the fastest three are steve, nat, and bucky. steve’s always surprised when the two of them catch up and run with him the entire time and he’s constantly asking “are you sure you don’t need to slow down?” and “are you getting tired?” but each time they just smirk at him and go “why? are you getting tired rogers?” and then they start running faster
(sometimes bucky and nat will start talkin smack about steve in russian to each other as they run bc they can and finally he gets a crash course in it since he feels left out of their conversations and one day he bursts out in russian like “guYS I kNOW WHAT YOu’RE SAYING NOW STOP TALKING ABOUT MY BUTT”)
and perpetually behind nat, bucky, and steve are sam and clint- who almost always get overlapped and then proceed to flick them off as they all chant “on your left” or “on your right” as they pass by. usually this is followed by very creative profanity (IF YOU SAY ON YOUR LEFT ONE MORE TIME YOU STAR SPANGLED DOUCHENOZZLE I SWEAR TO GOD) or the ocassional well-aimed water bottle projectile courtesy of clint
the last two are bruce and tony. tony’s not really a fan of running without the added benefit of the suit’s propulsion systems and bruce doesn’t want to open up the can of worms that is what the stress of pushing himself while exercising could possibly do to him. sometimes they just walk around the track/park talking about the latest tech or stop to sit down and watch as the others run, tony calling out things like “NICE ASS” to no one in particular and getting a “thanks for noticing” from clint or a “you’re an ass” from steve
and then thor’s just like “i do not understand why you all run around in circles but if you find enjoyment in it then i will sit on the sidelines while shouting enthusiastic encouragement!”
ok so i always put "write a joke on the box" under special instructions whenever i order pizza because it's just a thing me and my sisters do altho tbh we never really expect them to actually do it (usually they ignore it)
but tonight we got the pizza and opened the box and BAM
LOOK AT THAT GLORIOUSLY TERRIBLE JOKE- WE ASKED FOR IT AND THIS GUY DELIVERED
winteredbucky said: YO YO FOR THE PALETTE THING. 12, AND DRAW SOMETHIN' CUTE FROM THE 'STEALING HARRY' FIC. DO IIIIIT
the scene where harry and snape get a haircut in saving harry (gr9 fic btw 10/10 would recommend, especially if you like INTENSELY CUTE THINGS and remus/sirius) in #12 palette from this post
steve teaching american history and co-running the art club in the afternoons. he's like the nicest teacher ever and really passionate about his subject but also a huge pushover so like students will get extensions on papers and huge curves on the tests all the time. but then he just genuinely cares about his students?? like he's always telling them that their mental and physical health are worth SO much more than any grade and he brings up student's issues at faculty meetings and fights against unfair school rules.
but steve's out so much due to health related stuff that his TA/live-in substitute bucky has to take over a lot. bucky's the one that stares the kids down when they try to take advantage of steve's kindness and all of them know that they better not cheat because he will find out. he's also an army vet with a prosthetic arm and he likes to tell bullshit stories about how he once took out 10 or 20 or 30 or 50 (it changes each time he tells it) men at once with his pinky finger or that he lost his arm wrestling godzilla. the kids don't believe it but it makes most of them either fear him or think that he's the coolest thing ever.
but there's always that one kid who cracks a tasteless joke about bucky's arm and steve goes from sweet history teacher to ready to punch someone's lights out in 0.0002 seconds and has to be held back even though he doesn't weigh half as much soaking wet as most of his students and bucky can certainly handle a dumb teenager's harsh words.
plus they've totally been dating since forever and a half but they try not to make it too obvious. they think they're keeping this huge secret even though everyone in the school pretty much knows but pretends not to make the connection between the flowers in steve's classroom on valentines day (even though he claims to be single) or the way that they both show up to school together pseudo-holding hands as they walk up to steve's classroom.
When he pulls you from the gutter that first time, his fists are red. Not the color of blood but the color of the flags they pull on the bulls in Spain, the ones you’ve read about (because you like to read) and the ones that lure them to their end. He is like the flag. You are like the bull. Although his knuckles are wet as he shakes your hand.
When he tells you his name, his eyes are white. Like blank canvas. When you say his name, even years in the future it’ll always taste white until it doesn’t. Curling around your tongue, expensive cloth stretched out over expensive wood. You’ve wanted to paint that name ever since that first day in the gutter and some days you do until you don’t. White like blank canvas that’s only blank canvas until it isn’t anymore.
When he comforts you after your mother dies, his words are blue. Not blue like your grief, which swallows you whole and which is the impenetrable depth of the ocean- isolating and noise canceling. Blue like the sky. Blue like the only thing that can mirror what you’re feeling. His eyes are blue and his words are blue and they give you the tools to grow wings to propel to the surface and rejoin the sky.
When you both graduate high school his congratulatory hug is orange. So is his happiness. Vibrant and powerful, it hurts your eyes. You almost cry. It’s chaotic but it’s warm and you think- when you’re drinking the orange-amber liquid he hands you later- that you could live on this warmth for the rest of your life. In some ways you do.
When he falls onto your threshold at 3 am, the rings around his eyes are black. On nights like these he tries to tell you that his heart and his soul are too. You don’t listen to him. You know that the bags underneath his eyes are black and that the bruises are too; you know that the footprints you leave behind on the wood of your apartment as you drag his limp body inside are all black but he’s wrong. You tell him this maybe a hundred times. He doesn’t listen to you either.
When he sleeps in your bed for the first time, his breath is violet. The cold nearly freezes it as it leaves his lips, strangling the soft air as it tickles the hairs on the back of your neck. You start to notice each of those breaths like how you notice the morning glories that bloom between cracks in the sidewalk on your way to the corner store- fleeting, hopeful, and truly keeping you alive.
When he kisses you for the first time, it’s electric yellow. Bright and blinding surges of static up and down your spine. It happens for an instant but that’s all that’s needed. A jolt. A hundred light bulbs come to life at once at the brush of his lips and he doesn’t know how much power he holds. He laughs and it’s yellow and it’s brushing it all off. You laugh too but it isn’t yellow and you’re thinking about burnt out light bulbs.
When he tells you he’s going off to war, his uniform is green. So are your eyes when you see him in it. You know he doesn’t want to be a soldier but you do and somehow that alone is a betrayal. You’re jealous of him for wearing that uniform and for fighting for his country. You’re jealous of your country and that uniform for taking him away from you. Later, your palette is horribly green when you paint him in uniform, hat and all, a hundred times over. When he leaves, you toss out the paintings.
When he dies, the world is grey. Not grey like rainclouds because rainclouds promise the return of the sun. Grey like an eternal winter. Grey like slush that weighs your heart down and makes your knees buckle out from under you. Your eyes are grey and the liquid that burns your throat but doesn’t settle the weights in your stomach is grey. You don’t see colors for weeks, maybe years.
When you finally see him again so much later, his fists are red. Not red like blood but red like the color of the flags they lure the bulls with in Spain. Even though you’ve both grown out of your old skins, some things never change. You’re still like the bull and he’s still like the flag and he promises you your end and yet you charge ahead.
