No two characters arcs are the same, so they can be intimidating to approach. To make the process easier, I have six simple mathematical functions that I use as the basis for all my character arcs.
Keeping reading for helpful graphics and a step-by-step look at what each one means to the character and the story.
So I read this really awesome How To Hell’s Kitchen (for Daredevil writers) the other day, and I thought, goddamn, what a great idea, especially when I’ve been howling at the cruel sky for absolute ages in hopes of getting more accurately written Captain America fic!
So, like the post I linked to, I’ll start with the basics. I have a few posts planned in the theme of How To Brooklyn for Cap Writers, and I’ll preface with the following:
I like context! You like context too, right? So these will be a series of posts on various topics, centered around living in New York City during the 1930s/1940s, and present day (for modern AU or post Avengers fics). They’ll be broad in nature, because I’m writing them explicitly to give people who live elsewhere a better understanding of what it’s like to live here, and how to portray that in their stories.
As a caveat to that mission statement, let me add that there is no be-all-end-all of New York experiences. The place is just too big and fast moving and varied for anyone not to sound like a total asshole in saying that there is, and I try to avoid sounding like an asshole if at all possible. So this is not meant to represent all of New York, just a subsection of it that may be useful to this particular fandom.
I am more than happy to take requests! If you would like more detail about anything, have any questions about tropes you’ve seen, logistics issues for a fic you’re writing that you haven’t been able to solve, or are just confused as to why New York seems so damn complicated, my ask box is open. Otherwise here I am, shouting into the void, about whatever the hell I feel like writing about.
So, let’s start with:
The Basics of New York City, or What the Hell are Boroughs, Anyway?
An Excerpt: Bucky stretched, toes hooking over the end of his bed and arms out to his sides to avoid the headboard. He relaxed, popped his jaw, stared up at the ceiling for a long moment as he woke up fully. Then he was pushing upright, grabbing the pile of mostly clean clothes off his desk chair, and pulling them on. A swipe of deodorant, then he was grabbing his bathroom gear.
Within five minutes he was out the door, closing it behind him carefully as to not wake his teammates. He readjusted the bag over his shoulder, fingers stroking the strap lightly as he walked across the campus. His boots crunched on the thin layer of frost, and there was no one else around. Not even the crazy jocks on the football team were out for their run yet.
Bucky checked his watch as he reached the rink, a big, hulking building that had been more than a little intimidating when he’d first stood in its shadow. He pushed open the doors at exactly four thirty am, after fumbling with his access card for a few precious seconds.
He didn’t bother going to the locker room. He didn’t need anything from there, not this time. He just kept walking, past the rooms, through the tunnel, fingers brushing along the stick rack as he passed. Then he was out on the boards, and he could almost feel the tension leaving him. It’d been a long. Fucking. Week.
He had his lace-tying down to thirty seconds, and barely felt the tight cut of the nylon against his fingers as he checked, then checked again. Guards off. Final lace check, and he was out.
Despite his deceptively limited screentime, Captain America’s best friend Bucky Barnes (a.k.a. the Winter Soldier) is a breakout star of the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
His troubled past and uncertain future have inspired reams of fanfic, and if you’re into Marvel fandom, you’ve probably seen @dorkbait’s fanart: intense, detailed portraits where the characters either seem to be posing for the artist, or are casually going about their daily lives.
Wadley’s new artbook, anagnorisis, is the latest success story in the recent trend for crowdfunded fanzines, tripling its Kickstarter goal within a couple of days. We spoke to her about the new artbook (out in September), the eternal appeal of Bucky Barnes, and how she uses fanart to subvert the male gaze.
DOGGIE AU PART 3 (mainly because I have no impulse-control. Ever.)
“What the ever loving hell is this.”
Borky and Stebe look up at Sam’s voice from where they were digging the third hole. They bark in excitement and run to him even if they’re a bit miffed they couldn’t surprise him with Hole Number 4 which would’ve been the Best.
“Nat! Why didn’t you do anything?!”
“And then!” Clint takes Stebe’s head between his hands.
“And then she asked me out on a date!”
Stebe whines at Clint’s high pitched voice and sticks his head between the couch cushions. Clint pats him and apologizes.
“Of course I said yes. After she blew up the building.”
Stebe does. Not. Like. Cats. Especially that Devil of Mrs Wittgers.
Nat sighs as she climbs the tree for the third time this week to get him.
Borky growls. This evil creature will not get the best of him. He growls again, louder, and doesn’t break eye contact. He will win.
“Sam, Borky is scaring Butterblossom.”
Wanda snags up her bunny and coos at it soothingly.
“Borky, down.”
Did that malicious fiend just smirk at him???
Sam loves it that Borky is so affectionate. Trying to climb up onto his lap and wanting cuddles. Licking his chin and burrowing into his chest like a medium sized ball of fluff. Or just lying curled up on his chest and snoring softly.
What he doesn’t love so much is the farting. In his face.
Stebe is running after a laughing Steve through garden, both golden and radiant in the sunlight. Borky whines longingly from where he’s lying in Bucky’s lap. Bucky pets him.
“I get it, pal. I get it.”
Sam pats his own shoulder. He’s a genius. Borky takes to the ball in a matter of seconds, nosing it through the living room and yipping happily when it lets out a squeak.
Sam is an idiot. He puts a pillow over his head as Borky, proud of his new toy, pads up and down the bed, ball between his jaws, squeaking with every step. Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Clint rubs his arms as he’s waiting for the coffee machine. He wishes Nat would turn up the heating but alas.
Stebe pads up to him, dropping something at his feet. Clint grins and scratches his ears. …
“Clint, why are you wearing my dressing gown.”
“It’s a gift from Stebe. It’s mine now.”
First a blanket for Sam. Then a pillow. He noses the TV remote to his human friend, gets Blanket and climbs into Sam’s lap.
Sam smiles down at him wetly and hugs Borky to his chest.
“Thank you.”
Stebe barks and lies down, paws over his snout, before getting up and shuddering. Borky is silent for a second, then barks in agreement.
“What do you think they’re talking about?”
“Probably your meatloaf. What did you even put in there?”
Nat slaps Sam’s arm none too gently.
Fan is Borky’s new Bestest Friend. Sam agrees and lies down behind Borky. This heat wave can suck it.
Stebe Loves laundry day, he thinks as he snuggles deeper into the freshly dried and warm clothes. Natasha does not.
“No.”
“But think of the possibilities! You would match!”
“No.”
“But–”
“Tony, I forbid you from making wings for Borky.”
The first time Stebe saw T’Challa in costume he jumped straight into Natasha’s arms.
Borky on the other hand padded up to him, sat on his hind legs, and pawed at the air in a clear sign of “Pick me up and give me cuddles.”
Stebe doesn’t understand this kind of reckless behavior at all.
So Stebe and Nat like to go parachuting.
Nat does not expect this when she opens the text. It’s a picture of Borky in a corner, miserably looking over his shoulder and into the camera. There’s a sign leaning against his back. “I’ve been put in Time Out until I learn to respect the sanctity of Sam’s potted plants.”
Bucky says it quietly, one night when the sounds of Wakanda’s capital are far beneath their high-rise apartment and home feels closer and further away than it’s ever been. Steve is shirtless in the heat, because the sun only went down half an hour ago, and even Bucky has conceded to shedding his preferred layers down to just an undershirt. It’s been a quiet evening, long and treacle slow in the height of summer, and they’re both stretched out on the wooden floor beside the couch because it’s too hot for leather on skin.
Steve has been absently stroking his fingertips over Bucky’s scars, the livid points on his skin that never fully healed and faded to slick pink or silvery white at best. He’d leaned down to kiss the nearest, the vivid zigzag on Bucky’s inner bicep that always catches his eye, when Bucky shuddered and spoke up, voice low like he was releasing something long-held rather than voluntarily forming words.
“At Azzano. They pumped me full of… whatever it was. I was out of it, delirious, I don’t remember much of that part. But I came round, so they had to check if it worked.” He flexes his arm muscle slightly, like he’s got phantom sensations running over his nerves. Steve checks his expression, but the only thing on Bucky’s face is mild interest, if that. He’s just reciting facts. “They cut me deep enough to sever an artery, let me bleed out while they watched. But I healed. So they did it again, and again, just to make sure.”
He glances down at his arm for a fleeting moment before he’s avoiding the scar again, and Steve’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s actually seen Bucky look at himself like that. It leaves his mouth dry, a strange, sad weight crushing the breath out of him in slow-motion.
“It was the first one that scarred. Fucking Zola. Couldn’t even stop being an egomaniac with a knife in his hand.” Bucky lets his head fall back to stare at the ceiling fan doing lazy circles above them, and it’s only when Steve hears the name that everything clicks with a sickening crunch.
The first time they beat him, Bucky forces himself not to cry. He’s had worse fighting. He had worse at Azzano. He cusses them out and sasses and gets a tooth knocked out for his trouble. It’s oddly satisfying, because he’ll have a war wound when Steve comes for him.
He’s had worse. That’s what he keeps telling himself. He’s had worse.
2
The second time they make him kill a man, Bucky starts to crack. He drops the gun and overbalances, not used to free movement without his arm. They catch him and then throw him to the ground anyway, but the boots in his ribs aren’t the worst. Steve hasn’t come yet.
The dead man is staring at him, empty-eyed. Bucky closes his eyes and bites into his cheeks so he doesn’t. Fucking. Cry.
3
The third time they rape him, Bucky can’t help himself. It hurts and it’s humiliating and the fat tears streak down his cheeks without his permission because he can’t. He wants to go home he wants his mother he wants Steve.
He can’t he can’t he can’t.
4
The fourth time they attach a prototype arm, Bucky stops resisting. He screams when they solder his nerves because he can’t help himself, but he doesn’t fight. He doesn’t cry. He takes the pain and thanks them on his knees when they give him a blanket in his cell.
Steve isn’t coming.
5
The fifth time they wipe him, the soldier comes out shiny and new. Damp with sweat and reborn through pain. Under control. In order.
i’M JUST GONNA STEAL @mindbodyreconnection‘s facebook post BC I CANNOT BE THIS ELOQUENT K??? K!!
i’m still a little in shock from excitement, but going to try and write this anyway…
so, my amazing, talented, ebullient writing partner @mindbodyreconnection and i have been shortlisted for a global literary award.
like, what?
two of our favorite TV pilot scripts – SLAY and THE INVISIBLES – have been selected as top 40 contenders in the Half The World Global Literati Award, and we couldn’t be more excited.
it’s such an honor to have our work recognized in a contest designed to empower women and tell stories about our experiences, and while we’re crossing our fingers for the top prize, we’re just happy to have made it this far.
we won’t know anything further until july 15th, but in the meantime to keep us all from dying of impatience, Half The World has organized a “People’s Choice Award” from now through July 13th.
this means we need YOU to visit Half The World (link below), create a quick account, take a look at the short synopses, and (hopefully) decide our projects sound like they deserve your vote.
it’s fast, easy, and would help assuage our mounting anxiety over having to wait nearly a month on this thing :p
and please, please, please keep your fingers crossed for SLAY and THE INVISIBLES!
2/2) Fast forward to when Bucky is safe with Steve and they are trudging through. They make progress somedays and take two steps back on others. Sometimes, Bucky wakes to find this huge, warm, safe person in his bed, and the Winter Soldier breaks a little because he knows this isn’t real but if he doesn’t move maybe he can pretend for a little bit. If Steve ever found out, of course he’d want to burn Hydra to the ground, but convincing Bucky he’s real and that Bucky is free is his main concern.
He looks, he never touches.
He watches the rise and fall of Steve’s chest, the way his eyes flicker beneath closed lids while he’s dreaming, the minute twitches of his limbs as he starts to wake. He listens to the raspy ramble of Steve’s sleep-talking, the hitch in his breathing when he snores, and the only difference from memories of cold nights in their childhood is the missing wheeze in his chest. It should be grounding, it should be safe.
That’s why he only looks, never touches. Because if he reaches out to touch warm skin and his fingertips meet cold sheets then he’s sure he’ll lose it. He learned it early on, that he could watch the bright figure standing near him while he was injured, scared, sick, but if he reached out then it would melt away and take the comfort with it. That it was better to not know if Steve was real than confirm he wasn’t. That if the delusion was all he had, then like hell was he going to lose it.
So he looks, lets himself be comforted. And when Steve wakes he forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, because yesterday was bad and today is shaping up the same, and flinches when warm fingers wrap around his wrist.
Real fingers, solid and strong.
“I’m here.” Steve’s voice is rough, tired from the bad days and worse nights, but gentle as he guides Bucky’s hand to rest over his heart. His chest rises and falls, his heart beats, and he doesn’t disappear. “I’m real.”
“You’re here.” Bucky repeats, throat sore and eyes dry from being open all night, and finally curls into Steve’s arms.
Even if the hallucinations are just getting better, he’ll take it. He doesn’t care if Steve’s real anymore, as long as he’s here.
This one doesn’t even hit my historical boner, it hits my I’d love to be able to travel between Queens and Brooklyn without three train changes and two pack mules boner.
Hah, I’m a terrible person; my first instinct is to say, they got drunk. Am I projecting? Maybe. Drinking’s a competitive sport here. Anyway, I really like this question, this is a good question. So, are we talking what they did as kids, or what they did as grownups? Let’s do both! I like both.
There’s not one way to experience this borough or city, and if I ever claim there’s a right way to “Brooklyn” then please punch me in the face immediately. So what I want to do instead is give you some options! Let’s base them off of fandom tropes, shall we?
Follow for more, or track my tags: Historical New York, The City So Nice They Named It Twice, How to Brooklyn. This post will be updated periodically with additional meta, commentary, and resources. HTB posts will be general topics only to save my sanity, but I’m happy to answer more specific questions privately or in a less sprawling format. If you’d like me to reply to an ask privately, please say so.
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