khaleesi asked: I hate you.

IF IT’S ANY COMFORT I HATE MYSELF

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.” 

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, via khaleesi)

(Source: winonawu, via fiveyearmission)

shinykari:

Basically the movie.

shinykari:

Basically the movie.

(Source: ericsyn, via hellotailor)

berserkr-bread:

fic where steve is having his morning run but sam is nowhere in sight so he just has to run on his own with no one to tease about how slow they are but then suddenly nyoooom “ON YOUR RIGHT” sam screams as he passes flying by and puSHES STEVE INTO THE FOUNTAIN

(via sirona-gs)

paquim:

Steve & Bucky AU

(via augustbird)

this descends into crack much faster than the bit above the cut would lead you to believe.

gyzym:
you know what i keep thinking about, is a fic where bucky was like, fucking somebody else in the 107th, before they got captured, before he knew steve was coming over, because he was lonely and horny and pretty sure he was going to die, and whatever, just, whatever

and that guy died, maybe, or wasn’t in the HC, or just sort of…. vanished, after steve showed up, like everyone more or less did, for bucky

Nat:
AUGH

gyzym:
but in the ensuing years either he remained alive, and told people about it, or his journal survived somehow

and so bucky barnes became… kind of an icon, for the queer community? this famous war hero, captain america’s right hand, confirmed as having fucked other men by at least one primary source

and so when bucky is relearning himself, based on like, SHIT OTHER PEOPLE SAY OR HAVE SAID, he has to discover his own sexuality through the lens of having been analyzed as part of queer theory and history classes?

Nat:
OH MY GODDDDDDD

gyzym:
RIGHT?

Read More

this is a back alley

Here is the only thing you know: the body remembers.

Holding a knife feels as natural to you as walking, running, slipping in under someone’s defenses and wrapping your metallic fingers around their throat.

Here is the only thing you know how to do: pull the trigger. Wrap your hands around hilts and push blades into bodies. It’s all just meat.

Seven days. That’s how long you’ve been awake. Every time they’d point you at a target, take off the leash and set a weapon down in front of you, the world looked different, somehow, but they’d pull you back, push rubber between your teeth and wipe you clean again before it mattered.

It matters now.

Read More

JUST IN CASE YOUR HEART SOMEHOW WASN’T ON FIRE WITH STEVE/BUCKY EMOTIONAL DEVASTATION, HERE, HAVE THIS BEAUTIFULLY CRAFTED INCREDIBLY WRITTEN UNBEARABLY PAINFUL BONFIRE OF A FANFICTION, GO ON, JUST READ IT, oh god, oh god, i am so emotionally compromised i don’t know what to do with myself 

(Source: febricant)

hellotailor:

eleveninches:

Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies) [Archive of Our Own]

Tony reminded himself that the second the incorrect password was entered, the phone would destroy itself and any data on it. And there was no way someone named Tepid the Magnificent would guess—

“I’m in,” said Tepid. “Soon I’ll know all of the Avengers’ secrets.”

Tony briefly closed his eyes. “Steve. What was your password?”

“It’s ‘password,’” Tepid replied.

Or: Tony and Steve get captured.

READ THIS FIC.

hellotailor:

claireunderwood:

To build a better world sometimes means tearing the old one down … and that makes enemies.

THIS IS HORRIBLE. STOP GIVING ME HORRIBLE EMOTIONS.

(Source: margaery-tyrell, via sparrowwingsandfragilethings)

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