Tuesday, April 15, 2014
  • person: what you thinking about?
  • me: oh, y'know, just wondering whether steve rogers has a refractory period

"You said lube was a really important part of this movie-making process for you. How does that work? Why did you need lubrication for this?" (x)

(Source: gilmckinney)

but-i-knew-him:

do you ever think about how it only took steve rogers saying bucky’s name to unravel 70 years worth of brainwashing because i think about this every single fucking day  

(Source: pepperrppotts)

shinykari:

Basically the movie.

shinykari:

Basically the movie.

(Source: ericsyn)

steveorogers:

person: are you over bucky barnes yet

me:

image

gyzym:

LET’S ALL PRETEND THAT THIS IS HOW IT IS, that steve and bucky are just regular people, hipsters, kids that grew up in each other’s pockets and never got sent over the edge of the train, or down with the ship, or into the cryo chamber, or to war. that they made it to the 21st century the same way everyone else did and neither one of them has ever woken up disoriented in a borrowed future. that somewhere deep down in the bowels of the city there is a train running with their initials carved painstakingly into the underside of the plastic seats, each of them using the other’s housekey to carve their bit on the ride home from school, and it’s as close as either one of them has ever come to being memorialized. 
let’s pretend that the only time steve’s ever thought bucky was dead was for those six terrible hours last summer, when bucky sprained his wrist at work and there was a mixup at the hospital, a message on steve’s machine that was meant for someone else. that bucky finally took a cab home alone after waiting fucking hours for steve to show up, only to let himself into their apartment and find steve plastered to him a second later, gasping these wet, strangled-sounding breaths against the side of bucky’s neck. that bucky didn’t know what had happened but guessed enough to let his own anger drain away, to close his eyes and wrap his arms around steve’s waist in apology.
let’s pretend that bucky’s never been anyone but himself except on painkillers, a couple of times, so zoned out after getting his wisdom teeth pulled that he couldn’t remember his name; that steve laughed, and brought him ice cream, told him he could be anyone he wanted to. that their hurts are easily catalogued and explained. that underneath bucky’s t-shirt there is a patchwork of freckles and musculature but few scars, nothing that would make anyone gasp and wonder, that if there’s blood on his hands its only his own, or steve’s, maybe, picked up patching him up, trying to hold them both together. that his sleeping dogs are left to lie and even awake, they’re not so terrible, little trespasses, mistakes, nothing that would make anyone bat an eyelash. 
let’s just pretend that this is it, the two of them, steve in a sweatshirt and plastic-rimmed glasses and bucky like this, black pants, black t-shirt, his v-neck stretched out from all the times steve’s grabbed him by it and drawn him in for a kiss. let’s pretend that this is just one of a hundred thousand moments before they go somewhere, anywhere — a party or a ballgame, dinner with their friends, the grocery store, even work. let’s pretend that this is the part of their day where steve checks again that he locked the door as bucky leans against the railing on the stairs, eyes fond, mouth parted around whatever conversation is coming easy between them today, and says, “c’mon, rogers, c’mon.” 

gyzym:

LET’S ALL PRETEND THAT THIS IS HOW IT IS, that steve and bucky are just regular people, hipsters, kids that grew up in each other’s pockets and never got sent over the edge of the train, or down with the ship, or into the cryo chamber, or to war. that they made it to the 21st century the same way everyone else did and neither one of them has ever woken up disoriented in a borrowed future. that somewhere deep down in the bowels of the city there is a train running with their initials carved painstakingly into the underside of the plastic seats, each of them using the other’s housekey to carve their bit on the ride home from school, and it’s as close as either one of them has ever come to being memorialized. 

let’s pretend that the only time steve’s ever thought bucky was dead was for those six terrible hours last summer, when bucky sprained his wrist at work and there was a mixup at the hospital, a message on steve’s machine that was meant for someone else. that bucky finally took a cab home alone after waiting fucking hours for steve to show up, only to let himself into their apartment and find steve plastered to him a second later, gasping these wet, strangled-sounding breaths against the side of bucky’s neck. that bucky didn’t know what had happened but guessed enough to let his own anger drain away, to close his eyes and wrap his arms around steve’s waist in apology.

let’s pretend that bucky’s never been anyone but himself except on painkillers, a couple of times, so zoned out after getting his wisdom teeth pulled that he couldn’t remember his name; that steve laughed, and brought him ice cream, told him he could be anyone he wanted to. that their hurts are easily catalogued and explained. that underneath bucky’s t-shirt there is a patchwork of freckles and musculature but few scars, nothing that would make anyone gasp and wonder, that if there’s blood on his hands its only his own, or steve’s, maybe, picked up patching him up, trying to hold them both together. that his sleeping dogs are left to lie and even awake, they’re not so terrible, little trespasses, mistakes, nothing that would make anyone bat an eyelash. 

let’s just pretend that this is it, the two of them, steve in a sweatshirt and plastic-rimmed glasses and bucky like this, black pants, black t-shirt, his v-neck stretched out from all the times steve’s grabbed him by it and drawn him in for a kiss. let’s pretend that this is just one of a hundred thousand moments before they go somewhere, anywhere — a party or a ballgame, dinner with their friends, the grocery store, even work. let’s pretend that this is the part of their day where steve checks again that he locked the door as bucky leans against the railing on the stairs, eyes fond, mouth parted around whatever conversation is coming easy between them today, and says, “c’mon, rogers, c’mon.” 

(Source: winterfel)

Monday, April 14, 2014
You play this character, this villainous character, in almost such an effortless way. Do you like to explore that side of Bucky a little more than the other part of him that you portrayed in the first film?

(Source: morstahns)

ifeelbetterer:

OH MAN SAM IS DATING STEVE IN THE WORST WAY
I BET HE DOES BAD STRIP TEASES WITH AMERICAN FLAG FLANNEL PAJAMAS
I BET STEVE COLLAPSES IN BREATHLESS GIGGLES
HE CAN’T EVEN BREATHE
AND HE’S COMING UP ON SAM’S LEFT ONE MORNING AND SAM IS WEARING THESE
AND HE STOPS TO WHEEZE!LAUGH FOR A FULL FIVE MINUTES

ifeelbetterer:

OH MAN SAM IS DATING STEVE IN THE WORST WAY

I BET HE DOES BAD STRIP TEASES WITH AMERICAN FLAG FLANNEL PAJAMAS

I BET STEVE COLLAPSES IN BREATHLESS GIGGLES

HE CAN’T EVEN BREATHE

AND HE’S COMING UP ON SAM’S LEFT ONE MORNING AND SAM IS WEARING THESE

AND HE STOPS TO WHEEZE!LAUGH FOR A FULL FIVE MINUTES

(Source: manueluv)

Wipe him.

(Source: memoryrecovery)

Sunday, April 13, 2014

nonasuch:

basically I just want 300 stories in which Bucky rediscovers pants feelings and undergoes confusing assassin puberty. That’s all I want.

Like, Bucky’s watching from a rooftop in Moldova through a scope, looking in through the window of Steve’s hotel room, and Steve comes out of the bathroom with a towel slung low around his hips, and Bucky is used to nightmares and used to flashbacks and used to a million terrible, horrifying things, and the reaction he has to the sight of water beading on Steve Rogers’ shoulders is not any of those at all

and it’s not bad (the fact that it’s not bad is also bewildering) but it’s really fucking confusing, and it’s going to a while before he knows what to do with it

but, uh

that night of surveillance is going to get him through some tough times, probably.

flarechaser:

The Steve Rogers and Jim Kirk School of Supremely Misunderstood and Mischaracterized Captains

If you seriously think either of them would be cool with any kind of bigotry, oppression, or rampant militarization you need to get your reading/viewing comprehension tested.

black-nata:

frozensoldiers:

I THINK WHAT PISSED ME OFF THE MOST IN CAP 2 IS HOW LITTLE MILK PIERCE POURS IN THAT GLASS. LIKE IT’S THE TINIEST PORTION OF MILK IMAGINABLE. “DO YOU WANT SOME FUCKING MILK” NO LET ME POUR MY OWN FUCKING MILK. AND LET ME POUR THE LEAST. POSSIBLE. MILK. I CAN. POSSIBLY POUR INTO THIS GLASS. THE SMALLEST PORTION OF MILK POSSIBLE. U HAD AN ENTIRE CARTON. AND A LARGE GLASS. AND YOU POUR WHAT. LIKE. 2 INCHES OF MILK INTO THAT GLASS. PIERCE PISSED ME OFF THE MOST IN THAT SCENE. 

I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE

(Source: winonawu)