#virxbonus

[ofironflesharchived-blog]

virxbonus

        “ DON’T ASK what’s in this glass. “ 

[warcompass-archive]

( x ) virxbonus

             ❝ a -- a bar fight? may i ask what the                  BLOODY   hell    you  were   doing                                 fighting in a bar? ❞

[wxnterbarnes-blog]

virxbonus

     Even through socks does the chill of the tiled floor seep through,       blossoming with each step and radiating where the pressure hits his       soles. Surely it isn't that cold, as his friend isn't wearing more than a       tee shirt, so the source of his lingering cold can't be identified. It's       enough to make him drag the heaviest blanket off the surface of his       bed and he pulls it around him, lowering himself onto the ground next       to the blond. The sleeves of his own hoodie are tugged down to conceal       his hands as he curls beside his friend and completely wraps himself in       the blanket. His limbs, entangled in the sheet, just barely brush against       the other, yet he can feel the heat through the barrier; maybe that'll be       enough with a few minutes of wait time. 

[ofswordsandthunder-blog1]

+3

"- Are you here for my father?"

[scaledmetamorph]

virxbonus

"---So, I'm guessing you're A m e r i c a n?"

[hacktxvist-blog]

virxbonus

           ❝i'm trying to beat my              best hack time. how              important is it?❞

[fallencomrade-a]

172. “There is always a choice!”

     Steve stares. Swallows hard. Unable      to remove his eyes from this man, the      same man he grew up with. The same      man that patched him up over a good      two hundred times, before he started      to learn how to punch back.

         He’s leaving.

         again.

    Fuming, the golden haired male shakes     his head left to right, jaw dead set. Pissed     beyond belief. Because damn him, he should’ve     known. 

    "Don’t you blame it on them.     Don’t you try and pretend you     don’t have a choice.” He does     NOT allow himself to let his eyes     water. 

             “There is always a choice. Make it              for yourself.”

             Anger coils like a snake in his stomach - burning, flaring until               his entire body feels as if it is being consumed by fire, expelling              technique, instinct, and sense and leaving behind something raw               and exposed and enraged. The Winter Soldier hums beneath the              fury, clinging to it in order to coerce submission, and the man -              the ghost tied down beneath the violence and static and pain -              recognizes the pattern and desperately attempts to cut it off at              the head.  

                                       If he must disappear into himself to                                        prevent the Soldier from killing Steve,                                                                   ------------ he will.  

             The anger begins to ebb away, numbing apathy loosening the              tension that had formed in his shoulders and along the length              of his back. His metal hand unclenches and when he finally              finds the voice to respond, his head is bent low, hair hanging               and curtaining his empty expression. 

                                 ❝ A  w e a p o n  does                                       not have  c h o i c e . ❞