#tagging I GUess.

[micamicster]

I Knew I Loved You Before I Met You

Have a Bucky scene! This is supposed to be the b-side to whatever much more serious story I was writing in Sam's pov (link to that snippet). As I will probably never finish these please don't take them seriously <3

Also this isn't canon compliant but Marvel isn't real you know

~

Sometimes he thinks Sam is the only good thing about the future. Sometimes he thinks that Sam’s everything good about the future. If there’s a difference between those two thoughts, he doesn’t have any better words for it.

When he’d first met Sam—well, depending on your definition, they’ve had several first meetings. By one definition he’d either ripped his steering wheel out through his windshield, yanked him out of the sky, or tried to put him through a wall face first. Bucky doesn’t really remember those ones. He just has to go off of the (obviously exaggerated and totally unreliable) versions Sam recounts when he decides to seize the opportunity offered by the question ‘how did you two meet?’ and make Bucky squirm.

If Bucky doesn’t remember it, he thinks it doesn’t count. Maybe it’s the first time Sam met him, but the first time he met Sam was during the year Sam and Steve were chasing him.

A year of drawing smaller and smaller circles around them as they sighed and fought and slept and drove and kicked the frozen rocks in the Hindu Kush or the Smokey Mountains, squinting into the sun like it had any clues to give them, anything at all. The first time Bucky met Sam, it had been through a rifle scope.

He’d met him in the air. Watched him from a hundred paces upwind twisting against the blue, soaring, looping around the sun. Sam eating tacos in the passenger side of a jeep, laughing at Steve’s beet red face and playing it off like he wasn’t coughing on the spice himself. Teaching Steve to fist bump, complete with explosion noises. Rumpled and serious over stacks of files in a diner, too late or too early for company. Dark eyes tracking bullet paths from sniper rifles he didn’t place, cautious in the face of Steve’s leaping optimism, watchful where Steve throws a wave or salute, reserving judgment. Sam.

Sam says these don’t count. Meeting someone according to Sam, who is casting himself as an authority on the subject, involves walking up to them, introducing yourself, getting their name, and shaking hands. “Two people gotta be involved! The time you watched me choke on an m&m through my bedroom window and didn’t even intervene, ain’t meeting, Boo Radley. It’s called stalking, and I’m adding it to your rap sheet.” Sam marches over to the poster paper hanging off the bathroom door and scribbles on it.

Bucky follows him, glowering. “By that definition, I’ve never met anybody.”

“By that definition,” Sam mimics. “Man, don’t give me that poor-little-orphan-boy act. What, they didn’t have handshakes in the 30s? Didn’t have names? ‘Never met anybody,’ You’re so full of shit.”

“Never met anybody important,” Bucky concedes, for the sake of the brief moment where Sam blinks at him. Sincerity always catches him off guard. Bucky has to be careful not to overuse this tactic or risk diminishing returns, but it’s worth it for his startled, wide eyes, the barely noticeable hitch in his stream of words.

In that moment of silence he leans over Sam’s shoulder to read the additions to the list. Stalking, and Watched me coughing for a full minute and didn’t break in to give me the heimlich. “I thought you were for prison abolition.”

“I’m not asking for jail time, I’m asking for reparations. I coulda died, man!”

Bucky lets his face go dour and gloomy in response to the teasing, a look that never fails to increase Sam’s enjoyment of a situation.

“Look out, Eeyore,” he says gleefully. “Your face might stick that way.”

“Too late. It froze like this in cryo.”

Sam’s delighted cackle is loud enough to attract Natalia’s attention, and Bucky carefully suppresses his reaction—his face might look blank and intimidating to others, but Tasha can pick out a mockable emotion at a hundred paces.

Her attention is enough to distract Sam, rerouting him into the kitchen where he starts fussing with the coffee pot. Bucky trails after him to hover silently in the doorway like an Eeyore balloon at the Thanksgiving Day Parade, avoiding eye contact with Natalia. She thinks she’s so fucking funny.

Good things about the future: Drunken noodles from Royal Siam with fresh basil and lime, extra spicy the way Sam orders it on movie nights. Losing at spades to Sarah and Cousin Jay, Sam blaming him for their downfall every hand of the game. Cass facetiming him from the kitchen table in Delacroix, history homework all spread out in front of him, both of them ignoring Sam shouting, ‘amnesiac, A-M-N-Something-S-iac, definition ‘he don’t know shit,’  you’re better off trying wikipedia,” from the couch.

“Man, just ask me.” Sam doesn’t bother turning around, but his amusement is palpable in the set of his shoulders, the back of his neck.

He sighs. “Who’s Bo Rad Lee”

The crinkle at the corners of Sam’s eyes, when he wears his smug stupid face. That’s a good thing about the future.

~

[robyn-i-guess]

liking someone platonically is so embarrassing like. yeah i admire you. yeah i think about you all the time. yeah i look forward to every time i see you even if it's only for a minute. yeah it's all platonic and yeah i couldn't explain this because it'd sound romantic. fucking hell

[daisyofwaterdeep]

had a dream I went to a hozier concert and mr. hozier stopped singing and pointed to me in the crowd and asked me to go get him some extra crispy tofu and a blueberry shake for after the show and then the crowd passed his debit card to me and when I got it I could see his real legal name was Horace Bob-omb

[12neonlit-stage]

you're allowed to discuss and work together, reblog for a higher sample size or something

You have 1 week, good luck!

[noddynods]

Story of my life

[helpimstuckinafandom]

I'M FUCKING CRYING LMAOOO

[goldensunset]

curious about something so i want to conduct a free-response survey. who (or what) first comes to your mind when you hear the name sebastian

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(break so that you see the post independently before any tags)

[my-darling-boy]

I was at a bookstore looking through the art section and I saw a spine that said The Camden Town Nudes which was interesting because this didn’t seem like the bookstore where I would ever find something like that and I wanted to have a casual look but like. This also wasn’t exactly the bookstore where you felt like you could look at naked pictures let alone just suggestive paintings of them, it’s a really small shop as well, so I was like right I’ll just take a quick peek, I’m an art student, I love history, maybe I’ll buy it. I looked both ways and saw the shopkeep had left momentarily and no one was about, so I opened it and found it was an entire book featuring nude Edwardian women all painted by Walter Sickert between 1905-1912 and it was actually quite a revolutionary set of paintings for its time given that it featured very raw depictions of working class nude women in dark London instead of the elegant, white bedsheet clad, Demure middle and upper class women usually depicted.

And of course RIGHT as I flip to this lady’s boobs practically taking up an entire double page spread, every customer in a 5 mile radius appeared from around the corners of the shelf including the shopkeep and immediately regressing to a wet, pathetic Edwardian man from 1908, startled, I dropped the large book which caused a giant SLAP on the floor in this already silent store thus causing all patrons to look down at me scrambling on my knees to close a giant book of Edwardian boobs and let me tell you it would not have been nearly as funny had I not immediately felt like some Edwardian local pervert who just tried to sneak a cheeky peek at the erotic book in the bookstore only to drop it dramatically causing a scene, red up to his ears trying to shove it back on the shelf. Like such a casual and normal thing in modern day but looking at Edwardian women suddenly turned it into this egregious act as I apparently became possessed by the spirit of a moustached man in a bowler hat and morning coat going Good Heavens I mustn’t gaze upon these images in public lest the constable haul me away!

[pillowspace]

GIRLY JUST FOUND OUT ABOUT CYERCE ELEGANS

If Cyerce nigricans is a butterfly, then this is a fairy... Cyerce nigricans for comparison:

[bacchuschucklefuck]

couldnt draw my thang for mid-autumn so treated myself to a calne redesign instead

[lillybean730]

[hawberries]

this is the chilchuck situation . to me

(a reference to twelfth night (2009) ft anne hathaway)

[autistickaitovocaloid]

Today in vc we discussed the concept of a gmod funeral so I drew my interpretation.

[endrae]

Also worked on @bg3zine 's cover for the nsfw side of the zine! This is the final picture without any cover elements, just everyone chilling in good company!

[aluminumneedles]

I'm knitting in the corner at a party

and guys my age stop by to tell me I remind them of their aunt, of their grandmother. This is a compliment and I take it as such. They confess to having tried crochet once, and I smile. They get back in line for the bathroom.

I'm knitting in the corner at a party and a queer woman sits on the floor next to me, arranges her skirt, and smiles up at me. (I try not to blush.) She asks me all the questions on her mind about my craft and I answer them, hands still moving. We swap yarn sources. She doesn't stay, but she knows where to find me.

I'm knitting in the corner at a party and everyone knows where to find me when they need a minute, when socializing is too much and the music is too loud and they need to catch their breath. They pretend to be checking in on me, which is sweet, but I can see the relief in their eyes the moment they stop performing for a house full of people. They sit down and tell me things and all the while they never take their eyes off my hands.

The party has wound down and I'm still knitting and the hosts, two guys in their twenties, thank me for "helping to curate the vibe." I had no idea that's what I was doing. I leave the party having forgotten to drink anything and without that woman's number but with many rows added to my top-down raglan sweater. I call it a night, and a good one.

[zzoupz]

more mouthwashstuck.

the first one