Hey Kennedy I’m back with another Mob!Bucky request bc I love him and I can’t get enough.
What if reader is Bucky’s childhood best friend and Bucky has always been super protective of her? Like to the point of scaring all the boys away who try to date her because “Why do you need another man’s attention when you have mine, bug?” But as they get older, like present day, reader is tired of Bucky scaring away men who are trying to get with her. So she sneaks out of Bucky’s compound where she lives and goes to a club with Wanda and Natasha where she meets a guy. Unbeknownst to reader, rhe guy she meets is a member of the rival gang. Everyone in the industry knows that reader is Bucky’s girl and yeah this guy knows and takes it as an opportunity to get back at Bucky.
Cue reader being dumped on Bucky’s doorstep bruised and unconscious. Bucky. Loses. His. Mind. Paints the town red for his bug. Ends in a sappy loVW confession like “you wonder why I never let any men near you? Because I wanted you all to myself. My bug. My love. Always.” Or something like that idk just angst and fluff and all the scary goodness that comes with mob bucky <3
oh im here for it
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You grow up on the same block as Bucky Barnes—same cracked sidewalks, same ice cream truck that never stops long enough, same summer nights where you lie on the hood of his first stolen car and count planes instead of stars. You are eight when he calls you “bug” for the first time, because you’re tiny and stubborn and always on his shoulder. He says it with a grin, soft as gum, like it’s a secret only you and he get to keep.
Time does what time does. Bucky gets taller, then broader, then sharper around the edges. Brooklyn gnaws and he gnaws back. By seventeen he’s walking you home with bloody knuckles, telling jokes to keep you from looking at the alley where the trouble started. By twenty he’s carved his own corner out of the city and dared anyone to take it. People whisper another name when he walks into rooms. But when he looks at you, it’s still just Buck.
You love him. Not like that, you tell yourself—love the way you love a hand you learned to write with, a constant you can’t imagine without, the boy who cut your sandwiches into triangles because you said they tasted better that way. You love him like home.
Home has rules.
“Why do you need another man’s attention when you have mine, bug?” he asks, not really a question, when a coffee shop barista smiles too long at you. He says it with a lazy warmth that doesn’t match the way the barista goes pale under those winter-blue eyes. Another time, a tattooed grad student asks for your number on the subway; by the time your stop arrives, the grad student’s decided to transfer programs in another state. You don’t even see how Bucky did it—just the ghost of threat, the promise of worse.
He never yells at you. He never forbids you. He just… makes it impossible.
The compound he moves you into after the first credible threat (a voicemail, a shadow under your window) is all iron gates and quiet luxury, a fortress scented with cedar and espresso. Bucky tucks you there like treasure, like a saint behind glass. You tell yourself it’s safety, because it is, and because the way his hand lingers at your lower back when he passes you in the hallway makes your stomach do things safety shouldn’t.
Tonight is your undoing.
Wanda shows up in your closet with a red dress and a wilder grin. Natasha picks the lock on your balcony door because she can. They’re the only two people alive who can call Bucky a control freak to his face and not get frozen to the pavement by his stare.
“You’re coming out,” Nat says, already sweeping your hair over your shoulder. “Captain possessive is at a sit-down. He’ll never know.”
“He always knows,” you say, but the dress fits like a dare and your bones are humming with a frustration that’s been building for years. “Fine. One drink.”
“One drink, three songs,” Wanda bargains, slipping a gloss across your mouth. “And no texting your warden.”
You leave a note anyway—something coy, something that will make him huff and shake his head. Gone to girls’ night. Don’t wait up. Be good, Buck.
The club thrums. Lights, sweat, a bassline that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until you forget your own last name. Wanda and Nat move like they own the place because in a way they do—Bucky’s reach is long, his favorite girls are always safe.
You are laughing when he finds you—the man at the bar with eyes like iced tea and a dimple he shows you like a trick. He buys you a drink you don’t need and says your name like he practiced. You should hear the wrong in it. You should feel the shift in the air. You should remember the way the city widens around Bucky when he walks, how streets bend to his stride. Instead you think about how tired you are of being watched.
“You dance?” the man asks.
“Sometimes,” you say. Wanda’s mouth tightens; Natasha’s hand lands on your elbow. You grit your teeth. You are not a pet.
You dance one song. Then two. You look at your phone once, at the text that isn’t there. He must still be at his sit-down. He must not have seen your note. Good. Good.
The third song ends with a gentle pressure at your waist that is not gentle underneath. You blink up, dizzy from lights. The man smiles too wide.
“Let’s get some air,” he says, and you hear Bucky in your head, that old low warning, sweetheart, watch the doorways. But you’re angry enough to ignore it, and you’re so tired of being told to be afraid.
Air tastes like a van door slamming.
Bucky returns to the compound with a laugh still clinging to his mouth. He had been charming tonight, and terrifying, exactly the way he needed to be. He shakes off his coat and calls for you—the way he always does—half-expecting you to lean over the mezzanine railing with some teasing line about how he’s late, how you saved him dessert, how you locked the patio doors because you know he’ll forget.
Silence.
He finds your note on the kitchen island. It feels like a slap. His first thought is fond exasperation. His second is fear that digs in with claws.
“Where is she?” he asks, already dialing. Wanda picks up first. He can hear sirens in the background and Natasha’s breath coming short, like she’s running.
“Bucky—”
His phone vibrates in his other hand. A message, no number. A photograph. Your necklace in a stranger’s palm. The caption is a location.
The laugh from earlier is an echo. Bucky doesn’t remember crossing the room, only the way the hallway swims. He is very calm when he tells his men to get the cars. He is very calm when he picks up the small handgun on the entry table and slides it into the back of his waistband, when he flips the switch that opens the compartment where the ugly tools live, the ones for making bad nights end. His pulse is steady as a metronome. He is not a boy from a cracked sidewalk. He is a storm.
They leave the compound like a pack of wolves, engines snarling. Traffic parts the way it always does for him, like the city wants to live.
At the address, two men loiter like punctuation marks. They do not last long. Bucky moves in a straight line through a maze, coldblooded, efficient. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t break a sweat. He just… removes obstacles. It is the purest thing he has ever done.
He finds you behind a steel door. They’ve been careful—not the kind of damage that photographs well, but enough that you will wake with blooming bruises and a mouth salt-bloody from biting it to keep from crying. He is on his knees before he is aware of moving, hands not touching, not daring, shaking like the first time he stole a car and realized he could never go back.
“Bug,” he says, and his voice breaks. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
Your lashes flicker. You try to apologize—of course you do—and he wants to burn the city down for teaching you that.
“Don’t,” he says, gentler than he’s ever been. “Don’t you ever.”
They carry you out like something holy. In the hallway, one of the rival’s men makes a mistake with his mouth. Bucky does not. The aftermath is quick, decisive. He paints the town red, and if anyone asks why, the answer is that they touched his bug. Nobody asks twice.
You wake in your bed at the compound with light turning the walls gold and the scent of cedar thicker than it should be. Your body sings a bruised hymn. The first thing you see is a glass of water. The second is Bucky in a chair, not quite asleep, his hand wrapped around your wrist for proof.
“Hey,” you whisper. It scrapes. He is up and leaning over you so fast the air stirs.
“Hey,” he echoes, like the word is a prayer.
You reach for his face because you have to. He flinches, not from you—from himself. You frame his jaw anyway, thumb smoothing over the rough growth you teasingly call his villain scruff.
“I’m okay,” you say, which isn’t true, not yet, but truer because he is here. “I’m sorry. I just—”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, something is unbuttoned in his expression, some terrible sincerity you’ve only seen once or twice when you were small and he thought you weren’t looking.
“You wonder why I never let any men near you?” he asks, voice low and raw. “Because I wanted you all to myself.”
The room stops. Your heartbeat counts time. He swallows, thumb ghosting your pulse.
“My bug,” he says, softer. “My love. Always. Since those stupid summers, since your stupid triangle sandwiches, since you told me the sky looked better from the hood of a car. I kept telling myself I was protecting you from them. Truth is, I was protecting what you make of me.” His laugh is a scrape. “Selfish bastard. That’s me.”
Your breath shakes. “Say it again.”
He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, until you can feel the tremor standing in his bones. “I love you,” he says, like confession, like sentence and absolution. “I love you, bug. I should’ve told you under a better sky.”
You kiss him first. It is clumsy with your swollen mouth and perfect anyway. He doesn’t push, doesn’t take, doesn’t do anything but let you put your hands in his hair and feel his exhale shudder against your cheek.
“Stay,” you whisper.
“As if I could go,” he says, and there’s the grin, the one from the block, older now and wrecked with relief. He eases onto the mattress beside you, careful of every ache. He tucks you under his arm like he always has and not like he always has at all.
“I won’t be scared anymore,” you tell him.
“Good,” he murmurs, mouth in your hair. “You don’t have to be scared. Not of me. Not of this. The rest of the world?” A blade sneaks into his tone, the promise you’ve always known. “I’ll make sure it remembers who you belong to.”
“You,” you say, sleepy and sure.
“Me,” he says, as if the city itself needed the reminder. “Always.”
(Had a burst of inspiration thanks to @havanillas art of Aventurine with a baby, so have this angsty-yet-hopeful Drabble! Enjoy?)
Aventurine knew his place; he was a tool for the Strategic Investment Department to deploy in situations deemed too risky or underhanded for any of the other Stonehearts. He was basically disposable, a pawn who was nevertheless useful if he could turn the tides at a pivotal moment. So it came as little surprise when Diamond sent him to once again “offer” the IPC’s aid to a particularly stubborn border planet that refused to ally with the Amber Lord against the Antimatter Legion.
Even from orbit, Aventurine saw the scorched craters where once-thriving cities stood, though the sight couldn’t hold a candle to the devastation he witnessed firsthand in his opinion. Of course, he would offer his sympathies or condolences when he met with their leader, but he wouldn’t sugarcoat anything. If Diamond thought a gentle touch would get through their thick skulls, then he would’ve sent Topaz.
The negotiation went about as well as expected. Their leader was a tough, old soldier, determined to maintain his people’s independence. However, Aventurine had seen enough of the crumbling masonry and hastily-set tents along the outskirts to sense the cracks in the man’s resolve.
“Give the IPC a controlling share in the planet’s geothermal energy market, and you’ll have the Preservation’s protection.” The words burned his tongue, bitter and acrid.
Like they should have protected the Avgin…
Aventurine left the meeting having given the leader a few offers to ponder and many possibilities to chew on. He was certain they’d come around and agree to the IPC’s terms. Eventually, everyone did.
There were few casinos still operating within the city, having lost most of their clientele to leisure activities less reliant on luck. A shame, Aventurine thought, and so he returned to the small space-port, texting Stelle to pester her into playing online poker. They were two hands deep when a laser-scorched shuttle made an abrupt landing nearby.
Dozens of injured civilians and soldiers rushed out. Aventurine hung back, keeping out of their way as they undoubtedly hurried to the nearest hospital or, more likely, a first aid kit. He tried not to think of how powerless he was right then. For all his wealth, he couldn’t actually protect anyone. Only the IPC could wield that kind of power, and he was little more than their puppet.
With a heavy-hearted sigh, Aventurine tried to turn his attention back to his game, but a lone figure lagging behind the rest of the refugees caught his gaze first. It was a small child, his awkward gait a sign that he had just barely learned to walk. He stumbled about aimlessly, his wide eyes watery and darting everywhere. Before a single thought formed in his head, Aventurine had already pocketed his phone and strode over to the confused child.
The instant the child saw Aventurine approaching him, he abandoned his wandering and stumbled as fast as his little legs could carry him towards the only adult who even seemed to notice him. Aventurine knelt down in front of the kid, his heart nearly stopping as he saw his eyes clearly, with the distinctly two-colored irises of a Sigonian.
“Where are your—?” Aventurine started, but his question would have to wait as the kid slammed into his chest, clawing at his waistcoat and sobbing as only a frightened child could.
Whatever questions Aventurine had could wait. He slowly brought his hands up and wrapped the poor kid in an awkward hug. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who offered comfort, shouldn’t be the one people trusted. Wasn’t supposed to be a person, just a tool, a pawn. And yet this kid was clinging to him like a lifeline. The least Aventurine could do was give him reassurance in return.
He patted the kid’s head, speaking softly until his tears dried and his breathing grew steady. Only then did Aventurine lift him into his arms, whispering a comforting lie as he returned to the city,
“Now, let’s go find your parents.”
Hours later, and Aventurine had the answer he’d known all along. The kid’s parents were dead, and no one would take him in. Of course they wouldn’t; why would anyone take in a Sigonian? To do so would be asking to invite a future thief and liar into one’s house.
But Aventurine was already a liar. A murder. A loser.
As the kid fell asleep in his arms, Aventurine returned to his ship, shutting himself away from the prying eyes of his subordinates. He sat down in the first chair he saw and finally let his own tears fall.
“I’ll take care of you,” he swore with all the kindness and tenderness that remained in his scarred heart. “I won’t leave you to fend for yourself. I’ll protect you… I promise.”
The voices and sounds I hear don't make me feel violent. The shadow demons and silhouettes I see don't make me feel violent. The paranoia and panic doesn't make me feel violent. My delusions and distortions of reality don't make me feel violent
The thing that makes me feel a little bit violent?
People assuming I'm violent because I'm schizospec and take antipsychotics
If I want to pop someone in the jaw, it doesn't have anything to do with unreality or hallucinations or whether or not I've taken medication. It has a lot to do with the fact that people treating me like I'm dangerous and unstable pisses me off enough to want to punch their lights out and they should stop making it such an appealing idea
Everything was just fine as it was. So why did the multiverse decide to throw him a curve ball in the last round? Would’ve made his life simpler if he got that home run.
How long had he been in the AntiVoid? He didn’t know. He had barely slept, he was so confused, and frankly, frustrated. He was unsure of how to deal with this now. Before he had his life under control, he was able to do what he pleased; but now? He had a hurdle jump over before he could continue, and it's twice his height.
Laying in the AntiVoid had its perks, however. He could be alone, he could be left alone, he was alone. No one aside from outcodes -which seemed to be growing in numbers each year- even knew of the AntiVoid’s existence, and even then, it was a only a few of those people that knew.
He could guess that at least, maybe at most, three people knew that it even was a real place in the multiverse. Luckily, those other two that knew of it had their own lives, allowing him to stay isolated.
Peace and quiet. Even the voices didn’t talk, they haven’t talked to him in a while either, at least he could enjoy the silence.
Not a breeze, not a creak, nothing but him. Dull silent breaths. Filling his non-existent lungs over and over subconsciously.
His hammock swayed, still rocking him side to side despite his last movement being a while ago. It was lulling him to sleep, but he was not compelled. His thoughts acting like bullets in a machine gun, once they started firing, they were there and then gone before he even realized he thought of it; the constant of it preventing his sleep.
Why would he want to sleep anyhow? All it did was remind him of his choices in life, remind him he’s alone, and always will be. Remind him of what he’s done and what he can’t change. It’s not like he could, without him the multiverse could hurt even more than it already does from him.
Balance is such a finicky thing.
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Quiet, almost enough to be akin to the AntiVoid. The room was quiet of voices and the sound of the living, the only noises that were heard was the faint shuffling of paper and the occasional pencil accompanied by the soft whirling wind outside, moving trees and greenery alike.
It was a calm atmosphere, fit for a king.
His team was sound asleep, their emotions calm or happy, each one in their own dreamlands. Luckily, insomnia didn’t affect any of them tonight. They could sleep peacefully for once, they all deserved it after the hell they’ve been through.
Although, something disturbed that calmness. Like a bolt of lighting that left smoke after, a new emotion appeared- make that several new emotions. It was across the mansion, but not subtle in the slightest. It felt like someone gave him a burn, strong wave after strong wave of confusion, frustration, anger, and… guilt?
Intruder or not, those ripples of turmoil were annoying. The faster he learns who decided to intrude at such a late hour, the faster he can go back to work.
Following the flow of strong emotion, he found the intruder, he was sitting alone in the living room. Knitting in the seat set for him by the king himself.
It was Error.
“Hey,” Error looked up hearing the other's voice, “what’s wrong? It’s pretty late, ya’know.”
“Ink has it too, Nightmare.”
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“I just don’t understand it, Dream. He’s a killing machine, why would he help me?” Ink was just as confused as Error, but not as frustrated or angry. It was fake confusion, only brought on by his conscious and Orange vial, but still, nonetheless, he was bewildered.
Dream shared his confusion, not to the extent that Ink did, but he did share some. Mostly, Dream was confused. What intentions did Error have in helping Ink? Who knows. Well, Error does, and it's not like they’re going to get answers soon anyhow.
“I don’t know either, Ink. He could have done it as a game, or maybe he actually understood, it’s hard to say. No one really understands him, well… except for perhaps Nightmare.”
Nightmare wasn’t good with others, at least, that’s what Dream used to think. He grew up with Nightmare, it would make sense that Dream knew the most about him, right? Wrong. He was in his 500’s and hadn’t lived with Nightmare since he was 15, hundreds of years apart had changed him, and it changed his childhood friend too.
Nightmare had a group, his crew, and they acted in unison. It was clear that they were together in some shape or form, family, friends, lovers- but Dream had no clue exactly what. He knew nothing of how they met or what caused them to trust Nightmare so easily, but from what he saw, Nightmare was more or less a douting parent to them.
He had seen Nightmare’s crew get hurt in battle many many times, and every time, Nightmare would rush to their side, helping them. That, or he’d grab them with a tendril and send them through a portal, possibly sending them home.
His group was weird, that’s for sure. However, their weirdness could be adapted into utter destruction, making them very much worthy of Nightmare’s team.
They only did it occasionally, destroying AUs, but it was always expected at least twice a month.
Dream and Ink’s conversation was cut short as an AU started to die- alerting Ink, and Negative emotions were spread- alerting Dream. Nightmare was at it again.
They rushed over, grabbing Blue along the way to help them. It was chaotic, half the lives were spared, the other half were slaughtered. Rubble and bodies lay around, it was hard not to puke at the smell.
The faster they get Nightmare’s crew preoccupied, the faster they can restore the AU. Ink rushed towards taking him off guard with quick combat, hitting him with his paintbrush. The fight had started.
Ink was content to just lure Error somewhere quieter, somewhere he could get answers.
Ink would have to thank Dream for fighting an extra, usually, they were able to take two on each, but he wasn’t going to miss a chance to get answers. It was subtle but increasingly noticeable. Soon it was just him and Error alone in Waterfall.
Ink started to slow his attacks and quantity of attacks, hoping Error would do the same in reply to his actions. He did. Soon enough, there were just standing there, the two skeletons unsure of what to do or say next.
“Why?” Ink questioned, his Orange vial still in effect, but emotion fainter than earlier; as if the slowly getting out of his system, like alcohol. Except, his addiction supported him and allowed him to be more real in peoples eyes, and each hangover acted as if he was dying. Once his emotions died, so did the facade.
“Why what?” His opponent snarled back, knowing very well what but not wanting to answer it again. He told the truth, and he was not going to repeat it.
“Why did you help me? I know you told me why, but, what was your intention?” He could see Error knew what he was talking about, meaning he had to take another approach, the only way he was going to get answers from this loner skeleton.
“You struggled so much just to understand why I helped you, you really think you’d understand my motives or intentions?” He was getting fed up, and the artist could see it clearly, but there was one last resort that could work, and Ink sincerely hoped it would.
“Then help me understand.”
It turned quiet, the destroyer perplexed and thinking while the protector stood and waited for an answer. Muffled chaos could be heard in the distance, echoed by the waterfall and cave walls, but it didn’t echo as much as their thoughts.
Once again a machine gun in Error’s mind, but this time he was able to see each bullet pace by and take them into consideration, trying to think of what to do.
He scoffed, walking away through a portal. Ink followed through after checking that it wasn’t the AntiVoid. This was nowhere close to the AntiVoid, it was OuterTale.
Of all things that Ink expected Error to do, sit down and start knitting was not one of them. Awkwardly, Ink sat down nearby, not close but in a yard’s length of the other monster.
It was definitely weird, but they hoped to grow out of it soon.
What better therapy than talking with your enemy who happens to share your troubles?
Does anyone on here play Harvest Moon: Another Wonderful Life? I've been alternating between pulling out my hair and sobbing into protein chips for the past 10 hours, feeling like the definition of useless gay, trying to get Marlin's second heart event. I know it happens late spring, I know it has to be a sunny day, I know it has to be basically as he's leaving his house for the day.
I trashed my last file with him this morning since I was on day 10 and I couldn't cheat a sunny day after 1 hour real time of messing with the tv. It's day 8 now, nice and sunny out, I have 3 hearts with this Charlie Sheen lookalike from giving him friggin cocktails (love cocktail) and records (the bride) and medicine every gorram day. I've walked onto the property as he exits, walked out of the building right after he exits, exited before him, just waited under the windmills... WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO 😭😭😭
I swear, when I pull AWL out of storage I'm stealing Celia out of spite (though she is my favourite). Seriously, though, I'm losing my patience with this man and am about to marry Rock because, even though he's useless on a farm, at least he's easy.
Ok I calmed down by imagining guppy frog city where everyone can draw and play all day and also do one other thing that we all love which is why we’re there because we love it (we can k*** him here)
John's fingers tapped impatiently against the counter, eyes flickering between the timer on the oven and the video on his phone. He had been stress baking PROVIDING FOR HIS MANY VISITORS since Nepeta and those freaky clowns had also showed up to keep an eye on Karkat.
At least when the brownies were done he could retreat back to the couch and watch another romcom. He'd been letting Karkat control the movies, considering that he was worried about a homicidal clown coming after him. "These should be done soon! But then we have to eat an actual meal, as much as I'd like to just have brownies for dinner."
However instead of the sound of Karkat bitching about wanting to inhale all the fruits of John's labor, he heard the sound of the front door banging, the knob jiggling angrily.
"Oh for the love of - "
He saw his poor front door go flying through the kitchen, and everything kind of turned into a blur after that.
There were way too many fucking clowns in his house - Gamzee was trying to get to Karkat, who's had that big subjuggulator in front of him. In fact, Heksas seemed more delighted than concerned, sizing Gamzee up like a particularly delicious meal.
The other clown, ugh - swept past him with scalpels in his hands, and John decided that he might definitely hate clowns as he heard the sound of them embedding both in flesh, and his poor house.
Great. At least he'd put on his stupid god tier pajamas - though it felt even dumber in hindsight, considering there was no need to wear them.
Something else crashed to the floor with the sound of broken glass, and John turned in time to see Nepeta go flying at Gamzee, lips curled back in a snarl.
The oven starts beeping. Brownies are done.
Karkat was yelling but so were Gamzee and Nepeta, on top of the cackling (and honking?) from the pair of clowns, so it was near impossible to decipher what was actually being said.
Gamzee had noticed that one of Morusk's legs was metal and John winced at the sound of it giving like a weak tin can. Not wanting the big clown to leave Karkat, John quickly ran forward, using a gust of wind to shove Gamzee up and off of Morusk. "You okay?"
The clown laughed and wiped his brow with a suspiciously purple colored hand, smearing his face paint. "fine, thank you for the assistance."
"Yeah, sure th-"
John's breath, ironically, was ripped from his throat as Gamzee grabbed him by his stupid hood, words lost to a choked shout. He tried to call himself a backdraft, but Gamzee suddenly grabbed the other end of his hood with his hand, using it like a handle to swing John towards his living room wall with all his might.
Being thrown through a wall, it turned out, was incredibly disconcerting.
Building materials filled his mouth, though at least John thought to close his eyes. He felt his glasses shatter against his skin and tried to close them tighter. The pain of it didn't initially register as John landed on the floor of another room and was swallowed up by darkness.
The next thing he remembered was being shaken awake, and the sensation of having been hit by a train. Or maybe just a small car, considering that he was alive. Probably.
His vision was terrible without his glasses, unfocused eyes dancing between those still in the house. At least...three of them were Karkats?
One...two...three...four...three?
"Karkat...did you invite more friends over??"
You mentioned in the server that Dollia doesn't like creepy things can you expand on that?
Oh gladly! I meant that she greatly dislikes traditionally scary things. Y'know, bugs, skeletons, the sight of her own mutilated husk, extreme gore, the usual! I know that's a bit strange to hear since she works for Marietta of all people, but I imagine she's not actually present for the really extreme torture/punishments her boss and the twins commit. Her job predominantly boils down to protecting CiCi and FiFi, and occasionally beating the occasional unloyal follower.
