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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As of May 3, 2014, the spoiler policy is no longer in effect.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As of May 3, 2014, the spoiler policy is no longer in effect.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: Biology Don't Mix (B)
He'd watched Aliens on the television in his shitty motel, grabbing take out and delivery from the room door without showing his face or condition. After that he slept with his gun and his knife underneath his pillow. Some days Bucky stared at his stomach, confused, terrified, with the gun in his hand. He debated shooting himself, killing whatever this was. He could survive the wound. Maybe. Probably.
Bucky wasn't too sure what he could survive, really, and so he always put the gun down before he did something to himself he might regret. Instead he watched the tv without any real idea what he wanted to do. He couldn't go out, not like this, he couldn't hide, he couldn't do anything.
Some days that made him cry, some days that pissed him off, some days he felt entirely apathetic to everything and his memories that weren't quite there and the memories that were. He can't even wear his clothes anymore, they're too taunt and too tight and they squeeze and it hurts. He doesn't have anything else to wear except the hat and the hooded zip-up sweater and a shirt and a pair of jeans and underwear. Out of all of his clothes he can wear the underwear, the hooded zip-up sweater, and the hat.
So most days he's naked, which was a little odd but not too much. Bucky can vaguely remember being in worse states, those memories often followed by pain and a phantom sensation where his arm is now metal and not flesh. Most days he wrapped the filthy motel linens around him like a toga, or just made a nest out of them when the bed was too soft and too uncomfortable.
Not that the floor was any better but there's nowhere else Bucky can go, can hide, can just wait out whatever this was. He worries it'll kill him, and other days he's perfectly content with his lot in life aside from, you know, the strange swelling to his stomach which he knew was not quite right.
It near seven months of being awake, aware, and unfrozen since '45 for Bucky when the door to his motel room busted open with a resounding crash. He grabbed his gun and held it up, lips pressed together, determined to protect himself if nothing else, or this strange swelling he doesn't understand. Instead of HYDRA, of being attacked, Bucky is met with two familiar faces. Falcon and America. Falcon and Steve.
Bucky Barne's Steve Rogers, the Winter Soldier's failed, always failed, never to be completed mission. He breathed out heavily through his nose, tightened his grip on his gun.
Steve dropped his shield, eyes wide, jaw slack. “B-Bucky?”
“Holy shit the killing machine let himself go,” Falcon uttered.
“Did not,” Bucky snapped back, eyes bouncing between the two of them.
“Dude you're huge,” Sam said.
Bucky frowned and cried, “Am not!” Then he looked down at himself, his brow furrowed. His face pinched and he looked back up, pathetic, tears in his eyes. “Am I?”
Steve jolted out of his frozen stupor, dashed forward unmindful of the gun which didn't matter anymore because Bucky started to drop the damn thing anyway.
“No! No, Buck, Bucky look its gonna be okay,” Steve said quickly, kneeling beside him on the bed and pulling him into his arms. Bucky sniffled, clenched his fists. He hated this surge of random emotion that made no sense. “We'll figure this out.”
Sam snorted, “Seriously? I bet you this is some sort of play. He look's like he's got a baby bump and that's impossible, right? I mean he's a dude.” A small part of Sam's voice started getting slightly hysterical. “Unless that's a thing you can do? Get pregnant? Oh fuck is this some sort of weird side effect from your super soldier whatsit? Aw shit that just ain't cool.”
Bucky started to shake, and Steve quickly shot Sam a cold eyed glare and snapped, “Get him some clothes!”
“Right on it, Cap!” Sam saluted and darted out with a, “Fuck he's really fucking pregnant this is just the weirdest shit we've got the shittiest of luck fucking HYDRA...” which faded away the further he got.
“I – I'm huge,” Bucky stuttered, eyes wide. He looked up at Steve. “I think I have an alien in my gut.”
“I dunno,” Steve said, a sort of breathless, hysterical laugh bubbling up but he clamped it down. “Maybe Buck. Look I got a friend. He can help. Okay? He can figure this out.”
“Should kill it,” Bucky muttered, reaching for the gun again. Steve reached out and grasped his hand, stared at him.
“Listen to me, Buck,” he said. “Bucky. Bucky!” Bucky's head jerked up, he reminded himself that that was his name. Obviously the Captain wanted something. “I have a friend. Stark. You remember Howard?”
“No.”
Steve grimaced, said, “Probably a good thing. Anyway it's his son, Tony, good guy very strange. He's a scientist. Well, mechanist, but Bruce hangs around him a lot and Bruce is more of a scientist than Tony and—anyway they can help. Figure whatever this is. This. Figure this thing out. Okay? I'm sure of it. Just, let me help.”
Bucky stared at him. “Can't move, can't hide, too big. M'clothes don't fit.”
“I know,” Steve said as Sam returned.
“Here, put these on,” Sam shoved a pair of sweatpants and a loose overlarge sweatshirt towards Bucky who stared at them for a moment uncomprehendingly. “They should fit over that baby bump you've got going.”
Baby bump? Bucky glanced down. He wondered. Men couldn't get pregnant, right? Was he pregnant? Had he almost killed his baby all these months, holding a gun, debating shooting himself? Oh, he hadn't been eating right either. What if he was pregnant? Was he killing the unborn fetus within him by eating such shitty food? He felt another surge of tears, of depression, well up on him but Steve quickly wrapped him up in his arms, whispered words in his ear until he was calm enough to put clothes on.
Steve kept one hand wrapped tight around Bucky's flesh and blood fingers, curling and twining themselves together. Bucky could remember something like this, something like this with panted breaths and heated skin. His checks flushed.
He followed Steve.
It turned out he was pregnant. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner estimated about seven to seven and a half months along, somewhere within the third trimester at the least. To Bucky this didn't mean much until Tony shoved a Stark Pad under his nose with details about pregnancy and trimesters and useful terms which left Bucky then confused on the timetable because that didn't match up.
He was certain of it.
Steve ranted, raved, punched and destroyed things. He swore he'd destroy all of HYDRA for doing this, and that he'd tear apart whoever touched Bucky in such a way. It was oddly endearing, but wrong.
“It doesn't. No one at HYDRA touched me. Like that,” Bucky said, haltingly. Steve paused, turned.
“What?” he looked pale, ashen white and off kilter. Tony offered Bruce some popcorn. They both watched the side-show, for what could this even be with Captain America loosing his infamous cool and his would-be plucky side-kick turned brainwashed assassin, suddenly pregnant, ends up on their doorstep?
“We should market this,” Tony said to Bruce.
“Tony,” Bruce facepalmed.
“What? We totally should.”
Steve frowned once he regained his balance. His brows furrowed. He asked, a little weak, “How long. How long did they have you active, Buck?”
“Two months, give or take,” Bucky shrugged, his flesh and blood hand stroking his swelled stomach as he stared at it. A child. How strange was that? He only looked up when there was a crash of equipment and Steve was laying on the ground, dazed. “Is that comfortable?” he asked. “It doesn't look comfortable.”
Steve was pale with a slight sickly tinge. He said, his voice almost hysterical and breathless, “I think I knocked up my best friend in 1945.”
Tony dropped the popcorn, his jaw dropped. He looked between Steve and Bucky and then said, “Didn't see this coming.”
Bruce snorted. “I did.”
Bucky just stared at Steve, entirely uncomprehending of what that meant. He stroked his stomach again, and sort of smiled. He kind of liked this idea, of his body and hands soiled in blood and death creating life instead.
Bucky cooed at his stomach, almost too quiet to hear. Bruce and Tony exchanged glances.
“Too cute?”
“Yup. Too cute.”
“We must be dreaming, right?”
“Nah, our life is just this crazy.”
“Oh. Yeah. Pass the popcorn?”
“Sure.”
It happened before that final mission in the winter of '45, but no one knew until late 2013 just what, exactly, happened.
Re: Fill: Biology Don't Mix (B)
(Anonymous) 2014-04-23 09:11 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Biology Don't Mix (B)
Re: Fill: Biology Don't Mix (B)
(Anonymous) 2014-08-09 03:37 pm (UTC)(link)