This is still one of my all time favorite exchanges in any fic.

(everyone should go read Werewolf? There Wolf by @leveragehunters in celebration of Halloween. And because it is very very good. )

Savage God by PottersPink, binding by DCB Bindery

Specs: Square back bradel, red edges, marbled patterned endpapers and endbands, A6, with slipcase.

A gripping read from @potterspink, undoubtedly one of my all time favorites. I’ve revisited this fic over and over again and it is no less satisfying to read each time!

On the process: I knew I wanted to base the design of this binding around a matchbox, and decided to go with Diamond matches. Really liked how it turned out, especially with the striker design on the spine of the book. Had a lot of fun bringing in elements of the story into the slipcase design too, and the slipcase construction was so much simpler and easier than I expected!

I’m quite pleased with the matches marking parts one to three as well, adding a little pop of red that ties everything together. I’m binding three editions of this fic for Binderary so check out the rest (coming soon) for a more in depth look at the typeset!

More DCB Bindery Projects

a piece commissioned by @leveragehunters for her Graphology fic! Be sure to check it out!

Thank you so much! <3

Title: Graphology Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Word count: 55, 100 Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Wanda Maximoff & Steve Rogers Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Shrinkyclinks | Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes/Non-Serum Steve Rogers, cultural soulmate aversion, Soulmates, Reluctant Soulmates, Writing on Skin, low angst Winter Soldier origin, Minor Identity Porn, Skinny Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes, SHIELD Agent Sam Wilson (Marvel), Alexander Pierce - Freeform, Mentioned Pietro Maximoff, Canon-Typical Violence, Art, Illustrated

"Steven Grant Rogers," a voice said from somewhere near Steve's front door. "Professional inker. Maybe you'd like to explain why you're leaving us messages about our good friend Bucky?"

The redhead currently pinning Steve to the couch said, "Really?"

"Alright, her good friend Bucky. My tolerated friend Bucky."

"My phone's on the table," Steve ground out. "Grab it, have a look at the last picture."

The guy grabbed it, and his obvious double-take would have been funny if Steve wasn't being crushed into his couch. He held it out and the redhead peered at it. "It could be fake."

"That's right," Steve said, digging down for all the sarcasm that existed in his skinny body. "I scribbled all over my own thighs and took a photo so I could lure a pair of hostile weirdos to my apartment. That's how I enjoy spending my time."

"You know what this means, right?" the guy said, sounding deeply bemused. "Bucky has a soulmate."

Read it on AO3

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Captain America (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Steve Rogers Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Professor Steve Rogers, Professor Bucky Barnes, soft, Based on a Tumblr Post, based on fanart, Gender non-conforming dresser Steve Rogers, Pining, art thievery and amateur spies, Art Summary:

“But Professor Barnes is more fun,” Steve said, smiling wickedly, pressing the tip of one long finger to Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s brain flatlined at the contact, left him blinking down at Steve. Steve watched him for a bit, then his smile softened and he let his hand fall. “James, then. And you can explain what’s so fascinating about the painting.”

Bucky pulled himself together with an effort. “I think the artist who painted this was having some fun. Maybe he didn’t like the guy he was painting it for?” Steve looked at him sharply. Bucky didn’t quite know why, maybe he’d made some sort of art faux pas, but he pointed at the shadowy spot with the pigs. “Here. You can tell me if I’m imagining it.”

Steve leaned in, following the line of Bucky’s finger, one hand settling gracefully onto Bucky’s bicep for balance. His hand was warm, his long fingers strong and supple as they curled slightly, and Bucky swallowed hard and called himself nine kinds of idiot. He was a grown man, not some high school kid with a crush. Steve’s hand was on his arm, not anywhere interesting. This was stupid.

His suddenly racing heart seemed determined to ignore the message.

[This isn’t new (maybe 18 months old?) and is based on inediblesushi/beardysteve fanart, but I wanted to get it onto AO3 for safe-keeping].

tiny steve in black sweaters

not so tiny steve in a….sweaterdress

#I’m sorry but ‘Fucky art robin hood’ is KILLING ME #I am DED #It’s doing weird fusions with Leverage in my brain and #he’s like stealing stuff that was stolen originally? #and getting it back to the people who shoud own it? #but leaving like perfect replicas in their place #SO NO ONE KNOWS #except the replicas have one miniscule (probably obscene because these people knowingly have Stolen Art so they deserve it) addition you ca #you can pretty much only see if you *know* it’s there #because he’s hella talented #and of course Bucky runs into him #oh my god you guys #Fucky art Robin Hood #I have died #also this is gorgeous which I should have said right off

ding ding ding this is exactly it

@leveragehunters you win!!!!!!!!!!!!

Apparently I couldn’t leave it at just tags, and @inediblesushi and @beardysteve were happy for me to post it, so:

This was not Bucky’s scene. He preferred to fully embrace the rumpled professor stereotype: it was comfortable, he didn’t have to iron, and he never had to think about what to wear. But when the Board decided to hold a fundraiser, inviting all the bright and beautiful (read: rich) alumni and anyone even vaguely connected to them, especially when the Dean, who was one of those rich alumni, decided to seize the opportunity to showcase (read: show off, and holy shit did Bucky ever hate that guy) his extensive art collection, it suddenly became his scene.

It became every professor’s scene, and Bucky had dug out his best (read: only) good suit and his best fancy fundraiser (read: fake fake fake) smile and here he was.

Staring at a painting that he was almost certain had…but no, that couldn’t be right. Could it?

He leaned closer, squinting slightly, because he was damn sure, hidden in the shadow of a tree, tucked far in the background of some pastorally picturesque and probably historically significant (Bucky didn’t know anything about art) farmers ploughing a field there were two pigs screwing.

The one getting, well, ploughed—to stick with the farming theme—bore a striking resemblance to the Dean. “What the hell?” he muttered.

“See something interesting?”

Bucky was so baffled by the porcine relations he didn’t register who’d spoken for long enough to reply, completely unselfconsciously, “Not sure interesting’s the word I’d use,” as he straightened. The questioning hum he received in response kicked his awareness into high gear and he stiffened and glanced sideways.

Oh yes, it was Professor Rogers (but everyone calls me Steve), ludicrously blue eyes looking up at him from behind elegant black-framed glasses, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He was wearing a suit tonight, sharper than his cheekbones, the black so deep it seemed to eat the light, and Bucky felt the familiar hopeless longing settle into place like an old friend, because Steve couldn’t be more out of Bucky’s league if he’d been designed for the sole purpose of being out of Bucky’s league.

“Professor Barnes?” Steve prompted, one eyebrow quirking up slightly, sounding amused, and Bucky realised he’d been standing silently for way too long.

“James,” he said. “James is fine.” And he knew he’d told Steve that before. Truthfully Bucky would be even better, but he wasn’t sure he could handle it.

“But Professor Barnes is more fun,” Steve said, smiling wickedly, pressing the tip of one long finger to Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s brain flatlined, left him blinking down at Steve. Steve watched him for a bit, then his smile softened and his hand fell. “James, then. And you can explain what’s so fascinating about the painting.”

Bucky pulled himself together with an effort. “I think the artist who painted this was having some fun. Maybe he didn’t like the guy he was painting it for?” Steve looked at him sharply, which Bucky didn’t quite understand, but he pointed at the shadowy spot with the pigs. “Here. You can tell me if I’m imagining it.”

Steve leaned in, following the line of Bucky’s finger, one hand settling gracefully onto Bucky’s bicep for balance. His hand was warm, his long fingers strong and supple as they curled slightly, and Bucky swallowed hard and called himself nine kinds of idiot. He was a grown man, not some high school kid with a crush. Steve’s hand was on his arm, not anywhere interesting. This was stupid. His suddenly racing heart didn’t seem to have gotten the message. For fuck’s sake, Bucky.

Steve abruptly straightened and turned, standing between Bucky and the painting, studying him. Bucky looked back, not sure what Steve was after, when suddenly Steve smiled. It wasn’t like any smile Bucky had ever seen from him. Normally Steve’s smiles were… It wasn’t that they weren’t real, it was just that they were always so poised, so elegant, in a way Bucky would never be. This smile was wide and warm, felt like Steve was inviting him to share a joke, even if Bucky had no idea what the joke was. “You’ve got good eyes.”

Bucky shrugged, but he couldn’t stop a small, pleased smile of his own. “Did you notice? The pig on the, uh, receiving end looks like the Dean.”

Steve’s smile melted into a satisfied smirk. “It does, doesn’t it? Well you know what they say, there’s only so many faces in the world.”

Bucky nodded; he had no idea if that was what they said, but it sounded reasonable. Anything Steve said would have sounded reasonable with him standing that close, his hand on Bucky’s arm, that smirk on his face.

“So, I’m guessing you don’t know much about art?” Steve asked.

“Not a thing, except if I look closely enough I might find secret pigs.”

Steve laughed, deep and as warm as his smile had been, and it rolled over Bucky like a wave. “You’d be surprised how true that is.” He hooked his arm through Bucky’s and Bucky’s breath didn’t catch only because he used up an entire year’s worth of will power. “Come on, I’ll give you a guided tour.” His eyes danced as he tugged Bucky forward and Bucky fell into step with him, not quite sure how this had happened and not willing to question it in case it suddenly stopped happening. “Who knows what else you might find.”

Fic: In Death’s Dateless Night

Hrm, I read this prompt on the Stucky Library today and, well, yeah:

I didn’t really follow the prompt much AT ALL. Oops. I’m so bad at staying on task. @wingedsuccubuswithapetdragon it’s not exactly what you were looking for but it has some things in common?.

Around 2000 words, Steve/Bucky, post Winter Soldier, no Age of Ultron or Civil War, some swearing. Title from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30, the full line is For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night. ________________________________

In Death’s Dateless Night

There comes a point when even the strongest heart, the fiercest soul, can’t carry on. When the load becomes too heavy. When the will simply says enough.

Anyone can reach that point.

Anyone.

When we reach that point, if we’re lucky, we’ll have people around who see us. Who know us. Who can catch us before the crash. Who can find a new path for us when the trail we’ve walked for so long crumbles beneath us. If not.

If not.

* * *

The funeral was everything you’d expect.

It was a service fit for an icon. For a legend. For an idea, resurrected from history and thrown against evils and tyrants again and again. Captain America had stood against monsters and aliens and gods. Stood against men and machines and the creeping evil that arose whenever people were reduced to things. Stood tall and strong and brave, beating back everything the world could throw at him.

Until he didn’t. Until he couldn’t.

Keep reading

Crushed Flowers

Two weeks ago, Steve woke up in a changed world.

Today, he stands in the middle of a destroyed street, rubble and wreckage all around. The rest of the team — if that word even makes sense for the group he’d fought alongside — are long gone, back to their homes, or secret bunkers, or wherever else Fury had pulled them from.

Steve… he couldn’t leave.

He couldn’t go home — his home didn’t exist anymore.

He looked around him, and he didn’t see victory. He saw crushed cars, destroyed buildings, so much damage to infrastructure and people’s homes, their livelihoods, torn apart as some sort of collateral damage.

This is a tiny little sort of coda to And Shadows Will Fall Behind (strong skinny artist Steve/Winter Soldier Bucky) for @onyourleftbooob. I started writing a quick ‘This is what Bucky ends up doing now that he’s not fighting’ meta and it rapidly spiralled out of control. Oops? (Approx 1900 words)

___________

For the first little while after he officially stopped fighting, it was hard. Bucky’d never spent time doing nothing (his time in SHIELD custody didn’t count; he was barely even Bucky then) and it took time to get used to. Whenever the Avengers hit the news he couldn’t help the tiny pangs of guilt, even though he knew they were irrational.

Steve was good at distracting him, at finding things for him to do. Fred the pink not-a-dog got a blue boyfriend and they acquired a herd of rainbow coloured pups, each of them not-quite-a-dog in different ways.

The plants migrated out of Bucky’s bathroom, to be joined by cousins better suited to the not-so-humid air of the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen, of the hall and the office, until Bucky’s apartment resembled an indoor jungle.

Steve loved it, thought it was beautiful, Bucky knew that. Which was why he was so surprised when Steve stood in the living room, frowning slightly, and asked, “What do you think about losing some of the plants?”

“You don’t like the plants?”

“It’s not that.” Steve braced himself, spine, shoulders, arms uncertain, but his eyes were locked with Bucky’s and they held not an ounce of doubt. “It’s just, I’m not sure there’s room for Mildred.”

Bucky froze, staring at Steve for long seconds, then stood. “You think Mildred wants to move in with me?”

“I think she might,” Steve said. Bucky was walking slowly towards him, a panther’s prowl, face filling up with joy. “I think she might want to be with you all the time. I think she might want to share her life with you, all of it, every bit. Good, bad, everything. And you know how attached couches can get.”

“I do love Mildred.” As Bucky reached him, Steve let his hands rest on Bucky’s chest.

“She loves you, too.”

“There’s one problem, though.” Steve tilted his head, eyebrows raised in question, and Bucky cupped his cheek. “If Mildred moves in, you’d have to come with her.”

Steve’s smile was pure sunshine, golden and bright, and Bucky held him tight, warmth rolling through him. “I think I could manage that.”

Mildred took pride of place in all her hideous glory, but Steve brought his paintings, his books, his photos, a few pieces of furniture. Together they rearranged the apartment and Bucky redesigned his jungle, new pots, new shelves, hung some from the ceiling, and Bucky’s apartment became their apartment, a reflection of them both.

*   *   *

One day Steve came home from the studio to find Bucky rearranging his jungle, a tiny waterfall having appeared at the end of a shelf, and he stopped dead. The apartment was beautiful, the plants filling it were gorgeous, each one perfectly placed, it was art, the way Bucky put them together, and they were happy, healthy, thriving.

“Bucky?”

“Hmmm?”

“Why not do this?”

It took Bucky a minute to get what Steve was talking about, and when he did, he shrugged it off. But the idea took root, growing slowly, until he was enamoured with it. With the idea of bringing growing things, living things, into indoor spaces, into tiny places, of bringing them to people with nothing green.

“Do you think I could?” he asked a week or so later.

“Yeah, Bucky. You could. This is amazing, what you’ve done in our place. And I’ll help you as much as you need.”

It didn’t turn out to be all that much. Bucky had a gift for seeing how things fit into a space, for perspective and lines of sight. Mostly Steve ended up watching, offering a suggestion here or there, about colours and shapes, as Bucky put together a portfolio of sorts. If he was going to convince anyone he could create them an indoor garden, he’d need something to show them.

“That, and make sure I keep this hidden.” He tapped his metal arm, making it ring, a faint shadow sliding into his eyes. Steve pulled him close and kissed him. He knew how Bucky felt about the fear he was so sure his arm caused. Steve wasn’t sure Bucky was right about the fear, but he knew Bucky would never let the gleaming metal show. So Steve kissed him again, and again, and kept kissing him until the shadow faded and Bucky was smiling again.

*   *   *

Steve got the idea flipping through a magazine someone had left in the kitchen at the studio. It had an article on tattooing: blackwork, traditional, watercolour, and an interview with a tattooist who specialised in turning mastectomy scars into works of art, into flowers and fruit, into birds and blossoms.

Bucky’s metal arm was simply Bucky’s arm to Steve, an indelible mark of what HYDRA had done to him, yes, but still his arm. For Bucky he knew it was a scar, a brand, forever marking him as something to be feared.

The idea wouldn’t let him go.

It would take more than normal paint, because the arm had to move, flex, each plate shifting like a muscle, and nothing he had, nothing he knew of, would do. 

He went to Stark. Not directly; he called on the Black Widow, except she’d commissioned her painting so she was Natasha and also willing to help. Stark hmm’d and haw’d and conferred with Bruce; eventually they decided on the same paint Stark used on his suits with a couple of tweaks, an additive or two, to make it dry fast and go on smooth with a brush. To let it stay on through almost anything Bucky could throw at it.

“As many colours as you want, as much as you want, just let JARVIS know.” Steve hadn’t been sure he was going to like Stark—too loud, too brash, everything he did too much of a performance—but for that? Yeah, he could learn. For that, he wanted to.

*   *   *

He broached the subject one night when they were lying in bed, Steve running his fingers over Bucky’s metal arm, slowly tracing the edge of each plate, imagining how it would look vibrant with colour. “I know you worry about people seeing it, about how you think they’ll react.”

“How I know they’ll react,” Bucky interjected, but he didn’t sound upset, just…matter-of-fact. That was worse, tugging at the space in Steve’s heart that belonged to Bucky.

He pressed a swift kiss against the metal. “You know I love all of you, every bit of you.”

Bucky smiled softly. “I know.”

“So you know this offer is for you, not me.” Bucky looked at him questioningly and Steve drew his fingers in swoops from Bucky’s shoulder to his elbow. “I can paint it, turn it into something else, something new.” Bucky stilled, gaze dropping to his arm, and Steve wrapped his hand around it. “I read about this tattooist, he covers scars, turns them into these incredible pieces, into symbols of strength, into something beautiful.” He kissed Bucky’s arm again, kissed his shoulder, the metal cool against his lips. “I can’t tattoo your arm, but I can paint it, I can make it into something you choose, something that’s yours.”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. Steve didn’t try and talk, didn’t interrupt his silence, just nudged his way under Bucky’s arm to curl into his side and rested his head over Bucky’s heart, listening to it beat.

“What were you thinking?” Bucky finally asked.

“Anything you want.”

There was almost a laugh in Bucky’s voice: warm, affectionate, brimming with love. “I know you’ve got something in mind.”

A beat, then Steve admitted, “I might.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head, metal fingers sliding through Steve’s. “Tell me.”

And so Steve described what he saw when he closed his eyes, his hand sketching pictures in the air: green growing things and pale flowers, sunlight and curling vines, picked out like stained glass, each plate its own individual painting, coming together to create a perfect whole.

“Yes.” Bucky’s voice was faint and Steve shifted so he could see his face. It was filled with wonder. “Yes,” he said again, firmer, stronger, catching Steve’s chin in his metal hand, tilting it up to kiss him, long and slow and deep, until Steve’s breathing was ragged, fingers digging into Bucky’s skin. “Yes. Make me something new.”

*   *   *

Steve mapped Bucky’s arm. His heart wanted to lay Bucky down on the floor and wield his brush, to simply paint whatever came to him. But he couldn’t do that. He needed to be precise. Exact. Each plate had to be painted individually or the whole thing would come apart the first time Bucky moved it. And so he mapped Bucky’s arm and created a template with each plate outlined, JARVIS proving surprisingly helpful for more than just paint.

When he asked Bucky to help design it, he smiled, kissed the top of Steve’s head, said, “I trust you,” and left it in Steve’s hands.

It was simultaneously the best and scariest moment of his life.

*   *   *

When he was ready to start, he did lay Bucky down on the floor. But first he put down a plastic sheet and Mildred’s cushions and a soft blanket, and got Bucky settled, then taped more plastic to his skin, right where the metal joined flesh, covering Bucky and blanket and cushions. He needed Bucky to be comfortable, but he didn’t want fluff in his paint.

Steve worked through the day, moving Bucky, rearranging him as needed, hyper-focused, intent; Bucky was patient, watching him, and never asked to see. Steve was aching, spine and hips and shoulders screaming protest by the time he was done, but he managed it in a single endless session.

When he was finished the silver gleam of Bucky’s metal arm was almost completely gone. In its place was a cascade of stained glass, each plate an integral part of the whole, shades of Mucha in the delicate grace of the shapes, but the colours were bold: a golden sun rising over Bucky’s shoulder, the rays trailing back to meet the ropes of scarring. Vines and leaves in a dozen shades of green, dappled by light and shadow, twisted down his arm, broken by the pink tinged yellow-cream of lush peace roses. Only Bucky’s fingers were still silver, and a coil of green curled over his knuckles.

*   *   *

Steve stood with Bucky in the bathroom, where he’d first seen Bucky’s scars, and waited. Waited while Bucky stared at his arm in the mirror, at the colours, at the sun and the plants and the roses. Bucky touched his shoulder, tracing the rays of the sun, voice brimming with warmth as he murmured, “Angry brave sunshine.” He met Steve’s eyes. “So I’m always gonna have you with me?” Before Steve could reply, Bucky raised his metal fingers, tilting his hand back and forth, staring at the rose wrapped around his wrist, the green vine curled around his knuckles, at the leaves and dappled light, then he cupped Steve’s cheek, cradling his face. “I never thought I could look at it and see something beautiful.”

Steve leaned into Bucky’s hand. He felt almost weightless; exhausted, hurting, but it was distant, unreal, Bucky’s touch keeping him from floating away. “Something that’s yours.”

“Yeah, Steve.” Bucky’s voice was deep, rich, resonant with emotions too powerful for words. “Something that’s mine.” He kissed Steve’s forehead and pulled him close, and Steve sighed into Bucky’s chest, Bucky’s skin warm under his cheek. “I love you.”

Things were fading. Bucky was happy, he was happy, he’d given Bucky something good, and now he could let go. He snuggled closer, eyes drifting shut, knowing Bucky would take care of things from here. “I love you, too.”

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Captain America - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: Steve Rogers, James “Bucky” Barnes Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Modern Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, BDSM, Spanking, Fisting, Overstimulation, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms Series: Part 3 of some sweet violent urge

Summary:

“You ever tried to find out how many times you can come?”

Bucky, to his credit, only stops chewing for a second before he decides, justifiably enough, that his pasta is more important than Steve’s perversions.

That’s what he says: “My pasta is more important than your perversions. After dinner, Steven.”

“My perversions,” Steve grumbles.

“Our perversions,” Bucky placates flatly. “Our pasta. Better? Shut up and stuff your hole.”

“I’ll stuff—ow!”

Bucky looks unrepentant, and Steve’s shin aches from his kick. He shuts up and stuffs his hole. He also tries to emote feelings of suffocating affection at Bucky, and he doesn’t know if it works, but each time Bucky catches his eyes, he turns pinker, and his eating speed increases notably within the first few minutes.

“So,” Steve says a while later, elbow-deep in dishes. “How many times?”

“Why would I have this information? How would I have this information? I mean, Hydra did a lot of weird shit, but they didn’t tie me up and jerk me off for science.”

- Unique problems require creative solutions

🩲 Bucky Barnes and the Swimsuit of Doom 🩲

by @theeemdash

Summary: When Steve asks Bucky to come with him to the photoshoot for the 2023 Avengers Charity Swimsuit Calendar, Bucky thinks nothing of it. He should have, though. He should have gotten suspicious right then and right there, but instead he was thinking about Steve in a swimming suit. He can’t be held accountable for choices made by his dick. Or Bucky and Steve can’t control themselves when confronted by tiny swimming suits. Read on AO3 for @stuckybingo​

Just posted: Then a Small Thing Happened

Summary: After a Russian bomb in Ukraine ends combat photographer Bucky Barnes’ career several decades ahead of schedule, he returns to the lake house he hasn’t visited since his parents died to put the pieces back together over the long, lonely winter. He’s got no idea what his life is supposed to look like now that he’s not constantly on the move and facing danger every day, but an unexpected friendship with his elderly neighbor—and then her astronaut son—leads to the kind of connection he never thought he’d get to have.

(A holiday fic, sort of. Posting Sundays and Wednesdays through Dec. 21.)

help to make the season bright

read on ao3!

~20k, shrunkyclunks, strangers to lovers, christmas fic

There’s anxiety gnawing at Bucky's bones, so he tries to make a list of what he knows and has. He has some groceries. He has his gloves, and his lip balm. He has his wallet, and he has his phone. What he doesn't have is his keys, and thus, a way to get into the house. It’s after eight pm on Christmas Eve, and it’s below freezing outside. His mother has his spare key, and ordinarily he would call her, but right now she’s nearly 4000 miles away. There’s no way she would be able to help him.

“Fuck,” he proclaims out loud.

A pigeon on the sidewalk across the street flutters away.

Another voice cuts through the cold. “You okay?”

Bucky looks up to see a silhouette on the balcony two floors above him. Clearly, he had been swearing louder than he intended to. The figure is clearly male, and built like a fucking brick house, but the light behind him makes any other features vague and indistinguishable.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says dumbly. “I just- I forgot my keys.”

“I’ll let you in.”

The silhouette disappears from the balcony.

Bucky steps forward to retrieve his groceries from the steps of the building, and has just picked up the last can of cat food when the door opens. He looks up to meet the man who saved him from hypothermia.

And what a man it is.

happy christmas eve eve!! it's out ✨🎄💗

one of 3 arts that I created for @notanotherstuckybb ; my 2020 (Not) Another Stucky Big Bang collab with @powercrow

the fic is a fantastic Planet Hulk comics and MCU Endgame divergent crossover! 😎

“Steve runs his fingers over smooth, shining metal plates, along the well worn grooves. He smooths the wires and cables emerging from the shoulder, traces the faded red star.”

“The metal fingertips barely graze his hair, but with his eyes closed, he can pretend…”

I may have spent most of my time on this one sad scene, which gave me feels I couldn’t resist, but the story is only uphill from this point…

read the fic “lost in time, lost in space” here 

Keep reading

Boxing Club AU Idea

(Thread fic originally posted here)

It's a wholesome place with a familiar, old Brooklyn vibe. There's a white cat that roams around and sleeps on the stack of unused punching bags, and the guy who runs it is unspeakably cute.