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stanknotstark · 4 years ago

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Curse Her (No Really)

So that’s the look i imagine is on Loki’s face when he’s like “Can’t know what?” Anyways I had this idea yesterday after thinking about how I grew into an allergy to acrylic. It started off as an idea to grow into an allergy to gold but then i was like NO what if Amora cursed you instead and just ran with it lol Also Uno is totally the Monopoly of card games, I play it with my friends online and there is constant back stabbing and yelling 😂

P.S. I nearly said pus-y but spelled it as pu$$y and just barely caught it holy cow that could have been bad 🤣

Summary: Amora curses you so you can’t wear gold anymore, the metal being Loki’s favorite type of jewelry to gift you and see you wear with pride. You don’t want to tell him because you’re strong and independent and can figure this out without him, right?

In hindsight you should have seen this coming, honestly.

You sit in the lab with Tony, you on his table, your legs dangling, and Tony in his seat looking over the holoscreen in front of him with a frown. Bruce is out of town being the humanitarian he is so Tony is left with the job of running scans on those who are affected in battle. You’re just lucky Loki joined the team and helped Tony and Bruce make machines that can scan magic.

“She cast a spell so you can’t wear gold anymore?” Tony says, his frown deepening. “That’s...a stupid curse.” Tony says looking a bit bewildered.

You let out a bitter chuckle. “She’s jealous that Loki is with me and knows that he loves to gift his sweethearts gold jewelry,” You tell the genius with a roll of your eyes. You look at the ground and sigh. “I suppose I should keep this a secret because if Loki finds out he’ll hunt down Amora and attack her. The last thing I want is Amora teasing me for not being able to fight my own fights.”

“That is a horrible idea,” Tony pips up looking at you sympathetically. “However, as the resident, number one placeholder of bad ideas, I say do exactly that if you’re really that turned off by some teasing.” Tony says, half heartedly trying to convince you to not follow through with this plan but knowing he failed by the pinched look on your face.

It only takes two days. Two. For Loki to realize you’re not wearing his jewelry.

You’re lucky he realizes while in the middle of a team bonding activity, card games.

“Darling, where’s your necklace?” Loki asks lightly as he watches Steve put down a reverse card so instead of being Clint’s turn it’s Tony’s. Clint responds by calling Steve a buttface causing Steve to laugh out of shock.

Your eyes flick over to Tony’s, whose eyes meet yours for a second before you’re both looking at the cards on the floor again. You don’t notice it but Loki definitely noticed the look you both shared but chooses to ignore it.

“I’m letting it soak, it needed to be cleaned and polished.” You easily slip the lie out of your lips. When you look at Loki you’re lucky he isn’t looking at you at first because he can usually read your lies. As he skims his eyes back over to you you let a soft smile slide over your lips to which the god answers with a tilt of his lips.

When he looks away you swallow, Tony catching your eyes and raising his eyebrows.

Tell him. Tony’s eyes flash.

Not right now! You push back through your eyes and a small shake of your head.

Tony rolls his eyes and that’s the end of that silent conversation.

The subject isn’t brought up again until the fourth day.

You know Loki has definitely caught on to the fact that you stay in Tony’s lab a lot recently but you’re thankful he doesn’t ask questions about it.

“Where are your rings?” Loki outright asks, grabbing your hand and rubbing over your fingers with his thumb, his face in a slight frown as he looks at your bare hands. He notes that you wear silver bangles instead of your usual gold.

You both are getting ready for a press release about Amora’s attack and usually you love to flash your jewelry to the public, as if yelling from the roof tops that Loki is yours when you’re adorned in his colors and gifts.

“I, uh, lost them,” You mutter out, playing it up and acting ashamed with your flushed cheeks and pulling your hand from Loki’s to hug yourself. “I’m sorry, I’ll find them though.” You bite your lip looking at Loki’s face. The god smiles tenderly and brings his hand up to caress at your jaw.

“It is fine. I will help you look for them when we have the time.” Loki tells you, his hand falling from your face to grab your hand and lead you from the room.

You totally miss the disappointed frown that passes over Loki’s face as you pass the dresser in the room and he sees the rings laying there.

By the sixth day Loki hasn’t said anything else about your missing jewelry. However, yesterday, a day after the press release, Loki had left your rings on your night stand without another word about them.

You can tell Loki is pulling from you, putting up walls that you had worked so hard to demolish. He seems more standoffish and irritated now if his scathing remarks to the team are a tell. You really should just tell him what’s going on but you’re stubborn.

Today, you sit with Tony in the lab hoping he’ll find a way to make this stupid curse just disappear. While you could wear the gold it would leave you with a noticeable rash within a few hours and if worn long enough pockets of pus appear. If Loki noticed that he would start asking questions you can’t, or rather don’t want to, answer

“I think we need to tell him, I’m honestly lost,” Tony says swiveling in his chair to look at you. “Magic isn’t my forte, it’s Loki’s.” He explains as if you don’t know that.

“Tony, Amora will never let me live this down. She will always belittle me for being weak and having to ask for help to figure this out.”

“Technically you’ve already asked for help...” Tony points out hesitantly.

“This is different. She will call me dependent on Loki, like I wasn’t a threat before he came along and I’m his little damsel in distress,” You say letting out a frustrated growl and covering your face with your hands. “I don’t know how to explain what I mean, ok, I just can’t tell Loki.”

“Uh...” Is all Tony says as you failed to notice someone else came into the lab.

“Look, I love Loki but he can’t know.” You say with finality, letting your hands drop.

“Loki can’t know what, exactly?” Loki asks in a smooth but dangerously low tone.

You gasp, jumping a little in your spot on Tony’s work table. Your eyes are wide as saucers and you’re sure you can feel the blood from your face leave.

Loki stands a few feet away with his arms crossed and a pissed look on his face.

The room is incredibly silent, the tension able to be cut with a dull butter knife. You’re lucky Tony comes to save you.

Tony sighs, brings a hand up to rub through his hair and looks at Loki with a grimace as if dreading to tell Loki a, false, secret.

Wow he was a great actor, shouldn’t be surprising considering he grew up under the paparazzi’s thumb but to see it in action? It’s shocking.

“She wants me to build her some armor. Says she feels inadequate next to all of us since she doesn’t have powers or anything cool other than pistols.” Tony, falsely, admits.

Loki frowns at Tony before his eyes slide over to you looking to see if Tony speaks the truth. You quickly make yourself believe Tony’s lie, putting on your brave face as you look at the God of Lies in the eyes.

You know you’ve succeeded because Loki drops his arms and walks over to you. Tony moves away to tinker with something else in his lab, giving you both space, and quickly flicking the holoscreen he had been looking at away before Loki gets a close look at it and it reveals your secret.

Loki spreads your knees so he may stand between your legs and brings a hand up to grip your chin and make you look up at him.

“You will never be inadequate. You deserve a spot on this team, powers or not. You are a formidable warrior and I’m honored to be able to fight by your side,” Loki tells you, his voice strong and confident, his eyes filled with love. “Why would you hide this from me?” He then whispers, his eyebrows stitched together in a hurt look.

You swallow the lump in your throat and consider telling Loki the truth as you look into his eyes and see how much he truly loves you. How much it hurts him to know you’ve been lying to his face.

“I-”

Suddenly the tower’s klaxons are roaring to life and causing the moment to be broken. You, Loki, and Tony stand at attention.

“Sir, Amora has breeched your defenses, she is fighting Mr. Rogers and Odinson on floor 84. I believe they have it handled though.” Jarvis supplies you all.

You and Loki quickly make your way to the floor, Tony lagging behind to put on his suit.

When you get there Steve and Thor have Amora bound with magic resistant cuffs as she kneels on the ground between them. When she sees you her eyes light up at the fact you are without any jewelry and gives a dark laugh.

“You haven’t rid yourself of my curse? I figured Loki would break it within 24 hours. You’re losing your touch aren’t you, mage?” Amora says looking over to Loki with a perfectly coiffed eyebrow raised in question.

Loki looks over to you with confusion on his face and you sigh. Of course the bitch had to ruin everything you’ve been avoiding.

“Oh,” Amora says, her face slack with shock. Then it splits into an evil grin. “He doesn’t know?”

You glance at Loki who is looking between the two of you with avid interest. Steve and Thor look confused as well. Tony’s suit clanks over to Amora and slaps a magic resistant gag over her mouth, giving you a look that tells you you need to tell Loki everything, now.

Steve, Thor and Tony leave with Amora leaving you in the silent room with a very confused Loki.

“What does she speak of?” Loki finally asks when you refuse to give him anything as you stand there looking at the ground like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “You’re cursed?” Loki asks, concern laced in his words causing you to feel worse.

You let a tear drop from your eye, blowing out a deep breath and looking at Loki.

“She cursed me so I can’t wear gold without getting a bad rash and pus pockets.” You let the words tumble out of your lips, a small hiccup coming out of your mouth at the end of the sentence.

Loki frowns at you, obviously wanting to comfort you but doesn’t reach for you yet. “That is why you haven’t been wearing my jewelry?” Loki asks for confirmation.

You nod, bringing a hand up to wipe at your tears.

You don’t expect it but Loki quickly envelops you into his arms in a crushing hug. One hand holding your head to his chest, the other rubbing over your back. His body relaxing into yours as if relieved.

“You’re not mad?” You ask the god shakily, your words hitting his chest as puffs of air from your mouth. You bring your arms up and hug Loki back.

“Darling, I thought you had grown tired of me, that you were slipping from my grasps, that you were going to ask to split any day now.” Loki says into your hair where he litters kisses. “I thought you had fallen for Tony.” Loki explains his own voice wavering a bit at the confession.

“What,” You say shocked, your arms squeezing Loki tighter at the realization of the hurt you put Loki through this past week, “No, never, Tony is my friend. I just didn’t want to have to be saved by you all the time. I don’t want to be your damsel in distress. I want us both to be dependent but also independent, that’s all.” You explain into Loki’s chest, your body now shaking with the emotions that overwhelm you.

Loki lets out a relieved laugh, pulling away just enough so he may look down at you. “You will never be a damsel in distress, with need of my help or not. I told you, you are formidable on your own, a warrior with a brave spirit.”

Suddenly you feel really stupid. Amora had gotten inside your head and screwed everything up. Loki was right, as he usually is.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Can you please break this curse so I can wear your jewelry again? I miss it, a lot.” You ask of Loki who only smiles at you fondly and nods.

“Of course, darling.”

#loki x reader #loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #my writing

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weaver-z · 5 years ago

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Birthmark

A short horror story by B.E.

The women in my family have port-wine birthmarks, but none ever had any as strange as mine.

Not even my mother, who had one that stretched across her forehead like a bloodshot eye, the pale sclera-white of her skin visible under the glaze of reddish violet. She told me, when I was very young, that my grandmother had one, too, along the back of her head--she, unlike us, had been lucky enough to have one that could be hidden under a bonnet, though her blonde hair still revealed it in the summertime.

“Can I see the ones on the legs?” Thomas asks, chewing the inside of his cheek like a cow chewing its cud. I allow it, even though I am a girl, because Thomas and I are friends, alone in the center of a field of tall summer alfalfa. I can feel his eyes boring into the marks on me in fascination, as he moves around me to see my arms, at the marks on those.

“I like the winter best,” I say, pulling my skirt up. “Pa hates it. But I like it, because I can cover all of ‘em up with my clothes, even the ones on my arms.”

“They’re not so bad,” he says. “They’re not on your face, at least.

“Guess so.”

He sits in front of me in the clear space between the eden-green strands of the grass, looking down at the marks on my legs. They are strange, wobbling lines, not blotches or patches--the lowest two are at my knees, lines that wrap around the joint like the borders of a county.

There are two more on my upper thighs, though I don’t show Thomas those--he’s still a boy, and even though he looks at my markings with nothing but fascination, I still feel a little kernel of shame rubbing at the walls of my chest. The arms are easier to show to him--there are only two marks, just too low to be covered by my short sleeves, broad and awkward unevenly-stamped lines.

“So you’ve got more? On your back?” Thomas asks, sitting on his haunches, looking at me with intent, dust-brown eyes too large for his face.

“Yes. Almost like a corset,” I say, “like a nice corset, the kind rich ladies wear with their jewels. One on my waist, like a belt. One below my shoulders. Oh, and a line down my back, a kinda wobbly one.”

“Like the laced-up part of the corset,” he says, and I nod, happy that he understands. Most boys who live in these parts wouldn’t. He moves around me, and I sit straight, lifting my long frigid-blonde braid so that he can see the very top of the line that travels down my spine, the source of the splotchy red-and-purple river.

“You ever wish that you could have them wiped off?” He asks. “I heard that God sometimes grants big miracles if you pray for ‘em enough.”

“Maybe,” I say, doubtful. “I’ve tried it. Pa makes me pray each night, but nothing seems to work.”

“Shame about that. Real shame. Maybe God’s busy with somethin’ else--” he says, and suddenly a gunshot rings out in the distance.

He freezes, pupils dilating like a rabbit that hears a hawk, and I scramble for my boots, forcing them on over the crumbles of mud on my feet. We can both hear Pa, coming through the brush, forcing his way through it with snaps and tears and nearly inarticulate grumbling. Thomas is off like a shot, running almost on all fours as he crouches, and by the time my father reaches me, panting and huddled in the grass, my friend is nothing but a mole-trail disturbing distant strands.

Pa is a tall man--though I inherited his height, I’m only 13, and he towers over me, so broad and heavy that I am thin as grass and summer wind below him. I stand, looking up at him with a look that must look shameful, and he lowers the rifle to point at the earth, face still and steely with malice.

“I told you I didn’t want no boys ‘round,” he says, voice thick, like smoke from a bonfire. “Told you I didn’t want you foolin’ round like a little whore.”

“He didn’t do nothin’,” I say, arms wrapped around my chest. “Honest.”

“Who was it, then? And why didn’t he come see me, an’ ask if he could talk to you?” He takes my arm--not tightly, but with such strength that I couldn’t run if I tried.

“He and I met while I was out with the chickens. He was on the road going up to town.”

“Sure he was.” Pa shoves my arm away and laughs, the sound like metal clattering to a dirt floor. “Sure, the devil ‘e was. I heard him talkin’ bout your legs, girl. Didn’t hear much, but I heard that. You think you’re the pick of the meat at the market, don’t you?”

“Pa--”

“Don’t talk, pretty girl. Don’t talk, and don’t you ever try and do this again. You’re gonna pray as long as you can tonight. I want your damn tongue to fall out before you stop praying,” and he begins to move, and now the pain comes as I stumble half-backward with him, held in a vise by my arm.

“Pa, I’m sorry--”

“You ain’t sorry yet, Lu,” he says. He looks back at me, from under the shadow cast beneath his brows by the white sun overhead. “You ain’t sorry, yet.”

---

He makes me pray, that night, for hours and hours, for forgiveness, for something I never did. But the praying he makes me do that night is only meager practice for the praying I do during the winter.

Our chickens die when a coyote pack rolls through in the late days of fall, snarling and barking with a sound like mocking laughter. We salvage what corpses we can, and for a while, we eat well, but not well, because while we dine on fresh meat, the knowledge that something terrible to come hangs over us like the fog of their blood. The cattle start to go soon after, the first to a weak cover over a well (it falls in, it screams for hours), the second to a river, the third to disease, the rest tumbling like the articles like a rotting shelf soon after them.

When winter comes, we have little, so little, and my father tears into his meager dollars to buy us what we can. I am grateful to him, even as the food dries up, even as he becomes silent, frighteningly silent, staring at me above the candle that lights our dinner-table with a face like a haunting.

I am not allowed to leave the house anymore.

I only cook--clean--mend--read the scraps of old newspaper used to patch the walls of the house as best I can. I make what food he finds for dinner, if he finds any, and I give more to his portion, and he says almost nothing to me except to remind me to stay in the home, to keep house and to keep out of the snowstorms and the paths of wild things. He fixes the roof and sharpens the knives--those are the only tasks he does around the house, besides force me onto my knees beside him to beg God for something for our stomachs.

And it is in cleaning that I find the box.

It is a small box, barely as long as my forearm and as shallow as the length of my hand, and it is under his bed, dislodged from a long stay deep in the shadows beneath his cot by a storm that shook the house.

I pull it slowly from beneath--it is unpainted, made of thin wood that leaves little splinters in the flesh of my thumb-joint. I remove its lid and look inside.

My mother is there, first, as I remember her--thin, short, with a look in her eyes like the hollow of a tree, unexplainably empty. The mark is clearly visible in the photograph, as she stands next to my father, mottled and dim. Neither of them are smiling. They are younger in this photograph--it is blurry, hard to make out.

Beneath that is a scrap of newspaper that I have a hard time understanding for a moment.

Mrs. Mary J. Letts, 68; Wife and Mother

We regret to announce the death of Mrs. Letts, wife of Mr. Roger Letts and mother to Mabelle Letts, which took place last Thursday due to a tragic accident involving an injury sustained to her head while riding. She is survived by her husband and daughter.

The paper cuts off there. I don’t recognize the name of Letts, and the paper is old; I continue reading as I find another scrap.

Mrs. Mabelle Dawson, 36; Wife and Mother

We regret to announce the death of Mrs. Dawson, who is survived by her husband, Mr. Arnold Dawson, and her young daughter, Lucy Dawson. Their family has our greatest sympathies. She was killed accidentally as she was cleaning a weapon owned by Mr. Arnold Dawson, who claims deepest regret that

I feel my mouth run dry and my pulse hammer against my skin like stone against a drum. That is my mother’s name--that is my name, too, faint against the paper. I don’t understand why these things are in the box, among other pictures and portraits of my mother, and, unmistakably, my mother’s mother, whose mark is just visible in one small portrait of her, clearly done by an amateur hand. I can imagine how it stretched across the back of her head, branching along her skull--I can see my own mother’s mark, clearly, in the center of her forehead.

I feel cold as the wooden floor under my feet as my eyes trace the border of the mark on her forehead for the first time.

“Lu?” my father calls, from downstairs. “Lucy? Lu-cy?”

The starburst on her forehead is strangely jagged. Unsteady. The shape that a bullet hole would make, if someone were shot close in the head. An accident while cleaning a gun. A trauma to the back of the skull. I hear a footstep on the stairs, almost hesitant, its weight barely masked by the slowness with which my father places it down.

“Lucy?” he says. “I prayed to God for a miracle, and he told me what we ought to do. I need to see you, now.”

I can’t breathe. My throat is choked by a snare as I throw myself back, scrambling across the floor and away from the box. My skirt flies up--my legs are exposed, the lines on them obvious in their purpose.

Summers ago, I went to the village with Pa, and we went to a stall hung with pig carcasses. There, there was a picture of a sow, her legs and sides and ribs marked with uneven lines where the different cuts of meat came from. Here was the thigh--here was the shank--here was the cut you made along the spine and the stomach.

I hear a slow, low rumble of creaking wood as he stops outside the door.

“Lucy?” he says, his voice more paternal than I have ever heard it, and I begin to cry--begin to pray to anything, anyone that will listen, pray that something else kills me before he enters, and nothing does.

And the door opens--slowly, too slowly, as though I’ve had a nightmare and he’s coming to check on me like a good father should--and he sees me with the box, with the tears flowing down my face, with my chest heaving in great stops and starts.

He takes a step forward. In his hands, he holds a sharpened butcher’s knife.

#horror #short story #writing #creepy #abuse tw #FEEL FREE TO REBLOG

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wtnrscap · 5 years ago

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Cursed Words- Homecoming

Pairings- Bucky Barnes x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Bruce Banner, mentions of past Natasha Romanoff x Clint Barton.

Summary- The treatment has started... The compound doesn’t know silence... It’s got to get worse before it gets better.

Warnings- (18+) Mentions of blood, death, injury detail, PTSD, panic and anxiety attacks. Swearing, fluff. Dirty talk, dirty fantasies. Eventual smut.

A/N- This chapter is depressing and fluffy. I mean, the treatment’s started, that’s warning in itself. Also, it’s kinda just a filler chapter so it’s probably gonna be a bit boring. Taglist is open. Prompts list is here.

Cursed Words Masterlist

The screams echo through the halls. They bounce off the walls and reach every nook and cranny. They are loud and blood-chilling and they don’t stop. The electricity around the compound hums and flickers with every scream and Vision glance upwards, looking around the living room. Wanda has cushions over her ears, Nat wears headphones, Clint is raising the soundbar. Sam growls, “When will it end?”

As if on cue, the screaming stops and the silence sound strange.

“Again... Let’s go again!” pants Bucky, sweat dripping through his hair. You bite your thumb anxiously before glancing at Bruce who shakes his head. Steve steps forward, talking into the microphone as Tony opens the door, “No. I think that’s enough for today. I’ve read these words 12 times, you deserve a rest.”

A cell built by Shuri made entirely out of vibranium. There were cameras on the inside and Bucky was strapped into a chair with an automatic headset. It had pained you not to go in there with him but after turning into the soldier 6 times on the first run, you were glad you weren’t.

This was the 3rd week of constant treatment and tempers were running high. Bruce and Tony were stressed with the science and Steve and you hated seeing Bucky in pain. Bucky was insistent that they should keep going until the words were gone but you and Steve had forced him to take breaks. His mental health was in tatters.

Your brow furrows as Steve helps Bucky into the lab. He can barely walk for himself, has huge marks across his head and is mumbling, “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. My best friend is Steve Rogers. My girlfriend is Y/N L/N. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner are helping me to get better...”

You’d had to partially wipe his memory with some very complicated Wakandan tech, and you knew this was just his way of reminding himself that he was safe and at the compound.

You busy yourself with your crutches, not looking at Bucky as Steve takes him back to his bedroom. It’s not that you don’t want to face him, you’re just not sure you can. You hate seeing him like this, and he knows it.

“How is he?” you ask as Steve comes out of Bucky’s room. Steve shrugs with annoyance, “Wants to go back down there and continue. I’ve told him to stay put. Need any help?”

“Nope,” you smile and hobble into Bucky’s room, landing heavily on his bed. The sound of the toilet flushing makes you jump and Bucky comes out of the bathroom with a strangely energetic grin. He’s in between your legs in an instant, hand over your eyes, “What colour?”

“Red.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please don’t write anything silly.”

“Can’t promise you anything, doll...” his voice peters out in concentration and you feel a slight pressure on your right leg. Several seconds later the hand is removed and you look down, groaning when you see what he’s written on the cast.

Why did the cow cross the road?

To go to the moovies!

“You picked the worst joke in the history of jokes!” you mumble and lean back, your head resting on his mattress. Bucky crawls over you, being mindful of your leg, and rests his head on your shoulder, metal tracing over your cheek. You smirk, “Do you like it?”

“What?”

“The arm. Wakandan designed, Tony Stark fitted.”

He shrugs and smirks, “Do you?”

“Haven’t had the chance to test it out yet, Mr Barnes. I’m waiting till I’m out the cast. I want full use of all my remaining limbs.”

“Ouch...”

You smirk again and shift so you’re now lying on his chest. He strokes your hair absentmindedly and hums, “Do you wanna stay the night?”

“Obviously.”

“Wanna stay like this?”

“Yep.”

He pulls the duvet over and you bury your head into his side with a smile.

You don’t know what time it is when you wake, just that it’s dark and there’s something wet on your leg. You can’t tell if it’s that or the movement next to you that wakes you. Then you hear the moan.

Goosebumps spring up across your skin and you can’t breathe, your face flushing. You roll over carefully, hoping, for once, that it’s nightmare. Please, God, let it be a nightmare.

“Y/N... Y/N... Please...” Bucky murmurs, his hips snapping up quickly and you groan. If your leg wasn’t broken you’d have just walked away or maybe even got involved but right now? You were useless.

“Bucky... Wake up... It’s a dream...”

At the sound of your voice, he moves faster and the wet patch on your leg grows as he moans. Just when you think you’re gonna have to hit him, he stops and opens one bleary eye, “Y/N? Did... Did you say something?”

“Look at my leg and clean yourself up. I won’t mention if you don’t...” you hiss and Bucky flushes, “Shit... Y/N... I didn’t mean to... Shit...”

“I know, I know. I’ll take it as a compliment. What did it for ya?”

Bucky blushes even more, “You said wanted to test my arm out...”

You nod your head and crawl over to the pillows, “I’ll be here when you come back. I promise.”

Bucky shrugs, “It’s not like you’re gonna go anywhere.”

“Hey!”

The next morning, you and Bucky sit by his huge bedroom window overlooking the grounds. He’d brought you breakfast and written another stupid joke on your leg. So far, neither of you had mentioned the incident, but you knew things weren’t gonna stay that way.

“Bucky, I can feed myself!” you giggle as he pushes chocolate toast against your lips, “Stop! Please!”

“You have broken fingers, Y/N, you need my help!” he responds seriously and continues to try and feed you. You shake your head, “I will throw bread at you again, be warned.”

He smirks and stops, his face paling. You know he’s probably just nervous about the treatment, it starts again an hour. His voice juts you, “Talk to me.”

“About?”

“Anything. Distract me. Favourite film, highschool memory, anything.”

“Um... Okay... Well, my favourite high school memory is this dance, My best friend took me and we danced the night away. He was made King and fell over on stage.”

“What type of dance?”

“Homecoming. Happened at one of Stark’s clubs before he owned it. I had this cocktail dress, bright blue for some reason and-- Shit!”

You land on your bum as you fall off the alcove seat, covered in hot coffee. Bucky had jumped and upset the mug, resulting in now burning legs. Somehow, he’d missed the cast.

He helps you and begins to laugh at the sight of your red legs. Bucky doesn’t look impressed, “It’s not funny! You said a word and you know what they are now! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! Just... help me clean up and we’ll go downstairs. I think we need to start the treatment.”

Three hours and you’re on the breaking point. Bucky’s screams ring in your ears and Steve slaps his notebook on the table, “We should take a break. Start again after lunch.”

“Agreed. The equipment is draining a lot of the compound’s energy and Bucky needs time to calm down,” nods Bruce, “I’ll go and release him.”

You don’t move as Steve and Bucky trudge out of the cell followed by Bruce, leaving you with Tony. You sit in comfortable silence before clearing your throat. Tony looks up, “You still here, kid?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure...” Tony sits next to you with a smile, “What’s wrong?”

“This is the start of the 4th week of treatment. It’s constant, painful and unrelenting. I think Bucky needs a holiday. Just me and him. Nowhere hot because of the cast. Just... away from all this.”

Tony hums thoughtfully, “I have a cabin up north... Very modern... You realise you’d only be able to spend a week away. Too long and he might regress.”

“I know. But a week is all we need. Just time away. Please, Tony...”

Tony looks into your eyes and sighs, “You have puppy-dogs eyes, you realise that? I’ll see what I can do...”

You squeal and hug Tony tightly as he laughs.

Taglist:

@indecisivedolly

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pedros-mustache-main · 5 years ago

Note

Hello !!! I have a blurb request May I request reader x brain may? Reader has a major anxiety attack over something and Brian tries to calm them down. They end up passing out in his arms (partly from being exhausted, partly from hyperventalating). Their skin is clammy and pale. Their pulse is fast. Brian checks their breathing/pulse. peridiocally and puts them to bed. When they wake up, he comforts them. Fluffy ending please. Thankyousomuch !!! 🥺🥺🥺

how did you know i think about this at least once a week?! also, i put it under the cut cause this got ~very lengthy~ it’s literally the length of a small fic. i never claimed to be good at succinctness.

it was the crowd. at least, that’s what you blame it on when you wake up.

the show’s over, largely successful expect for the moment roger tossed his drumstick too high and couldn’t find his replacement. (he ended up drumming with his hand until crystal brought him another.) you’re tired, brian’s tired; it’s been a long weekend, and all you want to go is go home, curl up with a cup of tea, and fall asleep to the sound of your husband reading from one of his scientific journals that makes your eyes cross with confusion.

it starts—the familiar tightness in your chest, wrenching stomach, sweaty palms—as you follow him to the side-door of the venue. there’s normally a small collection of people waiting outside, pushed back by security, and you’ve gotten used to hiding your face from the cameras and waiting in the shadows for him to sign autographs and talk to fans. tonight, though, the crowd is different. you can hear them chanting before the door even opens, and when the door does open, the crowd is larger, rowdier, somehow more frenzied than you thought possible. it makes you nervous, but not nervous enough to say anything. it’s only for a moment; you can handle that much.

brian stiffens slightly when you step out of the venue and the night turns bright with the flash of cameras, the air filling with sounds of people calling his name, scrabbling for a sliver of attention. he looks over his shoulder, whispers, “i’ll just be a minute” before crossing to the steel gates holding the crowd back. you hesitate on the sidelines, mumbling in conversation with dominique while she, too, waits for her husband.

when he’s finished signing and smiling and sweet-talking, brian turns away from the crowd and winds his arm around your waist. he draws you toward the back parking lot, his thumb working a soothing pattern over the bottom of your ribs.

but then one of the gates breaks loose.

the crowd surges forward, hot on the heels of the band and, by mere proximity, the band’s entourage.

“oh fuck!” it’s dominique who scrambles to the side first, out of the way of the onslaught of bodies. perhaps on instinct, she grabs your wrist and pulls you roughly against her side as the crowd engulfs you from all angles.

the cameras are hot, the voices loud, and the crush of people breaks you out in a cold sweat. you squeeze dom’s fingers hard, turning your face away from the camera which sticks over your shoulder, trying desperately to find a good angle of the boys. you can barely see brian—just the outline of his head over the crowd—and he seems to be drifting further and further away as the mob undulates and grows.

“we gotta get out of here,” dom says, her voice as breathy as you feel.

you nod and swallow past your dry throat. “maybe... maybe if we just push our way through?”

“worth a shot. hold tight to me.” she lowers her head, her hand around your wrist like a vice, and starts shouldering her way through the lines of people.

the majority of fans ignore you in their fervor to get closer, but a handful don’t appreciate the way you push them back in an attempt to break through to the other side of the mob. a few hurl choice words—bitch, slag, cow—in your direction; some merely growl and shoot dark looks. one woman, closer to the age of your mother than any of the lads, elbows you in the back as you retreat, and it knocks the wind out of you. you stumble forward, falling before you can stop yourself.

asphalt digs against the palms of your hands. it bites your flesh, sharp pinpricks of pain. darkness—darkness from the night, from the bodies squeezing in around your head—edges closer, threatening to swallow you whole. you suck in a deep breath, but it doesn’t reach your lungs. tears blur your vision.

oh my god, i’m gonna die.

the thought crosses your mind, and you hold tight because, truly, if the crowd pushes back, if they push forward, if they push to the side, if they move at all, you will be crushed, flattened like a bug to the pavement.

clutching a hand to your sternum, you gulp for air. you want to cry, to scream, to make some sort of noise and let people know that you are here, on the ground, powerless to stand up. but your throat is too tight. the air passing through your mouth is thin, worthless. you’re going to pass out. you know this feeling, have felt it before.

an overwhelming surge of embarrassment flows over you. to be trampled by a crowd of queen fans—what a way to go. your mother will surely be proud of the way your life turned out.

you choke on a sob, still caught against the ground, now flattened, your shoulder digging into the pavement. faintly, you hear dom screaming your name, and you feel utterly ridiculous.

you wonder, briefly, before the world fades to black, your eyes rolling back in your head, if you remembered to turn the kettle off before leaving home. brian will be cross if not; he doesn’t like to waste the energy.

with the thought in mind, you succumb to the encroaching darkness and slump against the ground.

brian knows there’s something wrong before he hears dominique over the din of the crowd.

of course, it’s clear there’s something wrong. he’s surrounded on all sides by rabid fans, their arms frantically vying for his attention and approval, camera flashes like staccato notes before his eyes.

fred stands to his left, still the picture of professionalism despite the fine line of frustration etched in his forehead. there’s too many cameras, too many people. no matter how close brian knows fred is to hitting the roof, he would never; not so publicly, at least. roger and john are elsewhere, a few paces off, also swarmed, also fighting the mounting anger. it’s written on their faces. brian’s sure he looks none-too-pleased as well.

where in the bloody hell is security?

more importantly, brian wonders. where the hell is my wife?

he’d lost you early in the fray, ripped apart by dominique’s quick thinking and even quicker feet. but he’d thought by now he’d at least have been able to grab a glimpse of you. if not by the safety of one of the trailers, then among the horde. he can’t find you, though, despite using his height as an advantage in the search.

but he finds dom, and the sheer panic on her face, her doe eyes wide and fearful, is enough to tell him that something isn’t right. he pauses, the pen in his hand stilling on the pad of paper. dom’s speaking to no one in particular, to anyone who will listen, but he can’t make out her words over the sounds clattering around him. he concentrates, focusing on her mouth, until he can make out the words fell down and it’s all he needs to know.

he drops the pen and paper and wades into the thick of the crowd, using his forearms and height to part the sea of bodies. and maybe it’s his forceful movements, maybe it’s the anger casting shadows on his face, or maybe it’s nerves, but people move out of the way easily, without comment. he doesn’t need to say anything; they just move.

a hush falls over the crowd in a wave, passed along like a game of telephone. something is wrong, and brian isn’t happy is the message, and even those furthest away from the eye of the storm seem to get it.

dominique wrestles her way to brian’s side, face red and blotchy in panic. she breathes hard, gasping for air as she speaks. “i lost her,” she wheezes. “we got separated, but i saw her fall.”

“where?” his question comes as more of a command, but he can’t help it. he’s rarely angry, but tonight he’s royally pissed off. his hands clench to fists at his sides, his jaw set firm.

“i don’t know. i don’t know!” at this, dominique begins to cry. she presses her hand to her mouth, shaking her head back and forth in distress.

brian reaches out to steady her shoulder, opens his mouth to comfort, but before he can, a different, unfamiliar mouth fills the space.

“hey! can we have help over here? there’s a woman passed out!”

brian drops his hand like its touched hot metal and sidesteps those in his path, quick to maneuver his way to the huddle of people around a prone form on the ground. it’s your form, her realizes, the form he knows better than his own, has memorized with his fingertips and traced a thousand times over. his gut clenches, and he mutters “that’s my wife. out of the way” as he bends to pick you up. your head lolls against his shoulder, eyelashes fanned against your cheekbones.

carrying you as he does toward the stage door, he’s reminded of your wedding night: the way he carried you over the threshold in much the same fashion, snug against his chest, though you’d been conscious and giggling and pink with blush. tonight, you feel frail in his arms. your skin is clammy to the touch, breathing shallow.

someone holds the backstage door open, and he ducks into the cool hallway of the concert venue. shuffling through the hall, he makes his way to one of the dressing rooms and ever so gently lays you on the couch. the room is dim, partially stripped of the queen paraphernalia from moments ago. footsteps, hurried and hard, thump in the hallway. roger sticks his head in the doorway a moment later, dominique close behind.

“is she okay?” roger asks.

brian doesn’t tear his eyes away from your face, from the fluttering behind your eyelids and the uneasy rise and fall of your chest. “get me a damp wash cloth, please?”

roger nods. “be right back.”

you wake to the sound of a foot tapping against the linoleum floor. you don’t remember much about the evening. just the concert and then leaving and then the crowd—oh, you’d fallen, hadn’t you? maybe that’s why your head throbs and your shoulder aches.

you blink slowly, groaning as light from the ceiling aggravates your headache. you press the heel of your hand against your forehead. there’s something damp against your skin. a cloth perhaps?

the couch dips as someone places their weight beside your legs. “[y/n]?” the voice is soft, melodic, a song you know well. “can you hear me?”

“brian?” when your eyes open completely and you see the strained face of your husband hovering over you, you try to push to your hands, to sit straight on the couch, but he gently holds you firm by the shoulders.

“no, no. just lay there for a minute. don’t move too fast.”

“what happened?” you twist, glancing about the room. your gaze runs over freddie and john and roger and dominique and crystal and ratty and gerry all smooshed together, shoulders touching, knees knocking, as they stare on at you in anticipation of your next move.

“some fucktard let the—” roger starts. dominique shushes him with a hand on his thigh.

“you fell,” brian says. he lifts a hand, brushes the hair away from your face. “got pinned down.”

“oh.” you frown as you try to remember, but the memory is too hazy. all you remember is the descent and nothing more. the rest is blank. “that doesn’t sound like fun.”

brian cracks a grin. “no, it doesn’t.”

you twist your hand around his fingers and smile, though the movement needles at your headache. “did you come save me?”

he shrugs. “not really.”

“that’s a lie!” freddie pipes up. “he carried you in here like fucking prince charming. i almost swooned.”

you chuckle then wince at a sharp pain in your ribs. “my knight in shining armor.”

he colors, dipping his head against the rise of blush in his cheeks. “hardly.”

your fingers run across his knuckles then pull him down by the wrist, crushing your arms around his back. you hold tight and whisper, “thank you, prince charming.”

you can feel his smile against the curve of your neck and his mouth against your skin as he says, “anything for you, princess.”

#brian may #brian may x reader #brian may fic #j blurbs

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mitsususu · 5 years ago

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Ever wondered what it’d be like if Steve had gotten captured? Wonder no more; below are my Top 5 Favorite Stories:

“the long game” (M, 6k) by dirtybinary

In 1945, Steve Rogers trades himself to the Red Room in exchange for the Winter Soldier. They accept his offer, but don't let Bucky go. After all, their supersoldiers come as a matched set.

(Featuring crafty Steve, pining Bucky, and a very noisy metal arm.)

+ Fall to WS. Steve and Bucky take turns remembering and play the long con. The one with the Fact Game

-☆-

“Falling Back on Forever” (E, 24k) by ftmsteverogers

Bucky falls from the train in 1945. Steve jumps right after him.

The Winter Soldier and the Midnight Patriot are the world's most feared duo, serving HYDRA and leaving a trail of bodies a mile wide behind them. But then they remember.

+ Fall to Avengers. They remember each other, break out, and go on the run

-☆-

“Steve Rogers’s epic failures meeting the expectations” (T, 5k) by StuckySituation

Steve Rogers’s patriotic eyebrows jump up. “Holy cow.”

That was not what Tony would have expected from Captain America. “‘Holy cow’? Did the history books mess up? Was your family actually from India and not Ireland?”

“Fuck off, Stark. I ain’t shitting on what comes out of your mouth, so you better leave my goddamn cows alone as well.”

Tony doesn’t know whether to feel awestruck or betrayed. “You,” he says and points at Rogers, “are nothing like I expected.”

“Sorry to be a fucking disappointment,” Rogers says with a scowl and pulls his ridiculous helmet on, covering the sleekly styled brown hair. It was astonishing how even Rogers’s golden hair had been false propaganda -- but of coursethe great America had wanted to present its figurehead as Aryan perfection in the time of eugenics. “Suit up, everyone. Let’s get this shit done.”

+ Defrosting to WS. A series where defrosted Bucky tries his best without Steve, and then doesn’t have to anymore

-☆-

“Winter’s Heart” (NR, 5k) by Speranza

"Good morning, Soldier," and Steve opened his eyes and said, automatically, "Ready to comply."

+ Endgame. Steve uses the time stone to jump after Bucky in the Alps

-☆-

“Sleeping With Ghosts” (M, 33k) by rohkeutta

The first two years after Bucky gets out of the ice are-- surprisingly easy. Serve his country, learn to use his charmed robot hand, make friends, don’t think about the spark of magic in him that’s gone out, see the world, try to live with the grief (try to live with the grief, try to--)

Maybe they’re not that easy, in the end, but he’s settling - until he gets reluctantly pulled out of the Army and has Steve’s shield (Steve’s shield, its magic wary and curious and half-dormant) thrust onto him again, even though he’s already turned it down once before. The world has changed and so has he, but as he tries to immerse himself into a new life, he meets a ghost he could never leave behind.

+ Fall to WS. Magic, bonding, blood binding, and finally coming home to each other.

-☆-

*More Winter Soldier Steve fics in the Handler Steve list

#stucky #stucky fic #dirtybinary #ftmsteverogers #StuckySituation #speranza #rohkeutta #fic rec #Top 5 Favs

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dragonnan · 4 years ago

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This is faaaar from a complete list and will be spotty at best but I’ve been pondering MCU characters a lot as I’ve been getting slowly back to work on my mega-fic. I LOVE minor head canons. Simple stuff like favorite foods or what music they listen to or were they ever a smoker or whatever whatever. So I’m gonna give myself the challenge of crafting some head canon and anyone else is very welcome to dive in! (some things are already established via canon)

~ Ethnicity ~ Faith ~ Smoker ~ Alcohol ~ Favorite food ~ Favorite cookie ~ Favorite animal(s) ~ Favorite music ~

Tony Stark: Ethnicity: Mixed European-American-Jewish (he refers to himself as a “mutt”) Faith: “No thanks” being the initial answer but if he feels like opening up he’ll admit to believing there’s likely “something” out there but at the same time figures that “something” stopped caring about humanity a long long time ago. Smoker? Never liked cigarettes but smoked a few cigars when he was younger due to Obie’s influence. He never was a big fan but wanted to fit in with his mentor. Alcohol: Influenced both by his father and Obie, Tony started drinking hard liquor semi-regularly as young as 14 (his Dad let him try his first sip at the age of 6). He pretty much sticks with Scotch or Bourbon but is not opposed to cheap beer at a ball game. In fact the cheaper the better - a requirement for any self-respecting American. Favorite food: hot dogs. Neither one of his parents cooked. Breakfast and lunch were whatever whenever for all three of them but dinner? You better be sure you were at that table before the plates were set down or you could go without (and Tony got a slap from his father when he’d observed that rule only seemed to apply to him). But on the nights he was sent to his room, Jarvis would slip upstairs, later, with a sandwich or, on really rough nights, a couple of hotdogs. Favorite cookie: Those Christmas wreath ones made with cereal and marshmallow with the cinnamon candies. Favorite animal(s): he likes all animals but if he had to pick one for a pet he’d get an iguana. Favorite music: well duh lolol.

Stephen Strange: Ethnicity: Mixed European-American (borrowed from Benedict Cumberbatch’s ethnicity and adding the American) Faith: Originally atheist but now closer to Buddhist. Smoker: Never. Even prior to becoming a sorcerer he has always been conscious of what he takes into his body; especially given the history of cancer on his mother’s side of the family. Alcohol: Wine, occasionally, though he isn’t really a social drinker per-say. Favorite food: The spicy shrimp and pork dumplings from a Thai place in Midtown. Favorite cookie: Hmmm.... not a big sweets guy but he won’t turn away a few ginger-pecan cookies with coffee. Favorite animal(s): dogs - unequivocally. He had a border collie growing up on his family farm in Nebraska. Favorite music: please don’t make this poor man actually have to choose.

Steve Rogers: Ethnicity: Irish (as per comics) Faith? Irish-Catholic (as per the comics). Smoker? Prior to the serum there was no way he could safely do so with his health issues. After he started traveling with the performers all of the girls in the group smoked and he tried it out a few times but never developed a taste for it. Alcohol: he drank A LOT - easy enough to do as it never had any real effect on him. He enjoys scotch and bourbon (a taste he picked up from hanging around Howard Stark). Steve seems to low-key always have the munchies (like most enhanced) and once Tony picked up on that there are always a variety of snacks scattered here and there throughout the compound (also of benefit for Bruce, Peter, Thor, and, later, Bucky). Steve’s favorite foods typically remind him of his mother’s cooking. While they’d never had much (especially after his father died) his mom could do a lot with limited supplies. She used to make a fantastic meat pie with ground beef or tongue. He hates SPAM. They ate it in the Army, constantly, and just the smell will occasionally send him back to those days and not in a good way. Favorite cookie? Oreos. He can clean up a family sized pack in like 10 minutes. Steve loves animals but is especially fond of horses and dogs. There was a dog in his unit in WW2 and Steve, like most of the other men, would share bites of his rations with it. Steve is nostalgic about music from the 40s but finds that 70s rock really resonates with him.

Bucky Barnes: Ethnicity: Romanian-American (borrowing a little from Sebastian Stan’s ethnicity) Faith? Possibly agnostic. Smoker? Heck yes - both cigarettes and cigars. Like Steve, the serum he received (via Hydra’s experimentation) means he gets to dodge the detrimental side effects of smoking. Alcohol: He likes to drink but is almost exclusively a beer drinker. He has a big appetite but refuses to eat around others if he can at all help it. His favorite food is corned beef with cabbage. Steve’s grandmother was an Irish immigrant and would make it every Sunday before the war impacted rations. Since both Bucky’s parents were dead he’d often have dinner with his best friend. Also, unlike Steve, he actually likes SPAM. But then, arguably, he isn’t terribly picky about food in general. Favorite cookie: molasses. Favorite animal(s): birds - eagles in particular - though he doesn’t look too deeply at the psychology of their ability to just fly away. Needless to say a crafty observer might spot a former Winter Soldier tossing seeds towards the pigeons. Favorite music: He’s pretty eclectic though he shies away from anything too loud like death metal. He finds classical very soothing.

Peter Parker: Ethnicity: Mixed American-Scandinavian-German-ish Faith: Protestant upbringing but unsure where he currently stands. If pressed he’d say he’s “leaving his options open” Smoker? “Oh gross!” Alcohol: “Um, too young to drink, thanks! But if I WERE to... you know, try it just to taste it there was this mudslide at one of Flash’s parties that was super good...” Favorite food: spaghetti and meatballs. Lots of meatballs. Favorite cookie: chocolate chocolate chip with chunks. Favorite animal(s): NOT spiders. And NOT birds given how many rooftops he’s traversed layered in pigeon ick. He’d probably say cats. Favorite music: The B side of techno rock - especially Depeche Mode.

Peter Quill: Ethnicity: Half mixed American and half celestial. Faith: His Dad was a god and he killed him so he figures he probably isn’t on the best terms with the Big G God should He... or She... or Them... be out there. Look he just wants to do his thing and cause a little trouble without mixing it up with any other celestial types but if they DO wanna throw down he’d like to point out that he’s 1 for 1 and willing to rumble. Smoker: He would not say no to a really good cigar and may have possibly lifted a case from Yondu’s stash when he struck out on his own. Alcohol: Anywhere any time and in large quantities. Favorite food: A thick steakhouse bacon burger with potato chips right on the patty. Extra cheese please! Favorite cookie: He’s a simple guy with simple tastes. classic chocolate chip no frills no fuss and fresh from the oven. Favorite animal(s): He likes dogs - who doesn’t like dogs? But he really likes cows. Just maybe don’t mention the burger thing. Favorite music:

Thor: He’s a Norse god of legend so I figure we can forego the ethnicity/faith questions lol. Smoker: He has never understood this human custom nor has he felt any inclination to try it himself Alcohol: Beer, mead, and anything capable of knocking him on his ass. Favorite food: chili with ghost peppers. Though nowhere near as hot as the fire chilies of Muspelheim (which would be instantly fatal for humans so its just as well). Favorite cookie: strawberry cheesecake with macadamia nuts. Favorite animal(s): It’s a tossup between bilgesnipe and whales. Favorite music: The mighty horns of battle! He also enjoys old school country, much to Tony’s disgust. The story aspect of that music is what appeals to him.

Bruce Banner: Ethnicity: Italian-American Faith: Catholic in his childhood; currently Atheist or maybe agnostic. Smoker: He tends to avoid any substances for, you know, obvious reasons. Alcohol: See previous. Favorite food: Waffles with sliced mango. Favorite cookie: Oatmeal. Favorite animal(s): Mantis shrimp - “did you know they can generate so much power in their attacks that they can briefly super-heat the water up to 7,700 °C??” Favorite music: Indian- especially Krishna Bhajan.

Clint Barton: Ethnicity: Mixed European-American and Panamanian. Faith: His parents were both Protestant but he’s never latched on to any specific faith and hasn’t really devoted a lot of thought on the matter. He has a sorta loose idea of “maybe something out there” but that’s all the further he’s gotten on the subject. What he tells anyone who asks it’s that his religion is coffee. Smoker: Briefly when he was a teen. Alcohol: Beer - he’s a fan of dark lager. Favorite food: Coney Island dogs, Pizza, and pickle flavored potato chips. Favorite cookie: Monster cookies with the mini M&Ms. Favorite animal(s): Dogs Favorite music: 80s rock and some country.

Natasha Romanoff: Ethnicity: Russian. Faith: She was not given much choice when younger and was raised as “state atheist” (per comics). In the years since escaping that life, however, she has tried to discover more about herself. Her parents were both Russian Jewish and there has been a pull to discover more about that faith - especially since meeting Wanda - who is Jewish. Smoker: No. Alcohol: Some vodka - that’s a given. But she actually prefers wine; and honestly her favorites are wine spritzers. Favorite food: Favorite cookie: Krumkake filled with creme and berries. Favorite animal(s): Favorite music: Overall she listens to a pile of little-known bands and whomever is playing at whatever bar in whatever city she happens to be in. She also is a huge fan of old school Spice Girls.

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phantomofthepairofdice · 4 years ago

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The Rosscars 2020

Wow. It’s that time of year again, only this time it’s different because it’s on a blog that no one will read! (hold for applause) Welcome to the first annual online publication for the Rosscars (hold for applause while the reader acknowledges how positively droll it is that I combined my name with “Oscars”). Who can forget such indelible Rosscar memories like when Steven Soderbergh surprised us all and won Best Director for Out of Sight or Bill Irwin’s beautiful speech upon winning Best Supporting Actor for Rachel Getting Married?! The Rosscars mean something different to everyone, but we all know that they mean quality choices made by a committee of one schmuck. This year’s Rosscars are bizarre because in an effort to be more like the Academy guidelines, film’s nominated have been released between January 1, 2020 and February 28, 2021. As usual, theatrical windows be damned, streamers are welcome. Of course, I have my gripes. I like categorizing movies by release year – specifically, when they become available to the plain old public like yours truly – not at festivals, limited runs in NYC and LA. Well, the Oscars are still weeks away and I feel like everybody wants to forget about last year and move onto this one that we’re already three months into - So here are my awards for the films, performers, and craftspeople that stood out in a pretty exceptional year for movies even though distribution was stranger than ever.

**A few caveats and guidelines to Rosscar newcomers (which I imagine is just a formality since we all know the Rosscars so well)**

The rules and categories are a little different around here. First, not every category is honored directly. That’s for a few reasons, chiefly that I don’t feel qualified to reward the technical categories properly – I suppose I should say that I feel less qualified to do so than the “above the line” categories. In keeping with the Academy standard, there are five nominees in each category, except for Best Picture, Best Non-Fiction/Documentary Feature, and Best Ensemble Cast which allow up to ten. Every category, save those three, will have the possibility of honorable mentions, because I want to highlight some things that just barely missed the cut. The narrowing down of a lot of these categories was awfully tough.

Nominees are listed alphabetically, and the winners are in bold and italics.

Also, it’s important to keep in mind that I couldn’t see everything (this isn’t a job and it’s still $20 to rent The Father, y’all) and that these are just the opinions of one (self-described) “bozo on the internet.” If you’re a reader and have different picks, feel free to share!

Special Commendations for some things that I want to recognize: • Ludwig Goransson for his Tenet score which is an absolute banger • The costumes of Emma. (Alexandra Byrne), Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (Ann Roth), and Small Axe (Jaqueline Durran, Sinéad Kidao, and Lisa Duncan) all struck me as exceptional • Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross with their scores for both Soul and Mank. Crazy that Pixar is working with the guy who made “Closer” • The cinematography of Da 5 Bloods (Newton Thomas Sigel), First Cow (Christopher Blauvelt), Beanpole (Kseniya Sereda), and A White, White Day (Maria von Hausswolff)

The Rosscars red carpet was, as usual, a bizarre affair. People filed into the theater and it seemed like the only encounters were awkward ones. Vin Diesel showed up in character as Bloodshot, Aaron Sorkin started getting really verbose about what a lovely night it was, and it became clear that most of the celebrities in attendance didn’t read their invitations closely enough to realize that this was not, in fact, the Academy Awards.

Everyone’s seated, and the show is under way. After a medley about the nominees this year by Common and Seth McFarlane that was more corny but clever than it was funny, the first official category is here, and the presenter is none other than... Ross!

Best Supporting Actor:

1. Chadwick Boseman for Da 5 Bloods

2. Matthew Macfadyen for The Assistant

3. Jesse Plemmons for Judas and the Black Messiah

4. Paul Raci for Sound of Metal

5. Glynn Turman for Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom

Honorable Mentions:

• Lucas Hedges for Let Them All Talk

• Orion Lee for First Cow

• Bill Murray for On the Rocks

Best Supporting Actress:

1. Vanessa Bayer for Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar

2. Candice Bergen for Let Them All Talk

3. Gina Rodriguez for Kajillionaire

4. Amanda Seyfried for Mank

5. Yuon Yuh-jung for Minari

Honorable Mentions:

• Jane Adams for She Dies Tomorrow

• Charin Alvarez for Saint Frances

• Talia Ryder for Never Rarely Sometimes Always

• Debra Winger for Kajillionaire

Everyone loves a montage. The audience gets comfortable in their seats as the video screens start to show a montage of some of the most famous moments from Hollywood’s most magical movies. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers waltz, gliding across a dance floor like two hovering angels. There’s a clip of Leo declaring himself king of the world in Titanic, the flying bicycles in ET, Bogart stares longingly into Bacall’s eyes, and then there’s some scene where Tom Cruise rides a motorcycle from 2010′s Knight and Day. The audience all seems confused how that last one got in there. The John Williams music swells as little Kevin McAllister screams when puts on aftershave. We see clips of Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver, Carrie Fisher’s Princess Leia embrace Harrison Ford’s Han Solo, Bruce Lee smoothly declares that boards don’t hit back and... wait... was that a clip from Michel Gondry’s Green Hornet with Seth Rogen? And that’s a clip from What Happens in Vegas... Bad Teacher... Vanilla Sky... Shrek 2... Any Given Sunday... Everyone is flummoxed. The last clip fades out and a sole editing credit appears: Cameron Diaz. The lights come up and there’s some applause, but mostly confused murmurs.

The ceremony has had a bit of a misstep, but nothing it can’t recover from, especially as the next category is announced over the PA, and it looks like the presenter is... Ross!

Best Ensemble Cast:

1. Bacurau

2. Da 5 Bloods

3. Kajillionaire

4. Let Them All Talk

5. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom

6. Minari

7. Nomadland

8. Pieces of a Woman

9. Small Axe

Best Original Screenplay:

1. Danny Bilson and Paul Dameo & Spike Lee and Kevin Wilmott for Da 5 Bloods

2. Lee Isaac Chung for Minari

3. Brandon Cronenberg for Possessor

4. Sean Durkin for The Nest

5. Kleber Mendonça Filho and Juliano Dornelles for Bacurau

Honorable Mentions – a very difficult task to weed this down to five.

• Shaka King and Will Berson for Judas and the Black Messiah, from a story by Kenny and Keith Lucas

• Steve McQueen, Alastair Siddons, and Courttia Newland for Small Axe

• Kelly O'Sullivan for Saint Frances

• Thomas Vinterberg and Tobias Lindholm for Another Round

Best Actor:

1. Ben Affleck for The Way Back

2. Chadwick Boseman for Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom

3. Delroy Lindo for Da 5 Bloods

4. John Magaro for First Cow

5. Mads Mikkelsen for Another Round

Honorable Mentions:

• Riz Ahmed for Sound of Metal

• John Boyega for Small Axe

• Daniel Kaluuya for Judas and the Black Messiah

• Hugh Jackman for Bad Education

• Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson for A White, White Day

We have a break in the action and it looks like Darius Rucker has showed up to perform what he would have nominated for Best Original Song. The crowd is absolutely furious as he starts playing a song that apparently was in Trial of the Chicago Seven. An ocean of sonorous boos and curses overtakes the the once docile crowd. The Rock just ripped his chair from out of the ground. Jane Lynch somehow smuggled in a civil war era flintlock pistol that she’s now pointing at the stage! Suddenly, the crowd unifies around what started as a confident chant of one lone audience member - John C Reilly. It’s growing... Ja Ja Ding Dong, Ja Ja Ding Dong, Ja Ja Ding Dong - it’s like the macabre circus performers from Tod Browning’s Freaks, but instead of chanting “Gooble Gobble” they’re clearly pining for Darius to change his tune to the silly and delightful jam from Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga. Darius, scared for his life, leaves the stage, but here come Will Ferrell and Rachel McAdams to deliver the goods. Busy Philips and Michelle Williams burst into tears. Tom Hanks nods in approval. A segment saved by brave artists placating a toxic group of fans... we’ve just witnessed a live version of the Snyder Cut, folks.

Jack Nicholson seems completely unfazed, giving a thumbs up to the camera and blowing a kiss to the next presenter. Coming to the stage is... Ross... again...

Best Actress:

1. Jessie Buckley for i’m thinking of ending things

2. Carrie Coon for The Nest

3. Han Ye-ri for Minari

4. Sidney Flanagan for Never Rarely Sometimes Always

5. Vasilisa Perelygina for Beanpole

Honorable Mentions – these cuts were especially painful

• Haley Bennet for Swallow

• Morfydd Clark for Saint Maud

• Frances McDormand for Nomadland

• Christin Milioti for Palm Springs

• Geraldine Viswanathan for Bad Education

Best Adapted Screenplay:

1. Charlie Kaufman for i'm thinking of ending things from Iain Reed's novel

2. Sarah Gubbins for Shirley from Susan Scarf Merrell's novel

3. Kelly Reichardt and John Raymond for First Cow

4. Simon Rich for American Pickle from his short story "Sell Out"

5. Mike Makowsky for Bad Education from Robert Kolker's "The Bad Superintendent"

Best Non-Fiction/Documentary Feature:

1. Boys State

2. Collective

3. David Byrne’s American Utopia

4. Dick Johnson is Dead

5. Feels Good Man

6. In & Of Itself

7. The Painter and the Thief

8. Time

Jimmy Fallon has come out on stage to do a bit about the pandemic and watching movies at home. People are just absolutely not having it. He tries not to laugh at his own jokes while doing what I guess is technically a pretty good impression of Dr. Fauci interviewing James Corden as Martin Scorsese (the less said of this impression, the better) on what is or isn’t cinema. The bit doesn’t track and Fallon is absolutely tanking. The producers cut away from the stage to spare the viewers at home from this monstrosity. We see crowd shots of Millie Bobby Brown shaking her head in dismay, Colin Firth is simultaneously grimacing and trying to stave off laughter, Cynthia Erivo is texting, and director Tom Hooper is taking notes for his next film. Corden yells, “Carpool Karaoke! Remember?!” Ron Howard has fainted. This thing is almost completely off the rails.

Coming back to the stage is the next presenter, a clearly embarrassed... Ross! He’s in a total flop sweat, but stumbles his way through a joke about how Fallon should try co-hosting the Oscars with James Franco sometime. There are scant chuckles throughout a crowd that mostly just wants to see who won and go home.

Best Director:

1. Christopher Nolan for Tenet

2. Spike Lee for Da 5 Bloods

3. Steve McQueen for Small Axe

4. Kelly Reichardt for First Cow

5. Chloé Zhao for Nomadland

Honorable Mentions:

• Kitty Green for The Assistant

• Eliza Hittman for Never Rarely Sometimes Always

• Charlie Kaufman for i'm thinking of ending things

• Thomas Vinterberg for Another Round

Best Picture

1. Bacurau

2. Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar

3. Da 5 Bloods

4. First Cow

5. i'm thinking of ending things

6. Judas and the Black Messiah

7. Never Rarely Sometimes Always

8. Nomadland

9. Small Axe

10. Tenet

Accepting the award for best picture is none other than Eve, the cow actor who played the titular First Cow! The audience is enamored with how graceful she looks in her cow gown, and her speech, though indecipherable, is likely simple, observational, and deeply profound for those who speak cow.

Wow, what a ceremony! Hearts were broken, property was damaged, dreams were fulfilled... blood was shed? Damn it, Meryl Streep came in and mugged Charlie Kaufman before absconding with the trophy. Oddly, she’s a previous winner, so the attack isn’t out of need for hardware. People are reading through articles about production on Adaptation for potential motives. Streep made time for a photo opportunity, but remains at large.

I could go on ad infinitum about all of these nominees and winners themselves and why they did or didn’t make the cut, but that’d be better served in a different piece. For now, my thoughts on most of these can be found on the Best of 2020 write-up and over on my Letterboxd. And, as always, these awards can be revoked and redistributed at will, so don’t get too cozy with that statue, Danny Bilson!

On behalf of the RAOGL (Rosscars Association of One Guy at a Laptop), thanks for reading, and stay tuned as we’re establishing a tip line for anyone has seen Ms. Streep or her stolen valor Rosscar. We’ll see you next year. Keep watching movies, and keep arbitrarily quantifying them in terms of subjective quality!

#awards #movies #film #Rosscars

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chris-evans-indian-fanfic · 5 years ago

Text

Conversation

One-Shot

Description - Captain America and Batman have a conversation on a bench.

I tried something new with this fic. It is mostly based on conversation without any action scenes. Do give your feedback if you like this new format or if not, then how can I make it better?

The only reason I am trying this new format is because the writing challenge set by @donutloverxo @captain-a-rogerss and @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho make me push my limits and step outside my comfort zone! This week, the challenge was to write a Marvel x DC crossover fic, something I have never done before. Check out the challenge here and participate now!

Warning - None

A/N - This fic is based on Steve before the first Avengers movie

My Main Masterlist

I don’t consent to have any of my work published or featured on any third party app, website or translated. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but Tumblr and AO3, it has been reposted without my permission. In that case, please do share the link and let me know.

…

Bruce Wayne set aside his newspaper with a huff. After a lifetime of fighting with terrorists, aliens and freaking exploding penguins, he thought he had seen everything, until today.

Headlines such as; "America's Golden Boy Returns" , "Captain America Found Alive Under Ice" , "Brrr! Is that a Popsicle? Frozen Dessert? No! It's Steve Rogers!" graced the newspapers that morning, seemingly destroying whatever little amount of peace Batman had left.

Great, another man with superpowers who might be a potential threat that I have to take care of, Bruce frowned as he pulled up information on Captain America. "Alfred," he called out, "What do you remember about Captain America?"

"Are you asking me to recite today's headlines Master Wayne?" came the prompt reply from the other room.

Bruce chucked, "Not what I meant."

"I will have you know Master Wayne that I wasn't even born when the Red, White and Blue hero went under the ice. The grey hair on my head may make me look old, but I am not a 100 years old," came the indignant reply.

"You don't say! Here I was thinking you didn't look a day over 120," teased Bruce.

"That's what happens when you worry about a future where you would be living without grandchildren to take care of," Alfred snapped, shutting up Bruce.

Bruce knew Nick Fury would be initiating Steve into S.H.I.E.L.D., his personal crime-fighting-superhero-club. Oh he knew Nick Fury very well. The man with the eye-patch had proven to harbour more mysteries than the pandora's box, a quality that didn't sit well with Bruce. That's why, when Fury had invited Batman to join the Avengers, he had bluntly refused. Looking at the blue-eyed soldier, Bruce decided to pay him a visit.

Steve Rogers was scared. He didn't recognise this world. Everything was louder. The people, the machines, the cars. Colours were more vibrant and simple things were just too complicated to understand. It was as if everything in this new world was made to attack his senses.

His Converse squeaked as he walked in the aisles of the departmental store. Converse was one of the few things still around from his time before the ice. One of the few things he still recognised.

He entered the milk aisle. He exhaled loudly as he read the options; Low Fat Milk, Full Fat Milk, Cow's Milk, Buffalo Milk, Camel, Donkey… Wait… People milked camels and donkeys? His face contorted with disgust at the thought. Moving forward, he saw more confusing options- Almond Milk, Coconut Milk, Cashew Milk… He looked on with horror. Had modern science found a way to put breasts on nuts now?! Where was normal milk? Did normal milk exist anymore?!

He clutched the handles of the basket tighter, bending the metal. He needed to get away from here. He didn't belong in this time, this century. Steve slowly took a step back, and bumped into someone.

"Heeeyy watch wherrrre you are gooooing paaal," the large man behind Steve slurred as he dropped his box of cereal and tried to retain his balance. "I am sorry," muttered Steve, even though he could have sworn there hadn't been anyone behind him until a few moments ago.

Steve looked at the man. He was as tall and well-built as Steve, heck maybe even more muscular. His black hair was disheveled, his eyes swollen red and his breath reeked of cheep alcohol and cigar.

"You pussssshed me," the stranger slurred again, "hooow darrrre yooou?" he staggered, raising his fists.

Steve picked up the box of cereal and handed the stranger a new box, "I don't want to fight you sir. Instead, can I buy you this cereal?"

The man tried to punch Steve, which he easily dodged, "Fiighttt meeee," he insisted. Steve could only smile in response, "Believe it or not sir, but I am a senior citizen, and I am not looking to pick any fight. Please, can I buy you this box of cereal?"

"Coff-feeee," the drunken man said. "Okay I will buy you coffee too," Steve agreed.

The way towards the billing counter was slow as the stranger kept stumbling into shelves and displays. Steve kept a strong grip on him and guided him in his way.

Steve even helped the stranger as he puked his guts out on the street, helping him clean his mouth with a kerchief. They both sat on the bench outside the cafe.

"Why… you… help me?" the stranger managed to ask between his panted breaths. "Why wouldn't I?" Steve seemed puzzled, "You can’t take care of yourself now, you need help. So I am helping you."

"I don't need help from you punk!" the stranger spat as he shoved Steve forcefully on the bench. It hardly shook Steve. He smiled a small smile, "Everybody needs help at some point or the other, Mr Wayne. How long do you think you can operate as the sole hero?"

Wiping his hand on the back of his mouth, Bruce smiled, "As long as I hold the key to every answer."

"Fury is not that bad," Steve scoffed.

"You don't know what's going on at S.H.I.E.L.D., do you?" challenge Bruce

Steve retorted, "I don't need to know. I am just a soldier who follows orders."

"Whose orders? And on what authority? We don't need soldiers as we are not at war. But that doesn't stop us from initiating them," Bruce stated matter-of-factly.

"I believe in people Mr Wayne. I have faith in the general good that resides deep within every citizen," remarked Steve.

"Huh," it was Bruce's turn to scoff, "Here I was thinking you are a threat, but you are just a delusional patriot. People have agendas Captain. And agendas change. People are still bad, corrupt and easily influenced. The world hasn't changed Captain. Don't let anyone tell you any different."

Steve considered Bruce's words in silence, "The world has changed Mr Wayne, in more ways than you can possibly imagine. And it's... hard to keep track of things and stay updated. But it's much more easier to follow orders, you know?"

"People are still the same Captain. And they make up the world. As for keeping track," Bruce leaned back on the bench, "You can keep a list of things you need to learn."

Steve nodded, getting up, "That's a good idea. Let me get you that coffee and maybe you can tell me what can I add to the list?"

Steve turned around and entered the cafe.

"Hi how can I help you?" the barista greeted him cheerfully. "Can I get a coffee?" requested Steve.

"Sure! Which one would you like to have? A cappuccino? Americano? Espresso? Latte? Moch-"

"Son, please just give me a normal coffee," pleaded Steve.

"Sure sir. Which size do you want? We have Tall, Tumbl-"

"Just. A. Normal. Coffee. Please," Steve gritted his teeth.

He stepped out with the hot coffee, only to find the bench empty, except for the cereal box. He read the note stuck on the box, "I will keep an eye on you", the note promised.

Bruce settled back in his chair in his underground workshop. He laughed when he noticed the cereal box and the to-go cup of coffee, which was still warm. He laughed as he read the note stuck on the cup, "Tell Alfred I said hi. And please ask him if he will be willing to start a Barbershop Quartet with me?"

Steve returned home sweaty from the workout. He chuckled when he saw the carton of milk in his kitchen, with the words NORMAL MILK written in big, bold letters. He read the note that came with it, "Alfred expresses his apologies as he will be unable to join your Barbershop Quartet. However, he does have a recommendation for your list. He suggests you watch 'I Love Lucy', an American sitcom from the 1950s. It had been quite popular then."

"Sir, do you think Batman will join our forces if need be?" Maria Hill asked Nick Fury as he read Natasha's report on Bruce and Steve.

"I don't know," Fury said, "But it is always beneficial to have friends on the other side, should the situation arise."

__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__

Permanent tag: @donutloverxo

Chris/Chris' characters taglist: @onetwo3000

Taglist open! Just comment, send an ask or message!

#captainsweeklychallenge #marvel x dc #batman x captain america #bruce x steve #bruce wayne x steve rogers #gotham #avengers

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tansypoisoning · 6 years ago

Text

What You Have (part three of “What You Need”)

Life as an unemployed, homeless wanderer was hard, until you met Captain America. Then it got worse.

Part 1 - Part 2

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Genres: Smut, Yandere, creepy shit

Ships: Steve RogersxReader

Relavant Characters: Reader (PoV), Steve Rogers

Universe: Post Civil War, canon compliant (except for the whole Steve losing his marbles thing)

Content Warnings: Dark!Steve Rogers, kidnapping, yandere, abuse

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Steve was already gone by the time you woke up. You knew he meant to leave that day, but you didn’t think you’d be so lucky as to not have to deal with him in the morning. You searched to whole house just to be safe, and he was nowhere to be found.

Maybe he had really left, maybe he walked out to do something and would be back in a second, or maybe it was a test of some kind; either way, you would take the time you had away from him to look for something that could breach the door (a blowtorch would do) and something to fend off wild animals (you were hoping for a bazooka). You spent the best part of three hours combing through every drawer and cupboard, looking under all the beds and behind all the furniture, and even hitting walls in search of hidden passages. If there was anything that could aid you in your escape, it was hidden in a place you couldn't get to.

Deep down you knew you were kidding yourself. Even if you could leave the building and had the guts to shoot a lion, you couldn't go back home by foot, and Steve had to have taken the jet. If you were to ever escape, you’d have to wait for him to come back.

You took a shower, your skin turning raw from the water temperature and your aggressive rubbing. Your reflection in the mirror barely looked like you, and one of your cheeks was swollen.

Breakfast was much the same as it had been yesterday, aside from the small bag of frozen berries in the back of the fridge that you ate in one sitting, and you spent most of your day watching the uninspired collection of DVDs, sometimes pausing to check the local channels or making sure you had looked everywhere for a possible means of escape (you had).

You avoided the pen and the blank piece of paper that had been left in the coffee table – the list Steve expected you to write.

What you wanted… What you truly wanted was to have your freedom back, but he wasn’t going to give you that. You weren’t sure what he was willing to give you, really. He implied you should tell him what you wanted from the time before he’d kidnapped you, but the truth was that you just wanted enough money to pay rent. You didn’t exactly have the brain space or time to dream about the future, what with all the job searching and panic attacks. Even if you figured out what all your dreams for the future were, none of them would include Steve.

Could you ask him to give you something that would let you get away from him? Internet access, a car and a force-field that repealed super humans? He said there wasn’t a right answer, but you suspected there were wrong ones. If you refused to make a choice, would he accept you wanted nothing from him or would he just choose for you? You didn’t want to think about it, so you didn’t. When he came back, you’d just tell him to return you to your former life. If he was going to make you miserable no matter what, you figured you might as well return the favor.

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Steve arrived the day after the next when you were heating your dinner and watching ‘National Treasure’ for the fourth. You didn’t even hear him coming in, whirling around when you heard your name being called behind you. He was standing by the kitchen island, smiling fondly at you.

“It’s nice to see you’ve been doing well while I was gone.” He said. You didn’t think his comment merited a response, so you didn’t reply.

Not one to let your obvious displeasure ruin his mood, he smiled wider and pointed at the microwave “I don’t presume you are making something for me too?”

“No.” You answered and moved to look at your food and watch it spinning round and round. You heard Steve jump over the counter and approach you. The sound of the movie was loud, but now that you knew he was there your senses were attuned to him and only him.

He touched your elbow, and your head twitched to the side in reflex. He leaned over and pressed his lips to yours. He didn’t attempt to delve his tongue in your mouth or make you return the gesture, and he pulled away once you began to shiver. There was still the same dopey, loving look in his eyes, and you turned back to the microwave so you wouldn’t have to keep seeing it.

Steve sighed and walked to the fridge. “Did you do what I asked?”

You acted like he wasn’t talking to you, like the most interesting thing in the world was the TV dinner spinning, and spinning, and spinning…

“Baby, did you write the list?” His voice raised “Did you think about what you want?”

The endless cycle of rotation of the spaghetti wasn’t the most interesting thing in the room, but it was the only one you wanted to acknowledge. It was making you dizzy-

There was a shuffling, metallic noise, then a kitchen knife embedded itself on the counter beside you, cracking the marble on its way. The microwave beeped, but you didn’t reach for the meal inside.

“Did you write the list?” Steve’s whisper was soft, deceptively so.

You squeaked out a ‘no’ and he inhaled deeply before letting go of the knife’s handle and moving away from you.

“I guess we’re staying in here a little longer.” He lamented “I really don’t want to do this, but if you don’t make some choices soon I’ll have to do it for you. You have to tell me what you want.”

Suddenly remembering what you had told yourself on your first day there without Steve, you pivoted on your heels and braced yourself against the counter for courage.

“I want to go home.” You said, watching as he turned to look at you. His brows were furrowed, and he was smiling, but you knew you had made him even angrier.

“Home? You don’t have a home.”

“My car.” You insisted “I want my life back. Take me back.”

Steve’s fingers poked through the packet of squash ravioli he had taken out of the freezer, and you inched closer to the kitchen knife that was still perched on the counter-top. How nice of him to leave it there for you…

“I know that’s not what you wanted.” He shook his head.

“It’s what I want now.” And it was true. You didn’t want much when you were living in your car, but now you longed for the life you had once loathed.

Steve huffed, looked away from you, tapped his feet, drummed his fingers on the fridge – moved like he was trying to remove himself from that moment. Like he was trying to hold himself back.

“Fine.” He said at last “I’m taking you back.”

“What?” You blurted out.

“After dinner.” He offered no further explanation and approached you, box still in hand “Aren’t you going to get your food?”

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The night air was cold, and standing on the rooftop in what amounted to pajamas wasn’t doing you any favors. A coat would be nice, but Steve hadn’t given you any, probably out of spite. He looked at ease in his full body suit, doing checks and double checks to make sure the jet was safe while you shook in your loose shorts. You didn’t know how much of that inspection was necessary.

The second trip was the exact opposite of the first: you didn’t sleep, Steve didn’t get you covers, and you shivered all the way through, but you were happy. You were going back! It felt too good to be true – several times you had considered the possibility of this being a lie, that he wasn’t taking you home at all, but why would he bother?

Hours of hopeful anticipation later, and you were landing in the very spot the jet had been when Steve took you. He had been honest, at least as far as taking you back went.

You jumped out of the vehicle as soon as the ramp was lowered enough to give you the room to slip through. You could feel Steve right behind you, but all thought about was running to your car. You found it easily, just where it had been left and unlocked, but you feared you wouldn’t be able to turn it on.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Steve asked as you were getting into the front seat. Spoken like he’d just asked you if you were sure you wanted to leave in the drizzle without an umbrella…

You frowned, nodded out of habit, and jammed the key in the ignition switch. The motor started easily, and you scrambled for the wheel to get out of there as fast as you could, just barely resisting the urge to ram your car into him (there was a high chance that things would turn out worse for you if you did.)

You looked at the man in your rear-view mirror, watched him get smaller and smaller as you ascended the slope. You couldn’t believe it. You had escaped? Just like that? It made no sense. Why would he take you and go to such extreme measure to keep you, then let you go after you insisted a couple of times? No way, there was no way…

Even after you were long gone and couldn't see Steve anymore, you remained suspicious. He had to be plotting something, but as you sped away from him and his jet the past three days started feeling more and more like a bad dream.

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Some people would say freedom smelled like clean air, others apple pie, and then some that would say that it smelled like cow shit. All wrong.

Freedom smelled like rejection.

Another job you didn’t get, another day of grinding wasted on people who wouldn’t hire you even to wipe their toilet, but that was fine by you. It had been five weeks since Steve returned you to your car, and you were still as glad to be back to your chaotic life as you were the first day. Captain America had taught you to appreciate your rotten situation, who would’ve thought?

You exited the building, smoothing a hand over your nicest pair of slacks, and made your way to the parking lot across the street. You fished for your keys on the way, finding them when you arrived at the spot you’d parked. You looked up and began laughing hysterically.

It was gone. It was fucking gone. Your car, which you had left right there, along with all you had – it was all gone, vanished, only an oil puddle left where your entire life had been less than an hour ago.

You dropped the keys, then to your knees, your giggles morphing into ugly wails. You didn’t know what to do next. If there was a way out of this plight you weren’t seeing it, and you didn’t feel like looking for it at the moment. You had nothing and none, and you were so consumed by grief you couldn’t think. Your emotional state inhibited all rational thoughts beyond the one that told you not to choke to death on your own tears.

A painful lump grew in your throat, and you brought your hands to your neck in hopes your fingers would make things better, but nothing could make things better – not your own touch, and not the one from the person that had approached you from behind and decided to grab your shoulder like an old friend. You had no true friends, old or new, so you turned around with a scowl to tell the weirdo to get off, but the words died in your throat when you saw him.

You should’ve known it would be Steve. None in their right mind would want you old beat up cart; it was falling apart. The only two reasons for someone to take it were to sell it for parts or to destroy your life, and he had stakes in one of these things.

You had been foolish enough to believe he had been serious. Were you so eager to escape you had allowed him to fool you, or had he been clear in his intentions and you just lied to yourself? Had your future been sealed from the moment Steve decided he wanted you?

His eyes were soft and his smile was comforting. You wanted to wipe his fake fucking face in the pavement, but all you could do was cry.

“Are you ready to be honest with me now?” He asked.

That was the end of the line. You had no way to run, nothing to warm and protect you at night. You could tell him to go to hell and maybe he’d go, but then what would be of you? You’d have your freedom, but without a place or a friend there was no telling how long that would last.

Better the devil you know.

You turned on your knees until you were facing him, then tugged on his hand. Steve pulled you to your feet, and his grin now barely concealed his self-satisfied glee.

“Yes.” You whispered in between sobs “Take me home.”

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A/N: This is just a transition chapter so it’s not very exciting. I’m planning on two more chapters, and part 4 should be the longest and take a while, but it’s going to have the highest density of smut so that’s nice.

#DENSE SMUT lol more like dense me #steve rogers x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #dark!fic #MCU fanfiction #dark mcu fanfiction #mine #What You Need

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thestuckylibrary · 6 years ago

Text

Group Ask 121

What is a group ask?

Previous Group Asks

AO3 Search Tutorial

Please send us an ask stating which group ask and which person you are replying to. Thank you so much in advance!

Anon 1 said:

Hey i can’t remember what it was called but i can’t find this post ws fic? I remember it was raining a lot and one of them kept having panic attacks.

nyxvalentine said:

Hi there! Looking for a post WS explicit complete long chapter fic fic - they found Bucky/brought him back to the tower. At one point they have sofa sex on their floor in the tower (maybe right they get back from a mission?), Bucky is still in his tac gear/Steve is naked, and Steve is watching them in the mirror/getting off on how much bigger Bucky is and that he's clothed and Steve isn't. Also features Bucky becoming friends with Tony? Thank you!

nodns and time-lord-no-more sent in Dishonor On Your Cow by mandarou (complete | 111,695 | E)

Anon 2 said:

So I’m looking for this one fic in which it’s Bucky who puts the plane in the ice and gets rescued but everyone thinks he’s Steve and he plays along till they find Steve as the winter soldier. It is a funny, one chapter fic, and there is this one scene in which Bucky stares at Thor, and says that he reminds him of someone he used to know when Nat asks. Could you help me find it?

Anon, abarbaricyalp and awydd sent in Seven times Steve Rogers was not what everyone expected him to be (+1 time he really, really wasn't what everyone expected him to be) by StuckySituation (oneshot | 2,298 | T)

therandomravenclw sent in Footnote by nikkiRA (complete | 26,496 | T)

teenwasteland said:

I feel like I JUST saw this on the blog but now I can’t find it - Steve is Bucky’s physical therapist (for his amputated arm?) and there’s something like “when will you realize it’s a good idea to date me?” (NOT the one where Steve is in another relationship). Thank you so much in advance!!!!

miraishu sent in Untitled Bullshit* by hakunahistata, Izulkowa (complete | 16,678 | T) *suicidal ideation

sanctimoniavincent said: dubcon

I'm looking for a fic that was recommended on here before, but all I remember is that it was post-WS with Bucky and Steve in a dubcon relationship with Bucky using sex everytime he wants something from Steve, but Steve doesn't realize this until later.

Anon sent in Uberrima Fidei* by asocialconstruct (oneshot | 3,075 | E) *HTP, rape/noncon

lilyinthesnow said:

I'm looking for a fic & hope y'all can help, I read it a while back & can't find it after digging through my history & bookmarks. Steve listed Bucky as his spouse on his paperwork & Phillips made him change it, but Bucky kept the original that Steve filled out. Then in present day Pepper, I think, finds Bucky’s old jacket and found the paper that listed Bucky as Steve's spouse folded up in one of the pockets & all the Avengers find out about the two of them being together. Thank you!

Anon sent in Sucker Punch by yellow_crayon (complete | 15,012 | E)

youvejustthoughtofeverything said:

I'm looking for a story where Bucky recognizes Howard in 1991. Howard rescues Bucky and hides him away in a cryo chamber in a cabin hydra doesn't know about. Howard then gets killed because he goes to shieldra for help. 20 years later the cryo chamber shuts down and Bucky is let out. Someone posts a picture of him on social media calling him a lookalike for Bucky Barnes. It gets popular and both hydra and cap see it. At one point Tony recognizes the backpack Bucky has as his from the cabin.

kindsokind sent in A Slight Miscalculation by miss_aphelion (WIP | 49,205 | not rated)

amused-koala831 said: sex work, miscarriage, mpreg

so I've have been going crazy trying to find this fic. it was a A/B/O fic where Steve is a omega and Bucky is an Alpha. Steve doesn't get the serum and ends up working in a brothel during the war that is Bucky's old family home under the name 'Grant' and when Bucky comes back from the war he works as security under the name 'sarge' Bucky realizes Grant is Steve. there is some talk abut Steve having miscarried a few pregnancy's. Steve gets pregnant with Bucky's daughter.

Anon sent in Like Rahab* by moonythejedi394 (complete | 131,789 | E) *rape/noncon

ketenkusu said:

I’m looking for a very angsty fic... Bucky and Steve are together but for some reason Bucky thinks Steve is about to leave him so he starts acting different, which makes Steve think Bucky wants to leave him. Any idea what fic it could be?

stevesbi sent in Broken-winged birds by D_melanogaster (oneshot | 5,510 | T) and it’s companion piece Deep Roots by D_melanogaster (oneshot | 6,364 | G)

Anon 3 said:

Hi there! I'm dying trying to find this one fic I had read a while back where Steve was the captain of the football team and being an absolute wreck of a bisexual when he meets Bucky. The only other thing I can remember is Clint and Nat were together in this one too. Thank you for all your hard work btw!

Anon sent in Targeting by queenmab_scherzo (complete | 149,144 | E)

Anon 4 said:

Hello! There’s this one fic I lost the link to and I was hoping you’d be able to help find it. It’s a Coffeeshop AU, with barista!steve and veteran!bucky. I think it was a 5+1 Things kind of fic and basically Bucky kept giving Steve fake names until the +1 time. Thanks! :>

Anon 5 said:

hi! i've been looking for two fics, but i can't seem to find them anywhere. the first one is focused in buckys sister and in the end, after they die, his mother goes to their apartment and sees the beds together. buckys grandniece tells him that his mother got accepting w/ time and loved him. in the second one steve gets out of the ice and meets one of buckys relatives and he wears buckys dogtags, i think he becomes friend w/ an old lady who later teachers bucky how to dance ballet. thanks!!

tatltaelfairies, abarbaricyalp and Anon sent in A Mother Always Knows by RadientWings (complete | 7,054 | T)

humapuma said:

I read a fic some time ago that followed TWS, where Bucky starts to remember himself. He hides in people's homes and at one time tries to sever the metal arm but it's sealed to his bone, so he just cuts through all the skin and muscle but eventually stops. Then he finds Steve at the tower and, as Steve is trying to clean him up, he finds the wounds and starts crying. Eventually Bucky tries to run away but Steve begs him to stay with him.

sadritsuka12 said: suicide attempt

Hi. Can you help me find when Steve try to kill himself.. Can't find it I think his mom stop him first then bucky came from a date and also stop from killing himself.

Anon 6 said:

I just lost this fic I was reading and I was hoping you could help me find it. hydra sent bucky to kill steve and called it a level 7 threat and bucky was confused as to why because steve didn’t seem at all dangerous. also sam worked at a bookstore called the corner and he was really nice to bucky. and steve figures out that he was being stalked and left bucky a sandwich. any idea? thanks in advance

awydd* sent in Ghosts Love Elevators by thecommodore_squid (orphan_account) (oneshot | 32,322 | M) *graphic violence, suicidal ideation

#group asks

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green-eyeddragonfanfiction · 7 years ago

Text

War of Attrition: Chapter 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x Reader Summary: Best friends with Steve Rogers, renowned Howling Commando, and married to one James Buchanan Barnes, your life wasn’t perfect, but it was as close as it could possibly be in the middle of World War II. Then you fell from a train in the Alps, and everything changed. You spent nearly 70 years as a tool of Hydra alongside your beloved, though your past with him was more often than not forgotten. Natasha, Steve, and Maria reel at the [second] assassination attempt of Nick Fury. Hydra makes moves to cross the Black Widow and Captain America off its lists. Warnings: Swearing (always), death, violence, guns, blood, dismemberment Word Count: ~3,767 A/N: “Quotes and italics” is Russian. Just italics is memories/thoughts.

Masterlist // Book One // Book Two

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

“You can tell Handler Pierce you let him get away from you, then.”

He went stiff against your back and you knew that had struck a nerve. “We still have eight hours.”

You frowned. “So it’s on me to find him again.”

There was a pause, then, “No, it’s on us.”

Steve’s POV

Steve watched through the large glass window as a team of nurses and doctors worked to save Nick Fury’s life. He registered the door behind him opening and a second later Natasha was by his side looking absolutely distraught.

“He gonna make it?” she asked, her tone calm even though her eyes were wide and scared.

“I don’t know,” Steve answered honestly. Three slugs to the chest. Straight through the bulletproof jacket. The mystery shooter with the metal arm had done a lot of damage.

“Tell me about the shooter,” Natasha said quietly, as though talking too loudly would somehow jinx Fury’s chances of making it out alive.

“He’s fast. Strong. Had a metal arm.”

Natasha went silent next to him, but he didn’t see the look of horror on her face. “Ballistics,” Natasha said, question implied in the demand.

“Three slugs, no rifling. Completely untraceable,” Agent Hill informed her. Leave it to her to stay serious and calm in this situation.

“Soviet-made,” Natasha said quietly, eyes transfixed on a point Steve couldn’t see.

Agent Hill looked over at her, surprised. “Yeah...”

“Was there a woman with him?” Natasha asked. It was clear her question was directed at Steve.

He couldn’t figure out what emotion that was lacing her voice. Steve frowned, gaze flicking to her then back to Fury. “No. I only saw them man with the metal arm. No other hostiles.”

Movement in the surgery room pulled their attention back. Nurses and doctors were yelling back and forth, but even Steve could tell something had gone wrong. Nick Fury was dying. He watched as they pulled the crash cart over then injected epinephrine into him.

“Don’t do this to me,” Natasha whispered.

Still no pulse.

Steve watched detachedly as they declared a time of death, his focus on the woman beside him. Natasha was reeling from the shock.

Director Nicholas J. Fury was dead.

Your POV - Less Than An Hour Ago

The Soldier jumped off the roof and landed right next to you. He rolled to diffuse the worst of the impact and was on the back of the bike within a second of hitting the pavement. You took off the moment his butt hit the seat. He must have been worried about making a hasty getaway because he was facing forward, arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

“Faster. My pursuer isn’t someone we want to fight if we can avoid it.”

You didn’t dignify the demand with a response and simply sped up instead. The bike was quiet as a ghost in the night. Working in the darkness felt way more comfortable than attacking in broad daylight had.

“Is he dead?” you asked once you were sure you were a safe enough distance away from any potential threats.

“You tell me. Three shots to the chest, most likely. He was very careful not to give me a line of sight for a clear shot, but I was able to extrapolate his position from the way the blond man was talking to him. I know I hit, but I can’t be sure he’s dead unless we go back.”

You shook your head, filing the mention of “the blond man” away for further questioning. “I was too far away to activate backscatter imaging. I’ll have to trust your abilities.”

“It would have been better to have you there,” he said quietly.

You shook your head. “Someone needed to have the bike ready to go. You’re a better shot even when you can’t see through the walls,” you said bluntly. It was true. You were great in short-duration hand-to-hand combat or as a shock trooper (literally), but he was a better shot and lasted longer in extended fights simply because he had greater strength and stamina. “I’m a better driver anyway,” you added as an afterthought. “We need to return to Handler Pierce. Our mission is done.” We’ll be returned to cryofreeze, you thought, but couldn’t bring yourself to say. You hated the cold place- feeling your blood freeze in your veins before you lost consciousness. They’d gotten better at the process over the years but the very idea still sent chills down your spine. It was for the best, though. You and the other Soldier didn’t function properly if they didn’t freeze and wipe you between missions. It was your own fault for being defective.

It was almost as if the other Soldier could read your train of thought. He gave you a gentle squeeze and you hated the way your body relaxed into his arms. You were on mission. Relaxing could kill you.

But it felt good, so you let it happen.

You felt him rest his head on your shoulder and you tutted half-heartedly. “At least help me keep a lookout for danger,” you said quietly.

“As you wish,” came the surprisingly subdued reply. He usually wasn’t this easygoing. You supposed if there was one time to care less about your behavior it would be after you completed a mission and were about to be wiped anyway. He lifted his head and you could tell he was carefully scanning his surroundings for any potential threat, though you both knew you’d spot anything before he did.

You and the Soldier returned to the bank that they’d been keeping you in, but they didn’t wipe you. Brock Rumlow was waiting with a small group of agents, though. You were to take orders from Rumlow if Pierce was absent.

“Change of plans. You’re to wait here on standby until we receive our next orders. Your mission was a success and Secretary Pierce is pleased, but he anticipates resistance as he moves forward with Project Insight,” Rumlow explained.

When you and the other Soldier simply stared at him he sighed and reached into his bag. Both you and the other Soldier tensed, expecting him to draw a weapon, but when he retracted his hand the only things he had were a few plastic-wrapped packages. He threw them at the two of you and you caught them with ease though you eyed them dubiously, obviously expecting a trap.

“They’re food. Eat them.” Without another word he turned and left, leaving you and the other Soldier mostly alone in the bank vault. They didn’t close the door, but you knew there were at least ten men keeping guard just outside.

It was an order, so you and the Soldier obeyed. The packaging on the front revealed them to be protein bars. They weren’t bad, exactly, just too chewy and vaguely fake-tasting. There were three total and you had to practically shove the third one down the other Soldier’s throat. He didn’t want to eat it and insisted you at least split it, but you knew he needed the sustenance more than you did. He was the only one doing hard work today and he always burned calories faster than you anyway.

“Eat it,” you hissed, trying in vain to shove the protein bar at him.

“No, you should have it,” he insisted, stopping your arms with an ease that always infuriated you.

You glowered at him, but he didn’t look cowed at all. “If you don’t eat this then I won’t eat mine at all,” you threatened.

He finally glared down at you and you felt a thrill of victory run through you. “Fine, you stubborn creature.” He snatched it from your hand and ripped the package open, letting the silver and white wrapper flutter to the dirty bank floor. In a nearly feral move he opened his mouth wide and ripped the bar in half with his teeth, glowering malevolently at you as he chewed.

You tilted your head to the side, considering the childish action. It was... cute? The thought made you frown and you bit sullenly into your bar, doing your best to ignore the angry stares the other Soldier kept throwing your way as he unwrapped the second bar and began eating that, too. The two of you skirted around the edge of the room, staying as far away from the chair in the center of the room as possible. The two of you never strayed more than a few feet from one another and eventually settled in an alcove near the door. You switched your eyes to backscatter every few seconds, though the thick vault walls made it hard to see more than a few feet past it in any direction.

“Sleep.”

You looked over at the other Soldier, face nearly free of expression minus the slight upward tilt of an eyebrow.

“I’ll sleep after. We’ll take turns like we’re supposed to on stakeout,” he amended quickly.

You stared at him for a moment longer, relaxing against the wall and trying to fall asleep as quickly as possible. Both of you had the ability to sleep at a moment’s notice, needing rest wherever and whenever you could get it.

You surprised the other Soldier by leaning over slightly, closing the few inch gap between you, and laying your head on his shoulder. The only inclination he gave of having noticed was how still he went the moment your cheek touched the leather of his black jacket.

You fell asleep not one minute later, the sound of his steady, quiet breathing lulling you to sleep.

You weren’t sure exactly how long you’d been asleep when Rumlow came barreling into the room a little later.

“Get up! You!” He pointed to you. You were completely awake and on your feet within a second of him stepping into the vault. The other Soldier was on his feet, too, and he was tracking Rumlow with the calculating eyes of a predator. “You’re coming with me. Just you.” He stared at the other Soldier. “You stay here. If things don’t go as planned I’ll be back for you.”

The other Soldier nodded, though his eyes were burning. The two of you worked better as a team and it was clear to you that he hated the idea of you being separated. You spared him a single glance over your shoulder as you followed Rumlow out of the bank vault, heart skipping a painful beat at the look on his face.

They loaded you onto a quinjet and flew you to New Jersey. Why they wanted you there was beyond you, but you knew better than to ask questions or second-guess orders.

You sat quietly in one of the seats on the jet, ignoring the Hydra agents that wisely gave you a wide berth. The ride was shorter than you’d been expecting and before you knew it they were marching you off the plane, Rumlow barking orders at you as you walked into the bombed out remains of an old military camp.

The surroundings looked familiar, but the base itself was reduced to rubble and you wouldn’t have been able to recognize what it once looked like even if you could access all of your long-buried memories. “Scan the debris in this area. Backscatter. You have that, right?” When you nodded an affirmative he pointed to a large pile of debris that looked to be part of an old building. It was a relatively huge hole in the ground. It would take you a while to search everything, even with your eyes.

“Am I looking for something specific?” you asked, voice raspy and quiet.

Rumlow nodded, a smirk dancing at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Bodies. Two. One male, one female.”

You nodded your understanding and walked away from him, gracefully dropping down into the hole, stepping off slabs of cracked concrete and brick as your eyes scanned every inch of the debris you could find.

It was what you spotted with your normal vision, though, that gave you pause.

You looked up, your faintly glowing eyes searching for Rumlow in the gloom. You spotted him immediately and sprang gracefully through the rubble, coming to a sudden halt in front of him that had him flinching and reaching for his gun. “Fuck, what is it?” he asked, eyeing you warily. His hand hovered nervously above his holster.

“Tracks leading out of the debris. Not standard tac boots. Civilian. No tracks leading in.”

Rumlow cursed. “How many? Just the one set?”

You shook your head. “Two pairs to begin with, then one. The smaller pair seemed to be stumbling, then they vanished. No body. Likely the owner of the larger set carried them off site.”

Rumlow swore loudly enough to give the nearby agents pause, his fist connecting loudly with the nearest half-destroyed wall. “Pierce is going to be pissed. He sacrificed Zola trying to kill those damn rats.”

Zola.

The name rang out in your head, bouncing inside your skull until it was a deafening cacophony that blocked out all other thoughts.

You and I vill do great things, Fräulein.

You vill cooperate if you vant your precious man to live.

I haf made you better, Fräulein. You should be thanking me.

I gave you life. You will stomp Hydra’s enemies out of existence.

You head spun as the nasally, slimy voice filled your mind. Rumlow was too caught up in his own problems to notice, but you felt yourself nearly lose your balance before your hand shot out to steady yourself on an upright slab of concrete.

Gone.

You tried to take a deep steady breath, gulping down air greedily.

Gone, your mind insisted again. The source of that voice was gone, though you weren’t sure how you knew that voice belonged to the man Rumlow mentioned. Perhaps it was the same way you knew over a hundred way to kill a man without a weapon but couldn’t remember your name, how old you were, or where you were born.

The thought bolstered you more than you thought possible. You stood up straight, a deep sense of calm overtaking your senses. Up until that moment you hadn’t realized how tightly coiled your muscles were. Hadn’t felt the dark feeling swirling deep in your gut, wrongess permeating your entire being. Your body felt lighter than it ever had and you found yourself smiling almost manically. It was sheer luck that you were facing the wall and none of the Hydra agents noticed. You were sure they’d send you back to the chair if they saw you displaying emotion too openly.

“Asset.”

By the time you turned around to face Brock Rumlow, your face was as impassive as ever.

“You’re to rendezvous with the other Soldier at Secretary Pierce’s estate. Ensure you’re not seen entering the premises. He’ll give you instructions there. Your motorcycle is in the jet you came in. My boys are unloading it now. Dismissed.”

The moment he uttered that last word you were moving, eager to put this place behind you. It gave you chills and stirred that dark place in your mind that you’d long learned to ignore because it only brought more mind wipes and hours of painful torture.

A few hours later, Washington DC

The other Soldier had arrived before you and it was too risky to talk about anything in Pierce’s home, so you said nothing about Zola. You and the Soldier sat amongst the dark shadows in the dining area. Neither of you moved and it was only the faint glow of your eyes in the darkness that alerted Alexander Pierce to your presence. He shut the refrigerator door, eyes flicking between the two of you quickly.

“I’m going to go, Mister Pierce,” the maid said from the hallway. Your and the other Soldier’s eyes flicked to the doorway, though neither of you moved an inch. “You need anything before I leave?” she asked. It was pure luck she hadn’t rounded the corner and seen the two of you sitting there. Your gazes swiveled back to Pierce, looking for any orders about the situation. Neither of you had been spotted coming in, of course. You weren’t the deadliest assassins in history for nothing.

But you’d been ordered to his house and you wouldn’t leave unless Pierce told you to.

Without taking his eyes off the two of you, he spoke loudly enough for the maid to hear. “No, uh. It’s fine, Renata. You can go home.”

“Okay, night night!” she called happily, exhaustion just barely tingeing her voice.

You used your backscatter imaging to watch her throw her purse over her shoulder and walk out the front door. You flicked your vision back to normal, eyes falling on Pierce once again.

“Want some milk?” Pierce asked the two of you, turning his back on you to grab a glass from the cupboards. The two of you barely blinked in response as he sat the glass down on the counter and poured himself a small amount. He shrugged when neither you nor the other Soldier said anything. “The timetable has moved. Our window is limited.”

He took a long sip of milk and walked around the kitchen island, coming to sit across from the other Soldier. You eyed him from your spot atop the raised fireplace hearth.

“Two targets, level six. They already cost me Zola. I want confirmed death in ten hours,” Pierce ordered.

“Oh- uh, Mister Pierce, I...” Renata turned the corner, her gaze first falling on Pierce then to you and the other Soldier. The two of you stared at her, gazes flat and uncaring as she shifted nervously, mind struggling to process what it was seeing.

Pierce turned in his chair to look at her, his gaze not giving anything away.

“I, uh... forgot my phone...” she said nervously.

You glared at her, knowing what came next. She saw the two of you with Handler Pierce. Any second now he’d give the order and-

“Oh, Renata,” Pierce sighed, picking up the pistol on the table. “I wish you would have knocked.”

Before she had a chance to react Pierce fired two shots into her chest, sending her reeling backwards, crashing to the ground in an unsightly heap. She was dead before she hit the carpet.

“Take care of that before you go, would you?” Pierce said as he returned the gun to the table. He stood and walked over to the sink, washing his hands of any gun residue.

When he turned around and the two of you were still sitting as still as statues his gaze turned hard. “You have your orders. Dismissed.”

By the end of the next hour, Renata was in pieces in the bottom of the Potomac, fingers cut off at the ends and teeth pulled for good measure. If she was ever found, they’d never find all of her, much less be able to identify her.

You and the Soldier holed up in a Hydra safe house. You sat in front of a wall of monitors, eyes flicking to each one in turn, taking in all the information you could.

Two targets. Off the grid. Targeting Hydra operations.

Steven Grant Rogers and Natasha Alianovna Romanoff.

Deadly, experienced, driven. A dangerous combination.

“If this were us, what would we do?” you asked, glancing over at the other Soldier, who was watching the screens carefully, too.

The Soldier’s gaze flicked to you, blue eyes bright and thoughtful with the challenge at hand. “Project Insight is their goal. They’ll aim to take the Triskelion. It’s too heavily fortified to attack head on. If I were them I’d look for an in. Someone that can get them past security.”

You nodded and watched the data streams and video feeds flicker across the screens. “Who are they going to go after?”

The other Soldier flicked through the tablet in his hand, likely searching through the database of Hydra agents. “They were on the Lemurian Star. They’ve likely realized Sitwell is Hydra. He has the clearance needed to get them on the base.”

“Sitwell?” you asked, turning to look at him.

“Agent Jasper Sitwell. Level 7 SHIELD Clearance. Working for Hydra since he was 17. He’s been deep undercover in SHIELD for years.”

You looked back to the screen, watching as the facial recognition software searched any and all sources for your targets. “Expendable?”

“Targets are a level 6. Every agent except Handler Pierce is expendable,” the other Soldier said without hesitation. Even you and me. The words hung unspoken between the two of you.

“We’ll continue surveillance in shifts. Track Sitwell closely. I have copies of his timetable and I’ve already entered it in my system. If he makes any unscheduled stops or moves in an unpredictable way, we’ll know he’s been compromised. At that point he’ll lead us directly to our targets.”

The other Soldier nodded in understanding. “And if they don’t try to use Sitwell?”

“They have to go to the Triskelion if they wish to stop Project Insight. If it comes to that, we’ll be there waiting.”

He leaned back against the headboard, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

You looked over your shoulder at him. “Go to sleep. I’ll take the first shift.”

He shook his head. “No.”

You turned away from the screens to glare at him. “Why not? It’s your turn.”

He tilted his head and regarded you for a moment. “I’ll sleep on one condition.”

You bit back a sigh. “What is it?”

“Come sit with me.”

You froze, staring at him with mild shock. You looked at his seemingly relaxed pose, the way his legs were propped up and open, the space between them inviting. You quickly weighed your options.

“You promise you’ll sleep?”

“Yes.”

You looked at the screens again before you sighed and walked over to the bed, climbing dutifully on top and placing yourself directly between his legs. Your back was to his broad chest so you could watch your work, thankful that your eyes made it possible to see even the tiniest of writing on the screen.

The Soldier sat stiffly for a moment and you had a second to fear that you’d done something wrong, but a second later his arms were wrapping around your waist and his forehead was resting against the back of your neck.

You tried to ignore your pounding heart, choosing instead to focus on the task in front of you. “This is acceptable?”

The only response you got was a quiet content noise followed by deep, even breathing.

Next Chapter

If you’d like to be tagged in this series, like this post! Sorry, but responses to this post asking to be tagged will be ignored, so send me an ask or like one of the taglist posts!

☕ Buy Me a Coffee! ☕

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #Winter Soldier #winter soldier x reader #steve rogers #alexander pierce #natasha romanoff #natalia romanova #nick fury #captain america #black widow #agent hill #maria hill #winter's war series #war of attrition #brock rumlow #crossbones

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avengers-nextgen · 7 years ago

Text

Wakanda Arrives

It was only a matter of time before word travelled to T’Challa of the incidents that the avengers were facing. The former king had discussed avidly with Bruce Banner, who had been aiding them in research, what to do.

“Perhaps understanding what sort of tech is implanted in Bianca we can retrace it to the manufacturers.” Bruce suggested. “Then, perhaps, we can have a better understanding of what exactly took place.”

“And give her the answers she has been looking for.” T’Challa nodded in agreement. “What about the other?”

“That’s a lot trickier. It seems to be more of a psychological issue rather than any sort of physical dissociation.” Banner frowned, pursing his lips in thought.

“The best we can do is monitor the witch and understand the soldier.” T’Challa ran a hand down his face.

“May I suggest a neural study.” Banner proposed. “For both. It may provide more information.”

“I fear that such a thing borders on an invasion of privacy.” The King frowned.

“It would only be done with consent I assure you.”

“It is not you I worry of doctor Banner but your director.”

— — —

Bruce was greeted by a swarm of children that eagerly hugged him. “Hey, you guys have grown! Holy cow!”

“How was Wakanda?” Alex bounced up and down excitedly.

“What’s the tech like?” Piper beamed.

“Any cool weapons?” James questioned.

“I’ll tell you all about it later but I am here on business.” Bruce bashfully rubbed the back of his neck. “Man you kids are eager.”

“I’ll say.” Each head turned to spot an unfamiliar figure. “My name is Siyanda-“

“Future Ruler of Wakanda and the legacy of the black panther mantle.” Thalia finished.

“Someone has been reading.” Siyanda laughed. It was a rich and warm sound very different than that of the other youngsters who could sound like a pack of wild animals at times.

“I enjoy history.” Thalia shrugged.

“Science bro!” The comversation was interrupted as Tony Stark himself tackled Bruce in a full body hug. “I missed you.”

“Likewise.” Bruce grunted.

“Ah,” Steve was the next to enter the room. “Nice to see you have arrived.”

“Thank you Captain Rogers.” Siyanda gave a respectful bow to the super soldier. “I assume your director has informed you of our visit.”

“Indeed.” Steve nodded.

“Wonderful. Perhaps I can request assistance in setting up proper facilities?” Siyanda inquired.

“I’ll do it!” Piper’s hand shot eagerly into the air. “Please, let me do it! I want to see Shuri’s tech.”

“Alright, I have a taker.” Siyanda laughed.

“Piper, please, do not pee on yourself.” Alex mumbled, nudging her elbow into Piper’s ribs. Piper frowned and slapped Alex on the arm.

“Tony...you gonna get off?” Bruce grunted.

“Never!”

“This is why the Starks can’t have nice things.” James rolled his eyes. “Alright let’s let them be.”

“We have work to do.” Siyanda beamed holding up a metallic brief case. “Everything I need is in here.”

“Man you pack light.” Nathaniel noted.

“Some people do not need excessive hair products.” Scout remarked.

“This is going to be a very interesting experience.” Siyanda sighed. “I’m looking forward to it.”

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milkmoneyzine · 5 years ago

Text

"WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?" #3

#Follow4FollowMyGuy asks: As an artist in uncertain times, how can I keep promoting my music from quarantine?

M$: The first thing you need to do is find some compromising evidence on a friend that runs a website. Then you blackmail them into letting you write a pointless Advice Column that no one actually cares about. That’s the most important place to start.

Once you’ve got that secured, and the money from the blog is flowing endlessly into your account, then you just hustle. Hustling is a lost art these days. There are so many online outlets, and so many different social media platforms that it can get overwhelming pretty quickly. The key is to not let that happen. Focus on one or two at a time. Get weird on Twitter and sneak in some links. Ask for questions on your Instagram story, then find a way to relate your answers to songs you can post. Dive into the hellscape that is Reddit and find a thread that your music fits with, and drop a link. Not all of this is going to work, but it’s worth a shot.

The other important thing to remember is that you don’t have to promote a specific song, or an album, or a video. Just interact with people. Everyone else is online all the time, so just be visible, be friendly, and be accessible. As long as you’re doing something online, no one is going to forget about you.

Maybe don’t use the band page to drop heart eyes on thirst trap photos. Slide into those DM’s from your own account, you know? The last thing you want is the fucking bass player seeing their reply first and stealing your thunder. But then again, all is fair in love and hardrock.

Dan Price asks: Can I have your milk money?

M$:

@FiendingForMosh asks: When are shows coming back?

M$: The real answer is that no one knows. Probably sooner than you think, which is also probably too soon. It’s kind of a lose/lose situation.

Live music is in a weird spot. To go from “Everyone needs to practice social distancing until we can get a handle on this extremely contagious thing” to “Well, it’s not contained, and we don’t have a vaccine, but fuck it. Go ahead and pack as many people as you can into a tiny, poorly ventilated space and let them all slam into each other” in the span of a couple of weeks seems insane.

There are some medical experts that say live shows shouldn’t start again until 2021. That’s not going to happen. That can’t happen. Every place that relies on a steady stream of smaller touring acts and local shows—which is almost all of them—will close if that’s the case. No one wants that. Venues need to make money and bands need to make money. The only way to do that is with shows.

What’s going to be really interesting is seeing who takes the risk. Some bands are going to hit the road two days after “shelter in place” ends. There will be venues ready to host the shows, and people dying to see them—no matter who that band is. The very idea of getting back out in public and seeing their friends is going to be enough for a lot of people. Those bands are probably going to do pretty well, and play for a lot of grateful people every night.

Then there are going to be other bands that take the whole rest of the year off. To them, the juice won’t be worth the squeeze. They’ll stay home, write new songs, make a new record, and continue to wait it out. The bands that take this route are probably the bands that are a little more established, and have other sources of income. Some bands can afford not to tour. Others can’t.

There are also going to be a lot of people who just don’t trust anyone in a large crowd for a while.

“I’d love to see that band. But there’s no way in hell I’m going to stand in the dark while a drunk, sweaty guy—still wearing a heavy denim jacket in fucking July for some reason—brushes his damp hair across my face as he tries to squeeze through an already tiny space.”

It’s weird, it’s scary, and it’s pretty unprecedented. But it is going to be okay. Live music will always be something that people enjoy, and there will always be someone who figures out how to make the most of it. Things aren’t going back to normal anytime soon, but maybe that’s a good thing. It gives everyone a chance to decide what the new normal is.

There is one upside that could come from this, and one that Milk Money wholeheartedly supports: Maybe venues/bars/clubs will actually keep their bathrooms clean, stocked, and operational.

Ahhh, who are we kidding? No one is going to learn anything from the last five weeks.

XtestpressX asks: Who are M$’s favorite current #SLCHC bands?

M$:

M$ PRESENTS THE #SLCHC2020LOVE THE MIXTAPE: 1. Victim To None - Sacred 2. Devoid - Another Life Wasted 3. Ape $hit - Pretty Neat ft. Dea Giokas 4. Degeneration XXX - Bitter End 5. Dirty Mike - Angel (Prod. by Teemane) 6. Zodiac Killer - Serpent's Tongue 7. Crow Killer - Close Grip 8. Witchtrial - Burn 9. Absent - Dimmed Love 10. Tamerlane - Absense

Run tha trak!

Milk Money Mixtapes

M$ presents #SLCHC2020LOVE The Mixtape

@StatuteOfLimitations asks: What is your wildest tour story? Dan$: As all of Milk Money will attest, my memory is not the hottest. But I’ve been blessed with a metric shit-ton of sketchy/amazing tour experiences, so here’s a montage of pretty true events... - Coming up with the idea for Milk Money with Trevor on west coast Cherem runs.

- Roger Miret teaching me his prison workout regimen in an old church in Switzerland.

- Watching Madball and Obituary festival sets in Turino, Italy from the fancy comfort of an above-ground pool.

- Breaking up fights between American soldiers and German hardcore kids.

- Breaking up fights between American soldiers and Japanese hardcore kids.

- Getting into fights with American soldiers in foreign lands.

- The time Lord Ezec asked me if I wanted to smoke some crack with him.

- The time the moon crashed into Idaho.

- Hiding outside the backstage tent of symphonic metal cover band Apocalyptica in a giant mud puddle during a Czech Republic downpour with Vinnie Stigma, waiting for them to take the stage, so we could sneak in and steal coffee from their espresso machine.

- Taking Matt Mascarenas to the beach for the first time in his life.

- Fuck Nick Cannon. - Watching an aggro road-rager freak and back down a steep-ass, 500-foot grassy slope into a cow pasture after he pulled us over to fight. - The Lightkeeper’s Trail (What's good, Countdown to Life/Broadway Calls?!?!?!) - Watching Sparky from Demented Are Go bite the head straight off a dead rat, pound a bottle of vodka, and say, “That’ll clean it up.” - Chasing a not-be-identified drummer from brothel to brothel in Graz, Austria to watch him dance with girls for a few seconds before running to the next brothel… just to make sure he didn’t get left behind by the bus.

- Not joining Hatebreed in a backstage jacuzzi full of actual erotic dancers. - 30 Seconds to Mars telling us we were “pretty heavy” when we shared a venue in Minneapolis. - Moshing in a Drum’n’Bass tent at a Euro festival with a not-to-be-identified NYHC band who were skying way high on ecstasy. = Learning so many important lessons the hard way while making all of my closest friends cuz… hardcore. Trevor$: I don’t have nearly as many globe-trotting adventures as Dan, but some of my favorite moments with my friends happened on tour. - Spending two full days at a Fazoli’s (the only kind-of vegan option in the city) in Grand Island, Nebraska on our first tour because the transmission went out 13 hours after we bought the van. - Directions to a venue that were “Turn left at the women’s prison, and drive to the end of the road. It’s in the junkyard.” Once inside the junkyard, getting the instructions “Stay away from the fences. That’s where the ladies have ‘yard time’ and the guards in the tower get really angry when we talk to them.” - Air guitar and autographs with a drunk guy named “Deth” in Tijuana. - Almost having to fight a promoter in New Mexico because he accused us of stealing a microphone, only to find out ten minutes after leaving that Bill accidentally put it in the pocket of his cargo shorts and forgot. - Swimming too far out in the Florida ocean and getting stopped by the beach patrol just before the shelf drops off and all the bull sharks hang out. - Going on tour without confirming anything, then having to beg every promoter to let us play when we showed up. - Trying to pretend there wasn’t a fight happening in the crowd until Jake pushed his drums out of the way to jump in at every single out-of-state show Tamerlane ever played. So what we're saying here is, once this plague blows off, GET IN THE FUCKIN VAN CUZ LIFE IS SHORT AND YOU SHOULD LIVE IT!

Until next time, this is Milk Money saying, “Tamerlane is not the Five Finger Death Punch of Salt Lake Hardcore."

0 notes

mavengers · 8 years ago

Text

Bulletproof

Bucky Barnes x reader (lil steve x reader too but platonic!!)

Warnings: swearing, fluff, angst, angst, some more angst with a side of angst

Words: 7.3k (yikes)

All credit goes to Marvel

A/N: im sorry

“Do we have the subjects?” Dr. Erskine asked. Peggy Carter stood straight by his side.

“Yes, we have Steven Grant Rogers and Y/N Y/L/N, Sergeant James Barnes’s wife.” The two of you approached the pods where the experimentations would take place. You and Steve shared a wary look, but you knew that this is what Steve wanted to do, and you promised to take care of him while Bucky was away at war, meaning that if Steve was in on this, so were you. Besides, Dr. Erskine requested a female patient, and your friend was more than happy to recommend you to go through this with him.

There was nothing wrong with you, unlike Steve. You didn’t have any medical issues, but after your mom dying of cancer, this would be taken as a shot at ridding your body of any cancer-carrying genes.

Bucky didn’t know you were doing this. He didn’t even know Steve was doing this. Letters to Bucky would be sent, but seldom was he able to return them. Your husband was busy with the war and all, something like that.

Truth was, he’d have a cow if he found out. You didn’t want to go behind his back, but you trusted Dr. Erskine and Steve. You knew you’d be fine, but Steve’s fate dwindled in your eyes. If the flu hit him, he was practically on his death bed. If this worked, you wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore, as much, at least. “Ready?” Peggy asked you. You nodded, letting her lead you into the pod as Howard Stark led Steve into his.

You both received shots of penicillin, and as much as you wanted to make a joke when Steve flinched at his, you knew now was maybe not the best time for your sarcastic banter with him. Sharing once last look with Steve, taking a deep breath, the walls around you closed, encasing you in the pod.

You heard Howard calling out percentages. As the numbers got higher, a fire felt like it was being spread across your skin. You could hear Steve screaming, and you desperately called out to him from inside your confines. As Dr. Erskine was about to halt Steve’s progress, he called out. He told them to keep going.

You winced as the fire continued to burn across you, making each muscle ache with what felt like fatigue, yet you were feeling like you were able to run a marathon the second these damn doors opened.

Howard had reached 90% when the surge of energy became too much for you to contain. Your shins easily broke through the metal cuffs with just the slightest kick, and you swung your legs up and out, the doors of your pod flying off and hitting the wall with a loud boom. You were on the ground, one foot planted to the concrete floor and the other tucked under your body. Your hands were on the ground in front of you, and you watched as with each slight movement of your fingers, the floor crumbled underneath them.

Shortly after, the crowd that had gathered around you dispersed to surround Steve as he nearly fell on his face while stepping out of his. You craned your neck to look at him, and nearly completely crushed the ground underneath you. Steve Rogers, the barely five-foot-tall, barely one hundred pound punk that you had known half your life, now stood at least six-feet-tall and had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. His new muscles heaved with each breath he took and you watched with a smirk as Peggy tried her best not to stare. He was nearly dripping in sweat. You two finally made eye contact, you still on the ground and him being held upright by various doctors, and you nodded once at each other.

As celebratory cheers began to ring out, so did a gunshot. Your eyes snapped over to Steve, in complete panic that he had been the target, but no. He was holding Dr. Erskine, two bullet holes beginning to soak his white lab coat in his own blood as he bled out. He lifted a weak finger to Steve’s chest before his eyes closed.

Steve looked at you. “Go!” You barked out at him. “I’ll take care of this, but for god’s sake, be careful.” He nodded at you before breaking out in a sprint, chasing after the man who had shot the doctor. You rushed over to Dr. Erskine where he laid on the ground as the other doctors administered CPR to him. You knew it was futile, but you grabbed a pair of medical tweezers and dug into his wounds. You could see the bullets, they hadn’t punctured any vital organs, and he was breathing. But with the amount of blood he was losing, he wouldn’t last very long if you didn’t get these bullets out. You grabbed onto one of them, yanking it out. “Stitch this up,” you said to the doctors, who were stunned at what you were doing. “Now! He’s going to die of blood loss if you don’t hurry.” With that, the doctors snapped into action as you got to work on the second bullet. This one was deeper. Deeper meant dangerous; organs could have been damaged with this one. You dove in with the tweezers once more, and carefully felt around with them until you heard them *clink* against the bullet. You put your hand on Dr. Erskine’s stomach to steady yourself as you carefully pulled this one out. You could feel everybody’s eyes on you as you held the last bullet in the air, dropping it to the ground as you exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

The doctors got to work on stitching up the second wound as Peggy pulled you up by your arm and held you up. Resting against her shoulder, you passed out.

When you woke up, you were in a bed, staring at the ceiling. You recognized it as the bunker Steve had been living in. Turning to your left, Steve sat in a chair, reading a book. You reached your arm out, lightly touching his hand, and he smiled at you. “You’re awake.”

“You’re alive.” He laughed, closing the book and putting it on the nightstand between you. His laughter quieted down, but you lightly smiled at him.

“You saved Dr. Erskine, you know.”

“I know how much he means to you. I promised to protect you, and that means protecting anything or anyone else that holds meaning to you,” he took your hand in his as his gaze dropped to the floor. “Although it doesn’t look like you need my protection anymore. Seems like the other way around now, but don’t tell Bucky,” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and you straightened up in bed, your heart rate beginning to pick up. “Steve?”

“I have some bad news,” your lips parted as he continued. “Bucky’s whole unit. They’re being held by a man named Armin Zola. I don’t know if he’s alive or not, but I promise I’m going to find him. I’m leaving tomorrow.” By the end of his explanation, you had tears streaming down your cheeks. You didn’t even realize you were crying until Steve gently pulled you into his lap, and you began sobbing into his shoulder.

The next day, with Steve having just left to find his best friend and your husband, you sat in Bucky’s bunker on his bed. Under his bed, he had a black box with two enveloped letters taped to the top. One letter was labeled with your name, and the other was labeled with Steve’s. Knowing most likely what those letters said, you skipped over them, not accepting what they’d imply. James Buchanan Barnes wasn’t dead.

After you lifted the lid of the box, you began pulling out the contents, laying them in front of you. He had pictures of you, pictures of Steve. Pictures of all three of you. Pictures of you and him. Pictures of him and Steve. Pictures of you and Steve, even. He always appreciated how well you got along with Steve, hence why he had made you promise to take good care of him. If he couldn’t make sure the punk didn’t do anything stupid, who else would?

Clearly not you if you had just let him run off to who knows where. What if he didn’t come back either?

Steve had successfully infiltrated the Hydra base. He had found and unleashed the war prisoners, but none of them knew where Bucky was being held.

Currently, he was running down one of the long hallways when a short man with a briefcase popped out of one room. Steve’s brows furrowed as the man took off, and as Steve was ready to give chase to the man, he heard a voice coming from the room. “Sergeant, three, two, five five, seven.” The voice repeated the same phrase over and over again, but Steve couldn’t believe his ears. Those were the beginning numbers to Bucky’s number.

Rushing into the room, relief couldn’t be strong enough to describe what he was feeling when he saw his best friend laying on a table. “Buck… Buck…. It’s me.” Bucky finally looked at Steve.

“Steve,” he smiled. “Steve.”

Back at the camp, you remained sat at Bucky’s bed, flipping through the same photos you had been staring at for nearly a week now. You had refused to leave his bed and Peggy had given up trying to draw you out. Instead, she just began bringing your meals to you and staying with you until you had eaten as much as your stomach could hold. You had become literally sick with worry for not only Bucky, but now Steve.

Even the sudden commotion outside wasn’t enough to draw you out of your trance as you sat in the dark of Bucky’s room, laying on your back and staring up towards the ceiling while flipping through the photos. You could’ve sworn you heard Bucky’s voice, but you were too far gone and you brushed it off as your mind playing games with you. Going insane seemed more likely at this point that Bucky and Steve coming home.

The lights suddenly flicked on and you groaned. “Turn them off.” You said, the bright lights practically blinding you after sitting in darkness for so long. Except the lights didn’t turn off. “Turn them off,” you said, a little more demanding, but the lights remained on and your frustration got the better of you. You shot up out of bed, tossing the pictures aside in a flurry. “I said turn them,” your breath caught in your lungs. You felt your heart racing in your chest as you stared at the brown-haired man standing at the doorway, smirking at you. “Bucky.” You breathed, your voice no more than a whisper.

“What? Didn’t wanna come out and say hi? Gonna make me come to you?” He taunted. He hardly could get another word out before you jumped out of bed, flinging your body at him, hooking your legs around his waist and burying your head in his shoulder. You tried not to squeeze him too hard, you still weren’t sure the extent of your new found strength, but you were sure you might have bruised him, based on the grunt he let out. You pulled back, wincing.

“Sorry.” You shrugged apologetically. Bucky shook his head, using one of his arms to pull your head to his, kissing you with everything he had in him. Your hands came from behind his neck to up the sides of his neck, holding his head in place as you kissed him with equal urgency. He used his foot to kick the door closed behind you two as he walked the two of you back to his bed, laying you down gently before climbing on top of you.

His hands went to your hips and goosebumps broke out over your heated skin. Your hands went to his shoulders, feeling his muscles moving with every movement he made. A cough at the door pulled you two apart, and Steve stood, shifting uncomfortable as his cheeks turned bright red. You and Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. Bucky kissed the tip of your nose, a silent promise for this to be continued later.

You continued to live on base with Bucky, and nobody dared to try and stop you. Every morning, he’d get up at 5 a.m. for more training and drills, and you’d sleep peacefully until he came to get you at 7:30 a.m. You’d spend your days with Peggy, working on a project called S.H.I.E.L.D. The Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. She wanted SHIELD to remain a secret, so whenever Bucky or Steve asked what you did during the day, you were both forced to lie to them. Each day had to be a different lie, but keeping SHIELD a secret was crucial. At least until it was secured.

Peggy trained you in fighting, with a gun and hand to hand. For a while, you got away with keeping that a secret too, until Bucky saw the bruises that covered your torso. He nearly interrogated you about it until you broke and told him before he killed whoever did it. “I just don’t wanna worry about somebody attacking me when you’re not around to protect me.” You had explained to him. He nodded once, and had Steve tell Peggy to take it easy on you, which she definitely did not do when she found out you almost risked SHIELD by telling him.

Except this morning, it was 4 a.m. and you and Bucky were awake, holding each other tight to keep warm from the harsh January weather that seeped through the bunkers. Today, Bucky, Steve, and the Howling Commandos were heading off in search of Armin Zola. Bucky had yet to be out on another assignment, and you were having anxiety about him not coming home again. He knew any attempts at talking you down were futile, so he did all he could. He pulled you into his lap, whispering how much he loved you in your ear until your breathing steadied. Your fingers tangled into his left hand. His right hand was wrapped around your waist, keeping you flush against him. Your head was rested on his right shoulder and you nuzzled against his neck, trying to get as close to him as possible.

Two hours later, a solemn knock at your door set the reality in for both of you. Bucky’s warm hands cupped your freezing cheeks and he kissed you exactly how he had when he first came home. You kissed him back, committing to memory how his lips felt against yours; how his hands fit against your cheeks so perfectly; his steely blue eyes when he pulled back; the way his voice sounded when he told you he had to go. “I’ll see you again before either of us even know it. I promise. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Come home to me.” You pressed your cheek harder against his left hand and he rubbed his thumb against your temple.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Within three days, Steve and the Howling Commandos came back.

Within three days, Steve had sat you down and told you that Bucky wasn’t coming home.

Within three days, your heart had been broken.

Within three days, you were training to fight at least 17 hours a day.

Within three days, you stopped sleeping all together.

Within three days, your resolve to keep Steve safe grew even stronger.

Now you were heading on a month without Bucky. You were in the gym, training with one of the new SHIELD recruits when Dr. Erskine rushed in, grabbing your attention. Your trainee took your distraction as an opportunity and swung their first towards your cheeks, only for you to catch it in your fist. You squeezed their hand and dropped it as you heard all their knuckles crack. They weren’t broken, just bruised. “Mrs. Barnes, we must leave. Captain Rogers is on his way to hijack Red Skull’s plane.” You unwrapped your hands and stepped out of the ring.

“Without me? What a punk.”

Dr. Erskine led you outside where Howard Stark was waiting for you with a car and the keys. He brought you in for a tight hug. “Stay safe, kid,” He handed you a small device with what looked like a map on it, a red dot moved across the screen. “It’s a locator I put on the car that Steve’s in. As long as Steve’s in that car, you’ll know where he is.” You nodded, hugging him again before climbing into the car and peeling off the concrete.

You followed the red dot on the screen, your speed accelerating in your desperation to catch up to them. I promised Bucky I would keep Steve safe. I promised myself I’d keep Steve safe.

You saw them. Peggy’s hair remaining unnaturally perfect even with the wind blowing, Steve in his suit, and the General, beginning to gain on Red Skull’s jet as the road came to a screeching halt. You pushed your foot harder against the gas until you were side by side with their car. You glanced over at Steve. “Did you really think I’d let you do this without me?”

“It’s too dangerous for you, Y/N. I can’t risk you getting hurt. Or worse.” You were close to the jet now, and Steve stood up, kissing Peggy passionately. You slammed on your breaks, going to stand on the hood of the car, waiting for Steve.

“I promised your best friend I’d protect you no matter what. I don’t care if you’re 5’4 and 95 pounds, or 6’2 and 240 pounds, I vowed to protect you. We’re ending this once and for all, together,” he looked unconvinced as you grabbed hold of one of the metal bars on the end of the jet, lifting yourself up. “For Bucky.” He pursed his lips, and jumped after you. He pulled himself up into the jet and grabbed hold of your arms to yank you up with him.

“Leave the fighting to me. You grab hold of the jet’s controls and try to land us,” you nodded, stalking off to find some place to hide until Steve distracted Red Skull enough, but he grabbed your arm, yanking you back to him. “Y/N, we might not make it out of here.” You nodded again, looking him in the eye.

“I know.” You crouched down to the floor, tucking yourself into a hidden corner and taking a deep breath. You watched as Steve carefully padded around the jet, setting his eyes on Red Skull. Your heart pounded in your ears, pretty much blocking out anything the two men were saying to each other. Steve was right; you weren’t going to make it out of this. And you knew that, but you promised to keep Steve safe, and if you couldn’t keep him safe, you would at least go down with him. Besides, you didn’t wanna live in a world without Bucky.

You closed your eyes, letting your mind play memories of you and Bucky over in your head. You remembered meeting him at one of Stark’s Conventions, and him ditching the girls he was with purely to follow you around for the night. You remembered the night he asked you out, him shifting nervously on his feet as he tried to find a coherent sentence that would convey how much he liked you. You remembered him proposing on Christmas, hiding your ring in his stocking to confuse you when you knew that you couldn’t have put it in there when he pulled it out Christmas morning. You remembered your wedding, your oh-so-perfect wedding.

A tear rolled down your cheek, and you wiped it away quickly before getting on your hands and knees and quickly crawling your way to the cock-pit of the jet. You began panicking, but not because one of the men behind you was screaming in agony, you knew it was Red Skull being killed, but because you couldn’t get control of the plane. Steve rushed besides you. “I can’t get control of the plane, we’re going too fast. We’re going to crash into New York.” You switched seats with him so he was piloting the plane, and he pulled a watch out of his pocket, putting it on the dashboard, showing a picture of Peggy.

You heard him radio in to the base. You heard Peggy’s voice. You heard them putting off goodbye, promising they’ll see each other again. But all you could do was stare ahead at your impending death, because the only way you and Steve can save New York was by plunging the two of you into the Arctic. You wished they would say goodbye…

Because you and Bucky never got to say goodbye.

“Peggy?” You spoke up, your voice raspy.

“What?” You were closer and closer to the ocean now, you only had a couple seconds. You grabbed Steve’s hand and he gripped it tight.

“Good luck with SHIELD, you’ll make an amaz-.”

2012

Steve was on his fourth punching bag of the night, a common thing nowadays after coming out of the ice. There wasn’t a day where you and Bucky weren’t on his mind. They had only pulled him out of the ice, and he couldn’t even tell them to wait, to tell them that there was someone else in that jet- someone who meant the world to him; someone who meant the world to another person who had meant the world to him. “Trouble sleeping?” Nick Fury’s voice boomed through the gym, despite it not even being loud. The way he talked just carried such an air of confidence and assurance. He wasn’t surprised to know Fury was the man in charge.

“I’ve been sleeping for 70 years, sir. I think I’ve had my fill.” He took some more swings at bag #4.

“Then you should be out, celebrating, seeing the world.”

“I went under, the world was at war. I wake up, they say we won. They didn’t say what we lost.”

“And what did you lose, Captain?” Nick asked, as Steve sat down on a bench and began unwrapping his hands. He went to his gym bag and pulled out a photo, handing it to Nick for him to see.

“A whole lot. But you lost her. She was in that plane with me. She was given the super soldier serum with me. Y/N Barnes. Sergeant James Barnes’s wife. Or as I know her, Y/N Y/L/N. If you pulled me out and I’m alive, there’s an even greater chance she’s alive too,” he stepped closer to Fury until they were face to face. “So if you want me for the Avengers Initiative, you have to find her first.”

2014

Sometimes, you hated Steve for having you pulled out of the ice. This world sucked. Still fighting HYRDA nearly 70 years later? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding. Steve was now a part of the “Avengers”, a group made up of two highly trained assassins, a literal god, the fucking hulk, a billionaire in a metal suit, and now a 98 year old super-soldier who hardly knows how to work a cellphone.

You weren’t a part of the Avengers. Unlike Steve, you were tired of fighting. You had made it clear that if Steve was going on a mission with no back-up, you were going with him. That was the only time you would willingly fight. Despite him always complaining that he didn’t need you to protect him anymore, your time in the ice had only made you more stubborn about it.

There were times, however, when he specifically reached out for your help, which is why you were now sitting in a car with him, one of the highly trained assassins, one of Steve’s new friends- Sam Wilson-, and Agent Jasper Sitwell, a HYDRA operative.

Sam was driving, Steve was in the passenger seat, and you were squished in the middle between Natasha and Sitwell. Sitwell was going off about something, who knows, you weren’t really listening.

Until a metal arm shot through your window and threw Sitwell from the car. Sam hit the brakes, sending whoever the fuck that was off the car. The man landed gracefully on a knee about thirty feet in front of your car, but another car slammed into the back of your car, pushing you forward towards him. He jumped onto the car’s hood before punching the metal arm through the windshield and ripping out the steering wheel.

Natasha picked up a gun from the floor and fired shots through the hood of the car, but the man was quick and he jumped onto the car behind you. Natasha climbed to the front, sitting across Steve and Sam. Sam was losing control of the car and Steve looked at you, almost apologetically before hitting his shield against your door, knocking it and you out of the car and onto the awfully unforgiving pavement. Steve knocked out his door next, crashing to the ground with Natasha and Sam tucked to his sides. He rushed to you, pulling you up and dusting you off. You rolled your eyes, shoving his hands off you, insisting you were fine. “Who, or should I say what, is that?”

“He’s called the Winter Soldier, HYDRA’s greatest asset. I’ll explain later. Get a gun, hide, and protect yourself.”

“Captain’s orders?” You asked sarcastically. He looked at you, raising an eyebrow at you with an impatient look. You rolled your eyes again at him before giving him a smile. He gave you a quick kiss on your forehead, which has become his way of saying “thanks for getting your ass kicked with me, you’re a great friend”. He walked off, shield held high in front of his body. He pulled Natasha to his side, but quickly pushed her away when the Winter Soldier shot a grenade at his shield. It exploded, and Steve flew off the highway and straight through the windows of a bus, which then t-boned another truck. You wanted to call out for Steve, to make sure he was still alive, but the way the soldier was still firing off shots at the bus, he couldn’t have been.

An agent was coming up beside you, and you probably wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for that damn super soldier serum that made everything so loud. You spun around, grabbing the barrel of the gun and shoving it back. The butt of it hit him square between the eyes, disorienting him enough for you to grab the gun from him and shoot him. Two to the heart, one to the head. Just like Peggy taught you.

You had hoped the sound of your gunshot wasn’t enough to divert the Soldier’s attention towards you, but as he spun you around and grabbed you by your throat- with the metal arm- and pinned you to the side of the jeep that had hit you earlier, you were proved otherwise. Your hands instinctively shot up to grip his metal hand and you swung your legs up and out to push against his chest. He stumbled backwards, but his grip on your throat tightened to keep you from escaping his hold. You gasped for air, beginning to lose more oxygen.

As if it happened in slow motion, you watched a bullet hit the arm that was restricting your airways. You both slowly turned your head towards where the hit came from, and Sam had his gun trained on the Soldier. His eyes seemed to train on Sam, and his metal hand flung you back, throwing you off the highway and onto the pavement below as his anger went towards Sam.

You groaned as you nearly pealed yourself off the ground. You had barely started running to fight off the other agents fighting Steve when the Soldier jumped from the highway, landing gracefully on the car next to you. He was faster than you, easily grabbing you again and pulling a knife from his vest. As his hand shot out to slice at your torso, you grabbed his wrist, pinning it behind him between his shoulder blades.

He fell to his knees, letting out a strangled growl. You called out for Steve, needing backup. Just as Steve dropped an agent to the ground, diverting his attention to you, the Soldier pulled a gun on you. He bent forward, flipping you over his back. You landed on your back and he stood up, his heavy boot pressing against your knee cap as he fired off…

One shot…

Two shots…

Three shots…

Steve tackled him to the ground before he could fire the fourth shot and Sam, who had just joined the rest of you down on the street, hurriedly pulled your body into his. Your head rested in his lap, his knees bent as he checked you for injuries. Your hand reached up to where you had been shot, but all your fingers touched was the smooth, unbroken skin on your shoulder. There was no blood. “Sam.”

“You’re not bleeding. The bullet didn’t even enter your body.” You looked to the side of you, three bullets laid on the ground next to you, the front ends bashed in.

“Huh.” You stood up, running back to where the Soldier had Steve pinned to a van, a knife sliding next to his head as the Soldier dug it deep into the side of the car. You threw yourself at the Soldier, wrapping your legs around his throat and squeezing tight with your thighs.

“Y/N! Stand down! You’ll lose too much blood!” Steve barked at you, still throwing punches at the soldier.

“You don’t see me bleeding, do you?” Steve froze momentarily, checking your body to see where he could’ve sworn you were shot multiple times, but all he saw were deep purple marks forming on your shoulder. “I have a hunch, and if I’m right about it, I should be able to do this.” You reached over the Soldier’s shoulders as he continued thrusting his knife at Steve. You grabbed onto the blade, and although it stung, it didn’t break your skin. With your legs restricting the Soldier’s airways, he released the knife enough for you to toss it away.

As he dropped to the ground, you fell with him, and he laid unconscious between your legs. You rolled over and onto your hands and knees as you ripped his mask and goggles off.

Big.

Mistake.

Steve saw it with you. Your heart dropped in your stomach. You, too, felt yourself about to collapse besides him. A million memories hit you at once. The Expo. The proposal. The wedding. The army. The Howling Commandos. The train that Steve watched him fall to his death from. The month you spent grieving over him, only to lead to what was supposed to be your tragic ending as well. Your hand reached out slowly, gently cupping his cheek, tracing your thumb over his lips as you sucked in a harsh breath. Two fingers slid down to his pulse point, and a tear slipped down your cheek as you felt him alive. He had a heartbeat. Your arm continued to slide down, picking up his left arm that was now a metal shell. “Oh, Bucky, what have they done to you?” You whispered, bringing it up to press your cheek against it, letting out a sob when it still fit against you perfectly.

Your mind never left Bucky. Even after being arrested by “SHIELD”. Even after Maria Hill knocking out the other two agents and delivering you to Nick Fury, who was also still alive after being thought to be dead, of course. You faintly listened in as Nick, Sam, Steve, and Nat talked about what had happened to you.

You absentmindedly drifted your fingers up to your shoulders, where there was no other wound than a couple ugly bruises. No, the only thing that hurt was the guilt that you had almost killed your own husband, and the sadness that he had blatantly tried to kill you. Did he even remember you? How was he even alive, let alone still looking young? Would he ever remember you? Would he ever remember Steve? Your hand slid up to cup your cheek, remembering the feeling of your heart breaking at the contact that you hadn’t ever anticipated, but missed every day. “We need to try. She might be able to help us stop him.” Your ears perked up at what Sam said.

“Try what?” Steve dropped his head, looking down at his feet and pressing his lips firm together before looking at you again.

“Sam thinks it’s a good idea to see what your body can and can’t handle. We need to know what could hurt you and what can’t.” You gave them an appalled glare.

“Why? So you know how to kill me? Are you fucking insane?” You stood up from your chair, throwing it across the room as you stormed out. Steve quickly followed after and grabbed you by your elbow. You instinctively swung your arm back, aiming to hit him in the jaw, but he caught it.

“Y/N, doll, you need to hear me out. You know I would never intentionally hurt you.”

“You were literally just talking about shooting me for shits and giggles.”

“Not for that. Zola’s algorithm is in place and it’s about to kill a lot of good people unless we can replace some of the chips in the system. If you’re really bulletproof, we’re going to need you to distract Bucky.”

“Steve, as much as I wish it was, that’s not Bucky. Bucky wouldn’t shoot at either of us and I think it’s safe to say he had no remorse about the three bullets he attempted to land in me,” you sighed darkly, groaning. “How is a person being virtually bullet-proof even possible?”

“The serum enhanced me to my full potential and peak health. You were already at your peak health. Maybe it just made you and your skin stronger.”

“Strong isn’t strong enough here. Sam saw Bucky pin me up against a wall using one arm, lifting me off the ground and I could hardly make him stumble. I’m no match against him.”

“You’re enough of a match to keep him busy for me.”

Three hours later, you had your arms and legs pinned to a wall. You were attached to all sorts of different wires and four bags of your blood type were at the ready, in the event that a bullet did pierce you. A team of doctors and surgeons were on standby. Sam, Steve, Natasha, Maria, and Nick watched from behind a two way mirror. A marksman geared up in front of you, an assault rifle at the ready, when you ordered the experiment to stop. Steve and Natasha shared a look, and he entered the room.

He was at your side in seconds. “What’s wrong? Why’d you stop them?” You looked at him, giving him a serious look that told him you weren’t fucking around.

“Either you shoot me, or I’m out.”

You were Steve’s best friend. You had been since the night Steve told you Bucky’s team got taken. Nothing could ever break the amount of trust you two held…

Which is why he apologized profusely at every shot he took at you. You’d wince at the contact, Steve would rattle out an apology, and you’d roll your eyes, ordering him to take another shot. Your head and your heart were off limits, just in case. They were also off limits because you and Steve knew that Bucky wasn’t aiming to kill. He’d shoot you somewhere that wouldn’t kill you, then he’d finish you off by hand.

After shot 58, the doctor announced the end of the experiment, and Steve and Maria rushed to your side to drop you from your shackles as you groaned from the tension in your muscles. “How do you feel?” Natasha asked, coming to your side and helping you stand upright.

“Like I should be shooting Steve for a change and see how he like it.” You smirked at Steve and he gasped, putting his hands on his hips.

“You were the one that insisted that I shoot you. Besides, you’re not bleeding. You’re just bruised.” You reached your hand out, grabbing him by the back of his neck to pull him closer to you so you could whisper in his ear.

“You know, if Buck ever does remember us, I’m telling him you shot me.”

That night, you sat on your bed in your apartment, pulling out that same black box that Bucky kept under his bed back at the bunker. You flipped through the pictures again, trying your best not to remember the last time you did this, when Bucky turned on your lights until you became so frustrated that you shot out of bed, only to see him standing there wearing your favorite green henley and the smirk that made you fall for him in the first place. You exhaled harshly, putting the photo on your nightstand, leaning it against your lamp. Sleep was pointless, but you had a big day tomorrow.

“Bucky’s alive,” you murmured, playing with the orange ‘visitors’ band on your wrist. You glanced up at Peggy, her eyes urging you to go on. “He’s alive, but it’s not… him. He nearly killed me on a bridge the other day,” you pulled the collar of your shirt down, exposing your shoulder. “He shot at me three times, nearly choked me to death. He didn’t even remember me.”

“Are you sure it was him? Barnes is older than me, he’s gotta be worse off than I am.” She coughed and you handed her a cup of water, putting the straw to her lips.

“It couldn’t not be him. HYDRA must have gotten to him after he fell off that train. Probably put him in an ice box or something like what happened to me and Steve. They call him the “Winter Soldier”. His left arm’s been replaced with metal,” you paused as you set her cup back onto the table. “Did you know about me being bulletproofed?”

“Doctor Erskine warned me there might be a possibility. He didn’t want me to tell you, in fear you’d go out and test its capabilities,” You nodded, deciding to pass on the fact that the love of her life had shot you 58 times just for that exact reason. “There’s something else bothering you.” You sighed, standing up and placing a kiss on her forehead, grabbing her hands in yours.

“Yeah, I might have to kill my husband today.”

“Are you ready for this?” Steve asked. You stood behind him, gun and knives at the ready.

“As ready as I’ll ever be to fight my un-naturally strong husband with a metal arm who just happens to have no idea who I am anymore.”

“That’s the spirit,” Your breath caught in your throat as Steve’s entire posture stiffened. You didn’t even have to look to know that the Winter Soldier stood in front of him. “People are going to die, Buck,” he paused, taking a breath. “I can’t let that happen.” Bucky remained silent, unmoving. “Y/N, you’re up.” He flung his shield at Bucky, making him fall off balance long enough for you to lunge at him.

Your legs went around his throat again, and you crossed your thighs behind his head. His hands went to your hips, trying to throw you off of him, but you weren’t letting go. He realized this, and he sent the both of you flying down from the bridge and onto the glass below you. He landed on top of you, and his metal fist wrapped around your throat. “Bucky, look at me. Please,” His eyes narrowed and his grip on you got tighter. “Please.”

You gripped his wrist around you and pulled it off of you before turning over so you were on top of him. You put your knees on his arms, keeping him from grabbing you again. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” He winced, trying to pry you off of him. “You were born March 10, 1917,” your sentences began to run together as you realized that he wasn’t going to stay pinned down for long. You put your hands on each side of his face, holding him steady and forcing him to look at you. “We met the summer of 1935. We got married two years later, before you went off to war. You know me, you know my name.” He shouted out, using his legs to pull himself up, flinging you across the room in the process.

You landed on a knee, and charged at him as he was beginning to steady himself. He pulled a gun from his holster and shot at you, but quickly threw it aside when he realized that you were getting closer, and you weren’t slowing down. He caught your fist as you swung it at his jaw and he pulled you into him, wrapping his arm around your throat. “You… know…me…” You gasped, reaching behind you to grab a knife from the holster around your waist.

“You’re my mission.” He said, tightening his grip on you.

“I’m your wife!” You plunged the knife into his thigh. He yelled out in pain as you took the knife out of his thigh. You straddled him once more, getting ready to do it again when you heard Steve’s voice ring through the comm unit in your ear.

“Y/N, it’s done. We’re about to go down. Nick and Natasha have a helicopter coming around. Where are you?” Bucky looked at you with an indescribable look. Flashes of fear and pain and panic flicked through them all at once.

“Steve, you need to get on that helicopter without me. I got Bucky. I’ll keep him safe.” You took the comm out of your ear, tossing it aside. Bucky’s chest heaved with every breath he took, but he took the opportunity to flip you over so his body covered yours, right before a large piece of debris fell from the roof of the helicarrier.

“Who are you?” He growled. You reached up, shoving the piece of debris aside and off his back.

“I’m your wife. You already know my name. I know you do,” you carefully reached your hand to his cheek, hardly touching him. When he didn’t give any reaction, you placed it on his skin. “Think, Bucky. Quickly, before we both die.”

“You don’t care if I die.” Bucky said. Debris began falling all over, and an especially large piece fell behind your head, shattering the glass behind you. If anything landed on the panel that your bodies were sprawled out on, you were dead.

“Didn’t you just hear me tell someone I’d keep you safe? I almost lost you twice before this. One of those times being the one that made you forget me; forget Steve; forget the life we had almost built for ourselves.” You didn’t even realize you were crying until Bucky’s eyes seemed to follow a tear that trailed down your cheek and onto your neck. “Please, Bucky.” You sobbed quietly. His eyes went wide, staring at you down in what could have been mistaken as horror.

Memories flashed in his head far too quickly for his liking, but each memory held the same face until they all fused together to one girl, laughing as her hair blew behind her in the wind. Another man leaned down, pressing his lips to hers as her hand slid to take place on his cheek. A diamond ring was on her ring finger- a solitaire diamond, with a tiny heart engraved into the band next to it.

Bucky gently pulled your hand from his cheek, holding it before him as he stared at the ring on your left hand- a solitaire diamond with a little heart engraved next to it.

“Y/N.”

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