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check out my etsy! none of this is available anywhere else and once it’s gone, it’s gone.
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hey guys! we’ve got some @notwithoutyoufanbook merch that needs a new home so the shop is open. we’ve stocked three brand new, hardcover copies of Not Without You: A Steve/Bucky Anthology as well as merch received from backing the project.
check out my etsy! none of this is available anywhere else and once it’s gone, it’s gone.
OMG. Omg. oMG. All the murder and all the hotte! You can feel the murderstrut. I love it. I love it so much. Mine. mine. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine… oh @cobaltmoony I love it so much. Thank you! MUAH MUAH, MUAH
Guys guys guys guuuys it was so much fun. I know it’s not quite out yet in the US so lemme just break down my feelings as vaguely as possible:
You’ll see the main arc coming from a mile off, but that doesn’t make it any less satisfying to watch it unfold.
How do you feel about redemption arcs? Because hoo boy is there a good one in this movie. I’m still emotional.
The tone and pacing are exactly what you’d expect from the second Guardians movie, in the best way. It flips on and off between laugh-out-loud hilarious and heart-warmingly poignant, and sometimes for good measure it does both at once.
I have descended to a new and disturbing level of trash shipping. I’m selfishly hoping that some of you will be moved to join me once you’ve seen this movie.
It’s the sisters. God help me, I ship the sisters. They hurt each other so bad and it’s beautiful to watch.
You know what, the ‘suddenly, there’s 5 more Winter Soldiers’ subplot
has gotten a lot of flack, and I don’t disagree that it could and should have been handled a lot better, but even as it is, I really really like what it says, or rather, confirms about Bucky.
This is a truly excellent piece of meta that sorts out one of my pet peeve Civil War plotholes/loose threads and also sets off my allergies something shocking, gosh this room is dusty, that’s the only reason my eyes are watering suddenly, shut up. Because seriously, why was Bucky the only active Winter Soldier, if Hydra had a full suite of superpowered True Believers ready at hand? Why decommission all the volunteer agents in favour of a guy who can only cope with a few days off ice at a time before his brainwashed obedience starts to catastrophically disintegrate?
What is it about Bucky, specifically, that made him so valuable to Hydra as to be worth all the risks and pitfalls of using him?
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This blog hasn't been updated for a while. Is everything okay?
We’re all okay! Life’s been getting in the way, so I’ve opted to put this blog on the backburner for a while. You can still visit all of us at our personal blogs - I’m @itsbuckybitch, and the mods are listed in the sidebar. :)
Hi! I really liked that fic about the SHIELD hospital. If you don't mind my asking, who is Maria Espinosa? She seems cool.
Hi, Anon! I’m glad you liked it :)Maria Espinosa is one of my OCs that I like putting in MCU stories occasionally. Since she has her own history and issues with hospitals and doctors, I thought she’d be a good character for Bucky to interact with. She’s very fun for me to write, so I’m ecstatic people liked her.
Thanks for the message! You definitely made my morning :)
There were scientists and doctors throughout the years who were tasked with working the Winter Soldier: their poking, slicing, and stabbing would be accompanied by no anesthesia, just droning lies from mouthless faces: "This won't hurt". Nowadays whenever he hears those words, Bucky flies off the handle.
“This is ridiculous,” Bucky griped, staring resolutely at the ceiling. Wilson made a noncommittal hum. He’d stopped giving real responses after the fifth time Bucky had voiced his grievances with his...situation.
“I’m injured. Not incompetent.” Sure, his right arm was pretty mangled, but his other arm was still in decent shape. Just a bit on the glitchy side.
“Uh huh.” The asshole didn’t even look up from his TIME magazine.
He sat up a bit, then slammed his metal fist onto the tray. It was a bit sturdier than typical hospital equipment, only denting slightly; not as satisfying as he’d hoped.
Wilson finally looked up and leveled a cool, even stare at him. “You’ve been unconscious for four days, your fleshy arm looks like it’s been through a sausage grinder, and you’ve somehow still managed to almost kill at least two doctors and scared the living shit out of three nurses. Do you know how hard it is to scare nurses?” Bucky looked away at that. He only vaguely remembered the incident itself but he’d seen the security footage. It was a wonder Steve managed to talk SHIELD out of a more...efficient solution.
As it was, he’d been immediately transferred to a high-security SHIELD hospital, quarantined to a ward for “dangerously troublesome patients”. All of the staff, from the janitors to the chief of surgery had at least Level Five security clearance and were quietly efficient in non-lethal combat. Every patient was placed in a hospital room with an appropriate set of fail-safes and defenses. There were rumors even that there was a room specially designed by Tony Stark himself, built to withstand the worst the Hulk could throw at it.
When Bucky didn’t argue, the Falcon settled back into his chair. “Cheer up. Word is you’re getting a roomie soon. You’ll have someone else to grouse at.” Bucky glared, but laid back down, mindful of his arm.
--
His “roomie” was a Latina woman with cropped black hair and her leg in a plaster cast. She was unconscious when the nurses settled her into the room, her anxious girlfriend fluttering on the edges of the room.
Clint greeted her, “You’re Darcy Lewis, right? You work with Dr. Foster.”
Darcy nodded tersely, arms crossed tightly. She glanced over, then did a double take.Her eyes widened with shock when she recognized him. Clint smirked and Bucky rolled his eyes back up to the ceiling.
“What, they didn’t tell you she’d be bunking with the most infamous man in America?”
The woman’s bespectacled, blue eyes darted between the two of them and her lips pressed together. “No, they neglected to tell us that.”
Clint was practically gleeful. “Don’t worry, he almost never bites.”
That got an unexpected laugh out of her. “Neither does she.”
--
Bucky felt the familiar weight of a stare and turned to see bright, silvery grey eyes. She met his gaze fearlessly and asked, “Aren’t you the guy that blew up Vienna?”
Natasha replied before he could. “Aren’t you the girl who blacked out four city blocks for kicks?”
The woman looked past him at the spy and smiled. “Romanoff, good to see you again.”
“And you as well.”
The woman met his eyes again. “Sorry if I was rude,” she said, not sounding apologetic in the least. “Hospitals make me testy.”
He could sympathize. “Bucky Barnes.”
“Maria Espinosa.” Her lips quirked up. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but I’m kinda stuck over here.”
“Rough night,” Natasha asked.
Maria shrugged. “Had worse.”
Somehow, he believed her.
--
Maria was a “specialist”, as Natasha put it. Which meant she didn’t technically qualify as an Agent, but brutally efficient in the skills she did have, making her just as good. She’d apparently popped up on SHIELD’s radar when she unceremoniously dumped all of her former employer’s secrets into their lap. “He had it coming,” was the only comment Maria offered as explanation. She worked primarily in intelligence gathering and had met her girlfriend during an operation involving Norse gods and technology capable of teleportation. And if hospitals made her “testy”, then he’d really hate to see her good and mad.
The first doctor came in with an air of confidence that comes with great talent or great ego. Bucky suspected the second. He flipped through her file nonchalantly and said with a beaming, positively charming smile, “So, Maria. May I call you Maria?”
The answer was as quick and sharp as a knife to the gut. “No.” Maria’s eyes were hard as steel and not a trace of good humor remained on her face.
Darcy sighed; Wanda watched with avid interest. The doctor’s smile faltered a bit, and he shuffled awkwardly. He fiddled with her file a bit before trying again.
“My apologies, Ms. Espinosa. I’m Dr. Gardner.” He cleared his throat. Maria’s fingers tapped sharply on her tray table. “The report I have says you fell off a building.”
“That’s correct.”
“It also says you were caught in the blast range of some kind, uh, specialized grenade?”
“Also correct.”
Dr. Gardner closed the file carefully. “I must say, you’re in surprisingly good shape after all that.”
Maria didn’t respond, but her eyes narrowed slightly. Darcy sat up a little straighter and pulled a notepad out of her purse, passed it over to Maria.
He spoke again quickly, “I only mean that your injuries seem... inconsistent with the story I’ve been given.”
“Uh oh,” Wanda said under her breath. Bucky tried not to smile. If looks could kill, this doctor would be gutted on the floor. Maria clicked a pen, looking downright murderous, then started writing in the notepad.
“So, you’re saying I’m a liar. Or, more properly, you’re calling my girlfriend a liar, since she’s the one who was actually conscious when I was admitted.”
Dr. Gardner started backpedalling immediately, “No, no. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just saying that your injuries-.”
“Oh, I see. You’re not calling her a liar. You’re calling her hysterical.” Her writing scrawled across the paper in black gouges. She was writing in a kind of shorthand that Bucky didn’t recognize.
“Now, look,” he tried to look stern and intimidating, “no one’s making any accusations here, but I have to consider all of the facts. And there’s nothing in your file that indicates any sort of mutation or enhancement that would explain your frankly miraculous survival, so if we could fill in the blanks-.”
“No.”
Dr. Gardner was taken aback. “Um, excuse me.”
Maria set down the pen firmly and looked at him with cold, hard eyes. “No, you may not ‘fill in the blanks’. You may not run any tests, you may not take blood samples. It’s written very explicitly in my file that I have not and do not consent to any non-necessary medical procedures.”
“That includes the ones that I’m sure your supervisors have asked you to push for,” Darcy added.
It was such a rare, satisfying sight to watch a man so obviously used to the world revolving around him get knocked off his axis. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish before he started sputtering, “Now, Maria, you’re being unreasonable.”
“Doctor, you are neither my family nor my friend. You may not call me Maria.” She started writing again. “You should tell your supervisors that I’m concussed, not clueless.”
“This is ridiculous.” The doctor’s face had turned a disturbing puce color.
“I agree,” Bucky said suddenly. He turned the full weight of his gaze to the doctor, who flushed an even darker color. “You’re going to leave now, and reassign yourself to a different patient.”
Dr. Goldman looked aghast, and turned to Maria as if he expected her to back him up. Maria just clicked her pen repeatedly, menacingly. With a final, outraged huff, he turned and stalked out the door.
“Well. That went well,” Darcy said matter of factly.
Maria smiled, not quite shedding the anger yet.
“If I had a nickel for every time a doctor tried to fuck me over, I’d be able to hire a personal physician and avoid hospitals altogether.”
“Or just cryogenically freeze yourself like Walt Disney,” Darcy agreed. That got a laugh from her girlfriend and the threatening atmosphere finally lightened.
“Do you think you can do that to my doctor,” Wanda asked. “He’s a real asshole.”
Maria settled back into her pillows. “Sadly no, but you can get your friend here to do it. He hates doctors as much as I do and he’s even scarier than I am.”
“I don’t hate doctors,” Bucky tried not to sound defensive.
“Sure you do. So does anyone with a shred of survival instinct.” Maria glanced at him. “That’s why I’m in here with you, instead of down in gen pop.”
“She’s not good in strange places,” Darcy added succinctly.
Maria shrugged unapologetically.
Bucky frowned at them for a moment, before agreeing softly, “Me neither.”
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Imagine Bucky being protective of the little girls in the Black Widow program because deep down, they remind him of his younger siblings.
Yelena is taller than the rest, with blonde curls that are always coming out of her otherwise severe bun. Irena is dark and solemn, with delicate hands; Petra still laughs, a bell sound that is bigger than she is. Natalia is a little fox: red, light and nimble, clever.
Collectively, they remind him of a flock of birds. They follow him everywhere, chattering. There are allowances even here, it would seem; even the Red Room is powerless in the face of talkative small girls. Or perhaps no one feels like getting in the way of the Soldier.
Some days he finds that he doesn’t remember their names, but he remembers the other things, the details. How their hair is braided, who sings under their breath when they walk between buildings, which of them is afraid of the dark.
Children are perhaps an anachronism in his life, fragmented as it is. It is disorienting to lay at night and see flashes behind his closed eyes: machine gun fire overlaid with high pitched laughing, dead men in ditches juxtaposed with memories of tending a scraped knee, white silk basting together calico and muslin, black surgical thread in skin.
A guard smacks Petra when she drops her lunch tray, the Soldier crushes his windpipe. Yelena catches a cold, the Soldier shows her how to hold her face over a bowl of warm water. Natalia asks him what his name is. He doesn’t know, not anymore, so he pats her hair instead.
There are pieces missing in his life, the Soldier knows. But these birds, with their chattering, with their bright eyes – they are familiar somehow, familiar and therefore precious, and he will keep them safe.
imagine mute!bucky having a huge crush on the cute barista, steve, that works in the starbucks across from his apartment
It’s just past the morning rush, early enough that Steve’s hands haven’t quite settled yet and he’s still relishing the lull. He’s closest to the register when the guy comes in, so it’s natural enough to step sideways, pick up the pen, and raise his eyes to the guy approaching the counter. “Hi,” Steve says. “Welcome to Starbucks, can I take your order?” He adds a little actual warmth to his smile. This guy is pretty: blue eyes and black hair, just long enough that Steve sort of wants to run his fingers through it, and — stop it Rogers, you’re working. Jeeze.The guy’s cheeks are pink, which is achingly adorable. Cutie raises one hand in a little side-to-side wave, and extends a note with the other.“Hi,” the note reads in even, neat handwriting. “Can I have a tall latte, whole milk, no room? For James. Thanks.”Dare? Steve wonders. Cute-pink-cheeks — James? — looks slightly too old for it, but okay. It’s not like one of the more obnoxious pranks that sometimes throws him off his stride during the rush hours.So Steve recites the order back to confirm, straight faced. The guy nods, cheeks still pink, and swaps the note for his credit card. “Sure thing,” Steve says. His hands deal reflexively with the order while he scans for accomplices snickering behind their hands. Nothing obvious. Cute-pink-cheeks takes his cup and waves again. “You’re welcome,” Steve replies. Cutie smiles, a tiny bashful quirk of his lips that manages to go all the way to his eyes, and walks out alone. Not a dare then. Steve shrugs it off, does a last scan for customers, and starts in on refreshing the pots.Tuesday he has off, and then Wednesday he’s back behind the counter, tidying after the rush hour when James comes in again. “Oh, hey,” Steve stammers, verbally stumbling into ordering mode, because Nat has up and vanished from the register. James doesn’t seem to mind, he’s still pink-cheeked enough for both of them, apparently. “One tall latte, right?” Steve says. James nods, but he opens the note and scribbles at the bottom “For here. Thanks.” “Working?” Steve nods to the laptop slung over James’s shoulder. James nods, and mimes being crushed under an alarming weight. Steve laughs: “Want me to add an extra shot?” James nods again, and flashes a grateful smile.James takes his cup, raises it in a little salute of thanks, and heads for a table.“Oh, my,” Nat murmurs, reappearing to bump Steve’s hip. “Shut up,” Steve mutters. “It’s not like that.”Nat chuckles. “Exhibit A: he came in yesterday, exact same time, and he totally looked for you. Exhibit B: he didn’t blush that prettily when I served him, trust me.”“Shut uu-up,” Steve sings under his breath, and Nat laughs.It might not ‘be like that’, but Steve still finds himself watching the door next morning. James is right on schedule (as much as four days can be called a schedule), laptop over one shoulder, note in hand. The queue between the two of them takes forever.They exchange greeting-smiles, and James passes over the note again: James is crossed out, and ‘Bucky’ has been added in its place."Bucky to your friends?” Steve guesses. He really likes the pleased grin that James — Bucky — flashes him. Bucky gestures at him, a question in a raised eyebrow. “Who am I?” Steve echoes. Bucky nods. Steve’s wearing his name badge, and he fucking loves Bucky in that moment. Because the boss isn’t in sight, and because Steve never does things by half, he sticks out his hand. “I’m Steve,” he says. Bucky very seriously takes Steve’s hand and shakes — his grip is warm and firm, and that grin is still dancing around his blue eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Bucky,” Steve says, and he means it.He doesn’t have to actually watch what he’s doing to make the order, so he watches Bucky in his peripheral vision instead. Bucky takes out his pad, scrawls something across it. He’s blushing again, and this time he bites his lip, which is enough to make Steve almost miss the pour. Bucky frowns at the pad, crosses something out and tries again. Steve passes the drink over, and Bucky offers him the notepad in exchange.”Want to get a coffee not-coffee, sometime?”“Yes,” Steve says, and his laugh is giddy even to his own ears. “Yes, I’d love to get a not-coffee with you.”
Imagine Bucky and Steve playing a game as kids and Bucky *trying* to make it so Steve wins.
Steve’s face is pinkwith fury as he flings down his bat just inside the door.
“I don’t get it,” saysBucky. It’s never a good idea to engage Steve when he’s in a mood like this,but he can’t help it. Steve may be small but his temper is hard to ignore. “Whyquit when you were winning?”
Steve rounds on him. “Youwere cheating,” he says. “I saw youfumble that ball. You caught me out fair and square, but you dropped the catchon purpose like you think I’m too stupid to notice.”
“I don’t think you’restupid,” says Bucky. So maybe he did drop the ball on purpose. It wasn’t likeit was going to change the outcome of the game – his team were still a dozen pointsahead. He just didn’t want to see Steve miss out on his chance to score at leasta couple of runs. Typical Steve, to spin that into something bad. “What’s thebig deal? It was just one ball, and I was trying to be nice. You could at leastsay thank you.”
“You don’t get it,”Steve snaps, and flings himself bodily onto his mom’s couch. “I don’t want towin if it means being dishonest. I want to win the right way.”
“But you weren’t goingto win at all, the way things were going.”
“Then I guess I’ll justhave to get better at losing.” Steve’s voice is rising to a high trill. Heflings his arms up to cover his head, burying his face in the couch. “Go away, Bucky.”
Bucky really doesconsider it. He could take his ball and go home, and it would serve Steve rightfor being so stubborn. He doesn’t understand where Steve gets his ideas from.Maybe he’s never going to understand.
Maybe that’s not whatmatters.
“No,” he says, andshoves Steve’s legs off the couch to make room for him. “You want to lose sobad? Then let’s play marbles instead. I’m so great at marbles, you won’t standa chance.”
Steve peeks up fromunder one arm. “I could beat you at marbles in my sleep,” he says. A pause. “Youpromise no cheating?”
Bucky nods stoutly. Hedoesn’t get it, but if that’s what it takes to make Steve happy then so be it.
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Imagine Bucky is Steve's soulmate in an AU where you only see color when you meet your soulmate. However, both of them are still missing some colors, so they know they're still missing their other someone (or someones!).
They first meet in an alley behind the drug store after Bucky chases off the McCullough crew. Bucky’s a little concerned that the kid’s concussed because the little punk is sitting staring at his blood-spattered shirt and giggling wildly. Steve’s got red, although neither of them realize the significance or even exactly what’s happening - Bucky just thinks the kid’s eyes are weird - until they limp out of the alley and Bucky looks up at the sky and realizes blue.
They don’t know what to do with this information; color transference is an adults-only, whispered conversation; there’s more rumors and misinformation than they can poke a stick at. Still, they make their own way: Steve shyly finds blue things to give Bucky, and Bucky fills his pockets with red things for Steve.
Bucky hoards his money and works his contacts until he can find someone old enough who’s willing to source him three staggeringly-expensive black market colored pencils.
“Holy cow,” Steve whispers, eyes huge. He starts shading immediately; the red, blue, and yellow; then he starts layering them, making colors in front of Bucky’s eyes, and it’s the most obscenely entrancing thing he’s ever seen.
“Which can you see?” Bucky asks. Steve reverently brushes his fingers across the paper.
“All these. You gave me this.” He touches the variations of red, then points further along. “But I don’t think this bit should be gray.”
“It’s dull for me too. Maybe it’s supposed to be like that.” Bucky shrugs. “If you can’t see it either, then I’m not missin’ out on anything, right?”
~*~
Steve can still see red after Bucky falls from the train, and that feels like a cruel joke and a betrayal all at once.
~*~
One of the biggest shocks of the 21st century is the man-made color production. Film is in color, billboards are in color, and Steve spends hours researching, wrapping his head around the culture clashes of the 60s and 70s as the technology was fiercely contested across the country.
The first time Steve goes running in the morning, he notes the guy in the dull shirt running towards him and they greet with a breathless, “Mornin.’” Steve glances back and stumbles into a dead, shocked stop, choking and crying. He wants so desperately to be able to tell Bucky: the color they were missing was purple, and it’s beautiful.
It’s Sam who approaches him the next morning, cautious but open. “I mean, man, it never has to mean a damn thing, and we never have to do anything with it, but I think you gave me blue and thank you for the sky. My god.”
Purple is still laced with too much pain, but Steve can grin and be pleased for Sam.
Deleted scene from Civil War where Bucky rips the sleeve off the brand-new leather jacket Clint got him. Bonus points for "aw, jacket, no."
Barnes looks at Clint. He looks down at his new uniform. He looks back at Clint. His expression is deeply mistrustful.
“The word you’re looking for is ‘thank you’,” Clint tells him. He’s made it look easy - Clint likes to make everything he does look easy, it’s a matter of professional pride - but putting together a functional and distinctive combat uniform for a complete stranger on about five minutes notice was no mean feat. He’s especially proud of the jacket. It’s blocky, squared off and artfully asymmetrical, with enough clever hidden pockets to stash a whole army’s worth of odds and ends.
But Barnes just bites the inside of his cheek and says, “How the hell do you know my shoe size?”
“What, is it classified intel?” Clint says peevishly. It’s not like he was expecting gushing gratitude. A brisk thumbs up would have been fine. “Just get changed, would you? We’re on the clock.”
Barnes picks up the jacket. Those pockets were a good call; Clint can see him mentally mapping his loadout already. He puts it on, flexes his arms, and takes it off again.
“Okay,” he says, and pulls out a pocket knife, “this sleeve is gonna piss me off.”
Clint’s heart sinks as Barnes slices open the shoulder seam with no particular care. That jacket was expensive.