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beckzorz · 5 years

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Dressed to Kill: Killer Shoes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Words: 9852 Summary: Ever since Bucky found you on that island beach, you’ve been each others’ best-kept secret. So why are you looking at him like he’s a stranger when you’re supposed to be miles away? Warnings: NSFW (language, smut), 18+ A/N: Sequel to Dressed to Kill, one of my favorite things I’ve ever written, for @jewelofwinter‘s 1.5k writing challenge! Congrats to my dear Jessica on this awesome milestone! My prompt was booze. Hope you enjoy!!!

Sidestepping a tipsy woman’s flailing arm, Bucky snags a fingernail-sized quiche off a passing waiter’s tray. He pops it whole in his mouth, ignoring the snort of derision from the comm device hidden by his ear.

“Jesus, Barnes, you’re supposed to be the classy one.”

“Shoulda sent Wilson,” Bucky mutters as he dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

Hill just chuckles. “Yeah, probably. If only he wasn’t the most recognizable superhero in America.”

How he manages to keep from rolling his eyes is a mystery. Thankfully, Hill doesn’t say anything else, even when Bucky makes the mistake of licking his fingers after eating a tiny, glistening slider.

For some reason, the cocktail party spirit is evading him tonight. Hill doesn’t know why, but she sure as hell knows he’s not on top of his game. If Sam were here, he’d be giving Bucky even more bullshit than Hill.

Well, Bucky knows the reason if no one else does. No one else had better know.

You’re his secret.

He’d be doing better if he didn’t know you were in town. He might have smuggled you a ticket, finagled your help, done something more fun than this private eye bullshit somewhere private—but no, you’re working too.

A different place, different mission, different target.

Presumably a different end goal, too. Well, whatever. Hill might judge, Wilson definitely would, but Bucky’s done too much murdering of his own to give a fuck if you’re off murdering someone who deserves it tonight.

He assumes they deserve it. You might have unconventional methods of making the world a better place, but that’s what you’re doing.

What he’s doing, too, even if tonight is the biggest pain in his ass since that long mission posing as security in Ukraine. If only you weren’t working. God, how nice that would’ve been. Bad table manners aside, he’s done his job. There’s loads of nooks and crannies in this place that’d be perfect for—

Bucky chokes on his champagne.

A woman just walked in. Black dress, deep lipstick, killer heels. Under all that, a face and body to die for.

It’s you.

Bucky turns away, face hot. He wipes his mouth as daintily as he can to disguise the utter bafflement he feels. Is the room warmer than before? He can’t tell. All he knows is that the mingling crowd is too much. Last time he’d seen you in a crowd…

He surreptitiously adjusts his pants. Best not to think about that now.

What the hell are you doing here? Did you finish your mission? How the hell did you even get a ticket?

He traces the outline of his phone in his breast pocket. It’s quiet. Can he sneak it out for a look, or is that too rude?

No, fuck that, he doesn’t need to look. If you’d called, or even texted, his phone would’ve vibrated.

Why didn’t you call?

Hell, why aren’t you looking at him? Talking to him? Running your hand down his lapel…

Bucky chances it. He turns around, but you’re leaning against the bar, eyes resolutely elsewhere. Mission be damned; the assignment can wait a few minutes. He makes his way through the crowd, silk dresses whooshing against his suit as he squeezes between clusters of the rich and ambitious.

He’s not the only one stunned by you. You’re smiling coyly at the bartender, whose eyes keep drifting back to you as he mixes a drink and slides it your way.

Huh. Bucky’s never seen you drink a martini before.

You stir the olive through your drink, eyes drifting down the bar and passing over Bucky with no more feeling than if you were looking at a stranger.

A chill runs down his spine.

You’re good at your job, damn good, but there’s never been a single moment that you haven’t reacted to the sight of him. For the first time, Bucky looks closer. The curve of your neck, the size of your breasts…

Ah.

Quite.

He orders a whiskey from the bartender, props himself on the bar with his elbows, and tugs his phone out of his pocket. Clicks off his comm device. Dials a number. Waits. His lips curl into a smirk when someone picks up.

“Hey, darlin’.”

—

You cross one leg over the other and lean back in your chair, lips pressed tight together as you adjust your phone against your ear. The man across from you watches with a sympathetic grimace as he cuts his steak.

“Ballsy of you to call after all this time,” you say stonily.

A pause, then a low chuckle that makes you glad you’re wearing closed shoes—Nicholas can’t see the way that sound curls your toes.

“Well, better late than never, right?”

“No, I think never would have been better.”

Nicholas nods approvingly. You reach over and slide your hand into his, mind a million—or more accurately, a quarter dozen—miles away.

“If you have something to say, say it,” you continue. “Otherwise—”

“I can see you when I close my eyes.”

You can hear the smirk in Bucky’s voice, but the next words come out sounding less sultry.

Less sultry, more ominous.

“Sometimes, like right now, I don’t even need to close ‘em.”

What?

Questions swirl in your brain. What the hell does he mean? He can see you? But you’re miles away, in some rich loser’s eat-in open-concept kitchen—

You swallow, set your jaw, and squeeze Nicholas’ hand. His eyes are blue, but they’re the wrong shade, the wrong shape.

Wrong everything.

“That’s very sweet,” you drawl. “But you can stop wasting your time. Go use those cheap lines on someone else.”

You hang up and groan, burying your face in your hands to disguise your racing pulse.

“Just block his number,” Nicholas says. He takes a sip of his wine.

“I will,” you lie. A few deep breaths help settle your nerves, but your mind is reeling. A sniff for good measure as you recreate some semblance of composure. “God, I can’t believe I let him get under my skin.” You rub your arms and shiver. “You think you know a person…”

“People can be awful,” Nicholas says. He sets down his fork and pats his knee. “C’mere, you.”

You glance at him from under your eyelashes as you set your napkin on the table and sidle around to drop on his knee. You loop your arms around his neck and press your cheek to his shoulder.

Nicholas settles his hands on your hips, his thumbs tracing circles low on your belly as he murmurs placating nonsense in your ear. You’re not listening. You’re busy unsticking a patch from the inside of your wide bangle.

“—and you know you can always trust me,” Nicholas says.

You cup his neck in your hands, the finger-sized patch latching seamlessly onto his skin and already starting to dissolve.

“I know,” you murmur.

You lean in slowly, but Nicholas blanches. He lurches to his feet, sending you sprawling to the floor.

“Nicholas?!”

“I—I’m sorry—I think I ate—”

He darts to the bathroom, and within seconds you can hear him retching.

Finally.

You climb to your feet and grab your phone, mind racing back to the Bucky problem now that Nicholas is out of the way.

What the hell did he mean, he can see you? How can he? Does he mean he’s watching a video feed? But there aren’t any here. You turn your phone in your fingers and bite your lip. Bucky’s working tonight, same as you—well, sort of. It would be silly to call him back before you’ve even thought his riddle through. Not to mention while Nicholas is still on his feet. You don’t know how much that patch will affect him.

How can Bucky be seeing you if he’s miles away? It’s impossible.

Unless…

Unless—

“Oh shit,” you mutter.

Someone is impersonating you at the party.

Someone.

Is impersonating you.

At the party.

Well that just takes the cake.

You slip your phone back into your purse and go knock on the bathroom door.

“Nicholas? Are you alright?”

A groan.

“I’m coming in,” you tell him. A beat, and then you push the door open with as concerned an expression as you can manage.

Nicholas is back on his feet, but he’s pale and shaky. Perfect.

“Oh, love!” you gasp. You rush over and steady him. “Let me help you.”

“You’re a godsend,” Nicholas says weakly. He leads the way to his bedroom—his apartment is sprawling; how the hell does he manage? Who needs this kind of space?—and lets you tuck him in.

“Shouldn’t have had that steak,” he says. “You did warn me it looked a little off…”

“Oh please,” you tell him. You press a kiss to his brow to conceal your scowl. Can’t he just go to sleep and stop talking? You’d only warned him about the steak in case of emergency. You hadn’t expected to need to pull off that trick… “Rest, dear. I'll come by tomorrow to check up on you, alright?”

“You’re an angel,” Nicholas mumbles. He smiles, finally letting go of your hand.

Angel?

You pull back as fast as you reasonably can, a little queasy yourself now. No one calls you an angel but Bucky. It’s wrong, sickening, to hear it from this dumb jerk.

It’s a disgrace. How dare he.

You’re out of Nicholas’ place before you even have time to consider your own mission. So much for his bank accounts, his trust funds, his shady offshore properties…

Well, screw that. It can wait. You’ll be back tomorrow.

—

Easy enough to catch a cab, easy enough to namedrop the most upscale venue in the city. Easy enough to hook into the video feeds you’d had Kasie hack into back when you didn’t think you’d be going.

You call Bucky as the driver peels away from the curb. He answers in a ring and a half.

“Didn’t know if you’d call,” he says.

“Is she wearing a black dress?”

“Uh… yeah. How’d you—”

“Feeds are fuzzy. Can’t tell for sure if that’s her,” you say curtly.

“Don’t be like that,” he says.

You bristle as you fix a fresh patch to the inside of your bracelet. Just in case. “Like what?”

“Like you aren’t glad I called.”

You close your eyes, tip your head back. “I’m a little preoccupied,” you murmur. “Not every day I find out my cover’s blown.”

“We’ll figure it out, darlin’.”

Bucky’s voice wraps around you, almost as comforting as if he was holding you in his arms. You'd had to hide your delight before, at Nicholas’ place, but no one’s looking at you this time.

This time, you let yourself smile.

—

The first time you’d met Bucky, you’d swept from the street up marble steps not unlike these. Of course, back then the whole point had been to distract him.

You smooth down your skirt as you wait for Bucky to let you in. This time, you’re distracted even before you walk in the door. Bucky’s nowhere in view and you’re already a bundle of nerves. Of course, Bucky’s not the one making you nervous.

He really should be, you decide. You’ve never not gotten a swoop in your stomach from catching sight of him, whether through a rifle scope on a rooftop or from the bottom of a carpeted staircase. Or from a bed. And he’d looked so good in the feeds, blurriness aside… No man had ever looked better in a suit.

If nothing else, thinking about Bucky is doing wonders to distract you from the more pressing problem. Who has time to consider the implications of someone posing as your double when in just a few moments, you’ll be able to run your hand down his velvet lapel?

A sigh escapes your lips. You lean against a column by the door, gazing down at the street. Cars start and stop as they ease by, the occasional bike or scooter weaving between traffic. Black taxis reflect the last pink stripes in the sky, the white streetlamps, the red-yellow-green of the traffic lights. Pretty, but your focus is still caught up with the man coming to fetch you.

It’s been too long since you’ve seen him, touched him… You’ve been in the same city for a few days, but his team is too perceptive for him to have snuck away. Every meeting with him has been snatched, secret. Your hands curl, fingernails digging into your plans.

What you wouldn’t give to have the freedom to have him whenever you want.

The desperation, the need tugging at you makes you feel like an addict, but god if Bucky Barnes isn’t the best drug there is.

“There y’are.”

You flinch, pulse racing under your skin, as that smooth voice washes over you. A swallow, and you press your eyes closed just for a moment before looking at him.

It’s the same exact rush you’ve gotten every single time you’ve seen him. The swoop in your belly, the clench of your thighs, the way your mouth goes dry when his lips quirk into their customary smirk. And gosh, that suit looks even better in person. It’s black, with sharp lines that mirror the sharp line of his jaw, and a velvet lapel that you just know won’t be nearly as soft as his lips. All your frustration melts away.

Finally.

“Hi,” you breathe.

Bucky offers you his arm, his blue eyes dark as they drink you in. A new dress, a black dress, the perfect match. The style he likes, with a fitted bodice and draping skirt. You hook your arm through his elbow, trying to hide your relief at finally being with him. Not to mention the absolute thrill of having his strong, solid arm under your hand…

Bucky flashes his ticket—and a SHIELD badge—at the doorman, who lets you both in with an inquisitive frown. Did he see your doppelganger earlier? No matter.

“Nice of you to join the party,” Bucky teases.

You snort. “I’d thank you for the invite if I wasn’t so damn aggravated.”

Bucky drops a kiss against your hair as you study your surroundings. A gilded lobby, just shy of ostentatious, with a a row of polished wooden doors leading into the function hall. Two concierges at the long counter by the doors, glassy-eyed and bored until they notice you looking, at which point they turn on megawatt smiles. You bite your tongue as you smile back. Ah, nothing like customer service.

That’s at least fifty percent of your own job, really. All that simpering at Nicholas…

You shudder.

Bucky pauses mere feet from the door—you can already hear the lounge singer crooning away—and frowns down at you.

“Y’alright?”

“Sure, sure.” You adjust your hold on his arm, then step back. Time to get back in the game. You rub your temples. “Is there a plan? Or are you just winging it?”

Bucky scratches his cheek, brow pinched. “She seems to be focused on one guy in particular, but I don’t know if it’s about murdering him or what.”

“And you just left her in there?!” you gasp. He rolls his eyes.

“Calm down, darlin’, no need to blow a gasket. Got my backup to come in, keep him busy. But not so busy the other you suspects.”

You let out a stream of air between your teeth. Fine. That works.

“Anyway, if you’re done accusing me of not knowing how to do my job—” he shoots you a sardonic look bordering on a glare— “I figured we’d just corner her, get her out, get her talking.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

You brush past Bucky, eyes ahead, and push the doors open before he can stop you. Enough talking. Time to take this bitch—whoever she is—down.

—

Unlike the first—and only—time you’d been dressed to the nines together, you’re geared up. These are your killer shoes, with the blades hidden in the soles and a needle inside the right heel. There are two holsters hidden under your skirts, and false pockets granting easy access to your pearl-handled pistols. Your necklace hides a garrote, your bangle a drugged patch.

And you’ve got murder on your mind.

No one, not once in your entire career—or maybe even life—has ever pretended to be you. No catfishers, no copycats…

Well, not that you have a style that enables copycats. You’re an assassin, not a serial killer.

There’s a difference.

Right now, though, you feel the self-righteous pull of a worthy target more than ever. How dare she steal your face.

Barely anyone glances your way when you enter into the function hall. High ceilings, sparkling chandeliers, bubbling champagne passing by on a waiter’s tray. You snag a glass, but Bucky nabs it out of your grip before you can so much as take a sip. You scowl at him, but his eyes are twinkling as he drinks.

“Thanks,” he says. He offers the half-empty flute back to you, but you ignore it.

“Where?” you demand. “Where is she?”

Bucky tilts his head, and you turn to follow his gaze. There, at the bar, a woman in a black dress. Thicker straps than yours has, a fuller skirt… But it’s a close enough match.

A chill runs up your spine. Is that what you look like, in the flesh, from the outside? Are those your shoulders, your ears? Is that the curve of your cheek?

How?

You turn back to Bucky, heart pounding, a million questions on your lips. He touches your elbow and leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“She’s nothing to you.”

A shiver runs through you at the low timber of his voice. You pull back and meet his eyes. They’re burning, bright with determination and dark with—you can’t tell. Murder? Desire? Both?

He nods once, squeezes your hand, and melts into the crowd. You press your hand to your pounding heart. A few people glance at you, but you deftly avoid their gazes. A waiter passes with a tray of hors d’oeuvres; you take a tartlet, bat your eyelashes at the waiter, and trail after Bucky, caviar bursting in your mouth.

You don’t have any problems spotting him. He’s leaning against the bar now, chatting you—her up. Her shoulders are tense; you can see her back, and you have a suspicion she’s not quite able to meet his eyes.

Bucky calls the bartender over and orders her a drink; you can just make out the coaxing smile in his voice as he asks, “What’s your poison, doll?”

“Is booze poison to you?” your double asks. She shakes her head. God, even her voice sounds like yours. Eugh. “A martini, please.”

You slip between two men and slide onto the barstool right next to her. She’s still facing Bucky, and she doesn’t turn her head quite far enough to realize she’s been cornered.

“You know,” you drawl, calm as day, “what I really prefer is champagne.”

The woman freezes. Bucky slides his half-full flute of champagne past her to you, and you take a long, slow sip, gaze fixed on Bucky. His face is serious, but there’s a thrill behind his eyes.

Your double shifts back on her stool, twisting to face Bucky even more, sliding out of her seat. You stand up too, your breasts nearly pressed against her back. From here, you can see the differences. Her skin tone is a little darker, shoulders a little broader… The hair at the nape of her neck isn’t quite the right shape either.

You fiddle with your bangle as you wait for something, anything to happen. Should you play your cards and drug her? Chase her to the bathroom, corner her there? Or let Bucky lead her away, keeping her head unmuddled for easy interrogation?

It’s a choice you don’t get to make.

The woman spins, and the sight of your own face snarling has you reeling, breath catching and eyes going wide. It’s you, but it’s wrong, backwards, wrong wrong wrong—

A harsh shove sends you careening back, and then she darts off. You knock a stocky woman halfway over, barely managing to catch yourself on some man’s sleeve, but your eyes are latched onto her.

Did she really think she could run away from the Winter Soldier?

Your double only makes it a few quick steps before Bucky’s hand clamps onto her shoulder, spinning her back to face him, his SHIELD badge tucked in his fingers, a thin, dark-haired woman rushing forward to assist.

The man whose sleeve you're holding helps right you, and you shoot a sorry to the woman you’d nearly knocked over. She’s too busy gaping between you and your doppelgänger, her eyes round as dinner plates.

Now that your double’s being led away, your fury dissipates. She failed, she’s got her head slumped, and she doesn’t look anywhere near as good as you. A giggle escapes your lips, and the stocky woman stares.

“Evil twins, am I right?” you say.

The woman blinks, too shocked to answer, and then you dart after Bucky and the others, a bounce in your step and every single wrong thing turned right.

You weave between hobnobs as they slowly sink back into their sedate ignorance. How strange. How could anyone go back to their dull party when there’s something like this going on?

Bucky opens a door, and his associate drags your double through. You step ahead to follow, but he catches your eye and shakes his head just before he vanishes.

You freeze. Right. Of course. You can’t just run after him. He’s working. Your relationship, if you can call it that, is a secret. He’s an Avenger. And you’re just…

You’re…

Someone puts a hand on your back. You stiffen.

“Jeez, Mal, what the hell happened while I was in the bathroom?” a low voice mutters.

What the hell…?

You turn and take in the bland face of the middle-aged white man frowning around. Your heart skips a beat, and you let out a slow breath between your teeth. You know that face.

“Some woman got dragged off by the feds,” you whisper, linking your arm in his and angling him away from the bulk of the crowd.

His eyes widen as he looks around, more scared than confused this time. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” you say curtly. “Come on.”

Your grip is solid on his arm, but he puts up no resistance as you lead the way to a door, not the one Bucky dragged your double out of. Mal? Is that her name? Is it short for something? Mallory, Malia?

No. Malinda.

The name rings a bell, but for the life of you, you can’t place it quite yet. You push your guesswork aside as you lead the man—his name is Christian Havemeyer, old money, shady enough to get him onto your radar—down one carpeted hallway and then another to an out-of-the-way powder room.

Your radar.

Oh, of course. Havemeyer was connected to Rex Carston, your target back when you’d first met Bucky. And Carston’s date that fateful night had been Malinda.

Is the woman who’s stolen your face the pretty woman who’d been on Rex Carston’s arm the night he died?

Well, Bucky will find out. Right now, you’ve got your own job to do.

Havemeyer is pacing, hand clutching his dyed hair—there’s no way a man with so many wrinkles on his neck has hair that black—as you lock and lean against the door. You slide your hands into your pockets, watching Havemeyer carefully. He doesn’t seem armed. Better than that, he doesn’t seem the least bit suspicious.

Well, that’s about to change.

“Got any ideas?” you ask. He whirls on you, face red.

“What the hell do you think? You said this event was clear!”

“Well, clearly I missed something,” you say evenly. “That doesn’t mean we can’t still follow through.”

“Follow th—follow through?” Havemeyer gapes, then narrows his eyes. He looks you up and down, realization dawning in his face. He steps back, glances around. “Wait. You—”

“Hmm?” you drawl. You push away the lacy strap holding one of your pistols in place and curl your fingers around the grip. No point turning off the safety; you could take this guy barehanded.

Well, probably. It better not come to that.

Havemeyer’s face shifts from fear and confusion to stern determination. He steps towards you, puffing up his chest and balling his hands into fists.

“Where is she?” he hisses.

You raise your eyebrows, impressed despite yourself. Well, to be fair, he doesn’t know you’re armed to the teeth.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“You’re not Malinda,” he snaps. He takes another step.

A little too close for comfort.

You draw your pistol and press the barrel against his gut faster than he can blink. “Down, boy,” you say coolly. “You should know better.”

Havemeyer slowly puts his hands in the air. You push your gun against him, and he steps back one, two, three times before you’re satisfied. You click off the safety, just for added measure.

“Now,” you say, “let’s talk.”

He swallows. “Maybe you can put down the gun first.”

You tap your chin. Consider.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Behind you, the doorknob rattles.

Well, fuck.

You keep your eyes on Havemeyer as you turn your head towards the door, trying to listen over his ragged breathing and your own. Not that your breathing is ragged.

“Mr. Havemeyer?”

A deep male voice, one you don’t recognize. Havemeyer’s face lights up as your stomach drops.

“Help!” he calls.

“Bad call,” you snarl.

A vicious crack—they’re shooting the door open. You shoot Havemeyer in the kneecap, his howl music to your ears. He collapses like a wet rag. You kick him low in the gut, further immobilizing him, and swing the chair at the counter around to wedge it under the doorknob.

You drop into a crouch and whip out the knife from your left shoe. Havemeyer is curled around his knee, whimpering.

Suits him, the bastard.

You dig your fingers into his jaw, the knife scraping against his clean-shaven cheek, and dig the barrel of your pistol into his wound. He sobs, scrambling, but you don’t give in.

“Talk.”

You’ve got a minute, maybe, before his goon opens the door. But it’s enough.

Havemeyer doesn’t just talk.

He sings.

—

A swift kick to the head knocks him out. Kind of you not to kick him in the knee; the pain would’ve done the trick, but meh. You’re not really here for him. It’s just a nice little bonus, learning things.

Anyway, better not to get blood on your shoes.

You wipe the barrel of your gun, bloody from being jabbed against Havemeyer’s knee, on his suit jacket. It’s been seventy-five seconds since you told him to talk. You really are good at your job.

Of course, you still have to deal with whatever’s waiting behind the door. It’s been quiet. Have they gone for help?

The powder room had no other exits, not even a window. Well, whatever’s waiting outside can’t be worse than things you’ve faced in the past.

Hell, you’re the woman who faced down the Winter Soldier and came out on top—well, not literally on top, but…

Eh, maybe later. Hopefully later.

You press an ear to the door, listening, not daring to breathe. It’s silent in the hall.

Worth the risk. You’re a professional, after all. If some rich man’s security is good enough to get you, you probably deserve to get caught.

You step back and whisk the chair out of the way.

The second you do, the door bursts open.

Oh, bother.

Tall, broad, bulky—you’re nearly pinned by his long arms, but you manage to duck aside. Still, he knocks your pistol out of your hands. You tighten your grip on your knife as you whirl to retaliate, but he jumps back. Your knife grazes his open jacket, cutting a neat slice in the thick material. You don’t have time to admire the clean cut because he’s lunging again.

And he’s got a knife too.

Oh, bother.

You kick the chair in his way, scrambling at the inside of your bangle. He throws the chair at you. It hits; you stumble back, but there’s just enough time as he tosses the chair aside. You hurl yourself at him, latching the patch from your bangle onto his neck with one hand while you drive your knife into his thigh with the other.

He grunts—more pain tolerance than his boss, apparently—and aims his knife at you. But with the patch administered, you’ve got a hand free.

He’s got no chance at all.

Well, let’s be fair. He never had a chance.

A knee to the groin, an expert twist of your hand, and his wrist cracks. This time, he does howl. He stumbles back, away from your knife, back through the open door into the hall. You stalk after him, a feral grin on your face as he slumps against the wall.

“That’ll teach you to pick on girls,” you tell him.

“Who are you?” he whimpers.

“None of your goddamn business.”

Your knife is still bloody. You hike up your dress and carefully wipe the blade clean on the inside of your skirt, still watching the bodyguard carefully.

A low whistle echoes down the hall.

You pause, a smile edging onto your face as you tilt your head. You don’t take your eyes away from the bodyguard, but your whole body lights up. You can sense Bucky from meters away.

“See something you like?” you call.

The bodyguard blanches.

You don’t blame him, really. It takes a really dumb criminal to be delighted to see the Winter Soldier.

What does that make you?

A lovestruck idiot, probably.

Bucky saunters down the hall, smirking. A pair of handcuffs dangle from his right hand; his left hand is tucked neatly in his pocket. “I might.”

Havemeyer’s bodyguard shifts a few inches down the wall as he holds out his trembling hands, one at an unnatural angle. Bucky spins him to face the wall and cuffs his hands behind his back. You slide your knife back into its slot in your shoe as Bucky shuts the bodyguard into the powder room.

“This yours?” Bucky asks.

You turn, still smiling, and reach for your pistol. But Bucky holds it out of your reach, the pearl handle clinking against his metal hand. You stick your hands on your hips and raise your eyebrows.

“That’s mine,” you tell him.

“No time for that now.” He loops his arm through yours and drags you down the hall. “Hill’s on her way over.”

Hill? Is that his associate?

Her?

You press your lips together as you run alongside him. Envy coils unpleasant and heavy in your chest.

Her?

You’re not jealous. You know Bucky well enough now to know he’s got no eyes for anyone else.

But… someone he can work with? Someone he can be in public with? Someone he can see without subterfuge, without shame…

You don’t have regrets about your career. None whatsoever. You’re talented, you’re passionate about it… Some people think murder is wrong, but the world is far better off without certain people in it.

But Bucky—he’s from another world.

A world where you’re not welcome. Not you, not your team, not your delight in a perfectly executed kill. He can ravish you all he wants—all you want, if you’re being honest—but at the end of the day, you’re just a dirty little secret.

It’s never bothered you before. Right now, though?

You hate it.

Bucky drags you down a back staircase, gripping your hand tight. You burst outside into a back alley, the fresh air cool against your clammy skin. A high fence shuts out the rest of the world, but when you look up, you can see the hazy sky, stars barely visible past the light of the city.

“That went well,” Bucky says cheerfully.

“Mm,” you answer, feigning cheer. “Can I have my gun back?”

“Oh this?” He dangles the pistol in front of your face, smirking. You stare stonily, not taking his bait.

Bucky’s smirk drops as you stand there. He passes the gun to you; you check the safety and slide it back into its holster, refastening the snap with a muffled click.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.

“I—” You draw your lower lip between your teeth and start to pace. A glance at Bucky; he’s confused, worried, his playfulness fading fast.

But the right words don’t come out.

“What did Malinda say?”

His face screws up, adorably confused. Even as you’re metaphorically kicking yourself in the foot, you’re half breathless by how much you love to look at him.

“Huh?”

“Malinda,” you say again. “The woman impersonating me.”

“Ohhh.” Bucky nods, his face smoothing. “She didn’t give her name, though I assume Hill is on it. Without her mask, it shouldn’t be hard.”

Your eyes bug out. “Didn’t you recognize her?!”

He frowns. Tips his head back. Then his head falls forward, chin nearly brushing his chest.

“Well, shit,” he says. “She was there when we met, wasn’t she?”

Oh my god.

“More than that,” you snap. “She knows who I am! She was Rex Carston’s dinner date the night we—”

You clap your hands to your mouth, but Bucky’s caught on. He steps closer; you step back, until your back is against the wall. He’s boxing you in, face stern.

“What’s this really about?” he says, voice low.

You lower your hands. They’re trembling. “She knows me, Bucky. She has to know me. How else…”

What else is there to say? If she’s in SHIELD custody, and she knows you, she’ll talk. She’ll talk, and you’ll be on their radar.

And then Bucky really will be in bed with the enemy.

“I hate being your dirty little secret,” you mumble, eyes fixed on his lapel. “I don’t want to have to be your enemy too.”

“No,” Bucky says firmly. He grips your face and tilts it up towards his. “You’ll never be that.”

“I'm basically that already!” You knock his hands away, shove him back. “Bucky, I’m tired of sneaking around! It was fun, but I’m tired of it! You don’t care, but I’ll never be good enough for your moralistic friends, and I’m tired of it.”

He blinks.

“But they like what you do,” he says. “I mean, the ones that matter.”

Thank god you’re leaning against the wall, because you’re pretty sure you just fainted.

“Excuse me?”

“They don’t know about us,” Bucky says slowly, “and they don’t know what all of you look like—at least they didn’t—but your team is on SHIELD’s list of outfits not to bother. An unofficial list, but it still counts.”

You’re a fish. A gaping fish. Bucky scratches the back of his head.

“Assuming you don’t take a sharp left turn in the evil direction, I mean,” he adds.

He peers up at you from under his eyelashes, hands stuffed in his pockets. Even with the sharp-as-knives suit and cheekbones, he looks more adorable than ever.

With Bucky clearly nervous, you find your voice.

“So all this time,” you say slowly, “there hasn’t been a reason to be all—” you gesture vaguely— “secretive?”

Bucky’s lips quirk up. “Well, I mean, there’s fun in intrigue. At least…” His tiny smile fades. “I think so.”

“Well shit, I think so too!” You snort. One step away from the wall, towards him. “I’m not in my line of work because I don’t like intrigue. But my god, Bucky, I could have been your date all night! You’re telling me I’ve been missing out on you for no good reason?”

“I figured you had good reason,” he retorts. He steps towards you now, his hands light on your waist. You melt into his touch, warmth spreading from his hands so close to your skin. His face softens. “I never wanted you to think… Shit, angel, I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s okay.” You brush a hand across his face, thumb tracing his sharp cheekbone with a new kind of reverence. He’s close, his darkening eyes fixed on your face, your barely parted lips.

The world is wide open now, isn’t it?

You lean in, his breath on your lips before he stops you. His eyes dart over your heads, by the door—a surveillance camera, red light holding steady.

The very thing you’ve avoided.

The very thing you’re done with.

“Fuck that,” you murmur.

You grab his chin and kiss him, rough and hard and without mercy. He gasps into your mouth, and you bite his lower lip before drawing back. No blood, but his lip’s already swollen, dark pink and even more plump than usual. He’s the one gaping now. You drag your thumb across his mouth, admiring it.

“Fuck that,” you repeat. “Let them see.”

He stares. “Seriously?”

“Am I a liar, Mr. Barnes?”

“Not in the usual way,” he says, lips twitching.

“I’m serious. Now kiss me before I change my mind.”

Bucky crushes his lips to yours. You knew it was coming, but his intensity still tears a cry from your throat as he slams you back against the concrete wall. His hands knead your hips; his teeth nip at your lip just as you’d done to his.

Well, fair’s fair.

Heat thrums though you. You thread your hands in his hair and tug hard enough to break the kiss. His head falls back and you waste no time in leaving a mark against his neck, frantically unbuttoning his jacket, his shirt. He hisses into the open air as your teeth press just deep enough against his throat to hurt. Your lips follow your hands, kissing across that sculpted chest, fingers stealing touches of his skin as his hands skate up your sides.

When you reach the last button on his shirt, you snake your hand straight down his pants and take his hardening cock in hand. His hands squeeze painfully tight on your waist, but you revel in it.

“Fuck,” he groans.

You draw back, lick your lips. Smirk coyly at him from under your eyelashes as you stroke him lightly, one hand still tracing his chest.

“Something the matter?”

Bucky shakes his head and leans one arm against the wall. He’s panting, but he manages a grin all the same. “You and your mouth.”

“Oh, you want my mouth?”

You fall to your knees, cement biting into your knees through your dress, but you don’t care. You tug his zipper down with your teeth and pull his cock free. A fresh wave of want surges through you.

Damn if he doesn’t look like the best snack in the world.

One hand around his base, the other cupping his balls, you draw him into your mouth with a hungry moan. Hot, heavy, perfect; god, there’s that delicious stretch you’d been missing, the taste of him, of Bucky, heady on your tongue.

It’s like your first time together. You on your knees, his hand in your hair, him singing your praises, your mouth around him and your hand cupping your own sex, touching yourself through your dress, desperate for release but too busy tasting him to beg him for more.

It’s like then, but it’s not. Because right now, you’re not lying to him. You’re not fooling him, distracting him. No ulterior motive beyond letting the whole world know how much you want him.

How much he wants you.

No more hiding, no more sneaking, no more looking over your shoulder—it’s all you and him, him and you, the two of you together—

Bucky’s hips are rocking now, seeking you out. Lipstick stains his cock dark in the shadows, but you can’t take your eyes from his face. That beautiful face, a flush across his cheeks and a pinch between his brows. Those beautiful eyes, so dark and full of that thing that neither of you have to hide anymore. His panting echoes in the alley, sweet sounds falling like the first spring rain. Beautiful, vital relief. Your skin prickles, pressure building as you struggle to breathe.

You squeeze the base of his cock as you relax your throat, drawing more of him into your mouth. You hum around him, the vibrations pulling a fresh stream of whimpers from his pretty mouth that makes a fresh rush of want pool between your legs. God, it’s filthy how he’s moaning your name, leaking in your mouth…

“Fuck, yes, f—fuck!” he rasps.

A swirl of your tongue around his head, suction so strong it makes your cheeks hurt, and the lightest squeeze of his balls. Then your hand dances back, teasing his rim, and Bucky shouts his release, spilling down your throat as you swallow hungrily.

You pull back and lick your lips clean, smirking up at him as you lightly graze your clothed breasts. Just a pause, to let him come back to himself. And to bask in his afterglow. Looking at him like he is now, flushed down to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut in bliss, is like looking at God.

It’s not long before Bucky’s eyes open. He tugs you up. His breathing is heavy, but he catches it enough to kiss you long and tender, one hand still buried in your hair. You moan into his mouth, breasts tight against his chest. Can he taste himself on your lips?

You break the kiss with a gasp as Bucky pushes you against the wall. He smirks and starts bunching your dress up around your waist, his body still pressed against yours. The air is cool on your legs, all the more so when your thighs are bared.

Bucky leans his forehead against yours, both of you panting as he grips your thigh, toying with the lace of your holster. He shifts his wrist, his eyes blacker than the hazy sky. His touch between your legs buckles your knees; you’re held up by his chest on yours and his other hand on your waist. His hand slips under your panties.

The merest brush of your clit and the world shudders, all your focus zooming in on that tender touch. You’ve been on the precipice for what feels like hours, and his touch, Bucky’s touch…

It’s everything.

You clutch his arms, chin trembling as you try to hold on. His fingers dip between your folds, circle wet and slick against your clit.

“Let go,” he murmurs. He nuzzles your neck, teeth scraping against your collarbone as he works his magic. His left hand holds you steady against the wall, the concrete scraping your shoulders. “Let go for me.”

He curls one hot finger inside you, and it’s enough to tip you over the edge. A cry tears from your throat as you quake in his hold, sparks shooting through you. He coaxes you through, sweet sounds—full words, perhaps, but you’re too overwhelmed to make them out—falling from his lips as he slows his ministrations.

You ease down from your high as Bucky takes his hand away. He’s gentle, his eyes dark but so damn sweet. They’re the first thing you see when you resurface.

He sucks his fingers clean, smiling all the while, as you steady your breathing. He smooths your skirt back over your legs, zips his fly, buttons his shirt. Your face screws up.

“What, is that all?” you manage.

Bucky’s laugh echoes loud and clear in the alley. He slings his arm around you, squeezing your bum fondly as he leads you away. “Not a chance.”

—

The city twinkles outside of the wide windows of your hotel room. Warm lighting, a queen-size bed that might be a bit snug for Bucky—well, it’s upscale, not platinum; you have a budget, after all—and his suit jacket already hung in the closet. Bucky’s standing in his shirt by the window, on the phone with Hill. Maria Hill, Nick Fury’s right-hand man.

“I ran into an old associate,” he tells her for the third time. His voice is steady, though you can see in the reflection his lips pursing. He’s being just vague enough to keep her suspicious. He’s quiet for a moment as you fill a cup in the bathroom sink.

You wander back into the bedroom, nerves humming. The whole cab ride over, Bucky’s hands had been all over you, light and teasing and just enough to keep you right on edge. And the elevator ride up to the seventh floor had him rutting against you like a dog in heat.

Now he’s putting your patience to the test with his drawn-out call when all you want to do is scream his name. You clench your thighs as you swallow, waiting for him to finish. But he’s still got the phone to his ear.

This won’t do.

You finish your water and lick your lips dry, the taste of your lipstick heavy on your tongue. Is his cock still stained with it? You’re dying to find out. The cup clinks against the dresser, abandoned. Bucky’s eyes meet yours in the window reflection as you wander over to him and lean against his back, circling your arms around his waist to start unbuttoning his shirt for the second time tonight. His lips twitch.

“Hill, listen, I gotta—”

“Not until you explain yourself, Barnes.”

You sink your teeth into his shoulder as you slide your hand inside his pants. He jerks, nearly dropping his phone.

“Fu—Hill, it’s fine, just—”

You palm his cock through his boxer briefs.

“Fuck!” he gasps. He slams his fist against the window, but there’s no swallowing back what’s just come out of his mouth.

Hill’s silent for a moment. Then she laughs. “Oh, I get it. Have fun, James. Don’t forget your paperwork!”

Click.

Bucky twists in your arms with a growl. His phone thumps against the floor as he forces his mouth on yours, bruising. He grips your upper arms and pushes you back until your knees hit the bed. A shove, and you’re falling, lips parted from his onslaught as you bounce on the mattress.

“You little devil.”

The low tenor of his voice sends a shiver through you. Bucky crawls over you, his open shirt brushing your arms as you push it down his shoulders.

“Thought I was your angel,” you murmur.

Bucky sits on his haunches and shrugs off his shirt. You lick your lips as you feast on him with your eyes alone, your fingers light on your breasts. Bucky’s eyes fix on your hands. He sucks in a breath as you squirm, nipples hardening under your dress.

“Whatever you are, you’re divine.”

Bucky stands for just long enough to push his pants and briefs off, barely giving you a chance to see how hard he is. But you see well enough: cock jutting out, thick and heavy. And yes, still painted with traces of your lipstick.

He pushes you further up the bed until your head’s on the pillow, then settles back between your legs. His hands knead your thighs, spread them apart. It’s his turn to lick his lips.

“And I’m going to worship the hell outta you tonight.”

Bucky glides his hands down your skirt. You twist your hands in the blankets, breathing shallow as you watch him. He lifts your leg and presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle, fingers dancing along your shoe.

“Killer shoes, huh?”

You laugh breathlessly, but you can’t answer because he’s kissing his way up the inside of your leg, his hands sliding up your skirt so smoothly that you’re a mess before he’s even reached your thigh holster. Fuck grabbing the blankets; you bury your hands in his hair and pull.

You half expect him to resist, but no, he lets you pull him between your legs, pushing your dress up over your waist. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the crotch of your panties, his tongue flicking against your clit. You cry out; your hips buck against his face, but he only chuckles, his breath warm against your skin. He peels your panties away, shifting so he can toss them away with the rest of his clothes. You reach for the satin bows on your holsters, but he grabs your hands.

“Safety’s on, leave ‘em,” he says, eyes glinting.

Your eyebrows fly up. “Really?”

He shrugs and tucks his hair behind his ear. “What can I say, watching you at work earlier was a turn-on.” You giggle and run your foot against his side.

“Let me guess, you want me to keep my shoes on too.”

“If it’s comfy.” He winks. “Think you’ll accidentally kill me if I drive you too crazy?”

You nudge at him with the toe of your shoe until he falls back onto you, his cock nestled between you. You twine your arms around his neck and kiss him til you’re out of breath.

“Kill you? Never.” You bump his nose with yours. “Now eat me out, or I might start charging you for my time.”

Bucky laughs out loud. Music to your ears. Then he dives back between your legs, pulling your thighs over his shoulders and settling on his elbows. One last wicked look, and then he latches his mouth to your clit, sucking and flicking and oh god you’re ruined, you’re wrecked. He’s pulling your soul out with his lips. Your hips buck up again, but he stills you with a single warm hand. Sounds fill the room, sounds you barely register as your own moaning.

He’s insatiable. His tongue dipping inside you, fucking you, his metal thumb circling smooth as silk against your clit. His other arm holding you in place so he can devour you, all your whimpers and cries and moans be damned. Your legs are shaking, thighs squeezing his head so tight you’re sure he’s suffocating, but no, he’s just lapping you up, humming, every vibration building you into a tighter frenzy. Sweat beads on your brow, on your chest—you grab hold of his hair, your breasts, the blankets, anything to ground you, but it’s impossible because he’s there, right there, his hips thrusting against the bed as yours strain towards his mouth.

More, more, more; it’s a chant in your mind, on your lips, back arching off the bed as his soaked metal fingers vibrate—

The throes of your orgasm are enough to wake the dead. Bucky lifts his head to watch you come undone, his hand still working on your clit. He lifts his arm from your hips, but by now you’re no more than a pile of mush on the bed, your silky dress sweaty and tight on your body, too much against your sensitive breasts. You twist bonelessly and reach for the zipper.

“Let me,” Bucky murmurs. He slides the zipper down slowly, careful not to let it catch on your skin. Peels the dress down until your arms are free, your breasts free in the open air. A few gentle tugs, and it’s gone, and you’re bare beside him.

Bucky doesn’t touch you, not yet. He hovers next to you, his hands reaching and falling back every second until you look at him and smile.

“C’mere, you,” you mumble. He settles in your open arms, propped on his elbow, his torso stretched across your chest. You brush back his hair and let your eyes drift across his body. Your gaze lands predictably on his cock, still red and hard and lipstick-stained, a bead of precum just at the tip. You take him in hand tenderly, reveling in his quiet hiss. “Poor Bucky. So much time worshipping me he hasn’t had a moment for himself.”

“I mean, you did—fuck, darlin’, just like that—you did suck me off earlier,” he says breathlessly.

You keep stroking him, your hands gentle, rubbing the lipstick stains into new shapes on his skin. Bucky’s tense, every muscle from his neck to his abs to his thick thighs in stark definition as you work along his length.

Bucky tugs your hand away all too soon. He settles between your legs; they’re spread wantonly, heels and lacy holsters an added bonus. His cock is scorching between your legs, sliding slick between your damp folds as he teases you.

“Fun as that is,” he rasps, “I just wanna be inside you already.”

A thrill shoots through you. Bucky rocks his hips gently, teasing, not fast or hard enough to provide relief. You tilt your hips, moaning, anything to spur him on. This dragging out the inevitable is torture.

“Fuck, what are you waiting for?” you gasp.

No warning, no caution—Bucky slams his cock home. Your body arches off the bed as you cry out, tears springing to your squeezed-shut eyes as he sinks deep, so deep it’s just shy of painful. But god, there’s no pleasure in the world better than this. His thick cock in you, his pelvis putting pressure on your clit, stars once again bursting behind your eyes.

Bucky doesn’t give you any time to adjust. His thrusts are fast, long, deep. Your feet scramble for purchase, heels catching on the blanket. A harsh rip as the comforter shreds, but it barely registers.

He notices. He growls, pulling your leg up, still pistoning in and out, pounding you into the bed. With your knee against his chest, he’s hitting all kinds of spots inside you, the ones you’d barely known of before him. Your walls flutter around him, a wail tumbling from your lips—

“Oh god, fuck, Bucky!”

Bucky litters your chest with kisses, alternating between tweaking your nipples and teasing your hypersensitive clit until tears run down your face and all you can do is beg.

“It’s ‘kay, darlin’,” he pants. His pace slows, the long drag of his head tugging at you, pulling fresh sobs from your throat. “Fuck. Look. Look how pretty y’are,” he urges.

You force your eyes open and stare between you. His cock, red and shining from your arousal and his, sliding in and out, your cunt stretched tight around him. You clench the muscles there as he sinks in once more, his prolonged groan enough to make you laugh triumphantly until he rolls you over, his hands strong on your waist as he sits you up, the movement shifting his cock inside you. You hiss and steady yourself with a hand on his chest.

“You seriously expect me to hold myself up? I’ve had two orgasms tonight and you’ve had none,” you tease.

Bucky’s eyes glitter. He rocks his hips up. You can’t move.

“You’re the one who was desperate for more,” he quips. “Prove it.”

“Ugh, fine.”

But you smile as you plant your hands more solidly on his chest, one finger just close enough to trace the scars at his left shoulder. You circle your hips, moving slow and small until he’s clenching his jaw. But he doesn’t beg for more. He just watches you, his hands still on your waist and his eyes black with lust.

The little movements prove your undoing before his, every roll of your hips providing fresh pressure on your clit. You mewl with pleasure as you start to bounce more solidly on his cock, chasing the building pleasure. Every slam has you both gasping. Your nails scrape against his skin, digging in, leaving marks. His hands shift to your breasts, just holding them, rubbing his palms back and forth across your painfully hard nipples. Every shift of his hands, every drop of your hips, every thrust of his send a shower of sparks through you until your whole body is fireworks, starbursts behind your eyes, fire in your blood—

One hard thrust of his hips when you’re not expecting it, one intense burst, and you seize up, shudders racking through you as he holds you up by your chest, walls milking him, eyes unseeing, all of you focused on the pleasure between your legs and the twitching of his cock inside you until he too explodes. He spills inside you, your name falling from his lips, offered up to you like a never-ending prayer as you fall forward to kiss him because you have to, you must.

“Bucky,” you murmur into his mouth. “Bucky.”

Every inch of skin is hot, damp with sweat, but you couldn’t move if the world was on fire. He’s wrapped around you, in more ways than one, and you never want to let him go.

And for the first time, he doesn’t have to go. Whatever his people think of him, they’re leaving him alone. Let the Winter Soldier blow off some steam, they must be thinking, and he’ll be our perfect operative when he gets home.

You smile into the crook of his neck as he strokes your back, your neck, your hair. He is perfect, isn’t he.

It’s a while before either of you have the strength to move. Bucky rolls you off him.

“Stay,” he murmurs. He drops a kiss on your forehead, and you watch his bum as he heads to the bathroom. Your eyes slide shut as you listen to him run the tap, splash water on his face. You don’t hear him come back, but you blink your eyes open again when he settles next to you. He cleans you up with a damp washcloth, tugging your shoes and holsters off as he works.

“There,” he says. He tosses it all off the bed—well, he puts the holstered guns gently on the nightstand—and lies down, pulling you into his arms. You wiggle your toes, stretching out your feet as you snuggle into his side.

Bucky’s quiet, oddly so. Usually he at least says how much he enjoyed himself. He’s never been shy with his words before.

Nerves gnaw at your stomach. What’s the matter with him? You’re not sure how to break the silence, so you let it settle, and wait.

It takes time, but eventually Bucky sighs and kisses your hair.

“It’s real fuckin’ nice that I can stay,” he says quietly.

You nod.

“And…” He swallows. “Were you serious earlier?”

You look up at him with a frown. “About what? I say a lot of stuff, y’know.” He chuckles, but sobers quickly.

“Were you serious about wanting to… be my date?”

The words tumble out of his mouth.

You sit up, heart pounding, and lean over him. His face is cupped in your hands, your eyes are fixed on his, and the whole world is in his hopeful smile. You kiss him, chaste and heartfelt as a ingenue.

“Am I a liar, Mr. Barnes?”

“Not in the usual way,” he answers.

“There we go,” you murmur. You push the damp hair off his forehead. He’s gazing up at you with something past liking, past wonder, past fondness in his eyes. It’s mirrored in yours, whether you acknowledge it or not. Either way, here you are, with him, with everywhere to go. “There we go.”

#winter’sgemswritingchallenge #winter soldier smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes x y/n #winter soldier imagine #becca writes

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hisvanity · 5 years

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ABOLISH CAPITALISM uh i mean, here is a list of the things that can be done to solve the training crisis. sorry for the wait!

(an add-on to this post)

first of all, nations around the world should change the minimum legal full-time training age from 10 to 18. a large part of the problem is the fact that kids are being told to leave home and choose their careers in the middle of their education--in the united states this would be equivalent to leaving school in the third grade and then never getting a decent education further. technically according to child labor laws they shouldn’t even be working at that age anyway. children who need to train to supplement their family’s financial needs should be given welfare instead. no ten-year-old should have to work 4-8 hours a day at training to provide for their family because what is this, industrial england?

second, corporations and governments need to stop marketing to kids that full-time training is their best shot at fame or even at living a comfortable life. not only is this not entirely true, it’s also unethical. this requires a global cultural shift away from the push toward full-time training--which means that, fundamentally, the pokémon world will have to change from how we understand it just so trainers can lead the better lives they were promised.

third, there needs to be more options and support for people who are part-time trainers. the vast majority of funding goes to activity meant for full-time trainers because those are the matches that earn the most profit. this necessitates a conscious choice on the part of corporations sponsoring tourneys to use some of their money to provide more for the community. with this change, part-timers won’t feel pressured to go full-time to get some of the money they need out of something that honestly in the majority of cases should only be a part-time job.

fourth, serious training among young kids should be treated as a school sport and not a job--and low-income communities especially need support because let’s face it, education in low-income communities is generally underfunded by the government, even school training teams. once again this requires a massive cultural shift: people need to stop seeing school tourneys as “the little leagues” or as any less awesome as professional battling by same-age children (because spoiler alert, it isn’t really).

fifth, there also needs to be more local support for battling. part of why most trainers can’t train and go to school at the same time is because they have to travel constantly. leagues could solve this problem by expanding their numbers so that each town can have a full set of eight gyms, or 1-2 places where you can go to challenge them all. there also needs to be more marketing for some of the lesser-known local tournaments, which can be just as kickass as some of the international ones--especially tournaments hosted by high schools and colleges that are open to the public.

sixth, leagues NEED to take action--and first, they must be willing to admit their role in propping up the training conspiracy. without the leagues, the head honchos of pokémon battling adding their voices to the conversation, this conversation won’t gain ground at all. doing so will require every league to recognize their own complicity, witting or unwitting, in the training system. without a single exception worldwide, all leagues encouraged--blindly or otherwise--ten year old children entering training as a profession and facing up to that legacy is going to take some guts that many leagues just don’t have. in some cases, they may need to make a show of strength: unjust governments sometimes do not respond unless force is threatened, and some of them really need a reminder that every member of a league working together can take down a government because that’s how leagues were designed.

seventh, in unovamerica and the other countries that have adopted its system, benefits given to trainers should be expanded to the general populace. the fact that free healthcare (and/or cheap/free quality government housing) are often tied exclusively to training has created a trainer-industrial complex that funnels people into training to line the pockets of poké mart, inc. and any other corporation that draws a significant part of its profits from training-related goods and/or services. in order to truly improve the lives of all citizens, this complex MUST be destroyed. in order to do so, radical political change needs to take place.

lastly, piggybacking off the sixth point, governments must take seemingly unrelated political actions to improve the lives of their citizens so that they aren’t incentivized to take on a dead-end job because it’s slightly different from all the other dead-end jobs that are their only options. striking down the billionaire class will free up all that hoarded wealth for helping people stay afloat. shifting money from the military to education will provide support for people who were misled by the propaganda to quit school and train, and who would otherwise not be able to get those years of their lives back. in unovamerica and other countries where a prison sentence means a lifelong stigma during job hunting, people need to create reform so that this is not the case and so that the cycle of poverty has one less way to be perpetuated.

and like i was kinda joking when i said “ABOLISH CAPITALISM” but let’s be real, abolishing or reforming capitalism would help all of these processes immensely.

hope you like!

#anon #unova in my head / hoenn on my mind. || ASK #don't give me that pain. || WORLDBUILDING #politics*

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anukumariime · 10 months

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mostlysignssomeportents · 6 years

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Buskers are the only performers making money at the Edinburgh Fringe. Here's how. (by @MatRicardo)

So. You're trudging down the Royal Mile taking it all in. The World's largest festival of the performing arts, and in such a beautiful city, too. Detestably young actors with a dream in their heart and Starbucks in their veins approach from every angle, lunging flyers at you like fencers thrusting a blade. You dodge, parry, apologise and avoid – priding yourself on your fringe street savvy. But then your attention is piqued by a noise. The unmistakable sound of genuine spontaneous fun. Your lizard brain makes you perk up like a meerkat, on the balls of your feet, trying to get a look at what might be occurring ahead. There's a crowd. Could be anything. Could be something. You add yourself to their number, pushing in a little. Someone's doing something. Looks like you missed whatever amazing feat caused the crowd to erupt like that, but lets stick around to see what happens next, right?

And now you belong to us.

Street performing is like professional wrestling. At first glimpse, it appears to be a fairly basic, low-brow form of entertainment. Populist, cheap, crass, even. But the longer you look, the closer you get and the harder you squint, the more you realise that there's some sneakily beautiful high level theatre craft going on here. And, just like pro-wrestling, every so often, if you're lucky, an old jaded insider might let you in on a few trade secrets.

Hello, my name is Mat Ricardo, and I've been a street performer, along with a few other things, for all of my adult life. I'll be your guide to the world of crate slugs, circle shows, tight edges and strong bottles.

First things first – what just happened that caused that crowd to go so nuts? Chances are, nothing at all. You just fell victim to the clap & cheer. See, when you're starting a show on the street, you don't have an audience, you don't have advertising, all you have is yourself, and the challenge of convincing passers-by to stop passing by, and give you a chance. It's the hardest part of the whole game. I learned my trade at Covent Garden in London. That's a big space for a newbie to walk out onto, suitcase in hand, with a brain full of nerves, and some stuttered old lines to try to get the ball rolling with. Sometimes – in the early days, often – it doesn't work. Momentum slows and you skulk back, your show having failed to reach escape velocity. It's heartbreaking, but with enough practice, enough work, and enough successes, your confidence will start to show through, and a handful of people will see you mucking about with your props, and think “Looks like something might be about to happen”, rather than, “Let's cross to the other side of the street”. It's always a bloody fine line though.

And once they stay, you talk to them. You're friendly and witty and you reassure them that although this doesn't look like much now, just wait. This part is about gaining their trust. And as a few more people gather, and your snowball slowly starts to roll, you do two things. You rearrange the front row to be a nice neat tight line. Two reasons for this – firstly - people, deep down, see a neat crowd and assume that it's something that should be there. Something that looks clean and orderly looks trustworthy. Secondly – if you get the people in your front row standing shoulder to shoulder, it means the people who are watching from a safe distance, not committed yet, can't really see through the gaps, and have to come and join the audience. On top of all of this, if you move people around, politely ask them to take a few steps closer, then an invisible contract has been made. Before that moment, they had just stopped to see what was going on, but once you ask them to come a little closer, and they've done so – they've committed to being part of your crowd. They've voluntarily changed their role in this thing. Much, much less chance they'll walk away now. Clever, isn't it? And we're just getting started.

So we've got a small group of people watching someone who hasn't done anything yet. But we're going to need a bigger audience to make this whole shebang worth doing, so that's when we might use the clap & cheer. Here's how that works. You tell the audience that you want a bigger crowd. Not because you don't like them, quite the opposite, they were there first, they're your favourites, but because we all want the biggest funnest show we can get, right? Right. Who could argue with that? It's certainly nothing to do with increasing the amount of money you stand to make. Certainly not. Well, alright, maybe a little from each column.

So you give the audience a cue. Maybe you take a bow, maybe you do a little trick. And you instruct them to, when they see this cue, react as if it's the most amazing thing they've ever seen. To clap and cheer and scream and whoop and whistle. If everyone does this, you'll tell them, the people wandering around and not watching the show – the idiots – will hear the huge cheer, assume something spectacular is happening, and join the audience. It's a con trick. But the beauty of it is, you're letting half the audience in on the con trick, in order to hoodwink the other half who haven't arrived yet. Once a crowd realises the fiendish trick they're being asked to participate in, they want in. Every time. You take your bow, they go nuts, and your crowd doubles in size. Half the audience thinking you must be amazing to have done something to get such a reaction, and thus committed to the rest of your show, and the other half giggling at the big joke they were just complicit in. Not all shows do this, but it's the perfect example of how street performers, over the decades, have developed beautiful bits of stagecraft unique to their venue.

A friend of mine once defined a modern street show as follows: “They start the show by telling the audience about the next trick they're going to do, and then 45 minutes later, they do it”. There's an element of truth to this, and it certainly holds, to an extent, for an act like mine. The reason that, when I work on stage, I'm fairly bulletproof, is the decades of practice I put in honing my work on the street. If you have to have such a strong narrative structure that people won't walk away even if it starts raining, then once you're in a more forgiving and comfortable environment, things get a lot easier.

But what about those tricks? Why do some of the same kinds of things crop up, show after show? Just seen your third show featuring yet another busker riding a high unicycle, having props handed up to them by a kid from the audience? Let's break that down. Obviously, it's a given, that juggling things while riding on a high unicycle is a cool feat of multitasking spectacle. Regardless of how many people on the Royal Mile you've seen doing it, you still probably can't, so lets not get too cocky. It's a good choice for a street show because it has it's own inbuilt, default narrative: First I have to find a way to get up there, then I have to stay up there, then I have to get my juggling, things, then I have to juggle and not die, and then we can all relax. Maybe the performer will press-gang some schmucks from the audience to hold the thing while they climb up. Everyone likes seeing one of their own being made fun of, as long as its not them. And seeing a few audience members being part of the show just strengthens that umbilical link between crowd and show, and makes it even less likely people will walk away. Perhaps a cute kid will be asked to help throw props up to the performer as he totters away on the one wheel. If you want a crowd to love you, get a kid out, give them a challenge they can succeed at, and let them love the kid instead. Then when you put the kid back in the audience, all that good feeling is still there. Oh, but of course, before you let the kid go back to the audience, you give them a fiver to say thanks. Because if someone made you laugh in a show on the street, it's only fair to give them a fiver, right? Let's make sure we get that message across nice and clear.

But I'm burying the lede here. The most important reason for being on a high unicycle (or ladder, or whatever), isn't complicated at all. The higher up you are, the more people can see you. Street performers don't have a stage on which to be raised into everyone's eyeline, so they have to find a way to make their own. It's a quantity business. The fact is that, for all my previous mentions of building psychological links between audience and performer, of creating a feeling of commitment, at the end of a street show, about half of the audience will just walk away without paying. Because they can. So it makes sense to have as bigger crowd as possible. Half of more is worth more than half of less.

The old joke is that nobody makes money at the Edinburgh Fringe apart from the producers, the venues, and the late-night take-aways. But there's another group who do. Thanks to that beautiful, honest half of every audience who stay. They know what's up, and they don't pay because of any cheap tricks, or misdirection. They put money in our hats for the same reason that I still do the shows. Because in a time when arts funding is being shrivelled out of existence, where there are less and less places for a performer – especially a variety artist – to do their thing, there's a fellowship of theatrical pirates who have the arcane knowledge to make anywhere into a theatre. They turn piazzas, streets and parks the world over into cabaret shows and circus rings. Then, when the shows are over, they revert back to what they were. No evidence left, save for some memories, smiles, and a little money earned. Brigadoon with juggling.

And sure, you might watch a show, and not like it. You might see a couple that are a bit samey. You know what? I saw a comedian once. Didn't care for it. But I didn't write off the whole artform. That'd be dumb. I'd be missing the good stuff, because I judged it by the dreck. Don't be dumb. Give it a fair shake, see an afternoon full of shows, and its a fair bet that you'll see something you've never seen before. Someone who transcends the preconceived notion you had about their artistry, that you based only on their venue. I've just let you in on a few of the tried and trusted bits of scaffholding that help hold up countless street shows, so if you see someone not doing those things, they might a good starting point. They're making a choice not to do the stuff that has the best shot of hooking a big crowd, and instead, just perhaps, they're doing something that came from their imagination. People who make those choices are always worth your time.

I've told you, of course, nothing that won't spoil it. The spell is too strong. You can know a little about what pro-wrestling is, how it works, its history, its secrets, and it'll just make your admiration for those that step inside the squared circle deeper, and your enjoyment of the in-ring action stronger.

Oh, and if you are strolling along the Royal Mile, and you happen to see a well-dressed chap threatening to do something absurd with a fully-laden dining table, well, that's me, so stick around, and get your tenners out, because I'm going to show you something you've never seen before.

https://boingboing.net/2018/08/05/buskers-are-the-only-performer.html

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portiaphotographer-blog · 5 years

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The Web We Want: Jeremy Bailey and New Media Art

December 11, 2018

Professors Cara Tierney & Julia Martin

ART 3116A

Thesis and Annotated Bibliography

Portia Lavallée

Links That May Help Contextualize This Essay:

http://jeremybailey.net/

https://ca.linkedin.com/in/jeremy-bailey-0327052

https://www.youtube.com/user/jeremybailey06

Jeremy Bailey has a critical approach to art production, to engage with the elitist mainstream art world he strategically uses humour as a tool to parody, satirize and subvert their conventions and traditions. One of Bailey’s main tropes is the shameless self-promotion of his art practice and himself over the internet. Calling himself “Famous New Media Artist Jeremy Bailey,” allows him to create a humorous narrative about the effects the often impersonal nature of the internet has had on social culture. Although Bailey’s practice is, ironically, largely internet-based performance through video, he also performs and shows his work in galleries all over the world. A major part of Bailey’s performance involves coding reactionary programs that allow the computer to become part of his work.1

With his technology-centred approach toward interactivity, Bailey has adopted a method of making contemporary art that successfully questions the institutional framework of the traditional gallery and museum space. Bailey did this by: 1) creating interactive technology which not only utilized but influenced popular internet culture and social media and 2) by acting as an art-activist who challenges the ‘cannon’ of art and strives for inclusivity within the art world. Bailey’s practice, after its initial experimental stage has been strategically played, if not planned. With the help of his alter-ego based on his real, and less “famous”, self Bailey carefully executes every aspect of his performance.

Bailey’s elaborate performance and practice is based on the New Media art movement within which he has placed himself. Artists began working with technology in their homes as early as the 1940s and ‘50s; many of these experimented with military technology and their goal was to create “exciting new forms of artistic expression.”2 By the 1960s this form of experimentation became more institutional and artists began working with “computing technology” in American and European universities.3 By the 1990s the movement had grown in great significance and dialogue inevitably occurred between those within the traditional art-academic and gallery space, collectively they named the movement “new media art”.4

Bailey’s decision to identify as a New Media artist is best understood in the context of his artistic practice. Bailey started working over the internet around 2003 when he began to post video clips of interactive software he was working on, in the early stages of its creation, over YouTube. By working with the software over social media Bailey provided a level of accessibility to his work that few other formally trained artists had done in the past. Although many artists had begun to show their work on the internet, the gallery was still thought of as the primary place to experience art. In contrast, Bailey’s work was largely designed to be experienced over the media of the internet and his performative involvement essential. Showing his work to an online audience allowed him to remove the elitism of the gallery experience and question the idea that the museum and gallery space is the only legitimate space to host art; however Bailey’s way of working has not been without backlash.

Julian Stallabrass gives reasons for this backlash in his satirical essay Can Art History Digest Net Art. He talks about how art history is separate from other forms of history in “that it describes not merely an institutional category, or even a particular kind of human activity, but that it also carries with it a judgement about quality.”5 Stallabrass also explains that one of the main critiques of internet art, is that its accessibility makes it a lesser form of art than that which is found in the museum and gallery space; this is the same thing, that in my opinion, frees internet art from arbitrary institutional judgements about what constitutes art.6

These judgments are largely why Bailey, being the well educated artist that he is, strategically participates in the movement through the character of his alter-ego. Bailey’s alter-ego allows him to seriously challenge the state of the traditional art world yet do so in a palatable enough manner that he has been accepted into circles that may have otherwise shunned him. Bailey’s MFA with a specialization in Art Video from Syracuse University and a history of residencies all over the world allow him to operate from an art historical perspective. Kholief identify’s Bailey with a small group of internet artists whose use their alter-egos to create a critical narrative online, often using parody to question the ‘cannon’ of art.7 Kholeif notes the effectiveness of this strategy when he states that “mockumentary and mock-narrative practices have long been used as postmodern methods of critiquing culture, as comedic tools to subvert hegemonic discourses, and as props to interrogate artist practices”.8 I think that what makes Bailey’s work so interesting is that it does all three. With his work Bailey carefully questions the power of the internet and its potential to provide artistic freedom and enslave the masses. Bailey is also critical of the elitist power structures that divide high and low art and questions their legitimacy.

While working over the internet Bailey has in many ways fed the culture he has relentlessly critiqued. The creation of his interactive software has not been without consequences. Many writes have assumed that Bailey “works over snapchat” while in reality he contributed to the apps technological innovation albeit against his will. Snapchat lenses are in actuality the result of Bailey’s technological genius. Bailey’s reactionary programs were “developed while at the Shargorod residency in Ukraine” in 2009.9 In 2010, he released a video that he had been working on using an antiquated version of the program that now makes up a large part of his practice, while Snapchat was not even in existence until September 2011. Additionally, Snapchat “lenses” were not released until September 15, 2015.10 It is interesting to note that he in fact has not co-opted existing programs but has been in many ways been a cultural creator.

Bailey’s work The Web I Want, released in 2015, may be a stab at Snapchat’s appropriation of his software. Software which is rumoured Snapchat tried to purchase to no avail. Bailey’s clear refusal and the subsequent intellectual property theft which resulted appear to be subversively addressed in the hilarious narrative of his YouTube video. Bailey begins The Web I Want with ever-so-subtle-sarcasm “so excited to be here...to present new, new ideas to you really” he quips. “When I thought about the internet we want I thought, well what do I want? What do I need, I really need more people to pay attention to me I decided. I looked around, everyone is on their devices...the internet is very successful, I’m very happy for you internet great job! But now what about me?” Bailey asks.11 Then Bailey jokingly comments about how he decided what consumers of the internet need is a screen on their bodies, poking fun at Snapchat’s decision to appropriate his work in order to make cheap entertainment for the masses.12 The fact that his comments are subversive protects Bailey’s ‘freedom of speech’ which is realizes is to a point a fallacy.

Bailey is fond of using satire and parody as weapons which allow him to act as an art-activist and push for a more inclusive art-world. “‘In my world of media art, there's a bit of a boys club going on’” Bailey says attributing this to “‘male ego”’.13 Seeking to disrupt elitist tendencies by showing just how absurd they can be Bailey often creates art that mocks the lack of inclusion in the art world. Bailey’s Penis Paint interactive program is one way he has subversively addressed the exclusive nature of the art world.

In Bailey performative work he asks women to perform on stage while fitted with a large strap-on, soon they find that the thrusting motions of their hips translate to “brushstrokes” on a large screen in front of them.14 The work shows that it is ridiculous that the act of attaching penises to women somehow gives them the right to participate creativity.15 Yet, historically masculinity has been a large reason for the exclusivity of the art world and the lack of female representation in it. Bailey wished to challenge this with his work. Because of the humorous nature of the work it allows those who operate in the art world to consider Bailey’s point without the conflict that a serious political discussion might create. Thus in this way Bailey’s use of satire and parody are safer tools for discussion. However, does Bailey play it too safe now that he has been accepted into the space of which he is critical?

Early in Bailey’s practice his brand of art-activism was almost entirely performed over the media of the internet. However, eventually throughout the course of his career, Bailey, like many artists who historically pushed against the institutional framework of their time, quickly moved from being an outsider to an insider. This leads one to question if the many opportunities which have been presented to Bailey have changed his modus operandi, especially since his work began appearing in galleries all over the world. Yet, it is important to consider that if money, acceptance, or fame were going to influence how Bailey operated as an artist, he would have accepted ‘corporate funding’ though Snapchat rather than worry about his authenticity as an artist. Instead, though Bailey has grown in maturity as an artist, his method of working has essentially stayed the same.

For Bailey it is essential that his ideology is as much as part of his work as it first was. Although his art has evolved and the internet with it, Bailey still questions the institutional framework he operates within by challenging the perceived superiority of the gallery and museum space. In addition, he questions the elitism of the art world by looking honestly at who is included or excluded from that world and why. In Nail Art Museum Bailey uses his hands and nails as the gallery space to display plinths with art historical works.16 He asks himself and thus his audience how art has changed after the internet and subtly pushes them to consider how the internet can be a gallery space in its own right.17 However, for those that desire to hold on to this elitism the internet is far too accessible a space; perhaps, because the internet effectively renders the boundaries between ‘high’ and ‘low’ art invisible and gives those who may not otherwise be a part of the elitist facade a chance to participate.

Endnotes:

1. Kristin Trethewey, “Famous New Media Artist Jeremy Bailey Finds Facts Funnier Than Fiction,” Creators, February 17, 2012, Accessed October 13, 2018, https://creators.vice.com/en_us/article/qkz7bm/famous-new-media-artist-jeremy-bailey-finds-facts-funnier-than-fiction.

2. James J. Hodge and Jacob Gaboury. "New Media Art,” Oxford Bibliographys, April 28, 2017. Accessed October 13, 2018, http://www.oxfordbibliographies.com.proxy.bib.uottawa.ca/view/document/obo-9780199791286/obo-9780199791286-0110.xml

3. Ibid.

4. Ibid. Yet the conversation space was not traditional as many of these conversations took place over Nettime.org and Rhizome.org see Ibid. for more information.

5. Julian Stallabrass,“Can Art History Digest Net Art?” In Netpioneers 1.0 — Contextualizing Early Net Based Art, edited by Dieter Daniels and Gunther Reisinger, 170. Sternberg Press. 2010.

6. Ibid.,172-175.

7. Omar Kholeif, “The New Self,” In Goodbye World! Looking at Art in the Digital Age, 122, Sternberg Press, 2018.

8. Ibid., 124.

9. “Public Sculpture,” Performed by Jeremy Bailey, YouTube, February 28, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avtYNFqspew. There are also other works that predate this that show even earlier attempts at making the technology work. See YouTube.

10. Alex Heath,“I tried Snapchat's trippy new selfie filters and found some other big changes, ” Business Insider, September 15, 2015, https://www.businessinsider.com/snapchats-new-selfie-filters-2015-9. & Jesse Wojdylo, “When Did Snapchat Lenses (Face Filters) Come Out?” Wojdylo Social Media, December 25, 2016, http://wojdylosocialmedia.com/snapchat-lenses-face-filters-release/.

11. “The Web I Want,” Performed by Jeremy Bailey, YouTube, June 7, 2015, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eJKUzeIvLE. See YouTube.

12. Ibid.

13. “2015 UCLA Game Art Festival: hands-on at The Hammer,” UWIRE Text, (2015): 1. GALE InfoTrac.,Accessed November 5, 2018, http://go.galegroup.com.proxy.bib.uottawa.ca/ps/i.do?&id=GALEA434956980&v=2.1&u=otta 77973&it=r&p=AONE&sw=w

14. Ibid.

15. Ibid.

16. “Nail Art Museum.” Performed by Jeremey Bailey. YouTube. June 19, 2014. Accessed October 13, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/user/jeremybailey06.

17. Ibid.

Bibliography:

“2015 UCLA Game Art Festival: hands-on at The Hammer.” UWIRE Text, (2015): 1. GALE InfoTrac. Accessed November 5, 2018.http://go.galegroup.com.proxy.bib.uottawa.ca/ps/ i.do?&id=GALE|A434956980&v=2.1&u=otta77973&it=r&p=AONE&sw=w

“About Famous New Media Artist Jeremy Bailey.” Tumblr. Accessed October 13, 2018. http://jeremybailey.tumblr.com/.

“‘I Was Raised On The Internet,’ Impact Of The Internet On Our Contemporary World At The Museum Of Contemporary Art (MCA)” Accessed on November 5, 2018 http:// www.Artjaws.Com/En/I-Was-Raised-On-The-Internet-Impact-Of-Internet-On-Our- Contemporary-World-At-The-Museum-Of-Contemporary-Art-Chicago/". 2018. ARTJAWS. http://www.artjaws.com/en/i-was-raised-on-the-internet-impact-of- internet-on-our-contemporary-world-at-the-museum-of-contemporary-art-chicago/.

Heath, Alex.“I tried Snapchat's trippy new selfie filters and found some other big changes.” Business Insider. September 15, 2015. https://www.businessinsider.com/snapchats-new- selfie-filters-2015-9

“Jeremy Bailey: Famous New Media Art Patent Office.” New Exhibitions Museum. Accessed October 13, 2018. https://www.newmuseum.org/exhibitions/view/jeremy-bailey-famous- new-media-art-patent-office.

“Jeremy Bailey.” Pari Nadimi Gallery. Accessed October 13, 2018. https://www.parinadimi gallery. com/jeremy-bailey

“The Web I Want.” Performed by Jeremey Bailey. YouTube. June 7, 2015. Accessed October 13, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=40pSU5ZM784

“Nail Art Museum.” Performed by Jeremey Bailey. YouTube. June 19, 2014. Accessed October 13, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/user/jeremybailey06.

“Public Sculpture,” Performed by Jeremy Bailey. YouTube. February 28, 2018. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=avtYNFqspew.

Cooley, A. (2015, Fall). CLICK PERFORMANCE. Canadian Art, 32, 90-90,22. Accessed November 5, 2018. https://search-proquest-com.proxy.bib.uottawa.ca/docview/1719434062?accountid=14701

Hodge, James J., and Jacob Gaboury. "New Media Art." Oxford Bibliographys, April 28, 2017.Accessed October 13, 2018. http://www.oxfordbibliographies.com.proxy.bib. uottawa.ca/view/document/obo-9780199791286/obo-9780199791286-0110.xml

Kholeif, Omar “The New Self.” In Goodbye World! Looking at Art in the Digital Age, 121-132. Sternberg Press. 2018

Martin, Colin. 2016. "“YOU NO LONGER NEED YOUR PRE-INTERNET BRAIN”." The Lancet Neurology 15 (11): 1127-1127. Accessed November 5, 2018. https://journals-scholarsportal-info.proxy.bib.uottawa.ca/details/14744422/v15i0011/1127_nlnypb.xml

Molloy, Mark. “Who owns Snapchat and when was it created?” The Telegraph. July 25, 2017. https://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/0/owns-snapchat-created/

Rose, Frank. 2018. "Young Digital Artists, Anxious About ... Technology". New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/24/arts/design/sothebys-digital-artists-bunker.html.

Sandals, Leah. "Jeremy Bailey Aims at Change with Important Portraits." Canadianart. May 22, 2013. Accessed October 13, 2018. https://canadianart.ca/reviews/jeremy-bailey/.

Stallabrass, Julian “Can Art History Digest Net Art?” In Netpioneers 1.0 — Contextualizing Early Net Based Art, edited by Dieter Daniels and Gunther Reisinger, 165-179. Sternberg Press. 2010.

Trethewey, Kristin. “Famous New Media Artist Jeremy Bailey Finds Facts Funnier Than Fiction.” Creators. February 17, 2012. Accessed October 13, 2018. https:// creators.vice.com/en_us/article/qkz7bm/famous-new-media-artist-jeremy-bailey- finds-facts-funnier-than-fiction.

Wojdylo, Jesse. “When Did Snapchat Lenses (Face Filters) Come Out?” Wojdylo Social Media. December 25, 2016. http://wojdylosocialmedia.com/snapchat-lenses-face-filters-release/

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darkfanfic · 6 years

Text

KNOCKOUT - chapter 10 (part 2A)

“Sure.”

Harry’s flat is in walking distance of the gym. They decide to take the scenic route, through the pretty wooded park and past an almost empty playground until the pair hit a main drag. It’s car horns and traffic lights for a good five minutes before the city quietens upon making a right.

They turn down a quiet street off the busy main road and the chill that whistles between them has Bo wish she’d brought something a little warmer. It was a mistake to take her hair down after the class as now it’s stinging her cheeks. She steps closer to Harry as they pass a dog walker before they come to a complete stop outside a gate.

Heavy dark clouds loom, gobbling up the twinkle of stars as night descends in a hurry. She’s busy watching the sky transform, head tilted back until her name is called.

“Bo.”

Harry’s made the short journey from gate down to the front door and he waits for her to meet him at the bottom. The hand he raises in invite has her moving towards him through a thought once lost, legs walking a muscle memory. It would be hopeless to think she’d react in any other way but to go to him, to take his hand and let him lead her inside.

It’s warm, is the first impression Bo gets of the garden flat. A disorganised muddle of shoes is left just inside the door, and Bo adds to it as she toes hers off. She dumps her bag where harry leaves his before she’s free in her visual assessment. There’s peeling wallpaper, nicks of paint missing from the skirting board and original door frames with stiff brass handles. And Bo instantly loves it.

It’s disorderly and incomplete in a charming sort of way, which makes his previous flat pale in comparison. A sourness seems to fill her mouth upon remembering just how awful his conditions were before, no room to breathe with misery creeping in from every corner.

But here, it’s an easy sort of living space, one that he’s made home by just being there. It already smells of him, like this little flat has accepted Harry and approved of his occupancy.

There’s not much occupying the first room in the way of furniture, just cardboard boxes of varying sizes that Bo has a suspicion he’s let become a permanent fixture through simply being bone idle.

An old fashioned radiator is tucked into one of the alcoves opposite the door, a heavyset one that will throw out heat throughout the basement flat in the winter.

“There’s not much to see, but this is the front room. The kitchen is just through there and my bedroom and bathroom are across the hall.”

It’s almost as if he’s waiting for some sort of approval, standing off to the side as he nibbles at his bottom lip.

“It’s a great place.”

Despite its quirky flaws, this would have been Bo’s first choice for a place of her own.

He grins.

“I have a garden, too. It’s not much but my mum and sister are going to help with doing it up a bit. Even if it’s just finding the patio under all the weeds.”

Bo had never thought in all the time she’d known him, Harry would ever get excited over a scrap of lawn and some crazy-paving. But she gradually comes to understand the fascination as he rambles about having his niece over and his plans for one of those fancy fire bowls. She makes a mental note of the possible gift for his new home. Well, more of a garden-warming present if you’re being fussy.

They stay within the living room so Bo can explore a little more. And with that inquisitive feeing harnessed, she sets about unpacking a box containing two lamps, a pack of brand new coasters (courtesy of Harry’s sister) and a small elephant ornament selected especially by his niece for the coffee table.

Harry chats as she fights with the sticky tab sealing the coaster box. But after a few short seconds it’s neglected because there’s a record player placed on the floor in a wall alcove, just to the left of some boxes overspilling with disks.

“It’s a bit hipsterish for you, isn’t it?” Bo teases, nodding towards the musical mess.

Her nose crinkles as she grins at Harry over her shoulder before dropping to her knees in front of the boxes. There’s a few records propped up against the peeling paint, music which Bo guesses were some of the first to christen Harry’s new place.

“Can I have a look?” she asks.

“Couse,” he continues. “It was a ‘congrats on your new home’ gift from my mum. Those old records are from the loft, I’ve not sorted through them yet.”

Bo’s fingers flick through the ageing sleeves; evidence of how they were used and adored very much apparent on the worn cardboard cover, a contrast to the unscathed disk.

“You’ve got some good ones.”

Harry’s mum was feisty. Straying away from the popular, more documented, trends in music and delving into bands and genres Bo’s never heard of. She flips a disk over to study the song listings.

“Just some?”

Bo hears the amusement in his voice but the pride on his mouth is out of her line of sight.

“I don’t know most of them,” she admits, running her fingers over another mysterious album title.

“My mum had an eclectic taste, still does.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say she was a fan of Rod Stewart,” she comments, flicking through five consecutive albums.

“If you want my body and you think I’m sexy.” The gravelly tone is enough of a musical interlude to cease her movement through the disks. Bo bursts out laughing, falling back on her butt and turning to witness Harry’s little performance.

“Come on, sugar, let me know.”

His deep bow finishes the ensemble and Bo almost feels like she should applaud. And that’s what she does as Harry dramatically basks in the praise.

“Good job I actually know that song, or I’d have thought you were coming on to me.”

“The night’s still young,” he counters and it’s to Bo’s surprise that she’s the recipient of a cheeky wink.

The gesture is enough to have her blushing cheeks think she’s being flirted with. A harmless game Bo thought she had become immune to, after hearing cheesy icebreakers in bars and no longer laughing at them.

Her face still feels warm with playful atmosphere when she lifts her head and finds Harry’s hand outstretched. She takes it without hesitation, allowing herself to be hoisted upright into the perimeter of Harry’s body. Too close to be considered casual and torturous on Bo’s senses.

With a smile like a siren song and stormy, green ocean eyes to match, it’s somehow difficult for Bo to try and find her sea legs.

“Alright?” he murmurs.

And that about does it. With a couple of adamant nods Bo pulls away before something ridiculous happens, like her telling him she misses the way his mouth fit with hers.

“What colour are you painting it in here?” Bo asks, fingers grazing the sofa arm, heart positively thundering as she meanders to the other side of the room.

She’s glad to see Harry provide some distance, taking the temptation away as now she’d have to volt the back of the couch to jump his bones. It isn’t the sofa from the old flat, this one is a bit ostentatious in the pattern with scuffed wooden feet. And as Bo sits, it’s like falling into a marshmallow, squishy, soft and the perfect place to take a nap.

“A mate sold it to me for cheap,” Harry answers her unasked question, watching as Bo takes to her feet again before rearranging the cushions. “As for the colour, I was just going to leave it as is.”

Bo frowns, swivelling to look at him, still with fringed cushion in hand.

“Why?”

“It’s rented, I’m not sure my landlord would want me slapping paint on the walls. I’m hoping he’ll let me buy it when I get the funds together.”

Harry stands leaning against the doorframe, watching as Bo investigates his new living room. There’s not much in the way of furniture at the moment, but Harry had made sure the first items unpacked were framed photos of his mum, sister and niece.

“I’d have it a really soft green.”

Bo hums as if imagining the transformation of the room with a new splash of colour.

“Yeah?”

The wooden floor creaks slightly with her movement as she gravitates to a focal point.

“Mmm, and I’d make that into a proper window seat so you could wake up with a cup of tea and just sit,” Bo nods at her plan. “Oh, it could be a reading window!”

“I don’t really read,” Harry admits, her face softening. “I listen to audio books now.”

The atmosphere quietens and Bo feels silly for raising the subject. That is until Harry opens his mouth again.

“Or hey, it would be a nice spot for a quickie.”

Bo rounds so fast she nearly stumbles into one of the many unpacked boxes by her feet. She stables herself with an outstretched hand to the wall.

“What?” she chokes.

He wanders over to the window, pressing his palms flat to the wooden sill to test its weight capacity.

“Well,” Harry makes a pained face, “if you’re both like olympic gymnasts or something.”

The space in nowhere near his full arm span, a measure he frowns at when trying to swing his feet up. They end up propped against the wall with his back pressed opposite, Harry folds himself into an unnatural position for someone of his height. He looks like a giant dog trying to squeeze begrudgingly into a cat bed.

“Get some cushions or something, it’d be perfect.”

“It’s the window though,” Bo admonishes, worrying her bottom lip and trying not to smile.

“Below street level.” Harry’s counter challenge is coupled with a shrug.

“Yes, but still a window,” she presses.

“My neighbours are old and fucking nosey, would give’em something to gossip about at their neighbourhood watch meetings.”

He makes quite the scene unravelling to stand at his full height before moving away from the sex-seat to the doorway, where he disappears through it moments after.

Bo’s left in a whirlwind contemplation before Harry pops his head back through.

“Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” she agrees, still fighting the smile curling the corners of her mouth as the conversation snappily changes from sex to food.

“I’ve not really had time to food shop,” Harry calls through from the kitchen. “Are you alright with a take-away? I think I have a leaflet somewhere.”

“Yeah, that’s fine with me,” Bo responds, weaving her way towards his voice.

Harry’s busy with riffling through take-out phablets when she reaches him. The kitchen is small but manageable with the window opening out onto a decreasingly gloomy garden. He sorts the menus from the addressed post before turning to Bo stood in the doorway.

“Are you alright? You look a bit pink in the cheeks.”

With her mind still dwelling on Harry’s idea of a window seat, it’s the only way she’ll be able to settle her thoughts.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Despite the nod to his head, Bo thinks he looks a little reluctant to hear her what she has to ask.

“When was the last time you were with someone?”

The immediate response she receives is a crinkled brow and full assessing gaze.

“I saw Matt from the gym the other day, we went to the pub just down -“

“No, I mean - romantically,” Bo attempts to delicately approach the subject, despite the tightness in her stomach and dampness of her palms. And once again, she receives a nonverbal, cryptic answer through somewhat of a pained facial expression. “Sex, Harry,” she blurts. “I mean when did you last have sex?”

“Shit.”

Eyes wide, he takes a few seconds to ground himself and try to decide the best approach. He clears his throat like he’s not just chocked at her question. “We’re just diving right in then?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I jus-“

“It’s been a while,” Harry interrupts. “Long time,” he swallows. “You want Chinese or Indian?”

“It’s just, what you said in the living room,” she aimlessly thumbs back through the doorway.

“It was a joke.”

He’s a little firm with his reply and it makes Bo feel guilty for asking.

“Oh, ok.”

“Did you want pizza, I think I have a app?”

Harry turns away to pick up his phone and Bo’s left trying to decipher what defines a ‘long time’. Not that it should really matter, they haven’t been together for nearly four years and she’s not entitled to the information anyway.

As if trying to shake her from her thoughts, Harry pulls up the app before waving it enticingly. She huffs a laugh before grazing his left side and standing with him to scroll through choices.

“The meat tastes weird on those pizzas,” Bo informs him, scrunching her nose. “If we share and go half and half, I want mine margarita. If we order the chicken, you get a free dip.”

Harry’s head is bobbing like a nodding dog on a car dashboard. The lights are on, but Bo can be pretty sure that nobody’s home at the moment.

“How long for you?”

“Huh?”

“Since you slept with someone.”

Oh.

Bo’s eyes shoot to the ceiling as if performing maths off the top of her head. Stupidly, she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t begun to think that his thoughts might stray to her bedroom antics.

“Umm, well,” she begins.

Harry pockets his phone, the prospect of food instantly forgotten as his full attention gravitates to Bo and her inability to hold his eye contact. She feels flushed for a second, checking to see if the window is open.

“You told me you’d never had sex with James.”

“It wasn’t James. It was only the once.”

He moves closer, stumped by the look on his face, Bo isn’t quite sure how this conversation will pan out. All she can hope is that it ends quickly without any emotional casualties.

“With whom?”

Of course he’d ask, but why should it matter? Why should she have to explain her sleeping arrangements to a man she hasn’t had a relationship with in years. Heat prickles at the back of Bo’s neck as Harry stands waiting for an answer. But it’s not a demand, it’s more of a concern for him.

“Someone from my course. It was really early on in first year before we saw each other again.”

“Did you like it?”

Harry backs up a little after the words leave his mouth, shying away from the potentially hurtful answer as he bites the inside of his cheek. He knows it was a mistake to ask. Nevertheless, the question makes Bo’s stomach squirm because they’re both fully aware that the only experience she has to compare it with was with Harry. And wasn’t that the full experience package.

If Bo’s being honest, the guy was a pretty lousy lay. There wasn’t particularly anything special about the evening and the whole thing was wrapped up in under ten minutes. Apparently Harry had spoilt her when they were together.

“No complaints,” Bo replies, testing the waters.

“Was he at your graduation?”

It’s almost as if she can see him straining to remember faces from the crowds of graduates. And as he does so, the subtle inclination of his body towards hers is duly noted, as if trying to shelter but not stifle her.

“What’s with all the questions?”

“Just asking,” he clips, jaw drawing taut.

“He might have been, I didn’t talk to him though.”

It’s cruel to push him further, but she’s rather delighted in the physical reaction it’s provoking. There’s no joy in making him angry, but to tease. It might be fun.

“You may have seen him. Huge guy with blond hair and as tall as the doorframe, biceps the size of my thighs. I think he’s a little bit older, too.”

“Yeah?” Harry grunts.

Bo hums. His expression is tight as he mulls over the information and comes to a conclusion she will admit she wasn’t expecting.

“Sounds like you shagged Thor.”

Bo can’t prevent the smile from creeping up on her, cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I didn’t like it.”

There’s concern plastered on Harry’s face upon hearing her confession.

“No, I just didn’t enjoy it,” she pauses. “It wasn’t - I’ve had better,” Bo admits before she can really process the meaning behind the words. Had better.

She’s a little mortified by the knowing tug at the corner of Harry’s mouth. And before she can say anything else he’s displaying a full on smirk.

“Piss off,” Bo thumps his arm and he takes the hit with a dramatic stagger away. “You know what I mean. He was shit, I didn’t enjoy it and it was really awkward afterwards seeing him in lectures and stuff. It didn’t go any further.”

A few seconds more and the spirited exchange takes a nosedive.

“What about us?” Harry carefully asks from across the kitchen table.

“I don’t think it was the right time for us then.”

In the months post their reconciliation, Bo had exams to prepare for and lecturers to impress with heavily researched essays. All on top of social expectations and a house search for second year which was a steep learning curve. Finding anything half decent, which didn’t once have a zoo in the back garden or actually had a properly functioning electric meter was practically a miracle.

And during that time, Harry was in no man’s land, between stages of his life that felt like the odd, uncertain few days between Christmas and new year. He was on the brink of a fresh start but was teetering on the edge just waiting for the push. Bo couldn’t have known at the time, but she was the catalyst; a WhatsApp message of,

“I made too many pancakes for pudding because I was thinking of you. Tiff ate yours. I miss you.”

“And now?” Harry asks, turning the silver ring on his index.

“Well now,” Bo starts, worrying her lip with if what she’ll say will be a push too far. “Now, I want you to kiss me.”

“Right now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

They both jolt when Harry’s foot catches the chair leg, his stride determined before he comes to stand in front of her. Bo peers at him, head tilted back slightly to assess any emotions he lets slip through the crease between his brows or the pout he used to try and hide when something was amiss. As it is, he’s not giving her much to work with.

The disappointment she feels settles heavy in her stomach when a kiss is instead pressed to her forehead. A feeling that soon edges to mortification and shame that she’d pushed him too far, cornered him into a situation he isn’t ready for.

“Harry, I’m sor-“

The apology is stolen from her lips by the softness of his as another sweet kiss is placed high on her right cheek. Then proceeds a series of kisses, the last pressed to the tip of her nose which entices a giddy sort of smile, especially when he rubs his nose to hers.

“I’ve missed you.”

All credits go to han-rawr

#dark #hs

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dark128 · 7 years

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KNOCKOUT -chapter 10 (part 2A)

“Sure.”

Heavy dark clouds loom, gobbling up the twinkle of stars as night descends in a hurry. She’s busy watching the sky transform, head tilted back until her name is called.

“Bo.”

But here, it’s an easy sort of living space, one that he’s made home by just being there. It already smells of him, like this little flat has accepted Harry and approved of his occupancy.

An old fashioned radiator is tucked into one of the alcoves opposite the door, a heavyset one that will throw out heat throughout the basement flat in the winter.

“There’s not much to see, but this is the front room. The kitchen is just through there and my bedroom and bathroom are across the hall.”

It’s almost as if he’s waiting for some sort of approval, standing off to the side as he nibbles at his bottom lip.

“It’s a great place.”

Despite its quirky flaws, this would have been Bo’s first choice for a place of her own.

He grins.

“I have a garden, too. It’s not much but my mum and sister are going to help with doing it up a bit. Even if it’s just finding the patio under all the weeds.”

“It’s a bit hipsterish for you, isn’t it?” Bo teases, nodding towards the musical mess.

“Can I have a look?” she asks.

“Couse,” he continues. “It was a ‘congrats on your new home’ gift from my mum. Those old records are from the loft, I’ve not sorted through them yet.”

Bo’s fingers flick through the ageing sleeves; evidence of how they were used and adored very much apparent on the worn cardboard cover, a contrast to the unscathed disk.

“You’ve got some good ones.”

Harry’s mum was feisty. Straying away from the popular, more documented, trends in music and delving into bands and genres Bo’s never heard of. She flips a disk over to study the song listings.

“Just some?”

Bo hears the amusement in his voice but the pride on his mouth is out of her line of sight.

“I don’t know most of them,” she admits, running her fingers over another mysterious album title.

“My mum had an eclectic taste, still does.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say she was a fan of Rod Stewart,” she comments, flicking through five consecutive albums.

“Come on, sugar, let me know.”

His deep bow finishes the ensemble and Bo almost feels like she should applaud. And that’s what she does as Harry dramatically basks in the praise.

“Good job I actually know that song, or I’d have thought you were coming on to me.”

“The night’s still young,” he counters and it’s to Bo’s surprise that she’s the recipient of a cheeky wink.

With a smile like a siren song and stormy, green ocean eyes to match, it’s somehow difficult for Bo to try and find her sea legs.

“Alright?” he murmurs.

And that about does it. With a couple of adamant nods Bo pulls away before something ridiculous happens, like her telling him she misses the way his mouth fit with hers.

“What colour are you painting it in here?” Bo asks, fingers grazing the sofa arm, heart positively thundering as she meanders to the other side of the room.

Bo frowns, swivelling to look at him, still with fringed cushion in hand.

“Why?”

“It’s rented, I’m not sure my landlord would want me slapping paint on the walls. I’m hoping he’ll let me buy it when I get the funds together.”

“I’d have it a really soft green.”

Bo hums as if imagining the transformation of the room with a new splash of colour.

“Yeah?”

The wooden floor creaks slightly with her movement as she gravitates to a focal point.

“Mmm, and I’d make that into a proper window seat so you could wake up with a cup of tea and just sit,” Bo nods at her plan. “Oh, it could be a reading window!”

“I don’t really read,” Harry admits, her face softening. “I listen to audio books now.”

The atmosphere quietens and Bo feels silly for raising the subject. That is until Harry opens his mouth again.

“Or hey, it would be a nice spot for a quickie.”

Bo rounds so fast she nearly stumbles into one of the many unpacked boxes by her feet. She stables herself with an outstretched hand to the wall.

“What?” she chokes.

He wanders over to the window, pressing his palms flat to the wooden sill to test its weight capacity.

“Well,” Harry makes a pained face, “if you’re both like olympic gymnasts or something.”

“Get some cushions or something, it’d be perfect.”

“It’s the window though,” Bo admonishes, worrying her bottom lip and trying not to smile.

“Below street level.” Harry’s counter challenge is coupled with a shrug.

“Yes, but still a window,” she presses.

“My neighbours are old and fucking nosey, would give’em something to gossip about at their neighbourhood watch meetings.”

He makes quite the scene unravelling to stand at his full height before moving away from the sex-seat to the doorway, where he disappears through it moments after.

Bo’s left in a whirlwind contemplation before Harry pops his head back through.

“Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” she agrees, still fighting the smile curling the corners of her mouth as the conversation snappily changes from sex to food.

“I’ve not really had time to food shop,” Harry calls through from the kitchen. “Are you alright with a take-away? I think I have a leaflet somewhere.”

“Yeah, that’s fine with me,” Bo responds, weaving her way towards his voice.

“Are you alright? You look a bit pink in the cheeks.”

With her mind still dwelling on Harry’s idea of a window seat, it’s the only way she’ll be able to settle her thoughts.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Despite the nod to his head, Bo thinks he looks a little reluctant to hear her what she has to ask.

“When was the last time you were with someone?”

The immediate response she receives is a crinkled brow and full assessing gaze.

“I saw Matt from the gym the other day, we went to the pub just down -“

“Shit.”

Eyes wide, he takes a few seconds to ground himself and try to decide the best approach. He clears his throat like he’s not just chocked at her question. “We’re just diving right in then?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I jus-“

“It’s been a while,” Harry interrupts. “Long time,” he swallows. “You want Chinese or Indian?”

“It’s just, what you said in the living room,” she aimlessly thumbs back through the doorway.

“It was a joke.”

He’s a little firm with his reply and it makes Bo feel guilty for asking.

“Oh, ok.”

“Did you want pizza, I think I have a app?”

As if trying to shake her from her thoughts, Harry pulls up the app before waving it enticingly. She huffs a laugh before grazing his left side and standing with him to scroll through choices.

“The meat tastes weird on those pizzas,” Bo informs him, scrunching her nose. “If we share and go half and half, I want mine margarita. If we order the chicken, you get a free dip.”

Harry’s head is bobbing like a nodding dog on a car dashboard. The lights are on, but Bo can be pretty sure that nobody’s home at the moment.

“How long for you?”

“Huh?”

“Since you slept with someone.”

Oh.

Bo’s eyes shoot to the ceiling as if performing maths off the top of her head. Stupidly, she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t begun to think that his thoughts might stray to her bedroom antics.

“Umm, well,” she begins.

“You told me you’d never had sex with James.”

“It wasn’t James. It was only the once.”

He moves closer, stumped by the look on his face, Bo isn’t quite sure how this conversation will pan out. All she can hope is that it ends quickly without any emotional casualties.

“With whom?”

“Someone from my course. It was really early on in first year before we saw each other again.”

“Did you like it?”

“No complaints,” Bo replies, testing the waters.

“Was he at your graduation?”

“What’s with all the questions?”

“Just asking,” he clips, jaw drawing taut.

“He might have been, I didn’t talk to him though.”

It’s cruel to push him further, but she’s rather delighted in the physical reaction it’s provoking. There’s no joy in making him angry, but to tease. It might be fun.

“You may have seen him. Huge guy with blond hair and as tall as the doorframe, biceps the size of my thighs. I think he’s a little bit older, too.”

“Yeah?” Harry grunts.

Bo hums. His expression is tight as he mulls over the information and comes to a conclusion she will admit she wasn’t expecting.

“Sounds like you shagged Thor.”

Bo can’t prevent the smile from creeping up on her, cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I didn’t like it.”

There’s concern plastered on Harry’s face upon hearing her confession.

“No, I just didn’t enjoy it,” she pauses. “It wasn’t - I’ve had better,” Bo admits before she can really process the meaning behind the words. Had better.

She’s a little mortified by the knowing tug at the corner of Harry’s mouth. And before she can say anything else he’s displaying a full on smirk.

A few seconds more and the spirited exchange takes a nosedive.

“What about us?” Harry carefully asks from across the kitchen table.

“I don’t think it was the right time for us then.”

“I made too many pancakes for pudding because I was thinking of you. Tiff ate yours. I miss you.”

“And now?” Harry asks, turning the silver ring on his index.

“Well now,” Bo starts, worrying her lip with if what she’ll say will be a push too far. “Now, I want you to kiss me.”

“Right now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Harry, I’m sor-“

“I’ve missed you.”

#harry and bo #KNOCKOUT #styles

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anukumariime · 10 months

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Safest prop fund

When it comes to investing in the real estate market, safety and reliability are paramount considerations for investors. SmartPropTrader, a leading real estate investment platform, presents its Safest prop Fund to offer investors a secure avenue for growing their wealth we will explore the features and benefits of this fund, showcasing why it is a smart choice for investors looking for stable and predictable returns in the property market.

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cladeymoore · 4 years

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Around the Block #5: Downstream Impacts of the Recent Market Crash on Lending, Stablecoins, and…

Around the Block #5: Downstream Impacts of the Recent Market Crash on Lending, Stablecoins, and DeFi

Coinbase Around the Block, sheds light on key issues in the crypto space. In this edition, Justin Mart analyzes three industries impacted by the recent market crash.

Lending Markets: Behind the Scenes on What Drives Rates

The crypto lending markets have seen strong traction, with an estimated $13B in total loan originations over the past several years from both traditional institutions and crypto-native offerings.

For context, lending markets enable participants to:

Lend their crypto to others and receive interest rate payments

Borrow crypto against posted collateral for an interest rate fee

These markets are either offered through central intermediaries or smart contract platforms that seek to ensure against a loss of funds. The primary revenue stream for companies in this space is Net-Interest Margin, where players capture a spread between the interest rate offered to borrowers and the interest paid out to lenders.

But lending activity comes with risk. Borrowers can default on loans, especially when the underlying collateral (crypto) experiences significant volatility. In this piece, we examine how lending markets behaved in the recent crypto crash on March 12. But before diving in, we first need to understand the mechanics behind what drives interest rates, and how this is tied to market conditions.

Why do people take out loans?

Borrowers post some form of collateral and borrow either crypto or cash for:

Speculation — Going long or short crypto by either borrowing crypto and selling for cash (going short), or borrowing cash and buying crypto (going long). Both are important mechanics for investors to amplify return and/or hedge risk, especially during high volatility periods.

Working Capital — Liquidity to fund business endeavors or personal matters. Bitcoin as working capital is important for several businesses (e.g., miners, OTC desks, remittance, prop trading firms, etc) who require access to significant capital to facilitate operations. Moreover, borrowing is typically not a taxable event, and thus is an opportunity to keep exposure to crypto without incurring tax penalties.

Derivatives arbitrage

Derivatives arbitrage requires a deeper explanation. Take Bitcoin futures contracts as an example. These contracts are agreements to buy or sell Bitcoin at a specific price at some point in the future, and how these markets are priced reveal investor sentiment. Typically, BTC futures markets are bullish, where the price to buy or sell a Bitcoin 3 months in the future is higher than the spot price today.

The difference between the spot price and the futures price represents an opportunity for arbitrage through a cash-and-carry trade. If the 3-month BTC futures price is 5% higher than today’s spot price, a savvy investor can borrow cash to purchase BTC today, and simultaneously go short on the Futures market (locking in their sale price in 3-months at the 5% premium), effectively capturing a 20% APY over the next three months. If the interest rate charged on borrowing cash over 3-months is less than 20% APR (and any additional fees), you profit on the difference.

Crypto market sentiment is usually net-bullish. The average volume on Coinbase Consumer is 60% buys, borrow demand is net-long from leveraged long traders, and the futures curves are typically bullish. This sentiment drives cash borrow demand, but what happens when the market turns bearish?

For one, the cash-and-carry trade turns to a crypto-and-carry trade, where you would borrow BTC instead of cash to capture the Futures arbitrage, and immediately sell on the spot market and go long on the Futures contract.

When futures curves turn bearish, lending markets flip to crypto-borrow, and cash borrow demand dries up.

Given the volume in derivatives markets (often > $5 B / day) and sometimes substantial differences between futures and spot prices, derivatives arbitrage is typically a significant source of borrow demand.

What drives rates? Why are DeFi interest rates typically so high?

Like any market, rates are ultimately a function of supply and demand, but there are deeper mechanics at play:

Crypto lending markets accept crypto as collateral…: For many crypto institutions and individuals, their deepest pool of capital is crypto, and this is the only viable path to collateralizing loans.

… And using crypto as collateral is generally higher-risk: Crypto is more volatile making it more difficult to fit into lending risk models. This both restricts the number of companies who accept crypto as collateral (diminished supply), and they demand a higher interest rate to account for the risk.

Stablecoins are preferred over cash due to increased efficiency: It takes time to upload cash into crypto. Many borrow use-cases require immediate action, and thus restrict options to crypto-native solutions where stablecoins are ready to deploy. This increases demand for stablecoins.

DeFi Lending desks are still niche and challenging to access…: Only those deeply involved know how to access DeFi services like Compound and think through the risks. This will change, but it still restricts supply today.

… and carry smart contract risk: DeFi platforms are a collection of smart contracts and potentially vulnerable to exploits. More risk demands a higher interest rate.

Collectively these effects result in typically higher stablecoin and crypto borrow/lend rates, especially in DeFi.

We expect these rates to ultimately compress over time as crypto adoption grows. More lending desks will accept crypto as collateral, stablecoins will grow in adoption, crypto to fiat bridges will be more efficient, and DeFi will become more mainstream and have better protections against smart contract risk. Until then, we can enjoy higher APY on stablecoin lending rates on places like Compound, Dharma, and Dy/Dx.

What happened when the markets crashed, and what should we expect in the future?

The status quo is heavy stablecoin borrow demand from speculation, working capital, and derivatives arbitrage. But when market sentiment flips:

Borrowing crypto increases: In order to hedge risk (going short)

Borrowing cash to go long decreases amidst increased risk: Even if you believe markets will go up in the long-term, significant volatility can quickly wipe out your position

Futures curve turns bearish: Flipping stablecoin demand to crypto demand

Compound’s Lending rates shows the magnitude of this switch:

As market sentiment returns to bullish and volatility decreases, we should expect stablecoin borrow demand to rise, likely to previous levels. This will be an important development, as many crypto companies rely on high stablecoin APY rates to subsidize growth. These are crypto neo-banks like Dharma, Linen, and Multis.

Overall, crypto borrow/lend is a significant business today, and likely to grow in the future. Market sentiment specifies demand preference, but overall demand remains high in both bullish and bearish markets. Coinbase will look to expand borrow / lend services where possible with the goal of increasing borrow / lend liquidity and helping the crypto market mature.

Stablecoins: Volatility brings Opportunity for Growth

Before diving in, let’s recap how they are used in crypto today:

Synthetic dollars for trading and speculation: Many exchanges do not have regulatory approval to offer true fiat services. However the dominant trading and speculative activity occurs between fiat and crypto, and stablecoins enable the long-tail of exchanges to offer synthetic fiat books.

Settlement: Stablecoins offer the benefits of crypto (fast, global, cheap settlement) without the downsides (price volatility), and are increasingly being used as settlement for goods and services. Anecdotally, Asia appears to be naturally adopting stablecoins in some crypto-adjacent sectors, and Coinbase Commerce is seeing strong but nascent growth in stablecoin adoption.

Capital flight: Stablecoins like USDC are global and open ecosystems, making them an attractive option for capital flight and USD exposure.

Today, in response to COVID-19 uncertainty the US government has issued a $2 Trillion stimulus package (16x the entire Bitcoin market cap), cut bank reserve requirements to zero, and lowered federal interest rates to record low levels. Meanwhile, the financial markets were gripped with fear where investors sold assets en masse to manage leveraged positions, hedge risk, and seek stability.

So what happened in the Stablecoin markets?

As the markets collapsed, we saw several downstream effects:

Stablecoins traded at a premium due to increased demand from the broad flight to safety

Stablecoin issuance increased as arbitrageurs mint stablecoins to sell at a premium and meet demand

On-chain activity exploded with investors shuffling their holdings between exchanges to manage their positions or capture arbitrage opportunities

The severity and duration of price shocks in stablecoins is directly correlated to the efficiency of the on/off ramps. If it’s dead simple for anyone to mint and redeem a stablecoin for real USD, any shock should be short lived as arbitrageurs quickly step in to maintain price parity.

Let’s look at what happened to Tether. USDT’s rails are not the best, and traded as high as $1.05 on March 12th as demand peaked. However arbitrage drove the price back to historical averages in a couple days.

Meanwhile, Dai traded at a more significant premium, and still trades at a slight premium as of April 6th 2020. This is a direct consequence of some deeper mechanics behind the Dai ecosystem, including a failure to keep their liquidation engine running smoothly which resulted in a $4M capital loss on the MKR token (see below for a deeper analysis).

As for market cap, USDT extended its position as the dominant stablecoin, largely due to its existing status as the most liquid stablecoin, especially in Asia.

For many, this is a curious trend given Tether’s seemingly dubious history, close ties to Bitfinex and their apparent use of shadow banks, and repeated concerns that they may be running a fractional reserve. Opinions on this are mixed within the industry, as it seems likely Tether is currently backed by at least 70%, but the market does not seem to mind in either case with Tether continuing to trade at $1 and expanding their lead.

For USDC, these are also opportunities to continue building adoption. While challenging Tether for liquidity may take longer, gaining traction in other areas has seen success. Specifically with Coinbase Commerce, within DeFi with the help of Coinbase’s USDC Bootstrap Fund, and potentially across a number of emerging Neo-Bank and remittance applications. USDC’s status as the regulated, fully-backed stablecoin with smooth fiat on-off ramps has helped it achieve ~50% market cap dominance outside of Tether.

Stablecoins are here to stay and they grow in adoption every day. Additionally, large turmoil in markets are opportunities for stablecoin growth.

Note that stablecoin adoption does not represent capital leaving crypto. More the opposite, it represents capital waiting to re-enter the broader crypto market, a promising signal for stablecoin adoption.

DeFi: MakerDAO Liquidation Engine Breaks Amidst Market Crash

MakerDAO is the smart-contract DeFi platform behind the synthetic stablecoin Dai.

Some context on how MakerDAO functions

MakerDAO functions by users posting collateral (mainly ETH) into a smart contract “Vault”, and printing DAI against their vault’s collateral. If their collateralization ratio drops below 150%, their Vault is in jeopardy of being in default, and anyone can issue an on-chain transaction that closes their vault and auctions off their collateral. This ensures DAI remains backed by sufficient capital, or in a worst case scenario could always be redeemed for $1 of crypto.

What happened when the markets crashed

March 12 saw the price of Ethereum collapse over 50%, briefly dropping below $100 for the first time since 2018. This resulted in two things:

Several MakerDAO vaults became under-collateralized

The Ethereum network experienced significant congestion as people moved funds to exchanges, or adjusted open positions (with transaction fees spiking to ~$2)

These two effects had downstream implications for MakerDAO. Usually, when Vault’s are closed and collateral is auctioned off, there are multiple bidders which generally ensures the collateral is auctioned for a fair price. But the price crash also impacted the entities participating in these auctions (called “Keepers”):

Keepers closed so many Vaults that many ran out of Dai and couldn’t replenish their balance sheet fast enough

Many Keepers were not prepared for spiking transaction fees, and couldn’t get their auction bids mined quickly

This resulted in only one Keeper bidding on auctions for a 3 hour period. During which, this lone Keeper bid $1 for the collateral, essentially buying ETH almost for free.

The Result and Recovery

The end result: One Keeper ran away with $4M in ETH almost for free, and the MakerDAO system did not receive sufficient capital to ensure Dai remains fully over-collateralized.

Thankfully, MakerDAO planned for unexpected events like this, adding a secondary auction process that calls for MKR tokens to be minted and sold to cover any bad debts.

This auction recently took place with Paradigm winning most of the auctions at market rates — a solid vote of confidence. This effectively means the MKR token holders experience $4M of dilution, but the Dai is back to sufficient over-collateralization.

Ethereum’s DeFi ecosystem is still early and has a large number of moving parts, so we should expect significant market volatility to bring downstream effects and stress the system in surprising ways. In this case, giving rise to an opportunistic attack on MakerDAO. This is part of the evolutionary process in DeFi, where significant stress tests occur, we learn from failings, and the whole ecosystem becomes progressively hardened.

The industry should not be scared of Dai, it’s deeply ingrained in the ecosystem and is a critical component to DeFi. MakerDAO’s fallback auctions successfully recovered from the bad debt and is sufficiently over-collateralized once again. However, it does mean that DeFi builders should think carefully about how best to mitigate downstream risks and consider the broader implications behind significant market volatility.

Links

Coinbase News

Techcrunch: Coinbase Wallet lets you earn interest with deeper DeFi integration

Coinbase: USDC Bootstrap Fund invests $1.1M in Uniswap and PoolTogether

The Block: Coinbase Card can now be linked to Google Pay

Techcrunch: Coinbase Exec tapped to be COO and First Deputy Comptroller for U.S. Office of the Comptroller

News from the Crypto Industry

The Block: Revolut launches in the US

Circle: Circle announces set of APIs focused on expanding USDC adoption

Coindesk/CoinMarketCap: Binance acquires CoinMarketCap for reported $400M; CMC will continue to be run as an independent operation

Binance/The Block/Techcrunch: Binance introduces crypto debit card and later removes all mention of Visa from promotional material; also announces partnership with Brave for in-browser trading

Decrypt: Huobi launches Coinbase-Like mobile app for Asia

Kraken/The Block: Kraken launches FX trading; and hires Marco Santori as Chief Legal Officer

Arthur Hayes: BitMEX knocked offline at height of crypto volatility on March 12 from DDoS attack

Blockchain.com: Blockchain.com expands with retail borrow/loan product

The Block: Poloniex adds Token Sale platform, staring with TRON stablecoin project

The Block: Several exchanges named in series of lawsuits alleging unregistered Securities violations

The Block: Crypto custodian Anchorage adds support for XRP

Baakt: Baakt raises $300M series B from ICE, Microsoft, and others

Brendan Eich: Brave hits 13.5M MAU / 4.5M DAU 📈

News from Emerging Crypto Businesses

MakerDao: USDC added as collateral option in MakerDAO

The Block: Uniswap competitor Balancer launches; sees solid initial traction

The Block: Keep raises $7.7M in preparation for April launch of tBTC on Ethereum

The Block: Decentralized Exchange volume hits all time high in March with >$600M volume

The Block: ETH 2.0 clients plan to launch testnet in April

The Block: Synthetix to offer derivatives trading on ETH

Tweets

Eric Voorhees: On Bitcoin and Coronavirus

Cuy Sheffield: Head of Crypto at Visa highlights key trends to be mindful of

Coindesk: Nic Carter’s commentary on the long-term effects of corporate bailouts

Adam Draper: Adam Draper tweets about the scariest thing he’s ever seen

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Around the Block #5: Downstream Impacts of the Recent Market Crash on Lending, Stablecoins, and… was originally published in The Coinbase Blog on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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