#This was supposed to be short and pithy

[furrywithfourlegs]

tfw shower thoughts happen during services

I accidentally wrote an entire dvar Torah during shul yesterday and the only appropriate place I could think of to share was here, on Tumblr, so here I've come to share it.

There is no one type of Jew. In fact if anyone tells you there is you can immediately discount whatever they're saying, because they've already proven their ignorance. We can't even agree on how to categorize and group ourselves; the only common denominator among Jews is we worship the One G-d, Unique in His Oneness. Everything else depends on circumstances.

There's a common Jewish joke to this effect: "Two Jews, three opinions." I rather think our history of debate is one of our great strengths - it forms the basis of our quintessential and almost instantly recognizable learning style. We sit in pairs or groups with a holy book on the table between us and read it aloud... And we argue over what exactly, precisely, the author meant. What did he mean by this word, this phrase, this parallel structure, this reference? What can we learn from the text to apply to our daily lives?

Jewish study halls are loud.

And believe me, they're not necessarily polite, either. Some full-time scholars treat arguing like a beloved hobby. The magnum opus of the Jewish academic world, the Talmud, contains the collected opinions of the greatest ancient sages, written down when the chain of oral transmission was threatened. To our great fortune, they also preserved the lively discussion (source) and passionate name-calling that came with it: "empty-headed", "scatterbrained", even "a first-born son of Satan" come up more than once. (Source) They insulted each other, each other's wives, each other's entire generations to prove a point.

So how do we resolve these conflicts? How does the study hall ring in harmony, rather than strife?

The answer lies in another Jewish maxim (we love our proverbs):

שבעים פנים לתורה / Shiv'im panim la-Torah. / There are seventy faces to the Torah.

Biblical context: The Torah refers to 70 languages, 70 nations, and means "all the people in the world." So when we say there are 70 faces to the Torah, we leapfrog off that concept and say "The Torah encompasses all possible permutations and interpretations in the world." (Recall the scene in Fiddler on the Roof where someone says, "They can't both be right!" and Tevye responds, "You know, you're also right..." Source.)

The Talmud is a unified text because the sages recorded in it were debating toward a common goal. Their opinions may have been equally valid (peep the story of Rav Eliezer vs the majority, source), but at the end of the day they agreed on a deciding factor and made a final decision. The study hall rings in harmony because we argue and debate not toward a common goal but for a common purpose: to increase our knowledge and understanding, and to deepen our love and relationship with G-d. With this as our guiding principle, differences of individual interpretation melt under the overriding truth that all are facets of G-d's World.

How does this apply to us? Let me make this very, very Jewish and end with a parable.

So, nu, you're sitting in the study hall and your partner has just spent the last twenty minutes trying to explain a fakakta idea and you KNOW he's meshugana but you don't have time to reason with him because the rabbi just hammered on his desk to call for the afternoon prayer service. You take a deep breath and remember - shivim panim laTorah. He can keep his ideas, and maybe next time it'll be your turn to rant, because the Word of G-d is infinite and encompasses all interpretations.

And another:

You stand with the prayerbook in your hands and stare at the paragraphs written by sages hundreds and thousands of years ago and you struggle to relate to the words, even though your teachers and rabbis have lectured about how meaningful they are over and over again. You take a deep breath and remember - shivim panim laTorah. These words were codified with a particular set of meanings in mind, but you have a unique relationship with G-d. You can use these words OR their original intention to inspire your own, private prayer, and it is equally valid. Because the Word of G-d is infinite, and encompasses all possible permutations of prayer.

70 whole and unique faces to the Word of G-d.

Whether you're in the midst of an emotional crisis, a spiritual crisis, an existential crisis, or a motivational crisis, may each of us merit to see the conflict we are feeling, and find a new face to study instead.

[ginshi-san]

I had a panic attack at work because I accidentally tried to move a trailer that was open & already slotted in a door. Doing that is serious enough that it's DA (disciplinary action) & will automatically put you on a final. I immediately reported it & cancelled it. Then I had to work another 8hrs with that panic hangover lingering in my stomach. I persevered though and kept going.

You know what snapped me out of it? My fellow department lead deciding to get on his bullshit again by shirking his responsibilities. He has a nasty habit of fucking off in the office (usually) for at least the last 30 mins of shift. That leaves me to cover calls. This time it was only 10mins til he left. It especially chapped my ass nine ways to Sunday because he ordered me to pull the remaining 6 people out of production.

First off, we're peers. Don't fucking order me around. Especially don't do that when you have seemingly sabotaged any ounce of trust/respect/goodwill I might have given you. You're the reason why our manager shadowed each of us for 5hrs & brought in another manager to run the department for the day. You are also the reason why we no longer have the privilege of choosing when we take our breaks (with or separate from the team) because you took advantage and pushed it to where you wouldn't return to the floor for the last 1.5 hours. Because of him, we also can no longer spend a few mins in the office for admin stuff.

He is a grade A bullshit artist and I'm convinced that's how he was promoted. He is able to regurgitate all the right verbiage & jargon when it's in front of the right salaried people. When it comes to actually doing those things? He's all hat and no cattle.

Somehow, he's unaware that he's being managed out. Did he wonder why we were being audited & another manager was brought in? Probably not or, worse, he thought his shit don't stink (more than likely). I've also never heard of another lead (or manager!) getting as much additional training outside of the initial 6 week ramp of period. He was even sent to another key for another lead to train him and only seemed to absorb the wrong things.

I keep escalating to my manager because all these issues directly and negatively impact my ability to carry out my responsibilities on my side of the business. At least my manager seems to be following proper procedure in handling him and the issues he creates.

[vixstarria]

Apples

Alright, so this is actually going to be included in a future chapter of my longfic as a flashback, but the readership of that is a small fraction of that on my one-shots, and I giggled too much writing it to not show it to the masses.

Astarion x Tav, Act 1

Humour, ponderings on the topic of vampire physiology, my Tav being a gremlin

Rated M, I guess.

Approx. 600 words

Somewhere along the Risen Road

Astarion sat with a book, trying to ignore Asmodea as she perched next to him, loudly crunching on an apple. It was proving to be impossible to concentrate under her inquisitive stare. 

“Yes?” he said, sighing. 

“So does pussy taste like ash to you?” 

Astarion wrinkled his nose in distaste. 

“Must you be so crass?” 

“You’re really going to continue the ‘uptight noble’ act after last night?” she said with a smirk. “And I’m actually being considerate, not crass – it was only after, that I remembered vampire taste buds have certain quirks.” She shifted where she sat. “I wouldn’t shove your face into an ash tray,” she said, sounding almost apologetic, before biting into the apple again.  

“Very well,” Astarion said, shutting his book. “No, pussy tastes like pussy. And yours tastes like-” 

“The finest nectar, divine ambrosia, blah blah,” she interrupted him with a dismissive wave of her hand, talking with her mouth full. “But why?” 

“I... I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose it’s all similar to blood in that it’s still produced by the body. And-” he cut himself off, with a shake of his head. “Do you really want to talk about this?” 

“Just trying to understand you better, that’s all,” she said, swallowing. “Hmm,” she hummed, before leaning towards him with a grin and beckoning him with a finger.  

Astarion glanced in the direction Wyll and Karlach had walked off. The group was taking a short break. Their tryst in the night seemed to have gone unnoticed by anyone, and he didn’t want to make it known, at least not yet. Satisfied that they were alone, he pressed his lips against hers in a kiss. Her tongue cautiously sought his own, and he let it, before pulling away.  

“Did that taste like ash?” she asked. 

“No, that... tasted the way an apple smells,” he answered. 

“So it tasted like apple.” 

“No, it tasted like the smell.” 

“That’s the same thing,” she argued. “And do you like the smell of apples?” 

“No, it’s not the same thing,” he sighed. “And I suppose, but... Hells, how do I explain it? ...You enjoy the smell of roses, yes? But you wouldn’t want to eat one, now would you? And if you did – it would not taste the way it smelled anyway. ...Do you understand?” 

Astarion supposed he should have been annoyed by her questioning, but something in her earnestness placated him.  

Asmodea let out a prolonged “ahh” of comprehension, and he thought that would be the end of it, but then she extended her half-eaten apple towards him. 

“Lick it.” 

“What?” Now he was getting irritated.  

“Don’t chew it, just lick it. Have you tried regular food since getting tadpoled, anyway?” 

He had, and he had immediately regretted it, but he obliged her anyway.  

“Ugh,” he grimaced. “Now it tastes like ash.” 

“Fascinating,” she said, biting back into the apple. “Perhaps it’s the juice being mixed with human saliva that makes it palatable for you. I wonder if there is a minimum ratio of spit to plant liquid that is required...” 

He opened his book again, determined to ignore her.  

“I could feed you like a mama bird feeds her hatchlings,” she continued thoughtfully, looking off into the distance.  

Astarion snapped the book shut again.  

“I do not need to be fed apples!” he exclaimed. “And you are the most ridiculous person I have ever met.” 

“Thank you,” she smiled. 

Series master list

Tags:

@littleenglishfangirl @something-pithy @darlingxdragon @tragedybunny @spunky-89

@lariatbunny @whiskeyskin @asterordinary @wingsy-keeper-of-songs @spacebarbarianweird

@brabblesblog @littlejuicebox @icybluepenguin @snowfolly @ayselluna

@mj-bites @bardic-inspo

[winterbirb]

In 2015 a Russian media outlet (Izvestia I think?) accused the State Department of writing an email commissioning an activist to accuse certain Russian political figures of being homosexuals and the US Embassy in Moscow responded by marking up the supposed email with corrections because it didn't fit the necessary bureaucratic format and then asked Izvestia to send the Embassy a copy to proof-read first if they were going to make up emails

Go on, pop this bad boy into a translator, I know you want to

And here's an image for funsies:

(The signoff, Госдеп, is short for State Department and honestly so much easier to say than State Department, DoS, or the short-but-confusing "State." Tragically, the paragraph a NYTimes article from 2017 devoted to the existence of the word was not so pithy.)

[all-pacas]

anyway here's the first little bit of my durge fanfic (where i'm actually trying to make tav. a character. and not. self insert. but also play with the blank slate thing. anyway it's fun.)

-

She wakes up to the bracing familiarity of pain. First clue: she.

Stumbling from her knees, ichor and bile in her mouth. Her hands are mottled with blood and bruises, fingernails jagged short. Arms: grayish blue. Purple with bruises. Face: wet, her palms black and red when she pulls them away.

She. Clothes: a shirt that may have once been bone white or ash gray. Trousers, dark. Boots, red soled and worn. Pouch at her hip: wet. Sticky. Red. Her stomach twists. She feels satisfied. She wants to taste it. To lick her fingers, suck marrow from her own bones.

Satisfied?

Something twists behind her eye. Sharp-bright in her head. You must move.

She does.

-

The evening after the crash, the five of them make camp in the woods, amidst arguments on where to go. But it’s dark, and they don’t know where they’re headed, and the air is filled with ash and putrefaction from the rotting ship.

Their parasites hum. Names are exchanged. Wizard, male, human. Abnormally pale high elf; a magistrate in the city. Cleric with a disinterest in small talk. Githyanki warrior with even less. Gale does his best. Shadowheart is at least polite in her dismissals; Astarion pithy. Everyone’s gaze is watchful.

Their last is silent. Gale asks her something simple, something innocuous. She looks up from the fire, eyes wide and startled. “I don’t know,” she says.

“Memory loss isn’t as uncommon as you might think,” Shadowheart tells her. The knowledge of the other woman’s amnesia has somehow softened her. “It could be the parasite, certainly. But that doesn’t appear to be the case with the rest of us…” her mouth almost, nearly twitches. “I don’t suppose you remember if your memory was better before the crash?”

“At least a name,” Astarion hums across the fire. “A name as delicate and beautiful as you are?”

She looks at him and imagines him in the flames between them, screaming and twisting and crackling to ash. Choking on his own boiling blood, his tongue —

Astarion sees her shudder of disgust. He feels a twinge of anxiety and suppresses it.

“What do you know of yourself?” Gale asks. It is interesting in itself, of course: a mystery to solve, a puzzle to poke at. It is hardly casual dinner conversation, and yet beggars and choosers: Goddess knows the small talk isn’t exactly forthcoming.

The woman is a long time answering such a simple question. “I am… female.” She looks down at her bare forearms. Under the blood and bruises, her skin steel silver, knife white, ice blue. “I believe I am most likely Drow. Perhaps half.”

“Full blood, I’d wager,” Gale says: he sees what she can not. Her hair has been hacked and cropped, but is silvery under the dried blood. Her eyes a pale white: there is no color at all to her besides the bruises and stains. But her ears are too sharp to be part-human, her features too strong.

She nods. Relieved to have more to add to her list.

Lae’zel watches with little interest: she can barely understand the myriad distinctions those of the mortal plane use to classify herself. All four of these people look alike to her: fleshy and bulbous and unnatural shades of pink and gray. She pities the woman for her lack of knowledge and heritage.

But she remembers, too, the Mindflayer ship. Leaping upon the woman to strike first, and watching her dart back, her hands bloody to the elbows and strange, pale eyes void of all intent. Remembers watching her hold an imp down with her boot as she tore the thing’s wings from its back.

It is not the savagery that strikes Lae’zel. It is no more than the creatures deserved. It is her eyes, the emptiness in her expression. Her strange, round pupils had been pinpricks in a sea of ice. It is at odds with this humanoid now. Her fingers digging into her knees.

“Tav,” the woman says suddenly. “I think… that sounds right. I think… I might have been called Tav.”

She was not.

-

They push inland at the first strike of dawn, having rested fitfully or not at all. Gale takes lead but finds it immediately tiring: to need consider others and communicate his plans, rather than strike off alone. But the others are even less inclined. “We must find people,” he decides for them all. “They will perhaps have a healer among them, a shrine to some useful goddess - or better knowledge of the area, at least.” He says this to pacify Lae’zel, who scowls.

“A crèche remains our only option, but you are not incorrect that the locals around here might point us in the correct direction.”

Gale forces a smile. This is exactly what he just said, he refrains from pointing out. Did she really need to rephrase it for the sake of her ego? Beggers, he reminds himself. Choosers.

Shadowheart and Tav do not object to this plan, the former for whatever reasons of her own and the latter because Gale suspects she barely has agency, let alone a name.

They find a dirt track soon enough, helpfully laden with cart tracks. Unfortunately, they are city folk to the last, and none of them have any real idea how to determine which way to follow: Lae’zel confidentially proclaims north, Gale throws in with her for the appearance of unity, and the rest go along.

Astarion is chatty in the morning sunlight, trying out lines on the women and complaining genially about mud and dirt on his boots. He is the first to make a crucial discovery, as they all suddenly feel a flash of incredulity and disbelief, pain and flushed cheeks.

“You have a sunburn, I think,” Shadowheart says dryly.

Astarion blinks. His cheeks red and striking. “I confess, I do not spend much time... traipsing about the countryside.”

“Did anyone else feel that?” Tav asks, suddenly excited: to feel, for the surprise of pain and heat and confusion. It is almost like a memory.

“It appears our little friends are still sharing information between them,” Gale surmises, familiar enough with the concept.

Within an hour, Astarion has figured out how to do it on purpose, sending every little ache and blister to the rest of them until, exasperated, Shadowheart suggests a break.

[average-giant-kissing-enjoyer]

G/t July #27: Jewelry

Maybe this one is too silly

“Aha, Mr. Graves, I see you have fallen into my trap.”

The intrepid hero and all around handsome good guy Mr. Graves struggled against the ropes that tied him to the chair. “You’ll never get away with this, Doctor Destructo!”

Doctor Destructo (real name Calvin) just laughed again. “But I already have. Even as we speak my moon lasers have their sights on the White House. And if President Oprah Winfrey doesn’t wire me the eleventy billion dollars by four o’ clock this afternoon, the entirety of Washington D.C. will be reduced to rubble! No one can stop me now!”

“You can’t blow up the White House! That’s illegal!” Mr. Graves protested, still trying to free himself from his bonds. It was no use. He was well and truly trapped.

“Any last words?” Doctor Destructo said, waggling his eyebrows. He walked over to his desk, right by the big window with the perfect view of planet Earth, and started rifling through a drawer.

Mr. Graves had never failed a mission before and didn’t know what to do now. If only he’d been more prepared for this mission on the space station. If only he’d been more cautious. If only he hadn’t sat down in this chair in the first place. But his feet were so tired from all that walking.

Doctor Destructo turned back to face his victim. “Come now, let’s hear it. Give me some sort of pithy quote I can etch onto the back of my moon laser emitter. Keep it short, though, lasers are expensive and I had to buy the smallest model.”

“Do you expect me to just give up that easily?”

“No, Mr. Graves. I expect you to shrink.”

Our stalwart and well-dressed hero did a double take. “Don’t you mean that you expect me to die?” he asked.

“Eventually,” replied the evil doctor. “We all die someday, and I suppose you’ll have a much harder time surviving when you’re two inches tall. Behold, my shrink ray!” He held up a hand and flashed his ring.

Mr. Graves gasped. “What is that? It looks like an ordinary diamond ring which has no supernatural qualities whatsoever!”

“That is where you’re mistaken,” said Doctor Destructo. “This is no ordinary diamond ring which has no supernatural qualities whatsoever. In fact, it possesses at least one supernatural quality you’ll find interesting. With this gem, I can change a person’s size! Watch me demonstrate! Simmons!”

On cue, the sliding door whizzed open and an unassuming man in a white lab coat entered. “You beckoned, sir?” he said, his voice chipper.

Immediately Doctor Destructo stuck out his hand and a bright red beam shot from his ring ring into the man’s forehead. There was a bright flash, and then no more Simmons - just his lab coat piled on the floor.

“You killed him!” cried Mr. Graves.

“Relax, Mr. Graves. I have not killed him. I have merely shrunk him.” Doctor Destructo went over to the pile and stuck a hand inside, reaching around until he pulled out a tiny little man. “Thank you, Simmons. You are dismissed.” With a flick of his wrist he tossed the man out the door again.

Mr. Graves felt sick. “You’re going to grow him back to normal, right?”

The evil doctor paused to think about it. “Actually, I haven’t figured out how to do that part yet. The manual never mentioned… you know what, never mind, it’s not important. What’s important is that you’re about to join Simmons as a tiny little guy. Forever.”

Our hero struggled even harder against his restraints. “You can’t do that! How would I be able to stop you then?”

“Ah, but that’s the point,” said Doctor Destructo. “Say goodbye to your old life, Mr. Graves. From now on, you’re going to be having little tiny adventures on the floor, running around with mice and such activities.”

“On a space station?” wondered Mr. Graves.

“Space mice,” the doctor replied immediately.

Mr. Graves’ face fell. “Oh well, at least mice are cool. I like mice.”

“Me too, Mr. Graves. Me too.”

“When I’m little, do you think they’ll let me have tiny adventures in the walls? With mice and spiders and very small ferrets?”

Doctor Destructo paused. “Well, I guess if you want to.”

“And I’ll make myself clothes out of cotton balls and use dental floss as rope!” Mr. Graves said.

“I suppose that’s possible. Now if you would hold still for a moment - ”

But Mr. Graves was on a roll now. “And I’ll finally be able to ride a gecko! They can walk up walls, you know. I’ll probably have to make a saddle by cutting up a cork. This will be so much fun!”

“Fun?” Doctor Destructo paused, the confusion obvious on his face. “This isn’t supposed to be fun! I’m trying to torture you.”

“Hush, evil doctor,” said Mr. Graves. “Shrink me already. Set me up in a terrarium with a hamster. Put me in one of those plastic balls and roll me down the stairs! Doesn’t that just sound like so much fun?”

The doctor shrugged. “Actually, yes. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

“And I’ll save a bundle on food. I could probably live for a month and spend maybe two dollars. Okay, I’ve made up my mind. Shrink me, Doctor Destructo!”

“Uh… no, you’re not supposed to want to do this. You understand if I do this, you won’t be able to stop me from blowing up the White House.”

Mr. Graves sighed. “But why would you want to blow up the White House when you could be driving a remote controlled Hot Wheels car, or sleeping in a matchbox?”

“You make a compelling point,” said Doctor Destructo. “I have always wondered what it was like to be a little guy.”

“Let’s wonder together,” said Mr. Graves. “We could have a little place all to ourselves in some old lady’s apartment somewhere, cooking popcorn over a lighter.”

“Yes, it would be a perfect ending to our countless feuds with homoerotic subtext,” the doctor agreed. “To be honest, I just don’t have the heart to take over the world anymore. It’s just something I’m expected to do now. I didn’t want to be a doctor. I wanted to be a ballet dancer, but I couldn’t afford the tuition.”

“I never wanted to be a handsome, virile super spy,” admitted Mr. Graves. “I was trying to impress a girl. It turned out she was just a cardboard cutout of a TV actress.”

“We have so much in common,” said Doctor Destructo. “To think, in another life, we could be the best of friends.”

“I’d hug you,” Mr. Graves said, “but I’m strapped to this chair. Well, enough talk. Let’s get to shrinking. You do me first, then I’ll do you.”

Doctor Destructo smiled. “No. Let’s do it together,” he said, standing next to his victim and pointing the jewel right towards them both.

[contreparry]

happy dadwc Ann! "imagine if we really did like each other that way, huh?" from the romantic yearning prompts?

Here's some CassandraxVarric for @dadrunkwriting!

It was a careless bit of teasing, some pithy comment Dorian shot off because Varric made a joke- more of a casual remark, technically- so Dorian had to react. Action, reaction, pretty standard stuff. But when Varric observed that Dorian and The Iron Bull weren't being subtle about their arrangement, Dorian retorted that Varric and Cassandra were doing a poor job of hiding their pining. Awkwardness descended, though Varric did his best to hide the shock, the trickle of fear that ran down his spine. His gaze shifted to the bar, where Cassandra was speaking with one of the field scouts. He hoped that she hadn't heard that. But she probably had, because she had sharp hearing. Varric was proven correct when Cassandra rose from her seat and walked out of the tavern. Varric made his excuses and followed, facing the cold and the wet and the dark so he could-

So he could do something, he supposed. Better than doing nothing.

"Hey, Seeker," Varric said once he joined Cassandra near the fence that enclosed the training grounds.

"Varric," Cassandra replied, her words short and crisp.

"Sorry for the trouble back there," he said with a shrug, and he was grateful for the darkness. Grateful that humans had poor night vision. Grateful that Cassandra hadn't looked at him, her gaze fixed on the slowly rising moon, a sliver of yellow-gold hanging low in the sky. if she had, she might see that he was flustered, that he was blushing, that he wasn't... himself.

"It was hardly trouble. I've heard worse," Cassandra snorted, her way of trying to hide the fact that she was about to crack and let out a genuine laugh. Varric learned a lot of Cassandra-isms in their time together. She wasn't as serious as she acted. She had a soft spot for little creatures. She liked sugary sweets. She hid the soft parts of her under armor and a sharp tongue.

Varric understood what it was to hide by putting on a show. He did it every day. Maybe that was why he liked her, despite it all. Kindred spirits had a way of finding each other.

"Imagine if we really did like each other that way," Cassandra murmured, almost to herself. "It would be a disaster."

"Hey, I'm a catch. You’ll have to fight half the Coterie to claim me as a prize," Varric protested, even though he privately agreed. It would be ridiculous if they, well, got together. If they were a partnership. If they meant anything to each other beyond a casual friendship.

It was funny. It would be funny someday, when he was old and reminiscing over his past indiscretions and the follies of youth. Someday he’d look back on this conversation in the darkness and have a wry chuckle, but for now… right now his heart hurt.

"As I said. A disaster," Cassandra sighed.

"You'd win," Varric retorted. "Counts for something, yeah?"

"I suppose so," Cassandra frowned, then glowered down at Varric. "If you put this in one of your novels..."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Seeker," Varric lied. If he couldn’t have a reality with Cassandra Pentaghast, at least let him write some damn good fiction about it.

He wouldn’t even publish it, because he had some manners.

"See that you don't. Unless..." Cassandra hesitated.

"Unless?"

"... give me a good sword. Something memorable,” she finally said, and Varric laughed.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised. And he would. He found that he liked keeping promises when he made them to Cassandra.

[nimuetheseawitch]

2, 3, 14, 15, 29

2. Do you read/reread your own fics?

Yes. All the time. I pretty much write entirely for me (and am pleasantly surprised when other people like it too).

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

Gosh, this is really hard. They're all my babies. If I really have to pick one, I guess it would be Sitting here tonight because I'm a sucker for pining and love letters and this series is really dear to me, even if I'm super blocked on it right now and cannot manage to work on the next installment.

14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?

I don't think most of them have anywhere near enough plot to make much of a film, but I think Autopilot would make a really cute comic.

15. How do you come up with titles for your fics/chapters?

I almost always go looking for lyrics that work. I don't usually bother naming chapters unless I'm really trying to use lyrics throughout. Sometimes though, I try for something pithy. If I can't find a good song or a pithy title that works, I usually just go for something basically descriptive.

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

Oh man, I dug into the archives for this one. This is a WIP that hasn't seen the light of day in ages, and that I'm never planning on finishing. I think I already started using it for spare parts because apparently this is from chapter 6, and I have absolutely no clue what was supposed to come before this. I also have no idea what I had planned as an actual plot. But this was supposed to be a MASH post-war reunion fic. I'll put it under the cut since this post is getting long.

Hawkeye slowly opens the door and calls out "Beej?"

The room is dark, but the light is on in the bathroom, and there's the damp scent of a recent shower and hotel soap. After looking around the room to make sure, Hawkeye gently knocks on the door. "Hey Beej, it's me and Father Mulcahy, can we come in?"

"I'm not really dressed for church." Hawkeye cringes, that wasn't even close to funny. But he gently pushes open the door and finds BJ sitting on the floor in his shorts and undershirt holding a razor and wearing half a mustache. He tries really, really hard not to laugh, but after letting in Father Mulcahy and seeing the look on his face, he just can't.

In no time, he's holding onto the edge of the sink in a futile attempt to keep himself upright because he's laughing so hard. He just keeps pointing and then miming a mustache on his own face while Mulcahy looks completely at a loss and BJ turns bright pink. It looks like he's trapped somewhere between joining in or punching something.

Mulcahy takes the plunge and asks, "What happened?"

"I thought I should get rid of it, but then I got halfway through and I couldn't recognize myself without it."

"I'm not sure half a mustache is going to do you much good."

Hawkeye realizes he's being left out of the conversation and stops laughing enough to open his eyes, free up his hands and contribute, "Remember that time when I did that to you in your sleep? I think it's perfect. You should keep it!"

Father Mulcahy adds, "Well, it is quite a showstopper."

At that, BJ gives in and starts laughing too. Then he catches a look at himself in the mirror and laughs again and again until he's crying too. Then he pulls Hawkeye and Father Mulcahy into an awkward hug as the laughter turns a little bit more into tears. He holds onto them loosely and somehow manages to get them all through the door and finally lets go in order to pull on his pants.

[radley-writes]

what would you like to see more of in stories?

Nonbinary neopronoun-using main characters in both YA and adult fiction, written by nonbinary neopronoun-using authors!

Disabled main characters in both YA and adult fiction, written by disabled authors!

Neurodiverse main characters in both YA and adult fiction, written by neurodiverse authors!

...you may be starting to sense a pattern here......

For bonus points, in SFF, I want more casual nonbinary neopronoun-using side characters, disabled side characters, and neurodiverse side characters in everything - especially if they're treated completely normally and like they're part of the SFF world!

Other than thinking about representation, I suppose I'd love to see more poetic, long-winded writing, in YA especially. I love short, pithy, snappy wordage that tells a story in an economical and yet still lyrical way! That's the standard against which I measure myself! But I do think there can be too much focus on paring everything down to the bare minimum. I want lush description! I want beautiful, inventive metaphors! I want space to breathe.

...Is it ironic that I am requesting this as The Most ADHD Author Imaginable whose editor had to gently beg me to let the characters chill out just for a couple of chapters?? Maybe so.

[mariacallous]

For almost half a century, in other words within the limits of political memory, Britain has been a country where the priority of most governments has been to keep a few key economic numbers low. Income tax, interest rates, inflation and most people’s wages: all were deliberately suppressed by Downing Street and its collaborators in business and the Bank of England. By doing so a space was created – in theory at least – for certain interest groups to flourish: employers, entrepreneurs, shareholders, top earners, homeowners and consumers. Together, they were supposed to boost our previously sluggish rate of economic growth.

It hasn’t quite worked out like that. Britain is on the brink of recession yet again. Interest rates, taxes and inflation are all high. Only average wages are still low. And even that dubious achievement of British government and capitalism since the 1980s now feels fragile, with strikes solidifying and spreading across both private and state sectors, determinedly driven by workers who have finally had enough of years of falling pay. As Mick Lynch of the RMT union put it with characteristic pithiness on the Today programme last week: “The price of labour isn’t at the right price in this country.”

What might life be like in Britain if most people’s wages were more generous? One answer is more like life in many other rich countries. According to the United Nations, the share of our gross domestic product that goes to employees is lower than in France, Germany, Italy, Australia, South Korea, Canada, the US and half a dozen other, often more successful, capitalist nations. This “labour share” has fallen in Britain in most years since the late 1970s, when the great counterattack began against unions and decent pay for the many. The absence of this broad-brush but telling indicator from everyday debate in Britain is a sign of how much our politics is shaped by essentially rightwing assumptions.

But now the national conversation about pay seems to be changing. Lynch says the strikes – which despite months of disruption still have substantial public support – are ultimately about “the rebalancing of our society”. That’s a very ambitious goal for a union movement much smaller than in its 1970s heyday; which receives at best qualified support from Labour; and which faces a cornered Tory government that sees a successful confrontation with the unions as one of the few ways it might stay in power. Yet the cost of living crisis, and crippling staff shortages from the NHS to the railways, mean that the old Westminster and media orthodoxy that holding down pay is Britain’s only realistic option is losing its force.

Were salaries generally higher, it would almost certainly be easier to recruit and retain staff. Some of the large number of adults who have chosen to leave the national workforce in recent years would probably return. Workers might be more motivated and efficient, lessening Britain’s productivity crisis. Some employees would be able to work fewer hours, and families might benefit as a result.

With higher disposable incomes, people would probably spend more, boosting the British economy. Meanwhile the state would need to spend less on benefits that effectively subsidise low wages. According to the Joseph Rowntree Foundation, two thirds of working-age adults in poverty are in a household where someone works. Higher wages could make having a job a real – rather than often rhetorical – route out of poverty.

Realigning the economy with the needs of the majority would also have costs. Taxes or state borrowing would have to rise to fund better public sector wages – at least in the short term, until the in-work benefits bill fell, and rising incomes increased growth. Goods and services might also become more expensive. We have got used to a world where almost anything can be delivered cheaply to our door – and almost anything can be done to us at work. In a higher-wage world, we might lose some of our power as consumers, while gaining power as workers. At first, we might feel the loss of familiar pleasures more than we use this new agency.

But inflation has already begun to end the golden age of consumption for most of us, anyway. And higher wages may also bring more welcome disruptions. The gap between ordinary and elite earners, which has opened even further in Britain than most wealthy countries, might narrow – especially if taxes are raised to increase public sector pay. Such a narrowing could have psychological as well as material consequences. The extreme separateness and sense of entitlement of the modern rich, and the queasy mix of fascination and loathing rich people arouse in us, evident in hit TV shows such as Succession and The White Lotus, might diminish a little if economic security was not so unfairly distributed.

Now, some or all of these potential shifts may sound far-fetched. But an economy where most people’s wages grew rather than shrank has existed before in Britain. For much of the first three decades of the 20th century, and again from the late 1940s until the mid-1970s, the “labour share” increased. In fact, its trajectory over the past 150 years forms a wave pattern, with slumps regularly followed by recoveries. Another upswing is overdue.

It may be harder to achieve this time. During previous pay upswings, the economy and trade union memberships were often growing strongly, unlike now. Today’s workers will have to be canny and relentless to get more, when the rewards provided by capitalism may be shrinking overall for some time.

But the survival, instead, of the low-wage status quo feels increasingly uncertain. In 1962, one of the most influential modern economists wrote that “in a market society” the way that pay is distributed “is unlikely to be tolerated unless it is also regarded as yielding distributive justice”. Without a broad public acceptance of such economic arrangements, he went on, “no society can be stable”.

The economist was Milton Friedman, one of the gurus of the global right. With Britain in such a state now that even he and Mick Lynch might agree on a few things, were Friedman still alive, the end of our low-wage era may be coming.

[thinkingofmikey]

This book was published in 1999 - 24 years ago. It's no longer talking about "kids these days", it's literally talking about the last generation of "kids these days" -- the Millennials. We're about 40 now, most of us, and I'd say my peers are no more cynical about love than any usual folks, but more cynical than a poet I suppose.

I'd bet you were thinking about cynicism from online dating or Grindr culture -- but this book predates both by more than a decade. Maybe the short attention spans "caused" by Snapchat and TikTok? Again, the book predates them by two decades.

It's a pithy quote, but complete nonsense.

bell hooks, All About Love

[twilight-town-zombies]

writing patterns

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

I want to play!

Tagging: @snowflake-of-destruction ; @localcryptideli ; @government-assigned-riku-kinnie ; everyone else - I am tired and can't remember usernames right now but I think this is really cool and want to see more of them

(1) Striding through the grand, cream-colored, high ceilinged hallways of the Destiny Kingdom palace, hung with sharply fragrant garlands of woven branches of evergreens and berries, threaded with glittering fairy lights, Axel expertly balances a tray of rapidly cooling hot chocolates on his shoulder and forgives himself for committing petty theft twice in the past half hour.  - Invitation Only

(2) The tapping sound is ceaseless, like a downpour pelting a window pane, and even from the depths of the sleep of the dead and the damned, wrapped in satin sheets and surrounded by lusciously thick curtains that don’t spill a drip of sun, Ansem hears it. – The Coffin

(3) Ansem the Wise doesn’t like to use phrases like “human sacrifice” or “lamb for the slaughter.” – Songs of Sunset

(4) Xehanort opens the portal of light and steps through without waiting to see if Eraqus will follow, the dark cloak billowing out behind him his only farewell.  – Sink or Swim

(5) The air already smelled sharp with rain, but Riku was wearing reliably worn hiking boots, and the September morning was a warm one, so he decided to go on the date alone.  – Enshrined

(6) Strickler is not sure the flowers are going to cover it, but he brings them anyway. – Disaster Uncle

(7) “Don’t burn your tongue.” – There’s No Place Like Hell for the Holidays

(8) The summer sun burns the color of a blood orange against the hazy dove gray of the Halloween Town sky, and Roxas imagines as he stares up at it that, if she could, Sally the Ragdoll would pluck it from beyond the atmosphere and use it in one of her potions. – Please Do Not Feed the Heartless

(9) “As we’re all in unanimous agreement regarding launching the Hatching Dragons Initiative as this year’s senior prank—aside, of course, from myself—I suppose that concludes our final order of new business on the agenda.” - Selfless By Technicality

(10) “I should call and tell them I can’t pick up the cake.”  - Indulge Me

I see three styles here. One is what I learned in creative writing class: character + location + intrigue, with some flowery scene setting description for immersion. Another is short, pithy, and unexpected, makes you want to know more and easy to read a few more sentences since the first was brief. The third, starts with dialogue, tosses you right into a scene, but still lays the ground work for what the conversation might be about and, again, is unexpected enough that you want to know more about the situation.

Do you notice any patterns I missed?

[scoops-aboy86]

And then sometimes you can tell which bits were written on different days, because one section has short. Pithy. Yet juicy. Little sentences.

But then the next paragraphs are these long sprawling things that, while they convey a great deal of emotion and energy and Writerly Intent, happen to clash with the previous bit so badly that both have to be gone over with a fine-toothed comb (and yes I did just google if it was supposed to be tooth or toothed; it didn't seem to matter so I flipped a coin) and rewritten so they aren't as horrible next to each other as plaid and floral.

editing your own writing is like woah you really like commas........ maybe ease up on those commas there, pal........ maybe Fewer commas would be nice

[claybaby-blog-blog]

I see dialog tumblr is a thing. I think it’s kind of a short fan-fic form where characters from some tv show, or comic or whatever have conversations created by the writer. Since I almost never know the source or characters I can’t tell if they’re supposed to be funny, pithy, profound. It’s just a wall of words to me

[headspace-hotel]

Hey! Out of curiosity, how do you feel about Nikita gill? Do you have any particular piece of hers that really resonates with you? I love her, she's one of my favorites, and I know a lot of Tumblr adores her too. So I just was wondering....

I didn't know much about her until i decided to look her up.

She is very reminiscent of a lot of "instagram poets" that break up pithy or "feminist" sounding phrasings into lines, but unlike them she seems to know more about poetry and know how to avoid being repetitive and use words in novel or unexpected ways.

see, like this poem is very similar to a lot of other "instagrammable" poems that contain concepts in very short pieces that are typed out and posted in "aesthetic" ways. And it has a similar core concept. But it is more elegant and feels better on the brain. The lines end strongly and they are a bit musical and rhythmic—"no one to stay" "when they decide" "they want to leave" "is not a cage" and "for wild hearts" follow roughly the same syllabic pattern; i kind of read each as a pair of iambs.

"to stay" and "to leave" paralleling each other kind of makes a rhythm stick, and those blocks of syllables hold themselves into a pattern even though they're not always unaccompanied on lines, if that makes sense.

The last line totally breaks it up in a way that feels intentional, making the reader linger on the meaning

The images themselves could use some work. "Hearts" as a metaphor in this context is...really cliche in a way i don't care for. And "when they decide they want to leave" is certainly redundant in some way, You could get the same meaning from just saying "Beg no one to stay." But that takes away the cool rhythmic aspects so, you win some, you lose some.

I have mixed feelings here because there's a cool double meaning thing where it's ambiguous if we're "supposed" to read it like "I weigh [number]" or if it's "I weigh" as a verb ("I weigh the way they look at me")

But it's too on the nose and in a workshop i would probably tell the writer to slice off everything from the line beginning with "So" because it gets way too preachy and explainy from there.

The imagery is also casting too wide of a net. "Galaxies" and "sea" and "storm" aren't being expanded upon any, they're just a bunch of random things that make you go Big and Universe and Cool. And that's disappointing.

I'm reminded of that quote that's like "Don't write about the tragedy of war, write about a child's pair of socks on the side of the road." You've got to zoom in.

I think she's definitely using the tools a poet has at their disposal in a more purposeful way than a lot of people writing in the style of poetry that is easy to social media (I don't use 'instagram poetry' as a pejorative, I think it's just another category suited to its context...though that context can be oppressive).

I don't know how good of a selection this is. It's just the first couple poems that came up on google. I will try to look at more of her stuff.

[steviesunrises]

steal away at sundown (pick a place to hide)

Rating: Mature

Relationship: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes

Major Tags: Canon Compliant - CA: TFA, angst, emotional sex, implied top Steve Rogers, implied bottom Bucky Barnes

Length: 2.1k

Summary:

Just for a moment, Bucky can convince himself that someday, the war will be over. He wraps himself in Steve’s warmth and commits the embrace to memory. Someday, he promises himself, I will build myself up from patchy switchgrass and razed earth, and we will have this again.

Or, the first touch after war is always the hardest.

Notes:

I expanded this drabble into a short fic because I couldn't get it out of my head.

It's based on this post by @turtle-steverogers (screenshot attached)

Warnings for a short mention of eugenics, but nothing drawn out.

Read it on ao3 or under the cut

Bucky smokes. He smokes more than he ever remembered smoking back home. During lulls in the fighting, he’d bet his cigarettes on card games with the other scared infantrymen of the 107th and hustle them out of their own smoke rations. Bucky cleans his gun. Over and over. More than the upkeep mandated during Basic. It’s algorithmic: check the chamber, clean the bolt, apply lubricant, repeat.

The smoking, the compulsive cleaning, none of it’s necessary, but he needs it. In the trenches, he takes whatever quiets his mind for any single, solitary minute. The procedure of it all calms him, letting his mind drift into nothingness.

It doesn’t let him think of Steve. Stevie. Safe in Brooklyn, not here. Not here, where the smell of mud and blood and piss sinks into the marrow of your bones, so deep that your hands itch to scratch at your own skin with the dull side of a blade, knowing, despite it, that the smell would never wash off. Not here, where the only sound is of the pained wail of the private shot twice in the stomach and his leaden gasp as you put him out of his misery. Not here, where the only touch to be found is the frantic slap of skin between two men carrying the illicit air of darkness, desperately trying to give each other what they cannot give themselves.

But now, it's three days after Azzano, and Steve is here.

****

Steve is not supposed to be here, but Bucky can almost make out the heated arguments between him, Agent Carter, and Colonel Phillips in the meeting room. The War isn’t supposed to touch him, isn’t supposed to dim the light in his eyes, isn’t supposed to break him apart and leave him with mismatched pieces.

It’s not that he thinks Steve is weak. He’s capable – he’s always been capable, even when he was picking ill-timed fights with men twice his weight. God, does Bucky hate everyone who underestimates Steve because of his size. He thinks back to the Eugenics Record Office; thinks of the people they sent to the Manhattan slums, looking for the “feeble-minded.” Fuckers would’ve taken Steve away if they knew everything his body tried killing him for. Asthma. Arrhythmia. Nervous trouble. As if Steve wasn’t the smartest goddamn person he knew, eating through history books and war stories; art alongside strategy. Try to hustle little Stevie Rogers in a game of chess and say goodbye to your pocket money.

Bucky thinks back to Steve’s pithy little phrase – I can do this all day, muttered with conviction, even with blood spilling out the corner of his mouth – and it makes him want to cry. Yell. Fuck, anything to get the black tar pit in his lungs out. I know you can do this all day Steve, he thinks, I just don’t know if I can.

But Bucky presses on.

Even if Steve is big and broad and can do this all day while Bucky just wants to lie down in the blood-soaked dirt until 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8 is a meaningless set of numbers and nothing more.

He will smoke and clean his guns and clutch a thrice-assembled rifle just to stand next to Steve. He presses on because what is he if not an essential component of his friend’s blinding light. What use is a limb without a body?

****

And Steve is here. And Bucky is tucked into the corner of Steve’s private quarters, smoking through his last pack of Lucky Strikes, and cleaning his rifle for the nth time since his capture.

The door opens with a quiet snick and Bucky hears the gentle whirr of its gears. He’s never been able to hear it before; it’s just another reminder of how things have changed. Soft steps inch closer to where he’s sitting.

Without looking up, he knows it’s Steve. Even if Steve’s body has changed. Even if other people see him like Bucky always has, Bucky will always know it’s him. His gait, hampered by years of scoliosis, his particular way of breathing, mastered to overcome pernicious asthma. Steve is carved indelibly into the grooves of Bucky’s soul.

They haven’t talked since they fled Azzano.

Steve has been holed up in meeting after meeting, too busy getting chewed out by Colonel Phillips to spend time watching Bucky assemble the same goddamn rifle over and over.

But Steve is here now. And he’s sitting next to Bucky.

Bucky sets down his cleaning rod and the partially disassembled rifle and looks up at Steve.

“Hey pal,” Steve whispers, as if afraid to spook him. “It’s late.”

Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes for a moment, staring into that deep, familiar, blue. He turns to gaze at his feet again. Tentatively, he touches his pinky to where Steve’s hand is splayed out in front of him. It’s the first time they’ve touched –really touched, not the short, utilitarian assurances in Azzano– since the night Bucky shipped out.

“Yeah Steve, it is.”

“Can you sleep here with me? Just tonight.” Steve takes his hand, turning the hesitant contact between them into something solid and real.

Bucky tightens his grip on Steve’s hand and tries to give him the same cocky, self-assured grin he’d give to girls back home. He fails, and Steve knows it too. “Okay Stevie. Just tonight.”

They both putter about the room, preparing to go to bed in silence. Bucky finishes reassembling his rifle and puts it away. Steve changes out of his uniform into something more comfortable, but no less unfamiliar. The tension between them is a taut string, as though acknowledging the reality of their situation, that they’re just two boys from Brooklyn stuck in the European front, would cause it to snap.

It’s taut with something else too, an expectant air, just waiting for them to act on it.

Eventually, they find themselves lying in the same bed. Bucky’s front is pressed along the line of Steve’s broad back, his arms wrapped around Steve’s torso. Their legs twine together under the scratchy blanket. He can feel Steve’s breathing: it’s even and steady, unlike every time they’ve laid together in Brooklyn under the guise of keeping warm.

Steve turns to face him, tucking his face into Bucky’s chest; he can feel the warm wetness of Steve’s breath through his military-issue shirt. He kisses the depression right underneath the swell of Bucky’s pecs before pushing himself up his body, drawing a thin line with his lips as he goes. When he reaches Bucky’s neck he scrapes the thin skin with his teeth – not enough pressure to leave a mark, but enough to sting – and pauses, as if waiting for Bucky to object.

Oh. Bucky knows what this is. The kissing and the petting – it’s something they do sometimes, when they feel filled to the brim with emotion. Like a too-tight sweater pulled over a hollow and brittle skeleton. Their touch is always rough and harried, done in the dark shadows without any of the endearments, no sweetheart or baby, no ‘I love you’s whispered into sweat-slick skin.

Bucky’s bones have felt like dust since he was first laid out on Zola’s cold metal table, fire racing through his veins and burning his insides to ash.

He feels Steve kiss the space behind his ear, obviously having taken Bucky’s lack of protest for acquiescence. A half-choked sound makes its way out of Bucky’s mouth.

“You really wanna do this here?” Bucky can hear the rest of the base’s men, suddenly all too conscious of the thin walls.

Steve merely shushes him by pressing a wisp of a kiss to his lips. “Just be a good boy, Buck. Silent.”

Steve’s hands settle on Bucky’s waist like a firebrand, pushing his shirt up. Taking the hint, Bucky strips it off quickly, leaving his chest bare and arching his back to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve takes advantage of the newly-revealed skin, rubbing his face into Bucky’s flat stomach before pressing the flat of his own tongue into the valley of his pecs through to his adonis belt.

Bucky pulls at the hem of Steve’s shirt, wanting him to take it off, but Steve bats his hands away.

“Patience,” he whispers, “let me take my time.”

Steve’s words make Bucky feel unmoored, and he’s hit with the realization that this touch feels different from all the other times they’ve sought comfort in each other’s bodies. It’s heavy with meaning Bucky cannot discern, bogged down by an uncharacteristic softness.

Every other time they’ve touched each other, it was rough, the quick release of two boys bathing in the aftermath of adrenaline, trying to shore up pieces of themselves before they wither into sand. It’s desperate and unwise suckjobs in dark alleys, frantic fucks after fights.

It’s always a vicious cycle. They wait until right before they break, when the threads holding them together start to fray.

They fuck.

Then it's waiting again. Until they’re butting right up against the edge of a ravine.

They don’t kiss. They don’t take their time– and they sure as hell don’t talk about it.

The first time they comforted each other like this was after Sarah Rogers’ funeral. Bucky remembers it clearly– Steve, all 5’4 of him in his ill-fitting suit, pressing Bucky to the wall of his apartment and sinking down to his knees. Steve gave him a suckjob, fast and dirty, before wiping his lips off with a grin and a cheeky “thanks.” He stood up and walked away, like it never even happened.

It’s a far cry from the Steve mouthing quiet kisses into every scar he can find and carding fingers through his hair.

To Bucky, every breath shared between them feels stolen. Steve is a righteous slip of morning, beautiful in his dissonance against Bucky’s dark concrete and flood lights. He is a boy playing with matches against Steve’s bright forest fire.

Bucky pulls away from the sweet kisses, instead sinking his fingers into Steve’s blonde hair and pulling, trying to wrest control of the situation. He doesn’t understand the softness; he needs to make it hurt.

Bucky tugs at Steve’s trousers forcefully, leaving no room for negotiation. He mouths at the tent of Steve’s cock, still clothed in his underwear, and inhales the virile scent of him in the crease of his pelvis.

Bucky lifts a hand to squeeze at Steve’s ass, feeling the plush softness there before dipping his fingers across his waistband. Steve’s hand covers Bucky’s for a moment, just holding it there before Bucky pulls away and Steve finally pushes down his boxers.

Every second makes him feel more and more desperate, so when Steve’s fingers grab his hair tightly and tug his face back, he feels nothing but relief. Relief that Steve’s misplaced softness will stay saved up for the right person, kept safe and tucked away from his greedy hands.

Bucky can’t help but trace his tongue against the prominent vein of Steve’s cock. In response, Steve lets out a quiet growl, pushing his hips in, forcing himself further down Bucky’s throat until he gags on it.

Two fingers make their way into Bucky’s mouth, petting at his tongue and making him choke.

Steve’s return to familiar roughness is medicine and poison, intertwined and inseparable. Bucky will take whatever he can get until it burns right through him.

****

Sometime in the dark of night, after they’ve both cleaned up any trace of their coupling, Bucky blinks awake. They’re both in bed together, Steve spooning him from behind, a mocking parody of their earlier connection. This too, feels stolen, but Bucky lost all his will to resist Steve’s tenderness after the waves of his pleasure crested and crashed.

He pushes himself deeper into the curve of Steve’s frame and doesn’t try to leave. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries not to wake his companion, too afraid Steve will realize that he’s surrendering all this softness to a tainted man and pull away.

Just for a moment, Bucky can convince himself that someday, the war will be over.

He wraps himself in Steve’s warmth and breathes in his scent. Someday, he will have this again– not in between bouts of gunfire and dangerous missions, but after a day at the office, or at the docks. For Steve, he’ll build himself up from patchy switchgrass and burned down weeds. He’ll walk into their shared apartment and find his Stevie safe, smelling of the same paint that dusts his coveralls. Steve will smile at him, and they’ll both laugh. Someday, he swears to himself, when the war is over, we’ll be together.

In the meantime, he closes his eyes, and shifts closer to Steve, committing the embrace to memory.