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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

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A Man Called Danger 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You avoid drama, you avoid confrontation, and overall, you avoid men. But some men can't be denied. ~ short!late 30s reader

Characters: biker!Bucky Barnes

Note: I saw a photoshoot and lost my mind.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You sigh and set the phone down, tilting your head back as you close your eyes. Exasperation, frustration, helplessness.

This is why you never had kids of your own. Your own teenage years were tough enough. Well, life has continued to shout that lesson in your face; things don’t always turn out how you expect. Or how you want.

Let her make her mistakes, you tell yourself. No, no, you can be passive in your own life but you took on this responsibility. You can’t just wait and see how it turns out. Not like your mother did. She only got lucky you didn’t end up on a corner or like her.

You take a deep breath and run your hands over your face. Your mother taught you many lessons without meaning too. Men, kids, all that domestic stuff is just a trap. You’re better off without having to figure out the mistakes of others.

That’s why you did this right? Because you want your sister to learn the same thing, to avoid the consequences of youth and short-sightedness. To escape that family curse that keeps you so cautious.

You grab your jacket from the front door. She’s nineteen. Nineteen. An adult. You’re not her mother. No, but you won’t let it happen. Not to her. Not to that baby you spent your nights bottle-feeding as your mother spent her stipend at the bar or drove around with Robbie from down the street.

It’s underhanded. Not what you should do. Not respectful at all but after the last time, you couldn’t let it go. You open the app on your phone. The dot that is your sister’s phone pings in the map. You zoom in and squint as you stand on the doormat. Really?

You lock the front door and come down the front steps. The deep blue evening is starless as only the yellow street lights offer clarity. Oh, everything is clear. The apple is not falling very far.

You drop your phone in the cup holder and turn the engine. The grumpy old Honda chugs to life and the stick cranks loudly as you put it in reverse. You don’t have much but you have the one thing you always craved; stability. You manage with what you have.

You ease your foot off the pedal as you catch yourself speeding down the forty zone. You idle at the sign before turning onto the next street. You make a zigzag onto the main road. Your nape itches with impatience. How the hell did she get all the way out there, anyway?

You grip the wheel and snarl at the windshield. You’re not a mother. You don’t have a maternal bone in your body. You were raised to be wary. By the time your sister came around, your mother wasn’t present enough to make much of an effort or impact. You suppose neglect can be just as lingering as resent.

You keep one hand on the wheel as you chew your thumb. For all your attempts to avoid this fate, you find yourself where you didn’t want to be. Maybe not technically or even legally, but you’re stuck cleaning up this mess.

You pull up to the bar at last. Take a breath. You are not an angry person. Not like your father. Yes, the surge comes from time to time but you control it. You repress it until it’s only a flicker in your stomach.

You get out and lock your phone. You pocket your keys as you approach the door. Nearly wenty years since you’ve been in a bar, never of your own volition. You stare up at the marque.

You were the same age as your sister then. The place was glowing and hazy. You entered to the clink of bottle and the buzz of the old juke box. Darts pounded into the bullseye and cues clacked on solids and stripes. Your mother was there hanging off a greasy man in flannel. She was too drunk to answer your question as you held her child on your hip.

“Mom, where’s the money?”

It fades away with the voice from your left. The man stands with arms crossed, “ma’am, you can go in. I don’t needa see ID.”

You shake your head and make yourself enter. Your reluctance slows you along with the overwhelming wall of noise. Voices all around, music, glass meeting each other and tabletops, laughter, coughing, and snarling. The dim is lit only by the bulbs beneath the black shades, hanging from the ceiling. You squint to see through the glazed din.

This isn’t your place. This is never what you would do for fun. Drinking, talking to strange men, spending what free time you have rotting away in this pit.

You hear a familiar octave. Eva trills with laughter. Not that sardonic snort she gives you when you try to offer her some sense, no, that tinkling noise she uses when she wants something. It’s not a surprise, there aren’t too many reasons for a girl her age to be here.

You find her along the bar. She sits sideways on a stool, one leg draped over the other. She’s everything you’re not old. Young, slim, and tall. You never grew much after eighth grade and you can’t do anything to stop time from its work.

You cross the bar as the man next to her chortles and winks at her. His hand is on her stool, just by her hip. He looks about your age. You grit your teeth.

You’re not brave or bold. You learned to survive by staying out of the way but you can’t just walk away from this. You know what older men want from women half their age.

You clear your throat as you come up next to them. Eva ignores you as the man sends you a sneer, “can I help you?”

You cross your arms. You’re not good at confrontation. Not with strangers and definitely not with men.

“Eva,” you focus on your sister, “I’ve been waiting for you--”

“Don’t pay attention to her,” she flutters her fingers.

“Eva. You said you’d be home at eight--”

“Ugh, you’re not my mother, okay? We both know where she is so just go away,” she snarls. She’s drunk. When she’s a few deep, she gets mean.

“She’s grown,” the man insists.

“She’s my sister, I’m talking to her,” you turn so your back is to him and you’re almost between them. “Eva, I got that job lined up for you--”

“She said fuck off,” the man growls. You tune him out.

“It’s good. You can take the year to build the reference then apply to the community college--”

“You’re embarrassing me,” she hisses.

“Would you get out of here?” The man pushes you so hard you stumble. You hit a table and gasp as the edge jams against your ribs. The people sat their grumble at you for spilling their drinks.

“Johnny!” Eva cries out. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You told her to get off,” he sneers.

“Yeah, but you can’t just do that,” she whines.

You steady yourself and apologise to the patrons at the table. You hug your middle and swallow down the pain. You swore you would never be pushed around by another man.

You turn and march up to the creep. “You feel big picking on women? Huh? You feel like a man going after teenagers? Cause a woman your own age wouldn’t put up with you?”

Eva tugs on your arm and says your name, “please, don’t. What are you doing?”

“Do it again,” you goad. The words come out naturally.

You’re shocked by yourself but your reticence is dulled by that hereditary spark. That flame you’ve been tamping out for decades. Not like him. You are not him.

“Pfft, don’t be a bitch. You already cockblocked me.”

“No, you want to pick on me, pick on me.” You spit.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you here?” Eva snivels.

‘Why are you here?’ Your mother drunkenly slurs. ‘I’m just having some funnnnnn.’

You stare at her. Eva wriggles and cries on your hip. You hush her, trying to comfort her. She’s hungry. You don’t have anything left in the can.

‘Mom, that money was for her. Mom, where is it? Give it back.’

She chuckles and caresses the head of the man she sits on, “go talk to Chuck at the bar, he might give you a refund.’

Your name draws you out of the past. Eva shakes you as you snarl at the man. Your hands ball to fists.

“There a problem?” A gravelly timbre undercuts your rage.

Eva babbles again.

“Walker,” footsteps stomp closer and Eva pulls you out of the way.

You watch as a dark-haired man pulls the blond from atop the stool. He has him by the scruff, “what’d I tell you about fighting?” He glances at you then the foamy spill leaking onto the floor from the table as a server tries to sop it up. “You hitting women in my joint?”

You quake with anger. This man thinks he’s a saviour. You don’t need him to defend you. In here, they’re all the same.

“You better not come back,” the brunette growls and hurls the blond onto the floor. “This is the last time I’m tossing your ass out.”

You watch the man’s shoulders strain the leather of his jacket. He’s broad, taller than you, like most, and about your age. He faces you. His hair is pushed back, the tails winging out behind his nape, his beard is thick and laced with silver, and he wears a golden medallion around his neck. His blue eyes scour you and Eva.

“You alright?” He asks with a stitch in his forehead.

“Just fine. Leaving,” you say as you twist your hand around to grab Eva’s arm instead.

“I don’t put up with that in here. I saw that man up on your daughter and I shoulda stopped it earlier,” he intones.

You scoff.

“Look, you can have a drink on the house--”

“I don’t drink,” you show your palm. “Excuse me.”

You step around him and drag your sister with him. Under the ripple of anger, is fear. These men are dangerous. You forgot that at some point. Don’t ever forget that. You just wish Eva could see the same.

You take her to the car as she stumbles in her heels. You open the passenger door and let her go. She gets in and you resist the urge to comment on her outfit. She can wear short skirts and crop tops, she’s an adult, but it’s too cold to not have a sweater.

You go around and get in the driver seat. You sit there and stare at the wheel. You close your eyes and inhale.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Eva,” you snip and open your eyes. You brace the wheel as you look at her. “You saw what that man did. I’m a woman with no value to him, so when he loses interest, what do you think happens to you?”

She mopes and looks at her lap. She twirls her thumbs round each other and sniffles. “I was only having fun.”

“You can’t find someone your own age? Or maybe a hobby. Try the library,” you run your hands over your forehead. “I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to act like your mother, I want to be your sister. I want you to do better.” You slap your hands down on your legs. “You can make your decisions however you like but I just want you to think before you do.”

“I’m sorry--”

“You’re sorry. Again. You keep doing it,” you relent and slacken against the seat. “You’re not a kid. We both have to accept that.”

You jam the keys in the ignition and turn. You sit up and peer around the lot. Your eyes snag on the figure standing in the glare of the marquee. That man in leather with the medallion. He watches calmly.

You lean on the gas and steer around the lot. As you come closer to the bar, he waves with two fingers and winks. You frown and put your attention ahead of you. You just want to go home and go to bed.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #biker au #series #a man called danger #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #captain america #winter soldier #avengers #au

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societyfolklore · 4 months ago

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Dangerous Notes – Part 1

Title: Dangerous Notes – Part 1

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Singer!Female Reader

Fic Summary: Reluctantly agrees to fill in for her sick friend at a prestigious jazz club The Armoury. Thrust into a world of old-world glamour and unknown danger now that the club’s owner, Bucky Barnes, has set his sights on making you a permanent fixture on his stage—and in his life. Chapter Summary: After a long day of teaching, you reluctantly agree to fill in for your sick friend The Armory, a prestigious jazz club steeped in glamour and whispered intrigue. The weight of your decision—and the allure of this mysterious world—begin to sink in.

Word Count: 2.7k

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI, Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Possessive/Obsessive behaviour, Violence, Smut (eventually) Chapter Warnings: Mention of Parental death (brief) A/N: Ok! This is part one of what I’m hoping to make into a proper multi part series, with hopefully a regular updating schedule.

You toss your bag onto the couch and sink into the cushions, kicking off your shoes after a long day of teaching. The faint ache in your feet reminds you of the endless hours spent standing in front of a classroom, guiding your students through scales and arpeggios, correcting technique, and cheering on their small victories. Your voice feels a little hoarse from a day of projecting over a chatty group of teenagers, and the thought of a quiet evening feels like a gift you’ve earned, a rare reward after a week of juggling lesson plans and extracurricular rehearsals.

You glance around your apartment, the quiet stillness wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. The clutter on the coffee table—half-graded assignments and an empty water bottle—is a reminder of the work that still needs doing, but for now, you let yourself sink deeper into the cushions, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. You close your eyes for a moment, imagining the peace of an uninterrupted evening, maybe even a chance to indulge in an old favourite record you haven’t touched in years.

Just as you’re about to lean fully into the moment, your phone buzzes on the coffee table, jolting you out of your reprieve. The screen lights up with Kara’s name, her call interrupting the quiet you’d just started to savour. Groaning softly, you reach for the phone, bracing yourself for whatever she’s about to ask.

“Kara, what now?” you say, half-joking but already bracing yourself.

“Don’t be mad,” Kara’s hoarse voice croaks through the line. “I need a favour. A huge favour.”

You sit up straighter, sensing the desperation in her tone. “Kara, I just got home. What kind of favour?”

“I need you to cover for me at The Armory,” she blurts out, before you heard her blowing her nose, while you wince at the sound. “Just for a week. Please, you’re the only one I trust.”

You blink, her words taking a moment to register. “Cover for you? At The Armory? Kara, I haven’t been on stage in years and I’m teac-" Kara cut you off "You know the setlist already." This was true, you'd helped her put it together. You even arranged the covers of modern tracks. "Please.” Kara coughed more “I can’t risk losing this gig to one of those vultures.”

“Kara, I’m not a performer anymore. I haven’t been on stage in years!” you said, pacing your small living room while holding the phone against your ear.

Now it was Kara turn to groaned, her voice rasping before she cleared her throat. “Come on, you're sound is classic, you have the vintage sound the boss of this place adores. Who else am I going to trust with this?”

“Kara.. I can't." You plead "Can't the band play on it's own..” you suggested, already regretting the thought of stepping onto a stage again.

She let out a humourless laugh. “Do you think the boss is going to just 'let that happen'? Pleeeease, I can't afford to lose this gig to someone else. If I call in a replacement they pick, I might as well hand over my job. This isn’t just any club—it’s The Armory. They don’t do second chances.”

Your protest caught in your throat. You knew she wasn’t exaggerating. Still, the idea of stepping back into that spotlight sent your heart racing with anxiety.

“Kara, I don’t know if I can do this. It’s not my life anymore.” You'd given that part of yourself up.

“Please,” she said softly, her tone shifting to one of genuine desperation. “I know I’m asking a lot, but I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. Just one week. That’s all I need.”

The weight of her plea hung heavy in the air. You sighed, feeling the fraying edges of your resolve start to give. “Kara,” you said after a long pause. “If I bomb—”

“You won’t bomb,” she interrupted, a hint of relief threading through her voice. She could hear you giving in. “You’re amazing, and you’ll knock them dead. I promise.”

"Can I think about it?" You needed time, feeling your insides churn up like a stormy sea, or maybe you'd just forgotten what stage nerves felt like? Back before all those years of hospital visits, sleepless nights, and sacrifices you made for your mom had felt both necessary and soul-crushing. You’d spent every ounce of your energy ensuring she had the care she needed, and when she passed, it felt as though the last bit of your own light had been extinguished.

Performing wasn't your life now. Kara knew that. You’d thrown yourself into teaching, pouring your love for music into your students, finding solace in watching them thrive. It was enough, or so you’d told yourself. You'd had plenty of talks about the topic over the years.. How deep down, you’d always felt the ache of what you left behind—the thrill of performing, the way the stage could transform you, even for a fleeting moment. When everything fell away.

“Just say yes” she had begged over the phone, her tone breaking. “One week. Just one week. That’s all I need. I'm emailing you the set list now. It has to be you."

The weight of her plea had tugged at you, fraying the edges of your resolve until you’d finally relented. It wasn’t just about her flu-stricken voice or her job being on the line; it was about loyalty and trust. She needed you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. You knew how valuable long term placements were like this for any singer. Closing your eyes you ran a hand over your face. "....Alright.."

*#*#*#*#*

Garment bag dappled over your arm you got out of the cab and stepped onto o the Brooklyn street and took a deep breath, your heart was already beating fast and you weren't even inside yet. The Armory—a name that carried its own weight of reputation and myth in the city. The building stood like a fortress, its polished black doors tall and unyielding, framed by golden accents that glinted faintly in the dim streetlights. Above, the red neon sign glowed steadily, its bold letters casting a warm yet foreboding light across the pavement. It was a stark contrast to the bustling streets behind you, as though you’d stepped into a different realm entirely.

Stories surrounded this place, just like they surrounded its enigmatic owner, Bucky Barnes. Everyone seemed to have their version of the truth: the whispers about The Armory being more than a 40's style jazz club, tales of shadowy dealings and high-stakes meetings, of power moves made over glasses of aged whiskey. But weren’t those just rumours? Every club had its legends, and every owner had a reputation these days—You were sure the stories exaggerated to keep people talking, to keep them intrigued enough to walk through those imposing doors.

Still, there was something about this place that made your stomach twist, a subtle undercurrent of tension that you couldn’t entirely dismiss. Kara wouldn’t send you somewhere dangerous. That thought anchored you as you stared at the entrance. She wasn’t reckless, and she wouldn’t work for someone truly dangerous. You told yourself this over and over, as if repeating it enough would make it true. Kara had worked here for a while now, she wouldn't of stayed if it was what everyone thought? Right?

Your heart pounded just standing on the street opposite, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. Stepping into this world, even temporarily, felt surreal and overwhelming. Kara’s voice echoed in your mind: ‘Just one week. That’s all I need.’ Her words had been spoken with desperation, but the look in her eyes had carried something heavier—trust. She believed in you, even if you weren’t sure you believed in yourself.

But this was no ordinary stage, and you weren’t sure if you could live up to its demands. But you also couldn’t ignore the other reasons that had pulled you here: the paycheck. One week of performing at The Armory would pay more than a month of teaching, and that kind of money could make a real difference in your life. You could finally throw a significant chunk of it at the mountain of medical debt you’d been burdened with after your mother’s passing. It had been over a year, and yet the hospital bills still loomed, a constant reminder of everything you’d sacrificed and the weight of responsibility you couldn’t seem to shake.

The thought of finally lightening that load was enough to steady your resolve, even as your nerves twisted in your stomach. Beyond the financial relief, though, there was still that quiet, nagging curiosity about what it would feel like to stand on a stage like this again. Could the music still transform you the way it once had? Could it still make the world disappear for a while, allowing you to lose yourself in the notes and noise as you left your burdens behind, if only temporarily? You’re not ready for this. You haven’t sung in years, not in front of a crowd. You’d promised Kara, and backing out now isn’t an option. Just one week. You can do this.

You approach the imposing black doors of The Armory, shifting your garment bag draped to your other arm, it starting to feel heavier with every step. Your heart pounds in your chest, the weight of Kara’s trust and your own nerves pressing down on you. The Armory's doorman was an imposing figure. Tall, broad-shouldered man stands stationed outside, his presence alone enough to give you pause. His buzz-cut hair, neatly trimmed beard, and piercing gaze make him look like he belongs more in a military barracks than as a bouncer at a jazz club.

He crosses his arms over his chest as you approach, his expression unreadable but intimidating. “You lost?” he asks, his voice low and gruff.

You shake your head quickly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “No, I’m… I’m here to cover for Kara. She’s out sick this week.”

His eyes narrow slightly, scrutinizing you as though weighing your words. The moment stretches uncomfortably, and you fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. Finally, he nods toward the door. “Oh yeah. They said someone would be coming."

You swallow hard, your voice a little shaky. “Well, here I am..” you don't sound as confident as you should of with that.

The doorman let out a low grunt, his stance still firm and imposing. “Head in, you'll want to find Yelena inside, she'll take ya through to the back." You found yourself just nodding along with him "But next time," You pause mid step when he didn't move out of your way "-staff uses the door down the side.” "Cool, side entrance next time." You nod, relief washes over you as he steps aside, but his eyes remain on you slide between him and the heavy door. Heading inside. The interior of the club feels like stepping into another era. Velvet drapes hang from the walls, cascading down in rich, luxurious folds, their deep burgundy color amplified by the warm, intimate lighting. Brass fixtures gleam faintly, and the intricate patterns on the dark wood floors seem to whisper of decades past. The patrons are dressed to match the ambiance, their suits sharp, their dresses elegant, their laughter soft and restrained, perfectly fitting the atmosphere of a place styled to evoke the golden age of jazz. It feels out of time, a deliberate nod to an era that thrives here, preserved as if untouched by the modern world.

You clutch your garment bag tightly, suddenly aware of how out of place you look in your jeans and jumper. As your eyes scan the room, taking in the polished mahogany bar and the vintage microphone perched on the stage, your heart beats faster. The smell of aged whiskey mingles with faint cigar smoke, the air thick with sophistication and something more elusive—a sense of power and secrets.

As you move tentatively toward the bar, your path was intercepted by a striking blonde woman. Her tailored outfit immediately catches your attention: high-waisted Catherine Hepburn-style trousers paired with a crisp white shirt, her sleeves rolled just enough to hint at both elegance and control. Her hair is swept into an old-Hollywood wave, and she exudes an effortless confidence that only makes you feel more underdressed.

“You must be Kara’s fill-in,” she says, her sharp green eyes appraising you in a way that makes your pulse quicken. Her tone is polite but firm, and her accent took you a second to place, Russian? You nod quickly, feeling your cheeks flush. “Yeah, that’s me. Just for the week.”

Her gaze flicks to the garment bag you’re clutching like a lifeline, and a small, knowing smile curves her lips. “Relax,” she says, gesturing toward the bar. “You’re not on stage yet. I’m Yelena, bar manager. Let’s get you situated. You look like you could use a drink too."

“Thanks,” you manage to say, your voice a little shaky as you follow her. You feel like a nervous mouse, clutching your garment bag to your chest while Yelena strides confidently ahead. Her effortless grace and the way she moves through the room, completely unbothered by the watchful eyes of the patrons, make you feel even more self-conscious. She belongs here in a way you can’t imagine for yourself.

Instead of stopping at the bar, Yelena leads you toward a ‘Staff Only’ door tucked to the side. She pushes it open with ease, holding it just long enough for you to slip inside before it swings shut behind you. The space beyond the door is quieter, the hum of the club muffled as the hallway stretches out in front of you. It’s lined with warm wood panelling and faintly lit, the ambiance continuing the old-world charm but with a more practical edge.

Yelena glances at your garment bag and raises an eyebrow. "You brought options, I hope? The boss is picky, likes a certain look."

You nod quickly, feeling your cheeks flush. “I brought two, tried to keep it on 'theme' since Kara said it was like that here..” you stammer.

Yelena smirks, clearly pleased. “Clearly Kara gave you more of a heads up then I assumed she would..” She walks briskly, her heels clicking softly against the floor, and you have to quicken your pace to keep up. “Kara vouched for you.” she says as you round a corner. Her tone is neutral, but her sharp green eyes glance back at you, measuring. “You know the setlist?”

“I helped her put it together,” you reply, standing a little straighter. “I’m familiar with all of it.”

Yelena nods once, clearly approving. “Good, good. The boss likes things perfect. Best keep that in mind, he’s a bit of a grump like that.” Her words are calm, but the weight of them is impossible to miss. It’s less a suggestion and more a warning.

She stops in front of a door and pushes it open, revealing a small but charming dressing room. A vintage vanity with a round mirror and warm, golden lights dominates one wall, while a small rack for clothing and a plush chair sit against another. It’s cozy, almost inviting, though the nerves twisting in your stomach make it hard to appreciate.

“You can get ready here,” Yelena says, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What would you like to drink?”

You blink at her, surprised by the question. “Oh, I don’t usually drink before performing,” you admit, though the idea of something to steady your nerves suddenly seems appealing.

Yelena smirks, as though she was expecting that answer, looking you up and down for a moment. “Whiskey, then. You can thank me later.” Before you can protest, she’s already turning to leave. “I’ll have it sent in. Take your time, you've got about half an hour before we need you.” she calls over her shoulder, the door clicking shut behind her and leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You glance around the room, setting your garment bag on the rack and running your fingers over the vintage vanity. The soft glow of the lights reflects your anxious expression in the mirror, and you take a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest. Whiskey might not be such a bad idea after all. “It’s just one week..” You told yourself out loud, and yet, one week was starting to feel like forever. END

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