curlycow01

[curlycow01]

Oh. My. God. YOU NAILED HIS CHARACTER PERFECTLY????? WHAT WERE YOU ON WHILE WRITING THIS OMFG ITS BEAUTIFUL

𝑮𝒆𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒂 𝑷𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 | 𝑱.𝑾

𝒑: 𝑗𝑜ℎ𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑓!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝒔: 𝑂𝑓 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑡𝑠, 𝐽𝑜ℎ𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚.

𝒘: 𝐻𝑢𝑟𝑡/𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 | 𝑀𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 | 𝐼𝑛𝑗𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 | 𝐻𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑙 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 | 𝑆𝑒𝑙𝑓 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑚 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑟 | 𝑃𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑒 | 𝑃𝑇𝑆𝐷 𝑠𝑦𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑟 | 𝑁𝑜𝑛-𝑠𝑒𝑥𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑛𝑢𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑦

𝒂/𝒏: 𝑖 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑢𝑝 𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒. 𝑎𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡/𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓����. 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑗𝑜ℎ𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡. 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑. | 𝒘𝒄: 7.5𝑘

Everyone has bad habits.

Nail biting, skin picking, poor diet, sleep avoidance.

But your poison was a lack of safety for your own life. Truthfully, you had little self preservation.

It wasn’t your fault…you repeated this mantra to yourself daily, convincing yourself to believe the sweet lie.

You had a long history.

The only people on the team you were familiar with were Bucky and John. You met Bucky several years ago when the original Avengers were still around. Before the snap, before Thanos, before the great death of Stark. Way back when, you had been volunteered against your will for illegal human experimentation. Without a say at all, you underwent procedures you’d rather forget.

You had become rogue, having botched serums injected into you, it changed how your body and mind operated. Various organizations tried to claim you like you were a stray dog, but none succeeded.

You met Bucky back in Romania, just after his escape from HYDRA. It was a rocky start, you both had pretty severe trust issues. But, as you continued to see one another at the same market, you became more receptive to each other. You were comfortable around him, feeling no pressure to share about your life, have him pry and demand to know things.

But nothing lasts forever.

You didn’t really understand, but he had been framed for a kill, and he disappeared. You tried to follow and help, by now you cared a lot about him. Things crumbled down, fight after fight, running and hiding, nothing but an endless cycle of pure survival. Not really living at all.

Several years later, he found you again. He seemed better than before, he cut his hair and appeared to ask for your help in stopping some people who were trying to spread the serum that made super soldiers. Or, that’s what you thought it was, you weren't really sure, just glad to see a familiar face you could trust.

That’s when you met John.

An insufferable combination of arrogance and irritating self-importance.

You did what you could to help them, but honestly, you didn’t want to be involved. You’d rather be left alone, trying to figure your own life out.

Once that mess was settled, it was your turn to disappear. You wouldn’t resurface until Bucky found you once again, this time demanding for you to help him.

The nerve on him.

That’s when you were dragged into the so called Thunderbolts. Reuniting with John was…what you expected. After hearing his voice for the first time in years, you were already done with him. He acted like he was god's gift to earth, something you didn't miss one bit.

New faces, ones you initially didn’t care about. You only cared to complete whatever the mission was so you could be alone again, but ironically, you stuck around. Forced to maintain your role as Valentina blatantly announced to the world your role. Part of you actually liked being part of the team, as much as your independence screamed at you to leave. But even living with a group of misfits, you still felt…out of place.

You felt like you were sharing space with people who were more bonded than you - a group of idiots, you think with affection - so you naturally held back on a lot of things. Missions, group activities, training - you did things on your own instead, not wanting to feel pressure to keep up with individuals who were better adapt than you.

The reality was that simply being accepted into a team didn't automatically provide you with a sense of purpose or belonging like most would think.

Your past came to surface when everyone's files were published, and naturally, everyone was nosey. You were an unwilling test subject to rogue scientists - former HYDRA researchers who, despite their claims of brief involvement, had clearly absorbed the organization's ruthless ways. Though they had officially severed ties with HYDRA by the time you were their subject, they had retained their knowledge and continued their experiments in secret. All the while, they were being pursued by interested parties.

Aka, they were wanted. By bad people.

Who? No idea, that wasn't your business. All you cared about was that the needles didn't inject you with anything fatal.

It was never fatal. It just burned.

You wished it would kill you, sometimes.

Besides your own story, everyone in the tower had a tragic past, you weren’t special and you were fine with that. You never felt comfortable discussing or comparing - it felt disrespectful to measure one person's pain against another's - but there was an unspoken understanding, a weird comfort in knowing that everyone around you carried their own emotional scars. It made you feel less isolated, less like an anomaly in a world of perfect people.

And as far from perfect as you were, you found yourself doing more reckless things lately.

A rough mission with John and Yelena brought your tendencies to the surface - infiltrate an old OXE base that Val kept hidden from all of you in the small hope that she would be able to salvage old research for her projects. Fortunately, that wouldn't be a possibility. You weren't thrilled to do something that would help Val's reputation, but it's not like you had a choice.

While you were surrounded by operatives, you didn't hesitate for a moment before bursting into that room filled with armed guards. Your combat expertise gave you a certain confidence, and your extensive, forced training wired with HYDRA's methods meant you could efficiently neutralize multiple opponents. It didn’t matter if you were outnumbered.

Hand to hand combat was as easy for you as ballroom dancing was for a ballerina.

The injuries that marred you wounded your pride far more than they did your flesh. Each new scar felt like a failure, an imperfection that you couldn't accept, especially when the wounds were as severe as these. But part of you liked it, part of you liked the feeling of pain, that sick and twisted part of your brain that had been rotted when you were a captive.

Wayward bullets found their mark on your flesh, silver blades left their bright red trails, and dark bruises bloomed across your skin like a sore garden. You absorbed every hit, every injury, taking the full force of combat onto yourself.

The aftermath was always the same.

John...god you hated John. He would launch into a tirade, always making point to mention his military background, talking down at you like an insubordinate soldier, focusing on your disregard for protocol and how you had become a liability. He always made you feel small, and it pissed you off. You didn't like working with him during the Flag Smashers, and you still didn't.

"Would you shut up already, Walker? I got it done didn't I? Infiltrate, exterminate, it's done. You didn't even have to do anything." You snapped after hearing enough of him, the frustration building and beginning to spill out. The tension between you had been mounting for hours, and your patience had finally worn thin. The blond glared at you with intense disapproval, his eyes narrowing as you watched his lip curl upward in that familiar way, a clear sign he was trying with considerable effort not to fully snap at you.

His deeply ingrained need for control and leadership whenever it was just the three of you really began to rise to the surface at moments like these, especially when dealing with someone like you - someone who didn't listen to anyone. Ever.

"You could've died in there! Then what? It would ruin our reputation and reveal everything Val is trying to keep secret. If the world sees us doing shadowy missions for her then our entire rebrand would go to shit." John’s way of saying his new reputation would be ruined. He spoke to you as if you were stupid or worthless, his tone dripping with condescension and barely contained anger.

"I didn't." You grumbled out, tired of hearing his voice continue to berate you despite the mission's success. Your response was short, a refusal to engage further in his attempted power play. The way he raised his voice when agitated reminded you of things from your past you'd rather forget.

"Okay, okay, enough. Let's just stop before either of you say something you will regret later. I do not feel like listening to either of you on the ride back." Yelena mediated the two of you, her hands coming up to hover in front of your chests as a physical barrier. Her expression looked exhausted and you didn’t blame her for it – she'd seen this scenario play out between you too many times before.

John wouldn't strike you, but you didn't know that. The serum amplified everything in his core personality, magnifying both strengths and weaknesses, and John was a very angry man. It boiled beneath his skin like molten lava, unrelenting rage stemming from past failures, personal losses, and years of mistreatment that had shaped him into the volatile person he'd become. The serum only made it all feel more overwhelming for him, intensifying emotions that were already difficult to manage, and he was known for having bouts of uncontrollable violence when pushed too far.

"Let's go before anyone else shows up." Yelena added after no one else spoke, her voice cutting through the heavy silence that had fallen over. She was ready to get out of there, and probably get away from you too.

The trip back to the tower passed in a hazy, exhausted blur. Your mind focused solely on the desire to shower and wash away the layers of dried blood and sweat that caked uncomfortably against your skin and underneath your dark uniform. So upon landing in the hanger, you practically sprinted toward your quarters once you arrived at the tower, rushing through the hallways until you finally reached the welcome sight of your own door.

The familiar, comforting atmosphere of your personal space washed over you immediately upon entry, helping to gradually ease the tension from your physical and emotional state. You could feel the characteristic tingling sensation of electricity dancing across your fingertips - a clear warning sign of your unstable powers.

Unstable being a sensitive word for you.

Yet you heard it daily from your teammates.

Your electrokinetic abilities had always been tied to your emotions, the raw energy proving especially difficult to control given your naturally volatile temperament and tendency toward intense emotional responses.

Your chest rose and fell with several long breaths as you allowed yourself to focus on the soothing traces of lavender that permeated the air from your ridiculous collection of scented products and aromatherapy items. The scent worked its magic, gradually helping to center your thoughts. You were drawn to them when nothing else worked to relax you, clinging to the hope you'd be able to control yourself when you were freshly new with powers. The surges you released were deadly, you couldn't even touch anyone. Lavender had been the only thing to help, a stupid herb you were always desperate to have.

As your mind began to clear and the last remnants of adrenaline faded from your system, you became aware of every ache and injury - you groaned in discomfort as you realized that you still needed to endure a shower and get proper medical attention before you could finally surrender to the sleep your body desperately craved.

All you wanted to do was collapse in your bed.

The image of your teammates flashed in your mind, their disapproving looks plastered on your memory. You would never give John or Yelena the satisfaction of thinking you had any regret about your impulsive actions during the mission. After all, regardless of how reckless your methods might have been, you had succeeded.

That was the important thing. Why couldn’t they just understand that?

The shower was uncomfortable. You could barely wash properly but like hell you were going to ask Yelena for help. Ava would just tattle to Yelena and you'd get another earful so...there was no one to help you without risking the leak of your difficulty.

There was a nasty, jagged cut stretching across your ribs and extending down to your lower back, positioned in such an awkward location that you could barely reach it without causing fresh blood to ooze out with the slightest additional pressure. The wound throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, making you feel dizzy. One of your palms had been sliced open - you blocked a blade from coming down across your face with your hand instead of just dodging the attack - an awkward and annoying spot to have a gash.

After you got out of the hot shower, you reluctantly put on a pair of sleep shorts, they were really all you could wear until your cuts were properly sealed. You bitterly cursed yourself under your breath, glancing with frustration at the heavily fogged mirror. Through the patchy condensation, you could only make out the angry red lacerations that stood out amongst the darker blemishes and bruises that had already begun to mottle your skin.

You couldn't believe part of you liked it. Some part of your brain craved the sting and throb, the burn and ache of it all. Maybe it was because pain was the most familiar thing to you.

You grit your teeth as your hands moved under the sink, grabbing the well-worn first aid kit that was tucked away in the far corner. You hastily unzipped the weathered kit and laid out all the sterile gauze alongside a small, clean hand towel on the countertop. The light-colored towel would need to be thrown out when you were finished but...with pain radiating through your body, you didn't care about the fate of one insignificant towel.

It’s not like Valentina can’t just fund more. Sometimes, you use and throw things out on purpose just to irritate her.

The antiseptic bottle glared at you menacingly from the bathroom counter, your trembling fingers grasping the damned thing as you glared right back. You had always hated antiseptic solution. The pungent medicinal smell, the innocent clear liquid that promised nothing but searing, white-hot pain upon contact with broken skin. It always hurt more than the actual injury…cruel irony.

You angled the plastic bottle over your side, taking a deep breath to steady yourself as you prepared for the inevitable sting. The bathroom light reflected off the clear liquid as it edged on the cap, just about to pour the acidic solution over your open wound when a voice suddenly startled you from your concentrated task.

"You're not supposed to put that on an open wound." John's familiar and irritating voice cut through the silence of your room, causing you to stiffen at the unexpected intrusion.

You dropped the bottle in favor to cover your breasts, not bothering to hide the grimace as the cut across your ribs stretched painfully against the sudden movement. The sting radiated outward in sharp pulses that only intensified your frustration. "What the fuck are you doing," You snapped, hostility lacing your tone as you fully faced him. Your posture immediately shifted to defensive and you suddenly began to feel more cornered than you actually were, backed against the bathroom counter with your vulnerability on full display to a man you never wanted to appear vulnerable to.

Of all the people in the tower, John was the one to make his way into your room. Yelena or Ava would be fine, their presence welcome and understanding in this situation. Hell, you'd take Bucky's scolding first, his stern but caring approach something you could at least tolerate. You were sure Bob wouldn't know what to do but hold the towel as you drug a needle through your own flesh, his awkward and somewhat unsteady assistance better than nothing. It at least came from a place of genuine concern.

But John? Just your luck. The one person whose presence set your teeth on edge and made everything feel twice as difficult.

"It says so on the bottle, you can't put that on an open wound, especially not a lac like that." John pointed toward the antiseptic that was now on the floor, his voice was mundane and held an heir of obviousness. His eyes remained focused on your injury, though that hardly made the situation less uncomfortable.

"Go away! I've done this dozens of times." You snapped again, wanting him to leave before the situation became even more mortifying. You tried desperately to think about anything besides the fact that you were completely topless. What made it feel worse is that he wasn’t even phased by it, he just stood there, more attention on your injuries than your arm over your chest. He just stepped closer with that infuriating confidence, and in return you stepped back until the cold edge of the counter pressed against your spine.

"You need to use a mild soap and warm water to clean a lac like that. Antiseptic interrupts the healing and the chemicals can cause tissue damage." He continued with that know-it-all tone, looking at your sink and seeing a plain bar of soap sitting in its dish. "That will work better," he added, reaching past you to retrieve it, invading your personal space even further.

Panic seized your mind with his proximity, an overwhelming wave of fear washing through your body like ice water when you saw his arm raise. You felt like you were blacking out, the edges of your vision growing dark and fuzzy as sounds began to echo in your ears. Your breath caught in your throat as your hands instinctively pressed against his chest with surprising force, desperately trying to shove him back and away from you.

He barely moved.

Actually, you don't think he moved at all - his solid frame remaining as unmovable as a stone wall against your push, which only heightened your sense of vulnerability in that moment.

But, sensing your desperation for space, he quietly stepped back to give it to you, though not like you noticed much as your mind began to race with chaotic thoughts and fragmented memories. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears like a war drum as you tried to regain your composure.

He quirked a brow, his expression shifting from concern to something more clinical and detached. "I've handled first aid in the military on dozens of soldiers, man and woman. This isn't weird for me," he stated, his voice level and still just as irritating as usual. He tried to explain, since he thought you were freaked out by the fact you were half naked, misinterpreting your reaction as simple modesty or embarrassment, but the raw, unfiltered panic was clear on your face when he got close.

"It's weird for me!" You spat, the words coming out sharper than you intended, laced with a defensive edge. You kept yourself pressed firmly against the counter, your knuckles white from gripping the edge, as if you were trying to push through the solid surface to disappear entirely. The cool porcelain against your back provided your only anchor to reality as you fought to control your breathing. He tilted his head, watching you for a moment with an unreadable expression, his eyes cataloging your reaction, and he bent down to pick up the peroxide bottle from the floor where it had been dropped. He didn’t seem to mind that his sock was soaked in it.

"Alright, fine," He relented, his tone softer now. He closed the cap of the bottle with a click so it couldn't spill anymore, the small sound louder than normal in your ears. He set it on the counter, just inches beside you, careful not to make any sudden movements that might trigger another reaction. "Just saying, this won't help you," John turned to leave, his shoulders slightly hunched as he exited your bathroom.

You still heard him in your bedroom, his heavy footfalls marking his path as he made his way to your door, giving you the space you so desperately needed. You grabbed the bottle and flicked the cap open again, ignoring his warning. The sharp scent of peroxide filling your nostrils once again as it insulted you. At the sound, his footsteps paused somewhere beyond the bathroom doorway, then came back towards you.

"God, you're just helpless aren't you?" John grunted and took the bottle from your hands, his weathered fingers brushing against yours momentarily. "I told you this won't help." His voice grew more stern, taking on that familiar authoritative tone as he poured the bottle down the drain, the harsh chemical disappearing slowly through the narrow cap. "No wonder you're always so grumpy. This is what you put on everything..."

"I can handle myself!" You tried to stop him, lunging forward with what little strength you had left, but your weakened state was pathetic compared to his unscathed body. Your muscles trembled with the effort, and you could feel fresh blood seeping through the still untreated wound on your torso.

"Like hell you can. Look at you. You're more blood than person right now." He muttered as he grabbed your shoulders and spun you so he could look at your ribs again, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle despite the firmness of his grip. The bathroom light cast harsh shadows across your injuries, making them look even worse than they felt – and they felt pretty damn terrible.

You tensed as he touched you, every muscle in your body going rigid, reacting before you could think. "Don't touch me! Get away!" The rawness in your voice ripped through your throat like sandpaper, leaving behind a burning sensation as you forced yourself away from his touch. The sudden movement sent pain shooting through your side, and you almost slipped on the puddle of spilled peroxide on the floor. John grabbed your forearm and prevented you from smacking your face on the bathroom tile, his reflexes too fast for your own.

"Sit down. I'm not giving you a choice anymore." He was firm, and you knew by that tone that he wouldn't leave until he felt like it. As much as every bone in your body wanted to be defiant and challenge him, your exhaustion betrayed you. You slumped down and you sat on the toilet seat, arm still covering your chest as your other held the counter for support.

The room seemed to tilt slightly as you settled, the harsh light amplifying the pallor of your skin. Even sitting, you felt like you would pass out - blood loss or exhaustion. Or both. The throbbing pain pulsed with each heartbeat, your powers stressed and surging beneath your skin like static.

He shuffled through your first aid kit, looking at each item before setting it aside. It seemed like everything was in there because he made no backhanded comment about what you had. The soft clinks of metal instruments against plastic filled the quiet bathroom, you managed to swallow and speak through the haze. "Why did you even come in here..." You muttered, your voice slightly slurred.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, his hair was messier than usual, falling in unruly waves rather than his typical controlled style. He was probably freshly showered like you too. Loose pieces fell over his forehead, creating soft shadows across his furrowed brow. He wore an old army shirt that was somewhat loose around the torso but hugged his biceps and highlighted years of training. Relaxed joggers hung low on his hips, exposing a peak of the navy blue boxers snugly fit beneath them.

It was weird seeing John out of his uniform, or even just compression clothes he wore to work out or train in. The domestic version felt out of place, like seeing a tiger lounging on a living room couch. Seeing John in this setting was almost disturbing, a glimpse into a side of him that existed beyond the boundaries you maintained.

"Because I knew you were hurt. You left your seat on the jet completely soaked, but you ran off before any of us could comment." His voice was matter-of-fact, practical in a way that somehow made your defenses rise even further. "I knew you were going to try to tend to yourself, and normally I wouldn't try to come in here like this. But the amount left behind, I knew you were more hurt than you would let on." John turned to you, bar of soap in hand, he gestured to your ribs with it. "It will be easier to wash that if you get in the tub."

"Go to hell." You grumbled, the words coming out with less heat than you intended. Your head felt increasingly heavy on your shoulders as you fought to maintain consciousness. "I'm not getting naked just so you can wash the cut." The thought alone made your cheeks feel hot despite your pallor, embarrassment temporarily overriding pain.

"That is not what I said at all." He replied with narrowed eyes, a flash of exasperation crossing his features as he moved closer. "I said get in the tub so the water doesn't get on the floor. You don't have to take your shorts off." His tone softened slightly at the end, watching your head lull slightly. “I’ll be quick.”

Your desperate longing for the comfort of your bed compelled you to give in. You managed to stand up, though your legs trembled violently beneath you, feeling like jello with each step you took toward the bathtub. The effort required to simply move across the short distance was almost overwhelming, but somehow you forced yourself to continue, wincing with every movement.

John noticed your struggle and moved to assist, reaching for the shower-head and turning on the faucet. He held his hand beneath the stream, patiently waiting as the initially cold water gradually warmed to a comfortable lukewarm temperature. "Try not to move," he instructed, "I'm just going to let the water run directly over the wound and then use some soap to thoroughly clean it out."

"Fine...just please hurry up. I feel like I'm about to pass out at any second." You barely managed to respond, your voice weak and strained as you leaned your weight against the cool tile wall of the shower for support so your legs wouldn’t buckle beneath you. He set to work, the lukewarm water cascaded over your ribs, rivulets streamed across the angry laceration, washing away the blood and debris you failed to get in your previous attempt.

You watched with a strange detachment as crimson tendrils swirled down the drain, the steady stream of water slowly revealing the true extent of the wound beneath. John lathered the bar of soap between his hands until a rich foam formed, then applied it around the perimeter of the cut, careful not to touch the open wound directly.

You flinched when he touched you, but forced your body to remain still. He didn’t comment, he just waited before he touched you again and continued when you didn’t flinch a second time. He allowed the soap suds to flow into the laceration, providing the cleaning it needed without the pain that direct contact would have caused.

Once he had cleaned the wound, John reached for a clean towel and used it to dab the area dry with light touches wouldn’t further irritate the injury. "Here, take this and apply pressure to the wound," he instructed, his voice dropping to a murmur as he handed you the towel. "I'll go find you some new shorts to replace these wet ones."

You nodded, "Bottom dresser drawer," you managed to direct him, your voice slightly stronger now that the immediate pain had somewhat subsided.

John disappeared briefly into the bedroom, returning moments later with the requested garment clutched in his hand. "Let me help you take those off and put these on, I can -"

"No, for god's sake...I'm perfectly capable of putting on my own shorts," you interrupted, a flash of your usual independent spirit breaking through the haze of exhaustion, your voice tinged with annoyance at the suggestion that he dress you.

"Not without risking reopening that wound and making it bleed all over again," he countered firmly, pointing directly at the freshly cleaned laceration with obvious concern. "Just let me help you. I promise I won't look at anything I shouldn't," he added, his tone softening slightly in an attempt to make the situation less awkward for both of you. “Like I said, I’ve done all sorts of stuff like this when I was in Iran -”

"Okay, okay, fine…” You exasperated, “You're so weird about this stuff," you groaned softly with resignation, but ultimately complied with his request. You allowed the wet shorts to fall unceremoniously around your ankles, then hastily attempted to dry yourself with the corner of the towel that wasn't pressed against your wound. You couldn't help but feel humiliated, being dressed like a helpless toddler simply because he was overly concerned about your bleeding.

You were already bleeding, and his insistence on helping seemed excessive and unnecessary. You couldn't understand why he was being so adamant about helping with such a simple task, or at all, since you two fought like a snake and mongoose. You assumed he would find a way to bring this up again, probably using it to tease you or prove some point about being right about your behavior. That is what irked you more than anything.

You tried to ignore the blend of evergreen and cedarwood that enveloped your senses as he moved closer, his careful hands helping you step into your shorts. Why did he have to smell so good? Why did you find yourself enjoying it so much? Fighting against the conflicting urge to both lean into and shove him away, you reluctantly used his sturdy shoulders to steady yourself while awkwardly stepping into your shorts.

His hands were gentle but efficient as he pulled them up for you, and once they were securely in place, he moved back to create distance between you. "Are you going to sit still while I suture it?" He asked directly, making eye contact with you. "Because I will hold you down if necessary."

Why did his eyes have to be so goddamn blue? Like the clearest summer sky reflected in mountain water.

Why were they so pretty that you couldn't look away?

"Yes," the grumbled word escaping through barely parted lips, your fingers still instinctively gripping his forearms for much-needed support, feeling the solid muscle beneath your fingertips. His skin was warm to the touch, it felt nice on your palms.

He had you carefully lay down on a clean towel he'd positioned for you. You maintained a protective arm across your chest as he knelt beside you with the needle and surgical thread. He peeled away the blood-soaked towel, examining the wound with scrutiny.

"You know how serious this is? How serious it could be? Any deeper and it would've punctured into your lung cavity. The angle they attacked you from could've easily allowed the blade to slide between your ribs and puncture straight through to your lung and you would’ve suffocated." His assessment came without emotion as he carefully positioned his index finger and thumb around the edges of the gash, applying just enough pressure to bring the torn flesh closer together, narrowing the wound's opening in preparation for the first stitch.

You felt pressure, then a distinct tug, the sensation traveling across your skin like a whisper of discomfort.

You didn't like it, but it wasn't extremely painful as you had initially anticipated. More so just an uncomfortable sensation that lingered beneath your awareness, the fact that the wound itself was throbbing with each beat of your heart provided significantly more pain than the actual stitches being sewn.

John worked with quiet concentration, his calloused hands moving a gentle way you never could’ve expected. He didn't bother making small talk, clearly noticing that you were just on the verge of passing out, your consciousness wavering like a flame in the wind. But your lingering anxiety from being half naked in front of him prevented your body from allowing you to pass out.

Before you knew it, he finished with the wound on your side, using the fresh gauze he set out earlier and medical tape to secure the protective covering over the neat row of sutures. He helped you sit up into a slumped position, "Hey, hey come on...stay with me." He muttered calmly, his hand coming up to gently tilt your head to assess your alertness. "Just a little bit more, come on. I know you can do it. You're stubborn as all hell, just a few more minutes." His words carried a hint of encouragement that seemed almost foreign coming from him.

John took your wrist, eyeing the jagged cut that stretched across your palm. "This is going to feel weird.” He used the small soap dish to fill with water, the soap that clung to the dish mixing to make the cleanser he needed. Then, he gently dabbed the wound with soapy mix before he started to drag the needle through the parted flesh. The thread followed obediently, helping to pull your skin together with each stitch. You took in a shaky breath that rattled in your chest, and without meaning to, your head fell forward heavily against his shoulder, seeking stability in your dizzy state.

He didn't sit you up or correct your position, allowing you this small comfort. He wasn’t sure why it made his chest flutter, either. "Come on, stay up for me..." His voice reverberated through his chest, the vibration traveling through to your forehead where it rested against him. Your face scrunched up as each puncture of the needle felt like a sharp sting, the persistent tugging of thread through your flesh made waves of nausea roll through your stomach.

Somehow, through stubborn refusal lingering behind your vulnerability, you managed to stay awake through the entire ordeal. Though your consciousness remained a fragile thing, threatening to slip away with every second.

When he was finally done with the needle, he wrapped up your hand. The soft gauze felt comforting against the sting and rhythmic throb of your wounded palm. He secured it all again with medical tape, ensuring it would stay in place, and then gently pulled your head from its resting place on his shoulder to get a proper look at you. His eyes scanned your face with an intensity that felt almost like concern. "Jesus...you look like shit," he spoke under his breath, the words lacking their usual sharpness. “Come on, I’ll help you to bed.”

When your legs refused to obey, he swiftly hooked his arm behind your knees and carried you. Your body instinctively curled against his chest like it were the most natural thing in the world, finding unexpected comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth radiating through his shirt. He pretended not to notice this unconscious gesture, and you likewise feigned ignorance, mentally attributing your uncharacteristic behavior to your weakened, possibly delirious state.

He laid you in bed, pulling the sheets back with one hand while supporting your weight, then covering you with the soft cotton blanket once you were settled. Your mind raced wildly, confusion and underlying anger taking over your thoughts. Why was he, of all people – the very person whose presence typically irritated you to no end – now here helping you when you were most vulnerable and why were you letting him?

Why him specifically, out of all the teammates you had developed actual friendships with over the months? Why did he take it upon himself to come in unannounced, and why was he so insistent on helping you when you'd barely exchanged civil words before today?

You wanted to voice these questions aloud when your stomach betrayed you by growling loudly, the embarrassing sound cutting through the silence of the room. He paused mid-motion, his eyes traveling slowly from your face down to your belly, his expression shifting subtly. "...did you even eat anything today?" John asked, his normally gruff voice was softer now, no longer tinged with that signature growl.

Your mouth opened to respond, perhaps with some defensive retort, but nothing came out – no words, no excuses, no explanation for your self neglect. He shook his head disapprovingly, the gesture somehow lacking its usual judgment. "Figures...I'll be back. Don't pass out while I'm gone," he all but ordered as he left your bedroom, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

You took the moment of isolation to think about what just happened, realizing that your feelings toward him were different than normal. It felt strange, why his presence suddenly felt comforting rather than aggravating, why you enjoyed his attention and concern when you'd previously gone out of your way to avoid it. The contradictory nature confused you, leaving you staring at the ceiling.

John returned within five minutes, carrying something carefully cradled in his large hand. He approached your bed, you could see he held two perfectly ripe fuzzy fruits, their skin a gradient of soft sunset red ombres transitioning to a golden orange at the bottom, each featuring a characteristic cleft running down one side. "Got these last week when I went to Georgia to visit my grandmother. They're fresh, perfectly ripe, and ridiculously juicy," he explained, his voice carrying an unusual hint of enthusiasm. “Georgia peaches are the best. Trust me.”

He sat on the edge of your bed as if he had done it a hundred times before, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he reached into his pocket for a well-worn pocket knife he had clipped to his heather-gray joggers. He flicked it open, the blade catching the light from the bedside lamp as he began to carefully cut perfect slices of the fragrant peaches.

You loved peaches.

And you were so hungry there was no way you were going to deny fresh ones straight from Georgia.

You took a slice, biting it and chewing slowly, savoring the moment as the sweet, fragrant juice filled your mouth and cascaded lovingly over your taste buds. The perfectly ripened fruit was so sweet, its nectar oozing with each careful bite, the tender flesh practically melting against your tongue as you experienced its sun-kissed sweetness. It was delicious beyond words, unlike anything you'd tasted before.

A soft, appreciative moan involuntarily left your mouth, causing John to look over in your direction and give a small, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Told you," he said with just a hint of pride in his voice, clearly pleased by your obvious enjoyment.

"I didn't doubt you..." You muttered with a slight shake of your head, already feeling a renewed sense of energy flowing through you from the small bite you had taken. The fruit's natural sugars seemed to work their magic, revitalizing your tired body enough to allow you to speak again. You held your hand out toward him, silently asking for another slice. Instead of quipping at you, or making some kind of teasing comment about asking nicely as he might normally do, he silently acknowledged your request and carefully cut another piece from the ripe fruit, handing it to you.

"Growing up, my mom would make all sorts of things with peaches from our backyard tree. Cobbler and crumble with a golden brown crust, homemade jams and jellies that we'd store in the cellar for winter, she even made infused sweet tea with peach slices she gave us on hot summer afternoons," he recollected, his voice taking on a softer quality as memories of his childhood washed over him, the distinctive taste of the fruit clearly nostalgic to him.

"Might try to replicate some of her recipes sometime soon, if I can handle everyone's teasing about my kitchen adventures." He paused before looking back at you as you continued to eat the juicy slices he patiently fed you, one after another. His eyes met yours, "Think I can handle it? The cooking and the teasing?" He asked with a hint of playfulness in his voice.

You listened attentively, savoring each bite of fruit while allowing his voice to wash over you like a gentle stream. His voice now felt comforting, his steady tone creating a sense of calm you hadn't felt in some time. As you finished the last piece and watched him collect the remnants - nothing remaining but two pits resting in his upturned palm - he shifted his weight forward, preparing to stand and leave you to rest and recover in solitude.

Something inside you suddenly protested at the thought of being alone again. Before you could fully process what you were doing, your uninjured hand darted out and wrapped firmly around his wrist, surprising both of you with the urgency of the gesture. "Wait..." The word escaped your lips as a gentle, yet unsure plea.

He halted, his body half-risen from his seated position as he turned to look back down at you. His eyebrows drew together with curiosity, creating faint lines across his forehead. Your unexpected behavior clearly caught him off guard, the confusion in his eyes mirroring your own internal surprise. "Yeah? What?" he asked, his voice dropping to a softer register as he studied your face. "Need some painkillers? I forgot to look in your bathroom. But I can grab you some."

"No." You mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks as embarrassment settled in at having to voice your request aloud. Your fingers loosened slightly around his wrist but didn't release completely. "Can you just...stay and talk to me for a while longer? I don't know why..." You paused, searching for the right words to explain the calm his presence seemed to bring instead of raising your negative emotions. "But I feel less stressed out right now when you're talking. Your voice somehow makes everything quieter in my head."

His eyebrows rose slightly as he processed your admission. For a moment, you feared he might decline or make some excuse to leave, but instead, he gave you a small but genuine nod. "Sure," he agreed easily, settling back into his previous position. "Not a problem. But let me toss these pits and wash my hands first. Don't want them to get all sticky and make a mess of your things."

John extricated himself from your grasp and crossed to your bathroom. You listened as water rushed from the faucet, ran for several seconds, then shut off with a small squeak of the handle. He returned to your bedside moments later and lowered himself once more, adjusting his position to get comfortable for what might be an extended stay. By no means did he expect to sleep over, but he did sit more comfortably next to you.

You turned, elevating the pain on your wounded side and laying on his chest, just barely - but enough. He didn’t move, didn’t shove you off, instead he stayed still and let his arm come behind you to support your body so you didn’t roll away and potentially hurt your stitching. His thumb brushed the bandages, the sore flesh beneath throbbed but you trusted him. In this moment, you trusted John.

"How about I tell you about when I got caught stealing from an orchard as a kid?" he offered with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes carefully watching your reaction to gauge your interest. "It's funny, I promise. One of those childhood stories that's embarrassing enough to be entertaining."

You responded with a soft nod, feeling the heaviness of exhaustion pressing down on you despite your desire to remain awake. His voice seemed to be the only thing keeping you tethered. "Okay, so, I was about seven years old at the time," he began, settling into the rhythm of storytelling. "We lived in this small town near a large orchard that supplied most of the local area with fresh fruits throughout the season. My mom bought from there regularly, but the farmer charged quite a premium since everything was home grown and organic before that was even a marketing term." He chuckled softly at the memory, his hand rubbing up and down your back and side idly.

"My mom complained about the prices getting higher every season, saying something about highway robbery for a simple bag of peaches. So naturally, being the helpful child I was, I decided to take matters into my own hands and solve her problem..."

As John continued, his voice began to grow more distant and dreamlike to your ears. The cadence of his words formed a soothing pattern that lulled you deeper toward sleep. You slipped away like sand through loosely clasped fingers, but unlike previous nights, there was no fight against it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the constant, uncomfortable surge of electricity that pulsed just beneath your skin was completely silenced.

The familiar, overwhelming chorus of anxiety and paranoia that typically screamed through your thoughts had quieted to nothing more than a whisper before disappearing in exchange for John’s voice.

For once, you were surrounded by the gentle rhythm of his continued story and the warm presence of someone who asked for nothing in return.

For once, you felt safe.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑰𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝑷𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

[curlycow01]

AAAAAAA OMG THIS IS FANTASTIC

LOVE THE ADDED RIDE OR DIE BUDDIES RUMLOW AND ROLLINS AJIAQOSOOJQOQPSKQIJC

AND IDK I JUST LOVE THE WAY YOU WRITE ITS SO INTRICATE

𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝑺𝒏𝒐𝒘 | 𝑾.𝑺 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔

𝑰: 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒅

𝒔: 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝐻𝑌𝐷𝑅𝐴'𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑦

𝒘: 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑆𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟!𝐵𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 | 𝐹𝑒𝑚!𝐻𝑌𝐷𝑅𝐴!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 | 𝐻𝑇𝑃 | 𝐻𝑌𝐷𝑅𝐴 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑠 | 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 | 𝐵𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑤𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 & 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 |𝑃𝑇𝑆𝐷 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑟 | 𝑇𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑠

𝒂/𝒏: 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑐𝑢𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠. 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐼'𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡. 𝐹𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑗𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑡 𝑢𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦, 𝑠𝑜 𝐼 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑑𝑑 𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑. | 𝒘𝒄: 3.8𝑘

The pride you felt was overwhelming, intoxicating even, coursing through your veins like a potent drug you couldn't rid yourself of.

Not that you wanted to, anyway.

Years of ruthless work of blood, sweat, and tears - countless missions executed with deadly precision, innumerable sacrifices made in silence, unwavering dedication that bordered on obsession - have finally paid off.

You now stood near the pinnacle of HYDRA's vast hierarchy of power and status, a position that commanded both fear and respect from you peers. As a high-ranked agent and handler, you possessed titles that lesser operatives could only want for in their writhing envy, positions that most members of the organization would sacrifice everything to achieve.

Pierce's respect wasn't easily earned, yet you had managed to secure it through your dedication to the tendril’s cause. Your loyalty, proven time and time again through increasingly dangerous missions and morally challenging tasks, was considered exemplary even by HYDRA's exacting standards.

Your unwavering devotion served as your sharpest weapon, allowing you to claw and scrape your way over your brethren until you reached the very top.

You gained insight to the most classified documents and strategic plans, always in the know of strictest protocols. Even that of HYDRA's elaborate scheme to infiltrate SHIELD through carefully placed double agents.

Pierce, despite his often disagreeable personality, commanded a certain level of professional admiration from your perspective. His deception was masterful, and his political maneuvering allowed him to ascend through SHIELD's ranks undetected, much like your own, until he secured the position of Secretary within the very organization he sought to undermine.

You hated to admit, but you were a little jealous of his skillset.

The elite STRIKE team consisted of agents you were familiar with in HYDRA, with Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins being the two agents whose paths frequently intersected with yours during numerous missions. Those two could kill a mission without breaking a sweat.

Rumlow had a characteristic bravado about him and would frequently tout his ability to maintain his cover, taking particular pride in deceiving even the likes of Captain Rogers without arousing the slightest suspicion. His arrogant attitude never ceased to amaze you - the bastard had an inexplicable magnetism that you found yourself reluctantly acknowledging despite your better judgment. His self-assured demeanor and cocky grin seemed to draw others in, even as it made your blood boil.

While on missions he was harsh and domineering, his voice cutting through the air like a serrated blade as he barked orders in every direction, each word designed to grate against your last nerve. The constant stream of criticism was bad enough, but what really tested your patience was his incessant need to boast about his various accomplishments and what was in his pants, especially when in your presence.

The man had apparently never encountered a mirror he didn't love.

Rollins was who you leaned towards out of the two, mainly because preferred to demonstrate his expertise through flawless execution rather than verbal proclamation of his achievements. You had strong suspicions that he was a clinical psychopath, based on numerous concerning behaviors you'd observed over the years. The man exhibited complete emotional flatness, nothing beyond occasional flashes of rage or cold-blooded, violent intent, making him a bit unsettling to work alongside.

Yet, he had hobbies that countered his otherwise ruthless personality. Rollins had an impressive culinary expertise that caught you off guard the first time you found out about his passion, especially when he would create beautiful plates of food during far away missions and somehow turn bland ingredients from shitty convenience stores into fancy meals - though watching him delicately plate a soufflé with the same hands he'd used to snap necks hours earlier was disturbing.

Despite any personal opinions you may have held for either man, the three of you developed a strong camaraderie. There was a sickening comfort in knowing you had two of the most brutal men in HYDRA watching your back, ready to step in at a moment's notice. Your ride or die companions, if you will.

But those two weren't easy to bond with. Their trust was a commodity, rarely given and painfully earned through blood, sweat, and suffering.

Working alongside them when you were a wide-eyed newbie felt like swimming in open water with two sharks constantly circling you, assessing your every move. They would rush at you without warning, nip and bite at your confidence and skills, then retreat to watch you bleed - hovering nearby, silently waiting for you to drown.

It was the definition of sink or swim - no middle ground between success and failure.

But, unlike the dozens of agents before you, drowning never came for you.

Instead, you stubbornly kept swimming even when wounded, refusing to give up. Your tenacity and resilience gradually earned their grudging respect, and they were impressed enough by your determination to aid you along instead of tearing you apart.

From then on, when you earned your teeth, you have never failed a mission with them. Each of you devoted to the mother, pushing yourselves beyond conventional limits to prove your worth, matching each other's intensity step for step.

There was no room for gentle guidance or soft encouragement in this world. Compassion was a luxury none could afford.

Pain became an integral part of maintaining order - and life within HYDRA's ranks was frequently marked by moments of intense suffering, both physical and psychological, serving as constant reminders of the price of power and control. Prisoners weren't safe and neither were you.

Your pain might not have been physical in nature, it was a deep psychological and emotional wound that constantly tortured you. Reopening in a bloody gash and constantly weeping through the bandage. It was worth it in the end, you continuously told yourself that.

Your valiant attempts at maintaining composure was powerless against the searing, white-hot sensation that bloomed in your chest - the moment they officially bestowed upon you the title of handler, presenting you with complete and unrestricted control over the asset that now stood before you.

What you witnessed barely resembled a human being.

The figure was more akin to a sophisticated piece of machinery, having been callously extracted from its cryogenic chamber like some discarded remnant of humanity. The sight of them frying its neural pathways was almost too much to bear, the acrid stench of burning flesh permeated the air, clinging persistently to your nostrils. This stench refused to dissipate, adding to the dread that had began gnawing at your soul.

The moment you became its handler, the full extent of HYDRA's mistreatment became clear, far surpassing your initial suspicions about their methods of control.

You worked your way through all the data they had on it, each page, each drive, each photo and video revealing dehumanizing action and horrific details that made your stomach turn. The volume of documented abuse and torture was so overwhelming that it took you several days just to get through it all. Several breaks from footage of them beating the ever living shit out of it, cruelly marring its body with mutilation and branding to ensure it obeyed.

It didn’t matter that your position exposed you to their evil deeds, you were far from desensitized to their brutal methods - and while you had your own moments of questionable morality during your service, you had never descended to the depths of depravity that these men had so casually, eagerly embraced.

Their supposed prized asset, the Winter Soldier - heralded as the mighty fist of HYDRA and widely feared as the deadliest assassin in recorded history - was not spared from their most inhumane practices. You saw the true nature of their asset management program.

Detailed methods of control and punishment towards it for disobedience were recorded for any handler to follow, instructions on how to control it and how to properly execute a punishment so severely to keep it in line, all etched into the various files kept inside that red book they graciously allowed you to keep.

Every prior handler had failed - however, Pierce believed you'd be perfect. Women were rare in HYDRA, perhaps he thought the soldier would obey a feminine figure rather than a familiar masculine one it learned to fear automatically.

You finally descended the winding, heavy steps that led to his holding cell, your footsteps echoing ominously as you continued down and down, feeling like you were entering a personal Hell. Pierce had instructed you to determine whether the asset would respond to and obey fundamental commands from you before he would grant the freedom of full access. If it failed to comply with basic directives, there would be additional conditioning sessions to follow.

The cell you approached was cold, made of steel and stone, the facility's most secure area that featured bars infused with a specialized electrical current. They were calibrated to be powerful enough to incapacitate a grown man with the slightest touch. You retrieved your security badge and pressed it against the electronic reader after you had walked to the door. The keypad responded with a soft beep, signaling the deactivation of the current and allowing you go inside without the worry of being electrocuted.

As you crossed the threshold into the damp cell, your eyes immediately gravitated toward the soldier who remained tightly curled on the cold floor. The asset was still wearing its regulation cryo suit, the material clinging to it like compression wear but designed to leave both arms exposed for easy draw access and monitoring. You watched it press itself desperately against the walls, creating the impression that it was attempting to somehow force the surfaces to envelop it completely, wanting to disappear and feel an ounce of security within the otherwise empty room.

Its icy eyes landed somewhere on your person, avoiding direct eye contact, just tracking your movement with predatory vigilance. As you took several steps closer, you saw a subtle twitch at the corner of its lip, restraining itself from snarling at you.

Rumlow often said it was like an animal, or a dog. He would brag about its treatment and how it would submit under his hand quickly - but of course, Rumlow would use extreme methods to ensure that.

You watched as it shuffled its position on the floor, its body language telegraphing predatory intent, preparing to launch itself toward you without warning. You steadied yourself, drawing in a breath to quell the faint tremor of apprehension that threatened to surface.

This was the Winter Soldier in the flesh, whose name was whispered in fearful tones throughout intelligence communities worldwide. No matter how visibly weakened or cornered it appeared to be, the sobering reality remained that you were here, completely alone, face-to-face with a living weapon who possessed the efficiency to kill you in more ways than one before you could take a second breath.

"Soldat..." You began cautiously, glancing down at the weathered book clutched in your hands. It physically bristled at the word you uttered, muscles tensing as it actually bared its teeth in a threatening display that was more animal than human.

"Сука," It spat venomously, maintaining its rigid, combat-ready posture, eyes never leaving your body for even a fraction of a second.

"Now that's not very nice." You frowned with forced casualness, attempting to mask your unease behind a façade of confidence, "But it's good to know you can speak... That's progress we can build on."

It responded with a low growl that reverberated deep in its chest. No further words came from its lips, just that primal warning for you to stay back. It glared at the book you held, glued to the red leather as it refused to look anywhere else. You wanted to make progress, but so far, it was just tense behavior between the two of you.

You moved toward the wall where a small metal shelf had been securely bolted into the concrete surface and placed the leather-bound book down on the cold shelf. The asset observed your actions, its steel blue eyes momentarily flickering with a flash of confusion and apprehension. The deviation from protocol was clearly unexpected, anytime that book was put down, pain usually followed. Its wariness of you grew as every muscle beneath its pale skin tensed; your gender made no difference in its learned fear response after years of abuse.

"Soldat, it will be easier for us both if you listen..." You began, distancing yourself from the shelf and the book it now held. You were just a few feet away from the huddled figure, careful not to make any sudden movements that might trigger a defensive reaction. You had noticed how the asset's eyes tracked the book with disdain - perhaps even hatred - so you figured that better progress might be made without it in your hands.

The room fell silent save for the distant hum of equipment and the asset's barely audible breathing as you issued your command in the same even tone, "Stand up, I need to evaluate you before we move on."

Instead of obeying, a defiant glower darkened the asset's features, its jaw setting firmly in silent refusal. The tension in the room thickened at its display of defiance. You felt an uncomfortable weight settling in your chest as you contemplated your limited options for enforcing compliance. The standard protocols were to strike it, to administer a slap or a hit hard enough for its head to jerk to the side and the delicate facial tissues swelled and discolored.

Or to force it to stand with the tug of its hair, some even pressed their stun batons against its skin so hard the prongs would puncture through and fry small bits of flesh while the electricity shocked it. You didn’t want to resort to anything physical right away, you couldn’t explain it, maybe some pieces of unscathed humanity that your training hadn't completely snuffed out remained.

Regardless, the asset was obviously testing you, and you knew it was going to be a long day.

After a few hours, you finally got it to obey basic commands - hardly anything to celebrate. Any agent could waltz into its cell and bark at it, and it would reluctantly follow their orders with a gleam of defiance in those eyes it had. By the time you were done testing the waters, you were exhausted.

You sat at the counter with your hands in your hair, thinking about how much more difficult this was going to get. It took hours just for it to obey a sit command. You wondered if it felt more confident to be less compliant because you were a woman, maybe it saw you as less intimidating or less cruel. But that's what Pierce wanted, he wondered if it would be beneficial for further conditioning, how far they could take it, how the asset would behave with the opposite sex.

Defiant and stubborn, that's how.

"How's your reassignment?" Jack questioned, turning his head slightly as he plated a dish, the savory scent of fresh Italian food filling the small kitchen space between you. His voice was always strangely soothing to your ears despite the underlying tension that often accompanied his presence. There was something about his tone that put you at ease and on edge, which was something you tried not to think about too much. 'R & R,' as most of the other agents had taken to calling them in hushed conversations, had offered for you to join them after your training session with the asset concluded.

Jack, with his inscrutable expressions and measured words, perhaps had no underlying motive beyond inviting you - at least none you could readily identify. Brock, however, was an entirely different matter. You assumed that his invitation stemmed from a desire to press you for information, to extract whatever details about your new position he could manipulate to his advantage. That man practically seethed with jealousy from every pore. His philosophy seemed transparent enough, if he couldn't secure your new title for himself, he would without a doubt be as nosey as possible, gathering intelligence like the trained operative he was.

"Ugh...I'm so tired," you muttered with exhaustion weighing down your voice, your shoulders slumping slightly as you looked up to find Jack placing an arranged plate in front you. The food was artfully presented, steam still rising and carrying that delicious scent that had permeated throughout their small apartment. He fixed you with a silent, penetrating look - one that seemed to evaluate your physical state while simultaneously communicating that you would eat.

A knowing half-smile crossed your lips in response; like hell you were going to reject his cooking.

"I don't know how you, of all people, got that position. I've been working towards that job for years and you waltz in and take it from me." Brock grumbled with unmistakable disdain underlying his tone, his jaw clenching as he spoke. His posture stiffened, shoulders tensing visibly as his eyes narrowed with resentment. He shot you a dismissive glance, lips curling into a barely concealed sneer. "No offense." He added curtly, as if that hastily appended comment somehow neutralized the blatant hostility of his previous statement.

"Offense taken, dick." You quipped back with an exaggerated eye roll, crossing your arms defensively across your chest. The sharp edge in your voice left no doubt about your feelings toward his transparent attempt at passive-aggressive intimidation.

Brock put his hands up in mock surrender and smirked slightly, a hint of satisfaction in his expression despite being called out. His retort was abruptly silenced when he was given a serving of food, the aroma momentarily distracting him from his grievances. Jack leaned casually on the counter and watched you intently as you sampled what he had prepared, his eyes searching your face for your reaction to tasting. "Good?" He inquired softly.

"Amazing, as always." You sighed contentedly, your mouth bursting with a symphony of flavors that danced across your palate. The perfect balance of herbs and spices complemented the main ingredients perfectly. Everything was homemade; you had watched him make pasta and sauce entirely from scratch earlier, completely confident as he worked. "I don't know how you do it," you added, shaking your head. “You look just as comfortable dissecting a body as you do cooking.”

"Practice." Jack gave a subtle shrug, his modest response belying the years of dedicated culinary training and natural talent. A hint of a pleased smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though he tried to downplay your compliment.

"You know, maybe I could convince Pierce I'm right for the job," Brock said casually, pausing to swallow a mouthful of pasta and chicken, his fork hovering midair as the idea seemed to take further shape in his mind. "I just need a wig. Something convincing - maybe that auburn one from the Moscow operation."

You couldn't help but snort at his ridiculous suggestion, shaking your head with amusement and disbelief. "I think you'll need more than just a wig to pass for a girl." You found his determination entertaining and slightly absurd, the way he'd become so completely fixated on the handler position, but you understood why. "He'd know you're a dude no matter if you wore a wig or a dress or even the most convincing makeup job in the world. Your shoulders alone would give you away in seconds. But by all means... I'd pay to see you try."

"Well hey, he does like boys so..." Brock trailed off, his initial chuckle quickly fading into a subtle grimace at the mere thought of Pierce's particular interests. Most of the men in HYDRA were disgusting individuals, something you learned all too quickly after joining. They took advantage of their positions within the twisted hierarchy and routinely indulged themselves in depravity of all kinds, without consequence or oversight. Though you remained unaware of the full extent of Pierce's personal indulgences, it was apparent from Brock's reaction that he unfortunately knew more than you.

Jack shot a sharp, warning glance at Brock from across the counter, his eyes narrowing, silently but effectively communicating that he needed to shut up about it.

The rest of the dinner consisted primarily of small talk and casual banter between the three of you. While you appreciated their companionship over the years, your thoughts repeatedly drifted back to the asset and the upcoming session scheduled for tomorrow. Questions continued to circle in your mind - would it finally comply with your instructions? Would it be receptive to your approach? You thought about various strategies to gain its cooperation without having to resort to the harsh physical methods that past handlers seem to favor.

Later that evening, you laid in bed, curtains drawn to block out the city lights. Your racing thoughts provided no respite as the worn red book lay heavily across your lap, its pages slightly yellowed from years of handling. Your fingers traced over the sections where the operational protocols were tenderly detailed, authored by Karpov himself, outlining the conditioning methods they had implemented while the asset remained in the Siberian facility.

'Don't let it speak.'

'Don't let it react to pain.'

'Always keep it sedated when not in cryo.'

'Always keep it contained when not in cryo.'

You stopped reading as the protocols descended into more degrading and inhumane instructions, your stomach turned at the cruelty documented in these pages. You obviously knew it was bad before starting, but reading the details just made it worse. The written directives and your actual observations contradicted themselves - the asset did nothing but huddle silently in the corner, trying to make itself invisible to the outside world.

Despite the occasional defiant glance thrown your way or a biting remark, not once had it made any attempt to physically harm or make contact with you. It merely pressed itself further against the wall whenever you approached, exhibiting behavior more consistent with fear than aggression.

You lazily set the book on your bedside table, too tired to read any further for tonight. The pages had grown heavy in your hands, and your eyelids even heavier as the evening wore on. As you rolled over, your thoughts drifted to the asset and whether it was sleeping in that damp cell. Probably not.

From what you'd observed, it doesn't seem like the type that would sleep well - too many demons lurking in the shadows of its consciousness, too much tension in its posture even during moments of rest. You hoped it would manage to get some sleep…you'd rather not deal with a cranky asset in the morning when there was already so much at stake.

For now, you'd just try to get some sleep for yourself. You pushed away the anxious thoughts threatening to keep you awake and instead focused on the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat, silently hoping that tomorrow would be easier on you.

The both of you.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑹𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆.

[curlycow01]

Thanks for the tag!

Rip my phone is having a stroke trying to load 3 gifs 💀 honestly I live breathe and sleep marvel so I dont get attached to other shows as I have to these 3

Tags: @whereiweep , @legalandnotease

10 Fave TV Shows

Rules: Without naming them, post a gif from ten of your favourite television shows, then tag 10 people to do the same!

I was tagged by @berenwrites. In no particular order here we go!

As for the ten tags…. Uuuuuh.

@busyheadkeepbreathing, @ponyartistbrainiac, @yesdangerpls, @usernamemybeloathed, @mintypegasus, @egggargler, @annetastic1981a, @eemamminy-art, @breealtair, aaaaaand uuuuuuh, @sotie-art. Hope y’all lovelies don’t mind the tag. But if you do let me know and I can like remove it and make a note not to tag again <3

[curlycow01]

JW: I'm alright

Ws: Da?

JW: yeah. Da.

A big thanks to @whereiweep for the dialogue and for showing me how much angst potential this ship has 💕

[curlycow01]

One second I'm like aww he's adorable and then the next I'm like "fuck you hydra" back and forth 💀 but srsly I loved it 💕💕💕

𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕 | 𝑾.𝑺

𝒂/𝒏: 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑝𝑖𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑖 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑜𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑠. 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖'𝑚 𝑡𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑, 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑎 𝑑𝑢𝑚𝑏. | 𝒘𝒄: 1.4𝑘

The sudden presence of a grumpy soldier startled you our of your book, though you tried not to show it.

No sound of footsteps, no creak of the door, just the abrupt manifestation of his brooding figure in your peripheral vision - it made you jump but you thought you masked it well. He grunted with obvious dissatisfaction and sat hard on the couch beside you, the cushions dipping under his weight as he settled in with a forceful exhale.

You glanced at him briefly, taking in his disheveled appearance and tense posture. The silent assassin stared right back at you with unblinking eyes, his glare penetrating and unsettling in its intensity. You didn’t think you’d ever get used to looking directly at him, as bad as that sounded. Those ice cold eyes made you shiver, devoid of warmth or emotion, like looking into frozen lakes in the dead of winter.

The horrors he had witnessed and executed so clear in that haunting gaze of his.

After a few seconds of awkward staring, you reluctantly went back to your book to be immersed in the world that was written in ink, hoping he might take the hint and figure out a way to entertain himself...he wasn't very good at that part yet.

This clearly displeased him, his jaw visibly tightening as his expression darkened, eyes now fixated on that book that kept all your attention. It was the book that prevented you from giving him what he wanted.

Without warning, he reached over and took the book from your hands, tossing it carelessly across the room where it hit the wall with a dull thud before falling open-faced onto the floor, pages splayed and probably bent from its otherwise perfect quality. "Hey! Why did you -"

Your words were caught in your throat as he all but threw himself down, his head laying heavily in your lap and metal arm slung over your legs with possessive weight. His face was turned away from you, staring at anything his eyes could see in the living room with little interest.

All he wanted, clearly, was to have your attention. The Soldier was just…very bad at asking for it.

"Soldat, jesus, you didn't have to throw my book like that..." You frowned, a small pout forming on your lips as you looked down at him sprawled across your lap. He deliberately let his metal arm stretch over your knees, the weight of the appendage effectively pinning you in place. The cold titanium pressed against your skin through the fabric of your pants, making it abundantly clear you wouldn't be able to get up without his cooperation.

You swore he was smug under that stoic façade, a hint of satisfaction glimmering behind those icy blue eyes despite his expressionless face.

"Let me get my book." You frowned again, your brows furrowing in mild frustration. Yet…he remained perfectly still as a marble statue and just as immovable.

He merely grunted in response, his metal fingers tightening their grip around your knee as he turned his head further into your legs, nuzzling against the soft fabric. He had no desire for you to get up or move away from him. You could clearly feel the wave of irritation radiating from him despite the fact that he was basically just cuddling into your legs; he was mad that you had been ignoring him all afternoon, completely absorbed in what he considered nothing more than a trivial stack of bound paper.

Books are stupid...they cause problems.

His red one did - only filled with trigger words and painful memories. Why was yours any different? It was just another obstacle, another distraction keeping your attention away from him when he craved it most. The pages between your fingers and words your eyes were glued to had become his rival for your affection.

He huffed and growled from deep in his chest, the sound rumbling against your thighs as he stubbornly refused to let you go.

"Soldat, let me get up." You said in a firmer tone, your patience wearing thin as you attempted to assert yourself, hoping the authoritative edge in your voice might convince him to relent.

The Soldier groaned quietly, shifting his weight as he lifted his head just enough to allow it to fall back against your thighs with a gentle thud. You sighed at his mannerisms, looking down at his form as he nestled there, his eyes avoiding yours in that particular way that always meant he wanted something. "You know, words are a better way to get things you want."

"Hmph." The small, disgruntled noise was all you received in response. You knew well enough by now that he wouldn't vocalize what he wanted. He rarely did. Instead, the Soldier would just grunt or growl or occasionally throw a silent, brooding tantrum until you eventually gave in and provided whatever he was wanting. It could be as simple as a glass of water, the grown man couldn’t bring himself to ask for something as simple as a glass of water.

Not that you really blamed him, not after everything he had gone through.

You had gotten really good at reading him over time, learning to interpret each subtle shift in his posture, the various tones of his grunts, and the way his eyes would dart around when he wanted something but felt unable to voice it.

"Fine, you know, a little bit of manners wouldn't hurt every now and then." You let out another resigned sigh, only teasing, surrendering to his unspoken request. You slowly carded your fingers through his long, dark hair, feeling the numerous tangles and knots that had formed. Your fingers became trapped in the strands as if the tangles themselves were determined not to let you go, creating little snags that required you to stop your smooth trail and patiently untangle them. "And you haven't been brushing, have you?"

On purpose, of course.

He had deliberately neglected his hair. He wanted you to do it—to sit with him like this, to feel your gentle fingers working through the knots, creating an excuse for the contact and care he craved but couldn't ask for directly.

Regardless...you carefully and gently began to untangle his hair by brushing through it with a delicate comb you kept beside the couch specifically for this purpose. You had learned that the Soldier absolutely adored having his hair played with, though he would never verbally express it. You brushed his hair often, and he would seek you out if you were too immersed in a book or a show while he holed out in the spare room.

After decades of harsh yanking and pulling from handlers, the accumulated trauma had left his scalp more sensitive to tugs and touches. He became frustrated with his own body, often raking the comb or brush through stubborn knots with aggressive brushing that resulted in him forcibly ripping chunks of hair out when the tangled strands became hopelessly caught in the bristles. Part of him liked the pain, the familiarity of it. The sick comfort he got at feeling pain prevented him from spiraling most days.

He made a poor habit of ripping his hair out with the brush, desperate for something familiar, and you had to try to ease him out of it. His life before capture erased away, replaced by memories of pain that he sought out in desperation for security as that was all he had known and all he was left with.

You were always gentle with him, taking your time with each stroke. It never hurt when your fingers or the comb touched his head. You never hurt him, even when you could have, even when others always had.

His vigilant eyes gradually drifted shut as you ran the comb through his hair, from the root and gliding smoothly down to the end, ensuring no tangles got caught in the tight bristles. The relaxation of his normally tense shoulders wasn't lost on you - he trusted you, and you recognized that, never taking it for granted.

"A please and thank you would be nice," You whispered with a small smile playing at your lips, not meaning the words. The Soldier had never actually spoken directly to you in all your time together. His communication consisted primarily of grunts and occasional low growls, with the rare exception of a word or two in Russian whispered under his breath during the night as he managed to find brief moments of sleep or during the abrupt, startling moments when he jolted awake from nightmares.

Instead of verbalizing his thanks, he tightened his hold on your hips ever so slightly and pressed his head further against your hand holding the comb, the pressure just enough to convey his meaning without words.

More.

…

An added stroke of his thumb against the sensitive skin of your hip, the motion slow and purposeful.

…

Please.

𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑏𝑦 𝑚𝑒, 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑦 𝑒𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠

[curlycow01]

🥛🍪🍪🍪

It’s Fourth of July Eve so make sure to leave some milk and cookies out for Captain America

[curlycow01]

Guess who cured my artblock

That one scene where Bucky said "I don't get tired" NOW IMAGINE HIM DOING THIS POSE AS THE READER DRAWS HIM OMG FICS WHERE

[curlycow01]

Got free time between college classes so I doodled a bit

Wonky anatomy because I was using my arms for reference and they're sticks

[curlycow01]

WHY 😭😭😭

“But remember, there are two ways to dehumanize someone: by dismissing them, and by idolizing them.”

-David Wong

[curlycow01]

Reblog if your art project has not, does not, and never will make use of generative ai at any point in your creative process.

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Story of my life since I was 10

friendship breakups are lowkey the worst thing ever cause what do you mean this person I used to share every single detail of my life with is just gone

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Yelena Belova WIP

[curlycow01]

What are the best over 90,000 word fics that you have read?

hoo ok here we go

Ain’t No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) by spitandvinegar  

It’s six in the morning, and Steve is heading out on a run when he nearly trips over a bouquet of sunflowers on the front steps of his brownstone.

For a second paranoia takes over, and he kicks the flowers a little, waiting for them to explode. They don’t. They also came with a card, which he picks up. The front of the card has a tasteful picture of the Brooklyn bridge at sunset. It’s very nice and sedate, like the kind of card you would buy to give to your boss. On the inside someone has written a short message in big, shaky block letters.

I AM SORRY FOR SHOOTING YOU.

Steve sits down hard on the steps.

cascades. by orange_crushed

“Holy shit,” Howard says, crackling through the speakers. “You alive in there?” Lying is a sin, of course, but Steve’s not sure what else he can do. He’s already lied to the government and Bucky and God Almighty; and himself, himself most of all. He ought to tell the truth. That he’s not quite what they hoped for. That perhaps they should put him back into the ocean.

“Probably,” he says, instead, listening to Howard’s tinny laughter; and waits for the blast doors to unlock.

If They Haven’t Learned Your Name by silentwalrus (WIP)

Steve gets out of the hospital in two days, but just barely. “I’m fine,” he tells Sam, Nurse Eunjung and the phalanx of doctors assigned to make sure Captain America didn’t bleed out and die and get bad PR all over their nice clean hospital. “I have an advanced healing factor. It’s fine. See? I’m standing.”

“That is not standing,” Sam tells him.

“You’re bending the IV stand,” Nurse Eunjung adds pointedly. “Let go and sit down, they don’t grow on trees.”

aka Steve and Bucky’s Global Honeymoon Revenge World Tour.

just say you do by biblionerd07

Steve just wanted a job. He wasn’t expecting a marriage proposal. And he certainly wasn’t expecting to accept.

Middletown: A Study of Suburban Life by M_Leigh

In which Bucky is the new kid, Steve is the square who takes him in, Tony and Pepper fight over valedictorian a year in advance, Thor remains a golden god, Loki remains a drama queen, Natasha commits an act of vigilante justice, Clint somehow fails to make a your mom joke, Darcy is a Satanist, Jane is a goth, Sif is fine thank you very much, Sam climbs a tree, Peggy says no, Rumlow is a bully, and Mrs. Rogers, Mr. Coulson, and Ms. Hill are all very long-suffering.

Or: the story of the year Bucky Barnes finally learned how to talk to at least one other human being, discovered J. D. Salinger, started to try in school (kind of), got a haircut, landed a punch, almost got arrested, and kissed a boy on the mouth.

our golden age by augustbird

Wherein Bucky is the crown prince and Steve still becomes a hero.

Schrödinger’s Romance by The_StonedSoldier

“It could be a relationship, it could not be. You can assume either until you see for sure the results.“We all know those moments. Those moments when your family all gathers around you and asks “So, do you have a boyfriend yet?”. Bucky knows these moments all too well and, quite frankly, he’s sick to death of them. Unfortunately, being a 21 year old college student makes it harder for him to come up with excuses, and with Christmas coming up he needs to think of a way out fast. A chance encounter with a stranger through an old library textbook could just be the kind of miracle he needs to make it through the holidays with his last shreds of sanity intact.

Thawed Out by auburnnothenna (auburn), eretria

He’s not the Asset. He’s not the Winter Soldier. But neither is he Bucky Barnes. With the help of Steve, Sam and the Avengers, James takes the long, slow road to recovery. Nothing is as easy as either of them thought it would be.

The Art Of Cooking For Two by littleblackfox

“Any questions?”“Uh. What the fuck am I doing here?” Bucky offers.

there must have been a moment where we could have said no by magdaliny

The Soldier remembers this: he wakes up in the snow.

To Be Vulnerable Is Needed Most Of All by perfect_plan

Steve is a shy comic book artist and meets his new neighbour, Bucky Barnes.

In which there are awkward longings, meddling best friends, comic conventions, heartache, lemons, video games, dorkiness, dancing and two cute boys.

to memory now I can’t recall by Etharei

While on a mission storming a HYDRA facility, James Buchanan Barnes touches one of the many strange alien devices collected by the Red Skull. He does this, in fact, twice— in the past, and in the future.

Next thing he knows, Bucky Barnes is opening his eyes in the 21st century, which is full of great gadgets and coffee, and at least includes his old pal Steve. (And, inexplicably, a different Stark.) Meanwhile, the Winter Soldier finds himself in the middle of World War Two, helping Captain America hunt down HYDRA (which is at least familiar), pretending to be Bucky Barnes (which is not), and figuring out the very noisy group of soldiers who call themselves the Howling Commandos.

War, Children by Nonymos

After Bucky was released from the hospital, it only took him a couple of weeks to give up on himself. Difficult to believe in any kind of future when the simple act of staying alive was almost too big an effort.

Out the frosted window, across the street, there was a tiny homeless guy burrowing under an awning.

[curlycow01]

Ugh, do the double standards of fandom ever really annoy you? Like the "one rule for me (or rather my fave) another for everyone else" mentality? We know full well that T*ny Stans would not have a problem with him going to any lengths to save Pepper, incl. breaking all kinds of laws and killing. And he literally does a couple of times in the movies.

Yet the moment Steve wants to help Bucky they cry foul.

The problem with Steve, in the ensemble movies, is that he's frequently positioned as someone who acts on the greater good, while willing to sacrifice himself and, at a push, people on his team. He was the one who challenged Tony about not laying his life down on the wire, and he was the one who made the call to shut the portal when Tony didn't return on time. He was also written to be quite stiff and uptight and you get the distinct sense Whedon didn't like either Steve or Thor, and wrote them to be annoying jocks...but fortunately both Chris's brought a lot of warmth to the characters.

I suspect a lot of Tony Stans didn't watch the Cap movies or if they did, didn't pay much attention. It's clear in the solo movies that Steve went to great lengths to help/save Bucky multiple times. In the ensemble movies, Bucky doesn't even get a mention until Cap 3 (yeah sorry that's an Avengers movie).

So if you come into the ensemble movie being a Tony fan, remembering that Steve gave Tony grief for being selfish and for witholding information (about Ultron), and then saw Steve "put the whole team at risk" by protecting Bucky and also not telling Tony about Howard (mind you, I'm not saying this is what happened, but this is often the interpretation from people who don't like Steve), your takeaway is going to be Steve is hypocritical. People who don't care for Bucky also takes the stance that if killing Bucky resolves the conflict then it's a perfectly adequate solution -- just as people argued about Steve protecting Vision in Infinity War was wrong.

Ultimately, I think the problem is the MCU has a lot of inconsistencies across its movies and people take away what they want from it, and a lot of Tony Stans wilfully take a negative reading for Steve.

[curlycow01]

Porn indeed

I found porn 

[curlycow01]

@thedevilsoftruth speaking facts

Really pisses me off that Marvel couldn't stick the landing after CA:TWS. Most queer coded movie ever and they freaked and did a u-turn so hard they ran Steve's character over.

[curlycow01]

Just finished ugly crying over Song of Achilles and the parallels between Patroclus and Achilles and Steve and Bucky is just so sad and tragic

omgg???