#stuckyweek2021

[simonghostrileys]

@stucky-week day 3: Nomad!Steve (prompt 1)

[moonykat]

@stucky-week day 6: kisses

(That klaine kiss made me think about stucky, so here we are)

[buckymilf]

Day 2: till the end of the line.

prompt for @stucky-week

[selenesedits]

This is the way you left me, I'm not pretending No hope, no love, no glory, no happy ending

@stucky-week 2021 - Day 2 : Angst

[otp-holic]

Stucky Week: Angst

For @stucky-week angst... I present you with:

A lost, unshot scene where we find Bucky Barnes (The Winter Soldier) getting a glimpse of his past during a mission in 1962.

1. THE LOST SCRIPT

2. THE LOST STORYBOARD

3. THE LOST (ALREADY MADE) PROPS & CONCEPT SHOTS

4. OPENING THE SUITCASE: FROM SCRIPT TO CONCEPT ART

5. THE SCRIPT (full text) + My ramble

A festive and sunny day of 1962. Lots of people in a typical Sunday flea market in the city.

We see the WINTER SOLDIER in disguise watching a couple who is looking at old lamps across from him. The man is his new mission, so he is alert but laying low and mingling as he awaits the final order.

The couple takes a sudden turn and starts crossing the street and facing his way, so the WINTER SOLDIER turns toward the closest market stand hiding his face away from them.

The couple takes a sudden turn and starts crossing the street and facing his way, so the WINTER SOLDIER turns toward the closest market stand hiding his face away from them.

The couple takes a sudden turn and starts crossing the street and facing his way, so the WINTER SOLDIER turns toward the closest market stand hiding his face away from them.

This market stand is one of those places where they sell old pictures by the lot: full of faded photos, postcards with wet burry ink, and faces forgotten by time. But something there catches the WINTER SOLDIER‘s attention.

It’s an old suitcase. Brown stripes consumed by time framing a tag that says “SGR” in what were once shiny golden letters.

The WINTER SOLDIER is confused. Mission uncharacteristically going to the back of his mind, focus shifted to a distant recognition of something unknown.

PICTURES’STAND OWNER

(interrupting his thoughts)

They don’t do them like that anymore, uh? I believe it’s from the ’20s. A little worn on the edges but still good to go.

The WINTER SOLDIER looks at the man, confusion over his face.

PICTURES’STAND OWNER

You can open that if you want; but carefully, please, I think there’s stuff inside.

The WINTER SOLDIER says nothing but can feel himself nodding and reaching for the suitcase as if the actions were being performed by somebody else, while the PICTURES’STAND OWNER goes after another potential client.

He opens the suitcase and sees the inside: it’s filled with boxes, postcards, and pictures. An enclosed version of the stand it was lying on.

He scans the content and the feeling of recognition on those pictures lies heavily on his chest, distressing him.

He is distressed but also drawn to the handwriting on the envelopes and the faces of the young boys on the pictures that are all over the suitcase looking at him from below.

The WINTER SOLDIER is freezing. He doesn’t know who that people are, and yet...

He takes one picture in his hands: a dark haired boy (features very much like his) posing broodily somewhere that looks like an amusement park.

Something alien and unrecognizable keeps happening to the WINTER SOLDIER: He’s feeling his heart in his throat and the start of a cold sweat breaking in while a weird smell of burnt bacon and a distant voice whispering “Buck, you handsome jerk” keep sinking him more and more away from his surroundings; the need to have this picture for himself, to steal the whole suitcase full of smiling faces and run somewhere far away taking hold of him.

PICTURES’STAND OWNER

Are you ok, sir? You are a little white there. Want to take any of that… I believe it’s a bargain and…

The voice breaks the WINTER SOLDIER out of his state of mind.

Mind clearer, he knows the Winter Soldier doesn’t own things, the Winter Soldier doesn’t even own himself. The Winter Soldier doesn’t decide where to run.

What the Winter Soldier does is to follow orders, so he quickly scans the market in seach of his mission: The couple are further away that he would have liked but still easy to follow.

The WINTER SOLDIER takes one final look at the picture still in his gloved hand, recognition lost but confusion still in the back of his mind.

He leaves the picture on the suitcase and follows the couple.

My ramble and the happy ending I might explore: This has been on my "To Do" for a long time now and I don't think it's ever going to turn out the way I expected... so here it is. Decaffeinated but done. My heart suffers for poor Bucky but this scene would not leave me alone.

I'm obsessed with fanfics/art exploring what might have happened with Steve and Bucky's personal things while they were "un-alive".

My end for this particular piece is something along the lines of Becca finding it it in another Flea not long after this, and although she was shocked with some of the pictures/writings inside, she kept it because she loved the boys. Fast forward to Steve and Bucky being in the 21st century happy and together forever... and the suitcase somehow makes its way to them. I don't have the details figured out, and I want to explore all that, but in case I can't... YOU HAVE TO KNOW THIS HAS A HAPPY ENDING.

Also I will put all the manips on a separate post at some point, but right now I cannot stand the thought of facing my million unnamed photoshop layers trying to extract them 🤣

[not-withoutyou]

Day 4: cuddling

Bucky had put a lot of work into relearning how he liked to be touched. (And he liked touch—but only Steve’s. Touch he knew and trusted not to hurt him.) And Steve rarely ever wanted to let him go. He’d walk past Steve lying on the couch only to be caught by the wrist and pulled into sleepy arms for a snuggle. He’d be making coffee for them in the mornings and arms would slip around his waist. (He gave Steve all that affection right back. Like Alpine, as Steve had once teased— Bucky cuddled like a cat. When he wanted it, he demanded the attention.)

In quiet, dark mornings, when both of them had woken up before the sun or their alarms or any obligations, they could steal an hour or so.

Usually, Bucky would turn over onto his stomach and nuzzle close, forehead nearly touching Steve’s. Steve would take the hint and sling an arm over his shoulders or trace fingertips up his back in pretty patterns while he kissed at his jaw, his nose, his forehead. And without fail, Bucky would mumble a complaint about being either too hot or too cold.

Extra-early mornings were usually just for them in the brief window of time before Bucky inevitably fell back to sleep. But they were at the beach this particular week—a vacation somewhere not too touristy because he’d wanted to spoil Steve for his birthday. And it would have been a sin to laze around in bed when the ocean was just outside their window, empty in the peaceful dawn, rolling and dancing in invitation.

Tucked up against Steve’s chest, he nosed at his shoulder, kissed that precious patch of freckles. “Come down to the water with me.” The sky was still dark gray behind the curtain. If they hurried, they could catch the sunrise.

Steve made noise of mock-complaint. “I dunno. This might be a better view.”

“You’re a sap. Get your ass up. I’ll be even prettier in the light.” Bucky gave him a nose-crinkling smile.

(You can read the whole thing here)

[ellewritesthings]

My fill for @stucky-week day 2 "Till The End Of The Line"

Steve and Bucky get married because they promised each other "till the end of line" 💙

[luna-rainbow]

the artbook

(I've been wanting to write this for weeks, and what better time than for @stucky-week)

It was a raining day in Wakanda.

Bucky disliked days like these. Even in Wakanda, the soggy breeze felt cold when it rained, and it chewed at his bones and made his left shoulder and chest ache.

The Wakandans had revised the implant and fitted a new arm, and Shuri was sorely disappointed when Bucky chose to forgo it for most days. She pestered him for an explanation until T’Challa clucked disapprovingly.

But Bucky didn’t really mind today, even though the gusts of wind swept rain through the open entrance. Steve was on his way.

“You’re wearing your arm,” Steve remarked as he stepped through the door.

He was soaked from head to boots, but that didn’t dampen his smile as he wiped a sleeve across his face and pushed the blonde hair out of his eyes.

Bucky opened his mouth to ask what that pointed comment meant but caught sight of the dark blood almost hidden by the grime. “What did you—”

Steve stepped back out of his reach, his smile not wavering, “Just a graze. I had a run in with some old friends in Italy.”

Bucky stared at Steve, a half frown on his face. These days memories still came to him in disjointed pieces, and sometimes he could spend days trying to work out where a fragment of memory had fit in. Sometimes the memory didn't come but the emotions did, and as he watched Steve’s unfaltering, reassuring smile, he felt a stab of anguish.

It wasn’t right. He was always the one who protected Steve – he couldn’t even remember all the instances, but he knew that was what he had always done. He was not used to this; not used to this man shielding him, hiding his own struggles and worries behind this cheerful smile.

Under his stare, Steve’s smile turned sheepish, “Would you mind if I borrow some clothes? Mine are all soaked.”

Bucky blinked and tried to summon up memories from 80 years ago. He smiled, trying to emulate those light-hearted pre-war days, “When have you ever bothered to ask?” He pointed at the closet, “Try the drawers.”

Steve tiptoed over to the closet, trying not to leave puddles where he stepped but failing. As he headed to the bathroom, he saw Bucky walk back with a mop and grimaced, “Sorry Buck.”

Steve’s bag was by the door along with the shield, and Steve was not exaggerating when he said it was soaked through and through.

Bucky pulled out all the wet clothes and paused as it brought around a twinge of déjà vu. He sat still, as though afraid that sudden movement would frighten the memory away, but it never arrived. Slowly, Bucky resumed his movements and let out a small sigh of defeat.

A plastic bag fell out as he shook the wet clothes. It was a small artbook, the only part of the luggage that was carefully wrapped in plastic.

Those memories did come easily. Bucky smiled as he remembered the skinny asthmatic boy who, because of his illnesses, spent too much time simply being an observer and turned it into a hobby.

Bucky dropped all the wet clothes in the laundry, and when Steve still had not come out of the shower, sat back down with the artbook.

Steve had such an eye for detail and perspective, but also a flair for expression. The world he committed to paper was grand or dreamy or faintly ironic, but Bucky remembered it always made him smile.

The first page was a spread of Times Square. Bucky stared at it for a while, trying to line up his broken memories. He had seen Times Square several times throughout the decades, but he could not remember which memory matched with what time period.

The next pages were all street scenes of New York. Most of them were unrecognisable. Some seemed vaguely familiar but Bucky couldn’t put his finger on why. There was a picture of Brooklyn Bridge, the bridge itself unchanged but the skyline had been refreshed.

Then the sceneries took on a change. Steve had started travelling outside of New York, and the pictures followed his journey. Sometimes they would be famous sites, sometimes just a corner of a foreign street or a glimpse of a quaint garden.

Bucky slowed down as the pictures became familiar again. The Smithsonian, the Capitol, the National Art Gallery…Bucky remembered that work on the gallery had started just before the war, and Steve would not shut up about wanting to go.

He turned the page and stopped. The man in the picture glared back, brows locked over icy cold eyes and lips pressed into a tense line.

It was the most meticulously detailed picture in the book so far, down to every stubble and every fine crease on the lips, and it was a picture of him.

Bucky sat unmoving for so long that when he reached out to turn the page, he felt his fingers creak.

The next page was a montage of the Winter Soldier from multiple angles. Somewhere in the back of Bucky’s mind, he was impressed by Steve’s attention to detail, as he had captured almost every leather strap and every pocket and every metal joint. But more than that, Bucky’s mind was filled with impenetrable noise as his eyes roved over the pictures of himself holding a knife or a gun.

He didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t hear himself think.

Oddly, the next picture was of the shield. Bucky glanced up at the shield leaning against the wall, then looked back down at the picture. He was never good with interpreting art. Maybe it was the use of pencil, but the shield looked dulled, and picture didn’t quite reproduce the sheen of the vibranium.

His hand stopped again when he turned the page. It was a picture of himself in uniform, smiling as he held a hand up in salute.

The rest was like the product of an obsession. He had forgotten how well Steve drew people, because all the earlier pictures were devoid of humans.

Now, it was page after page of himself, some from a childhood that Bucky was still struggling to remember, others were from their time on the frontline. A picture of him in school chewing pensively on a pencil, a picture of him covered in grime after crawling through the ditches, a picture of him in a suit holding out a key, a picture of him sipping his beer. The expressions were all different, but the eyes all looked on the brink of a smile.

Bucky didn’t hear Steve come out of the shower, nor Steve calling out, “Buck…”

He was staring at the book in his lap. It was the Winter Soldier, and it wasn’t.

There was the metal arm with the red star, there was the leather suit, the long hair and the short stubble, but he wasn’t the emotionless assassin a few pages back. The brows were relaxed and the eyes crinkled and the cheeks dimpled as his lips curved into an open grin.

And then it was picture after picture of him wearing the Winter Soldier gear, but smiling in a way even he himself couldn’t remember how to.

His vision was blurring, and he didn’t see Steve reach out and hold his shoulder. The warmth of his palm eased the irritating ache that had been gnawing non-stop at where the metal joined bone.

“Whatever you look like, I know you’re still Bucky.”

Mutely, Bucky lowered his head and covered the paper with his hand. Steve opened his mouth, then said nothing more when he saw the tear drop onto the metal hand.

A long time later, Steve turned towards the door and said, “Look, Buck, it’s stopped raining.”

He took the artbook from Bucky’s limp fingers and smiled, “Let’s start from the beginning. They’re all places we’ve been…and any place we haven’t, we’ll go next time.”

(The thing about the shield was I realised the 2 times Bucky disappeared, the shield was such an important part of the preceding fight, and when Steve came to, there was only the shield and no Bucky.)