krusca

Tony Stark Defense Mode Activate

krusca:

thedirectorstark:

ok hey hello this is a rant that happened because of THIS ask wanderingartists sent me and these tags by krusca

#u have no idea how much i want more discussion of this  #tony stark and steve rogers the actual most and least compatible couple in the history of the universe  #pages and pages of meta on these nerds i need  #flops over thinks about otp doesnt do homework  #thedirectorstark  (x)

please don’t read if you can’t handle the words “judgmental” and “steve” in the same sentence please ok please this is meant to be my one and only real tony/steve catharsis ever ok. when it’s over we’ll just pretend this never happened

also anthony-max i feel like you’ll enjoy this one. also lackluster-lexicon :D and why not tonyfujikawa and brandnewfashion, both of you actively hurt me today

again you guys this is totally biased self-indulgent catharsis, i heard things from this one dude and it pissed me the fuck off and then i came here to passive-aggressively complain about it and i was enabled and this happened

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THIS TOOK FOREVER TO REPLY SRRY BUT yes yes yes this basically everything i wanted this is such a good post on tony stark and steve rogers (and that part about defending tony stark being a slippery slope just spEAKS TO ME ON A SPIRITUAL LEVEL) ok everyone go read that entire essay up there before you click on my readmore if you wanna waste ur time on my thoughts over 616 and the clusterfuck that is steve rogers and tony stark

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krusca

squeeful asked:

I get so upset knowing Tony is a man with an acknowledged mental illness whose friends and support network continually tell him to think/snap himself out of it.

thedirectorstark answered:

^^^^^^^ !!!!!! EVERYONE READ THIS STATEMENT RIGHT NOW

oh no heh i could rant forever about this one. i could rant forever about steve ending a statement about his behavior with “it’s a quality i see in a lot of alcoholics,” i could rant forever about that glorified avx time when t’challa slapped tony squarely across the face to talk him out of his suicidal talk and have him focus on the problem, i could rant forever about all the times pepper/happy were expected to talk tony out of “one of his funks” because he has shit to do, i could rant forever about how people barely attempted to get to the bottom of what was actually going on in his head when he was a heavy drinker & did nothing but condemn him for it, i could rant forever about how people blame him for everything that goes wrong whenever his emotions affect his judgment and then blame him again when he tries to be objective, i could rant forever about how there’s this whole guilting/shaming network set up around him by the press and even by friends sometimes and i could rant forever about how everyone thinks its cute and productive to “put tony stark in his place” by continuously trash-talking him and putting him down and then expecting him to “soldier on” I COULD RANT ABOUT THIS FOREVER LET’S NOT EVEN 

krusca:

SCREAMS i feel this i feel this so bad like 

here’s a good post on tony and his depression 

This is the problem tony stark shows signs of suffering from depression, yet the writing makes it so no one tries to find out if he actually needs help, OR tells him something very dangerous, something you should NEVER say to someone who suffers from mental illness of any sort: get over it.

Of course Tony does makes it hard for people to get close in the first place with him pushing everyone away and constantly telling people he’s fine. ok but the NARRATIVE the writing condones tony’s unhealthy behaviors while never addressing that there VERY LIKELY PROBABLY IS more than “just a funk” and refuses to show tony getting help, or implying that he fucking needs help

i get the whole lone wolf “im better off on my own” angsty hero act but at the same time what’s the line between tony fans being all “poor woobie tony must be protected at all costs” to “jfc a character (A HERO) we love shows all the signs of needing serious help and yet other characters are constantly demonizing him as well as other readers” 

tony stark is an asshole yes he really needs to leanr not to take things to the extremem but he’s not a villain he’s never had malicious intent (when not being mind controlled or some shit) and fuck he’s just a big fucking nerd who needs professional help someone please help tony stark

wintergaydar
luninosity:

stuffimgoingtohellfor:

checkthemargins:

It is my headcanon that there is a gun on the table in this scene because The Winter Soldier has been trained to arm any of his handlers who are not already armed while in his presence so that, if they so choose, they can put him down at any time.Later, it takes Steve months to figure out why Bucky gives him a knife every time they’re in the same room.

#when i think I cannot have sadder thoughts about Bucky Barnes#something like this comes along [via feanorinleatherpants]

Here you go…

It takes Steve months—well, one month and three weeks and two days, one-three-two, numerical evidence of his failure—to realize why Bucky keeps handing him knives.
At first he’d thought the gesture meant tangible evidence of surrender. Or trust. Or, hell, a lack of confidence in Steve’s own abilities, which might’ve been insulting except that Steve’s so damned relieved that Bucky’s back that there’s no room for any insult.
He’d been accepting all the knives. Sometimes even guns. The weapons come in all different shapes and sizes. A slim straight stiletto, infiltration in a blade. A jagged-edged brutal thing that looks like the death of Viking warriors. A tiny derringer; a sleek black silenced professional bullet-deliverer. He doesn’t ask where Bucky’s getting them, though he does wonder, especially the time Bucky stares at him, makes an expression that would’ve been a sigh if the Winter Soldier went in for extraneous expressions, and shoves what looks suspiciously like a spear into Steve’s hand.
Steve, juggling groceries and unanticipated weaponry, had said, “Um, Buck? Planning on gladiatorial combat?” Bucky’d glared, muttered something undecipherable in Russian, vanished into his own room, and not come out for two days.
He’d been eating. Steve’d left trays. They’d been sitting empty outside the door every time he’d checked.
The pile of assorted death-dealing implements in Steve’s room grows day by day. Every time Bucky looks at him with exasperation and silently holds out another sharp edge. Every time they’re in a room together.
He asks Tony once, venturing into the bowels of that personal lab-slash-engineering explosion-slash-space where Tony can feel safe enough, whether Bucky’d ever given him a knife, when they were alone together. Tony snorts at him from behind what might be either a new element synthesizer or an extremely complicated still, and says, “Right, ’cause I so like being handed things by people with homicidal tendencies, and anyway, Spangles, have you noticed he’s never alone in a room with anyone else, he only hangs out with us when you’re there, what do you think that means, move those blueberries closer, they’re integral for the success of this test, thanks.”
Steve moves the blueberries. And tries not to hate the fact that Tony Stark’s noticed this fact about Bucky before he has.
He’s always had Bucky. He’s always been used to having Bucky, except when he hasn’t, and that’s a colder stretch of time than he wants to remember. Numb and chilly. Ice.
He’s so used to having Bucky that it feels natural. Bucky goes places with him, that’s right, that’s how it is. Bucky saved him because that’s what Bucky does, Bucky always saves him, Bucky saved him in fights on a million Brooklyn streets and again when the desperate shuddering need to find Bucky made Steve into Captain America in a way no tights and dancing girls ever did, Bucky saved him by giving him a reason and an anchor, Bucky saved him in the debris-field green-water deathtrap of the Potomac and saves him now with every evanescent memory-sketch of a smile.
Bucky doesn’t go places without Steve. Not now. 
Bucky used to go dancing. Bucky used to find odd jobs, butcher’s-boy errands and dockworker’s wages and a few others that Steve wasn’t supposed to know about, the kind of jobs that involved squiring elderly ladies and sometimes elderly men on late-night excursions and looking pretty. Bucky always had been pretty, had been charming, had been good companionship.
Steve would’ve thrown his sketchbook at the wall, those nights, if he could’ve. Too busy coughing up every bit of his lungs. Dying inside. 
Bucky these days is beautiful in the way obsidian is beautiful. Fantastical, unbelievable, and tempered by volcanic forces that’d make you shudder if you thought about them. Deadly and honed to an arrow-point.
Steve walks into the kitchen on that day, one month three weeks two days, just looking for some orange juice because he’s thirsty post-run, and it’s not any day in particular, just a day, just another day with sunlight and clouds chasing each other beyond the window and casting fluttery shadows over the countertops and his heart as Bucky whirls away from the refrigerator, juice in hand.
So damn beautiful. Steve’s heart skips a beat. Always has, always will. Everything else in the world can crumble and fade and get reborn and change, but not that. When it’s him and Bucky, it’s him and Bucky, and his heart’s well aware that they’re both a hell of a way from Brooklyn and it doesn’t think that the distance matters. So: beats, skipped. Forever.
Bucky holds out the orange juice. Of course. Steve generally wants orange juice upon coming home.
He takes it and says “Thanks” and all at once there’s a knife in Bucky’s other hand, flipped around so it’s hilt-first, plainly not a menace. It’s one of their kitchen knives.
“You know,” Steve says, eyeing the blade, eyeing Bucky’s face, “most people don’t need to cut the orange juice open, Buck.”
Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, grumbles something that sounds like “all the stupid” under his breath. “Take it.”
“If you’re worried you’re gonna hurt me, well, I’m not.”
“You’re not getting it,” Bucky says, now sounding frustrated. “What more do I have to do to—”
“To what?” Steve’s starting to feel ridiculous, post-run sweaty and holding orange juice, so he solves the latter problem by setting the carton down. “What’re we doing, here, again?”
“You’re not armed.” Bucky’s not exactly meeting his gaze. “We’re too evenly matched. You need an advantage. And you never keep them when I give them to you.”
“Where do you keep finding—no, never mind, tell me later. Why do I need an advantage, Bucky?” Name repetition. Not the Winter Soldier. Not the Asset. Bucky.
Who looks a bit helplessly, insofar as he’s ever helpless, at the kitchen knife. “If it’s already yours, will you keep this one?”
“It’s ours,” Steve says, no longer totally at sea and beginning to feel nauseated by the first little ripples of intuition about why. “Everything in these rooms is ours. Tony said. As long as we want. You think I’m gonna have to fight you.”
“I—” Bucky wobbles over the word think. Opts for, “You need to be able to. To handle me.”
“When you’re a threat? You’re not—”
“I am. And—no. Whenever you decide it’s the best option.”
That answer’s too fast, too easy, to be anything but painfully learned. Steve, afraid he is about to be sick, hating the tang of oranges on his tongue, gulps out, “How about never…”
Bucky seems nonplussed by this response. Steve tries again. “I’m not gonna just decide to stick a knife in you, Bucky!”
“I have to…” Bucky hesitates. The sunshine, beyond the window, cowers behind a cloud. “They told me…every handler has to be armed, they can’t take any risk…”
“I’m not your handler!”
“Aren’t you?”
“What the hell—no!”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Bucky, in a rare indication of genuine emotion, tosses the knife into the wall and runs his human hand through his hair. Bucky has emotions. Steve knows he does. He just holds them close to his chest, like cards he’s not entirely sure how to play but that can’t be revealed in case the revelations’re used against him. “I meant—I trust you.”
“Do you even know what that means,” Steve says, standing brokenhearted next to the fridge with sweat drying clammy down his back. “I’m not—them, Bucky. Don’t trust me like you’d trust them.”
“I don’t,” Bucky says, “I trust you like I’d trust the only person who ever tried to save me, I remember that, I got broken pieces but I got a lot of ’em, and the good ones have your face, Steve, so yeah, I trust you, so take the damn knife already,” and then they end up looking at each other for a while.
The sunbeam wanders through the room again, and chooses to curl up on the table by the orange juice and watch. A golden audience. Morning painted in fruit and flavor. The knife, stuck in plaster, quivers happily.
Steve, very cautiously, hoping it’s the right step, hoping Bucky’ll comprehend the tone, hoping, says, “I don’t need a knife, I’m pretty sure I’d, y’know, win…”
Bucky’s expression displays a complicated rocket-swift series of reactions: startlement, rejection, consideration. Amusement. Grim and brittle and unaccustomed to existence, but clear. “Says you, punk.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “says me,” and Bucky doesn’t laugh but the laugh’s painfully brilliantly present in his eyes. “Might always be a habit. Handing you something.”
“I can live with that.” When Steve takes a step forward, Bucky does too. They’re looking at each other now. “Dish towel could be a weapon. If you feel like helping out around here.”
“I did your laundry yesterday when Sam called and you forgot to start the load,” Bucky says. “I wanted to. A pen, maybe. Pencil. Could try handing you a pencil. Could still kill me with a pencil. Theoretically. If I let you.”
“You wouldn’t.” He’s close enough to brush that stray strand of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. If Bucky’d let him do that. His fingers tingle with the need. “I noticed you did the laundry. Why’d you leave it on the couch?” It’d been folded. Military-neat. Even his underwear. He’d stared at that for a good ten minutes. Bucky, folding his underwear.
Bucky shrugs. “Wasn’t sure I was welcome in your room.”
“You’re always welcome in my room,” Steve says, which is maybe a very stupid thing to say, but his mouth and heart are busy making decisions without him. There’s still a pile of collected weaponry in his room, too. He wonders dizzily what Bucky’d’ve done, encountering the heap. “Anywhere. Whenever, Buck, wherever.”
“If I handed you a pencil,” Bucky says, and then stops, eyes suddenly very far away—Steve holds his breath—and abruptly back again. “You used to draw.”
“You…remember that…”
“I remember I loved every time you drew me,” Bucky says meditatively, and Steve chokes on his next inhale, like having asthma all over, this can’t be real, too breathless and giddy, “I remember thinking I could sit still all day if you asked, ’cause it was you asking. Anything, if you asked. Steve Rogers.”
“So,” Steve says, feeling like the earth’s dropped away, feeling like nothing’s real except him and Bucky and this strange bubbling-up effervescent sensation in his chest, scampering down his spine, billowing out to his fingertips, “so…if I asked…not an order, not here to give you orders, Bucky, but if I asked…you loved it, you said…anything, you said…”
“Start leaving pencils around,” Bucky offers, “and give me back some of my knives, if you’re not planning to use ’em,” and Steve whispers, “Can I draw you?” and lifts his hand, slow as a dream, not a threat, and when Bucky breathes back, “Yeah,” they both know it’s a yes to everything, to old and new habits and mingled breaths and Steve’s fingers finally brushing through Bucky’s wayward hair.
 

luninosity:

stuffimgoingtohellfor:

checkthemargins:

It is my headcanon that there is a gun on the table in this scene because The Winter Soldier has been trained to arm any of his handlers who are not already armed while in his presence so that, if they so choose, they can put him down at any time.

Later, it takes Steve months to figure out why Bucky gives him a knife every time they’re in the same room.

 [via feanorinleatherpants]

Here you go…

It takes Steve months—well, one month and three weeks and two days, one-three-two, numerical evidence of his failure—to realize why Bucky keeps handing him knives.

At first he’d thought the gesture meant tangible evidence of surrender. Or trust. Or, hell, a lack of confidence in Steve’s own abilities, which might’ve been insulting except that Steve’s so damned relieved that Bucky’s back that there’s no room for any insult.

He’d been accepting all the knives. Sometimes even guns. The weapons come in all different shapes and sizes. A slim straight stiletto, infiltration in a blade. A jagged-edged brutal thing that looks like the death of Viking warriors. A tiny derringer; a sleek black silenced professional bullet-deliverer. He doesn’t ask where Bucky’s getting them, though he does wonder, especially the time Bucky stares at him, makes an expression that would’ve been a sigh if the Winter Soldier went in for extraneous expressions, and shoves what looks suspiciously like a spear into Steve’s hand.

Steve, juggling groceries and unanticipated weaponry, had said, “Um, Buck? Planning on gladiatorial combat?” Bucky’d glared, muttered something undecipherable in Russian, vanished into his own room, and not come out for two days.

He’d been eating. Steve’d left trays. They’d been sitting empty outside the door every time he’d checked.

The pile of assorted death-dealing implements in Steve’s room grows day by day. Every time Bucky looks at him with exasperation and silently holds out another sharp edge. Every time they’re in a room together.

He asks Tony once, venturing into the bowels of that personal lab-slash-engineering explosion-slash-space where Tony can feel safe enough, whether Bucky’d ever given him a knife, when they were alone together. Tony snorts at him from behind what might be either a new element synthesizer or an extremely complicated still, and says, “Right, ’cause I so like being handed things by people with homicidal tendencies, and anyway, Spangles, have you noticed he’s never alone in a room with anyone else, he only hangs out with us when you’re there, what do you think that means, move those blueberries closer, they’re integral for the success of this test, thanks.”

Steve moves the blueberries. And tries not to hate the fact that Tony Stark’s noticed this fact about Bucky before he has.

He’s always had Bucky. He’s always been used to having Bucky, except when he hasn’t, and that’s a colder stretch of time than he wants to remember. Numb and chilly. Ice.

He’s so used to having Bucky that it feels natural. Bucky goes places with him, that’s right, that’s how it is. Bucky saved him because that’s what Bucky does, Bucky always saves him, Bucky saved him in fights on a million Brooklyn streets and again when the desperate shuddering need to find Bucky made Steve into Captain America in a way no tights and dancing girls ever did, Bucky saved him by giving him a reason and an anchor, Bucky saved him in the debris-field green-water deathtrap of the Potomac and saves him now with every evanescent memory-sketch of a smile.

Bucky doesn’t go places without Steve. Not now.

Bucky used to go dancing. Bucky used to find odd jobs, butcher’s-boy errands and dockworker’s wages and a few others that Steve wasn’t supposed to know about, the kind of jobs that involved squiring elderly ladies and sometimes elderly men on late-night excursions and looking pretty. Bucky always had been pretty, had been charming, had been good companionship.

Steve would’ve thrown his sketchbook at the wall, those nights, if he could’ve. Too busy coughing up every bit of his lungs. Dying inside.

Bucky these days is beautiful in the way obsidian is beautiful. Fantastical, unbelievable, and tempered by volcanic forces that’d make you shudder if you thought about them. Deadly and honed to an arrow-point.

Steve walks into the kitchen on that day, one month three weeks two days, just looking for some orange juice because he’s thirsty post-run, and it’s not any day in particular, just a day, just another day with sunlight and clouds chasing each other beyond the window and casting fluttery shadows over the countertops and his heart as Bucky whirls away from the refrigerator, juice in hand.

So damn beautiful. Steve’s heart skips a beat. Always has, always will. Everything else in the world can crumble and fade and get reborn and change, but not that. When it’s him and Bucky, it’s him and Bucky, and his heart’s well aware that they’re both a hell of a way from Brooklyn and it doesn’t think that the distance matters. So: beats, skipped. Forever.

Bucky holds out the orange juice. Of course. Steve generally wants orange juice upon coming home.

He takes it and says “Thanks” and all at once there’s a knife in Bucky’s other hand, flipped around so it’s hilt-first, plainly not a menace. It’s one of their kitchen knives.

“You know,” Steve says, eyeing the blade, eyeing Bucky’s face, “most people don’t need to cut the orange juice open, Buck.”

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, grumbles something that sounds like “all the stupid” under his breath. “Take it.”

“If you’re worried you’re gonna hurt me, well, I’m not.”

“You’re not getting it,” Bucky says, now sounding frustrated. “What more do I have to do to—”

“To what?” Steve’s starting to feel ridiculous, post-run sweaty and holding orange juice, so he solves the latter problem by setting the carton down. “What’re we doing, here, again?”

“You’re not armed.” Bucky’s not exactly meeting his gaze. “We’re too evenly matched. You need an advantage. And you never keep them when I give them to you.”

“Where do you keep finding—no, never mind, tell me later. Why do I need an advantage, Bucky?” Name repetition. Not the Winter Soldier. Not the Asset. Bucky.

Who looks a bit helplessly, insofar as he’s ever helpless, at the kitchen knife. “If it’s already yours, will you keep this one?”

“It’s ours,” Steve says, no longer totally at sea and beginning to feel nauseated by the first little ripples of intuition about why. “Everything in these rooms is ours. Tony said. As long as we want. You think I’m gonna have to fight you.”

“I—” Bucky wobbles over the word think. Opts for, “You need to be able to. To handle me.”

“When you’re a threat? You’re not—”

“I am. And—no. Whenever you decide it’s the best option.”

That answer’s too fast, too easy, to be anything but painfully learned. Steve, afraid he is about to be sick, hating the tang of oranges on his tongue, gulps out, “How about never…”

Bucky seems nonplussed by this response. Steve tries again. “I’m not gonna just decide to stick a knife in you, Bucky!”

“I have to…” Bucky hesitates. The sunshine, beyond the window, cowers behind a cloud. “They told me…every handler has to be armed, they can’t take any risk…”

“I’m not your handler!”

“Aren’t you?”

“What the hell—no!”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Bucky, in a rare indication of genuine emotion, tosses the knife into the wall and runs his human hand through his hair. Bucky has emotions. Steve knows he does. He just holds them close to his chest, like cards he’s not entirely sure how to play but that can’t be revealed in case the revelations’re used against him. “I meant—I trust you.”

“Do you even know what that means,” Steve says, standing brokenhearted next to the fridge with sweat drying clammy down his back. “I’m not—them, Bucky. Don’t trust me like you’d trust them.”

“I don’t,” Bucky says, “I trust you like I’d trust the only person who ever tried to save me, I remember that, I got broken pieces but I got a lot of ’em, and the good ones have your face, Steve, so yeah, I trust you, so take the damn knife already,” and then they end up looking at each other for a while.

The sunbeam wanders through the room again, and chooses to curl up on the table by the orange juice and watch. A golden audience. Morning painted in fruit and flavor. The knife, stuck in plaster, quivers happily.

Steve, very cautiously, hoping it’s the right step, hoping Bucky’ll comprehend the tone, hoping, says, “I don’t need a knife, I’m pretty sure I’d, y’know, win…”

Bucky’s expression displays a complicated rocket-swift series of reactions: startlement, rejection, consideration. Amusement. Grim and brittle and unaccustomed to existence, but clear. “Says you, punk.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “says me,” and Bucky doesn’t laugh but the laugh’s painfully brilliantly present in his eyes. “Might always be a habit. Handing you something.”

“I can live with that.” When Steve takes a step forward, Bucky does too. They’re looking at each other now. “Dish towel could be a weapon. If you feel like helping out around here.”

“I did your laundry yesterday when Sam called and you forgot to start the load,” Bucky says. “I wanted to. A pen, maybe. Pencil. Could try handing you a pencil. Could still kill me with a pencil. Theoretically. If I let you.”

“You wouldn’t.” He’s close enough to brush that stray strand of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. If Bucky’d let him do that. His fingers tingle with the need. “I noticed you did the laundry. Why’d you leave it on the couch?” It’d been folded. Military-neat. Even his underwear. He’d stared at that for a good ten minutes. Bucky, folding his underwear.

Bucky shrugs. “Wasn’t sure I was welcome in your room.”

“You’re always welcome in my room,” Steve says, which is maybe a very stupid thing to say, but his mouth and heart are busy making decisions without him. There’s still a pile of collected weaponry in his room, too. He wonders dizzily what Bucky’d’ve done, encountering the heap. “Anywhere. Whenever, Buck, wherever.”

“If I handed you a pencil,” Bucky says, and then stops, eyes suddenly very far away—Steve holds his breath—and abruptly back again. “You used to draw.”

“You…remember that…”

“I remember I loved every time you drew me,” Bucky says meditatively, and Steve chokes on his next inhale, like having asthma all over, this can’t be real, too breathless and giddy, “I remember thinking I could sit still all day if you asked, ’cause it was you asking. Anything, if you asked. Steve Rogers.”

“So,” Steve says, feeling like the earth’s dropped away, feeling like nothing’s real except him and Bucky and this strange bubbling-up effervescent sensation in his chest, scampering down his spine, billowing out to his fingertips, “so…if I asked…not an order, not here to give you orders, Bucky, but if I asked…you loved it, you said…anything, you said…”

“Start leaving pencils around,” Bucky offers, “and give me back some of my knives, if you’re not planning to use ’em,” and Steve whispers, “Can I draw you?” and lifts his hand, slow as a dream, not a threat, and when Bucky breathes back, “Yeah,” they both know it’s a yes to everything, to old and new habits and mingled breaths and Steve’s fingers finally brushing through Bucky’s wayward hair.

 

faun-songs

faun-songs:

nataliaromanoua:

wipe him.

EASILY the most disturbing scene for me.Even without the context and sound.


A dull sick shade of green dominates the colour scheme, giving his skin an unhealthy yellow undertone. The other predominant colour is black; shadows engulfing him from all around.

Then comes his brilliant body language.
At the beginning he looks child-like and lost. The behaviour sharply contrasts with all the lines on his face, the stubble and gives it a wrong, uncanny feel.
In a second he changes and you can read a promise for revenge and pain in his eyes. He’s putting up a front, keeping a stiff upper lip. In a last-moment defence he tries to isolate himself from his surroundings. Focuses on one point on the wall, doesn’t move until prompted/forced-as if he is rejecting the reality around him. His breathing becomes slightly faster but he is still in control of his fear. He doesn’t want them to know they still have such power over him, that right now he is mortified out of his mind.

As soon as the restraints snap in place, however, he loses it. He is unarmed and half naked in a room of fully-armoured men and he is strapped to a chair that will cause him immense pain. So strong, in fact, that despite all the wiping he’s been through, he still remembers the wiping itself.

Mad props to Seb Stan for conveying his terror. His whole body becomes as taut as a string. His fists clench. Suddenly he is breathing harder and faster, trying to take a deep slow breath but panic has his muscles tighten and his lungs burn but can’t expand. At the peak his chest collapses with a wheeze and he closes his eyes and anyone with panic attacks knows that exact moment and feeling-you want to give up you want to get out you want it to stop. It’s an act of pure despair, it’s irrational and overwhelming.

He is no longer breathing through his nose but around the rubber between his teeth and it just makes things worse because it adds to the sense of suffocation, shortness of breath, helplessness.

What intrigues me the most is that he doesn’t squeeze his eyes shut. His neck tendons tighten to the point of breaking, he is biting the rubber with all he’s got but his eyes stay open. Enhances the horror of the scene because he doesn’t cave in to himself in his pain and fear, he ropes us in with his eyes, let’s us know what’s going on inside of his head.

faun-songs

faun-songs:

I’d like to imagine post WS Bucky doesn’t go straight to Steve in his recovery. Steve feels like salt on an open wound, too strong too intimate too overwhelming. Bucky fears hell be forced to live up to expectations when he still can’t remember to drink water once in a while lest he fainted.

I think it’d be really cool if he sought Natasha.

He reads up on her and remembers too, the Soviet slug through her hip. He goes to her because she of all people would know how it feels when you spent a lifetime saying “What do you want me to be?” and you lose your sense of self, you feel like a clever lie and when you unravel it there seems to be nothing underneath.

He goes to her because there are only two people on earth with partially shared experience and one of them he is not yet ready for. He needs someone with all the red on their ledger who wants to make amends. He can’t handle a heart of gold and an impeccable record. He needs someone who did wrong and now is trying to fix it.

He goes to her because he senses she’s just enough morally ambiguous that she won’t rat him out. She knows only what he knows and that takes a weight off his chest. She won’t strike him with references to a forgotten life that only jab him in the heart but he doesn’t know why.

He tells her that, he confides to her in Russian because the natural language barrier he faces helps him deal with the shame and self doubt as he spills his thoughts it feels just the right kind of indirect and Natasha understands.
She reads him well and gives him breathing space tells him its OK to say no and to defend his autonomy. Guides his mind into accepting he was not a villain but a weapon.

That its OK to be confused about who you are.

She gives a fuck about him but won’t fuss about and prod and examine. She gets it, that he is absolutely terrified of needles and tubes and would rather die than set a foot in a hospital.

And its the little things, like a message with a smiley “did you eat today”

He’s a fucking mess and she doesn’t delude herself she can “fix him” but she does her best to hear him out and keep his head above the water when he feels like drowning. Cause she knows that ghostly look in Steve’s eyes that settled in ever after they found him on Potomac’s riverbank.

historicallyaccuratesteve

Fun resource for fic writers

historicallyaccuratesteve:

Today’s post was submitted by lokiodinsonblog.

For anyone with an interest in crime, toxicology, Prohibition, and forensics, I really recommend reading The Poisoner’s Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York by Deborah Blum. It’s about the development of forensic toxicology as championed by medical examiner Charles Norris in NYC during the Prohibition era and a little afterwards (so from the early 20s to the late 30s) and paints a really fascinating picture of a side of American history not usually presented in an intriguing and easy-to-read manner.

So we all kind of loosely understand that Steve grew up in a country where alcohol was illegal, right? He was fifteen when Prohibition ended. Okay, fine, so it’s not likely that Steve would have been a drinker himself (especially that young!) but he grew up in a culture suddenly marked by, not abstention from alcohol, but bootleggers, illegal moonshine, and government chemists who actively concocted ways to make products containing alcohol even more toxic, all in the name of ‘trying to make people obey the law and not drink’- these people had a stance of ‘well, if they’re going to try to renature industrial alcohol in order to drink it, they deserve to get horribly poisoned and die from the stuff the government is paying us to put in it’. Speakeasies were a thing, even after Prohibition, and fostered an aesthetic of dark and smokey lounges where intoxicating drinks were snuck past police enforcers and every sip was thrilling because any glass or bottle was a potentially lethal round of Russian Roulette. During Prohibition itself, there were stretches when three or more people a day dropped dead from toxic drinks, and there was no such thing as ‘a light drink’, because lower-alcohol beverages like beer and wine and hard cider simply weren’t available, and literally the only thing around was something stiff and dangerous.

You can definitely bet he would have heard about Ginger Jake, a ginger-flavored, alcoholic patent medicine that gained notoriety when a new bootleg formula containing the plasticizer tri-ortho cresyl phosphate started making the rounds and leaving crippling paralysis and death in its wake. A little closer to home, he would also know about five- and ten-cents-a-glass ‘gin’ and ‘whiskey’ that was increasingly comprised of toxic methyl alcohol, notorious for causing blindness and death at doses of just a cup or so.

Steve would have been about ten or so when the case of the Radium Girls was being brought to court (and the US Radium Corporation was doing its damndest to get the case, about girls who were contracting leukemia, other bone cancers, and suffering from bones literally rotting away inside their bodies, thrown out on a statute of limitations technicality, while they were funding a disinformation campaign to ‘prove’ radium was entirely safe!). If he didn’t hear about it then, then he still would have grown up in a society gone mad for ‘health’ and ‘beauty’ products containing radium, and likely would have heard about Marie Curie’s two American tours.

As a child, Steve might have heard stories about mysterious explosions attributed to the Italian extortion ring called The Black Hand, when in many cases those explosions were caused by leaky illuminating gas pipes that were accidentally lit.

And through the Depression years, Steve likely heard about all manner of increasingly sophisticated (and desperate) poisonings administered by people desperate for insurance money- such as the infamously unkillable Mike Mallory, who survived heavy drinking, high doses of methyl alcohol, rotten food mixed with iron shavings and ground glass, getting hit by a cab, and getting doused with ice water in the middle of winter before finally succumbing to illuminating gas in a scheme to kill him and collect on insurance.

That doesn’t even get into the more casual poisons- aside from illuminating gas, there was widespread use of arsenic (in paints, pesticides, animal poisons, sometimes wallpaper paste, and cosmetics), lead (cosmetics, paints, and a gasoline additive called tetra-ethyl lead), mercury (showed up in some medicines and corrosive salts), and thallium (used in hair removal products and all sorts of lovely green pigments). These were the days in which chemists concocted new compounds weekly and the FDA was toothless in its infancy.

The cases examined in this book are often quite sensational, and would have caused quite a stir in the papers. They’re pretty interesting to think about in terms of what Steve might have heard, and how he would have reacted to things like Prohibition chemists deliberately poisoning drinkers and the case of the Radium Girls, and how that might have shaped his worldview. If nothing else, it’s a fun draw for history and forensics buffs, and can help fill in understanding of the time period from an angle not usually discussed. For those leery about science- rest easy. The chemistry is explained in easy terms and vivid, understandable language, making it very accessible.

I’ve probably read this book five times now, and it ranks as my favorite non-fiction work. Since I can’t be the only forensics buff with an interest in the world Steve Rogers grew up in, I wanted to promote it a little in the hopes that someone else would find it a useful resource.

roboclaws

roboclaws:

preserum-cap:

spiderfire47:

mystuckyfeels:

HUNTING MODULE.

The more I see comparison gifs like these, the more I think - you don’t carve the out the person and leave the skills - that is not what they did at all. They kept everything of the person (even gave him some more skills) and took the memories.  What you have left is a being who is a hunter, who is a killer, who is loyal, who is protective, who is sassy and talks back, etc, and who is up for grabs.  Without the memories to inform WHO to protect, WHO to be loyal to, WHO (and what) it is worth killing for, they can manipulate the character traits into being protective of them, of being loyal to them, of killing for them.  

In some respects, that may be even worse, when he regains his memories.  Because everything he did as Winter Soldier is still him.  He can not look at those events and say - that was not me - because it was.  He was not a robot acting on programming - he was him, acting on false information.  

TOO REAL

yeah, but no. like seriously no. the winter soldier is not loyal or protective or sassy. he doesn’t talk back. (like what even, what? ??? ??????? ??) he is not bucky barnes with the serial numbers filed off. he is not bucky barnes “acting on false information”. like the entire horror of watching him onscreen in catws is the level of dehumanisation, the degree to which he is not bucky barnes but also not a person; it isn’t his memories that were just taken away, it’s his humanity. so in a way, yeah, he is a robot and he is acting on programming. saying that he was acting on false information implies that he had any free will to act, which he didn’t. the winter soldier isn’t, actually, a soldier holding a gun. he is just a gun.

bucky during catfa did what any soldier does in a war. he had ptsd and it fucked him up, but shockingly enough war tends to fuck people up and plenty of soldiers have ptsd. that doesn’t make him ~already on the way to becoming the winter soldier~, because the winter soldier is the result of (if we follow from 616 canon) amnesia, brain damage and hideous amounts of orwellian handwavey mental conditioning.

saying that the winter soldier is bucky barnes acting on false information would make him a compelling though kind of cliched villain, but it’s factually incorrect.

krusca

shardsofblu:

shardsofblu:

AHHHH I LOVE THIS SCENE. LOVE. Because Steve is just so lovable, Natasha is so amazing and we could probably count with one hand all the times Natasha Romanoff would be caught in public, standing on her tiptoes to kiss someone on the cheek. <3

It’s clear that she adores Steve and just wants him to be happy. He is still so lost in so many ways, but it’s these displays of love and kindness that keep him going. Sometimes Natasha underestimates herself too much in her own capacity for goodness and to care for other people. And I’m so very glad how this movie doesn’t let up on the fact that Natasha has such a good heart, and her friendship with Steve is a most wonderful way of showing that.

Reblogging again for the tag feels:

#nat just goes about caring about people in a quiet and understated way  #like her little sidequest to get steve to date  #it was about her wanting him to be happy and have good things in his life and connecting to the world that he feels so lost in  #she probably disregards it as any points in her column because it’s not exactly wiping red out of her ledger  #but it still says a lot about her  #in some ways more than any death defying stunt to save the world ever could (via twistdmentality)

You know, I just can’t get over that scene after Hydra took them away to be executed, and Natasha Romanoff, literally bleeding to certain death with each second — still fights through her own pain to reach out to a shell-shocked Steve, and reassure him that it’s not his fault. 

How many times Natasha would have done this already? Taking care of people and telling them that they’re going to be okay and she’s there for them, despite herself already bleeding out and deeply hurt as well? In the Avengers, she never stops appealing to Bruce even as he’s losing himself to the literal monster inside him, swearing on her life to save his. She refuses to let Erik blame himself for falling under Loki’s spell. She takes up the call to take down Clint when nobody could, broken leg and all. 

And this — this is the most important part. Because what Natasha had to do to Clint, is exactly what Steve had to do to Bucky, in order to stop them from bring further harm to other people. Don’t think for a moment that it wouldn’t hurt Natasha to hit and batter away at Clint like that. He’s to Natasha, like how Bucky is to Steve. And then when Clint comes back and remembers what he has done when he was brainwashed, again, Natasha allows absolutely no room for him to even think that he was responsible in any way.

There’s a quiet kindness to Natasha that can be so easily overlooked, because she’s so deeply buried in all the mazes of her past and identities and circumstances — and yet this is her, something of her that has always been there, undisputable and just as genuine as the people she thinks she owes herself to.

historicallyaccuratesteve

Steve Rogers Isn’t Grandpa a.k.a. HE’S NOT GODDAMN “OLD” GODDAMNIT

darthstitch:

image

Look at that photo.  I mean, seriously.  REALLY look at it.

I am getting really sick and tired of all the “Steve Rogers is a grandpa” / “Grandpa” Steve jokes.

Yes, he is from the generation our grandparents and great-grandparents came from.

Reality check:  Grandpa and Grandma were young, once upon a time.

They were young.  They made stupid decisions.  They were reckless.  They rebelled.  They did crazy ass things.  They did courageous things.  They lived - as much as we “young folks” are living now.  They’ve got stories to tell, if you’ve got the time to listen to them.  

(If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known my grandparents eloped to Baguio City when they were teenagers.  And were responsible enough not to have babies until the war was over.) 

So, let’s really look at Steve Rogers.  Forget the seventy years he spent in ice.  They really, really don’t count.  For all intents and purposes, Steve Rogers is actually twenty-eight (at least, that’s what MCU wiki says) years old.  Or if you want to fudge a little bit, he’s not more than thirty.

That is young.

Steve is still, essentially, the same punk-ass Brooklyn boy who said, “FUCK IT ALL, I’M SAVING MY BEST FRIEND” and went on a suicide mission to rescue him, knowing full god damn well it was a court-martial worthy offense.  Steve’s not going to sit down like a fuddy-duddy, wave his cane and go “GET OFF MY LAWN, YOU DAMN KIDS!”

(Unless, of course, Steve is being a little shit and wants to troll you, because he is.)

I think Steve Rogers - once he’s got his bearings - would bring that Irish shitekicker part of his personality back in full force.  He’d love rock and roll, maybe find something to relate to with metal, especially the metal bands with the fantasy elements, because hey, The Hobbit came out during his time period after all.  This is the guy who jumps out of planes without a motherfucking parachute - maybe he won’t go out clubbing or concerts every night, because, hey, he’s still got his responsibilities but can you imagine Steve still pushing his physical abilities for the fun of it because, hell, he’d never been able to do so many of these things before?

You know what I honestly hope to see? 

I want to see Grand High Troll Steve.  I want to see Steve pretend he knows jack shit about our “modern world” and “modern toys” and keep people like Tony reeled in until Nat, because Clint is probably about to die from laughter, will gently point out the trollage.

I want to see Steve surprise everyone with hacker-level computer skills and offhandedly remark that he learned a lot from Skye and watch Phil in the corner quietly “squee.” 

I want to see Steve caught headbanging to heavy metal and then turn around and go back to the music of his generation, because hey, he loves both and can’t see why he’s supposed to prefer one over the other.  They both have their good points, so what’s the big deal if he likes metal one minute and then will listen to Sinatra the next?

I want to see Steve cuss out at baseball games and finding a new team to root for because fuck the Dodgers for being traitors and watch the games he didn’t catch on his StarkPad or iPad. 

I want to see Steve wholeheartedly embracing computer art, having his own drawing tablet along with his traditional sketchbook and pencils.

Seriously, do you know who the real world equivalent of Steve Rogers is?

image

Sir Christopher Lee, who can trace his lineage to Charlemagne, who still rocks out to heavy metal and who, as a for real James Bond in WWII can tell you what a man sounds like when he’s stabbed in the heart.

Sir Christopher Lee is who Steve Rogers will be when he physically gets older and he’s still the most badass interesting man in the world.

So again, Steve Rogers is a young man.  He’s got a good many years to live (and probably more than that, due to the Super Serum), before he can really be considered a “grandpa” and even then?

He’s still going to be a badass.

faun-songs

verysharpteeth:

agentbartomanoff:

kryptaria:

agentbartomanoff:

i just realised that when bucky asks

"did it hurt" he’s actually asking "did they do to you the same things they did to me? because me, it hurt. oh it hurt."

"is it permanent" are those things they did to me permanent ? 

I MEAN IF THEY HAD ALREADY STARTED EXPERIMENTED ON HIM, HE MIGHT HAVE NOTICED SOME THINGS HAD CHANGED INSIDE HIM

i’m so emotional

That whole “rescue” scene, if looked at through Bucky’s eyes, is just horrifying. Everything is “normal” (for wartime, anyway), and then he’s being experimented on, and terrible things are happening… Then there’s Steve and Red Skull.

At that point, all Bucky’s thinking is "What the hell am I now?" and "What have they done to Steve? Is he a monster like me and Schmidt, too?"

i’m so freaking not okay

just imagine also … they experiment on him, he sees things are changing. maybe he’s a monster

then he sees steve. and steve … steve, he can’t be a monster, that’s impossible. so maybe Bucky isn’t one after all. Huh ? maybe there’s hope.

and then Red Skull happens. and Bucky’s probably like “yeah. no. only steve is a success. i’m like this. like this one.”

IMAGINE HOW FUCKING SCARED AND CONFUSED AND DISGUSTED AND TRAUMATISED BUCKY MUST BE

That’s my assumption as to why Bucky didn’t confide in Steve what was actually going on. It wasn’t just shock and trauma…and honestly Bucky had plenty of time afterwards to tell Steve what had happened, it was Bucky not wanting to tell anyone what he was afraid he was turning into. I don’t think he knew exactly what happened, but I think he knew things had changed and he was smart enough to put together it was probably similar to what they did to Steve. If Bucky could remember HYDRA maps that he saw after he was captured and while he was being tortured, he was aware of the fact they were experimenting on him.

I mean notice how unquestioningly he just sort of takes Steve now being STEVE. It’s like even then he was putting things together and realizing something very very bad had been done to him.