#it's not my most polished piece really but I wanted to get it finished so this is what you get :P

[roxirinart]

"Yes! Show me the power of the Red Crown! I have missed it so..."

[chestharrington]

I Think We're Alone Now || Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Set in the S3 Starcourt era... Steve develops a fixation on the shopgirl-next-door.

Couple: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Content Warnings: explicit smut || sexual fantasy (includes oral, f and m receiving, p in v sex) and solo masturbation, kind of a panty/lingerie fetish if u squint or even just stare

Word Count: 2.9k

Whoever was in charge of Starcourt Mall planning was a sadist. That was the only explanation as to why a lingerie store was situated directly next door to Scoops Ahoy. Really, what business did it have in a food court of all places?

It also didn’t help that Steve Harrington was in the sex drought of all sex droughts— caused not just because of his stupid uniform, but probably also owed a lot to the fact that he had no college prospects, had lost his proverbial crown to Billy Hargrove, and had been cheated on with Jonathan Byers. Nothing kills a reputation quite like that. 

So there he was— showing up to work every day, walking past scantily clad mannequins and shopgirls wearing tight miniskirts, none of whom gave him the time of day when he was dressed like that. Well, none of them except you. 

“Good morning, Steve!” You greeted, wearing a tight white button-up shirt with a black pencil skirt. Like a sexy librarian had just walked off the page of a centerfold and decided to work retail. You were lifting the gate from the front of the store and placing a sale sign right between your two shops as he passed.

“You’re opening again?” He asked, pausing in front of his stupid, sticky helljob. You blew a loose piece of hair from your bangs as you stood and nodded. 

“And closing. It’s our summer savings sale,” you explained. “You should probably expect a lot of rollover customers. Stop by if you’re in the market for anything. Maybe a nice gift for a girlfriend?” Before he could respond, you gave him a pretty smile as you disappeared into your dimly-lit storefront to finish opening. 

You’d gone to high school together, though he doubted you remembered him. You were, after all, a senior while he was just an annoying sophomore on JV Basketball. You were on homecoming court, voted most friendly for senior superlatives, and were probably the hottest girl in your class. He didn’t have a chance then, and he definitely didn’t now.

But you always said hello when he passed by, and you would stop by Scoops sometimes after work and buy a cone of the flavor of the month. He wanted to talk to you more— to actually get to know you beyond a schoolboy crush, but you were so far out of his league that he couldn’t bring himself to try. 

When he walked into Scoops, his boss, Allan, had already begun the process of opening. His task of vigorously polishing the glass case of ice cream felt pointless when it was about thirty minutes from being smudged with a toddler’s fingerprints. 

“Steven, you’re late,” He said firmly. 

Steve glanced towards the clock. “I’m five minutes early.”

Allan slung the rag he was cleaning with over his shoulder and sighed. “In my book, thirty minutes early is on time, and on time is late.”

Steve made a face as he refrained from telling Allan that payroll would disagree. Instead, he put on the stupid sailor hat and pinned on his nametag. And, just because he could, he clocked in early.

His morning was hectic. Like you’d said, there were countless rollover customers who wandered in after the sale next door, each clutching a bag of lingerie and giggling with their friends. His wrist was aching from scooping so much ice cream by the time lunchtime rolled around. He would’ve gone back for his fifteen, but there you were, your hair pulled back in a banana clip, fanning yourself as you stepped into the long line for ice cream. 

When you finally reached the counter, you smiled like the two of you shared a secret. “Busy day?” You asked as you fished cash out of your purse. 

“It’s been crazy. You?”

You peered up at him and laughed wryly. “God, you wouldn’t believe the number of women in this town who jump at the chance for discounted racy lingerie. I’m drowning in satin and lace today.”

He managed to smile without looking like a complete idiot as he scooped your ice cream, handing it across the counter as you looked at him with amusement. 

“You memorized my order? That’s so sweet, Steve.”  You handed him a few bills and coins across the counter. “Keep the change, alright? Hopefully I'll see you later.”

His cheeks burned hot. “Yeah, for sure.” He stared dumbly as you licked your ice cream and walked out into the food court. 

He needed to find an excuse to buy lingerie from you... if only to have a reason to see you again that day. 

———

It was late afternoon before he got his first break and darted into the lingerie store to the shock and horror of the women inside. He hip-checked a table displaying hosiery before he stopped in front of you, smiling expectantly. 

You put down the stockings you were folding and looked at him with amusement. “Steve! What can I help you with?”

“Oh, uh… just…” He floundered as he searched for a reason, then remembered your suggestion that morning— buying for a girlfriend. “My girlfriend.”

“Oh? What’s her name? Maybe I know her.”

Steve hesitated for a moment, before saying the first girl’s name to pop into his head. “Her name is Nancy.”

As soon as your brows furrowed, he knew he fucked up. “Oh, I heard you two broke up, or something.” 

He hesitated, mouth open as he tried to find words to dig himself out of the hole. “Oh… no, not that Nancy. It’s a different Nancy. You probably don’t know her.”

You raised your brows, but said nothing to suggest you doubted him. “I can help you find something. What were you thinking?”

He reached back and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. He hadn’t thought this far. “Uh, what would you suggest?”

You considered it for a moment, looking at him carefully. “Well, that depends. Are you buying something she’d like to wear, or something you’d like to see her in?”

Steve blinked dumbly. “Both?”

You laughed lightly and walked towards a table displaying an array of underwear. “So, if you’re going for practical and sexy, I’d recommend panties.” You held up a lacy white pair and his mouth went dry. “A pair like these is pleasing to the eye, but totally invisible underneath clothes.” You stepped back and gave a tiny spin. “I’ve got them on now, and you’d think I wasn’t wearing any. Absolutely no lines at all.” 

Steve swallowed hard. Don’t picture it don’t picture it don’t picture it don’t— “Yeah, I’ll take those.” 

You chuckled and grinned. “Well, you’re an easy sell. Do you want the matching bra and garter belt to go with that?” You gestured to the mannequin atop the table. “The set is absolutely stunning when worn all together.”

He hesitated, knowing he had no use for any of this stuff. Still, the vision in his mind of you wearing the set was enough to make blood rush south and all rational thoughts leave his brain.

“I really can’t afford the full set,” he finally said after a synapse successfully fired in his brain. “I’ll just, uh, grab her size then.” You nodded and smiled. He had to pretend like he wasn’t thinking of you wearing this same pair, imagining what size would be closest to yours. He grabbed blindly at the folded pairs and retrieved the first ones his hands touched. 

“I’ll ring you up! I’ll even throw in our gift wrapping just because I like you so much.” You smiled and guided him towards the register, letting him cut the line of women waiting to pay. After he paid, you handed over a white box with a silky red bow and gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I hope you both enjoy.” 

————

The box sat on his bedside table— the proverbial elephant in the room. 

God, he thought. You probably thought he was a weird pervert who wanted to wear them or something. Well, he probably would if someone hot enough asked him to, but it wasn’t like he was seeking it out. 

His thoughts wandered as they usually did when it was late and he was home alone with nothing (or no one) to do. That night, though, his thoughts were focused solely on you. 

He thought about the professional pencil skirt you wore, of lace and stockings beneath. He yearned to peel them off of you with his teeth and bury his head between your thighs, tasting all you had to offer him. He wanted your manicured nails tugging on his hair, scratching his scalp as you cried out in pleasure above him.

He groaned, almost involuntarily reaching down to palm himself over his sweats. Talk about pathetic— even the tiniest mental image made him swell with desire. Fucking dry spell. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, bucking into his own grip. Just the lightest pressure made him groan and toss his head back, the expanse of his neck bared. He imagined your pretty mouth pressed against his throat, sucking bruises into his pale skin and felt his cock twitch beneath the confines of his pants.

He was quick to strip off the rest of his clothes, not wanting anything in the way. The dry glide of his hand along his hardening length made him hiss. With clumsy impatience, he reached for the bottle of lube inside of his bedside table, almost empty from solo use, sitting beside a mostly-full box of condoms.

Immediately, the slick sounds of him working his length filled the room— desperate and messy with need. Maybe he could’ve been patient— taken it slower, but he was overcome with lust and a desire for release.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Feels so good— don’t stop, keep goin’ just like that.”

As the words mindlessly slipped past his lips, he knew he was well and truly gone. It was an entirely new level of desperate and horny to dirty talk to the girl you were hot for when she wasn’t even there. 

His free hand was splayed across his chest, just resting against the thatch of chest hair where his heart was pounding just beneath his ribs. As his desperation grew, his hand wandered lower, fondling his balls as his other hand squeezed the base of his shaft. A desperate, feral noise escaped his mouth that he’d never even heard himself make before.

He closed his eyes and he could imagine you pulling him into a dressing room, a wanton look in your gaze as you pulled the thin curtain shut, the only semblance of privacy you could get. You’d smile as you stripped off your clothes, only clad in the skimpy lingerie you’d paid for with your employee discount. 

“You’re gonna have to be quiet for me, okay?” You’d say as you pulled down his stupid Scoops uniform shorts. “Don’t want to get caught, right?”

He could feel sweat beading at the base of his neck and around his forehead, on his chest, tummy, and thighs. His entire body was burning up as he touched himself, like he was on fire from the inside out. 

He’d waste no time kneeling before you— tugging your stockings and panties down and hiking up your skirt so he could slot himself between your legs and taste you. There were few things Steve loved more than eating pussy. There was something about the taste, smell, the sounds that he could elicit with a few deft movements of his tongue. You’d pull his hair and tilt your head back as moans escaped your lips. 

He worked his length quickly as he imagined eating you out. His head was thrown back, tongue lolling out of his mouth as short pants escaped him. The slick sounds of lube and the slap of his hand at the base of his cock were pornographically loud. He’d have been embarrassed had he not had the house to himself.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “Wanna make you cum so bad. Wanna taste you.”  He could only imagine the pretty sounds you’d make as you came, the way you’d tremble as your knees threatened to give out. He’d wait until you couldn’t take anymore before finally relenting, meeting you with a kiss.

Your hands would be soft. He knew this not just by looking at them, but also from the few times you’d put a hand on his arm when you passed by him in the service hallways. He liked thinking about your hands on him, squeezing him just the way he liked. 

“You’re so big, Steve,” you’d say from your knees, peering up at him with big doll eyes. Your hand would glide along his cock— slow, teasing. Your tongue would dart out, kitten-licking his tip before you took him into his mouth entirely.

“Mmm, fuck— feels so good,” Steve cried out, his chest heaving as he continued to work his hand along his cock. “Doin’ so good, taking it all for me. Just like that.”

Steve felt himself nearing his finish and slowed down, practically to a snail's pace to keep from busting early. What was the point of having a sexual fantasy if you finished before getting to the best part? 

He returned his attention to the image of you in his mind. How the drool at the corners of your mouth would drip messily, how your eyes would be wet and glossy as his cock bullied its way into your throat. Your free hand would move to cup his balls, heavy and full for you as you kneaded them in your palm. 

He’d bring you up to him and give you a kiss for good measure— slow and messy like you had all the time in the world. But he’d get impatient, like he was then to just give in and make himself cum. 

He’d press your back against the wall and lift your legs around his waist. You’d still be wet from his mouth, dripping with desire. You’d take him with no resistance at all, just a tight warmth like he belonged there. 

He needed more. Just jerking off wasn’t cutting it. He reached out clumsily with his free hand and grabbed the gift-wrapped box from the bedside table and tore at the silky red ribbon so he could knock the top of the box off. He grabbed the white lace panties from within and groaned at the sight.

“Ah!” He got a full-body shiver the moment he wrapped the lace panties around his cock, the fabric soft against his flushed length. They wrap around the head as he sets a fast pace, imagining that they’re yours— the same pair you’d been wearing that day. 

“Fuck,” he cried out, bucking up into his fist and the lace. “Holy shit, ‘m cumming. Fuck— fuck—“ He came with a shout, his spend soaking through the white lace, sticky on his hands and dripping down his shaft, pooling at the base. 

His breath came in soft pants as he came down, his cock still twitching weakly, rivulets of cum dripping from the slit. “Goddamn,” was all he could manage as he laid limp against his pillows. 

He’d made a mess, not just of himself, but of the lace panties he’d spent a day’s paycheck on. He grimaced at the sight of them, completely soiled from his exploits. With more effort than he even felt capable of, he sat up and tossed them into the hamper in the corner of his room. 

Afterward, he looked down at himself— the mess of cum and lube left behind. He stood and stretched on slightly weak legs and went to wash off. He’d deal with the shame of it all tomorrow.

————

You were smiling at customers when he came in for his shift the next day, feeling sensitive from the second round he’d put himself through in the shower the previous night… and the quick session he’d had in the morning. 

Part of him felt like a perv for thinking about you like that, but then you looked up, saw him, and smiled… and he felt the wariness wash away like it was nothing. 

At lunch, he walked into the store, which was far less crowded than it had been the day prior. You saw him and approached with a casual confidence that made him want to crumble to his knees. 

“Hi, Steve! Did Nancy like the gift you got her?”

His brow furrowed. “Nancy? We broke up last year.”

You laughed lightly and shook your head. “No, I meant your new girlfriend. The other Nancy.”

He swore internally as he nodded. “Right! Yes. She loved them, actually. She wants another pair.”

“Great, just meet me at the register when you’re done.” You smiled and departed. Steve couldn’t help but stare at your ass in that tight skirt as you walked away. 

He grabbed two more pairs— black and red— and approached the counter where you stood. You rang him up without further comment and smiled as you passed the bag and receipt over. 

“Come back soon, Steve,” you said with a grin before departing into the back of the store. 

That night as Steve was unpacking the bag, he found a small note written on blank receipt paper. 

“Steve, if you wanted to talk to me, you didn’t have to buy lingerie for a fake girlfriend to do it. XO” Beneath it, in clear print was your phone number circled twice. 

Steve grinned, running his thumb over the note. Maybe his dry spell was going to end sooner than he thought.

[contact-guy]

heyyy I hope it's okay to send an ask! I just wanted to know about your art process, if you got any advise. Because I'm in love with your SH doodles, they're so dynamic and lively and the shading is such a nice accent yet it remains somewhat minimalistic? I'm relatively decent at realism but want to develop my own character in drawing more and I'm wondering how you arrived at yours, did you have a method? Thanks in advance^^

love to talk about DRAWING......

The short answer is that because I want to draw them a lot, and have limited time, I can't be too precious about how the final result looks! So a lack of perfectionism and a desire for speed ends up forcing me to simplify and stylize them. This was an organic process (if you scroll down my art tag you can see I was drawing them with a bit more detail, finish, and care a few months ago - I was illustrating vs what I'm doing now, cartooning).

Ideally when you are cartooning, every line of the character's face is doing work to make them THEM, and to tell a story. No unnecessary lines! I find that story is best expressed through eyes, eyebrows, and mouth (this might be different for you). Those features can and should change shape to express emotion. They are usually what I draw first, to figure out the emotion, and they're what I spend the most time tweaking.

The rest of the features - face shape, cheekbones, nose, forehead, ears, hairline - are less emotive, less 'plastic', they don't change shape much. These are doing work to make the character recognizable. I try to keep them simple and have a few simple rules that I can remember about each character.

(Watson is tricky because of his mustache! I've found that treating it as part of his mouth rather than a distinct piece works best, but even so it makes his face less emotive - which, honestly, works for the character, as he is less demonstrative than Holmes)

I'll usually do a simple underdrawing to figure out what the body is doing - trying to capture the energy of a pose and, again, thinking about what story the body is telling.

Then I 'ink' in the clothing, following the lines of the body and gravity. Victorian clothing is fun to draw, I find that the structure around the shoulders and neckline lends itself to expressive poses. I did a bunch of Victorian clothing studies a few months ago and felt like I built up a 'library' in my head so that I don't need to reference it every time.

Shading is incredibly minimal and quick. In really simple drawings, its purpose is usually to distinguish characters from the background. In more detailed ones, it's to give them a little dimension and focus the eye to the faces.

Every choice I make is in service of readability rather than beauty or accuracy, if that makes sense. So it is quite a different mindset than when you're drawing realistically or painting.

I hope this was helpful! I am a professional artist but whenever I get sucked into a fandom I find myself making leaps and bounds in my craft because I want to draw so MUCH and don't care about making it polished...truly shout out to hyperfixation for the gifts it brings

[heartlesscorpse]

Pyramid Head thoughts 2🩸🔪 △

MORE PYRAMID HEAD BRAINROT WOOHOOO— Hell yeah brother. Anyways OH MY GOD I was getting pissed off from this app bc I couldn’t edit this when I had it in my drafts for some strange reason BUT IT’S ALL WORKING FINE NOW. Yay. I’ve also been slowly chipping away at my Pyramid Head x reader recently for the past few weeks and it’s coming along smoothly (surprisingly), hopefully today or so it’ll all be finished and I can polish it for any mistakes or typos I accidentally made then it’ll be tossed onto AO3. :))))))

It’s difficult having to be roaming about Silent Hill knowing that he now has a companion of his own to keep company in this shit hole, it’s a nice thought but now there’s the hassle with keeping an eye on you at all times.

Man loves you but you gotta fuckin’ STOP disappearing from his sight whenever he looks away from you.

Stop getting into trouble damnit it’s a good thing he’d been stalking you the whole time but seriously you’re gonna give him a tiny heart attack if you keep doing this. >:(

This is why he ends up having to carry you around wherever he goes because you can’t slip out from his grasp and it’s easier this way to prevent you from running off.

Honestly, whenever Pyramid Head’s injured he’s not even gonna understand why you’re looking like you’re on the verge of bawling your eyes out.

‘Tis but a flesh wound’

But he’ll play along anyways if you were really worried and wanted to help him with injuries.

And he obviously enjoys the attention from you. :))

Cuddles 24/7, if you’re tired just take a break someplace safe and he’ll let you curl up in a ball in his hold, bc he absolutely adores having you in his arms.

Despite Pyramid Head not able to talk at all he does like hearing some of your rambles from time to time considering you’re the most talkative one between the both of you.

Pyramid Head likes giving you some small shiny little trinkets every now and then as small presents, bc you’re his and why the hell not shower you with some things every now and then?? He would’ve come back from patrolling around the town with some things like quarters, some pieces of jewelry, or weird little trinkets like teeth or small animal skulls, and those kinds of things if you’re into that.

He also likes receiving a few small gifts from you every now and then as well. Small things like little paper cranes or also some weird little trinkets you’ve been finding around Silent Hill, mainly bones, and you would craft into little charms. Gifts from either him or you would’ve all went into some ragged satchel you found so you could carry them with you at all times and you wouldn’t lose them.

🥩⋆♱✮♱⋆🔪 🩸

[lucerocosplay]

Shohki Mask Cover

construction notes & photos under the cut

This has been a long time coming! I'm glad she's a costume I can work a mask into without it breaking the design of the character. I feel like people would be less inclined to ask that you remove it for photos this way ^^;

I went with a very thin cotton gauze fabric (#9 "coffee" if you're wondering), think a slightly thicker cheese cloth. It's very breathable as a single layer and seemed the best choice for an N95 cover. The shape was really only achievable with this fabric because of the shape of my mask underneath, and some strategically placed 1/2" wide horsehair braid tubing from the dollar tree. I usually stock up around halloween but they stock around christmas too!

Process is very straight forward, just traced my mask on the fold and made some rough adjustments for a card stock mock up. I like 90-110 lbs for this sort of thing but construction paper can work in a pinch too. Cut that out and fit to my face, tweaked the placement on the nose bridge and added a 1/4" allowance for bias tape/facing, and appropriate allowance for flat felled seams.

The ear tab was extended to cover the mask underneath, and included allowance for support fabric (denim scrap in my case) to support two eyelets intended to thread the elastic of my mask through. Then it was just patterning out the rest of the mask elements and making note of seam allowance and how to cut each piece. I trimmed the tape holding together the card stock mask apart and finally got to cutting out the fabric once that was done.

There isn't anything fancy going on, the hardest part was just the inset mesh panel over the weirdly shaped keyhole cut outs on the mouth piece. It's just black nylon mesh typically used for interfacing bras sewn on after making the keyholes.

This fabric is like if toilet paper were a textile, which is great for breatheability and weight but absolutely hell for machine work like this. It's not for a competition so for me, hiding messy stitching with weathering later was ok.

The portion of the mask running from the underside of each ear tab was finished with homemade bias tape. The same method was used for finishing the top portion that runs over the bridge of my nose. The ends were simply folded and sewn down at the ear tabs for a clean finish.

The side "filters" have an extra 1/2" long extension so I can tack in the ends of some horse hair tubing, then double fold the fabric back into itself before hand tacking with tiny stitches from the outside. That helps the light fabric balloon out into that shape, along with another layer of that same mesh interfacing.

They are really fun actually, very floppy with great movement. Though they stick out a tad too much so I did add one small french tack to the center of each to help them point downwards but retain that movement. The "filter" took the most hand finishing out of the whole thing, but that was to be expected.

Once the little side "filters" were sewn in, there was just light weathering to do. I wanted to add some shadows and potential "mold spores" to certain areas to really make the texture pop and hide some messy stitching. Light passes with a dry brush and some acrylic helped a lot, so did referencing photos of mold growth on clothes.

It was a pass of burnt sienna along all seams and large patches where high humidity would accumulate. Then another lighter pass of burnt umber to deepen up areas, and some very sparse areas of white. Finally I wanted to give it the "blue cheese special" and mixed a little viridian green and that same white and hit the white areas first then dry brushed the spaces between mold patches. I'm trying to replicate active mold colonies so reference photos came in handy here. I also used some nail polish to match the grommets to fabric.

Maybe when I am not crunched for time I will get around to digitizing the pattern, but for now I hope the photos help anyone else trying to plan out a mask. Obviously the shape will change a lot depending on the sort of fabric and mask you have on under it, not to mention face shape. I would imagine bifolds would give you more her classic feed bag profile than an origami style mask, however.

[msfcatlover]

Moonbeam Duke (Reverse Robins)

Duke was... tough. There's not nearly as many differing designs to draw on for him, and frankly I don't like a whole lot of them. I do like the mainline Signal costumes I've seen (both the black symbol w/ full-face helmet, and the glowing symbol w/ jaw exposed) but they really have more "Independent Hero" vibes.

(These designs are all dope, but not great sidekick material.)

Digging through reference images led me to realize that even in his Elseworld appearances, Duke almost always gravitates towards those knightly vibes. Boy likes his armor with a little fantasy-flair.

("Future's End" & "White Knight" a bit less so, but I still get cyberpunk-knight vibes from both—maybe it’s just me.)

Those that aren't all knightly tend to be stylized but durable street clothes, that are just out there enough to pass for a costume but could just as easily be worn by someone in their everyday life.

(Last one is this redesign by @sufroyo, but gods do I love it!)

Duke will probably want some of that knightly vibe, but Moonbeam is kinda my Robin figure in this AU; he needs to look like the less-experienced partner to Gotham’s Dark Knight, rather than a Knight in his own right. And I should combine that with his preference for practical, durable, almost-understated fashion.

So… streetwear-squire. Let's see what I can do.

First off, we can get both sets of vibes by starting with a gambeson as our base. Go for a shorter one to emphasize that jacket look, and while they come in a whole variety of styles, I think off-center clasps looks just a little bit more modern. I'd also say he doesn't buckle up his neck, giving it that popped-collar look Duke seems to like.

(Off-centered clasps, as well as a couple casually worn gambesons to show the kind of effect you can get. Duke's is definitely the kind that covers the hip to brush the top of the thigh, but given most people think of gambesons as being knee-length, that's still short.)

And, hell, if Robin can wear bright colors then so can Moonbeam. Using the "It'll help you learn to sneak better" excuse, Duke's gambeson is cream colored. (It also looks better contrasted to Batman's black.)

I like the idea of the gambeson having built-in gloves like in Duke's "Final Knight" costume, but I don't really like the look of Final Knight’s Duke design(s). Erm, any of them. I'd define the difference on the sleeves a little more by giving him hand & arm bracers to wear over the top, probably some simple pauldrons, and maybe a gradient on the arms from cream to grey.

(Not 100% on the gradient, just think the fully light sleeve might not work even with the bracers. Keep the metal simple & understated, though, and remember the lines in the sleeves are from padded fabric rather than any kind of wrappings.)

Still, that's a long stretch of one pretty plain color. The main body needs to be broken up, and Duke should probably have a bit more protection, but we don't want to hamper his mobility. Let's add a demi-brestplate (also called a demi-cuirass or "heroic armor") on top. That protects the upper chest without going past the rib-cage, to avoid hampering movement.

(I really, really like this fluted design, but can't find anything smiliar in a demi. I've also always liked the look of breastplates which are 2 pieces held together by straps under the arms. The last one is just to give you a better idea of the size/form of the thing.)

And a steel-grey utility belt, obviously.

(...I should probably mention, none of this metal should be highly-polished. It's not glinting like a mirror whenever Duke's not redirecting light away from him, it's just a step or two above matte-finishing.)

I'd say Duke's symbol is an iridescent/opalized circle right in the middle of his chest, representing a full moon (or the bat signal minus the bat.) So it looks white, but it shimmers rainbow when it catches the light. Probably has either a black or gold ring around it to help it stand out.

(A normal opal, and opalized glass with light shining through it. No, the ring does not seem to exist outside of pinterest.)

There's also a matching smaller "jewel" on the back of each gauntlet, and Duke claims he uses them to focus his light powers. Whether he does or not, I don't know.

I don't like the look of Duke's "We Are Robin" helmet in-context, but I think it could work here. Match the grey to the breastplate & gauntlets, match the stripes to the gambeson, replace the eye-slits with a thin, one-way visor, lose the ear-circles.

(I did consider having the colors be the other way around, but that felt a little too close to Ghostmaker's look for my liking.)

Give him some dark grey cargo pants, a pair of these sports boots (minus the logos), and some metal knee-pads to finish the look.

______________________________________________________________

A handful of these characters I do actually have a degree of costume evolution in mind beyond just changing identities; Duke is one of them. In this case, it becomes more knightly as time goes on.

In particular, I think Duke swaps the gambeson for a chainmail tunic and the demi-breastplate for a laminar chest piece.

(I like the short sleeve tunic style, and I'm picturing Duke's "White Knight" armor as the basis for the chest piece. I can’t seem to find any laminar reference photos that have that same look; I’m almost picturing a scapular, but made from metal plates.)

The sports boots become combat boots, the knee-pads & bracers get swapped for splint greaves & splint bracers over black leather gloves. The “jewels” are now on the back of the gloves directly, rather than the metal, as the new bracers don’t cover his hands.

He also adds the Bat ear-points to his helmet, adds a dark undersuit to the top to replace the sleeves, and generally ups the contrast by darkening the greys & either polishing the armor or painting it metallic white (if the latter, the chainmail is probably a light, brassy brown to make them pop.)

(These colors, I believe would depend on the artist; it seems like one of those things people would disagree on.)

All of which helps evolve the look toward the Signal's "motorcycle gear meets knight armor" mash-up.

[ltbarnes]

My Blood Turns Into Alcohol

Summary: Bucky Barnes doesn’t step out behind his trusted bar counter, no matter what goes on out on the floor. Until you, that is—the town newbie who stumbles inside the lanky old bar and won’t stop showing up in your pretty dresses and with that shy smile. Bucky is infuriated. Maybe that’s why he won’t let you pay for even one of your drinks, or why his coworkers won’t stop bothering him about you.

Pairing: bartender!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Word count: 11.4k

Warnings: mild violence, alcohol consumption, allusions to sex, assholes named John (seems to be a reoccurring theme in my stories), Bucky being a grump and also mutual pining

A/N: This honestly took me three months to write. It’s not even funny anymore, I have three dozens of wips and this is the first I’ve been able to finish in months. Enjoy whatever this became I had no idea where it was going at any point of the story

Masterlist

James Buchanan Barnes does not leave the bar counter. Under any circumstances. It does not matter what's going on on the other side of the two and a half feet of polished wood, placed between himself and the crowd lingering until the early hours of the morning.

Reasons for his principles are discussed heavily amongst the patrons of the bar. He's scared. He doesn't like people. He doesn't want sticky beer on his precious metal arm. Some things are partially true and other not at all, but the principle remains the same. Bucky Barnes does not step outside of the bar counter.

His hostility towards the openness of the bar never stops him from intervening when needed, of course. Middle aged men who don't know how to control themselves, slurring profanities and stalking the waitress, always get dragged out by the security guard. Bucky makes sure of that, always. So does 19-year old kids who think he won't notice their anxious gazes roaming around to see if someone have noticed their intrusion.

Bucky keeps the place in check, but he rules it all from behind the counter. Have been doing so for years. No matter how rowdy it gets through bar fights and unexpected bursts of college kids. He's been forced to roar out orders and yell at frat guys to not lay another fucking hand on the jukebox, or he will personally see to it that they won't have any fucking dicks left the next day. But then it's most sufficient that way, when he remains quiet and brooding for the most part. Comes as a surprise then—his outbursts.

Mr. Lee, who's been a regular for as long as Bucky has been working at the bar, tells him that he won't ever convince a lady to settle down with him if he continues scowling silently behind his sacred wall of wood. He usually earns a grunt in answer, on occasion a smug smirk, while Bucky throws the towel over his shoulder or wipes down the counter.

The topic of his love life comes up all too often during the long shifts. Wanda, the waitress who never fails to turn down each of her seemingly endless suitors of the bar in the most polite way, loves to discuss it like nothing else. She has indeed reminded him that he is no bad looking man at all, and if he really wanted to he could step outside on the street and be crowded by young ladies. It's all with a glint in her eyes, because thankfully she hasn't tried to set him up with a single woman. Not like Natasha used to do.

Quite frankly, Bucky doesn't care that much about getting a girlfriend or wife or whatever people want him to have. Life is entirely fine on his own. Actually, he prefers it. People are complicated and whiny and attention-seeking brats. Everything is better from a distance.

The bell above the entrance chimes as the door is opened gently. Bucky has had a thought or two of crushing it to pieces during his many shifts at the bar, but the owner insists on having it there. He suspects Tony is so attached to the bell simply because of Bucky's distaste towards it.

He tenses just slightly as you make your way inside. Your knee-length dress sweeps across your legs, light fabric contrasting against the small flowers printed upon it like it's 15 degrees hotter outside and not a rainy night, bordering on stormy. Bucky can't help but think that folks these days, especially you, don't know how to dress properly according to the weather, or time of day, but that's just the old man in him. That's what Steve usually says, like he's not just as bad.

But then you sit down by the counter, hoisting yourself up on the tall chairs while adjusting the cardigan on your shoulders. It unnerves him, the way you always let your eyes wander towards him timidly in wait for service despite having met him one and a half dozens of times already. He lingers by the bearded drunk at the end of the bar a few seconds longer than he should, only to postpone the encounter a bit longer. The past few months since you started showing up has been weird for him.

He wants to roll his eyes for no good reason at all as he forces himself towards your end. It's not intentional, his aversion, acting the way he does around you. Most of the time Bucky is quite closed off, he has plenty of trauma to justify it, but he can't grasp what it is that makes him so unapproachable when you show up in front of him, makes his face become stuck in a constant glare that usually scares away most. Steve always complains that he's too grumpy. Lighten up, jerk. 'S not all bad out in the world.

"Hi, Bucky," you say softly, almost too quietly, and he sees it on you that it came out more quietly than you intended. Your face almost contorts into a wince.

It's a dick move, that he doesn't say hello back. He knows that, and still he plants his hands on the wooden counter and stares you down instead. You gulp, mustering up a half-smile.

"I want a strawberry daiquiri tonight," you tell him, scratching the side of your nose with your nail. “Please.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, some sort of surprise displaying on his face. "Strawberry daiquiri?" he asks, like your request is some outlandish idea he's never heard the likes of. Sure, he's gotten to know that you prefer colorful drinks over a glass of whiskey, but usually Steve makes them for you.

"Yeah. Strawberry daiquiri. Of course, only if making a drink like that won't taint your masculinity all too much." You look up at him. "Fruity drinks are risky business after all," you whisper to yourself, running your finger over a scratch in the wood.

And maybe, just maybe, Bucky let's the corner of his lip quirk up just slightly. But you don't see that. You're too busy staring down at the tainted countertop, following the path of your fingertip.

"Sure," Bucky mutters, turning around before he gives in to the compulsion of staring at you for too long and calling you sweet pet names that he makes up in his mind for you.

It's not that you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, or the most interesting either. Those come into the bar every now and then. But if he's honest, you're not the usual kind of regular the bar has. And he's well aware that it's a popular drink, what you just ordered, it's just that people don't order one very often here.

The rest of the late night patrons seem to share his aversion to your presence, or at least curiosity, even after you've lived here for almost three months. The man who's gulped down a few too many glasses of Jack a few feet away keeps sending long glances your way, letting his eyes wander just a little too much. Bucky had planned to send him away soon anyways. Dum Dum Dugan and his biker gang seem to joke around about you, although it's all friendly. They can get rowdy, but it's never anything malicious.

You're mostly quiet as you sip on your red drink for a good half an hour. Sometimes you interrupt your silence to tell him about something you saw the other day, or a good book you just finished. Bucky serves another two rounds of beer to the bikers, rum and coke to an accountant-looking type, tequila shots to Brunnhilde and Thor in the corner booth. Wanda stays with him behind the counter to talk to you about how her brother and boyfriend get along so well despite their many differences. He checks the stock twice, organizes the bottles, counts the change.

It's nearing closing and you're still in your place, lingering with the same drink in your hand while the only other customer left is the half-passed out drunk. Bucky has no willpower in him to kick the man out. He's quite sure you'll leave whenever he tells you to, but Wanda beats him to it.

"Hey, Y/n, we're closing up in ten," she says with a kind smile, wiping down the counter for the last time. "If you're gonna finish that drink, you better do it soon."

"Oh, okay. Sure will," you reply. "It was good, by the way." Your eyes travel over to Bucky where he stands, leaning against the back with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You sure about that? Been sipping on it for an hour and a half." He nods towards the half-empty glass.

It surprises him when you let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head to yourself. "I’m just distracted. Little stressed," you confess. "Still trying to settle in."

"Still having troubles with your landlord?" Wanda asks, perking her head up. "I told you to let me know if he gave you anymore problems."

You ignore the way Bucky's stoic face turns into a near scowl along with her words. He always seems to do that when you speak of your many mishaps and small miseries.

"Yeah. It's okay, Wanda. I'll handle it myself," you say. "I'm gonna let you close up." You move off of the chair.

"No worries," Wanda answers with a smile. "Let me know when you've gotten home. And don't be gone for too long until the next visit. I'll have Bucky make you 'nother drink that you'll like more."

You nod, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth for just a mere second, but Bucky can't get the image out of his head. If he were any closer he might have freed it with his thumb. When you reach into the pocket of your cardigan, fishing out a ten dollar bill, he can't control the words tumbling out of his mouth.

"It's on the house," he says, stopping your movements before you have the chance to lay the bill on the bar.

"Oh," you breathe out. "Really? Thank you." The smile on your face is blinding. "Think I'm gonna keep coming here if you give me more free drinks."

"'S not gonna be a regular occurrence," he mutters, face fallen into that brooding frown once more. "Any longer."

You back towards the door, closing your hand around the handle. "I'm not counting on it," you say over your shoulder, before slinking out of the door.

It's not until the bell chimes once more, ringing in aftershocks of the door closing shut, that Bucky feels the intense stare of Wanda on his face.

"What?" he mumbles.

"You know those free drinks you keep giving her are going out of your paycheck, right?"

A grunt is enough of answer for Bucky, who drags himself away from Wanda. She knows he's avoiding talking about the topic. Doesn't mean she'll stop asking.

"She's very nice, you know?" she says after a dozen seconds of silence, sticking her head inside of the storage room.

"Don't even think about it."

You've been here quite a lot lately. More than what your mother would approve of—she'd undoubtedly think you were an alcoholic by now. But you don't drink every time, not even close to it. Instead it's mostly Shirley Temples and sometimes a coffee from the staff room if Wanda's working.

Bucky the brooding bartender isn't here tonight. He's an enigma to you—grumpy and cold and somehow sweet in the moments when he lets his mask slip. But you're not really sure wether or not you like the guy yet. Or you like him, a bit too much, but he's very...interesting in his behavior.

You've noticed how your tab doesn't always include everything you ordered when he's working, and he always listens intently to whatever you have to say, but then he stands there scowling in the corner whenever you talk to Wanda or the other bartenders. Sometimes he tells you a bad joke under his breath, as if he hadn’t intended to, and then he says nothing for an hour. He's balancing on a scale right now, you think. Maybe it's for the best that he's not here. You always say such stupid things around him.

The waitress though, her you certainly like. Actually, you're bordering on loving her for how good of a friend she's been to you since that first night you stumbled in here a few months ago. Honestly, friends have been sparse since you moved to town. It's understandable, considering the small size of it, but it's been lonely besides the sisterly bond you've managed to form with Wanda. You guess that's why you ventured into this bar in the first place, but found yourself too shy to start conversation with anyone.

The fact that it's a Friday night probably gives your loneliness away, though. Perhaps it is so obvious that it's the reason behind why the redheaded waitress joins you in your booth, sliding in opposite of you with a warm smile on her face that forces you to drag your eyes away from the laptop.

"Hi, Wanda," you greet her, taking out the headphones from your ears.

"I like you too much to let you sit here alone on a Friday night. That is just not acceptable, honey," she says, reaching over to close your laptop. The gesture earns an offended gasp that doesn't quite carry the conviction a genuine one would.

"Does it matter if I would have done the same thing at home?" you ask meekly, reaching for the glass of water you've settled with so far. "I'm at least a little more social here..."

"No. That won't do it either," she tells you, already halfway up from her seat. "Put that thing away and join me by the bar counter. I'll have Steve whip you up one of those fruity drinks you like."

A quiet chuckle through a sigh is all the answer Wanda gets before she turns around, heading away from you with her hair swinging from her ponytail.

"No grumpy bartender here tonight?" you ask while sitting down at one of the stools placed by the counter, giving a glance to the tall blonde occupying the space Bucky usually has. "Has he quit of misery after I didn't drink up the Tequila Sunrise he made me the other day?"

Wanda smiles, shaking her head while sharing a knowing glance with the man. "Bucky doesn't get in until ten today, miss. But I'm sure I can occupy your time until then if you wish to see him so desperately."

Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly that no matter what you say it will most likely come across as a horrible excuse. "No—no. Not like that," you nearly seethe through a whisper, leaning in like your words are somehow a secret. You hear Steve chuckle heartily from a few feet away. "Don't laugh at me, Steve! I just want more free drinks, that's all!"

Your attempts to deflect the attention away from you fails miserably, because there's that eyebrow lift from Wanda and amused shake of head from Steve that tells you they've got it all wrong. You don't actually know why Bucky keeps evading your attempts to pay for your drinks. A groan sounds from your lips while you bury your face in your hands.

"Oh, just give me that drink I was promised. I think I'm gonna need that if I'm gonna spend the next few hours with you two."

Slipping your palms away from your hidden face, you're met with two warm smiles, Steve leaning his hands against the counter and Wanda loading up shots on a tray. And the absolutely infuriating man dares to open his mouth once more, delivering one of those smug lines he always seem to have.

"Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say."

Four and a half drinks and two hours later, you've relocated to a booth and taken off the sweater previously covering your arms. Wonderfully tipsy, probably drunk but absolutely in denial, and unexpectedly in tears from laughter. Squeezed in between the large and boisterous man who you've come to know is named Dugan and his trusty friend Gabe, you're perfectly content and more happy than you have been since you moved here.

A harmless biker gang consisting of a bunch of old friends in their late-thirties to mid-forties is the last group of people you would've thought you'd end up in conversation with tonight, but god, are they wonderful. Steve sent you here in exile after you started getting too chatty during the third drink, to the point where he had trouble doing his job. Who knew a little bit of alcohol was all you needed to get out of your shell?

Unfortunately, or maybe it is a blessing in disguise, you don't even notice when Bucky turns up behind the bar counter to start his shift for the night. Though he notices you. Oh, it's very first thing he sees—you throwing your head back in laughter, reaching for your glass while Morita gestures wildly through one of his infamous stories. You're drunk. He sees it so clearly, and you're so different.

Bucky almost scowls, because he despises himself for taking note of how you've held yourself, how you talked and grew shy and apprehensive and how you held back during your visits. All of that is gone—now sits a free-spirited woman on the verge of slurring her words, having so much fun that he nearly wants to shake his head.

"What is she doin' there?" he mumbles while making his way to Steve, who's drying his hands on a towel.

"Who?" the blonde asks in return with an amused smile, despite having spotted the way Bucky's eyes drifted to your figure. He only earns a glare in answer. "Sent her away a while ago. Apparently that one is a talker with a few drinks in her blood. Would tell you to keep an eye on her, but seems like you already got that handled."

"Punk."

"Jerk." Steve smiles. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky mutters dismissively, barely even noticing as his friend slips away.

And no matter how much he trusts Dugan and Morita and everyone else around that table, Bucky keeps an extra eye on the group during the next half an hour. They're good men, but it still unnerves him as you sit there laughing and managing to keep their attention through your questionable attempts at storytelling.

And maybe he spends a bit too much time letting his gaze drift down to how your cleavage looks in that cute little blouse of yours, but he spends just as much time watching the way your eyes light up right before a big laugh escapes your lips, and your hands flying wildly around you while engaging in the conversation. It's not often he wishes to be a part of a large, rowdy group, but in this moment he would rather sit there than stand behind this bar.

It's not until you make your way out of the booth, standing up on wobbly legs and a giggle on your lips, that he forces himself to remain professional and do his goddamn job. You stagger up to the bar counter, hoisting yourself up on a stool despite having no plans to stay very long.

"Bucky. Bucky-boy," you say, smiling up at him while your eyes blink slowly. "I want a shot. Vodka."

"Vodka?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that, Y/n?"

"Yes. 100%. It's vodka or nothing."

Bucky turns his head, keeps his smile away from you, before schooling himself and letting the corners of his lips fall once more.

"Think you'd be better off with nothing, huh? You're gonna be sick, Y/n."

"No. I promise I won't, Bucky." You lean your chin in your hands, fluttering your lashes while pleading with your gaze. "Please. Please. Bucky, you know you're my favorite bartender."

"Flattery is not gonna work on me, peach," he says, gulping to rid himself of the nickname he just let slip.

But you barely notice. At least, that's what he reads your wandering gaze that stays anywhere but at him as. And despite his gratefulness for your distant mind he still finds a part of him wishing for you to react.

Against his better judgement, he pours that one last shot for you. It's not that he finds it hard to say no to you. Denying your wishes is something that he does constantly, it seems like, everytime he insists on letting you go without paying. You really have fought back fiercely these last few weeks though.

Bucky is made to regret his decision remarkably a few hours later, just thirty minutes shy of closing and the bar mostly empty. Except for you, Dugan and Morita, that is. He did not expect to find you so mischievous while drunk. How you managed to get a hold of more alcohol without him noticing is a little amusing and slightly disheartening, but mostly concerning.

You're slumped in the corner of the bar, eyes fluttering closed every other second while desperately trying not to throw up. Apologies to the men beside you have been rolling off your tongue repeatedly for the last ten minutes. You do not want them to feel obligated to stay for your sake, but quite frankly you are not fit to be alone either.

The sound of voices speaking softly, probably, buzzes in the background. You let your eyes rest, head leaning against the wall, heavy breaths escaping your nose. Sleep feels like the only sane option in this moment if you are to rid yourself of the horrible feeling coursing through your body.

Hands on your thighs gently shake you awake. The bar is empty. Only the usually grumbling bartender is sitting in front of you, crouched down, brows furrowed into a concerned frown. The image is strange.

"Hey, Y/n," he says, much too indistinguishable for your drunken mind to comprehend. "Y/n, I need you to drink some water. Think you can do that for me?"

All you muster up in answer is a nod. Bucky's quite sure you don't know what you're agreeing to. Despite your less than functioning state you manage to bring the glass to your lips, gulping down the cool liquid with only a few drops spilling down your chin. A calloused thumb wipes away the water from your skin.

"Let's get you home, huh, sweetheart?" Bucky mumbles under his breath, much too quietly for you to hear. He doesn't know if he'll ever have the courage to call you things like that out loud.

He's glad he walked Wanda to work after she'd stayed at your apartment only the week prior. Taking you home to his place would feel both inappropriate and a violation to your safety. He would never do anything to jeopardize it, but you don't know that. You can't possibly trust him like that yet.

"Do you think you will throw up, Y/n?" he asks you while helping you up the staircase, his arm thrown around your waist and yours around his shoulders.

"No. No. 'S better," you mumble, squinting to see through the poorly lit building.

"Are you sure? Do you need me to stay for a moment?" he adds, even though the question is more a request in reality. Leaving you alone in this state feels so fundamentally wrong in his bones. It nearly aches, the thought of his absence during your hardships.

"You trying to get 'nto my bed, Barnes?" you say, cracking a smile while your eyes flutter closed, head lolling onto his shoulder. Bucky doesn't answer. He can't. Not that you'd remember his reaction tomorrow, or anything that was said during the past hour. He's never seen your bad jokes on a roll like this, despite having been properly used to them by now.

Fishing out the keys from your bag is more complicated than expected. Having someone slumped against your side, barely conscious, will inevitably have that effect even for someone like Bucky. Cold gusts of wind from the open windows meet damp skin once he steps inside the apartment, carefully maneuvering you to the dresser you have standing in your hallway. Kneeling down to untie your shoelaces, he finds himself sporting a stupid grin while hearing your giggles.

"It tickles," you say through a hiccup, the muffled thump of your head meeting the wall behind you sounding through the apartment.

"Just a few seconds more," Bucky answers, fingers clasped around your leg while removing the shoe from your foot.

And he makes the mistake of glancing up at you from where he's kneeling, meeting the intense gaze directed at him he haven't quite seen before. Not like that, like you're looking at him now. But you're still drunk. He notices that so clearly as you fall down on top of your sheets, sinking into the soft duvet with a hum on your lips. The presence of him in the room is barely noticed, he believes, until your voice breaks the silence of the cold room.

"You're so nice to me, Buck," you mumble into your sheets. And he thinks that, no, he isn't very nice to you at all. Not in the ways that matter, in the ways that are obvious or straightforward or particularly noticeable at all. Do you really notice?

"Go to sleep, honey," he says, tracing his fingertip just over your cheek. Your lips part, eyes closed.

"Sweet...Buck."

Your breathing evens out only a few seconds later, without the end of your words meeting his ears. Bucky stands in the doorway, turns your lights off, for a whole minute before he gathers himself enough to leave. It's getting too real, too close, doing this. It's not his right to act this domestic with you when he can barely pay you a simple compliment. Constantly watching from afar, listening to your rambles and once in a while offering a piece of himself that can only count as a crumb. What he has with you can surely only exist in his mind.

He manages to lock the door from the inside. Spending the night guarding your door from the outside would piss Steve off, having him sleep-deprived tomorrow at work. Or today, isn't it?

He sees the soft fabric of your dress, white flowers against dark blue, fluttering around your knees before your face comes into view. Only you, only this goddamn girl who comes into this bar with pretty dresses that drive him fucking crazy. He nearly wishes you would stop showing up like that, in case that would hinder him from fucking his own fist on sleepless nights to the thought of unwrapping you from those dresses. But he would never deprive himself like that—no, seeing you so beautiful and soft gifts him enough life to remain calm in even the nastiest of bar fights and disputes with annoying college kids.

Your name lingers at the back of his throat, syllables rolling on his tongue until it nearly slips out. It does halfway, before he witnesses your hand encased in someone else's, a man just behind you with his hands on your skin. Fingers digging into the curve of your waist, scrunching the fabric, a nervous smile on your lips. The glass in Bucky's hand shatters quietly. No one else notices but him when the shards carve into his skin and draw red drops of blood down his palm.

He looks away. He doesn't want to, god knows he wants to always let his gaze travel over your figure, but he has to. Your eyes flicker over towards the bar counter, worriedly searching for Bucky in some grasp of comfort. But then again, if you actually caught eye contact you might have abandoned the whole thing if only for just a small chance to spend the night with Bucky instead. But the guy asked you out, and he's handsome and charming and probably wonderful, and Wanda insisted you try new things now that you're in a new town.

"Hey, you're bleeding," Sam calls out, frowning while eyeing the red liquid dripping down Bucky's hand.

The latter grunts in response, sending one last glare your way before slipping in the back. He comes back with a bandage wrapped around his palm, a scowl deeper than the one before, and a new costumer waiting for him with a face that begs to take his fist. He hates the guy already.

The man orders a drink for you. It bugs you a little that he didn't ask what you wanted, but you make no move to acknowledge it. Leaning your chin in the palm of your hand, you gaze down at the chipped pink polish on your nails and make no move to pay any attention to what's going on at the counter.

"Busy night, huh?" the man asks, leaning against the weathered wood with an arrogant smirk Bucky would just love to wipe out. He really does goddamn hate talking to people.

With a grunt he answers, ignoring the question in favor of concentrating on making the drinks. The punk ordered a fucking martini for you. Did he even ask you what you wanted? Bucky knows damn well that you would spit it out rather than force one of those down.

He casts an eye your way, seeing you peel off your chipped nail polish the way you do when you're nervous. That dress you're wearing—the punk with you tonight doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve seeing the way the fabric flows down your legs, sweeps against your knees when you walk. Not when he couldn't even bother asking you what you wanted. A martini? Seriously?

Glasses clink against wood a little too harshly, sweeping near the edge once he sets down the finished drinks. An old-fashioned and a Paloma stands swirling in front of a scowling bartender, hands grasping the counter harshly while glaring at the costumer.

"This is not what I ordered," the man says, eyeing the grapefruit pink liquid in front of him. Sam sends an amused side-eye towards Bucky that he tries to ignore. The man eyes it with distaste, frowning while bringing it up to his nose to smell it. Bucky hopes he spills the drink on his ridiculously crisp shirt.

"She doesn't like martinis," Bucky mutters under his breath, looking over at where you're sitting once more. You're tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, biting down on your lip.

"How the hell would you know?" the man spits out. A small drop of saliva hits Bucky's cheek. It takes every ounce of composure not to flinch. "This is none of your damn business. Do your job."

"She doesn't like martinis," Bucky repeats again, slower, glaring him right in the eyes with teeth grinding against each other. "Should've asked her before you walked up here and ordered."

He scoffs, averting his gaze with a roll of his eyes before taking a hold of the two glasses and walking away. Bucky sees the guy slide into the booth, right opposite you, and the way your eyebrows lift slightly in surprise as you notice your drink. He hears the guy take credit for the choice of drink, act like he just knew you liked it from the beginning. Bucky's pissed off.

"You're gonna kill the guy with that glare," Sam says through an amused grin, taking a swig of his beer.

"Eat shit."

"And you should be nicer to that girl, you know?" Sam says as soon as he sits down at the bar, sporting that everpresent smirk that tells him he knows much more than he lets on.

"What d'ya mean?" Bucky mumbles, a scowl on his face that always seems to be there when Sam shows up. Thank fucking god he loves the punk.

"You're broody. She's trying to talk to you, but you always act like a dick except when you refuse to let her pay for her drinks."

"I'm like this to everyone," he answers.

"No, you're not. I've seen you been nice, and this is not it. The poor girl have been here for six months, doesn't have a lot of friends besides the people in this bar. She doesn't need an asshole of an admirer right now, does she?"

Bucky refrains from sighing out loud, opting to wipe down the counter in silence instead. He knows very well what Sam is saying is true. Too much, probably, but he can't really help it. You're too soft, too nice, too different than what he is used to. Having a conversation with someone who genuinely listens like that, honestly wants to know what his day has been like or what his favorite thing to cook for himself is or what he watches on a Friday night—it's new.

If there's one thing Bucky Barnes has learnt in the countless of hours with Dr. Raynor, it's that he's allergic to vulnerability and would do pretty much anything to avoid it. Including his problem with going out on the bar floor. And treating you less than what you deserve, despite how much you never let it affect you. You keep coming, keep trying to make conversation even if you don't always get an answer. By this point you've told him pretty much everything about yourself just to fill the silences.

"I'm heading out." Sam interrupts his deep train of thought, setting down the glass with a clink. "Lighten up, will you? Be nice."

With an acknowledging nod he sends his friend off, tending to the refills and newly stumbled in costumers while trying to stop himself from glancing over at you every other second.

He fails miserably.

Bucky could feel his temper run away from him, far from where he has any control of his actions or whatever is said from his mouth. No one could blame him if he socked the guy in his eye right now, could they?

He didn't want to hear the conversation going on right outside of the door. Or to say he isn't intentionally listening would be a blatant lie, but he wishes he hadn't heard the words coming out of your date's mouth. It's bordering on astonishing how you've managed to find the biggest jerk there is on the market.

And it's not a complete lie to say that Bucky wished during the evening that you would realize what a prick the guy was, abandon him and come sit with Bucky by the bar counter instead. But for god's sake—this is not what he wished for.

"It was really nice to meet up with you, John, but I don't think we're a good match," you had said. Politely.

That simple sentence earned a two minute sermon on how John goddamn Walker had only asked you out to be nice, to make you feel better about yourself because you are just so 'fucking sad', aren't you? But of course you would be too self-absorbed to accept an invitation back to his place for a night of what probably would have been disappointing sex. And that's fine, you know, because you aren't very pretty anyways and you're also boring and annoying and a fucking bitch.

John had grabbed your waist, pulled you into him, right as he led you out of the bar. And it felt wrong. You hadn't planned on going anywhere with him from the beginning, but the conviction only grew when he put his hands on you. The polite rejection came tumbling out of your mouth before you even knew you were talking. That he would go on to push you down in every possible way for several minutes was unexpected. Shocking, even. Maybe that's the reason behind your tears as you stand alone on the curb in the middle of the night, hands wrapped around yourself and dreading walking inside again. But you force yourself to.

The bell rings as you close the door gently behind you, gently despite the tears gathering in your eyes, gently despite the heated words being thrown at you just a moment prior. You're too gentle for your own good. Bucky has thought that ever since the first day you stepped inside this lanky old bar.

"Hey," he calls out, setting down the bottle of Bacardi he has in his hand, following your trail to your discarded bag in one of the booths with his eyes.

Your steps are hasty, rushed while you ignore his call for you. He goddamn hates it—the tension in your posture and the way you're trying to hide the tears you're furiously wiping away from your face, back facing him. You won't let him see you.

"Y/n, slow down," Bucky calls out once more, reluctantly, because there's a hesitance somewhere along with the vulnerability you bring out in him. None of his other goddamn regulars make him worry like this.

Your hand reaches into the very depth of your bag, scrambling around for a stressed ten seconds before your fingers clasp around the cream wallet with small flowers on that Bucky can't help but think is adorable.

A few steps, heels clinking against the wooden floor, and a fifty dollar bill is smacked onto the newly cleaned counter, still damp with small droplets of water. Bucky's face falls into a deeper frown, if possible, because you know damn well you're not paying for anything you have in this house. Even if it's covering for the punk who walked out on you.

"No."

The word is a grumble, stone cold and gruff and accompanying the nearly incomprehensible sound of the bill sliding back towards you.

"Just keep it," you say, voice breaking even though you try so hard to keep it strong. Your eyes are not looking at him—he needs you to look at him so badly—but he sees the slight wobble of your lower lip and the trace of mascara starting to dissolve from your lashes.

"You know you're not paying," he answers, adamantly keeping his fingers on the money in case you get the idea of sliding it back towards him. He knows you're goddamn stubborn, he's gotten that by now.

Deep breath. Head cast down, a few blinks. "Please, Bucky. Take it," you say, an ounce more of conviction in your words while you bite down on your lip. Your hands are still shaking, legs desperate to carry you out of there before mortification chips away on more of your pride.

"I said no," he repeats with just a hint of an order, a harshness to his words that he didn't mean to use. Never with you.

"Just take it for god's sake!" you yell, unable to keep the tears from spilling down your cheeks with the strain. "Why do you—why do you always have to make it so goddamn hard?!"

Your hands come up to your face, a groan of frustration escaping your lips while turning away from his burning gaze. He's always looking too closely, too much. Even if there's two dozens of patrons in the bar, it always feels like his eyes are on you and you hate it. Especially now. It makes you fidget and worry too much, about the way you look and what kind of expression you're making or if there's a trace of food on your skin.

Bucky doesn't inch back. He would have, hadn't he had such a grip on the counter beneath him. Not once has he heard you speak with such animosity, nor volume.

"Y/n—"

"No. Have a good night, James," you force out of yourself, grabbing your bag before he has a chance to convince you to stay.

Bucky's legs itch. They itch with the urge to drag you into his arms, the urge to stalk down the jerk who made you cry, the urge to get on his knees and beg for you to 'please, sweetheart, look at me for god's sake'.

The door opens, old familiar bell rings, and the eyes of Bucky are pinpointing you so hard that it might as well have been a laser pointer. In your haste, you fail to remember the doorstep several inches too tall which always needs caution unless you plan to trip in front of a dozen drunk men.

It's the last straw. Everything spills out of your bag, scatters over the floor and catches the attention of the few people remaining. You freeze, a shaky breath escaping you before you finally let go of your desperate attempt to hold back the tears. Knees nearly touch the floor as you crouch down, burying your face in your hands along with the sound of your sobs.

And Bucky sees it, of course he does. His heart fucking shatters where he stands, just a few inches from where the counter ends and opens up to the floor of the bar. But he hesitates. You're crying for god's sake and he has the nerve to hesitate, over wether or not he should leave what he has lived after for years to comfort you.

"Shit, fucking—" Bucky breathes out, eyes flickering over the bar in panic with his palm running over his mouth. The sound of your whimpers fills his ears, scrapes against his eardrums and he thinks he's never heard something as painful as your sadness.

But then he hears your soft whine, face falling into the palms of your hands, and Bucky doesn't give a damn about whatever hesitations that have been keeping him rooted in his place. He rounds the corner of the bar, forcing himself to look at you because he thinks that if he even sends a glance any other way he will back out.

Dugan had already begun picking up your things, gathering them into your handbag while you lean against the wall right by the door. Bucky releases a shaky breath, unfurling his fingers from where they've been tightly formed into a fist, kneeling down right in front of your figure on the floor.

Bucky tethers onto a thin thread of restraint, seeing you so devastated. He can't pull you into his chest, keep your teary eyes away from the world facing you outside. That rule he made for himself has been an invisible fucking thing that had no real power to stop him, and still he never felt like he could break it. But he sits here, right now, searching for anything to say that will make it better. Anything.

This goddamn rule—it didn't help him in the least from getting attached to the girl hovering around his bar in the most unexpected times in her pretty dresses and with that smile and her words that infuriate him to the point where he can't even work because you're there. Right there, in a booth a few feet away or just right by the bar counter. It doesn't matter where you sit, or if you're even at the bar, because Bucky constantly finds himself keeping an eye out for you.

"Y/n, hey. Look at me," Bucky says, laying his hands over your shoulder. "Sweetheart, 's alright. Will you stand up for me, please? Come sit down in the booth."

He can't stop staring at you. Not even as the bell clinks again, alerting him of a new visitor despite the late hour and pouring rain outside. It's not until the offending cable-knitted sweater comes into his sight once more that he dares lifting his attention from your crying figure.

"Forgot my fucking phone," John says with a scowl as Bucky pinpoints him with his glare.

The clench of his jaw is sure to shatter his teeth eventually, but the nerve of your goddamn date to show his face here again after he made you cry is out of this world. That's evident on not only Bucky's hold, but the remaining regulars not caught up in comforting you. If looks could kill, as you say.

Picking up his phone in the booth with arrogance radiating from John’s hold, Bucky nearly lets him go until the jerk sends a distasteful glare your way. He loses it.

All inhibitions fly out of the window as Bucky pushes himself up from his kneel, steps out onto the sticky floor, stalking towards John right as he turns around. A puff of air is forced out of him as he's met with Bucky's scowling face, backing him into the edge of a table a few feet behind him with a death grip on the collar of his sweater.

John glances down at the metal encasing his shirt with sudden alarm, trying to shrug out of Bucky's grip to no avail.

"You think you can come back in here and act like nothing?" Bucky's voice rumbles with the effort to keep it on a low enough volume. Despite being in the middle of the fucking bar floor he really doesn't feel too keen on exposing this conversation to your ears. "Like you didn't just insult her in every fucking way?"

"What the fuck, man? Get off of me!" John seethes, thrashing once more without any luck, earning him another harsh shove against the table. But his cheeks are burning with shame, because there's nothing more embarrassing to a man like him than to be stuck under another man's thumb.

"Don't ever come in here again. Send another glance her way and I'll fucking end you."

"This is—this is illegal!"

His shouts catch your attention, drawing you away from the shoulder of Dugan to worryingly stick your head out to see what's going on. You saw him come in again, of course you did, but somehow you managed to escape the notice of whatever confrontation is going on. Most of all the sight of Bucky anywhere else than behind his trusted counter sets your heart pounding a little faster in your rib cage. He went out onto the floor.

"I don't care. Get out of my bar before I make you get on your knees and beg her for forgiveness," Bucky grits out through his teeth, shoving the blonde away from the wall. He stumbles, only catching his balance once a few feet away from the door.

With a shake of his head, Bucky turns around, letting the hardened clench of his jaw turn into a concerned frown once more without a second glance to any of the shocked gazes on his back. The hand on his shoulder catches him off guard. Really, if he believed John had any guts left in him he would have foreseen it, but the fist against his cheek hits him real hard.

Stumbling a few steps back with his hand flying to his now bleeding face, he doesn't even have to stave off any other attack before Dugan and his men come to his aid.

"Fucking asshole!" John shouts as he's dragged out of the bar, in lack of any other more creative insults.

Bucky wipes away the blood from his cheek, lifts his eyebrows in slight amusement, while eyeing the man getting kicked out onto the curb. A few choice words are delivered by Dugan and Morita, muffled but still heard through the glass windows, as John gets up from the ground with spit flying out of his mouth.

Turning around to the bar once more, he leans his hands against the counter while wincing through the newfound throbbing in his face. He remains that way, even when the sound of soft footsteps and heels clinking against the wooden floor fills his ears.

"Bucky?" you nearly whisper, nearing him with caution. He can almost imagine your furrowed brows, your concerned face, perfectly.

Bucky turns his head to the side, only enough for you to make out the profile of his face. A bruise is already developing, drawing a wince from your lips.

"Are you okay?" you ask, reaching your hand out but withdrawing it the second his eyes flicker down towards it. He wishes you wouldn't have.

He finally turns around. Seeing the remnants of tears dampening your skin steals the attention away from the hit he took to his face, if even for just a second. Nearly makes him run out and get a hit in himself, before he remembers the question so softly spoken from your lips.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine." He nods, averts his eyes for just a moment. "Are you alright?" he asks, looking down at you through his lashes like that, like he always does, but with a new kind of softness to his gaze that makes heat travel to your face.

You nod in answer as well, wiping underneath your nose with the back of your hand. "You're bleeding, Bucky," you observe, trailing your eyes over the blooming purple patch of skin, stained with the red liquid dripping from his wound. "I should clean it up."

His eyebrows lift just slightly at the suggestion. Having you touching him like that—he's not sure he can take it. Not when it's him that should be comforting you.

"Can I?" you ask, looking at his bleeding wound so intently that he fears you will combust if he doesn't let you. It's not right denying you like that, he tells himself right before opening his mouth to answer.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay." He nods. "Let me just..." Bucky points behind him towards the counter where a first aid kit is stashed somewhere.

"No. You sit down," you say with conviction, pointing to the padded booths behind you in return. "I'll get it."

Bucky can't do anything else than give you another nod, because that's all the communication he can apparently muster right now, knowing that he'd probably do anything you tell him to. Except taking your money.

He looks over his shoulder as he walks towards the seats, seeing you slip out of your heels in the middle of the floor. The corners of his lips quirk up just slightly, sitting down with a silent puff of air escaping his lips. It's about damn time for you to take off those uncomfortable-looking heels. The thought of you squeezing your poor feet into something for that jerk's sake makes him pissed off.

You disappear behind the counter as if you do it everyday. But then again, you're here often, wether it's to talk to Wanda or work at something on your computer or only to sit with a drink and observe the people of the bar. Unlike you, who always chip away at your nail polish while nervous, Bucky keeps his gaze on your figure as you crouch down away from his sight, waiting for your face to return.

The sound of scrambling through the shelves comes from behind the bar. A cheery 'Oh! Found it!' erupts from your lungs that dissolves the silent tension you held before, puts a goddamn smile on the brooding Bucky Barnes's face, until it disappears just as quickly when you bump your head on the polished wood on your way up.

"Ow!" You wince, rubbing the back of your head as you rise to your full height once more, a first aid kit in hand.

Bucky raises himself from his seat with alarm, a step forward with a frown, but is stopped by your lifted hand.

"It's fine, 's fine. I'm okay," you say, unfurling the furrow of your brows as quickly as it appeared.

It's obvious that you intend to walk past him, access the seat next to where he sat just a few seconds ago, but it's hard to do so when a 220-pound man blocks your way. Somehow he manages to be determined yet hesitant in his movements when he lays his hands on your head, tilts it forward to see where you hit it. His fingers run over the slightly red mark that will be gone in a few hours.

"I'm okay. Happens all the time," you assure him in a near whisper. You're almost sure an amused breath escapes him, but it feels out of character for him to do so. Especially now.

And once again you attempt to move past him, but the sudden presence of his hands on your waist is enough to throw your entire sanity out of your head. You squeal when he lifts you, setting you down on the table in front of him with an ease you can't help but be in awe over.

"Oh," you breathe out, watching him intently while he sets himself down in the booth right next to you.

The front of your shins are pressed against his knees. A seemingly innocent contact, but it doesn't stop your nerves from wreaking havoc and sending shivers all over your limbs. It doesn't help, it really doesn't, that Bucky is looking up at you again with that intense stare that forces you to avert your gaze. It's not that you don't want to look at him—he has the most beautiful and blue eyes you've probably ever seen—but it's too much. You can't do that and also succeed in hiding whatever you're feeling for the man.

Instead you carefully search through the first aid kit, closing your fingers that are just trembling slightly around some disinfectant. Of course you spill some on your dress, but you barely even notice. Bucky does.

"Come here," you whisper, motioning his face closer with your fingers. He listens to you without hesitation, despite knowing that having your faces so close will make it hard for him to keep himself from devouring your lips.

And then your fingers slip under his chin, tilts it upwards, and he nearly groans. Having your hands on him, despite how little contact there actually is between you, is a godsend Bucky has longed for since you first stepped into this bar a few months ago. And then you—god he can barely formulate a thought in that dumb brain of his—you trap your bottom lip between your teeth as you clean away the blood from his cheek. He can't stop himself.

A silent gasp escapes your lips as Bucky's thumb frees the prison your lip was held in, stopping your movements only for the sake of watching him. You can see that it wasn't even nearly intentional on the way his eyes widen just slightly, lips parting in some form of shock. But still his thumb lingers, runs over your lip for a second more before he retracts it.

"Sorry," he mumbles, clenching his fist tightly underneath the table. His lack of self control is laughable.

"It's okay," you tell him, gently grasping his face once more. Returning to your service without commenting on it further. He's thankful for that. You're a little disappointed. The thought of it leading to something more nags at you, tugs at your heartstrings that make your pulse go haywire. He hears it.

The pad of your finger brushes over the small bandaids you place over his wound, smoothing it over his skin while a frown grows on your face. Most likely you would have cried if you got a punch like that. Not only because of the pain, but because it's humiliating letting someone hurt you like that. It's humiliating that you let your date insult you like he did, humiliating that you stood there listening to his words to the point of tears.

"I'm sorry," you say, retracting your touch from his skin and Bucky nearly growls.

"For what?" he asks you. Your gaze is still stuck on his wound.

"What he did to you. If I didn't...I shouldn't have—"

"No." Bucky shakes his head, cutting you off before you even have a chance to finish that goddamn sentence. He won't even hear it.

With a sigh, Bucky gathers the courage to lay his palm over your thigh. Holding you still, keeping you here with him.

"It's not your damn place to apologize for what that fucking jerk did. He ain't got no right to come here and ignore what you want and call you those...things when you're not what he expected. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I can't let that slide. Not when it comes to you."

Not when it comes to you. With a gulp, you force yourself to take in the other words that came out of his mouth and not just the whole of the last sentence.

"But he hurt you." Your hand comes to cup his cheek, thumb running over the blooming bruise once more. "Because of me."

A gasp escapes you as the cold metal of Bucky's left hand comes to rest against the crook of your waist, right hand around your wrist as he holds your hand to his face. Securing it there, afraid you will slip away. He needs your touch.

"Listen to me, honey," he tells you. "I'm a military vet. My best friend got me into three dozens of fights as a kid. I lost my goddamn arm working in this very bar. A punch is nothing."

You raise an eyebrow. This punch—it's not nothing. Doesn't matter how little it is in comparison to everything else he's been through. Bruises and blood don't belong on his skin.

"I don't care about that, Bucky," you say. "I don't want you to get hurt."

He shakes his head, averting his gaze to the door still unopened since Dugan's men dragged your date out. Squeezing your thigh once more, he catches himself having his hands on you without even thinking about it. He didn't even notice.

"Is this alright?" he asks, nodding down to where his palms lay over your figure. Better late than never.

You nod furiously, more eagerly than what you intended, but it's true nonetheless. It's so goddamn alright that you wish he'd never not have his hands on you. With a deep breath and burst of confidence, your hand slips down from his face to his left arm, running it down gently until you reach his hand.

It's unfamiliar, that kind of soft contact with the limb, Bucky realizes as soon as your fingertips trail over the intricate pattern running along the black.

"You lost it in this bar?" you ask, brows furrowing into a frown that he wants to smooth out.

Bucky nods. "Lost it when I was the new kid around here. We had these jerks come here few times a week—Hydra, they called themselves. The leader, Rumlow, he was a real shitty person. Came in with his gang one night already drunk out of their minds, high too probably, looking to pick a fight."

It's your turn now to squeeze his hand. Fingers trail over his palm, tracing a soft pattern that calms him better than the glass of whiskey he has beside him.

"They started picking on this young kid—Peter, who worked extra shifts on the weekends. Pulled out a knife eventually. I had to step in, safety guards weren't really a thing here back then," Bucky says. You notice the clench of his jaw, the tension he holds, and still he doesn't let any of it bleed out on his hold on you.

"Got ugly real fast. Brock and many of his friends had been serving too, overseas. They knew what they were doing, you know? At the end of the day, there were four of them against one. Had no chance, really."

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Bucky," you whisper. "Is this...you never step out past the bar counter. Wanda told me. Is this why?"

He nods in answer, knowing that he just did so after seven years of keeping this goddamn rule. His nod is answer enough for you, it seems like, because you move on to the next question before you even react.

"Where is Rumlow now?" you ask reluctantly, tightening your hold on his hand. He sees the way your gaze travels to the window for just a second, as if he would appear out of the blue to come for Bucky once more.

It's so goddamn endearing that he can't help himself. His hands travel to your waist, lifting you down from the table, placing you in his lap. The soft pads of your feet cling onto the sides of his thighs, heat rushing to your cheeks so quickly that Bucky can almost feel the temperature radiating from you. But you don't protest in the least. Instead you give him a shy smile, hands ghosting over his skin until they find their place at the nape of his neck.

"He's serving time, sweetheart. Can't get to me or anyone else in a long time," Bucky assures you, running his hand down the small of your back while gazing up at you. His head has fallen back onto the top of the sofa, resting. "You know I wouldn't even let you in this bar if there was a chance he and Hydra could come in?"

"No?" you ask, stopping the slow movements of your hands.

"Absolutely not. If someone laid a hand on you..." Bucky trails his fingers up to your cheek, tucking strands of hair behind your ear. "Don't think I would be able to handle that very well."

A shaky breath escapes your lips, hits the top of his nose with the proximity. He knows he just revealed too much, too much about what he feels for you, but it doesn't really matter anymore. He already has you in his lap, stroking your hair with a softness he's never displayed before. You have to know by now.

"Why did you go out today, Bucky? Why did you do that for me?" you ask him in a near whisper.

He looks down at where you’re pressed against him with a deprecating smile. "Steve told me it was obvious from the second night when I kept giving you free drinks even though I said I wouldn't, that punk," he answers you.

And despite his words, his conviction in your knowledge of how absolutely gone he is for you, your eyes still widen along with your fingers digging into his shoulders tightly enough to bruise. It almost makes him angry, the way you're so used to having real affection kept away from you that you haven't seen his infatuation. But then again, he hasn't been exactly perfect in handling his feelings. Sam gave him a good reminder of that earlier.

"Hell, I don't blame you for missin' it," he speaks up again when your silence remains. "Been a real jerk sometimes. Couldn't even talk to you for real the first few weeks."

And to his surprise, you let a small chuckle slip out between your lips. It's not really the reaction Bucky expected.

"You know, I've been telling myself that Wanda was the reason I came here so often?" you say, tracing the outline of his face with your fingertip. "Thought I could trick myself into liking you less if only my reasoning was something else than staring at you working all night. But I don't think that's possible—not looking at you, I mean."

"Hm?" Bucky smirks up at you, drawing a blinding grin from your lips.

"When something...someone lovely exists in front of you, just like that, you would think it a great disservice to whoever created that thing if you do not look at it. And my god, are you beautiful, Bucky."

"Beautiful?" His eyes flicker down to his arm for just a thousandth of a second—you catch it, the way his smile falters just as quickly as it returns.

"Yeah. Surely you must have noticed. You do own a mirror, do you?" you say, melting under his touch as it draws you closer to him. Chest to chest.

"I do," he answers. But he's not looking at you anymore. Or he is, he is looking at you, but not at your eyes. No, his gaze have flickered down to the swell of your lips. "I don't look at it very much."

"No?"

"No. Been spendin' all my time keeping an eye on the pretty girl hanging around the bar. Listening to her talkin' for hours, watching her get pissed drunk, working even though it's a Friday night. I could watch you breathe for hours and not tear my eyes away."

And that’s just what you do—breathe, shallow breaths that feel warm against Bucky’s skin. By now your gaze isn’t focused on his eyes anymore either. It sits so comfortably on the swell of his pink lips, begging for a touch with your own. Soon that silent plead turns real when his mouth forms after the words coming out through his lips.

“I have to kiss you, Y/n. Please let me,” he breathes out, panting, hands splayed out over your cheeks. Both warm and calloused, cold and hard. Perfectly Bucky.

“You don’t gotta ask,” you whisper, an inch away from him, noses touching.

A minute passes. 30 seconds. An hour. Two weeks? You don’t know and don’t care. Spending half a month having Bucky Barnes’s lips on yours would be a perfectly reasonable amount time, if not much too little. But oh, he lets out small whines when you distance yourself and you can’t help but giggle each time.

The next second he pulls you in again, demands the presence of your lips against his, orders your submission with his tongue. He groans, bucking up against your hips. God, the way he touches you, acts, make you desperate. You think you might be addicted to the sweet bourbon taste of Bucky Barnes.

“I knew it!” a shrill shriek erupts the enclosed space you shared with the man underneath you, tears you away from his lips with a soundless whine.

Wanda stands there, all smiling and giddy with a pouting Steve beside her, just behind the bar. He fishes out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, plucking out a twenty dollar bill with a scowl. But despite it all, as he makes eye contact with Bucky, there’s a raise of his eyebrow and a small questioning smile on his lips.

You hurry to scramble off of Bucky’s lap, sitting down on your knees right beside him, a grounding metal hand on your waist. The embarrassment must be visible from miles away.

“Thought you’d never have the guts to ask her out,” Steve mutters under his breath. “You just made me lose twenty bucks, you punk.” He holds up the wrinkled bill before Wanda snatches it out of his hands.

The man beside you growls quietly, mumbles a ‘jerk’ under his breath, but you catch the small smirk on his lips anyways.

“Oh, c’mon. It was obvious that these two were gonna combust if they didn’t kiss by the end of the week,” Wanda says.

“Yeah, yeah. You know, Sam was about to ask her out. Said that if Buck didn’t make a move soon he would instead.”

Bucky’s grip on you tightens so much you have to gently loosen it with your fingers. It nearly makes you giggle, the way he’s glaring daggers at his friend sporting a knowing smirk. Steve knows exactly what kind of reaction that would summon out of him.

“That damn pu—“

“Hey,” you call out softly, hands engulfing his face until he’s facing you. “I’m yours, Bucky.”

His scowl softens, blue eyes running over your face for any sign of insincerity that he has never found the trace of in your expressions.

“If you’ll have me,” you add a few seconds later, an abrupt response to the realization that what Bucky is looking for might not be something more than a make-out session.

But then that frown turns into a devious smirk, eyes once more flickering down to your lips while his palms find their way to your hips.

“I’ll have you, darling. On every damn surface in my place, in every damn way I can have you.”

“We can still hear you!” Wanda shouts.

But that mischievous smirk doesn’t falter. No, instead a soft kiss is pressed to your lips, drawing an even bigger smile out of you.

“Good.”

[kashuan]

I just wanted to say that your character work is so brilliant and inspiring to me right now. Your Darksouls work is such a delight!

I struggle to commit to loose sketching and tend to only produce fully rendered works with backgrounds, which stops me from being able to create the raw amount of character work you produce in a single post. It’s very inspirational, keep it up!

Thanks so much! 😊 I used to be the same myself, but I eventually figured out that personally, I get the most enjoyment from focusing more on ideas, whether they be character design or interactions between characters, than making one drawing in particular look really polished (altho make no mistake, I'm a huge perfectionist, lol. Most of my sketch dumps are like 20-30 hours worth of finagling with really tiny details I know no one will notice [but I do!!], not to mention the mountain of stuff I end up throwing away). For me, one of the most enjoyable parts of making art is the experience of studying a character throughout the course of many drawings until I really feel like I've gotten to know them, which looser drawings allow me to do, whereas whenever I was doing fully rendered works, I'd end up a lot more focused on the technical side of things than the ideas behind the piece. Which can be fun too, but isn't ultimately what I personally want to devote my time and growth to. I think there is also a kind of a pressure on artists for fully rendered works to be the 'end goal'/what you should aim to regularly produce, and more power to you if that's what you enjoy! But, IMO, a sketch can be just as much a 'finished piece' as something inked and colored, if that is the intent you go into it with. That is, at least, the state that I try to bring mine to before I post them. If you think you might enjoy working a little more loosely yourself, I highly encourage it; if nothing else, it's fun to experiment outside your comfort zone now and then :)

[degloved]

the use of ai in fics genuinely makes me so sad. i can see with my own two eyes that the summary does not at all read as though it had been written by the fic's author (and verbiage aside, the usage of "coworker" in the main text versus "co-worker" in the summary is already telling enough.) idk. yeah "why should anyone bother reading what you didn't bother writing" and all, but it's more than that. we were all beginners at some point. we all sucked at some point. none of us could churn out the sort of perfection we strived towards from the get go—and this is ok. writing, especially when done for free and out of love for a book/show/movie/play/etc, should be an activity that is actively enjoyed; you're not writing solely for the final product, you're writing to write. when i first sat down nearly a decade ago now and put pen to paper (literally—i used to write by hand), it wasn't because i knew what i was gonna produce. it wasn't because i had some great grand idea that just had to be put out into the world. it was because there was something in me that made my fingers restless with the want to write. and naturally it's not always a walk in the park, and it's an activity that can frequently turn from pleasant to frustrating, but those are some hurdles you're meant to overcome by yourself. writer's block, burnout, not being able to make the words go right—we've all been there. it's part of the artistic process. because this is, at the end of the day, an art form—be it prose, poetry, original work, fic. and it just makes me really fucking sad that there's such an emphasis now on the finished product—the fact that it's even a 'product' to begin with—instead of... the entire journey. the honing of this skill—because it is very much a skill to master and continue perfecting. reading my work from 2017 (sadly do not have anything earlier) and seeing just how much i have improved in the last seven years is one of the most rewarding aspects of being a writer. knowing that what i do now i could never have done back then, and i would certainly never have learned if i hadn't constantly, continuously kept at it for those seven years. every bit of writing i do makes me better, more polished, represents a proverbial step closer to the mastery of this art form & becoming the kind of writer i want to be. i went from writing and very frequently being frustrated in those days that my piece couldn't compare to the fandom greats or the real life writers i looked up to, to now writing something and finding myself going back to it again and again, rereading it again and again because it's just that good. it's just that fucking good. and i got here all on my own, by putting in the time and the work, by pushing through the dissatisfaction and demoralization and self-doubt. it's a slow process, but so worth it. and some of these people will never have that, because there's a desire to achieve but no motivation to do the achieving. it's just so much easier to fire up chatgpt and have hours' or even days' worth of work in a couple of minutes after feeding the machine some prompts. "why should anyone bother reading what you didn't bother writing" and all that, but mostly, i just feel sad for what these kids are missing out on. because immediate satisfaction trumps a slow process, no matter how rewarding. i suppose

[lovebugs-and-snakecharmers]

LBSC Sprint Challenge April 2024

The LBSC Sprint Challenge is now open for writers and artists! The prompts are:

1. "Guess what I just did?" 2. “I knew she was the one when she tried to flirt and ended up breaking my nose.” 3. When Luka's new single drops a few days ahead of Jagged's, for one shining moment he was #1 on the charts while Jagged was #20, and Luka will never let him live it down. 4. Hawkmoth is standing right there & you can't transform. What's a desperate superhero to do? 5. "I wish I had princess energy instead of feral gremlin energy but here we are." 6. Wildcard - pick any previous challenge prompt, or play LBSC Smooch Roulette to generate a prompt!

You have until Wednesday, May 1 to complete your 3 15-minute sprints/45 minute art sprint and post the results. Once you’ve completed the sprints, you have 24 hours to edit (which can include some new writing to smooth transitions and make it feel complete, and whatever work you feel appropriate to get your art to a state you consider ‘finished’).

Please note you may sprint in the language of your choice, and you can either translate the final fic before posting, post it in the original language, or both as you choose. You can join us on the LBSC discord or sprint on your own! Just be sure to tag @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers in your final post so we will see it and reblog it. The rest of the rules can be found here under the cut.

Rules!

We’ll post a beginning and end date to the challenge, and a prompt.

Writers, If you choose to participate in the event, write for that prompt in up to three 15 minute sprints. No writing outside the sprints until you have completed all three! After the 3 sprints are complete, you have 24 hours to edit (which can include some new writing to smooth transitions, etc). You can also choose to break that 45 minutes up differently if you find a different split works better for you.  After those 24 hours, post what you’ve got. Tag your posts with @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers so we can reblog it to the LBSC blog. If you post your work on AO3 or somewhere other than Tumblr, you can leave a link in our ask box or in the appropriate discord channel so we can be sure to promote it. After the designated challenge end date, we’ll compile a listing of the submissions and post it to the LBSC blog.

Feel free to sprint in whatever language is most comfortable to you! You can post it in your own language or translate it before posting, or both!

Artists, you have 45 minutes to sketch and 24 hours to do any cleanup or coloring you’d like to complete. You can split your 45 minutes up however you like, or not at all. There’s no requirements on your finished piece, just aim for whatever goal seems challenging but achievable to you.  Tag your posts with @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers so we can reblog it to the LBSC blog. If you post your work on Instagram or somewhere other than Tumblr, you can leave a link in our ask box or in the appropriate discord channel so we can be sure to promote it. After the designated challenge end date, we’ll compile a listing of the submissions and post it to the LBSC blog.

If you’re wavering as to whether or not you think you can accomplish anything in 45 minutes, we really encourage you to give the challenge a try. You may be surprised what you can do! Feel free to join us in the discord linked above so we can encourage and cheer you on.

Obviously, this has to run a bit on the honor system and we won’t be tracking your times, but please do your best to honor the spirit of the challenge! If your sprint fic becomes an Entire Thing (these things happen sometimes) and you want to continue it, feel free! However, please still post whatever you’ve got after your 3 sprints with the tag. No fair busting out a fully polished fic or art without showing us what it looked like at the challenge stage!

We want to keep this a positive space and event! This does NOT mean that you can’t write or draw anything critical of a character or episode, but it isn’t the space for character bashing or hate either. Please keep the characters in character and save the more speculative work for another time. NSFW sprint works are permitted but must be tagged appropriately (please use “NSFW LBSC sprint challenge” for easy filtering on the blog) and with appropriate warnings.  (More FAQ about the process here)

This is a Lukanette blog and a Lukanette event, so while Lukanette does not need to be the main ship, it needs to at least be included or referenced and considered endgame (in other words, they don’t have to be together by the end of your work, but the intent is that they’re headed in that direction). The decision about what qualifies for reblog rests solely with the LBSC moderators. If a piece hasn’t been reblogged within a couple of days, either the mods felt the piece didn’t meet the criteria or it was simply missed; you are welcome to reach out in the asks to inquire which. There are plenty of other spaces out there for other ships and OT3s, and people are welcome to use the challenge rules and prompts to write for their own ships! They just won’t be reblogged to the LBSC blog, and we ask that you please not use the event tag (a modified form is fine - “InsertAlternateShipName sprint challenge” instead of “LBSC sprint challenge,” for example).

Happy sprinting!

[hexhomos]

do you have any advice on creating for a fandom where the target audience is super small? i published my first jv fanwork the other day and although i obviously dont just do it for compliments/attention, im hesitant about continuing to create because it feels discouraging to be the only one interested in what i have to offer if that makes sense. i feel like leaguefic is not in demand at all in comparison to arcane and im not sure how to motivate myself… i love your work, thank you so much

To be perfectly honest, not bullshitting you at all here: I don't think there is a single-person fix for this. I have a share/discussion based brain and i generally thrive when doing most of my work within, at least, a private active community. A lot of times my motivation *for* finishing a complex painting or polishing up 10k+ words of something is that i want to be able to show other people what i see and what i like about certain things. Without that community aspect, i just tend to keep to myself and never evolve past drafts lol

Making art is hard. Especially if you have some sort of affective or emotional attachment to the subject. I think a couple years ago it wasn't so tasking, or at least it didn't feel so lonely, because fandoms tended to be more willing to leave indepth feedback or engage with things they liked on a daily basis -- but the culture of 'fast consumption' 'content mills' and 'neverending generated content' of the present decade has taught a lot of people to undervalue the work that goes into transformative projects.

This is why nowadays we see so many frequent calls reminding people to comment in fic, or actually hit the reblog button on some art they like, or even try to use long tags to express what they feel. The 'neverending content influx' marketing push has rendered broader audiences (and im including myself here, i'm not perfect) more apathetic, and more wiling to silently pass by things without a word, prioritizing the 'consumption' of 'large masses of content' rather than curiosity or engaging with a single thing for large amounts of time.

the TL;DR is that I don't think this is something you can fix on your own. It's an environmental issue. When I write, I'm doing so with the confidence that at least one person is really going to engage with it. (this can be a friend, or another internet person similarly lost in the digital desert, it varies.) The only way to rejuvenate a fandom ecosystem is to remind people to *try to give a tiny piece of their time* back to artists whose work they love, appreciate, or even mildly enjoy. It doesn't have to be HUGE extensive feedback everytime. If something made you chuckle for even a second, just try telling that to the person who made it. If you enjoyed reading something, or were amused by how someone wrote your favorite character, go tell them! right now! Try doing it a little bit of that every day! If everyone who sees this post went out right now to leave a word for a small creative they enjoy, we already would be so much better off. Communities are like orchid gardens; to get the special, unique, blooming flowers, you need a steady hand caring for them. We are all gardeners.

[lychgate]

Oh heck, my apologies (for not proofreading and/or being specific)

I was thinking more about like how do you figure out lighting, colour picking and the methods you use to finish up a piece. I was also really curious about your favourite anatomy tips and how you do so many dynamic poses.

Uhh tl;dr

I am fuckin stupid and I'm sorry

Lighting, colour picking, methods for putting the colours down, anatomy tips, and how do you do dynamic posing so well??

I only draw busts and it's making me mad :D

HMM lets see: I don't color pick unfortunately, it's not a method I use so I can't help u there sadly. As for lighting and shading, I don't really use any tutorials but I just apply the same types of questions to it that I would to any other part of my work while drawing, which are broad question types like : - where is my light source - is this piece calling for any unique light source? (universal/generic lighting is just fine to keep using!) - how MANY light sources do i have, and what are their distances to my figure - what's the MOOD of the piece, is dramatic lighting necessary - if im just here to have a bop and do an art what light source do I want to play with for practice If it was something like a more polished and finished piece I'd definitely be thinking on these questions harder, or multiple revisions and potential references would be pulled up. But normally for references I just refer to my memory of shows that I've seen, since it's a LOT of visual library, and animated or live action, light source is heavily calculated. So you'll get a good display of these ranges you can apply. Lately I've been watching The Bad Batch and I'll always recommend that and clone wars as good examples of environmental lighting, especially given the style of animation they do with how shapely their figures are. It's a good simplified breakdown of the planes of a figure, so paired with their hard lighting choices u get an even exaggerated easier format to look at for guessing light source. (very reminiscent of comics like the more stylized/cartoon you get in art the more u can push and pull these dynamics. or like easier to spot then live action)

SO UHH, im disclaimer: not in any industry and im sure gonna be missing some terminology, but I just nabbed some random images off the google of bad batch to show case a few broad categories of lighting:

Multiple light sources are ur most common type, and to me the most fun especially when it's like Two light sources. U can often play with the fun lighting types like rim lighting, u often have a warm side and a cold side for contrast/directions sake. The distance of the light determines how sharp or broadly lit something will be, and the size of the light can determine how much of that light hits the figures. So Omega here is surrounded by the lights on their ship, there's likely a very broad top light that's gently lighting the entire area, but the reds and blues of the buttons and screens around her are what's shaping the figure more dramatically. You can see the blue is coming from the top/behind her, where the red is more in front/bottom side to her, since it's the way she's facing and looking at you/the viewer. The second one, still on their ship, features the more broad top down lighting, but the screens in front of them are more important as they're all facing it. both lights in this image are broad wide lighting, so there isn't much of a sharp focus.

COMPLEX LIGHTING to me usually just means 'there are many light sources of greatly varying distances and brightness' or that there's a lot of figures in the image so it's got a lot more to organize so that the whole image may look readable at the end. You get a lot of environmental lighting for these types, meaning like hey the SUN is one of ur major light sources. it is super fucking bright but it is also FAR away, it's lighting EVERYTHING. and closer to sunset/sunrise u get more direct, highly saturated light from it because of the angle it's often shining- there's a lot to play with for just an outdoor lighting! The three images I picked here are a more morning shot, a mid day shot, and an evening shot. Talking about the angle of the sun especially at the last image with the grookey on Omega's shoulder, which casts a shadow over her and her friend. But her friend is positioned in a way so that she's not entirely over shadowed, because we're here to look at all three figures, and their faces matter in this shot. VS the middle images which is more about the scene/setting as a whole, and the figures are all more or less equally lit/shaded according to just standing in bright daylight.

there's also this fun lighting type, singular light sources can usually add a WIDE RANGE of emotion to the piece, depending where you flash the light. You've probably seen tons of light study gifs or shots where a face is shown with one light passing around their entire face and it highlighting the different planes that illuminate based on where the light is. So the first image, the classic Morticia Addams eye drama light, is focused hard on the figures, and what they're looking at. The second image of crosshair is another type of foreboding emotion, but instead with the eyes in the dark. Singular light sources aren't always for drama or asking you to focus on one specific thing but I feel like end of the day, the sharper and closer the one light source is, the more the artist is usually asking you to focus on the scene for. There's also some examples here of multiple light sources being used for the same storytelling dramatic effect. There's crosshair's entire front lit up to focus on not just him but by extension the rifle he's holding, with a backlight to catch the edge of his helmet and the barrel, because those are where we want you to look. They're the most important parts of the image, and they wanted to make lighting appropriate for reading that. With the last image there's what's his face (bro i forget my b) looming over him in a common type of dominant lighting. With how the lighting is assigned to this scene his face is shadowed, vs crosshair's who is partially under that shadow. IDK IM RAMBLING NOW i doubt this is the concise easy to read tips anyone's asking for sorrY I am not a teacher. IN SHORT FOR LIGHTING I JUST think about shows I've watched. I won't go into anymore but I think a GREAT example of super well done lighting in all categories of art are the John Wick films. They're both lively, highly direct, and superficially colored to fit the mood of each character and scene. I'll suck these movies dicks i'm obsessed:

Anatomy I always generically recommend people continue loose study/education from skeletal and muscular anatomy cause if you can build a figure from the inside out, the surface is going to be loads easier. And then when I'm too lazy to look up any muscular break down cause I sure don't remember every part at every angle I kind of just fudge it which is super common, like how many of us draw an ear correctly to it's bends and shapes. I sure as hell don't I just like to draw them the way I'm familiar with lining it (unless it's some really polished piece) cause end of the day my ear is still getting interpreted as an ear. So If I can't recall which muscle overlaps the other given a certain angle I just take a guess and usually it's not something blaring if I threw it down confidently enough. Studying not just muscle though, but how all body types sit and tense and move is crucial. Like fat is obviously going to have a much different type of hang and sit on the body, and then there's deciding how much fat to muscle you want on a figure. There's also skin to consider- older skin is looser, scarred skin has a tighter more custom pull to the areas, skin otherwise is just a big elastic band around ur body. So when that becomes overstretched or cut in any irregular way it's going to have a much different look to the muscles and bones it wraps around. Muscle reference I don't have anything specfic to refer other then using actual anatomy charts. Some 3d modelers have made great reference to body parts with full turn arounds i'd suggest. Since big fantasy muscles can be exaggerated so much (and they should!) it's the only reason why id only Lightly suggest for observing other artists individual drawings of buff characters. cause lotta us are fudging parts and u will end up picking up an incorrect anatomical trait (we literally all do it, just a silly unlearning process once ur hand is so familiar and used to drawing something a certain way) I think something specifically that's really helped me slowly gain a very diverse understanding of the fat to muscle ratio is getting into sumo wrestling. (NOT TO PUSH MY FAVORITE SPORT BUT I HAVE SOURCES IF U WANNA HEAR ABOUT IT/FIND A SPOT TO WATCH) In sumo there's no weight division like other forms of wrestling, and because of that you can have a very diverse set of ways to go about your own style of fighting. Entirely setting aside the fighting STYLES, there's broadly the categories of how much fat do you want to put on and the advantages that has against your opponents, vs how much muscle, or where that muscle needs to build on your figure, height and the like also play into it but basically 'what is my body shape, how can i build/ play it to the advantages of how i fight my opponents'

so like terunofuji is a fucking MOUNTAIN of a man, he's the current yokozuna (top banana rank) and his sheer height and weight plays greatly into his fight style. All of them are fucking jacked and watching Sumo has been a great general visual library builder because: - its a huge sport so it has a lot of coverage and footage on high def cameras - they're mostly nude and you're getting incredible displays of muscles in slow mo as they collide, fight, and throw each other. s2g you'll have an entirely new appreciation for the human body and just how many ways it can shape itself from watching this sport.

Always a ton of fucking leg muscle but Takayasu is one of my faves i gotta show him.

with no weight limitations not only are you seeing all the different levels of weight to fat, but you're getting an excellent display of how fat builds and forms on different people. there is no one way to gain fat, its pretty cool how diverse it can form, where it prefers to store fat, how quickly someone might gain weight vs overtime, genetics, what types of fats you're storing, lots of shit to look up on! this last image is ichinojo vs enho who are like usually one of the biggest and the smallest wrestlers, and both play to their size and shape and have become very high ranked. ANYWAY THIS POST REALLY WENT PLACES HUH idek if i answered the questions right i think i gave more questions back but i tried to touch a little on my thought process and where ive specifically gone in the art study journey. For poses I really don't look up anything I just try to think of the figure and do a lot of preliminary sketches. No i don't have the 'picture a perfect apple in my head' noggin i too suffer from looking at a blurry void when i try to think of shit so yes im hitting a brick wall by not utilizing all the model posing references that are probably out there hsuogjdhk

[stormystarlight]

Have you ever wanted to draw something but you fought due to your skill level at the time you decide not to do it

OH yeah ABSOLUTELY. all the time. my wips folder is full of stuff like this!! let me dust off some old examples

here's a sketch i did for a rain world piece that i was initially feeling pretty good about!! i wanted to experiment with more scenic pixel art, but i guess i didn't know where to start or how to approach it and ended up feeling really roadblocked really early on.

i blocked in some basic colors and did a little detailing on pebbles, but i was just struggling too hard with learning the tools and techniques i needed to pull off what i was envisioning that i got frustrated and stopped. I never picked this one up again, but I have made some other, better pixel art since :] i think the reason the one i linked worked out better is because i was trying to learn fewer things at a time while working on it. that one was a mostly 2-dimensional scene and was more heavily based on a reference, so i didn't have to think as hard about those things. this one was not only a new-ish medium to me, but also had some more challenging perspective and was less reference-heavy. if that makes sense?

more rain world! this was one of my earlier attempts at mimicking the cutscene art style. i got so frustrated with my inability to make the colors & shading look right that it went right into wip jail never to be seen again.

but then i scaled my ambitions back from Immediately Making A Polished Piece to just doing a quick study, and that helped immensely. original on the left, my study on the right. working on this was still difficult, cause i was learning something new, but since it was much simpler it was a much more manageable task. i could take more time to get it right without feeling like i was going nowhere

i never did finish that first one, but i did make some other finished pieces in that style that i think are pretty bangin if i do say so myself. one such example above

here's a video wip (whoa)! god it's really rushed & was never meant to see the light of day in this state so please don't look too hard at it. but this one i got frustrated with mostly because i wasn't feeling good about my ability to draw the cast of characters. so into the pits it went. i don't really have any interest in finishing it anymore since my ideas for the rest of it were speculative and, y'know, the rest of the show has since been released lol.

anyway, to close off my response. the first two are more or less success stories? despite the fact i never finished the original pieces i abandoned. because i wanted to talk about what's worked for me to alleviate this feeling—which is: scale back, try something less ambitious first, work your way up to the big project you're struggling with. but i also have dozens of other examples i could put in here of things that didn't work out at all and went nowhere. like, that just is how it is sometimes. i feel you 🤝 i think most if not all artists (of any medium) go through this haha

[winchesterandpie]

Ice Skating

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x reader

Word Count: 808

Warnings: This is just fluff

A/N: So this has been sitting in my drafts since mid-December and I just couldn't finish it up. It's not my most polished piece, but I really like the idea so I'm putting this out anyways. Hope you enjoy this short piece of fluff!

You weren’t sure how you had let Jake convince you to come along. Admittedly, you weren’t difficult to persuade when it came to spending time with him. Still, you were questioning your life decisions as you tied off your ice skates.

“No, no, darlin’. It’s gotta be tighter or you’ll hurt your ankles.”

“I pulled them as tight as I could,” you sighed defeatedly, dropping your gaze to the floor.

Jake crouched in front of you, his hands coming to the sides of your face to lift your eyes to his. “You did good, I promise, they’re really close. I just don’t want you getting hurt. Can I tie them?”

“Are you sure? I know you want to get on the ice with everyone.”

He pressed a quick kiss to your lips then untied one of the skates. “It’ll only take a second. But even if it took an hour, I’d still rather be here with you.”

You couldn’t help but melt. He seemed to have made it his goal to make you weak in the knees. And Jake Seresin was very good at achieving his goals.

Jake’s nimble fingers quickly finished tightening your laces and looked back up at you. “You should be good to go now.”

“Thank you.” You took his face in your hands and stole a kiss.

He grinned and stole another, then pulled away to leave a last kiss on your forehead before he stood and offered you his hands.

You took them and stood, wobbling a little on the thin blade. Jake dutifully held you steady as you made your way slowly to the gate onto the ice rink. Frankly, even if he had tried to let go, he couldn’t have escaped your grip, made tight by your fear of falling onto the cold ice.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured when you slipped, a choked gasp leaving your throat.  “You’re ok.”

“How do you move around on this?” If you had been less afraid, you might have been embarrassed at how your voice squeaked.

“I’ll show you.” Jake shifted your grip to just hold his hand rather than cling to his arm. “You have to let it glide.”

“It’s the gliding I’m afraid of,” you admitted with a chuckle. You looked around, hoping Jake’s friends weren’t watching you struggle to balance. They were already so much more capable than you, you thought, so you didn’t want to give them another area in which you couldn’t keep up. Not that they ever made you feel that way, your nerves just brought out your fears.

He laughed gently, lifting his free hand to your cheek and drawing your attention back to him. “Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“I won’t let you fall. Promise.” 

You searched his eyes, finding nothing but gentle reassurance in their green depths. It soothed your nerves, as he always did. Your shoulders loosened, and at last, you nodded. With his hand in yours, you felt like you could do anything. So if he thought you could do this, you believed him.

True to his word, he didn’t let you fall. He showed you how to propel yourself forward smoothly and keep your balance. You slipped and bobbled and first, but he caught you every time, and soon you were confident enough to let go of his hand for the straight sides.

“See, you’re getting the hang of it.” Jake grinned as the two of you swooped around the curve of the ice rink. 

“Well, I had a very good teacher.” You bumped his shoulder lightly.

He slid his arm around you, letting you lean your head against him as you skated along the side.

“Thank you for convincing me to come out here. I’m glad I did,” you admitted after a quiet lap.

“I’m glad you came too, sweets,” he said, squeezing his arm around you. “Thanks for trusting me.”

“You make me feel brave,” you explained simply, looking at him briefly before turning your gaze back to the ice in front of you. When you looked over again, you caught the rare degree of softness in his gaze.

Bradley must have caught it too, skating by with an all-too-chill wink. “Someone finally silenced Hangman. I thought I’d never see the day,” he teased.

That shook Jake from his trance, shoving the mustached pilot away lightly, though he still only had eyes for you. “Oh hush, Bradshaw. Not my fault that my girl is amazing.”

That made your cheeks heat up under the intensity of his stare. 

Bradley just grinned, skating off to claim a bill handed to him by Mickey. That made you laugh. Jake followed your gaze to see it and chuckled too as he tugged you closer.

“One of these days, we’ll have to get a cut of whatever money they’re making on us.”

Top Gun Taglist:

@malindacath @army24--7 @mads-weasley @lt-spork

[dysfunctional-doodle]

Hello, I'm an aspiring fanfic writer and I'm just asking: how do you do it? Like, how do you get the confidence and motivation to write? I'm so worried about making and posting my work after spending hours on it for it to be hated. Another question, how do you write non-dialogue parts so well? I feel like I can write dialogue well, but I'm worried about writing actions and stuff like that will be too difficult and too "non-fluid like"; it just being non descriptive. I'm asking since you are one of my favorite authors on the site, and I want to get your advice on this matter. Thank you for answering if you do!

First of all, I am very flattered you are asking me for advice! It’s wild that people come to me to seek help like this, I still remember when I was 11 writing terrible fanfiction for the first time lol.

Personally, my main piece of advice regarding motivation is this: find an idea you really like, for starters. This may sound obvious but a few times I’ve liked a few things I want to write in theory, but then I sputter out half way through and realise that I was only writing for a small segment and had no idea what to do after this. Obviously, this is still fine, and is what oneshots are for - and it also makes good practice! But motivation wise, always find an idea that really makes you want to sit down and write it all out! I often do fanfictions in one big burst of inspiration in a few hours, but for other people this may be different.

Secondly, never let yourself be talked down out of posting anything! Like I mentioned, I’ve been writing since I was 11, and let me tell you some of those first fics are…interesting, to say in the least. But the act of posting them, even if no one interacts with it, should give you pride and confidence in yourself. Because you’re awesome - you just wrote a story and posted it! People can choose to interact or not, love it or not, but at the end of the day this is still a massive achievement for you.

Try not to get caught up in whether a story is doing “well” or not (for example, views, likes, kudos, etc). This doesn’t matter. If you are happy with your work, this is half the motivation to keep going. You often find one or two people that are really hooked with your story no matter what - personally I think the fanfiction community (at least the ones I’ve been in) are very kind and don’t interact just to hate. The feeling of having even one person loving your story is enough, trust me.

If the performance of the story matters to you, I highly suggest polishing off how you write summaries if you want to grab people. Personally, a confusing summary with excessive emojis or an unclear description makes me less likely to read something. I would advice posting a small snippet of your fic, and then a general summary (this is what I do for all my fics).

If you are struggling, I don’t mind creating summaries/proof reading fics for anyone! It’s hard, especially as a new writer, to do these things. For this, the old saying is the best - practice makes perfect.

You also asked about how I write my descriptions, so I will share my tricks of the trade. Most importantly - visualise the scene in your head.

I mean this literally. Imagine the conversation. How do you want your characters to be acting? Are they standing still? Where are they? How is the environment interacting with them? What are their feelings, and can these be described? Who are they talking to, and what is their relationship with them? Many of these questions can be answered much easier if you picture the entire scene in your head, from start to finish, and then write out all these little actions that you may miss.

Additionally, you also ask about the less literal things, like my descriptions and such - these are actually my favourite parts to write, so much so that I get a little carried away. I cannot really give much advice on this I’m afraid, apart from I write them just by expressing what comes to my mind as it comes. I don’t plan these segments like I do with plot and dialogue, but more so on a whim to extend the characters feelings. Is the character sad? How deep does this go? How does this actually feel? Like churning waters of anxiety that they can’t escape from, or small waves slowly increasing as the tide draws inward? Feelings are very abstract, and so you need to make the most of this. Metaphors are good ways to do this, or descriptions of these feelings also go well. It gives depth to the character and situation they are in, expressing more to the reader exactly how high the stakes are emotionally and physically.

Also, I would advise reading other fics, and picking what techniques you like from those. For example, if you like the way someone describes environments, write down why and then try and replicate this yourself. It helps narrow your writing style, and refine your skills, like finding an art style.

As a final, I would like to say - no one is perfect. No one is amazing at any skill right off the bat. It’s impossible and is never expected from any sane person. What is most important is that you are proud of your work, and this will provide all the motivation you need to keep going and growing as a writer.

For me, personally anyway.

Seriously though, thanks for liking my stuff!

[themswritinwords]

Mostly!

I've been in and out of doctors offices and the hospital for the past 2-3 months, which is in itself exhausting and not really conducive to writing. Add in the end-of-year holidays coming up, at least four more appointments in the next month, my child's first ever dance recital and all the prep that entails (way more than I thought), a cross-country trip to visit family, and some other personal stuff on top of all that, and I might still be a bit absent. I'm hoping by the second week of January I'll be back to some kind of routine, which hopefully means being more active here too. (Gotta build that dying-platform social media, amirite?)

But! Despite losing approximately 1/3 to 1/2 of my blood volume in the space of a month (0/10 do NOT recommend), I did actually get stuff done. Important stuff! I did DVpit on Discord, got requests, and actually got those sent out before the major hospitalization adventures. I polished up a finished manuscript and actually got it out to some beta readers. Excitingly, I also got my first two full requests ever, and got those sent off with minimal freaking out and rethinking my entire everything.

No word on the fulls yet, but the beta readers are all coming back with the same kind of feedback:

"engaging," "couldn't put it down," "hysterical," "cinematic," "powerful," and my personal favorite, "WOW." (if i had a nickel for every all-caps WOW i got on this manuscript, I'd have 3 nickels; which isn't a lot but it's weird exciting that it happened 3 different times)

Okay, I lied. My personal favorite was the single, solitary, italicized, "Holy shit."

So for once I'm feeling pretty good about myself and my writing! And that's in spite of one of my worries for this manuscript coming true: I got some details wrong and the Car People noticed. And yet! Despite something being egregiously wrong, they said they didn't care because the story was "so engaging it didn't matter." (Still gonna fix it, though. Now that I know, those inaccurate spark plugs will haunt me.)

I also managed to dust off an old project-- my oldest to date that's still functional as a story-- and figured out how to fix all the problems that led me to shelve it in the first place. I have a plan. I have a workable outline. I fixed the stagnant characters and plot and the massive plot holes all at once with minimal scrapping and without trashing my most favorite (and compelling) aspects.

Most importantly, I'm excited to work on it.

After finishing this latest project and then having my whole body fall apart piece after piece for almost a full quarter of a year, it feels like I haven't wanted to write in a long time, let alone been excited to do so. But here I am, getting words down and dusting off Spotify playlists. It feels really, really good.

So here's to the next few months. They might still be rocky and stressful, but I'm recovering in more ways than just the physical. I hope the end of the year brings you joy and peace in whatever ways you need it most, and that the new year finds you well and, most importantly, happy. If not, please know I'm here for you and rooting for you. My askbox and DMs are always open. <3