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raven-dor · 3 months ago

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bucky tries a tiktok trend? - drabble #1

inspired from that one tiktok trend where the girls put a broom through their boyfriends sleeves to test their 'posture' but in reality they just tickle them senseless - 🩵💗 established relationship!! silly goofy behavior, no angst (i know, rare right?) allusion to nsfw word count: 688

"Okay." You giggled, setting up the phone on the windowsill. "Are you ready?"

Bucky nodded, locked in on your video. "Ready when you are, Doll."

His willingness to try anything worked in your favor more often than not, (the mannequin challenge, the time you curled his hair, the time you made him do the dirty dancing move - which he executed flawlessly by the way) but right now you couldn't help but feel bad for tricking him. Still, you decided to go through with it, it was a harmless prank. "Alright, just stand straight."

He stretched his back, and you tried not to stare at the way his muscles fought his t-shirt. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Getting distracted?"

"Never." You shook your head, cheeks hot as you grabbed the broom. Walking back toward the camera, you smiled. "Today, I'm going to be testing my boyfriend's posture."

Bucky stood awkwardly behind you, the camera always made him shy. You kissed his cheek gently, talking to the camera as if he couldn't here you. "What a looker, am I right?"

He rolled his eyes. "I can hear you?"

You feigned surprise, laughing. "Are you sure? You're pretty old, maybe your hearing-" Before you could even react, he expertly wrapped his metal arm around your waist, pulling you in. "Bucky-"

He leaned down, kissing you the way he always did, like it was his last moment on Earth, all consuming and fiery. You felt weak, happy for his hold as you wrapped a hand around his neck, sighing into his lips.

He pulled away, leaning his forehead against yours. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize." You grinned, pecking the corner of his mouth quickly. "I love when you kiss me. Makes me feel all mushy and-"

"Loved?" He raised an eyebrow. "I hope you feel loved."

You nodded, kissing his cheek once more. "I always feel loved. And important. You make me feel everything." His cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled, glad you had the same effect on him he had on you. Stepping back, you locked back into character. "I'm going to have to cut all of that out, of course."

He wiggled his eyebrows. "How unfortunate."

"James!" You scolded, shaking your head. "Behave yourself for five seconds, then you can kiss me senseless as much as you want."

"Senseless huh?" He muttered, and you glared. He raised his hands in surrender, laughing. "Sorry, sorry."

You took a deep breath, looking back at the camera. "To see if he has good posture, I'm going to put this broom through his sleeves."

Bucky nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem."

You giggled, nodding with him. "Not a problem at all." Slipping the broom through his sleeves, you smirked, presenting him to the camera. "Fantastic posture, if I do say so myself."

He stood tall, proud, unsuspecting as you prepared yourself to do the unthinkable.

Your mission: tickling the White Wolf.

Reaching your hands out, you grabbed his sides, tickling him senseless. He jumped, shocked at first.

"Jesus, Doll!" He couldn't help but laugh, almost shrieking when your attack didn't let up. He tried to run away, but you followed after him, unrelenting in your assault. "This is elder abuse!"

You cackled, throwing your head back. "I'm sorry, this was all a ruse!"

He reached back, pulling the broom out of his sleeve. "You better run."

"Shit!" You screeched, racing toward the door.

Of course, he caught you. You knew he would, you were counting on it. "Spare me!"

He flung you over his shoulder, marched towards your bed, and tossed you down, caging you in between his beautifully muscular arms. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire, the way he was staring at you nearly causing your heart to palpitate. "Bucky-"

"I feel betrayed." He spoke, his voice low. You knew he was kidding, but you pretended, playing into the bit.

"Oh?" Your hands itched to reach out and pull his lips to yours. "And what can I do? To earn your trust again, that is?"

He leaned down whispering in your ear, a chill running down your spine. "I can think of a few things..."

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ceeisatlumon · 3 months ago

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Let me cookkk MEKDJAJAHAHDN

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honeeysagee · 3 months ago

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Page 142

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

FRESHMAN YEAR - 1991

Sam Wilson bit his fingertips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew where he was.

Page 142.

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

But Sam knew better.

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

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

JUNIOR YEAR - 1993

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

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

Sam didn’t care much about Captain America.

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

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

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

SENIOR YEAR - 1995

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t write her at all.

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

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

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

He told the recruiter he wanted to fly.

And he will.

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

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

WASHINGTON D.C. - 2014

Sam stared.

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

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

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

Real.

Breathing.

Bleeding.

Bruised.

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

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

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

Sam didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

One word. Flat. Sharp. A lie.

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

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

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

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

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

But he said nothing.

Bucky didn’t look at him at all.

DELACROIX - 2026

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

To Bucky too.

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

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

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

Tonight was different.

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

Then, he heard it - pages flipping.

Soft.

Measured.

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

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

“What are you doing?”

Sam’s voice came out sharper than he meant.

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

Sam stood frozen in the doorway, chest tight.

“They’re private.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He could feel the blood in his ears.

“You drew me.”

It wasn’t a question.

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

Sam opened his mouth. Closed it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam’s lips twitched. “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not moving,” Bucky added.

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

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

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

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

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

Just a stick figure.

Sloppy curls on the head.

A lopsided smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d be insulted if it didn’t.”

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

#marvel #black literature #mcu #samwilson #black tumblr #samanbucky #bucky x sam #sambucky #sam wilson #buckybarnes #buckysam #samwilsonangst #sam and bucky #mcu au

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copingchaos · 2 years ago

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Something to consider when people call this a "conflict" or "war". Semantics matter.

This is a genocide

#semantics #words #literature #books #tv shows #mcu #marvel #disney #israel #palestine #world #trending #tiktok #viral #movies #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #fanfic

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itsfrthebirds · 4 days ago

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I saw a tik tok edit that reminded me of my absolute rage at Endgame and Steve leaving specifically because I genuinely feel that Marvel writers/the Russos read way too far into their own line here. So here, now you get some analysis cus I'm worked up.

"I had a date" is, IMO, a fantastic summary of Steve's state of mind at this moment. A feeling not just of missing something, but of missing OUT on something. He wakes up in New York City, somewhere that should be familiar, but he's missed decades of history. Home is unrecognizable. The war- a war that gave him his entire purpose- is over. He could have lived to see that if he hadn't gone into the ice. He could have seen peace, had a life, gone on a date. But now he can't, and he's left with this feeling of missing out that will never EVER go away. He's not mourning Peggy specifically- he's mourning a life he never got to have and a life he will never GET to have.

But the thing about Marvel is that sometimes they take a short, quippy, impactful line and they'll beat it to death for the sake of making it relevant again. An example that comes to mind: Budapest. Mentioned in Avengers by Natasha, "Budapest" is meant to serve partially as a joke (Marvel truly loves their little one-liners, especially in the early days), but also partially as an indicator of Clint and Natasha's relationship. It's a reference that only they understand, one that shows their long history, but the ambiguity is what makes it interesting. We, as an audience, ask; what happened in Budapest? And the imagination is the greatest tool here! We imagine an entire life that Clint and Nat lived with infinite possibilities. But then in Black Widow- and don't get me wrong, I loved Black Widow- Marvel couldn't resist the urge to make it relevant again. They answered the question, and boom, no more ambiguity, no more infinite possibilities, no more imagination.

Back to "I had a date," the same thing happens. The line makes us wonder; what if? What if Steve had lived? What kind of life would he have had? Would he be happy? And then there's this pain of not knowing, of NEVER knowing, of acknowledging that it is impossible to know, but still being curious enough to imagine it for ourselves despite that. Just like Steve, we can't help but imagine what life could have been. The impact is in the ambiguity, the IMPOSSIBLE. He has to move forward because he can't go back. It's his driving force. His crucible for character development. He's falling forward and scrambling to catch himself and adjust, and that's what transforms him. That's what makes him finally grow and mature.

But the writers can't let a line exist without making it a call-back, and they can't resist the urge to make it relevant again. They treat these character development lines like Chekov's gun. Instead of allowing the line to exist as initially intended- a feeling of loss, of missing out on life, of imagining a different life- they make it a book-end. Steve goes back and has his "date" and that's supposed to be satisfying because it's a call-back, but in actuality, it negates the initial impact of the line. We didn't want Steve to come "full circle." The hero's journey doesn't end with the accomplishment of the initial task. It ends with growth. It ends with a realization, for better or for worse, that what you wanted at the start is never going to be exactly what you get in the end because on the path to getting there, you were fundamentally changed.

Oh and this is the edit, by the way. Show it some love.

#mcu #avengers #marvel #steve rogers #captain america #this is what i use my comparative literature degree for

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the-most-humble-blog · 2 months ago

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🧬 WHY DELUSIONS ABOUT MALE & FEMALE BIOLOGY MADE MARVEL SHOOT ITSELF IN THE DICK (AND CALL IT “FEMINISM”)

A Blacksite Literature™ Entry

Let’s make one thing clear upfront.

This isn’t about sexism.

This is about biology. Combat realism. Audience betrayal. Sexual truth.

And how Marvel — once the most culturally dominant cinematic force on Earth — decided to workshop its male characters out of their own dignity while replacing mythic femininity with asexual placeholders that couldn’t scare a squirrel, let alone hold a galaxy hostage.

This isn’t fan outrage.

This is post-mortem.

Let’s begin with the soft kill:

💣 BLACK WIDOW — THE POSTER GIRL FOR "PLEASE CLAP"

We all played along. Scarlett Johansson, leather catsuit, sultry voice. She could hang in a superhero squad because they didn’t let her try to one-shot Thanos. She played smart. She hacked. She seduced. She weaponized femininity.

But then they handed the mantle to Yelena Belova — Florence Pugh’s bargain-bin replacement with the charisma of a TSA agent and the build of a middle school gym coach.

And Marvel expected us to clap.

Except men didn’t.

And women didn’t either.

Because everyone knows what works — and what doesn’t.

Here’s what doesn’t work:

Telling me this 5’4” woman is beating up trained mercs twice her size without using a single dirty trick.

Telling me she can body adult men with a knee to the chest and a sass quip.

Telling me she deserves the same reverence as Iron Man or Captain America when her biggest feat was being related to someone cooler.

Sorry — biology called.

It’s not buying it.

Neither is your audience.

🧠 COMBAT TRUTH — RAGE IS MALE TERRITORY

Men — even average ones — are capable of unspeakable carnage when the leash comes off. The human male body is a blunt instrument of violence, created by 2.5 million years of evolutionary warfare.

When you piss off a man to his edge, you’re not dealing with a Marvel script anymore.

You’re dealing with:

Broken door frames

Fist-shaped holes in drywall

Bent car doors

Folded metal shelving

Three grown adults going through plywood and still not stopping him

Ask any woman who’s seen the quiet guy snap once.

Ask police officers.

Ask trauma nurses.

Ask the drywall.

So no — we’re not buying that Black Widow, or Diet Widow™ Yelena, are out here flipping six-foot trained killers in hand-to-hand like it’s a gymnastics demo. Not unless they’re using guns, ambush, seduction, or actual fear tactics. You know — femininity weaponized.

But Marvel doesn’t like that word anymore.

So they sanitized it.

Then they watched their viewership tank.

🍑 BRING BACK THE ASS AND TITTIES

Not in a joke way.

Not in a frat-boy way.

In a holy, mythic, undeniable way.

Women have curves.

Women have bodies.

And yes, women’s bodies — when shown in their full power — are captivating.

So why the hell does the new female Silver Surfer look like a 12-year-old prepubescent altar boy on a skateboard?

You think that’s going to inspire awe?

You think that’s going to capture the visceral fear of Galactus’s herald?

She doesn’t even look like she could make a room go quiet.

And Pedro Pascal looks like the only one scared — probably for legal reasons.

This isn’t "progress."

This is gender laundering.

It’s erasing female magnetism so the audience won’t remember it was ever supposed to matter.

💔 NO ONE’S BUYING THE CELIBATE RAGE MONSTER

---

Remember when they tried to ship Black Widow and Bruce Banner?

We do.

And we all cringed.

You’re telling me Natasha — that gorgeous, sultry, hyper-observant former assassin — fell for a man so emotionally neutered he refused to even kiss her in multiple films? A man who literally fled the planet to avoid intimacy?

Meanwhile, in Captain America: The Winter Soldier, the scenes between Natasha and Steve Rogers oozed actual chemistry — soft tension, banter, proximity. You could feel the sexual undercurrent. Even the non-sex scenes felt loaded. It was natural polarity.

But no. Marvel threw that away.

Why?

Because fertile, masculine-feminine sexual tension scares execs more than a space monster.

They’d rather throw two emotionally stunted characters together in an asexual sob-fest than let actual adult attraction bloom.

Even when Natasha and Hawkeye fought each other to the death over who could sacrifice themselves… they didn’t have the courage to let those two touch. Or kiss. Or even grieve properly.

Platonic cliff-diving buddies.

It was pathetic.

🔥 MALE LEADS SHOULD KICK IN DOORS AND BURY BAD GUYS

This is where Marvel really lost the thread.

Steve Rogers was peak masculine mythos.

Tony Stark was flawed brilliance wrapped in charm.

Wolverine was animalistic, traumatized, and f*cking lethal.

These men killed when necessary.

They loved fiercely.

They had swagger, instinct, blood, and bruises.

Now?

The Hulk takes therapy walks.

Spider-Man cries in three timelines.

Doctor Strange won’t even make a move on the woman he literally died for in 400 different realities.

Thor got fat and played Fortnite.

And don’t tell me it’s “realism.”

Men are flawed — yes.

But when they become soft, self-effacing mascots for whatever the writing room is afraid to say, they stop being myth.

They become neutered vessels for corporate appeasement.

👑 WHEN WOMEN DID WORK — THEY WERE WRITTEN AS EXCEPTIONS

Let’s be real. The best female characters in comics weren’t good because they were “female.”

They were good because they were exceptional.

Storm beat Callisto in the sewers and ran the X-Men like a queen-goddess-warrior hybrid.

Lady Shiva could body Bruce Wayne — not because of woke nonsense, but because she was written as a demigod with pressure-point annihilation precision.

Rogue stole Ms. Marvel’s powers and left her comatose for YEARS. No debate.

Cilandra of the Shi’ar commanded fear and respect through sheer galactic pressure.

They were feminine AND deadly.

Not “man-lite.”

Not “snarky little sister.”

They were forces of nature.

Marvel forgot how to write that.

Now they’re just writing “girls we don’t want to offend Tumblr with.”

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🌋 MALE-FEMALE SEXUAL POLARITY ISN’T OPTIONAL — IT’S NATURE

Put a fertile man and a fertile woman on screen for two hours with unresolved tension?

Someone’s f*cking.

Or at least wants to.

Don’t blame society.

Don’t blame toxic masculinity.

Blame mother nature.

Your refusal to acknowledge it doesn’t make you progressive.

It makes your characters feel hollow.

Every great story — from Shakespeare to Nolan to Tolkien — has the pull: masculine risk meets feminine mystery.

When you take that out?

You remove the stakes of being human.

📉 MARVEL DIDN’T GO WOKE — IT WENT COWARD

They didn’t fail because they made more women superheroes.

They failed because they made them unsexy, unrelatable, biologically implausible, and narratively useless.

They failed because they neutered men into “safe, nonthreatening support characters.”

They failed because they believed placating a make-believe fanbase was more important than honoring the real tension that built their empire.

You want strong women?

Write legendary ones.

You want to fix men?

Let them bleed, rage, lead, sacrifice, and fall in love.

What Marvel gave us instead was content without consequence.

And that’s why the throne is bleeding money and losing viewers.

Reblog if you miss myth.

Reblog if you remember what it felt like to believe in gods.

Reblog if you know men and women were made to fight — and love — like the stories used to say.

Your move, Marvel.

But just know:

If you don’t bring back polarity…

We’ll write you out of history.

🔥 CALL TO ACTION (CTA)

✊ If this hit — Reblog it to let Tumblr know you want more. 🧬 If you’ve felt the polarity drain from modern storytelling, drop it in someone’s lap like a live grenade. 💥 Marvel forgot what men and women are. We didn’t. Follow @the-most-humble-blog for unfiltered myth, rage, biology, and cadence warfare. This is Blacksite Literature™ — Not fiction. Not advice. A classified scrolltrap for the ones who remember what power felt like.