The Kitsune Den
Someone give me a Stucky fanfic prompt

foxyfussings:

whydouwantaname:

foxyfussings:

I’ll writcha a little vignette.  I desperately need something to focus on right now or else I’m going to throw up from stress.

Bucky trying to make Steve drunk until Steve just acts like drunk, so they can go home! ^_-

 “You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?” 

“Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.”

Bucky was jealous of Steve in almost every way possible.  Though Bucky had already seen more war than Steve, Steve was a master at it.  A master tactician in addition to his - literally - perfect physical prowess.  He also had a drive and sense of optimism that was hard to find in the trenches; even to the most dedicated and patriotic of soldiers.

Bucky knocked back another shot, letting his alcohol muddled mind drift to some of his darker and more secret recesses.  His eyes were half-lidded, lazily gazing up and down the Captain looking especially sharp in his army browns.  

Peggy.

Peggy was here in her perfect red dress looking like some kind of perfect….thing.  

Bucky’s expression darkened as she ignored him; blatantly and obviously and her eyes focused squarely on Steve.  His Steve.  

He pretended he was angry that she didn’t notice him.  That’s what he always did at bars anyway; pretended.  He had to - having grown up in the closest thing to a gay neighborhood in Brooklyn; two young men living together.  One of them small and blonde and pretty and artsy - overcompensation was a defense mechanism.  Always chase the skirts, and maybe the bullies wouldn’t notice that he was always looking over his shoulder at his friend.

But the whiskey was getting to him.  He didn’t usually drink this much; too much was on the line.  He had to stay sharp so he could jump into a fight if someone tried to start something with Steve.  He couldn’t risk losing his job at the docks, either… his meager pay paid the rent for both of them usually.

But fuck it - this was war.  Bucky had gotten a letter earlier that day, detailing how some of guys he had become friends with in Basic had died.  He couldn’t even seem to muster the energy to cry for them; all he could think about was how he would feel if that letter had said a different name: Steven G. Rogers.

"Have another round," Bucky called to Steve after the red dress had left.  He pounded his finger down on the bar and signaled to the barkeeper.  Steve should be feeling it by now, too, right?  Hell, back in the old days half a beer would be enough to have Steve giggling like an idiot. 

But what Bucky didn’t know was that Steve couldn’t get drunk.  Steve knew this, but he accepted Bucky’s offer anyway.  It was a fun juxtaposition; he wasn’t used to watching Bucky be the one losing his common sense while he stayed sober.  Surprisingly, he kind of liked it.

It was many hours later before they were stumbling out of the bar.  Bucky could barely stand, but Steve was there to help him out.  Though, this was also several hours into Bucky’s plan to seduce Steve.  Surprising his taller blonde friend, Bucky hastily pulled Steve into the alley behind the bar and pushed him up against the brick.

"Bucky?" he asked, surprised.  He swallowed nervously - his very acute and sober mind having picked up several drinks ago that Bucky seemed to be trying to get him drunk; trying to get his walls to come down.  Looking at him, letting his hands rest of his knees.  He had seen this dance before - Bucky used it to pick up girls.

Bucky leaned against Steve and pressed his lips against Steve’s firmly - throwing all caution into the wind.  He could die tomorrow - or worse - Steve could die tomorrow and Bucky wasn’t at the state of mind to deal with that reality right now.  

Steve was surprised, his clear blue eyes widening for a moment before he relaxed a bit into the kiss.  His eyes slipped close and his arms came up to gently cradle Bucky’s elbows.  He could taste the burn of the whiskey on Bucky’s tongue as it pressed along his lips hungrily.  Despite his better judgements, Steve granted it entrance into his mouth, letting his jaw fall open.

For several minutes, Steve convinced himself that maybe Erskine was wrong - maybe he was wrong and he was drunk and that’s why he wasn’t pulling away from Bucky’s drunk, wet, intoxicating kisses.  That would be the only reasonable explanation why he was leaning into his body and feeling it respond; his arms coming up to cradle Bucky’s head and allowing his fingers to weave through his thick brown hair. 

But when Bucky’s shaky hands began to fumble with Steve’s belt buckle, he couldn’t lie to himself any longer.  He reluctantly pulled away, breaking the kiss and stilling Bucky’s hands with his own.

"Please…"  Bucky’s warm and husky plea against the soft skin of Steve’s neck was almost enough for Steve to abort his plan; but of course he couldn’t.  He choked back a whimper of disappointment shaking his head.  He just couldn’t do it.

"Bucky, you’re drunk," he finally mustered to say.  

Bucky laughed.  “I know.  So are you…”

Steve winced with guilt.  He wasn’t, not even close.  But man, he surely wished he was; wished he was drunk enough to throw his inhibitions in the wind and succumb to his desires.  Drunk enough not to know that this was wrong and stupid and dangerous - especially right here in the alleyway.  Drunk enough to pretend he didn’t know exactly where this was going…

"No, Buck," he said softly, pushing him away as gently as he could muster.  "I’m sorry, but you’re not in any state to…" he couldn’t finish the sentence, his face flushing.

"Fuck, Steve, I’m sorry," Bucky said, trying to sober himself up by rubbing his hands over his face.  "Fuck… what was I… I mean, I…” panic was started to slip in, as he seemed to realize the array of consequences he may have just opened up. 

"Don’t worry about it!" Steve said, plastering on his supportive and optimistic friend-face.  He squeezed Bucky’s shoulder and patted him firmly on the back, trying to communicate that he wasn’t going to be weird about this.

Right?

He let Bucky lean against him and they stumbled their way back.  Tomorrow morning was going to bring one hell of a hangover; and they had a train to catch.  Maybe… maybe they could revisit this later.  After they had talked.  After they were both sober and Steve had a chance to sort through all the conflicting and exciting emotions surging through him.

Tomorrow.  After the mission.

After the train.

Actually kind of proud of this one.

Steve has been helping Bucky slowly reclaim some of his lost memories with a lot of patience. He decides to try to take him somewhere at least vaguely familiar from childhood - namely the piers at Coney Island. Including such activities as riding the Cyclone (again), and absolutely killing it at bottle tosses

foxyfussings:

"Well, you didn’t throw up at least?" Bucky said with a small grin, elbowing his friend in the side as they walked away from the rickety wooden roller coaster.

Steve scoffed, running a hand through his short blonde hair, his gait strong and steady but still feeling shaken from coming off the coaster.  While his new body was certainly built for rumbles and falls, it didn’t make it any easier.  He had been thrown around and tossed about and fallen out of more planes than he cared to already, and he still didn’t exactly see the point of doing it for fun.  But at least it made Bucky smile and he was thoroughly enjoying spending the day with his old friend. 

They were both incognito; Steve in his navy blue hoodie and Bucky with his hair tied into a messy ponytail and a black baseball cap shoved lowed on his head.  However, in exchange for Steve riding the Cyclone again, he had agreed to wear one of Steve’s old “Captain America” long sleeved t-shirts.  It was worth it, just for the look on his face.

Bucky was lost in his head soon after, however; his eyes washing over the throngs of children as they ran around - waist-height and sticky with cotton candy and hotdog condiments.  It was any particular thing; but the whole picture was resonating deep in his mind and heart;  memories of sights and sounds and tastes from the fair.  This was always such a treat for him; Steve and Bucky saving their allowance for weeks and spending hours carefully mapping out where each and every penny would go: what games they would play and what food they eat and what rides they would ride and…

He was jerked out of memory lane by Steve nudging him towards a bottle toss.  “Hey, Bucky!” he called - the childlike sparkle in his eyes was enough to lift Bucky’s spirits.  The blonde man dug in his pocket and pulled out a few crumbled ones, handing it off to the carnival jockey and picking up the beanbag.  He tossed the soft and floppy bag in his hand, before handing it to Bucky.  “Go on,” he said with a grin.  “Knock over the milk bottles.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.  “Want me to win you a prize?” he said with a teasing grin.  He just remembered it wouldn’t be the first time.

Stepping up to the line, his expression went sober as he felt the weight in his hands and calculated the distance between them and the bottles and tossed the bag their way.  His eyes flashed with anger as the bad hit dead and center between the stacked milk bottles, but it didn’t budge.  The weighted things barely budged under the throw, despite how good the aim.  “What a scam,” he growled, and picked up the second bag.

There was a twinkle in Steve’s eye as he looked around quickly, then leaned in and whispered something in Bucky’s ear.  Bucky’s eyes darkened and in a split second there was a sound of an electric whirring and then seemingly instantly all three of the weighted milk bottles clattered to the ground as he hurled the beanbag with his left arm with an alarming force.

Steve clapped his hands over his mouth in surprise, and trying to suppress a laugh as several people around began clapping.  Bucky blinked, surprised at himself, and sheepishly accepted the giant stuffed giraffe that came as the prize.

Steve couldn’t believe it worked…all he had done was tell him what his mission was.  He shouldn’t have manipulated him like that, but, he just looked too damn cute walking around the fair with that five foot tall purple and pink giraffe toy. 

Someone give me a Stucky fanfic prompt

foxyfussings:

I’ll writcha a little vignette.  I desperately need something to focus on right now or else I’m going to throw up from stress.

Posted “You Monster” to AO3 

araniaart:

I’ve been working on this an embarrassingly long time between commissions.  I’ve been wanting to try out a few different techniques and designs and of course I really wanted to participate with my love for the Winter Soldier, and the fandom around it ^-^ 

Reblogging on my art blog since this amazing piece was made by my awesome wife <3 <3 

araniaart:

I’ve been working on this an embarrassingly long time between commissions.  I’ve been wanting to try out a few different techniques and designs and of course I really wanted to participate with my love for the Winter Soldier, and the fandom around it ^-^ 

Reblogging on my art blog since this amazing piece was made by my awesome wife <3 <3 

Puzzle Pieces

"Puzzle Pieces"
Spoilers: Captain America: The Winter Soldier
by Kamiki (http://kamiki77.tumblr.com

It had only been about 36 hours since the helicarrier had gone down. The asset hadn’t been out of cryo this long since the initial testing and experiment phase, and he was beginning to understand why: like putting together a jigsaw puzzle, The Asset was beginning to remember.

It came in flashes: sometimes no more than a sentence or two at a time. They were out of order, too. Eating spaghetti at a table across from a tiny blonde boy while a woman… a mother… his mother(?) opened a bottle of pop. Then he was thirty stories up; a long-range sniper rifle balanced on his shoulder as he watched a fat politician through the sight. Then he was dancing in a crowded dance hall, two women seeming to vie for his attention while he daydreamed, staring out the door, as if he was waiting for someone else to show up.

On the subway he had found a long-forgotten, ratty hoodie; it would have to do for the time being. He found someone under a bridge who had traded a pair of blue jeans for his leather jacket. He kept the Kevlar undersuit; undoubtedly Pierce would be looking for him. Pierce had made it very clear what would happen if he defied him.

So why was he wandering aimlessly around the streets of DC instead of going to the rendezvous point? His communications had gone dead after the hellicarriers went down. He had pulled a newspaper out of the trash and it seemed like everything had gone to hell. If Pierce wasn’t looking for him, someone would be.

Someone.

No. The real reason he abandoned his post was him. The man on the bridge. The man in the hellicarrier. The man in the star-spangled uniform.

The Asset closed his eyes and tried to remember the file… Alias: Captain America.

Another puzzle piece fell into place. He was huddled in some barracks somewhere. ‘Check this toon out’ someone says and tosses him a book. A comic book. A man in a red, white and blue uniform punches Hitler in the face. He flips it over and there’s an advertisement for War Bonds on the back cover. A drastically more detailed, handsome man is asking the reader to buy Bonds. He looks vaguely familiar. He has a shield. It’s the same man that was on the bridge…

Captain America. How could Captain America have known him? He said they were friends, but none of the puzzle pieces he had found yet had Captain America on them.

Bucky. That was what he had said his name was. Who the hell was Bucky? Could that really be his real name? James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Bucky Barnes…

A few dozen more flashes of memory and the soldier doubled over and grabbed the side of his head.

“Bucky! You come inside right this instant!” a woman yells sternly, standing in the doorway and wiping her flour-covered hands on an apron.

“Bucky!” A pretty blonde woman shouts at a fair, waving to get his attention.

“I can take care of myself, Bucky,” a small blonde boy says as he wipes away blood running from his nose.

James Buchanan Barnes!” A man says in a low, serious voice as he waves a handful of dirty postcards in his face that he had pulled out from under his bed.

He didn’t even know he was gritting his teeth until a passerby spoke to him, pulling him out of his head, “You OK, man?” the teenaged boy in a FuBu hoodie asked, looking more amused than concerned. The asset didn’t answer him; he just turned and walked away.

Night was settling in, and his body ached. Running his hands through his hair, he wandered until he found a quiet alley and sat down, letting his head lean against the scratchy brick of the building, and finally let himself get a few hours of sleep.

It rained during the night, and when he woke up he was soaked down to the skin. He sighed, but it wasn’t the first time he would have to keep on like this. Generally, he wouldn’t change or bathe until a mission was over. Then he’d be taken back to the lab, unceremoniously stripped and hastily hosed off in the room’s chemical shower before his pre-cryo electroshock treatment.

That wasn’t an option here of course. Instead, he just figured he would walk around in the sun until he dried off. As he strolled down the Mall, a big banner caught his eye: Captain America. An exclusive exhibit was being advertised at the Smithsonian.

He hesitated; his hand plunged into his pockets. There was a lump in his throat as he considered whether or not he wanted to pull on that thread. It may not lead anywhere… or worse it could give him answers he wasn’t ready to hear. But that face was staring at him, the man on the bridge’s face, begging him to see. To remember.

He made his way in, ignoring the unsavory looks from tourists. The security guards frowned at him and shook their heads – he knew they would be watching him closely to make sure he wouldn’t be harassing the patrons for handouts.

He barely noticed the other exhibits. His hooded eyes darted around, looking for the bright red, white, and blue banners that pointed him to the Captain America exhibit. When he finally turned the corner and entered the floor, he was nearly knocked back by the flashes of sights and sounds. It was nearly sensory overload there was the Captain standing there behind his mannequin. The Winter Soldier felt his chest tighten as he walked further into the panoramic displays of text, videos and images.

The name caught his eye. Off to the right was a display with an eerily familiar face. James Buchanan Barnes. Inseparable in both the schoolyard and the battlefield. It was true staring at him right in the face. His mind tumbled: more flashes of memories.

Steve. Steve.

That name rattled around in his head. He could hear that name in his head, in his own voice. But it still didn’t fit. It didn’t fit until…

He turned around and came nose to nose with a holographic display that showed the stunning change. Before he was this statuesque Adonis, he was a tiny, sickly, towheaded, bent little boy.

Steve Rogers.
His friend. His best friend.

Endless memories of childhood came flooding back. That little boy who couldn’t back down from a fight – who lost his parents young and tried not to let the world crush him. He knew him. He had spent countless hours in detention due to that punk kid who stole his heart the first time he laid eyes on him. He was his. His responsibility. His best friend. A small sickly boy that Bucky admired because all that the world ever gave him was hardship, but he never, ever, let the badness of the world break his spirit. He honestly couldn’t have known how long he stood there; the puzzle was taking shape, slowly, still missing major gaps. With Steve came childhood, his parents, schoolmates, and girlfriends.

He was standing there, motionless, with silent tears streaming down his face. Suddenly, his hand was over his mouth, coking back sobs and shoulders shaking. It only stopped when he felt something latch onto his knees. The Soldier reacted, snapping out of his flashbacks and his left arm reaching up with an electronic whirr. Thankfully, his reaction time was fast, for the thing latching around his knees was a small three year old boy, dressed in a little Iron Man shirt. He was looking up at him with big hazel eyes and puffy cheeks.

It will be akay,” the boy said with a pat. Bucky was frozen: eyes red and wide, arm still poised in the striking position.

“Jonathan!” A woman shrieked, snatching back the child and shuffling away, mumbling to the boy about talking to strangers. Bucky let out a shuddering breath, suddenly realizing that people were beginning to stare.

“You a soldier?”


His eyes went over to another gentleman with pitted mocha skin and salt-and-pepper hair.

Bucky slowly lowered his arm, pulling the sleeve self-consciously over his hand to hide the metallic glint. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. The man was already pulling a card out of his wallet.

“I go to a support group at the VA. They can probably help you, friend,” he said, pressing a VA business card and a $20 bill into his palm.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to his hand, then his eyes darted back up to the friendly stranger before he finally managed a shaky nod and he quickly scuttled away, shoving the card and the money deep into his pockets. It wouldn’t be the last time he would come to visit the Smithsonian: the closest he dared get to feeling his connection to the man on the bridge again.

foxyfussings:

Evee and Pepper snuggling.

foxyfussings:

Evee and Pepper snuggling.

Den Maurlias by Virus-AC

'm just appalled by this whole ordeal; especially since I've previously heard nothing but good things. I can't believe how much their “apology” just highlights the EXACT reason they are so, so, so wrong.

Who honestly thinks a straight, CIS man is going to dress up as a woman and try to pass as a woman “imposter” to *maybe* catch a glimpse of some ladies trying on bras. MMm….sexy? Tape measures and body issues really do it for some people I guess? Dear lord, I’m sorry, if you’re that desperate then take a good look, because I feel sorry for you. But the answer, as they point out, is NO ONE and this is just the same phobic rhetoric you hear over and over.

Even all the transgender issues aside, they mention that women who have mastectomies are expected to use a separate dressing area as to not offend other patrons? What the actual fuck?

What’s next? No fat girls - they may be repulsive to “normal” women. What about old women? Or just generally unattractive woman? Where does it end?

::Commish: Sabin+Den for Arania by Clover-Doe