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@defectivexfragmented
please read Rules before interacting.
this is a sideblog and follow backs will come from @alwaysxinxtrouble
this blog is under serious construction so please forgive the ugliness
main muses: matthew murdock (daredevil series) clint barton (mcu - canon divergent) bucky barnes (mcu) yelena belova (mcu) request only: remy lebeau (marvel) frank castle (mcu) steve rogers (mcu)
Countdown to The Punisher: One Last Kill [25/25]
Jon Bernthal as Frank Castle/The Punisher in Daredevil Season 2 (part 1)
Charlie Cox as Matt Murdock/Daredevil Daredevil: Born Again, S02E08
continued from here {x}
Yelena is quiet for a moment after that, studying him with the same measured focus she brings to dismantling a weapon she has not decided whether to trust yet. The quinjet hums steadily around them, engines vibrating faintly beneath her boots, but her attention stays fixed on him. On the way he says freedom like it is both relief and threat.
“Conscience is useful,” she says at last, voice calm, almost thoughtful. “Keeps people from becoming completely unbearable.” The corner of her mouth twitches faintly, not quite enough to count as a smile. “Also keeps teammates from putting bullet in your head while you sleep. Important for morale.”
But the humor fades quickly.
Her gaze drifts briefly to the shield before returning to him. “You talk about leashes like they were comfort,” she says quietly, not accusing, just precise. “I understand that more than I would like.” A beat passes, slower now. “When someone decides your purpose for long enough, it becomes difficult to choose one for yourself.” Her fingers flex once against the bandage around her arm before settling again. “Freedom sounds very beautiful until you realize no one tells you who to be anymore.”
Yelena leans back lightly against the crate beside him, close enough now that the distance feels intentional instead of cautious. “But I do not think conscience makes me weak,” she adds, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies him. “I think it is why I survived without becoming monster.” There’s no judgment in the word. Just fact. “Maybe it slows me down sometimes. Maybe it hurts.” A faint shrug. “Still mine.”
Her head tilts slightly, expression sharpening with quiet curiosity again. “And for record,” she says, dry humor threading back into her tone, “if you start smiling during massacres more often, I will still consider shooting you. Just little warning between colleagues.”
@walkitoffrogers
SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES | CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENEGR
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Remy catches the movement of her hands immediately, his grin turning slow and knowing beneath the sunglasses. “Happy accident, huh?” he drawls, voice rich with amusement as her palms smooth over his stomach. “Dat’s a dangerous story to tell a man like me, chère. I might start thinkin’ you got wandering hands.”
His own tighten just slightly at her hips, not enough to trap, just enough to keep her close while he looks down at her like he’s in absolutely no rush to be anywhere else. “An’ here I was worried I’d have to work harder for your attention.” The Cajun lilt thickens around the tease, warm and effortless. “Turns out I got you lettin’ me cook for you and feelin’ me up before dessert.”
He dips his head a little closer, close enough that the brim of his sunglasses nearly brushes her forehead. “Careful, ma belle,” he murmurs, smile turning softer at the edges even as the flirtation stays sharp. “You keep lookin’ at me like dat, I’m gonna start thinkin’ dis ain’t jus’ about de food no more.”
@gallowsheart
@alwaysxinxtrouble
Steve wasn't often sent on missions to negotiate an alliance. Though he was a flawless mimic as a spy, left to his own devices, his people skills were non-existent. HYDRA had agents like Sitwell and even Pierce himself who were far more polished and convincing ass-kissers. So he wasn't sure exactly why he'd been chosen to approach Murdock, nor had he asked. It wasn't his place to question orders from a superior. If the director thought he was the best man for the job, then that was that.
Midway through the meeting, he was surprised to find he sort of liked the lawyer-- or at least as far as Steve could like someone, which came closer to a mix of admiration and respect than actual emotions. But cities were built on far less than admiration and respect. It was something to work with, in any case, and he wondered if that wasn't why Pierce had chosen him. Murdock was powerful, dangerous, a little arrogant (justifiably, perhaps, but it was a good look on him regardless). In short, he was exactly the kind of person he could see HYDRA playing well together with.
"Let's get down to bare bones, Mr. Murdock. HYDRA wants this alliance. What would it take for you to work with us?" He'd presented the usual offerings like laying out cards from a deck: power, resources, territory. Murdock had an excellent poker face though, and even Steve, skilled as he was at reading people, couldn't tell whether he was swayed by those or whether he would ask for something more, something specific. A particular enemy defeated or a toy to play with, perhaps. Everyone had a tipping point when it came to leverage, and HYDRA had given him a lot of leeway for this meeting.
A low laugh escaped Matt at that. Not loud. Not mocking. Something quieter. More dangerous. The sound lingered in the room for a moment before fading into the shadows gathered around the office. His fingers tapped once against the handle of his cane, head angled slightly toward Steve as if listening to something far more interesting than the words themselves. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said since you walked in here." The compliment shouldn't have sounded like a compliment. It didn't.
Matt leaned back again, settling deeper into his chair. Steve's heartbeat remained frustratingly steady. No fear. No deception. No panic. Just discipline and conditioning wound so tightly together they were almost impossible to separate. It made him curious. "Most people come in here convinced they know what I want." The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. "Money. Influence. Revenge. They always assume men like me are simple." His gaze remained fixed somewhere near Steve's voice. "They're usually projecting."
Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Intentional. Then Matt's expression shifted. Not softer. Sharper. "Tell me something, Rogers." His voice lowered. "When you walk back through that door tonight, what happens if this meeting fails?" There it was. The question he'd actually wanted answered. Not territory. Not resources. Not HYDRA.
His head tilted slightly. "Because you don't sound like a man negotiating from a position of authority." A faint smile appeared. "You sound like a man negotiating with consequences." His fingers stilled against the cane. "And that's interesting." The shadows in the room seemed to settle closer around him. "So before we discuss what I want..." Matt murmured. "I want to know what they're willing to do to you if you come back empty-handed."
continued from here {x}
Bucky lets himself be guided this time without the usual instinct to resist it. Maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s Steve’s hands on him, steady and sure in a way that makes something deep in his chest unclench. Probably both. He stays close as Steve walks them backward, fingers still twisted tight in his shirt like letting go would mean waking up from this too soon.
“Sweetheart,” he repeats softly, the word catching him completely off guard. A quiet, almost disbelieving laugh slips out of him, warm against Steve’s throat. “Jesus, Rogers.” There’s no teasing bite to it this time, just raw affection and the dizzy kind of wonder that comes from hearing something you’ve wanted for too long. His head tips back just enough to look at him properly, eyes glassy from the alcohol but painfully sincere. “You can’t just say things like that to me.”
The back of his knees bump the mattress a second later, throwing off what little balance he still had. Bucky drops onto the bed with a graceless bounce, dragging Steve halfway down with him because he never loosened his grip on his shirt. A startled laugh bursts out of him, brighter now, freer than before, and he looks up at Steve like he can’t believe this is real either.
“C’mere,” he murmurs immediately, reaching for him again before there’s even space between them. His hands slide up Steve’s arms, slower now, more careful despite the alcohol fuzzing the edges of everything. “You promised me goodnight kisses. Don’t go getting responsible on me now.”
@walkitoffrogers
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Bucky catches it immediately—not consciously, just instinct. A shift, a fraction too much space, an opening that shouldn’t be there. He moves without hesitation, fast and sharp, metal hand snapping out to catch Steve’s wrist while his shoulder drives in, aiming to turn him and take him down before the moment closes. He takes it, clean and decisive, momentum carrying them both a step before he redirects it, angling Steve off balance and grounding himself in the movement.
They end up close anyway—closer than planned. Bucky’s grip tightens for half a second before easing, breath coming a little too fast, heat still rolling off him in waves. He huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through. “You left that open,” he mutters, voice rough but steadier now, eyes flicking up to meet Steve’s. There’s a spark of satisfaction there, even through the burn.
His head tilts slightly, the desire building up inside him starting to overwhelm. “You’re better than that,” he adds, quieter. “Or you think I am.”
@walkitoffrogers
continued from here {x}
Bucky stills, but it’s not the same kind of stillness as before. There’s no recognition in it—no flicker of something half-remembered. Just focus. Concern. The kind that comes from someone trying to make sense of a shift he doesn’t understand. His thumb slows against Steve’s hand, then stills completely.
“Steve,” he says quietly, brows pulling together as he studies his face. “What do you mean ‘sooner’?” There’s a small, confused huff of breath, not dismissive—just thrown. “You did tell me. You’ve been telling me.” His grip tightens slightly, grounding, like maybe Steve just needs something solid to hold onto. “You told me this morning when you couldn’t find your keys. Yesterday when Emily spilled juice all over the couch. Last week when you burned dinner and tried to pretend you didn’t.” A faint, soft smile flickers, trying to lighten it, but it doesn’t quite land.
The question about fear lingers, and this time Bucky doesn’t dodge it. He exhales slowly, gaze dropping for a second before coming back to Steve. “Yeah,” he admits, quieter now. “I am.” Honest, even if he doesn’t fully understand why Steve is asking it like this. “You don’t build a life like this and not think about losing it.” His hand lifts, covering Steve’s where it rests against his face, holding it there like he can anchor him back into place. “But that’s not what this feels like. You’re talking like… like none of this counts.”
Bucky shifts closer without thinking, closing the space between them, his voice softer now, more certain even if the confusion hasn’t gone anywhere. “It does,” he says firmly. “This—us, Emily, this house—it’s real because we’re in it. Because we made it.” His gaze searches Steve’s, steady, grounding. “You don’t have to be scared you’re gonna wake up and I won’t be here. I will.”
His fingers tighten just slightly around Steve’s. “You’re not losing me,” he adds, gentler now. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
@walkitoffrogers
continued from here {x}
Clint barked out a laugh at that, sharp enough to echo lightly off the rooftop walls before he dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Barnes,” he muttered through the grin still pulling at his mouth. “You say the sweetest things to me.” The image alone nearly took him out—Bucky sitting there deadly serious while Clint derailed the moment with the world’s least subtle joke. Which, honestly, was painfully on brand for both of them.
“Also, for the record?” Clint added, pointing lazily at him with their still-joined hands. “The fact that you immediately knew exactly where my brain was going says way more about you than me.” His expression softened a little as Bucky kissed his knuckles, the teasing easing into something quieter for a second. Affection settled warm and heavy in his chest, familiar enough now that it didn’t scare him the way it used to.
The trust lands harder than the flirting does.
Clint’s smile flickered at the edges, smaller now, more real. He looked down briefly at their hands before back up at Bucky, eyes gentler than his mouth ever managed to be. “Yeah?” he asked softly, like he needed to hear it once more just to let himself believe it. Then he huffed a breath through his nose, bumping his boot harder against Bucky’s chair. “Well. That’s inconveniently mutual.”
A beat passed before the crooked grin came back, impossible to keep away for long. “And excuse you,” Clint continued, recovering smoothly as he leaned back again, “I contain multitudes. I can appreciate dramatic emotional vulnerability and make a blowjob joke at the same time.” His brows lifted. “That’s range, baby.”
He leaned back a little too far with the smugness of someone fully committed to the bit, the old lawn chair giving a loud, threatening creak beneath him. Clint’s eyes widened instantly. “Oh, shit—” His arms windmilled wildly for balance, one leg kicking out as the chair tilted hard enough to nearly dump him onto the rooftop before it slammed back down flat with a violent wobble.
There was a stunned beat of silence.
Then Clint pointed accusingly at the chair like it had personally betrayed him. “You saw that,” he said, deeply offended. “That was attempted murder.”
@vvolfstare
The second Matt stepped inside Wayne Manor, he knew something about it was wrong. Not dangerous wrong. Hidden wrong. The mansion stretched far beyond what the outside suggested, not just upward in towering ceilings and sprawling halls, but downward. Deep underground. The vibrations beneath polished floors carried farther than they should have, layered with the low electrical hum of machinery expensive enough to sound almost surgical. Alfred had taken his luggage with polite efficiency, introducing himself before disappearing to fetch the master of the house, leaving Matt standing alone with the growing realization that this place was far more than a billionaire’s home.
Because basements weren’t supposed to sound like this. Matt’s head tilted slightly as his senses mapped the massive underground space around him. The echo was cavernous, uneven stone swallowing some sounds while polished metal reflected others back sharp and clean. Computers. Multiple engines. One significantly larger than the others. Hydraulic systems. The faint lingering scent of oil, ozone, carbon fiber, gunpowder. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly beneath the dark lenses.
"Hello, Mister Wayne. I’m Matthew Murdock. Nice to meet you.” Holding out his hand in the general direction of the approaching footsteps, Matt waited patiently for impending handshake, cane in his other hand. Of course he knew it wasn't Bruce Wayne standing in front of him, but a blind man wouldn't. Though he already knew just how far away his client was as well as his hand being slightly off to the side of his direction, it was all apart of the act he had to play; a blind lawyer. He hated it but it was necessary.
@inkdevourer
Florence Pugh | Bvlgari Eclettica Unveiling Event in Milan, Italy | March 28, 2026 | 📷 Alex Babsky
At some point, Clint had gotten roped into hunting down Bucky Barnes with Steve and Sam. Though, unlike the new dynamic duo, he preferred to work by himself, at least when Natasha wasn’t around and god only knew where she was at the moment. Several months in and he got a message they were headed to London for Peggy Carter’s funeral, giving his condolences he then reporting back he was in Bucharest following up on a lead. A lead that had been the biggest pain in his ass to get but if it meant that much effort to get in the first place, then it was most likely a good one so he wasn’t going to pass on it.
The apartment was surprisingly small, one he didn’t exactly expect to be used as a safe house but he wasn’t exactly one to judge another their living arrangements since he didn’t live anywhere, constantly bouncing from motel to motel. Clint walked around the room slowly, looking for anything lying out that would confirm Barnes was living there, not exactly willing to start digging through his stuff just yet. Though the question was quickly answered when he realized he was no longer alone in the room, glancing over his shoulder to his query standing there staring at him.
“Oh shit…” The archer muttered to himself, slowly turning to face the Winter Soldier with his hands out in front of him and palms up, trying to show he meant no threat. “Now, I know this looks really bad but I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to help.” No reason at all to kill me. “Steve isn’t here. He doesn’t know you’re here. No one does. Just me, alright? So let’s stay relatively calm about all this.” It was hard to stay calm when he literally gave the Winter Soldier a reason not to remain calm, a reason to kill him. He was the only person who knew Barnes was there.
“Like I said Barnes, I’m here to help you.”
@owinterer
continued from here {x}
Bucky glances back at the question as he leads him down the hallway, the low lights catching against the metal of his arm for a brief second before shadow swallows it again. “Couple years,” he answers easily. “Long enough to know which customers are trouble and which ones just wanna pretend they are.” There’s a flicker of amusement in his voice, subtle but real. “You don’t strike me as the second type.”
The bass from downstairs fades the farther they walk, leaving behind something quieter, more intimate. The muffled pulse of music still hums through the floor, but up here it feels distant, separated from the haze and noise below. Bucky slows near one of the doors, not opening it immediately. Instead, he leans one shoulder lightly against the frame and looks at Brom properly again, like he’s still figuring him out.
“You ask a lotta questions for somebody paying by the hour,” he says lightly, though there’s no annoyance in it. If anything, he sounds curious. His gaze drifts briefly over Brom’s face, catching the tension there, the way he watches the hallway, the guards, the structure of the place itself. “Most people come up here trying not to think too hard. You don’t seem very good at that.”
Then his mouth curves slightly at one corner, softer now, less performance than before. “Not that I’m complaining.” He pushes off the wall and opens the door, holding it for him. “C’mon. You can interrogate me inside.”
@gallowsheart
Bucky was still trying to decide if he’d hit his head harder than he thought. He sat halfway up the narrow staircase leading to the loft, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the front door like it might start explaining things on its own. The cabin smelled like cut wood and cold air and something faintly metallic from the stove downstairs. He was still wearing his Howling Commandos uniform from when he was taken from the mountain side of Austrian Alps. Boots laced. Gear strapped. Blue jacket snug over his shoulders like he might need to head back out any second. The cabin was warmer now, Steve had lit the woodstove the moment they arrived, but the heat hadn’t quite settled into Bucky’s bones yet.
Through the small windows he could see nothing but snow and trees and more snow. No roads. No neighbors. Just silence. Off the grid, Steve had said. Isolated. Safe. Protected. Why those were so important were beyond him. It was from the bustling city or the haggard camps he was used to.
Bucky’s eyes slid to him now standing between him and the door like a barrier. Same frame. Same voice. Same stubborn tilt of the chin. But older. Beard. Hair brushing his collar. Something heavier in his posture, like the world had leaned on him too long. Bucky hadn’t decided yet whether he trusted him. Saving him from falling off a train didn’t automatically earn that.
He’d barely finished running his fingers over the strange little glowing rectangle Steve had called a “phone” — marveling at how thin it was, how the screen lit up without wires — when the front door opened. Bucky was on his feet before he thought about it, hand dropping to his pistol.
Two more Steves stepped inside.
The first looked like he was brand new; broad-shouldered, bare-chested, only wearing pants, still carrying that newness in the way he stood. Clean lines. Open expression. The version of Steve that still looked like he believed the war would end clean.
The second wore the uniform. Star on his chest. Clean-shaven. Perfectly put together. Calm. Familiar in a way that hit Bucky square in the ribs. The Steve the country would salute.
Bearded Steve moved forward to speak to them, voice low and controlled. Bucky didn’t catch all of it. He was too busy taking inventory. Three different versions. Three different weights in their eyes. Same face. When the talking stopped, the silence stretched awkward and thick.
Bucky let out a breath and pushed off the stair, coming down the rest of the way. The stove crackled behind him as he shrugged out of his blue jacket, the motion automatic, familiar. He tossed it over the banister at the bottom of the stairs without looking. The weight of it all finally settled in his chest.
Three Steves.
Three versions of the same man he’d known longer than he’d known himself. His mind kept trying to correct the image, like it was a trick of light, or a stress dream he’d wake up from in a freezing train car. He felt untethered yanked out of his own timeline, standing in a log cabin that smelled like smoke and pine instead of gunpowder and snow. The war had been loud and simple: move forward, survive, protect Steve. This was none of those things. This was quiet. Complicated. And for the first time since bearded Steve had dragged him out of his own morning, Bucky felt something close to vertigo—not from the future, not from the cabin, but from the realization that the man he’d follow anywhere now stood in front of him three times over.
“…Alright,” he said finally, voice dry but steady, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed over his chest. “What should I call all of you?” His eyes flicked between them. "Because ‘Steve’ seems like it’s about to get really confusing and I’m about to start numbering you.”
@walkitoffrogers
The room goes very still after that. Bucky doesn’t look at Nomad first. He looks at Steve. Bucky dies? The words land like a physical blow coming from him. Steve says it with genuine disbelief, like the idea itself is impossible, like the universe should rearrange around it before letting that happen. Something in Bucky’s chest twists painfully at the sound.
“Hey,” he says automatically, the reassurance leaving him before he can stop it. His voice softens instantly, stripped clean of the harder edge he’d been holding onto with the others. “Stevie…” The nickname slips out on instinct alone. Familiar. Grounding. “I’m alright.”
But the words feel strange in his own mouth now because Nomad said worse than dead.
Bucky’s gaze drifts back toward him slowly, like his brain is having trouble catching up to what he just heard. HYDRA captures you. HYDRA flourishes for decades. I couldn’t let them have you.
For a second he genuinely can’t seem to process it.
“No,” Bucky says quietly, but there’s no conviction behind it yet. Just shock. “No, that doesn’t…” His jaw tightens hard enough to hurt as he stares at Nomad, trying to force the pieces into some shape that makes sense. Zola captured. Peggy compromised. HYDRA surviving the war. Everything they fought for hollowed out from the inside.
The room suddenly feels too small.
Bucky drags a hand over his mouth, breathing once through his nose like he’s trying to steady himself before the ground fully disappears underneath him. “You’re saying we lose,” he says finally, voice rough around the edges now. “Not the mission. The whole damn thing.” His eyes flick briefly toward Steve again, softer there despite everything unraveling in his head. “And somehow I’m part of it.”
That lands hardest of all. Not death. Not even capture. The possibility that somewhere ahead of him exists a version of himself HYDRA gets to keep.
"I need a drink." Not waiting, he brushes past Nomad and heads into the kitchen with several long strides, immediately pulling open cabinet after cabinet, looking for a bottle of anything to help all of this go down.
