a collection of links to all of the short films, shows, and movies of his that i could find online. please let me know if any links are broken! special thanks to @joyandpride for providing a few of the links!
disclaimer: i strongly advise using an adblocker like ublock origin when accessing some of these links. the youtube and vimeo links are completely safe, but some of the others may be a bit sketchy because they come from đ´ââ ď¸ sites. you have been warned.
2015
highston (tv pilot)
2017
the ballad of lefty brown
aftermath (he doesnât come in until the end, around 1:23:15)
lean on pete (he comes in at around 1:16:48)
battle of the sexes (he comes in at 1:00:06)
2018
the strangers: prey at night
bad times at the el royale
2019
them that follow
catch-22 (miniseries)
2020
pink skies ahead
2022
top gun: maverick
press play
outer range
2023
the starling girl Â
the caine mutiny court-martialÂ
lessons in chemistry
water rises (currently unavailable; the director is hoping to get it picked up for wider distribution!)
2024
skincare
salemâs lot
the line
2025
riff raff
thunderbolts
short films
the tutor
survival of the fittest: 1, 2
take a hike
the voice in your head
craigâs pathetic freakout
where you are
lefty/righty
guzzle buddies
TEEN HORSE GIRL MOVIE WHERE THE HORSE DIES AN HOUR IN AND THE SECOND HALF IS THE GIRL LEARNING OCCULT SCIENCE TO REANIMATE IT SO SHE CAN WIN THE BIG DERBY
fuck it, i never ever do those âreblog for X, this one really works!â posts, but this one doesnât have any of that BS, this is just straight up wishing us good things; and then the comment doesnât even say any of that either. Zero claims on this post, all positive vibes
May you end this week feeling ever more certain of a future youâll love
Imagine being such a disgusting piece of shit to create an anonymous account simply to spread images from a deep fake video of a celebrity. One that has been PROVEN to be fake.
Highly encourage you to block/report @purple1anon1saying1the1truth
As for this user themselves; you really should rethink things if you call yourself a fan. Fuck off.
It's a gross violation and just completely disgusting behavior.
*some of the afc Richmond team are on buzzfeed to read thirst tweets*
Jamie: *reading a tweet*
âItâs true⌠Jamie Tartt makes me go feralâŚâ
Bumbercatch/Isaac: *starts barking and growling*
Colin: *reading a tweet*
âThe fact that I would let Sam Obisanya spit in my mouth shows that I should not be allowed to make my own decisionsâŚâ
Isaac: thatâs feral
Dani: well as long as they know!
Colin: spit. in. my. mouth.
Sam: Iâm honored
Bumbercatch: *reading tweet*
Moe Bumbercatch I am free tomorrow at 5pm if you want to go on a date and hold hands! and [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]
Bumbercatch: so Iâm assuming they were detailing the date and there were some copyright claimsâŚ
Colin/Isaac: *holding hands and reading tweet in unison*
Colin Hughes and Isaac Mcadooâs sexy asses back on my screen in 2023, I won
Sam: this one respectfully saysâŚ
âSam Obisanya could rail me anyday. Respectfully.â
Sam: once again, Iâm honored
Jamie: *reading the tweet*
âbefore I watched football I always classified the rich as annoying and vowed Iâd never simp over one⌠until I met Dani Rojas and flew up his ass like a bat.â
Colin: what??
Dani: thatâs so creative!
Bumbercatch: but what kind of bat? Like a baseball bat?
Jamie: like the kind that flies up your ass
Isaac: like the mammal
Sam: Dani, if someone walked up to you on the street and said that to you-
Dani: marry me
Isaac: *reading the tweet*
âMOE BUMBERCATCH I AM ON MY KNEES BEGGING YOU TO PLS RUIN MY LIFEâ
Bumbercatch: let me be in charge of your taxesâŚ
Dani: *reading the tweet*
âthe whole afc Richmond team could throw me off a 12 story building onto a floor of metal spikes and Iâd still call them daddyâ
Dani: these people need to care more about their lives
Colin: I donât think theyâd be calling anyone anything after that
If youâre planning on going to the new Guardians of the Galaxy, please be aware that a MASSIVE portion of the film, easily half, is a depiction of pretty brutal animal testing, body horror, and animal mutilation. Itâs a huge theme of the film, and itâs not pulling punches.
The first two films were fairly kid friendly, but this one is very out of genre of any Marvel film, and I would recommend double checking before bringing young children.
Keep seeing posts in solidarity with the WGA strike that say things like âno one cares about your favorite showsâ and âfuck your tv show. I hope it gets canceledâ and while I understand and agree with the underlying sentiment, which is clearly âReal people are more important than fictional ones, you dipshitâ I donât like the framing because, well, it feels shitty to dismiss the importance of the work made by the workers weâre trying to defend.
No one cares about your favorite shows more than the writers do.
No one understands the power and importance of tv and film more than the writers who created them.
No one loves tv, movies, games, and stories more than the people who fought tooth and nail in an incredibly competitive and underpaid profession for the chance to be part of it.
They know itâs important. They know it changes lives. They know it can be more than just a story, more than just a bit of entertainment. Theyâve loved and respected this medium, continue to love and respect this medium, more than you ever will.
The person who wants a show to get canceled the least is the writer who poured their everything into making it good.
TV and movies are great, actually, and you are not wrong to be invested and care about them. Thatâs what the writers gave you. Thatâs what the writers wanted when they wrote it. Thatâs why they wrote it.
Which is why we respect them when they make the call that this strike and its demands are worth risking it.
The people on that picket line do not want their shows canceled. They want to keep writing them. They canât, not under the current conditions.
So we accept the risk with them and support them.
But I donât want to berate the power and importance of their work, the value they put into it and the love they have for it, in the same breath that I am defending their strike. Worthy shows will likely get canceled or derailed and that will be a tragedy worth mourning. The writers know that better than anyone.
So when they say something else is even more important, we listen. And when your favorite show gets ruined, you make sure your fully justified anger and grief is pointed in the right direction - at the CEOs who killed it.
Summary:Â Bucky Barnes was aggressive, annoying, andâworst of allâa hockey player. Not your type. At all. But, unfortunately, your roommate.Â
Word count:Â 5.5k
Warnings:Â Minor injury, idiots in love <3, some angst, pining
a/n:Â My first fic in a century!! Thank you so much for reading if youâre still here. Depending on how this does I hope Iâll have motivation to write more! College athlete Bucky never fails to get me inspired :)
Masterlist
~~
âWhatâs this punks name again?âÂ
The breath you let out was long and excruciating. âI am not repeating myself.âÂ
âCâmon, y/n,â Bucky whined, knocking his head back on the couch. He watched you bustle around the kitchen from his inverted vantage point. âHow the hell am I supposed to swoop in and save the day if I donât even know the kidâs name?âÂ
âOkay, well, first of allââ the fridge door clicked shut with a swift motion of your hips ââheâs not a âkidâ. Iâm pretty sure heâs a few months older than you.âÂ
âSemantics.âÂ
âAnd second of all,â you stressed, pointing a butter knife in his direction. âThere will be no âswooping inâ. Iâm going to have a nice date and you are going to go hang out with your puck rabbits or whatever they're called. There will be no thinking about me and no swooping in my vicinity.âÂ
Bucky rolled his eyes, kicking up from the couch and rounding the kitchen counter to pick at your sandwich. You knocked his hand away several times, but you both knew it was futile. In the months youâd been living with the hockey playerâwho was far too big for the small, shoebox of an apartment you leasedâyouâd learned that food was non-negotiable for Bucky Barnes.Â
There were many other things youâd learned about him as well. He sang in the shower, but only when he thought you werenât home. He had an annoying penchant for using your $30 lotionâagain, when he thought you werenât home. And he loved to throw his massive, smelly gear just about anywhere it would land right when he got home from every practice.Â
He didnât really care if you were home for that last one.Â
Bucky was the last person you thought you would be rooming with when you posted that ad last summer. A small, quaint room previously occupied by your now engaged (and traitorous) best friend, you assumed someone like-minded to yourself would have taken you up on your offer. The price point wasnât egregious and the building was relatively close to campus.Â
But weeks ticked by, and you started getting desperate. Your landlord wasnât a nice lady, something you were positive she took pride in, and she decided that a rent increase was the perfect way to ring in the new school year. You were on the verge of destitution, and as it so happened, the only other person as desperate as you was the starting center for your collegeâs hockey team.Â
You hardly got along. It had taken weeks for your eye to stop twitching every time he tumbled through the front door at three in the morning, and even longer for you not to feel an infuriating aggravation at his random, nighttime smoothies. You supposed he probably felt the same about your cleanliness rules and your incessant reminders about trash days. Because Bucky was in charge of bringing the trash down those long, apartment steps. Not you.Â
But youâd be lying if you said things hadnât gotten easier as of late. Conversation flowed more smoothly, things that made you seethe before were only mildly annoying, and Bucky was being⌠considerate? You werenât quite sure what to call the random cups of coffee he brought home on occasion. Or his sudden urge to warm up your car when he had a morning class before yours.Â
There was also the case of that party last weekend. A frat party with far too many drunk men and not enough common sense, you had had the urge to leave the second you got there. But Wanda had dragged you along for the sole purpose of driving her home after she got hammered, so you were essentially stuck.Â
It was fine at first. Hot and crowded and loud, but fine. You kept a general eye on Wanda and scrolled aimlessly on your phone in the armchair you claimed. And then it wasnât fine, because a man twice your size was encroaching on your space and unrelenting.Â
âWhat kinda girl comes to a party and doesnât even wanna talk to anyone?âÂ
âYou want to come up to my room and watch a movie or something?âÂ
âHey, Iâm talking to you, bitch.âÂ
You werenât even aware that Bucky had been at that party. It wasnât surprisingâthe line between fraternities and sports was blurred at your collegeâbut the space he took up as he intercepted the man in front of you was.
~~
âThere a problem here?â Bucky posed, crossing his arms over his chest, his presence looming above your seated position. His weight shifted to his toes.
The man didnât miss a beat. âYeah, you. Move.âÂ
âWanna fucking tell me what to do again?âÂ
âFuck you, man.âÂ
A harsh shove to Buckyâs chest was all it took for a right hook to echo in the living room of the frat house. There was chaos. Grunts and screams from the drunk people surrounding the unnecessary fight created a cacophony of unpleasant sounds that seemed to get the attention of someone in charge. The manâBrian, you had now learned based on screamsâwas pulled back from Bucky and getting chewed out by some president or manager of something.Â
And Bucky was seething, chest rising and falling laboriously as he wiped at the new bruise forming on his face.
Fights were not uncommon. But this one had been about you. For you.
âBucky?â you asked when the crowd calmed and Brian was no longer in the room.Â
You watched his back release its tight coil. He turned. âAre you okay?âÂ
The words were almost lost in the noise of the crowd, but he was close enough that they created a tactile vibration across your skin. His pupils were dilated and he looked so disheveled it would have been charming if there wasnât also a cut forming on his brow.Â
âY/n.âÂ
It took you a moment to realize that you hadnât answered him. Your response fell out of you as if youâd been shoved. âIâmâIâm fine.âÂ
He grunted, but it was more of a puff of air. âThe fuck was that guy?âÂ
âI donât know,â you replied, realizing by the way you swayed that you had stood up at some point. âHe justââÂ
âWeâre going home.âÂ
âWhat? I canât, Iâm here with Wanda. Iâm driving her, Bucky, I canât just leave.âÂ
He grabbed your wrist, the grip achingly soft compared to the blows he was landing minutes before. âShe left with that British guy sheâs been on and off with. Asked me to tell you.âÂ
That explained his random appearance. Your brows pinched as you took in the information, eyes cast down to the angry red marks marring Buckyâs knuckles. Heâd been in fights before. So many fights. On the ice.Â
This was different.Â
âI havenât been drinkingâI can drive myself home. You donât have to leave,â you shouted over the music now bumping in the room.Â
He didnât respond, not verbally. He pulled you to his front instead, leading you through the impossible crowd until cool night air began melting into your skin. His silence was strange. Buckyâs favorite activity was talking your ear off until you told him to shut up, but right now⌠nothing. Even his earlier words had been clipped.Â
You felt responsible for easing the tension in the air as Bucky continued to guide you to your car. You hadnât told him where you parked, but he seemed to know the exact location anyways.
âYou really donât have to leave with me,â you mumbled. âIt wasnât a big deal or anything.âÂ
âIt was a big deal.âÂ
~~
The drive home had been silent. The walk to the door had been as well. Bucky spent a few minutes appraising you in the overhead light of the living room when you got inside, but after that there was nothing. He went to his room and you went to yours.Â
There was no discussion about it the morning after, either. Bucky apparently wanted to pretend nothing ever happened, so you respected that. Even now, you ignored the fading cuts on his hands as he shoveled food into his mouth.
Buckyâs next words were muffled by a mouthful of bread. âWell whereâs this dude taking you at least?â
âIce skating.â
The cough and sudden exasperation was very expected out of the man next to you, Buckyâs next words hardly containing syllables. âHuh?âÂ
âWeâre going ice skating,â you reiterated. You picked up your lunch and headed for the living room, ignoring the slightly heaviness in your chest. âItâs winter and ice skating is festive. The rink on campus has decorations.âÂ
âWithout me? Y/n, youâre gonna let some guy who probably doesnât even know how to skateââÂ
âBuckyââ you attempted to interrupt.Â
ââdrag you around the rink like a rag doll?â he continued, holding his hand up to mute your incoming speech. âIâve asked you to come by the rink, like, a ton of times. Youâve never shown any interest.âÂ
You rolled your eyes and shot him a cross look as he picked your feet up from where they rested on the couch and dropped them into his lap. He went on with his rant for a little while longer, knocking his head back against cushions and accusing you of being a bad roommate. You had a few rebuttals of your own, but there was a reason you had never accompanied him to the rink.Â
A good reason.Â
You didnât date athletes.Â
It was true that simply going to visit Bucky at a practice, or letting him be the one to drag you around the ice like a rag doll, wouldnât mean you were in a relationship by any means. But it would be an extra step. And if you were being honest with yourself, it would only take a few of those extra steps for the irritation you felt towards Bucky to melt into something else.Â
And you didnât date athletes.Â
You did not.Â
You didnât have the time, nor the patience, to put up with the cheating, the anger issues, or the crazy schedules. And there wasnât a single athlete youâd met at your sport-centered university that was willing to compromise on any of those subjects. Especially the cheating. Youâd learned that the hard way after dating a lacrosse player for approximately one month before receiving the dreaded DM from a girl you had never met.Â
The man hadnât even given you the courtesy of pretending he didnât know what she was talking about. He just admitted to his wrong-doing and shrugged. Shrugged.Â
So athletes were not exactly in your good graces when it came to dating.Â
âAre you even listening to me?â Bucky cut through your thoughts, patting your shin in impatience.Â
You blinked and reoriented yourself, focusing on the hairs that fanned across Buckyâs face. âOf course I am,â you lied. âBut my answer is still the same. Iâm going on my date and you are not going on my date.âÂ
He groaned, apparently giving up as he cradled your legs closer to him to lean over and grab the remote from the coffee table. He flipped the channel to ESPNâtypicalâand you ate your sandwich, silently cursing him. He had a TV in his room.Â
âWhen is it?â he suddenly asked, breaking the silence that had knitted itself into a comfortable blanket over the room.Â
âTonight,â you answered plainly.Â
The arms atop your legs tensed.Â
~~
The dichotomy of the man sitting beside you was impressive. On one hand, he was so full of himself that he had missed almost all of your conversation starters due to being so transfixed by his reflection in the rinkâs glass. He had yet to ask you a single question about yourself and had insisted that the four other girls skating tonight were in love with him.Â
On the other hand, he was, quite possibly, the most uninteresting person you had ever met. You were usually very quick to laugh, but every word out of his mouth was almost painful. He wouldnât stop talking about his ex-girlfriend, gave you one word answers about anything other than baseball, and was honestly really terribly at ice skating. You were no pro either, but you found yourself on your back every time he tried holding your hand.
The tumble five minutes ago had you seeking out the penalty box on the side of the rink. You needed a break, you had told him, hoping he would continue on making a fool of himself and give you a moment alone. But he followed you instead, and was now sitting beside you, talking about baseball.
You supposed that was better than making you fall while talking about baseball.
âI bet we could do that,â he remarked, pointing out onto the ice and catching your attention. A couple who clearly had more experience than you was twirling each other around. âWe definitely could. I pick up good speed.â
You cringed. âI really donât think we should try, Sean. My tailbone is already pretty bruised.âÂ
âOh, câmon! I wonât try the throwing part, just the twisty stuff.âÂ
âWe are literally on rental skates. You will kill me,â you deadpanned. You were tired at this point and seriously questioning why you thought ice skating was a good first date idea.Â
Well, there actually was an answer for that. But you were not going to think about the hockey player that popped into your head when Sean asked you on a date in the dining hall last week.Â
Definitely not.Â
âIâm not going to let my date think Iâm boring,â Sean groaned, yanking you up from your seat.Â
You gave a few tugs and words of resistance but they were ultimately useless. You figured it would be just as useless to tell the guy you already thought he was boring. He probably wouldnât even hear you.Â
On unsteady skates, Sean guided you to a mostly cleared corner of the rink and gripped your forearms. He squinted as he surveyed the area, the corner of his mouth turning up in a way that made your stomach roll. This entire date had been a bad idea.
âMaybe we should just watch them do it,â you tried, words wavering.Â
âNo!â he grinned. âNo, we got this. Itâs gonna look so cool.âÂ
And then you were spinning. Youâd never been spun against your will before, but it sucked. Your skates kept getting stuck in the divots in the ice and the grip on your forearms was close to bruising. You were starting to get dizzy and Sean showed no signs of caring. God, he really was dragging you around the rink like a rag doll. Bucky was going to get a kick out of this.
âOkay, ready?â Sean called, an unwarranted jubilation in his tone.Â
âWhat?â you yelled.Â
He didnât answer you. Instead, he let go, and you went flying in another direction without a clear path. It only lasted a moment, but the sound of your head smacking onto the ice signified the end of that movement. You landed on your arm next, and then your back. Again.Â
This time felt different though. Your head was spinning and there were muted pinpricks trailing up to your wrist. The ache there was dulled compared to the biting iciness in your back, but as soon as you tried leaning on it to get up, it became sharp.
âOh shit!â came Seanâs laughter-filled gasp. âMy bad. I really didnât mean to let go.âÂ
You blinked a few times to clear the blurriness from your vision but it proved unhelpful. âI think⌠I think my armâs broken.âÂ
âWait, seriously?â he asked, wobbling down to a seat beside you.Â
âYeah, itâsââ
âEverything okay over here?â a voice interrupted. You tried blinking again to take in the man that towered over the two of you, but the lights overhead washed him out.Â
You recognized himâŚmaybe? You felt like you were going to throw up.Â
Sean answered for you. âYeah, man, weâre fine. She just fell.âÂ
âY/n, are you okay?â the man asked, ignoring your date completely.
âDo I know you?â you slurred.
You thought you heard a curse. âWhat made you think throwing her around was a good idea?âÂ
âDude, it wasnât even that fast. Or my fault. She just couldnât keep her feet under her.âÂ
âWell, dude, maybe you should go home.âÂ
Sean scoffed. âRight, and whoâs going to take this one home?âÂ
Your head was starting to hurt with all of the back and forth. The man that just joined, the taller one, kneeled down beside you. His blonde hair cast a harsh glare that had you squinting again.Â
âYou want me to call Bucky?â he asked.
Bucky? How would he know Bucky? Blonde hair began morphing into a man in your memory, and you reached for the material of his shirt, looping it between your fingers.
âSteve Rogers?â you mumbled.Â
The man, now identified as Steve, sighed. âIâm calling him. Go home, Sean. Her roommate is coming to get her.âÂ
There was more discussion, something about Steve having the authority to kick him out and Sean not understanding what all of the fuss was about. Steve warned him about something and Sean scoffed as if the situation was beneath him. And then he left.Â
Steve was then in your line of sight again, brows pinched together and a bright orange vest covering his shoulders. His hands hovered in front of you as if youâd break if he touched you and you almost found it funny. Steve was a huge guy with a lot of authority on Buckyâs team, but right now he looked like a scared animal.Â
âWhy are you dressed like a construction worker?â you asked.Â
A small smile graced his face. âIâm working at the rink today. Everyone on the team has to take shifts during the holidays.âÂ
âHmm,â you hummed. âI think my arm is broken.âÂ
âI know. Iâm pretty sure you have a concussion too. Letâs get you off the ice, yeah?âÂ
You tried to nod, but that hurt too much so you let Steve assist you in shakily standing up. He guided you to the seats by the rental skate counter with a soft but sure hand on your back, asking some guy named Antonio for an ice pack. Everything around you felt like a fever dream.Â
Gentle touches rolled the sleeve of your sweater back to reveal a swollen wrist that Steve immediately covered with an ice pack.Â
He cursed again. âWell heâs gonna be pissed.âÂ
âWho?â Your head swayed with the question.Â
Steve looked up to meet your gaze, lips parting to answer, when he was replaced by a different face. Your brain was having trouble keeping up with everything, obviously, because Bucky was in front of you now. He was kneeling between your legs with his hands on your face and you had no idea where Steve went.Â
âWhat the fuck?â you blurted out.Â
âHey, y/n.â Bucky spoke your name low and soothing, his fingers moving to your eyes where he pried them open one at a time and looked for something you couldnât see. His next words were directed over his shoulder. âMaybe a concussion. Tell me what happened again?âÂ
âSean Marcus was being an ass. Flung her all over the place,â Steve replied.Â
âWhy are you here?â you interjected, trying to focus on one thing at a time. âI told you not to come on my date.âÂ
Bucky moved his assessment to your arm next, shifting the ice pack. âNever really agreed to those terms.âÂ
He turned back to Steve after that, having another discussion that you barely understood. Bucky absentmindedly fiddled with the material of your jeans as he spoke, and you put all of your energy into not face planting on the ground. This past week had truly been a series of terrible events with terrible men.Â
After some amount of time elapsed, you were walking to the parking lot with a jacket thrown over your shoulders and Bucky continuously jutting a hand out each time you took a step. He was very well versed in concussions, apparently.Â
âOkay, in you go, killer,â Bucky prompted, opening the passenger door.Â
You eyed the front seat, scrunching your face up. âMy arm hurts.âÂ
The man in front of you seemed to soften, his shoulders dropping on a long exhale. âI know, sweetheart. But we gotta go to the hospital to fix that. Iâll make sure it doesnât hurt anymore.â
âI should just call Wanda. Or Nat. You donât have to be the one to take me.âÂ
âI can take you just fine.â
âWhy do you want to you? Arenât you busy?âÂ
Another long sigh, this one accompanied by hands on your shoulders, fingers at the base of your neck. âGet in the car.â
His eyes were boring into yours, searching for something, or maybe already finding it there. You still had your arm cradled to your chest and you titled your head to the side as you observed him. There was something else to his gaze that you couldnât quite describe. It reminded you of his expression after he came home from a rough game. Angry. Discontent.Â
âYouâre being weird,â you commented, breaking the silence you had created.Â
âYou broke your arm and smacked your head on the ice,â he simply replied, as if the statement was an explanation.Â
âYeah, butââÂ
âAnd then that douchebag did nothing about it,â Bucky interrupted. âSo please, y/n, get in the car so I can help you before I find him and kick his ass. Because you know Iâm not above fighting people.âÂ
You blinked, and then slid into the front seat.Â
The drive was quiet. Youâd never been in Buckyâs car before, but the spinning in your head didnât give you much space to inspect it too closely. You caught hockey gear in the back, a keycard to the rink dangling off the rearview mirror, and a small collection of hair ties in one of the cupholders. One caught your attention.
âHey, this oneâs mine.â You picked up the purple band and rolled it between your fingers. âThief.âÂ
Bucky snatched it back. âMine now.âÂ
He made a sharp turn that had you sucking air between your teeth and repositioning your arm. Bucky sent you a quick, achingly apologetic look.Â
âSorry, almost there.â A long beat of silence and then a mumbled, âI should keep your hair tie. You wonât be able to do your hair alone with a broken arm anyway.âÂ
~~
Your wrist was fractured, not broken. You also only had a minor concussion. This was all great news to you, especially since they told you after administering a hefty amount pain reliever. To Bucky, this was apparently terrible, life-altering news.Â
After practically body slamming into the front door of your apartment, he chucked his wallet and keys down on the kitchen counter and began grumbling to himself as he opened and closed kitchen cabinets. You watched from a distance, half amused, half concerned for the rusting hinges. He finally found what he was looking forâa cupâand continued to mutter to himself as he filled it with gatorade.Â
âAre you⌠okay?â you asked tentatively.Â
Bucky ripped the freezer open and manhandled three to four ice cubes. âIâm fine. You are not.âÂ
âIâm okay now,â you assured. Bucky stalked over to you anyways, pressing the sports drink into your hand that was not wrapped in a cast.
You looked down at the glass and sent him a baffled look. He nodded at it and raised his brows, a silent demand for you to drink.Â
âOkay. And why do I need to drink gatorade?â Your words were slow.Â
âYou were just on the ice and havenât had any water for at least three hours.âÂ
âBucky,â you began. âI was ice skating recreationally for about thirty minutes. I donât need to replenish my electrolytes.âÂ
âWill you just⌠will you just drink the damn drink?â he groaned, gesturing to it with a firm hand. âJesus, I canât take care of you when you go and get yourself hurt by idiots. So just let me do what I know I can do, alright?âÂ
âYou donât have to take care of me.â You were beginning to raise your voice, matching some of the frustration in the room.Â
Bucky threw his hands in the air, tugging at his roots on the way down. He moved further into the kitchen and leaned against the counter with stiff, rod-like arms propping him up. And then he sighed, long and profound as if this was the hardest conversation heâd had all year. His head hung heavy between stiff shoulders and you felt the environment shift.Â
You almost wanted to intervene on his thoughts again, to make some comment about the dishes in the dishwasher or pretend you were going to go take a nap. But he had something to say, something you needed to hear, and so you stayed. You blinked and clenched your fist in the uncomfortable silence, but you stayed.Â
âY/n, I want to take care of you,â Bucky breathed out, words still directed toward the floor, almost too low to make out. âIâve been tryna get you to see that for weeks now, but youâve either got no clue or you want absolutely nothing to do with me.âÂ
You stopped blinking, stopped fidgeting, stopped breathing altogether. You watched as Bucky drummed his fingers against the counter and still refused to look up. You swallowed hard because you werenât clueless, but also because you wanted everything to do with Bucky Barnes.Â
And nothing at the same time.Â
âBuckyâŚâ you began, with a tone of surprise you werenât sure was believable.
âDonât do it yet,â he stopped you. âDonâtâŚdonât tell me no yet. Iâm still pissed as hell that you got hurt and you shouldnât be alone with a concussion. I donât need you avoiding me when you canât even drive a car.âÂ
âYouâre being presumptuous.âÂ
He snapped his head up, his eyes rushing back and forth between your own. The drumming on the counter ceased, instead replaced by balled up fists turning white under days old cuts and fading bruises. He didnât say anything. You searched the empty air for a reply.Â
âI wouldnât avoid you. I donât know if I could avoid youânot anymore. Youâre sort of a big part of my life now.â A good start, you thought. Not a real answer, but not a rejection.Â
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek and eyed the drink still perspiring in your hand. You set it down at his observance, moving closer to his slumped posture in the kitchen.Â
But Bucky stood up straight at your movement, becoming guarded, stiff. âI shouldnât have said anything. Bad timing, just forget it. You should try and get some sleep.âÂ
âI donât want to forget it,â you softly spoke, shaking your head.
He clenched his jaw. âAnd I donât want to hear that you donât feel the same way about me that I feel about you. Not right now. I feel like Iâm going insane, watching you go out on dates and having my best friend tell me that my girlâthatâs not really my girlâis all banged up on the ice because of some asshole.âÂ
You opened your mouth to speak, but Bucky kept going, now pacing in the kitchen. âI mean, y/n, youâre my everyday. I wake up and youâre making coffee. You text me in class to ask what I need at the grocery store and then I call you after practice to make sure you got back to the apartment. I think about you so god damn much and I canât believe there was a time in my life that I didnât get to end my day in a home that has you. And youâre just my roommate. You want nothing to do with athletes, I get itââ he added, catching your eye in the middle of his rant, ââbut, shit, I havenât even looked at another girl since⌠well it doesnât even matter.â
âTell me,â you whispered. There were a million other things you couldâve said, a million explanations that would have made sense. But the two soft words stopped Bucky from tracking holes in the ground. They shoved him from his shallow breaths and made him look at you.Â
And, god, did he look at you. You must have been worse for wear. A hospital visit mixed with one too many tumbles onto solid ice probably had your hair in disarray and your face pressed with exhaustion, but his gaze was revering. Candy-coated red with soft blues melting below brows that fluxed with the movement of his lips; Bucky was beautiful, and he was looking at you as if you matched.
His tone confirmed as much, light and saccharin as he said, âThat dumb movie a few weeks ago, the one about the superheroes. Your friends wouldnât watch it with you so you made me. You were so excited even though it was awful and you were out like a light within the first hour. You rolled over onto me and I wasnât gonna wake you up so I sorta just held you.âÂ
He paused, trailing his eyes up to the light fixtures. âAt the risk of sounding pathetic, it felt like I had you, you know? Like we were going through all our usual motions, but after I annoyed the hell out of you and you told me off, you were mine. I canât⌠I canât really picture that with another girl.âÂ
There were very few times you had considered yourself speechless. But with Bucky Barnes standing in front of you, red-faced and vulnerable and still wearing the stupid hospital nametag they made him put on in the waiting room, you had no words. There was none of the arrogance you usually associated with him, no short-temper or pestering taunts. It was just Bucky, and he was pouring his heart onto the kitchen floor. For you.Â
âYou get why you canât tell me no just yet?â he asked, trying to get something out of you. Anything. âYou can break my heart, but let me just make sure youâre okay first. And I canât beat the shit out of Sean if we arenât on speaking terms.âÂ
The laugh that left you was one of disbelief, but the breathiness and accompanying tears fit the heaviness of the room. Your glossy eyes met Buckyâs and something flashed on his face, but it was soon out of your line of sight because you were kissing him. You were kissing him hard and your bodies were too close for the cast between you but it didnât matter.Â
He didnât respond at first, hand hovering at your back. But then he did and the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor was gone from your bare feet. He sat you on the counter, so gently, as if you were glass, and you let your hand brush against the cracks and divots of your home. The one that Bucky came back to every night to see you.Â
The one that had housed so many nights of confusion and longing and denial.
The one that had Bucky kissing the life out of you on the kitchen counter.Â
He pulled away first, forehead pressed to yours. âDidnât think Iâd ever get to do that.âÂ
âYou can do it again.âÂ
âOh, I will, baby.âÂ
Laughter met in the air between youâsweet, short, intertwined. There was so much you wanted to tell him, so many instances like the one he shared before where you were left questioning boundaries and feelings and lines. But, you figured, there would be so many opportunities to tell him. So much time together.Â
âI texted Wanda that night,â you shared, interrupting the kisses he was pressing to your cheek. âAfter I woke up and you had taken me back to my room.âÂ
He smiled against your skin. âWhatâd you say?âÂ
âI told her I was an idiotâthat I was falling for the enemy.âÂ
Bucky ran a soft hand along the back of your head, a smirk lighting up his face. He was slotted between your legs and kept his other hand firmly pressed onto the kitchen counter, caging you in, making sure your arm didnât hit the cabinets.Â
âAnd is that true?âÂ
âI donât know,â you hummed, connecting your foreheads once again, wanting to stay impossibly close. âTry to cure my broken bone with gatorade again and weâll see.â
when two musicians sing into the same microphone and lean in very close to each other⌠like omg are you guys gonna kiss now to relieve the homoerotic tension?đł
Okay, but this is really important: Bruce Springsteen occupied this really weird place in music history. His songs were all from this pessimistic, nihilistic view of an America that had let him down:
Just like the anti-Vietnam War protest songs that we associate with the 1960s, or the early nihilism that spawned punk music in the 1970s. But he didnât *sound* like a punk anarchist; he sounded like a country rock singer. When he released Born in the U.S.A. people completely misinterpreted (or possibly ignored) the lyrics in favor of the tone of the music.
Politicians used his music to promote their âMurica Yes! brand, and he had to literally explain that that was not what he was about. Heâs over here asking when weâre going to have jobs and heathcare, not stanning the politicians who werenât helping the people.
It was also kind of a big deal that he had an integrated band, because even as late as the 1980s music was still kind of segregated and MTV was straight up racist. They refused to play and promote black artists and then claimed that were no black artists in the first place. Michael Jacksonâs record company had to threaten a boycott of their white artists to get MTV to play his Thriller video.
Plus, the first black/white interracial kiss on TV was in 1968 (OG Star Trek). Also it took us until the 70s to get sympathetic gay characters on screen, and the 90s to get gay characters to kiss onscreen. And all of those firsts were met with outrage.
So keep that in mind when you see Bruce Springsteen not just playing with an interracial band, but engaging in an interracial, gay kiss on stage repeatedly.
Passages from American Popular Music by Larry Starr and Christopher Waterman
I used to think that Bruce and Clarence kissing onstage was exuberance, showmanship, and telling racist homophobes to fuck off. Like, they picked up a certain kind of audience and went âRacist homophobes? Not in our house!â And started the kissing then but then I actually looked it up and
It was a story where⌠we remade the city. We remade the city, shaping it into the kind of place where our friendship and our love for one another wouldnât have been such an exceptional thing. - Bruce Springsteen
It wasnât about showmanship or rejecting bigots or anything it was just. Damn right that was one of the loves of his life and damn right he was going to kiss him onstage
It gets me a little that Bruce has had a divorce, that heâs been married twice, but he loved Clarence for the rest of Clarenceâs life and will presumably love him the rest of his own
Clemons said in one interview. âBruce and I looked at each other and didnât say anything, we just knew. We knew we were the missing links in each otherâs lives. He was what Iâd been searching for.â In another version of the story, Clemons says âHe looked at me, and I looked at him, and we fell in love.â
Iâm having some emotions about it!
âHe was elemental in my life,â Springsteen adds, âand losing him was like losing the rain.â
Not just! I love you pure and deep and true but! I am going to love you like that in front of the whole damn world!
We have fewer narratives about taking risks and making statements for platonic love rather than romantic and supposedly it would be easier to downplay this onstage than romance and! They refused! They fucking refused! In front of hundreds of thousands of people, over the course of years! In the spotlight, in word and deed, I love you!
so, i saw the tweet below (obviously creds to @/kvrtzwcrld, your brain is huge for this!!) yesterday night
and i have not stopped thinking about it since, so, naturally, i took to the keyboard about it:
at first, the letters come from steve â as in, it is steve that is the one who hands them over to max. itâs summer, so thereâs no school, and max is still in physical therapy. some of her sessions (most of them, really) conflict with her momâs work schedule, susan having to leave for her shifts at just about the same time max has to leave for her appointments. naturally, steve offered to help out by giving max a ride to her sessions when susan canât.
max knows that sometimes, steve will chat with her mom if susan has a few minutes to spare before she has to run and max is taking a little bit longer than usual to finish getting ready and come out.
so when max slides into the passenger seat and steve holds out a card for her to take, telling her âoh, by the way, your mom wanted me to give this to you. she had to leave before you came out so she couldnât give it to you herself.â she probably does think itâs genuinely from her mom at first.
only, then she opens it and that is not her motherâs handwriting. sheâs kind of disappointed by that, just a little, and she probably wouldnât admit that, but sheâs also used to it, so the sting doesnât last for very long. not to mention, her curiosity to see what it actually says is too great.
she reads through the letter, and almost immediately she thinks that itâs steve wrote wrote it for her.
she doesnât say anything to him about it at first. just holds onto the letter, tells him âoh, that was nice of my momâ, and lets him think that he got away with it.
and after that, it keeps happening. the letters keep coming. every time she gets into the car with steve, he has a new one to give her. max never actually sees her mom hand off any of these letters to steve, either, so sheâs fully convinced itâs him. not to mention, all of the âyouâre going to have a great dayâs and the âyou can do itâs and the other, various, generally peppy remarks just totally scream steve.
she wants to know for sure though. so she comes up with a plan.
one day she gets ready for her session super early, like at least half an hour before steveâs set to show up. she hides out in her room, so her mom doesnât know, and she waits there until she hears steveâs car roll up. her mom calls her name and tells her steve is here. max calls back that sheâs almost ready, sheâll be out in a minute. she listens for her mom after that, and when she doesnât hear her, max thinks she went outside to talk to steve.
max sneaks out of her bedroom as quietly as possible and tiptoes over to the window. she crouches down low and peeks out from behind the corner of the curtain. and there steveâs beemer sits, in the patch of dirt they jokingly call their âdrivewayâ, but it isnât maxâs mother who is leaning up against his car.
itâs eddie munson.
(eddie munson, who max never really gave a second thought before spring of â86. eddie munson who was just âthat munson boy, always up to no goodâ.
until he wasnât.
until suddenly theyâre on the same team. until theyâre working together to save each otherâs lives. until they end up three hospital rooms down from each other, broken, bruised, busted, bitten.
but on the mend. recovering.
and then itâs neither one of them being able to sleep, too afraid of the nightmares that plague their minds, the horrors that are burned into the backs of their eyelids, there every time they close their eyes. they find solace in each other, sitting together at the rickety old picnic table between their trailers. talking about skateboarding and dnd. about heavy metal and kate bush. about anything that isnât gates and monsters and hiveminds and hellscapes.
(but they do talk about that, too, sometimes. when some nights are bad and some nights are worse and the only way to make it better is to face it head on. but they help each other feel safe. they help each other feel understood.)
they chase each otherâs ghosts away. they remind each other that they are not alone.
itâs an unlikely friendship, not something max ever could have seen coming. but eddie is good. eddie is great. he doesnât treat her like a kid, doesnât handle her with care, like sheâs something fragile and delicate that could break from one strong gust of wind. heâs one of the only ones who looks at her and just sees max.
he does take care of her, but she takes care of him too. itâs â heâs family. the brother she never had. the brother she always wanted.)
eddieâs got one arm resting against the window of steveâs car where itâs rolled down, and he and steve are talking. laughing. smiling together. steve says something then, and eddie straightens up and fishes for something in his jacket pocket.
and then, right there in plain sight, max watches eddie pull out a small little envelope and hand it over to steve. he says something to steve and points at the envelope in his hand, expression firm. then he spares a quick look towards maxâs trailer, and max ducks down quick so she isnât caught out.
after a second, two, three, she chances a glance out the window again. she watches as eddie taps his palm against the frame of steveâs window, letting it linger for a moment before he lifts his hand up and off and into a wave instead. then he turns on his heel and heads back to his trailer. he looks back twice.
max waits a minute, so it isnât obvious that she was waiting by the door, then she grabs her bag and heads outside. when she slides into the passenger seat, steve holds out a card â the very same one she just saw eddie give him.
when max opens it, itâs exactly what she expected â the same handwriting, the same spiffy, upbeat encouragements, the same lopsided little smiley face at the top.
itâs signed love you, mom xx at the bottom, just the way it always is.
but max knows now.
when fall rolls around and school starts back up, eddie takes over steveâs job as maxâs chauffeur. he and max are going to the same place, after all.
(eddie had been disappointed when they hadnât simply waved away the last of those finals he missed and granted him his diploma anyways. theyâd been strict about the rules. no exceptions. they did, however, offer him an alternative arrangement. rather than redoing his entire senior year again, they came up with an arrangement in which he only had to cover the content from the last few weeks heâd missed and sit for the final exams, and then, assuming things went well, heâd be walking out of hawkins high with his diploma firmly in hand. they even told him heâd be able to walk with the graduating class of â87 if he wanted.)
now that itâs eddie carting her around, max fully expects the cards to stop. thereâs no steve for eddie to hide behind anymore, and max thinks that even though heâs under the impression that sheâs none the wiser, he might feel too exposed nonetheless.
but they donât stop.
every morning, like clockwork, max hops into the front seat of eddieâs van, and eddie hands her a card, tells her, âfrom your mom.â (he even tries to tug on the end of one of her braids once after he hands it over, and max, whoâd had a very bad night and is feeling far too sentimental over a god damn card, lets him.)
it comes to a head, as most things do, in the wheeler basement.
despite maxâs steadfast refusal to join in on their silly little game, she still tags along to the partyâs hellfire meetings. she likes hanging out in the basement with el, and with robin and nancy and steve if theyâre there too. sheâd never ever tell them, but she also likes hanging out with the boys too. likes watching them get so into their game that they almost knock over their goofy chalices of mountain dew. likes listening to them all shout over one another when theyâre trying to make a decision on what their partyâs next move should be. theyâre her friends. her people. and, call her a softie, but she just likes being around them. all of them.
it's the end of their latest session, and eddieâs just finished cleaning up â gathering up all his little figurines, carefully stowing away all of his campaign notes, helping steve pile up the empty cans of dew and grease stained pizza plates for the garbage.
âhey, red,â eddie calls, catching maxâs attention. he pulls the trash bag from steveâs hands, ignoring his protests, and hoists it up, giving it a shake. the crushed cans clink together inside. âbe a doll and take this out, will ya?â
steve tries to take it back from eddie, to tell him he can do it himself, itâs fine, max doesnât need to help. but max likes helping. she likes doing dumb, annoying, mundane things like taking out the trash. she appreciates steveâs concern, knows he means well, that heâs just trying to make it easy for her since sheâs still recovering (even half a year later), but she can do it. she wants to do it.
so she clambers to her feet and crosses the room to take the trash bag from eddie.
âsure thing, mom,â she says, looking right at eddie, and it sort of just slips out. the nickname. mom. sheâs never called him that before. no one has.
eddieâs eyebrows fly up.
the rest of the party erupts into confusion because why are you calling eddie mom? thatâs steveâs nickname, remember?
and, well, maybe thatâs true. but steveâs not the one pretending to write max letters from her mom. steveâs not the one scribbling down the words of encouragement that max never knew she needed to hear so badly. steveâs not the one signing the cards love you, mom xx.
eddie is.
max meets eddieâs eyes, turns her look pointed.
she can see the second it clicks in eddieâs brain. she knows. his easy, relaxed stature tenses. his eyes swim with worry â like heâs nervous, unsure. like he doesnât know how max is going to react to this. like he thinks maybe sheâll be pissed at him.
but sheâs not. sheâs not at all. those letters â they mean more to max than she could ever express.
max canât put it into words â wouldnât want to in front of all of these people, anyways â so she just lets her mouth curve up. gives him one of her rare smiles.
she watches the tension drain from his shoulders, watches as his own lips twitch up, a slow blossom into something sunny and warm. something just for her. he gives her a nod. then says, âthanks, kid.â
max nods back.
and thatâs that.
even though the kids keep calling steve mom, from that moment on, max saves that one for eddie.
it never does get explained to the rest of the party, but thatâs okay. they laugh about it in their letters.
