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mcuflashmeme2016-01-03 08:46 pm
dira) wrote in mcuflashmeme2016-01-03 08:46 pm
Week 1 - A New Beginning
Hello and welcome to the MCU Flash Meme! This is going to be a fusion of an old school LJ flashfic comm and a kinkmeme: there will be a new post every week with the week's prompt (from this list), and all fills to the prompt go in the comments to the post. Fic up to about 2,000 words will fit in a comment, or you can post a link to a tumblr post or work on the AO3. You can use your DW account to comment if you want reply notifications etc., or you can comment anonymously (or comment anonymously because you don't have a DW but link to your tumblr, or whatever floats your boat).
Fun, right? :D?
RULES
1. Marvel Cinematic Universe, liberally construed: MCU movies, TV shows, comics characters who theoretically will be appearing in movies or tv shows, you know, whatever. Knock yourself out.
2. Flashfic! Write it fast, because at the end of the week the roundup post cometh and then we're moving on to a new prompt.
2a. Yeah, or art, or whatever. Make a thing for the prompt! Make it quick! Post or link it in the comments to this post!
3. Don't be an asshole.
3a. Don't like somebody's work? Keep scrolling.
3b. Label your work so people who don't like that kind of thing know to keep scrolling. Canon source, pairing, characters, rating, all a good idea.
Please use warnings for major character death, rape/non-con, graphic violence, and underage sex.
4. Mod will make more rules if mod is forced to. Mod reserves the right to screen, delete, ban, etc. But don't make me do that, guys, I have better things to do. Okay? Okay.
ENOUGH OF THAT, ON TO THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:
We got a late start, so this prompt closes and new post opens on Friday, giving you just five days on this one!
Ready, set, GO!
Fun, right? :D?
RULES
1. Marvel Cinematic Universe, liberally construed: MCU movies, TV shows, comics characters who theoretically will be appearing in movies or tv shows, you know, whatever. Knock yourself out.
2. Flashfic! Write it fast, because at the end of the week the roundup post cometh and then we're moving on to a new prompt.
2a. Yeah, or art, or whatever. Make a thing for the prompt! Make it quick! Post or link it in the comments to this post!
3. Don't be an asshole.
3a. Don't like somebody's work? Keep scrolling.
3b. Label your work so people who don't like that kind of thing know to keep scrolling. Canon source, pairing, characters, rating, all a good idea.
Please use warnings for major character death, rape/non-con, graphic violence, and underage sex.
4. Mod will make more rules if mod is forced to. Mod reserves the right to screen, delete, ban, etc. But don't make me do that, guys, I have better things to do. Okay? Okay.
ENOUGH OF THAT, ON TO THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:
A story entitled “A New Beginning”
We got a late start, so this prompt closes and new post opens on Friday, giving you just five days on this one!
Ready, set, GO!
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Title: Cower at the river's edge
Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Explicit
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow, James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers
Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Torture, HYDRA Trash Party, First Time Bottoming, Rough Sex
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-05 03:05 am (UTC)(link)no subject
Title: A New Beginning (also on ao3)
Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationship: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Tags: Sam-Centric, Sam Wilson is a Gift, I just really love him ok?, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, vague mentions of PTSD, Polyamory
Sam wakes up slowly on New Year’s Day. He can feel the sun sneaking through the blinds, slowly traveling across his skin. It adds to the comfortable warmth of the two supersoldiers sharing his bed and makes him even more reluctant to open his eyes.
He just doesn’t want to do that yet. Opening his eyes will mean acknowledging that it is a new morning, a new day, a new year, with all the attendant obligations. Problems that need his perspective and people who need his support.
It’s funny to him, sometimes, that he finds himself in the role of the adult in this makeshift family he stumbled into. It’s hilarious, actually, that a man who strapped a set of wings to his back and leapt into combat for a country that can’t even seem to decide if his life matters is seen as the voice of reason in any group. And yet, here he is.
As Sam prepares to open his eyes and face the day, he wishes for just a moment that his new friends (and particularly his boyfriends) would realize the truth - he’s making it up as he goes just like everybody else. He doesn’t magically have answers and he’s not exactly a naturally patient and understanding man.
Any answers he has are just a factor of being a little bit farther down the road of recovery than Steve and Bucky. He made plenty of his own mistakes when he first got back and all he’s trying to do is help steer these idiot white boys around the same pot holes in the road.
The zen master role they’ve given him is a whole other thing, though. Sometimes he thinks Steve and Bucky take it for granted. That they keep piling things on without realizing that his patience and understanding is a choice he makes every day. That these quiet moments of the morning before he opens his eyes are when he actively chooses the person he wants to be.
He hopes that when he fucks up and loses his shit one day (and he knows he will), either Steve or Bucky will step up to the plate and take a turn being the steadfast one, the shoulder to cry on. Hell, maybe they both will. He trusts them; he believes they’ll be there for him when he needs them. But he won’t really know until it happens will he? This is still new and if he’s being honest with himself, there are times when he’s still not entirely sure how he ended up as the third point of a triangle in the great saga that is the love story of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.
He feels Steve shift behind him and puts those doubts away for another time. Today he chooses a new beginning; today he chooses kindness and forbearance; today he chooses to be who the men he loves need him to be. He fought long and hard to get to the place where that choice was possible to make and he won’t give it up easily.
With the decision made, Sam opens his eyes to another day in this life he’s building.
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-09 05:25 am (UTC)(link)no subject
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That happiness is a choice is such an important distinction to make, and I'm glad to see a story where he's still struggling with that. I'm so happy you decided to jump off the cliff with the rest of us, I'm looking forward to seeing your next stories!
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And just so you know, I may have freaked out just a tad when I saw that you liked it. There may have been a few flailing text messages to some friends who are also fans of your writing :)
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-10 05:33 pm (UTC)(link)~Fannishliss from LJ
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Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: teen
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson
Tags: Trigger Warning for panic attacks. post-reveal, extreme wallowing in pain, sad Matt :(
Podfic: stream or download the podfic version here.
The door slams shut, and he hears Foggy walking down the hall. Foggy's steps don't pause, his breathing is deep and measured, like he's counting how long to keep each breath in his lungs. Like he counted out loud for Matt when Matt couldn't shake the nightmare even after Foggy had woken him up, so many times that first year. (seven times)
He snaps back in time, closes his eyes, listens to Foggy's voice. Always does when he's close to shattering. "Matt, breathe with me. In, one, two, three, four. Out, one, two, three, four." Foggy gets him through this. (But Foggy left)
It hurts. Matt can't process it, it hurts so much. He also can't quite breathe, his body aches, the cuts, the bruising, and the couple three walls over is fighting again, he's asking her if they shouldn't just give up. Foggy left. Foggy walked out on him. Foggy walked away, even though Matt begged him to stay. Matt's heart feels like it's about to stop, burst, something. He gasps for breath.
Matt had always known Foggy would leave, how could he not. Lying to him was a calculated risk, to keep them intact for as long as he could. (Keep Foggy.) Matt knows, knew, that everything he's been doing is circumventing what Foggy loves most: the law. (Not Matt.) Foggy loves what it can do, loves how the best laws bring order to whole societies, turn them into something that can make humanity great. Better than the mess of the most cruel, most powerful people ruling the rest, which is what humans are. Matt knows. There are people who need help faster than the law can provide, and he can't ignore that. Even if it cost him his best- (everything.) His heart strains again, even though he can tell that it's beating normally, given the situation.
He hears Foggy cursing, refocuses on him in a second. He's on the street now, heading north. His voice is worn from arguing with Matt all day. Matt can't tell if he's crying.
Matt takes a breath. As he does, the odd, detached and snidely amused part of him that's always there when everything falls apart realizes that there was still some part of him that had not believed Foggy actually would walk away from him, from them. He'd known. But he hadn't believed it was a real possibility until now. He'd never planned for this. He plans for everything. How had he not thought about this before? Who'll get the firm? Who'll keep the office? Who'll keep Karen? Obviously, he'll bow out, make arrangements, if (if Foggy will not ever talk to him again) (Foggy walked out) (I wouldn't have kept this from you. Not from you.)
"Breathe in, Matty. Everything's fine, two, three, you're not there anymore. Breathe out. I'm here, we're breathing together, you're okay, and four. Breathe in. One, this is a new beginning, Matt. The two of us, lawyering up a storm! Breathe out."
Matt can't hear Foggy anymore, even the slight squeak the shoes he's been wearing lately too far away now.
For a moment, there's nothing, just the scent of blood and antiseptic, the taste of his tears on his tongue, all sound suspended. Then Matt tries to breathe, and his chest turns to fire again. He conquers his panic - it's Foggy. (Not from you.) The city needs the mask, needs Matt, but he needs (I only ever needed my friend!)
Matt draws himself up a little, unclenches his fists. No. They are Nelson and Murdock. Foggy will not leave him, not forever.
(Foggy was Matt's new beginning)
Matt's not sure he can have another.
Widow's Chance
(Anonymous) 2016-01-06 09:13 am (UTC)(link)An art contribution!
Widow's Chance - acrylic on card
"Trained death, a ledger dripping with red
You thought that's all there was to you,
Til the Hawk looked upon the Widow, and said
"Do you want to chance at something new?" "
N. Lasenby
(Fingers crossed this link works)
Re: Widow's Chance
(Anonymous) 2016-01-10 05:36 pm (UTC)(link)~fannishliss
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Fandom: Captain America: Winter Soldier
Character: The Winter Soldier
Rating: Honestly, no idea? Nothing bad. It's just basically the end of CAWS from Bucky's POV in poetry form ...
Tags: Poetry, rhymes
***
He is a shadow, mostly unknown:
Few people know he exists
He is a deadly force, working alone
Killing with kicks, guns and fists
He has been empty, hollowed-out, Black
And they have filled him with lies
Something has happened, though, it's coming back
He fails to remember, but tries
There was a mission; explosions; a fight
A target, supposed to be dead
Kill him! No don't, stop, you can't, it's not right!
Voices inside of his head
The man fell (like he fell), they're both falling down
There's water, there's cold and there's blood
A body (a friend) sinking, He cannot drown!
Out of the water, to mud
He dropped him and left, still but alive
He should have been reporting back
But he sits down, shuts his eyes and takes five
A crack of light in his Black
He made a choice, then, and didn't return
Which is why he's standing here
In a museum, to find and to learn
... after which, he'll disappear
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-10 05:39 pm (UTC)(link)~fannishliss
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Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Teen
Relationships: Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes
Tags: High School AU, implied past traumatic event, heavily-implied emotionally abusive coach, vomiting
Sam sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. He’d already changed three times - soon to be four, because he’d just noticed a loose thread on the hem which would be really obvious to anyone that saw it and he wanted to make a good impression today was his first day at a new school, and it wasn’t even the start of the year when other people might be new too, so he would stick out like a sore thumb. Sam tugged at the thread, feeling it start to come loose.
“Sam? You ready, honey?” his mom called from downstairs.
“Yeah, mom,” Sam answered, not moving. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Okay,” she said, and that was the end of that, except that a few seconds later Sam’s dad walked past Sam’s open door and poked his head in.
“Everything okay? Excited for school?”
Sam made a noncommittal noise. “I guess. Feels -- weird.” And it did: he hadn’t been to school in over a year, could barely remember what it had been like, could barely remember what he’d been like, and then the entire routine of this morning had brought so many memories rushing back, but in a way that didn’t feel good or bad, particularly; mostly it just made him feel a little dizzy, the memories of Before like an after-image on the edges of his vision.
“You know,” his dad said slowly, walking into the room and sitting on the bed beside Sam, “you don’t have to do this if you don’t feel up to it. Dr Cage said--”
Sam cut him off. “I’m fine, dad, just tired. I -- didn’t sleep well last night.” At the knowing look he got in response - because at this point they both well knew that ‘didn’t sleep well’ meant ‘had another nightmare that I do not want to talk about’, he made a shooing motion with his hands.
“Okay, okay,” his dad said good-naturedly, getting up and backing out of the room, hands held up in surrender. “Have a good day at school.”
“Bye, dad,” said Sam. He checked his watch; too late now to change his shirt. He put on his scarf and jacket, slung his rucksack over one shoulder and went downstairs to where his mom was waiting, car keys in hand, scrolling through her emails on her phone.
She looked up as he walked down the stairs. “You look nice.” Sam shrugged; this was the first day in a long while he’d actually made an effort on his appearance.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he said, and together they walked out the door.
++++
It was still dark out; it was early January, after all, and it was so cold every breath was like a small ghost escaping and fading away into nothing. By the time they arrived at the school it was still only eight, which left them both more than enough time to get acquainted with the school’s layout before lessons started and they had to go to their respective classrooms.
They walked to reception, and the lady there smiled at them both and, after a few minutes of small-talk with Sam’s mom, gave them some directions and handed them a small printed map so they could get their bearings. Sam said thank you, and then he and his mom made their way down the corridor to the rest of the school. The doors they walked through led to a courtyard, one side of which was lined with stairs that led to benches and then a wide open sports field, with big lights that lit it up, stands on the other three sides, posts and lines for football and, upon closer inspection, lines for track, too.
“Who’s that?” Sam asked, nodding in the direction of the lone figure sitting on the stands on the other side of the field.
“Hm?” His mom glanced over, following Sam’s gaze, then turned back to the map. “Probably one of the coaches, I guess.”
Sam squinted, could just barely pick out the colours of the school’s sports kit.
“Yeah, I think so,” he said. “Dude’s gotta be freezing his ass off.”
“Sam,” his mom said warningly, not looking up from the map as she directed them around the corner, back into the school building.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said aloud, instinctive and absent-minded, still distracted by thoughts of the coach with no team, sitting out there on the stands in the middle of winter.
Weird, he said to himself, tuning back in to the sound of his mom laughing quietly.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing,” she replied, but she was still smiling, and after a moment she wrapped a hand around his shoulders and pulled him close. “Just glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” he said, leaning into her warmth and letting thoughts of that lone figure in the stands slip from his mind. “Now come on,” he continued, linking arms with his mom as they walked down the corridor,” which classroom’s yours?”
++++
They spent a while longer tracking down his mom’s classroom, setting up all her things, then going through Sam’s timetable and figuring out which room each class was in.
They were just crossing the courtyard next to the field - Sam glanced over; the stands across the field were empty now - when a man walked up from the row of benches on the edge of the field.
“Hi there,” he said, voice warm as he held out his hand to Sam’s mom. “Coach Pierce.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. “Mrs. Wilson. I’m new here; this is my first day, actually.”
Coach Pierce nodded. “I heard. Science, was it?”
“Yeah,” Sam’s mom confirmed, turning a little to look at Sam, who until then had kind of just stood there feeling awkward. “This is my son, Sam - it’s his first day, too.”
Coach Pierce turned to him, taking him in with an evaluating glance as he proffered his hand for Sam to shake. Sam did, hoping that the flicker of disgust at how weirdly damp the guy’s hand was didn’t show on his face. The coach’s eyes went to the map in Sam’s mom’s hands. He stepped forward, pointing something out to her; she replied, and Sam tuned their teacher-y conversation out and moved away, towards the benches that lined the edge of the field. Maybe he’d sit a while, get a feel of the track he planned to be running on in a few days time.
As he was about to sit down, a flash of movement on the far edge of the field caught his eye. Sam looked closer, realised he’d been wrong before: there was someone on the field, keeping a steady pace along the outer lane of the running track. It only took Sam a few seconds to realise that whoever they were, they knew what they were doing; their form was perfect. It took a while longer for him to realise that however good they were at running, their ability to dress themselves needed some work, because it was barely above freezing and this dude - close enough now for Sam to tell - was out here in shorts and a vest.
Whereas earlier his pace had looked effortless, up close it was clear that he was badly flagging, like all his energy was going into keeping his legs moving. Now that the guy was fast approaching being within speaking distance, Sam debated whether to call out and introduce himself, but a glance at the guy’s face made it pretty clear that he wasn’t in the mood for talking, so instead Sam eased his phone out of his pocket and looked down at it so the guy wouldn’t think he was weird for staring, listening as the pulse of the guy’s footfalls skipped a beat as he passed before he continued on along the track.
When the guy was fully turned away Sam looked up from his phone and allowed himself to look a little more closely, surveying the runner’s body: tall, and lean, but with a broadness to his shoulders that suggested strength, too.
“Sam, honey,” his mom’s voice cut through his reverie. He jerked back, getting to his feet and walking back up the stairs, past Coach Pierce who was headed back towards the field. The two of them paused for a while, looking out over the field and the rest of the campus.
“He seems nice,” Sam said, when the coach was out of hearing distance.
His mom looked at her watch, then nodded towards the door leading to their classrooms: we should get going. “He’s very charming,” his mom replied, after a brief pause. “I can see why he’s a coach.”
“He’s the track coach?” Sam asked.
His mom shook her head. “Football,” she corrected.
Then why is he watching that guy run track? Sam wanted to say, but at that two things happened: his mom’s phone rang - she answered it, turning away and holding it to her ear - and Coach Pierce’s voice rang out, faint from the edge of the field, hard for Sam to hear over his mom’s voice.
“You can stop now, James.”
His mom nudged his shoulder, mouthed something along the lines of “it’s your dad; I’ll be right back” and turned around to walk to reception. Sam opened the door to head to his first class, and was just about to go inside when something made him pause. He turned, looked at the illuminated field. The runner had slowed to a limping jog, and as Sam watched he stumbled and fell to his knees. The runner raised a hand to his mouth, coughing -- Jesus, he was being sick. Sam made an aborted movement back towards the field, before remembering that Coach Pierce was on the field and would’ve seen, except that when he finally spotted him Coach Pierce was just standing there on the edge of the field, not moving.
And then the bell rang, and though what he’d seen made him feel -- weird, like it was a private moment he’d intruded on, and yet simultaneously felt like it was something he should tell another teacher about, Sam didn’t want to be late for his first class, and he wanted to maybe try and get through one day without drawing attention to himself, so after a long moment he turned away, and closed the door, and tried to forget about it.
I've been wanting to write a Sam/Bucky Football AU (starring Sam: the kid is not alright but is doing better than he was, with a side dose of Bucky: the kid is also not alright but is kind of on a downward trajectory) for a long while, but I haven't had the time or energy to commit to doing all the research that involves, so, for now: a few short scenes. Hit me up on tumblr - url is the same as on DW.
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-07 02:50 am (UTC)(link)Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationship: Steve/Bucky, Steve/Peggy
warnings for mention of Bucky's arm, light medical horror
--
Steve will get over it.
Carter or the Army or both will take care of him; promote him up, get him married, get him a whole passel of hard headed, good looking baby girls to puff himself up about. Steve'll start over, whole new life with Carter to keep him in line and kick his ass for him.
Carter's something else, she won't take any of Steve's bullshit, won't let him play the selfish martyr and mourn for longer than he needs to. She'll kick his ass and make him pick himself up and they'll win the war just between the two of them being hard headed fools together, Bucky knows it.
There'll be parties after the war, swank to-dos where Steve won't know what to do with himself or how to drink champagne or what fork to use, but Carter'll teach him how to dance, how to put together his uniform so he doesn't look like such a fucking butter bar all the goddamn time. Somebody's got to do it, with Bucky gone.
They'll be the best looking couple in New York and London both, probably on magazine covers and doing radio interviews. Glamorous as all hell, married within the year. Nice Catholic thing like Steve's ma always wanted, too much incense and enough candles to burn down the church. Big fancy car to drive off after and a honeymoon at Niagara Falls in the spring, when the cherry trees are blooming.
Three or four baby girls, and maybe Steve'll get some time to paint again when the Army realizes they don't need the dancing monkey in peacetime and that Carter's smarter besides. Steve'll get up at the asscrack of dawn to make Carter her coffee, make pancakes with smiles baked in and put the baby's hair in pig tails. He'll send Carter off to work in the city and the girls off to school, then maybe do the dishes because he's a fucking boy scout, but then he'll paint, real high brow stuff like he wanted and not like blue drawings to make ends meet.
Well, a couple of blue drawings. Of Carter mostly, because they don't stay married forty years with four kids for no good goddamn reason. They'll be so fucking happy.
It keeps his mind off the pain, at any rate, keeps himself from thinking about the hot sepsis and gangrene creeping up his shoulder.
The door swings open when Bucky's just figured out where they live (apartment in the city, summer house in the Hamptons with a tire swing out back and that asshole Stark dropping in), all harsh, cutting light in the gloom. Bucky rolls up onto one knee, the floor swaying under him.
There's three of them, two guards and that little bastard Zola, swimming in and out of his vision. They haul him up like a rag doll, and Bucky knows it's going to be bad when Zola smiles at him. “Come, Sergeant Barnes, it is time to make you a new man.”
Steve'll get over it, make a new life for himself. It doesn't matter what they do to Bucky. Steve'll get over it.
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(This is gorgeous, anon! And horrible. <3)
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-10 05:09 am (UTC)(link)Excellent work!
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-08 02:47 am (UTC)(link)Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Mature ish
Relationships: pre war Steve/Bucky
warning for alcohol
Bucky slings Steve onto the couch, letting him land heavily so the springs creak. Steve just hums happily to himself, toeing his shoes off as Bucky goes to get a glass of water. Not that Bucky's not well on the way to drunk himself, but somewhere around the fourth whiskey Bucky forgot that Steve doesn't hold his liquor as well.
“You don't got enough Irish in you to drink that much, Rogers,” Bucky says, coming back with the water to prop Steve's head up and settling on the couch with Steve's head on his thigh.
Steve snorts, grinning dopily against Bucky's leg. “You gonna fix that for me, Barnes?” Steve says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.
“You're a sloppy drunk,” Bucky says, unbuttoning Steve's shirt upside down and one handed.
“'m gonna puke on y'r shoes for that,” Steve says. He rolls his head on Bucky's thigh, warm and heavy, with that heavy lidded smile he gets when he wants to fuck. Bucky scrapes fingers over Steve's scalp and rolls his eyes again.
“Go ahead, you got nothing in your belly but alcohol, it'll probably get the floorboards cleaner'n they ever been.”
Steve laughs to himself, curling up on the couch and letting Bucky pet his hair. He's sweeter when he's drunk, or at least he lets Bucky be sweeter to him, all his sharp edges blunted a little when he's sleepy.
“You wanna fuck me?” Steve says after a minute, rolling his head on Bucky's leg to look at him. His hair's all messed around and his cheeks are flushed; of course Bucky wants to fuck him.
“You've got whiskey dick,” Bucky says. It's near midnight and they both work in the morning.
“So?” Steve says, under the mistaken impression that mulish is a seduction technique. “I can still suck you off after a fifth of whiskey, see if I don't.”
Bucky undoes one more of Steve's buttons, scratching blunt nails over Steve's collarbone and chest before pushing his hand down to twist Steve's nipple, and that shuts him up. Steve flushes to the roots of his hair and twists against Bucky's thigh upside down on the couch, and maybe he isn't all talk after all. He's flushed pretty and hard through his trousers when Steve opens his eyes again, fluttering when Bucky pinches a little harder and doesn't let go.
“C'mon, Buck, gotta start the new year how you want the rest to go,” Steve breathes. “'S bad luck if you don't fuck me.”
“Sure thing, Casanova,” Bucky says, letting go. “You can suck my dick after you drink some water.”
Steve makes a disgruntled noise, sitting up finally. “Gimme the water, mother superior,” Steve says, sounding ten times more sober as takes the glass and down the whole thing in one go because he's a stubborn little cuss. Not that sober, though, because he flops right back down across Bucky's lap and goes out inside two seconds, curled against the back of the couch. So much for the new year.
Bucky pets Steve's hair in the dark apartment, drifting while he tries to decide if it's worth carrying Steve to bed or dealing with the back ache in the morning.
Bucky's watch says it's two after midnight when he finally stretches out and tugs the scratchy spare blanket down over them. Forty-one was pretty good; forty-two will be better.
“Hey. Steve,” Bucky says, rubbing circles on Steve's back. “It's nineteen forty-two, happy new year.”
“Happy new year,” Steve mumbles back.
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~~~
Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. These are the borderlines, the light of a sun and the dark of its absence acknowledged by photoreceptors that delineate the passing of time.
But not in a cave.
In a cave it is: grey, shadowed, dusty, dim. Time is a lie. Time doesn't pass; the hourglass is shattered on the sandstone and those fine grains of sand block every pore, they get in your eyes and your eyes have no receptors for this irritant.
Don't weep. No amount of tears will restore your vision here.
Here the light is fake. Too much sodium-vapor casting everything in shades of orangey-red. The light is fake, but then he's a fake, too, so maybe this is fitting, that he should dwell in shades of hellfire that never burn to the clear bright white of a sun.
A good man saved him.
A good man lied to him, to save him, but he doesn't know that yet, because he doesn't understand good people. He has surrounded himself with people like him; liars, fakes, sodium-lit fireflies that burnt out in the dark of hotel rooms and casinos and...
And anyway, he can't read the lines on the good man's face. Can't see - no fault of the photoreceptors; only of the brain that interprets them - pain outside his own. Not here in the non-day/non-night of the cave.
When he stumbles, reborn inside a shell that does not protect everything he needs it to, he stumbles in the daylight. Here in the spaces where light reaches but indirectly, he finally learns the lie.
He sees the light and, oh god to whom he does not pray, it burns. His eyes are opened and he is blinded. Photoreceptors short-circuit and overload and he walks out into the world -- he flies out into the world -- only to crash and burn.
Life burns. Truth burns. And the sand is still spilled everywhere; he can't put it back in the hourglass.
Is it any wonder he wears shades?
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-08 03:42 am (UTC)(link)Title: Going to Put my Name Down
Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationship: n/a
Tags: dub-con, hey you know that fic where senator brandt (the guy who runs the ISO show) basically pimps steve out to a sketchy rich guy that no one asked for?, yeah I wrote that fic
Steve Rogers was given a minder. Normally this would have bothered him, if he didn’t need minding at age thirteen on the streets of New York (no matter what Bucky thought) then he certainly didn’t need a minder now that he had enough muscles to make anyone think twice before starting anything with him. Only he had no idea what was going on. Senator Brandt heard his accent and quickly assigned a toady to make sure that Steve got allocation lessons and arrived dressed up nice wherever and whenever Brandt wanted him.
Like this party for the city’s (whatever city this one is, all Steve knows is that it is not New York) upper crust for supporting the war effort. Thankfully they don’t have him parading around in tights. Though the tuxedo is not much more comfortable. Steve honestly doesn’t really know why Brandt insisted on Steve being here, the minder hasn’t forced him to schmooze, so mostly Steve has been standing stock still with an untouched drink in his hand. He was like a donkey in a lion costume hoping none of the pride was paying attention, and won’t notice the guttersnipe that has been brought among these glitzy folks.
Suddenly his minder jabbed him in the side with an elbow. “That’s Mr. Wilder,” He pointed to a middle aged man who just entered the room. “He’s going to donate a million dollars to the war effort, and he asked to meet you specifically. You should go thank him.” The last sentence was accompanied by a light shove because Steve’s whole body had gone frozen at the naming of such a sum.
Steve barely avoided running into a waiter only to step on the train of a woman’s gown, the owner of which glared at him for a moment despite his immediate apologies. He managed to make his way to the end of the room where Mr. Wilder was talking with another older man, the drink in his hand already half gone. For a moment Steve didn’t know how to approach him, he had asked for Captain America. Should Steve sing a few bars of the song like he’s a singing telegram?
Mr. Wilder turned and noticed him standing there, and his face cracked into a smile. “Hello there, you look different outside that costume.” He said raking his eyes up and down Steve’s body. Steve still felt like he was wearing a costume, but attempted a smile.
“Thank you— for helping the war effort.” Steve said because he had been told to and also $1 million could help a lot of men. Mr. Wilder looked at him like he was a precious kitten and slung an arm around Steve.
“Just doing my patriotic duty.” He said, and took a sip from his glass while keeping his eyes on Steve in a way that was highly disconcerting. It would have been easier if Mr. Wilder had just sneered at him, Steve knew what to do with people who looked down on him. That smirk though, left Steve clueless about what he was expected to be doing. He fiddled with his champagne glass as if lines might have been pasted on there.
“So what do you do, Mr. Wilder?” Steve asked at last.
“Oh, this and that. A bit of law, a bit of trade whatever presents itself. And what do you do, Mr. Captain America; I mean when you’re not punching Hitler? Or is that a national secret?” Mr. Wilder asked and chortled at his little joke.
“I guess I sketch a little.” Because obsessing over memories of Dr. Erskine dying in his arms or terrors of Agent Carter or Bucky dying alone in some undisclosed location weren’t things you told strangers.
“Huh.” Was all Mr. Wilder had to say to that, but he took it as an opportunity to lean in, and press himself against Steve’s side. “I hope you whip those Nazis into shape, or else they’re going to cost me an absolute fortune.” He squeezed Steve’s bicep. “You know, I do think you’re worth another $500,000 to the war effort.” Mr. Wilder said in a low voice, and laughed because apparently that sort of money could be thrown away for a good time.
All at one Steve was struck once again by the opulence of his surroundings, the tuxedos and gowns like something out of a movie, waiters with impeccably balanced trays, Mr. Wilder’s champagne-soaked breath against his cheek. Steve thought of Bucky in Africa, freezing in the desert night. How many men had died because their weapons hadn’t functioned properly? How many were going to die because the hospitals weren’t stocked well enough? Now Steve understood his reason for being here.
“I think I’m worth at least $750,000.” Steve said which after all wasn’t inaccurate. He had been struck dumb when Dr. Erskine had explained to him the costs involved of Project Rebirth. Mr. Wilder burst out laughing, and the hand that was companionably on Steve’s back slid downward.
“Get a load of you, huh? Alright sweetheart, lets make it another million to make it even.” With that he made his way to Senator Brandt leaning heavily on Steve, but he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he appeared. Mostly he was copping a feel. “Hey Brandt, change my gift to $2 million, if you let Captain America escort me to my car.”
“Of course Mr. Wilder, Captain America is always happy to help. Thank you for your contribution.” There were indulgent smiles all around. Captain America helping an intoxicated man getting home safely, but as Steve lead Mr. Wilder out of the party there were more than a few smirks among the crowd that seemed to have an idea of what was going on. Steve could taste it in his mouth, a cloying tang like blood, what this would entail.
Half an hour later Mr. Wilder pressed him against the hotel door, unbuttoning Steve’s shirt. He stared admiringly at what was underneath.
“Look at you sweetheart, I could just chain you up to my bed. Feel like the Sheik of Persia.”
“I’m afraid that would be another million dollars, Mr. Wilder.” Steve said, and Mr. Wilder absolutely howled, before biting down on Steve’s shoulder, a thigh pressed between Steve’s legs. Then he let Mr. Wilder push him onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling and thought of Bucky in his tent with thick socks and a new bedroll.
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(Anonymous) 2016-01-08 05:49 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2016-01-11 12:52 am (UTC)(link)no subject
Relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes
So uh, this is a flashfic sequel for my story Make A Thing Go Right, so it might not make a ton of sense unless you've read that. OR if you like fluffy, morning after sex with no explanation!
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When Sam wakes it’s slow and easy, like summer morning. Consciousness comes in flickers of shivery light as he blinks his eyes open, closed, open again. He’s warm - tucked close between the bed underneath him and the weight of a familiar body on top. “Mmm,” the body says, and noses under Sam’s chin. James is still asleep, more or less; the press of his mouth against Sam’s throat is soft and clumsy.
Sam had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around James and he’s woken up the same way. He tightens them a little, shifts his weight to accommodate as James cuddles nearer. They’re wrapped up together, arms and legs, close as they can get.
The room is quiet. Steve had said something last night about a cell phone ban - letting them get their rest, he’d said, and actually fucking winked. When Sam cracks an eye open he can see the damage done: a chair overturned, two sets of black trousers strewn across the carpet, shirts flung god knew where, James’ underwear on top of the lamp, jackets somewhere under the bed. He can smell the last little bit of the champagne he’d taken upstairs with them, the bottle they’d finished together as the sun was rising, sitting naked on the sprawling bed.
He can’t even tell where he ends and James begins. Which was the point of it, he guesses.
James is making happy sleep sounds, muffled against Sam’s collarbone. His hand’s tucked under Sam’s neck, low enough that he won’t catch Sam’s hair between the plates on his fingertips. The arm itself is body warm, indistinguishable from the rest of him - but right on that big vein on Sam’s neck, just over the soft pulse of his heartbeat, he can feel that thin band of gold against his skin.
He presses a kiss against James’ forehead. Can’t help it; joy bubbles up in him like that champagne had last night. His face aches from smiling. His feet ache from dancing. His body aches from the champagne, and how they’d gone at each other once they were finally alone.
James draws in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly as precursor to consciousness. “How you doin,” Sam whispers, and gets in another kiss to James’ temple, and James tries to get his face up for Sam to kiss that instead, eyes still squinched closed. They manage it, after a couple tries, and then stay there for a while, touching everywhere they can reach.
James draws back, his hair spreading soft across the pillow. He looks tender, and startled, like he can’t quite believe where he’s woken up. He touches Sam’s cheek, gently. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, and then turns his face to the pillow as if Sam’s never seen him blush.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Sam tells him, and they’re quiet for a few minutes. There’s sunlight coming in through the curtains, and the room smells like good sex and sleep.
“So, Staff Sergeant Wilson,” James says, eventually. “What d’you wanna do today?”
Sam hums a little, one of the little habits he picked up from James at some point. “First day,” he muses. “Sounds important, right? I don’t know, Sergeant Wilson. What do you wanna do?”
James giggles. They try to kiss again, laughing into each other’s mouths. “Let’s stay in bed the whole day,” James breathes. He’s wiggled close again, one leg hooked around the back of Sam’s knees, keeping them wrapped together, chest to chest, all the way down.
“Oh yeah?” Sam asks. “I think we have to give this hotel room back at some point.” He can feel the shape of James’ dick against his thigh: not hard exactly, but interested. James grins, and rolls over to plant an elbow on either side of Sam’s head, bracing himself.
“Nah, here,” he says, and punctuates each word with little bites to Sam’s jaw, down his throat. Sam lets him do it, propping his hands behind his head to give free rein, tilting his chin up. “Here’s the OPLAN. You listenin?”
“Mmmhhm,” Sam says. James is heavy, solid, and sweating a little. He’d had each ankle looped over Sam’s, and when Sam spreads his legs he pushes James’ legs wider too, til their dicks are brushing against each other, damp with the heat they’re making under the blankets.
“We fool around,” James says, and wiggles his hips for emphasis, “then I call the front desk and tell ‘em we’ll stay another night. Then we order some room service. I’ll put on - uh - your tie to answer the door.”
“Prob’ly get us thrown out,” Sam says, lifting his head to suck on the line of James’ throat. James groans, and his hips push down against Sam’s. It pushes the air out of Sam’s lungs and he gasps, laughing, turned on.
“Nah, they’ll get it,” James says, getting a little rhythm now, rubbing his dick against Sam’s. “They liked us last night, you know they did. Quit interrupting me. Room service - with champagne. Nicest bottle they have.”
“You’ll regret making that promise,” Sam says, and James grins.
“Nah,” he says, and draws Sam’s left hand out from behind his head, takes it in his own. He kisses Sam’s knuckles, then his fingertips, and then sucks each one delicately, up to the second knuckle. The heat of his mouth - the drag of James’ tongue over the pads of his fingertips - sends shudders through Sam’s body. He’s panting a little, hot with it, and then goes soft all over as James draws his lips over the ring on Sam’s finger, kissing it gently, reverently. His eyes are closed.
They breathe, steady. Together.
James opens his eyes, blinks slow and heavy a couple times. He looks up, and meets Sam’s gaze, his eyes crinkling up at the corners at whatever look he’s seeing on Sam’s face. “Then we watch cartoons,” he says, like nothing had happened, like the air between them wasn't electric. “Later on, we fool around again. No clothes in between. But maybe more room service.”
“Good plan,” Sam says, soft, and draws his husband back down and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.
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A New Beginning
Relationship: Bucky & Steve
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 600
The funny thing--the awful thing--is that he says it in almost exactly the same way Steve first heard him say it: surprised, confused. There's no real heat in it, he's just taken aback as he stares at Steve with absolutely no sign of recognition.
"Who the hell is Bucky?"
The tone fits better here, in Steve's kitchen, where Bucky is half-dressed and obviously in the middle of making coffee, than it did in a chaotic street fight. It breaks his heart worse than it did when it was merely a pause in Bucky's spirited attempts to kill him, which Steve wouldn't have thought was possible.
Bucky frowns when Steve doesn't answer the question. He looks to one side like he might find the answer on the cupboards, the refrigerator.
"I don't..." He rubs a hand through his hair then stops and stares at it, seeming to realize for the first time that it's made of metal. "What the... Is it me? Does this happen a lot?"
Steve takes a cautious half-step forward and tries to match his tone to Bucky's, confused but still not really upset. "Does what happen a lot?"
Bucky drops his left hand to his side and shoots him a withering look that's so familiar Steve wants to cry. "Do I forget my own name a lot? And... shit, I can't remember anything. But I woke up and I wanted some coffee so I just came out here. I didn't know where I was or how I got here or that I had a metal arm, but it didn't seem that weird until I didn't know who you were talking to. That's... I should've noticed, right? Normal people probably notice when they don't know where they are or why or when their arm is made of metal. And you don't seem that surprised either. So do I forget everything all the time? Isn't there a movie where it happens like that?"
Bucky frowns harder, looking away again, chasing the elusive information. "Why do I know that and I don't know my name?"
"You do know your name," Steve says firmly, because whatever happened to Bucky's brain overnight, while he was sleeping safely in Steve's apartment and all the HYDRA shit was supposed to be over, they're still here together and they can figure it out. Even if Bucky turns out to be like the guy from Memento now, they can figure that out. He won't even need Polaroids; he can keep all the pictures on his phone. "Your name is Bucky."
"Bucky," he repeats, sounding dubious about the name but not suspicious. He's not looking for a lie or a trap. He has no idea why he should. "Well who the hell are you, then?"
Steve takes another step forward, close enough to offer his hand. "I'm Steve. I'm your best friend."
"Steve," Bucky repeats, taking his hand and shaking it. His grip, and his gun calluses, are the same as ever. "My best friend, huh, just like that?"
"Just like that," Steve agrees.
Bucky smiles like the sun coming up. It's an easy, careless grin Steve hasn't seen since 1943, and he feels like a traitor but he thinks whatever happened last night might not be the worst thing that's happened to Bucky lately. If they have to start all over, at least they get to start all over from this bright morning together.
"Well, best friend," Bucky squeezes before letting go of his hand, and turns back toward the kitchen counter. "Here's another thing I don't know: how do you like your coffee?"
Re: A New Beginning
Re: A New Beginning
Re: A New Beginning
Re: A New Beginning
Grace Barnes: Super Soldier Spy Extraordinaire
Title: A New Beginning (also on ao3 and tumblr)
Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: General Audiences
Relationship: Grace Barnes & Steve Rogers
Tags: Secret Identity, character fusion, sad Steve, AU.
Note: By “comics characters who theoretically will be appearing in movies or tv shows, you know, whatever. Knock yourself out.” I’m probably cheating by using that to use an Original Character, but the names she goes by are actual comic book characters so I’m hoping that “legal”.
"Theresa Gail Runciter" is an expert at new beginnings, she's done her fair share of it over the decades.
Being relegated to being Fury's secretary would have been a demotion to most, but to the woman originally known as Grace Barnes, it was a welcome reprieve. “I'm here to see Director Fury?” Well, until Steve Rogers walked back into her life with a polite smile and hunched shoulders. “He should be expecting me?”
Theresa looks up from her desk with an a mirror smile, “Of course Captain Rogers, I’ll let the Director know you’re here.” She gestures a hand behind him. “Please take a seat, he should be finished with his meeting soon.”
She watches Steve carefully as he nods tightly and does so and she lets Nick know of his guest. The hair is the same as she remembers, neatly parted and flopping into his eyes, button up shirt and khaki pants the same as he had worn before the war when they would hang of his body in a way that’s near impossible now.
He looks better now that he’s out of the ice, real and alive. It’s a matter of five minutes before Theresa’s comm is letting her know that Fury is ready for the Captain. Steve stands when she does, returning her smile in a way that almost reaches his sad eyes when she gestures him along.
“Try to think of this as a new beginning, Captain,” Theresa finds herself saying as she leads the man through to Fury’s office. “I’ve personally found that it does wonders for one’s frame of mind when we can find it in ourselves to start again.”
The easy smile that had been on Steve’s face fades to an expression that she knows to mean that she should mind her own business before it smooths into something blank that she finds she does not like.
“Thank you, ma’am,” comes the bland response before he moves ahead of her and it’s Nick’s office. Theresa stands at the door as Fury’s greets Steve with a “Thank you for coming Captain,” before the older man turns to her with something akin to a smile.
“You can head home now Theresa, your replacement can take over for you.” Theresa smiles at both men pleasantly as she bows out of the room, heart pumping furiously in her chest in both elation and trepidation, musing over how often a new beginning can come from going back to work.
A New Page
(Anonymous) 2016-01-09 12:43 am (UTC)(link)Fandom: Captain America: Winter Soldier
Characters: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes
Rating: G
Tags: Separation Anxiety, Drawing, Never mind that my happy dreams of Bucky livng with all the Avengers have been destroyed by Civil War, Flash Fic
+++
Eventually Steve gives up. Super soldier or not, there’s only so long he can keep himself distracted at the gym. Sure, his body can take it, (although maybe the heavy bag can’t) but it stops keeping him preoccupied after a while. A shopping trip should really not take this long anyway. Maybe they just didn’t tell him they’
Still, when he gets back to the floor he shares with Bucky, it’s still empty. He has to remind himself that Pepper would have called if something went wrong, but he manages to keep his heart rate steady.
Tony had called Steve a “helicopter parent” when he balked at Pepper and Bucky going out by themselves. He’s not sure the exact definition of that phrase, but given the current unease in the pit of his stomach after only four hours of Bucky at the mall without him, Steve’s probably going to have to admit Tony was right.
Not to his face of course. But yeah, he needs to let go a bit.
In the meantime, there’s no ignoring his ridiculous metabolism. Steve’s piling the ingredients for an impressive sandwich onto the kitchen island when he looks to the edge of the counter a note resting on top of a book.
Steve,
Try to fill this with some stuff that’s a little less depressing. Your old one creeps me right the fuck out.
Bucky
Steve’s face heats as he puts the note aside to examine the sketchbook beneath. The contents of his now nearly full book did tend to range from dreary nostalgia to outright horror. But, as Sam would say, he’s working through some stuff.
Doesn’t mean he wanted Bucky to have to see that.
Still, when Steve cracks back the cover to that first crisp new page, he can’t ignore the symbolism of all that open space before him.
Things have been looking up lately.
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Thanks for reading the first thing I have written in years. Hopefully flashfics will get me back in the swing. Find me on tumblr at justaphage (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justaphage)
Re: A New Page
Re: A New Page
(Anonymous) 2016-01-10 05:18 am (UTC)(link)BarqueBatch
Re: A New Page
Truckerverse Pt. I, "A New Beginning"
Bucky is a trucker who picks up a hitchhiker during a snowstorm.
Steve lives above the convenience store in a town that is made to be passed through.
on AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5674177
no subject
(Anonymous) 2016-01-09 06:21 am (UTC)(link)http://archiveofourown.org/works/5667115
Week 1: A New Beginning
(Anonymous) 2016-01-10 04:59 am (UTC)(link)Pairing: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes
Words: 1700
Author: BarqueBatch
http://archiveofourown.org/works/5684113