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[abrooklynboy]

Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes

A Year of Marvels: July Infinite Comic (2016)

[abrooklynboy]

murder-popsicle​:

“Rest sounds nice,” Jane said wistfully. But there was no chance that they could rest until they’d completed their self-assigned mission. As long as the people who had done this to them were still out there, rest would never be an option.

Pulling one knee up to her chest, she said, very quietly, “I’d like to find the Black Widow again. I don’t trust that organization she works for, those SHIELD people, but I’d trust her. I think she’d help us. Assuming she remembers.” Jane paused, and then, even more softly, said, “I think she does. The way she looked at me… I think she does.”

Jane remembered now, remembered the love she and Natalia Romanova had once shared – the love that the Captain had kept hidden from his superiors, the love that had gotten all three of them punished and caused Karpov to wipe every trace of the Black Widow from his Winter Soldier’s memory.

Nearly every trace, that was. When they had met again on that deserted road near Odessa, the Winter Soldier hadn’t been able to take a killing shot. Some part of her, some deep down buried particle, had recognized her former lover.

They would get rest when they were dead or done with their mission. “It does,” Rogers admitted, watching her curl up slightly from the corner of his eye. “Okay. Then we look for the Black Widow.” He remembered the Soldier’s romance with Romanova; real despite the machinations Department X put them through.

He didn’t have anyone at Department X nor HYDRA like the Soldier had Romanova. The Soldier and their teams were all he had needed at the time. The Captain would have held all of her secrets.

Finding a love was better than causing bloodshed. There would be time for their mission later.

“I don’t trust S.H.I.E.L.D. either. I’ve had enough of organizations for a lifetime,” he said in an attempt of lightheartedness that faded as she continued speaking. “I believe you.” Her judgment was always trustworthy. “And if she doesn’t remember, hopefully she’s still willing to hear us out.”

[abrooklynboy]

Over the course of Stella's roughshod Army training, it became quickly apparent she was difficult to exhaust. Here at the front, she was finally hit by what seemed to have never left before. Hunger, bitter cold, worn out muscles. Men and women who were lucky to be alive. Stella hardly left Bucky the first day, her sister sitting on the tank, weak and sick from the factory.

Phillips ushered Stella way, her cheeks still red from the attention. While the court martial apparently was not necessary, a chewing out was. Stella stood at attention while her CO read off her list of misconduct. Going AWOL despite orders to stay put, stealing a military vehicle, dragging Carter and Stark into the fray.

The conversation turned when Phillips said she would be doing that type of work again and again with the best people the Allies had.

Once she made it clear she was going to pick her own people, Stella was allowed to get some sleep in her tent. The moment she could, she collapsed into a dreamless sleep on her bedroll, still wearing the striped outfit and jacket she had borrowed.

'Captain' America, huh?

She woke up before the sun, stomach growling, run down from the Red Skull's attacks and the long march back. Only the cooks and watchmen were awake this early. A hot meal was welcome after foraging and canned rations; this time, she was able to eat as much as she wanted. After several plates, she sweettalked one of the cooks if she could get a bowl for Sergeant Barnes.

Bucky looked slightly better than when Stella found her on the table. Obviously, she was in dire straights but the nurses were taking care of her. When her friend stirred, Stella let out a cough to announce her presence. "Hey, Buck," she said, with a wave of her hand, holding up the bowl in her other hand. "Nominating me for sainthood over breakfast?" she teased, handing the bowl over to her. "How're you feeling?"

@abrooklynboy (Stella)

The march back from the Red Skull's factory was…well, it was, and that was about all Bucky could say for it. She’d spent the first day wrapped in Stlla’s jacket and perched on the edge of a tank, too shaky and exhausted to walk for any length of time. What little sleep she got came in restless snatches, and she was still half convinced that everything around her was an elaborate hallucination brought on by one of the little doctor’s concoctions.

The bruises on her arms, though, and the ache in her legs after she started marching under her own steam – those felt real, too real to be something her mind had simply cooked up.

When they’d finally reached the camp, when the cheering had died down, the brass had pulled her aside, given her a shot of benzedrine, and dragged her off for questioning – what did the doctor do, how much did you tell him, what do you mean he didn’t ask about the Allied forces at all?

But the questions had ended abruptly when she’d had to lurch out of the tent to vomit. Whatever the liquid fire Zola had shot her full of was, it clearly didn’t get along well with stimulants. So the nurses had taken her for a physical instead, noting down each cut, each scar, each bruise, frowning deeply at the blood crusted around her ear, the skin stretched too tight over her ribs, and the scar that ran down her abdomen in an angry red line.

Finally, finally, she had been allowed to collapse, and for the first time in weeks, she’d gotten a true good night’s sleep.

She woke to the smell of oatmeal and the sight of Stella sitting on the cot opposite hers. Sitting up slowly, she bit back a groan. Every inch of her body was stiff and aching, especially her arms; not surprising, when she considered the sunset of bruises that covered the insides of both her elbows. Christ, she was sore. But her cough was gone and she could no longer feel her ribs creaking inside her when she moved. It was a welcome improvement, though it did make her wonder exactly how long she’d been in that lab. She’d lost track of time so completely that she wasn’t even sure what month it was, let alone the date.

“Stel,” she said, finally succeeding in pushing herself upright. “Hey.” A smile flitted over her face when she caught sight a steaming bowl in her friend's hands. “You brung me breakfast? You’re a saint.”

[abrooklynboy]

please reblog i wanna see something. also say if you would survive just cuz XD

[abrooklynboy]

“There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed… Is evil something you are? Or something you do? ”    xxx.

[abrooklynboy]

[abrooklynboy]

━━ 𝟑s

Muse: Stella Rogers

3 Strengths:

Creativity

Lovingness

Stubbornness

3 Weaknesses:

Stubbornness

Anger

Unable to open up

3 Secrets (A lot of them she corrects after she gets out of the ice):

Her politics

Sometimes she wishes she was The Legend propaganda paints her as. As kind, as patient, as smooth.

How much harassment she really faced.

3 Fears:

That nobody will love someone like her.

That humans won’t ever change.

That coming out of the ice was just a fever dream.

3 Goals:

Keep smashing fash.

Fight for people who need help.

Have a content personal life with loved ones.

Muse: Rogers [post-Red Guardian]

3 Strengths & Weaknesses: Same as Steve/Stella, though how he displays them are different.

3 Secrets:

He feels like he got off easy.

He didn’t trust the government as much as The Legend paints him as. Now, he’s incredibly suspicious. 

He’s not sorry for carrying out revenge on his own.

3 Fears:

Being recaptured.

People believing he believed in the USSR and (MCU - HYDRA) all along.

That he’s not a good man who Erskine believed in.

3 Goals:

Revenge.

Figuring out who he wants to be.

Peace?

Tagged by: @murder-popsicle

[abrooklynboy]

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝟓 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄

Prove It on Me Blues - Ma Rainey

Hold On, I’m Comin’ - Sam & Dave

Something From Nothing - Foo Fighters

I Was a Teenage Anarchist - Against Me!

Butch 4 Butch simping - Rio Romeo

tagged by: @murder-popsicle

[abrooklynboy]

"Psst! Stella! Over here," Bucky hissed from behind a fruit stall. "I'm hidin' from Tommy Malone. He keeps blowin' kisses at me and his breath is terrible."

Stella twisted her head towards the direction of the stage whisper. Watery blue eyes blinked past a few stalls before realizing Bucky was near the closest stand. She scooted over and crouched next to her friend. “Malone? Ugh!” she said, volume hopefully getting swallowed with the noise of the street. “That mouth breather needs some sense knocked into him.”

[abrooklynboy]

Steve you had better buy Sam a drink and give that bird an expensive steak if he wants it because those two just saved your star spangled ass at the last possible moment. AGAIN.

[abrooklynboy]

murder-popsicle​:

“Ladies first, huh?” Jane said. “I can always count on you to be a gentleman.” She was joking. At least, mostly joking. The Captain had always treated her as an equal – just like Steve had, all those decades ago, before the two of them had been broken. And Rogers was no different. The respect for each other that the two of them shared hadn’t been erased even by seventy years of brainwashing and programming.

She took another swallow of whiskey and then passed the bottle back to her friend. Thanks to Zola, she could have drunk a gallon of the stuff without being affected, but the taste was a comfort. A lot had changed about the world in the years they’d been held captive, but whiskey still burned the same way it always had. Jane would take her happiness where she could find it.

“Helmut Zemo needs to die,” she agreed. “He’s probably gonna be lookin’ for us just as much as we’re lookin’ for him. HYDRA’s honor is on the line, and the bastard always was proud. He’ll want to find us so he can take us back. He’ll want to save face. We’re embarrassin’ HYDRA right now. Makin’ ‘em look incompetent just as they got shoved into the light.”

“You’re still a lady,” he teased with a shoulder bump. Scrappy with a face full of makeup, hair in the latest fashion. She was always his equal, Winter Soldier or before. Machines and worse couldn’t blot the love and respect he had for his sister.

Whiskey held in his big Irish hands; Steve had never been a teetotaler. Neither had he been a drunk or a smoker. Tiny body couldn’t pack away the drink like his father nor Rogers could. He was as likely to have a soda as he was to have a beer compared to the hard stuff. Drink heavy on his tongue settled in his gut. He could eat and drink so much but he’d never get full.

“If he isn’t already,” Rogers said in regards to the younger Baron Zemo. “They can stand to be more than embarrassed. Every head will be taken out. Nobody will own us again.” His eyes were bright chips of ice as he took another drink. “And then we can...” He hesitates, looking from her face to the shield in its bag, dully shining silver. After decades of paint had been stripped off by his hand, the metal still looked brand new. “Rest.”

[abrooklynboy]

murder-popsicle​:

One of the things Jane liked about Rogers – one of the reasons they had always worked so well together, even when they hadn’t known who they were – was that Rogers trusted Jane’s gut, just like Jane trusted his. If one of them had a hunch, the other would hear it out. Common sense said that Arnim Zola was dead as a door nail, that he’d died in 1973. But common sense could go hang. Jane’s gut, and Rogers’ gut, said that the bastard would have found a way to at least keep his mind in existence, even if his little body was in the ground somewhere.

She accepted the return of the bottle, taking another swig, and thought about Rogers’ question. There was a myriad of people and places that they still needed to attend to; HYDRA had operations all over the globe, and when they finished with HYDRA, there was what was left of Department X to deal with. Everyone who had had a hand in what was done to Rogers and Jane was going to die, even if it took them years to accomplish it.

“I want Brock Rumlow,” she finally decided. “Always hated the way he looked at me. Like he was undressing me with his eyes. Let’s see how he feels after I stab them out.”

“Rumlow,” he spat, like he had swallowed a bug. Rogers had seen how Rumlow had looked at Jane. A piece of meat. Taunting Rogers’ attachment to his friend. ‘Big guy’s girlfriend.’ Seeing something that didn’t exist. “Good choice. After we get him, he’s all yours.” Watching Jane tear the fascist piece of shit apart will be enough for him.

While there were more people in HYDRA and Department X who were more involved than STRIKE, it was personal with Rumlow. The two super soldiers had time to burn. Justice wasn’t enough. Organizations like HYDRA and Department X wouldn’t let themselves be seen in a court of law. Together, Jane and Rogers would root them out of the shadows, like how they had been taught and had taught. Dramatic irony made him smile.

Who knows. Knock over enough bases, read enough files, and they may have a clue to where Zola went.

“I want Zemo. Helmut. Didn’t like his father.”  Why would he? “His son was the same. Arrogant, going on about how special his family and HYDRA are. I want to end that line.”

[abrooklynboy]

CHRIS EVANS SNOWPIERCER (2013)

[abrooklynboy]

Today’s wisdom

[abrooklynboy]

In traditional Irish folktales, the elves only understand/respect Gaelic: the English language revolts them, so don’t expect to be winning any of those famous riddle contests or song tournaments in English. I’ve idly considered making one of those memes where it’s like [THE IRISH] *brofist* [THE JEWS] and the point of agreement is “our language is magic,” but the joke would take too much explaining to be funny. A lot of Irish Gaelic is structured around speech and the power of language. There isn’t, for example, a word for “yes” or “no.” In order to answer a direct yes/no question, you have to use a form of the verb that was used to ask the question. So basically, if the question is–say–”did you murder your wife” then there is no way to simply say “Yes, Your Honor” or “No, Your Honor.” Your minimum required effort involves using the verb that was invoked in the question: “I murdered,” or “I didn’t murder.” Of course you can just as easily, in just as few syllables and maybe fewer, change the verb. “I was framed,” maybe. Which is to say that the most basic speech acts in Irish involve constructing a narrative, assenting to others’ narratives or challenging them, and most crucially elaborating on the narratives that have already been established. 

(I chose murder just to be a colorful example, but actually I need to go back to my language reference books and check because I bet this interacts interestingly with the tendency in Irish for the narrator never to be the subject of her own story. You’re always the object, in Irish: you can’t drop a plate, for instance, the plate drops itself at you. You’re not thirsty but a powerful thirst is on you. You didn’t murder that woman but she very well might have gotten murdered in your general vicinity.) You see this lots of other places in the language too. For instance there’s also no word for “hello” or “goodbye.” If you want to greet somebody your required minimum is to cough up a formulaic blessing: Dia duit, God be with you. Here’s the thing. The second person can’t just be like “yup, uh huh. dia duit.” No. The stakes have been raised. The second person’s required minimum answer is now Dia’s muire duit, God and Mary be with you. If a third person joins they have to invoke St. Patrick on top of the two already mentioned. I’m not kidding. At four people you do hit a limit where you’re allowed to just say “God be with all here,” but in the very traditional country pubs it’s an insult to cross the threshold without saying at least that to cover everyone inside. Actually worse than an insult; basically a curse. That’s the burden you bear when you start speaking a magic language.

[abrooklynboy]

the childlike life of the black tarantula

[abrooklynboy]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐁 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔?

Garlic

“You leave an impression wherever you go. Your heart is so strong, so determined, so willing to go after whatever hole you see in the world, whatever wound you need to fix next. You're there. You're justice, hot red and pure gold, fairness incarnate, a paladin in shining armor come to protect and cleanse and heal and yet sometimes you wonder if you're the most corrupt, dirty being in the world, a fraud, a monster in hero's clothing. The world is so intense and you are so small, so fragile, and no matter how hard you try you're never good enough. You want to be good. You want to be good enough. You try so hard and yet the world is so dark and angry and cruel. Perfection is always just out of reach and you want things to be okay so bad you bleed with it. You just want things to be right, to be good, to be fair, but you don't know if they ever can be. If you can ever be.”

Tagged by: @murder-popsicle