#bucky’s favourite gift was the ink and paper

[xxlittle0birdxx]

Bucky is a little indifferent about most holidays. And by a little indifferent, he means he can take or leave most of them after spending a good portion of his life as Popsicle Assassin.

And Valentine’s Day? No, thank you.

Enter one human sunflower named Sam Wilson.

Sam loves holidays. Bucky’s indifference makes him want to go all out. He starts sending presents a week in advance.

It starts with a bouquet of heart-shaped balloons. Bucky entertains the idea of using them for target practice with his favourite knife, but his upstairs neighbour has been ultra-snarky about noise ever since New Year’s Eve, and Sam and Bucky got a little enthusiastic about ringing in the new year. (She left a note on Bucky’s door telling him she didn’t mind if he watched those movies, but could he please turn the volume down?)

Next is a Wallace and Gromit style sheep plushie. It’s soft and fluffy. Bucky puts it in the middle of his bed, telling it it’s only for a little while, and don’t expect to stay there. (It’s still there at Thanksgiving…)

A bag of coffee beans from the place Bucky likes with a note to “Try the French press, old man.’ Bucky proceeds to make it in his old school percolator.

A box of chocolates. The ones that made Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head when they tried them a few months ago.

A bottle of ink for his fountain pen. And a box of fancy stationery. Because Bucky doesn’t do phone calls. But he writes letters to Sam.

On February 13, someone arrives with a grocery order. It’s all the ingredients for dishes that Bucky loves, especially when Sam cooks them.

On February 14, before Bucky even had his first cup of coffee, there’s a knock on the door. He answers the door dressed in his boxers and a pair of socks and nothing else.

It’s Sam.

He makes Bucky a dozen heart-shaped pancakes. The kind of mac and cheese that makes Bucky moan when he eats the first bite. His grandma’s gumbo. His mother’s red beans and rice. His titi’s cornbread.

Not once do the words, “I love you” cross his lips.

But Bucky knows.

And that’s how Valentine’s Day became his favourite holiday.

[orionwhispers]

Tear In My Heart // Alfie Solomons

(A/N - hehe im back. im working on a bucky oneshot and a tommy series but both of them are super long and i wanted to take a little breather. this was supposed to be a drabble but you know me... ive got a few more ideas for shorter imagines like this with tommy and alf, requests are open! hope you enjoy. pls reblog and comment. love u see u soon xoxxo - also this is like the smuttiest thing ive written even though its not explicit but wow who am i)

warnings: violence, mention of fights and blood, protective alfie, heavily implied smut, lots of terrible language.

You knew something was wrong when Ollie practically crashed through the door. He took off part of the frame and made the hinges tear from the wood, nails and screws clattering onto the ground. The afternoon had been wonderful, perhaps too wonderful, and as always, real life found a way to shatter your rose tinted glasses.

It was starting to fall into autumn, the air chilly but comfortable, the streets slick with rain and the leaves turning into a sweet, buttery caramel all around you. The house was silent save for the birds singing in the trees and the rattling whip of the wind against your windows. The quiet was a perk of having house out in the country, far away from anything and anyone. Just the way he liked it.

Because to him, all he needed was his girl.

Well, and his dog.

The sun had barely risen when you got up - much to your husbands protests. You felt him stirring from beside you, a solid wall of warmth as he snaked his arms around your waist and pressed sleepy, half drunk kisses onto your spine. You laughed tiredly as his hands curled over everything they could reach, long calloused fingers roaming against your bare skin. He grumbled as you swung your legs from under the duvet and onto the floor, throwing on his white cotton shirt and letting it fall to your knees, trying to ignore the threats he was mumbling about what he was going to do to your boss for making you come in so early.

He made one last feeble attempt to grab you, exhaustion clouding his brain so he could do no more than swipe at the top of your thigh, making you laugh at his wandering hands.

“Stay.” He said, voice raspy and muffled by his pillow.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Alf.” You sighed playfully, grabbing your strawberry slip dress and beaded heels and fur coat, darting into the bathroom to wash up and change. Through the noise of the running water you could hear the bed springs creak as he shifted, the entire frame groaning almost as much as him. Cyril watched you with his big chestnut eyes from the doorway as you fluffed up your hair and patted on coffee coloured lipstick, pinching the apples of your cheeks for a little flush.

You rummaged through your handbag as you made your way to the bedroom door, lost in your thoughts until you heard him speak, all low and gravelly and sending shivers up your spine.

“Oi. C’mere you.”

You rolled your eyes but walked into his outstretched arms, his body completely slumped and covered in thick duvets and pillows, just his tattooed skin and coarse, tousled hair poking out from underneath. He pulled you close into him, smelling like green apples and rum and sex and sea salt, like home. He mumbled something that you couldn’t quite make out, the sun starting to shine through the cracks in the curtains and as you started to get up he tugged you in tighter, placing messy, sloppy kisses down your throat and onto your collarbones.

You smacked his shoulder, grabbing his jaw and holding it still, placing a kiss on his lips, feeling him smile against your mouth.

“Bye, my love.”

“Hmph.”

You made it halfway down the hall before you heard: “Fred is driving you. Don’t even bloody think about walking alone at this time.” Followed by grunts and groans and finally deep, throaty snores.

———————————————————-

You accompanied your boss to a few meetings, taking notes and helping him check stock. After a few hours filled with cinnamon lattes and finger cramps and ink stains, he took you aside at the office and gave you the rest of the day off. You were a little suspicious, and had a feeling his good deed might have had something to do with your slightly intimidating husband, but you accepted it nonetheless and headed to Camden after lunch.

The air was brisk and you pulled your scarf tighter around your throat, dodging puddles and fat droplets of rain as they dropped from the trees. You stopped off at a little cafe on your side of town, buying turkey sandwiches, a garden salad and a platter of seasonal fruit, ignoring the fried sugar donuts and sausage rolls and thick, crispy cuts of bacon. A routine check up to the doctor had lead to Alfie being told that perhaps a healthier lifestyle would benefit some of his ailments, so despite his grumbling and childish ways you were doing your best to make sure he was eating his five a day - no matter how much he protested.

But at the last second you grabbed a cherry jam donut. His favourite.

The rain had become torrential by the time you left, the clouds morphing into a block of ashen, sooty grey, teetering on black. Once upon a time the impending storm would have made you feel nervous, the rattling trees and flashes of lightning had been the reason for many sleepless nights when you were a child, but now you looked forward to it.

Because now it meant something different. You, Alfie and Cyril curled up in bed, the fire roaring and flickering a brilliant orange gold. Your husbands arms tight around you, squeezing softly every time there was a clap of thunder, his kisses warm and protective across your throat, knowing that he’d never let anything hurt you. Drinking tea spiked with rum and playing cards, listening to the rain against the windows, feeling the white burst of lighting every time it struck the sky. Falling asleep next to each other, Alfie always waiting for you to doze off first, unable to sleep unless he knew you were alright.

You had once hated storms, and now you wished for them.

Your umbrella was totally battered by the time you got to the bakery. The bottom of your dress was damp from puddles and your shoes were on their last legs, the satin ruined and black with mud, but you didn’t care, walking through the side entrance with a smile bigger than the moon. A few of the old boys saw you instantly, straightening up and grinning at you, welcoming you with whisky soaked aprons and calloused hands. Back when you and Alfie started dating he had all but forbidden his staff from looking, talking, or even thinking about you, but over the years you had formed a close relationship with his workers - something about your warmth and light easing up the darkness. At first Alfie huffed and puffed about it a little, but he couldn’t exactly blame his men for loving you - he was a perfect example of how you brought a strong man to his knees after all.

“Is he upstairs?” You asked George, one of the distillers. As soon as he nodded you left, your heels clicking against the cool basement flooring. You didn’t bother knocking as you approached the big, intimidating door to his office, instead just grabbing the brass lion head knob and twisting it, hearing the hinges whine in protest.

“What the fuck?” His voice was as deep and rumbling as a low tide, his tone so dark and sharp that it might have scared you, if you didn’t know him as the man who fed the ducks fresh bread at the park and cuddled Cyril when the vets had to give him an injection. “How many fucking times do I have to ask you lot to fucking knock. I mean it’s a - ”

He stopped short when he saw you, eyes going wide and lips twitching upwards just a little. He slipped into business mode whenever he sat at the leather chair behind his desk, but you always managed to chip away at his foundation.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.” You laughed, walking around his desk to see him, his legs naturally opening to let you stand in between them, his eyes following every curve and line of your face, settling on the natural rosebud flush of your lips.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He mused, ring clad fingers darting around your waist and pulling you in. He toyed with the buttons on your dress and the jewellery around your neck, his fingers rough and large and as hot as a fire. His day had been shitty so far, but seeing the sparkle in your eyes and the loose curl of your hair had made everything much, much better.

“Hmm.” You said, leaning into his touch, batting away his hand as it slipped somewhere a little too low. “Marcus gave me the afternoon of so I thought I would come and surprise you.”

He blinked up at you, all wistful and love drunk and making your knees turn into blackcurrant jelly. “Did you now?”

“Yep.” You smiled, brushing your nose against his before pulling back and teasingly shaking the paper bag of baked goods in your hand. “And I bought gifts.”

“Yeah. Yeah. In a minute.” He barely registered them, instead dragging you into him, pressing kisses to your lips and letting you wash away any thoughts from his brain, not stopping until he was totally, completely drowning in you.

——————————————————-

That was how you ended up cross legged on the sofa, devouring your new novel and sipping on the rose and oolong tea Alfie kept in the cupboard for when you visited the factory. You could hear the rain pattering down the windows around you, mixed with the scratch of Alfie’s fountain pen and the sound of him rifling through his papers. It was fun to watch him as well as listen to him, the way his eyebrows raised when he read something he didn’t like, the twitch of his nose and the way that he ran his fingers through the coarse hair of his beard, moulding it to a peak at the bottom of his chin.

He watched you as well. When you got so into your book that your brows furrowed and your nose wrinkled. The way your hair was loose and wild, your stockings a soft pink under the stormy sky, your eyes wide and frantic, desperate to read as much as you could. He smiled at the way your leg bounced, how you tried to pick the stems from your strawberries with one hand but then accidentally squished them, the juice running down your wrist. He especially liked the way you were using his winter coat as a blanket, drowning in the fabric like a child, the collar snug around your chin.

Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

You heard Ollie before you saw him, the crash of his laced black boots thundering up the stairs, the way that he collided with the door rather than opening it first. You and Alfie stood up at the same time, his eyes immediately darting to you, gesturing for you to get behind him.

“Eric’s here.” Was all the boy said, and you watched the colour drain from Alfie’s face.

“Eric?” You said, “Eric Martin?”

Your question lingered in the air as the two men walked around one another, gesturing wildly and talking under their breath; Alfie completely frantic and flustered. You had only heard of Alfie’s new business partner in passing, the two of them had spent the better part of a year talking through agreements and shipments and trying to manoeuvre a deal where the two of them could co exist happily - Alfie’s rum and Eric’s stolen goods sharing a boat so that the city checks would be easier. Alfie had never been particularly quite when it came to business. He liked to include you and get your opinion on things, he trusted you most of all anyway, but he had been secretive when it came to Eric.

You had heard through Ollie and rumours at the club and whispers in the factory that this “Eric” was a man not to be trifled with. Apparently he was unpredictable and violent, and he belonged to one of the major crime gangs in Cambridge. None of this scared you though, many people thought the exact same of the man you shared your bed with, and you knew a side of him that nobody else saw. The gossip was barbed and cruel though. They said he was conniving and underhanded, and that his last two wives had been admitted to hospital with broken and fractured bones.

So Alfie tried cutting him out as much as he could, never wanting to say his name or talk about him in the safety of his home, not with you around. Your home was his solace, and he wouldn’t taint his life with you in blood red - you were too important. You never thought much of it, but watching his reaction, his sudden overprotectiveness and stern frown and rattled demeanour, made you just a little bit frightened.

“What the fuck does he want?” Alfie snapped, pulling your coat over your shoulders frantically and starting to button it up, then helping you tug on your boots and lace them.

“He’s pissed about the Brighton shipment, he says his liquor didn’t get there on time.”

“Stupid fucking...” Alfie’s voice trailed off like smoke, something downstairs on the factory floor clattering loudly followed by distinct, angry shouts. “We told him it was too risky with the police there, he should have fucking listened. We were due a meeting next week, tell him to fuck off and come back then.”

“He won’t listen.”

“Make him.”

“I...” He started, but Alfie cut him off again, standing next to you and taking your face in his large, calloused hands.

“Right, pet. Stay here for a little bit, and when it clears up, Ollie will take you out the back, alright?”

“Alfie...” You started to protest, before exhaling and sighing as he turned to his protégée.

“You got that, Ol? Nothing is to happen to her.”

You were getting a little hot with being ordered around, but the visible anxiety swimming across their faces like the midnight sea was enough for you to close your mouth. Instead of agreeing with his boss, Ollie shook his head, sucking on his lower lip as he tried to think of a way to convey the sincerity of the situation.

“He’s really angry, Alfie. You need to go down, now. Before he decides to come up.”

“Yeah, alright.”

Your fingers clenched, and you darted out to tug on the edge of his sleeve before he left.“Alfie. Please be careful.”

There was a smog of anxiety in your stomach and warning signs ringing like alarms in your mind as he pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, his lips brushing your hairline. You chewed on the edge of your lip as he left, and you wondered how your blissful afternoon had turned into this: your body shaking with nerves as your husband descended down the stairs and into the belly of the beast.

Ollie reached out and touched your shoulder, trying to help you feel calm but his face was the colour of tepid dishwater, paling by the second.

“He’ll be fine.”

You crossed all of your fingers and toes.

———————————————————————

About twenty minutes passed, and the shouting had gone from ear piercingly loud to a low hum, which you found oddly comforting despite everything. You watched as Ollie fiddled with his pocket watch, the two of you waiting until it was safe to head downstairs.After a moment you heard the sound of the giant metal door opening, the one right at the front where the workers came in and the bakery goods were delivered, a clear indication from Alfie that Eric was leaving.

Ollie leapt up and smiled faintly at you, edging you towards the door as you swung your handbag across your chest. You scoffed a little as you walked, turning to face him.

“If Eric is gone, why can’t I stay?”

Ollie merely rolled his eyes, his hand migrating to your lower back as he all but pushed you forward. You might have been able to get away with ignoring Alfie’s orders, but he certainly wouldn’t. “You know Alfie won’t want you here after that. There’s no use fighting him about it, he’ll want you back at home.”

You sighed but conceded, allowing yourself to be guided down the staircase. At least at home you could distract yourself and have Cyril with you, his big treacle eyes were the perfect remedy to a bad day.

You were right beside the back door and ready to leave when you heard a voice cracking like thunder from behind you, something as sharp as a knife and as loud as a church bell. You both froze instantly, every nerve in your body feathering, your heart aching to know that Alfie was alright.

“You little fucking liar.” Cut around the room like barbed wire. “How long were you planning on hiding this shipment from me?” There was another crash, and you could hear liquid trickling and dribbling into a puddle, followed by the sweet, sour smell of alcohol.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re on about mate.” It was Alfie speaking now, his voice lowered to a dangerous octave, and you could picture the lightning like anger on his face. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down? You’ve been sending things off without my knowledge!”

“I said. Fucking calm down.” The sound of a hand slamming down on wood, as fierce as a slap on the face. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me.”

There was another scuffle: rapid footsteps on the floor, the crack of knuckles and the smell of ash. A couple of the boys darted in from the other room, their shirts untucked and hands turning red. You watched them curiously, stepping forward on unsteady heels to try and pinpoint the commotion. You felt Ollie's hand reach for you but you leapt out of his grasp, at the same time a body flew from the next room and landed in a heap next to barrels of aged rum and whisky, the wood heaving from the strain.

You glanced at the man on the floor, his body oddly contorted, his bald head glistening with sweat and his body reeking of putrid alcohol and cigarettes. This was obviously Eric. Your eyes widened in disgust at the drunk, violent man taking swings at whoever he could, wanting nothing more than to get away from him. You saw Alfie emerge from the shadows, his gaze flitting straight to you, his hands swollen and his face flushed with visible anger at the man sprawled on the ground.

Before you could retreat, Eric’s wide, black eyes landed on you, practically bulging out of his head with adrenaline and anger and excitement. “ You know, Alfie.” He asked through bubbles of saliva, scrambling to his feet as best he could, lunging for you. You saw Alfie and a few of his best men move forward, hands ready like cocked guns to strike if they needed to. Eric ignored them, wanting to pack as many fatal blows in whilst he had the chance. “Everybody at the club talks about your little whore of a wife, Solomon’s.”

The room fell deadly silent. His words didn’t affect you at all, but you felt a pool of dread settle in your gut and you stepped backwards, warning him with your eyes. He was at the back of the room, but you could still feel the anger vibrating from your husband, and you heard him smack his lips as he tried to calm himself down.

Eric ignored your alarmed glare, spitting onto the concrete and looking you up and down with pure disgust and shameless lust. “You know that people only do business with you to get to her?”

“Don’t. You. Fuck - ” Alfie’s boots thundered like a stampede, his voice as dark and raspy as midnight, his words sharpened like butchers knives.

“Maybe I’ll have a go at her. Maybe it’ll teach you a little respect. If I have a go at that smug little whore and slap her around a little and....”

He didn’t finish his sentence, Alfie’s cane smashing against the side of Eric’s head with enough momentum to send his teeth flying, small milky white canines lying a few feet in front of you in a pool of sticky blood. He made some kind of noise from on the floor, his hands coming up to protect what was left of his face, his polished shoes desperately trying to grip onto something to help him up. There was a second hit. And then a third. Each accompanied by ear splitting cries, and the sound of flesh against stone.

“Don’t you ever, ever, speak about my wife like that again.” You could just about make out Alfie from the darkness, his silhouette mighty and terrifying, leaning over the shattered body on the floor, filled with a hatred that seemed to overpower him.

“I - ” Eric tried to speak but only blood pooled from his mouth, his body weakened and damaged from the attack. He tried to cover himself with his hands but failed, another ear piercing crack echoing around the room.

You lunged forward, wanting to stop your husband before he went too far. “Alfie! Stop! You’re going to kill him!”

He blinked up at you, his pupils swallowed by black. His gaze lowered from you onto the wailing man on the ground, his words playing on a loop in his brain, digging their nails in every time the record restarted.

He had said those evil things about you.

He glanced at Ollie, finally opening his mouth to speak. “Take her home.”

You struggled in Ollie’s grip, desperate to see your husband and knock some sense into him. Your heart hung heavy in your chest, equal parts terrified that he would either end up hurt or in a more dangerous situation than the one he was already in. You fought hard but Ollie’s hold was tighter, his fingers squeezing you tightly. He tried to be kind but forceful as he pulled you out into the alley, your heard turned back to face your husband, watching as him and the shadow on the floor faded to a dull, awful, obsidian.

—————————————-

You were certain you were going to make holes in the wood. You had been pacing back and forth the living room floor for almost an hour, and Cyril had abandoned his mission of trying to cheer you up, and instead watched you protectively and cautiously from his wicker basket beside the sofa.

You had chewed your sunshine yellow nails down to the wick, and your heart hadn’t stop thumping since you had left the warehouse. Ollie had left you to your thoughts, keeping watch outside to make sure nothing harmed you, and also that you didn’t harm somebody else.

Dealing with hysterical women wasn’t really his forte.

There had been no word from Alfie since you had left, and so you watched the teal wall phone endlessly, hoping that it would ring and you would know he was alright. You were greeted with nothing but ice cold silence, and so you resumed your pacing, biting down on the skin of your thumb until you could taste blood.

Right before you were about to lose all control and demand Ollie take you to see him, you heard the crunch of the gravel outside, and saw lemon headlights flash against the wall. Cyril’s head lifted quickly, and his tail began to thump, but your feet turned to concerted and you were unable to do anything other than wait.

You were as still as a spectre as you stood facing the door, your body prickling with anxiety and adrenaline. A car - you assumed Ollie’s - coughed and spluttered over the rocks and into the road, leaving you alone with Alfie. You heard the key in the lock, practically felt the metal ridges running over your spine as he pulled and twisted and finally came inside, the sky a gloomy, smoky grey, rain falling so harshly it was almost hail.

He was shaped so strongly, his figure so barbed and brawny and beautiful. You felt totally mortal beside a man like him, and he looked even more so like a God when you saw him under the icy white lamp light in the hall.

He was covered in blood. Soaked in it, really. It was matted in his hair and in ugly brown splotches across his once pristine shirt and under his fingernails and smeared across his boots in a shade of red you had never seen before. It was obvious he had tried to clean himself up judging from the uneven patches and water marks, but he had given up, deciding to risk everything and drive through the streets like an abattoir worker, just so he could see you as quickly as he could.

You let out some kind of noise and stepped forward, he caught you effortlessly, the way that he always would.

“Alfie.” You said, wide eyed and innocent and good, and he felt like a sinner holding something so angelic in his arms.

“I’m alright. I’m alright.”

There was blood in his beard, and a plum sided bruise turning nightshade on his upper arm. “Oh God, Alf.”

He shook his head, pulling you in and smelling the orange and cinnamon of your shampoo and the vanilla perfume on your neck and felt the softness of your hair and the curves of your body. The day had been bad. It had started so wonderfully and ended up shattered and splintered into something so awful and malevolent, and now there was nothing he wanted except you, his home.

“We need to - ” You started, but he frowned, his arms engulfing you and tugging you in. He pressed his lips to whatever flesh he could find, open mouthed and desperate, sucking and biting and aching for you.

“No. No.” He whispered into your neck, his voice so small and desperate that your heart throbbed. “I need you, my love.”

You knew what he wanted. How we got when he was like this. Touch starved. Greedy. Insatiable. How he wanted nothing else but the feel of you under him, the weight of your ribs and the feel of your body and love consuming him until nothing was left. Fuck his back and his cane, he needed to claim you and mark you and show you just how badly he needed you. He needed to find religion at the alter of your pliant, yearning body. Show you how much he loved you on the cold kitchen tiles with the rain casting grey shadows and his lips biting your own as the thunder clapped above.

————————-

The tap was still leaking.

Alfie had promised to fix it weeks ago and yet it still dribbled lukewarm water continuously, you didn’t mind for once though, the soft noise it made as it bounced into the water was somewhat calming.

His legs around you were as thick as tree trunks and covered in curly, coarse hair. His arms were tight around you, and you played with the jewels on his fingers as you both relaxed, letting the hot steam cover you both. You were cradled in front of him despite your instance that his back would hurt and it would cause more harm than good. He simply got in the water and dragged you on top of him, letting the pink bath salts do their job.

You hadn’t really spoken since you’d made love like teenagers on the kitchen floor. Afterwards, he tugged you on top of him and held you close, the two of you skin to skin, letting your pulses synch and breathing calm all whilst he stayed warm and throbbing inside of you. Needing to be joined with you for as long as he could.

Then you ran a bath and filled it with all of the expensive lotions and potions you had stockpiled. Cherry and rose and sweet mint and chocolate and lime, things that might have clashed but would easily cover the smell of sweat and sex and thick, coppery blood. The two of you sat in the water, not speaking but filled with love, despite all of the unspoken tension in the air.

You felt him shift behind you. His huge body sent water and bubbles lapping wildly over the tub edge, coating the floor in marshmallow pink. You giggled softly, and the sweet, angelic noise gave Alfie the final push to tell you everything.

“I know what you want to ask me.”

“Hmm?” You murmured, letting round, iridescent bubbles fall through the cracks in your fingers, knowing exactly what he was about to say but feigning innocence anyway.

“You want to know if I killed him.”

You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t need to, he continued anyway.

“I did.”

The bathroom fell silent again and Alfie could feel you stiffen under him. You knew from the moment he swung his cane across Eric’s head that he would be buried six feet by the end of the day, but it still hit you like a punch to the windpipe to hear the words aloud.

“Does that bother you?” He asked after a moment, the words thick and raspy, as though they had been stuck in his throat like congealed honey.

“I’m not sure.” You said finally.

It was the truth. You weren’t sure.

You knew he had killed people before. You knew what the war had made him do, what it had turned him into. You weren’t stupid, either. You knew that he often came home with dirt under his nails and blood splattered on his boots and that glazed look in his eyes that made your stomach tie itself in knots. You knew because you had been there through it all, cleaning him up and disinfecting his wounds, talking him down when the memories of gunshots and trenches got too loud, listening to him tell you all of the secrets that lingered in his mind like flies around a carcass.

But if you were being honest, you didn’t care that he had killed. You never judged Alfie or his choices, you understood the way his brain worked and how he made his decisions. Most of the men had been awful. Abusers and violent thieves and con men with dirty intentions. This was the business you had signed up for when you fell for the six foot man with questionable morals but a heart of solid gold. There was no way you were turning your back on him now.

It wasn’t murder that scared you, it was the possible repercussions that led you to sleepless nights and bloody, bitten lips. You were terrified that one day everything would catch up to him, and it would be your husband that ended up in a coffin. He was so powerful and dangerous and magnificent, but he wasn’t invincible.

You were about to say as much but he continued, the water sloshing around the two of you. “Don’t let it bother you. I’d do it again. Kill a fucking million men if I had to. If anyone talks about you like that - if they even think it. They’re gone. Bloody scum. The lot of ‘em.”

You sighed, shifting up and grabbing his hand under the water. You rubbed circles across his palm, conveying your love through actions. “I don’t want to be the reason you have blood on your hands.”

“I’m a big lad right, I can make my own decisions.”

“I know you are Alf, but you know how I worry.”

“Listen to me, right.” He muttered, the candles flickering clementine, his fingertips pressing gently onto the bare flesh of your hip. He cleared his throat, feeling the rise and fall of your chest against his belly. “After the war I had nothing - and then I met you and fuck me you changed everything.”

He paused, reminiscing internally about how you met and your early dates, thinking of toffee kisses and giddy, pure love and fucking in back alleys and winter walks and finally feeling something after the war had shot everything right out of him. “And you are my wife. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

You tugged on his big toe, making him wince and playfully hit you, the air lightened just a little bit, but enough so that the two of you could breathe. “I don’t care that you killed them, Alf. I never have. But God, if something were to happen to you! What if the police start looking? What if...”

A million fucked up scenarios of your beloved in silver cuffs and a bullet in his head made you feel completely nauseous, but he held you tight, grounding you back to reality.

“I’m not going anywhere. And for the cops - they should be thanking me. Got rid of a lot of nasty criminals without them getting their hands dirty.” He pressed kisses to the back of your neck, the tip of your spine, the crook of your ear. “I promise you, my love, everything will be alright.”

The future was uncertain, but you knew that when you married him. Some days were just bad.

Clouded in darkness and tinged with blood and rust. Your relationship had always been a little unconventional, a little rough around the edges and at times, like a small wooden boat on a rough sea. But despite everything your love had been unwavering, as solid as a steel, the kind of dreamy infatuation that people longed for. For every bad day and every fight and every knot that wound itself in your belly - there was also so much good. Sleepy kisses and pillow talk and sharing the parts of yourself that no one else saw. A language without words, the safety of his arms, the home in your hips, domestic mornings and a love that could last through anything.And in that moment, with the storm starting to ease and the sky starting to lighten and his arms around you and Cyril starting to whine for his dinner downstairs...

It was enough.

Because you weren’t just the girl he would kill for. You were the girl he would live for.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

A Bouquet of flowers (Bucky x f!Reader)

Summary: A man asking for a bouquet changes your life.

Words: 2350

Warnings: tattooing

AN: So I’m going to be writing a story every day this month so my posting will be way more frequent in the coming months. To anyone that has sent me requests, I am working on those two so don’t worry, I’m not ignoring them. It’s just going to take some time.

There was a man standing in your shop. His hair was falling in his eyes and his fist was clenched around the stalk of a flower. He was staring very hard at his feet, looking out of place and uncomfortable. You pushed your hair off your face with the back of your wrist, flashing your current client a quick smile.

“Give me a second, love,” you called to the man.

He grunted, tightening his fist around the flower. You chuckled to yourself, shaking your head. Your client also laughed, as she looked at your work.

“You remember the instructions I gave you?” you asked.

“Got them right here,” she said, pulling our a slip of paper from her back pocket.

“Great.” You gave her a bright smile, “if you’d like to head on over to Olive and she’ll finish everything off.”

She gave you a quick smile before walking off to Olive at the counter to finish up and pay. You pulled off your disposable gloves, chucking them into the closest bin. You smiled at the man standing in the middle of the floor. He wasn’t looking at you at all, his eyes directed to his feet.

“What can I help you with, love?” you asked, approaching him like you would a startled gazelle.

He held out the flower to you. You looked from it to him, raising an eyebrow. His jaw tightened, thrusting the flower more insistently at you. You took it from his hand, looking at the crushed stalk, the wilting petals, the poor thing on its last legs. You ran a finger over a satin smooth petal, looking at the man again.

“Are you here for a tattoo, love?” you asked.

“Obviously.” His voice was little more than a growl.

“Of this flower?”

“Unless that’s too difficult.”

“Where are we thinking?” you asked.

He made a gesture towards his forearm. You took it in hand, looking it over. You gave a curt nod, tucking the flower behind your ear.

“Give me some time to bung up a design,” you said, “if you wanna come back in like twenty minutes we can do the final tweaking before we ink.”

“Twenty minutes?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just go chill out and when you get back we can take care of you.”

He turned on his heels, leaving the store. You watched him go, shaking your head as you let a small smile take over your face. You loved first timers. There was always something so sweet and innocent about them. As long as they didn’t pass out or throw up on you. You could do without those experiences.

Twenty minutes later on the dot the door was pushed open and your hesitant client shuffled in. You gave him a bright smile, plucking up the paper you’d been working on. You gave it one last look before passing it over to him.

“Have a look at that and tell me what you think.”

His eyes darted over the paper brightening as he saw the work you’d done. He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You felt yourself smile in response.

“What are we thinking?” you asked.

The smile dried up as his eyes dragged up to you. His fingers tightened on the paper, crumpling it slightly. His gaze was hard when it finally met yours.

“It’s adequate,” he said.

“Adequate? Well, we can do better than that,” you said, “what’s it missing?”

He mumbled something, looking down at the paper again.

“What was that?” you asked.

“Is the white going to show?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Can it be a little bigger?”

“Sure.”

“Can the stem curve a bit more like this?”

“100%.”

He looked down at the new bit of paper you passed over, the changes now made.

“Now how are we feeling?”

He gave you a nod. You smiled.

“Wonderful. Olive has the quote for you so give that a quick look over while I get everything set up.”

You prepared your station, listening to the conversation he was having with Olive. You settled him down after she had given him the run down of everything. You patted the seat.

“Come on down, James.”

He settled himself on the seat, every muscle as tense as a rock. You took his arm in hand, positioning it on the arm of the chair. You bent over it, your hair brushing against his skin.

“I’m going to do the placement now,” you said, “you tell me if I get it wrong.”

He watched you work so intently you felt anxiety begin to bubble up in your stomach. Usually you weren’t so closely scrutinised.

“So tell me about this flower,” you request once you’d gotten the placement right.

“I like it.”

“That’s a good start.”

You patted his arm.

“Okay, let’s get started.”

He took a deep breath. You paused, giving him a second in case he wanted to back out. He released the breath, giving you a nod. You smiled, getting to work.

“So what’s the name of this flower?”

“Lilium, or more commonly lily,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Do lilies have a meaning? That’s a thing with flowers right? They have different meanings,” you said.

“They symbolisms affection for people you love but are commonly used for funerals. People think they’re sad but they’re about love and affection.”

“I’ve always thought of funerals as a celebration of someone’s life, and showing all the love in your heart for that person,” you said.

“That’s what lilies should be. They’re not to make you cry but to make you smile.”

“So it’s a good thing to immortalise on the skin.”

You lapsed into silence then, James seeming to have slipped into thought. You didn’t mind working in silence, knowing plenty of clients who preferred not to make small talk or open up about meaningful stories related to their tattoo.

“Would it be possible to get a full arm of flowers?” he asked.

“Sure. It would take a little planning and you’d have to know what kind of flowers you want, but we’ve done harder sleeves here.”

“I’d have to keep coming in?”

“It would be over multiple sessions, yes.”

“It’s going to be expensive then.”

“Yup. But we can do it little by little as you can afford it. Flower by flower until you have a full bouquet.”

“Or a garden.”

And that’s how your long standing relationship with James Barnes began. Every time he’d walk through those doors, a new flower in hand you couldn’t help but smile. He might not say much to you but each session revealed a little more with every flower. You knew you shouldn’t have favourites, but he was yours.

He’d tell you about the symbolism behind every single flower, leaving you the gift of a single example of it on your front desk. You’d put it in some water and leave it in pride of place to show off.

The only thing you didn’t know was why the flowers.

You looked up from the yellow rose nestled beside the first lily you’d tattooed for him. He was looking down at your work, his brows furrowed. You paused, brushing your hair off your face.

“Is something wrong? Please don’t tell me that something is wrong,” you said.

“It’s not that.”

He shook his head, his hair falling in his eyes. He pushed it away with his other hand, not jostling your work. He’d come a long way since that first session.

“What’s up?” you asked.

“We’re going to be done soon,” he said.

“You’re going to have a wicked sleeve pretty soon.”

“Then I won’t be coming over here anymore.”

“You can always get more tattoos.”

He grew silent and you went back to work, figuring he was thinking things over. You knew prodding him towards something didn’t often yield results. He had to get there himself.

“If you don’t want more tattoos, I’ll miss you.”

You could feel him looking at you, his gaze heavy on your bent head. You took a steadying breath. The thought of not seeing him again made you sad. You’d noticed the butterflies you felt every time you saw him walk through the door. You smiled brighter when he was around. You didn’t want to lose it.

“Does it have to be a tattoo?” he asked.

“What are you suggesting?” You smiled to yourself.

“I would like to take you out for coffee,” he said.

“I would love that.”

He nodded but you could see a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. You couldn’t wait to see it in full.

You couldn’t keep the smile off your face the next day, waiting for James to walk through the door. You’d had butterflies in your stomach since he’d left the shop the day before, the anticipation building. Every time the door opened your jerk your head up, hoping to see those brunette locks walking in.

When they finally did you were leaning on the front counter, pen resting between your teeth as you considered the book in front of you. You’d been trying to balance the accounts for the last twenty minutes, bored out of your mind. The business side of your business was the bit you didn’t like. You just wanted to be creative.

You looked up, a smile breaking over your face as you laid eyes on James, his intense blue eyes focused on you behind the counter. You dropped the pen, slamming the book closed and hurrying out from behind the counter.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Yup.”

He held the door open for you, waiting for you to duck under his arm. You shot him a smile as you emerged out onto the street, the sun warm against your skin after being cooped up all day. James walked beside you, towering over you. You kept glancing up at him, catching him looking at you as well. You’d flush a little each time, enjoying the little thrill it gave you.

He held open the door for the cafe on the corner, letting you go in first. He pushed his hair out of his face, giving you a slow smile. You grinned in response, taken aback. You were so used to his surly manner that this was a welcome change.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Oh, um, green tea?”

He stopped, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“I can’t afford to have the coffee shakes,” you said with a shrug.

He pushed his hands into his pockets, slouching over to the counter. You followed in his wake, not sure what he’d made of your answer. He could be so inscrutable.

He took the table number and led you over to a table near the back, the sun cascading in from a high window, hitting the table with warm light. You sunk down onto the chair, looking at the man sitting across from you. He was leaning back in his chair, his legs splayed, his hands resting on his thighs. You tried to push out images of sitting in his lap. He was staring at you intently.

“How long have you been doing tattoos?” he asked.

“10 years.”

“You’re very good.”

“Thank you.”

You tucked your hair behind your ear. The waitress came over with your drinks, placing them onto the table with a quiet clink. You grasped the mug, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic.

“So why the flowers?” You tilted your head, considering him through the steam rising from your mug.

He mumbled something into his coffee. You bit down on your lip, trying to suppress a smile. You weren’t sure it would help the situation.

“Do you want to try that again at a reasonable volume?” you asked.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again his gaze was directed down at the mug in his hands.

“I’m a florist.”

“Oh, do you own the flower shop across the road?”

His eyes met yours.

“Yes.”

“Aw, I love that place. Every time I order flowers from there I get so many compliments. I’ve never seen you in there before.”

“I’m not good with people so I work in the back.”

“Well, you do impeccable work.”

“So do you.”

“Thank you, James.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“My friends call me Bucky.”

“Okay. Bucky.”

You felt the way his name felt in your mouth. He smiled brightly at you, the first time you’d seen it shine so loud. You reached over, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand around his mug. His smile slipped as he glanced down.

You began to withdraw your hand, worried you’d crossed a line. He snatched at your hand before you could retreat back to your side of the table. He held it, slightly too tight but it made you feel warmth spread through your body while tingles ran up your arm.

“So tell me Bucky Barnes, why flowers?”

“Why tattoos?”

“I get to put permanent art on other people’s bodies. Nothing can be cooler than that.”

“I get to put temporary beauty into people’s homes.”

“That’s a strong contender but I still think I win,” you said, giving him a grin over the rim of your mug, “after all, you’re wearing my art.”

“And I look damn good in it.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Your eyes drifted down to his chest, his shirt clinging in all the right places. He squeezed your hand, drawing your gaze back up to his. He was smirking at you and you felt the heat in your cheeks rise. You smiled.

“None of it compares to your beauty.”

“You think you’re so smooth, don’t you?”

But still, a thrill went up your spine.

“I think you like it.”

“I do.”

And there it was, out in the open. The unspoken feeling that had built in you over the many months working on his arm. He grinned at you but there was a faint blush high on his cheeks.

“Well, that’s alright then,” he said.

And just like that, everything looked a little brighter.