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starmaki: Barnes (civil war)
The last part has not been spell checked so will have some interesting misspellings. ^_^; * means unsure about this part might cut and ~~ means mini time-jump and might add a short part here.

About 1717 words
AU Modern Stucky, Beefy Bucky Barnes, Skinny Steve Rogers,fandom: MCU/Captain America, Shrinkyclinks, a little bit of world building before getting to the smut, because I can't do anything simple. lol This will be rated NC-17, Explicit, but this part is Teen rating PG-13. This is gonna have about 2 more chap.

“Like A Tattoo”

The front door opened and closed followed by the stomp of heavy feet knocking off mud and dirt on the doormat, the clank of keys hitting the porcelain bowl. Steve glanced up from his computer and digital art work for his latest client. And Bucky disappeared into the spare room which was doubling as an exercise/ sports equipment storage room without a word. Steve’s shoulders sagged like a deflated balloon.

Steve had few items in that room--his yoga mat, his mediation CDs, a large blue resistance band thingy, a large fern and small bamboo water fountain to add color and peacefulness to the room when he practiced his Tai Chi and yoga. The rest was Bucky’s. There was no need for Bucky to visit a local gym when he had all the free weights, barbells, dumbbells, kettlebells, punching bags, an elliptical, a suspension trainer and a tread machine at his disposal. Damnit, his Kitaro CDs were being held hostage when Bucky took over that room! There was always YouTube, but still the better speakers were in that room.

It was becoming habit, and Steve was beginning to feel ignored. Bucky’s grunting and shrugging his way through a conversation at breakfast or dinner was not communicating in Steve’s book. There was something wrong and Bucky wasn’t saying what, and it was upsetting Steve because he couldn’t fix it if he didn’t know the problem. Or if he was the problem. Bucky just came home after a session or work and went straight to that room. Their cozy domestic life was taking a nose-drive, and it didn’t start out that way. If he had to pinpoint it, it started to hit the skids ever since Bucky got his new prosthetic arm and was going to some pretty heavy physical therapy and regular therapy sessions after it.

Steve couldn’t sit still anymore staring at the direction Bucky went, a nervous energy shooting through him with nowhere to go, so he got up to retrieve the mail from earlier. Bill, junk, bill, he silently sorted the mail--fingering the mail brought back memories.

It was kind of corny and beautiful how they met, him and Bucky. Letters. Old fashion letters. Steve signed up to be a pen-pal for the wounded soldier program. A random vet was assigned and they began corresponding. And Bucky had the most beautiful handwriting, full of loops and elegant script. It spoke of a deep soul or one that took those 4th grade cursive writing lessons to heart. He also found out Bucky lost his left arm in Afghanistan, but didn’t know the full details.

He’d seen Bucky’s dark times and light times and was there offering encouraging words if needed or just writing about the latest movies and his job as a tattoo artist. And Bucky gave back too. Wanting to see his art and being there when his Mom past away. Bucky was always finding humor or quiet wisdom in any given situation. It was either laugh or cry, he once said. It was telling he opened up that much of himself *so it hurt now that Bucky was closing himself off to Steve. It shouldn’t be about him. He kept telling himself that, but yet it was. He was human and it hurt.*

And when they finally met face to face on Skype--oh God! Bucky was the most handsome, quirky, smart ass, son of bitch, and it was love. But Steve didn’t realize it then. Not until he met Bucky in person at a VA picnic at Fort Lee. He flew out to Virginia that weekend—a meet and greet. And was completely speechless for five whole minutes when he spotted him. He needed ice water to clear his throat and jumper cables to restart his heart. Bucky was so tall, board-shouldered, deep-chested and wearing a t-shirt a size too small, because it was about to explode off that brawny body. A t-shirt that was boldly stenciled, “I wish I was an Oscar Meyer wiener.” What the hell? That stupid shirt caressed and stretched across his big body like a glove. It should have been illegal. His thick jean clad thighs and perfect ass were a national treasure.

But when Bucky spoke, it was soft and thoughtful. When he smiled, the whole world lit up. His eyes crinkled with mirth and Steve noticed a slightly crooked tooth in that gorgeous smile. And he was flat out in love or he was having heartburn from the chili dogs—no, it was love.

It didn’t take long for them to realize it was mutual. A date, then sex, then another date, more sex. Did he mention the sex was incredible? Until they found a place to both move into so they didn’t have to travel so far to see each other. Bucky was able to transfer to Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn. And they got a flat in Bed-Stuy.

Steve then went and did something against everything he suggested to his clients. He got a tattoo of Bucky’s name. It wasn’t smart to get the name of your lover tattooed on you. It was permeant, forever (until you went through painful laser removal). And what if they broke up? But that wasn’t what Steve was thinking. The beautiful cursive writing of Bucky Barnes’s name was designed in an elegant piece with doves and rifles across his back. He had Natasha do the inking. And he inked a tattoo on Bucky on request, one of a star, ribbons, a key and a knife. Each symbol had a special meaning to Bucky. It took up Bucky’s right shoulder and upper arm.

The letter came in the mail from Fort Drum in New York. Bucky was accepted as a candidate for an experimental prosthetic arm. The prosthesis Bucky sometimes used was a functional one with a metal pinching grasp, which was good at opening pickle jars, but this one would be different and “classified”. It was all Bucky could say. Bucky able to get some specs on the arm, with all the important stuff censored. Steve was truly impressed. It looked like something out of Star Wars. It appeared to have movable metallic plates and full articulation.

“They want me back”, he heard Bucky say one day before he left for Fort Drum when they were in the middle of post-coital cuddling. Steve just kissed away the worried expression, not understanding the earth-shattering significance of what he said.
Steve’s attention was drawn to a letter mixed in with the mail, addressed to him. What the? He swore it was Bucky’s handwriting. He checked the returned address Holy shit, it was! It was sent from Watertown, NY, which was the nearest town outside of Fort Drum.

He walked over to the workout room Bucky vanished into, peering in. And promptly forgot what he was going to say to Bucky, the letter all but disregarded in his hand.

Bucky Barnes was a menace to Steve’s peace of mind, pure and simple. That and he was getting completely aroused by just watching him lift the free weights and barbell in a curl. Steve’s skin flushed, his pulse doing double time and his dick was getting happy. Stupid, dick.

Bucky’s new arm matched his flesh one in size and bulk. The sleeveless grey tank-top already damp with sweat. His long hair starting to escape from its tie, in dewy wisps. His back turned from him, shoulders a mile wide, muscles rippling across his back with each rep. Jesus! Steve never knew a back could have that much muscle definition. Sure he knew, studying human anatomy for art, but this was real, and he could just reach out and lick and dig his fingers into all that beef.

Steve was pathetic, here he was being ignored and all he wanted to do was jump that man’s bones. Instead, he should just jerk himself off in the shower. It’s what he was doing the past month. Steve and his hand were becoming very close. Because he and Bucky were not having sex. They cuddled and spooned, but that was it. And it was driving Steve nuts, because he didn’t know why. Bucky just stopped or showed little interest. Saying he was tried, or thrpey was rough, or he had to leave early to unload freight at a local resurant. Or he was 50 miles away at Fort Drum for more testing.

Yet he did come home every night and work out and help cook dinner and they sit and watch Netflix’s, before going to bed to sleep. It has been weeks. And with all the increased workouts Bucky was getting bigger. Much bigger. He didn’t’ have to see a scale know he had gained weight and it was all muscle. Well, he was already pretty big being 6 foot and built sturdy and thick. Previously, he was a little sleeker, his movements like a graceful cat. Now that muscle was getting heavier, the agilness turning more into a dangerous weighty prowl. A bobcat to a mountain lion. He needed new shirts because they all were getting too tight and his biceps where huge even when he didn’t flex them. Just simple things like buttering toast and flipping pancakes where enough to show off the dense muscle.

“Bucky, I got your letter.”
Bucky glanced at him and then at a fixed point at the wall. “Did you read it?”

“Well…no,” Feeling a little like an idiot. He used to rip open each letter he got from Bucky in the past, like a candy bar to get to the goodness inside,

“I think you should read it. I…it was just easier writing you a letter. Like we use too. I...it’s hard to explain to find the words when I’m looking at you. And if you still want to be…if you still.” He shook his head looking dejected and forlorn as if something bad was coming and it was inable. “Just read it, please.”
“O…kay.” An ominous cloud of dread was descending on Steve. Why couldn’t he breathe properly? Why was his heart faltering? He took the letter in the kitchen and carefully opened it up with a paring knife. Slipping the blade though a corner and slicing the top along the crease.
starmaki: Vincent (Default)
My story for the stucky-bb. This is the longest fanfic I have ever completed so very happy about that! A coffee shop au because you know you want it! I'm pretty happy how it turned out. It could have been longer, but was running out of time (and now my ideas will most likely lead to another fic for this au). I had so many ideas with this. I couldn't use some scenes I wrote (because they didn't quite fit). I wrote about 5 different endings. But you never know how it will be exactly when writing until you get towards the end (because Steve was being a little pain in the ass...lol). I ended up mixing some elements from the different endings to get the one I got. Ugh. But really, I'm satisfied with the ending I wrote. I really need to have a beta next time I write a longer fic though, but this time it wasn't possible because I didn't have a full draft of the story ready to beta read until a day before the posting due date. I can't say: here it is; read it and give it to me in a day, because I am posting it? I am hopeless! Anyhow, enjoy this sweet and fluffy fic!

Caffè Americano (12092 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 6/6
Fandom: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Sharon Carter (Marvel), Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, James Rhodes, Background & Cameo Characters
Additional Tags: Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Coffee, Starbucks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Barista Steve, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Physical Disability, Service Dogs, Light Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, First Meetings, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Humor, Attempt at Humor, Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Skinny Steve, Awkward Flirting, Smoking, Alcohol, Cuddling & Snuggling, Steve has a plan, Panic Attacks, Beefy Bucky, Stucky Big Bang 2016, POV Steve Rogers

"To inspire and nurture the human spirit–one person, one cup and one neighborhood at a time." The Starbucks mission statement.

For the past few days, barista Steve Rogers was having fantasies about a hot new customer that ordered a Caffè Americano each time. But didn't know how to approach him, because basically Steve had no game. That and Steve looked like he was still in high school. But that wasn't going to stop him, he had a plan. A dumb plan, but it was a plan.

Disabled war vet, Bucky Barnes fresh out of the VA was just settling down into a routine. He and Sonya, his service dog, have come to an understanding, his therapy was going okay and he was trying to mix with public. He didn't understand why the cute barista was giving him side long glances. Maybe it was the missing arm, it put people off.

What happens when Steve sets his plan in motion surprises them both!

starmaki: Bucky (buck)
This was for week 16 for mcuflashmeme: A story that begins with a gunshot.

This scene was for my Bluebird fic I wrote last year, but it somehow, for one reason or another, never ended up in the fic. The rough draft of this scene was still written out in my notebook. I have been meaning to add some "timestamps" to that fic, missing scenes, so here is one.^_^ The title is a little silly, but I got stuck on it. I mean to change it later, maybe.

So the setting is the Bluebird fic (though it can be understood without reading that fic). World War 2. CATFA. Characters: Bucky Barnes, Gabe Jones and Steve Rogers. POV Bucky. Warnings of Graphic Depictions Of Violence and Angst. PTSD. Swearing. Oh and a tiny touch of humor.

'Baker Needs Sugar'

The story started with a gunshot...

Mouth grim, eyes narrowing to slits, Bucky squeezed the trigger. The heavy .45 kicked in his left hand, but he steady it, aiming and firing again and again. The sharp bark of the pistol echoed in the semi-abandoned factory. Each bullet finding its target. The impact knocking the Hydra soldiers clean off their feet. One just folded down, a puppet cut off his strings, face half gone.

Bucky fired until his gun was empty and swiftly reloaded as he walked further down the hallway past the dead and nearly dead twitching bodies. He didn’t look down at the pools of blood or retch at the acid smell of piss. He didn’t notice the decaying walls, rusting machines, a dead factory with more unmourned death to lie in this place forgotten for all time. He didn’t notice, didn’t want to notice, yet it all leaked in his brain anyhow to settle in like a festering boil.

He neared a set of heavy double doors with yards of chain looping the sliding bar to close and lock it. Fuck… Bucky took a deep breath and let out the building tension in his muscles, his lungs breathing in the dust, oil and metal of the factory. He got out his radio to call it in.

“Sugar, this is Baker, over.” Bucky said in a low voice. He kept searching for any movement around him as he spoke. He didn’t know how sneaky the bastards were. They haven’t been so far, but he didn’t want a bullet in the back from dropping his guard.

“Baker, what’s the status, over,” Steve’s voice came after a burst of static that jangled Bucky’s nerves.

“Need assistance with a heavy hatch, send Sugar, over.”

Bucky allowed himself a quiet chuckle at their phonetic call names. Oh, yes Baker would like some Sugar. Steve wasn’t fond of his code name Bucky christened him with, but fuck it if he’d use Roger. Too confusing. So he was Baker and Steve was Sugar. It made perfect sense to him. Also he liked to rib Steve. Their wasn’t much fun in the war zone, so of course he was going to be an ass sometimes.

“Roger. Sugar and two. Wilco, over,” Steve said.

“Roger. Baker, out.” He put the radio away, before standing guard. Bucky’s finger ghosting his gun’s trigger, a phantom stroke, a hair from touching, as he paced back and forth, body a live wire, as he waited for Steve and two others to break the door down.

Because, yes, maybe—maybe, he could bend that thick heavy chain himself. Not in the past, but now? After escaping Zola? What was terrifying him was the implications of ‘what if he could’. And he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think. So he pushed it down in a little dark place in his mind where he kept all his fears and secrets. And hoped it would just stay there.

Bucky heard Gabe Jones’ Thompson firing in the near distance, clearing out another corridor. The bullets spat out in a blaring rattle that rang in his head. The Thompson signature sound a welcome and recognizing mark of Gabe. Like a fingerprint.

“Sarge…” The name pushed out of Gabe’s breath as he jogged up to Bucky’s side. “Well, shit!” His eyes bugged out at the thick chains on the door.

“Exactly, what I thought,” Bucky said, giving a small smirk.

“Wonder what’s so important to have it locked up like that?” Jones gestured with his gun to the heavy door.

Bucky shrugged. “Fuck if I know, but we’ll find out as soon as Rogers’ hauls his ass up here.”

Bucky licked his dry lips. Dammit, a cigarette would taste so good right now. He had a whole pack of Wings begging to be opened in his pocket. Not his favorite brand, but he wanted at add another card to his collection. And the nicotine would smooth his nerves. Each hidden Hydra facility or location they found lead to more mystery and more questions. And another facility. The harder they squeezed and stomped on them, the more they found. Like ants, they were everywhere. But he was determined to eliminate each one; he just hoped that he would live long enough to step on that one last ant and be done with it and go home.
starmaki: Metal Arm (dangerous)
This was for week 14 for mcuflashmeme: a story from a villain’s perspective.

Darren Cross gets no love. lol I loved his villianous ways in Ant-Man so thought I'd do a quick little introspective piece on him. No warnings but Darren being Darren. I had a tiny bit more to this, but it didn't quite fit, so might add it later or not. Okay, onward!


Darren Cross was having a good day. When he got off the phone to the Hydra reps, he was smiling. He was going to get the contract to further develop the military applications to the Pym particle. And now the 'Yellowjacket' project was a green light. His foot tapped under his desk, fingers drumming a bright, little beat. The nervous, happy, energy was barely contained. He was so giddy with joy, he decided to spurge and order that venti caramel macchiato frappuccino, double shot, extra whip, he'd was saving to savor for this special occasion.

Darren also had a date with Hope. Not the romantic kind, but that would change, as he did enjoy her company. It wasn't that he didn't know she was a backstabbing traitor; it's just he found it amusing that she thought she could fool him. He rather enjoyed the little 'cat and mouse' game they shared. The tinkle in her eyes, the pursed lips, the tiny flip of her sleek hair as she came up with another lie. It was positively delightful. Relationships were made on less, and it was a steady building block to work upon. The flirty lies. And also she was a good listener and oh so lovely to look at. So all in all, good company to celebrate with. He'd arranged an intimate dinner for two at the Blue Room.

Maybe, maybe, well, it was a bit soon--he wanted to marry her. It was either that or kill her, but she was still a valued employee, talented, sharp, and legs that went on for miles. So no, marrying was the first opinion in his book. Instead, he'd kill her father, Henry. But not until he could finally, finally once and for all, let him know what a mistake he made in not telling him all his secrets. He was his son after all. Not in the biological sense, but everything else. Henry Pym was a genius as so was he.

And isn't it logical sense, that the prodigy, (or was that protégé?), the one carefully groomed since Henry met him, to have it all? By rights, it was his, the company, the patents, the projects. He now surpassed the old man. And wasn't it fitting that the young rise up to sweep away the old? He'd like to keep him around to pick his brain more, but more so to see him broken. A broken old man because he grew to be the superior offspring.

They were alike, but instead of being proud of him, Henry looked like he wanted to spit on his shoes. Darren did keep his portrait in the lobby-- what more could he want?

So no, he decided after the announcement and after the wedding, he'd kill Henry Pym, because it will finally be enough. He'd have his daughter, Hope. It wasn't incestuous in anyway, really. They were not blood. Besides, weren't all kings and queens related in some way? Incestuous cousins, aunts and uncles, whole dynasties. So it was like a takeover of a country and Hope the spoils of war--a war bride. And he the conqueror, and that suited him just fine.

Darren leaned back in his chair and smiled. His frappuccino had arrive and he took a sip--perfect.

Tattoo You

May. 1st, 2016 08:24 pm
starmaki: Star (star)
This is just an intro. This was for week 12 for mcuflashmeme: a story about a contest or competition.

I ran out of time to get it in.(that was a busy, busy week). :( I wanted to put it up anyway because it was cute, sudden idea I had. This prompt was kind of hard for me to think of something short. This was one of two ideas I finally had.

Okay, the idea is competition. No warnings. AU tattoo shop. Steve Rogers (skinny Steve), Clint Barton and mention of Bucky at this time. (This will be turning into a longer Steve/Bucky fic as it goes.)

"Tattoo You"

Steve was a good person so he didn't deserve this. He was in the middle of inking a large piece of Batman and Superman duking it out across someone's back; it was loud, splashy, and 'poster comic book color' bright. That was when he found out.

"Another tattoo shop opened up across the street," Clint said as he came into the room.

Steve's hand almost slipped. "Don't interrupt me, Barton, when I'm working. That's rule number one."

Which Clint was always forgetting. Clint did piercings at the 'Captain's Custom Tattoo' shop which Steve was the owner. He just gave Clint 'the look' and he left him alone to work. After the client left with a printed list of aftercare advice and small bottles of lotion and anti-bacterial soap, he found Clint in the back drinking Mountain Dew and eating a Snickers. Steve got a sugar rush just watching him.

"It's called Bucky's Red Star Tattoo," Clint said between bites of his candy bar.

"What the fuck name is that?" Steve said, scowling. "I think they just called it that just to be higher on the listings." He wasn't going to admit the name caught his attention or anything.

Clint shrugged. "Could be. I checked out the work, not bad. Not you, of course, but different."

"You checked out the competition?" Steve's eyebrows raised. He wanted to pace, instead he opened the mini refrigerator and took out his own water.

"Yeah, and you should too."

"I don't have to do that," Steve said as he screwed off the cap to his water bottle, trying to be unaffected; it wasn't working.

It took Steve three whole days before he worked up his righteous anger enough to do just that.

In Bloom

Apr. 16th, 2016 05:43 pm
starmaki: Barnes (barnes)
Week 15: A story set at a concert or festival.

Story with Sam and Steve. Sam pov, G rated, after catws but before cacw. Setting Washington D.C. during the cherry blossom festival. This is my first attempt at writing from Sam's pov. I like Sam lots, but he is difficult to write for me so I thought I'd challenge myself. I think I found his voice here. ^_^

In Bloom

It was the beginning of April and Sam was diverting from his normal jogging run. The cherry blossoms trees on both sides of the path were in full bloom. Pink delicate puffs telling him spring was here. A chill still settled in the early morning air, but he took care of that by working up a sweat. His steady pounding feet took him down the path heading for East Potomac Park. He knew who he would find there. Steve.

Steve was sitting under one of the many cherry blossom trees, peering out over the pallid water. The pink explosions of color so different to the fiery ones two years ago at this very place. Soft petals gently rained down, not burning soot and twisted metal.

"He pulled me out, you know." Steve said, without looking at Sam. His eyes fixating on what was in front of him or maybe what he was remembering.

Sam pulled up and walked over to Steve. "Of course, he did."

"You believe me?" Steve looked up at Sam, an eyebrow raised. He was so ready to defend what he believed, but Sam side-stepped the question by agreeing.

"It really isn't a matter of believing or not, " Sam said, as he stopped at Steve's right side. He was a little of breath, placing both hands on his hips, nodding toward the shoreline. "There were boot prints near you coming out of the water. They took off that way." Sam pointed near the treeline at the path the rescuer took. "Disappeared once off the soft soil into the trees."

"You were there." Steve squinted up at him, shading his hand to his eyes to block the morning's bright sun. It had all the making of being a perfect spring day including the sun and near cloudless sky.

"Who do you think gave you medical attention? I couldn't let all that PJ training go to waste. The government spent good money on it." Sam never thought he needed to tell him, it just was, what it was. He didn't feel the need go into something that was so automatic, his training, like breathing. It was just something he use to do, in the past.

"Thanks." He was staring at Sam, dropping his hand down to his knee, drawing it up.

"For what?" Sam grinned, as he squatted down to be more eye level with Steve.

Steve didn't answer for a moment, before he broke eye contact and shrugged. "Don't know."

"Yeah, you do." Sam called him on it, his smile disappearing as he added. "You'll find him, you know."

"I don't think he wants to be found." Steve said, lips turning down as his eyes looked downward at his sneakers.

"Maybe, maybe that's true, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Steve turned his head, nodding out at the Potomac. "It's all so different now. It's like the helicarriers didn't fall right out there, two years ago."

"Mother nature is funny like that." Sam broke out in a grin. He looked around at the flowering trees showing off like damn peacocks. All proud and bold, daring the cold winter of the past to keep at bay. "I have an idea."


"Are you up to a challenge?" Sam cocked an eyebrow at Steve.

"What type?" And Sam could see a subtle change in Steve's posture, shoulders squaring. The sparkle in his eyes, the determine set of his jaw.

"You'll see. Come on." Sam stood up, offering his hand to Steve to help him up even though he didn't need it, but the simple act of offering was enough. Steve clasped his hand.


"Kites?" Steve was looking at the table filled with kite building supplies. A rainbow of colored paper and plastic, tape, glue, string and thin wooden strips were spread out like a crazy banquet. Kids at the far end were busy making their own masterpieces of sticks and plastic.

The annual 'Blossom Kite Festival' was taking place at the grounds around the Washington Monument. The second reason Sam changed his jogging route this morning; Steve was the first. He knew Steve might be going back to visit the Potomac because it was coming up on that anniversary.

Steve pulled his baseball cap down, adjusting his glasses, hunching his shoulders a bit to look smaller. Sam inwardly rolled his eyes. Steve just wasn't going to hide that tall, muscular frame.

"Sure." Sam gave an easy shrug as he picked up a sheet of bright red plastic. "Or do you think I'll show you up?"

"Oh no, you don't," Steve said, grabbing up a sheet of blue plastic.

"I don't know. I'm a pretty mean kite maker since I was ten." Sam said, gloating a little. He glance over at Steve rising both eyebrows in a silent dare.

"Five." Steve smirked. "I was five when I made my first kite."

"Okay, so you think you can beat me?" Sam pointed to himself. "Or are your skills still at five year old level?"

"I know I can." Steve stood tall before reaching for a ball of string.

"You keep talking, but I see no action." Sam palmed some tape. They both faced each other as if getting ready for battle.

"Just you wait." And the challenge was on.


The finished kites sailed into the cloudless sky with all the other dozens of flying bright and cheerful pieces of plastic and paper. The red, blue, white, yellow, orange, all mixing, darting, soaring like swooping birds in the blue, blue sky.

"Told you, I'd beat you." Steve's arced his blue kite, with the trailing white tail, in a loop.

"Excuse me?" Sam glared at him in amused annoyance.

"It was fair. The kids voted which one they liked better."

"So that's how it is?" Sam shook his head hiding a smile. He dipped his red kite with the orange tail and let the string ride out so it would go higher.

"Yep." Steve was all cocky grins as their kites did battle in the sky.

Sam just smiled.
starmaki: Metal Arm (bang)

Week 13- A story that takes place entirely inside a vehicle. mcuflashmeme

I really don't know what this is! I don't know what came over me to write it or post it, but here it is. NSFW, kind of. Characters Bucky, Steve & Sam. Steve/Bucky. Pov Bucky. Sexting. Dick pic. Sexual tension. Humor. Public sexual content, kind of. On the subway. This came to me because of the Russell Wilson and Macklemore commerical. I plead insanity.
Notes at end.


Bucky Barnes was a little shit. Just ask him, he'd tell you.

Steve: You did not just take that!!

Bucky could see the top of Steve's ears turning red even from here. He stifled a snicker, but he couldn't help the smile.

Total texting abuse by super soldiers

Title: Who's that bad man getting his smoothie on

Bucky Barnes was a little shit. Just ask him, he'd tell you. Riding the L line to Manhattan, he settled in for the ride. Putting on his Bose headphones and listening to Macklemore and Ryan Lewis' 'Downtown', he got down to business in texting a certain good-looking blond with a baseball cap that was sitting with Sam Wilson two rows away. This good-looking man wasn't sitting with Bucky because, well as he said he was a shit, and it was more interesting this way. And that certain someone knew the plan, or he hoped.

Me: Who's that bad man in the tight tshirt?

Steve: Bucky?

Me: no you, punk, now say it

Steve: Steve

Me: right

Me: now, whose dick is this?

Steve: You did not just take that!!

Bucky could see the top of Steve's ears turning red even from here. He stifled a snicker, but he couldn't help the smile.

Me: No

Me: I don't want to get arrested for whipping it out on public trans, I had it on file

Steve: You what?

Me: Just for you sweetheart

Steve: I'd hope so! Jesus Christ! Buck!

Me: you didnt answer the question

Steve: I don't remember.

Me: Sure you do, whose is it?

Steve: Yours

Me: Steve, play along

Steve: oh…

Steve: Bucky's

Me: Right

Me: And who's gonna see it later?

Steve: Barnes!!! You do NOT send dick pics to captain america when he's incognito!

Me: So how about when he's doing a press tour?

Steve: Not cool bro

Steve: And you know Macklemore sounds like a dying cow, I can hear him from here

Steve: I thought you had better taste than that?

Me: stfu Wilson and give Steve back his phone

Bucky slumped down, drawing up his knees so his feet were on the seat. He frowned down at his phone.

Me: You're no fun

Steve: Thanks, that's what I am, the no fun zone

His head lulled back to look out the window, the endless grey stone and steel, the lyrics chanting in his ears.

With a balance that could keep us safe

Bucky peered down at the new message.

Steve: For what it's worth, I want to see it ASAP when we get off.

Bucky heart skipped an unsteady beat. Steve. The little punk. He wanted to kiss him stupid right now for being him and saying that. His lips twitched up into a smile as he replied.

Me: you want me to start now?

Steve: Yes, please.

Bucky bit at his lower lip. That 'please' got to Bucky every time. He'd do anything for that stupid punk when he added on that 'please'.

Me: How do you want me to start?

Steve: Your left hand, please?

The little kinky fucker. Bucky huffed out a laugh. Raising up his gloved, metal hand, he wiggled the fingers at Steve. He knew Steve could see him out of the corner of his eye. Bucky could see his shoulders moving closer to his ears as he hunched over.

Me: Sure thing, babydoll

And he gave a light caress to his already semi-hard dick through his jeans.

Me: dont want to go off here

Steve: Why not?

Bucky chuckled as he stealthly stroked his erection so the other passengers wouldn't know what was going on. But then he was getting turned on doing it here with Steve just seats away. His pulse was speeding up as his dick started to press more into the teeth of his zipper.

Me: dont want you to miss the show

Steve: I won't miss it.

Me: fuck

Me: steve as soon as we get there

Steve: No here, please. :)

Bucky looked up at Steve and he could see that his head was turned slightly his way. His sunglasses obscuring his eyes, but he knew he was looking at him. Bucky didn't blush often, in fact, he wondered if he could at all anymore, but right now he felt a heat rising up his neck and his face getting hot. His hand paused on his crotch.

Me: srly?

Steve: You crazy ass white boys are going to be the death of me!!

Steve: And Macklemore still sucks!

Steve got the phone away from Wilson, by just putting his palm out. He could see Wilson shaking his head, and he bet he was rolling his eyes too.

Steve: Later, please. I want to taste you.

Steve's text came out like a plead, and it just made Bucky harder. Now Bucky was just gently moving his fingers over the solid swell of his dick to ease the pain, so he wouldn't go off like a rocket in his jeans.

Me: bathroom at micky ds, ditch wilson

Steve: I'm on it.

Bucky couldn't get off the subway fast enough. The buildings and concrete tunnel out the windows, a generic blur, as all he could think of was Steve. And Steve's pretty lips on his cock. However, he knew the McDonald's was at the end of the line, but it damn well was going to be worth it.


Commerical that inspired fic (want to do something longer with this, but will see) Music Deserves Bose featuring Russell Wilson and Macklemore https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1He5-czKE90

(Just want people to know I'm not a Macklemore hater, Bucky likes him)

Song Bucky is listening to: Downtown by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis (the lyrics are printed abit wrong in the video) https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=GqOeyfcOp9o
starmaki: Winter Soldier 2 (annoyed)
By the Silvery Moon (2142 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes
Additional Tags: Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War, Angst, Spooning, Bucky Barnes Remembers, POV Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Touching, Kissing, Full Moon, Memories, Flash Fic, Community: mcuflashmeme
Series: Part 5 of New Beginnings

"You." The familiar voice is a low rumble, and it vibrates to his very bones.

Steve remains quiet, holding his breath, shoulders tense. He does not want break the spell, the moment. He has searched for months, and now he is here in his room. And he is not prepared. Every practiced word, turns to dust in his mouth.

Bucky finds Steve

This is the edited and reworked version of "Moonlight"


Mar. 19th, 2016 08:53 pm
starmaki: Buck (cacw)
Working title: 'Moonlight' (which is subject to change when I think of a better title) This is my second idea because the werewolf AU was not going to be finshed by Friday. Yeah, seriously I'm writing one, thanks to this prompt. Lol!

Prompt: Story set at a full moon.

Anyway, this story takes place after CATWS but before CACW. The full moon is present. Warnings: Steve/Bucky, General rating, Steve pov and oh angst, cause this is Steve and Bucky. Not betaed and still needs a tiny bit of editing before cross posting to ao3. Present tense (which is the first time I attempted a fic in this tense, it wasn't as easy, but I wanted to try it) Cross posted [community profile] mcuflashmeme . Okay, let's get to it!



Steve wakes with a start. There is a presence in his bedroom, an intangible disturbance of particles, settled yet unsettled. A push of air, sketchbook pages fluttering, pencil rolling off his night-stand, bouncing on the hardwood floor. The noise like knuckles cracking--pop, pop. Steve drowsy senses coming on line sharp--sight, hearing, smell, and he sits up.

The window is open, damp night air invading. A bath of moonlight washes over floor boards, walls, furniture. Shadows stark, as if ink splashes across the room. It is a full moon. And he is being watched. The hair at the back of his neck prickles, palms sweat, as he peers around the room. Nothing, nothing and yet.

A shadow peels away from the wall, and moves closer to the pale light. He can make out the height and breadth. The solid mass. A glint of metal, but not a knife. Steve is almost certain. Or hopeful--fool's hope.

"You." The familiar voice is a low rumble and it vibrates to his very bones.

Steve remains quiet, holding his breath, shoulders tense. He does not want break the spell, the moment. He has searched for months and now he is here in his room. And he is not prepared. Every practiced word, turns to dust in his mouth.

"Why?" The question pointed, but not hostile.

"Buck?" Steve asks, because he has to. His fingers dig into the sheets, the mattress, as if to hold on because the world is spinning too fast.

"Why are you?" And Bucky walks into the light, dressed all in black--black cargo pants, black hoodie. His dark hair, half obscuring his face, eyes--stormy blue. He is unshaven, dark circles under his eyes, and smells of stale sweat. But he doesn't look any less dangerous, doesn't look any less than Bucky.

He comes closer, the brief shine of metal, his finger tips and thumb, made from the motorcycle gloves he wears. Shining like five bright diamonds--like points of a star.

Bucky gets to the edge of the bed, boots never making a sound on the wooden floor, then stops.

"I remember."

"Remember, what?" Steve asks carefully. His heart is pounding hard against his ribs.

"The fire escape, a cold spring, someone sick, dying," Bucky says, his tone flat, metal fingers flexing.

Steve breath lodges in his throat, because he knows where this is going. He knows who was sick. Bucky rests his knee on the bed, weight sinking in. Steve scoots over to make room, blood rushing in his ears, pulse pounding, as he watches him. Bucky's face gives nothing away what he is thinking. His eyes look down at the bed, than back at Steve. Time falls away, and Steve wonders what Bucky will do now.

"Go to sleep," Bucky says.

"I'm not tried."

"Yes, you are."

The words stretch over the years and boomerang back at Steve, knocking the breath from his lungs. Replaying something only they knew, and no one else.

Bucky lies down on the bed, on the duvet, boots still on, and just stares at him, unblinking like a cat. Eyes dark, unreadable, but he isn't expressionless. His brows furrow together, lips pulling into a frown. One minute passes, two, and Steve loses track, because he can't believe Bucky is here. And the quiet, all but the steady rise and fall of Bucky's chest, so he knows this is all real. And not a dream. He isn't sure how much time passes when Bucky breaks the silence.

"Turn around," Bucky says and finally blinks.

And Steve's pulse speeds up, stomach knotting, palms prickle in sweat as he curls them into loose fists. He tries to will himself to relax, to not spook Bucky, but he knows he is failing. He swallows, calming himself, and turns his back to Bucky to face the window. To watch the curtain drift in a breeze, the paper of his sketchbook flipping, flipping as if by invisible fingers, the moon--a perfect glowing disc in the cloudless night sky. He catalogs all this as if these small things are worth remembering. And they are if these are the last things he sees when he is with Bucky.

Steve stills, he turned his back Bucky, so much a stranger now. One that tried to kill him (but one that saved him too). He doesn't know which Bucky is now lying in his bed. The killer or the savior. Or maybe both. And he doesn't know what to expect--a knife between his shoulder blades, cold fingers circling his neck or maybe...just maybe...

There is hesitation as Bucky's right hand touches his hip, feather light. It rests there a few seconds before easing around, sliding across Steve's chest to rest there, palm flat, pressed to his heart. The gap between them narrows as Bucky slides closer; the firm press of his body to Steve's back. He feels the power pulsing in Bucky's still body--a force of nature, contained, for now. And Steve is sixteen again--small, thin and cold, so cold; and Bucky, a solid, comforting, warm weight behind him. Then and now. He smells of fish brine, sweat and grime. And the smell isn't too unfamiliar to Steve.

Bucky's nose finds a soft spot just behind Steve's ear and breathes in deep.

"Stevie." He breathes out in a whisper, tightening his grip, curling more into Steve.

And, oh God! Steve is nearly undone when Bucky says his name, his eyes mist up and he bites at his lower lip. He misses this and he didn't even know until now. Because who is there to do this for him? Someone to hold him, comfort him, when he damn well would never ask, couldn't ask. Bucky's breath tickles his neck, his long hair falling over his collar bone, teasing his skin. It shoots shivers straight down his spine.

"Sleep." It comes out more like a command, Bucky's voice rough yet soft. As if he didn't speak often. But that just meant to Steve each word is important, like gold. Steve wants to protest, but that is what he would have done before with Bucky. In the past. But this is now so the words dried in his throat, and he just nods.

"Alright, Buck."

And Steve's heart does stop when Bucky's dry lips brush over his neck. He bites back a tiny whimper as a light kiss presses to the base of his neck.

"Why are you here?" Bucky asks. Steve feels each word on his skin.

"What do you mean?" Steve doesn't understand the question.

"You are dead." Bucky's breath hitches, then evens out. "They told me you were dead."

"I'm here." Steve risks placing his hand over Bucky's, both over his heart. Bucky hand doesn't move and it feels strong, scarred, secure. "I'm alive." And Steve wanted to pound his fists into the ones that hurt Bucky, lied to him. He read that damn file! He wanted to dig up and burn their bones and spit on their ashes. Steve heart ached with sudden rage, which Bucky neatly dampen with three simple words.

"Yes, you are." Bucky's breath moist and warm on his neck, as he nuzzled his nose more to that tender spot behind his ear. "You smell the same."

Steve closes his eyes, allowing his lips to curve into a small smile. "So do you."

A huff of air, between a cough and a sigh stirs Steve's hair. "I smell like shit."

"So?" The brief exchange between them is natural to Steve. So much said in so few words, as if time froze and they are the last two people on this earth. And Steve is okay with that. More than okay.

"Humph..." Is all Bucky says, as he rests his chin on Steve's shoulder, the hush slide of metal plates adjusting in his left arm as he slips it under the pillow.

They lie there together, long minutes pass. Breathes and heartbeats adjust to one rhythm, one tune. A missing harmony that fills Steve's soul when it was so empty before.

"Bucky?" Steve asks, after he watches the moon rise. The shadows growing darker, as less light pours in, until the moon drifts behind the upper windowsill.

"Shhh...You need to rest. Your mind's workin' so hard, steams coming outta your ears." Bucky says, his Brooklyn accent slipping in and out.

And Steve wonders if Bucky is here or somewhere else, reliving the past; and he doesn't want to intrude on that, even though he has a thousand things he wants to say, to ask. "It can wait until morning."

"Punk..." Bucky's quiet voice trails off to nothing as he gently rubs his lips into Steve's hair, before settling again to his shoulder. His lips mimic a kiss there, or maybe it is one. Dry, chapped lips pressing quick to his skin then away. And it burns, in that tiny spot. Burns.

"Yeah, morning," Bucky says, his breathing picking up a choppy rhythm, while his hand clenches more to Steve's chest, fingers grasping, twisting into his undershirt, five points branding, bruising into his skin, but Steve doesn't flinch at Bucky's tight hold. He swallows back a moan instead.

"Goodnight, jerk," Steve finally says, low, a little sarcastic, but it is real, and it is Steve, the real Steve. The one that only Bucky sees.

Bucky doesn't answer, but Steve feels his breath even out, slow, steady; and Steve finds despite himself drifting off, under the strong protective embrace of his oldest friend, best friend, and maybe he will be again one day. Because he feels safe, safe, and to hell with everyone else, because nothing could take this away from him, from them. He wants to be selfish. And hold this close to his heart, forever.

Morning arrives. The sheets tangled, duvet half on the floor, half still clinging to the bed. Dust motes dance in the morning light. Steve glances over to the window. It's shut. He rolls over--and Bucky is gone. But the impression is still there, dirt from his boots flaked and grounded into the duvet. And he fights the urge to gather the duvet to his chest, to bury his nose in it to capture Bucky's scent. He runs his palm over the bed where Bucky was. It's cool, no body heat left.

And it is the same--same as that night when he was sixteen. In the morning, Bucky was gone--out the window, down the fire escape--and they never mention that night. He held him all night long when he was gravely ill, that they gave him last rites. And now it is replaying itself. And Steve's insides knotted, his chest hollow, heart scooped out, and he gasps from the loss, fighting back tears, tearing his fingers into the bed-sheets. So close, so close.

Steve notices the sketchbook, the pencil not on the floor, but stuck in between the pages. Sitting up, he grabs it, hands shaking as he opens the sketchbook to the bookmarked pages. There...there, he stares at Bucky's neat script. The same careful penmanship the sisters rapped rulers on knuckles over. Words, some crossed out as he wrote it, but it is clear and the words shear into his mind.

I can't stay. Don't look I can't be the person you want me to be. I am not who you think I am. I'm not a good man. The terrible things I've done. I remember so many things. Mostly bad, but It gets confusing in my head. I see you and remember not all my memories are bad. Some are good, pure. I didn't want to ruin it. I'm not ready. I won't

So Stevie, take your medicine and I'll see you in school Brooklyn on that bridge I couldn't sell.


Steve's lips tremble when he reaches the end of the note. Brushes at his eyes, to remove sleep, not tears from his eyes. Dammit, he is fooling no one, especially himself, when he looks down at his wet fingertips.

They will meet in Brooklyn again. Steve knows this, swears this to the bottom of his soul. He will not stop searching. And when they finally are together again, they will be home.


Mar. 6th, 2016 01:29 am
starmaki: Bucky (buck)
Bluebird (6298 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Howling Commandos, Gabe Jones, Jacques Dernier, Jim Morita, Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan, James Montgomery Falsworth, Peggy Carter
Additional Tags: World War II, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Historical Inaccuracy, War is hell, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Super Soldier Serum, Soldier Boys, bluebirds, Singing, bad singing, Angst, dumb boys in love, Hopeful Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Smoking, Drinking, Swearing, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Steve Needs a Hug, Combat, shell-shock, Implied/Referenced Torture, Blood, Typical War Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger, Sad Attempts at Humor, Historical References

There was a limit that a man reached, a finite number of days clinically arrived at, before combat exhaustion sets in. The endless, hopeless, useless feelings. The sorrow, terror and anger dragging you down into the dirt. To bury you.
Sgt. Bucky Barnes wasn't sure how close he was to that invisible line, but he felt the continuous pull...


Bucky ran a hand down his face. That shell unnerved him. Just a few more feet to the right..."I need Falsworth's rum--right now."
Dugan pulled a flask from his front pocket and grinned. "Got my supply here."

starmaki: Asset (asset)
This was my second idea as the first one wasn't working out as I hoped. I kind of failed at creepy, this turned out more angsty and sad. :( .I wrote this in about little over an hour after work in the food court when I was waiting for my ride. This is the short version. I have a longer version that I added to this and finishing up and will post later at ao3. ( might also post the short version there too) Cross posted for week 9 at [community profile] mcuflashmeme Without much further ado, here it goes....

Warnings for angst, blood, graphic violence, death ( not major character). Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier and his point of view.

One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret Never to be told.

One For Sorrow

He kept them in a box, souvenirs--mementos. He didn't know why. Maybe to jar a memory--a memory he couldn't grasp. To remember a time, a mission, a face. They let him keep it, the wood, black , lacquered box, stored away with his guns and TAC gear--let him open it and touch each item. The tactical feel against his flesh hand was comforting as he counted each one. A calmness settled in his bones as he sorted through the box. They said the contents were his--a collection. He wasn't sure of the significance of it. All he knew it was his and they let him keep it.

"Do you remember?" A handler spoke.

He picked up a brass button, flipping it between his knuckles like a coin. Not knowing why he knew how to do this, he just did.

"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-one. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.

An important mission. One he was worthy of, that no one else could do. His skills were needed for the good of mankind. Someone was going to die today. It was for the greater good. Chaos swept clean, evil eliminated with a flick of a knife or crack of a rifle.

It was almost child's play how easy it could be. It wasn't that he enjoyed it, it was that he was good at it. He took a certain pride in that. To be needed, to be the best. Child's play--if he could remember being a child or if he ever was one. All he knows he was born from pain and strife. Born to cleanse the earth with fire and blood--until they told him it was done. But it never was done. There was always one more enemy, one more purge.

So he went on collecting--one item at a time. A ribbon, a key, a coin, a ring--each memento was one small death in the larger scheme of things. But he wanted to remember each one, each face. To know they existed at one time like he exists now. But many times he could not recall, like his name. Others had names, he did not. Not really. It was his profession, soldier--asset. But not a name. He had just a number he could recall--3255. Was he one of many or the last of his kind? A dying breed. And he wondered.


The knife went deep, severing through flesh, tendons--a second smile--as the head, flopped back, still attached by the spinal cord, the neck bones--but little else. The blood gushed thick, wet, sticky as he carefully dropped the woman to the floor. He used too much force on such a delicate throat, one he could have crushed with his weaker hand. He used the stronger one and the cut became deeper, longer for it.

Maybe it was that he wanted to hold the slender column of skin and bone in his flesh hand. To feel the fluttering pulse, the texture of silky skin-- which his other hand could not-- a blunt weapon of force, able to tell hot, cold or pressure but little else. Then the flood of warmth as blood had coated his hand.

Crouching down, he wiped his hand on her gauzy blouse--sheer and now painted dark red. His fingers touched her cheek, eyes still open--blank, bottle green--mouth parted as if to draw a breath, exhale. His hand closed her eyes--brushed at her ear. A small pearl dotted in red and he plucked it off, rolling the smooth, hard marble in his fingers-- white, red, pink. And dropped it into one of his pockets. Another token, another memory, another face.

Maybe he made this death more memorable, special, within perimeters, that he would recall it later. Maybe this time he would remember.


He opened his box. He always counted the items, each one.

"Do you remember?" A handler spoke to him.

He picked up a pearl earring. It wasn't clean, smeared in pink.

"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-two. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.
starmaki: Winter Soldier (bucky)
Eggnog Dreams (2482 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes
Additional Tags: Christmas, Christmas Presents, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Flirting, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sexual innuendo, Kissing, Touching, Hugs, Protective Steve Rogers, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Stucky Secret Santa 2015, Drinking, Alcohol, Developing Relationship, Maybe a tiny bit of angst, Some Humor

Separating eggs was a delicate matter. Steve was on egg six and quite proud of himself. He sucked on his lower lip in deep concentration.
“Whacha doin’?"
And Steve crushed the eggshell in his hand, the sticky contents dripping down his fingers.
It's Christmas time and Steve is trying to make it extra special for Bucky. That is if Bucky can stop with all the flirting!

starmaki: Vincent (Default)
It Stays in Budapest (2114 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers
Additional Tags: Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Halloween, Halloween Gift Exchange, Spooky, Magic, Supernatural Elements, Be Careful What You Wish, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, how do I tag this?, Demons, or weird supernatural stuff, BAMF Natasha, BAMF Clint, Tenderness, Humor, Feelings, Tony Being Tony, Budapest, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Sassy Natasha, developing feelings

Why couldn’t he ever have a normal Halloween? Clint Barton was thinking this as he listened to Tony Stark talk about their travel plans.


Tony finally broke the silence.
“Okay kids, who all thought this was a good idea?” He threw up his hands. “Did someone just summon some demon spawn on Halloween?"

starmaki: Winter Soldier 2 (winter soldier)
Christmas Slumbers (4274 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Tony Stark, Original Character, Friday (Marvel)
Additional Tags: Christmas Eve, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Light Angst, Shameless Kid Fic, Kid Fic, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Tony Stark, Cute, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Awkward Flirting, First Dates, Parent Tony Stark, Protective Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Not Canon Compliant, Winteriron Holiday Exchange, single parent, Humor, Attempt at Humor, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Flirting

“You have a license for that?” Tony gestured to Barnes and the cycle, because clearly Tony had lost his mind. Because Barnes clad in leather on a motorcycle had to be against the law somewhere.
“Very funny, Stark, just get on,” he said, kicking the kick stand up and starting the engine.
It's Christmas eve. Tony gets mugged and needs a nanny. Bucky has a hidden talent and is relearning the art of flirting. And drinking coffee can be very sexy!


Feb. 13th, 2016 10:48 pm
starmaki: Star (soldier)
Tracks (379 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
Additional Tags: Fluff, Pining, Challenges, Video & Computer Games, Mario Kart, Flash Fic, Ficlet, Friendship, Romantic Friendship, BAMF Natasha, Pining Clint, rainbow road, alcohol drinking, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, mcu flash meme, Drabble
Series: Part 1 of New Beginnings

"I love Mount Wario," Natasha said, her nimble fingers dancing over the controller.

"Oh, I just bet you do," Clint grumbled.
During downtime, Natasha is kicking Clint's ass at Mario Kart. Clint is not one to give up so easily.

starmaki: Bucky (buck)
A Chilling Frost (894 words) by themirrordarkly
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes
Additional Tags: Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The First Avenger, Angst, Angst and Feels, light humor, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, London, Cold Weather, Christmas, Symbolism, Pining, Steve Rogers Feels, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, POV Steve Rogers, World War II, Smoking, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Friendship, Community: mcuflashmeme, Flash Fic
Series: Part 2 of New Beginnings

Cold fingers itched to sketch out the lines that blurred between boy and man. But his hands still were cramping from the lack of heat so he dug and twisted his fingers into his sweater's warmth as he watched Bucky silently mouth words as he read.
Steve quietly longing over Bucky before and during the War.

starmaki: Buck (cacw)
Okay, this is just wishful thinking, it's not going to happen this way, but I can dream. ^.^ Post Ant-man credits and some of the first trailer altered slightly. Bucky pov. Steve and Bucky. Angst warning and a little detail of violence. Bucky doesn't refer to himself as Bucky yet. Going to post this later on ao3 after I clean this up a bit more. Just wanted to get it up here first. (Cross posted http://mcuflashmeme.dreamwidth.org/ )
The story is now uploaded to ao3. :)

Now on with it! ^_^

Sometimes finding something you lost isn't always physical. Sometimes it is something else.

'for a muse of fire'

"Buck, do you remember me?"

He looked up following the voice, the man standing there, wary, hesitant, as he approached him. The set of his wide shoulders, hunched, steps soft. There was a fear in him, but there was no physical threat, at least not from him, trapped as he was. That face was in dreams and nightmares as he remembered bits and pieces.

"Your Mom's name was Sarah." His voice rough and quiet. As he also remembered another name, Becky, sister. His mind worked as he dragged up another memory. One that might ease the line of tension in the man, remove the wariness. This man he knew would help him.

"You used to wear newspapers in your shoes."

A small, wry smile and the man's features soften. Body relaxing an almost unnoticeable degree, but he noticed. The man nodded to the other man in the room, communication unspoken. He remembered the other had wings before.

"I'll be just outside," the other said. To watch over in vigilance. Something inside faltered, his breath quicken then slowed. As if this was something he lost too, and he wanted it back.

The man now turned his full attention to him. "You're a wanted man." The tone wasn't a threat more a warning.

"I don't do that anymore." He shook his head, hair falling more into his eyes. He didn't, but the others never stop hunting so he kept moving. It happened before, but he wasn't going back. He was done.

"Some people think different and they are coming." He stepped closer, but kept his hands open in a peaceful gesture. As if to say--'I mean you no harm.'

His throat was gravel. He was so thirsty, dust dry, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He licked at his lips.

"Were you my friend?" The question lingered. The word swirled around in his mind--friend. This man was his friend. But what did that mean?

The memories of bloody fist-fights and roller coasters swapped like flash cards, one after another. His hands smaller, but he was beating on this man...boy... No. But someone else. The crunch of cartilage under his fist familiar, the drool of blood, mixed with salty tears, his clenched fist raising again, no mercy--were his hands always made of violence? His peripheral vision spotted a crumpled body, injured, not dead--small, blond, white shirt spattered with crimson. And--

The man crouched down close, balancing on the balls of his feet.

"Yeah, you were my friend--still are."

"Why?" His voice a rasp of sandpaper. He watched the other through the fall of his hair.

"Don't know. You just are--always were since we met, not sure why you picked me but you did."

"Stevie. Is your name, Stevie?" And he was rewarded with another quiet smile.

"Yeah. And yours is Bucky."

The name bounced around his brain--pulling at memories--frayed, the razor blade sharp, shards broken, tearing painfully. Broken glass, cutting, and he had to close his eyes, swallowing thick.

"Bucky..." His lips formed the unfamiliar yet familiar word and he opened his eyes. The name he read in the Smithsonian, the name he heard from this man's lips that started the unending free fall in his mind two years ago.

"Yeah," the man, no, Stevie said, nodding. His smile soft and mellow, eyes misting, and bluer because of it.

He reached up his weaker right hand, thumb a whisper from this man's cheekbone, soot marred it, and he wanted to wipe it away. But his hand fell back away and his trapped hand's fingers flexed telegraphing his internal unbalance . His heart rate was steady, but a pressing ache to his chest continued.

The man came closer--so close his breath puffed on his skin, foreheads almost touching, his sooty brow to his sweaty one, to mix--

"You used to be smaller."

"I was."

He wanted to lean closer, instead his left fingers twitched. His elbow bending at an unnatural angle, but the arm still was functional, just stuck.

"I'll get you out of this."

It sounded like a vow. And he remembered kneeling, in a small box with a bench asking for forgiveness for his sins. He wasn't sure if anyone would hear him now. The memory shifted to another, eating hot dogs slathered in mustard and throwing darts at balloons. The stuffed bear was bigger than Steve.

"Coney Island... the Cyclone--the front seat."

"And I threw up, you bastard." But the word wasn't a curse, the tone making it a word of fondness.

"Steve." And this time his hand found the other man's and covered it, touching not in violence, but just to touch to see if this man was real. The flesh was warm, solid. His own breath caught in his throat.

"I want to remember." His voice lowering to a hoarse whisper. He wanted more memories not colored in red or fueled in savage brutality.

"I want that too." The man nodded and smiled. His lips so close that he almost felt them. The smile moving on his skin, an impression not unlike a brush of a glove on finger tips.

He dropped his gaze to their touching hands.

"You draw." A statement, not a question. It was a flash, a glimpse. Bony large hands, fingers smeared black, gripping a tiny stub of charcoal, making hasty slashes and swirls in a large journal. He wanted to see what it was that he was drawing with so much intensity.

"I used to."

"Why did you stop?"

"I lost the inspiration." The man, Steve, leaned back, lips pressing together in a line, the warmth receding. And a single thought entered his mind, protect. I must protect this. This is what I do.

"You'll get it back." The words formed slow but felt right.

"I think I already did." And the other man laced his fingers into his, long and strong, but it wasn't a hurtful grip just firm and steady--skin to skin. No violence, no pain.

"That's good, Stevie." He nodded, his mouth pulling back in what he thought might be a smile. A smile he saw his face do in the old news-reels.

The mist in the other man's eyes wavered, filling with unshed tears, a small smile played on his lips once again.

"Thanks, Buck."

He knew they both found something they lost and now they both had to fight to keep it.


starmaki: Vincent (Default)

October 2017


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