Fall, Mortality, and the Machine @bysexualthorin - Tumblr Blog

when will they learn that it never works

Hi!

I’m looking for a fic where Steve wasn’t fully dead in ice and is carrying a lot of trauma. It isn’t Sineala’s brain in a jar one.

We’ll give this a try! Request 2,510! Send us an ask if you know this fic!

bysexualthorin

I loved reading Steve awake in the ice fics back in the day. Here’s one I’ve reread recently that might work for you!

Depthless by Captain_Panda (25k)

"Depthless: (1) unfathomably deep; (2) shallow and superficial." Weeks after defrosting Captain America, S.H.I.E.L.D. finds Steve Rogers lying at the bottom of a pool. Assumptions are made. They have no idea what they are dealing with. Meanwhile, Tony Stark, the man-in-the-spotlight, has demons lurking off-radar that are literally filling his lungs with water. Ignoring either problem was never an option. This is the story of Steve Rogers and Tony Stark's collision course.

#stony #mcu #fanfic

flowerais-deactivated20211031

a gentle reminder that you just need to make things a tiny bit better for your future self. reading one page, writing one sentence, getting half of a task done, it’s still good.

#important

louhetar

Clutching…

#fanart #hannigram

jeffreymcdanielpoetry

“In an effort to get people to look into each other’s eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day. When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way. Late at night, I call my long distance lover, proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you. When she doesn’t respond, I know she’s used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love you thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.”

— Jeffrey McDaniel, The Quiet World

#poetry

jeffreymcdanielpoetry

“When I was little, I thought the word loin and the word lion were the same thing. I thought celibate was a kind of fish. My parents wanted me to be well-rounded so they threw dinner plates at each other until I curled up into a little ball. I’ve had the wind knocked out of me but never the hurricane. I’ve seen two hundred and sixty-three rats in the past year, but never more than one at a time. It could be the same rat, with a very high profile. I know what it’s like to wear my liver on my sleeve. I go into department stores, looking suspicious, approach the security guard and say what, what, I didn’t take anything. Go ahead. Frisk me, big boy! I go to the funerals of absolute strangers and tell the grieving family: the soul of the deceased is trapped inside my rib cage and trying to reach you. Once I thought I found love, but then I realized I was just out of cigarettes. Some people are boring because their parents had boring sex the night they were conceived. In the year thirteen hundred and thirteen, a little boy died, who had the exact same scars as me.”

— Jeffrey McDaniel, Lineage

#poetry

jeffreymcdanielpoetry

“I used to think love was two people sucking on the same straw to see whose thirst was stronger, but then I whiffed the crushed walnuts of your nape, traced jackals in the snow-covered tombstones of your teeth. I used to think love was a non-stop saxophone solo in the lungs, till I hung with you like a pair of sneakers from a phone line, and you promised to always smell the rose in my kerosene. I used to think love was terminal pelvic ballet, till you let me jog beside while you pedaled all over hell on the menstrual bicycle, your tongue ripping through my prairie like a tornado of paper cuts. I used to think love was an old man smashing a mirror over his knee, till you helped me carry the barbell of my spirit back up the stairs after my car pirouetted in the desert. You are my history book. I used to not believe in fairy tales till I played the dunce in sheep’s clothing and felt how perfectly your foot fit in the glass slipper of my ass. But then duty wrapped its phone cord around my ankle and yanked me across the continent. And now there are three thousand miles between the u and the s in esophagus. And being without you is like standing at a cement-filled well with a roll of Yugoslavian nickels and making a wish. Some days I miss you so much I’d jump off the roof of your office building just to catch a glimpse of you on the way down. I wish we could trade left eyeballs, so we could always see what the others see. But you’re here, I’m there, and we have only words, a nightly phone call — one chance to mix feelings into syllables and pour into the receiver, hope they don’t disassemble in that calculus of wire.”

— Jeffrey McDaniel, The First Straw

#poetry

jeffreymcdanielpoetry

“When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, I walk behind well-dressed women on cold, December mornings and shovel the steamy exhalations pluming from their lips down my throat with both hands, hoping a single molecule will cling to my lungs. When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, I sneak into the ladies room of a fancy restaurant, dig into the trashcan for a napkin where a woman checked her lipstick, then go home, light candles, put on Barry White, and press the napkin all over my body. When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, I start thinking leeches are the most romantic creatures, cause all they want to do is kiss. If only someone invented a kinder, gentler leech, I’d paint it bright pink and pretend Winona Ryder’s lips crawled off her face, up my thigh, and were sucking on my swollen bicep. When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, I create civil disturbances, then insult the cops who show up, till one of them grabs me by the collar and hurls me up against the squad car, so I can remember, at least for a moment, what it’s like to be touched.”

— Jeffrey McDaniel, When A Man Hasn’t Been Kissed

#poetry

jeffreymcdanielpoetry

“I am but a riverboat–hopelessly in touch with my inner canoe. On the first day of nursery school, I cried in mother’s arms. It wasn’t separation anxiety. I was scared she would come back. In high school, I was voted most likely to secede. In college, I took so many drugs the professors looked at samples of my urine just to know what books I’d been reading. I’m a narcissist trapped in the third person. The sound of my own head being shaved is my all-time favorite song. I stop people on the street, show them pictures of myself as a child, ask have you seen this boy? He’s been missing a long time. His eyes are the last swig of whiskey before stumbling out of a bar on a sunny afternoon. His cheeks are twirling ballerinas. His cheeks are revolving doors. I’m all out of cheeks to turn. I’m all out of cheeks. My ego is a spiral staircase inside a tornado. My eyebrows are that furry feeling you get in your gut when you’re about to tell a lie. My tongue is a dolphin passed out in an elevator. My tongue is a red carpet I only roll out for you. My penis is a wise ass in the back of a classroom who doesn’t know the answer, but sticks his hand up anyway. My heart hangs in my chest like a Salem witch. My heart is a turtle ripped from its shell. My heart is a street so dark nymphomaniacs are afraid to kiss. My heart, America, my heart.”

— Jeffrey McDaniel, Dear America

#poetry