Can we all take a moment to notice the difference in their styles.

Here’s Steve with this great majestic kick into a standing position and then there’s Bucky.

Bucky is like he just got told to get out of his bed by his mum.

“Ugh why do I have to get up? What did I do to deserve this? Sure u flick up Steve like a dumb prancing pony whilst I crawl around in the dirt like a mealworm.”


all the people i have been
surround me with
small desperate faces.    
how did you become this?
          ╾╾   o.g.k  | @anxiousbucky

     graphic giveaway prize for @starryseb​
     character graphic → bucky barnes


Pure bliss

(A/N): I love Steve so much *sobs* 

Warnings: fluff, mentions of smut

Originally posted by yalica

   After everything that had happened to Steve; Bucky’s fall, going under, leaving behind a familiar world, coming back to find his death had been for nothing, he never thought he’d find true happiness ever again. 

    For months after being unfrozen he stayed true to those thoughts, he was never truly happy despite the way he faked it all the damn time. Sure, he had fleeting moments of small happiness but that was nothing compared to what he felt way back when. It wasn’t until he met (Y/N) that his thoughts slowly began to change. 

    It had been a slow climb at first, soft smiles shared between the two, the occasional small talk, a hug ever once in awhile. But as Steve began to grow closer to (Y/N) he realized he longed for more than just this small friendship they shared. Steve began to spend more time with (Y/N), more quiet laughter, a small joke here and there, soft fleeting touches that had Steve longing for even more. It was, a slow process but (Y/N) was very slolwy starting to bring happiness back into Steve’s life.   

   Steve thought he knew what true happiness was when (Y/N) finally kissed him, that fluttering feeling in his stomach and the way his hands shook as he ever so gently cupped (Y/N)’s cheeks. But then he thought he knew what happiness was when he found (Y/N) curled up on his bed fast asleep and snoring softly. The way their face squished against the pillow and their hair was a mess below their head, Steve honestly believed he had never felt such happiness before. And then there were those most intimate times, where Steve had buried himself completely in (Y/N) and they were both panting and sweating messes. Steve’s heart was so full of love for (Y/N) that he honestly believed he had gone to heaven because nothing could feel as good as this moment did. But it was the very next morning that Steve truly found out what it meant to be happy.

    He’d awoken groggily from a short night of sleep (due to some activities the night prior), the bed felt cold and there was no comforting weight settled upon his chest like there had been when he’d gone to sleep. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned softly against the harsh morning light seeping through his window. 

   Steve reached a hand out across his sheets, attempting to grab at (Y/N) and pull them closer but when he did he was only met by the smooth canvas of his sheets. Steve nearly whined as he realized (Y/N) was probably up and ready for the day, which meant he had to as well. With another soft groan Steve rises from his bed, stretching lightly as he does so.

    His feet touched the floor and he slowly and carefully walked over to where his sweatpants had been thrown across the room the night before. As Steve bent down to grab at the navy blue pants he realized just how sore he was which meant (Y/N) must have been a billion times sorer. Steve felt a little guilty at the fact the he was one who had caused (Y/N) to feel that kind of pain but as he recalled the soft whimpers and pleas that fell from their lips every guilt flew out the window.

    Steve smiled softly as he wiggled his pants on, being careful not to aggravate his sore limbs. He attempted to walk normally but with each step his legs burned in pain and he resorted to waddling around like some form of bird. 

   Steve slowly but surely made his way into the living quarters of his floor and immediately the smell of coffee and bacon fills his senses. Steve smiles wider as he waddles around the corner, the kitchen only a few meters away. What Steve saw made his heart stop and his mouth run dry. There was (Y/N), standing at the stove, cooking him food, all the while wearing his far too large t-shirt. 

   The thing only reached mid thigh and Steve was sure (Y/N) wasn’t wearing anything underneath it but hot damn- that was his baby, wearing his clothes while cooking breakfast for him, in his kitchen. It was then Steve realized what true happiness was to him, it was (Y/N), dressed in his clothing as they slowly hummed some tune to some song Steve probably didn’t know. 

   It was so domestic Steve momentarily forgot about everything else in his life other than (Y/N) and how they were seemingly doing such a mundane task. It was silly, Steve realized this, but after all the pain and loss he’d gone through it was finally his time to get something good out of the universe.

    Steve is sure there are tears in his eyes but he doesn’t care, not right now he doesn’t. He slowly slips up behind (Y/N), wrapping his arms around their waist and nuzzling his scruffy face into the crook of their neck. There’s a soft squeak of surprise from (Y/N) before they’re melting against him, leaning back into his touch. 

    “Hey Sleepyhead,” their tone is teasing and light and Steve swears it only makes him want to cry more. “I made you breakfast,” Steve can barely find the words within him because he had just come to a hug realization. (Y/N) was the first thing to make him happy in months. This was no fake, momentary happiness, this was a permanent, heart warming kind of happiness that he never wanted to end. 

   Steve sniffles softly and he’s sure (Y/N) is growing concerned but he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to. 

    “Thank you,” Steve whispers as he presses a soft kiss to the back of (Y/N)’s neck. “Thank you so much,”

Sensory Overload

Pairing: Bucky/Reader, Reader/Boyfriend, Steve/Nat

Summary: Bucky is jealous. And has an overnight outburst when he hears you with your boyfriend.

Warnings: Smut; curse words (lots); jealous Bucky

He hated himself. He hated his room and the fact that it was next yours and what he hated the most was the man that was making you squirm and moan while your boyfriend fucked the brain out of you.

He couldn’t sleep. He blamed it on the burning jealousy.

He had once been very close to reveal his feelings; he almost told you that he was falling in love with you but he didn’t dared. He preferred to remain as friends and to avoid have you get angry and awkward towards him. You meant the world to him, and another man was the world to you now.

Originally posted by wellfuckyoutooworld

He banged his head against the table.

I’m so close, baby!” You moaned right before orgasm started to take hold. “Fuck!

I’m right behind you, sweetheart!” Your boyfriend moaned as he thrusted into you.

Your boyfriend started to feel your walls clench around him and he never could contain himself. “Give me all you got baby girl.”

It didn’t help that he had his desk and bed next to the wall that you two shared, and the walls were thin as fuck.

And then he heard you say those words “I’m about to cum! Fuck— yes! Yes! God!

He heard your moans and you boyfriend’s which quickly followed.

Bucky couldn’t help it. He acted out on emotions and did not process was he was feeling or saying.

Originally posted by thewinterstangirl

“FUCK!” Bucky yelled loud enough for you to hear. Bucky stood up and broke the chair when he threw it to his side as he walked out. You suddenly heard a bang on the door.

You didn’t know who was it, but you wanted to kill them. 

“WOULD THE TWO OF YOU MIND GETTING OUT OF HERE AND FUCK SOMEWHERE ELSE?” He yelled waking people in the other end of the hall, a.k.a Steve and Natasha’s room which were adjacent.

You quickly wrapped a blanket around your waist and ran to the door.

“What the fuck!” You boyfriend said when he opened the door. You saw Bucky stand there, with full rage.

“Some of us,” Bucky started as he slammed the door completely open, “Some of us are trying to sleep.” He said looking at you, “But could you two keep that lousy fuck quiet and out of here. This isn’t a fucking motel. I’m fucking next door and this fucking walls are fucking thin and all I can here is your petty sex, and him asking you to call him daddy. I don’t want to fucking hear that so please, for my fucking sanity which is about to fucking expire. Get a fucking room at a fucking hotel and fuck over there because I am fucking tired!”

“Fuck you Barnes!” Your boyfriend yelled at him. He had noticed Bucky’s lingering looks to you and his dorky smile whenever he was talking with you. “Mind your fucking business!”

“I am minding my fucking business.” Bucky said, “I am trying to fucking sleep here.”

Bucky suddenly felt a pair of arms pull him back and a head full of red hair come in between. 

“Cut it off, Mark. Get out!”

“Are you serious?” You said standing up from your bed, wrapping a blanket around your naked body. “Nat!”


Your boyfriend who was rather scared of Natasha quickly went back to your rook and put his pants back on.

“Mark!” You said as you tried to stop him.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He said, “I am not gonna get punch by neither of them.”

With that and quick kiss on the lips, he left.

Steve held Bucky still in his arms. “What the hell man!” Steve said to him as he dragged him to his room.

Natasha stayed with you. She looked at you and turned the light on and threw you nightgown.

“Did you really have to throw him out?” You asked her. “We don’t complain with Steve and you going at it.”

“Are you really that out of it?” Natasha asked. 

“I’m serious!” You cried out loud. “I don’t complain about Bucky jerking himself off every night and his loud groans.”

“You know that Bucky has a sleep disorder. He wakes up by anything and is prone to have auditory overload!”

“So I cannot have sex with my boyfriend in my room?” You asked her. “That’s bullshit, Natasha.”

“Goodness!” Natasha sighed, “You are really clueless.”

“About what?” You asked. 

“Nevermind.” Natasha sighed, “Just go back to sleep.”

feedback is always appreciated :) | let me know what you think! 2nd part?

me, talking to the Academy: now listen, i know this has never been done before, but i’m thinking we start a new category “Best Moment In Cinema History”, and award it to Sebastian Stan as Bucky Barnes Straddling a Motorcycle in Midair - Captain America: Civil War (2016) dir. Joe and Anthony Russo


i shouldn’t even be thinking it, much less writing it down
a playlist for the thirteen letters + the long way around
(or, bucky’s writing in not easily conquered, by dropdeaddream and whatarefears)

*specific quotes from bucky’s writing featured in song annotations; songs in chronological order by quote.


anyway, jesus — i shouldn’t even be thinking it, much less writing it down. i used to love you so sweet, the way kids love, the way i was supposed to. then it turned greedy and true.



Walmart is terrible and I’m sure this is some kind of rights infringement but at the moment I don’t care 


I’m not crying you’re crying.

Protected (Part 4)

summary: reader witnesses something horrible and somehow Bucky ends up being her bodyguard

warnings: (a tiny bit of) some good ol’ sexual tension

word count: 1304

a/n: I would’ve written sooner but The Walking Dead has me a MESS but anyway Buckyyyy *insert here’s johnny gif* tags are at the end! let me know if I missed anyone!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Originally posted by enochianess

Sitting at the lobby I was doubting myself and the decision to come here. I was going to call Steve again and cancel our little meet up today, but since seeing the new last night and finding out that another woman has been murdered in the same style and fairly close to my apartment I decided it was just best to hear what he thinks about all this. 

Keep reading

mcgregorswench  asked:

ShieldShock - getting lost, together or separately, ending up in the same spooky, eerie, desolate, haunted house. Supernatural style, really. Throw in the Winchesters if you want, or maybe Darcy is really a witch.

Okay, this kinda diverged a bit from the prompt, though it’s still got some more of those supernatural elements (both of magic and the show possibly) and it’s really only pre-Darcy/Steve at this point…but there’s more of a story somewhere in this prompt, if I can figure out where to go with it.  You’ll see what I mean.

This ficlet also is in the same universe as this ficlet, with Darcy and Jane as witches.  @hxans, you wanted to know who their third was?  Well, read on and find out. ;)


The old Book of Shadows is stowed safely in Darcy’s messenger bag, slung over her shoulder, which is great for keeping her hands free for a flashlight and a pre-prepared electrical spell, just in case she needs it.  This dance hall is notoriously haunted, one of the only noticeable features of this small Midwestern town that was once a lot more bustling than the broken down shell of a place it currently is.  But that’s the perils of being a witch, sometimes you have to go to the spooky and forgotten places because no one else is going to remember them. Either they’re too scared or too unwilling to see what’s just beyond their comprehension.  

Darcy hops up onto the creaky stage, with some gaps in the floorboards that shudder each time her heavy boots step around them.  She can feel the weight of time around her – the dance hall is maybe a hundred years old if it’s a day, and how many people would have passed through this space before it was given over to decay?  Countless impressions are left behind, and she and her ilk are the ones who either make sure everything stays on the side of positive or get rid of anything negative that shouldn’t be there.  She pokes her head around a dusty red velvet curtain, faded with age and pitted with moth holes, so she can look behind the stage, but there’s only a handful of shredded ropes hanging from the scaffolding above between the curtains and the back wall.  Nothing terribly exciting.  

When she turns back around, however…

Well, Darcy’s still in the same dance hall, although now it’s suddenly come to life, yellow electric lights suffusing the entire place to the point where her eyes almost burn.  The seats in the dance hall look full and comfortable, clean and polished wood and metal seats rising the whole way back to the entrance to the hall.  People are milling around the seats, some lingering and some heading towards the exits, the general noise of human chatter filling the place.  They’re well dressed and clean, though the outfits are ones that Darcy’s only seen in those old movies her mother liked to watch on rainy Saturdays.  The curtains are no longer pockmarked but a plush, vibrant cranberry color, waving and shifting every time one of the dancers pass by them to head backstage. But they don’t see her, Darcy notes as one comes a couple of inches of her face without even realizing that she’s there.  It’s the costumes that the dancers are wearing, however, that tell her that she’s not exactly in Kansas anymore.

Actually, she’s pretty sure she’s still in Kansas, but definitely not in 2011 anymore.  

1940s, she guesses from the hairstyles the women are wearing, on stage and off in the audience.  The sparkly red, white, and blue costumes that the dancers are wearing are far bolder than anything the people watching the show have on.  Darcy’s heard of some witches being able to see into the past when they’re in a particularly powerful location, but psychic sensitivity isn’t one of Darcy’s gifts and it’s never something she’s encountered before.  Which leaves her with the second option of time travel, and that thought’s a doozy that knocks Darcy for a loop.

She slips between the dancers and hops off the stage, mingling with the audience who can’t see her either.  Actually, the audience seems to be able to walk right through her, passing through her body like smoke.  Darcy holds up her hand and pokes at it with her other one – she feels solid underneath her own fingers, but everyone else can’t see her and passes through her skin. “What the fuck,” she mumbles, and notices that no one can hear her either.

Darcy walks up the aisle towards the back of the hall, taking her time so that she can observe everything around her, the gilded detailing on the carved walls of the hall, the upholstery of the seats, the posters on easels at the back of the hall announcing that this was the bond sales USO tour featuring none other than Captain America beseeching them that each bond bought is a bullet in the barrel of their best guy’s gun.  ‘Definitely 1940s, then,’ she thinks.  She follows the crowd into the gallery outside the hall, which is full of many exhausted mother corralling screaming kids who are begging to meet Captain America, signing autographs and taking photographs with people in front of a big propaganda poster against one wall.

‘Dude looks harried,’ Darcy thinks, tilting her head and taking a better look at the Captain.  No one can see her, after all, so there’s no better time to actually stop and observe.  Besides, that’s one of the key things her mentors and her Gran had taught her – one of a witch’s most powerful skills is the ability to just be quiet and listen and watch.  From this angle he looks younger than she’d imagined, and she realizes that this is from before he’d gone overseas and became an actual war hero.  But even so the stage show has been taking it out of him to the point where it reads clearly on his face, even through the woolen cowl.

She’s surprised that she can tell this just by looking at him, and that no one else in the crowd that surrounds him notices either.

What’s apparently clear, however, is that the little wings on the cowl are just as dorky in person as they are in the pictures in the history books, and Darcy claps a hand over her mouth to muffle the giggles.

That’s when the Captain’s head snaps up, eyes going immediately in her direction.  And at first, Darcy doesn’t realize that he’s actually staring at her, and not something that’s just beyond her or through her.  She whips her head around from side to side, trying to find out if there’s anything interesting there to see.  But there’s nothing out of the ordinary, just some wallpaper and lit sconces, and so she looks back at the Captain, puzzled.  

He then cocks his head at her, eyes slightly squinted through the cowl, a small motion that Darcy can’t miss.  Feeling a bit silly, Darcy lifts a hand and points at herself.  Because no one can see her, right?  So there’s no way possible he could be looking at her.

But the Captain nods once, just as his eyes trail over her figure.  The scrutiny makes her squirm, even though she knows it’s entirely because the skinny jeans, riding boots, and oversized sweater she’s currently wearing are the furthest thing from traditional 1940s women’s wear.  He’s just as confused as she is, Darcy realizes, because this should NOT be happening.  This is just a ghost memory, the echo of a time long past in a building that’s known for haunted experiences, so why the hell is someone from that memory able to notice and actually see her?

Unless it was something more than just a memory…?

The Captain absentmindedly hands an autograph book back to a waiting child, and takes a few quick steps over to where Darcy is standing.  She lifts her chin in the air, partly to look up at him, because he’s got more than a few inches on her, and also partly to give the impression that she’s not scared and there’s nothing in this world that bothers her.

(Lies, all lies, but no one needs to know that.)

He reaches a hand out towards her, and Darcy’s breath catches in her throat, her heart pounding away in her chest.  It’s not even a question now that he can see her, the Captain’s bright blue eyes drilling into hers and locked into place.  She lifts up her arm to try and block, to protect herself, but then her fingers brush against his and the surprising solidness and warmth of his skin screams loud and clear that this is not just a memory, that something real is happening even if she doesn’t know exactly what it is.

Then, just as his fingers press harder into hers, the world seems to crack into pieces, the lights falling away like shards of a broken mirror to reveal the decaying darkness of what’s left of the dance hall in the modern era.  Darcy gasps and shudders, spinning around in place while she looks for the vibrancy and the life of just a few minutes before.  But there’s nothing to be found, just the creaking of the floor and the whistling of the wind through the cracks in the wall.


A week later Darcy’s back at Culver, but instead of relaxing or maybe working on the class assignments that went neglected while she was on her mission, she’s got her head in her hands as she hunches over a table in Jane’s office.  “I think…no, I know I wasn’t hallucinating, or having a vision, or anything like that.  It was fucking real, and I still don’t know why I saw it?”

Jane shakes her head, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from Darcy.  “Magic doesn’t work like that.  If there’s something out there that the magic wants you and only you to see, guess what?  You’re going to see it.”

“I have the psychic sensitivity of a toothpick, though,” Darcy mumbles into her hands.

“Still doesn’t matter,” Jane insists.  “Temporal magic’s…quirky.  It’s kinda like quantum physics; it doesn’t always follow the rules of the universe.”

Across the room, Dr. Betty Ross is fiddling around with Jane’s electric kettle, preparing herself a mug of tea before coming over to the table.  “And you’re certain that this man was able to physically make contact with you?” she asks as she sits down.

“Not just any man, Captain freakin’ America,” Darcy says, head still in her hands.

“Trust me, I’m well aware of who Captain America is,” Betty says with a rueful tone to her voice.  “What I’m concerned about is the part where you could actually feel him.  Because that tells me that this wasn’t just some psychic projection.”

Darcy lifts her head out of her hands to give Betty a weak glare.  “Again, psychic sensitivity of a toothpick.”

“And you still managed to 1) travel through time without realizing it and 2) touch the living, breathing figure of a man who’s been dead and buried in the Arctic Ocean for almost seventy years,” Betty points out.

Jane reaches for a scrap of paper and one of the many pens she’s got scattered around her office and starts to scribble down some notes.  “I think you should do some focus exercises,” Jane says.  “See if you can remember anything else aside from running into the world’s first superhero.”

Darcy just groans again, dropping her forehead down to the surface of the table.  “Witchcraft fail,” she sighs.

“Witchcraft has just as many mysteries as science does,” Jane fires back.  “And…I am late for class and I need to get there before my students start walking out,” she blurts, jolting up from her chair and knocking the papers on the table askew.  She lurches over to grab a notebook and folder off of her desk, then all but runs out of the room.  “Lock up when you’re done!” she calls back to Betty and Darcy.

Once whirlwind Jane’s left them behind, Darcy looks up at Betty, her face drawn and sober.  “I’m a kitchen witch,” Darcy says in a quiet voice. “I can make your garden grow, cook up a spell to protect your hearth, get you the right herbs for natural birth control, and whatever else Grandma thinks are the skills that a Lewis witch needs to know.  So this whole temporal magic thing?  It is so far out of my skillset that I’ve got no idea what to do.”

Betty just shrugs, sipping at her tea with an enigmatic smile.  “Do you think that any witch starts out knowing the mechanics of everything that we do innately?  Witchcraft is like anything else in the world, like chemistry or cooking or sewing or accounting – it requires practice.  I had to work my ass off to be able to do what I can – and hide what I was doing from my dad at the same time.”

“Not a fan of magic, I take it?”

“That’s an understatement, and also a story for another time.  But the point I’m trying to make is that you’re still young, and you’ve got plenty of time to practice.  And maybe, just maybe, this whole time slip thing that you experienced is just the start of something even bigger and better.”

Darcy shakes her head, twisting to stare up at the ceiling with an odd smile on her lips.  “Yeah, sure, okay.  How many good stories start out with someone hallucinating a very famous and very dead supersoldier?”

“Wait and see, o cynical one.  Wait and see.”