I am a Marvel OC who was in a relationship with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes who I called James exclusively. Steve and I had one daughter, Afciel and she was a mutant like me. Tony and I hated each other. They/Them currently looking for Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes and Afciel but if I sound familiar to anyone else hmu
1. How many living parents does your OC have? If they're alive, where are they now and what's your OC's relationship with them? If they're dead, how did they die?
2. What was your OC's first job? Do they still work that job (or in that field), or do they do something else now?
3. How did your OC feel the first time they left home? Why did they leave?
4. What was your OC's childhood dream? Is that still their dream? If it has changed, why did it change and what's their new dream?
5. What did your OC think their life would be like when they grew up? Has it lived up to that expectation?
6. Did your OC have a teacher or a mentor growing up? What was your OC's relationship with them like?
7. Where is your OC's family from? Does your OC feel a close connection to that place? Why or why not?
8. Were there expectations placed on your OC when they were growing up? Have they lived up to those expectations?
9. Did your OC receive any kind of schooling? What did they study? How were they as a student?
10. What's the first significant injury your OC remembers getting? Did it leave any scars?
11. What was your OC scared of as a child? Are they still scared of that?
12. Does your OC's family practice any faith or religion? Does your OC still practice? Why or why not?
13. Does your OC have any siblings? What was their relationship with their siblings growing up? If they were an only child, did they want siblings?
14. Who was your OC's first love? How do they remember that person now?
15. What was comforting to your OC as a child? Do they still find comfort in that now?
16. What does your OC's childhood bedroom look like?
17. How deeply connected is your OC to their past? How do they feel about that connectionādoes it hinder or help them in any way?
18. If your OC were to return to their childhood home now, what would that look like? How would they feel?
19. What traditions or stories does your OC carry forward from their childhood to the rest of their life?
20. What were the most idyllic years of your OC's childhood? Does your OC miss those days?
21. If your OC could speak to their childhood self, what would they say?
1. No living parents. Pap died of Scarlet fever or something in 1859. Last thing he ever said to me was "you'll do grea' t'ings" (pap had a heavy Irish accent). I'm not sure when mama died or how because I was disowned at the age of 18. But I'm sure she lived a long life. Abusers usually do.
2. Pap was a farmer and I helped him do the work so I suppose my first job was farmer/handyman, after that I was a union soldier in the US Civil War, then a coal miner, fought facists in World War 1, I don't remember what I did between WWI and WWII other than change my name to Minna (I don't remember what my deadname was but I know I asked pap to call me Minna when I was like 12) and forge new legal paperwork, I fought fascists in WWII where I met Steve Rogers and James Barnes, After that I became a SHIELD asset.
3. Bittersweet. It sucked to be disowned by my only living parents, but I got to start living my life now and do those "grea' t'ings" pap told me I would be doing.
4. My dream was to live up to Pap's expectations and make him proud. Which mean lots of activism for mutants and other minorities. I kept fighting for civil rights until the end.
5. No. God no. I thought I would always be stuck under mother's thumb, but then she disowned me and it got better. It got worst a few times, hut I ended up with 2 husband's that loved me and a child I would die for.
6. Pap. We were best friends and I think I was the favorite child out of 15 because we both were mutants. Pap's power was the ability to see the future.
7. Clover, North Carolina. I left for the north and never went back. Fuck that place, especially that home
8. Mama expected me to be a perfect southern belle and I ripped those expectations up and tossed them in the trash a long time ago because I was nonbinary and enjoyed doing "men's work". I do believe I lived up to Pap's expectations though.
9. I don't think I ever really did school. Anything I learned, I taught myself, like computer coding.
10. Being struck by an Artillery shell in WWI. I managed to avoid cannon fire during the Civil War but not the artillery shell. Fortunately one of my powers is an incredibly powerful healing factor. So no scars
11. I don't remember
12. They were all Catholics. Not me.
13. I was the oldest out of 15, 12 girls, 2 boys and me. One of my brothers was 7 years younger than me, the other was the youngest child. I got along best with my oldest brother.
14. Steve. Rogers. Never stopped loving him. Never stopped missing him after he died, even when I became a ghost.
15. I don't remember
16. You seen Old Yeller? Looked like that.
17. I had no real attachment to my past because I always kept moving, but I often thought of Pap. My experiences as a mutant drove me to fight for equality.
18. It probably isn't even standing, but if it is, I probably wouldn't feel one way or the other.
19. Nothing. 275 years is a long time to remember every little thing
20. The what of my childhood?
21. It's gonna get worse but trust me, it's gonna get a lot better, just keep an eye out for Steve and James
summary: Captain America hasnāt been home in years and itās turned him into something a little lost, a little broken.
a/n: Hi hi!! Guess who's back on the Nomad Steve angst/smut train after 5 months??? 3k words. Please stop reading if you're not 18+ This is very Clumsy adjacent.
--
Captain America hasnāt been home in years and itās turned him into something a little lost, a little broken. Going dark on the United States government when itās put a price on your head will do that, he supposes. Heās even picked up a new habit of flinching at shadows despite maneuvering in them for eternity.
Not eternity, but heās dramatic and full throttle. Never once learned that some things can be half-measures, can be compromised on. Heās got his handful of soldiersāfriendsā and he canāt forget that theyāre friends because soldiers are pawns and friends are crucial.
Back then, he was just a newly reanimated statuette, a votive figurine to justice rendered flesh and bone and so damn brittle. And how could he believe it would last? The entire thing fell apart within a few yearsāa team scattered to pieces; an entire nationās vision discarded on the side of the road.
A lot of Americans are angry with him for that, and most days he tries not to be angry at himself, which is stupid according to you and Sam and Nat. But being angry at propaganda and history and circumstances is too intangible to do much with, so at least being angry with himself means he can kneel into a fight, leave too little in the tank for the trip back, find a way to be punished for his transgressions.
Heād always been reckless, but itās becoming a flag much to red to ignore.
You tell him heās got a death wish. Plain and simple: keep it up and youāll die, and nothing more, leaving the jet ride in silence, everyone averting their eyes. But he just wipes the blood out of his mouth and says, āHasnāt seemed to work out for me yet.ā
Back at the houseāthe house, not his house, or anybodyās house, certainly not a home in its unremarkable exterior, interior, living spaces cobbled together with rickety, mismatched furniture and chipped ceramic kitchenwareāhe returns to his book. Sinks himself into the reading nook and opens it up to a page heās been pretending to pay attention to.
Natasha showers first, Sam crashes into his bed face-down, and you linger by the old T.V., poking at the adjacent radio.
āHey, death boy.ā
He looks up, startled. āDeath boy?ā
āYeah,ā you grin, glancing over your shoulder. āDeath boy. Your new superhero name.ā
You say it breezily, eyes half-mast because itās been a real dog-shit kind of day and even Steve can hardly focus.
Samās dead to the world and Natās going on 30 minutes under water, so itās a fair estimate to say that itās to the point where he can feel how powered-down his brain is, and that if he tries to speak more than three phrases at a time, itāll hardly make any damn sense. Or, inevitably, make matters worse.
He tries for controlled, comes out not so much. āItās a little morbid, donāt you think?ā
You gasp, scandalized. āSilly me, you havenāt been morbid at all recently. Gosh, itās not like you were trying to get guttedāhe was swinging so wide and slow, how could I think youād manage dodging in time?ā You clasp your hands over your mouth dramatically, āHow could I suggestāā
āThatās enough.ā Steve pinches his nose-bridge with one hand and closes the book with the other. Heās going to drown himself in the bathtub when Natashaās finishedāgo dramaābut heās grinning a little bit, not dumb enough to hide when heās been caught out.
You punch a button on the radio, tune it to a station thatās only slightly screeching with interference. Thereās a discernible piano melody but he doesnāt know the song. You tap along, feeling out the rhythm, and then you cast your eyes to the reading nook heās crushed into before pointing at the middle of the floor.
For all his miserable ruminating he always forgets to account for you at the end of the day, standing there and waiting for him like heās got any choice. He declares all sorts of bullshit about how making the right decision can feel like no decision at all when itās inherently justified; reason should feel like reflex, ethics an extension. But lately, the only reflex heās felt is closer to vanishing.
Heās disappearing from view a little more each night, reduced to a crumbling idol of an endangered faith because humanityās stopped believing in him and part of him is following the same course. Heās become an old relic chipped away in the flow of time, and some days heād rather just be good and gone.
Keep it up and youāll die.
Part of him already has. Part of himās already in the ground.
āCome on,ā you say with a surprising amount of patience, eyes soft and hand extended. āAre you gonna get up or am I gonna have to drag your ass again?ā
The song is plunking away, cutting in and out intermittently, notes quivering on scratches of static. Natās started to dry her hair, the sound like a tornado alarm trapped in a bathroom but itās persistent, fighting the wailing blow-dryer for an audience. Sheās probably freezing cold because the houseās water heater is shoddy at best and Sam can fix that but heās been exhausted lately and no oneās going to complain because theyāve never complained about their situation-- not once.
He bites down, frowns a little deeper, but then heās on his feet, giving chase like you could take him somewhere whole and unbroken. Somewhere heās been craving for. His hands around your waist are careful, resting his chin on top of your head as you nuzzle in.
He asks through gritted teeth, āListening for a heartbeat?ā
āI know where your heart is.ā
Heās so goddamn maudlin, canāt stop the bitterness from lashing out. āWhereās that?ā
āWith us, death boy. With me.ā
He makes a noncommittal sound, dismissive and very, very rude of him, but heās on a roll and wonāt be appeased. You lazily read the lines of his face with stunned eyes, then touch your nose to his bearded chin as you lean up.
You stroke his scalp, spinning the feathery ends of his long hair. āYou want to be hurt so bad, donāt you?ā Your nails rake down the length of his strong neck. āIs that what youāre used to? Is it more comfortable that way?ā
āEnough,ā he murmurs faintly, but makes no move to push you away, only stepping in time, rocking along. When your hand tightens into a fist to pull at him, he bites down, shuts his eyes. You do it again, harder, and then let go, letting your fingers spread at the base of his skull, cradling it like a child.
āYou want to be beaten within an inch of your life, want to be pried open so you can check if youāre still capable of dying.ā Cold words, but your breath is hot, and heās starting to feel itāthat telltale shiver at the base of his spine at the way you wonāt break eye contact.
āI know, I know,ā you coo, āit hasnāt happened yet.ā You move away, smiling big and dark and glistening with promise. āBut listen, Steve, all you have to do is ask.ā
He canāt tell what expression heās making, only that your pupils open to swallow him. Youāre staring at him, not through him. Taking in his flesh and the warm blood cascading down his face.
The night is taking its toll, it seems. Collecting on long, hard hours, making the both of you reckless.
He thinks about months ago, and the complication of ethics in the way.
Not sleeping with teammates, not losing the fucking plot no matter how much he craved losing it for a couple of hours. There were several weeks before it went sideways, before Bucharest and the Accords, where he spent doing nothing but dedicating himself to daydreaming. He sank into the quiver of his own body as he imagined you and everything he wanted to know by touch.
There were dances, like this. Swaying back and forth in Samās backyard and gala celebrations, onlookers getting a few ideas about what his eyes were communicating when heād trace the curve of your shoulders or the delicate insides of your wrists. How everyone else might follow Captain America into the jaws of death but heād follow only you, headlong, beyond, and into the goddamn afterlife if you asked him.
But there was a line he couldnāt cross. A soft, tangerine horizon much too far out of his reach when the dark was at his back, beating him to the ground. Making him flinch from warmth because entanglement was too complicated and love was too kind.
Tony asked him what it felt like to fuck up so astronomically. Nat only clucked her tongue, more disappointment in a single sound than Steve had heard from many grand lectures.
Because you would have been vibrant and glorious, damn it. You would have giggledā giggledā when you made love, crooned his name like a songbird and touched him everywhere, all at once. You would have kissed fire back into him, licked your way into the center of that votive figurine and traced his broken heart. You would have excavated him, clawed him out clean, led him into the light.
So, he knows. He knew then, knows now, knows for the rest of his days when heās let a beautiful thing slip through his fingers.
But sometimes, this happens and his hands feel like theyāve still held on despite his attempts. Sometimes you brush his knuckles, smile at him small and sweet and come into his makeshift room, sit on the side of his bed and exist side by side. Sometimes there wouldnāt even be conversation.
But when you linger by the door, gaze slowly raking down the length of his body and his throat, his mouth, all ten of his fingertipsāgod, what he wouldnāt give then, to take you to the floor and declare fuck it.
Fuck ethics and fuck his entire life, if needed, because there was only you, only what heād been needing for ages, only that brilliant and terrifying afterlife awaiting him.
The reflex, then, is not to disappear anymore, but to kneel in.
You say, both hands come to rest around his throatā because youāve seen him now, seen him the entire time, āIf you want it that much, Steve, I can give it to you. A hundred tiny deaths, so sweet and good, until it hurts so bad you really do feel like youāre dying.ā
He gulps, Adamās apple catching each of your fingers on the way up and back down. Says, āYeah,ā before he even registers it. He blurts, going cold and hot and shell-shocked, āIād let you do anything you want.ā
Just then, the bathroom door clatters open and Natasha steps out, towel wrapped around her as she pads across the living space toward her room.
She looks from you to Steve, briefly studying the single foot of distance between your faces, the forgotten music, the way he canāt seem to keep his breathing in order.
The way youāve got his throat in your hands.
She doesnāt even stop as she passes by, carding her fingers through her hair for a final act of detangling. āWilson sleeps heavy,ā she yawns, which implies, I donāt, so keep whatever the hell it is you two are doing down.
Then sheās gone with only pressure left in her wake. Only his breath fighting with his lungs, his belly tight and hot and his flavorless mouth so fucking starved for yours.
You raise a judgmental eyebrow after he does nothing for a beat too long, too lost in potential backpedaling to advance the plot. Ā āThatās not asking, Steve.ā
Heās stupid, dizzy, like heās been dropped on his head, but not that stupid. He canāt keep his eyes off your mouth. Doesnāt even know if he says it, but tries anyway, āWill you please,ā and the rest goes out the window. You lean in. You kiss him better than he could ever have imagined.
-
Heās living the teenage years he never had.
You kiss him like youāve got all the time in the worldālike it isnāt past four in the morning and the both of you are one silent minute away from slipping into unconsciousness. You kiss lazy and slow and sublime. You press a thumb at the corner of his mouth, touch inside of him, and he wants to do it back. But he wants it right.
āThis,ā he starts, almost whimpering when you run your teeth beneath his ear, molding your body to his, the two of you staggering into the wall and the end table and poor Natasha across the house must be digging up her earplugs. āIām not good withācasualāā
āYeah, you donāt think I know that?ā You only pause for enough air to hassle him before taking his hands, your own so small over them, so much power over him, and place them on your waist. āYou donāt think I know youāre an all-in kind of guy?ā
Of course, you know. Of course, anyone whoās ever heard of Steven Grant Rogers can figure it out. Itās always going to be full throttle for him. Casual isnāt a word that exists in his dictionary, and he wonāt compromise on that. He couldnāt do this any other way because now he wants to do it allāto feel you, inside out, across time and the universe and infinity.
He shucks off your clothes, doesnāt mind the grit of the day on your skin, wants it even, to know what youāre like every hour of every day. He tears off his own tac gear, canāt keep his mouth off yours for even a second as he stumbles across the floor.
When he reaches the bed, you climb on top, warm between your legs and so perfect over his thigh. Heās rocking his hips against yours, mouthing at your breasts, grabbing your ass and waist and snarling into your neck like an animal. Lazy and slow twists into frantic and desperate, him throbbing and throbbing against your skin.
He leans back, takes you down with him, bra strap limp at your elbows, panties to the side and he wedges back between the space of his thigh and your sex. He wantsāwants.
āYouāre warm,ā he breathes.
When he pulls out, thereās a sloppy noise following your moan and he rubs his fingers together, awed at the glistening web slipping down to his palm.
One finger becomes two, the coat of slick up to his knuckles and heās using too much tongue when he kisses you but you donāt mind that at all.
Heās not any kind of virgin but he really feels like one. In the sense that heās turned on by everything. Too much stimulation. On his skin, in his brain, heās immersed in one second while predicting the next, seeing the possible ways it could go. Too much pent-up desire swells up the length of his cock as he palms and presses it against the underside of your thigh for contact. His chest is heaving, breath stuttery, eyes wild and unfocused.
You grab his face, pull him away from your collar. Youāre only a slight mess, but Christ, what a sight. He must be about fifty times worse because youāre grinning wide, looking him up and down as he arches forward to get you back.
You tut, āIf I really wanted to kill you,ā you say, āIād leave you right now.ā
āPlease donāt,ā he manages hoarsely, the fire in his belly lashing out.
āBecause Iām so nice.ā
āYes.ā And suddenly, his sunny face turns overcast, all the joyful cacophony from before muting. āYes, you are.ā
āSteve,ā you sigh, rubbing your forehead with your hands for something to do with them.
He hauls himself up on his elbows, starting to feel upset.
You lean back on your palms, head lolling between your shoulder blades, aggrieved.
āSorry,ā he recants.
āSteve.ā
He canāt make eye contact, but you donāt ask him to again, only touching his jaw with a finger and erasing the last few minutes with a nuzzle of your nose to his, like saying donāt worry about it, itās okay.
Then, more kissing, more of that touch he dreamed about and he wants to kick his past self for missing it, for even daring to fantasize when the real thing is so much more.
The night melts away, each hour lasting a blink or an eternityāhe canāt be bothered by it now. He figures the sunās coming up, though, because thereās that haze of early morning past the gauzy, frayed curtain.
Your palms are on his chest, pawing at him for leverage each time you grind down, each time you swallow him back inside of you. You push, like an act of resuscitationā one, two, one, twoā a rhythmic, electric, life-giving staccato beat that has him gasping for air, has him keening and groaning without any thought to how loud he might be.
And, fuck it, fuck it all. He is, admittedly, loud.
Sorry, Nat, he winces mentally before his brainās wiped clear of all thought.
Thereās nothing but you, and you, and you.
And that poor, broken heart inside of him, crushed to fine powder, being reworked into brilliance.
He lies there afterwards, gazing into the ceiling as he breathes back down to calm. Thereās the thrall of exhaustion behind his eyes but itās being overridden by a terrible, traitorous voice thatās telling him how he canāt seem to stop fucking up.
He canāt breathe suddenly, the room collapsing into a pinhole, darkness threatening the edges of his sight.
And then you say, because you always know what to say, āItās okay to be a little broken,ā you stroke his chest. āBaby, thatās how the light gets in.ā
And the morning is breaking through fully now, streaks of it clearing up his eyes, cutting him to pieces beneath you.
āYes,ā he agrees and meets you for another lengthy kiss, every shrapnel inch of him raw and searing hot. All his exposed partsāthe grief and agony and self-hatredāturned to gold. You touch his dark edges with your fingertips. You trace a new dawnās light in his hair.
āBeing brave doesnāt mean you arenāt scared. Being brave means you are scared, really scared, badly scared, and you do the right thing anyway.ā
hi im bucky barnes from marvel looking for everyone regardless of if we interacted or not !!! would also love to get to talk to nat, sam, t'challa and thor again, so if you're one of them or anyone else please like/rb/reply to this post !!! im 21 so only 18+ please
Tony Stark didn't die in my canon's endgame and that is an absolute tragedy, but at least I got to haunt his ass. I pushed a grand piano into the kitchen repeatedly, fucked up wires so he would be locked out of his lab and other work spaces for days on end and woke him up at ass crack in the morning playing piano pieces annoyingly fast and off key among other things.
Stans: you see? How can you leave the theater not crying, he saved the world! youāre heartless :(
Me, crown heartless bitch, knowing it was Bruce that brought it all back, capable understanding this is fiction and happy I wont see that fucker on screen anymore:
Remember when a 9 year old opened up to him about his feelings about his father abandoning him and he called him a pussy?
Remember when he first met Natasha and the first thing he did was google her underwear photos and sayĀ āI want oneā?Ā
Remember when Thor told him if he lifted Mjolnir heād be king of Asgard and his first thought wasĀ āIāll make it so I can rape all your brides!ā
Remember when he held Wanda captive and called her a weapon of mass destruction as if he wasnāt pretty much entirely responsible for everything that happened to her?Ā
Remember when he first met Bruce and immediately made a joke about his biggest and most obvious insecurity?
