listen I am all for fidget toys. But we need to go harder. Humans were actually not meant to sit through lectures without using their hands. Fight against the robotification of humanity. Do fibercrafts in your office/classroom/church. You do not need to sit there like the impassable ideal man. Do fibercrafts. Start embroidering at work. Listen to the call of the strings.
"The America I loved still exists, if not in the White House or the Supreme Court or the Senate or the House of Representatives or the media. The America I love still exists at the front desks of our public libraries."
I was so tempted to go back to 'You Are My Sunshine' with this, but I refrained. I loved this prompt so much!
CW: Nightmares
Sam woke up choking on a quiet sob. The dark, reaching fingers of the dream covered his eyes for a few seconds, painting the world in bloody landscapes and echoing screams. The bedroom faded into view too slowly. Not so much chasing away the phantom visions, as appearing behind them as they faded.
His heart ached fiercely and he felt he could barely breathe. As gently as he could, while his body throbbed with stress, he sat up and untangled the sheets from himself. He didn't get much further. Didn't even get his legs off the side of the bed. Just sat there, knees bent, fan blowing across hot sweat, and let everything hurt.
He put his fingers to the back of his arm, the side of his forearm, looking for scratches that weren't there, that had never been there. No one had ever gripped at him, looking for a savior. It was just a concoction of a guilty conscience.
"Sweetheart?" a voice said from the balcony door.
Sam almost came out of his skin. One hand went to the other side of the bed, searching for Bucky. The other reached for the handgun he kept between the bed and end table.
But Bucky wasn't beside him. The extra heat beneath the blanket was caused by the cats, who were ignoring him as he patted them down. He blinked away the moonlight glare and found Bucky's silhouette in the doorway instead.
"Why are you up?" Sam asked. And he sounded as tired as he felt.
"Long week without any action," Bucky said with a shrug. "You know I don't need a lot of rest outside of recovery."
"I give you plenty of action," Sam mumbled.
Bucky snorted and let himself back inside. Sam listened to him lock the door, then rattle it three times to make sure it was actually locked. The cats got hissy at being awakened and moved, but they each went their own way when Bucky kneeled near them.
"C'mere," he mumbled as he climbed into the bed. He kept one arm held up and Sam shifted near him. Bucky half-laid down, propped up on his hip and elbow. Sam adjusted too, sliding beneath the blanket again, curling up against Bucky's chest even though Bucky was always warm and Sam was on fire at the moment. He wanted the thump of Bucky's heart near enough to feel. He didn't care how much he sweated to get there. "There you go, I've got you. You're alright." Bucky relaxed against him, dropping his arm over Sam's side as they sank together.
"I don't feel alright," Sam said honestly. "I feel like..." Everything in his mind sounded so stupid. It didn't make sense. "I feel wrong," he finally settled on. "I feel like everything I've done is wrong. I don't want to close my eyes again."
"You don't have to close your eyes," Bucky said. "But you do have to lay here at least. You do need rest."
"I keep hearing it. I hear all of it. It just keeps echoing in my head." That, on top of everything else, was making a headache dig into his brain, stabbing and squeezing.
Bucky didn't ask what Sam heard. He didn't have to, and Sam didn't have to talk about it. But a few seconds later, Bucky began to hum. At first, Sam didn't recognize the tune. It was slow and uneven. Like Bucky was really thinking about every note.
Then he began to sing and Sam realized the hesitation was because he was pitching down a song.
"I love you for sentimental reasons. I hope you do believe me. I'll give you my heart."
Bucky had a voice that wasn't going to win him any competitions, but it sank into Sam's chest, curled around his heart like a warm, purring cat, and eased the ache of anything else hiding behind his ribs. Even with a nightmare still clinging to him, he couldn't help but ease a little, found himself sinking closer.
Bucky rubbed his hand over Sam's back gently, slow and firm. "I love you and you alone were meant for me. Please give your loving heart to me and say we'll never part."
The racing pain of his mind ebbed away as Sam focused on the places where they were touching. The way he could feel Bucky's breath as he sang against his hairline. His knee pressed up against the soft muscle of Bucky's thigh. Bucky's arm resting against his as he kept his hand on Sam's back. The way he could feel his own heartbeat right there, right where Bucky was touching the back of his ribs.
"I think of you every morning. Dream of you every night. Darling, I'm never lonely whenever you are in sight."
Sam let out a slow breath, tried to release the last of the tension in his ribs. The bed really was soft against his aching muscles. The blankets were warm, with Bucky right in front of him and one of the cats curled up behind his knees again. The fan overhead spun lazily, catching on spots of cooled sweat. Everything was fine. He was at home and no one was dying.
"I love you for sentimental reasons. I hope you do believe I've given you my heart. "
Sam dropped his forehead against Bucky's collarbone, eyes finally falling shut. His heart thundered for a second, a flash of terror about visions that didn't immediately come back. "I love you too, Buck," he breathed softly. "Could you... Could you keep humming it? Please?"
Bucky didn't say 'yes' or 'of course,' but Sam did get a series of gentle kisses across the crown of his head and a tight hug before Bucky began to hum the song again. Every now and then, he slipped into the lyrics, mumbling them seemingly without meaning to, whispers pressed against Sam's head as they laid together.
Sam put his hand over Bucky's chest, above his steady heartbeat. Bucky covered Sam's hand with his. If those terrors were his, he thought, at least this could be too.
as a writer you will have a specific deck of vocab words you like using a lot and when you read other peoples' work you will see a very clear spread of different vocab words on their end. this is why you need to read, to collect other writers' words like it's a card game
there is nothing a corporation hates more than having employees, but a close second is having to provide a good or service in order to make money. these two reasons concisely explain is why the ai bubble formed in the first place.
Choke. Just think about it, seriously. Think about what choking is and imagine speaking while it’s happening. That would fuckin’ hurt, man.
Hiss. Look, it’s just not possible, okay? No matter how “evil” you want your character to seem.
Snarl. Animals snarls. The Beast from Beauty and the Beast snarls. The Hulk snarls. You know who doesn’t snarl? PEOPLE WHEN THEY’RE SPEAKING.
Shriek. Come on, 99% of the time, “shriek” is not the word you want.Let’s face it: if you put an exclamation point at the end of the sentence, your reader gets the picture. Don’t bring to mind banshees and screaming toddlers.
Sneer. I’m not even going to bother explaining this one. “SNEER” ISN’T EVEN A SOUND.
Choked is not meant to be taken literally, an obstruction in the throat. It means they’re having difficultly speaking, they’re forcing the words out with difficulty. Often used when the character is convulsed in tears or laughter.
Hiss is a low, threatening whisper. Raw, guttural, vicious. It is NOT a literal hiss like an animal, it is a tone of voice that serves the same function. Someone will hiss that they’re going to cut your throat- a message from one person to the other.
Snarl is the same kind of thing. Not literal, it’s a tone of voice that serves the same function. It’s raw and gutteral like a hiss, but more savage than vicious. It’s loud, it’s showy, it’s intimidating. It’s very alpha male, big man, look at how fucking dangerous I am. I’ll take ALL of you on. Even if they’re snarling at one person in particular, nobody better back them up or they’re gonna get fucked up too.
Shriek. Come on, seriously? We’ve all heard people shriek either in fear or outrage. High pitched, loud, out of control, feminine. Men can shriek, but it’s funny and emasculating. Think angry italian women throwing pots and pans or ladies on tables who just saw a mouse.
Sneering is contempt whether it’s a facial expression or a tone of voice or both. There are a hundred different ways to sneer with your voice, but it all adds up to the same thing.
Either 1 or 16 for the 'put a guy in a situation' prompts, if you'd like? (Or, if you're really feeling it, one has a truth serum and one has a lie curse)
16. Meeting past/future self
I tried to force about a hundred other ideas but this fic really just wanted to be a companion piece to stuck in the space that you left and who am I to argue?
Bucky's ears are still ringing with the force of the blast when the sensation of falling abruptly stops. His eyes are still squeezed shut, his arms distressingly empty when they'd been holding Sam a second ago. Underneath him, where there had been the stone steps of the Capitol, he can feel something plush, the gentle give of springs and a fabric under his fingers worn soft by time.
His eyes are still closed when he hears a voice that makes his rising panic subside.
"You're okay, Buck," says Sam, a little ways away. Bucky hears the close of what sounds like a fridge door, and then Sam's voice is a little clearer. "You're in Delacroix, in my house. I know you were in DC a second ago, but you didn't lose any time or memories. You just traveled forward."
Sam's voice is so measured, so practiced, but Bucky still has trouble coming to grips with what he's saying. It doesn't escape his notice that in all of his orienting, Sam has failed to tell him what time he's apparently traveled to.
He opens his eyes, scanning his surroundings before he says anything. The house, at least, is familiar: Sam had put an offer in on a place about a year after taking up the shield, declaring that he needed to have a home that wasn't the Compound and wasn't Sarah's couch. He and Bucky had walked through the place, making lists of what needed replacing and repairing, hauling out abandoned furniture and filling dumpster after dumpster with rotten wood—the stairs were in such bad shape that for a while the only safe way to get upstairs was flying—and old fixtures.
Repairs on the place had been well under way when Bucky had been asked to run in the special election for the ninth district, the first step on the path that had led him so far away from Sam in every way that mattered. Still, the last time he'd been in this place, there had still been missing doors, the kitchen gutted and the original hardwoods that Sam loved so much still in need of a good sanding. Now, the new paint smell is long gone, the house filled up and undeniably lived in.
Bucky sits up and turns to look towards Sam, who's apparently busy with something at the stove. "You planning to tell me what year it is anytime soon?" he asks. "Or should I guess?"
Sam doesn't look back at Bucky, reaching out to grab a cutting board and scrape whatever's on it into what he's working with on the stove. There's the spitting sound of oil, softened to a quiet sizzle after a moment. He hears the sound of a wooden spoon scraping against a pan, and then Sam says, "I was waiting for you to be ready."
"You know it won't be the first time I've found myself decades in the future," says Bucky, narrowing his eyes as he examines his surroundings again. "I don't need to be coddled."
"When have I ever coddled you?" asks Sam. There's a metallic clank as he settles a lid onto whatever he's cooking, and Bucky has about half a second to brace himself before Sam finally turns around.
Side by side, Bucky's Sam and the one in front of him probably wouldn't look so different. This one may have glasses and a smattering of grays, but his shoulders are still broad, his grin still edged with mischief. A stranger would probably be impressed by how little has changed, but Bucky finds himself taken aback by how much is different. He's had years to observe Sam, of course, and the small advantage of being in love with him, but once he sees the changes, he can't stop.
There's a restfulness to Sam now, a looseness in his shoulders and jaw that looks like habit rather than respite. His movements, as long as Bucky has known them, have been clipped and efficient, the quickness of someone who always needs to have his hands moving. Bucky has entertained no small amount of fantasies about making Sam slow down, about keeping him in the moment and in his body and wringing enough pleasure out of him that Sam might maybe think it was worth doing again. Here, he watches Bucky from behind the kitchen island, palms flat on the counter and his gaze steady. However he found his way to stillness, a part of Bucky hopes that it was good.
"I'm going to guess at least twenty years," says Bucky, instead of answering Sam's question. "Your dad didn't go gray until his sixties, if the pictures are anything to go by. I'm guessing you're the same."
"Got my first one at fifty-five, actually," says Sam. "I blame you and your habit of jumping out of airplanes."
Bucky shrugs, like the idea of him remaining in Sam's life long enough to give him grays isn't the best thing he's ever heard. "So how close am I?"
"Pretty close," says Sam. "It's 2049 now. Twenty-two years since you were on the Hill."
All he can do is blink back at Sam, eyes wide as he takes in his surroundings with fresh eyes. It had felt easy to toss out 'twenty years' as a vague guess, but it's another thing entirely to know that it's true. Twenty-two years. They're twenty-two years away from where they were just a second ago, and Sam is still in this house, this place where he'd once told Bucky he'd thought about raising a family before superheroing had rendered it out of the question.
A thought occurs to Bucky then that makes his stomach lurch, but suddenly he needs to hear the answer to it.
"Are you married?" he blurts, his eyes darting around the room again for signs of an unfamiliar someone. "I know you thought about it, and you said the house was good for a family when you bought it, and—and you made it so beautiful here. Did you—I mean, is there someone?"
Sam's answering smile is so warm that Bucky almost doesn't hear his response. He points to Bucky's left, towards the entryway. "Should be a couple wedding pictures in the hallway, if you want to see them. The big one is my favorite."
He turns back to the stove then, and Bucky has a moment to wrestle with his curiosity and the sinking feeling in his stomach. Whoever it is who's got Sam smiling like that has to be a pretty decent person, but Bucky just isn't sure he's prepared to go back to his time carrying this knowledge with him. Even now, with how strained things have been between him and Sam, there's an understanding that it's so tough because they mean a lot to each other. Ashamed as he is to admit it, there's no part of him that wants to share Sam with some new person, especially someone who gets to love Sam as loudly as Bucky only wishes he could.
Still, it's his feelings for Sam that have him standing up and turning into the hallway. For all the parts of him that are jealous, there's a larger part of Bucky that's happy to know that Sam is loved like this, so completely that it feels like the house itself rings with it.
The hallway is a little narrow, but it's surprisingly bright for such a small space, sun pouring in from the glass panels on the front and back doors. The wall opposite the staircase is covered with frames: sketches with AJ's initials in the corner, a painting of what Bucky recognizes as Warrior Falls, and family photos as far as the eye can see. Immediately, his eyes go to the biggest frame, the one that's supposed to be Sam's favorite wedding picture.
It's the Wilsons' dock, the water and sky lit up golden and pink in the setting sun. At the very end of it sit two people. Sam is on the right, his jacket shucked off somewhere behind him and his sleeves rolled up. His arm is around what must be his husband, looking over at him mid-laugh when the photographer took the picture. It's obviously something that Sam chose to display in the house, but it still feels a little like Bucky's intruding on something intimate when he looks at it.
He makes himself look away, clearing his throat, and picks a random photo to stare at instead, his eyes lighting on the Wilsons' back porch, all strung up with flowers and twinkle lights. It takes a moment for Bucky to realize that this is a wedding picture, too: coming down the porch steps in coordinated suits, beaming at their guests are Sam and—and—
"Oh," Bucky says, his ears ringing a little. He blinks a few times, then looks at the photo again just to be sure. "Oh."
"I had to talk you out of covering this entire hallway in wedding pictures," says Sam, appearing at the end of the hall with that same mischievous grin on his face. Up close, Bucky can see the laugh lines by his eyes and mouth, the softness that time has layered over all that muscle. His fingers ache to reach out and touch, but he holds himself determinedly still. "We did a lot of bargaining to bring it down to three. You were pretty insistent."
Bucky's eyes are stinging all of a sudden, his throat tight as he looks back at the picture from the dock. "How long?" he asks, not bothering to explain himself. "When? How long does it take?"
"I've already told you more than I should," says Sam. "You don't need me to spoil it for you, anyway. You'll know when you get there."
"I don't know if I know anything these days," says Bucky. He drags a hand through his hair, tugging at it a little. "I keep fucking up, Sam. I keep losing you."
"I know," says Sam. "You've done some stupid stuff. But you're not dead yet, right? And I like to think I'm worth a second or third or fiftieth try, aren't I?"
"You're worth everything, Sam. You know that." He gives Sam an unimpressed look, probably rendered a little ineffective by the tears in his eyes. "What, your husband doesn't give you enough compliments? You need to fish for them with me, too?"
"I don't remember having to fish all that long with you," says Sam, grinning. "Now come on, you want a tour of the house or not?"
"You can't tell me when we get married, but you're going to let me see what the house looks like twenty-two years in the future?"
"I've decided you need the motivation not to fuck things up more than you need to avoid the spoilers," Sam says, before he sets off down the hallway and motions for Bucky to follow "Let's go, Sergeant; I have a whole library and a workshop to show you and we only have half an hour before the kids get home."
"The what?" asks Bucky, eyes wide, but Sam is already climbing the stairs, and he has no choice but to follow.
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