#i’m hispanic and my spanish is terrible but DEAR GOD

[gojo-inabox]

looking for miguel content, some great finds so far but the amount of people who are just fetishizing him and making him the ‘latin lover' stereotype is so perplexing and odd bruh

[tisfan]

All American Road Trip

Chapter One: Get out the Map | Chapter Two: (A Very Little) Leg Room

Chapter Three: (You’re Gonna) Sing the Words Wrong

I told a girl that my prospects were good And she said baby, it's understood Working for peanuts is all very fine But I can show you a better time Baby you can drive my car Yes I'm gonna be a star Baby you can drive my car And maybe I'll love you

--Drive My Car, The Beatles 

There were a lot of things that Steve Rogers had missed about his best friend, Bucky Barnes, when Bucky had been lost to a combat mission. Had fallen from the train and in that one instance had taken everything -- everything -- in Steve’s life that had been good and constant and true.

He’d missed Bucky’s wit; the man was far too clever for his own good. Which had been a real morale boost during the war. Even when Bucky was suffering (and Steve had known that he was, but hadn’t known how to help, and Bucky had been so desperately trying to pretend that everything was normal, so Steve had just… let him) he was able to make quips and jokes and kept the men entertained.

Steve had missed Bucky’s steadfastness; there’d been something unbreakable between them. Neither of them would ever, could ever, leave the other behind. Steve knew, always, Bucky had his back. Which was good, because quite frankly, Steve had needed that when he was younger and smaller and couldn’t seem to shut the fuck up. His need to prove himself had gotten him into more trouble than it had ever gotten anyone else out of. And Bucky had kept him alive, almost despite himself. (There were times when Steve had legitimately wondered if he’d been suicidal the whole time; wanting some back-alley thug to take him out, rather than choking on his own blood in a bed somewhere.)

He had not, however, missed Bucky’s singing.

Dear fucking Christ on a pogo stick.

More Below the Cut or read the whole thing on A03 [x]

Sam had found some music -- Steve was never going to reconcile modern artists to being musicians -- and the start of his gap-toothed smile had crept out as he hummed along. Sam had a nice voice, soothing, sort of like molasses-dark and a little burr in the way he dropped certain words that made Steve feel warm and happy.

And then Bucky started singing from the back seat.

The way he was sitting put Bucky’s face -- and therefore his mouth -- right next to Steve’s ear, which was completely unnecessary, since Steve could hear him perfectly well. Could have heard him pretty well if he’d been in the car behind them. In fact, that might have been preferable.

And the way he was sprawled in the backseat -- Natasha had once called it man-spreading -- and Steve had to admit when he twisted around to look, Bucky was taking up way more space than he needed to. Steve had seen the man’s bits and balls before, and he was pretty sure that even pumped full of Hydra’s knock-off version of the serum, Bucky didn’t quite need enough room between his thighs for an entire women’s volleyball team. It was distracting as hell once Steve noticed it, because then he kept wanting to look back there. That vee between Bucky’s thighs, the way the denim pulled over his legs and clung to his muscles, was a bitter temptation.

That was something else Steve had missed about Bucky, still missed about Bucky, since Bucky hadn’t yet made any sort of indications that their physical/romantic relationship was something Bucky wanted to pick back up where they’d left it off. Not that Steve blamed him; God only knew what sort of trauma Bucky had endured. Steve wasn’t going to be the one to start it. When Bucky was ready, he’d let Steve know. And if he never was? Well, Steve’s hand worked perfectly well.

Which did not, apparently, mean he was immune to Buck’s physical charms. Didn’t mean his eyes weren’t constantly wandering over the man’s body, storing up images and impressions to use at a later time.

Except for right now.

Because Bucky was singing, and how the fuck did he even know the words to this song?

“Seriously,” Steve said, finally, after the fifth or sixth song in a row that Bucky had known, word (if not note) perfect, “this is what you remember? How do you only know half of your life and yet you can sing Miley Cyrus?”

Buck shrugged one massive shoulder. “Don’t know. Just know.”

Steve didn’t want to say anything. He’d adjusted the rearview mirror a few times trying to see around Bucky’s head and failed miserably, but maybe that was okay, because he could check traffic behind them in the sides and watching Bucky’s face while he was singing was almost worth the terrible noises coming out of his throat. Bucky was singing. And he looked… happy.

And that was enough for Steve.

Except that after a while Steve was starting to look forward to commercials. Anything. Because dear sweet Mary, Bucky’s voice was terrible. And loud.

Bucky’s happiness, however, did not seem to be enough for Sam.

Just a small town girl Livin' in a lonely world She took the midnight train goin' anywhere Just a city boy Born and raised in south Detroit He took the midnight train goin' anywhere A singer in a smoky room A smell of wine and cheap perfume For a smile they can share the night It goes on and on, and on, and on --Don't Stop Believin', Journey

Sam punched the silver button, cutting Barnes off mid-note. For just a moment, the abused and tortured syllable lingered in the empty air while Sam scrolled through the available FM stations, trying to find something else.

He paused on a country station -- not that country music these days was anything other than pretty boys and girls with carefully cultivated hick images that sang songs specifically to pander to a middle-aged white audience and was therefore one of Sam’s most hated sorts of music on the planet -- but as soon as Barnes caught the rhythm, he was right back to singing. And if there was something that Sam wasn’t going to tolerate, it was the fucking Winter Soldier telling him that his tractor was sexy.

Just no.

Sam kept scrolling through the dial. Rap. Two beats and Barnes was rapping along, which was almost tolerable. Sam was pained by the theory of a white man rappin’, but it was somewhat better than the singing, in that Barnes’s I-just-had-the-most-amazing-sex-ever voice was better suited to rap than to any actual melody (Sam would have killed for an in-car karaoke set that had auto-tuner) but there was still back up singing, and Barnes’s voice wandered in and out of the proper range.

Sam couldn’t take much of that, either. Bad enough listening to Barnes butcher music, it was worse when it was music that Sam liked. Which meant he skipped right over the Motown station that Sam was familiar with from mid-state. Because just. No and some more no.

He stopped briefly on a hispanic station, the immediately identifiable sounds of a mariachi band coming out of the speakers. Surely, at least this would be something Barnes was unfamiliar with.

No such luck.

“How th’ hell do you even know Spanish?” Sam demanded, turning all the way around in his seat and the belt cutting into his neck.

“Forty million people in the United States alone speak Spanish,” Barnes said, “and four hundred million worldwide.” He paused, tongue flicking out to wet his top tip. “A sixth of the world’s population speaks Chinese, mostly Mandarin. The pervasive, slow power of American culture has not yet nudged English past third place as the most commonly spoken language, half a billion world-wide, most of them as a second language.”

“Well, that’s some good old-fashioned propaganda comin’ out of your mouth, Barnes,” Sam said, eyebrow quirking.

Barnes actually smirked. “You think American culture ain’t propaganda, I got bad news for you, pal.”

Sam sighed and fiddled the knob again, finally coming across a classical station with no words, which was boring, but at least easier on his ears.

Right up until Barnes started humming.

Seriously. How the fuck was he even doing that?

“What’s the next turn?” Steve asked. The way his hands were on the wheel, ten and two, you’d think the man was a proper driver. He wasn’t. He tail-gated and passed with inches to spare, and generally acted like the other drivers were combat enemies rather than people doing their daily commutes.

“We close enough now, there should be road signs,” Sam sighed. He hated looking at maps. Even if Steve had let him draw all over them with highlighters. He traced their route… gave the next turn.

“After this, we eat,” Barnes piped up. “I ain’t carin’ about any dead author’s house, Stevie, but if you don’t feed me soon, I will kill an’ eat the weakest member of our party.”

Sam did not look around to see if Barnes was staring at him, because if he was, then Sam was just going to have to punch him, and supersoldiers were notoriously hard-headed.

Also, Sam wasn’t entirely sure that Cap would back his play, this time.

“There’s snacks in the footwell,” Steve said.

“Not anymore, there ain’t,” Barnes said.

“What?”

“I ate ‘em all,” Barnes reported. “What of ‘em you didn’t eat. In case you hadn’t noticed, been handin’ em to you for the last fifty miles at least.”

Steve took his eyes off the road for a heart-stopping moment to verify that, yes, there were snack bar wrappers scattered all over the front seat’s foot wells. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

Sam did turn to catch that expression. Barnes was angry, exasperated, but under that, a touch scared. There was fear in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes darted around the tiny car. Knowing he was trapped in the back seat, that getting out past Steve would be an effort.

“Dude’s hungry,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat. “Best feed ‘im or it’s goan be your Irish ass on the line.”

“All right,” Steve said, his fingers tightening on the wheel for just a second, long enough for the cheap plastic to creak before he eased up. “Let’s catch this museum, and then we’ll have some lunch?”

Sam let Steve get ahead before getting out of his seat and pulling it forward so Barnes could clamber out of the back. The man’s spine looked painfully twisted already and he stretched mightily, showing off a brief flash of skin as his shirts pulled free.

Sam spoke quietly, both hoping that Cap would hear him and hoping that Cap wouldn’t. There was this destroyed look on Steve’s face every time he was reminded of what Barnes had been through. “You know, we ain’t your handlers. If you’re hungry, say so. You’re allowed to eat. Or sleep. Or take a piss.”

“Seventy year’s habit, hard to break,” he said, patting Sam’s arm hard enough to knock him two steps sideways. “If you’re feelin’ so sorry f’r the poor little Winter Soldier, y’could let me ride shotgun a while.”

“Hey, fuck you, man,” Sam said.

Barnes flashed him a barely there grin. “Buy a book, while we’re in’ere, okay? I’ll read it. Better’n singing.”

“Anything’s better than your singing, man,” Sam said and that wasn’t nothing but the truth. So help him Jesus.

“An’ I get shotgun.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine.”

Well, me and Mark Twain were having us a ball Telling each other lies, floating down from Hannibal With a bottle and a worm and a cane pole We were fishing for secrets where the catfish crawl And the Mississippi River's flowing downstream Meet the Gulf of Mexico somewhere downstream Meet the Atlantic Ocean somewhere downstream Gonna meet you in the water somewhere downstream Well, we picked up Harry Truman floating down from Independence We said "What about the war?", he said "Good riddance" We said "What about the Bomb, are you sorry that you did it?" He said "Pass me that bottle, and mind your own business" --Downstream, The Rainmakers

He wasn’t sure why Steve insisted on the stops; visiting the homes of famous people long dead had been barely interesting even before they were both older than the person in question. Now that he had lived -- sporadically it was true -- through a century, he found himself utterly uninterested in history.

Fashions had changed again. He’d been trained to blend in, so his eye was drawn to the differences in clothing between the older tourists and the younger ones. Brightly dyed and oddly cut hair was back in style; he hadn’t missed that when the eighties had passed, but at least this time he was old enough to not be expected to blend into a punk scene.

The tour attendant had noticed Steve. Of course she had, it was impossible not to notice Steve; the man was blinding in his grace and beauty. He shone so bright it was hard to look away; everything was dingy and smaller after he’d walked into the room. Using the distraction to slip away, avoiding the useless and somewhat tidied up historical information, he’d found his way to an employee break room.

No one was about, so he took the opportunity to raid the fridge. Someone’s turkey sandwich went missing, along with two bags of chips, a soda, and a bottle of exceptionally sweet tea. Yuck. Oh, look, cake. Only a day or two old. Not that he’d really care about that, he’d been known to eat food from bins on really bad days. This time, at least, he had a few twenties in his pocket; he left two in the employee fridge. Hopefully it would do.

Steve hadn’t even noticed the few moments that he was missing; that was good to know. If he decided that he needed to leave, he might get a few minutes lead before Steve was tearing the world apart looking for him again.

“Where’d you vanish off to, Barnes?”

Well, maybe not. Wilson had eyes; probably not so keen as his namesake, but good enough. Sneaking away and around on him was going to be like dodging the Black Widow. Possible, but he’d have to chose his moment carefully.

Why are you still planning to leave?

He pushed that aside. The habit of more than half a life’s span was hard to break. He always, always had an exit plan. He hadn’t stayed alive as long as he had by getting soft and complacent.

“There was cake in the breakroom,” he reported. “Still is.”

“Man, I ain’t eatin’ someone else’s cake,” Wilson said, eyes rolling up. “You--”

“Michael Phelps.”

“What now?”

“Olympic swimmer--”

“I know who Michael Phelps is, man,” Wilson interrupted. “What’s he got to do with you stealin’ someone’s cake.”

“For performance quality health, Phelps consumes twelve thousand calories per diem,” he continued. “Similar to functionality as an enhanced individual.”

“You eat twelve--”

“Steve is more efficient,” he said, shrugging. “Twelve is enough for him. My required intake on mission is more like eighteen.”

“Dude, you’re goan starve to death on this trip if Cap doesn’t up his game,” Wilson opined.

He shrugged. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t on mission, so his needs were less. And it’s not like they were road tripping in Siberia, where food was hard to find. The amount of high-intake food in American cities was obscene.

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think I’d need to tell you this,” he said, “but you are Cap’s whole life. Suffering in silence isn’t goan cut it with him. You saw what that man did to protect you; don’t you be makin’ it all for nothing.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” he managed to say around the lump in his throat. Of course he knew Steve had given up so much to protect him. Even when he didn’t deserve it. Annoying as it was, because he’d been doing fine without Steve around; things had actually been easier when Steve wasn’t around. Steve had a way of making everything louder. More urgent.

“Man, I don’t,” Wilson said. “I care about Cap, let’s get that straight. I near to made myself an exile for life to give him a chance of having you back again. That’s the smallest item on the tally of what you owe that man, so don’t you forget it.”

He scowled. “I didn’t ask him to.”

“Since when did that ever matter?”

Fuck.

[cheerstocrazy]

ONS Fit for GIRLS

First off I can’t believe I drove all the way to FUCKING HIGHLAND PARK FOR THIS!!! girl!! Are you that desperate??? I was walking down the street, and I saw him. He was shorter and bigger than I imagined. Saw the peacoat, saw the skinny pants, saw the doc martens and was like ehh.His voice was wayy higher pitched than I wanted. He sounded really nervous and like someone was pinching his throat when he talked. We got to the first bar and he didn’t even open the door and walk behind me!! BRUHHHHH, chivalry is dead. When we got to the darkly-lit hipster bar, he said in the most chipper and gay way “OKAY WELL SINCE YOU DROVE SO FAR, FIRST ROUND’S ON ME!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!” I will never forget the laughter afterward. My thoughts were just “Omg he’s gay fml. Also bitch, you’re getting every fucking round, or I’ll end your life.” He mostly talked about med school, which took up half the convo and we talked about Spanish and how we both studied abroad in Spain. I got a gin cocktail -- really good, really strong. There were these 2 drunk blonde hyenas who were sitting next to us and driving us insane. He wasn’t that great of a conversationalist, but he answered all my questions. We left to the next bar. The 2nd bar was cool and felt like a neighborhood bar. Got a beer and talked music and movies. He was like Ladybird wasn’t that good to which I wanted to slap him across the face. We talked about Michael B. Jordan and Fruitvale Station, which he surprisingly knew!! I legit thought he was joking bc he looked so unenthused. He said he liked Sufjan Stevens and started to nerd out abt LOTR, and I was like bruh please shut up. We went to the 3rd bar which was super loud and packed. I was mildly buzzed then got real drunk after my 3rd beer. We were screaming into each other’s ears at this point. The convo was dying down, but I directed it back to med school bc I knew that was a safe topic and he wasn’t asking me anything, but I knew he would talk. When I started to drink heaps of water, he was like do you wanna get out of here? Do you want to go back to play with my cat or go home? I said, I’ll play with your cat, who was the fattest, fluffiest, chillest cat EVER. It was really fun to be drunk and pet a cat that’s basically a dog. It waddles bc it’s 12 and has arthritis. I just kept petting it and wouldn’t look up while he sat near me grunting and breathing heavily. It was traumatizing, and he srsly needed to chill. I hate when guys don’t take initiative to kiss me/make the first move. That actually annoys me when they wait for me to look up or do everything. He was an absolutely terrible kisser. His kisses were super short and choppy -- he never let the kisses just linger or be passionate. It was annoying for me. I was like r u a dying fish WHY? I felt the muscles in his back when I was holding him, so he’s thick but at least he works out?? He just fingered me and I didn’t wanna do much else bc on period. I just tilted my head back and rolled my eyes, bc HE WASN’T EVEN GOOD. He kept putting his fingers against me and basically trying tostart a fire or spin a dj board. STOP IT.  It was so aggressive, not pleasureable. BLEGH He wanted to eat me out, bc he was slinking his head down there, but I was like dear god NO. When he was on top of me and abt to take his pants off (I was not attracted to his body), I was like are these shoe laces?? And he’s like THESE ARE JEGGINGS, THEY’RE NOT EVEN PANTS. HAHAHAHA!!! (The laugh that will forever haunt me) I was like oh god, I’m fucking a gay guy. Great. When we were making out, he said I don’t wanna make a mess. I thought he said I wanna have sex, to which I kept replying “on my period. no!” Lololol. His dick if really small, if I were to deep throat him, I don’t think it’d touch the back of my throat. I gave him a hj, and he’s like I don’t mind having sex with you on your period, so I said fine. Did that and NOT EVEN A MINUTE LATER, he stopped. I was like wtf why aren’t you doing anything (in my head), and it’s bc HE ALREADY NUTTED. I WAS SO LIVID!! WHO THE FUCK HAS SEX FOR A MINUTE????!?!?! WOW bye I hate him. He wasn’t even cuddly or anything, and I was so disappointed. SHOOK ugh. He passed out immediately. I slept on and off, but was mostly delirious. I had to set an alarm for the next morning. I was awake for most of the morning and was like when IS IT GONNA GO OFF?? When it did, I just turned it off immediately and closed my eyes bc I legit felt like I was dying. I couldn’t even open my eyes, I was so tired. I knew he got up earlier than me and got dressed a bit. He let me lie in bed for 5 more mins before awkwardly waking me up and saying hey, I think it’s gonna be 7 soon. I cant even imagine how awkward that was for him hahha. Hes like ugh, there’s a fucking stranger next to me (I felt the same when I was like I need my fucking earplugs). My hair was so disgusting and oily, the first thing I did when I got up was tie it up. I couldn’t find my clothes, and once I got dressed, I was like fuck Idek where my car is!! So I asked him if he could walk me to my car. The walk of shame is not fun when you’re with someone you were meh with. It wasn’t terrible, but I also considered rewinding and just walking myself out and getting lost for an hour trying to find my car instead. (Now I’m ok, and this experience is fine, but at the time it was just so groan inducing). Our body language, our faces -- we just weren’t having it. It was also super cold and he’s stupid and didn’t bring a sweater. We could’ve been filmed, it was a scene straight of Girls. Quiet and sleepy streets. Crisp morning. There was a Hispanic lady running through the streets with a scarf wrapped around her head like a balaclava. I thought it was so funny, and I wanted to laugh, but we weren’t on that level, I guess. When we got to my car, he wasn’t even abt to give me a hug, but we didn’t just sleep with each other not to do salutations without a hug. Goodbye!  His apt was super cute and his room was super nice and inviting. I would have loved to live in his apt and would decorate my room exactly like his. The ambiance was PERFECT, too bad he was the opposite of that.   White boi small dick mouther breather