Winterbones - Blog Posts
The Asset is not allowed to touch people, but sometimes he has permission to touch his Commander.
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Some days he misses the Commander so much, death is calling his name, whispering it in his head like relief, crawling out of the darkest parts of his brain.
The brain that is left, the one that might've taken too many shocks, too much electricity, too much brainwashing and all that is left is the ruins, the forgotten and decayed city that is left of what was once James Barnes.
People call him all types of things. War hero. Sergeant. An honorable veteran. A staring machine. A friend even. None of those things feel like him.
He rejects it violently and neither Sam, nor his therapist or the wakandans ever even caught a glimpse. Because how could they? They all assume that's what he wants to be, even if right now he does not see himself as any of it.
What they don't know, what haunts him every night, is the Commander' touch on his clammy neck, his rough voice in his ear, sharp tang of blood and sweat and sex, his own screams and moans echoing in his skull and a deep emptiness aching inside of him.
The dreams never stop.
The longing never stops.
Longing.
Ironic isn't it, he thinks with a bitter smile.
He would give anything to be able to be his Commander's Soldier again. To go back to the ease and the clarity and the pain. The painful lust that turns into floating bliss and soft whispers, his reward for being good.
He will never get a reward again. He will never be able to please anyone again, because no one uses him anymore, like he was meant to. His purpose is gone. And so is the man that gave it to him.
The dread and panic spills out of him violently when he heaves over the toilet in the middle of the night.
The Commander is dead. He will not come back for him. He will never be able to be himself again.
It's a life sentence. A sentence he is not sure he can endure, not knowing how long it will be, because he is not human, not anymore. He is what they made him and he is out of time, out of place, out of control.
He fears it will take forever.
And his nights feel endless as he sits with the painful longing, cold sweat on his body, as the ghost of his Commander's voice joins his scrambled thoughts.
Memories.
He sobs.
He doesn't stop until the sun comes up.
I love drawing Rumlow and his scarred face.
(Full pic on patreon)