hopeless-writings

[hopeless-writings]

02.06 | CANDY ZOMBIES

[hopeless-writings]

02.06 | CANDY ZOMBIES

[hopeless-writings]

Your Mark On Me, Part 1

Summary: when you need something to help you stay alert study, you found a whole lot more than you were looking for. Tatted and massive. He was what your dreams were made of, but is he a nightmare? He claimed you, and now he intends on keeping you. No matter what the cost.

Pairings: Tattooed!Steve Rogers X Innocent!Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, selling drugs, taking drugs (adderall/marijuana), non con/dub con thigh riding, thigh riding with an audience, taunting, threating, a bit of degradation, teasing, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 3.3K

Series Masterlist

*Tattoo edit by the amazing @randomagnes0210

Putting your car into park, you take a deep breath as you stare at the club in front of you. If you weren’t desperate, you wouldn’t be here. You had run through all the possibilities in your head, and this seemed like the best solution. Your grades started to slip after the breakup, and it was like you couldn’t concentrate. You couldn’t stay awake, and you weren’t able to study.

But this was beyond desperation. This was complete lunacy to be driving up to the belly of the beast. The rumblings of this club were more than just gossip. People who started doing more than taking the pills came here. The allure of big money and protection with Steve Rogers was hard to resist.

You didn’t want to sell, but you also didn’t want to buy from anybody on campus. You just need a few pills to get through finals. That was all. Enough to keep you awake to study, and then you were out. It made sense to go straight to the source for that. You didn’t care what it took. You just need to stay alert.

Exhaling deeply, you get out of your car. The bass of the music rumbles deep in your body the closer you get, mimicking the pounding in your chest. You can hardly breathe, and you know that your pulse is visible. You didn’t do things like this. You can’t afford jail time or even a mark on your record. You’d lose all scholarships, and have to drop out, and this would all have been in vain.

Stepping up to the door, a brutish man towers over you. His shoulders are wide and broad, and his arms as thick as your legs. Casting your eyes down to the ground, you get a glint of metal as his fingers. The man tilts chin up, and you tremble. Your whole body shivers with fear.

“Why are you here? You look like a scared little lamb coming to slaughter. It’s just a night club, darling,” his silver blue eyes look behind you, casting their gaze all through the parking lot. Seemingly looking for someone with you before looking back at you.

“Are you alone?”

“Y-y-yes,” you hiccup, trying to tilt your head back down, but even his finger was enough to keep you in your place.

“Why are you here?”

“I-I-I…”

“You’re not cut out to be a pusher. Your fear shows you know exactly what goes on upstairs. You offering up your flesh? I’m sure there are several that would love to feast on you.”

“Oh, god, you eat people? I’m sorry,” tears blur your eyes, but the man lets out a harrowing laugh at your expense. Grabbing onto your wrist as he pulls you in the club. This was it, you are going to die, and all because you thought you needed Adderall to stay awake.

“Oh, you’ll be eaten. There’s nothing more delicious than the honey between a woman’s legs. Your body will be trembling for a very different reason besides fear. It’ll be pure unadulterated pleasure. Pleasure so grand you won’t even know where you are. That is, if you get the right client.”

“I don’t want to be a whore. I want to go home,” he pulls you into an elevator, waiting on the doors to close before his sneering face is rounding back on you. Inching ever closer before both his hands go on either side of you. “I’m sorry. I…I don’t know what I was doing. I’m sorry.”

“You’re right. You are just a scared little girl. Steve will have fun with you. Tell me, little lamb, why are you here? You wouldn’t be good at selling, and judging by the sweat beading around your hairline, and you recoiling into your skin, I bet that cherry is still fresh and ripe in between your thighs, so selling your skin doesn’t seem like you. Someone offer you up as a sacrifice, giving you all sweet and innocent up to some man that is going to destroy you? You wired, sweetheart?”

“No,” you sob. Shaking your head. “No, I’m by myself. Honestly.”

“Tell it to Steve,” he growls as the doors open up, and he pushes you forward. “Go on,” it is hard to move with the adrenaline coursing through your veins. Your body pulses with fear. Convulsing uncontrollably, and when you see the cherry of a blunt light up in a corner, a dark figure clouded by even more darkness, and you yelp.

Attempting to turn around, and get past this behemoth of a man, but it was pointless. You are trapped. Just like a mouse in a maze waiting on her predator to pounce. A hand drops down on the arm of the chair, and almost every inch of it is covered in black ink. Rings adorn all his fingers. Rolling them along the fluffy arm, but never bringing his face into the light.

Inhaling a long drag of his joint you can almost make out some features on his face, and it only gives you more to be afraid of. He was just as big as the man that was refusing to let you go. “What have we here, Bucky? Did you bring me a little angel to sit on my lap? What’s your name, darling?”

He clears his throat when you don’t answer. Chuckling when you’re able to squeak out your name, “You’re just as sweet as an innocent Dove. I think that’s what I’m going to call you. Now, why don’t you come and sit on my lap, and let me get a better look at you?”

“No,” the answer comes out quickly, and much more surely than you were expecting.

He slowly stands up from his chair, twisting his neck to the side and a sickening pop rolls through every bone in his spine, and he takes one solid step forward, and his body is out of the shadows. Another step, and you see just how dangerously handsome he is. Tattoos erupt over every inch of his skin, except his face. A boyish quality to him with the smile of the devil, himself.

You have nowhere to go, because the brick wall behind you is nudging you closer to Steve, and the gap gets smaller. Steve’s thick hand raises the roach to his mouth, and inhales long. Flicking the stick to the side, he completely closes the gap. His hard muscles, coupled with the ones behind you stifle your breathing, and all you can do is stare up at him.

He blows out a puff of smoke, before his thick fingers close around your neck. Not tight enough to hurt you, but it would take only a second for him to start crushing your windpipe. “What did you say to me? Did you just tell me, Steve Rogers, no? Dovey, I could have you bent over this couch, and let every man that works for me stuff you full of cock, and there’s nothing you could fucking do about it. I was being nice when I asked you to sit on my lap. I just wanted to look at you. And now that I’m closer to you, I’m demanding you sit in my lap. The pleasantries are gone, sweetheart. So if you don’t want everyone to watch you take my fat cock, I would suggest you listen.”

Without warning, he walks back to his chair in the dark, and that ringed finger rubs over his thigh, “He won’t ask twice,” Bucky whispers into your ear, and you shuffle your feet over to Steve.

“You won’t hurt me?” His eyes roll up to meet yours, and he shakes his head no. Waiting for you to gently sit down, and a possessive hand, lays too high up on your thigh. Rubbing on it, and his fingers dip too low between your thighs. “I don’t like this.”

“I would have been much kinder had you just sat down, and not defied me. You wired?” You shake your head no, and his fingers move all the way up your legs. Roaming around at the apex of your thighs before cupping your covered core. Drifting up higher, and he cups each breast, and runs up the swells of them. Another hand sweeps down your back, until he grunts in satisfaction.

“You understand why I have to check? A pretty and sweet girl in a place like this. It’s like they know my weakness. There is something about fresh meat. Has anyone ever touched you, sweetheart?” You stare dead faced at him. You weren’t answering. You didn’t have to defy him, but that's none of his business.

“They haven’t. Your pussy was throbbing so hard, and that sweet little sigh you let out. I can make you feel good if you let me touch you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I just want to go home.”

He clicks his tongue as his eyes roam over your body. Getting too close as he sniffs up your neck, “You even smell sweet. You wanna know a secret?” Don’t answer. Just stare. “I can feel how hot that cunt is. Feel how she’s pulsing so hard at being filled. You hide nothing, Dovey.”

“Why can’t I go home?”

Steve settles back in his chair, glancing towards Bucky who also sits on a couch, and kicks up his feet. Rubbing his hand slowly up and down your back, but keeping a firm hand on your thigh. Keeping you spread out a bit more than you would want. “Why did you come here in the first place? You sought me out. I had to question things. Everyone knows I love pretty little things with tight pussy.”

“Stop, please,” your voice deadpans. There’s no emotion in you even though you want to scream and flail around. But it wouldn’t help. You chose to walk in here on your own accord, so now it was time to just listen.

“Why? You don’t feel that heat radiating out from between your legs? I have asked you why you are here, and you can’t provide an answer. So until you tell me, you’re going to sit like this. Have your panties become soiled with that sweet nectar. Uncomfortable, and desperate for friction. I just know you’re going to go home, and touch yourself thinking about me.”

“I won’t,” his eyebrow cocks up, and he waits. It would just be easier if you told him the truth. “My grades are slipping.”

“Oh, she’s sweet and educated. Let me guess…early childhood education? It will come in handy for when you take care of our kids,” Bucky snorts, leaning his head back on the couch, but you look at him horrified. “Oh good grief. What are you studying?”

“Early childhood,” a deep chuckle erupts out his mouth, tilting his head to look at the ceiling. Distracting you while his hand moves further up your thigh. “I…I need to cram in some studying.”

“I can definitely help you with some cramming. So you thought you would come to the supplier for some Adderall? Is that it? Why not ask one of the many people on campus? I’m sure they’re good and stocked up. We know it’s finals season.”

“I don’t trust people,” Steve moans, and his hand starts to rub in and out of the gap between your legs, only inches away from your core. “All it would take is for them to get caught, and then they’re ratting everyone out that they sold to. Even you.”

“Oh, trust me, if they sing like a canary and mention my name, it’ll be the last thing they fucking do. So let me get this straight, you, this sweet little Dove, come to the seedy part of town, thinking you’re going to march in here and ask for a few pills from me to get you through finals?”

“I have money,” you close your eyes as his fingers lightly graze over your panties. A skirt was a terrible idea, but you can deal with being angry at yourself later. Right now you just need to remain calm, and get out alive.

“I don’t want money.”

“I don’t want sex.”

“Oh, sweetheart, there’s definitely ways I could want you without having my cock going into your pussy. Fine. I’ll give you your fucking pills. If you don’t pass, you get to suck my giant cock. If you’re lucky I might let you ride my face before I split your pussy open for the first time,” don’t answer. Don’t even look.

“Why so wet Dovey?” Don’t answer. Don’t look. Definitely don’t moan. “Wet and so hot. I bet it feels like heaven in between your thighs. A pussy like this is something I would need all the time. Make you sit in my lap, with my cock buried so deep in your warmth, all while I hand out everyone’s product. Every seller would know you were taking my cock like a big girl, but they would see how much I stretch you out. Is that what you want? To be my pretty little cock ornament for all my sellers?”

Don’t answer. Don’t look. And stop whimpering. “You better answer me, you little bitch,” you gulp as he twists you around, making you stare at Bucky as you straddle his leg. Holding onto your hips as he forces you to grind on him. “How much do you have?”

“Carol told me they were fifteen dollars a pill.”

“I could give them to you for free. Just come on my leg, and tell Bucky what a pitiful little birdie you are.”

“I can pay like a normal customer,” you moan. This is humiliating. Bucky sits in front of the two of you, munching on some form of nut or cracker with the biggest eat shit grin. “Steve, I’d rather just pay.”

“Your money's no good with me. Who sent you? Carol? She’s the one that told you to come straight to me? Whoever told you to come here, sent you right into a mousetrap, sweetheart,” his own moan echoes yours as you clench your eyes close. You can’t look at Bucky or him. Your body is betraying you. Feeling things deep inside of you that you have never felt before.

Even the thought of Bucky watching this all unfold is making you weak. You hate it, but the pleasure is proving you didn’t hate it enough. “I have a type, Dovey. Sweet little ladies like you. One that wants to deny themselves all this pleasure is even better. I promise there are things that feel better than this.”

You didn’t want anything that felt better. It was like Satan had his finger curled, wiggling it towards you, and beckoning you deeper into depravity. First the pills, now riding someone’s thigh while another man watched. What was next? Did you even want to know? Or did you not want to let go?

Your hands slap down on either armrest, and you can not control the sounds that seep out of you. His tattooed fingers dig even deeper into your hips. He was going to leave marks on you, but it didn’t matter. What mattered now was the high that was all through your limbs. This shouldn’t feel good, and you are irritated by the fact that it was Bucky watching that made this more enjoyable.

“What is it that you want more than anything, Dovey?” Don’t answer. Keep your eyes closed. “The way this cunt is making a mess of me, I think you want to come, huh? Does this pretty little bird want to come? I’ll keep going until you pass out, so you better learn to talk to me.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what, little darling? Yes isn’t a damn answer,” he grinds you down even harder on his thigh, and you have to brace yourself. Holding onto his knee as your head tilts back to the ceiling. The most strangled of cries as you come undone, but Steve doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop, but goes faster. Harder. Leaving you screaming. Writhing around.

Your fingernails dig into his knee, but still he goes harder. He is trying to kill you. “What does my little bird want more than anything, hmm? Yes, isn’t an answer. And I won’t stop until you tell me.”

“I want…” your eyes roll into the back of your head as another orgasm builds up in your belly. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t process what is even happening. “I want to come!”

“Done,” Steve growls, giving your neck a little nibble, and you lose all self control. Your body trembles as you come undone. Whimpering even more when you hear drips onto the floor, as you squirt onto his thigh, and he gives your sensitive skin a hard suck.

“I figured you’d want your little pills to keep you awake for studying. Maybe even to pass your finals. But making you come is so much easier, and cheaper for me. Now how many pills do you need?”

“What” you pant out, turning to look back at him.

“You need pills. I’ll give them to you.”

“How much?” You ask, shifting on his thigh. No matter which way you turn, you’re uncomfortably wet. Slick coats the inside of your thigh, and Steve’s leg just further wipes it on you.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Really, oh my god, thank you!” He releases your hold, and you stand up, ready to hug him, but take a step backwards instead. Staring down at his drenched leg in horror. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Bucky, get her five pills?” You give him a sweet little smile, nodding your head. “No more than one a day. If you need more, just come to the club, and Bucky will bring you straight to me, and I’ll take care of you.”

You can’t believe he’s being so nice to you, but you’re thankful. Delighted even as Bucky hands you a bottle, “It has my name on it.”

“I don’t need you getting in trouble, Dovey. I need you to pass your finals. Come on, let me walk you out to your car. It gets dangerous at night. You don’t need to be alone,” you forget about the mess left behind on Steve’s pants. Don’t even pay attention to how his eyes darken as he leads you through the club.

Don’t notice the stares that are pointed right at you, and all because you have a nasty little hickey on your neck, and Steve’s possessive hand on the small of your back. No one approaches the two of you. No one points. You’re able to get out of the club without some man hitting on you.

Steve opens the door for you, letting you get seated before buckling you in. “I don’t want you to be out by yourself.”

“Yeah, okay,” that is a weird request, but you weren’t going to be seeing Steve anymore for it to matter.

“Good luck on your finals, Dovey,” he licks his lips as he looks over the expanse of your body. You’re just thankful that it is over. It wasn’t that terrible. And you saved some money.

Bucky comes to stand beside Steve as he memorizes your license plate. A sinister grin on his face, “Don’t lose sight of her. You know what to do,” he tells his friend before walking back into the club. Bucky goes over to his bike, already sensing some late nights for himself.

Steve had a mission. To keep you safe. Because you are his. And your scent engulfed him fully. He was going to break you down. And he was going to have every part of you. You just didn’t realize it. But everyone else did. He saw the club goers look at you and their sight was quickly averted. He’d wear your juices for the world to see. And soon, you’d wear his mark as well.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @sstan-hoe @missusbarnes-rogers @peaches1958 @seitmaii @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @theinheriteddutchess

[hopeless-writings]

Your Mark On Me Masterlist

When you need something to help you stay alert study, you found a whole lot more than you were looking for. Tatted and massive. He was what your dreams were made of, but is he a nightmare? He claimed you, and now he intends on keeping you. No matter what the cost.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

A/N: this story is going to have themes of drug dealing and taking drugs, there will be manipulation, stalking, degradation, and so much more. This is a dark Steve that wants possession of reader. Read ALL warnings before each chapter. You are responsible for the content you consume. Minors DNI

[hopeless-writings]

I am abt to lose my fuckin mind because I happened upon this gender reveal party. and like it’s soo over the top expensive

And like I’m like. Oh great, a horse themed gender reveal party.

complete with like … just truly excessive foods and of course, themed cocktails

and this sign which like… the fragility of like *not* italicizing the word ‘colt’. Like imagine being this weird abt gender

with like, a bucket that eventually ‘revealed’ the gender

But like… the picture that really just completely undid me, for this party which surely was more money than many weddings -

it’s not a horse themed gender reveal party. It’s a gender reveal party FOR A HORSE. I can’t even like imagine the life that would lead to hosting a gender reveal party for a not-yet-born horse. Think abt getting an invitation to this. the cis are at it again.

[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 11

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 4k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.), smut?

series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

“Hey, Y/N.” A soft whisper brushed your ear and wrapped itself around your waking mind. “Hey, hey…” A gentle touch slid across your cheek, pulling out of sleep the remnants of consciousness fighting for further rest. Your lungs involuntarily filled with a bigger load of air; you opened your eyes, and they immediately found Bucky sitting beside you. He gave you a tender smile, his thumb relentlessly stroking your cheek.

“What?” you asked without much thought. Bucky seemed calm, so you saw no reason to panic either. His touch, this time instead of helping you stay awake, was pushing you towards falling asleep again. Your eyelids drooped, and you had little control over it – it was entirely his fault.

“Hey, stay with me,” Bucky ordered right away, his voice still soft, as if, contrary to the words spoken, he didn't want to disturb you at all. 

“But it's so warm and comfortable here…” 

His hand, which until then had been resting on your face, slipped under the covers. It touched your thigh, and though your eyes remained closed, the rest of your body was awakened by an explosion; a memory of the previous night. Bucky's hand moved higher and turned unexpectedly, his fingers unceremoniously pinching your cheek. You moaned, more in surprise than pain, then looked at Bucky with innocent reproach – he'd used something against you that you definitely liked, and you knew he wouldn't do anything about it. He had aroused not only your mind, but especially your body, and would leave you aching and craving again. But there was also something on his face that might indicate a different turn of events; the same rawness that you had observed the first time he appeared in your house that day had returned. It was as if your innocence and exposure were driving him into some kind of wild, nevertheless controlled madness.

Bucky pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. He swallowed hard at the lust you had also raised in him, and took his hands away. He got up from the bed and it was only then that you noticed he had already his clothes on. “Get dressed,” he grunted. “We have to get back to New York.”

You sat up on the mattress and glanced at the window – it was still dark outside. You grabbed your phone; it was almost three in the morning. You returned your gaze to Bucky, giving him a questioning, confused look, but he paid no more attention to you, too busy gathering up his stuff. “...Is something wrong?” 

“Timothy called,” he replied, and when he did, you already knew you had lost him. You'd lost smiley, relaxed Bucky; when you got to Vegas, he'd come back to life amongst the warmth, sunshine and all the softness you had for each other. And then all it took was one, probably cold and spiteful phone call from his uncle to destroy it; to kill that side of him. 

“Alright…” You nodded slowly. “And he wanted you to come back?”

“He said he needs me. Got a job for me.” He threw his sweats and t-shirt on the bed. “Put this on. Please,” he urged, thereby letting you know that he didn't have time for the rest of your questions. And you weren't quite sure what you should actually feel, but you weren't hurt. You were probably prepared for this; for life alongside a gangster. Bucky was now your husband, and although you had married on your own terms, your society had established a pattern that was imprinted in the two of you as well - however good you intended to be to each other; however much Bucky wanted to make you his equal, he was your husband – a specific, meaningful figure in your world – so you had to follow him, do everything he demanded and expected of you. And you weren't going to fight back, because you trusted him. Maybe not entirely – you still needed time – but you kept believing in his whole “Maybe my heart is in the right place. Maybe I want to do some good.”

It wasn't hard to guess that time played a key role, but you were only confirmed in this belief by the fact that you were returning to New York by plane, sent by Timothy. You still didn't know what he wanted from Bucky, but the matter seemed serious if he was taking such measures. And probably for the first time you realized what your mother really meant when she repeated to you like a mantra: Never marry a gangster. 

Because you were worried. You were worried about your husband, and you weren't sure how to deal with that feeling. It was so... unexpected. Or rather, the fact that it involved Bucky; tied to you in this untrue, loveless marriage. It turned out that you had a softer heart than you thought.

When you landed, a car was waiting for you. The driver, on Bucky's instructions, took you to an address you didn't know – one of New York's apartment complexes. You felt more and more lost, because you had the impression that instead of receiving information that would help your mind to function undisturbed by stress, you knew far too little. You could have asked – you could have asked anything, but you didn't want to throw Bucky off balance. You could see he was irritated enough and was doing his best not to unload on you. You weren't going to make it difficult for him.

Still, there were questions you couldn't keep quiet about. “Where exactly are we..?” You furrowed, watching Bucky turn the keys in the lock. 

He opened the door and let you through. “At my place,” he answered, closing the wooden lid behind him. He put your luggage on the floor, because although this time you managed to declare to him that you could handle your bag, he turned a deaf ear to it.

“Right…” You looked around hesitantly. For some reason, you didn't think he had his own place; mostly you'd find him at his family house, moreover, he had never mentioned having his own place before. Admittedly, he didn't mention owning a casino either. He didn't actually talk about anything until it came to the surface by itself. 

“Look…” Bucky murmured, checking something on his phone. Shortly afterwards, he turned it off and lifted his gaze to you. “I gotta see my uncle. Can you wait here for me?”

“Sure.” You smiled slightly. Apart from the fact that you didn't really have anywhere else to go, you wanted to stay here; to get to know better the space that belonged to Bucky. 

And he managed the same pained rise of the corners of his mouth. He only nodded, and after a moment he left the apartment. You didn't resent him for this at all – you knew there were priorities in your world, besides, in reality you and Bucky didn't function as a typical married couple, but more like co-workers. So, in theory, you didn't need to know; it should have been enough for you that your deal has been working; that it has been protecting you and your father's business. However, you couldn't help but feel that in all this you were also looking out for Bucky's wellbeing. Or maybe you cared mostly about that. And some part of you wanted to know everything; including how he felt.

Despite your suspicion that caffeine would fuel your anxiety, you decided to make yourself a coffee. You hadn't slept a wink on the plane, and now you didn't feel like sleeping either; the tension accompanying you, while draining you additionally, didn't allow you to rest. 

When the boiling coffee machine announced it was finished, you wrapped your hands around the cup, slurped a sip of the hot drink, the smell of which had already spread throughout the kitchen, and went for your rounds. You didn't particularly care if your behavior entered the territory of being nosy; the place belonged to your husband; the same one who had left you alone in it. So you gave yourself every right to search any corner if you wished.

Just as with the car, the apartment reflected the owner in some way; once you crossed its door, every choice seemed perfectly understandable. First of all, dark colors that were pleasantly soothing to the senses – deep shades of gray on the walls; anthracite or graphite, sometimes black, like the tiles in the kitchen; solid wooden panels in a cool shade of chocolate on the floors; mainly black furniture, silver, gray or dark blue accessories. The spaces were brightened only by large windows looking out largely onto other, equally tall buildings.

You finished your coffee, glancing around the interior of the living room, and thoughts were racing through your head – unanswered questions to yourself about whether this was where you would be living from now on, mixed with concerns about Bucky; was he safe? He was supposed to be with his uncle, but you didn't trust Timothy. What did he want from Bucky? Is he going to contact you or will he do what Timothy asks him to do without a word of warning? How long is it going to take? Is it really something serious? Dangerous?

Never marry a gangster.

You shake your head, as if that's going to help you clear up the chaos; as if that shake was going to sort out the whole mess. Back in the kitchen, you put the cup in the dishwasher, then headed to the bathroom. 

You felt a little better, washing off the hours spent on the plane; as streams of warm water ran down your sore, tired body. You reached up to a stone shelf, and came across more bottles than you thought you would; in addition to shower gel and shampoo, you found a hair conditioner.

You wrapped yourself in a fresh towel found in one of the cabinets, then left the bathroom with the intention of finding something to put on. However, you didn't manage to get to your bag; the door to the apartment opened and Bucky burst in. You didn't know if he had noticed you; he didn't even look in your direction, just grabbed his baggage from the floor, and without stopping, went to the bedroom. At first you stood there speechless – Bucky's abruptness caught you off guard; you also weren't sure if he had ignored you on purpose. But maybe it was better that way; you preferred not to get in his way. Nevertheless, after a moment, you followed him. 

Bucky walked from the bed to the wardrobe and back again, repacking his bag.

“What are you doing?” you spoke, but your voice sounded so weak and quiet that you weren't even sure if those words had actually left your mouth. Especially as he still wasn't paying attention to you. “Bucky?” you asked a little more firmly, and he glanced at you over his shoulder. “What’s going on? What are you-”

“I have to leave.”

Your lungs suddenly ran out of air, your eyes widened.

“Timothy wants me to monitor business in Italy,” he answered, nervously shoving some folded clothes into his bag. “Somehow, strangely enough, he suddenly stopped trusting our men there.” He almost snorted. 

Your lips parted involuntarily as you stared at his back. You barely consciously moved from your spot and approached Bucky. “For how long?”

“Few weeks, few months. I don't know. When he'll be satisfied enough with my work.”

You sat on the edge of the bed and stuck your eyes into the floor. “And you can’t say no.”

Bucky pressed his lips together. “I still owe him a debt. Besides, debt or not, my uncle is the head of the Family. And I crossed the line by marrying you behind his back.”

Your gaze tentatively returned to him. “He's punishing you for it..?”

He said nothing at first. He zipped up the bag, and for a brief moment you had the feeling that he was about to slam it against one of the walls.

“He'll make me break every promise I made to you,” Bucky claimed. He looked at you with what you could call fear if you knew the reason for it. One thing you were sure of – the tearing pain in his eyes. He regretted something; probably the fact that he had dragged you into this. “But I need you, Y/N.” Having stood between your legs, he dropped to his knees, his hands on your hips. “I fucking need you on my side.”

“Jamie-” You instinctively tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear in a soothing gesture. “I am on your side.”

“I don't know when I'll be back,” he repeated. “What if you'll have enough time to hate me?” His mouth twitched in a sad smile.

“I won't hate you,” you protested. “It's not your fault that you have to go. Our world is just built that way. And I get it.”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head with clear disappointment; towards himself and the whole situation. He shifted slightly, then rested his head against your stomach, snuggling into your body. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You slid your fingers into his hair and brushed it tenderly. “It’s okay, Bucky. Really,” you whispered. He pulled back just enough to look at you. As your fingers rubbed his scalp with affection, his thumbs stroked your hips. “What if you’ll have enough time to find someone else?” you asked after a moment of silence.

“Y/N-” Bucky sighed with resignation.

“You know we are not with each other because of love,” you reminded, trying to talk some sense into him. “You want to be a good husband, and that's really great, but-” You gasped. “I don't want to get in your way. I don't want to stop you from finding what would really make you happy.”

Bucky's forehead furrowed, giving his face an offended expression. “So what? You're giving me permission to go there and cheat on you left and right?” His hands left your body and slipped on the mattress. 

“That's not what I said,” you objected right away. “And you told me practically the same thing. In your uncle’s garden.”

Bucky stared at you without even blinking. He chewed nervously on his bottom lip and shook his head, looking away for a moment. Shortly afterwards he gazed at you again. “Okay. Have it your way,” he replied. “You will be the first to know. But now I'm only yours. And you are mine as long as I am here.” He raised his hand to your cheek. Soon, however, he moved it to the back of your head to draw you closer; he pressed his lips to yours with a longing you already recognised; he kissed you for the first time since last night. And you weren't even taken aback; the gesture seemed so natural, so familiar and right.

Bucky rose from his knees, and as if by instinct you climbed onto the bed to make space for him. The mattress bent under his weight as he took the spot right in front of you. He laid another, this time a more tender kiss on your lips, then took off his sweatshirt; he didn't need to do that – the sudden desire was strong enough that you might as well satisfy it instantly, without unnecessary delay. But you were wearing only a towel, which was about to fall; Bucky craved to feel your naked skin against his own; to keep you company in total exposure.

You kissed him – slowly and sloppily – meanwhile reaching for his belt and managing to unbuckle it, wanting to assure him that you needed it too; that you were completely comfortable with the closeness he was initiating. 

Bucky pulled down his trousers and kicked them on the floor, and as his body pushed against yours, his lips traced a chaotic wet path on your neck. At one point, you even felt him grab a piece of your skin between his teeth; he sucked on it hard enough that you let out an involuntary whimper, and then irritated the sore spot with the tip of his tongue.

He sized you up with his eyes; your body stripped of its covering. You didn't feel as insecure as before – you weren't used to Bucky like that yet, but you were too absorbed in putting out your burning needs. “Fuck what I said earlier,” he rasped. “I'm not sharing you with anyone. And if that anyone happens, I'll fuck them out of your pretty little head.” He stretched his lips in a smirk, then leaned down and nuzzled your nose with his. “I can't get enough of you, baby,” he added, sinking into you without any warning. You both parted your lips; Bucky's breath stilled in his throat, and your back arched as you felt his whole cock inside you. 

His heated, heavy body brushed against yours; slowly at first, lazily even, so that he could watch your face, drinking in every little expression. And you looked at him – a little helplessly against the control he had over you, and with a hope, perhaps even a silent request, that he would be the one to fulfill this hunger he himself had aroused in you. And you knew; you could see it on his face, feel it in his every movement, that he had set himself just such a mission.

Soon his hips began pounding fast enough that your clashing, naked, sweaty bodies made that characteristic, heavenly sound – it filled the whole room, mixing with your moans and Bucky's panting. If at all possible, the combination was turning you on even more, intensifying the sensations his dick was giving you, sliding in and out in that rapid rhythm, his wet, hot lips wandering on your skin. You felt his hand suddenly clench on your hair, his teeth hooking lightly on the edge of your jaw; if he could, Bucky would absorb every bit of your body.

You didn't even know at what exact moment you wrapped your hand around Bucky's biceps; you realized this when you painfully dug your nails into it – painful for both of you, but also somehow releasing the sensations that had been building up inside you. They were piling up, and you weren't going to fight them this time either. As that seemingly familiar but actually new feeling exploded in the pit of your stomach, you tightly hugged Bucky and pulled him closer. You uncontrollably sank your teeth into his shoulder, and pure pleasure spread across his face.

With his head on your chest, Bucky was slowly climbing down from his high. You stroked his arm carefully with your knuckles, then brushed your fingertips over the mark of your teeth. 

“You’re a biter,” he murmured, feeling your touch in that spot. From the tone of his voice, you figured he was smiling while saying it. 

“Apparently,” you admitted with a little amusement. “How much time have you got?”

“Why? You want to get rid of me already?”

“I don't want to give Timothy any reason to punish us more than he already did.”

Bucky sighed heavily. He supported himself on his elbows, pulling his head away from your chest, and looked at you. You'd started the topic of Timothy again, and expected worry; that unsettling nervousness. Instead, Bucky stared at you with a gentle smile. “I wouldn't be myself if I didn't fuck with him at least a little,” he stated. “Besides…” He shrugged. “I'm saying goodbye to my wife, aren't I? And judging by his desire to have an heir, my uncle strongly respects family values.” He squinted, smiling insincerely.

You laughed, biting your bottom lip, then lifted your hands to his face. “And that's what you're going to tell him? That you were late because you were working on an heir?”

“Maybe,” Bucky said casually. Watching him with a tender grin, you stroked his cheeks with your thumbs, then carefully moved your finger down his nose; from bridge to tip. The expression on Bucky's face firmly softened – to some extent he even seemed surprised that someone had treated him with such gentleness. “Say it,” he whispered. 

“What?” This time, your thumb caressed his chin.

“That I'm yours. I need to hear it. I need to know that when I come back, I'll come back to you. To my girl.”

There was something painfully shattering about seeing him embraced by such helplessness, uncertainty about his own worth; about how you perceived him.

“I don't want to lose you,” he continued. “The thought of you, of you being there for me, is the only thing that will keep me sane, I-”

“It's okay. It's okay.” You smiled reassuringly, your hands returned to his cheeks. “You are mine, and I'm not going to look for anyone else, I promise. I'll wait for you as long as it takes, okay? I am not leaving you, Jamie.”

Bucky nodded. He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on your lips, immediately followed by another, much more filled with fear, insecurity, vulnerability. 

“I'll miss you,” you muttered into his mouth.

“And I will miss you. Very much.” He trailed his pecks down to your chin, your neck. One of his hands found its way between your thighs, parting them; without protest you spread your legs wider and he settled between them again. You felt his hardened cock rubbing against the inside of your thigh. You never imagined that you would affect someone so much, and knowing that you actually did put Bucky in a slightly different light; it created a new connection between you, based on intimacy and desire for each other. 

His length thrust into you again, and you whimpered as your eyes rolled back in your skull.

You got out of the car – a little sore and tired. Bucky grabbed his bag from the back seats, then reached for your hand, locking your fingers together. He didn't let it show, but you could sense that he was nervous.

A plane was already waiting on the large, empty lot; the property of the Barnes Family. Timothy was standing not far from the heavy machine, talking to the pilot; Steve was also there, but as soon as he spotted the two of you, he walked towards you.

“Y/N.” He nodded to you; you waved at him in response, plastering a slight smile on your face. 

To greet Steve, Bucky chose to drop his bag rather than let go of your hand. He put his free arm around Steve and patted him on the back. “Keep an eye on her, okay?”

“I will.”

Bucky released your hand, but only to move his arm down your back and pull you closer. You bumped against his body, resting your hands on his chest. “It'll be fine. Hmm?”

You wanted to believe it, but couldn't. That's why all you were able to do was smile sadly and press a tender kiss on his lips. Bucky rested his forehead against yours.

“I'll be waiting for you,” you said quietly, making him smile as well.

“I know.” He kissed your forehead, leaving his mouth there for a little longer than necessary. When he pulled away, he reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, then handed you the keys to the Mustang. “Here. Take care of it, alright?” 

“Alright,” you replied almost silently, lowering your gaze to the keys in your hand. As you lifted your eyes back to Bucky, you caught his stare. He looked at you with a soft smirk. You didn't say anything. Soon, however, he once again joined your lips.

“I gotta go.” He placed a kiss on the back of your hand, having brought it to his mouth, then pulled away and headed toward the plane. You pressed your trembling lips together, watching him. And again you felt that unpleasant coldness of being left alone.

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leaaa008 @itvy5601 @melsunshine @pattiemac1 @marvel-fandom23 @rabbitrabbit12321 @xsecretsirenx @heyyitsreign @xhollycowx @samfreakingwinchester @thrnlvr @samjuarezzz @loustan90 @kandis-mom @abaker74 @gabshouse @casa-boiardi @globetrotter28 @fand0mskullfa1ry @iateall-yourcookies @swordofawriter

[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 10

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 7,1k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.), a/n: sorry if it sucks, i wanted to post it as soon as possible!

series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

With half of your face still snuggled into the pillow, you opened one eye and looked semiconsciously around the room again; or at least as much of it as the position of your body allowed. You took another breath and let it out heavily – you felt exhausted from waking up a moment before, but at the same time you knew you were rested. None of the worries that had been haunting you for the last few months weighed on you; as if there was someone who had taken all the weight off you. In fact, that someone actually existed; that someone wasn't marrying you purely for your own sake, but because he wanted to have you all to himself. Just you.

You felt the familiar, at the same time completely new pulsation between your thighs. You were barely awake and he was already affecting you – not even him in the flesh, but the thought of him. 

You propped yourself up on your hands, then pulled away sluggishly from the mattress, therefore awakening a dull, deep pain in your lower back. An uncontrollable gasp escaped your lips; one of your hands immediately found its way to that spot to prevent the discomfort from spreading throughout your body, but the pain stopped at that one point. You remembered perfectly well where it came from, and the memory made it pleasurable in some twisted way.

Having reached for your phone, resting on your bedside table, you checked the time – it was almost eleven. In doing so, you noticed several messages from Suzie, as well as Connie. Your sister was asking where you'd been, your friend – how the wedding had gone. In theory you knew the answers to both of these questions, but you couldn't give them. You replied to both messages with the same thing; that you would talk to them later.

You slipped out of bed, and, grabbing your bag, sneaked to the bathroom.

After the shower you searched through your bag for something appropriate, but the problem was that you had no idea you were going to Las Vegas, and the climate here compared to that in New York was dramatically different; so much so that you knew you would have fried in Vegas wearing the clothes you had packed. Still, you weren't going to walk around in nothing but your underwear; so you put on what you had, in the meantime making a note in your head that you needed to sort this out soon.

You knocked on the door of Bucky's temporary bedroom, waited a moment, then looked inside. The room appeared empty, giving you that familiar, unpleasant knot in your stomach. But there was his bag on the floor near the bed, so you told yourself that he didn't leave you at all. Even so, as you walked downstairs, that cool, throat-clenching anxiety lingered with you.

It disappeared when you reached the kitchen, but not because of relief – it was replaced by guilt, since you immediately assumed Bucky had run away again. But there he was, just by the counter; in shorts showing his long, muscular legs, a t-shirt with sweat stains visible on it, his breath uneven, his hair tied in a bun. He looked back at you, strands of his hair, which had managed to escape from under the hair tie, were sticking to his face, reddened from the effort, shiny from sweat. His lower lip wore the mark of your bite – a small wound, darker than the rest of his pink mouth. 

“You awake,” Bucky remarked, walking over to the fridge. He grabbed a small bottle of water and almost completely emptied it with only a few sips.

“Are you trying to get a heatstroke?” You asked with pretended curiosity, looking at him.

He rolled his eyes, a corner of his mouth lifted. “There are trees all around the neighborhood. I was safe,” he said. “Besides…” He shrugged casually. “I have really good stamina,” he stated,  and you knew that there was an innuendo beneath his words. And although the night before you didn't have much trouble touching him, now suddenly you couldn't look him in the eye any longer. In addition, you were still consumed by guilt. Bucky easily noticed that; all playfulness was gone from his face, and whilst a calmness appeared in return, you knew that it was of a rather negative nature. “What is it?” 

Ruining his mood was not in your intentions, but on the other hand, you had probably already messed it up. You wished you could hide your feelings from him. “I thought you ran away again. But just for a moment,” you clarified quickly. 

Bucky pursed his lips, but he wasn't angry at you. “Do you think you'll be able to forgive me? Not now, but... at some point?”

“I forgave you right away, Bucky,” you answered without the slightest hesitation. “But I need time to fully trust you.”

“As much as you want,” he said immediately, almost stepping on your last word.

Your mouth curved into a pale smile; you had the feeling that this morning could have been much more enjoyable, and you ruined it all. Even though you had every right to – your fears were justified, and Bucky didn't try to convince you otherwise. 

“Hey, umm…” you began. After all, you weren't going to let your shaky mood cast a shadow over the rest of the day. An important day. “There is a problem with my clothes. I haven't packed anything for this weather and-”

Bucky sized you up. “Wait here,” he ordered, then walked out of the kitchen.

Left alone, you looked around the room with no particular destination in mind. It was then that you noticed a small note attached with a magnet to the hood. You didn't want to read other people's memos, but your name caught your eye.

Y/N,

What do you say we spend your last hours of freedom together? Call me as soon as you are ready.

Marion.

Bucky returned to the kitchen, holding some neatly folded clothes. “Should be alright for now.” He handed you the things he brought, then glanced at the piece of paper between your fingers. “What’s that?” 

You looked instinctively at what he was also looking at, and at first you weren't sure what to answer; you hadn't even had enough time to think about Marion's proposition. “Oh, it’s just…” Having shrugged cluelessly, you raised the note to Bucky's eye level. 

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I'll have to call her. Tell her to deliver you to me in one piece.”

When Bucky went to take a shower, you first changed into what he had gotten you – shorts and a t-shirt; both of which belonged to him – and then you called Marion. After a brief, rather pointless conversation, she said she would send you the address where you were to meet. You grabbed the most necessary things, like your phone and your wallet with cash, credit cards, but most importantly documents, and ordered a cab. 

The address Marion had given you led you to a huge, jaw-dropping casino; the ones you had inherited from your father – although they didn't fall into the category of small, modest buildings – were nothing compared to this monstrous object. 

The cab stopped; you paid the driver and got out, lifting your head to continue staring at the building.

“Welcome to Black Velvet Casino.” You caught the sound of Marion's voice, and as you glanced in that direction, you noticed the woman standing at the entrance. “Come inside.” She gave you an encouraging nod, and as you walked to her, Marion put her arm around you. “Jamie told me to feed you, I heard you didn't have breakfast.”

You raised your eyebrows involuntarily. Although Bucky had said he would call his aunt, at the time you thought it was a joke; or that he would actually ask her to be careful with you. What you didn't expect, however, was for him to be overprotective even at a distance. 

You both entered the casino. Inside, dark walls, geometric patterns, especially on the marble floors, elegant vintage furniture and elements of gold dominated. All these pieces seemed to be typical of art deco.

“So, it's your casino?” you asked, unable to stop yourself from constantly looking around, absorbing the details you were discovering.

Marion, leading the way to the restaurant inside the casino, turned to gaze at you. “It belongs to Jamie.” She beamed at you, a satisfied, slightly proud smile on her face. “I just run it. It's hard to have total control of the business in Vegas when you live in New York.”

Your brows drew together. “Yes, that’s right…” you answered rather automatically, half-consciously. You didn't have the slightest idea why the fact that Bucky owned such a huge, beautiful casino had left you in such a daze. Maybe because he wasn't bragging about his wealth when asking you to marry him? Maybe because he didn't have to have it all to sweep you off your feet?

While you ate breakfast – barely, and under your own duress since your stomach, due to the sudden stress of the wedding, refused to accept any food at all – Marion absorbed one bloody mary, explaining that it was, after all, some sort of vegetable portion anyway. Towards the end, she ordered one for you and another for herself to keep you company in sipping your drink. However, the loneliness wouldn't stop you from drinking – your stomach was more than happy to open up to some alcohol.

After the meal, you and Marion hit a few places from Marion’s intangible list of things to do before the wedding.

First, shopping – you supplied yourself with a couple of summer dresses, among other things, as well as something for your Las Vegas wedding. You didn't want to look completely traditional; it didn't do you any good the first time. You bought the shortest white dress you could find – with long, flared sleeves and an open back. You completed the whole thing with flesh-tone fishnet tights, sparkling because of small rhinestones here and there, high heels and short, tacky veil that cost you five dollars. 

Then, as a wedding gift, Marion took you to a luxury spa for a massage, a series of masks and other treatments for your skin, a manicure and pedicure. All topped off with a glass of champagne. Only in your case; Marion, on the other hand, drank at least three, and you were hugely impressed by the fact that she didn't seem to be at least tipsy.

It's been a long time since you've experienced those two things at the same time – rested and peaceful both physically and mentally.

In the meantime, Bucky texted you to meet him at the address he had sent you, and to let him know when you would be getting into the cab. So you did; immediately after thanking Marion for the whole day and getting yourself a transport. 

Even though you were already about to get married for the second time - if the situation a few days ago could be described as such – the seriousness of it was starting to overwhelm you. Mainly because you were left alone and had no one to distract you from all those stressful thoughts. You didn't even know how long you had been clutching the fabric of your short summer dress in your hands, but it wrinkled at that particular spot. 

After the driver made you aware that you had arrived at the location, you paid for the ride, then left the car and your attention was drawn to the nearest building – a Marriage License Bureau sign stretched above its entrance. 

“Are you lost, ma’am?” 

You immediately turned your gaze towards the voice – you only recognised it after a second. As you got out of the cab, you didn't even think about where Bucky was; you didn't look for him, you didn't think of texting him to ask where exactly you were going to meet. And he found you, or rather he waited for you to find him – standing with his back up against one of the pillars, he was just finishing a cigarette. Apart from a smirk, there was a kind of lazy amusement on his face.

You approached him with a few, almost wobbly steps, his eyes bored into you. “How long have you been waiting here?”

“Not too long.” Bucky put out the cigarette on the edge of the dumpster, then threw the stub away. “You're nervous,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly to the side. Usually his ability to read your emotions was something you admired, but you knew that this time you were practically radiating stress.

“You are not?” 

Bucky shook his head; unlike you, he oozed calm. “One of us has to stay sane.”

“Oh, and it has to be you, poor thing?” You raised your eyebrows in pity, to which he nodded confidently. You sighed heavily, turning more serious. “How do you do it..? How do you manage to stay calm?”

Bucky was silent for a moment.

“I don't have that feeling anymore that I have to do it; that I have to marry you. I mean, I have to,” he clarified. “But because it's the only way to have you around. And I want you around, so it's like I want this marriage, huh?” He gave you a half-smile.

You looked away, smiling too; not knowing why, you felt a little shy, a little intimidated by the extent to which he was confident in his decision. 

“Do you want me around?” he asked, and you immediately turned your gaze back to him. “It's your last chance to escape.”

You both knew that there was no better candidate in the whole deal - you didn't think you would have met someone who was as agreeable and respected you as much as Bucky. Bucky, on the other hand, couldn't allow you to be given to someone else; he was too possessive of you. You were also both aware of each other's reasons, and while you might have been pleased with his, Bucky should have felt offended, being anything but the best choice among really average candidates. But he didn't feel offended; you sensed he didn’t.

“Of course I want you around.”

“Then let's go,” he said, smiling. You have probably never seen him so relaxed before – his attitude was somewhat encouraging. “I promise it won't hurt.”

Bucky was right – it didn't hurt.

On that day you were one of the really few couples who applied for a marriage license, so the whole process took a little over fifteen minutes. If someone had told you that a few months ago, you wouldn't have believed it – you wouldn't have believed that a man who shied away from marriage, who was only supposed to help you find a suitable husband, was about to become one himself. Moreover, with a smile on his face, not a look of terror in his eyes. Because that's exactly what he looked like when he held in his hands the document allowing you to get married – in addition to this constant, unrelenting calm, he seemed to feel relieved. You felt it too; you could finally breathe, since not only were you marrying a friend and ally, but you were going to be safe from now on; just like your father's business.

Once you were back at Marion's house, you each holed up in your own bedroom. On your bed were the bags from today's shopping; Bucky's aunt had promised to deliver them home so you wouldn't have to drag them everywhere with you. You laid everything out on the bed – dress, tights, shoes, veil – and looked at all these things. Preparing at the Barnes house under Winnifred and Rebecca's eye had not been a particularly traumatic experience, but now you felt more at ease. Maybe it wasn't so much the fact that you were on your own, but the whole atmosphere? The lack of forcing that Bucky mentioned?

You took another shower, rubbed some lotion on your legs, dried your hair and did some light makeup – it was far too hot for thick layers of foundation or eyeshadow. Besides, Bucky saw you without all that and didn't run away. Well, he did, you thought, but he came back after all.

The open back didn't allow for the presence of a bra, so you only put on your pants – not as stunning as before, but since you were prepared the first time and it was the groom who failed, you now felt completely blameless. Then you slid the fishnets on your legs, gently put on your dress so as not to leave any makeup smudges on it, and with the lack of a big mirror, looking at yourself from above had to be enough. And you were starting to get nervous again, but had already accepted that this was perfectly normal.

You slipped the high heels on your feet, grabbed the veil, then left the room. As you walked down the stairs, as a precaution, you kept your hand on the railing in case you were to twist your ankle in those shoes. Bucky had obviously heard your footsteps, because when you were halfway down, he appeared in the hall. You were able to observe the exact moment when his face took on a soft, slightly amazed expression; his lips almost parted and his breath trapped still in his chest as he watched your every move carefully. You grinned radiantly at him, stopping a few steps before reaching the floor. 

He was again wearing a black suit, a black shirt and a black tie, all of which made him radiate an almost crushing power, an extremely strong energy. Even if he seemed to have forgotten the whole world around him.

Bucky approached the stairs slowly; he breathed hard, blinking hurriedly as if he had just been hit on the head. “I could marry you everyday,” he said, without taking his eyes off you; his gaze wandered all over your body, over every detail.

“We're on the right track,” you remarked, allowing yourself a little pinch. After all, you were getting married for the second time in less than a week. 

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip, the sheer tenderness left in his eyes. He smiled softly. “Will you really be all mine? Just mine?” he asked surprisingly quietly.

“If you want,” you replied just as gently, and Bucky's mouth stretched into a wider, slightly teasing smile. He held out his hand to you, and as you took it, then stepped completely down the stairs, Bucky brought your hands to his lips and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles.

While you had been spending the day with Marion, Bucky had been arranging the place where you were to be married. You wanted as close to the date as possible, so it was decided on a small, definitely tacky, but at the same time charming to a fault chapel. Bucky didn't use his influence to get a better venue somewhere else – he may have been a ruthless gangster, heir to the throne of the underworld kingdom, but he wasn't a cold-hearted bastard, and as long as someone else wanted to get married, he wasn't going to disturb anyone. Besides, you didn't need royal conditions and special treatment.

The floor was covered with concrete, the walls were painted pink; there were artificial flowers and most of the space was taken up by cheap plastic chairs. Also pink. And soothingly empty.

A man in an Elvis costume guided you through the vows. And even though you didn't hear a word this time either, your lips moved in line with their content. But you were drowning – you were drowning in that gentle, happy smile of Bucky's; you were drowning in the way he held your hands the whole time – carefully, though he happened to squeeze them in a sort of nervous twitch. You were drowning in his eyes; in that stormy ocean that seemed uncommonly calm – very different from the first ceremony. 

Elvis let Bucky kiss you and all you could think about was that you were married. For real. And if he decided to run away now, he would still be your husband. 

But he didn't run away; he didn't even look like he was going to run away. He carefully cupped your face, his fingers slipped under your jaw. He smiled at you again with that striking gentleness of a man who might as well have loved you, then placed a cautious kiss on your lips. However, he immediately deepened it and quickly ruined by smiling into your mouth. You smiled back, resting your hands on his. Soon after, he pulled away from you, grabbed one of your wrists and turned it, exposing the cut in your palm. He brushed it with his lips, just as he had the night before, but this time you knew it was with different intentions - to remind you that your blood was still his blood, and his blood was yours; that no matter what, no matter your feelings for each other, no matter the situations you would find yourselves in more than once, you were one; you belonged only to each other.

And then there was that mysterious, suspicious smirk on Bucky's face. In the blink of an eye, he threw you over his shoulder, in the process probably showing Elvis your underwear, and headed for the chapel exit, carrying you – unconcerned in any way; giggling like a teenage girl.

“You didn't mention you have a casino,” you said as the car slowed down in front of the Black Velvet, then turned into the underground parking lot. “So big and beautiful casino,” you added.

“I don't like to brag about all the big and beautiful things I have.” He glanced at you meaningfully. You rolled your eyes, nevertheless unable to hold back an amused smile. “I guess it just never came up,” he answered a little more seriously, shrugging. He turned off the engine, then focused his gaze completely on you.

“You're right,” you agreed. “We were always busy only with my problems.”

“Hey.” He carefully hooked his fingers around your chin, stroked it with his thumb. “From now on, there won't be any problems. Okay?”

It wasn't that simple, there was no way to avoid problems, not in your world. But in that moment Bucky was so convincing you couldn't argue.

“Okay,” you whispered.

You got out of the car, Bucky took your luggage and then you went to the elevator and it took you to the lobby. Bucky led the way to the hotel reception.

“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes.” The young woman behind the counter spoke. “I mean, Mr. Barnes and Mrs…-” She glanced nervously at the computer screen. Bucky looked at you unsurely, as if he didn't know if calling you that way bothered you. 

“Yes,” you said hurriedly, not wanting to keep the receptionist in an awkward position. “Sorry, I was just... thinking.” You gave the woman an apologetic smile.

“A honeymoon suite, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered.

The receptionist typed something on the computer, then handed Bucky a key and wished you both a pleasant stay. You were going to ask Bucky to give you your bag, as you could, after all, carry it yourself, but you closed your mouth faster than you opened it when a loud roar reached you: BUCK!

A man you didn't know was heading towards you, but it seemed he wasn't as unknown to Bucky; anyway, probably everyone there knew Bucky Barnes.

“Who are you hiding there, Buck?” he asked. You leaned out from behind Bucky's back and stood right next to him. The man sized you up with a gaze so disgusting you had to stick your eyes somewhere on the floor. “Aren't you going to introduce me?” 

“No.”

“Is this your new toy? Since she doesn't have a name…” He raised his eyebrows significantly. Bucky clenched his jaw and let out a heavy breath through his nose; he'd lost any remaining patience, if he had any at all. “Listen, do you fancy a little poker game?” The man was not giving up. You supposed it was most likely the alcohol he had consumed that was blinding him to Bucky's anger.

“Yes, actually, I do,” he replied. Your forehead furrowed as you looked at him. Was he really going to play poker now? “Natalie,” he turned to the receptionist, putting your luggage on the counter in front of her. “Have somebody take this to my room,” Bucky said, and when Natalie nodded, he shifted his gaze to you. An apologetic, affectionate gaze; for although he had just emanated anger, he couldn't direct it at you. “Wait for me there, okay? I'll be with you in a minute.”

And then you watched as, clenching and relaxing his hands, he walked away with a man whose name you didn't even learn.

The honeymoon suite was larger than you'd expected. As in the rest of the casino, or at least the part you had seen, dark colors prevailed there; the navy blue walls were brightened up by the wallpaper behind the bed; the pattern was like golden peacock tails; gold sconces were placed here and there, in case the crystal chandelier couldn't handle all that darkness.

You walked up to a huge window overlooking the city. There have been times when you have preferred your own company, but this evening was not one of them. Was this what Bucky meant when he said he wasn't right for marriage? That he would always choose fun and the company of his buddies over his own wife? But you knew him – maybe not inside out, but well enough to know that he wasn't happy to leave you. Maybe he owed something to that man?

Hearing the door open, you creased your forehead. At first you thought it was room service, but you doubted they would have entered without knocking or any other warning. You also doubted that it was Bucky – after all, it had been about fifteen, twenty minutes at most. You moved tentatively towards the door, leaving the bedroom area. You were wrong – it was Bucky, but he looked a little different. You couldn't tell how different at first, but something was definitely off.

“Did you win?” you asked, watching him with your arms crossed. He was standing by the minibar, preparing a drink, but having caught your voice, he looked over his shoulder. 

“Thought you were taking a shower. Or something,” he said. Three ice cubes dropped into a wide crystal glass clinked. “Want one..?”

You expected an explanation. Any kind of explanation. But you were aware that Bucky was not effusive. “Sure.” You sighed quietly and walked closer. As Bucky handed you the glass, you noticed his bruised, bloody knuckles. And it was also then that it occurred to you what was wrong – his clothes seemed to be slightly wrinkled. “What happened?”

Bucky let out a heavy breath but said nothing; instead, he occupied himself with preparing another drink, this time for himself.

“Jamie.” Your voice was soft; you knew you wouldn't convince him to speak with hostility and determination. One of your hands touched his shoulder affectionately; he immediately turned his gaze to it, possibly even to the engagement ring around one of your fingers. “What happened?”

He put down the ice tongs and looked at your face; without taking his eyes off yours, he reached for your hand. He tied his fingers around your wrist and pulled it away from his arm only to close your hand in his. He stroked the top of your hand with his thumb, and you were forced to put your glass down to avoid dropping it.

“That guy, Loonie,” he began. He clenched his jaw helplessly before continuing: “I wanted him to lose some cash first, so I could buy you something pretty. Compensate that you had to meet him.” He smiled without any enthusiasm. “And then I was going to knock his fucking teeth out for running his mouth left and right. But by the time we got to the table, he called my wife a nice piece of ass, so it went faster than I hoped,” he stated emotionlessly, shrugging. “I'm sorry I left you,” he added more gently. “But I couldn't let him walk around and talk shit like that.”

“Bucky…” you whispered, slipping your hand out of his grasp and placing them both on his cheeks. “We need to work on communication, okay? I need to know more about what's going on inside your head.”

Bucky watched your face with heavy breathing; he paused to completely when you touched his face, so now he had to catch up. “I want to kiss you,” he confessed, sending a hot shiver along your spine.

You wanted that too – you wanted him – so you saw no reason why you should make him wait any longer. You moved your hands down to his neck and pulled him closer, making your lips collide. Bucky tightened his fingers on both sides of your body, holding your hips right against his, and he pushed against you enough that you had to lean back. He wasn't pouring the same hunger onto you as he had the night before – now you could feel the need he'd mentioned on your lips, but also the need to take care of you, to hide you from the world. 

Without taking his mouth off yours, he straightened up carefully; one of his arms went around your back, the other under your thighs, but as he lifted you up, it slid under the bend of your knees. He carried you back to the bedroom area, put you down on the bed, and unlike the previous time, you refused to let him move away.

“I'm not going anywhere.” Bucky placed a soft kiss on your forehead and stepped back a bit. 

You sat up in the middle of the big bed, covered with a dark satin bedspread, and lifted your gaze to Bucky. His fingers nimbly undid one shirt button after another, revealing more and more of his naked torso. Your throat dried up again at the sight; you wanted to touch him, or help him take off his clothes faster; you wanted to take off your own, but you were unable to move - you stared at Bucky with fascination and slight insecurity.

The black shirt landed on the floor, right next to the jacket. Your eyes traced Bucky's shoulders, his arms tensing with every movement; and you stopped on his hands – beautiful hands that suffered, bringing justice to your case. He would never let anyone hurt you, not even with a wrong look or the bad words.

His pants fell to his ankles; he stepped out of them and climbed onto the bed, sitting right in front of you. Tentatively, you reached behind your back; you found the short zipper - because of your exposed back, you might as well have taken the dress off without unzipping it, but maybe subconsciously you wanted to buy yourself more time before baring yourself completely. 

You lowered your gaze, your cheeks burning. “Could you help me?”

“Unzip the dress..?”

“Take it off,” you corrected, a slight frustration in your voice.

“Y/N,” Bucky said calmly, lifting your chin for you to look at him. “We don't have to do this if you're not ready.”

“I am,” you protested. You were ready for him the previous night, but then your head was occupied with something else; you didn't have that sober realization that Bucky would see you naked any minute. “It’s just… I'm a little nervous.”

“It's okay. I'm nervous, too.” He smiled softly. “Do you still want me to help you with the dress..?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Bucky reached for the fabric on your shoulders and slowly, delicately pulled it down, exposing your breasts. He let out the air that had accumulated in his lungs, blowing a cool breath over them; brushing your heated skin, your hardened nipples.

“I see no reason to be nervous here,” he claimed, lifting his eyes to yours. “You are the prettiest girl I've ever seen.”

You blushed, rolling your eyes. “That’s not true.”

“And how would you know?” He raised his eyebrows. “You have a beautiful body, I promise. Let me show you.” He reached to your wrists and embraced them carefully, then directed your hands to your chest; he placed your hands on your breasts, covering them with his own. He tightened his fingers so that you did the same – so that your palms squeezed your own breasts. “Feel that? Feel how beautiful it is?” Bucky asked in a whisper, and you parted your lips slightly to breathe. Without taking his hands off yours, he slid them lower; over your ribs, stomach and hips, down to your thighs. As you looked away from what your hands were doing, you saw Bucky studying your face. You glanced at his lips and he leaned towards you and pushed against yours, therefore forcing you to lie down with his own body. 

He pulled your dress down over your legs and threw it somewhere on the floor, then your tights. Soon you felt the weight of his body on yours again – he was pleasantly closing you into some sort of safe space.

Bucky once again pressed a kiss to your lips with the longing you already knew, but also with the restraint. You didn't want anything to hold him back, so you immediately deepened the caress, invading between his lips. He murmured with delight, eagerly accepting your tongue, which effortlessly found his. They tangled together in the same wet, warm, sticky mess, but this time without the hunger there – you were giving each other time and space to explore your bodies; Bucky massaging your tongue with his pleasurably enough so that you couldn't be impatient. 

One of his hands cupped your breast, he stroked your hard nipple with his thumb and you gasped and twitched under his touch. He began to roll circles on it, pulled away from your mouth and went lower to grab the other of your nipples between his teeth. He bit it gently and then sucked on it, teasing this one of the many tender points with his tongue. Your breathing became uneven, shallow. You felt the throbbing heat between your legs, your pants soaked with your burning need to be filled.

Bucky placed several kisses below your breasts and on your stomach, leaving a wet trail down to your belly button. He hooked his fingers around the edge of your underwear and pulled it down; you lifted your hips to make it easier for him to get rid of that too.

You felt his heated, soft lips on the inside of one of your thighs. He sucked at your skin in that spot.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

“Yeah?” he answered quietly. 

“I need you inside me. Now,” you said, not quite believing that this desperate request had left your mouth. But you were too dazed with desire, too smitten with everything he was doing to you. “Please.”

“You don't have to ask me for anything, baby,” Bucky protested immediately. He took off his underwear and towered over you again. You stared at the taut length between his legs.

Bucky grabbed his cock and, settling more comfortably between your thighs, directed it at your wet, waiting entrance; he brushed hard against it with the head, and you moaned uncontrollably. Soon you felt his tip thrust into you cautiously but firmly; Bucky groaned softly, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes. Yes,” You replied without thinking. Bucky thrust his hips against yours, sliding in full length. You parted your lips and a hollow breath escaped your throat.

He began to move; slowly and gently at first, so that he could study the new territory, and your every little reaction. You placed one of your hands on the nape of his neck, then slid your fingers into his hair and clenched them there, giving release to the pleasure rippling through your body. You looked into Bucky's eyes while doing so, and although your mind was working less and less consciously, you could see some nervousness in them.

“Jamie,” you said. Your voice was now a mixture of soft moans and heavy, shaky breaths. “Relax. Everything is..- f-fine,” you assured honestly. Bucky smiled crookedly, but without conviction. “Come here.” Your hand put a little pressure on the back of his neck, making him lean even closer to you. You kissed him as much as your parted lips would allow, your other hand clenching on his shoulder; your nails dug somewhere into his shoulder blade, and Bucky let out a quiet whimper. Immediately afterwards, he placed a few wet, sloppy kisses on your cheek, and his movements quickened – still not very rapid, but his dick was rubbing against your walls, stretching you again and again, bringing almost overwhelming pleasure. 

You could feel his hot breath on the side of your face as he moaned softly directly into your ear – something you would never expect from him, but the sounds only intensified the sensations. That was enough for you to reach orgasm – just listening to the evidence of the pleasure he was taking from your body.

You couldn't bear it any longer. You wanted the whole act to last for an eternity, but the built-up tension in your lower stomach had to explode eventually. Your head tilted back, your back detached from the mattress, arching; your whole body stiffened, paralyzed by the satisfaction spilling everywhere. Only after a moment were you able to let out a few shallow, quick breaths that had previously been stuck in your throat. 

Bucky pressed his mouth to yours again; first he could barely kiss you; dazed by the sensation, and then his lips parted over yours, making you breathe only each other's air; your breath belonged to him, and his breath was yours and yours alone. 

Bucky's body tensed as well; he froze in place, letting out a raspy grunt. He closed his eyes, and you watched his face flush with relief. You placed your hands on his cheeks and stroked the rough, heated surface. Bucky looked at you sleepily.

“Hi,” you whispered, giving him a gentle smile. He returned the gesture, but much more lightly.

“Hi,” he answered in the same tone, leaning over to kiss your lips again. Then he went back to resting on his elbows, without taking his eyes off your face, and with a caution still unfamiliar to you, he brushed a few strands of hair away from your forehead.

“Wasn't it too vanilla for your taste?” you asked suddenly.

Bucky furrowed, smiling with hesitation. “What?” he snorted. 

“You know, vanilla in a way-”

“Yeah, I know what it means.” He slid out of you, making you flinch slightly, then collapsed into the spot beside you. A sudden, uncomfortable coldness washed over your body, so you reached for the edge of the satin bedspread and covered yourself with it. 

Bucky turned his head so he could look at you. He reached out and brushed his knuckles against your cheek. “I don't know what you like. I didn't want to be too rough with you, didn't want to hurt you,” he said. “But we'll work on that. Figure it out.”

“I'm open to everything.” You shrugged. Bucky laughed quietly.

Holding the bedspread over your breasts, you sat up. “I need a shower.” You sighed. Looking around the bed, you realized that you were unlikely to be able to wrap yourself in the bedspread and take it to the bathroom.

“Do you want me to close my eyes?” Bucky asked; he was not mean or even biting, there was a sincere wish in his voice to make every little step easier for you. Nevertheless, he smirked with soft amusement, putting you in a somewhat better mood as well.

“You don’t have to.” You let go of the fabric, but immediately crossed your arms over your chest, covering your breasts.

“Alright, I'm not looking.”

When you glanced at him, his eyes were indeed closed. You grinned to yourself, got up from the bed, and, having grabbed your bag, snuck into the bathroom.

It was something completely new – being touched by him in that way. Before, he had seemed to be cold, rough, maybe even indifferent to you, but for some time now you had the opportunity to get to know his softer, vulnerable side. You knew that he was caring, but you suspected until now that this had a kind of sterile, professional dimension. Now you saw it in a slightly different light. 

While Bucky was in the shower and you in bed, you decided to text Suzie. You exchanged a few messages, but in the end you didn't reveal to her exactly where you were and why. You got the impression that Bucky had made an effort to make it a secret, so you weren't going to reveal it. At the same time you were texting with Connie, or rather sent her an emoji of a ring, a chapel and a bride. In response, you received an eggplant with a question mark, and although you snorted with laughter, you decided to leave it on read. 

You lifted your eyes from the screen, hearing the click of the bathroom door – in nothing but his briefs, Bucky ran his fingers through his damp hair. You had seen more, much more, but you were still impressed by the sight.

He slipped under the covers and you put the phone down on the bedside table, then adjusted your pillow so you could lie down. As you did so, you were overwhelmed by a tiredness you hadn't felt before – all the emotions of the day had sucked all the energy out of you. On the other hand, you again were a little anxious about sleeping in one bed with Bucky.

“You okay?” he asked as if he was reading your mind.

“Yeah,” you lied smoothly. “Goodnight,” you added, plastering a slight smile on your face, and turned your back to him. 

“What are you doing?” The harmless amusement rang in his voice again.

“I don't want you to watch me sleep. It's… You know.”

He didn't say anything. What you received in response was the rustling of the bedding and the mattress sinking beneath you. Bucky lay down right behind you, pressing his body against your back, and carefully put his arm over your waist, leaving it near your stomach. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Great,” he replied, then let out a heavy breath, tickling your bare shoulder.

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leaaa008 @itvy5601 @melsunshine @pattiemac1 @marvel-fandom23 @rabbitrabbit12321 @xsecretsirenx @heyyitsreign @xhollycowx @samfreakingwinchester @thrnlvr @samjuarezzz @loustan90 @kandis-mom @abaker74

[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 09

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 5,1k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.),

series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

It had only been a few hours since the whole disaster.

Before, you had thought that you would return to your family home purely to collect your things; now you were lying in your bed again, in a room buried in the darkness of the night, staring mindlessly at the white dress hanging over the back of a chair. You associated it not with being abandoned, but with the nightmare that was your wedding. Maybe Bucky was doing you a favor? He'd bought you some time before you had to go through all that again, to eventually tie the knot anyway?

You didn't blame him for doing it. He had made it clear to you right from the start that such a relationship was out of the question; in fact, he had told you so at every turn – that he wasn't husband material, that he wasn't trying to be charming, that he was a stubborn asshole, a piece of shit…

But the truth was – despite everything – you didn't see him that way. To you, he was just a scared, confused human trying to do this for you. He had failed, the situation had overwhelmed him, and all you could think about was how much you wanted to see him. Where was he now? What was he up to?

What did Timothy say to him?

Although Michael participated in this conversation, he did not want to reveal its details to you. He decided that it was a man's conversation, and it was better for you to stay in the dark about it. Apart from a businesslike, practical alliance, you no longer had anything in common with the Barnes. But if it had been up to you, you would have crushed that alliance and shoved it down Timothy's throat. However, destroying a long-standing friendship was not in your intentions, but one thing remained clear – Timothy Barnes wasn’t your friend. Now you weren't even sure he had ever been your father's friend. You understood that he cared about securing his Family, but he shouldn't have kept that from you. 

You rolled onto your back, your eyes stuck on the ceiling.

At that point, you didn't really care what was going to happen next. You didn't care about your future or the fate of your Family; you figured you had every right to, since submitting to the expectations of others wasn't producing the desired results. You needed a moment without worrying about everything and everyone. You would have liked to focus entirely on yourself, but your thoughts revolved around him. It was far too soon to forget, but why couldn't you hate him? You were naive and weak. But you could allow yourself to be. At least until the morning.

Suddenly, you pulled yourself up to a sitting position. You heard something, or you only thought you did, still, you froze motionless, listening to the sounds of your surroundings. 

There it was again – a quiet knock, knock coming from somewhere downstairs.

Your heart beat almost painfully; you left the bed, hesitant and a little stiff, and although you immediately wanted to be at the door, you got out of the bedroom carefully, then went down the stairs to the floor below. Without thinking much, you turned the key in the lock and pulled the handle. And your first instinct was to be terribly disappointed when you found Sam Wilson behind the door. 

“We don't have much time,” he began, before you had a chance to say anything. “I parked across the street. A black car,” he emphasized, as if you should remember this particular piece of information. “I will wait ten minutes. If you don't show up, the case will be closed. If you're going to show up, you'd better pack some things.” Without waiting for your answer, he turned and walked away.

You were more than surprised – completely thrown off guard. You had loads of questions, but no time to dwell on them. Sam had only given you ten minutes and you weren't going to waste a second. You couldn't even imagine what it could all mean, but you felt with all your being that you had to make the most of this opportunity. All the heaviness, the soreness, all the lethargy you had been stuck in for hours - it was all gone, replaced by a sudden adrenaline and a need for action.

When you rushed back into your bedroom, you immediately found the bag you had packed with Connie's help much earlier – you weren't sure where you were going to go after the wedding, so you wanted to be prepared, and even though the wedding didn't work out, the bag turned out to be a lifesaver. At least you were confident you'd make it to Sam's car in time.

You grabbed your phone, which you'd turned off anyway beforehand so you wouldn't have to talk to anyone, your charger from the bedside table, and pulled Bucky's sweatshirt from the wardrobe. Everything else you might need fit into the bag. Before just leaving the house, you slipped comfortable sneakers on your feet, meanwhile you turned on your phone and texted Suzie to lock up the house. In the process, you read a message from an unknown number; Sam had tried to contact you earlier.

You stepped out into the cool, refreshing night air. You threw your hood over your head, adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder, and, having taken a look around, walked to the other side of the street. You expected to find a typical SUV somewhere on your path, but after a dozen or so steps you reached an area where the only car was a black sedan. So Sam wanted to give the impression of being a civilian. You ran up to the car, and it started up ready to go before you touched the handle.

You shut the door behind you and looked around the interior of the vehicle, but the only person inside was Sam.

“What’s going on?” you asked. “Where are we going?” 

“We're going to fix something.”

The car stopped in front of an isolated, abandoned hangar. 

You were on pins and needles the whole way, and reaching – as it turned out – the destination didn't bring you peace of mind. Not having the slightest idea what you could expect, you were even more nervous.

You took your bag from the back seat and followed Sam to the entrance. He opened the heavy metal door with a creak indicating a lack of proper care for the building, and let you inside. For a hangar, the interior of this particular one was surprisingly dimly lit; the enormous space was unpleasantly cold.

You heard quiet, echoing footsteps, so you immediately turned to look in that direction. Seeing him, you unconsciously held your breath, and all the emotions bothering you that day, which had not yet found their way out, gathered in your eyes in the form of tears. As the first, salty, burning tear ran down your heated cheek, you dropped your bag so that you could freely cover your face with your hands; to hide from him in this moment of weakness.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Bucky said softly. You didn't even notice when he crossed the distance separating you and got right beside you. He scooped you into his arms, drew you close to his firm, warm body and closed yours in a strong yet gentle embrace; one of his hands remained in place, wrapped around your back, the other moved higher, to the back of your head – he stroked your hair tenderly, and you still felt like hiding, but this time not from him but from the whole world, in his arms; you wanted to melt into his body, into his broad chest.

“You f-fucking-,” you choked out between sobs, tightening your fingers on the material of his t-shirt.

“I know, Y/N. I acted like a dick,” he agreed without hesitation. “Cry it out, just like that,” he praised, keeping on stroking your hair. “Can you take a deep breath? Come on,” he instructed gently. Your chest was beginning to ache because of the spasms of crying clenching your muscles, so you obediently breathed air into your lungs. “Yeah, just like that.”

You knew what you had to do next, and Bucky knew what you needed. Clarity of mind and calm slowly returned to you, but there was still that most important part.

You lifted your head and looked at Bucky’s face, therefore meeting his gaze. He was watching you in such a soft, vulnerable way that made you feel like crying all over again. He moved his hand from the back of your head to the side of your face and tenderly wiped your wet cheek; you could feel his skin on your skin, and the bandage he must have used to wrap the cut in his palm.

That reminded you of the situation from a few hours ago; of the lack of knowledge regarding your appearance here. Despite everything, you didn't have the slightest desire to break out of his arms. Why would you deprive yourself of this comfort and sense of safety? You deserved it, especially after the events of the last twenty-four hours; maybe even the last few months.

“You left me,” you finally spoke, your voice weak because of all the crying.

“Only for a moment.”

“For a moment?” Your forehead puckered. “You destroyed the agreement,” you said, pulling away from him against your will. A flash of mild anger didn't let you stand as close as before. “We are no longer married, I am alone again and still need a husband,” you pointed, determined to make Bucky realize the situation he had put you in.

He sighed heavily. “I know what I did. But I didn't do it without a reason,” he claimed, making you even more confused. He clenched his jaw briefly, not taking his eyes off you. “I owe my uncle a debt. After my father's death, I should’ve been the head of the Family, but I couldn't handle it, I wasn't in the right place. Timothy stepped in, helped me out,” he admitted reluctantly. “Now he wants complete obedience from me; he expects me to do absolutely everything for him, and basically, he is right, because otherwise it would be a betrayal. But I couldn't let him use this against you. You don't owe him anything.”

Now you understood his position – you understood it, and in that moment you hated the feeling, your forbearance. But you said nothing; just folded your arms, waiting for further explanation.

“We can still get married,” Bucky continued. “But outside his rules and conditions.”

Your eyes went round, that familiar wave of warmth ran through your body. “What… What do you mean?”

“All we have to do is actually get married. Legally, without any deals, tricks or fucking loopholes.” He took a small step towards you, and probably didn't predict that you wouldn't move away this time. “We'll just create a proper prenup, and when you want to divorce, you'll get back everything that was yours before the marriage.”

You raised your eyebrows. Up to now you had been convinced that he had run away because he didn't want to get married, and it turned out that he wanted to get married again. You didn't even know which question you should ask first. “Buck…” you said tentatively, as if that would bring him back to his senses. “An actual marriage is something different, something more... real.”

“People get married for various reasons,” he asserted, not giving up. Your sceptical approach was no obstacle. “For money, insurance, visas…” Bucky listed casually. And he was himself again – a calculating, clear-thinking strategist. He impressed the hell out of you with that. “As my wife, you will still become part of my Family, and this’ll give you protection. Except it will all happen more naturally, not like my uncle wanted. We will have more freedom.”

There was still too much chaos in your head for you to be able to pick out any rational thought. “Wait…” You raised your hand, closing your eyes for a moment. “Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier? Why did you leave me like that? I was scared to death.”

“My plan was just coming clear then, at the wedding,” he confessed, his lips pressed together in an unenthusiastic smile. “I didn't want to tell you about it till I was sure. Till I could find some safe place for us.”

His words effectively made you soft. “And did you find one..?”

You could see that for a split second he hesitated; as if he wasn't sure how you would react to further news. “Vegas..?”

“Of course Vegas.” You rolled your eyes, shaking your head.

“Look, it'll be quick and relatively painless.”

“I haven't agreed yet.”

“Then why didn't you take off the ring?”

Your eyes wandered to your hand. Bucky was a little too observant for your taste; his grandmother's ring stayed on your finger. Unlike the wedding band. Maybe you kept it subconsciously, since the ring had such sentimental value?

“You already ran away once, so why do you still want this? You could’ve never come back, wouldn't it be easier?” Having looked back at his face, you could tell he wasn’t offended by your question.

“You still need me. This marriage,” Bucky answered, and didn't do it with audacity or meanness; he was simply stating a fact. “And Timothy fucked me over, so I want to do the same to him, just for the hell of it.” He shrugged indifferently. For a while, he stared at you in silence. “And… I didn't see through his intrigue, because I was distracted… By you.” His jaw clenched. You swallowed hard, your palms became wet, and a warmth flared up again in the pit of your stomach. Bucky turned his gaze away, sticking it into the ground. “So, I need this marriage too, I guess.”  

You took an uneven breath and scratched the back of your neck. Bucky was distracted by thoughts of your safety, or...? “What other choice do I have?” you asked; partly out of curiosity, partly for the appearance that this marriage was not your last resort at all.

Bucky immediately brought his eyes back to you, his face taking on the harsh expression with which he usually handled business. “If you don't agree to do this, I will personally find you a suitable partner. I won't be more picky than necessary. And then I will disappear from your life for good,” he said bluntly.

You nodded slowly, absorbing that side of the story. You gave yourself some time to imagine it somehow – you with someone else; someone who wasn't Bucky. Then you remembered the weeks of longing when you were dating John Walker, and already knew that you didn't stand much chance of surviving without Bucky beside you.

Still, you decided to approach it with calm. “Okay.”

To your surprise, Bucky's face lit up with a slightly excited, satisfied smile. “Yeah?”

You nodded again, also unable to stop a grin creeping onto your lips.

“Whose house is this?” you asked as the headlights fell on the stately building.

“My godmother’s,” Bucky answered, turning off the engine. “I know there is no lack of hotels in Vegas,” he added straight away. “But I need a good night's sleep, and I trust my aunt enough to get some shut-eye.”

You shrugged. “I don't mind. After all, we'll all become one big, loving family, right?”

Apart from the clear, audible irony in your voice, Bucky smirked with delight. You wondered when the thought of marriage – of you being together – had stopped burning him. You supposed he was just exhausted; you both were. After a total of forty hours of car trip, interrupted only by bathroom stops. You took turns at the wheel so that the other could rest, but Bucky's stubbornness resulted in him driving most of the time. 

You got out of the car. Bucky opened the trunk so you could get your bags out, then you headed to the front door. Despite the evening, it was hot outside; not as torturous as during the day, but it was doing its job.

The aunt that Bucky mentioned greeted you right at the door. She put her arm around Bucky's shoulders, their cheeks brushed together. In your case, she respected your possible need for personal space; she looked at you carefully but not suspiciously. “Is this the girl?”

Bucky also glanced at you, as if he had to make sure his aunt was talking about you; as if he had to make sure you were still there. “Yeah. Y/N,” he confirmed.

“Marion.” She held out her hand to you, which you shook. “Jamie told me a little about the situation you kids are in,” she began, and you were prepared to hear some scolding words, disapproval. “That prick, my brother, didn't inform me – not to mention the invitation – about my godson's wedding?” She snorted with annoyance and almost contempt. “You’re doing the right thing, and have my full support, and the place to stay, for as long as you want.” 

Although you and Bucky preferred to freshen up and rest after your trip, Marion persuaded you to have dinner with her. Her justifications for why you should do so were really reasonable – firstly, her chef had served the meal minutes before you arrived; secondly, Marion was going to leave the house right after dinner, and as befits an exemplary hostess, she wanted to spend some time with her guests. And with that, you had the opportunity to get to know Bucky's aunt a little better.

She ran a casino and owned an elegant nightclub, she was independent not only financially – she had no husband and no children; she lived as she wished and with whom she wished, and she must have been really organized, since the businesses she operated did not fail, on the contrary, they were doing very well, as you could tell from the luxurious furnishings of her house, expensive designer clothes and sophisticated dishes, prepared by her costly chef. 

You were jealous of this life; maybe not its pace, but this independence – Marion Barnes didn't have to marry anyone to stay alive. You learned that the Barnes simply didn't do that – they didn't give away their children; they didn't arrange marriages; they didn't take part in weddings for the sake of business. Considering Timothy, this wasn't a very strong rule.

Pulled abruptly out of your sleep by something that seemed so terrifyingly real, your gaze wandered unconsciously over your surroundings; a new room, a strange room. Only after a while did you remember where you were and why. You were given two separate bedrooms; Bucky didn't care where he was going to sleep, and you felt a little more comfortable alone. But at that moment you didn’t feel comfortable at all. 

Memories of what you had just experienced swirled vividly in your mind – you were standing in Timothy's cave, wearing a white dress and veil, and you were about to be married by Elvis himself. The thing was, Bucky, your groom, was sitting in the front row right next to his uncle; they looked at you with amusement, whispered something to each other and burst out laughing. Bucky never stood at the altar; he whispered back and forth to Timothy and they both laughed. They laughed at you – at how stupid and naive you were.

You got out of bed and walked noiselessly to the bathroom. Having turned on the cold water, you washed your face. It helped; you felt less panicked. But were you still so sure of your decision?

Because of the dry air, your throat was craving water; anything to drink, so instead of returning to your bedroom, you went to the kitchen. Despite the fact that the whole house was air-conditioned, the downstairs was much more pleasantly cool than the floor above. Maybe you felt this way because of the cooled tiles your bare feet touched.

Having found a glass in one of the cabinets, you filled it with tap water; it had a slightly strange aftertaste, but you wouldn't call it bad. Besides, your dry throat would settle for anything.

“Can’t sleep?”

You almost dropped the glass. Though you knew his voice, you were still startled to see Bucky when you turned around. He was leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen entrance, and you – regardless of the temperature around – felt hot again. The muscles of his crossed arms strained and accentuated, but you had seen those before. Unlike his torso. You knew he had a broad chest, but shirtless it evoked a completely different sensation in you; you also expected a well-sculpted stomach, but expecting and seeing with your own eyes were two different things, and your own body didn't let you confuse the two experiences. And his thighs? Oh, his thighs…

Apart from his face – as beautiful when it expressed tenderness as when it expressed indifference, his spirit – so unpredictable but caring for you for no apparent reason, there was also his body – perfect, godlike, seeming to have cost a ton of work.

With restless eyes you scanned what was in front of you, your throat getting dry again. You were stunned, as if you had never seen a man in just his underwear before. You had. But you were convinced that you didn't miss any physical contact after that situation in the nightclub; after you almost let some man get into your pants. And you didn't miss it. You didn't miss just some man; you desired Bucky – you'd been drawn to him since that evening when he and Timothy turned up at your house.

You suddenly remembered that he could see you too; see the way you were looking at him. Tentatively, you lifted your gaze to his face – puffy because of the recently interrupted sleep, rested – and met his stare. For a brief moment you wondered why he let you do that; why he didn't stop you.

You brought the glass back to your lips and drank the rest of the water.

“I had a bad dream. And you..?”

“And I have my future wife in the back of my mind, and something told me to check if she was safe,” Bucky said with conviction, pulling away from the doorframe. He casually walked closer and rested his lower back against the edge of the kitchen counter. “Tell me.”

“About my dream?” you asked, to which he nodded. “There is nothing to talk about. It was... weird.” You shrugged. “I think... I think I'm subconsciously afraid of this wedding.” You nibbled your bottom lip and looked away. “You left me the first time, so who knows what will happen next time.”

Bucky gasped. “I didn't leave you. And I never was going to. I just changed the plan,” he asserted. “I know I should have told you earlier.” Seeing your lips parting, he interrupted you before you had the chance to speak. “I made a mistake, I know that now. And I will keep making them. I'm just learning, Y/N.”

“And all of this has no right to hurt me, and I can't get angry, because from the very start, you didn't want any of it. I get it,” you answered calmly.

“I didn't say that,” Bucky protested, standing right in front of you. “I said you're not in my debt, and that hasn't changed. I-” he paused for a moment, his mouth set in a hard line. “The truth is, I would not let you marry anyone else. I couldn't stand it. I would go fucking mad,” he added. Firmly, yet cautiously, he grabbed your hand and brought it to his face. Without taking his eyes away from yours, he placed a barely noticeable kiss on your palm; on the still unhealed cut. “I told you,” he whispered. “I stepped into your life, and now I can’t get out. Don’t want to. Okay?”

You replied with a delicate nod.

“No, baby,” Bucky continued in the same low tone, and a cloud of butterflies rose up in your stomach. “I need to hear it from you. To be sure you understand.”

Your bodies were only millimeters apart; you could feel the heat radiating from him, the warmth of his breath on your cheeks.

“I understand.”

“You understand what?” he asked softly, persistently searching for something in your eyes – Fear? Decisiveness? Resentment? Permission?

“That you’re jealous-”

“Very jealous.” His voice was more like a heavy breath.

“And that you would be angry if I married someone else-” you added. Bucky sucked hungrily on his bottom lip, his stare seemed half-conscious, he shook his head slowly. “You would go mad,” you corrected yourself.

“Mm-hm,” he murmured, and keeping his instincts in check, covered the rest of the distance separating you, then pressed his lips to yours. You instinctively lowered your eyelids, and as his soft mouth laid on yours, you were hit by a wave of unknown sensations. 

You welcomed him without thinking, throwing your arms around his neck. 

When you did; when you allowed his mouth to devour, to abuse yours, his inner leash tightened and then snapped, enabling him to let it all go. He thrust his body against yours with surprising force and need – it was so rapid that the bottom of your spine collided painfully with the edge of the countertops.

You moaned – not from the feeling of sudden discomfort in your lower back, but from the overload of impulses coming from everywhere; his lips turning the mouths of you both into a wet, sweet mess, his stubble so rough on your chin and cheeks, his massive body pushing against yours, caging it and cutting off a way out that you hadn't even considered.

Bucky's hands desperately slipped down the sides of your body, over the silky material of your nightgown, and stopped under your tights; he squeezed your ass, making you gasp. He lifted you up, and you involuntarily wrapped your legs around his hips; he sat you on the countertop and pressed himself between your thighs. His tongue slid between your lips, and again, you eagerly welcomed it. Warm, soft, wet, it explored the inside of your mouth, the texture and taste of your own tongue; and this time it was Bucky who let out a whimper – desperate, yearning for a feeling he'd never experienced before; this horrible hunger you were driving him into. There was no doubt that Bucky wanted you as much as you wanted him.

You felt something hard on the inside of your thigh. You barely pulled away from his mouth to see it – the material of his briefs stretching over his stiff cock, stopping it from jumping out. You felt lightheaded when staring at it, but also somewhat delighted – it was all for you, because of you. 

You dared to reach out your hand for what was soon to be yours; your fingertips touched - still through the material of his underwear – his bulging length, and Bucky let out a rasping sound. He immediately grabbed your wrist, stopping you from going any further.

With lips parted and swollen from kisses, eyes full of desire yet innocence, you looked at his face. He wasn't angry or displeased; he was burning with an aching need, and you both knew that sinking his cock inside you would put out that fire, ease that pain – for you both.

“I can’t,” Bucky said, panting. “I want to do it right, the way you deserve. And now I don't trust myself.” 

You didn't share his opinion – you were ready to take him now, anytime. But you respected his boundaries. “Okay,” you whispered; your voice weaker than you expected. Bucky smiled, then placed a tender kiss on your forehead. Not being able to resist, you glanced restlessly at his crotch again. 

“Don't worry, baby, I won't touch myself. I'll wait for you, promise,” he said with slight amusement somewhere into your hair, leaving another kiss there. He moved away a little.  “Come on. I'll walk you to your room,” he instructed and put his hands on your hips so that you could safely slide off the countertop. 

“You don’t have to, I’ll be fine,” you claimed, but in reality, you were glad to have him right next to you – your legs were like jelly.

“Yeah, I know, but-” He exhaled heavily, glancing down. “I need to, uh- walk it off.”

Drunk with all the touch, the heat, the wetness and the rest of the experiences of a moment ago, you let out a soft giggle.

True to his word, Bucky escorted you to your bedroom. Seeing his exposed body, remembering how much strength he possessed, you were amazed at how someone so big, so strong moved so silently. With that, you realized how little you knew about him; how little you had managed to observe so far in a man who was to play such an important role in your life.

Feeling his hand on your hip, you looked at him immediately. “You okay?” he asked.

You were tired, distracted, still insatiable. Nevertheless, you nodded in response, and after a brief consideration – which was more like staring into a black hole – you climbed on your toes, and, resting your hands on his shoulders, crashed your lips into his. Bucky instinctively wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing you against his body as tightly as possible. He grunted into your mouth. 

Although there was still that devouring fire smoldering between you, that kiss was different from the previous one – slow, lazy, as if you were giving each other time to get to know your lips, even though they were still pulsating from the last caresses. 

Bucky's mouth parted; he let out a loud, heavy breath. You sucked on his lower lip, then bit it - a little harder than you both expected; Bucky hissed, and you tasted blood. You pulled away, but he didn't look angry or even shocked. He touched his lips with his thumb, and when he saw the blood, he smirked. “Don’t make me break my promise, baby.”

“Sorry-” you said quietly, but he shook his head.

“That’s okay,” Bucky answered, leaned towards you again and pecked on your lips gently. “If you have a bad dream again, you come to me, alright?”

“Alright.”

He opened the door for you and waited until you got inside and made your way back to the bed. He gave you another smile before disappearing from your sight.

You let out a heavy breath, closed your eyes and flopped back on the mattress. You were aware that you wouldn't fall asleep, but it wasn't the nightmares that were to blame.

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leaaa008 @itvy5601 @melsunshine @pattiemac1 @marvel-fandom23 @rabbitrabbit12321 @xsecretsirenx @heyyitsreign @xhollycowx @samfreakingwinchester @thrnlvr @samjuarezzz

[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 08

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 3,6k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.), a/n: this chapter smells like a soap opera, but i couldn't help myself. i was in a silly goofy mood, please don’t hate me<3

series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

chapter sneak peek: But you and Bucky didn't follow the other guests. You didn't know the detailed layout of the rooms in that house, and the only secluded place you knew was the toilet. You dragged Bucky there almost by force, and apparently expecting an escalation of whatever was on your mind, he allowed you to do so.

“I'm sure you'll look beautiful, sweetheart,” Winnifred cooed. “I can't wait for the final result!” she added on her way to leave the room.

You spent the past few hours in Rebecca's bedroom, because that's where – aside from a large mirror, which rather every bedroom in the Barnes house was equipped with – was a vanity table; a really convenient solution when it came to doing your makeup and hair. 

The upcoming ceremony didn't quite meet the criteria of typical weddings; there were only a few days to organize everything since the pre-agreement was signed. In all the chaos, there was no room to think about the choice of wedding dress or hall; you didn't have time to choose the flowers, the design of the invitations (there weren't even any invitations), the cake or the music. And you didn't particularly regret not having the opportunity to do so. It wasn't a real wedding – it didn't take place because two people who loved each other decided to get married. And since it didn't matter much, you didn't feel the need to care about any of the details.

It was different for Winnifred. She was aware of the same things as you, but that didn't stop her from beaming with excitement. You found this extremely charming; largely because of your own mother. As you left the house this morning she said, This boy will be the death of you.

Rebecca entered the bedroom, which surprised you a little. She had every right to be in a room that belonged to her, but since you had arrived at the Barnes mansion a few hours ago, Rebecca had been avoiding you.

You hesitantly put down your mascara, regretting that you had only just finished doing your eyes. Otherwise, you would have had an excuse not to confront Rebecca in any way.

“My mom is right. You will be a lovely bride,” she said, giving you a weak smile. 

“Thank you.” You returned the friendly gesture, but were able to guess that it looked rather inept.

“Listen…” Rebecca sighed. “I'm sorry for the way I acted at dinner that night. I feel really horrible.”

“That's okay. You just had a bad day, I get it,” you replied. You didn't dare confess that you knew Rebecca's reasons for behaving the way she did. You feared that she would be furious to learn that her own sister had told you about this side of her life. 

Rebecca seemed unsatisfied with your words. “I'm really sorry for what I said. Especially since I can see that you are not some random girl at all.” 

Only after a moment did you realize that her gaze had landed on your engagement ring. Immediately, you felt a hot wave of sickening shame. 

“I'm sorry, I'm not the one who should be wearing it,” you claimed, asserting what you had told Bucky earlier.

“Jamie wouldn't have given it to you if he thought it would end up in the wrong hands.” Rebecca smiled a little more confidently. “He obviously knows what he's doing.”

Yes, you've heard that before.

“Do you need help with your hair?” she proposed. “I swear I'm not going to destroy it in revenge.” 

You laughed quietly. “Yes, please.” Accepting this offer had little to do with politeness or wanting to make Rebecca feel better. Indeed, you needed help.

Rebecca stood behind you, reached for a brush and began to comb your hair. She did this with extreme gentleness. “Are you nervous?”

“A bit,” you answered after a short thought, looking at your reflection. “But considering I'm marrying someone I've only known for a few weeks... That's normal, I guess.” 

“You shouldn’t be. I am not trying to sell you my brother,” she remarked, raising her eyebrows. “But he will take care of you. You should just be careful what you wish for.”

You didn't show in any way that Rebecca's words intrigued you. You guessed that they had to do with Robbie's disappearance, but you chose not to ask. Rebecca was reaching out to you, being even a sweetheart, like the big sister you needed on that day. Destroying it would be a real stupid thing to do, and you weren't going to sabotage the atmosphere around your own wedding.

She did your hair, and although you weren't sure what you actually wanted, Rebecca managed to achieve a satisfying result. When it was time to shed your robe, Connie's absence began to bother you. You needed someone to point out your lace lingerie and crack a few dirty jokes about your wedding night. You weren't counting on Rebecca. Even if she had a slightly different character, the very thought of talking about it with the groom's sister was uncomfortable enough.

You fixed your gaze on the white dress spread out on the bed. Since this wedding wasn't exactly a traditional wedding, you hadn't quite understood why you couldn't have chosen a dress in any other color. And surprisingly, the person who explained to you some of the issues around this subject was Michael. Now you knew that when marrying someone like Bucky Barnes, the right symbolism had to be taken care of – purity and innocence. You had to give the impression of being untouched, waiting for your husband, apart from whom no other man existed. You had to be innocent; to do him no harm, to agree with his opinion, to submit to him. You didn't believe that anyone from the two Families – who were the only guests at this wedding, witnesses to the joining of the two clans for good – cared whether you were a good, silent virgin with no opinion of your own or not. But it was all about appearances. Though, perhaps, the elders of this community actually cared about such details?

After Rebecca had also helped you with your dress, you finally stood in front of a large mirror and looked closely at your reflection. You couldn't make up your mind how you felt about it all; before the wedding, for which you hadn't decided on the slightest thing, in the dress you and Winnifred had bought at the last minute. Staring at yourself like that, you realized that nothing really mattered much to you. You just wanted to get it over with.

Winnifred returned to the bedroom; you first saw her only in the mirror, and when you turned around, you noticed a bouquet in her hands. “I knew you would look beautiful,” she said with delight, her gaze expressing a tenderness you couldn't recall seeing in your own mother. She shook her head as if she had just remembered something. “I have something for you.” She handed you the bouquet of pink carnations and white freesias, tied with a silk ribbon in a pale shade of pink matching the color of the carnations. Somewhat caught off guard, you accepted the flowers. “Jamie just brought it.”

You took a shaky breath. “Oh…”

The ceremony, from start to finish, was to be held on Timothy's property. You didn't understand this aspect either, and Michael didn't clarify it to you, but given the significance of the white dress, you were able to draw your own conclusions – there was no greater, more important sanctity than the Barnes Family, therefore instead of any temple, there was the home of the head of the Family.

When you arrived, nothing had been clear since leaving the car. You weren't even sure if you were actually there – your body definitely, but everything else?

You and Michael stood in front of the entrance to the ballroom.

You weren't wrong about the temple analogy, and were made aware of it now as you saw more or less its interior; filled with chairs and guests sitting on them, it resembled a sanctuary of some kind – even the table at the far end of the room was an altar of sorts. Nevertheless, there was no traditional walking down the aisle; Michael led you down a corridor formed between two sides of the rows of chairs, but only because you needed his help – your veil made it difficult to see and the lengthy material of your dress to move freely.

Walking forward with the not-so-slow step you usually observed in brides, you kept your eyes on the ground. Paralyzed by some sudden fear, jitters, you were unable to focus it on anything else. All this nervousness was making you more and more distant from the reality of the situation.

Completely relying on Michael, you stopped when he stopped. Only then did you dare to lift your gaze, but the degree of transparency of the veil didn't allow you to see much. All you knew was that you stood right next to Bucky; that he had Steve and someone else at his side; that there was a man in front of you, acting not only as a priest but also as an official. At least that's what you thought, as you tried to logically interpret each element.

Normally, it should be Michael, in some way replacing your father, who should lift your veil in order to present you to your future husband, your new protector, provider. However, that right belonged exclusively to Bucky. Because Michael wasn't giving you away, he wasn't handing you over to good hands; it was Bucky who took you, if that was his will, accepted you, included you in the Family. From that moment on, your whole life depended on your husband.

But he didn't uncover your veil right away. It was as if you were to remain his sweet secret for as long as possible, protected from the gaze of others. Soon, though, he lifted the material and placed it behind your head, and he did so with such delicacy and concentration that you still didn't believe it was real.

Finally, you could look at his face, and although you could see the obvious tiredness and nervousness on it, he was still the most beautiful man you had ever met. And he was going to be yours for the rest of your life, until death do you part.

If there were actually vow words spoken – any words at all – you didn't hear them. Still numb with fear and anxiety, you stared at Bucky. He was scared too, you had no doubt about that, but instead of getting even worse, you felt... safe.

You approached the table on which the agreement rested. The priest handed the pen first to Bucky. But when Bucky leaned over the document, his hand holding the pen hung in the air. You only saw the side of his face, so couldn't tell much from it. Your forehead furrowed slightly; was he hesitating? Panicking? Had he suddenly changed his mind and was about to run away, leaving you at the altar? 

Finally, however, he signed, bringing you back to breathing.

He moved the piece of paper towards you and handed the pen, without even glancing at you. You, too, leaned over the table, once again sweeping your gaze over the agreement, in effect realizing that something was wrong. It had expanded by at least one condition and some bold print.

The WIFE is obliged to provide the HUSBAND with an heir within a period of twenty-one months, i.e. the WIFE and the HUSBAND are obliged to conceive a child within twelve months from the date of the wedding.

Breach of any of the conditions will result in immediate termination of the agreement and a material penalty agreed by the parties.

So far you have felt so weak that you had the impression that you were about to faint. Now, you felt anger boiling up inside you; a sense of betrayal, of being a victim of trickery, pierced your heart painfully. You tightened your fingers on the pen with such force that it almost broke under their pressure. Despite everything, you signed the agreement, with the tip of the pen almost tearing through the paper.

There had been a lot of inconveniences in your path lately, but you couldn't recall any of them putting you in such a horrible mood. And when Bucky’s eyes met yours, you knew he saw that awful disappointment. Just as he should – he should be aware that he had hurt you. Did you expect to see guilt in response? Probably. But instead, there was anger, irritation, and somehow you knew it wasn't directed at you.

You also felt it when exchanging rings; Bucky squeezed your wrist a little too hard as he slid the wedding band onto your finger. He turned his jitters and anxiety into resentment; a phenomenon that intrigued you enough to make you forget your own for a moment.

The priest grabbed a previously prepared dagger; it had been resting on the table since the beginning, waiting for basically the most important part of the ceremony. “The act of joining two bloods.” The man took your hand carefully, turned it over and gently moved the dagger blade across your palm, leaving a bloody, not very deep line. You winced slightly, muffling a whine of discomfort. “So that two Families become one,” he added, proceeding to do the same with Bucky's hand, and he accepted it without the slightest movement; as if the blade had not even tickled him.

Thinking little of it, you reached for Bucky's wrist to draw his hand closer, then covered the inside of it with yours. As if by reflex, his fingers closed and embraced your hand gently. Maybe you were angry, but your body followed its own rules, and as Bucky made this small gesture, you felt warmth coming from where your hands touched; it spread to your chest, to the pit of your stomach.

The ceremony came to an end in as grave a mood as the whole of it. Timothy invited the guests to the garden, where a tent had been set up earlier – Winnifred's idea, as she had refused to let the feast take place in Timothy's cave. She insisted on this dose of romance, and it wasn't until after the ceremony that you realized she was right. The tent in the garden, in the middle of spring, was truly uplifting.

But you and Bucky didn't follow the other guests. You didn't know the detailed layout of the rooms in that house, and the only secluded place you knew was the toilet. You dragged Bucky there almost by force, and apparently expecting an escalation of whatever was on your mind, he allowed you to do so. 

“What was that?” you asked before he managed to close the door behind you. Anger surged inside you again, and the best way to get rid of it that popped into your head was to hit Bucky with whatever you had in hand – in this case, your bouquet. “Promise me you’ll be my partner,” you quoted his words from a few days ago, and the flowers collided with his arm again. “My ally.” And again. “My wife.” And again. 

“Y/N…” he sighed, patiently taking your harmless punches.

“You tricked me into continuing your bloodline!” Paying no attention to his calm tone, you didn't stop to hit him with the bouquet, which, by the way, wasn't as destroyed as it should have been.

“Y/N!” he hollered, suddenly grabbing your forearm, therefore stopping you from striking again. “Let’s talk about this. Like reasonable people.”

“So I am a person?” Your eyebrows rose. “Not a breeding stock?”

“I didn’t know!”

“How could you not know! You worked on this agreement together!”

And you were yelling at each other again, this time locked in that small space being the bathroom in Timothy's huge house. This only increased your frustration, because neither of you could escape. Besides, you couldn't escape not only physically; you were now stuck with each other.

“I didn't know. Okay?” he said much more calmly, although you felt that a gentle push would be enough to shatter all that calm again. “Timothy changed the deal behind my back. I should’ve known that he would pull something like this, he was too compliant…” He shook his head, looking away.

You thought it would be easier if you also stopped looking at him. So you concentrated on the bouquet; you pulled out the flowers that were only appropriate for throwing away. “You expected that he could pull something like this,” you began in a hushed voice, tentatively lifting your gaze to him. “And you didn’t do anything about it?” 

He also looked at you, unable to hide that your words had affected him. At that moment, you regretted that they had left your lips, but on the other hand, maybe he should have heard them? After all, you were the one who was the most violated in the situation, and although you yourself once mentioned that a baby-free deal was rather impossible to achieve, you felt cheated. 

“Don’t say that.” Bucky's voice sounded as quiet and weak as yours, his eyes expressing a begging; asking you not to give up on him like that, not to throw him into one bag with his uncle. “I’ll talk to him,” he added quickly. “I’ll talk to him now.” He seemed distracted, heartbroken, waiting for your approval. 

On that day, he was definitely not himself. And it hit you, what you had promised him – not to make this any harder than it has to be.

“Bucky-” you spoke tenderly, touching his arm, which only a few minutes ago you had been punching. “Do it after the party, okay? I don't want to ruin it for you. The penny has dropped anyway, so…” You shrugged.

You were still angry, betrayed, disappointed. But in all this, you forgot to see that Bucky was trying; that he was carrying a little too much weight on his shoulders. It appeared that he had been tricked, too, and you were probably the only person who could – should – show him some support.

Bucky smiled sadly, his lips pressed together. You didn't know him long enough, but just as before you were able to sense that he wasn't angry at you, now you got the strong impression that there were processes going on in his head that could lead to dangerous consequences.

You joined the rest of the guests in a tent at the back of the house. They didn't notice your absence, or took it as perfectly natural – slipping away to satisfy some burning need; that maybe you couldn't wait any longer to fulfill your marital duty. You would have preferred it to be exactly that instead of new problems.

Although you didn't doubt Bucky's intentions anymore and believed that he didn't know about his uncle's ruse, there was this lingering sense of unease accompanying you all the time. Maybe it had something to do with the stress of the last few days, which had reached its zenith just today? Or would you have been able to relax at home, away from all those people?

During a seemingly endless conversation with Winnifred and Rebecca, you noticed that you had lost sight of Bucky. The last time you saw him talking to the man who had introduced himself to you earlier as Sam Wilson, but you couldn't pinpoint when exactly that was – fifteen minutes ago, but it might as well have been over an hour.

You decided to try not to panic. He was talking to someone again, this time out of your view, or holed up for a cigarette.

Somewhere outside the fence sounded the loud roar of an engine, followed by the screech of tires. A few guests stopped their ongoing conversations and listened for a moment, while the rest were not particularly concerned about the noise. You were not part of either group; anxiety suddenly grew to enormous sizes, turning your stomach inside out.

Someone touched your shoulder, and you immediately knew it wasn't him; Bucky would do it differently. You looked over and saw Michael – white as a sheet. “Can we talk?” 

You excused yourself, and Michael, keeping the appearance of being completely in control, led you into the house. You didn't ask what had happened – you sensed that something bad hung in the air. 

Michael brought you to Timothy's office. He, on the other hand, looked furious; he was sitting behind his desk, and there was a burning smell in the room.

“Your agreement.” He pointed to the desktop; to the charred scraps of paper resting on it and the ring – the same one you slid onto Bucky’s finger a couple hours earlier. 

At first your stomach dropped. He destroyed the agreement and left. And without Bucky, without the agreement, you were ruined. 

Despite the fact that you were terrified, you were not going to break down in front of Timothy. He had humiliated you enough. “Which one?” Having tilted your head to the side, you lifted your eyebrows. “There were two versions, right? Were you inspired by Rumlows with the second one?”

Your biting tone did not go unnoticed by Timothy. “You are acting very boldly for someone who will soon be left with nothing.”

Painfully aware that Timothy was right, you glanced at your secured future – burnt, useless. Not only that was burnt and useless; you and Bucky had burned all the bridges together; Bucky had first beaten Brock Rumlow, then humiliated John Walker and finally vanished into thin air himself. 

But why exactly did he do it? He didn’t listen to you and talked with Timothy anyway; there had to be something his uncle had to have done; something that pushed his limits, tipped his balance. Or maybe his sweet words meant nothing and he decided to show you that marriage really wasn’t for him?

“Looks like you're back on the market.” Timothy stated. “I'm really ashamed of what my nephew did to you, darling.”

Unable to listen to Timothy any longer, or even look at him, you turned to Michael. “Can we go home?”

“Certainly,” he answered in such a gentle, almost fatherly tone that you have never heard from him before.

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leaaa008 @itvy5601 @melsunshine @pattiemac1 @marvel-fandom23 @rabbitrabbit12321 @xsecretsirenx @heyyitsreign @xhollycowx @samfreakingwinchester @thrnlvr @samjuarezzz

[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 07

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 4,5k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.), bucky saying (a lot of) things, + from now on you can expect a smut any moment, so, unfortunately, i won’t be putting that warning >:)

series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

Having sat not far away from Michael, you fixed your gaze on the surface of the small table where your family – when it was still together – used to eat breakfast every morning. Now it was just you, your dead father's advisor and the promise of a better life.

“When?” you asked, but weren't sure if the words had actually left your mouth or if they had only echoed in your head. You lifted your eyes from the tabletop and looked at Michael, your forehead furrowed. The whole situation still seemed too surreal to you. “When did he make the offer?” 

The day had basically just begun, and you doubted that Bucky had paid Michael a visit during the night. If he had actually done so, you would have been slightly disappointed; after all, he would still have been a bit tipsy at the time, which would have undermined the sincerity of his intentions. In fact, there was no reason to consider this sincerity at all. You didn't understand. You didn't understand one bit of what was going on.

“He showed up at my door shortly after six in the morning,” Michael answered, therefore turning your stomach into knots. “He looked so ill I thought he was in a hurry before letting out his last breath. As if this offer was to be his last breath.” 

Feeling burning under your eyelids, you closed them and gasped heavily. “What, um…” You rubbed your forehead nervously. So far you thought you had managed to rest after last night, but now you felt exhausted; tired from all the unexpected turns you were experiencing. “What now?”

“I will arrange a meeting with Timothy. And I think we'll both want it to be the first and last meeting, so we need to work together, you and I. Barnes have always been our friends, so they won't make uncomfortable conditions. They shouldn't,” Michael added with a tentative grunt. 

You nodded as a sign of acceptance of what he said, but in fact all this information flew through the middle of your head, going in one ear and out the other. “What about John?”

“I will notify John properly. For now, do not contact him.”

“But... How does this actually work? Bucky made an offer and John is suddenly cut out?”

“First of all, John Walker didn't exactly behave the way we call making an offer. If he had done that, you would most likely have been married a long time ago. He wanted to do it his way and he miscalculated.” Michael shrugged. “Second, let’s suppose those two would have made an offer at the same time. It all depends on what they have to offer. The Barnes deal is much more beneficial. Nonetheless, we have to approach it delicately and with respect. To avoid offending Alexander Pierce.” 

The creaking of the floor drew the attention of you both; you looked towards the kitchen entrance, where your mother stood. She had rarely left her bedroom lately, and you didn't blame her in any way. But perhaps you did resent her a little for the way she looked at you - coldly, with disgust even. She didn't say anything, which was probably the best possible option; you were afraid of hearing confirmation of what she thought of you. 

She backed out of the kitchen and most likely went back to her bedroom, and you tried not to think about the fact that your own mother couldn't even bear your company.

The sound of the engine quieted as you turned the keys in the ignition. Up until now, you hadn't given much thought to what you would say or do when you saw him again, but with the Barnes’ house in front of you, your destination began to weigh on you. And this time you also experienced that need to escape, completely ignored by your frozen-in-place body. It was making it clear that there were only two choices – facing it and seeing Bucky, or staying in that car. A quiet retreat and going home was not an option.

Having stood in front of the massive stained-glass door, you pressed the bell button; you heard its sound spread through the interior of the building. You used the time you waited for a response to take a brief look around; the cloudy sky heralded rain.

Mary opened the door. “Oh. Hi,” she said somewhat hesitantly. Which, by the way, was a bit strange, since, seeing you for the first time, she was able to bluntly call you pretty. 

“Hi.” You forced a smile as you didn't particularly feel like it. “Is Bucky home?”

“Yeah, he’s in the garage-”

“At the back of the house.” You nodded. “Thanks.”

Walking in the same direction as before, you were completely immersed in your own thoughts; amazed at how much chaos was hidden in that void inside your head. 

When you reached the garage and saw the creamy Chrysler again, you let the air out of your lungs. At first glance, there was no sign of Bucky anywhere, and a warm sense of relief embraced you, since you didn’t have to confront him – even if that's what you came here to do. And then he leaned out from behind the car; draped in the cool shadow of the garage, he gazed at you with confusion on his face. 

Michael was right; pale, with dark circles under his eyes, Bucky looked ill. Besides, you didn't pay much attention to it, but were sure he was wearing the same dark shirt as last night; only this time untucked, with the sleeves rolled up and a few buttons opened.

“Y/N?” he spoke, as if without certainty or trust towards the fact that you were actually here. Even though he had the proof in front of him. He cautiously walked closer, but didn't dare step outside the garage, still leaving you a huge amount of space.

You watched his face and were able to tell that he was tired; beyond the obvious signs, there was a distraction lurking in his eyes, often coupled with exhaustion. “So, this is how you interpret ‘disappear’ and ‘leave me alone’, hmm?” Your tone was calm, without even a trace of meanness. “You decided I should be your wife when you saw me with another guy's tongue in my throat?” You wince slightly at the mere memory.

Bucky looked away and laughed quietly. He shook his head. “It crossed my mind when you said my name for the first time.” He looked at you, his lips pursed in a slight smile. “When I was leaving your house that night, and you called me. I don't think I've ever heard anything so heavenly in my life. I fell in love with that sound,” he confessed. Your heart jumped, making you wonder when it would get used to Bucky. “And with that sight. Of you in your little nightgown, barefoot, in the rain... And then you asked if I take part in this whole marriage thing, and I remembered what a piece of shit I am.” His smile turned sour. “Anyway... Being part of the most powerful Family in New York has its drawbacks. Someone is always trying to throw you off that fucking throne…” Bucky sighed with weariness.  “I thought I… like you too much to put you at risk. Two years ago I would have been first in line for your hand, but when my dad died-” He paused for a brief moment; lowered his eyes and wet his lips nervously. “I stopped believing in the immortality of my name. I couldn't be responsible for you.”

You stared at him almost stunned by the sincerity and softness that flowed from his words, from him himself. “Why did you change your mind?” you asked barely audibly.

“It's a…” He gasped heavily, closing his eyes for a moment. “Complex decision,” he added, then pressed his lips together. Bucky looked at you again. “Maybe I'm a piece of shit, but no worse than Rumlow or Walker. And if these two were so close to making a deal, it just as easily could have been me.” He shrugged helplessly. “And everything you told me last night? Shit, I couldn't just ditch you like that.” His eyebrows drew together, his expression softened. “And-” Bucky stopped, as if he didn't quite know whether he should go on. You didn't interrupt him, letting him know that you wanted to hear every thought wandering through his mind. “I didn't want to lose you just because I was a stubborn asshole.”

You watched his face carefully; every part of it, every muscle that just happened to twitch. You feared that, despite all the affection you had for him, you would resent Bucky for delaying so long. But the truth was that he didn't owe you anything; you weren't surprised that he didn't want to get married – if it hadn't been for your Family, you wouldn't have decided to do such a thing either.

“You don't want this marriage, do you?” you asked without blame. Even though you knew the answer, you wanted to set the record straight. You didn't need uncertainty about what Bucky was feeling.

However, Bucky himself seemed to lack this certainty either. His forehead puckered, his eyes darted away from yours and wandered somewhere, as if chasing for an answer. “I still think marriage is not for me,” he said carefully. “But since I stepped into your life, I can't get out. Getting used to your presence in my own was the easiest to do, I-” He took a shaky breath. Not only could you see that he was not in the best shape; you easily gathered this from his attempts to put together a sentence. However, you were unable to get impatient. “Having you around, being with you… It feels good. Familiar.” Having nibbled absently on the inside of his lower lip, he looked at you again. “So I don't mind having you around all the time. For the rest of my life.”

Intimidated by everything he said, by the softness and tenderness beaming from him, which you didn't expect – mainly because of how he had presented his relationships with women not so long ago – this time it was you who looked away. Your heart would have jumped out of your chest, cracking your ribs in the process, if you had held your gaze on Bucky for a moment longer. 

“Thank you,” you finally spoke, lifting your eyes tentatively back to his. “I won't make this any harder for you than it has to be. And I’m not going to be cranky, I promise.”

He laughed weakly. “Promise me something else,” he asked, looking at you with a soft smile. “You’ll be my partner, my ally, my wife. Not a person in my debt. It’s not like you owe me something. Alright?”

“Alright.” You nodded gently. 

Neither of you dared to cover even a millimeter of the distance separating you – you stood like that, watching each other; without the need for further conversation, without mutual expectations of who would make the first move. You had your future husband in front of you, and although you still felt a bit lost in this whole bizarre situation, there was not a shred of anxiety in you like there was with John. Bucky was right – it felt good, familiar. Was he supposed to be good to you? You had no idea, but this lack of knowledge did not frighten you.

Suddenly, you felt something cold, wet on the top of your head, face, neck; the rain promised by the cloudy sky, in its own way pleasantly refreshing.

“I should get going. Before it starts to rain for good,” you clarified quickly. “I don’t want to drive when it’s pouring.” 

“Yeah, sure,” he replied with understanding. You were relieved that he didn't treat it as an excuse to run away. 

Bucky left the garage. You expected him to stay so he could continue working on the Chrysler, but he didn't – he decided to walk you, even though he didn't have to. Smiling to yourself, you quickened your pace and eventually caught up with him.

“You haven't told me how it is with you,” Bucky began as you walked side by side. The rain did not rush you; its almost faint intensity allowed you to take this short stroll. “How do you feel about the whole thing?” 

You glanced at Bucky, but immediately looked down, focusing on your own feet. “I'm not as scared as I was before. Maybe I wouldn't even call it scared, but nervous? And that's normal if there's a wedding involved, I guess,” you added without being quite sure who you were trying to comfort. “It's still not an ideal scenario,” you continued, this time more seriously. “But I'm glad it's you. Really.”

Bucky kept his gaze on you for a little longer, but you were unable to fully decode his thoughts. “I'll get the best deal for you. When they’ll be putting the agreement together,” Bucky said. “You know that, right?”

“I knew you wanted the best deal for me when it came to the agreement with Rumlows,” you answered after a moment of hesitation. “But now it's your Family, Bucky.”

“Yeah…” He sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. You didn't suppose it was possible, but he seemed even more tired than before. “Don’t worry. I got this.” 

That much was enough; those few words from his mouth to actually make you feel calmer. 

You got in your car, Bucky held the door for you, then closed it. You looked out through the rolled-down window. 

“Hey, uh…” he began, scratching nervously behind his ear. “Maybe we should go to marriage therapy or something..?”

Your eyebrows rose involuntarily. “Marriage therapy? We aren't even married yet,” you pointed out. Nonetheless, you felt a pleasant pinch somewhere in your stomach; some familiar jump in your chest. 

“I really don't know how all this works.” He winced. “I don't want to screw it up.”

“Don’t worry. I got this,” you repeated his earlier words, winking at him. Although you weren't an expert yourself, Bucky didn't need to know that. “That's really sweet of you. That you want the best,” you added affectionately. You couldn't let Bucky feel embarrassed by his – not stupid, by the way – suggestion. “But I think you should get some sleep, it will do you good. Even Michael noticed that you look awful.”

“Well, Michael is not my type either.” He lifted his eyebrows with conviction. You snorted a quiet laugh. “But if you think that too… That changes everything.”

You squinted, an indulgent smile remained on your lips. “Wow. That was smooth.”

“Thanks,” he said with theatrical pride. Amused, you rolled your eyes and started the engine, causing Bucky to step away from the car. “Text me when you get home.”

“I won’t. I don't want to wake you. Because you'll be sleeping, right?” you asked, pushing the button that made the window start to close. Bucky smiled through tightened lips and shook his head disapprovingly.

As the day was drawing to an end, combined with the tousled clouds, the sky resembled shreds of pink cotton candy. 

First to get out of the black SUV was Bernie; a big, tall man. Generally, you and Michael shouldn't need a bodyguard on a friend's territory, but getting one was more of a pure procedure. The car was then exited by the driver, for all intents and purposes also a bodyguard; he opened the door for you and offered his hand, helping you out of the higher than usual vehicle. The current situation was reminiscent of the one a few weeks ago, when you were about to meet with Rumlows. The striking difference, however, was that now you didn't feel like you were on death row.

Timothy's house was almost as large as the Barnes mansion, but you didn't give it much thought; even though perhaps you should, that evening you didn't feel like being inquisitive. All you noticed was that the mansion was situated in a more wooded area; there were mostly conifers growing around, and some of the elements outside - such as the big, decorative stones in front of the house – were covered in yellow pollen, indicating that the pines were in bloom.

Michael rang the doorbell and it wasn't long before the housekeeper invited you inside. The decor was dominated by gloomy colors and dark wood; the interior reminded you of a cave. 

You stood nearby the entrance to a huge room, presumably a ballroom after removing an already small amount of furniture. On one of the walls was a huge mirror; in fact, it seemed as if the whole wall was a mirror. Being too far away, you couldn’t get a good look at yourself, but – details aside – had a good view of your entire figure. Michael had mentioned that Barnes had made sure the meeting would be elegant, almost solemn; now you understood better why Bucky had reacted with such contempt towards the fact that Brock had invited you to the pub. And since the talks were also going to be different in terms of the setting, you decided to wear a knee-length satin dress, with thin straps and a cowl neckline. The color of the dress was no accident – blue, like Bucky's eyes.

“Follow me, please,” the housekeeper addressed you and Michael with a polite smile. It was then that the stress began to get to you; walking behind the woman, you listened to the clatter of your own heels, so as not to think about what might await you.

The housekeeper led you to a dining room. It was pretty clear that you would see Timothy, but to your surprise, there was also Steve Rogers, sitting next to him at a long table. The one you couldn't find anywhere around was Bucky, causing the panic you were feeling to grow to enormous sizes. Were you supposed to handle it yourself? Or did he give up completely?

Warm hands touched your shoulders a little above the elbows, and embraced them gently with fingers. You immediately looked back, but before you did, a familiar scent of fresh laundry, mint and wet forest reached you, combined with a much more distinct hint of men's perfume and cigarette smoke.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the others. “Can I get through?” He raised an eyebrow. Indeed, you were standing close to the entrance of the dining room, yet far away enough that Bucky could easily get past you.

“I thought you'd changed your mind,” you whispered, making a step forward. Bucky took his hands and you turned to his direction. He was wearing a black, tailored suit and a shirt of the same color; he had undone the first two buttons under his neck, most likely allowing himself as much freedom as he could. His hair was tied up tightly in a bun; nevertheless, a few strands managed to escape. 

“I didn't. And not going to,” he claimed calmly. His mouth stretched in a lazy, shameless smirk. “You look like an angel.” 

You felt your cheeks grow warm with the blush spreading over them, but other than that, you didn't give away that the compliment had gone to your head. “Thank you. You're not so bad yourself.” 

“James,” Timothy spoke.

Bucky glanced at him, then returned his gaze to you soon after. “Come on,” he instructed, instinctively placing his hand at your lower back, which you didn't mind in any way. 

Shortly after, you took a seat at the table; just like at that meeting at your house, you and Michael on one side, Timothy, Bucky and Steve on the other.

Timothy opened the folder lying in front of him. Having pulled several copies of the document from inside, he gave them out one by one. “We have here those conditions which, after consultations, I considered most appropriate. However, we can still negotiate,” he turned to you. 

Everyone at the table had some idea of the mentioned conditions; the agreement was arranged without consulting you. And you had no problem with that, because the truth was you didn't know what you could ask for. Besides, Michael cared about your Family and your father's business, and Bucky promised you the best deal. 

Deciding not to waste any more time further delaying the moment which was going to happen anyway, you turned your gaze to the document in front of you.

(...) JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES hereinafter referred to as the HUSBAND, and Y/N Y/L/S hereinafter referred to as the WIFE.

These words were the first to catch your eye, and their meaning sent a shiver down your spine. You didn't pay much attention to the introduction, containing your and Bucky's personal data,  in addition, being a pure formality, but this one point was like a bucket of cold water. You were aware of the purposes of this meeting, but seeing the titles that were going to work not only on the paper, but soon in life, felt... strange. 

You ran your gaze lower, absorbing line after line of text.

The HUSBAND is obliged to do everything in his power to ensure the safety of the WIFE (...)

The HUSBAND possesses the funds due and is obliged to provide financial comfort to the WIFE. The WIFE is authorized to dispose of the HUSBAND's funds for her own purposes; the amount shall not exceed ...[add]... per month.

The WIFE agrees to transfer to the HUSBAND and the BARNES FAMILY control of her tangible goods, property, etc. including:

Sapphire Dune Casino, New York, State of New York;

Marble Aurora Casino, Atlantic City, State of New Jersey; (...)

A list of your goods and properties included everything Michael had talked about at the meeting with Rumlows – the casinos, shares in the stock market, arms dealing for Stark, the territory, the protection of businesses in that territory, political influence... Things you didn't know much about. Except for one you didn't find.

“What about my gallery?” 

“It's not a part of the deal. I've heard that you want it for yourself and I'm fine with that.” Timothy shrugged.

You knew it was to Bucky's credit; that he had done something you didn't have to ask him to do. Apparently he remembered that during your meeting with Rumlows, keeping the art gallery was your only requirement.

“And the real estates?” 

“We don’t need them,” Timothy stated right away. “They will be given to your mother and your sister, if you wish, of course.”“Yes,” you agreed, a bit caught off guard by Timothy's generosity. “It would be great.”

Any funds, property benefits, etc. resulting from the activities mentioned above shall be divided between the HUSBAND and the WIFE; 50% (funds/value of property benefits) for the HUSBAND and 50% for the WIFE.

The HUSBAND is obligated to inform the WIFE of all actions carried out on the goods and properties mentioned above. No final decision shall be made without the WIFE's prior consent.

Having read the elements of the contract that interested you most – mainly because you understood them without Michael's help – you pulled your gaze away from the sheet again and looked at Timothy. He slowly slid a pen across the table.

After signing the document, which was more of a pre-agreement – confirmation that you and Michael had seen all the points, you needed a change of scenery. At least for a moment.

Called by Timothy, the housekeeper brought alcohol and a small refreshment, and you took the opportunity to ask for directions to the toilet. Although it was time to settle the details of the wedding, you decided that they would do just as well without you.

You wet your hands with icy water, then placed them on the nape of your neck. Closing your eyes, you let out a heavy breath. If everything had become too real before, it was now beginning to take root in you.

You jumped, hearing a careful knock on the door. “Y/N?” You recognised Bucky's voice effortlessly, so without hesitation you went to open the door for him. “You okay?” he asked, visibly concerned. 

“Yeah, yeah…” You gasped.

“Come on.” He opened the door a little wider. “We're going to get some air.”

You nodded and left the bathroom. Bucky led you to the terrace doors, from where you walked out into the garden – unlike Winnifred's garden, the one belonging to Timothy consisted mainly of lawn and undemanding flowerless plants. 

The rigid material of the jacket rested gently on your shoulders. You glanced over at Bucky, who was left in just his shirt.

“Having lots of muscles must be great, huh? It is protecting you from the cold?” 

Bucky laughed. “Yeah.” Soon, however, only a light smile was left on his face. “Was that so bad?”

“Surprisingly good,” you objected. “Why is this deal so... perfect?” 

Slipping his hands into his pockets, he shrugged. “That's probably the only perfect thing that will come out of marrying a gangster.”

You tried not to think about this prophecy. “And Timothy just agreed to all this?”

“Yeah. As long as I know what I'm doing. He also said I’m doing it at my own risk, so…” 

As you lifted your eyes from the lawn and brought them to Bucky, you caught his gaze. He was studying you with calm, gentleness. 

“I need you to promise me one more thing,” he said. Although his face did not express anything threatening, you felt a slight uneasiness. You gave him a questioning look. “I'll be the best husband I can be, and I'll do anything you want me to do, but you have to promise me-” he paused for a brief moment. “If you ever love someone, I have to know. You will tell me.”

“Bucky-”

“Please,” he insisted, his voice cracking barely audibly.

Staring at him cluelessly, you let out a short breath through slightly parted lips. “Okay,” you gave up. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“Thank you. Now, stick your hands out,” he instructed. You frowned, but followed the command anyway. Bucky pulled his hands out of his pockets, one clenched into a fist, the other gently grabbed your left hand. He loosened his fist and inside it you noticed a small velour box; he opened it, revealing a ring. Gold, with a large gemstone in the shape of a pointed ellipse, and smaller stones surrounding it. “It was my grandma's.”

Hearing this, you reflexively pulled your hand back, but Bucky strengthened his grip. “Are you kidding? I can't take it!”

“You can. And you will.” He raised his eyebrows, got the ring out of the box and slipped it onto the right finger. “See? It fits.”

“You’re right,” you agreed, bringing your hand closer to your face to scrutinize the ring. “It's really beautiful,” you admitted honestly. “But are you sure it's a good idea? Giving a family heirloom to me?”

“I’m sure,” he claimed after some silence, but without the slightest hesitation. “From the moment we get into this marriage you will be protected by my Family. By my name. And by my own body,” he said with a strange calmness, while your heart was racing faster and faster. “You are the right person to wear this ring.”

“Oh, Jamie…” you whined. “Don't even say such things.”

“I don't have to say these things, and you know it.”

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leaaa008 @itvy5601 @melsunshine @pattiemac1 @marvel-fandom23 @rabbitrabbit12321 @xsecretsirenx @heyyitsreign

[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 05

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 4,4k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.)

<previous part | next part> | series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

chapter sneak peek: “It's time for you to go, I suppose. Is that correct, boy?”

You nearly winced at how patronizing Michael addressed Bucky. It was almost insulting, meant to put Bucky back in his place. He, however, looked composed, but you got to know him well enough to be aware that he would rip Michael's head off if the opportunity arose.

At first you saw it as a nightmare, the meeting with John Walker. No matter how many times you told yourself you were fulfilling your duty to the Family, fear, uncertainty and stress were the only things that duty brought you. Yet, given the darkest scenarios swirling in your mind, and memories of the meeting with Brock Rumlow, John seemed like a really decent type. 

He invited you to dinner to one of the most expensive, top rated restaurants in the city. To get in, it was usually necessary to make a reservation several weeks in advance. Suspecting that his highly influential uncle had a hand in the whole venture, you appreciated the effort anyway. You were surprised, however, that John didn't give up, didn’t take the path of least resistance, despite the fact that you hadn't shown any interest so far. 

Without being gross or intrusive, he complimented the red dress you wore; asked about your work and hobbies, didn't mention business. You felt like you were on a real date, moreover, a nice one. Seeing that jumping from Brock to John wasn't going from bad to worse let you feel at ease. For the first time in, it seemed, an eternity.

Despite everything, there was something missing. You had no desire to throw yourself at John, no curiosity about what his lips tasted like. Essentially, you didn't need that in an arranged marriage, but guessed there will be time for everything. With Bucky, though, time was necessary – all you needed was a single look. But he wasn’t an option.

“Wow, that was… beautiful,” John claimed after you laughed at the joke he told. In reality, you were amused by how unfunny and stupid the joke was. Perhaps the consumed alcohol and the pleasant atmosphere also played a part. 

“Well… Thank you,” you said, lifting a glass of wine to your lips. When you emptied it, John immediately came with a refill. “Don't you think we should talk about business?” 

“What exactly do you want to talk about?”

“How would that work,” you suggested with a casual shrug. “You haven't mentioned an agreement yet, so I suspect you haven't prepared one. That's a bit…” You hesitated, wondering briefly if you would offend him with your choice of words. “Strange, considering, you know, the nature of our profession.”

John smiled, then hung his head and shook it. “I guess we'll just have to trust each other. Not to sound like an asshole, but I've heard that Rumlows have backed out. At least for now. If not them, your father's business will be ruined, leaving your Family with nothing. I also know that Stark has started to turn his nose at your partnership. You’re in a bind, Y/N. And I want to do this the easy way. No complex agreement, just some basic arrangements.” He raised his hands up in surrender.

You were struck by how honest and straightforward he was. Fair to both of you. 

“But… Why?” You asked quietly. “Why are you so nice about it?” 

“You don’t know?” He pretended to be surprised. “I've always wanted you, and now I have my chance. I don't want to do it through a system of rules and punishments. Not too bad, right? And taking charge of what your father created will help me strengthen my position.”

There was a moment of silence as John gave you time to process what he just said. Soon, however, he grabbed his glass and raised it for a small toast.

“So, what'll it be? Can I keep trying or are you giving up on me?”

It was clear that he wasn't really offering you a choice – you could only decide how to play it; keep John at a distance, or make it easier for him to approach you, let him court you.

Having clinked glasses, you both drank the wine, but you could barely taste it. Only the bitterness that the future was to bring. At this point you thought you were prepared for a marriage without love or at least friendship, but the closer you got to one, the more panic you felt. Being aware that the whole situation was difficult, you still didn't expect such a burden.

“Don’t worry,” John added, seeing the concern on your face. “Maybe one day you'll love me. Maybe when kids come along.” He shrugged. Your eyes widened, but John didn't mind it. “What? Someone will have to take care of your father's legacy in case we're gone, don't you think?” He smiled sincerely. You wondered if he was already fantasizing about the future with you. 

Destroying the atmosphere with the shock you experienced wasn’t part of your intentions. The only right idea was to kill the negative feelings with a little more alcohol, so you asked John to refill your glass again, and he did so with pleasure. While dipping your lips in the wine, your eyes wandered mindlessly around the room until they landed on a familiar face – the last person you expected to be here.

You choked, and the sticky drink dripped down your chin. A momentary, barely noticeable panic crossed Bucky's face as he watched you carefully from his table – as if he was concerned that you might have choked to death. However, he stayed in place; rushing to help you would have exposed him.

“Oh God, are you all right?” John handed you a napkin right away, which you accepted and wiped your chin with a few delicate taps to avoid washing off your makeup. 

“I’m sorry. Gone down the wrong way,” you struggled for breath. 

“It’s fine. Are you sure you're all right?” 

“I’m okay,” you said, still feeling the aftertaste of wine deep in your throat. “Excuse me for a moment.” Grabbing your purse, you got up from the table.

“Of course.” John also stood up from his seat, watching you walk away towards the toilets.

You put your bag next to the sink and focused on your reflection in the mirror. Tears, which filled your eyes as a result of choking, smudged your mascara, and the wine – just as you suspected – ruined the foundation on your chin. Yet, you weren't bothered by the poor condition of your makeup. Your thoughts revolved solely around the fact that you just saw Bucky. You would’ve been tempted to treat it as a mere coincidence, if not for him staring directly at you. It was probably his intense gaze that drew you in that direction.

The door opened, and at this point you were ready to see anyone; you wouldn't be surprised if your father decided to come back from the dead and show up here. But it was just Bucky. Again.

“What are you doing here?” You grated, crumpling a used piece of paper towel in your hand, with which you had wiped the remnants of mascara from under your eyes. 

“Are you kidding me? The wine almost came shooting out of your nose, I had to check on you.” His forehead furrowed.

“I’m not talking about the toilet! What are you doing in this restaurant?”

Squinting, Bucky thrust his hands in his pockets, and sized you up. 

“So?” You pressed, the tone of your voice impatient. 

“You really think I'd let you come out here alone?” He finally let out. Your battle ready attitude had eased somewhat, but Bucky was surveying you sternly. “You gave me your permission to protect you, remember? So I’m trying to do that.” 

“But John wanted this meeting to be more... private.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, taking a deep breath. “And nobody found that unusual?” He sneered. “You shouldn't drink that much,” he added after a moment, slightly changing the subject. 

Your brows snapped together. “I drink exactly as much as John.”

“Yeah, except John is three times your size,” he said unmoved. “Look, I'm not stopping you from anything. Drink yourself unconscious if you want. I'm just saying you should be careful around guys like John Walker.”

The urge to ask him to elaborate on the thought crossed your mind, but you didn't really have the time. You didn't want to arouse suspicion by spending too long in the toilet.

“I’ll be careful,” you promised with a sigh. “See you later..?”

Bucky's face softened with surprise, his eyebrows rose slightly. There was no trace of the earlier toughness. “Sure.”

The corners of your mouth turned up with all the tenderness you had for him. You grabbed your purse, then left.

When you returned to your table, John greeted you back with a smile – but it wasn't a smile that melted your heart, or one that caused the butterflies in your stomach to go wild. It wasn't Bucky's smile.

When the black SUV pulled over near the Barnes' mansion, you thanked the driver and dismissed him, assuring that you would be fine if you needed to get home. You left the car, reached for your high heels, which you had taken off immediately after being picked up from your date with John, and closed the door behind you. Having spotted Winnifred right away, you made your way to her. She must have been tending the flowers in front of the house up to now, as you could conclude from her gloves and knees, dirty with soil.

“Y/N, how lovely to see you again.” The warm tone of her voice and the friendly look on her face didn't allow you to even consider that she might be insincere. And although you didn't get to know George Barnes personally, you presumed that Bucky and Josephine inherited their gloomy, ironic, a bit dark and sassy way of being from him. “What brings you here, sweetheart?”

“I came to see Bucky.”

Winnifred grinned even wider. “He is at the back of the house. In the garage,” she said after a brief quietness, which she spent observing you. That's probably why you didn’t move a step. “Oh, your fathers would absolutely love it.”

Smiling tentatively, you gave her a questioning, slightly confused look. “They would..?”

“Our oldest was a boy, your parents’...” She motioned at you. “a girl. So when you and Jamie were younger, your dad and my George used to joke all the time about pairing you two so that everything could stay in the family. But it was just a joke,” Winnifred emphasized. 

Was it, though? Given the world your fathers came from, the environment you and Bucky grew up in, and the situation you were currently in, was it just a joke? Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, but you began to wonder what would have happened if your father was still alive – would he have let you settle down on your own, without Brock or John's presence, or would he have married you to Bucky? 

He wouldn’t. Because Bucky didn’t want to get married. He didn’t want you. 

There was something else bothering you. You already knew that your families were close, yet you had no memories that would prove it. “Why did you stop being friends? If I may ask…”

“It's no mystery,” Winnifred said lightly, smiling. “You know how your mom is,” she began. You guessed that politeness prevented her from saying directly that your mother tended to be paranoid, but regardless of her choice of words, you nodded. “I think she got scared that our husbands would actually turn words into action. She made it clear that she wanted a lawyer, a doctor or an estate agent for you. But it seems that, despite all the odds, you and Jamie found your way to each other anyway.”

You felt your face turning red along with the heat spreading in your stomach. So you weren’t wrong; it was in your blood – the affection you had for Bucky. No wonder you two clicked the moment your eyes met. However, in this situation, it was like a curse. 

“You have a beautiful garden,” you admitted to break the silence and, above all, your own thoughts. In fact, Mrs. Barnes’ garden looked a little bare, incomplete. The flowers were just beginning to bloom.

“It is promising,” she agreed. “But I’m done for the day, it’s getting late. Why don’t you come in? I’ll make us some tea.” 

“Oh, thank you.” You shook your head. “I was supposed to see Bucky, so… I should go.”

“In this case, I’m not keeping you.” Winnifred beamed at you. 

Keeping in mind the place where you expected to find Bucky, you headed to the back of the mansion. Evening dew had collected on the freshly trimmed lawn; not the most pleasant experience to your bare feet, but you preferred it to uncomfortable high heels, which probably wouldn't have handled this soft ground anyway. There was a peace and solitude that was lacking where you lived – there were no cars, no lights of street lamps, no noise of the city.

The garage was not difficult to locate; especially as there were quiet sounds indicating someone's presence. 

Bucky stood in front of a lifted hood of another vintage car. But instead of focusing on the vehicle, your thoughts wandered uncontrollably to Bucky's broad back as he was leaning forward, probably working on the car’s engine. His muscles were clearly visible under the tight fabric of his t-shirt. You felt your mouth watering.

He raised his head slightly, as if listening for something, then looked over his shoulder. He didn't say a word, but returned the favor by fixing his gaze on you – his eyes darkened with the same rawness as when he saw you in your house that night. Beginning from your bare feet and slowly moving up, he scrutinized your whole body, studying the curves of your thighs, hips and breasts. And you couldn’t blame him since your red dress was even tighter than his t-shirt. 

Letting out a shaky breath, you got rid of the excess air churning in your lungs. “So, you like old cars.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, keeping his eyes on you. After a while, however, he focused on the vehicle. “That one belonged to my old man. I don't want it to rot here.”

Based on how Bucky responded to Brock's mention of his father, you presumed that George Barnes was a sore subject. So you were surprised, maybe even a little touched, that he was now bringing it up himself. You did ask him, but he could brush you off or say nothing.

Driven by some subconscious need to be closer, you took a few mindless steps and stood not far from the vehicle. It was colder inside the garage than outside, so you instinctively folded your arms, trying to keep as much of your own warmth as possible.

“What car is that, exactly?” You asked genuinely curious, eyeing the cream body. 

“Chrysler. From 1970.”

“What about your Mustang?”

Bucky squinted suspiciously, smiling. “The Mustang is a year older…” He answered hesitantly. “You’re into cars, too?” 

“Not, but-” You let out a quiet laugh, knowing how you were about to sound. “This era was the sexiest for cars. And it suits you.” 

His eyebrows rose with astonishment. He shook his head, then got back to the uncovered engine. “This was the most twisted compliment I've ever heard.”

“You’re welcome.” You grinned, fluttering your lashes. 

Having checked out your surroundings, you concluded that the inside of the garage wasn’t interesting enough for you to keep your eyes somewhere. So you dropped them to Bucky's hands. Stained with grease, they appeared to be the hands of a professional; they knew exactly what to do. No accidental, hesitant movements.

“How was it?” He asked. You immediately looked up at his face. “With John.”

“I made a pretty good impression on him, I think. He wants to have babies with me,” you said casually.

Stopping everything he was doing, Bucky tensed at your words, a muscle in his jaw twitched. “And you? Do you want to have babies with him?” 

“Looks like a baby-free deal doesn’t exist, so if I have to…” You shrugged. The alcohol in your system kept you from panicking at the very thought. Or was it Bucky's presence that had that effect on you? After all, you felt safe around him, so no prospect seemed so frightening. “Why don't you have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?” The question suddenly left your mouth, because since it popped into your head, you decided to satisfy your own curiosity right away. “You are attractive. Very attractive. Protective, maybe too protective…” You squinted. “But people, especially girls, like it. You can be really funny if you want to, you have money and position. And some pretty cool cars.” 

“What’s with all these compliments?” Bucky raised his eyebrows. 

“I get flirty after wine.” You waved your hand dismissively, not intending to continue with this particular topic. “I remember you were, well, a ladies’ man.” You pressed your lips together; you wondered if you should have used that term. It's not that you didn't think it was accurate - you just didn't want to offend Bucky, or upset him.

But he looked at you, smiling with a softness that in no way matched the whole situation. “You remember me?” He repeated. As if it was the most obvious thing, you nodded in response, your forehead furrowed. “I didn’t know you were aware of me.”

“Don't change the subject.”

Bucky sighed heavily, but did not answer straight away. “I liked being around women. Still do. But in a different way. I’ve changed, I guess. Matured, realized a few things. I had a lot of time to think over the last two years.” 

You listened to everything he had just shared and, despite your drunken boldness, you didn't have the courage to bring up his father's death again or to find out more about the lessons he had learned over the mentioned two-year period. You decided to grab onto something else. “In a different way? What do you-”

“That I don’t try to sweep them off their feet, or wrap them around my finger,” he said calmly, but there was something in the way he was talking to you and, for a second, you felt like a scolded child. “I don't hit on them, I don't flirt, I don't try to be charming or funny. If they want to fuck, we fuck. But I'm not looking for an opportunity to take someone to bed.”

Overwhelmed by the information you wanted yourself to hear, you didn't know where to look. “Mhm…” You murmured, trying to appear completely relaxed, maybe even indifferent. On the other hand, you presumed your cheeks that turned pink gave you away. “And you…” You began, partly to talk about something else, partly out of pure curiosity. “Do you remember me? From back then?” 

Bucky loosened up a bit, a smirk crept across his lips. He reached for a piece of cloth slung over his shoulder, and got rid of the grease off his hands by wiping them thoroughly. “Maybe,” he answered, shrugging. It was clear he was teasing you, and you wondered if it was some kind of punishment for bothering him with personal questions. “Watch your fingers,” Bucky warned gently, so you took a step away from the car, then he closed the Chrysler’s hood. “I’ll drive you home, huh?”

When the car finally stopped near the familiar building, you breathed a sigh of relief – you were only a few steps away from a warm shower and a comfy bed.

Before you could touch the handle, Bucky's hand wrapped hastily around your forearm. You turned your gaze to him to see what had come over him, and saw a completely controlled unease painted on his face. 

“You know that car?” 

Having followed his gaze, you spotted a vehicle; you did not recall it belonging to Michael or anyone in the Family. “Not really.”

Bucky reached into the glove compartment above your lap and pulled out a gun. It was only then that you felt a sprouting anxiety; not out of fear for your life, but at the thought that something might happen to Bucky because he'd decided to get you home.

“Come on,” he said, and there was nothing but calmness in his voice. 

You got out of the Mustang and joined Bucky on the other side of the car. 

“Stay behind me, okay?” he instructed, and you didn't protest only because you didn't want to sabotage the possible plan he had formed in his mind. You nodded, and just as he asked you to, you kept two steps behind his back.

You cautiously entered the house, Bucky keeping his gun low but unlocking it earlier, his finger close to the trigger. It was dark inside, except for the warm light pouring out of the living room. It was also where the quiet conversation was coming from; you recognised Michael's voice, and it put you a little bit at ease – you didn't think he was in danger, or that you two were the ones who were threatened. You touched Bucky's arm gently to prevent a potential reaction. 

As you approached the living room, that’s when Bucky really tensed up. Seeing Michael in the company of John Walker wasn't exactly a delight for you either. No one needed to speak; it only took a few glances for the atmosphere to thicken in the blink of an eye.

“Y/N,” Michael’s displeased tone pierced the heavy silence. “What is he doing here?”

“Making sure she gets home safely,” Bucky asserted before you had a chance to think about who Michael actually had in mind. 

“From where?” John interjected; he sounded casual, amused even, but his edgy smile said otherwise. “Should I feel threatened?” His question, thrown around as if playfully, only confirmed your assumption that John was unsure of his position.

“No, of course not,” you protested right away.

Michael could have drilled down. However, you could see that he didn't want to do that – he didn't want to raise doubts about what you were doing with Bucky; to give John a reason to back off. All he cared about was putting an end to the subject as soon as possible and not returning to it – making it seem forgotten at least. “It's time for you to go, I suppose. Is that correct, boy?”

You nearly winced at how patronizing Michael addressed Bucky. It was almost insulting, meant to put Bucky back in his place. He, however, looked composed, but you got to know him well enough to be aware that he would rip Michael's head off if the opportunity arose. 

“Correct,” Bucky agreed. He held his gaze on Michael for a while longer, then, a brief glance was everything he got for you, and it felt cold – like when he left you in that pub. You watched him walk away, but Michael's grunt brought your attention back.

You didn’t stay with Michael and John. Hiding behind a long, tough day and pouring honey in their ears by telling them you didn't want to disturb an obviously important discussion that your feminine mind wouldn't comprehend, you got away. Still, there was something bothering you. So, not long after the desired refreshment and making sure Michael was alone, you went down to the living room.

Michael peeked at you, looking up from his newspaper, waiting patiently for you to raise the matter on which you had come here. 

You sat down in the armchair next to his, and for some reason, nervousness led you to occupy your hands with the belt of a soft, fluffy robe you wore after the shower. “Why was John here?” 

“To speak about business,” he said immediately, still focusing on the paper. 

“Right, let me put that differently…” You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “Why do you think John was here?”

This time Michael did not answer straight away. Nor did he appear to be thinking about the answer; his eyes roamed over the next lines of text. “I believe he wants to control you. Keep an eye on his investment.” He closed and put the newspaper down on the end table between the chairs, then looked straight at you. “Do you want my advice? You'd better let him,” he said. It wasn’t the content of his words that caused your forehead to crease, but the determination with which he said them. “At least two candidates backed out after Bucky beat Brock. Men are afraid to approach you because you got yourself a guard dog.”

At least two candidates, and you had no idea about that. 

“He didn’t beat Brock because of me,” you protested. 

“But he did it. They don't know the details, they don't need them. All they need is that it happened at a meeting that should have ended with marriage. Instead, it ended with Brock Rumlow's broken nose. Of course,” Michael continued. “There were those who were encouraged by it. Who thought it must be a game worth playing. But I turned them down right away, because only a fool would think he stood any chance with Bucky Barnes,” he almost spat. Then, he took a deep breath to release the tension. “He would be a perfect candidate, you know?” 

Although you had lowered your head somewhere during Michael’s monologue, you now raised your eyes to him. Your heart was racing, gaining a familiar, nearly furious rhythm. 

“The friendship of your families, the power and reputation that the name Barnes holds… And it turns out that Bucky Barnes is the only man in New York who doesn't fight for your hand in marriage.” Michael smiled bitterly. 

You looked away to avoid having to face Michael. You crushed under the weight of the awareness that his words had aroused in you. Experiencing far too many emotions at once – you felt angry, sad, disappointed and even a little betrayed – you were hopeless as never before.

“I know that this is difficult,” Michael spoke again. “However, we can't lose John. We can't be sure there will be more better candidates, and even if there will be, we don't have enough time. I don't know what you got yourself into with Bucky, but he can't protect you until he becomes your husband, which he has no desire to do. So whatever is going on between you two has to stop. Now.”

“What does that mean? I can’t see him anymore?” You asked, your voice weak.

“You don’t have to run for the hills each time you accidentally meet him,” he clarified. “But whether you continue to be friends will depend entirely on your husband.”

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leaaa008

[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 04

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 4,2k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.)

<previous part | next part> | series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

chapter sneak peek: “Bucky…” You hesitated, taking a little more time to sort out what you should really say. “Helps me with some business.” You reached for the glass of wine standing in front of you and took a sip.

“Always helpful,” Rebecca sneered. You noticed that she has been passionately ignoring her brother, but until now you were convinced that this was just a mistaken impression. “And, of course, he wants the best for you, doesn't he?” She faked a smile.

The encounter with Bucky, which took place a few days ago, turned out to be a new source of worry, leaving you even more confused. Guided by common sense, you tried not to dwell on it, but every time you lost your guard and let your thoughts wander, you found yourself reliving that moment. And each time you asked yourself the same question, Why did an accidental contact lead to such a strong reaction? It wasn't that the two of you had started pawing each other; Bucky accidentally leaned against you. And then he looked at your lips to see if your body was thinking the same thing as his…

You drifted off again, and were made aware of it by the boiling kettle. The flashback of the touch immediately popped into your head like the words of a stupid song you couldn't stop humming. And although you lost your appetite for tea, you filled the cup with hot water.

Michael walked into the kitchen with a newspaper in his hands – the kind he used to bring your father every morning. With a heavy sigh, he put it down on the kitchen counter. When you peeked at him to figure out if that sigh meant he was in a bad mood, you met his gaze. Suddenly you felt uncomfortable.

“What..?” 

“Stark is becoming impatient,” Michael began. “Since your father's death, no one really controls the distribution of Stark Industries products. If this outage continues, Stark will quit doing business with us,” he said. Having taken off his glasses, he massaged his closed eyelids. Working with Tony Stark was bringing in a huge amount of money for your Family. As such, you understood Michael's nervousness – you couldn't afford to dissolve your partnership. “In view of this, we have less and less time.”

Biting your lower lip, you ran your eyes nervously over the surface of the countertop. “What about Brock?” You didn't want to consider the possibility that Brock might have turned out to be your last resort, but you knew you should be prepared for it. “Any word from Rumlows?”

Michael shook his head. “I was approached by someone else,” he added. Your first instinct was to feel uneasy, but in the end you decided to give it a chance. It dawned on you that you had to stop being picky, even though it had seemed perfectly reasonable to you up to that point. You had the right to demand to be treated right by any person you were to marry. “John Walker would like to speak to you. Without me or any third parties present.”

This was exactly what you had feared – John Walker joining in. And while he didn't seem as harmful as Brock, you didn't see him as the ideal candidate. But for all intents and purposes, you didn't see an ideal candidate in any man around. 

You swallowed hard. “Did he say anything else?”

“That he will reach you to discuss the details of the meeting.”

The conversation with Michael was still looming in your head, effectively hindering your preparations for dinner at the Barnes house. All you could do was turn up there and look good, and even that was difficult to achieve. 

A long, warm bath has improved the state of your skin somewhat – until now it was a little too dry and ashen as a result of the stresses of recent weeks. However, it regained some of its softness. You dried and brushed your hair, moisturised your face and did your makeup a little more carefully than usual, trying to cover up every little imperfection – these, too, have intensified since the burden of serious decisions fell on you. You generally tried not to complain about your appearance, but lately you haven't felt particularly comfortable in your own skin. Still, you saw the positive side in worrying about your looks – it took your mind off the rest of your problems.

The day was inexorably turning into evening, but the weather had not changed much – the temperature outside remained pleasantly warm, perfectly reflecting the deep spring. So you decided to put on a white dress with tiny flowers; it had short, buff sleeves and reached past your knees. The hard part came when you had to deal with the tie at the back; it went in a zigzag from mid-shoulders to lower back. 

You breathed a sigh of relief when you heard a quiet knock on the door – Suzie appeared just in time. 

“I was just about to-” You looked back over the shoulder and felt a sudden wave of heat when you spotted Bucky instead of your sister. Although he'd announced to you that he was coming – this time he'd done it by text, not by standing outside your window – you hadn't expected him this early. And as much as you tried to push the memories of your last contact into some dark, forgotten corner of your mind, these blossomed with vivid colours. “I thought it was my sister.”

“I wanted to wait in the car, but she sent me here,” Bucky said, scratching the back of his head. “Need help with the dress?”

Staring at him blankly, you nodded after a while. 

“May I..?” 

“Sure.”

Bucky came closer to you, so you turned again to let him work. 

“Try to straighten the string, okay?” you added quietly. You wanted it to be as perfect as possible. 

Bucky let out a heavy breath and you felt a cool blow on your half-naked back; this in turn made you shiver, much more gently than last time. His fingers slid under the string, and so involuntarily brushed your skin. You felt him hesitate for a moment, but then his fingers moved along the underside of the string, complying with your request and straightening it out. Soon he grabbed both ends and pulled them so that the front of the dress clung to your chest.

“Too tight?” he asked, presumably having heard your sharp sigh. You couldn't tell what it was the result of – the squeezing fabric or Bucky's closeness.

“It’s okay,” you croaked and you almost immediately scolded yourself for how weak and pathetic you sounded. 

Bucky tied the ends of the string in a double bow, probably as a precaution; in case it would come undone at the least appropriate moment. He did it in silence, and although this seemed perfectly natural for such an activity, you got the impression that an awkwardness had crept in between you, which you had managed to avoid at the very beginning of your relationship.

“Done,” Bucky said, and you turned around carefully. Just as carefully, you lifted your gaze to his face. He was surveying you, possibly even more intensely than usual. For a brief moment you wondered if he too was tormented by the same thoughts as you, and judging by the slightly pained look on his face, expressing some kind of longing, you could guess that he was indeed.

“Have you heard?” You spoke after a bit longer silence. 

“About what?” Bucky didn't even for a split second seem interested in the answer that might lie beneath your question. 

“John Walker asked me on a date,” you said calmly, moreover, you were almost tempted to smile – you didn't want to give the situation unnecessary tragedy.

A corner of his mouth lifted, but that gesture had not even a hint of enthusiasm in it. He didn't look surprised or angry. You figured the news had traveled fast, but even if Bucky hadn't been aware of John's offer until now, he predicted it – he told you about it at the very beginning.

“You look really nice,” Bucky’s voice sounded so soft that your face flushed. You wanted to check if he was telling the truth, but you were unable to take your eyes off his.

“Thank you.” You smiled slightly. “I’ll grab a few things and we can go,” you added. You had the irresistible feeling that if you didn't say it – didn’t say something – the mutual gazing at each other would get out of hand again.

“I’ll be in the car.”

You left the house with Suzie. Because of your hands being occupied with a cardboard box, she closed the door behind you, then you both headed to the gate. 

Bucky stood with his back up against his car. Your knowledge of vehicles ended with the identification of brands, but even if that skill was even more limited, you would have easily recognised this one – mainly because of the distinctive wild horse logo. A thought unknowingly popped into your head that the black, vintage Mustang suited its owner.

Pulling away from the car, Bucky pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. He opened the passenger door and put the seat down, allowing Suzie to get into the back. As your sister slipped inside and the front seat returned to its place, you also got in. Bucky walked around the front of the car and sat behind the wheel, his gaze immediately falling on the box you were holding. 

“I made a carrot cake,” you explained.

He raised his eyebrows with astonishment. 

“Barnes don’t eat cakes?” 

“We do,” Bucky differed. You glanced at the way his hand landed on the stick and put it in the right gear. He threw his arm over your headrest to look at the back window, and you felt butterflies in your stomach again. “It’s just… Baking is so…”

“Yeah..?” 

“I don’t know, wifely?”

You watched the profile of Bucky's face as he focused on the road. “Is there anything else wifely in me?” 

Bucky smirked under his nose. When the car stopped at the first traffic light, he leered at you. “In you? I'd have to check.” He shrugged. “But those nightgowns you wear…” He pressed his lips together, shaking his head slowly. “Fuck,” he said almost soundlessly, as if he didn't want Suzie to hear it.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm, and he snorted a quiet laugh.

For the rest of the way, you didn’t really talk. You were worried that Suzie might feel uncomfortable, or worse, pick up something she wasn't supposed to hear. She was nearly an adult, besides, she had grown up in the same environment as you, nevertheless, you preferred to spare her the awkwardness.

Not long after you had left the city behind, the car turned into a road along which big old trees were growing; their interlocking tops formed a kind of tunnel. At its exit was a large, green plot of land, and you couldn't really tell where it ended. The house on it – tall, with a surrounding porch and walls covered with ivy in places – was probably as old as the trees.

Absorbed in the views behind the window, you didn't even notice that the car had stopped. You only became aware of it when Bucky opened the door for you. You got out, still scanning the surroundings with your eyes, and Bucky freed your sister.

“This place…” You began, and only after a moment glanced at Bucky. He stood next to you and tilted his head slightly to the side. “It’s beautiful here.”

Bucky gave you a half-smile, and this time you could see an undeniable softness and happiness on his face. You were able to tell that he had positive feelings about his family home.

The front door – solid, heavy, with a colourful, floral stained glass window – swung almost wide open. And although you had never really met her, you recognised Winnifred Barnes in the woman who stepped out onto the porch. At first glance, you saw a striking resemblance between her and Bucky – he had her whole face; her big blue eyes, straight nose and strong jaw. 

“Y/N, Suzanne,” Mrs. Barnes beamed warmly at you and your sister. “I’m glad you could make it. Come inside.”

“Thank you for inviting us.” You handed Winnifred the package. “It’s just a cake,” you rushed to clarify, seeing the premature delight on the woman's face.

“That is so sweet of you, Y/N. Jamie,” she turned to Bucky. “Take our guests to the dining room, please.”

Having climbed the few steps leading up to the porch, Bucky joined you.

“Jamie?” you repeated, your mouth curved into a smile.

Bucky chuckled. “Yeah.” He scratched his neck.

You got to the dining room, and although the number of people there exceeded your expectations, you didn't feel overwhelmed by the company. You recognised Timothy first, since you had seen him relatively recently, then Steve Rogers, as he also figured quite vividly in your consciousness. As for the rest, you weren't as sure.

You guessed that one of the young women sitting at the table, who was an almost perfect, and certainly the most faithful copy of Winnifred, was Rebecca Barnes. There was an infant on her lap, banging a spoon on the table top and bursting into laughter after every sound. Rebecca, most likely used to this kind of noise, didn't pay much attention to it; she was busy talking to the person sitting right next to her. This time you assumed it was Josephine Barnes. In fact, you were even sure of it, mainly because of the similarity she shared with Winnifred, Bucky and Rebecca. She only had slightly softer facial features and a not-so-piercing gaze; you also noticed the visible tan.

You almost missed the last one – with her nose in a book she was the least conspicuous. Mary, you guessed. You recalled that she was not much younger than your own sister.

“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly, and it wasn't his voice that revived you, but his fingers hooked on your elbow. You felt electricity radiating from that spot.

Before you had time to reply, something crashed into your legs and embraced them tightly. You looked down, where you spotted a little girl with a grin that missed a few teeth. 

“Hi!” She exclaimed. 

“Hi.” You couldn’t help but smile, too. 

“Oh, Daisy,” Rebecca groaned, clearly embarrassed by the child's behaviour. You therefore concluded that Daisy was her daughter. “Stop that.”

“It’s all right,” you declared immediately. 

Still, Bucky crouched down and pulled the child away from your legs, and this little fuss threw you into the spotlight. Everyone at the table stopped whatever they were just doing and focused on you.

“Jamie brought home a girl?” Josephine asked with surprise and a kind of hope. “How long have you been together?” 

“Is that your girlfriend?” Mary joined the conversation. “Oh, she’s pretty.”

You pressed your lips together in a slight smile; you hoped to avoid becoming the main attraction, on the other hand, you could breathe a sigh of relief – your efforts to make your appearance tolerable had paid off.

“Alright, that's enough.” Bucky gave his sisters a threatening glare.

“They are not a couple,” Timothy, sitting at the head of the table, spoke, drawing everyone's attention. “As far as I know,” he added, raising his eyebrows. “Y/N,” he said to you, his friendly smile didn't match the mysterious expression on the rest of his face. “Sit next to Steve. I insist.” 

You led your eyes in that direction. Indeed, there were two empty chairs between Mary and Steve – probably for you and Suzie. “Of course.” You nodded politely and made your way to that seat, peeking at your sister to check on her. Steve rose and pulled back a chair for you, and once you had taken your seat, you glanced at Bucky confused; Timothy's request seemed more than a little odd to you.

Bucky clenched his jaw. Previous experience allowed you to recognise when he wasn’t pleased, and that was exactly what he looked like at the moment.

Winnifred also appeared in the dining room. As the lady of the house, she sat at the other end of the table. Soon after, the first dishes were served and the room filled with sounds of conversation. The men were talking about baseball, then boxing, and although Bucky was actively involved in the discussion, he seemed a little distracted. Whenever you glimpsed in his direction, you caught him staring at you – you could see that he was a bit disappointed, perhaps even resentful, and there was something dark in his eyes; as if the sea in his irises was hit by a storm. Especially when Steve included you in a conversation, smiled or laughed at something you said.

Winnifred asked about your gallery, the upcoming exhibition, and about Suzie's school. She praised your cake. In exchange you learned that Mary was studying for her biology exam even at dinner, Rebecca had expanded little George's diet – the baby previously sitting on her lap – with more fruit, and Josephine had returned to New York on a short break from her college. 

You were worried that you would feel uncomfortable here, especially as Timothy separated you from the only person you knew, but the atmosphere in the Barnes home was like a warm, safe hug. Even Suzie found common ground with Mary, so you didn't have to be concerned about her comfort.

“How did you two meet?” Josephine asked, and when you looked at her without understanding, she nodded discreetly at Bucky.

“Oh, but we-”

“Yeah, I know.” Josephine waved her hand dismissively. “But I'm interested in every detail. I can't remember the last time Jamie brought someone home.”

You plastered a slight smile on your face, knowing that it wasn't Bucky who invited you here, but his mum. “Actually, we met through your uncle,” you answered. You didn't want to spoil the mood with the subject of a funeral or an arranged marriage. “Bucky…” You hesitated, taking a little more time to sort out what you should really say. “Helps me with some business.” You reached for the glass of wine standing in front of you and took a sip.

“Always helpful,” Rebecca sneered. You noticed that she has been passionately ignoring her brother, but until now you were convinced that this was just a mistaken impression. “And, of course, he wants the best for you, doesn't he?” She faked a smile. 

“Rebecca, honey-” Winnifred interjected softly, and when she did, the table fell silent.

“No, mom.” She shook her head, as if that would prevent Mrs. Barnes from getting a word in edgewise. “It's not fair that some random girl can sit here with us and the father of my children can't.” Tears of anger shone in Rebecca's eyes. “Excuse me,” she said, then got up and left the room. 

You felt guilty. Not because you may have actually taken an undeserved seat at the table, but instead of shame or anxiety, you were intrigued by this unexpected burst. You took another sip of wine.

“What happened to mommy?” Daisy asked. 

“Nothing, baby,” Winnifred told her gently. “She’ll get better.”

With suspicion, Daisy turned her head at Bucky. “Is that true?”

He pressed his lips together in a pale smile. “Of course, Junebug. Cross my heart.” Bucky put his hand on his chest. “How about we watch ‘Finn and Jake’?” He suggested with theatrical excitement, which Daisy shared immediately – she nodded eagerly. “Yeah?” Bucky grinned again, more relaxed this time.

Daisy ran up to him, grabbed the hand he had held out and dragged him out of the dining room. Bucky glimpsed at you, giving you an apologetic look.

Josephine leaned out and laid her eyes on you. “I’m going for a smoke, wanna join?”

Josephine led you to a gazebo in the garden. As she said, she offered you a cigarette, and you both leaned against the railing. The evening gloom was dispelled by the lamps on the lawn and the lighting inside the gazebo; it was getting unpleasantly cold outside, but you preferred the low temperature outside to the tense atmosphere at the table. 

“I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I don't want you to think that my sister is some spoiled bitch,” Josephine began, and you looked at her rather blankly. You didn't want to show too much that she made you curious. “His name was Robbie. The father of her children, as she called him,” she said with distaste. “He was part of the Family. Jamie recruited him, so the whole thing still bothers him. And Robbie was a fucking asshole from the beginning. He spent late nights in bars, gambled all their money away, hung out with other girls. When Daisy was born, it only got worse. He complained that Becca was neglecting him. Didn't help with the baby, disappeared from the house more often and for much longer…” She continued. “Rebecca's only problem is that she has a soft heart. She never said a bad word about Robbie, but everyone knew what was going on. She thought another baby would change him, that it would fix their relationship, but…” Josephine shrugged. She took a puff, and for a brief moment said nothing, staring into nowhere. “So Jamie got rid of him.”

Your brows drew together involuntarily. “What do you mean..?”

“No one knows what really happened to Robbie. He vanished into thin air and never contacted Becca again.”

You felt like a child who had just heard a blood-curdling ghost story. Actually, you only felt that way partly – on the other hand, you were even more fascinated by Bucky. “Well…” You sighed, shaking the excess ash off the end of your cigarette. “He did what he thought was right,” you commented. This time, too, you preferred to be careful, thus not claiming out loud that Bucky had done the right thing. 

“Not according to Becca. She's better than she was at the beginning, but it's still a touchy subject for her.” 

You finished your cigarettes in silence, and that silence helped you to sink into your own thoughts; to see Bucky in a slightly different light.

“Are you sure there's nothing between you and Jamie?” Josephine spoke, a teasing smirk on her face. “I saw the way he looked at you the whole dinner. I know my brother, and if I were Steve I would keep my distance from you,” she giggled.

Your lips twitched in a slight smile. You noticed it too, and although you weren't the only people at the table, you secretly hoped you were the only ones aware of what was going on.

You could have talked to Josephine about it; told her that Bucky had no right to be jealous. You were strictly focused on marrying someone and Bucky excluded himself at his own request. You could have shared all this with Josephine, thereby taking some of the weight off your shoulders. But you didn't want to involve her.

“I’m sure,” you said. “It's strictly business between him and me.”

“Speak of the devil.”

Following Josephine's gaze, you peeked over your shoulder. Bucky was heading to the gazebo. Having caught your eyes, he smirked softly. You struggled to take your eyes off his face and lowered them to his hands – he was holding a piece of cloth that you couldn't identify in the darkness. Only when Bucky got under the roof of the gazebo did you notice that he had brought a sweatshirt. Moreover, he put it gently over your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you murmured, surprised at the gesture, and glanced at Josephine. From the expression on her face, you were convinced that she wanted to say, So there's nothing between you two, right?

“You sneak out to smoke?” Bucky addressed his sister, his forehead creased. “What are you? Sixteen?” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Josephine rolled her eyes.

Bucky reached out his hand, so she handed him the packet and the lighter. With a cigarette between his lips, he looked stunningly – more rough and intimidating. 

“I'll leave you two alone,” Josephine suggested, grinning. She pushed herself away from the railing, and you two watched her leave.

You slipped your arms into the sleeves of the sweatshirt and wrapped yourself in it, discreetly inhaling the familiar scent. You looked at Bucky, and he again gave you a gentle smile; it reached his eyes as well. However, it faded soon after.

“I’m sorry about before. Becca-”

“I had this conversation with Josephine,” you stopped him. “I know what happened and I get it. I don't blame her for reacting the way she did. Anyway, she was right. I’m some random girl who-”

“You are not,” he protested immediately. His mouth set in a hard line as he was staring at you. “I-... I like you, Y/N.” 

Taking a sharp breath, you looked away. You shook your head in disbelief, tried to ignore the fact that your heart was beating harder than you would have wished. “I like you too, Bucky, but I can’t fall for you. I don’t want to.”

Bucky took his eyes off you only to put out his cigarette. Then he moved a step closer to you and hesitantly reached for your hand. You closed your eyes, then fixed them on his fingers – he stroked the back of your hand with his thumb, and you didn't protest. 

“I know,” he rasped. “But I just need to protect you. So please, let me protect you. Okay? Because I feel like everything is getting out of my control. And I’m fucking tired of it.” 

You raised your gaze to his eyes. He glared into them pleadingly and with some kind of fear, as if your rejection would shatter him into a million pieces. You nodded slightly, unsure if you really did; if you really agreed to fall under his protection.

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[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 03

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 3,3k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.)

<previous part | next part> | series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

Since the question of marriage came into your life, everything else has receded into the background. Even if you tried to distract yourself, you couldn't focus on anything other than agreements, mergers, potential offers and, most importantly, fears about the future. You wondered whether the Rumlow Family would agree to talk again. If not, what was left for you? You didn't have enough time to learn how to manage your father's business; to master all the functions of the Head of the Family. Besides, you didn't even have the right qualities to become one. 

Unable to concentrate on your work, you closed your laptop. Your gallery was scheduled to host an exhibition soon, and you had been doing your best to give it enough attention, but you gave up after the fifth mindless reading of an email. Having stood by a huge window that overlooked a patch of the city, you let your thoughts wander somewhere to the beginning of your life, or at least to the moment when you began to be aware of it. You reflected on which decision – yours or someone around you – had brought you to this point.

You weren't sure about your father, but your mother didn't want that life for you. When she thought you were old and sensible enough, she would say: Never marry a gangster.

But this life never bothered you. You weren't afraid of guns or blood, and the usual dangers that came with what your father did didn't particularly scare you.

For the first few years of your life you were no different from any other kid. But as soon as you finished elementary school, your parents sent you to a private girls' school in London, where you spent the next six years. At first you thought the prestigious academy abroad was a real opportunity. Only later did you realise what it was really all about. Your mother panicked; she didn't want to let you soak up the darkness and ruthlessness of the world that was your father's everyday life. She believed that there was something inside you already, and that it needed to be nipped in the bud.

But her plan failed. You noticed and understood more than was thought. Sending you to another country didn't get the job done, because when you came home for holidays and long weekends, you seeked ways to absorb as much as possible of what your mother was protecting you from. Your father, on the other hand, seeing your enthusiasm and fascination, secretly allowed you to explore this world, but dispensed it safely. You may not have become an expert because of this, but you were not completely clueless either. You learned a few things.

Your mind swiftly connected your past with the relationship you had with Bucky. You both came from the same background, your father having a good relationship with both George and Timothy Barnes. Despite this, Bucky's and your paths never really crossed. He was six years older than you, so when you finally finished school and returned home permanently, you didn’t see him often.

You wouldn't say that you knew him. You were only aware of his existence, you had heard things about him. You witnessed the assassination of his father and then Bucky just disappeared. He left New York for two years.

And now? You considered an analogy – he was becoming to you what George and Timothy were to your father. You supposed you both had it in your blood; a mutual affection for each other.

Your thoughts were disturbed by a knock at the door. A girl named Tracy, who worked in the gallery, entered your office with a big bouquet of hyacinths and white tulips. This sight caught you off guard. 

“Who are these from?” Tracy asked, grinning with excitement. She put the flowers on the desk. 

You raised your eyebrows. “I thought you'd tell me.”

“Courier delivered them.” She looked at the flowers with persistent admiration. You would have given a lot to be able to share her enthusiasm, but you were aware that this bouquet could have meant anything. Like another offer, you thought uneasily. 

Noticing a small piece of paper, you reached carefully between the stems. You didn't expect to know the handwriting; nevertheless, you felt even more anxious.

These flowers are supposed to symbolize an apology. Really. Check that out. 

Sorry.

Your first suspicion fell on Brock. Could it be that he regretted the way he behaved in the pub that day? No one else had offended you enough to send flowers. And even though you still didn't want to have anything to do with Brock, you couldn't get rid of them. The bouquet didn't make you forgive Brock, but it didn't deserve to be thrown away either.

Another sleepless night was no particular surprise, but you felt too exhausted to accept it. Besides, you couldn’t let tiredness affect your next day – you had to be able to think properly, especially now. So having taken something to help you sleep, you lay in the darkness, waiting for the effects.

Until something caught your attention. 

A quiet tap, but you couldn't tell where it was coming from. Immediately afterwards you heard it again. You sat up on the bed, switched on the bedside lamp – which blinded you at first – and looked around. With another tap you realised that it was the sound of something hitting the window. 

You got out of bed and walked there. Because of the moonlight outside, it was bright enough for you to recognise the man standing below. Without a second thought, you opened the window.

“Hi,” Bucky spoke. 

You stuck your head out and smiled; you tried to do it with disapproval, but you had to admit that his presence instantly lightened your mood. And the fact that the scene looked like a forbidden romance of teenagers allowed you to forget about your current problems. “Did you just throw rocks at my window?”

“Would you rather I scream? I can scream.” He lifted his eyebrows with conviction.

You raised your eyebrows expectantly.

“Actually, I can’t,” Bucky said, and you let out a brief laugh. “I’m too scared of Michael,” he lowered his voice. 

“And that's why you are standing there instead of using the door,” you guessed, causing him to nod. “Do you want me to come down to you..?”

“I can go up to you.” He shrugged casually. 

“Oh, really?” 

Hearing the skepticism in your voice, Bucky shook his head resignedly, theatrically offended by your lack of confidence in his abilities, then moved closer to the wall. You watched him with a kind of awe, certain that he would give up at the last moment. At least, that seemed the most sensible option to you. However, Bucky grabbed onto the drainpipe, and placing his feet on its fixings, began to climb upwards. Your eyes widened. 

On the one hand, you wanted to stop him; to ask him to come back down. On the other, the sight gave you too much joy that you didn't want to take away from yourself.

You moved back to a safe distance so Bucky could slip inside without trouble, and when he was on the final straight, you grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled him into the room. Not that he needed it, but your conscience did.

“Thanks,” he breathed, dusting off his T-shirt and jeans.

The typical coolness of a spring night was coming in, so you closed the window, then reached for your robe and threw it over your shoulders. When you turned your gaze towards Bucky again, you found him by your dresser. 

“So, this is your room,” he concluded, inspecting the scented candle he had grabbed from the top of the dresser. He unscrewed the lid of a small jar and hesitantly sniffed the wax inside. Only then did he glance at the label, frowning. “It's… not how I'd imagined.”

Your forehead creased. “What? My room?”

“Lounge At Night.” Bucky lifted the candle so you could see what he was talking about. You rolled your eyes, snorting a quiet laugh. “You like them? Scented candles?” 

“Mhm,” you answered, watching him with patience. You wondered what he was up to. And why did he come here. 

“I've never thought about your room. I'm not that perverted like-” he cut off suddenly, unsure whether he should mention that.

“Like Brock?” 

Bucky smiled at first, then let out a quiet sigh. Staring at you with something you couldn’t exactly figure out, he chewed on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry if I took away your chance to get married.”

“Wasn't that the plan? To cool Michael’s enthusiasm?” You squinted, the corners of your mouth turned up in an amused smile. “Anyway…” you added more seriously. “I wouldn’t call Brock a chance.”

“Good. Because I’m not really sorry.” He raised his eyebrows, and you cackled again. Talking to Bucky turned out to be a pleasant escape from all the important conversations you've been having lately. 

But you felt uneasy, having recalled the situation in the gallery. “I don't know if he's not up to something. I… got some flowers today,” you said nervously. 

There was some slight change in Bucky's face, which you could barely see in the faint light of the bedside lamp. Sparks of boyish sneakiness flickered in his eyes, but otherwise he remained unmoved. “White tulips and blue hyacinths?” 

You didn't immediately realise what he was actually telling you. But when you did, your brows drew together and your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out except for a single short breath. “Those were from you?” 

Bucky nodded. “What I did was wrong. I left you in that pub without saying anything. I was a bit harsh, too, and you did nothing to deserve it.”

You pursed your lips helplessly. It wasn't that you felt relieved when it turned out that Brock hadn't given you an outstretched hand. You were somehow touched by Bucky's gesture. Not only had he sent you flowers, but – as the little note in the bouquet told – he had made sure they were not accidental.

“Hey…” Bucky began softly, walking up to you. He seemed concerned. “I’m sorry. Didn't mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you protested right away. “I didn't expect to get flowers from you, that's all.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he studied your face in silence. Just by that expression you could feel the teasing coming. “Is it that shocking? You think I'm that thick skinned?”

“You said yourself you’re not a guy to marry,” you pointed out. “So, yes, such romantic gestures from you can be pretty shocking.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Romantic gestures?” 

“Leave it,” you warned. “I don't often get flowers. That's why I was so moved.”

“I thought men throw themselves at your feet.” Bucky seemed genuinely surprised. 

“Sometimes they do. But they don’t buy me flowers,” you clarified, smirking. “So far you are the only one who has done both,” you reminded him, referring to the situation at the funeral. And although you felt embarrassed at the time, now this event slightly sweetened your memories. “The bouquet was really beautiful. Thank you.” Your mouth curved into a delicate smile. “And for what you did for me in the car that day. And for Brock.”

Bucky's face softened again. At first he gazed at you with mild surprise, astonished by your gratitude. It seemed he wasn't waiting for a thank you, which you didn't suspect him of anyway. “I get you out of trouble, right?” 

“And I don’t understand why you do it every time.”

“I told you, I want to do some good. For a change.” Bucky shrugged. 

“Mhm,” you murmured unconvinced. 

“You're saying I should sit around and do nothing?”

“Well, I’m not your problem, aren’t I?” 

You secretly hoped that you would manage to frustrate him with your tenacity enough that he might finally tell you the real reason. But Bucky appeared completely controlled; without even blinking, he patiently put up with your innocent push. 

“You can become my problem,” he said. If it wasn't for the fact that his calmness impressed you most of the time, you would probably find it annoying. “If Brock gets carried away by his pride, and I think that is what will happen, he won't want an alliance with us.”

“If I marry Brock, our Families won't have a good relationship anymore?” you made sure, putting it into as simple words as possible. Your brain was working at a lower and lower speed - the sleeping pills you had taken a few minutes ago were slowly starting to kick in.

Bucky nodded.

“Why won't your uncle talk to Michael?” You frowned.

“Because that's just a guess. My guess. And all Michael cares about is putting your father's business in good hands. It's the only right way to go, but he believes too much in agreements. He thinks he’ll have Rumlows’ loyalty with their signatures. But he won’t.”

You were again stepping into the sensitive area – topics you would have preferred to avoid, to get away from. But when Bucky shared with you what he thought about it all, you knew you could listen to him for hours.

You had a real intellectual in front of you; a far-sighted strategist with a nose for people. If you hadn't had several conversations with him, witnessed him speak, you wouldn't have suspected him of the brilliant way his mind worked. After all, just a moment ago he had climbed up the drainpipe into your room. He was wearing that leather jacket of his, a bruise from his clash with Brock and healing wounds on his knuckles. There was still a stubble on his face that many might call untidy; you wondered when he'd get rid of it and if he'd do it at all. You remembered that he looked a bit different in the past – much shorter hair that curled shyly into soft waves, always clean shaven. Now he seemed to wear the remains of what he had become in his absence. You didn't know him well enough, you'd never had the chance to get a good look at him, but you were amazed at how much a person can change in two years. 

Bucky watched you, but he wasn't impatient with the fact that you didn't say anything, didn't refer to his last words. He probably understood that you were tired of it all.

You didn't think you could get so comfortable in his company even when you were both silent. And it seemed that Bucky felt the same way – he didn't look for an opportunity to say anything, he appeared completely relaxed, as if you had known each other for centuries.

“Would you like some tea?” You spoke. 

The corners of his mouth turned up. “What about Michael? He told me to stay away.”

“And yet, here you are. Looks like you don’t mind the consequences.” You raised your eyebrows. Immediately, however, the expression on your face returned to the same gentleness of a moment ago. “Like any decent person at three in the morning, Michael is at his place,” you added, sneaking a hint, at which Bucky squinted slightly. 

“In that case…” He sighed. “Tea is fine. If you don't mind the company of degenerates like me.”

“I can handle it.” You pursed your lips to hide an amused grin. 

Keeping as quiet as possible, you led the way out of your bedroom, then up the stairs and eventually to the kitchen. You put the kettle on, then reached into the cupboard for a tin container of tea.

“Where do you keep your cups?” Bucky asked. 

You gazed at him with confusion – you probably expected him, as a man from your environment, to sit back and idly watch what you were doing. And you wouldn't be angry about it, after all, men were in charge of much more important things; they were the providers, bringing home the money they worked hard for all day. 

You blinked. “They’re just above me, but I’ll-”

Bucky stretched out towards the cupboards you mentioned, thus pushing his body involuntarily against yours. He froze for a moment, and the warmth of his torso, which you felt on your back thanks to the thin material of your robe as well as your nightgown, was enough to make a swarm of butterflies go mad in your stomach and a pleasant shiver spread through your body with a hot wave. And even though Bucky moved away, the goosebumps lingered on your skin for the next few minutes.

You turned hastily, pressing yourself to the edge of the countertop at which you were standing, and gave Bucky an almost terrified look – like an animal backed into a corner. He, too, stared at you anxiously; with fear at how such a small, insignificant gesture had caused so much. That was all it took – the glances you gave each other – for both of you to know that there had just been a slight discharge of the electricity that had hung over you from the moment Bucky appeared in your house for the first time.

Bucky glanced at your lips, but quickly looked away, ashamed and even a little concerned about what was going through his mind. You could feel your cheeks burning.

You both flinched when the kettle started to whistle. You hurriedly moved to turn it off – you didn't want to wake up the whole house. Besides, you had to get out of that situation somehow. With a trembling hand, you poured the tea into two cups and filled them with water, doing these things for longer than they required. You were unable to predict what would happen if you looked at Bucky again.

“Why exactly are you here?” you finally asked. You sounded surprisingly calm, considering what happened just a moment before.

“My mom…” he began, and you looked over your shoulder at him. “She wants you and your sister to come to our house for dinner. Claims you two could use some family time.”

Your brows drew together as you were taking in what he had just said. Perhaps it was actually about you and Suzie, or perhaps Mrs. Barnes felt it was your mother who could use some space – after all, she had lost her husband herself, and knew like no one else what it was like. 

You didn't have the heart to say no. “When..?”

“This Saturday.” 

You nodded carefully, still staring at him. You forgot the tea; you both did.

“You could have called. Or texted,” you said, again pushing to find out the truth. This time you were a little more determined about it; mainly because of what happened. “Why are you here?” you repeated.

Bucky clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. His face took on a particularly helpless expression. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

There was silence, and this time it turned out to be much less comfortable. It seemed that you both stopped trusting each other – stopped trusting your instincts. 

The phone in Bucky's pocket buzzed; even you were able to hear it through the silence that surrounded you. He reached for it and, reluctantly taking his eyes off you, focused on the screen. “I gotta go,” he murmured. “Thanks for the tea,” Bucky added, and you glanced at the cups. “I'll see myself out. You go back to bed.”

For a brief moment you thought he wanted to take a step towards you. Eventually you decided it was just a wrong impression, so you didn't react, just folded your arms. Bucky gave you a crooked smile, then he left.

You listened to his footsteps, and when you heard the front door click, you closed your eyes and  let out a heavy, shaky breath.

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @cybereggpastahoagie @buckysgirl01

[hopeless-writings]

An Offer · part 02

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 3,4k warnings: typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.), Brock Rumlow

<previous part | next part> | series masterlist

series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

chapter sneak peek: Bucky’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flared, and his chest grew bigger as he took a deep breath through the nose. His mouth curved into a bitter smile. He stared at Brock for a while longer, then moved away, as if he intended to leave you two alone.

On your way to a meeting with Brock Rumlow and his father, you wondered what it would cost you to jump out of a moving car. Would something like that be worse than marrying Brock and becoming part of his Family? The Family, which was mainly in the business of prostitution and drugs? Actually, drugs were an issue that you tolerated. But the vision of a relationship – arranged or not – with a pimp made you nauseous.

And all you knew about Brock was that he was hot-tempered, impulsive and aggressive, but this wasn’t uncommon among gangsters. 

You also remembered what Bucky said.

Do you honestly believe Brock Rumlow will hold up his part of the deal? Did you forget his relationship with women or are you just going to overlook it?

“Try to keep an open mind.” You heard Michael. The sound of his voice managed to stop the chaos in your head. “James can be persuasive and thinks he knows everything. But remember he is not in your situation and never will be, so try not to turn against me. Focus on the welfare of the Family.”

You restrained yourself from snorting at his words. Focusing on the welfare of the Family and business had become one big headache for you – it was giving you sleepless nights, eating you alive, and Michael was asking you for more. You were already tired, stressed and sick to your stomach. 

The car stopped outside the pub that Rumlows had proposed for a meeting, and as soon as the engine was turned off, and you realised the seriousness of the situation and how close you were to it, you felt an overpowering sense of anxiety and panic. Your breathing became uneven, the inside of your hands damp with sweat. 

You jumped uneasily as the driver opened the door for you.

“I need a moment.” You were able to focus enough to make your voice sound normal, and the words left your mouth almost flawlessly. “I’ll just fix my makeup.” 

Being alone in the car was somehow helping, but you still couldn't bring yourself to exit the vehicle – that step led straight to a meeting with Brock Rumlow.

“What is going on?” You heard a muffled voice that belonged to neither Michael nor the driver, so you looked up at the side window. Bucky was standing just by the car door, he wasn't speaking to you but to Michael. 

“She wanted a few minutes for herself.” 

Frowning, Bucky looked inside the car through the window, and you could easily see the confusion in his eyes. For a moment, you just looked at each other – you with pure mess in your head, and he as if trying to read your mind from the expression on your face. He grabbed the handle, and a refreshing spring air burst inside the car.

“Hey,” Bucky spoke gently, leaning towards you. “You okay?”

“I-” you gasped. Closing your eyes, you took the biggest possible breath you could afford right now. “I'm not sure I want to go there.”

Bucky stared at you in silence, a pained concern spreading across his face. He clenched his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” you continued in a trembling voice. “I don't normally get all-... like that. I’m not a child,” you were babbling mindlessly, fearing that otherwise he would have thought you were a spoiled hysteric.

“I know,” Bucky said immediately, cutting off your train of thought. “Listen…” he began with a hesitation. He let out a quiet sigh and wetted his lips. “We go there and it'll all be over soon. You don’t have to make any decisions yet,” he stated. “I'll be there the whole time. And I won't let anyone hurt you. Alright?” His voice was soft, delicate, but firm and decisive at the same time. “We’ll get out of there anytime you want, huh?”

The longer you stared at Bucky's face, the less anxious you felt. You genuinely believed you would be safe with him. You didn't have the head to wonder why you trusted him implicitly at that moment, but one thought automatically came to you – you needed someone like him in that situation; someone who didn't pressure you. 

You nodded, and Bucky smiled. He seemed to relax a little, as if a wave of relief had spread through his body.

“I don’t want to be late.” You sounded weak, embarrassed by the scene from a moment ago. But it looked like Bucky was pretending not to see anything.

“They set the meeting in a pub,” he said with a disapproval that was not far from disgust. “Make them wait.” 

Brock greeted you with a smile that faded as soon as Bucky entered the building. Rumlow Senior did a much better job of hiding his displeasure, but still watched him with caution. Bucky, on the other hand, seemed to be completely calm. Bored even.

Brock invited you to a booth, where you and Michael took a seat. Brock and his father sat opposite, and Bucky grabbed a chair from another table and moved it a little closer.

“Seriously,” Brock finally spoke up, indicating impatience. “What's this clown doing here?”

“You don’t know what clowns do, Brock?” Bucky answered. “They make people smile.” He reached for the knife attached to his belt. “Wanna try? I can give you one.”

You watched Bucky and your mouth went dry. You thought it was inappropriate, to say the least – you were sitting in front of, presumably, your future husband, but it was someone else who made you need to wet your throat and collect your thoughts. You had an unclear sense of how Bucky was affecting you, but you told yourself that any handsome man would make a similar impression on you. And Bucky was just that. Beautiful with his blue, sad eyes, nose perfect in every way, and pink, plump lips. Well-built as far as your eyesight could reach. He smelled nice; not as strong and overwhelming as the men you usually came into contact with. And his hair must have been really soft to touch…

Shaking your head to get rid of these thoughts, you reached for the glass of ice water standing in front of you. You stuck your guilt-filled gaze into the table top and dipped your lips into the cold, refreshing liquid.

Michael cleared his throat. “We should get to business.”

The beginning of the conversation was similar to what you had already heard that night when Timothy Barnes turned up at your house. You all knew what the deal was supposed to be about, but Michael had been going over it from the start – he wanted to make sure that there were no misunderstandings, and that the Rumlow Family would not actually use the agreement against yours.

You wondered why Brock didn't interfere; why he didn't have questions, didn't ask for correction or clarification of any issue. And when you glanced at him you noticed that he was looking at you in a way that made you even more nauseous. You couldn't compare it to the situation when John Walker was watching you. Although he was doing it inappropriately, it wasn't harmful. Brock, on the other hand, had something so rejecting and disgusting in his look that you would rather have disappeared out of his sight.

We’ll get out of there anytime you want.

Having remembered Bucky's words, you turned your gaze to him. Yet Bucky wasn’t focusing on you. Running his fingertip over the blunt side of the knife, he stared at Brock.

“How much exactly is there to take over?” Rumlow Senior asked.

“Well…” Michael sighed heavily. “An art gallery, two casinos; one here, the other in Atlantic City, three real estates, shares in the stock market, arms dealing for Mr. Anthony Stark…” he listed for formality; most of the Mafia community knew about each of these things. Except for the location of the real estates Michael had mentioned. “The territory of all activities, the protection of businesses in that area. And political influence.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief from his jacket. “As long as, of course, you take care of such friends,” he told Brock. “And I must admit that we would prefer to maintain good relationships with them.”

“Cross out the gallery,” you said. “It belongs to me only, and I decide what happens to it.” You seemed surprisingly assertive to everyone in the room, and when you noticed the perplexed looks on both Rumlows’ faces, you forced a falsely sweet smile. 

“If that's your only condition…” Brock replied.

“Not really,” Bucky interjected, casually scratching his back with the knife he had played with earlier. “Y/N will have a full view of what is happening with the things she owns. I'm talking about casinos and everything else,” he clarified blandly. “And one hundred percent decision-making in major changes.”

You glanced uneasily at Bucky. Since you had no idea about running your father's business, you didn't need all this. But you understood his strategy – Bucky wanted to secure you against Brock. 

Brock clenched his fists and took a deep breath. Looking at him, you thought involuntarily of a bull provoked by a red rag. “What's all this? A fucking prenup?”

Rumlow Senior put his hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Of course,” He smiled mysteriously, ignoring his son's anger. “Miss Y/N will have total control over her father's business. Provided that a male descendant is born within one year of the marriage.”

You were prepared to hear this. However, it seemed to you that Rumlow Senior had maliciously taken advantage of this condition because you and Bucky had got under his skin. 

“Write down your version of the agreement, we will do the same,” Michael broke the brief silence, his voice monotone. “We’ll compare both versions and reach the final one.”

Brock offered you something to drink, and hoping to still see something in him that would make the arrangement less painful, you agreed. Michael and Rumlow Senior stayed in the booth; it didn't bother you that they could have already started discussing points of the possible agreement. Bucky was sitting right next to them and you knew he would have intervened on your behalf. What you didn't know was why he was doing it. You didn't even have any grounds to guess, but you decided to go with the assumption that he wanted you in his debt.

You stood at the bar. Although the pub was closed, the bartender was behind the counter, ready to take your order.

“What are you drinking?” Brock asked. “To celebrate our new friendship?” He sized you up in a way that he probably thought was discreet. 

You didn't want to celebrate anything. You needed to numb yourself out.

“Tequila?” You smiled with pursed lips. 

Brock nodded at the bartender, and the man placed two small glasses and a full bottle on the counter, then poured the alcohol. You grabbed one of the glasses and consumed its content in one steady tilt. The fire burning your throat briefly distracted you from the situation you found yourself in. Grimacing, you slid the glass back to the bartender, who filled it without a word.

“That prenup, you know…” Brock started, taking a step closer to you. “You could've just asked nicely. And I would give you everything you want.” He shrugged. You didn't believe a word he said. But if he actually spoke sincerely, you guessed what he meant by ‘asking nicely’. “You didn't have to bring Barnes here to get it done for you. I'm even a bit discouraged now, to be honest.”

There was a sense of distaste in your mouth that you needed to wash away with another shot of tequila.

“You’re right. Sorry,” you said with insincere remorse, and only did so because it was some way of getting out of this confrontation alive. You believed that if you behaved submissively enough, Brock would leave you alone. But, actually, you felt like laughing. Yes, Brockie, you thought. You’re a genius; so smart, so perfect. And a fucking prick. 

“On second thought… You can still ask nicely. I will listen to you in private, what about that?” He moved even closer to you. One of Brock's hands found its way to your hip. Immediately the other followed, and before you knew what was actually happening, Brock was pressing you against his body.

“Take your hands off me, please.” There was no panic in your voice, just patience. 

“Why?” He didn't even pretend to be surprised by your request. “Don't you think we should get to know each other better? We don't have much time. I mean, only a year? Minus nine months or whatever,” he added, and it sounded much more disgusting than you could've imagined.

“Get your fucking hands off her, Rumlow, or I’ll break them.”

You didn't even notice when Bucky appeared nearby. The anger, although controlled, was still visible on his face. And it seemed entirely justified to you – Bucky had warned you and Michael about Brock from the very beginning.

Rumlow stepped back reluctantly. “What's the big deal? We are almost married!”

“Do you remember signing anything, Brock? Huh?” Bucky said with apparent calm. “Maybe you do because coke has fried your fucking brain.” 

Trying to intimidate him, Brock stood right in front of Bucky. But Bucky turned out to be unfazed by it. 

“It will happen. Sooner or later, ‘cause there’s no more profitable candidate on the market, and you know that,” Brock muttered. “And sooner rather than later I’m going to fuck her.” He nodded in your direction. “But don't worry, we'll name our first son James. Or maybe not, since that name seems to bring bad luck. I already know one James who put his daddy in a grave.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flared, and his chest grew bigger as he took a deep breath through the nose. His mouth curved into a bitter smile. He stared at Brock for a while longer, then moved away, as if he intended to leave you two alone.

“That’s right, Buck. Stay out of it.” Brock turned back to you. “Where were we?” He licked his lips. 

He didn't manage to get close to you again. Two hands landed on his shoulders and jerked with such force that Brock fell onto a nearby table. Before he had a chance to do something, Bucky came at him, taking a couple heavy steps. With one hand, he grabbed his shirt and held him in place; with the fist of the other, he punched him in the face hard enough to make Brock stagger again. This, however, enraged him enough to regain some control – Brock attacked Bucky, and he took that gladly.

They exchanged a few blows; Bucky aimed his nimbly and precisely, Brock seemed to strike blindly. And that's probably why he ended up on the floor, with Bucky's shoe print on his dark T-shirt.

Brock was catching his breath and Bucky observed his work, but he didn't finish it off. He stood more or less in the same place from which he had pushed Brock. 

You enjoyed it. A lot. It wasn't necessarily about Brock getting what he deserved, but the spectacle itself. Men punching each other – the kind of violence you loved in some twisted way, especially when there was alcohol running through your veins.

Michael and Rumlow Senior were also watching the whole scene. Neither of them intended to react, and both looked as if they were witnessing a fight between two teenagers too young to control their anger and raging hormones. 

“Hey…” You turned to the bartender. “Can I get a cloth and some ice?”

Rumlow whispered something to Michael, then helped his son up. “Let’s go, you-” he growled, his mouth set in a hard line. Michael left the pub behind them, presumably to smooth things over.

The bartender placed a clean cloth and a glass filled with ice cubes on the counter. You poured them onto the cloth and folded it, making a cold compress. 

When Bucky appeared at the bar, you glanced at him without saying a word. Although the redness stretching from his temple to his cheekbone was quite clear to see, you carefully studied his entire face, trying to find something else there. You weren't sure what exactly, but you were somehow satisfied to notice in his eyes traces of cooled anger slowly turning to consternation.

Again, Bucky was allowing you to come into wordless contact with him, so without any resistance you lowered your gaze to his right hand, resting loosely on the surface of the counter. His knuckles looked much worse than his face, but it didn't surprise you – he threw more punches than he took. 

As you looked up at his face, you caught his eyes. They were bored into you.

“Are you going to say anything?” he asked, breaking the silence between you.

“If it was about me, I would say it wasn't the smartest thing you could have done,” you answered, reaching for the prepared compress. You enjoyed the show, but you were worried Bucky had gotten himself into trouble because of that, and it was your fault.

You lifted the compress to his face and pressed it to the side, and he didn't even blink. 

“Well, it was about you,” he threw out casually, without making the slightest effort to convince you that this was indeed the case. 

“Sure,” You pressed the compress harder, making Bucky wince slightly. 

“I’m sorry. I’m being snarky,” he sighed.

“It’s okay. You got every right to be angry,” you claimed. “Brock shouldn’t have brought up your dad like that.” 

“You’re right,” Bucky agreed, his voice bland once again. “I could have punched him earlier. Before he even started talking’.”

You smiled slightly and tilted your head, looking at him with the least believable disapproval there was.

“How's your pain?” you asked softly, nodding at his hand. 

Bucky looked at it too, then lifted it off the counter, bent and stretched his fingers. “It’s nothing,” he stated, although you could see that the bloody wounds were making him uncomfortable.

The door of the pub slammed, so you both instinctively looked in that direction. You've never seen Michael so annoyed before.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he scolded Bucky. “Do you have any idea what you just did? Now I have to somehow convince the Rumlows not to give up on us.”

“For what?” Bucky bit back. “To sell your protege to these fu-”

“Watch your tone.”

“Michael,” you began. You intended not only to express your opinion, but also to give Bucky some space; to take Michael off of his back. “You don’t have to convince the Rumlows to anything.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “How come?”

“Well…” you hesitated, nibbling on your bottom lip. You were aware that he was trying to save your father's life's work, and you weren't making it any easier for him. But it was time to face the truth – Brock was the worst possible candidate. “I don’t think my marriage with Brock will work out. Rumlow Senior doesn’t want to cooperate, he just wants more power. And Brock couldn’t care less about business.” In reality, you had no idea if it was actually the truth. But some gut instinct told you to plant a seed of doubt in Michael. 

And you knew you had succeeded – Michael was silent, considering something.

“All right,” he said. “I will contact Rumlow Senior one last time. If they agree to our terms, we will meet with them again. If they demand more, no deal will be done.”

The situation wasn't ideal, but at least you had bought yourself some time.

“And one more thing,” Michael added. “This is the last meeting you attended.” He looked at Bucky. “Whether it's Brock or any other candidate, I don't want to see you. I will not accept you messing with Y/N's head. I want you to stay away from her. Is that clear?” 

At first glance, Bucky seemed unmoved. But there was something in his eyes – something strikingly similar to the way he looked at Brock before he came at him. 

“Is that clear, Mr. Barnes?”

“Yeah. I heard you the first time,” Bucky answered. He headed to the door, and without saying a word, or at least glimpsing at you, left the pub.

taglist:  @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446

[hopeless-writings]

AN OFFER masterlist

pairing: mob!bucky x reader series summary: When your father dies, the only thing you can do for your family and the empire he built, is to marry a powerful man.

part 1,

part 2,

part 3,

part 4,

part 5,

part 6,

part 7,

part 8,

part 9,

[hopeless-writings]

Mafia!bucky but he would k!ll 🤭

but rlly… r telling ppl who cross her that “upsetting me upsets my husband, and trust me you don’t wanna do that”

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader

Word count: 900.

CW: Fluff, violence, harrasment (by an oc) flashback to smut, protective Bucky.

A/N: Written on my phone.

In all fairness, you did warn Aaron what would happen if he didn’t back off. Unfortunately he's persistent and doesn't seem to understand the meaning of the word no.

You can’t get much clear that it’s really, really not a good idea to upset you than explaining to the pushy stockbroker that your husband can get a little insane and territorial when it comes to you and your well-being.

You keep the fact that it turns you on to see him feral and possessive to yourself.

Although you’re starting to wonder if you should have mentioned how stabby Bucky can get.

Oh well. 

Aaron doesn’t need to know everything. 

Except for the fact that if he doesn’t get his slimy, disturbingly soft hand off of your knee in the next three seconds, he’s not going to be leaving this party with it still attached to the rest of his body.

“Trust me when I say you need to leave me alone.” Your eyes flick over his shoulder, a wry smirk teasing the corner of your lips. Using two of your fingers, you pry his hand off your leg and place it on his lap. “I’ve already said no twice and I’m not going to repeat myself again.”

Bucky is already going to be livid that you had to say it more than once.

Aaron chuckles, ignoring your clear dismissal, his fingers latch on to your  knee, squeezing painfully while he leans in, the back legs of his barstool rising off the floor as he invades your space.

“C’mon don’t be a frigid bitch. Your little boyfriend doesn’t have to know. I can have you back before he realizes you’re gone.” He glances at his lackluster crotch with a smarmy grin, brow raised arrogantly as if he's shocked you're not on your knees. “Tell me you’re not curious. Everyone wants a piece of me.”

Oh someone's going to get a piece of him tonight but not the way he's expecting.

Your gaze drifts across Bucky’s face, drinking in the way he’s confidently strolling across the marble floor before lingering on his forearms as he slowly rolls up his sleeves unveiling his tattooed skin.

He’s commanding the room without even trying. Ignoring the attempts by the hosts to capture his attention, he focuses on you. Something dark and potent and feral is brewing in the depths of stunning blue eyes ever since he spotted the distressed look on your face.

You recognize the expression on his bearded face instantly, you crave it more than you should.

Untamed. Raw. Power.

Thoughts of the limo ride flash in your head.

Your back pressed into the leather cushion. Large, calloused hands everywhere—your hips, thighs, every curve, every inch of skin branded by his warm touch. His lips on yours, murmuring how much he loves you, how good you are, how good you feel laced between languid, passionate kisses swallowing your frantic moans the second they left your mouth. Stretched and filled and marked by him.

Pleasure surging through your veins like warm cherry whiskey until you couldn’t take another second of it, so sure you would perish if he continued fucking you the way he was.

He claimed so thoroughly that you had to lean on him to conceal your limp as you exited the car and headed up the staircase. You had pointedly ignored his smug grin when his lips caressed your ear to teasingly ask if you were sore, if you needed him to kiss it better since you struggled to walk straight.

Curious about someone else when you can still feel the man you love more than life inside you like he belongs there, when you have his marks sinking into your skin like a tattoo? 

The urge to toss your head back and laugh overwhelms you. Almost giving into it, a giggle slips past your lips, and you play it off with a cough. “Not even a little bit.”

Aaron’s mouth opens but his next words are cut off by Bucky’s hand curving around his throat, yanking him off of his chair in one fluid motion. The stool clatters to floor, echoing loudly in the suddenly quiet room.

“Malyshka,” Bucky calms hums, smiling down at you. Ignoring the spluttering man struggling in his grip, he takes your chin in his other hand, tilting your face up, his finger brushing over your bottom lip. “Are you alright?”

Peering up at him, you smile serenely, basking in his fresh smokey scent. “I am now.”

Bucky doesn't spare the wheezing man a single glance. “How many times did you have to say no?”

You hesitate.

Not because you feel bad for Aaron but because Bucky’s knuckles just finished healing. You rub your thumb over a jagged scar across his middle finger, pushing your chin into his palm. That one took nearly a week.

“Malyshka?” His affronted tone has another burst of laughter crawling up your throat. Only he would get upset at the thought that you might not let him hurt someone for messing with you. Sometimes you swear your man cares more about your comfort than you do.

“Three,” you say, staring at Aaron who groans something in response, you shrug as his face turns an interesting shade of red. You dust off your knee, recalling the way he kept you touching despite you telling him to stop, he was so brash and presumptuous, you know this isn’t his first time harassing a woman. You did warn him and now it’ll be the last. “Be glad he doesn’t know you called me a bitch.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, swinging over to Aaron. This time you do laugh because if looks could kill, he'd be in pieces under your new heels. You stand up, placing a kiss on Bucky’s cheek, his clenched jaw easing a fraction under your touch. “Don’t get any blood on your suit.”

“I’ll try my best.” His warm gaze freezes over the second you begin to walk away to find Steve and his girl. He brings Aaron up to his face and coldly sneers. “Three times, three fingers. Seems like a fair trade for upsetting my queen don’t you think?”

It may be wrong but hearing Bucky’s deep voice calmly threaten him, knowing that your mobster will always protect you makes you ache in ways you didn’t know was possible.

You glance over your shoulder, calling his name. He meets your gaze, the smile back on his face, growing wider when you continue. “Hurry up so you can give me that kiss.”

Understanding flashes in his eyes, melting into fiery lust. “Give me ten minutes and then I'm all yours.”

[hopeless-writings]

when i was a freshman in college i wanted to dress up for halloween because i thought surely college students would have the spirit. so i elected to put a whole entire Skull Kid from legend of zelda majora’s mask cosplay together and wear that fucking ensemble to college on halloween.

i step on campus and realize immediately that not one other person is dressed up. not so much as a cat ear headband. so imagine this fucking dude sitting in a class of otherwise normally dressed people looking like this. that was me. this was my 9/11