#Appalachian Bucky Barnes

[zenaidamacrouras1]

Backhoe Bonus Drabble

This is a random summer scene that doesn't fit into any of my Backhoe chapters. I'll have a series of these that I'll probably add on as a separate work in the Backhoe series after the whole fic is finished, but have a tumblr drabble for now. This takes place during the time jump between chapters 19 and 20. I don't think it's majorly spoilery, and I don't think you need to read the fic to get it. If you like to read a fic pure with no surprises whatsoever, maybe read the fic first.

Chapters 1-20 are here, chapters 21 and 22 are mostly ready and will post this week and next, probably going to be like 25 chapters total please stop laughing at me I'm trying to end this damn thing. (initial chapter count was like 5) (go ahead and laugh) (but also feel free to encourage me, I think I'm finally out of my writer's block, yay!)

Late July:

Ever since Bucky became manager for his crew, he’s tried to make sure they don’t have unexpected afternoons off. On the one hand, sure, there’s nothing better than finishing a job early and peacing the fuck off to head home. On the other, well, you don’t get paid for hours you don’t work. So, he tries to make it so everyone’s getting paid, is all. 

But sometimes, the timing just doesn’t work out like that. Right now, it’s 1 pm on a Friday, and they’ve wrapped up this gig, and it don’t make sense to start on the next job till Monday morning, so everyone heads home. Bucky promises some long days next week to make up for it on that paycheck. So it’s backslaps and a few dirty jokes while they all pack up, and then Bucky’s in his truck driving the winding roads back home. 

Steve’s gonna be there, he thinks, with a grin he’s glad no one can see. Steve’s just come back last night from helping out with some action out in San Francisco. Greenpeace paid him to fly out there and do trainings on art shit and paint some big-ass banners.

Bucky’d like to burst with pride when he saw those damn banners hanging from a god damn skyscraper, protesting globalization. Steve was on strict orders from Greenpeace and one J.B. Barnes not to get arrested himself; he just painted the banners. Bucky had shown the pictures to Peter, cause Peter was the only guy at work he’s out with on both the politics stuff and on the gay stuff. Peter’s genuine “Holy shit, man” was worth all the teasing that followed about how fucking lovesick Bucky is about his sexy little anarchist boyfriend. 

But also, he had missed Steve, fuck it all but he did, and dammit the guy was only gone five days. It doesn’t bode well for when Steve goes back to college next month, but Bucky’s never been one to worry about a debt before it comes due. That just means suffering twice.

Bucky listens to the truck for any errant noises as he drives. He'd thought he heard a knock this morning, but apparently whatever it was has worked itself out for now. He switches on the stereo.

Bucky tries one of the playlists Steve loves listening to, featuring Against Me! and a bunch of other political punk bands. Bucky doesn’t hate it, he doesn’t, but fuck, it’s a pretty summer’s day and the sunlight’s filtering through the leaves and everything green is just so happy to be alive and growing in the mountains right now. That music is so damn strident, sometimes a man just wants to enjoy some peace in this world and forget about all the problems. After half a song, Bucky switches to some bluegrass. He and Steve don’t have to like the same music, he figures. 

Becca Jane, never shy with her opinion, has declared that Steve’s music of choice sounded "like you stuck a bull in a barrel with an electric guitar and shoved it down a flight of stairs." About three days into listening to the punk music coming out of Steve’s studio in the laundry room, she’d come home from her MCAT prep course and handed Steve a pair of brand-new bluetooth headphones and an ultimatum. 

So the Barnes kids like country music and their houseguest, who happens to be Bucky's boyfriend, likes punk. Steve switched to headphones and there really haven’t been any other major conflicts with him living there. It’s kind of a miracle, Bucky thinks, as he turns onto Brushy Fork Holler Road. Jean’s out in her front yard gardening, and he raises two fingers up off the wheel to say hi, slowing in case she’s got something to say, but she just waves and looks back down to her precious rose bushes. Sometimes Bucky thinks she spends more time fussing over her flowers than Bucky does raising five kids, but to each their own. Looks pretty, anyway. 

Then it's just another minute until he hears the crunch of gravel under his truck tires and he's looking at the house he's lived in his whole life. 

The house is quiet when he climbs out of the truck in the driveway. No one’s expecting him, so that ain’t a surprise. The girls are probably down at the swimming hole or playing video games at Maria and Monica’s. He kicks off his boots on the front porch and goes prowling through the house. He grins when he hears Steve singing from the laundry room. 

Steve’s singing is—well, the thing is, if Steve was good at everything, that just wouldn’t be fair, now would it? Steve’s a great strategist on this pipeline shit; he’s been such a help to Bucky on his quest to stop the fucking thing. He has a great head for the lawyer stuff and the activist strategy side of it. He’s learning how to cook and getting real good at it. He’s obviously a gifted artist, as everyone knows, and he’s fucking nice as hell too. The girls love him, and they are a tough audience. 

And, well, he has other skills Bucky ain’t shouting to the world about, that’s private, but Bucky sure ain’t got nothing to complain about. When it comes to the bedroom, Steve’s a god damn prodigy, Bucky thinks with a shiver of pleasure down his spine. Steven Brooklyn Grant God Damn Rogers. 

So it just makes sense that Steve would have a few faults, and that's the most charitable thing Bucky can say about Steve’s singing. Steve couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket—hell, he couldn’t carry a tune in a semi-truck full of buckets. He’d flip that semi right over, highway’d be backed up and on fire from here to Timbuktu. 

Which is why Bucky’s at the door of the laundry room before he can piece together what song Steve’s torturing to within an inch of its life. It’s the fucking Dixie Chicks. Or just the Chicks now, whatever. Steve is obediently wearing the headphones Becca told him to wear at the risk of death if she had to hear “that atonal screeching you call music one more fucking time" and so he has no idea how loud he’s “singing”—honestly, it ain’t anything Bucky’d categorize as singing, but there are words and they are carrying through the door. 

I wanna walk and not runI wanna skip and not fallI wanna look at the horizon and not see a building standing tallI wanna be the only one for miles and milesExcept for maybe you and your simple smile

Bucky feels a slow sly smile stretch across his face and pulls the door open. Steve’s singing a country music love song. Steve's facing away from him, wearing just a pair of boxer briefs and a loose black t-shirt. Bucky sees Steve's pants are in the sink; he must have gotten paint on them and taken them off to soak. 

Steve's got one hand wide to the side like he's balancing on a tightrope and the other is painting some kind of white accent on a flower. He makes it look so easy, light movements bringing life wherever Steve touches.

Cowboy taaaaake me awaaaaayyy

Steve caterwauls to his flowers, and Bucky can't take the suspense anymore. He waits until the paintbrush is a safe distance from the canvas, then slips his arms around Steve's slender waist and lowers his lips to Steve's neck. Steve jumps with a little shout and whirls around, dropping his paintbrush. He jerks his earbuds out. 

"You're early!" Steve gasps. He's blushing something fierce.

"Who's this cowboy you're singing about running away with, and should I be jealous?" Bucky whispers into Steve's smooth, pretty neck. He gives a small kiss. "Don't tell me I gotta fight a cowboy for your honor. I ain't much with a six-shooter, and I am kindly scared of horses."

"You're scared of horses?" Steve asks incredulously, always looking for something to direct the conversation away from his own feelings. 

"Maybe they're scared of me? Me and horses never had much opportunity to get to know each other, makes more sense to be scared of horses than chickens," Bucky says, and offers a few more kisses to Steve's neck. 

"Horses are majestic and chickens are evil,” Steve says darkly, and sighs, leaning into Bucky’s lips on his neck. “Hmm. Well, my cowboy is very handsome, you should definitely be jealous."

"Maybe I'll steal him away. I got lots of beans. Cowboys cain't resist a good bean."

"Well, my cowboy is good-looking but a bit slim in the brains department, so he might like you, actually." 

Bucky huffs a laugh into Steve's neck, and drops a few more kisses, running his mouth softly up and down Steve's neck. Steve suddenly busts out a loud laugh, which is not the reaction Bucky was going for. He'd been expecting more of Steve's little sighs. 

"What?" Bucky says in frustration, when Steve's still laughing. 

"Buh—" Steve can't hardly breathe for laughing. 

"Spit out whatever fool insult you've done come up with, then," Bucky says, a smile quirking up despite himself. Steve looks so fucking pleased, the jerk. 

"Buckaroo!" Steve manages to burst out with a wicked grin.

"Oh, hell no," Bucky says. "Nope. Absolutely not. I ain't a fucking cowboy." Steve's still laughing at him.

"That right, Buckarooooo?" he taunts. 

"I'm a hillbilly. It's different," Bucky says with a mock threat in his voice. 

"Okay, okay, so what do you have that my imaginary cowboy doesn't?" Steve smirks at him. Everything is a challenge with this guy. 

"Hmm, it's more of a show-don't-tell kinda thing," Bucky murmurs, moving back into Steve's space. "See, cowboys are all talk."

"So what are hillbillies?" Steve says, suddenly breathy, Bucky notes with satisfaction.

"Action, Stevie, we're about action."

It ain't but a second till Bucky's pulled out that sweet little sigh he wanted from Steve, and a whole symphony of pretty sounds after that.

#stucky au #stucky fanfic #Appalachian Bucky Barnes #Artist Steve Rogers #Drabble #Idiots in Love #sweet sappy lusting

[antiquarianfics]

Marry me? Nah. Marry me? Yeah.

4 times Bucky Barnes asks you to marry him and you refuse. 1 time Bucky Barnes asks you to marry him and you accept.

A/N: I have been working on this for the last day, so enjoy. HOWEVER, I wrote it on my phone and refuse to proof it. Warning(s): Some canon level violence, swearing. Note: I do not own Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliated characters.

You do not have permission to steal or repost my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

—

Proposal 1

The first time Bucky Barnes proposes to you, you aren’t even dating. The two of you are paired on a mission to dismantle a HYDRA base hidden deep in the Appalachian Mountains in Kentucky. You had met before but never shared more than polite conversation. Steve had assured Bucky you weren’t scared of him, but that you wouldn’t push him to speak with you. Bucky never quite believed him, so he never attempted to converse with you either.

However, when you’re paired on this mission, you take that as the go-ahead to finally speak to him.

“So, Barnes,” you say, nudging his shoulder with your own, “guess we’ve got to come up with more conversation topics than the weather.”

“Guess so,” he replies.

It is during the mission he proposes. There are more HYDRA agents active than expected, and they come at the two of you guns blazing while you’re distracted setting up an explosive at a structural point of the complex.

“Y/L/N,” Bucky says to grab your attention, “we’ve got company.”

You bite your lip, finishing your task before standing and pulling your rifle from your back, preparing yourself for a fight.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ve got this one,” you tease, shooting him a wink before unleashing precise kill shots before Bucky even thinks to pull his own trigger. After taking out a dozen soldiers, a few manage to get close to you, and you hit one in the head with the butt of your gun and then quickly pull a knife from a thigh holster while pivoting on your foot to slit another’s throat. You shoot the unconscious soldier in the head for good measure before wiping your knife on your pants.

With your knife returned to its home on your thigh, you look up at Bucky who is staring at you with a dumbfounded, albeit impressed, look on his face. You had taken out 14 men on your own. He was in love.

The words “marry me” slipped past his lips before he could stop them, and you laugh.

“Maybe buy me dinner first, Sarge.”

Proposal 2

The second time Bucky Barnes proposes to you, you’re comforting him after a nightmare. It is late at night, at the point it was really morning, and you happen to hear his screams through his bedroom door.

You stop at his door, letting a frown set on your face before reaching out for his doorknob. You hesitate before opening it, wondering if he’ll appreciate you barging in on him in such a vulnerable state. Then, he screams again—louder—and you turn the doorknob, letting yourself in.

The sight you’re met with is heartbreaking. Bucky is tossing and turning, his sheets bunched at his feet, comforter on the ground. He’s sweating buckets and whimpering what sounds like, “Please, no. Not the chair. Please!” over and over again. You choke back a sob before crossing over to him, gently lying a comforting hand on his shoulder and calling out his name.

“Bucky, honey, wake up. It’s just a dream, hun.”

The touch and sudden sound wake him up from what is truly a light sleep. Bucky shoots up into a sitting position, right hand shooting out to grab the hand touching him, and eyes darting around the room until they land on you.

“Shh,” you coo, “you’re okay, Bucky. It’s me, Y/N. It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

Bucky’s heart rate slows to a normal pace, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“Y/N?” He asks hesitantly. “W-what are you doing here?” His voice is small, like a terrified child’s, and you can’t help but frown at the thought.

You let your hand move to cup his face, noting that he relaxes at the gentle touch, leaning his face ever so slightly into your touch.

“I was headed to the kitchen and I heard you scream. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

He nods, eyes searching yours for some sort of anger or resentment for bothering you. He doesn’t find any.

“Can I do anything to make you feel better?” You ask kindly.

“Um,” Bucky says, voice shaky. “Would you mind—you don’t have to—but would you mind staying with me? Only if you want.”

You smile kindly, pressing a comforting kiss to his cheek before climbing into his bed with him, pulling his head close to your chest.

“When I was little, I lived in a house in the woods for a while,” you say randomly, catching Bucky’s attention. His eyebrows scrunch together in some sort of confusion, but he says nothing. “At dinner one night, I look out the glass door onto the porch. Wanna know what I saw?”

Bucky hums his agreement as your hand works it’s way into his hair and your fingers begin to massage his scalp.

“4 raccoons!” You exclaim. “3 babies and a mama. We had a toddler slide on the porch at the time,” you continue, “and the baby raccoons kept climbing the little ladder and sliding down. The mama just sat a little bit away and watched and stole cat food occasionally.”

Bucky chuckles, finding your story cute but also recognizing your attempt to distract and soothe him after his nightmare. He appreciates it more than he himself understands; he is comforted by your voice more than he feels he should be. He lets the proposal slip a second time: “Marry me?”

You grin and press a kiss to his head.

“Not yet, hun.”

Proposal 3

The third proposal comes after the two of you begin dating.

Bucky takes you out on a date to a little coffee shop in Brooklyn you both had become fond of. You’re standing to the side of the café, out of the way, waiting on your order. Bucky has his right arm around your shoulders while you lean into him; his left hand stuck in his jacket pocket.

“So Natasha’s screaming at Clint to show himself so that she can kill him, right? Like, she was so fucking pissed at him. And Clint is in the fucking air vents—like those big ones people crawl through in action movies—hiding from her. Over a remote, Bucky!” You excitedly recount one of the most ridiculous encounters you’ve ever had with the Avengers to your boyfriend who is quietly listening with a fond smile.

“Like, ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’ my ass,” you scoff. You’re about to add another thought to the discussion when you hear someone else’s conversation from a few feet away.

Bucky tenses. You tense.

“Personally, I think they should’ve carted him off to the South, or somethin’, and put him in the chair,” a younger man—college age—says. “The death penalty, y’know? An eye for an eye, and all that. I mean, the guy killed a lot of people.”

“Fuck, man,” his companion, another college aged man, says. “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh? I mean, he’s also like a war hero and a prisoner of war.”

“He killed innocent people, man. Like, people’s kids and shit.”

“I guess.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, and he also tightens his grip on your waist when he feels you start to move away from him.

“It’s fine, doll,” he assures you, but he doesn’t seem fine to you.

The barista calls out “Barnes” and Bucky kisses the top of your head before moving to grab your drinks. You, however, take the opportunity to address the disrespectful boys while your boyfriend isn’t holding you back.

“Excuse me,” you say, walking up to them.

“Fuck!” One says, jumping a little. “You’re an Avenger.”

“Mhmm,” you agree. “So is Sergeant Barnes who you so innocently suggested deserves the chair.” You jam a finger into his chest.

“You have absolutely no fucking right to talk about him that way. He gave his life for this fucking country; fought alongside your grandparents. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Shit. It’s not like my opinion is gonna change anything.”

Before you can say anything else, you feel Bucky’s hand wrap around your bicep, pulling you away from the college kids and into his side. He leans close to your ear to whisper, “Doll, it’s fine. Come on.”

He pulls you out of the coffee shop before you have time to protest.

Walking down the street, you’re ranting, letting your arms flail around angrily.

“What the actual fuck is their problem?! You can have your obviously wrong opinions, but why would you express them so loudly in front of the person you’re talking about? You’re a fucking Avenger. You’re a good man. Why would they pardon you if you weren’t? Why would the Avengers adopt you as one of our own if you weren’t? Pieces of shit! Hateful, fascist, brain dead, ungrateful, military-hating, assholes!”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your insults, and he can’t help but feel flattered that you care enough to defend him.

“Sweetheart, it’s really fine. I’m used to it,” he assures you, finally handing you your coffee he’d been balancing in his hand.

You take it, but shoot him an incredulous look.

“Like hell it’s okay! You deserve better than that bullshit, Bucky. You deserve to go out on a date with your girlfriend without being fucking harassed.”

Bucky pulls you into his side, kissing your head like he had earlier, and murmurs into your hair his third proposal.

“Marry me.”

You smile softly.

“Nah,” you say, leaning into his hold. He laughs.

Proposal 4

The fourth time Bucky proposes to you, it’s less direct.

In fact, you’re in the field, lying on your back in Bucky’s arms while he frantically puts pressure on a bullet wound in your gut.

“Steve,” he says into the coms, “Y/N’s down. She got shot. I’ve got to get her back to the jet.”

“Go,” Steve responds quickly, “I’ll cover you.”

Bucky’s attention falls to you, grimacing at the blood covering his hands.

“Hold on, baby. I’ve got you,” he says, lifting you into his arms as gently as you can.

“I’m fiiinnneee,” you slur, unsteadily and awkwardly reaching to pat his face. Your action, meant to be comforting, only adds to your boyfriend’s anxiety.

“Doll, you’ve been shot, and it isn’t a clean wound.”

“That’s nothin’!”

Bucky grunts indignantly in response.

Finally, he gets you back to the jet, moving through the aircraft quickly to get you to a stretcher to triage you best he can. When there is nothing more he can do, he holds your hand, doing his best not to cry or show how scared he is.

“Y/N, stay awake for me, alright?” He pleads, squeezing your hand.

Your eyes flutter open and you smile goofily.

“No worries, Doll,” you giggle as you call him by the pet name he reserves for you. “I’m A-Okay.”

Bucky scoffs.

“You’re bleeding out.”

“You fixed me.”

“Not fully; I put a bandaid on you really.”

“Silly. Bandaids fix you!” You try to comfort, but you fall into a laughing fit.

“Doll, I need you to take this seriously so you make it. You’ve gotta marry me.”

“You didn’t ask me to!” You say, narrowing your eyes and pointing accusingly.

Bucky smiles at your antics.

“Marry me, Doll?”

You smile fondly as you stare up at Bucky.

“Ask me again when I’m not bleeding out.”

Proposal 5

The fifth time Bucky Barnes proposes to you is the last time.

You convince the super soldier to go hiking with you; you argue he deserves to sit and watch a waterfall with his girlfriend. He gives in easily because you’re not easy for him to say no to.

The two of you find a local hiking trail that leads to a decent sized waterfall, and you’re pleased to find the trail is mostly deserted. You only run into a few stray hikers along the trail.

Bucky smiles as you hike, watching as you excitedly stop to watch centipedes cross the path, or point out woodpeckers, or smell flowers. Finally, the two of you reach the waterfall and you squeal in excitement, running a few paces ahead of Bucky and jumping to let out some excited energy.

“Buck, look! It’s gorgeous!”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, slowing to a stop behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin in the crook of your neck.

The two of you stand like that, in each other’s embrace, for a few minutes, watching the waterfall, listening to nature around you.

“Thank you for coming up here with with me,” you say, turning around to place a grateful kiss on Bucky’s lips. He gently returns the kiss before pulling away.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

You peck his lips again before turning back to the waterfall.

“Look!” You say upon turning around. “Bucky, a rainbow!” The spray of the water and the beams of sunlight meet to display a rainbow in front of you.

When Bucky doesn’t respond, you curiously turn around.

“Bucky? Oh!”

Bucky is on one knee, a ring box open in his hands, held out to you.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”

There is no speech, there is no absurd gesture. There is just Bucky, and there is just a question.

It’s perfect.

“Yes.”

“Finally.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader fluff #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky x g!n reader

[avengersfantasies]

Summary: You and Bucky go on your first road trip, and you decide to make him feel good while he drives.

What to expect: oral (male receiving)

A/N: Thanks to @nicoline1998enilocin for sending me those gifs of Seb's characters driving and giving me this idea

My Masterlist

taglist: @frickin-bats @pattiemac1 @justsebstan @winterslove1917 @crist1216 @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @kandis-mom @vonalyn @mavrellover91 @natashasilverfox @gojoismysensei @itsafamilyshow @casa-boiardi @ilovetaquitosmmmm

It was your first road trip with your boyfriend of over six months, the one and only Bucky Barnes. The two of you met in a bookstore in the classic literature section. From the moment you met, it had been nothing but love, save for a couple of little arguments here and there. They were never anything huge, and the two of you were always kissing and making up minutes or hours later. Now, both of you had the next two weeks off from your respective jobs, and he was taking you to his favorite vacation spot.

When he was a kid, his parents bought a beautiful cabin in the woods off the Appalachian Trail. He remembered the times he spent there, but after his mother passed away, he, his sister, and his father never returned. Now, he wanted to take you there; he wanted to make new memories with you at the Barnes family cabin, but you wanted to give him something to remember from the drive.

His left hand was in your hair, his metal fingers holding it out of your face.

            “Fuck, baby,” he moaned, trying as hard as he could to keep from swerving all over the road.

            You moaned around his hard cock and popped off, stroking him with your hand and playing with his balls. “Like that, Sergeant?”

He chuckled. “You know I do, baby doll.” Gently, he pushed your head back down towards his cock, and you opened your mouth, taking him into your throat completely. The first time you tried to deep throat him, many months ago, you couldn’t help but gag and choke. Now, however, you had become a pro at the pleasuring action.

“Fuckin’ love that mouth of yours baby,” he breathed heavily. “Gonna come all down your throat.” You bobbed your head faster, sucking in your cheeks and playing with his balls. You could feel them getting heavier, filling up with cum. “Right there baby,” he praised. “Takin’ me so well in that little mouth.”

His hips started to thrust up into your mouth, exploding into your mouth and down your throat.

“Shit! Holy fuck!” He moaned loudly, swerving slightly on the road, accidentally running over the rumble strips. His eyes were fighting to close, but he knew he couldn’t close them. You swallowed him excitedly; you had always loved his taste. After you cleaned his cock, making sure you had drank everything he gave you, you popped off his cock and put him back into his sweatpants. “Goddamn it,” he groaned.

“What?” You asked, confused. He pointed behind you guys as he pulled over to the side of the highway, and that’s when you noticed the flashing red and blue lights. “Well, definitely won’t forget this,” you giggled.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #the winter soldier #the winter soldier fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky one shot

[buckybarnesevents]

Happy Valentine's Day, @zenaidamacrouras1

This is just a small snippet of what your admirer thought of "Backhoe"!

Title: Backhoe Pairing: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Rating: Explicit Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Activism, Activist Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Appalachian Bucky Barnes, Direct Action, Meet-Cute, Meet-cute while locked to the same piece of construction equipment, Fluff and Smut, Just a little angst, Happy Ending, Big Brother Bucky Barnes, Appalachia, Slow Burn, Pining, etc. Summary: Steve Rogers is a seasoned activist and not at all afraid to get arrested while protesting the building of a pipeline. HOWEVER he is TERRIFIED when he realizes he’ll be chained to the same backhoe as Bucky “very handsome southern boy who also plays guitar and struts like a panther in his very tight, worn thin blue jeans” Barnes.

As part of our Valentine's Event, we encourage everyone to come check out this work and also drop some love! 💟

#bbe valentines event 2024 #bbe love letters 2024 #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes events #bucky barnes #zenaidamacrouras1 #James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers

[alivingfire]

F I R Y for the fic ask game! 😎

thanks anon friend!!

F: Share a snippet from one of your favourite dialogue scenes you've written and explain why you're proud of it.

i'll do one from my big bang, there are quite a few dialogue bits i'm proud of with that one (caveat it's unedited, so like, who knows if this bit stays in the editing)

“Well, yeah,” Eddie said. “I need to know your feelings on Ozzy versus Dio as lead singer.” 

Steve laid his head back, eyes fluttering shut, as Neon Knights filtered through the air around them. “Dio’s a better singer. Ozzy’s scarier. Both‘re good.” 

“Steve Harrington,” Eddie marveled despite himself. “Always keeping me on my toes.” 

Steve laughed, raspy and tired, and bumped his knuckles against Eddie’s thigh. “Even trade,” he said. “You sat through an hour of me and Wayne talking about the Pacers last week. Figured I’d give your boy bands a listen.” 

Eddie’s offended screech could probably be heard back at the bonfire, and Steve cracked an eye open to watch the reaction, pleased with himself like a cat covered in canary feathers. “They- Those are not-” Eddie said, and Steve laughed at his sputtering, “Black Sabbath is not a boy band!” 

“Man band, then,” Steve said. “Dudes in matching outfits having fun singing about death together. Don’t see the difference.” 

“Well, we had a good run,” Eddie said regretfully. “But I’m afraid this is it, I can no longer speak to you. My conscience won’t allow it.” 

“Your conscience can kiss my ass,” Steve said, eyes closed again. 

“Just my conscience?” Eddie teased, and Steve huffed another laugh. 

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

hmm. it's a good question, because i don't even know if i'd notice without someone pointing it out to me. maybe the strict adherence to found family tropes? like, my characters are going to be Codependent To The Point Of Absurdity. or. possibly that i think it's impossible for me to write anything that isn't a slow burn lol.

for reading, honestly, i have no guilt with any fics i read. like, someone else wrote them, so if i'm into it, i know i'm not alone! but some of my off the beaten path favorites are things like sex pollen/fuck or die, Hyperspecific AUs set in other worlds/locations/timelines (@teddywesworl's appalachian farmer au lives RENT FREE), and missing scenes from canon that change basically everything about canon.

R: Are there any writers (fanfic or otherwise) you consider an influence?

oh man, absolutely. for non-fic, i would say i strive to get across the humor or emotion in a scene with as few words as possible like c.s. pacat. i love leigh bardugo's worldbuilding and magical realism. i also love Grumpy Old Man Goes On A Quest stories like what nicholas eames and scott lynch write, and that's been on my mind a lot lately — basically a character going "yes i used to do that, and i was good at it, but i'm out of the game" and something dragging them back to their past.

for fic authors, truly i couldn't begin to list them all. but my bookmarks on ao3 are public, and if there's anyone in there, i bookmarked because it hit me in a way that will stick with me. if an author is in there multiple times? i'm in love.

Y: A character you want to protect.

STEVE HARRINGTON. STEVE HARRINGTON!!!! but also stiles stilinski, max mayfield, bucky barnes, and din djarin, if we're keeping it to fic i read.

#thank you for playing!!

[sweetcreaturetm]

Hi yes I saw you your fic writer Eddie post. I raise you fic writer Eddie and fan artist Steve. They simp for each other's works and collab a lot, like a lot. Eddie constantly writing little ficlets on tumblr for "My sunshine 🖤"

Identity porn of falling in love online and being kind of friendly for the kids off it.

And the Fandom? Maybe LOTR (my brain goes Stucky/Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes)

Kthxbai

STUCKY!??!! OH MY GOD!! Those are the magic words, baby. I’m obsesssssseeedddddddddddd. I literally have a seb/Bucky sideblog.

I’m picturing Steve drawing Bucky w/ his long hair being like “sorry Bucky can only have long hair” even after he cuts it in the show lol 😋 and Eddie’s like “nice” 😏 and Eddie always makes sure to talk about cap’s ass and our steve is like “nice” 😏

It’s either a you’ve got mail sort of thing where they know each other irl but don’t know that they’re in love online and then I feel like Eddie would see one of Steve’s sketches and be like omfg it’s him. So he arranges a cute little thing so that he can tell Steve who he is and they fall in love. OR they don’t know each other (cue my southern/Appalachian eddie truth) and arrange to meet at some fan thing and they’re both like oh my god you’re perfect and they fall in love.

Stucky fits so good you’re literally a genius.

[ao3feed-stevebucky]

Whiskey When I'm Dry

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/rf7ywci

by heckalecki

1915, Smokeskill Cove, the Appalachian Mountains. When the lake at the heart of a fishing village mysteriously runs dry, James 'Bucky' Barnes uses the last thing he has left to support his out of work, alcoholic father, his body. Mistreated by his clients, and dismissed by his father, Bucky is in desperate need of friendship and above all, love. A stranger's arrival in the small community might just be the answer. Steve Rogers, a scientist from the North is visiting to study the lake and uncover the disturbing truth of the village's folklore.

Words: 2206, Chapters: 1/7, Language: English

Fandoms: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Brock Rumlow, George Barnes (Marvel)

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Folklore, appalachian inspired, Dark, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Ableist Language, Period-Typical Ableism, Violence, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, slowish burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Protective Steve Rogers, Angst, Creepy Folklore, Mountains, Bucky Barnes Feels, Disabled Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/rf7ywci

#ao3feed #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stevebucky #stucky #steve/bucky #stevexbucky #fanfic

[buhkybrns]

hey if ur into non - edgy takes on edgy things , consider my new blog

#he will be my fun time fall muse #yah it's the devil but like...........appalachian folklore devil so u know #uhh full disclosure ur gonna have to look at bo.yd hol.brook lookin greasy like Alot tho #i'll make a real promo for him Later when i have like. shit on the blog aldkfjadlsfkj #but he's out there. #`bucky barnes' chest hair / ooc #`tbd.

[vanillanaps]

We Will Always Be Us | Bucky Barnes

Summary - After months of fooling around, you are finally his and he’s finally yours

A/N - Please excuse any typos, I don’t proof read anything, mwuah

Category - fem!reader, fluff, best friends w/ benefits to lovers

Warnings - slight jealousy

Word Count - 850

♡♡♡♡

After a two week long undercover mission in the middle of nowhere, you and Steve were finally home. A smile made its way to your face as the quinjet doors opened and the first person you saw there was your best friend, Bucky.

“Nice work the last two weeks, agent,” Steve complimented as the two of you descended down the ramp, “Go ahead and relax for a day, debriefing first thing in the morning.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” You smirked and saluted towards him, making Bucky smile and Steve roll his eyes.

“Good to see you, pal.” Bucky spoke to Steve, tapping him on the shoulder as he passed by before looking back at you with soft eyes, “Hey..”

“Hey,” You replied, “Did you miss me?”

Bucky chuckled, taking your bag from you and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, leading you into the compound, “You know I did.”

♡♡♡♡

“God bless Tony Stark and steam showers.” You sighed, stepping out of the foggy bathroom in nothing but your bra and underwear.

Bucky looked up at you from his spot on your bed, “What? No steam showers in the Appalachian Mountains?”

“Not where we were, nope.” You tossed your towel to the side and headed over to your dresser to find some lounge clothes.

“So,” Bucky started, clearing his throat as he sat up on the edge of the bed, picking at his cuticles, “What exactly was the mission?”

“Steve and I were undercover as a married couple. Fury thought these couples that lived in the mountains were some type of cult. They were manufacturing illegal weapons.”

Bucky's heart thumped. He had no right to be jealous, he was just your best friend—that you had been sleeping with nearly every month for some time now. You knew of his feelings for you. He knew that you knew, but he also understood why you didn’t want to cross that line, but it didn’t stop him from asking every once in a while. Hoping, praying, that one day you’d change your mind. And if he was being completely honest with himself, he’d wait an eternity for you.

“So when he told you good job, it was because you were his fake wife?” He questioned, trying his hardest not to make it seem obvious of what he was trying to do, but you read him like an open book.

Slowly closing the drawer, you turned around to look at him, “James Buchanan Barnes—are you jealous?”

“What?! No,” He shook his head, waving you off, “I was just curious.”

You sighed, walking over to stand in front of him. There was no trying to play it off now, “You have nothing to be jealous of. I don’t see Steve that way, you know that.”

He scoffed, “Yeah, just how you don’t see me that way?”

“Buck, that’s not fair and you know it.” You brought your hands up to his face, lifting it up so you could look into those gorgeous blue eyes, “It’s not that I don’t see you that way.. I just don’t wanna ruin us.”

“How can we get any more ruined than this?” He questioned genuine, “We can’t just fuck each other for the rest of our lives, it’ll never be enough. For either of us.”

“I know..”

“Then let’s try.” He pushed, bringing his hands up to rest on the sides of your thighs, “You mean everything to me and you know that. I will work day and night to make this work for us, for you.” His eyes searched yours, looking for any indication that you were finally gonna cave in on your feelings, “Tell me you’ve never thought about it. Never thought about us, what we could have, what we could be.”

“I do think about it,” You admitted, “All the time actually..”

Bucky pulled you down into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist as yours went around his neck, “Then let’s try,” His forehead was placed against yours and the tips of your noses brushed against each other, “And I promise, that no matter what happens, I will fight to make sure that we will always be us.” He spoke to you in the softest manner, completely laying his heart on the line, hoping that you’ll pick it up and hold it to yours, “Just say yes, baby.”

“You really want me to be your girl?”

“Hell, I want you to be my wife,” He chuckled, making you smile, “But we can start with you being my girl for a while.”

You bit back a squeal at his confession, but nonetheless did you want him to be your husband just as much, “Okay, Buck. I’ll be your girl..”

He grinned from ear to ear, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, baby…I’m all yours.” You smiled.

Bucky immediately flipped the two of you over on the bed, making you laugh as you now laid beneath him, “I can’t fucking believe it,” He muttered as his lips trailed kisses around the column of your neck, “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” You moaned just as his lips found your spot.

“All mine..”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic

[punemy-spotted]

Dead Trees Like Lavender Fields Chapter 4

Chapter 4: In the Blood of the Lamb

Pairing: Old One!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Elements, Dub-Con, Soft!Dark Characters, Dark! Characters, Cult Elements, Human/Animal Sacrifice, Religious Elements, Blasphemy, Cosmic/Dark Horror, Stalking, Possessive/Obsessive Characters, Appalachian/Mountain Gothic, Gothic Horror, Descriptions of Death and Rot and Poverty, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3

Chapter Warnings: Non-Con elements, Sexual Harassment, Aggressive Religious Themes, Pentecostal Themes, Murder, Dark Woods and Cosmic Horror, Some Allusions to Abuse, Possessive Language, Sergeant Barnes is Not A Good Man Really

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: This is not your home.

An autopsy of faith, a congregation of corpses, a murder of faithful crows, gathered in the humble lights of cadaverous sanctity, claiming nothing more than the air they rattled through the desiccated woodsheds of their bodies, singing softly that this is not our home.

- Old Gods of Appalachia, Episode 3: The Covenant

Notes: Yes I know this is late and also that I got a lot of other shit to write but I missed writing during the spooky season and Fall is about to turn into Winter so it’s happening now. As always, feedback is appreciated and I will attempt to return to my old self soon.

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

There are things in the woods deeper and darker than any devil mentioned in Pastor Rogers’s Bible, forces of evil so malignant they would laugh in the face of any God — Christian or otherwise — foolish enough to face them in their own domain.

Eugene Paul Tucker is no God.

Not by any claim of his, no, and most definitely not by any judgment they would cast upon him, them foremen and watchers in the mines or the hootin’ and hollerin’ congregation which descended ‘pon the Tabernacle’s worship hall every Sunday, acting like them hymns could go and cover up the sins of the flesh they partook in when the bells stopped ringin’. No, Eugene Paul Tucker is no God.

If you ask his sister Estus, newly promoted t’matriarch of the Tucker clan since Granny Mabel finally breathed her last, Eugene Paul Tucker was barely a man.

Men, she’d’ve sneered if you asked her, prolly while porin’ over her cannin’ like she always did come harvest time, like a good matriarch ought, Don’t go off an’ lose their fool wives in the woods.

Not a God and barely a man, but deep in the domain of the things in the woods deeper and darker than devil mentioned in Pastor Rogers’s big, bound-leather Bible, alone.

Now, that’s a deadly proposition in itself, bein’ alone in the deep-dark. Granny always warned ‘em, spittin’ tobacco an’ Hellfire while she raved about them bears and adders and lord-only-knows-what, ‘bout them beasts who ripped ‘part her favorite daughter-in-law.

Granny woulda thrown a right conniption fit if she found out Gene’d lost his wife in the same haint-damned woods which took his own momma.

Good thing she was dead.

… not so good for him.

Eliza! Lizzie, girl, c’mon! Ain’t no reason t’go runnin’ off, sweetheart!

The woods crack under his feet, twigs bend and break with each heavy press of his minin’ boots on the thick underbrush, Lizzie! Good God, woman, come on home! Woods ain’t no place for you or the baby!

The baby.

Lord in Heaven above, his baby. What sort of damn fool loses his wife and baby? Wife and baby on the day of her — the baby’s, mind you — own christenin’, t’boot.

Same sort of man who fails to tell his wife just what sort of future lay in front of their new child, the promise of her namin’ was about to carry, the deal he made to make it out alive from the mines.

A life for a life, blood for blood, what you make I will take.

Anything.

Anything to keep the man in the mine’s hands from his throat, t’keep him alive in that deep dark, keep the coal from turnin’ into a catacomb.

We had a deal, the voice behind him is the rumble of an exploding mine, shaking earth and searing screams, molten flesh and soulless husks left to be sobbed over by the wives and babies left behind. Eugene Paul narrowly manages to avoid falling to his knees at the sound, goes still as the stone he’s mined since he was a boy of eight. There will be time to beg later, he tells himself, though he has no idea how much time or how much later he has.

We had a deal, Eugene Paul Tucker, the voice repeats, billowing smoke filling his lungs as his name is called and he turns, slowly, reluctantly, faces the darkness before him and the two glittering embers boring into his soul.

N-now hang on! He protests, facing his accuser, I still — I gotta find her, that’s all. I’ll bring her back, Lizzie’s a good girl. She ain’t been gone for that long, she’ll listen!

It is a lie. Of course it is, and his accuser only laughs, the high metallic ring of pick-ax on stone, of escaped gases meeting an errant spark, You are out of time, Eugene Paul Tucker. You are out of time, and we have come to collect.

And while Eliza-Anne Tucker runs, to be found by the Pennsylvania State Troopers called to investigate the sound of a cryin’-baby-that-definitely-wasn’t-no-goddamn-fox, the only remnants the woods leave of Eugene Paul Tucker are his big leather boots.

Family, we are blessed this day.

Pastor Rogers has a voice like a cave-in, closes around you like it’s trying to choke you, fills your lungs with worship and coal, pours over you with a roar and you swear your very chest aches as he begins to speak from his carved bone-and-antler pulpit.

Family, we are truly blessed this day.

Before you, a man who is secretly a mountain bellows scripture out with the force of a raging forge, salvation seeping in through the gaps in the windows and snaking around a rapt congregation, their voices already raised up in a discordant choir of holy praise and pleading to a Lord who you do not completely believe is actually as merciful as the good Pastor pretends.

Beside you, a coal-and-fire hand rests on your knee, traces the outlines of the polka dots decorating your new Church dress, a present from the Pastor’s own wife, Welcome to the Holler, honeysweet, and you do everything your power has to look at no one. Not him, not the Pastor and his eyes like ice, not Aunt Estus busy corralling her boys or Uncle Cletus glaring from the very back — where he apparently always sat ‘cause he couldn’t last ten minutes without sucking down a cigarette and the Tabernacle had a strict no-smoking rule courtesy of the Women’s Auxiliary’s health campaigns.

Your hands, you decide, currently holding the family Bible which brought you here in the first place, are a much safer thing to look at.

Now, I ask you, family, I ask you — why? A pause as the Pastor surveys his flock, listens to the hum of the Holy Spirit pulse through the room, smug surety on his face as his lips stretch wide into that tombstone smile you almost — almost — recall having seen before, and immediately regret looking up at.

Your momma’s memories may have belonged to her and her alone in life, but death has a way of bringing people together.

At the front of the room, Pastor Rogers continues to boom, Family. Brothers and Sisters in the Lord, we are blessed this day because one of our lambs has returned to us. Our Lamb has returned home. High above you, the rafters echo his voice — home home home hallelujah.

The congregation rises in chorus, a palace of Amen and Hallelujah and Thank you, Lord, built, brick-by-reverent-brick, all around you and you hold back the destructive scream rising in your throat — this is not my home — while your mouth floods with metal and you realize you have bitten your tongue.

Blood for blood.

Family, the Lord is our Savior and our Shepherd. He maketh us lay in green pastures and we thank Him, Family, for the Glory and the Grace, we thank Him for His Love and he thank Him for He has Shepherded our prodigal daughter home. Welcome our daughter back to the flock, won’t you, Family, won’t you say hello?

You could almost drown in it.

Maybe you do, drown in wave after wave of blessings and praise and Hallelujah, Amen all accompanied by the harsh, guttural babbling of what you can only hope is the power of the Holy Ghost descending upon the faithful flock of the Tabernacle of the Holy Trinity, all watched over by the cave-in collapse of Pastor Rogers and his roaring voice, arms outstretched as shadows twist around that bone-and-antler pulpit.

Run.

There are lights in the woods.

You almost don’t notice them at first, stepping out of the Tabernacle’s worship hall as the Sunday Sermon comes to an end and a meal is laid out for the faithful — and the lapsed, you consider, wondering how much they would really welcome you home if your mother hadn’t left the Church the way she did. Almost.

See — just like your momma’s second husband used to tell you when the drink set in and the drill instructor came out — almost only works when you’re playin’ horseshoes and hand grenades. And seeing the green lights in the woods just on the outskirts of town, well, that’s a zero-sum game.

So, standing on the back porch of the Tabernacle of the Holy Trinity while the town of Bell’s Holler buzzes around you with plates and hungry bellies, you see the lights in the woods.

And oh Lord, they see you.

Like lantern lights, swaying faintly in a still breeze, held aloft by invisible hands. A path of phosphorescent mystery and calling voices, beckoning you into the yawning mouth of the inevitable.

Right down the path your momma took, straight into them shadow trees, the hungry embrace of something greedy and unknowable, waiting. Waiting for you to come back home, back to where you belong.

Your throat aches. The collar tugs.

You runnin’ off already, kitten? Sergeant Barnes’s voice is ash and honey, flowing into your senses and tearing you away from the freedom just beyond that copse of trees at the edge of town.

You turn. Too quick, too hurried, too startled, too stupid to realize how close you are to the edge of the porch until that coal-and-fire hand you’ve seen in your nightmares dreams is wrapped around your wrist and dragging you away from a backbreaking tumble, right into the hard wall of the Sergeant’s chest and too close to him from any comfort you might draw from the impromptu rescue.

S’I said — you runnin’ off already, kitten? Somethin’ in the woods catch your eye?

You may not have been smart enough to heed your momma when she told you to never come to these haint-damned woods but you are clever enough to know when to hold your tongue — telling the good Sergeant anything about the lights in the woods would just get back to your Aunt Estus and she was already so adamant on outstaying your vacation here at the Holler. That was your route out, you could feel it in your bones. As long as you timed it right.

You startled me, you accuse instead, breezing past his own suspicion with another bright, marketing manager smile, peeling yourself from his chest and standing on your own — further away from the edge this time.

Just in case.

Coal-dark eyes train on you as you pull away, moving faster than you expected you would after being caught by him but not trapped by him. Not yet, at the very least.

Instead, all the good Sergeant does is smile. Thinkin’ ‘bout runnin into those woods like your momma did? You sure we’ll let you go this time, sweetheart?

Excuse me?

The pitch of your voice rises, not the soft thing you were raised to be — your momma couldn’t put the fire in you out, nor did she ever really want to, ‘cept when it came to you tryin’ to burn your way out of her clutches — but the good Sergeant before you barely reacts except to expand his smirk… and stalk closer to you.

Think we didn’t learn our lesson from Eliza runnin’ off into the woods, sweetheart? Don’t be silly.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, you lie, you lie you lie you lie, still stepping back, avoiding his eye, avoiding his grip, avoiding his accusations.

Tellin’ lies ain’t your thing, sweetheart.

I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I—

He cuts you off, fingers cold on your cheek as he takes hold of your jaw and pushes you back, trapped between the hate-cold of his eyes and the hard-brick of the house of the Lord, Always on the run, aren’t you kitten? How far do you think you’ll go before I catch you, huh? Wanna test it out? Could even give you a head start, if you ask nice, sweetheart.

Your teeth ache from the pressure, grit and grinding, fingers curled against unyielding metal and you mirror his hate, trying to pry him away, Let… let me go—

You think I’m gonna let you get away so quickly? I’ve been waiting a lo—

Sergeant Barnes, there you are!

Ma Rogers is just like you remember from your first morning here, sweet orange and sunshine, sauntering her way across the back lawn of the Tabernacle. Comfortable in her gravidity, swollen with the pride of a new generation growing in her belly, a queen in her own right commanding the Kingdom of the Lord, James Buchanan Barnes, I been lookin’ for you all over God’s creation an’ here you are, harassin’ our guest, where are your manners? Pastor’s been hollerin’ for you, so go on, git!

Cool air washes over you and fills your lungs, replacing smoke and fire with the warm spring of honeysuckle and fresh rain as the grip on your jaw is released and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes turns around, looks properly abashed at the sound of the matriarch of Bell’s Holler’s ire and you know in your bones that this is not a woman to be trifled with.

A woman you are grateful for more than you can name in this moment, as she makes her steady way up the porch and points a slender finger that does not look as work wizened as you know they are, having seen her wrist-deep in her garden plenty of times since your arrival to town, since the first time you spent sipping tea and nibbling bites of apple cake in her parlor while the Pastor and the Foreman went about whatever business it was a Pastor and a Foreman needed to do in the dark edges of town. Now don’t let me catch you causin’ trouble again, James Buchanan Barnes, I know you been raised better than that.

You almost expect her tirade to last longer, shrill and rapid enough to give the Sergeant — looking less like a leader of men and more like a boy bein’ scolded by his granny — no room to interject, defend himself, stop her verbal lashing, but it ends just as soon as it begins, this time with the Sergeant slinking off into the crowd to deal with whatever it was the Pastor needed him for.

Whatever it is, you do not — and cannot bring yourself to — care. Senses fixated on the sanctuary of your savior’s presence, rescued a second time and just as grateful and shocked by it, you just lean yourself against the hard brick and breathe, steadying the race of your heart and trying to find the strength in you to smile. Thank you, managed a little hesitantly, still watching the Sergeant’s retreating back until he was gone into the crowd.

Don’t you fret, honey, Ma Rogers sets down the basket she’d been carrying against her hip, full up of canned vegetables she’d brought from her stores to share with the… less fortunate members of town, as the Virtue of Charity demanded of all citizens of the Holler with the means to do so, That no-good fool of a Foreman’s bark’s worse than his bite. I’ll make sure the Pastor sets him right — Lord knows he ought to know better than start his antics up on a Sunday.

She rambles slightly, hands on her hips and glancing back like she too might be making sure the Sergeant knew he’d been beat, just for now, If it wasn’t the Lord’s day itself, I’d’ve tanned his hide — but that’s neither here nor there, c’mere, honey, lemme get a look at you. Did he hurt you any?

Your jaw feels bruised and still, you just shake your head, offering as quick a smile as you can manage, No ma’am, thank you. Just startled me.

The tut of her tongue is disbelief, but dismissal all the same, No use pressing, is the unspoken agreement between the both of you, and you… accept that.

No use pressing.

Somewhere below, a cry goes up from the crowd, a call from one of the Rogers’s girls to come fill empty plates and sate hungry bellies and before you can ask any more questions, Ma Rogers beckons you forth, Let’s get a meal in you, honey, afore you start lookin’ as you might keel over again.

And as you follow her down the porch steps over to the banquet set before you, you forget about the yawning mouth of the unknown and the path wound through the green, calling you into the darkness of the inevitable.

It does not forget you.

#bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky x reader #soft!dark bucky barnes x reader #soft!dark bucky barnes #dark!fic #marvel fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic

[zenaidamacrouras1]

I kept getting confused about all of my construction equipment so I made a picture. So here is a picture for chapter 3 of this fic. Now looking at this, I want you all to know that, while my last fic was about dinosaurs, and this one heavily features trucks and construction equipment, but please be aware that my target audience is not actually toddlers.

My fics are not appropriate for children, despite what this picture may imply. Not pictured: Pining.

Summary:

Steve Rogers is a seasoned activist and not at all afraid to get arrested while protesting the building of a pipeline. HOWEVER he is TERRIFIED when he realizes he’ll be chained to the same backhoe as Bucky “very handsome southern boy who also plays guitar and struts like a panther in his very tight, worn thin blue jeans” Barnes.

Our brave, tiny Steve will find out once and for all: Can you catch on fire from blushing over your crush?

#stucky au #stucky fanfic #steve x bucky #stucky #direct action fanfiction #steve rogers x bucky barnes #fanfiction with Appalachian characters that immediately ask about your grandparents and cousins no matter the situation

[s-trawberryv-eins]

A Poorly Kept Secret

NOT MY GIF

Prompt: Fake not dating for @lets-hargrooves writing challenge!

Summary: The plan was to keep it secret a little longer. Sam has other ideas.

Warnings: Violence, injury, angst.

A/N: My terrible and LATE entry for the Valentines Day Writing Challenge. My prompt was fake not dating. I kinda strayed but I think (?) it still counts! It’s absolute trash, it’s sh*t, don’t waste your time! Hasn’t been proofread, try not to throw up when you read it!

Bucky Barnes x reader

Avengers x reader

Word count: 2839

Masterlist

“Good evening Agent, Sergeant.” As Y/N and Bucky strolled into the empty common room hand in hand, the were immediately greeted by FRIDAY. “You’re both required upstairs straight away.”

Sharing a look of confusion, the pair headed straight to the elevator with a shrug. As they waited, Barnes realised he really didn’t want to let go of the girls hand. Tonight had been their third date, and his feelings for his teammate had grown quickly.

“I wish we coulda stayed out longer.” Y/N smiled at his confession, a faint blush staining her cheeks.

“Me too. But I’m gonna run the risk of assuming we’d both be up for another date, so I’m not gonna cry too hard about it.” The smile on her face made her cheeks ache, but she relished in the feeling. Taking a step closer to the soldier, she kept her eyes on his, staring up through thick black lashes.

“I would 100%, most definitely be up for another date, Miss Y/L/N. In fact, I insist upon it.” Barnes’ words had her blushing again, and she subconsciously scolded herself for falling for the man so quickly.

“I’ll make the reservations.” Bucky left no room for disagreement but found she didn’t mind so long as they were going out again.

“Where?”

“I’m not telling.” And then her lips were on his and she swore she’d never felt anything like it before. Soft and hot, seared into her brain for the rest of time and thank god because to forget this would be to commit a crime punishable by death. Bucky’s hand that held her own was pressed against her back, holding her ever closer. His other hand rested at the base of her neck as he ran his thumb over her flushed cheek.

It wasn’t their first kiss, but it was most definitely their first kiss. And as they separated, breathless and surprised by Y/N sudden initiation of the intimacy, they stayed close; foreheads resting against each other, hands still entwined. As if the universe had been looking down on them, the elevator doors opened not a second too soon, allowing them to have their moment in peace.

-

After no less than fifteen minutes in the board room, the team was fully briefed and boarding the Quinjet, headed for the Appalachian Mountains. Tasks and objectives had been delegated, and everybody knew their roles.

“Hey Y/N? Where were you tonight?” Natasha and Y/N had planned to train together, but the latter had bailed after making plans with Bucky.

“Oh. I was on a date, actually. Some loser I met on my run this morning. Definitely won’t be seeing him again.” Scrunching her nose up in faux disgust, Natasha laughed and went to sit with the girl to press for details. The lie came easily enough; she was rather gifted in the field of espionage after all.

Something in Bucky’s chest sank a little at her words. It’d been his idea to keep it between the two of them, but it wasn’t pleasant. When Sam approached, it only made matters worse.

“Why the sour face? You mad cos people here can actually get dates? Ha. I’ll set you up Barnes!” Trying his best to tune his friend out, Bucky made himself comfortable. It was going to be a long flight.

-

After three days, the Winter Solider was becoming increasingly frustrated with the current state of affairs. Barnes and Barton had been paired up and given the job of the eyes in the sky. The site they were aiming to infiltrate and take down was located on the east side of the mountain range. Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier were to keep an eye out, and slowly dispose of the guards who stood around the perimeter.

The facility was expecting two ‘specialists’ to arrive from England. After the team had located the expected, they grabbed them before they’d made their presence known. Upon learning that the facility did not know what they looked like, only their names, Y/N and Sam had volunteered to go under cover; Bucky wasn’t happy, but he was even more unhappy that he couldn’t really protest.

The rest of the team were to infiltrate the site and free the hostages being held there for human experimentation, before taking the whole thing to pieces.

The only problem was, this couldn’t be an in and out mission. It relied heavily on Falcon and Y/C/N disabling the surprisingly high-tech security system.  In order to stand a chance, they had to be trusted enough to be left alone - an unlikely feat.

“Romanoff,” Barnes’ watchful eye spotted two guards approaching from the right, a blind spot the redheaded assassin was working around. “3 ‘o’ clock.” With his eye trained perfectly on the scope of his weapon, he offered a countdown for Black Widow to position herself accordingly.

“In 3...2…” In the space of a second, Natasha had cleared the space, Bucky had fired, and his targets were down. Clockwork.

A thankyou from Natasha and she was back to work. 

“If everything’s gone to schedule, we should be clear for entry in 3 minutes. If not, we’ve got trouble and we need to get those two out of here.” 

An arrow fired, narrowly missing the Captain as it soared through the air and pierced the jugular of an approaching target. Steve’s eyes tracked the path of the arrow, scowling when they landed on the man who let it fly.

“Nearly had my eye out, Barton.”

But with a soft smirk and a tilt of the head, the marksman replied “no chance, Cap. I never miss!”

“If you’ve done flirting, shall we?” Tony’s voice rang out, summoning those on ground level to the rendezvous point. As they approached, Steve stood forward, waiting for Tony’s signal to attempt entrance. The blond reached for the door but jumped back into a defensive stance when the buzzer sounded, and the door seemed to open by itself.

Everyone readied for a fight, unsure of what they’d find waiting for them behind the large steel contraption when a voice crackled through.

“I’m sorry guys. We were made.”

-

The doors peeled open, loud and creaking, adding to the tension that stood in the moment. Two guards stepped into the light, one gripping Y/N by her neck and the other Sam. It was clear that they’d not lasted long in the facility by the way the bruising had coloured on their faces. Yellowing already, it was proof that their friends had been suffering several days.

Bucky stood breathless; unsure of how to respond to the threat in front of him, he did the only thing he felt he could. Shouldering his weapon once again, he trained it on the face of the man who held the girl he was falling for, unsure of whether she was even still breathing.

Upon watching Barnes take aim, Barton followed suit, waiting for instructions from his Captain.

“We’ve got a lock.”

“Negative! Y/L/N and Wilson could be dead before you’ve even released. Stand down.” Drawing a shaky breath, Bucky was set to follow orders when a gravelly feminine voice broke through the comms tech. 

“Do it, Bucky.” Panic bloomed in his chest, a feeling he’d never felt before.

“Do it or he will. You don’t really think they’ll let us leave alive, do you? We saw too much.” As the words left her mouth, the grip on her throat increased. Bucky couldn’t breathe. Her words were true, he knew that much. But was he really capable of shooting his teammate, of shooting Y/N?

“Stop talking or your friend dies.” Sam was hanging onto consciousness by a thread, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.

“South east wing has an elevator-“ Sam screwed his eyes shut as he felt the gun press into his back, and he readied himself for death.

“Bottom floor-“ the gunshots fired before anybody could blink. Y/Ns body crumpled to the ground, as did the men holding the two Avengers captive, but Sam stayed on his feet. Spinning around to assess the damage, the team snapped back into action immediately. Steve called for a medical evacuation whilst Sam located the shot the girl had suffered.

“GSW to the shoulder. She’s losing too much, she’s been...she’s been bleeding for-“ A hand came to sit on Wilson’s shoulder, gently prying him from the girl.

“Sam? Hey! You’re in shock. Let Tony take a look.” Natasha pulled Falcon along, barely flinching when he threw himself into her arms.

“Good shot, Barnes. In one side, out the other. And into that guys chest by the looks of things. You too, Hawkeye.” Tony assessed the damage before coating the bullet wound in an antibacterial spray.

The men simply nodded, but Bucky barely heard a thing for the sound of his blood thundering through his veins. 

-

“Sam, please. You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I’m the one who shot her, for crying out loud.” Bucky tried to reason with his friend, who, since returning home from the mission, had buried himself in a ditch of guilt, shame, and helplessness as Y/N remained unconscious, hooked up to a range of machines in the med bay.

“You weren’t in there, Barnes! You weren’t…I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t make it.” Sam’s confession had Bucky’s heart jump up and land in his throat. He’d been gripping on to the hope the doctors had given them, and he’d been remaining laughably optimistic since they returned. But if she didn’t pull through? What would any of them do?

The Winter Soldier looked his friend up and down; Sam had been in bad shape when they wheeled him from the Quinjet, but the wounds were mostly superficial. After a round of antibiotics, a good nights sleep and a day of bed rest, he was feeling better – physically, at least. The same couldn’t be said for Y/N.

An angry infection had spread from a wound on her leg, poisoning her bloodstream and preventing her healing. Surprising, but much to Bucky’s relief, the gunshot wound had been the least of her problems when she’d returned. The infection had rendered her entirely out of action, consciousness only coming in fleeting moments before the girl slipped back into a sleepy state again.

“It’s been three days. She should be awake.” Sam’s words loomed over, hanging in the air like a threat. It had crossed Bucky’s mind, but he refused to allow himself to go there.

“Sam! Bucky! Tony wants us there; he’s got an update.” Wanda appeared out of nowhere, and vanished just as quickly, but the boys took no notice as they made their way to the med bay.

-

Upon arriving, Steve, Natasha, Clint and Tony were already there.

“Well?” Wilson took to demanding answers instantly. “Tony?”

Stark’s eyes were clouded over, seeming darker than they ever had before. “Y/N’s awake for now but-“ sucking in a breath before continuing, the team didn’t waste a second.

“I’m sorry.” Tony’s voice rang out after them, but they never heard it. Grief hit in a tidal wave, and every second felt more precious than the last.

Joining the rest of the team in Y/Ns room, Bucky felt sick to his stomach. A thousand ‘what if’s rang through his brain, a million questions that would never get answered. It seemed that the universe would never again smile down upon him, as if he’d been testing his luck even taking more than a glimpse at the girl.

“Why do you all look so miserable?” With a voice weak from dehydration, Y/N reached out to grab Sam’s hands, tugging him closer with the little strength she had. When nobody responded, she grew nervous.

“Seriously?”

“Y/N/N, we spoke to Tony…” Confusion crossed her face, brows furrowing as she tried to decipher why on earth the superheroes in front of her looked shaken to their cores. It was only after a second of thought that it clicked.

Pushing herself up into an upright position, the girl rolled her eyes before shouting the man guilty of the long faces in the room.

“TONY STOP TELLING PEOPLE I’M DYING!” A second later, it seemed to click. An exasperated sigh from Natasha and she and Clint left the room, promising to come back later on after they’d found and killed Tony. Steve pressed a kiss to the side of her head, and also took his leave to go and stop Nat from killing Tony.

“So you’re okay?” The look of shock on Wilson’s face never left, despite the sudden reassurance that she wasn’t in fact dying.

“Bucky, help me up a sec?” Pushing the covers away from her body, she used the super soldier as leverage to pull herself to her feet. Turning away from him, the girl leaned on him for support, her back pressed against his chest as if to reassure them both at the same time. Bucky sighed as she leaned into him, grateful to be close to her again, even if it wasn’t quite as close as he wanted to be.

Dressed only in cotton shorts and a hoodie, her legs were bare.

“Look, Sammy. It’s a little sore, but it’s better. See?” Gesturing to the hot pink jagged scar that trailed down her thigh, she waited for Sam to settle.

“And-…and the bullet wound?” A smile danced on her lips as he slowly started to believe her.

“Bucky’s a real good shot, Sam. Didn’t hit anything important, and it’s healing real good. Just a few bruises.” Sam stayed silent; arms unsettled at his sides, gaze stuck on the floor. Y/N sensed his unease, and after squeezing Bucky’s hand firmly, she let go of him. On wobbly legs, she made her way over to her shaken friend, and pulled him in for a firm hug.

“I’m okay. You’re okay. Tony did a mean thing and I’m sorry. You protected me, Sam. They’d have done so much worse if you hadn’t stopped them. You saved me, Sammy.” As if a light bulb came on, the hug was suddenly returned tenfold.

After almost a full minute, Wilson pulled away, a determined look in his eye.

“You’re okay. I’m gonna go kill Tony too. Just in case he isn’t dead enough already.” With a sad smile and a reassuring nod, Sam left the room, leaving Y/N and Bucky alone.

“You promise? You swear to me right now that you’re okay?” The soldiers resolve melted away entirely, and with too large strides forward the girl was in his arms again.

“Y/N? I mean it!” The fear in his voice was prominent, and it took Y/N by surprise. Nodding despite herself, she fought to reassure another one of her teammates that she was healing well.

“Bucky? Look at me, Buck.” Taking his face in her hands, the look in his eyes broke her heart completely. The icy blue was clouded with fear, with the sadness that he was struggling to let go of.

“Bucky, darling? I’m alright. I’m worn out, and I’m in a bit of pain, but I am okay. I swear to you-“

He was the one kissing her this time, and it frightened her how good it felt. Urgent and wanted for far too long, Bucky seemed to pour everything he had into the kiss. But then he pulled away frantically, as if something had burned him.

“I SHOT YOU! What the fuck?” The shock on Y/Ns face dissolved into a fit of giggles as the Winter Soldier stood wide eyed before her.

“We’ve been on three dates, and then I shot you. Oh God.” The giggling continued until a loud gasp sounded from the doorway. Spinning around, her jaw dropped open to see that Sam had returned midway through their conversation.

“YOU’VE BEEN ON THREE WHAT”

“Sam…” The warning tone in Bucky’s voice did nothing to still the obvious excitement ready to bubble over and out them both to the team.

“Sammy, we need you to keep it a secret okay? Please, please don’t tell anyone yet?” With a suspicious eye, Sam looked the pair up and down.

“Okay! I hate you! Fine!” Storming out of the room, Falcon marched off down the hallway, a string of curses leaving his mouth as he did so, earning a belly laugh from Barnes.

Grabbing Bucky’s hands in her own, Y/N looked up to meet his eyes. “Will you sit with me a while? It gets kinda-“

“EVERYONE! BARNES AND Y/N ARE DATING.”

Fear quickly filled the girls bones, she was entirely unsure of what this meant. Would Bucky run and hide? Would he want to call it quits? Was it over?

As if sensing her unease, Barnes raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

“I guess that’s that then.”

Reaching forward, he grabbed her hips and pulled her forward with a gentle force. Lips collided, a warm passion wanting to be explored. The sergeant held the girl ever closer, but the kiss softened.

No urgency, now they had all the time in the world.

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #angst #sam wilson x reader #fluff #lets hargroove valentines challenge #writing challenge #reader insert #avengers x reader #please reblog #bucky barnes x reader angst #strawberrys masterlist

[thecoldremembers]

Bucky/Melody: The Past is Another Country

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes."

The words, searing, digging, like so much broken glass burrowing into his mind.

Or maybe the broken thing was his mind.

"Shut up!"

"I'm not gonna fight you. You're my friend."

Somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains Early Autumn, 2014

The Weapon that had been known as the Winter Soldier for the past seventy years (but what was he now?) pushed through the overgrown mass of vegetation, slowing to a stop when he saw the rock face ahead. He approached the cliff, pressing his gloved right hand against it for a moment before taking several paces southeastward, following the rough stone wall until he found its gaping maw.

He had been here before. His memories, tattered scraps strung together in a confusing, chaotic weave that coiled around him like a hangman's noose in his dreams, had led him here.

This place had been highest-echelon security clearance only. The SHIELD and HYDRA files that the Avenger woman had recently released to the public hadn't even contained references to it. But his memories told him that he had been here, for an extended period of time, wiped and frozen and re-activated over and over and over again before the program had been shut down and the bunker abandoned.

The Pandora Project, his memory told him. Pandora, open the box.

The Weapon entered the cave, walking a labyrinth of passageways in a path that seemed as much a part of his muscle memory as any fighting method he had ever employed, until he came upon a massive metal door, dented and bent but still sealed. A keypad, its clunky number keys worn and covered in dust and grime, was set into the rock beside the door.

His fingers ghosted over the keys, not quite touching, and he closed his eyes, waiting.

4-6-3-6-8-7-1, said the Weapon's memory.

He punched in the number, and the metal door groaned and shuddered, then swung open. Heavy darkness greeted him, and he paused to swing his backpack from his shoulders and retrieve a flashlight. The beam cut through the shadows of the vast chamber, swimming with dust, as it glanced off the broken equipment, the twisted and buckled metal scaffolding, the scattering of fallen rocks.

What happened here? He closed his eyes, shaking his head. The need to know, to remember, pressed around him, propelling him forward.

Why the hell was he so keen to dig up his past? Why, when he knew he would only uncover more death and destruction by his own hand? Why, when he would only prove to himself that he was nothing more than a Weapon?

("You're my mission!" the Winter Soldier had screamed, raining bone-splintering blows down on the face that was so horrifyingly, breathtakingly familiar. He had felt his heart shattering even as the rage had torn through him like a cyclone. "You're! My! Mission!"

"Then finish it. Because I'm with you to the end of the line.")

He stepped carefully through the rubble, moving deeper into the bunker. Room after room after room-- a training gym, a surveillance room, a barracks, a cell block-- all languished in various states of disarray. Other doors led to what appeared to be a vast array of storage units, shelves and crates, obsolete weaponry, and objects both identifiable and mysterious scattered across their floors.

Another room... well, he didn't know what the hell he was looking at in that one. Some of those things couldn't possibly have been from Earth. Something caught his eye, captured his mind, drew his attention down, down, down into a pinpoint of focus. In a dreamlike haze, he dropped into a crouch and reached out with his right hand. The object was small, seemingly delicate, a small crystalline sphere about the size of an orange, set about with a crisscrossing web of metallic bands, a series of whorls and spirals and etchings in an unfamiliar language molded into the metal. He picked it up and peered at it with narrowed eyes.

It was alive.

It had woken up.

It sang in his mind, and he saw galaxies. Solar systems. Worlds. Space folded and folded and folded upon itself.

The designs on the banded web clicked and sprang to liquid life, flowing along their metal paths, and, suddenly aware again, he tried to drop the sphere, but it clung to his hand.

A bloom of fire and starlight ignited within the sphere.

Stumbling backwards in an explosion of panic, he tried unsuccessfully to pry it from his hand.

The earth spun beneath his feet. Faster. Faster. Fasterfasterfaster, the ground seeming to fade to something immaterial beneath his feet...

Pressure building, building, building, until he thought it would crush him. He heard someone screaming, and realized it was his own voice.

And then it stopped.

And he was falling...

(The world whipped past as he clung to the rail on the side of the train, and the familiar man, the same blonde-haired, blue-eyed man he had fought on the helicarrier and then saved, reached for him, his features twisted in desperation. "Bucky! Hang on! Grab my hand!"

The rail broke.)

Metal and glass and concrete flashed before his vision, present and real, not a memory. A skyscraper. Another feral scream tore from his lips as he angled his descent, threw his mechanical arm out, and slammed his fingers into the concrete frame of the building. The weight of his body dragged him down, leaving a trail of claw marks in the wake of his metal fingers, until he was able to get a grip on a crossbeam. He dangled there, gasping for breath as traffic surged far below him, and realized it was raining. He still held the sphere in his right hand, but it rolled lightly in his grasp, and he realized it was no longer stuck to him. Unsure of what else to do with it, he put it in his jacket pocket.

He scaled his way down to a ledge, where the roof of a smaller building was within easy jumping distance. From there, he took a moment to get his bearings.

Saint Paul, Minnesota. He knew this city. He had been deployed here in... he was never sure of the dates, really. They had always pulled him from cryo, sent him on his mission, wiped him, and put him back under. It had to have been some time ago.

But how in the fresh hell had he gotten here now?

He leaned on the rooftop barrier, frowning as he let his eyes sweep over the city below.

Deja vu. His eyes tracked to a location that they had tracked to before, years ago. A girl on the sidewalk, slight, pale, a shock of blue hair bright against the grey atmosphere.

Deja vu. His eyes darted to a low building, and saw the long-haired, black-clad figure, face obscured by a contraption that looked half mask, half muzzle. The metal arm with the blood-red star was unmistakable, even at this distance.

The figure in black was also watching the girl.

I remember this... I remember--

Assassination. Abduction. Torture. A world comprised of nothing but violence and blood and death and pain. Faces flashed through his mind, faces twisted with terror, tear-streaked, begging.

He had turned and walked away from one such face recently. One of his handlers in the Vault. Because he had, for the first time in his memory, been able to choose-- and he was sick of all the killing.

He remembered that the Winter Soldier had not been here to kill the girl, but to recover an escaped asset. 

An escaped asset-- much like he was.

No. I can't let this happen--

The Weapon was already moving as the Winter Soldier vaulted himself from the rooftop and made a grab for the girl. He leapt onto the barrier and nosedived, flipping in midair to gain distance and aim his approach.

The Winter Soldier spun towards him, Beretta suddenly in hand, and fired off several rounds. The Weapon whipped his left arm in a block, still twisting in midair, and two bullets glanced off the metal, ricocheting. A third grazed his side, but his adrenaline-fueled, enhanced body barely registered the injury. Two more lodged into the building behind him before his fingers closed around the Soldier’s arm and jerked it aside. Another midair twist and the Weapon's legs whipped around the Soldier’s shoulders. 

The Weapon felt his lips pull back into a snarl, and his metal hand plunged at the Soldier’s head, fingers curled into claws-- and what are you doing? Are you trying to kill yourself? That’s one way to go about that, Buck--

The Soldier seized him and threw him, and he hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to his feet, his battered old Army knife now in hand. He didn't give the Winter Soldier time to regroup; he couldn't afford it. The Winter Soldier was armed to the teeth and in his prime, and all the Weapon had was one blade and a hell of a lot of self-loathing rage.

"Run!" he shouted to the girl as he charged, his gaze focused on what he now understood to be, impossibly, his past self. "NOW!"  

#summerxmelodies #well that was long #lmao #hope ya like it! #role play #The Past is Another Country #verse: to be determined #tw: mention of suicide #arc: The Pandora Project

[blessedbucky]

money power glory

pairing: skinny!steve x plus size!reader

summary: it’s 1921 and prohibition is in full swing. there’s an overwhelming demand for alcohol and steve, one of new york’s most notorious mobsters, wants to cash in. you and your product present the perfect opportunity

warnings: steve’s a mobster and reader is a bootlegger so obvious mentions of illegal activities, alcohol, oral (female receiving), squirting, daddy kink (if you squint really hard)

a/n: please be kind to me this is my first ever reader insert. anyway @gagmebucky said give me mobster!steve and my brain went HOLD MY FUCKING BEER. it’s mostly just me being a history buff and spiraling out of control with plot and having little smut. tagging @strawberrylovessebby and @angel-fire and @genderfluiddiscogay because they asked and i'm a weak bitch for them

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

The very first time that Steve meets you, you’re on the back of a massive stallion. The enormous beast is barreling toward Steve and you don’t seem to be making any attempt at reigning the horse in to either make it slow down or move in another direction that’s not straight at him. Steve assumes this is a ploy your father’s come up with to intimidate him and Steve hasn’t gotten to where he is by tucking his tail between his legs and backing down in the face of danger and death. So, while his men curse and scramble around to the other side of the car that’s out of the way of your warpath, Steve straightens, squares his chin, and stands his ground.

Steve Rogers is one stubborn son of a bitch and if he’s going to be working with your family the way he wants to, it’s best you all know that now up front.

Your horse is probably about a foot away from Steve when you finally command it to stop. You’re dramatic and it one last show to intimidate Steve, you make the horse reel back on its hindlegs, kicking up dirt and neighing so loud it echoes. The animal’s hot breath fans out across Steve’s face for a moment before you tug at the reins, make a noise, and the horse dutifully turns to the side allowing Steve a better look at you.

Down here, hidden away in the slopes and hills of the Appalachian Mountains, you’re the opposite of the women that try to flock to the sides of Steve and his men. You’ve kept your hair long, going against the modern fashion. There’s a bandana around your head, keeping your hair out of your face. There’s sweat on your brow and smudges of dirt on your plump cheeks. Even dressed in your dirtied work overalls, he can see you’re all curves—wide hips, thick thighs, soft stomach, plush ass, and he could wax poetry about your oh-so-generous chest.

Steve’s bullheaded, but he’s not stupid. Atop your horse, staring down at him with a raised brow, he’ll admit that you’re the most gorgeous woman he’s ever met. And…he has to unfortunately also admit to himself that you’re off-limits. He really can’t drop the ball on a potentially lucrative business deal by fucking a partner’s daughter.

Steve thinks you’ve both sized each other up enough, so he breaks the silence with a polite, “Ma’am.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Mister Rogers,” you reply with your southern drawl. Your voice is also sickly sweet. “I hope the trip wasn’t too hard on all y’all.” I hope the trip wasn’t too hard on a skinny little thing like you, you don’t say but Steve hears all the same.

Steve shoots you the same grin he wears when he’s smashing men’s skulls in. You’re a fighter. As much a hellion as that horse you’re riding. Guess Bucky’s been right all these years, saying Steve gets his rocks off on danger.

“Girl,” your father’s voice booms. He’s in a matching pair of overalls, a pitchfork over his shoulder, storming toward you and Steve. “Lord, you’ve got your momma rolling in her grave, treating guests this way,” your father scolds and you duck your head like a proper, chastised southern belle. Your father can’t see the mischievous twinkle in your eye, though. “The hell’d you get that horse out for? You want to break your neck? He ain’t trained enough. Go put that horse back in the barn, wash up, get started on supper, and then you’ll meet this fella you asked to come down here.”

“Yes, daddy.” Steve’s eyes glaze over at hearing the word daddy leave those sinfully beautiful lips of yours. He’s thinking with his dick too much to completely process your father’s words and their meaning. His eyes are still locked on you as you dismount the horse. You flash Steve a smile, dangerously sharp, and he thinks he might be in love.

When you’ve disappeared into a nearby barn, your father claps Steve on the shoulder. “Aw, hell, I’m sorry, Rogers. I swear that girl’s got manners. She’s probably tired. We’ve been workin’ all day to get this corn picked. Way she was making it sound, you got here faster than she thought you would.” He gives Steve a slap on the back now. “Well, go on inside and make yourself comfortable. She’ll talk details with yah over supper.”

Steve blinks, confused. “Sir?”

Your father gives Steve a shit-eating grin. “Ain’t you heard, Rogers? You’ll be talking to my girl. She’s the one that handles the business. All I do is go up in them there woods, sit around with my buddies, drinking while we wait for the moonshine to cook. She sets up all the deals, handles the bookkeeping—” your father pauses and innocently asks, “Didn’t she say all this in them letters she’s been writing?”

No. No, you did not and your father knows that. It looks like troublemaking runs in your blood.

You’re waiting for Steve on the porch—face washed clean, dirt scrubbed away from your hands, bandana stripped from your hair that’s now pulled back with a white ribbon, and wearing in a simple yet pretty cornflower blue dress. You hold the door open, stepping to the side, still smiling at Steve in that predatory way. “Why don’t you come on in the kitchen and we’ll talk business while I’m cooking?”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

A year ago, in 1920, Steve had watched the high and mighty people clamor out onto the streets of New York to pour out and smash their bottles of liquor on the ground. It’d marked the official start to Prohibition and all Steve could think about during the whole spectacle was potential.

Of course, it wasn’t Steve and his crew alone who tried to cash in on the overwhelming demand for booze that was declared illegal. People are always going to get their hands on what they want. There have been tales of men who pass out miniature stills that allow people to make their own gin right there in their homes. Bathtub gin, he hears it’s called. You scoff and turn your nose up at the mention of it and call it exactly what it is—rotgut. You and your father are craftsmen in the art of alcohol. You give people what they want. Quality.

Slowly but surely, you’ve been working to spread your family’s name around. You explain to Steve that your father has been making moonshine since you were a child to make extra cash on the side. When your mother unexpectedly passed, he decided you were old enough to learn how to do it yourself. But like any small-town girl, you want more.

“And once Prohibition hit, cousin, business was a-booming,” you cheekily remark.

Steve wants to come to the rescue. He wants to make you a partner. You’ve got a high-class product that people will scramble to get their hands on. It’s not that watered-down shit he’s had to swallow down at speakeasies. He’ll pay to bring your business to New York. That, you argue, is not as easy as he makes it out to be, and shit goes downhill from there.

You and Steve spend hours arguing. Steve thinks you’re just wanting to be difficult for the sake of being difficult, but you bring up a lot of fair points. Stacking up problems that Steve assures can be tackled with enough money. There’s a reason you and all the other bootleggers are stranded where you are—you need good, dry corn. The hard waters of Kentucky, rich with limestone and other minerals, make the process of making moonshine easier. What about the copper stills you need? Plain steel just won’t do for you.

It’s getting late in the night. You and Steve are both red-faced and as spitting mad as you were at the start. Your father had left you two alone hours ago, shaking his head and snickering, knowing you can handle your own. “Jesus Christ,” you snarl suddenly after staring out the window at the nighttime skies. You stomp over to grab his upper arm. “Keep running your mouth, I don’t care, but you’re gonna have to do it while I’m working.”

By working, you mean speeding through the dark and winding roads of Appalachia in your pride and joy, a Ford car, with a crate of mason jars between you two. Before it gets hot, you explain that local coppers have been trying and failing for years to catch your father in the act. Steve knows the cops don’t think a little thing who looks and talks as sweet as you could possibly be the brains behind the operation. The cops show up on your tail and you cackle before you put on the speed. Steve forgets all about his anger, watching you drive like a maniac under the moonlight, wind whipping your hair around your face. With his backroom deals, greasing the hands of cops with money, he’d forgotten the thrill of this. The chase.

You swerve off the road, parking your car on a little remote trail the cops obviously have no idea about. You both watch as the cops speed away, chasing nothing but a ghost. Well, with how expertly you’ve been driving, they’ve been chasing ghosts all night long. After you both come down from the adrenaline high, you say, “I don’t think this’ll work, Steve. I want it to, but…it ain’t a good move. It’ll be more trouble than it’s all worth.” And you sound genuinely upset about that.

Steve’s not ready to let a woman like you slip out of his fingers just yet. “Why don’t you come up to New York with me?”

You scoff. It’s a bitter sound. “I’m not some blushing virgin that you can get one over on. I know good and damn well what a kept woman is and that ain’t the life for me. I won’t lay around in your bed and spread my legs for you while you take over what I’ve worked hard at building my whole life.”

Steve slides a little closer to you and pushes some hair behind your ear. The late hour makes him brave…or stupid, if he’s been reading your signals wrong. “Sweetheart, I’d love nothing more than to have you in my bed.” You turn your head toward him and he can feel your burning glare more than he can see it in the moonlight. “But that’s not what I meant. I didn’t lie when I said I wanted you as a partner. I want you to come to New York and see what I have and what I can do.”

“I know this may be hard for a city boy like you to believe, but not everything is better in the city.”

“I can show you a few things we do better in the city,” Steve suggests lowly.

Slowly, you turn your head and your nose brushes past his. He can feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. “You usually this friendly with your partners?”

“My best friends, Bucky and Sam, they’ve both fucked me a few times over the years. You’ll learn this fast, honey, but I may have a thing for pretty people that can put me in my place.” He wants to pretend he didn’t hear the hitch in your breath. He leans back and gives you some space. Oh, well. He’s not going to lie about who he is. “You can tell me to fuck off.”

“I think we need to talk about your business practices there, Rogers. I was buried between Minnie Dean’s legs and you don’t see me giving her the recipe to daddy’s moonshine.” Steve breaks out into a fit of quiet laughter. You try to be serious, but you instantly cave and giggle along with him. It really is a beautiful sound.

“You win,” you breathe out after the two of you have gotten control of yourselves. “I’ll go with you. I can bring some corn. You can get a copper still. We’ll see what we can do with the water up there.” You reach out, playfully tap his cheek once, but your hand lingers on his skin. “Get out of the car, Brooklyn. Let’s see what you got.”

Steve lures you out of the car and into the cool autumn night. You two don’t stray very far. Steve leads you around to the front of the car and presses you down against the hood. He tugs at that pretty little ribbon in your hair and you sigh so beautifully when he runs his hand through your locks. Your hair fans out across the steel, glinting in the moonlight.

Pretty words won’t work on you, but you look like a fucking angel. Then, finally, he’s leaning down and kissing you. It doesn’t surprise him your kisses are biting, stinging, a warning that you’re as dangerous as him. Here you are, looking like an angel, but you’re so obviously a serpent underneath the surface. Father Donahue would have some words about a woman like you. Lucifer, a fallen angel, the vile snake come to lead a lamb astray. Steve hasn’t been an innocent lamb in a long time, though.

His mouth drops down to nip at the delicate skin of your neck and you tilt your head back, baring your throat. “Minnie Dean ever return the favor?”

“That asshole brother she’s got came too close for comfort and spooked her off.” You chuckle dryly. “If what you really wanna know if anyone’s ever had their mouth on me down there, answer’s no. I’d hate to suffocate someone with my thighs and have ‘em die on me before I get mine.”

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, isn’t that a fucking crime? On one hand, yeah, he’s going to be puffing up with pride after tonight because he’s the first person to ever get a taste of that sweetness between your thighs. On the other hand, he wants to kill the people who haven’t treated you like the treasure you are. “Even if you could do something like that, I think I’d still die the happiest man in the world.”

Then, Steve sinks down to his knees in front of you. He carefully settles his hands on your calves and you hiss at the touch of his icy fingers on your flesh. It’s a common complaint. He’ll let your skin warm him up. He slides his hands up your legs, teasingly slow, and begins pushing the fabric of your dress up and out of the way the higher he goes. Steve greedily takes it all in, watching and touching all this smooth, soft skin that’s slowly revealed to him.

Being a good, helpful girl, you take the bunched fabric of your dress from Steve, clutching it tightly in one hand. Your other hand fists in Steve’s hair when he tugs your panties down your legs. He pats one of your thighs and guides you to drape it over his shoulder, giving him more room to play, and he sucks a bruise onto your skin. He takes a deep breath, catching the heady scent of your sex, and he groans.

Steve spreads the lips of your pussy, getting his first taste of you when he places a soft kiss to your clit and his lips tingle. It’s a tease, but it has you sucking in a sharp breath and it’s got him reaching down to press the heel of his hand against his hard cock. He drops his head down a little lower, grinning at the little squeak you give when his nose bumps at your clit. It’s too dark to see, a shame. Teasingly, he presses his thumb against your hole and you squirm restlessly. He replaces his thumb with the flat of his tongue and he moans because you’re so sweet. Sweet and tangy.

Steve slides his tongue up, through your folds, moving right back to that bundle of nerves. It breaks your silence and you moan lowly, sound echoing in the darkness. It only spurs Steve on and he proceeds to devour you. Feasts upon your pussy, cherishing and savoring it almost the same way he used to do with those rare pieces of fruit Bucky would steal when he and Steve were poor, starving kids. His eyes roam up the wide expanse of your body, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your back arches off the car the closer you get to the edge.

Never let it be said that Steve Rogers isn’t a man of his word. You wanted to see what he’s got and he’ll fucking show you what he can do with his mouth. He eases your trembling thigh back down so you’re on steady ground, braces a forearm against your midsection, nurses at your clit, and slides two fingers inside your soaking pussy. He crooks them, searching until he presses against that ridged area.

“Steve!” You slap a hand down on the hood of your car. Your other hand is about to tear a chunk of his scalp out with the grip you’ve got on his hair. “Sweet fucking Lord.” His lips curl deviously. “Steve—oh, God bless—it’s so good. Steve, I—oh, Jesus fucking Christ!”

Steve starts rubbing furiously at that spot inside you, firm and steady pressure. He matches the pace with his tongue, circling and lapping at your clit. You scream when you reach your peak, entire body convulsing, and Steve quickly lowers his head. He moans like a whore when your come squirts into his waiting mouth. He can’t catch it all, though, and the rest soaks your thighs, the front of Steve’s shirt, and your panties. And, fuck, he’s already a mess, anyway. So, he shoves a hand down the front of his pants, takes himself in hand, and furiously strokes until he’s coming himself, coating his hand in thick, sticky white.

Steve makes sure to keep his hands on you, even as he stumbles to his feet. You’re still shaking all over, trying to catch your breath, furiously blinking the stars out of your eyes—or so his ego hopes. “I hope you know how to drive,” you whisper hoarsely. “Because you’re the only way we’re getting home now.”

“And that’s how we do it in the city,” Steve teases.

“Shut the fuck up and help me back in the car.”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

You’re perched on the edge of Steve’s desk. He watches as you take small, careful sips of the moonshine. After a few minutes of rolling the product around on your tongue, you sigh dramatically and turn to look out the window at the looming Brooklyn Bridge with a pinched expression. “It still ain’t Kentucky water,” you grumble. He waits until you reluctantly add, “But it’ll do.”

A smirk plays at Steve’s lips. “Want me to remind you of how I celebrate a new partner?”

#what even are tags #my writing #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfiction #plus size reader #steve rogers x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert

[chosokvmo]

while i revamp this blog, consider giving me a plot based on / regarding the following! i do rp on tumblr &. on d.scord, i’ll happily give out my info once i’ve talked to the person a bit because i’m weird like that.

the last of us !! whether it’s canon that we’ve reworked or just something in that particular setting

teacher/teacher, pls look at this post

literally anything! marvel!, bonus points if i get to play valkyrie, bucky barnes, nat romanoff, steve rogers or wanda maximoff pls ( don’t worry i’ll use a more appropriate fc for wanda & nat )

the witcher! also could either be canon we’ve reworked or something in that setting / based on that setting because oof, witchers. i’d also love to play geralt tbh?

i’ve been listening to the old gods of appalachia and uhhhh, i’d do anything for a plot based on an appalachian gothic-type setting ?? i can explain the aesthetic, i’m v excited about this concept

i desperately want a ‘girl gang’ type plot ala the harley quinn film that came out somewhat recently, i’m also down for f/f or f/nb for that plot and it could potentially be a multi-muse!

just some slice of life plots for some ocs? throw your ocs you’re dying to play at me and i’ll see what i can do. i play a variety of ocs & fcs!

#... #...... #. #.............. #........ #1x1

[facethepast]

The Truth is a Ruin | Bucky & Gamora

They’ve been on the road for over a day, far past the hustle of New York and straight through that of other cities-- through the Appalachian Mountains and past the farmlands with their rundown, vine-strangled barns and gun shops attached to liquor stores.

The sun is fading when he pulls into the parking lot of a stray, lone diner, no other cars except for those he guesses belong to the workers. Good. Bucky kills the ignition, and the silence presses in on them-- easy to ignore with the low rumble of the engine and the occasional bump skip of the tires over uneven pavement, oppressive without it. He twists, reaching behind his seat for the bag of cash, grabs two twenty dollar bills, and zips it closed, shoving it back underneath the driver’s seat.

          ( beneath several layers of blankets, stashed in the trunk, are several bags of tactical gear-- four I.C.E.R.s, two photostatic veils, body armor; he keeps the encrypted drive on his person-- doesn’t feel right to leave it unguarded ) 

     “You hungry?” A paused, filled by the routine motion of adjusting his baseball cap over his head. “Y’know, you never did mention where you’re from.”

#thread: the truth is a ruin #i: lastzenwhoberian 02 #fao: sharks don't sleep #//this thread is such an aesthetic i'm so pleased XD