no worries! feel free to delete some prompts from me if you need to lighten your load a little, no hurt feelings here. i’m just enjoying everything you’ve been posting :)

You’re a lovely human being and a bro besides. Fistbump of prioritizing mental health!

about all these prompts

GGuys, I have a lot of prompts. Like. A LOT.

I’m not gonna say you should stop sending me prompts because sometimes I really, really love them, right? Like, y’all are sending me some half-formed fics and then being like, “what a good job with the writing” and I am like, “yeah, but, dude, your prompt did 85% of the work” and I love it a lot.

But I’m just gonna delete a few so that I don’t feel quite so overwhelmed? Nothing personal! If I don’t answer your prompt it’s tots not because it wasn’t an awesome prompt or anything. It’s most likely because I don’t think I can do it justice or can’t fart out an idea for it to save my life.

But keep sending them! Just promise me you won’t be hurt if I don’t answer it.


that lost look in his eyes

What I love about this scene is how much it highlights the vacuity of that sort of patriotic rhetoric. What Pierce says to the Soldier here is what the popular conception of American patriotism looks and sounds like. It’s the rhetoric with truth long gone and with sentiment missing in action.

And why does Piece try this with his Soldier? Why bother with the hoopla when in a second Pierce is going to casually wipe him down and hose the decks clear of anything personal or emotional? Why spend the breath it takes to say these vapid things to a Soldier who needs no rhetoric and who has never needed convincing?

It makes me think that this is the process Pierce always goes through. He makes the speech, knowing the Soldier will do what he is ordered and not for any greater good, but he makes the speech because he wants the speech in the record, so to speak. He wants to be able to believe that he gave the Soldier reasons, not just empty orders.

But this is the first time the Soldier had something on his mind so the scientists are shocked, the guards are frightened, and Pierce’s empty, self-absolving pantomime is revealed to be empty. Pierce seems equal parts empty and disappointed when he gives the order to wipe him: angry that the pleasant lie he told himself got cut off just because the Soldier knew someone.

(via therealdeepsix)


i’m not saying bucky should spend most of cap 3 crying and kissing steve, but i am saying they’d be smart to play to sebastian stan’s strengths

(via therealdeepsix)


some pages from Steve Roger’s moleskin


some pages from Steve Roger’s moleskin

(via therealdeepsix)


Inspired by this post

Bucky’s had enough of your shit, Pierce. 

(please do not steal or repost my shitty comic thank you)

(via swingsetindecember)


You know, if the Peggy Carter show also has a regular appearance by the Howling Commandos, I would be incredibly happy. I would love more of an exploration of those guys and their work before, during, and after the war, and they had to have been involved with SHIELD in some capacity when Peggy helped create it.

Seriously, make that happen.


I really love how this incredibly pale love story is so important to both of them. Peggy in his compass is one of my favorite metaphors EVER (but Steve is always the compass, right, people find due north because of where  he’s pointing).

But tiny!Steve in her desk….UGH, Peggy. If you think back on her interactions with Steve pre-serum—which, what, there were like three—and how they worked I repeat UGH. They were all moments when Steve made himself stand out by being vulnerable—jumping on a grenade, wheezing behind the rest of the runners, pointing out the highlights of his history of being beaten up—and his vulnerability inspired her to offer something personal and true.

What Steve seems to love about Peggy is all bound up in respect and admiration and equality—-WHICH ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL THINGS, I LOVE YOU STEVE. But for Peggy? Loving Steve seems to be about remembering that the weakest man she ever knew was so weak it circled around and became strength. Her memory of Steve is of trying when it seems impossible and, you know, the little guy dripping with hope.

(via withoutsurcease)

He’s the kind you stop save.

He’s the kind you stop save.

(via therealdeepsix)

Ok so


I couldn’t sleep therefore Ultimate Post-TWS Stucky headcanon. This got long like almost 2k what the fuck brain can I at least sleep now.


So imagine that Bucky just can’t remember anything, even after weeks of therapy and recovery, after reading every book about the Howling Commandos, watching all the videos, listening to any story Steve is willing to tell (Steve doesn’t tell him much, the stubborn bastard, insists he should have patience, it’ll come to him.)

And he’s frustrated but he trusts Steve (don’t ask him why) (it’s the puppy eyes probably also Steve’s a terrible liar) but then Steve needs to attend important Avenger business so he’s away a lot and Bucky’s alone and watches a lot of crap TV and then one night he’s watching one of these home video shows and there’s this one kid stepping on a skateboard, falling flat on his face, cue the laugh track. Bucky’s not sure how that’s funny but then again he once spent an entire afternoon laughing instead of renovating their tiny apartment after Steve had tripped over his feet – which is impressive, considering how tiny they were – and stepped right into a bucket of paint so maybe this stuff being funny was a case of you had to be there.

It hits him a moment later.

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Anonymous asked: Can I prompt you Sam/Bucky passive-aggressively competing for Steve's friendship and it ending with the two of them making out and Steve walking in like "oh. well. finally." and Bucky being sulky about it but Sam thinking it's hilarious

Steve offered Bucky his bed when he finally shows up and slept on the couch. Bucky doesn’t sleep much but the offer was nice and he closed the door so Steve could think he was sleeping.

The next morning, after Bucky finally managed to sleep for a couple hours sitting on the floor inside the door with his back up against it and a hunting knife next to his hand, he emerged to find Steve making pancakes with Sam.

Bucky frowned.

"Since when do you eat flapjacks?" he asked Steve, folding his arms.

Steve shrugged. “No rations,” he said like that explained why he liked a food Bucky definitely had a memory of him pushing away uneaten.

Sam tossed Bucky an apple. Bucky, who had idly brought the hunting knife tucked into his sweatpants, pulled it out and sliced the apple in half as it passed him by. He plucked one of the halves out of the air and bit into it.

"Apple a day keeps the doctor away," said Sam.

"Yeah, then make sure he’s getting enough,” said Bucky, pointing to Steve with the knife. Waste of time, throwing fruits his direction.

Steve rolled his eyes and threw an orange at Bucky. He sliced that one in thirds in midair just because.


Sam came over most mornings, it turned out. He always handed Steve the Sports section of the paper and read through all of the Arts.

Bucky didn’t care much about current events—regimes change and innocent blood gets spilled every day—but he liked to look over Sam’s shoulder sometimes at the paintings. The memory wasn’t solid yet, but he knew he had dreamed of museums and galleries for Steve once.

Then one morning, Sam handed him the Arts when he handed Steve the Sports.

"I’m not gonna take your—" Bucky said, appalled and a little annoyed.

Sam snorted. “You give it to me when you’re done, asshole.” He rolled his eyes. “We share.”

Bucky sighed. Sam was making such a mess of this, honestly. But there was a review of a new exhibit at MoMA and, yeah, he wanted to read that.


They went to a baseball game on Tony’s dime. Steve was enthusiastic but the crowds were bigger and louder than Bucky remembered. He hunched down in his seat and flinched each time the guy next to him bumped his arm.

Sam laughed at Steve a lot that day and threw cracker jacks at his face at least three different times. The last time emptied his box and even though there was a guy selling them walking the aisles, he insisted on going to find a concession stand.

"You’re gonna miss the game," Bucky pointed out. "I’ll go."

Sam shrugged his shoulders and looked vaguely innocent.

Bucky slipped over the side of the bleacher and scaled the column down. He snagged three boxes of cracker jacks while the concession stand guy wasn’t looking—though he never did look up—and then climbed back up the column. He took a minute nestled into the crook under the bleacher, feeling the rumble of feet and excitement above him.

He breathed in and out.

Sam took the cracker jacks knowingly. Steve pretended not to know anything.

Bucky was struck by how similar they were, his Steve and Steve’s Sam.

"Cute trick," he warned Sam in his ear later. "But save the head-shrinking for him, OK?”

Sam didn’t shrug, but he looked a little sadly at Bucky.


It came to a head when Sam came over to Steve’s apartment even though both he and Bucky knew Steve was on an assignment with Natasha somewhere top secret in Asia.

Bucky had perched in the window overlooking the crowds going in and out of Stark Tower and counting how many people looked like someone he had killed. It was an exercise that filled two purposes: it helped him remember things sharper and it made him feel things he shouldn’t forget.

"Man, you’re going to drive yourself mad doing that," said Sam quietly from behind him. He hadn’t noticed Sam come in, hadn’t registered the footsteps approaching his undefended back.

"None of your business," said Bucky mulishly. "Steve’s your business. That’s it."

Sam sighed and it sounded properly sad this time, not any of the bullshit empathy stuff he’d been throwing around recently.

"I don’t know how I can convince you that I have time for you and him,” said Sam finally.

"It’s not time I’m worried about," said Bucky. He looked back at Sam. "It’s space."

"You think there’s not room in this Tower for all three of us?" asked Sam, brow furrowed.

"Nah, not that kind of space."

He was more worried that trying to help Bucky—caring about Bucky with all his black hole of pain—might use up someone else’s heart. He’d sure as hell used up his own.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Sam seemed to understand anyway.

"More than enough space there too," he said. "Is it OK if I hug you?"

Bucky snorted.

Maybe if he was a black hole, Sam was whatever the opposite of that was. Maybe he spent heart the way Bucky spent his pain.

"Yeah, whatever," he said.