I’m back… home, but that’s a

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I’m back… home, but that’s a confusing concept at this point. Back in my house, anyway, in Buffalo, as opposed to my other home which is the yurt and the farm and my sister’s ruthlessly-organized chaos. 

The way the weekends and all are going to fall, I’ll be leaving again probably Friday afternoon or Saturday morning, so I’m here for a matter of days only. 

I spent a lot of the drive trying to think of other things but obsessively circling back to how upset and hurt I am to realize that I’ve had so few raises at my job that the government’s minimum-wage increases have now caught up. (Actually, as of Dec 31st, they will still be five cents under my wage. So I won’t get a raise. However, I’m currently at the minimum for fast-food positions; apparently they now have a different pay scale. As of the end of the year, starting wages at McDonald’s will be higher than mine.)

I just looked it up; I started that job in May of ‘09. 

(cut for whining)

Sigh. I’ve been a reliable employee, have taught myself new skills and adapted as needed, and I know for a fact that Idiot Coworker was making $3 more per hour than I was as she was setting the building on fire on her way out, so. I’m just a little bitter.

Farm sister wants to pay me. She has started to do the math for how to at least pay me to make holiday wreaths, since those are a thing they sell pretty much right away so there’s cashflow. She’s doing all her math predicated on $10/hr, which is more than she can afford but she feels anything less is insulting. (They pay their field hands less than that, and one of their first goals is to fix that. At the moment, though, they’re not paying themselves anything near that, so.)

I have had this arrangement at work that I do whatever I want, but between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I come back and work the busy season. But, shit. If I could actually make more doing fucking farm work, then what the hell is the point of driving 300 miles each way twice a month, and then abandoning my sister when she could really use my help? Ugh. I don’t want to abandon my coworker during his busy season, but every time I bring up the fact that I haven’t had a raise since 2012, he says now’s not a good time. 

Well. It’s not even that I’m bitter, I’m just sad. That’s seven years of my life that have just… not mattered, you know? Nobody there gives a shit about me and now they’re not even afraid of me quitting. I guess they’re trying to get me to quit. I just don’t know. I do so poorly with these sorts of things. 

Anyway. I wish I could stop thinking about it, because there’s nothing constructive I can do about it. I know if I bring it up, either it will get brushed off exactly like it has been every time I’ve brought it up for literally years, or I will escalate and flip my shit badly, and I don’t want to do that. But I’m just so upset; I sobbed for probably an hour in the car about it. It’s so fucking demoralizing. I’m 37 years old. I’ve been working there since I was 29. It’s gone past cute and bohemian and is now actively into destroyed-my-resume territory. 

But I never had much of a resume. i’ve never been an attractive employee. I’ve never been super good at the working world. I work like a dog, but not in the kind of corporate-friendly way. 

And I’ve tried, but I can’t like, write a novel on the side and make my breakout that way. Because nobody gets paid a living wage for writing novels. But, fuck, if I’m making minimum anyway… 

I’m just so demoralized, in general. And add onto that the fact that I haven’t even written anything, and I’m just a big ball of nothing today. 

slowlydivergingallatonce replied to your post

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OMG YOU HAVE A YURT? WHATS IT LIKE? I WANT A TINY HOUSE/YURT SO MUCH

I can’t actually use Tumblr for shit, so I can’t link it for you, it won’t tell me what the URL is (it does that thing where it pops up the page in half of the window and doesn’t give you an address bar, because Tumblr is a fucking garbage fire hellsite) but if you go to my blog page and click on the little magnifying glass thing and search for “yurtlife” it comes up with my posts about the yurt. it doesn’t show you all of them, because of course it doesn’t, because Tumblr is like a bag of shit that’s been set on fire and left on the porch when it comes to usability, but there’s some stuff in there anyway.

Mine’s only a 12-footer; a friend made it, and i paid him like… six hundred and something bucks for it. Walls are canvas, roof is a canvas tarp, lattice is made of lath, roof ring is layered plywood cut out and screwed into place. His innovation is that the upper support band is made of steel rope instead of something that’ll stretch, and it’s been very sturdy. He’s made a lot of yurts.

I don’t properly live in it, though, I only use it as a bedroom. There’s a composting toilet outside nearby, and then I eat and shower and cook and do laundry etc. indoors in the main house. 

I’m currently trying to winterize it so I can leave it up through November. 

peroxidepirate replied to your post “For the

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you know, we’re the same age and i’ve been thinking about it and i can’t remember what i did for y2k eve. and it was supposed to be such a big deal…

ha. yeah. I think I sort of always knew there was no way I was going to be going to any crazy party. School breaks always meant being at my family’s mercy, and I’ve always kind of been a homebody. 

But my folks are kind of… they’re not survivalists, they’ve just always enjoyed the homesteading aesthetic, kinda. So if the shit had actually hit the fan like all the doom-prophets were saying, I would’ve been sitting pretty. :) 

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You wouldn’t believe how confused the DirecTV techs are every time they look up my account and go, “…You only have one TV?” What a weird state of affairs, that this is a noteworthy thing.

and 

buttons-beads-lace said: the idea that everyone at some point gets A Second TV is weird to me too. my parents have only ever had one TV at a time; they don’t buy a new one until the old one breaks. since I moved out I have had either zero TVs or one TV. I haven’t gotten that reaction from cable techs though.

yeah. Well… it probably helps that we get our Internet thru Verizon, but it’s confused a few ISPs who have been like ‘but you could get cable too!’ and they’re always really shocked when I’m like, but, I don’t even own a TV set so I literally wouldn’t use it.

I used to have trouble at work if I told people I didn’t own a TV set. They’d just assume I was saying that to mean that I was Better Than Them. I wound up with a Standard Disclaimer I’d tack on. I don’t have a TV and it’s not like I’m an intellectual I just waste so much time on the Internet and I don’t understand any of the shows and and and. It didn’t matter; people still would go on and on about how terrible TV is and how they admired my commitment (???? no!!!) and then they’d still expect me to know what various shows were about. 

Some people literally cannot have a conversation with you if you are not familiar with both current reality TV stars and the sitcoms of Our Youth. Like, they just don’t know how to talk without making constant references to both of these sets of information. Neither of which I have any access points to. I just nodded a lot. One coworker in particular would get offended. It was kind of scary. 

(The problem didn’t really go away, I just changed positions at work so now I sit in the back room and don’t talk to anyone, so it never comes up.)

I hate that my folks have TVs in several rooms. It drives me crazy. I have to sit so that I cannot see the television. My mother will put on the game or the news while we’re trying to have a conversation. I can’t function. If the television is on, that’s what we’re doing. Otherwise, we’re having a conversation. Or reading books. Or whatever. (And if we’re having a conversation and I want to read a book, I’ll leave the room. If I’m screwing around online, I’ll sit in a room with conversation, but if I’m trying to write or focus on something, I’ll sit in a room where people aren’t. Having a laptop with battery life is approximately the best thing ever.) 

I just. People who use the TV for omnipresent noise blow my mind. I can’t not focus on it if it’s on. And I used to blame my upbringing, but now I know that it’s definitely ADD of some variety. I hate TVs in restaurants too. :( Why are they everywhere???

*slides $20 across the ask box* what do Alderaanian wife braids look like?

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“You should go see Leia.”

Han blinked, startled by the sudden voice, the sudden farmboy-cum-Jedi standing in the doorway and blocking the light. It was after-hours even for the track, he hadn’t been expecting anyone in the pilot’s lounge. 

“Hello to you too, Luke,” he drawled, leaning back in the armchair. “Good to see you, been too long, how’s the search for Jedi shit going? Myself? Well, I’m not too bad, bit of a trouble with my joints—getting older’s a rum business, you know? But I can’t complain; complaining’s the business of them who don’t have enough else to do, as I like to say.”

Luke stared balefully at Han, and Han got the sense he was just restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “You’ve never said that before in your life. And also, you should go see Leia.”

“Kid, I know you’re last of the Jedi or whatever these days, but you gotta work on your small talk.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “You are the most frustrating, stubborn—”

“To be fair, you knew that about me already,” Han laughed, stumbling to his feet and crossing the lounge to Luke. With a sigh, Luke let himself be enfolded in a hug.

“Han—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Is she hurt?” Han asked. (He still wasn’t entirely sure how the Force-thing worked, but he knew Luke and Leia kept tabs on each other, even across the galaxy.) A thought struck, and he sucked in a breath. “Kriff, is it—is it Ben? Is Ben okay?”

“Ben is fine. Leia is fine. She’s just…it’s a politics thing.”

Han exhaled, laughing. “Mother of Kwath, kid, you got me terrified over nothing. I am not the politics guy. Leia has politics guys, I am not them. I’ll give her a comm tonight, but I’m—sure she’s got it handled.”

“It’s about you,” Luke said pointedly, and Han felt cold well in the pit of his stomach. “This time, you are the politics thing.”

“Oh,” Han said.

.

.

“It’s idiotic,” Leia dismissed, when he commed. “Even if—someone’s choice of spouse said anything about their character at all, you are a war hero and a general. You led the assault on Endor! And now you’re an entrepreneur—”

“That’s a lot of syllables for someone who travels around the galaxy, betting on themselves in starship races, sweetheart.”

“The essence of politics is describing things in more syllables than they’re worth,” she bit out, and he laughed, outright. Even over the crappy satellite feed, he could see her relax a little at the sound, breathe out.

She looked so small and very far away, her face on the monitor.

“Do you want me there?” he asked. “Because I can be there—Chewie can take the Falcon, and I’m pretty sure farmboy still remembers his way around a ship if he needs a co-pilot. I could use a vacation.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fine. I’m fine. You have the Outer Rim qualifier in two weeks, and this is just another stupid fight over something that doesn’t matter. A distraction. Once I get this bill approved, they’ll drop it.”

“Yeah, but—”

Before he could finish, there was a loud clattering sound from her end of the connection, and a shout of “Is that dad? Can I talk to dad?” with Threepio’s fainter, “Master Ben, really!” By the time he’d talked (argued) with Ben and talked (argued) with Leia again, the matter was dropped.

Luke looked up when Han entered he cockpit, smiling a little when Han groaned and let himself sag into the pilot’s seat. “So, about the Outer Rim qualifier—”

“Maybe you don’t know this about me,” Luke said, his tone thoughtful. “But I’m a pretty good pilot. I once flew an x-wing with my eyes closed and blew up the Death Star. So I could probably handle going really fast around a track once or twice.“

“I can see why the Empire decided to kill all the Jedi,” Han grumbled.

.

.

Normally, Han would have arrived on Chandrila at some ungodly hour, shucked off his boots at the door, and crawled into bed beside Leia still smelling of the Falcon, too tired to do much more than mumble against her cheek and pass out.

It was strange to be there in the sunlight, walking up the last of the stairs just as she was emerging from the suite. For a minute, he just watched her—she was on another planet, reading something on her datapad and all her attention focused there; he was still surprised she didn’t bump into walls when she did that. 

He’d teased her once that it was the only part of the Force he actually believed in.

Han grabbed her elbow before she could pass him, and she looked up in shock. “You should be careful, Senator,” Han drawled, as she laughed. “I hear there are some real criminal elements in this part of town.”

“Oh, well,” she said, her eyes alight, “they can’t be as shockingly criminal as my husband.”

(Every time she kissed him like this, it was like that first time in the Falcon, his skin aching and hot, more alive than he’d ever been because death and her were staring him down. The kissing wasn’t the reason he left—or the reason he came back—but it was a reason, all the same.)

“Hello, stranger,” she murmured, when they separated.

“Hey,” he said, inhaling the smell of her, whatever product she put in her hair these days—it reminded him of Endor, something sharp and green. “Thought I’d come and apologize for not listening to you in person.”

Her mouth curved. “You never listen to me, I’ve gotten used to it.”

It took about two days for Han to realize it was worse than Luke had let on. He wasn’t sure why everyone suddenly cared about Leia marrying a Corellian bastard of an ex-spice smuggler—the justice who married them had asked if there were any objections five years ago, no one seemed bothered then—but people cared. And he trusted Leia when she said it would stop after the bill, but the bill was being stalled in some committee, and—

“Politics,” Han sighed, when Ben asked why Han was being talked about on the holonews. “It’s all just politics, kid, don’t worry. We’re going to be fine.”

On the third week, when they still weren’t fine, Han put Ben to bed and sat down across from Leia at the dining table. She had datapads spread around her and a pinched look on her face; Han almost balked, but— “Maybe, I might be willing to go to some of those parties,” he said. Her gaze snapped up, to him, and he offered a weak smile. “You know, those ones I hate, with the tiny food and the awful people. And maybe I can show your senator friends that…I am that civilized Hero of Endor, and you didn’t screw up, by picking me. You know, if you think that could help.”

“Han—”

“Or, I mean, we could get divorced, but I worked really hard to convince you to marry me in the first place, plus there was a war. I don’t think I’ll get so lucky a second time.”

Leia looked at him for a long, long moment, then exhaled. “Well, we’ll try the first, and if that doesn’t work, there’s always the second option. Maybe you can ask for Threepio in the settlement ”

“Your sense of humor has not improved with time, princess.”

.

.

“You shouldn’t shout you know,” Han said, settling against the doorframe and offering a grin. “My wife wouldn’t be too pleased if she found out I brought a beautiful stranger into our bedroom.”

Leia met his gaze in the mirror and pointedly rolled her eyes. Han stuck out his tongue at her. “I thought you’d be dressed by now,” she said, her mouth twisting. “The party starts in an hour, and—”

“It’ll take me ten minutes to change. I didn’t want to wrinkle anything waiting for you.”

“I’ve seen you preen for forty-five minutes, Solo, don’t lie to me.”

He snorted, watching as she set down her brush and began braiding her hair. He’d always liked her this way, barefoot and unarmored, the most herself she could be. He’d always liked being one of the few allowed to see it. “Did you need me for some reason? I can change into the suit right now if you think of some interesting ways to put wrinkles in it.”

“Just you hand,” she interrupted, shooting him another look. Her hands were still moving, doing something complicated with the strands she had gathered at the top of her skull. He crossed the room to her side, “Put your index finger…here,” she said, tapping a place where the strands wove together. He pressed his finger in exactly that place, and she wove the hair around it, like a ring. “Take your hand away? And—then thumb in the divot over my ear.”

“Okay,” Han said quietly.

There was something steadying about it, just her soft directions, and him, and their hands. He’d watched her do this before, braid and coil and brush and knot—the traditional art of Alderaan, passed down from mother to daughter. They each had meanings, and Han knew some of them; the circlet interwoven with a lace was her imitation of the crown of Alderaan, and when she wore that high coil of braids, it meant she was grieving.

(What about when you wear it loose like this? he’d asked once, when he was pouring it through his fingers like water. He liked it best down, a veil around her shoulders. 

Nothing, she had said. This is just me.)

“I haven’t seen this one before, have I?” he asked when she was finished, touching the soft honeycomb cluster behind her ear. It took him a moment to realize that the twisting coils were the size of his fingers, left over of his hands.

“No, I haven’t—done this one before,” Leia said quietly, smoothing back a flyaway strand with her fingertips.

“I’m surprised,” Han chuckled. “Would have though you had plenty use for braids that say you’re ready to fight.”

“These aren’t braids for fighting,” Leia said. She wasn’t quite meeting Han’s gaze in the mirror, and he thought he saw a blush. “My mother wore these each year on her wedding anniversary. These are—the traditional name is ‘the work of loved hands’ but they’re better known as wife’s knots. They’re one of the few styles that is unique to every wearer, because it requires two sets of hands.”

Han couldn’t think of what to say, if there was anything to say. He wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t trust himself. He felt like he’d get lost in it too easily, let the whole world and everything in it slip away because she was there, with wife’s knots in her hair.

“I didn’t screw up, picking you,” Leia said, rising to her feet. When she turned, her expression was fierce, stern. She’d ordered men into battle with that expression. “And either way, I did pick you. I’m keeping you, and there’s nothing the New Republic can do about it.

“Now,” she said, “get changed. The party starts in an hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Han said quietly, and followed her out.

chippanfire replied to your post “ughhhhh i

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Lying there sounds extremely reasonable. Not having all your stuff is the worst. Although I will also ask, because I am a terrible person who has to offer suggestions at all times, is the dude in buffalo and if so could he send them to the farm?

I was only there for a week, and I wouldn’t know where to tell him the things were. (and I’m just now scrolling back and finding replies I missed at the time, so, hi!)

It turns out, they were with me in the bottom of a bag I searched but not thoroughly enough. The whole time.

But it’s okay. I brought them back with me and now the shirts are in the washing machine getting dyed. I couldn’t use my sister’s machine, it’s a fancy computerized one that doesn’t let you do things like, oh, add the soda ash after half an hour, like you have to. i’d’ve had to do it in a pot and it would’ve been splotchy and difficult. So this is better.

However. I left the stencils I cut back at the farm, so I can dye the shirts here, but can’t finish them. 

I sort of can’t win. 

I’m sort of really not cut out for this nomadic lifestyle. I want to live and work all in the same place. But I don’t want to leave Buffalo, and dude won’t leave Buffalo, and I don’t want to try to have a long-distance relationship. And the farm is where it is, that’s also non-negotiable. And working on the farm is the only meaningful thing I have going, semi-professionally.

 So commuting it is. And that means I never have the shit I need where I can lay hands on it ever ever ever. And so I should do a massive life-decluttering, and get rid of most of my possessions. But I am naturally the type who is a hoarder, and I tend to use the hoarded things just often enough that I can’t bear to get rid of everything. 

(Like. Mom’s old insulated drapes have been living in a box in my attic for a solid five or six years, and I just made them all into yurt insulation, saving myself hundreds of dollars I don’t have to spend on fabric. And middle-little sister and I just solved a problem Farmsister was having by hauling out all the weird glass jars middle-little has been hoarding for years, and decorating them. We’re not the kind of hoarders that keep, like, cats or garbage. We just have a deeply-conditioned genetic predisposition that’s been honed by experience into hanging fiercely onto things we think we might use later.) 

I finished chapter 7 more or less a week ago, and I have been trying to get enough time to sit and..

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I finished chapter 7 more or less a week ago, and I have been trying to get enough time to sit and read it through. And this part in particular, I don’t know if it works. I wrote it literally months ago, separately from all the other parts of it I wrote, and I wasn’t sure if it fit in this story. 

Anyway. I’m trying to focus. I’m trying to remember where I left off. i’m trying to get this chapter posted. So here’s this chunk, while I try to remember just what it was that I cared about so damn much.

“You were never afraid of me,” not-Ben said. “Not before our last meeting, when I did you so much damage.”

“No,” Poe said. “I was afraid a lot, as a kid, but not of Ben.”

“You were afraid for Ben,” not-Ben said. “I did understand that, at the time. And whether you knew it or not, I was grateful for the distinction.”

“I wanted to protect you,” Poe said. “Not just because they told me I had to. I did like you sometimes. You were hard to like.”

“You never really liked me, but you loved me,” not-Ben said. “You weren’t the only one who did. I did understand that. My mother thinks I didn’t, but I did. Children aren’t stupid. But they want us to believe that love is unconditional, when it very clearly isn’t.”

“It never is,” Poe said, and he did have some capacity for emotion, because it came out angry. “It never is. Everyone wants to promise they’ll love you no matter what but it’s never true, and it takes so little to prove it.”

“Conventional morality forbids us from examining too closely that gap between what is said and what is meant,” not-Ben said, sad and serene. “And there is no room in most of the conventional Light Side education to explore this. The Force is not inherently moral, and trying to force such a framework on it is bound for failure.”

“I don’t know anything about any of it,” Poe confessed, a little wrung-out; it was hard to feel emotions here, he had realized. Wherever they were. Whenever they were.

“We’re meditating,” not-Ben said. “Don’t worry, we’re largely outside time; I’ve been working in here for an approximate eternity, and it doesn’t matter. None of it needs to concern you. Listen to me. I have to give you information. I took information, last time, and I’m balancing that now, since our abuse of you has left you such a blank slate.”

“What could you possibly tell me that I’ll understand?” Poe asked. “I have the Force sensitivity of a duracrete block, and what learning capacity I ever had is entirely stuffed full of guitar tabs and starfighter specifications.”

“Whether you’re able to control it or not, everyone is in the Force the same amount,” not-Ben said, and there was a tiny spark that could have been amusement. In that moment he looked like his old self, and it didn’t make Poe sentimental but it solidified his belief that this was somehow real. “I can give you this information, you’re sentient, that’s all that’s required.”

“Oh,” Poe said, “I’m sentient, how generous of you.”

“Shut it, Dameron,” not-Ben said, and cracked an actual smile, heavy eyebrow quirking a little. “The creature that I was loved you back, you know.”

hellenhighwater: yawpkatsi: Concept: Some jackass shows Bucky how to make a blog and it becomes...

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hellenhighwater:

yawpkatsi:

Concept: Some jackass shows Bucky how to make a blog and it becomes really popular. Not because it’s the blog of James Buchanan Barnes, American Legend, War Hero, Infamous Assassin, Alleged Terrorist. Nobody even knows it’s his blog. It gets really popular because people think it’s a really great shitpost generator or something. Because Bucky is just a Weird Fucking Person and everything he posts on his fucking personal blog comes off as somewhere between dril and Jaden Smith and people are like “this is some quality garbage right here” and thus Accidental Memelord Bucky is born.

Bucky posts things like

“What is wrong with bananas. I ate a banana today and it was Wrong. America why”

“Every time I put on my eye makeup it gets bigger. My whole face is eyeliner now.”

“Why does friendship feel so much like punching”

“When I wake up in the middle of the night I am either thinking ‘who am I? does my life have meaning?’ or “did I already eat all of the plums?’”

“Why are you so grumpy” they ask me. they do not realize this is just my Face.”

“I know i said i would give my left arm for a cup of coffee but i am more awake now and i would like my arm back please”

“I guess I must have done something horrible in a past life. I mean. I definitely did something horrible in this life, so. “

wrangletangle: mostlygoesastray: A drabble is precisely 100 words and I will die on this goddamn...

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wrangletangle:

mostlygoesastray:

A drabble is precisely 100 words and I will die on this goddamn hill like the Fandom Old I motherfucking am.

I will join you on that hill.

i don’t get why people are so determined to call other things drabbles. It’s perfectly fine to write short-short stories any length you like! but it’s like writing a sonnet and calling it a haiku. Or baking a cherry pie and calling it a sundae. Like. Those are all fine things, but the point of having a specific word for something is that that word means that specific thing.
I really don’t understand people who absolutely insist on calling things “drabbles” when they are not drabbles. I don’t get it. Like, do what you want, and language changes, sure, but words mean things, that’s kind of the fragile agreement that keeps human society more or less afloat. It’s weird.

buttons-beads-lace answered your question

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people do that kind of projection onto me re: not drinking soda and it’s so awkward. like, I’m not a paragon of willpower nor am I a smug ‘I don’t put chemicals in my body’ person. I just hate carbonation & have all my life. but it has to be a Thing.

Right?

People always assume things to be Moral Decisions. And if you make a Moral Decision that is different from theirs then they assume you’re Judging Them. 

Buddy, if I was judging you, you’d know. 

millicentthecat replied to your post

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Same for me - no TV or pop culture growing up, pretty immersive rural poverty. Though there was a kind of severe cult aspect in my case. I’m getting caught up now, though!

ah I knew I’d missed a reply from you somewhere back in the depths of my activity log.

See, that’s the kind of thing I was thinking of when I was being nostalgic. Because my shit, while not strictly my choice– I was a little kid, what did I know about choosing to consume culture– was really pretty benign all around. I was raised approximately religious but my mom wasn’t even Catholic, she and Dad compromised and he got to take us to church because she thought it wasn’t a bad idea, she just wasn’t into it. I was raised very aware that the way we were was just one of many valid ways to be, and other people did different stuff and that was cool. My folks did kind of make it clear that if we wanted to explore other ways of being that was fine, but we’d have to wait until we were on our own to do it, and we were Expected to go to Sunday school through confirmation, and then after that we could make up our mind about what we wanted. It was a little restrictive? But really not bad. [Not one of the four of us is currently a practicing Catholic. Interesting side note.]

And so I was never forbidden from partaking in wider culture, I was just surrounded by people who didn’t care about it or sort of thought it was dumb. (My dad still rants about how dumb rock music is. Rock music! I haven’t mentioned rap to him, I feel like it’d be too much. I’m kidding, I’m sure he knows that rap exists, he just hasn’t found it within himself to care. He’s just still mad about rock n roll because he had to share a bedroom with his brother who never turned the dang radio off and his brain is like mine, so that means he’s still got the lyrics to every Beatles song wedged in there even though he didn’t want to listen to them.) 

And it’s been hard enough for me to adjust to the concept of a wider popular culture now that I’m an adult and expected to be fluent. So I do feel a lot of sympathy for anyone whose isolation from that stuff was more deliberate! 

Happy Monday!

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Happy Monday!

What about like Indiana Jones Bucky invading mythic falcon God Sam's temple?

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okay SO I’m not… I’m not gonna fill that prompt because I’m a bit worried about it going in a really racist-trope direction, but have this instead!

(This was probably not even a little bit what you wanted but this is what you get)

It’s a pretty nice night, all things considered. Sam and Bucky are stretched out on the couch together, Bucky draped all over Sam in the way he does now. His chin is resting on Sam’s chest, one hand shoved up under Sam’s shirt, and Sam is absently stroking his fingers through Bucky’s hair. There’s a half-eaten bowl of popcorn abandoned on the floor.

“What is this, a documentary?” Bucky mutters, “fuckin’ Nazis were always looking for some mystical shit. Lemme tell you, it never ended well so far as I can remember.”

“Shh,” Sam says, “this is a good bit,” and touches Bucky’s mouth as if that’ll shut him up. Bucky kisses Sam’s fingertips, and goes quiet for a bit, and then Sam can feel him smirk even without having to look at him.

“Maybe they’d have had better luck with the Ark of the Covenant and not, like, the crazy alien shit they wound up playing around with,” he giggles. Pokes Sam in the ribs for emphasis.

“Are you even watching this?” Sam sighs, “come on, pay attention,” and Bucky nods solemnly, watches the movie for a whole ten minutes.

“Oh my god,” he says suddenly. “Sam.”

“What,” Sam asks, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“You totally had a thing for this guy when you were a kid, huh.”

“What? No, I- shut up, I did not,” Sam says, feebly, aware he’s going hot all over. Bucky starts cackling with laughter.

“You did,” he murmurs. “Course you did, baby, look at him, he’s so pretty, you never stood a chance.” Wriggles his way up until he can kiss up on Sam, breath hot on his throat. “You wanna role play? Come on, sweetheart, I’ll be him for you. Unbutton my shirt, get all dirty and rugged. You can be a beautiful god all shining and glorious, I’ll come invade your temple.”

“Shut up,” Sam says, breathless and laughing, and Bucky gets his teeth on Sam’s earlobe.

“I’ll plunder your treasure, baby,” Bucky growls, and it’s at that moment exactly that Steve walks in the room. He stares at them both, eyes wide.

“You know what?” he says, long-suffering, “I don’t even want to know,” before turning around and just walking right back out. 

“We’re role playing!” Bucky yells after him, “it’s something Sam’s into, okay, I learned about this, you gotta support your partner’s kinks! THE INTERNET TAUGHT ME THAT, STEVE.”

“You’re the worst,” Sam tells him, closing his eyes as if that’ll save him from the mortification that was the last five minutes before deciding it makes no difference and opening them again, looking at Bucky softer than he really means to. “Jesus Christ, Barnes, you’re the worst.”

“Should I go buy a hat?” Bucky asks, face angelic. Sam shoves him off the couch.