pro patria mori

                            ☭ Bucky is now located here! ☭

And in the move, I’ve lost and/or dropped a few threads. I’m making a list below of all the threads I’m keeping, which will be (or have already been) reblogged from inthebrokenplaces, so if you see that person following you, is me! 

SUPER IMPORTANT NOTE: If i dropped a thread with you, that does not mean I’m not interested in RPing with you. Please hit me up and we’ll plot something new. I’m just trying to get my threads to a manageable number so I can, y’know, actually do replies.

THREADS I’M KEEPING:

captain-outoftime -- 1940s canon divergent thread and the recovery thread (2) thexdemonxinsidexme -- starter thread  xchernayavdova -- 616 thread and heaven thread (2) bokorsandbeignets -- MCU thread  paxtonifyouplease -- imprisoned thread feathersofiron -- starter cdrsrogers -- all our shit. I think there’s like 2 or 3 threads? if you wanna drop too, that’s cool, or just reply whenever u want bc u kno i lub u cxpt -- netflix therapy thread, 1940s Winter Soldier return thread, Commander thread (3) getinthefunvee -- mechanical playtime with Bucky and Tony thread, fancy dress thread (2) pietroxtime -- starter hxrbingxr -- I have a 1940s thread but that’s all I can find. did we have more? poptartsandparlortricks -- starter doitforthecollegecredits -- thread we’ve yet to plot but talked about zimoivolk -- thread that we’ve yet to plot but talked about

That gives me a total of 18 threads. I’m capping Bucky’s active threads at 25, with a draft limit of 5.  What this means is that I won’t accept new threads if I currently have 25 active ones (although askbox is always open, I don’t count those as threads) and I will only hold a maximum of 5 drafts at a time. This means I’ll likely do drafts in cycles, so it still may be a while between replies, but hopefully a more regular cycle. 

ATTENTION FRIENDS.

I’m moving Bucky to a multimuse blog in the hopes that if I have all my chars in one place it’ll be easier for me to keep up on threads and stuff. I’ll be reblogging replies on that blog (inthebrokenplaces) here shortly.

This post is pretty hard for me to write, but I feel like I need to. I posted it on FB yesterday and that was probably the worst, because that’s mostly people I know in real life and have to actually face in 3D. (I apologize for those of you that are seeing this multiple times--yes, I’m copy pastaing, bc i just don’t have the spoons to write it out over and over.) Fortunately, it was well received, but I wanted to post it here too because it affects my ability to communicate, write, and generally be active here. What I'm about to say is hard for me on multiple levels: it goes against my ingrained nature, it feels embarrassing and shameful, it makes me feel vulnerable (which I hate), it causes me anxiety. But like I said, I think I need to say this, for a lot of reasons.

I think some of you know I recently left a job that was very difficult for me. It triggered some deep-seated anxiety that started last summer with panic attacks, for which I started on Zoloft and Xanax. Things got worse; they got better; they got worse. My usual coping mechanisms weren't working anymore, and starting in about May of this year I stopped sleeping. Like, at all. I was also having daily panic attacks--heart palpitations, inability to breathe, shakes, nausea, the whole nine. It wasn't just the job; it was a lot of things, and the job was kind of the straw that broke the camel's back. I decided to pursue therapy, which I've been in since June. It's hard, not in the least because I hate, HAAAAATTTEEEE talking about my feelings. Seriously, I'd rather do pretty much anything besides tell someone how I feel. There are a lot of things that have happened to me in my past that I don't want to deal with. I don't want to address them. My heart's hammering in my throat even writing this, because that's how much I hate talking about anything dealing with my emotions. But shoving them down and stowing them away isn't working anymore.

Pasha had spent most of the last two days prepping for the mission: gathering intel, as well as all the weapons she had stashed across Brooklyn while removing any trace that she had ever been in the city; updating her will for the millionth time to make sure all of her remaining assets were liquidated in the event of her death, timely or otherwise; and trying to find an alias that hadn’t friggen been burned when Natasha had leaked all of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secrets to the internet.

She’d only slept a scant few hours during her wait, supplementing the rest of her time with pacing her dingy motel room or trying to learn Russian. Pasha hadn’t been blind or ignorant to James’ lapses in speech or his tendency to slip into the language when searching for the right word. If they were going to work together, they were going to have to communicate with each other, and if learning Russian was what it took, well, Pasha had never been known to back out of a challenge.

All the while, she’d wondered if she’d made the right decision to trust James instead of shooting him, if her gut had made the right call. He could be leading her into a trap, her brain had shouted incessantly. But then rationality had sunk in. She had nothing to offer anyone now that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been dismantled, and turning her into a hostage wouldn’t work out quite so well for a multitude of reasons. And if James had wanted her dead, he would have killed her when he’d had her alone in the warehouse.

It was something she found hard to remember, just as it was hard for her to quantify the killer who’d haunted her nightmares for months to the broken man she’d met. She was conflicted, by turns angry with herself for not taking him out and eager for them to work together to dismantle H.Y.D.R.A. once and for all. But even now, as she crossed the airstrip to meet him, heels clicking along the tarmac, she contemplated turning and running in the opposite direction.

The Gulfstream behind him was surprising—she’d been expecting, at the very best, a cargo plane, not the lap of luxury—but it was his changed appearance that left her nearly speechless. When they’d met the other day, he’d been wearing a fashion she liked to call “hobo chic”: a stained and torn hoodie, some ripped jeans, and a pair of boots that looked like they’d seen better days. But now…

Well, all she could say was that he cleaned up really well, to the point where she wasn’t sure if it was the same person or not. He had been transformed.

Telling herself not to let her eyes linger, Pasha glanced down at her own outfit: black skinny jeans, red heels, and a black shawl-collar wrap coat. Together, they must have looked like a rich couple going for a quick jaunt across the pond.

She flashed him a smile. “Доброе утро.”

The corner of his mouth twitched at her Russian. She’d been practicing. It meant something to him--it didn’t seem to help his malfunctioning brain to switch languages, but the effort she’d put in, that mattered. 

“Good morning,” he said and swept his arm out toward the airplane stairs. He followed her onboard and murmured something to the pilot in Russian before settling down into one of the plush leather seats.

“You have papers?” he asked, and then his brow furrowed, looking for the right word. “Alias--you have alias?” 

He looked down, rolling his lips inward. That was a nice thought. It wasn’t true, but it was nice. One, he thought, the man in front of him must be desperate for as well.

“Hello, Dr. Banner,” he said softly. “Can I help you with something?” 

Not the button I was trying to push.

Tony decided he could feel like a dick later, once the artist-formerly-known-as-Winter-Soldier was no longer showing the whites of his eyes and looking for the nearest safe hole to crawl into. Problem was, there weren’t any, not with minimalist décor and a distinct lack of ductwork (Barton ruined it for everyone). Tony held up his hands, one still holding the mug, and took a half-step back.

He had a trick up his sleeve–in his sleeve?–but there wasn’t really a good enough excuse to go for the nuclear option. He hoped.

“Safer than anywhere. For all intents and purposes, it’s like you’re in an underground bunker in the sky. Signals come in, signals get deflected, signals don’t come out. It’s a complete communications dead zone that’s intrinsically controlled by the Tower’s frequencies.”

Did James look reassured? Not really. Tony found his lips had gone dry, liked them somewhat nervously. It was a bit early to have another incident.

“Nobody’s coming for you here, Barnes. Even if they did, they’d have to get through my security system–cutting-edge, there’s nobody I love as much as myself, and I like my personal space–and all the Avengers would be inbound before they managed to get a single round through my defences.”

He motioned to the elevator.

“But let’s get you to the lab, yeah? The sooner we take a look under the hood, the sooner we can see if I’m right. Who knows? Might be a false alarm.”

Like hell.

He continued to give the wall a thousand-yard stare, his chest rising and falling in extremely controlled breaths. Stark’s words collided with the firewall of panic and fear that surrounded his brain and mutated into ruthless mockeries. Trick. Trap. They will put you back in that box and you will never breathe free again. 

Minutes ticked by like a countdown clock, each one heavier with the potential for explosion. But slowly, so slowly, James unfurled his fists. He closed his eyes for a bit longer than a blink and swallowed past the constriction in his throat. Stark was an Avenger. He was one of the good guys. He might hate James, might wish for his death, but he’d never hand HYDRA a weapon. That much he could trust.

Building is secure. Signals disrupted. Safe. 

“Yes,” he said, and his voice still creaked like old furniture, but it was less volatile than before. He licked his lips and looked at Stark as if daring him to say something. Daring him to ridicule James’s moment of weakness. 

He pulled Bucky close, pushing his face into his neck and closing his eyes. He tried not to picture Bucky screaming and suffering under the hands of Zola, of being reduced to repeating his rank and number to keep himself from giving anything away. How long had he been there? Had he screamed for Steve? Steve was frozen in fear as his mind pictured and processed all this, his muscles trembling as his mind twisted every thought into a vivid reality.

Bucky’s hands on his body slowly pulled him out of his mind space, his words low and reassuring. Eventually his bruising grip on Bucky’s hips relented and he was able to suck in a shuddering breath. There was no real way to shrug this off, but he also knew he didn’t have to be ashamed or embarrassed for what he’d felt. He never had been shy about his feelings around Bucky–it was one of the things he loved most about his friend. So when he pulled his face back and revealed red-rimmed eyes, Steve gave a slight smile and a laugh.

“I’d give anything to see you safe. I’m never letting you go again.” Steve ran his fingers up through Bucky’s hair, bringing him down for a deep kiss while he pushed his hips up into Bucky’s hand. He was still hard, and he gasped with pleasure as he felt Bucky’s fingers around his cock. “Need more of you on my skin.”

Steve relaxed, and with him so did James, and he sank into the kiss with a groan. He just wanted this one night, this one moment. Tomorrow they’d wake up and there would be war and they’d have to hide and be soldiers again. But not tonight. Tonight they could just be James and Steve, and have this moment of bliss. 

                     “Need more of you on my skin.”

He smiled against Steve’s lips and dutifully began kissing his way down his throat and chest again, only too happy to oblige. His hand slid up to tug at Steve’s belt, undoing it and unbuttoning his pants. James sucked at a patch of skin below the collar line--could Steve pass it off as a bruise? Would it even bruise?--as he slipped his hand inside Steve’s pants. For a moment, he teased--gently tracing his fingers over the band of Steve’s briefs, over the outline of his swollen cock. 

Recovery was a long and dangerous road, fraught with obstacles, land mines, and setbacks. But after so long, after so much work, here he was. James had a picture of who he was--it was tattered, frayed, heavily patched and worn, but it was there. He could reach inside him and find truth instead of soul-churning emptiness. 

Steve was there every step of the way. The nights when James lost it and left holes in the walls; the nights he cowered in a corner because he wasn’t sure if it was real; the days he struggled with words and fear and regret. So much regret and guilt--it threatened to drown him. But Steve was there when James slept without nightmares, discovered memories that made him smile, recovered his laugh. 

At some point, things evolved. It happened without a word spoken. Just one night, instead of sleeping in the guest room, James lay down beside Steve. It was the first night he really slept. That was where he lay now, on his stomach and watching Steve in the darkness. 

He hadn’t been hiding a damn thing from Bucky. At least nothing in terms of the work he did. Unless it was classified, he made a point of keeping the other man in the loop. Steve knew that a part of the other man would always want to look out for him and this was his way of doing that. He just wasn’t certain what he’d meant about keeping things from him. Not unless –

“I haven’t thrown myself on a damn grenade since basic,” he snapped, his own body taking a more defensive posture. He wasn’t about to ask how Bucky found out about it. Though he was certain Peggy most likely shared that bit with people and through word of mouth it made its way to his best friend. “So unless you want to explain just what the hell you’re talking about I think we should focus on why you didn’t bother telling me about your mission.”

The dodge made his anger surge, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. Steve didn’t get to take the high road, didn’t get to pretend that he was innocent here. Didn’t get to lie. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The look of annoyance was clearly etched onto his face but he wasn’t about to let Bucky get out of talking about this damn mission of his. Not when a few months ago they’d forced him to  actually open up and talk about some of the things that had been weighing him down. Pushing that aside, though, he was more interested in why he felt like he could keep the mission from him. He’d never judged him, never looked at him with a critical eye or anything else. In actuality he’d been supportive of the other man. And this was how he was repaid.

“And I’m talking about the mission you conveniently forgot to tell me about.”

“It means I could ask you the same thing.” In an instant, he was on his feet, eyes narrowed, shoulders square, fists clenching and unclenching. Any thought of hiding his anger went out the window as soon as Steve launched in with his self-righteousness. James was a spy. He knew how to hit back in quiet ways. 

&& noblexdead

“Something you wanna tell me?”

He’d only found out about it after Bucky had returned from the mission and now he wanted to know just why his friend had kept it from him. Steve had thought there wouldn’t be that many secrets between them. At least not if it dealt with their professional lives. Clearly he’d been mistaken.

He should’ve seen this coming. Wasn’t like it was possible to keep a lot of secrets from Steve--especially not when there were other mouths on the team that didn’t know how to keep quiet.