#are supposed to blend and overlap

[bluuscreen]

laios touden the monster man that you are…

original panel btw

[moe-broey]

Quick and rough Plumeria redesign, mostly just cause...... I gotta do what comes naturally to me, man. Give me some Shapes. Simplify that design or so help me.

I don't have a lot of complex thoughts about it, actually! Just the idea of having a "sexy" outfit that draws the eyes to certain parts of the body -- while simultaneously being modest and Sharp. Having an edge to it. Also!!!! The luna moth inspired wings!!! I wanted to stay within her og color palette, but I've also always thought luna moth wings would suit her... the top wing is vaguely heart shaped, too!

[dcxdpdabbles]

Holiday request: child support

John is in a meeting with the Justice League when Clockwork comes knocking. It's a regular update on security and safety procedures, the kind of boring stuff John would have customarily skipped out on, except that this meeting also covers how to provide younger teams support.

Teams that his son was a part of. If Danny was ever on a mission, that could have ended in him passing simply because some wanker didn't know how to find him or how to help him in time?

So here was John, half slumped over his chair as Batman droned about procedures and policies. He had barely gotten through Wonder Woman's long lecture on support combat.

He was thinking of grabbing a coffee- John's been working on his drinking after making a promise to try and get sober for his son- so he was replacing the urge for alcohol with coffee. It was one of the hardest things he's ever done.

Thankfully, he knows some spells that help with withdrawals. It's better than the alternative, even if some days are shitter than others.

"Hello, Johnny," Coos, the Ancient being of Time, flouting before him in his human form. John can feel every hero's jaw drop even as he smiles awkwardly at the other parent of his child.

"Clockwork." He greets, eyes taking in the gorgeous features of Time. He nods his head towards the bag, flouting by Clockwork. "Lovely to see you as always. Got a gift for me?"

"Hmm." Clockwork flouts down, landing on his feet and surveying the room. His pure red eyes sparkled in amusement as the awestruck members of the Justice League. Even Batman seemed momently thrown- though if that was because of Clockwork's beauty or the insane amount of power pushing down on all their souls was anyone's guess.

"I've come to spend a weekend with my son. And you, I suppose, if you do not mind housing me." Clockwork says, at last, patting the bag. John feels his mouth go dry. Yes, he slept with Acient before and wouldn't be opposed to another round, but Clockwork wasn't his average ex.

Clockwork held the entire multiverse at the tip of his fingers, suspended on his amusement, and it could all be destroyed with a mere snap from the other. If he found disproved of even the slightest thing about how John was raising Danny, he could kill billions of people, or worse, he could take Danny away.

John feels cold dread grip his heart even as he laughs. "Of course, I can house you. I hope you won't find being in the human world too much hassle."

"Oh no. I have the perfect disguise to blend in with the humans." Clockwork assures, pulling out a pair of fetching glasses and a white cane. He places them on his head and taps his stick on the ground before grinning. John finds himself instantly spotting the same cocky curve to Danny's own grin, and his heart swells.

"Now, where is my boy? It's been years since I last saw him." Clockwork pauses before shrugging his head. "Or it's only been nine months in this realm. Still a long time for my son."

The Ancient snaps his fingers, ripping a portal open to the front of Danny's school. He offers his arm to the blond man, nodding toward Gotham Academy. The soft ring of the dismissal bells rings as students start pouring out of the front door in drones. Classes for the day have just ended.

"Come along, Johnny. Guide me." John shoots the Leauge an apologetic smile, knowing they will understand how important this visit is. He loops his arm through Clockwork, while heaving the man's bag over his other shoulder. The soft tapping of Clockwork's cane on the ground is the portal's only sound before it slams closed.

It cuts off the explosion of noise the Leauge makes, but with all those overlapping voices, John has no idea who said what.

Danny walks out of the school with Damian, Jon, and Colin, laughing and beaming at the younger boys. Clockwork pauses for a few seconds before he beams.

"You're doing a great job, Johnny." The Ancient says just as Danny's gaze locks on them. His face fumbles with ripples of emotion before lighting up in glee. He races towards them with a gutted shout, "Father!"

Clockwork opens his arms just as Danny slams into him. John steps back, but the Ancient grabs the sleeve of his trench coat and drags him into the hug.

"A really great job." The non-human whispers into John's ear. He feels a soft caress against his magic as if Clockwork was brushing the hair out of his face. His heart flutters softly, even as Danny beams at them, and various teenagers panic at his boy's beauty.

Something tells John that having his ex visiting won't be as bad as he initially thought.

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

redrew issue 15's cover! idw please hmu

alt version/og cover/explaining the changes under the cut:

i didnt know if i preferred the expressions on the evil martys or not so here's the version without them

the coloring on the outfit marty wears in the og cover is kind of mid ill be real. the purple also kind of blended in with the bg so i made him green instead

also about his coloring almost all of his colors aren't seen in the other martys, just so he stands out a little bit more from the rest of them! yeah theres a little bit of overlap but that's for the color cohesion. the rest of them have warm colors + blue so i would like to think the green and grey is a lot more noticable

i changed the two outer marty's outfits so that all of the Evil Martys are wearing something that marty wears in the movies at moments where he could've died. one could argue that the 2015 fit fits into this criteria but i thought getting shot by buford was a little more significant than getting his lights knocked out by griff seeing as the movie built that one up a lot more than the other

also it's a fullbody shot bc. i wanted to

the original rightmost marty is so funny to me. there's fits from the movies and then just a completely random outfit. why is bro colorcoded like the prowler from spiderman? or even doc from the cartoon which actually is a lot more related than the prowler from spiderman so maybe i should've listed him first. i think maybe this suit was actually supposed to be the one he wears when he almost fades out of existence at the dance but the colorist didn't get the memo so that might explain it. maybe i should've drawn that one instead of the 1955 leather jacket but whatever. we ball

also his fist is just Up. he's trying he wants to be included

[kjhbsies]

A Minute Too Late

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join my 500 celebration!

Smallville Clark Kent x reader

synopsis: She ignored his warning, and he let his anger push her away. But love doesn’t disappear that easily, especially not when he’s ready to make it right.

wordcount: 3, 061

note: angst to fluff. clark was kinda mean here :<< based on this request.

You and Clark came from different worlds. Sure, his rise in popularity after joining the football team had gained him attention, especially from girls. But your circles never overlapped. Not really. His friends were known for being in everyone's business, especially Chloe, who had earned a nickname "nose sticker" for her relentless digging into Smallville's strange happenings.

Your own friends didn't hate them. There wasn't some vendetta against them. But to put it, their interests just didn't align. Investigating meteor freaks and tracking some unexplained phenomena didn't exactly fit into weekend spontaneous trips or late-night parties. So no one expected you and Clark to become... anything.

But one fateful physics project threw you together. And slowly, bit by bit, you and Clark started to understand each other.

To Clark, you were intimidating. He'd talked to girls before— hell, he'd even dated a few. But something about you has made his throat go dry and his words stumble out half-formed. You weren't loud or cruel as the stereotypes had painted you to be. You just... carried yourself like you didn't need anyone. And your smile? Oh, it went straight to your heart. You presence was magnetic— he hated how drawn he was to you.

But you weren't dating. Not officially... yet. You two were just figuring things out together. Letting the moments between you speak louder than any labels ever could.

So when you invited him to your friend's party, he hesitated. Not because he didn't want to go out with you, but because something didn't sit right. Chloe and Pete were surprisingly eager, ready to mingle and blend into your world for once. You were thrilled, too. But Clark was reluctant.

The next day, you were glowing with excitement. You picked out your dress, chose what hairstyle you'd do, and what type of makeup you'd wear.

Until Clark texted you.

Don't go to the party. It's dangerous. Something bad is going to happen.

You stared at the messages. Confused. Alarmed. But mostly hurt.

He wouldn't answer your calls. Wouldn't explain anything. And part of you thought— maybe that was his way of bailing. After all, he seemed adamant about going. Maybe this was his way of saying no without saying it. You tried to shrug it off, tried not to let the disappointment wash over you. So you went anyway. You told yourself he was just being overprotective. Or paranoid.

But he was right.

Not even thirty minutes in, chaos ensued. A creature— something inhuman— crashed the place. Screams filled the air. People ran in different directions. Smoke, fire, glass shattering— a havoc unfolding before your eyes.

You were nearly trampled on the way out. But then, strong, unrelenting arms scooped you from the crowd and carried you out.

Clark.

His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were burning.

"Clark—"

"Save it." His voice was low, sharp, and cold. He opened the passenger door and gently placed you inside. Despite everything, his touch was still careful. Still him. "I asked you for one thing. One damn thing. Stay home."

"Without telling me why?" You shot back, breathless and shaking. "What did you expect me to do, Clark? Blindly obey?"

He turned, grabbing the first aid kit from the back of his truck. "I was busy. Trying to prevent the incident. I didn't have time to spell it out for you."

Ouch.

You softened. "Clark... how was I supposed to know? I just..." You swallowed hard. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

He didn't answer right away. He placed a bandage on the scrape on your cheek, his touch gentle despite the fury in his bones.

"Won't it?" He asked, voice low. "You were so eager to go with your friends. To fit into that world. How do I know you won't do it again next time I told you to?"

You parted your lips to say something. But nothing came out.

He closed the kit and placed it on the back again. His words were quieter as he started the engine. "Just say it. Say that you trust your friends more than me."

"I don't..." You whispered, eyes stinging, but he didn't meet your gaze. Not even once in the whole ride back home. You turned your face towards the window, letting the tears fall silently. Not that it mattered. He won't even look at you.

When you reached your house, Clark got out and opened your door. Still not saying a word.

You stepped out, eyes red, and looked at him one last time. His expression hadn't changed— still serious, unreadable. Though a small flicker of worry passed through his eyes as he saw your face through the dim light. Still, he didn't say anything.

"Goodnight, Clark," You said softly. "I'm sorry."

You tiptoed and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek— barely there, trembling— and he didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Didn't stop you from walking away.

The next morning, you went to the Kent farm. To be honest, you didn't even know what to expect. An apology? A hug? Some kind of warm smile that gently said, 'It's okay now.'

Maybe.

All you knew was that the ache in your chest hadn't gone away since he dropped you off last night. So you went, because it hurt too much to sit and do nothing. You need to see him. Talk to him. And fix whatever's going on with you two now— if there's even anything left to fix.

When you knocked on their door, it was Martha who opened it.

"Oh, sweetheart. Clark's in the barn right now." She said, offering you a kind smile.

You made your way across the yard, trying to rehearse the words in your head. 'I'm sorry again. I should've trusted you. Can we talk now?' You tried to stay optimistic. Maybe he'd cooled off. Maybe last night's anger dissipated today, and he might understand you now.

But when you reached the barn and found him there, standing with his back to you— working on something, you hesitated.

"C—Clark," You said gently.

He didn't turn. Didn't even pause on what he was doing.

"I'm busy," He muttered and then walked away.

Just like that.

You stood there, stunned. The air felt heavier at this moment than it did during the chaos of the house party. Because, at least then, he held you. Now? Now, he wouldn't even look at you.

Still, you didn't give up. You tried the next day— approaching him after your shared class. But he walked too fast the moment the instructor had dismissed it. Like he was in a hurry. Like he couldn't even stand being near you within a minute.

The day after that, you waited by the bleachers during football practice. You sat there the whole time, under the scorching sun, hoping he'd glance your way. It's impossible that Clark didn't see you. Of course, he did. But he didn't glance at your way, at least, not without you knowing. He kept throwing the ball with more force than usual, almost enough to make his teammate stumble whilst catching it. And when you stood up and waved at him, he turned his back. Again.

You approached him in the hallway when he was with Chloe and Pete. He didn't even acknowledge you— just kept walking. It was Chloe who answered when you asked him how his leg was after practice. Pete gave a sympathetic smile and a gentle tap on your shoulder. But Clark said nothing.

It went on for days.

A week.

A week of chasing. A week of trying. Of questioning your worth. Wondering if you'd been stupid enough to think he'd ever cared. For ever believing you could mean something to someone like him.

And then, one afternoon, you saw him at the library.

It was at the same corner table where you two worked on the physics project that had started it all. The table where he first called you brilliant without flinching. The place where you two brushed hands and laughed at the same dorky pun.

For a moment, you thought about walking over. You even took a step. But when he turned his head, you panicked— ducking behind some shelf like some child playing hide and seek. You peeked, quietly, heart hammering in your chest as you watched him gather his things and quickly joined Chloe and Pete.

There was a voice in your head urging you to try again. To say something, anything. Maybe this time, he'd listen. But another part of you— the bruised, part— told you to just... stop. To let go.

Maybe it wasn't just meant to work. Maybe whatever's going on between you and Clark has burned out. You wanted it to be him— God, you wanted it to be him. To feel his arms around you again. To laugh and be the best version of yourself that existed around him. But maybe... wanting him isn't enough.

So, you stopped sitting beside him in class, found a new seat between your friends, and started showing up to your hangouts, more movie nights, just to keep yourself busy. Just to distract yourself from the fact that your eyes always drifted to where he was. That you still waited to hear the sound of his voice.

But you didn't chase him anymore. And in a strange, bittersweet way, it was freeing. To stop obsessing. To stop waiting for his presence.

But the what-ifs kept haunting you.

What if he had turned just in time to see you at the library?

What if you just waited a little more?

What if he had just... tried too?

Meanwhile, Clark noticed. He always noticed.

He saw how you stopped walking towards him after class. How your seat stayed empty beside his. How your laughter echoed from across the room, distant now. Like a sound haunting his mind and dreams.

He told himself that it was what he wanted. Maybe it wasn't just meant to work between you two. But the hollow in his chest had said otherwise.

"So, what's up with you and Y/n?" Chloe asked casually, as the three of them were seated in the bleachers.

Clark opened his mouth to say something smart, but the glare Chloe had sent him had shut him up.

He sighed, "I got mad at her for going to the house party. After I told her not to."

"That was last week, Clark." Chloe snapped. "You still haven't talked to her since?"

He shrugged, trying to look unfazed. "I mean... yeah."

But even he could hear the sadness in his voice.

"You're dumb as hell," Chloe said bluntly.

"Wow, thanks." He muttered.

"May I remind you that Y/n doesn't know about your..." She gestured vaguely at him. "Superpower alien situation? She's not psychic. And I bet you didn't even explain anything. You just shut her out."

"But still, shouldn't she be trusting me and not be so hard-headed on insisting on going to that house party?" Clark threw his hands helplessly,

Pete, who had been watching, stretched his legs and stood up. "Man, I get that you're scared people will find out. But seriously? Y/n was clueless. It's not fair for you to get so mad when you never told her the real reason you didn't want her at that party."

Clark exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "I was just trying to protect her."

“And you hurt her instead,” Chloe said quietly. “And now? You’re the one walking around like you lost something important.”

Because he had.

Maybe you weren’t just pulling away.

Maybe he had pushed you out.

And maybe— just maybe— he wasn’t sure how to get you back.

Once Chloe's and Pete's words had hit him like a truck, he realized what he'd done— what he'd lost— if he didn't try to fix this immediately. He thought his powers could solve most of his problems: with his super speed, strength, and even flying when necessary. But somehow, he couldn't get to you.

He would walk around the halls, searching for you after class, but you were already gone. A blur of motion, always just out of earshot, your laughter fading behind a closing door or around the hallways. He would show up to your next class, waiting, only for your friends to steer you towards another room, another place far away from him.

He watched you from a distance, every part of him aching. You still smiled— just not at him. You still spoke— but never to him. And he hated himself for the relief that flooded his chest every time you looked at him, even if briefly, like it was a muscle memory. Like a small piece in your heart still remembers him.

One afternoon, he thought he finally had his chance. You were sitting on the grass outside the campus cafe, and Clark had approached you slowly, heart thudding like a human's for once. But just as he neared, you stood up— and your friends were already calling you over.

"Y/n! Come on, let's go shopping!" One of them laughed, waving the keys in the air.

You hesitated, looking over to where Clark was. "I— I-uh..." You gulped, you didn't even know why you were stopping.

"Come on, you promised!" Another friend teased, pulling at your arm.

He tried to call your name weakly. But it caught in his throat.

You looked back at him— really looked—and he could feel the war going on in your head. He could see the part of you that still wanted to stay. But you didn't.

He even tried going to your house one night. Showing up on your porch like a teenager in a romcom movie, holding a bouquet of flowers— sunflowers— because you said it reminds you of summer.

But your mom answered with an apologetic smile.

"She's not here, honey. Sorry."

He left the flowers anyway, hoping you'd take them. But they withered before you ever saw them.

Pete had also been giving him side eyes, full of sympathy but also that quiet judgment.

"Maybe just give her time, man." He said. "You broke her heart."

"I didn't mean to." Clark quipped back.

"Doesn't mean it didn't happen."

"Karma," Chloe said. "You avoided her for a week, and now you're acting like she was the one who owes you the time of the day?"

Clark sighed. "I just... I need her to know that I'm sorry."

"Then stop waiting for the perfect moment. Just talk to her. Tell her what she means to you."

And he did. He tried.

One day, he got lucky.

You were alone near the field. The late afternoon sun was hitting the trees just right, golden and soft, and there you were, leaning against the wooden fence, watching the breeze move through the grass.

Clark walked towards you immediately.

And when you turned around— and when your eyes met his— he nearly broke.

Because there you were. The girl he hurt. The girl he likes. The girl he missed the most.

"Y/n," He breathed, voice cracking.

You tensed. You watched him with careful eyes, but you didn't move one bit.

"I've been trying to find the right time," He said, stepping closer. "But I guess... there isn't one. So I'm just gonna say it."

You opened your mouth to say something— but then a loud honk stopped you.

Your friends pulled up in a small car, grinning, waving at you.

"Y/n! Let's gooo!" One of them yelled. "Golden hour photoshoot by the lake!"

You looked back and forth— at the car, then Clark, who was standing now in front of you, desperate.

"Please," He said softly, reaching out to take your hand. His touch was gentle, like he was afraid you'd pull away. "Just a minute. Please, I need to talk to you."

You look at your friends, biting your lip. "You girls should go."

"Alright. Go on, lovebirds!" They yelled, grinning like idiots as they waved off and pulled away.

You turned back to Clark, and he didn’t waste a second.

“I was stupid,” He said. “I was scared, and I shut you out. I told myself I was protecting you by not explaining everything, but that’s not fair. You deserved honesty. You deserved more than silence.”

You blinked, but your throat was too tight to speak.

“I was angry at you for going to that party, but the truth is, I was mad at myself for not telling you why it scared me so much. Because I’m not just some guy who’s overprotective— I’m someone with… secrets. Big ones.”

You looked up, eyes searching his. “Secrets?”

He nodded, eyes filled with guilt.

“I’m not normal, Y/N. Not in the ‘I have baggage’ way— more like, I’m not even from here. Not really. I have powers. I can run faster than sound, lift tractors, and hear conversations from miles away. I’m different. And the idea of something happening to you when I wasn’t there— when I couldn’t protect you…”

He exhaled, voice trembling.

“It terrified me.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Processing.

“I wish you had just said that,” You whispered.

“I know. I should have. And I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me now. I messed everything up. I ignored you. I hurt you. And I regret it more than anything.” He stepped closer. “But I miss you. Every day. And I’d do anything— anything— for a chance to make it right.”

You looked at his face. Red-rimmed eyes. That clenched jaw. The way he was holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“I still like you,” You finally whispered.

Clark’s breath hitched.

“Really?”

You nodded, a small tear slipping down your cheek.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” You admitted. “I’m tired. I don’t want to keep getting hurt.”

“You won’t,” He promised, stepping closer, hands now cradling yours. “You won’t. I’ll prove it every day if I have to. Just— please, let me try again.”

You looked at him for a moment longer.

And then you threw your arms around his neck, hugging him tight.

He hugged back immediately, like his entire soul exhaled the moment he held you again.

“I missed you, too,” You murmured against his shoulder.

©kjhbsies

[graci3sb0w]

Maroon

Gracie Abrams x Female Reader

Summary : could you be the one? Or could it be just a mistake, an accident?

Warnings : sad ending, angst, crying

You never meant to stay this long.

It was supposed to be a quick stop—an innocent visit to Gracie’s apartment, maybe an hour or two of talking, some music playing in the background, and then you’d leave before the night swallowed the city whole. But time slipped through your fingers the way incense smoke curled toward the ceiling, hazy and ungraspable, until you were both sprawled out on the floor, giggling over something neither of you would remember in the morning.

Gracie’s record player hummed softly from the corner of the room, the vinyl spinning endlessly as if it, too, had lost track of time. Your feet rested in her lap, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your ankle as she laughed at something you said. The wine bottle—Audrey’s cheap-ass screw-top rosé—was nearly empty, and the evidence of your carelessness stained the front of her T-shirt in a deep burgundy. You had knocked the glass right out of her hand while telling a story, and for a second, all you could do was stare at the spreading color before the two of you dissolved into breathless laughter.

“How’d we end up on the floor anyway?” Gracie asked, voice light with amusement.

You shrugged, barely able to contain your grin. “I think your terrible wine might have something to do with it.”

She nudged your leg in mock offense, but the smile on her face betrayed her. “Rude.”

You didn’t leave that night. Nor the next.

Somewhere along the way, your presence in Gracie’s world became less of a guest appearance and more of a permanent fixture. You saw her every day, your lives overlapping in ways you never anticipated. Mornings blurred into afternoons spent wandering through the city, stealing moments in coffee shops, whispering secrets in bookstores. Nights were filled with music and laughter, your voice blending with hers in quiet harmonies only the two of you understood.

One evening, you found yourselves barefoot in the middle of an empty street, the New York skyline stretching above you. The night air was crisp, electric, and the city lights reflected in her eyes as she pulled you closer.

“I chose you,” she whispered, her fingers tangled in yours.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just squeezed her hand, hoping she could feel the way your heart was threatening to escape your chest. The world faded away as you danced, feet skimming the pavement, the stars above bearing witness to something too big for words.

Lazy Sunday mornings were your favorite. Waking up to the scent of coffee, Gracie curled into your side, her hair a mess against your pillow. She would murmur sleepy protests whenever you tried to move, her arms tightening around you. The two of you would stay like that for hours, wrapped in warmth and quiet laughter, music playing softly in the background.

But not all nights were kind.

There were moments when silence crept between you, heavy and suffocating. When words failed, when distance grew—not in miles, but in the space between two hearts that once beat in sync. You would find her standing in the hallway, eyes hollow, fingers gripping a bouquet of carnations she had mistaken for roses. A metaphor too painful to ignore.

“How did we lose sight of us again?” you asked one night, voice barely above a whisper.

Gracie didn’t answer. Instead, she crumbled, her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. You wanted to fix it. To fix her. But some things weren’t meant to be repaired, no matter how much love was poured into them.

The fights were never explosive, never loud. They were quiet, simmering, unraveling you both in ways neither of you knew how to stop. Nights spent lying in the same bed but feeling miles apart, your hands twitching with the desire to reach for her but your pride keeping you still.

Then one day, she was gone.

You lost her.

The city felt different after that—colder, emptier. You still woke up with the ghost of her touch lingering on your skin, her memory woven into the fabric of your days. The rust between telephones grew, the space between you becoming insurmountable. She had been your home, your safe place, and now all you had were echoes of a love that once burned so vividly.

You would see reminders of her everywhere. The bookstore where she once ran her fingers over the spines of novels, the café where she used to order the same iced coffee, the street corner where she first grabbed your hand. And every time, your chest would tighten, grief pressing into you like a weight you couldn’t shake.

But even in her absence, she remained. The burgundy stain on your old T-shirt, the bite-mark she left on your collarbone, the laughter you could still hear when the city grew quiet.

A legacy, real and undeniable.

It was maroon.

[fafodill]

Yeah ok, I’ll make my case for Snape/Shacklebolt, I've a completely sincere soft spot for them.

Shacklebolt’s an honorable guy, but he’s very much a manipulator. Dude’s introduced lying to his superiors that Sirius is in Tibet! He can talk down Vernon and blend in in a muggle government office! He plays double-duty working for the Ministry and the Order and he does it so well that he gets elected minister in the aftermath! He’s the “face” that gets initial post-war reforms past a staggeringly conservative government and population! He’s also highly competent. This is the exact sort of guy Snape tends to attach himself to (Voldemort, Dumbledore… heck, I’d even count Lucius and imperius-specialist Mulciber among the good-at-his-job manipulators. Obvs Voldy and Dumbles are the most competent, but even Lucy is quite good at what he does before Voldemort rugpulls him!) Snape, of course, has the rare-among-wizards gift of logic and common sense (…usually) and has a strict set of morals (even if they seem incomprehensible from the outside sometimes), which makes him an anomaly in the setting.

Some sort of post-war setup where Snape survives could frankly have them being stabilizing influences on each other — Shacklebolt has this “functional adult” thing on lockdown and has absolutely dealt with worse tantrums, and Snape has the ability to look him in the face and be like “that’s absolute bullshit” when the situation calls for it, their traumas do not seem to overlap, they can keep up with each other mentally without feeling like they’re encroaching on each other’s specialty… it’s downright nice and peaceful. They realize they don't have to lie to each other, since Shacklebolt knows Snape was a spy and Snape knows at least the general gist of what the post-war reform plan is, and then they bond over shittalking everyone in private and being the smartest two people in any given room (now that Dumbles is dead), and then one morning Snape wakes up to the shocking revelation that he’s been in a relationship for like two years and has never once been asked to be useful about it.

… Also polite, charming, ex-auror and gleefully public-facing politician Minister Shacklebolt with his bitchy dark arts-obsessed unwilling war hero of a husband is just a fun mental image.

You know what, Snackelbolt!anon? I dig it.

It does sound peaceful. A bit like Tonks/Moody. They just vibe and aren't riddled with overlapping trauma.

And I suppose Snape would still be triggered and weakened from the war but I could imagine Kingsley (being a functional adult) being able to 1) protect him from the press and prying eyes after the war to help him heal, 2) be able to get through Snape's fits of anger without flinching too much and deescalating the situation quite well (he's a politician) and 3) be one of the very few people who could convince him after a while to go to therapy.

And they develop a true respect for each other and slowly it evolves and one night Severus is at Kingsley's place (like every Thursdays) and they're talking on the couch and there's a silence and they look at each other and there's something in the air you know (even Severus can feel it and that makes him super nervous) and Kingsley is very chill about it (he's aware of what's been happening for a while he's in no rush).

And they kiss but Severus stops it because he's overwhelmed but most of all he's anxious about changing their relationship because it's actually nice and he values it and he doesn't want to loose that.

But Kingsley is chill. And it takes its time (a bit like in 'Second Life' if you know you know) and then I love the idea of 'it's two years later and Severus realizes he's in a relationship and hasn't been asked to be useful in any way.'

Yeah, I dig it. I'd like to read that first time on the couch.

[chrattvibe]

៹Somewhere else... rapper!chris.

slow burn (kind of), long asf, be patient. strangers to something, flirting, soft tension, co-worker!matt cameo.

She rang the bell on the eighth floor, exhaling through her nose like she was about to face something more important than a casual dinner.

Matt's voice came through the intercom, sounding a bit more cheerful than usual.

"It's open!"

The buzzing sound unlocked the building doors, and she stepped inside. The elevator took a few seconds to arrive. As she rode it up, alone, hands in the pockets of her light jacket, a few inevitable thoughts crossed her mind.

I could’ve said no.

But something had piqued her interest. Matt’s message in the group chat had been kind, no pressure:

"Reminder! dinner at my place tonight with the office crew. Super chill. Come by if you want."

And here she was. Eighth floor.

It wasn’t like she didn’t get along with her coworkers. She just… didn’t fully connect. Her job wasn’t awful, but it didn’t represent her. It felt like a loop of repetitive tasks that someone else could easily do. She's actually a photographer and as a kid, she dreamed of adventure, travel, going from place to place. Now she sent emails, had meetings, and uploaded photos to the drive.

Maybe that’s why she forced herself to come. To see if, for a few hours, she could break the loop. Get to know her coworkers a little better. Maybe get something good out of this job.

From outside the apartment, she could hear voices, laughter, and music soft enough not to bother the neighbors. Nerves hit her stomach hard.

When she stepped inside, Matt greeted her with a short hug, and her coworkers smiled warmly, clearly happy she’d actually come.

“Come on in, make yourself at home.”

The place was cozy, filled with overlapping conversations and half-empty plates. People offered her food, drinks. Everyone moved around Matt’s apartment like they lived there. It made sense—she usually skipped social gatherings unless they were in a bar or somewhere she could easily blend into the crowd and disappear at any time.

But something surprised her: the conversations weren’t about reports or deadlines. During dinner, people talked about movies, travel, pets, absurd high school stories. She chatted with coworkers she’d never exchanged more than a “good morning” with. And she laughed. More than once. She actually liked them.

“Alright,” Matt said with a grin, standing up after opening a bottle of beer, “I reserved the rooftop for a bit. The weather’s nice, and I want to show off the city lights.”

There were cheers and the scraping of chairs. Everyone started picking up plates, cups, a leftover tray or two. The apartment slowly emptied.

She pulled on her light jacket, grabbed her glass, and followed the group down the hallway, climbing the building’s internal stairs. The rooftop was nice. Well-lit, with some sofas and tables. While a few people busied themselves setting out drinks from a makeshift cooler and arranging snacks, she stood off to the side, chatting with a couple coworkers. Well, not really chatting. She stared out at the view while half-listening. The city lights, the buildings, the cars, the people... well, one person. From the rooftop, she spotted someone who looked exactly like Matt entering the building. She found it curious.

Chris, a few minutes earlier, had been driving through the streets of Los Angeles, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily resting on the window. The music was low, letting the night speak a little.

He’d left the studio not long ago. Solid session—smooth, relaxed. Not one of those draining days. He’d had fun and finished a song. His stereo cut out when the low battery warning popped up on his phone.

Fuck... He was supposed to swing by Matt’s place earlier to grab his forgotten charger. Of course, he forgot that too.

He could’ve asked Matt to drop it off at his place for him, or waited until the next day. But he was already in his car, it wasn’t much of a detour, and he had no real plans tonight. Matt was probably doing nothing—like always on a Friday night. Worst case, he’d grab a beer and beat him at fortnite.

He parked on the usual block, crossed the street with his usual calm air, and walked into the building like he owned it. Used the code Matt had given him ages ago and pushed the door open. In the elevator, he adjusted his hair beneath his cap, glancing at his reflection.

When he stepped into the eighth floor hallway, he heard muffled laughter in the distance. He walked up to Matt’s door and knocked a couple of times with his knuckles. Nothing. He took a step back, debating whether to knock again or just call him, but before he could pull out his phone, the door opened.

“What are you doing here?” Matt asked, half-surprised, half-amused.

“Left my charger.” Chris raised an eyebrow. “Was gonna grab it tomorrow, but I was nearby.”

Matt stepped aside to let him in.

“We’re up on the roof. Come up if you want.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked off, the bag of ice in his hands starting to get way too cold.

Chris frowned. What does he mean by "we"? He shrugged and stepped inside his brother’s apartment. Smiled slightly at the sight of empty plates on the counter, half-eaten pizza boxes, open bottles.

He grabbed a slice of untouched pizza and went straight to Matt’s room. Found the charger, pocketed it, made sure the door was locked behind him, and headed to the rooftop—still unsure what was waiting for him, but knowing it had to be more interesting than his nonexistent Friday plans.

She didn’t hear the metal door open. She was facing away, leaning on the railing, her eyes lost in the city. Glass in hand, her body slightly turned—more comfortable watching than participating. Disassociating.

Chris stepped onto the rooftop without saying anything, biting into the slice he’d stolen from his brother. He scanned the group—lots of different people—until he spotted Matt and headed over.

“So? What’s all this?” Chris asked, finishing his bite. He brushed crumbs off his hands.

Matt, setting the bag of ice on a low table next to the beers and sodas, turned toward him with a half-smile.

“My coworkers. Remember that contract I told you about?”

“The one that’s been driving you nuts for weeks?”

Matt laughed softly. He was right.

“Yeah. We signed it. We’re celebrating.”

“Oh really? That’s great. Congrats man.” Chris said, and they exchanged a quick handshake.

Chris raised his eyebrows slightly, taking a better look at the group. He recognized a few: two or three were Matt’s regular friends. The rest... not so much. Mixed ages, styles. One guy with an obnoxious laugh. A girl with glitter on her eyelids. Another pouring herself a drink while texting.

Plenty of new faces. A few looked at him like they were trying to confirm he was who they thought. Others didn’t bother hiding it.

He was used to it. They didn’t always know exacly who he was, but they knew he was someone. And while it didn’t bother him, it did bore him a bit. Just ask him, y'know?

He was about to make a comment, but then he saw her again.

Still leaning, still calm. Like she hadn’t even noticed he was there. Like she didn’t care.

“Think I’ll hang out for a bit, if that’s alright with you.” Chris said, grabbing a soda from the table.

“Of course. Just don’t embarrass me.” Matt joked, and they blended into the crowd.

The night kept its pace. Chats here and there, drinks and snacks being passed around.

She and Chris exchanged a few glances. For once, he was the one trying to figure someone out. He even caught himself looking away first—which unsettled him. That was weird. He needed to make a move. Fast.

He saw her laughing at something another girl said. For some reason, that was it. Enough for him.

He adjusted his cap, grabbed a beer, and walked over like it was casual.

“Noticed you didn’t have anything,” he said, holding out the can. “My brother’s a terrible host… lemme boost his score.”

She finally looked at him. Up close.

“I’d take it, but I don’t drink. Sorry.” she said with a half-smile.

“Oh—really?... Sorry. I- I should’ve asked.” Chris laughed a little awkwardly, setting the can down on the nearest table.

Why the fuck is he nervous? Get it together, man.

“You’re fine. Thanks for noticing.” she smiled. A pause settled in, filled only by the soft music playing from the speakers.

“So… you’re Matt’s brother?”

“I am. I’m Chris.” he nodded, placing a hand on his chest. “What’s your name?”

She introduced herself. The string lights on the rooftop caught Chris’s blue eyes and the ring on his index finger. He looked good. Dangerously good.

"Nice to meet you… well, meet everyone, honestly." Chris said, leaning casually against the railing. “Matt doesn’t really talk much about his work.”

“He doesn’t? Wow. He seems like the workaholic type.” she laughed, mimicking his posture. “I don’t know him that well tho', to be honest.”

“Then you’ve got some catching up to do. He’s actually pretty cool.” Chris replied, flashing a half-smile.

She raised an eyebrow, amused.

“And you? What do you do?”

Chris hesitated for half a second. He was used to that question putting him in a different position. But with her, he didn’t know what to expect.

“I make music,” he said eventually, without bragging.

“Oh. Like a... producer? A DJ?”

Chris laughed softly. It was genuine.

“No, I sing. Or well, I rap, really. I’m pretty bad at singing,” he joked, making fun of himself.

She nodded slowly, like she was taking a mental note. Like she didn’t know him, but wanted to.

They kept talking. First about music—just lightly—and then about other, looser topics. Shows, where they grew up, anecdotes that didn’t sound rehearsed.

At some point, they drifted slightly away from the group—not far, just a few steps closer to the railing. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.

Every now and then, someone would join the conversation—one of her coworkers, a friend of Matt’s. They’d say something, laugh, then leave. As if they understood, without anyone saying it, that this conversation was meant to be just between them.

They spent about twenty minutes like that, in some sort of parallel hangout. Comfortable. Like talking was easy. Like they already knew each other but still wanted to keep finding things out.

“You’re less serious than you seem,” she said with a half-smile, spinning her empty glass in her hands.

“I'm gonna take that as a compliment."

"It is." She smirked.

"And you’re more direct than I thought," Chris replied, narrowing his eyes, amused. “I like it.”

She laughed softly and looked up.

"You like being challenged?"

“Maybe I like being challenged by you.”

Chris didn’t look away. Somewhere in the conversation, his confidence had returned.

“I like not knowing what you’re going to say next. It’s weird,” he added, leaning slightly toward her, without overstepping. "It makes me pay more attention to you."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that felt charged with something more. Like part of the conversation was happening without words.

The night slowly started to wind down. Some people had already left, and even though there were still about ten people left on the roof, the air felt calmer, more intimate.

She waved at a girl who was heading down the stairs, then turned back to him.

“I think I’m heading out,” she said, pulling her phone from her back pocket.

Chris nodded. But he didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her for another second. Like he was trying to guess if she wanted him to say anything else.

He confirmed it when he caught a quick glance at her screen and saw she was on Instagram instead of the Uber app.

Chris quickly searched for his brother in the crowd—who, by chance, had seen that last interaction. Chris held his gaze for a second, like asking for permission without words. His brother gave him a subtle, knowing smile. Barely noticeable. A silent green light.

“Want me to walk you downstairs?” Chris finally asked, his voice free of pressure.

“Just downstairs?” she replied with a sideways smile, now looking straight at him again as she tucked her phone away.

Chris let out a soft laugh, defeated in the best way.

“I live a few blocks from here…”

She pulled her coat over her shoulders, still wearing that mix of challenge and playfulness on her face.

“Let’s go.”

Chris stepped ahead, heading back inside and calling the elevator, giving her a chance to say goodbye to her coworkers—and then they left.

No rush.

Like there was nothing left to confirm. It was already understood.

—Chrattvibe.

masterlist.

taglist.

[karaageandtarts]

🔆anon

Hi, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you make Vinny’s sprites? They look like they’re from the game itself and it’s really cool

Ah, hello! First of all, thank you!! That's really flattering,,

Tbh, idk if I'm the right person to go to- I've seen some super cool artists who have outright made rigs of theirs, so they can move n stuff, plus there are people who take commissions and add way more detail. My process is kind of convoluted and not the cleanest per say, etc etc BUT!!!

(I use Ibis Paint and a pen set up btw lol, that might have some effect?)

It's a whole lot of tracing and referencing! I started with merging Azul and Riddle's sprites together. For Vinny, it was easy since he's supposed to be a blend of Azul and Riddle's traits, which means it's easier to just mash them together to get a result. (Like you can see here, it's Riddle's main body with Azul's background arm and smile and his tie/chest plastered on to get rid of the bow.)

A completely original character like Corwin was a little harder to do, since he has his own personality that's supposed to show through his pose- a lot of characters just have a hand on their hip while the other relaxes, though!

And then I block out the main parts! Each color seen here is a different layer in accordance to what they are, I guess- the shirt collar, the jacket, the vest, the shirt itself. I do this by outlining the edges manually and then filling them in. It's not exactly shown here, but I start with the head as well!

For the face itself, I used a thin brush for the mouth and additional details, but I used the lasso fill tool to wing my way with the eyebrows and lid creases- I did have the reference face beneath it, but it came out more naturally to me to make a few quick swipes following the guide and erasing any excess.

For Vinny's face, I copied Azul's eyes but made the "irises" bigger, like Riddle's, just by rounding them out. Ibis paint has a brush shape that looks exactly like the pupils the sprites use, so I only pasted them on and adjusted them.

I'm ngl I mixed up the order at some point. While the first Vinny sprite has a dark base with lighter highlights, the newest one has a light base with dark shading. But I locked the layers, color picked the lightest shade from my reference sprites and filled the layers in. The tie may be tricky since it doesn't really stand out unless you're doing a bow.

From there, I added smaller details like the buttons, the crease lines, the belt, etc, then color them in as well.

twst sprites have a lot of gradients to them, so this is where I pull out the airbrush lol- this time picking the darkest color on my reference and using a clipping layer/mask to add the color. The gold trim and buttons on Vinny's vest are also a clipping layer/mask, for convenience.

For the hair, I... kind of just went for feeling? (And a lot of referencing the original sprites) Using the lasso fill tool, I used a multiply layer in places where the hair is darkest and overlaps, then played with the opacity until I was satisfied, then did the same thing but at an even lower opacity. Did it a third time, but this time with an airbrush. The highlights are pretty simple, but you'll notice more complicated hairstyles like Azul or Epel's have more highlights around the edges of their hair to help distinguish the layers. I used the lasso fill tool for these again.

The face/neck is kind of like this too- shading color for the inner ear/neck, some slightly along the "jaw", and a lighter layer with airbrush where the nose should be.

I do use folders! This is why Vinny's hair remains the same throughout the three I've made— I copied the hair folder to make it easier on myself lol. In theory, you could make folders for each body part and have an actual posable sprite instead.

I do hope this wasn't too rambly anon!! 🛐 I may make more sprites in the future so maybe writing down my process will help me in the end too lol.

[weeeyotch]

Between Shadows & Steel: CH. 2

⊱ Word Count: 2.6k ⊰

⊱ Warnings: Mentions of abuse & violence ⊰

⊱ BS&S Masterlist ⊰

Taglist: @reckless007 @reemoony @cjand10

Bucky stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his dress shirt and tugging on the collar as though it were choking him.

The shirt fit fine. Even the navy-blue jacket had a great fit, accentuating his broad shoulders and muscular arms in a way that turned heads–subtle enough to be admired but not questioned. Sam had convinced him to buy it in the obscenely bougie boutique shop in DC’s city center, claiming that, “It’s time to stop looking like a washed-up assassin past the prime of his life, and more like someone who actually pays their taxes.”

The more he tried to adjust the shirt, the more his tie felt like a noose. A small part of him silently prayed that it would become tight enough to choke him and leave him unconscious on the marbled floor. 

Bucky rubbed a hand down his face and exhaled sharply. 

This all felt wrong. 

It felt wrong to trade in his uniform for a suit and tie; to swap battlefield tactics for policy debates, and to fight his enemies with words instead of fists. 

He had spent decades detached from his own consciousness–a weapon that was forged by war and sharpened by violence. As the Winter Soldier, he never had to command the attention of a room of politicians to explain the political change he would enact; he would simply be the change, with nothing but a commanding silver fist. 

Countless countries and regimes were sent spiralling into political turmoil and violence under the blood-soaked barrel of his handgun. Entire governments collapsed with a pull of his trigger, their leaders never seeing the ghost in the shadows before he towered over their dying figures. He had toppled democracies, instilled tyrants, and silenced revolutionaries–all without blinking an eye. 

But now, as he stood in front of the brightly lit mirror, dressed in a freshly dry-cleaned jacket, he was supposed to be someone else entirely. A man with a voice instead of a silencer. A congressman instead of a killer.

Just beyond the gold-plated door, dozens of voices chattered in anticipation. Their conversations were muffled, but he could feel the sense of excitement, dread, and anger that hung heavy in the air. Allies and enemies alike waited on the other side, waiting eagerly for his appearance. 

Bucky sighed and adjusted the polished pin on his lapel. Beads of sweat rolled down the tracks of his calloused palm, and he wiped it against his pant leg before straightening his stance. 

This isn’t a battlefield, he reminded himself. This isn’t a warzone. 

So why, as he reached for the door handle, did he feel like it was?

That same rush of adrenaline and fear that he felt as a young soldier in 1943 coursed through his veins, causing his muscles to coil and his heart to start pounding. He forced a final, steadying breath through his nostrils before finally pushing the door open. 

No bullets will fly. No blood will spill. No orders will be barked. Nobody will di–

A barrage of deafening camera shutters blinded him in a wave of white light. It was his body’s first instinct to tense up and slightly jump as Bucky felt momentarily disoriented. The cameras kept flashing in succession, with frenzied reporters calling out for him. It became difficult to concentrate, as their fanatic overlapping voices soon blended into an unintelligible roar. 

Bucky forced his shoulders to relax as he marched towards the courtroom. Only a singular red-velvet rope separated him from the crowd of hysterical reporters that swarmed him like angry bees. They all ran after him, stumbling upon each other, reaching their microphones across in hopes that he would acknowledge at least one of them. 

“Congressman Barnes!” 

“Do you have anything to say about the bill hearing?” 

“Congressman, do you think Congress will pass your bill?” 

“Congressman Barnes, do you have any comments?” 

He kept his head straight and his gaze focused only forward. Anything that he had to say to the press had already been said and done before. All that was left to do now was make one of his final arguments to a chamber full of his judgemental and overly-scrutinizing peers.

Bucky pushed ahead, his pace measured and his expression unreadable. 

One foot in front of the other, he thought to himself. Nice and steady. 

The mask stayed on. 

He had learned long ago how to mold his features into something impassive, to appear unaffected as the chaos thundered around him. As the cacophony of voices clawed at him and the flashing of the lights burned his retina, something flowered deep in his gut–something heavy, something unshakeable. 

Finally having approached the grand marble doors that lead into the congressional chamber, a familiar voice sliced through the madness like a knife. 

“Congressman Barnes!” 

Bucky hesitated at the doors as his gloved hand reached for the handle. He had mastered the art of selective hearing, tuning out everything around him that was not critical to the mission. But the voice came clear again, seemingly closer this time, shrill and sharp as the first time he had heard it. 

His jaw clenched.

“Congressman Barnes, how can you justify advocating for the Broken Arrow Initiative when you were once an assassin yourself? Don’t you think that people, including your constituents, would see this as you protecting HYDRA agents?” 

His fingers curled into a fist at his side but he forced them to relax. He turned with a deep exhale through his nostrils, coming face-to-face with the source of the question. 

A woman stood among the reporters, her turquoise suit pristine and a near eye-sore in the ocean of grey and black. She held her microphone steady with the right corner of her crimson-painted lips tugged upwards in a smirk. Knowing damn well that she hit a nerve, she stood waiting for his answer. 

Sam’s words echoed in his head. This job won’t be easy, you know. You’ll be met with a lot of resistance. You’ll make a lot of enemies. But God, if it isn’t rewarding, then I don’t know what is. 

Public enemies. He wasn’t kidding. 

In front of him stood Charlotte Monroe, chief editor for the Washington Post–Bucky’s number one opposition. She had been a hardline critic of him ever since he first announced his campaign for congress, composing painfully eloquently written hit articles that questioned his every move. Bucky had seen her on television, spewing the same bullshit rhetoric about national security, about how congress needed to conduct an investigation into him for possible corruption; about how men like him can never be truly trusted. 

Charlotte had a history of denouncing anything and everything to do with HYDRA. Her hatred for the organization was nearly admirable to Bucky. 

Nearly. 

A dozen other microphones shot forward, waiting eagerly for his response. He could already see the news headlines forming in his head: Congressman Barnes Loses Cool Before Congressional Hearing. Winter Soldier Lashes Out at Press–Shocking or to be Expected?  Ex-Assassin Struggles to Defend Self-Serving Controversial Bill. 

Bucky took another breath. “I think,” he said with a steady voice, “that no one understands the necessity of this bill better than I do.” 

Charlotte lifted a brow, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. Rather, he shot her a pointed look before turning back to the ominous chamber doors, pushing them open without another word. 

Inside, the atmosphere was even more suffocating. 

With its towering majestic marble pillars and sculptures crafted from the finest gold, the congressional chambers felt more like a courtroom on judgement day than a legislative floor. Rows of wooden desks curved in semicircles, all facing the front of the room where the Chairperson would sit. Fluorescent lamps decorated the upper walls, bathing those that sat underneath it in its blinding and off-putting light. 

The room was filled to the brim with hundreds of congressmen. It was an endless sea of grey and black, and Bucky feared that it would swallow him whole. The sounds of keyboards clacking, pens anxiously tapping against wooden desks, and monotone voices carried through the air. 

Everything in the room felt tense. 

This day would be one of the most important days to come in recent history; the proposition of a bill that would hold up a bloody and cracked mirror not only to the American government, but to the governments around the world. 

It was a day that would finally challenge their cruelties. 

As soon as Bucky walked in, silence fell like a guillotine. 

Conversations died out, pens were forgotten on the tables, and hands were frozen over keyboards. Everyone turned to stare at Bucky–looks of anger, fear, and vacant stares greeted him. There were some allies, however, scattered in the sea of foes. They could only offer him curt nods of acknowledgement. But as he glanced up to the seats on the second-floor gallery that overlooked all of Congress–saved for reporters, staff, and guests–he was met by a confident nod and a half-smile. 

Sam. Watching. Waiting. 

That nod, filled with conviction, reminded Bucky as to why he was there. Why he hadn’t backed out despite every voice in his head screaming at him to run. Sam believed in this bill. He believed in Bucky. 

Bucky moved quickly to take his seat. His vibranium arm rested carefully on the polished desk, fingers clenched and motionless. The placard in front of him read: Rep. James B. Barnes (D-NY). 

The world around him seemed to drown out as the only thing he could hear was the sound of blood rushing through his ears. Even the movements of the other members of Congress seemed to all blend together into a large, neutral-colored blur. With the anxiety coursing through his veins, he felt both painfully hyper aware and nonexistent; he felt like a ghost in his own flesh. 

The only thing that brought him back to reality was the sound of a gavel hitting wood. He finally came to, focusing his vision on the chairwoman of the Judiciary Committee. 

She sat high above the rest of Congress. Her gray hair was tied into a sleek knot with not a single loose strand of hair. It complimented her gaze–sharp, judicial, and impassive. 

“This committee will come to order,” she announced, her voice clear and firm. “Today, we will hear testimony regarding House Resolution 8471–the Broken Arrow Initiative.” 

Her eyes landed squarely on Bucky. Although he didn’t flinch, he could feel the heavy weight of them. 

“We welcome the bill’s sponsor, Representative James Barnes of New York. Congressman, you may proceed. You have five minutes.” 

Bucky stood slowly. 

He held his opening statement with his vibranium arm, fearing that his regular arm would tremble too much. Clearing his throat, he lifted his gaze and finally spoke–not as the Winter Soldier, not as a reformed assassin, but as James Buchanan Barnes: a broken man who still hoped that something good could come out of his overextended life. 

“Madam Chairwoman, members of the committee…” he began, voice low but steady. “I was thirteen years old when I first heard the words ‘collateral damage’. I was too young to understand what they meant. I only learned their true meaning until I became it. Until I inflicted it.” 

“I’ve been called a weapon. A ghost. A murderer.” 

He glanced up at Sam as those words left his mouth. Bucky took a shaky breath before lowering his gaze back down to his paper and continuing on. 

“For a long time, I believed that’s all I was. I believed that I didn’t deserve a second chance.” He paused as his eyes fell to his left hand, where the gold patterning shimmered beneath the harsh chamber lights. “But then, someone gave me one.” 

Bucky glanced towards the balcony again. However, he wasn’t looking at Sam anymore–he was looking at the others who filled the seats. Citizens, journalists, law students, veterans. People who may have seen and felt the damage he caused, either personally or through their television screen. People who had survived. 

“But this someone wasn’t just anyone. It was a country. A government. A team of people who looked me in the eye and said, ‘We won’t forget what you did–but we see who you are trying to become.’” 

“There are hundreds of others like me. Hundreds who had undergone illegal human experimentation, who were taken advantage of. Hundreds whose minds were ripped to shreds and forced to partake in unspeakable acts by the same people who inflicted horrors upon them. There are many people who fell victim to HYDRA and similar organizations. There are countless others, however, who fell victim to governments–some foreign, and some their own. 

There was another flicker of movement on the floor. Whispering, people shaking their heads, people shifting uncomfortably in their seats. All were listening. 

“This bill, the Broken Arrow Initiative, is not about erasing the past. It’s not about hiding what happened in the HYDRA labs or behind the closed doors of governments in the name of national security. It is about telling the truth. It is about protecting the next generation from suffering in the ways that we did. It is about dismantling the systems that turn people into property.” 

“We owe it to the victims. We owe it to the survivors. And we owe it to ourselves.” 

His voice grew steadier now. 

“I stand here before you today not as a soldier. Not as an assassin. Not even as a congressman. I stand here as a man who was irrevocably broken by war and is still choosing peace.” 

A hush fell over the chamber. He let the silence stretch on just long enough to make it feel almost unbearable. 

“With this bill, I propose the establishment of federally funded therapy, counselling, and trauma recovery programs for individuals who were systematically abused and experimented on. I want to grant refuge and a clean slate to those with verifiable evidence of their pasts.” 

His eyes dropped to the next paragraph. His hand tensed. He knew what was coming; the match that would quickly light the chamber on fire. With a deep exhalation, he went on saying: 

“Finally, I call for a full audit of the American government and its affiliated branches. I call for those found guilty of systemic abuse and human experimentation to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” 

The uproar was immediate. 

Chairs scraped back. Voices clashed. Some congressmen yelled at Bucky while others began to argue with each other. Laptops snapped shut. Fingers were pointed across the aisle. 

The chairwoman slammed the gavel. She called for order but it barely registered. 

“For far too long,” Bucky raised his voice over the storm, “the United States government has sanctioned human experimentation and abuse, then buried the evidence six-feet underground. Many of those victims are still alive today, living in fear and trying to navigate a world that turned them into weapons and discarded them.” 

He took a final breath, firm and unwavering. 

“This bill is about justice. It is about recognizing what was done in the shadows. It is about giving those people–not assets, not numbers–the right to reparations. Whether that be legal, monetary, or simply having their stories shared with the world. I believe that this bill will open a new chapter in American governance–one that is filled with reconciliation, accountability, and forgiveness.” 

Nodding once, he finished with, “Madam Chairwoman, I yield my time.” 

Bucky’s legs collapsed under him as he fell back into his seat, dizzy and out of breath. His heart pounded as pride and fear coursed through his veins.

Maybe now, he thought to himself. Maybe now, things might finally start to change. 

The chaos still raged on around him. Fists slammed against desks. Everyone continued shouting. Some even stormed out.

But Bucky didn’t move. He remained stoic. 

The Chairwoman kept hitting her gavel and demanding order. The debate would be coming soon. Bucky cringed internally at the thought of having to defend himself against the burning scrutiny from hundreds of his peers. 

The hardest part was only just beginning. 

[luckiestplant]

For my Literature class i was allowed to make a short comic adaptation of a literary work that influenced me, so I picked Demian. If you want to read my explanation of why I picked it and made certain decisions, you can read it under the cut ! :)

[It is 862 words. I only needed to write 2 paragraphs. I... really like this book LOL]

I chose to adapt Herman Hesse's "Demian" because it's a very influential book for me. I saw myself in the protagonist, Emil Sinclair in how he worries about what other people think of him as a kid, leading him to tell different lies to different people. His struggle to rationalize what is "good" or "evil" is rooted in his religious upbringing, and his first step towards discovering himself and his own values is from someone (Demian) telling him a different perspective, and inviting him to think for himself. I felt seen in how Sinclair wants to be guided by others, but feels unable to teach others, and seeing him eventually reach independence makes me want to reach that point too. He starts off the book seperating things into binaries like Man and Woman, Good and Evil, but over the course of the book those concepts start to overlap and gray for him. He admires Demian and Beatrice for being a boy with feminine features, and a girl with masculine features, and when he eventually meets Frau Eva, he loves how handsome she is. The scene I adapted, where he sees himself in his own painting, not visually but emotionally, really connects with me as an artist who puts themself into their work, and gets a slightly better understanding of myself when I first step back and look at it. I don't want my pictures to look like a mirror of me, but still reflect me somehow. And with my experience with gender, I see myself in Sinclair's idealization of androgyny, even if those sorts of words would not be used at the time. This connection I felt with the book helped move me to read more classic literature and see myself in them.

I decided for the first page to not have a lot of narration because I felt that it could be told through pictures. The scene starts with the sun "slanting red through my window" during sunset, and "Inside my room it was dusk", which gave me my color palette for the comic; reds and warm purples. Sinclair is not very detailed in the first page because I thought it would feel more atmospheric, and to emphasize the self discovery on the second page. The three panels on the bottom were repeated with subtle changes in expression to give the feeling of time passing as, in the narration, "For a long time I sat oppposite it even after the picture had faded out." He blends in with the light of the painting because of how much he's taking it in; the last panel's sudden contrast is the moment of realization leading up to the next page. The painting's sudden detail is partly because I got too into drawing it, but is so important that it should be in substantially more detail; it is a catalyst for Sinclair, and it is symbolic of his connections (and future connections) in the book. Besides Sinclair's emotions, it is the most detailed description in that scene, and the way he describes it radiates joy and excitement.

The first panel of page two has vague drawings of Beatrice and Demian, with Sinclair sparking with recognition. I wanted him to have a similiar feeling as the painting, glowing with color, because this is an important moment for him. Beatrice is not very detailed because he has never talked to her; she is someone who he saw on the street and admired, and at that point, he had not met Demian in years. "But myself" is split from the sentance to give more emphasis on his revelation. The second panel's narration is split but tied together to make it feel more floaty and slow, to emphasize each point, and to help direct readers to the next panel with Demian (the lines in the last panel are also supposed to help cheat with that). The text around Demian purposefully switches alignment and leaves extra space to 1) help connect the flow of narration from the second to the fourth panel, and 2) because it conveys Sinclair's semi-divine view of Demian (masculine and feminine, youthful and mature). The woman in the fourth panel (who he later realizes to be Frau Eva) has especially split narration because he doesn't know her yet, and she is a dreamy "ideal" to him; she isn't concrete in his world yet. For panel 2 and 5, there is an egg cracking and a bird flying off as a reference to a motif later on in the book; "The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born first must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God's name is Abraxas." This quote has found its way into media inspired by Demian, and influences how people see the characters, and it's an especially touching quote because of how strong and confident it feels. If the bird (Sinclair) is not able to break his egg (the sheltered world he grew up in), he will never "hatch" and fly to Abraxas (self-discovery). It felt especially important to me to include this motif even if it hasn't technically appeared in the book yet, because it is a perfect metaphor for growing up and for Emil Sinclair.

[cellspex]

Halloween Animation Day 9: Infinity Train

The nigh perfect series that was 'lost' in HBOmax purge. It's only available now in individual episode purchases.

Infinity Train is a fantastic blend of horror, sci-fi and character built right into its premise. Each season focuses on a different character getting trapped on the train where each car is something different from an alien world, to a simple challenge to an abstract concept. Each character is given a number that supposed represents their 'flaws' and they can't leave until the flaws are 'fixed'. Axed before its time to properly explore how or why the train determines 'flaws' or whether its methods on average even work, because while it works for some, it also makes other worse. Also it kills people.

While each season features a new character, each season is still connected with overlapping side characters and one particular through line 'protagonist' that again we never get a chance to fully dive into.

Season 2 is my favorite, season 3 is the darkest, season 1 is a good intro, and season 4 just feels like 'another season' but its still really good.

If I could revive one series it would be this one.

[enddaysengine]

To the Stars and Beyond!

A bunch of interesting things happened at PaizoCon this weekend, the most fascinating for me was something completely internal. Pathfinder wasn't the game I was focused on. Given all of the reveals about War of the Immortals, the announcement of Spore War, and about 9000 other things related to the planes, that may be surprising.

But no, this time the main event was Starfinder.

While I never got to play as much of 1e as I would've liked, I've been eagerly awaing Starfinder 2e, both as the playtest and in its final form. Starfinder's blend of science-fantasy from properties like Star Wars, Doom, and 40k took a while to grow on me, but it has solidly become one of my favorites. Plus, even in 1e, Starfinder had a lot of planar content baked into the setting. Made an argument on Twitter and BlueSky when I'm feeling spicy that between Pathfinder and Starfinder, it is the latter that is better set up to be a successor to Planescape. And oh boy that has not changed at all from the titbits they got dropped at PaizoCon. Both the playtest and 2e seem poised to lean even harder into the weird and strange parts of the setting where science fiction and fantasy overlap. I am 100% here for it.

The point that I am getting to that Paths Beyond wasn't the only project I had sitting on the back burner. There is also Star Beyond, a science fantasy take on the same weird and wonderful genre we know from Planescape. I can never predict which games my brain is going to latch on each week, but I expect I'll be writing Starfinder content for the blog in the very near future. Not just because it's fun and because Starfinder literally calls its player organizations factions, but because I have an ambition. My aim is to have Stars Beyond ready for Starfinder Infinite by the 2e launches. I actually have an outline and I'm aiming for a companion in the 40,000 to 50,000 word range. That's a big project, if I finish it, it will be easily the most words I've written for a single book, but I figure I have time on my side. It may actually be doable, but nonetheless wish me luck.

See you in the stars.

Post-Script: We also got confirmation that while 2e was in the works when OGL-gate hit, there were supposed to be more 1e books: the Faction Guide (which was being written) and the Extraplanar Archive (which was in outlining). It's a bummer we don't have either yet given what I plan to do, but it does make me feel like Stars Beyond is on the right track.

Post-post-script: I also have a place where I reblog inspirational media for this project over at @stars-beyond-sf! Check it out.

[randomsporefacts]

Jane Ng's portfolio covers ambient occlusion on one of the models pages, specifically models 1

so, as you can see with most spore textures of various objects, they have baked-in lighting like this

curiously enough not all of them actually do. sg_treasure_grail has no ambient occlusion, aside from the spots where the gems go i suppose

the portfolio also has a treasure chest texture with no ambient occlusion, which as far as im aware is the only non-shaded version of an object texture that we have (that is actually shaded in final)

though bone_pile_huge and bone_pile_huge_pillaged_01 use the same texture, just with separately baked ambient occlusion, so you can sort of reconstruct it

and i do mean sort of. i overlaid them with a lighten blend mode and this is the best i got. much of the shading is still here

anyway. as you can see with some of these models, having to account for ambient occlusion also makes for some really odd looking textures with uvs. every element that is repeated on the texture cant just share the same uv space. therefore you get like 3 separate repeats of the same base skull texture, three repeats of the same egg, a million repeats of the other parts etc, instead of them just sharing the same space in the texture

i think the same kind of thing happens when the game is baking creature textures, separate copies for every part in the texture (even if its just a paired symmetric part)

also this is why theres weird dark spots where parts overlap with the body, it also uses something similar to ambient occlusion to add shading between the parts that overlap (with each other or the body mesh itself etc)

[silvershayde]

An Acaesian Encyclopaedia

Darena’s Seafarers: Sirelians (Aqua Sirens)

Second Instalment for Darena’s Seafarers! This is about Sirelians! The other Seafarers include: Merfolk, Melusines, and Nymphs/Nereids. Of the four treasures Darena handed out, the Sirelians were given the Bident.

Before I get into the nitty gritty, I wanna go over why I named them Sirelians rather than just Sirens. Everyone knows Sirens right? Well, first off the original version of Sirens were bird like, and many of you may already know that. So because both Sirelians and Sirens have the hypnotic voice that can sing a lullaby of doom, the names have had an overlap and they’ve been conflated with one another, which is why I put in brackets Aqua Siren next to their original name. Another name would be Darena’s Sirens since Zetune has her own Sirens; they treat each other like cousins even though they are in no way related. So yeah they are not Sirens since they cannot fly, are not bird-like and do not fall under Zetune’s domain of Caeli. (For the uninformed Caeli is wind/air.)

Anyway! They’re mostly found in the area within and surrounding Sirelia, which is found in the ocean east of Theia/Turnunda (sorry again my map needs updating, once it is I’ll link it in these posts) which would put it south west of Aquaria. Like Merfolk you can find Sirelians in fresh waters.

First off, yes they have two tails, and the tails blend with the upper body. And yes I know the two tail thing is a Melusine thing, but I have my reasons (I came up with Sirelians first and they were initially supposed to be like Selkies because, again, they aren’t technically Sirens. Calling Sirelians Sirens is a land dweller’s misguided label. Like how red pandas aren’t pandas.)

I will note before I move on that there is practically no gender dimorphism that you can see on a Sirelian no matter what upper body they’re rocking.

Second! Unlike Merfolk their tails are more colloquially fish-like. (I use colloquially because classification and fish are not friends so to hell with it.) Their tails can also either be smooth or have scales and if it exists as a fish there’s most likely a Sirelian variant of it. Their hands are webbed and have it on their ears too. They have gills and their nostrils are just to smell not to breathe.

The sclera of a Sirelian is black, and when in hunting mode or when the prey drive is triggered the pupil dilates a LOT. (The iris being bigger on the right is a drawing error but I’ve sat here for nearly three hours doing it)

Through their hypnotic voice and applying their manipulation of Aqua to shapeshifting, Sirelians can change the way they look. Whether it is changing the sclera of their eyes to white, changing the appearance of their teeth to make it less… uh… terrifying to hiding the webs in their hands, and the extra limbs on their arms. Similar to octopuses and cuttlefish they can change the colour of their bodies, but unlike them they can do it consciously rather than just being an environmental reaction.

The one thing they can’t change the image of is how their upper bodies meet their tails, and how many tails they have. This is why those are the only two reliable identifiers to distinguish Sirelians from Merfolk.

[mossy-rainfrog]

[ID in Alt Text]

strolling in fashionably late to the two year anniversary of the greatest musical adaptation of Moby Dick of all time, Caleb Hayashida's 'Moby Dick or the Whale'. I've been thoroughly enamored with this album for over a year now and it only felt right to do a tribute for its birthday :)

now, go do yourself a favor and listen to Sea Fever 💙💙

some notes about the details I added under the cut!

Some notes on this as a tribute!

Firstly, as always, my Ishmael design is stolen from the beloved @pocketsizedquasar :3

Secondly, the primary songs captured by this piece are meant to be 'Interpretation', 'Whiteness of the Whale', and 'Whaleman's Hymn'. Interpretation is primary, since that song refers directly to the painting at Spouter Inn, and Ishmael's attempts to interpret it. (Aside: it's a brilliant song that foreshadows chords repeated during the chase, it confuses and delights the listener much like book Ishmael's ramblings do, and it odes to the album itself being an interpretation of a novel. also it's a bop. I fucking love it.) The whale in the picture is, you guessed it, the whale song. That one I felt was important to center as Hayashida himself intentionally put that song at the center of the album as a focal point for the rest to follow around (and for the narrative to break inside - give it a listen, the end is incredible). It's literally the centerpiece. And finally, the lyrics are from Whaleman's Hymn, the gorgeous ode at the end of the album.

Ishmael is also posed as both moving and stagnant in the center as a reference to the cyclical nature of Hayashida's album. It ends with the same lyrics it begins with ("I must be out to sea"), and so here, Ishmael meant to be caught in the space between both of those songs. Moving and yet unable to move from where he is.

The watery effect was particularly inspired by Drifting, as that song fills me with an immense sense of peace and gives me the feeling of laying down at an aquarium watching the light of the water dance around. It also helps make the mood of the piece a bit more dynamic, as the looming painting, dissonant colors, and heavy shading all feel a bit foreboding, and the water effect both enhances that by giving an unnatural feel, and subdues that by communicating a semblance of peace and muting the colors.

The oil effect and jagged colors of the piece itself are references to the official album cover art! The flaming harpoon's colors are mimicked in the red light at the top of the painting, and the bright teal/white is mimicked in the whale at the bottom. They're also positioned over each other, just like on the album cover.

The painting itself is also supposed to be reminiscent of The Chase, in all its chaotic glory. Hayashida has an INSANE stroke of genius with that song where, at a certain point, two different time signatures overlap to show the whale opposing the crew/Ahab. The blend is so smooth that it's easy to miss if you aren't looking for it, and yet so brilliant that it makes you anxious for the buildup and final clash. The saturated opposing colors are supposed to be something of a nod to that, as well as the nature of the painting being a sinking ship and a white whale lol

So, yeah those are my notes! :D thank you for reading and definitely give this masterpiece a listen!! 💙💙