Slayer: Six

Summary: James “Bucky” Barnes comes from a highly esteemed lineage of vampire hunters. Being the newest generation’s hunter, he’s responsible for keeping the supernatural world a secret and ensuring the survival of humanity. After losing his arm in a hunt gone wrong, Bucky wants nothing to do with his preordained destiny.
Fighting alongside Bucky is his best friend and confidant, Steven Rogers, a priest with a direct line to the Vatican, and Bucky’s only saving grace. Can Steve talk some sense into his friend, convince him that the world needs him?
You’re damned, destined to spend the rest of your life sulking in the shadows, wallowing in your own self pity. Everything changes one night when you come face-to-face with Bucky Barnes. Will he save you or put you out of your misery?
Word Count: 1,678
Warnings for the series: Alternate universe, blood, gore, violence, language, possible smut, PTSD, nightmares, more to come as series continues
Author’s Note: The idea stemmed from this post by @itsstillnotwhatyouthink I hope I do it justice. Want a tag? Let me know. A huge shoutout to @captain-rogers-beard & @climbthatmooselikeatree for all of your invaluable help. I love you. GIF Credit.

My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.

Bucky’s heart lurched to a stop when Ronan said, “Please come out and join us, Mr. Barnes and guest. I’ve been expecting you.”

Natasha was shaking her head, her eyes wide, her hand squeezing the grip of her pistol, but Bucky never was one for taking orders. He clenched his jaw and stepped out of the shadows, rounding the corner of the frame and striding into the room, gun in his hand, next to his thigh, hammer pulled back, safety off, a bullet in the chamber.

“Ronan,” Bucky greeted coolly. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but my mom taught me not to lie.”

The mass murderer laughed richly as he turned to face the slayer. Both of his nieces had weapons in their hands as they each took a defensive stance. Seeing their actions, Ronan gave a wave of his hand.

“Gamora, Nebula, there’s no need for that,” he chastised. “Bucky, if I may call you that, is just here to talk. Isn’t that right?”

“Not sure your definition of talk is the same as mine,” Bucky deadpanned, his grip flexing on the sig sauer pistol. “But sure, let’s talk.”

He moved lightning fast, raising his arm, firing his weapon three times, rapid fire, aiming at Ronan’s chest. Ronan moved with such speed and grace, it completely took Bucky by surprise.. Bucky snarled angrily as the bullets flew into the wall, the aged wood splintering, flying through the air. Natasha came flying out of her spot, gun raised, pulling the trigger, swearing crudely as she rushed Gamora, who had hoisted the blade over her head, aiming it at Bucky. Nebula was yelling something that couldn’t be heard over the gunfire, over the grunts and groans of close quarters combat.

While it was Bucky and Ronan going head-to-head, both Nebula and Gamora were taking on Nat. Bucky wasn’t worried about his ex, she could more than handle herself. What he was worried about was the man in front of him, Ronan, and how he was able to evade the deadliest punches and kicks, even from the metal arm. It briefly crossed Bucky’s mind that there was something was definitely different about Ronan, but Steve’s voice was in Bucky’s ear, in Nat’s ear, and he was putting up a hell of a fight on his end.

“Buck, I can’t hold him off much longer,” Steve ground out through his teeth. He was winded, having overexerted himself by going toe-to-toe with the man that had tried sneaking up on the surveillance vehicle.

“What’s he look like, Stevie?” Bucky demanded to know, his back curving as he bent over backwards as Ronan swung an odd looking staff through the air.

Steve was panting heavily, grunting with each punch he threw and blocked. “Five feet ten, blue eyes.” One of the attacker’s punches hit Steve in the temple, making stars burst behind his eyes.

“Talk to me,” Bucky shouted, giving Ronan a kick to the chest, putting everything he had into it. Ronan flew through the front door and slid in the dirt.

“I uh, he’s… he’s strong,” Steve coughed, falling to his hands and knees.

With Ronan outside, Bucky spun around and ran across the room, pulling Nebula off of Nat’s back. She was all long legs and gangly limbs, agile as all hell, and fucking feisty. She ended up tangling her hand in Bucky’s hair and pulling as hard as she could.

Bucky roared in pain and sent his fist into her ribs a handful of times. “You got this, padre. Tell me more about ‘im.”

“Grey hair on his chin, wonky teeth,” Steve rasped, and Bucky could practically see him as he was trying to push off the ground. “Bald, using metallic arrows as a weapon.”

Natasha was on Gamora’s back, a garrote around her neck, her blood-smeared lips pulling back in a snarl as she used every ounce of strength to choke Ronan’s niece. “We’re coming in a minute,” she swore to her friend.

“Take him down, Yondu,” Ronan ordered, standing tall, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand, a dark glimmer in his eyes.

A pained grunt tore its way out of Steve in such a way that Bucky swore he felt it at the back of his head and tears filled Nat’s eyes. Gamora and Nebula were on the ground, bloodied and beaten, gasping for air as Bucky and Nat took them down, a fresh wave of adrenaline flooding through them. They then fled the building the way they had come. Bucky used his longer legs and handy-dandy slayer abilities to run harder and faster than Nat could possibly dream of doing.

“Steve!” he roared, fear holding tight onto his heart, its long fingers squeezing with each beat.

The surveillance van was completely shot up, so many holes in it that it could be used as a giant cheese grater. The back doors had been blown off by some low-grade explosive, placed at each of the hinges on both sides, and one in the middle where the handle had been. Every monitor had been destroyed, the table was no longer standing, and the blood, shit, it was everywhere.

Nat gasped as she stopped next to Bucky, her hand finding his and squeezing it. “Where is he, Buck?”

Bucky grit his teeth and shook his head. “I don’t know, but when I find out, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

Steve let out a low groan as he swam through the heavy layers of unconsciousness. His entire body pulsed in agony, but the spot that hurt the most was on the back of his head, just below his hairline. Reaching back, he hissed as his fingers brushed over the large knot. When he opened his eyes to look at his bloody fingers, his vision swam, which made his stomach turn upside down. He was on his hands and knees, retching, his back arching, his eyes bulging, every abused muscle flexing until he could vomit no more.

Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Steve dropped back, groaning out a prayer.

“That won’t help,” a woman murmured from the other side of the room.

Doing his best to ignore the surge of pain in his head, Steve’s head whipped around as he sought her out. “Who… who said that?”

“I did,” she answered, her voice a little louder than before. She didn’t move from her spot, just tipped her head and stared at him with electric blue eyes.

With his brows knitted together, Steve turned around and, careful to avoid the mess he had made, crawled slowly toward her. “Who are you?”

“Don’t, please,” she pleaded, fear taking control of her voice. “I beg you, do not come any closer.”

Despite her weak protest, he didn’t stop his approach. Familiarity was brushing against his brain and he tried to reach out to it, to put the pieces together, but everytime he was just about there, it ducked away, evading him further.

“I… I know you. How do I know you?”

She was crying then, knees under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs, curling in on herself. “Steve, please. I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, God,” he lamented when it finally clicked. “Y/N, is that you?”

“Please,” she sobbed, her eyes flashing inhumanely bright in the small room. “You… you need to… stop it!”

Steve had been reaching out for her, to push the limp and greasy hair from her face, to get a good look at her features, when she snarled at him, all sharp teeth and hunger in her eyes.

“Jesus,” he hissed, pulling his hand away and working his way back the way he had come. “What happened to you?” he asked only when he was on the other side of the room, his back pressed against the thick bars, his heart hammering in his chest.

Y/N snapped her teeth together hungrily as she stood, a metal chain scraping against the concrete floor as she stood. “You and that brat Barnes released me, that’s what fuckin’ happened. I was perfectly fine being beat up and tortured on the daily, but you two just couldn’t help yourselves.”

“They wanted us to kill you, Y/N,” Steve tried explaining vehemently, just as he had that night.

“And I would have welcomed it,” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “You think I wanted to become a vampire, to spend the rest of my days drinking blood, to be… to be damned for all of eternity?”

Steve shook his head. “They told me, us, that you sought out the chance to become -”

“They created me,” she roared, her voice hoarse from countless hours of begging, screaming for her release. “They ripped me away from my family, from everything I knew and loved, and… turned me into this monster.”

“Who did?” he demanded to know, his brain working overtime to compensate for the pain that was making it difficult to keep his eyes open.

Y/N scoffed in disbelief. “The men you have spent your entire life looking up to and emulating, Steve.”

“No, that’s not -”

“Not what, the truth?” She rolled her bright eyes as she strode slowly across the room, stopping only when the shackle around her neck prevented her from going further. As it was, if she reached out her hand, the tips of her fingers were less than three inches from Steve’s knees.

“It can’t be,” he insisted. “They… they wouldn’t… couldn’t do that.”

“They can, and they did,” she snapped, a white-hot anger replacing the cold tendrils of fear that had been there moments ago.

Exposing her teeth in a snarl, Y/N latched onto the hem of her shirt and raised it, exposing a brand on her ribs, just below the swell of her breast. With his eyes narrowed and morbid curiosity surging through him, Steve leaned forward just enough to see it clearly.

There it was, in decades old red and white scar tissue, the seal of the Pope.

SEVEN

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@brastrangled @jessica-bones-winchester @iamthemaskhewears @wheresthekillswitch @stangirl4eva

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Executive Decision: Wanda

Summary: What happened when you and Natasha called Wanda?
Word Count: 1,470
Warnings: Angst, language, mentions of rape and assault, language, PTSD
Author’s Note: Thank you, as always, @captain-rogers-beard and @climbthatmooselikeatree, their support and assistance has been invaluable. GIF credit

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

Between your glass and hers, Natasha emptied the bottle of wine. “Jesus Christ,” she murmured. “And they did nothing.”

“Pietro said that Wanda refused to go to the police. As far as anyone knows, Wanda fell,” you scoffed.

Before you and Steve left the art studio, Pietro had said that he ended up taking his sister to the emergency room after the assault, but even then, with the nurses and doctors pressing her for information, she mentioned nothing of the rape or the beating. All she would say was that she was such a klutz, that she tripped over her own feet while carrying something large and heavy down the stairs. They must have believed the fabrication, because they treated her wounds and sent them on their way.

“I’m going to kill that weasel of a man,” your friend threatened, her nose wrinkling.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Get in line. Steve’s ready to kick his ass already, and that was before we knew what happened to Wanda.”

“Did Pietro say anything else?” she wondered before taking a long drink.

“Not really,” was your soft answer. “But he did give us her phone number. I’m just… I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t want to trigger her or anything like that.”

Natasha covered your hand in hers. “We can make the call together.”

“That would be great, thank you,” you sighed as you grabbed your phone, fingers hovering over the contact you had created earlier for Wanda.

The line rang a handful of times before she answered. “He- hello?” Wanda stammered, her accented voice raspy, tired, weak.

“Hi, is this Wanda Maximoff?” You tried not to sound nervous, scared, sympathetic.

“This is,” was her answer. “Who is this?”

“My name is Y/N,” you introduced yourself with a warm tone. “You don’t know me, but I’m good friends with Pietro.”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Wanda sniffled loudly. “Is he okay? What happened?” she implored, emotion thickening her voice.

Even though you didn’t know the woman, you had the urge to hug her, console her, to apologize for the rape, for the suffering she endured at the hands of Baron Zemo. But, there were thousands of miles between you and her. That didn’t stop your heart from aching.

“He’s fine, Wanda, I promise,” you assured her, hoping it would help her relax, even just the slightest. “I uh, this isn’t going to be easy, and I don’t want to -”

Her voice was broken when she asked, “It’s about Bar- the rape, isn’t it?”

Your heart squeezed tighter yet. “I’m sorry, Wanda, but it is.”

“I… I’m sorry, Y/N. I can’t help you.”

“Wanda, please,” you pleaded, hoping you wouldn’t end up pushing her away. “I hate to quote Star Wars here, but… you’re my, our only hope.”

She let out a heavy sigh of resignation, one that you prayed meant she wouldn’t hang up. “Okay, what do you need?”

Nat saw your hesitation and gave your hand a squeeze, giving you the silent courage you needed to ask Pietro’s sister a huge favor.

“Would you be willing to fly to Brooklyn and press charges against… him?” You didn’t want to say his name. It not only tasted vile on your tongue, but with Wanda not being able to say it herself, you didn’t want her to change her mind and hang up. You knew it was impossible for her not to be triggered, the young woman had been violated and beaten; it was going to stay with her until the day she died.

There was a long pause filled with a gasp and the sound of her hand scraping over her face. “Please, Wanda. There are other women he has… done things to.”

“Ask one of them, I beg you.” She was crying now, soft gasps and hiccups pressing against your eardrums.

Tears started to stream down your face. “I’ve tried, the police have tried. They… won’t. And I get it.”

“How could you possibly understand, Y/N?” she demanded to know, anger bubbling, breaking through her sadness.

Talking about it, that night with Brock, all those months prior, hurt more than anything you’d ever experiences, but Wanda needed to hear it, she needed to understand that what happened wasn’t her fault, that there was life beyond the assault, that what happened to her didn’t define who she was as a person. By the time you were done, the three of you were openly crying.

“And what happened to this man, Brock?” she asked through her teeth.

You chuckled sadly. “We’re working on that.”

“If I do this, come to America and press charges, he’ll get locked away?”

You couldn’t lie to her. “Wanda, I can’t give you the answer you want to hear. But, I can promise that we will do everything in our power to make sure that justice is served.”

It took Wanda a few moments before she could say anything. “Okay, Y/N. I’ll come back.”

Wanda wrapped her long cardigan around herself, desperately trying to keep herself warm. It wasn’t because of the weather, but because she was standing outside of Baron’s loft. You were at her side, your arm around her shoulders.

“Are you sure you want to be here?” you asked gently, fully prepared to usher her to the car and drive her home, or wherever she wanted to go.

She shook her head and stepped impossibly closer to you. “I want to see the look on that smug bastard’s face when he finds out it was me that brought his world crashing down around him.” You couldn’t help but smile at that.

Steve was next to you, shoulder brushing yours, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Are you ready?”

“As we’ll ever be,” you answered, hooking your arm in his.

At Steve’s signal, Chief Fury knocked on the front door. “Brooklyn Police,” he announced, his voice booming, the warrant for arrest in his hand.

You didn’t know what you were expecting to happen, but it sure wasn’t Baron opening the front door with a smile. He was wearing a pair of brown-framed glasses, cockiness flowing off of him in waves. “How can I be of assistance, to the men in blue?”

“We’re here to execute this arrest warrant,” Fury answered coolly, raising the paper and handing it to Baron.

With his brow arched, Baron read the warrant extremely slow, taking his time, doing it on purpose. Once he saw the name of the woman next to you, his eyes went wide, just for a split second. “Oh, please. You’re going to take the word of a woman that became obsessed with me, that fled the country when I turned down her advances? I thought you had more respect than that, Nick.”

Fury’s jaw clenched painfully tight. “Miss Maximoff has come forward with some startling information, Zemo,” his voice was laced with venom. “And to think, I actually believed you.”

Baron scoffed loudly and threw the warrant at the man he had called his friend. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” he instructed, unhooking the cuffs from his belt.

“You’re not serious,” Baron huffed.

“I’m dead serious,” Nick confirmed, opening one of the bracelets. “Baron Zemo, you’re under arrest…”

It was as if everything was moving in slow motion as Chief Fury forced Baron to turn around, shoved him against the wall, wrenched his arms behind his back, and cuffed him. Baron was spitting vile words at the man behind him, calling him the worst names he could think of, and a few more for good measure. With a snarl, Nick turned Baron around and guided him to the patrol car, that was when Baron’s eyes met Wanda’s.

Wanda sucked in a breath that made her bones shake. “It’s okay,” you assured her. “I’ve got you.”

Squaring her shoulders, she glared back at the man that had violated her, that made her fear the dark, that made her scream when she was actually able to sleep. Seeing him taken away, all because she had finally come forward, well, it didn’t take away all her pain, but it started to ebb. She even managed to maintain eye contact with her rapist when Nick shoved him into the back seat of the squad. She had been right, the look on his face when he realized it was her that brought his world crashing down felt amazing.

Only when the flashing lights and sirens disappeared did Wanda turn to you and Steve. “Thank you,” she huffed, tears filling her eyes. She wrapped her arms around you and held you tight, crying into your shoulder. She repeated her gratitude several times over, her thin frame shaking as you did your best to console her.

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Steve: @mjdoc90 @blxcksoulsanddxrkflowers @hides-in-the-shadows @cherrysfandom @lxdyred @jemmaisokay @phoenix21love @xingareum @itsstillnotwhatyouthink

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Executive Decision: Twenty

Summary: Steve Rogers is the CEO of his own company, and he’s a man that has never heard the word no from anyone. He goes after what he wants and he gets it, no matter the cost.
You’re doing your best; sharing an apartment with your best friend, struggling through college, trying to make your own imprint on this world.
The two of you cross paths when, as a favor to your friend, you interview him for a magazine. Without meaning to, you catch the attention of the insanely wealthy and intense bachelor.
Word Count: 1,104
Warnings for Series: Angst, fluff, explicit rough & consensual sexual content, dub-con, dom!Steve, sub!reader, talk of past abusive dom / dub relationship, mentions of cheating, animal cruelty [no details], rape, possibly more to come.
Author’s Note: Yes. There are going to be similarities to 50 Shades of Grey. This isn’t exactly a rewrite, this is my take on how it should have been. This fic wouldn’t be possible without @captain-rogers-beard and @climbthatmooselikeatree, their support and assistance has been invaluable. GIF found on Google Images.

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

It wasn’t supposed to have happened like this. Steve and Y/N were supposed to get married, grow old together, have a gaggle of kids and grandkids, go on trips around the world; the scenarios and possibilities were endless. That was until Brock came around and fucked it all up. The asshole took everything away from Steve, ripping Y/N away from him with a twitch of his finger. He scraped a hand over his face, a heaving sigh leaving him, the darkness inside of him growing larger, reaching out to touch everything, consuming him.

“Mr. Rogers,” the coroner interrupted Steve’s mourning. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your signature.”

Steve took the proffered clipboard and pen, scratching his name across the dark line at the bottom of the form, the one that gave permission for the hospital to release Y/N’s body to the funeral parlor. Tears clouded his vision as he handed the form back, grunting as the coroner thanked him.

“Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.” And with a curt nod, the coroner disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

When Steve was done blinking away the tears, he looked down at the steel table, finding Y/N, a stark white sheet covering most of her bruised and battered body. Her eyes were closed, long lashes fanning out, her once-tanned skin was ghostly grey, a stitched up y incision on her chest. Steve’s fingers hovered over her hand, daring not to touch her, because if he did and she didn’t respond, then Y/N was really dead.

A sob strangled him when one of his fingers twitched, inadvertently touching her. Her skin was chilled, driving a shudder down Steve’s spine. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he brought her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss over her knuckles, his thumb running over the spot where her vein once pulsed in her wrist.

“I can’t do this, baby,” he sobbed, his knees like rubber, not able to support him any longer. He fell to his knees with a grunt. “Not without you. What am I supposed to do without you?” Y/N didn’t answer, she couldn’t, but there was a small part of Steve that fully expected her to.

He reached up to her head and pushed the hair from her face, threading his fingers through the once-lush strands, all but praying for her eyes to open. It was ridiculous, he knew that. Y/N was dead, and it was all his fault. He didn’t protect her as he promised he would. Too many other things had divided his priorities, his attention, and now he was paying the ultimate price.

Gathering whatever strength he had left, Steve pushed up to his feet and pressed a kiss to Y/N’s clammy forehead.

“Steve?” Wait, he knew that voice, but it couldn’t be Y/N. Could it?

He stood up and found Y/N’s eyes open, wide, opaque, unseeing. With a gasp, he stumbled back until he slammed into another steel table. “How… how is this happening?”

She turned her head slowly, pinning him to the spot. “I’m right here, Steve. Everything is just fine.”

“No,” he cried, dropping to his knees, his hands over his face. “It’s not fine. Nothing is fine.”

There was a hand on his face and he jerked away from it. “Open your eyes, baby. Come on. Look at me, Steve.” She sounded frantic and scared, desperate for him to look at her.

Steve was shaking his head, his hands around her wrists, overpowering the dead woman in front of him, a wicked snarl escaping his lips. And then, as if someone had flipped a light switch inside his head, he woke up.

“Y/N,” he croaked, his chest heaving, his heart hammering, blood roaring in his ears. He latched onto her and cried into her neck, not caring how pitiful he sounded. His hands dug into her naked skin, pulling a small gasp from her. “You’re alive.”

She murmured soft assurances as he cried, swept her hands over his shoulders and back, kissed his temple, promised him that she would never leave him, that she was safe, that he was safe. They stayed there for hours, until the sky started to lighten, until Steve had fallen asleep.

After a hot shower, you slipped into something loose and comfortable before heading downstairs. Clint and Natasha were in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and making coffee. Natasha turned at the sound of the bar stool sliding against the floor, greeting you with a wide smile.

“Morning,” you murmured sleepily.

“Afternoon,” Clint corrected you with a chuckle.

Running your hand over your face and up into your damp hair, you gave a yawn. Natasha slid a cup of coffee in front of you, patting your hand before she turned around to grab some plates and cutlery.

“My hero,” you praised before blowing into the cup, cooling it just enough that you could take a sip without burning yourself.

Clint started shoveling hash browns onto the plates. “Will Steve be joining us?”

“Not right now,” was your strained answer. “He’s still sleeping.”

“Still having nightmares?” asked Natasha, setting three strips of bacon on each plate.

You nodded after unceremoniously shoveling a forkful of buttery hash browns into your mouth. “They’re getting better, less frequent. Besides, it’s only been six weeks since… since I killed Brock.”

God, had it really only been six weeks? Being kidnapped and held against your will, a knife to your throat, a gun to your head; it seemed like it happened ages ago. And then, there were times it felt like yesterday. If you had zoned out, your head angled a certain way, you swore you could feel the heat of Brock’s breath on your neck. Or, like the other day, when you ran a towel over your face after your shower, your eyes blurred, and you jumped back with a shriek, convinced that Brock was crouched in the corner, ready to attack.

While you were seeing a therapist twice a week to help deal with your demons, Steve handled his a little differently. Steve had always been able to handle himself in hand-to-hand combat, but watching you fight for your life, scared the shit out of him. He enrolled in krav maga the very next day.

Nat’s hand was on yours. “Honey, are you okay?” she asked gently, snapping you out of… wherever you had gone.

“Not exactly,” you answered with a grim smile, turning your hand over in hers, squeezing it. “But I will be. We will be.”

The End.

_{Or is it?}

Stay Tuned to find out what happens in the next chapter of their lives.

Everything: @captain-rogers-beard @because-imma-lady-assface @mrs-squirrel-chester @becs-bunker @badassbaker @baezen @feelmyroarrrr @fatalcrossbow @sunriserose1023 @alyssaj23 @stevergxrs @ssweet-empowerment @supernatural-girl97 @thefridgeismybestie @bitchierrichie @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @palaiasaurus64 @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @nyxveracity @breezy1415 @titty-teetee @melaninmarvel @crazy-little-thing-called-buck @wildefire @capsheadquaters @chipmunkofmischief @qnzdiamond104 @saharzek @speakinvain @diinofayce @mizzzpink @pebblesz892 @stevieang @thatgirl-xx-thatgirl @until-theend-oftheline @southernbellestatues @jakaraannodine @lea—-b @redqueen1221 @brittyevans @moisttoas-t @nuggsmum @anotherotter @jobean12-blog @fireismysaftey @msshadowboxer @vechkinfan @prettybubblesintheair @kanupps06 @rainbowkisses31 @janeyboo @banlaochranda @ellie-bee242 @shieldsandsunsets @evanstandream @punkrockhufflefluff @winters-beauty @unlikelygalaxygiver @thirtiethnovember @sexyvixen7 @whope123 @mscaptainjones @awkward-walking-potato @memory-of-a-goldfish @somethingwitty-somethingsweet @minarawr @xserenax-13 @keepyourheadup2018 @andiyholly @jessica-bones-winchester @iamthemaskhewears @wheresthekillswitch @brastrangled

Steve: @mjdoc90 @cherrysfandom @lxdyred @jemmaisokay @phoenix21love @xingareum @itsstillnotwhatyouthink

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Executive Decision: Nineteen

Summary: Steve Rogers is the CEO of his own company, and he’s a man that has never heard the word no from anyone. He goes after what he wants and he gets it, no matter the cost.
You’re doing your best; sharing an apartment with your best friend, struggling through college, trying to make your own imprint on this world.
The two of you cross paths when, as a favor to your friend, you interview him for a magazine. Without meaning to, you catch the attention of the insanely wealthy and intense bachelor.
Word Count: 2,174
Warnings for Series: Angst, fluff, explicit rough & consensual sexual content, dub-con, dom!Steve, sub!reader, talk of past abusive dom / dub relationship, mentions of cheating, animal cruelty [no details], rape, possibly more to come.
Author’s Note: Yes. There are going to be similarities to 50 Shades of Grey. This isn’t exactly a rewrite, this is my take on how it should have been. This fic wouldn’t be possible without @captain-rogers-beard and @climbthatmooselikeatree, their support and assistance has been invaluable. GIF found on Google Images.

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the speeding vehicle, you’d never been more scared, including the night that Brock had tied you up and whipped you until you passed out. That night was a walk in the park compared to the anxiety and unbridled fear that washed through you, threatening to consume you whole.

Out of nowhere, Bucky was yelling. “Hold on!”

You gave a yelp as the tires squealed against the asphalt when Bucky slammed on the brakes. He moved quickly, turning at the waist to pull you into him as best as he could, his arms wrapping tight around you, curling his body around yours. The oncoming truck plowed into the front panel of the car, driver’s side, by the engine, the sound of crunching metal and breaking glass exploded in your ears. The last thing you remembered was the car flipping.

It was the cracking of Brock’s hand on your face that woke you, pulling a yelp from your aching throat. The speed at which your head whipped to the side made your stomach roll, made the already sensitive and torn tissue in your neck scream in agony. Tears were in your eyes as you struggled to open them, the pain pulsing behind them, only growing more intense as you moved your head back to its original position.

You almost threw up when a barking laugh left your ex-dominant. “Fuck, you’re a smart one, ain’t ya? Alright, alright, you caught me. I want money, Steve, and a lot of it.”

“Ste-” you tried saying his name, letting him know that you were… alive.

Brock started circling the chair you were strapped into, the blade in his hand scraping over your tattered shirt, making you shudder. “I’ll go away if you pay me to go away.”

A whimper bubbled in your throat, your hands instinctively testing the bonds around them. “Please, Brock,” you begged. “You do- you don’t have to do this.” Your voice was barely a whisper, which meant that Steve couldn’t hear you.

“God, you sound like you miss her or somethin’,” Brock laughed again. The blade moved through your bloodied hair before it scraped along your jaw. You wrenched your head to the side, bile rising in your throat at the explosion of pain in your head and neck.

He knelt down and grabbed your chin between his two fingers, sighing heavily into the phone. “Ten million, cash, in a suitcase, three hours. I’ll call you with a location.” The call was disconnected before Steve could say anything.

Your entire face crumpled at the carnal lust and rage you saw in his eyes. “Why, Brock?” you croaked.

“You know the old cliche, doll,” he grinned, dark eyes roving over your chest. “If I can’t have you…” his gritty voice trailed off and he licked his lips hungrily.

“No,” you argued, ripping your head from his grip, a move which you regretted immediately. “I will never be with you.”

With a snarl, Brock tangled his hand in your hair and yanked you toward him, his lips brushing against yours when he said, “You’ve always been mine.” And then he was kissing you savagely, forcing his tongue into your mouth and moaning when you started struggling.

You bit his lip hard, drawing blood from it. He ripped away and swiped away the crimson drops with his thumb. “You’re gonna pay for that, you little bitch.” Brock slapped you again, much harder than the first time, with his opposite hand, the one that bore a ring. The design cut into your skin as your head whipped to the side, stars littering your vision.

“Don’t… fucking… hurt her,” someone ground out pitifully. It was Bucky, and he was trying desperately to get to you by pulling himself along the concrete.

You choked on a sob at the sight of him. His knuckles were scraped raw, fingernails caked in dirt, there was gash on his forehead that hadn’t stopped leaking, one of his eyes was swollen shut, a large bruise was blossoming on his chin, and shit, both of his legs were broken.

Brock rolled his eyes as he whirled around. “What are you gonna do about it, Bucky?”

“I’m going to kick your ass,” he vowed, venom lacing his words.

“I’d love to see you try.” Brock strolled over, smirking as Bucky grabbed one of his ankles. He easily wrenched it free, using the momentum to kick Bucky in the face, breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious.

There was a scream building inside of you, fueled by rage and fear and hatred. You let loose, not caring how badly it hurt or the consequence it would have. Even as Brock was yelling at you, demanding that you stop, storming over, towering over you, snarling, you wouldn’t stop screaming. You didn’t stop until the handle of the blade sent you spiraling into the darkness.

The brothers had been at the bank for over almost two hours, and Steve felt like he was going to explode. The longer it took to get the money together, the longer Y/N was with Brock, the longer Brock was doing God knows what to Y/N. Then there was the concern for Bucky. Where was he, had something happened to him, was he even alive? Steve felt like he was going to throw up.

Thank God for Clint. In addition to Bucky, Steve’s brother had always been there for him, no hesitation, no judgement, no second guessing, no looking back. It was as if the universe had brought them together, knowing that they needed each other, that without one, the other wouldn’t survive.

Despite the wealth he was adopted into, that he would want for nothing, the reassurances that his new parents would never give up on him, that they would be there no matter what, Steve didn’t believe them. Every night after dinner, he would pack a bag and sit on the bed, waiting for someone from child services to come and retrieve him. Years later, there were still times that feeling crept into his bones, but it never happened.

Clint nudged Steve with his knee. “Breathe, man.”

“What’s taking them so fucking long?” Unable to sit any longer, Steve pushed out of the chair and started pacing.

“Ten million is a lot of money,” Clint chuckled ruefully.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced at the pain behind his eyes. “I get that, I do. It’s just… time’s almost up.”

“And he’ll call,” Clint reminded him. “He said he would.”

“He also killed her fuckin’ cat,” Steve bit out, tears pricking his eyes.

Clint was out of the chair and in front of his bigger little brother. “You’re scared, I get it. Hell, if I were in your shoes, I doubt I’d be talking in complete sentences. You gotta breathe, man. Breathe and have a little faith that this whole thing is going to be okay. Can you do that for me?”

It took Steve several long moments before he could answer. “Yeah, I can.”

“That’s what I’m talking ‘bout.” Clint clapped his brother on the shoulder, turning around a moment later just as the bank manager entered the room.

“I do apologize for the delay,” he murmured, a large bag in each of his hands.

Steve crossed the room in three strides and took one of the bags. “Thank you,” was all he said. Clint followed suit, taking the other bag and jogging to catch up to his brother as he went out the back way, through the employees only area.

Clint was still chasing after Steve in the parking lot. “Steve, slow down.”

“Why? We have what we came for,” he argued, his shoulders tight.

“Because,” Clint bit out, jumping in front of his brother, “we don’t know where Y/N is yet.”

“I know,” Steve roared, throwing the bag into the back seat of the sleek SUV. “I know, okay?”

Clint held his hand out after setting his bag next to the other. “I’m driving.”

“Like hell you -”

“Steven Grant Rogers, give me the fucking keys,” Clint ordered calmly.

With a roll of his eyes, Steve pulled the keys from his pocket and pushed them into Clint’s hand. He had just opened his mouth for some smart ass retort, but the phone in his pocket sounded off. The phone almost fell from his hand as he yanked it from his pocket.

“He- hello,” he stammered after putting it on speaker.

Brock was straight to the point. “Do you have it?”

“Yes, ten million, just like you said.”

“Good job, Steve,” Brock teased. “Keep it up and you won’t be cleaning up Y/N’s brain matter with a mop.”

Steve almost choked on the bile that had risen in his throat. “Where am I going?”

“The abandoned train station,” was Brock’s answer. “You have fifteen minutes.”

“I had three hours, two hours and fifteen minutes ago,” Steve argued desperately. “The train station is on the other side of town. There’s no way -”

“Fifteen minutes, Stevie,” Brock cut him off. “One more thing, don’t try calling the cops for help. You even try it, I’ll blow her fucking face off.” The line went dead a second later.

During the fourteen minute and thirty-five second drive, the brothers put together a plan for getting Y/N back alive. It was weak and full of what if scenarios, but it was better than nothing.

With twenty-five seconds remaining, Steve took hold of the bags and jogged over to the train station while Clint disappeared around the back. Steve’s designer shoes slid on the concrete floor as he burst into the room.

“Cuttin’ it real close,” Brock admonished, blade in his hand, pressed to her throat, a whimper on her lips.

Steve’s eyes fell to the bloodied and battered man on the floor. “Is he -”

“Dead?” Brock finished. “I don’t think so. Not another step,” he warned Steve, his eyes dark and murderous.

“Okay, okay,” Steve conceded, raising his hands in the air after setting the bags down and taking several steps back.

Brock, with his hand in Y/N’s hair, he wrenched her from the chair and used her as a shield as he crossed the room. “Open ‘em up,” he growled into her ear.

Her hands were shaking as she bent down slowly, every inch of Brock’s body plastered to her back, his breath hot on her skin. First one zipper was opened, then the second, and the moment Brock’s eyes landed on the thick stacks of cash, he let out a low whistle of appreciation.

“Ain’t that a fuckin’ sight.” And then, rage appeared on Y/N’s face.

She shoved her elbow into his ribs and slammed the back of her head into his nose, breaking the cartilage with a loud snap. Brock roared in pain and dropped the knife to cover his face at the same time that Steve lunged forward to grab Y/N, but he was too late.

Brock had a gun in his hand and his arm wrapped around Y/N’s waist, the gun under her chin, her nose brushing against his. “Don’t fuckin’ move,” he warned.

“Easy, Brock,” Steve tried diffusing the situation.

“Shut it, Rogers,” he yelled, the sound of the hammer cocking echoed loudly in the room.

Steve wasn’t known for giving up. “Hey, man, we had a deal. Ten million dollars and you let her go. You promised, man.”

“Yeah, well, that was before your bitch broke my fuckin’ nose.”

Brock heard something shift against the concrete, but didn’t know what it was, not until white-hot pain erupted behind his kneecap. He unleashed a scream of unbridled pain that made his own ears buzz. With Y/N still in his grip, Brock fell to the ground, landing on his side. That was where he noticed a very conscious Bucky, a bloody knife in his hand, glaring at him with one eye.

The gun was still between them as Y/N made a move to gain control of it. Brock roared as her hands wrapped around the weapon. He rolled her to her back and pinned her there with his wide and muscular frame, snarling and swearing at her, calling her every vile name he could think of.

Steve was rushing over, murder in his eyes, prepared to kill the son of a bitch, but as soon as he kicked Brock in the face, snapping his head back with an audible crack, the gun discharged. Sandwiched between Brock and Y/N, the sound was muffled, distorted. Clint entered through the back of the train station, taking off at a dead run at the sight before him, the phone already in his hands, talking with a 911 operator.

Choking on a shout of her name, Steve dropped to his knees and shoved Brock’s body away. God, there was so much blood, too much. Steve couldn’t find the source, and it only fueled the anxiety exploding in his chest.

“Please don’t leave me,” Steve begged, pulling Y/N into his lap, cradling her, kissing her forehead.

TWENTY

Steve: @mjdoc90 @blxcksoulsanddxrkflowers @hides-in-the-shadows @cherrysfandom @lxdyred @jemmaisokay @phoenix21love @xingareum @itsstillnotwhatyouthink

Executive Decision: @toongtii @nuvoleincielo @jobabe032 @graciefaace @thefanficfaerie @buckys-newarm @blxcksoulsanddxrkflowers @hazeofeleven @loricameback @raventt5-bb @docharleythegeekqueen @jfrank1048 @miss-chic-claude @superwholockedbeauty @sleepy-moon-girl @clusteredinsanity @toobad–sosad @sol-lumina @madeof-ink @raychic26 @omghappilyuniquebouquetlove @katielu-blog @electra-writes33 @callme-barnes @moxtiel @ninasimone519 @ladylustitia @marveldcmistress @joannie95 @vale0413 @stuxky107 @madamemunge @hides-in-the-shadows @dorkydaddies @tastedheart @iminlovewithasuperboy @queen-merc @kellys1202 @storytelling-reader @angryschnauzerwrites @siren-kitten-his @lastfallenstar @buckynasty @brixnni @red-writer13 @papi-chulo-seb @patzammit @shecanbeawarrior @jazzwoman897 @a-nurse-and-a-fangirl @ghitalovegood @caught-between-many-worlds @lumelgy @petrashappyplace @mia-at-work @denialanderror @i-love-superhero @kat-to-the-rina @woodworthti666 @itskarakate-blog @randominternetteenager @amaranthuspetals @missinstantgratification @suzannevalerie @chook007 @armybb1516 @angelinaburns @societalfailure @cltex84 @whisperingwillows @sarahp879 @babygirl-pouting7 @the–real-wombat @deangirl1992 @portrait-ninja @ruinerofcheese @cosmicpeachwave @flamehairedwritings @buckysforeverprincess @akschoenborn @koizorahana @tchallaholla @flirtswithdanger @winchesterprincessbride @lizm-05 @kozmicrock @nedthegay @sav625 @seargantbcky @sophster1881 @leauvel @alijulia87 @samsgoddess @oberyners @shhhs3cret @part-time-patronus @hereiamhereigo @peachthatdrinkslemonade @moonstar86 @phoenix21love @bojabee @buckythecucky @fangirl-and-medstudent-help @whitemoonstag @alitav99 @ilovefanfic86 @cinema212

Slayer: Five

Summary: James “Bucky” Barnes comes from a highly esteemed lineage of vampire hunters. Being the newest generation’s hunter, he’s responsible for keeping the supernatural world a secret and ensuring the survival of humanity. After losing his arm in a hunt gone wrong, Bucky wants nothing to do with his preordained destiny.
Fighting alongside Bucky is his best friend and confidant, Steven Rogers, a priest with a direct line to the Vatican, and Bucky’s only saving grace. Can Steve talk some sense into his friend, convince him that the world needs him?
You’re damned, destined to spend the rest of your life sulking in the shadows, wallowing in your own self pity. Everything changes one night when you come face-to-face with Bucky Barnes. Will he save you or put you out of your misery?
Word Count: 1,218
Warnings for the series: Alternate universe, blood, gore, violence, language, possible smut, PTSD, nightmares, more to come as series continues
Author’s Note: The idea stemmed from this post by @itsstillnotwhatyouthink I hope I do it justice. Want a tag? Let me know. A huge shoutout to @captain-rogers-beard & @climbthatmooselikeatree for all of your invaluable help. I love you. GIF credit

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

For five days, Bucky trained intensely until he couldn’t feel his shoulders, until his legs felt like rubber bands, until his heart felt as if it were going to pound out of his chest, until there was sweat pouring off of him, until he collapsed. When he wasn’t training, he, Nat, and Steve cashed in every favor, even going so far as to owe people favors; all in an attempt to get a lead on Ronan.

On the sixth day, Bucky was getting antsy, eager to kick someone’s ass, to rip Ronan’s throat out for the barbaric acts of inhumanity he had committed. It wasn’t until day seven that one of their contacts made good on their promise.

Bucky was rolling his eyes and pacing back and forth. “Steve, for the hundredth time,” he groaned. “You’re not coming with us.”

“Why not?” he demanded to know, his eyes flashing. “I’m trained just as much as you, Buck.”

“It would help to have another set of eyes with us,” Natasha added, earning her a glare from her ex.

“Uh uh,” Bucky huffed out. “You’re a man of the cloth, not one that enjoys bloodshed.”

Steve’s jaw clenched painfully. “That… monster killed Pope Francis, and he’s out there, doing God knows what to God knows who!”

Bucky pulled in a deep breath as he rounded the table and stood in front of his lifelong friend. “I get it, you’re pissed, you’re in mourning, and you want revenge, to kill the bastard that killed Francis. You just… you gotta trust me, man. This,” he motioned to himself, Nat, and the array of weapons on the table, “it ain’t for you.”

“What if he stayed back?” Nat suggested softly. “He can sit in the van, watch the monitors, be our eyes, in a sense.”

“I don’t like this,” Bucky repeated himself. “It’s one of the shadiest parts of town, and you want to bring a priest that’s never actually used his training?”

“Hey,” Steve protested loudly.

Bucky’s hands were in the air. “It’s close enough to the truth, man. You haven’t seen any action of that kind since high school graduation.”

“I can still fight,” he insisted, putting himself into a defensive position, hands curled into loose fists in front of his face, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a goddamn boxer.

Both Bucky and Nat chuckled, but it was Bucky that said, “At ease, padre. You can go, but you’re in the van. That’s it. If we need help, then, and only then, are you cleared to use your ‘fighting skills.’”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve scoffed.

“Come on, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, stepping closer to his friend. “You’re my best friend. Do you really think I want something bad to happen to you?”

Steve shook his head. “A’course not.”

“Okay, it’s settled, right?”

“I’ll stay in the van,” he finally conceded.

Bucky and Nat were dressed in black from their heads to their feet. Their tactical gear had been specially designed and made, moving like a second skin, which had impressed Bucky when he had first tried it on. In each of their hands was a black pistol, rosaries carved into the grips, each weapon having been blessed by the Archbishop himself.

“I don’t like this,” Bucky bit out, his eyes taking in their surroundings.

Their contact, Pietro Maximoff, Wanda’s brother, had informed Bucky that Ronan had been laying low, keeping off grid, in a small town, thirty-five miles from Rome; Allumiere. Ronan, along with his nieces, Nebula and Gamora, had driven the residents from their homes, sent them screaming to the next town over with horror stories of Ronan the Accuser.

Natasha felt as if something were crawling on the back of her neck. There wasn’t anything there, of course, but that didn’t stop her from reaching back and swiping her hand over her skin. “I don’t either, but this is the hand we’ve been dealt. We have no other choice but to go with it.”

Bucky held back his argument, that it didn’t just feel wrong, it felt like a trap. Natasha had always been stubborn, hard headed, quick tempered, and refused to back down when her mind had been made up. That was part of what he loved… had loved about her. Now, it just pissed him off.

Steve was in their ear a moment later. “I count three heat signatures in the building three blocks to the east.”

“Thanks, padre,” Bucky said, triple checking to make sure that his gun was locked, cocked, and loaded.

“Relax, Buck,” Natasha huffed in annoyance.

“Don’t tell me to relax, Nat,” he bit out.

Despite his heavy and thick frame, Bucky was light on his feet as he turned a corner, leading the way. Natasha was close behind, her back to his, keeping an eye out for anyone that was stupid enough to come up from behind. It felt as if it took longer than two minutes to walk three blocks, and by the time the duo found themselves at the back door, their fingers were itching to pull the trigger, to put a bullet between Ronan’s dark eyes.

Thankfully, the door opened without protest, making their entrance go unnoticed by anyone inside. They made their way through the large room, quickly checking the dark corners for any unwanted surprises. Bucky took his place on one side of the door frame while Natasha stood on the other, each of them peeking out, getting an idea of what, and who, was in the next room.

“Why are we still here, uncle?” someone asked, a woman, tall, lanky, and bald, her hands on her hips.

The man she was talking to, turned around with a flourish. “Because, Nebula,” he said, his tone heavy and unamused, “I’m waiting for him, and I’m not leaving until I’m bathing in his blood.”

“That’s a little… over the top, don’t you think, Ronan?” That question came from the opposite end of the room, another woman, dark green and purple colors swirling throughout her obsidian hair.

“Oh, Gamora,” Ronan chided. “You have plenty to learn, young one.”

“No,” she argued. “I have better things to be doing than sit here and wait for this supposed slayer to show up.”

Nebula nodded in agreement. “We’ve been here for a week,” she pointed out. “We’re bored.”

Ronan was in front of his niece in a flash, and it made Bucky swallow loudly. “I don’t care,” he sneered, his lip curling back to expose his teeth, teeth that looked anything but human. “Your father sent you here because you lack discipline and respect. You are careless and you seem determined to destroy every relationship you have.”

“Thanos is the one that -”

The back of Ronan’s hand across her face cut off her rant. “Do not talk back to me, child. You are a fool to think that I would ever care to hear what you have to say about my brother. I do not want to hear another word from you unless it is confirmation of an order. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Nebula ground out, murder in her eyes, hands balled into fists at her side.

“Good girl,” he praised sarcastically. “Now, on to the matter at hand. Please come out and join us, Mr. Barnes and guest. I’ve been expecting you.”

SIX

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Cat & Mouse: Small Town Police – Two –

Summary: Steve Rogers is a multi-millionaire philanthropist, co-founder of a non-profit that aids and rehabilitates veterans, and the Most Eligible Bachelor in Brooklyn. With the spotlight shining bright overhead, Steve becomes the latest victim of The Brooklyn Bandit; a thief that has made away with almost $5,000,000 in cash and rare jewels.
After dead ends and embarrassing headlines, Sergeant Fury doesn’t think the Bandit case is one that can be solved. Rather than pour any more man hours into it than absolutely necessary, he assigns Y/N Y/L/N – a first year detective – to the case.
Half a million dollars was stolen right out from under everyone’s noses, and there’s not one shred of evidence. With a point to prove and a give ‘em hell attitude, you throw everything you’ve got into solving the case. Too bad you hadn’t prepared yourself for the latest victim’s dazzling smile and generous heart.
Word Count: 1,683
Warnings: Language, acts of thievery, language, angst, maybe some smut, possibly more to come as series continues.
Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard & @climbthatmooselikeatree for your invaluable help with this. GIF credit

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

Pulling on a pair of black latex gloves, you ducked under the strip of yellow caution tape that a rookie in their blues held up for you and Sam. Your partner whistled low as he surveyed the spacious floor plan, and it wasn’t in admiration.

“Someone worked hard at covering their tracks,” Sam said.

You narrowed your eyes as you took in the sight. “Or it’s a distraction.”

“Distraction from what?” Sam scoffed.

“Inside job, maybe,” you mused, your head shaking slightly. You crouched down and grabbed some folders, their insides spilling out. Opening the file, you quickly scanned through the papers.

Sam remained standing, hands on his hips. “You find something useful?”

“Nah,” you answered. “Just some profiles and financials on a non-profit. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.”

“How do you know about out of the ordinary financials?” Sam scoffed.

Standing tall, you shoved the folders into his stomach. “My grandpa was an accountant for Howard Stark back in the day,” you rasped. “Thought it would be good for me to know, to be prepared for my future.”

You pushed past him and rolled your eyes, hating yourself for how you had snapped at Sam. It wasn’t his fault that you were crabby, and as much as you wanted to blame it on Fury, you couldn’t. You were the one that had stormed into your sergeant’s office demanding a case. What was the saying… be careful what you wish for? You had just been about to round the corner when there was a voice that didn’t belong.

“I hope you’re using gloves,” the new arrival said with an air of authority. “Would hate to see another one of The Brooklyn Bandit’s crime scene contaminated.”

Whirling around on your heel, you found Steve Rogers standing there, a dark suit clinging to his frame, an even darker wool trench coat draped over his shoulders, his hands in his pockets, an eyebrow arched. You found yourself staring and you gave yourself an internal talking to.

“Who let you up here?” you demanded to know, stalking toward the new arrival.

“I live here, officer,” Steve shot back, his tone unamused.

“It’s detective,” you growled. “Detective Y/L/N.”

“My apologies,” Rogers answered, though you didn’t believe for one second he was sorry about anything.

“In case you failed to notice, this,” you spoke slowly, hooking a thumb over your shoulder, “is an active crime scene, and you,” you took another step toward him and aimed your finger at his chest, “are not allowed to be here.”

Steve chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I live here,” he repeated himself. “Of course I’m allowed to be here.”

“Here, in your home, yes,” you snapped back. “Not here, where the actual crime took place.”

Sam was at your side, jabbing you with his elbow. “Mr. Rogers, thank you for coming in,” he greeted Steve, his hand held out, Steve shaking it a moment later.

“You called him in?” you whispered harshly to your partner. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve was smiling wide when you turned your attention back to him. “You were saying?”

Sam stepped in front of you, his way of making sure you didn’t say or do anything that could possibly get you fired. “Let’s go downstairs, shall we?”

With your teeth clenched, you glared at the duo as they disappeared from the room. You closed your eyes and pulled in one ragged breath after another in an effort to calm down. You hated it when people like him, the rich and entitled, talked down to you. God, you wanted to show him, show all of them, that just because they had a fuck ton of money meant absolutely nothing.

Squaring your shoulders, you turned around and headed back to Steve’s desk. There were files spread all over it, papers slipping from the edges, fluttering to the floor, joining the shards of broken glass from the window. Careful not to cut yourself, you dropped down and combed through the debris.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” you murmured to yourself.

“What’s that?” asked Peter Parker, the youngest, and newest, member of the crime scene unit.

You were shaking your head, looking at the floor, then looking at the broken window, which was on the opposite end of the room. Peter watched as you walked over, counting your steps as you went, turned your back to the window, and threw the glass in your hand back the way you had come.

Peter flinched and covered his face. “Hey, watch it.”

“I need to know the exact distance from the desk to the window,” you instructed, picking up the glass you had just thrown on your journey back. “I also need to know where the window was hit, where it would need to be hit in order to achieve the distance, what was used to smash the window, and what would need to be used in order to get glass all the way over here. Got it?”

Nodding, Peter scribbled notes onto the notepad. “Anything else, boss?”

“Get it to me as fast as you can,” you added, ripping the gloves from your hands. “I need to know what the fuck is going on here.”

Sam knocked your feet off your desk, shooting you a glare as he dropped into his seat. “You got any idea how much I had to sweet talk Rogers into not having you pulled you from the case?”

“What are you talking about?” You arched a brow as you propped your feet back on the edge of your desk.

“That little stunt you pulled back at the crime scene,” his eyebrows all but shot off his forehead. “Or did you forget.”

“You’re the one that didn’t tell me that you called him in to interview,” you accused, pointing at your partner.

Sam raked a hand over his face and scoffed. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? You come in here, full of piss and vinegar, chip on your shoulder, ready to prove a point.”

You failed to see why that was a problem. “And?”

“And,” Sam bit out, “it’s going to put a target on your back.”

With your brows pulled together, you sat up. “Is that a threat?”

Sam was shaking his head. “No, it’s just the truth. I’ve seen plenty of detectives, throwing their non-existent weight around, making enemies when you’re supposed to be making friends.”

“Just because he’s filthy rich doesn’t mean I’m gonna butter him up, Sam,” you argued.

“I get that, I do, but -”

“But what, Sam?” You were leaning forward, forearms on your desk, hands clasped together. “You talk about having a chip on my shoulder. What about Rogers? He talked to me, to us, as if we were some small town police officers. What’s the difference between me and him, huh?”

Sam sighed heavily, shaking his head at the fire in your eyes. “Forget it, Y/L/N. Just… forget it.”

You had just popped open a beer when your phone rang. It was your mom, and no matter how tired you were, no matter the shitty day you’d had, you couldn’t ignore her.

“Hey, ma,” you greeted after swiping your thumb across the screen.

She chuckled gently. “Hay is for horses, sweetie,” she joked.

Swallowing the anxiety in your throat, you asked, “How are you feeling today?”

Your mother had breast cancer, stage three, aggressive as hell, and kicking her ass. The doctor said she had twelve to eighteen months left to live. That was two years ago. During those two years, your mother had undergone a double mastectomy and five rounds of chemo, each round more hostile than the last, sucking the life from your mother. So, when you asked how she was doing, part of you really didn’t want to know, that part wanted to hear her say, The cancer is in remission, I’m perfect.

“As good as I can be,” she answered, her voice frail and tired. “Chemo was a bitch.”

“Isn’t it always?” you sniffled, chuckling ruefully.

“Tell me about your day, love,” she pleaded softly.

You rolled your eyes at just the thought of telling her about, not only being put on the Brooklyn Bandit case, but telling her that you’d met the infamous Steve Rogers, and he was a tool.

“Sam and I got assigned a high profile case today, the Brooklyn Bandit,” was what you said instead.

“Oh, yes,” she perked up noticeably. “I saw that on the news. That poor Steve Rogers. He does a lot of work with veterans, you know.”

You managed to hide your groan, but barely. “I know, mother.”

“What? Can’t I dream about my daughter falling in love with someone amazing like him?”

“It’s not gonna happen,” you rebutted before taking a long drink.

“I said, like him,” she clarified sternly. “Not him.”

“Guy’s a douche,” you couldn’t help but mutter under your breath.

Her sharp intake of breath was more than enough of a clue that she had heard you. “Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, watch your tongue.”

“Sorry, mom,” you mumbled, your cheeks going red at the mental image of her standing over you as a child, her finger in your face, scolding you for saying you hated your best friend.

“You’ve always had a temper on you,” she noted, no ridicule or shame in her voice.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Gee, I wonder where I got it from.”

When she laughed in return, it made tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. “God, it’s good to hear you laugh, ma.”

“It’s been too long,” she confirmed before giving a yawn.

“Get some rest, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she hummed.

After disconnecting the call, you swept away the tears on your face and drained the bottle of beer quickly. Gasping for air, you pushed up from the couch, threw the bottle in the recycling, and headed into your room to change into something a little more comfortable; dark and form fitting, easier to keep yourself hidden, away from prying eyes.

Chapter 3: Scrotebag

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Executive Decision: Eighteen

Summary: Steve Rogers is the CEO of his own company, and he’s a man that has never heard the word no from anyone. He goes after what he wants and he gets it, no matter the cost.
You’re doing your best; sharing an apartment with your best friend, struggling through college, trying to make your own imprint on this world.
The two of you cross paths when, as a favor to your friend, you interview him for a magazine. Without meaning to, you catch the attention of the insanely wealthy and intense bachelor.
Word Count: 1,367
Warnings for Series: Angst, fluff, explicit rough & consensual sexual content, dub-con, dom!Steve, sub!reader, talk of past abusive dom / dub relationship, mentions of cheating, animal cruelty [no details], rape, possibly more to come.
Author’s Note: Yes. There are going to be similarities to 50 Shades of Grey. This isn’t exactly a rewrite, this is my take on how it should have been. This fic wouldn’t be possible without @captain-rogers-beard and @climbthatmooselikeatree, their support and assistance has been invaluable. GIF credit

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

Bucky’s grip was tight on your arm, undoubtedly bruising you as he forced you down the stairs. “I’m taking her to the backup location,” Bucky ground out. “The place is rigged to blow.”

You winced as you stepped on something. “Buck, slow down.”

He shot you a glare and shook his head, continuing to haul you down to the garage, which was fourteen flights. “Negative, Steve. Y/N saw it before I did.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve roared, making Bucky pull the phone from his ear.

“Everything is fine, Steve,” Bucky promised. “We’re almost to the garage. As soon as we’re at the backup location, I’ll let you know.”

The phone was handed to you a moment later. “Steve?” you choked on his name, the fear getting the better of you.

“It’s okay, baby,” he breathed heavily, relief at hearing your voice washing over him. “Bucky’s gonna take you to a safe place.”

“Our home was supposed to be safe,” you argued. Tears were pricking the back of your eyes, making it hard to see where you were going.

“I know,” Steve bit out through his teeth. “Trust me, I’m going to fix that as soon as I can. Where are you now?”

Bucky’s hand was still on your arm as he pulled you into the sub-level parking garage. “Almost at the car.”

“Good, that’s good,” another heavy sigh. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you,” came out in a strangled sob. The call was disconnected a second later.

Once inside the car, you strapped on your seat belt and handed Bucky his phone. It was less than a minute later that the car was speeding out of the garage and onto the nearly-empty streets, Bucky expertly shifting through the gears of the expensive machine. His eyes were dark and full of rage as they flicked around, checking for pedestrians and any openings in traffic that he could take, making sure no one was following the pair of you.

Your hands had started shaking and it felt like you were going to throw up, the bright lights zipping by were doing very little to calm you down. With a huff of air out his nose, Bucky covered your hands in his and gave them a squeeze.

“It’s going to be okay, Y/N,” he vowed. “We’re going to get that son of a bitch.”

You wanted desperately to believe him, but they didn’t know Brock like you did. “You keep saying that. What if -”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “We will get him, and trust me, he’ll suffer.” You had to admire his determination.

Despite the hurried turns and the various potholes around the city, the drive was smooth, soothing, lulling you to sleep. You hadn’t been out very long, a handful of minutes, when the engine roared into overdrive.

Bucky called out your name, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, one hand gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “We’re being tailed.”

Fear like you had never felt gripped you tight, digging its long fingers into every inch of you, making you go frigid. You whirled around in your seat and, sure enough, there was a set of headlights that were weaving through the heavier traffic, gaining on the luxury car.

“Lose him, Buck,” you rasped.

“I’m tryin’, doll,” was his growl of an answer. His feet punched the pedals as he shifted once more, the speedometer flying well into triple digits, pulling away from the sedan slowly.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, hard enough that your ribs started to ache. “Oh, thank God.”

“Jesus,” Bucky hissed, his eyes going wide. “Hold on!”

Tires squealed against the asphalt as Bucky slammed on the brakes, turning at the waist to pull you into him as best as he could, his arms wrapping tight around you, doing his damndest to protect you from the car that was barrelling towards you.

“The building’s secure,” Chief Fury told an anxious and pacing Steve.

“What do you mean, secure?” Steve demanded to know. “There was a goddamn tripwire on the front door.”

Fury shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, and it made Steve want to shake the man to death. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t rigged up to anything. My men found no traces of an explosive, inside or outside the residence.”

Steve scraped a hand over his face, groaning loudly in resignation. “Alright, Chief. Thank you for your time.”

Clint clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You okay, man?”

“I don’t fucking know anymore,” he scoffed. “I mean, what the hell is Brock doing, putting up a phony tripwire?”

“You want my honest opinion?” Clint asked, his brow arched, hands in his pockets.

Steve was obsessively checking his phone for a call from Y/N or Bucky. “You know I do, brother.”

“I think it was a ruse,” he admitted heavily. “To get them, her, out of the house.”

“Fuck,” Steve snarled, his teeth grinding painfully, the phone clutched tight in his hand. Just when he felt as if he might throw it into the building, it rang, Bucky’s name appearing on the screen.

With a swipe of his thumb, he accepted the call. “Thank God, Buck. Tell me the two of you are safe.”

A dark and gritty chuckle drifted through the speaker. “I’m sorry, Buck can’t make it to the phone right now.”

The blood in Steve’s veins felt like fire as rage rolled through him. “Brock,” he greeted, putting the call on speaker. Clint’s phone was in his hand, thumb poised over the screen, ready at a moment’s notice to call the police, to do whatever his brother needed.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Brock continued to chuckle, the sound of wet sand and rocks shifting under his weight as he paced. “Wish we could have met sooner, but that Y/N, what a bitch, am I right?”

“Don’t engage,” Clint quietly reminded his brother. “You don’t want to piss him off.”

Steve tried to clear the emotion from his throat before asking, “What do you want, Brock?”

“Straight to the point,” Brock laughed. “I like that about you, Steve. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you don’t have anything that I want. Not anymore.” There was a sharp slap of skin on skin, quickly followed by a shriek of pain that Steve knew all too well.

“You’ve gotta want something,” Steve seethed through his teeth. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called.”

A barking laugh left Brock, and it made Steve’s stomach roll. “Fuck, you’re a smart one, ain’t ya? Alright, alright, you caught me. I want money, Steve, and a lot of it.”

“You want money in exchange for Y/N,” he clarified, earning a hum of approval from Brock.

“I’ll go away if you pay me to go away.”

“Consider it done. How much?” he demanded to know, the knot in his stomach tightening painfully.

“God, you sound like you miss her or somethin’,” Brock laughed again.

Steve’s entire body was shaking from the white-hot and blinding rage that roared through him. “How much?” he bit out.

Brock sighed heavily into the phone. “Ten million, cash, in a suitcase, three hours. I’ll call you with a location.” The call was disconnected before Steve could say anything.

Clint was already on his phone, making a call to the bank that had coincidentally just opened it’s doors for business. “This is Clint Barton Rogers. My brother and I need to come in and make a large cash withdrawal.”

The ground beneath Steve’s feet started shifting. To keep from falling, from giving into the dark thoughts inside his mind, he grabbed onto his brother’s shoulder and stared at his phone. He should be calling someone, he just couldn’t figure out who at that moment.

“How long will that take?” Clint demanded to know, his eyes on his brother, a hand on the back of Steve’s bicep. “No, I need it sooner than that. I’ll be there in ten minutes, we can discuss it then.”

After disconnecting the call, Clint shoved the phone into his pocket and looked Steve dead in the eye. “We’ll get her, Stevie. I swear it.”

NINETEEN

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Clean & Sober: Two

Summary: After years of struggling to overcome his seemingly endless list of addictions, Steve Rogers has been clean & sober for one year. In an effort to remain clean, to prove to himself that he can overcome his demons, he takes on the responsibility of becoming a sponsor. It’s wrong for a sponsor to feel a personal attachment to the ones they are sponsoring, but apparently Steve didn’t get that memo.
Bucky Barnes’ downfall was cocaine, he couldn’t keep his nose clean if his life depended on it. After overdosing for the third time, a judge ordered him to ‘get clean, or go to jail.’ Narcotics Anonymous wasn’t really Bucky’s thing, that was until he saw the blonde haired, blue eyed God that was going to be his sponsor.
Will Steve be able to separate his feelings from the addiction? Can Bucky overcome his primal urges and keep things professional?
Word Count: 1,120
Warnings for series: Illicit & casual drug use, explicit language, alcohol abuse, explicit sexual language, male receiving anal sex, male receiving oral sex, explicit sexual content, heavy angst, possibly more to come
Author’s Note: This is going to be strictly a Stucky fic. There will be no reader involved. I wouldn’t be writing this without the unwavering support of @captain-rogers-beard & @climbthatmooselikeatree I love you.

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

Bucky couldn’t concentrate, not with the way his stomach was rolling, the way his heart was pounding inside his fucking head like a jackhammer. His entire body was covered in sweat, no matter how many cold showers he had taken, his hair greasy no matter how much shampoo he used. He ached, every-fucking-where, like the Navy Seals had ganged up on him and kicked his ass.

God, he hated going through withdrawal, hated everything about it. But, what he hated the most, was the nightmares. They were violent, bloody, and downright scary. He’d had them every night since he was honorably discharged from the army. Medal of Honor recipient to drug addict in less than a month. How had he fallen so far in so little time?

He was sitting in the corner of the shower, the water as hot as it would go, rocking back and forth, praying that his stomach would stop growling. It had been two days since he’d been able to hold anything down, two days since he’d had a drop of water without bending over the toilet and emptying his stomach. Fuck, he wanted some cocaine, pills, oxy, percocet, something!

After climbing out of the shower, Bucky dragged himself into the next room, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. He found Steve’s number quickly, connecting the call with a swipe of his shaking finger.

“He- hello?” Steve mumbled, sleep thick on his voice, a hand dragging over his face.

Bucky was grinding his teeth. “Steve, I… I need you.” Shit, he hated how pathetic he sounded, especially when Steve looked like a goddamn model for Aber-whatever-it’s-called. Asshole probably had a girlfriend or something. He half expected to hear some girl’s voice questioning Steve about the phone call and it made a knot of jealousy in the pit of his stomach added to the nausea in his stomach.

“Bucky? Is everything alright?” He was already out of bed, pulling on his jeans and socks.

Shit, the shivers had started. “No. I… I don’t know. I’m so fuckin’ cold, man.”

“Give me your address and I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Steve ordered. With a firm mental shake, he pulled on a pair of dirty socks and the first shirt he touched. Leather jacket in hand and shoes on his feet, Steve grabbed the keys to his motorcycle and the emergency backpack he kept by the door.

Ten minutes later, Steve found Bucky on the floor, shivering, naked, phone still in his grip. “Shit, Buck,” Steve breathed, dropping to his knees next to his charge. A batch of butterflies exploded in his stomach, taking him completely by surprise.

Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist and hoisted him off the floor. The pair of them stumbled across the room, to the bed that was covered in sweat-stained sheets. God, Bucky was heavy, more so than he looked. Steve tried desperately to keep his mind out of the gutter, but it was difficult, what with Bucky’s arm over his shoulders, Steve’s hand clinging to a naked hip.

It wasn’t a secret to anyone in Steve’s life, he was bisexual. He never shied away about his feelings towards men and women, never felt shame, never felt like he had to hide who he was, none of that. But, there, holding Bucky’s body against his, as that naked man’s sponsor, he forced himself to focus on doing his job, on keeping Bucky sober, hell, on keeping him alive.

Once Bucky was in bed, Steve covered his shaking form with several thick blankets and turned off the lamp. Bucky’s teeth were chattering hard enough that Steve feared they would chip. He dropped to the edge of the bed and pushed Bucky’s hair away from his sweaty forehead.

“Shhh, Bucky,” he breathed, hand continuing to stroke Bucky’s hair. “It’s alright. Go to sleep, that’s it.” Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, his dull blue orbs flicking back and forth erratically. The breath was tearing in and out of him to the point that Steve was worried he would start hyperventilating.

Steve yanked the phone from his pocket and opened the white noise app that made it possible for him to sleep. After selecting the one where it sounds like a cat is purring right inside of your ear, he set it on the nightstand and continued to stroke Bucky’s hair. It took less than five minutes before Bucky fell asleep. He continued to twitch every so often, but his shivering had stopped, which was a good sign.

While Bucky slept, Steve plucked the towels and clothes from the floor, throwing them into a basket. Next, he shrugged out of his jacket and started cleaning the bathroom. There was vomit in the sink, on the mirror, even in the shower, but it didn’t bother Steve. Hell, he remembered cleaning up his own shit and vomit for two whole weeks when he couldn’t score a damn thing. Detox is hell on its own. But to accidentally detox? That shit made detox look like a cakewalk.

With the bathroom clean, Steve wound his way through the small apartment until he found the washer and dryer. They were stacked atop each other, in a closet. He had a load going in less than a minute. The kitchen was tackled next. Dirty dishes were stacked all over the place, food was caked onto the stove top and inside the microwave, takeout containers from various restaurants were scattered around, and the fridge, shit, he had to hold his breath just to clean it out.

Three loads of laundry, four loads of dishes, running the vacuum over the carpet three times, and four hours later, Steve was standing in the doorway, watching Bucky sleep as he smoked a cigarette. Even drenched in sweat and his tanned skin gone grey, Bucky’s beauty was striking. His lashes were long and dark, his cheekbones could probably cut glass, or someone’s inner thigh.

Probably his girlfriend, he thought with a roll of his eyes.

Of course, someone like Bucky would have a girlfriend, he was too sexy to not have a woman draped on his arm, a woman that would wrap their lips around his thick cock. He couldn’t deny that he had taken a look. He was only human, after all, a very curious human.

Groaning in frustration, Steve tore his eyes away and forced himself to look outside, and that was how he stayed, staring into the city he loved, smoking until he was hungry. After eating his fill, some cheap chinese place around the corner, he put the leftovers in the fridge and settled into a chair in the corner, his legs propped up, and let his eyes drift closed.

THREE

Stucky: @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @peytonlovescupckaes @autoblocked @its–fandom–darling @eshia16 @daiiybuugle @delicatecapnerd @phoenix21love

Clean & Sober: @valerie-ark @mistjif68 @buckyinaboxcar @pieceofhamiltrash @imgonnaregretthisusername @jbarnes87

Clean & Sober: One

Summary: After years of struggling to overcome his seemingly endless list of addictions, Steve Rogers has been clean & sober for one year. In an effort to remain clean, to prove to himself that he can overcome his demons, he takes on the responsibility of becoming a sponsor. It’s wrong for a sponsor to feel a personal attachment to the ones they are sponsoring, but apparently Steve didn’t get that memo.
Bucky Barnes’ downfall was cocaine, he couldn’t keep his nose clean if his life depended on it. After overdosing for the third time, a judge ordered him to ‘get clean, or go to jail.’ Narcotics Anonymous wasn’t really Bucky’s thing, that was until he saw the blonde haired, blue eyed God that was going to be his sponsor.
Will Steve be able to separate his feelings from the addiction? Can Bucky overcome his primal urges and keep things professional?
Word Count: 1,671
Warnings for series: Illicit & casual drug use, explicit language, alcohol abuse, explicit sexual language, male receiving anal sex, male receiving oral sex, explicit sexual content, heavy angst, possibly more to come
Author’s Note: This is going to be strictly a Stucky fic. There will be no reader involved. I wouldn’t be writing this without the unwavering support of @captain-rogers-beard & @climbthatmooselikeatree I love you. GIF credit

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

Steve was standing by the steps, finishing his cigarette before the meeting, greeting the members of Narcotics Anonymous as they entered the building. It was a big night for him; one year clean and sober, three hundred and sixty-five days since he crashed his motorcycle into a hundred year old oak. He had been high on ecstacy, a birthday present from his fling of the week.

He hadn’t remembered much about it, the accident, only that one of the EMT’s had made a comment about Steve being “A lucky son of a bitch.” Despite the fact that his bike was a wrangled mess, Steve suffered a concussion, cuts on his neck that required stitches, a broken wrist, and a dislocated kneecap. The disappointment on his mother’s face had been enough incentive to get help.

Had it been easy? Fuck no. Steve had been addicted to one thing or another ever since he could remember. He smoked weed in high school, but that wasn’t what set him on the treacherous path of addiction. No, that came during his freshman year in college when his achilles tendon ruptured during a football game. The surgeon repaired it easily enough, but the prescribed vicodin took away the pain a little too well. It was all downhill from there.

Noticing the time on his watch, Steve took one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out and tossing it into the bin as he walked up the steps. The room was filled with low conversations, friends catching up on what had transpired since the week before, several people complaining about the shitty coffee, and a handful of others taking their seats at the sight of Steve.

Standing at the other end of the room, Steve cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming, everyone.” Several people gave smiles and waved while everyone that had been standing took their seats, apologizing softly.

“I see some new faces with us tonight,” Steve smiled. “Welcome to Narcotics Anonymous. If you’re feeling up to it, share your story with us. We’re here to help.”

One of the new arrivals, a man with chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes, gave a half-smile and leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the back of the chair next to him. Swallowing thickly, Steve forced himself to continue.

“For the newest members, my name is Steve, and I’m an addict,” he introduced himself, nodding once when “Hi, Steve,” was said.

He shoved a hand into his pocket and tugged out the shiny coin. “It’s been one year since the accident and, while the path to today,” he flipped the coin in the air, catching it a moment later, “has been rocky, to say the least, the unwavering support I’ve received has been amazing. I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for you. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

Applause and cheers filled the room for a minute, making Steve blush at the attention. Even though he did a great job of hiding it, he hated speaking in front of people. To have the attention solely on him made his stomach churn, made his old habits flare, the need to snort a line of coke or swallow several pills growing, making the back of his neck itch and his hand shake.

“Enough about me,” he chuckled, shoving his shaking hand into his pocket. “Who would like to speak first tonight?”

Sam stood up from his seat and shook Steve’s hand before standing where Steve had been. “Hi, everyone. My name is Sam, and I’m an addict. It’s been six months since I’ve taken a pill.”

Steve went to the back of the room and poured himself a cup of coffee. Leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, he listened carefully as everyone took their turn.

Sam went on to talk about how his mother’s birthday was coming up, and how it was hard for him because of her mental illness. Mrs. Wilson was bipolar, depressed, and wasn’t taking her medication. She lashed out at those around her, calling them vile names, and spewing profanities.

“She wants a big party,” he scoffed, scraping a hand over his face. “Demands that everyone be there. I told her to go to hell.”

“How does that make you feel?” Wanda asked timidly.

“Like I wanna swallow a bottle of oxy,” he admitted, his voice heavy. “But I won’t, I can’t. See, I found out that I’m gonna be a dad.”

Congratulations were said by everyone making Sam smile wide. “Thanks, guys. I uh, I wouldn’t be here to have something to look forward to if I hadn’t found this place.” With a curt nod and a blush coloring his cheeks, Sam took his seat.

Wanda took her turn, softly crying as she talked about her twin brother, Pietro, and how the anniversary of his death was coming up. “Two years,” she murmured, fiddling with one of the many thin-banded rings on her slim fingers. “It’s been two years and I miss him every minute of the day. I swear I can still hear him teasing me about stupid things.”

Clint was out of his seat and wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight, and doing his best to calm her down, a hand on the back of her head. “Come on, baby. You’re okay. I got you.” He pulled her from the front of the room and they took a seat in the front row.

“I’d like to go next, if that’s okay.” The brunette that Steve couldn’t take his eyes off stood up and shuffled his feet nervously, his head dipping, his hair falling around his face.

Everyone turned in their seats and welcomed him to the group.

“I uh, I’ve never done this,” he stammered, shifting on his feet. “My name is Bucky, and it’s been one week since I overdosed.”

Steve pushed away from the wall at that. “Hi, Bucky,” he greeted, the rest of the room echoing his sentiment.

Bucky looked at Steve over his shoulder and gave him a warm smile that made his eyes sparkle. Steve could see the bruises around his eyes, his shaking hands, and the sheen of sweat on his forehead that came from withdrawal.

“It wasn’t my first overdose,” he continued after clearing his throat. “I just… I wasn’t in a good place and I took too much. Didn’t realize that the oxy I was popping like candy was laced with ecstasy.”

“Oh no,” Wanda murmured, wiping tears from her face.

Bucky’s voice was thick and sad when he said, “My mom, she uh, she was the one that found me. Said she’d had enough of seeing me throw my life away because of some pills. To prove her point, she brought me to court and a judge ordered that I get clean or go to jail. I chose the lesser of two evils.”

People chuckled under their breath at the jab. “We’re here to help you in any way we can, Bucky.” It was Clint, offering his help, the help of the recovering, the one that had fallen off the wagon, the damaged.

“Thanks, guys,” Bucky murmured, scratching the back of his neck as he sat down, taking another look at Steve.

Steve swallowed heavily before turning away, walking to the front of the room and sitting in the front row. Everyone else took their turn, if they wanted to. Sometimes, not everyone spoke, just being there, surrounded by their friends, buried in the energy of love and support, it was all they needed.

It was two hours later when Steve stood in front of the room. “My sponsor has given me an assignment, of sorts. Now that I’ve been clean for a year, Tony suggested that I become a sponsor. I gave it a lot of thought and I’ve decided, what the hell? I’ll give it a shot.”

After closing the meeting, several people came up to Steve, giving their congratulations and a clap on the shoulder. While the group started to disperse slowly, drinking coffee, eating cookies, conversing quietly, Steve disappeared outside for a cigarette.

“Hi,” Bucky said, taking a long drag.

Steve stopped short, his foot hovering over the bottom step. “Hiya, Bucky. How are you holding up?” he asked, lighting a cigarette as he stood across from the attractive brunette, mirroring his stance.

Bucky shrugged. “I’m alive, so, good, I guess?”

“I get it,” Steve chuckled. “The first week is always the worst.”

“What’s your story?” Bucky inquired, eager to get the topic off of himself.

Steve didn’t try pushing Bucky to talk about anything he didn’t want to, not yet, it was too early in the process for that. So, Steve told Bucky everything about the night of the accident, not sparing any detail, well, the details he could remember.

“Looks like our moms are the ones holding the reins,” Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Steve readjusted his position, switching the way his feet were situated, which was making his previously-dislocated kneecap ache. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Bucky shot back, angrily flicking the ash from his cigarette.

“Rough childhood?” he asked softly.

“Army brat,” was all Bucky would say. “Look, I’m doing this whole sobriety thing for the first time, and I’m going to need a sponsor that isn’t afraid to put me in my spot when I need it. With everything you’ve been through, the pills, the accident, I was wondering if you’d want to take me on.”

Steve sucked in a deep breath of the Brooklyn crisp night air as his mind reeled. Should he really be doing that, taking on someone that made his heart pound, that gave him a ton of wicked ideas? But, Bucky needed help, and Steve had a feeling that he wouldn’t have asked if he hadn’t wanted to.

He stubbed out his cigarette and held out his hand for Bucky to shake. “You’ve got yourself a sponsor.”

TWO

Stucky: @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @peytonlovescupckaes @autoblocked @its–fandom–darling @eshia16 @daiiybuugle @delicatecapnerd @phoenix21love

Clean & Sober: @valerie-ark @mistjif68 @keepyourheadup2018 @buckyinaboxcar @pieceofhamiltrash

Cat & Mouse: Breaking & Entering – Chapter One –

Summary: Steve Rogers is multi-millionaire philanthropist, co-founder of a non-profit that aids and rehabilitates veterans, and the Most Eligible Bachelor in Brooklyn. With the spotlight shining bright overhead, Steve becomes the latest victim of The Brooklyn Bandit; a thief that has made away with almost $5,000,000 in cash and rare jewels..
After dead ends and embarrassing headlines, Sergeant Fury doesn’t think the Bandit case is one that can be solved. Rather than pour any more man hours into it than absolutely necessary, he assigns Y/N Y/L/N – a first year detective – to the case.
Half a million dollars was stolen right out from under everyone’s noses, and there’s not one shred of evidence. With a point to prove and a give ‘em hell attitude, you throw everything you’ve got into solving the case. Too bad you hadn’t prepared yourself for the latest victim’s dazzling smile and generous heart.
Word Count: 1,568
Warnings: Language, acts of thievery, language, angst, maybe some smut, possibly more to come as series continues.
Author’s Note: Thank you @captain-rogers-beard and @climbthatmooselikeatree for your invaluable help with this.

My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.

Wearing a cocky smirk, the man dressed all in black made quick work of shoving stacks of cash into the large duffel. No one would miss it, not really, not considering what he was leaving behind; jewels – both loose and set, stacks of bonds from the 1800’s, rows of antique coins in thick plastic, and many more priceless artifacts. No. Steve Rogers wouldn’t miss a measly $500,000.

He had to be quick, though. There was a party, another one of Steve’s fundraisers, bringing attention to the men and women that protected the nation, to the ones that paid an unbelievable price, and if he didn’t hurry, he might have run the risk of getting caught. Which he couldn’t deny was the main reason he was currently on a burglary streak.

Shaking his head, he secured the bag to his back and easily slipped out the way he had come; through an unmonitored door that hardly anyone knew about. He was behind the wheel of his car, the motor running, pulling out of the parking lot of an abandoned lot several blocks away when the alarm sounded

Champagne glass in hand, Steve approached the podium. “Before everyone goes home tonight, I wanted to give you all the good news,” he announced, silencing the buzz of chatter in the large room. “We not only reached our goal, but we’ve raised three times the original amount!”

The room was filled with shouts and cries of triumph, and there were balloons falling from the ceiling. Several couples hugged and kissed, multiple friends raised their glasses in salute, but none of them really mattered. It wasn’t them he was raising the money for. It was people like his best friend, Bucky, people that had been injured in the war, losing limbs to IED’s, being captured and tortured by radicals. Those were the real heroes. Not Steve, not the million dollar donation by an anonymous donor. None of them knew what is was like to make a sacrifice.

Bucky was at the bar, smirk tugging at his lips, glass of whiskey in his right hand. He raised it in salute and tossed back his head, gulping down the hundred year old amber liquid in one swallow. His wife, Natasha – the leggy redhead that had a penchant for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong – was sipping from a glass of red wine. She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Steve and raised a hand, wiggling her red-tipped fingers at him.

Clint, Steve’s other best friend, and handicapped army veteran, clapped a hand to Steve’s shoulder as he exited the stage. “Don’t know how you do it,” Clint murmured, his other hand fiddling with the new set of hearing aids.

“Doing what I gotta do to help get funding,” Steve admitted.

Truth be told, he hated speaking in front of large crowds, drawing attention to himself, it all made him feel like a dancing monkey, even though it was to raise millions of dollars for the men and women that came home – injured and mutilated – to a country that would inevitably fail them, pretend their injuries weren’t that severe, that all the soldiers needed to do was think happy thoughts.

Steve was tired of seeing the injustice, the barbaric treatment of America’s finest. So, he had a chat with fellow philanthropist and friend, Tony Stark, and together they started a non-profit. All of the money raised went towards the medical treatment of injured veterans, providing them with expensive surgeries, state of the art prosthetics, physical therapy… anything and everything the government failed to provide, at no cost to the veteran.

“We appreciate it, brother. More than you know,” Clint smiled, clapping Steve’s shoulder once more. At the sight of Clint’s wife, Wanda, his entire face lit up. He jogged across the room, his shiny shoes squeaking on the glossy floor.

Steve watched as Clint wrapped his arms around his wife, and spun her around, kissing her heatedly. There was a sting of jealousy at the sight, but he honestly didn’t have the time for it; dating, falling in love, getting married. As if she could hear his inner monologue, Nat was striding purposefully towards the bachelor. Hoping to avoid her, Steve turned to dive into a conversation that Tony was having with Thaddeus Ross, but she was too damn fast, even in her four inch heels.

“Walk with me, Steve,” she purred, her hand sneaking along his side, coming to a stop on the inside of his forearm, pulling him into a slow walk.

With a tight smile, Steve held his arm against his side. “My pleasure, Nat,” he murmured.

It wasn’t that he didn’t get along with his best friend’s wife, he did. She was amazingly loyal, sweet, caring, smart as a whip… almost too smart. While he wanted to keep his private life just that, private, she was set on finding someone for him to go out with, get married, live happily ever after, the life Bucky had, the life Bucky wanted for his friend.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Steve asked, smiling warmly at Rhodey, another injured veteran that had just enrolled for physical therapy.

Natasha barely waited until they were outside. “I’ve got this friend-”

“No, Nat,” Steve snapped, pulling his arm away as if he had been stung.

“Why not?” Natasha asked, eyebrow arched once again.

Steve scraped a hand over his face. “It’s just… it’s not something I want right now.” It was a blatant lie, one he had told himself time and time again in hopes of convincing himself that a wife and kids were not what his heart desired most.

“You gotta get out there, Steve.” Nat dropped a hand to Steve’s and squeezed. “Look, I know Bucky and I give you a lot of shit, but we just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.” And he was. Helping his friends and their friends, their brothers and sisters in arms, it had given Steve a purpose he hadn’t had before. He was doing something meaningful with his life, with his family’s money.

Nat’s lips pulled into a tight smile. “I know you are.” She pushed up and pressed her red lips into Steve’s beard, wiggling her nose as the whiskers scraped her skin.

“You movin’ in on my girl?” Bucky called as he approached.

“Never in a million years,” Steve assured his friend.

Natasha laughed and slapped Steve playfully in the arm. “You couldn’t handle me, Steve.”

Bucky slid his shining prosthetic arm around his wife’s waist and kissed her cheek. “I hope you’re behaving yourself,” he teased Nat.

“When have I ever not behaved myself?” she sighed happily, her hand resting on her husband’s chest, fingers drifting over his black tie. At that comment, both men broke into laughter, not paying any mind to Natasha or the look of faux-offense on her face. Unable to pretend to be upset, Nat joined in, and was clutching her side a moment later.

Tony was jogging towards the trio just as they were composing themselves. “Rogers,” he called. “Might want to answer your phone every now and again.”

“What, why?” he questioned as he dug into his pocket. There was a series of missed calls and voicemails from his cleaning lady, Maria, his building’s security, and Steve’s heart started to race.

“There was a break-in,” Tony answered, glancing over Steve’s shoulder. “I already called for the car.”

With a heaving sigh, you dropped into the chair and kicked your legs up onto the edge of your desk. You had just spent the last fifteen minutes with Sergeant Fury, all but begging for a case, any case, to help out the team. Turned out, the newest cases went to Brooklyn’s finest, and that term only applied to higher ranking detectives, not first year grunts. Since it was your first year as a detective, and you had just begged for a case, you got put on the Bandit case.

Sam Wilson, your partner and good friend, gave a chuckle. “That good, huh?”

“I got us a case,” you admitted, hands folded on your stomach.

“Yeah? Which socialite are we going to rush in and save at the last minute?”

You couldn’t help but snort as you watched him. “Hate to burst your bubble, Sam, but it’s not that kind of case.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Someone important has been abducted and we have to find out who did it within forty-eight hours.”

Another unladylike snort erupted from your nose. “Not even close.”

“There’s been a series of threats made against the mayor -”

“It’s the Bandit case,” you muttered, cutting off his fantasy-driven tirade.

He was shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Uh-uh,” he argued. “Boss calls it unsolvable.”

Your phone rang just then, three quick chirps in rapid succession. “Y/L/N,” you gruffed, your head lolling back, eyes squeezing closed.

“Seeing as how you have the Bandit case,” Fury said coolly. “Thought you’d want to know there was a break-in at the Rogers residence.”

You swallowed around the knot in your throat. “Rogers, as in Steve Rogers, sir?”

“There’s the ace detective work that’ll get this case solved,” Fury snapped. “Yes, Steve Rogers. Half a mill was lifted earlier.”

“On our way,” you assured your boss. Shoving out of your chair, you threw a pen at Sam. “Come on,” you ordered.

Chapter 2: Small Town Police

Everything: @captain-rogers-beard @because-imma-lady-assface @mrs-squirrel-chester @becs-bunker @badassbaker @baezen @feelmyroarrrr @fatalcrossbow @sunriserose1023 @alyssaj23 @stevergxrs @ssweet-empowerment @supernatural-girl97 @thefridgeismybestie @bitchierrichie @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @palaiasaurus64 @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @nyxveracity @breezy1415 @titty-teetee @melaninmarvel @crazy-little-thing-called-buck @wildefire @capsheadquaters @chipmunkofmischief @qnzdiamond104 @saharzek @speakinvain @diinofayce @mizzzpink @pebblesz892 @stevieang @thatgirl-xx-thatgirl @until-theend-oftheline @southernbellestatues @jakaraannodine @lea—-b @redqueen1221 @brittyevans @moisttoas-t @nuggsmum @anotherotter @jobean12-blog @fireismysaftey @msshadowboxer @vechkinfan @prettybubblesintheair @kanupps06 @rainbowkisses31 @janeyboo @banlaochranda @ellie-bee242 @shieldsandsunsets @evanstandream @punkrockhufflefluff @winters-beauty @unlikelygalaxygiver @thirtiethnovember @sexyvixen7 @whope123 @mscaptainjones @awkward-walking-potato @brastrangled @jessica-bones-winchester @iamthemaskhewears @wheresthekillswitch

Steve: @mjdoc90 @blxcksoulsanddxrkflowers @hides-in-the-shadows @cherrysfandom @lxdyred @jemmaisokay @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @phoenix21love

Cat & Mouse: @ladylogolepsy @fangirl-and-medstudent-help @whiskeybucky @nerdgirljen