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capkink2014-02-11 08:29 pm
capkinkmod) wrote in capkink2014-02-11 08:29 pm
Prompt Post 1
Remember to title your comments, use appropriate warnings (or "choose not to warn"), and be civil. Embeds are not allowed.
At least one of the characters in your prompt must have been in Captain America: The First Avenger or Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
As of May 3, 2014, the spoiler policy is no longer in effect.
Update, April 22, 2014:
For fills, please use the following format:
Fill: Title
Including the pairing, warnings/CNTW, and any other information after the fill and title in the subject line or in the first line of the comment.
Links:
Page A Mod
Fills
Discussion
Delicious Archive
At least one of the characters in your prompt must have been in Captain America: The First Avenger or Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
As of May 3, 2014, the spoiler policy is no longer in effect.
Update, April 22, 2014:
For fills, please use the following format:
Fill: Title
Including the pairing, warnings/CNTW, and any other information after the fill and title in the subject line or in the first line of the comment.
Links:
Page A Mod
Fills
Discussion
Delicious Archive
Re: Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {6B}
It was near two in the morning when he finally reached the apartment in DC. The Soldier shifted the duffel until it slung against his back and licked his lips underneath the bandanna he'd wrapped tight around the lower end of his face. The air was cold, it bit against his skin, made the scaring where metal became flesh almost burn something unholy. He didn't have a shirt on because it felt wrong to wear anything that wasn't his. Even the bandanna felt wrong. The Soldier didn't like to contemplate the wrongness more than he had to.
Flesh and blood fingers wrapped around the metal grating. They took all of his weight, pulled him up one handed. His metal and ice arm reached up for the scaffolding above him and did the rest of the work. Silent aside from forced even breaths and the sound of metal moving the Soldier climbed up the landings until he was outside the one window he couldn't seem to avoid. With careful, gentle movements the Soldier pried the window open and slipped inside. He dropped the duffel bag by the window, left it open for an easy escape route, and headed back towards the bathroom.
The leather and kevlar top was not there.
Bucky swallowed. He knew logically he shouldn't have expected Steve to have just left it there where he'd dropped it, half out of his head, but damn did it throw a wrench into everything. The Soldier wanted to complete the mission, just get it done with. Наталья had given him an out, a plan that while he knew it would go tits up, he couldn't fault her for trying. He had a place to be, memorized on the back of his eyelids, and a shot to fire, a man to kill. He couldn't afford to lose it now, here, in this place where everything and anything was Steve.
Bucky still didn't understand what Steve even was to him. He couldn't remember the past aside from fleeting glances and images, aside from emotions and sounds he couldn't place, aside from a pain and a coldness he wanted to be rid of once and for all. The Soldier swallowed and closed his eyes. He forced his breath to even, to calm. There was nothing for it, he'd have to ask Steve himself then.
Logic dictated that Steve would be in the bedroom. Bucky gripped his pants leg with his flesh and blood fingers to stop them from trembling. The Soldier remembered what the room had done to him, three times now. Remembered the portrait, the urge to do something he didn't understand. Bucky forced the even breaths this time and strode from the bathroom stiff backed.
As with before the room was dark. He could make out the shadows on the wall and Steve in the bed, lightly snoring as he slept unaware of his intruder. Bucky took a step, the Soldier took one back. He pressed his lips together, tugged his bottom between his teeth and clenched and unclenched his hand. The Soldier knew he should just walk over there and shake Steve awake. Bucky saw a man at peace, a face he hadn't seen so peaceful in such a long time. It stirred things, brought to mind things.
He stood at the edge of the bed, stared down at the face he couldn't remember but remembered all the same. His flesh and blood hand shifted and hovered over perfect cheeks. His jaw trembled and he had to swallow, heavily, to clear his throat from what felt like a grenade being lodged inside of it. Beyond his control he fell to his knees, his metal hand came up and tugged the bandanna down.
Fool. He was such a fool. Bucky breathed out.
“You goddamn punk,” he hissed between his teeth. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Steve's lips. His cheeks felt wet.
These were tears. The Soldier didn't understand how tears could come over this.
He's just a man.
But he's not, is he? He's Steve.
That was it. That was the crux of the matter at heart. He was Steve and, perhaps, that was all that mattered in the end. Not the memories, just this torrent of emotions that being Steve brought him.
Bucky didn't know when it happened, but suddenly the press of lips was something else. There was a hand in his hair, gentle but insistent, a tongue teasing his mouth open as a face pressed closer, harder, more demanding but at the same time just not. Then the pressure was gone and Bucky was opening his eyes (when did I close them?) and he could see Steve's face there, tears trailing down his own cheeks, eyes clenched shut.
“Bucky,” he breathed out and Bucky jerked back. He tumbled onto his ass, hands pressed out to stop him falling onto his back as well and quickly he turned his face away.
“I'm not,” Bucky said, throat tight. He could tell exactly when Steve opened his eyes because Steve's breath changed, hitched in a way that was telling all on its own.
There was silence between them. It was awkward. Eventually Steve sat up, Bucky could tell because he could hear the shift on the bed until bare feet press down onto the carpet. He could hear Steve's hands sliding through his hair, a nervous sort of habit that the other man had though he didn't know how he knew that.
“Why did you,” Steve started, then stopped. Bucky could see him grimace in his minds eye.
“I don't know,” Bucky said back. He didn't, it was an honest answer. “It was a lack of impulse control.”
Steve laughed, although it seemed bitter. “That was more than just a lack of impulse control,” he said wryly. Bucky could practically feel the gaze on him and he hunched his shoulders, tried to bury his face so that Steve couldn't see it.
He didn't want Steve to see this thing, this fake thing parading around in skin that wasn't his, shouldn't be his. He didn't want Steve to know the depths in which he'd forgotten and become something inhuman. He didn't want Steve to see a familiar face on a machine that soon enough wouldn't even remember his own name. He felt like an imposter in his own skin.
I don't want to lose this.
I'm going to anyway.
Bucky swallowed. “I don't,” he started, stopped, and closed his eyes for a brief second.
“You're attracted to me,” Steve said instead, cutting off whatever train of thought Bucky might have had. The Soldier stiffened. “Fuck, Natasha was right wasn't she?”
Bucky had to work his jaw with no sound for a moment before he said, hoarsely, “Да,” because it was true. He could hear Steve groan and practically fold in half. He could hear a muttered, “Shit,” of surprise.
Bucky felt like he was dying. He felt like he couldn't get any air in his lungs, that he couldn't breath or even think. There wasn't a fire in his mind, a pain throughout his limbs, a phantom ache where his flesh became metal. This wasn't like torture of any sort he could remember enduring, not like the taste of Rumlow on his lips. This felt more like the memory of Natasha fighting for him, screaming for him, the pain he felt when they grabbed her and hissed words into her ear that made her go deadly still.
This had been a bad (your takin all the stupid with you) stupid idea. Bucky got to his feet swiftly and started for the door without a word. He couldn't stay here. He had a job to to do. The Soldier stiffened and then relaxed and his mind went blank with the thought of the mission.
At least until Steve asked, “How many times?” and the Soldier froze.
“Just once,” he replied, his hand clenched into fist.
“Why?” Steve asked, and Bucky could feel that gaze at his back. Could feel something and he knew something but he couldn't place what.
He licked his lips.
“Two days ago my handlers did,” Bucky paused, “did something that broke, broke a piece away that'd been breaking for a while.”
“Since when?” Steve leaned back.
“The Lumarian Star,” Bucky said, bit his lip, added, “Seeing you. In that get up. It did something.” Steve was silent, but Bucky wasn't. “I couldn't get it out of my head,” he continued. “Star Spangled Man With A Plan,” he muttered, “dressed in red white and blue. A skinny little punk from Brooklyn. Everything being wrong and. I began to want things. I began to think. It hurt and I. Something was broken, wrong. A malfunction. I was supposed to report those, to get them fixed, but I didn't, I couldn't because something wasn't right.”
Steve got up and walked towards him. He could hear the footsteps.
“Because you kept pervading everything,” Bucky continued. “You kept making these things happen and I had no idea why. I had to know why.”
Steve stopped behind him. He asked, “What did you call me?” There was something in his voice, something that made the Soldier want to run, made Bucky want to cry. When Bucky didn't answer, Steve said, “You called me a punk.”
“Words slip out and I don't know their meaning,” Bucky said. It sounded like an excuse.
“What's your name?” Steve asked.
“I don't have one,” Bucky said back quickly.
“Your lying.” Steve stood close enough that Bucky could feel the soldier's breath against the back of his neck. “Why.”
“You don't want to know that answer,” Bucky said.
“I do. Tell me,” Steve said sharply.
“No,” Bucky said through gritted teeth. He felt his lips curl up into a snarl, his hands clenched into fists.
“Why not,” Steve demanded, voice turning towards a growl.
Bucky whirled around without conscious thought and practically screamed, “Because I refuse to be the one that finally breaks you!” A second later he seemed to realize just what he'd done exactly as his eyes snapped open wide and his face went pale.
Steve looked like he'd seen a ghost. “Bucky?” he asked.
It took exactly one second before Bucky bolted, stringing curses in his head. Steve didn't let him get even as far as the bedroom door before he tackled Bucky to the ground. Bucky quickly bucked up, tried to get Steve off of him as he twisted around. Steve jammed his knee over the metal prosthetic and then trapped it beneath his thigh as one hand wrapped fingers around Bucky's neck and the other around Bucky's wrist, pinning it down just as effectively.
Bucky tried to buck up, to toss Steve from him but Steve held his ground until they were both staring at one another, panting. The hand around Bucky's neck traced the length of Bucky's jaw.
“Oh god, Buck,” Steve muttered, as if he couldn't believe it. The next second they were in a kiss full of teeth and hot breaths. Bucky didn't even try to struggle. He couldn't. This was what he had wanted and fuck why did he even try to deny himself this? He'd forgotten perfection, he'd forgotten what home felt and tasted like.
Bucky could remember others, but they weren't right. It wasn't right like this. Natalia had been, could have been, but HYDRA stole her from him like they were going to steal Steve and yet Bucky couldn't care. He could feel a mouth on his needing, insistent. Tongue pressed past his lips as teeth clashed. He could feel when Steve shifted from kissing him to nipping at his jaw, could feel when the shift happened between getting the hell out and deciding why not just stay.
He bucked up, this time Steve let him, and shifted them both until Steve was laying flat on his back and he was on top, pressing down, kissing and nipping and biting. Bucky could taste the euphoria on Steve's lips, in his skin. He knew, logically, this was perhaps the worst idea he'd ever entertained. Steve wasn't in his right mind, Bucky knew he sure as hell wasn't in his own right mind given everything that had happened and everything he remembered and everything he didn't.
Steve's hands wrapped into his hair, he breathed, “Bucky,” on his lips. Bucky felt a thrill, a jolt of something down his spine that coiled in his gut. It was familiar, but distant. It reminded him of Наталья and Natalia reminded him of Steve which reminded him of this whatever this had been or is going to be. They didn't do anything more than touch and kiss and grasp, and then grind down and press against one another. They didn't do anything further but this because this was perfect all on its own.
Steve tensed up underneath him, and Bucky pressed his face into Steve's neck with a shuddered breath. When Steve tried to pull his face out of his neck, whispered another breathless, “Bucky,” Bucky jerked and then scrambled off and away from Steve with wide eyes. He curled his hands into his hair and drew his knees up towards his face, he tried to ignore the way his pants felt now, the way everything felt now, and focused on evening his breaths out.
“Bucky?” Steve sat up. He sounded concerned. Bucky wanted to laugh.
He didn't. Instead he took a deep shuddering breath and said, “I need my armor.” He pulled himself up. He couldn't acknowledge this because tomorrow or the day after, depending upon when Rumlow got fed up enough with waiting, Bucky would be back in HYDRA's hands and they'd break him more soundly then he'd ever been broken.
This was Steve. Of course they'd break Bucky more soundly for this.
“What?” Steve's brow furrowed. He was confused, Bucky could understand. Bucky was confused too.
“My top. The one I left,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “I need it.”
“It's in the closet,” Steve said. Bucky strode over to the closet and yanked the door open. There, hanging up with Steve's shirts, was his armor. He quickly pulled it off of the hanger and began to strap it in place without a thought.
“Buck,” Steve said slowly. Bucky wondered if just because Steve realized who he was that meant anything was truly different between them. Bucky swallowed, closed his eyes, and uttered a sharp curse in Russian.
Bucky swallowed. “My orders changed.” Steve froze. “I can't delay completing my mission.”
“You don't have to do this,” Steve said. “Let me help you.”
Bucky pressed his head against the wall. “You don't understand,” he said, because Steve didn't. He breathed, “Вы имеете в виду для меня все и я не знаю, почему. Не дай мне разорвать вас. Моя прекрасная моя голубка,” to Steve's confusion.
Bucky pushed away from the wall and walked out of the bedroom. Steve followed on his heels, lips pressed together. By the time they reached the window Steve reached out and grasped Bucky's wrist.
“I won't let you kill him, Buck,” Steve said.
“Good,” Bucky said. “I won't stop until its done.”
“You don't have to do this,” Steve growled.
“I do,” Bucky said back. “You'll see.”
Bucky wrenched his wrist free, bent down, grasped his duffel bag and slipped out of the window. A part of him felt relieved that Steve just let him go, another felt sick. Steve should have stopped them. If he didn't bear Bucky Barnes' face Steve would have stopped him. The Soldier squared his jaw. This had been a mistake, and it would soon be one he didn't remember.
Re: Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {6B}
(Anonymous) 2014-05-16 06:08 am (UTC)(link)Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {6C}
It's not worked. Some have given me better translations for previous chapters, but I'm still using shitty google translate so far until I have someone I can poke on a regular basis for help. Sadly that has yet to happen. The sheer embarrassment of having people who understand Russian read this story just...sort of made me go and hide for a little while. Sorry.
It happened as Fury got out of the car. They'd planned it like that, planned for it to be in one of the most public places so that HYDRA couldn't doubt its validity. They chose Stark Tower, now only known by the brilliant A at the top and, among SHIELD, known as Avengers Tower instead. In the official databanks Fury came here for a meeting with Stark, although what was listed 'classified' that not even the Word Security Council could know the truth.
The truth, of course, was that this had been a planned place for the Winter Soldier to ambush Nick Fury, complete his mission, and then allow for Fury and his entourage to regroup. They already had the beginnings of a plan in play for dealing with the Helicarriers, they just needed one last bit of information to complete it. The information apparently resided in Camp Leheigh. By the time Nick stepped out of the car, by the time the shots were fired—three rounds through the chest, dangerously close to perforating his heart, collapsing at least one lung—Natasha would be on her way to round up Rogers.
Up on the building across from the Tower the Soldier watched as his rounds made their mark. At the insistence of Наталья the Soldier purposefully made certain that his shots would not be immediately fatal. His target could be saved, it was within the realm of possibility, but without immediate medical attention such a thing happening was highly unlikely. The loud echo of the bullets being fired in the city air drew attention, was it was meant to, and from inside the Tower burst out Stark and subject: Hawkeye.
The Soldier watched them for a moment, cataloged their movements, and then slipped away, unseen, as he planned to. He had one more day.
Bucky licked his lips. One more day.
It didn't take much to corral Steve into the van. The words, “Stark got something off of the drive. We need to visit Camp Lehigh,” worked like a miracle. Before Steve even realized it he'd slipped into the drivers seat of the truck, turned the ignition, and started them down the road. Natasha had her phone GPS set to direct them. Steve knew a trip like this would take roughly six hours there and then back. They'd left at noon.
It was only when they were two hours out of Camp Lehigh that Steve realized leaving DC right now probably wasn't the best idea.
“We have to turn around,” Steve said, fingers tightening on the steering wheel of the truck. He kept driving straight.
“It's under control,” Natasha said, feet on the dash as she looked out the window. She liked watching the scenery pass them by. It was soothing. Steve glanced at her.
“You knew?” he asked, lips pressed thin.
“Depends on what you think I know,” Natasha gave him a smile. It was both parts self-depreciating and smug. “Despite common opinion, I don't know everything.”
“That Bucky--” Steve started and then had to cut himself off with a sharp breath. Natasha looked back outside.
“He told you,” she said. There had been something to her tone, something different. Natasha was always the hardest to read out of anyone, and Steve found this moment no surprise.
“How long did you know?” Steve questioned. The steering wheel creaked ominously.
Natasha breathed out, said, “I didn't. You confirmed it.” Steve scowled and Natasha rolled her eyes. “Fine, you want the whole story Rogers?”
“I would prefer honesty, yes,” Steve pointed out. “Although I'll take whatever you can give me right now. I still think we should be back in DC.”
“Nick will be fine,” Natasha said and Steve relaxed minutely. “James came to me two days ago.” Steve nearly slammed on the breaks in surprise and Natasha glanced out at him through the corner of her eye. “Yes, I said James. I find it hard to reconcile the man I know with the name Bucky.”
Steve's eyes shuddered closed for a second, and then they snapped open with a sudden surge of adrenaline. He kept his gaze focused out on the road, muttered a short, “Feet off the dash,” to try and ground himself.
Natasha slipped her feet off with a roll of her eyes. She sat up. “Yes, I knew him. It's hard not to know the man that made me, and on that note that is all I'm giving you.” Steve opened his mouth and Natasha said wearily, “I'm not ready for more yet. I'm still reeling from seeing him like that again.”
Her words slid home some of what Bucky had told Steve last night. It made a sick and twisted sort of sense. He said, “They took it away from him, didn't they.”
Natasha nodded. “That's what they do,” she said. “They take away the things that matter to him.”
Steve licked his lips. “Not this time.”
Natasha smiled. “No. Not this time.”
“Tell me about this plan,” Steve said, fully relaxing back into the seat. Natasha's lips quirked faintly. She shared a glance with Steve, could read the steel in his eyes. With him here, Natasha felt like they just might actually save Bucky Barnes.
After his mission was accomplished Bucky didn't report it. He should have, he could feel the thoughts whirling in the back of his mind, screaming at him to отчет. He ignored it. Instead Bucky headed back to the shitty hotel where the television screen was on playing some sort of show he didn't know. Bucky didn't care. He dismantled and cleaned his weaponry before slipping each with precise care into his bag.
Then the Soldier went around the room and removed all traces of his presence from it. He washed out the trash can of ash, he tore the bedsheets off of the bed and piled them into a corner where he meticulously removed each hair he could find. He demolished the pillows, overturned the drawer, did everything in order to erase any sign of his existence. Once that had been done he gathered up his duffel bags and slung them over his shoulders and made his way out of the room.
At reception Bucky dug into his pants. He fished out six hundred that he'd cobbled together on his way back from New York to DC and then handed it over to the man silently. Once he'd taken the money and stuffed it away, Bucky pulled out one of his many knives kept along his waistline and slammed it through the man's skull with his left hand.
The Soldier stared dispassionately down. Bucky said, “I'm sorry,” as he vaulted the counter and knelt down to remove his knife. He cleaned it on the mans pant-leg and then slipped it back into place. With his left hand he reached out and pulled the receptionists eyelids down. “I'm sorry,” he repeated, voice turning into a broken whisper.
Скрывать, his mind whispered, убивать. It was why he reacted without even realizing what he'd done until it was far too late to take it back. The Soldier straightened out, leaped over the receptionist desk, and left the dead man behind as he slipped out of the door.
Bucky wasn't going to turn in, he wasn't going to meet at the rendezvous point because he wanted that one last day. The Soldier thought of Наталия, thought of how he could make her go silent with two words and a smile (must never forget that smile, it always made her so weak in the knees, putty in my hands) and he couldn't risk that. He couldn't risk HYDRA deciding that they wanted the Red Room's precious commodity, Dreykof's Daughter, the one who survived his training and unmaking and became the Widow.
Bucky couldn't lose Natalia again.
(she wasn't his to lose anymore)
With a breath, slow, steadying, Bucky took to the streets and back alleys and corners. He traveled on foot, heaving his weapons cache on each shoulder. He avoided the main roads, avoided the patrolled streets, avoided the need to unleash more death upon the world around him. He couldn't handle killing another soul like the receptionist. The Soldier wasn't made to kill anymore, he was too broken and in need of repairs, perhaps more repairs than HYDRA could perform.
Bucky traveled until he reached Steve's apartment, climbed the fire escape and eased open the window. He dropped the duffel bags in front of the window as he slid it shut, slipped down the hallway and into the bathroom. There Bucky cleaned his hands and scrubbed his face and scraped dried blood off of his leather and kevlar top. When he was clean and no longer visibly marked (but always marked beneath his skin, dripping, gushing, bleeding and broken with the lives he'd taken under his hands, out of his control) he dried himself off and moved from the bathroom to the bedroom. Bucky trailed his fingers along the walls and willed himself to remember.
(I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't)
He rifled through Steve's closet, looked at his drawings and portraits, even found a journal. The Soldier knew that Steve remembered him, remembered something he seemed to have lost. Bucky knew that Steve needed him and wanted to be as unbroken as he could. He wanted Steve, selfishly so and he knew it'd break him when Rumlow came to tear him away but Bucky couldn't help it. There was something—
(I was in love)
—he couldn't leave behind, he couldn't forget or let go of. Eventually, with the bedroom strewn from paintings and sketches and clothing that Bucky and torn out from drawers and held up to his face, trying to evoke scent memory since nothing else appeared to be working, Bucky curled into Steves bed and dug his fingers into Steve's pillow. He felt tired, drained of everything.
(I want to remember let me remember please)
Bucky drifted asleep.
They arrived at Camp Lehigh when it was dark. Steve broke the lock with his shield, lips pursed into a frown and together he and Natasha slipped inside the grounds. Natasha had some sort of device, probably Stark made Steve figured since it was Stark who sent them on this wild goose chase when Steve could be back in DC stopping Bucky from killing Nick.
“Quit worrying about it,” Natasha said, holding the device up into the air and wandering around the camp. Steve stopped at the flag pole, he could remember the challenge his CO had issued his team.
“First man to bring it to me get's to ride back with Agent Carter.”
“I have every right to worry,” Steve pointed out, turning around from the flag. “Anything?”
Natasha lowered the device and shook her head with a sigh. “No. Whoever made the file probably used a router,” she said. “Stark led is in the wrong direction.” She hopped over the railing and started her way back towards the gate, only stopping when Steve didn't follow after her.
“Steve?” Natasha asked, but Steve stared at the munitions bunker with a frown on his face. “You see something?”
“Doesn't army regulations forbid storing munitions within five hundred feet of the barracks?” he asked. “That hasn't changed too, right?”
“I think so, why?” Natasha turned to follow his gaze, her brow furrowed.
“That building is in the wrong place,” Steve said. Together they jogged over, Steve breaking the lock again and pulling the door open with a grunt and a grimace. They stepped inside, the air stale from disuse, but Natasha was able to find a light switch and as the overheads crackled to life, surprisingly resilient despite the years of disuse, Steve categorized the room with a critical eye.
“SSR?” he muttered. He couldn't remember an SSR bunker at Lehigh.
“Early SHIELD,” Natasha didn't quite correct. Her own tone of voice suggested she wasn't sure if that were the case or not.
“Probably one of the first,” Steve agreed, catching sight of the name emblazoned in the back of the room. Cautiously they fanned out, checking through files and computers that were set up. Natasha rifled through the drawers but anything of note had been long since removed.
“These computers don't work,” she said. “They've been dismantled, probably to protect intel.”
“Why would a drive that has ties to HYDRA lead here?” Steve asked. They slipped from the main room to the meeting room, once more checking barren shelves and empty riling cabinets. Natasha looked to the photgraphs on the wall.
“That's Stark,” she said, a little curious. “Whose the girl?” Steve glanced up, and then away. He followed the line of shelves instead of answering, which to Natasha meant that it was someone just as important as Stark which meant—
“No way,” she said, a slight laugh tinging her tone. “That's Direct Carter?” Steve didn't say anything in response, lips pressed together tightly as he focused on finding some sort of sign as to why they were led here. There was a sound, he recognized it, felt the air flow and he searched out the space.
“Natasha,” he called out, motioned her over. “when you already have a secret base...” he dug his fingers into the edge and pulled until he opened up the doorway, the hinges obviously rusted from disuse, “...why do you need to hide the elevator?”
Natasha stared down the hall. “I don't know, Steve. Care to find out?” she gave him a grin.
Steve did not expect what they would find.
Re: Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {6C}
(Anonymous) 2014-06-26 10:58 am (UTC)(link)please tell me you've not abandoned this fill i love it so much.
Re: Fill: Голубка [My Dove] {6C}
I'll begin continuing to post my fills shortly. Probably tomorrow.
Things will be continued ^^