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"He feels like my long lost home."

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Just layin’ out the facts…

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“Won’t you give me one kiss? It’ll be something to keep off the darkness now and then.”

— Bram Stoker, from Dracula

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Diego Luna photographed by Miguel A. Manrique for Revista OPEN (2017)

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DO NOT SUPPORT SALVATION ARMY 

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Mark Hamill getting bit by a snake while filming his scenes on Dagobah in Empire Strikes Back (and adding on another brilliant link of him thanks to @threadsketchier talking about a snake slithering up his leg while he was shooting scenes with Yoda).

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I recently found out why my mom would never sleep around me when I was a kid. Like she’d never let herself take naps or sleep if I was awake, ever. Or if she did, she would lock her bedroom door. So when I was 6, I was asleep in my bed in the middle of the night when I hear a loud bang, like a pot being dropped and come out to the living room to see my mom standing by the window, with just a huge pile of spaghetti all over the sill, and a pot on the ground, and I ’m like “Are you gonna eat all that?” And ya’ll she get’s BIG MAD and yells at me and chases me to my room but then a little while later a bunch of cops show up and ask me a bunch of random ass questions about my art? Like this one cop lady keeps asking me to draw dragons for her?! And they seem mad as hell

I didn’t want to get arrested so I just never asked my mom for spaghettis after that. Lesson, learned. Don’t ask mom for spaghettis or she’ll call the damn police on you. 

So I have this memory in my head, and it goes unquestioned until I say it outload for the first time a few months back and as soon as I say the words “When I was six, my mom called the cops on me for asking for spaghettis” My adult logic slams into place and is like “Hang on. Your mother definatly did not call the police on a 6 year old for asking for spaghetti.” 

So obviously that’s not what really went down. I call up my mom to tell her how I remember it and on top of her figuring out why her kid has always been really cagey around spaghettis for the last 3 decades she tells me what really happened. 

So on that night, a man tried to break into our house through the front window. It was just my mom, and her kids so she did what she felt she had too and shot him in the head. He’d been wearing a helmet, which landed on the floor under the window.

Now I just want ya’ll to put yourselves in my moms shoes for a minute here. This woman has just taken a human life. The trauma of that- the instant agony, the panic, the guilt, the fear- all of it hitting her at once, her only solace the knowledge that her children are safe. She protected her daughters. No matter the cost to her soul- her children are safe.

Then she looks up and sees her six year old staring at the inside of this mans head before saying “Are you gonna eat all that?” 

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#they actually don’t know what personal space is 

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What’s Said and Unsaid

Pairing: College athlete!Bucky x Reader

Summary: A stupid text thread. Tires he didn’t switch out. The New York snow. All things Bucky Barnes wished hadn’t ruined Christmas. 

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Angst, Bucky is idiot, minor injury

a/n: This is the fifth one-shot/drabble for my series ‘For the Love of the Game’! Some insight on Bucky still being a little new to relationships. I’m a little too excited for Christmas. 

I discontinued my taglist, but you can follow my library blog @pellucid-library​​ for notifications 🤍

Series Materlist // Main Masterlist

You knew you shouldn’t have looked, but it just kept vibrating—one after another. Bucky didn’t usually get so many messages, not on Friday nights at least. Those were reserved for you, and he let the team know that as soon as you started dating. 

You were more worried than anything. What if something happened with his family, or one of your friends? Maybe you were missing something—plans that both of you had forgotten about. And Bucky was in the bathroom; if it was an emergency, there wasn’t any time to wait for him to come back. 

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Bonded

Part 4

Pairing: Max Phillips x Named F!Reader/OFC (Prudence Walker)

Rating/Word Count: M (18+) / 2.8k

Warnings: a little melancholy, brief suicide mention, & I think that's it for this one

Summary: Research is coming up short

A/N: This is a bit of a transitional chapter, but there are big things on the way!

Previous ++ Series Masterlist ++ Next

“Prudence?”

You look down from your perch on top of the shed's roof to see Max standing below, arms crossed over his wide chest.

“Go away," you shout at him.

“Nana sent me out here. She said I’m not allowed back in until I return with you. Revoked my entry into the house and everything.”

That garners a smile. You can picture it in your mind – Nana asking him to find you, Max giving her attitude in response, her reminding him of whose house he was staying in. A beautiful little scene you regret not being able to see for yourself.

It's been a week. 7 days, 168 hours, 10,080 minutes since Nana discovered your mystery sigil. You've felt every excruciating second of it. Spending hours going through books, scrubbing the internet for any and all useful information, only to come up with nothing. Every avenue leading to another dead end.

The closest you've come is an incomplete and vague account about a couple from the 1970s where the husband died of a gunshot wound and the wife followed five minutes after despite having no apparent injuries of her own. To say you're discouraged is underselling it.

As a result, you’ve resorted to measures you haven’t taken since you were a moody teenager, angry at the world. The roof of the shed a perfect place to try and find some solace, the literal change in perspective helping to calm your mind.

Climbing the makeshift footholds was nostalgic. A reminder of when the world seemed a bit more wondrous and exponentially less messy. The roof groaned a little in spots with your added weight, but your grandfather’s carpentry held true.

It's been pleasant breathing in the crisp air. The leaves of the trees are in their full autumnal bloom. Vibrant reds and oranges mixed with golden yellow hues reminding you of the story of the phoenix – the forest setting itself alight to be reborn from the ashes in the spring. A few pines dot the treeline with their evergreen needles and act as a comforting constant in contrast.

In an attempt to better ignore Max, you lay back against the roof, closing your eyes to prevent being blinded by the sun. Maybe he’ll get the message and leave you alone. You doubt it.

Max has been nothing short of irritating all week. You tried to get a small reprieve from him but Nana had seen right through it, sending him into town with you. That forced you to go through the awkward and seemingly endless repetition of no, he’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend, to people who stopped you and wanted to chat. You had said the word friend with great disdain. You know the town is gossiping anyway.

You’re annoyed that your peace has been broken. It was nice, sitting up here alone without a certain nuisance pestering you for a little while. You can hear the shed creaking and Max’s less than inventive swears though, warning you that your time is just about up.

"Why are you all the way up here?" Max huffs at you. "Breaking your neck seems a little drastic, babe."

Your arm stays firmly in place over your eyes. "If I was going to kill myself, I wouldn't do it somewhere Nana could find me."

Max offers a small hmm, in reply. He sits beside you, assuming the position you'd been in before lying back. "It's a nice view."

"I know." Your answer is clipped and while you suppose it's not deserved you can't help it. There was a real reason you came up here and it wasn't to flirt with death. Or the undead.

Max glosses over your small snipe. "Nana says lunch is ready."

You adjust your arm and peek at him from under it. The sight you're met with makes you snort with laughter. Max has brought an umbrella with him, using it to protect himself from the harsh afternoon sun. Somehow you missed it in his hands when he first called up to you.

Max looks down at you with an exaggerated squint. "Is the sun too much for you today?" you laugh.

He grumbles under his breath, looking out towards the trees. “What was that?” you press.

“I didn’t know how long you’d force me to be out here so I came prepared,” Max says, adjusting his grip on the umbrella and hunkering down a bit more beneath it. The sun plays at his feet and ankles, but they’re otherwise covered by his boots and well-fitting jeans. Of course you'd taken no notice of how well the denim hugged his ass earlier, certainly not spilling some water on yourself at the sight.

You sit up on your elbows and nudge him slightly. “I’m messing with you, Max. The umbrella was smart.”

He appraises you, looking for the insult hidden in your words. You don't blame him. Managing insults around Nana is an artform, towing the line before she gets irritated with your carefully worded jabs. When he finds none he settles back down, seeming content to settle in and wait until you decide to give in and go eat lunch.

The devil on your shoulder is calling for you to test his patience – staying out here until Max is properly pissed, that one vein next to his temple bulging from sheer annoyance. Your stomach growls instead and makes your decision for you. Lunch, even if it's just some sandwiches Nana has tossed together, sounds heavenly.

Wordlessly, you get up from your chosen seat while taking one last look around the property and go back down the way you came up. Max is already waiting for you when your boots hit solid ground.

"How did you-?" you start to ask. There's no way he could have beat you down with you having taken the only path to and from the shed roof.

Max answers as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Jumped.”

"You jumped?" You look up towards the top of the old shed. It's not that tall, somewhere around a story, but it's certainly higher than anything you'd ever willingly jump from. Falling the right way could easily spell a broken bone, a rolled ankle if you get lucky.

Max gives you an incredulous look, like he can’t believe that’s a question you’re really asking. Logically, you get it. He’s a vampire, supernatural abilities come with the territory, but he hasn’t actually used his powers all that much around you. Grotesque meals aside and nearly two weeks from seeing what you’ve termed in your mind as his “Buffy-face” it’s almost easy to forget that he’s more enhanced than your average person. Nearly enough time to make you forget he’s not like you.

You’re not entirely comfortable with that much of a shift in the way you think of him already.

Lunch is a short affair, the expectation of sandwiches met, but also one-upped by Nana’s exceptional skills in the kitchen. She could make a can of tuna fish taste like heaven if you gave her the chance.

Afterwards, you wander aimlessly to the back of the house. There’s a sunroom tacked on – completed when your dad had been a teenager. It was a summer project for him and your grandfather at the behest of Nana. You’re pretty sure it was meant as a way to keep your dad out of trouble for all the good that did.

As a kid you would spend afternoons in the cozy space, creating a small city with your Polly Pockets. The bookshelves in the corner usually made for good apartments, carved out with the books you pulled down. The casualties to your construction became stores, larger houses, whatever your imagination required. Nana never seemed to mind so long as the books got back on the shelves in some order at the end of the day.

You take a seat in one of the rocking chairs, pulling your feet up into the chair with you. You’re not sure what to do with yourself. Research has been getting you nowhere, all the projects you can find around the house are complete, and short of rereading the same three books over again there’s nothing left for you to do. Nothing other than accept the fact that you are stuck with Max for quite possibly the rest of your life and that it is entirely your own fault. Not really how you saw your life going.

You hear Nana enter the room, her slippers making a soft shuf shuf against the worn carpet. She sits in the twin chair beside you, quiet, not disturbing the somber ambiance you’ve created. You pick at your lip, staring across the yard, trying to let your new reality sink in. Watching the chickens peck at the grass doesn’t do much to help.

“You know there was a time when I thought sitting there worrying about things would change them too.”

You turn towards her, chin in hand. She offers you a gentle smile. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice, child? You went on that damn roof again.”

A small grin breaks through. She hates when you climb up there. Probably why she sent Max to collect you. “Not to mention you wandering around here like a damn morose ghost.”

“Sorry, Nana,” you say sarcastically, but without any true bite. “Please tell me how to adjust to being soul bonded to an asshole of a vampire. I know you have a lot of experience in that area.”

“There she is," Nana teases.

You roll your eyes, knowing that she’s just trying to get more of a rise out of you. Attempting to inspire your usual attitude rather than this melancholy one you’ve been sporting the past couple days. It’s a little annoying that it’s working.

"What am I supposed to do?" you ask. It's mostly rhetorical, knowing there's no real answer to your question.

Nana answers anyway. "Could be worse. He could be ugly."

You can’t help but laugh. You’re not sure what it is, the ridiculous situation, the frankness of her statement, or the still retained secret of that kiss that never should have happened in the first place. The laughter takes hold until there are tears in your eyes, a burning in your chest from the lack of complete breaths. It’s more than a little manic, the emotions you’ve been bottling up over the past week escaping you now in short, uneven bursts.

You don’t settle until Nana’s hand finds your knee, offering you a way to ground yourself and return to reality. Her hand stays, telling you without so much as a word that she’s not going anywhere. You’re more than a little grateful that Max is nowhere to be seen, not wanting him to bear witness to the momentary breakdown. It’s a weakness you’re not yet willing to let him see.

Words slowly return to you. “Seriously Nana, what am I supposed to do?” you ask again, this time hoping for an answer.

Nana sighs softly. “You do the only thing you can, child. You live.”

Your hand grips hers from where it rests on your knee. There's a remnant of sadness in her eye, remembering dark days long gone when she found herself in a similar mental space as you are now. Lost, confused, and unsure of what to do next.

She continues. “I know that’s easier said than done and it’s sure as hell going to get messy for you, but I’ll always be here. Rain or shine, child.”

“Thanks, Nana,” you say, giving her hand a loving squeeze.

“Besides, I can always kick him out of the house if you need some space.”

You chuckle. “Mind doing that again today?”

Nana gets up, patting your cheek and pushing a loose blonde piece of hair behind your ear. “Now let’s not abuse it.”

She shuffles back into the main house, leaving you to your thoughts again. The melancholy still lingers, but for now the squall has been abated.

The gentle hollow thunk of wooden wind chimes hanging just outside the sunroom offers company along with the warmth of the enduring afternoon sun. Your thoughts drift aimlessly, never truly settling. You ignore that Max seems to keep popping up over and over again in them.

The sudden ring of your phone breaks your quiet reverence. You scramble to pick it up, the caller ID showing you an unsaved number. “Walker Investigations, Prudence speaking.”

A pleasant, feminine voice greets you at the other end. “Hello. This is- well, I feel a little silly calling you, but I think my house might be haunted.”

Finally, your mind is able to focus – sharper than it's been in days. This is exactly what you need. “Tell me everything.”

You're trying to pack as quickly as possible. With any luck you'll be able to slip away before anyone catches you. You can call Nana from the road. She won't be happy with you dumping Max on her, but that's a problem you can deal with later. You just need to get away from things – have a chance to truly think things through for a minute.

Unfortunately, you let yourself get complacent with the extended stay. Your things are scattered around your bedroom and the bathroom, requiring an obvious effort to round things up before you can leave.

Max catches you as you leave the bathroom, your arms full of essential toiletries.

“Where do you think you’re going, muffin?”

"None of your business." You breeze past him, ignoring the new, stupid pet name and desperately hope he won't follow. He does.

Most of your things are already shoved into your duffel, fitting in the toiletries where you can. Packing isn't much of an exact science for you, instead shoving things in and praying they fit and don’t break. You've only had a lotion bottle explode once so far – your method imperfect but overall functional in the end. Max leans against the doorframe to your bedroom, watching you push and shove in your bag.

“Want a hand with that? Or should I go pack my things too?” he asks.

You speak through gritted teeth, trying to close the overstuffed main pouch. “You- aren’t- coming!”

The zipper teeth catch, quickly pulling closed and you stand triumphant over the bag. Turning around, Max seems extremely unimpressed. His one eyebrow is raised, arms folded over his chest.

"Why wouldn't I be coming, cupcake?" He seems to be stuck on a food theme with the pet names today. Yesterday had been animals. Both are not as cute as he thinks.

"Because I don't need you to," you tell him, throwing your bag over your shoulder. Pushing past him again you continue, "And I don't want you to."

Max scoffs and follows you downstairs. Irritation is already rolling off him in waves and you can tell he's gearing up for an argument. You both stop short at the sight of Nana waiting for you in the hallway, hands firmly planted on her hips.

"Where are you suddenly off to, child?" Nana asks. It's clear from her tone you can't get away with the same dismissive answer you gave Max.

There's a smirk on Max's face that you desperately wish you could slap off. Fear of Nana's wrath just barely edges out the desire.

You sigh, relenting the information. “I have a case. It’s a couple states over, but I’ll be back before you know it.”

Nana looks like this is what she expected. Max looks offended – he sounds offended too. "You were just going to leave me here?"

"I told you. I don't need you," you say, shifting the duffel strap on your shoulder. You don't. You've been doing this for years without him and barring a brief hospital stay two years ago and your recent fight with him you've gone relatively unscathed.

"Sure, you'll just go and get yourself killed somewhere." It’s insulting really – that he thinks you’re some amateur who can’t handle herself.

"Aww, Max. Are you worried about me?" You ask, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No," he spits at you. "If you die then I do, and that's not exactly something I'm eager to do, honeybun. I'm coming with you."

You look to Nana, hoping that she might cut in and tell Max to stay. She puts her hand up instead with a slight shake of her head, removing herself from the argument. You’ve never known her to be passive in an argument which tells you that she agrees with Max.

You feel backed into a corner. Unable to give a truly good reason beyond simply not wanting him with you and without Nana to back you, you’re stuck. Your only option is to let him come and hope that he doesn’t mess something up. The woman on the phone had been kind and you don’t need Max scaring her or worse, ruining your reputation.

The duffel bag falls to the floor with a heavy thud. “Fine,” you say, “We leave after dinner.”

Taglist: @castleamc @sharkbait77 @janebby @spideysimpossiblegirl @roxypeanut @paperbag33 @escapades-to-rivendell @thisshipwillsail316 @lellowberry @danidrabbles ​ @stevie75 @tintinn16 @doin-stuff @honestly-shite @hdghty @cannedsoupsucks @max--phillips @salome-c @serini-ty @beautyagegoodnesssize @greeneyedblondie44 @snow30285 @fic-appointment @kirsteng42 @athalien @radiowallet @ezrasbirdie @inkededucatednnerdy @starlightmornings @beskarboobs @kesskirata @tacticalsparkles @missminkylove @niki_xie @gaiuswrites @thirddeadlysin @kotemorons @tothejedi @tuskens-mando @nakhudanyx @quietpainter

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Oh that hurts so good 😭😭

Five Moments in Time

Pairing: 40s!Bucky x Nurse!Reader

Summary: All of the moments in which Sergeant Barnes let the nurse on his unit know he’s not gonna stop trying to win her over. Even from beyond the grave.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: Minor injury, angst (the big kind)

a/n: I rewatched tfa and fell in love with Bucky all over again! So I had to write some 40s angst of course. Also I think might’ve made myself cry. 

I discontinued my taglist, but you can follow my library blog @pellucid-library​ for notifications 🤍

Masterlist

“And just who are you?” 

The medical tent was overrun with white-clad bodies in a flurry. Aprons were stained and gauze was clenched tightly between overworked fingers. The war hadn’t been kind, but at least Captain Rogers had been able to save all these men. 

And amongst the men was the flirty, ever charming, Bucky Barnes. 

“I’ve told you, Sergeant Barnes, I’m your nurse. Now please sit back so I can properly stitch your arm.” 

He didn’t listen to you, sitting up further to prop his hand on his chin and take you in. You’d asked him about four times now, each one fruitless. 

Keep reading

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No Questions Asked

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Enhanced!Reader

Summary: Steve Rogers loved you gently, but Captain America treated you like a soldier. You learned the dangers of that dichotomy when his orders became too hard to follow. 

Word count: 4.8k

Warnings: Canon level violence, descriptions of injury, angst, Steve being a bad listener

a/n: Tiny break from ftlotg oneshots! First time writing for Steve :) 

I discontinued my taglist, but you can follow my library blog @pellucid-library​ for notifications 🤍

Masterlist

Steve Rogers loved you gently. 

He whispered in your ear when the kitchen got crowded, morning sunlight pouring into the Avengers Tower. Short and sweet. Just to tell you he loved you—in case you forgot. His hands would be fleeting on your waist as Tony yelled at you to get a room, and the coffee he made you would taste even sweeter on your lips. 

He let you drag him to that farmers market on the other side of town, carrying the baskets full of produce and armfuls of flowers you fawned over. It would be easy for him to tell you it was unnecessary; Tony had people for grocery shopping. But he loved you, and he loved the way you looked in the Sunday morning breeze. 

Keep reading

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Delicate Edges (4)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 5k chapter warnings: sweet sweet floof, that lingering feeling of dread because you know the fluff can't last forever

series masterlist / series playlist

“I’m sorry about this, dear,” Mr. Jacobson sighed as he scratched the sparse grey hairs on his scalp. “I know it’s a smaller order than last time but business has been tight lately. I’m sure you understand.”

A lump formed at the back of your throat – threatening to withhold the last breath from your lungs. Mr. Jacobson was one of your biggest clients. He had placed biweekly orders at your shop for years; his loyalty to your parents extending long after their passing. But today, the flowers laid upon the counter were only half of his usual purchase. He was going to split the arrangements to cover the excess tables, he told you. He didn’t have the funds to spend on décor that would only wilt and die within the week.

Such beauty was a luxury he could no longer afford.

In the broad of daylight, the ghost of Rollin’s hands slid over your arms. Invisible, no more threatening than a memory, and yet, you felt his nose draw line along your neck, his breath hot as flame against your skin. Goosebumps prickled in its wake. The outline of a cold, looming shadow hung heavy in the corner of your shop, waiting patiently amongst the darkness before it took its shape. A monster bore the shape of a man as Brock Rumlow materialized from the painted night.

So real. So impossibly real, that you were certain the sun had fallen over the horizon in a matter of seconds, that the first Tuesday of the month had broken time itself to drown you under its weight.

A bell chimed at the front of the store.

The swift clutch of darkness faded in favor of the gentle streams of sunlight through the windows, the soft clicking of the clock as the hand inched along the morning hours. Reality swept back in as you handed Mr. Jacobson his change. He closed his grip around the money, a cautious glance in his eyes has he watched you. Your throat burned of sandpaper as you swallowed.

Just over Mr. Jacobson’s shoulder, a familiar figure hung in the doorway of your shop. Wearing the same baseball hat settled low over his eyes, hands shoved tightly into jacket pockets, Bucky leaned against the frame of the door, waiting patiently for you to notice him. He carried such a lightness to him – a levity you could not dare to touch as he pulled one hand from his jacket and waved at you. A smile crinkled up by ocean blue.

You waited for the dread to dissipate. For the anxiety to wash away at the mere sight of him. For the lightness to return to your body.

But the panic would not release you from its chains.

It had burrowed too deeply into your mind, into your body. It weighed heavier on your shoulders than what you could hope to carry – cracking your bones and crippling your spine; the imprint of a boot stamped to the center of your chest, your head underwater, your lungs drowning in the shallow end of the pool.

Mr. Jacobson offered you an apologetic grimace, his pity evident in his gaze, though he only meant to be kind. He couldn’t have known of your father’s deal with the devil, nor the contract inked in blood he’d unwittingly passed to you upon his death. Your parents had held their shame deep into their hearts; the secret of the Hydra club’s grip around their throats an unspoken threat. Pride was just as responsible for their suffering as the Hydra club was.

From the edge of the shop, Bucky was watching you with a soft furrow in his brow. His gaze raked over yours, searching for a smile you could not give in return, not with such a terrible ache nestled into your bones. His mouth fell into a frown, a wash of clouds shifting over the blue in his eyes.

For the last two weeks, you had waited eagerly for Bucky to return each day to your shop with a ridiculous new order. You spent hours looking through the windows for the striking blue of his eyes of his amongst the crowd of pedestrians, your heart pounding in your chest each time the bell chimed over the front door in hopes that he might be the one strolling underneath.

He had come nearly every day. Each time in search of flowers. And you hoped, in search of you.

Despite the worry nestled into the lines on Bucky’s face, he kept his distance while Mr. Jacobson gathered his flowers at the register. Bucky began to browse through the aisles, pretending as though he was just another customer, as if you didn’t anxiously wait for him to stroll through the front door, as if your heart didn’t threaten to burst at the sight of him.

But in the kindness of his stolen, cautious glances over his shoulder, dread began to swell and churn in your stomach. There was too much he didn't know about you. Too much he could never know. And this—this flirtation you shared was too fragile, too delicate to shatter under the weight of Hydra’s crimes. You could not soil this one bright spot of your day with the darkest parts of you.

Your hands began to shake, a boulder sitting square on the center of your chest. Mr. Jacobson’s lips were moving as if he were speaking. He wore lines by his eyes, a laugh on his chest. You could hardly hear a word he spoke over the ringing in your ears.

Across the shop, Bucky had stopped bothering to busy himself with the flowers. Instead, his shoulders were squared toward you, his steps inching closer – restraint colored into the tension of his hands as if it were a struggle to keep himself from lunging across the counter and drawing you into his arms.

You looked up at the ceiling, quickly counting the cracks in the panels as you desperately held back tears. Something hitched in the distance – a breath. Bucky’s. As if witnessing your distress had broken something in him. And you knew that if he only asked, you would have told him everything.

But you feared for the steeled boot that would crush his lungs in the water beside you. You feared for the open wounds on his face drawn by the sharp sting of skull coated rings. You feared the obligation that would eat away at him, the burden you’d become, the pity in his eyes.

He couldn’t know.

“You all right there, missy?”

You blinked, forgetting Mr. Jacobson was waiting for his receipt. Your heart was pounding so violently, you were sure he could hear it even without his hearing aids. Bucky looked up from the pot of hydrangeas, his gentle gaze searching for yours, though you could not meet his eye. You forced out a smile to your customer, nodding quickly.

“Yes. My apologies. Have a good day, sir,” you told him as he gathered his bouquets. Before he even made it halfway to the door, you rushed to the back of the shop, quickly busying yourself with paperwork for a valid excuse to hide from the one man you longed to run toward.

You could feel the shaking in your hands as you clenched them to fists, the short gasps of breath as you tried to stifle your tears. You’d never make enough for the payment at the end of the month, even with all of Bucky’s purchases. It had been foolish to think he could single handedly make up for the lack of business you’d had. It didn’t help that you felt dirty for even agreeing to take his money at all, but you so desperately needed it and Bucky was only flirting with you, wasn’t he? What harm could it do?

You closed your eyes, your right-hand clasping over your father’s watch as the doubt began to sink in. You knew Bucky wasn’t the kind to play with hearts, to tread lightly only to pull away at the last second. He cared. He cared perhaps a little too much. And if you were to allow yourself to care for him in return, you couldn’t keep taking advantage of his money.

“Y/n?” Bucky called from across the store after Mr. Jacobson disappeared out the front door. “Are you okay?”

You brushed at your eyes, trying to wipe away the evidence of unshed tears before you faced him. As you made your way over to him, pressing a smile against your lips that barely touched your eyes, you could feel his gaze studying you. He lingered a little longer on the indent in your lip, an imprint of your teeth as you'd tried to bite away the urge to cry.

He swallowed, though he didn’t say anything about the clear reflective streaks under your eyes. “Hey... So... I was hoping I could get something to plant outside the bar. Something a bit more sustainable that could bloom again after the winter?”

You were grateful for the change in subject, but even the mention of spending more of his money in your shop made you nauseous— caught in this terrible crossroad of needing the money more than you cared to admit and not wanting to take advantage of the man who so clearly used it as an excuse to see you. Somehow, despite all of your fears, you valued his presence over the weight of the register.

Against your better instincts, you shook your head. “You don’t have to keep wasting your money here just so I’ll spend time with you.”

Bucky frowned, a flash of surprise over his features. “Hey, come on now, I’m not wasting anything. The bar looks immaculate, I’ll have you know. Sure, the place is drowning in flowers, but maybe I like that. The regulars don't need a place to sit anyway.”

He smiled at you then and you tried to return it. Honestly, you did. You even let yourself picture the dingy dive bar you’ve never once stepped foot in that could quite possibly be home to the dangerous 107 club – a group just as deadly and despicable as Hydra – decorated in your flower arrangements. Tables and countertops, offices and chairs - covered in your flowers. A trail of tulips outside the bar would seem out of place even by your standards and yet, here he was asking for more.

“I can’t keep taking your money,” you stressed as you clenched your jaw, gaze trailing up to the ceiling to avoid the burning in your eyes.

“Are you going to refuse my business, doll?” Bucky chuckled, though his smile fell rather quickly when you looked at him again.

“Have you been keeping track of how much you’ve spent here?” you asked carefully, trying to stand your ground, though your voice trembled. “It’s a lot, Bucky. Please, don’t get me wrong – I’m incredibly grateful for your support and it—it means more than you can know, but I don’t want you to think you need to buy my time. I like spending time with you, Bucky. You don’t need to do this.”

Bucky nodded slowly; his hands shoved into his pockets as he glanced to the door.

Panic surged in your chest and you couldn’t help the creeping feeling that maybe he’d only ever seen this as a game, that now that you were offering yourself without the need for the roundabout flirting, he’d lose interest. The possibility hurt more than you cared to admit, aching worse than the dread Hydra left behind.

“What if we make a deal?” Bucky offered, smiling sweetly at you as your eyes flashed to him in surprise. “I’ll stop buying out half your shop and...” he paused, looking around the store, “you’ll let me come by on your lunch breaks. No transactions necessary. Though, you can’t fault me if I bring you something to eat, okay? I’m a little old fashioned at heart and I can't be showing up empty handed.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Was he... was he talking about dates?

You pictured the two of you cramped up in the small table in the back of the shop, leaning towards one another as you shared a pizza from the joint down the street that favored the value of a decadent sauce over the cheese. Maybe he’d get a little tomato sauce in the corner of his mouth and maybe you’d lean over and brush it away with the corner of your thumb. His eyes might meet yours, slowly. Your fingers lingering against his cheek. He’d lean in and—

“What do you think, doll?” Bucky asked, nervously awaiting your response as he started to sway on his heels.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds... that sounds nice,” you nodded, the smile returning to your face and this time – it was genuine. Bucky seemed to have picked up on the differences quicker than he should have and he grinned at the sight.

He reached into his coat pocket then and pulled out his phone – scratches on the screen, a simple black case protecting the back. He handed it to you. “In case something comes up?”

On his home screen, there was an image of seven people huddled around the bar in what you assumed to be the Centenarian. Bucky was standing on the outskirts, looking rather reluctant to be in the photo at all, though he still managed a smile in time for the camera to go off; his hand around the shoulders of the blonde man on his left. The group was huddled around each other – a single red headed woman amongst six men. All dressed in dark colored jeans and holding beers in hand.

“These your friends?” you asked, gesturing to the photo. The one at the center looked much younger than the rest, almost giddy with excitement for just being there at all. He barely looked old enough to drink.

Bucky smirked. “Surprised I got ‘em?”

You rolled your eyes, shoving Bucky playfully in the arm. As he feigned terrible injury, you opened his contacts and added your number. At the top of the page, alongside your name, you added an emoji of a colorful bouquet. You handed the phone back to Bucky and when he smiled at it, your stomach lit up in knots.

“So,” he started, looking around the shop, “if I’m banned from making orders now, what if I helped out around here? What do you need done?”

“I never said you were banned from buying flowers again,” you argued, grinning wildly through the redness in your eyes. “I just don’t want you spending ridiculous amounts just to see me, is all."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, still awaiting orders.

You huffed, setting your hands on your hips in response. “I’m not going to put you to work, Bucky!”

He pursed his lips, taking a good, long minute to look at you. His eyes trailed down along your frame, sweeping over the edges of your face and the fabric of your dress, but it wasn’t in the same hungry, demeaning way you’d grown used to with Rollins. Instead, Bucky only seemed to be admiring you, taking his time to preserve a moment before he lost it. A shiver slipped up your spine under his gaze, finding that you wished his hands might follow the same pattern. He let out a careful sigh, hanging his head.

“You know I'd buy up the whole store if it meant you'd give me the time of day, don’t you?”

You swallowed, a little taken back by the sincerity in his voice. Slowly, you nodded.

“Good,” Bucky said. “So, tell me what I can do to help, doll.”

***

He ended up staying until closing. You made it very clear that this was a one-time thing and he’d be restricted to lunch breaks without manual labor in the future, but that only seemed to make him laugh more. The man was insistent, you’d give him that.

He swept the fallen leaves from the floor. Carried the heavy bags of soil from the basement and lined them up along the back wall. He watered the plants outside and washed the windows by the displays. He wasn’t exactly taking no for an answer, finding your resistance to his labor amusing as he trailed along the shop with the hose in hand and a smirk upon his lips.

After he’d managed to make his way through the entirety of your list, you’d resorted with challenging him to make an arrangement of his own. You were finishing up the last few bouquets for the window display in the morning and suddenly the thought of him leaving was unbearable. Surely, he wouldn’t mind just one more chore, right?

Bucky had gotten straight to work without a single complaint. You didn’t tell him you’d planned on keeping the bouquet for yourself, but you were curious as to what he would do if given free rein. There would inevitably be flowers that wilted before they could be sold and you supposed this was simply making use of them before they fell to waste. No harm done.

“Did I do it right?” Bucky called from the back of the shop.

He’d picked a group of flowers you never would have chosen to place together – a wide variety of colors and shapes, the stems a little all over the place and cut sporadically, but he was studying his work like he’d just created the next exhibit in the Louvre. Thumb stroking along his chin as he examined it, wondering if he should add the extra white rose he held in his hand to an already stuffed vase.

He narrowed his eyes as if seeing the flowers under a blurred vision might make it more presentable. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“A little,” you laughed, nudging him in the side as he feigned offense.

“Okay, well what if I...” Bucky started moving some of the flowers around, knocking some of the petals to the counter in his haste. It looked no different as he stepped back and turned to you for approval.

“Oh, well now it’s perfect,” you said and Bucky’s eyes just about lit up with joy. He grinned, smirking at the flowers as if he’d pulled something over on them, bested them at their own game. Competitive with a bunch of plants. You couldn't help the laughter as it echoed into the empty shop.

Bucky sighed, looking down at his watch. His gaze shifted to the setting sun outside the windows, a reluctant sinking in his shoulders. “It’s getting late. I should probably head back.”

The rush of laughter quickly died down, your smile faltering. Of course, he had to go home. Part of you had hoped you could stay in this moment forever – that you might not have to walk up the stairs to your empty apartment and he wouldn’t disappear over the horizon to the east side.

Bucky picked up his baseball cap from the counter and tugged it over his head, positioning the brim low on his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? No flower orders. No manual labor, even though I’m incredibly good at it. Just lunch, okay?”

You nodded eagerly, wondering if he could tell just how fast your heart was racing.

Before you could realize what he was doing, Bucky casually pressed a hand tenderly to the small of your back and kissed your cheek. Breath caught in your lungs as the warmth touched your skin, lingering for only a moment after he pulled away, giving you that sweet smile of his before he headed for the door.

“Goodnight, doll,” he called from the open doorway and then, you watched as he passed by the windows and disappeared down the sidewalk.

Heart still pounding, you touched your fingertips to your cheek where his lips had been. It was still tingling.

***

Bucky grinned the whole walk back to the east side. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, a little sticky from the sap of flower stems, and he couldn’t get your image out of his mind. Not with your nose all scrunched up as you pretended not to find his arrangement an insult to the craft, the flash of surprise over your features when he’d dared to lean in and brush his lips to your cheek before he left.

A dangerous move, certainly. Risky. But he’d been tempted since the first day he wandered into your shop and found you standing behind the counter, calling him Blue-eyes and making his heart race. It had been foolish of him at the time, because now he only wanted more.

He let his mind drift as he walked, wondering how you might feel if he pressed the full of his body against you, what you might taste like against his tongue. It hadn’t slipped his notice how intently you watched him, how your gaze sometimes flickered down to his lips while he was talking, how your teeth tugged on your lip to draw back your attention. There was no doubting it now – the fact that you saw something human in him most of this town had forgotten. You saw him and you wanted more.

Bucky hadn’t expected to know that feeling again. Not after Dot. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, given what she did, but now that it was you – you, with your pastel-colored, floral print dresses and hands full of flowers and the brightest damn smile he’d ever seen – he didn’t think he could ever go back. He wanted to live in this feeling forever – pretend that he didn’t carry the weight of half the town on his shoulders and a war with the neighboring club on the horizon.

As he passed into the east side, Bucky had nearly forgotten his reputation – too wrapped up in the normalcy you gave him – and he waved to a group of kids playing soccer on the open field to his left. They paused, staring blankly at him. Frozen, as if they were spooked deer paralyzed under the high beam of headlights at night. One kid smacked his friend on the arm and they all rushed off in different directions, leaving behind the ball rolling in the grass.

Bucky gritted his teeth, stopping the ball under his boot as it jetting out onto the sidewalk. He looked around for the kids to return it, but they were long gone. Their parents had drilled it into their heads at a young age to run at any sight of the 107, to avoid the danger that followed in their wake. There was little threat greater in the east than the monster who headed the 107 club. And well, Bucky supposed the rumors were his own damn fault.

He had fed into those claims for years, embellishing stories of his cruelty and the limitless ends of his vengeance, pitting the 107 on par with that of Hydra. He had to. He didn’t have much of a choice. The 107 was little more than a group of wayward orphans who spent most of their time huddled around some old beat-up bar, with a halfway decent affinity for the motorcycles parked on the street outside. They weren’t the criminals the town was made to believe – they didn’t put out hits or extort money from the local businesses. They didn’t go around seeking trouble and wanting to expand a territory they wanted nothing to do with in the first place.

The rumors started after Steve noticed the bikes parked outside Mrs. Marcovaldo’s café a few years back. He’d recognized the emblem on the back of the motorcycle jackets as they sauntered into the store and tossed the displays of baked goods to the floor; frightened customers fleeing out onto the streets.

It had only been three of them at the time – Steve, Sam, and Bucky – but they’d rushed across the street without thinking twice about what it meant to get tangled up in a war with a biker gang that was slowly taking over the town. They’d made a show of it – staking claim to the east side and putting the café under their control. Hydra wasn’t easily convinced and it took several less-than-cordial encounters and an influx of exaggerated rumors before Hydra started recognizing the 107 as a threat.

Hydra had tried to extort three more businesses on the east before the line was drawn. Bucky knew he couldn’t protect the whole city, but he could save half of it. The 107 was small – smaller than the rumors suggested – and they needed the town thinking they were just as vile as Hydra. It was the only way to get the Hydra club to respect the border.

Bucky had gone back the next morning to assure the businesses they wouldn’t be taking their money and Mrs. Marcovaldo had all but cried in Bucky’s arms of relief. Turned out the Hydra club had been harassing her family ever since the days Pierce was in charge before the old bastard finally turned in his keys. She tried to offer the 107 payments for protection, but Bucky wouldn’t take it. She settled for free coffee instead and agreed, despite her protests, to not challenge the rumors about the 107, to let the town believe Bucky and his club collected from her shop and drained her of cash.

It was a messy system – one that was certainly going to break one of these days – but it worked. It fooled the Hydra club and kept half the town out of the grimy clutches of men like Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins. There was a level of satisfaction in that – even when the kids went running at the first sight of him. It had been enough.

He was fine playing the villain of the east. It was a burden he had learned to bare for the sake of the town he grew up in, for the sake of the town he loved. He had learned to deal with the consequences.

Until you.

Because what would you do if you knew who he was? Would you hate him? Would you believe the rumors he worked so hard to maintain? Would you give him a chance to explain?

He couldn’t answer any of those questions himself and he was too much of a coward to find out. He’d find a way to tell you eventually. He knew he had to – that it wasn’t fair to drag the target on his back into your shop – but he couldn’t help himself. You were impossible to stay away from.

“Evenin’, sweetheart!” Mrs. Marcovaldo called as Bucky stepped inside the café.

It was unusual for her to be open this late and Bucky only hoped she hadn't been waiting on him. He often tried to stop by in the evenings before she closed to grab a cup of decaf and let her catch him up on the latest drama in her soap operas since her husband passed last year. She was a kind woman, kinder than he deserved.

Bucky carefully looked around the interior of the café, thankful no one else seemed to be inside.

“We talked about this, Mrs. Marcovaldo,” Bucky stressed, though a smile curved on the left side of his mouth. “Can’t be going around calling me ‘sweetheart.’ I’ve got a reputation to maintain. You’re supposed to be scared of me.”

“Ha!” She smirked, setting his cup on the counter, already prepared the way he took it. “You, sweetheart, couldn’t hurt a damn fly.”

Bucky clenched his jaw as he took the paper cup. “You know that isn’t true.”

“Self-defense don’t count,” she replied with a shrug, “nor the defense of this town. You’re better than you let these folks believe of you.”

Bucky sank his shoulders. “You know why I do it, ma’am.”

“Yes,” she nodded, her hand settling against his, wrinkled and warm and full of the kindness he so often didn’t see from this town, “but that don’t mean it don’t hurt.”

Bucky pressed out a tired smile and gave her a short nod. She pulled her hand back, brushing it over her apron.

“You know,” she started, that sing-songy tone in her voice that usually indicated she was able to start prying into his business, “I see you when you walk to the west side. Been doing that a lot lately. Any particular reason?” She batted her lashes, brushing her shoulder against his. “A female reason, perhaps?”

Bucky laughed. “You spend too much time people watching.”

“Oh, I’m right, aren’t I!” Mrs. Marcovaldo beamed; her hands curled up by her chest. “You deserve some happiness, my dear. Don’t let this biking business get in the way of that, you hear me?”

Bucky grinned, amused by her phrasing though he let it slide. “Loud and clear, ma’am.”

“Good!” She scurried her hands, shoving him towards the door. “Now get on home, okay? I need to close up so I can get home to my soaps!”

Bucky made a show of digging his heels in, resisting with all his effort, and somehow – the sweet old woman still managed to shoo him to the door. “Will you ever let me pay for the coffee, Mrs. Marcovaldo?”

Only when Bucky was out on the sidewalk, she winked, replied, “not a chance, sweetheart,” and closed the door behind him.

Bucky laughed under his breath, taking a minute to look up at the stars as they coated over the east side of town. He took a sip of the coffee, sighing as the warmth spread down his chest. It was a strange new feeling – being happy. He wondered how long it might last.

[mummifymecaptain]

I’m weeping. This was so soooooft.

Going Pro

Pairing: College athlete!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky’s a top contender for the major leagues—the best in the nation. That doesn’t seem to be on the forefront of his mind as he’s drafted across the country. 

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: A bit angsty, Bucky in love as usual 

a/n: This is the third one-shot/drabble for my series ‘For the Love of the Game’! I now know a lot about how drafting works for baseball. 

Series Materlist // Main Masterlist

Bucky had been fidgeting all day. 

If his knee wasn’t bouncing, his fingers were making patterns on your leg or messing with the ends of your hair. 

It made sense to you. It was draft day—the beginning of summer, just weeks after you’d both graduated. There had been scouts at just about every one of Bucky’s games last year, all scoping out talent for the major leagues. 

You weren’t worried in the slightest. Bucky was the best pitcher in the nation, and you knew every coach was just aching to get their hands on him. Bucky knew it too. So while it made sense that he would be a little nervous, he shouldn’t look like he was about to bolt out of his parent’s living room. 

Keep reading

[mummifymecaptain]

This was cute as fuuuuuuuuck

At Home Plate

Pairing: College athlete!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky didn’t have time to check his equipment before a game. Everything went downhill from there.   

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: Injury, angst, fluffy Bucky :) 

a/n: This is the first one-shot for my series ‘For the Love of the Game’! I think this one could be read separately from the series if you’re wanting some quick baseball!bucky :) 

Side note: 90 mph = 144 kph.

Series Materlist // Main Masterlist

You were almost late that day. The night before, Bucky had stayed up with you as you stressed over a textbook and tugged at your hair. He wanted to make sure you weren’t overworking yourself, but you just wanted to make sure you understood organic chemistry. 

“C’mon, doll, you’ll have all weekend to study. Come lay down with me—just ten minutes. I’ll set an alarm and everything.”

You knew he was lying. His hands were far too gentle on your shoulders and his eyelids were drooping. 

Keep reading

[mummifymecaptain]

This is my favorite part about Sunday

Delicate Edges (3)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 5.4k chapter warnings: references to Rollins/rumlow being handsy assholes, bucky is an absolute lovesick dork

series masterlist / series playlist

You knew before you dared to open the register that it would be lighter than the last time. Even after you'd managed to convince the Italian bakery down the street to add an extra hanging pot to their awning, it still wasn’t anywhere near what Rumlow was demanding of you. You wondered briefly if you could sell some of the antiques your grandmother had left behind in her will to make up the difference. It wasn’t ideal, but what choice did you have? Business was slowing down and the Hydra club did not care for your excuses.

A vibration buzzed from your phone, indicating that it was time to open shop. It was sunny outside today at least and that usually fared better for impulse purchases and window watchers. You unlatched the heavy lock at the door and illuminated the open sign hanging in the window. As you turned back to resume the flower arrangement you’d made for an upcoming dance recital, the bell chimed.

Surprised to have a customer so early, you’d nearly tripped over the garden hose that ran along the center of your store. Damn thing always had a habit of finding itself in the most inconvenient of places. You kicked it under the table, brushed down the front of your wrinkled apron, and turned to find Blue-eyes sauntering in through door.

Casually, with his hands shoved into his pockets, Bucky strolled through the aisles as if he were simply browsing the arrangements. Certainly not because he was playing off the real reason he’d shown up again, of course. You felt the smile curving up along your cheeks, pressing wide enough that it was barely contained, though you did your best as you bit your teeth into your bottom lip.

“Bucky?” You grinned, watching him as he gently touched the ribbons wrapped around the vase along the wall. He paused, his eyes flashing over to you for only a second before he returned to the flowers. A smirk tugged at his lips as you watched him. “Are you checking in on me again?”

“Who, me? Of course not.” Bucky pulled his hands from his pockets, his fingers appearing antsy as they danced around, chasing his gaze as he looked to each of the flower arrangements surrounding him. He picked up a bouquet of Carnations, Tibet Roses, and Scabiosas, admiring them as he got careful look of the full arrangement. Then, he brought them to the counter. “I'm here to buy flowers.”

You set your hands on your hips, struggling to push down your amusement. “Are you now?”

“Do you doubt me, doll?” he challenged playfully, a near magnetic glow in his smile. The low infliction of his voice was not lost on you as he casually slipped in the term of endearment.

You wondered briefly it was simply a part of his natural vocabulary or if it was reserved for a certain flower shop owner who couldn’t seem to stay away from trouble. Bucky was handsome enough to have half the town chasing after him – with those damn eyes of his and the saunter of his stride baring on strong legs and taunt muscle. You imagined he called most women by the name – especially if it had the same effect on them as it seemed to have on you. All warm and fuzzy and stomach twisting into delicate knots. You wished he would use it again.

“The Centenarian looking a bit dull, huh?” you managed to reply, rather proud of yourself for not simply melting into a puddle.

Bucky chuckled under his breath, his chin falling to his chest. The brim of his baseball cap obstructed his eyes and you longed to jump over the counter and knock it straight off his head. It was a shame for anything to cover those eyes of his.

“Maybe the rugged old thing deserves a bit of beauty,” Bucky reasoned. “Might look a little out of place next to the dart board and the fist-sized hole in the wall but it’ll brighten the space up, don’t ya think?”

“Yes, I suppose it will.”

Your cheeks were aching from how wide you were smiling. It shouldn’t be possible how quickly this man allowed you to forget the thinning stack of bills in the register and date marked in red upon your calendar – three and half weeks away.

The Hydra club didn’t exist when Bucky walked in the room. He carried this impossible aura around him – one that left you feeling like nothing could possibly touch you when he was within your eye line. Rumlow and Rollins were a thousand miles away when he looked at you like that – like maybe you were more than just a tragic girl who’d lost her parents too young and carried the weight of their choices in a Hydra sized boulder on her back.

Bucky nodded, pursing his lips as he looked casually around the shop. “Might as well give me four of them, yeah?”

You blinked, smile falling quickly from your face. You couldn’t have heard him right...

“Sorry...what?”

“I’ll take four of them, doll,” Bucky replied simply.

You swallowed, nervously wiping your hands along your apron, your fingertips tracing over the lettering your mother had hand-stitched when she’d first opened the shop decades ago. It was starting to fray but you refused to take a needle to it – it needed to stay preserved as she’d left it, untouched by another’s hands, even your own.

“You don’t-- You don’t have to do that, Bucky,” you said despite the gnawing voice in the back of your head reminding you how far behind you were on Hydra’s payments. “You're very sweet to check in on me, but—”

“Who said anything about checking in?” Bucky teased, winking at you. All charm and charisma as if it were made deep within his bones. “I’m here for the flowers, remember?”

It was a bit – you knew it was a bit, but he was sticking his ground. You wondered if it were possible if he knew how much this would help you. Those bouquets weren’t cheap and though it wouldn’t be enough to make up for the slow business the day before, it would be pretty damn close. Close enough to not have to sell your grandmother’s heirlooms.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll look lovely in the bar,” was all you were able to reply without allowing your relief to spill into tears. It swelled inside your chest and eased the mountains of weight from your shoulders. This wonderful, beautiful man.

You rang up his order and Bucky handed you several bills from an old, leather wallet. It was faded with decades of use, falling apart in the seams. It reminded you of the one in your own bag. When you handed him his change, he just as quickly shoved the bills into the tip jar by the register, conveniently ignoring the pointed look you gave him as he turned in search of his flowers.

“Let me help you take them to your car,” you offered, feeling rather guilty that you’d taken his money at all. If you weren’t so behind in the register, you might have refused him all together. But he was watching you with such warmth nestled into the blue of his eyes that you weren’t sure there was anything you could say no to if he asked.

Bucky’s arms were full of flowers, his face barely peering over the tops of the roses when he paused, furrowing his brow. “Oh, I uh—I walked.”

You laughed, looking to the busy sidewalk. “Not very forward thinking of you. Since you were here for the flowers and all.”

Bucky grinned, giving you a short shrug. “Must have slipped my mind.”

“Will you be alright to carry those back on your own?” you asked, following him to the door. The bell chimed over your head as you pulled it open for him.  “I’d offer to help, but I have to be here for the shop.”

“I’ll be alright, doll,” Bucky winked, pushing his nose between the bundle of pink and white carnations. Surrounded by a sea of flowers. This man – with a faded pink scar on his jawline, frayed edges on the ends of his sleeves, and a wallet that was faded down near to nothing – enveloped in flowers. Rugged around his edges in his dark clothing and silver rings and still impossibly sweet in a sea of pink and white flowers.

He turned to leave, slowly attempting to step out into the sidewalk between pedestrians when alarm rang in the back of your head, panic jolting down to your fingertips.

“Bucky, wait!”

He froze, tightening his grip on the flowers. “Yeah?”

Now that he was looking at you again, you weren’t sure whether you would be able to find your nerve. Heat burned in your cheeks under his gaze but there was something in the way he watched you – with a patience and kindness you hadn’t seen in years – that you were able to swallow back your doubt.

“Do you... um... do you think you’ll be by for... um... flowers again soon?”

A slow smile crept up along his lips – brightening into the blue of his eyes like sun reflected over the crest of Caribbean waves.

“Could never have too many flowers,” Bucky answered. You wondered if he noticed the swell of relief you felt in his response, the possibility of seeing him again. Then, he turned back to the sidewalk. “I should head back to the pub. I’m sure I’ve got a line waiting outside to let ‘em in.”

“It’s nine in the morning,” you laughed, checking your watch again to be sure.

"So it is,” Bucky grinned. “Have a good day, Y/n.”

"You, too, Bucky,” you replied, watching as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. You waited in the opening of your shop until his outline disappeared into the horizon, fading as he crossed into the east side of town. When you made your way back into the shop, you pressed your fingers against the side of your face – massaging the ache there. You were still smiling long after Bucky had left.

***

Two weeks later and the Centenarian was covered in flowers.

“I am quite literally begging you to stop,” Sam groaned at the sight of yet another handful of florals in Bucky’s arms as he shoved his way inside the bar.

This time you had convinced Bucky into something more sustainable – a potted Easter cactus that was all but impossible to kill. It didn’t have the prickly nature of other cactuses with its soft green leaves and the bright pink blossoms that appeared in the spring – a bit of beauty amongst something known for its defensive nature.

“Seem a bit familiar?” you’d said, cleverly hinting to the sleeve of tattoos peering out from under his flannel sleeves. He’d almost caught himself in a blush before he pointed out that you’d all but called him pretty, and your eyes had so blown wide in embarrassment, Bucky’s stomach had ached with laughter until he was able to catch his breath again.

The back office was drowning in flowers. Stray bouquets and arrangements he couldn’t find a halfway decent spot for inside the bar placed in vases on the desk, on the bookshelf, hanging from the walls, sitting in the chair Steve usually occupied. Bucky had to admit that as strange as it was to see a vase of lilies on the table next to Old Mike when he was draped over the edge in a drunk stupor, snoring away, it added a sort of charm to the place. Brightened it up. Gave it a semblance of life. Or perhaps, it only reminded him of you – and maybe that was enough.

“Well, I like them,” Natasha smirked, leaning in to smell the Butterfly Ranunculuses and Snapdragons he’d purchased from you two days before.

On some level, Bucky knew he was going a bit too far with it all. He knew he wasn’t fooling you or anyone else with his lame excuses for why he needed so many flowers on such short notice. He was practically making his way through your whole shop – buying up whatever you were displaying that day. You’d even resorted to making arrangements specifically for him, going only off of whatever colors he could verbalize in the moment. You didn’t seem to notice they would always match the colors of the flowers in the dress you were wearing that day.

“Give me some yellow and white ones today, doll,” he’d said to match the shades of gold in your dress a few days earlier. He could never recognize what the flowers were on the fabric, but you always managed to grab the same ones. Maybe it was subconscious, or maybe you caught onto what he was doing. He wasn't sure.

He found you in shades of pastel purples just a few days earlier and he had enough sense about him to ask for lavender in the bouquet. He knew that one was purple, at least, and maybe he could get away with convincing you it was for his ailing grandmother, though the sweet old lady had passed before he was even born.

But Bucky was running out of excuses and with every smile you gave him at his lame attempts to convince you otherwise, his drive to keep coming back only got worse.

He had thought perhaps if he just checked in on you that first morning and made sure that you were all right, then he could move on without his thoughts being occupied by you at every waking hour. Turned out, it had quite the opposite effect. Once he had a taste, he wasn’t sure how to stop. It didn’t help that he started to notice the way you glanced toward the windows before he arrived, almost as if you were looking for his navy-blue cap amongst the pedestrians on the sidewalk.

He tried to brush aside the way your eyes so easily lit up when he stepped through the door, how you didn’t stop smiling for even a moment the entire time he was with you, how his own heart felt like it might burst outside of his chest, but it wasn’t so easily ignored.

A few days ago, you all but begged him to accept a discount on his order. He’d bought more in flowers within the two weeks than most people did in a year’s time and he could see the guilt written upon your features. There was no hiding the fact that it was clearly a rouse to spend time with you and there was no need for him to pay for your company in flowers, but Bucky was insistent.

He needed the flowers, he told you. The bar was a dingy mess anyway and hell – maybe he liked the idea of having little reminders of you around the place. It confused a lot of the patrons at first but they seemed to like it after a while too. Peter had taken to pinning a broken Carnation to his apron and seemed to gleam from it.

Eventually, Bucky caved and allowed you to take twenty percent off his cost. Though when you weren’t looking, he pushed the rest of the cash into the trip jar anyway. He wished he could have seen your face when you noticed what he’d done – if it would have taken you only moments after he left or until the sun set and you closed for the night. You scolded him the following time he scrolled in – though he was all pleased with himself – but you thanked him with a heaviness that left him feeling weak.

There was a sadness within it. A burden he couldn’t name. And all Bucky wanted to do was ease it from your shoulders in any way he could. But it was too soon. Too early. It was a line he couldn’t cross because he knew what happened when he trusted someone too quickly. He knew and yet all he could think about was the next time he could see you again.

“You've been going over to the west side a lot lately,” Steve said slowly, watching as Bucky set the cactus in the corner of the office near the window, adjusting the branches until they spilled over the edge of the pot in the way you’d shown him. “You know how dangerous that could be for you, especially after what happened last time.”

“I know, Steve.” Bucky sighed, massaging the ache in his ribs. He wished they would stop reminding him of it as if he’d forgotten. His fingertips brushed over the old scar that never had the proper decency to heal. It had been almost a year and still, the pain lingered. It stayed with him long after the surgery and the painkillers had run their course. Perhaps it was meant to serve as a reminder of what happened when he trusted too easily – the consequences of unbridled affection.

But it didn’t ache when he thought of you and he hoped that meant something.

“Hydra is acting up,” Steve reminded him as if he hadn’t seen Barton limp his way into the bar the night before with a shiner and a busted lip after he’d crossed paths with the Hydra club near the border. He’d been out to the movies with his family when they jumped him. “Rumlow is pushing on the boundary again. If he catches you on the west side—”

“I know, Steve,” Bucky repeated, his voice taunt. He’d taken precautions to avoid any run-ins with Hydra. He knew exactly what would happen if he crossed paths with Rumlow or Rollins or any of their goons. He was the one invading on their territory – lines they’d drawn themselves. It was what kept Hydra out of the east side – the agreement that the 107 wouldn’t push back on the boundary or make trouble in the west.

If he was caught, it could call the whole agreement into question and who knew what could happen to the east after that. It was a risk – one Bucky wouldn’t have dared even weeks earlier. But that was before he met you. Before he remembered what it felt like for his stomach to twist into knots, for his heart to stammer inside his chest – to chase a smile and be certain that he would do anything and everything to see it again.

He’d been to your shop more days than not in the last two weeks and still – it didn’t feel like enough. Maybe he was walking head first into trouble and maybe he was a damn fool for thinking he could want something for himself for once, but maybe he deserved to be selfish. Maybe, Bucky Barnes deserved some happiness after everything he did for this town, after all the pieces of himself he gave up to protect it.

Was that so bad? Was it so awful that he wanted someone to look at him like he was worth something? Was it so terrible he wanted that someone to be you?

You didn’t recognize his name, didn’t know his face. He could just be himself when he was with you – didn't have to think about the rumors circulating about him or the reputation he had to maintain to hold leverage against Hydra. You looked at him and you saw him. It had been so long since he’d felt seen behind the mask he so often wore, behind the stories that followed him, and the bike he drove through town.

He'd barely known you more than two weeks and you gave him back parts of himself he’d forgotten. The light, charming version of himself he thought had died that night on the west when the knife cut through his body.

If it were anyone else, he’d tell them they were risking too much for a woman they didn’t know. If it were Sam or Steve, he’d have already set them straight – reminded them nothing good could come of it, of pretending they didn’t have this reputation lingering over their shoulders, of crossing into a side of town that could get them killed on a moment's notice.

But Bucky was stubborn. And a little reckless.

And nothing was going to keep him from the florist in the west.