#mobster bucky barnes au

[eviesaurusrex]

ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ ᴡɪꜱᴇʟʏ | ʙ. ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ

Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: 5 incidents in which Bucky gets proven how lucky he is to have found you.

word count: 6.7k

warnings: MDNI, fluff, mobster typical themes, illusions to violence, more fluff, cursing, talks of marriage, starting a family etc., pregnancy, phantom pain, allusions to smutty time, slight dirty talk, my Google Translator skills for all things Russian, children, not perfetly proof-read

author’s note: Am I in my mobster era now? (Please don't try to strangle me when I butchered the Russian parts. I had only Google Translator as my trusty helper ;_; Dividers are made by @enchanthings-a and @strangergraphics!

Russian translations:

малышка (malyshka)—baby

милая (milaya)—darling

“Every day I wake up next to you, I pray to the gods and thank them for the love you give me. Every day I spend with you is more than I deserve. Every day I call myself lucky that you love me back, my dear. I love you more than anything in the world, more than the world, more than life itself. You are my everything. Thank you for making me the happiest man on this planet.”

“Should I stop telling you how good you feel around me? How good you take me? How perfect you look, all filled up with my cock and already pregnant with my baby?”

Привет, папочка (Privet, papochka)—Hello daddy

Привет, солнышко (Privet, solnyshko)—Hello sunshine

The first incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was when James Buchanan Barnes—fearsome crime lord, bratva leader, king of New York City’s underworld—found himself in the aftermath of a crossfire after a deal gone south. His doctor had just arrived to check out the gunshot wounds littering his arm and shoulder, and in his opinion, everyone made too much of a fuss about it.

He was fine. He made it out with barely any scratches.

“Nine gunshots, only one bullet I have to remove. This is a new record, Mr. Barnes.”

… a few scratches; he had to give him that.

On the other hand, his entire left arm had been reduced to nothing but a pile of scrap metal, so perhaps Bucky had been hit rather badly if he took that into account. He wouldn’t because he had to be okay, invincible even. The world he was born into was a cruel one that reprimanded one’s weakness with downfall and despair, and he had to uphold the legacy that had been bestowed upon him the moment his father took his last dying breath in the same car crash that had taken his arm. He had people to protect—his associates, partners, workers, everyone that he considered friends or even family.

Topped by only one person, one woman, who sat above them all on a throne he had created for her right next to his. Not beneath him, not a step below—right fucking next to him.

Speaking of which… The commotion outside their bedroom sounded a lot like the whirlwind he deemed to be the love of his existence, and cursing above his breath, his eyes moved a second from the slightly opened door toward the doctor holding the single bullet between a pair of forceps.

“Don’t you dare step in my way.”

Her voice rushed like opium through his veins, making the mobster forget about the burning pain of holes inside his body.

“I can’t let you in there. Not now. The doctor is with him, you don’t want to see that,” Steve��s voice echoed through the hallway, probably stacked with high-towering security men. Just as high-towering as the blond was, and still, his girl did not show fear. No, not her. Never her.

A scoff was heard, and the physician beside him chuckled under his breath as he started to clean the wounds meticulously. Even Bucky showed a rare hint of emotion around other people than her when a grin parted his lips for a moment. “You’re his second. He is his doctor. I am his girlfriend. Think again if you want to continue standing in my way, Steve. I’m not above using brute force to get to him.”

Hearing that from a woman stopping not even close to all their eye levels would be laughable with any other person, but her? Everyone knew she would move heaven and hell in order to get wherever he was. He had learned this the hard way and would never dare leave her behind again, not when she demanded to tag along.

She really is a wonder.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he had spoken those words out loud, his mind starting to struggle with the blood loss and pain seeping deeper than necessary into him.

Shuffling before the door made the brunet open his eyes again. “Fucking hell, woman…” The hardwood door opened, and he could see the woman ruling his world without even starting to grasp the extent of her power over him, turning toward his second in command. “I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth, Rogers,” she spoke sweetly before she finally turned, her eyes immediately finding him on their shared bed.

Worry creased her forehead, brows deeply furrowed, eyes jumping from his shoulder to his injured arm, then right to the one missing. Without another heartbeat, she rushed through the grand but still cozy room, showcasing her taste because Bucky had let her redecorate this entire fucking house as soon as she had agreed to move in with him—after much persuasion on his part. He wouldn’t have given a fuck if she would’ve decided to paint every single wall a screaming yellow if it would’ve made her happy.

“Hey, милая.” His raspy voice from all the shouting broke a bit at the signature endearment for her, and he wished to reach a hand out to her, but the lack of his arm was jarringly apparent. So all he could do was watch her carefully settling down onto her side of the bed, scooting over the mattress, a warm, soft hand cupping his cheek while the pad of her thumb started to caress his cheekbone. “Hey, love,” she returned the greeting with a smile, worried gaze flicking to Dr. Strange. “How bad is it? And don’t you dare try to sugarcoat me like Sam bloody tried on our way here. I do possess eyes, you see that, right?”

Dr. Strange nodded while preparing the stitching material. “I have removed one bullet from his shoulder. Nine shots in total. I’ve cleaned them and will stitch them as soon as the anesthetic takes effect.” Bucky could see her nodding at the doctor’s explanation and tried to nuzzle closer into the palm of her hand. “Milaya?” She finally looked down on him. “I’m okay, ‘promise. They busted m’arm, though.”

His words turned slurred, slowly but steadily, and he focused on her soft smile that was always entirely reserved for him and baby kittens. He could live with that sort of competition.

“We will talk later, but I promise I’ll take a look at your arm, and in case there isn’t anything left to save, I’ll make you a new one, James.” She pressed a gentle, loving kiss to his sweat-covered forehead. “Now relax, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Her voice echoed in his ears when the drugs finally kicked in, clinging to the sound of her.

Yes, he had been smart enough to ignore his stupid rule of not letting anyone get closer than necessary. She proved him right every damn time.

The second incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was on a regular day in December. Snow fell softly outside the grand brownstone they had chosen to spend the holidays at rather than the house outside the city. His girl had wanted to finally spend Christmas in the buzzing city again, and he had ordered their things packed and moved within a blink of an eye.

Now, everyone enjoyed their little piece of heaven surrounded by their families. Yelena and Natasha had returned to Russia for the holidays, Steve spent time with his own wife, while Sam had decided to go south to see his parents and check in with a few associates while he was already there.

Meanwhile, the feared bratva mobster, leader of the darkest pits of New York’s underworld, watched his girlfriend-soon-to-be-fiancée add a few more pieces they had picked up at Tiffany’s today to their Christmas tree, humming to the soft tunes of an old record wafting through the living room. His blue eyes, usually so menacing and threatening, rested with a loving expression on the woman he had sworn to protect with his life, one arm thrown over the back of the comfy couch he had spent a fortune on—but his queen fell in love with it at first sight and couldn’t find anything better suiting. Not that she had to. The shining black Centurion Card had been pulled out of the inside pocket of his black suit jacket the second Bucky had seen that look on her face.

He would buy her anything in this world, spoiling her rotten until she’d drown in pretty things.

“I think we need more lights,” she stated in a mumble, almost to herself, before turning toward him. “Don’t we? We need more lights, yes.” And so it was decided, and he smiled at her turning back when she started to roam through the red holiday box to find the last remaining string of colorful fairy lights. “No, wait.” Lifting a dark brow, the man watched her reach for the small package he had eyed since they’ve returned instead, all wrapped prettily and neatly.

Scooting across the soft carpet toward where he sat, his girl smiled up at him, holding the small present out to him before folding her hands over his muscular thigh, waiting patiently. “It’s not your Christmas present, but I saw it and… and I needed to do this. To have something for our tree.”

Their first real tree as a couple. The past three years, they had been too busy during the holiday season, barely being at home, not to mention the little time they would’ve had to go out, find a tree, and decorate it, so it would be appreciated as it deserved. This year, however, Bucky craved the comforts of their home, and he wanted to start collecting memories like this.

He bent over to her, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, hand cupping her cheek tenderly, the little gift almost vanishing in the vastness of his hands. “Thank you, моя милая.” How in all the hells had he become so lucky in finding this woman who now grinned up at him with unabashed happiness? “Open it! Open it already!” And he obliged, feeling giddy himself as she almost bounced on her knees, unwrapping the small box and opening the lid to reveal a perfectly crafted snowflake ornament, a picture of them together in Central Park during the worst snowstorm the city had witnessed in over a decade placed inside the clear crystal. Their smiling faces, almost hidden behind scarves and beanies, angled to one another, her lips pressing a snow-filled kiss to the corner of his smiling lips.

It was perfect.

She was perfect.

Gods be damned, but in that moment, when his eyes found hers again, he felt the overwhelming urge to drop down on his knees and ask for a lifetime together. But he wouldn’t. He had it all planned out, and he used to stick to his plans. He was patient beyond compare, but not when it involved this woman before him. So instead of caving to this sensation, Bucky carefully placed the crystal snowflake onto the coffee table in front of him and pulled his girl up into his lap in one smooth motion, wrapping her in his strong arms, fingers—both flesh and metal—tangling in soft strands of hair or gripping the soft black fabric of the hoodie she wore which once belonged to him.

“Каждый день я просыпаюсь рядом с тобой, молюсь богам и благодарю их за любовь, которую ты мне даришь. Каждый день, который я провожу с тобой, больше, чем я заслуживаю. Каждый день я называю себя счастливчиком, что ты любишь меня в ответ, моя дорогая. Я люблю тебя больше всего на свете, больше мира, больше самой жизни. Ты — мое все. Спасибо, что сделал меня самым счастливым человеком на этой планете, малышка,” Bucky rasped in Russian with his forehead pressed to hers and eyes intimately locked, watching the shy smile he loved so dearly spreading on her lips and making her eyes twinkle.

“I don’t know if you have insulted me just now, proclaimed your undying love for humble me, or started the dirty talk earlier than usual, but either way, I don’t mind.” Her fingers wrapped around his chin to pull his face closer to hers, lips touching when she added in a breathless whisper, “It sounded hot, so keep talking dirty to me, love.”

Giggling, his girl accepted the tender kisses of chapped lips to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her lips. He felt the uncomfortable pull on his skin again when Bucky smiled at her, his split lip still not entirely healed after a punch he couldn’t dodge in time. Under her care, it will have vanished until next week when the photographer planned to take a few pictures for their first Christmas postcards.

Bucky still struggled to grasp how his life had turned in that particular manner. He never thought he’d be one for domesticity and familiar bliss, but with her?

He was all in.

The third incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was when James Buchanan Barnes, invincible mob boss, returned home in the dead of night in a frantic temper, his entourage strolling behind him, accepting his orders with grave faces and solemn nods.

“Don’t let him out of your fucking sight. Track him as soon as he leaves his godforsaken home, track him inside his own walls, hell, track when he takes a piss. I don’t fucking care!” His booming voice echoed through the foyer, and with another deep growl, he handed his weapons to Sam; two remained in the holster, hugging his broad shoulders. He wouldn’t take them off, not until the threat was decimated under his foot. “We’ll do a 24/7 surveillance on him, boss. He won’t come near her,” Steve promised, knowing damn well what would happen to all of their heads if they couldn’t protect her.

Bucky bared his teeth in disgust. “You better not fuck this up, Steve.” This would be his first and only warning, and the blond knew that, so he nodded and retreated into his office, knowing damn well that sleep would be nothing but a pleasant memory for a while—he wouldn’t be alone, though. Everyone knew how their boss got when his queen was threatened by others. Those threats had already started to grow in numbers as soon as the underworld learned of their engagement, and outsiders trying everything to get in and on good graces with certain families smelled a quick victory.

How wrong they were in those foolish assumptions.

Sam watched his boss almost anxiously while he desperately tried to cool off, fists pressed against the pretty surface of a pretty sideboard she had most definitely chosen.

“I will kill him. I’ll kill them all if I have to.”

At Bucky’s deep rumble, Sam could only hum in agreement. He would be right at his back, killing all who wanted to harm anyone he cared for, especially those inside this building.

“I could reach out to our associates in Louisiana, get some more backup and gunpower. There’s this kid who’s a marvel with tech. Maybe he can come up with a discreet solution for the in-house surveillance,” Sam suggested, knowing damn well how excited Parker would be when he finally allowed him to tag along, currently bored out of his brilliant mind at college. Bucky looked up and over his shoulder, icy blue eyes resting on one of his best men—and friend. But the creaking above their heads let him pause in his answer, and both men stared up the stairs, knowing who eavesdropped at the railing.

Bucky sighed deeply. “We need to work on your stealth skills, малышка,” he spoke up and waited for her steps to pick up and for her to shuffle down the stairs. She did in a pair of cozy yoga pants, a large hoodie hanging on her form—the one he had worn before changing into his suit this morning—and fluffy socks with reindeer and candy canes printed all over them, her hair wrapped in a messy bun on the top of her head, strands framing her face. In her arms throned a king amongst pets, and white fur littered the soft fabric of his hoodie where she held Alpine close to her chest.

His heart ached at the sight of her in the best possible way.

Her eyes wide with worry—not for herself, but for him and all his men—jumped between Sam and himself as she reached the second to last step and waited there.

“I didn’t mean to, but… I heard voices and thought you’d come home, but then I heard everyone talking and it was kind of too late to go back to bed anyway, so I figured I could… learn a bit.” Bucky started softly shaking his head, his outgrowing hair tickling his cheeks. “You meant eavesdropping, малышка. That’s the word you’re looking for here,” he deadpanned, and one corner of his mouth slightly lifted at the sound of her quiet laugh, her fingers comfortingly petting the white fluff ball currently purring at the attention and headbutting her hand for more.

With another sigh, he stepped up to the stairs, raising his gaze to his all-ruling queen, and he felt the tension in his shoulders slightly disappear when her hand came up to his neck and rested there comfortingly, fingers playing with the soft strands of his dark hair. “I’ll be alright, James,” she whispered, and he wasn’t sure how she could say that with such certainty when not even he felt so sure. “We’ll be alright, I just know it. Nothing and no one will keep me from you, from becoming your wife and living a very happy life with the man I love more than anything in this world, giving him the cutest fur babies and children the world has ever seen.” Bucky sucked in a breath, and after gently putting down Alpine, he pulled his soon-to-be wife in a bone-crushing hug, wrapping her legs around his hips with ease. “We will live until we turn old and grey and can look back at all the memories we made along the way, annoying our children and grandkids with endless, embarrassing stories,” she continued to whisper against the soft, tattooed skin of his neck and yes, he could see all that and more, too.

It was easy with her to picture this picture-perfect life—and he would do anything to make it a reality. He wouldn’t stop at murder and anarchy, not when it came to her.

So when he slightly turned to Sam with his woman in his arms, ready to put her back to bed, he only needed to mouth the words, and it was done.

Do it.

The fourth incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was during one of those forsaken nights.

He woke with a startle and a groan escaping him involuntarily, the dark bedroom embracing him, a soft, warm body tucked into the expanse of his back, slow breathing fanning across his heated skin. His hand shot up with another groan leaving him, cupping the stump where once had been an arm, feeling the same agonizing pain he had felt in that car all those years ago, almost bleeding to death after a rivaling family had tried to kill them all off.

Unfortunately, he had survived—and the revenge had been brutal the moment he had recovered enough to go on a killing spree.

Trying to breathe through the crashing sensations, Bucky tried to move as quietly and carefully as possible, not wanting to wake the woman sleeping peacefully beside him because she needed all the rest she could humanely get. But the pain was blinding, the feeling of warm blood flowing down his skin so real, he could’ve sworn there was still an arm to lose, and his fucking legs were still tangled in the damn blanket!

With a frustrated huff, the mobster tried to just roll out of bed in a desperate attempt, not minding falling face-first to the floor, but the blanket didn’t budge, and suddenly, an arm snaked across his waist, and a warm hand rested on his muscular abdomen.

“D’not go…”

The sleepy mumble pierced through the agony, and usually, Bucky always obliged to his wife’s every demand, but not now. Not this time. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t crumble in front of her. She needed him to be strong and capable. He had to protect her and the little plum. He couldn’t show weakness, not even in the comforts of their own home. Word would get out, the pit of New York City would smell blood, they would come and kill her in front of his very eyes, make him watch when the life would vanish from her breathtaking eyes, taunting him, before they would end his life as well, releasing him into the bliss of afterlife where he would search for her, and—….

“Bucky? What’s wrong?”

Her voice, now sounding more awake and aware, startled and pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he could feel the mattress dip and move when she sat up and scooted closer to him. “Hey…” A soothing hand started to rub over his back. “Talk to me, love. C’mon, handsome, I can only help when I know what’s bothering you to such an unholy hour.” Her teasing made him almost smile—almost. But the pain returned in full force, and his hand gripped his shoulder even tighter.

“Phantom pain. It’s nothing I can’t handle, malyshka. Go back to sleep, you need it,” he rumbled quietly, his legs finally escaping the trap that was their blanket, and the man sat up, feet hitting the floor. He attempted to get up in order to leave her to the quietness of their room, but his wife had nothing the like on her mind. She held him back and scooted off the bed. “Stay. I’ll be right back.” Blinking into the dim light of her bedside table, he reached for her and tried to get up. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Go back to—”

She shushed him gently and pressed a finger to his lips. “I said Stay. I mean it.” With that, his woman granted him a serious glance before she patted into the adjacent bathroom, one hand cradling her already quite prominent bump, and all Bucky could hear was rummaging sounds in their cabinets and a quiet mumbling.

“Your papa is a handful sometimes, little one. Prepare yourself because I need you in my corner, okay? Okay.”

Smiling through the irritating pain, the mobster waited for her to return and watched her closely when she finally left the bathroom and patted back to their bed, a bottle of lotion in her hand. “You think you need the mirror, love?” Bucky glanced at the full-length mirror in their walk-in closet shrouded in darkness and decided with a soft shake of his head. “Maybe later if it’s not getting any better,” he mumbled in defeat, accepting the loving kisses pressed to his right temple and lips. “Just let me know, yeah?” He nodded at her request, and blue eyes watched her like a hawk when she settled right next to him, on the side of his missing arm, a squirt of lotion already between her soft hands warming it up.

“I told you to wake me up if it’s happening again,” his wife scolded him quietly, her incredible hands massaging the hurting stump of his shoulder. At first, it hurt like hell, but the more she kneaded and caressed, the more bearable it got. “You need your rest, milaya,” he returned with a lingering glance down her form, eyes equally heavy with worry and love when they settled on the little bump he had grown to love so dearly, it almost hurt.

Bucky felt her eyes on him in return and opened his arm when she stopped what she was doing to climb into his inviting lap, straddling him comfortably. Taking his hand into hers, she pushed the warm skin of her husband under his shirt she wore to sleep and placed his palm right on top of the soft curve before continuing.

“Not more than you need it, too. You’re running the mob empire, not me.” Her voice reminded him softly, and he let his forehead fall onto her shoulder, eyes closed, thumb caressing the warm skin of her bump, hoping, praying, he would feel something, anything. But according to all the books he had read so far, it would take a few more weeks until he could feel the slight movements their child did inside his wife. “And you’re growing a whole fucking human,” Bucky returned and got shushed again. “Watch your language, Barnes. I don’t want their first word to be anything obscene.”

But she couldn’t fool him. He heard her smile in the scolding.

A comfortable silence settled between them, then, reminding Bucky yet again why he had felt so good around her the second she had walked into that room in the hospital, only raising a brow at the sight of six buffed men clad in black suits, armed with more guns than one human could possibly need, and him sitting in the middle of it all—disheveled, still hurting, ice cold. She had smiled, wearing those ridiculous blue scrubs, and he had spotted a splash of blood on her light grey sneakers when she had come closer, pointing it out in almost something resembling disgust. Still, she only had rolled her pretty eyes at the pitiful attempt of an insult.

She hadn’t given a single fuck about those intimidating men—including him—all towering multiple heads above her, tattooed, guns always visible, the rough Russian language floating through the room occasionally. And he had respected her for that, even though he didn’t bother to be nice at first. In hindsight, Bucky would’ve earned a beating from his mother if she had been still alive. She had raised him better than treating a beautiful, kind, intelligent, and compassionate woman like he had initially treated her. But after a while, Bucky had felt how she had snaked her way into his thoughts, catching himself repeatedly thinking about her over the course of his day, starting to anticipate the next appointment to get his prosthetic measured, built, and adjusted, always looking forward to seeing her face.

She hadn’t given a flying fuck either when he finally revealed who he was and what he did, only cocking her head to the side in question and asking him, “Will you or one of your guys kill me after our time is over?” And when he had shook his head, denying those thoughts, she had smiled brightly, before turning back to the prosthetic arm she had crafted for him. “Then we don’t have a problem. Everyone has to earn their money somehow, James.” That was also the first time anyone had called him by that name since his parents had died, and he had fallen for her right then and there, ready to kneel at her feet and surer as hell that he would make her his queen.

“Don’t count on that, malyshka. Everyone around here is using filthy language, and do I need to remind you of certain… situations where the little plum currently has to listen in? Or do you want me to stop? Мне перестать говорить тебе, как хорошо ты себя чувствуешь рядом со мной? Как хорошо ты меня принимаешь? Как идеально ты выглядишь, вся заполненная моим членом и уже беременная моим ребенком?” He felt the pain slowly but steadily subside under her knowing and well-versed hands, feeling them stop in their magic as the huskily whispered Russian words flowed effortlessly over his lips, feeling her squirm in his lap.

Leaning slightly back in order to have a better look at his face, his wife bit her lower lip, making now the feared bratva leader squirm underneath her, his hand protectively pressed into her lower back, not daring to let her fall off of him. “You are a very evil man, James Barnes,” she hummed with almost a purring edge to her voice, making him grin as cocky as possible. “You married the worst of the bunch, malyshka—and you like it. You can’t hide it, not from me, never from me. Not when I’m balls-deep it that deliciously tight…—” Her lips pressing against his made him moan deep in his throat and stop taking altogether. Forgotten was the pain of the past. It still bothered him, somewhere in the back of his mind, but her scent, her taste, the feeling of his wife against him made him forget about it.

The past was the past, and now, only the present and the future held importance to him.

Lifting her with one arm with ease, the mobster carefully moved her to the middle of their bed, hovering above her and watching her pretty face with a loving gaze. “You’re my everything,” he dared to whisper. “You both are.” He felt her hands cupping his face tenderly as if he wasn’t the killer everyone feared across the East Coast as if he was something precious even though he was broken beyond repair. “And you are ours, Bucky.” She kissed his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his lips, and his left shoulder without disgust, without apprehension, but with deeply felt love.

As if he was perfect the way he was.

The fifth incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was after a business trip to Sicily that had taken too long for his liking, even though the business was good and the newly knitted connections invaluable. But it had made him leave his family for far too long than humanly tolerable, not even the many FaceTime calls had eased the sting in his heart.

“Make sure Enzo receives the gift for his wife and put a little something for him inside as well. Perhaps the Yamazaki Single Malt?” The 55-year-old whisky sure would make a fine gift for the young leader of the Sicilian Mafia, remembering an evening here and there when both men had shared a glass of scotch.

Steve walked beside him as they left the car and made their way over the sidewalk and behind the gate of the old brownstone in the best area in New York City. The cherry trees along the road were in full bloom, and the spring breeze was pleasant enough that the Barnes considered taking them all out for a day in Central Park. Work could wait after two weeks away from them. “Sure thing, Buck. I’ll call Stark to get a bottle,” the blond nodded and opened the door for his boss after walking up the stairs before entering the family home as well, happy sounds wafting through the air already.

Bucky visibly relaxed when he heard his family without a phone between them and handed Steve the concealed guns. They had made a rule for the house, and everyone obliged happily because everyone had been wrapped around their little fingers since the day they were born.

And no one would dare to go against Mrs. Barnes.

“I don’t want to be disturbed for the next couple of weeks, so handle everything and only bother me with situations that need my explicit attention,” was the last order the mobster could get out before the sound of small feet erupted from the living room and barreling toward the foyer.

“Papa!”

“Dada! No, waits for meeee! Annie, pwease! Mommyyyy!”

Bucky laughed as his eldest rounded the corner in full sprint, her little legs carrying her as fast they could, and the tall brunet crouched down to catch her little body. The little girl, resembling so much his wife, looked at his face with bright eyes, hands pressing against his cheeks and squishing them with an adorable chuckle.

“Привет, папочка,” she greeted him shyly, stumbling over her sounds and pronunciations, but Bucky kissed her little cheeks with such enthusiasm that her insecurities vanished in an instant. “Привет, солнышко,” the father returned with a kiss to her forehead and watched the questioning expression morphing onto his daughter’s face. Her tongue poked out between her lips, eyes wandering to the ceiling, brows drawn together in concentration—just like his wife. But then, she looked at him again, leaning closer as if she wanted to conspire with him. “What does that mean, papa? Yelena didn’t teach me that word yet,” she whispered, and Bucky laughed again, feeling almost crushed by the happiness he felt at that moment. “It means sunshine, my sunshine.” It made her smile as brightly as the sun outside the windows before she waved at Steve. “Hi, Uncle Stevie. You can go now. Papa is mine; you can have him back in… a long time.”

Nodding to underline her case, the almost six-year-old looked expectantly at his second in command, and Bucky turned with her still in his arms, looking just as expectantly as her. “You heard the little lady, Steve. Off you go,” he teased, and the blond shook his head with a smile, bowing before them. “As you wish, Princess Anastasia.” The girl huffed and showed the blond giant her tongue. “It’s Anya, Uncle Stevie! You always forget!” Chuckling, Steve took her hand and shook it apologetically. “You are right; my apologies, princess. Enjoy your time with your father.”

And with that, he left for his office, leaving the two in the foyer when they heard another set of steps.

“Anya, next time, wait for your brother, please,” Mrs. Barnes scolded the little girl gently, a smile on her lips and the little boy on her arm. His son nodded, holding his stuffed bunny at its long ears. “Yesh, waits for me, Annie! Dada!” More excitement echoed through the home as the small boy started to wiggle in her arms, and Bucky rushed over to her, catching Elijah before he could plop out of her embrace. “Careful, little troublemaker,” he laughed and held him with his other arm, hearing Anya scoff quietly. He threw his wife a questioning look, and in return, she only rolled her eyes at their children, softly shaking her head and taking Anya to her.

“They had a… falling out earlier.” Anya scoffed again as if her mother understated the entire ordeal, wanting to be put back on her feet, and hugged her mother’s hips closely. Elijah leaned his head against Bucky’s shoulder, bunny pressed tightly into his chest, watching his sister. “He ruined my homework! Miss Pepper said she’s suuuuuper excited for my solar system model, and then, papa, Eli just banged his stupid bunny on it!” Angry tears gathered in her eyes, almost rolling down her pretty face. His youngest looked positively undisturbed as he watched his sister unraveling over her homework, and Bucky sighed.

“Bunny s’not shtupid. Annie’s plant-… plants-… planets! Annie’s planets looks ugly, dada. Not pretty like mommy,” Elijah stated with confidence, making the tears finally spill over Anya’s cheeks. “I hate you! You’re not my little brother anymore!” And with that, the little girl pulled away from the soothing hands of her mother, almost tumbling over the stairs as she ran upstairs, a loud bang echoing through the house when she closed her door with force.

Another sigh escaped Bucky and his wife alike, both parents looking down at their little boy who started to chew on his bunny’s ear. “Honey, that wasn’t very nice to say,” she reprimanded her son and took him from Bucky when he stretched his little chubby arms toward his mother, keeping a hand on his little back. “Annie is sads?” She nodded and kissed the dark mob of hair her son had inherited from his father, just like the blue of his eyes. “She’s upset, baby, yes. We will give her a moment to calm down before we’re going upstairs to apologize, yes?”

Elijah nodded with tears in his eyes, and the father couldn’t hold back, so he gently cupped his youngest head and pressed a lingering kiss onto the wild dark curls. “Can me and bunny asks Miss Melina fors cookies?” Smiling, she pressed a kiss to his cheek before putting him onto his small feet. “But only one, baby!” He was already on his way, chanting for cookies.

In an instant, Bucky pulled his wife into his arms, capturing her lips with his, a rumbling moan escaping him at the taste and feel of her. “Two fucking weeks are too long, malyshka,” he stated with another lingering kiss, fingers tangled in her hair. “Tell me about it. Try to manage two kids who switch between being the bestes of friends and each other’s enemy number one multiple times a day.” Taking her in more closely, Bucky could see the dark circles under her eyes and the tight muscles around her lips. His thumb swept across the dark circles, and his lips followed to kiss them better. “I’m so sorry, milaya,” he murmured with another kiss to her forehead and felt her hand hitting him against the back of his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You had to be there, and we had to stay here with school for Anya and Eli’s first day at kindergarten. We managed. I wouldn’t mind if you take over bedtime duty for a while, though.”

Bucky grinned happily at the prospect of spending time with his kids, feeling the love only a father could feel coursing through his body. “Of course, love. We’ll get you something nice on our stroll over Fifth and let the kids play in Central Park while you enjoy a book, alright? I’ll pick up a few new bedtime stories as well, so you will not even be remotely needed and can enjoy bath after bath. Would that make my wife happy?” Sighing, she leaned heavily against him, gathering strength through his strong body supporting the weight resting on her shoulders during the worst and most exhausting days—which they have had many in the past two weeks. “Sounds lovely. But don’t you dare spend a fortune on me again!” Her warning was unnecessary because Bucky would spend a fortune on his wonderful wife, and she knew that as well. “Please,” he chuckled and pressed another heated kiss to her lips, his fingers cupping her chin tenderly. “I’ll buy whatever you want, milaya. Perhaps we could even get something for us.”

He loved his wife in pretty clothes, but he loved her especially dearly in pretty lingerie he had no qualm of ripping off her gorgeous body the second she’d appear before him, reducing the masterfully crafted pieces to lacy shreds on their bedroom floor. The first time he did that, he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to pull her to bed, receiving a scolding he had gotten the last time, probably as a boy. She had been royally pissed at his antics, mourning the pretty set she had bought for their first night together. The next day, she received a delivery of all the pieces she had eyed at the shops and saved online, making her closet filled with more lingerie than a regular woman would need in her entire life.

Only that she wasn’t a regular woman with a regular man. He could buy her anything and in any quantity possible, so he wasn’t one to hold back when the urge to see this goddess of a woman naked made him growl and impatient—and even a tad jealous of the fabric touching her skin instead of his hands and lips.

“You are the worst of the bunch, Barnes. Seriously.” Exasperated, she looked up at him, her cheeks warming under his touch, and Bucky nodded with a serious expression. “I am insatiable when it comes to you, malyshka. And you thrive on the power you have over me.” Eye-rolling, she shook her head again, winding out of his arms and smacking his ass with a teasing smile. “Stop being a seventeen year old horndog and move your sexy backside up to your daughter. She’ll listen to you more than me after two weeks filled with my constant presence. I’ll see what I can save from her project, and stopping Elijah from munching on too many cookies…”

The last part was barely a mumble, already distracted by whatever thought wandered through her beautiful mind, and Bucky watched her retreating back with a smile before shrugging out of his suit jacket. Throwing it over the stair railing, he made his way to his eldest’s room, softly knocking at the door littered with pictures and posters of her favorite animals and characters—he could even see the remnants of a glitter pen—and knew how lucky he could count himself when he was allowed to enter his sunshine’s room.

He had the perfect wife, two healthy, wonderful children, and had found happiness despite the way his life had taken.

He had indeed chosen wisely.

author's note: Tysm for reading my silly little writing. As usual: likes, reblogs, and comments are so much appreciated! I love to read your thoughts <3

[holylulusworld]

Bucky & Ducky (1) - The first meeting - Flufftober 17

Summary: Bucky Barnes. Ruthless mafia boss. Soft only for his wife and...well, Ducky.

Pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Side pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Ducky the duck

Warnings: mafia business, fluff, unusual friendship

A/N: Thanks to @buck-star for the idea and brainstorming with me. I did it...😅

Bucky & Ducky Masterlist

Kinktober vs Flufftober 2024

He’s tired. Tired enough to fall asleep standing.

The deal he wanted to seal took longer than he liked. All Bucky Barnes wants is to get into the bathtub and wash the day off his body.

Maybe he can get you into the bathtub too to get you clean and more. He chuckles at that thought and hurriedly jogs up the staircase leading to the master bedroom.

Bucky can’t wait to see your face. It’s been a long day and an even longer and exhausting week. His life has never been easy. From the first cry till today, he always had to fight to stay on top of the food chain.

The mafia business is not like any other business. You don’t go home with clean hands and a light heart. Bucky only gets to rest when you are around. You, the light of his life, give him the feeling of being a better man.

“Doll, I’m home,” he calls your name. “Baby? Your man is home. Do you want to get clean with me?”

He sneaks into the bathroom, hearing the water splash. Bucky grins, believing you’re taking a bath in your brand-new luxury whirlpool bathtub.

“I knew you’d love the bathtub. It’s the jet stream nozzle, right?” He huffs when you don’t answer. “I’ll get out of my clothes and join you!”

Silence greets him, but Bucky eagerly strips off his clothes, leaving him in only his boxers. He loves to make a show out of stripping his boxers off in front of you.

“Is it warm? Does the heater work? What about the LEDs?” He harrumphs when you still don’t answer. “Okay, baby doll.” He opens the bathroom door and walks in. Bucky flexes his muscles until his eyes land on the filled bathtub.

“What the—?” Bucky back paddles. He leaves the bathroom in search of you. “Doll. DOLL!”

“Hey, Bucky Bear,” you walk into the bedroom, looking him up and down. “Oh, you’re already back. I prepared dinner.”

“What is that?” He points at the open bathroom door. “Doll?”

You poke your head into the bathroom to look at the bathtub. “A duck.”

“Yes, no… I mean, I know that it’s a duck.” Bucky looks at the little yellow duckling happily swimming around his expensive bathtub. “I meant, what is a duck doing in our bathtub?”

“I thought it wanted a bath and a swim," you smile widely as you grasp Bucky’s hand. “Did you already introduce yourself to him?”

“What? I—” Bucky furrows his brows. You can’t be serious. How can you keep a straight face while a duckling is swimming in your bathtub? “Why? Where did that thing come from?”

“Bucky,” you softly say. “Shush. That’s not a thing; it’s a cute little duckling. My boss’s ducks had ducklings. This little guy was the weakest, and they believed he wouldn’t make it. They wanted to..." You sniffle and throw yourself at Bucky. “I had to save him. You’d have done the same.”

“Doll, I,” he murmurs your name. “What do we do with a duck? We already have the guard dog.”

“The guard dog looks angry all the time,” you sniffle. “The duckling needs a new home, Bucky. He needs us. Please say yes.”

Bucky sighs deeply. He already knows the answer will be yes. How could he deny you? Bucky had a weak spot for you from the beginning. Your soft smile and sweetness made him fall hard for you.

“Okay, the duck can stay as long as it doesn’t poop into the bathtub,” he sternly says, making you giggle. “So, can I take a bath now, or do we need a schedule to use the tub?”

“You could just bathe with the duckling while I finish dinner. He’s a sweet duck, I promise.” You look at Bucky, giving him your sweetest smile. “And he won’t poop into the tub.”

Bucky slowly walks toward the tub. He looks at the duckling swimming in his bathtub.

“So, you wormed your way into my wife’s heart, huh? How did you do it?” The mobster watches the duckling swim around the bathtub while it quacks. Bucky shakes his head. How did it come so far that he considers sharing a bathtub with a duckling?

While the duckling swims around the bathtub, Bucky strips his boxers off. He carefully steps inside the bathtub, keeping an eye on the duckling.

“Okay, punk,” he says while slowly sitting down in the tub. “Here are the rules.” He whispers so no one can hear him talk to a duckling. “No hitting on my wife. She’s all mine. Now pooping into the tub.” Bucky points his index finger at the duckling. “No biting my dick. I know it looks like a delicious and fat worm, but it is not for you to eat.”

Bucky watches the duckling get close until it stops in front of his tummy.

“Hmm…do you already have a name, punk?” He wonders aloud. “What about Yellow or Feathers?” Bucky shakes his head. “No, that doesn’t sound good. Oh, I know!” Your husband exclaims loudly. “DUCKY! That’s a good name, a manly name for a manly duckling.”

You press one hand to your mouth to keep yourself from giggling. Bucky is sitting in the bathtub, talking to the duckling.

It seems they are getting along better than you thought possible.

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: spirit-raiser (mini-series)

Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and you are the witch he has chosen to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, begging, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v, no aftercare, sex magic, blood magic, potion for arousal, curses and hexes, witchcraft, possession, mediums, if you squint theres some plot, smoking, mention of death/violence/torture, mention of police brutality, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8k

A/N: hey. don't ask. this idea came to me a few days ago and i wrote it all out in like two sessions at 2am. i want to write more for this, i have so many ideas for some more one-shot style interactions. this just got so long so quickly so i had to cut some stuff. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You did not remember leaving your door unlocked. 

The fog that settled over the smokey, portside district of Sootstone was suffocating. Despite it being only midday, the entire neighbourhood was cast into a muggy gloom. The sun could not break through the thick smog that comfortably nestled itself along the windy streets of The Warrens. The stench of smoke and fish hung heavy in the air, with sweaty dockworkers and dirty children darting between alleys. In your short journey to and from the small Sunday market, you had nearly been bowled over thrice by oblivious residents. 

The Warrens, or Sootstone Port, as it was formally known, was not a pleasant place. Home to the working class and the rotted underbelly of the city of Blackstone. The high society chatters liked to forget such a place existed, as it was simply not a charming place to think about. Most worked the ports, ferrying in the sea trade. Others worked in the Smokestack district, manufacturing metal in factories that pumped ash and soot into the air. There were also the select few who turned to other trades, such as pubs, hotels, brothels, or even those who were forced into a life of joblessness on the streets. 

The Warrens weren’t so imaginatively named. It was a clever joke among high-society gossipers that the poor fucked like rabbits and lived in their elaborate winding burrows, from which they rarely emerged for air. The people of Sootstone had accepted the insult, finding the whole metaphor rather hilarious. That was because the Warreners could take a joke, unlike the condescending crowd of high society. It could also be argued that the residents of The Warrens could not come up with a better metaphor, as most were not educated in any sense. 

Perhaps the mixture of smog and that lack of an education had finally made it to your head. You were left standing, perplexed, as your front door swung open without so much of a nudge. The lock was normally a sticky one, leaving you to jiggle the knob and slam your shoulder against the frame until it came unstuck. Never in your two years of living in the tiny flat had you ever witnessed such a sight. 

You would’ve thought it a miracle if it weren’t for the implications. 

It was true that The Warrens were notorious for crimes. Theft, assault, and murder. Even if coppers paraded the streets, they weren’t truly there to stop criminals. No, they were more interested in beating any poor innocents that got in their way. It was better to find protection from vigilante gangs who roamed Sootstone’s streets, scrapping like stray dogs over territories. As much as those uninvolved in such business were afraid of them, they also respected them. Their deeds weren’t always motivated by blood and destruction; the gangs stood to protect their communities as no one else would. 

Even if you and your surrounding neighbours were under the protection of Barnes’ Smog Boys, it was definitely still alarming to see a group of them gathered in your small kitchen. 

“Lookie who's home.” One of the men cooed at the sight of you. He stood closest to the door, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket while the other fiddled with a toothpick that hung from his lips. His blond hair was slicked back, tucked under a flatcap. Steve Rogers. The Smog Boys right hand man. Next to him was Sam Wilson, his stocky form leaning against your rickety cupboards. His gaze was fixed on a silver pocket watch he had tightly secured in his left palm, a short chain draping across his vest. He glanced up at Steve’s words, a wicked smirk crossing his lips at the sight of you. 

“Sunday market?” Sam queried, and you drew your woven basket closer. There was an unsettling sneer in his voice. 

The Smog Boys were one of seven gangs that roamed the underbelly of Blackstone. Their territories lay in the fog of Sootstone Port and the smokey streets of the Smokestack district and The Warrens. You could commonly see them stalking the streets, dressed in all black with their flatcaps and slicked back hair. They moved through the smog like ghosts, navigating the twisting streets with an unnatural ease. Some called them ghouls; others called them saviours from the fog. 

The final man, the worst of them all, was Bucky Barnes. He sat across from you, half obscured by your small dining table. He had laid a box of cigarettes and matches on the marked wood. One was smoking between his lips, his head angled down and cocked to one side, as he assessed you with a look of boredom. There was a terrifying edge of calculation in his gaze as he evaluated you. He was just as large as the other two men, with muscles poorly hidden beneath his black, tailored suit. His hair, similarly to Steve's, was slicked back, and the sides buzzed. A 5’oclock shadow ghosted his jawline, but overall, his appearance was unsettlingly neat. 

Not a speck of ash or soot. As if he had just appeared within your flat, blinking into existence rather than having walked The Warrens like any other mere mortal. 

You had never seen the man in person. No. If the Smog Boys were ghosts, Bucky certainly lived up to the name. He was an enigma, a haunting story whispered between children. He had clawed his way up to a position of power from the gutters of The Warrens, bloodshed and all. He was a notorious skirt-chaser, his handsome appearance and strong build drawing in women from all classes. Looking at him now, despite the terror congealing in your blood, you could understand the appeal. 

“Why’re you here?” You ask hesitantly. Unlike the gangsters before you, you were not pristine by any means. Falling ash had coated your shoulders, staining the tartan fabric of the mantle draped over your shoulders. Your hair was swept up under a head scarf, which was also covered in a layer of soot and dust from the smokestacks. Even your worn leather boots were not safe; mud and filth caked onto the heels and sides. The streets of The Warren had never known any type of cleanliness. 

“Come to introduce ourselves. Don’t think we’ve ever met before, ‘least I think I would’ave remembered a pretty face like yours.” Steve speaks up, a gleam in his eye. His tone is playful yet somehow cruel. The chuckle he and Sam share rattles you. The two of them were also said to try their luck with the women who crowded around, searching for the thrill of a gangster lover.

“You might’ave mistaken me for someone else… I’ve lived here two years now.” You speak with a continued caution. With precise movements, as to not brush either of the hulking men crowding the kitchen entrance, you place your basket on a nearby surface. Even the cloth that you have thrown over the items is coated in a layer of ash. 

“We know.” Sam says, twisting his body. He lifts up the cloth, inspecting the food beneath. You know it is nothing exciting—some bread, fish, and vegetables. As well as a handful of sweets you gave to the children of your neighbour. You keep your mouth shut as Sam dips into the white and red striped paper bag and pops one of the sweets into his mouth with a satisfied hum. 

Steve pushes himself off the wall, his jacket brushing against you. He was far taller than you, tall enough that he had to crane his neck down in order to whisper in your ear. “A lil’ birdy told us you’re a spirit-raiser.” 

“I—No.” You stumble over your words, eyes darting between the three men. Bucky is still silent, still like a cat hunting a mouse. The gaze he assessed you with was one of a predator, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t crack a smile as the two men beside you laugh between themselves. 

To fend off some anxious energy, you make quick work of unknotting your headscarf. Ash and dust flutter to the ground as you shake out the fabric, a frown etched across your features. You could not help but let your mind wonder to the stories you had heard growing up. You were a lifelong resident of The Warrens, only moving to live on your own after sickness claimed your mother. You father had passed long before that, lost to drink. 

“What do you call yourself then? Hm?” Steve asks, breath hot against your cheek. You flinch as he pulls a fleck of ash from your hair. In the stories, they would speak of men with their tongues cut out. Bodies that were filled with bricks, then stitched back up and sunk to the bottom of the Sootstone Port. Men were found hanged from street lights, severely beaten, with sections of skin along their thighs and chest peeled off with a blade. And those were only the bodies coppers found. 

“I prefer witch.” You correct, brows furrowing. Your head turns to look at the gangster, wary of how close his fingers lingered. Teeth bared in a grin, he blows a soft breath across your hair, the last of the ash unsettled as it floats away. You can smell tobacco on his breath—a familiar scent to you.

“I need a favour.” Bucky finally speaks up, his voice low. Your gaze snaps to meet his. 

You blink. “A favour?”

You jump as Bucky finally moves, his foot jerking as he kicks the seat opposite him. The chair scrapes across the hardwood floors, stopping centimetres before your boots. 

“Sit.” He commands. 

Sam’s hand finds the back of your neck, a soft push guiding you in the direction of the free space. You obey, your knee bouncing as you take a seat. You sit near the edge of the chair, leaving some distance between yourself and the table. As if sensing your desire to bolt, Steve sweeps up behind you, pushing the chair in until you are fully tucked in. Then, with mocking laughter, Sam and Steve take a seat on either side of you. 

“No one told me there was any issue about magic—” You begin. Steve snickers beside you, returning to fiddling with the toothpick still poking from his mouth. 

“A favour.” Bucky repeats, exhaling smoke from his nose. Sam leans back in his seat, legs spread so widely that his knee touches yours. You shrink back as far as possible. “I’m no copper. I don’t care what you practitioners get up to.”

You find yourself blinking in surprise once more. Magic was a subject that divided many, mostly due to it’s misunderstood nature. High society treated magic as another lavish hobby or skill, with some even going to private schools to turn their gifts into professions with the right licences. Of course, the people of the lower-class were banned from performing such tricks unless they were in possession of the right permits. Due to the nature of the slums being, well, impoverished, unlicensed magic ran rampant through the streets. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that an entire blackmarket of forbidden arts ran in the backalleys and warehouses of The Warren. Places where those needing particular services could find them for a much more convenient price than in the higherclass areas of Blackstone. 

You had kept your services rather secretive, never using your real identity with clients. It was a precaution to not have coppers knocking down your door in the middle of the night. It seemed, despite your best efforts, that nothing flew past Bucky Barnes. But then again, nothing seemed to fly past the gangster. He knew of every black market and every whisper of illegal activity in the slums. It would be foolish to believe he was unaware of you; however, why did he specifically sort you out? Now that was a mystery. 

“I don’t understand—” You choke out, head whipping back and forth as you look between the men. 

Bucky sighs loudly in annoyance, loud enough that you flinch back. He puts out the remains of his cigarette on your dining table, the smouldering dip leaving a black, circular mark on the wood. He digs into one of the pockets of his vest, revealing a large pendant necklace. The chain is silver, with an oval shaped jewel hanging from the centre. The silver that encrusts it in place is swirled, ensuring there are no gaps for it to escape. Sam and Steve fall quiet, any feeling of twisted amusement dropping from the room. Bucky slides the necklace across the table.

You recoil. This time not out of fear, but rather from the aura the necklace exudes. 

Goosebumps rise across your skin, and bile rises in your throat. There was a wickedness in the air, as if all the light and sweetness in the world were sucked into an empty, yawning void. The world feels still, as if even the ash outside has failed to fall. The room is cast into a sickening silence, a silence so strong that even the surrounding world refuses to push through. You can no longer hear the people walking through the winding streets of The Warren, not the clang of metal from the smokestacks or the cry of the dockworkers. 

Rot. 

It is the only word that comes to your mind. It is as if the jewel itself is rotten, potent, and putrid. An invisible smell so strong you nearly gag. Your skin crawls the longer you stare, as if you rot along with it—bugs squirming beneath your flesh, the taste of dirt in your mouth.  

“What’s this?” You asked, your voice strained. You know the blood has drained from your face. Bucky looks at you with curiosity. 

“You tell me.”

You look down at the necklace. Dread rises once more, and the chill of soil settles across your shoulders. You twist your head and your neck, feeling uncomfortable and strained the longer you gaze upon the necklace. 

There was something terribly, terribly wrong about it. 

“There’s a… a sickness… a rot—a curse.” You stumble over your words, your entire body squirming against your will. The feeling of dread swims through you; the sensation that you need to get as far away as possible reverberates down your spine. 

“Becca was right.” Steve sings somewhere besides you, but you barely register his words. 

“Where’d you find this?” You ask. The room is tighter than usual, with the rickety, peeling cabinets closing in around you. The oven screeches on its iron legs, the yellowed wallpaper crushing closer and closer. Your head falls into your hands, elbows propped onto the table. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to rid yourself of the sickly feeling. You rub your fingers up your face, pinching the bridge of your nose, then massaging your forehead

“It was given to me. As a gift.” As he speaks, you reluctantly open your eyes once more. The room has returned to as you remember, your vision less dizzying as you take in a deep gulp of air, your heart thundering in your ears. You must make a face, because it prompts him to speak once more. 

“My sister has a sensitivity. She is convinced—”

“There’s a spirit attached to that jewel.” You interrupt before thinking. Your knees bounce beneath the table, your feet shaking. Your entire being screams that you need to get away from the object. You do not care for politeness or fear of these men, as the horror in your heart you felt gazing upon the necklace greatly outweighed any potential anxieties of the future.

“Yes.” His voice matches his composure—cool and collected. Wholly unaffected by the horrific aura cast by the necklace. Bucky and his men were not magically inclined. They were completely oblivious to the calamity that sat before them. 

“The spirits're attached to you, too.” You pause, the feeling of bile rising in your throat once more. “You need to get it lifted.”

“That’s where the favour comes in, doll.”

“I don’t…?” You nearly doubled over. “Please get rid of it. I can’t—”

Barnes leans forward, slowly dragging the necklace over the wood. He slowly deposits it into his breast pocket, watching with curiosity as you sag in relief. You would need to burn this table after they left. You could still sense the rot engrained in the pores of the wood. 

“I need to speak with the spirit attached.”

Your forearms lay flat on the table, and you rest your head against them as you try to remember how to breathe. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you. Was this how they tortured their victims? Wore them down into pathetic, panting messes? Were you about to become another body at the bottom of the Sootstone port? You mumble into the fabric. “I can’t raise a spirit without a name.”

“I know her name.”

You pause, lifting your head slowly. “You want to ask her how to break it? You may know her, but spirits’re tricksters they won’t always give ya the correct information—”

“I know how to deal with her.”

You arch a brow, unsure.

“She’s a scorned lover.” Sam whispers beside you. You jump, having forgotten the two other men sitting besides you. Bucky scowls at his words—the most emotion he has shown in the entire time. 

“Everyone knows you don’t ‘ave a witch for a moll unless you’re gonna marry her.” Steve butts in, and the two men share a chuckle. 

“Shut your mugs. The both of ya.” Bucky snarls, and they both fall silent, although you can’t help but notice their bemused smiles. After a brief, tense silence, the gangster settles back into his seat, tipping his chin upward in a nod. “Morwenna Blackthorn.”

You hesitate, glancing between the three men. They watch you expectantly, relaxing back into their respective seats. Given their status and reputation, you had to presume they were familiar with the workings of underground magic. Licenced practitioners would have clients sign lengthy documents for protection in the event of a spell or session backfiring. The Warrens did not have such luxuries—if you made a mistake, no one could protect you or them from the consequences. 

You inhale sharply, placing your hands palms down on the table. The wood hums beneath your touch, the invisible vapours of the curse tickling your flesh. With a roll of your shoulders, you exhale slowly, allowing your body to relax. 

Ink drips across your vision, swirling darkness millimetres before your eyes. You stare hard into the invisible void, searching blindly through the tendrils of smoke. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your mind hums. Through the dark fog, you can make out figures—flickers of candle flames casting large, distorted shadows. Morwenna Blackthorn. Bones crunch beneath your feet, yet at the same time, you float. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your hands burn into the table, the rotting sensation tangling through your digits, pulling you deeper. 

Morwenna Blackthorn

You can see a thin line of thread hanging through the void. 

Morwenna Blackthorn.

It is red; a series of knots tugged tightly intermittently. 

Morwenna Blackthorn.

Your fingers grasp the fibres gently, your nail hooking around one of the tiny knots. 

You tug.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

A violent, ragged gasp leaves you. It claws up your throat, ripping at the flesh. Your entire body tenses, your spine straightening as your head snaps back. For a moment, you are suspended. You can feel her with you, her ghostly fingers stroking tenderly across your skin. She smooths over the back of your hands, slowly and gradually winding her way up your arms. She clutches your shoulders, her bones digging into your flesh.

Then, with violence strong enough that you fear she has folded your spine in half, she pushes down. 

Your body instantly relaxes, head lulling downward. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and despite the appearance being a milky white, you can see perfectly clearly. Morwenna has settled herself deep within your bones, controlling your movements like a puppeteer. You are conscious enough to understand what is happening, but you are not in control of your actions or speech.

Your mouth spread into a wide, sly smile. “Bucky, my love.”

“Mor.” The gangster greets, although he does not seem entirely pleased. You pout, leaning your elbows onto the table. 

“Not happy to see me?” You coo. Somewhere beside you, Steve shifts in his seat uncomfortably. It is the most off put you’ve ever seen the man so far. He winces as your head swings around, a wicked grin gracing your lips. “Oh, Stevie and Sam. Didn’t see you two here.”

“Mor.” The two men grumble in unison, scowling. 

“Awh. Why so glum, boys?” You whine, your chair scraping against the floor as you stand. Your movements are fluid and graceful, entirely not your own. Your hands stroke across the back of the chair, then swooshes up to meet your chest. 

You lean forward, tutting as you inspect your reflection in the glass of a nearby cupboard. “Trust you to find a pretty one in The Warrens.” 

Your hands move to unpin your mantle, a cloud of ash lingering in the air as you drop it to the floor. You sigh in relief, your fingers unbuttoning the top of your shirt, revealing the curve of your breasts. Your hands smooth down your waist to your hips; your full figure is now displayed. 

“You missed me that much, my love? That you had to find a pretty vessel for me so you could get your cock wet, hm?” You hum, sashying towards the table once more. 

“That’s not why you’re here.” Bucky replies. He seems frozen in place. The horror of familiarity. Recognising the mannerisms of someone he once knew in a complete stranger. 

You ignore his words, unpinning your hair. Thick locks unroll, cascading down your shoulders and back. You let out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh, rolling your neck. The strands frame your face, and the rich colour brings colour to your cheeks. 

“Morwenna.” Bucky snaps. Your brows furrow as you look over to him, pouting once more. “You put a curse. On the necklace.”

Your mind momentarily blanks, as if Morwenna were trying to recall what he said. Spirits often grew confused trying to recall memories, especially ones that brought them anguish. A cog seems to turn as you flash the gangster another beaming smile. 

“The necklace… oh. Did you like it? My parting gift to you? Before you fucked me over you piece of—” Your voice, once sweet and soft, deepens to a guttural growl. Your body shakes, and words cut off as you cough and hack. Your hand raises to your mouth, warm fluid leaking from your lips. You let in a shuddering breath, rubbing your fingers and palms down your chin. Blood smears across your skin. 

“You shot me, my love.” You gasp, your brows furrowing as your head tilts. “You shot me.”

“You betrayed us, remember? You were a rat—” Steve jumps in, but is quickly cut off. 

“Steve.” Bucky warns.

Your hands find your stomach, doubling over as you sob. There is no wound, no blood. Still, your hands dig at the fabric while ragged, pathetic cries leave your blood stained lips. 

“How do I break the curse?”

You shuddering sobs stop, a dreadful silence falling over the tiny kitchen. A guttural laugh erupts from you, saliva mixed with blood dripping from your lips to the floor. “The curse. The curse? I should have known… I should have known…”

Your body jerks upward, movements stiff, and jerks like a marionette doll. Sam’s face contorts into one of fear, while Steve looks horrified. You jerk forward, nearly tripping over the chair as you plunge towards the table. Your stomach smacks hard against the wood, a winded wheeze escaping your lungs as you drag yourself forward by your nails. 

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?” You cry, your head beginning to twist, the angle so unnatural that it strains your neck. 

“How do I break it?” Bucky repeats, voice firm. He hasn’t so much as flinched, a wall of steel as you crawl towards him. 

“It was born in chaos, so it must be undone in chaos. I will find you. I will tear you limb from limb. I will make you rot from the inside out; maggots will grow within you; and mould will bloom in your soul. Everything will crumble to dust beneath your touch. I will ruin you until you b–b—be—”

Your body slides back, and for the first time in the entire session, you grab the reins. You search blindly for the knotted thread, tugging hard. Your body steps back from the table, muscles spasming and tense as your body locks in place. 

You tug harder, and darkness swims across your vision. Candles flicker and dance in the distance, the sun rising and falling as your body twists up and down. The smell of rot slowly subsides, threads slipping from your fingers. The scent of copper and ash is on your tongue, and your head is pounding. 

A dramatic sigh leaves you as your body slumps. You find yourself standing before the table, three sets of eyes burning into you as your own eyes roll back into place. Sam and Steve look equally disturbed as they are horrified, the blond’s mouth agape in shock. 

“The fuck was that?” Sam barks.

“I ain’t never seen a spirit session like that before, Buck—” Steve begins.

“Shut it.” Bucky barks, rising to his feet. 

There is a sickly feeling in your chest, a radiating pain across your ribcage. You barely register the gangster walking up to you, gripping your chin between his index and thumb. 

“You pulled yourself out early.” Bucky sneers. “Why?”

“Buck—” Steve calls again. With a growl, Bucky releases you, twisting around to snarl at Steve. 

“I thought you told me she was the best in the Warrens?”

“She is. Did’ya not see that shit?”

“She didn’t get me an answer—”

“Chaos magic.” You finally speak up, your voice raspy. The gangsters pause, slowly turning to face you. “She told you. It’s chaos magic. What’s born in chaos must be undone in chaos.”

Your hand raises to your face, your fingertips touching your upperlip as warm blood flows from your nose. You raise your hand into the light, inspecting the crimson liquid. Your eyes cut over to Bucky's, and he frowns. 

“Chaos magic?” He questions. 

“Sex magic.” You state, fighting the heat growing across your cheeks. Without much of a care or a flinch, you navigate your way past the group. Your shirt brushes against Bucky’s jacket, the rotting feeling momentarily settling in your stomach as the fabric brushes his breastpocket. You pause in front of your sink, knuckles white as you grip the lip. Blood continues to stream steadily from your nose, dripping into the basin. 

“You focus your thoughts on one thing; you get pulled into a trance. Take the energy, the chaos, and you focus it. At the peak, picture what you’re manifestin’. The chaos that you’ve built through the act is released at the moment of orgasm.” You explain, your gaze solidly locked onto the blood that swirls down your drain. 

“Sex magic.” Bucky hums in thought.

Steve spoke up from beside him with a snicker. “How poetic.”

—

You hated how your hands shook. If Bucky had noticed, he hadn’t brought it up. He was coolly inspecting your tiny bedroom, hands tucked into his pockets. The room had an eclectic taste, with walls covered in shelving. You collected books, objects, trinkets, or other things that helped your work. Drying herbs hung from your curtain railings, your desk cluttered with papers you had hastily scribbled notes upon. 

You ground your palm harder into the pestle, gritting your teeth as you worked the herbs inside into a fine paste. Your bed, stripped bare, had been pushed to the side of the room. It usually sat near the centre, atop a fraying rug. The rug had also been removed, rolled up, and placed somewhere in your stairway. The old wood beneath had been painted by your hand, with intricate runes, symbols, and swirls making up the general shape of a circle. You had already lined it with black salt, candles burning at each cardinal direction. At the centre of the circle, you had laid your bedding and pillows for comfort. 

Bucky had sent Steve and Sam away, the two men snickering like a pair of school boys. You all knew what was about to unfold; it was just a question of why you had allowed yourself to become tangled up in such a situation. You had done similar rituals for clients before, yes, but none of those clients had been the boss of the Smog Boys. None of them had been Bucky Barnes. 

You eyed him as he paused in front of the carved circle, mindlessly playing with the jewelled necklace that hung from his grip. The awful, dreadful, rotting sensation was dulled; you’d nearly begged the gangster to let you cleanse the object. It was a temporary relief that would wear down in a few hours, but at least you could complete your work without gagging at the feeling of it. You hurriedly poured the thick paste from the herbs into a pot, which boiled in your fireplace. It only took a couple of stirs for the potion to settle. You could feel Bucky’s eyes assessing your every movement as you poured the steaming liquid into two cups, briefly swirling each to ensure the consistency was correct. 

“Remind me what this is.” The gangster asked, closing the distance between you. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the scent. 

“A potion to help with the ritual. Some find it…hard to perform.” You say, wincing as you realise what you implied. Bucky raises a brow as you fumble over your words. “It heightens arousal and pleasure.”

“I won’t find it hard to perform.” He replies curtly. 

“I know. I wasn’t saying that—I just… from experience…” You stumble again. If only you could punch yourself in the face for this idiocy. 

“Relax, doll.” He hums, his hand finding your shoulder. You exhale sharply, lips pressed together, as your shoulders drop in response. “I can find someone else if you don’t want this.”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting it, you did want this. Maybe it was a sick curiosity, wondering if this dangerous yet handsome man could perform as well as you imagined, as well as it was rumoured. You swallow, your mouth feeling dry. “No. I want this.”

“Good.” His hand brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, and his head dips to look at you better. “Honestly, I could fuck you with or without the potion, doll.”

There is a knowing smirk spreading across his face as your mind blanks. Fucking rake. You consider if the fumes from the potion have already leaked their effects onto you both. You can feel a warmth growing between your legs. 

“It’s my job.” You mutter, stepping away. Although you’re unsure if the reassurance is for yourself or for him. His chuckle follows you as you sweep across the room, returning to your small desk. “Do you want me to explain the ritual in detail or just give you the gist of it?”

“Spare the details; just run me through what I need to do.” He responds. He has closed the distance between the both of you again, peering over your shoulder as you fumble through your things. 

“Well, it’s pretty simple.” You sigh, turning around. Your chests are nearly pressed together as you spin. You back up as far as possible, your hands moving behind your back as you grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. "We’ll have to draw some blood with a blade and put it on the necklace to link it to our energies. It’s sigil magic, nothing you’ll have to worry about. We take the potions…”

You fade off with a shrug. Bucky smirks once more, his chin lifting in amusement, but his gaze remains solidly locked onto you. His hands go to his pockets, and his wide chest blocks your movements. You clear your throat. “The ending is more what you’ll need to focus on. When you reach… climax… you must focus all your energy on the necklace and nothing else. I will be there to guide and remind you, but you can’t let your thoughts stray.”

“What about you? What will you have to think of?” He questions, his voice low. His adams apple bobs as he swallows slowly, his tongue running across his bottom lip in thought. Intriguing question. No one had asked you that before. 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one who needs to orgasm.”

“Why?”

“The curse is linked to you. Only you can break it, with my assistance, of course. I am just here to help guide you and lend you my energy. I am just a conduit for the magic, to focus it.” You explain. Thinking it was best to get it over and done with, you finally pluck up the courage to push past him. 

Your athame was already in place; the candles were lit, salt laid, and sigil memorised. There was only one thing left to do—the act. You crouch down by the fireplace, retrieving the two cups. Bucky gives you an incredulous look. 

“It tastes better than it smells.” You reassure him, handing him the saucer. He inspects the liquid once more, wincing, then shrugging in surprise as he finally downs the lot. You watch with a scrutinising gaze as he places the cup down, rolling his shoulders. 

The potion would take all of five seconds to take affect. It didn’t alter the brain or take away authority; rather, it heightened already present feelings of arousal or pleasure. The user would experience a rather euphoric sensation. Dodgy brothels often microdosed their clients with such herbs to heighten the experience. Also to hook in a new, loyal customer. Used sparingly, the herbs were fine, but they were highly addictive. 

And illegal. Most of your work fell into that category.

Within moments, you could see Bucky’s pupils dilate, his jaw and shoulders relaxing, and his nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly. His voice was strained as he spoke up, his tone gravelly and low as he cleared his throat in surprise. “Fuck. That does feel good, doesn’t it?”

You smile shyly into your own cup and swallow down the liquid. You were familiar with the taste and it’s effects. It was surprisingly sweet, with a vanilla, nutty aftertaste. As soon as it hit your stomach, you could already feel the warmth growing in your core—a delightful tingling sensation spreading up your spine and skull. 

You were quick to place your cup down and cross the room to retrieve the athame. You had to pin point your actions very directly so as not to get distracted by the hulking man looming in your room. The potion was definitely potent, because any fear or anxiety had left you. Your body begged for him to come closer, to touch you, to kiss you. Not yet. Soon. 

“Come here.” You murmur, drawing the blade from it’s sheath. Bucky obeys, wordlessly stalking towards you and presenting you with his palm. You look up at him through your lashes, gently taking his hand into yours. Your skin sings at the content, a rush of goosebumps raising across your skin. “We don’t need much blood.”

The gangster is still as you drag the blade in a short cut along the heel of his palm. You push into the mound, coaxing out droplets of blood to blister to the surface. “The necklace.”

He lets out a low, agreeable grunt as he hands it to you. The potion has helped you ignore any bad energy attached to the object. Your skin simmers as you brush your finger tips along the cut, gathering Bucky’s blood. You take the jewel, smearing the blood across the slippery surface into one half of a symbol. Bucky watches expectantly as you hastily repeat the process with your own hand, smearing your blood to complete the symbol. 

“You need to wear it.” You hum and guide the chain over his head. You know you should find a bandage or some kind of healing salve for your hands, but your attention is pulled away as Bucky grasps your hand. An involuntary whimper leaves your throat as he raises your palm to his lips, his tongue peaking out as he runs it across the open wound. The potion had definitely taken effect. Holy fuck, your back arches as pleasure shoots down your arm, blooming at the base of your skull. 

His lips kiss along the cut, sucking and licking. Your mind swims from the sensation—ideas of where else he could be putting his mouth to use. You pull your palm away, dragging it across his cheek as you cup his face. A crimson streak is smeared along his skin, and his lips are glossy from saliva and stained with your blood. The two of you clash in desperation, a rumbling groan being pulled from the gangster as his lips engulf yours. 

You can taste copper on his tongue, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his body. The two of you move in a frantic rhythm, scarcely making room to breathe. You guide him clumsily to the painted circle, the two of you falling to your knees in unison. Blindly, you find his clothing, helping him tug off the jacket and then unbutton his vest. 

His hands slip under your blouse, caressing the skin beneath. His fingers roam to your brassiere, your nipples hardening as he brushes them through the sleek fabric. You mewl into his mouth, squirming under his touch as the pulse between your legs quickens. His large palm comes to rest below your breasts, his thumb sitting on your sternum as he yanks you backwards onto his lap. 

Your lips break, and you gasp for air as the gangster continues his assault down your neck to the exposed skin of your collarbone. His stubble tickles across your neck, and he gathers your skirts, fingers gliding past your stockings to your exposed inner thigh. 

Your head tips backwards to rest on his shoulder, and loud, satisfied sighs leave you. The sensation is near blinding, your body alight with pleasure. Had you accidentally made a stronger dose in your nervousness? You had never yearned in such a way before—

“What’re you doing?” You query with a gasp as his fingers slip beneath your loose tap pants. 

Your question is answered as he strokes a fingertip through your wet folds. 

“You’re so wet.” He hums against your skin, voice strained. You can already feel his erection pressing into you. His grip on you remains firm, your back flush against his chest as he dips two of his fingers into you. Ecstasy fizzles across your skin, nails digging into his skin where you grip his arm. 

“What’re you— I’m supposed to make you—ah!” You whine, your breath coming fast as you lean harder into him. Your hips rock greedily, pushing your pelvis in time with his pumping fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. 

“Shh, doll. Relax.” He whispers, his tongue licking up the shell of your ear. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your body is locked in place by his grip. His pace increases, and the panting in your ear grows as his two digits glide in and out of your tight cunt. 

“Do you like that?” He groans in your ear. Your grinding hips are now giving friction to his cock, which twitches against your backside through his pants. You whimper in response, a short sob bubbling from your mouth as you clench around him. 

Your head lifts, eyes widening as you look down. You can’t see much due to your skirts, but you can feel the knot tightening within your belly. Your hips move more desperately, needy, pathetic moans escaping you as his pace remains steady. 

“Please—” You beg, squirming as the gangster chuckles. 

“You do like this, huh? Even if you acted like a little innocent virgin earlier.” He growls. The vibration is enough to set you over the edge, a loud cry leaving you as you clench hard around his fingers, body spasming. Bucky continues to steadily pump you through your orgasm. “Good girl.”

A continued arousal stirs in your belly at his praise. Your body slumps against him, panting and exhausted. 

“Such a good girl.” He hums again, his digits slipping out of you. You can feel the sloppy mess between your thighs, and as Bucky pulls his hand into the light, you can see the wet drenching his fingers. “I think I like this version of you. The one who makes pretty little noises while I fuck her brains out, hm?”

You’re left speechless as the gangster lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a devilish smirk. 

“Well, time to get this ritual over with then, don’t you think?” He says. You’re too exhausted and drunk on desire to bother replying. You allow him to guide you down, so your head is placed side-ways on one of the pillows. He guides your hips up, your legs slightly spread, and pushes your skirts to your hips. 

“You’ll have to tell me when you’re close, so I can guide you.” You finally muster up the strength to say. The gangster pulls your tap pants down, exposing your cunt fully. 

“Sure thing, doll.” He says in response. You hear the sound of fabric rustling as he pulls out his cock. 

Without much warning, he pushes into you, your arousal making it easy for his member to slide in and out of you. A growl burns in the back of his throat while you wordlessly make a fist around the sheets and blankets beneath you. 

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” Bucky groans, his voice strained. “And to think you’ve been hidin’ out in The Warrens all this time.”

He sinks deeper into you, pulling small whimpers and moans from you as he finds a steady, pleasurable rhythm. His hand slides up your clothed back, pushing you harder into the pillow with a grunt. His other hand finds your hips, his grip bruising as he guides you. 

You bite down into the pillow, your pleasured sobs muffled by the feathers. 

“You squeezed so tightly around my fingers; I can’t wait to see how you’ll feel when you come around my cock.” Bucky grunted as he ploughed into you. His hand fists around your loose hair, fingers tangling through the locks as he tugs. Tears are beginning to prickle in your eyes, and your legs are wobbling from the sensation. 

“Please—” you gasp out. 

“Please, what?” The gangster asks, tugging harder. The hand on your hip is squeezing tighter as he holds you in place. 

“Please—I need to—”

“No.” He growls, tugging you upward. You fall backwards into his lap once more, his cock still inside you but somehow deeper from the angle he holds you. “You need to finish the ritual, remember? I can’t have you guide me if you’re too fucked out to talk.”

Another sob leaves you, but you wordlessly nod. You hold onto the burning sensation in your gut, the waves of satisfaction so immense that your limbs tremble. Bucky continues to fuck up into you, his cock steadily driving into you as his free hand comes to lazily swirl your swollen clit. 

You try to remember words, instructions, anything. You feel too high to even breathe. All you can do is focus on the sensation of the necklace rubbing against your back and the friction burning against your skin. 

“Focus on the necklace. How it feels around your neck.” You squeak out, your eyes squeezed shut, as you try to ground yourself. “Focus on the feeling of the chain, the weight of the jewel. Think of your blood, how a piece of you is painted onto it.”

There is a moment of silence between the two of you, only the slapping of skin and the rasping of breath. 

“Are you focused on it?” You ask.

“Yes.” The gangster cuts back. His strokes were beginning to grow sloppy. 

“Focus.” You whisper, though a breathy moan leaves you. “Feel your energy flow; feel your blood seep into the stone. Picture how it will shatter beneath your power.”

His hips jerk beneath you, his finger on your clit swirling faster. Your breath comes in sharp stutters, your back arching as you find no way to escape the rising sensation. His back is rock solid behind you, his hands keeping you in place as you begin to spiral. Your pussy tightens around him as you begin to scream—

“Please, Bucky. Please!”

Something snaps between the both of you, his hips jerking wildly as he spills into you. He moans into your ear at a deafening level, his fingers digging into your thighs. You double over in pleasure, your vision briefly going black as you cry out. Sparks dance across your skin, your body momentarily alight as the power of magic flows through you. You can feel the rush as your energy meets Bucky’s entangling with one another in a fierce battle. For a second, you feel intoxicated, colours bursting across your sight as the rush of magic rests in your chest, and then, just as quickly as it arrived, it cascades out of you.

Behind you, the sound of shattering can be heard above the moans.  

Panting, Bucky releases you. You slump to the floor, off his lap. His cum drips from your pussy, thighs wet as sticky as you close your eyes, desperately trying to catch your breath. You roll onto your back, pressing your thighs together. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you look down at Bucky. He sits kneeling, dishevelled. His hair is ruffled, blood is still smeared along his cheek, and his shirt is untucked and creased. 

At some point, he has tucked his cock away, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. His gaze is not on you; rather, it is solely focused on the necklace in his palm. You go to lift your head, but you find yourself too weak and exhausted to bother. A mixture of being too fucked out to care and the lack of energy from acting as a conduit for the ritual. 

“Did it work?” You ask the gangster, and his eyes finally pull up to look at you. His gaze wanders over your face, examining your swollen lips, the blush across your cheeks, and the areas where exposed skin remains. He cracks a grin, lifting his hand. The necklace dangles from his fingers, the large, blue jewel now gifted with a large crack down the centre. 

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your head fall back as you stared up at the ceiling. Your eyes flicker closed, a sleepy warmth prickling across your scalp. 

“Doll?”

Your eyes snap open with a jolt. 

“It’s all done? The curse is gone?” The gangster questions. You weakly nod in reply.

“Her spirit and whatever curse she held have been released.” You affirm, voice sleepy, relaxing back into the pillows and blankets. “Apologies. This type of spell drains me.”

Bucky chuckles. You were just glad you had enough sense near the end to actually guide him. The gangster appeared to be attempting to prove something with the orgasms he extracted from you. In the state you were in, you had little reason to complain. 

When you opened your eyes again, he was across the room, vest on and jacket slung over his arm.

“I’ll leave your payment downstairs.” He says, only pausing to look down at you, still curled up on the floor. You blink up at him sleepily. “Thanks for your help, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t find the energy to correct him.

PONY CLUB (PART 2)

[world-of-aus]

Hi, Hello and Welcome To Today’s Gym Thought..

Featuring Mob!Bucky

 

He has you against a wall in the darkest corner of his club, your leg hiked high around his waist, the slit of your dress allowing him easy access to your smooth skin.  

“This mouth of yours almost cost us our shipment, doesn’t know when to quit,” he growls lips slotting over yours in a bruising kiss, you return his fervor arms curling around his shoulders, fingers finding their way into his hair. 

The laugh he draws from you is airy, “you were letting them walk over you, if I hadn’t stepped in we would have lost them for sure,” you breathe into his lips. “The only good thing that comes out of your mouth is when it’s buried between my thighs.” 

He presses you harder into the wall, hand finding your neck, he wants to break you. “I’m your dad’s business partner sweetheart, not yours.” 

You reciprocate, tugging his hair at the same time you push your hips into his, a delicious groan bubbling from the man's chest, he tightens his hold around your throat, “and yet daddy didn’t trust you enough to come meet them alone, sent me right along to make sure you didn’t fail.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls his body pressing into yours. 

The hands that were curled in his hair find their way to the fronts of his slacks, the air is electric around the two of you as you pop the button, fingers pulling down the zipper achingly slow. 

 “Make me.”  

[cynic-spirit]

The Partner

Steve and Bucky were meeting with a new partner, another mobster named Ivanov. They had just finished negotiations, and the atmosphere had shifted from tense business discussions to more relaxed, casual conversation. Ivanov leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face as he sipped his drink.

Just then, Yn entered the room. As always, she walked straight to Bucky, her presence commanding immediate attention. Without hesitation, she greeted him with a kiss, her lips brushing his with a tenderness that momentarily softened his usual stern expression.

Ivanov, watching the exchange with a curious gleam in his eye, leaned forward and made a comment, his tone dripping with amusement. "You know, she doesn't realize how powerful I am. A woman like that should know her place."

The room went silent, the casual conversation halting abruptly. The easy-going atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a palpable tension. Bucky's jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed with anger, but before he could respond, Yn's demeanor changed.

Bucky recognized the shift immediately. Her posture straightened, and her gaze sharpened. What he referred to as her "formidable" side had emerged.

Yn took a seat comfortably, her movements measured and deliberate. She crossed her legs, her calm and composed exterior belying the intensity that lay beneath. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her to speak.

"Mr. Ivanov, I might not know much about power in the way you understand it, but I can tell a good story. Something from history that I find fascinating."

The room, already tense, grew even quieter. Everyone listened intently as Yn spoke.

"Let me tell you about Cesare Borgia, a man consumed by his quest for power. In the early 1500s, Cesare used his father, Pope Alexander VI’s influence to dominate Italy through cunning and brutality. He manipulated and eliminated rivals, consolidating his power without restraint."

Ivanov 's smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing as he listened.

"However," Yn continued, "his obsession with power led to his downfall. When his father died, Cesare lost his key ally. The new pope opposed him, and his enemies rose against him. Stripped of his power, he was captured and died in obscurity."

Bucky watched Yn with a mix of admiration and awe. Her calm, measured tone and the intensity in her eyes made it clear she was not to be underestimated.

"Cesare's relentless pursuit of dominance blinded him to the need for stability and alliances," Yn said, her gaze unwavering. "In our own lives, we must use power responsibly, understanding that true strength lies in restraint and respect for others. By treating those around us with kindness and empathy, we can avoid the pitfalls of unchecked ambition."

Ivanov was speechless, his earlier bravado completely gone. The rest of the room was equally silent, everyone taken aback by Yn's unexpected but poignant lesson.

Bucky felt a surge of pride and a touch of amusement. He knew she had left a significant impression. He glanced around the room, seeing the stunned expressions on his associates' faces.

Yn removed her glasses with a measured, deliberate motion, placing them on the table. This simple act made the others exchange knowing glances, recognizing the shift in her demeanor.

"Power does not corrupt men," she added, her voice firm. "But only fools who keep displaying it, thus reducing the command it has."

The room seemed to shrink around Ivanov, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly unable to maintain eye contact with Yn. Her words had cut through his bravado, leaving him exposed.

The silence was thick with tension, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Yn's gaze never wavered, her presence commanding and authoritative.

Bucky could see the discomfort in Ivanov 's eyes, a stark contrast to the confidence he had shown earlier. It was clear that Yn had not only made her point but had done so in a way that left no room for argument.

The others, still processing what had just happened, felt a mixture of admiration and respect for Yn. Bucky's heart swelled with pride, knowing that she had, once again, shown her formidable intellect and strength.

Finally, Ivanov mumbled, "I see your point," though his voice lacked its earlier conviction. Yn simply nodded, her message delivered with precision and impact.

Yn's gaze remained steady, her voice smooth yet sharp. "I know you do. You seem like an intelligent man, not falling into the same trenches as Cesare Borgia did."

She took a moment to let her words sink in before continuing, "It was, however, nice to meet you."

With that, Yn walked calmly to the bar, where she poured herself a glass of water. Her demeanor was poised and composed, a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere in the room. The others remained silent, clearly taken aback by the gravity of her words and the ease with which she had dismantled Ivanov ’s bravado.

As she sipped her water, the room was filled with a palpable respect for Yn’s ability to handle the situation with such grace and authority. Bucky watched her with a mixture of admiration and deep affection, knowing that her strength and intellect were unmatched.

"Well said, doll," he thought to himself. "You certainly know how to make an impact."

Ivanov glanced at Bucky with a smirk and asked, “So she’s your girl?”

Bucky’s chest swelled with pride as he replied, “No, Ivanov , actually I am her man.”

The room erupted in light-hearted chuckles, the tension from earlier melting away. Bucky’s statement, delivered with genuine affection, softened the atmosphere and highlighted the deep respect he had for Yn. The others, amused and supportive, shared knowing smiles, appreciating the bond between Bucky and Yn

As Ivanov exited the room, the door closing behind him, Bucky could no longer contain the swell of pride and admiration he felt for Yn. Without a second thought, he pulled her close and sealed his feelings with a passionate kiss.

[sjsmith56]

The Rules

Summary: One shot AU. A mobster’s daughter meets the love of her life but The Rules get in the way of it developing into something more.

Length: 6.5 K

Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes (at age 21, then 25), OFC (named), OFC’s parents (named), Brock Rumlow, John Walker, Loki Laufeyson.

Warnings: some cursing, rude behaviour and reference to mob life. Otherwise fluffy.

Author notes: This is my first attempt at writing a mob-themed story. Bucky is actually a sweetheart.

〰️ 〰️ 〰️

The first time Tia fell in love was when she was almost 18.  His name was James, 21, and he was one of newest men on her father's staff.  The first time Tia fell out of love was two weeks later when she saw James kissing a woman staff member and allowing himself to be pulled into her room at the mansion where they all lived.  This is their story.

Almost Eighteen

There were rules growing up in the house of a mob boss, particularly the man known as the Boss of Brooklyn, Jerome Brancato.  Rule #1, If the door to his office was open, anyone could come in.  If the door was closed, everyone had to stay out.  Rule #2, Daughters of the boss were off-limits.  Period.  No exceptions, unless the boss approved of the relationship which sometimes happened if he was approached correctly and with respect.  Rule #3, No meant no.  Other rules came up but the big three were supposed to be obeyed by everyone, staff and family.

Tia, seeing the door to her father's office was open approached it, hearing him speaking with another man.  The man, who said a lot of "Yes sirs" and "No sirs" seemed to be interviewing for a position with her father's "business," a business he took over from his father, and his father before him.  But Tia's father, Jerome, had no sons to leave the business to and daughters weren't supposed to be in that position, at least not in his narrow world view.

She pushed the door open, catching the attention of her father and the man, who rose to his feet and turned towards her.  He was tall, with short dark hair, and handsome, with eyes as blue as the sky.  Tearing her eyes away from him she looked at her father.

"I'm sorry, but your door was open," she said.  "I can come back."

"It was open," agreed her father.  "Tia, this is James Barnes.  He's here to join the security team.  Barnes, this is my youngest daughter, Tia.  She just graduated from high school."

He offered his hand, his white dress shirt peaking out from under his dark suit's sleeve.

"Pleasure," he said, in a voice that made a warmth pool deep inside her, his even white teeth showing in the smile he gave her.

Her voice squeaked a little when she answered.  "Thank you." 

Inside she groaned.  What kind of response was that?  James grinned a little.

"You're welcome."

"Why don't you give us half an hour to finish up," suggested her father.  "I still have to make James aware of the rules."

She smiled at her father but inside she felt her stomach drop.  The rules.  The fucking rules.  Rule #2, she was off-limits.  Apologetically, she returned to the door, risking one more look at the man she had just fallen in love with, then closed it and ran upstairs to her room to fall face first into her bed and cry over the rules.

It was a week before she saw James again.  James, Jimmy, Jamie, Jim ... all the variations of his name were written out on paper by her, as she signed her name with his.  Mr. and Mrs. James Barnes.  Jim and Tia Barnes.  Then she tore the pages up into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet because if there was one thing her already married older sisters warned her about was to not leave any trace of having a crush on any of their father's "staff," for that could cause all sorts of problems, not just for her but also for him.  In their father's line of work, that could result in serious issues for the male staff member but could also see her summarily married off to some business associate, which she didn't want.  Not at 17 years, 10 months and 2 weeks of age.  Besides, she was going off to college in a few months and the last thing she needed was a chaperone to make sure that Portia Isabel Brancato, nicknamed Tia, behaved herself.  So, she kept her face and attitude as neutral as possible, and tried to make it seem like she wasn't looking for James on the estate.  Which ended up being easy when she found out quickly that he was sent out to one of the satellite "offices," a warehouse at the docks to learn that aspect of the work. 

Resigned to not seeing him again for the foreseeable future, Tia came downstairs the one day to be driven to the salon for her usual mani / pedi appointment, only to see James waiting at the bottom of the stairs.  As she came down, he looked up and his smile lit her up inside once more.

"Good morning," he said, cheerily.  "I've been instructed to drive you to the Bronze Goddess salon.  Are you all ready?"

"I am, thank you," she replied politely, reaching the bottom step and looking up at him.  God, how could anyone be so good looking?  "Could we stop at a Starbucks for something?"

"I'm yours to command," he replied, then opened the front door for her, while somehow reaching the armoured Audi sedan first.

After making sure her seatbelt was in place, James closed the door and got behind the steering wheel.  Tia could see the coiled wire of the earpiece reaching down into his suit collar.  He checked in with his supervisor, likely Clint, then smoothly pulled out from the driveway towards the gate to the estate.

"I haven't seen you for a while," said Tia, tentatively.

"No, I've been elsewhere," he replied, pausing at the road and looking both ways before turning left, following the map on his dash display.

Five minutes later he pulled into the line at Starbucks, then looked at Tia in the rearview mirror.

"A white chocolate mocha Frappuccino, please," said Tia, handing him a Starbucks card.  "Get something for yourself while you're waiting for me."

"Thank you, I will," he said. 

He ordered a Caffé Americano, then offered them the card when they handed him the cups.  Turning around he smiled as he gave her the Frappuccino, then the card.  Ten minutes later he pulled up at the salon, then got out to open her door.

"I'm going to park then I'll be inside," he said.  "Your father was very specific that someone be in view of you at all times."

"Is there trouble?" she asked, as it wasn't a usual thing for a salon visit.

"Nothing I can't handle," he said, giving her that lop-sided smile again.  "You let me do the worrying."

He came inside, carrying his coffee, walking in like he belonged, and settled himself on an empty chair near the pedicure station, but in a position where he could see the front door.  He picked up one of the gossip magazines and flipped slowly through it.  Every person who walked into the salon underwent his scrutiny.  Everyone who came close to Tia, received even more attention.  When she was finished, he waited behind her while she paid, then took her gently by the elbow, leading her to where the car was parked, seemingly staying acutely aware of their environment.  On the drive back home, he looked at her several times in the rearview mirror.

"You planning to go to college?" he asked.

"Yeah, I've been accepted to Stanford, UCLA and Arizona State.  I wanted to apply to something in the east, but Dad thought it was safer for me to be further away."

She didn't add the qualifier "from his business interests."  There was kind of an unwritten rule that daughters were off-limits to action from his competitors but being on the other side of the country made that easier to follow.

"Did you go to college?"

He shook his head.  "I joined the army right out of high school.  Did one tour and realized I wasn't cut out for it.  My dad knew your dad from some construction work he did for him and put in a word for me."

The gate opened and James drove up the circular driveway to the front of the house.  Then he opened the door and offered Tia his hand to get out of the back.  At that moment, her father came out and called to her.  She smiled at James, then hurried to her father.  That was the last she saw of him until the next week when she went out to the opera with her father and mother.  Clint and Thor drove them.  After they entered the house, Tia started up the stairs to the bedrooms.  Hearing a sound, she looked up towards the third floor, where the staff bedrooms were and saw James kissing Sharon, her mother's social secretary.  Then Sharon pulled him into her bedroom, and the door closed behind them, the sound of the latch coinciding with the feeling of Tia's heart breaking.  Her mother, Liliana, who had also seen it, patted her daughter on the back.

"He asked for permission to take you out but your father said no, that you were too young," she offered.  "He told James to keep his attention elsewhere.  I'm sorry."

Rule #2 and 3, a double whammy.  With a sigh, Tia went to her bedroom and cried for an hour.  It would be four years before she saw James again.

〰️ 〰️ 〰️

Almost Twenty-Two

Rule #4, If your father arranged your marriage the correct response was "Yes sir, thank you sir, for finding me a good husband," even if the last part wasn't always true.

There were several gatherings at the Brancato estate that May, after Tia graduated from college.  Several different families who were in the same type of business as her father were invited to attend.  More specifically, if the families had an unmarried son, anywhere between the ages of 21 and 40, they were invited.  Gradually, over the month, the list of prospects was whittled down, until her parents hosted a dinner with the final four.  

Tia was officially on the market, being dangled like a carrot in order to accomplish any one of the following objectives:  settle a feud with a rival family, cement a business relationship between two families, provide a son-in-law able to take over the business from her father (because a woman couldn't do the job), satisfy a desire for grandchildren, specifically grandsons, just because that's what was expected of the daughters of a mob boss without a male heir, or a combination of several or all of the above.  What Tia wanted in a husband was supposedly considered but its importance was so far down that she knew the decision was likely already made before the dinner even started.

Did it rankle Tia?  Yes, but she had grown up as the privileged child of a wealthy and influential man.  Now was the time where she had to satisfy the needs of his business empire, more than the needs of her heart.  There was always a possibility that whoever won the "lottery" and satisfied her father's demands prior to approving the engagement would be a decent guy, one that she could grow to respect, if not love with all of her heart.  Her two sisters had done alright.  There was no reason to expect that she would end up with a creep, or someone who took the concept of marriage at its most basic, regarding her as property.  Then she met the final prospects.

Prospect #1 (not arranged in order of preference) – Brock Rumlow, an almost 40 something, twice-divorced, son of a boorish man who ran the docks.  Swarthy in appearance, with atrocious manners, and an almost permanent sneer.  No thank you.  Prospect #2 – John Walker, corrupt lawyer.  Certainly, he was handsome enough, if you liked that blonde, all-American quarterback look.  Smug, arrogant, and totally unaware that he rubbed people the wrong way.  Nope.  Prospect #3 – Loki Laufeyson.  Charming on the surface and although attractive in a European kind of way, Tia wasn't sure that he wasn't bisexual which could mean he wouldn't be demanding on her.  Certainly, he seemed to watch attractive men as much as he watched attractive women.  A supposed financial wizard, she got the feeling that her father would have to settle a significant amount on him to generate an engagement offer.  Prospect #4 – She blinked her eyes twice when she saw James enter with his father, George.  He was a prospective husband?  Yes, he had been at the other gatherings, but she assumed he was there as security.  He was staff and there hadn't been a marriage between a daughter and a staff member since... well, years.  Plus, he had broken her heart when she was 17 by going to bed with Sharon, the social secretary.  She left the job while Tia was in college, her replacement, an older woman who wore sensible shoes.

Dinner was called and Tia's father offered her his arm, escorting her to the table, where she sat to his left, while her mother sat to his right.  The prospects fathers were placed next, two on each side of the table, then their sons furthest away so that Jerome Brancato could observe them from a distance and see how they responded being grouped together.  At the foot of the table was her grandmother, the family matriarch, Maria Brancato.  She would be assessing the prospects up close, engaging them directly.

Right away the fathers, except for George Barnes, talked over each other about their sons, extolling their strengths, although only one of them said anything about how their progeny would be good for Tia.  That was George, when he did speak, who brought up the fact that James had several sisters and had always looked upon himself as their unofficial bodyguard, even though he was younger than them.

"No one even stepped up to the door to take one of my daughters out unless Bucky (he had a nickname?) approved of them first," said George.  "He kept the boys in line and made sure they were respectful of the girls and their mother; God rest her soul."

Tia's mother smiled.  "Winnie was a good woman.  She would be proud of the man James became."

Jerome gave Liliana a look, that saw her smile at her daughter, then keep eating. 

"Well, Brock would have done the same," said his father.  "Anyone who stepped out of line would see the business end of his fist.  He doesn't put up with any opposition from anyone."

That raised her father's eyebrows a little as he rarely used physical force against any of his men, and often welcomed an opposing view if it was presented properly, with respect.  Brock's father just kept rambling on about how no one intimidated his son.  Then John Walker, Sr. cleared his throat and told a story of how his son completed a complex business deal by finding dirt on one of the principals.  After setting up a honey pot situation, he managed to present the man with compromising pictures in order to sway him to their terms. 

"Made his client an extra $10 million."  He chewed with his mouth open.  "That alone was enough for his boss to offer him a partnership in the law firm.  Jumped right over several others who had been there longer.  Johnny will do what is needed to increase profits and productivity."

Her father said nothing, but Tia could tell he didn't like hearing the other man brag about it.  Yes, there were times when he employed similar tactics in dealing with certain people, but he kept his involvement in it to a minimum, as it was tempting fate to have the acts traceable back to him.  That was just asking for trouble and a careful leader kept things looking legal. 

At that moment, Tia noticed her mother looking down at the other end of the table, where her grandmother was.  There was a look between the two women that seemed to be sending an invisible message between them.  She just wished she knew what that look meant.

"Well, Loki has certainly done his share of cooking the books to improve profits and productivity," said Mr. Odinson, his stepfather.  "The magic he can perform on the balance sheet would make your head swim.  Every investigation against him has turned up nothing that can be pinned on him.  Takes a genius to do that."

"Hmmm," was all her father said to that.

"One of these days his luck will run out," she thought, wondering if her father was thinking the same thing.

The rest of the meal progressed in a similar manner until dessert was served.  Then Jerome finished his cake and coffee before he stood up, prompting the fathers then their sons to do the same.

"Gentlemen, let's go for brandy and cigars out by the pool, while my mother, wife and daughter confer," he stated. 

All of them pulled away, then James offered his hand to Tia's grandmother.

"I have enjoyed our talk this evening, Mrs. Brancato," he said, warmly.  "You've given me much to think about."

She smiled at him, then looked at her daughter, knowingly.  George Barnes saw the look then faced Liliana, offering his hand to her.

"My compliments to your cook.  That was a very enjoyable meal."

The three of them were left alone as the men filed out, and the two older women both looked at Tia.

"If it was us choosing, it would be James," said her mother, "but your father has other considerations, and his word is binding.  You will be able to go on a date with each of them in turn then provide your opinion to your father but I'm guessing he already made his mind up."

An hour later the evening was over, and they said good night to everyone.  James left with his father, being assigned to work in the warehouses that week.  He was staying at his parent's house during that time. 

〰️ 〰️ 〰️

The Dates

Rule #5, No sex on the first date.  Once an engagement was announced the couple could go at it but until that moment, any prospective husband of the boss's daughter who presumed to touch her in an intimate manner would deserve what happened to him later.

Two days later Loki Laufeyson arrived to take Tia to dinner.  He pulled up driving a Maserati, wearing an expensive silk suit.  He was polite, solicitous, and the perfect gentleman.  The restaurant was perfect also, a two-star Michelin restaurant, whose portions were so precious that Tia almost asked if they could stop at a drive thru for some burgers.  During the meal an older blond man stopped by the table to say hello, looking at Tia nervously.

"Mobius, this is Tia," said Loki.  "She's ... um ... my date."

"Oh."  The other man smiled slightly.  "Pleasure to meet you."  He looked back at Loki.  "I missed you at the club on Friday night."

"Yes, there was a dinner party at Tia's parent's house.  I was obligated to be there."

Both men looked very uncomfortable, so Tia did something kind to both of them and excused herself to go to the ladies' room.  Loki stood up as she left.  When she looked back, she could see both men speaking in whispers to each other and sighed.  Definitely bisexual with a preference for men.  Scratch Loki, which was too bad because he seemed quite nice.  In fact, later, after she returned to the table, he announced that he would be withdrawing his courtship of her but wished her the best.  They parted with a handshake.

Date #2 happened two days later when John Walker picked her up, driving a Mercedes SUV.  His suit, also silk, didn't look as good on him as Loki's did.  She attributed it to the fact that Walker was not used to working in a jacket.  It always seemed to ride up and crowd his neck.  They went to a restaurant, a steak house type, where he ordered a larger cut for him with all the trimmings and for her, a small cut, with a salad and minimal dressing.

"I'm sure you're always watching your weight," he said, eyeing her body.  "You seem to keep quite trim, and I wouldn't want you to think I don't support that."

As she guessed, he played football in college, at the quarterback position, and proceeded to regale her with his exploits on the field.  He didn't ask one question about her.  When he kissed her goodnight, he attempted to give her tongue, but she successfully pulled away, waggling her finger at him, as if he should know better.  Since a servant was already on the step, he took it with a smile, but she saw a darkness in his eyes that bothered her.

Date #3 was with James.  He picked her up in a 1994 Mustang GT, wearing a sports coat over an open necked blue shirt and jeans.  Somehow, he had told her mother his plans, so Tia also wore jeans and brought a sweater.  They talked as he drove to Coney Island. 

"This is your car?" she asked.

"Yup, restored her myself," he said.  "Found her up on some blocks in an abandoned lot.  No tires, stripped of parts but the body was good, and it kept me out of trouble when I was in high school and after the army.  It was time spent with my dad.  I've been offered good money for her, but I like driving her.  Sorry, to talk about her as if she's real but I know every inch of her."

"I like her, too," smiled Tia.  "Does she have a name?"

"Yes, but I can't tell you."  He blushed.  "It would kind of be inappropriate for our first date."

They drove a bit further then Tia looked at him again.

"Can I ask you something personal?"

"Go ahead, I have no secrets," he answered.

"My mother told me when I was 17 that you asked for permission to take me out, but my father said no."  She looked out her window.  "I saw you a week later kissing Sharon, then going into her bedroom."

He nodded his head, his mouth set in a grim line.  "Yeah.  Your father told me that you were too young and to set my sights lower.  She flirted with me, and we did kiss.  I didn't stay.  She wanted more from me that night than I was prepared to give.  I'm no saint and I have been with several women since then, but nothing serious."  He took a deep breath.  "I always liked you more.  It's why I asked to be considered as a suitor.  This time, your father agreed to let me have a chance."

"Oh." Tia swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding of her heart.  "What are your chances?"

He smiled a little sadly.  "Not as good as the other three," he admitted.  "My father is a construction foreman who did some work for your father, and they got along well, considering each other a friend.  But he's not well off like the other fathers, nor is he in any position of influence.  My only assets are my loyalty to your father, I'm a hard worker and like to think I do the job without letting my emotions get the better of me.  Most of all, I pledged to be faithful to you always and to treat you with kindness and respect.  I have sisters and expected the same from the men they all married."

Tia watched the beams of the streetlights come through the windows alternating between illuminating his face and leaving it in darkness.  His strong facial features had matured in the few years since she went away to college, as had his physique.  There was also a depth to him that the others didn't have.  The fact that he didn't talk much about himself impressed her.  This was a man looking for a serious relationship, not a business deal sealed with the acquisition of a wife. 

The date was fun as they went on the rides, ate hot dogs and drank beer.  He won her a large stuffed giraffe at the shooting gallery, christening it together as Walter.  When they walked back to where the car was parked and deposited Walter in the back seat, James looked at her in the dimly lit area.  Gently, he took one of her hands in his, then raised it to his lips, kissing the knuckles then turning it to kiss her wrist.

"I expect someone to be watching when I drop you off so if you don't mind a kiss here."

He didn't finish what he was saying as Tia raised herself up to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck.  He enclosed her in his arms, and she felt the firmness of his body pressed against hers.  His soft lips were perfect, applying just the right amount of pressure against hers, then she opened hers to allow their tongues to mingle.  It was every bit as good as she imagined when she was 17, going on 18.  When they finally pulled apart, he looked at her in a way that no man had ever looked at her before. 

"You don't know how long I've wanted to kiss you," he murmured, his eyes taking in every part of her face.  "You don't remember the first time we saw each other, do you?"

"I thought it was in my dad's office."

He shook his head, smiling.  "My dad built your pool house.  I was 16 and worked as a helper on the site.  You were still a girl, just turned 13 but I thought that you would be beautiful when you grew up a little.  I knew then that I didn't really want to look at anyone else.  Sounds a little creepy but I was willing to wait until we were both ready."

"It's not creepy," said Tia.  "We were both kids.  I'm glad you waited."  She looked down for a moment.  "Are you sure this is the life you want?  I know what my father is and the things that you've likely already done for him."

"I went into a combat zone when I was 18 so I have killed before," he said.  "So far, your dad has kept me out of that part of it.  I think he's looking to scale back that side of his business, be more legitimate.  If it means that you and I can be together, it will be worth it."

"Okay.  One more question.  Your nickname is Bucky?"

He laughed, giving her that lop-sided smile.  "Yeah, it's from my middle name, Buchanan.  That was my mother's surname."  He shrugged.  "James sounds more grownup and mature.  You can call me anything you want."

"Just the best date I've ever had," she smiled back.

They kissed again, then James opened the passenger door for her and drove her back to the estate.  Before they got out, he gave her his cell phone number, entered it as Jane so her father wouldn't know it was his, then told her to call him anytime if she needed help.  In front of the mansion, he was aware they were being watched so he gave Tia a respectful hug, handed Walter to her, then waited as she entered the house, before getting back into his car and driving to his father's house.  Although he hoped it would be enough for her father to choose him, he knew his chances weren't good.

The final date, with Brock Rumlow, was everything that Tia feared.  He showed up in a heavily customized truck that Tia needed a ladder to enter.  Although dressed in a suit he didn't wear a tie until forced to at the restaurant he took her to, after verbally haranguing the maître d’ for the indignity of his money not being good enough for the place.  His table manners were as atrocious as his regular manners, talking while chewing, burping at the table, and referring to his bathroom habits in crude terms.  Excusing herself to the ladies' room, Tia texted James.

Tia: Help! I'm stuck with a Cro-Magnon man who's unbearable.

Jane: Brock?  Yeah, he's a bit full of himself, isn't he?  Do you need rescuing?

Tia: Possibly.  I'll keep you posted.

She returned to the table where Brock was sprawled in his chair.  Tia's plate was gone as was his. 

"Good, you're back," he said.  "I've paid the bill.  Let's go to a club."

"I wasn't finished."  He looked up at her surprised.

"Oh, I assumed you went to the bathroom to uh ... you know, bring it all up.  That's what you chicks do to keep slim, right?  My exes did that all the time."

She would have answered but he stood up and headed for the door, turning around to wait impatiently for her.  With a sigh, she joined him, waiting as he tossed the valet his token.  The truck appeared and he didn't help her in, although the valet did, giving her a sympathetic eye roll.  The club, with a pounding bass that bled out onto the street was full of friends of his, whose method of communication seemed to be either a jut of their chin or a pound hug.  He requested bottle service in the VIP area, then flopped down on the couch, pulling her down with him, and draping his arm over her shoulder.  Sitting there like the king of his own kingdom, Tia had a vision of her life with Brock Rumlow and decided to end the date there.  Of course, he didn't want to and kept trying to keep her sitting on the couch with him.  Finally, she convinced him that she needed to throw up and he let her go.  Exiting out of an emergency door she went to the nearest coffee shop that was open and called James, who told her to stay there and wait for him.  He arrived twenty minutes later, entering the coffee shop with a worried look on his face.  As they hugged, he stroked her hair and vowed that no matter what, Brock Rumlow wouldn't do this to Tia ever again.

At the mansion, when he pulled up, Brock was there, waiting angrily for Tia, as was her father and mother.  He went to open the door for Tia, then growled when he found it locked.  James came out of the driver's side door and placed himself in front of Brock, staring at him in a way that showed he had absolutely no fear of him.

"Move," said the jilted date.

"No, move yourself," replied James.  "She called me to get her out of a bad date and I obliged.  Now, I'm going to finish the job and make sure she gets inside the house safely."

"Are you saying I abused her?"

"I'm saying you wouldn't let her leave until she thought she was going to be sick.  She told me you acted like a pig the entire time."

"She's lying.  The little bitch is lying."

Jerome pulled Brock away at that moment.  "What did you call my daughter?"

Liliana slapped Brock in the face.  "How dare you.  Jerome, if you even consider him suitable for Tia, I'll leave you.  I swear, I will divorce your ass and take everything you own.  It's all in my name anyway."

"No one's divorcing anyone," said Jerome, then he looked at Brock.  "You have 10 seconds to get your ass in your monstrosity of a truck and get the hell off our property.  You tell your father that if he even tries to retaliate it will be war between us.  Now get."

Rule #6, Even a mob boss with only daughters does not take kindly to his daughters being referred to as bitches.  Especially by a twice-divorced asshole like Brock Rumlow.

〰️〰️〰️

The Wedding, six months later

Rule #7, When marrying into the mob, let her family have their way.  It's easier and lulls them into thinking you'll be a pushover. 

This was it.  Her father made the decision and now Tia had to live with it.  She looked at herself in the mirror as her mother fastened the veil to her head.  A knock on the door was opened by her oldest sister, acting as matron of honour.  Her father walked in; his bow tie undone.

"Lil, can you fix this?" he asked.  Then he stopped, seeing Tia's reflection in the mirror.  "All my girls looked so beautiful on their wedding day."

"Men always have trouble with a bow tie," she smiled, turning towards him.  "Come to the window so I have better light."

While her mother did her father's tie, Tia's phone, deep inside the pocket of her wedding dress (that she insisted on having) vibrated and she went to the bathroom to answer it, telling everyone she needed some water.

Jane:  You sure you're going to do this?

Tia:  Yes, it's what my dad wants.  I'm a good mob daughter, you know.

Jane:  Yeah, now you'll be a good mob wife.

Tia:  If you mean pregnant on the wedding night, chances are good.

Jane:  LOL.  I hope you'll be happy.

Tia:  Thanks to you, I know I will be.  You'll be there, right?

Jane:  Wouldn't miss it.  I'll always have your back.

She smiled at that and put the phone away, then poured herself some water.  When she came out, her dad's tie was perfect, and her mother was standing there with the bouquet of flowers.  Grandma Maria beamed at her.  The wedding planner fussed over her while the photographer took some photos of them all, including her six bridesmaids, well matrons as most of them were married.  On the limousine over she thought of all her worries about the man her father would finally approve of.  It was easier after Loki willingly took himself out of contention, then Brock showed himself to be a total asshole in front of her parents.  She could live with the man who was chosen and make it work.

At the church, there were all sorts of photographers, some of them likely FBI plants as her father was still a person of interest, as were many of the guests.  But he did promise Tia that he intended to bow out of that type of work and build up the legitimate areas, without even using laundered money.  After all, he wanted his youngest daughter to be happy. 

The walk up the steps of the church was interrupted by calls of the photographers to pose but she only slowed down, anxious to get this part of her life over with and begin her life as a wife, then mother.  At the top of the stone steps, she looked back towards the street and saw James' Mustang, smiling that it was there.  She stepped inside and the wedding planner took over, positioning the flower girls (a niece from each side), then the bridesmaids / matrons, a combination of one girlfriend, her sisters and his sisters, sending them down the aisle.  One of her brothers-in-law escorted her mother to her pew.  She had wanted them both to walk her down the aisle, but her father put his foot down; traditionally only the father could give the bride away.  Then everyone stood up and she knew her moment had come. 

Her groom came out from the vestry, but she couldn't see him over the number of people who blocked her view.  Then Tia took her father's arm and began the walk towards the altar.  It wasn't until she was three quarters of the way down that she finally saw James, in his black tuxedo, white shirt, and black tie, with a boutonnière in his lapel.  He gazed at her with glassy eyes, then offered his hand to her when she was close.  Her father kissed her cheek, then kissed James' before lightly slapping him on the cheek to get his attention.

"You do right by her," he murmured.

"Yes sir, that's my plan."

Finally, it was just them, in front of the priest, and he began the service asking if there was anyone who objected to this couple marrying.  You could have heard a pin drop in the silence, then he smiled at them and began the service.

Rule #8, No excessive tongue in a Catholic wedding ceremony.  It's not classy and even though the people in the church for a mob wedding might be considered criminals they aren't animals.

The kiss before they walked down the aisle as husband and wife was just as good as the kiss at Coney Island.  They could both hear the sighs of delight from the women who were present thrilled at the absolutely perfect husband that Tia Brancato, now Tia Barnes had.  When they exited the church, having rice thrown at them, because that was traditional, James opened the front door of his 1994 Mustang GT and tucked Tia's dress into the front seat around her legs.  Then he went around to the driver's side, got in, and started it up, revving it a few times before he peeled away, with the sounds of tin cans rattling behind him.  On the back window the Just Married that was drawn on with washable paint soon faded away from view.  The limousine driver opened the door for the parents and the bridal party.  They would meet James and Tia at Prospect Park for the photos. 

In the Mustang, Tia looked at her handsome husband, James.

"You came," she said.  "You brought Portia."  She gestured to the car.

"I promised," he replied.  "Said I would always have your back."  He drove for another minute.  "Did you mean it, about getting pregnant?"

"I'm off the pill and I might be ovulating," she said.  "If it happens, it happens.  I'll be happy either way."

"Are you okay that we're waiting until tonight?" 

He glanced at her.  It was something he suggested once her father announced that James could propose to Tia.

"If it's anything like our first kiss I won't be disappointed."  She placed her hand on his.  "Besides, there's always Rules #9 and 10."  He laughed, having been briefed on the other rules already, especially the ones that were her rules.  "Rule #9, No matter what, we'll make it work."

"And Rule #10?"

"Whatever will be will be.  You knew when you first saw me when I was a kid that you liked me.  I knew when I first saw you in my dad's office that I wanted you.  It was meant to be."

"I love the Rules."  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the knuckle.  "I love you."

That evening, their first dance was to Que Sera Sera, otherwise known as Whatever Will Be, Will Be.  It always was Tia's favourite rule.

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One Shots Masterlist

[sebastianstansqueen]

Lost in The Shadows Fifteen

A/N: This one is short, sorry, but two parts close together, hope you like it, If you want to be Tagged, either send an ask or comment on this or click on Taglist open.

Wordcount: 945

Warnings:  Angst, maybe Guns, then obviously Brock, kid's, , If forgot anything let me know please!

Masterlist // Series Masterlist // Taglist open// 

Tags:@cherryblossomsky- @babylooneytoonz- @wonderlandfandomkingdom - @miraclesoflove - @amelia-song-pond- @leyannrae- @avengerlex- @pineprincess - @nik2write - @dorothea-hwldr - @rosie-posie08 - @scxrletrecsmarvel - @sebsgirl71479- @missvelvetsstuff- @hadesownhell - @casa-boiardi- @winterslove1917- @hallecarey1- @ash-craze - @barnesxstan - @unaxv - @bethexo07 - @itsmytimetoodream - @sebastians-love -@stoneyggirl2 - @ordelixx - @arunabrak - cjand10

Four Years Later

The war between Y/n and Brock had evaluated until, the two of them were the last standing, The Carter, and Rumlow names were the last that stood for the mob families. Brock began getting avantages, on killing each family head one by one. Most who had been friends with Y/n however and who still wanted to live decided to just hand it all to her and that was the same thing as what Thomas had to do for himself and his own family. 

She stared at her computer, flicking through some security footage by the doc as to watch out for Brock's shipment. The large office door began to open with a small whine, her eyes flicked up wards to see who was entering. A mop of brown hair walked through the office, making its way behind the desk, and crawled on to Y/n’s lap. “Hey, baby.” Y/n combed through her daughter's hair with her fingers lightly, her voice filled with exhaustion. “Where's your brother?” 

“Probably, sleep.” She mumbled out, Y/n hummed listening but still flicking through more cameras. “Whats you doing?” 

“Working baby, and then mama is going to sleep, which you should already be.” Y/n looked at her knowingly. 

“Can’ts sleep.” She shakes her head.

Y/n sighed. “Give mama a bit, and then we'll get hot chocolate, I promise Autumn.” The little girl nodded contently.

 Y/n stayed there with the little girl who had slowly fallen to sleep for hours. Nothing came up on the Camera, eventually she called off her guys. Eventually lightly waking up Autumn. “Hey sweetheart, you want hot chocolate now?” Though still tired she perked up, getting off Y/n’s lap and leading the way down to the kitchen. 

Aiden soon joined his mom and sister in the large kitchen, with a grumpy look on his face, his nose screwed up, he was Bucky’s perfect mini-me. “What got your face all screwed up?” Y/n laughed lightly.

“Mama and Autumn, too loud.” He complained. 

“I’m sorry little man, but mama, and Autumn kinda pulled an all nighter, and are about to go back to bed with some hot chocolate, you want some?” Aiden nodded along quickly. “And then Mr. Grumpy, we'll all go to bed for whatever is left of the night.”   

After taking both of her four year olds up stairs with her to her grand room, and finally being able to relax, her eyes shut. 

Four Years Earlier

Soon after getting back, Y/n called Natasha and Wanda for support through the rest of her Pregnancy, and soon after getting back she was again forced to step out as head and put on bed rest, because she found out she was having twins. 

When Y/n, Natasha and Wanda were having a movie night, watching the Princess Diaries was the Choice, soon after having Natasha and Wanda come to help, Y/n found out that Andy put them up to a mission of making her feel at least a little bit better after Bucky. So she tried to go along with it at least a little. While watching the movie just sitting in bed, her water broke. “Uh guy’s.”

_______

Y/n woke up to nothing. Autumn and Aiden weren't there, her brows furrowed. “Autumn Aiden?” She called out once she got to the staircase when she got no reply, that’s when she panicked, repeatedly calling their names and looking through every room in the house, until Natasha stopped her down a hallway. “Do you have to be so fast in this big of a house?” 

“First off it's a compound, and next is do you know where Autumn and Aiden are?” She asked as she tried not to panic.

 Natasha nodded, then led her to the kitchen. “Maybe don’t freak out so bad next time?” She offered. 

“Not funny.” Y/n shook her head. 

“I wasn’t laughing.” Natasha shook her head. “We got something.” Natasha went from Bartender to one of Y/n’s best assassins. 

“What?” She asked.

“I’ll show you after breakfast.” Natasha said before opening the door to the kitchen, where Wanda was making Pancakes, and the kits sat at the island. 

“Late shift?” Wanda smiles. 

“Late everything, and apparently my closest friends know more than me?” Y/n arched a brow as she leaned against the counter.

Natasha rolled her eyes slightly in seriousness but there was more of a light hatredness behind it than anything. “Can’t ever be patient can you Y/n? Even when the kids are around?” 

Y/n gave Natasha a stern look. “If my kids will do an overnight with me I can be impatient around them.” 

Natasha sighed, walking over to the small kitchen table in the corner by a window looking into the back yard, grabbing something out of her purse, before walking over and placing the folder on the counter in front of  Y/n, who opened it to skim the photos inside. “It seems that Brock has his own new assassin, he’s been on my radar for the last three years.” 

Y/n looked at Natasha with a glint of something resembling anger or betrayal. “Why didn’t I know about this?” She tilted her head. 

“Because, I didn’t want you freaking out about it, and besides, I didn’t know until now that he was even Brock’s.” Natash informed me. “I wanted to be sure before I brought it to your attention.” 

“I’ll look more into it after breakfast.” Y/n  sighed as she looked at the long haired man, but no one could make out who it was. The person's face was covered.

[spideyyboiirecs]

Bucky Barnes Reblogs

A masterlist of my fav Bucky Barnes Fics 

SERIES

A Maidens Tale 18+ @world-of-aus

pairing: Mob!Bucky x Dolores, Mob!Bucky x Maid!Reader 

The Truth Will Set You Free @angstysebfan

pairing: Bucky x Female Reader, Thor x Reader

Bad Decisions 18+ @syntheticavenger

pairing: Mob Boss Bucky Barnes x Right Hand Female Reader

Monster In Law 18+ @holylulusworld

pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Chubby Bee 18+ @holylulusworld

pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Plus-size!Reader 

The Annoying Guy @holylulusworld

pairing: OFC x fem!Reader, Biker!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Every Other Day 18+ @holylulusworld

pairing: Mobster!Bucky x Teacher!Reader

Mr Grumpy and His Ex-mate @holylulusworld

pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader 

Rebound 18+ @holylulusworld

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader 

Unwilling Bride @holylulusworld​

pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barney’s x fem!Reader 

Howlin’ For You @invisibleanonymousmonsters

pairing: Biker!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Her soft animal 18+ @kinanabinks

paring: Dark Bucky x Reader

The Penthouse 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: Multiple Characters x Reader

Two Thousand, Five Hundred and sixty nine 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: frat!bucky x best friend!reader

Relax 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: Nerd!Frat!Bucky x Reader

Best Friend 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: Mob!Bucky x Best Friend!Reader

ONESHOTS

As In The Mother, So Is Her Daughter @suitk0via

pairing: Dad!Bucky x Reader

His Little Play Thing 18+ @bucky-barnes-diaries

pairing: Stepdad!Bucky Barnes x Stepdaughter!Reader

It All Belongs To You 18+ @angrythingstarlight

pairing: Beefy Biker Bucky x Reader 

Rescuing Alpine @angrythingstarlight

pairing: Bucky x Reader. Alpine 

Top Of His List @angrythingstarlight

pairing: Mafia Bucky x Reader 

Don’t Make Me Wait 18+ @angrythingstarlight

pairing: 

Thin Ice 18+ @angrythingstarlight

pairing: 

Say The Word and It’s Yours 18+ @angrythingstarlight​

pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader 

Cruel 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: Mob!Bucky x Best friend!Reader

How You Love Me 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: Mob!Bucky x Best friend!Reader

Something Blue 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: Mob!Bucky x Best friend!Reader

Separation Anxiety 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: Semi-dark!fratbucky x best friend!reader

Clingy As Fuck 18+ @kinanabinks 

pairing: Mob!Bucky x Best friend!Reader 

Constant 18+ @kinanabinks 

pairing: Mob!Bucky x Best friend!Reader

His Girls 18+ @kinanabinks 

paring: Nat x Reader x Bucky 

The Sound Of Love 18+ @kinanabinks 

pairing: Bucky x Partly Deaf!Avenger!Reader

Tug Of War 18+ @kinanabinks 

pairing: Mob!Bucky x Best Friend!Reader, Ex!Pietro x Reader 

The Only One @kinanabinks 

pairing: Ex!Bucky x Reader 

Obedient 18+ @holylulusworld

Pairing: Alpha!Mobster!Bucky x Omega!Reader 

Two Souls @holylulusworld

pairing: Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader;Alpha!Winter Soldier x Omega!Reader

Stumble @holylulusworld​

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader 

I Have A Feeling This Was A Trap 18+ @scarletsoldat​

pairing: Beefy!dom!Bucky x Shy!sub!Reader x Roommate!dom!Wanda 

Mr Grumpy Man 18+ @idy-ll-ique​

pairing: Mob Boss!Bucky x F!Reader

STUCKY: 

BackStage Pass 18+ @luxeavenger​

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x Female!Reader 

Their Surrogate 18+ @gotnofucks

pairings: Dark!Steve x Reader, Dark!Bucky x Reader

Theirs To Keep 18+ @holylulusworld

pairing: Mobster!Bucky x Reader x Mobster!Steve

Your Doll 18+ @kaiparker-avengerssmut

pairing: steve rogers x bucky barnes x f!stark!reader

Method Acting 18+ @kinanabinks

pairing: frat!steve x reader x frat!bucky

[imnotagaslighter]

Chapter One: Sly as a Snake

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings: Tread carefully this will be a dark!fic Please DNI if you're not 18 or older

Blood, Graphic, Minor Character Deaths, Age Gap, Lloyd Hansen being creepy, Hints of Grooming (?)

I was going to do a cute little preview but I just thought why not just post a whole chapter as a preview!! I hope you guys enjoy ;).

It didn’t take long for the gala-themed party to be halted but that’s because who wouldn’t want to? A party that held all of the families under one luxurious, (and in your opinion very flamboyant) mansion. It wasn’t until a very loud breach from the main entrance took your attention away from the attendees in front of you.

You and maybe the rest of the families at the party stood in confusion and shock as men in tactical gear rushed through the main banquet hall firing automatic weapons into the air and at random important heads of different gang families. That’s when screams and weapons began to go toe to toe on who could be the loudest. It didn’t make it any better that you had lost your brother and parents within the crowds that were moving in different directions trying to dodge the bullets.

Your heart was slightly racing as you felt yourself being pushed by the various people trying to run out of the hall and hopefully find an exit, but your mind had other ideas. Moving towards the wall you’d slip into a room before closing the door behind yourself and slouching down onto the opposite wall of the door. Your hands were shaking as you tried to regain your composure, it didn’t make it any better that you were wearing a floor-length dress accompanied by heels that were not ideal for running.

Another round of shots rang out into the air before holes started to appear on the wall and you’d quickly roll onto the stomach hoping none of the shots were aimed toward the floor. Knowing you’d have to think (and move) quickly you began to untie the laced-up heels and kick them off before looking around, you were in the preparation kitchen so it wouldn’t be hard to find something to cut the dress. Your right hand instinctively reached up to your inner right thigh to find your gun still holstered there and you pulled it out. Sliding the mag out of the barrel you saw the clip was full and of course, you didn’t bring an extra clip because you just wouldn’t think someone would have it out for the families so bad to the point where they’d target all of the families under one roof. Which you couldn’t help to admit was smart but very ballsy and you couldn’t help to figure out who was the mind behind all of this terror.

Finding a chef’s knife you held it just above the knee of your dress and you’d hesitate, hating the fact that you’d have to ruin such a beautiful (and rather expensive) dress but you had to get out and find your parents. You’d attempt to cut through the fabric and it was louder than usual meaning outside was quiet and you’d stop quickly to listen.

“I heard something in the kitchen. You three go in there and see what it is” You heard an oddly familiar voice before you looked around for a place to exit and the only thing you could think of was the dumbwaiter on the other side of the room. You knew you couldn’t make it over there in time so you’d finish ripping the dress apart grab the knife and scurry across the floor toward an empty shelf and you’d bring your knees to your chest and turn the safety to your gun off.

Three men in tactical gear breached through the door and looked around slowly as they proceeded further into the room picked up the fabric of the dress and saw the heels.

“Boss, someone was in here and ditched their clothes.” One of them yelled back before looking around the room. You were praying that they couldn’t see your legs but you knew sooner or later you would have to make a move.

‘Well, Fucking find the naked bitch before I have to come in there and do the job myself!’ You heard the ever-familiar voice shout back.

“Come on, she couldn’t have gotten far in here, there’s no exit.” One of the soldiers said as he turned around and closed the door to check if there was a body behind them. You knew if you used your gun it would draw more attention to yourself and you didn’t have enough bullets to fight the whole army that was outside of the kitchen so you knew whatever move you’d make would have to be with the knife that was thankfully still in your hand.

Moving from out of the shelf you’d tiptoe over to the guard that was near the door and you’d slam the knife down into his neck and cover his mouth so he wouldn’t make noise to alert the other two in the kitchen with you, you were lucky the industrial and professional kitchen was set up in aisles so they couldn’t see your body unless they walked around. 

The soldier struggled, voice gurgling under your hand as you strained to move the man to his knees so that when he toppled over it wouldn’t be as hard, and he finally gave out, his body went limp as you pulled the knife out, blood squirting on your face before moving to the other two. As long as you could get to them before they circled back to the door it would be okay in a sense.

Your feet move behind each other in a cat-like motion and you see the second assailant checking under shelves and the third one is moving pots and pans around making enough noise for you to make your play. You take that opportunity to run up to him and proceed to shank him around 7 times, groans leaving his mouth before he falls back blood pooling around him and soaking your feet. You’d feel the cold wet sensation and would mentally roll your eyes at the situation before throwing your knife at the last person’s head and he’d topple over. Hearing the kitchen still, you’d hear the conversation going on outside between the familiar voice and you’d move over to the door and listen in.

‘Jesus fucking Christ! What’s taking these doofuses so long to find the whore?’ The man would ask impatiently as you’d hear the chamber of the unknown person’s gun slide back and you’d move towards one of the ARs the dead person had and you’d take the mags that came with it and move into the bellhopper. You slid the door up, slipping into the tight box and your arm reached out to hit the up button, and almost as soon as you closed the sliding door for the bell hopper you heard the door to the kitchen being kicked open.

‘What the fuck?! You know what?’ The person would chuckle ever so slightly before you heard his echoing footsteps approach the bell hopper which made you nervous because if it was still moving by the time he opened the door he’d know you were in there.

‘I gotcha you little bitch’

-

2 Months Prior

‘You know it wouldn’t be all that bad if you would just put your pride aside and just go on the date Your twin brother would say as your hazel eyes glared across the longer dinner table where you’d be eating breakfast.

There wasn’t much to this schedule it was something new where your mother would accompany you and your brother at breakfast. She sat near the head silently chuckling at the banter the two of you always managed to find yourselves in while she was eating a crepe with a bowl of fresh fruit from her garden.

‘Y’know what, Kaleb? If you want me to meet this man so bad..’ You had emphasized before grabbing your napkin and placing it in your lap. ‘How about you take my place and go on the date with him’ You’d offer the new opportunity and Kaleb looked at you with a rather contorted face before your mother’s laugh was a little more noticeable and Kaleb’s head snapped in her direction before you continued with your pancakes.

‘Oh so the first time in ages that our mother comes down here and one of the first things she does is patronize me because I’m trying to help my sister secure a husband since she’d freshly out of finishing school’ Kaleb would say before you’d shake your head in protest.

‘Kaleb, I simply don’t want a husband for now, and until father says anything about it I don’t think it is necessary as of now.’

‘But, Y/N you have men from families all over practically throwing their sons at your feet every gala we attend. Don’t you think you’re being a little pretentious?’ Kaleb would ask as you gave him a deadpan look. We sat in a very lavish dining room of a 10-bedroom mansion near the oceanside, our father was the head of a great mob family and he thought you were only being a little pretentious was a stretch.

‘Look at how we were raised, Kaleb then ask yourself why I’m being a little pretentious’ 

A soft clearing of a throat had brought your attention to the entrance of the doorway and you’d see your father, donning something other than a suit. He was wearing grey slacks and a white button-down.

‘Isn’t it nice to see my family down here eating together?’ your father would ask before reaching down to kiss your forehead and walking around to grab Kaleb’s shoulders.

‘I suppose it is Dad, which means you have something you need to tell us.’ You’d say eyeing the man and he could only chuckle.

‘Well you are my daughter and there’s no denying that, but nothing too much out of the ordinary. The Solos will be accompanying us to dinner this evening though. Jacoby and I have some business to discuss so I trust you three will be more than entertaining to our guests’ Your father, Issac Beckett would say and you would purse your lips together acknowledging that that was the conversation he was meaning to have. It was rare that your family held company though but it was understandable as to why.

Within the past 4 months, you’ve attended 7 funerals, each one of them had Beckett as their last name, you weren’t sure if the family was being targeted by an outsider but whoever it was was indeed trying to get within the immediate family. It hasn’t been easy for them though because your father’s long-time friend and right-hand man, Lysander Reed, and Luitenant Lloyd Hansen have kept the mansion and its grounds secure. Of course, with someone like Issac Beckett, there would be a lot of enemies made and that’s why he has allies like the Solo family. They still weren’t able to pinpoint a motive or who could be the mastermind behind all of these family murders but since the third one, your father had pulled you from your etiquette academy to ensure your safety and made sure all of the immediate family was under one roof which you guessed wasn’t so bad.

Your mother, Ceanna (pronounced Sienna) was more than ecstatic to see her children under one roof again. Your brother, Kaleb had left off to finish his studies to one day prepare to take over the reigns of the family’s name. But you, you were a different case, a special case.

You’ve protested for years to be more than someone’s wife and bearer of fruitful children. To be more than someone’s arm candy and despite your parent’s disapproval you were enrolled into multiple academies to broaden your skillset, being taught by Lysander how to fight, handle a gun, and be able to hold yourself to those bigger than you, and you proved them to be more than proficient - A prodigy Lloyd would say as he’d spar with you on occasion. Once you felt you were proficient enough your father enrolled you in finishing school where you learned etiquette and social cues to enter society as a woman fit to be a loving wife and also as sly and deadly as a snake.

Your hair was pulled back into a low ponytail as you looked down at your plate and continued to eat your breakfast, pancakes, and eggs which were growing soggy from the amount of syrup you piled onto the plate. 

‘The Solos are the ones with the son, right my love?’ Your mother, Ceanna would ask as your father nodded and moved over towards his wife, planting a kiss on his cheek before sitting down at the head of the table.

‘Yes, Napoleon is their only son. A little older but that still shouldn’t be a problem for our children, right?’ 

‘Leon? I haven’t seen him since we were both in school. Don’t worry I’m sure we can catch up.’

‘As long as you don’t auction me off as a wife to him’ You’d mutter while eating your food and your dad would belt out a laugh while Lysander would make his way into the room saying his greetings to everyone. Lysander had been there long before you and Kaleb were born so on occasion if you didn’t refer to him as Lys, uncle was for mere private times behind the walls of their home which Lysander didn’t mind coming from the twins, he was there for everything and within Issac’s will if anything were to happen to him and Ceanna while the twins were under 25 Lysander would be their ward and be the right hand for Kaleb.

‘I’m sure Napoleon wouldn’t meet your father’s expectations for your husband anyways, Y/N’ Lysander would say before you made a small victory cheer in your head. You hadn’t heard much about this Napoleon character but that’s because your father tends to leave you and your mother out of mob business and she doesn’t mind, but you? Oh, you made it a problem that you were left out of meetings, wanting to know the ins and the outs of the business and how to run it. Your father always says that this path holds no position for a woman, very misogynistic but you weren’t sure on why he would always make that statement.

‘The boy is far too into his bachelor lifestyle to settle down now, especially when there’s no sign of Caspian kicking the bucket over any time soon.’ Your dad would say before Lysander leaned over to whisper something in your dad’s ear and he’d nod.

‘Change of plans, they’ll be coming over for a late lunch and dinner, Y/N I trust you won’t be wearing that?’ Your dad would ask referring to your current pajamas which were an oversized plain black shirt and black and grey flannel shorts.

‘Jesus Dad, I just woke up.’ You’d say defensively before stabbing your fork in the remainder of the pancakes shoving it in your mouth and standing up from the table.

‘Since it’s that much of a problem I will go shower and put on clothes.’

‘Appropriate clothes, Y/N. We will be having guests’ Your Dad responded not looking up from the newspaper that was now in his hand. Your eyes narrowed before you took the glass of orange juice with you and turned on your heels to head out of the dining room.

‘Can I invite Elise and Arabelle?’ You’d ask quickly turning around and your dad matched your narrow eyes but yours instantly turned into pleading eyes.

‘Dad! Kaleb and Napoleon will be in each other's faces the whole time! I’ll make sure they’ll leave before dinner. I promise’ You pleaded before your father looked down at the gold watch before looking over to Lysander.

‘Y/N does have a point, Issac. Lloyd is still on the grounds as well.’ Lysander would say attempting to help your case while sending a wink your way and with a long sigh coming from your father he’d place the newspaper down.

‘See to it that the pool is prepared for the girls and the pool house. Have the chef prepare lunch for them as well.’ Your father reluctantly said before you started cheesing and heading over towards your old man and kissed him on his cheek as well as Lysander’s and you scurried away before he had the chance to change his mind.

Pulling your phone out from your waistband you’d open up the group chat that had you, Elise, and Arabelle in it before sending a single pool emoji with a question mark.

Elise: Uh, Duh!

Arabelle: We’ll be there in 30!

Successfully making plans to occupy yourself you’d scurry to the stairs running past Lloyd and he’d eye you.

‘Why are you running like you've seen a ghost princess?’ Lloyd would say while shooing the other guards away and you’d turn at the first step to face him. It wasn’t a bad age gap between you two, maybe 10 or 12 years? His profession aged him more than he was. The mid-30s weren’t bad for him.

‘Dad let me invite the girls over so I’m trying to get ready before he changes his mind’ 

‘He must be in a good mood, well I won’t hold you up. You look gorgeous this morning by the way.’ He’d say but it went over your head, ever since he’d started working for your dad around 4 years ago he’d always been the one to compliment you. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Giving him a small smile you’d hand him your almost finished glass of orange juice.

‘Thanks Lloyd! Do you mind putting that in the sink please?’ You’d asked before racing up the steps on your hands and knees

‘Anything for you princess.’ Lloyd would whisper low enough only for him to hear before finishing off the orange juice and licking his bottom lip before heading to the kitchen.

[beah388love]

Silent Treatment

18+ Minors DNI!!!

Full Masterlist Marvel Masterlist

Pairing:Mob!bucky x Fem!reader

Summary: You give Bucky the Silent Treatment…

Warnings: Shouting,yelling,insults,readers gets called name,Swearing,bad language,reader not eating for days!!!

(Please tell me if I missed any!!!)

You never usually get this mad at James but today he really pissed you off.

You had went out without telling Bucky or any of his men and he was furious at you.

“You can’t just get up and go with all the creeps out there!” Bucky yelled at you.

“Just because I don’t hurt you doesn’t mean everyone else won’t either!” Bucky shouted at you and you didn’t do anything but stand there and take it.

“God! Your so stupid” he spat

“Your like a child! How can you be so selfish” he yelled at you and that was your breaking point. You hated being called selfish after your past of being called selfish all the time and the worst thing for you was he knew that.

You felt the tears well up into your eyes and you began to cry but he was too frustrated to notice.

You wiped your tears and left the room silently as you walked down the hallway all his men looked at you but you ignored their stares.

“I can not belie-“ Bucky was about to insult you again but got cut off by you not being there.

“Y/N?” He said and then left his office to find you.

“Where did she go?” Bucky asked Sam and Sam looked at him with a frown.

“Man I think you should calm down before you follow her” Sam said and bucky looked at him angrily before calming down a bit.

“She only went to a cafe with her friends” Sam said and bucky rolled his eyes.

“She doesn’t understand it’s dangerous” bucky explained and Sam nodded.

“I just think you should give her some time to I don’t know..calm down too” Sam said and bucky agreed.

It was the next day and you and Bucky hadn’t even seen each other. You was so pissed off because you knew he knew how much that word affected you.

You didn’t leave your room at all. You didn’t eat,drink,watch anything. You just say there on your bed and slept at night. You did absolutely nothing just sat there with your thoughts all day.

Until there was a knock on your door.

“Doll? Can I come in?” Bucky asked through the door and you didn’t answer.

“Doll?” Bucky asked again and again didn’t get an answer.

“I’m coming in” he said and opened the door expecting to see you asleep but no, you was sat on your bed facing the wall not paying any attention to him at all.

“Doll?” Bucky said as he sat down next to you but you didn’t move an inch.

“I didn’t mean to shout at you” he said as he went to touch you but you moved away.

“Doll..you’ve got to understand why I’m mad” Bucky said but got no answer.

“Say something” Bucky said but no answer again and he was getting worried at how bad he must’ve annoyed you so he left.

The next day.

Bucky was repeating the scene that had happened again and again in his head to figure out what he had done besides yell at you because you was never usually this mad at him yelling at you until..

“Your such a child!How can you be so selfish?” He repeated in his head realising what he had said.

“Fuck..Fuck…Fuck!” Bucky angrily slapped his face with his hand.

“You alright boss?” Peter said opening the door.

“No! I’m not now move!” Bucky said as he quickly went to the spare bedroom you had been sleeping in recently.

He whacked open the door causing you to jump, and he quickly hugged you tightly.

“I’m so so so sorry doll” Bucky muttered into your neck as he gently placed kisses on it.

But again you still didn’t answer him.

“Please baby, doll, please say something..even shout at me I don’t care just say something please” Bucky pleaded to you and you huffed.

“I dont like you” you muttered and he frowned knowing how much he messed up.

“I know, I’m sorry doll” he said hugging you even tighter. “I know how much you hate being called that and I- It was in the heat of the moment and I- I know that’s not an excuse but I- I just- I’m sorry” he said softly looking into your eyes.

And that’s when you half smiled.

“I forgive you but you have to get me McDonald’s now like right now” you said and he chuckled.

And then Bucky began thinking about how he hadn’t seen you come out your room at all. So what did you eat?

“When was the last time you ate?” He asked you scared for your answer.

“Two days ago” you muttered and his jaw dropped.

“Come on, we’re going now” Bucky said and you was confused.

“Where to?” You asked him and mais he dragged you to his car.

“McDonald’s” Bucky said and you smiled and smiled even more at his worry for you.

“I love you Jimmy” you said and he couldn’t help but smile and blush a bit.

“I love you even more doll” he said back

[lokidokieokie]

Betrayal in the Shadows

Summary: An undercover cop, Bucky Barnes, and a mob boss, Y/n, struggle with their intense connection as their worlds collide and ultimately shatter in the face of betrayal.

Pairing: Cop!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Mobster!Reader

Warning(s): betrayal, angst, no happy ending, sad!bucky, sad!reader

Bucky Barnes had been working as an undercover cop for the past six months, infiltrating the inner circle of one of the most notorious mob bosses in the city. He had seen and done things that made his stomach churn, but he couldn't deny that he was drawn to the woman in charge. She was fierce, intelligent, and incredibly beautiful. They had an intense connection that kept pulling them together, despite the danger that lurked around every corner.

Y/n, the mob boss, had never felt such a strong attraction to anyone before. Bucky Barnes was a mystery to her, and she couldn't help but feel drawn to him. She trusted him with her life, and he had proven his loyalty time and time again. They spent long nights together, planning their next move, and their conversations often turned personal. They talked about their pasts, their dreams, and their fears. They knew each other better than anyone else, and yet there was always something unsaid between them.

One night, after a successful heist, they found themselves alone in the back of a dimly lit bar. The air was thick with tension, and they both knew what was about to happen.

"You know we shouldn't be doing this," Bucky said, his voice low and husky.

"I know," Y/n replied, her eyes locked on his.

"But I can't help myself," he admitted, moving closer to her.

"Neither can I," she whispered, before their lips met in a heated kiss. It was like nothing they had ever experienced before, and they both knew that it was just the beginning.

But their moment of bliss was short-lived. Suddenly, the door burst open, and a group of police officers stormed in, pointing their guns at them.

"Hands up where we can see them! You're all under arrest!" one of them yelled.

Bucky felt his heart drop as he realised that it was his squad. He had been so focused on you that he had forgotten that he was a cop, not a criminal. He was here to do a mission, not fall in love.

Y/n's expression changed from shock to heartbreak in a matter of seconds. She knew what this meant. She was going to prison, and her empire would crumble. She looked at Bucky with tears in her eyes, and he could see the pain and betrayal in her gaze.

"Bucky, how could you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I'm sorry," he said, his own voice filled with regret. "I didn't want it to end this way."

"You betrayed me," she spat, pulling away from him. "I trusted you with everything, and now you've destroyed me."

"I know, and I'm sorry," he said, taking a step closer to her.

"Save it," she said, turning away from him. "You've done enough damage already."

As she was dragged away and placed in the back of a police car, Bucky watched her disappear into the night, feeling like he had lost a part of himself. He knew that what they had was special, and he had been foolish to think that they could keep it a secret forever. He had betrayed her trust, and he would have to live with that for the rest of his life.

Y/n, on the other hand, was consumed by a feeling of emptiness. She had built her entire life around her criminal empire, and now it was all gone. She had never thought that she would fall in love, especially not with a cop. She had trusted Bucky with everything, and now he had turned against her.

Their connection was shattered, and there was no going back. What could have been the best thing in their world was destroyed before it could even begin. There was no happy ending for them, only a bitter end.

A/N So, I've decided that I will now be writing for Bucky too :)

🏷 @thewaithfuckingannoyme @evelyn-kingsley @moonlight-ee 

lemme know if you'd like to be tagged in anything Bucky related

[holylulusworld]

Bucky & Ducky (2) - Warming up

Summary: Bucky Barnes. Ruthless mafia boss. Soft only for his wife and…well, Ducky.

Pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Side pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Ducky the duck

Warnings: mafia business, fluff, unusual friendship

A/N: Thanks to @buck-star for the idea and brainstorming with me. I did it…😅

Bucky & Ducky Masterlist

Catch up here: Part 1

“Can you believe that punk dared to threaten my business, Ducky?” Bucky walked out of the bathroom to get ready to join you for dinner. After taking a relaxed bath, he hastily got out of the tub. He considered leaving Ducky alone in the tub but decided against it.

Only to make sure the duckling won’t poop into the tub or drown, he told himself.

He put the duckling on a fluffy towel and watched it clumsily wiggle on top of the towel, trying to escape while he got dressed. Bucky chuckled when the duckling started to tug at the towel angrily.

“No escaping, punk,” he said, and stepped toward the bed to look down at the tiny and vulnerable duckling. “You didn’t have an easy life, huh? They wanted to get rid of you because you were the weakest.”

Somehow, Bucky felt sorry for the duckling. No one gave Ducky a chance until now.

“You got lucky, punk. Y/N loves to save hopeless cases. She took me home too, one night, after someone stabbed me behind her bakery.”

Ducky lifted its head to look up at the tall mobster. It seems as if the little creature was listening to Bucky’s story. “It was only a scratch, but she turned full nurse, and that was when I fell in love with her. Y/N is too good for me and so sweet. So, if you want to stay here, you better not break her heart.”

“Buck? Baby?” You called from downstairs. “Baby, did you fall asleep in the bathtub? Do you want to eat in bed?”

“We are coming, doll,” Bucky immediately answered. You heard his footsteps get closer and hurriedly walked inside the dining room to check on the food.

“In here,” you called for your husband. He allowed you to keep the duckling so you would pay him back with a romantic candlelight dinner. “I got a surprise for you.”

“Uh—me too,” Bucky walked inside the dining room, Ducky in his arms. He put one of the fuzzy socks you bought for him around the duckling’s small body to keep Ducky warm. “I think he doesn’t want to be alone.”

“He?” You pressed one hand to your mouth to stop yourself from giggling. “Oh, the duckling.” Nodding, you pointed at the food. “Maybe we should find a box for him or…”

“No, no. I think he should sit with me. We don’t want him to believe we will abandon him too,” Bucky hastily said. He stepped closer to softly kiss your cheek. “The food looks good, baby doll. Thank you.”

You were stunned by his words. Bucky Barnes wanted to have dinner with a duckling by his side. “No, thank you, Bucky.” You return the kiss, giggling as he purrs your name. “You’re the best.”

Bucky smiled. He loves hearing you think highly of him. Not because it strokes his ego. No. It simply tells him that he’s not the bad guy he believes he is.

“Let’s eat,” you pointed at the food. “We don’t want the food to get cold.”

As you sat down, you watched Bucky claim his favorite seat. The one right next to yours. He carefully placed Ducky on the table. Bucky wrinkled his forehead as the duckling threatened to tip sideways.

“Punk, be careful,” he shrugged his jacket off to make a bed for Ducky out of the expensive fabric. Bucky carefully put the duckling in the middle, humming as Ducky quacked loudly. “Did you drink shampoo or something?” Your husband grinned. “I bet you tried my whiskey.”

You giggled at their interaction. “It seems you already became friends.”

“He’s cool, for a helpless duckling,” Bucky said and dug his fork into the food. “I guess we can keep him. Just to make sure he doesn’t end in a pan.”

“Bucky!” You scolded your husband. “Don’t say things like that in front of him. He’s a baby!”

“Ducky is a ruthless mobster,” Bucky retorted. He glanced at the duckling while chewing on the first bite of the food. “He only needs a chance.”

You smiled softly as Bucky talked to the duckling. “Hmm…we should get you something warm to wear. Maybe shoes too. Your feet will hurt if you waddle around barefoot all day.”

“Ducky got feathers. I don’t think he needs more, Bucky.”

Bucky nodded but glanced at the duckling. “No, I think he needs clothes. We don’t want him to freeze, right?”

“Right,” you giggled as the duckling wiggled on top of Bucky’s jacket. It seemed like Ducky tried to get closer to your husband. It made a fuss, quaking loudly, until Bucky carefully grabbed him and placed him on his lap.

“There you go, Ducky,” Bucky softly cooed to make sure to not scare the tiny duckling. “I’m going to take good care of you.”

Tags in reblog.

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: a drink with deceit (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, heavy angst, wound description, threats, catcalling, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, drinking, smoking, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: hello guess who is back!! this is very angsty, promise there will be more bucky in the next chapter just gotta set up the drama! much love <33 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

Three days after Becca Barnes's visit, the bodies of thirty-six Penance Boys were found in the streets. 

You hadn’t seen the bodies yourself, but the whispers that slithered through The Warrens painted a picture too horrific to ignore. The rumours spoke of a scene ripped straight from a penny dreadful. Maybe even worse than the stories that circulated, but in your heart, you knew the violence to be true. The bodies, each one marred by countless lashes, were barely recognisable. Their flesh was shredded, every inch of skin scarred beyond recognition. They were scattered across the Warrens like grotesque trophies. Some were dumped in the filthy, stagnant waters of the port, their bodies bloated and twisted. Others swung lifelessly from lamp-posts in the streets, their necks bent at unnatural angles. Several were displayed in the Smokestack District, mangled offerings laid out before the factories, and then there were the bodies hidden in the winding alleys, tucked into the shadows like forgotten, discarded trash, left to rot under the ever-thickening smog. It was all rather theatrical, a meticulously planned out act. One of the bodies, clutched tightly in a bloodstained fist, held a crumpled note. Smeared with copper, the words read: "Do you confess?"

You couldn’t help but remember Bucky’s words from that dreaded night.

Massacre.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you had stitched up thirty-six lashes, even though the flesh had been so ravaged, the wounds mashed together until they bled into one, an indistinguishable mess. The thought lingered in your mind, haunting you no matter how much you tried to push it away. Each memory of those nights felt like a needle driven deeper, not just into his skin but into yours as well. You had done what you thought was best, what you had to do to survive, but the consequences and marks were there for both of you to wear.

The letter you found on your doorstep that same day was no surprise. Becca’s warning had loomed over you, leaving little room for doubt. You hadn’t even bothered to open the envelope; instead, you had tossed it into the fireplace without a second thought, the flames licking at the paper until it was reduced to ash. It seemed Becca was fierce when protecting her brother, and you didn’t intend to test that determination. She had been clear—stay away from him, leave him alone. She had outright said it; the bitterness in her voice made the message unmistakable: I know a threat when I see one.

You spent the next three days simmering on her words, turning them over in your mind, weighing them against the memory of your hands working on Bucky’s back. Healing him—an act you never should’ve performed. Magic meant for destruction wasn’t meant to mend wounds, and you had known that. But you had done it anyway, given into his demands. He couldn’t have been entirely in his right mind… not with the wounds, the loss of blood. Is that why he had left? Did clarity finally strike him as he lay beside you in your rickety bed? Your magic wasn’t meant for healing. Those scars would remind him of what you had done, of what you were. It had been a mistake, yet it had also been a choice.

You were bitter in a sick and twisted way. You were furious. Part of you wanted to hold him accountable for his absence—no thank you, no goodbye, just an empty space where his presence had been. You had spent the better part of a week tending to him, feeling something unspoken between the two of you, a quiet understanding that hinted at more. But once the job was done, once he had healed, it was as if he had disappeared into the shadows of the Warrens, leaving you to deal with the mess of your emotions.

Maybe it had just left you to confront your own loneliness. 

In those long, quiet moments in your home, you wondered if that was what he did best—leave. He had walked away without a word, without even a flicker of care. What about Bucky Barnes made you long for something you couldn’t quite name? Something that had you clinging to the fragments of him despite the warning signs you knew to be true?

You were fed up with yourself, with his pull on you, even after all that had happened. You were unsure if it was your heart or your cunt that was the culprit, but either way, your head knew one or both were the traitors keeping you eating from of his hand like the good little witch he had primed you to be. You had let him hurt you, and yet, part of you wanted to run toward him again, to go against Becca’s threats. The way he had looked at you and leaned into your touch—there was something there. Something more than just business. You could feel it. But the other part of you? The brighter part—the one that had always kept you alive in a city like Blackstone—wanted to just wash your hands of it all, to disappear.

And maybe that was the answer: You could leave.

The countryside called to you, with its quiet spaces and the promise of a life that didn’t involve constant vigilance and constant fear. Witches were always in high demand in such isolated places. You could have been a travelling act, banishing curses and hauntings, keeping your head down and movements quick. The law wouldn’t bother someone who was as transient as the wind. The Smog Boys wouldn’t have had the time or resources to track you. You could disappear. It was possible.

But it wasn’t just about Bucky. It was about your mother. Michael. The countless, nameless others. You had stayed because you had a game of your own to play, a plan for revenge that had been set in motion long before the Smog Boys ever darkened your doorstep. If anything, they had complicated the situation. That display in the Pony Club… that raw power within you…you were sure it hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

—

Just beyond the Smokestack District, across the filthy, winding expanse of the Sootline River, lay the Grimrow District. Its streets resembled the Warrens: cramped rows of lower-class housing, grimy industrial factories, decrepit shops, and weathered churches that seemed to sag under the weight of sin and soot. Yet, for all their similarities, the two districts held a defining difference. While the Warrens belonged to the Smog Boys, Grimrow was claimed by the Iron Rats.

Like most rival factions in Blackstone, the Iron Rats and the Smog Boys maintained an uneasy truce—a brittle thread of peace stretched taut between their territories. The fragile truce held as long as each stayed within their respective borders. But to call it harmony would be a misstep. It was more of a begrudging tolerance, simmering hostility kept in check by necessity, not respect.

You would never typically risk crossing the Sootline. But tonight, your frustration had driven you to the brink of recklessness. The boundary, marked by the Sootline River’s churning filth and the crumbling bridge spanning its breadth, seemed less a warning and more an invitation to tempt fate. Maybe it was exhaustion from yourself, the relentless weight of the Warrens, and the invisible chains tethering you to its grime-soaked alleys.

You needed a drink. One poured by someone else’s hand in a place that didn’t reek of your desperation and solitude. The sight of your miserable flat had become unbearable, its four walls closing in tighter with each passing hour. And then there were the Smog Boys, whose ever-watchful eyes you had grown weary of evading. Maybe slipping away into Iron Rats territory would give you some reprieve. Maybe they’d let their guard down if they thought you had vanished entirely—an act of rebellion against the summons you had so pointedly ignored.

But the summons wasn’t something you could forget. Bucky’s call to a family meeting had been the last thing you’d expected, even if Becca had warned you in the days prior. It gnawed at you, questioning why he suddenly considered you significant enough to include. Family. What a strange, hollow word coming from him.

You didn’t trust it. The invitation felt like bait in a carefully laid trap. Why invite you into the fold now, after leaving without a word of thanks or farewell? Why disappear, only to pull you closer the very next day? It reeked of manipulation, and you couldn’t help but think it was somehow connected to the Penance Boys and the gruesome spectacle their deaths had created. The pit in your stomach told you it wasn’t a coincidence. You couldn’t deny your own hand in the sequence of events, no matter how indirect. If you hadn’t healed him, hadn’t used your forbidden magic to save him, would he have bled out on the floor of your home? Would his story have ended there, spilling his blood into the cracks of your rotting floorboards? And, in some twisted, alternate reality, would you now be living in a Bucky Barnes-free world?

The thought clawed at you, leaving a strange ache in its wake. As much as you despised the tangled mess of emotions that tethered you to him, the idea of his absence hollowed something out of you. That pit of dread opened wide, devouring any attempt to convince yourself that you’d be better off without him.

Bucky was a wound you couldn’t help but pick at—a scar you couldn’t stop tracing with trembling fingers.

The air of Grimrow reeked of industry—smoke, oil, and sweat mingling into a nauseating miasma. You passed groups of factory workers slumped on steps, nursing bottles of something too potent to be legal, and street vendors hawking stale bread or pilfered wares.

A bar came into view just as you sensed them: footsteps too close and laughter too loud, their presence evident in the silence they carried with them through the narrow streets. Three men trailed behind you, their voices brash and oily as they jeered.

“Oi, sweetheart! Where’ya off to in such a hurry?”

“Yeah, don’t be shy. Give us a smile, eh?”

You kept walking, your stride steady, your face unreadable. Reacting would only embolden them.

“She’s got an attitude, that one,” another mocked. “Maybe we should teach ‘er some manners.”

You turned a corner, hoping they’d lose interest, but their footsteps quickened. One of them closed the distance, and you felt his fingers graze your sleeve.

“You’ve got a death wish, ‘aven’t ya?” a new voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.

The three men halted as a woman stepped out of the shadows. She was tall and composed, her auburn hair curling at her shoulders, and her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, each word like a warning.

The man closest to you sneered. “What’s it to you, love?”

“You’re botherin’ my friend.” she said, stepping forward.

Her words made you pause, but you didn’t correct her.

“You’ve got no business ‘ere,” the man growled, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. 

“And you do?,” she replied coolly. “Say, do’ya ‘ave friends in high places? ‘Cause I do. One word from me, and they’ll hunt you down. They ain’t the type you go lookin’ to make enemies with, that’s for sure, love.”

One of the men muttered something under his breath, probably the same question you had on your mind. Who were these friends in high places? Certainly wasn’t the Smog Boys. You had never heard or seen such a woman slinking around. She had a fierceness to rival Natasha, a sharp-tongue like Becca. The men hesitated, exchanged glances, then slunk away with grumbled curses, their bravado evaporating like steam.

She was with the Iron Rats, perhaps. 

Or something worse.

The woman turned to you, the sharpness in her expression softening into something sly and amused. “You’re welcome.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

A tense pause washed over the two of you, the auburn assessing you with one swoop of her sharp eyes. You wondered if she was searching for a concealed weapon, assessing if you had the strength to take down a grown man with your hands alone. It was a fruitless pursuit, as the chaos inside of you was invisible. 

But you had a sneaking suspicion the woman before you were also more than she let on, maybe something more like yourself, hiding in plain sight.

“You’re far from home.” She commented. There was a drawl to her words, a subtle accent foreign to Sootstone and Grimrow—one higher class, or perhaps from beyond the city walls in the countryside. “Dangerous for a woman of the Smog to be over the river.”

“And how would you know where I keep my home?” You test.

“You reek of it. The Warrens.” Her lips pulled into a honed smile. “I don’t blame ya, lookin’ for a change of scenery.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Let me buy you a drink.” You offer.

The woman grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

—

The bar was exactly as you’d expected—a dark, smoky hole-in-the-wall with warped wooden tables, a cracked mirror behind the bar, and the faint smell of spilt beer and sweat clinging to the air. It was neither welcoming nor hostile, merely indifferent to the chaos of the outside world. You stepped inside, the noise of murmured conversations and clinking glasses briefly pausing as heads turned to size you up. They saw the woman with you, her confident stride and sharp gaze, and immediately lost interest.

The two of you weaved between tables, stepping over uneven floorboards and discarded peanuts. Wanda—as the auburn-haired woman had introduced herself—walked as though she belonged there, her boots clicking against the wood in a steady rhythm. You tried to match her nonchalance but felt out of place, the weight of the room’s gaze lingering even after it had turned away.

You slid into a corner table, its surface scarred with knife marks and initials dug deep into the wood. Wanda eased into the chair opposite you, draping one arm over the backrest and stretching her legs out beneath the table, completely at ease. She watched the room with a faint, amused smile, as though everything she saw confirmed something she already knew.

The bartender approached, a burly man with greying stubble and a perpetual scowl. Without asking, he set down two glasses of amber liquid and muttered something about payment later. You nodded, and he disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

You eyed the drink warily before lifting it, catching a faint whiff of cheap whiskey. Wanda, meanwhile, raised hers without hesitation, swirling the liquid in her glass with an air of appreciation. “Grimrow’s charm ‘asn’t changed much,” she remarked, her tone light, almost teasing.

“You’ve been here before?” you asked, leaning back against your chair.

“Once or twice,” she admitted, taking a slow sip. “Though it was a little... less grim the last time.” She chuckled, her eyes flicking back to yours. “Still, it has its appeal. Don’t ya think?”

“Depends on what you call appealin’,” you said, glancing around at the dimly lit room. “I guess it’s got character if nothin’ else.”

“Character,” she echoed, raising her glass as though in a toast. “A generous way to put it.”

You couldn’t help but smirk, though your guard stayed firmly in place. Wanda’s ease felt calculated, her words chosen with care. 

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she studied you. “Do ya always bring strangers to such charmin’ establishments, or am I special?”

“Strangers?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t seem like much of a stranger, not with the way you act like you own the place.”

She laughed, a low, melodic sound that drew a few fleeting glances from nearby tables. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

You took a sip of your drink, the burn of the whiskey grounding you. “What’s worse than that?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Wanda said, her smile playful. “But enough about me. You’re the real mystery here. Someone like you, runnin’ around Grimrow? You’ve got to ‘ave a story.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, unsure if the comment was meant as a compliment or a probe. You got the sense the woman was lying, or atleast hiding something. “Maybe I’m just passin’ through,” you said evenly.

“Maybe,” she allowed, though the look in her eyes suggested she didn’t believe you. “Or maybe there’s more to it.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly. “What about you, though?” you asked, deflecting. “What’s a woman like you doin’ in Grimrow?”

The question landed with a faint ripple of tension, but Wanda didn’t flinch. Instead, her smile widened, and she reclined back into her seat, looking at you as though she’d been waiting for you to ask. “A woman like me? Now, what does that mean?”

“You don’t exactly blend in,” you replied, motioning to the sharp lines of her coat, the expensive leather of her boots. “You’re not Iron Rat, and you’re definitely not factory folk. So, what are you?”

Wanda smirked, swirling her drink. “Observant, aren’t ya? Let’s just say I don’t stay in one place too long. Too many people eager to stick their noses where they don’t belong.”

“People like me?” you challenged, leaning forward slightly.

“Maybe,” she said, her tone light but her gaze sharp. “Though you’re not like the others I’ve met. Most witches these days—” She caught herself.

You forced your expression to remain neutral. “Most witches? That’s a strange thing to say.” You continued, feigning nonchalance. “And what about you? You don’t seem entirely ordinary yourself.”

Wanda chuckled, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You could say I have a... talent for recognisin’ my own kind.”

Your suspicion hardened into certainty, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of camaraderie. But something about her tone, her carefully chosen words, kept you wary.

“Let’s just say I’ve been around,” Wanda said, her voice smooth. “Blackstone is full of people. Some are content to lay low, keep their heads down. Others... well, others are harder to ignore.”

You narrowed your eyes at her words, your grip tightening around your glass. “And which category do I fall into, exactly?”

Wanda tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Oh, definitely the latter. You’re not exactly the lay-low type, are you? Not with the kind of power you carry.”

The statement caught you off guard, though you did your best not to show it. Power. She said it like it was obvious, like she could see it written across your skin. You leaned back slightly, studying her. “Is that your skill? Recognisin’ power in others?”

“Somewhat,” Wanda replied, her tone light as if this were a game. She swirled her glass idly, her eyes flicking to yours with a spark of something unreadable. “It’s all about readin’ the chaos, innit? The aura of a person, an object. Every thread leads back to somethin’.”

Your brow furrowed. “So you see power in the chaos? You read it like... energy?”

“Exactly,” she said, flashing a quick smile. “I imagine it’s much like spottin’ a spirit tethered to an anchor—recognisin’ the energy surroundin’ it.”

There it was—a slip. A thread tugged loose. Your breath caught for a split second, your instincts sharpening like a blade. “I never said I was a spirit-raiser,” you pointed out, your voice colder now, every word deliberate.

Her smile faltered, just a fraction, but it was enough to confirm what you already suspected. “I believe ya did,” she countered lightly, though there was a tightness in her tone, a tension she couldn’t quite hide. Her fingers tightened around her glass, the faintest tremor betraying her rising panic.

“No,” you said, leaning forward now, your gaze boring into hers. “I didn’t.”

Her laughter was forced, brittle. “It must’ve been ‘n assumption—”

“Who’re you?” you cut her off, your voice sharp and unyielding, like a blade striking metal. Already, you were shifting back in your seat, the air between you charged with suspicion.

Wanda sighed sharply through her nose, placing her glass on the table more forcefully than necessary. “I’ve already told you,” she said, her voice cool but her expression uneasy. “My name’s Wanda. I read auras. That’s all.”

“This meetin’, it isn’t a coincidence, is it?” Your words came quickly, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “How long ‘ave you been followin’ me?”

The question hit like a hammer, and for the first time, Wanda hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the amber liquid in her glass, the faint clink of ice filling the silence. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “I know more than ya think,” she admitted, swirling her drink in a futile attempt at distraction. “I know you’re... different. Special.”

The room seemed to narrow around you, her words settling over your chest like a weight. Your heart was pounding, though you weren’t sure if it was from anger or fear. “Special,” you repeated flatly, your voice thick with disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wanda didn’t answer immediately, her eyes still fixed on her glass. When she finally looked up, there was something raw in her gaze, something that made your stomach twist. “You’re not wrong. It isn’t just a coincidence that we ‘ave crossed paths,” she said, her tone almost gentle. 

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, but Wanda reached out, her hand wrapping around your wrist. “Wait,” she said, her voice urgent. “Just listen to me.”

“Why should I?” you snapped, yanking your arm free. 

“The Church of Light is your home.”

The name struck you like a thunderclap, the world tilting briefly, nauseatingly. You stared at her, uncomprehending, the name echoing in your mind. “The Church,” you said, your voice hollow. “You’re with them.”

“Father Leofric—he sees your potential. He won’t harm you. He wants to guide you.” Wanda urged, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Guide me,” you repeated, your voice cutting through the haze of the bar like a blade. Disbelief curled each syllable into a sneer. “Like they guided my mother? Like they tried to use her?”

Wanda’s face tightened, her carefully composed mask slipping. Rage flickered behind her eyes, barely restrained. “Your mother, the traitor. Are ya gonna follow in her footsteps? Run from ya destiny, Light-bringer?”

The name hit you like a blow to the chest. Your breath faltered, and you stumbled back a step, gripping the table's edge for balance. The entity's voice in the Pony Club whispered fresh in your memory, unshakable.

I know what you are.

Spirit-raiser… diviner… light-bringer.

It had felt abstract then, something distant and strange. But now, spoken aloud by Wanda in this grimy bar, it solidified into a terrifying reality.

“Don’t call me that,” you managed to hiss, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Wanda stood now, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. Her composure cracked, and her anger bubbled over like a storm breaking. 

“You don’t understand what you’re carryin’,” she snapped, her voice rising with an edge of desperation. “You don’t know how to control or use it! Do you know how ungrateful you are? Holdin’ onto such power? It’s wasted potential, wasted on you. Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

The mention of Bucky’s name stung, the scorn in Wanda’s voice twisting the knife already lodged in your gut. It wasn’t just how she said it, dripping with mockery—it was the storm it unleashed within you. Bucky Barnes was a thorn lodged deep in your side, one you couldn’t seem to dislodge, no matter how hard you tried. You opened your mouth to snap back, but a sudden hush stopped you short.

The bar had gone eerily silent. Every pair of eyes in the room was on you, the tension thick as smoke. Even the bartender had paused mid-motion, his expression slack-jawed. Wanda’s words hung heavy in the air, especially one name: Smog Boys.

Your heart dropped. Of course, this was Iron Rat territory. Of course, the wrong ears would be listening.

Fear clawed at your chest, and you didn’t wait for them to act. You shoved past Wanda, her protests drowned out by your pulse pounding and stormed out into the smog-filled streets. 

Your thoughts spiralled as you made your way down the winding streets. This night was a mistake. This entire saga was a mistake.

You should have disappeared into the countryside when you had the chance. But you had stayed. And why? Because of Bucky Barnes? Because you had let yourself believe, for one stupid, vulnerable moment, that the man behind the brutality might see you as something more than a pawn?

Wanda’s mocking voice echoed in your ears. “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for clinging to the small moments of connection you thought you had shared with him. That flicker of warmth you thought you saw in his eyes? It had been a lie, or worse, a cruel trick to keep you in line.

Your thoughts raced, fear and anger warring within you. The Church of Light, your mother, the Smog Boys—your mother's burdens follow you more closely than you first realised. You were tired of running and being a pawn in everyone else’s game. It was a noose tightening around your neck. All this time, you’d thought you were free of it, that her choices wouldn’t define you. But now, it was clear.

They already had.

—

From the moment you’d left the bar, you knew they were following you. You felt it in the weight of their stares, in the scuff of boots behind you, in the way the streets seemed to close in tighter.

The Iron Rats weren’t subtle. They wanted you to know they were there.

You quickened your pace, ducking into side streets and weaving through narrow alleys, but the sound of their pursuit only grew louder. Panic clawed at your throat as you turned corner after corner, the labyrinth of Grimrow offering no sanctuary.

Ahead, the bridge over the Sootline loomed, its iron framework a skeletal silhouette against the hazy glow of gas lamps. Crossing it would bring you into Smog Boys territory, and though the idea of safety under Bucky’s rule left a bitter taste in your mouth, it was better than what awaited you here.

As you bolted across, the bridge groaned under your weight, its boards slick with soot and damp. The stench of the river below was overwhelming, a mix of rotting debris and chemicals that clung to the air. But you didn’t stop. When you reached the other side, you noticed the boundary. It wasn't marked by signs but by a change in the atmosphere—an unspoken rule. Here, the Iron Rats shouldn’t follow. Here, you were supposed to be safe.

But tonight, the rules didn’t seem to matter.

A shout rang out behind you, followed by the thunder of boots on the bridge. They were coming.

You didn’t have time to think, only to run, your breath ragged and your chest aching. The smog was thicker here, wrapping around you like a suffocatingly familiar embrace, but you pushed through, darting into an alley.

You didn’t see the fist until it collided with your jaw.

The impact sent you sprawling, your back slamming into the filthy cobblestones. Stars danced in your vision; before you could recover, they were on you.

Rough hands yanked you upright, shoving you against the alley wall. The cold stone bit into your back, but the pain was nothing compared to the fear twisting in your gut.

“What’d we‘ave ‘ere?” One of them sneered, “Little Smog Whore, all alone.”

“Thought crossin’ the bridge would save’ya?” another mocked, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. “Not tonight.”

The first punch landed in your stomach, forcing the air from your lungs into a choking gasp. You doubled over, but they didn’t give you a chance to recover. Another blow, this time to your ribs, sent you crumpled to the ground.

The cobblestones were cold and slick beneath you as you curled in on yourself, arms instinctively wrapping around your head. It didn’t matter. They kicked and stomped, their boots a relentless assault. Pain exploded in your side as something cracked—your ribs, maybe more.

You tried to scream, but the sound caught in your throat lost in the chaos of their laughter. One jeered, his voice distant and distorted, like you were underwater. You pressed your face to the filthy ground, the grit cutting into your skin as you tried to will yourself away from this moment. But the pain kept you rooted.

And through it all, your thoughts betrayed you.

Bucky Barnes. The Church of Light. Your mother.

Wanda’s words rang in your ears repeatedly: “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for staying, believing you could survive here, and thinking someone like Bucky might care. You should have fled the moment your mother passed. Staying in The Warrens had pushed fate to its limits and now you were suffering the consequences. 

The laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound of shouting—new voices, deep and commanding.

“Fuckin’ Smog Boys,” one of the Iron Rats hissed.

Boots scrambled on cobblestones as your attackers scattered, the echoes of their retreating footsteps fading into the smog. You didn’t move. Not when the Smog Boys’ shadows passed over you, chasing the clatter of shoes further down the alley, the Iron Rats racing at break-neck speeds back to the Sootline.

You forced yourself to sit up, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. You dragged yourself upright with much effort, leaning heavily against the wall for support. The smog swallowed you as you stumbled away.

By the time you reached your home, the world was spinning, a disorienting blur of pain and exhaustion. Every step was a struggle, every breath shallow and sharp. Your ribs screamed with every movement, the fractured bones grinding against each other, each step sending a jagged edge of agony slicing through your chest. The dull throb in your face from the Iron Rat’s punch had blossomed into a searing ache, and the taste of blood lingered on your tongue. 

Your trembling hands fumbled with the door latch, and for a moment, you thought you wouldn’t even manage that. When the door finally creaked open, you didn’t feel relief. Just the weight of the smog following you in, curling around your battered body like an unwanted embrace.

The room was dark and cold, the air thick with the musty scent of soot and old wood. You didn’t bother lighting a lamp. Your knees buckled before you made it to the bed. Instead, you collapsed onto the floor in front of the fireplace, your body folding in on itself like a broken marionette. The sharp jolt of the impact stole what little breath you had left, and you stayed there, gasping, too weak to even cry.

A thin blanket was within arm’s reach, and you dragged it over yourself, your fingers clumsy and stiff. It wasn’t warm—barely large enough to cover you—but it was enough to cocoon yourself in, enough to pretend for a fleeting moment that you were safe. The fireplace was nothing but a blackened shell, its faint embers flickering. You stared at them anyway, your vision blurred.

The smog clung to your clothes and skin, thick and choking, settling in your lungs with every laboured breath. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. There was something strangely comforting in its suffocating presence as if it was all left of you now—a swirling, toxic reminder that you belonged to this broken city, and it to you.

Pain radiated through your body in waves. You were too broken to think about the wounds that needed tending, too shattered to consider the risk of infection or what damage had been done to your ribs. 

What a fool you’d been.

The tears finally came then, hot and bitter, spilling silently down your cheeks. You buried your face in the blanket, biting down on the fabric to stifle the sobs that threatened to shake your fragile body apart.

You wanted to move, feed the fire, and bring warmth and light back into the room. But you couldn’t.

Instead, you curled tighter into yourself, surrendering to the darkness. If you closed your eyes, you could almost pretend the smog wasn’t filling your lungs, almost pretend the world hadn’t left you broken and bleeding on the floor.

But no amount of pretending could quiet the truth. You were alone, and the city had won.

—

The morning light filtered through the grimy window, faint and cold. The air still smelled of smoke and smog, clinging to every surface of your home. You hadn't moved from your spot by the dying fire. Your body felt foreign—too heavy, too broken. The ache in your ribs was constant. You hadn't had the strength to tend to yourself, let alone address the mess of bruises and blood that painted your skin.

The floorboards creaked underfoot, and then the door to your tiny flat was pushed open with a sharp squeal. It didn’t take long for the familiar sound of shoes against the creaky set of stairs to echo up the hall.

“Spirit-raiser.” A voice sliced through the stillness, a low growl of irritation. Natasha. “You missed your summons; Barnes has got me playin’ messenger again. Better be a good reason.”

You remained silent, unable to summon the energy to respond. Of course, Bucky would send Natasha to do his dirty work, too proud to face you himself. The blanket was wrapped around you tightly, your face hidden from her view. You could feel her eyes on you, the judgment heavy in the air. Her boots scraped against the floor as she moved further into the room.

“Spirit-raiser.” Natasha's call was sharp, accusatory, “Your wards were down; what were you expectin’? Barnes to turn up and just forgive you for missin’ the meetin’?”

She gave a scornful snort. “That’s not how any of this works, I thought you’d know that by now, witch.”

The silence stretched long, the weight of her disdain unbearable. Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, you slowly turned your head. Just enough for her to see the state you were in—your bruised face and the bloodied split in your swollen bottom lip.

Natasha’s gaze flickered over your form, and the contempt was gone for a moment, replaced by something colder, harder. Her jaw tightened as she took in the sight. She didn’t rush to help you, but you could tell by how her eyebrow twitched that she was taken aback.

"Who did this?" she asked, her voice flat but cold.

You looked away, avoiding her gaze. "Why would you care?"

Her lips twisted into a thin line. She took a step closer, her posture rigid. "You know why."

The world felt heavy around you, each breath a struggle. You didn't want to acknowledge that she only cared because of who you were to Bucky, not due to any worry for your well-being. Bucky’s pet fucking witch, injured. How would they banish the skeletons from their closet without their witch, chains, leash and all?

"It doesn't matter," you muttered, a forced shrug, which was then followed by a wince. The words tasted bitter, but they were all you had left to cling to.

"Of course, it matters," Natasha pressed, her voice growing sharper. "Who did it? Who the fuck did this to you? If it’s those Penance Boys again I swear to the gods—"

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t stand the thought of going back, of being dragged back into the suffocating web of the Smog Boys.

"I don't want anything to do with that family," you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. You clutched the blanket tighter as if that would shield you from her questions, from everything else.

Natasha's lips curled in a sneer, a harsh laugh escaping her throat. She knew exactly what family you were referring to—the Barnes. "It's a little too late for that now, isn't it?" Her eyes were cold, assessing. “You think you can just walk away from this?”

The words stung, cutting deeper than you thought they could. 

"You know I didn’t have a choice." Your voice cracked, and you barely recognised it as your own.

Natasha’s expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of understanding crossing her face before it hardened again. “I know,” she said flatly, her eyes narrowing as she studied you.

You wanted to scream. In a vulnerable, fucked up way, you wanted to tell her everything—the truth, the pain, the defeat, about Wanda and the Church, about your confliction and entanglement with the Barnes siblings—but all that came out was a shaky breath.

She stood over you for a moment longer. Then, without another word, Natasha turned on her heel and walked toward the door. She didn’t offer help, didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t need to. 

She had said all that she wanted to say.

PART SIX

[world-of-aus]

Family Matters - Prologue

Pairings: Mobster!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Character death, Mentions of a car crash, blood, guns.

Author's Note: I have always wanted to do a revamp to one of my first series on here Family Matters and I have finally got around to doing so after some thinking on it. The plot will more or less remain the same but I would ultimately like to do this series that really took off for me differently. The original will stay posted and remain in my master list, so worry not the original will always remain. I'm excited to retake this series and try a different approach now that I feel I have grown as a writer.

He spots her by the window, deft fingers curved around the curtain as she does her best to peak out from the darkened house without giving way that there is anybody in the home. He rushes over to her, pulling her away from the window, scolding her as he does. 

In the years that he’s been married to her he’s never witnessed her ever be crass with him, always the doting wife, but tonight she lives in fear, tonight they both live in fear as she all but damns him to hell for this life he thrust them in to. 

She swats at him, pushing away any attempt of his to calm her, to hold her, “this is your fault,” she cries despite his incessant hushing, “I should have put a stop to this the moment you threw our daughter out onto the street at 18! I should have left with her and never looked back; you took everything from me, and I just let you!” 

Despite the ache that has settled in his chest - joining the looming dark cloud that lays over his head - he’s learned to steel his features as he all but shakes her too quiet her down. Pained whimpers leave her lips, “listen to me goddamnit, I can’t change our past, I can’t change a damn thing I've done, but what I can do is try and make at least one thing right, I can try to save the two of you.” 

“Save us, you think you can save us? Your call for help went unanswered, you lied to him, lied to me about your dealings and what you were laying on the table! There is nowhere left to turn, no one left to turn to. You burnt all your bridges because you were never happy, you always had to have more, now look where its left us – with death at our door!” 

“Get your bags, we’re leaving now.” 

“No!” She growls as she all but struggles against him, his grip is firm as he pulls her away from the windows towards the garage door. He drags her along opening the car door for her as he puts her in the passenger seat, their small carry-on luggage already thrown in the back. He can hear her detest through the rolled windows as he rounds the car, slipping into the driver’s seat. 

He's barely managed to get his seat belt clicked before she’s on him again, fists beating against him as she cries out. Catching her hands he pulls her against him, his embrace strong as he tries to quiet her cries for you, their daughter. 

“They know where she is,” she sobs, “they’re coming for her and she is clueless to it all, she’s innocent!” 

“They won’t lay a damn hand on her, it’s me who they want, and you’re right I was selfish,” he murmurs into her hair, “I always wanted more when I should of seen that I had enough - I realize now that I should have sent you with her that night, I should have gotten the two of you out of this life.” 

“Our daughter didn’t ask for this,” he hears her say, “she didn’t ask to be involved in the one thing that you made sure to keep her away from.” 

“And I promise you that I will continue to keep her away from it till my dying breath if it’s the only thing I can manage to do right.” 

He watches a silent tear fall down his beloved's face, “what if she comes home, we have to at least try to warn her, we should at least call her!” He’s shaking his head, face stern as he speaks his next words, “we can’t, I have to drive us away from here, drive us away from her, they’ll follow, it’s me they want, and I’ll be damned if I let them get anything else, if I let them get her, 

He knows he’s set her fate for her, set his fate for his wife but he knows if he leaves her, wherever she goes her fates been determined – death awaits her at the door, hydra knows no mercy. 

Opening the garage door, he pulls out into the dead of night, headlights turned off as he backs up out of the driveway. He continues without his headlights on till he’s down the block at the stop sign, eyes trained on his surroundings as he looks through the mirrors, waiting to see that all blackened car following their every move. 

He watches the cars around him, fingers turning the knob as his headlights flicker on illuminating the street in front of him. He doesn’t bother abiding by the speed signs once the car passes that first sign, his foot pressing down on the gas as he attempts to get them far from there, to get as much space as he can between them.  

She’s frantic as she looks to the front, to the back, and to the sides, her eyes wild as she plays lookout. He pays no mind, his attention solely focused on the empty streets in front of them, he presses on the gas harder making a sharp turn down a road that will take them to an even emptier stretch of road, a place with hope. 

He looks through the mirror, not seeing any sign of any other car except their own, and this is where he makes his first mistake. 

He eases up on the gas, his shoulders relaxing, his head turning so he can offer his wife a hopeful smile. A fool he was to think he could escape his fate. The scream is torn from her lips as the blackened SUV collides with the driver's door sending them skidding in a vicious circle that has their getaway car threatening to topple over its tires. His vision has gone black, his body getting flung against the interior of the vehicle only coming to a stop when they have met their end in the ditch of a canal.  

When he comes to, he’s met with darkened silence and a pain that ignites itself up his side causing him to yell out as he tries to get away from it. He calls for his wife, but he’s met with silence and an ever-greater pain as he sees her bent over the dash, blood matting her hair. He knows she’s gone but he still reaches for her, tears blurring his vision as he tries to pull her to him. She’s ripped away with the door, Rumlows figure filling the space she was once, his gun drawn as he points it dead and center. 

The fight leaves him quickly as he lays against the seat, “what,” Rumlow mocks, “no more fight left in you?” He doesn’t answer, he knows it all ends the same, “that’s a real shame, the rat’s got no fight left, I wonder if your daughter will be just like you?” 

He’s barely got one word out before he meets his end, his body falling lifeless against the seat, the barrel of the gun smoking as Rumlow steps back unloading a round into his wife. Rumlow lets out a tsk, reaching for the burner in his pocket as he dials the one number programed. 

It rings once, twice before he gets an answer, “It’s done,” he greets. “And the girl?” 

“She’s next.” 

“And you’re sure she’ll come home?” 

Rumlow looks down at the lifeless body of your mother, “she ain’t going to have much of a choice boss.” 

“See to it that she comes Brock, I want this job done, and I trust you to do it right.”   

“Copy boss, I’ll have her running home soon enough.”   

It’s the early hours of the morning when your phone begins to trill on your nightstand, vibrating noisily against the wood. You let out a whine, attempting to bury your head a little deeper into the warm sheets of your bed, hoping that whoever was calling would hang up after the first few rings had gone unanswered. Luck had not been on your side as your phone continued to trill, vibrating noisily the longer it sat untouched.   

You throw the covers from your head with a scowl on your lips, you let vulgarities slip as you grab your phone off the nightstand. Not bothering to look at the caller ID intent on giving the person calling you at three in the morning a piece of your mind. 

Your words fail you as you are caught off guard with the voice on the other end of the line. 

“Good morning, I’m sorry for disrupting you so early, this is detective Stark, am I speaking with y/f/n y/l/n?” 

“Y-yes this is she, may I ask what the reason for your call is?” You question as you sit up a little higher in bed. 

“I am calling in regard to your parents Miss y/l/n, there’s been an accident,” your heart dropped into your stomach, “is - are they okay?” 

A heavy sigh, “I’m sorry, but there were no survivors.” 

The phone falls from your grip, tears blurring your vision an ache forming in your chest as his words settle. 

Your parents, an accident, no survivors. 

 Office stark calls out for you, but his call is weak compared to that of the first sob that tears from your chest. The man remains on the line as he continues to call out to you hoping that he might be able to reach you through your grief, it could have been a minute, an hour, time has all but stopped for you. 

Eventually though you are able to numbly bring the phone up to your ear the detective’s voice meeting your ear as he asks if you’re there, you don’t answer. 

“How? 

“We’re unsure of the cause mam, there was no trace of the other vehicle much less the individuals responsible. The only reason we were made aware of the accident was due to the call we received an hour ago in the dead of night, made it to the scene thirty minutes later, I would have called much sooner but unfortunately, this was the earliest I could get to you." 

You didn’t mention you knew who might be responsible as you numbly listened on, your dad’s dirty ways finally catching up to him you thought. 

“Listen mam I’m not sure your whereabouts but is there anyway I can get you to come down to the station?” 

“Station?” You questioned breathlessly. 

No. Your father told you never to return. 

“Yes mam, I have a couple questions I would like to ask you, and anything you can give us on your parents may help us figure out who did this to them.” 

You knew. He must know you know. 

“I’m sorry detective but I left home as soon as I turned 18, came to live with my ailing grandmother.” 

Liar. 

“Oh, well is there any way you could come by the department it’ll only be for a few minutes hour tops mam.” 

Is there any way we could get you to come home? 

Your eyes shut, the line going silent on both ends as your father screams at you in the back of your mind. You had promised your father, “mam, you there?” 

Your eyes blink open, “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” you reply shakily, “I - i just need to inform my boss I'll be out of work for a few days.” 

“Great, this is my direct line when you get into town you can reach me here.” 

You pull the phone from your ear to look down at the New York number, “I’ll get in contact with you when I get into the area detective.” 

He’s thanking you once more, “I always hate to make these calls and my condolences to you and your family, but we’ll see you soon.” 

You're bidding him a farewell, thumb pressing the red call button before letting your cell drop to your sheets, your body curling in on itself as you let out a shaky breath, your eyes falling shut as a lone tear falls down your cheek. 

“Dad please don’t do this, why are you doing this what did I do wrong?” you pleaded through your tears. 

Your dad wouldn’t answer as he continued to throw more bags that your mother had packed for you at your feet. 

“Mom please,” you cried, “please tell dad something, please don’t let him do this,”   

The only part of your mother that you could see were her feet, and you swore your heart broke in two the moment you saw them turn away from you. 

“Dad please,” you cried, “why are you doing this?” You tried again. This time you reached out for him, only to have him pull himself from you as if you had burned him. 

“Leave,” he hissed, “you leave this city and don’t you ever come back you hear, don’t you ever come back,” 

Through tear filled eyes, you watched your father turn his back on you, the oak door of your home slamming behind him as he left you out in the cold. 

Your eyes slip open as you recall the memory of the night; You recall walking through the cold brisk weather, that you would heed your fathers' words and vow never to return. Yet here you lay planning your return. 

[cynic-spirit]

Russian

In the opulent setting of the club, Bucky Barnes lounged casually with a confident air. The velvet-lined booths and golden accents created an atmosphere of luxury, and the soft hum of music mixed with the low chatter of the crowd. Bucky, a towering figure with a brooding presence, was seated beside Yn, his gaze fixed on her with an intense admiration.

Steve Sam, Bucky’s close friend, leaned in slightly, engaging in conversation while Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away from Yn. With her glasses perched delicately on her nose and her crimson lips slightly parted, Yn looked effortlessly captivating.

Bucky leaned closer to Steve, speaking in a hushed tone, his words coated in Russian, “Она такая секс��альная с этими очками и красными губами.” ("She is so sexy with those glasses and red lips.")

Yn, who was adept in several languages, overheard him. A knowing smile touched her lips as she turned her head slightly towards Bucky. With a tone both cool and playful, she responded in Russian, “Это почему ты говоришь на русском, а не на английском?” ( "Is that why you are speaking in Russian instead of English?")

Bucky’s eyes widened in astonishment, the color draining from his face as the realization hit him. His initial shock quickly gave way to a mix of surprise and fascination. He glanced between Yn and Steve, trying to reconcile the fact that Yn had understood him so effortlessly.

Steve, who had been oblivious to the exchange, looked between them, sensing the sudden shift in the conversation. “Wait, you understand Russian?” he asked Yn, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Yn nodded, her expression both amused and composed. “Yes, I do. It seems like Bucky didn’t want me to understand his compliments,” she said, her gaze flickering back to Bucky, who was now visibly flustered and visibly intrigued.

Bucky, still recovering from his surprise, couldn’t hide his admiration. His voice, now tinged with a more personal tone, was softer as he said, “I guess I underestimated you. I didn’t know you were fluent in Russian.”

Yn’s smile widened slightly, and she shrugged nonchalantly. “There are a few things you don’t know about me.”

Bucky’s heart raced, not only because of the unexpected revelation but also because of the undeniable love he felt towards Yn. His thoughts swirled with the realization that she was far more complex and intriguing than he had initially thought. The encounter left him deeply captivated and determined to get to know her better, even if it meant navigating the intricacies of her multi-linguistic prowess, still reeling from the surprise of Yn understanding Russian, leaned in closer, his voice filled with earnest emotion. In Russian, he said, “Каждый момент, который я провожу с тобой, я влюбляюсь в тебя все больше.” (Translation: "Every moment I spend with you, I fall more in love with you.")

Yn’s eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and calm resolve. Without missing a beat, she replied in Russian, “Ты тоже скоро из этого вырастешь.” (Translation: "You’ll might fall out of it soon too.")

Bucky’s expression softened, his admiration for Yn deepening as he absorbed her quick wit and intelligence. Her confident response only heightened his feelings for her. He was struck not only by her beauty but also by her sharp mind, which made him even more captivated.

[duchessonfire]

The Things We Do For Love - Stucky, Explicit, Mobster!Bucky & Oblivious!Househusband!Steve

Gift for @buckyismybicycle for the @starspangledsecretsanta For the @cabottombingo square C3 'Sex toy' and the @steverogersbingo square B4 'Crime/Mafia.'

Summary: It’s Christmas and Steve is struggling with the holiday season in the rich neighborhood where he's moved in with his husband and their adopted teenagers, Wanda and Pietro.

Steve is a stay-at-home dad who gets easily overwhelmed by the expectations of their uptight neighbors. His husband, Bucky, is in import-export and is rarely home. But when he is, their life is heaven.

AKA the one where Steve is married to a mobster and everyone knows this except for Steve.