I will elaborate on this but imagine MobBucky has to kidnap you for whatever reason, ransom, to send a message, insert your preference here and he has you tied up in some room of his house. It’s all fine until he hears the scraping of the chair moving against the floor so he, Steve and Sam go over to make sure you’re not trying to escape.
He the closer he gets, the louder the scraping is, he bursts through the door.
“You better not try to lea-what-what the hell are you doing-
You momentarily stop your scooting to look and him and then back at your destination, only to start all over again. You were so close, you didn’t care if your hands were bound, you’d find a way-
“What’s she doing in there” Steve questioned, seeing Bucky run an exasperated hand over his face.
“She’s trying to pet the cat”
“What?”
Bucky stared at you as you finally reached where his very white, very spoiled fur baby was perched. He was so sure she’d try and swat at you, at the very least hiss, after all, she was as picky and grumpy as her daddy-
“Merp” she hopped down to nuzzle against your leg, bumping her head against you with a happy purr. “Meow-
“Alright, that’s enough, Alpine get over here”
The sassy feline gave him a hard stare before reluctantly pulling away and sauntering over, batting his leg before trotting off. He was supposed to be the leader of his gang and meanwhile his hostage was trying to pet his cat who just scolded him after being told to leave.
“Well thanks for that” You gave him an annoyed huff, obnoxiously scooting back to where the chair originally was.
“Brat” Bucky mumbled his breath, biting back the smile that almost made its way to his face.
smoke screens and sweet saccharine things mob boss! bucky x jazz singer! f! reader
+ a part two of sorts
★word count: 10.6k
★summary: bucky barnes, known mob boss, has been hiding a secret, just a little too long for even his own liking.
★CONTENT/WARNINGS: 18+, descriptions of violence, explicit content, MDNI, the mob does things guys, cursing, smut, breeding kink, bucky barnes is a munch, unprotected sex (i think that's everything?)
roe speaks: this is part of the bwa collab (go check out the other fics too or else), and i had so much fun writing it! (if you see the explicit john wick references LOOK AWAY/j) huge thanks to everyone in bwa for being so sweet, supportive and amazing, @chateaubarnes, @houseofhyde and @unificsation for the "lock in vcs" and check ins, @barnesonly and @juniebjonesin for proofreading for me (ly guys mwah mwah)! tagging my fellow bwa-thers supreme leader @superbassbuck and @its-in-the-woods , enjoy!
Drip.
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip.
The tears of angels, sorrowful in the heavens, did nothing to soothe his soul, as yet another day of work drained on. The wind howls past him as he drags yet another breath from his cigarette. Savouring the taste, he slowly exhales into the wind’s mournful howls, before flicking it away. He runs a hand through his hair, attempting to ease the tension, or stress stuck up there. It briefly dissipates, melting away with the pitter pattering all around him. Yet when he remembers what those idiots had just done, he finds himself raising the bat once more.
THWACK!
Birds scatter, quickly escaping the scene, and a lonely crow finds itself in the middle of the mess, sorrowfully cawing out in misery. Thick, sangria liquid pooled over rough gravel, hidden from the hustle and bustle of the city via an alleyway. He looked down at the crow, flailing about below him. He pulled back the bat, lowered by his side, coated in the very same liquid, each crack stained by pain and suffering. He hands it over to another, pulling off his gloves and handing them over too, sighing and tutting as he does,
“I’m gonna be fuckin’ late because of these thick idiots. Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, Steve, finish up f’me, yeah? Gotta fuckin’ meet Stark, too.”
He almost turns and leaves, but spins back on his heel one last time,
“You better fuckin’ think twice next time y’even consider stealin’, got that? Fuckin’ idiots, c’mon Sam.”
And then he turns to leave, with Sam holding his umbrella above him. After all, Bucky Barnes always got the last word, no matter what.
Bucky Barnes. The man, the myth, the legend. Rose through the ranks as an enforcer, only to take over the family business once his father passed away. Known, revered and feared, Bucky Barnes was cruel, harsh and unrelenting. Tales of his cruelty, of his punishments travelled through the streets of New York, establishing himself as the somewhat unofficial King of New York. A.K.A., someone not to be fucked with.
So you can imagine just how angry Mr. Barnes is, when he’s whisked away from his regular business, to deal with some absolute idiots, who had the bright-fuckin’-idea to fuckin’ steal from him. Fuckin’ pricks, the lot of ‘em.
He continues muttering and grumbling the entire way to the car, as he slips his rings back on. A sweet, modified pitch black Mustang, Boss 429, 1970. In the rain, each droplet rolls off smoothly, from the hood to the ground, pooling down into the sewer grates. Moody, low headlights barely announce themselves. The car itself, just like Bucky Barnes, is very much an imposing force of nature. The driver waits patiently for his acknowledgement - you didn’t just do things around Bucky Barnes. No, you waited patiently, for his instruction. He turns back to Sam, running a hand back through his hair again, eyebrows furrowing in anger once more,
“I mean really, what fuckin’ idiots, huh? What family were they, Wilson’s? He’s a wack-ass piece a’ shit anyway, but he wouldn’t go this fuckin’ far.”
Sam sighed, pinching his own nose before he continued. No matter how he answered - whether he told Bucky or not - he’d be mad. Better tell him, rather than wait for him to find out, huh?
“Nah, not Wade’s. These were.. that new one, ya know?”
“Fuckin’ Rumlow’s? That fuckin’ bitch. Not even three months in this city, huh?”
“...”
For a moment, they stood quiet, in the hellish downpour. Bucky huffed, leaning against the car. Sam continued to stand as he was, umbrella covering the two of them as Bucky continued his quiet grumblings. Sure, people walked past - but didn’t stop. One quick glare from either man was more than enough to halt questions. Eventually enough, Bucky stood back up, rolling his shoulder back into place as he smoothed down his suit.
He finally acknowledged the driver, allowing him to open the door and let the two of them in. Bucky first, as he relaxed into his seat, and Sam second sat opposite. Sam pours the two of them a dram of whiskey each, and the car roars to life, reversing out smoothly into the dark, moody streets of seedy New York. The very same moody low lights now announce the King’s own arrival, as the driver drives, ensuring the journey is as smooth as possible. One can only imagine what would happen if the driver hit a pothole, and James Buchanan Barnes threw whiskey on his suit. No, no, one shudders at even the thought of such a situation occurring.
By the time the two have finished strategising and conversing over the potential issues and situations that could occur in the next hour or so, the car slows down to a smooth stop, parked neatly into a parking bay. The driver steps out, waiting patiently for both men to finish their conversation and give him the signal. Inside, though,
“Yeah, I got that stone ya wanted. Why you’d go to lengths for a fuckin’ stone, is beyond me, boss. But here, give it a once over, yeah?”
Sam hands over a smooth velvet case. Bucky looks up at him, before slowly opening the box. Inside, a polished, perfectly cut, smooth 143 carat Ceylon Sapphire, straight from Sri Lanka, won in an auction. Bucky would’ve gone himself, but business kept him busy, forcing him to send Sam, naturally.
He carefully held the stone in his hands. How was it, that something so pure, beautiful and perfect sat so sweetly in the palm of his hands? His hands, stained with blood, pain and anguish, wrapped round the stone. He held it up to the car’s light, taking the time to appreciate each and every glimmering line, cut and shine, before carefully placing it back in the box. He throws an appreciative nod in Sam’s direction, before tucking the box away,
“Business calls, Sam. Let’s move.”
Sam raps his knuckles against the window, once, twice and thrice, before the driver opens the door, waiting. Sam steps out first, umbrella already opening as Bucky makes his way out. Bucky steps out slowly, adjusting his suit, tie and cuffs as he walks away from the car, leaving the driver to take care.
The rain hadn’t stopped.
In fact, it was almost like the rain had worsened, attempting to wash Bucky Barnes free of sin.
The umbrella acted as a shade, yes, but it also hid Bucky Barnes. God’s light didn’t shine in his corner of the world. Not here, not there, not anywhere. The bright neon sign of the restaurant shone bright tonight, the rain blooming round it,
“Chateau Barnes”
Sam stepped forward, opening the door for him. Bucky wiped his shoes along the small mat, before stepping inside. Warm, cozy, but still expensive enough to eat at your wallet. Not your wallet being spent though, is it? His eyes flit round, looking for the familiar goatee-sporting man.
And there he is, leaning back in a booth, waiting. Once the two’s eyes meet, the atmosphere suddenly shifts around them. Electricity, sharp and stinging, in the air as Bucky walks over, Sam falling in step with him.
“Barnes.”
“Stark.”
“And you brought Wilson, hmm?”
“Well. You brought Banner. Only fair I bring one of my own, hmm?”
“Tou-fuckin-che.”
The two sit down, eyes barely skimming over the menu. A waitress saunters over, taking their drink orders. An old fashioned for both Sam and Tony, a Manhattan for Bruce and a boulevardier for Bucky.
“And do you know what you’d like for food, or should I come back after drinks?”
The four exchange glances, before rattling off their usual orders. She walks away, orders in hand.
“Well. Now that food’s sorted, business?”
“Slow down, Stark. Let a man get his drink, before y’start throwin’ shit at me.”
“Alright, alright. Drinks first. So, horrible weather, hmm?”
“Tell me ‘bout it.”
Though from his tone, it is explicitly, undeniably clear, that he wants him to do anything but that. Stark holds his ability to.. irritate, or push buttons in high regard, though, and ignores Bucky’s dry, barely responsive tone.
“Fuckin’ downpour out there, pissin’ itself more than a grievin’ mother”
“Jesus Christ, Stark? Ever heard of a normal fuckin’ sentence? Fuckin’ hell… Just. Nothin’ ‘til we’ve got drinks, yeah? Fuck me..”
Tony only laughs in response, leaning back as the waitress returns, drinks in hand. She hands each drink over, and Bucky doesn’t miss the weird look she gives him. Not a bad look, more a ‘I’ve-seen-you-somewhere-haven’t-I’ look. Nothing out of the ordinary for him. Finally, he gets a chance to savour his drink. Sweeter than his usual drink, for sure, but still hitting each taste bud, as he swirls it round his mouth, savouring the taste. All four men take a minute to appreciate their drinks, before Tony starts,
“Fuckin’ Rumlow. Y’seen his bastards yet? Fuckin’ dickwads, lot of ‘em. Shit, Barnes. We gotta show ‘em who owns-”
“Yeah. One thing at a time, Stark. Rumlow’s bitches first, then we’ll sort everythin’ else, yeah?”
“Now, now Barnes. Y’not scared I want your area, hmm?”
His eyebrows furrowed again, his eyes darkening. Sam inhales and exhales deeply, beside him, almost as a reminder of where he is. A moment passes before he relaxes again, drinking his drink and leaning back too.
“My part? Stark… don’t forget I still collect ya debt. Don’t forget who fuckin’ runs this shit, hmm? Still, Rumlow’s a fuckin’ problem. And I’m willin’ to give some o’my men to help… sort him out, hmm?”
Tony grumbles slightly into his drink, about to retort when the waitress returns, with four very different plates. One for each man and his tastes. Tony gets a fancy steak and mash, and Sam gets a steak and chips. Bruce ordered a plate of truffle-topped tagliatelle, and Bucky receives a ravioli, filled with only the best lobster. The waitress pauses before leaving, nodding in Bucky’s direction,
“Chef sends his regards.”
He nods back, after taking a moment to appreciate the plate in front of him,
“And send ours back, hmm?”
She nods, and walks away again, leaving the four of them to talk business over their meals. Each man takes their time to appreciate the high-end meals placed in front of them. The effort, attention to detail, exquisite-ness of it all is not left unappreciated, as they strategise and plan exactly how to handle Rumlow and his.. situation.
“...So, I’ll send a few a’my men. They’ll be more than capable, capiche? An’ before y’say - yeah, I fuckin’ know y’got this. But I gotta deal with it too, y’know?”
Bucky sighs, running a hand over his face, and Tony sits, quietly contemplating. Bruce leans over, whispering into his ear, provoking Sam to lean over and whisper too,
Bucky nods back, attempting to hold back a smile, before making eye contact with Tony again.
“Okay, Barnes. Okay. But only because Rumlow’s a fuckin’ bitch of a problem, yeah?”
“Thanks for co-operatin’ - ‘preciate it, Stark.”
By the end of dinner, all four men pay for their meals, leaving a generous tip behind. The waitress comes by to pick up their dishes, and Bucky sends her back with a message,
“Compliments to our chef, hmm? Wonderful dinner, and wonderful drinks, as always.”
And with that, all four men depart off, to their separate cars. Sam and Bucky wait just long enough to see Tony and Bruce leave, before walking back to their car. Bucky resists the urge to light a cigarette, knowing he’d have to put it out sooner than he’d want. Instead, he brushes his hair back with his hand, shaking his head,
“Keep an eye on Stark, Sam. He’s got somethin’ planned. Don’ like it.”
Sam nods, and keeps the umbrella held, shielding Bucky from the Heavens.
“Fuckin’ Hell, the rain, huh? Can ya do somethin’ ‘bout the rain, miracle man? Can ya fuckin’ make it pretty f’me? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, all it fuckin’ does in this fuckin’ city is rain. I mean, really. Fuckin’ A, this stupid weather.”
Sam chuckles quietly, shaking his head. But he knows better than to respond. Bucky Barnes wasn’t the kinda man you casually joked with, nor was he a man to be taken lightly. They both stand around a while, the only noise being the pitter patter of rainfall, surrounding them. By now, the doom and gloom of dark grey clouds had disappeared, leaving behind a dark blue sky, almost rivalling the sweet sapphire in his pocket. Where the Moon should shine bright tonight, glowing and glittering amongst the blanket of stars, she had instead run off, chasing after the Sun, and his warmth, and glory. And left behind, in her place, was an empty void of blue, filled with drab clouds in between. Truly, the skies mourned her absence, with just how much they cried. He tutted, stamping away at an awkward piece of gravel under his shoe, before giving the signal back to the driver, who opened their doors once again. In they sat, leaning into the cool, grounding leather of the seats.
Only one last stop for the night.
There you were, sat in your dressing room, halfway through getting ready for the night. It’s a nice, comfortable room, draped with the finest silks and most extravagant lamps. You wear a long, somewhat scandalous, yet still classy, sanguine-red gown draped itself across your body, accentuated by a cheeky-high slit up your thigh. You adorned yourself with dazzling gemstones, set in gold, across your neck, arms, on your ears and a barely visible one round your right ankle.
Your make up was just about almost done for the night, with only some eyeliner and mascara left - which you were concentrating heavily on, pulling a face as you carefully lined your eyes. Your eyeshadow sparkled, in all the right places, and your blush bloomed just perfectly. Your lips were just soft enough, for the sweet, sweet songs of the night, and your hair was just tousled enough to be stage-worthy.
You slip on each ring, taking the time to appreciate how they looked on your hands, and to remember how each one got there. A small smile on your face, you move over to perfume.
Being a singer of your level, you had access to all the world's needs, riches and comforts, of course. It wasn't always like this, and you remember the days where you'd beg, day after day, for even one performance. But the Hotel Continental takes care of its own, and since joining, you've been kept well.
Yet you find yourself reaching for the very same perfume. From all those years ago. It didn't really matter up on stage, which perfume you wore. Only for you, and there's only one that you adore. An old bottle, name barely visible with how often you used it. And as always, it complemented your body oil, outfit and make up just perfectly. You spritz some on, before carefully placing it back down in your perfume cabinet.
The time. What time was it? You turn round to the clock behind you-
8:03 pm.
27 minutes. In 27 minutes, you'd be up on stage, as you would most nights, performing. In 27 minutes, you'd perhaps search the crowd for old familiar faces. In 27 minutes, it'd be just you, and the music. stage, and the music.
You finish getting ready, as Winston’s ‘25-minutes-left’ knock rattles on the door.
“Come in!”
He carefully opens the door, a cup of chamomile tea in one hand, and a warm hug from the other. The door shuts softly as he walks over, setting the cup down on your table. He opens his arms wide, and you immediately accept the warm hug. Winston’s always been so sweet, just like a father to you - your saving grace in the city that never sleeps. He gently pats your back, before pulling away, a hand softly smoothing your hair,
“You ready? The stage awaits you again, my dear.”
You sip your tea slowly, swirling the taste round in your mouth, nodding back,
“Yeah. Just.. the usual jitters, you know?”
“Really? All these years, and you still get nervous?”
He tutted and chuckled, earning a smile from you. He’s always been good to you, both him and the hotel. The Hotel Continental was a luxurious place, filled with everything the rich man needed. A grand lobby, an extravagant lounge, perfect room service - truly New York’s best of the best. Unbeknownst to most attendees, though, the Hotel Continental hid its own secrets, too.
For starters, any and all mob business was to be abandoned on the steps of the Continental. There is to be no business conducted inside, nor blood to be shed. After all, not the Continental was a safe haven for many a character, but the Continental had its own reputation to hold - the risk was too high.
Second, the Continental had its own.. connections to New York’s underground. Common knowledge, amongst those involved. But this, much like the first point, was never to be exposed. Exposing the Continental in such a manner would result in excommunication, from the High Table. And who would risk excommunication, in such a world?
Third, was the hotel’s own speakeasy. Not easily accessible, mind you, but the Hidden Note was well known, at least amongst New York’s worst. And within the Hidden Note, was the Continental’s final secret.
You.
New York’s best jazz singer, sought after by everyone and anyone, hidden away in a speakeasy.
You inhale deep and exhale fast, smoothing down the wrinkles on your dress, a well-disguised stress-managing mechanism,
“Yeah. All these years, and the nerves still get me, huh? It’ll be okay when we’re out there, though.”
It always is.
“Speaking of out there, I hear a certain.. someone has been.. attending more recently, hmm? You know anything about that?”
He shoots you a knowing glance as you busy yourself with switching your earrings, favouring the drops over the smaller studs,
“I have no idea who you’re on about, Winston! Besides, it’s all good for business, hmm?”
You wink back, before checking the time. How have 15 minutes passed so soon?
“Is that so, hmm? So a certain.. blue-eyed man hasn’t been frequenting our hotel, has he?”
Winston makes direct eye contact with your reflection in the mirror, and suddenly, it’s very hot in here. He shakes his head, placing an affectionate hand on your shoulder,
“Be careful, little dove, hmm? That’s all.”
You look back up at the clock, adorned with sweet cherubs, playing the lute and the harp, singing their sweet songs all up the marbled pillar, round the clock face itself - time always passed quicker before performances.
“Now, now. Don’t get all panicky on me - I need you at your best for tonight, hmm?”
Sighing, you take a moment to centre yourself, breathing in and out, closing your eyes. Any and all thoughts leave your brain as you focus on the task at hand: tonight’s performance. Opening your eyes again, you find Winston’s hand outstretched towards you,
“You’ll be alright. Shall we?”
You nod back in the mirror’s reflection, turning and taking his hand as he (the very same as he does every night you perform) leads you through the back, helping you sort out last minute touches and such. It’s less of a necessity, and more of a pre-show ritual, at this point. He offers you whiskey, and you refuse. He knows you’ll refuse, each time, but he also knows you need it to be the exact same, every night. He knows, and ensures your pre-show ritual continues as smoothly (or chaotically, depending on how you view it) as it did, the very first time you performed.
“Right. 3 minutes left now. It’s all you, hmm?”
“Gotcha. Same as always, Winston.”
And with that, Winston leaves you, presumably to go sit with the highest of the highest out in the audience. Your audience. Here, waiting just for you. Stood behind the curtain, you make your way up on stage, finally smoothing down your dress one last time. You crack your knuckles, adjust your mic and mentally prepare for the night to begin. You can hear Winston out there, introducing you,
“And now, for New York’s best kept secret, our very own Siren of The Night, here at The Hotel Continental’s own, Hidden Note!”
Winston walks off the front of the stage, as the curtain slowly parts, revealing you, and the musicians behind you. A warm light hits you, and you smile, your jewels dazzling round, bouncing off the walls. A round of applause fills the room, as all eyes land on you. You take a minute to look around the room, seeing newer faces (is that the CEO of that one really big record label? Strange.. he looks awfully familiar), and old ones too.
But there’s only ever one pair of eyes you seek out.
And there they are, fixated on you.
You close your eyes, as the band behind you starts to play. Old hits, and some new ones too, smoothly playing behind you. You sway with each note, and by the time you begin singing, the audience is entirely enchanted, by the sweet notes dancing around them. Your voice, smoother than honey, builds a sweet tension, with each note climbing above the other. And when it snaps, all eyes are on you.
Each song holds emotion, intensity and passion, as you put in your all into every note. Small movements across the stage become dramatic flairs, here and there, and your nerves easily dissipate into a raw confidence. Your dress billows out, flowy and following each and every movement. Even the light follows you round the stage, as each movement casts a different pattern across the walls of the room.
The thrill of the performance only pushes you, as you reach the very climax of your performance, with a note that holds each and every audience-members eyes and attention. It’s long, powerful and intense, and only speaks to just how strong a singer you are.
Eventually, you lower your arms, finishing your performance the same as always, with a sweet bow, smile and a wave. You scan the crowd again, searching for those familiar cloudy blue eyes, once more.
They’re not there.
You collect yourself, smiling and waving once more, bowing with the band, before you head back off-stage, back into your dressing room, where you sit, quiet.
Thinking.
Meanwhile, Bucky Barnes was pissed.
You see, he’d been sat, nicely, calmly, in his seat. Enjoying the performance. Winston, owner of the Hotel Continental, sat with him, Sam, and some other fucking chump. But he’d been calm. For the sake of the rules, at the very least. And it’d started out fine. He made the regular small talk he needed to. Winston talked to him about regular, normal things. The weather, how it manages to piss it down, every, fucking, day. How business was going, how family was. Winston was like that. Good, kind. Normal. He is the godfather of the underworld here for a reason, after all. Bucky (entirely unwillingly) had found out the idiot’s name was Barry. Who the fuck is Barry, anyway? Who the fuck cares? But he’d been nice, and calm, and normal anyway. Turns out, this was Barry’s first time here (again. Who the fuck cares?). Some rich-prick’s son-in-law, and he just had to see what the Hidden Note was hiding away, in its exclusive clutches.
And Winston? He knew Bucky. He knew Bucky, and he knew exactly how he’d handle a bitch like Barry. And Bucky knew exactly what Winston was doing, as the older gentleman looked back at him with a look that could only be conveyed as saying ‘Not-On-Continental-Property’. Sam stifled a small laugh behind a cough, and Bucky rolled his eyes to the side, not wanting to interrupt the performance.
So when Barry, the bitch, piped up with a,
“I’ve heard better than this fuckin’ shit! I mean c’mon? The fuck is this?”
Bucky Barnes was beyond pissed.
And when Winston looked over with a warning glance, once more in his direction, all he could do is grit his teeth and nod (and pray that somehow, somewhere, Barry, the bitch, would leave. Let him get his hands on him. Somehow.), unwilling to cause a scene in Winston’s kind hospitality.
So when Barry (the Bitch) made a huge fuss, specifically toward’s the end of your performance, of needing a smoke, Bucky Barnes was more than happy to oblige. Especially, when Winston offered over one of his own cigars for him. Picture, if you will, the image of bright, neon green lights, blinking around in his brain.
Bucky leads him outside, into an alley just behind the hotel. Explicitly not Continental property. On his way out though, he sneaks a glance at you. At how gorgeously each and every light shines off you. At how you, and only you, shine brighter than any diamond, ruby and sapphire. At how you smoothly move round the stage, your sweet voice stunning and fascinating everyone, and everything that dared even breathe in a presence as angelic as yours, and grumbles about missing it under his breath,
“Yeah. This fuckin’ way.”
Taking twists and turns, past the Continental’s.. shadier business, (including a room of slightly dodgy.. accountants, operating an old switchboard) they finally make it outside. Sure, the hotel has its own little smoking room. But that’s hotel-owned property. Bucky Barnes can’t beat the shit out of Barry (the Bitch) on hotel-owned property. And Barry (the Bitch) has no fucking idea what’s about to happen.
Stepping outside, the rain has not stopped, not at all. It’s almost asking him to reconsider - is this really a good idea? But he cares not for what the heavens think. Nor the winds, as they scream in an attempt to warn the other man. And he most definitely could care less for the little birds in the air, cawing and crying as they fly past. In the madness of the rain, he finds himself getting angrier by the minute, only for the Bitch himself to start speaking too,
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, her fuckin’ voice droned on, huh? I mean, a guy comes all this fuckin’ way, for some good fuckin’ shit, only to sit through that?”
His eye twitches slightly as he briefly considers the gloves. But then, the sting of the rings won’t quite hit him the same, so he puts them away, and waits patiently for the idiot to turn around. It’s a sign, then, from the heavens themselves, or some devil, somewhere, that out of the corner of his eye, is a metal pipe.
A metal fuckin’ pipe.
It’s practically Christmas Day, as Bucky Barnes’ eyes light up!
Seriously, if you had seen him right here, right now, you’d presume he’d just won the fuckin’ lottery!
But no. A metal. Fuckin’. Pipe.
He holds the metal pip in his hands, feeling the rain trickle off, over his palms. Tossing it lightly, he feels its weight, completely ignoring whatever fuckshit Barry (the Bitch) had to say.
“-back in Gotha-”
THWACK!
He falls to the ground, blood quickly pooling round his head, mixing with the rain. Bucky drops the bat, grabbing his head in one hand, and winding up with a punch from the other. Each punch that connects is only accentuated by the tears of heavenly bodies, slapping the man’s bleeding face. Each ring connects, scrapes and pulls at his skin, as bloody bits dribble down. But Bucky sees not blood, nor does he see him. He sees rage, sheer, unadulterated rage, as he continues to punch wildly. A fire rages within him, as he unleashes a wild, flurry of blows upon this man. Each punch burns more and more, and the rain only worsens it, the sting of each punch sizzling with each harsh droplet, off like smoke and ash from a burning fire.
Eventually though, Bucky stands back up. His own hands stained with the blood of an imbecile, the fire still rages, as he spits back at him, finally lighting up Winston’s cigar. The bright orange of the lit cigar lights up his face briefly, in the muddy, blue-grey rain. It’s a somewhat peaceful moment, in the hellish landscape of this godforsaken city.
He pauses to take a nice, long drag of the cigar, enjoying the flavour as he puffs out a shape into the rain. He watches as it floats out, before dispersing into the tears of Heaven itself, sighing as he did,
“You fuckin’ idiot. You fuuuuuuckin’, idiot! Y’come to the Hotel Cont’nental. The Ho-Tel-Fuckin’-Con-Tinen-Tal. Ya fuckin’ dog. Y’eat our food. Y’sit with us, like ya belong here. Ya fuckin’ don’t! And y’have the fuckin’ nerve to cuss her out? Fuckin’ dickbag. Let this be ya fuckin’ lesson, ya ragin’ sack a’shit!”
He kicks him, the final wisp of fire rushing through his foot as it connects with his face, and finishes off by spitting back at him again, as the other man mumbles and grumbles through a face full of blood.
Bucky tosses the old metal pipe into some bins, conveniently located to the very side of the door they left from. Now, the bins themselves were Continental property - but the rules never mentioned disposing of used tools.
He stood in the rain briefly, brushing his hair back once more before he walked back inside, leaving the fool outside. Someone would check him. Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Perhaps.
Then again - that’s not Bucky Fucking Barnes’ problem, is it?
Walking back through the shady corridors of the Hotel Continental, he pauses at the administrative office, producing a gold drachma from his pocket. Tossing it over the desk, he leans over, whispering quietly,
“I’m orderin’ a hit.”
The lady sat behind the desk barely looks up from her typewriter, puffing out a small cloud of smoke to the left,
“Name?”
“Brock Rumlow.”
She continues typing away, and he waits. He knows how this game works.
“Reward?”
“2.5. Mill.”
“Very well, Mr Barnes.”
He raps his knuckles on the desk, nodding and turning away. As he walks off, he can just about hear her turning to other employees, placing the “hit” on Rumlow. He pauses, turning back quickly,
“Actually - is he available? Wick. Family friend and all, you know how it is.”
She sighs, and nods, retyping up the instructions,
“AMEND: Hit to be offered to Mr Wick first. If not Mr Wick, then the High Table decides. Does that work for you, Mr Barnes?”
“Yes. Perfect, thank you.”
“Enjoy your stay, sir.”
Speaking of, he had one very important, final meeting to get to.
Let’s hope he wasn’t too late, hmm?
Back amongst the expensive, yet lonely, decor of your dressing room, you sat curled up on the mockingly large bed, teasing your unchosen solitude. The tea, that Winston had brought over earlier, remained half-drank, cold and dull.
And it wasn’t really long before a knock came by your door. But not the knock you had desperately waited for.
“Oh, little dove? It’s just me, thought I’d quickly come by, may I?”
Winston. Of all the times your dear godfather had to appear, now really wasn’t the best time, was it.
Not when you were busy sulking.
Still, you rise from your.. depressing form, and open the door ever so slightly. Outside, stands Godfather Winston, with a velvet pouch in one hand. He raises his eyebrows in concern, at your somewhat despondent state, and you sigh and conjure up a small smile for him. You notice now, he’s hidden a hand behind his back, and slowly raises it forward,
“Oh, a blueberry muffin! Ohhhh, that’s just what I needed tonight!”
“Still the same little dove, hmm? Well, I think this’ll be me for the night, hmm? You’ll be back in day after tomorrow - take the day for yourself.”
You take the muffin, gratefully, and wave him off. And now you’re left again, all alone, with a blueberry muffin and cold, chamomile tea. Slumping into a corner, you slowly chew through the muffin. It’s.. strangely comforting, and each bite warms your heart ever so slightly more.
So when a second knock comes at your door, the more familiar pattern of four, you find yourself mumbling a soft,
“Come in, if you like.”
He pushes the door open, and takes note of your smaller form, sat in a corner. Internally, he makes a face, and sighs. Ahhh, Bucky Barnes has really done it this time, hasn’t he?
He makes his way over, joining you in the corner. You turn your head (petty, huh?) away from him, huffing quietly. He exhales softly, before whispering,
“Hey, doll.”
It’s soft, sweet and reverent. Nothing like he was before. No, this wasn’t the Bucky Barnes the world knew. This was the sweet, gentle ‘James’, that only you knew. Your James. The side he reserved, only for you. He reaches out to your hand, and you frown. You know he can’t see it, but you also know he can feel it, through how you shift slightly. He tries again, his heart melting with just how unresponsive you are to him. And he knows exactly what caused it, too. It doesn’t matter why or what caused him to leave - he should’ve stayed, and waited.
But how does he explain, that he could not bear to sit through that idiot’s each and every stupid word? Especially, specifically when he spoke of you, in such a manner?
He gulps back his guilt, and reaches for your hand. This time, you feel you’ve been petty enough, and let him hold it. His rough, calloused hands run over your smooth, pretty ones. He pulls you in closer, his other hand reaching for your face, softly turning you in, towards him. You sigh, and press your forehead to his, letting him pull you by the waist now, closer in. As you do, he exhales a breath he didn’t even know he had held, shaky and vulnerable,
“Hey honey. Missed ya.”
His every word comes through mumbly and quiet. To anyone else, it might’ve sounded like shame, or fear, but you know this voice well. It’s reserved, just for you, his soft, sweet voice, dripping in your ears. You push your face forwards, your nose brushing past his. His lips meet your cheek, dropping down to your lips with a smile,
“Take it you missed me too, huh?”
You shuffle your body forwards again, and practically fall into his arms. He pulls you into his lap, properly this time, with your legs swung together over his left, and his arms supporting you up against him. He leans you away briefly, just enough to rake his eyes over you. The dress, hugging you tight and perfect, falls just short of exposing you. And matching red gloves tuck under the edges of your ‘off-the-shoulder’ sleeve, wrapping round your hands. Your dress flows out, like a smooth river of red, over his legs, and around you. He pulls you in again, pressing his lips up against your neck, and kissing up to your ear,
“I take you liked the dress? I know I do.”
You hum in response, and sigh as his lips slowly wander round your neck, pressing little marks here and there, like new jewellery,
“James..”
“Yes, dear?”
“Still mad, by the way”
You feel his eyebrows furrowing as he mulls over your words, sighing into the crook of your neck. He readjusts you, now straddling him, and slowly lowers you down, fixing your dress around you. His hand still supports you, as though you were fragile, and even the lightest touch could break you,
“Well. However will I make this up to you, hmm?”
You make a face, whining and pulling him closer. He chuckles, shuffling off his blazer, and pressing himself closer to you, unable to bear the thought of being separated from you. He inhales deep, memorising your scent once more.
“You still use that same perfume? Pretty girl.. I bought you so many others..”
“But that’s still the first one you bought, my love.”
You play with his hair, soft fingers dancing through his scalp as he tuts softly. Was he in your embrace, or you in his? Who knows? Your other hand trickles up and down his back, soothingly as he remains still, unmoving but for his slowed breathing.
If anyone were to see this sight - the most feared man, in all of New York, lying in the most sought after jazz singer’s arms, muttering sweet nothings into her neck? One can only imagine the scandal, the gossip, the floundering arms and legs!
But none of that mattered, at this moment. All that really mattered was Bucky, and you, tangled up in the low, warm light emanating round the room. The singular, vintage lamp (a 2-month anniversary gift, Bucky had insisted upon), working overtime as it provided the softest, most perfect light for this moment. He pulled back briefly, to appreciate you once more. Where once, the harsh stage-light had you shining, glittering and bright, now, the softer, warmer light radiated off you, softening your sweet gaze on him.
He had truly no choice but to bask in your heavenly glow, a sweet angel, in his arms.
Which reminded him, of his hands. Still stained with the very same sanguine colour wrapped around your body, still reminding him of his sins. How was it, that something so pure, beautiful and perfect sat so sweetly in the palm of his hands? How was it, then, that you wanted him? All these years, you had been his, and only his. The Siren of The Night, yet the only one privy to your sweet voice was him, and him alone.
He leaned further back, and you whined again, begging him closer. He leaned forwards, only to press a sweet kiss to your forehead, before hooking his arms under you, lifting you up. You moan softly, only for his ears, and if someone were to stop, just outside the East side of the Hotel Continental, and look up to the third floor, perhaps they’d see just a glimmer of red, brushed up into a sweet, tender embrace, as the rain rejoiced, just outside the window.
And he slowly walks over to your bed, your soft, silken sheets awaiting the weight of two intertwined souls. Each step, accompanied with another sweet kiss, a nibble here and there, a sweetened gasp in the air. He lowers your body onto soft sheets, and slowly climbs over you, nuzzling his nose against yours, oh so lovingly.
Who would’ve thought James Buchanan Barnes was such a lover boy?
The harsh contrast between the thundering rain outside, cold and unforgiving, and the sweet warmth of inside is not lost to either of you, as he continues to trail his hands along your body, barely tickling your sides. You respond with sighs of content, and relax briefly, before lifting your head, making direct contact with his stormy blue eyes, littered with droplets of rain, hailing down into your own eyes. It seems he’s gotten your.. meaning, as he lifts himself upwards, hands trailing round the back of your dress, eagerly searching for the sweet strings of fate themself. And when his cool, cold hands touch your warm, soft back, you can’t help but gasp. He presses another kiss to your neck, in an attempt to soothe the suddenness of it all, and takes the time to pull each string out. Your dress begins to fall but he holds it up himself, leaning you back on your pillows.
He takes your right hand first, slowly slipping the glove off. He kisses each finger, before gently placing the glove on your bedside table. This was his ritual. He takes your left hand next, mirroring the right. He pauses on your ring finger, kissing the ring that had blessed your hand two years ago.
“My love, mine.”
“Just as you are mine, James.”
“Always.”
He sits back up, ushering you to lay down. Grabbing a pillow, he shuffles it under your hips, readjusting you the way he knows you like it. You wiggle your hips slightly, and his hand rests on your waist as he pulls himself over you, again.
Except, he doesn’t quite realise how close to your face he is, and only really acknowledges it when he finds himself staring back at your eyes,
“Oh. Hi, you.”
“Hi, you, too.”
“Horrible weather today, hmm, love?”
You can’t help but to giggle and push your head against his, lovingly. Always lovingly. How he finds a way to make you giggle and laugh, each and every time, you still have no clue. He uses the opportunity to lift you up, finally peeling the dress away from you. With each new inch revealed, Bucky’s eyes light up, as though he was unwrapping his gift on Christmas Day (Note to Self: Perhaps wrapping yourself up for him on Christmas might be a good present…). He presses his lips against your collarbone, before lowering himself further down your chest, across your stomach and finally resting his head just above your core.
You’ve laid back down, allowing yourself to become comfortable once more. And he’s fully removed the dress at this point, his hands circling patterns across your stomach. Just as you close your eyes, his sweet kisses lulling you to sleep, he nips at your hip, earning a shocked yelp and grasping of his hair from you,
“Sorry, my love.. couldn’t help it..”
You sigh, releasing his hair again. He lifts his head back up and frowns. You mirror his frown, tilting your head sideways,
“What’s wrong, Jamie?”
“...”
“James?”
“My love, you’re not… wait..”
He stands up, crossing the room with ease. You curl up, immediately missing the warmth of your oh, so sweet husband laying across you, and wait patiently. Whatever he had in mind would be worth it, after all. He unlatched your jewellery cabinet, searching through various drawers, organisers, draping necklaces over his fingers, anklets and bracelets and bangles gently held in his metal hand. He returns, not without relatching the cabinet, and begins with the bracelets and bangles.
Adorning you.
Adoring you.
Because at the core of it all, below everything, that was what James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes did.
Each bracelet and bangle gliding onto your wrists sweetly and smoothly. Each one accompanied by an adoring kiss, pressed into your wrist and sweet murmurs. Next, the necklaces. Each one, a differing length, layered across your chest. He loops each one round, and presses a kiss at the apex of each necklace, lowering down to your sternum. He clasps each one with care, brushing your hair away, ensuring it never traps in the intricate mechanisms.
And finally, your anklets. He lifts your right ankle, brushing his lips past the anklet he had gifted you, when the two of you started dating five years ago. A smile graces his face, as he lifts another, draping it over, and carefully clasping it, sealed with a kiss. He repeats this with your left ankle, before reaching over to kiss your lips once more,
“There. Pretty, gorgeous and ready f’me now, my love.”
He was always careful with you, and around you. Where he could care less how he spoke with quite literally, anyone else, he was always careful with you. Even in his words, he put effort to ensure you truly got the best of him, always. His hand drops across your face slowly, pulling you in for another sweet kiss.
And each sweet kiss is soft, gentle and loving. You can feel him holding back (though you know he won’t, not for much longer) as he gently guides your head into place, both of your lips moving with sweet harmonies. As he moves you back, into his lap, each piece of jewellery now adorning your form rhymes and jingles. Yet he never pulls away from the kiss, only pushing deeper.
His tongue brushes your lips. Now, if you told anyone that had happened, naturally they’d have seen this as his need for you. A level of possessiveness over you, which was only to be expected from a mob boss. But you know better, as his tongue gently pushes over your lips, he begs. He begs to be let in. And you part your lips, ever so slightly, in time with his. Just enough for him to slip in.
Anyone else would expect a horrible battle for dominance, greed and lust.
Instead, he slowly explores your mouth, inhaling and exhaling through his nose as he does. His tongue softly travels over each tooth, before kissing the roof of your mouth as he pulls back. The sweet string of honey, dripping from either of your lips as he doesn’t dare to breathe in your angelic presence, dribbles down, leaving a sweet trail for him, across your chest. His tongue immediately darts down, refusing to even let a single drop go to waste. He slowly drags his tongue back up, past each necklace, over your neck, and leaving one chaste kiss on your lips.
“Perfect. My sweet, perfect angel. My everything, and anything.”
You hum in response and he moves backwards. You know what’s next, lying down in preparation. He pulls your knees up in preparation, nuzzling your inner left thigh with a sweet kiss. He presses another kiss to your lacy, red panties, matched to your dress. He pauses, quickly removing his rings and tucking them in your bedside drawer. He returns, and drags his finger along your wet core,
“Look at you, wet and ready, all f’me?”
“Always you, my love, always you..”
He hooks a finger under the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down and off. Placing them with your discarded gloves, he slowly licks a sweet stripe up, pausing at your sweet spot, and circles it with his tongue. Out of sheer need, hunger and want, your back arches, and you throw your head back, mouth agape. Each movement he makes causes more and more heat to pool in your core.
Bucky seizes the opportunity, plunging his tongue between your folds. Instinctively, your thighs threaten to shut round him, trap him and hold him there. But his arms hold either thigh pinned down, forcing you to feel each and every stroke as Bucky absolutely devours you, as a man starved, hungry and needy. Each stroke accompanied with your sweet, sweet notes, harmoniously bouncing off the walls of the room. He quickens his pace, here and there, and slows as you come closer and closer, teasing you, pushing you. You whine and make a face, and he complies, quickening once more.
“B-Buck… Jamie…. M'close!!"
He responds with a sweet hum, which only serves to push you over the edge. The metaphorical spring in your core coils tighter and tighter until it snaps, and you buck upwards. He continues to hold you down, his tongue still darting round your folds. Eventually, he lets go of your thighs (finally), and you immediately wrap round his head, as he continues on, through your release.
There’s a sudden revelation you have, as you work on your comedown, of the situation you’re in. The idea of Bucky Barnes, mob boss, between your thighs. You absent mindedly fiddle with your wedding ring, your grasp on the soft sheets slowly loosening. Outside, the rain continues pelting down with a sense of vengeance, disguising your sweet sins from the horrors of the world surrounding you. It’s bittersweet, how two individuals tangled in the grimy, filthy underworld find themselves sweetly, honestly and truly in love with each other.
It’s almost poetic.
And when he’s done, and had his fill, he taps your thigh, snapping you out of your lost trance, and prompting you to finally set him free. As you do, a sorrowful emptiness in your core mourns his loss as he pulls back, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You drink in the sight, of Bucky Barnes, beard, mouth and face covered in your sweetened honey. You sigh, the sound sweetly ringing in his ears, and his hand finds your face once more, slowly stroking your cheek.
For a brief moment, the two of you remain like this, soft and sweet, with the only sounds being the rain, still thundering outside.
He pulls you forward and kisses your lips sweetly, and your tongue pushes through his lips, exploring his mouth, this time. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and find yourself moaning at the taste, which is only followed by his own sweet moans, tugging on your tongue.
As he pulls away, his lips lower down to your chest, wrapping round one nipple and pulling, twisting, sucking and loving, teasingly. You whine and shake your head, softly calling out his name as his metal hand reaches up for your other one, playing around in his hand. The cool touch against your warm, soft skin only excites you more and more, and he switches over, attentive to your every need. His other hand wraps behind you, pulling you closer to him as he takes care of you.
And when he’s done, he follows the trail of stones up your chest, kissing the middle of each and every necklace again. He pauses at your neck, nibbling at where it curves, and becomes your shoulder. You attempt to softly push him back, and he shakes his head, tightening his hold on you. Tight as his grip may be, he never hurt, nor harmed you. He could never imagine causing pain to you, let alone actually doing it,
“Sweet girl, what’re you doin’?”
“Jus’ wanna take care of you too, y’know?”
“No, no, I’m makin’ it up to ya. C’mere, we’re celebratin’ early this year..”
“Mhm, and? What’s wrong with celebratin’ early, hmm? Or d’ya not wanna..?”
You shake your head, and he finally starts to strip, just for you. Shirt and tie first, and he maintains full eye contact with you the entire way. He even pauses to let you trail your hands across his torso, up his chest, teasing his nipples gently. His belt next, clanking onto the ground beside your bed, slacks joining it. And finally, you reach forward, tracing his outline through his briefs. He attempts to stifle back a groan, only for your perfectly acrylic nails to begin pulling them down - releasing a somewhat needy noise from the back of his throat.
You giggle, as he kicks off his briefs, and he pulls one of your legs over his, around his back. You follow along with your other leg, wrapping round his back and locking him in place - not that he’d want anything different.
He lowers you back, allowing you to get comfortable again, as he lines himself up, holding you by the waist. He rubs small circles into your waist, slowly pushing in, past your tight walls, as he keeps eye contact with you, the entire time. With each passing inch, he kisses your neck, chest, your ear, your cheek, your other cheek and finally, as he bottoms out, briefly whimpering as he leans in to kiss your lips, holding you, suppressing sweet moans with his tongue. He pulls away again, slowly pushing in, and then out, your walls always ready for him. You feel every push and pull past your folds, and he lowers a hand to your sweet nub, rubbing soft circles. You whine, and moan, and arch your back, and each time he pushes in, he kisses you, slow and sweet.
Love.
That’s what this was.
Pure, unadulterated, sheer love.
He quickens his pace, his thick girth being just perfect to satiate your each and every needy whine, and your perfect nails dig into his back, leaving loving marks across his skin. His own fingers dig into your waist slightly, with enough strength to bruise. The feeling has you even more excited, heat only increasing as his rough fingers bruise your hips.
And the gentle, amber light bounces off each item of jewellery, still adorning you, bouncing round the room with a soft, warm glow. Each movement made causes a sweet jingle of noise, matched by your own sweet moans, his gentle groans and the constant downpour outside. It’s lewd, sweet and soft, all at the same time, and it’s everything you’ve missed.
As you both approach your climax, he angles himself just right, hitting each and every angle just perfectly. He pulls your hips further down, and you find yourself a sweet, babbling mess. He continues through your sweet release, as your hands and legs weaken slightly, and holds you up, flush to his body as he joins you, ropes and loads filling your insides. And even when he’s done, he pushes down with his hand on your belly, feeling exactly where you wrapped round him,
“There we are, pretty girl. Feel that? Feels good, hmm?”
In your somewhat sweet, yet fucked out state, all you can offer in response is a soft hum. He presses his forehead against yours, grounding you as you both even your breathing once more. Eventually enough, he attempts to pull out, and you whine again, pulling your arms around the back of his head.
“Stay..? Gotta make it stick… lover boy..”
He sighs happily, unable to ever deny his sweet girl, and remains just a little longer. Both of your hands roll up and down each other’s bodies, and before long, he’s switching positions. He pulls out softly, and you whine in his ear as he moves you both around,
“Shhh, pretty girl, y’wanna make it stick? Only one way, baby..”
-manhandling you sweetly, into his arms. He stands up, with you, sitting back on the floor, in front of your long, floor length mirror. He’s behind you, now, with you in his lap, your legs swung over his left arm. The air hits your folds, now exposed to the air, and you gasp softly as he tilts back you head, kissing you sweetly. Once again, his hand finds your folds, playing around as he lifts you higher,
“Ready, sweet thing?”
You nod feverently from need, and want and desperation, and he chuckles in response, as he pushes up into you. The new position only feels better, as he kisses your walls, filling you fully as he does. Instinctively, you pull up, and he keeps you pulled down, eyes focused on your own in the reflection of the mirror,
“See that, pretty girl? Takin’ me s’well… made jus’ f’me.. an’ I’m made jus’f’you.. feel s’good baby..”
His eyes are laser focused on where the two of you join, where you become one together. Yours, attempt to meet his, or follow his, but with just how sweet he feels in you, your focus is slightly lost.
Each push up into you is joined by a sweet kiss to your shoulder, and a soft moan or groan from either of you. As he quickens his pace once again, he throws his head back, mouth agape as unrestrained moans and gentle whimpers, only for you, stutter out of his throat. In response, you gasp and moan and whine and drag your hands and nails across the arm holding you in place. His other arm holds your stomach, rolling circles into your skin. As you both chase your high together, he pushes his face into your shoulder, and each sound he makes vibrates through your skin, as shivers trickle down your spine.
He fastens his pace, slamming up into you. Despite that, it’s not harsh, or painful, and you attempt to move and meet his pace. His lips move to your ears, whispering sweet nothings and occasionally nibbling at your skin, illiciting sweeter noises from your throat. Soon enough, your clenching your walls around him, and he’s pushing through your tight walls, painting all over them.
And as the two of you sweetly climax once more, he slows his pace, before finally coming to a stop, still entirely buried in you. He stays there, waiting for the two of you to relax again, testing the waters by slowly moving (only for you to clench again, to which he responds with sweetly nuzzling his nose into your neck). Ten slow, sweetened and very well appreciated minutes pass, as he rakes his eyes over your soft body, joined with his so perfectly, before very, very slowly pulling out. Suddenly empty, you sigh, and he presses another kiss to your forehead, making his way over to run a bath for the two of you.
He finds your batch of rose petals, bath salts and bath oils, combining them just perfectly in the bathwater, before making his way back to you.
“Bath’s almost full, pretty girl. I’ll carry you over, wait.”
He hooks both arms under you, lifting with practiced ease, before lowering you carefully into your marble tub and settling in behind you. You tip your head back onto his chest, humming old songs and lying comfortably in your safe space as he wraps his arms round your waist. He traces small patterns into your skin, muttering sweet nothings into your ears before dropping his head onto your shoulder. It’s mushy, sweet and entirely unlike the persona he puts on.
The fire from before finally quietens down, each softening ember glowering gently, calmly basking in your warm presence.
“I suppose you’ve made up for your.. mistake.”
You can feel his smile, pressing into your shoulder as he muffled a response, causing you to turn ever so slightly,
“What was that, Buckaroo?”
“Ohhhh.. baby no… Y’killin’ me with that! Buckaroo? Really?”
He shakes his head, with that sweet, sweet smile you fell in love with, all those years ago. You sigh and smile back, raising a hand to push his hair out of his face,
“I said, I’m awful glad. Could’n’ imagine my beautiful girl mad at me.”
You swoon, his words never failing to warm you, and he pulls you back in, brushing your oh, so swollen lips for one last, deep, loving kiss.
A few hours have passed since your and Bucky’s… rendezvous. He’s helped you redress, into a soft, expensive, silk robe, and fed you grapes as you both lazed across your bed. He’s called for the driver, who waits patiently in the still pulsing rain, still plundering down outside, and quietly leads you through the hotel. You’ve passed Winston, who pauses to ask the two of you about your sweet one year old, who waits at home, nesting softly in Sam’s arms. He’s mentioned coming by on the weekend (after all - who’s to stop her great Godfather from spoiling her?) and you’ve nodded sweetly, before making your way out. He hasn’t commented on the glow on your face, nor the slightly out of place grin on Bucky’s, but a man like Winston knows better.
Stepping out, Bucky grabs a complementary umbrella for you, leading you over to the car. The driver immediately opens the door for you, waiting for you to sit in and get comfortable, before moving around to open the door for Bucky too.
Bucky’s hand naturally finds your thigh, squeezing it softly,
“My love, you are truly the best thing to have ever happened to me.”
Your hand trails over his, and you lean into his warmth, as the driver finally drives out, taking the two of you back home. He looks over at you, his eyes melting as they meet yours. Truly, Bucky Barnes was the moon, to your bright, warm sun. And he was more than happy, chasing his sweet sun, catching your sweet embrace in his arms. And you, were more than happy, falling into his grounding, soft arms. Perhaps, you were the only thing, warming the stone, cold heart of the… notoriously stone cold mob boss.
The sun.. to his moon.. yeah, he liked the sound of that.
Sure, the winds and the rains and numerous heavenly bodies may weep and mourn and attempt to wash away his sins, to convince him to turn, to change his ways. They may howl, day after day, begging he find his soul. But his soul was never his.
And what is the will of the Heavens in comparison to his sweet, darling wife?
For Bucky Barnes was a mob boss second, but a devoted, loving husband first.
Forever, and always.
post credits
The car finally pulls up to a comfortable, somewhat secluded area, stopping outside large gates. Bucky leans out, holding his hands up in a sign, and the gates open slowly. As he leans back in, he pulls you slowly over his lap again, careful as ever. Now, you had fallen asleep on the way home, the warmth of his shoulder serving as a perfect pillow for your sweet face.
The car slows even more, rolling along to the front door. Bucky tosses two gold coins into the front’s cup holders. The driver lowers his hat, tipping it in respect, and waits patiently. Another man walks up to the door, and Bucky nods, letting him open the door. Bucky steps out, with you asleep, in his arms. He walks up the steps of your shared, grandiose, albeit secluded, home, and the same man who opened your car door, returns to open the front door.
Sweet cinnamon and pine waft past his nose, as the dimmed lights of the home softly welcome you both home. From the living room, he can hear Sam reading yet another story to your oh, so eager little one, still up and awake, and very much unwilling to sleep. He sets you down on a couch, before sliding next to Sam, and scooping her up into his arms,
“Hey there princess - miss us?”
In response, she babbles back, dropping what might sound almost like words, here and there. Sam stands up, cracking his back as he does, and nods over to you,
“Have fun?”
Bucky pulls your daughter to his chest, nodding back,
“Yeah. See y’in two days, hmm?”
“Copy that, boss. Happy anniversary.”
With that, Sam makes his way out of the humble mansion, likely on his way home. Bucky settles next to you, and you instinctively cuddle against him. He opens up his left arm, letting you nuzzle up onto his chest, and with the other arm, guides your daughter to rest just opposite you. She reaches out to your face inquisitively, and Bucky gently guides her hands into his, redirecting her attention to ensure you could sleep.
With Bucky’s tender hands, and your soothing form, her eyes start drooping. He catches this, humming sweet lullabies, sending her off to sleep with sweet sheep, and goats, and perhaps a slightly over-protective Uncle Sam and Uncle Steve. Soon enough, both you and your daughter are fast asleep, the three of you now splayed across the couch. His left arm naturally rubs soothing circles into your back, and his right holds your daughter close, safe and sound.
And as the three of you lie there, and the clock quietly strikes 00:00, finally hitting your anniversary, he finally has a moment to himself, softly whispering a 'Happy Anniversary, prettiest girl' into your hair. He finally has a chance, to think quietly, all by himself. And in the quiet of the night, all he can think is-
summary: what was supposed to be an ordinary day takes a sharp turn when you notice a stranger stalking you. before you know it, you’re held hostage by one of your boyfriends’ most dangerous enemies. with danger rising and time running out, steve and bucky will stop at nothing to bring you back in safe arms.
warnings: kidnapping, hostage situation, reader is in college, violence, blood, injuries, weapons, guns, verbal threats, swearing, emotional distress, panic, fear, protective behavior, possessive behavior, intense anger, mentions of torture, restraint, angst, hurt/comfort, trauma, post-rescue comfort, steve and bucky being terrifying to enemies but gentle to you.
One principle your boyfriends had instilled in you from the very beginning, taught with both quiet urgency and lived example, was this: never doubt your instincts.
Trust them without delay. Respond to them without pride. Ignore them, and you risk everything. Bucky had said it once with the calm steel of experience, and Steve had only looked at you with that soft, solemn expression he wore when speaking of things he had lost. You had taken the lesson to heart.
But what precisely could be wrong now?
The café was warm and familiar, filled with the familiar aroma of ground espresso and buttered pastry. Light streamed through the tall, paned windows, casting long rectangles of morning gold across the polished wooden floors.
Students bustled in and out with the distracted energy of people who lived on caffeine and looming deadlines. A small bell above the entrance rang with each new arrival, its cheery tone doing little to interrupt your concentration. You had come here countless times, and nothing had ever once felt out of place.
Yet today, you could not shake the sensation.
The feeling settled into you gradually, the way cold water seeps through fabric — a slow, creeping unease that you could neither name nor dispel. You looked up from your notebook, the pages filled with notes on postmodernist theory and economic ethics, and allowed your gaze to scan the space with quiet precision.
Your eyes moved from the counter to the door, from the students to the far corners of the room, from the windows to the street beyond.
Nothing. Everything appeared precisely as it should.
Still, your hands had stilled against your tablet, your fingers frozen mid-sentence. That was the second sign. The first was the prickling at the back of your neck, that near-mythical alertness that every woman knows and every soldier respects — the kind that tells you when eyes are fixed upon you. You resisted the urge to turn too quickly, instead allowing your gaze to drift lazily across the room, as though distracted by a passing thought.
And then you saw him.
Seated alone in the far back corner, tucked into the shadows where the sunlight did not reach, was a man who did not belong. Not because of what he was doing — he held a coffee cup like anyone else, sitting in feigned stillness — but because of what he was hiding.
His cap was drawn low over his brow, and oversized sunglasses concealed the rest of his face. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle, and though he attempted to appear casual, there was a stillness about him that rang false. It was the stillness of someone waiting.
Your blood chilled. Every part of your mind screamed at you to move.
You did not look at him again. You did not allow yourself the indulgence of a second glance. Instead, you began to gather your things with calculated calm, stacking your notebook atop your tablet, slipping them into your satchel with hands that only trembled once.
Your heart was pounding now, but you breathed through it, just as Natasha had taught you, just as Steve had reminded you — keep the panic low and the pace steady.
Still, regret clawed at your chest.
You should have brought Natasha.
She had offered, as she always did. But this morning, in your foolish optimism, you had told her not to bother, that you would be fine on your own, that you would only be studying at the café for a few short hours.
She had narrowed her eyes, unimpressed, but eventually conceded. You had dismissed her concerns with a flippant wave and a kiss on the cheek. Now, the only person you could think to call was the one you had deliberately left behind.
Your fingers shook as you hit her name on your phone.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
The bell over the door chimed as you stepped outside, the cold air biting against your skin. You did not look back. You did not need to. The sound of footsteps followed seconds later, steady and too close behind.
Natasha answered on the fourth ring, her voice calm but laced with a readiness that made your chest loosen just a little. "Hey there, sugar."
You didn’t return the greeting. Your breath hitched, and your voice came out in a whisper. "Nat… I think someone’s following me. I— I don’t know what to do."
There was silence for half a second. Then the sounds of movement erupted in the background — metal clattering, something heavy being dropped, followed by Natasha barking orders to someone, likely Sam.
"Where are you?" she demanded.
But before you could respond, she added, almost to herself, "No, forget it. I have your location. Stay on the phone. Do not stop moving. Do not talk to anyone. Do not go somewhere unfamiliar. Keep walking. I’m coming to you right now."
“I’m really scared, Nat, he’s walking right behind me.”
"Keep the phone to your ear. I want to hear everything. Don’t run, don’t look back again. Just act normal. You hear me?"
"Yeah," you nodded, voice barely audible.
Her voice remained steady, but you could hear the sharp urgency buried just beneath the surface, that tactical edge you had only ever seen emerge when she was in protective mode.
You opened your mouth to speak again, to tell her the street you had just turned down, to confirm the direction you were headed.
But then you felt it.
A hand — rough, broad, and cold — clamped over your mouth. A cloth pressed hard against your lips, soaked in something sharp and sickly sweet.
Your scream caught in your throat as your body instinctively jerked away, but it was too late. The world spun violently, and your limbs grew leaden. You heard Natasha’s voice shouting your name through the phone, which now lay somewhere on the pavement, forgotten.
The man chuckled. A low, pleased sound, the kind that settles in the pit of the stomach like ice.
You watched, barely conscious, as the heel of his boot ground your phone beneath it with an almost casual brutality.
The last thing you saw before the darkness took you completely was his silhouette turning, dragging you backwards, and the soft, indifferent buzz of the city continuing around you as though nothing at all had changed.
***
“What the fuck do you mean she’s gone?” Steve’s voice exploded, shattering the tension that had settled over the room like a storm about to break. The words came out strangled, disbelief and rage wrapped around each syllable like a noose.
Sam flinched. “She was at a coffee shop studying when she called Natasha saying someone’s following her. And then the signal—just cut. She’s not picking up. She’s not—”
Bucky didn’t wait for the rest.
His chair scraped back so violently it slammed into the floor behind him, but he didn’t so much as glance at the damage. His movements were all instinct now—sharp, clean, lethal.
A practiced hand disappeared beneath his tailored jacket, retrieving the sleek black pistol holstered under his ribs. The steel glinted coldly under the chandelier, a flash of silver fury. His face was a mask of ruin. Something feral cracked through his carefully restrained calm—an expression so raw and wrathful even Sam backed up a step.
“I’m gonna fucking kill Vincest.” Bucky snapped, more to himself than to anyone else, and then he was moving.
Steve was right behind him, fury giving chase to fear.
“Where the fuck was her tail?” Steve demanded as they reached the foyer, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched. “Who was watching her?!”
“She didn’t want anyone accompanying her,” Sam shouted after them, breathless. “She said she just needed a minute alone.”
Steve’s face twisted with fury, veins bulging in his neck. His voice rose, sharp and unforgiving, cutting through the room like a blade. “And why the fuck would anyone let her go alone?!”
He slammed his fist into the wall, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. “I don’t care if she’s stepping across the goddamn street to buy a damn coffee. You watch her. You accompany her. You make sure she doesn’t become someone else’s goddamn target. You keep her safe—or so help me, I will tear this entire operation apart piece by piece.”
His gaze burned into every single man standing there, his voice lowering but no less dangerous. “This isn’t just some fuck-up we can sweep under the rug. This is her life. And if any of you think for one second that you can just screw around and let her slip through your fingers—”
He cut himself off with a growl, his breath ragged. Then, with cold steel in his voice, he screamed, “Go! Go fucking search for her. Take orders from Natasha, from me, from whoever the hell. I don’t care how messy it gets, how many streets you tear apart, how many lives you burn through—she must be found.”
The room fell into a tense silence broken only by the sound of men scrambling, shouting confirmations, and the sharp clicks of weapons being readied.
Just then, the door slammed open with force, and Natasha strode in, face pale but determined.
“We found the warehouse,” she announced, voice steady despite the urgency. “She’s being held hostage by Vincent.”
Natasha was there, pacing like a caged panther, voice low and razor-sharp as she barked into her earpiece. Her eyes snapped to them the moment they appeared. No words, no pleasantries. Just a nod that screamed move.
“The last ping was five minutes ago, outside the library,” she said tightly, already handing Bucky a tablet with the paused CCTV footage. “Someone tailed her out. She clocked it. Called me scared out of her fucking mind.”
Steve snatched the tablet out of Bucky’s hands, eyes scanning like a man possessed. “Find him,” he growled. “I don’t care if you have to torch the whole goddamn city to do it.”
“We already are,” Natasha said, her voice like ice over flame. “I have four cars on standby and air support tracking the streets. But if they laid a trap—”
“They fucking won’t touch her.” Bucky’s voice was death itself. Cold, final. “They won’t fucking get the chance.”
Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm, pulling him toward the nearest car. “Come on. We’re not waiting.”
The engine roared to life, the tires screeching against asphalt as Steve pushed the car beyond its limits, his jaw locked in grim determination. Bucky sat beside him, fingers tightening around the gun, every second that passed fanning the rage consuming him.
The city blurred past in streaks of steel and concrete. Their hearts beat to the same rhythm of dread, every red light ignored, every corner taken with reckless precision. The silence between them was not empty but charged, a storm waiting to break.
When Natasha’s voice crackled through the comm, announcing she had traced you to Warehouse 14, neither man hesitated. Steve swerved sharply into the docklands, the car jolting as it tore across the uneven ground.
They did not pause. They did not plan. Bucky leapt out before the car had even fully stopped, his weapon raised, his movements mercilessly efficient. Steve followed, his own gun drawn, his shoulders squared in lethal resolve.
The first guard did not even have time to shout before Bucky’s bullet split the air and sent him crumpling to the ground. Another man tried to run, but Steve’s shot tore through his leg, dropping him instantly. The warehouse echoed with gunfire, shouts, and the thunder of boots as they moved forward, room by room, door by door, leaving no corner unchecked.
They were a tempest of violence and precision, their eyes cold, their fury a sharpened blade. Every obstacle was dismantled with terrifying ease, every man who stood in their way silenced before he could even raise his weapon.
And still, underneath the steel and blood, there was one thought alone, thrumming through their veins like a war drum: find you.
As Steve and Bucky surged through the final corridors of the warehouse, a tumult of thoughts collided in their minds.
They had been here before, in the shadows of power, surrounded by the evidence of their own ruthlessness. They had commanded fear, taken lives without hesitation, and navigated a world where weakness was punished without mercy.
And yet, despite all the blood they had shed, despite every crime they had committed and every advantage they had wielded, they felt something entirely alien now: helplessness at the thought of what state they might find you in.
Bucky’s jaw tightened as he imagined the worst, his hands curling around his gun until the metal creaked under the strength of his grip. Steve’s eyes narrowed, every instinct screaming that every second you were in the hands of another was a second too long, that the slightest delay could undo everything they had built to protect you.
Then, as they burst into the final storage room, their eyes locked on a figure standing directly before you, an audacious smirk twisting his face.
Tall, lean, and cruelly composed, the man’s dark clothing clung to him like a shadow. In his hands was a gun, leveled squarely at Steve’s head. His name was Vincent Karras, a man whose reputation for sadistic cunning rivaled only their own histories.
Before Steve could even blink, before the air could carry the threat of a single word, Bucky’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Two bullets tore into Vincent’s knees, each one precise and deliberate, forcing him to collapse in a howl of pain. He fell hard to the ground, still alive, still aware, a pawn left for the retribution yet to come. Bucky’s eyes did not waver; he had no intention of mercy, only the certainty that the threat to you would be extinguished swiftly.
Steve acted instantly. He shoved Vincent’s screaming, writhing body aside with a strength born of desperation and fury, his heart hammering as he lunged toward you.
He crouched beside your bound form, hands moving expertly to free you from the ropes that bit into your wrists and ankles. The gag fell away from your mouth, and your muffled cries erupted into full, heart-wrenching sobs.
In the next instant, you were in his arms. Steve held you against his chest, pressing you close as though the very act of holding you could undo the horrors you had endured. Your sobs shook his body, each one a dagger to his own heart, and he whispered fervently, words tumbling over themselves in his urgent need to reassure you.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re safe. You’re okay,” Steve murmured, his voice low and steady, every word soaked in tenderness.
His lips brushed gently against your hair, then your forehead—anywhere he could press them to make sure you felt his presence, his unwavering protection. “Fuck. Are you hurt? Did he do anything to you, baby? Please talk to me. Please tell me what happened.”
You hiccuped against his chest, shaking your head violently, your tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. The sobs wracked your body like a storm barely contained. “I’m not hurt,” you managed, voice trembling between the breaks. “I’m not hurt. I just… I was so scared. I thought you wouldn’t find me. I thought you were never coming.”
Steve’s hands cupped your face, pulling you gently but firmly back so his eyes could meet yours. His own were glassy, heavy with a raw mixture of relief, anger, and a fierce, aching protectiveness.
“Hey, hey, baby. Listen to me, okay? I will always find you. Always. No matter what. I swear to you, I will never fail to find you. If I have to tear this entire world apart, I will.” His voice cracked, thick with emotion. “I am so, so sorry you had to go through this. None of this was supposed to happen. Not to you.”
Bucky knelt down beside you both, gun still poised and ready, his eyes darting across the room, scanning every shadow.
But even as his gaze searched for danger, the tension in his jaw softened when he looked at you. His hands twitched, longing to hold you, to pull you close and never let go. The weight of the terror and helplessness he felt twisted inside him, but he masked it behind that cold, calculated exterior—the shield he wore for you.
Steve tightened his arms around you, pulling you as close as if sheer force could erase the nightmare you’d endured. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, voice fierce and desperate. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t let this happen again. I swear it, love. You hear me? Not ever again.”
You nodded, burying your face deep into his chest, your tears still flowing but your body beginning to still, soothed by the warmth and strength that surrounded you. You could feel the electric pulse of fury radiating from both men, a silent promise etched in every tense muscle and guarded breath: no one would ever hurt you again.
Steve carried you gently through the warehouse doors, your trembling form clinging to him as though letting go would mean the end of the world.The black-shaded cars waited silently, engines idling like predatory beasts, their sleek frames reflecting the cold glow of the streetlights.
Just as Steve approached the nearest vehicle, the moment he had intended to set you down, your sobs returned in a fresh, violent wave. Your head pressed into his chest, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though it were the only lifeline left in existence.
“No, no, no,” you whimpered, your voice cracking. “Please, don’t leave me alone, Steve. I don’t want to… I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Steve froze for a heartbeat, startled by the raw panic in your tone. Then he pulled you even closer, adjusting his hold so your trembling body could feel the full measure of his arms.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured softly, his lips brushing against the crown of your head. “I am right here. I am not leaving you. I just have to go for a minute to deal with something, alright?”
You shook your head frantically, the motion urgent and insistent. “No, Steve. I don’t want to be alone!”
His lips pressed against your chest, just above your heart, in a tender, grounding gesture. “Bucky will be here with you, yeah? I will not let you be alone. He is not going anywhere.”
The mere mention of Bucky’s name brought an almost immediate relief, a shiver of hope that ran through your body. You lifted your gaze and saw him standing a few feet away, his broad frame illuminated by the pale light, eyes locked on you with unwavering concern.
He began to close the distance, and as he wrapped an arm securely around you, your shoulders began to relax, the tension of terror easing into a fragile comfort.
Steve and Bucky exchanged a brief, loaded glance. Steve gave a subtle nod, one that acknowledged the mission still waiting for him inside, and then turned back toward the warehouse, likely to confront Vincent or ensure no other threats remained.
Bucky, meanwhile, pressed a kiss to your hair before pulling you fully into his chest, the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his breathing acting like a balm on your frayed nerves. “You okay, sweet girl?” he murmured, his voice husky but gentle.
You nodded, still letting your face rest against him. “Mhm. I just… I just want to go back home.”
He smiled softly, the kind of smile that held both relief and quiet adoration. “Yeah. Let’s go, doll. Steve and Natasha will be following us shortly. You’re safe. I promise you that.”
Bucky led you to the car, holding your hand as you climbed into the passenger seat. He helped you buckle your seatbelt, making sure you were secure before pressing a tender kiss into your temple.
“You’re such a strong girl, you know that?” he said, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek as his gaze lingered on you. “Even when you’re scared, you never stop being strong. And I will always make sure you are safe. I swear to you, nothing will hurt you again while I am here.”
You leaned back against the seat, letting yourself sink into the reassurance of his arms and words.
The ride back is silent, except for the occasional rustle of Bucky’s jacket as he shifts the wheel with white-knuckled precision. His jaw is clenched so tight you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. The streets blur by in a haze of golden light and dust, but all you can see is his reflection in the window—stone-faced, lethal, ruined.
When you get home, he doesn’t say anything. He just lifts you gently from the car like you weigh nothing, carrying you through the front door and past the wide marble halls of the estate.
In the bathroom, he sits you on the counter. He kneels to untie your shoes and slips them off with reverent hands, as if even your shoelaces had been bruised by the day. He’s quiet. Too quiet.
Then, the water starts. Warm. Steaming. He helps you undress, moving slowly like you might shatter if he rushes, and washes away the dirt, the blood, the dust of the place you were kept. He doesn’t speak—not when he rinses your hair, not when he runs a cloth over your back. But his hands shake. Like he’s barely holding it together.
When you’re finally dry and warm again, wrapped in one of his shirts, you follow him to the bedroom. He sets you down on the edge of the bed and disappears for a second, returning with a small medical kit.
“Hold still, doll,” he murmurs as he kneels in front of you.
Your wrists are red and irritated. Rope burns in angry circles. He takes his time cleaning them, brushing ointment over the raw skin with careful fingers. You wince once, and he pauses immediately, looking up.
“Sorry,” he breathes, voice breaking just a little. “I’ll be gentle.”
You nod, throat tight.
He finishes bandaging the last wrist and kisses it.
Then comes the conversation you’ve been dreading.
“From now on,” Bucky began slowly, his voice soft but resolute, “you don’t leave the house without Natasha. Not for a second. Not even to step outside the door alone.”
You blink, caught off guard by the suddenness of his words. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said again, his tone firmer this time, though still gentle. “You don’t go anywhere unless Nat is with you. I mean it.”
A tight knot formed in your stomach, twisting with frustration. “Bucky, that’s insane. I’m not a child.”
He stayed kneeling before you, looking up with those steady eyes that always seemed to see right through you. “You’re not a child, no. But you’re ours. And after what happened…” He swallowed hard, the weight of those words hanging heavily between you. “We can’t afford to take that risk again. Not ever.”
You let out a sharp breath, the frustration bubbling up from deep inside your chest. “Natasha has better things to do than babysit me. She’s not just my bodyguard. She’s your partner—your right hand in this whole business, this mafia world you live in. She probably wants to be out there, running things, making moves. Not stuck following me to classes or running errands or… whatever boring stuff fills my days.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Boring?”
You nodded, biting your lip. “I know her. She’s the kind of woman who thrives on action. On plans. On missions. I don’t want her to feel trapped just because she’s with me.”
He reached out then, his rough hands enveloping yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “Doll, trust me when I say Natasha wouldn’t get bored with you. Not for a second.”
You looked away, embarrassed by how vulnerable you felt.
“Besides,” he continued, his voice dropping to a softer, almost reverent tone, “you didn’t see what she was like when you went missing. She was just as frantic, just as desperate as Steve and me. Maybe even worse.”
His thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles. “She sees you as her little sister.”
A sting burned at the corners of your eyes, and you blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.
At that moment, the door creaked open. Steve stepped inside quietly.
He looked clean now, the dark clothes he wore fresh and unblemished—not like the bloodstained ones from before. You realized with a cold knot in your stomach that those had belonged to someone else.
Without a word, he walked over to you, cupped your face gently, and pressed a kiss to your temple. Your eyes fluttered closed at the simple touch.
Then he settled beside you on the bed. For a long moment, he said nothing, only resting a steady hand on your thigh.
“You scared the hell out of us,” he says finally. His voice is rough. Almost hoarse. “I thought I was going to kill everyone in that building.”
You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head.
“Don’t apologize,” he whispers. “Just... promise me you’ll be more careful.”
“I didn’t choose this,” you say quietly. “I didn’t know he’d grab me—”
“I know, baby girl.” His hand tightens on your leg. “It’s not your fault. None of it is. But it’s why we need to protect you. Even if you hate it.”
You turn then, shifting on the bed so you’re facing Steve fully. Your hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble lining his jaw. His eyes—those stormy blues still heavy with worry—soften just a fraction under your touch.
“I know you won’t let me be alone again,” you murmur, voice small but steady. “I know that. But don’t you think… maybe it’s a little too much, having Natasha follow me everywhere?”
Your sentence cuts off when Steve exhales sharply, a sigh heavy enough to sag his shoulders. His big hand comes up to cover one of yours where it rests against his cheek, holding it there like it’s his anchor.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice low and rough around the edges. “I don’t care if it sounds like too much. You have to understand… when we didn’t know where you were, when Sam came in and told us you were gone—I swear, I couldn’t breathe. I thought I’d already lost you. And I can’t—” His voice catches, and he swallows hard, shaking his head as if he can banish the thought.
“I can’t ever feel that again. So if that means Natasha shadows you every second of the day, then that’s what’s happening. I need you safe. I need you here.”
Your chest tightens at the rawness in his tone. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath shaky as if he’s still pulling himself back from the edge.
“I can’t lose you,” Steve whispers, softer now, almost like a prayer. “So just… let me take care of you. Please.”
Before you can respond, Bucky’s voice rumbles beside you, quiet but firm.
“He’s right, doll.” You glance over at him, and the sight of him—still crouched near, still watching you like you’re the only thing that matters—makes your throat ache.
You bite your lip, looking down, but Bucky tips your chin up gently with his finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. They’re bright with conviction, but also unbearably soft.
“We’re not asking for much. Just… let us keep you safe. Let us breathe knowing that Natasha’s there when we can’t be.” His thumb strokes over your jaw. “That woman would tear down the whole world if it meant protecting you.”
Steve hums in agreement, his hand still cupping the side of your face. “Natasha wants to do this. Don’t take that choice away from her.”
Your eyes flick between the two men—the desperation in Steve’s, the fierce devotion in Bucky’s—and the resistance you’d been holding onto starts to crumble.
“I just…” you whisper, voice cracking. “I don’t want to be a problem. I don’t want to drag either of you.”
Bucky shifts then, slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his solid warmth while Steve still holds your hand. Sandwiched between them, you feel cocooned, your protest melting beneath the weight of their care.
“Love,” Bucky says softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You could never be a problem. You’re the best damn thing that’s happened to any of us.”
Steve presses a kiss to your temple again, lingering. “All we’re asking is that you let us do our job—keeping you safe. That’s it. You don’t have to carry the weight of whether it’s too much or not. You just have to be here with us.”
For a long moment, you sit in silence, wrapped up in the warmth of their words and their bodies pressed close on either side. Slowly, the tightness in your chest eases, and the tears you’d been fighting finally spill, but this time they’re softer—relief instead of fear.
Steve wipes them away with his thumb before they can trail down your cheeks. “There she is,” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “There’s our girl.”
You let out a shaky laugh, muffled as you bury your face against Steve’s chest, Bucky’s arm tightening around your back.
And for the first time since it all happened, you believe them; you really are back in safe arms.
All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.
YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.
Masterlist
Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Warning/Tags: MOB AU, Fluff, Light angst, Emotional cheating, Reader is in a shitty relationship.
Word count: ~3.3k
Summary: Even having everything he wants, Bucky accepts only having you as a friend.
Author's Note: So, this is part of a mini series, or maybe it has a part 2, but if you're interested in seeing the continuation, please let me know in the comments. You have no idea how much I love writing mob Bucky! Also, if you see this posted before Wed 05/27, it's because I was able to finish grading and I got really excited! If not, I'm still dying.
As always, shout out to my girls @kileyking @herejustforbuckybarnes @w1nter-fairy for betareading and proofreading. Ily<3
The dim light of the bar helped to disguise your tears. Not that it was an easy job since your puffy, reddened eyes were of no help at all. But you'd heard that this kind of thing helped for broken hearts.
And oh, if your heart was broken at that moment.
It was the third time that night that they refilled the glass of tequila in front of you. The soft music playing in the background helped you relax your mind—blending with the lyrics of old songs, while the tequila served to distract you.
Five years of a relationship.
More faked orgasms than you could count.
The phone number lit up on your screen—and you knew he was going to answer. He said he was always going to do so, but you also knew he was going to unleash all hell if he knew what your boyfriend had done to you this time.
You finally tapped the screen. Really hoping he was going to be busy with a meeting or with some of his colleagues.
“Good night, darling.” His rough-edged voice sounded through the phone.
“Hi, James. Caught you busy?” You mumbled.
“Never for you, sunshine.”
On the other side, Sam signed some contracts Bucky had been avoiding for days. Steve leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Who’s it?” Steve mouthed to Sam—who mouthed back your name in silence.
“I’m amused she didn’t run away as soon as she learned who Bucky was.”
Sam chuckled.
“So, what do I owe this call to? Do you need some help with your rent again?”
Sam was about to take out his phone to e-wire the money.
“No!” You rushed, “Dear lord, no. That was a one-time thing, James. And I still have the money saved to pay you back, but you haven’t accepted it.”
Bucky shook his head, and Sam stopped himself.
“Talk to me, honey. What is it?”
“Just wanted to talk. You’re kind of my only friend now.”
“Don’t lie. I know you’ve met with Nat lately.”
“James, c’mon. She’s on your payroll—that doesn’t count as a friend if she gets paid to check up on me once in a while.”
“How low you think of me. Nat might be on my side, but she’s pretty much my troubled kid. She would never fake being someone’s friend just because I asked her to.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Where are you at? I can’t hear your usual rom-com in the background?”
“How do you know I’m not at home with my TV turned off?”
“Don’t make me ask Stark to track your phone as we speak.”
“Huh. Being friends with the mob is not always that fun.”
“Is that what I am now? Just a man in the mob—and here I am, thinking I was building an emporium.”
“An emporium of dubious origin.”
“Last warning before I dial Stark on my landline,” He scolded.
“I’m at a bar. Just hanging out.”
“On your own?”
You couldn’t hear, but Bucky stood up and started walking to one of his cars.
From the first day you met him, he realized you were something different. Something he would never have found in the world he lived in. He wanted to protect you from day one. The way you smiled lit up his own world. He had just bought you some coffee and books the first time you met him. He was paying a visit to his sister, Rebecca, at the bookstore he had bought her to launder some money.
You brought five books to the register and were yapping to Lia—Rebecca’s worker—trying to decide on just one.
Bucky stared at you while Rebecca feigned not to notice.
“Why don’t you just buy them all?” He asked, leaning on the desk.
“Oh, well. I can pay just for one.” You furrowed.
Bucky took out his credit card and placed it in front of Rebecca. She was already running the card through the machine while you were speechless.
“No. I mean… I was not asking for…” You were stumbling on your own words.
“Is that coffee shop next door good enough?” Bucky interrupted you, and Rebecca nodded, “Lia, can you go pick coffees for everyone—including you.”
Rebecca took the books from your hands and placed them in a pink bag.
You looked at him like he had three heads.
“James.” He offered his hand to greet you.
You shook his hand and said your name back
“Miss, what can I bring you?” Lia looked at you with puppy eyes—Rebecca giggled and guided her by the shoulders.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You don’t have to do that.” You looked at him.
“Well, I bought those books, and I want to know why you wanted to buy them. A coffee would be needed for that.”
“Yeah. Kinda wanted to be alone.”
“What did he do now?” He was already heading to the main door.
Sam and Steve shook their head at the same time.
“Bucky’s fucked. That girl has him wrapped around her little finger.” Sam joked.
“And she doesn’t even look his way.”
“Wait, is she still with that Scott guy?”
“I think by his tone, he’s not even going to be alive soon…”
“He didn’t do anything. I think I’m just being dramatic.”
“Don’t you dare say that again. You’re not being dramatic, I don’t care what you did.”
He was already driving all the way to your favorite bar. The only one you visited.
“I found some messages with another girl.”
His hands clutched the steering wheel.
“That’s something big, sunshine.”
His tone was low. Almost a murmur.
He was the most feared man in town. He had a whole emporium at his feet; if he snapped his fingers, your boyfriend would’ve been dead without even looking like a crime. And yet there, he knew if he did that, he would be screwed with you. So, he could say, you were the only person he was afraid to mess with.
“I think I just misunderstood everything.”
You were trying to ease your mind—but deep down you knew he was right. It was a big deal, you felt it like that.
“If you just let me…” He mumbled.
“No, James. We’ve gone through this before… I don’t want him dead. I really love him. And you can’t go around threatening everyone who does me wrong—”
“Oh, so you admit he did you wrong.”
You sighed.
“How did that deal end with Fury?” You asked, trying to change topics.
He chuckled; it was fine. It was going to be a few minutes before he arrived at the bar. He spent the next ten minutes explaining vague things.
He could have been deeply in love with you, but he was not dumb enough to tell you all his details through a phone that could be tapped.
But it had been almost six months since the first time you met, and he had given you enough details that you could’ve claimed the bounty offered for his ass. And you never did, not even when you were struggling to make ends meet. But, instead, you cried on his shoulder for almost an hour because your boyfriend didn’t even want to take one or two double shifts to afford rent.
He made Stark find out who your landlord was and paid two months in advance, and you learned that when you were about to call your landlord to ask for more time—the confirmation of the two-month payment arrived at your apartment.
You didn’t tell Scott. He ‘helped’ you to pay those months, and when you got the full amount, you tried to pay him back. You were on your weekly ‘friendly date’ as you called them. Rebecca’s bookstore with some coffee or whatever thing you had asked for at the moment.
He didn’t even accept it.
“It’s a payback for all the times you had to stay late with me when I needed a warm moment.”
“That’s not something you should pay for…”
“I used to pay hookers to do that.” He said, sipping on his whiskey.
“Am I a hooker now?” You knitted your eyebrows in the middle.
His cheeks blushed immediately. “No!” He shouted, and you burst out laughing.
“I know what you meant, James. And I’m happy you feel comfortable enough with me to do such.”
“Now, are you done with deflecting the topic?” He said, coming back from his memories.
“I’m not deflecting! I was worried that you wouldn’t be able to convince Furry.”
He took his phone and put it back to his ear, “Look at you. Thinking I can’t manage my own business.”
He made his entrance at the bar and looked at you sitting at the bar zone with a watery drink in front of you. That cute dress he had seen you wear so many times, but never got tired of seeing.
“How long has that drink been sitting in front of you without being drunk?”
You furrowed your brow at his question and turned slowly just to see him standing at the entrance. He was wearing a black suit that could kill all the girls at the bar. His woody cologne filled the whole bar, or maybe you were so used to it that you could spot it anywhere, and a beard that he stopped shaving the moment you told him he looked more handsome with it.
“I didn’t ask you to come.” You said when he finally got closer to you.
“You don’t ask for a lot of things, I do the things for you ‘cause… I like your company.”
You smiled, and he tilted his head.
“Now, let’s get out of here.” He placed a bill on the table and made you get off the stool to walk with him—his right hand guided you by your lower back to the exit.
“The bookstore isn’t closed today.” You looked at him, worried. “And I don’t want you to make her close it again just because you don’t trust any other place to hang out with me in.”
“I’m taking you somewhere else. Do you trust me?”
“I did before you asked.” He husked a laugh, and you could swear he made it sound that pretty on purpose.
“I’m kinda busy right now, but I hated the idea of you being alone here. So, what about you coming with me to my place, and then I’ll take you home whenever you ask me. Promise.”
“I—don’t want to interrupt you…”
“You won’t. I’m just signing some things Sam asked me for. We can even go and buy from that restaurant you keep telling me and bring some take-out to Steve and Sam, or they are gonna chew my ass.”
“Is Natasha there?”
“No, sunshine. I’m sorry, she’s traveling now, but I can arrange something for you to see her soon.”
You smiled and nodded.
“My place?” A literal mansion with the biggest garden you had ever seen—multiple cars, a large number of people surrounding it, probably guarding it. “Do you really call this mansion ‘a place'?”
His hand was again on your lower back, and his free hand held the biggest bag of food while you held a smaller one.
“What fuckin’ took you so long?” Two men emerged from one hall.
They didn’t even look at you at first, until the black man nudged the blond’s shoulders.
The blond said your name, more like questioning it.
“Oh… yes… Steve, right?” You offered your hand, and he shook it. “And you must be Sam.”
Both of them nodded. "Nice to meet you.” Steve finally responded.
“We brought you food from my favorite place, hope you don’t mind I chose it.”
You noticed they were rigid in their foot, but both shook their heads.
Bucky tossed the bag at them and made you walk to his office.
“We’ll be in my office. Don’t worry, Sam. You will get your contracts signed in an hour or two.”
He said before closing the door.
“Did… Bucky bring a girl here?” Steve nodded, pursing his lips.
“Apparently.”
“He told us she was young… but how old is she?”
“Twenty-four… Twenty-five next month.” Steve said like he was reciting something.
“Did he make you study her or what?” Steve nodded.
“Well, you should be ready for the cute, pink party you’re going to throw next month for little Miss Sunshine here.”
You were placing the containers on a big table in the middle of the office, while Bucky brought the papers he needed to sign.
“So, you talk about me with your friends?” You teased.
“If any man surrounding me talked to me half as teasingly as you did, he would be a dead man, you know?”
“Yeah, but you don’t like them as much as you like me.”
“And don’t take advantage of that, sunshine.”
He knew you meant as friends. You were always clear that this was platonic.
You never really told him, but you liked him the same way as he liked you, but between your fear of his life, the fear of starting all over again after five years, and the clear age gap between you two. You didn’t want him to know your true feelings.
“I’m gonna be busy for a few minutes. I got some books for you, they are over there on my desk. Read for a while, and then we will talk as much as you want.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to buy me more books…”
“Becca told me you were there last week and only bought one, even when I was very clear that I’d pay for any book you wanted.”
You were going to kill Rebecca for tattletaling on you.
“I—didn’t want to take advantage of it.”
“Well, I’m asking you to take advantage of me.” He placed the paper on the side and continued to the next.
You moved a container closer to him. “Eat, please.”
“Thank you, darling.”
He knew he was in the wrong. He knew he shouldn’t have brought you to his life—but you were that light he thought he had lost when he started this life, and he was sure he was going to make you understand that even if it meant spending his whole time with you by his side.
Some minutes later, he saw you typing on your phone with rushed hands.
“Is that who I think it is?” Bucky didn’t even look up.
“Uh… if I told you no, are you gonna believe me?”
“Not really. It was more of a rhetorical question.” He fixed his eyes on you. “What did he tell you about all those texts?”
“That she was a friend… and I was not seeing the full image.”
“Well, tell him you’re with a friend too. And turn off your phone before I take it.”
You giggled and nodded.
You hated to lie to Scott… But when it was about Bucky, something made you lie. You didn’t even have a good excuse to tell, you were spending your time with an older guy in a bookstore, let alone now in his house.
“Now, you eat. We got a lot of talking to get to.”
After a while, he was finally done with all his signings and took you to the couch in his office.
You were sitting on the corner while he leaned on his side, looking at you—you were explaining the whole situation in full detail. He just nodded and let you finish. He didn’t even gesture all the hate he wanted to show; he wanted you to feel comfortable telling him all the details.
“I’m trying to understand, sweetie. But I can’t. Look at you, why are you wasting your time with that thing?”
You chuckled. “He used to be a good guy…”
“Yeah. And I used to be that too, but look how the tables have turned.”
You rolled your eyes, “You’re a good guy still.”
A smile twitched on the corner of his lip.
“Flattering. But I’m not a good guy.”
“You’ve been nothing but good to me.”
“Well, you’re something different.”
“I’m sure that’s what you say to every woman…”
Clutching the armrest with his hand, he looked at you.
“I’m not even going to dignify what you just said with an answer.”
A knock on his door made him grunt.
“I’m busy, fuck off,” Bucky growled.
“It’s not optional,” Clint shouted through the door.
“Who’s that?” You didn’t recognize the voice from earlier.
“Your call to go home.” He seemed pissed off. “C’mon, sweetheart.”
“Oh…” You furrowed your brow, looking at him with a hint of sadness.
“If this idiot is here,” Bucky said as he stepped outside, where a man with a sleeve full of tattoos was waiting, “that can only mean something went terribly wrong, and I have to fix his mess.”
Clint handed him a gun, and he placed it on his back, tugging it between his jeans and his shirt.
You tried not to look so impressed by the gun, but your eyes were still focused on the arms Clint was still holding.
“But…” You stuttered and stopped, looking at him.
This was a side you had never seen—stern, pensive, tense—his jaw clenched every time he looked at Clint.
“Banner’s gonna take you home, and I’ll call you as soon as I’m free.”
He made you walk faster; his eyes were fixed on the main door. Now, Clint, Steve, and Sam followed him some feet behind, while his hand gripped your arm to be by his side.
“Who’s Banner?” Your weary voice had him on his nerves. He knew you were completely right to be worried—but he hated the idea of him being the reason.
“Go to the jet, I’ll be there in five.” He ordered his men, all of them nodded, and walked past behind you.
A man who seemed too calm to work for him waited in the entrance, too.
“Sunshine, you know who I am, you know the implications of the life I live. Now, you’re gonna follow every instruction Banner gives you. You’re gonna go to your apartment, read whatever you want, wait for my call, and we’ll have one ‘friendly date’ as soon as I’m back.”
“Why does this feel like a goodbye, Bucky?”
Bucky scoffed a laugh. “Not even the toughest man could deprive me of seeing you.”
His eyes were deep—for the first time, the ocean blue nestled in his eyes was almost nowhere to be seen, and being so near him, you noticed those scars that bedecked his face.
“Promise you’ll be fine?”
He looked down, noticing a pink hair scrunchie that wrapped around your wrist. He traced a path from your finger to it, taking and putting it in his pocket. “I think now I need to come back and give you this, right?”
“Be careful,” You mumbled, but before you could say anything else, Banner gripped your shoulders.
“We need to get going.” You saw how Bucky walked without even batting an eye at you.
The drive back home was tense; you fidgeted with the hem of your skirt, and you stared at the city fading through your window.
“You’re a tough one.” Banner finally spoke.
“Huh?”
“You look so innocent, so cute in your dresses—I didn’t even trust you for the first two months. Steve asked me to follow you around for two months straight. We were sure that as soon as you learned who he was, you were going to tattletale on him
You hummed, “Well… It’s not like I’m completely fine with what he does, but… I guess… He’s been kind to me, that should count for something, shouldn’t it?"
“You’re tough, and kind.” He pursed his lips and nodded.
The car stopped in front of your building, and he looked at you, “Do all of us a favor, don’t leave your apartment for a minute, he’ll call you as soon as this thing gets handled. Just don’t put yourself in danger while we’re not near. We need him focused… and you’re quite distracting for him.”
“Oh… I’m sorry, but I’ll do so.” You got out of the car and looked at him, “Nice to meet you, Banner.”
“See you later.”
Part Two.
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Summary: When a few rogue members of the Jersey syndicate snatch you from outside a nightclub, Bucky races against time to find you and bring you home.
Word Count: 4k
Content: angst, depictions of violence and death, eventual fluff, protective bucky
A/N: You know I can’t stay away from these two… there’s gonna be a fourth part eventually, I just need to put pen to paper. Eat up, my pretties <3
A call from the boss at four a.m. couldn’t be about anything good.
Bucky is already driving home from a late night of cleaning up messes, already tired down to his bones. Already thinking of his bed, warm and with you waiting for him in it.
But the phone rings, and he can somehow sense the urgency before he even picks up.
“What's up, boss?”
“Hey, Buck.” Steve's familiar voice, low and concerned, plays out of his speaker phone, surprising him. “You gotta get your ass down to central, pronto. We have an urgent situation.”
Bucky furrows his brows in confusion. “What's goin’ on? Why are you callin’ on—“
“The boss is indisposed.” There’s a rustling on the end of the line, and then Steve's voice lowers to nearly a whisper. “He’s inconsolable, Buck. Jersey’s screwin’ up. Some of Paulie's boys went rogue, somethin’ about old vendettas. They…”
A dangerous pause. Bucky waits, already feeling a dread that he doesn’t have a name for yet.
Steve sighs and comes out with it, knowing what’s going to happen once it’s spoken aloud. “Your girl’s missing.”
For five seconds, Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. There's disbelief, there’s righteous anger, and underneath everything else, a pervasive fear that settles around his heart like ice.
Steve speaks again, a note of nerves in his voice. “Buck?”
Bucky's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his foot sinking the pedal towards the floor.
His voice is tight and clipped as he replies. “Be there in five.”
You had just wanted to go out dancing, to kill time while Bucky worked a late shift.
You went with friends. You didn’t have more than two drinks. You even picked a club that was on family turf, one of Bucky's haunts. It should have been safe.
But when you stepped outside to wait for your Uber home, there were shapes in the dark waiting for you. Looming, menacing, broad-shouldered shapes.
You knew something was wrong before they even moved towards you.
A large hand closed over your mouth to cut off your screams, an arm wrapped around your waist like a band of iron. Another man went for your legs, lifting you off the ground completely. You used every weapon you had at your disposal to fight, jabbing your heel into one man’s thigh so hard he yelled in pain, biting the other man’s hand as hard as you could and screaming bloody murder when he yanked it away.
In the end, it took four fully grown men to bind your hands, gag you, and wrestle you into the trunk of the unmarked car. You might have been proud of that if you weren’t so terrified. The black bag over your head confirmed your suspicions.
This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill attack on the street, a group of guys looking for a thrill. This was family stuff.
It didn’t make any sense. Your father promised that no one would ever even try to touch you. There was a code among made men. Daughters were sacred. Which meant these guys were stupid, crazy, or had a death wish. Maybe all three.
By the time the car arrives at whatever anonymous hideout these clowns have selected for their purposes, you’ve spat out your gag, nearly dislocated your elbow trying to wriggle out of your restraints, and gotten royally fucking pissed off.
The trunk opens again, and you’re screaming like a hellcat.
Even bound and blind, the men struggle to keep hold of you. You feel the environment change from outside to indoors, and then your ass is roughly planted in a chair.
Hands try to keep you still as your restraints are adjusted, and you keep on screaming.
“You are dead! You are so fuckin’ dead! When my father hears about this — when my man hears about this, he’s gonna make you eat your fuckin’ cazzi!”
The black bag is yanked off your head, and you squint at the sudden light change.You appear to be in some ramshackle cabin – or perhaps shack is a better descriptor, considering the condition of the room.
“Can someone please shut her up?”
As your eyes adjust, you see one of your captors leaning by the door, wincing at a line of scratches your manicure left on his forearm. Another stands directly over you, balling up the black bag in his hand and grasping your jaw roughly.
You try to wrench your face out of his grip. “You’re a fuckin’ dead man walkin’, you—“
But he forces the gag between your lips anyway, so deep into your mouth that you cough weakly around it.
“She's a real piece of work,” says the man standing over you. “You sure this is a good idea?”
The man by the door snarls, “Phil was floatin’ in the jersey river for three days because of her father. Eye for an eye.”
The man standing over you moves, approaching a rickety card table in the corner. He's rifling through something, and for a terrifying moment you wonder if he’s going for some kind of weapon. But then the angle of his body shifts, and you realize he’s going through your purse. Your indignant protests are muffled by the gag, turning whiny and pathetic.
“Mothers and daughters are off limits,” he says warily. “Everybody knows that. If Paulie finds out—“
“He’s not gonna find out,” the man by the door spits. He seems to be the brains behind the operation — ‘brains’ being a strong word, of course.
Swaggering with the unbridled confidence that only an idiot can muster, he walks towards you. “I wanna get that Brooklyn rat where it hurts.”
He stretches out a hand and takes a lock of your hair between his fingers, sneering. You jerk your head away, straining against your restraints. If looks could kill, you’d have him on the floor.
“So why not just kill her and leave her outside the club?” the other one asks, your phone and its glittering case in his hand. “What are we doin’ here? What’s the plan?”
“I’m fuckin’ improvising, okay?” Brains snaps, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Enough with the questions. We got work to do.” Leering down at you, he purrs, “You sit tight, sweetheart.”
Then he stalks out of the room, his partner following in his wake.
For a moment there, your blood had chilled when they mentioned killing you. They could be just stupid enough to try something like that, oblivious to the kind of war that would start. Now, your pulse settles into a deadly, eerie calm, because you know something that they don’t.
Bucky is coming for you.
Bucky watches the security cam footage with his fists clenched tight. They’d pulled it from the club’s cloud an hour ago, and now it played on a loop like a nightmare. Grainy footage of you, outside the club, fighting like a wild thing as a group of men stuffed you in a trunk like so much luggage.
“She really gave ‘em hell, huh?” Steve mutters, impressed.
“‘Course she did,” Bucky replies, turning from the laptop screen. He's done watching. It's time for action.
“What do we know?” he asks.
Steve crosses his arms and begins to rattle off information. “We have positive IDs on three of them, and apparently Paulie’s been trying to talk them down for weeks. Talking big about taking a swing at the boss.”
Your father, who has been sitting silently in an office chair, tense as a coiled spring, speaks for the first time since Bucky walked into the room. “Mothers and daughters are off limits. They should fuckin’ know that.”
Suddenly, he moves, his hand swiping across the desk into a ceramic mug that goes careening to the floor and shatters.
Bucky stands stock still, wishing he had something to break.
Steve takes a beat, waiting for more, but nothing comes. So he continues, “No location. They must have shut off the tracking on her phone. But there have been… texts. It's not proof of life, but it’s somethin’.”
Bucky holds out his hand for the phone silently. Steve passes it off, and Bucky paces while he scrolls. Texts from your phone to your father’s, ominous threats and taunts. Pictures, too, blurry and tilted at odd angles. Bound hands, knees bruised and scraped to hell, the back of a head where shiny hair has tangled into knots from struggle. Undeniably you, to anyone who knows you, but Steve's right. No proof of life.
He takes a deep breath so that he doesn’t throw the phone across the room.
“I gotta think for a second,” he rasps, finding a chair and scrubbing a hand across his face.
“The longer we sit here, the more ground we lose,” your father growls, getting to his feet.
“Just gimme a second!” Bucky nearly shouts back, his heart racing even as he sits still.
Steve steps in, the voice of reason. “Easy. I know we’re all feelin’ tense, but we’re not gonna solve anything screamin’ at each other.”
While Steve continues to talk down your father, something tugs at the back of Bucky's mind. He thinks of those pictures. At some point, that phone was in the room with you, in the hands of someone who did that to you. Someone who knows where you are now. If only he could just track that phone—
But he doesn’t need to track the phone.
He remembers the saga four months ago, where you’d let your phone die out at a bar, lost it, and had to buy a new one. How Bucky had bought you that tracking card, slipping it into the glittery case behind your phone, ‘just in case.’ How it had come in handy when you did the same exact thing not a month later.
He hurriedly pulls out his phone, booting up FindMy, tapping the device labeled Princess.
The location pings out in the Pine Barrens. His focus sharpens to a dagger’s edge.
Bucky springs up out of his seat and towards the door, already reaching for his keys. “I got it. I got a location, a lead,” he barks.
Steve jobs after him, grabbing his elbow and pulling him to a stop. “Buck, just wait three seconds and talk to us before you go chargin’ into the fray.”
“We just said—“
Your father approaches, his expression terrified but, for the first time since he got the call, hopeful. “Text me the location. I'm sending a detail with you.”
He claps a hand on Bucky's shoulder, eyes growing dark. “You have my permission to clean house if you have to, understand? Just bring her home in one piece.”
Bucky nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Go.”
He’s out the door in the very next breath.
Exhaustion doesn’t begin to cover how you feel. These idiots have no idea what they’re doing. Working themselves into a panic over news they don’t elect to share with you, they haul you out of your chair at dusk, talking about safehouses and low-traffic hideouts. You still fight, refusing to make this process easy for them, but your energy wanes each time they wrestle you into the trunk of that car.
Thirty-six hours since you were taken. You’ve barely eaten, slept even less. You're so tired that you fade in and out of consciousness in your chair, never feeling fully rested every time you jolt awake.
The brainless pair of men pace the floor of the new safehouse, the third location you’ve encountered in twenty four hours. They're clearly flailing without the support of their network, and without a full-functioning plan. You strain to overhear their whispers, and that’s when you realize they’re starting to become truly afraid.
Bucky’s got them running scared. Good. They should be scared.
“They got Bobby, they got Vince," the taller man hisses. Frank, you remember. In the two days you’ve had the pleasure of his company, you’ve learned so many helpful names. “They’re comin’ for us, you know that right?”
The brains of the operation, Chris, barks angrily, “Shut up.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I have a plan. Nothin’s been done that can’t be undone. All we gotta do is use the resources we have.”
Two pairs of eyes slide to you, and you shift uncomfortably in your chair.
“Her?” Frank asks, evidently not following Chris's line of thinking.
Chris slinks to your chair and reaches behind him, to the handgun you’ve glimpsed a few times in passing that he keeps tucked into his waistband. He doesn’t point it directly at you. Instead, he crouches down to eye level with you, letting the weapon rest on his thigh. Even so, the threat is implicit.
You’re pretty sure he won’t shoot you. Pretty sure. If he really wanted you dead, he would have done it already, instead of dragging you through this drawn-out charade. And you know that he knows the outcome would be disastrous if he did.
Still, your heartbeat picks up at the sight of it, an instinct that no amount of logic can scrub out.
“Here’s the deal, sweetheart. We’ve had our fun, now I need you to do us a favor.” His other hand reaches into his pocket, pulling out your phone, the case sparkling in the dim light of the room.
“You’re gonna call off your daddy, call off your little boyfriend, tell ‘em you’re safe and that we’ve been treating you real good. And you’re gonna ask for some money. Enough to get us outta town. I'm thinking we start with 50k. Leaves us room to negotiate up the next time we ask.”
He tilts his head like he’s the mastermind villain of a crime novel, looking very pleased with himself for coming up with this plot. The barrel of the gun taps your knee gently, and you flinch just a little.
He grins. “Think you can do that for me?”
You know that the only reason they’re asking you this is that they’re running out of options. That the wolves are closing in. Which means rescue could be coming any time now. But you aren’t sure what happens if you refuse.
So you nod compliantly.
Chris pulls the gag from your mouth, making you cough again, and holds the phone up to your face to unlock it. A few taps later, he presses call on Bucky’s contact, little hearts surrounding the text reading My Man. He puts it on speakerphone. You listen, trembling as it rings once, twice. and then he picks up.
“Hello?” his voice is guarded, unsure of who he’s talking to, whose voice he’s about to hear.
You let out a broken sob of relief at the sound of his voice, the first familiar and comforting thing you’ve encountered since you left that nightclub. “Bucky.”
“Oh, thank god.” his words come out in a rush. “Baby, please tell me you’re okay.”
Your lower lip wobbles, a tear streaks down your face. Chris nudges the barrel of his gun against your knee again, and you stammer, “I–I’m okay.”
“I’m comin’ for you, princess,” Bucky vows with quiet certainty, like a storm about to break. “I’ll be there real soon.”
Chris looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to begin your scripted dialogue. Resentment boils under your skin as you look down at the bruises decorating your legs, as you think of the hell he’s put your family through with this idiotic, ill-conceived scheme.
You raise your chin, finding a steadiness you haven’t felt in two days. “Good. Make ‘em pay, baby.”
Chris's snide expression drops, and he hangs up before tossing the phone across the room, enraged. The back of a hand cracks against your face, and you taste blood at the corner of your mouth.
“Stupid bitch,” he spits.
You compose yourself, toss your hair out of your eyes haughtily and reply, “Hope you didn’t plan on keeping that hand.”
Cold steel presses to your cheek. Chris digs the barrel of the gun into your skin, his face twisted in anger. He's so close you can smell his fetid breath.
“Easy, Chris," Frank says placatingly. “Let's not do anything we can’t take back.”
Pulling from a hidden well of bravery within you, you hiss, “Yeah, Chris. Take it easy.”
Chris jerks away from you, white knuckles wrapped around the handle of the gun as he gestures between you and Frank with it. “Shut her up, for the love of god.”
Frank moves unsteadily towards you and picks the gag up off the floor.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Chris speaks like he’s trying to convince himself more than Frank. “He won’t find us out here. No one knows where we are.”
“Then why do you look so scared?” you ask, your lips curling into a sneer.
“I told you to shut that bitch up!” he shouts to Frank, hurling open the door and stalking outside to get some air.
It doesn't matter that Bucky hasn’t slept in almost two days. It doesn't matter that he’s running on gas station energy drinks and protein bars he didn’t bother to taste as he choked them down. It doesn't matter, because he’s the best weapon this syndicate has. And the men that chose to stand between you and him are about to find out just how good he is.
Three guys abandoned ship on this kidnapping scheme over the course of those thirty-six hours, staying behind to clear up loose ends at abandoned safehouses or trying to make contact with their people in an effort to save their own hides. Useless. He'd gotten the information he needed from them and then disposed of them like the garbage they were. He had been given permission to clean house, and he intends to use it.
He closes in on the latest safehouse less than a half hour after your call disconnects. The detail sent by your father is about five minutes behind, left in the dust when Bucky broke about five different traffic laws once the line went dead.
He sees the first one outside, panicking and scrambling for his piece as Bucky throws the car into park. A crack rings out, and a bullet pings off his passenger side mirror as he jumps out of the car. He ducks quickly behind his car door and lets five more bullets thud into it. The moment that pathetic little revolver clicks empty, Bucky straightens up and takes his aim.
The man crumples to the ground like a cheap shirt.
Bucky quickly cases the front entrance and stalks to the door. If you're not on the other side of it, whoever is will have hell to pay.
He kicks the door open and readies his weapon.
Another crack, then a burn at his right bicep. In an instant, his eyes snap to the source of the shot, and Bucky drops him before he can pull the trigger a second time. A quick glance down reveals that the bullet only grazed, leaving a red dripping stripe across his arm that he barely even feels. His entire focus is funneled to finding you.
He moves through the space with his gun ready in his grip, looking for any other human obstacles that need to be cleared. He turns down a short hallway, checks a few empty rooms, until he finds one that isn’t empty.
You’re sitting tied to a chair in the middle of the room, mouth stuffed with a cloth, your eyes wide and disbelieving. Shaking, pale, and bruised – but alive and in one piece.
Bucky nearly collapses with relief, but by some miracle his legs keep him upright, moving him towards you. His hands didn’t shake once when he cut down the men in his path, but it trembles when he cups your jaw and gently removes the gag.
“Hey. Hey, princess. I got you.”
“Bucky,” you whimper, your voice hoarse and breaking.
The ropes binding you are the last thing preventing him from taking you into his arms, so he takes his knife out of his sock and gets to work as quickly as he can.
“You’re bleeding,” you mumble, brows furrowed in concern.
“Just a scratch,” he assures you, the restraints at your ankles falling away. “Anybody else here?”
You shake your head. “No. Just them.”
When he manages to free your hands, you launch yourself into his arms, clearly weak but holding onto him with a desperate grip. “You’re really here,” you whisper.
Bucky wraps his arms around you, cradles your head, and it’s like the world rights itself. “I told you I was comin’ for you.”
You sniffle, burying your face in his neck. “I knew you would.”
“You did good. You were so brave, baby, I'm so proud of you.” He pulls you back a little to look you over, frowning at a bruise that is just starting to darken by your mouth. The moment his eyes land on it, he’s glad he decided not to show any mercy.
“They hurt you?” he asks, muscles in his jaw ticking.
“Not bad.” You sniffle again, wiping your eyes. “But they tossed my Birkin off the GWB.”
Bucky laughs in surprise, pressing his lips to your forehead. You must be all right if you’re thinking about your purse at a time like this.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises, slipping an arm around your waist. “C’mon, let’s get you outta here.”
—————————
Your father’s detail handles cleanup, and you’re grateful for that. All you have to worry about is washing your face, brushing the tangles out of your hair, and settling into the passenger seat for a couple of hours on the car ride home.
Now that the worst of it is behind you, and you’re safe in the familiar comfort of Bucky's car, you start to lose the fight against exhaustion. Your hand stays wrapped up in his while he drives, but your eyes droop, your head lolling against the headrest.
“I saw the footage from outside the club.” He squeezes your hand. “You put up a good fight.”
In spite of your fatigue, you smirk. “‘Course I did.“
“That’s my girl.” His eyes stay firmly on the road, focus sharp even as his voice softens. “But you’ll never have to do that again. They know better now than to mess with the girl I love.”
You turn your head in surprise.
Bucky is a man of actions, of deeds, not words. You've never once doubted his devotion to you, but this is the first time he’s ever spoken it aloud. Warmth blooms through your chest, slow and unstoppable.
“You love me?” you ask quietly, unable to help the smile that infects your face, temporarily banishing your fatigue.
He glances towards you, brows knitted together. “What are you talkin’ about? ‘Course I do.”
Immensely pleased, you turn your attention out the window, because looking at him right now makes your heart do ridiculous things. “I knew it,” you reply teasingly. “You’re goin’ soft.”
You can practically sense the rolling of his eyes as he lets go of your hand to squeeze your thigh. He huffs a quiet laugh, muttering, “You are such a fuckin’ brat.”
Unable to resist, you look back at him, surrendering to the warmth. “I love you.”
Bucky glances back at you again, something vulnerable and grateful in his expression.
“Thank you for the rescue,” you add, letting your eyes flutter closed.
“I’ll always keep you safe, princess.”
As the car rumbles along the highway, you feel the truth of his promise down to your marrow. Your knight in shining leather armor.
For a moment, your mind drifts to what happens next. The first point of order will be debriefing your father, followed by a hot meal and a long, hotter shower — ideally enjoyed alongside your man. And then blissful, uninterrupted sleep, wrapped up in his arms. You can think of nothing you’d like more at the moment.
Without opening your eyes, you wonder aloud, “Think my dad will promote you now?”
“He better,” Bucky scoffs. “And you are never going to the club without a security detail again.”
“You’re my security detail,” you mumble sleepily, smiling at the way his hand tightens protectively against your thigh.
Summary: After hiding your pregnancy from your husband for a while, Bucky, fiercely territorial and quietly devoted, turns every moment into proof that you and the baby are his entire world. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)
Word Count: 2.4k+
A/N & Disclaimer: This is a special addition to this series due to my 1k followers event based off the Character Questionnaire game from this ask! It has a significant time skip and is not part of the main chapters (at least not for a longggg time). The next update to this AU will go back to when they are not married, not expecting babies, etc.
Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist
You didn’t mean to keep it from him.
You chalked the fatigue up to stress. The soreness? A bad night’s sleep. The way your stomach flipped at the smell of coffee one morning and you nearly cried because of a stupid dog commercial? Well… okay, that was harder to explain.
But still, you told yourself it was a fluke. A weird week. Hormones, maybe. You didn’t want to worry Bucky. Not when things had been so peaceful lately with quiet mornings curled together in bed, more meals together, and late-night walks with his hand brushing yours. You didn’t want to ruin it with paranoia.
Still, Bucky noticed. Of course he did.
You’d catch him watching you, brow furrowed slightly like he was running numbers in his head. When you started getting lightheaded every time you stood up too fast, he stopped letting you carry anything heavier than a throw pillow. You tried to wave him off, but he didn’t say much, just kept that steady gaze on you like he was trying to crack a code you hadn’t realized you were writing.
You weren’t hiding what was going on for some grand plan or secret rebellion. It was fear. And maybe… maybe a little bit of disbelief. If you didn’t say it out loud, if you didn’t name it, then maybe you could keep everything as it was. Simple, safe, and normal.
So you smiled through the nausea, blamed the headaches on allergies, and quietly swapped your morning coffee for tea when Bucky wasn’t looking. You were careful. You hid your vitamins behind the cereal boxes and kept the pregnancy test buried under old wash clothes and unused toiletries in the very back of the bathroom drawer.
You were good at pretending, but Bucky was better at watching.
He saw the way you flinched from certain smells, the way your body gravitated toward the couch faster than usual after a long day, or the way your hand went protectively to your stomach whenever you thought no one was looking.
And then came the mood swings.
You were usually patient, especially with him, but one night you snapped at Bucky for leaving a dish in the sink. He didn’t even argue, just tilted his head, studying you quietly as you stormed out of the room like your heart was on fire.
He found you in the bedroom twenty minutes later curled into a ball, blanket pulled over your face like you could hide from the world.
“Wanna talk?” He asked, voice soft.
You didn’t answer, just shook your head.
He didn’t press. He just sat beside the bed quietly until you fell asleep.
And still… you didn’t tell him.
You wanted to be sure. You wanted time to think. You wanted to hold onto the tiny, flickering hope for just a little longer, uninterrupted.
So you waited and you planned.
One quiet morning, when Bucky left early for a training session, you slipped into the bathroom with shaking hands and another test clenched tight in your fist. The mirror showed a pale version of yourself, someone who was nervous, uncertain, and blinking too fast.
You followed the instructions with breathless precision and set the test on the counter like it might explode.
Then you waited. Two minutes. You could survive two minutes.
Except you didn’t feel like you were surviving. You felt like you were floating and sinking all at once, like the air had turned to static and your bones were filled with buzzing dread. Your gaze shifted to the drawer where the old tests were.
Maybe they were faulty or glitched, maybe even expired. Maybe this was just stress, or a weird shift in your cycle. Maybe your body was playing tricks.
You hoped so.
Because your hands were shaking, your mouth was dry, and your head kept looping the same thought like it was stuck on a scratched record:
You still haven’t told Bucky.
The subject of kids had never come up, not seriously. There were no “what-ifs,” no late-night talks about futures with cribs or lullabies. You didn’t know if he even wanted them. What if he didn’t? What if the idea of a baby scared him and pushed him back into memories too dark to name?
Your stomach twisted. Not from nausea, though that hadn’t exactly eased, but from the gut-deep fear that this one thing, this one tiny life-altering truth might shift everything between you. Bucky loved you. That wasn’t in question. He told you in every touch, every breath, and every stupid middle-of-the-night trip for snacks you hadn’t even realized you were craving.
But love didn’t always mean ready.
And the last thing you wanted was to see anger on his face. Or worse, disappointment. Cold, quiet regret. A sharp flinch that said I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t want this. A withdrawal.
And when the lines appeared clear, certain, and real, your stomach dropped. You slid down onto the cool tile floor and stared because it was happening. You were pregnant, no doubts about it. And Bucky didn’t know.
You stayed in the bathroom longer than you meant to. Long enough that, when the front door creaked open, you jumped, heart lodging in your throat. Bucky’s voice echoed softly down the hall.
“Sweetheart? I forgot my gloves–”
Panic surged through you. You shoved the test back in its box and crammed it under the sink, slamming the cabinet door closed, standing back up just as Bucky rounded the corner into the hallway.
He paused when he saw you, your wet eyes, tense shoulders, and breath caught halfway to a sob.
You really weren’t as convincing as you thought.
“…You okay?” He asked gently, blue eyes narrowing with something deeper than concern. “You look… pale.”
You forced a smile that hurt. “Just tired.”
He studied you like he didn’t quite believe you, then stepped forward and raised a hand to your forehead. His touch was careful, the brush of his fingers cool against your skin.
“No fever,” He murmured. “But your heart’s racing.”
“I said I’m fine,” You said a little too fast.
That look came over him again. The one that meant he was filing something away, mentally circling something he couldn’t yet name.
“…Alright,” He sighed softly. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t go fainting on me.”
You nodded, lips pressed tight.
He kissed the top of your head before heading back out the door, but you could feel the weight of his concern even after it shut behind him.
He knew something was going on. He just didn’t know what. Not yet.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Bucky didn’t ask what was wrong, but he made it impossible for you not to notice that he knew.
It was in the subtle things. You reached for the car keys one morning and found one of his men already standing by the door, your coat in hand, saying, “Mr. Barnes has requested I drive you.”
When you went to brew coffee, there was suddenly a mug of herbal tea beside your usual spot, caffeine-free, floral, and warm.
“I just thought you might want something gentler,” He said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the kettle like he hadn’t spent ten minutes researching safe teas and had them delivered the day of.
You told yourself it was coincidence, that you weren’t being obvious, that he couldn’t possibly know.
But then you caught him watching you when you sat on the couch and curled your arms around your stomach, something you did more and more without thinking. He didn’t comment, just gave you that look. That look.
Gentle. Patient. Heartbreaking.
And you knew. He was waiting. He’d already figured it out.
You came home one evening quite late, exhausted and foggy with emotion. Bucky had left a blanket folded over the back of the couch, soft and warm. The fireplace was already lit. There was soup in the kitchen made by Nico. Something mild, simple, and exactly what your stomach could handle lately. He didn’t greet you at the door, didn’t hover. Just let you ease into the silence of the house as he was sat on the couch with a discarded book, staring patiently.
He was giving you a choice.
“Thought you were busy, didn’t think you’d be down here,” You murmured.
“Didn’t think you’d be home so late,” He answered, and you caught the quiet worry behind the words.
You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, neither of you saying anything for a long time. The crackling of the fire filling the space.
Then he asked, so quietly it nearly broke you, “You gonna tell me?”
Your breath caught.
“I mean… when you’re ready,” He added quickly. “I’m not going to force it out of you. I just…”
He paused, looking down at his hands, then up at you again.
“I just want you to know I already got you. No matter what it is.”
Your eyes stung. You didn’t say it yet. Not out loud.
But your hand found his, fingers weaving slow and certain. Holding on.
And Bucky didn’t push. He just laced your fingers together and waited with you.
The fateful day happened on a Tuesday.
Not a dramatic day. Not a falling-apart kind of day. Just… a Tuesday. The kind where your lunch didn’t settle right and everything felt a little too loud.
Bucky had been trailing the edges of your space again. Not smothering, just there. Like gravity that’s always near, always steady.
He hadn’t asked again, but he left things: crackers in your bag, your favorite fuzzy socks on the bed, or a bottle of ginger ale already opened with the fizz just right. You didn’t have to tell him. Somehow, Bucky knew the shape of your day before you could say it.
And maybe that’s what broke you.
Because when he found you that evening, curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, blanket half-dragged over your lap and your hands clutched tight in your sleeves; you looked up, met his worried blue eyes, and said it.
“James,” You whispered, voice wrecked and tired.
His whole body went still, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”
“I’m pregnant.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Bucky exhaled, slow and trembling, like you’d cracked something open in his chest.
“I know,” He said gently, stepping forward and kneeling in front of you. “I figured.”
Tears burned behind your eyes. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”
His hands came up to rest on your knees, tentative and warm. “Because I didn’t want to take it from you.”
You blinked. “Take what?”
“The chance to say ii, to let it be yours first.” His voice cracked, quiet and tender. “You needed to hold it for a while before sharing it. I get that.”
You stared at him, lip trembling. “Aren’t you mad I didn’t tell you sooner?”
“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I was never gonna be mad.”
You broke then as your sobs spilled out and your hands trembled. Bucky gathered you close without a second thought. He rocked you gently, murmuring things you didn’t catch.
When your tears slowed, and your breathing steadied, he kissed the side of your head and said quietly, “We’re gonna be okay. All three of us.”
You nodded into his shoulder, still shaking. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” He whispered, pulling the blanket around both of you. “But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, the fear didn’t feel so overwhelming.
But then it started the day after you told him.
At first, it was subtle. Bucky adjusted your car seat a little further back and mumbled something about “spinal alignment.” Then he replaced your shampoo with one that had “better prenatal safety ratings,” and you realized it was happening.
By the end of the week, your world had shifted.
You tried to carry a grocery bag inside one afternoon and he blinked like you’d committed a war crime.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Helping?”
“Not anymore, you’re not.”
From that moment on, you were banned. From lifting, from bending, from anything Bucky Barnes decided was “unnecessary effort” for a person growing a child.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
He didn’t argue. He just took the bag from your hands, scooped you up bridal-style, and carried you inside like you weighed less than a breath, ordering his staff to handle the rest of the groceries.
From then on, it only got more apparent how determined he was to provide nothing but the best for you.
If you so much as shifted in bed at 3 a.m., he was up. Padding to the kitchen in his sweats, eyes still half-shut, and grabbing pickle chips, orange slices, or whatever weird craving your body decided it had to have. You once whispered “s’mores” at 2:47 a.m. and woke up to him standing over you with a plate of them.
You weren’t allowed to open doors. You weren’t allowed to walk into any building first; he always went in first, eyes scanning, and body subtly angled in front of yours like a living shield.
You tried to argue once. “James, you can’t possibly keep doing this every single time we go somewhere–”
“I can and I will,” He said simply, “I know what this world’s like. I’ve seen too much. No one gets near you unless I say so.”
He meant it. No one raised their voice around you. No one touched you. People who even looked at you wrong got a tight-lipped stare that made them suddenly remember an urgent reason to be elsewhere.
Sam called him “feral.” Nat called him “a full-time bodyguard with a nesting complex.” You just called him yours.
And under all the sharp edges was softness.
Warm hands rubbing your lower back when it ached, whispered promises to your child, and bought an overly-excessive amount of books about parenting, swaddling, and sleep schedules. He helped you build baby furniture in the middle of the night when insomnia hit you and even hand-painted the tiny mural on the nursery wall, stars and constellations, soft and glowing.
He looked at you nowadays like he couldn’t believe he got this lucky. Like it terrified him, grounded him, and gave him purpose all at once.
And when he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and then lower to the swell of your stomach, you knew what he meant without words.
You and the baby were his everything now and he’d do anything to protect you both.
Summary - A stranger interrupts your solitude and you aren't pleased about it.
Warnings - None. 18+ Only! My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk.
Word Count - 900
Read Part 2 Here
The air was warm, with a gentle breeze blowing over the building top.
Birds chirped and the sounds of cars and the bustle of people had filtered into a quiet murmur, as the smells of fresh air and flowers filled your senses.
It was your favourite place to be, sat sideways with your feet up, legs bent at the knee, on the rustic wooden bench at the top of the building you were lucky your friend managed.
Up here you could immerse yourself in your books, get lost in your fantasy worlds whilst the real one faded into nothing around you. It was bliss.
On that particular day you were midway through a romance novel, smirking at each cliche line but enthralled nonetheless.
"Excuse me?" Came a deep husky voice that had you glancing up from your pages, seeing a man in a black suit looking down at you with furrowed brows as he stood close by.
"Yeah?" You replied with a mild annoyance that you'd been disturbed in your sanctuary.
Okay, fair enough it was actually a roof top bar by night, but during the day it was unused, empty and you had prior permission to come up here whenever you liked outside of operating hours.
"This is private property." Bucky said sternly, placing his hands on his hips as his gaze quickly swiped over your form.
"I know." You quipped back before turning back to your book, trying to relocate the sentence you were on.
"Okay." Bucky grunted in annoyance, ticking his jaw, "So I'm gonna need you to leave."
You rolled your eyes, not even sparing him another glance as you swept over the page.
"Carlos lets me up here." You muttered dismissively, wanting this man stranger to leave you alone, despite his undeniably handsome face.
"Carlos?" He queried with a raised brow, growing more and more intrigued by your nonchalance in his presence with every passing moment.
"That's what I said." You sighed sarcastically.
"Okay well Carlos must have forgotten I need the terrace for a lunch date." Bucky admitted and your eyes snapped back to his in amusement, lip curling at the corner.
"You need a whole terrace for a date?" You asked with a sarcastic smirk.
"It's romantic." He chuffed.
"It's cliche and over the top." You laughed with a shake of your head.
"Is that right?" Bucky replied with a raised brow.
"Mmhmmm." You hummed with a nod before turning back to your book and fingering the corner of the page.
You heard a sigh and the shuffle of shoes from the mystery man, clearly frustrated that you still hadn't budged.
"What are you doing up here anyway?" He asked as you flipped your page.
"I like the view and the peace while I read." You shrugged.
"The view?" Bucky asked with a genuine curiosity.
You looked back up, realizing how he'd stepped closer than before and you could now get a whiff of his woodsy cologne and see the ripples of his chest beneath his tight shirt.
"Yeah." You swallowed as your cheeks flushed, "You can see the whole of New York while you're up here. It reminds me how small I am in such a big world."
You let out a breath as you looked out at the other buildings reaching out to the horizon, whilst Bucky's eyes remained on you, curious and bewildered.
"Anyway," You sighed, slamming your book shut and swinging your legs over the edge of the bench. "I'll get out of your hair."
"You have no idea who I am, do you?" Bucky asked with a smirk as his eyes twinkled in amusement.
"What are you a celebrity or something?" You breathed back, completely unbothered.
"Not quite." He chuffed with a shake of his head.
"Well, makes no odds to me." You shrugged, "People are people."
"Well I own the building." He teased and your eyes crinkled at the edges, lips pressing into a flat line.
"Oh really?" You said sarcastically, "Am I supposed to swoon and be impressed by that?"
"Not exactly, but imagine my surprise when I find someone up here that shouldn't be." He teased with a curl of his lip, flicking his tongue over his lower before he finished.
"Well I'm going now so you got your wish." You said with a slump, gathering your book against your chest, "Enjoy your date. I'm sure it'll be filled with riveting conversation while your date orders the most expensive thing on the menu and you brag about your achievements."
You shook your head in annoyance and stepped around him, heading for the stairs to descend the building and escape this man's company.
"Hey wait." Bucky yelled after you, feeling a little sad that your strange interaction was ending.
You stilled, looking over your shoulder with a raised brow and a pout.
"Yeah?" You quipped.
"Don't....don't Google me." He said with a sudden shyness that you hadn't expected, brushing his hand against the back of his neck with a blush to his cheeks.
"Okay Mr ego." You replied with even more sarcasm, "I really don't care. See ya."
Little did you know, Bucky would make sure you saw him again. Now you'd captured his attention, he would do whatever he could to capture yours.
summary: why be miserable at work on valentine's day when you could be on vacation in ibiza? maybe you'll meet a mysterious, brooding man who just so happens to be great in bed. (but its not really in bed)
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, recreational drug use (not reader), drinking, public sex (bathroom...), mutual masturbation, one night stand, unprotected p in v (pls dont, these idiots don't even care), petnames (beautiful, pretty), biting/blood, panties in mouth, reader works an unspecified corporate job....or any job with a desk and computer really....
You’re starting to understand why people do hard drugs.
It's February 10th. Since this same date last year, you haven’t had a single day off, gone out with your friends, or done anything remotely fun. It's been a robotic routine. Wake up, work, eat, home, sleep, repeat.
What makes this worse is Valentine’s day. In four days, all of your coworkers will be raving about what their significant other did for them.
“He got me tickets to see our favorite band!”
“He wrote me letters about how much he loves me!”
“She’s treating me to a spa day!”
You haven’t been on a date in years; your job is partly to blame for this. So, aside from being overworked, you’re also chronically single. Great!
You need a change of scenery. God forbid you stay here and get bombarded with the love you don’t have.
The bright white light from your monitor blinds you as you stare into it, chair creaking as you adjust your position. “A change of scenery…”
Where will you go?
You could go anywhere seeing as you haven’t used any vacation days, or sick days for that matter. A couple of your friends mentioned Costa Rica, some said Hawaii, but one of them stood out:
“Ibiza has great nightlife. It's exhausting, but if you can keep up it's totally worth the trip. Plus, I saw a lot of hot guys—and girls. A lot. It's great to get you out of a dry spell if you know what I'm saying.”
You were convinced. Ibiza…Your keyboard clacks: I-B-I-Z-A. An array of beaches pop up; clear teal waters with warm golden sand. Beautiful, but not what you were looking for. “..ibiza nightlife.” You whisper to yourself. Colorful neon lights with crowds and huge, rave-like speakers. That’s what you wanted.
Underneath the photos: flights. They’re expensive, but when’s the last time you’ve splurged on yourself? Actually, when’s the last time you’ve done anything like this? You deserve to be impulsive, to have fun, to feel as young as you actually are instead of rotting behind a corporate desk.
Ticket purchased: first class, departure February 13th at 3:20 PM. You really hope it's everything your friend painted it out to be.
Lights flash in every which way. Hot pink. Red. Blue. Purple. Then pink again. There's no room to properly dance; your body rubs against the crowd as you sway and jump to the beat of the song. Some clothes are rougher than others; skin is slick against your own as people pass by. The bass starts at your feet, traveling up your legs to your chest as it vibrates.
The entire room reeks of sweat and perfume. Cigarette smoke lingers, but only from one direction. The scent comes from a group of men sitting in the U-shaped lounge area directly in front of your spot on the dancefloor. It looks exclusive; two intimidatingly muscular men guard the roped off area. It's hard to get a good view from within the crowd, but you manage to catch glimpses as you dance.
A few of the men have a glass of whiskey, others just a cigarette, some both. All of them are dressed professionally despite the club scene. Even from afar, you can see the thin white lines on the center table. Many of the men indulge in the substance, using a small, rolled up bill to sniff it. The luckier ones do it off of the half-naked women around them.
One man has neither a glass of whiskey nor a cigarette. He doesn't seem interested in the coke either. He’s looking at you. You can’t tell if his eyes are blue or green because of the strobing lights, but eye color is irrelevant. Eye contact is what’s important. The moment his gaze grabbed yours, he held on. It’s searing, hot, and sends a shiver down your spine that pools low in your stomach. You find your eyes flicking away out of instinct.
Dancing becomes your priority, but you can’t help wanting to look at him. He seems to have forgotten about you. His head is turned to the side, giving you a perfect view of his jaw. Not freshly shaved, but he did recently—stubble just growing in. It flexes as he speaks to the person next to him.
He’s sprawled out on the couch, arms resting behind him while his legs spread tauntingly. The fabric of this clothing bends as he moves, tightening around his bicep. Maybe you were staring too long because he seems to notice you again. He glances at you from his peripheral vision. His mouth forms a small smirk as he puts his focus back onto you.
“Come, join me.” You’re not the best at lip reading, but that seems to be what he’s mouthing to you. He notices your hesitation and tilts his head to gesture to the empty spot next to him.
He’s a stranger surrounded by people doing coke and prostituting themselves. But! He’s hot. Very, very hot. God knows how long it's been since you got laid, and hey, that’s half the reason you’re here right?
The dance floor is tacky against your heels, sticking and releasing as you walk towards him. Security at the roped entrance seems to be against letting you in. Thankfully, the very attractive and morally questionable stranger speaks up for you:
“Let her in.”
It’s like a trigger word; one of the guards unclasps the rope and pulls it aside while the other moves out of the way. Was this man always so confident or is it a facade to impress you? By his body language, you guess it's the former. You walk past the entrance—the guards shuffle back behind you—and towards him. He reaches for you, veins prominent under his steady hand. You grab it; he gently guides you down to sit next to him.
Your thigh presses against his. He tilts his head down to speak in your ear. “You dance often?”
“No,” your mouth grazes his ear as you respond, “Not really…” You pause for a moment. “What’s your name?”
“James, but my friends call me Bucky.”
You grin. “Are we friends, Bucky?”
“Depends on how the rest of this conversation goes.” His voice lowers with implication—gravelly and rough. “Do you have a name, beautiful?”
If it wasn’t so hot in here, you’d feel the blush creep up your face. “Maybe…but I think I prefer being called beautiful instead.”
Bucky's smile mimics the smirk he had earlier, “Yeah?” His calloused hand behind you moves to your nape and caresses the soft skin. “So, beautiful, what now?”
His lips are on yours. It's a violent exhange–mouths molding together, tongues sliding against one and other. The bathroom door slams behind the two of you as you frantically claw at his clothes. You feel your ass hit the corner of the sink. “Up.” is all you manage to say between kisses.
Wordlessly, Bucky complies, lifting you up and setting you on the marble edge. Your legs wrap around his waist to squeeze him closer. His bulge grazes your clothed core. You grind your hips upward, desperate for more of the delicious friction you’re creating. Bucky seems to want it just as bad with the way his hips are moving in sync with yours.
“Can–oh shit—does the door lock?”
He pulls away, leaving only an inch between your swollen lips. “No, but..” he leans back down to nip at your neck, "that's the fun isn’t it?” You’ve never had sex in a bathroom before, but you’d be lying if you said the idea of getting caught didn’t make you clench around nothing.
Your hand grabs his hair as he presses wet kisses down to your collarbone. You let out a soft moan that gets a pleased hum in return.
His hand moves down the edge of your dress. He teases the fabric—flipping it between his fingers—before pushing it up to your waist. Your hips rock forward, only to be disappointed when he steps back. “Bucky...!”
Was that you? The whiny, begging voice seems so far from you yet it came from your mouth. This man is bad for you. Intoxicating, overwhelming, and too fucking good at what he’s doing.
Bucky laughs at your plea. “Shhh… Someone will hear you.” His teasing demeanor only seems to make you wetter, more desperate.
His fingers caress the wet patch on your panties, tracing the edge between dry and wet fabric with a little more pressure when he passes over your clit. “Look at you. So eager. When’s the last time someone touched you properly?”
It's been so long, too long, but you’re not gonna tell him that. “I’d hardly—god—c–all this proper.” He seems to like your fiery spirit by the way his fingers double down. That, or he’s trying to shut you up.
“Might not be, but you’re begging for it aren’t you?” You almost say no, but a quick glance down reminds you that you are–hips jutting into his hand as he rubs you. “Naughty girl…”
You throw your head back with a breathy whine before reaching down for his belt. After fumbling with it, your hand slips underneath the waistband of his boxers. You can’t see it, but you can feel how hard he is. He lets out a hiss when you grip around his length. “Hah..Gonna help me out?”
You’re gonna help him out alright. You move your hand slowly up and down—as much as you can with his pants in the way. His head drops to your shoulder, but his hand moves underneath your panties.
“You gonna help me out, Bucky?” You say, breathless and smiling. He nods into your shoulder rather than giving you a verbal response. He’s trying to be quiet on purpose, and if he can tease you, you can definitely tease him. “Awe..What's the matter? You tryin’ not to beg?”
Bucky growls before capturing your lips with his. It was violent before, but now it's a competition. His body presses closer to yours: hot, heavy, while his hips jerk into your hand. “I don’t beg.” Two thick fingers slide into you. “God, you’re tight. It has been a while hasn’t it?” They curl, reaching the spongy spot inside of you while his palm rubs against your clit. You let out a broken groan that he swallows.
“That better not be a complaint.” You tighten your grip around his length playfully. He likes it a little too much for it to be a proper threat.
“Never, pretty.” By this point, neither of you can muster enough energy to tease the other. The sounds of lips smacking echo in the bathroom. Your teeth clash occasionally, but the unpleasant feeling is washed away by his fingers inside of you and yours around him.
Bucky lets out a rough groan before he stutters against your hand. He stops abruptly, pulling back and holding your wrist tightly. “Turn around. Over the sink.”
Well, excuse you. You didn’t know he was ordering you around. “Wanna ask a little nicer?” Your teeth drag against his bottom lip, biting it just hard enough to draw a small amount of blood. The crimson coats the seam of your lips. You almost apologize. Almost, but the way he manhandles you from sitting on the sink to bending over it vaporizes your apology.
You feel his breath along your neck; your skin pricks with anticipation. “Don’t be a brat,” the sound of his pants coming off makes you extremely aware of where you are; cold marble against your chest, music booming outside the door, hands gripping onto the sharp edges of the sink.
Are you actually about to fuck in the bathroom? You could say no, stop him, go back onto the dancefloor like nothing happened.
Bucky drags his tip across your slick opening. Yeah. You’re about to fuck in a bathroom.
He’s thick, heavy, and warm. His length pulses as he pushes in, inch by inch. Slow. Careful. It's excruciating, painful even because all you want is for him to be completely inside you.
You rock your hips back. He lets out a moan before biting down on your shoulder. With him completely inside, you can feel every intricate part of him: his veins, his tip, the curve of his cock. The feeling travels up and makes you choke on your breath. “Fuck—Bucky, move.”
“Who’s giving orders now?” A whisper into your skin. You barely catch it before he pulls out and slams back in. The force of his thrust pushes you forward; you brace yourself by gripping even harder.
He’s not fast by any means, but his thrusts are deep with intent. Every one is marked with his tip kissing your cervix and rubbing against the spot that sends a jolt of pleasure through you. You can’t help but whine every time he’s completely inside you.
“I thought we agreed to be quiet…”
“Unlike you–fuck!–I d-don’t have anything to bite on.”
He stills briefly, grabbing something out of his pocket. “Open.”
“Huh? What’re you–Mff!” A wad of cotton is shoved in your mouth. Is it…your underwear? When did he take those off?
“There. Think you can be quiet now?” You’d be insulted if it wasn’t so hot. He hears your muffled hum of agreement and continues to move. The squelching of his cock going in and out of you echoes throughout the bathroom. It's lewd, wet, downright filthy, but him rubbing against your walls feels so good.
Bucky gets quieter as his hips begin to stutter. At first, you think he’s trying to hold back his voice again—a crime, really. You feel teeth graze the meaty part of your neck before biting down. He’s not holding back. He’s plotting.
Your loud moan is muffled by the cotton—thank god—as he pierces skin. Not nearly hard enough to completely dig in, but enough to draw blood. Just like you did to him.
“Revenge…” His playful tone contrasts the very serious way his length drives into you.
You clench around him, legs trembling and sweaty hands slipping from the sink. “Oh.. You like that, don’t you?” You want to mock him for how his thrusts are becoming frantic, how his groans are getting harder to hold back, how he’s gripping you so desperately, but you can’t.
Try as you might to give a witty remark, the cloth in your mouth won’t let you.
Bucky’s close, and he knows it. He brings one hand down to your bud, rubbing in time with his thrusts. “C’mon…Come f’me, pretty. Wanna come with you.”
It's electric. Your heart beats in your ears, white hot pleasure surges through you as Bucky’s thrusts come to a stop. He’s biting down on you, again, but that doesn't stop groans from making their way to your ears. The feelings lingers for a while until you’re both completely still in its aftermath. His chest rises and falls against your back. For the first time in forever, you’re calm, unbothered by work, stress, the outside world in general. Just pure, untouched bliss.
Thank god for your friend who suggested Ibiza.
You’re glowing. Not literally, but you have a refreshing appearance that your coworkers notice.
“You look good! Relaxing vacation I take it?”
“Very.” If only they knew.
Work is still mundane, but at least you have something to daydream about now. Sometimes you can still feel him inside you, the sweet stretch of his length as he moved languidly inside you. But no matter, that's what your vibrator’s for.
A serious conversation seems to be happening in your boss's office. Several male voices raise, then lower quickly. You mind your business, typing away with eyes fixed to your screen. An array of men walk out of the office a few minutes later. All in suits. For a moment, you break your concentration and look up.
Bright blue eyes meet your own. An unmistakable jaw. Hands with fingers that have been inside you. A smile that enticed you to fuck a stranger in a club bathroom. You freeze.
You told yourself ‘what happens in Ibiza stays in Ibiza’ but you should’ve known that wasn’t true by the bite marks etched into your neck and the fingerprints bruised into your arms and hips. By the looks of it, what happened in Ibiza didn’t stay there for him either. His lip has a scab—no doubt from when you bit him. Small, pink scratch marks that start at his collarbone disappear behind his shirt.
He’s walking towards the exit, but pauses. He allows the other men to walk out before him. His eyes flick to you, then to the bathroom door, then to back to you.
“Come, join me.” He mouths.
And, well, who are you to deny?
