#i would rather have no bucky content than to have poorly managed bucky content

[asteral-feileacan]

This. I also think it's very... odd to assume the place where you tell other people in a fandom what it's time for and what it's not time for. The reason stories exist is to enjoy them; people have always banded around their favourite characters. People should always do that. Tony stans have a right to freely stan Tony, just like fans of any other characters have a right to freely stan their favourite characters. The MCU fandom's problem is not that these stans exist, it's that no one is willing to listen to each other or treat other people's opinions with a least a little bit of respect. It goes beyond the character. If you suddenly come up with this idea that certain stans should just stop existing or interacting because of their opinion, you're eliminating open discussion and the potential for growth. Why the push for an echo chamber? If fans of things aren't allowed write badly written stories based on those things for person enjoyment, where does that leave us?

I can respect OP's pov; after all, when someone tells you that you hurt them, it is not up to you to say that you didn't. But if we want to make representation actually work, we can't just ignore one very important minority in favour of another very important minority. In order to be equal, you can't leave people behind. TFATWS is not The Falcon vs the Winter Soldier. It's The Falcon AND the Winter Soldier. It's not POC vs male abuse victim. We shouldn't have to stamp on Sam to bring up Bucky, or vice versa, because they exist independently of each other and deserve to be treated as equals and fairly. If they wanted the show to be about Sam, they should have just called it the Falcon. There was no need to put Bucky in this show.

Look, I've been here since I was very young. I was a Bucky fan long before I got into writing which is already close to a decade ago now. I grew up with Bucky. This is not to say that my opinion matters more than a new fan, or someone who likes a different character. It just means that I very personally love Bucky's character and I am invested in seeing him either come to an end that fulfils his character, or continue appearing in future MCU media to get to that point. Bucky won't be in the MCU forever, nor should he be. No character should really be, especially in a story that seems like it'll just be going on forever. And I simply think that it's sad that what Bucky's been through is dismissed by the current showrunners and misrepresented, and that the excuse is that Sam deserves more. Can Sam not stand on his own? Do they not have faith that Sam as a character is just as unique and meaningful as anyone else around him? When did it start becoming more about sending a political message over telling a story with respect to the character? I think that's in fact incredibly disrespectful to Sam's character, because he IS interesting, he IS a very strong character whose story SHOULD be followed and continued. But why can that not exist while Bucky also exists, without putting Bucky and his experience down? And why the push to now get rid of Bucky and his difficult trauma, not just by various fans, but also by the showrunners? I would rather watch a show entirely about Sam and his character development than have to have Bucky shoehorned in and misrepresented. Again, why wasn't TFATWS just about Sam since this opinion about Bucky is apparently so popular? I would rather have no Bucky content post-Endgame than this path they're going down.

The world has moved past the need for Bucky stans. They serve no other purpose than to write long stories explaining why their characters is the most miserable character, who has suffered the most, has had the most unfair treatment in the world and then forget and dismiss anyone around their character. Let’s not forget how entitled they act whenever there is a big announcement for Sam’s character, and immediately demand the same for Bucky. Even though there are 364 other days where they could do the complaing for their character, they conviently choose the day there is a big announcement for Sam’s character to complain and make demands they have no right to make, instead of praising Sam’s character just once in their life.

And honestly, I don’t even think they really like Bucky as a character because they absolutely refuse to see him as he really is or see the ways their character has grown.

Like Tony Stans before them, and unlike any other fans in the MCU, Bucky stans have the ability to always paint their character as the victim no matter what the circumstances, act as if their character is the only character to have ever experienced trauma in the history of characters. And they absolutely to refuse to see the flaws of their characters or any bad thing they do, They will blame all the bad things their character does on literally anybody BUT the character. They refuse to acknowledge that their character isn’t the only one who has feelings and who has known pain. We are slowly being freed from Tony stans, it’s time for the same thing to happen with the Buckies.

The last strike is that now they somehow came up with the idea that Bucky’s and Isaiah’s stories are somewhat similar. Excuse me but what???

What is surprising to me is that I never see this kind of behavior coming from Steve fans, Natasha fans, Thor fans and so on. Maybe I missed something.

It’s always the same fandoms that decide on one specific interpretation of a character and stick to it no matter what is happening on screen. They insist on Bucky being the one who needs to be taken care of, when Bucky in episode 5, and episode 6 was the one who was taking care of Sam ( getting the suit, helping with the boat, supporting with the flagsmashers). Do you even watch the shows your character’s involved in or do you just live in your headcanon? Do you even realize that you character is making progess and that unlike your headcanons Bucky seems to have more the profile of a nurturer once he starts healing? Bucky still has a long way to go, but have you seen him giving away that notebook? Starting to make amends the right way? Do you not see his progress?

They insist on Bucky being the one being hurt but turn a blind eye when Bucky is doing the hurting. And let’s not even talk about what happens when the other character interacting with Bucky is not White…

I have seen several of the stans complaining about how Sam was mean/unfair or still treated Bucky like he was still the Winter Soldier or like he was responsible for his crimes as the Winter Soldier, which is all untrue by the way. But then they never mention why Sam didn’t open welcome Bucky with open arms.

The first thing Bucky did when he met Sam was blame him “You shouldn’t have given up the shield”. No “hello”, no “good morning”, no “how have you been Sam?”, when we know that Sam has been checking up on Bucky, and texting him but Bucky didn’t reply. So Bucky ghosts Sam, and only comes back to blame him about giving up the shield. And even when Sam tells him he’s upset about the shield being given to Walker, Bucky keeps pestering Sam. And it keeps being that way for a major part of episode 2 and 3. 

And yet I have NEVER seen any Bucky stan talk about how Bucky treated Sam badly during that time.

Do you guys not remember the scene where Bucky apoligize? I just don’t understand, even Bucky understood that he f*cked up, and changed his behavior, why can’t his stans?

And talking about Bucky hurting people, I have NEVER seen a Bucky stan talking about how awful what he did to Yori was. He befriended a man knowing full well he had killed his son? What kind of mindgame was he playing.

And please don’t get me started on how they tried to make Ayo the “bad guy”, when Bucky had just broke out Zemo out of prison, the guy who killed King T’Chaka, without thinking about the consequences and the impact on his Wakandan friends.

Bucky stans don’t even acknowledge the feelings of other characters than their own. They did it with Endgame Steve with blablabla how unfair he was to abandon Bucky, even though Bucky knew Steve was leaving. And they are now doing it from Sam.

I really like Loki as a character but I’m sometimes annoyed at some stans that want to insist that he isn’t a villain, never did anything wrong and even go to the lengths to paint him as a victim when he killed actual people. But usually Loki stans don’t reach the levels of Buckies when it comes to putting on blinders whenever they are thinking about their characters. Most of them acknowledge Loki’s flaws and his wrongdoings and like him anyway. As they should.

Bucky stans need to step aside and leave Bucky’s character to people who really know how to appreciate him, who (unlike them) want his character to heal and be happy and see him as he is, flaws, wrongdoings, mistakes and most importanly who also see his growth. 

Most importantly, leave Bucky’s character to people who know how to tag properly and won’t tag a post that doesn’t even have Sam in it with “Sam Wilson” just to get more traction for their post.

[heytherejulietx]

hey! i don’t know if i sent this before but could you write a richie x reader where reader protects the losers from bowers? and she gets injured but doesn’t show it until she passes out?

bowers - richie tozier

↳ i hope this turned out alright for you nonnie! 🤍

↳ content warnings - violence, bullying, injury mention, blood, swearing, sex jokes, aged up losers.

↳ 3.5k word count

↳ masterlists

@bucky-j-barnes @mikewheelerc join my tag list

y/n decided that she absolutely detested her english teacher.

it was one of the last days of school before summer, and yet she’d been kept back for an extra hour to tutor some asshole in her class who hadn’t even been bothered to read their set text for that month (to be fair, richie also hadn’t read the text, but she supposed he wasn’t as much of an asshole because she loved him. boyfriend perks or some shit. and she also wasn’t staying back to tutor him, too). so whilst the rest of the losers had been let out of school she had to wait until she could catch up with them after. so she hated her english teacher and by extension the idiot that she had to tutor.

she’d had one good tutoring experience, and that was because richie genuinely needed help writing a history paper. it was only good because they got ten minutes in before they forgot the essay completely and ended up making out in his bedroom for the rest of the “tutor session”. richie had said they spent their time well and he didn’t regret it when his paper was graded poorly, and y/n smacked the back of his head. it was his fault they ended up making out in the first place. obviously.

so when four o’clock rolled around y/n left the practically empty school with a scowl on her face. her bike - usually surrounded by the bikes of the rest of the losers - stood alone as she walked towards it and unlocked the bike chain before she got on and rode off away from the school. richie had said to find them by the clubhouse, but as much as she loved him, she took stan’s word that they’d probably be by the local park instead. stan usually had the best idea of what was going on.

after a little while of peddling through derry y/n found herself approaching the park with a sigh of relief. she was tired and honestly wouldn’t mind listening to richie and eddie bickering like an old married couple for the next however long. she’d have preferred it to tutoring the asshole. though as she came to the edge of the street she screeched her bike to a stop, spotting the losers on the other side of the street with bowers in front of them.

from where she was stood she couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but she could see richie stood right in front of bowers yelling something about “shouldn’t you be off blowing your cousin” and beverly stood beside him, hands on her hips as she glared bowers down. bill was stood behind richie, trying (and failing) to get him to back down, with eddie on his other side with an inhaler in hand. stan stood shuffling on his feet nervously beside mike, whilst ben was keeping an eye on beverly.

y/n got off of her bike and stood it up against the wall of some building beside her as she frowned at the scene. she hurriedly searched henry’s hands for any sign of his knife and was thoroughly surprised when she didn’t see it. until she noticed it peeking out from his back pocket.

memories of seeing ben’s scar on his stomach for the first time made her glower at the back of henry’s head, angry at the thought of him hurting any of the other losers again.

she spotted an empty glass bottle on the floor and without thinking lifted it up and hurled it through the air towards bowers. it shattered against his upper back and the shouting went silent as they all turned to face her, bowers with a murderous glare on his face.

“hey bowers!” she shouted, hands on her hips, matching bev’s stance. “what’s it gonna take for you to chop that mullet off, dude? shit’s fuckin’ ugly man!”

although y/n wasn’t completely alike her boyfriend (mostly in the sense that she could calm down if she wanted to, and richie was constantly at a state of maximum energy at any given point) they were alike in their mannerisms if y/n really got going. she maybe even had bigger balls than he did, as stan once pointed out. she didn’t shy away from conflict - she probably ended up making it worse sometimes, to be honest.

she didn’t look away from bowers but she could feel eight pairs of eyes on her. though the death glare that she was defiantly staring back at was definitely the strongest. she’d maybe even be a little bit scared if she wasn’t too pissed off to care.

as bowers started crossing the street towards her, shouting nasty and horrible things her way, y/n sent a look towards stan and bill and nodded in the opposite direction. they needed to get the losers away before it kicked off with bowers, because she knew that richie and bev would be eager to get themselves involved too. the whole point of distracting bowers was so they wouldn’t be.

stan and bill had hands on the other losers arms, and from where she was stood she heard something close to “she’ll lose him then meet us around the corner“. once she was sure that the boys had it covered she faced henry again, stepping back a little as he got closer though she didn’t lose her glare.

“what the fuck are you playing at?” bowers spat, stopping directly in front of her. she could see small shards of glass sticking in his hair and inwardly smirked to herself.

“the bully act is a little old, isn’t it? you’re pathetic.” she stood her ground with as much ferocity he had, momentarily forgetting about the knife he had, though it was quickly brought to her attention when it was taken out of his back pocket and the tip was pointed at her.

y/n stumbled back a little on instinct, though tried to keep her stance the same. bowers was slowly closing in on her - she only had so much pavement left behind her before a wall. though just as he raised it to send a slash her way, she spotted blue lights in the distance and smirked.

“i’d watch it, bowers,” she nodded in the direction of the sheriff’s cruiser, knowing fully well that his father was in the car. “wouldn’t want daddy catching you with a big-boy blade.”

the cop car drove right down their street and past them, and y/n thought that it would be okay to turn and walk away with a final gesture of her middle finger his way.

big mistake.

she got a few steps away as the cruiser went down the street, though she didn’t take into account that bowers might come at her again. just as she glanced down the street, wondering what side street the losers could have taken to get away, she felt a hand grab the strap of her backpack and yanked her backwards onto the floor, winding her with a wheeze as she landed on the pavement. as she tried to forcefully drag in a breath of air she could see bowers towered over her, blade still in hand, and panicked. he had a fucking knife and she was laying on her back, defenceless.

her hand reached out beside her to grab the first thing she could on the floor and when her fingers circled around one of the larger shards of glass from the bottle she threw mere minutes before she swiped at him with it, taking his moment of leaning back away from it to scramble up to her feet.

“the fuck is your problem, man?” she wheezed, still somewhat winded, now sounding like eddie. she could feel her heart beating out of her chest, almost painfully thumping against her ribcage.

instead of an answer bowers pushed her back again and she landed on the floor once more, the shard of glass falling from her hand. breathing through her teeth, knowing she didn’t have enough time to stand up again since bowers was so close, she rolled onto her stomach to reach and grab the shard of glass, planning to turn back towards bowers to defend herself.

y/n misjudged how long that would take, because before she could turn back around she felt a sudden pain to the back of her leg, along with the sound of her jeans tearing. fuck, did he cut her? if he did he probably didn’t do it very deep because it didn’t hurt terribly bad. y/n still yelped in surprise, though, and kicked him away before she got to her feet again, glass in hand again.

the knife he was holding was coated in blood and it made her feel sick to stare at him, a sadistic fucking smile on his face. y/n would honestly rather have tea with michael meyers over that.

thinking on her feet she threw the glass at him and managed to hit him in the face. bowers groaned in pain and immediately covered the spot with his hand, and y/n wasted no time in turning to run away from him.

through being winded twice the drags of air she took in were audible and wheezy, hurting her throat and chest with every intake of breath. she debated on tackling eddie for his inhaler when she saw him. her shoes slapped against the pavement loudly as she ran down the street and down the first alleyway she saw, hoping the losers were somewhere close. she could already feel herself tiering, and she didn’t want bowers catching up to her again when she had less energy. she’d be much worse off.

thankfully the losers were quite literally right in front her, as when she had turned to run down another side street she collided with richie and almost sent them both tumbling down, if not for mike and ben who managed to hold the both of them up.

“fucking hell-“ she was still wheezing, gripping onto richie’s ugly shirt in tight fists once she was back on her feet. “are you guys okay?”

“we should be asking you that, holy fuck,” richie’s eyes were wide as he held onto her arms to keep her steady. “you sound like eddie.” he added, ignoring the complaint behind his back at the comment.

with richie keeping his hands on her arms bev rubbed her back from where she was stood on her left side, eyes kept on her face. y/n had momentarily forgotten about the cut on her leg because the rush of adrenaline she was feeling kept her from noticing it, and she was wearing black jeans so the blood wouldn’t really show on the material.

“i’m okay,” she nodded, breathing slowly but surely becoming an easier task as she continued to hang off of richie’s shirt, which he seemed like he didn’t mind. “i’m fine.”

“badass taking on bowers like that,” eddie commented, earning a chuckle from the rest of the losers. “i don’t think anybody else would have actually done it.”

“hey!” richie complained, turning to face eddie though he kept a hand on y/n’s arm. “i totally could have done that.”

“no offence rich, but i do have bigger balls than you.” y/n poked him in the chest and earned a playful glare in return.

as richie and eddie started arguing like usual y/n blinked a few times. the adrenaline was wearing off, and the supposed scratch on the back of her leg grew more and more painful the longer she stood there. she grimaced, eyebrows furrowing slightly as she inhaled deeply through her nose. the back of her thigh felt oddly warm, like warm water was running down her leg, though she immediately dismissed the idea that it was blood. no, she’d know if it was that serious. she couldn’t have run all that way with a deep cut in her leg, could she?

“y/n?” she blinked a few times and looked up, meeting stan’s concerned gaze in front of her, soon followed by the rest of the losers taking suit. “are you okay?”

“yeah,” she exhaled deeply, attempting to step forwards, though the movement was so wobbly that immediately richie grabbed one of her forearms to keep her steady. “just peachy, stan-the-man. i think i just need to sit down…” she attempted to step forwards again, though this time the wobbling was more prominent, and she fell right towards stanley as her eyes rolled back.

-

“fuck!” richie had immediately reached forwards in the attempt to catch her before she fell on stanley, and with the help of stan and mike he managed to lower her to the floor.

“oh my god!” eddie was shrill with panic, taking in worried breaths already. “bowers killed y/n!”

“she’s not dead you fucking idiot!” stan yelled back, though his face was pale with worry too.

richie tried to block the bickering out when bev and mike joined too as he crouched beside her, hands a little shaky as he tried to check her over for any injuries, ben doing the same from where he stood. he couldn’t see anything, though a puddle of blood forming underneath her left thigh spoke for itself, and immediately he was panicking too.

“fuck! eddie her leg!” richie was shouting too, hoping eddie knew something about what the fuck was going on due to his extensive medical knowledge.

eddie crouched on the floor beside her leg, gritting his teeth to hold back the willing heave from the sight of blood as he tried to see what had happened. with the help of bev who lifted her leg up, eddie gasped and almost made richie go into cardiac arrest.

“what?! what is it?! is her leg falling off or something?!” now he was sounding like eddie.

“bowers cut her-“ eddie almost heaved again though swallowed it down to speak again. “it’s bad. she needs to get to the hospital she’s losing a fuck ton of blood.”

“fuck-“ richie felt nauseous with worry, and his hands shook as one moved to her cheek, shaking her slightly as if she would wake up. when she continued just to lay there he pulled off his shirt with trembling fingers and leaned over her body towards her leg. “she needs something tied to stop the blood flow, right?” he spoke quickly as he looked up at eddie, who had his hands clamped over his mouth as he tried to keep from throwing up. “RIGHT?” he yelled, impatient.

eddie nodded frantically as his hand dug into his fanny pack for his inhaler and richie wasted no time in wrapping his shirt around her leg, and tied a knot tightly above the cut, not bothered by the blood staining it. once it was tied beverly lowered her leg back down to the floor.

all of the losers had the same sort of expression on their faces; shock. whether it was shown through wheezing like eddie or standing as still as a statue like stan, they all had the same almost ghostly look to their expression.

“there’s a phone booth down the street, i’ll go call an ambulance.” bev announced before she took off running in the direction of the phone.

richie sat back on his heels, pretending his hands weren’t stained with his girlfriends blood as he took her hand and sat it in her lap. he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs and just prayed that the ambulance would get there soon.

-

y/n blinked almost furiously under the sudden harsh light, it hurt her head to look at it. the bed she was laying in was uncomfortable and the room smelt like disinfectant. eddie better not have cleaned my room again, she thought. the last time he had done it was because she had a stomach bug and “the germs could spread and get everyone sick!“, so she didn’t see why he had reason to do it now.

once her eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the room she glanced around and was suddenly taken aback by where she was; the hospital.

y/n immediately sat up, suddenly wide awake, though she flinched when she felt something grab her hand and turned to see what it was, thoughts of bowers and his blood-coated knife flashing in her mind. though she relaxed slightly when she saw richie sat there instead, his hand over hers.

“it’s not even summer yet and you’re already having adventures. look at you go.” his teasing voice filled the room, though she could see in his eyes that he wasn’t completely carefree like usual.

y/n smiled a little as she leaned back against the pillows of her bed and shrugged. “what can i say? i’m just way cooler than you.” she teased as she moved her fingers gently against his to link them together.

richie scoffed in mock offence though a moment later he’d leaned forwards, his other hand over their linked ones. “you feel okay?” his voice was soft and genuine, a tone she only ever heard from richie when they were alone.

she blinked a few times at the question, and suddenly the pain in her leg had registered and she winced. “my leg hurts.”

“i’d expect so after bowers fucking sliced you open,” richie grumbled. he looked angry and concerned and different. y/n rarely saw him so serious. “when i see him next i’m going to kill him.”

“no, rich,” y/n shook her head, frowning a little as she squeezed his hand a little firmer. “i’m okay. just leave it. it’ll get worse.”

richie sighed though nodded, his gaze focused on their interlocked hands. y/n waited another moment before she shuffled over on the bed (and grit her teeth to suppress the grunt of pain from moving her leg, which richie picked up on anyways) before she pat the bed beside her and tugged on richie’s arm. “in.”

“not the first time you’ve said that.” richie snorted as he stood up, and let go of her hand so he could climb onto the bed beside her. once he had settled comfortably against the pillows y/n tucked herself into his side, and closed her eyes once her head had dropped against his shoulder.

after a moment she could feel the tips of richie’s fingers dragging up and down her arm, tracing invisible patterns along her skin. his lips pressed to the crown of her head and in return she gently left a kiss to his collarbone with a quiet hum, though kept her eyes closed.

“you didn’t have to put yourself in harms away for us today,” richie mumbled. “i totally could have handled it.” he added jokingly, not able to stay serious for long.

“oh i’m sure,” y/n smirked slightly before she shook her head and sighed. “i saw the knife in his back pocket and thought of ben and what he did to him. i couldn’t imagine him doing that again to any of you. i’d do anything for you guys,” her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, and when she looked up richie was already looking at her. “especially you.” she added, almost silent.

richie brought his tree hand up and brushed some hair out of his face as he looked at her, surprisingly not cracking a joke or even a smirk that time. instead his expression was soft; a rarity for sure. his gaze softened and he had a half-smile that made y/n almost swoon, despite being in a hospital bed.

“that means a lot,” richie told her genuinely. “i just don’t like seeing you get hurt, doll.”

“i know, but i’m okay.” she insisted, sitting up a little against his side as she looked at him.

“you’re almost okay,” he corrected, as his fingers tapped against the thigh of the leg that was hurt. “just don’t throw yourself in front of bowers for us again, okay?”

“‘kay. promise.” she smiled, and her eyes closed shut again when richie pressed a soft, loving kiss to her lips.

“as much as i’d love to enjoy this moment,” richie pulled away, his usual smirk back on his face. “eddie is probably outside going through his third inhaler, and stan’s hair probably dropped out from stress.”

y/n laughed and shook her head, though she knew richie really wasn’t far off.

almost as if the losers had heard them, the door opened so quickly and with so much force that it slammed against the wall beside it, revealing (surely) eddie hugging his inhaler and stan looking sick with stress, followed by the other losers.

“yo stan, you look like you just saw under eddie’s mom’s skirt.” richie called over, and immediately eddie was cursing at him as he stepped forwards.

y/n giggled to herself as she tucked against richie’a side, watching the usual bickering start up again. back to normal, she thought to herself.

[dear-selena]

Sketchbook (Peter Parker x Stark!Reader): Chapter 2

Peter Parker x Stark!Reader (Female) 

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | ?

Summary: (Y/N) never understood science based subjects, despite putting all her efforts into studying them. Kids at school bullied her, her father, Tony Stark, was disappointed in her, and the Avengers looked the other way. Peter Parker, her best friend and secret crush for almost two years, was always there supporting her when she needed someone. However, since he became an Avenger and her dad’s ‘favorite kid’, (Y/N) doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be around. 

You find yourself struggling to exist with everything working against you, and instead of asking others for help, you turn to your sketchbook.

Warnings: Favoritism, fighting (battle wise), mentions of depression

A/N: Hey guys! thank you all so much for the support on my first chapter. School has been extremely crazy for me, so I’ve been struggling to write, but I really wanted to update tonight. Like I said before, updates for this story will be sparce because of my school schedule, so please be patient with me. 

Also, I’ve been experiencing extreme writer’s block with this story, so please be patient with me as I work through it. I think I’ve come up with a good path for this story to go, and feedback will be much appreciated. Thank you again for reading, and I hope you enjoy chapter 2! 

Chapter 2: Whipped Into Shape

Words: 2097

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The ride home from school couldn’t have been any quicker. 

Happy always waits for you when school ends to drive you home. Normally, you would talk up a storm to him about how frustrating classes were, and he’d listen contently, chiming in sometimes to give you advice. However, today you stay silent, thinking about how you had to face your father at home and tell him about your D+ in chemistry. 

Hopefully everyone forgot you got your grades back today. 

“Everything alright back there kiddo?” You hear happy ask you, snapping you out of any negative thoughts that started to form. “Is it about grades again?”

You slowly nod, admitting defeat. “I failed my chem midterm. Again.” 

Happy looks at you through the rear-view window, pity evident in his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

You shake your head, not wanting to breakdown in front of your family’s head of security. 

Once Happy reaches the Avengers Compound, you thank him and quickly make your way inside. When you reach the common room, you find Bucky and Sam playing video games on the big screen, nodding at you when they see you’ve come back home. 

“Hey (Y/N), how’d the test go?” Sam asks without taking his eyes off the screen. Dammit they remember. 

You try to act dumb. “What test? I didn’t take any test…” 

Bucky turns to glance at you before giving his attention back to the game. “She probably failed again. Hope Tony doesn’t freak.” He mumbles. However, you heard everything he said, and quietly left the room before they could say anymore hurtful words. Bucky always liked saying things bluntly. But you weren’t in the mood to deal with him today. The truth hurt too much. 

Making a quick pitstop in your bedroom, you drop your backpack and quickly change into some training gear. After school you would train with Natasha, learning self-defense, fighting tactics, and how to use certain weapons. You started this routine when you entered your freshman year of high school as a privilege. Your father refused to have your trained when you were younger despite your constant begging. However, when he enrolled you into Midtown High, he started having Natasha training you as a way to keep you in check. If you did well in school, you were allowed to train, simple as that. 

Natasha was always so patient with you, no matter how inconsistent training you has been. Sometimes, your father would forbid you from training when you’re grades were at an all time low in order to make you study more, so you weren’t as skilled as you wished. However, your skills have gotten better over the past few months, and you thought that developing these skills might finally land you a spot with the Avengers. 

When your father allows it, training gave you a new sense of life. It made you feel as if you could do anything, even stop your bad thoughts from ever returning. You weren’t sure how it happened, but fighting alongside Natasha felt great, even if you weren’t the best. Natasha was a great teacher. 

But you secretly wish your father would be there helping you learn. 

Tying your hair into a high ponytail and giving yourself another look in the mirror, you grab your boxing tape and start the trek to the training room. On your way to the room however, you can’t help but get distracted by the lab. It was in the direction you were taking, and its walls were glass, so you could see everything. Normally, Bruce and your father were in there upgrading suits and weapons, drafting new tech, or testing gear. However, neither one were in sight, and the lab doors were wide open. 

Tony had strict rules about who was allowed in the lab, especially with you. You’ve always wanted to help your father build things and learn from him, but he simply didn’t allow it, not until you got your grades up. You understood why he was so strict with you, but you couldn’t help but yearn to get your hands on some of his prototypes. It especially stung when he started allowing Peter into the lab, teaching him how to use the equipment like you always dreamed of him teaching you. 

Peter was obviously his favorite child, and he wasn’t even a Stark. 

Walking through the large glass doors, you look around in awe at your father’s work. Despite being here 24/7, your father manages to keep this place in tip-top shape. Looking around, you notice that he’s currently working on upgrades for Peter’s Iron-Spider suit, giving his A.I. an upgrade and fixing his web shooters that he recently blew out in a recent mission. Of course. You also notice that him and Bruce have started drafting new weapons, and from the looks of it, it seems they’re trying to make these weapons unique for certain climates on Earth. 

“What did I say about coming in here?” 

Jumping out of your skin, you whip around to see your father at the lab doors, arms folded in front of him and staring at you intensely. “I-I’m sorry dad. I didn’t know you were here.”

“And I don’t know why you’re here (Y/N),” Your father retorts, making you shrink in place. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?” 

You shake your head rather quickly. “No sir.” 

“Good, now get out of here before you do. Natasha is waiting for you.” 

Before you could move, Peter speed walks through the doors. “Hi Mr. Stark, sorry I’m late I was-” Peter’s eyes land on you, his eyes lighting up. “Oh! (Y/N), are you joining us today?” 

You went to answer, but your father beat you to it. “Sorry kid, (Y/N) hasn’t earned that privilege yet.” 

Ouch. 

You look down as you make your way out of the lab, your eyes meeting Peter’s. He stares at you with a look of pity, a look you hated coming from anyone, especially your best friend. Hopefully training would distract you from the ache that formed in your heart. 

“Hey (Y/N)?” You hear your father call out before you were out of range. Turning around, you see that Peter and your father were getting ready to work on the Iron-Spider suit. “How did your chemistry test go?” 

You freeze in place, body going numb at the thought of your failure. Your father instantly notices and eyes you, disappointment evident in his expression. “Let me guess. Another C?”

You blink rapidly, trying to hold back tears. “Worse than that.” Your voice barely came out as a whisper. 

Peter lifts his head from what he’s doing, eyes widening at your statement. He didn’t realize your test went that poorly. Your father on the other hand, looks down and nods, expecting that answer from you. “Just… just go train.” 

You immediately run out of the lab and all the way to the training room, seeing Natasha and Steve in the middle of a sparring match. You breathe a sigh of relief, being away from you father and all. 

Hopefully some training will help your negative thoughts. 

------------

“Oof!” You gasp out as you fall flat on your face. 

Natasha currently has you sparring with Steve, and much to your dismay, he was winning. Avoiding his swings had gotten easier for you, but in a moment where you got a little too confident, Steve surprises you and kicks in your legs, knocking you off balance. 

Putting her hand to her head and rubbing her temples, Natasha sighs. “C’mon (Y/N),” She urges. “You can’t get too cocky.” 

You look up and see Steve extending a hand to you, pulling you off the mat with ease. “I’m sorry Miss Romanoff.” 

“It’s okay, but if you really want to go on missions someday, you’ll need to find a way to focus.” Natasha lectures. You nod sadly. She was right after all. “You’ve been getting better since your training has become routine, so is there anything you know you can do to help you focus better?” 

You take a good moment to think about this. Normally drawing and writing in your sketchbook helps you, but that definitely wouldn’t help in a battle. However, you do know that holding something in your hands helps you stay attentive. “May I try sparring with a weapon?” 

Natasha’s eyebrows raise, a small smile forming on her lips. “I hoped you’d say that.” 

You walk over to the training equipment as Steve goes to to grab his shield. The spar needed to be fair after all. When you use a weapon to train, you find a sense of comfort that you don’t get fighting with only your hands. Luckily, Natasha has picked up on this too. 

Looking through all the weapons Bruce and your father has provided for training purposes, you think about every weapon you’ve used thus far. You were fairly decent with staffs, guns weren’t particularly your favorite, and shields felt sort of like dinner plates to you. However, there was one weapon you’ve become quite fond of, smiling as your eyes landed on it. 

“A whip?” Natasha questions as you take the piece of rope off the hook and wrap the handle around your right wrist. “You really like that one don’t you?” 

You turn and smile at your mentor, playfully snapping the whip in response. Just then, Steve came back with his famous shield. “Ready to go (Y/N)?” 

“More ready than before,” you say confidently, despite what Natasha said about cockiness earlier. You and Steve go back on the sparring mat, taking up each side. Taking a deep breath, you swing your whip around a little, getting used to the feeling of the rope.

“Okay. 3, 2, 1, go!” 

With that, you open your eyes to see Steve lunge at you. Starting as well, you run directly at him and attempt snap the whip in his face. Steve quickly blocks your attack with his shield and slides under you, trying to knock you off your feet again. Luckily, you saw this coming and jump out of his way, turning to see him get back up again. 

The battle continues for a little while. Steve blocking your whips and swinging his shield as you roll around his attacks. The whip starts to feel like an extension of your arm, and even though you’re fairly decent with it, you smack yourself with it a few times, accidentally burning the skin on your stomach and thighs. However, you were more focused than ever. 

In a lucky snap, you wrap your whip around Steve’s shield, sliding it out of his hands and across the floor, shocked by your sudden move, Steve didn’t expect you to snap the whip around his legs and send him crashing into the mat. You yank the rope, sliding Captain America to your side and out your foot in his back. Steve’s eyes widen as he realizes his defeat, and your mouth goes agape. 

“Whoa, did I just do that?” 

“Yes!” You hear Natasha say, and you look up to see her start to clap, a proud expression on her face. “I’ve never seen you do something like that. I’m impressed.” 

Unwrapping Steve from the rope, you help him up. “Same, I have to say (Y/N), that was the best match I’ve had with anyone in a while, I’m pleasantly surprised.” 

Radiating happiness, you shake Steve’s hand. “Thank you Mr. America.” 

“I think it’s a good time to call it quits,” Natasha says, patting your back. “Good job (Y/N), I’ll make sure to tell Tony about your improvements.” 

You’re eyes light up. Maybe your father will finally be proud of you. “You will?” 

Natasha nods. “Just don’t get too confident now. I heard about your… recent grade, so I’m going to try and convince your father to let you keep training now that I see the potential.” 

Your smile falters a little. You completely forgot about that. 

With one last pat on the back, you run off to the kitchen to grab some water and back to your room for a well deserved shower. Even though you didn’t do well in school today, you felt immensely proud of yourself for taking down the one and only Captain America. Sure, you got lucky, but this was the exact type of luck you needed as motivation. 

This moment gave you another reason to keep going.

-----------

-Sketchbook Tag List-

@randomfanders-blog // @freestarlight // @depressing-as-shit // @sweetmilki // @supernerdycookietrashblr // @supermassiveblackhope

-Peter Parker Tag List-

@sweetcoffeeblandtea // @house-arya // @jovialpeanut 

-Permanent Tag List-  

@mindset-jupiter // @romance-geek // @imcharishope // @fakindob // @cutiekoa // @wowursofunny

[dreadnought-dear-captain]

You Asked, I Told

(Note, if this post shows up twice or massively delayed or just looks weird, it’s because it was flagged for adult content [??!] because I had a picture of Willem Dafoe’s face in a gif. I am not even kidding. Do with that information what you will. I’ve removed it and I still don’t know if/when this can be publicly viewed, I’m kind of lolling. So if you see a blocked out photo that looks like porn in your post, I swear it’s just a gif from The Lighthouse!)

Hello, amazing people. This weekend, I’m putting the final touches on my last draft of Baghdad Waltz Chapter 39, which will then go to the beta for one more round of edits. I imagine I will have the chapter posted in 1-3 weeks, which is close to record speed for me, especially since it’s around 30k words. I’m going to be talking about my writing process (at unfortunate length) for one of the asks, for those who are interested. 

Please forgive me. I’m feeling quite verbose and a little squirrely. I blame living alone during lockdown. 

It’s also Memorial Day weekend in the States, which is when we are meant to honor those who gave their lives in military service to this country. This is often confused with Veterans Day (November 11), which is honoring anyone who has served in the military and is no longer serving. This gets further confused with Armed Forces Day (rotating date, May) which is to honor those currently serving in the military. I know, super confusing. 

There’s a wide range of opinions on how Memorial Day should be commemorated, which often involves gathering with friends and family for a barbecue or some other social activity. It’s the first major holiday after a huge holiday drought throughout the late winter and spring, which often makes people look forward to it immensely. Some people feel it’s inappropriate to celebrate Memorial Day with barbecues and fond social gatherings because it’s dishonoring the memories of those who can’t be here, people don’t take time to remember those who have died, people have no idea what the day is actually for, etc. Others, even some very vocal veterans, maintain that people died so that we could be here to celebrate in freedom, so why not relish this life we have? Many offer the caveat that it’s appropriate to at least acknowledge the purpose of the day, even if it’s just in a few minutes of quiet reflection. 

Anyway, I offer this as a little food for thought for this upcoming long weekend. 

(And in case you missed it, I posted a BW Timeline for your reference.) 

Contains spoilers through Chapter 38.

[Takes deep breath]

I’m so glad that you are enjoying the read and that you’re finding it inspiring for your own work. I think my dedication to research for BW is threefold. 1) As this story evolved, I decided that I wanted to create the most realistic depictions of military, civilian, emotional, and physical life that I reasonably could. I will fully admit to lapses in this, deliberate and unintentional, because sometimes the plot just needs to go and I can’t wait around for a year-long medical discharge process for my character. 2) I’m in an academically stringent occupation, and because research is such a prominent part of my work life, it’s bled to my hobby. (IS THIS EVEN A HOBBY ANYMORE?) And 3) I get very easily and passionately obsessed with things and delight in getting “into the weeds” with a subject. Almost every research divergence usually takes me off track for at least an hour. And you will never catch me without an MTA subway map open in at least one tab.

But that wasn’t even your question! Sorry. Are you beginning to get a sense of why BW takes me so long to write?? I cannot keep my shit on track. As for the bibliography, YES! I plan to include that in my author’s note at the end. I wish I had kept better track of all of my works consulted over the past three years, but I will definitely discuss the importance of some of the main ones. I’m so thrilled that you are interested, and I’m excited to share them!

Thank you. This is such a kind thing to say, and I’m humbled and delighted to hear it, especially because our fandom is so blessed with some AMAZING fics. And asks certainly don’t have to be questions! I appreciate them all (except the flaming bag of dog shit ones, which I haven’t had in a while, hooray).

(Re: Chapter 37) Good question! I imagine Claire would want to keep the 1:1 conversation somewhat limited, as she is treating the couple as a patient rather than them as individuals. If anything, she might have somewhat superficially checked in to see if he was okay rather than dive into anything regarding the relationship with Bucky not around. That could be seen as a betrayal of trust to Bucky and could be interpreted as favoritism, which Steve craves and which Bucky is probably terrified about.

I am always pleased when people re-read and enjoy it or get new things out of it, even if it’s sometimes a re-read is a function of my slow-ass writing. I really want a story with good re-read value.

You make an excellent point about Bucky’s relationships. His friendship with Jack also had no real closure. Sometimes this is a factor of circumstance and sometimes it’s because of his avoidance, like a self-fulfilling prophesy almost. He’s learned that people betray you, either by hurting you or dying, so he creates conditions sometimes (often unwittingly) for things to go sour and end poorly, or he will simply make himself disappear so that he’s not hurt and doesn’t have to wait to see if he will be abandoned or betrayed. He’s not a guy who is good with goodbyes.

As for Thor, I totally see how it would read that way. I think Thor started out fishing for longer-term possibilities in a romantic relationship but then realized Bucky is really not a guy who is comfortable settling (which, as we can see, is true). As for why it seems more serious, one thing is that Thor still wanted Bucky in his life as a friend, possibly one with benefits. They have a lot in common, and it’s hard for veterans - and, more specifically, special operators - to find people in their lives they can relate to with these very intense life experiences. I wanted this to be a real relationship, but maybe not necessarily one that was bound to become a RELATIONSHIP. I think Bucky was very intriguing and attractive to him, and he very well may have struggled with his own vacillation between whether to take it seriously or whether to remain friends+. This can lead to mixed messages.

And we also have to remember Bucky’s notoriously unreliable narration, where he will see what he wants to see. Our perspective comes from him. We see the details he zooms in on, miss the one he ignores, view the relationship through the lens of his own contentious desire for a real relationship, even as he consistently demonstrates the lack of capacity and his fear about getting serious. I imagine Bucky has having an extremely poor ability to distinguish friendship from romance, and why wouldn’t he, given the most recent bit of history we have learned about him with Jack? He’s had a series of friendships become sexualized, and I think this affects his capacity to be discerning. Bucky’s radar for relating, whether friendships, romance, or potentially dangerous sexual situations, is terribly mis-calibrated. How confusing for him and for the people in his life. Of course, everyone is free to interpret the dynamics of any relationship however they choose. These are just some of my thoughts.

I really appreciate observations from the re-read! Thank you!

I watched the video and you are right! This is definitely a Bucky song. Bucky’s sense of self is by turns profoundly distorted and lacking in grounding, especially now that he’s not in the military. He’s been in a low key existential crisis since he was a kid and has turned to drinking and sex and war to fill this horrible void, and although I can’t speak for what the artists here intended, I certainly sensed those elements here for sure. (Also, what an interesting choice for a music video…)

Thank you for sharing! I’ll add it to the unofficial BW playlist in the author’s note, which consists of various songs people have associated with BW and shared with me.

Good question! I started off this story picturing the actors who represent the characters in the MCU, because I figured we’d be picturing that when we read the fic anyway (though my beta told me she doesn’t see them as the actors, more like artists’ renderings of the characters, which I find interesting). So when describing their physicality, I tend to refer back to the MCU, since this is technically an MCU AU. But the longer I go with the story, the murkier the resemblance feels to me, especially when I think about Bucky, IDK why. I have also been considering doing something more with BW after I finish it (i.e., converting it into a proper not-bajillion-word novel, sunk cost and whatnot), in which case I would definitely change the characters’ appearance, names, cut MCU Easter eggs, etc. So when I try to think of who these people might be in future iterations of the story, things get even more blurred in my mind when I imagine them.

I wonder how other people see them??

So, with regards to PTSD clinical teams, there is some variation across VAs in the system. Some focus more on military-related trauma, whether it’s war, military sexual trauma, accidents, etc. as a way of concentrating their services and managing supply and demand. From talking with providers in these kinds of systems, sometimes you just NEED a military-related trauma, but you can be treated for, say, a childhood trauma if it’s more pressing. Other VAs are very open in their criteria, and you can see them for pretty much any kind of trauma that qualifies diagnostically for PTSD (or sub-threshold PTSD) without question. That’s why I love the expression “If you’ve been to one VA, you’ve been to one VA.” That said, it kind of doesn’t matter what kind of PTSD clinical team is at the VA in Manhattan, because Bucky has so much military trauma that he would very likely qualify to receive services in any PTSD clinical team. They just might focus on childhood stuff (if Bucky actually let them, which is another matter entirely).

This is a great question! Thanks for asking.

I love a snarky asshole Bucky so much, and I’ve tried to temper this version of him with enough hard-earned genuineness to offset it a little bit. It’s such a tender balance with him, because if you back him too far into a corner, he’s going to let you have it. But if you give him too much space, it’s hard to pin him down and wring something honest from him. He’s definitely learned to use humor and sarcasm to deflect from painful or uncomfortable situations, and it’s a very adaptive short-term strategy that makes him both endearing and infuriating to others.

But ugh, yeah, shit gets so rough around Chapter 28/29. I don’t know how to feel when people have really strong emotional reactions to this story, because one part of me doesn’t want to contribute to the crappy feelings people may already be struggling with — especially in the times of COVID — but I don’t want to be afraid to dive into the hurt these characters are experiencing. That’s why I recommend checking in with oneself before reading to get a sense of how much emotional bandwidth is available to manage the immense problems of two people struggling so much. I also think that for some people it can be cathartic or otherwise not-bad maybe (?), based on the feedback I’ve received. I also really try hard to balance out the painful stuff with growth, even though it can be terribly difficult to locate sometimes.

In comments to folks, and here, I often talk about adjusting the ticks on your measuring stick for progress, where instead of leaps of progress over feet/meters, we may be observing things on an inch/mm scale. This story is my most sincere effort at a “recovery is not linear” narrative, which I think is so much more reflective of real life for a lot of folks than a straight upward trajectory. Humans are such creatures of habit, and the lessons these characters have learned through their lives about themselves, trust, relationships, and how to manage emotions are very deeply ingrained — often through traumatic means. These are the lessons learned the hardest, with the greatest perceived consequences for change, and it takes real courage for us to be able to try new things even once, let alone to establish a reliable pattern of behavior. This can lead to a lot of frustration for us as readers/writer, and I come from a place of this being okay, because we are encountering a parallel process with the characters, who are frustrated with each other and themselves about the same things. I do hope the pain/progress/joy ratios are not horribly out of whack most of the time. That’s another reason I like long chapters, because if this was just blips of sometimes terrible episodes in shorter form, I think it would be very challenging to not lose hope entirely.

But I’m so glad you’re finding the read meaningful, even if it’s sometimes painful and difficult.

(YES.)

And FINALLY -- (this is all soooo long, I’m so sorry.)

Oh, thank you for this question! My spreadsheet ended up getting too difficult to manage, and I actually had a small crisis six months ago about how the fic was going to end, because it just didn’t feel right. I had to scrap it and go back to the drawing board and really ask myself - what would these characters really do? Naturally, as a factor of their psychologies and circumstances, how will they bring this story to an end? Some advice I once heard about a “satisfying” ending is that it’s the place where there’s simply nothing more to say about the characters. There’s no more story to tell. I had to abandon all of my desires  and ideas for a particular ending or concerns about making people sad or happy or excited or disappointed. I know that the only ending that will be satisfying is one that makes sense for these people. Anything contrived or backward-engineer-y wouldn’t feel right to anyone. I do have a couple of specific character arc things I want to happen, so I set those down as touchstones and said, okay, what would happen next? What would Steve do with this? And what would Bucky do with this? And what would they do with the thing the other person did? I take a very psychology and prior-behavior-based approach to plotting, almost all character driven. The rest is just figuring out what is supposed to go where and how to organize it.

I’ve converted everything to a Google Doc and have a very basic outline where I write plotty-plot stuff. I also have a “garbage dump” doc where I write certain lines I want to use or certain details I want to include somewhere. When I get into a new chapter, I’ll check the dump doc as I outline and write to see if I want to pluck anything from there. I have my outline open regularly to add to it. Sometimes I write scenes out of order, dialogue first, but that’s only if I really am excited about a particular scene and cannot contain myself. Otherwise, I write completely chronologically and have no buffer. I post things as soon as I write them.

As for your specific questions, I do have a “process” for getting into my characters’ heads. It helps to know them so very well and to have a firm sense of their idiosyncrasies and patterns of behavior. As you may have noticed, they repeat their patterns all. the. time, as humans do, but I also want to have them change their behaviors a little as things go and they progress. So I may wonder what they could do a little differently, why they would WANT to behave differently, and imagine what they would need to do to change their behavior. Do they need to take breaths? Do they remember the last time some shit went down? I really try to think of the “how” and “why” of every single action - from big blowouts to eye rolls.

So once I’ve figured out what they are going to do, I try to pinpoint the associated emotions I want to highlight. This is a whole separate process, because I have to think also about their internal versus their external emotional states. Steve, for example, will often have a discrepant inside and outside, because one of the truths about his character is that he is a chronic suppressor. There is also the issue of unreliable narration and interpretation of behavior. Steve might do something in a scene, but that doesn’t mean Bucky is going to interpret it the way it was intended. I have to think about their individual filters, which often reflect their internal beliefs about themselves. Bucky is more likely to read Steve’s actions as reflections of how BUCKY feels about HIMSELF (e.g., he’s disgusted by me because I’m disgusting) rather than imagine what Steve is really thinking based on his own experiences and beliefs about Bucky. I also attempt to convey some of the more second and third layer emotions that people have in situations, rather than only highlighting the primary emotion. Sad things don’t always just make people sad. Powerful emotions, for example, might make Steve feel out of control of himself, which could generate secondary emotions for him like frustration because he’s losing control. Part of the process in the construction of the narrative is also scrubbing what I’ve written for POV, because Bucky’s word choices aren’t the same as Steve’s, and in order to try to preserve the “voice” of each character, I often have to change the words I’ve opted to use, as well as the syntax.

So, as you can see, there’s a lot of layering that is happening all the time. As for the dialogue, I have no compunction about saying the lines aloud, “acting” them to see how they sound, to get a sense of what tone I want them to say things in. Now that I think of it, I do a bit of movement-based stuff, thinking about how people sit and stand, figuring how many steps it takes to get from A-Z, what it would look like to lean against something, how it would feel on the body, etc. I try to get the most felt sense of things as I can. If I’m imagining a scene, I try to put myself in the shoes of the characters to the point where I feel the emotions, just so I can know how it reflects in my body and my mind and behavior. I have more than once gotten drunk and drunk-written drunk Bucky then gone to clean it up later, as drunk writing can generate some great content I never would have been able to come up with sober, but the form, grammar, spelling, etc. is often rubbish. I also talk a LOT to my beta about all of this stuff, and I have certain friends and acquaintances in the fandom who are my consultants for various things.

So, I’m somewhat method I guess?? Is that a thing?? I dunno. It’s not hard to do when you live and breathe a story. It’s required a deep level of interest in - quite possibly an obsession with - the characters and their lives. I adore my characters, not in a self-congratulatory way, but because they feel so real to me. So it’s a joy to plan and write -- though I do hate first drafts with a passion.

OH - I also sometimes fast-draft chapters, which I did for 39. That is, write as FAST AS YOU CAN with no regard for how shitty the writing is. I wrote 10k words in a week, which was a finished fast-draft for me, and thus I had a very good felt sense of what was going to happen in the chapter, which felt amazing. It requires intensive outlining before, and nearly every word had to be rewritten, but one of the greatest frustrations of a story for me is having blank space ahead. Re-writing is way more fun than first draft writing. I have fluffed it up twofold with higher quality content, which I did all in less than two months…!! 

-------------------------

Well, this is surely my most unnecessarily yammering YAIT in history. But I hope it at least conveys my enthusiasm for these wonderful asks! It’s so lovely to hear from all of you, even if I take an eon to get back to you. Hang in there, everyone!

@grimshady @hutchhitched​ @b0n3l3ssm1lk​ 

(And thank you to @bae-buckyaboveeverything​ for the shout out. You made my day<3)

[bettsfic]

Hey Betts, someone asked me to have my work be part of their collection in ao3? Since you have been in ao3 for a while, I thought it would be okay to ask you what that means?

sure! great question. collections are an under-utilized feature of ao3, which is why i think they’re kind of a mysterious beast. 

ao3 is a unique archival platform, in that the archive work is done by users and a team of moderators, rather than administrators who either archive the work themselves (which would be a nightmare) or restricting the archiving options (like if we only had a few hundred tags to choose from), which is to say, when you post a fic to ao3, you tag it yourself. 

this has a lot of upsides (obvs, since the archive is so successful and effective), but one of the downsides is that a content creator may suck at archiving their fic. most writers abide by fanfic etiquette, but some don’t, and the ToS is pretty hands-off in that regard (the ToS say you need an archive warning, basically, and that warning needs to be accurate if it’s not CNTW. you don’t have to rate it or tag the ship or anything else. you’re even allowed to tag the wrong ship and wrong fandom, and the abuse team won’t take it down or fix your tags). 

so if the writer doesn’t properly tag the fic, and the abuse team/tag wranglers won’t properly archive fic based on the content (but they will wrangle your tags and uphold the ToS), that leaves readers.

ao3 built in features so that users could archive fic properly, so it can be found more easily, namely via collections and bookmarks, both of which are woefully undervalued as resources, and i wish, along with a few other features, they were more prevalent, because i think they’re brilliant.

collections have multiple functions. first, part of the work of the OTW is to import fics from other, older archives to the ao3. collections allow a central hub for those archives. one example is the Master Apprentice collection, which was an old archive for Obi-Wan Kenobi/Qui-Gon Jinn fics. this is also why you sometimes see fics dated earlier than 2008, when the archive was built.

another use of collections is to host prompt-fill memes (like kinkmemes), big bangs, or gift exchanges (like yuletide). this way, all the fics written for a certain event are located in a central space, and therefore easier to browse and find what you’re looking to read.

finally, getting to your question, a user can make their own collection and put fics into it so that other readers can find fics of a certain type more easily, especially if those fics are notoriously poorly tagged (codas) and/or for whatever reason the archive’s structure obscures the ability to find them. take, for example, Jaime/Cersei fics. in most fics, if J/C is tagged, it’s a secondary or background pairing, and there’s no way to separate “this fic’s primary pairing is J/C” from “this fic has J/C in it.” so a user can create a collection of primary-pairing J/C fics so that other shippers have easier access to them, instead of scrolling through hundreds or even thousands of fics in which J/C is used as a warning tag rather than a content tag. 

other popular collection themes are good smut, fix-its and codas (which are poorly tagged because many writers don’t look up the episode tagging style conventions, which is “Episode: sXX eXX Episode Title”), and fic subgenres like recovery bucky fics. 

the way the archive manages this feature is by allowing readers to automatically place fics in collections, and the author can remove their fic from the collection by going back in and editing the fic. so if, for whatever reason, you do NOT want your 30k fluff fest fic in a collection of “my favorite porn,” you can click Edit and remove the collection from the list. if you choose to keep your fic in the collection, the collection will be listed on the fic, so readers can find other, similar fics. 

the only collection i’ve ever seen that i did not want my fic to be part of was one whose description used grossly pretentious rhetoric that seemed completely antithetical to the spirit of fic. also, someone “accidentally” added one of my fics to the Anonymous collection, which as you might know, anonymizes the fic entirely. 

in the same vein as collections (i know you didn’t ask, but at this point i’m just begging people to use these features), users can “fix” poorly or under-tagged fics via bookmark. let’s say you’ve read a fic that’s 100k+ and has a billion kinks in it, and the author chose not to tag every single kink (which, fair). you, the reader, are maybe invested in archiving clothes sharing fics. you can bookmark the fic and tag it “clothes sharing” and a user can then search bookmark tags to find this specific subgenre of fic that isn’t often tagged because of how ubiquitous it is, or sometimes not even seen as a kink or trope.

you might be thinking, but why would i search bookmark tags? nobody uses bookmark tags. BUT LET ME TELL YOU, if people did bookmark more thoroughly, like back in ye olden days when we used del.icio.us, the archive would be that much more functional and efficient. 

so please, fic readers, i know you are constantly begged for comments and reblogs and all that, but if you have time or energy, or find interacting with authors anxiety inducing and want to help out in some other way, you can do other things to help out and preserve our genre. make collections. bookmark thoroughly. use the amazing features so lovingly offered to us. 

(one thing i didn’t mention is that i wish users would fill out their profiles more thoroughly, because author history preservation is just as important as fic preservation, but that’s maybe a rant for another time.)

tagging experts @naryrising and @ao3commentoftheday if they have anything to add/correct!

[tisfan]

Professional Interest

for @fangirlunderground / @fangirlangela who was my second place bidder for @fandomtrumpshate 

A/n -- All medical errors are my own. 

“Oi, Barnes!” Rumlow slapped his hand several times against the doorframe to Bucky’s office. Well, office was stretching it. Glorified closet, really. They’d somehow managed to squeeze a cubical into the space rather than putting up shelves or getting him a real desk. There were three chairs, his own and two for patients, doctors, or consultants.

Bucky held up one finger, then tapped a few more sentences out in his file. He hated losing his train of thought. Rumlow fidgeted impatiently. Waiting wasn’t his strong suit at all, and Bucky was tempted to keep procrastinating over the file, except that meant Rumlow would just stay there longer, and no one really wanted that. Bucky wasn’t even sure Rumlow enjoyed his own company. The man seemed always to be in someone else’s face, so it wasn’t entirely unlikely.

Bucky checked his notes, added one more thing to the file and saved it. “Yes?” He pushed back from his desk as far as the small office would allow so that he could see Rumlow without having to strain his neck.

“Got a case for ya,” Rumlow said. He tossed the manilla folder down onto Bucky’s desk. Neatly labeled with the various color-coded stickers identifying general patient information. The patient’s name, Stark, Anthony, leapt out at him.

“I thought you had the Stark case,” Bucky said, mildly. Big name case, that one. Rumlow was one of the practice’s best physical therapists, or so the rumor went. He’d worked with a number of big name football and baseball players over the years, getting accolades for bringing a star running back up to being able to play in the Superbowl, after an ACL tear had taken the guy out. He’d played the game; the team had even won. The fact that the guy would never play again, and could barely walk without pain, that was left out of the various glowing reports.

“Eh, he’s a whiner-baby,” Rumlow said. “Doesn’t like my methods.”

“You know I’m always happy to take on your problem children,” Bucky said. Over the last six months, Bucky had taken on more and more cases, but he’d recently finished off with the Storm case, and the Parker kid’s insurance had run out. Bucky was still keeping in touch with that kid by email and working him through some at-home exercises.

“He’s hardly a child,” Rumlow snorted. “Rich, spoiled bastard, but not a kid. Good luck getting him t’ do anything, and then, watch, he’ll complain and snivel when your results suck. And they will. He ain’t done a lick of work in his whole life.”

“I’m sure Mr. Stark and I can come to some sort of therapy program,” Bucky said. He flipped idly through the file. Yikes. He could see why Rumlow didn’t want this particular case.

On site therapy, partial paralysis, overall degenerative muscle damage. What the hell had happened to this guy? Bucky started digging through the case file. Doctor’s reports, surgeons files… by all reports, Stark had been driving while intoxicated, veered off the road, turned his car over several times, and, while badly injured, had remained stuck in the vehicle, unnoticed, for almost thirty-six hours.

Rumlow coughed, drawing Bucky’s attention. “What, are you still here?”

“Ha ha,” Rumlow snapped. “Me an’ Jack an’ the rest of the guys are gonna hit up Rusty Nail later tonight, want to join us for some beers?”

Bucky hesitated. Rumlow had asked him out a few times already, and Bucky had always politely turned him down, but if it was a group thing… he didn’t want to seem too anti-social. His mentor had gone out of her way to point out that maintaining good relationships with his fellows was very important. “Yeah, okay,” Bucky said. “I can’t stay out too late, though.” He turned, pointedly, back to the file and practically held his breath until Rumlow stopped darkening his doorway.

Bucky finished reading through the whole file; apparently Stark had been comatose for ninety-one days, and most of his physical therapy was for muscle degeneration, not atypical for someone bedridden for three months, and to regain stamina. And, additionally, to learn to deal with his pacemaker.

Bucky blew out a breath. Rumlow was a ruthless therapist. This guy had his world turned upside down and was probably learning everything all over again. Yeah, he could see where Rumlow’s tough love (which was more tough and less love than really, anyone should have to put up with, especially if Stark was footing the bills.) wasn’t appreciated.

Bucky tapped his fingers against his lip a moment, then picked up his phone and dialed the patient contact number.

“Stark Residence,” a crisp, professional voice said, “this is Mr. Jarvis speaking, how may I assist you?”

“This is Dr. Barnes, with Lenox Hill Physical Therapy. I was wondering if Mr. Stark might have an hour or so in the next few days to discuss his treatment options?” Bucky still felt a little weird introducing himself as Doctor. Technically, the DPT he had, while not a traditional medical degree, did earn him the title, but he’d been right in the middle of some pretty vicious arguments with his relatives. Being one of several doctors in his family, including a neurosurgeon, and a plastic surgeon, Bucky had been called the gym teacher of doctors by his sister’s husband. It grated on him and had made holiday dinners a little less than fun.

“Allow me to confer with Miss Potts,” Mr. Jarvis said. “Should I return your call, or will you hold?”

“Let me give you my number,” Bucky suggested, and then did so, when Mr. Jarvis indicated he had a pen in hand.

“Miss Potts maintains Mr. Starks schedule,” Mr. Jarvis explained. “What would be the content of the discussion?”

“I understand Mr. Stark wants to do his physical therapy in his home,” Bucky said. “Which is fine, great, he’s payin’ the premium. But I’d like him to come down here, to get a baseline to work from and to set up his Perceived Exertion levels. Also, I’ll need a list of what equipment and the maintenance schedules, available at his in-house gym.”

“I can fax you that information, Doctor Barnes,” Jarvis said. “And I shall return your call as soon as may be, on Mr. Stark’s schedule. If you would be so kind, sir, there are some Non-disclosure agreements and a security check for everyone wishing entrance into Mr. Stark’s home who is not an invited social guest.”

Bucky’s eyebrow went up. “Sure, fax it over,” he said, and gave out that number, too.

(more under the cut)

“What do they do, hire you guys out of some sort of eugenics program?” Tony knew he was being testy, he was already exhausted and all he’d done was sit in the limo while Happy drove them down to Lenox Hill, and then struggled into the wheelchair. He was still sitting in the damn thing, and while it was the full package deal, because he was Tony Stark and he could afford a chair that cost more than most people’s cars, he still hated it.

Dr. Barnes raised an eyebrow at the remark. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re both stupidly good looking. You, and that other guy--”

“Dr. Rumlow,” Barnes said, ignoring the compliment, which was probably good, because it wasn’t entirely one. Tony wondered if the man could hear the rest of the question: how can you have a medical degree if you’re so hot? “He recommended to me that you might benefit from a different medical philosophy--”

“Nope,” Tony interrupted. “Let’s not play that game. Rumlow didn’t hand over my case because he thought he wasn’t capable. That would be stupid. I fired him.”

“Quite frankly, Mr. Stark,” Barnes said, “it’s of no interest to me how you came to be in my care. His methodology wasn’t working for you.”

“The guy’s like a gym teacher, yelling at the kid who’s got asthma about how he can’t run fast,” Tony said. “It’s a terrible way to treat children, and, quite frankly, it was insulting and demeaning.”

Dr. Barnes hummed thoughtfully at that, tapping the eraser end of his pencil on Tony’s file. “Not to speak ill of my colleague, but Brock, er, Dr. Rumlow, treats patients in much the same way that he treats people he wants to date.” He glanced at Tony through eyelashes that were ridiculously long. The man had the bluest eyes, too. “He negs.” Barnes added that, as if it needed to be explained. “The idea is that, by being insulting, he pushes a patient to do better, to prove themselves. More stick than carrot.”

“Does that actually work on anyone?” Tony demanded. He wanted to wave one hand around to emphasize his point, but he already knew that was exhausting. The whole thing was exhausting. Breathing was exhausting. Existing was exhausting. Adding in dealing with being screamed at like a private in the Marine corps -- which had the added effect of giving him panic attacks, since Howard had been the same way -- and he just hadn’t been able to cope with the physical therapy.

Going home from an appointment and sobbing himself sick, hearing Howard’s voice thundering in his ears, calling him worthless, pathetic, barely human… it wasn’t aiding his recovery at all, and his one attempt to discuss the matter like adults with Dr. Rumlow had gone. Poorly.

Barnes let out an involuntary chuckle, and that was wholly unfair, because he really was insanely attractive and smiling just made it worse, so much worse, and if this had been six months ago, Tony would be bending all his power, money, and charm into convincing Barnes to go home with him.

You are trying to convince him to go home with you, the little asshole part of his brain that never shut up pointed out.

“Well, I’m not dating him,” Barnes replied and Tony had to yank himself back to the conversation, because he’d sort of lost track of what they were talking about. “Despite repeated attempts on his part.”

“Imagine my relief,” Tony said.

“All that aside,” Barnes said, “let’s talk more about what you expect from physical therapy, and how I can best help you meet those goals.”

Tony hesitated, swallowed. If the man hadn’t had such kind eyes, an icy blue that should have been chilly, but weren’t, he might not have been able to admit it. He held out his hands, which trembled. “I can’t work,” he said. “Everything else, the not being able to walk, the exhaustion, the pain. All of that, I can take that. But I can’t hold a soldering iron like this. I… I can’t work, and when I can’t work, all I can do is think. And thinking. That kind of thinking? That’s very bad for me. Quite frankly, I’d rather be dead.”

And that was the goddamn truth. Tony would rather have just not woken up at all; and he knew it was going to be a long climb back, and he’d probably never make it, and everyone kept telling him how damn lucky he was, and it’s not like he had to work, he was Tony goddamn Stark, one of the richest men in the world, and why was he complaining?

Tony had started an enormous grant foundation with the goal of paying off people’s hospital bills when they couldn’t work from an accident just to shut that voice up in his head.

It didn’t work, but at least there were a lot of people out there who’d had that particular burden lifted off them. Not so much a win-win, but a win-status quo.

“All right, we can certainly work on that,” Barnes said. “I’m going to make a few suggestions, and then we’ll set up a meeting in your home, so we can get started. First, if you haven’t already been seeking therapy, please do so. Suicide ideation is dangerous, and can stand in the way of whole body healing. There’s a limit to what I can do for you, medically and physically, if you’re suffering from depression and hopelessness.”

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Barnes just held up one finger, and Tony waved, letting the doctor continue.

“Secondly, I’m going to ask you to track your caffeine intake. I don’t like to limit anyone’s liquid sleep, but over three hundred milligrams a day can lead to the shakes, and right now, I’d like to make sure that your tremors don’t have a different, underlying cause.”

Barnes reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a yellow squishy ball. “Third, this is a stress ball, I’m sure you’ve seen them. I’ll email you a set of exercises I want you to do, twice a day, separated by at least six hours, every day. Okay? Oh, and Mr. Stark?” He rolled the ball slowly across the table and Tony caught it without thinking about it.

Tony looked at the ball in his hand, then up at his physical therapist. “Yeah?”

“This is a team effort now. We’re a team. You have to pull your fair share of the load. I can help you,” Barnes said. “But you have to do your therapy. According to my directions. This won’t happen in a vacuum. I can’t -- much as I’d like to -- give you a pill and make it go away. It will be hard, it will probably be painful. Humiliating. Frustrating. I won’t baby you through it, but I won’t mock you, either. I believe you can make a very good recovery, if you’re willing to work with me.”

Tony rolled the ball in his hand, absently. On one side, in brilliant red letters, spelled out what he needed, right then. Hope.

“Yeah, we can work together, Dr. Barnes,” he said.

Bucky tried really hard not to gape at the house.

He knew Stark was one of the richest men in the world, but he’d been dealing with rich men since he started working at Lenox Hill. Actors and singers and sports stars, wealthy lawyers and politicians. Lenox Hill had that reputation, and Bucky didn’t let wealth overwhelm him.

Most of the time.

Stark Mansion was huge. The building took up pretty much the entire block and it had its own little yard around it, as well as a garden in the back. There was an actual, honest-to-God driveway and a multi car garage. When Bucky’s uber driver pulled up to the curb, the look he got was incredulous. You’re really going here, man? that look said.

Bucky had to stop and wonder that Rumlow’d actually given up this case so graciously. He’d been around, once, earlier in the week, to ask how the initial conversation had gone. Bucky, who’d managed to get out of two more group “dates” with the man, had cited patient confidentiality, and had said “It went as well as could be expected, really.”

He grabbed his kit from the backseat of the Uber and climbed out. He stood there on the sidewalk for a few minutes, looking up.

Finally, he approached the gate. There was a small booth there, with a press-panel button. No guard, but Bucky could see at least two motion capture cameras. He pressed the button. If the button triggered a bell or something, Bucky was way too far away from the door to hear it. He glanced up at the camera in the corner of the booth.

“Good afternoon,” a crisp, English accented voice said, the same one from the phone call, Bucky thought. “May I provide some assistance?”

“Mr. Jarvis?” Bucky said. “This is Dr. Barnes, I’m here for Mr. Stark’s therapy appointment.”

“Oh, how remiss of me, Doctor,” Jarvis said. “Do step to the gate. In the future, Mr. Stark will send a car for you.”

“No need,” Bucky said. “I c’n--”

But he was talking to nothingness, as the gate was already sliding open. Bucky scurried over and through, and the gate swung the opposite direction as soon as he was inside the compound. The smell of hyacinth blossoms filled the air. There wasn’t much of a lawn, but what there was was exceptionally well landscaped, dotted with flowers and tasteful statuary. A small fountain adorned one side of the lawn, with a koi pond.

Bucky approached the door and Jarvis, he assumed, opened it for him. The butler was crisp and neat, with thinning white hair and a pair of spectacles folded neatly in his vest pocket. He took these out and peered at Bucky. “Dr. Barnes.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Bucky said.

“Indeed, sir,” Jarvis said. “Mr. Stark is on a conference call, he should be free shortly. In the meanwhile, allow me to take you to the gym, where you will be conducting Mr. Stark’s therapy session.”

Bucky allowed himself a quick smile. “Sure.”

The inside of the mansion was nothing like the outside. Stark had a more modern aesthetic than the building might have suggested. The outside was more a mix of neo-renaissance and an American Queen Anne style, the sort of thing that rich businessmen built during the roaring 20s to scream look at me. Inside was modern, clean lines and a lot of white and steel construction. Somehow, it reminded Bucky of an automobile showroom floor although he couldn’t have put his finger on exactly why.

The indoor gym was huge, almost the size of the one at Lenox Hill where they usually had six to ten patients on it at a time. Stationary bike, elliptical, a weight set, rowing machine, a glassed off room with a padded floor that Bucky assumed was for yoga, a sauna room, another glassed off room held a small swimming pool for laps.

“If this is inadequate to Mr. Stark’s needs, let me know what equipment you should like purchased,” Jarvis said.

Bucky blinked. “No, no, I think this’ll be fine. I got bands and a few other things in my bag.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to carry those around,” Jarvis said. “If you will provide a list--”

“Ah, there you are,” Stark said. He was still in the wheelchair, the engine buzzing like a sewing machine.

“Mr. Stark,” Bucky said. He resisted the urge to give a little bow; Stark’s house was like some medieval kingdom, or something.

“Just Tony’s fine,” Stark said, waving a hand. “All the formality exhausts me. You can call me Tony, and I’ll call you, James is it? Jim? Jimmy? Jamie?”

“Bucky, actually,” Bucky said.

“Bucky?” Tony’s eyebrow went up. “Did your mother hate you or something? Who names a child Bucky? That seems unusually cruel, like naming someone Richard and then calling them Dickie.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, really, it’s what I prefer. My dad’s name is also James, and I’m sick of it. My best childhood friend used to call me Bucky, and I just got used to it, I guess. If you don’t want to use that, Barnes is fine.” He really, really hated being called James, but he understood that other adults, often with too high an opinion of their own dignity, had trouble with what might be considered an awkward nickname. He didn’t tend to be friends with people who couldn’t bring themselves to call him Bucky, so it was good at sorting them out early.

“Bucky it is, then,” Tony said.

“All right, Tony,” Bucky returned. “Let’s get started. I want to test your grip strength, so--” he offered Tony his hand. “Squeeze my fingers, hard as you can, please.”

***

Tony was exhausted.

“Here, come on,” Bucky was saying -- and Tony was still having a hard time calling a grown-ass man Bucky -- sliding one arm around Tony’s waist. “I got you, let’s just have…”

Tony almost startled when his toes went into the water, then he pulled his brain out of the fog it was in. Right, right, Bucky wanted him to sit in the jacuzzi for about twenty minutes after the therapy session. He’d even remembered to put a bathing suit on under the gym clothes he’d word for the actual PT.

Bucky’d had to help him get out of sweatpants and a loose fitting tee, and he’d done so with a clinical, matter-of-fact efficiency that was nothing like what Tony was used to when a good looking man was taking his clothes off. Probably good; he was in no shape to do anything with his attraction to the man, and Bucky was his doctor.

They hadn’t really done much; Bucky had run through a few exercises, mostly isometric stretches -- pushing his hands together in a flat, prayer position and holding for ten seconds, then twenty seconds, then ten again. Squeezing a stupid ball. And then a different stupid ball. Stepping on a rubber band and then pulling it up as high as he could. Holding it.

“That’s very good, Tony,” Bucky had said. “Just a little-- can you reach as high as my hand?” Tony would have thought, before this happened, that he was immune to the sort of bully-voice that Rumlow had used. He wasn’t.

He was even less immune to Bucky’s warm encouragement.

Several times he’d had to blot his face with the towel, not because he was sweating -- although he was doing plenty of that, too -- but because he was leaking steadily around the eyes. It wasn’t quite sobbing, not that, but he couldn’t quite stop crying. It was horrible, and he was humiliated, a clench in his chest that wouldn’t ease.

But Bucky never seemed to notice. He was always looking at Tony’s hands, at his shoulders, at the reading of the equipment, and one time, at nothing at all.

He never mentioned it, either, except sometimes to ask about Tony’s level of pain, or if he needed a break for a few minutes.

Tony wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. For the first twenty minutes of their session, Tony had considered, outright, firing Bucky as well. Surely there had to be someone he could work with that didn’t make his throat tight, make him feel ashamed and small and weak and pathetic.

But as the session went on, and Bucky didn’t draw attention to Tony’s weakness, or scold him, or do anything aside from be warm and compassionate and encouraging, Tony just kept letting it go on.

And now they were at the end of the session and Bucky was helping him settle into the hot tub. He sat on the edge of the tub, seeming not to notice that the jets were splashing water droplets onto his training pants, that his tee shirt was stained in a vee from sweat, although what Bucky had to sweat about, Tony wasn’t quite sure, unless it was holding his lazy ass up.

“Did you wear a swimsuit under your sweats?” Tony asked, trying for a teasing, flirting tone. He wasn’t sure it was all that successful. “I mean, you get all the shit job here, you might as well hop in the pool.”

“I did,” Bucky said, giving him a quick grin. “And it’ll be easier to hold you up from in the pool, but I didn’t want to impose.”

Tony patted the surface of the water. “Nah, come on in, the water’s lovely.”

“Well, get your hands under it, and I’ll join you.” Bucky peeled out of his clothes with remarkable little hesitancy. And he might well have hesitated.

Bucky’s upper chest, back, and half of his left arm were covered in scar tissue, huge frankenstein stitch-scars and reddish tears. It looked as if someone had tried to tear the arm off entirely, and only just failed.

“Is that why you decided on physical therapy?” Tony asked. He might have been a little more discreet under different circumstances.

Bucky was just grinning and ducking his chin as he settled into the hot water. He pushed one long leg against Tony’s, which Tony thought was flirting at first, and then realized that Bucky was keeping him upright in the water with that simple brace. “It makes a good story, and gets some of my more problematic patients to do their exercises, but no. I was already more than halfway through my residency when this happened. I just happened to know a lot of people who were willing to help me get full range of motion back.”

“So, let’s hear this good story of yours.”

Bucky settled in, groaning. “This is a nice whirlpool,” he said. “So, I was taking some vacation, and driving down to see my little sister. She and her husband have a practice out of state. He’s an OBG and she’s in pediatrics. It works out well for them. I don’t own a car, but I used to have a motorcycle--”

“Oh, I think I see where this is going.”

“No, you don’t,” Bucky said. “Hush up.”

Tony laughed. There weren’t very many people who dared tell him to shut up, even when he deserved it.

“I stopped to get gas, and the entrance back to the interstate is really steep. 25mph and they ain’t even kidding. Which is cool, I’m not in a hurry, but there’s this big farm rig in front of me, towing a trailer. About halfway up the exit ramp, the trailer’s back door just opens up, and a freaking tractor falls out of the back end.”

“You got run over by a tractor, while riding a motorcycle?” That shouldn’t have been funny, it really shouldn’t have, but it was so absurd.

“Yeah, pretty much. Run over by a tractor that was just rolling backward down the interstate ramp,” Bucky said. “You know the most absurd part?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“The guy, he gets charged with Felony Littering,” Bucky said.

“That sounds like something out of a Monty Python skit,” Tony said. “What’s the jail sentence for felonious littering?”

“Five years and twenty-five thousand dollars,” Bucky said.

“Holy shit, that’s really a crime?”

“It is,” Bucky said. “For litter that’s over a thousand pounds.”

“I don’t know what’s weirder,” Tony said, “that there’s a name for it, or that it’s happened so often that there’s a name for it.”

“So, yeah, that’s the great story for where all my scars come from,” Bucky said. “Took five surgeries, and almost nine months of PT to get back to 90% usage. I still have some problems with the rotator cuff, and sometimes weakness, if I have to pick up heavy stuff. But I’m a living lesson. Physical therapy works.”

“Blah, blah, Florence Nightingale syndrome my ass, Peps,” Tony said. “Yada yada, bored now.”

“Don’t yada yada me, Tony,” Pepper said, crisply. “I make all your business appointments, and there’s a chapter of Red Hats who would love for you to come and speak at their annual installation ball. Some of them knew your mother.”

Tony shuddered. He hated that sort of thing; usually because there was no one entertaining to speak to at balls and banquets. Smart people stayed far, far away from those kinds of things, and were generally buried in their labs, rather than out pressing palms and talking about the weather. Bunch of Fox News watchers, too, Tony would bet. Well, no, probably not, because his mother had been as liberal as they got, even if she had to go behind Howard’s back to do it, and chances were even better that some of them would be very old lesbians, and that might be kinda fun, and… was Pepper still talking? Why did she do that?

“No, really -- and that’s a go on the Red Hat, thing, yeah, because you know I’m not ever going to stop, that just doesn’t seem like me at all,” Tony said. He was walking -- striding really, and didn’t that fucking feel fantastic, and Pepper was clattering along behind him in those ridiculous high heels of hers.

He shouldn’t complain about that, either, since he was currently wearing sneakers with lifts in them. Which had the benefit of making him taller, too, in addition to easing the pain in his right calf. He hadn’t quite believed Bucky when the man had suggested that Tony Stark try wearing a sensible heeled shoe, but it did make it so he could actually drive again without hurting himself.

So, heels. Whatever, he was Tony Stark, he didn’t need a reason to dress eccentrically. He did, however, make a mental note to look into getting some disguised heeled boots or dress shoes so that he wasn’t always wearing bright red tennis shoes with his suits. Matching was also a thing, and Albert Einstein was an idiot of the first water, sometimes.

“Look, I have no objections to you dating,” Pepper tried again, “but I don’t think asking out your physical therapist is a good plan.”

Tony stopped walking and Pepper plowed right into him. They spent a few minutes shuffling back and forth, trying not to collapse in a heap, and then, Tony actually looked at her. “Why not? Actual, solid reasons.”

“Okay, let’s start with the only one I think you’ll listen to,” Pepper said, “because I know you, and I know you don’t seem to think your mental health is worth considering. You will make him lose his license to practice medicine. Doctors are not allowed to date their patients, that’s AMA guidelines, Tony. The prior doctor/patient relationship may unduly influence the patient and that such a relationship is unethical if the doctor uses or exploits trust, knowledge, emotions or influence derived from the previous professional relationship. He could get investigated for sexual misconduct.”

“I don’t see how that works, if I’m the one asking him out,” Tony said. “Bucky’s been nothing but professional. More professional, I might add, than about 97.2% of all the other people I’ve ever dated. He’s good looking, he has a stable job, he’s funny, intelligent, compassionate. All the things you think I ought to want in a relationship, right?”

“I’m not criticizing him as a human being,” Pepper said. “I’m sure he’s perfectly wonderful. But you’re putting him in an uncomfortable position.”

Tony didn’t mention what sorts of positions he’d like to put Bucky in, because that was distinctly not professional. But part of what Tony liked about Bucky was Bucky’s confidence. He was happy with his job, he was sure of himself, and he took all of Tony’s bullshit in stride. Would he be the same person, if Tony came in and messed all that up for him, just like Tony tended to do? It wasn’t like Tony couldn’t just give him a new job, or money, or whatever, but Bucky was… well, Bucky was pretty awesome, and Tony was suddenly unsure if he should risk that. Not for Tony’s sake, heartbreak and all that other jazz, but because he didn’t want to hurt Bucky, not even by accident.

One year later  

“Boss,” Darcy stuck her head in the door, clinging to the door frame with her fingernails, showing off glitter polish. “You’ve got a… visitor?”

“You say that like you’re not certain,” Bucky said, raising his eyebrows. “Does this not-quite visitor have a name, or is he like a ghost or something?”

“No, it’s a real person, I just…” Darcy squeaked with excitement. “It’s Tony Stark.”

Oh.

Bucky absently straighten out his desk, moved his name plate a little, all those fidgety little things he did when he was nervous. “Uh, show him in.”

Working with Tony had done wonders for his career. He’d boosted the profit margin for Lenox Hill, and gotten him enough patients through recommendations that he was able to break with Lenox earlier than he’d anticipated and open his own practice.

The paint still smelled fresh in his office, that was how new it was.

The Tony that slipped into his office, followed by Darcy who was mouthing “Look at this GUY” and pointing and making all sorts of gestures behind Tony’s back, was not the neat and tidy, dressed in a suit Tony that Bucky’d seen on television recently, but the one in comfy pants, a hoodie, and wearing a heavy metal tee.

“Tony,” Bucky said, getting up and offering his hand. “It’s very good to see you again, won’t you come in, have a seat. Darce?”

“Coffee, right, got it,” Darcy said, doing the two thumbs up to finger guns thing. Bucky almost rolled his eyes; he should never have mentioned to his receptionist-slash-assistant-slash-insurance claims-slash-confidante that he thought Tony Stark deserved to be higher on the list of most eligible bachelors. Like, number one, really, because there wasn’t anyone better looking in the world. “You take it black, right?”

Oh, god. Bucky rubbed his chin with one hand. He knew Darcy did research, she told him all sorts of interesting little tidbits about Tony Stark, some stuff that Bucky knew from working with the man, and other stuff that Bucky did not know (although now he did.) but he wasn’t expecting her to show off that she knew it. That was just weird and stalkery, and the fact that Bucky had not only let her do it, but actively encouraged it? Yeah, Bucky was not coming across great right now.

“Thank you, yes,” Tony said.

“So, what brings you out my way?” Bucky asked.

“You do, actually,” Tony said. “Congrats on the new digs, this is really a nice place. I took a bit of a tour, hope you don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “It’s small, but I think we can make a good go of it.” They were, actually, booked up solid for a while, with a few holes for interesting or emergency cases.

“Sorry that I dropped contact after the endorsement thing,” Tony said. “I--”

“No, no, perfectly fine,” Bucky said, and it was, even if he’d missed Tony. Tony’d done one press conference, dragged Bucky up to show him off, and then vanished. The endorsement had done a lot of good for Bucky, though. “You have other, better things to do. That’s the whole idea, is to get you back to self-sufficiency, and --”

“It wasn’t that,” Tony said. “It was brought to my attention that… well, that the AMA has a lot of say about doctors getting involved with patients. And I knew if I, you know, emailed you or something, that I probably wouldn’t be able to… anyway, it’s been a year. We severed our doctor/patient relationship. You’re doing well, and I don’t think anyone can complain now.”

“What are you talking about?” But there was a hot little spike in Bucky’s guts that knew. Knew, mind you.

“I was hoping you might be free to join me for a date,” Tony said.

“What sort of date?”

Tony peered at him over the rims of his probably expensive sunglasses. “It’s me, darling,” Tony said. “Whatever sort of date you want. If you have a passport, then Paris for breakfast?”

“How about just a coffee and a danish?” Bucky suggested. He was grinning really hard, though. So hard his cheeks ached. “There’s a nice place just down the street.”

“Plebe,” Tony accused, fondly. “Dream bigger, Buckaroo. Whatever you want--

“I want a coffee, and a danish,” Bucky said. “Let’s worry about Paris after a few dates. Pretty sure it’ll still be there.”

“Yeah, okay, gonna hold you to that,” Tony said. “Coffee and danish now. Paris this weekend.”

“This weekend is out, I have an appointment-- famous basketball player, need to get him back into shape. His coach wants him for the playoffs. I’d like the man to not end up with a colossal addiction to painkillers and benched for the rest of his life,” Bucky said. Tony almost looked disappointed. “But, hey, I’m free in the evenings, and… two more weeks, and I was already going to take some vacation. Road trip to see my sister.”

“I will come with you and make sure you’re not run over by any marauding tractors,” Tony offered. “I have some really nice cars, I think you’d enjoy it.”

“It’s a date, then.”

Tony put his hand on Bucky’s elbow to lead him out of the office. Bucky checked, Tony’s hands were steady, fingers had a good grip. They were beautiful hands. Bucky was looking forward to getting acquainted with them… on a less professional standing.

[race-jackson]

Maladjusted Chihuahua Tempers

Fandom: MCU Characters: Bucky Barnes, Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers Summary: 

When his best friend from the 1940s meets the daughter he'd recently reunited with, the result is everything Bucky ever feared: chaos. Utter. Chaos.

alternatively: five times Darcy and Steve get Bucky arrested and the one time it's on him.

Read here on AO3.

Back when Darya had been growing up, there were times that Bucky wondered what life would be like if Steve had survived his plane crash to meet Bucky's kid. If they would get along, if he would be the Cool Uncle or the Strict Uncle, if he would recognise the person Bucky had become. At times, he even wondered if Steve wouldn’t just take Darya away from him, take her somewhere safe where he couldn’t hurt her.

It was hypothetical of course; Bucky's bizarre yet terrible history with HYDRA ensured that. But still, he couldn’t help but wonder.

And then he forcibly ejected the thoughts from his brain, because if one stubborn bisexual with the temper of a maladjusted chihuahua was bad enough, two would be an utter nightmare.

1

The Dad!Bucky of his youth had been right. The two of them were a nightmare.

By the time he'd managed to get his shit together enough to go back to his family, Dary–Darcy and Steve had been good friends for some time. They hadn't been at first, from what he could gather. As Natasha told it, in the beginning, the both of them were too stubborn to get along without knocking heads and spent several weeks either ignoring each other or exploding into raging arguments. Not that that was completely unexpected, considering their infuriatingly similar personalities and ethical codes.

Evidently, that had changed. As he found out within an hour of moving into the Tower, Darcy and Steve were as thick as thieves. Much to their significant others’ consternation – and Bucky's, definitely Bucky’s – the two had clearly decided that their efforts were better spent in tandem rather than in opposition, and thus had become very close.

It was everything Dad!Bucky had hoped and feared. That became very clear the first time they all went for a walk in Central Park together.

Warm for early November, the walk had nevertheless started out pleasantly enough. It was quieter than usual on a Sunday afternoon, with fewer people milling around than Bucky would have expected, but that only made it nicer. As they ambled around the Reservoir, Darcy and Steve chatted a bit, Bucky only a step behind them. Though they kept throwing him (what they thought were) subtle looks here and there to join the conversation, he stayed silent.

He wasn’t exactly sure how to convey that he was remaining quiet out of contentment than anything else. Knowing them, they would probably think he felt left out, or something equally stupid, and would then go to such great pains to include him that he would only end up annoyed.

Unfortunately, pissing him off seemed to be at the very top of their lists. At least, that’s what he reasoned when they came across the protest.

For a protest, it was pretty small. The counter-protest seemed, to Bucky at least, to be much larger. There were about one hundred or so people on one side, crowding about with placards and pamphlets. A banner proclaiming “New York State Right to Life: Ordinary People Doing Extraordinary Things” hung above them. On the other side, a much larger group also had placards to wave about, and, though the few closest to the other group were quite angry, most of them seemed

they had even started a sing-song chant.

“Keep your rosaries off our ovaries!”

It was creatively done, he’d freely admit.

Apparently, Steve and Darcy thought so too.

“Come on, dude, it looks fun!” exclaimed Darcy, tugging his metal arm towards the protestors.

Though HYDRA had left her strong, she was not nearly muscly enough to drag him wherever she wanted, and so she stood there for a moment with her biceps trembling with the effort of moving him. It was only when he relented that she was able to make any headway, falling over a little in her scramble to join the protests. Despite not saying anything, Bucky could feel the excitement emanating from Steve too, no doubt left over from Mrs Rogers’ impassioned speeches during their boyhood on reproductive health.

Bucky couldn’t hold back the sigh as they were eagerly handed spare signs that proclaimed “If it’s not your ute, you should scoot.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t agree, because he did, wholeheartedly. The problem was that Darcy and Steve … well…

“How dare you?! What gives you the right to dictate that?!”

Neither of them had what anyone would call–

“The fuck did you just say? Come back here and say that to my face you fucking cowardly piece of shit!”

–impulse control.

Th odd feeling in his chest as Natasha bailed them all out post-protest was hard to name. Maybe it was apprehension as he saw the almost-identical, satisfied grins and knew that this would only be the first of many times, or maybe it was resigned tolerance as he realised he would only be useful to minimise their bullshit. He wasn’t sure.

He did recognise a slight twinge of pride but quickly shoved it down. Such a thing would only encourage them.

2

It happened again when they went out to lunch the next week and Darcy overheard the man in the booth opposite theirs telling his girlfriend that she ought to order a salad.

The lunch date was another of their attempts to integrate him into society, like the walk in Central Park and trips to the downstairs coffee shop. Like the first big outing, however, it was ruined as Darcy, in over-alert puppy mode, perked up upon hearing the jerk in the booth over.

Darcy tapped the table in front of Steve’s bowl, but the lug was too engrossed in his chicken soup to notice. She then proceeded to kick him. Only she didn’t, because she missed and nailed Bucky’s shin instead, and so Steve remained oblivious until Bucky elbowed him in the ribcage after Darcy’s second failed kicking attempt got him in the knee.

“What?” he yelped.

Darcy jerked her head in the direction of where the man was saying something about weight loss programs while his girlfriend’s eyes filled with tears. After a moment, Steve’s jaw clenched shut, the rest of his face growing stormy with poorly-disguised disgust.

But when Darcy made as if to leave her seat, Bucky put his foot down.

“No,” he said sharply, though quietly enough that only Darcy and Steve could hear. “Don’t. You don’t know either of ’em and it’s not your place to get involved in other people’s relationships.”

“But–!” Darcy started to protest.

“No,” repeated Bucky. “We’re in public place and the wait staff don’t need to be dealing with your lack of self-control. Sit down.”

“But she deserves better,” said Steve. He’d gotten that glint in his eye which said he was disappointed with Bucky’s life decisions, which, what a fucking hypocrite. “You can’t think she deserves that, someone should say something.”

“I don’t think she deserves that,” Bucky responded, an aura of fake calm overtaking the need to pummel Steve’s face into the ground. “But I do think that you two have no idea what “escalation” means.”

Steve looked as if he was going to say something else, but at that moment, the guy from the other table exclaimed, loudly enough that the whole café could hear him, “I deserve better than a girlfriend who thinks shovelling food in her face is more important than my happiness.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bucky cursed. And next thing he knew, Darcy had leapt out of her seat with pie in hand and an already-lecturing Steve at her side and proceeded to threaten the guy with pie face. In the next moment, it ceased to be a threat.

Luckily for Bucky, that time, the plainclothes officer that had been conveniently sitting at the breakfast bar was sympathetic, issuing only a warning.

3

The next police officer was not so sympathetic.

“There was an armed robbery, which we stopped. We were literally stopping an armed robbery. Which is, y’know, your job. We did your job for you. No need to thank us.”

The cell door was locked with an audibly loud clang. Without even looking at them, the officer stalked away to sit at his desk and continued to ignore them, seemingly unable to hear Darcy’s exclamations. She huffed, and Steve turned to her with a serious expression on his face.

“You just made that worse,” he told her.

Her eyebrows jumped in derision, her mouth curling, and she snorted.

“Says the guy who threw the robber into the aisle and damaged five thousand dollars’ worth of wine.”

“Yeah,” retorted Steve, having the grace to blush slightly, “but at least I–”

“Both of you are equally dumb,” said Bucky, stretching his arms. At an audible crack, he winced and reclined back into his corner. “Neither of you are smart enough to call the other dumb. You’re both dumb.”

If he hadn’t been languishing in a prison cell, he might have worried over the twin glares they sent him. As it were, he was languishing in a prison cell, so he didn’t give a fuck.

4

The next time they were arrested due to Steve and Darcy’s bullshit, Bucky gave even less of a fuck about their anger than the last. Especially since it was over Bucky being called a “hobo”. He did, however, realise that he should have been more apprehensive about their meetings in his retrospectively insane Dad!Bucky wonderings.

(He didn’t know why he called the period of time when he raised Darcy that. It was probably Darcy’s fault.)

5

The time after that, though, he could genuinely say he wasn’t mad.

By then, Bucky had improved a lot. Calm was his usual setting, and the slightest stressful moment no longer had him running for the hills. Which was useful, considering he spent most of his time around the two most stressful people on the planet. So yes, yay for improvement and all that. Apparently, though, that meant he had to start pushing himself to be out in very busy, very public places.

With the two most stressful people on the planet.

(Ok, so he didn’t have to. He just felt obligated to. At least one of them was his fault, and he hadn’t managed to stop the other from engaging in bullshit the entire time he’d known him. It was, therefore, his responsibility to protect the world from them.)

So they were out at a bar, one of the ones Darcy called “a complete dive”. Though they all nursed glasses of Jack, she’d managed to pinch some of the Asgardian mead Thor favoured, which was, incidentally, the only stuff that would get any of them even the least bit drunk. They were all slightly tipsy as a result, and from there the conversation had just gotten strange.

“On a scale of odd to really freaking weird, how weird is it that I’m out drinking alien liquor with my dad and his best bud who happens to be one of my best buds but both of them are from the 1940s and it's currently 2016?”

“I think,” said Bucky, pushing her glass away, “that you’re jumbling up your grammar and need some sleep.”

She nodded but made no move to leave. Instead, she curled up into Steve’s side, resting her head on his shoulder and dozing off the second her crown hit skin. Even Steve’s chuckles weren’t enough to rouse her.

“She’s got moxie, this one,” said Steve, his voice pitched low so as to not disturb her. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You have a good kid, Buck.”

Bucky shook his head, a grunt of self-deprecation escaping his throat.

“Hardly,” he said. Feeling Steve’s eyes on him, he looked up and continued, “I’ve fucked her up more than anything.”

“I doubt that,” said Steve softly.

Meeting his gaze squarely, Bucky replied, “I almost killed her when she was three. She woke me up while I was having a nightmare and I almost gutted her like a fish. And that’s not mentioning HYDRA, or the moving around, or my apparent death. If anything, she’s a good kid in spite of me."

Before Steve could disagree, as Bucky could tell he vehemently wanted to, they were interrupted by Darcy. She jerked awake suddenly, hitting Steve’s chin with her forehead and nearly knocking him out as she did so. As Steve cursed loudly much to Bucky’s amusement, Darcy’s gaze zoned in on the bar.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, focused unwaveringly.

Bucky shook his head no.

“What is it?” he said, also turning to focus on the bar.

Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, just a few clusters of people here and there. One guy in a purple shirt was accepting a drink from the man he was chatting to, and another couple were sequestered in the corner between the bench and the wall. Everyone there seemed to be having a good time. The only thing of note was that the bartender, a heavyset woman with beautiful tatts running up her bronze arm, looked a little bit flustered from having to deal with so many people by herself.

He turned back to his daughter, eyebrow raised, but she wasn’t paying attention. Gaze still fixed on the bar, she was eyeing the man talking to the purple shirt girl with a familiar single-mindedness.

“Darcy,” he said slowly, yet she still acted as if she hadn’t heard him. Far more forcefully, he hissed, “Darya!”

“He’s going to put something into his drink, or he already has,” was all she said. Her body had gone stock-still, zeroed in on the object of her scrutiny. “I heard the scumbag talking about it. He’s having his friend distract the bartender so she won’t notice him.”

The stillness was infectious, it seemed. As Darcy relayed what she’d overheard, Bucky felt himself becoming rigid. That voice in the back of his head that he’d fought so long to control got just a bit louder. Next to him, Steve had stopped cursing and had gone quiet, also intent on watching the scene play out by the bar. And true to prediction, as soon as the purple shirt guy had turned around, his companion had leant around him and tipped something into his glass.

Instantly, Darcy was out of her seat and partway to the bar. The only thing holding her back was Bucky’s hand, a restraint on her arm with its metallic grip. Steve halted too, sending Bucky puzzled yet anxious looks that urged him to speed up his explanation.

“We are going to alert the bartender that this has happened,” said Bucky, quietly so as to not alert people around them. “She will call the police and while she does that, we will go and watch to make sure that that man is ok, and get him out of there.”

Both of them nodded in agreement, and with that in mind, Bucky sidled over to the bartender, waving her over with his most urgent “there is an issue” face. In a low voice, he relayed to her what he’d seen. Meanwhile, as her face went white and she fumbled for her phone, out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Steve and Darcy approach the couple at the bar. Whatever they said was too quiet for even him to pick up (though that may have been the music), but the expressions on their faces?

There was no way he could misunderstand that.

“Shit,” he cursed, launching himself across the bar in time for Darcy to take a swing.

From there, the fight wrapped up pretty quickly. Scumbag put up a shit fight and went down quickly. Then the scumbag’s friend took obvious offence to his friend being beat on by a girl, but then Steve was there. When body-checking him didn’t work, the tap he delivered to his head did – an effective knock that would leave the guy with a headache the next day.

Even so, the cops weren’t exactly thrilled with them. The time they spent in cuffs was shorter than usual, though, so that was a plus.

+ 1

Bucky didn’t like to admit it (mostly because it undermined the parental aura he purposefully exuded to command respect from his wayward child and to scare off potential threats), but while Darcy reminded him of Steve, a lot of the shit-stirring behaviour she had was inherited from him.

Out of necessity, he had become good at being the cautious friend. The one who pulled his mate out of strife whenever it occurred, who wiped up split lips and dragged Steve from the fray. The only reason he didn’t get into trouble as often as he could was mostly because he was too busy chasing after Steve and making sure he didn’t get beat to death to get involved in anything else. But before Steve?

Well, Winnie Barnes had some stories. And after that day, so would Darcy Lewis.

It was late, so late in fact that it was almost early, and they were walking back from the dive bar from the week before. That particular time, Steve had gotten more than a little drunk and became quite cuddly and weepy as a result, so Bucky had an arm slung around his shoulders to help him walk back. As usual, tipsy Darcy was more interested in waving around the bi flag she’d pinched from the bar and was no help with Steve, not that Bucky blamed her. Helping Steve walk was like accepting a ton of bricks onto your back.

“I love you, bud,” slurred Steve into Bucky’s jacket. “You’re the – the bestest.”

“Betterest,” corrected Darcy.

Steve nodded.

“Yeah, that. Betterest.”

“Oh boy,” Bucky sighed.

But only three blocks from the bar, they encountered the Problem™ of the night.

For once, it wasn’t Steve or Darcy starting shit. It was a group of rowdy, possibly-drunk men instead. The three were the kind that overdrank at sports events and got themselves kicked out of the stadium for racist remarks. Or beat their girlfriends because they weren’t quick enough to bring them sandwiches or something along those lines. They were the kind of drunk, angry men that Steve Rogers had spent his teen years standing up to, and so Bucky was surprised when he, not Steve, was the one that threw the first punch.

“How have you fags been tonight?” the one with a nose that looked like it had been punched one too many times called. No doubt someone who thought that calling out two very obviously buff men and a similarly muscly woman got punched in the face a lot. “Had fun sucking each other off?”

Despite being so inebriated that he could barely stand properly, Steve was conscious enough to flip them off, much to their amusement. Their laughter ringing in his ears, Bucky resolved to ignore them and sent Darcy a look warning her to do the same. It was really too bad that she didn’t listen.

“Why don’t you fuck off back to your jail cells, you homophobic pricks?”

Oh boy.

“The fuck did you just say, bitch?” shouted the second one. This one’s face was bright red like a tomato, but Bucky couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or from overeating. Then the man’s piggy eyes spotted the flag Darcy had tucked into her back pocket, and he let out a howl of laughter. “Well, well, a couple of fairies and a dyke! No wonder you’re such a cunt.”

Oh boyyyyy.

The uneasiness of the Winter Soldier, that uncomfortable rage he had spent so much of his time since HYDRA controlling and smothering, reared its head. He pushed it down, suffocating the flames with bullshit rationalities, and while he tackled his literal demons, the other men had moved closer.

“The fuck you just say, you disgusting fuck? How about you say that to my face when you don’t have all your little friends standing around?” Darcy retorted, almost falling over as she took what she no doubt thought was a threatening step towards them.

The men were still far enough away that Bucky and Co. could leave, but it was a close thing. Motioning for Darcy to stand down so that they could leave, Bucky hefted Steve up on his shoulder and started walking, trusting that his daughter would follow, which she did with only minimal grumbling.

“Where are you going, baby? Don’t you want a real man to show you a good time?” one of them called at their backs.

And then they said it.

To Darcy’s resounding no, another of them shouted, “You don’t have to want it for it to be good, I promise!”

One look at the well-concealed fear flickering in Darcy’s eyes was all Bucky needed.

In one moment he was transferring Steve over to Darcy’s capable hands, and in the next, he was throwing Pig Eyes into Cracked Nose and high kicking the third in the ribs. Pig Eyes jumped up for more almost immediately. Holding up his fists menacingly but feet arranged in a weak, indefensible position, it took less energy than Bucky expelled in waking up to dispatch the guy. Cracked Nose took one look at his friend and held up his hands for mercy.

Within seconds, the men lay groaning on the floor. Nursing their various bruises, they looked far more pitiful than they had before, and not at all likely to go for another round.

As became apparent quite quickly, though, someone had called the police when they’d seen the men have a go at Bucky’s family. All too inconveniently, those police turned up as Bucky doled out the last of his vengeance, and the cuffs they clapped on him made it clear that they weren’t exactly impressed.

Usually, Bucky wouldn’t be impressed with his own behaviour either. But when he caught sight of the ugly pricks as he was carted away, he couldn’t find it in himself to care all too much.

After all, less chihuahua-like than not, Bucky’s temper was also pretty maladjusted itself.

[marvel-lucy]

Coffee with Bucky

I wrote this a while back, it’s crap but it’s an excuse to use ALL my favourite Sebastian images <3 Then I realised it’s a Friday night and I’m just sitting here in my pyjamas googling Sebastian images and that I really am quite the loser.

Anyway.

Catching a train at 5.30am was never fun. But living in the middle of nowhere with hardly any trains, there wasn’t’ much choice. You’d got it down to a fine art now though. From rolling out of bed, rolling into the shower, and then walking, half-asleep, to the station, you could do it all in 30 minutes. Then it was queueing up at the one open coffee shop just outside the station for your regular order, standing on the platform, getting on board, and slumping into your seat.

And then. Then, technically, you could doze off, for the 90 minute journey. Or you could read a book, or do some work, or teach yourself a new language, or anything. But you didn’t. What you did do was to find excuses to stare, subtly, at the only other person who got on the train at your station.

You’d first noticed him about two weeks ago. You were used to being practically the only person on the platform. There were the occasional business-suited people, or travellers with suitcases off for an early plane. But he stood out, somehow. He’d been just ahead of you in the coffee queue, then he’d walked up onto the platform in front of you and, yes, you looked. He was wearing a very well-cut suit that day, and when he was three stairs above you, your eye line, was, well, you had no choice, right?

He’d got on in the same carriage and sat diagonally opposite you, across the aisle. You’d realised that if you looked at your own reflection, you could see him too, so you did, pretending you were gazing at the scenery but instead idly daydreaming while staring at what was an amazingly good looking face.

It was a long and boring journey and your mind wandered, but you never expected to see him back again the next day, or the next, or the next. By the time it seemed he was a regular commuter, you’d become fascinated, and you were concocting amazing stories about him in your head.

That first week, he was in a variety of suits. They all fit extremely well, but they couldn’t hide the muscles that strained against the sleeves. Nor did you want them too. SuitGuy, you approved of.  So it was a surprise the next week when he turned up in a leather jacket, unshaven. Your mind wandered. A spy perhaps, infiltrating a corporate office one week, then undercover with a biker gang the next. You had elaborate stories playing through your head, and you had to admit you loved it.

So it was with excitement that you wondered what you’d get this week.  You bought your coffee and headed for the platform. He was there ahead of you, drinking from his own cup while leaning on a pillar.  Oh this was interesting. After SuitGuy and LeatherGuy, now it was JumperGuy! He had the softest looking jumper and some worn jeans on, and you’d have sworn that if you looked up ‘cuddly’ in the dictionary, you’d find a picture of him.  Right then, nothing seemed nicer than to be able to go back to sleep, with your head on that soft (but undoubtedly firm) chest, and those arms wrapped around you.

It was only the sound of your train approaching that reminded you that you were staring.  You jerked your head around, pretending to look for the train, but convinced he’d noticed you. Keeping your head down, you leapt on and grabbed a seat, but once the awkward feeling had worn off, you found your eyes drawn to the window and the reflection again.

Tuesday and Wednesday went the same. You were in the coffee shop at the same time, on the platform, on the train, and staring. Your friends were trying to convince you to at least smile, but you couldn’t. He was so damn perfect, and you weren’t.  You practiced a ‘hey, fellow early morning traveller!’ smile in the mirror but shied away when you realised you looked like a chimp baring its teeth.  Just no.

Still, you could daydream. That’d do. So on Thursday, you got your coffee, headed for the platform, and… he wasn’t there.  You watched the clock slowly turning, but nothing. With the sound of the train approaching he still hadn’t arrived, and when you got on and sat down, and the train pulled out, you felt oddly bereft.  

Friday, you hoped against hoe that he’d be there, otherwise it’d be a long weekend without anything to keep you going, but nothing. You sat and stared past your own reflection, unseeing as the world rushed by.  Maybe SuitGuy really was a spy, and he’d been caught, and even right now he was tied up above a shark-infested pit while a bad guy stroked a cat nearby? Or perhaps LeatherGuy had been out with the gang, when a rival gang had started a fight, and he’d ended up in hospital? Or worse, maybe JumperGuy was just poorly. That was worse because then you started to imagine that there was a SuitGirlorGuy or a LeatherGirl or a JumperGuy who was bringing him soup and mopping his brow and pressing kisses to his forehead. SuitGirl would be all long legs and stilettos, and matching underwear for sure, something you’d never managed. LeatherGirl, she’d be dangerously sexy, biker boots and lots of eyeliner, rough sex up against the back alley of a bar. JumperGirl, she’d be cute. She’d borrow his jumpers and they’d be too big for her but she’d look adorable in them, and they’d snuggle on the sofa and make out for hours.

Ugh.

By the time you got home that night, you’d worked yourself into a froth of despair and loneliness, and the weekend seemed a long time to fill.

On Monday, you had no great expectations, so when you got the platform and found it was empty, your brain just told you that of course that was how it was, what did you expect? The train arrived, you got on, sat down and started vacantly out of the window, waiting for it to leave.  Just as you heard the PA start to crackle, to announce the stations and the departure, you saw him, rushing up the steps onto the platform. Without a thought, you leapt out of your seat, bag falling to the floor but coffee clutched still in your hand, and stuck an arm into the now-closing doors.  The sensors registered a blockage, the doors started to open, and, carried by his own momentum, the man flung himself onto the train. Right into you.  You staggered backwards with the force, your coffee cup compressed between your body and his, and you felt the hot splash as the entire contents spilled themselves down your front.  All this had taken just a second, and as your back hit the opposite side of the carriage, you realised that he was now pressed up against you, grey eyes an inch from yours, and yes, he was just as firm as you’d expected, and smelling damn fine.

You both stood for a second, frozen, then with a beeping, the doors closed and startled you both. He pulled back and you stood yourself up straight, then looked down. Your white shirt was now soaked through and stained brown.  Looking at the man’s chest (what an excuse!), you saw that he was now TshirtGuy, and that t-shirt was now sticking to his well-defined muscles with coffee too.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” His voice was soft and sent a little shiver through you, this being the first time you’d heard it.  He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a shirt and balled it up then moved towards you, as if to mop up the spilled coffee, before realising that he was about to start stroking your chest.  He blushed, endearingly, and gestured, offering the shirt.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” you said. It wasn’t of course, but that was what people said.  “I have a shirt at work, it’s not a problem.”  You didn’t. But if necessary you’d spend the day with your cardigan buttoned to the neck, anything rather than sound cross at someone so beautiful.

“Thank you, for holding open the door. I was late, I didn’t even get my coffee.” He was babbling a bit, with awkwardness, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was growing a bit and stuck up, all tangled waves, and your fingers itched to pat it into shape. Or just to grip your own fingers into it.

“Probably just as well you didn’t get your coffee,” you smiled at him. “One cup seems to have split between us fine.”  He paused for a second, then visibly relaxed, and grinned at you.  

After that, you sat together and talked the rest of the way to work. It turned out that daydream 3 had been the most accurate, he’d been ill, and spent his missing days in bed. You were desperate to ask if there was a LeatherGirl, or a JumperGuy, or anyone, who’d been there to tuck him in and kiss him better, but you couldn’t find a way to ask.  It was a huge relief when your conversation turned naturally that way, and he answered your unasked question.

“I had to rely on my room mate to look after me, and I can tell you that Steve’s a good guy, but he’s about as unsympathetic as they come. He never gets ill so he has no idea what to do. He bought me a bag of plums, some pills called ‘Super Vitamins’ that promised to have me stronger and fitter than ever before, then he basically went away and left me all alone.”

So no Guy, no Girl. Or at least, no useful helpful loving one.  Ha, take that ImaginaryPerson, you suck!

By the time you got off the train, you’d learnt his name – Bucky – and a lot more about him, but you’d also had a chance to stare deep into his eyes. Although that did leave you wondering how long was too long to make eye contact, so you ended up awkwardly looking away, then back, and wondering how this thing worked.  

You had a skip in your step all that day, despite the large brown stain on your shirt.

The next morning you headed to the station hoping that you could repeat yesterday – or at least the chatting, if not the coffee spill.  As you reached the coffee shop and opened the door, you saw that Bucky was already inside, and he was holding two cups.  Your heart sank. Maybe there was a SuitGuy who was going to turn up and hold YOUR SuitGuy’s hand and take the coffee and they’d sit on the train and snuggle, all briefcases and footsie.  With your shoulders slumped, you walked to the counter, just as Bucky spotted you.

“Hey, I got your coffee, to make up for yesterday!”

Oh, this was for you?!

“Large americano, with soy milk, right?”

He knew your order. He. Knew. Your. Order.  For a second, you couldn’t remember how breathing worked. Was it ‘out, in’ or ‘in, out’?  You sorted it out, and nodded at him gratefully, taking the coffee.

Both holding your cups, you walked up to the platform. Together. Got onto the train. Together. Sat and talked for an hour and a half. Together. By the time you separated at the station, you were walking on air.

You got yourself up extra early on Wednesday, so you could get to the coffee shop first. You knew his order within the first week of ogling paying good attention to your surroundings but had never thought you’d have a chance to buy one for LeatherSuitJumperTshirtGuy. Or Bucky, as you could now call him. When he turned up and saw you, your  heart leapt at the grin he gave. He was SuitBucky again today, and my word if that didn’t do strange things to your insides. Another 90 minute journey together, and you had to assume it was the caffeine that was making your heart race and your palms sweat.  

As you got off the train that Wednesday, he turned to you and said ‘See you Friday? I’m away tomorrow.’ You nodded, disappointed but trying to hide it.

Thursday morning, you nearly didn’t bother with the coffee. You’d bought a paper, knowing that he wouldn’t be on the train, and planning on doing something a bit more grown-up than fantasising about your sex life pleasant conversations with a new acquaintance but it was cold, and the coffee shop was warm, so you went in anyway.

What surprised you though, was that as you got the counter, the barista winked at you, said your name, and asked ‘Americano with soy milk, right?’ You nodded, realising you obviously counted as a regular now, and pulled out your purse, but he shook his head.

‘It’s paid for. With a message.’ He smiled again, and handed you the cup. Instead of the usual check marks against the type of coffee, and your name, there was something else.  You tilted the cup carefully to read the sideways scrawl.

Swap the coffee for dinner, Friday? Bucky. There was a number underneath.

You skipped up the steps to the platform, and got onto the train, forgetting the paper in your bag. You pulled out your phone and sent a text, then spent the next 90 minutes doing exactly what the paper had been bought to prevent.

Two weeks later, and you could test that fantasy against the reality.  This time, it definitely wasn’t the coffee that got you trembling…

[rllovestoskate]

Pictures

It was easily arguable that Steve was one of the best friends Sam had ever had. They lived together, they ate together, they worked out together, they watched ridiculous Netflix dramas together. Considering all of the things they did together, Sam knew many things he’d rather not know about Steve. He knew that he eats peanut butter by the spoonful and double dips into the jar, he knows that he has three pairs of wonder woman underwear, and he knows that he will send back an anchovy pizza with extra anchovies because it doesn't have enough anchovies on it. However knowing all of these things, he knows very little of any importance, and hardly any details that would lend themselves to anything before the day Sam had met him.

When you were to meet someone over six feet with shoulders as broad as you are tall, you tend to assume that when they say they’re willing to go running with you it means they're not going to collapse a half a mile in. Sam had seen Steve at the gym almost every time he’d been there, leg day, arm day, chest day. He was polite enough, one of those acquaintances that you greet when you see even if you don’t know there name. But three months of casual hellos turned into spotting and conversations and then they were gym buddies who waited for each other and texted if they were going to be late. And asking Steve to accompany him for a few miles in the morning before a workout seemed only polite.

“Hey man what up,” Sam called as he rounded the corner, moving into a jog as he approached Steve.

Steve looked up and smiled, shrugged one shoulder, “Hey Sam.” He fell into step and moved onto the sidewalk, letting Sam set a pace.

Looking back Sam knew that if he had known Steve the way he does now he would have noticed something off. But on that day Steve’s responses of “I’m fine” and “just an off day” explained away all huffing and puffing. But kneeling over into the grass, unable to speak, grabbing at his jacket pocket was not anything Sam would believe was a bad day.

“Steve! Steve! Look at me!” Steve was avoiding his eyes, taking wheezing breaths, hunched over himself in a painful looking way. At some point Sam simply reached into the pocket Steve was still fumbling for, stunned to pull out a inhaler. Steve snatched it out of his hand and with a few puffs was breathing normally enough to stand.

“Steve, I swear to god, you don’t tell someone you’ll go on a run with them if you have fucking asthma,” Sam said, head in his hands. This was just the kind of thing Steve would do, three months and occasional conversation hadn’t kept him from realizing that Steve didn’t know how to say no, especially when  it came to his friends.

“It’s fine Sam,” Steve was panting, “not a big deal, ya know. I just haven’t run in while, not in shape.

“Okay, no. The amount you bench press tells me that this had nothing to do with you not being in shape and everything to do with not telling me that going on a run is going to cause you’re freaking airways to close.”

Steve looked away sheepishly, still trying to uphold his poorly supported lie “Don’t worry about it Sam I’ll live, know how to handle it”

“Yeah, obviously,” Sam said, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulder. “But that certainly doesn’t mean that you're going to ignore me when I say I’m making you breakfast. Gotta make sure you don’t keel over on the way home.”

And so a pile of pancakes two stories tall turned into a weekly thing. Which then turned into lunches and crashing on the couch and “it’s cheaper for both of us Steve, I’m not saying you’re incapable” and then they were living together. And Sam was suddenly surrounded a man that didn’t know how to choose clothing that fit and a disgusting habit of making his bed. And asthma went at the very top of the list of things Sam knows about Steve.

Slowly the list grew to include that he grew up in Brooklyn, either had no family or refused to see or talk about them, and took the 3 hour train ride from D.C. to New york every other month, and came home to grumpy to be around. Sam knew that Steve had an art degree which he often complained about one day and blessed the next. And he knew that Steve used this degree for freelance work, which seems to Sam to consist entirely of being yelled at by people on the phone and then subsequently complain to him about it.

However this list included no childhood memories or facts about parents and someone this closed off was just yelling at the psychologist inside him. But Sam had a very strict rule of not using his therapy voice on his friends, which meant no pushing, even if Steve was a spitting image about everything he’d been taught about the consequences of suppressed emotion. So Sam tried to discreetly mention a therapist friend or group a colleague had told him about, but he knew had to respect someone's boundaries.

The day the list grew exponentially started about as normal as any other meaning not at all normal  because when Sam woke up Steve was hopping around the living room with a shoe in one hand and his phone in the other looking quite insane.

“Dude what freaking time is it, what the hell are you doing?” Sam wandered out of his bedroom, to tired to really care.

“Oh god Sam I’m late, I’m so late. I’m supposed to be downtown in an hour and the traffic’s going to be crap and I’m so, so late.” Steve finally had his shoe on and was shucking on a jacket, turning about looking for his keys.

Sam poured a cup a coffee and said “You’re fine, quit freaking.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m certainly not fine,” Steve said, “this meeting, this meeting is….” he ran into his room and came back with a wallet. “...a big company Sam, could be real money, so important.”

Sam simply nodded, he’d seen Steve like this before, harebrained and on thin ice. He’d freak out all the way there before blowing away some important customer and coming home with expensive cheese because that was the sort of thing Steve spent extra money on. So he pushed Steve out the door, gave him a thumbs up, which Steve frowned at, and went back to his coffee.

A few hours later Sam was studying, a masters was hard work let him tell you about it, when Steve called.

“Steve! How was the meeting?”

“It was good, they offered me the job and…”

“See I told you you could do it.”

“That’s not the point they want me at another office in a half hour and I told them I already had rudimentary plans drawn up and I have ones that will work but I don't have them with me and I don’t have that much time and,” he paused, “will you get them for me?”

“I don’t know why you’re worked up of course I’ll get them, calm down, you got the job. You should be happy.”

“I am happy, just stressed”

“Well don’t worry about it, tell me where to find these plans and you can swing by on the way, I’ll even come down and give to ya. You won’t even have to come upstairs.”

“That great Sam, you’re great. There’s an old portfolio in the top of my closet, it’s green.”

“Green portfolio top of the closet, I got it man. Text me when you get here.”

Once he’d hung up Sam stood and stretched, walking into the hall and towards Steve's room. In the closet the portfolio was easily spotted but not so easy to get down and Sam managed to knock down what seemed nearly every other box on the shelf in reaching for it. So the portfolio was put safely aside ready for Steve while Sam attempted to put everything back. A few boxes went back on the shelves but one had landed on it’s side, dumping its contents onto the floor.

Dozens of photos now littered the floor and Sam had to pick them all up.

Two boys on the front steps of a small house with little backpacks and big smiles. “Steve and Bucky first day of kindergarten” on the back.

A wedding, a young couple maybe 20 standing at an altar. “Sarah and Joe 1990”

A boy at least 15 who looks like Steve, except smaller than Sam ever knew him, sitting on the hood of a blue truck.

A toddler with a shock of blond hair and tears down his face in the arms of a man wearing fatigues, the man from the wedding photo.

The two boys again, both with shaved heads, and the one who’s clearly Steve has yellow skin and gaunt cheeks. “First round of chemo 2001”

A beautiful blond woman looking in wonder around time square. “We’re not in Ireland anymore”

A close up of the boy, Bucky, a teenager now, except he has purple bruises all down the side of his face, a black eye, and a deep cut on his cheek.

Steve again, no older than nine, a little black suit, next to the brown haired boy and the woman who Sam knows is his mother, a coffin, and a folded up flag.

A small family in the front of a church, a baby in the woman’s arms. “Steven’s christening 1991”

A pair of blue jeans and boots sticking out from under a beat up blue truck.

Steve looking small from behind a barred window, an unfamiliar background, and a woman behind him yelling at whoever’s taking the picture.

A hospital where Bucky leans over the bed and a woman who looks like him holds a baby and a man on the other side, the only one not smiling. “Becca’s born 2007”

Steve older again, bigger, almost an adult, maybe 18, except he’s in a wheelchair and there’s an IV and he has no hair and a scar on his scalp.

A million copies of either boy when they don’t know there’s a camera.

Two graves one says Sarah 2005 and the other Joe 1998 and in the middle is the back of a blond head of hair, framed by sunlight.

Two toddlers sticking their heads out of a blanket fort.

A room covered in beer bottles, and Bucky with a trash bag while a man in a wife-beater sleeps sleeps in the background a gun on the end table.

Another funeral and Bucky has tears this time, he’s holding a wailing baby.

A set of knees obscures the picture but you can a priest standing over a hospital bed, head down and beads in hand, a small body on the bed.

A large run down house with a dead lawn and a wooden sign that reads “Mrs. Marge’s Foster Home”

Steve and Bucky, in a tree house this time.

The little girl, Becca, waving from the back of a car and Bucky in the foreground not waving back.

The boys again but Steve is too skinny and too pale, and Bucky with too many bruises, but they’re both smiling.

The view from a passenger seat of truck, the brown hair of the driver obscuring his face but you can see Brooklyn in the background.

Police in the driveway of the little house and a man in handcuffs, and a stretcher with a body.

Steve in the hospital and Bucky with his head on the sheet’s, they're both asleep.

Bucky tickling a little girl who’s not yet one, supported on his hip.

Steve leaned over a notebook, tongue sticking out of his mouth. Just the way just the way Sam’s seen a million times.

They’re sitting on the front stoop of the same house a big poster that says “no more cancer” it’s dated 2003

A cross in the middle of an intersection, where Bucky’s setting roses, it says Sarah across the front.

Bucky and Steve with party hats and a cake. “Bucky’s 8th Birthday”

The boys younger again sitting on the lap of the woman who looks like Bucky who’s holding a children’s book.

A brown haired young man in a set of fatigues, and he’s walking out of the room with hunched shoulders, clearly taken from a hospital bed.

Two boys one with blond hair and one with brown, faces squished together both smiling sunshine smiles.

And Sam picked them all up. And he put them back in the box. And he put it the box back on the shelf. And he grabbed the portfolio and went downstairs because his phone had just pinged. And when Steve thanked him he only nodded. Cause he didn’t know what to think.

And Sam thought himself a good friend. But he didn’t think anyone was capable of taking this in without questions. Maybe he should tell someone. But Steve was clearly didn’t even want him to know. And he thought that they were best friends, and best friends tell each other when they’ve accidentally discovered each other's deep dark secrets. But they’re not supposed to have them anyway.