Sebastian Stan on Bucky’s mindset when he decides not to let Steve die
By fifth and sixth period, both had given up any pretense of paying attention. Steve hadn’t flipped a page in his notebook for three hours. He just sat there and distractedly scratched out cartoon rats as he thought. And Bucky had hooked his feet onto the bottom of the seat in front of him, and leaned far back with his hands behind his head, and occasionally shot Steve a look of calm, accepting exasperation.
It wasn’t until lunch that the problem surfaced.
“I need to catch a rat,” Steve said. The lunch today was a watery kind of tomato soup and peas. He didn’t have much of an appetite, but he ate some peas anyway, the same way he did every day, always with a sort of vain hope that eating what was in front of him would lead to a growth spurt. “A big one. Or I guess a few small ones. But preferably a big one.”
THIS FIC COMES HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. I recced another fic by this author, “The Dud,” to which this is a sequel, although it stands on its own — although if you didn’t read that, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE? IT IS SO GOOD. As with that fic, the Brooklyn history in this is unbelievably rich and detailed without being distracting, and Bucky and Steve are similarly vividly drawn. Mostly the prose is just absolutely stunning, some of the best I’ve encountered anywhere in some time. I read this first thing this morning when I woke up and could barely take it. I need to read it again immediately. SO: YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO, FRIENDS. HIE THEE HENCE.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I’m just gonna leave this here and say that if you’re maybe into the thought of Bucky having a thing for skinny!Steve’s nipples, THEN THIS IS THE FIC FOR YOU
hot hot hotttttt
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHY DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS CAT BEFORE
HER NAME IS TAMA
AND SHE’S THE STATIONMASTER AT A TRAIN STATION IN JAPAN
SHE GREETS ALL THE PASSENGERS
AND SHE HAS HER OWN OFFICE
AND SHE’S PAID IN CAT FOOD
AND SHE IS A FUCKING EXECUTIVE OF A FUCKING RAILROAD STATION
AND LOOK AT HER
the trains are decorated with cartoon versions of her since she’s their mascot as well
MAN YOU GOTTA TALK ABOUT THE TRAIN MORE TOO THOUGH!!
FOR ONE THERES A LITTLE LIBRARY INSIDE WITH CHILDREN’S BOOKS!!
AND TAMA THEMED COUCHES AND BACKBOARDS!!!
AND THE FRONT HAS WHISKERS!!!
I MEAN CHECK THIS OUT!!
A TAMA CAFE!! AN ENTIRE TAMA GIFTSHOP!! TAMA NOTEBOOKS TAMA BAGS TAMA EARRINGS MORE TAMA STUFF I NEVER GOT PICTURES OF!! THERE IS SO MUCH TAMA !! THIS GODDAMN CAT!!
im sure ive reblogged this before but this cat makes me so happy
GO GO WEINER SOLDIER
Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.
It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.
Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.
It’s not about being “good in bed.”
It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.
Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.
I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.
Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what.
You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.
This isn’t a test.
I remember when I very first played Garak, I played him gay! I thought this would be great! He sees this young man, this young, very attractive doctor on the station, he is lonely, he is the only Cardassian there, this doctor is curious about him, and if you remember, this was a great moment because Sid totally went with it! When he comes up and he puts his hand on his shoulder, Sid did this great thing, it was this sort of an electrical charge that went through him and so I played him totally gay in that episode.
Of course the producers did not actually tell me not to play him gay but then they started writing him a little more macho and more like a Cardassian. But I said, “Listen, one of the great things about Garak is that he is not Gul Dukat, he is not one of those macho, militaristic guys, he is your finesse Cardassian.” So we struck a compromise but I was always very clear. I did not get into it in the book. Quite frankly, I was going to go in that direction. I had written a whole thing about Garak’s sexuality because I felt that Garak was sort of - talk about bisexual, I think that he was multisexual, essentially that anything that moves is fair game for Garak. He has a voracious sexual appetite.
The fact is Ultron is a clear present danger, and Bucky is in the wind. And we do mention the fact that that’s his sort of primary thing but he’s also working with The Avengers too. We’re not ignoring it but he definitely has to deal with a mad 8-foot robot… ‘cause that’s one of those things, you know, you put if off, and it just gets worse.
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.
|—||b.e.fitzgerald (Art is a Facebook status about your winter break.)|