LOOK AT HOW THORIN SLIDES OUT ON THE END
no one should scroll past this
thinkin about your OTP in public
if you ever got married and loved your husband very much and sebastian stan knocked on your door in the middle of the night and told you he wanted you you’d dump your husband and go frick frack stan forever don’t deny it
imagine bucky before the war, poor as hell but always determined to look good, always determined to buy a dame a drink even if it meant he couldn’t take a cab back home. he always slicked back his hair and made sure every night to shine his shoes and press his shirts and steve always gave him shit for it, would always yell things like “jesus bucky you off to meet the president or somethin?” and “why the hell are you wearin your nice slacks? it’s almost 90 degrees outside ya punk.” bucky would just smile winningly and reply “you know i’ve always gotta be ready to impress a lovely lady stevie.”
when they’re fighting in the war bucky finds a way to keep his hair nice and his clothes looking sharp, even though there aren’t really any dames to impress anymore
the winter soldier has no concept of self worth because he does not belong to himself. his trainers have not instilled in him a desire to care for himself other than the essentials: bandaging wounds, stitching cuts, digging bullets out of his scarred flesh. he does these things because they are necessary. there is no tactical advantage to washing his hair so he does not. there is no merit in shining in his boots so he doesn’t waste the time to do so. if his clothes somehow impair his ability to fight and shoot and kill then he will fix it in the most prudent way possible with no regard as to how he looks because he wasn’t programmed to
after months of rediscovering himself, months of running and hiding and killing (only those he chose to, and only those that deserved it), months of slowly regaining his memories (steve, frame tiny but determined, hugging him one last time before he shipped off; steve, standing over him, bigger than he remembered, though he was always so much bigger than other people gave him credit for; steve, reaching reaching reaching for him on a train in the middle of winter but not being able to reach far enough; he remembers falling, but not what comes after, not for a long time; when he does remember, it’s - well. death would be kinder), months of avoiding steve and natalia (or is she natasha now?) and the man with wings. after months of this, he’s finally ready to turn himself in, to sit down and talk instead of run. so he goes to a barber shop (nothing fancy, just a local, family-run business smack in the middle of brooklyn) and asks for a haircut, something that’ll make him look nice and respectable - he’s got someone he wants to impress
i imagine both steve and bucky like to come up with different ways to poke fun at sam every time they pass him during jogging
because they are shitheads
(the first one is a print you can get here)
continued from (x):
what if one day Bucky forgets to take off his eyeliner before he gets in the shower and then he catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror and just sees the makeup smudged around his eyes and his hair is long and hanging around his face and he forgets how to breathe because he’d forgotten what he’d looked like before and even though the Bucky in the mirror is so different from the Bucky that was the Winter Soldier all he can see are the similarities and when Steve breaks down the door ten minutes later he finds Bucky sitting on the floor, curled up, breathing hard, and when Steve wraps his arms around him it feels too much like restraints and Bucky shouts and thrashes and Steve can see the new marks on his arms from where he’d been gripping himself too hard, trying to hold himself together, and when Bucky’s breathing returns to normal he meets Steve’s eyes and they sit there together in silence, just watching each other. The next morning Bucky emerges from the bathroom as usual, eyeliner perfect, and his face is determined. He will not let one incident stop him. He will not forget himself ever again.
He’s not sure when he first notices it. Maybe it’s the slight uncomfortable feeling he gets when he looks in the mirror; like there’s something missing. Maybe it’s watching Natasha do her makeup one morning, painstakingly drawing dark lines onto her eyelids and painting her lashes with mascara. Maybe it’s watching TV with her and seeing a man – tall and muscular, with dark smudges around his eyes.
“Wait,” he says, turning to Natasha. “Guys can do that too?”
“Do what?” she asks absently, stirring her coke with the straw.