#james web images

[discard-celestia]

Severance / Matthew Dickman, Sidewalk

[need-grows-teeth]

[wearenemies]

dashboard simulator

mutual 1: *poor quality image of pete wentz* does anybody know where i can buy a crowbar. for sexual purposes

mutual 2: my mikey way tulpa is coming along well

mutual 3: its so over after this mcr is breaking up forever theres no hope for us didnt you see the messaging in their staging. god. fuck its over

mutual 1: *image of patrick stump’s bulge*

mutual 4: im killing myself tomorrow

mutual 5: both of these blog posts may seem innocuous at first, but in fact when considered in relation to one another we can observe several similar phrases, and a pattern emerges in the pacing of his prose that proves without a doubt that he’s having an extramarital affair with his singer. first, the recurrence of the phra

mutual 1: i need to get a man pregnant

mutual 4: *joe trohman image* killing myself cancelled hello gorgeous 😍😍😍😍😍

mutual 6: mcr is releasing new music next week i know this deep in my soul the messaging in their staging is unmissable guys we have never been so fucking back in our lives

mutual 1: *image of patrick stump’s bulge*

mutual 3: *image of two members of my chemical romance publicly beating the snot out of one another* do you remember how we used to run

mutual 1: *image of patrick stump’s bulge*

mutual 7: frank iero is like a delicious steak to me i need to rip him apart like a feral dog

mutual 8: *the most stunning lovingly rendered drawing you’ve ever seen in your life of two middle aged musicians making out nasty style* just a quick doodle :)

mutual 4: my fucking bus was late killing myself is officially back on

mutual 5: *web weave consisting of sections of beautiful niche literature, medieval biblical illustrations, 17th century oil paintings, james baldwin quotations and peterick interviews*

mutual 1: *image of patrick stump’s bulge*

mutual 7: do you guys think i could cite unholyverse in my applied religious literature thesis i cant ask my professor because she blocked my email but idk i think it counts as a good modern text

mutual 2: guys i think my mikey way tulpa might be starting to crave blood

mutual 6: *ray toro image* im experiencing divine ecstasy i need her to [DATA EXPUNGED]

mutual 9: i cant listen to fall out boy anymore guys i had a nightmare where andy was chasing me in the dark forest it seemed really real

mutual 10 (unattached to bandom): out of the beatles john would for sure have the biggest boobs

mutual 1: what if it was called when we were freaky fest

[probablyasocialecologist]

In The Entrepreneurial State, Professor Mariana Mazzucato has shown that every piece of technology that makes the iPhone so innovative – its use of the internet, touchscreen, voice-activated software and GPS system – has been created through public funding. She demonstrates that in the digital economy the risks of innovation are shouldered by the public, while the rewards of small breakthroughs are hoarded by private companies. The huge profits of tech companies are only possible on the basis of collective value creation through public research. Many of the biggest and most widely used innovations were supported by government funding into research and development. From the internet to super computers, magnetic resonance imaging, smartphones, civilian aviation, LED lighting, prosthetics and nanotech, it is the public sector that funds the exploratory, high-risk innovation that has made the biggest technological advances. The digital network created by affordable home computers, the internet and the world wide web was made possible by research from the US Department of Defense, CERN, research universities and years of collaborative research. It was built on a policy of open access and free use.

James Muldoon, Platform Socialism: How to Reclaim our Digital Future from Big Tech

[deliciousangelfestival]

Arrogant Ex-Husband - Chapt 1

Character: Mob!Bucky x Model!Reader

Summary: In a strategic alliance marriage arranged for political gain, reluctant bride Y/N, dreaming of a modeling career, finds herself unwillingly wed to James 'Bucky' Barnes, a reluctant groom.

Words Count: 1,816

Series Masterlist with Prologue and Moodboard

Main Masterlist || buy me Ko-fi 🥹💓

Y/N stared out the tinted car window, the city lights flickering in the distance. Her father, a seasoned politician, clenched his jaw as he spoke into the phone, his voice seething with anger.

"Unbelievable! I trusted you, Rick. Trusted you with our family's reputation, and this is how you repay me?" Y/N's father barked into the phone, the tension in the car palpable.

Y/N shifted uncomfortably in her seat, stealing glances at her father's furrowed brow and the visible strain in his eyes.

The weight of the scandal involving her step-brother was evident (private video got leaked), threatening to unravel her family's name and her father's political career.

"What do you mean you can't contain this? I need a solution, not excuses," her father continued, tightening his grip on the phone.

The distant hum of the city echoed the frustration in the car. Y/N caught snippets of her father's conversation as he navigated the chaotic political landscape.

"You know what's at stake here, Rick. My candidacy, the family legacy — everything! I can't have this scandal tarnishing our name."

The car sped through the city streets, the outside world oblivious to the turmoil within the vehicle. Y/N's father listened intently to the voice on the other end, occasionally gritting his teeth.

"Handle it discreetly? No, that ship has sailed, Rick. You need to fix this, and you need to fix it now. I don't care what it takes. If you can't, then don't bother showing your face again."

The call ended abruptly, leaving the car in silence except for the distant sounds of the city. Y/N's father took a deep breath, trying to collect himself, but the frustration lingered in his eyes.

"Y/N," he finally spoke, turning to his daughter. "We need a solution, and it seems Harold Barnes is offering one. I don't like it, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

Y/N nodded, her gaze shifting to the city lights, knowing that the path ahead was fraught with challenges and unexpected alliances. The weight of the situation settled on her shoulders like an unshakeable burden.

There was a helplessness in her eyes, a silent acknowledgment that she couldn't escape the intricate web of family ties and political obligations.

Suddenly, Y/n received a message from her best friend, Honey, telling her that there was a casting for a famous brand that had just opened. 

Of course, Y/n wants to join; her eyes lightened up. Her father noticed it. He grabs her phone and puts it in his shirt pocket. He said something that hurt her dream. 

"Forget it, you're going to be a rich wife. Why would you ever want to be a model?"

That's hurt Y/N's feelings. 

Did her father forget that his former wife used to be a famous model? 

Did he also didn't know what his daughter wanted?

In the confined space of the car, surrounded by the distant glow of the city, Y/N felt the suffocating lack of freedom.

The walls of her father's decisions closed in on her, leaving her with no escape. Her once-promising dreams were now tethered to the demands of a family in disarray, the consequences of choices she didn't make.

It was her step-brother who ruined her father's image. But why it has to be her who fixes the mistakes?

Y/N sighed heavily. What could she do?

Her father didn't even care about her anymore since she brought his mistress into the house without apologizing that because of his adultery, Y/N's mother took her own life.

************

As the car moved through the city's labyrinthine streets, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped, her every move dictated by a situation she had no control over.

The path ahead seemed like an unpredictable journey, with the enigmatic figure of Bucky Barnes's grandfather looming as both a lifeline and a shaper of her destiny.

When the car arrived at Barnes Residence, Y/N and her father were welcomed by Harold Barnes, a formidable figure with a commanding presence.

The imposing mansion, nestled in the city's heart, exuded an air of authority that matched the reputation of the Barnes mafia family.

As the car stopped, Harold Barnes stepped forward to greet them. His steely gaze assessed the situation, and a subtle nod conveyed acknowledgment and expectation.

"Senator [L/N], Y/N," Harold greeted with a firm handshake for Y/N's father and a courteous nod to Y/N.

Though measured, his voice held an undeniable weight that spoke of years spent navigating the intricate world of politics and organized crime.

"We appreciate your timely arrival," Harold continued, his tone hinting of formality. "Please, come inside. We have much to discuss."

Y/N exchanged a brief, uncertain glance with her father before following Harold Barnes into the opulent residence, where shadows seemed to dance across the grandeur of the mafia leader's abode.

The air hung heavy with unspoken agreements and the looming presence of a pact about to be forged. 

In the expansive Barnes Residence, as Y/N's father engaged in a serious discussion with Harold Barnes, Y/N found herself wandering through the mansion's labyrinthine halls.

The grandeur of the house overwhelmed her, each room a testament to the power and history of the Barnes family.

As she strolled, she saw a slightly ajar door, a subtle invitation into the unknown. Driven by curiosity and the need for a momentary escape, Y/N couldn't resist the urge to take a peek. The door creaked softly as she pushed it open.

*****************

The room beyond was dimly lit, the shadows playing on the edges of the walls. In the center, bathed in a pool of muted light, sat Bucky Barnes in a wheelchair. His presence carried an air of solemnity, and for a moment, their eyes met in an unspoken exchange.

Though physically present, Bucky seemed to inhabit a world of his own. The room, filled with an unspoken weight, held traces of a life altered by unforeseen circumstances. Y/N hesitated, sensing the vulnerability in his gaze.

The silence between them spoke volumes, a shared understanding of their challenges. In that fleeting moment, Y/N glimpsed a complexity in Bucky that transcended the public perception of the disgraced figure.

There was a story etched in the lines on his face, a narrative that begged to be unraveled.

Harold was about to call the butler when he saw Y/N wavered to enter the library room.

Ever perceptive, Harold Barnes noticed Y/N's hesitation at the library entrance. With a measured stride, he approached her, a silent acknowledgment of the delicate situation unfolding.

"Y/N," he said in a voice that held both authority and understanding. "Allow me to introduce you to Bucky Barnes." With a gracious gesture, Harold opened the door wider, revealing the dimly lit room and the figure in the wheelchair.

Harold followed suit as Y/N stepped into the room, guiding her toward Bucky. The air in the library seemed to shift, carrying an unspoken weight that Harold acknowledged with a subtle nod.

"Y/N, meet Bucky Barnes," Harold said, his voice a low hum in the quiet room. "Bucky, this is Y/N [L/N], the daughter of Senator [L/N]."

His gaze meeting Y/N's once again, Bucky offered a nod of acknowledgment. His eyes were complex, a silent invitation to understand the unspoken stories that lingered in the room.

Sensing the need for a private exchange, Harold excused himself with a nod. "I'll leave you two to talk. Take your time," he said before quietly closing the library door, leaving Y/N and Bucky in a space where the echoes of their shared circumstances seemed to resonate.

Y/N offered an awkward introduction in the hushed library, her voice breaking the stillness. "Hi, Bucky. I'm Y/N." Should she continue her introduction by saying, 'I’m also your future wife. Next week we will get married.'

Bucky remained silent, his gaze steady yet revealing little. The weight of the unspoken hung in the air, threading through the quiet room.

Feeling the need to fill the silence, Y/N glanced around the library briefly before her eyes settled on Bucky's face. Despite the gravity of the situation, she couldn't help but notice his striking features—handsome, yet marked by the complexities of a life altered.

As her gaze traveled to his left arm, the room seemed to hold its breath. There, in the dim light, she observed the bionic limb, a symbol of both strength and vulnerability. Y/N's eyes lingered, recognizing the silent struggles etched in the contours of that prosthetic.

As Y/N's gaze lingered on Bucky's missing left arm, she sensed a shift in the atmosphere. Bucky, wise to her scrutiny, felt a twinge of discomfort and offense.

The unspoken vulnerability that Y/N had observed seemed to boil over into a harsh reaction.

"What, never seen a guy with a missing arm before?" Bucky's words, laced with bitterness, cut through the silence. His eyes, once steady, now held a glint of wounded pride.

"You probably think I'm some kind of freak, right?" His tone grew sharper, the pain beneath the surface manifesting as anger. "Well, get used to it. This is what I am now."

Y/N, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere, tried to find the right words. Before she could respond, Bucky's words turned more cutting.

"And what's your game here, huh?" Bucky's voice escalated, the accusation palpable. "Marrying me for my family's wealth? Just like your father, always after power and money."

The words hung in the air, a heavy accusation stung with a truth Y/N hadn't expected. Bucky's resentment, fueled by his insecurities, lashed out, and in that moment, the library became a battleground for emotions too raw to be contained.

As Y/N absorbed the harsh words, an apology caught in her throat. Unable to face the hostility, she whispered, "I'm sorry," before swiftly leaving the room.

The door closed behind her, leaving Bucky alone in the dimly lit library. As the echo of her departure lingered, an unexpected pang of regret stirred in Bucky's chest. He couldn't quite comprehend why he had lashed out with such venom. She hadn't done anything to deserve his bitter words.

Now alone with his thoughts, Bucky replayed the scene in his mind. The realization of his unjust accusations settled heavily on his shoulders. He clenched his jaw, grappling with a surge of remorse that, though unexpected, held a raw truth—he shouldn't have said those words to her.

Bucky gazed at the window behind him, overwhelmed with guilt for involving an innocent woman in his troubled life. The agony of losing his left arm was unbearable, and the need for therapy for his leg added to his suffering.

He felt like a villain as if he had intentionally trapped an innocent woman in this marriage.

The weight of his actions pressed down on him, and the city beyond the window seemed to mock the dramatic turmoil within his soul.

At that moment, Bucky couldn't escape the feeling that he was playing the role of a heartless antagonist, making an unwitting woman suffer in the shadows of his pain.

Author Note :

Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account. Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating. Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

I'm now offering faster release and bonus chapters for Ko-fi members. If you enjoy my content and want early access, consider supporting me on Ko-fi!

Chapter:

1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7, 8 , 9 ,10 , 11, 12 , End

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[mystery-of-arkham-asylum]

Love this image from the James Web Telescope. Even the universe is questioning things. That or it is a Riddler fan.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 3/11/2025

job acquired :) not a well paying job with good benefits but an inside job sitting down and not a public facing job :)

phil is celebrating by meticulously cleaning her toes approximately three inches from my face

listening

you know when a guy is So popular it’s kind of annoying but they keep churning out bangers? i feel this way about monsieur bébé sans argent

-

reading

this is both a very funny problem to have and a very charming article

“His publicist said no,” Dixit said. “But Jeremy said, ‘Wait, you’re from Wikipedia? For the love of God, please take down that photo. You’d be doing me a service.’ So he stood and posed, and I got a shot of him.” Strong’s old photo was from 2014.

DNF, bc the author and i have fundamentally different ideas about paragraph breaks, and i suffered through four chapters before bailing bc the situation did not improve.

im beginning to think Bella Books and i have fundamentally different ideas about editing and books as finished products. next week i might do a blitz through the five or six i have left and we’ll see how that shakes out/how many we have left total. i intended for this project to go at least up to pride but maybe it ends earlier and that’s fine. maybe i go back to the gay thrift and see if there’s anything new in. maybe i trawl through some early lesbian pulp? i meant to read a lesbian noir this week after i bounced off this one but i simply did not have time :(

-

watching

https://www.tcm.com/video/221132/ride-lonesome-original-trailerh

Ride Lonesome (1959, dir. Boetticher). i promise i picked and started this without knowing lee van cleef was in it.

(Criterion) Mysterious motivations drive taciturn bounty hunter Ben Brigade (Randolph Scott) to capture a wanted murderer—but his quest is complicated when he is accosted by a pair of outlaws who have their own inscrutable reasons for riding along. Masterfully scripted by Burt Kennedy, who weaves a complex web of ambiguous loyalties and motives, and featuring supporting turns by genre icons James Coburn (in his film debut) and Lee Van Cleef, the first of the Ranown westerns to be shot in CinemaScope makes striking use of the enlarged frame—with a final shot that stands as perhaps the single most unforgettable image in the series.

a barely feature length b-western that punches far above its weight vis-a-vis actor performance and cinematography. unfortunately it’s real fucking weird about women. everyone is openly salivating over this poor young widow. now, her figure is insane. it looks like she has a fucking eighteen inch waist. this one is so much more blatant about being weird about women, well past winks, innuendo, and a sort of chivalrous courtliness: a real line i stopped and jotted down: “…the deep lonely need only a man can get at about a woman.”

another line from Pernell of Bonanza fame (so weird to see him in a non-Bonanza context): “Those Indians are only shooting at us cause we’re white :( “. i think i am enjoying Randolph Scott performances over Gary Cooper performances in ye olde american westerns, mostly bc gary cooper does not have the tired but vaguely puckish air of my favorite great-uncle.

why’d i watch this? short. poob had it for me.

-

playing

-

making

porthos socks by caoua coffee in patons kroy on size 2 bamboo DPNs. these will eventually be for my brother, it was so fucking satisfying to nail the gauge on the first try after not knitting socks for four years. this is a pattern that is just interesting enough to keep my attention but not too spicy to take on the bus, which i will do as soon as i get my badge bc i do not relish taking this through security at work. they took the sewing kit and tailor’s tape (for thrifting when there are no dressing rooms) today bc apparently the tape can be a garrote??? i have learned more ways to harm people from venue and building security than i could have ever dreamed up on my own.

[honeeysagee]

Page 142

boy sees a face in a history book, spends years sketching it, then meets the man in real life—turns out, some crushes time can’t kill. (SAMBUCKY)

FRESHMAN YEAR - 1991

Sam Wilson bit his fingertips.

Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to feel something—anything—other than the slow crawl of boredom inching across his history classroom. The textbook in front of him smelled like mildew and old hands, its spine cracked and pages soft at the edges like they’d been thumbed through by generations of teenagers just as disinterested as he was.

He rubbed his fingers on a worn ‘hi’ on the page. His clumsy handwriting was beside it as if he was speaking to the person in the past. A stupid impulse, sure, but it made history feel less like a lecture and more like a conversation - one only he knew he was having.

His dad would tell him to get out more. Get more friends.

Mr. Denton droned on about the Allies, the Axis, and victory gardens. Sam was barely listening - his eyes dancing against the ceiling tiles as the sound of the clock trailed on into the background. Someone in the back tapped a pen against their desk. A girl chewed gum too loud. The air was thick with dust and spring humidity, and Sam felt like he was sinking into it.

“Our last topic before the bell,” Mr. Benton pulled back his sleeve and looked down at his watch. A second passed. “The Howling Commandos.”

Something about the name made Sam sit up a little. Not much. Just enough for his eyes to drift back to the book in front of him. Mr. Denton clicked to the next slide on the overhead projector, but Sam was already there.

He knew where he was.

Page 142.

The grainy photo was there waiting for him - just like it always was. Six soldiers. One on a tank, one holding a gun, one barely in the photo at all, and him - James Buchanan Barnes. His name was displayed beneath the image with the rest of them like it was normal. Like he was just another bullet point in history.

But Sam knew better.

There was something about the way Bucky stood, slightly apart from the others. Like the war hadn’t dulled him yet. Like he knew something no one else did, and it was worth holding onto. That smile wasn’t for the camera. No. This was his to keep. His secret.

Sam traced his thumb along the corner of the page, careful not to smudge the fading ‘hi’ in the margin.

JUNIOR YEAR - 1993

Sam fell into a habit that year. Checking the book out every few months, look for the picture. Return it with a sharp feeling in his chest. Different copies, same photo. Sometimes, the order would be torn. Sometimes, someone else had crossed out parts of the caption - a close friend of Captain America, Winter campaign, presumed dead. But the photo never changed. Bucky never stopped smiling.

He searched for him on the web. Came across the basics: Bucky Barnes. Born 1917. Died 1945. Medal of Honor. A close friend of Captain America.

Sam didn’t care much about Captain America.

He traced the pages with his eyes, so much so that he could make out his face in his sleep. He was scared to be so interested in a photo - a man, but he filled sketchbooks of his face. What he thought he looked like when he threw his head back in laughter, how his eyes would catch the sun if Sam had complimented him. He was losing his mind.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not Riley, not his sister, definitely not his dad. It wasn’t about the photo anymore. It was about how that face stayed with him long after the page was closed.

It made Sam realize things about himself. Quiet, sharp things.

SENIOR YEAR - 1995

Sam had his first kiss at a party that spring. It was fine. She was nice. But he felt nothing.

There were too many people around them - laughing too loud, tripping over beer cans, music pulsing through the walls like his heartbeat. The girl - Molly? Maya? - smelled like rum-flavored lip gloss and cheap perfume, and smiled like she already knew he wasn’t into her.

Afterward, they found a quiet spot outside, looking into the distance of the universe. She patted his shoulder, “You’re sweet, Sam.”

He smiled back because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

“I’m sure some guy out there is going to enjoy how sweet you are.”

He goes to disagree with her claim, but she is already turning on her heels to go back into the party. He stood up straight, calling after her, “I’ll write you. Tell you all my war stories.”

“I won’t wait forever for you, Wilson.” She was gone.

He didn’t write her at all.

Later that night, while his friends stayed behind to finish drinks and swap dares, he walked home alone to pack for the army. The cold air hit his face, sharp and honest in a way that the party hadn’t been.

His boots crunched against gravel and broken glass, and the night smelled like wet asphalt and woodsmoke. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a siren wailed. But the silence between those sounds felt full—like something just out of reach.

His leaving wasn’t an act of patriotism. It wasn’t even about a future. It was him getting out. Out of the neighborhood he was made to love, out of his head, out of the damn photograph he was never in.

He told the recruiter he wanted to fly.

And he will.

That night, when his bag was half packed and his mother had spent her tears, he lulled the sketchbook out from under his bed. Flip to the last page. His most recent drawing. Bucky, drawn softer. Older.

“I’ll write you,” He whispered, voice catching the edge of nothing short of hope and pain.

WASHINGTON D.C. - 2014

Sam stared.

He could have said something. Could’ve moved, reacted, breathed. Yet, his body disagreed with all those actions.

Not a half-imagined softness buried in graphite and nostalgia.

Not the blurry black-and-white photograph pressed between textbook pages or the one Sam had secretly printed out and folded into the back of his sketchbook—creased from years of handling, hidden in a shoebox buried deep in his closet back in Louisiana.

Real.

Breathing.

Bleeding.

Bruised.

His hair is longer now, darker too. Face leaner, jaw sharper, eyes blown wide with something Sam didn’t have the language for—fear, maybe. Disorientation. Guilt. None of that mattered. Because the moment felt still like the world had folded inward like everything else had quieted down just so this could happen.

Sam’s hands twitched at his sides. He had to clench them into fists before he did something stupid—like reach out and touch the man. Just to feel the heat of him. To know he wasn’t made of ink and paper and dream.

“You okay?” Steve eyed him, sensing something underneath the surface.

Sam didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

One word. Flat. Sharp. A lie.

Steve turned, stepped closer to Bucky, and said one thing Sam couldn’t hear. Bucky didn’t answer, just a twitch of his jaw, and looked past him like the room was too loud.

Sam’s throat tightened. He wasn’t owed anything, but there was something he craved at this moment. An introduction? A handshake? A moment where Bucky looked at him and knew something? That this wasn’t the first time Sam had met him?

“So, this is him,” Sam muttered, his voice low, a little bitter. His eyes traced the angles of Bucky’s face—the same face he’d drawn a hundred different ways.

Steve turned, watching him. “Yeah. Bucky.”

“Huh,” Sam replied like the name meant nothing. Like it hadn’t been haunting him for a decade. You were my first sketch. My first secret. My first maybe.

But he said nothing.

Bucky didn’t look at him at all.

DELACROIX - 2026

The years, though terrible in their own right, had been kind to Sam.

To Bucky too.

Kind, not in the way of soft days or easy nights - it is in the way scars fade and breath returns. In this way, silence between people becomes comforting instead of loaded.

Sam carried the shield now. Not a burden, but like a truth. It fit against his back like it belonged there. Because it does. Bucky - well, Bucky didn’t flinch as much anymore. He didn’t wake up swinging. He didn’t leave in the middle of the night. He didn’t run. Ate full meals. Let sunlight hit his face.

In those moments, Sam gladly picked up a phone, promising to sketch the photo later, yet he never did.

Tonight was different.

“How was Brooklyn?” Bucky asked from the living room. Sam was barely in the house before Bucky’s voice invaded him. He had no problem with this. It filled the space like music.

Then, he heard it - pages flipping.

Soft.

Measured.

Sam’s breath caught in his chest as he stepped in and found Bucky there, seated on the edge of the couch, elbow on his knees. The light from the lamp beside him cast long shadows, turning the edges of his metal arm to gold. In his lap, one of Sam’s older sketchbooks was cracked open. Three others lay beside him in a neat stack, the old leather covers worn at the corners. He had not seen them in years. Buried them away with everything else.

Bucky didn’t look up, “Brooklyn? How was it?”

“What are you doing?”

Sam’s voice came out sharper than he meant.

Bucky blinked, head snapping up. “I was cleaning…” He straightened, closing the sketchbook gently like it was something sacred. “Came across them in your closet. I didn’t know…” He trailed.

Sam stood frozen in the doorway, chest tight.

“They’re private.”

“I know.” Bucky’s voice went low. Honest. “I’m sorry, Sammie.”

That nickname, usually thrown with a smirk or a nudge, landed softer this time—tentative, almost apologetic. Sam swallowed.

He looked at the books like they were open wounds. Fragile things, stitched together with pencil smudges and secrets he’d never planned to share. They were full of moments he’d never spoken aloud. Quiet hours spent alone in his bedroom, sketching a man he thought he’d never meet, chasing shadows of a long-dead soldier in the curves of graphite.

He’d never even let his sister see them. Riley had asked once, curious about the way Sam disappeared into his notebooks after school, but Sam brushed it off with a shrug and a joke. He could handle teasing. What he couldn’t handle was someone knowing. Knowing.

But Bucky wasn’t rifling through them like a thief. He wasn’t smirking or teasing. He held them like they meant something—like they were delicate, sacred. Like they were glimpses into something he didn’t want to damage.

“Some of these are dated, Sam,” Bucky said after a moment, glancing back down at the closed sketchbook in his hands. “The earliest one says 2009.”

Sam didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He could feel the blood in his ears.

“You drew me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bucky looked up, eyes searching Sam’s face like he was trying to read the years between the lines. And there was no judgment in them. Just a deep, aching curiosity. The kind that tugged at the edge of something fragile.

Sam opened his mouth. Closed it again.

He didn’t know how to explain it. He used to sit up late at night trying to figure out how someone could look both tragic and full of life in the same black-and-white photo. That he sketched Bucky’s face so many times it felt like muscle memory. That there were nights he pressed pencil to paper and imagined what it might be like if that face turned toward him, smiled, and said his name.

Instead, he said, quietly, “You weren’t supposed to be real.”

“But I am,” Bucky half smiled, “At least, you believed so.” He gestured to the books. The silence between them stretched - not heavy, but thick. Full of the weight of history, time, and all things they’d both buried in pages of memories.

Sam walked to the couch, settling beside him. His head rolled back and he let his eyes fall to the ceiling. Suddenly, he was back in Mr. Benton’s room, seeing Bucky for the first time. “I had the fattest crush on you. A little obsessed if you couldn’t tell.”

Bucky huffed out a quiet laugh, something disbelieving and almost shy. He looked down at the books in his lap, fingers brushing the edge of a page like it might burn him. “Yeah,” He said, “I figured that part out.”

Sam turned his head, eyeing him completely, “I don’t know why. I just fell for your…everything.”

Bucky didn’t speak at first. His thumb paused at the edge of a sketch—one where Sam had drawn him laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, alive in a way Bucky had been with Sam.

“I wasn’t real,” Bucky murmured, eyes still on the paper. “Not to me. Not for a long time.”

“You were to me,” Sam said, voice low. “You were… comfort. You were a possibility. Back when I didn’t have words for any of it. I was just falling to fall.”

Bucky looked at him then, really looked—like he was seeing something fragile and sacred at the same time. “You ever tell anyone?”

Sam gave a small, bitter smile. “Nah. Just you. Just now.”

The quiet stretched between them again, but it held more truth than tension this time. Bucky’s hand moved carefully, closing the book and setting it aside, like he knew this moment wasn’t about what was on the pages—but what had finally been spoken aloud.

He leaned back, letting his shoulder press against Sam’s. Not by accident.

“You still fallin’?” he asked, gently.

Sam’s lips twitched. “Maybe.”

Bucky nodded once, gazing back on the ceiling like he was holding it all in place. “Okay,” he said. “Then I won’t move.” Bucky’s words hung in the air like a promise. “Then I won’t move.”

Sam let the silence breathe. He thought about what it meant to fall for someone who was never supposed to exist, to live with that quiet yearning tucked into the corner of his ribs for years, pressed between the pages of old sketchbooks and buried under the weight of duty and doubt.

He let his head tilt, resting lightly against Bucky’s.

“You were always on page 142, you know?” Sam asked suddenly, voice like a whisper across a memory.

Bucky turned just enough to glance at him. “The one in the history book?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. That’s where it started. You were standing with the Commandos. Dirty, cocky smirk. Thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

Bucky smiled, soft and wrecked at the edges. “That’s the one where I’ve got a cut above my eye. Steve said I looked like I got hit by a train.”

“You looked like you belonged to time,” Sam said. “Like history hadn’t swallowed you whole yet.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “And you gave that version of me a second life.”

“I guess I did,” Sam said, voice almost breaking into a laugh. “And now you’re here. Sitting on my couch. Breathing my air.”

“Not moving,” Bucky added.

Bucky sat in the quiet with Sam’s shoulder still resting lightly against his own. The weight of what had just been said lingered in the room like smoke—thick with memory, fragile with truth.

His eyes drifted down again to the sketchbook nearest him, fingers brushing over the edge like it might dissolve. These pages were holy in a way—worn with time, heavy with feeling. A boy’s past. A man’s quiet becoming.

Bucky reached for the pen on the coffee table. It was cheap, half-chewed, the kind Sam always left lying around. Without asking, he flipped to the last page in the sketchbook. The only blank one.

Sam watched him, brows slightly drawn. “What are you doing?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hand moved in slow strokes, quick flicks of the wrist. Nothing grand. Nothing perfect.

Just a stick figure.

Sloppy curls on the head.

A lopsided smile.

A circular shield—cartoonishly big—strapped to the figure’s back.

Bucky leaned back and turned the book slightly toward Sam with a small, crooked grin. “There. Now, you’re in your sketchbook too.”

Sam blinked at the page, a surprised laugh catching in his throat. “That’s supposed to be me?”

“Obviously. The shield gives it away.” Bucky pointed at the squiggly lines like it was indisputable evidence. “Strong stance. Confident tilt of the head. Artistic accuracy.”

Sam shook his head, still smiling. “You can’t draw for shit.”

“Neither can you,” Bucky said, quieter now, the grin fading into something steadier. “Sam.”

Sam looked down at the page, then over at Bucky. The history they carried—the weight of it—suddenly didn’t feel so heavy. Not with this between them. Not with a badly drawn stick figure sealing something in ink that neither of them had ever really said aloud.

“You know,” Sam said after a beat, “That’s going on the fridge.”

“I’d be insulted if it didn’t.”

And for the first time since page 142, Sam didn’t feel like he was reaching back through time to find something lost. He was here. So was Bucky. And they were real.

[cinnamongorll]

Unburied - Chapter 1 🫀

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Original Female Character Summary: Recently pardoned for his crimes as the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes is expected to rebuild his life, but the ghosts of his past force him to remain in the shadows. Elise Monroe, an assistant at a biotech company, is drowning in the demands of her job and her boss’s ambitions. When their worlds collide, a fragile friendship forms, but Bucky’s haunted history plunges Elise into a web of vengeance and hidden truths. As the tension between them builds, so do the threats that lurk in the shadows. In a world of uncertainty, one thing is clear: Bucky’s past won’t stay buried for long. Tags: slow burn, friends to lovers, pov first person, pov third person, multiple povs, eventual smut, violence & gore, ANGST, protective Bucky, mutual pining Word count: 5.1k

next chapter | masterlist | ao3

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Chapter 1:

‘THE WINTER SOLDIER PARDONED.’ 

The words, printed in bold, track across the bottom of the TV screen on a constant loop. 

In the corner,  a blurred CCTV photo of the Winter Soldier appears. A black mask covers the bottom half of his face, his hair conceals the rest. The focal point, though, is his large metal arm, frozen mid swing, inches away from landing a blow to America’s hero. 

Beside it, an aged photo of ‘Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’ from 1941, off to fight in the war. He stands against a brick wall, his cap slanted on his head, his uniform crisp. It’s the smile on his face, the light in his eyes that makes it difficult for Bucky to look away. 

The reporters’ voices grow louder, more animated, and finally, Bucky manages to tear his eyes away from the two echoes of himself on the screen. 

“Now, I believe we should consider this a threat to our national security, Joe. How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” The bald man on the screen declares. His face grows redder with each heated word, making his eyes bulge and his collar tighten. 

“The White House has made it clear that James Buchanan Barnes is no longer under HYDRA’S control,” Joe responds, cutting a nervous glance at the camera. “We have to trust their judgement in this manner” he adds, shuffling the papers in front of him with a hollow smile. 

The red faced man scoffs, seemingly unfussed about criticising the president’s decisions on live television.

“Come on! He’s a trained assassin! He can speak god knows how many languages, can use every weapon known to man. He has a metal arm for pete’s sake! This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

The screen flashes with another CCTV image of the winter soldier. Bucky’s hand curls around the remote. 

Joe straightens and his plastered smile falters for a second before he fixes it. 

“You do make a point there, Seth, but we have to remember that James Barnes was once a hero. He fought the Nazis -” 

“And how many Nazis has he helped since then?” Red faced Seth cuts him off, leaning back as he lets the viewers at home absorb his words. 

Joe sighs deeply and glances to the left, clearly urging his director to wrap this segment up. He looks down at his papers again before speaking. 

“The reports say he was brainwashed, frozen for years at a time. Many might consider him a sympathetic character -” 

“Those sympathies do not outway the pain he has inflicted,” Seth interrupts again, louder this time as he leans forward. “A tragic backstory does not make him less dangerous.” 

There’s a sharp cracking sound. Bucky looks down to find the remote mangled in his metal hand. He instantly relaxes his grip but the damage is done, the broken fragments of plastic fall to the floor next to his feet.

Dread floods his body, muffling the reporters’ voices. Bucky flexes his hand, watching as the glow from the TV reflects off the shined vibranium.   

The reminder of his pardon still trails across the bottom of the screen. He knows that the panic will have died down by tomorrow, gone in a week, but right now, his face, albeit blurred, is splattered across every TV in the country. 

He found out about his pardon weeks ago, when he passed the psych evaluation and was told about his mandatory weekly therapy sessions. It didn’t surprise him, though, that they waited to release the news to the press. Better to hold off, see if he’ll slip up and start killing people before they make their decision public. 

Bucky wipes his flesh hand across the bottom of his face, rubbing his thumb along the stubble on his jaw. He sighs deeply as his eyebrows pinch together.

It doesn’t take long for the reporters’ voices to break through his panic. 

“Thanks, Seth for joining us tonight and sharing your… passionate views on the topic.” Joe turns back to the camera, his voice drops as his smile fades. “James Buchanan Barnes is pardoned. The Winter Soldier is gone. That’s all for tonight.” 

He glances down, shuffles his papers. The camera cuts to the weather girl giving her nighttime report. 

Bucky stands so quickly the couch moves backwards. He stalks across the room to his small kitchenette, swiping his baseball cap and gloves from the counter and striding towards his apartment door, footsteps heavy.

The air is cool when Bucky steps out onto the street. A frigid gust of wind grazes his cheek, ruffling his recently chopped hair. He pauses in a shaded part of the street and pulls on the baseball cap and gloves, a precaution for anonymity, not a defense against the chill. Bucky is used to the cold. 

He begins walking, his chin dripped and his gloved hands shoved in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. The streets are quiet, it must be near 11pm, but Brooklyn is still bright, projecting a warm glow to light his way. Bucky tucks himself closer to the buildings he walks past, choosing to remain in the shadows. 

“How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” 

Bucky clenches his jaw, his boots strike harder across the pavement. 

“This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

His hands curl into fists. 

“The pain he has inflicted” 

A muscle jumps in his cheek. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

Bucky releases a breath, resembling a scoff. 

With each step he can feel that heavy sensation crawling over his body, the one that reminds him of his strength, what he’s truly capable of. 

Bucky might have his mind back but his body still belongs to the Winter Soldier. 

All of HYDRA’S training: languages, surveillance, hand to hand combat, firearms, explosives. None of it has disappeared. Bucky is still as deadly as before. The only difference is that now he can choose whether or not to kill. 

Without realising, Bucky scans his surroundings, searching for cameras, threats, places to hide. It’s a habit he can’t break. 

Maybe Seth has a point. Maybe people should be wary of him. 

The cafe is just up ahead, Bucky slows his pace, not wanting to rush inside and scare the other customers. Not that there would be many at this time. “Maggie’s” is open 24 hours but it’s usually dead after 10pm, other than the occasional late night coffee drinker like himself. 

Bucky isn’t sure how much caffeine actually works on him, he suspects that the super soldier serum dulls its effectiveness, but if there’s even a small chance it will keep him from falling asleep, he’ll take it. 

His gloved hand pushes against the glass door, fogged up with age and grime. A bell rings softly as he steps inside. The smell of burnt coffee and old wood hits him immediately, welcoming him back. 

The place is empty, apart from a woman in the back corner, typing rapidly on her laptop with two empty mugs beside her. Bucky’s eyes don’t linger for long, he quickly dismisses her as a  threat. He doesn’t have to worry about being recognised, either. She doesn’t even look up from her screen. 

Bucky rolls his shoulders and walks up to the counter. Maggie is there, wiping invisible dirt off the red vinyl top. Her grey hair is tucked up in a bun, reading glasses sit perched on her head. She smiles when she notices him, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing with recognition. 

“Evenin’ soldier,” Maggie greets in her husky voice, tossing her rag over her shoulder.

Bucky stiffens, as he always does when Maggie uses that nickname. The first time she called him “soldier” he was so shocked, so stoked with panic that he asked her what she meant before he could stop himself. 

“Ah, I can spot y’all from a mile off,” she had replied, scanning her watery blue eyes up and down his rigid figure. “You’ve all got that same look. Too still, too quiet - like a coiled spring. Just waitin’ for someone to give you orders.” 

Bucky shifts under Maggie’s sharp, observant stare. He dips his chin in greeting, causing the rim of his cap to cover a little more of his face. 

“The usual, huh?” she asks, not waiting for an answer, already shuffling over to the coffee machine. Bucky lets out a slow breath and leans an arm against the counter top. Maggie isn’t one for conversation either, thankfully. The only sounds are the soft clink of a coffee mug and the hiss of the machine. 

He can’t help it, Bucky’s eyes subtly scan every inch of the place as he waits, carefully titling his body to check each corner. Still just the woman with her laptop and empty mugs. This time, when his eyes graze over her, his quick stare is a little more assessing. 

Her hair, somewhere between blonde and brown, is pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. A tousled fringe frames her face but doesn’t cover her eyes, dark and razor sharp, as they flicker across the laptop screen, reflecting the bright glow. 

She looks to be in her late 20s, slender build, average height, her movements controlled, posture relaxed but upright, no visible weapons - 

Stop. Bucky urges himself, blinking rapidly. She’s not a threat. 

“Here ya go, soldier,” Maggie says, her voice cutting through his mental checklist, as she presses the ceramic mug into his gloved hand. Its warmth bleeds through the leather, dull and distant. 

The bitter smell of cheap coffee momentarily grounds him. Bucky pulls a crumpled $10 bill from his back pocket and lays it on the red countertop. It’s too much for coffee, but Maggie doesn’t complain. The cash register dings as he turns and begins walking to his usual seat, in the opposite corner to the woman with the laptop.  

The chair is made of plastic, he imagines most people would find it uncomfortable but Bucky is content. He can see the whole cafe from this angle. Every possible threat laid bare in the dim light. A slow, steady breath leaves his mouth. 

Bucky lifts the mug to his lips and takes a sip. The coffee is bitter, sharp on his tongue. But it’s hot and he savours the burn as it goes down. He glances out the window, watching the rain pick up, splattering the foggy glass, making the lights outside even more blurry. 

Minutes crawl by. The clock on the wall reads 11:30pm. Bucky swallows the rest of his coffee, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the vinyl table top. After a moment, he realises that he’s unintentionally matching the pace of the woman’s typing. The clatter of keys is deafening in the empty cafe. 

He wonders what she’s doing on that laptop. Something important, surely, or else she wouldn’t be here until almost midnight. Maybe she’s wondering why he’s here too. 

Bucky adjusts his position in the seat, flexing his gloved hands against his dark jeans. In a few hours, the sun will be up and he’ll have to face the day. His next therapy appointment is in the morning. Dr. Raynor will ask him if he’s had any more nightmares. He’ll tell her he hasn’t. 

Will it still be lying if he doesn’t sleep? 

Bucky is picturing the frown on her face when the door swings open, the bell clattering against the frame. 

Behind the counter, Maggie jumps. Bucky even notices, from the corner of his eye, that the woman in the corner stops typing for a second before resuming her rapid pace. 

Bucky doesn’t move an inch. He finds it difficult to be startled. It’s like that human instinct was trained out of him. 

Instead, he subtly shifts back in his chair, becoming invisible as the newcomer enters. The air shifts with the cold draft that follows him in. 

Male. Late 40s. About six foot. Roughly 200 pounds. Dark jacket. Heavy boots. No obvious weapon. 

The newcomer walks swiftly to the counter, no wasted steps. Bucky doesn’t stare, but his peripheral vision is keen, analytical. 

He orders a coffee, handing Maggie some coins, then tucks his hands into his pockets, looking around. 

That’s when Bucky notices it. A brief moment, a flicker of attention. He follows the tilt of the man’s head across the room to the woman on her laptop, still too absorbed to notice her surroundings. 

Bucky can’t see the newcomer’s expression but the look lingers long enough for his instincts to kick in. The ones trained into him. Bucky’s posture remains relaxed, casual, but there’s a new stillness to his body. A tension beneath the surface. 

The man takes his mug from the counter. His hand is calloused, rough. Probably works in some sort of manual labour. With his coffee in hand, he pauses, considering, before he crosses the room, not even glancing Bucky’s way, and plants himself down at the table next to the woman. 

Bucky’s lips twitch into a thin, unreadable line. His vibranium fingers flex once, then still. 

The clatter of keys slows to a crawl and, for the first time, Bucky watches as the woman’s eyes lift from the laptop. 

Dark brown, he notes.

In a flash, they’re gone. Back to the screen like they never left. Her typing picks up again, but the pace is different. Aggressive at first, quick and urgent, and then slow, distracted. 

Beside her, the man leans back in his seat, rolling his broad shoulders. He sips his coffee with a casualness that could only be manufactured. Legs spread, fingers tapping against the ceramic mug like he’s inviting attention. 

The man doesn’t look over at the woman directly, but there’s a pattern to his movements. A glance in her direction between sips, his body turned just slightly, not making it obvious. Testing the distance. 

Bucky catches the slightest shift in the woman's shoulders, stiffening as she straightens her spine. 

He grinds his teeth. A subtle shift in his jaw, a flicker of a muscle that betrays every murderous thought running through his mind. 

The man clears his throat. In the quiet cafe, it might as well be a gunshot. 

The woman flinches. Her typing halts, fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

Bucky shifts in his seat. The first visible movement he’s made since the man walked through the door. He begins to hope that the man looks over at him, begs for it, actually. 

Another sip. The man smacks his lips, makes a sound low in his throat. 

The woman exhales sharply through her nose, and takes a final, longing look at her screen. She closes her laptop with a quiet snap and reaches for her bag. Not rushed or panicked. Just done. 

Bucky’s fingers flex against his knee, then still. His shoulders ease, just barely, but his jaw remains tight. He watches, heavy lidded, tracking her movements. 

The man isn’t so subtle. His thick, oil-slick gaze roams over her as she gathers her things and tugs on her black trench coat. 

The woman stands carefully, adjusting the strap on her bag, before sliding through the gap between the two tables. She doesn’t rush, her movements are purposeful, eyes locked on the exit. 

Bucky inhales a soft, woody musk as she passes his table, not even looking in his direction. 

The bell jingles softly as she steps out, into the night. 

The air in the cafe shifts. Heavier, somehow, in the emptiness that follows. 

Light eyes, hooded but biting, flick towards Bucky’s table. It’s only a glance, brief but deliberate. It’s enough for Bucky to feel that heavy sensation crawl across his body again, settling in the weight of his vibranium arm. 

Bucky tilts his head in acknowledgement, it’s subtle but unmissable. His stare is undisguised. His expression unreadable. 

For a moment, neither of the men move. Sounds reduce to the hum of the refrigerator in the back, rain hitting the windows, and the scratch of Maggie’s pen, working on her crossword. 

A normal person might have flinched, when the man’s chair scraped against the tiled floor, sending a screech ricocheting through the room. But Bucky just narrows his eyes, studying his response, concluding its predictability.  

The man stands, his cheeks sporting a faint red glow. He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve then lifts his mug, draining its contents in one long gulp, and sets it down with a deliberate thud. 

He doesn’t look Bucky’s way as he walks to the door. 

The bell rings again, harsher this time. A warning to the night air. 

Bucky watches him go, the door swinging shut behind him. 

He exhales slowly, waits a beat. 

Then, just as smoothly, Bucky rises from his chair and follows. 

The smell of the rain hits him with the first step outside, boots splashing in a puddle. The “Maggie’s” sign glows neon red above him, illuminating the beads of water that roll down his leather jacket. 

He blinks, angling his head, letting car horns and distant music fade into the background. The feeling in his gut takes priority. It’s a churning sensation, muscle memory. His mind ticks like a clock.

There. To his left. The man. 

Bucky’s not following him. Not yet. He’s just walking in the same direction, pace even, enjoying the night air. But a tension lingers, pressing against his ribs, nudging him forward. 

Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. His eyes are scanning the street in front of him, tracking the man, analysing his movements, calculating threat levels. 

A man heading home wouldn’t be so cautious with his steps, wouldn’t hold his shoulders so tight, wouldn’t glance behind him, then pretend he didn’t. 

Bucky keeps a careful distance. Out of sight but never out of range. There one second. Gone another. Invisible. Alert. 

He adopts this persona a little too easily, embracing the cold detachment without resistance. 

“This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

Bucky’s steps falter, just a little. Enough for his mask to crack. 

He imagines his conversation with Dr. Raynor in the morning. 

“What did you get up to last night?” she’ll ask, glancing between him and her notebook. Pen poised over the page, ready to translate his furrowed brow and grumbled answers in her sharp scrawl.

“Oh nothing. Just followed a man four blocks home because he looked at a woman wrong.”

Bucky cringes and lets out a dry, humourless laugh. 

Paranoid? Probably. But Bucky wasn’t betting on it. 

The man is still moving at a decent pace. Determined. Confident. 

Bucky inhales, slow and deep. The damp air clings to his skin, thick with the scent of wet pavement and gasoline. 

Just go home, he urges the man. Don’t make any trouble. Bucky’s hands curl into fists in his jacket pockets.

Up ahead, the man turns. The movement is so sharp, so calculated. Bucky’s instincts snap into place like the bars of a cage. 

He knows that move. Knows what it looks like when someone spots their target. 

Before he can react, before he can track the man’s new path, a door beside him bursts open. A young couple tumble out into the street, hands in each other’s hair, lips on skin. 

Bucky steps out of the way, muscles tightening. It’s only a split second. But it’s enough to put a considerable distance between himself and the man. 

He quickens his pace, scanning the street. Searching for that purposeful gait.

The pressure on his ribs grows, pressing harder, constricting his breath. His heartbeat remains steady. His focus sharp. 

Then - there. 

Bucky’s head whips to the side, following the flash from the corner of his eye. 

An alleyway. The man, walking, quicker. Following something. Someone. 

Bucky turns so fast the night breeze whooshes in his ears. He stalks towards the alley, vision focusing with each step. 

It grows quieter. The noise of the street dissolves. The air is thicker, heavy with a feeling he knows all too well. 

The light fades at the gap between buildings. The streetlight’s orange glow dilutes to a pale echo, circling the alley’s entrance.

The alleyway is long, narrow. Its darkness stretches, ending in a faint glimmer. 

The scent of garbage is striking, intensified by the rain. Bins are overfilled, spilling over. 

Bucky hesitates. Pausing at the mouth of the alley. Reality tugs at the edges of his mind. No cold words have been spoken. No electrical currents have flooded his brain. He can keep walking, bet on his own paranoia. 

He rolls his shoulders. Not tonight. 

Bucky steps into the blackness, following a shadow. 

No, two shadows. 

There’s a vague shape of movement at the far end. A figure. 

The man isn’t just walking towards it. His posture has changed, his steps fall into a pattern that matches Bucky’s. 

Predatory. 

Bucky loosens a breath, slows his steps. Frigid instincts dictate his every movement. 

Slowly, carefully, he takes his hands out his pockets. Flexing his fingers, testing his control. His head tilts, only slightly, keeping the man in his periphery as he scans the rest of the alley. 

Footsteps silent, heels barely skimming the wet ground as he balances his weight. Ready. 

The man moves. Locking in on his target. 

The figure at the end of the alley. A silhouette against the streetlight’s remaining brightness. Dark jacket. Tousled hair. 

She’s turning, just slightly. There’s a flicker of her profile. 

Recognition slams into him. 

Her. 

Paranoia be damned. 

Something cold flares inside him, ice floods every vein. Muscle memory overrides. 

His weight shifts, he moves, vibranium arm raised. 

Too late. 

A sharp grunt. A body hits the wall. 

Bucky stops short, boots skidding against the concrete. His mind is computing, struggling to catch up with the sight in front of him. 

The man. Pinned to the wall. Knife to his throat. Sharp silver reflecting the light from the end of the alley. 

Bucky’s eyes shift to the woman. Her breathing is ragged. Stance steady. Her grip on the knife is strong. 

But there’s a tremble to her hands, betraying her shock. 

The man’s eyes are wide, frozen in his panic. He looks down at the woman like he’s seeing her for the first time. The victim in his mind has vanished. Replaced by a predator. 

Bucky swallows. His muscles are coiled tight, desperate for release. But he waits for a signal, a struggle. 

The woman turns. Her dark gaze snaps to him. 

It’s wild, burning, frightened. 

Then it shifts, her eyes narrow. Something registers beyond her panic. 

She recognises him. 

Fear bolts through him. Then, no, he realises, not from the news - from the cafe. 

Bucky can see the moment she pieces it together. Her eyes flick between him and the man. 

No, he wants to say. I’m not with him. 

She inhales, sharp and sudden. Her grip on the knife tightens, the point grazes the man’s thick, leathered flesh. His skull presses against the brick. 

The look she throws Bucky’s way is repulsed. 

“Are you next?” she demands, a slight tremble cloaking her words but not quite disguising their bite. 

Bucky watches her carefully. A heartbeat passes between them. Her gaze doesn’t falter. 

He raises his gloved hands slightly, just enough to show he’s not a threat. His posture is casual but his muscles remain tight. 

“Relax,” he answers, voice calm. “Not here to hurt you.” He nods towards the knife in her hand. “Or to get stabbed.” 

His tone is even, dry, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes.

She just stares back. Expression unreadable.  

“Wouldn’t be the first time, but I’m really not interested.” Bucky deadpans, lowering his hands as he shifts his stance, feeling her out, testing the tension. 

Her eyes don’t leave his face. 

“So, what? You just follow women into dark alleys?” she accuses, shifting on her feet, flexing her fingers around the knife. 

“No,” he denies quickly, a slight furrow forming in his brow. He nods towards the man. “I was following him.” 

The man’s body jerks as the knife digs deeper, biting his skin. Blood beads at the wound and rolls down his neck. 

The woman blinks, her breathing hitches. Her eyes flash with something - guilt, maybe. She clearly didn’t mean to press that hard. A slow, shaky breath releases from her lips. 

Unease begins to build beneath Bucky’s skin. His gaze sharpens, instincts taking over. 

The man pinned to the wall is only seconds away from realising that her grip on the knife has loosened slightly. One quick grab would have her disarmed. 

A second passes. Bucky sees the man’s shoulders stiffen. The shift of his jaw. The twitch of his hand. 

He catches the woman’s eyes. There’s a flicker of hesitation there. She doesn’t know where to go from here. Not sure what to do. 

She doesn’t know whether to trust him. 

Then it happens. 

The man moves, hand snatching for the metal blade. 

Instead, it meets vibranium. 

Bucky steps forward, his hand slamming around the man’s wrist. Twisting it at such an angle that the man releases a sharp hiss from between his teeth. 

The knife clatters to the wet concrete as the woman jumps back, a gasp escaping her lips. 

The man struggles against Bucky’s grip, swinging his other hand in a desperate attempt to land a few blows. Bucky doesn’t even flinch. His fingers tighten, the vibranium almost humming with restrained force. His other hand lifts slowly to curve around the man’s throat. 

His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he holds the man in place. 

Ice returns to his veins. Muscle memory is taking over. Bucky knows he should let go. But he doesn’t want to. 

His voice cuts through the air, cold and commanding. “Grab the knife. Go,” he snaps, turning slightly towards the woman, his eyes not leaving the man. 

There’s an anger rippling in his body, hot and foreign. Melting the ice. He’s done his job, he’s saved the girl. So why doesn’t he want to stop? 

The woman doesn’t hesitate. Bucky sees her hurried movements out of the corner of his eye. She bends to grab the bag that had fallen from her shoulder during the struggle, then swiftly swipes the knife off the ground. 

The man’s eyes follow her. Bucky’s fingers tighten around his throat. A sharp warning. 

Bucky waits, listening for her retreating footsteps. But the only sound is the man’s ragged breathing and his own rapid heartbeat, pounding in his ears. 

“Get out of here. Now.” Bucky’s voice is low, final. 

She stands still for a moment. The seconds stretching his patience. 

Then, with a shaky breath, she turns and walks towards the glow of the streetlights. Footsteps slow, weighted. 

Bucky watches her go from his periphery, his teeth clenched, muscles tight. The alley is quiet, colder now against his burning skin. 

It’s just Bucky and the man. 

Bucky’s lips twitch. 

The man’s body tenses under his grip, feeling the shift. He knows what’s coming. 

Both hands, vibranium and flesh, flash to the man’s shoulders. A quick pull back, then he slams forward. Skull thudding against brick. The impact ripples through Bucky’s arm. 

A choked sound escapes the man’s throat. 

Then Bucky’s lips are at his ear. 

“If you even think about following her again, I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you,” he promises, his voice a low growl. 

Fire and ice crackle under his skin, but he holds back. He has to. 

The man says nothing, just groans under his breath. 

Bucky releases his grip in one sudden movement. He steps back slowly, eyes never leaving the man. 

The man’s eyes dart to him before he swallows hard, peeling himself off the wall. He glances in the direction the woman went, but then, reconsidering, he turns and heads back the way he came in, his steps hurried and uneven. He doesn’t look back. 

“How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” 

Bucky’s chin dips, a heavy exhale slipping from his body. 

How quickly it returned - that cold, biting detachment. The frost that controlled his actions.  The bitterness that hardened his restraint. It was pure instinct. Calculated. Methodical. The way he stalked the man, slammed him against the wall, threatened his life. The lack of remorse. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding.

The anger was new, this time. 

Bucky wasn’t used to it, the white hot burn beneath his skin. The fire, fueling his movements. 

As the Winter Soldier, he had felt nothing. Only echoes of emotions, lingering in the back of his mind, frozen. Sometimes they’d melt, dripping through the cracks. But every time he reached out, they slipped through his fingers like water. 

This anger was new. Or maybe it wasn’t. An old feeling, perhaps, now returning to him. 

He could have killed that man. He wanted to. But he didn’t. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

No. Bucky still struggled to accept that. 

But maybe he has adapted, transformed into something new. 

He stands there in the dark alley, listening to the rain splash off the pavement. Whatever buzz the caffeine had given him had worn off, and a deep, heavy tiredness begins to tug at his bones. 

The sun will be up soon. He’ll go to therapy. Dr. Raynor will ask him about his night, how he’d slept. He’ll lie. She’ll know. 

Then he’ll return home to a dark, empty apartment to watch more reporters debate about his right to exist. 

The same question will linger in mind, heavy and unshakable: 

What’s the point? 

……………………………….

His phone buzzes from the desk, pulling his focus from the computer screen. 

Bored eyes glance over the notification, quick to dismiss the distraction, before he catches sight of the words: 

BREAKING NEWS: James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as the Winter Soldier, officially pardoned by the U.S. government. 

His phone is in his hand. Fingers quick, urgent, as they seek more information. 

As the confirmation settles over him, his pulse slows, along with his breathing. Everything around him pauses, forgotten, inconsequential to the information now plaguing his brain. 

Flashes of memories, once thought buried, resurface. Building, growing, cracking in his mind. 

His hands begin to shake. His vision burns - red hot. 

The phone is no longer in his grip. He throws it, hard, across the room. 

It smashes against a wall with a sharp crack, pieces scattering across the floor.

It doesn’t matter. The damage is already done. The words are still there, burned into his mind. 

[thischristianguy]

Which Robin for Brave and the Bold movie?

rumours circle around that WB execs are unable to decide which Robin in the upcoming Brave and the Bold movie. That’s to be expected there are a few to choose from. But which do you choose?

your favourite? the latest? the current popular one? the original?

Instead of thinking about the popularity or financial impact of the Robin chosen we should think about narrative. Which narrative certain Robin’s bring to the story. Not just for the current movie but for the future narratives that are available. Especially when James Gunn is emphasising story first. As well as not including crime alley

if there’s no Batman origin then perhaps another Robin origin. But it’s a switcheroo. Jason Todd (Robin #2, Red Hood) was referred to in the Snyder movies. We had Dick Grayson in the Schumacher movies. Next Robin is Tim Drake. Why not? There are a few good stories to tell with Tim Drake and a different Robin from the first two.

Tim’s parents aren’t dead. Well, they are now in the comics but when Tim began as Robin both his Father and Mother were still alive. A bit too distant from Tim’s life, but alive. A new Robin, new situation, new problems. Where does that put Batman? Where does that put Bruce Wayne? Also the threat to Tim’s parents is waiting to be used.

The image above is Tim at the circus with the Flying Grayson’s. Tim works out that Robin is Dick Grayson because of the trick somersault Robin is filmed doing. It sets Tim up as the smart Robin. Please read Juni Ba’s recent Robin mini series The Boy Wonder. It’s sets up all the Robin’s really well. Tim then confronts Dick and Alfred with this information hoping to push Dick to return as Robin.

Dick is Nightwing and has his own gig. Tim is not a younger brother at this point but certainly a larger family is growing. Bat family worked in the web comic Wayne Family Adventures. Legacy is core to DC comics history. Rarely does it make it to the movies. A new Robin, how does Bruce respond? How do the people of Gotham react? How does Gordon feel? Does Tim respond to the legacy well or is it a weight? Who trains Tim? In the comics it’s Lady Shiva.

However Tim sits as third in a long line of Robin’s, Batgirl’s, and other members of the Batfamily. By using Tim you can look back to Dick and Jason. This would put Barbara Gordon in play as Batgirl or Oracle. You can also lean forward to Stephanie “Spoiler” Brown, Damien Wayne. There’s also Cassandra Cain Batgirl too.

to be honest Gunn is a loose cannon at times and he could quite easily go with Carrie Kelly. I’d expect WB to play it safe and go with Dick or Damien. But, in my opinion it’s Tim who is placed best as the Robin with the most potential difference in narrative choices. Not just for Batman but for the growing Batfamily and the legacy of Robin that Tim has to endure. It’s messy and that lends itself to fun for writers and hopefully for the audience. It looks good to me and that’s why.

[cass-danny-weekend]

Cass/Danny Weekend - Fun Facts! Day 2

Today we will be looking at the basic history of the other half of our couple, Danny! Now this post may look a little different, since we don't know as much about Danny's life prior to his hero career, but we'll try to give you a pretty good picture.

Daniel "Danny" Fenton is the titular character of the early 2000s cartoon, Danny Phantom. The show was released in 2004 with its premier episode "Mystery Meat". And here is one fun fact: Danny does not canonically have a middle name! So if you read fanfiction and see names like "Danny James Fenton", or "Danny Jackson Fenton", or one memorable case of "Danny William Fenton", then these are just headcanons introduced by the author to give his name a little more flavor. We've all seen that dialogue where a character gets full-named by a disappointed parent.

He is the son of Jack and Madeline "Maddie" Fenton, and the younger brother to Jasmine "Jazz" Fenton. His parents are infamously known as ghost hunters, much to his sister's dismay. Jazz is older than him by two years, as indicated by "Mystery Meat". We first meet Danny as a fourteen-year-old, in his first year of high school. He has two close friends, Samantha "Sam" Manson and Tucker Foley. Otherwise, he is fiercely bullied and considered a social outcast.

When he is fourteen, his parents complete a project they've been working on since their college days, some twenty years ago, as we learn from "Bitter Reunions". It is a portal to another realm, nicknamed the "Ghost Zone". The first attempt to turn on the portal is met with failure; despondent, his parents abandon the project temporarily, which gives Danny the opportunity to explore the lab alongside his friends. He is first reluctant to explore, worried that his parents might catch them in the lab, but is egged on by Sam. After some quick convincing, Danny agrees to go inside the portal. While inside, he accidentally presses on a button on the wall, an "On" button, which turns the portal on. It miraculously works, but gives him no time to escape.

Since this is a television show geared for kids, we aren't told exactly what happened to him. But as you can guess from the screaming and the fact he comes back out of the portal burnt and smoking, it was not very pleasant.

Now here's where it gets messy. This depiction of Danny's "origin story", as you would, is shown through a flashback in the episode "Memory Blank". However, the show's theme song and accompanying graphics instead shows Danny in the lab alone.

Fun fact! In this episode, Danny is given his hero symbol, a flared D with a P nestled inside. For the whole first season, he does not have this symbol.

Over the next few weeks, Danny would begin to present powers like that of ghosts, such as intangibility, invisibility, and flight. He can also transform from a human form to a ghost form. It's not until a month later, when a ghost known as Lunch Lady attacks his school, Casper High, targeting his friend Sam that Danny realizes a higher purpose as a hero. In a subsequent episode "One of a Kind", a ghost named Skulker calls Danny a "half-ghost". You can call it one of our first true introductions to what Danny has since become after the accident with the portal. It is not until the episode "Splitting Images" that he's called a "halfa" by another ghost, Sidney Poindexter.

We've covered a lot of information in this post, so we'll leave you here with one last parting tidbit:

As we know, ghosts are the main antagonists in the show, and as far as we've been introduced the only form of the supernatural in this story's world. But the original pitch bible for the show tells another story. Unfortunately, that pitch bible has since disappeared from the wider web, but this post on Tumblr still provides some interesting commentary and notes about the document.

We hope you enjoy! We'll see you around for Day 3.

- Mod Halfa

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

New telescope images uncover 'Green Monster' in Cassiopeia A

Using NASA's James Webb Space Telescope, astronomers uncovered a mysterious feature within the remnant, nicknamed the "Green Monster," alongside a puzzling network of ejecta filaments forming a web of oxygen-rich material. When combined with X-rays from NASA's Chandra X-ray Observatory, the data helped astronomers shed light on the origin of the Green Monster and revealed new insights into the explosion that created Cas A about 340 years ago, from Earth's perspective.

Like with the Cygnus Loop, Chandra has provided a 3-dimensional (3D) printable model that can be used to explore the end stage of a star's life. These 3D models are based on state-of-the-art theoretical models, computational algorithms, and observations from space-based telescopes like Chandra that give us accurate pictures of these cosmic objects and how they evolve over time.

IMAGE: Cassiopeia A (Cas A) is a supernova remnant located about 11,000 light-years from Earth in the constellation Cassiopeia. It spans approximately 10 light-years. Credit: X-ray: NASA/CXC/SAO, NASA/JPL/Caltech/NuStar; Optical: NASA/STScI/HST; IR: NASA/STScI/JWST, NASA/JPL/CalTech/SST; Image Processing: NASA/CXC/SAO/J. Schmidt, N. Wolk, and K. Arcand

[red-life]

images ive saved in my phone + the last dsmp stream

how do people do web weaves i just spent the last 3 hours to 5am struggling to crop images on my phone

roughly in order:

We Used Our Words We Used What Words We Had, Franny Choi

good riddance, a softer sea

This is How You Lose Her, Junot Díaz

i won't let the choice fall to you, either, a softer sea

The Marvelous Land of Oz, L. Frank Baum

gentle.earth

logging onto the dream smp for the final time (HUGE LORE), jack manifold

Failing and Flying, Jack Gilbert

True Love Mural, @.bigskycastle

alleycat gives unsolicited advice, @.diakoh

@.wholeheartedsuggestions

The Adventure Zone, Griffin McElroy

@.maybecowboycore

Dividers by @.patorucho

i'll hold your hand, a softer sea

Somewhere between yesterday and ten years ago, you grew up, @.spokensincerely

the fight is harder each year, @.theveryworstthing

girl dancing with Anna Pavlova painting

poetry is stored in the tags, vol 5, @.araekni

A Psalm for the Wild-Built (Becky Chambers) / kagonekoshiro, @.guooey

The Epic of Gilgamesh

@.inkskinned

a uquiz i can't locate :(

Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

dictionary poem xlvi, keaton st. james

[cookietastic]

JSYK, if you are using posemaniacs, be aware that it ONLY shows the layout of the muscles and bones - it does not accurately show deformation of the muscles (let alone the boobs they slapped on the female models), nor are all poses there entirely natural.

While it can still be useful, it is best for a secondary source used alongside other reference.

If you seek more live model stuff, YT has "New Masters Academy" that has a bunch of posed models, clothed and nude (last I checked).

Gonna also toss out there that Dan Beardshaw, Scott Robertson, James Gurney, and Jeremy Vickery are solid for super technical stuff in 2D on YT as well (first two on drafting, second two on painting - there are obviously far more, but they kind of hit highlights).

If you want a really thorough thing on muscle deformation, that is outside of live art models, Acland's Video Atlas of the Human Body is floating around somewhere on the web, I am sure. It not only goes through the entirety of a fresh cadaver, labeling all bits and pieces as it goes along, but there are life people often demonstrating the isolated action. Likewise too, while scientific illustration often deviates away from realistic depiction for the sake of communication, the illustrator (Elisabeth Roen Kelly, BSc, BMC) of "Kinesiology of the Musculoskeletal System" by Neumann is FANTASTIC for both demonstrative purposes and accurate depictions. That one, eh, not sure if it as easy of a find (Acland is old, I figure it may be out there due to age and provenance, whereas this book is steadily updated still), but the most recent edition (4th) is still cheaper than it has been in the past.

I don't want tumblr to snip me with so I'll to keep this tumblr friendly as possibly lmao

And yeah it's always good to have multiple resources and references to work with and use!

New Masters do have a YouTube channel! As well as a website but you have to pay for it to do timed drawings. There is though Quick poses though that allows nude and clothed models as well as animals!

Kinesiology of the Musculoskeletal System I've seen before on internet archive here to read!

But also Anatomy for The Artist is also very good you can read here

[marypickfords]

A Warning to the Curious (Lawrence Gordon Clark, 1972) Unfriended: Dark Web (Stephen Susco, 2018)

“The template for the perfect scary story is pretty much set in stone, and it’s unlikely that any technological advancement is going to change that. The ghost tales devised by the Victorian writer M.R. James at the beginning of the 20th century will remain the bedrock for the genre as we know it. [...] [H]e alighted upon and would consistently return to a basic, endlessly reproducible scenario: an antiquarian or scholar, usually fusty, male, and set in his ways, comes into possession of a relic, manuscript or other object of mysterious provenance and great interest, and this item turns out in some way to be haunted and/or coveted by the being who once owned it. [...]

One of the few recent horror movies that gave me the particularly Jamesian pit-of-stomach dread that comes from peeking a little too far below the surface of our seemingly safe everyday existence is 2018’s Unfriended: Dark Web, Stephen Susco’s rigorously conceived sequel to the also impressive yet more predictably moralizing Unfriended (2014). It’s perhaps a film that few would upon first glance consider classical or elegantly shaped, yet Dark Web’s ruthless exploitation of contemporary fears—of losing one’s identity, of being found out, of making one wrong misstep that has everlasting consequences—are firmly rooted in the scary story template. In “Oh Whistle,” the young professor Perkins absconds with an ancient, hieroglyphic-laden whistle he discovers buried in the sand amongst the groynes of a coastal town in eastern England; he later makes the mistake of blowing it. In Unfriended: Dark Web, our ostensible hero Matias (Colin Woodell), pilfers a laptop from a coffee house’s lost and found; it’s not as magical as the strange artifact buried on a rocky shore, but it’s useful for his purposes, and, like Perkins, he definitely should have left it where found it.

As in the classic ghost story, the owners of the object are coming back to claim it—in this case black-hooded figures who might be real, but who appear as staticky, pixellated manifestations of otherworldly evil. Or perhaps underworldly evil: as the title implies, this thing goes deep, man, all the way down to the heavily encrypted world of darknet that has inspired countless contemporary urban legends, here envisioned as a journey to Hades by rowboat, animated with rudimentary, Atari-era graphics. As though they’ve been hit with a fatal computer virus, all of his friends—who have gathered in their respective spaces to partake of “game night”—also are, in a sense, infected by association. The film’s logic is like a less literal Ringu: as soon as one sees the horrifying images, there’s no way back. The excavations of the dark web are essentially files buried deep within our collective subconscious.”  — Michael Koresky, A Few Great Pumpkins XIV