Call me Jungle | 30s | Writing canon, Reader, and OC fics
Recovering Relapsed worldbuilder | Writing between swimming, lifting, and swinging out
I currently write for Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, Jake Jensen, and Ari Levinson. I'll likely add more as I explore this new space.
Most of the fics will be Reader fics and will likely feature POC female reader.
Currently running a small monthly challenge over at @star-and-shield-monthly, come join in on the fun :)
Mostly runs on queue.
I appreciate any encouragement along the way in form of comments and asks. :)
🔞 - 18 + only.
Steve Rogers
The day before (Steve Rogers x Reader) 🔞
Time is precious now.
“When?” you ask after a long pause.
“Pickup is tomorrow morning.”
“Then let’s spend the time we have together.”
From Constantinople to Chang'an (Steve Rogers)
(Silk Roads AU | Poetry)
A translated excerpt from a Persian epic poem from the 11th century speaks of origins of a hero beloved from Constantinople to Chang'an.
Steve + Kissing to shut them up
Jake Jensen
Bonding over Bevvies (Ongoing Series) (Jake Jensen x Reader)
A collection of loosely connected stories following Jake and Cranks
New Horizons (Jake Jensen x Reader)
Jake must decide if he can navigate a different kind of relationship.
Jake + Surprised by a Kiss
Sam Wilson
Birdstrike (Sam Wilson x Reader)
You and Sam have a flirtatiously bantered over the past few months and you want to know if there's something real.
Vigilant Rebirth (Sam Wilson & Pepper Potts)
Pepper Potts shows up unexpectedly after the business with the Flagsmashers with a proposition.
Wearied Bones (Sam Wilson x Reader)
A bad day turns even worse, and you forget the plans you made with Sam.
Sam + Morning Kiss
Sam + Mistletoe Kiss
Sam + New Year's Kiss
Bucky Barnes
Sweet Tides (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
Series | Complete
You strike up an unlikely friendship with a strange man who ruined your farmer's market stand. As you spend more time together, you find yourself drawn to him.
Bucky Barnes + Kissing to shut them up
Curtis Everett
Clean Slates (Curtis Everett x Reader)
Series | Complete
Valentine’s day is coming up. You are tired of ignoring its existence each year. You want something soft, something romantic and you are determined to experience it even if you have to give it to yourself. Curtis is staring down a Valentine’s alone for the first time in years. A meddling friend puts you in each other’s path. Fortunes align and a new kind of love blooms between you and Curtis.
Curtis Everett + Accidental Kiss
Other Characters
Hal Cater + Kiss to distract
Opulent Delights (Stucky x Reader) 🔞
"The vestiges of your wet dream clings to you. Heat pools between your thighs even recalling the dream. Hands everywhere, groping and gripping your soft flesh escalating to a fever pitch, every fiber of your being flooded with pleasure as Bucky and Steve murmur the filthiest things in your ear."
Star and Shield Monthly Badge Collection
Sexy September Scribbles
Cap Sam Wilson Bingo 2025
Sugarfoot Rag (Stucky) for January Jumble Scribbles
She decided he was safe.
And trust is the one thing he never learned how to stand in.
Two times he wanted to feed on you. And the one time he did.
˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, vampire feeding & blood, dark themes, predator-prey dynamics, dubious consent undertones, obsession & loss of control, explicit sexual content
═╬ WORD COUNT: 5K
This collaborative fic is brought to you by @perdidosbucky-yyo, @apenny4thots and yours truly (@mrsbuckybarnes1917) for @star-and-shield-collective's writer's relay game.
1. Carousel Heart
The stage lights were a solid wall of white and he stood behind it. It was exactly where he wanted to be. Where they could see the shape of him, but not the truth.
Night after night, there were thousands of them. He could count, the way you count candles on a cake. By their hearts.
That's the part he didn't tell people. He heard the beat. Every one of them, a melody under the drums. Sam kept the beat the crowd could hear; he kept the beat underneath it, the wet red metronome of a full house.
The constant throng would drive a younger man insane. It didn't drive him anywhere. Not normally. He wanted that on record. He had stood in rooms louder, more crowded and walked out clean. Every time. Ten thousand times. He'd never once given in to temptation.
Instead he learned to listen… like reading the weather. It happened after rebirth. The first steps, if you will. There was a trick, if you wanted to master it.
It wasn't about the pulse. Not the throat. Not even the specific animal instinct of the girl in row five whose heart was going like she'd run here.
Pressure changes.
The warm front.
You had to let it become the room instead of the meal… and then you could stand in it forever. He taught himself that over centuries, one show at a time, and he was— and he would promise you that— very calm about it.
The song ended. Natasha took the next. He only had about four bars, letting him just be a man with a guitar. And that was the moment he made his biggest mistake. It didn't feel like one. But then, it never does.
He looked down. Simple as that.
She was there. Front row. Same six feet of railing she'd owned since they'd left Cleveland, like she signed a lease on it. Sunshine— printed across her tiny tank top.
The pressure needle skipped a beat.
Because here was the thing about the rest of them— the whole seething pit— they knew. Not with their heads or heart. Something deeper. They came to be near the danger. To press up against it. To feel their own hearts beat faster. That speed was instinct, a body doing what a body should do in a room with something like him. He loved them for it. It was the only honest thing about them.
Hers didn't do that.
She stood in the wall of noise with her face tipped up and all he felt was delight. Nothing more. There was no animal in her leaning back from the edge. Because to her, he was the whole entire show. The best night of her week. She got to see a man she thought was beautiful. Her heart was fast, sure. But it was fast the way a kid's was on a carousel. It was fast because she was happy. She was enthralled.
He wanted you to understand what that did to him. The fear he could drink around; the fear was the weather. But she wasn't afraid. He couldn't read that from her. And it drew him in. She had no idea. She trusted him. She decided, with that whole empty radiant head of hers, that he was safe.
And trust— he could tell you now, so no one could ever say he hid it— trust was the one thing he had never understood.
He was fine. He wanted to be so clear about that. He looked back up, hit his mark, sang the next line right on the beat. Not a single soul of that ten thousand knew. That was control.
$6,423.
The figure printed on the paper slip that had slid out of the ATM when you put in your bank card. You knew it before you'd even put it in. It was what you'd earned that summer, working three separate jobs to pay tuition for college.
You were going to be a nurse. It was a good profession, respectable.
Here's the thing about $6,423: it wasn't exactly a lot of money for a college program. It was, however, a staggering amount for a girl with a banged-up old Corolla and the desire for a taste of forbidden fruit.
That's what they were to you. The Sergeant and the Sires. The Sergeant specifically. You were under his thrall.
You'd done the math. More than once. Then once more with an actual calculator, in case your brain was trying to deceive you.
22 shows. Not all of them— you weren't totally insane. 22 of 41 the band had scheduled. One show per state. You had always wanted to see the country, it would be a great way to explore before the crushing weight of a career became obligatory.
The tickets were the easy part: $58 - $95. General admission for the floor was your best bet and buying at the box office, which you'd already done. The woman at the desk had given you a judgemental look, but you didn't care.
$1731 you'd spent so far.
A tight budget. You estimated $1500 for gas, if you kept your speed to below sixty-five. Your car was the one thing you trusted to do its job and it had a comfortable enough backseat that you could cover the windows and sleep there most nights. Motels offered a shower, a more luxurious night when your car wasn't the safest option.
That probably came to $800. You rounded up to $900 because you were being responsible.
Food was your next consideration. One meal a day was manageable, right? You weren't stupid, it had to be something substantial and diners usually offered affordable meals. You guess around $10/day for 42 days. $420. $500 if you wanted a coffee. You'd pack snacks for the road.
$1000 was for opportunistic recreational activities, leaving you $792 for emergencies.
You made a note. It was plenty of cash. Maybe you'd even indulge in some of the band's merch. A dreamy expression washed over your face as you thought about a shirt with The Sergeant's face looking up at you.
You'd figure it out, because people figure things out. You'd been called resourceful. Your parents had said you could do anything you put your mind to.
Except everyone said don't to this.
Your sister said it with the long-suffering patience of someone who knew she wasn't swaying you. Your office manager frowned, saying he couldn't hold any of your regular shifts. The girl you'd been seeing scoffed and used the word unhealthy more than once.
Your mother hadn't said a single word. She knew there was no point in trying. It'd felt worse than anything anyone else had said.
Because when all was said and done, they weren't wrong. You weren't stupid enough to deny it. Your plan was crazy. You were twenty-four, planning to spend your entire education fund on 42 days, 22 of which you'd be standing in the dark, looking up.
Here's what no one understood. What no one in your life seemed to have a category for. In your 24 years on Earth, you had never— not once— felt like you were standing where you were supposed to be. And then it happened. They had come to town. The Sergeant and The Sires. And for two hours, three nights a week, you stood in darkness, in a sea of people with the bass pounding through your feet, and finally every single atom in your body was pointing in the same direction. Your whole being had been drawn to them. To him. Seeing them perform had stirred something deep inside you. And for the first time in your life, you felt alive.
How were you supposed to weigh the cost of being alive against a nursing program? You weren't confused or naive. You'd just done the math and arrived at a different answer. You knew exactly what it cost, you had the number written on a receipt in the glove-box for your Corolla.
So you got in and turned the key.
Backstage smelled like every other backstage did— cold beer, hot cables, the sugar-rot of a fruit tray nobody touched. He loved it, but it was a smell with no pulse.
He was fine. He'd said that already but he wanted it noted.
Sam got the cooler open before his sweat was even dry, tossing the bottles around like it was a totally normal thing. Because to them it was. Except it wasn't beer he was passing, it was TruBlood. The good stuff, the quality O-neg that Yelena bought by the case because to her a happy band was a well-fed band. Steve caught his one-handed, cracking the cap with his thumb. He downed half in one go, the way he did everything— clean, without ceremony. Sam was talking his ear off, some story about a girl from Louisiana, half-laughing into his own bottle.
"Barnes!" Sam lobbed one at him.
He caught it. Like there was ever any doubt. His hands were the last thing to ever forget what they're for. Even the one that didn't quite belong to him.
It was warm. Yelena had done her duty and filled the cooler with hot water, warming the bottles until they were body temperature. It sat in his cold palm while he listened distractedly to Sam. He laughed in the right places. He twisted the cap. But he didn't drink.
He wanted that on the record too. The bottle was open. He was holding it. Anyone watching would say 'there was a man having his dinner'. But that little compass inside, the one that read the weather, it pointed at something else. Something through the hallway. At a carousel heart, beating at a happy gallop. He heard it. He felt it. It consumed him. The warm glass in his hand felt like a prop. A thing to hold so his hands looked busy. So no one would see what he craved.
Natasha had a way of appearing when she wasn't wanted. Silent. Stealthy. She found him by the instrument cases, doing this thing where she didn't look directly at you. She was doing it now, focusing all her energy on coiling a cable around her arm while her own bottle lay sweating and untouched on a case beside her.
"Good show," she said.
"Good show."
"You went somewhere. During 'Bloodletting.' You went somewhere and came back." She cocked her head, finally looking at him.
He told her he was on the beat the whole time. Which was true. He was! Ask any one of the thousands of humans in the crowd. Not one of them felt him leave.
She wrapped the cable slow. "That's not what I asked."
Across the room Sam called his name, wanting him in on the story, to confirm he remembered the girl from Louisiana. He answered, because he must. To keep the room warm, the atmosphere easy— to keep it to just the four of them, their bottles, a good show and the full house behind them. He didn't need Sam or Steve looking at him the way Natasha did. No one else needed to count, to clock that his bottle was still full.
Here was the part he didn't say out loud. You don't hand someone the stake and the cross. But deep down inside he knew. The girl in the crowd came back. The ray of sunshine in the darkness. She was here right now. Yelena had let her sneak in, like a stray cat.
He set the bottle down on the case. Still full. He told himself it was because he wasn't thirsty.
He was very calm about it.
It happened at night, mostly, in the back of the Corolla, adjustable shades pulled down. When the parking lot had gone quiet and there was nothing left for you to think about… but him.
It always started the same way— with his hands. The part of him that seemed to wreck you. Not his voice… although that was its own kind of problem. His hands… you watched them from six feet away for eight nights. The way they moved over the fingerboard, like they owned it, like the guitar was an extension of himself.
There was that moment in the third song where he’d flatten his palm across the strings to kill the ring. The silence hit low in your gut. You thought about those same hands on your skin. Sliding under your shirt. Callused fingertips tracing your ribs. Then lower, cupping your breasts. Thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened. For him.
You thought about being alone with him. Somewhere with an actual door. The details of the room didn't matter. You were always looking at him looking at you.
You thought about him being slow. It was the thing you came back to every night, the thing that made your face burn and your thighs press together in the dark. He’d take his time, undress you like he was learning a new instrument, spread you open on the bed and just look, eyes dark and hungry, taking in every inch of your body.
Then those hands would move, sliding up your inner thighs, thumbs parting slick folds, circling your clit with steady, intimate pressure until you were shaking, dripping for him. He’d push two thick fingers inside, curling them just right while his mouth found your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you moan his name.
You imagined him eating you out— slow, filthy licks, tongue fucking into you while he held your hips down, growling against your pussy as you grind on his face. And when he finally pushed inside you, thick, hard and bare, he’d do it inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction as he stretched and filled you completely.
He’d fuck you deep, hips rolling with the rhythm he used on stage, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other rubbed your clit until you came clenching around his cock, gasping and soaking the sheets.
You imagined him moaning your name, as he buried himself to the hilt and came, voice rough against your ear, hips jerking as he spilled inside you.
Sometimes you didn’t even get that far. Sometimes it was just the idea of his mouth near your ear, breath hot as he whispered exactly what he was going to do to you. How he was going to ruin you for anyone else.
You’d have to stop, press the heels of your hands into your eyes, and laugh at yourself. A grown-ass woman in a Corolla following a band around the country, soaked and aching over a man who didn’t even know you existed.
You fell asleep like that most nights. Warm, stupid, and happy, thighs still slick with the evidence of how badly you wanted him.
You had no idea what you were asking for.
It happened in St. Louis. Number nine, though by then the cities had already started to blur into one long strip of welcome signs and exhaust fumes. You'd have to check the tickets in the glove-box to be sure which cities you'd passed through. The shows, however, were burned into your brain.
This had been a good week. That's what kept going through your mind afterwards. You were well within budget, the Corolla was behaving and you had the cash to splurge on a motel because your neck had opinions on the backseat of your car.
Eleven minutes was all it took. You had left the room to grab ice from around the corner of the complex. For those eleven minutes you were living the life of luxury.
The door was shut when you came back, but the second you crossed the threshold, you knew something was wrong. The same way you knew when Bucky was going to change keys in the middle of a song.
Your duffel was on the bed open. You walked over, resigned to the inevitable. The envelope gone, your wallet with it, both cards, the debit and the one you kept for real emergencies.
They'd left the tickets. All 22 of them. Untouched… because who would want those?
You cancelled the cards, then sat on the end of the bed, redoing the math. $161. It'd been in your jacket pocket. Three-quarters of a gas tank and 22 tickets. The next show was 300 miles west.
The strange thing was, the most obvious thought never arrived. The one where you gave up. Asked for help. Drove home. You waited for it. All night you waited. But it never came. Not even when you called your sister and swore her to secrecy.
Outside the next venue, you met Trish. You didn't find her, she found you. You had arrived early, since there was no where else you could afford to go. Instead you sat on the cold hard ground to contemplate your woes. You were in your denim jacket, covered in pins from each one of the shows you had under your belt. You were spilling your problems to her before she even introduced herself. She didn't give you the oh honey face. She just nodded, like she'd heard it forty times, because she had.
Cash problems, she said, were easy.
That's when she brought it up. Phrased it as a trade. Something clean. Regulated, even. There was an… agency, a three letter acronym, said too fast for you to catch. It was something you'd reflect on later, the size of the thing you chose not to ask. Trish described it exactly like donating blood, except this paid $200. Apparently everyone who come on tour did it. She rolled up her sleeve and showed you the inside of her elbow.
You looked down at the business card she gave you— GGB Ltd. $200 per unit. One a week was fine. Two was fine if you ate well. You did the math right there on the curb, and you knew everything would be alright.
Yelena found him where he'd put himself, as far from anyone as the room allowed— a chair turned backward, arms crossed over the back, watching the door.
She didn't announce herself. She never did. She crossed the room with an economy of movement only she had— all business— and dropped into a crouch behind a cooler she carried. Not the usual . A smaller one. Black, no logo, the kind you didn't leave lying around for anyone to find.
"You're not drinking," she said. Not a question.
"'m fine."
"Yeah, you said." She popped the latch. "Three cities in a row… you said. You think I don't count the bottles, Barnes? I count everything. It's my job."
He started to answer but she held up a hand without looking at him, and then she took the bottle out.
It wasn't TruBlood. He knew that before she'd even fully extracted it— knew it from the way the smell reached him a half-second ahead of his eyes. A glass bottle, yes, the same shape but unlabeled. Inside it something that wasn't the usual synthetic crap she offered them.
"B-neg," Yelena said, turning it in the low light. "Real. Fresh— not long from the host. Don't ask who, because I don't, and neither should you." She set it on the case in front of him with a small, delicate clink. "You've been walking around like a live wire and it's making the others nervous, even if they're too polite to say. So… eat something real. On me."
He looked at it.
For a moment he didn't move at all. That was the last of his control. The long-suffering habit he spent centuries perfecting. Never once letting it hold him by the collar. He told himself he wasn't going to now. He'd made it this long.
But the bottle sat there and as it caught the light, he could hear it, actually hear the way it whispered to him— a slick warmth that told the story of the person it had once belonged to.
He picked it up.
The screw-on top came away under his thumb effortlessly. He meant to take one sip. He honestly, genuinely meant it— just to taste, to be civilized about it, to prove to himself that he was a man having a drink and not a starving animal salivating at a trough.
The first swig undid it all.
It hit the back of his throat and something in him simply woke… some old animal that had been asleep, pretending to be furniture. After that there was no sipping. The rest vanished in seconds. He didn't decide it. It was gone before decision had entered into the equation, the bottle tipped all the way up, his throat working, the whole rare impossible pint emptied into him like water into parched ground.
He set the bottle down more carefully than he'd done anything else that night.
The room felt different now. He felt different— warm for the first time in decades, lit up, every sense turned suddenly to its sharpest setting. There was a glint in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a brightness that had nothing to do with the overhead bulb. His fangs had come down without permission, more obvious now, and he didn't bother to hide them. He ran his tongue along them slow, cleaning the last of the red from his lips.
Yelena watched him with her arms folded. She didn't look pleased, more like someone confirming a suspicion.
"There he is," she said, a smirk on her lips.
You almost didn't go back. That was the truth of it. A truth you'd never tell anyone, because it sounded insane out loud. There was a woman with an official lanyard who singled you out after the show. She read your name off a list— your name, the one you'd signed in the parking lot for GGB— and for one chilling moment, you'd thought it was about the blood. That someone had found out and you were in trouble.
But she'd just smiled and said someone wanted to say hi, and would you follow her, and your heart had done something complicated and enormous in your chest.
So there you were. Backstage, past security, in a concrete hallway that smelled like stale beer and something smoky. You were wearing the Sunshine shirt— your favorite, one you'd washed so many times the print had started to crack. You'd have worn something sexier if you'd known. But you hadn't, and the shirt was clean, and was the one that felt most like you.
You'd pulled your left sleeve down before she brought you in. Habit now. Nobody's business.
And then he was just— there.
You forgot how to be a person for a second. The honest truth of it. You'd stood six feet from this man for eleven different nights but you'd never once been so close to him. And there was a difference, an enormous difference, that no amount of front-row devotion had prepared you for. On stage he was a shape in the light. Here he was a man, tall and still, close enough to touch, and he was looking directly at you.
"You're the one on the barricade," he said. "Front row. Every night."
He knew. He'd noticed. You made a sound that was supposed to be a word. And wasn't.
His voice did something to you. You'd heard it sing to ten thousand people and you'd thought that was the thing, that was the reason, but this was different— low, unhurried, pitched just for you. It went straight through you like the bass through the floor, settling somewhere behind your sternum. You felt, absurdly, like you already knew him. Like you'd known him a long time. Like all those nights in the dark had been a conversation and this was him finally answering.
"I— yeah," you managed. "That's me. I've been following the tour. Since Cleveland." And then, because your mouth had apparently decided to run without you: "Since before Cleveland, actually, since you played my town, that's— that's how it started, I saw you and I just, I couldn't not, you know?"
You winced. You sounded like exactly what you were. But he didn't laugh at you. He tilted his head a little, the way you'd seen him do on stage between songs, and he listened, like your babbling was worth listening to, and God, you could have died right there and been happy about it.
"Eleven cities," he said. "That's a long way to drive for a band."
"For you," you said, before you could stop yourself. "I mean— the band. Mostly. Kinda. Yeah."
Heat crawled up your neck. It was worth it, because something crossed his face when you said it— something you couldn't read, something that flickered and was gone— he stepped closer, and you didn't step back. You'd never step back. You'd spent your whole savings, slept in a Corolla, sat in a folding chair in a parking lot so you could stand exactly this close. Now that you were here, every atom in your body was doing the thing it only ever did in the pit. Pointing. At him.
"You drove all that way," he said, almost to himself, "and you're not even a little afraid?"
You laughed. It seemed like such a strange thing to say.
"Why would I be afraid of you?"
He smiled, close-lipped. It didn't quite reach the brightness in his eyes.
"No," he said. "Course you're not."
He knew it. That was the thing that stopped his unbeating heart cold. He knew that scent— had known it for weeks, had felt it move through him warm, rare and impossible. B-negative.
Not long from the host, she said. Don't ask me who. And he hadn't. Here was the answer standing in front of him in a washed-soft shirt with the word Sunshine painted across it.
It was her. The blood he'd drunk was hers.
Something in him went extremely quiet and impossibly loud at the same time. A trance, almost— the room narrowed to a single point— her. Everything else felt gray and irrelevant. He'd already tasted her.
It was still in him— her blood— singing, part of him now, and his body had learned the shape of her. And it wanted the rest. Craved it.
He noticed everything. He couldn't stop noticing. The sweat still drying at her hairline from dancing on a packed floor for him. The flush on her cheeks that had bloomed the second he'd stepped closer, nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with him. The line of her throat. The way she held herself, tipped slightly toward him like a plant toward a window, all unguarded warmth pointed straight at the most dangerous thing in the room.
She was beautiful. He let himself see it, which was its own mistake. Not the painted-on beauty of the people who usually made it back here— something better, something free and unfiltered, sweat, a cracked-print shirt and eyes so wide open they hurt to look at.
Under all of it, beneath the shirt, the flush, the babbling and the light, was that sound.
Her heart.
He could hear it the way he heard everything, but this was different, this was loud and strong, that happy carousel-gallop, the healthy, fullest sound in the world, a heart without fear. He could see it, if he let his eyes drop half an inch. The pulse in her neck. The soft flutter under her skin, keeping time, offering.
B-negative moves through her and he had tasted it, he knew what it was, and knowing was so much worse than not.
His fangs came down.
He didn't decide it. There was no deciding left in him. They lengthened against his tongue, sharp, eager and entirely beyond his control. He pressed his lips shut and prayed she couldn't see. She couldn't. She was still talking, still glowing, still asking him something with that open, unafraid face.
Why would I be afraid of you?
And there— right there— some old animal part of her did clock it. Just for a second. A flicker behind her eyes, a small instinctive stutter in that big strong heart, the faintest spike of something that wasn't quite fear, gone almost before it arrived.
It should have shamed him. It didn't. God help him, it did the opposite. That small spike, that tiny honest jolt of a body recognizing a predator— lit him up. It made the craving worse, sharper, unbearable, because now she was afraid and warm and she still wasn't stepping back. The wanting rose up in him like a tide with no shoreline.
He wanted to drink. Plain. Simple. He wanted to close the distance and put his mouth to that flutter in her throat and take what was already partly his, and keep taking. He knew— with a clarity that was almost peaceful— exactly how it would go. How her heart would change its tune. How the light would go out by degrees.
That was what stopped him. Not decency. Not restraint, whatever he'd told himself, whatever he'd told her. Just the certainty— cold and complete— that if he started he would not stop. Could not. There would be no sip. There was never going to be a just a sip with her. He would empty her right there in the concrete hallway with her favorite shirt on and her hands reaching for him. It would be the best thing he had ever felt, and then she would be gone. Forever.
So he held still. He pulled back on the centuries-old instinct inside him and smiled, close-lipped, hiding the teeth.
"No," he said softly. "Course you're not."
She stepped closer, and the smell of her reached him fully. The floor dropped out below him and still, he did not move, he did not breathe. Inside he came apart entirely.
The push and pull between them is magnetic before they’ve even fully seen each other. The self denial on Bucky’s end and the obsession on her is soo soo delicious!
I'm finding it really hard to get the motivation to write lately.
I'm not sure if it's lack of reader engagement, lack of people around to just shoot the shit about fic with, or some combination of both.
But my motivation's in the toilet.
Do I have ideas? Things I want to write?
Yes, too many.
But I just can't seem to find the motivation to actually put pen to paper, metaphorically speaking.
It's hard not to think that I'm watching the community I've loved for over 2 decades go under in favour of generically churned out "content", a desire to be popular, and AI slop.
Maybe that's the demotivating part?
I'm not sure.
I miss having people around to just talk fic with whenever.
I miss comments.
I miss the community we used to have.
The one where it didn't matter if your fic was popular, or if you and your friends were in the same fandom.
The one where you and your small group of friends read everything the others wrote, and encouraged each other to just write the worst most self-indulgent crap because it was fun.
I’m so sorry, Mara! I’m here to cheer you on and I’ve enjoyed our chat. I’ve been too later into fandom world to have experienced that fandom utopia you describe but I hope you’re able to find a slice of that again in some shape
Brotherly Protection Details and the Boyfriends who Avoid Them: Chapter 1
Sweet as Sugar
Author's Note: this is the first leg for the writer relay hosted by @star-and-shield-collective. I'm passing the baton to @daydreamgoddess14 (y'all wish her well because I don't know I gave her much).
Summary: Bucky goes to visit his sister but something seems... different.
Word Account: we'll just say 1,400
Of course this is on AO3 because we support the archive!
It never failed to surprise Bucky just how friendly some of the residents were at the assisted living facility his sister resided at. They always wanted him to stop and chat for a few minutes, especially some of the veterans. The ones from his era were far and few in-between and that bothered him more and more.
Even though he would be in the building or sometimes just on the grounds near the parking lot, it would sometimes take Bucky 20 minutes to make it from the lobby to Becca’s hall. He gave a polite nod to the receptionist as he passed by her. She made brief eye contact with him as she signed for a package from the UPS driver.
“Oh! Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Proctor isn't in right now,” she relayed.
Bucky stopped walking. Becca was in her 90’s. She didn't go anywhere very fast so how had he missed her?
“Where is she?”
The receptionist gave a small shrug. “She didn't say, she just signed out and said “with friends”. She left about 30 minutes ago.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, not at the receptionist doing her job, but the fact his sister was still being an annoying little sister even now. “Did she say when she'll be back?”
The young lady shook her head. “I'm sorry.”
Bucky just shook his head and turned around giving her a wave as he left. This was the second time this had happened this week. She was always out with friends. Would it kill her to text him or call? He knew she knew how. She was always sending him memes that her grandchildren sent her.
“Hey, Jim!” A man's voice called from behind him.
Bucky stopped and turned around. “Hey Nate, how's it going?”
“Still alive,” Nate said with a small shrug as he shook Bucky’s hand. “My niece is taking me out for lunch, want to join us?” he asked, gesturing to the woman behind his wheelchair.
Bucky paused to think about Becca and her 'out with friends'. “I don't want to be a burden on your day out…” The first time Bucky had met Nate's niece, you, Bucky had thought you were a picture. He nearly beat himself up over that thought too. A picture. Like this was 1930 and his mom was talking to him about cute girls.
“You won't be a burden, it'll be fun,” you said to reassure him. While you enjoyed visiting with your uncle, it would be nice to have something to look at in the form of Bucky. “We planned on lunch and then maybe the mall. Uncle Nate wants new clothes.”
“Alright, sure, let's go.”
Lunch with you and Nate had been nice. Bucky was much more relaxed than he anticipated he'd be for such a last minute thing.
“Y'know, Jim, your sister is just the kindest person on the planet. I've been around a long time, I would know.” Nate turned to you. “She gets these cookies from …” he paused trying to recall the name. “David's! She orders them from Davids and they are fantastic. She'll give me a cookie here and there. But she's not kind just because of the cookies, no, she's just a good person. Always talking with folks and making people feel heard. She's just a great lady.”
Bucky listened intently to the praise. He knew his sister was an amazing person, even if he missed most of her accomplishments.
You watched Bucky as he heard the words your uncle was saying and saw Bucky’s face change slightly. His face got softer; he clearly loved his sister very much.
A few days later, Bucky tried again. The same receptionist was on duty and he raised an eyebrow as he passed. She gave him a nod; she was too busy to talk to Bucky today, Mr. UPS was back with more packages, Bucky thought he saw a David's Cookies box in the mix. That had to be for Becca. At least Becca could make time in her busy schedule for him today.
As Bucky was walking up the hall, he saw one of the nurses exiting Becca's room. “Alright, Mrs. Proctor, I'll quit taking up so much of your time today. We can get together later to discuss Goncharov more. Have you seen the extended version?” He asked as he stepped more into the hall. “Oh you haven't? That has got to change. I'll swing by later. Thanks again for the cookie.” He shut the door and nodded at Bucky. "Hello Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Proctor has been looking forward to seeing you.”
Bucky nodded and he turned to stare at the nurse as he walked on. Something felt…off. He knocked on Rebecca's door. “Open up, I know you've got the goods.”
It took a few minutes but finally the door opened, “You're late. You said 2 o clock. I gave those cookies away.”
“Liar,” Bucky said, stepping into the room, and once in the door was shut, gave his sister a hug and a kiss on the top of her head. Becca didn't have a means of cooking, but she could buy the cookies Bucky loved. “Besides it's only” - he checked his watch - “2:25. Tell your neighbors to stop talking when I visit and maybe I'll be on time.”
“You could always get here early so you're on time,” she said and went back to her chair, gesturing for him to join her. “There's a container on the table. Grab a pop from the fridge.”
Bucky grabbed the container off the table and sat near to her. “So what's this I hear about you going out with friends all hours of the night?” He was exaggerating slightly.
“What I do on my own time is my own business. Who snitched?”
Bucky put the container on his lap and held up his hands. “I'm not revealing my sources.”
Becca tsked. “I bet it's Holly at the desk. She's sweet on you. You should ask her to go out dancing.”
Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “I'm pretty sure she's barely 18. That is not my thing. Besides, I think she's into a delivery driver.”
Becca gave a non-committal noise but seemed a bit surprised. “Was it Ross?”
Bucky shrugged off her question. “I didn't get his name. You got a sweetheart, sis? You going out dancing?”
Becca just scoffed. “Do I look like I could go out dancing? I'd break a hip if I tried.”
He shook his head. “I think you're stronger than what you let on. You've been doing those exercise classes, haven't you?”
“Yeah…”
“We should go out dancing sometime. Be like old times. We go together and then ditch the other once we meet someone.”
Becca just laughed, “I don't think so, Jim.”
“So where are you and this gang of roaming seniors going off to?”
“If you must know, I found a group of people who play pickleball seated. It's fun.”
Bucky frowned. “Why didn't you tell me? I can take you.”
Becca just gave him a look that was reminiscent of their ma when she was annoyed. “No, thank you. I can go out with friends on my own. I have a life alert and my phone which has you as a contact should I need it. I'm fully capable.”
Bucky looked at the floor, “yes ma'am, alright, message received. You do know that I'm connected to lots of people and can find out information,” he was absolutely trying to rile her up. He wouldn't violate her privacy.
“James Barnes. You will not. I'm not a child.”
“No, but you're still my little sister.”
“You're still a pain in my ass. Do you want to go downstairs and play Phase 10?”
He just nodded “sure, sure, lead the way. You'll be glad to know that Alpine jumped me in the bathroom the other night…”
“Good. Someone else needs to keep you in line. Which is why you need to find someone to marry. Get you a good woman - or man, I don't care - and settle down. I'd like to be someone's aunt before I'm dead. It's taken you long enough as it is.”
“Sorry, sis, I didn't mean to hold up your plans for my life,” he said as he held out his arm for her to take as they walked out the room.
We're accepting submissions for the July Challenge through August 10th.
This August, our prompts will be all pictures.
The challenge will run through to September 10th!
Prompts
One
Two
Three
Bonus Prompt
(because it's a raccoon!)
Please tag us and use #ssmchallenge , #ssmaugust2026 when you post your submission to your blog.
You are eligible to receive a commenter badge if you have commented on at least 1 of entries this month. Please DM us a link with your comment to claim your badge.
How to use these prompts?
You can use these images to draw inspiration for a fic - it can be the mood of picture, an element from it, a setting etc.,
You can fulfill as many prompts as you like.
How it works | Submission Guide
This month's badges:
We'll make you badges with whichever prompt or prompts you chose!
Example:
Participating
We don't accept any AI generatred work. Submitters of AI work will recevice a warning and then continued use will result in a ban.
Creating
We accept the following creative work: Writing, Art -traditional, digital, Image manipulations, Moodboards, Playlists, Podfics. If you're not sure whether your work qualifies, please reach out.
We will queue your submission as soon as we can. If your post recevies a 'Like' that means it has been queued.
Please read our submission guide before you make an entry.
Commenting
You can also participate by commenting and sharing! This is a community focused event, and we strongly encourage you to read and comment on other entries to the challenge, especially if they are writers and artists you do not typically interact with.
You are eligible to receive a commenter badge if you have commented on at least 1 of entries this month. Please DM us a link with your comment to claim your badge.
If it has been over 10 days since you posted or submitted a form and you haven't gotten a badge from us yet, please politely send this blog a DM.
the picnic has ended, the sparklers have burned out, and the blankets have finally been folded away. 🧺❤️
firstly, thank you to everyone who joined picnic blanket prompts, the captain america birthday writing collaboration celebrating summer, sunshine, and all the little moments that make a story feel like home. whether you wrote one drabble, fic, series or several stories, thank you for bringing your characters to the picnic and sharing them with me.
below the cut will be the event statistics followed by the picnic blanket archive, which has every story from the event and its author. just seeing this list alone makes me so happy and i can't wait to read them all!
EVENT STATISTICS 🍋
stories written: 43
participating authors: 13
total word count: 60.2k+
most common prompt: 🪵 WOODEN FENCE 🪵
leaning, waiting → watching from afar / longing / quiet observation
“You’ve been standing there a while.” / “I didn’t think you’d notice me.” / “You always look like you’re about to leave.”
characters featured: Pope Cody ⋮ Bucky Barnes ⋮ Adrian Chase ⋮ Steve Rogers ⋮ Joaquin Torres ⋮ Loki Laufeyson ⋮ Leon Kennedy ⋮ Cameron Cassmore ⋮ Sam Wilson ⋮ Bob Reynolds ⋮ Mel Gold ⋮ Dean Di Laurentis ⋮ Clark Kent ⋮ Benjamin Poindexter ⋮ Kara Zor-El
THE PICNIC BLANKET ARCHIVE 🍉🌻
below you'll find every story submitted during the event. stories are organized by order of entry.
authors that made a masterlist for the event will be linked, and those that have done individual stories will have their main masterlist/blog linked. each author will have the prompt(s) emoji they used alongside their name.
please heed all warnings on every authors fic as some could have 18+ mature content. don't forget to support your writers by liking, commenting and reblogging to show your love!
EVENT MASTERLIST
⤷ authors who created a specific masterlist for the event.
july writing event — @suturettee | 🪵 🌻
INDIVIDUAL ENTRIES
⤷ authors who didn't make a separate masterlist. these links will bring you to their blog/main masterlist.
to every writer who participated—thank you for sharing your summer with me. truly, this idea started off as a little one off with a friend and has turned into something so awesome and i couldn't be more thankful for you all.
thank you for every picnic date, every fireworks confession, every slow dance beneath backyard lights, every messy water balloon fight, every almost-kiss during golden hour, every story that reminded us why we love these characters.
this archive will remain available as a permanent collection, so even after the season ends, the picnic will always be here waiting.
This is a small Steve moment that came out of a writing exercise from last night.
Prompt: Tombstones are Greedy
Warnings: Angst, suicidal thoughts
The bouquet was beautiful. Red tulips, purple wisteria, and a smattering of baby’s breath. All of her favorites. It wasn’t long after he woke that Steve visited the cemetery where his mother was buried.
As Steve trudges up the sun-dappled path to his mother’s tombstone, his mind flashes back to the last time he was here. It was just after he’d received the serum, bright-eyed and with high hopes that he might be allowed join the War. A hope that was taken away just as soon as he’d held it in his hands. He barely had time to map the wild shape of it nor revel in its weight.
It slipped away, along with Eskrine’s final breaths.
Half a century had changed the cemetery. The trees grew thick, the grass wilder and greener, and graves sat crowded together.
Steve reaches Sarah’s grave. His father’s sits next to her’s. His own isn’t with theirs. No, he had the high honor of being buried in Arlington. Perhaps, they’ve removed it now. Who’s to say?
Moss dusts the gravestones, and brambles grow around it, untamed and unkept. Steve sets to clearing the foliage.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long, Ma.” Steve whispers, as he removes a bush curled around the base of the headstone. “I didn’t mean to be away for so long.”
The next words are stuck in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. He could barely make out the contours of the new ache of living himself. Instead, he lays down the bouquet at the base of the stone. He stands there wordlessly for a long time, his fingers running over the smooth stone craving for his mother’s comforting touch.
When the sky begins to darken, he takes one long look at the grave before taking train back to his foreign Brooklyn apartment.
The next time he visits, he finds more words.
Words to say how lonely he feels, to express this strange homesickness when he was already home, the everyday shock and delight of a home changed overnight.
Later, the darker confessions come out. The futility of sacrifice, his and a thousand other soldiers, the yearning for the peace of his icy tomb, and deep ravine of pain and confusion of thousand unnamed things.
We're accepting submissions for the July Challenge through August 10th.
August prompts will be posted August 1st.
For regularly occurring or ongoing events, check out our evergreen list.
Here’s what else is happening:
• Augustrope 2026, hosted by @belindarimbi13
• AU-gust, hosted by @thepromptfoundry
• Ficwip5K, hosted by @ficwip5k
• Siri’s Birthday Bash, hosted by @stargazingfangirl18 (runs Aug 15-18)
• Word Scramble, hosted by @wordscramble
• Angust in Space includes daily prompts and a bingo card, hosted by @angust-in-space
Dates to Remember:
• MiniStuckyBingo round one, hosted by @ministuckybingo:
⠀ ⠀⤷ Late sign-ups for pre-made cards run from August 15th-22nd
⠀ ⠀⤷ Round ends December 31st
• Marvel Bang, hosted by @marvelbang
⠀ ⠀⤷ Sign-ups end August 29th
⠀ ⠀⤷ Posting begins November 7th
• Stucky Bingo round 7 is currently active, hosted by @stuckybingo:
⠀ ⠀⤷ Sign-ups for pre-made cards go until October 2nd
⠀ ⠀ ⤷ Round ends October 31st
Note: You may combine our monthly challenges' prompts with other open events and submit an entry. Please check with other events if they are okay with combining prompts before you make a submission.
PS: If you are hosting or know about open events in the recent future and want to be included in our round-ups, please send us an ask or reach out to @stanmarvelous!
Andy, Steve and reader will (I hope) have a pretty interesting dynamic! Steve, being stressed out by being the moral compass of basically everything needs a place where he’s not in charge. Andy and reader…they’re going to be that place for him.
I’m hoping for it to be super smutty, but also super fun and a look at their relationship as a whole 😊
For new events and challenges every month, please see our monthly round-ups.
Weekly Challenges:
• Flash Fiction Friday, hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
⠀ ⠀⤷ New prompts posted every Friday at 12pm CET and run for 24 hours.
Biweekly Challenges:
• Bucky Barnes Microfic, hosted by @buckybarnesmicrofic
Open-Ended Challenges:
• Various challenges, hosted by @caplanreblogsfics
Monthly Updates:
• Monthly Writing Challenge, hosted by @monthlywritingchallenges
• Marvelous Yahtzee!, hosted by @marvelousyahtzee
• Trope Variety Hour, hosted by @tropevarietyhour
Note: You may combine our monthly challenges' prompts with other open events and submit an entry. Please check with other events if they are okay with combining prompts before you make a submission.
PS: If you are hosting or know about open events in the recent future and want to be included in our round-ups, please send us an ask or reach out to @stanmarvelous!
This is a small Steve moment that came out of a writing exercise from last night.
Prompt: Tombstones are Greedy
Warnings: Angst, suicidal thoughts
The bouquet was beautiful. Red tulips, purple wisteria, and a smattering of baby’s breath. All of her favorites. It wasn’t long after he woke that Steve visited the cemetery where his mother was buried.
As Steve trudges up the sun-dappled path to his mother’s tombstone, his mind flashes back to the last time he was here. It was just after he’d received the serum, bright-eyed and with high hopes that he might be allowed join the War. A hope that was taken away just as soon as he’d held it in his hands. He barely had time to map the wild shape of it nor revel in its weight.
It slipped away, along with Eskrine’s final breaths.
Half a century had changed the cemetery. The trees grew thick, the grass wilder and greener, and graves sat crowded together.
Steve reaches Sarah’s grave. His father’s sits next to her’s. His own isn’t with theirs. No, he had the high honor of being buried in Arlington. Perhaps, they’ve removed it now. Who’s to say?
Moss dusts the gravestones, and brambles grow around it, untamed and unkept. Steve sets to clearing the foliage.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long, Ma.” Steve whispers, as he removes a bush curled around the base of the headstone. “I didn’t mean to be away for so long.”
The next words are stuck in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. He could barely make out the contours of the new ache of living himself. Instead, he lays down the bouquet at the base of the stone. He stands there wordlessly for a long time, his fingers running over the smooth stone craving for his mother’s comforting touch.
When the sky begins to darken, he takes one long look at the grave before taking train back to his foreign Brooklyn apartment.
The next time he visits, he finds more words.
Words to say how lonely he feels, to express this strange homesickness when he was already home, the everyday shock and delight of a home changed overnight.
Later, the darker confessions come out. The futility of sacrifice, his and a thousand other soldiers, the yearning for the peace of his icy tomb, and deep ravine of pain and confusion of thousand unnamed things.
As a fic writer with anxiety here is my PSA for any fic readers that also have anxiety about kudos and comments:
No we don't think it's weird if you kudos or comment an older fic. Quite the opposite. We love it! I often end up rereading my old fics and remembering who and where I was when I wrote them and the memories I have attached to them.
A string of emojis is better than no comment. I don't need eloquent paragraphs.
Similarly keyboard smashes are also fun! They almost always make me laugh.
Leaving cute things in the tags of reblogs is not cringe. I love them. I love seeing them. Also you wanted to share my writing?? I immediately love you.
Likes and kudos are great if that's what you have spoons for, but if you can leave even just a heart or a reblog with no tags then it will always mean the world to me.
Sending me asks about my fics will probably make my day!
Please tell me I'm not the only one who has to schedule lewd inspiration into the two days a month the well isn't parchment dry. Desire evaporates immediately afterwards. All unfinished content will have to wait until the next wave. :')
