#ultimate war machine

[avengers-goober-behavior]

War Machine can't believe it.

[justmenoworries]

Small neat detail I noticed: Vox's and Sir Pentious' use of their hypnotism kind of reflects their characters.

Vox actively uses his hypnotic eye to influence people into believing him and buying from him. And he uses it very often. To the point that when any kind of obstacle comes his way, the hypno-eye just seems to activate on instinct.

Pentious has only used his hypnotism once so far and it's when he's defending himself from Angel Dust. His hypnotism is also much weaker than Vox's. Whereas Vox seems to be able to brainwash people and the effects last for some time, Pentious's hypnosis only stuns Angel and Angel manages to break out of it after like a second.

I just thought that was really interesting.

[superheroes-or-whatever]

Ultimate Invasion (2023) #2 art by Bryan Hitch

[reluctantscribe]

Hey all!! So, about my post from yesterday, I wanna make this a bit of a collaborative project—!! I’m gonna open the floor to you guys for help with crafting my characters and maybe even plots/story beats. It’s a fanmade project that won’t make any money, and I figure the more the merrier!!

There are characters I’m pretty dead-set in and know where to start/take their stories! But others… like the character I want to start the universe with— I only have a few ideas and want help fleshing out the concepts for…

I wanna start Earth-6161 with Iron Man, a tribute to the MCU and where it started.

Inspired by both Earth-6160’s version of Tony/Iron Lad and Iron Man: Armored Adventures, I want my Tony to be 16-18 when he first makes his Iron Man armor.

And that’s where you guys come in: I’m trying to think of HOW Tony at this young age ends up in a situation where he’ll need the suit, what situation will make him build the suit, and what will be the catalyst for his change of heart and turn to heroism.

I had an idea but I don’t know about it. Mainly because it only answers one question:

what causes Tony’s change of heart and turn towards heroism?

Howard Stark is alive and selling his weapons to the enemy. Tony learns of this and has to fight his father in a clash of ideals. Howard Stark would become Iron Monger in this reality. Tony wouldn’t kill his father, but Howard would end up at The Raft and could be featured in future stories.

But of course, that’s ONE idea, and I want many. So tumblr, HIT ME.

[rotzaprachim]

fundamentally at odds with any us based franchise that fandomizes war as a money maker

[the-busy-ghost]

Warning- this is a very petty post, but I think I'm entitled to at least one petty, pissed-off reaction every time I finish a classic novel that hit harder than I expected so take this as my quota for the year.

Also spoiler warning for a book that came out over a century ago but still, I didn't know the plot going in so don't want to ruin it for anyone else, if you haven't read it shut your eyes. (Also Local Tumblr User Going Wild Over Book Published a Hundred Years Ago That Everybody Else Already Read should probably be categorised as akey part of indigenous tumblr culture at this point).

Anyway I just finished the War of the Worlds and in between studying I've thinking about Themes and Motifs as you do, and idly looking for further analysis. I then accidentally ran into an article called 'A Quiet Place II Succeeds Where the War of the Worlds Failed' and:

Now I haven't seen any of the Quiet Place films, this is not a rant against them and of course everyone is entitled to their own opinions. But re: the ending of The War of the Worlds, I have to ask, did this guy somehow miss, uh, the entire point of the book or am I just utterly insane?

[the-far-bright-center]

‘Revenge of the Sith may be the greatest work of art in our lifetimes...’

(an excerpt from a long-deleted blog post, archived here)

“Revenge of the Sith is still (and probably always will be) the greatest thing that will ever come out of the Star Wars franchise. I always go further, in fact, and say that it’s the greatest thing that will ever come out of big-budget, action/fantasy cinema at all. George Lucas’s final contribution to his Star Wars legacy—2005’s final prequel offering—was not only an artistic, cinematic and operatic masterpiece, but it was the ultimate, consummate manifestation of everything Star Wars was capable of being and, for that matter, everything that big-scale cinema is capable of being.

It literally does not—and probably can’t—get better than this ever again.

Lucas, who himself pretty much set the standard and invented the genre in 1977, had now taken us to the absolute zenith of what that genre of film-making could produce.

Epic, ambitious, stunning, moving, nuanced, and everything else, it was the glorious completion of Lucas’s original Star Wars saga that I had been waiting for—and something for which I will always be immensely grateful George Lucas came back to film-making to give us. I have already made the case at length for why Revenge of the Sith was an absolute masterpiece of staggering proportions, so I’ll refrain from re-stating here all the ... reasons I eternally bow at the altar of that film and its unfairly maligned architect.

People who didn’t get it or still don’t get it probably never will get it.

I’ve given up arguing with those on the tedious backlash bandwagon, those who join in with the Lucas-bashing for the sake of YouTube channel views, or those who, like [spoilt children] throwing a tantrum, bitterly disavow George Lucas and whine about how the prequels ‘ruined Star Wars’.

Someone who did get it, however, was the noted author and social critic Camille Paglia: she of course famously declared a few years ago that George Lucas was the greatest artist of his time and specifically that Revenge of the Sith was the greatest work of art in the last thirty years.

The respected, if often controversial, academic Paglia didn’t argue that Episode III  was merely the best movie of the last thirty years… but the best work of art in any genre and in any medium.

[...] Predictably a lot of people either assumed Paglia was being sarcastic or they simply pooh-poohed her conclusions. Paglia, however, was not trying to be ironic, and she has reaffirmed and defended her position over and over again and with a passion—Lucas’s final Star Wars film, she maintained, is the greatest work of art in the last three decades.

[...] I cannot think of any film in any genre that has been as absorbing or as immaculate (or as ambitious). Even just conceptually, what Lucas tried to do with the prequel trilogy was staggering and is without any parallel. And while we could argue that the execution was off-the-mark in certain places, the sheer visceral power and broad artistic value of what he did manage to create—even with its various failings—puts Lucas’s saga (and ROTS in particular) into a different stratosphere entirely.

In her own view of it, Paglia especially focuses on the final act of the third prequel—the climactic finale centering on the extended Anakin/Kenobi lightsaber duel against the dramatic lava backdrop and the extraordinarily powerful way that the birth of the Skywalker twins is juxtaposed with the ‘death’ of Anakin and ‘birth’ of Vader. That latter sequence, by the way, in which the death of the mother coincides (and even feeds into) the birth of the ‘dark father’, all of it underscored by John Williams haunting, gothic choral/hymn composition, is just one example (among many) of Lucas’s extraordinarily acute and nuanced levels of vision.

‘The long finale of Revenge of the Sith has more inherent artistic value, emotional power, and global impact than anything by the artists you name,’ she said in this interview with Vice. ‘It’s because the art world has flat-lined and become an echo chamber of received opinion and toxic over-praise. It’s like the emperor’s new clothes—people are too intimidated to admit what they secretly think or what they might think with their blinders off.’

Speaking to FanGirlBlog, Paglia continued her celebration of Lucas’s final masterwork, saying, ‘I have been saying to interviewers and onstage, "The finale of Revenge of the Sith is the most ambitious, significant, and emotionally compelling work of art produced in the last 30 years in any genre—including literature".

Paglia’s assertions flowed from her 2012 book Glittering Images: A Journey Through Art from Egypt to Star Wars, which in part addressed the problem of modern cultural ignorance and the author’s worries that 21st century Americans are overexposed to visual stimulation by the “all-pervasive mass media” and must fight to keep their capacity for contemplation.

In the book, Paglia discusses twenty-nine examples of visual artwork, beginning with the ancient Egyptian funerary images of Queen Nefertari, and then progressing through various artistic works, including creations from Ancient Greece to Byzantine art and Donatello’s ‘Mary Magdalene’.

She explained, ‘Lucas was not part of my original plan for Glittering Images, which has 29 chapters crossing 3000 years. My goal was to write a very clear and concise handbook to the history of artistic styles from antiquity to the present. When I looked around for strong examples of contemporary art to end the book with, however, I got very frustrated. There is a lot of good art being made, but I found it overall pretty underwhelming. When I would happen on the finale of Revenge of the Sith, I just sat there stunned. It grew and grew on me, and I became obsessed with it. I was amazed at how much is in there—themes of love and hate, politics, industry, technology, and apocalyptic nature, combined with the dance theater of that duel on the lava river and then the parallel, agonizing death/births. It’s absolutely tremendous.’

Paglia also entirely recognised the sheer scale of Lucas’s creation and the value of even its various constituent parts as important or worthy works of art. ‘The fantastically complex model of the Mustafar landscape made for the production of Revenge of the Sith should be honored as an important work of contemporary installation art,’ she argued. ‘And also that Lucas’ spectacular air battles, like the one over Coruscant that opens Sith, are sophisticated works of kinetic art in the tradition of important artists like Marcel Duchamp and Alexander Calder. No one has ever written about George Lucas in this way—integrating him with the entire fine arts tradition.’

The problem is that Lucas and the prequel trilogy have become so widely misrepresented as ‘bad’ that most people don’t know how to deal with someone like Paglia sincerely proclaiming “Nothing in the last 30 years has been produced—in any of the arts—that is as significant or as emotionally compelling as Revenge of the Sith…”

[...] In fact, contrary to widespread misconceptions about how the Star Wars films are viewed, a Rotten Tomatoes poll ... found that Revenge of the Sith (and not Empire Strikes Back) scored as the best-regarded of the [Lucas] movies according to aggregation of archived reviews. So the idea that everyone dismisses the prequels seems like a misconception; but it is fair to say that a substantial body of people —including a lot of people who, rather incongruously, regard themselves as Star Wars fans—do completely dismiss this film along with its two predecessors.

As I said at the start, people who didn’t get it or still don’t get it probably never will get it.

But what has always struck me as pitiful about the whiny ‘Lucas Ruined Star Wars’ attitude is that it seems to flow from the premise that Lucas—a man whose stubborn commitment to his own singular vision gave an entire generation from the late 70s and early 80s unparalleled joy—somehow ‘owes it’ to those same people to do things precisely how *they* deem acceptable. That’s essentially what it comes down to—that he, as the artist, should make the art that the fans or the public want and not follow his own creative vision.

What people don’t realise, however, is that if he had done that from the beginning, there never would’ve BEEN an original Star Wars trilogy at all—and arguably all of these huge blockbuster SF/fantasy films that people spend their money seeing today wouldn’t exist either. What a lot of people also don’t realise is that Lucas was never setting himself up to be a populist or even mainstream filmmaker. On the contrary, he was the avant-garde film geek, the rogue, the outsider. The fact that Star Wars spiraled into a billion-dollar behemoth was an accident; and when the first Star Wars movie was released in 1977, it was an oddity that no one in the film industry understood or believed in.

But Lucas had stuck to his own creative vision—a vision that was largely incomprehensible to everyone else at the time the film was being made—and his singular vision hit the mark big-time and accomplished something unprecedented.

By the time of the endlessly-maligned The Phantom Menace in 1999 and everything that followed, Lucas was still doing exactly the same thing—following his own vision, trying to create something extraordinary and largely ignoring contemporary trends or opinion. The only difference was that the vast fan-base he had acquired from the original films were older now, far more jaded and over-saturated with blockbuster movies (most of which were influenced by Lucas’s pioneering work in the 70s) and they essentially didn’t *want* something new, creative or challenging—they just wanted the same thing they’d had when they were kids.

In effect, they weren’t interested in Lucas the artist or Lucas the pioneer—they only wanted Lucas the Popcorn Movie dispenser. But Lucas the Popcorn Movie Dispenser had never existed—he was simply an illusion created by the extraordinary commercial success of the Star Wars Trilogy.

What Lucas had in fact envisioned—and created—with the prequel trilogy, especially Revenge of the Sith, was something that transcended the whole summer blockbuster ennui, transcended genre, transcended the very medium of film itself, and could be discussed in the same breath as Shakespeare, Virgil and the Aeneid, Julius Caesar, and a number of equally fascinating and endlessly debatable works of serious and complex gravity.

But there was an audience of millions who were instead looking for something that could be discussed alongside Jurassic Park or Terminator 2. Which is fine—Star Wars of course can also be discussed just as validly in that latter context too; but it also exists in a stratosphere beyond it. And because Lucas’s process and vision was in that higher stratosphere a lot of the time, there was a frequent disconnect that occurred, whereby a lot of people were unable to meet him halfway or relate to the films on those kinds of levels.

But Lucas pushed on with his long-envisioned trilogy; and by the time the final installment of his Star Wars saga arrived in 2005, a sizeable proportion of the old fan-base had either departed or were by now just coming to the party for the thrill of seeing Darth Vader one last time. Some dismissed the film the same way as they’d dismissed its two predecessors, some were full of scathing mockery, while others were ambivalent. Some were suitably entertained, but didn’t take it much further than that.

Another group, a smaller minority—myself included—had just seen something of epic, overwhelming proportions and had the greatest cinematic experience of their lives.

But great art is like that.

Great works of art divides people, provoking endless debate [...] An argument could be made that the greatest artist will go all-out to create something special and substantive, even if it won’t appeal to everyone. Said artist would follow his own creative vision and not compromise it to the committee of consensus or demand.

Lucas, it should be borne in mind, never made ANY of the Star Wars films with film-critics in mind—even the Original Trilogy movies were not critically approved, despite becoming cultural landmarks. And interestingly, the hang-ups of many of those who were scathing about the prequel movies—ROTS included—were virtually identical to the hang-ups of the critics in the early 80s who either just didn’t get those original Star Wars films or were unwilling to praise a rogue filmmaker who was rebelling against Hollywood at the time and who was making something entirely out-of-step with contemporary trends and sensibilities.

Fittingly enough, the Lucas who was out-of-step with the sensibilities of the time during the late 70s and early 80s is the same Lucas who was equally out-of-step with sensibilities and trends at the time of the prequels too. In both eras, Lucas rebelled against the sensibilities of contemporary cinema and carved out his own piece of utter magic according to his own stubborn vision—the difference is that so many of the same people who adored what he had done in the first instance couldn’t understand what he was doing in the second instance.

Even though what he was doing was essentially the same thing.

For that matter, I always suspected that one of the main reasons so many people failed to appreciate (or in a lot of cases, to even understand) this film is precisely because it isn’t contemporary. That’s a key thing to understand about the Star Wars prequels—they were not made in a contemporary style.

Lucas doesn’t make contemporary cinema. Both of Lucas’s Star Wars trilogies are written and designed specifically to NOT be contemporary, but to have a more timeless quality, steeped in traditions from the past.

Lucas, you have to remember, has never been a contemporary or generic filmmaker, but a more avant-garde artist and experimenter who foremost specialises in tone and impressionism. The fact that he invented modern blockbuster cinema is purely an accident. As he himself once said, “None of the films I’ve done was designed for a mass audience, except for ‘Indiana Jones.’ Nobody in their right mind thought ‘American Graffiti’ or ‘Star Wars’ would work”.

 [...] They were not contemporary or generic at all—consequently, a lot of people didn’t understand or relate to what they were watching: because they couldn’t find a point of comparison in popular culture.

To really understand these films, you have to go back to some of the historical epics of the fifties and sixties, particularly films like Ben-Hur, Cleopatra or Spartacus. If you watch any of those films (and all three are timeless, truly marvelous cinematic works) and then watch the three Star Wars prequels, it will suddenly make much more sense. The acting style, the dialogue style, the themes, the epic scope and settings, the vast mythologizing, the way the films are scored, even the intricate costume design—all of it.

There’s nothing surprising about that. After all, it’s easy to overlook the fact now from our current vantage-point, but the original Star Wars trilogy movies weren’t contemporary in style either—they were stylistically based on things like Kurosawa, Flash Gordon and the Saturday matinee serials of the 1930s and 40s. The original trilogy films made no stylistic sense in terms of contemporary cinema or sensibilities in the late 70s or early 80s—they were, in style, a homage to a long-gone era.

So too were the prequels—just a different homage to a different era.

[...]

When you look at everything that makes up Revenge of the Sith, the scope of vision along with the degree of artistic nuance and juxtaposition is breathtaking.

There’s lots of action, yes, as you’d expect; but the action, like so much of what Lucas was doing by this stage, is almost transcendent. Sure, the acting or delivery is off in a few places; mostly due to some of the actors having to perform in non-existent CG environments—remember Lucasfilm and ILM were breaking new ground technologically in these movies, which we take for granted now with all our CG and digital filmmaking, but which at the time were bound to cause some teething problems. But Ewan McGregor is superb in this film, while the maligned Hayden Christensen....in fact does a solid job in any number of key scenes.

And there’s everything else. The special effects aren’t just good, they’re actually often beautiful in a way that most special effects don’t aspire to be. The level of detail and artistry in the visuals mean you could turn the sound off and still be captivated. Some of the backdrops could make extraordinary paintings that could hang convincingly in art galleries. And Lucas is the absolute master of the establishing shot and the scene transition, turning it into an art every bit as nuanced as in a piece of music.

For that matter, the music is extraordinary—and actually if you look at how underwhelming or non-existent the music is in the post-Lucas ‘The Force Awakens’, it becomes clear that Lucas and Williams had a collaborative process that really influenced how these films were scored (and which is now no longer the case). Lucas himself said that the music was 50 percent of what mattered in these films and that is certainly evident.

Much of it, particularly the climatic Kenobi/Skywalker duel and that final act with the birth of the twins, death of Padme and creation of Vader, almost isn’t cinema at all—but opera. This could’ve been something Wagner was composing if he had ever existed in the cinema age.

In fact, the final few scenes of the film don’t even have any dialogue, but are purely musical and visual. Even some of the most stirring parts earlier on in the film are without dialogue; take, for example, the breathtakingly beautiful sequence of Anakin and Padme trying to silently sense for each other across the exquisite, sunset cityscape—it’s all visual, tone and subtle music, pure emotion with no dialogue. A scene like that could almost be part of a silent movie; and it’s also like an impressionist painting in motion.

Even that Kenobi/Skywalker duel itself is more than just an action sequence. With Williams’ epic, stirring, choral score, it too is opera. But it’s opera married to performance art: the level of intricacy, fluency and speed of Ewan McGregor and Hayden Christensen’s dueling is insane, having required an immense amount of prep and practise. The choreography takes it onto the level of dance; of true performance art as opposed to disposable cartoon violence or cheap blockbuster action.

Everything here—to the last detail—is choreographed like a ballet and it is spellbinding.

Yet while other filmmakers would try to sell an entire movie on such an exquisite centerpiece, for Lucas all of this—all of this poetry, opera, dance, music, visual art and everything else—is ultimately mere constituent part to a greater whole: a Shakespearan epic of a tortured fall from grace and a Greek tragedy... wrapped within an even larger epic about the fall of a Republic, the fallibility of religion and the genius of the Devil and failure of the angels.

[...] What Lucas created in fact was the ultimate expression/culmination of the art of the epic itself—fittingly enough, in order to conclude the defining epic of our modern times (what Brian Blessed once described as the Shakespeare of our age). The Shakespeare comparisons aren’t trivial. The evident Star Wars/Shakespeare resonance has even prompted things like Ian Doescher’s book William Shakespeare’s Tragedy of the Sith’s Revenge: Star Wars Part the Third—a retelling of Revenge of the Sith as if it had been written by William Shakespeare for real.

[...] Various observers, including academics, have noted the obvious fact that Lucas’s story is also a retelling of the fall of the Roman Republic and birth of the Roman Empire. Lucas himself admitted this, pointing to how Revenge of the Sith in particular is partly a story about democracies become dictatorships and citing the historical stories of Caesar and Augustus. You can quite easily watch the prequel trilogy alongside I, Claudius or something like HBO’s brilliant Rome series.

But none of those references or allusions are the important part. Even the fact that the prequel trilogy—and again, ROTS in particular—is quite clearly in part a story about false-flag wars, banking conspiracies, the corporate and military-industrial complex, the Bush administration and the Iraq War, etc—isn’t particularly relevant to the issue of why it’s such an epic work of significance.

Lucas is the author and architect of our preeminent modern mythology—as interviewer Bill Moyers asserted during his fascinating and revealing 1999 interview with Lucas (for the release of The Phantom Menace). Partly inspired by his friend Joseph Campbell’s thoughts on mythology, but moreover informed by his own careful distillation of elements from various cultures and civilisations (what he has referred to as our collective human ‘archaeological psychology’), Lucas is every bit as influential as Virgil, Homer or Shakespeare were in their respective times, and has crafted out the ultimate mythological saga.

Revenge of the Sith is the final, completing piece of that saga—the piece that gives the saga its full scope and true soul, and the piece that makes every one of the other films count for so much more.

And it does it so well—with such vivid and breathtaking quality—that, even having written an article as long as this one now is (and another before this), I still don’t feel like I’m adequately able to explain its full brilliance.

Neither could Lucas himself, I suspect. I’m not sure Lucas even realised how masterful it was; but, as Paglia and others note, the guy is so mild-mannered and self-deprecating that it simply wasn’t in his nature to boast about his own work. Instead he just took in all the abuse and mockery with mild bemusement, shrugged his shoulders and walked off into the twin sunset, knowing that with Revenge of the Sith he had finished what he’d come back to do.

In fact, what Lucas did was so extraordinary, so complex and so nuanced that it may take another decade or two for people to even appreciate it properly—assuming they ever do. As film experts like Mike Klimo have noted, some of what Lucas did in ROTS and the prequels may have been so sophisticated that he deliberately didn’t talk about it, but just left it there, not knowing that anyone would ever even notice.

This, as I said earlier, goes beyond cinema, and possibly even beyond Star Wars itself. Lucas genuinely outdid himself, and it is unlikely anyone will reach that height again—firstly because no one is going to be in the position Lucas was in again in terms of total ownership of a property, and secondly because no one is going to have that kind of ambition again, especially having seen how much of a backlash Lucas received from the legions of popcorn munchers, YouTube profiteers and ungrateful fans who were really looking for something much more in keeping with a generic, formulaic, standardized blockbuster formula.”

[gotham-at-nightfall]

Ultimate Avengers #3

[wentik0]

winnie's a they/them and a lot of their design is based off of Gina Gershon and Alexa Demie ( the OG OC face-claim bc I can never give it up sjdhbvfjfv )

[pelleas-at-castle-nox]

Flashing red lights illuminate a corpse, dozens of warning signs blared fruitlessly in an attempt to preserve the pilot's life. It couldn't be ascertained what took the pilot's life, battle damage, starvation, neural pathways too burnt from going beyond the operating limits. All that could be said for certain was that the living being which had once served as the nerve center of the hulking death weapon, sat hunched over in a pool of blood, unresponsive to the sensory overload that likely sang them to the great beyond.

A similar scene played out across the trench, another titanic machine of war, its cockpit burst open at some point, the pilot within impaled by shrapnel that couldn't dent the exoskeleton, but destroyed the life within instantly. For a moment, the two machines, having been just moments ago caught in a deadly dance that ended with the loss of two lives, and countless many others beneath their feet and from every missed shot. The two machines sat in repose, as if they were two warriors resting after a duel.

Such peace was not built to last.

Unable to contact its pilot, the rudimentary AI that assisted with the functioning of the machine kicked into gear, attempting to fulfill its only remaining directive: return to the location designated as "home."

Both machines had their own homes to return to, places where their cockpits would be cleaned out, and fitted with new nervous systems to direct them in the only activity they ever knew. With slow, weighty movements, the mechanical beasts began to rise, debris cascading to demolish more homes beneath them as they climbed upright.

The two angels of death, their divine light severed, regarded each other for a moment, two humanoid figures with scanner eyes that took the measure of their peer. The internal FCS and threat detection systems flagged each other as hostiles, something to be avoided during their automated retreat.

Theoretically, that should have been the end. The two machines would have acknowledged their foe, the fact that they were both unfit to fight, lacking an operator to even make use of any of the weapon systems that were tied to the authorization of a living being.

No one could say for certain why they collided. At first it seemed like a simple mechanical failure, both monoliths were extremely damaged, it would have made sense for one to stumble into the other. The chest compartments collided with a horrible grinding sound as tons of metal clashed together, sparks flying, the remains of the pilots destroyed beyond recognition from the impact.

Both machines stumbled backwards, and paused for just a moment, as if the computers within were contemplating what they had done. Then they collided once more, harder, with the distinct air of resolute purpose. The vestigial arms designed to mount weapon systems, broken as they were, scraped and clawed at the other machine, until one toppled on top of the other.

The ensuing struggle was gruesome and cruel. The machines battled tooth and nail, some primitive and burning lust spurring them on. They both needed to go home, but there was one enemy left before them. It should have been an easy task to clip the wings of such a broken figure.

In the end, the battle only stopped when the two machines had feasted upon each other, hands and exposed steel wiring tearing at each other until only an unidentifiable mountain of scrap remained, the beginning and ending of the two angels no longer visible.

Two weapons of war, doing exactly what they were always meant to.

[brunchable]

How's retirement, Bucky? | Bucky Barnes x f!reader.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Themes: Funny. Bucky trying to find things to do to kill time, while also being a menace to Y/N and the neighbours. Prequel to 'Ouch, My face.'

Summary: Bucky decides to retire and leave the super hero world behind, but now he doesn't know how to be normal citizen.

A/N: Just another scenario tha rudely popped into my head. . .

Bucky Barnes was retired.

It still felt strange, even after months of settling into a life of quiet mornings and unhurried afternoons. He had fought in wars, spent decades as an agent of chaos, and dedicated years to redemption and healing. Now, here he was—waking up whenever he pleased, making breakfast in a house that didn’t have bullet-proof glass windows or a panic room, and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his day.

Today, like most others, started off simple enough: a run through the neighbourhood, a cup of coffee, and a lazy scan of the news. He’d even managed to fix the leaky faucet that had been bothering you for weeks, earning a soft kiss on the cheek as a reward.

But then… the day stretched on. There were no missions, no tactical planning, no world to save. Just the quiet ticking of the clock and the gentle hum of suburban life around him.

So, Bucky set his sights on something—or rather, someone—far more interesting: annoying you.

And thus began the saga of Bucky Barnes’ Retirement Phases.

Phase 1: The Handyman Hero Phase

Duration: One Month

Bucky started off strong, becoming the ultimate handyman of the household. Everything was fair game for improvement. Leaky faucets, creaky floorboards, wobbly shelves—if there was a screw to tighten, Bucky was on it like a well-oiled machine.

“Bucky, what are you doing?” you asked one morning, sipping your coffee as you watched him carefully measuring the distance between each picture frame on the living room wall.

“Making sure they’re exactly one inch apart,” he said without looking up, his voice deadly serious.

“Why?”

“Because last night, I noticed this one—” he pointed to a frame on the far left “—was slightly off-center, and it’s been bothering me ever since.”

You blinked. “Bucky, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Y/N. It’s one and a quarter inch apart. Do you know what happens when things aren’t balanced?” He gave you a haunted look, as if you’d just suggested destabilizing the world order.

“Chaos,” you muttered.

“Exactly.”

Within weeks, Bucky had rebuilt half the house, repainted the walls (twice), and installed a state-of-the-art security system that even Tony Stark would envy. You came home one day to find the couch moved three inches to the left, the coffee table completely gone (“I dismantled it; we don’t need it”), and Bucky seriously contemplating whether the kitchen would look better with marble or granite countertops.

“Bucky,” you said slowly, trying to remain calm, “I’m begging you—stop fixing things.”

He blinked at you. “What do you want me to do then?”

You panicked. “Anything. Just—find a hobby!”

He gave a solemn nod, as if you’d just entrusted him with a new mission. “Okay. A hobby. Got it.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. If only you’d known what was coming next.

Phase 2: The Google Scholar Phase

Duration: Two Weeks

With his newfound free time, Bucky discovered the internet. And when Bucky Barnes discovers the internet, chaos ensues.

It started innocently enough. You’d come home to find him glued to his laptop, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What are you doing?” you asked, setting down your bag.

“Research,” he said ominously, fingers flying over the keys.

“Research on… what?”

He glanced up, his eyes wide. “Did you know sharks have been around longer than trees?”

“Uh—”

“And that banana slugs can grow up to 9 inches long?” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s a whole website dedicated to weird animal facts. I’ve been reading for hours.”

And so, you were subjected to two weeks of nonstop trivia.

“Hey, Y/N!” he’d shout from the kitchen. “Did you know an octopus has three hearts?”

Or: “Did you know cows have best friends?”

And: “Do you want to hear about the deepest point in the ocean?”

“Not really—”

“It’s called the Mariana Trench, and it’s seven miles down!”

You tried banning Wikipedia, but he just switched to obscure forums. You blocked YouTube, and he found a random chicken fact blog. The worst part? He’d share his newfound knowledge with anyone who’d listen.

“I’m calling Sam,” you muttered one evening after hearing Bucky recite the entire history of the humble potato to the mailman. “You need social intervention.”

Phase 3: The Home Décor Perfectionist Phase

Duration: Two Exasperating Weeks

Denied access to his newfound internet pursuits, Bucky turned to interior design. You were caught off guard one Saturday morning when he asked, “What do you think of paisley?”

“What’s a paisley?”

“Pattern. I’m thinking of reupholstering the couch.”

“Bucky, no—”

Too late. Within days, every room was a different colour. You came home to find polka-dotted curtains in the bathroom, and he’d somehow managed to install a chandelier in the laundry room.

“Bucky, why is there a 10-foot mirror in the hallway?”

“It makes the space feel bigger.”

“Bucky, this is a two-bedroom house!”

He paused, squinting at the living room wall. “I think the polka dots need to go.”

You nearly wept with relief when he announced he was moving on to the garden.

Phase 4: The Amateur Detective Phase

Duration: One Overly Suspicious Month

After redecorating the entire house, Bucky set his sights on the neighborhood.

“Y/N, did you see that guy across the street?” he whispered one morning, peering through the blinds with a pair of binoculars.

“That’s Mr. Henderson. He’s eighty-five.”

“Yeah, and he’s up to something. No one goes to the mailbox that often.”

“Maybe he likes getting his mail?”

“I’m telling you, something’s not right.” He tapped the binoculars. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.”

And so began Operation: Neighborhood Watch. Every delivery truck was scrutinised. Every dog walker received a full background check. The poor Girl Scouts who came to sell cookies left looking slightly shell-shocked.

The Girl Scout Incident: When Bucky Barnes Met Thin Mints

The Girl Scout incident started out innocent enough—just a kid selling cookies to the neighborhood. But when Bucky Barnes answered the door, things took a turn.

It was a sunny Saturday morning. You were in the kitchen, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when you heard the doorbell ring. Before you could even get up to check, Bucky’s voice echoed from the living room.

“I got it!” he called out, already making his way to the front door.

Curious, you peeked around the corner just in time to see him open it. Standing on the porch was a sweet-looking little girl, no more than nine or ten, decked out in her green uniform, clutching a clipboard and flashing a bright, eager smile.

“Hi, mister!” she chirped, clearly undeterred by the stern look on Bucky’s face. “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies today?”

You watched as Bucky’s expression softened just a bit, his head tilting to the side in confusion.

“Cookies?” he repeated, as if she’d just offered him nuclear launch codes.

“Yep!” She held up a laminated chart with pictures of the various cookies, pointing to each one with a tiny, rainbow-colored pen. “We have Thin Mints, Tagalongs, Samoas—uh, I mean, Caramel deLites—”

He squinted at the chart, clearly trying to make sense of it all. “Why would you need to sell cookies?”

You nearly face-palmed. Oh no.

The girl’s enthusiasm didn’t waver. “It’s a fundraiser! To support our troop activities and trips.”

“Fundraiser?” Bucky’s voice dropped suspiciously. “Who’s your troop leader?”

The girl blinked, a little taken aback. “Uh, Mrs. Patterson?”

“Uh-huh. And how many boxes of these so-called ‘cookies’ are you supposed to sell?”

Her smile wavered just a fraction. “Um, as many as possible?”

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “And where does all this money go?”

“Bucky—” you tried to interrupt, stepping forward, but he held up a hand without looking back, eyes still locked on the bewildered Girl Scout.

“It goes to our troop!” she answered nervously, glancing down at her clipboard as if for reassurance. “For badges and supplies and—”

“Supplies,” Bucky echoed, his tone suddenly sharp. “What kind of supplies?”

“Uh… arts and crafts…?” she stammered, clearly starting to get uncomfortable.

“Arts and crafts?” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Or something else?”

You saw the poor girl’s eyes widen, her grip tightening on her clipboard as if she was contemplating using it as a shield.

“Bucky, stop,” you hissed, stepping forward to intervene. But he was on a roll now.

“Who gets the money, huh?” He narrowed his eyes, peering down at her like she was an enemy combatant. “Do you get it?

“Or does it go to some mysterious ‘troop leader’ who’s hiding behind a desk somewhere, raking in profits from innocent cookie sales?”

“M-Mister, it’s just cookies,” she squeaked, glancing nervously at the boxes stacked beside her. “We just wanna go camping this summer.”

“Camping?” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “And what kind of ‘camping’ are we talking about here? Deep-woods recon training? SERE training?”

The girl blinked up at him, clearly having no idea what he was talking about.

“Bucky, she’s nine!” you practically shouted, rushing over to save the poor child from what was rapidly escalating into a full-blown interrogation.

“But Y/N, this could be—”

“It’s not a conspiracy, Bucky!” you snapped, turning to the girl and giving her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sweetie, how much for a box of Thin Mints?”

“Uh… f-five dollars?” she stammered, still eyeing Bucky like he might suddenly sprout fangs.

You reached for your wallet, pulling out a ten-dollar bill and handing it to her. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, ma’am!” she squeaked, stuffing the money into her pouch with trembling hands.

You shot Bucky a glare. “Apologize.”

He crossed his arms, looking mulish. “But—”

“Bucky.”

He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Uh… sorry… for, um… asking about your troop leader and, uh… the money laundering?”

The girl blinked up at him, clearly not following.

“Bucky!” you hissed, elbowing him sharply.

“I mean, sorry for… for… being weird,” he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The girl gave a hesitant nod, glancing back at her stack of cookies. “Um… would you like another box, mister?”

Bucky frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe. Which one’s the best?”

“Bucky—” you started, but he was already leaning down, listening intently as the girl launched into a detailed explanation of the flavour profiles of Samoas versus Tagalongs.

Twenty minutes later, Bucky was the proud owner of a dozen boxes of Girl Scout cookies, which the girl somehow managed to upsell him into buying. The look of relief on her face as she walked away was palpable.

You turned to Bucky, hands on your hips. “Really, Buck?”

“What?” he said defensively, clutching his armful of cookies. “I needed to make sure it was legit!”

“Uh-huh. And that’s why we now have enough cookies to feed an army?”

He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I guess I got carried away.”

“Just… try not to scare any more children, okay?”

“Hey, I was just being thorough,” he muttered, glancing down at the boxes. “Besides… these ‘Samoas’ are actually pretty good.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Because only Bucky Barnes could turn a simple cookie sale into a full-scale interrogation—and then end up buying out the entire stock.

“Whatever you say, Bucky. Whatever you say.”

He gave you a sheepish grin, holding up a box of Thin Mints. “Want one?”

“Sure,” you sighed, reaching out to grab a cookie. Because, at the end of the day, this was Bucky Barnes: ex-assassin, super-soldier, and now… terrifyingly dedicated Girl Scout cookie connoisseur.

The Girl Scout incident, unfortunately, didn’t mark the end of Bucky’s neighbourhood watch endeavours.

“Hey, Y/N, that’s the third day in a row Mrs. Higginson has gone jogging past our house,” Bucky muttered a few days later, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

You glanced over from your spot on the couch, raising an eyebrow. “Uh-huh,” you replied absently, already wondering if now would be a good time to text Steve for a little ‘rescue mission.’ “Maybe she likes jogging?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not natural. It’s a cover for something. Probably espionage.”

“Bucky, she’s seventy.”

“Exactly. No one that age moves like that. She’s gotta be a retired agent.”

“Or she’s trying to stay in shape?”

“Or she’s spying on us.” He narrowed his eyes, peering through the blinds. “Maybe she’s HYDRA.”

“Bucky, she brought us homemade banana bread last week.”

“Which tasted suspiciously good,” he muttered darkly, tapping his pen against his chin. “I’m keeping an eye on her.”

It didn’t stop there. He began obsessively tracking patterns—when neighbors took out their trash, when they left for work, who picked up their mail first thing in the morning. His conspiracy board rivaled the one you’d seen at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, complete with photos, string, and a suspiciously large map of the neighborhood.

“Y/N, I need to talk to you.”

You blinked, looking up from your book. “What’s up, Buck?”

He leaned in, his voice low and serious. “Did you know Mrs. Patterson’s dog peed on our lawn three times this week?”

“I—what?”

“And Mr. Thompson left his house twice yesterday. Twice.”

“…is that a crime?”

“Yes. Who leaves the house twice in one day? He’s clearly up to something.”

“Like… groceries?”

Bucky frowned. “No. Something bigger. I saw him walking to his car, get this—without any bags.”

“Maybe he forgot something?”

He shook his head, eyes narrowed. “It’s a diversion tactic. I’m keeping a close watch on him.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re stalking the neighbours.”

“Of course not!” He paused. “I’m… observing. For science.”

“For science?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Buck. I’m putting my foot down,” you finally managed. “You need to stop this. The neighbours think we’re crazy. You’re scaring the kids and… the mailman won’t come to the door anymore.”

Bucky looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”

“Because you interrogated him about his route last week!”

“He was being shady!”

“He’s a mailman!”

There was a long pause as you stared each other down, Bucky looking defiant and you looking exhausted. Finally, you sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

“Buck… I know retirement is hard. But you need a new outlet. Maybe something a little less—”

“Paranoid?” he offered, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. And a little less terrifying for the neighbours.”

He sighed deeply, like you’d just asked him to hang up his shield all over again. “I was just… trying to be useful.”

Your heart softened immediately. Because that was what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it? The man who’d spent his life fighting wars and doing battle against his own mind was now left trying to figure out how to fit into a world that no longer needed him to save it.

You walked over, placing your hands on his shoulders and giving him a soft smile. “You’re always useful, Buck. Even if you’re not interrogating the mailman about federal postal regulations or… spying on seventy-year-old retirees.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “I might’ve gone a little overboard, huh?”

“A little,” you agreed with a grin. “Maybe you should find something else to watch over.”

“Like what?” he asked, looking genuinely curious.

You bit your lip, thinking. “I don’t know… Maybe get a pet? You could… I don’t know, babysit a cat or something.”

Bucky blinked at you. Then his eyes lit up like you’d just handed him the Holy Grail of retirement activities.

“A cat,” he murmured slowly, as if testing the word. “A cat.”

“Yes, a cat,” you repeated cautiously, wondering if you’d just unleashed some new kind of havoc on the house. “You could train it to… I don’t know, not scratch the furniture or something.”

“Or… I could train it to keep an eye on the pigeons,” he muttered to himself, looking thoughtful.

“Wait, what?”

But Bucky had already gone inside, the gears in his mind clearly turning. You shook your head, deciding to let him have this one. After all, how much trouble could he really get into with a cat?

Phase 5: The Pet Phase (aka Operation: Find a Feline Friend)

Duration: Ongoing, with Fur Everywhere

You didn’t think he’d take it seriously. Until you came home the next day to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a small, white ball of fluff curled up in his lap.

“This is Alpine,” he announced proudly.

You stared at the kitten, then at Bucky, then back at the kitten. “Bucky, what… why…?”

“You said get a pet,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So I did.”

And that’s how Alpine, the grumpy old woman in a cat’s body, became part of your household. Bucky spent weeks trying to train him (“Sit, Alpine! Sit! … Okay, fine, just glare at me, that works too.”), set up elaborate obstacle courses (“Alpine, jump! No, don’t walk away—okay, you know what, just do your thing”), and spoiled her rotten with toys and treats.

With each phase, Bucky’s retirement became a new adventure. And while it drove you absolutely crazy at times, you couldn’t help but smile when you saw Bucky lying on the couch, Alpine curled up on his chest, both looking completely content.

“Retirement isn’t so bad, huh?” you teased one evening, curling up beside him.

He hummed thoughtfully, scratching behind Alpine’s ears. “I don’t know… I think I could use a new project.”

You groaned, but your groan turned into a laugh when he grinned at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Oh no,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “No more projects, Barnes. You’ve nearly redecorated us out of house and home, scared the mailman half to death, and—”

“Don’t forget the gourmet cookies,” he interjected with a cheeky smile.

You shot him a playful glare. “I’m trying to forget the cookies, thank you.”

“Aw, come on. I think I finally got the recipe down. I’ll just try one more—”

“No!” you practically shouted, your voice echoing through the living room. Alpine, unbothered, merely lifted her head, gave you both a disinterested look, and went back to napping.

Bucky chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. No more cookies. No more redecorating. No more… scaring the Girl Scouts.”

“Or spying on the neighbors.”

“Or spying on the neighbors,” he agreed, still looking a little too amused for your liking.

You sighed, leaning back into the couch and resting your head on his shoulder. “You know, most people take up hobbies like gardening or painting in retirement.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, but those aren’t as exciting.”

“They’re not supposed to be exciting. They’re supposed to be calm. That’s the whole point of retirement, Buck.”

He glanced down at you, his gaze softening. “You really think I’m the ‘calm’ type, doll?”

You snorted. “No, not really. But it would be nice if, just once, I didn’t come home to find you plotting to build a moat around the house.”

“Moats are an excellent defense mechanism,” he said matter-of-factly. “But okay, I get it. I’ll tone it down.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “You promise?”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up his right hand. The glint in his eye, however, told you he was already planning something new.

“Bucky…”

“What?” he asked, all innocence. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not for a second.”

He chuckled, then pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “Alright, no more projects. I’ll just focus on Alpine. She’s a full-time job anyway.”

You glanced at the cat, who was now sprawled out like she owned the place. “You’ve turned her into a diva, you know.”

“He’s just refined,” Bucky said defensively. “He’s got standards.”

“Uh-huh. Like the way he refuses to eat unless you hand-feed her?”

“Refined,” Bucky insisted.

“And how she sleeps on your side of the bed and shoves you off with her tiny, evil paws?”

“Selective.”

“And how she sits on the counter staring at you like she’s plotting your demise?”

“Observant.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’ve created a monster, Bucky.”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug, smirking down at you. “I’ve handled worse monsters. She’s a good one. Besides,” he added, scratching Alpine’s head fondly, “she’s family.”

Your heart softened at his words, and you smiled up at him. “Yeah, I guess she is.”

There was a comfortable silence as you both sat there, content in the peaceful moment.

Then Bucky cleared his throat, and you glanced up to see him shifting slightly, like he was working up the nerve to say something.

“So… I was thinking…” he began slowly.

“Bucky.”

“No, no, hear me out,” he said quickly, raising his hands as if to ward off your incoming refusal. “What if we… I dunno… made a baby?”

You blinked, certain you hadn’t heard him correctly. “What?”

“A baby,” he repeated, his voice steady, though there was a telltale blush creeping up his neck. “You know, a little human—our human. Someone we can train to take over the world… or at least keep me entertained.”

Your jaw dropped open. “You want to have a baby—because you’re bored?”

Bucky gave you a sheepish grin. “I mean, I was thinking it could be a good project… long-term investment… future troublemaker…”

“Bucky,” you interrupted, placing your hands on his shoulders and staring at him, bewildered. “Are you seriously suggesting having a child like it’s another DIY project?”

He shrugged, looking as nonchalant as ever, but his eyes were soft and serious. “Maybe. But I was also thinking it’d be nice to have something, or someone, that’s just… ours. A mix of you and me. Something that isn’t tied to the past, or fighting, or… all the other stuff.”

You stared at him, trying to wrap your mind around the sudden turn the conversation had taken. “You really want a baby, Bucky?”

He nodded slowly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I do. Don’t get me wrong, Alpine’s great and all, but…” He sighed, his smile turning tender. “I just think it’d be amazing to have something more. I’ve spent so much of my life taking orders or fighting ghosts. But starting a family with you? That’s something I get to build. Something that’s ours.”

You bit your lip, heart swelling at his words. Despite the completely unromantic way he’d suggested it, there was sincerity in his gaze, a yearning for something deeper than fixing leaky faucets or buying out the Girl Scouts’ entire cookie stock.

“And you think you’d be a good dad?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Please,” he scoffed, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’d be the best damn dad. I’d teach our kid how to throw a proper punch by age five, dismantle a toaster by six—”

You laughed, shaking your head. “So, what you’re saying is… you want to raise a tiny super-soldier?”

His grin widened. “Hell yeah.”

“Bucky, we are not turning our child into a mini-Winter Soldier.”

He pouted dramatically. “Not even a little bit?”

“Not even a little bit,” you affirmed with a chuckle. You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “But… maybe we could talk about it. You know, actually talk. Not just… plan a tactical baby mission.”

Bucky’s eyes softened as he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “Yeah. We can talk about it.” He paused, then added with a mischievous glint, “After we practice a little more.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Oh my God, Bucky.”

“What?” he asked innocently, his grin widening. “Practice makes perfect, right?”

You shook your head, letting out a breathy laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love me for it,” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Yeah,” you whispered when he pulled away, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I do.”

You glanced down at Alpine, who was still sprawled across Bucky’s lap, looking utterly uninterested in the conversation. A baby. You hadn’t really thought about it seriously before, but now that Bucky had put the idea in your head… you couldn’t help but wonder.

There was a brief pause as Bucky gazed at you, his expression growing thoughtful. “You know,” he began quietly, “after that whole Girl Scout cookie fiasco… I kinda started thinking… I’d really like to have a daughter.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “A daughter?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice softening. “That kid was just so… brave, you know? Standing there, staring me down even though I was being a total idiot. It reminded me of you—fierce and unafraid. I couldn’t stop thinking… what if we had a daughter like that? Strong, smart, and completely capable of putting me in my place when I get out of line.”

You felt your heart clench at his words, his quiet admission making your chest ache. “You want a little girl because she’d keep you in check?”

“That,” he said, smiling softly, “and I think I’d like the challenge. I’ve spent so much of my life dealing with people who only saw me as a weapon. I just… want to prove that I can be something else. That I can be gentle… and kind… and love someone unconditionally. The way I love you.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently. “Bucky, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“I know,” he murmured, his gaze warm and intense. “But I still want to try. And I want to be the kind of dad who isn’t just a protector, but a friend. Someone who’d sit through endless tea parties and help her build pillow forts… and buy all the Girl Scout cookies she wants without scaring anyone.”

You laughed softly, tears stinging your eyes at the picture he painted. “You’d be a great dad, Bucky.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice low and hopeful.

“Yeah,” you whispered, smiling up at him.

There was another beat of silence before Bucky leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “So… when do we start?”

You felt your cheeks heat, a mix of laughter and surprise bubbling up in your chest. “Bucky!”

“What?” he asked, his smile as innocent as ever. “I’m just asking. I mean, you know I’m a man of action. Gotta have a timeline.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands as Bucky laughed softly, his arms wrapping around you.

“Okay, okay,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No rush. We’ll take it one day at a time, sweetheart. But just know… I’m ready whenever you are.”

And somehow, you knew this next phase—whatever it looked like—was going to be the best one yet.

× × × ×

Ten months later

The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the nursery in a warm, golden hue, casting gentle shadows on the pale blue walls. The room was still, save for the quiet creak of the rocking chair as Bucky swayed back and forth, holding the tiniest bundle of joy in his strong, yet tender arms.

His daughter, barely a week old, was nestled against his chest, her small, delicate breaths in sync with the steady rhythm of his own. Her tiny fist curled around the fabric of his shirt, as if she knew just how safe and loved she was in her daddy's arms.

Bucky hummed quietly, the familiar melody of an old lullaby drifting into the air. It was a song his mother used to sing to him when he was no older than his sweet little girl was now. The words came softly, almost whispered, as if they were sacred—meant only for his daughter.

“Darling, you're my bloodYou have my heartbeatYou have my heartbeat, beating loud,”

His voice was gruff, yet softened by emotion as he sang, the gentle rocking lulling his daughter further into her peaceful slumber. His fingers brushed through her soft, downy hair as he looked down at her with nothing short of awe. How had he, of all people, gotten so lucky?

He had been through so much darkness in his life—seen and done things he would never be able to forget—but here, in this quiet moment, everything seemed to fade away. The world outside could wait. Right now, his whole universe was cradled in his arms, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes felt at peace.

Unbeknownst to him, you stood at the door, your heart swelling at the sight before you. You had come to check on them both, worried that Bucky might need help with the baby. But when you saw him there, rocking your little girl and singing so sweetly, you couldn’t bring yourself to interrupt.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you leaned against the doorframe, content to watch the love of your life in this vulnerable, beautiful moment. 

Bucky was a natural, even if he didn’t believe it. You had seen the worry in his eyes when you first brought your daughter home—the fear that he wouldn’t be good enough, that he wouldn’t know what to do. But here he was, proving himself wrong in the most heart-melting way possible.

The lullaby continued, each note filled with so much love it made your eyes mist over.

"You are my lighthouseA peak of light from the dark cloudsI've lived under my whole life. . .And there's nothing I won't do for you."

Bucky’s voice cracked just a little on the last line, overcome with emotion as he gazed down at his daughter and carefully wiped his tears away. 

She had his eyes—bright and full of wonder, even when they were closed in slumber. He couldn’t help but trace the delicate features of her face with his gaze, committing every tiny detail to memory.

Finally, you couldn’t resist any longer. You stepped into the room quietly, not wanting to startle him. Bucky looked up, surprise flickering across his face when he saw you standing there. His expression softened when he realised you had been watching him.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked, his voice low so as not to wake the baby.

“Long enough,” you replied, your smile widening as you walked over to him.

Bucky blushed, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I’m not exactly a professional.”

“I beg to differ, I think you’re the best dad in the world.” you whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his temple. 

Bucky’s heart swelled at your words. He never imagined he would be here—sitting in a nursery, holding his newborn daughter while the love of his life stood beside him, calling him the best dad in the world. It still felt like a dream.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, looking back down at the baby. “So fragile. I didn’t think…I didn’t think I could love someone I barely knew this much.”

Your hand gently rested on his shoulder as you gazed down at your daughter. “You’ve got a big heart, James. I always knew you’d be amazing as a father.”

He glanced up at you, eyes soft and full of affection. “You’re the amazing one.”

You reached out to gently stroke the baby’s cheek, and Bucky leaned into your touch, feeling more complete than he ever thought possible.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he admitted after a long silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “A family. A reason to feel…whole again.”

You knelt down beside him, resting your head against his shoulder. “You deserve it, Bucky. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

Bucky kissed the top of youe head, holding you close as he continued to rock your daughter. The world outside could be chaotic and unforgiving, but in this room, in this moment, everything was perfect.

× × × ×

Baby at six months

The house was peaceful, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow through the windows. You were out running errands, leaving Bucky home with their now six-month-old daughter, who was currently kicking her chubby little legs and babbling on her playmat. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she reached for her favorite stuffed bear, the one Bucky had given her the day she was born.

Bucky sat beside her, legs crossed, watching her every move like she was the most fascinating thing on the planet. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. 

“You know, blossom,” he began, glancing over his shoulder dramatically as if checking to make sure Y/N wasn’t around. “Your mom thinks she’s the boss.”

Their daughter let out a high-pitched squeal, and Bucky grinned. 

“Right? Can you believe it?” he continued, keeping his voice low as if sharing the biggest secret in the world. “She thinks she’s in charge around here. But between you and me, we know the truth.”

His little girl giggled again, her tiny hands grasping at the air as if she was agreeing with him.

“See, you and I?” Bucky said, tapping his finger gently on her nose, “We’re a team. We know how to get things done. I mean, just look at us—surviving nap time, figuring out how to stack those weird little ring toys, and we don’t even need to look at the instructions. Meanwhile, your mom still thinks I can’t fold laundry properly.”

He paused for dramatic effect, raising his brows. “Can you believe that? Laundry. I fought in World War II, and she’s worried I’ll mess up the towels.”

His daughter let out a delighted shriek, her little legs kicking excitedly. Bucky reached over and tickled her belly gently, making her burst into even more giggles.

“Oh, yeah, I know you think it’s funny,” Bucky chuckled. “But trust me, your mom’s got some pretty high laundry standards. I tried to fold one towel, just one, and she came over with this look like I’d committed a crime. 'Bucky, that’s not how you fold them!' she said. And I’m standing there like, ‘It’s a towel, not a top-secret mission.’”

He leaned in closer, as if telling her something top-secret. “She doesn’t know this, but I might’ve folded them wrong on purpose so I wouldn’t have to do it anymore.”

His daughter cooed, her tiny hand reaching out to grab his finger, which she promptly brought to her mouth to chew on. Bucky let her, his heart melting at the sight. She was his little sidekick, always hanging on his every word, even if she didn’t fully understand yet.

“And don’t even get me started on the bedtime routine,” Bucky continued, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “Your mom’s got this whole plan—bath, story, lights out. Meanwhile, you and me? We’ve got a better plan. We chill, we rock, maybe sing a little. You get all cozy, and bam—out like a light.”

“Bababababa,” His daughter babbled something back at him, her little voice full of enthusiasm, and Bucky nodded seriously. 

“Exactly. That’s what I’ve been saying. We’ve got this figured out.”

He scooped her up from the mat and held her close, her head resting comfortably against his chest as he walked them over to the couch. He sat down, cradling her in his arms, and continued his lighthearted rant.

“And the thing is, she’s always right, which drives me crazy. Like, the other day, she told me you were gonna try to crawl soon. I thought, ‘Nah, she’s too young.’ But then what happens? Two days later, you’re scooting around like you’ve got places to be. I swear, your mom’s a psychic or something.”

Bucky gazed down at his daughter, who was now looking up at him with those wide blue eyes that never failed to melt his heart. She let out a happy gurgle, and Bucky chuckled softly, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“You know I’m just kidding, right? Your mom’s the best. She takes care of both of us.” He sighed, feeling a rush of affection as he thought about Y/N. “Don’t tell her, but I’m pretty lucky to have her. She keeps me in line.”

Just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the house, and Bucky’s head shot up in mock panic.

“Uh-oh,” he whispered to his daughter, his eyes wide with exaggerated worry. “The boss is back. Don’t say anything.”

You appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow as you saw Bucky and the baby cozied up on the couch. “What are you two up to?” you asked, a knowing smile on your lips.

Bucky gave you his most innocent look, bouncing your daughter gently in his arms. “Oh, nothing. Just hanging out with my best girl here. Right, darling?”

The baby let out a little squeal, clearly delighted by the attention.

“Mmhmm,” You said, stepping closer and giving Bucky a playful look. “You haven’t been filling her head with nonsense, have you?”

“Me? Never,” Bucky replied, trying to keep a straight face. “We were just talking about how great you are. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”

Bianca, oblivious to the conversation, giggled and reached for you, and took her from Bucky’s arms and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Well, if she grows up thinking she’s in charge, I’ll know who to blame,” You teased, casting a glance at Bucky.

He grinned, leaning back on the couch. “Hey, she’s gotta learn from the best.”

You smiled, shaking your head in mock defeat. “You’re lucky she likes you so much.”

Bucky stood and wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both looked down at your little girl, now happily nestled between you. “I’m lucky to have both of you,” he murmured softly, kissing the side of your head.

And in that moment, with his two favorite girls in his arms, Bucky couldn’t imagine a better kind of luck.

[padmestrilogy]

the thing is ☝️ we are introduced to padme as the ultimate cog in the republic (soon to be imperial) machine . she is 14, queen of a whole planet, and easily manipulated. she is used as a weapon by palpatine blatantly and no one cares. padme has to be stoic, monotone and come up with a winning battle plan at 14 or everyone she knows dies. she does the impossible and it doesn’t even matter because that was what palpatine wanted!!

is it not that classic star wars “poetry” then, for her to die resisting the help of machines, for once allowing herself to fully feel? does it not rock that the first time we hear padme truly scream is on her deathbed, refusing to live in a galaxy so cruel it’s denied her this right?? fuck “died of sadness” jokes. fuck “palpatine sapped her life force” theories . padme could only find catharsis in death & that’s her whole character !!!

[apas-95]

Firstly - Yes, it is a necessary part of the struggle against the genocide to engage in protests, boycotts, 'awareness raising' and 'holding accountable', etc. That being said, however, it does absolutely nothing on its own, and far too many people are being far too proud of themselves for an outsized belief in their action.

These things - peaceful protests, boycotts against brands, letters to senators, literally posting - do nothing whatsoever to impact the pace of the genocide being carried out. They have not slowed the advance of Merkava tanks or the flights of F-35s by even a minute. They are effective if and only if they are carried out in conjunction with and support of actual direct action against the war machine. Work stoppages at ports, blockades of weapons manufacturers, these are the bare minimum of actual opposition to the genocide. Further action, like solidarity strikes in the states providing diplomatic and military support for the occupation, general unrest, etc, are sorely needed - and, ultimately, are the only things to be done not premised on appealing to the good conscience of those committing genocide. Your governments do not care what you think of them, they care if you stop working - and they will only stop sending weapons if you physically stop them.

It feels like 2020 taught a lot of people nothing. Massive protests, unthinkable levels of outrage - even met with apparently cowing of the state, overwhelmed with public opposition to their policies. Ultimately, none of the movement's goals survived, and the gestures (which is all that were gotten) faded. Roads were renamed and painted back over. Cops still kill people exactly as much. They know exactly how much you oppose it, they always have. Telling them isn't going to do anything, because it's not news. They don't act this way because they're misguided or have wrong ideas, they do it because it's profitable and in their material interests. The only way to make them act differently is to make them act differently. Either directly, by blocking their actions, or indirectly, by making the endeavour too costly through strikes and other leveraging of the fact that we, as workers, produce all their wealth. Each dollar going to buy IDF missiles ultimately comes from you. You want to stop it? Organise and strike. Physically block weapons movements. Yes, propagandise, talk about it, but for the love of god, don't trick yourself into believing that's the end of it.

The Palestinian resistance isn't limiting themselves to posting and raising awareness. They know that those committing genocide are plenty aware of what they're doing. No, the resistance is taking up arms. They would kill the soldiers of your country if they came across them defending the occupation, and they'd be right to do so. The soldiers of your country would kill you for striking. There is only one war, here.

[michellethestan]

This scene rewired my entire brain.

(More people need to watch Miracle Workers. The seasons are unrelated, just watch the premises that seem interesting to you! Especially S3 because it contains this amazing moment.)

“She’ll be coming ‘round the mountain when she comes, comes, comes, comes, comes, comes, comes, comes, comes!”

Daniel Radcliffe in Miracle Workers season 3 episode 4 (2021) dir. Andrew DeYoung

[anghraine]

It's interesting (if often frustrating) to see the renewed Orc Discourse after the last few episodes of ROP. I've seen arguments that orcs have to be personifications of evil rather than people as such or else the ethics of our heroes' approach to them becomes much more fraught. Tolkien's work, as written, seems an odd choice to me for not wrangling with difficult questions, and of course, more diehard fans are going to immediately bring up Shagrat and Gorbag.

If you haven't read LOTR recently, Shagrat and Gorbag are two orcs who briefly have a conversation about how they're being screwed over by Sauron but have no other real options, about their opinions of mistakes that have been made, that they think Sauron himself has made one, but it's not safe to discuss because Sauron has spies in their own ranks. They reminisce about better times when they had more freedom and fantasize about a future when they can go elsewhere and set up a small-scale banditry operation rather than being involved in this huge-scale war. Eventually, however, they end up turning on each other.

Basically any time that someone brings up the "humanity" of this conversation, someone else will point out that they're still bad people. They're not at all guilty about what they're part of. They just resent the dangers to themselves, the pressure from above, failures of competence, the surveillance they're under, and their lack of realistic alternative options. The dream of another life mentioned in the conversation is still one of preying on innocent people, just on a much smaller and more immediate scale, etc.

I think this misses the reason it keeps getting brought up, though. The point is not that Shagrat and Gorbag are good people. The point is that they are people.

There's something very normal and recognizable about their resentment of their superiors, their fears of reprisal and betrayal that ultimately are realized, their dislike of this kind of industrial war machine that erases their individual work and contributions, the tinge of wistfulness in their hope of escape into a different kind of life. Their dialect is deliberately "common"—and there's a lot more to say about that and the fact that it's another commoner, Sam, who outwits them—but one of the main effects is to make them sound familiar and ordinary. And it's interesting that one of the points they specifically raise is that they're not going to get better treatment from "the good guys" so they can't defect, either.

This is self-interested, yes, but it's not the self-interest of some mystical being or spirit or whatnot, but of people.

Tolkien's later remarks tend to back this up. He said that female orcs do exist, but are rarely seen in the story because the characters only interact with the all-male warrior class of orcs. Whatever female orcs "do," it isn't going to war. Maybe they do a lot of the agricultural work that is apparently happening in distant parts of Mordor, maybe they are chiefly responsible for young orcs, maybe both and/or something else, we don't know. But we know they're out there and we know that they reproduce sexually and we know that they're not part of the orcish warrior class.

Regardless of all the problems with this, the idea that orcs have a gender-restricted warrior class at all and we're just not seeing any of their other classes because of where the story is set doesn't sound like automatons of evil. It sounds like an actual culture of people that we only see along the fringes.

And this whole matter of "but if they're people, we have to think about ethics, so they can't be people" is a weird circular argument that cannot account for what's in LOTR or for much of what Tolkien said afterwards. Yes, he struggled with The Problem of Orcs and how to reconcile it with his world building and his ethical system, but "maybe they're not people" is ultimately not a workable solution as far as LOTR goes and can't even account for much of the later evolution of his ideas, including explicit statements in his letters.

And in the end, the real response that comes to mind to that circular argument is "maybe you should think about ethics more."

[goodolreliablejake]

Fantasy races are an uncomfortable concept, because they present a world that literally works the way racists think that it works. The attempts to mitigate this problem often fail to address the core concern, merely making the idea more palatable.

A big example is trying to correct by changing the language from "races" to "species." This attempt fails for two reasons:

1) Exactly! Racists think that people of other races are a different species. That's the foundation of "race science," phrenology, all of it.

2) Are demihumans different species, though? Like, the interactions between elves and dwarves don't resemble the interactions between different species in our world. They don't act like snakes and lemurs, or whales and krill, or even cats and dogs. More often we've got different groups of people, who may speak different languages and have different cultural practices, engaging in diplomacy or war and struggling to coexist. In practice, they are treated as nations: ethnicities. Except they're ethnicities who are biologically distinct enough to have objective differences in ability.

This is something that puts me on edge in Mass Effect, otherwise one of my favorite games. True, the game ultimately lands on condemning the genophage, and it's not subtle about that. I mean just look at the name... But it's still considered debatable, morally grey, and Mordin Solus remains one of the most charming and enduring heroes of the series. The setting has bent over backwards to make every racist stereotype and talking point as legitimate as possible. In this setting, it is objectively true, scientifically proven that it is in the DNA of Krogans to naturally be violent, warmongering killing machines whose explosively rapid breeding poses an existential threat to the galaxy. That in turn is meant to make us think that maybe forced sterilization is something worth considering. It's hard to ignore the parallels to real life racist propaganda. I don't think it's malicious, just ungrounded and thoughtless; the result of creators to whom these ideals are abstract thought experiments, rather than reflections of real history.

Another big example is Dark Elves. They try to make it okay, to mitigate the message by fleshing them out as characters, by scapegoating an abusive deity rather than an ingrained nature, by erasing the monster manual description that reads "Always Chaotic Evil," by trending skin tone away from black and towards purple, or gray, even pale white. But none of it really changes the core issue, does it? The idea of drow is to equate dark skin with evil, to fetishize that idea, and to tell a story about a subsect of people cast into darkness as a result of sin in a direct parallel to racist Christian beliefs about dark skin being a curse or punishment from God.

So, do I think we need to cancel Mass Effect and stop playing D&D or telling stories about drow? No, not really. I mean... I do all these things. Truth is, I don't have an actionable solution, for myself or anyone. But the dynamic is clearly present and worth describing. And the attempts to challenge it are often insufficient, more about making ourselves feel better about what we're already doing than enacting real change.