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[backoff-imreading]

What in the beauty?!???

Promise Without Ceremony | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.

The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.

Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.

It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper. 

James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.

Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.

There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.

So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.

Not until you.

Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.

You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.

By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.

And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.

But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.

“Miss me, Barnes?”

And damn him, he had.

You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam. 

And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.

There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.

He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.

You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.

You grounded him.

And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.

He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.

But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.

Because he did love you.

And it terrified him.

Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.

But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.

But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.

He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.

The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.

That was what marriage looked like to him now.

Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.

It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.

You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”

You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”

“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.

You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.

His jaw clenched.

“Bucky.”

“Almost got it.”

“Bucky.”

He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.

“James.”

He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.

“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.

“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”

“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”

“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when 

you’re worried.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you breathed.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.

He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.

“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

Another silence.

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith. 

And he was always bad at faith.

He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you. 

“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.

The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.

“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”

“Bucky.”

“I said keep talking.”

You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”

“Not funny enough.”

“He hit his head.”

“That’s better.”

Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.

You winced as the metal tip shifted.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”

“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? You cooking?”

“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”

You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.

“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”

“M’tired.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.

“Do me a favor?” You asked.

He hummed.

“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“And if I die…”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“If I did. Hypothetically.”

His jaw ticked.

“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”

You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”

“It’s honest.”

And it was.

Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.

He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.

He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.

“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”

You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”

“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked slow. “You first, then.”

He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.

“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”

His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.

He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”

You didn’t speak.

“Three.”

He yanked.

A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.

He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him. 

“Did you mean that?” 

He blinked.

“What?”

Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.

“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.

His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”

“I wasn’t hearing things.”

“You were half-conscious.”

“And you still said it.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.

“It was nothing. Just words.”

You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.

And god, he wanted to run.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.

He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed. 

His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”

He stilled.

For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.

His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.

You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”

His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.

“You hate those mugs.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”

His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”

“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”

He didn’t.

He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.

“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.

“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”

He swallowed.

“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.

You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.

“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”

He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”

Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”

His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.

Why don’t you ask me?

So simple. So fucking impossible.

Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.

He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.

Why don’t you ask me?

Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.

He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.

He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”

He let it sit there. Let it ache.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”

His throat worked. His jaw locked.

He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.

But instead—

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed. Continued.

“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”

His hand twitched where it held yours.

“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”

He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“You made me want things again.”

You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.

He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.

Barnes, James B.

Property of the U.S. Army.

And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.

They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.

He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.

“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”

His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.

“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“But I can’t.”

Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”

“All I’ve got is this.”

His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.

But now?

Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”

His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.

So he asked.

“Will you marry me?”

It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.

But it was his. And it was real.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.

But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.

“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”

The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—

He kissed you.

It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.

His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.

You were both shaking.

You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.

He brought the tags forward.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.

The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.

But they were yours now.

His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.

Yours.

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[backoff-imreading]

who did this to you? 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!reader

warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)

summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)

author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!

It started small.

A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.

The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.

But Bucky…Bucky saw more.

You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.

You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.

You made things work. You made the team work.

You were the light that steadied them all.

But lately… that light had gone out.

Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled. 

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced. 

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience. 

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. 

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it. 

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered. 

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange. 

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

[backoff-imreading]

Delicious

Homecoming

Pairing: Commander!Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve's back home after a mission.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), oral (f receiving), face-sitting, mild dirty talk, repressed feelings (slight angst), established relationship.

A/N: I haven't written fic in a long time and it probably reads like it. I haven't seen anything MCU since Dr. Strange 2/Spidey until Thunderbolts yesterday so not caught up on the lore. This popped up in my brain after a nap on Wednesday. Let me know what you think!

♡♡♡♡

It’s quiet when he comes in.

Sometime between your drifting off and the quiet snick of the bedroom door shutting, you’re aware of the time. The numbers on your bedside read 3:07AM.

A late arrival, then.

A firm, broad chest pressed up against your back, heavy arm slung low over your waist. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla and the slow sigh of relief once he’s pulled you back into him just a little.

“Hi,” Steve says.

You hum, one hand patting his own over your belly. “Hi.”

Slow, measured breaths tickle your skin, the quiet of the room only disrupted by a soft kiss to your shoulder, the nape of your neck. It’s a little while before either of you speak again.

You know Steve needs it, the comedown after a big mission.

It always starts off predictable enough— get to the Avengers compound, debrief, chew someone out if they were being stupid and reckless on the job or gently bring them back down if there were any losses, shower, return his suit and weapons, a brief psych evaluation and physical check for injuries, then get on the road back to the city.

Once he’s walking through your front door, though, it’s not until you get a good look at him that you can know how things went. Still, it’s always Steve.

“You’re back,” you murmur, voice barely there.

Steve’s arm around your waist tightens, warmth of his skin seeping into your own over the fabric of your sleep shirt. It’s one of his, an old, worn thing he bought in Jersey back when he’d first woken up. There’s a couple of loose threads coming from the left sleeve and an old stain at the hem that you swear is blood — Steve refuses to confirm or deny it — but it’s and it’s yours and you wear it to bed more times than not. 

“I am,” Steve’s mouth brushes your skin where the shirt’s slipped a little, goosebumps following their trace. His beard’s gotten a little longer, a testament to how much time he’s been away from the comforts of home and his electric trimmer. “Debrief ended about an hour ago, but I stayed for a bit to plan my agenda for tomorrow.”

Huffing a quiet laugh, you turn in his embrace. “You have an assistant for that, Commander.”

Steve chuckles, a soft, sleepy sound settling warm in your heart. He turns on his back, bringing you up into his chest, willing you closer, sighing into your hair.

His breathing’s slowed enough that you briefly wonder if he’s fallen asleep, though after almost a year of sharing a bed means you’ve caught to his tells that he has yet to drift off— the tension in his arms, the quiet, intermittent sniffles he gets before he knocks out, the fact that he’s barely really said a word about the mission at all.

“Good trip?” you murmur.

You feel him shrug, sheets rustling beneath him and that just—

Pushing off his chest, you sit up to turn on the bedside lamp. Soft, warm light fills the room, dim enough to not make your eyes hurt.

Something else does, though.

“Steve…”

A cut over his eyebrow and a bruise already turning yellow on his left temple. Red-rimmed eyes and a swollen lip. Somewhere beneath the collar of his shirt, a thin, red line extends up the side of his neck, already healing. You watch him wince when you lie a hand on his stomach, feeling the taut muscles there contract.

Your words fail, throat closing up. One of his hands wraps around your wrist, big and warm and comforting, even though you should be the one comforting him right now.

“Looks worse than it is,” Steve shrugs again. This time, you catch the way his lips thin out just a little, the slight twitch in his eye at the movement. “Y’know I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m used to it.”

At that, Steve’s fingers squeeze your wrist. He knows it’s hard for you, keeping up with what he does for a living. Technically, he could’ve retired years ago, but there’s something to be said about his insatiable need to do something to feel useful.

You know he’s talked about it with his therapist, and even Bucky and Natasha had tried to talk some sense into him about taking things easy, slowing down, moving into a less-exposed role once he’d handed the shield to Sam. But Steve Rogers is nothing if not stubborn, so he’d been made Commander and only deploys to missions that really need him. But he still deploys.

Steve’s thumb brushes over your skin, eyes on yours in the dim light, a quiet apology for now. You can’t help but let it go, leaning in to finally kiss him.

It’s a soft, sweet thing, the kiss. Mouths slotted perfectly over each other, Steve’s tongue only slightly running over your bottom lip until you open up for him, let yourself slide back down on the bed with him.

“I missed you,” you murmur, lips brushing his own. “A lot.”

“Missed you too, honey,” Steve sighs into the kiss. “A lot.”

He guides you to sit on his lap, the cradle of his hips warm and strong beneath your thighs. You can feel him through the thin fabric of your underwear and his sweatpants, can’t help but settle fully onto him as you stretch over his torso.

Steve tastes like mint and iron, undoubtedly from the injury to his lip, but you’ll have him like this and any other way you can get him as long as he gets to come back home. He sighs into the kiss, reaching a hand to cup your neck and angle your head the way he wants, the other slowly making its way down your back to rest above your ass. He swallows your resulting sound, making one of his own when you break the kiss.

You pull back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Steve.”

His hand doesn’t move, fingertips slipping under the waistband of your underwear. They rest there while he looks at you, a question in his eyes. The bruise on his temple will be gone in the morning, same as the cut on his brow, but you can’t help but wonder how he got them, who he had to fight this time around.

He can tell you’re distracted, hand on your nape squeezing briefly as if to bring you back to him.

“Honey,” he says and you sigh.

Steve lets you sit up again, hands slipping from your body to rest on your thigh as you sit cross-legged next to him. His half-lidded gaze meets yours, thumb brushing slowly over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He watches you for a minute, assessing, waiting for you to answer.

In the end, it’s only right to try to be the sensible one in this situation. “You’re still in pain, Steve.”

He shakes his head, squeezing your thigh softly. “Not that much. Just— I need to think about something else right now. Can’t sleep yet.”

This has happened before, a few times.

It didn’t when you’d first started dating. Being one of Steve’s only relationships since he came out of the ice meant he’d had time to work through some stuff on his own before he tried to be with someone else, so when he’d had difficult missions at the beginning of your courtship, he’d always been upfront about needing some time before he could talk to you about them.

Lately, though, something’s been happening. Every other mission seems to be more taxing than the last.

You’re sure you’re wholly unclassified to know any of the information Steve eventually divulges, even if unspecific, but it’s specific enough to worry you. He never tells you exactly what happens, but the mornings and days after he’s managed to work through whatever he needs by working you, he makes it clear that whatever they’re fighting isn’t just the universe’s bad guy of the month.

You’re not totally complaining, but you are concerned that your boyfriend needs to blow off steam in such a way before he even considers facing his feelings.

Steve’s hands on your skin bring you back to reality once more. He’s still there, in your bed, gaze questioning, wondering where you went.

You’re sure he has an idea, but it’s not something he’s willing to address tonight.

“Please, honey,” he says. “C’n sit on my face, I won’t have to put in much effort that way.”

Steve adds the last bit as if it’s nothing, but the thought of it alone sends a flash of heat down your spine.

“You always put in effort,” you concede a little, laying a hand on his stomach where his shirt’s ridden up, thumb brushing beneath his navel.

Steve smiles at that, slowly reaching for your hand and helping you rest back on his lap. He holds your hand on his stomach, the other resting on your hip once more.

“‘S that a yes? Gonna let me taste you, baby?” He asks and your resolve is slipping by the second.

You try one last time, though. Need to make it clear where you’ve gone the past few times in as many minutes. “Promise to talk to me in the morning?”

“Promise.” Steve’s answer is emphatic, the hand laced with yours squeezing sure and strong. “Just need to focus on something else right now.”

And so you nod, leaning back a little when Steve sits up to capture your lips once again. He winces as he does so, but smooths a hand down your side while he shushes you, tries to ease your worries.

His hands reach beneath your shirt, cupping your breasts, pressing you into him, roaming over your ass and your thighs as he takes your breath away. Breaking the kiss after a while, he takes a good look at you, lips a little red and swollen beneath his beard.

“Gorgeous,” Steve murmurs, lying back down. He looks so broad like this, laid out only for you. “Love seeing you in my clothes.”

Heat blooms low in your belly at the praise, flashes even hotter when you feel the faint line of Steve’s cock pressing into you.

“Yeah?” you ask, brow raised and a teasing grin upon your lips. “Gonna be you for Halloween this year, wear your stealth suit.”

Given Steve’s resulting blush, he didn’t expect that as an answer. He goes silent for a minute, gaze heavy on you, thumbs slipping beneath your waistband once more, stroking over your hip bones.

Laughing, you let yourself fall forward onto his chest, careful not to rest too heavily on him. “Oh my god.”

“It’s not my fault you look good in everything,” Steve says, sheepish. He helps you sit back up on his lap, big hands back on your thighs. “Maybe the techs can make a version just for you. We could use it.”

“For what purposes, sir?” You snort, shaking your head when Steve gives you a slow onceover. “You’re incorrigible.”

He shrugs, smirking and pretty, brief embarrassment gone. “I’m a paragon of duty and righteousness, I’ll have you know.”

You shake your head at him again, unable to help the smile that comes on.

“Up, baby.”

He helps you get your underwear off, first through one leg then the other, then helps you scoot up his torso and towards his face. Fingers laced with yours next to your legs, he helps you settle above him, the prickly brush of his beard on your inner thighs as he brushes kisses there making you shiver.

“Already, honey?” Steve murmurs into your skin, heavy-lidded gaze locked on yours. “Barely even touched you yet.”

You feel yourself flush, only made worse by Steve softly blowing on your cunt before he gives you one long, teasing lick. Then a second, and a third. He pulls you fully down on his tongue, holding tight onto your hips so you have nowhere to go.

“Steve,” you gasp, tugging on his hair.

Steve growls low in his chest at the feeling, beginning to lap at you in short strokes, sucking at your folds, making it so wet and messy you’re sure it’s dripping down his chin.

“Want you to come on my tongue,” Steve murmurs.

He places a loud kiss to your folds, gaze locking on yours just to make sure you heard him, only going back to task once he gets a shaky nod from you.

Grinding on his tongue, sounds wet and loud in the otherwise quiet room. Steve’s hands settle on your ass, helping you move on him as he fully flattens his tongue. He switches up his rhythm, slow broad licks all over your cunt making you shiver.

“You’re so good at this, fuck.”

You feel rather than hear him chuckle at that, teeth nipping at your inner thigh. He dives right back in, eyelashes fluttering closed, mouth closing softly around your clit. You shiver, tugging on his hair again as your thighs close around his head.

“Fuck, Steve,” you moan, the coil low in your belly dissolving into warm static spreading through your limbs.

It’s a minute before you fully come to, shaking a little through Steve cleaning you up with his tongue and soft kisses to your thighs. He lies you back onto the bed, gathering you up in his arms again all while murmuring soft and sweet. Pressing chaste kisses to your lips, he answers your quiet noises with his own, nosing at you as your eyes open once more.

“Back with me?” he says, face brightening at your soft sound. “There she is.”

You hum, burying your face in his neck. “My ears are ringing.”

Steve lets out an actual belly laugh at that, his entire body shaking with it, your own heart glowing from it. “That good, huh?”

“Shut up,” you groan, weakly pushing at his chest. Placing a soft kiss on his jaw at his half-hearted ow, you let yourself fully sink into him, sighing softly when you feel him do the same. Finally ready to sleep now, then. “I’m really glad you’re home.”

Steve brushes a kiss along your forehead. “Me too, honey,” he says, words coming slow and sleepy now. “Me too.”

[backoff-imreading]

[backoff-imreading]

All. The. Feels.

Make It or Break It

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky is determined to not let the kitchen sink defeat him.

Word Count: Over 2k

Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, swearing, implied smut, fluff, feels, domestic life, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Another new AU? Why not? Inspired by a wonderful nonnie. And thanks @targaryenvampireslayer for letting me discuss this. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was a peaceful day for Bucky. Well, it was supposed to be a peaceful day. He should’ve been snuggled up with you on the couch, reading a book or watching a movie. He could’ve taken a ride on his bike, or gone to that bakery you love to surprise you with something sweet. Instead of doing any of those things, he was stuck under the kitchen sink that suddenly decided to stop running hot water.  

Heaving a heavy sigh, he mentally reviewed the list of things he had checked: the shut-off valve, a possible leaking hot water line, and the aerator for blockages. No such luck. He hoped it wasn’t a water heater issue. That was the last thing you needed to deal with.  

He grunted and reached for the wrench, not understanding what the problem was. He was handy, and had fixed everything around the house. So far he patched holes in drywall, replaced windows, repaired the roof, and remodeled the kitchen, to name a few. Sam could vouch for his skills since he fixed things on the boat. Surely he could repair this.  

Or it might be the thing to finally defeat him.

“Fuck that,” he muttered, gripping the wrench so tight he nearly bent it.

The former brainwashed assassin had faced worse: superpowered enemies, a world war, experimentation, losing a limb, brainwashing, torture, PTSD, and more. For Christ's sake, he was dusted by Thanos. He refused to let a kitchen sink defeat him, especially since he had promised you he'd fix it, and he always kept his promises to you.

Bucky stared down the pipe with a withering death stare. Why the fuck wasn’t the hot water running? “I’m not going to let you break me, you piece of shit.”

“Bucky?”

As he crawled out from under the sink, his gaze softened at the sight of you. Your bare feet gently padded across the floor as you moved toward him, a tender smile on your face and a hand on your belly. He hadn’t grasped what pregnancy glow was until you became pregnant with his child. It was like a soft ray of sunlight that glowed through you and touched everything within its reach. It was beautiful, just like you.

Sunshine to his moonbeam.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasped, still in awe of your beauty.

You ducked your head and smiled to yourself, something you had done from the first time he called you that term of endearment. “Sink still giving you trouble?” you asked, keeping your tone light since you knew it was a sore subject. With a clench of his jaw, he nodded. “Maybe we should-”

He cut you off with a point of his finger and saw you struggling not to smile. “Do not suggest a plumber.”

He felt his resolve begin to crack when you batted your eyes. He couldn't resist that look, which always got you what you wanted, but he couldn’t bend on this. “We don't have to call a plumber, but it might not be a bad idea to have someone take a look.” Bucky’s lip curled in a snarl, but you just smiled. “I don't mind.”

“I mind because I said I can fix this and I will. I promised you that,” he argued.

It was irrational for him to feel jealous at the thought of someone else fixing the sink, but he didn’t want you depending on someone else to fix stuff around the home you made together. If he couldn't take care of your home, it meant he couldn't take care of you, which he would always do. Just as you took care of him, being partners meant you relied on each other.

Additionally, the idea of another man checking you out, which he knew would happen because you were stunning, both infuriated him and filled him with pride, as he didn't want anyone else to admire your beauty, but was happy to call you his own.

You shook your head after a moment, as if you read his mind. “Okay, He-Man. We don’t have to call anyone.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, but then sat up abruptly, his heart racing in alarm as he was about to go back under the sink. “Wait, why aren't you lying down?”

Fatigue hit you out of nowhere earlier, and you went to rest, which he felt a pang of guilt for. It was a common symptom in pregnancies, but he couldn’t help but wonder if any of the serum would pass on to his kids or what it would do to your body. But you didn’t complain, didn’t show any signs of worry. He may be a super soldier, but you were the one with the strength.

“I’m fine,” you assured him before a sheepish smile crossed your face. “Except I'm a little hungry.”

He chuckled and sat up to wipe his hands, relieved that there was nothing wrong. He couldn’t help feeling protective. “You or the baby, sweetheart?” 

Rubbing a hand over your stomach, you giggled. The sound wrapped around him like a warm hug and urged him to exhale his frustration. “I think we’re both hungry. Something sweet and salty.”

He crawled on his hands and knees, making you giggle again, until he reached you and sat back on his heels. Pulling you close by your hips, he pressed a gentle kiss to your stomach and smiled. “Hey, sprout,” he whispered. 

A blossoming life was growing within you like a sprout.

“Sprout loves your voice,” you whispered, running a hand through his hair as he closed his eyes.

Bucky hoped so. He read books to your belly and sometimes talked when you had fallen asleep, telling stories of his past and how excited and nervous he was for the future. He also talked about how amazing you were, how he was lucky to have you as a wife and how lucky they’d be to have you as a mother.

Despite everything life had thrown at him, he got a family, a dream come true he had tried not to hope for.

“Well, I’m glad our little sprout hasn’t heard me swearing today,” he joked, kissing your stomach again. “That kitchen sink is trying to get the better of me, but I won’t let it.”

“Your father is a stubborn man,” you smiled, clutching Bucky’s head to you as he rested it on your belly.

“And your mother is a stubborn woman, don’t let her fool you. She also suggested calling a plumber, which I’m against,” he said, keeping a hand beside his head. “Give me a kick if you think I can fix it myself.”

“Bucky, we-”

Both of you gasped when your baby kicked where Bucky’s palm rested. He stared up at you with wide and happy eyes, his heart swelling in his chest. “D… Did you feel that?” he whispered.

“I did,” you smiled, your eyes shining with unshed tears. Your baby kicked, and it was one of the most incredible things he had ever felt. 

He let out a slow breath. For years, he was forced to fight. The war, HYDRA, and everything that followed. No one ever really asked what he wanted. At the end of the day, it all came down to this: building a home with a loving family.

As he knelt there, you smiled down at him, feeling your baby move, and he realized he'd do it all over again for this moment. 

“Help me get a snack, and then you can finish fixing the sink,” you suggested.

“And no plumber?” he smiled, more determined to keep his promise to you, since your baby believed he could do it.

“No plumber,” you promised with a sly smile. “Unless you want to pretend to be a plumber and help me clear out my pipes.”

His nose crinkled when he laughed. “Earmuffs, sprout. You don’t need to hear those things your Mama is saying.”

“Me?!” He chuckled when your voice went up an octave. “What about all the dirty things you say? Like this morning when I woke up to you doing that thing with your tongue and-”

Bucky suddenly stood up and silenced you with a deep, sensual kiss that would send your hormones into overdrive. As he pulled away from your lips, he was met with your shuddering breath, and he trailed soft kisses along your face. “Now, sweetheart, we both know you seduced me in your sleep, and I couldn’t resist having a taste.”

How could he ever resist you?

“I seduced you in my sleep, huh?” you asked with love shining in your eyes. His eyes reflected the same. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered, giving your ass a gentle pat and smirking when you gasped. “Now sit tight while I get us a snack and finish fixing the sink. You said something sweet and salty, right?”

“Right,” you nodded.

“Peanut butter pretzels?” he suggested, hoping he was right. He’d hate to see your face fall if he guessed the craving incorrectly.

When your face lit up, he breathed a sigh of relief, especially since he had just stocked up. “Yes, please.” Guiding you to the island stool, he felt your eyes on him as he moved around the kitchen. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” he said, setting a filled up bowl in front of you. He didn’t care if it was the middle of the night. If you were hungry, he would get you something or go out to find what you wanted.

“No, I mean, thank you for… everything.” He stopped when your eyes welled up, his heart aching at the sight. “God, these hormones,” you teased, wiping away tears as they spilled over.

“Hey,” he whispered, turning you on the stool, and gently framed your face to wipe away the remaining tears. Your hormones made you cry at the drop of a hat, and he was thankful that you allowed him to comfort you whenever that happened. “I should be thanking you.”

Bucky had found love and a family thanks to you, which filled his heart to the point of overflowing. He had purpose, and he was still a hero. He had a life he wanted, one worth fighting for. To him, it meant everything and more.

“You do thank me. Every single day,” you reminded him, bringing your hand up to trace his wedding band. 

“Does that mean I get a reward after I fix the sink?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows before you smacked his arm. “Worth a shot.”

“Tell you what,” you smirked, picking up one of the peanut butter pretzels. “If you get the sink fixed before I finish this bowl, I’ll reward you.”

When you popped the treat into your mouth with a hum and licked your lips, he bit back a groan. “And if I don’t?” he asked, determined not to lose. 

You shrugged and inspected the next piece. “Then you don’t get a taste of me for a whole week.”

He gawked at you. Withholding that delicious nectar between your thighs from him for a whole week? That was cruel and unusual punishment.

“Listen. I know you can fix it and our baby knows you can fix it, too,” you said, nodding to the sink. “So get to work because I’m hungry.”

He kissed you for luck, tasting the sweet and salty snack on your lips. “You’re on, sweetheart,” he said, winking and rushing back to the sink as you watched. 

“Domesticity is really sexy on you.”

He winked again. “Don’t I know it.”

It turned out that your belief in him, along with your baby’s and the promise of a reward, provided the exact motivation he needed to fix the sink. Just as he had kept his promise to you, you kept yours and rewarded him right there in the kitchen. After carrying you back to the couch, ignoring your protests about your weight, he felt lucky once again to have such an incredible wife and mother of his child. 

And if he was really lucky, you two would have more than one.

What other domestic things do we want to see Bucky get up to? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[backoff-imreading]

The carrying the books🤯 The questions🤯 The FOCUS🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯

Idk how Mal held out bc we would be reenacting things on the tables shelves and the plushy couches because I have zero restraint! And then when I can feel my legs again we’d keep browsing 😉

Are there ever times Malyshka is in the mood for some retail therapy and actually encourages Bucky to go wild with the black card?

Bucky knows you're not always comfortable letting him spoil you. But he knows one place you can't resist. thats the newindie bookstore downtown. He'll buy out the entire place if you want.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader

WC: 1.8K

CW: Bucky being a menace, flirting, teasing, kissing and a hint of upcoming smut. Minors DNI.

A/N: Written on my phone and unbetad. Also we're going to ignore that this is a week late.

You rarely agree to let your mobster spoil you the way he wants. So when you do get in the mood to indulge him and let him buy out every shop on Fifth Avenue, Bucky takes full advantage of the opportunity.

Sometimes you get the urge to spend his money, let yourself enjoy everything he has to offer.

Other times, he has to bribe you.

“I have enough clothes Bucky. I can only wear so much jewelry,” you sigh like you’re aggrieved by this conversation. He knows you too well to fall for your act. “I don’t need anything else.”

Oh, you don’t? We’ll see Malyshka.

Bucky runs his thumb across his bottom lip, a hint of wicked amusement flashing across his face. “So you’re not interested in checking out the new bookstore that opened up on broadway?”

You freeze. Eyes flickering in his direction the second the word bookstore rolls of his tongue. Oh. He knew that would get your attention.

“If you want, I could close the place down. Let you shop in peace. Pick out as many books as you want for as long as you want,” He offers, his casual tone in a stark dichotomy with the excited gleam in his eyes, lips curve into a smirk and he leans forward, elbow on his knee, chin resting on his palm. Watching with you inch closer and closer to his trap like a lion patiently waiting for a gazelle. “If you want me too.”

This man. This sweet, insufferable, incorrigible man. You look up, searching the ceiling like it has a good excuse for you to turn down this offer. It doesn’t. And you don’t. So you spent an hour arguing with him over the way he showers you with gifts and yeah, you just demanded that he stop spending so much. But the prospect of unlimited books is enticing.

And he knows your weaknesses. Bucky doesn’t play fair.

His teeth are at your neck. And you’re so close to giving in that he can taste it. “You can tell me about your favorites while I carry them for you.”

You can see it. Clear as day. Your six foot something mobster in his signature black suit, sleeves rolled up past tattooed forearms, carrying your books as he follows you around the quiet bookstore, listening to you ramble on about your most anticipated series. The mere thought is like a shot of vanilla whiskey straight in your veins, warm and heady, making your heart race. Your resistance falls and crumbles the more you picture the two of you surrounded by books.

And when you meet his eyes, he knows he has you. He’s going to spoil you one way or the other.

The bookstore is a converted music store. Some of the old art work is still displayed on the walls. The framed album covers emphasize the laid-back aesthetic. Large windows covered in quotes block most of the summer sun, leaving the warm overhead lights to cast a dim warm glow over the rows of packed shelves. The unmistakable smell of books drifts through the air. Oversized plush chairs paired with small tables are scattered throughout the space. The only other people in here are a couple of employees sitting at the checkout desk.

He’s a few steps behind you. Looking even better than you fantasized. Jacket discarded on a table near the entrance. Books piled on one arm, his tattooed biceps bulging under the growing weight. One book turned into two turned into the towering stack he’s carting around.

At first, you thought he was only asking about your books to be polite. But the longer you talk, the more interested he becomes and the more you realize he genuinely cares.

He wants to know everything. Why you picked out that particular book? I love this author. Why you’re reading this series. This was recommended to me and the first book ended on cliffhanger. I’ve been dying to know what happens next. Why you prefer this genre over that one? I guess I love reading about love.

That gave him pause, and he stores that little detail away for later.

He decides he’s going to get copies of every book you picked out and read them. Bucky has this constant need to know more about you and he’ll take every opportunity to gain insight into the things you like.

“What’s your most anticipated read this year?”

“Too many to name Bucky,” you laugh.

“I got time Malyshka.” His free curving under your chin so he could gaze into yours. “Tell me about them.”

He means it. You’ve been in here for hours now and he’s never checked his watch or pulled out his phone. Never get even a hit of being bored.

He’s too busy paying attention to the books you linger on, figuring out your preferences, noticing the way your eyes light up when you spot a special edition. He’s too busy watching you to think about anything else. He’s too busy falling more in love with you.

The more comfortable you get, the bolder your choices are. His brows quirk here and there when you start selecting your more salacious choices.

No.

The teasing is gradual, feels natural, almost as if the two of you have always done this, like this is your hundredth time browsing this bookstore and not the first. His questions are both hilarious and endearing.

Why do you need to read a mafia romance when you have me? So you can read about billionaires, but I can’t spend money on you. I see how it is, Malyshka. You read a lot of smutty things, don’t you? I’m noticing a kinky little pattern here. Want to tell me about it?

Well.

Later. You hissed that, eyes covertly searching the space even though it’s just the two of you on the second floor. He only grinned. You have no idea that you’ve already told him more about your fantasies than you realize.

He lets that go for now. Bucky plans on questioning you again. In private. With a lot less clothes on.

His gaze lifts and he drags it down your frame and back up, an unreadable expression in his deep blues. You shrug, lips slipping between to hide a chagrined smile. Heat fanning across your face.

You stop in front of a particular series, already anticipating his response. It’s difficult not give yourself away, willing your lips not to move. His brows raise slowly as you pull the alien romance off the shelf. The cover is, well, it’s something, it couldnt be mistaken for anything other than a smutty alien romance. Choices were made. It’s not like you’re going to read this in public.

You stare at him staring down at it and you place it on the stack.

“Malyshka is there something you want to tell me?” He takes a step closer. “Anything I should know—” His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip. “—about this particular fantasy?”

“No. I only got that because—,” you start when he takes another languid, deliberate glance over the cover. “Wait. Let me explain. And besides you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover.” You do but that's not the point.

“Oh I need to hear this,” he laughs, peering down at you. “And for the record, I’m judging you and this book.”

You could pick the wildest book in the place and he wouldn't judge. Tease yes. Of course, he's obligated as your man to do so.

“You know what. Forget it,” you sniff, letting your face drop, arms folding across your chest and you turn away. If you know him as well as you think you, you have two seconds before you feel his body heat on your back. "Maybe you don't deserve to know how the alien mating ritual."

If anyone else said that you would have been offended, Bucky would have been offended.

But there’s something about the way he says it with the right balance of endearing amusement and playfulness that the thought never crosses your mind. You lean into your instincts and decide to play his game.

Not even a second later, he immediately follows you with a murmured please tell me kissed softly below your ear.

You do. Although the explanation for the book isn’t any better than the cover when you get to the vibrating 'additions' the aliens possess.

Bucky teases you throughout. All lighthearted. Never demeaning. Done in a way that leaves no room for embarrassment, not when he has you laughing in the middle of the monster romance section.

You love how comfortable he makes you feel, how it easy it is with him. You can share these parts of you and know that while he may play and tease and question, but he’s never going to make you feel bad for whatever you read. And he’s intrigued. Even if he won’t admit it aloud.

“So let me get this straight. This alien spur thing happens to fit right next on her cli—” he cuts off with a chuckle when you elbow him right in his middle of his firm six-pack.

“Yes. It does. And before you ask, she enjoys every second of it.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you?”

By the time you get to the end of the aisle, the conversation tapers off when you get distracted by a set of books with sprayed edges. It takes a minute to find the first in the series, you pick it up and flip it open to the first page, the book heavy in your hands.

The first paragraph is all you need to make up your mind. When you turn to add it to your pile, you find Bucky gazing at you with this indescribably tender expression in his eyes.

“What?”Your mouth goes dry and every inch of you becomes aware of how close he is. But not close enough.

Bucky doesn’t answer, instead, he takes the book from your grasp and sets everything down on one of the tables.

His footsteps are quiet on the carpet. He keeps going until you’re backed into the shelves. His hands cup your face. “No idea.”

The words barely leave his lips before they’re on yours. The kiss starts off sweet and slow. You breathe him in, hands gripping his waist. His tongue slips between your lips and the taste of you awakens him. His lips meld to yours. The kiss becomes more. Possessive and deep. Needy. You feel his groan and it makes you shiver. One hand slips down to your ass, and he pulls you closer. He can’t get enough. He wants more. Needs more. God, you make him greedy. Bucky’s going to take everything and give you even more.

He breaks away, his lips hovering above yours, forehead pressed to yours. His cologne lingers on you, warm and fresh. “This looks good on you.”

It takes a second for your brain to catch up, still stuck on the way your lips ache from his touch. “What does?

“Being spoiled and happy. It looks so fucking good on you Malyshka. Makes you even more stunning. You have no idea,” he murmurs softly, chaining kisses down your throat, your pulse pounding under his touch. “No idea that I’d know I’d do anything to keep you looking like this.”

He steps away, leaving you breathless and needy, holding the shelves of the fantasy section for support. Runs a hand through his hair, adjusts his erection and picks up your books. Debates kissing you again. Decides to wait until your in the car, he knew he got the windows tinted for a reason.

Grins at your flustered expression and winks.

“This is just the start.”

How do we feel about these two and reenacting one your favorite books 👀

[backoff-imreading]

🥵

HENRY CAVILL Longines

[backoff-imreading]

Had to revisit one of my favorites this morning!

I’m up to check all the furniture and don’t forget the little fixtures today

Lumberjack! Steve building a dressing table for you and then fucking you on top to test if it's resistant, client's satisfaction, and all that

Pairing: beefy lumberjack Steve x reader

Warnings: smut, choking, beefy Steve. Minors dni, 18+

A/N: do not copy, rewrite, translate, or repost. Will edit later.

****

You place your hands on your new vanity. The dark cherry wood transformed by your new handyman Steve.

Its gorgeous, a work of art. the perfect height for you, the matching chair is comfortable. You have enough space for all your makeup, jewelry and lotions.

But it's nothing compared to watching him create it.

You spent the past two weeks watching him from your porch as he built it.

The tall golden hair lumberjack with brilliant blue eyes would often work shirtless. His favorite red and black flannel discarded soon after he arrived.

His chiseled chest and bulging biceps fueled your late-night fantasies.

Prominent veins traveled along his large forearms and hands, and oh those hands. Large and thick. You wonder if everything about him is large and thick.

The way he handles a knife, gently carving and smoothing. God you want those hands on you.

Sweat would drip down his flushed chest and six pack, down past the two veins on his lower abdomen leading to his groin.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t hear him approach you until you smelled his fragrant cologne, smoked cedar and spice. His warm chest pushing into your back as he dipped his head down.

“You like it?” He asked, his deep voice sending a shiver across your spine.

“Yes.”

His hands moved to your waist, and your panties dampened. You could feel the power and strength in his grip. “Good. There’s just one thing left to do. And I’ll need your help, sweetheart.”

“Yes, anything.” You’ll do whatever he wants.

“Lets check to see if I made your vanity sturdy enough. Would hate for it collapse.” His hands slide around your belly. And your mouth goes bone dry, your breathing quickening when he bites his lip. His deep blue eyes slowly darkening as he lifts your shirt. “Good girl.”

The way the words fall off his tongue makes you swallow a thin whimper. His deep voice thick with lust. “I know you’ve been watching me princess, bet you’re wet right now. I know you’ve been touching yourself. I could hear you while I working.”

Your face burns, you thought you were being quiet. Steve lifts your chin, tutting softly. “Dont be shy now, sweetheart. I’ve been dreaming about those pretty sounds you make.”

“I want to hear how you sound when you’re wrapped around my cock.”

He presses his bulge into your back and yeah, he’s thick and large everywhere you think. You never been so turned on, your pussy pulsating with your frantic heartbeat. Fuck, you want him so badly.

His skillful hands strip you in front of your mirror. He spins you around, lifting you on top of your vanity, the cool glass against your back.

You clutch the edges of the vanity, gawking at him. He stares into your eyes, dragging down his zipper. You sharply inhale when he takes out his cock, the swollen head is a deep shade of red, precum dripping down as he fists his veiny shaft.

“Spread those cute thighs for me, sweetheart.” He groans, deep in his chest, when you do. Steve licks his bottom lip as he gazes at your glistening pussy. “Knew it would be as pretty as you are, I’m going to ruin that sweet cunt.”

He places his hand around your throat, pushing you back as he lines himself up with your slit. “Gonna fill you up.” He promises. He pushes into your tight heat, his cock stretching your walls.

“Fuck you, feel good. You’re going to be for good for me and take every inch, aren’t you?”

You are, your cunt clenching down as he goes deeper and deeper until you can feel him in your belly. It’s so incredible, the way your walls flutter around his throbbing cock. His thick ridges rubbing over your sensitive spot. “Oh god,” you choke out.

He laughs, “just me sweetheart.”

He snaps his hips; the vanity creaking and shaking from his powerful thrust. You grab his soft flannel, your needy moans echoing in the room as his pace increases.

“Please Steve, I’m so close, fuck, I wanna cum so bad, please Steve.”

Steve lifts your hips up and he goes feral. The rapid slap of skins filling your ears as the coils tighten, stars forming behind your eyes as pleasure builds higher and higher in your core. “Ste-“

He squeezes your throat, his other hand strumming your clit. And you shatter, your hips circling as you milk his cock. Your orgasm tearing through you. The vanity crashing back as you cry out, lightheaded and dazed from the sensations pulsing through you in hot, heady waves.

Steve smirks, his own pace becoming erratic as you lose control. He’s fucking you so hard, pushing you back into the mirror, his deep strokes making you mewl and scream as you cum again. He keeps going, his cock slamming into your sensitive pussy until you go lax in his hold, you mindlessly mumble his name, overwhelmed by all the sensations. You can only take it as he uses your cunt.

Steve groans your name, calling you his good girl, taking him so well, your pussy belongs to him, you belong to him now.

He grinds into you as his climax builds, whispering a filthy fuck into your ear as he comes.

He releases your throat, his enormous frame falling onto you. His chest heaving as he pants. Your own breathes wheezing out as aftershocks burst in your pussy.

Steve tilts his head back, placing his lips over yours. “I think the vanity is good, sweetheart. Now let’s check your bed.”

[backoff-imreading]

LNC: STEVE ROGERS EDITION (insp.)

[backoff-imreading]

Wow

[backoff-imreading]

“Without a gun, I look like a teacher’s assistant.”

[backoff-imreading]

Just so you know Biker!Ari walks outside like this to get his mail.

He doesn't understand why all the women on his block also happen to get their mail at the same time.

Sunshine does.

She's thisclose to telling him to get his slutty behind back in the house.

Only she's a little too distracted by the bead of sweat trailing down his tattoed chest and that impressive imprint stretches the front of his shorts to form coherent words.

Ari: The guys are going to be here at noon so that should give me enough time to get the grill set up—

Sunshine, staring at his chest: Blah blah blah proper name place name backstory stuff

[backoff-imreading]

Angel just signed his death certificate!

John had better be careful before he ends up in the hole right with him!

Now on to Tommy being a good listener bc that was just *chefs kiss*

And I love that they were able to have a great open conversation bc this is a lot of change and discussion is necessary!

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 10

Series Masterlist

Words: 9.2k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Misogynist insults, veiled threats, a war with the Italians, threats of violence with guns and knives, explicit sex, oral (m receiving)

The wedding draws closer, and preparations are being made. When a well-intentioned trip ends with your encounter with Angel Changretta, is it just an isolated incident? Or is it a match in a powder keg?

Tommy arrived late to the shop that morning, not by hours, but late enough to turn heads. His tie was slightly loosened, a rare thing for him. He couldn't get the sight of his beautiful fiancee out of his head. He wasn't sure how he'd even dragged himself out of his own bedroom with her still in bed, wearing only his shirt and her brand new ring. With her smiling at him like that... He'd really wanted to strip everything off her but the ring, and spend a couple of hours making her sing for him, beg for him. 

But there were things to be done now. There was security to plan, names to cross off lists. A wedding to finalize that would silence every voice in Birmingham daring to question who she was to him.

Still, as he pushed open the door to the betting shop and stepped inside, a ghost of a smile stayed with him. 

Arthur spotted him first. “Well, would you look at that,” he muttered, elbowing John. “He’s grinning. Poor bastard’s in love.”

John leaned back in his chair, boots on the table, hands behind his head. “So? Did she say yes?"

Tommy crossed the room like a man with a hundred fires to put out, but for once, he didn’t seem burned by it. He dropped a file onto the table with a quiet thud, glanced up, and smirked. “She said yes.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Arthur said with a grin, clapping a hand on his brother's shoulder. “We’re all done for.”

Even Rory cracked a smile from where he stood near the window, arms folded.

The jokes settled after a moment, replaced by the sound of pages turning and footsteps echoing down the hall. But Tommy didn’t sit. Instead, he glanced toward Rory.

“I need a word,” he said. Not unkindly.

Rory stepped forward without hesitation, and Tommy met him halfway. 

“I know your father’s gone,” Tommy said. “And I’d like to ask you to stand in for him.”

Rory’s brow furrowed.

“At the wedding,” Tommy clarified. “To give her away.”

Silence. Arthur went still, and even John lowered his boot from the table. Rory looked like the breath had left his lungs.

“I...” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “You want me to...”

Tommy nodded. “If you’re willin’.”

Rory swallowed hard. “Yeah. I’d be honored, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and brief. “Good.” His grip lingered a second longer as his gaze met Rory’s. “And it’s Tommy,” he said quietly. “You’re family now. One of us.”

Rory stood a little straighter, as if the weight of the words hit him somewhere deeper than he expected.

Arthur gave a rough nod. “’Bout bloody time someone around here had some sense.”

John grinned, nodding his approval. Laughter loosened the tension in the room for a moment, but the meaning stayed. Rory wasn’t just marrying into this life through his sister. He was part of it. And from where Tommy was standing, Rory had bloody earned his place.

Flipping open the map of Birmingham laid out on the table, Tommy steered the conversation back towards business. “Now, security. I want every man on alert. We’ve got a week, and no surprises.” He jabbed a finger at the church, then the mansion, then a few key streets surrounding both. “Stationed here, here, and here. Anyone breathing the wrong way near the wedding party gets stopped. Ask questions later. I want eyes on rooftops. Intersections. Train platforms.”

Arthur leaned in. “You want snipers?”

“Don’t want  ‘em,” Tommy said. “Already called two. Lee boys. Trusted.” He looked up. “They’ ll be on rooftops."

John gave a low whistle. “All this for a wedding.”

Tommy looked him dead in the eye. “Not just a wedding. It’s a message to every family from here to Camden Town. I want everyone to know who my wife is, that she's mine to protect. That means something.”

Rory nodded his understanding.

That was when John shifted, clearing his throat. “On the topic of family… Lizzie’s still seeing Angel Changretta.”

Tommy’s brow lifted slowly. “Still?”

“Spotted  ‘em two nights ago, walking by the canal like they didn’t have a care in the fuckin’  world.”

Arthur scoffed. “Christ, she knows better.”

“She should,” John muttered, sharper now. “Should’ve known better than to get tangled with Italians. Especially that Italian.”

Tommy sat back slightly, eyes narrowing. “It’s a distraction. And worse, it’s sloppy. She knows who the Changrettas are.”

“She doesn’t care,” John bit out, then caught himself. “Or maybe she does. She’s always liked trouble.”

Arthur smirked. “Or maybe it’s you that cares, eh?”

“Shut up.” John shot him a glare.

Tommy raised a hand. “That’s enough. I’ll speak with Lizzie. She’ll end it.”

Rory hadn’t said a word, but he was watching them all with that quiet, calm read-the-room silence of someone new to the politics, but no less aware of the tension.

John huffed and sat back. “I’m just sayin’… if he keeps sniffin’ around, someone’s gonna have to put the bastard in his place.”

Tommy gave him a cold look. “Not until I say.”

John didn’t argue, but the heat in his eyes hadn’t cooled.

Tommy closed the map with a snap and leaned forward, voice low and final. “No fuck-ups this week. None. After the wedding, we can deal with any loose ends.”

Tommy’s fingers tapped against the edge of the table as the others started murmuring about routes and patrols. But his mind wasn’t on the map anymore. It was on John. On that twitch in his jaw, the low simmer in his eyes. John was going to be a problem. Not because he meant to be. But because when John got that way, jealous and wound too tight, he didn’t always wait for orders. No, he'd look for somewhere to bleed out that frustration.

Tommy's gaze landed on Rory across the table, still silent. But his eyes had shifted too, narrowed slightly, tracking John the same way Tommy was. Good. At least someone else saw the storm coming. And if it came to it, he might need Rory to help hold the line.

As the meeting wrapped, Tommy straightened, brushing a hand over the lapel of his coat. “I’ll be in London for a couple of nights if you'll remember for the expansion. I leave in the morning.” His voice was cool, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “Until I’m back, I expect the house guarded. Eyes on her at all times. No risks.”

Arthur nodded immediately. “You don’t have to worry, Tom. We’ve got it covered.”

Rory nodded.

Tommy gave a short nod of approval, but his gaze lingered for a beat on John, who hadn’t said a word. John was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. Distracted. His foot bounced restlessly beneath the table.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That clear, John?”

John snapped his head up, forcing a smirk. “Crystal.”

But Tommy didn’t buy it. Not for a second. He turned for the door without another word, but the thought stayed with him, pressing sharp against the back of his mind. Something was coming. And his brother John was going to light the bloody match.

The day Tommy was returning from London, he'd get there tonight, you sat quietly on the edge of the chaise lounge. You tugged the velvet cloak Polly wrapped you in a little tighter around your shoulders as the argument surged like a storm just across the room. 

Polly stood her ground near the mantle, her arms crossed. “We don’t have time to wait for Tommy to get back,” she snapped. “He wants this wedding perfect--his words, not mine--and she's not wearing those old shoes with that gown.”

Arthur paced like a caged dog, his jaw locked. “It's a bad idea, Pol. We’ve had threats. Italians are stirred up. The shoemaker won’t come here? Then he doesn’t get our fuckin’ business.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “Don't be so dramatic. It’s a pair of shoes, Arthur. We’re not dragging her through the bloody docks. It’s ten minutes in and out. She’ll be cloaked, face down, shadowed the whole time... Besides, Bram Sullivan isn’t the one refusing. He can’t leave. He’s been holed up at his daughter’s place since the Italians started sniffing around. They’ve made it clear he’s not welcome outside his own bloody neighborhood.”

John frowned, stepping back toward them. “They threatened a shoemaker?”

Polly shrugged one shoulder, too casual. “The Italians don’t need reasons. They don’t like that he does work for anyone tied to the Shelbys. It’s intimidation. Petty, but it works.”

John stood near the window, unusually quiet as he watched the back-and-forth with narrowed eyes.

And next to you on the lounge, Rory leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, glancing sidelong at the chaos. “They always like this?” he muttered under his breath.

You couldn’t help it, you cracked a tired smile. “Only when they care.”

He huffed something between a chuckle and a sigh, his gaze moving to you. “You alright?”

You nodded, but there was tension in your body that wouldn’t ease. “I’m not afraid of going to see a shoemaker, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Rory studied you for a beat, then nodded. “If we end up going, I’ll be glued to your side the whole time.”

You appreciated that more than you could say.

Across the room, Arthur hadn’t let it go. “Let me go instead of John,” he snapped, turning on Polly. “He’s distracted.”

“He’s not distracted, he’s annoyed," Polly argued. "There’s a difference.”

Arthur shook his head in denial. “He’s wound up tight over Lizzie and the Italian. Don’t pretend you haven’t seen it. I don’t want that temper flaring with her in the middle.”

“I’ve got it under control,” John said flatly, but the bite in his tone undercut the calm. “This ain’t about Lizzie.”

“No?” Arthur shot back. “Then what’s it about?”

Rory watched John. He wasn’t just listening. He was reading him, and he didn’t look convinced.

Polly raised a hand to cut them off. “Enough. Arthur, you’re staying behind to mind the shop. Tommy left you in charge, remember? And the accounts need going over, especially if the Italians keep tightening their grip on the London end. You know damn well we can’t let them see us flinch.”

Arthur muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue further.

Polly clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive. “Right, then. Let’s not drag this out. I’ll send word ahead to Bram that we’ll meet him at his daughter’s shop.”

John shoved his arms into his coat, still frowning.

Rory rose more slowly beside you, his fingers brushing your arm in a small gesture of reassurance. You stood too, gathering your cloak. But even as you did, a chill threaded down your spine.

Arthur cursed under his breath and stomped toward the door, yanking it open. “If one fuckin’ hair on her head is out of place when you get back--”

“She’ll be fine,” Polly snapped, already pulling her gloves on.

John grabbed his coat off the hook, still frowning. “Can’t believe we’re doin’ this over a pair of shoes.” His voice was rough with something deeper than annoyance. And maybe it wasn’t about the shoes at all. 

You noticed Rory watching him again, quiet. You saw something in his expression. Concern, maybe, or caution. You felt like Rory was measuring every movement John made, every shift in his tone. John did seem on edge. And Rory, who rarely missed a thing these days, was well aware.

Polly gave him a withering look. “You're not wearing the gown, John.”

You knew what you were supposed to do. Keep your head down, walk with purpose, speak to no one. You weren’t just stepping out for shoes. You were stepping into enemy-adjacent territory with a target on your back and the name Shelby stitched into your shadow.

“Stay close to me,” Rory said quietly, as the two of you approached the door, following John who ignored Arthur as he walked past him.

Arthur stopped you just beyond the door and you knew he didn't like this plan. At all. "You don't leave your brother's side," he said in a serious tone. "He tells you to do something, you do it."

You nodded. “I will. Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur just nodded to Rory, a silent message sent between them. 

The car ride was uneventful at first. Polly sat stiff-backed beside you, murmuring final instructions about posture and pace, about how Bram would take measurements quickly and that they’d be in and out before anyone had time to whisper. John was driving and didn’t say much, his gaze surveying every alley, every face on the sidewalk, like he was spoiling for a reason to jump out and cause trouble. Rory rode next to him, also vigilant but for a different reason. 

The moment you stepped out onto the street, you felt it. You felt like someone was watching you. Polly must’ve sensed it too. She slid her arm through yours, her grip like iron under the delicate lace of her gloves. The shop was tucked beside a hatter and a bakery, inconspicuous enough. But when you reached the stoop, the door didn’t open right away. Rory stepped forward, knocked once, then again --sharper the second time.

The door opened slowly, just wide enough to reveal an older woman’s lined face, her eyes narrowing as they scanned the street behind you. "You’re late,” she said to Polly.

“We’re cautious,” Polly returned coolly. “Is your father in?”

The woman’s expression softened. “Back room. Come in, quick.”

The bell above the door gave a tiny chime as it closed behind you, but the unease clung to your shoulders like mist. Bram Sullivan’s shop smelled of leather and wood polish, familiar and comforting. But your eyes scanned the corners, the windows, and the shadowy back hallway. Polly brushed past you like nothing was amiss, greeting the elderly man behind the counter. Bram was as old as sin, hunched and narrow, with fingers like brittle twigs and eyes still sharp as tacks. He gave a grunt of greeting and a nod toward the back room where he’d set up a chair for you.

“She needs fitting for a wedding pair,” Polly told him. “Thomas Shelby’s bride.”

At that, the young woman behind the counter, his granddaughter, presumably, stilled. She stared at you, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “Isn’t that the girl who went missing?” she asked, not unkindly, but not kindly either.

Your stomach twisted.

Polly turned her head slowly, her voice cool but cutting. “She’s not missing, love. Just very well protected.”

Rory stood just behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his presence grounding. John lingered near the front window, arms crossed, a scowl etched into his face as he watched the street. Bram didn’t waste time. His steps were slow but sure as he brought over a measuring stool and gestured for you to sit. He muttered a few pleasantries as he set to work, fingers surprisingly gentle as he measured your feet, ankles, and arches. A few sharp glances to Polly as he took notes, nodding occasionally.

Just like Polly promised, quick and professional.

Still, the granddaughter hadn’t stopped watching you. You were trying to ignore it but you had to stop and consider. Is this how everyone's going to look at me at the wedding?

“Won’t take long to finish them,” Bram said at last, scribbling down the final measurement. “I’ll send them ‘round before the week’s end. Tell Mr. Shelby not to worry.”

Polly thanked him with a nod, already guiding you back toward your cloak. But the unease hadn’t left. In fact, it was getting worse.

Rory noticed first. He was by your side in an instant, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face. “What is it?”

You shook your head quickly, lips parting, but nothing came out. Polly’s gaze snapped toward you then, sharp and assessing. She didn’t speak, but her hand paused on your arm as she helped fasten your cloak. Her fingers tightened slightly. Something had shifted in your expression, and she saw it.

“Are you feeling sick?” she murmured, too low for the others. “Talk to me.”

You opened your mouth, unsure how to answer. It wasn’t the baby or the car ride or the shoe fitting. It was the air. The way the shadows outside seemed to stretch longer than they should. Before you could speak, the bell over the shop door jingled sharply. John stormed back in from the alley, fire already in his eyes.

“There’s Italians hangin’ about outside,” he muttered to Polly, his jaw tight. “Three of them. Lingerin’ near the end of the lane like they’re waitin’ on something.”

Polly tensed, eyes narrowing toward the front window. “Bram was right. They’re here to stir up trouble.

Color rose in John's face. “I’ll go have a word. Make sure they know we saw them.”

“John--” Polly warned, but it was too late.

He was out the door before she could finish, muttering something under his breath about “bastards with slick shoes and no manners.” Rory’s head turned sharply, eyes following John as he stalked across the street.

“Jesus Christ,” Rory muttered, already pushing the door open again. “I’ll get him back.”

And then they were both gone.

Polly cursed softly. “John is going to get us all killed.”

You turned toward the window, your heart picking up now. That’s when the hairs on the back of your neck rose. You weren’t alone.

You took one step out of the shop, your new measurements tucked neatly into Bram’s worn leather notebook, when Polly paused to speak with his daughter. Some offhand comment about the fabric needed for dye matching. So many details you couldn't get your mind around them. 

You turned to follow her back in the shop, but a hand caught your elbow. Not rough, not aggressive, but just firm. “You dropped this.”

The voice behind you was smooth, lilting with an accent you didn’t recognize right away. When you turned, a man held out a small, blank card. There was nothing written on it. The man smiled as his gaze raked over you, like he could see through you. Faster than you could think, he pulled the hood back from your head.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said, low and quiet. “You really are as beautiful as they say.”

You jerked back, but he moved with you, not threatening, just... blocking. Keeping you from the door. 

“Don’t scream,” he said, tone still pleasant. “Not here. People get nervous.”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs. You tried to step back again, but your boot caught on the uneven threshold and you stumbled, just enough to give him an excuse to catch your wrist.

Now you were afraid.

“My name’s Angel,” he said, meeting your gaze. “And you must be the one the Shelbys are all so desperate to protect. But no one is safe from me." Angel leaned in, hisvoice colder now. “What a waste. An Irish girl like you, with the face of an angel… a whore in velvet.”

Your breath caught. Your hand was already tightening around the blank card when you felt it, the man's thick fingers curling around your wrist, anchoring you in place. The shop, the world, the sounds, it all receded. He leaned closer, breath warm and sharp. His free hand, slow as sin, drifted lower. Not quite touching your belly at first, just hovering, watching for a reaction. Then he pressed, deliberate and slow, against the swell that was barely visible beneath your cloak.

Your blood ran cold. You fought in vain to pull free of his grip. 

“I thought I saw it,” Angel murmured, almost with satisfaction. "He knocked you up.”

You flinched, pulling back, but his grip only tightened on your wrist. It hurt.

“Tell me, is that why Lizzie left me?” he asked, almost conversationally now, though the venom in his voice filled the air between you with poison. “Now that Tommy's got a kid on the way, he sent her to break things off with me. Not even a proper message. Just done.”

His gaze flicked over your shoulder, making sure you were still alone, still caught.

“See, I thought maybe it was love.” His smile twisted. “But it wasn’t, was it? Lizzie Stark’s been Tommy Shelby’s whore for years. Everybody knows it.”

Your heart hammered. Your pulse roared in your ears. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe as you listened.

Angel leaned in again, his voice a whisper now for you alone. “So if he’s picking back up with her now that he got what he wanted from you… well.” His dark eyes glinted. “Maybe once he gets you out of his system, you can be my whore.”

The man was forced to release you when Rory savagely gripped his arm, pushing himself in front of you. 

John Shelby’s voice, thick with rage, echoed through the narrow alley. “Get your fuckin’ hands off her!”

Angel he stepped back, nodding to Polly as she exited the shop to see what had blown up. His smile was polite and slick. “Just saying hello.”

The man turned, but not fast enough to miss the fist that drove into his face. John’s knuckles cracked against his cheekbone with a sickening snap, and Angel reeled back, crashing into the doorframe. 

While Rory stayed with you, John's face a mask of fury. His eyes locked onto the way you rubbed your aching wrist. “You touch my brother's fiancee?” he growled, low and guttural.

Angel’s lip was split and already bleeding, but even dazed, he smirked. “Bit late for that, boys.”

John lunged again, catching him by the coat and slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the shop window. “You come near her again, I’ll cut off your fuckin’ hands.”

Angel laughed, blood in his teeth now. “Waiting for your brother's leavings? Like you did with Lizzie?”

Rory stepped forward, pushing John aside with a move that scary in its speed. Calm and deadly, your brother pulled a knife from inside his coat. The sharp blade was only inches from Angel's face. 

Angel's smirk faltered.

“Say one more thing,” Rory said, eyes burning.

Polly’s voice snapped from behind them. “That’s enough.” She moved like a stormfront, coat sweeping, eyes sparking. She took in the scene in a heartbeat, one hand pulling you protectively behind her, the other reaching out to shove John back by the shoulder.

Angel wiped his mouth, sneering. “Didn’t lay a hand on her.”

“Yes, you did,” Rory's voice was deadly calm.

Before anyone could move, the sharp crack of a gunshot echoed down the alleyway, then another, closer. Wood splintered just behind Rory’s head as a bullet hit the shopfront.

“Down!” Polly shouted, grabbing your arm and dragging you back toward the door.

John spun, drawing his weapon in the same breath. “Fucking cowards!”

More shots rang out, closer now, covering Angel as he took off down the alley, blood still dripping from his mouth. The men from the alley stepped from behind crates and rubbish bins, firing warning shots toward the shop, just enough to stall the pursuit.

Rory shielded your body with his, gun raised, eyes scanning for an opening, but Angel was gone. Slipped into the fog like smoke. The shots stopped as suddenly as they began, replaced by the distant screech of tires and fading footsteps.

“Jesus Christ,” John growled, storming after the trail, but Polly’s hand caught his sleeve.

“No,” she snapped. “He’s gone. And we’ve got bigger problems. There'll be hell to pay when Tommy gets home.”

She turned to you, her gaze sweeping over you, your trembling hands still clutched to your stomach.

“You alright?” Rory asked tightly, eyes hard and frantic.

You managed a nod, but your voice was shaking. “He knew. He knew I was--”

“We’ll deal with that,” Rory said, controlled on the surface. But you knew better. 

Polly looked toward the broken calm of the street. “We’re going back to home. Now.”

She didn’t wait for argument.

Tommy’s boots echoed sharply down the hall of the mansion. He’d just stepped in the door, loosened his tie, shrugged off his coat, ready to see her. He had his mind on supper upstairs, an early night with his girl. Everything else could hold until the morning.

But the silence that greeted him wasn’t what he expected, now was it comforting. There were no guards on post. No soft laughter from upstairs. No creaking floorboards from the sitting room where she liked to sew, nor the sound of her machine.

The house was empty.

Tommy's pulse spiked, slow and hot. 

The first person Tommy found was Arthur, back at the betting shop with his sleeves rolled up, tension coiled tight across his shoulders like a spring waiting to snap. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, and he was pacing behind the counter like a man waiting for bad news. He stopped cold when Tommy walked in, door swinging shut behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

Arthur turned. “Tom. You're back early.”

“Where is she?” Tommy asked, voice calm.

Arthurrubbed the back of his neck, avoided Tommy’s stare. “They’ll be back any time now. Just left an hour or so ago,” he said finally. 

Tommy took a step close. “Where. Is. She?”

Arthur let out a shaky breath. “Polly said they needed to get her to Bram Sullivan. He couldn’t come here, not with the Italians makin’ noise. Polly insisted it’d be quick, John and Rory were with her.”

“And you?” Tommy asked. “You just let them take her?”

“I argued,” Arthur said, hands going to his hips. “I even offered to go instead of John. Swore up and down it was a bad idea. But you know Polly when she makes up her mind. She pulled rank, told me to run the shop like you asked and let her handle it.”

Tommy stared at him, unreadable. “So you just stood there. Let ‘em take my fiancée out of our house while I was gone.”

Arthur’s guilt was thick in the air. “I didn’t want to, alright? I told her it was wrong. Said it was risky. But she said you’d want the wedding perfect, and that meant the right shoes. Thought it’d be nothing. Ten minutes in and out.”

Tommy’s voice was ice. “You know how long ten minutes can be when someone wants to make a point?”

Arthur went quiet because he fucking knew.

Tommy stepped back, pressing two fingers to his temple, trying to keep the fury at bay. “I’ll find them,” he said, already turning toward the door. “And if anything’s happened to her…”

Arthur just stood there for a beat, guilt chewing through him like acid. Then, without a word, he moved, snapping the ledger shut, tossing the keys to one of the boys behind the counter.

“Shop’s closed,” he barked, already grabbing his coat from the peg on the wall. “Let’s go.”

Tommy didn’t wait. He was already halfway out the door, fury simmering just beneath the surface. Arthur followed, locking up behind him with a heavy finality. 

The car hadn’t even fully stopped before you were pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders, your heart thudding. It hadn’t slowed since Angel Changretta’s hand touched your wrist. Touched you. 

But it wasn’t just fear anymore. It was frustration. Bone-deep and rising like heat beneath your skin. You’d barely said a word the whole ride home, sitting between Polly and Rory, their voices hushed around you, everything softened like you were some fragile thing that might break with the wrong glance. Again. You were so tired of being hidden, watched, and guarded. Tired of going from one crisis to the next like that was just your life now. A loop of threats and reactions. 

From the moment your name left Sean O’Grady’s mouth in that pub, your life had stopped belonging to you.

And now? Now, even walking into a shop for something as simple as shoes ended in a sore wrist and strangers knowing your name, running their hands over your body. Angel hadn’t just touched you. He’d seen you. Talked about you like you were already owned, passed between men like a story told over whiskey. What if that never changed?

What if this was the cost of being Thomas Shelby’s wife?

Would people always look at you the way the shoemaker’s granddaughter had, all wide-eyed and whispering, like you were a scandal that stepped out of the papers? Could you live like this? Could you raise a child in this?

A bitter lump rose in your throat, and you swallowed it down hard, anger pushing at the edges of your fear. You didn’t know what you were more tired of -- being treated like porcelain, or being treated like property.

You sucked in a breath as the car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion. The familiar sight of the Shelby estate loomed before you, like a fortress. A cage.

Rory climbed out first, offering you his hand. Yours was shaking when you took it. 

For the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure if you wanted to go inside. Because what waited in there was more than just Tommy, it was this world. His world. And you were starting to wonder if you really belonged in it.

But the worst part, the part you couldn’t shake, wasn’t what happened. It was what could happen. Angel Changretta had scared you. Not just because of what he said or how he touched you, but because of what he represented. That wasn’t the worst man Tommy faced. He dealt with people like that every day, more dangerous ones, more cunning. And you were starting to realize just how many people would like nothing more than to take him out, to hurt him. The idea that something could happen to Tommy settled like ice in your chest.

Because if the cost of this life was living with that fear every time he walked out the door…Could you handle it?

The front door opened, and there he was. Tommy. He and Arthur had just beaten you home, standing like sentinels on the steps. Tommy’s coat was still buttoned, gloves in hand, but his eyes locked on yours instantly, sharp as ever.

Polly muttered a curse under her breath.

John stepped out, still flushed from the confrontation, strutting like a man who’d won something. “Little bastard had it comin’,” he barked, half to himself.

Rory glared at him, barely keeping himself in check. He walked next to you up the walk. No one said anything else right away, but you could feel the storm coming. It hung in the air like gunpowder.

Your fingers clenched the blank card tighter in your fist, nails digging into your palm. Your wrist hurt, and you were still shaking like a leaf. You couldn’t do this right now. You couldn't breathe...

Without a word, you pulled free of your brother, darting between Arthur and Tommy, past all of them and into the house. You made for the stairs, your boots striking the hardwood like distant thunder. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of what just happened pressing down on your chest like stone. But you didn’t get far.

Tommy was faster than you expected, stepping forward and reaching for your arm, not roughly, but firmly, stopping you mid-step. His hand was steady, but his eyes... His gaze moved over you, taking everything in like he always did. The way you rubbed your wrist. The crumpled, blank card clutched tight in your fist.

And something in him shifted.

“Let me go,” you whispered, voice cracking as the tears welled again. “Please, just... just let me go right now.”

You couldn't have put any of it into words to save your life. It was in your voice, your posture, your trembling hands. You were barely holding yourself together. If he pushed, even a little, you’d shatter into a million pieces, and you didn't want to do that. Not in front of everyone. Rory came up behind the two of you. 

Tommy looked like he was fighting every instinct to press, to demand answers. Instead, his voice dropped low and calm. “Rory,” he said, not looking away from you, “take her upstairs. Then come back down.”

Your brother was already moving, his glare hard enough to cut steel at Polly and John when he glanced back over his shoulder. When he reached you, he didn’t say anything, just gently took the card from your hand and slipped an arm around your back, shielding you from the others. You didn’t resist.

You didn’t look at Tommy again. You just let Rory guide you away, silent as a ghost.

The door had barely shut behind Rory when Tommy turned. He didn’t yell or pace. Didn’t light a cigarette, pour a drink, or slam a fist into the nearest wall, though all three urges ran tight beneath his skin. They stood in the center of the foyer like a storm gathering strength. 

His gaze swept the room. First, it went to the stairs, to his fiancee who’d fled them. Something happened to her wrist, so many emotions flashing in her eyes. He hadn’t missed the way her voice shook when she asked him to let her go. Or the way she clutched that blank card like it burned. And she had run from him. That more than anything turned the knife inside him.

Tommy turned back to the others. Polly stood with her arms folded, chin raised, trying to look defiant, but she wouldn’t quite meet his gaze. John didn’t flinch or drop his gaze. He didn’t even look remotely sorry. Instead, he arrogantly marched past them into the sitting room, his boots heavy against the hardwood like he was daring someone to call him back.

Polly let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a curse. They all followed him, wordless and tight-lipped, like they were filing into a courtroom instead of their own home. The air in the sitting room was thick before anyone said a word. Tommy followed them in, his hands clasped behind his back as he barely kept his wrath in check.

John, on the other hand, looked like he had a point to prove. And fool that he was, sat down like he had nothing to answer for. Arthur drifted in, staying behind Tommy, his face set in stone. 

Tommy’s stare zeroed in on him and Polly. His voice, when it came, was low and deadly even. 

“Which one of you,” he asked, “wants to explain to me why my fiancee just ran up the stairs?”

Neither of them answered immediately. He took a step closer. Still didn’t raise his voice. “You were supposed to protect her. That’s all. That was all I fuckin’ asked of you.”

Polly lifted her chin first. Her arms were still crossed, but it wasn’t defensiveness now. No, she was bracing. She knew she’d miscalculated. Badly. And though she wouldn’t shrink from him, her voice was quieter than usual. Steadier than John’s would have been, but still edged with regret.

“She was never out of our sight… until she was,” Polly said, carefully. “It was a mistake. I underestimated the risk, and I overestimated how quickly we could get in and out.”

Tommy said nothing. His silence wasn’t patience, it was pressure.

Polly went on. “It was Angel Changretta. He set up a diversion, and slipped past us. Caught her off guard and cornered her with all of us there.” Her gaze dropped. “We intervened fast. John bloodied him.”

Tommy’s mind went still. Not the kind of stillness that came with calm, but the kind that came with calculation. 

Angel Changretta. The name ignited a slow burn in his chest. But it was the rest of it, her wrist and her reaction to seeing him, that lit the fuse. He fought to avoid reacting outwardly. But inside, something shifted, hardened. There was violence in the silence between Polly’s words and his next breath. Not rage. No, Tommy was past rage. 

Angel hadn’t just crossed a line, he’d obliterated it. He hadn’t threatened Tommy Shelby’s empire. He’d touched what Tommy couldn’t afford to lose. What he’d kill to protect. He touched her. And John’s fists weren’t nearly enough.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “You brought her into his territory.”

“She was cloaked. You saw her wearing it. It was supposed to be safe, quick.” Polly’s voice hardened, just for a moment.

“And you took her out anyway,” he said, voice flat.

“I did,” Polly answered, without flinching. “I made the call. Don’t put this on Arthur, and don’t put it all on John. I made it... He'd been watching for her, Tommy. Knew what he was doing.””

Tommy weighed her words, running through every possible fallout already.

That’s when the door behind them creaked open, and Rory stepped in. His coat was still on, his expression unreadable until his gaze found Tommy. “She’s lying down,” Rory said, his voice rough with effort. Turning to Polly and John, what little control he had left began to crack. “She’s wrecked up there and was clutching this card like it's a bloody threat, and it is.” Rory held up the remains of it, Tommy took it from his hand. 

Rory's eyes burned into John next. “And you. You saw him coming. You had the angle.”

“I broke his fuckin’ face,” John snapped. “What more do you want?”

Rory took a step towards him and Tommy held up a hand. He didn't make a sound, but it cut through the room like thunder. Rory immediately stepped back, the fury still simmering behind his eyes, but he obeyed.

“She’s going to carry this,” Tommy said coldly. “Long after her wrist stops hurting. And now we're pulled into another fuckin' situation that we didn't need.” He looked at each of them in turn. 

John scoffed, rising from the chair, defiant. “What was I supposed to do, eh? Pretend I didn’t see it?” His hands cut through the air, jaw tight with the kind of anger that came more from wounded pride than guilt. “He grabbed her, Tommy. Said things I wouldn’t repeat in front of a fuckin’ priest. I did what you would've done.”

Tommy’s eyes didn’t move from him. “You did what I would’ve done?”

John faltered. Just a second. But it was there.

Tommy stepped closer, quiet as a blade unsheathing. “Because last I checked, I would’ve never taken her out of this house in the first place. I left her in your care.” His voice lowered further, more lethal with every word. “And instead of keeping her safe, you allowed her be cornered and touched.”

“She’s fine,” John muttered, tone defensive, but uncertain now. “Rory was there. Polly--”

Tommy cut in, deadly calm. “Don’t you dare hide behind them.”

Silence fell again. Polly didn’t interrupt. 

Tommy looked between her and John. “That girl upstairs, my fiancée, is up there because you lot decided to play fast and loose with the only person in this house you were supposed to keep safe.” He blew out an exhale, like he was holding back something far worse. “And now,” he added darkly, “you’ve drawn the Changrettas into this. So congratulations, John. You didn’t just throw a punch. You declared fuckin' war.”

You were sitting on the edge of the bed when you heard the door open behind you. The click of it was soft, deliberate. You didn’t turn. Your fingers were clenched in the hem of your skirt, your heart still pounding like it hadn’t stopped since Angel Changretta’s breath brushed your ear. Since his hand brushed your stomach. It made you feel ill just thinking about it.

The room felt too big and too small at once. It was too quiet, full of everything you hadn’t said yet. The tread of his boots on the floorboards was slow, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

Tommy said your name softly. There was no edge or command at all in his tone.

It nearly broke you, but you blinked back the tears you fought. 

He came closer, stopped a few feet away. "I came to see how you were."

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. How you were? You were...

Something in you snapped.

You stood, hands shaking. “Don’t,” you said, voice hoarse but sharp.

His expression was guarded. That was the thing about Tommy. His wore silence and stillness like armor. It unnerved people because it meant something was happening beneath the surface, and they’d never see it coming. But you were getting to know him, you saw it. There were tiny signs in the tightening around his eyes. He was keeping himself calm. You knew he was trying to figure out what you needed him to say, and how much of this was something he could actually fix.

You saw the turmoil behind his eyes. It wasn't rage, but something quieter and worse. Guilt. For him not being there? For dragging you into his world to begin with? Tommy was playing it carefully. Didn’t move to touch you, giving you space. It only made this so much harder.

“Don’t come in here and tell me everything’s going to be fine. Like I’m just something to be comforted, patched up and tucked away.”

Tommy blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you think it,” you pushed. “That I can keep doing this. That I can keep standing in the middle of your world like it won’t swallow me whole.”

“That’s not what I think--”

You were already shaking your head. “That girl, at the shoemaker’s, she knew exactly who I was. She looked at me like I was something... ruined. Do you know what that feels like? Is that going to be everyone at the wedding?”

Tommy sighed, like he was choosing his words with the same precision he used when loading a revolver. “That’s why the wedding has to happen.” He took a step closer, careful. “They look at you like that now because you’re caught in the middle. Half-whispers, half-stories, no name, no place to stand. And people, small people, fill in the gaps with the worst they can imagine.” His voice didn’t rise. It deepened, low and steady. “But when you leave that church with my ring on your hand and my name, every doubt, every sneer, every sideways glance turns to silence. They’ll know without a doubt that you’re mine. And nothing touches what’s mine without consequence.”

You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. Not from his voice and the fierce certainty it carried. “This isn’t about saving face,” he added. “It’s about ending the whispers before they become bullets.”

Your crossed your arms tight over your chest. “I can’t even go to a shoemaker's without it turning into some bloody crisis,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “Polly wanted me to feel like a normal bride. And now I’m wondering if that means I'll be locked in this house for the rest of my life.” You turned away before your voice cracked again. “And now they’re all downstairs blaming themselves. Because of me. Every time something happens, someone ends up feeling like they failed. And then they’ve got to face you.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t change, but some emotion flashed in his eyes. Understanding? Or regret? “There’ll be moments like this,” he said finally, quiet but firm. “Not all of it, not always. But moments, yes.”

You didn’t answer. You moved to stand in front of the window, trying not to break.

“That’s why you trust me,” he added. “When those moments come, you don’t shoulder the weight. You lean on me. Let me carry it.” He took a breath, stepped closer. His gaze held yours, firm as steel and just as unyielding. “You’ve had to be strong for most of your life. But with me, you don’t have to be.”

You didn't know how to counter. Maybe you didn't know how to turn that part of yourself that survival built off. 

“John’s been off,” you said, trying to ignore the fact that you were shaking. “Rory’s noticed it too.”

Tommy took another step closer. “He’s had his sights set on Angel Changretta,” he said. “It’s not just the name, who the man is. It’s Lizzie.”

“Lizzie Stark?”

“She’s been seeing Angel,” Tommy explained. “Or was, until I told her to cut it off.”

Well, that part was true then. You opened your mouth but didn’t know what to say. The names, connections, amd the weight of everything pressing in on you.

“John’s never liked him,” Tommy continued. “But this? It’s jealousy. Lizzie’s always been close to the family, but… he’s always had a soft spot for her.”

You fought to keep your voice from shaking. “That man called me a whore... A whore in velvet.”

Tommy’s breath stilled.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. “He said Lizzie was your whore. That’s what he called her. Said you’d been with her for years. That you told her to break things off because of me. Now that I'm having your child, you could rekindle things with her. And he said that... maybe once you’ve had your fill of me... I could be his whore instead.”

Silence clamped down around you like a vise, it hurt to breathe.

Tommy didn’t move at first. Didn’t blink. His expression didn’t shatter, but it cracked, in the smallest, most dangerous way. The kind of fracture that came just before the fury. 

His voice was low and unshakable. “You are not anyone’s whore. Not his, nor mine... And I’m not going back to Lizzie. I was never with Lizzie the way Angel wants you to think.”

You didn’t know if it was anger or something deeper trembling in your chest. But it was the first time you saw something raw and dark bloom behind his eyes. It wasn't rage or possession. It was hurt.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked anyway. “He grabbed my wrist… held me there and I couldn’t even move.”

Tommy’s eyes darkened instantly, his whole body stiffening. You saw it, that quiet, lethal shift. His hands curled slowly at his sides.

You rushed to clarify, one hand rising between you. “He didn’t… he didn’t hurt me much... He just... he moved his hand down... Over my stomach. He was verifying it,” you said, voice hollow. “That I was pregnant.”

Something in Tommy fractured. You could see it in his eyes. Something colder, deeper than fury... 

“That’s why he said Lizzie broke it off.” Your throat closed, but you forced the words through anyway. “Because you told her to. Now that I played my part... You could take up with her again."

Tommy moved then, a slow step forward. You thought he might explode, might throw something, might march straight out the door and finish what John started. But he didn’t. His voice, when it came, was barely controlled. “Do you believe that?” he asked. “That I’d go back to Lizzie. That I’d put you through all of this, just to--” He stopped himself.

You shook your head fast, tears finally breaking loose. “No. I don’t. I… ” Your shoulders trembled. “He got in my head.”

He reached you then, arms gathering you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was strong, grounding. He smelled like smoke and home, and it only made you cry harder.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his hand stroking down your spine. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You buried your face in his chest, fists curling into his shirt, your voice muffled but urgent. “He scared me, Tommy.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know, love.”

“You face men like that every day,” you said, pulling back enough to look at him. “What if one day… what if something happens to you?”

The words hung heavy between you. For the first time, the real fear broke through. It was deeper than small injuries or insults. The fear of losing him. 

Tommy read that realization in your face, his expression softened. All that hard steel melted, just for a moment. And he kissed your forehead, his lips lingering at your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. You felt his arms tighten just slightly, but it was enough. Enough to let you know he understood. He just held you, like he could wrap himself around the worst of it and bear it for you.

Then finally, he whispered, “So that’s what this is.”

You nodded into his chest. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if you don’t come home one day? What if someone else is faster or luckier? What if… I lose you?”

Tommy pulled back just enough to look at you, tracing his fingers over your face. Something in his gaze felt like it cracked open. “I’m not invincible,” he said honestly. “You know that.”

You nodded, lips trembling.

“But I am careful,” he added. “I don’t take chances anymore, not with you waiting on me. That life I used to live? I lived it like I didn’t care if I made it home or not. But now... I’ve got a reason. A bloody good one.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “You. Our child. That’s everything now.”

Your heart beat close to his, the tension and anxiety still flowing through you like a river in flood.

“I can’t promise you nothing bad will ever happen,” he went on, voice low and steady. “But I can promise you this, I’ll fight like hell every damn day to come home to you.”

You let the words settle in your chest. They didn’t fix everything. But they helped. They made it easier to breathe.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, softer now.

“I know,” he said. “So am I. That’s how I know it matters.”

He kissed you then, not with heat, but rare tenderness. A vow in the quiet. 

But you needed more than that after your trip to the shoemaker. Adrenaline still hummed through your body, amplifying your restlessness and need for comfort. Wrapping your arms around Tommy's neck, you deepened this kiss, pressing yourself against him. You knew he could taste your tears on his lips and you were still shaking from everything that you'd been through today, but you needed him. You craved that connection, wanting to lose yourself in him if only for a little while. 

Tommy picked up on the change, he never missed a thing. He didn't stop you with questions like "are you sure you're okay?" He let you steer him in the direction of the bed, let you shove him back onto it. Heat rose in those blue, blue eyes. Toeing off his shoes, he moved back from you, heading for the headboard. You climbed up the bed after him, enjoying being the aggressor for a change. Before he made it, you caught up with him, your hands frantically working his belt, the front of his trousers. His breath came fast as he watched you pull down his trousers, his briefs in a rush. You found him hard and ready for you, so you got your hands and mouth on him, remembering what he showed you he liked from before. 

Dropping onto his back, he let you have at it. He slid both hands into your hair as you worked his cock into your mouth, stroking his fingertips along your scalp which sent shivers down your spine. After a couple of minutes, one of his hands captured one of yours, moving it to his sac, showing you more of what he liked. His hips moved with you, a quiet plea for more. His fingers were clutching in your hair. Tommy was iron hard in your mouth and hands. 

You stopped only long enough hike up your skirt, trying to work off your drawers. Tommy, as worked up as you were now, ripped the wet material away from you so you could straddle him, get what you both wanted. 

Tommy held himself up for you, his harsh breathing made it sound like he'd run a mile. "Get on my fucking cock," he rasped, watching you line yourself up with him, and slowly lower yourself onto him. 

But apparently he'd reached the end of his patience. Gripping your hips, he pulled you down where he wanted you and the quick stretch and burn hurt in the best way. It punched the air from your lungs. Tommy managed to move back to the headboard, still holding you impaled on him, to sit with his back against it. He started thrusting up into you and pulling you down on him at the same time, and he slid easily on your wetness. Adjusting your position, you moved with him, moving yourself up and down on him while he gazed up at you with that heated gaze, his lips parted.

"That's it, love," he purred. "Take what you need." 

Bracing your hands on the headboard on either side of his head, you started to move faster. You were so close, riding your soon-to-be husband with abandon while he watched you, looking just delighted at how things turned out. Your nipples ached and one hand left the headboard, moving to soothe that ache. 

Tommy startled you by ripping through the front of your blouse, sending buttons in flying in all directions, tearing through your chemise. He got his hands and mouth on your breasts and he was greedy about it, rough. That was all it took to send you over the edge, your pussy clenching around his cock as you rode him hard to finish yourself off. The world spun around you as Tommy rolled you under him, pumping into you hard and fast until he came, his face buried in your neck as he came down. 

The two of you stayed there for a moment, catching your breath. You ran your fingers through his hair. He captured your wrist, looking it over with a careful touch. 

Somehow he was still mostly dressed while your blouse was in tatters, your drawers a wet scrap next to you. A button stuck to the back of your arm. You started laughing. 

Lifting his gaze, Tommy's boyish smile surprised you, had your heart squeezing in your chest. "What?"

"I'm hungry," you whispered, still laughing. "But I don't want to get dressed and go downstairs."

Carefully, he lifted from you, tucking himself back into his trousers, tucking in his shirt. "Me either," he told you with a wink. "Dinner with all those sad faces will make me lose my fuckin'  appetite."

You tried to grab him before he made it off the bed to pull on his shoes. "Where are you going?" you whined.

"Going to have dinner sent up for us," he told you, standing and heading for the door. 

You grinned at him. His hair was spiked in all directions around his head. "Then you're coming right back?"

"Then I'm coming right back," he said before heading for the stairs.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234

@mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless @wantedby-larry @mariaenchanted @moonbeamott @thetamtam9

[backoff-imreading]

Hehehe this made me giggle and now I can’t stop! A fic with protective Bucky and stabbing John is an A ++ in my book

Since we see this mentioned in Game Nights, what does it take for Bucky to stab John and how does the team react?

That is an excellent question, Cole! I'm so glad you asked.

Don't Look or Touch

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky isn't having a good day and John suffers the consequences.

Word Count: Over 2.4k

Warnings: Stabbing (yes, Bucky stabs John), arguing, humor, kissing, implied smut, Thunderbolts spoilers, we love Bob, possessive behavior, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: We have Not Exactly a Secret, Game Nights, and now this for our Tower Shenanigans. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 (and thanks for the inspo!), but any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky wasn't in a good mood today.  He claimed he didn’t need as much sleep as the average person, but he still needed to get some shut eye and he hadn’t slept well the night before. Too many things were running through his head. You wished he woke you up to talk or help take his mind off things, but you knew he hadn’t wanted to disturb your rest. Had the roles been reversed he would’ve wanted you to wake him up first thing. 

“I’m your girlfriend, Bucky. If something is bothering you, it bothers me,” you reminded him. “So, please, wake me up next time, okay?”

It didn’t matter how big or small of an issue it was, you’d help him through anything and everything.

“You need more sleep than I do,” he tried to argue, a ghost of a smile on his face when you narrowed your eyes. 

“I can always catch a nap later,” you said.

“If you say so,” he said, sounding in better spirits than he had moments ago.

But that didn’t last when he started fighting with Sam via text. He didn’t like fighting with his friends and it wore on him as the day went on. You saw it in how he carried himself. If that weren’t enough, Alexei accidentally shot a paint gun in the common room and hit Bucky’s thigh. The flare in his nostrils told you he was two seconds away from losing his shit when John laughed.

You half expected Bucky to punch John, but he silently got to his feet and went to change. “So sorry!” Alexei called after him, also leaving the room.

“Did you have to laugh?” you asked John. Sure, you all gave him a hard time, but he dished it out as well and it was clear that Bucky wasn’t in the best mood.

John shrugged, not at all phased. “He’ll live.”

“You won’t if you keep pissing him off,” you teased, going to get Bucky’s jacket while you waited for him to come back. 

Bucky returned a minute later, somehow looking more pissed off. Maybe it was because John scooted closer to you once you sat back down. As much as you adored Bucky’s signature grumpy stare, this was different. That look was on his face because of his bad mood. Your heart went out to him, and what kind of girlfriend would you be if you didn’t try to cheer him up? 

“Hey,” you smiled, holding out a hand so Bucky could help you to your feet. You gave him a quick kiss once you were close enough and handed him his jacket. “Let’s go for a ride.”

“A ride?” he asked, closing his eyes when you brushed his hair back.

“Yeah, a ride,” you smiled. As much as you both loved being in the tower, he needed to get out and you were more than happy to join him. “And maybe we can stop off at that bakery you love?”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. Between a ride with you and stopping off to get a treat, he’d be in a much better mood. “Let’s go.”

“Hang tight for just a minute. Just need to grab something,” you said, sneaking in another kiss before you headed toward your room. You wondered how much Bucky would argue if you tried to pay for the treats. He was always such a gentleman when it came to-

“FUCK!”

You stopped at the sound of John’s loud and piercing scream. It wouldn’t have been the first time he yelled, but that was typically done out of anger or frustration. This scream, however, sounded like pain.

“Oh, shit,” you mumbled, rushing back to the common room.

Your eyes went right to your boyfriend since he was always at the forefront of your mind. You took a step forward when he locked eyes with you, the coldness in the blues almost making you shiver. He happened to be right beside John who was a bit more pale than usual and gripping his arm like a lifeline. Your mouth fell open when you realized the former Captain America had a knife in his hand. And he wasn’t holding it, oh, no. Bucky’s knife was through his hand. You knew it was Bucky’s knife because you bought it for him. 

What the fuck happened, and why did that excite you?

Ava phased beside you, likely drawn by John’s scream. Yelena and Bob came in seconds later though Yelena didn’t seem too concerned. “What are you…” she trailed off with a snort. “That’s not good.”

Ava sighed. “And we just got the blood out of the sofa from the last incident.”

“No fucking shit this isn’t good! And who gives a shit about the blood on the sofa!” John snapped, screaming again when Bucky yanked the knife out. 

“You’ll live,” he muttered. 

Your eyes went wide. Super soldier hearing and all, had Bucky heard John mutter his earlier comment? “What happened?” you asked. You had only been out of the room for a few seconds. What possibly happened during that time to cause this?

John scrambled to find something to wrap his hand with. “Your fucking boyfriend stabbed me!” 

“Yeah, America’s Asshole, I stabbed you.” Sitting back on the sofa, Bucky got a cloth out of his pocket to wipe his knife. He stabbed John. He really did it. But why? “And you have the serum. You’ll be fine.”

You made the mistake of looking at Ava who had a smirk on her face. It didn’t do you any good to look at Yelena either since she also looked pleased. Only Bob looked concerned. And where the hell was Alexei?

“Okay, Bucky,” you began, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice because you had to be the mature one. “I know you threatened to stab him during Uno.”

“He put down Draw Four…” He sneered at John. “FOUR times.”

“I know, I know. Dick move. And I know I threatened to stab him because he raised his voice at Bob because, well, we don't yell at Bob.” You gave Bob a smile when he dipped his head. “But-”

“He’s lucky I didn’t cut this tongue out,” your boyfriend growled.

You tried hard not to whimper, which was tough since the sound was sexy as hell. “But why-”

“You can still cut out his tongue,” Yelena encouraged, taking out one of her own knives. “Allow me.”

You put your hand out while John took a few steps back. “No, Yelena. Not today,” you said, which earned you a pout in response before you turned your attention back to Bucky. “Just tell us why you stabbed him, please.”

“He talked about putting his hands on your ass!” Bucky snapped, wincing when he realized how loudly he said it.

You could hear a pin drop from the silence that followed. Your eyes darted between Bucky and John, seeing the mixture of anger and discomfort. There was no way John was dumb enough to say something like that in front of your boyfriend. Right?

“He what?” Yelena asked for you.

“Ew,” Ava whispered. 

“But she… she’s not your girlfriend,” Bob added.

“I didn’t say I’d put my hands on your ass!” John defended himself, taking a breath when everyone stared at him. “Look, all I said was ‘I’d never leave my bed if I could get my hands on an ass like that’ and that’s it! That’s all!”

You were thankful you didn’t take a drink of something because you would’ve spit it out. As admittedly smart as John could be when it came to missions, he could also be an idiot. “Bucky, put the knife down,” you ordered when his grip tightened on the handle. You couldn’t have him stabbing him again. 

Though it was kind of hot that Bucky stabbed someone in your honor. 

“I might stab his other hand,” he said. 

“Do it,” Yelena encouraged. 

John sputtered when Ava nodded in agreement. “What the fuck?”

“Okay, one, Bucky, we both know I’d never let John touch my ass. Sorry, but. No,” you said, shrugging at the bleeding agent. Your ass was off limits to him. “Two, it doesn't sound like he said he was going to put his hands on my ass.”

“I don't care.” Bucky carefully inspected his knife. “As far as he’s concerned, you don’t have an ass.”

The girls scoffed with you and you weren't sure if you should've felt flattered or offended. “Okay, old man, so I have no ass now? Do I not have tits either?”

You held your breath when Bucky slowly got to his feet, his jaw clenched. It wasn't fair how hot and bothered that stance made you. “Did he look at your tits?” he asked in a low voice.

John quickly shook his head out of the corner of your eye. You felt for the guy, but you weren’t going to lie. “He may have glanced at them when I leaned over the other day.”

“Oh, when you were wearing that black top?” Ava asked, humming when you nodded. “Oh, yeah. He looked.”

“What the fuck, Ava?!” John shouted. “You looked, too!”

“I didn’t look,” Bob said immediately, his hands up in surrender. He was too pure for this world.

Bucky swung his head toward John. “Forget your other hand. Let’s see if that serum helps you grow your eyes back.”

Oh, shit. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything. “No! No more stabbing today!” You moved to block Bucky’s path. The mood he was in, you had no doubt he’d stab him again if he got the chance. “I appreciate you defending my honor and I always will, but we are going for a ride. Now.”

The former assassin pouting shouldn’t have been as adorable as it was. “But he-”

“You didn’t sleep well, you’re in a bad mood, and you need a breather,” you gently said, framing his face so he’d only see you. Your touch took most of the anger away. “Please, let’s go. We can go right to bed when we get back.”

Sex, cuddling, sleep, all of it, you’d give him whatever he needed later.

Bucky huffed, but put his knife away. He recognized that your tone wasn’t one to argue with. “He better not look again or try to touch you.”

“He won’t,” you said for John, looking over your shoulder to glare at him.

“Jesus, it was meant to be a compliment,” he told you, daring to glance at Bucky. “You have a good looking girlfriend, okay?!” 

“Stop talking,” you begged when Bucky tensed up. You had just calmed him down.

“If you want to compliment him or her, tell them how murderous they look,” Yelena suggested, looking to the others for support. “That’s cool, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ava said.

“Um, Bucky?” Bob asked. 

“Yeah?” he answered, slipping an arm around you. 

Bob swallowed a little. “If she looks nice, am I allowed to say so? Or should I just avoid looking at her?”

You giggled. Bob deserved the whole world. “You can say whatever you want,” you replied. Bucky would agree. 

“Okay,” he smiled a little. “I just. I-I don't want to get stabbed.”

“No one will stab you, Bob,” Yelena promised, ever the protector. 

John looked around the room and asked, “So, Bob can say whatever he wants, but I can’t?” 

“Yes,” everyone answered in unison. Bob wasn’t an asshole like John.

“Now apologize to each other so we can leave,” you said. The longer you stayed, the bigger the chance that Bucky would snap again.

The men stubbornly refused to look at each other, like children being scolded after a fight. John broke first when you cleared your throat. “Sorry for complimenting your girlfriend, I guess.”

“Sorry for not stabbing both of your hands,” Bucky mumbled.

“And we’re leaving now. Try to behave while we’re gone,” you announced, pulling your boyfriend away. Chances were that they’d start arguing over dinner or dish duty. “I can’t believe it.”

“What, that I stabbed him?” Bucky asked, grinding his teeth. “He gets under my skin.”

They were teammates now, but it didn’t get rid of the bad blood or the past. You sympathized with that. “I know he does, and I can’t believe that it took this long for you to stab him, but maybe try not to do that again?”

His warm laughter brought a smile to your face. “I’m surprised it took this long, too, and I’ll try not to again, but I’m not sorry that you were the tipping point.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Bucky Barnes stabbed a man because of me.” You weren’t exactly sorry that you were the tipping point either. “In his defense, my ass does look good in these pants,” you smirked.

Bucky waited a beat before he smacked your ass, making you shriek. “He still isn’t allowed to look or touch.”

Hadn’t you made it clear earlier that you’d never allow John to touch you? Even if you weren’t Bucky’s girlfriend, that would never happen. “So possessive, but I love that about you,” you teased.

His eyes softened, the look making your heart race. “I’m not too much?” 

Your gaze softened, too. “You’ll never be too much,” you assured him, almost to the elevator when Alexei waltzed by in his robe.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

“I stabbed John,” Bucky answered.

The Red Guardian looked stricken. “And I missed it?”

The last thing you heard before you and Bucky stepped into the elevator was John yelling, “What the fuck?!”

“Right to bed when we get back?” Bucky smiled, bringing your hand to his mouth to kiss it.

“Right to bed,” you smiled back.

He pulled you against him to give you a deep and thorough kiss, one that left you breathless and yearning for more. “And thank you.”

“For what?” you asked breathlessly.

“For trying to cheer me up,” he whispered, touching your cheek. “And for being mine.”

You leaned into his touch, thrilled to be his. “Thank you for being mine, too,,” you said, hoping the ride and treat would make him feel much better before you went to bed. Maybe tomorrow he could hash things out with Sam. And maybe you’d look through the footage later so you could see for yourself that Bucky stabbed John. 

And maybe, just maybe, you’d make a copy of the footage for Bucky if he ever needed a laugh after a bad day.

So, did John deserve that? What other shenanigans do we think this group gets up to? ! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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PRIDE & PREJUDICE 2005, dir. Joe Wright

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