So Uh

the vampires are rotting my brain yall

₊˚ʚ thunderbolts!bucky moodboard ɞ˚₊

kat wanting to free all the deer vs rachel amber’s spirit being represented by a deer when she died wanting to be free…oh dontnod i see ur vision so clearly

Hunter Schafer makeup by Sandy Ganzer – getting ready for the Met Gala after party

Okay Avs do that period two more times!!!

Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) The Falcon and The Winter Soldier (2021) Thunderbolts* (2025)

i loved grumpy x sunshine! can we get more of it? bucky’s just a big doberman who loves his sweet precious baby girl more than anything

yes I absolutely love their dynamic and BIG DOBERMAN energy is so spot on!! here’s protective Bucky *wink wink*

Sink in

grumpy!bucky barnes x sunshine!reader

summary: you go on an undercover mission with Bucky who gets overprotective and… jealous?

word count: 2771

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, praise kink, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, mirror sex, breeding, possessive behavior, mutual desperation, fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

You didn’t need to be told twice to smile — it came naturally to you.

Even undercover in a tight red dress and uncomfortable heels, walking into an event filled with arms dealers and corrupt diplomats, you smiled like you had nothing to fear.

Bucky hated it.

“You’re drawing attention.” he muttered under his breath, large hand on the small of your back. “You walk in like that and every asshole in here’s gonna think you’re available.”

You bumped his hip with yours. “That’s kind of the point, grump. You’re supposed to look like you’re here with your arm candy.”

“I don’t like the idea of being bait.” he muttered.

“You’re not bait,” you said with a smile that could melt titanium. “I am.”

Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s even worse.”

Your relationship with Bucky wasn’t simple. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t tease. He grunted. He rolled his eyes. He glared at anyone who looked at you too long. You weren’t dating. Not officially. You hadn’t kissed, hadn’t crossed that line.

But you’d shared motel rooms. Shared food. Watched old movies on scratched discs in safehouses, shoulders brushing in the dark. You’d woken up more than once with your legs tangled under a too-small blanket and his arm slung heavy across your stomach.

You called him “grump” and he let you. You made him coffee just the way he liked it — Black, one tablespoon of sugar— even when he never asked.

He called you doll once, under his breath, when he didn’t know you were listening. And when things got dangerous, when missions got ugly, when people came too close — Bucky stopped being silent. He turned brutal. Fierce.

Protective.

Of you.

You weren’t sure what that meant. You weren’t lovers. But you weren’t just teammates either.

Sometimes, when you caught him staring too long — at your mouth, at your bare shoulder, at your smile — you thought maybe… maybe he felt it too.

The pull.

The way the air shifted between you like something unsaid was pressing against both your ribs.

But he never made a move.

Never crossed the line.

So you didn’t either. You stayed in that strange in-between — close, but not close enough.

But tonight?

When he was here with you in that goddamn tailored suit? Gods be good — it was getting difficult. Very difficult to not get close.

You continued your undercover mission, glancing at Bucky who was watching just from around the corner.

Everything was going fine — until it wasn’t.

You were halfway through your flirtatious distraction with a smug suit named Anton when something shifted. You felt it before you saw it — the way Bucky stiffened across the room, how his gaze locked onto yours like a damn hawk.

Anton’s hand brushed your bare arm. Too high.

Bucky moved.

Not walked. Not jogged.

Moved. Like a fucking missile.

By the time Anton leaned in to whisper something vile in your ear, Bucky was already there.

His metal arm was around your waist before you could blink, yanking you back against his chest as his other hand slammed Anton back into the velvet booth.

“She’s not yours to touch.” he growled, low and deadly.

Anton sputtered, caught off guard. “She said—she was just—”

“I don’t care what she said,” Bucky snapped. “You don’t lay a hand on her.”

“Bucky—” you started, cheeks warm, heart hammering. You weren’t sure If you felt embarrassed or flustered… or maybe it was both?

“No.” His voice was sharp, eyes never leaving the guy’s face. “You don’t touch her unless she asks you to. Got it?”

Anton nodded, wide-eyed, hands raised. Bucky didn’t let go of your waist.

Not even when the man scurried away like a kicked dog. Not even when the music returned to full volume and the mission resumed.

He held you tight against him, breathing hard.

You looked up at him, that same soft smile on your face. “You okay, soldier?”

His jaw was clenched tight. “Don’t do that again.”

“What?”

“Let someone else put their hands on you.”

You blinked, voice lowering. “It was part of the mission.”

“Don’t care.” His grip tightened slightly. “Next time anyone tries that, I’m breaking more than their pride.”

And just like that — it was silent between you.

Hot.

Tense.

Buzzing with a line you hadn’t crossed yet, but you were so close.

Then he leaned down, mouth brushing your ear.

“You’re mine to protect. You get that?”

Your breath caught.

You nodded.

And from the way his hand slipped down your hip, lingering like he needed to feel you were safe, you knew the mission wasn’t the only thing getting dangerously close to explosive.

You watched him leave and soon as you made sure Bucky made his way back to his spot, talking with some other men you rushed to find the bathroom, your breath still caught in your throat, panic raising with every passing moment.

The second the door to the staff’s restroom clicked shut behind you, you exhaled.

Not calmly. Not softly.

You practically collapsed against the sink, palms flat on the cool porcelain as your shoulders slumped forward.

Your heart was still racing, and it wasn’t just the mission.

It was him.

God, it was always him.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, the bass from the club thudding through the floor beneath your heels.

You looked like yourself.

The flirty dress. The soft smile still trying to recover. But inside, you were buzzing. And tired. And confused. And a little bit angry.

Because Bucky had done it again.

The jealousy, the possessiveness — the way he’d shoved that man like he was seconds from pulling the trigger, growling like a feral thing with the words that basically said “don’t touch what’s mine.”

But then, as always, he’d walked away like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t just claim you in front of a room full of people and then leave you standing there, heart pounding, body still warm from his hands.

You felt like a fool. You closed your eyes. Let out a slow breath. You weren’t weak. You weren’t. You’d handled worse.

But not this.

Not him.

You had no idea what the hell you were to Bucky Barnes.

Some days, he looked at you like you were his only peace in this godforsaken world. Other days, he barely spoke — only snapped when you got too close to danger or when someone else looked at you too long. He’d touch you — your waist, your back, your wrist when he needed to pull you out of the way — but he never stayed.

Never kissed you.

Never said anything.

You opened your eyes again and muttered to your reflection:

“Just say it, man. Just say it. Either you want me or you don’t.”

Your voice cracked, and you hated it.

Because you were tired. Tired of feeling like you belonged to someone who didn’t want to belong back.

You didn’t even hear the door open. You only felt it — the sudden shift in the air behind you. The presence. Heavy. Quiet. Familiar.

Then the low voice:

“Why’d you run?”

You turned slowly. Bucky stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, filling the frame like a storm you hadn’t seen coming.

“I didn’t run.” you said, trying for casual. It came out thin.

“You disappeared.”

“I needed air.”

“You could’ve told me.”

Your hands clenched. “Oh, so now I’m supposed to tell you where I go, too?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not what I—”

“God, Bucky, what are we?”

The words exploded out of you before you could stop them. Your voice trembled, but your spine stayed straight. “Because one second you’re pushing guys off me like you own me, and the next it’s like nothing happened. You look at me like you… like you want me. But you never say it. Never do anything. And I’m so – so damn tired of guessing!”

Silence. It pressed thick between you, heavy enough to crush. His stare didn’t waver. But his shoulders had dropped just slightly, and something vulnerable flickered behind his eyes.

You swallowed hard, chest rising and falling. “Do you even know what you want from me?”

He didn’t move for a second. Then he stepped forward — slow, deliberate.

“I want you safe.” he said quietly.

You scoffed. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can say without crossing a line I can’t come back from.”

Your heart skipped. “So cross it.”

His jaw clenched.

“Cross it.” You repeated, as If you were daring him.

He was in front of you in a breath, eyes wild, hands reaching out and gripping the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in. His body hovered, close but not touching. You could feel the heat of him. Smell the leather and sweat and something so distinctly him that your knees nearly buckled.

His hands left the counter and grabbed your waist instead, yanking you flush against his chest. You barely had a second to gasp before his mouth was on yours — rough, devouring, starving. He kissed you like a man possessed. Like he’d been holding this in for months. Maybe he had.

You whimpered into his mouth, hands fisting the front of his suit as he pushed you back until your spine hit the cold bathroom wall.

“Fuck,” he muttered between kisses. “You don’t get it, do you?”

You gasped as his lips moved down to your neck, sucking a mark right under your ear. “G-Get what?”

His grip tightened on your hips. “That every time someone touches you, I want to break their fucking hands. That I can’t sleep unless I know you’re okay. That I’ve been dying to do this.”

He ground his hips into yours and you felt it — thick, hard, desperate. You moaned.

“This what you wanted, doll?” he growled against your throat.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes—God, yes—”

He spun you around, pressing your front against the sink as his hand shoved your dress up roughly over your hips. You let out a breathy gasp, the cool air hitting your thighs.

“No more running,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. His hand cupped between your legs through your soaked panties, his fingers rubbing your wet heat. “You’re mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you breathed. “I’ve always been yours—”

He growled something filthy under his breath — you only caught good girl — and then he was pulling your panties down and freeing himself from his pants. You looked up just in time to see your own wrecked reflection in the mirror.

He caught your eye there. Held it. One hand flat on your stomach, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

He teased your slick folds with his cock first, making you moan and gasp, your body moved in anticipation and he let out a dark chuckle.

“Please,” you whispered. “Need you, Bucky—just… need you.”

That was all it took.

He thrust into you in one sharp motion and you cried out, hand slamming against the mirror to steady yourself. He filled you completely, thick and pulsing inside, and didn’t give you a second to adjust — just started pounding into you like he was making up for every moment he hadn’t touched you before.

“Fuck—tight little pussy—been dreamin’ about this,” he groaned, metal hand gripping your hip so hard you’d have bruises tomorrow. His other hand grabbed your jaw, making you look at yourself in the mirror. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect.”

Your moans bounced off the walls — you barely cared who heard. His thrusts were deep, punishing, filthy.

And he wouldn’t shut up.

“Not letting you flirt with those assholes again,” he snarled, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “You wanna act like bait? Fine. But I’m the one who gets to fuck you after.”

You clenched around him at his words and he felt it.

“Oh, baby. You like that, huh? You like when I get mean for you?”

“Y-Yes—fuck, Bucky—please—”

He brought his hand down and smacked your ass, not hard, just enough to make you yelp. “That’s right. This pussy’s mine.”

“Yours,” you sobbed. “All yours—”

He reached around and rubbed tight circles on your clit, hips never faltering. You were unraveling fast, so fast, the pleasure built from weeks — months — of wanting this.

You came hard, body shaking against the sink as he kept fucking you through it, murmuring praises into your ear. Good girl. So sweet. So fuckin’ good for me.

When he was close, he pulled out just long enough to flip you around and lift you onto the sink. You gasped as your back hit the mirror, legs spreading on instinct.

He slid back in easily, growling into your mouth as he kissed you again — slower now, but no less intense.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered against your lips. “Mine, doll. Say it again.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Only yours.”

He came with a groan, forehead pressed to yours, hips twitching as he filled you deep, his seed spreading inside of your walls.

And then — silence.

Just breathing. Just heat. Just the faint bass of the music still thumping beyond the door, as if none of it mattered. The rush, the blinding pressure of it all started to fade — and Bucky was the first to come down from it.

You were still boneless, leaning back against the mirror with your legs dangling over the edge of the sink, dress wrinkled, panties somewhere on the damn floor.

And Bucky… looked like he’d seen a ghost.

His hands were still on your thighs, but barely. Like he was afraid to touch you now.

His chest was heaving, jaw tight, eyes flickering between your face and the door behind him, like he wasn’t sure whether to kiss you again or bolt.

You gave a small, lazy smile. “Hey.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

You reached up, brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “You okay?”

“I—shit,” he mumbled, stepping back just enough to give you space. “Shit, I—did I hurt you?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No—”

“I was rough. Too rough.” His metal hand hovered near your waist but didn’t land. “You didn’t even—fuck, we didn’t talk, I didn’t even ask, I just—”

“Bucky,” you said, soft but firm. “Look at me.”

He did. Slowly.

Your smile was still there. Warm. Safe.

The look on your face didn’t match the apocalypse going off in his head. If anything, you looked… happy. Messy, flushed, glowing — and happy.

“I would’ve stopped you,” you said gently. “I would’ve said no if I didn’t want it this way.”

He exhaled hard, running a hand down his face like he didn’t believe you could possibly be real.

You reached for him again and tugged him back between your knees. “Bucky. I wanted it,” you said, more seriously now. “I’ve wanted you. For so long. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His hands settled on your hips, gentler this time. His head bowed.

“…I’ve never had anyone like you,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how to… be.”

Your heart squeezed.

You brought his hand — the flesh one — to your cheek, nuzzling into it. “I know… You were perfect, Bucky.”

A few moments passed in silence.

Then he cleared his throat. “You should… uh. Let me clean you up.”

You laughed softly. “What, getting shy now?”

He flushed. The Bucky Barnes blushing? You were keeping that in your pocket forever.

“I just—yeah, lemme take care of you, okay?” he muttered.

He grabbed some paper towels from the dispenser, ran one under warm water, and returned with a careful, almost reverent look.

He was quiet as he cleaned you up — too quiet. Focused. Gentle.

You tilted his chin up so he’d look at you again. “I’m not gonna break, Buck.”

“I know,” he said, smiling faintly. “But you’re still my doll.”

You blinked, surprised by how soft he sounded saying it out loud — like it slipped out without permission.

“…You’ve never called me that to my face before.”

He shrugged, looking away. “Didn’t want you to know how gone I was.”

He helped you off the counter and found your underwear with a grunt, slipping them into your hand with an adorably sheepish look.

You both fixed yourselves up, and when you opened the door, the gala still raged on like nothing happened.

But something had changed.

Because Bucky took your hand — not just to lead you out, not just for safety.

He held it.

And he didn’t let go.

james: sneezes once

also james: “moony you have to name your firstborn after me. james jr deserves to live on.”

james potter the type to shrug of physical injuries (broken bones, broken rips, …), but act like it’s his last day on earth when a mild cold hits him

brock nelson just took a stick to the nose... safe to say he's seeing stars... i'm funny right?

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the fire was low, but the glow of it painted the walls with a soft orange flicker. the house was quiet, save for the soft scrape of metal on wood and the occasional pop from the fireplace. joel sat at the table, glasses halfway down his nose, sleeves pushed up, and a small block of wood cradled in his calloused hands. his knife scraped slow, methodical strokes along the curve of what looked like the beginnings of a fox, delicate ears just forming, the snout notched into shape. he looked like he belonged there. not just in the room, but in the moment. hands busy, mouth set, the steady rhythm of his work filling the silence like he needed it more than rest.

you hovered in the doorway for a moment. there was something magnetic about watching him when he didn’t know you were, how quiet he became, how precise. you couldn’t explain it, but something in you twisted a little when you saw him like this. it didn’t help that your brain was already a little fried from the day. you’d been restless all afternoon, bouncing between tasks around town, trying to distract yourself with anything that wasn't the thought of his hands. now you were back. and the ache was worse. he didn’t look up when you stepped in, but you could tell by the subtle shift in his shoulders that he knew you were there.

“you’ve been out there awhile,” he said, voice low and even, not pausing in his carving.

“wasn’t that long,” you murmured, stepping closer. “you eat anything?”

joel snorted softly. “ate somethin’ earlier. left some stew if you’re hungry.”

you walked around him, slow and quiet, letting your fingertips brush the edge of the table. you watched him work a little longer, the careful drag of his knife, the tension in his forearm, the way his brow furrowed when he focused. his glasses slid further down, and he huffed, pushing them back with the side of his wrist.

“i’m not really hungry,” you said, voice lower now.

he hummed in acknowledgment, not looking up.

you stepped between him and the table, gently nudging one of his knees open with yours. that finally earned you a glance. a small, knowing one.

“what’re you doin’?” he asked, not irritated, just suspicious.

you didn’t answer. you just moved closer and lowered yourself into his lap, straddling his thigh like it was muscle memory.

joel made a small sound in his throat. “jesus,” he muttered, setting the carving knife down with care but not taking his hands off you. “you’re gonna make me slice my damn thumb open one of these days, sneakin’ up on me like that.”

“you looked busy,” you said softly, your arms sliding around his shoulders. “didn’t wanna interrupt the great artist at work.”

he shook his head, his hands found your hips, grounding you, holding you still, but not pushing you away.

he muttered something you couldn't make out, setting the knife down with more care than necessary. “that what we’re doin’ now?”

“you’re not gonna make me beg, are you?” you said, your voice low as you slid your hands up the front of his shirt, thumbs brushing the space just under his collarbones. “been wound up all day.”

joel leaned back slightly to look at you over the top of his glasses. his eyes dragged over your face, then lower—assessing. thinking. his hands landed heavy on your hips, grounding.

he exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was weighing his options. like he was pretending you didn’t already have him wrapped around your finger.

“you’re actin’ real needy tonight,” he said, voice dropping a little lower. his hands were still on your hips, thumbs idly brushing the hem of your shirt like he was debating whether to tug you closer or keep you there and burn slow.

“been thinking about you all day,” you admitted, quiet against his skin. “you didn’t even notice how pretty you looked this morning. all frown and flannel and your fuckin hands…”

“mm,” he rumbled, mouth twitching. “that what’s got you worked up?”

you didn’t answer. you just shifted slightly in his lap, pressing down a little harder on his thigh, watching the way his jaw tightened when you did.

joel’s hands flexed, gripping your waist a little firmer now. “you come in here sittin’ on my leg like that,” he said lowly, eyes flicking to your mouth, “and you expect me to finish my carvin’?”

“i expected you to tell me how bad you missed me while i was gone,” you teased.

his brows lifted. “i see you every day.”

you leaned in closer. “doesn’t mean you don’t miss me.”

joel leaned back, gave you that quiet, unreadable look.

his hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, squeezing once before he pulled you closer, flush against him. the fox on the table forgotten, the knife untouched. his mouth brushed your cheek, soft and rough.

but you had him here, grounded. his hands, his warmth, the slow way he let himself have you.

“you done carving?” you whispered.

joel nodded slowly, almost like he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“good,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “’cause i need you worse than that fox does.” his glasses were crooked. you reached up and pulled them off, setting them aside. his eyes were darker now, heavier.

ᝰ

a/n: i wrote this at like 1am after watching the s2 premiere so it's ass but seeing him in those glasses... meow...