It certainly seems like it. Everything is so big. You’re really big.”

That made Creamy blush. Mint looked down, that had sounded so wrong as soon as he let it out of his mouth. He chuckled as he tried to alleviate the situation… When he heard barking. Coming down a set of stairs, came a whirl that was almost as big as him. A purple furry whirl with two silly little eyes and a yellow nose. A bow tied to its ear… Maybe it was holding more purple fur.

It came yapping at Mint, making him take a step back. “Uh… Creamy?! Is this one of the Monsters?!” An experiment gone wrong? Maybe Creamy was trying to study how to stop them.

“Luckily, no… This is Chanela, he’s my familiar. He’s not very smart.”

“You’re very stinky!! You are a stinky sweaty boy!!” The hairball ran around Mint, shouting stinky over and over again. Creamy tried to hold back the laughter as he watched his poor friend trying not to squish the poor creature into mashed fur. “That’s enough of that.” Creamy picked Chanela up, Mint heard him bark still as they waltzed off into the kitchen.

Very well decorated like the rest of the house. A whistle was heard.

The kettle was letting out steam. Creamy placed the pastry boxes on the old wooden table. Using a wash clothe to pick them up from the fire and move it to a cooler fireless part of the stove. He hummed as he looked for the tin of tea, putting down an aquamarine-colored teapot.

Mint watched, and not wanting to feel useless and leave Creamy with all the work, he moved closer. “Do you need any help? I’ll set up the table while-“ “That’s okay, I got it.” The cabinets opened with a soft lavender glow around them. Creamy grabbed a scoop. The plates swirled around the air before being placed on the table. He added three scoops of the tea, one for the teapot and two for Mint and him. The cakes were lifted out of their boxes, being placed on plates.

Mint watched in awe as his cakes were floating in the air only to be delicately put on mismatched china plates. He watched as the whole table was set by Creamy while still standing by the old stove, pouring down the water over the leaves. Even Chanela got his own little treat on a plate by the backdoor. He yipped as he began to munch.

“There we go.” He dropped a cozy over the teapot, carried it to the table, looking down for a moment. Creamy felt his fur fluff up with a bit of fear and worry, Mint, was staring around the kitchen still, he gulped softly, glancing down. “S-Sorry, I didn’t mean… I just do it like that every time, you could’ve helped, it was just a force of habit.” “It’s fine… I just… I’ve never seen a flying cake before.”

“Oh…”

“It was mighty impressive, and you always do it like that?” “Yeah, when I have too much in my head. I just do it.” He pulled the chair back for him, Mint glanced at his chair and then back at Creamy. “I don’t know how you expect me to do that.” His forehead even touched the seat of the chair. Creamy giggled as he moved his hands awkwardly, gently picking up Mint and putting him in the chair.

He still couldn’t reach the table. Creamy looked down a bit, touching the table to make it float up, it worked nicely. At least it would do for now. Creamy smiled as he moved back, settling into his place. He started cutting the chocolate cake first. It was his favorite.

The tea was poured and the cup floated by.  They shrunk in size just right for Mint when they came to him. Neither of them waited long enough to have a bite of the cake. The strawberries on top were delicious.

Whenever Creamy had chocolate he always felt healed. It took him back to those days when he laid in bed, covered in burns so long and sparkly that he sometimes swore they were actually diamond shards underneath his skin. It was the first thing he hid with magic.

“Why… Did you lie about being a penguin?”

He heard their laughs and their sounds of disgust in the back of his. Echoing through the hallways.

“To blend in. I stick like a sore thumb.”

“Yeah, but… You could’ve stopped after the first attack.”

The fork scratched the surface of the old china, Creamy could have come clean after that. It would have been easier. It might have taken some explanation to do. But he was afraid, had they come to hurt Mint. He wanted to tell himself that it was to protect him, but that sounded like he just didn’t care.

And a bit of a lazy answer.

“I was afraid… That you would’ve been afraid of me.”

“I’m hard to scare.” “Yeah, but I… I have jaws that bite and claws that catch. I read the newspaper article.”

He was afraid he was going to leave like everyone does. “But I’m here now, having a meal with you.” Creamy nodded, grabbing the strawberry and rubbing the leftover jam on it as a way to clean the plate. “I might’ve been surprised. But, I don’t know… I’ve seen weirder stuff.”

Mint shrugged. It was true, at this point in his life, only certain weird stuff could surprise him. Creamy tilted his head in curiosity. “It just started one day, when I thought those things were only child’s play, but when I saw that it was real… When you understand it, it becomes easy.”

Ah, so that was the stink that Chanela spoke about. The crystals above them shone like a flickering flame. Trying to clean something. “So, I don’t have to… Be a penguin anymore? Around you at least.”

“Nah… I think you look cute this way.”

“Uh hu… Are we going to mention you thought you were cheating on me with myself?”

“I don’t know, you got more tea?”

He did have more tea. And they moved on to something a bit more tart. Raspberry Mouse, it rode well with the bitter aftertaste of the chocolate, it was fluffy and it just melted into your mouth. Mint was very proud of that one. It had taken him so long to perfect how much time he could let it cool before it became a weird foamy thing in his mold.

“Slow down! I made it big enough for it to last.” Mint chuckled as he saw Creamy practically devouring it with glee. The crunch of the seeds it made just so much fun to eat.

The spoon sunk into the creamy dessert. Creamy moved his head softly as he made a napkin float towards Mint as he got one himself, cleaning his whispers. Mint wiggled the napkin a little, tilting his head as he glanced at Creamy. “Can you make something else float?”

He leaned forward on the table, putting his chin on his palms, gleefully excited and a bit daring. Creamy smirked as he tapped two fingers into the table, their spoons getting up and marching like little soldiers in the tablecloth before they bounced around each other , making shapes as they danced with each other, Mint clapped as they took into the air, swirling around each other before falling down once again.

All in a perfect line.

Creamy smiled, nodding as he felt a brush creeping up his cheeks. He took another bite of the mouse

“It's not going to be normal being with me. The monsters, the magic, the whole being a seal thing… It’s all part of me, it's not going to disappear. It’s not like the cartoons where I only have to fight for a year. This could take my entire life even.”

It was his duty. He had made a promise to protect something so precious, even if that promise had changed. He couldn’t let go of his promise, Mint had to become part of it. “But you’re looking into a way of stopping the Monsters, right? You are not just… Going to keep letting it happen so you can save the day.”

“Never! I have to stop it, I just have to.”

“Then I’m going to help.”

Mint didn’t know he was going to help. He probably would end up doing more stupid stuff than helping Creamy, but he had been in some fights already, he had seen what he did. He twirled around that wand, but his sensitivity… He could find some information that not even books could have.

“Thank you but I already have a mascot character. I could totally put you in a bow.”

Creamy allowed himself to laugh, making Mint shake his head while he smiled. “I’m being serious. I’m standing in a juicy piece of information.  And you are going to miss it.”

Mint fixed his glasses, looking at Creamy as he took the time to breathe. Looking at Mint with sweet eyes. The two of them, working together, it would be… Just amazing. He could already picture Mint next to him. He would have to protect him, sure, but it would be something out of love. Just as sweet as raspberry.

“Yes, okay… I would gladly take your help. It would be lovely for you to do so.”

“Awesome! Magical Boyfriend duo!”

That made his heart swell. They hadn’t discussed that yet and the meringue pie just seemed perfect for the discussion. But Creamy smiled, tilting his head to the side. “So, I’m your boyfriend?” He said it in such a teasing tone that it made the two of them blush.

“Y-Yeah! Of course, it was obvious in the subtext. It was clear from the beginning.”

“Oh sure, of course.”

Mint hadn’t noticed when Creamy stood up, scrambling back against his chair. He was awfully close, the penguin’s feathers fluffed up as the seal got closer to him, feeling their breaths on each other. It was calm, it was so… Chocolatey.

Kissing someone with a beak was quite interesting, but it wasn’t difficult, Creamy just had to take a little bit of effort, putting his hand under Mint’s chin, and smiling before breaking the tiny peck. Mint looked back, blinking as he licked his lips. “Can you do that again?”

The scent of chocolate and cherry had never been sweet.

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

Hello! It´s me, Minty and @prizm-metamorphose talking about our oc´s relationship once again!! Mint and Creamy are so sweet <3

_______________________________________________

Previous collabs for context:

|| First part || Second part|| 

[doodlewash]

REVIEW: Four New QoR Mini Half-Pan Sets

QoR Artist Watercolors, manufactured by Golden Artist Colors, has launched four new half pan sets in the popular mini tin. Each set is based on a popular theme in today’s market – Intensity, Granulation, Urban and Reflection. Each set includes six half pans of QoR color, six empty half pans, and a silicone insert in a sturdy metal tin. The silicone insert has three wells, and the tin’s lid has…

[wallpaperpainting]

19 Unexpected Ways Watercolor Tin Can Make Your Life Better | Watercolor Tin

FRISCO — Aback affective to Summit Canton almost six years ago, Mia Tarduno has taken an anniversary all-embracing vacation to relax and explore. Yet Tarduno’s latest circuit was clashing ones prior. It started in April 2019 and went for about a year as she lived in Nepal, Malaysia, Indonesia, Japan, Costa Rica and added locales. She additionally alternate to places she’d been afore such as Thailand, Hawaii and Canada.

Regardless of whether it was a new or accustomed destination, the ambition was altered this year. Inspired by conversations with bodies about town, Tarduno approved to account women about their hardships and triumphs. They discussed civic pressures and capacity such as worthiness, loneliness, vulnerability, anatomy angel and connection.

“I was absolutely absorbed in award out if the struggles we accept actuality in Summit Canton were agnate to women about the apple and was abnormally absorbed in what we crave of ourselves to feel acceptable enough,” Tarduno said. “I listened to a lot of belief of that advancing out in altered means of women activity like they bare to be a lot added or beneath of article in adjustment to be a acceptable abundant girlfriend, wife, employee, friend, partner, whatever it is.”

Appropriately, those tales became Tarduno’s aboriginal appear book, “Good Enough.” The album collects Tarduno’s watercolor paintings that allegorize her chance commutual with balladry crafted from the women’s stories. She begin the letters the women aggregate to be universally relatable, so anniversary free-verse composition is accounting in a first-person perspective.

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“What I was feeling, what she was feeling, what addition woman was feeling, would about-face into a

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[art-wishes]

Empty Paint Tin

[god-of-entropy]

head empty only tenya iida’s bag essentials

( i actually drew it on my sketchbook but whatever haha)

ziplock full of cat food for the stray cats

bird seeds in those cute colorful cylindrical cans made out of recycled cardboard

music player and earphones!

earplugs to block out noise :D

betadine antiseptic solution

two rolls of adhesive bandages

a box of band aids/adhesive plasters

a packet of gauze pads

plastic box with a buncha pills like aspirin, painkillers, biogesic, ibuprofen, advil (muscle pain is no joke TT)

foldable eye glasses case

phone, of course >:D

binder with student behavior record files that Aizawa told him to put all his investigations about his classmates

recycled campus notebooks because he says that the paper is gentler on the eyes

pocket moleskine sketchbook for drawing on the go

travel watercolor set in a tin container with a forest scene painted on the front

a can of anti rusting spray 

pencil case! (contains the following: a few muji pens in dark blue, black and red, TWSBI eco fountain pen, extra bottle of fountain pen ink, mechanical pencil, extra lead and an eraser, along with three water brushes (thin, medium, large)

energy bars!

a pair of noise-cancelling headphones

[pseudofaux]

No thoughts head empty just thinking about going on a picnic with Ranamun and seeing him dressed up in a casual outfit 🦋🦋🦋

Three words for you, galaxy brain anon.

Embroidered. Suspender. Straps. 🦋

…okay, a few more words, this is just such a glorious image: an actual duvet over a sheet or woven blanket on the ground, so you’d have a comfy place to sit and room to put everything. Tucked near the base of a tree filling in, so you have shade and the warmth and color of early season sunshine. A perfect day when things are verdant and blooming but it’s not too warm yet (minimal bugs). Not so windy any of your sturdy picnic things are upset, but a nice breeze.

His shirt cuffs rolled up, showing off his forearms. He feeds you berries. GOD I just KNOW he’d bring the finest berries and cheese— extremely luscious grapes, peach slices, blackberries, and smoked gouda. Brie if you like it.

Presents you with a finely-bound little book and a watercolor tin so you can spend some time painting and dreaming after your meal. Gets water from a nearby stream for you to use with your paints. 🥺

Carries it all away in a giant picnic basket and holds your hand all the way home.

[sparrowsfall]

@deputystakes​ confessed: 18. a peek inside their "SECRET” HIDING SPOT & 19. a peek at their FIVE MOST RECENT CONTACTS.

from: “ a peek inside... ” | no longer accepting

SECRET HIDING SPOT — the hidden gem offers reprieve, a place of AMNESTY away from the prying microscope of Crockett’s many resident gossips. it’s a haven, a refuge, a cave tucked into the northernmost island cliff face that allows him opportunity to collect his thoughts and his very self after a day that, so graciously happens to end early, but still feels all too long. well worth the hike, even despite the risky journey one must make to reach it ( to put it lightly ) --- no clear-cut path. no hand rail to catch. just the dwindling near-vertical limestone, and a steep natural shelf that provides the only barrier between him and the ever-foaming, ever-hungry riptide of black Atlantic hundreds of feet below, waiting to swallow the clumsy whole. down, down, down, he makes his slow and careful way. palms pressed flat against stone to steady himself. prayers whispered under his breath that each new rock he steps upon has yet to be weakened by the pummels of wind and water and time. at last, he reaches the trio of jutting boulders that mark the halfway point.

the mouth of the cave is easily overlooked by all, appearing as nothing more than a crack in the sediment. not some wide, gaping maw, but a slender thing, just high and wide enough for a man of his stature to slip inside. the size of the pocket is impressive, compared to what its deceptive entryway may suggest - a literal hole in the wall that could comfortably fit four grown men. five, if they’re willing to get familiar with each other. but he’s only ever shared his knowledge of this precious place with one other. selfish as it may seem, he finds it far too STRIKING to be shared with the rest of the community, to become the next uppards.

eyes adjust to the shadows, and within them find a small but ancient world of its own. hag stones littering the floor. calcium silhouettes of scallops and mussels and mollusks imprinted into the black rock, a prehistoric wallpaper to decorate the space. the cave’s ceiling splintered apart by the sprawling veins of smoky and blue quartz --- certainly gorgeous when the afternoon sunbeams filter into the space, but truly become something to behold in the moonlight. refractions of a clear night dance across the jutting violet and gold and smoky red facets to paint the darkened floor in dapples of iridescence. and with the thunderous roar of the crashing waves below drowning out any echo of a voice that may try to travel, it’s little wonder that he’s taken his beloved on many a picnic here.

every hiding spot worth its salt boasts a collection of personal items. John’s is no different, his modest assortment perched upon the flat top of a short boulder that protrudes at the back of the cave’s throat : five pillar beeswax candles. another box of Diamond-brand matches. a folded gingham blanket. a long sardine tin, now used to keep his small tubes of watercolor and gouache paints, the lid fashioned into a makeshift palette. a small glass jar that holds his thin brushes, his charcoal sticks and sketching pencils, his inking pens, his kneaded eraser. and a black leather-bound notebook, only a bit wider than his hand, each page of watercolor paper used thus far filled to the brim with painted landscapes from his missionary travels. of course, the more recent pages are adorned with studies of the ocean life and sea scapes he can see from his spectacular hidden vantage point. no space left white, no space left wasted. if one combs through the pages carefully, they may find more than a few drawings of a certain local navy wife, staring out at the horizon.

and of course, there’s a half-empty bottle of chianti swiped from the church sacristy. still nestled in its wicker basket and tucked alongside what was once one, and is now two, cheap glasses. 

FIVE MOST RECENT CONTACTS — he may not have a cell phone, but he vividly remembers his last five calls on the rectory phone without the aid of a digital roster. after all, how could he forget? : 

5. CALL TO : FLYNN RESIDENCE. THURSDAY APRIL 1ST, 2021. 6:33 PM. answered by Annie. he tells her to relay a message to Riley that he is feeling far better this evening, the AA meeting is to resume at seven sharp. Annie tells him that Riley should be there shortly, he left for the rec. center only a couple moments ago.

4. CALL FROM : SHERIFF’S OFFICE. FRIDAY APRIL 2ND, 2021. 7:26 PM. Sheriff Hassan is looking for Joe Collie, and has word from Erin Greene that he has been attending the AA meetings on Thursday evenings. has Father Paul seen him? he apologizes - no, unfortunately Joe did not show up last night. he cannot stay long on the phone, Good Friday Mass begins soon. but if he sees or hears anything, he will let the sheriff know promptly, he swears it.

3. CALL TO : SCARBOROUGH RESIDENCE. SATURDAY APRIL 3RD, 2021. 8:17 AM. Dolly and Wade are to come to the rectory immediately, as soon as they’re dressed if possible. he tells them with urgency in his voice. plans are being made for the Vigil this evening, and their help will be required. little other explanation is given.

2. CALL TO : STURGE’S WORK PHONE. SATURDAY APRIL 3RD, 2021. 8:19 AM. a call similar to that made to the Mayor’s house. Sturge’s aid is, as always in these matters, essential.

1. CALL TO : GUNNING RESIDENCE. SATURDAY APRIL 3RD, 2021. 9:45 PM. the phone rings and rings, and he leaves a message on the answering machine: “ Millie... I didn’t get a chance to speak with you before you left mass last night. You uh--- You looked upset. Everything will be explained at the Vigil, I promise. [ PAUSE ]... I pray you and Sarah will join us. It’s the holy thing to do, I swear it. You’ll thank yourselves... I love you. ”

[thedisc0panda]

QOTD: Do you like swatching your materials?⁠ I’ve been rather unhappy with my art recently and so don’t have much to post, but, working on this on and off over the past several months while waiting for other things to dry and now I’ve finally completed my swatch chart. Since I originally started this I’ve picked up a few more colours that didn’t make it in to this chart, but I’ll add them when I eventually swatch out my smaller tin of Utrecht paints, this tin has all my high quality professional paints and is the box I use most often in more detailed work. Not included: my @kuretakezig_usa shiny paints For simple sketches, the paintings in my Morrowind series that require a very specific shade of grey, or things that require colours I don’t have in this box I use my @sakuraofamerica 24 koi watercolor box, or my other smaller tins of watercolours such as @artphilosophy @royaltalensna or @winsorandnewton I also have a box of @danielsmithartistmaterials colours with some empty tins for when I get more Daniel Smith tubes, the tins came with the box an it’s a great little set for traveling. Anyways this caption got longer than I expected but I hope you like seeing all the different mixes you can make with these paints!⁠ As soon as I get my motivation and ability to draw more like my 2019 semi realistic style back (see: Morrowind series) I’ll have more actual finished work other than things I’ve done recently but never posted. Art block is rough how do you deal with this?? .⁠ .⁠ .⁠ #art #draw #create #sketch #sketchbook #strathmore #cansonpaper #color #pencil #coloredpencil #prismacolor #artist #drawing #sketching #featuremejuliet #artsy #instaart #watercolor #strathmoreart #f4fart #featurememichelle #aimeefeatures #swatching #explorepage #colorcompaion #watercolors #artsupplies #artistinstudio #watercolorpainting #watercolorillustration⁠ (at 𝘽𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣, 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙨) https://www.instagram.com/p/CTaEBvZrWZ1/?utm_medium=tumblr

[hauntedfalcon]

last week I had a dream that the mom-and-pop art supply store was closing

yesterday I checked my mail and found out the mom-and-pop art supply store is closing

I texted my husband saying it’s time to open my own, haha

he said “Let’s do it”

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 2

chapter 1!!  chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

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

Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.

Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!

A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.

You hate it.

In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.

Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.

You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.

There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.

You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.

You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.

The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.

You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.

You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.

***

At least you can move on from the watercolors.

Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.

You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.

“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.

But Steve takes two mirrors.

You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.

It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.

“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.

“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.

You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”

Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard.

“What?”

Steve sets his mirror down.

Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.

“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.

“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”

“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.

“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”

You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying.  “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.

Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.

You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.

Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.

“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”

You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”

He blushes.

“Use people you know.”

You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.

At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.

“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.

“For your painting thing,” he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”

You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.

Okay- lame.

But also, like, funny.

Then it starts to click.

“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.

Or maybe he just wants you to leave.

“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”

“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.

That’s exactly it.

“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”

You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.

You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.

Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.

***

He’s not genuinely interested.

This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-

To his basic peace of mind.

He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.

There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.

He doesn’t care.

The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.

There is a lot of information.

Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.

He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.

Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.

A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.

And there’s lots of yellow.

And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.

Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.

It makes his head hurt.

He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.

Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.

The twenty-first century is stupid like that.

When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.

Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.

He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.

“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.

“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.

To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.

“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”

“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.

“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.

He can handle himself.

Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.

***

He doesn’t need to go.

Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.

Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.

You start right on time. Always so prompt.

“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”

You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.

You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.

“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”

Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.

He takes the yellow one.

You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.

“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.

“Your shoe is untied.”

Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.

Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.

“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”

He considers the question. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.

He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.

“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”

Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.

“They just are,” he says.

You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?

“Awesome,” you say.

Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.

“Wait, one more thing.”

You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.

You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.

Floor-length. V-neck.

“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”

He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.

Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.

A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.

“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”

You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”

“Out of town.”

Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.

Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.

It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.

“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”

You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-

“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.

Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.

“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”

You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.

It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.

Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.

*

You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.

You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”

“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.

She’s not leaving early.

You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.

“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.

“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”

Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.

Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.

All by yourself.

Or not.

Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?

“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.

“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”

You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it. 

You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.

But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?

“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”

He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.

It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.

“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.

***

Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.

“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”

You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.

He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”

In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.

It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.

Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.

There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-

He’s there.

Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.

“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.

“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.

God.

You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.

“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”

Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.

“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.

If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.

Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.

“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”

You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.

Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.

*

Acrylic paint- the love of your life.

“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”

That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.

Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.

It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.

You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.

Then, of course, you head to the back.

Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.

You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.

Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.

He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors. 

Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?

You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.

It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!

You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.

It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.

You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.

Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.

Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself.  The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.

Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.

He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?

Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.

*

The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.

You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.

The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.

You didn’t talk to him that much, today.

“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.

“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.

And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.

Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.

“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.

Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.

“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.

He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on. 

Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.

“Why, is there something you-”

Steve cuts himself off. He understands.

“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”

He leaves.

“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath.  “Are you here to help me clean up?”

No, but he’ll do it, if...

“Yeah.”

You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.

“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”

He starts to wipe down the tables.

You get the sink running.

The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.

Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.

What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.

It sets up the atmosphere.

You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”

He shrugs.

It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.

“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re  clearly not. “Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”

He gets it.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.

You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.

“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Is Bucky your real name?”

The fuck?

You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.

“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”

You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.

“My real name is James.”

You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.

“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.

He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.

“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”

“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.

His heart leaps to his throat.  

“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.

“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”

That was not smooth.

At all.

But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.

“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.

Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.

He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.

“When will I hear from you?”

He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.

You’re pretty.

“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.

Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.

Right now, he’s all thawed out.

“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.

You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”

“Mystery girl.”

“You know it.”

His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.

[impossible-rat-babies]

at least the apples taste sweet

shepherds of haven | 1651 words | hurt/comfort

read on ao3 here

Wind calm up on the battlements, the night just cool enough for a jacket or a cloak. Just a caress of the heat of summer still clinging before autumn truly sets in, winter not long in its chase.

Apple peel falling into Andromache’s lap, gently guiding a knife through the bruised skin. It’s quiet, the last lingering people shuttering their stalls below and chattering with their fellow merchants, others shuffling towards home or the taverns to abide by the rest a good drink or a good courtesan can provide. Men with long handled wicks light street lamps dotting the street below, casting their glare across the cobblestone and drawing moths in to batter themselves against the glass. Lights flicker in open windows, families gathering for dinner around round tables, thanking the One God for the blessed meal and one more day.

Andromache sighs, breath lost to the wind and she combs a hair from the corner of her mouth, letting it flutter behind her. Footsteps echoing on the stone and she turns, spying dark eyes flickering from the lantern light.

“What’s toward?” She asks, scooting along the crenellation, enough room for Blade to sit down beside her.

“You’re not on watch tonight.” He glances and she meets his eyes with shrug, tossing the last of the apple peel to the street below.

“It’s quiet up here.” She carves out a slice of apple and pops it in her mouth, chewing silently. It’s nice to eat fruit that isn’t sour—isn’t hard or has spots she has to carve around where worms and bugs have burrowed. “Can see most of Ashtown from up here.” She adds, squinting in the heavy dark only punctuated by the little dots of light stretching out until they meet the dusty white walls of Haven.

“You’ve never lived in a big city?” He asks and she shakes her head.

“Visited one or two. Conte-by-the-sea, Capra—never stayed long enough to know them though.” She answers, taking another bite.

“I thought to at one point—entertained the idea of leaving home when I was old enough, travel around Blest and see what there is. Maybe become a mercenary like my father out on the Sea of Plenty, Take down pirates in fearsome raids. But I,” she snickers as if she can’t help but think of the idea as utterly silly, “I even thought of becoming a famous painter or artist.”

“Impress the world over with your skills?” There’s a smile in his voice and one on her face as she replies.

“As a child thinks of such things.” She shakes her head and carefully carves out a slice and offers it to him. He takes it and she slices away another chunk, chewing slowly.

“When I was fifteen I worked as a stablehand for some rich noble in Capra. Helped the horse-master tend to the creatures the nobleman liked to collect--all manner of fancy horse or ahfuri. Had a thing for the beasts. But there was a serving girl about my age...pretty blue eyes, a fair face and rosy cheeks enough to make anyone turn envy green.” She laughs quietly, cheeks flushing.

“Did you fancy her?” Blade asks softly and the smile persists on her face.

“As young people or lovers do.” She sighs out of her nose. 

“We would meet up in the hayloft above the stable late at night. We thought ourselves all clever like in those romantic books, meeting like secret lovers do. We would talk and talk for hours--meaningless things, things I barely remember. She said she liked to dance and weave, that back home her mother was an accomplished seamstress--sought after for her beautiful blankets and quilts. I...told her how I liked to draw, liked to paint. Scribbled in the dirt or in the dust on the windows I was supposed to be cleaning. A few sennights later, she gave me a gift.”

“Paints and a journal?” He asks and Andromache nods, turning the apple over in her fingers.

“I nearly threw a fit over the gift when I unwrapped it. Lamented about how she shouldn’t have gotten me something so trite, spent her hard earned coin on it.” She pauses, chewing the corner of her lip, a strand of hair once again caught there.

“She had younger siblings back home to feed, dreams of her own, to leave behind being a laundress and...I don’t know, become a famous dancer or a weaver like her mother. But, she shouldn’t have wasted her coin on me. She utterly refused to take it back, begging me to keep it, threatening me that if she found out I had sold it to give that money back to her that she would have my hide. Don’t you go selling that Anne or you’ll be worse off than if you got kicked by a horse!”

She looks back across the city, a few more lights pressing against the sky now turned from indigo to deep purple—almost black. Her shoulders fall and she’s a hundred miles away, a decade ago, still clutching that tin of watercolors and the small book of paper shoved into her hands. Hands trembling, searching those pretty blue eyes for why the hael she would give her such an unnecessary gift. 

Silence fills the air, Blade’s attentive eyes still on her, waiting for her to continue--waiting for her to be ready. He’s far too nice to her and she shoves aside the cascade of emotion building in her gut.

“She told me that it was a gift, something to help make my own dream come true. She even said I could practice painting her up in that dusty old hayloft, or paint the horses. Some kak like that.” Andromache shakes her head, sadness drawing her brow in tight, lips narrowing as she carves off another chunk of apple and offers it to him.

“Funny how that little dream didn’t work out.”

Blade takes the slice and she watches him look it over for a long moment, the corners of his lips turning, wrinkling the corners of his eyes just so when he thinks.

“Where is she now?” He asks, eating the apple slice.

“I don’t know. I left for the Circle only a year after my employment began and she was still there. I thought to write to her, but...servori.” Andromache sighs. “Hopefully she’s off having someone else wash her underclothes while she makes pretty blankets and dances.”

“Are you upset? Being part of the Shepherds?” Blade asks and she drops her hands to her lap, only the last bit of the apple before the core remains, turning it over and over in her hands.

“No, I’m not upset.” She mumbles, looking over at him and he hardly seems convinced. “Not upset at being part of the Shepherds. I’m...”

She pauses, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, the choke of emotions building behind her voice, behind her eyes. There’s a familiar sting there and she quickly looks away.

“I am lonely for what could have been—longing for something I don’t even know, something or someone I cannot picture. I don’t know who she is, who she could have been--if she could’ve been a better or a worse than I am now.”

The words rush out and she sucks in a deep breath, willing the tears to stay behind her eyes, staring up at the sky overhead like it will hold all the answers. Like the gods will point her in the direction she’s supposed to find, the correct path amongst the hundreds and her feet are bloody from all the walking.

“Could have been a painter.” 

Blade says softly, gently and Andromache can’t help the soft broken chuckle that she lets slip, head dropping to her chest.

“She could’ve been a painter...”

She whispers, silence passing between them like the breathless quiet between church bells, the empty space from one resounding ring to the next. The silence of a breath taken in and held, waiting to be breathed back out.

“We can only do that which we believe is best, Andromache.” Blade finally speaks, exhales into the chill of the air. “Look towards what to do next. There are hundreds of ways by which to go—we cannot grieve for each path we do not take.” He says quietly and he meets her eyes; he’s always so terribly resolute. She nods, looking away first, eyes drawn to the abandoned apple in her lap.

“Speaking from experience, Commander?” She asks and he gives her nothing more than a careful knowing look, barest hint of a smile catching the corner of his lip his answer.

It’s all the answer she needs. He pulls himself to his feet, settling his cloak back into place, smoothing aside the wrinkles.

“Make sure to get some sleep.” He tells her and it could almost be an order, save for the softness in his eyes lingering on her face, the twitch of his hand at his side.

“I will.” She nods and he looks away, turning on his heel. “Thank you, Blade.” She speaks up, smiling and he nods in return, almost silent footsteps disappearing into the dark.

She sighs against the quiet once more, eyes falling back to the apple and she turns it over in her hand, carving off the last bit of her apple and she pops it in her mouth. Standing, she tucks her knife away and tosses the core of the apple in the air once, twice, three times before chucking it over the side of the wall. It disappears into the dark, to be lost by the morning.

She stares once more out across Haven, the black of night finally blanketed across the city, cradling it safely behind it’s walls. Maybe one day she’ll paint it. 

She can’t help but chuckle; she isn’t a painter, but at least the apples she eats taste sweet.

[alitheamateur]

A Taste of Home-Chapter 10

A/N: This feels a bit rushed, and some of you may feel it’s a poor excuse of a chapter. AND, I will humbly agree. Pardon my lack of length, and choppy descriptions, if you will! I’m trying to reel in this stupid case of writer’s block, and this is the best I’ve got right now, ladies and gents.

Warnings: Oral smut. Language. 

The packing. The damned packing, and the repetitious unpacking. It was an all-nighter, ruthless and exhausting with indecisive agony. What in the literal hell did you bring along that said:

“Hello. Love me.”

Your fitful mind balked and fretted with the consideration of turning down Chris and his perfectly agonizing romantic gesture to swiftly wisp you off to the other side of the world because he simply “just really need to fucking see you.” But, you wouldn’t do it. You knew it all along. This was a chance to be with him. Maybe even be with him, and that just purely wasn’t an opportunity you would ever pass up.

You called upon the heavenly angels of beauty in the city to freshen your blonde, pluck nearly every hair on your body, and moisturize your every skin pore with some goop smelling of cucumber and coconut. But, truly. Was there ever enough one could do to really prepare to crawl into bed with a man such as Chris and his glorious, brazenly sexy biceps?

You were rattled by the bell of your 4:00 a.m. alarm, followed by a call from your zealously punctual boy-toy to make sure you were keeping a tight and tidy schedule, and on-time for your flight. You could feel in your bones the smile he wore when he rambled on about airport gates, and cars, and baggage claim.

When you arrived at the terminal, the big, dutiful idiot had of course upgraded you to first-class. Knowing you would never have showed up to begin with had the original ticket stated so. You were tucked into your window seat, situating your bending neck-pillow, and about to flip your cell to airplane mode, when it rattled with a text.

C: I’m fucking stoked you’re coming to see me, Mil. Have a safe flight, and have at least 3 mimosas. I can’t have you being all pissy and jet-lagged by the time you get to me. Although, grumpy, asshole Amelia is one of the cutest versions.

You replied with a simple ‘xo’, and you felt a little squeal course through your veins.

Whether it be the side-effects of the early hour, or the fruitful symptoms of the 3 strong mimosas you downed before your nap, you felt dazed and extremely wobbly when your plane landed at the rainy airport in London. The flight attendant had somehow relayed a message that your driver would be waiting at baggage claim, and you were to go straight to him.

Just as promised, he waited there in his black fitted jeans, and downward tilting baseball cap with your suitcases at his feet. The man was large, wide enough to turn when attempting to clear a doorway, and you were certain he must’ve been a member of Chris’ longtime security team.

He hauled your crammed bags into the hatch of the SUV, sprinting around to catch the handle of the door before you could open it for yourself. No question, Chris had threatened he be on his best, chivalrous behavior when in your presence.

“Miss Calvert, we’re to head directly to set to meet up with Chris. But, is there any stops you need to make on the way?” He asked, a hard Queens lilt to his accent.

“No, thank you. I’m fine! Straight to Chris would be great.”

“Yes, ma’am. He also asked that you call him once we’re en route.” The car slid into a winding lane of traffic.

You dialed, his name the last on your recent call list.

“Ello.” The dork chided in his well-worked English accent.

“Well, I’m buckled into the backseat of some vehicle with a guy who says he knows you. Let’s hope I picked the right driver.”

“Guy? I didn’t send anyone for you.” His voice never hitched.

You gulped down a taste of spilt-second worry. “You fucker. Mess with me and I’ll turn this car around, Evans.”

He barked out that heinous laugh that only you, and his mother could love. “Hey, hey. Settle down, firecracker. Did that flight attendant not liquor you up enough on the way over?”

“I’ll have you know, I obeyed your direct orders and downed 3 the first hour in. I might even be drunk. So, good going there. You trying to take advantage of me, Christopher?” You bit on your chapped lip, just at the hopeful possibility he would do exactly that.

“Why the hell else do you think I flew you across the world, Millie girl? I can’t wait to see if those sweet little cheeks get all blushed when you’re buzzing like they used to get when you got drunk in our basement.”

Sentimental current shell-shocked you to life.

“What?” Was all your racked brain could piece together through the muddle of feelings.  

“Your entire face used to flush like you had been out in the sun for too long. If the cute as a kitten way your words slurred didn’t give it away when you and my sister snuck those wine-coolers, your red little cheeks would have.”

You’d have swallowed him whole if he had been in your presence.

“Anyways, I’ve gotta jump off. Carter is bringing you to set, and my manager will make sure you get settled in my trailer until I’m all finished. Snag a nap, and help yourself to the fridge. But, stay clear of my beer, little lady. You’re cut off.”

“See you soon, handsome.” Your words rolled and squeaked like your head was full of only air.

You were high with the endorphins of Chris Evans, and his constant successes in turning your every bone to mush. You had no utter idea how long you’d been driving, or barely what day it was when you felt the pace of the car slow into a gated lot. You were waved through by security, and you fidgeted for a compact inside your purse to fuss with your smudged eyeliner and fading foundation. 

You whispered a prayer as you climbed the noisy steps bolted to his trailer, that maybe he would be finished with the duties of his day already so you could be at the center of his attention, but found your wishes ungranted.

It was silent in the metal tin can, little traces of the so very loveable dork sprinkled throughout. It smelled of him, the crumbled t-shirt on the floor next to the hat hanging from a doorknob made you smile. Although he wasn’t palatably present, this was the closest to him you had felt in the past days.

You flopped to the couch after grabbing yourself a water from the fridge, and a handful of the jellybean bag half-empty on his table.

A: The eagle has landed.

Kicking off your shoes, tucking your manicured toes beneath you, text bubbles of a reply from Chris appeared.

C: The best news I’ve heard all week. Be there when I can, Millie.

…

A strong doze had apparently taken over, and a hazy dream of his watercolor eyes drowned your consciousness. You could almost smell the thick aroma of his peppermint and musk scent, and the wind of his coffee laced breath tangling with your eyelashes.

Long, lean, worked fingers felt like an imaginary embrace around the nape of your soft throat, and there was a suckle of popping wetness meeting the heartbeat there.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.” Your bones absorbed the reverberation of his rattling voice, and the sweet dream was indeed the most pleasing moment of reality.

“Sleeping beauty, huh?” You kept your eyes sealed, smiling against your will. “Well, if that’s so, I guess you’ll have to kiss me, right? You know how it goes, Evans. Disney would be so disappointed in you right now.”

His familiar laugh delighted your every sense, and when he kissed you, you were convinced that happiness had a taste, and it was the minty prickle of Chris’ fleshy lips.  

There was a pressing situation soliciting the hotness of your sex, and already the both of you were ripe with desire. As the tip of his tongue licked at yours, your eyes rolled back into your head meeting the euphoria of being ravished by the man you loved. Whether he loved you back, or not…

Lightening heat and possessed passion instantly took over, and you were maneuvering out from beneath the blanket of his muscled weight on top of you, to mount his lap.

“Woah. What’s gotten into you, Millie girl?” He wheezed with brows uplifted in shock, yet satisfaction.

“Are you complaining?” Your teeth bit into his jaw, the friction of his auburn shaded whiskers chaffed your lips.

“By all means, baby, have at it. You don’t know how much I’ve been thinking about you.”

There were many ways to say ‘I missed you’, but in the midst of the dampness collecting in your underwear, there was only one way to squander the fire you were feeling after being without him all those months.

Gasoline.

Makes sense, right?

The tight, elastic waistband of his sweats popped as you writhed and shuffled to unwrap the ribbed fullness inside the soft fleece. His breaths were shallow, and the rhythm reeked of unraveling, making you smile behind your lips a little. Chris’ held for dear life on the pillows resting in each corner of the couch, his nails clawing at the seams of the fabric.

“Lose that shirt, Evans.” Your throat was thorny, like your taste buds were trying to punish you until they got a drop of his flavor. Tugging downward on his boxers, he lifted to help you undress him, while pulling out of the collar of his t-shirt.

You know, the way every man does, and women worldwide lose their entire shit?

When his boxers hit his ankles, you beheld what you’d been missing while he was away. Recollection of the night you had talked him through his release over the phone while climaxing on his sheets swelled your pupils, your world going dark with lust now that you were able to feel him between your fists.

His thighs tensed under your palms when you looked up at him with eyes pained of overloading need, and his scruffy chest shook with the traces of a chuckle.

“Amelia Calvert. Never did I ever thi-“

Before he could sour the moment with some trip down fucking memory lane, you swallowed him to the hilt. You felt his whole body shift to stone, totally rigid like even his blood had calcified to a solid state. His head fell back, not a hair on his gorgeous head knocked out of place. You counted as you gulped around his cock, and Chris held his breath for precisely 22 seconds. His eyes shifted behind screwed shut lids, and you wondered if he had simply forgotten how to breath.

“You alright up there, handsome?” You purred, emptying your mouth of his impressive size for not a moment longer than necessary.

“I’m… Fuck. Yeah, baby. More… More than alright, Mills.”

What a sight he was for your fluttering eyes. Sculpted pecks unevenly flexing from his jerks of pleasure when your throat contracted around him. The outline of his picturesque abs had softened, but as you trailed your tickling fingers down his torso, you felt the hardness of a healthy, well-exercised man.

When your eyes would close, concentrating on milking away the stress of his day, he would breeze a finger through the lashes resting on the highest peak of your cheek. The squeaks and hiccupped mutters sliding off his lips made your head hurt with arouse, and you were sure if he didn’t finish soon, you’d be kneeling in your own mess beneath you.

“I’m almost fucking there, Amelia. Damn, baby. Look at me, will ya’?”

You had already concluded he had liked the angelic-like expression of your wild-hair framing your cheeks, and a dopey, wet-mouthed grin watching up at him. So, you tightened the lippy vice around his length, and bat your glassy, lidded eyes.

His back arched inward, and his damp palms latched onto the sides of your face as he leaned up to almost lunge for a kiss. When your tongue slurped and slid back and forth around his tip, and your grip around his base strengthened, Chris Evans blew all working circuits in his brain.

His beard with waxy with sweat, and his unclothed chest was blotched with redness and the glisten of an overdue orgasm. You dipped your head to clean your face in secret for a moment, and he was easily tugging at your hair.

“Don’t you hide that gorgeous face from me.” He combed back his now loosened, un-styled hair, words lagging in ecstasy.

You’d taken him like a desperate trollop, and truthfully, you’d felt a bit cheap now that the act was done. But the way he smiled at you, and swiped his thumb under your eyes to clean up the little smears of makeup there made the moments after a little better.

“I wasn’t expecting that, you know…”

“Good. And, neither was I, for the record.”

His discarded shirt was balled around his knuckles as he dried off the perspiration leaking out of his skin, then he stood to redress himself when you found a seat on the couch.

“Well, keeping taking me by surprise like that, Calvert, and I just may have to return the favor sooner rather than later.” He kissed you with spit-slicked lips and groped around the stretch of your throat gingerly.

The way you had gone at him in only the first hour of being in his presence had you anticipating the many, many surprises that would unfold over the next three days while he had you across the world globe, all to himself.  

TAGS: @miidailyinspiration @spideypxgirl @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog @littleluna98 @firstangeldragonranch @chrisevansforever 

[anaryllis]

i got a half pan empty watercolor tin!!! im converting all my tubed paints and letting them dry! (the one on the side needs another layer bc that brand makes more air bubbles ig) its gnna b so cute n so much more efficient..yes

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 22: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A small, Randomly Colored folded paper bird. When unfolded, it refolds itself and any crumples or tears it has sustained magically fix themselves.

An eyepatch resembling a large flower that covers the entire eye of the creature wearing it. When applied to a creature’s face, the eyepatch grows rootlike tendrils that wrap around the bearer's head to secure it.

A set of fish jaws fashioned into a bracelet. When worn, the bearer has an in depth knowledge of northern pike.

A bracelet made from a lattice of woven brass. It automatically adjusts itself to the wrist size of its bearer.

A shimmery cloak clasp depicting a violin and a sword. It smells vaguely of ash and fire.

A sealed metal tin labeled “Armstrong Mustache Wax”. According to the description, the recipe has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations

A glazed porcelain pipe. Everything about it seems vaguely familiar, but you aren’t sure why.

An old and beaten up steel drinking flask. After carrying the object for more than 1d4 hours, the bearer becomes convinced that the flask has to be kept a secret.

An uncannily familiar face etched into a piece of dead wood.

A marble pyramid, small enough to fit in a human’s palm. When held, shadows seem to flicker in the corners of the bearer's vision.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A small, Randomly Colored folded paper bird. When unfolded, it refolds itself and any crumples or tears it has sustained magically fix themselves.

An eyepatch resembling a large flower that covers the entire eye of the creature wearing it. When applied to a creature’s face, the eyepatch grows rootlike tendrils that wrap around the bearer's head to secure it.

A set of fish jaws fashioned into a bracelet. When worn, the bearer has an in depth knowledge of northern pike.

A bracelet made from a lattice of woven brass. It automatically adjusts itself to the wrist size of its bearer.

A shimmery cloak clasp depicting a violin and a sword. It smells vaguely of ash and fire.

A sealed metal tin labeled “Armstrong Mustache Wax”. According to the description, the recipe has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations

A glazed porcelain pipe. Everything about it seems vaguely familiar, but you aren’t sure why.

An old and beaten up steel drinking flask. After carrying the object for more than 1d4 hours, the bearer becomes convinced that the flask has to be kept a secret.

An uncannily familiar face etched into a piece of dead wood.

A marble pyramid, small enough to fit in a human’s palm. When held, shadows seem to flicker in the corners of the bearer's vision.

A glass marble that looks a bit like a lizard’s eye and is always a bit cold to the touch.

A dried yellow tulip bulb that becomes healthy and opens when brought into especially strong sunlight.

A rather clunky cube of dark wood, engraved with hypnotizing patterns.

A hand sized, grey, stone statuette of a woman. It’s exceptionally detailed for its size, as even the folds in her cloak look almost lifelike.

A sewing needle made from some type of unknown, otherworldly metal.

A maroon eye patch, covered in fine embroidery that depicts tangled rose vines.

A polished wooden carving of a fish that turns a vibrant green when placed in water.

A polished mirror in a simple wooden frame. Looking into it for too long makes people feel uneasy in a way they cannot fully describe.

A crudely made wool, right handed glove, that's always pleasantly warm.

A fist sized crystal that looks like it holds trapped smoke. It is easily scratched.

A velvet pouch filled with coarse sand that feels weightless.

A bronze brooch in the shape of a feather that lets off a faint glow.

A single Randomly Colored dragon scale, worn away by time.

A glass bottle of some type of potent-smelling tonic. It’s taste is gritty and bitter, and somewhat reminiscent of charcoal.

A leaf that never rots, wilts or decays. Purple speckles dapple its surface whenever it’s held in the light.

An empty section of honeycomb. It causes an almost electric tingle if touched to bare skin.

A lock of fur tied into a tight bundle with a parchment scrap beside it. It reads, “Pelt Sample #027”.

A gilded teacup, laced with a spiderweb of thin cracks. Despite the cracks, it never seems to break.

A slip of tattered paper covered in something resembling letters. It seems to be a poem written in an old language.

A tightly rolled scroll. Reading reveals it to be someone’s diary. They apparently had a dramatic life.

A simple, copper belt buckle.

A twisted, grey wooden walking cane sized for a halfling.

An ornate, tarnished key with two prongs. Neither end seems to be able to open anything.

A rich, purple hand fan. Intricate designs of peacocks cover it’s surface when unfolded.

A small piece of dead brain coral. Your mind feels at ease when you hold it.

A tablet of fired clay. Dozens of names are written on its surface.

An iron-bound bullhorn

A small bone whistle carved with symbols and imagery of death. When blown it creates shrill, eerie notes that echos into the distance.

A simple white ribbon. While it is attached to clothing, the bearer finds it difficult to fall asleep.

An urgent letter requesting help. The date indicates that it's from over a hundred years ago, but its linguistics are more suited to more current times.

A used incense burner crafted from a human sternum.

A finely beaded women's handbag. The beads are made of glass, and the different colors have been sewn into an image of a sandwich.

A large, dark blue button. On it is a baby's bassinet painted in gold.

A sewing kit filled with cacti needles with fine holes in the end instead of regular sewing needles.

A set of watercolor brushes perfectly sized for a gnome.

A bronze calligraphy pen covered in filigree patterns. When used as a writing utensil, the bearer will be incapable of stopping themselves from adding an "e", or that languages equivalent, to the end of every word.

A whetstone that will sharpen blades, but only if the bearer asks nicely first. If the bearer does not ask, every blade they attempt to sharpen will become increasingly dull.

A large vial made of smokey quartz, whose plug is comprised of compressed grass and glue.

A deck of well worn playing cards, marked with indeterminable stains and smelling of cigar smoke and whiskey.

A small bracelet made up of a series of interlocking clockwork mechanisms and ring puzzles.

A pamphlet for a new church in an unfamiliar town. It details their strong beliefs in polyamorous relationships and their condemnation for magic of any kind.

A pamphlet for a lecture on the differences between gnomes and halflings in a town not too far away.

A six inch coffin, hand carved from elm. The inside is padded and covered in light pink silk.

A plain oaken case, the inside of which is lined in plush, royal blue velvet. The velvet has three indents on which lie three ordinary looking pine cones.

A poorly made porcelain vase with gold leaf randomly placed on it.

A mason jar with a scattering of unicorn hair across the bottom.

A stuffed toy frog with amber, glass eyes. When in possession of the bearer, they will notice that the air around them is oddly absent of bugs.

A set of fake eyelashes made out of owlbear fur.

A short haired wig made from owlbear fur.

A long haired, black wig made from the hair of a horse's mane. There are strands of gold woven through it.

A fairly unused set of Orcish dentures. The canine teeth are made of silver.

A crystal perfume bottle half filled with a potent, musky scent.

A gnome sized silver hair brush. On it in Orcish script is crudely scratched “Remember Me”

Several dried moose ears sewn together and fashioned into a sheath for an average sized dagger

A black linen sleeping mask that covers the bearer's eyes during sleep to stop light from bothering the bearer.

A clear hermit crab shell made of glass.

A small bowl made of bronze. If any liquid but water is put in it, it will take on a salty taste.

An off-white canvas bag with a green and bronze dragon embroidered on it. It always smells of a campfire that has just been put out.

A small pillbox made out of layered purple, metallic scales. A close examination reveals that the scales are metallic, but even a knowledgeable PC cannot identify what creature they originally belonged to.

A small bag containing a set of a dozen 2x2 cm steel cubes.

A large riding crop with steel studs in it. A creature hit by it immediately develops a series of bloody welts in their skin which spell out the word "Ouch".

A pair of Randomly Coloured silk stockings.

A flute that makes no sound, no matter how it is played. It’s surface is a shimmery grey.

A heartfelt poem about unrequited love on a pristine scroll.

A stone tablet, with etchings of great heroes covering it. All of their eyes are scratched out.

A sketch depicting a wilting rose that causes anyone who looks at it to feel bleak.

A flamboyant masquerade mask with large, rare feathers coming from one side. There’s a small chip under the left eye.

A ragged piece of burlap with the personal crest of a wealthy merchant inked onto it.

A set of smooth iron bangles. They have a decent weight to them, as if they’re pure rather than plated.

A broad cavalier hat that's a bit old, but it’s still fairly stylish.

An ornate saucer painted with scenes of songbirds in flight. Whenever you aren’t looking directly at it, the birds seem to move.

A wooden birdhouse, carved and painted to look like a castle.

A wooden spool with three feet of coiled copper wire.

A specially crafted steel cage that looks like it could hold about five rats. It includes stout leather straps around its open end and a metal crucible for holding hot charcoal or other fuel on its top end. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize this as a torture device used by tightly strapping the open end of the device to a helpless victim’s abdomen, inserting the rats into the cage, and setting the crucible’s fuel alight. The increasing strong heat of the metal crucible causes the rats to gnaw and dig their way through the victim’s abdomen to escape. Panicked rats will chew clear through the victim's body in order to escape the heat.

A deck of illustrated fortune-teller’s cards, used by those in tune with the spirit world to predict the future, and by charlatans to take money from gullible or desperate people. The deck is made of quality wooden plaques with painted color images and is stored in a smooth leather case.

A large suitcase containing a croquet set. It includes four wooden mallets, nine wooden wickets (goals), and four wooden balls.

A suitcase containing a dartboard set. It includes a multicolored board that breaks into four smaller pieces for easy travel and six brass-tipped darts. The board itself consists of a layer of of painted cork on hardwood backing.

A wooden box containing a set of dominoes. There are 28 white marble tiles with pips on each end.

A set of four brightly colored juggling sticks adorned with colorful streamers that can be tossed and manipulated to create displays and patterns.

A leather case containing two iron stakes and four iron horseshoes.

A thin length of rope with many oddly shaped bits of hollow metal fixed along its length. Commonly known as a roar cord, a creature can swing it over their head to generate a variety of eerie noises.

A broad-brimmed straw hat with a green linen band

A cast iron skillet whose perfect mirror surface never scratches.

A wood cased harmonica trimmed in tin

A small sack containing 30 gold pieces. Perceptive PC's will notice that they are all fakes, with thin gold plating over lead coins.

A palm sized rock with a lifelike mouth painted on it. While in a creature's possession, any laugh, chuckle or giggle the bearer utters sounds forced or fake, even if it's genuine.

An anklet made from fresh liquid blood, held together by odd magic.

A strange horn made of a winding pretzel of valves and tubes that according to the maker's mark, was finely crafted by a powerful bard. Knowledgeable PC's will remember that the horn was constructed for one purpose, to lock a terrible beast away deep within the mountain of Redwall. It contains a large portion of the life essence of that bard and to this day it remains as the solitary key to the door that holds the beast at bay. No one knows who this bard was, but he remains an unsung hero of the city.

A demon skin stretched over a black wooden war drum that creates deep growling rumbles when beaten.

A driftwood coin whose color is constantly swirling in different muted hues, from pale gray to seafoam green and even thin stripes of black. The surface of the coin is utterly smooth, as if it has spent an aeon at the bottom of the sea. Despite this, the elven queen and king that adorn its opposite faces are still depicted in perfect detail.